Han ascended the raised platform and removed the microphone from the table, where it sat before the empty seat of the center of the three judges. When Han clicked the microphone on, he heard a snap over the stadium’s PA system.
He turned to face not the four hundred attentive faces of the deserters, but the several dozen armed guards who surrounded them. The camp commander and his staff exchanged thoroughly confused glances.
“Stop this crime!” Han’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Stop this! Immediately!” he commanded. The prisoners’ elbows began to turn from side to side as they looked at each other and at the guards, but their jailers’ faces remained fixed on Han. “You’re not butchers!” echoed Han’s words through the empty stadium’s stands. “These men before you are helpless human beings! They’re soldiers — like you — caught up in this horrible war!”
Now, the guards looked around at each other. Nothing outwardly changed. The guards still held guns pointed at their captives. The prisoners still held hands pinned to their heads. But subtly — invisibly — the ground was shifting beneath their feet. The rationalizations upon which the executioners’ obedience to orders were founded began, slowly, to give way.
“You men all witnessed this supposed ‘court-martial’!” Han shouted in an accusatory tone. “Was it fair? Was each of the men before you proved to be a traitor to his country whose punishment should fairly be death?” Han hurled the words from his chest even though the volume on the PA system had obviously been set to maximum. The presiding military judge had presumably been trying to bolster his suspect authority. Now, the sheer volume of the speakers made Han’s exhortations impossible to tune out. In a divine voice, Han continued his novel appeal to the humanity long suppressed within the camp guards.
Weapons held in the hands of doubting troops began to sag. Animated conversations sprung up between men previously silent in their shared guilt. Han discontinued his speech when it became totally unnecessary. The prisoners sensed his victory too. The muzzles of machine guns that protruded from above bipods in canvas-covered trucks disappeared into the recesses of their vehicles. Guards — now completely oblivious to the prisoners — congregated and argued with their rifles slung over their shoulders.
Thousands of prisoners’ elbows began to descend to their sides. There were tears. Hugs. Men who collapsed to the grass in utter emotional and physical exhaustion.
All of it stopped when the wild-eyed camp commandant appeared at Han’s side. He was both outraged and terrified. He looked from prisoners, to guards, to Han. All three returned his gaze. All three were arrayed against the man.
Of the three, the most menacing by far were the colonel’s own guards. From the sneers on the faces of the men nearest the stage — and from their clutch of their ready weapons — Han sensed that the camp commander faced imminent mutiny. His men were ready to allocate moral culpability to the officer who had ordered all the executions past.
The camp commandant sensed the danger too. With mouth misshapen in anger he glared at Han and seized the microphone held in Han’s gloved hand. Han released the mike, but the loud rattling over the PA system sounded like a scuffle. The colonel’s fierce snort was clearly heard by all. He was incensed. Fuming. Bug-eyed.
The army, Han had always felt, was a metaphor for prison, and the draftees were its prisoners. And nothing, he knew from long experience, reflected more poorly on a Chinese army officer’s record than losing control of his troops.
The colonel nervously eyed his wavering men one last time. Despite his full boil, he chose the rational course: order over chaos. He chose to lead the men in the direction that they were already headed, which was the least perilous course from among a variety of even less appealing options.
“Release the prisoners!” the colonel abruptly ordered.
A cheer instantly went up. Men rose to their feet, and despite their cold-stiffened limbs many leapt into air. They hugged each other and even began hugging their would-be executioners. In the rising commotion, Han headed for the major, who was already being besieged by his elated troops. Those same men also lunged for Han. Han’s army bodyguards raised weapons to fire, but Han held out a hand like a traffic cop as the freed captives fell to their knees before him. They grabbed the hems of his jeans and gushed their sobbing, eternal thanks. Han motioned the beaming major over as still more of the man’s battalion arrived to share in the joy.
“Thank you, Administrator Han!” the major shouted over the noise.
Han could barely see his bodyguards, who were being jostled and hugged by the smelly throng. “I want to ask you for a favor!” Han yelled to the major.
“Anything!” the beaming man replied.
Han parked the major’s beat-up ATV on an empty roadside in northern Virginia. The night was dark and still and cold. The sky glittered with stars.
He zipped his jacket closed at the sleeves and neck, and pulled his wool cap over his head. If his bearings were true, the place where the Americans said he should cross the front was less than a mile away. He headed over a low, wooded hill.
Wood smoke wafted pleasantly through the frigid air. At the crest of the ridge, he saw its source. A small country road wound its way through a cluster of dark homes. Han headed through the widely dispersed rural community.
He should have kept his distance from the houses. There could be a dog or an owner with a gun. But his curiosity was piqued. On passing, he looked in through the windows. Most of the homes appeared to be empty. The few whose chimneys contributed to the cheery, ski chalet smell of the valley were dimly lit by candles.
In one such home he saw an old lady. The frail-looking, white-headed woman sat in a chair wearing a jacket. A thick blanket covered her knees. That she stayed behind as everyone else fled advancing Chinese troops made sense to Han. She was old and rooted firmly in her home. What Han didn’t understand was how she thought that she could possibly survive the winter.
He dropped to the ground when he saw movement from inside the room with the old woman. Two young children wearing pajamas — a boy and a girl — appeared at the woman’s side. One carefully held a mug so as not to spill it. The other held a small plate. The old woman smiled, rubbed the backs of their heads, and relieved them of the treats. The kids disappeared, and Han maneuvered to a different vantage. The children shook presents under a Christmas tree, which was decorated with everything but lights. Their parents settled onto the floor beside them in the glow from the flickering fire. They all laughed at something their little boy said as he held a package with an earnest look.
Han moved on toward the front lines. It seemed a misnomer on such a peaceful night. No rifles cracked, or machine guns burped, or bombs or shells burst. All was quiet on the eve of the titanic battle for America’s capital.
“Front lines” was a misnomer in another sense as well. As Han had been advised, he ran into no Chinese troops. Sheng’s army didn’t fear imminent American attack. It didn’t cling to the front in hardened bunkers like its enemy. And it couldn’t mass for attack while manning a continuous line. Instead, it pulled back to have room to maneuver — to stage for its offensive operations — free from the prying eyes of the enemy’s tactical intelligence. Its electronic sensors were set to detect groups of a half dozen or more seeking to infiltrate south through the porous edge of occupied territory. Rear area security troops at the numerous roadblocks Han had passed would take care of the smaller incursions.