Invasion: Alaska

-5- Last Call

Stan Higgins rubbed his eyes as he said, “Exceptional. Use your fingers to sound out the syllables.”

The skinny high-school freshman beside him, the one hunched over a history textbook, nodded slowly. The boy’s right index finger was under the word, and the skull ring on that finger and the black-painted nails spoke volumes. The boy, Nicky, could barely read, but he could name you a thousand songs. Nicky had never seen his father, and his mother only came home at night around seven from the Anchorage Fifth District Court. Juneau was the capital of Alaska, but even these days Anchorage boasted more government workers.

It was almost four PM, and Stan had been helping Nicky since three when the last bell rang, dismissing the students for the day. There were too many like Nicky in Stan’s sixth period World History class. Seven weeks ago, there had been five students coming after school for help. Now there was just this one. Because Nicky had stuck it out, he’d become Stan’s favorite student. The various historical posters on the wall could explain the reason. The one Stan pointed to the most during the school year showed Winston Churchill holding a Tommy gun and, his teeth chomped on a huge cigar. The caption below it read: Never give up, never, never, never.

The cell phone in Stan’s cargo pants vibrated. He didn’t like interrupting their sessions. Reading concentration was often difficult for these boys, especially for those who listened to music twenty-four seven. One of his rules was that his students had to take out their music-plugs while in class and after school as he tried to teach them to read.

“Just a minute,” Stan said, as he took out his cell, checking it. “I’d better take this call.”

“Sure thing, Professor,” Nicky said, who sat back with a sigh.

Stan no longer rolled his eyes when his students called him “Professor.” He’d gotten used to it in the Alaskan National Guard a long time ago. He was a captain in an armor company, one of the few such companies in the state.

National Guard units never used to have tanks. That began to change years ago as the U.S. military demobilized countless formations. There had simply been too much equipment to mothball properly. So the Army had donated heavy equipment like M1A2 Abrams tanks or M2 Bradleys to various National Guard units. Alaska had a few, old vehicles carefully kept up throughout the years.

Stan was in education and he wore glasses while in the tanks. He had tried contacts, but the constant vibration in them irritated his eyes, so he used his old glasses instead. Jose Garcia, a car mechanic and his tech/gunner, had first called him Professor many years ago, and the nickname had stuck. A few years later, one of his men’s kids had called him that in class. The class had loved it, and it had quickly spread around the high school. Somehow, year after year, the nickname stuck even though he never told his students about it.

“Hello, Jose,” Stan said.

“Professor,” Jose Garcia said on the other end of the line. “You’d better get out here. A guy came into my shop a minute ago, telling me your dad’s been knocking on doors again. Your dad’s warning people the aliens are coming. It’s just a matter of time before someone calls the cops on him. And you know what that means.”

“Has he been drinking?” Stan asked with a sickening feeling in his gut. Not the aliens again—he’d carefully explained to his dad why space aliens couldn’t hurt the Earth. It had been more convincing to his dad giving him bogus reasons than trying to tell him that space aliens didn’t exist. At least, Stan had thought so at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure it had been the right strategy.

“I know it ain’t my place,” Jose said, “but you need to get him into a clinic or something. The cops have it out for your dad.”

No, not the cops, Stan thought. One cop: Sergeant Jackson.

“What street?” Stan asked.

“Ah… Fifth and Michael,” Jose said. “I think you’d better hurry. From the sounds of it, he’s been at it for a while.”

The sinking feeling in Stan grew. He wasn’t aware of it, but his shoulders slumped, and suddenly he felt the long school day. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep.

“Thanks, Jose,” Stan said. “I appreciate the call.”

“Hey, Professor, we’re the Guard. We stick together no matter what.”

It was silly, but the words steadied Stan. It felt as if someone had his back, because someone actually did.

He had two different worlds of friends. There were his intellectual buddies from school and those from the Guard, usually working class guys who drank beer and liked to hunt. Both worlds had good people, but there was no doubt they were different. Stan had theorized to his wife about the two. The first world talked about ideas. The second seemed to live them. Stan liked to think of himself as an ancient Athenian from before the Peloponnesian War. The great playwright Aeschylus had fought in the world-changing Battle of Marathon. Socrates, the philosopher, had fought at the Battles of Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium and he’d been lauded for his heroism. In that time, even exceptionally brilliant men had lived whole lives, not the fractured existence that seemed to be people’s lot in post-industrial America.

Stan pocketed the cell phone, told Nicky that they were stopping early today and urged him to use the reader he’d loaned him. One of the tricks to teaching boys to read was helping them find material they were genuinely interested in. Too often, the school-selected reading material was too dated or too tame for a young man. Too many boys were bored sick with school, especially because of the stress the schools placed upon keeping things non-competitive. In Stan’s opinion, boys thrived under competition, and they wanted action in a story, the more the better. Why did people think Hulk comics still sold so well?

After saying goodbye to Nicky—who pressed his music-plugs into his ears and slouched away—Stan locked his room. He hurried to the faculty parking lot. There was snow on the sidewalks, dark clouds above and gloom all around. Stan wore a faded Alaskan National Guard hat, a heavy coat, and boots. A little under six-foot tall, Stan fought a constant battle against a protruding gut, although he wasn’t fat like most of his friends. He’d been 165 as a high-school senior and a hard-tackling safety on the football squad. Now at forty-three he kept under 200 pounds. He lifted weights three times a week and played basketball against Bill Harris, the pastor of the Rock Church.

Stan had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get to lift today.

It was cold in the old Land Rover, and after turning on the ignition, he waited for the vehicle to warm up. Soon thereafter, he pulled out onto Pacifica Avenue and headed toward Jose’s shop. There was an occasional knock in the engine. It definitely needed work again. It had over one hundred thousand miles and could maybe last another twenty thousand before an overhaul.

Most people these days drove crappy little box-cars and ancient pickups from the 2000s like his Land Rover. They repaired them repeatedly. America only had a handful of car factories compared to the old days of glory.

While tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, Stan thought about buying a rebuilt engine. It might be a good experience for him to install it. He always felt he needed more mechanical know-how. It would certainly make him a better tank commander afterward.

As he passed Oscar’s Donuts, Stan shook his head. When would that ever matter? Why did they even have tanks in Alaska, especially outdated relics like the Abrams M1A2? In the old days before the Sovereign Debt Depression, America used to deploy National Guard units in their ongoing foreign wars. But that had been over twenty years ago. Except for the Grain Union, America was hard-core isolationist these days.

Pulling to a stop before a red light on Ninth Street, Stan rubbed his eyes. He needed to take out his contacts. Leaning over, Stan opened the glove compartment to check if his glasses were inside. His mouth dropped open as he saw his .44 Magnum sitting there in its holster. His heart tightened in his chest. There were severe laws against having a gun on school grounds, which included the parking lot. How could he have forgotten to take it out? Did he want to lose his job and go to jail?

Behind him, a car honked.

Stan jerked up, looked back and saw a woman giving him the finger behind her windshield. Blushing, Stan glanced at the green light. He gave the rover gas and it lurched like a jumping salmon. The big magnum fell out of the glove compartment and thumped heavily onto the floor.

Now his eyes really hurt. Stan pulled to the curb, stopping beside a Burger Palace. A girl was leaning out of the drive-up window, handing a bag and a soft drink to a young guy in a pickup. Blinking too much, Stan extracted his contacts and put them into his solution bottle. Then he dug out a pair of glasses from the glove compartment and put them on. One of these days, he was going to get laser eye-surgery, but it wasn’t today. He picked up the .44 and shoved it back into the glove compartment, shutting it hard.

As he pulled back onto the street, his cell phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pants pocket, and said, “Hello?”

“Honey, are you almost done?”

It was his wife, Susan. Glancing at the rover’s clock, showed Stan it was 4:21. Oh, right, it was Wednesday. It was a growth group meeting at the Boone’s tonight. He and his family went to church at the Rock, and the growth group meetings discussed Bill’s latest sermon. Normally, Stan appreciated the Wednesday evening meetings. Not only did they study the Bible there, but they also got to know the other people at the church better. It was one thing looking at the back of a person’s head during the service and maybe shaking the person’s hand afterward, and quite another sitting in a home drinking coffee and arguing about what the pastor’s sermon had really meant. Stan liked the discussions and he liked the deeper connections with others. People were far too divided these days—lonely islands with too little glue holding them together as a society. Stan had vowed more than once after watching too many football games and sitcoms in a day to quit vegging on the couch.

“Stan?” his wife asked over the cell phone.

“Ah…” he said, wondering if he should mention his dad. His wife had cooked the meal tonight. The meeting started at six-thirty and it was all the way across town. Stan lived on the outskirts of Anchorage, and the Boone’s house was on the other side. The crisscrossing back and forth would add maybe an hour, if he were lucky. How long would his dad take?

“Is something wrong, honey?” his wife asked.

“Dad’s been drinking again,” Stan blurted. “He’s been acting up.”

Susan got quiet, which was a bad sign. “You missed last week’s growth group meeting,” she finally said.

“I want to come,” he said. “You know that.”

“What’s your dad done this time?” she asked tiredly.

“I’ll be quick, honey. I just need to talk to him, get him settled down.”

“You know I hate going to the Boone’s alone.”

“I know,” said Stan, with the ache in his eyes a light throb.

“It’s an interesting topic tonight,” she said. “You told me so yourself after the sermon.”

“Honey, I want to go. But I need to help my dad first. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but in a quiet tone that indicated it was anything but.

Susan was the greatest. Stan loved his wife, and she had been longsuffering with his dad. The old man used to stay at their house. That’s where the real trouble had started. They had two girls, ten and seven, and his father’s explosive cursing and occasional nudity had been too much. It had caused the biggest fight of their marriage and a week with Stan sleeping on the couch. Susan’s tears had finally convinced Stan he had to tell his dad to move out. It had been in the middle of winter, and his dad had been allowed at the Homeless Center for three weeks until they kicked him out. Jail time had seen him through the coldest part of the year. Unfortunately, his dad had never done well with the police. Stan had never gotten the story straight from his dad, but he knew his father had smeared his own crap on Sergeant Jackson. There had been a beating afterward, and Stan had sunk fifteen thousand on lawyer’s fees against the Police Department for brutality.

No one had been happy with him for that—not the police, his wife, or his dad, who said he could fight his own battles. The police had finally made a bargain with his lawyer. Stan had dropped the police brutality charge, and his father had been released from jail. For two months, his father either had remained sober or had only taken a few drinks a day.

Those “good days” were over. His dad had started drinking heavily again, and now his weird side was shining through even stronger than before. In their way of thinking, the police had given his dad several breaks. Those breaks might soon be ending, especially if Sergeant Jackson had anything to say about it.

“I’ll make it home in time to go to the Boone’s,” Stan said.

“You promise?” Susan asked.

“I promise to try my hardest.”

“Okay,” she said, even quieter than before. “Bye honey.”

“I love you,” he said.

She hung up before saying, “I love you,” back. That let Stan know she was hurt and probably what his daughters called “boiling inside.” He couldn’t blame Susan, and he didn’t, but it was his dad. He had to help him. The Third Commandment said to honor your parents, and it was the first of the Ten Commandments with a promise. It said that it would go well with a man who honored his parents. It also said that he would live a long life.

Thinking about his wife and her expectations, Stan pushed his foot on the accelerator. It was probably wiser risking a traffic ticket so he could get to his dad first. It wouldn’t help his insurance rates if he got a ticket and Susan might possibly complain about the cost of it, but this was his dad and he was the old man’s only son.

Stan parked beside a curb. He turned off the engine, jumped out of the rover and hurried after his dad.

Mack Higgins was big, and even at sixty-seven he was imposing. He had wild white hair jutting every which way. Worse, he was shirtless, with his ancient denim jacket tied around his waist. Stan’s dad was like a polar bear, with bulky arms, a barrel-like torso and was seldom affected by the cold. Also like a polar bear, Mack had thick white hair on his chest, belly and much of his back.

His dad had also fought a long time ago in Afghanistan, being a colonel in a light infantry battalion. Mack had led from the front, and Stan had heard many stories where his dad drew his sidearm. Colonel Higgins had emptied his share of magazines, as his dad put it, into “no-good Allah-loving Taliban terrorists.”

Afghanistan had done something to his dad. Colonel Mack Higgins’s hard drinking had begun there. After his retirement, the drinking had definitely become full-blown alcoholism. Watching his dad’s mental decline had convinced Stan of several things. Firstly, killing men did something to you. Or maybe it was seeing your friends die, blown apart by a roadside bomb. Mack had experienced both.

Secondly, too much alcohol over long periods pickled a man’s brain. Hadn’t it changed Alexander the Great? Stan had read about the Macedonian’s decline in health and his growing inability to control his temper through increasingly hard drinking.

Finally, hard knocks to the head were very bad. Mack had received one in a bar fight. The second time, Sergeant Jackson had struck his dad over the head with his baton. Mack Higgins had a visible dent in his skull now, about three inches above his left eye.

“Dad!” called Stan.

Mack Higgins lumbered down the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Large pine trees shadowed the snowy yards and the street, and their roots had caused, over time, what looked like quake damage to the sidewalk.

This was an older area of Anchorage. Here, the two-story homes were built so the sides almost touched. Each had a garage and most had shrubbery and trees that was over twenty years old.

Stan glanced over his shoulder. He saw several groups of people either standing in their yards or on their porches, watching his dad. Some grinned at one another, laughing. Others scowled. Odds were someone had called the police. The best thing was to get his dad out of here fast.

“Dad, hold up,” Stan called.

Mack Higgins never even paused. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still good. His dad was probably ignoring him again.

“Colonel Higgins, sir,” Stan called.

The big old man with the hairy torso stopped then and slowly shuffled around. The bleary, unfocused eyes told their own story, and the alcoholic reek only added to the tale. Mack Higgins swayed. He had to be really drunk to do that.

“What do you want, boy?” Mack Higgins slurred. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

“I have to warn the people,” Mack said, as he unsteadily raised one of his arms, indicating the tract homes.

“Is this about the space aliens?” asked Stan.

Mack squinted and he lowered his head to peer more closely at Stan. “Who told you that?”

Stan licked his lips. Lying was wrong, and lying to your dad was even worse. He also hated helping his dad believe his fantasies, but arguing wasn’t going to work today. The cops were sure to show up soon, and the two of them had to be out of here by then. In this frame of mind, his dad might take a swing at one of the cops.

“Uh… I got a phone call,” Stan said, temporizing his lie with some truth.

Mack blinked his unfocused eyes, making him seem lost and confused. Lines appeared on his forehead. It helped highlight the dent in his skull, the one that sank into his hairline. “Oh,” he finally grunted. “Someone here phoned you. Good. The word is spreading. You take the other side of the street. We don’t have much time before the aliens invade.”

Stan took a deep breath. “Dad… I think the aliens have allies.”

The lines in the broad forehead deepened. Slowly, Mack Higgins nodded. “Benedict Arnolds, huh? I should have known. The aliens are cunning, but they’re never going to conquer America. We’re red, white and blue, son, especially in Alaska.”

“The aliens want you in jail, sir. They want to slow you down.”

The bleary-eyed squint narrowed. “How did you come to learn this?”

Stan noticed his dad’s big hands tightening into fists. He had to be careful how he worded this. His dad had told him before that the aliens were shape-shifters, able to take on human appearances. Stan had seen this look before. It meant Mack Higgins was getting ready to fight. They had to scram fast, or the cops would pull their tasers on the big man and shock him into submission.

“Colonel Higgins, sir, I believe the aliens have compromised the police department.”

His dad snarled a curse. “I’ve taken that as a given from the beginning. What you’re saying is something else, isn’t it?”

“Ah… yes.”

“Right,” his dad said. “You’re telling me the police are willing to move openly now against the citizenry. It’s time to arm ourselves and fight back.”

“Hold on!” said Stan, alarmed.

Mack Higgins took a menacing step closer, the knuckles of his fists whitening because he clenched his fingers so tightly.

As his dad did that, a police cruiser turned onto the street. Stan glanced at the approaching squad car, and with growing despair, he spotted Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel. Sensing more than seeing his dad, Stan turned back in time as the old colonel swung at him. It was a slow punch, and Stan evaded by stepping back. It made his dad stagger, and then bump against him. The reek of alcohol and his dad’s unwashed body was strong. Stan dearly wished he could bring his dad back to normality. Colonel Higgins had been a strong man—a good man and one full of insights. It was painful seeing his dad in this condition.

The police cruiser’s siren made a loud, piercing noise before the sound quit. Then the cruiser was pulling up along the curb.

Mack cursed under his breath, adding, “You brought reinforcements, huh?”

“Don’t you understand?” Stan asked. “I’m your son, damnit.”

“My son’s a churchgoer,” said Mack, “he doesn’t swear. Now let me go!” His dad grappled with him, slow motion using some of the judo-holds he’d taught him as a kid. Despite his dad’s age and drunkenness, Stan barely kept himself from being flipped onto the snow. Mack Higgins weighed an easy two-eighty and was still strong.

A car door slammed.

Stan looked up as Sergeant Jackson approached. Jackson was a big man, although not quite as big as Colonel Higgins, but with more gut. The officer wore a flak-vest underneath his jacket, had a thick black belt with cuffs, gun and a dangling nightstick. Jackson’s belt creaked like a horse saddle. One hand rested on the sleeve of his holster; the other was on the rubber-grip of his nightstick.

Jackson asked, “You causing trouble, old man?”

“No trouble, officer,” Stan said.

Mack Higgins slowly glanced from Jackson to Stan. “I get it,” he slurred. “You’re playing clean cop, stinky cop.”

“You’re coming with me,” Jackson said.

Stan almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as he stepped in front of his dad. “I’ll take him home, officer.”

“Not today you won’t,” Jackson said.

“Out of my way,” Mack said, taking Stan by the shoulders and trying to shove him aside.

Stan twisted and grappled with his dad. “Back off,” he whispered. “Let me deal with this. Please, Dad, I’m begging you.”

“You’re one of them,” Mack whispered, blowing fumes into Stan’s face.

“Don’t you know your own son?”

Mack Higgins frowned, and for a moment, his unfocused eyes focused. “Stan?” he asked.

“Go sit in my rover, would you, please?” Stan asked.

His dad nodded slowly as his grip slackened.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Jackson said.

Mack started to turn to face Jackson.

Stan gripped his dad’s arms. “Ignore him,” he whispered. “Let me talk to the man.”

“He’s a Benedict Arnold,” Mack whispered.

“Do it for me,” Stan said, “and I’ll take you to supper later. You have to be hungry.”

“I am,” Mack said, sounding surprised. “You’ll buy me roast beef?”

“Gladly,” Stan said.

Ex-Colonel Higgins released his son and headed for the Land Rover, never looking back as Sergeant Jackson shouted at him.

Stan stepped toward the policeman with his arms hanging down and hands open, palms forward. “Can I have a word with you, officer?”

Jackson unsnapped his holster.

“He’s going to sit in my jeep,” Stan said.

Jackson’s grabbed the butt of his gun. “I order you to halt!” he shouted at Mack.

Mack Higgins opened the passenger-side door and squeezed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sergeant, can we make a deal?” Stan asked.

Jackson glanced at Stan. “Does your deal mean you’re offering me money?”

Stan shook his head.

“Do your dad a favor,” Jackson said. “Tell him to step out of the car. He’s about to be arrested.”

“Look at my dad. He’s sitting quietly in my vehicle. The problem is solved—if there ever was a problem to begin with.”

“Your dad has been hammering on doors, telling people space aliens are coming.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It is when you refuse to leave the premises and make threats to the homeowners.”

“My dad has left.”

Jackson stared at Stan. “Do I have to pull your dad out of the car?”

“You’re missing your chance. Do you know that?”

“Meaning what?” Jackson asked.

“That if you arrest my father on some minor charge like knocking on doors about space aliens, you’re risking the judge throwing it out of court because it’s bogus. That would make it easier for me to press harassment charges.”

Jackson kept staring.

“Why not wait and try to catch my dad on something serious?” Stan asked. “Why not let the threat of your doing that trouble me.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“I think I can change my dad before you find something really serious to charge him with.”

“He’ll never change,” Jackson said.

No, because you beat the old man on the head with a baton, Stan thought to himself. You flipped a switch in there and broke it, and now my dad will never be normal again.

“Go ahead then,” said Stan. “Arrest him, and we’ll start the review process. I’m sure it will go in your favor this time.”

Jackson glanced at Mack Higgins, who sat quietly in the Land Rover. Jackson looked at the watching people. Many had left already, going inside. The nearest were making jokes at Mack’s expense and they were laughing good-naturedly.

Jackson snapped his holster shut. He shrugged. “I’ll give you this one. Space aliens. First I need to warn him, though.” Jackson headed toward the rover.

Stan followed, deciding he’d have to bring his dad home with him tonight. Then he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dad off the streets. Susan would be upset, but what choice did he have?

Before Stan could worry about it, Mack opened his door. The old man grinned crazily, with the .44 Magnum in his grip and aimed at Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad,” whispered Stan.

Mack Higgins stood and used his thumb to click the hammer all the way back. That rotated the cylinder and showed the visible bullets in each chamber.

Jackson had halted. The police officer moved his lips, but no sounds issued.

“Benedict Arnolds are filth under my feet,” Mack declared. “The aliens will never capture Earth. Never, do you hear me?”

“Dad, stop,” Stan said. “Put the gun down.”

Mack glanced at him, and the .44 barrel was now aimed at him.

It made Stan queasy. He was a finger-twitch away from lying on the snow dead. Why had he forgotten to put the gun away? It shouldn’t have been in the glove compartment in the first place.

“Dad,” Stan whispered. “It’s me, your son.”

Mack cocked his head.

“I’m ordering you—” Jackson managed to say.

Mack aimed the .44 at the police officer again, stopping the flow of words.

Stan knew it was crazy, but he started walking toward his dad. Colonel Higgins had killed his share of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. The old man was more than capable of killing Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad, don’t shoot. It will be murder. Set down the gun, okay?”

“You alien-loving traitor,” Mack told Jackson.

“No!” Stan shouted, and he rushed his dad.

Mack aimed at Stan, the trigger-finger seemed to squeeze, and then something entered those drunken eyes. Was it a moment of normality? Whatever it was, Mack hurled the .44 away. The big revolver hit the snowy ground and discharged with a thunderous boom.

People screamed. The bullet smashed into a nearby pine and the half-naked Mack Higgins stared dully at Sergeant Jackson. There were two prongs in Mack’s chest, with wires trailing back to Jackson’s hand. Apparently when the old man had chucked the gun, Jackson had madly clawed out his taser and fired. Mack bellowed in pain and he crumpled onto the snow, thrashing.

A second later, a pale Jackson took his thumb off the switch.

Stan’s shoulders slumped as Jackson took out his handcuffs. Now his dad had gone and done it. What made it worse was his dad peering up at him from the snow, forlorn and confused. There had to be something Stan could do to help his dad, but Stan had no idea what it was.

Anna Chen headed the China Desk for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor for President Clark. At the moment, she was in her cubicle in the West Wing of the White House. She cradled a phone against her shoulder as she spoke with a friend at the National Security Agency.

While she was on the phone, Anna jotted notes, puzzled by her friend’s tone and that he hadn’t yet told her something she didn’t already know. In other words, why had he called?

“How about lunch, Anna?” asked Alfredo Diaz.

Anna frowned thoughtfully. At thirty-six, she was still slender and a stunning beauty. Because of her position, though—and for a variety of reasons she never admitted to herself—Anna wore fake glasses, kept her hair up in an unflattering style and dressed ultra-conservatively. Anna knew men were intimidated by her looks and her intellect, and though she was willing to play down her appearance, she hated acting dumb. In Harvard, she had been president of the chess club and had majored in Chinese History. She’d always won the highest marks in each class, ensuring that by getting the best grades on every paper she wrote and test that she took. During her four years at Harvard—and afterward as well—she had forever been picking up new skills. One year it was piano playing. The next she studied body kinetics and body language. After that, it had been stargazing—she could name eighty-three stars by memory, pointing each one out in the night sky.

All of this drive had led to success. She had written the definitive tome on present China and its policies, Socialist-Nationalist China, and had taught at Harvard for a time. But she had found life there too tame. Then one of her old professors had entered Presidential service, asking her to be his assistant, which she had eagerly accepted. Unfortunately, he’d been asked to retire after the first year. The silver-lining for her was that Anna had taken his place.

Presidential service in the shark-like environment of political D.C. suited her. During his first term, President Clark had jury-rigged the country’s domestic problems well enough that he was now able to take timid steps in international affairs. The President was considered a dove. For election reasons, he wanted to buff up that image.

As the Chinese expert, Anna was supposed to figure out what was going on over there. Had Deng Fong gained enough personal power to broker a deal on his own? Or had Deng simply been a mouthpiece for the ailing Chairman? According to what the Third Assistant had told her, the President and the National Security Advisor had been second-guessing the Secretary of State’s decision in Sydney for days.

“Did we undercut Deng?” National Security Advisor Green had asked the Third Assistant several days ago. The assistant had related the story to Anna five times already. Here in Washington, proximity to power was the measure of worth, and that included the amount of time one spent with the President and his closest advisors. Because of the President’s increasing interest in foreign affairs, the National Security Advisor had become more important, and that had increased Anna’s importance.

She cradled the receiver under her chin as she waited for Alfredo to speak again, which he did. “Let’s go to lunch, Anna,” Alfredo said, “somewhere loud and obnoxious. With good food, of course.”

Anna underlined lunch. She understood now. Because he worked in the NSA, Alfredo was worried their line was tapped. Part of the job over there was using sophisticated means—satellites mainly—to eavesdrop on foreign and domestic enemies. Alfredo, therefore, had cause to be paranoid. People seemed to worry most about what they themselves did or dealt with. Therefore, liars seemed most worried about other liars. She’d read a study before that said some off-duty police officers took their gun with them when they went outside to empty the trash, because dealing with muggers and thieves all day gave them a darker worldview than, say, a software engineer, who probably worried more about identity theft.

“Do you know of a good place to eat that fits your description?” Anna asked.

“You pick it,” Alfredo said promptly.

“How about Herod’s by the University Mall?” she said.

“Herod’s,” Alfredo said. “Yes, that’s perfect. Can you meet me in an hour?”

“Make it an hour and half,” she said.

“You’re beautiful, my love. I’ll reserve a table for us next to the band. You’ll definitely come, yes?”

“An hour and a half,” Anna confirmed. “Bye.” She immediately hung up, missing his goodbye, if he’d given one.

Anna frowned at her notepad. What did Alfredo want to tell her that was so important he couldn’t speak about it over the phone? She tapped the pad with her pen, deciding she’d better summon Tanaka, her regular security man.

The Third Assistant didn’t like it when she went places without any security. He recognized that Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor didn’t make him a primary target, let alone those working for him. But he’d told her more than once that she was a special case, and Anna was quite certain her boss meant it as a compliment.

If there weren’t some merit to what he’d said, she’d have declined the protection. The Aztlan separatists seemed to have lost their fire recently, but the incidents of kidnapping—and often the execution—of government people had risen all over the world. It wasn’t just an American problem. At this point in history, the world seemed hell-bent on continuing to fracture into smaller and smaller national entities. There wasn’t even a Great Britain anymore. Instead, it was England, Wales and Scotland, each a separate nation. This nationalism is what had broken up NATO.

Picking up the phone, Anna decided to play it safe. Besides, Tanaka made her feel better in the city, which was a welfare jungle seething with violence. Her mother had told her many years ago that men wanted her body, and would do outrageous things to acquire it. Anna could often hear her mother’s scolding voice in her head whenever she walked the streets alone. An hour and a half—she’d need the time to prepare her security and run a quick check on Herod’s, Alfredo and the safest route to the mall. These days, with so many people out of work and looking for money, it paid to prepare.

The big band music crashed through the dining area of Herod’s. The musicians wore glittering suits as they played their instruments in the alcove. Overhead, massive, slowly rotating chandeliers added to the ambiance. Herod’s was one of the posh spots of the capital. Waiters in tails took the orders. Cocktail waitresses wearing strings of sequins brought the drinks. Because it was the 2030s, a huge fad had developed on the East Coast for the 1930s. Nostalgia for the first Depression was fashionable and growing.

Anna wore a pants suit that did nothing to heighten her beauty. She still wore glasses, her hair in a bun and used makeup to dampen the smoothness of her skin.

Tanaka moved ahead of her. The security agent wore a slick suit and dark sunglasses. Anna knew he kept a gun in his jacket. His hair was greased back and he had stern features, an expert in personal security. Anna liked him because he hardly ever spoke and never offered her an opinion on anything.

Many of the higher government officials hired their own security these days, gunmen bought on the cheap. The National Security Advisor kept more guards than average, as he was a rich man. With the state of the economy, it was relatively easy to find competent men like Tanaka.

“You brought your pet goon!” Alfredo shouted over the noise.

Tanaka didn’t even glance at the NSA man sitting at a small table to the immediate left of the alcove. Tanaka glanced around, possibly examining the various tables and their occupants, and then he bent near Anna’s ear.

“I’ll wait outside the dining room,” Tanaka said in a deep voice, his hot breath blowing against her skin.

A shiver ran down Anna’s spine from his voice, but she clamped down on any outer emotions. She nodded as Tanaka turned and strode away. Other security men always pulled out her chair for her. Tanaka had never offered once. She wondered why, and she was surprised that it nettled her. She even glanced back at him as he moved gracefully through the crowd. He was like a panther.

“Are you troubled?” Alfredo asked.

Anna features tightened as she pulled out her chair, sat down and picked up the menu. Like everything else here, it was elegant in overdone art deco.

“The french fries are to die for,” Alfredo said.

Anna lowered her menu. “You order. Make it something light, though.”

Alfredo motioned to a waiter, and when he arrived, put in their order. While he did so, Anna looked around. The dining area was packed with millionaires, lobbyists, important bloggers, ambassadors and Congressmen with daughter-aged companions. She turned back to Alfredo.

He was thin and balding, with a narrow mustache. He wore a black suit and tie in a neo-nineteen-thirties fashion. Alfredo Diaz was good at his job, and several times, he’d alerted Anna to potentially explosive information, which she had passed on to the Third Assistant. Once, Anna had received a commendation signed by the President for it, handed to her by the National Security Advisor.

The problem of government leaks had intensified throughout the years with spies both foreign and domestic. Many of those spies were embedded within the bureaucracy. Years ago, Alfredo had been one such spy, dabbling in Aztlan separatism. Having grown up in one of the so-called “Aztlan” territories—Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California—he had felt the pull of separatism. That had changed, Alfredo had told Anna, once the situation in Mexico proper shifted.

Mexico had come under heavy Chinese influence. Because of that, the country had exploded with cheap factories and cheaper labor. There was no minimum wage as Mexico exploited its workers with help from Chinese advisors. The economy had grown rapidly, but the wealth distribution had become more uneven. It had been one of the reasons for the civil war. Rather than align himself with that system, Alfredo had decided to stick with the peaceful government, realizing he didn’t want to live in a country with a permanent state of war. A few times since his awakening—as he’d put it—he’d helped pass Trojan horse information to the leaders of Aztlan. They’d been poison pills that had suppressed some of their primary terrorist cells, and had helped Alfredo prove his patriotism to Anna.

Anna and Alfredo now spoke about the latest Broadway play, sipped wine, nibbled on french fries—they were fantastic—and fell silent as each ate their entrée. Anna had sautéed mushrooms and a half order of ribs, while Alfredo devoured a sirloin steak. Neither wanted dessert, although both agreed they’d like a cup of coffee.

“I want mine black,” Anna told the waiter, who bowed at the waist to show he’d received the information.

“French cream for me,” Alfredo said.

Soon, each sipped coffee as the band played a newly fashionable Benny Goodman number.

“Is this going to be on my tab?” Anna asked.

Alfredo smiled as he clicked his coffee cup onto its saucer. “You’re paying, but only because I have this.” He slid a memory stick across the table.

Anna glanced at the tiny black object before opening her purse and sliding it into a side pocket. Then she gave Alfredo a significant glance.

“What do you know about the destruction of Platform Seven?” Alfredo asked.

“The Shop experts believe CHKR-57 high explosives were used,” she said. “I suppose that’s why the report was forwarded to me. CHKR-57 is of Chinese make.”

Alfredo used his napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “The search and rescue workers have discovered a Chinese corpse. The corpse was carrying a TOZ-2.”

“A TOZ-2 underwater pistol,” Anna said. “Those are issued to White Tiger Commandos.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. I glanced at the search and rescue reports. There was never any mention about a TOZ-2. It certainly wasn’t in the news.”

Alfredo glanced both ways before he leaned across the table. “The search and rescue people who found the body have been quarantined.”

“What?”

“I heard the order,” Alfredo said.

“You intercepted it?”

He looked down. “I got carried away,” he whispered. “There was no one else at my station, which is unusual, but it happens more often than people realize. I kept monitoring the conversation and it became increasingly more interesting.”

Anna became thoughtful. “You have strict policies concerning who and what a NSA officer listens to. You’ve just admitted to a serious Federal crime. They could put you away…maybe forever, for what you’ve just admitted doing.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Like a shy boy caught stealing, Alfredo looked at her. “I think the President has decided to cover this one up.”

“Why would you believe that?”

“I heard a Presidential order. It went to a Secret Service detail, with orders to bring the admiral in charge of the S-and-R operation to Washington for a briefing.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Alfredo shook his head. “The Secret Service detail was given top secret orders to reroute the flight and detain the admiral and the entire S-and-R Team in a lonely facility on Federal land in Nevada.”

Anna felt cold inside, never doubting Alfredo for a moment. He was good at what he did. Another reason she didn’t doubt him was that the election was near—sometimes presidents did strange things to win an election. She needed to study Alfredo’s data. It was hot, and she had to make sure no one caught her reading it. She opened her purse to hunt for her credit card. It was time to leave. Then she noticed Alfredo, the fear in his eyes.

Anna reached across the table and touched one of his hands. The skin was cold, and it felt clammy.

“I’m worried,” Alfredo whispered.

She patted his hand. “Don’t be. I’m going to figure this out, but it might be wise if we don’t see each other for a while.”

“I understand. I don’t want to end up in that lonely base in Nevada. And thank you, Anna. I knew you were the person I should tell.”

Anna hardly heard. She wanted to get to work and study the data.

Stan found Bill in his garage, working on the family car. It was the only vehicle the pastor owned. Few people had more than one car or truck these days. Like most of the homes on the street, Bill’s house was over thirty years old and showed it in many subtle ways. Paint and repairs could only hide so much. Anchorage had a rundown feeling, with too many vacant lots and old, deserted buildings.

“You should take that to my friend’s shop,” Stan said, walking into the garage.

Bill was hunkered under the hood. “I’d like to,” he said, “but I can’t afford it right now.”

Leaning on the fender, Stan looked at the engine. There was rust in places, and the parts looked worn. “It wasn’t like this when we were kids,” he said.

Bill wore greasy overalls, a wrench in his hand he was using to unscrew a bolt.

“Did you hear about my dad?” Stan asked.

Bill looked up, searching Stan’s face. “Uh-oh, what happened?”

Stan shook his head. He didn’t have enough extra cash for bail. His dad—

“Does this have anything to do with Sergeant Jackson?” Bill asked.

Stan blew out his breath and began to tell Bill what had happened the other day.

Anna had a high capacity for work: for compiling data, absorbing the data and reaching conclusions. Her book Socialist-Nationalist China had made it onto the bestseller lists for just those reasons.

She had spent a long day in the West Wing after studying Alfredo’s memory chip. Shop files on China, secret memos and several key blog reports had each given her more information. That night at home, she’d studied and correlated various details. She was like a spider spinning a web, trying to capture the reason for the President to have ordered the interning of the S&R Team.

The next day in the West Wing, she turned on her computer and continued her line of inquiry. After sifting through reports, downloading more, reading and thinking, she tried to access a critical Shop file. The data was blocked. She used her override code, and was surprised to find that blocked, too.

She tapped her fingers on the computer. Taking a breath, she tried a different code, one she’d seen on the Third Assistant’s desk several months ago. It had been a momentary glance seen upside down. The Third Assistant had swept the paper into his top drawer, but Anna had a nearly perfect photographic memory.

She typed in the code and waited. Her screen flashed, and she was afraid the entire system had crashed. Then she was in the Shop file. Soon she was studying top-secret satellite info on Ambarchik Base, East Siberia. What she found frightened her.

She made a call ninety minutes later. “Dr. Blanco, please.”

“Can I ask who is calling?” asked the woman on the other end.

“Tell him it’s Anna. Tell him the time has come.”

“Excuse me?”

“Several years ago he promised I could ask his counsel when I found something….”

Anna hesitated to say more. She’d followed Dr. Blanco to D.C. and onto the National Security Advisor’s staff. After Dr. Blanco’s forced retirement—and on his recommendation—his post had been offered to her. She’d been reluctant at first. That’s when Dr. Blanco had told her she could come to him for advice—but only if it was something too hard for her to cope with alone.

“Could you please tell him what I just said?” Anna asked.

“He’s taking his nap,” the nurse said.

“Please?”

“It sounds important.”

Anna wanted to say, “Does war with China sound important?” Instead, she said, “I really need his advice.”

“Just a minute,” the nurse said.

Anna stared at her computer screen, at the satellite image of Ambarchik Base. This was more than she’d bargained for. She needed to talk to someone. Dr. Blanco was in his eighties now, going blind and in an old folk’s home, one of the best in the country.

“Yes,” the nurse said, coming back on line. “Dr. Blanco would be delighted to speak with you. When can you make it?”

“Give me two hours.”

“He looks forward to it,” the nurse said.

Two hours later, Anna sat across from Dr. Blanco. Long ago, his parents had emigrated from Mexico, working in agriculture their entire lives, pushing him to study hard. He had. Old Dr. Blanco now sat forward on a creaking straw chair, with a cane between his knees. He wore a white hat and tie. They were in a side room, with a huge-screen TV showing angelfish swimming in clear water. On a nearby table were two glasses of iced tea.

They spoke pleasantries for a time. Finally, Dr. Blanco tightened his veined hands on the knob of his cane.

“You look worried, my dear,” Dr. Blanco said. “Please, what is it you would like to tell me?”

“Have you seen the news on the destroyed oil rig?”

“A terrible tragedy,” he said.

Anna nodded, having already decided to edit her story in the interests of protecting her sources, primarily Alfredo Diaz.

“You know I have access to highly confidential information?” she asked.

“My dear, I’m old, not senile. I remember the job.”

Anna nodded. “I happened to run the radio signals from the oil rig on the evening of its destruction.”

Dr. Blanco raised his eyebrows, but made no comment on how she’d gotten something like that.

“Patrol Boat One radioed that they’d picked up a swimmer. An Asian swimmer.”

“I don’t recall seeing that in the news,” Dr. Blanco said.

“It wasn’t. What’s interesting is that the swimmer must have been part of the team that attached the CHKR-57 to the platform. It would be good to know what sort of Asian, but I’m sure the Blacksand men in the patrol boat at night couldn’t tell. CHKR-57 is a Chinese explosive.”

“Does that mean the Asian swimmer was Chinese?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“The search and rescue team found a Chinese body with a TOZ-2 underwater pistol. Those pistols are issued to White Tiger Commandos.”

“None of that was in the news, either.”

Anna told Dr. Blanco about the Presidential order to intern the S&R Team in Nevada.

The old professor frowned. He finally asked, “Does it make sense for the Chinese to blow up the oil platform?”

“The destruction occurred just before the Secretary of State was getting set to meet with Deng Fong,” Anna said. “It is highly unlikely that Deng would have allowed himself to be used in such a manner. We believe that Deng is being groomed by the Chairman to take his place. It seems even more unlikely that the Chairman would do such a thing to his man, as it would entail a massive loss of face.”

“So it makes no sense for the Chinese to destroy the oil platform,” Dr. Blanco said.

“Yet the search and rescue team found a Chinese swimmer carrying a White Tiger Commando weapon.”

“When did they find the body?”

“The day before yesterday, I believe,” Anna said.

“Do you think our military is trying to hide the information?”

“Sir, I don’t think they would have the authority to hide it. Do you?”

“Do you truly suspect the President or has one of his people ordered the information suppressed?”

“…I suspect both possibilities,” Anna said.

Dr. Blanco made a depreciative sound. “Do you hear yourself? A White Tiger Commando is supposedly found in the water. That would mean the Chinese blew up the oil rig. If the President is hiding the information…. Hmmm. It would seem he believes the Chinese did it, but doesn’t want the public to know.”

“The scenario has occurred to me.”

“Why would the Chinese do such a thing? And why would President Clark hide the information?”

“That’s what I keep asking myself,” Anna said. “Every indicator shows that Deng Fong definitely wished for a trade agreement. He wouldn’t have come in secret to Sydney unless he was serious. I glimpsed the brief that included his offer. They were willing to send large oil shipments for our grain at well below market prices.”

“Hmmm, the Chinese offered to trade at below market prices? They’re among the sharpest traders in the world and have a huge percentage of the oil market. Would they have destroyed the well to make us more desperate and to force us to trade with them at better terms?”

“That very reasoning—that America desperately needed the oil—blocked the Secretary of State from going forward with the deal,” Anna said. “It would show everyone that blowing up our oil wells could change American policy. Terrorists would target them even more often then. You should know, too, that the President can’t look like an appeaser this election year. He’s toughening his international image.”

“Could elements in the Chinese military have taken it upon themselves to independently sponsor the attack?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“You and I both know that’s highly unlikely in most governments and even less so in the Chinese. The Chairman may be ailing, but he still runs the country as his personal fiefdom.”

Dr. Blanco appeared perplexed. “Why are you telling me all this? What makes you so suspicious?”

“The Presidential election is near.”

Dr. Blanco began shaking his head. “No, no, you can’t keep these sorts of thing secret, certainly not for very long. Already, the truth is leaking out because of what you’ve learned—if this is the truth. No, this makes no sense. Why would the Chinese secretly destroy an American offshore well? Would they be that confident the United States would cave into threats? Now I’ve read your book and I know the Chairman has practiced expansionist military moves before, but only in areas formerly under Chinese control. You went to great lengths to point that out in your book.”

“There’s more,” Anna said. “I… ah… became curious this morning and searched for information concerning China. Do you know they’ve moved ice-mobile formations to the edge of northern Siberia?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Chinese have formed certain of their military units into ice-mobile—”

“Oh, yes, I know about those,” Dr. Blanco said.

“Sir,” said Anna, “let me show you something.” She took out the computer-scroll in her purse and used the touch screen to bring up a tiny map of Eastern Siberia. She pointed out Ambarchik Base.

“These are satellite images,” she said. “Some of our very best.”

“What about verbal communication?”

Anna shook her head. “You know that Chinese electronics are much better than ours.”

“I won’t argue that. What do you think is going on?”

“First answer me this,” Anna said. “Why move ice-mobile units to the most northern edge of Siberia?”

“You think they’re doing it to threaten us?”

“Yes I do, by threatening a cross-polar attack.”

Dr. Blanco frowned. “You mean across the Arctic ice?”

“Exactly.”

“But that’s ludicrous. How many men could they send across? Five hundred? Eight hundred? It would be a logistical nightmare, and to what end?”

“The end would be in capturing the north slope of Alaska, where all our oil lies,” Anna said. “To say nothing about the oil rigs in the Arctic Ocean.”

“With eight hundred soldiers?” Dr. Blanco asked. “It would make more sense to airdrop Commando teams or send submarines to smash up through the ice in the Beaufort Sea and disgorge the eight hundred soldiers nearer the targets.”

“What if they could send a division or two across the polar ice?”

“What do you really think? Tell me.”

Anna looked Dr. Blanco in the eye. “I think the Chinese blew up our oil well. What their reasoning was, I don’t know, at least not yet. As preposterous as it seems, I think they’re threatening to grab the north slope of Alaska.”

“And in your opinion the President knows this?”

“President Clark wishes to appear internationally strong, but we both know he isn’t. He has shied away from even the slightest use of American power, except for security on the Mexican border. Therefore, I believe he is suppressing the news of the Chinese Commando so the pundits don’t whip up the voters for him to do something against China.”

“You’d better explain that a little more clearly.”

“Like you, sir, the President must believe that China would never send a military column across the ice to grab our oil.”

“Go on,” Dr. Blanco said.

“President Clark also doesn’t want to get into an oil rig-destroying match with China, so he’s trying to ignore what China did to Platform Seven.”

“You think our Navy should destroy Chinese offshore oil wells in retaliation?”

“If they’re destroying ours,” Anna said, “we must destroy theirs in order to stop them from destroying more of ours.”

Dr. Blanco thought about that. “I still find it hard to believe the Chinese sent that swimmer. The Chairman runs China’s foreign policy, or Deng makes the moves for him. You’ve made that abundantly clear. Other than trying to bring former lands back under Chinese control, neither has shown a willingness for risky international behavior. Maybe the President is suppressing the news to keep people calm.”

“I want to believe you’re right,” Anna said.

“I still don’t understand why you’ve told me all this.”

Anna searched his face. “I had to tell someone. You seemed like the logical person.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Franklin Roosevelt didn’t do anything to alert Pearl Harbor, and the Japanese destroyed our battleships,” Anna said. “You don’t believe the Chinese will attack across the ice, and the President doesn’t believe it. But what if the Chinese are really planning to do just that? Our military needs to know.”

“What if in alerting our military, we escalate the situation?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“How can we do that by preparing our defenses?”

“Hmmm,” he said, glancing at the videoed angelfish. “If you feel that strongly, go to the President or go to your superior. Maybe this is the reason you are in your position. The President needs wise counsel. Now is your chance to give it to him.”

“But if they’re trying to cover all this up….”

“Anna, one of the most interesting things I learned in my study of government and history is that more people have physical courage than moral courage. If war is coming, I think you should attempt to stop it. In other words, be morally courageous and do the right thing.”

She had been afraid Dr. Blanco would say that.

Could the Chairman truly be practicing what he would normally consider adventurism? What had prompted such a thing? Could the rice riots over there be larger and more threatening than she realized? China had enjoyed massive growth through the decades. But most of the new wealth had been generated along the Chinese coastal regions. Inland where the bulk of the people lived, it was often like the old days. Five hundred million Chinese lived well. That left over a billion and a half angry people. Did China have enough food?

“You have talked to me,” Dr. Blanco said. “Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. I need more data.”

“Then I suggest you keep working, my dear. Find out what is going on.”

That was good advice, and she planned to do just that.