Invasion: New York (Invasion America)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  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, mea
nwhile, 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 vani
shed 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.”