Bill nodded, and waited.
“The 31st Armored Brigade withdrew up I-95 in good order to the junction with I-26. They held that junction open until the evacuation of Charleston was complete, then withdrew into position to block I-95 North along the Santee.” Bill nodded again. It was all according to plan. The commander returned to reading the report on his palmtop word for word.
“‘The 41st Infantry Division disengaged from its positions along the Savannah River in good order and withdrew to Sumter, South Carolina, to regroup. Casualties during the disengagement were light.’ ” Bill’s military aide looked up. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all it says. ‘Casualties were light.’ ”
Bill nodded. He was relieved, but not yet totally at ease. He would contain his powerful urge to know how Stephie had fared until he got back to Washington and talked to Cotler. Or maybe I’ll call from the plane, or from the car on the way to the plane, he thought.
The lieutenant commander continued reading. Bill wished he hadn’t. “‘From heavy casualties taken during intense combat earlier in the week, the 41st is now rated at only forty-five percent combat effectiveness. Approximately thirty percent of its surviving personnel suffer from wounds or illness that render them unfit for duty and may require medical rehabilitation.’”
Bill headed for the car. “‘Grazing flesh wound on the nape of the neck,’” General Cotler briefed him over the phone. “‘Mild concussion from the nearby explosion of Chinese satchel charge.’ Word is, Mr. President, that your daughter saved the lives of her buddies at great risk to her own,” Cotler said, stopping himself short. He aborted his praise and returned to his dry litany of near-death experiences by Bill’s only child. “‘Major contusions and possible hairline fractures of the rib cage along her right upper torso.’ No indication of how she sustained that injury, Mr. President. She’s pretty banged up, sir.” He spoke slowly. “We could have her declared unfit for duty and medevac her.”
The president had not responded. It had taken every ounce of his strength to remain quiet.
6
Han Zhemin’s limousine finally ended its bumpy ride in a billowing cloud of dust. His coughing aide waited outside until the dust subsided, then opened the administrator’s door. The smell of death filled the cool forest air. Under the mumbled pretense that he was allergic to dust, Han extracted a handkerchief and held it to his nose.
Wu wore combat gear like all the rest of the soldiers, but unlike the others Wu was clean. He saluted and then shook his father’s hand. “Let’s get into my car where we can talk,” Han suggested. Wu replied that he first wanted to show Han something. Frowning, Han followed his son toward the ridge line.
Han had summoned Wu for a talk, but Wu had asked that his father come meet him at the still fresh field of battle. The eerie quiet of the blasted and charred landscape was still new to Wu, but Han had seen it all before. The smell that he tried to mask with his handkerchief had been the same in Asia and the Middle East.
Wu turned to warn his father to stay inside the flag-topped markers. Han rolled his eyes at his overly solicitous son. Han had been visiting battlefields since before the boy had reached puberty. He knew better than to stray into a minefield. Wu descended into the narrow trench that led up the hill, but Han stood atop the crater and glared at his son. “It’s just right up here,” the eager boy insisted. With a sigh Han climbed down. His highly polished, Italian leather shoes didn’t provide him quite the traction of Wu’s combat boots, so the going was slow for Han.
They proceeded up the hill through the nearly collapsed trench. Han repeatedly brushed dirt from his dark, immaculate suit. Near the top of the ridge, he had broken a sweat. “Wu, I came here to…”
“We’re really close!” Wu insisted.
He was a child playing soldier, Han thought. Despite the enormity of their army’s casualties in futilely attacking this American position, Wu still found the place fascinating. At the top of the ridge, they entered the main trench, which was dotted with huge, water-filled craters. Wu scampered over the shattered fortifications pointing at bits and pieces of abandoned American equipment. The tight turns in the zigzagging line were filled with hundreds of spent shell casings, some American, Wu stopped to show Han; others Chinese.
“Wu…” Han began, intending to inform him that he wasn’t interested.
“It’s right here,” Wu interrupted, heading for the entrance of a bunker half buried in collapsed and split sandbags. “9G” was stenciled above the dark opening. Wu led his father into the low-ceilinged concrete enclosure. Wu’s virgin nose probably missed the smell entirely, but Han’s more refined palate detected the odor immediately. Someone had been burned in that bunker. It smelled of human flesh. In confirmation, Han looked down at his shoes, which crunched through black ash on the floor.
Wu, however, directed Han’s attention higher. The young lieutenant lit the wall with his flashlight. A series of names — written in English — were crudely inscribed in the concrete. Wu waited until Han saw “Stephanie Roberts.” Wu’s excited, beaming face glowed in the reflected light.
Han nodded, looked at Wu, then led his son into the bunker’s main chamber. In addition to the residue from the conflagration that had burned floor, ceiling, and walls, there were thousands of shell casings large and small. Wu inspected the spent cartridges from rifles and grenade launchers. Han wandered among pools of caked blood, whose dark color was lost against the charred concrete to all but the discerning eye.
“Look at this,” Wu said, holding a small, plastic ring — like a girl’s toy — out to Han. Its cheap plastic band and fake stone seemed incongruous amid the carnage of the charnel house. Han abruptly turned and departed the bunker for the fresh air outside. Wu inspected the ring closely, then slipped it into his pocket.
Outside, Wu joined his father, whose mood had soured. Wu said, “I read an intell report tracking the whereabouts of President Baker’s daughter. They’re monitoring American news media to determine whether she survived the battle here.” His father said nothing. “I thought you’d want to know.” Han looked impatiently at his son. “So,” Wu ventured tentatively, “President Baker’s daughter is really in the thick of it.”
“No,” Han replied coldly.
Wu’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I mean no, you can’t go into combat.”
Wu was exasperated. “But…!” He held up his hands as if the blasted trench line was somehow an argument in his favor. Han grabbed Wu’s arm roughly and dragged him up the side of a crater to the forward lip of the trench. Wu pulled himself free and looked down the slope toward the river. There was nothing but blackness and death beneath them. Not a single sprig of life sprouted from the devastated hillside or riverbank. Here and there, small teams of engineers with mine detectors cleared lanes through the American killing field. They would eventually reach and bury the thousands of stinking, bloated corpses, but they concentrated first on recovering the vehicles. Some of them could be repaired.
Han scrutinized Wu, to whom he spoke in quiet, urgent tones. “You predicted this in the videoconference with Beijing last month! Your talk about our army’s rates of loss have the old men back in Beijing asking me for statistics every day! Well, do you want to hear some figures? Along this line we killed, wounded, or captured somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five thousand American soldiers. But we lost one hundred and forty-five thousand dead and three times that number wounded! Seven hundred thousand casualties! And this was just a temporary line! The next one will be built stronger. And the one after that even stronger!”