The going got tougher in the thick woods that lay beyond the sleepy rural community. Twigs and branches reached out of the darkness to scratch at Han’s jacket, gloves, and face. The footing grew uneven on his climb up a ridge. Several times Han stopped, thinking that he’d heard a noise. At the crest, he saw what he was looking for: a streambed that marked the formal edge of Chinese territory.
The stream, Han was sure, stood out on the map. It looked like a good line of demarcation for Sheng’s cartographers. A convenient boundary to delineate friendly from enemy territory. A handy natural feature to prevent tactical commanders from straying beyond approved limits of advance. It cut through the hills and, if flowing, would have to be bridged. But at this time of year, the stream was a mere trickle.
The gentle breeze died momentarily, and Han heard the noise again. Voices. Singing. He strained to discern anything more, but he couldn’t glean either their direction or their language, so he proceeded down the hill. By the time he reached the trickling water, the mystery of the singing was solved. It was in English, and it came from the opposite side of the stream. It came from American bunkers on the hill just above. Han stopped to catch his breath and to listen.
He couldn’t make out all the words, but he understood that they sang something about a drummer boy. The mixed male and female chorus softly repeated the strange reprise. “…a rum-puh-pum-pum. Me and my drum.” It was a pleasant, almost stirring Christmas carol sung by hundreds of soldiers in low, peaceful voices.
The stream was so low that he had no problem finding an unbroken bridge of stepping-stones to cross. When he reached the far bank, the singing had stopped. There was a distant rustling noise, then nothing. He proceeded not five steps before again pausing to listen and to peer up the hill into the darkness.
The bushes on both sides of Han shook. Dark forms lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. There they held him, arms pinned behind his back and face pressed into the dirt. The cold barrel of a pistol kissed his cheek.
“Don’t say a word,” a man whispered in English.
Han sighed in relief. He was safe.
Part Three
I have seen war. I have seen war on land and sea. I have seen blood running from the wounded. I have seen men coughing out their gassed lungs. I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen cities destroyed. I have seen two hundred limping, exhausted men come out of the line — the survivors of a regiment of a thousand that went forward 48 hours before. I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war.
11
Han stood close to the crackling fire in the cozy room complete with rock hearth, plush rug, and roughhewn wood walls. He was rubbing his hands together when Bill Baker entered.
“This is Dr. Clarissa Leffler,” Baker said, introducing the woman who trailed him.
Han was surprised. He arched his brow and gently held Clarissa’s proffered hand in his while shaking it slowly. Intimately. He did not offer his hand for a shake.
Baker said, “Clarissa is the head of the China Desk at the State Department. Given her obvious interest in Chinese political matters, she requested the opportunity to meet with you.”
“I’m quite pleased for Dr. Leffler to join us,” Han said graciously.
“Oh, no,” Clarissa said, shaking her head. “I just wanted to…” But Han took Clarissa’s elbow, ushered her to a sofa by the fireplace, and sat down beside her. Baker stood for a moment glaring at Han, then sat in a chair across from the two.
Han exchanged pleasantries with Clarissa in Chinese. When she replied fluently — as intelligence reports had disclosed that she could — he complimented her. Baker waited stoically for Han to return his attention to him and the language of their conversation to English. After the ever gracious Han finally turned to Baker, Han said, “I certainly hope that you maintained strict secrecy about this meeting. I am, you must understand, somewhat personally exposed.”
“I am officially up here for Christmas,” Baker replied tersely.
Han nodded, smiled, and winked at Clarissa, which seemed to infuriate Bill. The unofficial story, Han was saying that he understood, was that the president and his mistress were having a holiday tryst. Clarissa sat on the edge of her seat and looked at Baker, not Han. “Excellent,” was Han’s only comment.
Clarissa rose. “I’d really better be…”
Han rose also and said, “That’s quite all right. Please stay. I’m sure you have the necessary security clearance.”
Baker kept his eyes on Han. He looked angry and suspicious.
But Clarissa was insistent. “I really should leave you two…”
“The Chinese army plans to invade Philadelphia by sea,” Han said quickly. Bill bolted to his feet. “The buildup south of Washington is just a diversion,” Han continued. “Most of the troops whose unit locations you now place in northern Virginia are, in fact, aboard troop transports headed for the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard.” Han smiled and looked back and forth between the stunned Clarissa Leffler and Bill Baker. “General Sheng plans to capture your two arsenal ships intact.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Baker asked.
Han looked Bill straight in the eye and said, “I owe you one.”
“Bullshit!” Bill shot back.
Han smiled. “Let’s just say, then, that we have a coincidence of interest. You want the Chinese army defeated, and so do I.”
“What do you want in return?” Baker asked.
Han shrugged and made a face. “Nothing. I come bearing this gift for you.”
The two men stood facing each other, and Clarissa looked back and forth between them.
“And you want me to defeat your invasion?” Baker asked. “Slaughter your troops? Why?”
“Ask the head of your China Desk,” Han said pleasantly, smiling at Clarissa.
The people packed into the underground Situation Room sat in silence around Bill and Clarissa under the oppressive burden of deciding what to do. Each man and woman there — heads of powerful national security agencies — felt the weight bearing down upon them. To save America, they had to discern truth from lie. They had to trust or distrust, that was the choice.
All watched a video of Han Zhemin’s revelations over and over, taken from a dozen different angles by as many hidden cameras. There were snorts and heads shaken in disbelief. But all sat on the edges of their seats, and no one ventured an opinion until the last video had been shown.
Secretary of Defense Bob Moore was the first to speak. “Either he’s telling the truth and they are going to leapfrog our lines, or the son of a bitch is lying and they’re plowing head and shoulders into our lines at DC. If we guess wrong, we lose the war.”
“But he is telling the truth!” Clarissa blurted out. Gazes from around the room ringed the low-level functionary, who had leapt into a dialogue between the president and his secretary of defense. Bill watched and listened intently as she spoke quickly and gesticulated wildly. “The battle between the Chinese civilian and military leadership is entering a critical phase! You all saw the report from Beijing! The defense minister wouldn’t arrest the commander of the Beijing Military District for anything less than plotting against him! He must have been planning a coup! And who could possibly be in a better position to oust the defense minister than the man who commands the troops in and around the capital? And that second-tier general would never plot a coup alone, but there have been no other arrests!”