Invasion: New York

-2- Desperation

Dark clouds raced overhead as Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh stood up. His left knee flared with pain for a moment until it popped. He hardly noticed. His senses had overloaded and he began to hyperventilate.

The thunderous booms of GD artillery faded away in his mind. The flashes on the horizon…Paul frowned. In his jumbled thinking, it seemed like lightning. Maybe it was going to rain soon, eh. The crashing shells hammering their area—was the shaking under his boots an earthquake? He turned his head and witnessed a chunk of masonry sloughing off a tall office building. The mass came away in seeming slow motion much like an iceberg would from a glacier in the Arctic Ocean. The falling—why was it so quiet now? Was there something wrong with him? In seconds, silent, billowing dust rolled upward from the city street where the cement hit.

Why can’t I hear anything?

Paul blinked incessantly and he swayed back and forth. Dully, he realized that Romo shouted in his ear. His Mexican-Apache friend gripped his right shoulder, pulling and pushing, which caused the motion. Paul moved his mouth but was mildly surprised that he couldn’t hear his own words. Something was wrong with him. He turned to Romo. Worry showed in his friend’s eyes.

Bending forward, trying to massage his forehead, Paul discovered he wore a helmet. It came to him then: where he was, who he was and why.

Sounds rushed upon him. GD artillery boomed thunderously. Shells screamed and slammed near. Explosions rocked Paul and bits of masonry pelted his body armor like killer hail.

“Amigo!” Romo shouted. “Get down!”

Something that might have been panic gobbled in Paul’s throat. He tried to swallow and found it impossible to do. He hyperventilated—something he hadn’t done since his first year in combat. Man, he needed to get a grip, to think. He threw himself onto the ground. It was barely in time. Chunks of masonry and bent iron girders flashed overhead. They would have decapitated him if he hadn’t ducked.

Bellows and screams told Paul some of the Canadian soldiers with them hadn’t been as quick or as lucky. He swiveled his rusty neck, seeing their remains. Bright red blood jetted from torn limbs or shattered torsos, drenching their thrashing, humping forms. One young Canadian held his stomach with bloody hands, vainly trying to keep his guts in.

The sights…Paul ground his molars together in anguish. It was true he’d seen such mayhem before. He’d been through North Slope, Alaska, through Hawaii, California, Texas, Colorado—he’d even been to Quebec long ago to fight French separatists. He had fought and killed many times, but he’d never faced science fiction foes like this. For the past week now—

Paul squeezed his grimy eyelids shut and lay his chest down against clenched fists. He wore body armor. It had dents, rents, dried gore and did little to warm him against the unseasonably chilly weather. The world was freezing to death, in the grip of a new glacial age. Farmlands dwindled everywhere, which was why soldiers from the Old World came to America: to steal food in order to feed their hungry masses back home. Paul didn’t need anything to eat at the moment. Instead, his throat was parched and his tongue felt bloated due to thirst.

“Do you hear that?” Romo shouted in his ear.

Paul opened his eyes, peering at his best friend and fellow LRSU member. Romo lay beside him amid rubble. The man was shorter than Paul and he was darker-skinned, with sharp features, a shaved scalp under his helmet and the eyes of a stone-cold killer. Even up here in Canada, the former hit man for Colonel Valdez of the Mexico Home Army wore an earring with an eagle feather dangling from it. They were an LRSU team: Long Range Surveillance Unit. They belonged to SOCOM, which ran American commandos: SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines and many others.

They weren’t doing any long-range reconnaissance today and they hadn’t done any yesterday or the day before that, either. They were trapped in the Toronto Pocket with everyone else.

“Can you hear it?” Romo shouted.

Something in Romo’s voice helped: a lifeline to sanity, to combat normality. Paul cocked his head, and he listened past the booms, the crashes, the screams, the hammering of 12.7mm machine guns and roaring tank cannons. He listened, and he heard the clank of an approaching GD hunter-killer. It was close—practically upon them.

Adrenaline fear pumped through Kavanagh. He shoved off the hard surface and found himself shouting at the top of his lungs. It reminded him of the first time he’d cliff-dived off a forty-foot rock at Knight’s Ferry in northern California as a kid. As he moved fast in a crouch toward an old TOW missile, he recalled that distant memory. It had happened over thirty years ago. He was forty-two now, a tallish Recon Marine with wide shoulders and slim hips.

He had stood way up there on a rock, looking down at the cold water far below. He’d sucked in his gut that day and puffed out his chest, and he had shouted like a madman and leapt off the rock as if he were Superman about to take flight. It had been a rush diving down, with his arms held out and his fingers clenched into fists. He remembered the water slamming his neck, and then he curled in the river.

The fear back then had focused his thoughts. The fear today did the same thing, even though his fear here in Toronto had much greater consequences backing it.

With Romo’s help, Paul heaved the big TOW tube into position onto a hunk of rubble. Why did the Canadians have such ancient battleware like this anyway? It had been old when he’d used it in Alaska back in 2032. He could have used a Javelin missile about now.

With a mental shrug, Paul readied the TOW and swiveled it. The GD Kaiser HK they’d both heard smashed through a corner of an office building. Bricks went flying, dust billowed and the metal monstrosity churned toward them. The thing was squat and shaped like an old WWII Sherman tank. The M4 had been much taller at nine feet. This AI-run panzer was barely seven feet tall but weighed sixty-eight tons compared to the Sherman’s thirty. In WWII, the American workhorse had boasted a crew of five. The Kaiser had none, just its computer intelligence. The Kaiser also bristled with weaponry, including a short-barreled 175mm cannon. It had 25mm autocannons, antipersonnel heavy machine guns, beehive flechette launchers and computer-speeded reflexes.

Paul estimated the distance at eighty meters. As he sighted the tank, he stopped breathing or he couldn’t. Before he pulled the trigger, half a platoon of ragged Canadians boiled up from hiding: from the ground, the nearest building and from behind rubble. They had plenty of small arms, blazing M16s, chugging grenade launchers and an old BAR. Two men clicked Javelin missile launchers. Another team had a recoilless rifle. The taller soldier slapped his kneeling partner on the back shoulder. Others used ancient RPGs, firing shaped-charge grenades from their shoulders. There were puffs of smoke, fiery exhausts and short flight paths. With that much firepower and short distance, and given the assault from the varying positions, it should have worked.

Unfortunately for them, the AI Kaiser HK was something new on the battlefield. Beehive flechette launchers belched tiny metal hooks in the tens of thousands. Every machine gun on the tank fired, each using a dedicated computer targeting “brain” to guide the weapon at swiftly prioritized enemy soldiers. The 25mm autocannons jerked minutely, and proximity-timed shells intercepted the launched Javelin missiles and—

Paul’s reflex caused him to pull his index finger. The TOW tube shook, launched the missile and it ignited several feet away from him. Both Paul and Romo ducked behind the masonry wall. Neither saw the perfectly aimed 25mm shell blow the TOW missile into smithereens. Both felt the blast and heard hot shrapnel crack overhead and gouge against their protective cover.

Renewed fear surged through Paul as if traveling through his blood. Every particle of his body felt it, and he reacted accordingly. He squeezed past Romo, pushing bits of gravel with his chest as he peered around a rat-high corner at the spectacle.

The Kaiser murdered the half-platoon of desperate Canadians. The tank’s heavy armor protected it from bullets and ordinary exploding grenades. The flechettes stopped the RPGs and shredded any exposed Canadian flesh. The autocannons annihilated everything else and the tank’s machine guns tore through body armor. Blood misted. Men made horrible sounds and those who survived the first ten seconds of mayhem turned and ran away. All of the running soldiers fell. The Kaiser shot most of those in the back, killing them. Two lucky soldiers tripped and thus saved their lives…for the several seconds it took the AI to assess and redirect its machine guns.

Paul caught all this in his brief look. Afterward, he pulled back like a turtle, faced Romo, giving his friend a searching stare.

Something unspoken passed between the two LRSU commandos. Paul saw unshaken resolve in Romo’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what his friend saw in his. Paul still felt debilitating fear, the kind that could empty a man’s bowels. He dreaded the Kaiser shredding him to death like that. He found it nauseating how a machine could slaughter men like this. The world he knew turned upside down and around, and it felt as if he was going to vomit and begin shaking uncontrollably and maybe start howling like a lost soul.

Then his Marine training took hold, and there was a spark deep in Paul that refused to shame himself in front of his friend. He also knew that Cheri, his wife, had begged him to make an oath before God to come home alive to her and Mikey. He’d sworn the oath, and he asked God every day to help him keep the vow so he could hold his wife again and help his boy grow up in a free America. There was something else, too: a stubborn sod in him that gave the finger to these German bastards and planned to stuff their arrogance down their throats and make them choke to death on it.

The manly part of him battled the fear in a nearly unconscious war of seconds. The terror of that tank, of the clanking treads, nearing, hammering machine guns and swiveling main turret, attempted to overwhelm him and turn him into a quivering mass.

Paul Kavanagh took a deep breath. The air tasted of gasoline, of burnt cinderblock, blood, burning human flesh that smelled like cooked pork, and gunpowder, waves of gunpowder stench. He drank down that air so it reached the deepest portions of his lungs and expanded his chest. Then he held it, held it, held it and exhaled in a long, slow process.

Why it helped, he didn’t know. Many years ago, a preacher had spoken about it concerning a man under torture. The martyr had said that when the fear bubbled and he debated denying his faith to save himself from further pain, then he would take a long deep breath. Doing that had settled his fear and let him endure another hour. Paul had never forgotten the story, and he realized now it was true.

After his long breath, he felt in charge of himself again. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Romo. He didn’t speak in panic, but in a cold voice that he’d used many times this past year.

“Si!” Romo shouted.

As the Kaiser clattered toward them, Paul crawled away. Romo crawled. They fled the dead zone, slithering over dust, twisted girders, blood, chunks of flesh, concrete and spent casings.

A cold drop of rain plunked onto Paul’s nose. Then he crawled through a large hole in a wall, the structure once a former Bank of Canada. He climbed to his feet, and while clutching his weapon, he sprinted through the eerie shadows. Following him, Romo crunched over wooden debris.

From where they’d been, a fantastic roar sounded and the scream of a 175mm shell smashed through the bank’s wall and exited another. Dust and pebble-sized chunks rained on their helmets and body armor.

“Now the tank’s shooting blind!” Romo shouted.

“Quiet,” Paul hissed. “For all we know, the thing can trail us by voice.” He wondered if it used infrared tracking and could follow their warm footsteps.

Paul ducked into another room. They needed to get back to HQ. A Marine general had sent Romo and him out to scout their neighboring Canadian battalion. Well, that battalion was gone or dead now. The perimeter had closed tighter again and the general needed to know that, if he didn’t already.

Another war had started against America, and this one might not last long enough for Paul to learn its outcome. What was with these invading vultures anyway? Had the entire world ganged up on the US?

Paul squinted with anger. Someday, and the sooner the better, America would pay back these sons of bitches. First, though, his country was going to have to survive the GD miracle weapons from the future. Yeah, first he was going to have to survive Toronto.

It was 1:32 PM and far from the roar of war. Anna Chen ate alone at Frobisher, an elegant restaurant specializing in seafood and catering to those in the political establishment.

Prices here had risen sharply since the German Dominion occupation of Quebec this winter. Fewer fishermen dared the open ocean these days. GD submarines prowled the Atlantic, and since the coup this April of the Canadian Maritime Provinces, long-range GD bombers flew endless patrols. Sometimes the bombers came to within twenty miles of the American coast. Anna had read five NNS reports of destroyed fishing boats. She’d also read a secret CIA report. It told of the GD intention to annihilate the American fishing industry.

Are they trying to starve us?

Anna kept her head down as she picked at her salad, spearing a piece of tomato with her fork. She brought it to her mouth and chewed the seemingly tasteless morsel. She was particularly worried about David: that being David Sims, the President of the United Sates.

With delicate fingers, Anna picked up a goblet and sipped white wine. She watched her weight and diligently practiced yoga in the evenings. She was slender and some said beautiful, although she had a hard time admitting it to herself. Her greatest problem—in her opinion—was that she was half-Chinese in a country undergoing its worst crisis because of China. Many people hated her because of her ethnicity, including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Alan.

Since the GD invasion several weeks ago, the bigotry directed at her bothered her more than ever. Nobody hated German-Americans because of what the GD had done. But people certainly hated her because of what the Chinese had done. That was a double standard.

With a sigh, Anna shrugged, making her jacket rustle. Double standards were unpleasant facts but they were often the way of the world. It was seldom that anything turned out to be fair. One didn’t become the best analyst in the CIA by wearing blinders, but by seeing reality for what it was. Many years ago, she’d written the tome on Socialist-Nationalist China. It was still one of the best books on the subject. She understood the Chinese and she had been studying the topic overtime lately, especially concerning Chairman Hong’s situation.

Hong’s assassination of his Police Minister several months ago had surprised her. This last week, she had been reading up about Shun Li, China’s new Minister of Police and Hong’s most faithful ally. Because of her latest research, Anna had reason to believe that the terrorist attack on Tunisia’s largest desalination plant five weeks ago had been the work of East Lightning: China’s secret police. The mission had been a complicated piece of skullduggery.

The German Dominion attempted to transform the North African deserts into productive wheat fields. The changing weather patterns there had given the hungry Europeans the incentive to try. These days, North Africa received more rain than ever before, or at least since people had been keeping records. To aid in the scheme, Kleist had demanded larger desalination plants, turning Mediterranean salt water into fresh for the crops. The largest plant stood on the coast of Cape Bon, where Gaiseric of old—a ruthless German barbarian—had once tormented the late Roman Empire. Before that, the cape had protected the ancient city of Carthage, scourge of the Romans. A massive nuclear power plant supplied the giant desalination processor with the energy it needed.

Several radical engineers within the nuclear facility had sabotaged it, creating a Chernobyl-like disaster. That had brought about a forced shutdown and an evacuation of the important desalination plant. That would hurt the hundreds of thousands of acres depending on its water and that would severely cut into the harvest—if there even would be a harvest in that region this year.

The first GD outcries had been against the Muslim Brotherhood, a splinter Sunni group secretly funded by Shia Greater Iran. The radical engineers had published a manifesto online, showing them to belong to the Brotherhood and demanding that the atheist Europeans leave Africa. Later, new evidence had emerged that implicated the CIA as the paymaster.

That was nonsense of course. Anna had begun to dig at the evidence and study each piece, searching for its origin. Finally, she had concluded that the terrorist plot had been the secret work of East Lightning, some of its most devious and delicate. East Lightning had left “clues” to implicate the CIA, to blame-shift.

The reasoning is obvious, Anna thought, as she deposited a piece of avocado onto her tongue. The Chinese wished to punish the Germans for declaring neutrality last year. Hong believed the neutrality had been the final piece that had helped bring about Greater China’s worst military disaster to date. There was another reason, too. Hong wanted to prod the Germans into war against America. Well, the Chairman had certainly gotten his wish in that at least.

Did the Tunisia terrorist attack have anything to do with the GD decision?

In other words, had Chancellor Kleist really believed that America had been responsible for the terrorism? Anna doubted it. Even so, she knew Kleist had used the supposed “truth.” The CIA had learned that there had been a secret GD memo sent to many European heads of state—states such as Bavaria, Gotland, Prussia, Galicia, Tyrol, Lombardy, Gascony and others. Kleist had used the supposed CIA funding for propaganda purposes: to build up hatred against the Americans.

As she sat at her table, Anna was convinced that the terrorist plot had come from one man’s devious mind: Chairman Hong. The monster was capable of anything, even attacking the world’s dwindling food supply in the worst famine in a thousand years.

“Ma’am,” a deep-voiced man said behind her.

Anna looked up in surprise, and she nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.

Agent Demetrius of the U.S. Secret Service stood at her shoulder. He’d been with her at Iceland last year when she had secretly met with Chancellor Kleist. Demetrius was a large black man and wore a black suit and sunglasses. He guarded her outside the White House whenever David didn’t come along. The President had his own security detail. Her times away from David had been more and more often lately. It was one of the reasons she’d begun brooding.

“I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am,” Demetrius said. His features didn’t change as he said it. The man was like ice. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

“No, no,” Anna said. “I…I was thinking. Is something wrong?”

Demetrius minutely shifted his head.

Anna looked around him, and she spied Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security. Three huge men stood near him. They were Militia bodyguards, and they had a notorious reputation.

Anna sat in a secluded part of Frobisher, in a little alcove higher than the other tables, with a small railing separating her from them. The lights were subdued here, with old sailing pictures hanging on the walls. The director stood by a table filled with plates of half-eaten meals.

Had Max been eating there with his bodyguards? She didn’t see anyone else who could have been eating with him. Anna wondered if he’d noticed her earlier or just now. She hadn’t believed he frequented this place.

Anna knew a pang of unease. Had Max come here to speak with her? She didn’t like the idea.

“Yes?” Anna said to Demetrius.

“The director told me he would like to join you for a brandy,” the agent said.

“I’m not sure that would be a good—”

“Ma’am,” Demetrius said. “He’s going to insist. Now I’m more than willing to keep him from you, but there are three of them and only one of me.”

Anna studied Demetrius, and she noticed he flexed his left hand, as if he was readying himself to fight. Then his thumb began to pop each of the fingers’ joints in turn. “You can’t seriously believe Max’s bodyguards would start a… an incident here.” It would have been too preposterous to say “a fight.” Yet that’s what she’d been thinking.

“Would you like to leave?” Demetrius asked.

“I’m not finished eating,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Demetrius said, and the way he said it troubled her.

There was a reason for her feeling uneasy about Max’s request. David had been acting strangely lately, and the two of them hadn’t gone out to eat as much. It came to her that the last time had been just before the GD invasion of Ontario. Since then, the President had been retreating into himself. She’d tried to bring him out of isolation, but…

Anna swallowed nervously, and she almost reached for the wine glass.

While moving into her alcove, Max Harold cleared his throat. Maybe he thought she was taking too long to decide. “Anna Chen,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

Demetrius shifted his head the tiniest fraction. It was a question for her: did she want to do something about the intrusion?

The idea made her spine tingle. She disliked confrontations, and it would be unwise to insult Max. The man held onto grudges as if they were ancient gold coins and he a curator of artifacts.

“Won’t you sit down, Director?” Anna asked.

“Oh, well, since you’re asking,” Max said. He turned to his bodyguards and jutted his chin at the table of half-eaten food. They pulled out chairs and sat down there, looking like mob hitmen more than the protectors of the second most powerful man in America.

Demetrius retreated, taking up station below the alcove and facing the three bodyguards. They ignored him. With a clatter of plates, they also shoved aside the half-eaten food and told a waitress to bring them menus.

Max, meanwhile, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with Anna.

She knew him from the many inner circle meetings with the President and she knew him from reputation. He was like an encyclopedia, able to spout facts at will. He displayed little emotion but ironclad logic. Physically unremarkable, Max was in his mid-fifties, with a bald head dotted with liver spots. He wore a rumbled suit today as he always did and had a distracted air like a preoccupied professor.

That’s an illusion, maybe even pretense.

Max was polite, seemed harmless enough in person and had managed to amass great power as the head of Homeland Security. His genius and ability to outwork any three people had been instrumental in creating the vast Militia organization. They had gone a long way to ensuring that America had enough soldiers to fight the massed invaders.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had never approved of the Militia. General Alan had said on many occasions that the Marines were competition enough for the Army. Despite their dog and cat antagonism, Max and General Alan had been forced to work together for quite some time.

Through his immense organizational abilities, Max had made himself indispensable to the President and many said indispensable to the United States of America. Others said his organization had become too preoccupied with how citizens should think and act.

“Did I miss David?” Max asked her.

As she shook her head, Anna found that her appetite had fled. She cradled the wine goblet and quickly set it down as she saw that her hand trembled. What was wrong with her?

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Max asked.

Anna forced herself to stare into his eyes. She’d dealt with some of the world’s most powerful people before, including Chancellor Kleist of the German Dominion. Surely, she could face the Director of Homeland Security. She found Max’s eyes like obsidian chips, emitting nothing, and today it felt as if they sucked the warmth out of her.

“Oh,” Max said. He used the voice of a reasonable man, of one with emotions, but those eyes said otherwise.

In that moment, Anna had the sense of really seeing the director for the first time. She felt as if she was in the presence of one of the loathsome secret policemen of history like Himmler, Dzerzhinsky of the NKVD or maybe even Robespierre, the master of the guillotine during the height of the French Revolution.

“I see,” Max said quietly, almost to himself.

Despite a feeling of weakness, Anna lifted the goblet. Her hand trembled, but she couldn’t help it. She sipped wine, needing it, hoping the alcohol could steady her nerves. She was seriously overreacting. It was ridiculous that she should fear Max Harold. She glanced at him, certain now that she’d see the man as he’d always been and not as some dangerous revolutionary bent on…what, amassing more power.

Max stretched his lips in the approximation of a smile. It showed his capped white teeth. As he smiled, the obsidian eyes observed her. To Anna, it felt as if he cataloged her reactions and made precise judgments. She disliked the sensation and came to a precise conclusion of her own. She wished he would sense her disquiet and do the gentlemanly thing and leave.

“The world has turned against us,” Max pronounced, as if speaking in committee and not just to her. “Greater China, Japan, Vietnam, Brazil, Venezuela, Germany, England, France… The list goes on and on of those arrayed against us.”

Anna took another sip of wine, and she realized she needed to set down the glass before she drank too much, too fast. She was as light as a bird, and alcohol went straight to her brain. But the wine felt so good. The warmth in her throat and then in her belly…it soothed her.

“The Pan-Asian Alliance represents 44 percent of the world’s population,” Max was saying. “The German Dominion has another 6 percent and the South American Federation with Mexico adds yet another 6 percent. That means America and Canada faces 56 percent of the world. We, incidentally, have 5 percent of the Earth’s people. Tell me, Anna, do you believe we can kill ten of them for every one of ours we lose?”

She felt her eyelids blinking, more like fluttering the way a hummingbird’s wings moved in a blur. It almost felt as if her eyelashes caught occasionally. The wine helped oil her tongue, and she said, “We’re not facing all 56 percent,” she said. “We’re facing the various militaries. Two large oceans separate us from most of them. That means we’re—”

“Your point is well taken,” Max said, interrupting her. “If we could destroy their navies, the war would quickly dwindle into nothing.”

“I suppose that’s true. But why tell me this here? I’m trying to relax, to take a break from it all.”

Max’s lips stretched a little more, as if to indicate greater humor. It merely made him seem more predatory.

“Shouldn’t you be telling David this?” Anna asked.

“Ah,” Max said, as he put his hands on the table. Although he had a carefully tailored reputation for roughing it, the director had manicured fingers and two large rings. The biggest had a huge opal. The ring must have cost a small fortune. “I see you like to place your cards face up,” Max said.

“I don’t believe that I have any idea what you’re talking about,” Anna said, and she didn’t.

The smile vanished, and the director’s eyes became more intent. They seemed like drills then that bored into her. It made Anna feel as if he stripped away her clothes and exposed her flesh. By an act of will, she kept herself from shuddering. What would he do if she hurled the last of her wine into his face? She quickly looked down. What was she thinking? This was the Director of Homeland Security, not a stalking rapist. She needed to rein in an overactive imagination. Maybe work had gotten to her more than she realized.

“Let us speak frankly to each other,” Max said.

She couldn’t speak, but she managed to nod. Maybe her instincts were correct. The way he said that, it sounded ominous. Yet why would the director pick Frobisher’s for a confrontation? It didn’t make sense.

“David is wilting under the pressure,” Max told her.

As one of the stalwarts of the administration, Max shouldn’t say such a thing. It was disloyal. The words shocked her.

While still keeping her gaze down, Anna opened her mouth to retort.

“Now I’m the first to admit that the President made a masterful stroke this winter,” Max said, his voice rising as if to forestall her from interrupting. “I applauded the hard choices he made to give us our glorious victory over the Chinese. The President not only made tough decision but he stuck to them in the darkest hours. I also believe that you helped steady him this winter. He needed you, Anna. And you, too, have worked diligently for the United States of America. You have risen to the challenge when your country needed you. I admire that, and I will never forget your services.”

“What are you talking about?” Anna said, sharply.

The director raised an eyebrow.

Having finally become angry, she lifted her gaze and stared into his eyes. “You’re speaking as if David…why, as if he’s out of the picture somehow.”

The director hesitated before saying, “If you believe I’ve implied that, you’ve misunderstood me.”

That pause wasn’t a mistake. Is he threatening me? Is he threatening David? Why is he saying any of this?

“May I ask you a question?” Max asked.

“I’m not sure I care for any of this,” she said.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But this is much more than our feelings, Ms. Chen. This concerns our country. I love my country.”

“So do I,” she said.

“I know. It’s the reason I’m speaking to you as I am.”

“And how is that?” she asked.

He smiled once more. This smile seemed more genuine but also more rapacious. “I’ve struck a nerve, have I? Your…shall we call it reserve?”

She kept her gaze on him, and she realized that she was more than angry. She was furious.

“Yes,” Max said, “let us call it your natural reserve. It has vanished because you think I’ve spoken ill about the President.”

“You’re implying he is no longer capable of doing his job,” Anna said.

“Ah,” Max said. “That is an interesting choice of words. I would like to point out that you spoke them. I did not.”

“What is this about, Director?”

“I’ve made you worried, have I? That is interesting. Until this moment, you have likely felt that you’re the only one who realized that David Sims has lost his nerve.”

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to you—”

As she spoke, Max reached across the table and took her right hand. The touch sparked against her, making her stiffen. His grip was surprisingly strong. He leaned closer so his face seemed to fill her world. The touch peeled away the last layer, or maybe scales fell from her eyes. His look had become flinty and his soul unfolded like a poisonous flower. Max Harold was hard and ruthless like a Himmler, like a Robespierre. Understanding that about him…it suddenly frightened Anna.

“You must listen to me carefully,” Max said. “And you must decide who you love more: David or the United States.”

“Ma’am,” Demetrius said. “Are you well?”

Anna tried to tug her hand free, but the director held it too tightly against the tabletop.

Surely, Demetrius saw that. He put a big hand on the director’s left shoulder. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to release Ms. Chen.”

Before Max could respond, the three Militia bodyguards surrounded Demetrius. To Anna’s horrified astonishment, one of the bodyguards poked a silver barrel against Demetrius’s side. The other two laid hands on the agent’s arm.

“Do you want a fight, Director?” Demetrius asked.

“Get your filthy hand off me,” Max told him. “No one touches me.”

“First you’ll have to release Ms. Chen,” Demetrius said.

Anna sat like a statue, drinking in the details but unable to move, unable to speak. She could see the wheels turning in the director’s eyes.

Abruptly, Max let go of Anna’s hand. She slid it back to her lap. It felt as if the skin was on fire.

Demetrius released the director.

“What are your wishes, sir?” asked the bodyguard with the gun jabbed against Demetrius’s side.

Max brushed his shoulder where Demetrius had put his hand. “Sit down,” he told his men. “But watch him. If he touches me again…” Max looked up at Demetrius. “You men will know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” the bodyguard said, the one with the gun. He withdrew the weapon and holstered it inside his jacket. Afterward, the three bodyguards returned to their table.

“I will remember this,” Max told Demetrius.

Demetrius didn’t bother replying. He asked Anna, “What are your wishes, ma’am?”

The possible violence had unnerved her. She didn’t know what to say.

“You would do well to hear me out,” Max told her.

“Yes,” she said in a hollow voice.

Demetrius retreated to his post, and he stood in the same place, looking the same as before.

He’s brave, Anna realized. He follows his code of honor and nothing can shake it. Am I as honorable concerning David?

“You have misjudged my purpose,” Max said.

“What is it?” she asked. “Why have you told me any of this?”

“Because I love my country,” Max said. “America is in greater danger than ever. You and I both know the President engineered the new danger. Perhaps even more importantly, the President knows this is his fault. That knowledge is eating him alive.”

“You’re referring to the GD and Quebec?”

“Of course,” Max said. “We are now in a two-front war. That never worked well for Germany in the Twentieth Century. I do not believe it will work well for us, either.”

“I was there when we decided to accept GD neutrality,” Anna said. “You were there, too, and you agreed to the idea.”

“I had no quarrels with the plan. That is correct. The President made the best decision at the time. The Chinese and Brazilians almost broke us this winter. The Colorado battle was closer fought than people realize. The President dealt in such a way so he could concentrate our forces. That was bold as well as wise.”

“Then why are you—”

“Let me finish,” Max said.

Anna nodded, albeit reluctantly. She noticed a waiter turn and look at them. An older waiter tugged on the first waiter’s elbow, pulling him away.

“The President bought America time,” Max said. “Now, however, the GD acted before we could. We—I mean the President, myself, General Alan—we all miscalculated. We counted the number of GD troops in Quebec instead of analyzing their combat power. The Germans have amazed us and worse, surprised us. Even worse than that, they’re beating us in Southern Ontario. America must take drastic action if we’re to restore the balance.”

“We have another hard year of war ahead of us,” Anna said. “I understand that.”

“I don’t believe you do understand.” Max held up a hand. “I have always been impressed with your analytical abilities. You have an insightful way of thinking. And you can read the Chinese—Chairman Hong in particular—better than anyone else can. That is an important asset. However, if the GD continues to grind down our military and gain critical territory…there may be no more years of war ahead of us to wage.”

“You don’t think we can stop the GD?”

“Not with the weapon systems presently in place,” Max said. “Therefore, we must move the Behemoth tanks to the Great Lakes region.”

“You and I both know the President has forbidden that.”

“Precisely,” Max said.

Anna shook her head. “I won’t pretend to be a military expert. The President, though—”

“The President has lost his nerve,” Max said. “That is the salient point. Nothing else really matters. Oh, we can talk about reasons: that the war has ground him down. You’ve seen it. I know you have. The pressure would have destroyed most people by now. The President has my sympathies, in fact.”

“You don’t mean that,” Anna said. “You don’t care about him as a person.”

“But I do,” Max said. “Yes. I know people believe me coldhearted and too logical.”

“Others say you’re power mad,” Anna said.

“I am misperceived,” the director said. “My intense patriotism gives me the zeal to do whatever I must to protect America. Others interpret that as a desire for power. They are, of course, quite wrong. With all that said, I have found that few people will go as far as I to see my beloved country saved from power-hungry aggression. Can you say as much, Ms. Chen?”

“You will do whatever you must to save America?” Anna asked.

“Yes!”

“Hmm,” Anna said. “A surface reading of such a statement might seem noble. I, on the other hand, can think of many things I would not do. For instance, I would not sacrifice babies.”

“Then you should step down from power and make way for those of us who will see a tough and dirty job done to the finish.”

“Would you care to give me a for-instance?” she asked.

“Of course,” Max said. “Not only am I able to face the truth, but I am able to speak the truth as I’m doing here with you. A for-instance is the use of tactical nuclear weapons.”

“I see,” Anna said, as her stomach tightened. “Do you happen to recall Alaska? Do you remember how it turned the world against us and left us almost without an ally?”

“My memory doesn’t go back so far,” Max said. “Yet I do recall Santa Cruz and Monetary Bay. Several key nuclear explosions blunted a Chinese amphibious invasion. Without those nuclear weapons, we might have lost California, and that would have been a disaster. The President saw the need then and made the right decision. Now, in Southern Ontario, tactical nuclear weapons used judiciously could change the dynamics for us.”

“The President has forbidden the use of nuclear weapons on land,” Anna said.

“Naturally, I’m aware of that, Ms. Chen. With his decision, he has consigned the U.S. to the dustbin of history.”

“Others might say he has agreed to help save the world from destruction and a bitter nuclear winter.”

“Words,” Max said. “Those are fancy words for surrender. I for one do not intend to let conquerors take my beloved country away from us. No. The time has come for hard decisions. We must halt the Germans and drive them out of Quebec.”

“The President is in full agreement with that.”

“More words,” Max said. “He forbids the military the Behemoths they need and the nuclear weapons to do the task. Instead, he causes a bloodbath—”

Anna’s eyes flashed. She leaned toward the director. “He causes nothing of the sort.”

“American and Canadian soldiers are dying by the thousands, by the tens of thousands in Ontario,” Max said, “and still we fail to take the necessary action to solve the crisis.”

“The strategic reserve has moved to Southern Ontario,” Anna said. “David considers sending half the East Coast defenders north to the Great Lakes. I would call that drastic action.”

“Ms. Chen,” the director said. “You must listen to me. Stripping the East Coast is a foolish decision in face of what awaits us in Cuba. The President once made hard, even bitter choices this winter. He did not shrink from what needed doing. Now the momentous nature of the conflict has paralyzed him. I believe the knowledge that he let the Germans into Quebec—that he is responsible for the present bloodletting—”

“How dare you say such things?” Anna said.

Max sat straighter, squaring his shoulders with pride. “I will dare anything for my country.”

“No! You are—”

“You must listen to me,” Max said. “The President is taking half-measures and he is stripping away soldiers to put out a fire in one place that will open us to worse actions later. It is just like his Quebec decision all over again.”

Anna sat back. She could feel the cushion depress against the wood. The director’s mind was set in stone on this. It was time to find out exactly why he’d come here. “What do you suggest?” she asked.

“First, we need to move the Behemoths east.”

“Weren’t you listening the other day?” she asked. “The Behemoth Regiment is a shell of what it once was. We need time to refurbish it with new tanks. Moving the regiment won’t help in Ontario, but its disappearance on the plains might help to unleash the Chinese in Oklahoma. The few good Behemoths we do possess make a constant show of patrolling no man’s land between the PAA and us.”

“You are the one who wasn’t listening the other day,” Max said. “We’ve built a new Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Detroit. We will lose the war if the Germans reach it.”

With a sudden move, Anna picked up the wine glass and drained the alcohol. “I don’t know why you’ve come to say any of this to me. You should speak to David, to the President.”

“How can I do that?” Max asked. “He’s having a nervous breakdown. We who love our country need to help him during this dark hour. We need to help him do the right thing.”

Anna couldn’t believe he’d just said that. It was true that the pressures against David had unhinged— No! That was a bad choice of words. The pressures had debilitated David; it hadn’t unhinged him. He had trouble making decisions lately other than holding everything as it had been. Ever since the GD had unleashed its offensive and used those Kaiser hunter-killers…

“What are you really suggesting?” she asked. “You obviously came here to see me. Now say what you came to say.”

Max watched her more closely than ever. “First I need to know whether you agree with me or not about the President.”

Anna debated pretending to agree in order to find out Max’s full scheme. He must realize she would never agree to help in whatever he planned. He—

A chill set in. Why has he sought me out and told me these things if he knows I’ll never agree with him?

Troubled, Anna thought furiously. If the director knew she would tell David about this… She stared at the man. He watched her, no doubt gauging her reactions.

He’s telling me these things so I’ll tell David.

Then it hit her, the real reason for all this. If David learned that Max plotted behind his back, it would add to his worries. She’d heard David say before that Max helped him tremendously with these heavy responsibilities. Hearing about this would put more pressure on David. The Director of Homeland Security wanted her to tell the President. If true—and it had to be true—nothing else made sense. It was a diabolical piece of skullduggery. Surely, it meant that Max felt strong enough to challenge the President directly.

Or is this to force David into doing things Max’s way?

“David beat the Chinese in Alaska,” Anna said.

“He’s beaten the Chinese elsewhere too, once in California and again this winter in Colorado. He has saved our country from three military catastrophes. No one could have done better. Yet you’ve heard the generals tell us that a man only has a limited time for war. Once that time is gone…”

“Are you suggesting the people replace David at the helm?” she asked.

Max watched her steadily as he said, “The people would never do such a thing. He has become the father of our country, protecting us where no one else reasonably could. They’re not going to vote against him until it’s too late.”

The chill in her caused her shoulders to twitch. “It’s time you spoke plainly,” she said.

“No,” Max said. “I’ve said quite enough. Thank you, Ms. Chen.”

She almost blurted out that she’d tell David about this, but could she afford to tell the President? Might it drive him over the edge?

Max stood and gave her a curt nod. He turned away and stepped down from the alcove. His bodyguards hurried to their feet.

Anna watched them go, and she thought to herself: This is bad. I don’t know what to do.

Sergeant Jake Higgins of the Eleventh Colorado Detention Militia Battalion (CDMB) was very drunk. He staggered down a dark city street in Topeka, Kansas, heading toward trouble.

None of the lamps worked and low clouds hid the stars. Because of that, he crashed against a garbage can, knocking it to the ground with a lot of noise and slurred curses. He fell, and his hands squished against something wet and smelly. Then he felt wetness soak through his knees.

With a lurch he rose, swaying and blinking, muttering more profanities. His two best friends snored in a bar whose name he couldn’t remember. They were fellow militiamen of the Eleventh, and the three of them had been to Hell and back this winter. Jake had left his friends in the bar because the bartender had shut him down, and this soldier still needed more to slake his thirst.

Jake was a stocky young man with good shoulders, barely out of his teens and already a hard-bitten fighting man. He had survived Amarillo, Texas last summer when the Chinese had surrounded several U.S. divisions. It had been grim butchery, but Jake and a number of his compatriots had fought their way free of the encirclement and headed northwest. Jake had been the only one to reach Colorado. He’d arrived in time to go to Denver. There, he had survived the historic siege of Denver, the equal to the siege of Stalingrad in World War II. During the fighting, he had worked up the ranks from private and fought his way free with the rest of the Eleventh to the Rockies.

“Gotta be an open bar around here somewhere,” Jake muttered. His eyesight had gone sideways and he had to squint what seemed like down a tunnel to tell where he went.

There. He spied a blinking light. It was down a long alleyway with old trash barrels lining the route as if they were sentries. The light had red and blue colors, a neon sign. Surely, that must be a bar or a place to drink, at least.

In a lurching step, he set off for the neon sign.

Jake hadn’t always been a good soldier boy who obeyed every order. Originally, he had found himself in a detention center, in a cell, learning that it didn’t pay to protest the President and his dictatorial policies. Jake had been kicked out of college because of the protests. He’d made them with others because they hadn’t cared for the illegality of some of President Sims’ decrees. Homeland Security people in the detention center had known how to take care of such talk and such ill-advised thoughts. They had special cells for that.

Jake spat in the darkness. In truth, he hadn’t learned his lessons very well. They’d let him go to join a Militia battalion because his old man, Colonel Stan Higgins, had been a hero in the Southern California fighting. His father had also been a hero in 2032 in Alaska. His father presently commanded the famous Behemoth Regiment. His father was a war hero and Jake was proud of his old man. He wanted to be like his dad and like his grandfather, who had died in the Alaskan War, killing Chinese invaders.

The Higginses knew how to soldier. That was clear to anyone with eyes to see. Jake was young, and he had learned about old-style America where a man spoke his mind. His father had taught him history, and his father had taught him that America was a unique and special country, the apple of God’s eye. Jake spoke his mind, and Homeland Security people didn’t like that, no thank you.

Yet he was a militiaman of the Eleventh CDMB, a hard-fighting man in the Homeland Security apparatus. The higher-ups in the organization liked him, including the steroid monster, the lieutenant. Go figure. In fact, the lieutenant was one of the two men snoring in the last bar.

Jake laughed, although it had a sour note to it. He loved America, but he didn’t like holding back about what he thought. He’d bled for his country. He’d put his life on the line more times than he could remember. Even more, he’d killed for America. The killing was why he was out here staggering around looking for more to drink.

It was funny. No one had told him about this. Killing a man…it took something out of you. Sometimes his dreams—

Jake shook his head, and he cursed. He didn’t want to think about his dreams. He wanted to forget them. He wanted to forget about exploding bodies and pieces of bloody human sticking to his cheek. He wanted to forget about jabbing a knife into Chinese soldiers, or gunning them down as they ran away. Most of all, he wanted to forget about how good it felt when they ran and how good it felt to kill another human being so he could live another day.

Jake worried about himself. He worried about what sort of person he had become. Sure, the Chinese had invaded them. They deserved no better than death. But should he enjoy it so much when he killed them?

He remembered up in Alaska in his childhood. They’d had a cat named Tinkerbell. As a kid, he had called it Stinkerbell, and that had made his sister yell. Anyway, the cat caught a young jackrabbit once. The cat had played with its prey, clawing it, throwing it around and waiting for it to try to run away. As the baby jackrabbit made its feeble attempt to flee, the waiting cat pounced, caught the little thing and bit it in the neck. Jake remembered watching, fascinated. He’d thought the cat cruel, although his dad had told him later that that was the way of predators.

Am I a predator now? Has the Militia turned me into a killer?

Jake swallowed uneasily.

Maybe he should stop blaming the Militia. Maybe he had always been a killer, and this war had simply brought it out of him. He had killed fellow human beings.

Jake stopped, and he banged the back of his boot heel against the alleyway. He didn’t want to think deep thoughts. The war had caught him. That’s all. He’d been through the worst of it. He’d survived Denver and had seen truly awful things. He would never be able to tell others who hadn’t been through it what it had been like. He felt closer to his grandfather, who had been a weirdo at the end of his life. His grandfather had been a warrior. War, and especially killing, changed a man. There was simply no way around that.

“Hey!” Jake shouted.

He’d almost reached the neon sign. A soldier opened the door, and Jake heard music and saw flashing lights. He also caught the flash of a naked tit. Oh, okay, this was a strip club.

Jake grinned from ear to ear. He didn’t realize there had been one of these in Topeka. Several seconds later, he paid the entrance fee, stomped his feet upon entering, and stared in fascination at the woman on stage. She wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and little else, and her tits jiggled as she danced around the pole. Oh man, but she was hot.

“Beer,” he told a burly man.

The bald man with a square build didn’t say anything. He just pointed at the obvious bar.

Jake staggered there, slapped money on the bar and waited, turning and watching the woman gyrate to the pulse-pounding rock and roll. She ground her hips against the pole, moved away and high-stepped. She stared at the men looking up at her, and she spied Jake at the bar. She took off her cowboy hat—she had dark hair that spilled down to the middle of her back. She twirled the hat around and threw it at Jake.

The hat sailed through the air. Men turned around, watching it. Jake reached up drunkenly, and he caught the hat. Maybe she’d been a powder-puff quarterback in high school. It had been a good throw; right at him. Jake laughed, and he put the hat on his head.

“Here you go, cowboy,” a pretty woman said on the other side of the bar. She clunked a full glass on the wood. “Have a good time.”

Jake agreed with her, picked up the beer and staggered to the stage.

Men sat beside it, looking up with lust-glazed eyes at the dancer. They held bills in their fists. The stripper danced for them one by one, and each man put dollars on the stage. She was good at picking them up.

Jake watched spellbound, drinking beers and judging three different strippers. He went to the restroom several times. The last time he bumped against walls, and he vomited in a sink.

“Hey, stupid,” a tall man said. “Use the toilet for that.”

Hardly able to see at this point, Jake gave him the finger. The man scowled, gave him the finger back. It was the longest finger Jake had ever seen, with a black-painted fingernail bitten down close. Jake rushed the guy. He hit Mr. Black Fingernail several times. They were uncoordinated swings, but they were enough. He left the tall guy on the restroom floor, with his eyes closed.

As Jake tried to stagger back to the stage, a waitress intercepted him.

“Your nose is bleeding,” she said.

“Huh?” Jake asked.

“It looks like someone hit you,” the woman said. “Are you okay?”

Jake brushed his nose and was amazed to see bright red blood on his fingers. He laughed, wiped his nose again and came away with more blood.

“Here,” the woman said.

Jake peered at her. She had long dark hair. She was pretty. Oh, she’d stripped earlier, although she wore waitressing clothes now with outrageous high heels. The girl—she couldn’t be more than eighteen—had tossed him the cowboy hat. He still wore it.

“Hold still,” she told him.

He realized she’d been handing him a towel, but he hadn’t taken it. So now, she wiped his nose for him. He hardly felt a thing.

“Did someone hit you?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said, slurring as he spoke.

“You’re totally drunk,” she said.

He just grinned at that.

“You should sit down, maybe drink some water.”

“Beer,” he said. “I need more beer.”

“Look,” she said, glancing around and seeming worried. “Give me a dollar, anything, make it look like I’m working, not just talking to you.”

He dug in his pockets before shaking his head. “I gave all my bills to you.”

“Then give me your hand,” she said.

He did, and she pretended to take something from him. Jake turned around, and he saw the bald, square-shaped man heading toward him. The man stopped and he turned away. Why had he done that?

“He wants to start something with me?” Jake slurred belligerently.

“Don’t let it worry you, cowboy,” the girl said. “He’s just doing his job. He’s making sure—oh, never mind.”

“What about you?” Jake asked. “You’re nice. Why are you working at a place like this?”

Instead of scowling, she looked away, almost in a shy manner. “I don’t have a choice,” she finally said. “My mom and dad…they’re gone.”

“Killed?” Jake asked.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s the word for it.”

“It’s a dirty thing, war,” Jake said. “I’m so sick of it.”

“You’d better watch what you say,” she told him, looking worried again. “Some of our customers belong to Homeland Security. You don’t want to let them hear anything seditious.”

“Seditious?” Jake asked. “Are you kidding me? I’ve bled a hundred times more blood than you just wiped away from my nose. I’ve killed invaders by the dozen. I’ll say exactly what I want to say, and nobody is going to tell me differently because I’m an American.”

“Shh,” she said, touching his forearm. “You’re talking too loudly.”

Jake found he liked her touch. He’d just seen her in the nude. Oh man, she had fantastic tits, great legs and an ass—

“You’re pretty,” he said. “I like you.”

“You seem like a sweet boy,” she said.

“Boy?” he said. “I’m—”

She squeezed his forearm. “You’re a man, I know. I saw how you looked at me.”

He nodded, and he wanted to grab her, kiss her and maybe even do more than that. He’d just seen her naked, hadn’t he? He grinned like an idiot until he recalled the square-shaped man.

“Is he mean to you?” Jake asked.

“What?” she asked.

“Mr. Square?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’d better go. Maybe I’ll talk to you after work.”

She turned away, but Jake decided that she had touched him, why couldn’t he touch her? Fair was fair, right? So he grabbed her and pulled her back.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

He let go. “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you. Are you okay?”

“You can’t touch me. Frank will kick you out of here if you touch me.”

“Mr. Square, you mean?”

“Look,” she said.

Jake slapped his chest, and until this moment, he hadn’t gotten himself into any more trouble than a young man might in such a place. He opened his mouth, and he talked loudly again.

“I killed for our country. I shot and stabbed Chinese invaders so free Americans can speak their mind. I don’t mind saying what I think, do you know that?”

The girl stared at him.

Jake slapped his chest again. He liked her staring at him and he liked talking about something so close to his heart. He had spent time in the detention center because he had what his dad called moral courage. He dared to speak truth to power. America needed more of that. Sure, it was a fight to the death with the invaders, but freedom only came to those willing to pay the heavy cost.

“I’ll speak to who I want to speak to and I’ll say what I think about anything,” he said.

She nodded, with her eyes wide.

“Do you know that the President has made decrees that are against the law?” Jake asked.

She shook her head.

“Oh yeah,” Jake said. “But I figure Sims believes he’s doing right. It’s that other guy.”

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Jake made a face. He was so drunk his features felt numb, as if he moved cardboard. “Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, he’s a fascist. He doesn’t like letting Americans say what they want to. You know what…”

“What?” she asked.

“What’s your name?” Jake asked.

“Sheila.”

“Sheila,” Jake said—and suddenly he had to take a piss again. He really needed to go. He’d been drinking beer like a horse for hours upon hours. The need welled up and overpowered him. If he rushed into the restroom, Sheila would go elsewhere. He liked her. She even wanted to meet after work.

His drunken mind spun fast, and it came to him then in totally clarity what would impress a stripper.

“Watch this,” Jake said. He pulled out his wallet, fumbled to open it and fumbled even more to draw out his Militia card. It was like a driver’s license, but had two pictures instead of just one. It had his mug shot, and it showed in the opposite corner Director Max Harold of Homeland Security.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you said you don’t have any more money.”

“I’m giving you a visual of my feelings,” Jake said. He tossed the ID card onto the floor and zipped down his fly.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” she said.

Jake dug out his shlong and whipped it out. Normally, he couldn’t use a urinal if someone stood beside him using the next one. He needed to piss alone. But the beer poured through his system and his bladder was just plum full. Jake proceeded to urinate onto the Militia ID card, particularly on the director.

It caused a minor outrage in the strip joint. The square-shaped bouncer hurried near. Sheila backed away and looked at Jake in horror, while a large man with red eyes and a redder nose took out a voice recorder. He spoke into it before marching near.

“Hey,” Jake said. “Unhand me.”

The bouncer had a fierce grip, and the man was strong.

“Let me zip up at least,” Jake said.

“Just a moment,” the large man with red eyes said. “You’re a Militiaman?” he asked Jake.

“That’s right. What’s it to you?”

“I heard some of what you’ve been saying. What did you just think you were doing?”

“Pissing on the director,” Jake said proudly.

The man’s red eyes squinted. “The director of what?” he asked.

The girl stepped near, and maybe she was thinking about warning Jake.

Jake missed it, and he therefore missed his last chance to stay out of bad trouble. “Are you kidding me, mister?” Jake asked. “I’m an American and I tell it like it is. The director is the dictator’s puppet, and he’s taking away too many of our liberties.”

“Do you mean Max Harold?” the red-eyed man asked.

“Yeah, I mean him,” Jake said.

“Shut up!” Sheila said. “Don’t say anything more.”

The big red-eyed man glanced at Sheila and then back at Jake. “Would you care to repeat that?” he asked Jake.

Jake saw the voice recorder. In his blurry mind, it seemed like a TV reporter’s microphone. He leaned near, figuring that finally someone would go on record and say it like it was.

“Jake,” Sheila said.

“The Director of Homeland Security is the dictator’s puppet,” Jake said slowly in his slurry voice. “He’s taking away too many of our precious American liberties, and I for one am not going to stand for it any longer.”

Sheila groaned and shook her head.

Jake grinned at the red-eyed man.

The big man used his thumb to turn off the recorder. He stuffed it in his pocket before turning to the bouncer. “Put him in the other room,” he said.

“Beat him up?” the bouncer asked.

“No,” the big man said. “I’m calling my MPs. I know exactly what to do with a dissenter like this.”

“What’s that?” Sheila asked.

The big man looked at her in surprise. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No. I just met him tonight.”

“Well, say goodbye to him,” the big man said. “Unless I miss my guess, he’s headed for New England for one of the new penal battalions.”

“Who are you?” Jake asked, with the first touch of worry in his voice.

“Take him,” the big man told the bouncer. “And keep him there until my MPs arrive.”

The bouncer twisted Jake’s arm behind his back.

“Hey, let go of me,” Jake said. No one paid any attention as Mr. Square marched him against his will into a holding room. He struggled, but then it hit him hard: the amount of alcohol he’d poured into his system.

“Just a minute,” he mumbled. Then Jake vomited for the second time tonight. He would pay for this later, he knew, but he didn’t really realize just how much.