Invasion: Alaska

making things right with Cheri. Those were the best thoughts. He’d escaped into his mind as he journeyed through the eternal darkness. Sometimes, the worst times, he would see Murphy again in his mind’s eye. He’d see the ex- Army Ranger peering at him through the cat’s window. It was those staring eyes, the ones that saw—

Paul shook his head. He didn’t want to see Murphy any more. He just needed to ski, to push the long runners over the ice, listening to their crunch and hiss.

The wind howled against him. It blew against his eyes and pierced the woolen fabric of his ski mask. It made his cheeks numb. His lips were cracked and bleeding. The shrieking wind hammered spikes into his brain, or it seemed to. He wanted a beer, warm beer, some Guinness. If he could sit in a bar by a fire and just sip beer for a month—that would be Paradise.

Instead, he was here, trying to reach Dead Horse, Alaska. Chinese had slaughtered the oilmen. Chinese Special Forces backpack-flyers had tried to add him to the list of the dead.

Paul shook his head again. He’d killed the killers. That was good. If he survived—Paul shook his head a third time, more stubbornly. When he survived, or at the end of this journey, he’d go to the oil company or maybe even to Blacksand headquarters and explain what he’d done. They might give him his back pay. Heck, they might reward him. Cheri and Mikey could use the reward money.

You’re not going to defeat me, Geronimo.

Thinking about the Algonquin, Paul looked up into the Arctic wind.

Ahead, John Red Cloud skied like an automaton, pulling the toboggan loaded with their supplies. The Algonquin didn’t have any quit in him. He’d put his head down into the wind and rhythmically poked the ice with the ends of his ski poles. The man refused to rest. He only stopped by his watch.

They huddled together then and climbed into sleeping bags. Red Cloud used the toboggan like a shield, laying it against him. When the watch’s alarm went off, the Algonquin refused to let Paul sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.

The hot coffee always felt good going down. It helped Paul climb out of his sleeping bag and ski another day toward Alaska.

Paul was tired now. The storm had howled in the morning—but he’d climbed out of the sleeping bag anyway. It still howled. The assault-gun-strap dug into his shoulder. The assault rifle was heavy, but there was no way he’d toss it. He had White Tigers to kill.

The more Paul thought about it, the less sense it made that Chinese Special Forces had attacked the platform. Was there an oil war going on that no one talked about?

He might have shrugged, but that would take too much energy. He was cold, tired and wanted to stop. One of his fears was that either the Algonquin or he would get sick. If he got sick, Paul knew the Algonquin would simply leave him behind as they’d left Murphy.

What if the Algonquin gets sick? Will I leave him behind?

Paul shivered. If the Indian died or sickened… Paul hated the idea of trekking across the ice by himself. Did Red Cloud feel the same way about him?

His thoughts clouded then. It took too much effort to think. He would survive. He would push himself no matter what happened. The hope of making things right with Cheri and seeing his son again, it was a spur. And he had a promise to Murphy.

Don’t think about him. Just don’t.

So Paul didn’t. He endured, and he followed John Red Cloud across the pack ice.

PRCN SUNG

Admiral Ling sat very still as he heard the news about the destroyed tanker.

“Did she unload first?” asked Ling.

“No, sir,” said Commodore Yen.

The two men were in the admiral’s ready room with its costly silk paintings on the walls. The room tilted back and forth as the big carrier rode out a storm. Even this deep in the ship, they heard the icy hail striking the monstrous warship.

“Do you hear that?” asked Ling. “The hail striking metal?”

The Commodore nodded.

Each of the aging men sat in a comfortable chair. The older sat behind an ornate teak desk. The younger and taller Commodore sat before it.

“Winter will come early to this region,” said Ling. “I’m beginning to think we’re cursed.”

Even though they were alone in the room, Commodore Yen glanced about nervously. Maybe with his VR monocle he saw more than others could. Maybe years of caution motivated him. “I ask that you be careful about what you say, sir. The walls have ears.”

Admiral Ling waved away the suggestion.

“I must hasten to add that the Chairman has declared us liberators,” said Yen. “We fight for the Eskimos and their freedom.”

“I’m too old for that nonsense,” Ling said, opening a drawer. He took out an old bottle of baijiu, clunking it onto his desk. After setting out two thick glasses, he poured a liberal splash into each. He handed one glass to Yen. The white liquor sloshed back and forth, as the room continued to tilt.

“The Vice-Admiral sulks,” Commodore Yen said, cradling his glass with both hands. “Your scolding a few days ago—”

“I didn’t scold him,” said Ling. “I berated the incompetent fool for losing the Seward depot. Now we’ve lost another of our fuel tankers to these cagey American submariners. We cannot lose more of these precious vessels or their cargos. Our fuel situation has become more than troublesome.”

“Please, sir, listen to me,” Yen said. “The Vice-Admiral has the Chairman’s ear. If he sulks, it means he is sending his uncle reports about you.”

Admiral Ling tossed the baijiu down his throat. It made the right half of his face twitch, which highlighted the left, dead half.

“The harder you berate the Vice-Admiral,” said Yen, “the harder the Chairman will likely come down on you for any…failures.”

For the first time, Ling looked shocked. “Do you think we will fail?”

“I think before we lost the latest tanker that our fuel situation was tight. Now it is much worse.”

“We have enough fuel for several weeks of combat,” said Ling. “That is long enough for us to reach and conquer Anchorage.”

“The Americans are fighting hard in Moose Pass. Maybe the others will learn to do likewise.”

“Do not expect anything from the Vice-Admiral’s men,” said Ling. “I know that I do not. It makes his blunders more tolerable.”

“Sir—”

Admiral Ling shook his head. Once he had Yen’s attention, he poured more baijiu for each of them. “I am unloading the Army vehicles.”

“The tanks?” asked Yen.

Admiral Ling nodded. “I will do more than unload them, but send them into battle.”

“The Army tanks guzzle fuel,”

Ling swirled the white liquor in his glass, regarding it. “We have a narrow window for victory. That is my belief. The Americans must know about our fuel shortage. Why otherwise destroy the storage facilities in Seward and trade their submarines for a tanker’s destruction?”

“Maybe it was luck on their part.”

“No,” said Ling. “I do not believe in luck of that kind. It was strategy. Unless the Chairman sends more tankers, fuel will be our bottleneck. We have enough for now, enough for several weeks of hard combat. Therefore, we will drive even harder at the Americans, even using the Army tanks to force breaches—given that the American defenses become firm. Soon, the Americans will surely bring greater reinforcements from their homeland. Maybe Canadian forces will add their weight to the enemy defense.”

“The Chairman has tricked or scared the Canadians into neutrality.”

Ling nodded. The Chairman’s brilliance in these matters never failed to impress him. Why couldn’t the Chairman’s nephew prove even slightly competent? The Vice-Admiral….