moment to charge. Red Cloud moved beside him.
The pair of soldiers returned and entered the tent with a crate.
Paul rose up, jumped the perimeter wall and sprinted to the tent. Behind him, he heard a softly grunted curse—Red Cloud. Paul reached the tent, slipping past the flap.
The Chinese soldiers heaved a crate onto the top of a pile. With the sound of scraping wood, they shoved the crate into place.
Paul sprang like a panther as the nearest Chinese turned around. Paul rammed a knee into the man’s soft stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh of pain and shock. Then Paul leaned forward, placing one hand firmly over the soldier’s mouth. He put his weight behind his knifepoint. It went in like a skewer into carefully tenderized steak, sinking without a sound. Paul felt the body tense with the agony. Then he twisted the blade so it tore the soldier’s lungs and heart apart in one savage moment, killing the man instantly.
The soldier’s back arched and his teeth clenched on Paul’s palm. Blood trickled from the soldier’s nostrils and his eyes protruded as if he’d been strangled.
Paul withdrew his knife and wiped the blade on the soldier’s parka. He felt dirty killing like this. It was horrible work, but so was Murphy dying alone in a stalled cat.
Red Cloud’s soldier lay on the crates, his throat cut and blood pumping out and misting in the cold.
“There’s still the one in the caterpillar,” Paul whispered.
“We must hurry. Our luck can’t last much longer.”
Paul and Red Cloud strode out of the tent, their knives ready.
“You tap on his window,” Paul said. “I’ll come in from the passenger-side.”
The caterpillar was parked ten feet away. Red Cloud went around the back.
Paul took six rapid steps. Then he heard Red Cloud knocking on the soldier’s window. Paul opened the caterpillar’s passenger-side door. A Chinese man listening to his earphones looked up at Red Cloud. Paul could hear the tinny musical sounds as he climbed into the warm cab. The Chinese soldier whirled around, stared at Paul and went for his gun as he shouted. Paul thrust the Gerber blade into the man throat, the knife grating against neck- bones.
Red Cloud opened the door and twisted the soldier’s head, dragging him outside and burying his face into the snow. He stabbed the Chinese soldier, finishing the grisly task.
The radio in here—Paul used his bloody knife and pried and tore it out of the dash.
“What now?” Red Cloud asked.
“We use our grenade and hope they think one of the ammo crates went off on accident. Help me drag the corpses into the cat’s back.”
Once all three copses lay among the ammo crates, Paul told Red Cloud. “Go on, run like the wind.”
Red Cloud stared at him. Then the Algonquin sprinted away from the caterpillar. In the darkness, he hurdled over the perimeter wall and ran across the ice for the nearest pressure ridge.
Paul worked feverishly as he opened a crate. It was artillery ammo. With his knife, he made some quick adjustments, arming the shells. Swallowing hard, Paul pulled the pin and set the phosphorous grenade amongst the readied shells. Then he whirled around, picked up the radio and sprinted. He leaped over the ice-wall and ran. In the distance, he saw the dark blot of Red Cloud ahead of him. He counted the seconds.
Then he hit the ice, sliding across it, and he began crawling, hoping to put more distance between himself and what was about to come. A millisecond later, a terrific explosion rent the Arctic stillness. The shockwave lifted Paul, tossing him over the ice. Secondary explosions began as the ammo began to cook off.
All the while, a dazed Paul Kavanagh, with his parka, continued crawling, hoping that none of the shrapnel hit him.
Jian Hong hated the bitter cold of Siberia. It had been a shock climbing down the supersonic plane into this miserable place. The cold had hit as a hammer, driving icicle nails into his bones. He’d saw the base’s square buildings and the polar ice that had spread into the Arctic distance. According to the general explaining the situation, the darkness gripping this land would not relent for many months.
Jian had landed several hours ago, having made the trip in record time from Beijing. Now he was supposed to enter another plane and fly over the ice toward Alaska. That was madness, sheer insanity. He no longer believed the Chairman. He was certain the old man lulled those he was about to use. Telling him he was going to be the next Chairman—Jian was certain that had been a ruse. He had to take more risks to outsmart the clever old man dying in his underground bunker.
“Turn up the heat,” Jian said.
“Sir?” asked the general.
They stood in a large chamber filled with computer maps and working personnel. Lieutenant-General Bai was medium-sized, with a round head and an immaculate uniform. His polished shoes shone so splendidly that at times Jian could see himself reflected in them. The military personnel at work covertly watched him. Jian could feel their gazes, but he’d yet to catch a soldier directly staring at him. Maybe they feared his bodyguards. Three of his team stood against the wall. They kept their hands on the butt of their guns, watching everyone. Their presence comforted Jian. He need merely point and they would shoot an offender.
“I’m still cold from walking around your freezing base,” Jian said. “I want it warm in here so I can think.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant-General Bai, who turned and uttered a quiet word. Soon, extra heat billowed into the room.
“Yes, that’s better,” Jian said.
He hadn’t had time after leaving the Chairman’s bunker to speak with either Admiral Qiang or Police Minister Xiao. He would have liked to compare notes with them or even ask Xiao’s opinion on the Chairman’s odd behavior.
“It’s the logistics problem that presses against us hardest,” said Lieutenant-General Bai.
“What?” Jian asked crossly. This lieutenant-general had been trying to brief him for some time already. Did the man truly think he’d come out here to fix problems? This journey was a farce at best and a carefully laid trap at worst.
“Logistics, sir,” Bai said. “It is the movement of supplies from the factories to the fighting men.”
“I’m well aware what logistics is. I used to be the Agricultural Minister.”
Bai blinked at him. One of the other personnel started coughing sharply.
Before Jian could demand an explanation—he scowled as he scanned the chamber—Bai touched his left wrist. Jian recoiled at the bodily contact.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bai. “I’m…I could use your expertise.”
Jian rubbed the back of his hand against his parka. How dare this man touch him? It was an insult.
“Umm, as I was saying, sir,” said Bai. “It’s a matter of logistics. The length of the supply-line across the Arctic ice has stretched our resources to the breaking point.”
“That makes no sense,” Jian said. “You haven’t even started attacking yet.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bai, dipping his head as he preformed a small bow. “I realize that. But maybe if I explained the situation in greater detail…?”
“Explain if you must,” Jian said, who kept trying to think of an excuse. He didn’t want to travel across the ice.
“Sir, normally a soldier outside his own country needs one hundred pounds of supplies a day.”
“So much as that?” asked Jian.
Bai bowed his head. “In the Arctic, the need rises dramatically. Now to move a ton of supplies one hundred kilometers by rail takes fourteen ounces of fuel. A large cargo ship will take approximately half that.”
“We’re not shipping supplies by train or ship across the ice.”
“Exactly, sir. A normal truck consumes one percent of the supplies moved per one hundred kilometers.”
“Why this choice of words? What do you mean by ‘normal?’”
“On the ice we use highly modified caterpillars instead of ordinary military trucks. The caterpillars consume two percent of their load traveling every one hundred kilometers. That is twice as much as a normal truck.”
