Invasion: Alaska (11 page)

After crunching over snow, they entered Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back and rows of the familiar bottles.

“Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”

Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people, a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.

“Who are you?” the bearded man asked.

Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.

“We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”

The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.

“Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”

The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.

Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away whose boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”

The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.

“Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.

Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.

The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”

Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”

Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.

Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”

A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.

“I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.

Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.

“You too, tough guy,” the master sergeant told Murphy.

Murphy gave him the bird before turning back to the bar and grabbing a fistful of peanuts. “Whiskey!” he shouted.

The bartender was at his spot at the far end of the bar. Maybe there was something about the master sergeant that kept the bartender where he was.

“I said WHISKEY!” Murphy shouted.

The master sergeant grumbled, nodded at his partner and purposely strode for Murphy. “You’re coming with us even if we have to haul you in.”

Murphy surprised everyone. The ex-Army Ranger slid off the stool and hurled his shot glass all in one motion. It was a perfect throw, catching the master sergeant between the eyes. It dropped him as his head jerked back. The master sergeant collapsed like a hunk of jelly. His partner stopped, staring at his friend. Murphy kept moving. There was a crazy look in his eyes, and he kicked the partner’s left kneecap. The man’s leg buckled under him. The partner fell as he clutched his knee, and his groans were animal-like. Murphy was still moving. The ex-Ranger was like greased death. He produced a switchblade, clicking out the metal. Kneeling by the master sergeant, Murphy grabbed him by the throat of his coat.

“I’m going to leave you a scar,
tough guy.
”

Before the ex-Ranger could cut the master sergeant, Paul grabbed Murphy’s wrist. He’d crossed the distance between them, recognizing a killer. You didn’t talk a killer out of hurting others when his blood was hot. Murphy looked up. The ex-Ranger had craziness in his eyes, so Paul hit him in the face. Blood spurted from the nose and Murphy’s head snapped back. Paul twisted the wrist as he slapped the back of Murphy’s hand. The switchblade clattered onto the wooden floor.

“You’re gonna die, beer-boy,” Murphy muttered.

Paul hit him a second time, harder than before. It hurt his knuckles, it gashed them, and it smeared his fingers with the Ranger’s blood. That stunned Murphy long enough for Paul to haul back and hit with a haymaker. Murphy thumped onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against wood. He was unconscious, and blood poured from his nose.

“Call Blacksand,” Paul told the bartender. The old man kept blinking at him. “Did you hear me?”

The bartender reached for the phone.

Rubbing his sore fingers, Paul sat on a stool, picking up his beer. He looked at the three men on the floor. The partner was weeping now, clutching his leg, as if it would run away if he let go.

With a tired sigh, Paul sipped his beer, deciding he might as well finish it. This was looking to be a long night, or day. He still didn’t know what time it was.

AMBARCHIK BASE, EAST SIBERIA

In the darkness of the Arctic Circle, a Leopard Z-6 Hovertank slid across the tundra. Several kilometers away, the lights of Ambarchik glittered like a prized jewel. It was a lonely outpost, one of the most godforsaken towns in the world. It was at the northern edge of the Eurasian continent, nestled against the frozen East Siberian Sea. As an arctic tern flies, the Siberian side of the Bering Strait was twelve hundred kilometers away. The Russian city of Murmansk, which was near Finland, lay three thousand six hundred kilometers to the west. Three kilometers from Ambarchik was Ambarchik Base, the third largest Chinese military facility in East Siberia.

The hovertank’s main weapon was a high-velocity 76mm cannon firing rocket-assisted shells. The cannon was self-loaded, while the hovertank’s crew of three drove the vehicle, manned the cannon and commanded. A 12.7mm machine gun in the commander’s copula provided anti-infantry support. The armor was a lightweight sandwich of ceramic/ultraluminum, with an explosive skin that helped retard shape-charged rounds. A bubble of bullet-resistant plastic over the commander’s hatch gave him some small-arms protection whenever he rode ‘heads-up.’ It also kept the hovertank’s heat from dissipating into the arctic night. Power came from a diesel Qang 2000 with a turbo ‘supercharger’ for cold-weather starts.

The Americans had nothing like the Leopard Z-6. It moved swiftly onto the pack ice, showing its greatest asset: speed.

Several kilometers later as it traveled north and farther onto the ice, the hovertank slowed and then stopped, rocking slightly as it maintained its position on its cushion of air. Slowly, the military vehicle sank as its armored skirt shuddered. It touched down as its hidden but powerful fans stopped.

Moments passed until a side-hatch opened. A heavily-bundled and short General Shin Nung squeezed through. In his awkward snow boots, he used the ladder, climbing down to the ice. He wore a fur-lined hood like a Yakut native, the Siberian cousin to the Alaskan Eskimos. The general was fifty-nine years old and a hero of the Siberian War. His armored thrust had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.

General Nung was the commander of the coming cross-polar attack. His facial skin tingled in the cold. He had blunt features and an aggressive stare. In his youth, he had studied six long years at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence, and too many of the high command in China still thought of him as half-Russian. What made it worse was that he continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack. He had many enemies in high command, but the Chairman backed him. That was all the influence he needed.

General Nung surveyed the polar landscape, the seeming featureless pack ice that spanned the ocean all the way to Alaska.

Another man now squeezed through the hovertank’s hatch. He, too, wore arctic clothing and a hood, but was taller and much older than General Nung. He was Marshal Kao, and he was the Army Minister of the Ruling Committee, only recently arrived from Beijing. The stated reason for his visit was to speak personally with the commanding general so he could give an eyewitness report to the Chairman on the taskforce’s readiness.

The hovertank’s arc lights provided the only illumination here, as clouds hid the moon and stars.

Old Marshal Kao shivered.

That brought a contemptuous smile to General Nung’s lips. The arrogant
mandarin
needed to feel the cold he was sending them into. If he didn’t like the temperature, the old man should have covered his sculptured features. Nung turned away, no longer wanting to see the weakness there. Despite the marshal’s age, Kao had aesthetic features like some over-bred palace prince. Everyone knew he used botox injections to erase the lines in his face. Worse, he was known for his artistic leanings. Nung had seen some of Kao’s paintings before. He’d walked in the marshal’s house along with others. The disgusting memory still soiled him. He’d wanted to rip the paintings off the walls, open his fly and piss all over them in front of the others. Imagine, a military man dabbling with paints, with a little brush as he stroked here and touched there. It had been revolting.

How can I reason with a painting marshal? It’s impossible. Yet, for the sake of my men, I must try.

Nung breathed through his nose, feeling the cold tingle. He loved the challenge of this attack. If only these delicate types would let a military genius like him do what needed doing, he’d win Alaska for them. Boldness. Courage. Vigor. That is what won wars. That’s what had led him to capturing Yakutsk with a handful of tanks. At least the Chairman understood. Nung knew that he was uniquely qualified for the present task. He was the right man in the right place at the right time to achieve glory…for China as well as for himself.

“It’s freezing,” said Kao.

With his back to the Army Minister, Nung sneered.

You should have stayed in
Beijing
with your paints. Don’t come out here in the cold if you don’t want to do a soldier’s job.

“I have waited until now to inform you of another facet to your assault,” Kao said. “It is the reason I agreed to this trip onto the ice.”

General Nung turned around, facing the taller man and the hovertank.

“The Chairman fears some of the men may lose heart as they cross thousands of kilometers of ice to Alaska,” Kao said.

“My men?” asked Nung, sounding genuinely surprised. He’d been training them for months in Arctic warfare.

Marshal Kao affected a one-sided smile. It was said he practiced his mannerisms before a mirror several hours a day.

“During the assault you cannot be everywhere at once, General. Besides, the Chairman doesn’t want you shooting personnel when you’ll possibly need everyone in the taskforce to complete your mission.”

Nung bristled at the insult. He knew the painter considered himself more cultured and therefore more Chinese and superior to him. Didn’t the old man realize that they were out on the pack ice? The tankers in the hover were some of his most loyal men. The desire to break this mandarin with his bare hands…. Nung could see himself chopping a hole in the ice and sliding the marshal’s corpse into the freezing waters. He’d heard that’s what a Russian noble had once done to Rasputin, a strange political creature in the czar’s household during World War One. After putting Kao into Arctic storage, he would concoct a story how the minister had strolled over treacherous ice. That would shock those in high command.

“Commissar Yongzheng with ten operatives from East Lightning will join your taskforce,” Kao said.

“What?” Nung whispered. His fantasies dissolved as anger took over.

“The Chairman believes that morale is all important in war. The soldier whose heart remains strongest will always be the victor.”

“Does the Chairman doubt my heart?” asked Nung.

The older man stared at him, as if he had not heard the question.

“What is the meaning of sending Yongzheng and his killers with me?” Nung asked.

“The Police Minister suggested the move and the Chairman agreed.”

Blood rushed to Nung’s face. He swayed, and he flexed his gloved fingers. “Why taint an Army mission with policemen?”

“Yes, it seems unnatural. It almost seems…
Russian
,” Kao said. “Ah, you maintain your silence. How Chinese of you, General.”

Nung’s head swayed as if slapped. How dare this old goat say such a thing to him—to him, a hero of the Siberian War. He had been the only commanding officer to receive an Order of Mao Medallion.