Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Page 18

  A lifetime ago, she’d written the seminal work on the Chinese: National-Socialist China. People still read the book to understand how the leadership thought.

  What if I’d picked a different topic back then? How would my life be different today?

  “Ma’am,” Demetrius said by way of greeting as he held open the car door. Each of his fingers was twice as long and three times as thick as one of hers.

  “Thank you,” she said. She began to fold her umbrella. Demetrius plucked it out of her hands. With a gentle push as he guided her head so it wouldn’t bump, he propelled her into the back seat.

  “I’ll take the other car,” he said in his deep voice. “I’ll see you at Catherine’s.”

  Before she could ask him about the change in plans, the car door slammed shut. She was supposed to go to the Kremlin first. Afterward, they would eat at Catherine’s. Usually, Demetrius sat with her. It was odd he hadn’t gotten in.

  A moment of panic flared. Have Harold’s men finally bought off Demetrius? No, no, that’s foolish. Demetrius is loyal. I have to trust someone. Otherwise, I’d be all alone.

  The warm air felt good. Chinese heaters always worked, and they were excellent designers of big cars.

  The engine purred smoothly and the car pulled away from the curb. She glanced through the rear window, observing her bodyguard watch the car. Demetrius didn’t even shield himself from the hail. He watched the vehicle as if he’d never see her again.

  “Hello Anna,” a man beside her said.

  In alarm, Anna twisted around. She blinked in shock. A wizened old man with uncombed white hair sat beside her. Despite the car’s heat, Doctor Samuel Levin, the Director of the CIA, wore a bulky coat in keeping with Russian customs.

  Anna glanced at the driver, a nondescript operative.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Levin. “Why did you pick me up?”

  Anna used to work for the CIA as an analyst. That seemed like a lifetime ago. After she transferred to the White House during the Californian invasion, Levin and she had had a falling out.

  Is he Harold’s man? I thought Levin was loyal to David. He was once…before the heart attack, at least.

  “I’m here on business just like you,” Levin said smoothly.

  “You mean you’re a figurehead just like me?”

  “Bitterness doesn’t become you, Anna.”

  She didn’t need his reproof. It made her bristle. Before she could stop herself, she said, “Treason never was your talent.”

  Levin frowned, putting more wrinkles in his skin.

  “I have a question before you tell me whatever your message happens to be,” Anna said. “Did Demetrius sell me out or did you trick him?”

  “You’re working under false assumptions. I’m on your side, Anna. Or said more appropriately, we’re on the same side.”

  “What side is that?”

  “Time is short,” he said, becoming businesslike. “We’re headed for the Kremlin and—”

  “Demetrius said I’m headed for the Catherine Royal Restaurant.”

  “That’s what he was supposed to say, in case anyone was listening.”

  “It was raining outside,” she said. “No one else stood near us.”

  “I know you’ve heard about parabolic guns, listening devices.”

  “Harold’s men are spying on me?”

  “Of course,” Levin said. “So are Russian, Chinese and Iranian agents. You’re in grave danger, as I’m sure you know.”

  “You think that’s why Harold sent me, as a target? Let East Lighting assassins kill me?”

  “No. I feel as you do. Harold wants you away from the President, at least for a time.”

  Levin’s words tightened her stomach. How did he know what she’d been thinking? It meant he’d been spying on her for some time. And David— I will not be afraid, she told herself, as a panic-attack threatened. Ever since her husband Tanaka’s death in Obama Park, she’d taken defensive training. Pulling her purse closer, she clicked it opened and put her right hand inside. Her fingers gripped a small pistol. If she shot Levin and the driver— “I’m not your enemy,” Levin told her. “So you can keep the gun in your purse.”

  Heat expanded across her cheeks. “You like to think you’re clever, Doctor. You think you know what everyone is thinking.”

  He gave a depreciating chuckle. “I am the spymaster, after all. The government pays me to know what dangerous people think.”

  “I’m dangerous?”

  “To some.”

  “Who?”

  “Harold and McGraw obviously head the list.”

  “If you’re trying to draw me out—”

  “Please, Anna, we don’t have much time. This is all so needless.”

  She frowned, and she did some thinking. The conclusion startled her. “Are you suggesting that the only place you and I can talk privately is in a Chinese luxury car in Moscow?”

  “You always were a smart girl. Now please, take your hand off the gun. You’re beginning to make me nervous.”

  As the driver took a sharp turn, and she saw the Kremlin spires in the distance, she decided to trust Levin. With a sigh, she let go of the .22, removed her hand and snapped the purse closed.

  “Much better,” he said.

  “Why the cloak and dagger routine? We’re too old for this sort of thing.”

  “My dear, you are far from old. You’re quite beautiful. Still, yours is a reasonable question. We practice these cautions because Director Harold is a dangerous man, both to us and to our country.”

  “He claims to love America.”

  “I believe he does—his version of it anyway, with him in charge, righting perceived wrongs.”

  “You stopped his coup attempt last year,” Anna said.

  “If you mean that little play under the White House—”

  “It was more than a play. You forestalled his guards and possibly saved my life.”

  “I suppose that’s true. It’s strange that the President refused to see Harold’s action for what it was.” Levin’s coat rustled as he shrugged. “For the sake of the country, perhaps the President made the correct decision that day. Harold is the Militia Organization, and his tireless work has helped stave off defeat.”

  “Does that mean we allow him to rule as a dictator?”

  “No,” Levin said quietly. “However, at the moment, there is little we can do about it.”

  “Will the Russians join us?” Anna asked.

  “No,” Levin said. “But I begin to wonder if Konev is playing a deeper game than I realize. The man desires Siberia.”

  “I’m confused. If he grabs Siberia, isn’t that joining us?”

  A soft smile appeared on Levin’s face. “Konev is canny. I’m not sure what he’s after. Like Putin before him, Konev yearns to revive the Russian Empire of old. Yet he does not want a bloodbath on the scale of World War II. A war with China would be that.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “That’s a good question,” Levin said. “Harold is willing to give away the moon in order to induce the Russians to attack Siberia. America needs a second front. Frankly, I’m torn about what we should do.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do either way.”

  “Yes there is. For now at least, you must placate Harold.”

  “Why?”

  “After your trip ends, stay by David’s side, fight to keep him alive. For a time, at least, Harold and McGraw need the President as a symbol. It’s after their victory…”

  “You mean in Mexico?” Anna asked.

  Levin cocked his head as if surprised at her. “There will be no war in Mexico.”

  “We have to go in eventually. We can’t allow Hong to keep his soldiers on our border. It’s not over until we remove them.”

  Levin pursed his lips. “I’m your friend, Anna. I’m the President’s friend. Will you remember that?”

  She nodded, and she decided that whatever else happened,
she was going to save David Sims from the power-hungry trio presently running the country.

  -7-

  Power Politics

  DETENTION CENTER WEST, COLORADO

  Jake picked at his Militia uniform. It hung loosely on his scrawny frame, as he’d lost a lot of weight since the Red Dragon nuclear explosion. His hair had fallen out, too. Finally, a new growth prickled from his scalp. Insanely, he felt a surge of renewed hope with his growing hair.

  Oklahoma had been a little over six months ago. After the Red Dragon strike, he’d been very sick with radiation poisoning, and he’d gotten sicker. He believed, due to the poor medical facilities here in the Detention Center West.

  The place was in Central Colorado, hidden in a bleak, Rocky Mountain valley. It was a hundred acres of electrified fencing with blockhouses, barracks, punishment cells and a small hospital facility. There must be several thousand detainees here with hundreds of guards. Jake wasn’t sure of the exact numbers. He never had been.

  As he had once before two years ago, he sat on a hard plastic chair in the processing hall. The wheels of fate had turned full circle, and he was right back where he’d started from before the terrible siege of Denver. Just like then, the door to the director’s office opened.

  Jake knew a moment of shock. He recognized the person, although it wasn’t the old director with an iron-colored buzz cut. He wished it were. This person was a woman, the judge who had sentenced him to a penal battalion in New York last year.

  She wore a Detention Center uniform, white with brown stripes. A large woman with shortcut red hair, she had a mole on her left nostril and stern features. She was a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. Why was she in charge of the Detention Center then? Militia officers had run it last time he was here.

  Two sitting guards flanked him. They stood, heavyset men in black uniforms. On their thick belts dangled batons, tasers, handcuffs, you name it.

  The director gave them a meaningful glance before retreating into the office. Before Jake could follow, each guard grabbed a biceps, hauling him after her. He hated his own sticklike arms. Once, he might have put up a good fight, not anymore.

  They dragged him into the office, to a chair, pushing him into it. Then they flanked him once more.

  The monitor already sat behind a large desk. Behind her were huge photographs of Director Harold. Those of President Sims, which had been up there last time Jake was here, were no longer in evidence. Just like old times, though, Detention Center slogans in block letters adorned the walls: UNITY BRINGS VICTORY. WE ARE ONE, WE ARE STRONG. PATRIOTS FIGHT FOR THEIR COUNTRY! TRAITORS PROTEST THEIR LEADERS.

  The Public Safety Monitor cleared her throat. She held a tablet in her hands. No doubt it held Jake’s records.

  Jake had learned hard lessons. He sat straight, and he kept his gaze down in a subordinate manner, although he watched her through peripheral vision. Last time he’d been here, he’d seethed with indignation. Today he played a different game—for good reason.

  One, he was weak and frail, hardly recovered from his latest illness. Two, months of ill treatment had broken some of his resolve. Three, despair had claimed his spirit. He’d fought the Chinese, survived a nuclear strike, and this was how they thanked him?

  What a load of crap.

  “I thought I recognized your mulish face,” the monitor said. “I sentenced you to a penal battalion last year. Incredibly, you survived the Germans, but murdered one of the Militia sergeants. Ah, it says here you even resisted arrest and threated to kill other Militia MPs.”

  Jake kept his mouth shut. Sometimes it didn’t pay to defend your actions.

  “Humph,” the monitor said. “I’m not sure I care for your silence. Do you think you’re too good to speak to me?”

  “No, Monitor,” Jake said.

  “Do you have anything to say then before I pass judgment?”

  The words tightened Jake’s chest. That sounded ominous. Anger flared then, but he suppressed it. He had to use his head for once. This verbal confrontation was simply another form of combat. In war, if the enemy had superior force, one retreated or maneuvered with cunning. He must maneuver now.

  “Monitor,” Jake said, trying to speak with deference. “I don’t defend my wrongful actions. If you would allow me, though…?”

  “Yes, speak, speak, by all means. Haven’t I asked you to?”

  “I fought the enemy in defense of my country. I helped kill German soldiers and later Chinese soldiers. In the latter case, I helped to drive PAA formations back.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “I’m asking for leniency, Monitor, for you to take my military service into consideration.”

  Letting the tablet thump onto the desk, she leaned back in her chair, eyeing Jake, finally smiling frostily.

  “Oh, you are a clever ferret of a traitor. You’ve learned to mouth platitudes, thinking in your heart to outfox us. I warn you, Traitor Higgins, I am not fooled.”

  Outrage bubbled up and threatened to pour from his mouth. Jake closed his eyes, fighting to keep silent. It was so difficult to do. That surprised him.

  “Unless…” the monitor said in an oily tone, “you would like to show us that you truly feel contrition.”

  He opened his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow.

  “I have it on good authority that your father, Colonel Stan Higgins, has spoken out against Homeland Security. If you could elaborate on his treasonous words, type out a document and sign it…that would show us your sincerity.”

  He couldn’t believe it. “You’re asking me to denounce my father?”

  “Exactly,” the monitor said. “He plays the war hero very well, even though he plots against the present leadership.”

  Jake stared at her in disbelief.

  That made her frown, and she snapped her fingers.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jake spied moment. Then the right-hand guard touched a shock baton against his neck.

  Jake cried out in pain, and he slid from the chair, to lie panting on the floor.

  “Pick him up,” the monitor said.

  Jake felt strong hands haul him back into the chair. Nausea threatened and his mouth tasted bloody. Oh. He’d bitten his tongue hard enough to make it bleed. Were they going to torture him now? Had they been waiting for him to get better? Maybe it would have been better if he’d died in Oklahoma.

  “Mr. Higgins,” the monitor said. “You must realize the precariousness of your position. As a murderer, you have killed lawful members of the Militia Organization, and this while in the face of the enemy. That is treason. If that wasn’t enough, you have also resisted arrest and threatened lawful police with death. Frankly, in my opinion, you deserve death in turn. I also suspect you of continued political malice. No doubt, there is a conspiracy afoot, with your father at the heart of it. I’m sure you’ve been privy to some of his high crimes.”

  Jake loathed his physical weakness. If he rose up to fight, they would swat him down like a puppy. No. It would be worse than that. One of them would use one hand and using their fingertips to shove against his chest, pushing him down. What should he do?

  “Let us begin anew,” the monitor said. “It is much more than you deserve. I feel soiled even treating with a traitor. Frankly, if it were just up to me, I’d have these men take you outside and have you shot. Yet, for the sake of our country, I am giving you this chance. Will you admit to your father’s treason?”

  Jake took a deep breath, and he almost told her to go to hell. Yet that would be like charging enemy tanks on foot. It would be suicide.

  You have to maneuver, Jake.

  That meant he had to think. Yes. Why had they kept him alive? Was this the reason? He didn’t know, but he needed a plan. To plan wisely, he needed time to think.

  Play for time.

  “I have asked you a question,” the monitor said. “I demand an answer. We will tolerate no more games.”

  Jake felt nauseous, and he’d been fighting it the whole time.
Now he stopped fighting. Instead, he thought of cold sausages. Long ago, when he’d been ten years old in Alaska, his mom had served deer sausages from an animal his father had hunted. The sight of those greasy things had made him feel ill. He’d made a big production about how awful they looked, and he’d let them sit there on his dinner plate. Finally, as everyone else rose from the table, his dad had told him he couldn’t leave until he finished what was in his plate. For a half hour he sat there, too stubborn to eat them. Finally, his dad looked in, and Stan Higgins touched his belt. Jake had understood. Eat the sausage or get a spanking. He’d eaten, and the cold thing had made him gag back then.

  His stomach gurgled now as he thought about the time—cold greasy sausage sitting in his plate.

  “Mr. Higgins—”

  He vomited, the gunk dribbling onto the floor. Grabbing his stomach, he curled over and vomited once more, making it sound worse than it was.

  “Disgusting,” the monitor said. “I thought he was supposed to be better.”

  “Maybe he’s having a relapse,” a guard said.

  “Take him to the infirmary,” the monitor said. “Tell them I don’t want to talk to the traitor until he’s strong enough to withstand some persuasion.”

  Jake kept his head down as the guards each grabbed an arm, lifting him off the chair and heading for the door. He had a few hours reprieve, maybe a few days. How could he turn that to his advantage? He didn’t know, but he’d better come up with a plan fast, or he faced being tortured to death—because there was no way he was going to denounce his dad.

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  Colonel Stan Higgins sat in an auditorium at Southern Front Headquarters. Along with the other colonels and generals, he listened to Tom McGraw outline the winter plans against the PAA, the incremental approach to pushing them completely into northern Mexico.

  When the talk ended, Stan mingled with the field grade officers afterward. He worked his way toward McGraw, the big man surrounded by generals. Stan waited, although impatience seethed through him.