Han faced his son. “You’re bright, Wu. Think. Can’t you see for yourself what’s happening?”
The boy stared back, but didn’t reply at first. His eyes flitted aimlessly about Han’s face as he pondered his father’s question. “General Sheng,” Wu finally replied, stating the obvious, “is trying to sabotage your efforts to coax Americans back to work so that you — and the civilian leadership — can be discredited as failures.”
Han smiled and clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder. “In stark contrast,” Han added sarcastically, “to the army, which proceeds from victory to victory like the great Battle of the Savannah River.”
Wu didn’t nod or, by his expression, endorse in any way his father’s conclusion, but he asked, “What are you going to do?”
With his hand still rested lightly on Wu’s shoulder, Han smiled and answered with a question of his own. “What have you learned about the army’s spy in Washington? This ‘Olympic’?”
When Wu avoided his father’s gaze, Han squeezed Wu’s shoulder tightly in his grip. The boy winced and looked straight into Han’s eyes. With his jaw set, Wu said, “Olympic is a woman. I heard Sheng refer to her as ‘she.’ ”
“That’s all?” Han asked. Wu nodded. After a moment’s reflection, Han grinned and clapped his hand again on Wu’s shoulder. “Good work, Wu! Good work. But now I need a name.” Han then turned and headed back toward the car. Wu looked after him for a moment and then caught the gaze of the soldiers who provided their security. They were younger, even, than Wu. They had been watching — and listening to — the two men’s conversation with more than just idle curiosity. For Wu and Han were, Wu realized, the gods who held the fates of those soldiers in their hands.
The crisp, cool, still afternoon was perhaps the finest Stephie had ever experienced. The sun felt warm on her skin but not hot. The air refreshed her lungs but didn’t chill her limbs.
The only thing that spoiled the glorious weather was the artillery barrage just over the horizon. Stephie dozed to the sound. It was always there, though never discussed among the battleweary veterans. But on her closed eyelids danced visions of the hellish fire that went on and on, hour after hour. The barrages along the Savannah River had never lasted more than a few minutes. These went on all day long.
Although the front lines were over a dozen miles away, you had to raise your voice to talk over the fury of the Chinese bombardment. Not that anyone in First Squad had much to say. The senior commanders had left their battered, depleted unit alone. The soldiers had responded by sleeping ten, twelve, fourteen hours per day. The more time spent asleep, the less the time to contemplate what had just happened and what lay ahead. But it’s a helluva thing to do, the thought nagged at Stephie, to waste your last days on earth sleeping.
“Hey,” came the annoying voice of Becky Marsh. Stephie pretended to be asleep. “You got a V-mail from your dad.”
Stephie sat up. “What? Lemme see.” Becky handed Stephie her commo helmet and sat down beside her. “Do you mind?” Stephie asked.
Becky snorted. “I’ve already watched it,” she said to Stephie with a sneer. Nevertheless, she rose and stomped away.
Stephie lowered two small screens and adjusted them until the stereoscopic image came into focus. The images were so close to her eyes that they created the impression of a large-screen TV. On them was a frozen picture of her father sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. If it weren’t for the relatively poor image quality and the fact that he’d removed his suit jacket, the pose and setting reminded her of an address to the nation.
Stephie found the control stick and hit play.
“This is the president of the United States, and I’m sending this V-mail to my daughter, Stephanie Roberts. I would appreciate it if whoever receives this locates her and allows her to view it.” He paused and took a sip of Diet Coke from a can. He was presumably giving Becky the time to pause the V-mail so that she could find Stephie, but Becky, of course, hadn’t taken the opportunity. That pissed Stephie off.
“Stephie,” her father began, “I’ve gotten your two V-mails, and I wanted to reply. I don’t really know what to say. My life seems so,” he struggled to find the word, “uneventful compared to yours.” Stephie screwed up her face and hissed out a laugh. He was the president, for God’s sake! She was just an ordinary soldier. “I think about you all the time. I have to admit,” he said, growing wistful, “that sometimes during briefings about the progress of the war I sit there listening not as commander in chief, but as, well, your father.” His eyes sank to his hands, which were spread — palms down — flat atop his desk. “Stephie, I have to say this,” he resumed, still not looking at the camera. “And you’ve got to forgive me for saying it. There are lots of jobs in the army. Lots of important jobs other than in the combat arms.”
“Shit!” Stephie cursed, both because her father was again urging her to quit, and because Becky Marsh had seen it all.
“I’m not saying that I would pull any strings. According to General Cotler I wouldn’t have to.” Stephie laughed at the mention of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was the seniormost general in the U.S. army, but to her father he was a military aide to be asked questions about his daughter. “A lot of soldiers are being rotated to different jobs after serving for a time at the front.”
Stephie growled in anger and extreme frustration. Several soldiers in her battalion had been “rotated” back, but nobody from her company. That fact was a point of pride for Charlie Company survivors, and the word “rotation” was scorned and reviled.
“General Cotler tells me,” her father continued, still looking down at his splayed fingers, “that they particularly need combat veterans as instructors. That you could be doing a helluva lot more for your country — and save a lot of young lives — imparting what you’ve learned to new recruits.” He sighed and finally looked up. “Just E-mail or V-mail your reply, and I’ll — and General Cotler — will see to it.”
Stephie was crushed, disappointed, and thoroughly dispirited. How could he be doing this? she wondered, wallowing in the pain.
“I love you, Stephie, with all my heart,” her father said with a quivering voice. The V-mail went black, and Stephie realized that Becky Marsh had returned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Becky’s boots. The woman had a keen sense of timing. Stephie removed the helmet from her head but kept her gaze on the far wall of her fighting hole. Becky took the helmet from her, then sat.
“So?” Becky asked, almost whispering. Stephie could barely here her over the distant rumbling. “What’re you gonna do?”
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” Stephie snapped.
“I dunno,” came the woman’s thoughtful reply. Stephie looked up. Becky scrutinized her with brows knit. What the hell does it matter to you? Stephie thought. Becky said, as if that were news, “He really sounds like he loves you.”
“I’m not going to rotate back!” Stephie angrily replied. “Jesus!”
Becky seemed to relax. “No,” she said, smiling slightly and looking away to hide it. “I didn’t think so.” Stephie glanced sideways at Becky, wondering at the curious behavior. “But still,” Becky said, “that was really sweet of him. You know. To ask and all.”
Stephie started to say that anybody’s dad would’ve done the same thing. That Becky’s parents would’ve, too. She realized then, however, that she knew nothing about Becky’s family. She instead considered inquiring about them, but she looked at Becky and thought better of it. The woman seemed too pleased by her glimpse at Stephie’s warm family life. Or is she just happy that I’m not going anywhere? Stephie wondered.