Han’s aide was so shocked by their mutinous demeanor that his jaw drooped in wide-eyed outrage. Han, however, had to stifle the beginnings of a grin. “My question was,” Han continued reasonably, “why are troops massed here? Did they tell you your purpose?”
The man snorted, then sniffed through a congested nose. “They said we could go home,” the private replied in a defeated voice. The comment held no vigor. It was as if broaching the subject led to an avalanche of depression. “They said we could all go home if Washington fell.” He glanced up at Han as if seeking confirmation or denial. “Is it true?” the private asked. The one-time cynic had irrationally turned optimist.
“What do you think?” Han asked, smiling wryly.
The man’s eyes sunk closed as if his worst fears were confirmed, and he slid to the ground down the slender tree against which he leaned. Han departed lost in thought, but saw that his aide kicked the private’s legs. The sitting boy didn’t give any indication that he’d even noticed.
“Why are you being so stupid?” Han raged at his son. Wu’s troops stood in a cluster behind him. They glared at Han, but he ignored them. “How could you dare risk your life in combat?”
“I’m a soldier,” Wu replied in an almost inaudible voice.
“You’re not a soldier!” Han snapped. “You’re my son!”
“You’ve never acknowledged me,” Wu answered rapidly, as if he were prepared for the opportunity.
Han was rocked by Wu’s unprecedented insolence. “Everyone knows,” Han muttered dismissively, “exactly who you are.”
“No one knows who I am,” came Wu’s baffling but confident reply. Before Han could respond — before he could even begin to decipher the meaning of his son’s comment — Wu said, “We’ve got to talk.” Wu’s remark assumed the tenor of an order when Wu marched away. Han’s astonished aide cast Han a look of outrage.
Han Zhemin followed a silent Lieutenant Wu back to Han’s limousine. Seated inside and alone, Wu told his father of the secret plan revealed by Sheng’s aide-de-camp. “But I think that what Colonel Li told me is a lie,” Wu commented.
“Of course it’s a lie!” Han burst out, disparaging Wu’s sophomoric observation with his tone. “Look at the forces Sheng has massed for a ground assault on Washington!”
“But why would Sheng send Li to lie to me like that?” Wu asked.
“To catch you and me committing treason,” Han answered, rolling his eyes at the child’s naive question.
“What treason?” Wu objected vehemently, with his brow furrowed deeply in confusion and alarm.
“The treason that I will commit when I pass Colonel Li’s intelligence on to the Americans,” Han explained as if to an imbecile. Wu ignored the slight and asked what his father was going to do. “I’m going to pass the intelligence on to the Americans! Why is it that you’re too dense to understand these things, Wu?”
“But you know that the plans are false,” Wu noted.
“Good God!” Han said in English, shaking his head before continuing in Chinese. “Of course! I wouldn’t tell them our real plans!” Han snorted in amusement at his hopeless, lost son. “We have to seize the arsenal ships, Wu. If Baker diverts men from the defenses around Washington to repel an invasion from the sea, Sheng will break through and take Philadelphia by land. So, you see, I’m going to help Sheng win the Battle of Washington by doing what he suspects I’ve been doing all along, which is passing military secrets to the Americans.”
“Have you been passing secrets to the Americans?” Wu asked.
Han smirked. “No, but I would if it were the right thing to do.”
“Meaning,” Wu translated, “that if Sheng’s victories were coming too easily — if the price he paid in soldiers’ lives was too low — you would try to even up the scales and extract a higher price.”
“Sheng has passed secrets to the Americans,” Han replied.
“That’s changing the subject, and I don’t believe you,” Wu said. “It’s a simple question. Would you aid the American war effort for domestic political gain?”
Han smiled and rocked back in his seat. “Some questions cannot be answered yes or no. And besides, your question is hypothetical. Sheng’s casualties have been staggering, and when he strikes at Washington, they’re going to double or triple. Did you know, Wu, that the defense ministry has ‘slowed down’ the process of notifying families of the deaths of their soldier sons? And any mention of a casualty in a letter or E-mail home gets you sent straight to the front.”
Han laughed at Sheng’s stupid plan. “They actually plan, you see, to dribble out these notices. You know. Ten or twenty thousand killed per month. They’re apparently sitting on almost a million killed, and the family doesn’t even know it yet.” He roared with laughter.
“I don’t believe you,” Wu said.
“I think they’ve planned a big gush of the notices around January 15th,” Han said, looking for the correct piece of paper on his desk. “No,” he said, finding it. “The 16th, After they win the Battle of Washington. They will explain the sacrifices as necessary to attain the glorious victory over the United States of America. But the flaw in their otherwise competent plan is that in the numbers.” Han tried to hold in the cackles. “Because you see, by then they will have lost more killed than they had committed to the battle! Some investigative news program is going to have a field day with that obvious lie. I’ll see to it. And thus, the army’s victory at Washington will become China’s national tragedy.”
“What if the Americans win the Battle of Washington?” Wu asked.
Han laughed, but without as much gusto as before. “You don’t know the Americans very well, Wu. They can’t take what Sheng has in store for them. He’s relentless. He won’t stop. He will break their backs with his human sledgehammers, and in the process he’ll break his own back as well. The Americans will lose, and Sheng will lose, on the banks of the Potomac River.”
Wu avoided his gaze. The silence grew more strained the longer it lasted. “Well,” Wu finally said, “I guess,” he shrugged, “I should get back to my platoon.” When Han said nothing, Wu looked at him. “Unless, maybe, the prime minister would be offended.”
Han snorted again and smirked. This time he understood the boy. He’d had enough of a taste of war. Wu looked down at his boots and at the rifle that he held between his knees. A smug, self-satisfied Han pressed the intercom button. “Driver, take us back to Richmond.”
Han Zhemin’s limousine pulled up to his headquarters. Han’s aide got out and waited on the street for Han’s nod before opening his door.
Father and son had said nothing to each other on the long drive back. Both had stared out at the sea of humanity and their impressive stockpiles of equipment. Wu remained firmly planted in his seat, but finally broke the silence. “I should return to Sheng’s headquarters,” Wu mumbled.
“Whatever you do,” his father said, “steer clear of Sheng’s headquarters. And any ports, and staging areas, and airfields. Position yourself upwind of any strategic targets, not downwind. And I absolutely forbid you to go anywhere near the front. That’s a direct order. Do you understand, Wu?”
Wu now understood his father’s plan perfectly. “You’re going to convince your old friend President Baker to defend Philadelphia against invasion,” Wu said in an accusatory tone, “by diverting troops from his defenses around Washington. When Washington falls, Chinese troops will press on toward Philadelphia by land, and President Baker will have no choice but to use nuclear weapons… just as the Chinese civilian leadership had warned would happen. We’re not going to seize the shipyard in Philadelphia. We’re going to destroy it in nuclear retaliation! You are going to ensure that the prime minister’s warnings come true! You’re going to ensure that the Americans go nuclear! And the prime minister will then use the horrendous casualties to attack the defense minister politically!”