Invasion: Alaska

“No,” said Stan. “This is too much.”

“Isn’t that always the case, Captain? A good day to you.” Then Brigadier General Hector Ramos strode away, leaving Stan staring at the two hundred dollar bills lying on the table beside the darts.

-7- Beginnings

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

First Rank Lu Po of the White Tiger Commandos doubted he would survive the attack against the two American carriers. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to survive. And if that meant jeopardizing the mission…Lu shrugged his thick shoulders. In that case, the High Commander of the White Tigers should have picked someone else. Well, it actually meant that Lu should have wrestled with less vigor. He’d known even during the matches that he should have faked an injury. The trouble was he couldn’t do that. No one had ever beaten him wrestling and he hadn’t been about to let anyone do it then, either. Besides, if he’d lost, the commander and others would have been suspicious, and that sort of suspicion directed against him would have been unhealthy.

Pride and fear have brought you here.

As the San Francisco-registered fishing trawler creaked among the bay’s waves, Lu flexed his pectorals. They were iron-hard. He could bench-press four hundred and forty-five pounds and had once broken a man’s hand simply by squeezing it. He’d apologized afterward and had felt guilty. Still, it had let everyone in the combat group know how strong he was.

Lu Po sighed. He was strong, and he was smart. He wondered what winning wrestling matches had to do with aiming a Dragon Claw missile. Practically nothing was the answer. The wrestling matches had been about winning the chance to go on a suicide mission for China. It was a morale-booster. It showed the remaining White Tigers what a hero the winners were. It made the others proud to belong to such a warrior elite.

We wrestled for the chance to die heroically for China.

While shaking his head, Lu looked up at the fleecy clouds. It was funny, but there were clouds just like this in Taipei Harbor where he’d trained. Yet this was America. To be precise, it was San Francisco and the City by the Bay was home to two precious American supercarriers.

As Lu listened to the waves lap against the fishing trawler, he spied a soaring seagull.

It’s such a perfect day. I’d like to fly away from here. Yes, what is my pride worth now? I won the matches, but none of the others will remember me fifteen years from now.

Lu scanned San Francisco Bay. He avoided looking at the two supercarriers docked four kilometers away. It was too painful just yet. The city, with its large buildings, looked like Taipei. He’d liked to visit San Francisco and go to Chinatown to taste their clam chowder.

Blowing out his cheeks in frustration, Lu knew that would never happen. He was here to win eternal glory for his country. He’d joined the White Tigers for the same reason many young men did: to win a marriage permit. He’d never have sex with a woman now, and he wanted to do that more than anything else in life.

Instead, I’m about to die.

“First Rank, when do we begin?” shouted Fighter Rank Wang from a distance.

Lu winced and his iron-hard stomach tightened. If he’d had his shirt off, that tightening would have shown his muscled abs. He’d always wanted to sit naked next to a girl on a bed and flex for her, letting her see what a strong man was about to lay on her. He’d always wanted to listen to a girl exclaim how powerful he looked. Then he wanted to make her sing with urgency as she and he became one. But in China there were no longer enough girls to go around.

“First Rank—”

“I heard you!” shouted Lu.

A “fisherman” in yellow slicker-garb turned abruptly, staring at him. The fisherman was a Dong Dianshan—an East Lightning political officer—here to bolster their resolve.

He means to shoot us if we lose our nerve.

Lu Po scowled. He resented the “fisherman,” the need for East Lightning to sully the operation by their presence. If Lu changed the order of procedure, he and his fellow Commandos could more easily make their escape afterward. The political officer staring at him would never agree to change the procedure, however, because such a change would lower the odds of mission success by several percentage points.

Puffing, Fighter Rank Wang reached Lu’s place at the back of the trawler. “We must begin the operation,” the smaller Commando said. “It is time and we have reached the optimum location.”

“Do you want to die?” Lu asked him.

Wang was smaller and lighter. He’d won the martial arts combat. The White Tiger was phenomenally quick and stronger than his skinny muscles would lead one to believe.

“I want to destroy the carriers,” Wang said.

“As do I,” said Lu. “But that wasn’t my question. Do you want to live?”

“Not at the price of cowardice.”

“No one is suggesting such a thing.”

“I think you are,” said Wang. “You are showing hesitation in the face of the enemy.”

“I can crush a man’s hand with my own,” said Lu.

Wang cocked his head.

“Stand aside,” said Lu. “The political officer wishes to make a speech.”

The East Lightning political officer in the slicker garb approached warily. He had narrow features, with a stray lock of hair over his eyes.

“It is time to destroy the carriers,” the political officer said.

“Yes,” said Lu.

“You must arm the missiles and fire them.”

“First,” Lu said, “I would like to lower the T-9s into the water, activate their batteries, and don my wetsuit and scuba gear.”

The political officer blinked rapidly before shaking his head. “You will follow procedures.” He snaked a hand through the front of his slicker, no doubt to the butt of a pistol tucked behind his belt.

“Of course I shall,” said Lu, bowing his head and hardening his resolve. All along, he should have realized it had to be this way. He was a White Tiger Commando. He would do what needed doing and with a minimum of fuss.

“I apologize for being tardy,” Lu said. It was difficult to do, but he tried to look contrite.

The political officer squinted at him and nodded slowly as he removed the hand from inside the slicker. “We are making the ultimate sacrifice,” he said.

“No,” Lu said. “You are.” He grabbed the man’s nearest hand and squeezed with all his strength.

The political officer’s eyes bugged outward. His mouth opened and a bellow began. Lu yanked the political officer against him and clamped his free hand over the man’s mouth. He took a two-handed grip around the man’s head, laying his right forearm against it so part of his arm lay over the man’s right ear. Then he twisted his arms in opposite directions, hard and fast. The political officer shuddered as his neck broke. The cracking sound was quieter than Lu would have imagined. He felt the strength ooze from the dying man. He released. The political officer thudded onto the deck, banging his head. Lu knelt and withdrew the police automatic.

“What have you done?” cried Wang.

“Increased our chances for survival,” said Lu. His heart pounded as a great sense of exhilaration flowed through him. He noted Wang’s shock. Standing, with the gun pointed negligibly at Wang’s belly, Lu said, “I must ask you a question, soldier.”

Wang glanced at the gun and into Lu’s eyes. He nodded without fear.

“Are you my brother,” asked Lu, “my fellow Commando?”

“I won’t tell anyone…how the political officer lost his life in service to China,” Wang said.

Lu shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean.”