“For what?”
“Desertion, sir. They’re holding them in pens at a high school on the northern edge of town.”
The gears in Han’s mind were now thrown in motion, grinding through the possibilities. Was this man part of some trap being set by Sheng? Or perhaps were his men truly guilty of some properly documented act of treason? Would Han’s intrusion constitute civilian interference with the military’s good order and discipline? That would surely be intolerable to the defense minister and indefensible by the prime minister.
Or was this just what it seemed — a plea from a soldier with a conscience — and therefore just the opportunity for which Han had been looking to escape the straightjacket of his official “agenda”?
“Why was your unit charged with desertion, Major?” Han asked.
The man grew suddenly animated. “It’s total bullshit!” He leaned over Han’s desk and moved to rest both hands atop it, but when Han recoiled in his chair, he restrained himself and stood stock-still. “My engineering battalion was ordered to move our bridge sections forward to a grid square that, when we got there, was still occupied by entrenched American troops!”
“Is the ultimate objective of your bridging operation the Potomac River?” Han asked abruptly.
The major was thrown for a moment and didn’t answer. He looked around Han’s office. Its official decor included limp flags in stands and pictures of Han shaking hands with the prime minister. Han waited. The major swallowed, then nodded. “I radioed that we couldn’t proceed any further because we were taking fire. The regimental commander said if there were enemy troops in our position, we should dismount and take it. But they were in concrete bunkers with interlocked fields of fire that had been cleared out to a thousand meters! They had minefields that would have to be swept! Tank traps and obstacles that would have to be blown! All the while under intense direct fire! I knew there must have been some mistake, so I went straight to division headquarters.”
Your first insurrection, Han thought approvingly, and nodded. So far, the story hung together. The man had broken the chain of command in bypassing his obdurate regimental commander. If that was his nature, then his ultimate mutiny would be to come to Han, the civilian governor and titular head of the military body.
“While I was gone,” the young officer continued, “my men came under heavy indirect fire from American artillery. My second in command ordered a tactical retreat out of the impact area and ran headlong into the regimental commander, who was coming forward to bully me into an attack. I don’t know what really happened next, but the regimental commander threw a fit, screamed out orders that my staff ignored, and summarily executed six of my officers, right on that road, with his pistol!”
Han nodded again. It was a highly plausible story. To cover his ass, the hotheaded regimental commander had to arrest everybody and see to it they were executed.
“The next thing I know, my entire battalion is being held at this camp. When I went by there, I was turned away and told that it was too late. That a court-martial had sentenced all four hundred of my men to death!”
“Aren’t you also subject to arrest and court-martial?” Han challenged. “This regimental commander of yours doesn’t exactly sound like the forgiving sort.”
“He’s dead. As the military police were disarming my men, one of them killed him.”
Han nodded slowly, letting the pieces settle into place. There were no rough edges. They all fit. “And so what do you want me to do?” Han asked.
“I just want you to do what you think is right,” the man said simply, “Administrator Han Zhemin.” His eyes were lowered to the floor.
Was his evasive answer deferential, or was it legal entrapment? He was asking Han to take a fateful criminal step, to cross the line by openly interfering with the military justice system, the army’s most vital organ.
“How did you get here?” Han asked, but his visitor didn’t seem to understand. “Did you drive? Do you have a vehicle?”
“I have an ATV. It’s parked outside.” The raised a finger to the window.
Han rose and looked down at the street. A beat-up, camouflaged all-terrain vehicle sat alone on the street many stories below. “Let’s go save your men, Major,” Han said. “But first I’ve got to change clothes.”
Han rode alone in his armored limousine behind the major’s ATV. Both were surrounded by Han’s usual entourage of armored fighting vehicles filled with security troops.
When they arrived at the suburban high school, they were waved through by the sentries at the gates. The first things Han noticed were the stadium lights, which lit the darkening sky. The second things were the long, brown ditches that had been scraped out of the earth by bulldozers. He ordered the convoy to halt just beside the stadium’s entrance. There, Han got out.
The late afternoon air was frigid. Han’s aide joined him — shivering and stamping his feet — and said, “You were right to change into your ski jacket, sir.” The man still wore his pinstriped suit and wool overcoat. Han had made a quick stop by his quarters and donned thermal underwear, boots, black jeans, and a three-thousand-dollar black ski jacket. He pulled his black ski cap onto his head and tugged at his black gloves.
The army major joined them, and they headed into the stadium. Thousands of young soldiers knelt on the American football field with their hands on their heads. A ring of machine guns hemmed them in the unfenced area.
Han’s arrival under the lights with the major created quite a stir. They proceeded to a small raised stage. A long desk covered with a green cloth formed what he imagined was the courtroom, where the trial by the three-judge military tribunal had been conducted. The hearing had presumably been short. It was so cold outside.
The camp commander was organizing platoons of men to begin the process of sectioning the captives and mowing them down. To the uninitiated, the process seemed straightforward. But Han knew from long experience that the operation — to be conducted safely — required planning and attention to detail. The common tactic employed by the army was to pardon the best-behaved among the forty-odd men per execution section as they stood with their boot heels to the open pit. That way all could be led like sheep to slaughter, each vying to outdo the others when complying with their captors’ orders.
The dirty little secret, Han knew, was that there would be no pardons, just as there would be no survivors to spread the cruel truth about the army’s tactic. For the sole reward, in the end, each of the men pulled from the ranks was to become the final section of the day to be executed.
The surprised camp commander met Han before he got to the raised, open-air courtroom. Han was flanked by his aide and the army major and backed by a small army of his own. His army-provided bodyguards — two dozen armed soldiers incongruously wearing dress uniform — looked uncertain of their role. The camp commander — a colonel — and his staff all saluted Han.
Han made a show of paying no attention to the salutes. Instead, he cast a stern gaze across the sea of the prisoners’ faces. All were fixed on him. After hours of facing near certain death, something unexpected was happening.
Even the guards’ eyes were on Han, he noticed. The men who ringed the captives and held rifles and machine guns on their comrades looked at the civilian Administrator and waited. For what? Han wondered. What’s in the hearts of the men that would do the killing?
Like the major, Han ignored the chain of command. Unlike the major, however, Han didn’t go over the camp commander’s head. He went under it directly to the colonel’s troops.