“What are you talking about?” Jake asked. “I fought my way back through Chinese lines. I got the scars to prove it, too. I returned to keep fighting. Lisa wanted me to stay with her, but I told her I couldn’t.”
The Director laughed sharply. He moved his head in short jerks like a wolf gulping its meat. “Nice try, Mr. Higgins.” He leaned across the desk. “Your kind makes me sick. We’re going to teach you about respect. It may kill you, but I swear we’re going to pound some patriotism into that thick and cunning skull of yours.”
The Director pressed a button on his desk.
Jake stared in at the man in disbelief. “Is this a joke? This is my reward for fighting my way back?”
The door opened and three guards looked in.
The Director pointed a thick finger at Jake. “Take this piece of garbage to the isolation cell. Let him contemplate the coming lessons we’ll drum into his thick hide.”
Jake rose in a blaze of rage. He ripped off his shirt. “Look at this!” he shouted. There was a pucker scar, a bullet wound on the side of his ribs. “A Chinese assault rifle did this. What about here.” He pointed to a furrow along his side. “Shrapnel, plain and simple. And here,” he showed them his left biceps. “That’s from a bayonet. You know what a knife-scar looks like, don’t you? I’m sure you get them all the time sitting your fat butt here in safety. I was in Amarillo and it was hell!”
Jake glanced at the three guards frowning at him. They were beefy and each clutched a baton.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re brave against me, three to one.” He clapped his hands. “If you phone the cops in Gunnison they’ll tell you I asked them to take me here. I volunteered to fight, and that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been shedding blood for my country and you want to torture me. Tell me you’re a patriot. Come and fight with me at the front. Let some Chinese artillery pound your position and let’s see if you cut or run or hold for the swarm attack you know that’s coming.”
Jake was panting, and there was fiery rage in his eyes. Three batons—maybe it was time to fight three to one and just go down swinging. This was complete crap.
“What do you say, Director?” the chief guard asked. “He sure doesn’t sound like a deserter.”
The Director stroked his chin, measuring Jake. “I’ll call the police in Gunnison. If they confirm your story…I’ll add you to the Eleventh CDMB.”
Jake was too angry to say anything more. He was too pumped up for action. Slowly, he backed down, forcing himself to sit. He stared at the floor, refusing to look at anyone.
He heard the Director talking into a phone. The man was gruff. The Director waited, and he then asked several questions. He grunted, likely receiving answers. Finally, the Director thanked the police officer and hung up.
Jake looked at him.
The Director stared back, finally nodding. “Your story holds. Maybe you did fight in Amarillo. We’re sending you out tonight. The Eleventh is headed for Denver. The Chinese have been inching there. If you want a fight, son, you’re going to get it.”
Jake nodded.
“Go on, take him away. I have work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” the chief guard said. The man motioned to Jake. “If you’ll follow me then...”
Jake waited a half-second, wondering if the Director would apologize for earlier. No, the man ignored him, writing something on paper. Jake said nothing more as he stood, deciding the sooner he left this place the better. Denver, it looked like he was going to fight again after all.
“I’m still not sure why you think I should attend this meeting, Mr. President,” Anna said.
They were in the Oval Office, the President staring out the window at the snow-covered Rose Garden.
David Sims looked different in person than he did on TV. He was plump with wispy blond hair that barely covered his bald spot in front. His pale blue eyes were alert like a hawk, though, just as on the tube. He wore a black suit and his shoulders were back as they used to be before the war.
“You’re my second pair of ears,” he said.
“But sir—”
Sims turned to her, and there was concern in his eyes. “You’ve spoken with Chancellor Kleist. You can testify to his offer and the faith in which he gave it.”
“But the others won’t accept me as—”
Sims made a decisive gesture. “I’m the President. I decide whom I trust and whom I don’t. Your advice has always been good, and today, I’m going to need all the good advice I can get.”
They were about to speak with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, with General McGraw of Army Group West and the Director of Homeland Security, Max Harold.
I’m the wrong person to be in on this meeting, Anna told herself. There are many others more qualified than I am. She also wondered about the wisdom of including General McGraw in the meeting. David had been secretive about him. Is that why his shoulders are square today? He’s making crisp decisions just as they others said he did in his first year of office. If true, then McGraw was good.
“Are you ready?” Sims asked.
Anna nodded, although she wasn’t ready. Today, they were going to discuss the Chancellor’s strange offer. It seemed like the wrong group to make political grand strategy with. McGraw and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were military men through and through. Kleist’s offer was a political decision with hard political ramifications. And yet, in the end, President Sims was a soldier.
Seven years ago, it had been General Sims, the Joint Forces Commander in Alaska during the Chinese invasion. He’d won the Presidency because of his victory seven years ago. The people trusted the man on the white horse, the military savior. They expected miracles from the Joint Forces Commander, General David Sims. As the present war spiraled into even worse defeats, the President had come to view the news more and more often through a strictly martial lens.
Is that wise, or is it short sighted? Anna didn’t know. If America lost militarily, the political wasn’t going to matter anyway. Maybe in the end David knew what he was doing. Maybe this needed to be a soldier’s decision.
“Sit over there,” Sims said. “I want you to take notes.”
Anna sat in a chair to the side, picking up a computer scroll and stylus.
The President straightened his suit jacket and marched to the door. He opened it, speaking softly to his secretary. Then he strode to his desk, sitting behind it.
Thirty seconds later, the door opened as the secretary ushered three men into the Oval Office. The Chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff entered first, General Alan. He was gaunt with sunken cheeks, no longer merely thin. He wore black-rimmed glasses and looked exhausted, as if he needed sleep, which he probably did. He was Sino-phobic and therefore disliked Anna.
Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge, given to hard logic and little emotion. He was bald with liver spots, wore a rumbled suit and had a distracted air, as if trying to remember where he’d put his car keys. It was an illusion, Anna knew, as the man literally heard and remembered everything. He’d been instrumental in creating hordes of Militia battalions. The Militia came under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security. General Alan had never approved of that, believing the military should control the Militia. It had made the two into opponents.
Anna wondered sometimes if General Alan was right. Was it good to have two militaries in a country? In the field, the Militia took orders from Army commanders, but…
General Tom McGraw entered the Oval Office. Anna’s eyes widened. The man was a giant, and he radiated presence. She’d never seen him in person before this. He wore an immaculate uniform, but without any medals. That was in stark contrast to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Both sides of Alan’s uniform contained rows of medals and ribbons. For some reason, McGraw seemed more genuine because of the lack.