The first battle for the North Slope began fifteen minutes later. A strategic ABM laser in Xing Province of China stabbed its beam into the heavens and reflected off a space-mirror. In seconds, it cut down the American recon drone.
Nine and a half minutes later, the American Reflex fighters struck back. The giant station outside of Fairbanks shot its ferocious beam off the first airborne mirror. Like a banking billiard ball, the laser flashed across the state and over the pack ice. The first pulse stabbed into the Arctic night and burned down a Chinese fighter. The second pulse missed, while the third blinded a Chinese pilot, causing his J-25 Mongoose to veer off-course. Those pulses caused a warning light to flash inside the first Reflex fighter, telling the crew that the mirror had taken damage. With each proceeding pulse-strike, the odds would increase of a burn-through against the plane. The ABM station was informed of this as the pilot banked the giant plane and began the long approach back to base. The next airborne reflex mirror moved up, and the sequence started again.
Unaware that the Americans only possessed a handful of reflex planes, the Chinese fighters on CAP over the hovertanks engaged afterburners. They hit the deck, jinking wildly and speeding back to base. It meant that for a short time, anyway, the hovertanks lacked air cover.
General Shin Nung shook his head as his radio officer informed him of the fleeing Mongooses, those that had been carefully winterized for fighting in the Arctic Circle.
“Let them go,” Nung said. Outside, the pack ice flashed past in a blur. It was dark and the stars glittered in amazing profusion. All around him roared a little over a hundred hovertanks. Behind followed thirty sleds with extra fuel, supplies and infantry. The formation was spread across the ice, moving like a winter armada of dark ships.
The hover’s engine-whine made speech difficult inside the vehicle. It was why Nung and his officers wore headsets over their ears and spoke into microphones.
“Sir!” shouted his communications officer, who watched a screen. “American strike-craft are zeroing in on us.”
“Of course they are,” Nung said. “It’s why they used their lasers to chase off our covering fighters.” He nodded. The Siberians had lacked such sophisticated hardware as the Americans possessed, but his tanks back then hadn’t been outfitted with such advanced munitions.
“Tell the troops to form up in a hedgehog formation and load their guns with Red Arrow anti-air rounds.”
Twelve minutes later, the American bombers made their charge, screaming across the ice from the front and two sides.
By now, the hovertanks had edged closer together by lance and by troop. Three hovertanks made a lance. Three lances made a troop.
As the Americans launched their air-to-ground missiles, the advanced defense radars on the hovertanks achieved lock-on. With the radars, the hovertanks used a new Interlock fire control system. It allowed twenty or more hovers to form into a single, anti-air defense, concentrating missiles, cannons and machine guns for attack. Once vulnerable to mass destruction from air, hovers and tanks created deadly destruction zones in a range up to 3000 meters. In lance volleys, 76mm guns fired Red Arrows rounds. The rocket-assisted shells whooshed upward after the American bombers.
There were hits all around. American missiles zoomed low and slammed into hovertanks. On the ice, hovers exploded into blazing fireballs, showering melting plastic, Kevlar, burning aluminum and bloody body-parts. Meanwhile, smoking bombers crashed from the sky. As it impacted, each bomber disintegrated into a mass of shrieking metal and splashed jet-fuel. The pack ice groaned as it splintered. Then red-hot sparks caused ignition so the fuel blazed fiercely, sometimes melting through the ice and exposing the dark water underneath.
Nung watched his screen as outer cameras recorded the bright points of destruction. Here more than elsewhere, the modern rule of combat prevailed. What one saw, one could kill. This was going to be costly. He struck his armrest. He—
“Sir!” the communications officer shouted. “The bombers are breaking off.”
General Nung sat up in his command chair. Was it possible the Americans possessed so few aircraft that they were unwilling to trade planes for hovers? On impulse, he lurched up to the commander’s hatch. Raising it, he shoved his head into the plastic-covered copula. It was colder up here, but the plastic bubble quickly filled with the compartment’s heat. He looked back into the darkness. Behind him, hovertanks burned on the ice. So did a few sleds. Fortunately, the majority of the taskforce kept advancing across the vast white sheet of terrain.
Sliding down from his copula and into the main cab, Nung asked, “Do they have anything else to throw at us? Or did a single taste of our anti-air rounds prove too much for the Americans?”
The communications officer listened closely to those sending information. He put a hand over one of his earmuffs before turning to Nung. “If my data is correct, sir, we took out nearly a third of their bombers. I don’t think the Americans liked that.” The man grinned. “Our Red Arrows are better than anything they possess.”
“We are Chinese,” Nung said, as if that explained everything. He turned to his special monitor. A quick count showed that he still had eighty-three hovertanks. That was more than enough for what he had planned. The Americans must be stretched to the breaking point. Yes, most of their aircraft would be on the Southern Front against Anchorage. He should have attacked sooner. That fool Ping.
“One pass and the Americans bolted,” Nung said. Smiling, he added, “Who said these Americans aren’t Siberians? Well, let me tell you something. Whoever said the two aren’t the same is wrong. A frightened man always acts similarly—he runs away. The Americans are running. Gentlemen, we have them.”
“Go, go, go!” roared the Marine at the bay door of the whomping helicopter. The whirling blades whipped up bits of ice and snow, and it blew down freezing air.
Paul jumped out in his winterized suit. His boots hit the pack ice with a jarring crunch, causing his teeth to click together. That was too close—he’d almost bitten off his tongue. Next time he’d remember to keep his mouth shut.
Red Cloud landed beside him.
“Don’t forget your launcher!” the Marine roared from the open door.
Paul nodded. The white winter suit was an amazing piece of equipment. They could have used something like this in Quebec. It covered him from head to toe like an old style knight. A lot of the suit’s outer skin was indeed armor, but it was light. Even better, it had a temperature gauge, keeping him warm with a thermal heater. That took battery power, and that battery and mini-generator he carried on his back. There was even a Heads Up Display on his visor.
How the suits got shipped up here without troops I’ll never know. I don’t care. I’m just glad I get to wear it.
Red Cloud and he wrestled a special TOW2 sled off the bottom of the chopper. Once done, Paul stepped into the pilot’s view and waved his arm.
The chopper’s engine roared with greater life and the blades whirled like mad. The machine lifted a little higher and banked hard. It would deposit two more TOW2 crews before it returned home to Dead Horse.
Here I am again, stuck on the ice.
“Don’t engage the motor,” Red Cloud said.
“Hey, I have ears too you know? I heard what Bullard told us before leaving.”
Red Cloud didn’t bother answering, but looked around. He pointed in the near distance.
Paul saw it, a small pressure ridge. “Perfect,” he said.