Invasion: California

-2- The Darkness

Captain Wei sat in his office, smoking an American cigarette as he stared into space. The smoke curled from the glowing tip, adding to the office’s fumes. As he smoked, Wei blanked his mind, trying not to think about anything.

He was an interrogator for Dong Dianshan—East Lightning. Originally, they had been China’s Party Security Service. With the creation of the Pan Asian Alliance, their powers had broadened. They were particularly apt at extracting information from reluctant individuals and getting to the root of a matter.

Wei was a small man with large ears and careworn lines on his face. He’d practiced his trade for uncounted years. He wore the customary brown uniform with red belts and an armband with a three-pronged lightning bolt.

A buzzer on the littered desk sounded. Captain Wei checked his cell phone and sighed. His ten minutes of solitude was over. He sucked on the cigarette a last time, inhaling deeply. The American cigarettes were good. He exhaled while mashing the cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.

He opened a drawer and reached to the back, unhooking a hidden container. He opened it, staring at five blue pills. It was going to be a long interrogation, and according to the information he had received, Maria Valdez was a tough-minded partisan. Captain Wei sighed, shaking his head. He was weary beyond endurance with his tasks. Yes, he was good at it, perhaps the best in Mexico. But it was so tedious and predictable. Worse, his tasks had begun to bother him. This mutilation of flesh and twisting a person’s psyche, it hurt the soul—

Wei had been reaching for a pill. Now, his hand froze. Did humans possess souls? It was a preposterous notion. Humans were like any other animal, a mass of biological tissue with electrical nerve endings, a meat-sack of noxious fumes. People excreted, vomited, sweated and urinated, a wretched pile of filth that groveled under too much pain. Everyone broke. It used to be intriguing figuring out how to do it.

“No,” Wei whispered. His dark eyes had been reflective. Now the reptilian look appeared, revealing him as the predator he was.

The tips of his thumb and forefinger pinched a blue pill. He deposited the pill onto the tip of his tongue, using his tongue to roll the pill back. He gulped, swallowing. A tiny smile played on the edges of mouth. Soon, the drug would numb the pestering qualms that had become stronger this last year. One patient had told him these qualms were his conscience. As he aged—the patient had said—he must realize the end of this existence was much nearer than, say, seven years ago.

“Seven?” Wei had snapped. He’d wanted to know why the patient had picked the number seven. Seven years ago, he’d interrogated Henry Wu, who had been an insignificant worm, a former American caught on video during a Chinese food riot. It had been then that the first glimmer of… unease, yes, unease had begun with his various interrogations. Seven years ago, Wei had increased the number of cigarettes he smoked and the number of whiskey shots he gulped. These days, whiskey was not enough. He needed the blue pills to ease him through each tedious day. Unfortunately, these cost cash and he had begun taking more of them lately.

The desk buzzer sounded a second time.

Captain Wei straightened his uniform and marched for the door. It was time to fix the little traitor and pry information out of her.

He strode down a long corridor, a flight of stairs and passed several open windows. Mexico City seethed with traffic, with small cars thirty years out of date, with thousands of bicyclists and tens of thousands of pedestrians. Smoke stacks chugged black fumes into the air from coal furnaces. Yet farther away in the center of the city gleamed new glass towers, thanks to the latest construction boom with the influx of Chinese troops. Mexico was a land of extremes, with the basest poverty and the most incredible wealth.

Captain Wei left the windows behind, opening a door and descending to the basement. The first tendrils of drugged numbing soothed his bad mood. By the time he reached the patient’s door, the feeling had changed his mood altogether.

You are a meat-sack, Maria Valdez, one I will turn into a quivering hulk, a fountain of information.

Wei opened the door, expecting a number of quite predictable possibilities. The patient lay strapped to a table, naked, defenseless and primed for interrogation. An operative—a man—had shaved off every particle of the patient’s hair. Wei found that most effective with females. The operative had also attached a host of leads to sensitive body-areas. Maria Valdez should have pleaded with him now or glared in defiance or stared into space, in shock, or sobbed uncontrollably. She did none of these things. Instead, with eyes closed, the patient whispered, speaking to an imaginary entity, it appeared.

Wei scowled, with his good feeling evaporating. Invisible entities did not exist. There was only power and the scramble to be the inflictor of pain instead of the receiver. It was the law of the jungle, of tooth and claw.

“Leave us,” Wei told the operative.

The man bowed his head, hurrying for the door, never once lifting his gaze off the floor.

Wei listened for and heard the snick of the closing door. “Maria Valdez,” he said sharply.

The patient ignored him as she kept on whispering.

That would not do, no, no. Wei strode to the controls and tapped a pain inducer.

The patient grunted and her eyes bulged open. She twisted on the table. She was shapely, if too thin and bony for Wei’s tastes. She was also too tall, taller than he was—something he intensely disliked.

“Do I have your attention?” Wei asked in a considerate tone. It unbalanced and often unhinged patients to hear the solicitude in his voice and yet receive agony from his hands.

“I’m here,” she said, whatever that was supposed to mean.

They both spoke English, as Wei had taken language courses and become proficient in the American usage.

Wei now forced himself to smile. “I’m sure you understand the situation.”

“Yes! You’re one of the pigs invading my country.”

“My dear, please allow me to interject a factual point. You are the one who exudes a noxious odor. I refer to your sweat. We Chinese do not possess the same pig-like glands that you do.”

“Go to Hell!”

Captain Wei smiled, stepping away from the controls. He put a gentle hand on her left thigh, causing the patient to stiffen.

“You are in Hell, my dear,” he said.

“Wrong! In Hell, no one drinks beer.”

Wei frowned. What an odd statement. Was she already unhinged? “I do not care for your attitude.”

“That’s because you’re an invading hog,” she said.

“Maria,” he said, squeezing her thigh. It made her stiffen. He would teach her respect. Oh, she would learn to curb her tongue. First, he would begin her disorientation through soft speech. “You must not think of me as your enemy. I am here to help you.”

“You’re a worthless liar.”

A flicker of annoyance entered his eyes. “I can make your existence gruesome or I can ease your suffering. It is my choice. Fortunately for you, my dear, I am easy to please. All I ask is for a few tidbits of information from you.”

“I understand. I have what you want. But you have nothing I want except for your death, and I don’t think you’ll do me the favor of slitting your ugly throat.”

Wei smiled faintly. “You are a veritable she-tiger, but you are also a liar.”

“I curse you in the name of God.”

Wei’s smile slipped as he removed his hand from her thigh. Scowling, he went to the controls. He looked up at her. She grinned viciously, mocking him.

No, that would not do. He was in charge here. He would show her.

Captain Wei began to tap the controls hard with his fingertips. He winced once because he’d cut the nail down too much the other day on his left-hand middle finger. Then Maria Valdez screamed and thrashed on the table, causing him to forget about his own discomfort. Wei continued to inflict pain for some time, delighting in her various octaves. Finally, Maria slumped, unconscious.

Turning away, Wei stared up at the ceiling. What had overcome him? He’d never lost control of his emotions like this before. He was an interrogator, one of the best—no, the best in Mexico. He had a long list of questions his superiors wanted answered, yet now he’d needlessly tired out his patient. He should have already received a litany of her lies so he could compare her later answers and begin to pry out the truth. Never once during the torment had she cried out, offering to speak to end the pain. Obviously, the direct approach was the wrong method with this one. He must practice subtlety.

Wei cracked his knuckles and stepped beside a medical board. He selected a hypodermic needle and a vial of AE7. She was stubborn, possessing a core belief system that added to her rigid worldview. A double dose, yes, she would need a greater dosage to force her thoughts into a fantasy delusion. Then she would begin to tell him what he needed to learn.

Thirty seconds later, Wei slid the needle into her flesh, sinking the plunger as he pumped the drug into her bloodstream. It would take time before the AE7 brought her to the required state. Using his cell phone, he checked the time. Ah, he could go into the other room and smoke a cigarette.

Captain Wei slipped into the hall, entering an empty room. He found that his hands were shaking. How odd. Taking a pack of Lucky Strikes, he extracted a cigarette, stuck it between his lips and used his lighter. Soon, he stared blankly at the ceiling, occasionally watching the smoke curl. He refused to think about her words, her foolish curse or the way her body had contorted on the table. He had seen such things a thousand, a million times before. Instead, he smoked, emptying himself of thoughts, of emotions and emptying himself of the tedium of life. Mechanically, he shook out a second and later a third cigarette, enjoying them in the solitude of the basement.

The effects of the blue pill must have dulled his sense of time. Much later and with a start, Captain Wei took out his cell phone, checking it. Thirty-seven minutes had passed.

The small East Lightning officer rushed out of the smoky room and ran to the interrogation chamber. Sometimes, there were bad reactions to AE7. He had forgotten that and his dismissal of a watching operative.

Captain Wei threw open the door. “No,” he whispered. He rushed to the table. Maria Valdez lay still, with a serene smile on her face. He checked her pulse and snatched his hand away, horrified. She was already cold. He hated everything about corpses, their stiffness, their chill, their—

“No,” he said again. Wei blinked rapidly. What was he going to do? Higher command wished to know many things concerning her sabotage. Now—

Rushing to the computer, Wei sat down. He ran his fingers through his hair and logged in. Time. He had to register her time of death, her answers, her—

Wei licked his lips. What had he read about her earlier?

You need to think. You need to cover yourself. Is this her curse starting to work?

The thought sobered him. He needed a cigarette. No. He needed to use his years of expertise, giving High Command what it feared most. That way, they would worry more about the repercussions of her sabotage than how he had interrogated her.

Captain Wei of East Lightning began typing fabricated answers, turning dead guerillas into American commandos. It was clear by Wei’s false answers that some Americans had escaped with knowledge of Blue Swan. The leak of the convoy’s route and time of travel—it had occurred according to what Wei wrote because of a traitor on the Occupation Staff. Wei hated the Chinese Army, the way many soldiers looked at him with distain when they thought he wasn’t looking. Yes. Wei grinned as he typed. The Americans had suborned this person because of his relatives living in North America. High Command would devour that, as they feared Chinese-Americans infiltrating their ranks.

Wei became thoughtful. How should he word this? Hmm. In his zeal to uncover more, there had been an accident. Yes, he had injected her with—

“No.” He needed a doctor. There would be an autopsy. Wei considered ordering the body incinerated, but that would be a risk. He had already broken protocol ordering the operative away. Any more deviations would invite a full-scale investigation, just the thing he was trying to avoid.

Wei stared at his answers, checking them, looking for flaws or red flags. Returning to his office first and fortifying himself with another blue pill, he returned to the corpse and called for the resident doctor. He would say little, waiting for the doctor to tell him why the patient had died. Then he would concoct the end of the story and hope no one ever dug too deeply into what had really happened.

A defeated Stan Higgins sat in his base house at his desk. It was in a small cubicle and blocked by a closed door. He could hear his wife in the other room watching Hartford Wives. She couldn’t believe the news and had blanked it out. She escaped into the never-land of TV soap operas.

Stan stared at a computer screen, studying the judge’s sentence: induction into a Detention Center until someone posted a ten thousand new-dollar bail. Stan massaged his forehead. Where was he supposed to get enough money to pay for his son’s bail? Why had the young fool gone and protested? Why couldn’t Jake stick to his engineering studies? It had been hard enough gathering the tuition costs.

In his day, kids got student loans from the government. With the Sovereign Debt Depression that had gone the way of the dinosaur. Now, people had to scrape enough together to send their children to college. It meant fewer people went to college, making high school more important again for a person’s future.

Stan closed his eyes. He felt the weight of his years. Three weeks ago, he’d turned fifty. He couldn’t believe it—fifty! He still lifted weights, played basketball, ping-pong and ran occasionally. More than anything, the trouble was recuperation. He didn’t heal like he used to and his left knee bothered him. He couldn’t play basketball on cement courts anymore. Even blacktop hurt the knee. Wooden floors were the best. The truth, he should give up basketball. Otherwise, he was begging for a ripped tendon or a torn muscle.

Yet even ping-pong pained the bad knee when he lunged to slam the ball. If he slammed the ball too many times in a game, it made his shoulder hurt for the next two days.

Who would figure that ping-pong could hurt a man, even an aging athlete? It was ridiculous. Maybe he could learn to play like some of those experts he’d seen in Las Vegas last year. One old man with white hair had hardly moved. He had been an old geezer in every way except that he’d hit the ball just so and it did magical things, spinning off at bizarre angles, making the younger players leap around like fools. The trouble was Stan had never played that way. He liked speed, to drill the ball as hard as he could.

“Ten thousand new-dollars,” Stan muttered, attempting to focus on the computer screen. His son had been accepted to Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo. That was one of the best places to earn an engineering degree. Now Jake had gone and openly protested the President’s state of emergency. Even if Stan posted the bail, Jake would probably get kicked out of Cal Poly. Losing his Student Status, they would likely draft him into a Militia battalion.

“I don’t have ten thousand new-dollars,” Stan told himself.

Lines appeared in his forehead. Should he have remained in Anchorage? On his teaching salary and with the extra pay from the National Guard—

Stan blew out his cheeks in depression. So much had changed since the Alaskan War. What had that been, seven years ago now?

He had a theory about why time moved faster the older you got. When you were ten years old, a year represented one tenth of your life. When you were fifty, one year represented one fiftieth of your life. Therefore, one year was shorter the older you became. But none of that was going to help him post bail.

Laughter rang out from the TV, sounding like a drunken hyena. No doubt, it was over a joke that wasn’t even funny. Shows still used laugh tracks just as when he’d been a kid. Stan wanted to yell at his wife to turn down the TV. She knew he was in here thinking about how to free Jake from the Detention Center. If someone spent too long there, officials stamped their driver’s license with “Resister Status.”

Stan massaged his forehead. He’d always wanted Jake to succeed. He wanted to give Jake every advantage he could. It wasn’t like the old days. Good jobs were hard to come by now. An engineering degree from Cal Poly would have gone a long way toward making sure the boy avoided the Army, whether Regular or Militia.

Stan bared his teeth. The Army: fighting… killing… running from overwhelming odds, from enemy tanks. He’d never told anyone about his nightmares, not his wife, not Jose and for sure not the base psychologist who diagnosed each of them in the experimental unit, seeing if they were still mentally fit for duty. About once a month in his dreams, he relived the worst horrors of the Alaskan War. He dreaded the nightmares: the screech of Chinese shells, watching long-dead friends burn to death and fearing the terrible tri-turreted tanks rumbling toward him, knowing that every shell he fired would bounce off the incredible armor.

Lately his wife had begun asking if he was okay. He’d wake up in the morning hollow-eyed, or he’d start up from sleep sweating. He made up all kinds of excuses. Now, sitting here, Stan wondered if he was going the route of his dad. Old Mack Higgins had gone around the bend—crazy in the head. These days, Stan had a greater appreciation as to why it might have happened.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Stan quoted to himself. He dreaded the idea of going crazy. For sure, he wasn’t going to tell the base psychologist anything she might use against him.

Stan blew out his cheeks. He was a captain in an experimental unit. Seven years ago, he had been a captain in the Alaskan National Guard, in one of the few tank units there. He had received the Medal of Honor for helping stop the Chinese Invasion into Anchorage. Some people said his actions had been critical for victory. Afterward the Army Chief of Staff invited Stan to accept a commission in the Regular Army. Since Stan’s expertise had been Armor, he’d entered that branch of the service and had soon found himself in the experimental department.

With that kind of start—even though he’d been old by Army reckoning—he should have risen in rank. Allen had just received a promotion from captain to major. Stan had been counting on getting the promotion. With better pay, could he go to a bank and finance ten thousand?

“Seven years of service,” Stan muttered, as he rubbed his forehead. Now that he thought about it that was too long for a man of his age and expertise and with the Medal of Honor. He knew what was wrong. The colonel in charge of the experimental unit disliked him and his methods and Stan wasn’t good at politicking, at butt kissing.

Stan slammed his fists onto the desk, jarring the computer screen.

Once, the TV volume would have lowered if he did that. His wife would have asked if everything was okay. Now, the volume increased. She didn’t want to think about Jake being in the Detention Center.

“Ten thousand new-dollars,” Stan whispered.

Maybe he could call Crane. The man was a former National Guard Colonel who belonged to the John Glen Corporation, a military-funded think tank in D.C. Crane had known him during the Alaskan War. Crane knew his nickname of “Professor” and Crane had said many times that he appreciated Stan’s military historical knowledge. “John Glen could use a man like you, Stan.”

The last offer had come two years ago. Stan had been too absorbed then in the experimental unit, in the Mark I Behemoth battle tank. The Behemoth dwarfed all known tanks. It was a three hundred ton monstrosity, three times the size of a Chinese tri-turreted tank.

Stan flexed his hands. Two years ago, the possibilities of the Behemoth had excited him. Now he needed ten thousand new-dollars. Besides, the Army had passed him over yet again. He had learned that the Chief of Staff who had invited him into the Army—President Clark had twisted the officer’s arm. The truth was the Army didn’t want a man they considered a maverick at best and a hotheaded, insubordinate fool at worst. Which was funny really, because Stan knew himself to be a plodding man who always tried to do the right thing. There was nothing maverick about him, unless seeing historical parallels from time to time in a given situation was considered eccentric.

Stan stared at the judge’s ruling as his mind raced from one thought to the next. He wanted to feel appreciated, as when he taught high school in Alaska. He was afraid that remaining in the military would only intensify his nightmares. Lastly, the bugs in the Mark I Behemoth—it was possible the three hundred ton tank would never see action and would never fulfill the destiny the U.S. needed against the threatening aggressors.

Stan tapped the screen, removing the judge’s decision. With his mouth in a grim line of determination, Stan began writing an email to Crane, seeing if the John Glen Corporation still had a spot for a fifty-year-old captain. If there was such a spot, he would have to talk to the base colonel tomorrow about resigning his commission.

What would Jose say about that? What would his tankers tell him? How was he going to cope with the coming guilt as he bailed out this near to war?

You have to think about your son. Besides, you’re an old man now. War—leave that to the young, to the strong. You need to understand that your days of action are over.

The idea made Stan miserable. No one liked to admit he was old. But it was time to face reality. He had to do whatever he could to bail Jake out of the Detention Center.

Marshal Shin Nung’s stomach seethed even though outwardly he seemed placid as he sat in a window seat of a large military helicopter.

Nung was sixty-six years old and a hero of the Alaskan and Siberian Wars. His hover/armored thrust across the Arctic ice to Prudhoe Bay had succeeded after a fashion, although it had been bloody and costly. His armored thrust in Siberia years earlier had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.

He was the commander of the First Front, of the three Armies on the Californian-Mexican border: the most heavily defended real estate in the world.

Even at sixty-six, Nung still had blunt features and an aggressive stare, though he was more jowly than seven years ago. In his distant youth he had studied at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence and had earned him the reputation among the Chinese military that he was half-Russian, a terrible slur.

Nung allowed himself a bitter smile. Many in the Army hated him because he had continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack, as the Russians used to teach. Once, the old Chairman had backed him. Now the new Chairman known simply as the “Leader” felt obligated to him. During the Alaskan War, they had shared the task of securing Dead Horse, particularly the oil fields there.

Jian Hong was Greater China’s “semi-divine” Leader, if one believed the propaganda messages. It was foolish to disagree openly. That was one lesson Nung had learned: to keep dangerous truths to himself.

Marshal Nung flew out of Mao Zedong Airport in Beijing, having arrived from Mexico, from near the American border actually. He was to attend an emergency session of the Ruling Committee. He knew why: the Americans had broken the secret of Blue Swan. It was a terrible blow to Chinese plans, or it could be. Marshal Nung knew the answer to the present dilemma. He usually knew what to do in an emergency. It was his gift and curse to see farther than those around him could. Once, he would have openly declared to anyone who cared to listen what should be done. At sixty-six, he had learned a modicum of wisdom. These days, he kept such opinions to himself and practiced mediations in order to keep his once explosive temper in check.

Nung stared out of the helicopter’s window. Below him, Beijing spread out in all its glory. It was rush hour, he supposed. Enormous Chinese cars crawled along the wide avenues and city streets. Many flew large flags with the single Chinese star, showing their patriotism. The vehicles moved past giant glass towers, monumental buildings and titanic statues, products of the Leader’s mania for size and grandeur, and of the largest and longest construction boom in history. Beijing was the chief city in the world, the center of civilization, the Middle Kingdom. It was a riot of colors, boasting the most people, the most cars, the most billionaires and the highest concentration of political power.

The rich here maintained private zoos and botanical gardens of gargantuan size. The Leader’s polar bears had been pictured in several documentaries, and he had often shown his favor by gifting a lucky official a prime polar bear cub. No longer did masses of pedestrians clog Beijing’s sidewalks, nor did bicycles clutter the streets as in many foreign cities. Mexico City had seemed like an overturned ant colony with its tens of thousands of bicyclists. Everyone in Beijing went by car at least, if only in a taxi.

The helicopter’s intercom crackled. “Sir,” the pilot said. “In case you were wondering, those are two Air Force jets pacing us.”

Nung stared out of the window. He spied a J-25 air superiority fighter. Sunlight winked off the craft’s canopy.

The pilot banked the helicopter. They were headed for the Leader’s summer palace outside the city. Nung closed his eyes, willing his seething stomach to settle down. The next few hours… they might well decide the fate of the world for many years to come.

Twenty minutes later, the helicopter banked once more and lurched, going down toward a landing pad in a vast garden of gingko trees. Nearby, there stood a huge palace dominating a luxurious villa. Grecian marble and Californian redwoods predominated as building material. There were gold inlaid fountains, a pagoda and even a large bronze Buddha with half-lidded eyes.

Armored cars ringed the landing pad. Each car bore a lion head on the hood and on the sides. Those belonged to the Leader’s Lion Guard, his personal security apparatus.

Without looking at the Army security team in the helicopter with him, Nung said, “Maintain decorum throughout the proceedings and on no account will you take offense at anything said.”

His chief of security, a large man with sloping shoulders, turned a stern face toward him, nodding once. The man never wasted words and Nung appreciated that.

A last lurch told him the helicopter had landed. Together, Nung and his security detail strode down the helicopter’s carpeted walkway.

Now it begins. Now I enter the political world with its thousands of murky undercurrents.

First divesting his security personnel of weapons, Lion Guardsmen hustled them to waiting cars. The Leader’s mania against assassins real and imagined was well known among those in power.

The chief Lion Guardsman, a hulking specimen, stepped up, blocking the sunlight. He bowed before Nung, although there was nothing conciliatory about it. “I must frisk you, sir,” the giant said in a deep voice.

Nung froze for an instant. This was a grave indignity for a man of his rank. He resisted the impulse to turn to his security chief—the man wasn’t there, but going away toward a confinement cell. For the first time in years, Nung had no security. It was a strange feeling, as if he’d left his fly open or forgotten to put on his tie.

“There is no need to touch me,” Nung said gruffly, handing the man his service pistol.

“I’m afraid there is, sir.” The Lion Guardsman had hard, pitiless eyes.

He’s enjoying this.

“If you would lift your arms…”

Nung complied, enduring the shame of a pat down. The man groped everywhere, running his fingers down and under his buttocks. This was an insult, and it almost broke Nung’s resolve. He clenched his teeth, telling himself the rumors must be true then that the latest assassination attempt against Jian Hong had come within centimeters of success.

Once finished with the frisk, the Lion Guardsman looked down at him, smiling faintly before motioning to an armored car. It was a short drive to the palace. Soon, Nung marched down corridors and climbed what seemed like endless flights of stairs.

The hulking Lion Guardsman snapped his fingers. The four flanking Nung turned, and soon they entered a new corridor with portraits of the Leader and the old Chairman in their earlier days. The corridor led to maple double doors with golden handles. The chief guardsman took out a whistle and blew a shrill blast. He yanked open both doors to reveal a cavernous chamber with giant chandeliers and an enormous conference table among other grand furniture.

The chief guardsman shouted in a loud voice, “Marshal Shin Nung of the First Front!” The guardsman stepped back and the four soldiers ground their rifle butts onto the corridor’s marble floor.

Nung raised his eyebrows as he peered into the chamber. The Leader—Jian Hong—sat at the farthest end of the conference table. He was a medium-sized man with dark hair, darker eyes and wearing a black suit of the finest silk. The Leader motioned him within.

Once more, Nung complied and the doors shut behind him.

The five other members of the Ruling Committee already attended the Leader, sitting along the table’s sides. There was Deng Fong the Foreign Minister, in his early eighties but with the smooth skin of a baby. He had received skin-tucks, but laser surgery could do nothing for his weak left eye, which had closed and marred his otherwise “youthful” features. The other four members held varying posts, although Nung knew each by the man’s main occupation. There was the Police Minister, the Army Chief of Staff, the Navy Minister and the Agricultural Minister.

The Leader had attained the highest office, Nung knew, but he did not yet wield supreme power as the old Chairman once had. Deng resisted the Leader and was still too powerful to simply oust or assassinate without serious repercussions. The Navy and Agricultural Ministers often sided with Deng. Perhaps as important, many of China’s subject states and allies trusted Deng’s good judgment. The Japanese particularly liked him, which meant the Koreans hated the Foreign Minister. The Koreans had never forgotten how arrogantly the Japanese had ruled over them before and during World War II. The most powerful Southeast Asian allies took their cue from Deng and might well leave the Pan Asian Alliance if he simply dropped from sight. The same could be said for the German Dominion Chancellor.

“We have been waiting for you,” the Leader said.

Nung nodded respectfully.

“You will sit there,” the Leader said, pointing at a chair farthest from him.

Nung marched to the chair, noting his place had a computer scroll. As he sat, Nung greeted the Army Chief of Staff, an old foe named Marshal Kao: his tall shoulders were bowed with age. Kao hardly acknowledged him, turning away to tap the screen of his own computer scroll.

“We have been waiting for you, Marshal Nung,” the Leader repeated. “We have a momentous decision to make, an ominous choice with worldwide repercussions.” He scanned the others, a frown changing his features, making him seem sterner than Nung remembered.

Jian Hong had always been known as a clever man, a keen intriguer and quick-witted in speech. Over seven years ago, he had been Deng Fong’s protégée, a “young” climber in the Socialist-Nationalist Party. Back then, Jian had accepted the post of Agricultural Minister and failed to meet harvest quotas due to increasing glaciation. Then he had backed the Alaskan attack and through it had gained fame, most of it by Nung’s actions on the Arctic ice. Nung had never challenged the official story, as it gave him a powerful patron on the Ruling Committee. Despite the Army Chief of Staff’s hatred, Nung had risen high these past seven years. If he succeeded in his coming tasks…there was no telling how high he could reach, perhaps even to the Ruling Committee itself. The past seven years had shown him that nothing was impossible.

After the Alaskan War, the old Chairman had deteriorated. He’d summoned his nephew, a Vice-Admiral who had botched most of his tasks during the war. Nevertheless, trusting blood over ability, the Chairman had raised his nephew, granting him the post of commander of the Lion Guard and becoming the Chairman’s Representative on the Ruling Committee. The nephew, a lazy man with a strong streak of cruelty, had surprisingly risen to the task. The youngster—a man of forty-three—had begun intriguing immediately. He kept the Chairman secluded and soon began to shuffle his own people into higher and more important posts. The final straw had been when the nephew took the post of Minister of the Navy for himself. Out of fear, Jian and Deng had allied against him. During the height of the short Hawaiian Campaign, the Chairman’s nephew fatally crashed into the side of a mountain, everyone in his transport plane burning to death. Afterward, news leaked out that the Chairman had been dead in his underground bunker several months already.

Nung used to wonder if that was true. If it was false, who would have dared to kill the Chairman? The answer to such a question could be found in who had benefited the most from the Chairman’s passing. Jian Hong, the Leader, would be that person. Perhaps that’s why Jian feared assassination so desperately. People often feared in others what they themselves would most likely attempt.

The Leader now stood and put his manicured fingertips on the table. Their reflective quality matched the shiny tabletop, as if each tried to outdo the other.

“I have summoned the Ruling Committee and Marshal Nung so we can decide today what to do with the Americans. By now, each of you has read the secret report from East Lightning. The Americans managed to infiltrate elite commandos behind our lines in Mexico. In some fashion, they learned about Blue Swan. A convoy transporting a Blue Swan missile was destroyed en route. Worse, pieces of the warhead were ferried back to America. My analysts inform me that we must presume the Americans have uncovered the missile’s purpose. If that is so, they can conceivably counter its action in the coming conflict.”

The Leader glanced at the others, finally focusing on Deng. “Do you have a comment, Foreign Minister?”

“May I ask about the nature of Blue Swan?”

“Marshal Nung, would you explain the situation, the reason why we needed the missile?” the Leader asked.

Nung folded his hands on the table, clearing his throat and leaning forward so he could look at Deng.

“Sir, the Americans have heavily fortified the southern border, particularly the Californian-Mexican portion of it. There is no Rio Grande River Line there and California is a rich prize by any standard. In a starving world, its agricultural benefits—”

“I am aware of California’s food value, General,” Deng said.

Nung blinked, wanting to say, “It’s Marshal, sir,” but not daring to correct someone so powerful and vengeful. It was too soon to say that the Leader would outlast his most dangerous foe.

“Please, stick to the issue of the military need for Blue Swan,” Deng said.

Nung bowed his head, keeping his features placid. It was the Chinese way.

Marshal Kao glanced at him, and the old man’s right eyebrow twitched the tiniest fraction.

Nung recognized why. The others in the Army thought of him as the “Russian Bear,” easily angered and unable to respond in a civilized manner. By civilized they of course meant Chinese.

“Many of the Americans have dubbed the California fortification as the ‘Maginot Line’,” Nung said. “The reference is to the pre-World War II French fortification. Everyone considered the Maginot Line impenetrable, even the Germans who eventually attacked around the defensive line and conquered France through blitzkrieg, which means ‘lightning war’.”

“Your Front is stationed across from this ‘Maginot Line’?” Deng asked.

“Yes, Foreign Minister.”

“Are the American fortifications impenetrable?” Deng asked.

“It is a matter of cost,” Nung said, “the price paid in flesh and blood to smash through an obstacle. No, the fortification cannot stop our attack in an absolute sense, but it will make such an assault incredibly costly.”

“Blue Swan will negate these defenses?” Deng asked the Leader.

“Marshal Kao?” the Leader asked.

Nung sat back as the old marshal told the others that the scientists agreed the missiles would indeed negate the majority of the defenses.”

“But not all?” asked Deng.

“The missile will nullify the technological wonders emplaced by the Americans,” Kao said. “The missiles will not harm the machine gun nests or disintegrate the concrete pill boxes or embankments there.”

“How does our wonder weapon achieve this miracle?” Deng asked.

Kao glanced at the Leader.

“Please, tell us, Marshal,” the Leader said.

“The missiles will emit a heavy electro-magnetic pulse,” Kao said.

Deng sat up sharply like an angry panda bear. His weak eye attempted to open, failing in that but making the lashes quiver. “We’re using tactical nuclear weapons?”

“No!” the Leader said. “Greater China shall never use nuclear weapons without heavy provocation. Firstly, it is unethical. Secondly, we want to conquer America for its agricultural usage. How does it profit us to irradiate the wheat fields and poultry farms that we so desperately need?”

“If I might digress for a moment…” Deng said.

The Leader stared at the older man, finally nodding.

“Why attack America at all?” Deng asked. “Meet with them. Exchange a lessening of our military forces in Mexico for reinstating their food tribute. It was a brilliant concept to put such a heavy concentration of troops into Mexico and prod the Americans to buying us off with grain. I happily concede that I was wrong in opposing the idea. I feared what is now occurring—that we would be fatally tempted into putting too many soldiers there and attacking America because our forces are so handily in position.”

“It heartens me to hear you admit your error,” the Leader said. “You are a man of stature, Foreign Minister. By our Mexico occupation, we have pushed the Americans and found them to be a hollow people indeed.”

“Not quite hollow,” Deng said. “Their ABM lasers destroyed many of our satellites. The Americans reacted more aggressively than we thought possible for them.”

“A tiny victory that we allowed them,” the Leader said with a wave of his hand. “We all can note that Alaska nearly fell to us seven years ago. If not for the former Chairman’s nephew and his blunders, we would have added Prudhoe Bay and Anchorage to our conquests. Even with the man’s blunders, we successively smashed American carriers, reaping the reward in the Hawaiian Campaign by demolishing America’s surface fleet.

“The Americans are clever, however. It makes sense, as they must have been clever to fool the world all these years. I believe the Americans play for time while they build up their land forces.”

“I agree with you,” Deng said.

The Leader blinked in astonishment. “That meant they gave us foodstuffs to purchase time. Then President Sims cut off the food shipments, leading me to believe he thinks America strong enough to defend itself.”

“Again, I would agree with you,” Deng said. “My thought, however, is that instead of attempting a continental conquest we offer the Americans an alliance. Let us replace hostility with peace. The Europeans are investing heavily in several of the Saharan countries, thinking to turn deserts into paradises. If successful, I suspect they will attempt to increase their economic zone, possibly replacing it with an empire to challenge us, especially after we’ve weakened ourselves with a North American War. Consider. We’ve placed much more of our military into North America than they have in Cuba. The South American Federation holds no true love for the PAA. They are simply greedy vultures, eager to reap the rewards that others, namely ourselves, have worked to produce. Let us offer the Americans an alliance and gain the use of their relative plenty, making an end run around our so-called allies. Now is the perfect moment to achieve this.”

“No,” the Leader said. “It is far too late for that. We attacked Alaska and took Hawaii from them. We destroyed their satellites, cyber-attacked their industries and helped terrorists set off a nuclear weapon on their soil. They hate us, Foreign Minister. The Americans thirst for vengeance. Their rearmament proves it.”

“They fear us,” Deng said. “They are simply trying to defend themselves from three giant coalitions. There are eleven million soldiers in Mexico, if one counts the Mexican Home Army. That is reason for the Americans to fear.”

“With such forces in place,” the Leader said, “now is the time to attack. We have kicked America when she was down. We must never let her get back up to gain vengeance against us.”

“This is not the school yard,” Deng said, “but international politics.”

The Leader shook his head, glancing at the others. “You must not forget that our analysts agree on the coming forecast. The glaciation will continue, likely worsening for many years to come. The world starves, Foreign Minister. In the end, farmland equals power. China has stepped onto the path of conquest, gathering the world’s best farmlands. One does not step off that path without serious repercussions. Now is the moment in time for us to build a peaceful world. We must break the Americans before they recover their power. We must add their lands to our Imperium.”

“President Sims has given them hope again,” Deng said. “He is a strong man busy uniting his countrymen. I think we have given them too much time to strengthen their defenses to now want a continental war.”

“It is the reason why we have powerful allies,” the Leader said. “The South American Federation adds millions of troops to our side. The Mexican Home Army adds another million. Once the German Dominion ferries greater numbers to Cuba, our combined might will dwarf the American defenses into insignificance.”

“Am I the only one who thinks this continental war a grave risk?” Deng asked the others.

“With your permission, Leader?” the Navy Minister asked Jian.

“Speak,” the Leader said coldly.

“Our merchant marine is finding it increasingly difficult to supply our Occupation Army in Mexico. A war would only increase the risk of stretching our naval supply line too thin. American submarines would likely operate against us, ensuring substantial losses.”

“What about you, Agriculture Minister?” the Leader asked.

The minister did not look up as he stared at the table. “We could use American farmland, Leader. This accursed glaciation freezes our rice fields while leaving the North Americans untouched. It is a travesty of nature.”

“Permit me to disagree,” Deng said. He glanced sidelong at the Agriculture Minister, his usual ally in these debates. “Our masses are fed and relatively content. What we—”

“We live on a razor’s edge of existence,” the Leader said. “The European and Russian heartlands have begun to freeze, due to the change of the warm Gulf Stream that once helped heat them. They along with the Americans once produced the masses of foodstuffs to an already hungry world. India no longer exports any foodstuff. Thailand used to export great quantities of rice. Now it can barely feed its people. The Germans hope to turn deserts into paradises, but it is a pricey gamble. We all harvest the sea more than ever. The problem is that China uses too much of its wealth buying up the meager resources of other lands. What happens when the greedy in those lands no longer wish to sell to us? No. We must conquer the American breadbasket. In this dark age of growing cold, it is the only answer to our food dilemma.”

Deng bowed his head. “You paint a glum picture, Leader, and I suspect you may be right.”

“Then do not fight against me, Foreign Minister.”

Deng shook his head. “I ask your permission to disagree. I do not fight you, Leader. My blood simply runs cold when I think about a continental war in North America. You spoke of them being a hollow people. Their war record says differently. We learned that in Korea in the last century during the early 1950s.”

“Bah,” the Leader said. “We used primitive weapons back then and nearly defeated the American alliance.”

“Initially we drove them headlong in retreat from the Yalu River,” Deng said. “I have studied the records. Afterward, they slaughtered us in great numbers. It was a bloodbath.”

“All the more reason to attack now that we have better weapons and more numerous allies,” the Leader said. “Let us remember Korea and gain our revenge on the bloody-handed Americans.”

“But if we have lost the use of Blue Swan…” Deng said.

The Leader stiffened, and he slapped the palm of his hand against the table so his ring clicked against the wood. “We have not lost it. We have only lost the surprise of it.”

Marshal Nung cleared his throat. He had been waiting for them to get around to this.

The Leader scowled, looking down the table, until he noticed who had made the noise. “You have a point to make, Marshal?”

“Leader, Ministers,” Nung said. “We may have lost some of the surprise of Blue Swan, but not all of it.”

Deng glanced at his computer scroll, reading something there before addressing Nung. “The East Lightning report clearly indicates the Americans escaped with most of the warhead. They will know what the missile does. Or do you disagree with me on that?”

“No, Foreign Minister,” Nung said. “I agree with your assessment.” He had read the report many times. It was too bad Military Intelligence hadn’t interrogated the woman. Why had East Lightning murdered her to extract such valuable information?

Deng appeared perplexed. “You just said the surprise won’t be lost. Or do you deny that?”

“I was speaking in a strategical sense,” Nung said. “If commandos managed to take some of the warhead, it will still take time for American scientists to uncover the missile’s function.”

“Or so you hope,” Deng said.

“Even if the Americans know exactly what we’re going to do with the missile,” Nung said, “it won’t help them if we attack immediately.”

Silence filled the chamber. Nung smiled inwardly, although outwardly he remained placid. A truism of war was to boldly attack and gain surprise. Surprise left people in shock, unable to react. Under those conditions even bolder attacks won a commander everything. He was beginning to suspect that this truism worked in other fields as well.

“Attack immediately?” Deng asked softly.

“Again, Foreign Minister, I am speaking strategically,” Nung said. “It would take another two weeks perhaps seventeen days to ready my Front’s assault troops and position reinforcements for a continuous attack.” He had been working out the parameters over the Pacific Ocean, realizing this was the opportunity of a lifetime. “During the final preparation week, even given the Americans knowing about Blue Swan, they will not be able to change their deployments significantly enough to change the outcome of a swift assault.”

Marshal Kao had turned toward him. The old man opened his mouth, likely to blister the idea with a scathing rebuttal. Few in Chinese High Command cared for hasty perpetrations, preferring carefully calculated plans and setups. Kao particularly wanted every situation known to the smallest detail. It made for plodding, unimaginative strategies.

“A moment, Marshal Kao,” the Leader said in a silky voice. “Let Marshal Nung continue.”

“I have a hologram of the conceived assault,” Nung said. His Front had trained for such an attack. They were ready, well, almost ready. Something always needed greater priming. This was his moment, though. He could feel it.

“Yes, by all means,” the Leader said, “show us your plan.”

Nung took a computer stick from his pocket. His hand trembled, although probably only he noticed. He willed his hand still, inserting the stick into the scroll. He began tapping the screen. In thirty seconds, a holomap appeared above the center of the table.

“Notice please,” Nung said, “the heavy enemy fortification along the border. There are massive concrete emplacements, minefields, artillery pits and SAM sites. Behind the initial fortification is a vast network of trenches, supply dumps and more troop concentrations. We will wash these fortifications with multiple electromagnetic pulses, nullifying the majority of their systems. Then we will send in waves of special infantry to fix them in place.”

“A moment,” Deng said. “Fix them in place, not destroy them?”

“Correct, Foreign Minister. Because of Blue Swan, we will break through their lines in hours rather than in days or weeks. This will occur in key areas. Afterward, we will sweep around them, trapping the bulk of their forces. Because we have fixed them in place, they will be unable to withdraw at the critical moment. That is important, for the Americans have made a fundamental error.”

Nung studied the others. He saw it on their faces. They wanted to know what this error consisted of.

“The Americans have put too many troops in their forward lines,” Nung said. “In California, that is well over six hundred thousand at our last estimate. Once those troops are trapped and nullified, the state will fall to us like a ripe fruit. Such a blow at such speed will critically weaken the rest of the country.”

Deng recovered the quickest. He asked, “You will sweep aside the Americans as our troops swept the enemy from the Yalu River Line in 1950?”

Before Nung could answer, Marshal Kao spoke up. “I am not convinced attacking fortified lines is wise. The Army will be trading blood for blood. Yes, we have more troops, but fortifications are a force multiplier. This sounds like a battle of attrition where you eventually hope the Americans to wilt in place so you may advance.”

“I feel that I must agree,” Deng said. “I had expected brilliant maneuvers from you, Nung. You’re supposedly our best mobile fighter. This plan strikes me as two sumo wrestlers pushing and shoving against each other, trying to exhaust the other instead of using clever moves.”

Nung had to glance down at his scroll, forcing away his scowl. Win them over by keeping your voice level and showing them what this attack brings. Nung looked up, his features nearly placid. “As Marshal Kao suggests, the Americans expect to slaughter our troops on their fortification. The Blue Swan pulses will change that. Even so, breaking through their line at speed may prove costly, but that will allow us to encircle them and turn it into a battle of annihilation. You must remember that they do not expect an attack there. The surprise of our assault might well unhinge their resolve.”

“I doubt it,” Deng said.

A wash of emotional heat welled up in Nung. “Foreign Minister, doing the unexpected often shakes an opponent’s confidence. It is an ancient dictum of warfare and has done more to win more battles than any other factor.” He clicked his scroll. “I would like to read to you what Sun Tzu had to say.”

Sun Tzu had written The Art of War two and a half thousand years ago. His work was considered as the quintessential treatise on Chinese thoughts concerning war.

Nung quoted, “All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.”

Nung looked up. “The Americans believe themselves safe behind their defenses. Therefore, that is exactly where we shall begin the grand assault.”

“And if your bloodbath means the Americans pour reinforcements there?” Deng said.

Nung allowed himself a faint smile.

“You would desire such a thing?” Deng asked, sounding surprised.

“Not a bloodbath, as you suggest, but their pouring reinforcements south,” Nung said.

“Why?”

Nung began to manipulate his computer scroll. The six members of the Ruling Committee watched his plan unfold on the holomap. It involved an armor thrust swinging well east of the southern Californian urban areas and heading straight for LA and the all-important Grapevine pass to Central California.

“A clever plan,” the Leader said later. “I am impressed.”

“Yes, yes, very clever,” Deng said. “Yet several matters outside the scope of the assault bother me. I do not wish to appear pessimistic…”

“I called this meeting so we could air our thoughts,” the Leader said. “We six guide Greater China to glory and world dominance. I hold the reins of final authority, but I desire your input and need your cooperation and, hopefully, your enthusiasm. To that end, I would rather hear your disagreements here so I can have the opportunity to persuade you.”

Deng nodded. “I have been to Berlin, Tehran and Brasilia. I have spoken with our allies and have received the privilege of listening to their generals. The Germans and their allies are still reluctant to attack America. Yes, they have sent airmobile and hover brigades to Cuba. They have moved a battle fleet into the mid-Atlantic, but they are still uncommitted to an assault. The South American Federation lusts after American farmlands. Of that, I have no doubt. Their military prowess, however, is in doubt. I am not a military expert, but I have been led to believe that our other fronts are not yet ready to assault the Rio Grande Line in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.”

“Marshal Kao?” the Leader asked.

Old Marshal Kao, with his aesthetic features, bowed solemnly. He had an unusually sharp nose for a Chinese citizen. There were rumors it had been bio-sculpted, and the thin shininess of the flesh at the base of his nose suggested the rumor was true.

“Leader,” Kao said, “the Expeditionary Army in Mexico stands ready to achieve the greatest conquest in history. We have six million soldiers of the highest quality, each man keenly devoted and trained to—”

“How long until the Army can attack all along the line from California to Texas?” the Leader asked.

“Marshal Nung is a hasty soldier,” Kao said. “It is his trademark and the reason perhaps why he seems to excel on a fluid battlefield. He has given us a…an incredible plan for taking California. The bulk of the Blue Swan missiles have been allocated to his front. More missiles will be en route from the factories for the New Mexico and Texas fronts in the coming months. The missiles are in limited supply, unfortunately. Thus, the attacks there will commence along conventional lines.”

“Can the other fronts be ready to attack in two weeks?” the Leader demanded.

Marshal Kao fidgeted, highlighting his long fingers. He was an accomplished violinist. “The other Front commanders will need another month at least, Leader. I would prefer another six weeks.”

The Leader turned to Nung. “What can the Americans do in another month? I mean those facing you in California and with their having learned about Blue Swan.”

“In a month, they can change many things,” Nung admitted.

“Too much?” asked the Leader.

“The possibility occurs. The greatest danger would be their pulling units out of the fortifications and placing them in strategic reserve.”

“What else could they do?” the Leader asked.

“If they were wise,” Nung said, “the Americans would harden what electronics they could. More importantly, they would bring massive quantities of simpler weapons to the fortified line and widen the depth of their defense. That would take time, but a month would be better for them than a mere two weeks.”

“Why haven’t they already done that?” Deng asked. “The Americans are not fools.”

“I would suspect cost and time,” Nung said. “They have a limited supply of both and must balance each decision for maximum effectiveness.”

Deng turned to the Leader. “If the rest of the Army cannot attack, it will leave Marshal Nung’s forces open to a concentration of American forces. Despite the brilliance of the plan, his three armies cannot face the full weight of American might.”

“If the Leader would permit me to speak to the issue?” Nung asked.

“By all means,” the Leader said.

“Foreign Minister Deng raises cogent points,” Nung said. “But I do not believe they are insurmountable obstacles. One, the Americans will not know we are unready to attack into Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. We should use selected areas and have our troops there perform demonstrations of force. We must deceive the Americans into thinking we are about to unleash our mass into Texas. Greater troop movement and open supply rearrangements will focus their attention to the wrong sector.”

The Leader nodded thoughtfully.

“Likely, the Americans do not realize the Germans want more time,” Nung said. “With our demonstrations, the Americans will anticipate an assault on the wrong front, holding their various theater reserves in place. Therefore—”

“Will they do that if California is about to fall?” Deng asked. “Won’t they instead risk depleting inactive fronts and rush those reinforcements to hurl your armies back into Mexico?”

“There are three reasons why I don’t believe so,” Nung said. “First, the speed of our assault will strategically surprise the Americans. We will not give them the time to shift those reserves. In other words, by the time they think about doing as you suggest, we will have conquered the Golden State and sealed it tight.”

“And if your attack fails to keep the pace of your desired speed?” Deng asked. “It is my understanding that clever military plans seldom survive contact with the enemy.”

Nung bristled. Who had reached Prudhoe Bay despite every impediment set before him? Who had won the Siberian War? The answer was he had through his swift attacks.

While clearing his throat, Nung squared his shoulders. “Foreign Minister, Leader, I stake my reputation on achieving a swift and California-conquering assault.”

The others stared at him, and Nung realized his temper had gotten the better of him. He had spoken too bluntly and too boldly, too much like a Russian barbarian—at least how the others would view it.

“The second reason,” Nung said, deciding to drive ahead with his analysis, “is the nature of California. Much of it sits behind the Sierra Nevada Mountains. If it looks as if it will fall, the Americans might decide to try to seal us in the Golden State. That, too, will weaken their resolve toward sending other theater reserves into California.”

“How does their sealing us in California help us?” Deng asked. “This sounds like a reason to leave California alone and concentrate on a greater conquest by driving through Texas into the American heartland.”

“As you’ve stated earlier,” Nung said, “we are attempting a continental conquest. You do not shove an entire cake into your mouth to eat, but slice off pieces, eating a little at a time. First, their attempt to seal us in California would help us defend what we conquer. It would help us digest California. Californian foodstuffs are also important in their own right. Central California particularly produces great quantities of agricultural goods. However, if the Americans are so foolish as to strip their other fronts of reserves to save California—”

“And thereby smash one of our fronts,” Deng said, “as they defeat your armies in detail. I had been led to believe that the coordination of all our assaults would be what would lead us to victory.”

“That would be optimum, of course,” Nung said. “But, as I was about to say, I also mean to send airmobile troops to the Sierra Nevada mountain passes, stopping or slowing any reinforcements into California.”

“This is possible?” Deng asked. “Will you also stake your reputation on this?”

“I will!” Nung said.

Deng sat back, staring at him.

“You spoke of a third reason,” the Leader said.

Nung bowed to the Navy Minister. “I do not presume upon naval matters. But I have been wondered about something.”

“Tell us,” the Leader said.

“Can I show you rather?” Nung asked.

The Leader gestured for him to do so.

For the next half hour, Nung outlined an amphibious assault he had worked out toward securing the Monterey Bay coastal region, the Bay Area and then a strong thrust into the Central Californian Valley.

“The question becomes,” said Deng, “how long until the Navy could gather the needed forces to attempt such a thing?”

The Navy Minister licked his lips. “Leader, the Navy could attempt this amphibious assault in three weeks, perhaps sooner.”

Deng’s head swiveled around as he stared in shock at the Navy Minister. The man was supposed to be his staunchest political ally.

The Leader sat back in his chair, looking like a satisfied cat licking its paws.

Nung had spoken via satellite phone with the Leader during his Pacific crossing. It had been his suggestion about how to turn the Navy into the Leader’s ally in this.

“Marshal Nung,” the Leader said. “You have spoken boldly and honestly. I appreciate your candor, your enthusiasm and your military skill. What you are suggesting is breathtaking in scope. You have achieved near military miracles in the past. Yet it seems to me that your forces are too small to grasp this amazing prize. What additional units do you feel you would need to insure the conquest of California?”

“To make the continuous assault against the fortified areas a certainty, I would need the 19th and 33rd Reserve Armies,” Nung said. “They are presently in the strategic reserve and simply need dedicated transports to reach my front. For my armored thrust, I would require the addition of the 233rdTank Corps. It is presently in the Third Front and would need to be sent via rail. I would hope they would begin to entrain several days from now. Once the assault has commenced, I would also need the transfer of the 7th Army from Arizona. For the duration of the campaign, I require the dedication of the 10th, 13th and 18th Air Fleets.”

Marshal Kao flexed his violinist’s fingers. They were long and had large knuckles. It seemed impossible he could ever slip his gold wedding ring off its finger. He now tapped on his scroll. After reading what was there, Kao looked up, scowling. “Combined with the amphibious invasion, that amounts to over two million troops: a third of our Expeditionary Force.”

“That is correct,” Nung said.

Marshal Kao blinked repeatedly.

“We have moved six million soldiers into Mexico,” the Leader said. “The South Americans have moved three million. The Germans, I believe, will become greedy and eager to slice off their portion of America once we show them the possibility of it.”

“Storming and capturing California is a grave risk,” Deng said.

“And yet, as Marshal Nung has pointed out,” the Leader said, “it is a risk in a limited theater of war.”

“Provided his airmobile brigades can block the strategic passes in the Sierra Nevada Mountains,” Deng said.

“It is a risk,” Nung admitted. “That is why we need the Blue Swan missiles. They are the key to the assault. We must smash through the border defenses at speed and trap the bulk of California’s armies there. That will panic the Americans and make the amphibious assault that much more deadly to enemy morale.”

With half-lidded eyes, Deng stared at Nung as if taking his measure. “I happen to recall the Arctic crossing seven years ago. You delayed then. Why won’t you delay again at precisely the wrong moment?”

Marshal Nung opened his mouth in anger. Those delays had not been because of him. They had been because of—

The Leader cleared his throat.

Nung glanced at the Leader. A cold feeling crept through him. He’d almost told these men the truth. That would have ruined everything.

“I have learned from Jian Hong,” Nung said. “I will not make the same mistake twice.”

“Sir,” Marshal Kao asked the Leader. “I wonder if we might add one precaution, especially as we recall that you had to prod Marshal Nung seven years ago.”

“Yes?” the Leader asked.

“I would like to send Field Marshal Gang to the First Front,” Kao said. “Gang would report to us—the Ruling Committee—particularly if he sees that Marshal Nung is spending our troops too liberally against the enemy fortifications. Also, if he feels that the Marshal is stalling, Gang could report that to us as well.”

“I object,” Nung said. “Divided commands are a serious impediment to—”

“Excuse me,” Kao said. “I am not speaking about a divided command. Marshal Gang would be an observer only. Surely, you cannot object to the Ruling Committee having its own personal representative at your front?”

“The implications—” Nung said.

“I would feel better if Marshal Gang joined the First Front,” Deng said. “It would alleviate my last qualms and help me to convince our allies. Naturally, we would have to empower the marshal to act in an emergency.”

The Leader drummed his fingers on the table. Very well,” he said. “Marshal Gang will return with you, Marshal Nung. He will observe, and he will be granted emergency powers, provided the need occurs.” The Leader glanced at the others in turn before looking at Nung again. “In two weeks, you will unleash the greatest assault in history, smashing the Americans.”

Nung nodded, delighted at the prospect but wondering how much Marshal Gang was going to try to interfere with him.