Invasion: China

Prologue

In the submarine’s humid control center, Captain John Winthrop studied a blue-glowing screen. It made his eyes glow with color.

He didn’t want to die. None of them did.

Condensation took that moment to drip onto the monitor. With a rag, Winthrop wiped away the moisture. The vessel’s main engine coughed, the sound loud enough to travel to the control center.

Winthrop grimaced at the noise. The Chinese must have instrumentation able to pick that up. The submarine was doomed for sure.

Why doesn’t someone tell me this is a crazy idea?

Several seconds after the engine cough, an oily taint drifted in the air. Should he order the recycling vents closed?

No. That would foul the air. Just live with what you have. It was an ironic thought and he knew it. Instead of smiling, he concentrated, focusing on the only problem that mattered for the rest of his short life.

The monitor was linked to the submarine’s periscope. It showed a Chinese fighter landing on an aircraft carrier approximately one and a half miles away. The targeting computer also pinpointed escorting cruisers and destroyers, an entire enemy task force. That meant Chinese submarines lurked nearby. They were a danger to USS Sherman, an Avenger VII-class submarine, but not nearly as bad as the combat air patrols crisscrossing the sky, hunting for subs just like his.

Winthrop raised a steady hand. Thank God for good nerves. With the rag, he wiped perspiration from his forehead. Aren’t we always talking about doing something to turn the tide of the war? Here it is. The question becomes, do I have the balls to go for it?

How many lives did a man have anyway? Reincarnation would be nice if it was true, but he didn’t believe in it.

This isn’t suicide. This is war and here’s my chance to make a difference, to take down one of their aircraft carriers, maybe an entire task force.

Through an unusual set of circumstances—stupid luck, really—and an extremely cold layer of water, the submarine had maneuvered close to the carrier. Chinese anti-torpedo systems had become fantastically difficult to penetrate. A torpedo launched from thirty miles away had become an outdated tactic. But to attack from this close…

Instead of wrestling with his thoughts about this, he should be—

One of the men cleared his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Winthrop saw that the Chief of the Boat, the COB, had made the noise. That surprised him. Does he have more balls than I do?

“What are your orders, sir?” the chief whispered.

It was hard, but Winthrop looked up at the man’s narrow features. Black circles and haunted eyes showed the chief’s strain.

What did the chief really think about this? With the submarine’s desperate need of repairs, did the man just want to limp home? They had done their duty this voyage. Why risk more, right? After their ordeal two days ago, who wanted to rise up to the role of sacrificial hero?

As Winthrop thought about that, another drip fell onto the screen, and the damaged engine rattled loudly. The Chinese had to hear that. Why couldn’t the enemy react and take the awful decision away from him?

Two days ago, they had crawled away while escaping from an angry convoy, having sunk several transports. Then Chinese drones had dropped atomic depth charges on them. Every American submariner hated the drones. Nothing else had sounded quite like that charge going off. Winthrop recalled the terror of watching the bulkheads as everything shook and groaned with metallic complaint. Several of the crew had thrown Petty Officer Harris to the deck plates, because the man had lost it, screaming and running amok. The crew had pummeled Harris with their fists, making meaty smacks. It had been the only remedy then. They had beaten Harris back to sanity and strapped him down afterward in the tiny infirmary.

The humidity in here, the faulty engine and the questionable pressure hull meant they could no longer dive as deeply as they used to. Maybe as bad, the submarine had become as sluggish as a tugboat.

It’s a miracle we reached this location without the Chinese spotting us. It was either dumb luck or divine providence, or maybe the Devil’s humor.

“Sir—” the chief said.

“Shhh,” Winthrop whispered. “Let me think.”

The chief blinked at him, and the man began to tremble. That had never happened before. The chief’s arms shook so his hands twitched against his legs. The sight twisted Winthrop’s gut. Panic could be infectious, he knew. For that reason, a submarine captain had to maintain a calm demeanor at all times.

Winthrop understood he should order the chief out of the control center, or say something, at least. But he couldn’t form the words, so he averted his gaze. In any event, he could not let the chief’s actions persuade him to turn away.

Don’t fool yourself. The painkillers are keeping you calm, nothing else.

Only heavy dosages of painkillers kept the continuous agony of his lower back from making him groan and twist. Was he even rational anymore? The drugs stole emotions, right? No. He didn’t want to think about that. He had a duty to his country. More than that, he had to protect his loved ones. If America could destroy the Chinese navy and merchant marine, the enemy’s North American invasion would wither on the vine.

Submarines and orbital THOR missiles were the answers to defeating the enemy. The USN lacked a surface fleet, but America churned out underwater vessels as fast as it could. The Avenger VII-class submarines were a new model specially constructed for the war. Mass-produced by sections inland, Port Seattle welders fitted the parts and launched the completed machine in days. A year ago, small American submersibles had used underwater drones that fired missiles far from the mother-sub. New Chinese countermeasures meant going back to the old, old way of slinking near the enemy with a crewed vessel to launch torpedoes while risking destruction.

The Chinese fought back every way they could. One of the enemy answers to US submarines was drone-dropped nuclear depth charges. The Chinese had to keep those weapons far from their own ships.

“We’re too close, sir,” the chief whispered.

“The last depth charge hurt us pretty bad,” Winthrop said, meaning the one two days ago.

The chief licked dry lips. Winthrop heard the rasping sound.

If you’re going to do this, now’s the moment. Don’t torture everyone with the waiting. Winthrop opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed his lips, and he almost panted. Instead, he envisioned a Chinese victory, with Chinese soldiers in his hometown raping American women and killing children. The enemy already stole enough food so people died of starvation in Texas, Arkansas and the rest of the occupied territories.

Can you let that happen to the entire country, to your friends at home?

Once again, Winthrop tried to speak. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Load the torpedo.”

No one asked him which torpedo he meant. They all knew. In honor of a different war, a different Asian foe, they called the torpedo Fat Man. That had been the name of the nuclear bomb dropped on Hiroshima at the end of WWII. The special torpedo was huge, twenty-one inches in diameter and twenty-seven feet long. It carried America’s answer to the Chinese nuclear depth charges: a ten-kiloton nuclear warhead.

The problem with firing it this close to the carrier was obvious. It was unlikely Sherman would survive the blast. By launching the torpedo, they signed their own death warrant. Surely that was better than trying to slip away and dying anyway.

“We’re going to win this war,” Winthrop told the others.

“Pardon me,” the chief said, without add “sir.” He paused, twisting the gold wedding ring on his finger, before plunging ahead, saying, “I-I don’t want to die.”

At the words, Winthrop felt cold inside. He didn’t want to die either. A lump rose in his throat. Could he even give the order? Maybe they could escape. A fluke had brought them here. Maybe it was time to use a fluke to slip back the way they had come.

“Captain,” Sonarman Stevens said. “The enemy has made contact. They know we’re here.”

The cold in Winthrop’s heart became heat. Finally, the Chinese had found them. There was no going back now. The heat squeezed in him, and in a quiet voice, he said, “Fire the torpedo.”

No one moved, including the launch officer. Winthrop glanced at the heavyset man with his skewed collar and undone buttons. Large sweat stains had spread outward from the launch officer’s underarms. The man stood frozen in place, staring at his panel.

With his jaws clenched, Winthrop strode to the launch officer’s panel. He didn’t look around at the others watching him. Panic can be infectious.

“Please,” the launch officer whispered. “Don’t do it, sir.”

Winthrop wanted to say a hundred things to them. They were good men, his brothers in arms. Each had endured terrible pressures that no one should ever have to face. Instead of making a speech, Winthrop reached out with his right hand, and he almost wished the launch officer would grab his sleeve to stop him. The man moaned instead. In silent horror, Winthrop watched the index finger of his right hand tap the red circle on the screen.

Sherman was a small submarine, especially when compared to a boomer. Although they stood in the control center, each of them heard the burst of compressed air that expelled the torpedo from its tube. The launch officer staggered backward as his legs became like jelly. The man crashed onto a chair.

“Damn them,” the chief whispered. “Damn the Chinese. Why did they have to invade us in the first place?”

With a leaden step, Captain Winthrop returned to his position by the screen. He felt his heartbeats thud with anticipation. He should give the order for them to flee, to dive, to do something. It all seemed so futile, though.

The brutal seconds ticked away as silence reigned aboard Sherman. Then a blinding flash appeared on the screen where the enemy aircraft carrier floated.

“Yes!” Winthrop said, and he found himself shaking a fist at the screen. “Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one seven six.”

No one moved, nor did helm respond. In that second, it felt as if the crew had become zombies and he the last man on Earth. In moments, a terrible shock wave struck the submarine. As Winthrop staggered across the chamber, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Was this the end?

Metal groaned all around him. Alarms rang. Then the sounds of gushing water announced their doom. Before he could speak, a bulkhead burst and a wall of water roared across Captain Winthrop.

Will our sacrifice help America beat the Chinese? It was his last thought as the water picked him up and hurled his body against a bulkhead, killing him instantly.

Soon, the submarine pieces and corpses of USS Sherman sank toward the bottom of the ocean, and the war between China and America continued with its brutal ugliness and destruction.

US Marine Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh felt helpless as his wife clung to him in bed, weeping softly.

A scarred warrior in his early forties with broad shoulders and narrow hips, in his younger years in college, he’d been a terror on the football field, slamming running backs onto the sod with bone-jarring hits.

Cheri and he had just made love… again. He hadn’t touched his wife or been in her presence for over a year. On leave, he had another three days to go.

Paul sat up against several pillows. In his absence, Cheri had filled the bed with more and more pillows. She wrapped her thin arms around his torso, her face concealed against his chest, her long dark hair in disarray, hiding her features. His left arm lay on her skin, with his fingers rubbing the small of her back.

She snuffled and began shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Paul… I-I can’t take it anymore. I’m so lonely all the time. Every time I turn on the TV or go on the computer I’m sure I’m going to see footage of you dead on a battlefield.”

“Hey, they can’t kill me.”

“No. Don’t say that. You’ll jinx it.”

“Cheri,” he said, and he rubbed her skin.

She raised her head, brushing aside strands of hair.

Paul gazed down into her eyes. She was beautiful, and his hunger for her grew. It was as if he was seventeen again.

“You’ve changed,” she said. Her pupils darted back and forth as she studied him.

He grinned, and he rolled her onto her back. He loved the soft feel of her skin. Bending down, he kissed her, letting his lips press and linger against hers.

“You’re the best kisser ever,” she murmured.

“No, you are,” he said. “Now what’s wrong? Tell me.”

She turned away and stared at a wall, at a photograph of them in their twenties on jet skis. He had bigger muscles then and her white bikini against her tanned skin showed—wow!

“I used to go to the Wives’ Club in the evenings,” Cheri said softly. “The other women there, the wives… Too many of them are cheaters.”

Paul frowned. He didn’t want to hear that. The Marines fought, risking life and limb, and in their absence, their wives screwed other men? What was wrong with people?

“Most of the women are lonely,” Cheri whispered. “They’re frightened, and their kids are growing up without their dads.”

Paul understood then she was talking about herself and Mikey, not the cheating on him part, but about being lonely and kids needing dads.

“I can’t very well quit the Marines in the middle of a war,” he told her.

“Honey, you’ve done your part, more than your part.” She turned to him. “How many missions have they sent you on anyway?”

“One or two,” he said.

“Paul!”

“Hey, sweetness, no Chinese soldier is going to kill me. Maybe the Germans had a shot, but not them.”

She stared into his eyes, and she threw herself at him, clutching him fiercely. “Promise me,” she whispered.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Promise me you’ll come home in one piece.”

“I do promise,” he said.

“Swear it,” she said, with great urgency.

He did swear, and he figured that would be the end of it.

No. She began to weep again and shake her head. “I know you think I’m weak,” she said.

“You love me, and you want me with you. I understand and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Then stay here!” she shouted. “Don’t go back.”

Something in her voice alerted Paul. It put a trickle of doubt in his gut. He hated the feeling. He pried her arms off him and stared into her puffy eyes. “Is someone hitting on you?” he asked. “Are you having trouble?”

She laughed forlornly. “Are you kidding me? Slugs hit on me all the time. It never ends.”

“You’re tempted?” he asked, with a growing tightness in his gut.

“No,” she said.

He thought about the way she said that, and he realized she was having problems. She’d always been faithful to him. Loyalty was big with Paul Kavanagh. It was one of the pillars of his life. He also knew that Cheri had a hard time standing up against persistent alpha types who knew how to play on her insecurities.

“Who is it?” he asked. “Who’s putting on the pressure? Let me pay him a visit.”

She hesitated and finally said. “Do you know the bank we use?”

“First National where I send my checks?” he asked.

She nodded miserably, and said, “The loan manager there is also in charge of food rationing.”

“You’re a Marine’s wife!”

“I know,” Cheri said. “But things got pretty rough last summer. This year they changed the law. According to the announcements, Homeland Security says everyone is making sacrifices, not just the military. To make it fair, every civilian is in the same pot.”

Paul grunted with understanding. Homeland Security had been making many changes this last year. Too many of their people acted like thugs.

“What else?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

“The man’s a creep,” Cheri said. “He likes pushing people around, military wives in particular. You can see it in his eyes that he’s enjoying himself. And they’ve given him assistants, bodyguards. He’s grabbed me several times. I told him to back off each time. I said that my husband would get mad if he found out how he’d been treating me.”

Paul was mad now. He wished she’d told him about this earlier. “And?” he said.

She twisted her fingers together. “I’d handle it myself if it was only about me, but… he threatened me with Mikey,” Cheri whispered.

The anger in Paul began to boil. He felt heat in his chest. “Threatened how?” he asked in a soft voice.

Her eyes widened with fear. “I shouldn’t have told you. Paul, you can’t do anything about this. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” he said. “Now what about Mikey? How did this bastard threaten my boy?”

Cheri seemed to think about it. Finally, she said, “Homeland Security wants all boys Mikey’s age in the Patriotic Youth Organization, helping to train them to become future Militiamen.”

“The Patriotic Youth?” Paul asked. “They’re a bunch of fascists.”

“Paul! You can’t say things like that. Besides, it’s just a side issue. I miss you, honey. I can’t keep living like this. Your son needs you at home. I need you here.”

“We can’t let the Chinese win.”

“I know. I understand. But you’ve done your part. Let someone else do his for once.”

Paul heard the urgency in her voice, the pleading. Being alone year after year had worn her down. The squalor of this apartment, the poor food and his absence… she needed him at home. He wanted to be here. Cheri had hit upon a truth earlier. He had changed. Endless combat had worn him down, emptying him inside. This damn war with its million-man casualty lists and the frigid weather— “I can’t get discharged yet,” he said. “But I’m going to work on it.”

“Words,” she said in a small voice.

“No,” he said. “I want out of the Marines, out of the commandos. First, we have to drive the Chinese out of America, drive them and their allies out.”

“How long will that take?” Cheri asked in a hopeless voice.

Paul scowled. It was a good question. “You look tired, babe. Close your eyes; get some rest.”

“What are you going to do? You seem pretty hopped up.”

“I’m going down to the bank.”

“Paul, no, you can’t.”

“Yeah I can.”

“No,” she said. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash. Please. I have to live with these people when you’re gone. Templeton has connections with the Militia. If you try to push him too hard, he’ll find ways to push back. He’s poison. You can just see it in him.”

Paul had already slid his legs off the mattress. Her fear hit him hard, and it confirmed his decision. It was time to visit this Templeton. If corrupt people like this guy were allowed to prosper, everyone would suffer, not just Cheri and Mikey. It was his duty.

He turned to his wife and chucked her under the chin. A quick calculation caused him to see that if he promised and broke it right away, she wouldn’t believe his other promise of coming home in one piece.

“Cheri, baby,” he said. “I promise I’m going to kick the crap out of this bank manager. Believe me. He’s not going to be in any condition to mess with you again. I didn’t give a damn about his connections. With enough broken bones—”

“Please,” she said, “don’t do anything like that. They’ll throw you in military prison.”

“No. I’m too good at what I do. Uncle Sam needs me.”

“Paul.”

“You told me these things for a reason, right? Did you expect me to just ignore them?”

She looked down.

“Babe, this is what I do. I protect those I love. I put my life on the line to try to save America, to save you and Mikey. Do you think that means I’m going to let a money-sucking weasel like a Homeland Security dick bother my wife? No. It means I’m going to do what I do best. You get some sleep and let me deal with things. For a few days anyway, your husband is at home.”

“Paul…” she said.

“My promises mean something, sweets. I’m going to pound this punk and after another few missions, I’m coming home to stay.”

She didn’t say anything more, but she watched him with wide, fearful eyes.

After Paul finished lacing his boots, he walked out. He was going to ask Mr. Banker Boy some questions. If he got the wrong answers… well, the man’s answers would determine just how many broken bones Templeton had to deal with. One way or another, Paul was going to protect his own.

What’s in a nickname, or a name for that matter?

Colonel Stan Higgins crunched through the snow, crossing what must have been a used car lot many years ago. Sure. He remembered his youth when every American could afford a vehicle. That seemed like a long time ago now in a different country.

He left his fellow tank officers behind where they sat in an old movie theater sipping coffee and eating donuts. They’d all listened to General McGraw, the Joint Forces Commander of the Southern Front. McGraw had outlined their duties in the coming offensive. It was still several weeks away, maybe even two months. It depended on the weather.

No. That wasn’t completely true. The Chinese were playing games again on their side of no man’s land in Oklahoma. It had the intelligence boys worried.

Stan shivered as a cold gust whipped off the prairies, barreling down Wichita’s streets. He wore a greatcoat and a hunter’s hat with earmuffs.

Stan was approaching his mid-fifties. At five-ten, he battled with his weight, never quite letting it reach two hundred. He popped two glucosamine pills a day to help keep his joints limber. He didn’t run, but he rode a bicycle three times a week and lifted two days, keeping a nice ball of muscle in his biceps. These days, he didn’t have any time for basketball. Besides, he’d lost half a step. It irritated him when a player scored with a shot that he could have stopped even three years ago.

In his younger days, the boys called him “Money” because he made all his shots. No one called him that anymore. No. His nickname was “Professor” because he saw history lessons in everything.

Stan scowled, flipping up his collar and hunkering down. What miserable weather. Dark clouds raced across the sky, threatening to dump even more snow on Southern Front Headquarters.

Volcanism was on the rise worldwide, spewing tons of fine dust into the air. That reflected too much sunlight, the scientists said. The sun also had far fewer sunspots these days. The big orb heated the Earth less than it used to. The two factors had conspired to make this a colder, drearier planet, with constant crop failures in places that used to thrive. With the Earth’s billions, hungry people had become desperate people, willing to go to war for food.

That made perfect sense historically. Sure. Hunger had once driven the Huns off the high steppes of Asia. Well, to be precise, other nomads had done that, staking out the better grazing lands and killing those who disagreed with their choices. The displaced Huns pushed others in their wake, sending German horse barbarians in the Ukrainian prairies against the Roman Empire’s northeastern border. That had brought about the epoch-changing battle of Adrianople in 378 AD where Ostrogothic heavy cavalry shattered Roman infantry. For a thousand years afterward, cavalry ruled the battlefields.

Stan snorted, shaking his head as his thoughts shifted. He headed for an old building, a Catholic church. McGraw would meet him there so they could speak in private.

The general liked to bounce ideas off him, strategic, operational and tactical plans. Stan loved military history more than any other kind. He read about wars, battles and sieges the way other guys sat down for a few hours of sports as they drank beer. It relaxed him while it absorbed his thinking.

Stan had snorted because he felt rueful about the fact that he understood some of the Romans of Julius Caesar’s time better than people today: those patriots Cassius, Brutus and company, the ones who’d carried hidden knives into the senate to stab the would-be-king Caesar to death. They’d wanted a return to the Republic.

Yes, Stan understood them better because that’s exactly how he felt. He wanted a return to the good old American Republic, the kind that real citizens used to enjoy. By real, he meant those who could stand on their own feet without the government giving them the dole. People accepting handouts for long eventually became slaves. If you wanted freedom, you had to fend for yourself. Sure, help your fellow man when the accidents of life knocked him down. But don’t let your government give you freebies in return for tyranny that made a thousand laws concerning your everyday activities.

America had taken the low road in the years before the Chinese invasion. Socialism stole personal initiative. And speaking of senates, the American version had been losing ground to the Imperial Presidency for a long time. Now, President Sims ruled like a king. Monarchs soon developed cronies and favorites, and those people made the decisions.

Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, had clearly become King Sims’ favorite courtier.

Stan grunted as his right foot slipped on a patch of ice, causing his groin to twinge with pain. His hands flew out of his pockets. He lurched and almost went down. At the last moment, he caught his balance. With his hands on his knees, he panted.

Don’t be an idiot.

He went to see McGraw. The general vied for Presidential status, for courtier rank. In the last year, McGraw had gone to the White House many times to give King Sims advice. The general had become a public hero, as Erwin Rommel had during WWII to the Germans. If anyone could beat back the Chinese, it was General McGraw. That was the public feeling, and it gave everyone confidence to know that in the next big showdown, McGraw was going to run the proceedings his way, just as he had in Colorado when he broke the siege of Denver and drove the Chinese into Oklahoma.

Besides, Stan doubted his assessment of the internal situation was completely true. McGraw tugged the President in one direction while Harold tugged the President another, and Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs had his own ideas.

What do I want to see happen?

Stan knew the answer to that. He wanted three things. One, he wanted Homeland Security to drop all charges against his boy Jake. Two, he wanted to drive the Chinese out of America and make sure they never returned. Three, he wanted to go back to the Republic where the three branches of government checked and balanced each other, allowing a man like him to live with the least interference possible.

So far, none of the three was even close to happening. That made Stan irritable. He wore his Medal of Honor under his greatcoat. Let McGraw see it and remember that Stan had paid in blood, sweat and tears for his country.

If anyone has a right to speak out, it’s me. Hell, maybe it’s my obligation to speak out. Jake has it right. We have to start standing up for our principles or this war means nothing.

Those in power didn’t really like men of honor unless they were honorable themselves or if they could aim the men of honor like arrows against their enemies. Those in power didn’t want to hear uncomfortable truths from honest men.

Stan glanced both ways and crossed a street. The next sidewalk glittered with ice. Since he knew it was there, he compensated and kept himself from slipping again. Two blocks later, the church came into view. Several armored cars were parked in the lot, with big security soldiers standing around smoking cigars. McGraw kept up an image, which included his personal detail. No cigarettes for his boys, they had to smoke stogies.

The guards intercepted him before he could enter the building. They had submachine guns in their fists, with straps over their shoulders. The biggest checked a manifest, eyed Stan and nodded toward the church doors at the top of wide granite steps.

He took the stairs carefully. A big man opened a door for him, shutting it behind Stan. The heat struck him in the face. Stan took off his hat and nodded to the padre, a tall old man in a black robe.

“He is praying,” the priest said in a quiet voice.

The information surprised Stan. He’d never known McGraw for prayer or any religious observance for that matter. Then he spied the general pacing back and forth before the altar.

Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was a bear of a man, with a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. In Patton style, McGraw usually wore pistols at his side. The general’s guns were old issue .45s, and he had used them on more than one occasion. For once, though, McGraw didn’t wear them.

Oh, that’s why the priest stood out here. The man guarded McGraw’s guns. Stan saw them on a nearby table.

“Would you like to place your weapons here?” the priest asked.

Silently, Stan unbuttoned the great coat and took a pistol from its holster, laying it beside McGraw’s guns and belt. Then he walked down the center aisle.

The general stopped pacing, watching Stan, finally thrusting out a meaty hand.

Stan gripped it, and McGraw yanked his hand up and down, nearly ripping the arm out of the socket. As he did so, McGraw spewed his breath in greeting, which reeked of alcohol, most likely whiskey.

“What did you think of my presentation, Professor?” McGraw asked in a hearty tone. He meant the one in the movie theater.

“Straight to the point, sir,” Stan said.

“Don’t sir me in church, son, and don’t kiss my butt either. What did you think, really?”

“Okay. I doubt the Chinese are going to fall as easily as you explained it to us.”

“Ha! There you go. That’s what I wanted to hear. You don’t trust American technology, is that it?”

“No, sir,” Stan said. “I mean, yes sir, I do. What I don’t trust is the idea that any battle plan will survive contact with the enemy.”

“You of all people can say that? You’re the master planner.”

“History shows—”

“Ah, history,” McGraw said. “I’m tired of hearing that. Director Harold spouts historical nonsense just as you like to do.”

“He does?” Stan asked, surprised to hear this.

“When it suits his purposes, of course,” the general said.

Stan glanced around.

“What’s wrong, Higgins? I thought you were a religious man. You don’t like it here?”

“I believe in God, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I just did.”

Stan waited.

“You got something against Catholics?” McGraw asked.

“No, sir,” Stan said. “I’m just wondering why you wanted to meet here.”

“I don’t strike you as a praying man?”

“No, sir, you don’t.”

“You’re right. I’ve gotten where I’ve gotten by my own brains and guts. I haven’t asked anything from anybody, and I don’t plan to start anytime soon.”

Big Tom grinned down at him, and he extracted a slim metal container from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he took a slug of whiskey. He sighed, smacked his lips and took another long swallow.

“I’d offer you some, old son, but I think you’d turn me down.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t like being turned down these days. It hurts my feelings. So I’m not going to ask, you understand?”

Stan blinked several times, and he realized that McGraw was already drunk. The knowledge tightened his chest. The general hadn’t been drunk a half hour ago. That meant he must have been drinking heavily since the theater briefing. Why would McGraw drink so much before meeting here with him?

“I can see the wheels turning inside your head,” McGraw said. He pointed the flask at Stan. It had a dent in the side. The general scowled at the small container, glanced toward the back where the priest stood and stuffed the flask into his jacket pocket.

“Sit down,” the general muttered. “I’m tired of pacing.” Before Stan could decide where to sit, McGraw lumbered to a front pew, dropping his butt onto it so the wood creaked.

Stan moved onto the same one, with plenty of space between them.

McGraw took a deep breath, opening his mouth as he turned to Stan. The general’s gaze darted away.

It was then Stan knew things were bad. Normally, McGraw shied away from nothing. Is this why the man had gotten drunk?

“I’m speaking in confidence, old son. You do understand that, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That means if you breathe a word about this to anyone I’ll nail your hide to a wall, and I’ll deny everything. I’ll break you, Higgins, or circumstances will. I won’t have to do anything other than to deny I said any of this.”

“Okay.”

“I like you, Higgins. I have from the start.”

The general meant their days together in Officer Candidate School as young men a long time ago.

“Even better, I’ve learned to trust you and trust your judgment.” McGraw paused.

Stan had the feeling the general wanted to take out his flask again and sip some more whiskey.

“The war’s been hard,” McGraw said. “You’d agree to that.”

“Of course.”

“It’s hard on soldiers and even more on generals.”

“Seems like it’s hardest on the dead,” Stan said.

“Yes,” McGraw said, as he nodded. “But most of all, it’s hard on the President. To make all those decisions and know that men and women die because of it…”

Stan waited, and he didn’t like the direction this was headed. If it was so bad King Sims should step down and let the people vote for a replacement—a real election, not the rigged events they had these days. He didn’t want to hear anything that might make him sympathetic to the tyrant. Ever since Jake had told him what had really happened last year in the penal battalion, he’d become more critical of America’s highest leadership.

“The war has taken a psychological toll on Sims,” McGraw said. “He isn’t anything like the man we knew in Alaska.”

The Alaskan War in 2032 seemed like a lifetime ago. Sims had been the Joint Forces Commander back then. He’d driven the Chinese out of the frozen state. It had turned him into a national hero and won him the presidency later. The Chinese had regrouped for seven years before trying again out of Mexico, leading to their present predicament.

“We have to win the next battle,” McGraw said. “I don’t know if the President can withstand another disaster.”

“He can step down any time he wants,” Stan said.

McGraw scowled. “That’s a foolish statement. The country needs Sims. The people trust him. They’ve developed a national faith in him.

The Caesars eventually claimed to be gods. Roman policy demanded people make sacrifices to them. It’s why they burned the earliest Christians, who refused to worship anyone but God Almighty. Is that where this is headed?

The general continued to scowl, and his manner became colder.

Despite his feelings, Stan decided on restraint. What could he do about any of this anyway? “Okay, we need Sims,” he said.

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“The President is getting tired. I believe that’s what you’re saying.”

McGraw rubbed a big hand across his chin, and he seemed to measure Stan with his eyes. “There’s talk about helping him,” the general said quietly. “The President might need a rest, a vacation.”

Stan became alert, and something must have given it away.

“I’m finally getting through to you,” McGraw said. “Good. Homeland Security and the military are engaged in… talks concerning this.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I think you do. If the President lacks the will to do what needs doing… then we’re duty bound to help him.”

“By staging a coup?” Stan asked, blurting the words before he could monitor himself.

McGraw’s face hardened, and the man’s gaze bored into Stan, becoming ugly, maybe even dangerous. A moment later, a grin broke out. “You’re missing my meaning, Higgins. FDR had a stroke at the end of World War II. No one said anything as those around him coped with the situation.”

“Sims is going to have a stroke?”

“Damnit, Higgins, can’t you be delicate for once? We’re talking about saving the country.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. McGraw is one of them, hungry for power. At least they’re getting their lingo right. No. I can’t believe McGraw is suggesting a coup, not Tom.

“Sir, if the President is unfit for duty, we should elect a new man. That’s what the Constitution says.”

“What century are you living in, son? We haven’t been following the Constitution for seventy years already. The politicians do whatever they want, making things up as they go along. When the people try to limit them in some way, that’s the only time the President or the others talk about the sacred Constitution.”

Stan sat back, stunned. “Are you talking about a triumvirate?” he asked.

“Speak English. What are you talking about?”

“Pompey, Julius Caesar and—”

“What? Caesar? Why are you talking about Roman history now? I don’t get you.”

“Back then, Caesar and the others formed a triumvirate that bypassed Roman laws. It sounds like that’s what you’re suggesting here.”

McGraw stared at him, finally shrugging. “Old son, you’re far too bold with your words. But yes, I’m talking about a triumvirate: Max Harold, me and Chairman Alan.”

“Homeland Security and the military will run the country?”

“Just until we kick the Chinese out,” McGraw said.

“And if the President fails to have a breakdown?”

McGraw gave him a hearty smile. “So much the better. We’re just talking about contingency plans.”

Sure you are.

“Well?” McGraw asked. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

McGraw looked up at the ceiling as he shook his head. “You’re not stupid, Higgins. But very well, let’s make this crystal clear. Are you with me?”

“I’m not against you, sir.”

“That isn’t want I’m asking. Will you support me?”

Stan blinked several times as he ingested the general’s words. It began to dawn on him that McGraw wanted to make sure of his legions before he proceeded. If the army backed McGraw, the general could transform that into political power. Yes, if the three of them formed a triumvirate, things could become very sticky between Harold and McGraw. Homeland Security ran the police in all their variations. That was power, but nothing compared to the American military of millions.

McGraw played a dangerous game, and now the general tried to pull him into it.

No. I’m already in it. It doesn’t matter what I say. Frankly, joining him is probably the safer choice.

Stan rested his chin on his chest, feeling the stubble because he hadn’t shaved thoroughly enough this morning. He thought about Jake, how his boy had stood up for his beliefs. It had cost Jake, but he’d been a real man, an adult. The heroes of Stan’s life had stood up for their beliefs: Jesus, Martin Luther of Germany and George Washington.

This must be my hour to make a stand.

Stan expelled his breath and faced McGraw. “I believe in the Republic, sir.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“An honest one, I suppose.”

“You’re going to buck me?”

Stan found himself in a staring contest with a three hundred and fifty pound drunkard. Tom McGraw could probably pound the crap out of him. Stan shifted in his seat. Well, okay, maybe so. But the general would know he’d been in a fight.

“Let me paint you a picture,” McGraw said. “It might help focus your thinking.”

Stan nodded as he held the general’s gaze.

“Your boy—Jake’s his name, I believe.”

Stan felt his temper slipping. Is he going to threaten me through my son? “Jake is his name,” he managed to say.

“Last year, a Militia tribunal sent him to a penal battalion.”

“That’s right,” Stan said. “Jake’s sin was that he pissed on a photograph of Max Harold while in a strip club.”

“Your boy has a morality issue, does he? Likes to watch women take off their clothes?”

“The Militia officer who pressed charges happened to be there, too. The man was quite taken with one of the strippers, I’m told.”

“That’s all dirt under the rug, Higgins. My point is that Jake went to a penal battalion. He survived the Germans, but murdered his sergeant.”

“The sergeant killed one of his men in cold blood,” Stan said. “Jake shot him in self-defense.”

“Let me finish,” McGraw said. “It’s my picture I’m painting. Your son fled into the army. Quite a feat, that. I’m wondering if you had a hand in it. I believe he’s presently in a Behemoth regiment.”

“What of it?” Stan heard himself say.

“Homeland Security wants him back to face a new tribunal for murder.”

“You mean they want to murder my son.”

“That’s an awfully unpatriotic statement, Colonel.”

How can this be happening? I have to keep calm. I have to think. I might lose my son otherwise.

“If they try to murder him, I’ll—” Stan clamped his lips together and looked away. Finally, he stood, and he faced the general. Slowly, Stan unbuttoned the rest of his coat, exposing his Medal of Honor.

“Do you see this, sir?”

“I do.”

“The medal is supposed to honor courage. There are different kinds, I know. The two most known are physical and moral. Between the two, moral courage is much rarer. My son has both. I strive for that. This is the real world. I understand. There are emergencies in every area of life. I’m not sure what I’m saying… except this. I’ll fight for my son.”

“Is that a threat?”

Suddenly Stan felt lightheaded, and he said, “Sure, why not? It’s a threat against you, sir, and against Homeland Security. If you use my boy against me so he dies, send some of your killers to my regiment and gun me down, because I’ll try to kill you and Max Harold both.”

McGraw stared at him, and Stan could see his death in the general’s eyes. He’d said too much. Jake liked to spout off. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Stan thought about taking his words back. Before he could, McGraw suddenly laughed heartily. The switch shocked Stan.

“Higgins, Higgins, Higgins, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Look at us, old son, two old war dogs having a battle of words. I’m drunk. You know that, right?”

Stan recalled McGraw pretending to be drunk over a year ago. The general had fooled him then—not today.

“I’ve been keeping the Militia people at bay,” McGraw said. “It isn’t easy. They want your boy pretty badly. Harold even mentioned it the other day. I told him not to upset my Behemoth regiments, as they’re the answer to defeating the Chinese.”

“I just want to fight for my country, sir,” Stan said. “Not play politics.”

“Yes, I can see that. I don’t mean to drag you into political struggles. It’s a dirty business and takes a certain kind of mindset. You’re the keenest mind we have, Higgins. I thought—” The general shook his head. “Never mind, old son, I’ll let you remain as pure as the driven snow. Some of us have to take on ugly burdens so the rest of you can—”

The general’s red nostril’s flared. “You wear the Medal of Honor well. It suits you, old son. I want to ask you some questions about the coming offensive. We’ll keep this strictly military, okay?”

“Thank you, sir,” Stan said.

“Don’t think your threat frightens me, though.”

It frightens me, Stan thought. I can’t believe I said that. Aloud, he said, “I understand, sir. I get too hot under the collar sometimes when it comes to my family.”

McGraw reached into his coat and pulled out a plastic-coated map. He unrolled it and set the thing on the floor, going down onto his hands and knees.

“Come on. Look at this with me. I want your opinion on a few of my latest ideas.”

Stan Higgins soon found himself on the church floor, listening and giving his opinions. He kept wondering if this was just a cover, and he speculated what this year of fighting, political and military, was going to bring to America, the former land of the free.

-1- Strategic Interlude I

From Tank Wars, by B.K. Laumer III:

The greatest tank and tank destroyer on both sides fought in the coming battles, the American Behemoth and the Chinese Mobile Canopy AntiBallistic Missile system, which soldiers dubbed the laser tank. Yet these giants were always in short supply and often failed to materialize in the location needed. The far more numerous American Jefferson and Chinese T-66 multi-turreted tank provided the mainstay for the many armor brigades and divisions.

The newer American main battle tank, the MBT-8 Jefferson, was radically different in appearance from the Behemoth or even the old M1A3 Abrams. The Jefferson was five meters long and 2.4 meters tall, making it the smallest MBT on the battlefield. It had better high-tech materials than the M1, making it many times more deadly. Like the Behemoth, it had magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension and armored tracks. Unlike the Behemoth, it had inner wheels for highway movement, giving the Jefferson greater mobility. Along with its heavy armor, it had a huge 175mm main gun, which fired rocket-assisted shells: antipersonnel, antiarmor or antiair. The fire control computer could lock onto targets and direct a six-salvo round in two minutes. The tank had six beehive flechette launchers and 25mm autocannons to blast down most incoming enemy missiles or shells. It was a vast improvement over the former mainstay, the M1A3.

The Chinese T-66 was an older model by many years. It also happened to be a World War I dream: a land battleship. It had three turrets, each with a 175mm smoothbore gun. It fired hypervelocity, rocket-assisted shells. It was over one hundred tons, making it nearly twice as heavy as an Abrams. Six 30mm autocannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made it sudden death for any infantryman out in the open and helped to knock down or deflect most enemy shells. The main gun tubes could fire Red Arrow antiair rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it out. It had a magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension, meaning the gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.

The opening battles proved the effectiveness of each tank, although the greater number of Behemoths this year became a nightmare for the Chinese and the tri-turreted crews.

From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

Global State of Affairs

The situation regarding Sino dominance vis-à-vis the rest of the world had changed considerably since 2039. At that time the Pan-Asian Alliance stood as the world colossus, with the South American Federation and the German Dominion as its staunch partners. Nothing seemed beyond their grasp, including a continental invasion of North America.

Two years of war brought bitter changes. Chinese arms received serious shocks in southern California and mid-America numbering in millions of casualties. Unusual for China considering its history, the losses shook the nation. Many attributed this to the one child per family policy, as every casualty now might wipe out a family line. The ensuing rebuilding of the invasion army disrupted national life and caused more than one outbreak of domestic rebellion. The Pacific War—fought on the US side with submarines, missiles and long-range drones—took a critical toll of the PAA merchant marine and surface vessels, straining the Chinese economic infrastructure.

Yet those changes failed to compare to the weakening and, in some cases, the desertion of allies. The North American War revealed the severe limitations of SAF military formations. The best Brazilian units had taken irreplaceable losses, while the remaining South American divisions began to show a decided reluctance to engage vengeful American forces. The greatest damage came with the exit of the German Dominion.

Several factors shook the GD to its foundations, bringing about a drastic realignment: 1) the annihilation of the North American Expeditionary Force in 2040 and its Atlantic Fleet; 2) the assassination of Chancellor Kleist; and 3) the discovery of Chinese backing of the “Shia” nuclear attack against the North African Desalinating Plant. A fundamental political shift took place in London, Paris, Berlin and Rome. The new European Union repudiated its Chinese alliance and signed an accord with the Russian-dominated Slavic Coalition. The EU rehabilitated General Mansfeld and sent him east with the remainder of the AI Kaisers and other robotic brigades. They would aid the Russians in the defense of the Far East.

Even China’s Pan-Asian Alliance began to creak with fatigue. In Japan particularly and throughout the Philippines, the populace had grown war-weary and sick of the casualty lists. More ominously, rumbling stomachs due to poor crop yields encouraged mass food riots and acts of sabotage. Chairman Hong’s favored status rating—where he gave some nations better food supplies than others—poisoned Sino-Japanese relations even as it solidified Korean and Vietnamese harmony.

This weakening of Greater China compared to its strongest neighbors caused a fundamental reassessment of the situation. Fear of Sino military power waned as the Russians and Indians realized two things. One, Chairman Hong had grandiose dreams and aspirations that only military force could halt. Two, this was the moment to clip Chinese wings and put an end to destabilizing Sino adventurism.

American diplomacy, which had cast about for allies for several years now, seemed about to achieve notable successes.

Stinging from defeats in 2023 in the Far Eastern provinces, Russia had carefully bided its time and rebuilt its military. The Russian High Command carefully studied the 1945 Manchurian Invasion in the final days of WWII against Japan and calculated if a Far Eastern Offensive might succeed now. However, some in the Kremlin urged caution. China was still the most powerful nation on Earth, well able to defend itself. So, while Russia continued to strengthen its western Siberian army groups, the leadership hesitated to launch such a fateful assault.

At the same time, the Indian League seethed over its loss of standing in Southeast Asia. With increasing buildups, the Indians pushed against the Myanmar-Burma border as they sought to return Malaysia, Thailand and Burma within their sphere of influence. Indian forces lacked the armor and mechanized formations of other nations, but they possessed a vast infantry army backed by sound, although short-ranged, logistics. Given Chinese over-commitment throughout the world, the limited Indian goals seemed rational to most observers.

These multiple strains stretched Chinese military resources. Chairman Hong’s recriminations against his opponents on the Ruling Committee concerning the military’s lack of effort during the GD’s North American assaults in 2040 began to chip away at their restraints to his power. Still, based on the People’s Liberation Army’s White Paper, the Ruling Committee made a fateful decision. With the loss of German forces in North America and a whittling away of SAF usefulness, they concluded that the subjugation of the United States was presently beyond their means. Therefore, they decided to use political guile instead of arms to consolidate their victories.

China granted the conquered former US territories to its protectorate of Greater Mexico: this included the southern portions of California, Arizona and New Mexico, together with Texas and parts of Oklahoma, Arkansas and Louisiana. The new stated objective of liberating “Spanish America” would, the marshals reasoned, help keep the US weak and embroiled in a long-term war with its southern neighbor.

To this end, Chinese strategists envisioned a solid Midwest defensive position behind the Oklahoma Line. In 2041, they would launch limited offensives in California, Arizona and New Mexico to keep America bleeding and to upset the country’s recovering equilibrium. Meanwhile, they would continue to resupply their invasion army as they sought to destroy America’s space assets and deadly submarine fleet.

The Midwestern Front

The third year of combat found America and its military much altered from the first. The terror and brutality of the invasion, and the initial mauling, had frightened the nation with an existential threat. This led to an increase in moral, political and military authority of the Militia Organization. The Militia leaders brought millions of former civilians to the front lines and helped to stabilize the military situation. Politically, they gained tremendously. In return, President Sims continued to grant greater authority to Homeland Security’s Max Harold. The director sought a decisive end to the war and Harold embodied the American desire to punish China for its infamy.

Sims, Harold and the Joints Chiefs sought to crush aggressor armies and drive them from US soil. Because the American surface fleet no longer existed to transport an invasion force to China, submarine, missile and space arms began to take priority in military R&D. Everyone yearned for a way to carry the war to the enemy—to China. The THOR missiles pointed the way, and Harold’s science advisor already whispered outlandish proposals to a receptive director.

Mass enlistment and training, along with upgraded weaponry, meant America finally had the means for a theatre-wide offensive. It would be several years before they could launch a continent-wide assault. Debate raged during the winter months whether to stage an offensive centering on Oklahoma or New Mexico. The first envisioned massive annihilation of enemy forces in a World War II, Kursk-style attack. Kill enough Chinese soldiers: the rest would crumble. The second plan concentrated on maneuver to split the aggressor forces into separate regions and defeat them in detail.

Oklahoma’s open terrain—once the soldiers fought through the heavy Chinese defensives—made ideal ground for the Behemoth tanks. Six regiments of the three-hundred-ton tanks existed in the spring of 2041. The average number per regiment was thirty Behemoths. Since the Chinese had yet to find an effective counter to the American super tanks, Sims, Harold and the Joint Chiefs agreed on an Oklahoma-centered assault.

2041, April 21-28. Chinese Withdrawal. In an effort to pull the teeth of an American offensive, Marshal Meng had prepared a “death zone”—the so-called Great Wall—some twenty miles behind the winding front line in Central Oklahoma. The Ruling Committee approved his plan and told Meng to withdraw to the new positions, which could be held with fewer divisions. This provided the invasion army a larger and more flexible reserve. Behind a mostly robotic outpost line heavily sown with automated machine guns, mortars and sleeper mines lay three successive heavily fortified defensive positions. Behind these waited the Chinese concentrated reserves prepared for counterattack. Each defensive line was so spaced in depth that, should one fall, the attacker’s artillery would have to move forward before progressing to the next. The actual withdrawal, conducted in great secrecy, began on April 21and ended on April 28.

-2- The Gathering Storm

The Police Minister of Greater China’s Ruling Committee breathed so heavily from exertion that fine white mist appeared before her mouth. It was chilly down here. Lion Guardsmen marched her through underground corridors, their boots crashing against the tiles. They wore body armor and carried heavy revolvers, the Chairman’s personal guards. Each man’s thick, impassive face, showed indifference to her suffering.

Shun Li, the Police Minister, considered herself an excellent judge of character. These men were cruel and brutal, willing to commit any act at the Chairman’s orders. Three months ago, she had seen them gang rape one of Hong’s enemies as the Chairman watched. It had been a grim ordeal and had shaken her deeply. They had killed the man afterward as the Chairman slowly clapped in approval.

Shun Li was average-sized for a Chinese woman and thus dwarfed by the guards. Short dark hair barely covered her ears. She had a peasant girl’s features. They were too wide for any Han to consider her beautiful. Even so, she had a pleasing face, with incredibly dark, compelling eyes. Because of a germ phobia, she wore pigskin gloves, disliking any physical contact unless sporting with a lover.

Over a year ago, she and the head Lion Guardsman had engaged in sexual liaisons for many weeks. It had been a ploy, she now realized, the man testing her at the Chairman’s orders. She had won her position through loyalty to Chairman Hong, and because she’d helped him assassinate her predecessor. Along with the Finance Minister, Shun Li was the Chairman’s staunchest supporter on the Ruling Committee.

Today, as usual, she wore a brown East Lightning uniform with red stripes. East Lightning was the infamous Chinese secret police of which she was the chief.

Her escorts, her personal bodyguards, were far above ground and thus couldn’t help her down here in the corridors. She didn’t even have her pistol, after surrendering it earlier. Whatever the Chairman ordered would happen to her down here.

Because of the long subterranean journey, perspiration stained her face despite the chill. How much longer would these brutes march her through the corridors?

Although she was the Police Minister of the most powerful nation on Earth, with the authority of life and death over billions, Shun Li still felt as if she was a barracuda among the sharks of the world. Chairman Hong and Marshal Chao Pin the Army Minister were monsters of the deep. No viciousness was beyond either man.

As a spot under her ribs began to knife with pain, she wondered how long a barracuda could survive in such dangerous waters. She doubted the personal loyalty of her subordinate chiefs in East Lightning, knowing that many of them yearned to take her position, as she had moved up in rank against the former Police Minister. Certainly, the Chairman secretly communicated with most of them. No. She must continue to step delicately, wary of traps and hidden plots against her.

Implicit obedience to the most dangerous beast—Chairman Hong—had extended her life and won this position. To change tack at this point would verge on madness. Yet who had the greater power now: Hong or Army Marshal Chao Pin? The Chairman appeared to hold the upper hand in most matters, although only slightly. Marshal Chao Pin ran the North American War as if it was his kingdom, and in America, at this point in history, China would stand or fall as the premier world power according to the military outcome.

Catching Shun Li by surprise, the Lion Guardsmen halted in unison. How had they signaled each other without her noticing? Her heart rate quickened. Such a lack of awareness on her part was disturbing.

You must use your eyes and ears, Shun Li. You must observe correctly and make the right correlations or you will surely die.

The highest-ranked guard knocked on an iron door. A blue light flashed above it. From behind, strong hands gripped Shun Li’s wrists. Were they going to rape her?

Stay calm, Shun Li. Whatever happens—

The first guard opened the door. She tensed. They marched within, the hands on her wrists tightening their hold.

Darkness filled the chamber. Fear swirled within Shun Li. Will the Chairman watch? How have I wronged him? I don’t understand.

She did, though. Hong was cunning and unbalanced. To call him insane would be inaccurate. He moved to his own logic, and it had won him the highest post in the world. Yet his rationality was unique to him, and had little to do with normality.

With a whomp of noise, bright lights snapped on overhead, flooding the room brighter than the noon sun. Shun Li squinted. She feared to close her eyes.

A soft chuckle let her know the Chairman indeed watched.

How can he see in this brightness?

“I will tell you a truth, Shun Li,” Hong said. “If you would maintain power, it is wise to always confound others. For instance, when deep underground where the moles dig, you must blind your enemies with light.”

Does he truly consider me an enemy? Panic threatened. She sought for calm, thinking fast. To plead for mercy would only encourage him. No, she must—ah, of course.

“I am here to serve you, China,” she said.

“Oh, I like that. You are, of course, referring to me as China.”

“Yes, Leader,” she said. “You are the heart, the very soul of our nation.”

“Hmm, you are frightened, I see. You attempt to win your way to the surface through flattery.”

The guard holding her wrists used his right thumb to rub her skin. Terror squeezed her heart and turned her mouth dry.

She wanted to banter, to show Hong that she had nothing to fear because she had a clean conscience. Instead, the words blurted out of her, “Have I ever lied to you before, Leader?”

“No,” Hong said in a silky voice. “But you are not here to question me, Shun Li. I am here to question you.”

While squinting and tilting her head just so, she was able to make out someone behind a huge desk. That must be Hong. The man wore a black suit and dark sunglasses, why he could see, no doubt. He dyed his hair black and had pale skin as if he never went outside under the sun. In most regards, he was average, although she knew he had a pot belly from eating too many ice cream cones, about ten a day.

“Stand at attention when you address your nation,” he said.

She did, even though the guardsman continued to hold her hands behind her back.

“I find it instructive addressing someone in this manner,” Hong told her. “It helps me to assess the truth about them. Sometimes, pain reveals even more. Should I order my men to inflict pain against you?”

Her throat constricted, and she found breathing difficult. Yet she managed to say in a relatively normal voice, “If China orders it, I shall happily endure it.”

“Hmm, I would like to believe you. I need someone on the Ruling Committee I can trust.”

“Let me be the one, Leader.”

“Yes, you played your part a year ago. I rewarded you well for it, did I not?”

“You rewarded me more than I deserved.”

“I do not believe that. You are a good Police Minister. I much prefer that to an excellent one. If you were a better policewoman, I would let my men tear you to pieces like bears. You are cunning and hardworking. Fortunately, you are not too devious or overly ambitious. Even better, you know how to fear the right man: me.”

Shun Li decided to take a risk. “I wish to state, Leader, that I disagree with you in one particular.”

“Yes?” he asked in a dangerous tone, making the word almost impossible to hear. Hong hated disagreements.

“I am excellent in one area,” she said. “I can—” she almost said “judge.” As in, she could judge character. Yet that would be the wrong way to say such a thing to him. Who could judge Chairman Hong? Even the implication could be deadly. “Leader,” she said, “I am able to correctly sense those who have the greatest abilities.”

“Can you indeed?” he asked.

“Yes, Leader, I most certainly can.”

“Hmm, I wonder if that’s true. Your words sound like sycophancy to me, boasting to save your skin. I must give you a test and see how well these excellent senses really are.”

The barely visible man behind the desk adjusted something. The harsh lights dimmed several degrees.

Shun Li could finally make him out. Hong had blotches on his face, making him seem unhealthy.

“Look at my guardsmen. Tell me which one I trust the most.”

Shun Li glanced from man to man. There were small variations among them, slight differences in features and in their physiques. They were all bulky and hard-eyed. Twisting around, she glanced up into the face of the guard holding her wrists. While peering into his orbs, she shuddered. Evil craziness stirred there.

“Leader, I have found him. The guard holding my wrists is your chosen instrument.”

Hong drummed his fingers on the desk, and he gave the barest of nods. “What point did you wish to make then concerning your excellence?”

“I sense your greatness, Leader. You cause China to shine like the sun. Your decisions will guide us through the difficult days ahead. It is the reason I follow you without hesitation.”

“I see. That is an interesting point. Of course, I knew this about you. I was not aware that you knew it about yourself.”

Shun Li didn’t know how to respond to that, so she remained silent.

“Release her,” Hong said.

The guard’s iron grip relented, and the man moved away from her to stand against the far wall. The others did similarly.

“Sit,” Hong told her.

There was a single chair low to the ground. Shun Li took it, feeling like a child sitting in the principal’s office. This bordered on the ridiculous. How could Chairman Hong indulge in such antics and rule the greatest nation on Earth? Part of the answer was his keen political shrewdness and deadliest of intrigues.

Hong sat back in his chair, regarding her. “Do you recall the last meeting?”

She nodded. He referred to the most recent meeting of the Ruling Committee. It had been bitter. Ever since the siege of Denver in the winter of 2039-2040, Hong had lost military control of the invasion. His dictatorial power had slipped as a military-run clique headed by Marshal Chao Pin gained ascendancy. In her opinion, Chao Pin had made a deadly mistake in letting Hong live. Maybe the marshal didn’t feel politically powerful enough to eliminate Hong or the man thought he needed Hong as a figurehead to unite the nation during a time of world war. The latest meeting concerning the pullback in Oklahoma had forced Chao Pin to put his reputation on the table for every minister to see. If the Americans achieved anything better than a tactical success there, Chao Pin’s days might well be numbered.

Hong had chipped away at the marshal’s credibility, at least in the eyes of the other ministers. Including Hong and herself, there were nine ultra-powerful men and women on the Ruling Committee.

“I have waited over a year for this day to arrive,” Hong said. “Chao Pin has overruled me for the last time. My military experts and I have war-gamed the Midwestern situation many times. The Americans will break through the so-called “death zone.” Probabilities indicate we shall suffer a serious reverse in Oklahoma.”

She had listened to Chao Pin and his chief ally, the Navy Minister, explaining the situation. American submarine attacks had been particularly devastating this last month. An entire task force destroyed by a perfectly placed nuclear-tipped torpedo. Such losses could not continue indefinitely or China would lose control of the Pacific Ocean. That would ruin the North American invasion.

“The Army’s marshals are timid fools,” Hong said. “They failed to attack last summer when the Germans ran amok in the Great Lakes region. We held our defenses when we should have gathered our resources into one critical area and struck, stretching the defenders. Only I saw clearly enough then and see clearly enough now. One doesn’t win a continent through caution and tiptoeing. Quite the opposite, in fact. One must accept risks and strike boldly.”

Hong had spoken like that before the disaster at Denver and later at Colorado Springs. The marshals had struck for that reason, winning over the others on the Ruling Committee. Everyone agreed the Army should run the war in a prudent manner. They had all feared that the Chairman’s boldness would lead to the invasion army’s annihilation. Given American disunity and the extent of its problems, the US military had fought much harder and better than anyone had predicted.

Instead of verbalizing such things, Shun Li said, “The Americans are recovering faster than our analysts had foreseen.”

“Exactly, exactly,” Hong said. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Let me tell you a truth. The principal human emotion is envy and second is greed. The rest of the planet hates us for our strength. Such feelings have always been the case. Only terror and fear keep such base emotions in check. Any Chinese setback in America will cause the other nations to rejoice. Worse, they will begin to speak to one another and see if there is a way to pull us down to their level.”

“Do you mean Russia, Leader?” she asked.

“Russia, India, Japan—”

“Japan is our ally,” she said.

Behind his dark sunglasses, Hong stared at her as his lips thinned in anger, making the edges white.

Shun Li recognized her mistake. “My surprise made me rude, Leader. Japan is part of the Pan-Asian Alliance. What you said… I beg you to forgive me for interrupting you.”

“Of course, I grant it,” he said. “You are one of my most important friends. I must inform you, though, that the Japanese are bootlickers by nature until they find a chance to strike. Do not doubt that they bide their time to throw off what they consider as Chinese shackles. It is why I have put them near the bottom of my favored status list.”

Shun Li nodded as if ingesting great knowledge. “I had wondered at the reason, Leader.”

Despite the country’s wealth and industrial strength, China faced starvation, as did many other nations. Years of glaciation had taken its toll on world crop yields and reserves. China bought great amounts of foodstuffs on the open market, but it simply wasn’t enough to feed everyone. There were too many mouths. Hong had hit upon an idea—a favored status list for Chinese citizens and for Pan-Asian Alliance countries. Loyalists ate well. Malcontents received just enough to keep the body alive.

Starving people were weak people, begging for just a little more to eat. Thus, the poorest and most worthless Chinese—the old, the lame, the sick—received fourth class ration cards. A gradation of cards—third, second and first class—rewarded Party loyalty and usefulness. This scheme effectively divided people into strict castes. All soldiers, sailors and airmen received top-level ration cards, as did government workers and the police. A similar system graded China’s closest allies. Hong liked the Koreans, particularly the former North Koreans. They knew how to obey orders and fight fanatically on the battlefield. The Vietnamese also received first class status. The Japanese were on the bottom. That seemed strange to Shun Li, as they made the best soldiers and workers.

It appeared to her as if Hong carried old grudges against the Japanese. That was common to many Chinese people. Perhaps Hong believed this was the hour to repay Japan for the Rape of Shanghai and other World War II indignities.

“Shun Li, I have brought you here to assess your worth to me,” Hong said.

With all her heart, she tried to appear contrite and faithful.

“The time nears where I will reassert my control of the Ruling Committee,” he said.

“I am glad to hear that, Leader.”

“I would like to believe you mean those words. It is a terrible thing, you know. We lie to each other all the time. You as a secret policewoman know this to be true of people.”

“I deplore lies.”

“As do I,” Hong said. “Yet… we have both used deceit to reach our exalted positions. I am afraid—” He smiled. It was a frightful thing. “I do not fear anything. That was a poor choice of words.”

“I believe you must have spoken them for my benefit, Leader.”

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“I realize you do not fear. Your calm has given me strength on more than one occasion. Yet one as exalted as you must become annoyed at other people’s lack of understanding of your genius. You think and talk at a much higher level than the rest of us. I would imagine you use… hmm… ‘common phrases’ so that simpler minds can understand you. Thus, you said ‘I fear’ not as to mean fright but to help me understand a higher concept that your mind easily comprehends.”

Lines appeared in his forehead, and he leaned toward her.

Was my logic too torturous for him to follow?

Then a smile stretched his lips. “Yes. I take your meaning. That was well said and thought out. Hmm, in any case, I have stooped to deceit once more in order to bring about a proper order of affairs. I refer to my regaining rule of all military matters, particularly in North America.”

“This is wonderful news. You are taking over the invasion army again, Leader?”

“Not quite yet,” Hong said in a soft voice. “Marshal Chao Pin must play out his part first. He will suffer defeat in Oklahoma. Of this, I am certain. America has deployed mass again, as they used to in the twentieth century, and their THOR missiles and other technological marvels will trump Chao Pin’s feeble dispositions. Our merchant marine simply cannot ship enough materiel to the front lines fast enough to offset American expansion.”

“This is terrible news.”

“No. This is what we need.”

“It is?” Shun Li asked.

“Chao Pin and his lap dogs have poisoned the soldiers’ minds against me. Fighting men are like children, easily swayed by the wrong people. I have decided therefore to employ a ruse of deeper cunning than Sun Tzu could have penned in his ancient treatise, The Art of War.”

“I am glad to hear this is so, Leader.”

Chairman Hong straightened and slapped the desk. “Shun Li, I have made my decision. You will be my hand in this.”

Relief flooded through her, and she said in a ringing voice, “I will do whatever you command.”

“Attend to my words word closely, for this is critical. Despite his supposedly defensive brilliance, Chao Pin’s deployments will fail. The Americans have too many Behemoth tanks. My experts believe the Americans will create a massive hole in our lines and pour through, surrounding and devouring our armies in Oklahoma as they did in Colorado.”

“Doesn’t Chao Pin see this danger?”

“He seeks to bring more laser tanks and greater numbers of T-66s to America. But the enemy’s submarines sink too many transports. No. I will stake my reputation on this… although it will only be between you and me that I do this.”

“Yes, Leader,” she said.

“If I am wrong, you will never speak of word of this to anyone.”

If he’s wrong, he’ll kill me. “May I ask a question, Leader?”

“Please do.”

“How does a Chinese defeat in Oklahoma help us? I mean, help you, Leader?”

A shark’s smile spread across his face. “I have borrowed your cleverest people and this without your knowledge. It is how I know you are only a good policewoman and not a great one. They have smuggled short-range nuclear missiles into northern Mexico for my purposes. No one knows about these missiles but for you, me and the selected East Lightning border formations.”

“Leader?” she whispered.

“This is interesting,” Hong said. “I can smell the fear oozing onto your skin. Why do so many people wilt at the mention of nuclear weapons?”

Because of radioactive fallout and end-of-the-world scenarios, Shun Li thought.

“The Americans have used nuclear weapons before,” he said. “I refer to the Arctic shelf ice attack against us in 2032 and the Santa Cruz bombing in 2039 and finally in the Atlantic Ocean in 2040 when they destroyed the German amphibious fleet closing in on the New Jersey shore.”

“We have used nuclear depth charges,” Shun Li pointed out.

“As we should!” he said.

“Yes, yes, I completely agree.”

“No. You say that out of fear.”

She hesitated before nodding. “You are always right, Leader. I do fear nuclear weapons. I am afraid I lack your strength of will.”

He sighed. “That is why I must rule China. Only I have the resolve to take the steps needed. In terms of my breadth of vision, I am a giant. I see far over everyone else’s head. Believe me when I say that the Americans will storm through the breach in Oklahoma. At that critical point, I will unleash the nuclear warheads and obliterate their carefully gathered armor. I will seal the breach by inflicting a massive defeat against American arms.”

“Won’t the Americans retaliate with nuclear weapons?”

“Let them. We have the ability to absorb staggering losses. They do not. Thus, they will wilt before us.”

Strength oozed from Shun Li so it felt as if her head became too heavy to hold up. This was terrible news. So far, neither side had used nuclear weapons on the land battlefields, although the Americans did destroy one of their own ports as the Chinese invaded there. The Chairman had already referred to it: Santa Cruz in northern California in the first days of the war. The attack nearly drove Hong mad with a desire for revenge. This latest idea—was it a delayed reaction to Santa Cruz? Each time someone used nuclear weapons, she feared it brought the world that much closer to the dreaded holocaust. Yet she couldn’t dwell on that now.

Another thing bothered her about this. “There’s something I don’t understand. If we’re going to use nuclear missiles in Oklahoma, why don’t we strike first? Let us smash enemy concentrations and advance against them.”

“You surprise me with such a simple question.”

“Forgive me, but I am no military strategist, merely a simple policewoman. I’m thinking of our soldiers, Leader. Don’t we need as many of them as possible?”

“My plan entails several facets. First, the Americans have tac-lasers just as we do. For our rockets to hit en masse, the enemy must move beyond their antimissile belts. My experts inform me that American commanders believe in exploitation drives deep into enemy territory. Once they break through, American armor will lunge ahead of their antimissile defenses. That is the moment we can annihilate them with nuclear warheads.”

“Ah.”

“Second, the nuclear attack used at my discretion and timing, will help to destroy Chao Pin’s credibility. With the American breakthrough, he will have failed China and the invasion army. I will save everyone from his blunder in such a way that everyone will understand my wisdom and his foolishness.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Shun Li forced herself to say.

“Afterward, Chao Pin will die in order to pay for his insolence.”

Shun Li almost frowned in disbelief. If Hong thought unleashing nuclear war in Oklahoma and Texas would turn the military against Chao Pin…

“I see your doubts,” Hong said. “Firstly, I must admit that the marshal is wise to keep my guardsmen away from the Ruling Committee meetings. His officers flank my Lion Guardsmen man for man in Mao Square during the sessions. In other words, we have a standoff. During the meetings is the only time he’s truly vulnerable. Therefore, that is the place to strike. Secondly, you must realize that people act like sheep.”

“Yes, Leader.”

“They need someone to follow. Once I unleash the nuclear holocaust on the American military, you will perform your task for China. Shock in the meeting chamber will allow you the opportunity.”

“I do not understand.”

“You carry a service pistol with you at all times, do you not?”

“I do,” she whispered.

“Yes. The day the others on the Ruling Committee realize Chao Pin has failed China is the day you will draw your gun and shoot him down like a mad dog.”

Disbelief caused Shun Li’s mouth to drop open.

“China will call upon you,” Hong said. “You will act—”

“If I shoot Marshal Chao Pin,” she said, “the Army will demand my death.”

“Not so—for you will unleash East Lightning upon the traitors, killing everyone backing Chao Pin. Starting today, you will begin to choose special squads, your most trusted killers. I will provide you with a target list. You will use your best operatives to study their habits, deciding on the best locations to liquidate each. After you slay Chao Pin, you will help me purge the Army. Once my grip has become firm again over the military… then we will prosecute the war in such a way as to win.”

“Yes, Leader,” Shun Li said, forcing wondering admiration into her voice. This could turn into a disaster.

“Yes indeed,” Hong said. “But to achieve this masterpiece, we must work extraordinarily hard and with supreme cunning.”

Shun Li gazed at Hong, barely managing to suppress a shudder. It was possible he was quite mad. Yet she also realized that he had a rare gift at intrigue and at striking from out of the blue. In this regard, his madness was strength. One thing bothered her, though. How could he be so sure that Chinese arms would shatter before the American onslaught? Did he plan some secret treachery to ensure such a thing?

Yes, of course he does. She did shudder then. Hong would do anything for power. In that regard, the man lacked a soul. I dearly hope his plan does not bring about the end of the world.

Then she sat forward, listening as the Chairman went into detail concerning his grand idea.

Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh wondered what he’d gotten himself into this time.

He wore the latest American commando gear with a high-tech Chinese jetpack strapped to his back. It was a marriage of convenience, one his team had been practicing with for several months already.

Paul stood in the open bay door of an ancient Chinook helicopter. The monster hovered in the stratosphere—at least he sure felt like it did. By craning his neck, Paul peered outside. The ground was far away in the hazy distance.

He’d never been crazy about jumping out of anything. Heights made him woozy. He had to concentrate to focus his eyes.

Take it easy. This isn’t any big deal.

Within his enclosed helmet, Paul grinned tightly. Whenever he said something wasn’t a big deal that meant it was huge. Several weeks ago, he’d told the slick loan officer and part-time Militia member the same thing. The man must have lifted plenty of weights and likely injected himself with steroids. Mr. Templeton had muscles, ones he enjoyed flexing, his biceps and pectorals particularly. The more Paul explained the facts of life to the guy, the twitchier he’d become. Maybe the loan officer had thought of himself as Mr. America and wanted to oil up. In the end, the no-big-deal talk had turned into a fight, as Paul had known it would.

I wonder if he’s out of the hospital yet. At least he can’t bother Cheri anymore.

Paul looked out of the Chinook again, forcing himself to focus on the distant target. This was crazy. Why had he volunteered for this again?

Even though he was a Recon Marine, he belonged to SOCOM, the special operations arm of the US military. Most of the war, he’d been behind enemy lines in a Long Range Surveillance Unit or LRSU. He was still going to go behind enemy lines, but this time as a shock commando to take out enemy headquarters.

He knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t belong in a line company. He had a special ops mentality, liking to do things his way. Unfortunately, at his age, the long-distance conditioning had finally begun to wear him down. LRSU teams did a lot of fast trekking from one place to the other. These days, he was ready to ride into battle. Besides, by joining an experimental unit, he figured to save himself from fighting all the time. He was tired of killing, of seeing blood and guts and listening to young men scream. His boy Mikey would be their age soon. He didn’t like to think of some Chinese killer stalking his boy and doing to him what Paul did to the invaders.

“Jump in two minutes,” the colonel said over the battle-net.

Paul’s throat tightened. They had jumped before, but not from this high up.

The Chinese had developed a rugged jetpack, with enough fuel for several minutes of flight time. Instead of building their own jetpacks, US engineers had scoured various battlefields and stripped the dead Chinese of theirs. Afterward, the techs fidgeted with the packs, improving the machines. The straight Chinese model demanded precision execution from its soldier. The upgraded pack used computer-assisted, stabilized flight. You could make more mistakes with the American-modified pack and still survive. That was the theory anyway. In practice, jetpack flying took intense concentration no matter which model you used.

One thing was clear. A flyer in the air made an easy target. After plenty of tests, US doctrine told the soldier to get down fast. Fight from the ground, not while hanging up there trying to do two things at once: flying and firing. The jetpack provided extra mobility, kind of like an armored personal carrier bringing soldiers to the battlefield, but without the armored protection of an APC.

The battlesuit Paul wore was the second partner in the marriage. It had several parameters. One, the suit had various computers, giving the commando greater situational awareness, linkage with headquarters and his fellow soldiers. The computers also helped the wearer target his weapons better. Body armor was vital to the suit. Like the medieval plate a knight used to wear, Paul had a complete outer shell of Kevlar and other fiber-ceramic protection. With the suit’s filters, he could supposedly live through chemical, biological and nuclear warzones—for a few hours anyway. The helmet’s inner visor gave him a HUD, but the suit lacked any integral weapons systems. He had to carry those, the latest assault rifle, grenade launcher, air-dart tube and a satchel charge to open any enemy bunker.

“Ten seconds,” the colonel said over the headphones.

A tap on Paul’s shoulder caused him to turn. A commando in a full battlesuit stared at him. With a whirr, the faceplate lifted. His best friend Romo stared out at him.

The man used to be an assassin for the Mexico Free Army, working for Colonel Valdez, the leader of the southern resistance. Romo was part Apache and part Spanish-Mexican. He happened to have the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen—those of a cold stone killer. During the California campaign, they had become friends. At first, Romo’s assignment had to been to kill Paul. It was a long story, but Colonel Valdez hated the Master Sergeant for personal reasons. Caught behind enemy lines, Paul and Romo had worked together to survive. After the ordeal, they had become inseparable. Later, Paul saved Romo’s life from another Valdez assassin, sent as a lesson to any who supposedly deserted the colonel.

Paul didn’t know a better soldier than Romo, but the man lacked something essential, a soul or heart maybe. Romo had lost any purpose in life other than killing Chinese. After two years of witnessing what unchecked bitterness could do to a man, Paul knew he didn’t want to fall into the same pit. If there was a way to save his friend, he wished he knew it. Maybe there was still time to save himself.

“Why isn’t the colonel jumping with us?” Romo asked.

Paul shrugged, making his body armor creak. Some men were too important to risk. You could tell who they were, because the important ones worked overtime staying out of danger.

“Jump,” the colonel said over the battle-net.

Paul chinned a control. His visor closed. He faced the open bay door, rested his right elbow on the adjustable control pad and clutched the upright throttle on the end. He twisted the rubber-coated grip and listened to the jetpack’s engine rev. It made the entire battlesuit shiver with power. Then he took two steps and launched himself out of the opening.

He plummeted. Because cameras and a computer let him see the Chinook on the HUD, he didn’t have to crane his neck to check his position. Three seconds of drop gave him plenty of distance from the big machine. Paul twisted the throttle and power roared out of his nozzles. It gave him lift, and he felt the thrust most around his shoulders. A computer and gyros helped him remain vertical during flight, with his head aimed at the clouds and his feet aimed at the Earth.

All right, I have the hang of this.

Even as he thought that, a battlesuited commando plunged past him, gaining speed as the man fell headfirst. Soon, he’d be at terminal velocity.

“Ned’s gyro quit working,” Romo radioed.

Paul cursed, and he cut power, letting himself drop after Corporal Ned Tarleton. In an instant, he realized he couldn’t fall fast enough to catch up to Ned.

What if I rotated around and flew down like Superman?

Paul didn’t remember the override codes to cut his own gyro program. None of them had practiced that type of flying yet. It was incredibly risky.

“Ned, you have to kick your legs,” Paul said. “You have to get your nozzles pointed at the ground.”

Paul heard hard breathing and bitter curses in his headphones. It sounded as if Ned struggled to regain control but couldn’t do it.

“Sergeant Kavanagh, engage your jetpack,” the colonel said. He was in the Chinook monitoring the situation.

“I’m going to try to catch Ned,” Paul said.

“Negative,” the colonel said. “You can’t.”

“If I dive after him—”

“Kavanagh, you son of a bitch,” the colonel said. “You will not attempt any heroics. I forbid you to dive.”

The order tasted bitter to Paul, but he knew the colonel was right. He’d lose control, crash, die and break his promise to Cheri.

“Ned,” he radioed. “Restart your flight computer. You might have time for it to reboot and kick start the gyro program.”

“Master Sergeant?” Ned asked. He sounded frightened.

“You have time to reboot,” Paul told him. Would the corporal even try?

“I’m all out of time, Sergeant. You tell my boy— Promise me you’ll tell my boy I died fighting the Chinese.”

“I will,” Paul said. “Now you listen to me, Ned.”

“This jetpack is lousy piece of junk, Sarge. I never should have joined up for this.”

Instead of using a camera, Paul peered down. Despite their initial height, the ground rushed up with ridiculous speed. His stomach lurched, and he twisted his throttle. Power roared into his jetpack and out the nozzles. Thrust slowed his sickening drop. He twisted the throttle harder, and now he floated toward the earth. This was the wrong way to do it, he knew. A flying commando was supposed to drop fast and land lightly at the last second. Get onto the ground as fast as you could was the idea.

Watching Ned plummet stole some of Kavanagh’s courage.

The corporal struck the ground. The body armor didn’t help in the slightest. Part of the jetpack flew one way and computer pieces the other. Ned bounced like a ball, and the ways his arms and legs flopped, the corporal was already dead.

Paul closed his eyes. How was he supposed to keep his promise to Cheri when he had so little control over his destiny? Maybe a glitch would kill his gyro program. Maybe dirt would plug the turbofans during flight. A hundred little things could go wrong. Maybe he should leave the outfit and return to the LRSU teams.

Keep your two feet on the ground. Less can go wrong that way.

Thirty seconds later, Paul landed gently beside Ned’s corpse. He stared at the broken suit as blood leaked out. This was a rotten war.

One by one, the other commandos landed nearby. No one shed his jetpack and raced for the next part of the exercise.

Paul knew he should give the order. Instead, he knelt on one knee and bent his head. A friend had died today. More of them would die a few weeks from now.

I’m going to try to come home to you, Cheri. I want to hug you again. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to defeat every challenge and screw-up, so that I can keep my promise.

The colonel shouted at them over the battle-net. Romo put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. Stirring himself, Paul stood, and he gave the order for them to move. A moment later, he shed his jetpack. The others did likewise. Then they continued with their training exercise.

With frank admiration, Stan Higgins eyed the major as she got up from her desk. The woman had large breasts straining against her uniform, shapely legs and definitely knew how to walk. She opened the door to General Tom McGraw’s office.

“Colonel Higgins is here to see you, sir,” she said.

“Send him in,” McGraw said in a gruff voice.

The major turned around and smiled at Stan, motioning for him to walk in.

He felt guilty then for having eyed the major because technically, he was still married. His wife and he were estranged. It had started several years ago with Jake’s interment in the Colorado Detention Center. That had been before the start of the California invasion. The Militia people ran the center. Jake had gone because he’d protested some of President Sims’ most dictatorial laws. Jake had been in college then, and had lost the right to attend. Since the interment, things had deteriorated between Stan and his wife. She talked about divorce, but had never filed. Until she actually cheated on him, Stan didn’t feel he could divorce her. The marriage oath meant something to him. The only out to him would be if his wife committed adultery. So, he endured, but it was hard sometimes, especially seeing women like the major. Clearly, McGraw had no such qualms. How many great military men, now and in the past, kept mistresses? The vast majority of them, no doubt.

Stan entered the office as the major closed the door behind him.

“Sit,” McGraw said, without looking up from his desk.

It was a large office, with boxes piled to the sides with white patches on them and words in block letters describing the contents. Southern Front Headquarters had only recently moved from Wichita to Winfield. The general had already put up several photographs. They showed him shaking hands with President Sims in one, with Director Harold in another and with Jennifer Love the movie actress in a third. There were citations too, a shelf with several mementos and a computer screen on the desk. McGraw typed on a keyboard, grunting as he finished with a flourish. His fingers looked too big for the keys, but somehow he managed.

McGraw now sat back in his swivel chair, eyeing Stan.

Higgins had driven from his assembly area twenty-three miles away. The winter snow had almost finished melting, but the land was soggy, poor terrain for the three hundred ton monster known as the Behemoth tank. The mass Chinese withdrawal had caught just about everyone by surprise, although Stan recalled reading several Army intelligence reports warning about such a move. No one had taken them seriously, least of all McGraw.

Moving the troops, tanks, artillery and supply depots closer to the new enemy line had taken several weeks of hard work. Laying out new roads, tracks—it hadn’t been a nightmare, but it had meant grueling days of drudgery.

Stan sat in a chair with armrests. He hadn’t spoken with the general since the day in Wichita almost a month ago. That was unusual for the two of them. In the past, he had worked closely with McGraw. Clearly, the church conversation had poisoned the general against him.

He shouldn’t have threatened my boy.

“Been a while, old son,” McGraw said, using a hearty tone.

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

McGraw lurched forward and slammed both meaty fists onto the desk, making the computer screen jump. “Damnit, Higgins, are we going to let a little misunderstanding come between us?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Good. I feel the same way.”

Stan nodded but was far from convinced. Words without actions meant little. For one thing, he noticed the general hadn’t stood as he entered. The man had not come around the desk and extended a hand so they could shake. Had that been an oversight on the general’s part? He doubted it.

“I drank too much that day,” McGraw was saying. “Can’t even remember what we were talking about.”

Stan wanted to say, “Me neither,” but he’d be lying through his teeth. Many a night he’d lain awake, going over the meeting in his mind. Therefore, he said nothing, waiting.

McGraw regarded him, and a smile might have played along the corners of his lips. Then the possibility vanished as the general’s mouth firmed. The corners of his eyes tightened.

“Colonel, I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

Stan continued waiting.

First clearing his throat, McGraw opened a drawer and took out a tablet, setting it on the desk. “It says here that three of your Behemoths are having engine trouble. I’m sure you realize that’s over the acceptable limit.”

Stan couldn’t believe McGraw would personally worry or act upon something like this. Had the general been searching for dirt on him? Is that the best you can do?

Instead of vocalizing his thoughts, Stan said, “The Chinese caught us all by surprise, sir. We had to move the regiment before the three received their scheduled overhauls. I don’t know if the report shows it, but those are my three oldest Behemoths. They fought in California. Tenth HQ told us they were going to farm out two of them to the newer regiments and replace those with the latest model.”

“Let me interrupt you, Colonel. I’m not interested in excuses. I’m concerned that my best Behemoth regiment will be understrength before we’ve even fired the first shot.”

Stan wasn’t sure how to take that.

The thing with the super tanks was that everyone wanted more of them. That meant constructing more assembly plants. The first Behemoth manufacturing plant had been in Denver, but the Chinese siege had ruined it. The government had built a new one in Detroit.

The secret to making hordes of tanks was a gargantuan plant, maybe two or three of them. It’s what the Soviets had done during WWII. A vast plant allowed the easiest concentration of effort and the best way to mass-produce something, at least from an economic standpoint. With three shifts working morning, noon and night, tanks poured off the assembly lines.

Although it made the best economic sense to have one or two huge plants versus many smaller ones, there was a drawback. The enemy only had to destroy a few places to halt production. Detroit had seemed like a safe place until the German Dominion launched its surprise attack out of Quebec. In the end, the military stopped the German advance and saved the plant as it continued to churn out tanks.

That meant more Behemoths, enough to fill six entire regiments of them. Most of the regiments fielded thirty super tanks. The United States Army therefore had one hundred and ninety of them, with ten held in reserve. Until this year, America had only fielded one regiment and performed miracles with them. With six regiments concentrated in one area, hopes ran high for the coming offensive. Yet with only one hundred and eighty super tanks in all, concentrated in six formations, three tanks out of thirty represented a ten percent loss to his regiment before hostilities began. That might reasonably trouble the Southern Front Joint Forces Commander enough to call him in. Okay. Stan could see that.

“I’m not making excuses, sir,” he said.

McGraw snorted. “Son, I know an excuse when I hear one. You just made it, and I already told you I’m not interested in any. I want to know how soon those three tanks can be ready.”

“I’m short on engine parts, sir. These aren’t ordinary tanks.”

“I’m quite aware of that.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

“You’ve done well in the past, Colonel. I’m very aware of that. The President is aware and so is Director Harold. Yet as I’m sure you know: a man only has a short time when he’s fit for battle.”

So that’s how they’re going to play it—old Stan Higgins is washed up.

“Do you feel you’re still capable to command a Behemoth regiment, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“You’ve seen my operational plan. Hell, you’ve even added a few flourishes. The Behemoths will have to drive deep and smash Chinese formations attempting to counterattack. That means the tanks have to move. The super tanks have a fantastic arsenal of weaponry. But that means jack squat if the Behemoth can’t be in the right place at the right time.”

“I totally agree with you on their importance. What I need then is priority supply status.”

McGraw stared at him as if measuring his worth. “I can give you that. Everything must work like clockwork in the coming offensive. America has gathered its strength for this one. It’s taken a year of effort to collect the tanks, the artillery, the jamming gear and soldiers. We have to start taking back territory before the Mexican government begins to believe their overlords about claiming California, Arizona and Texas as their birthright.”

“Yes sir,” Stan said, wondering why McGraw was saying any of this.

“What I’m driving at is that I’m limited in what I can do for you as a personal favor. America is counting on me to win, and win spectacularly. That means I have to play this one straight up.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Why should I give your regiment priority over others?” McGraw asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I suppose because the Behemoths are the arm of the decision.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to say if anyone asks.”

“Why would they ask, sir?”

McGraw looked away. “I’m limited in my sphere of actions, Stan. What I told you a month ago in Wichita… I was drunker than you can believe. I serve the government. I took an oath on the Constitution, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I’ve never doubted your word, General.”

“Good. Then believe me when I say that I’m going to do everything I can to protect Jake.”

Stan felt the heat rise in him. We’re back to that, are we? He’d been following the general’s comings and goings since Wichita. McGraw had been to the White House twice in the past few weeks. What had the general talked about back there?

Stan had few illusions about his importance in the larger scheme of things. He was a mere colonel. But he also happened to be the colonel who had fought in three decisive engagements, beginning in Alaska back in 2032. He wasn’t a military superstar like McGraw, but more than a few people had read about him, and he had won the Medal of Honor.

Do they think I’m dangerous politically?

A knock at the door startled Stan. It opened, and the pretty major poked in her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir. But Militia General Williamson is here to see you.”

“Tell him I’m talking with Colonel Higgins.”

“I will, sir,” and she hesitated.

“Is there something else?” McGraw asked.

“Well, sir, the general wishes to speak to you about Corporal Jake Higgins of the Sixth Behemoth Regiment.”

“Ah,” McGraw said. “Maybe this is providential. I’m speaking with Jake’s father. Send the general in, please.”

The major retreated and spoke quietly with someone in the outer office.

McGraw leaned forward, whispering to Stan. “They’re pushing me about your boy. I remember what you told me in Wichita, and I believe you. More than that, I think you’re important to the war effort. Let’s—”

McGraw stopped short as he looked up.

Stan turned in time to witness the major ushering in a tall Militia general. This Williamson wore an odd pair of glasses, two small circles before his eyes. They enlarged his pupils. He had a thin neck and narrow arms. Stan recognized him. Yes, a reputation for ruthless efficiency preceded the man. Rumors suggested he had shot several cowardly Militia generals and colonels in the Great Lakes region last year. In fact, Williamson reminded Stan of Russian Marshal Georgi Zhukov under Stalin. Zhukov had been stout instead of tall but equally ruthless.

“General Williamson,” McGraw said, standing, coming around the desk. He thrust out a big hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The two men shook hands, and Stan noticed that McGraw shook civilly for once.

“This is Colonel Higgins,” McGraw said.

“Indeed,” Williamson said, “how fortuitous.”

Stan stood and shook hands with the Militia general. The skin was cold, the grip firm. He could feel the man’s intelligence, although the glasses made it difficult to assess the general’s gaze. There did seem to be something reptilian about Williamson.

“Would you like some coffee, refreshments?” McGraw asked.

“No thank you,” Williamson said.

McGraw nodded to the major, and she retreated, closing the door behind her.

The three men sat, Stan stiffly. Because of his words last month, he was aware of the gun in his holster. If it came down to it, could he draw the weapon and kill two high-ranking officers? That wouldn’t save Jake. It would be an act of premeditated revenge.

You’d better start thinking. Otherwise, your boy is dead.

“This is a surprise,” McGraw told Williamson.

A precise smile stretched across the Militia general’s face, and he twitched his head. “No. I don’t think so. I notice Colonel Higgins sitting beside me. That is quite deliberate on your part, and I understand. You Army people hang together. You’ve known about my request for several weeks now, and I’m sure you’ve been notified of my coming.”

“I have a war to run,” McGraw said. “These petty problems—”

“Allow me to cut to the chase,” Williamson said. “You are the Southern Front Joint Forces Commander. I’m quite aware of that. You should be aware of this, however.” The Militia general took a wallet out of his jacket and flipped it open, setting it on the desk and sliding it across.

McGraw peered down at it as if the thing was poisonous.

“My commission comes directly from the President,” Williamson said. “I work under his authority.”

“But still under Homeland Security auspices,” McGraw said.

“For matters of form, yes, Director Harold is my superior. But my authority to act derives from the President.” Williamson paused as if for effect, and he turned to Stan. “Your son has committed an act of treason.”

“Defending his life was treason?” Stan asked.

“Murdering his superior sergeant was treason, yes.”

“He shot the sergeant in self-defense.”

“If you are correct, you should be willing for him to face a tribunal in order to clear his record.”

“Should I?” Stan asked.

“Colonel Higgins,” McGraw said. “I suggest you speak in a softer tone with—”

“No, no,” Williamson said. “Let the father speak his mind. I’m interested in what he has to say against the lawful organization defending our country.”

Stan recognized the threat but refused to let it intimidate him. “You sent my son to a penal battalion because he pissed on a portrait of your boss. The Militia response shows a gross misuse of power. Before that, Jake was a hero in the siege of Denver. Let him die for his country but don’t allow him any opinion but for the ones you give him? Is that it?”

“I am aware of his questionable record,” Williamson said.

Stan opened his mouth to retort.

“Hold it, Colonel,” McGraw said in a stern voice. “General, if I could have your attention.”

Both Stan and Williamson faced big Tom.

“I respect your office and your record,” McGraw told Williamson. “What I don’t respect is your interference with my coming offensive. Corporal Jake Higgins belongs to a Behemoth tank crew. Those tanks are the key to our coming success—if we’re going to have one. I don’t care if Jake Higgins raped your mother. He stays with his tank until the offensive is over.”

“He is officially a Militia member,” Williamson said coldly. “You do not have the authority to stop me. If I call the President, he will order you to hand Jake Higgins into my custody.”

“Then make your call,” McGraw said. “You can do it right here. But know this. By doing that, you will make a personal enemy out of me. Is that really what you want?”

Williamson laughed softly. “Please, General, don’t attempt any melodramatics with me. I am a patriot.”

“So am I,” McGraw said hotly. “So is Stan Higgins, a Medal of Honor recipient.”

“I follow the law,” Williamson said.

“And aid and abet the enemy through your actions,” McGraw said.

Williamson stiffened as his neck flushed red.

“Now see here, old son,” McGraw said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. We’re both supposed to be on the same side. I know you believe you’re right, and I believe I’m right. Neither matters now. The coming offensive is all that counts. That means you shouldn’t interfere with my tank divisions. By taking Jake, you’ll hurt the morale of his entire regiment. I only have six of them—six to defeat the Chinese.”

Through his ridiculous lenses, Williamson glowered at McGraw. “I will have the traitor one way or another. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m asking you to wait,” McGraw said. “Let the man fight for his country. At this stage in the war, isn’t that more important?”

“I will make that call to DC,” Williamson said.

“You’re a hard man, General, but a smart one, too,” McGraw said. “I run Southern Front. If you make that call, I’ll make one of my own. Who do you think the President will listen to right now, you or me?”

Militia General Williamson shot to his feet so several of his bones popped with sound. He swiped the wallet off McGraw’s desk. Without a word, he slipped the wallet into his jacket and marched for the door.

“One way or another,” he muttered. Then he was out the door, leaving it ajar.

A moment later, the major looked in, with her plucked eyebrows raised. McGraw gestured, and she shut the door softly.

“Damn Militia bastards,” McGraw muttered.

Stan’s blood pressure still ran high. He didn’t know if the two generals had staged that or not. Why bother pretending such a thing for his benefit? It didn’t make sense. He was a colonel, not a general. Maybe McGraw was for real.

“Thanks,” Stan said.

“I’d do it for any of my men.”

Stan didn’t want to say the words, but he did. “I owe you one.”

McGraw gave him a hearty smile, and he stood, coming around the desk. Holding out his hand, the general pumped Stan’s arm and slapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back, old son.”

Stan looked down. He didn’t know what to make of all this. Had McGraw truly been drunk the other night? He found it hard to believe.

“Stick around for a while,” McGraw said. “I’ll buy you a beer later at the officers’ club.”

“I should be getting back to my regiment and seeing to those three tanks.”

McGraw nodded, and he slapped Stan on the shoulder once more. “Maybe you’re right. The offensive is coming soon, and I mean to win this one big. We’re going to drive the Chinese out of Oklahoma and through Texas into Mexico.”

“I hope you’re right, sir.”

“We’ll have to think of something for your boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said.

“Until then, make sure he sticks close to base. Who knows what these goons will try next? Williamson is as tough as nails. He’s not going to back down long.”

Stan silently agreed, and soon he found himself saying goodbye to the major. Did McGraw and Harold still have ideas of unseating the President? Stan hoped not. But even more importantly, what did General Williamson plan to do about Jake?

Corporal Jake Higgins found the answer to his father’s question nine days before the start of Operation Reclamation.

It was early morning, with the monster tanks hidden under camouflage netting and surrounded by trees. Twenty inflatable fake Army trucks with huge inflatable stacks of boxes gave the impression this was a growing forward supply dump. It was part of McGraw’s deception techniques to fool Chinese surveillance drones. Neither side maintained recon satellites, as the other side beamed them down as fast as they reached operational orbit. That meant each side used high-flying stealth drones. Various tents provided sleeping quarters for the crews. A larger tent served the function of mess hall.

Several late risers ate breakfast inside the tent, Jake Higgins among them.

As soldiers went about their duties, a large black four-door sedan roared over a hill to the north, kicking up dust from the dirt road. The big car had tinted windows, making it impossible for anyone to see who rode inside.

A dug-in sentry squad watched the vehicle, tracking it with a heavy machine gun. The dirt road led to a shack and a crossbar. By the weight of the four-door, it looked as if it would have no problem smashing through the crossbar.

Brakes squealed nonetheless, and the car crunched across gravel as it came to a stop beside the guard shack.

A sergeant approached the vehicle. With a soft purr, the driver’s window descended, revealing a burly Detention Center MP. The driver’s ID in his hand showed he belonged to Homeland Security.

“This is Army territory,” the sergeant told him.

“Look at this,” the driver said, and he showed the guard a Presidential crest. “This gives us the authorization to go wherever we want. Right now, General Williamson told us to come here. Are you going to interfere? If so, I’ll need your name and ID.”

The sergeant squinted at the Presidential crest. He bit his lower lip and finally shrugged. “I don’t know what you want here.”

“Where’s Jake Higgins?” the driver asked.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask around.”

The driver sneered, and the window purred as it shut.

The sergeant stepped back, signaled the private in charge of the crossbar and hurried to the shack, reaching for the field phone there. Colonel Higgins was visiting Sixth Behemoth’s colonel. It seemed like Colonel Higgins would want to know about this.

Meanwhile, the black car accelerated to the biggest tent, the mess hall. Several tankers stopped to watch. Soon enough, the car parked beside the tent and all four doors opened. Five big Militia MPs got out. They wore brown uniforms and carried nine-millimeter pistols in leather holsters, along with other police gear: mace, tasers, handcuffs and even batons.

The driver stopped a soldier, and muttered a question. The soldier pointed at the tent. The five headed there, three of them drawing their batons.

The first Jake Higgins knew about this, the tent flap opened and five Detention MPs stepped within. They looked around, spotting him and heading his way.

Jake was an image of his dad, only a lot younger and with thicker, blonder hair. He had handsome features and weighed a solid one eighty. He watched the five military police march toward him. At the moment, he gripped a spoon and had a mouthful of Cheerios, with a half-finished bowl before him on a foldup table.

Although the five surprised him, Jake knew this day was coming, at least this type of day, though not the exact sequence. He’d learned far too much about the world these last few years. What seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d attended college in California. He didn’t read history like his father, but he knew a few things about the old United States. Men of honor had built it, believing in freedom of expression and natural rights bequeathed by God, not by the state. He had protested against President Sims, went to a Detention Center because of it and learned prisoners did best there when they kept their mouth shut and did as they were told. His dad went to bat for him, and the Detention people finally allowed Jake to volunteer for a Militia battalion. He fought in Texas and watched just about everyone in his unit die. Along with seven other survivors, he escaped from the Amarillo Pocket where Chinese armor butchered American formations.

Alone, he reached Colorado and turned himself in. There, Detention Center people accused him of desertion. By some hard talking, he managed to join a new Militia unit in Denver. There, he survived the terrible siege, only to soon find himself in a Militia penal battalion in New York. That had been bad.

“Jake Higgins?” the MP driver asked.

The other four fanned out. The ones with batons glared at him.

Jake swallowed his Cheerios and set the spoon on the table. His dad had told him about General Williamson. Usually, Jake wore a gun, but not today. He’d gotten up late and hurried here before they closed down breakfast.

“We know you’re Jake Higgins,” the MP said.

“I’m not in a Detention Center cell just yet,” Jake said. “If you start swinging at me, others are going to jump in and help me kick the crap out of you.”

“Are you resisting arrest?” the MP asked.

Jake drew a lungful of air. A rule of life was never to let criminals take you to a secondary scene of a crime. Fight where the criminals first appeared in public to accost you. If you allowed the criminals to take you to a quiet spot and tie you up, they could do anything to you and you would be screwed. After his penal battalion days, Jake viewed Detention Center people as flat-out thugs.

If this is my last fight, let’s make it a good one.

Jake pushed away from the table so his chair went flying.

One of the MPs drew a nine millimeter, aiming at his stomach.

“If you fire, you’re dead,” a man said who stood behind the military police.

The five MPs glanced back to see who’d spoken.

A hard-breathing colonel stood inside the tent, with an assault rifle aimed at them. Behind Stan Higgins, hulking tankers filed into the tent. They looked determined.

“We’re here under Presidential authority,” the driver said. “You have no right to aim that weapon at us.”

“Your lawyer can explain that at my court martial,” Stan said. “You won’t be there, though, but in a pine box six feet underground.”

“Are you threatening us, Colonel?” the MP asked.

Stan Higgins pointed the assault rifle at the ground and let bullets rip near their feet. The sound was shockingly loud within the tent.

One MP dropped his baton and jumped back, although the others held their spots. They were tough men.

“I’m not going to tell you to leave again,” Stan told them.

“I don’t think so,” the driver said. “We’re under—”

Stan’s features hardened, and he aimed the assault rifle at the driver’s face.

“Dad, wait!” Jake shouted. He went wide around the MPs, and he took an assault rifle from one of the tankers. Cocking it, he aimed the weapon at the five. “I don’t want you to do down, sir. If anyone’s going to kill them, it will be me.”

The driver paled as he stared at the gun barrel pointing at him and then peered into Jake’s eyes.

“You and me,” the driver said. He paused, and it seemed as if he used his tongue to swab the inside of his mouth—maybe it lacked enough moisture. Finally, he added, “Someday, we’re going to go around and around.”

“Sure, big talk,” Jake said. “All you mean is that your buddies will hold me down while you kick me in the face. I know. I’ve been there with your brothers.” His trigger finger began to squeeze. “So you know what—”

“Jake!” his dad said. Old man Higgins pulled his son’s arm down. “Let them go.”

It took Jake several seconds, but at last, he nodded.

The five Detention Center MPs left the tent and headed for their car. They climbed into the black vehicle, started it up and headed for the dirt road.

Father and son watched them leave.

“They’re never going to stop,” Jake said. “You know that, right?”

Colonel Stan Higgins didn’t say anything to that.

“Sometimes,” Jake said, “I wonder what I’m really fighting for.”

“I know,” Stan said, “me, too.”

-3- Operation Reclamation

From A Secret History of the North American War, by Captain Fan Kai:

The next actions of Chairman Hong harkened back to the emperors of old who believed themselves protected by a heavenly mandate. Such men conceived an action in relation to their position and power, never considering the results in human suffering for others.

The military clique headed by Marshal Chao Pin thwarted what Hong considered his birthright. The fierce desire to topple the marshal and his supporters guided the Chairman’s actions. In this case, a devastating Chinese defeat in North America meant nothing, as long as it helped catapult Hong back to supreme power.

The intermediate-range nuclear missiles hidden in northern Mexico would stem the Americans later. At least, so Hong envisioned. Some have suggested he already lived in a dream world of his own devising. If the Chairman willed a thing, these people say, it became reality to him. Yet the cunning and success of his murder squads suggest otherwise. Hong still maintained a keen grasp on reality.

As the Americans unleashed their fated offensive in Oklahoma, twenty, perhaps as many as twenty-three teams of East Lightning operatives headed for various Chinese frontline Army Headquarters. From May 11 to May 14, the murder squads killed seven Chinese generals, nineteen colonels, forty-three majors and their accompanying aides and security personnel. The victims were some of the best tactical leaders and logistics experts. Several EL teams blew up critical depots or rail lines. They sowed confusion during the initial desperate days, and gave the Americans incredible aid. The ensuing enemy destruction also hid the activity from the vast majority of PAA soldiers.

Yet such a scheme proved impossible to hide altogether. Chinese Army personnel captured members of five different murder squads. Several of the East Lightning operatives immediately ingested poison. They died before anyone could interrogate them. Several others cracked under torture, telling wild stories of Chinese secret police sabotage. The Army personal refused to believe the truth, shooting the operatives instead as American spies.

Two of the captured assassins survived the battle and left a gory account of their wartime activities. (See: We Worked for Police Minister Shun Li, 2045.) These stories substantiate the Chinese belief that underhanded forces worked against them during the McGraw Offensive. These forces paved the way for the stunning American victory. Otherwise, the ensuing combat lacks sense. Chinese arms had driven the Americans headlong only two short years ago. Such a US turnaround could only be understood by the devilish interference of Chairman Hong and his villainous Police Chief, Shun Li.

From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

2041, May 9. The First Offensive. American preparation, carefully assembled men, materiel, and improved technology, proved devastating to the Chinese. In heavy fog, the Americans began their drive at dawn, using the latest jamming equipment to render forward Chinese robotics inert.

The proceeding “avalanche assault” against the “Great Wall” surprised the Chinese. Special Marine shock brigades and Militia penal battalions stunned the enemy by their savagery and bitter determination. The succeeding Chinese lines collapsed in days. The cost in American lives—particularly to the penal battalions—proved staggering, at times approaching seventy-five percent casualties.

This was the bloodiest phase for the Americans, recalling Civil War battles two hundred years earlier.

McGraw now proved his brilliance and resolve in two areas. First, the ability to move the exhausted breaching divisions out of the way without stalling the next wave showed exquisite staff work and execution. Second, while others urged caution—saying America should husband its painfully reconstructed armies—McGraw recognized the chaotic enemy situation and boldly unleashed the exploration formations much earlier and far deeper than planned. The massed Behemoths spearheading the attacks proved shattering against Chinese counter assaults.

Four American armies—Tenth, Second Militia, Fifteenth and Eighteenth—burst through the enemy right flank—the First, Third and Seventh PAA armies—on a sixty-mile front. They rolled up and pulverized Army Group Zhen, splitting the Chinese from the Brazilians to their east. Driving into open country, American Behemoths, Jeffersons, heavily modified M1A3s and other tracked vehicles spread havoc and destruction. The great battle of annihilation Americans had dreamed of for years seemed on the verge of success as the entire Chinese First Front threatened to collapse.

The mass of Chinese and allied armies on the front line—on either side of the sixty-mile breakthrough—faced encirclement as American forces swung around them from behind. The Chinese and allied formations were uncommonly sluggish to react to American vigor. It surprised McGraw. Many of his officers suggested this was a trap. Brushing aside such talk, McGraw told his men that this gave US armor the chance to inflict a historically strategic victory, possibly netting 700,000 to 1,200,000 enemy soldiers.

“The end of the invasion is near,” he said. And in those heady days, his words certainly seemed prophetic.

Corporal Jake Higgins wore goggles and a jacket. The goggles pressed against his skin. They hurt his head after a while. He clutched the sides of the commander’s hatch of his Behemoth tank while sticking halfway out of the turret. He enjoyed the view, shivering at the cold rush of air.

The deceptively flat ground with its riot of spring flowers was perfect terrain for his three-hundred-ton tank. But it was also the right place for the enemy’s Mobile Canopy AntiBallistic Missile vehicle, or MC ABM for short. The Chinese laser tank outraged them, and that was bad out here on the prairies. Any day now, the enemy would deploy the feared weapon system, and the Behemoths would have to face them.

Jake’s Behemoth was like the others stretched out on either side of him. Fifteen monsters in a row clanked for Oklahoma City. There waited Chinese First Front HQ, a mountain of supplies to destroy, a railroad nexus node and the last enemy armor concentration along with the dreaded MC ABMs. Their task was to demolish everything, the fifteen of them and the following Jefferson tanks and infantry carriers behind them on the horizon.

In four days of intense exploitation battles against Chinese reserves—the eighth day since the beginning of the offensive—five Behemoths of their regiment had eaten it or developed mechanical problems and dropped behind. Other Behemoth regiments had their own objectives. Oklahoma City was their personal El Dorado of martial glory.

There was a reason why nearly one hundred and eighty Behemoths had torn the Chinese a new one.

Jake’s monster was fifteen meters by six by four and mounted 260cm of armor. It had nine autocannons, seven auto-machine guns, and an onboard radar and AI to track enemy missiles and shells. Given enough flight time—like out here on the Great Plains—this baby could knock down incoming projectiles. Whatever ordnance slipped through had to survive forty beehive launchers. They fired tungsten flechettes, a shotgun-like spray of hooks that deflected enemy shells enough to skew their impact against the heavy armor. The super-thick armor and the sheer number of beehives made the Behemoth more than a big, expensive target. It made it the King Kong of the battlefield.

From his spot high on the turret, Jake winched as the tracks squealed. The Behemoth made a terrible racket while on the move. The land whale creaked, clanged, squealed and rumbled: a symphony of metal. Yet for all that, it was the frontline marvel of the war.

Two days ago, the lieutenant—their regular tank commander—had smashed his forehead too hard against a steel bulkhead in the main compartment. The captain had bumped Jake into the vacated slot and airlifted the lieutenant back to base.

Jake still worried about making a mistake and costing the crew their lives.

I did okay an hour ago.

The massive tracked vehicle rolled past a wrecked tri-turreted tank lying on its side. Oil leaked from the Chinese monster, staining a nearby snow-patch a dirty color. There were more of the one-hundred-ton, tri-barreled T-66 wrecks around, close to eighty enemy tanks, some of them still funneling smoke into the clear sky.

We did this. I did this.

Easily outranging the enemy, the Behemoths had taken out the entire Chinese tank brigade. It had been like America’s glory days during Desert Storm, when Iraqi Republican Guards in their Russian T-72s learned a deadly lesson about the First US Armored Division.

Jake couldn’t help but grin. Even when he saw dead Chinese tankers in grotesque postures, the grin remained. Death to the invaders—they should have stayed on their side of the Pacific if they wanted to live to a ripe old age.

Yes. It felt good to win, to defeat the enemy so decisively. No, damnit, it felt glorious. Yet a riot of emotions seethed through Jake, a mixture of not only elation but also anger and worry.

He took a phone from his pocket. With his left thumb, he brought up the text. A new order for his arrest had come from Washington, from the Militia Command Center itself. From on top of the turret of his rumbling Behemoth, Jake reread the text. The message came from the Director of Homeland Security, Max Harold. It was an arrest order and fixed with a Presidential Seal and signature.

Why can’t they leave me alone? I’m willing to die for my country. Isn’t that enough? Do they want me to lick their boots, too?

A loud beep from within the tank’s main compartment brought Jake out of his reverie.

“Corporal,” the gunner shouted from inside. “You’d better look at this.”

Jake shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and slipped into the main compartment. He closed the hatch with a clang and let his eyes adjust to the soft green light. Despite the Behemoth’s size, it was tight in here, with him, a gunner, driver and a tech.

“We got some real-time data,” the gunner was saying, a thin kid from Iowa. His name was Chet. He was a video gaming virtuoso, and even though he was younger than Jake, he was already balding, with wisps of hair on his forehead.

As Jake settled into the commander’s seat, he flipped on his screen. Images began to appear. The Air Force used a high-flying stealth UAV to provide real-time intelligence. The Chinese usually found such drones soon enough and shot them down. This was a lucky break to have one up now.

“Looks like enemy laser tanks,” Chet, the gunner, said, his voice raising an octave.

Jake swallowed. He saw them down there from the UAV’s vantage. The six hundred ton, multi-trailered vehicles were unmistakable. Normally, the Chinese used the MC ABMs for antiair and antimissile coverage. In a pinch, like the famous German 88s during WWII, they could employ their cannons against land targets. The powerful lasers had fantastic range. According to the data, the enemy vehicles were a little over thirty miles away. At that range, the lasers could slice-the-e of a Behemoth’s outer lettering.

“Why aren’t they firing at us?” Jake asked.

“Look at the grid numbers, at 22-A-4,” Chet said. “There’s a rise of land in the way. Don’t want to call it a hill. It’s too low for that. But once we top that rise, the fireworks will start. We’re too far ahead of our artillery to call in support to help us with them.”

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Jake asked.

“Ask the captain,” Chet suggested.

Jake didn’t like asking the captain anything. It made it look as if he didn’t know how to run his tank.

“They must know about us if they’re lining up like that,” Jake said.

“Agreed,” Chet said. “That’s what I think.”

Sweat slicked Jake’s underarms. He hated when that happened. Why couldn’t he remain calm and collected at times like this? Why did his gut knot and twist as if he was afraid? He’d done this before, an hour ago, in fact.

Breathing through his nostrils, Jake sought for calm, for visible confidence in front of the crew. Being in charge definitely made things harder and he wasn’t sure why.

The laser could strike the distance, but so could they. The rail gun was the heart of the Behemoth system. Unlike conventional tanks, the main weapon didn’t use gunpowder shells. Instead, the rail gun had two magnetized rods lining the inner cannon. The projectile or “shell” completed the current between the two rods. The direction of the current expelled the round, firing the shell and breaking the current. It gave the projectile incredible speed, one of its greatest powers.

Like a regular tank’s sabot, it used kinetic energy, the same kind of energy that sent a bullet smashing through a man’s body. An M16 rifle fired a bullet at the muzzle velocity of 930 meters per second. The Behemoth’s cannon fired its round at 3,500 meters per second, over three times as fast. That was approximately Mach 10 at sea level.

The rail gun had much greater range than a gunpowder shell, less bullet drop, faster time on target and less wind drift. In other words, it bypassed the physical limitations of conventional firearms. In fact, the rounds flew so fast they ionized the air around them. The Behemoth rail gun theoretically fired farther, faster and with greater penetrating power than any comparable conventional weapon. Its range was also much greater than the tank’s targeting precision, meaning it was easily possible to fire a Behemoth round over one hundred miles. At half that range—fifty miles—most rail gun rounds missed. At twenty-five miles, the cannons achieved great accuracy. The Chinese were over thirty miles away: near enough to hit some of the time, but not every time.

“Looks like we’re about to have a quick-draw contest,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“They’re sitting still and have likely already sighted in,” Chet said. “They have the advantage.”

Jake kept himself from glancing at Chet. Having been in combat many times in the last few years, he was the veteran here. Thus, it galled Jake that Chet sounded more relaxed than he did. Jake had a few years on the others. Yet the truth was that they were all young enough that games of cool took on monumental importance.

“Higgins!” a man said on the screen.

Jake twitched at the voice. Some might even have said he jumped or started in his seat. He didn’t dare look to see if the others frowned at each other as if to say, “Look how jumpy Jake is. The corporal’s gotta settle down.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said, as he clicked a button on his chair, having to press harder than normal. The thing was sticky because he’d set too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the arm. On the screen, the drone’s data imaging disappeared and the captain’s face took its place.

The captain had a thick mustache curving down to his chin. He wore his tanker’s cap at an angle as if he were some Confederate cavalry commander from the War Between the States. The captain was from Alabama and had a twang that wouldn’t quit.

“You see laser tank number five?” the captain asked in his slow drawl.

“Starting from the right, sir?” Jake asked.

“Of course from the right, son,” the captain said. “We’ve been over that.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said, as his neck prickled with embarrassment.

“I know you’re the colonel’s son…”

Jake swallowed. Colonel Higgins didn’t run this regiment. His dad attacked farther to the east. Colonel Nelson ran the show for the Sixth Behemoth Regiment. But Jake knew the captain meant his dad.

Through the screen, the captain’s eyes bored into Jake. “You done fine so far, son. You keep paying attention, hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Number five laser tank,” the captain said. “That one’s yours. I want it dead before it damages anyone else.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said. He wanted to assure the captain that everything would be all right. But he knew the captain hated boasting. Doing counted with this man, not saying.

“This is where we earn our money,” the captain said. “If we smash them, Oklahoma City is going burn with enemy dead.” The captain squinted. “If we burn Oklahoma City, we might end up smashing the entire front. It’s time to fry us some laser tanks. Good hunting, Higgins.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Good hunting to you, too.”

First Rank Lon Lu of MC ABM #5 sat at his controls. He was the engine tech in charge of the magnetic-propulsion turbine. Without the great generating plant, the laser cannon would be useless.

Lon Lu was small, dark-haired and studiously serious. He had arrived from China, from a suburb of Beijing, a little over two months ago. He should have gone to Wei Mining in northern Manchuria, but the Army had drafted him for service in this land of savage barbarians. The stories coming from America had frightened many of the men his age in China. A few better-connected or richer souls had already escaped possible conscription by finding office jobs in Korea or Indonesia. Lon Lu hadn’t been so lucky.

Still, this was exciting technology, and the commander of the MC ABM #5 implicitly trusted him and his judgment—Lon received honor and accompanying letters to his mother and father because of it.

First Rank Lon Lu took pride in his work. Their MPT—magnetic propulsion turbine—was the quietest in the brigade, and their cannon continually fired the hottest beam. The only troubling thing so far about the assignment was American women.

Lon was fiercely Han centric, proud of Greater China and xenophobic of foreigners to a high although rather ordinary degree for someone from Beijing. He planned to marry a Chinese woman when he received a marriage permit from the Ministry of Matrimony. His honors and letters here would greatly aid in that regard.

The trouble with American women was their ready availability in Oklahoma City. China had a gross gender imbalance with too few women. It came from the one-child-per-family policy. Many more girls than boys were aborted because a high percentage of parents desired the family name to continue and wanted a son.

“Warm the turbine,” the commander said from his chair.

This was the main compartment to the three-trailer vehicle—that number didn’t include the giant tractor to move them. Driving the vehicle took careful preparation and route coordination. Mobility was a relative term. They could move, but weren’t mobile like a Behemoth tank.

Lon sat at the engine section, and he reached up and began to tap controls. He watched gauges and heat levels, and like a master pianist, he made his instrument purr with excellence.

Others worked the laser coils, the bin-washers and coolant radiator, while officers matched UAV-gathered intelligence with the cannon’s precise elevation.

Lon Lu sat alertly even though his crotch itched and stung. Han were superior to North American barbarians. The obviousness of the statement made it a truism. Lon Lu meant to marry a proper Han woman and produce a superior child. He did not have a preference and would accept fate’s call, boy or girl.

The problem was the availability of hungry American women. Naturally, East Lightning and Occupation Authority police rigorously applied Chinese law here. Much of Texas and Oklahoma’s agricultural produce went to China. That meant Americans went hungry for a change. That brought consequences. Too many American women bartered sex for food. Before the oceanic voyage, Lon had planned to remain chaste throughout his term of North American service. He would save himself for Han sexual encounters with his future wife.

The problem was that some American women were incredibly alluring, with their long luxurious hair, skimpy clothing and provocative ways of strutting and pouting when they looked at him. After three weeks of abstaining, Lon Lu bought extra loaves of bread at the commissary and went to the brothel he passed every day during his duties.

He wanted a particular American woman, a small thing with dark hair like a Han and thrusting breasts of intoxicating stiffness.

In the main compartment, Lon glanced both ways to make sure no one watched him. Then he reached down and rubbed his itching groin. The writhing on the silk sheets had been divine. Why had he waited so long to do it? Unfortunately, the dark-haired beauty had given him a venereal disease. He had used her many times these past weeks, discovering that his appetite grew with exposure. His shame at contracting VD meant he’d remained silent about it for some time. He did not want a reprimand on his record. He wanted a Han wife—he had to have a woman more than ever now. He had become accustomed to sexual intimacy. He was, in fact, unsure he could live without it.

“First Rank,” the commander said from his chair. “Give me energizing power.”

Lon Lu thrust his arms upward as his fingers played upon the controls. He might have VD, but he would bring honor to his family name and victory to Chinese arms. High Command counted on their MC ABM brigade to halt the American drive toward First Front HQ in Oklahoma City.

“Now we shall show these Americans the deadliness of Chinese technology,” the commander said. “We will destroy these Behemoths and bring serenity to our broken line.”

Lon Lu reached down to his neck, grasping the padded headphones there. He secured the protective covering over his ears, switching on his link to the commander. His gaze flickered to a screen showing the enemy Behemoths from a high-flying UAV.

The giant US tanks clanked toward the last blocking ridge. Each one had a flag waving on the highest antenna. Once the monsters crested the ridge…

The commander’s voice crackled over the headphones. In obedience to the words, Lon Lu tapped the final sequence.

The MPT whined with power, its song climbing higher and higher with dreadful noise. The command compartment shook and Lon’s groin flared with pain.

Lon winced at the MPT’s howl, but he spoke into his microphone. “Energy levels rising, Commander. In fifteen seconds we will be at maximum.”

The commander stood, and he held his right hand high. The main gunner nodded in understanding. The seconds ticked by as the MPT roared.

Lon Lu heard over his headphones, “Fire!” And the commander’s hand came down sharply.

The MPT pumped massive power into the laser coils. The energy rerouted into the chambers and drove the laser. The incredibly heavy beam struck the first focusing mirror, and then shot out of the cannon in a tight ray, traveling at the speed of light and crossing the many kilometers.

“Hit!” the gunner shouted.

Lon Lu exposed his teeth in a smile. He hated this land with its diseased whores, with its bloody-minded barbarians. But now the world would see once again that Han expertise trumped everything. Civilization would beat back the screaming hordes and bring order to a dark world.

On the screen, he could see the beam strike its targeted Behemoth. The giant tank kept moving as the laser began to boil through the incredible armor. Some heat dissipated and the enemy glacis began to glow. Liquid metal dripped as the beam chewed deeper.

Lon rubbed his groin again. Once he returned to base, he needed to see a doctor.

“Fire!” Jake shouted from the commander’s seat.

For the second time, the mighty engine revved and supplied power to the rail gun. A surge shook the tank. The penetrator roared from the cannon and sped at Mach 10 for the targeted laser vehicle.

Seconds later, with his forehead pressed against the padded gunner’s sight, Chet said, “It’s another miss.” His right hand knuckles tightened around the pistol-grip firing mechanism.

“We’re heating up outside!” the driver shouted.

Jake heard the ominous, bubbling sound of a heavy laser chewing through the frontal armor.

“Go left!” Jake shouted. “Chet! Get ready for another shot.”

The air conditioners hummed as sweat beaded down Jake’s face. It was worse than driving a motorcycle through Death Valley in midsummer. Jake had done that once. He never would again.

The driver worked the controls. One tread spun forward and the other went backward. The great beast of a tank swung to the left. Then both treads churned the spring soil, ripping away flowers and spewing them behind. The laser beam flashed past the tank, no longer eating into the armor.

Almost immediately, the terrible heat lessened as the air conditioners did their work.

Without waiting for Jake’s command, Chet pulled the trigger.

The engine revved to give the power plant enough juice. The surge came and yet another penetrator roared across the distance at Mach 10.

While holding his breath, Jake watched on his screen. The UAV still fed him data.

This round hammered into the MPT trailer of MC ABM number five. With pathetic ease, the penetrator blasted through the hull armor. A microsecond later, a fantastic explosion turned the compartment into a trailer-sized bomb, shedding metal in every direction. That flipped the rest of the linked vehicles.

Unknown to Jake, inside the MC ABM command compartment, a chunk of bulkhead the size of a chair seat decapitated First Rank Lon Lu. Blood gushed before more pieces crushed the body into a smear.

Not all the Behemoths escaped death or killed their targeted laser tank. Two vehicles to the left of Jake’s, a giant tank had a glowing red glacis with two fist-sized burn holes. Clumps of melted drops like lava had already cooled and frozen in place. That Behemoth halted suddenly. A side hatch blew, shooting the metal like a bullet to bounce off the ground a quarter mile away. Flames roared from the compartment—the entire crew had roasted to death.

Despite the kill, and another on the other side of Jake, twelve Behemoths survived the laser tank onslaught. One tank still partly worked, but its engine died with a squeal of metal parts. The battle was over for that Behemoth.

Twelve great American beasts relentlessly continued their trek to Oklahoma City and First Front HQ.

We’re doing it, Jake thought. Aloud he said, “The enemy doesn’t have anything that can stop us now. We’re going to crush them.” He laughed. “We’re making history, gents. It’s possible we’re ending the war right here.”

Police Minister Shun Li watched in horror as real-time footage played upon the left wall. They met on the second floor in the War Room of the Cho En Li Building in Mao Square.

On the wall, a huge MC ABM blew up, the first of many, victims to the hated American Behemoths. The wall showed it all: the jagged metal shards sailing through the air, exploding dirt as they hit and pieces of bloody uniforms fluttering in the wind.

Every member of the Ruling Committee watched the destruction, nine ultra-powerful men and women. At the head of the conference table, Chairman Hong folded his hands across his black-suited stomach. He had a small potbelly, but acted today like a calm Buddha, with every emotion under control.

“Marshal Meng wishes to report,” a communications major told them.

“Yes,” Chairman Hong said. “By all means, let us hear the worst.”

Tall Marshal Chao Pin—a sixty-year-old with white hair—gave the Chairman an unreadable glance. A week ago, the old man had eagle eyes of flashing pride. Today, the orbs could have been carved out of glass. His vaunted plan to defang the Americans had failed miserably, leaving him dazed.

A moment later, Marshal Meng’s image appeared on the wall. He looked like a giant talking to pygmies, his head ten times the size of any of their bodies. He had a mole on his right upper lip and another one over his left eyelid. His skin looked wan and slack, and his eyes were haunted.

“I attempted to coordinate the laser tank attack with a flight of bombers,” Meng said in a shaken voice. “American stealth drones in the stratosphere provided pinpoint intel for their newest weapon system, a particle beam tac-vehicle. It’s a new American machine, a tracked platform able to keep up with their deepest penetration units, giving them antiair coverage.”

“You still have several reserves left,” Chao Pin said. “The 34th and 15th Mechanized and the 9th Armor Division—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Marshal Meng said. His teeth were far too yellow. The wall screen was unkind in its precision details. “The Eighth Corps is too far away from Oklahoma City to affect—”

“No, no,” Chao Pin said. “If you drive into the American flank from the west, you can upset their resupply schedule. We have learned from past battles that the Behemoths devour a massive amount of fuel and need continuous maintenance. If you can destroy the following Jeffersons—”

Something stiffened on Marshal Meng’s face. Shun Li realized it was hope.

“Yes!” Meng said. “With a coordinated Brazilian strike—ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit my temporary absence—”

“Yes,” Chao Pin said, without asking Chairman Hong. “See to it. We will await the outcome.”

As Meng’s image disappeared from the wall, Shun Li cast a sly glance at Chairman Hong. His thumbnails plucked idly a button on his tunic. Clearly, he bided his time.

Nervously, Shun Li licked her lips. She didn’t like this one bit. Early this morning, she had discovered the reality of the East Lightning murder squads. The idea of killing Chinese generals in the forward divisions appalled her. Her people had aided the Americans. If the truth ever got out, the world would blame her. Never mind her name in the history books—she dreaded torture.

Hong has made me his tool. By using my people, he forces me to obey his will, or I will die hideously. No matter which way I turn, I’m doomed.

A mixture of worry and growing battle anger seethed through Paul Kavanagh.

He sat beside the open bay door of a tri-jet-assisted Cherokee helicopter. A dozen sleek machines painted prairie brown and yellow flashed through a surviving enemy antiair belt. This maneuver was risky. High Command was putting all its chips down on the board and rolling the dice. General McGraw obviously sought a strategic victory in one bold stroke, and this was simply another part of it.

Paul swore under his breath.

A Chinese missile streaked into the sky, leaving a dirty trail of fumes. The gunmetal-colored object zeroed in on the helicopter to Paul’s right. In a moment, the missile connected like a fist to the face, and a fiery explosion obliterated the craft. Smoke billowed thickly and parts rained out of the cloud. Something swishing end-over-end burst out of the haze and sped like an arrow at Paul’s helo.

A computer-slaved fifty-caliber machine gun sent tracers at the man-sized length of shrapnel. The bullets missed in a long line of what looked like red sparks.

A lurch of Paul’s stomach told him their pilot saw the danger. The man yanked the Cherokee up. The pilot was a twitchy boy with fantastic reflexes, a punk who flew as if the helicopter was a bucking bronco. The action saved their lives.

A hot concussion of force struck Paul’s face then—the aftereffects of the missile’s warhead. It let him know how close he’d come to dying and breaking his promise.

What the—?

Leaning out of the bay door, feeling the restraints press against his chest, Paul saw the spinning piece of shrapnel flash underneath them. Sparks showered and Paul felt a jarring vibration as the rotating shrapnel knifed the helicopter’s undercarriage. He expected a beehive-pod to burst open or them to ignite in flames. Instead, the ex-helo blade ricocheted away, heading for the ground.

Paul exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. That had been too close. The pilots flew in close formation and far too low to the ground. Platform-launched missiles weren’t supposed to have time for lock-on.

“Amigo!” Romo shouted. “You’ll get your head blown off leaning out like that.”

Paul pulled himself back into the helo, glancing at his best friend and the others piled in here like metallic gorillas. Before he could respond to his friend, a voice crackled in his ear-link. The pilot gave them a warning.

Many of the suited gorillas shifted positions. Some leaned forward. Paul leaned back, resting his head against a cushion. He curled his fingers under the seat, hanging on tight. A second later, the machine’s tri-jets ignited. The Cherokee leapt forward like a cougar jumping off a rock. The helicopter nosed downward as it raced like a NASCAR maniac.

“The pilot’s crazy!” Romo shouted.

The damp Oklahoma ground with its gopher holes and yellow prairie flowers flashed past them outside. The surface was fifty feet away. That was bad enough. The pilot lurched left, went hard right and the tri-jets screamed with noise. The Cherokee hauled butt over enemy territory. They still had twenty, maybe twenty-five miles to go.

For a second, Paul witnessed the muzzle flashes of surprised Chinese soldiers firing up out of their trenches. A different man tucked his shlong away, zipped up his pants and dove for his rifle. To the left, another missile lofted after them.

Would the missile chase the Cherokees? Maybe. He knew their pilot or one of the others deployed chaff. Computers certainly tracked the missile with radar, using fifty-calibers or beehive flechettes to try to knock it down.

With these sorts of things—the mission—the wait to get into action drove a man crazy with anxiety.

Kavanagh knew the Chinese 34th Mechanized Division belonged to the enemy’s final reserve. According to the briefing officer twenty minutes ago, the 34th had received orders to counterattack the leading American formations.

“Ten minutes to drop,” the colonel said over the battle-net.

“Roger,” Paul vocalized into his throat microphone. His stomach did a flip. It would squeeze now until he jumped. No matter how many times he fought, he had to go through the ritual of fear. What? Did he want to live forever?

Yeah I do. Forever and ever and ever. I’m going to kiss you again, baby.

He grinned, and several commandos glancing his way, tough hombres each one, paled and looked elsewhere.

Paul released the bottom of his seat and picked up his headgear. It was heavy and bulky, just like a knight’s pot helm back in the Middle Ages. He fit the helmet over his head and locked it onto the battlesuit. Chinning a lever, he opened the visor, listening to tiny gears whine.

“ETA, five minutes,” the colonel said.

The landscape looked the same: flat with flowers. Paul licked his lips and closed the visor. Immediately, he could hear himself breathe.

He closed his eyes tight and opened them wide.

Flat with flowers, and filled with death. Oklahoma had it all: rifles, grenades, flamethrowers, mortars, artillery, infantry fighting vehicles, tanks, laser-cannons, drones, UAVs, fighters, bombers and EMP missiles. The only thing missing were nuclear warheads, and who knew? Maybe they would rain down, too.

“ETA, one minute,” the colonel radioed.

With a gloved hand, Paul unhooked his buckles and forced himself to stand. His gut shriveled and he blinked several times. This was the first battle where he wore a jetpack into the fight.

With a sigh, Paul flipped on the Chinese generator and listened to it purr. The thing vibrated against his back. Using his throttle hand, he revved the engine.

With a lurching step, Paul brought himself to the open bay door. Using his free hand, he grabbed a handhold and leaned out, feeling the wind push his body. He looked ahead and saw Chinese vehicles in the prairie. They’d circled like old-time pioneers used to against Comanche raiders. That must be the divisional HQ, a mobile group and their chosen target. In the distance, a dust cloud billowed. Those would be tri-turreted tanks, maybe several dozen of them churning up dirt.

“Enemy rockets coming!” the colonel shouted into Paul’s ear. “Start your drops.”

Paul almost vocalized his objections. The pilot was supposed to take them up first, give them some maneuvering, some flying room. There were too many enemy vehicles nearby, and he saw Chinese soldiers running to a firing line. Most of them held weapons.

He saw rockets and missiles zooming in the air for them, a deadly flock launched from mobile platforms: trucks and jeeps mostly. Counter-fire blazed as Cherokee chainguns and beehive flechettes filled the air with metal.

“Today I take scalps,” Romo said.

It was hard to force his fingers loose of the handhold. Paul did it anyway as he leaned out of the bay door. He’d already folded open the jetpack’s flying arm. He rested his right elbow on it and grasped the maneuverable joystick throttle. The thing was tricky to work right. Then Paul found himself falling, with the ground rushing up to greet him.

He revved the engine to get it ready. At the same time, he violently kicked his legs to the right. Jetpack flying took strong abs to do correctly. He aligned the nozzles just so and opened the throttle wide. If the engine didn’t kick in precisely now— It did, and it hurled him forward so he rushed over the nearing ground. He had seconds to gain vertical lift. He should be out of range of the Cherokee’s spinning blades by now. Violently, he swung his legs again. G forces slammed against him and forced his head low. He lifted, though. He went up and up, and he saved his life by doing it then.

Other commandos lacked his gifts. A black-clad trooper plowed against prairie dirt, throwing up flowers and grass divots. The soldier tumbled and his arms and legs flopped wildly. The impact must have snapped the man’s spine. He became a broken doll, another mindless statistic in a savage war for global supremacy.

The knot in Paul’s gut loosed at that precise instant. The fear vanished and anger pulled his lips back. Paul’s college teammates of many years ago would have recognized the look as he sprinted to tackle a running back.

The colonel barked orders through their headphones. Then the talk didn’t matter anymore. Explosions and wild concussions made everything confusion. Chinese trunks flipped as Cherokee missiles slammed home. Impacted helicopters rained metal parts and dead men, and followed the junk to crash onto the prairie. There must have been enemy jets up there. Or maybe the Chinese HQ people had better antiair hardware than the SOCOM experts had realized.

It became a balls-up, maybe a complete disaster. Nothing went right.

Paul no longer cared or even consciously thought about much of anything. Cheri had seen the look before. Once, in their garage, she had put her hands to her mouth at the crazy number of wasps boiling around a monster nest. Paul had taken three quick steps and pressed his finger on a Raid nozzle, spraying until foam covered every inch of moving mass.

Same concept here, different wasps was all.

With his grenade launcher tucked against his side, Paul fired the shells in timed succession. He didn’t aim. Just pull the trigger, baby, while he flew the jetpack. That took all his concentration. That he could use his left trigger finger at all was amazing, what made him one among ten thousand.

He flew at the circled vehicles. The magnetically propelled grenades sailed in beautiful parabolic arcs. He let go of the launcher, letting it drop. When it hit the ground, the first egg-shaped explosive detonated, soon followed by the others.

A Chinese soldier lying on the firing line, getting a bead on Paul, screamed and rolled over. Most of his scalp disappeared as blood jetted. Paul hadn’t aimed a grenade at the man. He hadn’t even seen the enemy. It was just good luck, battle mojo of the best kind.

Throttling wide open, his jetpack whining like an out-of-control lawn mower, Paul zoomed toward the hard ground. It inched closer, closer to meet him.

“Son of a bitch!” he roared. Then Paul churned his legs as fast as he could go, running over the ground. He tripped, and might have plowed face-first into the sod, but he reflexively gave himself lift. His legs dangled for an instant and an enemy rocket-propelled grenade flew beneath him. It exploded fifty feet behind, a harmless expenditure of ordnance.

Paul tried it again, easing down. He ran faster than any hound, laughed crazily and quickly brought his speed to a manageable rate. This was the trickiest moment of all. He sprinted in his body armor as his arms roved about his body, fingers unbuckling clasps. He shed momentum fast, and then the jetpack fell away, striking the ground and raising dust behind him.

At that moment, enemy bullets scored. Their high-velocity impact killed much of his forward momentum, striking him hard against the chest. If he’d been standing still, the bullets would have knocked him down for sure. He lost his breath, and the impacts hurt, making him swear. When he’d played football, his opponents had quickly learned that giving pain to Paul Kavanagh gave him maddened strength. It was the same on the battlefield.

He didn’t know how it happened. Probably, the enemy soldier hidden in a fold of ground wasn’t sure either. Paul had his assault rifle in his hands. It was as if it just appeared. The rifle bucked each time he pulled the trigger. The Chinese major trying to line up another shot never got the chance for a repeat. A hole in his face ended the war for the major.

“They’re cutting us down!” the US commando colonel shouted over the link. “Go to ground. Go to ground.”

“We have to leave you, Colonel,” a Cherokee pilot said. “It’s too hot for us here, and the coordinator says bogies are on their way. We need air cover and we ain’t got any here.”

“Go!” the colonel shouted. “Save the helos.”

Paul heard the words. He didn’t check his HUD to watch the Cherokees book it out of there. He had backward-aiming cameras slaved to his computers. Every ounce of his concentration was focused on his task.

Even so, some part of his brain calculated. If the colonel told the men to go to ground, it meant the enemy had them under heavy fire. In a phrase, the Chinese had the commandos pinned, ducking for cover. All that the enemy needed to do then was wait for some air assets to eliminate the problem for them. That meant someone had to suppress the enemy fire so the boys could get moving again.

Paul’s HUD pinpointed the strongpoints: two IFVs poured 12.5mm machine gun fire and 30mm autocannons with fragmentation shells at the commandos. They would kill the team in short order.

The thoughts raced through Paul as he sprinted for a truck with a dead driver. A Chinese rifle lay just outside the door. Paul was far ahead of the pack. Speed happened to be his MO. Hit ’em fast and hit ’em hard.

Paul flipped his weapon’s selector switch to full auto. He jumped onto the running board, yanked open the door and crawled into the truck cabin. A back portal opened that led into the comm-vehicle’s interior. Paul’s burst caught the surprised Chinese soldier in the chest, hurling the skinny man backward. Paul followed, reaching the portal and looking in. Techs with headsets turned on their swivel chairs to stare at him, at the American. Several Chinese mouths dropped open. With quick bursts, Paul cut each of them down so they flopped and sprayed gore. Space was tight in here. It likely stank worse than an outhouse now. Good thing he wore his NBC helmet and integral mask.

Paul fixed a short bayonet on the end of his rifle and stabbed bodies. He didn’t want anyone jumping up and coming from behind once he passed the corpse.

For three seconds, he paused. He took deep breaths and held the last one. That helped cycle down his racing thoughts, allowing his tactical mind to take over.

“Give me a picture, sir,” he whispered over the battle-net.

“Where are you, Master Sergeant?” the colonel asked.

Paul gave him the position. With a split HUD, he spied the situation from the colonel’s vantage. Yeah, it was just as he thought. The enemy IFVs had the boys pinned out there on the prairie.

They needed a drone: a small, airmobile, robot warrior. Next time—if there ever was going to be a—

Paul shook his head. Forget distractions, just sweet concentration and action.

He kicked open the rear door. Three Chinese soldiers ran toward the truck. Paul didn’t have any time for niceties. Pulling the trigger, he hosed fire, cutting them down as if the enemy were part of the crew of a B-movie.

He found himself airborne—a leap—and then landed hard with a grunt, racing for the first IFV. The thing was a workhorse for the Chinese Army. It had a powerful rotary engine and carried space in its belly for six fully armed infantrymen. The IFV also boasted 73mm of ceramic and ultra-aluminum armor. The lightness of the armor shell together with the rotary gave the machine its speed.

Like good little boys that wanted to live forever, the crew inside were buttoned up tight. Every hatch must be sealed and locked. The autocannons and the machine guns belched and chattered at the commandos out there. One part of Paul’s brain doubted any of his buddies had survived: the impressive IFV firepower gave that feel. The cool part of Paul’s mind knew better. Bullets and shrapnel had to hit to wound or kill. Ground gave protection. That’s why infantrymen hugged it so enthusiastically.

Wish I still had my grenade launcher. Life was a bitch and combat made it worse. What were you going to do, huh?

Paul ran. Speed, baby, make it work for you. He emptied the assault rifle’s magazine and didn’t have time to put in another. He reached the IFV and slapped his satchel charge to its side. He was one of the few commandos to carry one. Normally, the team used them to breach bunkers, not vehicles.

He dropped to the dirt and crawled away. As he did, he switched magazines, leaving the empty one on the ground. A loud explosion made the IFV rock so its springs squealed, and black smoke drifted.

Paul stood, and exploding enemy bullets hitting his body armor made him stagger sideways. If they had been depleted uranium penetrators, he’d already be dead. A ricochet off his helmet made his ears ring. He didn’t have time to return fire.

Reaching the IFV breach, he tossed a fragmentation grenade inside and slammed his back against the vehicle’s armor. He heard a crump of sound from within. Men screamed. Paul came off the armor, poked his assault rifle through the beach and shot everyone inside the machine. He crawled through as more Chinese bullets whanged off IFV armor and struck his body armor with shrapnel.

Fierce elation filled him. A crazy laugh bubbled out of his throat. He shot the corpses and stabbed them. He was like a blood-maddened weasel killing chickens and couldn’t stop.

“Kavanagh!”

Paul snarled, twirling around, emptying another magazine in the close confines.

“Sergeant Kavanagh, are you in an IFV? Is it still operational?” the colonel asked through the battle-net.

That brought Paul back to sanity. Gore plugged the rifle’s orifice and Chinese blood dripped from the bayonet. He’d done this before, used enemy weaponry against them. Now he was going to do it again.

In seconds, he realigned the IFV’s heavy machine gun and the autocannons. He poured ordnance against Chinese targets, concentrating on vehicles.

“Use Kavanagh’s IFV as the rally point,” the colonel said over the radio. “Now move. This is our chance.”

The commandos out on the prairie did one of the hardest things in combat. They got up and moved under enemy fire. Because they were the best and knew the odds, they attacked.

The others were only a little less lethal than Kavanagh was, and the commandos used every advantage he gave them. Another ten minutes of combat ended the fight, with every Chinese soldier dead, dying or running away onto the prairie. At great cost to the SOCOM commando team, the enemy HQ had been neutralized and the rest of the Chinese 34th Mechanized Division thrown into confusion. There was no more brain to tell them what to do and when to do it.

It didn’t look as if the last Chinese reserves were going to hit the lead Americans with any kind of coordination.

-4- The Event

Shun Li watched on the wall as a giant-imaged Marshal Meng informed the Ruling Committee of the failure of Eighth Corps. Meng used to stare boldly at them as if to challenge the entire body. Now, as he reported, the marshal gazed down.

“Someone in my command must have betrayed their formation,” Meng said in a low voice, his lips barely moving. “Helicopter-borne commando teams and surprise missile assaults struck Eighth Corps’ various headquarter battalions. After their destruction, it became impossible to coordinate our assaults. Piecemeal, the formations…” Meng straightened his shoulders, and for a moment, his gaze darted upward, showing bloodshot eyes.

This is a defeated soldier, Shun Li realized.

Meng looked down again, and his voice continued to drone. “I feel I must inform you that the three divisions attacked valiantly, at times charging headlong against Behemoth regiments. It…” His voice cracked and he breathed deeply like a bull about to face the butcher. “The Americans have finally mastered the art of combined arms. It has long been one of our secret weapons—”

“Stick to the issue,” Chairman Hong snapped. The medium-sized man in the black suit no longer tapped his stomach with his thumbs. He sat up, acting the part of the Leader as he used to do.

As if slapped, Meng stopped speaking. Lines appeared in his forehead.

He wonders if he can be angry at the interruption. Shun Li realized. The Chairman would never have interjected like this even four days ago.

“None of the three divisions respond to my calls,” Meng whispered. “As a fighting formation, Eighth Corps is gone, although I would hasten to add that no doubt many of their soldiers remain.”

“Yet you have just told us that only coordinated formations count, and disorganized corps, divisions and brigades are useless,” Hong said.

Meng didn’t answer.

“Hmm…” Hong said. “Marshal Meng, you will await the Ruling Committee’s orders.”

Meng glanced at Marshal Chao Pin. The tall old man said nothing.

“Not for your benefit,” Hong said, “but for China’s brave soldiers, I will add that the battle is not yet over. It is, however, unfortunate that you have allowed the army entrusted to you to die so miserably.”

Meng looked on with astonishment. Shun Li could see now that he had golden flecks in his eyes. Clearly, Chinese marshals were no longer used to this sort of talk.

Marshal Chao Pin stirred and raised his white-haired head. “I must protest your last comment,” he said.

Hong ignored the old man as he stared at Meng’s image on the wall. “I will speak to you again soon. What I say then will give your shattered army renewed life.” The Chairman made a dismissive gesture.

The major in charge of communications hesitated. A second later, Meng’s image disappeared.

That’s interesting, Shun Li thought. The major didn’t even glance at Chao Pin for confirmation.

“What hope can you possibly give them?” Chao Pin asked.

As he stood, Chairman Hong ignored the Army Minister. Instead, he gazed as the other assembled members. There was something different in Hong’s eyes. They were dark indeed and glittered with authority.

“Police Minister,” Hong said.

Shun Li’s head snapped up. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Those murder squads…

“Yes, Chairman,” she answered.

“Come stand by me,” Hong ordered.

Shun Li slid back her chair, stood and stepped to him. She noted how the two military ministers eyed her. They were wary and— They’re afraid, she realized. They should be.

“Stand here,” Hong said, pointing at the floor beside him.

Shun Li obeyed, standing on the spot like a young police cadet at attention.

“Draw your sidearm,” the Chairman told her.

“This is unseemly conduct,” Chao Pin said. “Yet if you insist on a demonstration, I also have a gun.” The old man unlatched a holster flap at his side and drew a heavy revolver. With a clunk, he set it on the conference table.

Hong ignored Chao Pin as he stared at Shun Li. “I have given you an order,” he told her.

She had to decide now, this second, where her final loyalty lay. If she drew her pistol, she must act decisively and go all the way for the madman who had implicated her with treasonous conduct. Hong was cunning, and he could strike fast and ruthlessly. The others were overmatched.

Shun Li drew her nine millimeter pistol, letting her arm hang down so the weapon rested against her leg. She knew that if Chao Pin touched his revolver, she would empty her magazine into him. She’d have no other choice.

“Excellent,” Hong told her.

“We have important matters to discuss,” Chao Pin said in an angry voice. “The Americans—”

“Have smashed our armies in Oklahoma,” Hong said. “We have no one to blame for this but ourselves. We waited behind our defensive lines last year. The Germans fought savagely in the Great Lakes region. If we would have attacked then—”

Chao Pin snapped his fingers. “The Germans deserted us in our hour of need the year before that in 2039. We lost face then and lost the battle because of their treachery.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Hong said. “But they certainly fought in 2040. If we would have taken advantage of that and attacked in coordination with them—”

“No,” Chao Pin said. “Last year we lacked supplies to make meaningful assaults. We also lacked tanks, hovercraft, MC ABMs: all devoured in your ill-considered offensives into Colorado and Nebraska.”

Hong’s lips stretched into a devious smile. “And by waiting, as you have done, we have enough today?” he asked.

Chao Pin bristled. “I am not a schoolboy. I am the leader of the Army. I took our military that you had squandered—”

“Shun Li!” Hong said.

She could feel everyone staring at her. Warm and cold sensations surged through her body.

“Shun Li,” Hong said, “you lack formal military training. Yet you are an excellent police leader. Tell me, in your opinion, in Oklahoma, can we turn defeat into victory?”

“I do not know how,” Shun Li said.

“Army Minister, how can we salvage this disaster?” Hong asked.

“We must retreat,” Chao Pin said. “We must trade space for time as we rush reinforcements from Mexico and Arizona. We can possibly stabilize the line in middle Texas.”

“You mean to run away with the Americans on our heels?” Hong asked. “Is that not inviting an even worse disaster, a total defeat everywhere?”

“This is a bitter day,” Chao Pin said, as his lips twisted with distaste.

“No,” Hong said. “This is the day we will smash the Americans and teach them a lesson they will never forget.”

Shun Li couldn’t help herself. She’d been listening to him but keeping her gaze focused ahead. Now she glanced at Hong. His dark eyes glowed with a strange power as evil stirred in him. He frightened her, and yet, she held the gun.

“I am forced to question your reading of the situation,” Chao Pin said.

“Can you solve our dilemma?” Hong asked the marshal.

“Sometimes, as painful as it is, the enemy outfights one,” Chao Pin said. “This has happened here. Now we must deal with it.”

“The answer is no, you cannot solve the dilemma,” Hong said. “But I can solve it.” The devious smile became sinister. “Tell me, Army Minister. What good are you if you can only grant us lost opportunities and defeats?”

“How can you possibly change what has happened in Oklahoma?” Chao Pin asked.

Hong turned his gaze onto the other Ruling Committee members. “Did you hear that? Chao Pin has finally broken down and asked the only one here with an answer to our problem. I find that illuminating. He claims to be a military expert, yet has nothing to offer us.”

“You spout rhetoric but fail to give us your vaunted solution,” Chao Pin said.

“Of course there is a solution. But I doubt anyone has the resolve to carry it out except for me.”

Chao Pin frowned, and understanding lit his eyes. “I hope you do not mean to say nuclear weapons.”

“Yes!” Hong said. “That is exactly what I mean.”

“The American ABM systems—”

“Bah!” Hong said. “Unless they can scramble hundreds of Reflex interceptors, the Americans cannot strike enough low-flying cruise missiles fired from northern Mexico.”

“There are no such cruise missiles in northern Mexico,” Chao Pin said, “certainly not in the abundance you’re implying.”

“But of course there are,” Hong said, “for I have foreseen the Army’s failure. Secretly, under East Lightning guidance, I have smuggled vast quantities of cruise missiles into North America.”

“You spout madness,” Chao Pin said. “Firstly, one or two warheads might get through the American antimissile screen. That wouldn’t be enough for your purposes.”

“You are wrong. Most would get through.”

“I must inform you that the Americans have mass produced tac-lasers and mobile particle beam platforms. Surely, you are aware that the new systems have driven our air force from the front lines. It is one of the reasons the enemy has made these breakthroughs and extended their penetration drives.”

“You surprise me, Marshal. Do you not know by now that I understand these things perfectly? You are, of course, quite correct. If we let the antimissile systems operate freely, they might destroy the majority of the cruise missiles. Those systems, however, will be too busy to focus on the nuclear attack.”

“Busy doing what?” Chao Pin asked.

“Why, destroying what remains of our air force as they make a close assault, letting nothing deter them. The Japanese had to train special units to make kamikaze attacks. Our pilots will sacrifice themselves simply because we order it.”

“This is madness,” Chao Pin said.

“You know it isn’t. Instead, why don’t you admit that you lack the resolve for the hard choices, Army Minister? What good is an air force if it cannot achieve air superiority? Why, nothing, of course—except as decoys. They will attack en masse, diving against the tac-lasers, the Patriot missile batteries and the particle beam platforms. The cruise missiles will follow from behind, detonating and destroying everything, including the American air units.”

Shun Li could hardly believe what she heard. From the shocked expressions around her, neither could the other ministers. Hong suggested vast butchery, and yet… as plans went, it sounded better than a horrible defeat.

Chao Pin shook his head. “What you’re suggesting would need large numbers of nuclear weapons. I wonder if you understand the magnitude of what you’re saying. To halt the onrushing American armor, you would condemn hundreds of thousands of Chinese soldiers to death. Perhaps as bad, the nuclear warheads would irradiate wide swaths of agricultural land. That would defeat the purpose of our invasion.”

“The enemy has already killed masses of Chinese soldiers,” Hong said. “The enemy has also used nuclear weapons on more than one occasion.”

“True,” Chao Pin said, “but the Americans have never used such weapons in abundance on land.”

“Santa Cruz wasn’t on land?” Hong asked.

“That was different,” Chao Pin said.

“You are wrong. Santa Cruz was just like Oklahoma. We face a disaster as they once did. They did not hesitate to solve the problem with nuclear missiles.”

“This is a matter of scale,” Chao Pin said. “The Americans used a single nuclear warhead, maybe two on Santa Cruz, wrecking the port facilities and our amphibious landers all bunched together there. You would have to use hundreds in Oklahoma against the dispersed enemy.”

“Scale, scale,” Hong scoffed. “It is a matter of usage. Today, I resolve to smash the Americans with atomic weapons in order to fix our problem as they once used a thermonuclear device against Chinese arms. Yet you are right in one regard. With this strike, I propose to kill a million enemy soldiers at a blow, maybe more.”

Silence reigned in the room. It was almost painful to Shun Li. The pistol threatened to slip out of her weakened grip. She had to make a conscious effort to tighten her hold.

Army Minister Chao Pin looked older, seeming to grope for words. “Why… for your outcome… We would need to saturate the battlefield with nuclear weapons. Doing so would murder millions of our soldiers and those of our SAF allies.”

“Why am I the only one able to see the logic of our situation?” Hong asked. “Perhaps I alone have the breadth of vision and the resolve to make the hard decisions. Can’t you understand that most of our soldiers are already enemy captives or will surrender in the next few days? In other words, they are already dead to our cause—they cannot die a second time to us. Therefore, we lose nothing by the nuclear weapons that we haven’t already lost. The choice is clear. Do we accept our present losses and run with our tails between our legs? Or do we expend our air force and use the cruise missiles and kill American armies? In fact, such a vicious strike might well end the war in stalemate in North America. That will give us time to deal with the Indians and Russians.”

Chao Pin sat in his chair blinking. Finally, he stirred, shaking his head. “I cannot agree with you. We have fought and lost in Oklahoma. Now it is time to retreat, save our armies and regroup for another battle. Unleashing these cruise missiles—in the mass you suggest—could well lead to a strategic nuclear exchange—and that would be the end of the world.”

“Your timidity startles me,” Hong said. “It shouldn’t, but it does. The Americans have shown the resolve needed for these decisions. Why, last year they destroyed the GD Atlantic fleet with nuclear weapons.”

“Yes,” Chao Pin said, “they used nuclear weapons in the ocean, leaving no holes in the water. We have done likewise with nuclear depth charges. What you’re suggesting… it will change the nature of the war. Tactical nuclear usage will quickly turn into strategic exchanges, which is mutual suicide. We must find a different solution or face possible human extinction.”

“What solution do you suggest?”

“I do not know yet,” Chao Pin admitted.

Chairman Hong faced the other ministers and his forehead gleamed. “We have come to a crossroads. We cannot follow Chao Pin in accepting this bitter defeat. I believe that will begin a chain reaction all along the line against us. The entire North American war effort might collapse in a mass rout. If that happens, the nine of us in this room will not survive in power. I guarantee you that. In fact, some in China might well put us before firing squads. I do not think we nine have a choice. We must see this through to the end even if that involves a nuclear war.

“Agricultural Minister,” Hong said. “You have heard rice rioters asking for your head on a pike. The clamor for that will broaden once word of this defeat grows. The people will realize that no more wheat or beef will arrive from Texas. Many more than before will go hungry in China.”

The Agricultural Minister rubbed his throat as if he could feel a rope tightening there. “Use the cruise missiles,” he said.

Hong nodded. “Yes. You understand. Now the rest of you must decide. Fail to act and die. It is your choice.”

“No, no,” Chao Pin said. “We have a moral obligation. We cannot just—”

Hong laughed scornfully. “Does that obligate our soldiers to die because of your shameful handling of them? I say no. I can save them, well, some of them. Fortunately, for China, I have foreseen this disaster. If you had listened to me last year, none of this would have happened. If you do not listen to me today…”

“Use the missiles,” the Manufacturing Minister said.

“Finance, Transport,” Hong said, “How do you advise?”

“Use the missiles,” the Finance Minister whispered.

“It is a hard choice,” the Transport Minister said, as sweat made her skin glisten.

“Do you wish to die horribly?” Hong asked her.

“No.”

“Then support me,” he said in what sounded like a reasonable tone.

The Transport Minister looked down at the table. A moment later, she nodded, although without looking up.

Hong’s eyes gleamed and he pointed at old Chao Pin. “The man is a traitor to China, in the pay of the CIA. Shun Li, shoot him.”

“You’re mad,” Chao Pin said, and he reached for his revolver.

In a daze, Shun Li raised her nine millimeter and pulled the trigger three times. The gun barked with awful sounds as she fired into his face. The old man blew backward as pieces of his skull rained against the wall. Blood smeared the Navy Minister’s shoulder and neck. He cringed away from Chao Pin beside him.

Shun Li stood frozen as smoke drifted from her barrel. “What about the Navy Minister?” she heard herself ask Hong.

The minister’s eyes widened with terror.

“How do you vote?” Hong asked the Navy Minister.

“F-Fire the cruise missiles,” the man stammered.

“Excellent,” Hong said. “I am going to need your aid for this. Many of the fighters and drones belong to the Navy. They will follow your direct orders. Will you help China in this grim hour?”

“Freely and gladly, Leader,” the Navy Minister said.

Leader? Shun Li thought. We are returning to the old ways. She holstered her pistol and headed for the door. It was time to unleash her own murder squads against former Chao Pin’s closest supporters in and around Beijing.

It was happening. They were doing it.

First Rank Fu Tao of East Lightning was smoking a cigarette when the order to launch came through. He stood beside the Army major of the five missile platforms.

The Mexican mountains were cold, with snow on the ground. Stunted trees grew nearby, and an icy wind made Tao shiver. Far in the distance, he spied the ribbon of the Rio Grande River. Beyond was Texas, the newest province of Greater Mexico.

Tao was young, a mere twenty-three years old. He had a round face and a wisp of a black mustache. Small for his age—four foot eleven in English measurements—he smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. Despite his slight frame, he had lightning reflexes. More importantly, he killed without remorse.

Tao had gone hungry the first sixteen years of his life. He came from the border region near Tibet, growing up in various orphanages. The sexual abuse and beatings had scarred him physically, mentally and spiritually. He ate well these days, but preferred his smokes.

Killing in cold blood was easy for Tao. He simply imagined his target was one of several rapists he’d known. After joining the secret police, he’d had the privilege of returning to the border region. There, he hunted his old tormenters. The talks with the men had proven long, exhausting and strangely unfulfilling. Finally, he realized the problem. The pain of their shot-out kneecaps prevented them from savoring the terror of their deaths.

The last man, Mr. Yuen—

As the order to launch came through from the Ruling Committee in Beijing, First Rank Fu Tao grinned around the dangling cigarette between his lips. He remembered Mr. Yuen, the shivering, the pleading and finally the hopelessness in the man’s eyes. Yes. That session had been rewarding.

Afterward, Tao had used a knife, and the amount of blood in ancient Mr. Yuen amazed Tao. He would never have suspected the old rapist would have so much gore inside his sickly body.

The Army major, a man in his forties, blinked at the screen. “Is this accurate?” he asked the person in Beijing.

“Fire your missiles at the designated coordinates,” the woman in the screen said.

“Do you realize our missiles carry nuclear warheads?” the Army major asked.

“Is there an East Lightning operative nearby?” the woman asked in an exasperated tone. She had shortcut hair and dark eyes of a compelling nature.

Of course, Tao recognized her. He threw his cigarette into a snowy patch. The cigarette hissed, guttering out. “First Rank Tao speaking, Police Minister,” he said.

“Instruct the major that he must obey at once,” she said.

Tao hated looking up at anyone—the major was five nine. Still, orders were orders. Tao drew his gun, and he gave the major a flat-eyed stare. “You must obey.”

“I realize that,” the major said. “Yet I’m not sure—”

First Rank Tao had a callus on his trigger finger. It pressed against the metal, and he heard a click as he shot the man in the stomach. He delighted in the look of shock. Oh, this was good. The major might have fallen backward. Instead, he thudded onto his knees, and he cradled his stomach as blood began to drip between his fingers.

Now you’re shorter than me. Controlling his urge to laugh, Tao stepped up to the man. He shoved the barrel of his gun into the major’s mouth. Suck on that, you whore.

He pulled the trigger three times. The corpse toppled into the snow as it began to twist and jerk.

Every Army officer and specialist of the missile unit turned to stare. The rest of the East Lightning operatives drew their weapons, training them on the nearest individual.

“Was that truly necessary?”

Tao spun around in surprise. “Yes, Police Minister. He disobeyed your direct order. My instructions were clear. Kill without hesitation any who fail to obey.”

“I see,” she said. “How long will it be until you can find the new man in charge?”

“In less than three minutes.”

“See to it,” she said.

It took Tao less time than that. He crunched through the snow to the nearest Army man. “Where is the second in command?” he asked.

The man stammered; his eyes were still on his former commander.

Tao shot him, too. The next Army man pointed at a slack-faced captain. With a shout, Tao forced the man to sprint to him. The First Rank pointed at the screen, following as the man ran to it.

He arrived in time to hear the captain say, “Yes, Police Minister. At once, Police Minister. Yes, we have the coordinates.”

The only piece of self-awareness that Tao possessed was the realization that once he started killing, he found it difficult to stop. If it were up to him, he would shoot every Army soldier in the unit. He could not do that, however. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t continue in his East Lightning post then.

Therefore, he had to look down. If he saw their frightened faces, the urge to kill would overpower his resolve.

First Rank Tao understood that few people could kill in cold blood as quickly as he could. It’s why he’d become a First Rank—a sergeant in American terms—at twenty-three years of age. Sometimes, Tao wondered if the sexual abuse in his youth had aged him before his time.

Maybe, but he didn’t like to think about that. Instead, he shook another cigarette from his pack. He lit it and inhaled. The smoke felt good in his lungs.

At the Army captain’s orders, the missile personal ran to their platforms. They worked in haste, and most of them had stiff, unbelieving faces.

Five minutes later, they were ready to launch the missiles. Fu Tao knew that nuclear missiles made bigger bangs than other types. He didn’t care otherwise or really understand the significance of what he witnessed here today.

The Army captain shouted at him. That made Tao angry. With startling swiftness, he drew his gun and marched at the man. How dare the captain take that tone with him?

“You whore!” Tao yelled. “I will show—”

“No, no,” the captain pleaded, pressing the palms of his hands together in front of his chest. “You misunderstand me, sir.”

“I’m a First Rank, not an officer,” Tao said angrily.

“Of course, of course,” the captain said. “The missiles will launch in seconds.”

“They’re supposed to.”

“I shouted at you to move because the exhaust flames might harm you.”

Tao squinted at the Army captain. Finally, he motioned to the other East Lightning operatives. Then he followed the captain to a safer location.

Thirty seconds later, the missiles ignited. One after another, the rockets roared with power. Flames melted snow and created great billowing clouds of smoke.

Impressed and frightened, Tao watched them climb into the sky. The higher they flew, the faster they went. In seconds, each missile sped out of sight, heading for America.

“We did it,” the captain whispered. “We’ve launched nuclear warheads at the terrible Americans.”

Tao wondered why the man sweated as he did. Tao noticed the gun in his hand then. With a grin, he thought about putting the barrel against the man’s forehead and pulling the trigger. Sighing, Tao holstered the weapon. Not today. No, it was time to report to the Police Minister that the Army personnel had done exactly as instructed.

Turbofans roared as the Red Dragon cruise missiles reached maximum velocity at a little over eight hundred kilometers per hour. Each missile was seven meters long, weighing 1600 kilograms at liftoff and carrying a Z13 nuclear device.

Countless cruise missile brigades launched from the mountains of northern Mexico. At first, five, then ten, fifteen, twenty Red Dragons crossed the Rio Grande River, entering Texas airspace. More kept coming, masses like a bee swarm, flying low to the ground, at treetop level.

Their internal navigation systems unerringly sped them for Oklahoma, for their specific destinations. Within the span of fifteen minutes, nearly five hundred cruise missiles fanned out, carrying destiny in their nosecones.

Captain Penner of the Canadian Air Force was on loan to the Americans in the Southern Front. He’d survived the Germans last year in New York, and now faced the Chinese and their allies on the Great Plains.

Penner flew an F-35A2, with advanced air-to-air missiles attached. He and Lieutenant Aachen, his wingman, provided air cover for the exploitation tanks down below. Far to the rear flew American AWACS, giving them tactical instructions.

The captain looked down out of the cockpit and saw giant Behemoth tanks. They were dots on the landscape heading for Oklahoma City.

His radio crackled, and the air controller told him, “Twenty enemy fighters approaching, bearing one eight zero at three hundred knots, fifty-three miles out.” Then the air controller swore.

“What’s wrong?” Penner asked. There were several moments of static, as he strained to listen.

I don’t think the Chinese are jamming our communications.

Then the air controller said, “Don’t know what this means, but it looks like the Chinese are throwing every air asset they have left against us. It’s a blizzard. Drones, fighters, bombers—maybe everything the Chinese have been saving—are coming out to play. This must be an all-out air offensive.” He swore again. “They’re attacking all down the line, everywhere. Okay, okay. We’re sending twelve, no, eight V-10s your way, Captain; not as many as first planned, but let’s hope it’s enough.”

“Roger that,” Penner said.

“You’re on your own for several minutes.”

“We can handle it.”

“Whatever else happens, Captain…”

“I know,” Penner said. “Don’t let them touch the Behemoths.” He knew the mantra. The super tanks were supposed to be the war-winning weapon. He received more data on the approaching enemy and began to arm his missiles.

This was going to get hairy real soon.

Anna Chen watched the President as he fixated on the giant screen. It showed thousands of Chinese fighters and drones heading for the front lines.

They were in Underground Bunker #5, several hundred feet below and to the side of the White House. A huge circular conference table dominated the chamber, with two armed Marine guards standing at the only exit.

President Sims had aged this past year. He had thinning hair and sad eyes, and let his shoulders hunch far too much. He wasn’t eating or sleeping well these days. The toll of responsibility told on him physically. She’d thought defeating the German Dominion would have cheered him. Instead, the President fretted about the coming casualties of the summer battles in Texas and New Mexico. China, Brazil and their allies would wrestle with US and Canadian forces for control of southern America. So far, Operation Reclamation had succeeded far better than anyone could have foreseen. Even that hadn’t made David Sims smile. She knew he felt a disaster building.

Anna knew these things because she was the President’s lover, as well as one of his chief aides. In her mid-forties, Anna remained beautiful and sharp-eyed. She had a mixed heritage, half white and half Chinese in a country that loathed China.

Max Harold of Homeland Security stood as he watched the big screen. Harold was like an encyclopedia, able to spout facts at will. He displayed little emotion but ironclad logic. Physically unremarkable, Max was balding with liver spots on his head. He wore a rumpled suit and had a distracted air like a preoccupied professor.

In the past few years, Homeland Security’s director had amassed great power. His genius and ability to outwork any three people had been instrumental in creating the vast Militia organization. They had gone a long way toward ensuring that America had enough soldiers to fight the invaders.

“I’m not sure I understand this,” the President was saying. “We drove Chinese aircraft from the battlefield over a week ago. Why are they attempting an air offensive now?”

“Is that a precise statement, sir?” Harold asked. “We gained local air superiority over the breakthrough nodes. But if our drones attempted deep penetration raids, the Chinese always rose up to meet them. Their rarity over the front has been artificial, solely due to Chinese decisions.”

“I remember the initial battles,” the President said testily. “We drove them away.”

Anna remembered them too. American fighters and drones hadn’t proven extraordinarily deadly this time. New mobile particle beam platforms and other battlefield systems like tactical lasers had devastated Chinese air assets. Mainly, though, despite their paltry numbers, the new particle beams did most of the damage. There was a reason for that. Tac-lasers needed to be on target several seconds longer than the particle beams did to destroy an enemy vehicle.

“Why are the Chinese attacking like this now?” President Sims asked.

Harold crossed his arms, studying the big screen, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“This looks like a wave assault,” Sims said.

“I imagine our Behemoths are the issue,” Harold said. “Marshal Meng must have decided to trade his air force for our super tanks, hoping to destroy as many of them as possible. We’ve been waiting for something like that. General McGraw told us two weeks ago his tankers have been preparing for mass missile or air assaults. He plans to turn such an attack into a trap. The rail guns make excellent antiair weapons.”

“Sir,” the communications captain said in a shaky voice. “I believe I should switch data. I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Without waiting for the President’s confirmation, the captain tapped her screen, changing the view. Now instead of just Oklahoma, the big screen showed northern Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma. The air symbols disappeared. In their place were bright red dots. They moved fast, fanning out across Texas, heading toward the Oklahoma Front.

“What are those supposed to be?” the President asked.

“Missiles,” the captain said.

“Blue Swan EMP missiles?” the President asked.

Director Harold shook his head. “That won’t help the Chinese this time. Ever since California, we’ve hardened most of our electronics against electromagnetic pulses.”

A portion of the red dots disappeared from the big screen.

“What just happened?” the President asked.

The communications captain checked her equipment, looking up several seconds later. “They knocked out one of our SR drones, sir, eliminated out one of our high-flying eyes.”

“What kind of missiles are those?” the President asked.

“What?” the captain asked, as if talking to herself. Stricken, she looked up. “Mr. President, I don’t think this can be right.”

“What is it?” Sims asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The missiles—cruise missiles—appear to be Red Dragons.”

“And?” the President asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Harold turned from the big screen. “Sir,” he said, with an edge to his voice. “Red Dragons are nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.”

“Are you sure?” Sims asked.

Anna was sure. Harold had a mind like an encyclopedia. He was seldom wrong when he rattled off facts.

“Where are the Red Dragons headed?” the President asked.

Harold pointed at the big screen. “It looks as if those cruise missiles are headed for the Oklahoma Front.”

“Nukes?” Sims asked. “That’s crazy. That’s… alert the defenses!” he shouted. “Scramble every Reflex interceptor we have.”

“Everyone is already on high alert, sir,” the captain said. “SAC just informed me they’re scrambling more interceptors now. Several are already on station.”

“Will the rest of them get into position in time?” Sims asked.

“A few will, sir,” the captain said.

Anna watched the President. He grew pale, and then short of breath. “What’s their plan?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Nuclear weapons in that number will kill tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of ground pounders.”

Maybe millions, Anna told herself. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Now we know why the Chinese planes are attacking,” Harold said. “They’re running interference for the cruise missiles.”

“But…” Sims said. “Won’t that mean the deaths of their pilots?”

“I don’t think the Chinese leadership cares about them at this point,” Harold said. “They mean to win here whatever way they can.”

“But…” the President said, seeming to grope for words.

Max Harold balled one of his hands into a fist and smacked his other palm.

The angry gesture surprised Anna. Normally, Harold kept himself under perfect control. She watched him, wondering if she was getting a glimpse into his soul.

Rage blazed in his eyes as the Director of Homeland Security grounded his teeth together. “They’re going to pay for this,” he said.

“Lord help us,” whispered Sims, slumping back in his chair. “It’s really happening. I can’t believe this is really happening.”

“Yes!” Harold shouted. “We must retaliate now.”

The President stared at him.

“I demand an immediate retaliation!” Harold said.

“No,” Sims said.

As many watched the big screen in horror, the leaders began to argue about how to save the situation.

Captain Penner banked sharply as his anti-G suit inflated, helping to keep the blood in his head so he wouldn’t black out. A Chinese antiair missile flashed past his F35A2. He concentrated as the edges of his vision began to go dark.

“Retreat,” the air controller officer told him. “You’re fighting too far forward.”

A fiery explosion a quarter mile away from the canopy showed him that Lieutenant Aachen had just bought it.

Chinese combat UAVs filled the sky, black forms like evil bats, with glowing “eyes” showing where the video cameras had been installed. They were fast and maneuverable suckers, with deadly missiles leaving rocket trails.

As his F35A2 completed the banking turn, straightening, Penner kicked in the afterburners. A roar of sound filled his ears and his fighter seemed to leap forward. G forces pressed him against his seat. Pushing the controls, he dove to build velocity. His destination was the particle beam platforms toiling to catch up to the forward Behemoths, hoping for their covering fire.

A growing noise in the cockpit told him the Chinese jammed hard.

“Captain,” the air controller said.

Penner didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice.

“I have bad news for you,” the controller said. “Cruise missiles are heading your way.”

“They’re not my worry,” Penner said.

“I’m afraid they are. They’re Red Dragon cruise missiles. They carry nuclear warheads.”

“What?” Penner asked, with a sinking feeling in his gut.

“You have to engage the UAVs now. Command doesn’t want those craft near the PBT-2 systems so they can have a clear field of fire against the Red Dragons.”

In that second, Penner realized he wasn’t going to survive the battle. This wasn’t like facing the GD naval air last year. The Chinese were going nuclear—the bastards. That meant— Forget what it means. Let’s just do this.

He’d joined the Canadian Air Force to stop foreign aggressors. He could do that just as well down here as up north. The world ganged up on Canada and America. Okay. It was his turn to pay the piper. He’d made it through the Germans. The Chinese played a different game, more rugged. No. That wasn’t right, more brutal.

With a knot in his gut, Penner cut speed and banked hard. His anti-G suit barely kept him from blacking out. The growling in his headphones was louder than ever.

He saw an enemy drone. He hated their very shape, looking like little flying saucers with weird alien wings. With a flick of his thumb, he activated his cannon. He kicked in the afterburners once more, roaring at the enemy, centering the drone on his targeting grid. He felt his fighter shake as several shells exited the cannon.

An explosion in the air made him snarl. “Got you, you little prick.”

More drones appeared. They just kept on coming. They were maneuverable little devils, able to turn tighter and faster because AI systems didn’t have to worry about blacking out. He retargeted, and the cannon spewed shells.

The growling quit for a moment, and he tracked on his radar. Something fast flew down low below him.

He cursed. It was a cruise missile, a Red Dragon. It was happening. He hoped a particle beam could nail it. Then he didn’t have any more time to worry about that. He was too busy fighting for his life, hoping some American V-10s would arrive and give him a hand.

As the Chinese cruise missiles sped toward destiny, Captain Bo Green’s Reflex interceptor settled into attack position miles above the ground.

A couple of years ago, the North American Defense Net kept the interceptors in groups of three. Now the interceptors worked alone, since there was so much extra area to cover.

Thirty such craft remained up at all times around the continental US and here in the gut in the Midwest. Each interceptor loomed larger than a C-5 Galaxy cargo plane. Each carried an ultra-hardened mirror on the bottom of the aircraft, the reflex of the strategic battle system.

Giant antiballistic missile posts ringed the country and now dotted the center too. Their task was to stab the heavens with powerful lasers and burn down incoming warheads. The stations made an ICBM exchange between the North American Alliance and China nearly impossible.

In 2038, President Sims had used the strategic ABMs to destroy every enemy satellite the lasers could reach. No one was going to monitor the US or use space mirrors to fire enemy lasers down into America if he could help it.

Instead of ICBMs, the danger these days came from cruise missiles and low-level stealth bombers. The strategic ABMs could not hit those unless the enemies were in direct line of sight to the particular station. The Reflex interceptor changed the equation, as the ABM station could bounce the laser off the plane’s mirror and hit a low-flying target. The trick was making precise calculations and getting the Reflex high enough and in exactly the right position.

“We have target acquisition,” Captain Green said.

“You are weapons free, I say again, weapons free,” a NORAD major ordered.

The strategic ABM station in Topeka aimed its giant laser at Green’s belly mirror and fired its pulse. The powerful beam flashed upward. Like a banking billiard ball, the ray struck the airborne mirror and sped toward Oklahoma. The first pulse stabbed the lead Red Dragon cruise missile, destroying it with intense heat.

“Good work, Captain,” the NORAD major said. “Reposition now.”

Thirty seconds later, another pulse-beam from the Topeka station struck his reflex mirror. The ray bounced and traveled at the speed of light, missing the next Chinese cruise missile.

Before NORAD could comment, a warning light flashed on his control panel. Green studied the readings. The mirror had taken damage, too much according to instrument. With each extra pulse-strike, the odds would increase of a burn-through against the plane.

“My mirror had degraded seven percent beyond the safety limit,” Green said.

“There’s no one else to take your place, Captain,” the NORAD major said. “I don’t have to remind you that this is a nuclear attack.”

Green nodded. He used to wonder if this day would ever come. Now the wondering was over. “Moving into position,” he said. After a full minute had passed, he said, “Ready.”

For a third time, the Topeka ABM station fired at the Reflex mirror on the belly of the interceptor. The instrumentation proved faulty, or maybe Captain Green’s odds were just bad today. The ABM laser struck the belly mirror and reached out, destroying another Red Dragon. Then the laser burned through the degraded mirror and stabbed into the guts of the interceptor.

Alarms rang in the cockpit. In Topeka, they shut down the laser, but it was too late. The giant interceptor split in half, sliced apart by the giant beam. Captain Green didn’t have the opportunity to eject, as the laser burned his body, killing him with intense heat.

His sacrifice helped take down an extra nuclear-tipped missile, but the remaining Red Dragons continued their attack.

Captain Penner glanced at a gauge. He was running low on cannon shells.

The rest of his teammates were gone, dead or drifting to the Earth as they dangled from their parachutes. The American V-10s were almost here, but that wasn’t going to matter to him.

Even as Penner lined up another Chinese UAV, the rest raced for the Behemoths and particle beam platforms.

An annoying beep told him the enemy had guidance radar lock-on. A Chinese antiair missile zoomed at his plane.

Penner turned on afterburners, expelled chaff and tried to break the radar lock. None of it helped. He watched his HUD. The damn missile barreled for him. Nothing should fly so fast. Why couldn’t it all be cannons and gunnery like the aces of WWI? That would have been a war. The Canadians had been on the winning side that time.

Will we win this one? Not if the other side is nuking us.

Barely before the antiair missile stuck, Penner reached down and grasped the twin ejection handles, pulling hard. The canopy blew away so wind howled around his helmet, and his seat violently ejected from the aircraft. It felt as if a giant shoved him down into his chair. As he lofted, he witnessed the strike. The enemy missile took out the rear of his fighter as it exploded. Shrapnel billowed in a deadly cloud. Any of those pieces could kill him. He watched, watched— This time his anti-G suit couldn’t keep him from blacking out. He came to… maybe seconds later, drifting down on his seat, with a gigantic parachute overhead. For him, the battle was over.

Guess none of the shrapnel got me. That’s something, at least. I’m still alive and kicking.

He began watching the ground. It was still far away. He hoped he could make a soft landing.

Far below the air battle of Captain Penner and many miles south, a PBT-2 battery on I-35 targeted the lead Red Dragon cruise missile.

Data from a SR drone fed its Waylander tracking system. The Waylander AI reviewed the speed, altitude and behavior of the target.

In seconds, in the Engagement Control Station, the TCO analyzed the speed, altitude and trajectory of the track. He authorized engagement and told his TCA to go from “standby” to “operate” mode.

At that point, automated systems took over. The computer determined which battery’s beam cannon had the highest kill probability. Generators roared, pumping power to the plant.

The nearest Red Dragon’s internal systems realized the enemy had radar lock-on. Its AI could learn, and it had from the Reflex lasers, radioing the data between missiles. The other Red Dragons deployed chaff and began to jink.

The Waylander system quit relying on the SR pickup as the cruise missile flew into its line of sight. The radar gave ratios to the various imagines, highlighting the highest probabilities. Alarms sounded in the PBT-2 command center. A second and third Red Dragon now appeared.

“Are they’re saturating us?” the TCO asked.

As the latest cruise missile headed for Sixth Behemoth Regiment, a PBT-2 system accelerated particles. Then it fired a burst, which raced at nearly the speed of light. The particles struck, and then heated the targeted Red Dragon to an intolerable degree. The cruise missile exploded.

At the same time, the second battery fired at the second cruise missile, taking it down.

The third battery malfunctioned, whining out of control as it accelerated particles, unable to fire them.

The first battery targeted the next Red Dragon. The second PBT-2 cannon took that moment to destroy another missile.

“We’re doing it,” the TCO said.

More cruise missiles kept coming. The initial Chinese targeting chief must have realized the Americans would go to extraordinary lengths to guard their prized Behemoth regiments. It seemed the Chinese used blizzard tactics.

Now, however, the Behemoth tanks got into the action. Their fire control systems were just as good as the particle beam platforms, and could hit at longer ranges.

“The Chinese don’t know who they’re messing with,” the TCO said.

Maybe he was right.

It was hot inside the green glowing insides of the tank. With the outer hatch shut and the heaters pouring, there was no cold air at all.

Jake Higgins unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He sat in the commander’s chair, his underarms slick with sweat. He knew the odds. They all did. The colonel had just radioed them with the information. The Chinese sent nuclear cruise missiles, and they were almost here.

The super tanks no longer traveled for Oklahoma City. HQ had radioed for them to circle into a defensive laager, with their rail guns elevated skyward. The colonel had other ideas.

“I don’t care what nuclear defensive strategy says. We split apart to present fewer targets.”

The Behemoths did exactly that, radiating outward, traveling away from the central particle beam platforms. Each tank was still plugged in the PBT-2 net, their radar systems providing linked coverage.

“The farther apart we are, the wider our radar net,” the colonel said.

Jake didn’t know if that was right or not. Maybe it was just good BS for doing what they already did.

The Red Dragons roared at them from treetop level. Chinese UAVs barreled down out of the sky. Some US V-10s tried to engage them. The Chinese drones weren’t playing along. Obviously, their objective was the particle beam platforms. The drones also added to the number of enemy targets. Only one set counted now—the cruise missiles.

Jake swayed in his seat as he watched his crew going about their tasks. With his regular intensity, Chet tracked. Grant kept up a constant chatter with the PBT-2 net and Simons drove fast, with a white-knuckled grip on the controls. Jake kept debating whether he should tell Simons to take it easy. Despite the advanced hydraulics, at this speed, the rail gun would lack precise stability.

There were no two ways about this. Nukes frightened Jake. Sitting here, waiting—If I’d let the Detention Center goons take me away, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Corporal,” Chet said.

“I see it,” Jake said. “Simons, slow it down.”

The driver ignored or didn’t hear him.

“Simons!” Jake said.

“What?” the driver said.

“Slow it down, I said.”

The long-faced Simons cast Jake an angry look, but he slowed the tank.

Jake shook his head. The nukes were wrong, maybe even evil. They’d beaten the Chinese fairly. This tank could take anything the enemy could throw at them… conventionally speaking, of course.

Is this what it had felt like for Comanche warriors back in the day? The Comanches had been the best light cavalry in the world. No one could compare to their horsemanship and daring. Imagine thundering at US soldiers the first time. A brave would have yelled at the top of his voice, shaking his lance with battle joy. Then US soldiers would have stood up, raised their Winchesters and shot down the brave with advanced technology.

I guess nukes trump Behemoth tanks. Actually, I’m surprised the toe to toe fighting lasted this long. Jake scowled. He should have talked to his mom more often, phoned or written a letter at least. No one wrote letters these days, just sent texts or emails. He hadn’t even done that much with her.

Jake couldn’t believe this was the end of his life. How in the world were they going to stop every cruise missile? Ha! They wouldn’t stop anything if he played Hamlet in his commander’s chair.

“Let’s do this,” Jake said. “Simons, stop the tank. It’s time to shoot.”

“Are you crazy?” Simon shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Jake stood, moved to Simons and grabbed the back of the man’s jacket. “Stop now, damnit. I’m giving you an order.”

Simons scowled at him.

Jake shifted his stance, ready to cock a fist and smash Simons in the face. I need to buy some heavy metal rings, leave an impression in the man’s face. When he gave an order, he meant it.

“You’re crazy,” Simons muttered. But he slowed the tank. “We’re supposed to have a lieutenant or at least a sergeant in charge. Whoever heard of a corporal running a tank?

“Yeah, that’s the breaks,” Jake said.

Soon, the monster tank squealed to a halt. Chet raised the cannon. Jake listened as Grant talked to the battle-net operator. Thirty seconds later, it was their turn. They were a mile and a half from the PBT-2. In rail gun range, that made no difference.

On his screen, Jake watched the targeted cruise missile flash toward the center of the formation. Man, the thing moved fast.

“Fire!” he shouted.

Chet pulled the trigger, although he didn’t actually fire. With the way it was set up, the trigger-pull gave the internal AI tracking system the green light to do its thing.

Five seconds later, the engine revved with power. A red firing light blinked on Jake’s screen. “Here it goes,” he said.

A surge went through the super tank, making the entire three hundred tons shake. The rail gun sent a penetrator screaming through the cannon.

They weren’t the only ones relying on computer AI technology, though. A Chinese UAV dropped at precisely the wrong moment. The saucer-shaped craft with its alien wings took the penetrator meant for the Red Dragon.

“Son of a bitch!” Jake shouted.

“Corporal Higgins,” the PBT-2 captain said over the data-net.

“I can’t believe it either,” Jake said. “We’re getting ready to fire again.”

“Negative,” the captain said. “I have it.”

He was wrong. The selected particle beam weapon system took that moment to overheat. Automatic safety programs began a shutdown procedure.

Jake watched his screen. Others watched on theirs. Chinese UAVs dove at them, jamming and expelling chaff.

A Red Dragon cruise missile sped low over the Earth. Its internal systems categorized the giant tanks for what they were. Did it recognize the increased distance between machines? Whatever the case, the cruise missile headed up for the maximum blast value.

Corporal Jake Higgins leaned forward in his commander’s chair. Sweat pooled on his face, with his eyes glued to the screen. His mouth turned dry. “Take it down, Chet.”

Chet pulled the trigger. As the AI made its calculations, Simons shouted in terror. The engine revved, building power for a launch. He engaged the gears. With a lurch, the mighty machine shot forward.

It caught Jake by surprise. He hadn’t buckled in. As he yelled, he launched headfirst at the screen, smacking his forehead against it.

A penetrator roared out of the cannon, but it lacked accuracy.

“Simons!” Jake shouted.

Onscreen, another enemy UAV disintegrated. They were thick around this Red Dragon.

Blood dripped across Jake’s face. At the same time, the Chinese Z13 thermonuclear warhead detonated with 300 kilotons of power. It was located at the forward edge of the spread-out Behemoths, making ground zero over two miles away.

The blast, heat and radiation struck the nearest tanks. Incredibly, a Behemoth flipped. As if a giant smashed its fist, dents and then torn rents appeared on the hardened armor of others. Farther away, the PBT-2 platforms disappeared in a flash of heat.

Simons wept bitterly as he put the pedal to the metal. Their tank squealed and swayed as it fled the mushroom cloud billowing into existence.

“Are we buttoned up?” Jake shouted. They couldn’t survive from this close. That was common sense. Yet the desire to live was too powerful for mere logic. “Button up!” Jake roared. He lurched to a panel and began flipping buttons. Locks snapped shut on the hatches. They were going NBC, seeing if they truly could survive a nuclear strike.

Then gale force winds shrieked over the tank. Jake froze. Once, he’d had to box a sick cat to take to the vet. It had howled like a demon inside the enclosed box. The radioactive wind outside the Behemoth sounded worse, a thousand demons demanding entrance.

Tears streamed down Simons’ face, but he kept driving the tank.

The three hundred ton Behemoth rose like a speeding car lifting as it hit a large bump in the road. Jake couldn’t believe this. They were father away from the blast than that, right? No. The machine rose, and heat washed over them. The conditioners began to hum.

From his gunner’s location, Chet stared at Jake.

“We’ve got two hundred and sixty centimeters of armor!” Jake shouted. “It will stop some of the radiation. Maybe that will give us time to get out of here.”

Outside, over two miles away, the mushroom cloud grew as Oklahoman grass, flowers and dirt blew over the fleeing Behemoth.

The winds lessened, and the tank sank onto its hydraulics, making them rock. The giant treads kept ripping up soil, propelling them away from ground zero.

Jake laughed. It appeared they had survived the initial blast and now the heat. If this had been a different tank…

Are we taking a killing dose of radiation?

Jake swallowed in a parched throat. This was insane. The Chinese were lighting off nuclear warheads, and he had survived one because this was the heaviest armored vehicle in the world.

Maybe they were going to stay alive after all.

Captain Penner’s parachute had almost reached the ground when he spied the mushroom cloud. Terror coursed through him.

I can’t believe it. This is happening.

His helmet’s visor saved his eyesight from the flash. As his pilot’s seat struck the ground, the blast reached him. It hurled his chair like a toy and vaporized the parachute like onion paper in a roaring furnace. His seat slammed against the Earth so he tumbled end over end. During the second roll, Penner’s neck snapped, killing him, making the Canadian Air Force captain simply another casualty of the war.

Although Kavanagh’s Cherokee was still three miles out of Stillwater, it began descending fast. The helos had picked up the survivors after the mission’s success. Paul, Romo and others returned to base after the raid against the 34th Mechanized Headquarters Battalion.

The Master Sergeant sat slumped in his seat. Like a Viking berserker of old, Paul felt drained after combat. His mind drifted now as he stared off into space.

“How many more of those do we fight before the war is over?” Romo shouted.

Paul stirred, and he noticed the city in the distance. They had survived yet another battle against the Chinese. Given enough of these, none of them would live to see the end of the war. There had to be a better way to do this.

“I’m surprised we survived this one,” Romo said. “Actually, I’m more surprised you live. You’re too aggressive, my friend.”

Paul wasn’t sure that was true. The aggressive person didn’t hang back. He gave it one hundred percent. Paul grinned to himself. He’d never liked it when someone said he gave it one hundred and ten percent. That was impossible. A person could only give one hundred percent. If you were going to go over that, why stop at one hundred and ten? Why not say, “One hundred and twelve, or one hundred and fifty-six?” Heck. Why not say, “I’m going to give it three thousand percent.”

His headphones crackled. Although his eyes remained vacant, he listened.

“You’d better hang on,” the pilot told them. “We’re landing now and we’re going to do it hard.”

Something about that—Paul sat up, glancing at Romo. “Did the kid sound shaky to you?”

Romo raised his eyebrows. “Now that you mention it, yes, he did.”

“What’s the problem?” Paul radioed. “Are enemy aircraft heading for us?”

“Look outside to the south,” the pilot radioed. “But be sure you have your visors down first or you risk blinding yourself.”

Chinning a helmet lever, Paul caused his visor to close with a whirr of noise. Then he peered south.

“What am I supposed to see?” Romo asked over the link.

Paul saw it then. He couldn’t miss it. He doubted anyone could. As he watched, his gut curdled. A distant mushroom cloud billowed into existence, climbing higher and higher. Intense orange light bloomed everywhere under the cloud.

Romo swore in Spanish, while other men began to shout.

“Nuclear war,” Paul whispered.

“Hang on,” the pilot shouted over the link. “I want to get down before the atmospheric shockwave reaches us.”

Paul hung on as tightly as he could. So did the other commandos. He kept watching the horizon, and he saw another mushroom cloud climb into existence… maybe twenty miles to the east of the first one. How many had the Chinese launched?

Before anyone could answer, he saw a third mushroom cloud. He knew nothing would be the same after this. Was there even another “after” for him?

Have I just broken my promise to Cheri? Should I have gone AWOL?

The ground rushed up. The Cherokee struck the earth, bounced up, hit again, skidded and lofted a few feet. The third bounce threw Paul against the restraints. He heard metallic groaning and hard thuds.

Then men shouted around him. Mechanically, Paul unbuckled, jumped out of the Cherokee and hit the dirt. His knees gave out and he fell down face first. Paul crawled. Romo crawled beside him. One man ran.

Wind struck then, a gale force. It knocked down the running man.

“Button up,” Paul radioed. “Go NBC with your suits. We can survive this.”

Most of the commandos listened to him. The wind began to shriek as dust whipped up. It howled over them. Paul hugged the ground and closed his eyes.

Don’t let me die. I have a promise to my wife. I’m supposed to get home.

An eternity later, the wind’s howl died down. Paul waited. Beside him, a man pushed up to his hands and knees.

The radio crackled, but nothing made sense.

Time passed. Finally, Paul rose to his hands and knees. The helo lay on its side. Some men in uniforms stood up nearby. They looked dazed.

He went near Romo and tried the radio. There was nothing but static. He was afraid that Romo might risk opening his visor to talk. That would ruin the reason for using the NBC filters.

Paul raised his right hand. Romo nodded. Then Paul clunked his helmet against Romo’s and kept it there. “Can you hear me?” he shouted.

“Yes,” a small voice said through the helmets.

“We’re going to walk back to Stillwater,” Paul said. “Start telling the others.”

Romo nodded and clumped to the nearest commando.

Paul turned north. How many nukes had the Chinese lit? A grim feeling worked its way through him. Yeah. This was going to change everything.

Anna Chen sat beside the President and gripped his right arm. He sat stricken, staring at the big screen. SR drones recorded the growing number of Chinese nuclear strikes. The number kept climbing, having reached three hundred and twelve so far.

“We must launch a massive retaliatory strike,” Harold said softly.

Anna focused on the Director of Homeland Security. He faced the President, his features tight and controlled. Harold spoke in a soft, even voice, but there was fury there, and his eyes were wet with rage.

“The bastards are murdering us,” Harold said. “We must pay them back, Mr. President. We must give them compound interest to what they’ve done today.”

The President seemed incapable of speech. He kept staring at the big screen.

Then Anna felt his biceps quiver, and heat radiated from his arm.

“It’s over three hundred and fifty strikes now,” Harold said. “They’re poisoning our land. This is madness.”

The President opened his mouth, perhaps trying to speak. He kept staring at the big screen, and his shaking grew worse.

“The strikes have hurt their own people,” Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs said. “It’s possibly destroyed their air force—”

“They’re not holding back,” Harold said. “So we can no longer afford to hold back—unless we want to wage a gun battle with a knife.”

“What are you suggesting?” Anna asked. “That we saturate our country with yet more nuclear weapons?”

“Not our land,” Harold said. “This is the sacred country, and these demons have spoiled it. No,” he said quietly. “It’s time to strike the Chinese homeland and teach them a lesson they won’t forget for a thousand years.”

“If we launch our ICBMs, they’ll launch theirs at us,” Anna said. “How does that help us?”

Harold focused on her. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Chen, they’ve already struck with nuclear weapons.”

“They can still strike us again, with heavier nuclear weapons,” she said.

They locked stares, and it must have been clear to both of them that they each thought differently from the other.

“Mr. President,” Harold said, “what do you suggest we do? Should we wait for their ICBMs to launch?”

David Sims continued to stare at the big screen. A small line of saliva trickled down his open mouth. Anna was the first to notice. As she did, the first heart attack struck the President of the United States, and his torso collapsed onto the table.

For a few minutes at least, no one could order a nuclear retaliation. Meanwhile, the number of Chinese thermonuclear explosions grew to three hundred and sixty-three.

-5- The Aftermath

Jake proved to be one of the lucky ones, although very sick. He was alive, and he lay on a cot under a warm quilt. There were hundreds upon hundreds of beds pushed side by side in long rows. Giant heaters roared at either end of the circus-sized tent.

Nurses pushed carts and doctors checked victims. The endless gaging and moaning sounds didn’t induce sleep or a feeling of well-being. Someone always seemed to be vomiting, and many of the acute victims wept quietly. Maybe the worst part was the smell. Behind the strong odor of ammonia lingered worse stenches.

Jake clenched his teeth, trying to suppress any noise. He’d vomited so much in the past few days that he was seriously losing weight. There wasn’t anything left in his stomach to hurl.

More radiation had hit the crew then Jake had realized at the time. Patches of hair kept falling out and his eyesight had become blurry.

Chet, Simon and Grant had similar symptoms. Like Jake, each of them had received blood transfusions. Unfortunately, the Army had already run out of antibiotics in the state, although more were on the way. The doctor also told him the Militia had started a nationwide blood drive. There was more blood coming, too.

Jake hoped so. Otherwise, he doubted he or the others would make it. The Chinese had gone crazy, changing the nature of the war. Why did they have to use nuclear weapons?

“Hey,” a man whispered with a raspy voice.

Jake turned his head to see Simon staring at him. The man had horribly red eyes and blotches on his skin. As the driver, Simon seemed to have gotten the worst of it. Jake wasn’t sure how or why that happened. Maybe Simon had just been in the wrong place in the tank.

“I’m sorry, Corporal,” Simon whispered. “I’m so sorry. I-I panicked.”

“It’s oaky,” Jake said. “It happens.”

“I’m really sorry,” Simon whispered, as tears began to leak from his eyes, leaving wet trails on his cheeks. “I screwed us bad, huh Jake?”

“Forget it,” Jake said. “We wouldn’t have shot down the missile anyway. We have a fighting chance at living now because you took us out of there so fast.”

The tears flowed more freely.

Jake wished he could believe what he said. In his heart, he did blame Simon, but he couldn’t tell the man that, not now. Simon apologized about once an hour. Either the driver didn’t remember he’d already apologized or the guilt of their predicament tore at him too much.

“It was just our turn to be screwed,” Jake said.

Simon nodded.

Closing his eyes, Jake tried to get some sleep. He felt achy and cold. He wished they would crank up the heat in here.

He must have fallen asleep, because he opened his eyes as a nurse rolled back a sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” he asked groggily.

She smiled down at him. She was so beautiful, with a heart-shaped face. If he felt better— “We just received a mass transshipment of blood,” she said. “That’s good, too. You boys need another transfusion.”

Jake watched her swab his arm. As she did, an orderly rolled a bag of blood near. The plastic-encased blood was life. Even though his hair was falling out, he wasn’t as bad off as many others. He— “What are you doing to him?” a hard-voiced man asked.

The nurse looked up, and she frowned.

Jake didn’t like that. He concentrated, craning his head to look up where she did. He spied three Militia MPs at the end of his bed. One of them looked familiar. He was a flat-faced man.

“We’re moving him,” the MP said.

“It’s time for his next blood transfusion,” the nurse said.

“No, not just yet,” the MP said.

The nurse turned around to face the man.

“Don’t worry about it, sister,” the MP said. He took out his wallet and showed her a badge. “We’re under Presidential orders.”

“Oh,” she said. Then her eyes lit up as she glanced down the row. “Doctor,” she called out, “these men are trying to take one of our patients. Couldn’t we give him a blood transfusion first?”

Jake watched the doctor walk up to them. The bald man’s hangdog look didn’t give him any confidence. “It won’t matter,” the doctor told the nurse.

“Shut your mouth,” the MP told him.

The nurse’s eyes widened with surprised. Then she stared at Jake. “What did he do?”

“He’s a traitor,” the MP said. “He shouldn’t get good American blood before these others.”

“Is that what you think?” Jake said.

“I told you to shut up,” the MP said. “If you say another word—”

“Is that necessary?” the doctor asked.

The MP glared at the doctor. The man in the white coat wilted, nodded and turned away.

“Move aside,” the MP said, and he bumped the nurse, making her stagger against Simon’s cot.

Jake wanted to be angry, but he felt too cold and achy. “Can’t you see I’m sick?” he whispered.

“My heart bleeds for you,” the MP said. “Come on,” he told the other two. “Give me a hand.”

Jake sucked in his breath. At least he could say goodbye to his friends.

The MP had palmed a small stunner into his hand. With big horse-sized teeth, he grinned down at Jake, and the Militia cop pressed the stunner against his neck.

Jake heard it buzz as he arched in pain. In a fog, he heard the nurse ask what they were doing. Then he fell into a deeper fog, slipping away into unconsciousness.

In his jeep, Stan Higgins screeched to a halt before an Army checkpoint. For the last three weeks, he had maneuvered what remained of the original penetrating armor against the formerly trapped Chinese and SAF forces. It had been a nightmare, with radiation counters in selected vehicles helping the units avoid highly radiated zones.

Combined with a few fresh divisions along the front, they had captured hundreds of thousands of nuclear-shocked SAF soldiers and starved into submission as many PAA forces. The post-Red Dragon operation had catapulted Stan into national fame. The praise tasted like ashes in his mouth. What had happened to his boy? Several hours ago, he’d found out Jake had survived the nuclear strike, and had been brought here. Now no one could put him in touch with his son.

The vast tent city rose to the north of Stillwater, a huge area where medical personnel tried to cope with the hundreds of thousands of cases of the radiation poisoned.

In the weeks since the attack, several things had become clear. Despite the success of the latest operation, the front was in shambles on both sides. The nuclear warheads had thrown everything into turmoil. Casualties numbered in the millions. This tent city was one among many, and it was far too near the fallout zones.

The good thing was that the South American Federation forces had panicked en masse. They had never signed up for nuclear war. The nukes had also enraged the American people. This was far uglier than the September 11 attack on the Twin Towers and much worse than Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese made their sneak attack.

It’s universal. Everyone wants to nuke China in retaliation.

Stan showed his credentials. The guard snapped to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins, I can have a man park your jeep over there.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Sir—”

“Where’s administration?”

“Over there, the central tent.”

“Thanks.”

“Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins,” the guard said, saluting again.

With an aching chest, Stan turned the steering wheel and crunched over gravel. He parked, jumped out and hurried to the central tent. Big Army trucks moved down a narrow lane. No doubt, they carried precious blood and newly made antibiotics.

Stan glanced up at the sky at moving clouds. They would have to relocate these tents—well, relocate the sick. The weather patterns were finally changing. The wind might blow radioactive contaminants over Stillwater.

Fallout had been raining onto areas of northern Mexico, and it had made the people there furious with their Chinese overlords.

This is halftime. The side that can regroup faster will have a huge advantage.

A loud noise caused Stan to glance east. A big Chinook helicopter flew low toward the tents. It must be transporting more sick people.

Stan scowled. The Red Dragons had changed more than just the battlefield. The President had a heart attack and those vultures, Harold and McGraw, had used it to step into Sims’ place. After all these years, it was finally happening to the United States of America. The Caesars had finally appeared, the men on the white horses who would supposedly save the country from disaster.

Would David Sims recover from his heart attack? Stan had his doubts. McGraw played a dangerous game. At the moment, though, Stan didn’t care about that. What happened to Jake?

It took an hour of red tape and checking, and Stan began getting angry. Finally, he cornered a balding doctor with shifty eyes. Stan found him in a tent full of sick people with horrible sores. The doctor wore a white lab coat and checked a slate at the end of a bed.

“I’m talking to you,” Stan said.

The doctor ignored him as he continued to study the chart.

Stan grabbed an arm, and he spun the doctor around to face him. A nurse watched, and she didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Maybe this happened too much around here lately.

“Do you know who I am?” Stan asked.

“I heard you the first time you spoke,” the doctor said, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“My son was here.”

The doctor made a bleak gesture. “Do you see how many patients we’re processing?”

“Where is he? What happened to Corporal Jake Higgins?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the doctor said.

Stan’s grip tightened. “What kind of doctor are you?”

“A weary one, Colonel Higgins—this is monstrous. Why do you folks insist on butchering each other? Isn’t there enough despair in the world that you people have to excel at killing?”

Stan let that pass; the man was a healer, after all. “There isn’t a discharge paper for Jake and I haven’t found a death certificate. What happened to my son? I know he was here. The records prove it.”

The doctor frowned. “I’ve been very busy, as I’m sure you see. I must have forgotten to write out his death certificate.”

“He died?” Stan asked, his voice turning hollow.

The doctor paused for just a moment. He seemed to cringe, which was odd. Then the man jutted his chin, and said, “Yes, he must have died. I don’t believe he was discharged.”

The words almost struck like physical blows. Stan let go of the doctor’s arm. It felt as if a giant ghost reached through his chest and squeezed his heart, which constricted his throat. He found it difficult to talk, difficult to gather his thoughts. Yet he said, “You seemed uncertain.”

“No…”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

The doctor brought up the chart in his hands, scanning it. “I’m very busy, Colonel. I’m sorry about your loss. I truly am.”

“What about his friends?”

“I’m sure I don’t—”

With a fierceness that seemed natural now, Stan grabbed the man’s arm again and yanked him closer. “You’d better start being a little more helpful. Where are his friends?”

“Let me check.”

The anger drained away, and Stan released the doctor. With slumped shoulders, he followed the man.

A half hour later, Stan spoke with Simon. Chet and Grant had already been discharged.

Stan knelt beside Simon’s cot. The boy was thin and hollow-eyed, clearly dying. First touching the soldier’s arm, Stan let go as Simon winced in pain. He spoke pleasantries to the soldier, but the boy proved delirious. Finally, Stan couldn’t help himself. “Do you remember seeing Jake?”

It must have been the urgency in Stan’s voice. Simon blinked several times, and he focused. “Yes, Jake. He commanded our tank.”

“Jake was my son.”

“He was a good tank commander.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Simon’s lower lip trembled. “I panicked. I took off too soon. It must have upset the calibrations of our last shot.”

Stan almost patted the boy’s arm. He was in obvious misery about something. “What happened to Jake?” Stan asked softly.

“Jake?”

“He was your commander. It says here you slept beside him for a while.”

“Oh, yes, Jake. I woke up one morning and he was gone. He died.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Poor Jake,” Simon said. “He was a good tank commander.” Simon frowned, and he looked up at Stan. “I’m sorry I panicked.”

“God be with you son. He forgives you. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

“Really?” Simon asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you.”

Gingerly, Stan patted the soldier’s arm. Then he got up and slowly walked outside. This damn war. Those damn nukes. They had killed his boy. A hollow sensation in his heart gave Stan an empty feeling.

He wanted to sit down and weep. His boy was dead. What was he going to do now? Stan shook his head. With blurry vision, he headed for his jeep. The Chinese had killed his boy. He wanted to hate them with a vengeance, but sorrow and sadness filled him. A part of him died, and his shoulders slumped.

His boy was dead.

From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

The Red Dragon Cruise Missile Strike

A fundamental shift in the war took place as American armor threatened to engulf the PAA First Front in Oklahoma. Chairman Hong’s notorious “tactical” nuclear strike order destroyed two-thirds of the Behemoth tanks and immediately annihilated approximately 233,000 US soldiers. As the days progressed, that number rose to well over one million casualties including the wounded and radiation poisoned.

This did not free the encircled PAA and SAF forces as anticipated by the Chinese, but rendered most of them impotent. SAF morale sank to zero and entire divisions surrendered to the Americans without another shot fired in anger. A small number of Chinese brigades fought their way into Texas, marching to the new PAA front in the middle of the Lone Star State. The rest of the nuclear shocked divisions surrendered after McGraw hurried reinforcements south. Colonel Stan Higgins rose to national fame in those dark days, skillfully maneuvering the remaining armor in conjunction with McGraw’s moves.

During the six weeks that followed, each side hastily reorganized and refitted their fronts with new levies and equipment and as the US attempted to decontaminate large portions of Oklahoma. The unofficial armistice benefited the Americans more, as US submarines and THOR missile took their toll against the Chinese merchant marine along the PAA Pacific Ocean route.

In retrospect, the nuclear attack helped the American war effort and its diplomacy in a number of vital ways. One, it devastated the morale of the remaining SAF troops in North America. Two, it dismayed the ruling junta in Brazil. They began to drag their feet, reluctant to send more soldiers into a possible atomic meat-grinder in Texas and New Mexico. Three, it angered many Mexican citizens as fallout drifted into the northern half of the country. That in turn began to shift the puppet government away from China as revolt and rebellion simmered. Four, Japanese leaders protested the nuclear usage, further souring relations with Beijing. Five, Berlin, Paris, London and New Delhi drew up plans for PAA economic sanctions.

Premier Konev of Russia played a cagier game. As his military beefed up the armies in western Siberia, he began secret talks with Chairman Hong, offering neutrality for massive food shipments. Russians had been tightening their belts for quite some time, and needed Chinese rice.

However, it would be wrong to suggest the strike did not have positive value for Greater China and Chairman Hong, at least in several areas. The Iranian Hegemony leaders congratulated him on his fortitude in facing the Americans. This helped cement relations between Beijing and Tehran. In an ancient Assyrian sense, it also shocked many people by the ruthlessness of the action, and it gave them pause. Brutality often engendered passivity in others, and possibly Hong had counted on this effect. People understood that one did not trifle with him lightly. Many American troops now began to show severe signs of strain, as the thermonuclear attack blunted the edge of their aggressiveness.

That said, except for most of the Pan-Asian Alliance countries and the ayatollahs of Iran, the world recoiled in horror at the act. Not since Adolf Hitler had the majority of the planet agreed on a leader’s villainy.

American Leadership

President Sims’ heart attack and subsequent illness meant he was bedridden and often delirious for the rest of 2041 and throughout 2042.

Disregarding the Constitution, a triumvirate of personalities took over presidential duties. The senior partner was Director Harold, with the full backing of Homeland Security, including the entire Militia Organization. General McGraw provided inspirational military leadership, while Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs of Staff brought the full force of the US military behind the triad.

Director Harold proved more adroit at the political and domestic maneuvering, although General McGraw caught the public’s eye as the hero of the hour. The interim triumvirate governed as the President recuperated. Harold led the country through this time with one phrase: “We will have our revenge.”

Americans—particularly those on the home front—burned with fierce resolve and determination, longing to strike back at China. Not since WWII against Japan had such animosity so fully exhibited itself in a social and cultural sense.

The conditions of the Summer Offensives

The nuclear strike with its immense casualties had a debilitating effect on the morale and fighting stamina of each side. SAF troops could garrison quiet areas, but proved unequal to any form of heavy combat, often fleeing or surrendering as the first artillery barrages fell. Non-Chinese PAA units would fight to defend their sectors, but they could no longer be relied on to advance against the enemy. Elite Chinese units could still attack with vigor, although their commanders noticed what they termed quick fatigue syndrome. It meant that any Chinese offensive would have to be of short duration.

American forces became notably more cautious. The most grueling battles were fought with Militia penal battalions, where the savagery of the MPs became infamous. Instead of dashing armor exploits, Army tankers tiptoed into enemy rear areas. The phenomenon accelerated the American trend toward extreme artillery dependency. US industry finally gave the Army mountains of munitions, and the commanders expended them at a prodigious rate.

The shaken formations on each side found bold or even aggressive endeavors beyond their capacities. It turned the summer battles into shoving matches, where weight of shells and political maneuvering often gave greater gains than any hard fighting.

From An Idiots Guide to the Sino-America War, by Robert E. Wagner:

After a six-week refit, America finally won the jackpot from Colonel Valdez of the Mexico Free Army. His soldiers had fought courageously throughout the war, and his freedom fighters had played havoc with the Chinese and their puppets in Mexico.

In June of 2041, Colonel Valdez secretly entered southern California. He met with the Mexican Army generals garrisoning SoCal for the Pan-Asian Alliance. They represented three hundred thousand Mexican Army soldiers. Valdez’s impassioned speech combined with American guarantees and cash bribes won over the generals, who claimed to burn with hatred against the barbaric Chinese nukers.

Five days later, in an act of North American brotherhood, the Mexican SoCal Occupation Army defected to the US-Canadian side. The SoCal Front collapsed for the PAA.

This led to anti-Chinese uprisings in Mexico and had a dramatic effect on the summer offensives. On top of the first wave of troop replacements, Chairman Hong shipped emergency reinforcements across the Pacific. At the same time, Marshal Meng withdrew his best divisions from the fronts in Texas and Arizona. These divisions disarmed the Mexican Army in Mexico and began patrol duty to secure the largest cities and the road routes from the ports to the Texan fronts.

The Mexican revolt gained strength and drew off yet more Chinese strength. This led to a grave weakening in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. Throughout July and August, American forces pushed the weakened PAA south.

By September, at the cost of bloody massacres, the Chinese regained full control of Mexico. By October, the PAA fortified their final long slice of America. It stretched from Houston-Austin-Odessa, Texas to Carlsbad, New Mexico to Phoenix, Arizona.

According to Chairman Hong, the doctrine was simple. Better to fight the Americans in North America than to fight them elsewhere. To that end, from spring to autumn, over two million new soldiers crossed the Pacific to Mexico, with more on the way.

The American problem of what to do with the PAA Fortress Mexico led to the Chicago Conference and the decisions reached there.

-6- The Chicago Conference

13 October 2041

Strategic conference minutes, 2.39 P.M.

Participants: Harold, McGraw, Levin (Director of the CIA) Caliato (Director of Industry), O’Hara (Admiral, Pacific Fleet), Danner (Air Marshal, Strategic Air Command).

HAROLD: Gentlemen, I have called this meeting for a specific reason. Not to put too fine a point on it, I believe this is a historic occasion. Perhaps that sounds melodramatic to some of you. After you’ve heard my proposal, I doubt you’ll think so.

First, it is my opinion that the United States has reached a crisis point. For three years, we have faced the onslaught of the world, absorbing incredible blows. No other nation on Earth could have withstood two thirds of Asia, South America and United Europe hammering against us in tandem. In fact, the United States is such a unique country, that we not only withstood the attacks, but we have essentially thrown the invader off our sacred soil. Now we must decide how to proceed. A wrong choice here could have debilitating consequences for our country’s future.

INDUSTRY DIRECTOR CALIATO: Perhaps this isn’t my place, Director. I’m the last person to complain, believe me. Yet I feel that I should point out that the Chinese still hold parts of Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. In other words, the job isn’t finished. I know the President expects us to clear the entire country.

HAROLD: The enemy still holds a sliver of land. You’re correct in pointing this out. And yes, I agree with you. The President wants every acre cleansed of even a taint of the invader. Yet we’re not remiss in recognizing that this sliver is barely enough land to contain China’s forward defenses. In many ways, we can wait to regain this last strip. The real problem is continued Chinese proximity to our heartland. This spring, Hong showed us with fearful brutality what he could and would do with tactical nuclear weapons. As long as China maintains heavy concentrations of troops on or near our border, we are in danger of a second nuclear strike.

CALIATO: I thought the general explained yesterday how the Army has built a nearly impenetrable antimissile belt along our forward defenses. General McGraw told us Hong could not repeat this spring’s performance. You’ve gone on TV more than once to assure the populace of this.

HAROLD: Granted, it would be difficult for the Chinese to duplicate their performance. I told the public we’re safe from a repeat in order to calm their worries, not necessarily because it was true. I fear that the Chinese might gather a tremendous number of drones and use a similar swarming tactic against our defenses before unleashing another cruise missile wave. No. While I applaud the military’s efforts, the war has shown that—over time anyway—a determined attacker with plenty of materiel can penetrate any defensive zone.

CALIATO: Then we’ll never be safe as long as the Chinese are in Mexico.

HAROLD: Those are my thoughts exactly.

LEVIN: Please excuse my interruption, Director.

HAROLD: Doctor Levin, I’ve asked you to attend this meeting precisely because I desire your input. The CIA has, hmm, foreign and other hidden assets the rest of us can only envy at this stage.

LEVIN: I’ll take that as a compliment.

HAROLD: I mean it as such.

LEVIN: Thank you. The CIA has worked hard to maintain its foreign connections. My point is otherwise. In listening to you, I believe you’re suggesting… well, a much longer war than the American people will sustain.

HAROLD: This is interesting. Go on, please.

LEVIN: Let’s put aside any word games. We here know the score. We’re intelligent men. Today, and likely tomorrow, too, the Homeland Security slogans will continue to stir people’s blood. “Free America!” and “Drive the Chinese into the sea,” are rousing chants. A continuing American death toll from a fierce and drawn out war in Mexico, however, will eventually rob the catchphrases of their power. I do not mean any disrespect to the military, but the summer offensives have shown the Army, the Marines and the Militia’s weakening resolve for protracted combat.

HAROLD: I believe you state the situation accurately.

LEVIN: Then in your opinion, the United States cannot sustain a long war in Mexico as we attempt to oust the Chinese from North America.

HAROLD: We would need South American Federation help for that.

LEVIN: According to the reports I’ve read, the junta leaders have lost their taste for North American adventures. They are, however, still firm allies of the PAA. I’m not sure why you would suggest they might help us against the Chinese.

HAROLD: They’re still PAA allies. I’ll agree with you there. Clearly, though, their unwillingness to engage in further combat shows a lack of firmness toward China.

LEVIN: I suppose one could make that argument. That’s a long way from their helping us oust the Chinese.

HAROLD: I made no such claim. I merely said we would need massive military assistance to drive the Chinese out of Mexico, such as from the SAF. Otherwise, it would take greater causalities than Americans are likely willing to accept.

LEVIN: That’s my point exactly.

HAROLD: We’re here to examine options and possibilities and see where they lead. As I’ve just said, Doctor Levin is quite correct in pointing out that a protracted war in Mexico would exhaust our country. Likely, it would unify the Mexican people against America. The majority of Mexicans presently hate the Chinese occupier. Yet the Mexican people have a longstanding antipathy toward the US military in their country. No. Hong is correct in pouring massive PAA troops and materiel into Mexico, to ensure it remains a bulwark against us. As long as Mexico remains a Chinese fortress, we will live under the shadow of Chairman Hong. It will severely restrict what we can do elsewhere.

MCGRAW: That obviously leaves us at an impasse. We cannot allow the Chinese to stay in Mexico, but we cannot go in and dig them out. Therefore, we need a new strategy, as we’ve reached the end of our primary goal, namely—driving the aggressors out of our country.

LEVIN: Here’s an option I wonder if anyone has pondered. We could send out peace feelers to Beijing. Maybe it’s time to end this war. Let’s call it even.

HAROLD: No! That is unacceptable. After witnessing Chinese perfidy these past three years, America cannot stomach a China-allied or China-friendly Mexico. We must drive China out of Mexico and then we must humble the Chinese, hurt them badly. We must teach them and the world what it means to attack us.

LEVIN: Are you suggesting another Mexican civil war, with Colonel Valdez’s expanded army as the kernel?

HAROLD: That would be a third tier option, not a first.

LEVIN: Then I don’t understand. Director, General McGraw, I agree with the analysis about America being at an impasse. We cannot allow the Chinese in Mexico, and yet we cannot pay the butcher’s bill to drive them out of the country. Peace seems like the only solution.

HAROLD: You’re forgetting the best option of all.

LEVIN: Which is?

HAROLD: That we knock China out of the war by defeating her utterly, by forcing her into a supine position.

LEVIN: (laughs). If driving Chinese soldiers out of Mexico is beyond our strength, how do you expect to defeat the Chinese in their own country? Can we ferry an amphibious force to the Chinese coast?

ADMIRAL O’HARA: I admit we still have transports—if we scrape every port and call home those ships that have remained in foreign harbors these last three years. We may even have several destroyers for escort duty. But that’s not enough to ferry an amphibious force big enough to take China. Hell, we’d be lucky to have enough to storm Taiwan. Not that they’d make it there—the Chinese navy would sink them before that.

LEVIN: Then invading China is impossible, which means knocking it out of the war… is a pipe dream.

HAROLD: By ourselves, yes. We need allies, the Indian League or the Slavic Coalition, or preferably both.

LEVIN: How could you persuade either power bloc to do this?

HAROLD: The key is food, which means reviving the old Grain Union.

LEVIN: The Chinese captured Australia and the Brazilians overran Argentina. Without those two countries, we and Canada are the totality of the Grain Union.

HAROLD: Obviously. That’s one of the reasons we’re holding secret talks with the South American Federation. If the SAF exits Argentina, we will return their POWs, over one and a half million men.

LEVIN: Your results?

HAROLD: So far, we haven’t convinced the junta leaders. Australia looks more promising.

LEVIN: I don’t see how. Chinese troops garrison the continent.

HAROLD: I’m sure you’ve read the latest intelligence reports. Chairman Hong is in the process of pouring vast number of troops into Mexico. He has to get them from somewhere. We believe the PAA forces sustained over two million casualties during the spring and summer offensives and the Red Dragon attack. The bulk of those losses were Chinese soldiers, not Japanese or Vietnamese. Hong has raised new levies, of course, but less than one million in number. The rest of the soldiers are coming from China’s strategic reserve and from their various occupation forces. These troops were stationed in Siberia, Kazakhstan, Japan, Korea, Vietnam, Indonesia, the Philippines, Australia and New Zealand.

LEVIN: That’s interesting, certainly. How many PAA soldiers are in Australia now?

HAROLD: There used to be three hundred thousand A-category troops. Now it is closer to one hundred and fifty thousand.

LEVIN: He took half out of the country?

HAROLD: Why not? China controls the Pacific. According to our estimates, Hong has also shifted five hundred thousand A-category forces to Burma, raising the numbers to one and a half million, possibly two million.

LEVIN: You’re suggesting we make an amphibious invasion of Australia?

HAROLD: A liberation, let’s call it. As one of our moves, yes.

LEVIN: How? China controls the Pacific, remember?

HAROLD: A stealth invasion coming up from Antarctica to hit the bottom of Australia. We would bypass the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

LEVIN: That would be a pure gamble, a wild throw of the dice.

HAROLD: Not altogether—General McGraw, if you would tell them, please…

MCGRAW: Gentlemen, we have reached a new era in war. In part for us, it’s because we must. Our boys have fought hard for three years, and we’ve taken bitter losses. The young ones who joined up to take the veterans’ places don’t have the same stomach for a fight, nor are they as skilled. To encourage our divisions to keep driving this summer, we had to supply them with more artillery tubes per one hundred thousand soldiers than ever before. I should point out, that’s a common feature of protracted warfare. It even happened to Napoleon Bonaparte and his Grande Armee.

What that means for us is that we need to go high tech to defeat the Chinese. We’re going to comb our divisions and take our best soldiers, concentrating them into elite formations. We’re also working on several new technologies. One of them is the hypervelocity missile. Tests suggest that they would fly too fast for lasers to knock them down. The laser beam could not stay on target long enough to impart enough heat to destroy the missile.

LEVIN: That sounds like a war-winning weapon to me.

MCGRAW: Unfortunately, the hypervelocity missiles are only in the first experimental stages, so we cannot count on them just yet. What we are doing as of now is increasing our number of THOR missiles. Nothing can knock them down once they’re raining toward Earth. I should add, though, the Chinese are hard at work on stealth satellite detection and killer satellites of their own to take out our THOR launch vehicles once they find them in orbit. Still, if we can manufacture enough THOR missiles and get them over the battlefield, we should be able to destroy any critical enemy component at precisely the right time to do the most damage.

LEVIN: The Chinese will have other countermeasures you haven’t thought of yet.

MCGRAW: That’s another reason we have to find other baskets.

LEVIN: Excuse me?

MCGRAW: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

LEVON: Oh, of course.

MCGRAW: Clearly, the THOR missiles point the way. We must gain control of orbital space and learn to use it with pinpoint accuracy.

LEVIN: It sounds as if you already have systems in mind.

MCGRAW: I do. It also happens to be one of our key inducements we could offer any allies, be they Russian or Indian.

LEVIN: I feel I should point out that Premier Konev is engaged in secret talks with Chairman Hong. They have come to an accord.

HAROLD: I realize that. But the Russians have also received German Dominion AI Kaisers. It seems the new European Union people don’t like those smart tanks and want to send the entire stock of them as far away as possible. Perhaps as interesting, the Europeans have released General Mansfeld, sending him to the Russians.

LEVIN: All true. Yet that is a long way toward convincing Konev to fight China. While the Russians would like to regain Siberia, they must realize the cost in blood would be too high.

HAROLD: It’s one of the reasons we’re working so closely with the Indian League. Still, we cannot leave any stone unturned. Which is why we need your help, Doctor. I realize the CIA knows much more about Russia and India’s internal workings than Homeland Security does. We’re gathering a team. I—we plan to send a Presidential representative to Moscow to offer Konev whatever American help it will take to get him to move.

LEVIN: Who’s your representative?

HAROLD: An old colleague of yours, Doctor. Anna Chen.

LEVIN: Anna? I’m surprised you’ve let her live.

HAROLD: Excuse me?

LEVIN: Just a slip of the tongue, I’m afraid, and in poor taste.

HAROLD: We work for the President.

MCGRAW: David Sims will recover. I answer directly to him.

LEVIN: We all work for the President. I salute his health.

HAROLD: We wish him a quick recovery.

(The members pause for a moment of silence.)

LEVIN: I’ll admit you’ve made me curious, Director. Yes, we’re at an impasse, as you say. America cannot allow Chinese armies in Mexico. Yet we can’t go in and defeat them… well, the cost in blood would be too high to go in with millions of US soldiers. You’re hoping to use Russia and India to start a ground war in Asia, which would no doubt pull the PAA troops out of Mexico. I’m wondering if we have more than THOR missiles to offer our allies. (Looks at McGraw.) A minute ago, you were talking about taking over orbital space.

MCGRAW: Suppose the Indian League drove into Southeast Asia. They’re building up to do that. They have enough infantry, but lack the armor. What could we offer the Indians short of massive reinforcements? Some of my experts looked back to Afghanistan for the answer, to the time we invaded in the 1990s. There, a handful of elite Special Forces, on the ground, called down Air Force smart bombs. Those bombs fell on the enemy’s head, driving them out of their defenses and back onto the road as they fled. That let the Northern Alliance soldiers defeat them.

LEVIN: I’m not sure I understand. You plan to put Special Forces on the ground in China?

MCGRAW: Yes and no.

LEVIN: That doesn’t make sense.

MCGRAW: Yes, they’ll be on the ground in Southeast Asia. No, they won’t be Special Forces.

LEVIN: What will they be?

MCGRAW: Powered armored Marines.

LEVIN: Is this a joke?

MCGRAW: I assure you, this is reality.

LEVIN: But we don’t have powered armored Marines, whatever they are.

MCGRAW: Not yet, we don’t. We’re working on it even now.

LEVIN: What does powered armored Marine even mean?

MCGRAW: Men in special battlesuits able to deploy directly from space to anywhere on Earth—we’re hoping to have them within a year.

LEVIN: From space?

MCGRAW: From near orbital space, that is correct.

LEVIN: How do they help us exactly?

MCGRAW: Admittedly, we’re developing and manufacturing the prototype armor suits as we speak. Most of the design features already work. The tactical nuclear weapons are proving the most difficult.

LEVIN: I envision problems with your plan.

HAROLD: (Clears his throat.) That’s one of the reasons I requested your presence, Doctor. We want to hear your objections.

LEVIN: Well, you haven’t said how you’re going to put these Marines into orbit in any kind of meaningful numbers.

HAROLD: Have you ever heard about Project Orion?

LEVIN: No.

HAROLD: General, if you would be so kind…

MCGRAW: The Air Force worked on the basic concept and design from 1957 to 1965.

LEVIN: This is old technology then?

MCGRAW: In one sense, you’re right. What we’re suggesting is off the shelf technology, although we can do it better than what the scientists conceived in 1957 could do. By 1965, they were making feasibility studies for a trip to Mars.

LEVIN: Project Orion concerns building a spaceship?

MCGRAW: Back in the 1950s, there were all kinds of ideas about exploring the Solar System. The trouble was their engines and propellants. Chemical rockets need vast size to loft tiny payloads into orbit. Our ICBMs are an example of that. If we used chemical rockets, we could only lift a handful of Marines into orbit. For useful combat purposes, we need at least a battalion, over one thousand men. Luckily for us, Project Orion involved lifting tons instead of mere pounds into space.

LEVIN: I get the feeling I’m not going to like your answer.

MCGRAW: Some might consider it extreme, but it is scientifically feasible. The answer is a lift vehicle powered by nuclear bombs.

LEVIN: Bombs?

MCGRAW: They will be the propellant.

LEVIN: You’re serious?

MCGRAW: As I said, this was a feasible project with 1950’s technology. We will construct the Orion ship to absorb the tremendous blasts. The power of the bombs gives the vessel incredible liftoff capability. By building several such Orion ships, we will be able by next year to put a battalion of powered armored Marines into orbit. From there, they could reach anywhere in the world.

LEVIN: A thousand men… you’d need big haulers.

MCGRAW: Each Orion ship—what we can put in orbit—will roughly be the size of a five-story hotel.

LEVIN: That big? I don’t see how one bomb gives it enough boost to get into orbit.

MCGRAW: One bomb can’t.

LEVIN: Then—

MCGRAW: Every few seconds, a bomb drops into the blast bay, explodes and accelerates the massive ship higher. It will take many bombs per ship.

LEVIN: You say “many.” You’re talking about thermonuclear explosions. That means in order to lift our ships we will be bombing ourselves.

MCGRAW: In an empty, already damaged part of the country, yes, that’s true.

LEVIN: This is too farfetched to believe.

HAROLD: I assure you it is not. Project Orion was always feasible. America lost her will in 1965, and shelved the idea. Now the will has returned, out of desperation.

MCGRAW: That isn’t entirely true—I mean about shelving the idea. NASA kept blueprints and specs in case they needed to build an Orion ship fast.

LEVIN: For what possible reason?

MCGRAW: In case a killer asteroid headed toward Earth. They would quickly build an Orion ship and send it out to deflect the world destroyer.

LEVIN: You can’t be serious.

MCGRAW: It’s in the history books, Doctor, although it isn’t a well-known fact.

LEVIN: Hmm… I’m beginning to see. The THOR missiles give us tremendous advantages. Orbital space is a new battleground. High technology combined with elite soldiers—your plan sounds insane, and yet, I can see how it could work with Indian allies.

HAROLD: It isn’t our only solution. Reviving the Grain Union could help us leverage others. If we can get India or Russia to attack China, Hong will have to withdraw his forces from Mexico.

LEVIN: If we see that, others will too.

HAROLD: Which is why we need Argentina and Australia. If we can corner the food market in a starving world…

LEVIN: You have ambitious plans.

HAROLD: We are Americans. What we need from you, sir, is help with Premier Konev.

LEVIN: Yes, I can see that. Well, first, let me suggest…

Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh felt nauseous as the stratospheric balloon continued to ascend at one thousand feet per minute. The back of his throat burned, and it felt as if his stomach would erupt. He hadn’t taken his anti-nausea pill earlier, and now he realized that had been a mistake.

He and four fellow powered armor Marine trainees waited in pressure suits, although they had yet to don their helmets. They sat inside a special capsule that dangled from the polyethylene balloon. This was to be their latest free fall drop, the first one from the stratosphere and the first one from a balloon-carried capsule.

Paul checked the monitor. The five of them faced inward, staring at a tri-screen. Their great enemy had been wind earlier. It could have literally torn the balloon apart. The worst time had been during their ascent through the troposphere—30,000 to 60,000 feet—where turbulence was common.

At the secret launch site in Montana, the helium inflatable had been tall and thin, stretching fifty-five stories high. As the giant balloon rose, it slowly filled out, and would reach an almost completely round shape at 120,000 feet, or twenty-three miles from sea level, their destination.

“We’re slowing down,” Romo said.

Paul checked the numbers at the bottom of the tri-screen. Yeah. They were leveling off as they approached their float height, now rising at approximately 750 feet per minute.

They were in near space, still part of Earth’s atmosphere. Here, though, there was very little air. Still, it was enough resistance that it generated too much drag for satellites to remain in orbit. Those flew much higher.

It was dark outside, with the great blue of Earth spreading in every direction below. This was space, near space, and it made the planet more precious than ever. What had the Chinese been thinking, using nearly four hundred nuclear devices in Oklahoma? The world was huge, sure, but to poison it like that…

Paul shook his head. They weren’t in outer space, in vacuum yet. Just the same, none of them could survive outside here.

He recalled some data about their capsule and the stratosphere. The outer shell of this little pod was fiberglass and paint, with heavy foam insulation. That protected them from the current temperature: minus 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Nor could they breathe outside on their own here. The pressure would be so low that the liquids in their body tissues would turn to gas and expand dangerously. The symptom was called embolism.

Nausea hit again, although Paul masked it from the others. Keeping his face like stone, he pretended nothing was wrong.

Crazy orbital dropping Marines—what was I thinking joining up?

He peered at the monitor, at the blue curvature of the Earth. It was so beautiful. Cheri is down there. I’m coming home, babe. I promise you that, by God, I do.

Yeah. He knew what he’d been thinking. For one thing, that he’d had enough of nuclear war. He didn’t want to be running outside on the ground again when the Chinese popped off another round of atomic strikes. Forget that garbage!

In Oklahoma near Stillwater, watching the mushroom clouds climb into the horizon, five different columns spread across the horizon—whew! It had done something to him. He’d been fighting the Chinese for some time. He didn’t like the damn invaders, but in his mind, the Chinese and Brazilians were no worse than the Germans of last year. Until that moment lying on the ground, watching the radiation clouds rise, it hadn’t been personal in a gut-check way. With his NBC equipment working, listening to the filters cycle his air, watching the end of the world— Yeah. That’s what it had felt like. The Chinese wanted to end the world. Lighting off those babies made it a different ballgame. He couldn’t defend his wife anymore by fighting on the front lines, or behind enemy lines. He fought to keep the enemy far away from his home. But if the Chinese deployed thermonuclear weapons… there was no protecting people from that while running around on the battlefield as a Recon Marine.

As Paul stared at the Earthly blue of his planet, he realized something else, too. He’d refused to think about it before this.

A grin tightened his lips.

This was better than talking to a shrink—contemplation time as he floated into position while riding a stratospheric balloon. Seeing the curve of the Earth, the sheer beauty, the uniqueness of the planet—it gave him perspective. It let him admit some things to himself that otherwise he’d kept buried deep inside.

Back near Stillwater, Oklahoma, as he’d been stretched on the ground watching those mushroom clouds grow, terror had coursed through his body. He’d been scared before, but never like that. It had been worse than the time against the AI Kaiser in Toronto, Ontario against the GD. How did one fight nukes? At least a guy could find a way to take out a smart tank.

Yeah, the terror had changed his thinking. Paul hated hopelessness. Feeling his gut tighten like that…

As he sat in the capsule, the grin turned into a silent snarl. To be hopeless made him angry. There had to be a way to hit back against the Chinese. Until that moment in Oklahoma, he would have been content to drive the invaders out of the country. Lying there, with his guts sick with terror, Paul had wanted to strike back at them. The Chinese wanted to come to America and play their filthy games, well baby, they were going to learn what a pissed-off, angry American could do.

Paul had volunteered when a general asked him if he wanted to join an elite team to take the war overseas. Hell yeah, he jumped on that bandwagon. If the enemy wanted to drop nukes— Now you’re fighting me, Mr. Chinaman. Now you’re pissing in my face and calling it Cool Aid, and laughing about it.

That’s why he was sitting in this capsule, with nausea threatening to make him puke. That’s why he wanted to be a powered armored Marine, one of the first. He didn’t know the exact plan, but he knew it meant an orbital drop into enemy territory. He knew it meant exotic science fiction weapons and some kind of funky new battle armor.

This was the worst kind of war, more brutal than a knife fight. He’d made his promise to Cheri. With all his might, he would try to come home. First, he had to finish the war and make it safe for his wife and boy. Otherwise, what was the point anyway, right?

Paul exhaled, and tried not to squirm. The capsule continued to rise at 750 feet per minute. How much longer was this going to take?

Ten minutes later, the ground controller radioed, “You’re approaching deployment height.”

Romo picked up his helmet. Paul grabbed his.

“Seeing this,” Romo said, as he indicted Earth. “It makes you think.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “It does at that.”

“Where is Mexico and where is America?”

“Down there.”

“Si. Down there, together, one.”

The other three trainees glanced at Romo.

“You’re turning into a romantic,” Paul said.

“Maybe I am,” Romo said, with a thoughtful look on his hard features. “I’ve never seen the Earth like this. I have been thinking.”

“I suppose we all have,” Paul said.

The others nodded in agreement.

“It is too bad we must war on each other,” Romo said.

“It is what it is,” Paul said.

“Will men always fight and kill each other?” Romo asked, with uncharacteristic lines appearing in the man’s forehead.

“Seems like it to me. We’re not angels, although sometimes I wonder if we’re devils.”

“Si. I suppose you are right: men will always fight. It is too bad.” The former assassin sighed.

Paul wanted to needle Romo about his reflective moment, but he didn’t have it in him, not up here floating above Earth.

Quietly, with the clunk of metal, the five trainees donned their helmets.

Paul twisted his until he heard it latch. Then he began to check his suit’s seals. After he finished the rundown, he turned on the pressure unit, listening to it hiss. Once he opened the capsule’s hatch, the full-pressure suit would be his only protection until he reached the lower, safer levels of the atmosphere. The suit could protect him from extreme variations: from plus 100 degrees Fahrenheit to minus 90.

Checking a gauge, he saw that it had pressurized to 3.5 pounds per square inch, the rough equivalent of the atmospheric pressure at 35,000 feet. The suit would protect him from embolism, and it would prevent decompression sickness, or the “bends,” as he plummeted back to Earth.

He continued to check his equipment, making sure the chutes were in place and ready to deploy. The five of them were thick bundles now, in this small compartment, five mortals in a place men had no right to be.

I’m not even an astronaut, a spaceman. I’m just an orbital dropping wannabe. He’d never expected something like this. Even though he was in his forties, it brought back some of that feeling of his twenties when he’d first joined the Marines. It was good to feel that, made him seem alive.

“Sergeant Kavanagh,” the ground controller said. “You will move to the hatch.”

Working on his suit and chutes had kept him busy. That had kept the nausea at bay. The order triggered it again. Could fear be doing that? He didn’t want to admit such a thing, not even to himself.

Paul began to unbuckle. Try as he might not to, he dry heaved as he did it.

You should have taken the anti-nausea pill. He didn’t like them. They made him feel achy and sleepy. Yet the DIs and other trainers had relentlessly drummed one thing into them. They must listen exactly to the instructions.

Paul recalled the first time they’d told him that. “This is a brand new endeavor, recruit. You’re trying to become a new kind of Marine in the space age. There’s never been an orbital drop before. You live by our rules, or we flush you like an unwanted goldfish. Do you understand?”

How many times had they asked him that? He’d signed forms, etc., etc. They still harped on perfect obedience.

I’m not a dog. I’m a man.

Yeah. They wouldn’t care about that. If he threw up in his pressure suit… they would know he hadn’t taken the anti-nausea pill. He didn’t want them to know, because they might flush Paul Kavanagh out of the program. He couldn’t fail. He had to pass. He had to become a space-dropping specialist so he could pay back the Chinese for making him scared in Oklahoma.

“Sergeant Kavanagh?” the ground controller asked.

He chinned on his communit. “Getting to the hatch now,” he muttered.

“Your pulse rate is higher than normal.”

“What?”

“We’re monitoring your pulse rate. Are you feeling well?”

“I’m feeling super,” he said.

“Sergeant Kavanagh, strict honesty is the policy. If you cannot comply—”

“Your systems must be goofy,” Paul said. “I’ve never felt better.”

“Return to your seat, Sergeant.”

“Negative,” Paul said. “I’m doing this.”

The other four candidates swiveled their visors to watch him.

Paul stood, taking the step to the hatch. He dry heaved once more.

“Did you take your anti-nausea pill?” the ground controller asked.

Paul realized his internal communit was still broadcasting. A trickle of sweat beaded down his forehead. He felt awful. With his chin, he turned off the comm and dry heaved so vomit burned the back of his throat.

Ignore it. Get on with the job.

He couldn’t ignore it. He dry heaved again and feelings of claustrophobia struck. So, he pressed a switch and his visor slid opened. He exhaled, saw the others watching him and closed the visor. Slowly, as the suit re-pressurized, he reached the hatch.

“Sergeant Kavanagh, you must know we have a visual of the capsule. Are you vomiting?”

“It’s no big deal,” he radioed. “A few dry heaves.”

“Did you forget to take the anti-nausea pill?”

“No, I didn’t forget. I just didn’t do it.”

“You disobeyed a direct order?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“At least he’s being honest,” someone down there said.

“You will sit down—”

“No,” Paul said. “If I’ve just flushed out of the program, I’m at least going to do one drop.”

“No,” the ground controller said. “If you—”

“Let him do it,” another man said. “I’m curious if someone in his condition can do it without a pill.”

Despite the nausea, the next few minutes were amazing. First, Paul decompressed the compartment. It wouldn’t do for him to open the hatch and have the escaping air expel outside before he was ready.

“Are you in position?” the ground controller asked.

“Roger that,” Paul said. He moved a lever, turned a wheel and swung open the hatch. Then he looked outside. The Earth was below in its glorious panorama. He could see the curvature of the planet and marveled once more at its bluish atmosphere. Far down below was the United States of America. He was going to land down there in Montana, if he could summon the guts to leap.

He heard the harsh sound of his breathing. This was awesome, like the highest high dive on the planet. He remembered his youth when he used to cliff dive forty feet or more.

Sergeant Kavanagh laughed as he forgot about being sick.

“Why is he laughing?” someone down there asked.

“This is great,” Paul whispered. Then he pushed off. It was just like cliff diving. He pushed away, and he dropped from the capsule. A rear camera on his helmet let him view the round balloon and the capsule holding his blood brother. In seconds, he lost sight of the balloon.

At that point, it felt as if he just hung in space. He recalled a time surfing, the most serene moment in his life. It had been in Oceanside near Camp Pendleton, the California Marine training base. Winter surfing demanded a wet suit. The gray sky made it impossible to tell, as he lay on his surfboard, to see where the ocean ended and where the sky began. The ocean waves just rolled in. The waves sucked for surfing that day, but they had been perfect for just lying there, serene. It had been the one moment in his life where he went Zen peaceful.

This was like that, floating in the stratosphere. Actually, he dropped, gaining speed as he went. He grinned. That lasted a minute. Slowly, the grin began slipping away as the nausea returned.

“How are you feeling?” the ground controller asked.

“Like I twirled around too many times doing ring-around-the—rosie.”

“You do that often, Sergeant?” the other man asked.

“I did as a kid. What, you never did?”

“Watch your mouth,” the ground controller said. “The general is talking to you.”

Paul might have said he was sorry about that. He wasn’t. Screw them anyway. He was a speck of nothing, picking up speed. Look at the Earth, just look at it. This was crazy. According to the briefing, he’d be going supersonic soon.

As he free fell, Paul wondered why no one had tried inserting Special Forces personnel into China already like this. Maybe they had. Maybe SEALs used exotic equipment, gliding across the Pacific Ocean and quietly dropping into China to commit acts of sabotage. That would be the ultimate. Well… no… being an orbital-dropping Marine was going to be the ultimate.

How was that going to work anyway? The candidates had already gone through grueling tests. They were looking for the best of the best. Paul figured he was one, but was that really true?

He knew one thing. He was the oldest candidate. Talk about working overtime to stay in shape…

Oh wow, he began to notice movement. It was no longer quite so dark around him. He couldn’t see the curvature of the planet, either.

“He’s at four hundred and fifteen miles per hour, sir.”

Paul groaned. He couldn’t help it as his stomach gurgled. Clenching his teeth, he ran a litany in his mind: You will not vomit; you will not vomit. One time, the throat burn before, that’s all you’re allowed.

The struggle took all his concentration. By the time the nausea passed, the world had turned fully normal again.

“Six hundred and seventy-five miles per hour,” the ground controller said in his headphones.

Paul had already assumed the skydiving position. As he reached seven hundred miles per hour, he moved incorrectly, putting his arm in the wrong place. He rolled, tried to correct and only made it worse. Now he began to spin, and it accelerated faster than he could believe.

His trainers had warned him about this. His special pressure suit had all kinds of gauges. Among them was a G-meter that monitored his drop. He also had a drogue deployment button in his right glove. If he held it down for three seconds, it would fire the drogue stabilization chute. That was a special chute to stop whatever evil—destabilizing—was happening. The G-meter flashed red in his helmet. That meant he experienced over 3.5 Gs for a continuous period six seconds or longer.

With a loud clap of noise, the drogue stabilization chute deployed. Paul grunted, the wind knocked out of him, but he quit spinning.

Fighting it so he wouldn’t restart, he remembered all the skydiving lessons. He stretched himself, arching his back, and he fought to hold it, hold it… he sucked down air. His lungs unlocked. Even better, he held his position. The G-meter went green.

“He’s going to make it, sir,” the ground controller said.

“Once he deploys his main parachute I’ll believe it. Until then, let’s wait and see.”

Paul grinned. He liked the general, kind of. For a brass hat, the man was okay. He scanned the scene and continued to breathe pure oxygen from his two bottles. He carried enough for ten minutes of air.

Checking a gauge, Paul saw he dropped at 713 miles per hour. He was supersonic, baby. Except for the extreme speed, this was just like skydiving now.

He watched his height as measured from sea level: 20,000 feet, 18,000 feet, 16,000 feet.

“Get ready to deploy your main parachute,” the ground controller said.

“Roger,” Paul said, who watched the gauge closely.

At six thousand feet, with a Montana pine forest below, Paul gripped the handle, feeling the molding for his fingers. At five thousand feet, he pulled.

“It’s time to deploy,” the ground controller said a second later.

A louder clapping sound than before and a vicious yank against his shoulders told him the parachute deployed. If it hadn’t, he had an emergency reserve chute.

Paul’s speed slowed. Soon, he began to float down to the ground. He was going to make it. Now he would find out if they were going to wash him out of the program or not.

In the brisk morning air, three hundred yards from an old car lot, Colonel Higgins walked past parked Behemoth tanks. These were new vehicles from Detroit, painted with desert colors.

This happened to be the newly reconstructed Sixth Regiment. Jake had belonged to the original sixth. Stan sighed. He dearly missed his boy. It still didn’t sit well with him. He’d buried the sadness, though, and now he took it out on the Chinese. It was an unhealthy thing to do, and every time he destroyed a Chinese tank or truck, he waited for a good feeling to emerge.

Why doesn’t killing the enemy make me feel better?

The Behemoth tank crews stood at attention before their vehicles. They were sharp-eyed young men in black uniforms and angled caps. How many of them would die before this damn war ended? After three years of grueling fighting, they had finally fenced off the Chinese invaders. Another campaign should push them all the way into northern Mexico. Then what would happen?

Will we invade Mexico to drive out the Chinese? We have to. If we don’t, we’ll have to worry about the Pan-Asian Alliance for the rest of our lives.

One tanker caught his eye. He was a tall lad with sucked in cheeks. Stan stopped before him.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Corporal Chet Bretnor, sir.”

“Chet?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Why do you seem familiar?”

“I was part of Jake’s crew, sir. We survived the Red Dragon attack together.”

Stan frowned, and he turned away. But he was the colonel, the hero to some of these lads. He forced himself to look once more at Chet.

“That was a bad day,” Stan said. “I’m glad to see you make it.”

The boy’s face screwed up, as if he was trying to gin up the courage to say something. Stan didn’t want to hear it, whatever the boy had to say. He sighed, and he almost walked on, almost…

“Yes?” Stan asked.

“Sir,” Chet blurted. “I haven’t heard from Jake, sir. Do you happen to know where he’s stationed?”

Stan froze for several seconds. Then he shook his head. “Jake died, I’m afraid.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. How did it happen?”

Stan frowned. That seemed like an odd question. “Radiation poisoning,” he said.

“Didn’t he get the bone marrow treatment?”

“No.”

“Then why did those men take him away?”

“He was dead.”

“What?” Chet asked. “No. I don’t think so, sir.”

Stan stared at the soldier. Finally, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Jake resisted them, I’m not sure why, and the man gave him a sedative.”

“Resisted?”

“From where I lay, it sure sounded like that. I was pretty out of it at the time, sir. Maybe I don’t remember it very well.”

A worm of suspicion crept into Stan’s heart. “What did the men look like who took him?”

Chet cocked his head, and he gave Stan a funny look. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it before. You know what. They were MPs.”

“Come again?” Stan asked, sharply.

“Militia MPs, sir,” Chet said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Son of a bitch!”

Chet recoiled, and he paled. “Did I say something wrong, sir?”

Stan had to come back from the place he’d gone in his mind. He saw the boy’s fright. So, he put his hand on Chet’s shoulder. “Come with me. I want to hear more about this.”

“Sir?”

“I’m an idiot. I should have realized when the doctor wouldn’t look at me.” He faced Chet. “Militia MPs took him. I can’t believe it. They took a sick, possibly dying man. They’d better hope he’s still alive—or heaven help them.”

Paul sat quietly before General Allenby. The holding cell made him uneasy. The obvious two-way mirrors didn’t help him relax.

A wooden table stood between them. Paul sat on one side, the general on the other.

General Allenby didn’t look like anything special. He was average height with a narrow mustache and bland features. He had intense brown eyes, the only giveaway that something extra might be going on with the man.

Allenby stared at him. Paul stared back. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do. If the general thought he was going to wilt before a brass hat… the man could think again.

Paul had landed, waited for pickup and soon ridden back in a jeep. They took him straight to the brig. He’d waited here… he didn’t know for how long. There were no clocks on the walls. He felt hungry, so maybe three hours had passed since landing.

A few minutes ago, the door opened. Big MPs stood outside. They were the hard types who would beat you down with billy clubs if the general ordered it. Allenby walked in, sat down and the MPs shut the door.

Now the general just sat there, staring. Because of the mirror behind the man, Paul could see the balding spot on the back of the general’s head.

Internally, Paul shrugged. Screw them anyway. He was good at what he did. He’d stopped kissing butt a long time ago. Actually, he’d never done it. That’s why he’d been discharged from the Marines the first time after Quebec when he’d still been a kid.

“You didn’t take your anti-nausea pill,” Allenby said.

“That’s right.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t agree with me.”

“You’re going to have to take one… when you combat deploy.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll need our Marines at peak efficiency,” Allenby said. “We’re only going to do this once and you have to do it at your best.”

“Do what, sir?”

“That’s classified for the moment.”

“It’s special ops. That much is clear.”

“Sergeant, I want the best men in my unit. What we have planned…” Allenby shook his head. “You’re going to learn about it soon enough. The point I want you to understand is that I intend to win.”

“Me too, sir.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your record. I like it. When the going gets tough, you come through, Kavanagh. What’s more, you’re unconventional. You think for yourself. That’s the kind of man I want, the kind our country is going need. You have to listen to instructions, though.”

“I understand, sir,”

“No, you don’t. As I’ve said, I’ve read your record. You’re not only a good soldier—a great soldier—but you’re also a born troublemaker. What’s lucky for you is that there’s a war on.”

“Sir?”

“You’re a killer, Kavanagh, a natural. Your friend Romo is one, too. America needs its killers right now. We’re going to put the best of you—or the worst—into one unit of super soldiers. You are going to kill like no one has done before.”

“Sir?”

Allenby smiled, and his brown eyes seemed to shine. “I know. You expected me to reprimand you for not taking your anti-nausea pill, maybe flush you out of the program. Well, I’m not going to do that. It just so happens that I’m a killer myself. I get things done. I’m going to get this one done, and I’m going to keep the most dangerous men with me. You’re one of the elite. Your record says as much.”

“Why am I here in this holding cell, then, sir?”

“Because I’m chewing you out for the sake of my DIs and trainers. They’re not naturals like the rest of you men.”

“This is chewing me out, sir?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Kavanagh. When people ask, or if they hint at it, you let them know that I chewed you out good. You finally get it now, you tell them. You’re going to toe the line from now on.”

“But really?”

Allenby leaned forward. “You will toe the line, Marine.”

“Yes sir,” Paul said.

Allenby sat back. “Good. I’m not going to kid you, son. This mission is going to be tough. It will kill an awful lot of you. I’m figuring three-quarters to half of you aren’t coming back.”

Paul didn’t like the sound of that.

“This one is going to be for everything,” Allenby said. “We’re going to kick ass and end the war our way, with China laid out on its back. Now tell me, even though its dangerous, positively deadly, do you want to back out?”

“I don’t feel like dying, sir.”

“That isn’t want I’m asking.”

Paul thought about it. He’d promised Cheri. But he was fighting mad, and he’d made up his mind as he watched those mushroom clouds in Oklahoma. “I’m in, sir.”

“I knew you’d say that. You’re my kind of man, Kavanagh. Just so you know, from now on, I’m going to ride you hard. We’re going to have one throw of the dice with this mission. The Chinese—well, never mind that for now. This is one is going to be bad. It’s also going to be the craziest, wildest mission any Marine has ever been a part of. Just how big are your balls, son?”

Paul stared at the general, and something burned behind the Marine’s eyeballs. “Bigger than yours, sir,” he said.

Allenby leaned forward, and his features became like a mask. “If you ever say that to me again, you won’t survive your training.”

Paul said nothing more, but he might have smiled. Just the faintest bit. He waited.

The general stood, nodded at Paul. The door opened. “That will be all, Marine. You’re dismissed.”

The general went out first. Paul followed. It was then Kavanagh decided the general was a nut job. Three quarters causalities on this mission—just what did the brass hats have planned for them?

With an umbrella over her head, Anna Chen negotiated the slick steps of the Hotel Saint Peter. Freezing drops pelted her, mingled with pellets of hail. They lay at her booted feet, expended white shot of the horrible new glaciation.

The world starved to death. So what did humanity do? They formed giant leagues and fought over the most precious resource on the planet: prime farmland to feed their peoples.

Now I’m pretending to try to convince the Russians to join the fun. If ever there was a time to do this, it’s now. Hong has overextended China’s military, with the bulk of in Mexico and the rest in Burma against the Indians. How has Hong convinced Konev to back off? I still don’t understand it.

Anna sighed. It had been a long journey from Washington to Moscow. Max Harold had told her she was going as their envoy. The good of the country demanded it. Everyone knew the President trusted her. It would show Russia that David Sims still sat in the driver’s seat.

Harold had lied to her, but she’d pretended to believe him. David lay in a semi-coma, induced by his physicians she believed. Harold’s guards sealed David off from those who wanted to help him recover. Thus, the Director of Homeland Security wanted her out of Washington. That was the real reason for the trip. She spoke to the Russian president. It made good TV coverage, she supposed, but that was it. The Russians were too scared to move against China.

The wind chose that moment to pick up, and the hail no longer rained straight down, but slanted at an angle. Particles struck her in the face. She repositioned the umbrella, and saw Demetrius, her bodyguard, get out of a big Chinese-manufactured car.

It surprised her that Harold had let Demetrius stay with her. There was no one else she trusted nowadays. The big black man wore a hat and turned up the collar of his coat. Otherwise, he endured the hail. He was a true stoic.

Is the Chinese-manufactured car a not so subtle slap in the face by Konev’s people?

It was big and heavy, a Tiger Fang, she believed the company had named the model. It was top-of-the-line luxurious, armored for official use. The presidents, prime ministers and other rulers in most countries had a right to fear their people. Most went hungry, but not the rich or politically powerful.

Anna wondered where she fit in the scheme of things now. I represent the United States, but I’m afraid to speak the truth to my own countrymen.

Harold had sent her across the Pacific Ocean in the USS Colorado, a Virginia-class submarine. He’d told her he didn’t trust air travel. The Chinese might try to shoot down her plane. East Lightning was frightfully good at what they did, prying secrets out of people. No doubt, she topped one of their kill lists. She’d always been able to ferret out Chinese secrets.

A lifetime ago, she’d written the seminal work on the Chinese: National-Socialist China. People still read the book to understand how the leadership thought.

What if I’d picked a different topic back then? How would my life be different today?

“Ma’am,” Demetrius said by way of greeting as he held open the car door. Each of his fingers was twice as long and three times as thick as one of hers.

“Thank you,” she said. She began to fold her umbrella. Demetrius plucked it out of her hands. With a gentle push as he guided her head so it wouldn’t bump, he propelled her into the back seat.

“I’ll take the other car,” he said in his deep voice. “I’ll see you at Catherine’s.”

Before she could ask him about the change in plans, the car door slammed shut. She was supposed to go to the Kremlin first. Afterward, they would eat at Catherine’s. Usually, Demetrius sat with her. It was odd he hadn’t gotten in.

A moment of panic flared. Have Harold’s men finally bought off Demetrius? No, no, that’s foolish. Demetrius is loyal. I have to trust someone. Otherwise, I’d be all alone.

The warm air felt good. Chinese heaters always worked, and they were excellent designers of big cars.

The engine purred smoothly and the car pulled away from the curb. She glanced through the rear window, observing her bodyguard watch the car. Demetrius didn’t even shield himself from the hail. He watched the vehicle as if he’d never see her again.

“Hello Anna,” a man beside her said.

In alarm, Anna twisted around. She blinked in shock. A wizened old man with uncombed white hair sat beside her. Despite the car’s heat, Doctor Samuel Levin, the Director of the CIA, wore a bulky coat in keeping with Russian customs.

Anna glanced at the driver, a nondescript operative.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Levin. “Why did you pick me up?”

Anna used to work for the CIA as an analyst. That seemed like a lifetime ago. After she transferred to the White House during the Californian invasion, Levin and she had had a falling out.

Is he Harold’s man? I thought Levin was loyal to David. He was once… before the heart attack, at least.

“I’m here on business just like you,” Levin said smoothly.

“You mean you’re a figurehead just like me?”

“Bitterness doesn’t become you, Anna.”

She didn’t need his reproof. It made her bristle. Before she could stop herself, she said, “Treason never was your talent.”

Levin frowned, putting more wrinkles in his skin.

“I have a question before you tell me whatever your message happens to be,” Anna said. “Did Demetrius sell me out or did you trick him?”

“You’re working under false assumptions. I’m on your side, Anna. Or said more appropriately, we’re on the same side.”

“What side is that?”

“Time is short,” he said, becoming businesslike. “We’re headed for the Kremlin and—”

“Demetrius said I’m headed for the Catherine Royal Restaurant.”

“That’s what he was supposed to say, in case anyone was listening.”

“It was raining outside,” she said. “No one else stood near us.”

“I know you’ve heard about parabolic guns, listening devices.”

“Harold’s men are spying on me?”

“Of course,” Levin said. “So are Russian, Chinese and Iranian agents. You’re in grave danger, as I’m sure you know.”

“You think that’s why Harold sent me, as a target? Let East Lighting assassins kill me?”

“No. I feel as you do. Harold wants you away from the President, at least for a time.”

Levin’s words tightened her stomach. How did he know what she’d been thinking? It meant he’d been spying on her for some time. And David— I will not be afraid, she told herself, as a panic-attack threatened. Ever since her husband Tanaka’s death in Obama Park, she’d taken defensive training. Pulling her purse closer, she clicked it opened and put her right hand inside. Her fingers gripped a small pistol. If she shot Levin and the driver— “I’m not your enemy,” Levin told her. “So you can keep the gun in your purse.”

Heat expanded across her cheeks. “You like to think you’re clever, Doctor. You think you know what everyone is thinking.”

He gave a depreciating chuckle. “I am the spymaster, after all. The government pays me to know what dangerous people think.”

“I’m dangerous?”

“To some.”

“Who?”

“Harold and McGraw obviously head the list.”

“If you’re trying to draw me out—”

“Please, Anna, we don’t have much time. This is all so needless.”

She frowned, and she did some thinking. The conclusion startled her. “Are you suggesting that the only place you and I can talk privately is in a Chinese luxury car in Moscow?”

“You always were a smart girl. Now please, take your hand off the gun. You’re beginning to make me nervous.”

As the driver took a sharp turn, and she saw the Kremlin spires in the distance, she decided to trust Levin. With a sigh, she let go of the .22, removed her hand and snapped the purse closed.

“Much better,” he said.

“Why the cloak and dagger routine? We’re too old for this sort of thing.”

“My dear, you are far from old. You’re quite beautiful. Still, yours is a reasonable question. We practice these cautions because Director Harold is a dangerous man, both to us and to our country.”

“He claims to love America.”

“I believe he does—his version of it anyway, with him in charge, righting perceived wrongs.”

“You stopped his coup attempt last year,” Anna said.

“If you mean that little play under the White House—”

“It was more than a play. You forestalled his guards and possibly saved my life.”

“I suppose that’s true. It’s strange that the President refused to see Harold’s action for what it was.” Levin’s coat rustled as he shrugged. “For the sake of the country, perhaps the President made the correct decision that day. Harold is the Militia Organization, and his tireless work has helped stave off defeat.”

“Does that mean we allow him to rule as a dictator?”

“No,” Levin said quietly. “However, at the moment, there is little we can do about it.”

“Will the Russians join us?” Anna asked.

“No,” Levin said. “But I begin to wonder if Konev is playing a deeper game than I realize. The man desires Siberia.”

“I’m confused. If he grabs Siberia, isn’t that joining us?”

A soft smile appeared on Levin’s face. “Konev is canny. I’m not sure what he’s after. Like Putin before him, Konev yearns to revive the Russian Empire of old. Yet he does not want a bloodbath on the scale of World War II. A war with China would be that.”

“So what happens next?”

“That’s a good question,” Levin said. “Harold is willing to give away the moon in order to induce the Russians to attack Siberia. America needs a second front. Frankly, I’m torn about what we should do.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything I can do either way.”

“Yes there is. For now at least, you must placate Harold.”

“Why?”

“After your trip ends, stay by David’s side, fight to keep him alive. For a time, at least, Harold and McGraw need the President as a symbol. It’s after their victory…”

“You mean in Mexico?” Anna asked.

Levin cocked his head as if surprised at her. “There will be no war in Mexico.”

“We have to go in eventually. We can’t allow Hong to keep his soldiers on our border. It’s not over until we remove them.”

Levin pursed his lips. “I’m your friend, Anna. I’m the President’s friend. Will you remember that?”

She nodded, and she decided that whatever else happened, she was going to save David Sims from the power-hungry trio presently running the country.

-7- Power Politics

Jake picked at his Militia uniform. It hung loosely on his scrawny frame, as he’d lost a lot of weight since the Red Dragon nuclear explosion. His hair had fallen out, too. Finally, a new growth prickled from his scalp. Insanely, he felt a surge of renewed hope with his growing hair.

Oklahoma had been a little over six months ago. After the Red Dragon strike, he’d been very sick with radiation poisoning, and he’d gotten sicker. He believed, due to the poor medical facilities here in the Detention Center West.

The place was in Central Colorado, hidden in a bleak, Rocky Mountain valley. It was a hundred acres of electrified fencing with blockhouses, barracks, punishment cells and a small hospital facility. There must be several thousand detainees here with hundreds of guards. Jake wasn’t sure of the exact numbers. He never had been.

As he had once before two years ago, he sat on a hard plastic chair in the processing hall. The wheels of fate had turned full circle, and he was right back where he’d started from before the terrible siege of Denver. Just like then, the door to the director’s office opened.

Jake knew a moment of shock. He recognized the person, although it wasn’t the old director with an iron-colored buzz cut. He wished it were. This person was a woman, the judge who had sentenced him to a penal battalion in New York last year.

She wore a Detention Center uniform, white with brown stripes. A large woman with shortcut red hair, she had a mole on her left nostril and stern features. She was a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. Why was she in charge of the Detention Center then? Militia officers had run it last time he was here.

Two sitting guards flanked him. They stood, heavyset men in black uniforms. On their thick belts dangled batons, tasers, handcuffs, you name it.

The director gave them a meaningful glance before retreating into the office. Before Jake could follow, each guard grabbed a biceps, hauling him after her. He hated his own sticklike arms. Once, he might have put up a good fight, not anymore.

They dragged him into the office, to a chair, pushing him into it. Then they flanked him once more.

The monitor already sat behind a large desk. Behind her were huge photographs of Director Harold. Those of President Sims, which had been up there last time Jake was here, were no longer in evidence. Just like old times, though, Detention Center slogans in block letters adorned the walls: UNITY BRINGS VICTORY. WE ARE ONE, WE ARE STRONG. PATRIOTS FIGHT FOR THEIR COUNTRY! TRAITORS PROTEST THEIR LEADERS.

The Public Safety Monitor cleared her throat. She held a tablet in her hands. No doubt it held Jake’s records.

Jake had learned hard lessons. He sat straight, and he kept his gaze down in a subordinate manner, although he watched her through peripheral vision. Last time he’d been here, he’d seethed with indignation. Today he played a different game—for good reason.

One, he was weak and frail, hardly recovered from his latest illness. Two, months of ill treatment had broken some of his resolve. Three, despair had claimed his spirit. He’d fought the Chinese, survived a nuclear strike, and this was how they thanked him?

What a load of crap.

“I thought I recognized your mulish face,” the monitor said. “I sentenced you to a penal battalion last year. Incredibly, you survived the Germans, but murdered one of the Militia sergeants. Ah, it says here you even resisted arrest and threated to kill other Militia MPs.”

Jake kept his mouth shut. Sometimes it didn’t pay to defend your actions.

“Humph,” the monitor said. “I’m not sure I care for your silence. Do you think you’re too good to speak to me?”

“No, Monitor,” Jake said.

“Do you have anything to say then before I pass judgment?”

The words tightened Jake’s chest. That sounded ominous. Anger flared then, but he suppressed it. He had to use his head for once. This verbal confrontation was simply another form of combat. In war, if the enemy had superior force, one retreated or maneuvered with cunning. He must maneuver now.

“Monitor,” Jake said, trying to speak with deference. “I don’t defend my wrongful actions. If you would allow me, though…?”

“Yes, speak, speak, by all means. Haven’t I asked you to?”

“I fought the enemy in defense of my country. I helped kill German soldiers and later Chinese soldiers. In the latter case, I helped to drive PAA formations back.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“I’m asking for leniency, Monitor, for you to take my military service into consideration.”

Letting the tablet thump onto the desk, she leaned back in her chair, eyeing Jake, finally smiling frostily.

“Oh, you are a clever ferret of a traitor. You’ve learned to mouth platitudes, thinking in your heart to outfox us. I warn you, Traitor Higgins, I am not fooled.”

Outrage bubbled up and threatened to pour from his mouth. Jake closed his eyes, fighting to keep silent. It was so difficult to do. That surprised him.

“Unless…” the monitor said in an oily tone, “you would like to show us that you truly feel contrition.”

He opened his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I have it on good authority that your father, Colonel Stan Higgins, has spoken out against Homeland Security. If you could elaborate on his treasonous words, type out a document and sign it… that would show us your sincerity.”

He couldn’t believe it. “You’re asking me to denounce my father?”

“Exactly,” the monitor said. “He plays the war hero very well, even though he plots against the present leadership.”

Jake stared at her in disbelief.

That made her frown, and she snapped her fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake spied moment. Then the right-hand guard touched a shock baton against his neck.

Jake cried out in pain, and he slid from the chair, to lie panting on the floor.

“Pick him up,” the monitor said.

Jake felt strong hands haul him back into the chair. Nausea threatened and his mouth tasted bloody. Oh. He’d bitten his tongue hard enough to make it bleed. Were they going to torture him now? Had they been waiting for him to get better? Maybe it would have been better if he’d died in Oklahoma.

“Mr. Higgins,” the monitor said. “You must realize the precariousness of your position. As a murderer, you have killed lawful members of the Militia Organization, and this while in the face of the enemy. That is treason. If that wasn’t enough, you have also resisted arrest and threatened lawful police with death. Frankly, in my opinion, you deserve death in turn. I also suspect you of continued political malice. No doubt, there is a conspiracy afoot, with your father at the heart of it. I’m sure you’ve been privy to some of his high crimes.”

Jake loathed his physical weakness. If he rose up to fight, they would swat him down like a puppy. No. It would be worse than that. One of them would use one hand and using their fingertips to shove against his chest, pushing him down. What should he do?

“Let us begin anew,” the monitor said. “It is much more than you deserve. I feel soiled even treating with a traitor. Frankly, if it were just up to me, I’d have these men take you outside and have you shot. Yet, for the sake of our country, I am giving you this chance. Will you admit to your father’s treason?”

Jake took a deep breath, and he almost told her to go to hell. Yet that would be like charging enemy tanks on foot. It would be suicide.

You have to maneuver, Jake.

That meant he had to think. Yes. Why had they kept him alive? Was this the reason? He didn’t know, but he needed a plan. To plan wisely, he needed time to think.

Play for time.

“I have asked you a question,” the monitor said. “I demand an answer. We will tolerate no more games.”

Jake felt nauseous, and he’d been fighting it the whole time. Now he stopped fighting. Instead, he thought of cold sausages. Long ago, when he’d been ten years old in Alaska, his mom had served deer sausages from an animal his father had hunted. The sight of those greasy things had made him feel ill. He’d made a big production about how awful they looked, and he’d let them sit there on his dinner plate. Finally, as everyone else rose from the table, his dad had told him he couldn’t leave until he finished what was in his plate. For a half hour he sat there, too stubborn to eat them. Finally, his dad looked in, and Stan Higgins touched his belt. Jake had understood. Eat the sausage or get a spanking. He’d eaten, and the cold thing had made him gag back then.

His stomach gurgled now as he thought about the time—cold greasy sausage sitting in his plate.

“Mr. Higgins—”

He vomited, the gunk dribbling onto the floor. Grabbing his stomach, he curled over and vomited once more, making it sound worse than it was.

“Disgusting,” the monitor said. “I thought he was supposed to be better.”

“Maybe he’s having a relapse,” a guard said.

“Take him to the infirmary,” the monitor said. “Tell them I don’t want to talk to the traitor until he’s strong enough to withstand some persuasion.”

Jake kept his head down as the guards each grabbed an arm, lifting him off the chair and heading for the door. He had a few hours reprieve, maybe a few days. How could he turn that to his advantage? He didn’t know, but he’d better come up with a plan fast, or he faced being tortured to death—because there was no way he was going to denounce his dad.

Colonel Stan Higgins sat in an auditorium at Southern Front Headquarters. Along with the other colonels and generals, he listened to Tom McGraw outline the winter plans against the PAA, the incremental approach to pushing them completely into northern Mexico.

When the talk ended, Stan mingled with the field grade officers afterward. He worked his way toward McGraw, the big man surrounded by generals. Stan waited, although impatience seethed through him.

For over six months, he’d believed Jake had died in Stillwater. Since talking with Chet, Stan had hunted down the original doctor. He’d spoken at length with the man a second time, finally learning the truth. Homeland Security had indeed taken Jake.

As Stan stood in the gymnasium, listening to people talk, a fierce sense of betrayal filled him as it had been doing for the past weeks. How many times had he put his life on the line for his country? He’d lost count. His country had rewarded him with rank, medals and some honor. Yet it had taken his son, possibly killed him.

How should I react to that? What did he owe his country? His old dead friend Bill would have told him a man’s allegiance followed a strict ranking: God, family, country, in that order. If one’s country affronted God—demanded he disobey the Divine Ruler by accepting things God hated—one must rebel against that. If his country attacked his family… one must also rebel. After that, if someone attacked his country, he would fight to the death for it.

Homeland Security has taken my son. One arm of it has, anyway. Am I honor-bound to obey Max Harold or to obey those who help him?

Stan didn’t believe so. He had a small derringer in his jacket pocket, a tiny thing with two shells. He’d told McGraw some time ago what would happen if they took his boy. A lethal level of bitterness consumed Stan. After years of war, of fighting for his country, how could it come to this? He didn’t understand.

“Stan!”

Higgins looked up. McGraw filled his vision. The big man reached out, clapping him on the shoulder. It made Stan flinch.

“What’s wrong, old son?” McGraw asked. “You’re looking peaked. You’re standing here all by yourself as if the devil is pestering you.”

Despite the others around them, Stan blurted, “They have my son, Tom. Homeland Security plucked him out of a radiation treatment center. They’re holding him captive, likely in one of their detention facilities.”

At the bleakness of his voice, several officers turned toward Stan. He felt their staring eyes, the silent questions.

McGraw’s head swayed back. He seemed surprised. “But I thought…”

Stan opened his mouth to accuse the general, and he let his right hand drop into his jacket pocket.

“Colonel,” McGraw said, becoming serious. “I-I need to have a word with you.”

Stan’s fingers curled around the derringer. Then he palmed it. All he had to do was lift it out of his pocket, push it in McGraw’s face, and pull the trigger twice.

“Colonel!” McGraw boomed.

Stan became aware of many officers watching him. The stupor that had consumed him left, and he realized he had almost murdered Tom McGraw. The general’s words finally penetrated his fogged thoughts.

“When do you want to talk?” Stan asked.

“I’d like a word with you right this minute,” McGraw said.

“In private?”

“Of course. I have a message for you personally.”

Stan nodded, and he felt the weight of the derringer in his pocketed hand. Finally, he was about to get some old-time justice.

McGraw spoke to an aide, a major. The aide spoke to a three-star general. Soon, Stan found himself following McGraw as the man pushed through the crowd. They stepped outside the gymnasium. Cold bit Stan’s cheeks, and he shivered. They crunched through snow, reaching an office building.

Stan glanced at the icy moon. He might never see it again. He gripped the derringer to shoot. As he did, McGraw accelerated up a short ramp. Two bodyguards appeared. McGraw put his right hand on a doorknob, standing twelve feet away. The derringer had no accuracy. Stan had practiced with it before. To hit, he needed to be standing right beside the general.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” the lead bodyguard said.

For an instant, Stan decided to risk it. The bodyguard must have sensed something, because he stepped between Stan and the general.

Annoyance flashed across Stan’s face. Then he realized the chance had passed. He let go of the derringer, taking his hand out of his pocket.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Stan asked the approaching guard.

“Can’t take any chances, old son,” McGraw said. “It’s nothing personal.”

Stan opened his mouth, and shut it. He’d lost his chance.

The bodyguards became four as two more appeared. Before Stan knew it, they were frisking him—strong hands lifting his arms, patting against his ribs. His heart sank as a guard patted his pocket and gave him a sharp look. Stan knew better than to fight the bodyguard.

The man reached in and plucked the derringer from Stan’s pocket. “You’d better see this, General,” the bodyguard said, facing McGraw.

In the starlight, McGraw glanced at the derringer and then peered at Stan.

“Did you mean to murder me with that little toy, old son?”

“I don’t know,” Stan whispered. “Maybe.”

All four bodyguards stiffened. One reached for Stan while the others drew their sidearms.

“No,” McGraw said. “Let him be.”

“But sir—”

“I just gave you an order. Search him again. Tell me what more you find.”

They searched Stan more thoroughly. In silence, he endured the indignity. What did it matter anyway? He should have taken his chance when he had it. He’d blown it. Shortly thereafter, the chief bodyguard told the general they hadn’t found anything else, as there was nothing else to discover.

“Inside, Colonel,” McGraw said. “I want to hear what you have to say about this.”

Stan moved up the ramp as if walking to his gallows. Inside, McGraw flicked on the lights. It was a schoolroom. It surprised Stan none of the bodyguards entered. The big man sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Wearily, Stan sank into a chair beside a cluttered table. He sat there staring, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Higgins, were you really going to shoot me?”

“They have my son,” Stan said, as he continued to stare at the carpet.

“I’ve read the report. Jake is dead.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Stan looked up and he told McGraw what he’d discovered.

Afterward, McGraw said, “I had nothing to do with any of that. I had no idea.”

Stan wanted to believe him but— “You’ve taken over, Tom. You did exactly as you told me you’d do.”

“No. The President had a heart attack. It took all of us by surprise.”

“And after all this time, the President isn’t better yet?” Stan asked.

“I know what you’re implying—”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s clear what happened. You and Harold have taken over.”

“Chairman Alan is also part of the triad. Who else could have done as we have these past months? We’re finally winning the war.”

Stan studied McGraw. “Why are you bothering to talk to me now? I don’t get it.”

“I want to know if you were really going to shoot me.”

“I was thinking about it. I even had the derringer in my hand, planning how I’d do it. They have my son, Tom, my son! The bastards went into a hospital and hauled out a sick man. They must know he didn’t murder that sergeant—that man was the real traitor.”

“So you were going to shoot me? Why?”

“I told you six months ago what I would do if they took my son. Well, they have. Is he dead or alive? If he’s alive, I want him back.”

“Damnit, Higgins, I can’t trust a man who thinks about killing me.”

“Can I trust you?”

“What kind of question is that?” McGraw asked. “Whatever I do, I do for my country.”

“Is that the lie you tell yourself every morning?”

Anger flashed across McGraw’s features. He’d gained weight since taking over and his face had become puffier. “How can you expect my help if I know you plan to kill me?”

“Listen to me, Tom. I’m a loyal man: God first, family second and my country third. You can trust me because I do exactly what I say I’m going to do. Help me get my son back, and you won’t have a more loyal man.”

“And if I don’t?”

Stan stared at McGraw. He could see the belligerence on the general’s face, the surprise and hurt as well. Stan hadn’t expected that. “I’ll tell you what you can do. Aim me at Harold and I’ll kill him for you.”

“Treason,” McGraw said in a clipped voice.

Stan laughed bleakly. “Don’t you understand what kind of situation you’re in? You’ve staged a coup, or at least you personally allowed one to take place. Maybe it was fortuitous that Sims had his heart attack. I don’t know. Heck, maybe he still is sick. I’m telling you that you’re in a very dangerous situation. Triumvirates don’t last. One man becomes more powerful than the other two. I’ve been watching the news. Harold wields the real power. You’re a figurehead, and Alan supplies the muscle. The people love you, just as they loved Marc Anthony once. Harold is more like Octavian, who became Caesar Augustus. Harold is already outmaneuvering you.”

“We’ve had our arguments,” McGraw said. “I won’t deny that.”

“Who won the arguments?”

“We went his way most of the time…”

“There you are,” Stan said.

“No. We’re winning this war. We’ve driven the Chinese out of America, or almost out. We have plans now for a coming Burma offensive.”

“I thought it might be something like that. The Indians are going to make a move, eh?”

“I’m supposed to be gathering an American Expeditionary Force.”

“Interesting,” Stan said. He thought about it before shaking his head. “Look, Tom, about Jake, if anyone deserved better, it’s my boy. He’s fought in some tough spots: Denver, Buffalo and he survived the nuclear assault.”

“Are you absolutely sure about your information?”

“I spoke to the doctor the Homeland Security people threatened. The doc didn’t realize it, but I recorded our conversation, just in case I ever need it as evidence.”

“That’s against the law,” McGraw said.

“Oh, that’s rich. You’re very law abiding, you and Harold, aren’t you?”

McGraw’s face turned crimson.

“At least you can still blush about it,” Stan said. “I doubt Harold can.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re too prissy for your own good?”

“I know,” Stan said. “You’re going to tell me how you’re a realist, a man of the world. Let me tell you something. Once we throw away our principles, there’s no telling where it stops.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Stan looked into McGraw’s eyes. He didn’t know what the general was thinking, but… “I want your help,” Stan said.

“For doing this, there might be something I’ll ask of you in return.”

“What’s that?” Stan asked.

“If I free your boy, you’ll owe me one.”

“I would,” Stan said.

“And if that meant going to Burma…?”

“I’d go even if you weren’t bargaining for my son.”

McGraw slid off the desk, and he began to pace. “I’m due in Washington in a few days. I’ll mention your son to Harold.”

“You might need to be firm. Jake isn’t going to last—”

“I know how to make my arguments,” McGraw said, with bite to his words. He paused, fingering his chin. He clipped his fingernails far too closely.

Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? Stan asked himself.

“What you need to do,” McGraw said, “is to start looking for a replacement in your regiment.”

“No Behemoths in Burma?”

“Three-hundred-ton tanks? How would we get them there?” asked McGraw.

“Hmm, right,” Stan said. “They’re better used here, seeing we’re still in short supply of them. If the Chinese make a sudden surge out of Mexico—if the South Americans suddenly grow a new pair—”

“Just do as I ask, and be prepared to leave for a secret training base. We have to surprise the Chinese.”

“I don’t know if we’ll do that, but sure, I’ll do as you ask. Don’t let them keep Jake, Tom. If they do, I won’t be any good to you.”

“Is that a threat?” McGraw asked.

“No, sir. Just a fact.”

McGraw nodded, and the meeting was over.

Director Max Harold sat in the oval office in the White House. He reclined behind the President’s desk with an old ballpoint pen in his hand. He kept clicking it as he scanned a tablet. He liked keeping his fingers busy as he read. It helped relax him, and he’d read somewhere that it helped keep the blood flowing better.

On his desk, an intercom buzzed.

“Yes?” Harold asked, without looking up.

“General Williamson is here to see you, sir.”

“Ah, good,” Harold said. “Send him in.” The director clicked his pen a few more times, finishing the report. Then he pocketed the pen and set the tablet on the desk.

The door opened shortly, and tall Militia General Williamson marched in. He wore Himmler-style glasses over pinched features. The man was a stickler for protocol, and dedicated to the new regime. He had another quality Harold admired: a high capacity for toil.

That was one of Harold’s secrets to success: plain hard work. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Williamson replied, as he stood at attention.

“Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, sir,” Williamson said, taking the nearest chair.

Harold liked to keep things formal, so he remained seated behind the President’s desk. He realized he played a risky game taking over like this. In essence, he’d become a dictator. Long ago in school, he’d read about Cincinnatus the Roman patriot. In ancient times, the Romans had needed a dictator. They came to Cincinnatus as he plowed his field. He took up the sword and he led his countrymen to victory. After the war, he returned to his farm and his plow, giving up supreme power as easily as he’d taken it.

I’m not a farmer, but my country needs a clearheaded man to end this terrible war. Even more, my country needs a man who can return America to its rightful place in the world as the premier nation.

Greater China stood in the way. Therefore, he had to destroy it. It was that simple. Harold noted Williamson’s patience, another fine quality, although it potentially made the Militiaman dangerous. Harold trusted the general… but he would have to keep an eye on Williamson.

First clearing his throat, Harold asked, “Have you spoken with General McGraw?”

“Yes, sir,” Williamson said, taking out a tablet of his own.

“Don’t read me your notes. Just give me the essentials of the meeting.”

“He’s backing out of the Australia operation,” Williamson said.

“I’m not surprised, even though it seemed suited to his tastes: flashy and potentially earthshattering.”

Williamson waited.

Harold liked that about the Militiaman. The general didn’t offer an opinion unless asked directly. Too many people liked to run off at the mouth, and without really saying anything useful. Harold found such people tedious, which meant the majority of the population.

“Did he give any reasons for backing out?” Harold asked.

“No sir.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting. I wonder what changed his mind.”

“There was something else, sir.”

“Oh?”

Williamson didn’t bother glancing at the tablet perched on his bony knees. “The general asked about Jake Higgins.”

“The tank colonel?” Harold asked.

“No sir, his son, the traitor.”

“Refresh my memory.”

Williamson told him the story, including how his Militia MPs had finally apprehended the traitor in the Stillwater hospital tent.”

“Is this younger Higgins still alive?” Harold asked.

“I checked. He is.”

“Hmm. Go on. What did McGraw say about the younger Higgins?”

“The general wants him released, sir.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yes sir. McGraw wants Colonel Higgins in Burma. The general feels… that the senior Higgins might prove troublesome if his son remains in a detention center.”

“Ah… Then McGraw will go to Burma? He said that?”

“He implied it, sir, although he didn’t commit himself.”

“In your opinion, how serious was he concerning Jake Higgins?”

“I found him intent on the matter,” Williamson said. “If you’ll recall, sir, many months ago, General McGraw stalled me about Jake Higgins.”

“Explain.”

General Williamson did so.

“I see, I see,” Harold said. He took out the ballpoint pen and clicked it several times. Swiveling around, looking at the Rose Garden, Harold wondered what he should do. It might be good for McGraw to taste defeat on this, to sow discord among his supporters. On the other hand, why alert his enemy… his potential enemy… in the bid for supreme power, over such a minor matter?

“In your opinion, how close are Colonel Higgins and McGraw?”

Williamson picked up his notepad, clicking the pager, scanning text. “I’m sure you’re aware of their close affiliation during the siege of Denver and Operation Washington.”

“Ah, yes,” Harold said, “I remember. They worked well together.”

“They used to, sir. Several of my operatives believe there has been a falling out between them.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why otherwise would McGraw ask for Jake Higgins? Why would he risk my displeasure? He knows I back Homeland Security to the hilt.”

Williamson clicked the notepad to another page. Behind his lenses, his eyes shifted back and forth, as he read. “There’s something else I think you should know, sir.”

“I’m listening.”

“Our psychologist is uncertain about the root reasons, sir. Yet I think the action is more important than the reason. Colonel Higgins has a taste for… unpatriotic speech.”

“Of what nature?” Harold asked, still staring at the Rose Garden. He saw a wasp land on a leaf, crawling to the edge of it.

“He speaks out against you and General McGraw, sir. He has compared you unfavorably to the Caesars of old.”

“Interesting,” Harold said. “It’s an apt analogy, I suppose, although foolish to say aloud. I’m intrigued why McGraw would help Higgins if he’s become a political gadfly to us.”

With his back to the Militia general, Harold smiled. Another man might give his subordinate assurances, saying he wasn’t really a Caesar, as Colonel Higgins put it. Williamson wouldn’t care one way another about apt analogies. The Militiaman worked to get the job done and left higher-level thoughts to his superior.

Harold clicked his pen. Finally, he asked, “Colonel Higgins and the general are at odds, is that right?”

“Several months ago, I sat in an office together with them. I sensed displeasure in Colonel Higgins, more against us but also against McGraw. I would agree: they are at odds.”

Harold clicked the pen again, rocking in his chair. “If I recall correctly, Colonel Higgins is something of a war hero.”

“Yes, sir, the newscasts have made him one.”

“That’s only partly correct, but never mind,” Harold said. The man’s valor and hard fighting had made Higgins the hero. Harold swiveled around, facing Williamson.

“If this Colonel Higgins were McGraw’s good friend, I would deny the request. But seeing that Colonel Higgins is a gadfly…”

Williamson’s mouth became more pinched.

“You do not approve of me releasing Jake Higgins?” Harold asked.

“My opinion doesn’t matter, sir.”

“That isn’t what I asked you.”

“Very well, sir. No. I do not approve. We must stamp out the traitorous scum so we can build a strong America for the future.”

“That is exactly what I plan to do. However, sometimes one should use traitorous scum, particularly if they are good soldiers.”

Williamson actually moved on his chair, a possible squirm.

“We mustn’t fool ourselves, General. That is the worst sin of all. Jake Higgins, Stan Higgins and General McGraw are all fighting men. They’re good at what they do.”

There was no response from Williamson.

“Let us send these fighters to Burma to help the Indians. In fact, I’ve just had a brainstorm.” Harold grinned, putting crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. “We’re going to send every troublemaker we have left to Burma. Yes, write that down.”

Williamson set the notepad on his knees, with his fingers poised.

“We’re going to comb the US Army and Marines of subversive elements and transfer them into the Expeditionary Force. They can fight for the United States as they take enemy bullets and artillery shells that might otherwise kill loyal citizens.”

Williamson typed as the director spoke.

“Remember, General, a wise man wastes nothing. We have used many subversive elements in the penal battalions. They served as a warning to others, even as they made useful shock troops. We’ll have to hide our intention this time, as we rid our country of the malcontents.”

Williamson looked up as he cleared his throat.

“You have a comment to make?” Harold asked.

“I don’t usually like to do so, sir.”

“I’m quite aware of that, General.”

“But in my opinion, sir…”

“Yes?” Harold asked.

“Yours is a brilliant idea.”

Harold nodded. He knew it was a great idea. It’s why he ran America and why, at the end of the day, he would still be in power to remake the United States of America the right way when the war ended.