The American soldiers that Bill Baker passed were exhausted but jubilant. They were grimy. Many nursed wounds. But all were unbowed. On the DC side of the riverbank, Bill gave a lounging gaggle of bandage-covered soldiers the “V” sign for victory. A surprisingly loud cheer from the hundred bedraggled men and women rose up in reply. Victory, even for the wounded, was sweet.
Bill crossed the rickety pontoon bridge to the Virginia side of the river within sight of Georgetown University. There, he made the rounds shaking hands and slapping backs. Dust rose from body armor with the latter form of greeting. “How far have you pushed out the lines, Colonel Ackerman?” Bill heartily asked the officer.
“About seven miles to the south from here,” he replied in a monotone that struck fear in Bill’s heart. From the look on the battalion commander’s face, Bill suddenly feared the worst. “Let’s go inside,” Ackerman said, holding a hand out to the dark, sandbagged bunker. His grease-painted face was drawn and gaunt. Black bags hung beneath hollow eyes.
Bill felt sick to his stomach as he entered the bunker just behind his edgy Secret Service agents. Once inside the empty chamber, Bill turned to the man. “Just give it to me straight, Colonel Ackerman. Where is she?”
“She’s missing in action, Mr. President,” Ackerman replied. “Gone without a trace. The Chinese broke through our lines in four places. She took a detachment from her bunker to try to plug a hole at her company command post. We found her weapon, and two of her troops — dead — in the command bunker that was overrun, but your daughter, her company commander, and several others are missing.”
“John Burns was among the missing?” Bill asked, and Ackerman nodded. “She went to save him?” Bill asked, and Ackerman nodded again.
Bill closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. “And there’s no trace of either of them?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Ackerman said softly. “I… I want to apologize, Mr. President. I…”
Bill shook his head and held out his hand to silence Ackerman. “I want to be alone,” Bill said.
Everyone cleared out of the bunker. Bill sank onto a stool. His eyes drifted closed again. His breathing grew labored. What am I going to tell Rachel? was his first, crushing thought.
Han sat alone in his dimly lit office before piles of ignored reports. His mind reeled at the enormity of the change that had occurred during the short time that he had been in the army prison. Why? Han agonized. It couldn’t have been by chance.
Han’s aide had recounted the bizarre sequence of events that had led to Wu’s sudden stardom. He had shown Han the videotape of his valiant attack on Washington followed by his humane decision to end it. The result was obviously a combination of stupefying luck by Wu, and magnificent orchestration, but by whom? No one on Han’s staff could answer that question. In between breakfast, a shower, and dressing, Han had consulted by telephone a dozen ambassadors, administrators, and other functionaries in China’s vast, transcontinental officialdom. None knew who was behind it. Some thought that it must be the army. Others, had left unstated the obvious.
Han’s father and uncle must have been behind Wu’s launch into official greatness.
The knock on Han’s office door startled him. He saw that, on entering, his aide’s eyes were furtive and downcast. Agitated, Han thought. Dispirited. “Lieutenant Wu to see you, sir,” the man said.
Wu entered wearing fresh camouflaged battle dress. He found his father — hands pressed to his desk — leaning forward in his seat. The doctor had given Wu painkillers. Shen Shen had made him take them. She had been all over him, kissing, caressing, desperate. He hadn’t told her of his plans to return to the front. She had watched him on television just like everyone else. But her desperation seemed, to Wu, to peak only after he had survived and returned to instant celebrity. She now urgently wanted to seal the deal. “I love you,” she had passionately exhaled in between rapid, smothering kisses.
Han simply sat at his desk, Wu noticed, wearing a dress shirt and tightly knotted tie. Strangely, he wore no jacket, and he was mute and incommunicative. Vertigo, Wu thought. Han Zhemin — Administrator of Occupied America and expert fencer at the great heights of the pinnacle of world power — has realized just how far down the ground is.
“I’m here,” Wu tested carefully, “for the teleconference.”
Han’s eyes arched wide. “Teleconference?” Wu nodded. Han consulted his printed schedule. “What — what teleconference?” His mouth was so dry that his words stuck together.
Wu felt a numbing pang of sadness. A dull ache seized his heart. He didn’t like seeing his father like that. “I was told to be here at noon for a teleconference,” Wu explained in low tones.
“By whom?” Han snapped quickly. “Who told you to be here?”
“Shen Shen,” Wu answered.
“The teleconference was called by the prime minister?” Han asked, seemingly in sudden alarm.
“I love you,” Shen Shen had said to Wu. That was all he could think, at first. He had to look away from his father, who was totally self-absorbed. Han buzzed his valet and paced the room mumbling to himself. He was oblivious to the devastated Wu.
Shen Shen, Wu thought. Shen Shen.
“You swear you’re not a spy?” Wu had asked her a dozen different ways. “Nobody sent you? You’re not a plant?” She had lied to him each and every time, sometimes with unequivocal words of denial, other times with ardent shakes of her head and grunts of “No!” as her hips ground against him and her tongue searched for his.
But in an insignificant slip, Han had betrayed her. “Shen Shen works for the prime minister?” Wu asked in a voice that he fought to keep from croaking.
A valet brought Han’s jacket held open in his two hands. “Hm?” Han responded. “Oh, yes. She spies on Sheng for us,” Han said, his eyes faraway as he slipped into his jacket.
“And she spies on me too,” Wu mumbled in a footnote that passed unnoticed. Han was too involved with his teeth, baring them into a well-lit mirror held aloft by his pinch-lipped manservant. Han missed Wu’s tone, his anguished facial expression, his rounded shoulders that were usually square. He had no idea how much Wu now hurt.
Wu waited until the valet had left them alone, then asked, “Were you her conduit to Beijing?”
Han was bracing himself against the window. Looking out at the gray day. “What?” he replied over his shoulder.
“Did you,” Wu repeated, “personally, pass Shen Shen’s intelligence back to Beijing?”
For the first time, Han turned fully to Wu. He cocked his head, studying his son. “What are you getting at?” Han asked. “Does this girl interest you?”
“You slept with her,” Wu said. “How many times?”
Han’s aide knocked on the door and stuck his head in. “Pardon me, but you’re both wanted in the teleconference center.”
Han and Wu strode through the now luxuriously appointed civilian nerve center that managed occupied America. The seat of power was called simply “the fortieth floor.” Every well-dressed civilian lieutenant and foot soldier — officials and support staff alike — was hand chosen for service at the business edge of Chinese bureaucracy. All manned an outpost at the frontier of a faraway war.
The ancients in Beijing never ventured far from the Asian continent. Beachhead America had been stormed instead by thousands of young, elite corporate warriors. Sharp suits worn by sharp professionals. All groomed. All fluent in English. They were the best of the very best. All possessed superlative skills at both corporate governance of conquered territory and life-or-death combat against hostile allies in the Chinese military.