Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  For over six months, he’d believed Jake had died in Stillwater. Since talking with Chet, Stan had hunted down the original doctor. He’d spoken at length with the man a second time, finally learning the truth. Homeland Security had indeed taken Jake.

  As Stan stood in the gymnasium, listening to people talk, a fierce sense of betrayal filled him as it had been doing for the past weeks. How many times had he put his life on the line for his country? He’d lost count. His country had rewarded him with rank, medals and some honor. Yet it had taken his son, possibly killed him.

  How should I react to that? What did he owe his country? His old dead friend Bill would have told him a man’s allegiance followed a strict ranking: God, family, country, in that order. If one’s country affronted God—demanded he disobey the Divine Ruler by accepting things God hated—one must rebel against that. If his country attacked his family…one must also rebel. After that, if someone attacked his country, he would fight to the death for it.

  Homeland Security has taken my son. One arm of it has, anyway. Am I honor-bound to obey Max Harold or to obey those who help him?

  Stan didn’t believe so. He had a small derringer in his jacket pocket, a tiny thing with two shells. He’d told McGraw some time ago what would happen if they took his boy. A lethal level of bitterness consumed Stan. After years of war, of fighting for his country, how could it come to this? He didn’t understand.

  “Stan!”

  Higgins looked up. McGraw filled his vision. The big man reached out, clapping him on the shoulder. It made Stan flinch.

  “What’s wrong, old son?” McGraw asked. “You’re looking peaked. You’re standing here all by yourself as if the devil is pestering you.”

  Despite the others around them, Stan blurted, “They have my son, Tom. Homeland Security plucked him out of a radiation treatment center. They’re holding him captive, likely in one of their detention facilities.”

  At the bleakness of his voice, several officers turned toward Stan. He felt their staring eyes, the silent questions.

  McGraw’s head swayed back. He seemed surprised. “But I thought…”

  Stan opened his mouth to accuse the general, and he let his right hand drop into his jacket pocket.

  “Colonel,” McGraw said, becoming serious. “I-I need to have a word with you.”

  Stan’s fingers curled around the derringer. Then he palmed it. All he had to do was lift it out of his pocket, push it in McGraw’s face, and pull the trigger twice.

  “Colonel!” McGraw boomed.

  Stan became aware of many officers watching him. The stupor that had consumed him left, and he realized he had almost murdered Tom McGraw. The general’s words finally penetrated his fogged thoughts.

  “When do you want to talk?” Stan asked.

  “I’d like a word with you right this minute,” McGraw said.

  “In private?”

  “Of course. I have a message for you personally.”

  Stan nodded, and he felt the weight of the derringer in his pocketed hand. Finally, he was about to get some old-time justice.

  McGraw spoke to an aide, a major. The aide spoke to a three-star general. Soon, Stan found himself following McGraw as the man pushed through the crowd. They stepped outside the gymnasium. Cold bit Stan’s cheeks, and he shivered. They crunched through snow, reaching an office building.

  Stan glanced at the icy moon. He might never see it again. He gripped the derringer to shoot. As he did, McGraw accelerated up a short ramp. Two bodyguards appeared. McGraw put his right hand on a doorknob, standing twelve feet away. The derringer had no accuracy. Stan had practiced with it before. To hit, he needed to be standing right beside the general.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” the lead bodyguard said.

  For an instant, Stan decided to risk it. The bodyguard must have sensed something, because he stepped between Stan and the general.

  Annoyance flashed across Stan’s face. Then he realized the chance had passed. He let go of the derringer, taking his hand out of his pocket.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Stan asked the approaching guard.

  “Can’t take any chances, old son,” McGraw said. “It’s nothing personal.”

  Stan opened his mouth, and shut it. He’d lost his chance.

  The bodyguards became four as two more appeared. Before Stan knew it, they were frisking him—strong hands lifting his arms, patting against his ribs. His heart sank as a guard patted his pocket and gave him a sharp look. Stan knew better than to fight the bodyguard.

  The man reached in and plucked the derringer from Stan’s pocket. “You’d better see this, General,” the bodyguard said, facing McGraw.

  In the starlight, McGraw glanced at the derringer and then peered at Stan.

  “Did you mean to murder me with that little toy, old son?”

  “I don’t know,” Stan whispered. “Maybe.”

  All four bodyguards stiffened. One reached for Stan while the others drew their sidearms.

  “No,” McGraw said. “Let him be.”

  “But sir—”

  “I just gave you an order. Search him again. Tell me what more you find.”

  They searched Stan more thoroughly. In silence, he endured the indignity. What did it matter anyway? He should have taken his chance when he had it. He’d blown it. Shortly thereafter, the chief bodyguard told the general they hadn’t found anything else, as there was nothing else to discover.

  “Inside, Colonel,” McGraw said. “I want to hear what you have to say about this.”

  Stan moved up the ramp as if walking to his gallows. Inside, McGraw flicked on the lights. It was a schoolroom. It surprised Stan none of the bodyguards entered. The big man sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Wearily, Stan sank into a chair beside a cluttered table. He sat there staring, trying to collect his thoughts.

  “Higgins, were you really going to shoot me?”

  “They have my son,” Stan said, as he continued to stare at the carpet.

  “I’ve read the report. Jake is dead.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” Stan looked up and he told McGraw what he’d discovered.

  Afterward, McGraw said, “I had nothing to do with any of that. I had no idea.”

  Stan wanted to believe him but— “You’ve taken over, Tom. You did exactly as you told me you’d do.”

  “No. The President had a heart attack. It took all of us by surprise.”

  “And after all this time, the President isn’t better yet?” Stan asked.

  “I know what you’re implying—”

  “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s clear what happened. You and Harold have taken over.”

  “Chairman Alan is also part of the triad. Who else could have done as we have these past months? We’re finally winning the war.”

  Stan studied McGraw. “Why are you bothering to talk to me now? I don’t get it.”

  “I want to know if you were really going to shoot me.”

  “I was thinking about it. I even had the derringer in my hand, planning how I’d do it. They have my son, Tom, my son! The bastards went into a hospital and hauled out a sick man. They must know he didn’t murder that sergeant—that man was the real traitor.”

  “So you were going to shoot me? Why?”

  “I told you six months ago what I would do if they took my son. Well, they have. Is he dead or alive? If he’s alive, I want him back.”

  “Damnit, Higgins, I can’t trust a man who thinks about killing me.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “What kind of question is that?” McGraw asked. “Whatever I do, I do for my country.”

  “Is that the lie you tell yourself every morning?”

  Anger flashed across McGraw’s features. He’d gained weight since taking over and his face had become puffier. “How can you expect my help if I know you plan to kill me?”

  “Listen to me, Tom. I’m a loyal man: God first, family second and my country third. You can trust
me because I do exactly what I say I’m going to do. Help me get my son back, and you won’t have a more loyal man.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Stan stared at McGraw. He could see the belligerence on the general’s face, the surprise and hurt as well. Stan hadn’t expected that. “I’ll tell you what you can do. Aim me at Harold and I’ll kill him for you.”

  “Treason,” McGraw said in a clipped voice.

  Stan laughed bleakly. “Don’t you understand what kind of situation you’re in? You’ve staged a coup, or at least you personally allowed one to take place. Maybe it was fortuitous that Sims had his heart attack. I don’t know. Heck, maybe he still is sick. I’m telling you that you’re in a very dangerous situation. Triumvirates don’t last. One man becomes more powerful than the other two. I’ve been watching the news. Harold wields the real power. You’re a figurehead, and Alan supplies the muscle. The people love you, just as they loved Marc Anthony once. Harold is more like Octavian, who became Caesar Augustus. Harold is already outmaneuvering you.”

  “We’ve had our arguments,” McGraw said. “I won’t deny that.”

  “Who won the arguments?”

  “We went his way most of the time…”

  “There you are,” Stan said.

  “No. We’re winning this war. We’ve driven the Chinese out of America, or almost out. We have plans now for a coming Burma offensive.”

  “I thought it might be something like that. The Indians are going to make a move, eh?”

  “I’m supposed to be gathering an American Expeditionary Force.”

  “Interesting,” Stan said. He thought about it before shaking his head. “Look, Tom, about Jake, if anyone deserved better, it’s my boy. He’s fought in some tough spots: Denver, Buffalo and he survived the nuclear assault.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about your information?”

  “I spoke to the doctor the Homeland Security people threatened. The doc didn’t realize it, but I recorded our conversation, just in case I ever need it as evidence.”

  “That’s against the law,” McGraw said.

  “Oh, that’s rich. You’re very law abiding, you and Harold, aren’t you?”

  McGraw’s face turned crimson.

  “At least you can still blush about it,” Stan said. “I doubt Harold can.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too prissy for your own good?”

  “I know,” Stan said. “You’re going to tell me how you’re a realist, a man of the world. Let me tell you something. Once we throw away our principles, there’s no telling where it stops.”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  Stan looked into McGraw’s eyes. He didn’t know what the general was thinking, but… “I want your help,” Stan said.

  “For doing this, there might be something I’ll ask of you in return.”

  “What’s that?” Stan asked.

  “If I free your boy, you’ll owe me one.”

  “I would,” Stan said.

  “And if that meant going to Burma…?”

  “I’d go even if you weren’t bargaining for my son.”

  McGraw slid off the desk, and he began to pace. “I’m due in Washington in a few days. I’ll mention your son to Harold.”

  “You might need to be firm. Jake isn’t going to last—”

  “I know how to make my arguments,” McGraw said, with bite to his words. He paused, fingering his chin. He clipped his fingernails far too closely.

  Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? Stan asked himself.

  “What you need to do,” McGraw said, “is to start looking for a replacement in your regiment.”

  “No Behemoths in Burma?”

  “Three-hundred-ton tanks? How would we get them there?” asked McGraw.

  “Hmm, right,” Stan said. “They’re better used here, seeing we’re still in short supply of them. If the Chinese make a sudden surge out of Mexico—if the South Americans suddenly grow a new pair—”

  “Just do as I ask, and be prepared to leave for a secret training base. We have to surprise the Chinese.”

  “I don’t know if we’ll do that, but sure, I’ll do as you ask. Don’t let them keep Jake, Tom. If they do, I won’t be any good to you.”

  “Is that a threat?” McGraw asked.

  “No, sir. Just a fact.”

  McGraw nodded, and the meeting was over.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Director Max Harold sat in the oval office in the White House. He reclined behind the President’s desk with an old ballpoint pen in his hand. He kept clicking it as he scanned a tablet. He liked keeping his fingers busy as he read. It helped relax him, and he’d read somewhere that it helped keep the blood flowing better.

  On his desk, an intercom buzzed.

  “Yes?” Harold asked, without looking up.

  “General Williamson is here to see you, sir.”

  “Ah, good,” Harold said. “Send him in.” The director clicked his pen a few more times, finishing the report. Then he pocketed the pen and set the tablet on the desk.

  The door opened shortly, and tall Militia General Williamson marched in. He wore Himmler-style glasses over pinched features. The man was a stickler for protocol, and dedicated to the new regime. He had another quality Harold admired: a high capacity for toil.

  That was one of Harold’s secrets to success: plain hard work. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Williamson replied, as he stood at attention.

  “Please, sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Williamson said, taking the nearest chair.

  Harold liked to keep things formal, so he remained seated behind the President’s desk. He realized he played a risky game taking over like this. In essence, he’d become a dictator. Long ago in school, he’d read about Cincinnatus the Roman patriot. In ancient times, the Romans had needed a dictator. They came to Cincinnatus as he plowed his field. He took up the sword and he led his countrymen to victory. After the war, he returned to his farm and his plow, giving up supreme power as easily as he’d taken it.

  I’m not a farmer, but my country needs a clearheaded man to end this terrible war. Even more, my country needs a man who can return America to its rightful place in the world as the premier nation.

  Greater China stood in the way. Therefore, he had to destroy it. It was that simple. Harold noted Williamson’s patience, another fine quality, although it potentially made the Militiaman dangerous. Harold trusted the general…but he would have to keep an eye on Williamson.

  First clearing his throat, Harold asked, “Have you spoken with General McGraw?”

  “Yes, sir,” Williamson said, taking out a tablet of his own.

  “Don’t read me your notes. Just give me the essentials of the meeting.”

  “He’s backing out of the Australia operation,” Williamson said.

  “I’m not surprised, even though it seemed suited to his tastes: flashy and potentially earthshattering.”

  Williamson waited.

  Harold liked that about the Militiaman. The general didn’t offer an opinion unless asked directly. Too many people liked to run off at the mouth, and without really saying anything useful. Harold found such people tedious, which meant the majority of the population.

  “Did he give any reasons for backing out?” Harold asked.

  “No sir.”

  “Hmm, that’s interesting. I wonder what changed his mind.”

  “There was something else, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  Williamson didn’t bother glancing at the tablet perched on his bony knees. “The general asked about Jake Higgins.”

  “The tank colonel?” Harold asked.

  “No sir, his son, the traitor.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  Williamson told him the story, including how his Militia MPs had finally apprehended the traitor in the Stillwater hospital tent.”

  “Is this younger Higgins st
ill alive?” Harold asked.

  “I checked. He is.”

  “Hmm. Go on. What did McGraw say about the younger Higgins?”

  “The general wants him released, sir.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes sir. McGraw wants Colonel Higgins in Burma. The general feels…that the senior Higgins might prove troublesome if his son remains in a detention center.”

  “Ah… Then McGraw will go to Burma? He said that?”

  “He implied it, sir, although he didn’t commit himself.”

  “In your opinion, how serious was he concerning Jake Higgins?”

  “I found him intent on the matter,” Williamson said. “If you’ll recall, sir, many months ago, General McGraw stalled me about Jake Higgins.”

  “Explain.”

  General Williamson did so.

  “I see, I see,” Harold said. He took out the ballpoint pen and clicked it several times. Swiveling around, looking at the Rose Garden, Harold wondered what he should do. It might be good for McGraw to taste defeat on this, to sow discord among his supporters. On the other hand, why alert his enemy…his potential enemy…in the bid for supreme power, over such a minor matter?

  “In your opinion, how close are Colonel Higgins and McGraw?”

  Williamson picked up his notepad, clicking the pager, scanning text. “I’m sure you’re aware of their close affiliation during the siege of Denver and Operation Washington.”

  “Ah, yes,” Harold said, “I remember. They worked well together.”

  “They used to, sir. Several of my operatives believe there has been a falling out between them.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why otherwise would McGraw ask for Jake Higgins? Why would he risk my displeasure? He knows I back Homeland Security to the hilt.”

  Williamson clicked the notepad to another page. Behind his lenses, his eyes shifted back and forth, as he read. “There’s something else I think you should know, sir.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Our psychologist is uncertain about the root reasons, sir. Yet I think the action is more important than the reason. Colonel Higgins has a taste for…unpatriotic speech.”

  “Of what nature?” Harold asked, still staring at the Rose Garden. He saw a wasp land on a leaf, crawling to the edge of it.