Invasion: Alaska

mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.

I’m going to die today.

Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.

“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.

Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.

Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous habit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.

“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.

The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.

Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.

I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.

The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.

Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough- minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy during World War Two. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.

“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.

With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”

“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”

“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?

“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.

Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.

“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.

Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?

We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.

“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.

“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.

The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.

“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”

“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”

Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”

The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.

That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.

For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had the advantage with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.

“There!” Clemens said, as he stared at the blips on his module. “Fire torpedoes two and three.”

Every gaze swiveled toward the chief.

“I’ve given my order,” said Clemens.

The chief nodded, and there was sweat on his crimson face.

The Minnesota shivered as the two Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedoes left the submarine’s tubes. Each torpedo was nineteen feet long and carried a six hundred and fifty pound warhead.

“Down fifty feet,” Clemens said, “and turn us around. We’re leaving the same way we came in.”

Using their swashplate piston engines, the torpedoes sped through the murky waters as Clemens watched the timer on his module. He waited, and he stopped breathing. The torpedoes used Otto fuel II, a monopropellant. The fuel decomposed into hot gas when ignited, adding to the warhead’s power. As Clemens thought about that, a mighty explosion sounded. It was a clear and violent sound, and it was many times louder than it should have been. The accompanying pressure-wave made the Minnesota groan in metallic protest.

“Depths charges!” one of the sonar-men shouted.

“They must be dropping them from a helicopter,” the chief said.

Clemens stared at the chief as the blood drained from his face. He hated helicopters. Unconsciously, he drew his comb.

“They’re dropping more!” the sonar-man shouted.

Clemens dropped his comb in surprise. As he bent to pick it up off the deck plates, the other depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Virginia-class fast attack boat. The big submarine tilted and it shook worse than before as all around came more metallic groans.

“Emergency!” the chief shouted. He tripped as another depth charge exploded. The chief went down hard, hitting his head on a stanchion.

Before anyone could race to help the bleeding chief, before Captain Clemens could give a word of encouragement, a powerful explosion ruptured the hull. Freezing cold, dark water poured in at a frightening rate. It swept up crewmen and threw them against the bulkheads.

It was the end of the Minnesota, the end of Captain Clemens and his crew. None of them would ever know that they hadn’t been hunting a carrier, but one of the Chinese fuel tankers. Its size had fooled Clemens and his crew into thinking it was a supercarrier. This tanker had been waiting to unload its precious cargo. The needed diesel now began spreading across the gray waters of the Gulf of Alaska.

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was so bitterly cold that his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it threw fine particles of snow across the eerie landscape. The flat terrain spread in all directions, an icy desert with an ocean underground.

There were different kinds of ridges and low formations. If a piece of ice slid over another, it was called rafted ice. The Algonquin had spoken to him some time ago about ice islands. Those came from glaciers, drifting in the summer and freezing into the pack ice later.

Paul didn’t care about any of it. He just skied. He moved into the freezing wind, determined to survive, to beat the Algonquin at the Indian’s own game. If he endured, he would see his son again. He had fantasies about