“This is Anna Chen, our China expert,” the President said. “She tried to warn us of the impending attack.”
Green looked up in alarm.
The President chuckled, although there wasn’t any humor in his voice. “Did you think to keep that hidden from me, Colin?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Green said.
The President folded his hands on the table. “The Chairman claimed the U.S. stole Alaska from the Siberians. I told him the Russians had discovered Alaska and we bought it from them. That’s when he launched into a historical lesson. He said the Yakuts—the Siberian natives—discovered Alaska when they crossed the Bering Strait during former ice ages. The Chairman told me he was weary of the Anglos having stolen land all over the world. The day has come where China will liberate Alaska from the imperialistic Europeans and return it to its native peoples. He promised to protect Alaska, giving the Eskimos—the Inuit—Chinese guarantees of sovereignty.”
“That sounds just like Aztlan propaganda,” the Secretary of State said.
“Bah!” Green said with heat. “There isn’t any land anywhere in the world worth taking that someone hasn’t taken from someone else. It’s a fact of nature that the strong take from the weak. The Native American tribes did it to each other before any Europeans came. Foxes and wolves steal territory from each other.”
“I’m not sure I like your implication,” the Secretary of State said. “We didn’t steal land from anyone. Alaska is sovereign U.S. Territory.”
“One thing the Chairman made clear,” said Clark, forestalling Green’s rebuttal, “is that the Chinese intend to capture the entire state. But I’m curious. Ms. Chen: why did the Chairman say those things to me?”
“I believe his words were primarily for internal Chinese consumption,” Anna said. “The Chairman said those things so he doesn’t appear as the aggressor.”
“Will anyone believe such nonsense?” the President asked.
“There is an old saying:
“You cut to the point,” Clark said. “It isn’t so important why he said he’s invading, but that he is. General, do you have any ideas concerning their strategy?”
“The key to controlling Alaska is Anchorage,” General Alan said. “At least half the population lives in and around the city. The rail and road net are concentrated there and it contains an international airport. Anchorage also happens to be near one of the few places an amphibious force could land.”
“What about the cross-polar assault?” the President asked.
“Our analysis teams have carefully combed recent intelligence data concerning the buildup in Ambarchik Base,” General Alan said. “It certainly is troubling. Unfortunately, we have lost our recon resources over the Arctic Ocean, and the Chinese keep destroying whatever we put up. So far, at least, there are no reports of enemy combatants in Prudhoe Bay or ANWR.”
“The fact the Chinese want to keep us in the dark over the Arctic Ocean tells us all we need to know,” the President said.
“Either that, sir,” General Alan said, “or that is what they want us to believe.”
President Clark frowned. “We need accurate data in order to make an informed decision. I want reconnaissance flights over the Arctic Ocean.”
“Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “We have several squadrons of winterized aircraft there, but almost no specialized UAVs for the environment.”
“Send them,” Clark said.
“It will take time.”
“Then start doing it now.” Clark drummed his fingers on the table as he glanced at Anna. “In order for everyone here to gain a clearer picture of who we’re dealing with, I would also like you, Ms. Chen, to give us a quick profile on the Chairman.”
Anna blushed as every eye turned toward her. “What specifics do you wish to know, sir?”
“Brief us on what you think is important for us to know about him.”
“Yes, sir,” Anna said. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then she began to speak.
Paul awoke as the snowcat clanked up a pressure ridge. They were an easy thirty feet higher than the surrounding terrain. The cat—and therefore Paul’s seat—tilted back at a steep angle.
He gripped the underside of his seat and looked out the right-side window. The pressure ridge snaked lengthways for as far as he could see. In the past, two plates of sea-ice had smashed against each other, grinding this ridge into existence. Icebreaker captains—those who used heavily-hulled ships to create a passage through ice—avoided pressure ridges if they could. Like an iceberg, pressure ridges had deeper ice below the waterline than what showed above. If it went thirty feet up here, the pressure ridge likely went an easy sixty or ninety feet down into the ocean.
Red Cloud sat transfixed, his leathery hands gripped at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. In the back, Murphy groaned. Paul had examined him earlier. There was a bullet in Murphy and he was getting worse. The man needed medical attention or he’d die.
Ice broke under the cat’s left tread and they sank into a soft area. The machine lurched leftward. It threw Murphy across the back, causing his head to hit one of the windows. It would have thrown Paul, too, but his muscles strained as he hung onto the underside of his seat. He’d taken his seatbelt off earlier so he could sleep easier. That had been a mistake.
Gunning the cat, Red Cloud accelerated them out of danger. He reached the top, and now the snowcat started down at a steep angle. Paul stared at the snow, using his feet to keep him from catapulting against the windshield. If the Algonquin wasn’t careful, the machine would summersault down.
Paul wanted to shout a warning to Red Cloud, but he didn’t dare, fearing to break the Indian’s concentration.
Several minutes later, the cat straightened as it clanked off the pressure ridge and back onto the flat polar ice that extended into the darkness. They had an easy three hundred miles to go still before they reached Dead Horse. It might as well have been three thousand miles. It seemed like a trip to the moon—an impossibility.
“Thanks,” Murphy groaned from the back.
Paul glanced at Red Cloud. The Algonquin seemed lost in his own world, staring into the distance. Twisting around, Paul asked, “How you feeling?”
Murphy’s eyes were closed. Even though it was relatively warm in the snowcat, he had his parka zipped up all the way to his throat, and he wore his hood. His face was slick with sweat, and he was white—much too white.
“Murphy, talk to me.”
Licking his moist lips, Murphy whispered, “My stomach feels as if it’s on fire. Where are we?”
“We’re headed home.”
Murphy opened a bleary eye. “Did you kill some of those gooks back at the rig?”
“Yeah, we got a few.”
Murphy coughed weakly, and it must have hurt. Each cough contorted his sweaty face. “I ain’t going to make it home, tough guy.”
“You hang in there,” Paul said.
Murphy shook his head. “My stomach—I can’t take much more of this. The way the Indian drives, I think he’s trying to kill me.”
“You’re tough, Murphy. You hang tight.”
“You’re bull-headed, Kavanagh. And you have fists like granite. But you’re a crappy liar. I’m dying.” Murphy’s eyes opened as he stared at Paul. For the first time Paul could remember, there was fear on Murphy’s face. “I don’t want to die,” the ex-Ranger said. “I don’t want to…you know…face God for the things I’ve done. You believe in God?”
“I guess so,” Paul said, not liking this kind of talk.
“Me too,” Murphy said. It seemed as if he tried to keep his eyes open, but they closed of their own accord. He shuddered, and his lips parted. He wheezed. It was a bad, bubbly sound.
Paul saw a trickle of red on Murphy’s lower lip. Reaching over the seat, he gripped the man’s wrist. “You
