“Let’s walk,” Colonel Li said. The two headed down the sidewalk, marching in step. Wu fully expected Li to explain that his time at the front was over. That the defense minister had changed his mind. Or that Wu had seen enough combat already, which was true. Or that Wu’s grandfather or great uncle had intervened.
“General Sheng is making a terrible mistake,” Colonel Li whispered. Wu was shocked. He stopped and turned to Li, who spoke to Wu in seeming earnest. “The troop buildup here, south of Washington, is just a diversion,” Li explained in low, worried tones. “Sheng has ordered a third invasion of America without informing Beijing.”
“An invasion of what?” Wu asked. “Where?”
“A direct invasion of Philadelphia. The navy will overwhelm and sink America’s last two carriers at sea, then land troops at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard and seize their two arsenal ships, which are only a month away from launch. But it’s a terrible mistake. Our sources have reason to believe that the missile launchers on the arsenal ships are already operational. If they are, they would devastate the invasion fleet and massacre hundreds of thousands of soldiers and sailors.”
Wu’s eyes drifted to a large crater half-filled with water from a broken main. A blood trail ran half way across the street and ended — unsuccessfully — in a large dried stain. It was impossible to tell whether the blood was Chinese or American. Not that it mattered.
“We’ve lost over two million dead,” Li whispered. “That number could double if Sheng goes forward with his plan to invade Philadelphia. We could lose this war, and if we do heads will roll.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Wu asked.
Li waited until Wu’s eyes rose to his. “You can stop the invasion.”
Han Zhemin was so impatient that he rolled the window on his limousine down to monitor his driver’s query. It was maddening that the military policeman could only generally direct them down the highway toward Wu’s corps or division.
“Just go!” Wu shouted out the window to the driver.
The car proceeded down the road. Han raised the window against the chilly gust. How could he be so foolish! he raged in clench-teethed silence. The prime minister had railed at Han for not safeguarding Wu’s life. For the entire way he was treating his son! “He’s just a boy!” Han’s father had chimed in. “We trusted that you would keep an eye on him!”
“You’re driving him into the arms of the military!” the prime minister had chided.
Han loosed a sigh of exasperation so loud that it came out as half grunt, half growl.
“His unit is not far from here, sir,” Han’s aide announced over the car’s intercom.
Han sealed his frustrations more tightly to hide them from the prying view of his solicitous aide. In so doing, the pressure mounted. He had gotten a message from Wu to meet him at the front. At “my unit,” the printed E-mail had pointedly remarked. A quick phone call to General Sheng had confirmed the fact that young Wu had decided to take part in the war.
Han had exploded at the news. “How could you dare let him risk it?” he had challenged.
General Sheng had cut his tirade short. “The defense minister ordered me to comply with Lieutenant Wu’s request.”
Han’s limousine slowed and was directed off the Interstate. The two short bridges that had spanned a narrow stream had been dropped. The noise level rose as the big black car crunched onto the makeshift, gravel-covered detour. It slowed to a crawl as it crept down a steep grade toward the water. Engineers were pouring rocks and dirt from a dump truck into the water in what appeared to be a constant battle to maintain the temporary crossing. The earthen construct had been laid across a series of enormous concrete pipes through which the calm stream flowed unimpeded. At first thaw, however, Han thought, the waters would rise and sweep the puny bridge from their way. That should make things more difficult for Sheng.
As the car inched onto the bridge, Han peered up at the broken spans forty meters to his right. Welding torches blazed as the two sides of the bridge arched toward each other anew.
Despite the fact that Han’s limo was heavy with ceramic armor and bullet-proof glass, the six-hundred horsepower engine and four-wheel drive train easily scampered up the opposite bank.
There, the highway turned into a continuous mass encampment. The car accelerated along the Interstate, which seemed extraordinarily smooth in contrast to the detour. But Han’s attention was fixed on the sides of the road. Amid the trees, under netting, were tanks, self-propelled artillery, armored fighting vehicles, assault bridges, and thousands upon thousands of tents. Colorless smoke rose from chimneys built into the canvass. Entire companies of men exercised in formation in the earthen streets amid the organized rows. Other companies lined up outside huge mess tents. The occasional roadside house bore the look of brigade or division headquarters with armored command cars sporting tall aerials just outside.
Han counted only the headquarters units until they rose into the dozens. By his rough estimate there were over a million men staging south of Washington, DC.
At the banks of the Potomac, Han went on foot in search of Wu. He was thankful that the ground was frozen solid. Otherwise, his dress shoes would have sunk into mud up to his ankles.
The hollow-eyed draftees whom his aide asked for directions also looked frozen solid. Boys of twenty struggled to their feet like old men. Their faces were raw and chapped. Their lips were cracked and bleeding. Their replies were spoken in flat, lifeless voices.
And the disrespect in their manners, their slouches, their sneers was palpable.
“Do you know where the unit is, or don’t you?” Han’s incensed aide repeated.
The private shrugged. Han stepped closer, drawing the soldier’s attention and noticeably elevating his level of anxiety. He reeked of marijuana. His eyes were bloodshot. His gear was grimy and in disarray. His comrades eyed the encounter with bemusement from all around. All were armed and, Han presumed, dangerous.
“What’s going on here?” Han asked.
“Whatta ya mean?” the disrespectful private replied. There was muted laughter, which pleased the insolent bastard.
“I mean why are these troops massed here?” Han asked, holding his arm out to the teeming woods. “What have you been told?”
The man laughed. He no longer needed encouragement from his friends. His motivation clearly came from within. “What have I been told?” he repeated mockingly. “Well, hm, let’s see. They said the war would be over by last month, which is true, I guess, for most of the guys we came ashore with who’re buried all along this fucking highway.”
The anger of the men was raw. Han felt comfortable challenging Sheng, but not men such as these. They had so little to lose. He looked around but saw no officers or NCOs, though even they held little prospect of discipline. It had been a decade since most senior NCOs last had returned to China, and if the war in America lasted much longer, few would ever make it home.
“They said the Americans would be out of artillery after the first few weeks,” the soldier continued, not threatening, but angry. “Instead, we get pounded all the way up to the line of departure, then pounded all the way to first contact! They said there’d be no partisan activity because our enemy is soft, but we get shot in the back with hunting rifles when we’re taking a crap, or standing in line for food.”
“When they bother to feed us!” another commented.