Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “One or two,” he said.

  “Paul!”

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

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

  “What do you want me to say?”

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

  “I do promise,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

  “You’re a Marine’s wife!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We can’t let the Chinese win.”

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

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

  “Words,” she said in a small voice.

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

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

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

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

  “I’m going down to the bank.”

  “Paul, no, you can’t.”

  “Yeah I can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Paul.”

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

  She looked down.

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

  “Paul…” she said.

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

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

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

  WICHITA, KANSAS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Don’t be an idiot.

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

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

  What do I want to see happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Oh, that’s why the priest stood out here. The man guarded McGraw’s guns. Stan saw them on a nearby table.<
br />
  “Would you like to place your weapons here?” the priest asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “History shows—”

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

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

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

  Stan glanced around.

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

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

  “I just did.”

  Stan waited.

  “You got something against Catholics?” McGraw asked.

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

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

  “No, sir, you don’t.”

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