Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Time was of the essence, as it was evident that Hong drafted large numbers of Chinese, Vietnamese and Koreans into the PAA military machine. Because of this, the launch date was set for June 7.

  The plan entailed classic armor drives combined with as much air and helicopter transport as possible. As they had done in Siberia, the former GD robotic forces would grind head on, while mobile units swung around with right and left hooks and the air transports dropped down vertically. The velocity of the campaign and the rough terrain would provide challenging problems, demanding high morale, and superior firepower and training. The allied plan hinged on greater battlefield mobility. Three great blocs supplied one of the greatest concentrations of machines ever seen in the world.

  American Plans. The United States kept the bulk of its military stationed around the northern Mexican border, where over five million PAA soldiers waited. And the country continued to expand its submarine fleet, dedicating nineteen percent of its industry to its construction. The Pan-Asian Alliance still had impressive numbers and equipment in Mexico and continued to threaten invasion. The Australian fiasco had dampened people’s enthusiasm for overseas adventures. They wished for a quick end to the war, although they also longed for revenge against China. These twin desires stood at odds with each other, balanced at the moment, but ready to swing hard toward peace at almost any price. President David Sims’ speech galvanized the nation as hearts burned for vengeance, and opinion polls showed that the majority of the people waited to see the outcome of the Manchurian Invasion.

  Chinese Plans. The Chinese High Command played for time. They would use deploy nuclear weaponry as needed, initiate a mass guerilla war as once envisioned by Mao Zedong and burn up conventional formations in stubborn defense as they waited for troops from aboard and new levies from home to swell their ranks. Hong boasted that China would devour their enemies in a sea of bodies until they could annihilate the invaders and smash them into paste.

  SHANGHAI, CHINA

  Lying on his back, Fu Tao blinked repeatedly as hospital lights passed above him. One flickered, making him wonder if there was a power shortage. In Australia, that had happened all the time.

  The drug a doctor had injected into him began to take effect, and he fought it. He still wasn’t sure how he’d let Shun Li talk him into this. Yes. He owed her his life, and he paid his debts. Still, his right index finger. That was asking much.

  As he lay on the moving gurney, Tao bared his teeth. She’d told him about Chairman Hong, the most monstrous rapist of them all. The Chairman could act civilized, but he loved to watch men rape helpless victims.

  I hate the Chairman. Yes. I will give my finger to protect Shun Li. A rape for a rape, a life for a life, I pay my debts, I always do.

  He heard doors open, and a doctor talking. No, this wasn’t a doctor, but a bone specialist. Fu Tao tried to sit up. Instead, he lost consciousness…

  He awoke by degrees, incredibly groggy. Someone spoke nearby. Slowly, he realized it was Shun Li. Tao opened his eyes until they focused on her.

  “It is done,” she said.

  With dull muscles, Tao raised his right hand. He stared at the index finger. It looked so real.

  “You still have some of it,” Shun Li said.

  Tao nodded, and that made his mouth taste awful. He knew that. He knew. The surgeon had removed the end bone of his index finger, replacing it with a tiny tube. In the tube was a terrible and powerful propellant, which would hurl an equally tiny projectile. If the need ever presented itself, he could ignite the propellant by positioning his others fingers in a precise manner.

  “This is a precaution,” Shun Li said. “You must never use it unless the need arises.”

  Tao stared up at her, and he realized her fright. The Chairman was like a cobra to her. She feared too much. Fu Tao let his head sink onto the pillow. Fear, he had lost it long ago. He had this special finger now, and he would have to wait and see if he could repay his rape-debt to Shun Li.

  -10-

  Invasion

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Director Harold bent his head in thought as he walked through the White House Rose Garden. He wore a jacket and hat against the unseasonable cold, and he considered his words with care.

  Militia General Williamson moved beside him, respectfully silent.

  No one else was in evidence, not even the security detail. Harold knew they watched him, but he was reasonably certain none of them trained a listening device in his direction. Security had gone over the Rose Garden yesterday with a fine-toothed comb at his command, and it seemed unlikely any hidden bugs had found their way here since then. Still, caution was in order. He had almost lost everything two years ago because he’d moved too hastily in an underground coup. The lesson had burned itself into his brain.

  He worked hard, outperforming his opponents. The second secret to his success was learning something the first time. Most people were fools, never learning even when life hammered their heads three times in a row.

  The director dropped his right hand into a pocket, and switched on a scrambler. He felt the vibration, stronger than a cellphone. The device sent out an inaudible sound, the noise would play havoc with any bug.

  Knowing the scrambler operated eased the muscles of his shoulders. The crick in his neck didn’t bother him as much now. He detested painkillers of any kind, as he believed they hindered the high performance of his unique mind.

  While clearing his throat, Harold kept his head bent. He certainly wouldn’t look up at the taller General Williamson. Let the man lower his head, trying to hear the director’s words. Harold needed to talk to someone, a person he could trust to keep silent. Williamson wasn’t the best sounding board he could find, but the man could keep a secret. That was a rare gift.

  Harold made a face. Benjamin Franklin had famously said, “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” The best way to keep a secret was to tell no one. Most people found that impossible to do. Today, I’m like the rest of the herd.

  “General,” he said, “you realize this is strictly confidential.”

  Williamson seemed to strain, and it took him a moment to decipher the quiet words. “I give you my word as an officer, sir. I will tell no one anything you say to me.”

  “Good, good,” Harold said. Why was this so difficult? He only did what he had to. Someone needed to make the hard choices. Someone had to recognize this stage of US history and understand that the people had turned into a frightened, less independent lot than before. That person stared out of the mirror at him every morning. He had a critical job to do. His country called upon him. I am only doing my duty.

  “General Williamson, I have to say that your people have done a splendid job combing the Army and the Marines. I’ve been reading the records of some of the red-starred individuals you found. To a man, they were rabble-rousers with seditious hearts. Those that hadn’t actively…hmmm…spoken out against my administration were or are much too likely to do so at a future date.”

  “I hate to say this, sir,” Williamson said. “But we also combed, as you say, the Militia personnel. We found several drafts of suspected rabble-rousers among our own people.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. It surprised me.”

  “One never knows where these seditious malcontents will show up.”

  Harold stopped. The general halted beside him. Pinching his lower lip, the director said, “You’re the perfect man for your position. I chose wisely in elevating you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I acted rationally.” Harold resumed his slow step. “Yes, destiny has chosen us, General Williamson. We are iron men who know how to make the hard, the difficult choices. Too many people these days have soft cores. They act emotionally instead of logically. America is lucky we’re at the helm. The President used to have that iron. I think the strain of his position ate it away like acid.”

  “That’s truly unfortunate, sir.”

  �
��Yes, it is unfortunate. Yet that is reality, and I refuse to back away from what needs doing.”

  The two men moved in silence for a time, taking another pass along the Rose Garden trail.

  Harold glanced sidelong at Williamson. The man’s pants were perfectly creased. He knew the general put in twelve-hour and even sixteen-hour days. The general was like a machine, and Harold appreciated the man for it.

  “The US 3rd Army Group waits along the Amur River,” Harold said. “The majority of its men and officers are veterans, hardened by three years of war. In one sense, they are good Americans.”

  “Good, sir?” Williamson asked.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Their records tell a different story, sir.”

  “I understand,” Harold said. “Yet they are good soldiers, hard fighters. America needed them. They killed a lot of enemy combatants for their country.”

  “You say needed, sir.”

  “It heartens me that you detect such fine distinctions. Yes, needed. Once we defeat China—and we will, General, never doubt that.”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  Harold detected a faint hint of the man’s body odor. Didn’t the general use cologne? Well, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t chosen Williamson because of perfect hygiene.

  “I know you don’t doubt,” Harold said. “Once we defeat the Pan-Asian Alliance, we’ll have to rebuild our country. I’ve noticed that people are seldom grateful to their saviors for very long. Notice what happened to Winston Churchill after he helped the British win World War II. They immediately voted him out of office, the ingrates.”

  “They were foolish, sir,” Williamson said.

  “Yet their actions derived from natural human nature, I’m afraid. After we win the war, we’ll have to remain in office in order to rebuild our country the right way. That means we’ll have to implement stricter Homeland Security policies among the populace.”

  “We’ll do it for the good of our country, sir.”

  “Yes. I knew you’d understand. It’s strange, but some of my best people are fuzzy on that issue.”

  “Malcontents in our own ranks, sir?” Williamson asked.

  “I’ve pondered that for some time. I don’t think that’s the answer. The fuzzy thinkers are too idealistic, living in a fantasyland of hope that the good old days will come back. Days when life was easy and everyone got handouts. You and I also have high ideals, but we’re cold realists as well. We can take our ideals and make the hard choices to ensure we come closer to reaching paradise than the mere dreamers could do.”

  “I’ve never thought of it like that before, sir.”

  I know you haven’t. What surprises me is that a robot like you has any heart at all. But clearly, you do. I’m glad I’ve taken the time to prime you.

  Harold stroked his chin. He did it in order to look like a deep thinker. He felt the general’s scrutiny, and he believed that he could finally give Williamson his mission.

  “I have a difficult task for you, General.”

  Williamson straightened.

  “This is something I’ve pondered for some time. It must be done, but only a trusted and loyal man can do it.”

  “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Even though you don’t know the assignment yet?” asked Harold.

  “I am here to serve my country, sir.”

  Harold took a deep breath, and he sat down on a bench along the path. He did it in a way that showed he carried a heavy burden.

  “Sit, General,” Harold said, patting the bench beside him.

  There wasn’t much room, but Williamson sat his narrow rear on the wood. He kept very rigid and formal.

  Harold leaned closer so their arms touched. Yes, the man had an odor… Lowering his voice, he said, “You’re to go to Moscow as my personal envoy.”

  He felt the general stiffen.

  “You’re to deliver a message to Premier Konev. No one else must ever hear what you’re going to tell him. You must also make sure you’re not recorded.”

  Williamson swallowed audibly.

  He’s not as much of a robot as I thought. We all have emotions, don’t we?

  Harold paused, and he knew why. It was a grim message. Some might even view it as dishonorable. He had become the commander-in-chief of America, both to the right thinkers and the seditious. When a person picked up a rifle in defense of his country, he ought to be given some due. Yet the future of the United States demanded he make hard choices. Those who came after him would likely lack his iron.

  “General,” Harold said in a soft voice. “I want you to tell Premier Konev that America must defeat China now.”

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “Let me speak,” Harold said, as if out of breath.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Harold put his hands on his knees. This was harder than he thought it would be.

  “Tell Premier Konev that I’m willing to pay in American blood for a quick victory. He can use the US 3rd Army Group for the hard tasks, the ones that will incur heavy losses.”

  Williamson remained silent.

  “Those are good soldiers,” Harold said, “hard fighters. Yet they are the malcontents. They will cause our future America problems as we repair our great country.”

  “To die for our country is an honor, sir.”

  “Tell Premier Konev that he has my permission to grind the US 3rd Army Group to the bone, as long as that brings China to her knees. But remember, General, no one else must ever know you said that, or that those words came from me. Some truths are too terrible for anyone to know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Williamson said. “I will do my duty.”

  “I knew I could count on you, General. You can be sure I will have important tasks of the highest value for you after the war.”

  “Thank you, sir. As long as I can serve my country, I am content.”

  “Those are noble sentiments.” Harold pushed up to his feet. Why did he feel so tired? He did what he had to do. The US soldiers headed to China were expendable, every single one of them. There was simply no other way to mold the future correctly.

  TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY

  Jake Higgins stared out of the railroad car’s window. Vast numbers of pine trees swept past. That’s all he’d seen for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. It was crazy.

  I still can’t believe I’m out of the Detention Center. He’d figured for sure he was going to die there. With a frown, Jake turned his head.

  Young American men filled the interior railcar. There were over one hundred cars in this particular train, and there were more on the way. An American army group headed for the Manchurian border, for big bad China. Three entire armies would march into Northeast China—the First, Ninth and Eighteenth—together with the Russians and Europeans.

  Do our leaders really think we can conquer the entire country?

  Jake shrugged. It hardly mattered to him anymore. He flexed the fingers of his right hand before making a fist. Watching the muscles and tendons of his wrist, he marveled how it had filled out from before—so had his biceps and triceps. His arms weren’t sticks anymore, but regular flesh and bone like normal people. Not so long ago, he’d been a radiation victim, and he’d lived in a cell, tormented by Detention Center goons.

  He scowled, crossing his arms. He was back to being a private in an infantry platoon. How many times had he climbed the ranks, only to slide back down again?

  What’s the point anyway? I’ll fight, do well, and then the Detention people will get me again. I don’t understand my existence.

  “You know what I think?” Jake said.

  “Huh?” Chet asked, looking up from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.

  “We’re headed the wrong way,” Jake said.

  Chet nodded absently as he turned the page.

  “Are you listening to me?” Jake asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Chet said.

  Jake glanced at a blonde on the page arching her back. It remind
ed him of the strip club in Topeka, Kansas. That had been a crazy night—what, over two years ago now. He would have liked to make Sheila the Stripper his girl. With a sigh, he turned back to the window, watching endless pine trees whip past. Siberia. I’m actually in fabled Siberia.

  Chet and Grant were in the same infantry squad as him. They’d been members of his old Behemoth crew. They’d been flushed out of the super-tanks for reasons neither understood. It was funny how all three of them had ended up here, huh?

  Why do I fight for my country, if my country hates me? No, that was the wrong question. His country didn’t hate him, just the Militia screws who seemed to be in charge these days.

  Was this his fate then? Would he fight while others back home misused power? What difference did it make to him if the Chinese ran the Detention Center or Americans? Well…the Chinese had killed many fellow soldiers, friends of his…

  What had ever happened to Goose and the Lieutenant? The siege of Denver had been something. The war had felt righteous back then.

  “Whoa, look at her,” Chet said, shoving the magazine and a brunette pictured there into his face. Jake could see her nipples thrusting against the bikini fabric.

  “Nice tits,” Jake said.

  “Nice everything,” Chet said.

  “Do you ever wonder why we’re fighting?”

  Chet gave him a quizzical glance. “For this,” he said, shaking the magazine. “If we let them, the Chinese will take every girl on the planet. All they have is men in China. They aborted all the chicks. Now they want ours. I say, screw ’em. No. Forget that. Kill them.”

  “This is all ’cause of chicks?” Jake asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” Chet said.

  Jake thought about the dark-haired stripper, about Sheila. He wouldn’t want a Chinese bastard to get her. Chet was right about that. Maybe that’s why the Militia officer there had sent him to the tribunal. Sheila had smiled at him that night instead of to the Militiaman. Is war just about girls and money, about power?