Stephie watched her father. He had grown pale. The lips around his open mouth quivered as he tried to form the words. “Destroy… the ship,” he managed. His military aide hesitated, forcing the president to repeat his order with absolute clarity. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “I am ordering the commander of the 5th Marine Expeditionary Brigade to destroy the arsenal ship, the dies, the designs, the warehouses and stores, and the dock facilities,” he said in a raspy, lifeless voice, “and to fight to the last Marine.”
The aide hesitated, swallowed, and cleared his throat. “Do you want me to get the secretary of defense on the line, sir?”
Stephie’s father shook his head. “No. I want you to relay my command.”
The khaki-clad aide nodded reluctantly. “And, uhm, sir, what about Operation Anvilhead, sir?” he asked. “The West Coast is screaming for troops. Los Angeles is… is at risk.”
The dazed commander-in-chief was already nodding. Stephie couldn’t tell whether the nods signified understanding of their need for reinforcements, or internal confirmation that the worst had just happened. “Abort Operation Anvilhead,” he replied, wincing at his own words. With his eyes closed, he said, “Send the troops west.”
“Sir,” the naval officer said, “I’m sure I can get the SecDef on the…”
“You give the order. I’m sure I’ll hear from the Secretary soon enough.”
The aide departed quietly. Stephie rose and said, “I’d better get back to my unit.”
She expected him to try again to prevail upon her to accept a transfer to the rear, but he instead held his head in both hands and stared at the floor. She had never heard of “Operation Anvilhead” and didn’t then appreciate what its cancellation would mean for her and the other undermanned defenders of the South, but the second invasion and the loss of one of America’s three arsenal ships was terrible news for America, she understood. At that moment, however, what absolutely perplexed and terrified her was her father’s obvious fear. He seemed frozen by it. He didn’t move. Didn’t talk. Didn’t look up. He was totally catatonic.
“Hey,” she said in a quiet, high-pitched tone, taking a step closer to him, “it’ll be okay. We’re ready.” His head rose slowly. He looked at her through bloodshot, exhausted eyes. “You can trust us, Dad. You can count on us. It’s our turn to fight, and we’re gonna stop them,” she said. “We’ll win.”
Tears of anger clouded her vision and ran down her cheeks. Her father wrapped his arms around her to comfort her. He didn’t understand her at all.
Part Two
Victory at all costs, victory in spite of terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.
4
Lieutenant Wu had been awakened to news that he would attend the prime minister’s teleconference in one hour. Han had told his son that he would face the three most powerful men in the world: the civilian leaders of China. He had instructed Wu to wear a suit, not a uniform. “And who’s the girl who answered the phone?” his father had asked in a conspiratorial, confidential tone although Wu felt sure that Han already knew.
“What’s going on?” asked Shen Shen, General Sheng’s secretary. When Wu had replied that it was nothing, she had let the sheet slip from her breasts as she motioned for him to kiss her good-bye.
Wu’s hair, though short and bristly, had still felt wet when he had arrived at his father’s office complex. Outside, mammoth portable air-conditioning systems pumped frigid air through orange ducts into the buildings. Wu sat in a two-seat video conference center and tried not to shiver. Han Zhemin sat opposite his son and stared daggers at Wu’s camouflaged battle dress. His smirking gaze ended on skin that had tanned beneath Wu’s close-cropped, military-style haircut.
Three images appeared on the semi-circular array of screens before each of the two padded leather chairs of the room’s conference center. Camera lights integrated into the consoles illuminated Han and Wu, who stared across real space at each other. The prime minister in the center screen — Han’s uncle and Wu’s great-uncle — was the most powerful of the three old men. Han’s father — Wu’s grandfather — on the right screen was second in command and China’s minister of trade. The third man, on the left screen, was unrelated to Wu and Han. He was the head of China’s state security agency and the reason the powerful Han family — the security chief’s longtime political allies — survived from day to day.
The prime minister convened the meeting of the executive committee of the Chinese council of ministers. “Lieutenant Wu,” he began in a grave tone, “were you, or were you not aware of the Chinese army’s plans to invade California?”
Wu looked across at his father. There was no nod or shake of Han’s head — however slight — to hint at which way he should answer. Instead, Han cocked his head and awaited Wu’s reply.
Wu stared at his father, girding himself for the effort of enduring the ordeal alone. There was no one there to help him.
Wu looked straight into the camera. “As a part of my job on the general staff of Eleventh Army Group (North), I am privy to certain classified military secrets. While I am committed to the belief that the civilian leadership of this country should have all relevant national security information,” he said — looking at each of the three men—“I do not believe that it is I who should be disclosing that information to you.”
Wu’s great-uncle looked at Wu’s grandfather, who was across the same room back in Beijing. The even older security chief watched from a remote location. They were never all together in the same location at once for obvious security reasons.
Wu took a deep breath. He had been awakened so early and thrust into this meeting with so little preparation that he was speaking unrehearsed. “But perhaps,” he suggested, “entrée might be had at the office of Defense Minister Liu Changxing?” Han Zhemin rocked back in his reclining chair. The camera and lights automatically followed him. He was surprised — for all to see — at Wu’s audacity. He made a show of it, Wu noted. The executive committee of the council of ministers — on which the defense minister naturally sat — had been constituted specifically to keep the military from wielding civilian governmental power. General Liu was these men’s mortal enemy.
“What do you know?” the prime minister pointedly asked Wu.
The boy looked up at Han, who seemed surprised by the question. Confused. Wu stifled a smile. “I know what’s coming,” Wu said. Han now rocked forward to the edge of his seat. Everyone else was stilled by Wu’s words. “I’ve studied every battle,” Wu said, “of every campaign, of every war over the last decade. We have gotten used to a five-to-one kill ratio over our enemies, but that statistic was skewed by our enemies’ enormous losses in Southeast Asia and India. What if, in the American Campaign, that ratio is reversed, or worse? What if ten Chinese soldiers die for every American? Twenty? Fifty-to-one, one classified defense ministry paper projected.”
All four men’s attention was riveted on young Wu until the security head looked off-screen and smiled at his co-workers. That was a significant datum of intelligence for the old cloak-and-dagger warrior.