“Tonight,” said Ling, “we open up the war. By doing so, we will tighten the screws on the Americans.”
Fifteen Ghosts skimmed across the waves as they sped to the west of the Kenai Peninsula. They were the latest in ultra-stealth technology, saucer-shaped craft that seemed to have more in common with people’s perceptions of UFOs than bombers. Anti-radar paint, special radar resistant alloys and computer-constructed angles and shapes hid the sub-sonic bombers from American radar, as well as their passive and thermal sensors. For all their sophistication, however, the Ghost S-13s had several critical vulnerabilities. They were slow, poorly armored and needed ultra-advanced AIs to help fly an otherwise un-flyable craft. That in turn meant they were expensive, terribly so.
“You—” Commodore Yen broke off and cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Ling asked. They were in the OBS tonight as they awaited word of the strike’s success or failure.
“It was nothing, sir,” said Yen. “Please, forget I spoke.”
“My friend, do not hold back your views now.”
Commodore Yen seemed to choose his words with care. “We must hope that none of the S-13s crash tonight, lest the Americans gain our secret technology.”
Ling smiled crookedly. “You mean, I’d better not lose any or the Chairman will have my head.”
“I never said that, sir.”
“No,” said Ling. “You didn’t.” The one-armed admiral returned to watching the OBS.
As part of the overall attack, Chinese Mongoose fighters waited over Lake Clark National Park, which was well west of Cook Inlet. The Mongooses were almost two hundred kilometers to the south of the Ghosts. EW Anchors cloaked the Mongooses’ presence. The electronic warfare craft circled with the fighters as they watched and waited with everyone else.
The fifteen Ghosts moved in a similar pattern as nap-of-the-earth attack helicopters. They flew along the edge of the Alaska Range, heading deeper inland.
One of the electronic warfare Anchors sent a signal to the
“The Americans are asleep,” said Yen, as he studied the message.
“Maybe,” was all Admiral Ling said.
Time ticked away as darkness concealed the fifteen Ghosts. Strategic ABM sensors were the best. If anything could crack the hidden bombers….
One of the Ghosts wobbled. It was a sign. His instruments must have picked up something. Yes, American radar had grown in strength. The enemy must know something was happening.
“Sir,” said Yen, far back in the
“And lose them all to the ABM laser?” asked Ling. “No, I am not so inclined.”
“But look there, sir,” Yen said, pointing at the OBS. “The Americans are lofting F-22 Raptors.”
“I know what those are. No. We must crack the air-defense net behind Anchorage by taking out their strongest point. We must risk the Ghosts.”
“Need I remind you, sir—”
“You will watch in silence,” said Ling. “That is an order.”
The Commodore hesitated before nodding stiffly.
Meanwhile, the fifteen stealthy bombers neared the giant ABM complex. Above, in high combat air patrol, was a squadron of F-22s.
The lead Ghost pilot, Captain Peng, checked the stats on his missile. He had one, a bore worm. A remote control operator in China would guide the bore worm into the ABM station and explode it where it would do the most damage. Fifteen bore worms should more than do it.
The targeting sequence started. Captain Peng inched his plane a little higher. Outside, pines whipped past his aircraft. “Now!” he said, pulling the release switch. There was a jolt as the bore worm dropped. A microsecond passed, then afterburners ignited in the missile, and it whooshed off into the night.
If everything had gone right, Captain Peng knew that their missiles had leaped into existence on American radar and thermal sensors, badly surprising the enemy. He banked, lifted to miss pines, and quickly sank again to inches over the canopy. Other bore worms now launched at the strategic ABM station.
“Luck,” said Captain Peng as he started the painful journey home to the carriers.
Fourteen bore worm missiles launched at the ABM station. The fifteenth malfunctioned and tumbled into Denali National Park.
American anti-missile cannons began firing almost right away. Half the F-22s roared down from CAP, trying to intercept the missiles.
In China, remote controllers worked feverishly. A bore worm went down. A remote controller groaned as simulated death-shocks ran through his convulsing body. Another missile exploded in the darkness, raining molten parts onto the trees and beginning a fire. All the time, the rest of the missiles homed in on the defensive complex with its blazing cannons. Another bore worm died. The Americans were good, better than the Chinese thought they would have been.
Then bore worm missiles reached the Talkeetna ABM complex. The first of seven successful missiles burrowed through the concrete and earthen shields of the plant. They bored—and exploded, knocking out each of the nuclear power-plants and wrecking the focusing mirrors.
The strategic ABM station was badly damaged by the attack. And the wrecked nuclear plants lethally radiated the American base personnel that escaped the initial fireball. The pulse-laser shield of the American air- defense for South Central Alaska was gone.
The nearest F-22s went after the slow-moving Ghosts. The Americans knew where they were now, and they were out for blood. Before the J-25 Mongooses arrived, the F-22s shot down eight of the stealth bombers. Then, by direct order of C-in-C Sims, the American fighters turned away from the approaching J-25s. Seeing that the pulse- laser was nothing more than a pile of radioactive rubble, they would need every fighter used in the wisest manner possible if they were going to save Anchorage.
In his torn and dirty parka, Stan Higgins lay on a hill among pine trees. From his hiding spot, he tried to analyze the enemy’s intentions. The Chinese were on lower ground and camped on both sides of the highway.
Stan shivered from cold and lack of sleep. From several miles away, Chinese artillery had bombarded them on and off again all night. His last precious M1A2 tanks—all four of them—were dug in a quarter mile back. Militiamen had chopped down pines. Using the pines and lots of earth, they had constructed low canopies for the tanks, making bunkers. Those bunkers would probably stop anything except for what they needed to—the T-66s.
Thinking about the hardworking Militia building the heavy log roofs, Stan wondered what had happened to Bill Harris, his best friend and pastor of the Rock Church. The last time Stan had seen Bill, the pastor had heaved a sticky mine at a T-66’s tracks.
Shaking his head, Stan tried not to think about Bill. That was many hard battles ago. He’d seen hundreds of Americans die since then, and just as many Chinese. Every fight was different yet they all ran to a pattern. He shelled the Chinese as they advanced and then he drove away, stopped, fired, and kept driving to the next fortified line. After every battle, new trickles of warm bodies and massive loads of munitions restocked them for the next fight.
As he lay on his stomach, the night turned into a gloomy day. Stan tried to pierce the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. In normal times, this would be too early for snow. But with the new glacial period—
Stan stiffened.
“Something wrong, Professor?” Jose asked.
Stan nodded, seeing something he didn’t like.
The Chinese had been pressing even harder lately. Last night, however, there had been a pause in the fighting, a longer one than usual. The snow might have something to do with that.
Adjusting the binoculars, Stan looked closer at Chinese soldiers with snow-shovels. They cleared the main road, Highway One. Craning his neck, squinting at them, Stan tried to make out their insignia… ah, it showed a
