Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Page 13

  “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.

  DETENTION CENTER WEST, COLORADO

  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 y
ou 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.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “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 borde
r. 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.