The slap came unexpectedly, and it stung. Wu resisted the urge to touch his smarting mouth.
“I’m sorry,” his mother said, drawing her offending hand back to cover her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! Please forgive me!”
“I have nothing to forgive,” Wu said as he brushed by her for the door.
She caught him from behind and wrapped her arms around him. She kissed his neck and pecked her way around to his cheek. He stood there like a statue until she stopped.
“My God,” she said breathlessly, “what have they done to you?”
Wu pulled free and crunched through the debris for the empty front doorway.
“Wu!” she called out. Her plaintive tone made him stop. Made him turn. She stood there, arms wrapped around her layers of sweaters, peering at him in desperation. “Your father’s checks stopped coming when the war started. It’s been nine months since I got the last one. They weren’t much, but they were all that I had, so I stayed here — in my house — when everybody else left. In case, you know, they start coming again now that, I mean, this is Chinese territory. I mean, the mail works. The checks can get through now.”
Wu turned and left.
“I love you!” she called after him.
When Wu climbed into the command car, they all looked at him. Wu’s mood was surly, so they said nothing. His mother stood in the broken doorway of her home, her arms wrapped even more tightly around herself. The soldiers in the car glanced back and forth between the two — curious, quizzical, prying.
“Do you want to go to army headquarters, sir?” his driver asked.
“No,” Wu replied. “I want to go to the front lines. I want to find my platoon.”
The soldiers again looked at each other. The driver — stuttering in fear — said he had orders to take Wu to HQ. A seething Wu bored his gaze into the man. “And now you have new orders!” The driver was petrified. “And after you’ve dropped me off, return to this house, have that door repaired, and leave that woman with enough provisions to last the winter.”
The shaken man started the engine and, with great temerity, asked who the woman was.
“She’s nobody,” Wu replied truthfully.
Han Zhemin was sitting at his desk when the door opened without warning. It was General Sheng. Han tensed. But the military television cameras that trailed the old man thawed the fear gripping his chest. On seeing the news media, he knew that he would not be executed summarily. That sort of thing was never done on television.
“You’re up early today, General,” Han said pleasantly.
“Administrator Han Zhemin,” Sheng replied formally, “you are under arrest.”
Han rose, smiling for the cameras. His aide helped him don his jacket. “What are the charges?” he asked as his arms went in their sleeves.
“Inciting treason,” Sheng replied, “among guards at a prisoner camp.”
Han grinned broadly and cocked his head. That’s all? his demeanor asked. Sheng’s lip curled and twitched before he turned away. Both knew he could beat those charges in the all-important court of Chinese public opinion. Han Zhemin, noble Administrator, fighting a one-man battle to put a stop to the Chinese army’s atrocities. It had been the plan that all thought would win. The prime minister, himself, had taken credit for it. The proof of what Sheng’s troops had done in America, when uncovered by friendly civilian newsmen, would damn senior defense officials. The army would never press that case.
They might, however, try to prosecute Han’s true treason. But Sheng made no mention of his trip to Camp David. Not yet, at least. Not yet. Perhaps their evidence was insufficient. More likely, they would not press any more serious charges until the political battle with the civilians in Beijing was won. His execution would not mark the beginning of any victory by the military over the civilians. It would signify the beginning of the end of it.
All now depended, therefore, on America’s losing the Battle of Washington and going nuclear to stop a runaway Chinese victory. Han knew Bill Baker as well as he knew anyone on Earth. He had been Han’s only true friend at a time when having friends had seemed so important. In the decades since, Han had read every article about the rising politican and watched video of Baker’s every speech and interview. He was certain — absolutely certain — that Bill would resort to nuclear weapons before he would let Philadelphia fall. He had pinned all his hopes for winning the war on his two precious remaining arsenal ships.
Han stood before Sheng — before the whirring television cameras and baking lights — composed and confident. He led his arresting entourage out. The fact, though subtle, would undoubtedly register with the always attentive viewers back home.
On the street outside, the cameras were turned off. Sheng and his sniveling aide, Colonel Li, walked Han silently to the armored fighting vehicle that would take him to military prison. There had to be at least a battalion in full combat gear surrounding Han’s headquarters.
“All this?” he asked Sheng in amusement. “Just for me?”
Colonel Li looked smug. General Sheng was less sure of himself.
All of the sudden, a rumbling sound poured down the streets. The low frequency noise gave no hint as to its direction. No point of origin for the sonorous sound. But everyone — civilian and soldier alike — looked toward the north. Toward the front. Toward the Battle of Washington.
The metal doors of the armored fighting vehicle stood open before Han, who turned to General Sheng. “I wish you the best of luck in your battle,” he said. Colonel Li snorted at Han’s snide remark. But Han said, “No, really, I do. Win the Battle of Washington. Storm Philadelphia. Seize the arsenal ships before it’s too late.”
“And then what?” Sheng unexpectedly asked Han.
Han smiled. “Drive inland to victory! Fight on, and on, and on, and on.” All the soldiers, who were there to arrest Han, instead stared at Sheng. “You should always have a plan, General Sheng. Yours should be to take the rest of America.”
He climbed into the vehicle, and the doors closed behind him. The soldiers around Han seemed appropriately stunned by the conversation they’d just overheard.
Major Jim Hart awoke with a start to the end of the world. Ten thousand guns opened fire all at once. The surrounding hills belched thousands of rockets, which shrieked from rails on long white tails of fire. He noted the time on a watch dial lit by the sky’s brilliant strobes. All hell had broken loose at 0600 sharp
This was it. The attack.
Don’t break, he prayed, but not to God, whom Hart had lost somewhere in the war. Don’t break, he prayed to the soldiers in the bunkers. Hold the line. Just this once. You can do it!
He rolled over and checked his microwave transceiver. The antenna had a lock on the controller’s signal. But the one earbud he kept in his ear as he slept, which monitored the microwave, was deathly silent as if they had all fled to shelters.
“Echo Foxtrot Two One Nine calling India Zulu Four Four, do you read me, over?”
He was about to repeat the call when he heard, “This is India Zulu Four Four. Chop Block. Chop Block. Chop Block. Acknowledge.”
Hart frowned in frustration and keyed the mike. “Acknowledge. Chop Block. Out.”
“Chop Block,” Hart thought. Go to ground. Avoid contact with the enemy. Await further orders.
The first explosions began splashing violence around Hart. Counterbattery fire from American guns. Their fire controllers pinpointed Chinese batteries, using radar that tracked Chinese artillery shells’ trajectories. Bursts from American return fire lit the flats all around the now fleeing Chinese self-propelled artillery. The fin-guided American rounds sought out the infrared shapes of the racing vehicles. Their trajectories bent in midair to follow, them down a road. Half of the guns and launchers never made it clear of the killing radius formed by the extreme limit of the shell’s ability to turn.