Invasion: Colorado

-4- The Map

Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh leaned forward in his chair, accepting an enlarged photograph of a three-star Chinese general.

“Was this him?” Captain Anderson of SOCOM asked.

Paul squinted at the photograph. The Chinese general had strong features, with his military hat tilted slightly.

“I think so,” Paul said. He slid the photograph back onto the desk. It was the fourth photo Anderson had shown him.

“Hmm,” Anderson said. He checked an e-reader on the desk. “This is General Cho Deng.” The captain tapped the screen and continued reading. “Well, look at this,” he said shortly. “It appears Deng led Fifth Corps: five pursuit hovertank brigades. They’ve played a key role in several of our worst encirclement battles.” Anderson tapped the screen again, reading further and beginning to nod. “Deng’s hovertanks have driven deep on occasion, creating chaos in our rear areas. I wonder what he was doing on the Arkansas River.”

“Probably hauling supplies,” Paul said.

Anderson looked up. The second floor room was in SOCOM HQ for Army Group West. It was spacious, with a photograph of President Sims and a large American flag hanging on the wall. Behind the captain’s desk were several computers. He was a medium-sized man with a small black mustache and a prosthetic right hand and forearm. When he moved its fingers, the fiber-mechanical hand whirred softly. Anderson had fought as a second lieutenant in Alaska, losing the hand and forearm during the Chinese drive on Anchorage.

Anderson set down the photograph and drummed his prosthetic fingers on the desk.

“You were lucky, Master Sergeant,” he finally said.

Paul remained silent. He’d been back several days since coming in from the surveillance mission. Romo was in the hospital, hooked up to fluids. It had been a tough few days after the sniper attack. His blood brother had nearly coughed out his life and given them away twice. Once, Romo had told Paul to leave him behind and report in Denver. Paul had left two people behind in his life, once on the Arctic ice and once in Northern Mexico. Both incidents still bothered him. He knew his conscience couldn’t bear any more abandoned comrades and he’d told Romo so. There had been no more talk about that.

“We don’t send you behind enemy lines so you can indulge your fancy and kill enemy generals when you feel like it,” Anderson was telling him. “You’re not a lone wolf, but an integral part of a vast team effort.”

Paul knew better than to talk back to officers or even to try to explain himself. As a young man in Northern Quebec, he hadn’t always known that. It had gotten him kicked out of the Marines the first time. Maybe wisdom came with age. He sat and listened to the lecture, but he didn’t nod or give the captain assurances that he’d learned his lesson. He sat like a rock. He almost did it too much and forced himself to blink, as he’d been staring like an idol.

“I’m not sure you’re hearing me, Master Sergeant,” Anderson said.

“Oh. I hear you, sir. Loud and clear.”

“But do you understand?”

“Your words? Yes sir, absolutely.”

The finger drumming increased, making the prosthetic whirring noises more noticeable. “I can understand your frustration. I mean the lack of the smart bombs. And it’s good you took out this general. That’s not the point.”

“Of course not, sir,” Paul said.

Captain Anderson stared at him before sitting back. An infectious grin spread across his face. It dropped years off his appearance, making him seem too young.

“There, I’ve given you the sermon General Ochoa suggested you hear. This is a hell of a war, Master Sergeant. The enemy is stretching us thin and he doesn’t stop pounding. There should be four of you out there on a long-range surveillance mission. Instead, we send you and the Mexican hit man.”

“Romo is one of the best, sir.”

“Of course he is. That’s not the point. Look. I need you alive, Kavanagh. I appreciate your valor and your love of country. But the truth is you went cowboy on me and you got lucky. This is going to be a long war, and one of these days, your luck is going to run out.”

“I hope you’re wrong, sir.”

“So do I. Now that we’re clear about that, I have…”

The prosthetic hand stopped moving as the captain laid the palm flat on the desk. Anderson glanced away and he pursed his lips.

“We all have our orders, Master Sergeant. I know you appreciate that. General Ochoa has given me orders concerning you. I don’t think you’re going to like them.”

“What now, sir?”

“There’s someone who wants to meet you. He’s very insistent about it, too. At first, he demanded the general send you to him, alone preferably.”

“Are you talking about Colonel Valdez?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Anderson said. He faced Paul, and the captain was frowning.

“General Ochoa hasn’t changed his mind about sacrificing me to Valdez, has he?” Paul asked.

Anderson gave an insincere shake of the head.

“It sounds like there’s more to this story, sir.”

“There always is,” Anderson said. He let out a sigh. “The Mexican Home Army has been through the grinder like the rest of us. They were stationed in Texas and have been through hell. You’re probably aware that the American Government hopes to use the Home Army as much politically as militarily. We’ve been helping Colonel Valdez to foment rebellions in Mexico. The expectation is that he’ll become our Charles De Gaulle, as it were.”

“Who?” Paul asked.

The trace of the former grin appeared on the captain’s lips. “It’s old history, Master Sergeant. General Charles De Gaulle led the Free French during World War II. He commanded battle units in the early part of the war, but he also helped the war effort by coordinating French Resistance against the Nazis. After the war, De Gaulle became the President of France. We’re hoping Cesar Valdez does something similar in Mexico. By fighting with us, we’re hoping the Home Army shows the rest of Mexico that it doesn’t have to lie supine under the Chinese occupation.”

“Got it,” Paul said.

“As I said earlier, the Home Army has taken a terrible beating just as we have. They were a little over sixty thousand strong before the summer invasion.”

“And now?” Paul asked.

“More like twenty-five thousand,” Anderson said. “Not all of the missing are dead, mind you. Some deserted and others are wounded.”

“Where are those twenty-five thousand?”

“The majority are holding out in Centennial,” Anderson said. “That’s to the south of here in Greater Denver. They’re tough soldiers, some of the best we have. Colonel Valdez has started wondering, though. What happens when the war’s over and he doesn’t have anyone left? He’s been talking about leaving, letting his soldiers rest and refit, which likely means sitting out the war. We can’t afford that just now as we’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“Got it,” Paul said. One man versus twenty-five thousand, yeah, he got it all right. One man like him didn’t count much stacked against all those thousands of badly needed soldiers.

“Colonel Valdez has highly placed contacts,” Anderson said, “powerful people that want to keep him happy. Some of them have put pressure on General Ochoa.”

Here it comes, Paul thought. “Yeah?” he asked.

“I can understand your cynicism, but you have nothing to worry about.”

“Who’s worried?” Paul asked.

“I wouldn’t be party to handing over an American soldier in my command to anyone. I give you my word on that.”

Paul sensed something in Anderson. And he recalled how the captain had lost his hand. Back in Alaska, he’d held the rearguard for an outfit pulling out from the advancing Chinese. Second Lieutenant Anderson had been one of the soldiers staying behind, firing a heavy machine gun to give the rest of the unit cover. The Chinese attacked swarm-style. Anderson had remained at his post, firing until an enemy bullet destroyed his hand and the machine gun. Another bullet had ricocheted around in his helmet, knocking him unconscious.

The Chinese advance reached his position and passed the unconscious officer by. Later, with a bleeding head and ruined hand, Anderson had begun a long, long journey back to American lines. The captain had guts, and he didn’t quit. No, he didn’t seem like the kind of officer to hand over one of his men.

Paul Kavanagh sat up and nodded. “I believe you, sir.”

“Good. I don’t like my men thinking I’m a turncoat or a sellout. Like our country, you’ve been through a lot. Personally, I’d like to see this problem taken care of. General Ochoa agrees with me. To that end, I’ve arranged a meeting between you and Valdez.”

Paul had to work not to swivel his head to look behind him. He could imagine MPs waiting outside for him. Despite the captain’s words just now—

“When and where would the meeting take place?” Paul asked.

Flicking his wrist and pulling back the cuff, Anderson checked his gold-rimmed watch. “In three minutes. He’s coming here, alone with his driver. Are you armed, Master Sergeant?”

Paul felt a prickle along his neck. Despite everything, was this a sellout? He couldn’t believe it. “Yes sir, you probably see I’m wearing a gun. Do you want my sidearm?”

“General Ochoa told me to take it from you,” Anderson said, staring Paul in the eyes.

Paul’s chest tightened.

“But I’m not going to do that,” Anderson said.

Paul’s nostrils flared, and he nodded in the manner of one elite warrior to another.

There came a knock at the door.

“Ah, it appears Colonel Valdez is a little early,” Anderson said. “Are you ready, Master Sergeant?”

“Let’s get this over with,” Paul said.

“Enter,” Anderson said.

A sergeant opened the door. As he did, Paul stood and turned around. He didn’t like having his back to Valdez. A hard-faced man entered. It must be the driver. The man was big, in uniform, and he stared at Paul with cold eyes.

This one means to kill me.

Colonel Valdez strode in next. He was shorter than the driver and an inch taller than Captain Anderson. He had darker, pitted skin. He must have had chicken pox as a kid. A cigar smoldered between his lips. He had a sharp nose and a fierce presence radiating from him. His eyes burned black like coals as they focused on Paul.

Kavanagh’s neck hairs prickled and his right hand instinctively dropped onto his hostler. With a twitch of his fingers, he unsnapped it.

Valdez shot an accusing glance at Captain Anderson. “Ochoa promised me he would be—”

“Colonel Valdez!” Anderson said at parade-ground volume.

It seemed to take an effort of will, but Valdez tore his gaze from Paul to look at Anderson.

“I’d like to show your driver into the other room,” Anderson said.

“My driver stays with me,” Valdez said.

“Sergeant,” Anderson said to the man at the door. “Draw your weapon and point it at Colonel Valdez’s driver. If he twitches a muscle, shoot him, kill him.”

The driver had been busy staring down Paul. His eyebrows lifted now, he turned and his hand dropped toward the weapon on his belt.

Paul didn’t wait for the surprised sergeant to do as he’d been told. He drew his gun before anyone else did. “This isn’t the place for it,” he said in a low voice.

The driver—the obvious hit man—studied Paul. The cold eyes showed nothing. This was a dangerous man, likely one of the Colonel’s most deadly. The driver let his gun hand go limp and hang down by his side.

Finally, belatedly, the sergeant drew his sidearm. He pointed it at the Colonel’s hit man.

“Take him to the waiting room in the lobby,” Anderson said. “I don’t want him anywhere on this floor.”

“Yes sir,” the sergeant said. “Come on,” he told the driver.

“Take his gun first,” Anderson said.

“That will not be necessary,” Valdez said. “He will not draw here.” The Colonel spoke rapidly in Spanish to the driver.

The hit man nodded lazily.

Anderson appeared to think a moment and nodded to the sergeant. “The Colonel is a man of his word. Leave the driver his sidearm, but take him downstairs to the waiting room.”

The driver and sergeant left.

“I’m going to retire down the hall,” Anderson said. “You two gentlemen are free to use my office. If you need me—”

“General Ochoa lied to me,” Valdez said.

“No sir,” Anderson said. “He kept his word. General Ochoa ordered me to disarm the Master Sergeant. I chose to ignore the order.”

“Ochoa will learn of this,” Valdez said.

“We’re all on the same side, Colonel,” Anderson said. “It would be good to remember that. And if I were you, I’d also remember that Master Sergeant Kavanagh is a crack shot. He killed General Cho Deng, one of the enemy’s best hovertank commanders.”

“You’d better remember who I am, Captain. It is a poor decision to cross swords with me.”

Anderson saluted. “Oh yes, sir. I will remember.” He thereupon took his leave, closing the door behind him.

Paul holstered his sidearm and faced the intense Colonel Valdez.

Valdez chomped down on the cigar, and his eyes blazed. With his pitted skin, it made him seem like some Aztec god of the days when they demanded blood-sacrifices from their conquering people. In those times, The Aztecs had marched to war, swinging obsidian-tipped clubs and spears, building an empire. At its core was the glorious city of Tenochtitlan, where present day Mexico City stood. There, on the tallest pyramid, the Aztec priests tore out the hearts of their victims, appeasing the gods with human blood. On some feast days, they had sacrificed as many as twenty thousand men, women and children.

The Aztecs had been fierce warriors. Colonel Valdez could have been one of their chosen sons. Despite a conquering horde of Chinese soldiery numbering in the millions, he had fought against the Mexican occupation. He had waged merciless war, using assassins against President Felipe, killing the supposed victor of the Mexican Civil War. The Chinese had tried to hunt Valdez down as ruthlessly. The Colonel had survived—a hero, a butcher and a relentless foe.

“You were supposed to protect my daughter,” Valdez growled.

Paul didn’t know what to say. He hated the man who had sent assassins after him, but he could understand the rage. He also despised the fact of his leaving Maria Valdez behind. He’d had no choice in the matter, but he knew he couldn’t explain that to the Colonel.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said.

“Does that bring her back to life?”

“No.”

“Then what good is your apology?” Valdez sneered.

“I don’t know.”

“Bah!” Valdez said. He yanked the cigar out of his mouth and spat on Paul’s boots. “I give you that for your sorry. The Chinese cut her into pieces because you failed to keep your promise. The Marines never leave their own behind? Ha! It is a lie.”

“We’re human, Colonel. Sometimes—”

Valdez’s right hand dropped to his gun.

Paul’s dropped onto the butt of his holstered semi-automatic.

“You will kill me?” Valdez asked.

“I don’t want to.”

“But I want to kill you,” Valdez said.

In the middle of Paul’s stomach, outrage and frustration exploded. It tightened his jaws, and he drew his gun. Belatedly, Valdez drew his. Paul knocked the hand aside, sending the revolver flying to smack against the wall. Then he jammed his semi-automatic against Valdez’s neck, pushing the smaller man until he slammed against the wall.

“You’re the one who sent your daughter into combat,” Paul whispered, his face an inch away from Valdez. “Why didn’t you lead the mission? I fought alongside her. I risked my life as she risked hers. Did I kill her later? No, the Chinese did that. Don’t blame me, Valdez.”

“I do.”

Paul cocked the hammer, and he stared into the eyes of a man determined to kill him. Finally, he twisted to the side and pushed Valdez away. The Colonel staggered, bashing into a chair so it went tumbling and Valdez sprawled onto the floor.

Holstering his gun, Paul wondered about the wisdom of letting a man live who would never stop seeking his life. He didn’t see as he had much choice, though. Anderson would arrest him if he killed Valdez here. What good would being arrested do?

I’d probably survive the war then, tucked away in a prison cell. Cheri would like that.

“You just made a terrible mistake, gringo,” Valdez said, climbing to his feet. “You should have killed me. When I get the drop on you, I will kill you.”

“Whatever,” Paul said. “As far as I’m concerned…” He stopped himself from speaking further. What did name-calling do? Nothing. It was doubtful either of them was going to survive the Chinese. So this was all moot anyway.

“You are a dead man,” Valdez said. “Tell Romo he is dead, too.”

Paul breathed deeply. Ochoa had ordered Anderson to disarm him. What a crazy world. Valdez hated. The Chinese conquered. And—

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Colonel. I wish I could have saved her. In fact, even though I know you’re going to spit at this—” Paul scowled and the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to speak them. He even opened his mouth to try, but his tongue refused to move and help him curl the words.

Valdez stared at him with hatred.

Paul moved his lips, and this time, he forced out the words. “I’m sorry, and I…I ask you to forgive me.”

“What did you say?” Valdez hissed.

Paul took an even deeper breath. He couldn’t believe he was saying this, but it felt like the right thing to do. “Please forgive me, sir. I failed your daughter and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Valdez said, although he said it with less heat than earlier.

Paul nodded. He’d tried, and it had failed, but he’d tried.

“Get out of my sight!” Valdez shouted. “Leave, you-you—Leave me!”

Paul closed his mouth and strode for the door. He didn’t look back at Valdez. He could hear well enough to know that the Colonel hadn’t darted for his fallen gun. Paul twisted the handle, and he wished Valdez would say, “Yes, I forgive you. Go in peace.”

Instead, Paul Kavanagh felt a burning gaze of hatred pierce his back. If Valdez had been insane with rage before, now it was probably going to be worse. Paul opened the door, walked through and shut it behind him.

In the next room, Captain Anderson stood watching with raised eyebrows.

Paul shook his head.

Anderson nodded, with a sad expression on his face.

Paul took his leave, deciding he’d use the back entrance and bypass the waiting driver and further complications with the Mexico Home Army.

Private Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB sat in a hard plastic chair in a hall outside the DCW Director’s office. Jake was alone, although he knew a guard waited at the end of the hall around the corner.

The Detention Center West was in Central Colorado, hidden in a bleak, Rocky Mountain valley. It was a hundred acres of electrified fencing with blockhouses, barracks and punishment cells. There must be several thousand detainees with several hundred guards here, but Jake wasn’t sure of the exact numbers.

He wore a Militia uniform and nice new boots. His stomach was full, his body didn’t ache all the time and if he was comfortable like this doing nothing he didn’t instantly fall asleep like he would have done just a few days ago.

Was I stupid leaving Lisa?

She was the woman he’d saved from hanging, the one who had kicked and shot the Chinese soldier to death. After he’d rescued her, she’d wanted Jake to stay and help her fight. They had kissed and done other things that had almost convinced him. Wouldn’t that be a great way to spend his time: fighting the enemy and loving the amazing Lisa?

When he told her he wanted to rejoin the Militia she told him that he was too young and stupid, too idealistic for his own good. He didn’t realize when he had it made. She’d told him the U.S. Army couldn’t stop the Chinese. She said they would be driven out because of millions of Americans like her sniping from behind and burning supplies, making it too miserable for the enemy to stay. That’s what having millions, billions of rifles and shotguns meant. That’s what the Second Amendment had been all about, having an armed nation that no one could subdue, not an invading enemy or even its own overbearing government.

She’d had her good points, two of them way up high. Maybe it just was that she had been too aggressive. Even after only a few days with her, she’d been telling him what to do all the time.

In the end, Jake had decided he owed it to the others who hadn’t made it back to return to the Army and slug it out with the enemy. The lieutenant would have told him to rejoin, to finish the fight. The Louis L’Amour characters of the Old West would have finished it, too. That’s how they’d won the West in the first place. A soldier didn’t hide in a woman’s arms when battle called.

The door to the Director’s office opened. A large man in his fifties looked out. He had iron colored hair in a buzz cut. He was between large and fat, and seemed stern. He wore a uniform and had the kind of red face with broken blood vessels that meant he drank too much. It reminded Jake of his grandfather.

“Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB?” the man growled.

“That’s me,” Jake said.

The Director scowled. “You’re in the Militia, son. That means you stand at attention when an officer talks to you. You will also address me as sir.”

Jake stared at the Director. Slowly, he stood to his feet and saluted. He neither stood as straight as he could nor did he move with precision. Maybe it was a mistake, but he’d been the lone survivor who had fought his way free of the Chinese. It seemed to him the Director could give him a little respect.

The Director grunted, and the hard eyes intensified. He opened his mouth, seemed to decide otherwise and beckoned Jake into the office.

As Jake sauntered into the room, he wondered if this was the time to stand on his merits. He recalled the cells, the punishment details. These people thrived on regulations, on their little games. Maybe the smart man remembered that and bent a bit until the goons no longer had him in their control.

The office contained huge photographs of President Sims and Detention Center slogans in block letters: UNITY BRINGS VICTORY. WE ARE ONE, WE ARE STRONG. PATRIOTS FIGHT FOR THEIR COUNTRY! TRAITORS PROTEST THEIR LEADERS.

Jake had read the slogans before and heard them more than he cared to count. He sat down in a chair, noticing he was lower than the Director was in his chair behind the desk. The desk had books on it, photographs and mementoes galore.

The Director picked up an e-reader and scanned the screen. “Hmm, it says here you fought in Amarillo, Texas?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

The Director clicked the e-reader. “That’s a long way from Gunnison where it says the police picked you up. You were in the company of a Ms. Lisa Brewster, a suspected agitator, I might add.”

Jake kept himself from blurting out what he thought about Lisa being suspected of anything. The woman was a true patriot, killing the enemy, risking her life to do it.

“Sir,” Jake said, “does the report add that I had Lisa drive me to Gunnison so I could reach the authorities?”

“It does not? Is that what you’re claiming?”

“Yes sir. That’s exactly how it happened.”

“I would like to know how you went from Amarillo, Texas to Gunnison, Colorado.”

“Some of us fought our way out of the encircling Chinese near Amarillo, sir.”

“We?” the Director asked.

Jake began to tell him about the lieutenant and some of the grim journey. As he talked, Jake noticed the Director looking more and more incredulous.

“You expect me to believe that tale?” the Director finally blurted.

“Since it’s the truth, yes I do.”

“No! I will tell you the truth. You escaped the Seventh CDMB before it ever reached Amarillo, Texas. Likely, you went AWOL long before that. You fled to the Rockies and have spent your time idling with a suspected subversive. During this absence, you’ve listened to the news and concocted your cock and bull story. You were a troublemaker before, Jake Higgins, and you’ve remained a troublemaker. We know how to handle the likes of you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake asked. “I fought my way back through Chinese lines. I got the scars to prove it, too. I returned to keep fighting. Lisa wanted me to stay with her, but I told her I couldn’t.”

The Director laughed sharply. He moved his head in short jerks like a wolf gulping its meat. “Nice try, Mr. Higgins.” He leaned across the desk. “Your kind makes me sick. We’re going to teach you about respect. It may kill you, but I swear we’re going to pound some patriotism into that thick and cunning skull of yours.”

The Director pressed a button on his desk.

Jake stared in at the man in disbelief. “Is this a joke? This is my reward for fighting my way back?”

The door opened and three guards looked in.

The Director pointed a thick finger at Jake. “Take this piece of garbage to the isolation cell. Let him contemplate the coming lessons we’ll drum into his thick hide.”

Jake rose in a blaze of rage. He ripped off his shirt. “Look at this!” he shouted. There was a pucker scar, a bullet wound on the side of his ribs. “A Chinese assault rifle did this. What about here.” He pointed to a furrow along his side. “Shrapnel, plain and simple. And here,” he showed them his left biceps. “That’s from a bayonet. You know what a knife-scar looks like, don’t you? I’m sure you get them all the time sitting your fat butt here in safety. I was in Amarillo and it was hell!”

Jake glanced at the three guards frowning at him. They were beefy and each clutched a baton.

“Sure,” he said. “You’re brave against me, three to one.” He clapped his hands. “If you phone the cops in Gunnison they’ll tell you I asked them to take me here. I volunteered to fight, and that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been shedding blood for my country and you want to torture me. Tell me you’re a patriot. Come and fight with me at the front. Let some Chinese artillery pound your position and let’s see if you cut or run or hold for the swarm attack you know that’s coming.”

Jake was panting, and there was fiery rage in his eyes. Three batons—maybe it was time to fight three to one and just go down swinging. This was complete crap.

“What do you say, Director?” the chief guard asked. “He sure doesn’t sound like a deserter.”

The Director stroked his chin, measuring Jake. “I’ll call the police in Gunnison. If they confirm your story…I’ll add you to the Eleventh CDMB.”

Jake was too angry to say anything more. He was too pumped up for action. Slowly, he backed down, forcing himself to sit. He stared at the floor, refusing to look at anyone.

He heard the Director talking into a phone. The man was gruff. The Director waited, and he then asked several questions. He grunted, likely receiving answers. Finally, the Director thanked the police officer and hung up.

Jake looked at him.

The Director stared back, finally nodding. “Your story holds. Maybe you did fight in Amarillo. We’re sending you out tonight. The Eleventh is headed for Denver. The Chinese have been inching there. If you want a fight, son, you’re going to get it.”

Jake nodded.

“Go on, take him away. I have work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” the chief guard said. The man motioned to Jake. “If you’ll follow me then...”

Jake waited a half-second, wondering if the Director would apologize for earlier. No, the man ignored him, writing something on paper. Jake said nothing more as he stood, deciding the sooner he left this place the better. Denver, it looked like he was going to fight again after all.

“I’m still not sure why you think I should attend this meeting, Mr. President,” Anna said.

They were in the Oval Office, the President staring out the window at the snow-covered Rose Garden.

David Sims looked different in person than he did on TV. He was plump with wispy blond hair that barely covered his bald spot in front. His pale blue eyes were alert like a hawk, though, just as on the tube. He wore a black suit and his shoulders were back as they used to be before the war.

“You’re my second pair of ears,” he said.

“But sir—”

Sims turned to her, and there was concern in his eyes. “You’ve spoken with Chancellor Kleist. You can testify to his offer and the faith in which he gave it.”

“But the others won’t accept me as—”

Sims made a decisive gesture. “I’m the President. I decide whom I trust and whom I don’t. Your advice has always been good, and today, I’m going to need all the good advice I can get.”

They were about to speak with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, with General McGraw of Army Group West and the Director of Homeland Security, Max Harold.

I’m the wrong person to be in on this meeting, Anna told herself. There are many others more qualified than I am. She also wondered about the wisdom of including General McGraw in the meeting. David had been secretive about him. Is that why his shoulders are square today? He’s making crisp decisions just as they others said he did in his first year of office. If true, then McGraw was good.

“Are you ready?” Sims asked.

Anna nodded, although she wasn’t ready. Today, they were going to discuss the Chancellor’s strange offer. It seemed like the wrong group to make political grand strategy with. McGraw and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were military men through and through. Kleist’s offer was a political decision with hard political ramifications. And yet, in the end, President Sims was a soldier.

Seven years ago, it had been General Sims, the Joint Forces Commander in Alaska during the Chinese invasion. He’d won the Presidency because of his victory seven years ago. The people trusted the man on the white horse, the military savior. They expected miracles from the Joint Forces Commander, General David Sims. As the present war spiraled into even worse defeats, the President had come to view the news more and more often through a strictly martial lens.

Is that wise, or is it short sighted? Anna didn’t know. If America lost militarily, the political wasn’t going to matter anyway. Maybe in the end David knew what he was doing. Maybe this needed to be a soldier’s decision.

“Sit over there,” Sims said. “I want you to take notes.”

Anna sat in a chair to the side, picking up a computer scroll and stylus.

The President straightened his suit jacket and marched to the door. He opened it, speaking softly to his secretary. Then he strode to his desk, sitting behind it.

Thirty seconds later, the door opened as the secretary ushered three men into the Oval Office. The Chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff entered first, General Alan. He was gaunt with sunken cheeks, no longer merely thin. He wore black-rimmed glasses and looked exhausted, as if he needed sleep, which he probably did. He was Sino-phobic and therefore disliked Anna.

Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge, given to hard logic and little emotion. He was bald with liver spots, wore a rumbled suit and had a distracted air, as if trying to remember where he’d put his car keys. It was an illusion, Anna knew, as the man literally heard and remembered everything. He’d been instrumental in creating hordes of Militia battalions. The Militia came under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security. General Alan had never approved of that, believing the military should control the Militia. It had made the two into opponents.

Anna wondered sometimes if General Alan was right. Was it good to have two militaries in a country? In the field, the Militia took orders from Army commanders, but…

General Tom McGraw entered the Oval Office. Anna’s eyes widened. The man was a giant, and he radiated presence. She’d never seen him in person before this. He wore an immaculate uniform, but without any medals. That was in stark contrast to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Both sides of Alan’s uniform contained rows of medals and ribbons. For some reason, McGraw seemed more genuine because of the lack.

The President stood and came around the desk, shaking each man’s hand, greeting him by name. With the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Sims used his free hand to clasp Alan’s hand. Sims grasped Harold by the elbow as they shook hands, and with McGraw, the President seemed to hang on dearly as the giant bear of a general shook.

The President sat in a rocking chair just as President Kennedy used to do. Being in motion seemed to help Sims think. Alan and Harold sat on the couch, one man at each end, while McGraw eased into a large stuffed chair facing the President. Anna sat to the side of the President and away from the couch.

“You know my personal representative,” Sims said, gesturing to Anna. “She will take notes and add insights as needed.”

Anna felt their stares, and it made her uncomfortable. She particularly felt General Alan’s disapproval of her because of her half-Chinese ancestry.

The President cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, we know the situation with the Chinese and Brazilians. These Noah-like rains have given us breathing space, bogging down the enemy’s relentless advance. It’s made it harder for us to resupply our troops, certainly, but it’s wreaked havoc on the enemy supply lines. Unfortunately the rains won’t last forever, and soon winter will change the mud to a frozen surface. I’m thinking the Chinese mean to push a brutal winter campaign onto us. It also seems clear they mean to split our country in half, driving north to the Canadian border. Hell, maybe they mean to drive into Canada too.

“General,” Sims said, turning to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “We need more men and materiel on the front, isn’t that true?”

“If we plan to stop the enemy, yes, Mr. President,” General Alan said. “We need a lot more troops. We’ve lost too many men, either killed or captured in grueling cauldrons of battle, and need to reinforce our depleted ranks. The enemy keeps pouring in reinforcements to replace his losses. It seems like an endless supply for them. With the rainy, muddy breathing spell, as you’ve stated, we have a precarious situation. The front has stabilized at the moment, but that will change once winter comes.”

Anna watched the President rock a little faster. She could feel the tension in him, the excitement. Before her trip to Iceland, he’d been a beaten man, thrashing about without hope.

Yes, he has hope again. It must be more than Kleist’s offer. Does it have something to do with McGraw?

“Gentlemen,” Sims said, “I have a bombshell to give you. I don’t know if it’s a godsend or the slickest trick played on us yet. I need advice. I need it now and you three are the ones who are going to give it to me. General Alan, I trust your military judgment. We beat the Chinese in California this spring and we’ve managed to keep our armies afloat in the worst disaster to American arms in history this summer and fall. You’ve worked tirelessly in that effort. Director, you’ve done more than anyone else has to arm and train enough extra Militiamen to give us a fighting chance. Sometimes, the Militia battalions fold and the men run, but more often than not, they fight as stubbornly as the Regular Army. You’ve cut through miles of red tape in order to get it done, and that may be what we need today. Lastly, General McGraw, you’ve saved the situation twice on the battlefront by freeing otherwise lost troops. I need someone who has faced the worst the enemy can give us in order to tell me what can or cannot work against him. You’ve also become something of the media hero, and if we agree to my plan, I need your full, public and enthusiastic endorsement of it.”

“This is all rather mysterious, Mr. President,” General Alan said.

Sims nodded. “I’ve kept this one close to my chest. If it went the wrong way, news of it might have destroyed what morale our people and armies still possess.” He took a deep breath. “You may or may not know that Ms. Chen met with Chancellor Kleist in Reykjavik, Iceland several days ago.”

The three men gazed at Anna, and she had to work to keep from squirming.

“I learned through trustworthy channels that the Chancellor had an offer to make,” Sims told them. “I decided to gamble and find out what it was. It turns out the Chancellor is a clever negotiator, quite a sly fox. He offered us neutrality—”

“I would take it, Mr. President,” Director Harold said.

Sims nodded. “Of course. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. The offer comes with an expensive price.”

“I’m thinking it must be a very stiff cost,” Alan said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t need our opinions.”

The President scanned the three men. After a pregnant wait, he said, “Chancellor Kleist wants Quebec. He wants to add the French-speaking part of Canada to the German Dominion just as he’s added much of North Africa to it.”

General Alan frowned. “We don’t own Quebec. As you said, it is part of Canada. It’s not ours to give.”

“Yes, that makes the problem much worse,” Sims agreed.

“Suppose we thought the idea a good one,” Director Harold said. “How would you explain the situation to the Canadians so they would agree?”

“There are several problems with the offer,” Sims said, sidestepping the question. “It’s why I need expert advice. Explaining the situation to the Canadians would be hard, and they might not agree to it right away.”

“Are you suggesting we make the Canadians agree?” General Alan asked.

“I’m not sanguine concerning such a situation,” Sims said. “We’re talking about dismembering their country. Without Quebec, Canada would essentially lose its Eastern seaboard. The four small Maritime Provinces would be cut off from the rest of the country. Their only eastern port directly linked to the rest of Canada then would be Churchill in Hudson Bay, which is icebound during much of the year. No, even if they readily agreed, they wouldn’t be happy with the situation or pleased with us.

“One of the bitterest aspects of this war is that we lack allies,” Sims said. “The Canadians are it—well, and the Mexico Home Army. The Canadian military proved invaluable in Alaska and we’re looking forward to their entry again in the very near future. Forcing them to give the Germans Quebec is a lousy way to pay back our only friends in the world. One, I don’t want to lose our Canadian allies and two, I don’t want the world to see that we shaft our friends, which accepting this offer will make us do.”

“Maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective,” Director Harold said. “Quebec wants to separate. We know the separatist movement ties down Canadian formations. If the Canadians gave up Quebec, it would free them from occupation duty and maybe free them from the headache of living together with the French-Canadians. It might be that the Canadian Government could use this as a way to escape a hopeless situation. Their countrymen wouldn’t look at them as traitors or weaklings, but as having no choice in the matter.”

“Possibly,” Alan said. “One problem automatically comes to mind. The Canadians would likely feel a need to militarize the border with Quebec.” With the loud crack of his neck stretching, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs turned to Sims. “Kleist wants to send GD troops into Quebec, right?”

“Unfortunately true,” Sims said.

“That’s bad,” General Alan said, while shaking his head. “To have the GD poised in Cuba and Quebec—”

“The Chancellor said he would move the forces in Cuba to Quebec,” Sims said.

“Meaning he’d have them on the continent,” General Alan said. “I don’t like it at all. It smacks to me of a trick, a way to get his military onto the continent without having to pay the cruel costs of an amphibious invasion.”

“You could be right,” Sims said. “Yet even in that case, it would give us time to reorder our armies on the Great Plains. Suppose, however, it causes the Germans to drop out of the Chinese alliance. That would be a tremendous boost to us. It would be worth the loss of the Canadians, as painful as that would be to us.”

“That’s a big if, Mr. President,” General Alan said.

Sims breathed deeply. “Gentlemen, we badly need reinforcements in the Great Plains. We need them there before the rains stop and the winter cold freezes the ground hard enough for full mobility. If Kleist is genuine in his offer and the Canadians agree to it, we could strip the Eastern coast defenses. Those troops would head north onto the line in the Great Plains. That would add hundreds of thousands of highly trained soldiers to our beleaguered armies. It could save the situation for us.”

“Or we could be selling the future to hold the present,” General Alan said. “As you suggest, sir, it could solve some of our problems in the Great Plains. The question is—could we move the East Coast soldiers into position fast enough? It would take time to move that many men. It would also take the Germans time to move from Cuba to Quebec.”

General Alan took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He put the glasses back on. “Mr. President, what if this is an elaborate ploy? Maybe the Chinese and Germans have concocted the scheme. We’re fighting hard, inflicting massive casualties onto our enemies. If we entrain the East Coast troops west to the plains and the Germans land on the East Coast afterward, it would be a disaster. Our entire defense might collapse. By accepting Kleist’s offer, we could be risking our freedom as Americans and lose in one fell swoop.”

“The risks are great,” Director Harold said, “but so are the possible rewards. This offer could split the enemy alliance. If the Germans sell out the Chinese, why would Chairman Hong trust Kleist again? Isn’t the reward worth the gamble?”

“No,” General Alan said. “The risks are too great and too varied. We could lose the Canadians by trying to force them to give up Quebec. They’re poised to move now, dashing down to the front lines with us. What happens if they refuse to move to our aid and the Germans gain Quebec? In six months, we’re staring at the German military sitting to the north of us. Then we’re stretched beyond the breaking point, no matter how well we hold on in the Great Plains.”

“You can see my dilemma,” Sims said. “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Frankly, the offer bewilders me with its possibilities. On the surface, it seems like a brilliant solution for us. It gives us desperately needed troops, but at a severe cost.”

“I would keep talking with the Chancellor,” General Alan said. “This could be an opening offer. We should counter-offer something, with the idea of splitting the enemy alliance. Surely, we could work out something.”

The President turned to Anna. “What do you think about that?”

She watched David. He didn’t seem upset or worried. He had something up his sleeve. She faced the others.

“Chancellor Kleist was very insistent,” she said. “He wants Quebec and it’s the only thing he wants from us. He made that very clear. However, he is worried the Chinese will defeat us and grab most of the prime agricultural land. That makes him hesitant to help them win big now. He doesn’t want them to get the lion’s share of the spoils. I did get the feeling that he would help them if we didn’t agree to his offer. He would attempt to get as much as he could of the United Sates, maybe by bargaining with the Chinese for certain guarantees if he invaded Florida or Georgia.”

The weight of her words struck the others, and the talking ceased for a moment.

Director Harold ran a hand over his bald dome. “I still think by agreeing to the deal we weaken China by shearing away one of her allies. To me, that’s’ the best part of the offer.”

“We should consider this,” General Alan said. “If the Germans attack on the East Coast as they’ve been poised to for many months, it would actually help our overall situation. The troops in Cuba threaten our entire Eastern and Gulf coastlines, tying down needed formations. Once they attacked, we could concentrate there, possibly defeating them. At that point, we could send those troops to the Midwest.”

Director Harold bristled. “I don’t think you’re seeing this in the correct light. Firstly—”

“Gentlemen, please,” the President said. “I want everyone’s opinion. General McGraw, we haven’t heard from you yet. What do you think of all this?”

David and McGraw have spoken together before this, Anna thought. The way David is asking, I think this is a setup.

Big General McGraw picked up his suitcase, placing it on his knees. Without a word, he snapped it open and withdrew a large folded piece of paper. First setting aside the briefcase, he spread out the sheet, revealing a map of the United States. He put the map on the coffee table between them.

“Mr. President,” McGraw said in his deep voice, “I think this might be exactly what we need.” A massive index finger pointed at the red of enemy occupation. The area stretched from the Rocky Mountains to the Mississippi River, starting at Mexico and heading up past Kansas City.

McGraw stared up at the others. He had magnetic eyes, and they seemed filled with something dangerously powerful.

He’s either a lunatic or a zealous champion, Anna thought. The man both repelled and excited her. He certainly wasn’t normal, not in any sense.

“General Alan, you said it best: we’re selling the future to hold the present,” McGraw said. “That means we have to do more than hold the present. We have to take this opportunity and defeat the Chinese, and by defeat, I meant send them stumbling back into Mexico a bloody and defeated wreck of an army.”

“It can’t be done,” Alan said. “We’re barely holding our own. No.” The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs glanced around. “Let’s admit it to ourselves. We’re losing this war. We’re on the brink of total defeat. This offer gives us a chance of holding on a little longer. I can agree to that. It gives us the hope of that but at great risk, possibly our destruction as a free nation. Even if brought onto the plains before the freeze hits, the extra East Coast troops won’t give us the needed margins to beginning driving the Chinese and Brazilians back. It would probably give us enough men to hold, though. That means we’ve lost Texas, New Mexico, Arkansas, Oklahoma—”

McGraw raised one of his big fists, holding it before his mouth and coughing loudly, causing Alan to pause.

“Mr. President,” McGraw said, “I respect General Alan. But in this instance, he’s wrong. As things stand now, he is of course correct. But the truth is we’re going about this campaign the wrong way. I tell you, sir, with this influx of East Coast troops, I could trap the Chinese and hand them a decisive defeat.”

“You’re spouting madness,” Alan said. “You’ve been on the front too long and it has broken your mind.”

Bent as he was over the map, McGraw stared up at Alan. “You said it yourself, General. We’re losing this war. I agree with that.”

“Then how are you going to defeat the enemy?” Alan asked in a scathing tone. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs faced Sims. “Mr. President, the Chinese have surrounded General McGraw twice. People think he’s a hero because he managed to extract his trapped troops each time. I’d like to ask why he let them be surrounded in the first place. That isn’t gifted generalship.” The Chairman faced McGraw. “Fighting out of a trap is hardly driving the enemy back into Mexico. Now you’re talking about going over onto the offensive?”

“Yes,” McGraw said.

“Bah!” General Alan said. He turned to the President. “He’s a wild man, sir. I recommend that you—”

“Hold it, General Alan,” Sims said in a soft voice. The President glanced at McGraw, and he seemed to measure the huge man.

This is pure theater, Anna realized. David and General McGraw have set this up.

“I see you brought your map with you,” Sims said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” McGraw said.

“Go on then,” Sims said. “Tell us what you’re thinking. I haven’t had anyone tell me we can defeat the Chinese for several months now. Why do you all of a sudden think it can be done?”

General Tom McGraw began outlining his grand plan. He spoke about the Russians luring Napoleon deep into their country, about burning Moscow and sniping at French stragglers with partisans and Cossacks. He said now was the time to bring about a Battle of Borodino, using the Militia and extra troops on strongly built defenses. At the same time, with this influx of soldiers, it was time to create an offensive army. It was time to trap and annihilate Chinese formations and show them the U.S. still had plenty of fight left.

“Sir,” McGraw said, toward the end of this talk. “A critical aspect of my plan is surprise. The Chinese still have numbers and they have a better air force. We have to surprise and trick them, just as a smaller judo fighter tricks and trips his bigger opponent.”

“What if we lose the Canadian Army?” Sims asked. “What if the Canadian Government deserts us and we’re out of our last ally?”

“No,” McGraw said. “We can’t afford that, sir. “To pull this off, we need the Canadians and we need those East Coast soldiers. We can’t just rely on the Militiamen to hold. General Alan is right about the Chinese and South Americans having mass; almost too much mass for us. We’re going to need everything. If you would allow me sir to add a point concerning political maneuvering?”

“Yes?” Sims asked.

“I would explain to the Canadians the dire situation concerning our country. If we fall, they will fall. I would point out that we both need time and we both need to face our enemies one at a time. Give the Germans Quebec for now so we can face the Chinese and South Americans. Once we defeat the enemy coalition, then and only then, would we turn against the Germans and drive them out of Quebec. Then the Canadians have their lost province back.”

“We practice deceit, General?” Sims asked.

“The old saying holds true, sir. All is fair in love and war. We’re fighting for our existence. You don’t worry what you have to do to defeat a tiger in your living room. You do whatever it takes, even if it means feeding it a poisoned steak. That’s how I feel about these three power blocs ganging up on my beloved country. Screw them each and to the wall, sir.”

A wild light had appeared in the President’s eyes, and there was a grim smile in place.

“And if this grand scheme fails?” General Alan asked. “If we try to bite off more than we can chew and if we lose our carefully built Tank Army Group?”

“Sir,” McGraw said, “we’re losing this war. We’re selling the future to defeat the enemy hard enough so we can turn around later and beat the Germans, if that’s what we have to do. Sometimes, the smaller risk is taking the bigger risk when you still have the numbers to change the outcome. If we wait too long, we won’t have those numbers.”

“So you would take the German offer?” Sims asked. “Even knowing it could be a trick?”

McGraw grew thoughtful. “Send observers to Cuba and to the GD military. If the Chancellor refuses to let us observe his army moving out of Cuba, refuse his offer. Then we’ll know he’s a liar. But I think Ms. Chen has it right. Kleist is clever and he doesn’t like the idea of the Chinese grabbing all our choice land. I can see that. The thing is, Mr. President, I doubt Kleist thinks we can send the Chinese running. Nobody does, not even our own generals.”

“If the truth be told, General,” President Sims said, “I don’t think we can send the Chinese running.”

“Maybe running is the wrong word,” McGraw said. “We’ll trap their best troops and starve them of food and munitions. They’ll try to fight their way free. There’s no doubt of that. But we’ll be waiting in powerful defensive positions, stretched across their escape routes. That’s one of the beauties of the plan, sir. Strategically, we move aggressively, tactically, we’ll fight defensively. Remember, Mr. President, defense is the stronger form of warfare.”

“Are you still against it, Alan?” the President asked.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stared at the map like a zombie. “I don’t know, sir. In theory, it sounds brilliant. In actuality and in play, too many things could go wrong.”

“Harold?” Sims asked.

“We’re hoping for a miracle, sir,” Director Harold said. “Is McGraw a General Lee? I have no idea. He’s a fighting general. That’s for sure. I would risk it. We have to do something different and this plan sounds like the best thing going.”

“Anna?” Sims said.

It surprised her he asked. She thought for a moment.

“I’ve heard you speak about force multipliers before,” she said. “Maybe this force multiplies the Chancellor’s offer. He thinks we’ll use the freed troops to hold off the Chinese until the German Dominion is in a position to make a better land grab later. Instead, we hand the Chinese and Brazilians a stunning loss, strengthening our position. Undoubtedly, this is a massive risk. General McGraw said it will be a race against time. Mr. President, I would prefer a chance to win than to simply wait and slowly die.”

President Sims stood up and marched to the window overlooking the Rose Garden. He put his hands behind his back and began shaking his head. “I feel cold inside,” Sims said. “This decision—it gnaws at me. At first, the possibilities tremendously interest me. Then the dangers Alan speaks about makes me tremble. I’m not sure what to do.”

The President turned to regard the others. His eyes kept moving as he gazed at each of them in turn. “Gentlemen, Ms. Chen, I appreciate your advice. I’m going to sleep on this. I want all of you to sleep on this, too. Then… tomorrow… we will decide what we’re going to do.”