Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) Page 7

  Stan stood and shook hands with the Militia general. The skin was cold, the grip firm. He could feel the man’s intelligence, although the glasses made it difficult to assess the general’s gaze. There did seem to be something reptilian about Williamson.

  “Would you like some coffee, refreshments?” McGraw asked.

  “No thank you,” Williamson said.

  McGraw nodded to the major, and she retreated, closing the door behind her.

  The three men sat, Stan stiffly. Because of his words last month, he was aware of the gun in his holster. If it came down to it, could he draw the weapon and kill two high-ranking officers? That wouldn’t save Jake. It would be an act of premeditated revenge.

  You’d better start thinking. Otherwise, your boy is dead.

  “This is a surprise,” McGraw told Williamson.

  A precise smile stretched across the Militia general’s face, and he twitched his head. “No. I don’t think so. I notice Colonel Higgins sitting beside me. That is quite deliberate on your part, and I understand. You Army people hang together. You’ve known about my request for several weeks now, and I’m sure you’ve been notified of my coming.”

  “I have a war to run,” McGraw said. “These petty problems—”

  “Allow me to cut to the chase,” Williamson said. “You are the Southern Front Joint Forces Commander. I’m quite aware of that. You should be aware of this, however.” The Militia general took a wallet out of his jacket and flipped it open, setting it on the desk and sliding it across.

  McGraw peered down at it as if the thing was poisonous.

  “My commission comes directly from the President,” Williamson said. “I work under his authority.”

  “But still under Homeland Security auspices,” McGraw said.

  “For matters of form, yes, Director Harold is my superior. But my authority to act derives from the President.” Williamson paused as if for effect, and he turned to Stan. “Your son has committed an act of treason.”

  “Defending his life was treason?” Stan asked.

  “Murdering his superior sergeant was treason, yes.”

  “He shot the sergeant in self-defense.”

  “If you are correct, you should be willing for him to face a tribunal in order to clear his record.”

  “Should I?” Stan asked.

  “Colonel Higgins,” McGraw said. “I suggest you speak in a softer tone with—”

  “No, no,” Williamson said. “Let the father speak his mind. I’m interested in what he has to say against the lawful organization defending our country.”

  Stan recognized the threat but refused to let it intimidate him. “You sent my son to a penal battalion because he pissed on a portrait of your boss. The Militia response shows a gross misuse of power. Before that, Jake was a hero in the siege of Denver. Let him die for his country but don’t allow him any opinion but for the ones you give him? Is that it?”

  “I am aware of his questionable record,” Williamson said.

  Stan opened his mouth to retort.

  “Hold it, Colonel,” McGraw said in a stern voice. “General, if I could have your attention.”

  Both Stan and Williamson faced big Tom.

  “I respect your office and your record,” McGraw told Williamson. “What I don’t respect is your interference with my coming offensive. Corporal Jake Higgins belongs to a Behemoth tank crew. Those tanks are the key to our coming success—if we’re going to have one. I don’t care if Jake Higgins raped your mother. He stays with his tank until the offensive is over.”

  “He is officially a Militia member,” Williamson said coldly. “You do not have the authority to stop me. If I call the President, he will order you to hand Jake Higgins into my custody.”

  “Then make your call,” McGraw said. “You can do it right here. But know this. By doing that, you will make a personal enemy out of me. Is that really what you want?”

  Williamson laughed softly. “Please, General, don’t attempt any melodramatics with me. I am a patriot.”

  “So am I,” McGraw said hotly. “So is Stan Higgins, a Medal of Honor recipient.”

  “I follow the law,” Williamson said.

  “And aid and abet the enemy through your actions,” McGraw said.

  Williamson stiffened as his neck flushed red.

  “Now see here, old son,” McGraw said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. We’re both supposed to be on the same side. I know you believe you’re right, and I believe I’m right. Neither matters now. The coming offensive is all that counts. That means you shouldn’t interfere with my tank divisions. By taking Jake, you’ll hurt the morale of his entire regiment. I only have six of them—six to defeat the Chinese.”

  Through his ridiculous lenses, Williamson glowered at McGraw. “I will have the traitor one way or another. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m asking you to wait,” McGraw said. “Let the man fight for his country. At this stage in the war, isn’t that more important?”

  “I will make that call to DC,” Williamson said.

  “You’re a hard man, General, but a smart one, too,” McGraw said. “I run Southern Front. If you make that call, I’ll make one of my own. Who do you think the President will listen to right now, you or me?”

  Militia General Williamson shot to his feet so several of his bones popped with sound. He swiped the wallet off McGraw’s desk. Without a word, he slipped the wallet into his jacket and marched for the door.

  “One way or another,” he muttered. Then he was out the door, leaving it ajar.

  A moment later, the major looked in, with her plucked eyebrows raised. McGraw gestured, and she shut the door softly.

  “Damn Militia bastards,” McGraw muttered.

  Stan’s blood pressure still ran high. He didn’t know if the two generals had staged that or not. Why bother pretending such a thing for his benefit? It didn’t make sense. He was a colonel, not a general. Maybe McGraw was for real.

  “Thanks,” Stan said.

  “I’d do it for any of my men.”

  Stan didn’t want to say the words, but he did. “I owe you one.”

  McGraw gave him a hearty smile, and he stood, coming around the desk. Holding out his hand, the general pumped Stan’s arm and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “It’s good to have you back, old son.”

  Stan looked down. He didn’t know what to make of all this. Had McGraw truly been drunk the other night? He found it hard to believe.

  “Stick around for a while,” McGraw said. “I’ll buy you a beer later at the officers’ club.”

  “I should be getting back to my regiment and seeing to those three tanks.”

  McGraw nodded, and he slapped Stan on the shoulder once more. “Maybe you’re right. The offensive is coming soon, and I mean to win this one big. We’re going to drive the Chinese out of Oklahoma and through Texas into Mexico.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir.”

  “We’ll have to think of something for your boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stan said.

  “Until then, make sure he sticks close to base. Who knows what these goons will try next? Williamson is as tough as nails. He’s not going to back down long.”

  Stan silently agreed, and soon he found himself saying goodbye to the major. Did McGraw and Harold still have ideas of unseating the President? Stan hoped not. But even more importantly, what did General Williamson plan to do about Jake?

  SIXTH BEHEMOTH REGIMENT ASSEMBLY AREA, OKLAHOMA

  Corporal Jake Higgins found the answer to his father’s question nine days before the start of Operation Reclamation.

  It was early morning, with the monster tanks hidden under camouflage netting and surrounded by trees. Twenty inflatable fake Army trucks with huge inflatable stacks of boxes gave the impression this was a growing forward supply dump. It was part of McGraw’s deception techniques to fool Chinese surveillance drones. Neither side maintained recon satellites, as the other side beamed them
down as fast as they reached operational orbit. That meant each side used high-flying stealth drones. Various tents provided sleeping quarters for the crews. A larger tent served the function of mess hall.

  Several late risers ate breakfast inside the tent, Jake Higgins among them.

  As soldiers went about their duties, a large black four-door sedan roared over a hill to the north, kicking up dust from the dirt road. The big car had tinted windows, making it impossible for anyone to see who rode inside.

  A dug-in sentry squad watched the vehicle, tracking it with a heavy machine gun. The dirt road led to a shack and a crossbar. By the weight of the four-door, it looked as if it would have no problem smashing through the crossbar.

  Brakes squealed nonetheless, and the car crunched across gravel as it came to a stop beside the guard shack.

  A sergeant approached the vehicle. With a soft purr, the driver’s window descended, revealing a burly Detention Center MP. The driver’s ID in his hand showed he belonged to Homeland Security.

  “This is Army territory,” the sergeant told him.

  “Look at this,” the driver said, and he showed the guard a Presidential crest. “This gives us the authorization to go wherever we want. Right now, General Williamson told us to come here. Are you going to interfere? If so, I’ll need your name and ID.”

  The sergeant squinted at the Presidential crest. He bit his lower lip and finally shrugged. “I don’t know what you want here.”

  “Where’s Jake Higgins?” the driver asked.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask around.”

  The driver sneered, and the window purred as it shut.

  The sergeant stepped back, signaled the private in charge of the crossbar and hurried to the shack, reaching for the field phone there. Colonel Higgins was visiting Sixth Behemoth’s colonel. It seemed like Colonel Higgins would want to know about this.

  Meanwhile, the black car accelerated to the biggest tent, the mess hall. Several tankers stopped to watch. Soon enough, the car parked beside the tent and all four doors opened. Five big Militia MPs got out. They wore brown uniforms and carried nine-millimeter pistols in leather holsters, along with other police gear: mace, tasers, handcuffs and even batons.

  The driver stopped a soldier, and muttered a question. The soldier pointed at the tent. The five headed there, three of them drawing their batons.

  The first Jake Higgins knew about this, the tent flap opened and five Detention MPs stepped within. They looked around, spotting him and heading his way.

  Jake was an image of his dad, only a lot younger and with thicker, blonder hair. He had handsome features and weighed a solid one eighty. He watched the five military police march toward him. At the moment, he gripped a spoon and had a mouthful of Cheerios, with a half-finished bowl before him on a foldup table.

  Although the five surprised him, Jake knew this day was coming, at least this type of day, though not the exact sequence. He’d learned far too much about the world these last few years. What seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d attended college in California. He didn’t read history like his father, but he knew a few things about the old United States. Men of honor had built it, believing in freedom of expression and natural rights bequeathed by God, not by the state. He had protested against President Sims, went to a Detention Center because of it and learned prisoners did best there when they kept their mouth shut and did as they were told. His dad went to bat for him, and the Detention people finally allowed Jake to volunteer for a Militia battalion. He fought in Texas and watched just about everyone in his unit die. Along with seven other survivors, he escaped from the Amarillo Pocket where Chinese armor butchered American formations.

  Alone, he reached Colorado and turned himself in. There, Detention Center people accused him of desertion. By some hard talking, he managed to join a new Militia unit in Denver. There, he survived the terrible siege, only to soon find himself in a Militia penal battalion in New York. That had been bad.

  “Jake Higgins?” the MP driver asked.

  The other four fanned out. The ones with batons glared at him.

  Jake swallowed his Cheerios and set the spoon on the table. His dad had told him about General Williamson. Usually, Jake wore a gun, but not today. He’d gotten up late and hurried here before they closed down breakfast.

  “We know you’re Jake Higgins,” the MP said.

  “I’m not in a Detention Center cell just yet,” Jake said. “If you start swinging at me, others are going to jump in and help me kick the crap out of you.”

  “Are you resisting arrest?” the MP asked.

  Jake drew a lungful of air. A rule of life was never to let criminals take you to a secondary scene of a crime. Fight where the criminals first appeared in public to accost you. If you allowed the criminals to take you to a quiet spot and tie you up, they could do anything to you and you would be screwed. After his penal battalion days, Jake viewed Detention Center people as flat-out thugs.

  If this is my last fight, let’s make it a good one.

  Jake pushed away from the table so his chair went flying.

  One of the MPs drew a nine millimeter, aiming at his stomach.

  “If you fire, you’re dead,” a man said who stood behind the military police.

  The five MPs glanced back to see who’d spoken.

  A hard-breathing colonel stood inside the tent, with an assault rifle aimed at them. Behind Stan Higgins, hulking tankers filed into the tent. They looked determined.

  “We’re here under Presidential authority,” the driver said. “You have no right to aim that weapon at us.”

  “Your lawyer can explain that at my court martial,” Stan said. “You won’t be there, though, but in a pine box six feet underground.”

  “Are you threatening us, Colonel?” the MP asked.

  Stan Higgins pointed the assault rifle at the ground and let bullets rip near their feet. The sound was shockingly loud within the tent.

  One MP dropped his baton and jumped back, although the others held their spots. They were tough men.

  “I’m not going to tell you to leave again,” Stan told them.

  “I don’t think so,” the driver said. “We’re under—”

  Stan’s features hardened, and he aimed the assault rifle at the driver’s face.

  “Dad, wait!” Jake shouted. He went wide around the MPs, and he took an assault rifle from one of the tankers. Cocking it, he aimed the weapon at the five. “I don’t want you to do down, sir. If anyone’s going to kill them, it will be me.”

  The driver paled as he stared at the gun barrel pointing at him and then peered into Jake’s eyes.

  “You and me,” the driver said. He paused, and it seemed as if he used his tongue to swab the inside of his mouth—maybe it lacked enough moisture. Finally, he added, “Someday, we’re going to go around and around.”

  “Sure, big talk,” Jake said. “All you mean is that your buddies will hold me down while you kick me in the face. I know. I’ve been there with your brothers.” His trigger finger began to squeeze. “So you know what—”

  “Jake!” his dad said. Old man Higgins pulled his son’s arm down. “Let them go.”

  It took Jake several seconds, but at last, he nodded.

  The five Detention Center MPs left the tent and headed for their car. They climbed into the black vehicle, started it up and headed for the dirt road.

  Father and son watched them leave.

  “They’re never going to stop,” Jake said. “You know that, right?”

  Colonel Stan Higgins didn’t say anything to that.

  “Sometimes,” Jake said, “I wonder what I’m really fighting for.”

  “I know,” Stan said, “me, too.”

  -3-

  Operation Reclamation

  From A Secret History of the North American War, by Captain Fan Kai:

  2041: The Spring Offensive

  The next actions of Chairman Hong harkened back to the emperors of old who believed
themselves protected by a heavenly mandate. Such men conceived an action in relation to their position and power, never considering the results in human suffering for others.

  The military clique headed by Marshal Chao Pin thwarted what Hong considered his birthright. The fierce desire to topple the marshal and his supporters guided the Chairman’s actions. In this case, a devastating Chinese defeat in North America meant nothing, as long as it helped catapult Hong back to supreme power.

  The intermediate-range nuclear missiles hidden in northern Mexico would stem the Americans later. At least, so Hong envisioned. Some have suggested he already lived in a dream world of his own devising. If the Chairman willed a thing, these people say, it became reality to him. Yet the cunning and success of his murder squads suggest otherwise. Hong still maintained a keen grasp on reality.

  As the Americans unleashed their fated offensive in Oklahoma, twenty, perhaps as many as twenty-three teams of East Lightning operatives headed for various Chinese frontline Army Headquarters. From May 11 to May 14, the murder squads killed seven Chinese generals, nineteen colonels, forty-three majors and their accompanying aides and security personnel. The victims were some of the best tactical leaders and logistics experts. Several EL teams blew up critical depots or rail lines. They sowed confusion during the initial desperate days, and gave the Americans incredible aid. The ensuing enemy destruction also hid the activity from the vast majority of PAA soldiers.

  Yet such a scheme proved impossible to hide altogether. Chinese Army personnel captured members of five different murder squads. Several of the East Lightning operatives immediately ingested poison. They died before anyone could interrogate them. Several others cracked under torture, telling wild stories of Chinese secret police sabotage. The Army personal refused to believe the truth, shooting the operatives instead as American spies.

  Two of the captured assassins survived the battle and left a gory account of their wartime activities. (See: We Worked for Police Minister Shun Li, 2045.) These stories substantiate the Chinese belief that underhanded forces worked against them during the McGraw Offensive. These forces paved the way for the stunning American victory. Otherwise, the ensuing combat lacks sense. Chinese arms had driven the Americans headlong only two short years ago. Such a US turnaround could only be understood by the devilish interference of Chairman Hong and his villainous Police Chief, Shun Li.