“You see!” Han said, particularly animated. “And you thought you weren’t suited for the family business.”
The silence again fell upon them. The good humor of the father contrasted sharply with the mood of the son. “What if President Baker still refuses to go nuclear?” Wu asked through gritted teeth.
“There are always contingency plans,” Han replied with no suggestion that he was willing to say more.
Han nodded at his aide. The door was opened. “Remember,” Han said, “stay away from and upwind of high-value targets.” His aide slammed the door behind him.
Wu sat in the silence for a moment. The driver’s hands gripped the wheel as he glanced into the rear view mirror. Wu pressed the “Talk” button on the intercom. “Take me to army headquarters.”
President Bill Baker and Speaker of the House Tom Leffler inspected pockmarked landmarks in the nation’s desolate, evacuated capital. At the foot of the Washington Monument, they shook hands with the lone tourists to be found: a family visiting from Wisconsin.
“What brings you to town?” Baker asked the parents.
“We wanted to see everything,” the mother replied. “To show our kids, you know, while we still can.” The two sullen grade schoolers looked up mute and expressionless. They hurried off to take in the sights before Washington fell. The encounter cast a pall over the two elected custodians of America, who strolled on under the watchful eye of 300 Secret Service agents. The serious men and women of Baker’s protective detail wore dark sunglasses and carried infantry weapons. Their business suits bulged with ammunition. The tight sphere of bodyguards stifled the conversations of the two politicians.
When Baker noticed the pace of the aging Leffler slow, he steered them to a bench, and they sat. Agents positioned themselves phalanx-like around their charges. The engines of several black-painted armored vehicles in the distance revved to life as they moved a few meters to be better prepared to react should the need arise.
Leffler’s mouth constantly drooped open. His jowls hung loose just beneath. He’d aged ten years, Baker thought, in the last two. It wasn’t the war that had done him in, but the loss of his strength and light: Beth Leffler.
“Tom,” Bill said gently, “the Supreme Court just held your National Secrecy Act unconstitutional.” Bill handed Leffler a faxed copy of the opinion, but the Speaker didn’t look at it. “Listen, Tom, we’re the leaders of this country, you and I. If you’ve got a problem with something — with anything — let’s talk. But I’ve been hearing things.” Leffler’s bloodshot eyes focused on Baker, who looked off at the Washington skyline.
“There are people,” Baker said in a faraway voice, “who think the monuments we’ve erected in this town are America. They think, therefore, that we’ve got to use every weapon in our arsenal to stop the Chinese from taking them, or we lose the war right here. They don’t think that our men and women in those bunkers along the Potomac can do the job, so they want to use nuclear, chemical, even biological weapons all across Northern Virginia.” Baker’s voice was breaking. “But I will never do that.” He tapped his clenched fist against his thigh. “Never! I will fight to the last man on the last peak of the Rockies because, Tom, there will always be someone on that peak. With a rifle. Fighting. That’s America, Tom! That’sAmerica.”
Tears welled up in Baker’s eyes. Unexpectedly, Leffler put his arm around the younger man — his daughter’s lover — and finally spoke. “I’m worried about Clarissa.”
“Tom,” Baker said in earnest, “I care for her deeply. I have no intention of hurting her.” But Leffler was shaking his head. He was talking about something else. “Do you mean,” Baker asked, “you’re worried about her safety?” Leffler drew a deep breath — suddenly agitated — but wouldn’t look Baker in the eye. “Tom,” Baker continued, “do you know something about the vice president’s assassination?”
Leffler’s eyes grew unfocused as he shook his head. “I swear to God,” he mumbled, “that I knew nothing about it.”
Leffler had used the word “knew,” not “know.” Baker believed him, but wondered at the choice of words. “Are you worried, Tom, about the FBI?” he asked. Leffler immediately turned to face him. Baker whispered to his newfound confidante. “Because I’m getting ready to cut Asher off at the knees. That ruling you’re holding is the end of his Gestapo tactics.”
Leffler said, “You know that they’re after Clarissa. They say they’re going to arrest her… as a Chinese spy.”
Bill’s anger flared. “Has Asher been putting the squeeze on you, Tom? Threatening you?” An enfeebled old man! Baker thought in outrage, but obviously didn’t say. “That son of a bitch!”
Bill was still uttering curses when the head of the secret service detail apologetically interrupted. “It’s the secretary of state, Mr. President.”
Bill took the secure cell phone the man proffered, and with residual anger snapped, “What is it?”
The undaunted secretary of state immediately reported, “Han Zhemin is requesting another meeting.”
Major Jim Hart tossed and turned inside his sleeping bag. He lay buried under a pile of leaves at the foot of a tree. It was a cold night, but at least it was dry. He snorted in frustration at life. Clouds billowed from his parched sinuses. Since his last close scrape a week earlier, his controller — the one-eyed colonel — had ordered him to lie low and do nothing. Hart had chaffed at the order ever since.
He knew he had done enough for one war, but as the week wore on, the inactivity filled his veins with toxins. The only cure for the malady was to act. Like an athlete who needed to sweat, Hart needed to fight.
He knew that a major battle loomed. He was behind Chinese lines exactly twelve miles from the front. He clung close to those lines in case he got the order to come home. There, he remained hidden from the Chinese helicopters, which sprinted low through the valleys on training runs. He stayed clear of the Chinese trucks and armored vehicles, which rumbled ceaselessly down the country roads. And he avoided the Chinese artillery, which filled the flats under camouflage netting. Any day now, Hart knew, the long guns would begin raining death on young Americans who defended their nation’s capital… and his.
How do they do it? he thought for the hundredth time. Angrily. Trying to imagine the hell of riding it out in a bunker. Waiting to die like rats on a good tank shot, or the inevitable Chinese overrun.
Hart’s teeth snapped. He started. The sound was loud, and the pain sharp. He was in a helluva place to break a fucking tooth, but his tongue discovered no sharp edges. The pain went away, but the anger didn’t. Hart decided, resolutely, that he should fight. Even if they called him back to friendly lines, he should fight before he went.