“I wonder…how our side is doing,” Paul panted.
Red Cloud didn’t answer.
After that, Paul concentrated. Fourteen minutes later, they spotted the helicopter. The blades were slowly turning and the big bay door was still open. A man in a combat suit was climbing in.
Paul was exhausted. The pain in his side was agony. But he’d been through this before. He ignored the pain and concentrated on pushing himself. The helicopter was life. If he could reach it, he could go home again. If he failed, he died or became a prisoner of the Chinese. Beside him, Red Cloud faltered.
“No,” Paul whispered. He grabbed the Algonquin and kept him going.
Soon, they crawled into the helicopter. Helping hands yanked them in. The blades were turning faster now, and the Marine chopper lurched as it lifted off the cold ground.
Paul’s eyes glazed over, and he waited, wondering if the Chinese would shoot them out of the air. It didn’t happen. They raced out the back of the island, a handful of men: seven to be exact. The lieutenant never made it, leaving the pilot in charge.
“Where next?” asked Paul.
“Far away from here,” the pilot said as they climbed into the night sky, heading west so they wouldn’t run up against the Chinese air defense in Dead Horse.
Lieutenant-General Bai technically won the small action at Cross Island. But he had taken appalling losses: fourteen snowtanks and half his infantry either dead or wounded. When his men counted the number of enemy dead, it frightened Bai. These Americans were tigers.
“What now, sir?” the tank commander asked.
“Now we dash to Dead Horse and add our numbers to General Nung.”
It was bold talk, but Bai knew now that Nung wouldn’t achieve greatness with the addition of these paltry forces. They would need more soldiers and more tanks, many more, if they hoped to conquer the rest of northern Alaska.
As night fell over the fleet, Admiral Ling sat in his ready room, staring at a screen showing an aerial three-dimensional map of Anchorage. His ground commanders had driven a deep wedge into the city, but they were fast running out of fuel.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” said Ling, as he continued to stare at the computer screen.
Commodore Yen slipped in. He took a chair before Ling and waited in silence.
“The American pickup-attack against our land convoy was a brilliant move,” Ling said quietly.
“We have more soldiers,” said Yen.
Ling shook his head. “We’re almost out of fuel. Now our ammo situation is deteriorating. If we could move all that we have on the beachheads to the front, it would be a different story. But these Americans….”
“One final push led by the T-66s can still reach the Anchorage refineries,” said Yen. “Then all will be well.”
“Tomorrow, we shall see,” said Ling.
“You must beg the Chairman for more supplies. Our naval infantry can dig in as they wait for greater reinforcements.”
“Will the Chairman send us more with winter nearing?” asked Ling. “Winter-fighting in Alaska will bring us more blizzards of the type we just endured. I fear that we began the campaign in the wrong season.”
Commodore Yen said nothing to that.
After a time, Admiral Ling continued to adjust the computer screen.
It was mid-morning of the second day of the Battle for Anchorage. Stan crouched beside Major Philips’s corpse. Police Sergeant Jackson had dragged the body out of a destroyed Stryker. The vehicle hadn’t moved fast enough this last time.
During these two days, Philips, Jackson and Stan had lured, ambushed and destroyed three T-66 tri-turreted tanks.
Stan glanced at the smashed Stryker, inhaling the stink of machine oil and hot metal. A large building loomed over them. Shattered glass, piles of black snow and rubble littered the sidewalks and paving. Looking up the street, Stan inspected the wrecked T-66. Chinese corpses lay around it, the tanker crew trying to escape their crippled monster.
The sounds of war reverberated from hundreds of buildings. Chinese artillery boomed outside the city, sending shells screaming into the concrete jungle. There was constant rifle fire, vehicle cannons and hammering machine guns. Anchorage looked like old war footage, with gutted grocery stores, smashed banks and demolished retail outlets.
Standing, Stan adjusted his durasteel armor. He felt hollow and his eyes hurt. There was a bloody bandage around his head for his torn left ear. It made wearing his helmet uncomfortable. Only his Abrams remained. The other two M1A2s had paid the ultimate price, just like Philips. Jose was at the back of the tank, inspecting the engine. Hank checked the treads.
“One Abrams can’t do much against the rest of the T-66s,” Stan said. Philips’s Stryker had been the last of their “bait” team. Jackson was the last police officer of their squad still able to walk.
“It’s not over until it’s over,” Jackson muttered.
Stan glanced at him. The officer had a stony face, his eyes like flint. “Last man standing, huh?”
“I swore an oath a long time ago to protect the people of the city,” Jackson said. “I’m going to do that until I die.”
“That won’t take us long,” Stan said. “The Chinese have too much heavy ordnance for us.” They had destroyed three T-66s and damaged others, almost taking out two more. Those others had retreated to the Chinese side for repairs.
“You still have your tank,” Jackson said, “and I have my assault rifle.”
Stan frowned. The man had been running from T-66s since yesterday, luring more than half-a-dozen into ambush. It was a thankless task and had killed or crippled all the other volunteers. The thing that galled Stan was that it could have worked as a tactic. The Chinese simply had too many of those monsters compared to what America possessed here.
Stan moved his lower jaw, trying to make it so his torn ear didn’t hurt so much. That proved impossible. Stan sighed. He was bone tired, exhausted.
“I want to see them,” he said. “Maybe we can figure out something better.”
Jackson stared up the street. He seemed to be listening to the sounds of combat. The police officer knew the city, all the little side streets and secret ways. It was his knowledge that had let them kill as many T-66s as they had.
“Follow me,” Jackson said.
They crunched over glass and rubble, trotting at times, gripping their weapons and hunching.
“This way,” Jackson said.
The police officer led Stan into a gutted building. They climbed creaking stairs and warily approached a shot-up window. Glass shards littered a desk near the window. Stan swept the glass onto the floor and peered outside.
There was a giant parking lot in the distance, the shell of a parking garage and many other empty lots. Long ago, car dealerships had displayed hundreds of new vehicles there. Now the lead elements of the next Chinese assault moved across the open area. Operationally, the enemy attack had wedged into the city like a triangle. The point—the T-66s—had made it three-quarters of the way through.
“Look at that,” Stan said. “I count five heavies. We have nothing left to stop those.”
“We have your tank.”
“It isn’t enough,” said Stan. “It would be suicide to continue what we’ve been doing.”
“We can’t let the Chinese take Anchorage.”
Stan eyes ached as he watched those giant tanks. Three cannons per vehicle, each of those a 175mm gun. He thought of Major Benson and the M1A3s he had brought from California. That had been a great moment, when Benson’s tanks had scored those hits.