The septuagenarian general stopped in front of a Southern colonial-style home with broad verandas that faced the breeze from the bay. Han allowed himself a smile, but was slightly unnerved when Sheng smiled back.
Han and Sheng sat in padded chairs at a table covered by a linen tablecloth in the backyard of an antebellum home. Tall magnolia trees provided ample shade. Wu and Colonel Li sat nearby in silence. All were served iced tea — a local drink, as was the custom after first landing in conquered territory — by white-jacketed Chinese waiters. The grass on the lawn was too tall. The paint on the gazebo was peeling. The swimming pool was dark green and nearly overflowing. But the breeze and the shade made the hot day pleasant. Han craned his neck to look back at the dark, abandoned house that overlooked Mobile Bay. The door had been kicked off its hinges, presumably by Sheng’s advance security team.
“I have never been to America before,” Sheng said pleasantly. He peered across the bay seeming totally at ease.
Far too at ease, it seemed to Han. “But this isn’t America,” Han replied. When Sheng looked at him, Han reached down and pulled a fistful of tall grass from the lawn and held it up to Sheng. “This isn’t anything. The resource that we’re after — that we need to continue our economic expansion — is America’s people. Their productivity. Their ingenuity. Their skills at innovation and the application of technology to new products. By fully integrating the American economy and workforce into our system of commerce, the world can finally rebuild after a decade of war and ascend to new records of profitability and efficiency at all levels of enterprise.”
Sheng seemed demoralized. No trace of good humor remained. He spoke in a strangely unguarded and distant tone. “Is that why we’re here?”
Han didn’t even know whether or how to reply. It wasn’t a challenge, or a lunge to be verbally parried. It seemed almost like the disillusioned comment of a tired old soldier. They sat in silence, sipping the foul iced tea, watching the ships slowly maneuver in the harbor.
“We will win this war, Administrator Han,” Sheng said with the formality of a pledge. “We will seize their two shipyards at San Diego and Philadelphia before they launch their arsenal ships. When that happens, America will have only two choices: continue fighting a bloody ground war until we exhaust their supply of manpower, or go nuclear.” Han realized that Sheng was looking at him.
“I fear,” Han said, “that many have underestimated the resolve of the American fighting man. The Defense Ministry concluded that American soldiers are over-reliant on high-tech weaponry and have no stomach for infantry warfare.”
“The eleventh Army Group (North) has made no such miscalculation,” Sheng said icily.
“My point is simply that they are now fighting for their homeland, and one cannot know what to expect from them under those circumstances.”
“I expect that they will fight bravely and to the last man,” Sheng answered, “and when that last man is dead, we will win.”
“Let’s just hope that you do seize their shipyards before they launch those arsenal ships. As I understand it, the navy stands no chance of countering their prodigious firepower. And I needn’t remind you that 100 percent of your army’s supplies and replacements arrive by sea. Plus, there are rumors, I’m sure you have heard, of other, more advanced weapons systems under development.”
“They will not launch those ships,” Sheng promised.
“I merely make the point,” Han replied, “because San Diego lies on the opposite side of a large continent with the easily defended Mississippi River in between.”
Sheng said nothing about the military’s plan.
“Why don’t you come with me?” air force Captain Waters suggested to army Captain Hart. “I mean, we can get across friendly lines tomorrow morning. You and me. Together.”
“I can’t,” Hart answered from the darkness. “I’m supposed to stay behind Chinese lines.”
“For how long?” Waters asked.
“It’s up to me,” Hart replied.
“Then come with me! I’m five million dollars worth of government equipment. You’re my escort!”
“You won’t have any problems from here,” Hart mumbled. “Besides,” he said, finally blurting it out. “I haven’t gotten into the fight yet.”
“Oh,” Waters said, accepting the explanation. “So go. Go on. Do your Green Beret thing.” Waters rose and held his hand out to Hart. “Hope to see ya again,” the pilot said. Jim nodded and shook his hand. Waters hoisted his kit and Hart his load. They headed in opposite directions.
Hart saved his night vision goggles, whose batteries were low, and relied only on his eyes and ears. He had to take a circuitous route around a minefield, which was sown across a road. On the map that Hart had committed to memory the field was designated, “Delay Fuse/First Contact.” The first unit up the road would pass mine after mine, all of which would go active on the passing of the second.
Jim Hart was on the side of a ridge opposite the road when the first mine exploded. Three, four, five mines exploded in quick succession thereafter. A wounded man began to wail long and hard in total agony. The shouts of officers and NCOs obviously got the soldiers to remain still. They were shouting at them in Chinese. Explaining. You’re in a minefield! Hart imagined. Don’t move!
Hart flicked the safety of his M-16 off and donned his goggles. Night turned to day, and his path became clear. He trotted up the reverse slope of the hill that overlooked the road and minefield. The last few meters, Hart crawled. When he crested the ridge, he saw them spread out — lying on their bellies — on the open road below. He counted forty men. A platoon out on patrol. Obviously, the second unit to pass.
He raised the M-16 to his shoulder, but he didn’t seize the pistol grip. He grabbed instead the trigger for the 40 mm grenade launcher mounted under the rifle’s barrel. Loaded in the breech was HE frag: a high-explosive fragmentation grenade. The shot was easy. Pulling the trigger, however, was hard. He squeezed harder, and the rifle bucked. The thump was followed a half-second later by an explosion that split a man in two. Hart was already reloading. Soldiers were shouting to each other in Chinese. Hart felt confident they couldn’t see him. He lined up another man in the sights, fired, and watched him roll over twice, landing on a mine. Pieces of him were sprayed to treetop level. His remains rained onto his comrades’ lowered heads.
Hart froze in terror as, on a command, the entire platoon opened fire. He pressed low as weapons raged below. For ten or fifteen seconds all hell broke loose. Then, on command, the weapons fell silent. In the sudden quiet, Hart could hear new magazines being fed into hungry, empty receivers. None of the rounds had come anywhere near him.
Hart’s third grenade killed the platoon leader or sergeant, who had been taking careful steps and shouting commands. When Hart killed the only other man trying to take charge, desperate soldiers began to shout pleas in broken and pitiful English. “Plees!” came a cry, which was repeated by others. “No shoot!” begged the more accomplished linguists. Hart fired grenades number four, five and six, and a dozen soldiers broke and ran. Six or seven mines exploded as men made headlong rushes through the field. Hart picked off the only target remaining upright with a single three-round burst.
But someone on the road below didn’t panic. A machine gun opened fire, and bullets whizzed by Hart. He slammed his head to the ground as adrenaline shot through his body and urged him to flee. Some alert veteran of earlier wars had seen flashes from Hart’s rifle despite the bulky flash suppressor on its muzzle. Hart couldn’t bring himself to rise into the cutting death and fire. He lay with his face in the dirt. A round glanced off his body armor at the shoulder like a sledgehammer. Hart groaned at the searing pain. From the angry buzz of passing heavy-caliber rounds, he knew that he was very soon to be dead.