“Shut your mouth,” the MP told him.
The nurse’s eyes widened with surprised. Then she stared at Jake. “What did he do?”
“He’s a traitor,” the MP said. “He shouldn’t get good American blood before these others.”
“Is that what you think?” Jake said.
“I told you to shut up,” the MP said. “If you say another word—”
“Is that necessary?” the doctor asked.
The MP glared at the doctor. The man in the white coat wilted, nodded and turned away.
“Move aside,” the MP said, and he bumped the nurse, making her stagger against Simon’s cot.
Jake wanted to be angry, but he felt too cold and achy. “Can’t you see I’m sick?” he whispered.
“My heart bleeds for you,” the MP said. “Come on,” he told the other two. “Give me a hand.”
Jake sucked in his breath. At least he could say goodbye to his friends.
The MP had palmed a small stunner into his hand. With big horse-sized teeth, he grinned down at Jake, and the Militia cop pressed the stunner against his neck.
Jake heard it buzz as he arched in pain. In a fog, he heard the nurse ask what they were doing. Then he fell into a deeper fog, slipping away into unconsciousness.
In his jeep, Stan Higgins screeched to a halt before an Army checkpoint. For the last three weeks, he had maneuvered what remained of the original penetrating armor against the formerly trapped Chinese and SAF forces. It had been a nightmare, with radiation counters in selected vehicles helping the units avoid highly radiated zones.
Combined with a few fresh divisions along the front, they had captured hundreds of thousands of nuclear-shocked SAF soldiers and starved into submission as many PAA forces. The post-Red Dragon operation had catapulted Stan into national fame. The praise tasted like ashes in his mouth. What had happened to his boy? Several hours ago, he’d found out Jake had survived the nuclear strike, and had been brought here. Now no one could put him in touch with his son.
The vast tent city rose to the north of Stillwater, a huge area where medical personnel tried to cope with the hundreds of thousands of cases of the radiation poisoned.
In the weeks since the attack, several things had become clear. Despite the success of the latest operation, the front was in shambles on both sides. The nuclear warheads had thrown everything into turmoil. Casualties numbered in the millions. This tent city was one among many, and it was far too near the fallout zones.
The good thing was that the South American Federation forces had panicked en masse. They had never signed up for nuclear war. The nukes had also enraged the American people. This was far uglier than the September 11 attack on the Twin Towers and much worse than Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese made their sneak attack.
It’s universal. Everyone wants to nuke China in retaliation.
Stan showed his credentials. The guard snapped to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins, I can have a man park your jeep over there.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Sir—”
“Where’s administration?”
“Over there, the central tent.”
“Thanks.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins,” the guard said, saluting again.
With an aching chest, Stan turned the steering wheel and crunched over gravel. He parked, jumped out and hurried to the central tent. Big Army trucks moved down a narrow lane. No doubt, they carried precious blood and newly made antibiotics.
Stan glanced up at the sky at moving clouds. They would have to relocate these tents—well, relocate the sick. The weather patterns were finally changing. The wind might blow radioactive contaminants over Stillwater.
Fallout had been raining onto areas of northern Mexico, and it had made the people there furious with their Chinese overlords.
This is halftime. The side that can regroup faster will have a huge advantage.
A loud noise caused Stan to glance east. A big Chinook helicopter flew low toward the tents. It must be transporting more sick people.
Stan scowled. The Red Dragons had changed more than just the battlefield. The President had a heart attack and those vultures, Harold and McGraw, had used it to step into Sims’ place. After all these years, it was finally happening to the United States of America. The Caesars had finally appeared, the men on the white horses who would supposedly save the country from disaster.
Would David Sims recover from his heart attack? Stan had his doubts. McGraw played a dangerous game. At the moment, though, Stan didn’t care about that. What happened to Jake?
It took an hour of red tape and checking, and Stan began getting angry. Finally, he cornered a balding doctor with shifty eyes. Stan found him in a tent full of sick people with horrible sores. The doctor wore a white lab coat and checked a slate at the end of a bed.
“I’m talking to you,” Stan said.
The doctor ignored him as he continued to study the chart.
Stan grabbed an arm, and he spun the doctor around to face him. A nurse watched, and she didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Maybe this happened too much around here lately.
“Do you know who I am?” Stan asked.
“I heard you the first time you spoke,” the doctor said, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“My son was here.”
The doctor made a bleak gesture. “Do you see how many patients we’re processing?”
“Where is he? What happened to Corporal Jake Higgins?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the doctor said.
Stan’s grip tightened. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“A weary one, Colonel Higgins—this is monstrous. Why do you folks insist on butchering each other? Isn’t there enough despair in the world that you people have to excel at killing?”
Stan let that pass; the man was a healer, after all. “There isn’t a discharge paper for Jake and I haven’t found a death certificate. What happened to my son? I know he was here. The records prove it.”
The doctor frowned. “I’ve been very busy, as I’m sure you see. I must have forgotten to write out his death certificate.”
“He died?” Stan asked, his voice turning hollow.
The doctor paused for just a moment. He seemed to cringe, which was odd. Then the man jutted his chin, and said, “Yes, he must have died. I don’t believe he was discharged.”
The words almost struck like physical blows. Stan let go of the doctor’s arm. It felt as if a giant ghost reached through his chest and squeezed his heart, which constricted his throat. He found it difficult to talk, difficult to gather his thoughts. Yet he said, “You seemed uncertain.”
“No…”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The doctor brought up the chart in his hands, scanning it. “I’m very busy, Colonel. I’m sorry about your loss. I truly am.”
“What about his friends?”
“I’m sure I don’t—”
With a fierceness that seemed natural now, Stan grabbed the man’s arm again and yanked him closer. “You’d better start being a little more helpful. Where are his friends?”
“Let me check.”
The anger drained away, and Stan released the doctor. With slumped shoulders, he followed the man.
A half hour later, Stan spoke with Simon. Chet and Grant had already been discharged.
Stan knelt beside Simon’s cot. The boy was thin and hollow-eyed, clearly dying. First touching the soldier’s arm, Stan let go as Simon winced in pain. He spoke pleasantries to the soldier, but the boy proved delirious. Finally, Stan couldn’t help himself. “Do you remember seeing Jake?”
It must have been the urgency in Stan’s voice. Simon blinked several times, and he focused. “Yes, Jake. He commanded our tank.”