Invasion: Alaska (49 page)

“Sir,” said Yen, surprised, “even now our naval brigades are driving the Americans back. Every time the enemy dares to make a stand, our forces smash through. If I may be so bold, sir, how can you say the Americans are holding?”

“You must see through the first level of a situation before you make such pronouncements,” chided Ling.

The Commodore seemed startled. After a moment’s thought, however, the serene look returned. “You conquered Taiwan, so I would not presume to teach you the art of war, sir.”

“No, no,” said Ling. “Do not be so shy. I am old. I am maimed. What could I possibly know?”

“I would not presume to say, sir. I suspect, however, that you have a new plan to implement.”

Admiral Ling nodded as his good eye, the dark one, became like a pool of swirling ink. There were deep eddies in that eye, a depth of character and subtlety.

“We have nine naval brigades,” Ling said, “each twice the size of any American brigade. What is more, we possess superior equipment and training, superior morale and soldiers. We have stormed onto the peninsula and now drive through it along two routes, Highways One and Nine. Highway One began at Homer. Route Nine started at Seward.”

“Seward,” said Yen, “the Vice-Admiral’s base.”

“For now, personalities don’t matter. The critical factor is our weight of numbers, nine full brigades against several American brigades. These Militiamen bolster them, but they shouldn’t make the difference.” Ling cleared his throat. “You were mistaken a moment ago when you said we ‘smash through’ those Americans daring to make a stand. To smash through implies that we have swept away the defenders so they are now chaff.” Ling shook his head. “That is far from the case. We drive against them as they defend the twin routes. Each kilometer we force them back, is a kilometer closer for them to their base of supplies. That means the closer they approach Anchorage, the easier it will be for the Americans to reinforce their sectors. What makes it worse for us is that each highway resembles a thin artery. Along the artery must pump food, fuel and ammo to our soldiers. Each of these routes snake through a terrible wildness of ever bigger and steeper mountains and denser forests.”

“You speak the truth, sir. And yet, by driving them back we are surely winning.”

“In a first phase analysis, yes, you would be absolutely correct. To win we must reach Anchorage. Hence, as we near Anchorage, we are winning. Yet until a sector along one of the arteries collapses, we are unable to thrust at Anchorage with speed in order to take it in a single swoop. Because of the two winding routes, we have only been able to hack our way to the city like an explorer hacking a path through a jungle.”

“The Americans have much fewer soldiers than we do, sir. We will win a war of attrition, a war of hacking, as you say.”

“For now that is so, yes,” said Ling. “Yet the factors are changing. The Americans are constantly air-ferrying soldiers from the mainland, from the bottom states to the fronts. Intelligence has also informed me that a large military convoy is boring through the frozen highways of the Yukon.”

“We’ve interrupted most direct air-ferrying into Anchorage,” said Yen. “We’ve slowed them.”

“First, as you’ve just said, we’ve slowed them. Yet the Americans still dare at times to rush transports into Anchorage airport. Mostly, they fly to outer bases and put the reinforcements onto trains to Anchorage and thereby to the Kenai Peninsula. I would like to throttle
all
air transport into the city and force the Americans to land their reinforcements and supplies all the way up at Fairbanks.”

“That would help immensely.”

Ling nodded. “It would change the mathematical equation in our favor, I agree.”

“Which is what?” asked Yen.

“There are several factors at work, you understand.”

“…I’m not sure I do, sir, at least not how you see it.”

Ling gave the Commodore a crooked grin, the only kind he could give since half his face was paralyzed. “Because of the thin arteries—the Number One and Nine Highways—massive traffic jams often bottleneck our supplies. That also makes it difficult to bring up fresh brigades or battalions to the point of battle. At the point of battle, we hack the Americans in attritional fights. Unfortunately, that costs us in Chinese blood and munitions. Yes, we have superior soldiers and tech. But the Americans fight for their homes and are on defense, which is the stronger form of warfare as they can fire from behind boulders and trees, and pop up from foxholes.”

“I still don’t understand your reason for pessimism, sir. We keep pushing them back.”

“Yes! As they trade space for time. Given enough time, they can reinforce their lost soldiers—as long as they maintain the open air corridor.”

“By the look on your face, sir, I believe you have the answer to our dilemma.”

“I have several answers,” said Ling. “They are each risky.”

“How can they entail risk as long as we have better soldiers and hardware?”

Admiral Ling reached up and pointed at a red symbol on the OBS. It was much deeper inland than any of their penetrations. It was, in fact, hundreds of kilometers inland.

“You’re pointing to their nearest ABM laser station?” asked Yen.

“
Strategic
ABM laser station,” said Ling. “The Americans haven’t used it yet to attack our aircraft, primarily because we’ve given them little opportunity to do so.”

Yen studied him. “Are you suggesting sending our bombers into the protected airspace? It would cost us heavily, I afraid. If we lost too many planes, it might jeopardize the safety of our carriers. Can you really risk that, sir?”

“We must risk it if we hope to cordon off Anchorage from air-supply. Once that is accomplished, we can smash anything crawling along the ground trying to reach the city. That will dry up their reinforcements, their ability to strengthen their defensive positions along Highway One and Nine. As I said before, it is a mathematical formula. If they can trade these controlled increments of space for time long enough, then their main reinforcements from British Columbia will reach Anchorage before we do. If they can, they will seal us off in the peninsula. My accelerated
push
will also demand better traffic control on the twin routes. We must switch the brigades facing the Americans, allowing each combat group the chance to hammer the retreating Americans in turn. That will give our blooded brigades time to rest and regroup. By all means, we must find more ways to bring our superior numbers to bear against the dwindling Americans.”

“We will, sir, especially once we reach Anchorage and then break out.”

“This ABM laser station,” said Ling, pointing at it on the OBS. “We must first destroy it.”

“With long-range missiles?” asked Yen.

“No, that’s out of the question. Even cruise missiles would fail as the site burns them out of the air with their pulse-lasers. For this attack, we must use our Ghost-bombers, our newest stealth craft.”

“Ah, yes, I see why you said risky earlier. Forgive me for my presumption, but I’m guessing you mean to use all of them.”

“Yes, of course all. It is a deep raid. If the Americans are awake and have been holding fighter reserves for just this eventuality….”

Commodore Yen nodded sagely.

“I know the political risks,” Ling said. “The rewards beckon me, however. If we destroy the strategic ABM station, it will open up all South Central Alaska’s hinterlands to our fighters.”

“I don’t disagree, sir.”

“But?” asked Ling.

“It still leaves the Americans an air strongpoint
in
Anchorage. The base facilities there are powerful.”

“Absolutely true. That is why I will use a second surprise.”

“What is that, sir?”

Admiral Ling told the Commodore his plan.

As he heard the words, the Commodore’s monocle fell from his eye. The Commodore caught the expensive VR monocle before it could break on the floor, and he nodded. “You are bold, sir. Your plan truly is risky, but it is also brilliant.”

ARCTIC OCEAN

Because of badly iced wings, Lieutenant-General Bojing’s transport plane went down. He had traveled a long ways from Ambarchik Base in East Siberia. Now his transport hit the pack ice. He snapped forward, hitting his forehead against the padded seat in front of him. He heard the explosive sound of crackling ice and the tortured sound of twisted metal.

I must escape from the plane before it sinks into the freezing water
.

Men shouted all around him. Bojing was dazed and kept trying to remove his restraints. Then soldiers cut his restraints and hauled him upright. The men were cruelly strong, hurting him.

“Hurry, sir!” a man shouted in his face.

Bojing stumbled down the crazily tilted aisle. Ice groaned outside and the entire plane shifted.

Men shouted, and a dazed and head-bleeding Bojing found himself shoved through a door. He crashed onto ice. His legs crumpled under him. One of his ankles flared with red-hot pain. Someone hauled him upright. He had to hop on one foot.

“Move!” roared a sergeant.

Bojing looked up as hail beat at his face. They’d tried to fly through this blizzard. Yes, yes, he was on his way to speak with General Nung. The deadly Ruling Committee Minister—Jian Shihong—had taken over Ambarchik Base. Bojing tried to clear his foggy thoughts. Men pitched supplies out of the plane.

“This way, sir!” a man shouted in his ear, making Bojing yelp. He dragged Bojing. As the soldier did, the world began to tremble and thunder roared.

It’s the ice. It’s cracking under my feet. I’m going to die
.

Two men grabbed Bojing and ran. Each step on his bad ankle caused shooting pain.

They barely beat the cracking ice. The plane groaned and shrieked metallically as it slid underwater and out of sight with a tremendous splash. A spray of freezing droplets of seawater wet the back of his head. He hadn’t donned a hood or hat yet, having spent hours inside the plane.

Bojing lay gasping, tasting his own blood as it trickled down his forehead.

“Wrap this around him and set up the distress signal,” a man said.

“What?” Bojing muttered. Then a scarf was wound around his throbbing head. Who would come to get them? They were lost in the middle of the Arctic Ocean and were supposed to keep radio silence. He had a message to bring General Nung, a message to attack the Americans. Bojing cursed this wretched blizzard, this logistics nightmare that was the cross-polar attack.

TALKEETNA, ALASKA

One hundred and twelve miles north of Anchorage was the small town of Talkeetna. It was at the end of the spur road near Mile 99 of the Parks Highway. Talkeetna was small and unpaved, with a Wild West flavor. Denali National Park loomed over the town. In 1917, it had opened as Mount McKinley National Park. In 1980, it had been renamed according to Native traditions. In any case, Denali was more than six million acres of wilderness and was the heart of Alaska with the biggest mountain and the wildest rivers.

There was a U.S. Air Force dirt road in Denali National Park connected to the small town. At the end of the road was a massive complex of building. In them were several nuclear plants to power one of the nation’s strategic Anti-Ballistic Missile pulse-lasers. Nearby was another base with old Patriot missiles and F-16 fighters.

The Talkeetna ABM laser, as it was known, helped protect Anchorage from direct Chinese air assaults. There were two mobile laser batteries protecting Anchorage airport from the airport, but they were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna.

Two nights had passed since Admiral Ling’s discussion with Commodore Yen. A special attack group had assembled on the Chinese carriers. The carriers had steamed over four hundred kilometers nearer before the catapults began lofting the bombers, EW craft and fighters.

“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 planes and shapes hid the sub-sonic bombers from American radar, 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.”