Colonel Li introduced himself and led them the last stretch of the way to the commanding general, Han’s extremely dangerous and principal foe. The civilian government led by his uncle had everything at stake in Han’s coming conflict in America. Publicly, they had opposed the invasion out of fear that it might trigger a nuclear war. Privately, they had argued that the U.S. was “a country too far.” Behind closed doors and in back rooms, Han had insisted that America was too large of a conquest even for China. At cocktail parties, private dinners, during rounds of golf or between sets of tennis Han and other civilian emissaries had warned of a quagmire draining blood and resources. But the real reason that the family opposed invasion was out of fear that it would succeed.
After the spectacular string of military victories, Defense Minister Liu was riding high in the opinion polls that mattered among millions of faceless Chinese bureaucrats, who had been handed new territories to govern, new economies to exploit, new opportunities for the greater profit of all. If it weren’t for those bureaucrats’ fears of unchecked military rule, the uniformed conquerors would long ago have been handed the reins.
The yin to the military yang was the civilian leadership. The new, non-Communist, non-anything mandarins in government and business wanted a stable system of checks and balances, but stability was not to be. Defeating America would so raise the esteem in which China’s “electorate” held the military that the civilian government would literally be handed their heads. America would be the climactic battleground of both the international military and domestic political struggles.
Han and General Sheng walked along the dock side by side. Han looked out of place on the busy wharfs in his dark business suit.
“I’ve gotten agreements,” Han reported, “to supply your army with petroleum, oil, and lubricants from Venezuela and Mexico. Beef from Argentina. Et cetera, et cetera. We’ve done our part. You must do yours. Ruling America will not be like ruling India.”
Sheng’s garrison hat came up only to Han’s padded shoulder, but Sheng’s slight stature didn’t diminish his commanding presence. Soldiers and sailors stiffened to attention as the seventy-year-old general passed their ships. Sheng was commander of Eleventh Army Group (North), which was now the most powerful army on earth.
“I understand,” General Sheng responded — choosing his words with care—“that your special sensitivities to America were why you were chosen to be governor.”
“ ‘Administrator,’ ” Han corrected.
“I merely meant…,” Sheng said pleasantly.
“I studied in America,” Han interrupted.
The two stopped and faced each other. Vessels were everywhere being filled with palettes of supplies. Han had met Sheng only once before, when Sheng had commanded the army that took Tel Aviv. The army in the line of march ahead of his had been decimated by twenty-three tactical nuclear warheads. Sheng had been given the honor of retaliating on express instructions of Defense Minister Liu. The genocide in Tel Aviv was on Sheng’s and Liu’s hands. Han had been sent from Beijing to Israel after the genocide.
“I merely meant,” Sheng continued, “that it makes sense for an expert on America to govern America.” Han smiled, and they continued walking in silence. Transports and supply ships were moored all across the harbor.
Through the gaps, Han could see blue water. “General Sheng,” Han said, “you have been briefed about China’s broader goals in this war. Imagine incorporating the intellectual capital of America into our sphere of economic cooperation. You must educate your officers and men about this paramount objective. I view it to be your prime task. I cannot win Americans’ hearts and minds if our troops commit crimes. There absolutely cannot be a repeat of the problems we had in Israel.”
“I have received my orders from Beijing,” General Sheng said. “But, for the record, I did have valid authority to release those special munitions.”
“They were for engineers to demolish dams and dig canals,” Han replied to the overt verbal check. He was alert to danger. He picked up sounds from the dock. Smells carried on the ocean breeze. It had been the same in Tel Aviv. Han was the civilian sent to take command of Sheng’s nuclear weapons. He had first viewed the blackened remains of Tel Aviv on a flyover to steel himself for the task.
“It must have been very difficult for you,” Sheng said — looking up at the sun—“the executions, I mean. Thirty-seven officers. My entire staff.”
“It wasn’t difficult in the least,” Han replied. “They were guilty of their crimes.” And so were you, Han thought, but you were too senior. Sheng now held the most sought-after command in the army. If anything, Tel Aviv had given Sheng’s military career a boost.
Sheng was smiling faintly when they stopped at the end of the wharf. “But still,” the general said, “a pistol? Thirty-seven pistol shots to the head. You had to get so close to such an ugly task, Administrator Han. You really should have used a rifle.”
Han nodded as if in appreciation of the advice. “Next time,” Han replied, “I will.”
A thick white cloud — not a gray rain cloud, Stephie thought with relief — floated past, covering and uncovering the sun. The brief respite from the heat ended with the return of the intense rays. Stephie’s trousers, bra, and T-shirt were soaked with sweat. The only thing that prevented perspiration from dripping off her was the dust and dirt that stuck to her skin and absorbed the moisture, forming a gritty crust on her arms, neck, and face.
She was putting the finishing touches on her fighting hole’s roof: a third layer of sandbags piled atop rough-hewn timber. A few soldiers had used chain saws to clear young pines from their killing zone. Most had taken turns holding sandbags open and shoveling dirt into them. There was very little chatter among the traumatized teenagers after the mauling they had taken on the coast.
Stephie was late in getting started on her hole. She had thrown a fit when she and Becky Marsh had been assigned to guard the communications gear. The male commo specialist had been put to work chaining logs onto the backs of tractors. Becky had tried on the ultralight, electronics-laden helmet. “Look at this video,” she had said, watching four screens that extended on slender wands from the ceramic helmet. “Hey, and there’s, like, air-conditioning in this helmet! It’s heaven!” She had crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes had flitted from screen to screen. She had pulled one wand up to her eye for a closer look. “Here’s a picture of somebody walkin’ point. There are leaves slappin’ against his helmet.”
“You know they put us here so we won’t have to fight!” Stephie had boiled over. “We’re not digging, Becky! Night’s gonna fall, and we won’t have a fighting hole! Without a hole, we’d get sent to the rear.”
“And?” Becky had shouted with arched eyebrows, incredulous. “What the hell is your problem with that? Hey, you wanta fight, you go, girl!” Her eye had returned to the screen. “Looks like they’re checkin’ out a McDonalds. Or a Burger King. It’s a Burger King.”
Stephie had struck out to find Ackerman and pull rank on him. “ ‘No special treatment,’ ” she reminded her platoon leader, repeating the brigade commander’s orders. Lieutenant Ackerman had relented. Stephie had gotten a fighting hole to dig. Becky had gotten a job as platoon commo.