“But couldn’t this action lead to reprisals against Taiwanese civilians?” she persisted.
“Help me understand your logic. The Chinese would be so upset that we put Taiwanese civilians in harm’s way that they’ll… put Taiwanese civilians in harm’s way?” I asked with a condescending grin.
She ignored the question. “So you don’t think there’s anything wrong with putting civilians in danger?”
“They volunteered,” I answered. “Hell, they’re in danger already, their country is being invaded.”
She pressed the point. “Colonel Fong was on this program yesterday after the Battle of Teatime Hill, and I think he also feels he is just protecting his country. How would you respond to that argument, colonel?”
“He sure picked a funny place to defend his country.” I remembered Fong’s pompous quoting of ancient Chinese philosophy and added, “I must have missed the part of Sun Tzu where he says, ‘Attacking a country a hundredth your size is the best defense.’”
Changing the subject, she said, “I understand that you ordered your men to fire on the retreating Chinese when the battle had already been won. Why did you order those killings without a higher military purpose? Do you have a personal vendetta against the Chinese?”
“War is killing,” I said. “The way to win a war is to kill the other side’s soldiers until the other side gives up. Killing them is safest when they can’t fight back. That way, I write fewer letters to the wives, husbands, and parents of American soldiers. I didn’t join the Army to write letters; I’m not a goddamn lawyer.”
“Live television, colonel, please watch your language,” the anchorwoman said curtly, coloring slightly under her makeup at my tone.
I’m not sure why that particular admonition snapped what was left of my patience. “Yeah, I guess you guys need to have high standards. By the way, when’s Colonel Fong due back on your show? You interviewing any other enemies with American blood on their hands this week?”
She replied, “Excuse me, colonel, are you implying that it is improper to get both sides of a story?”
“If you claim to be on our side, yes,” I said simply.
The makeup, thick as it was, still couldn’t quite hide an angry red breaking out on her face. “I think most journalists would agree that seeking the truth is the highest form of patriotism,” she sniffed.
With a comically arched eyebrow, I asked, “Just to make sure I understand: you in your Washington studio flirting with Colonel Fong is higher patriotism than my soldiers dying in Pinglin?”
To my immense disappointment, the feed cut off then. I wasn’t quite sure if some communications flunky in the Pentagon had pulled the plug or if the anchorwoman’s producer had decided to call it a day. I unclipped my microphone and handed it to the communications officer, saying, “Please let me know if you want me to do any more of these.”
With that, I returned to the planning room, just in time to see Brown’s face aghast at my performance.
Chapter 6: Barker
In the middle of the most desperate fight of the war, there was a strange calm for most of the day when Concitor had his ambush on the western side of Citadel. After we rendezvoused with the Airborne squad, we made our way a mile further west to a small farming hamlet on a side road buried in the mountains.
Like on Farmers’ Ridge, the buildings were abandoned, so we broke into two large farmhouses. I gave strict orders to the Airborne soldiers not to take anything but food. Of course, someone found a bottle of liquor, and soon half the squad was drunk, but I judged that was probably acceptable. Though all the soldiers in the squad were hand-picked, they were still just kids, some barely a year out of high school. They needed to unwind a little after two days of non-stop fighting.
McCormick didn’t relax, insisting that at least one man out of he, Dietrich, and Ivanov had to be on guard duty at all times. I split my time between eating with my squad, sleeping during Clay’s guard shift, and spending two hours alone with Clay in another of the abandoned buildings in the town.
I told Clay the stories about growing up in Texas, he told me about Indiana. He explained why he dropped out of college and how he came to the Knights. I told him about life in the Army, about the struggle for meaning in a world with no evident purpose. We made love. For those few hours, it felt like I was on a honeymoon, not a care in the world.
Reality intervened in the form of our resupply. McCormick had arranged a shipment of ammunition, food, grenades, explosives, and some new prototype weapons. Those goods were delivered in a new-looking navy-blue Tesla sedan that came trundling down the winding road to the northwest. Tens of thousands of civilian vehicles had been requisitioned by the Taiwanese Army, ensuring that there would be some functioning supply chain linking the battlefields on the north coast, the south coast, and the half-dozen key mountain passes between the PLA and the remaining population hubs on the eastern part of the island.
The resupply came from a Taiwanese unit to the north fighting along the coast and, though that unit was fighting its own tough battle, its commander knew that the war would likely be decided in and around Pinglin.
Ivanov radioed a warning that the vehicle was approaching, and McCormick and I collected ourselves to meet it. The Airborne squad unloaded and sorted the equipment while McCormick, Dietrich, and I talked to the driver. Like many young Taiwanese, she had studied in the United States before coming back home to work in Taiwan. She had been a voice-recognition engineer at Duan Enterprises for six months before the war had started and she had been conscripted into the Taiwanese Army. We offered her coffee from our MRE’s, and she answered our question about what was happening outside of the Pinglin front.
McCormick asked, “Will the PLA be able to break through on the north coast?”
The young sergeant shook her head. “No. They aren’t even pushing all that hard anymore. Our defensive lines are strong, and our engineers are cranking out new weapons even as the war goes on. Nothing like the survival instinct to push new projects through quickly.”
“Did you say the Chinese aren’t even attacking the other lines anymore?” I asked.
She spoke quickly with a clipped competent tone. “Yes. I’ve heard our officers talking about it. Your reinforcements are on their way. There’s only another two or three days before the heavy shipments of tanks start arriving from the States. Once that happens, China’s basically lost the war. Your F-22’s have nearly taken control of the skies above Taiwan, which means they also effectively own the Taiwan Strait. Once they cut off the supplies from the mainland, the PLA will wither in the field.”
I finished the thought. “So the PLA is focusing its efforts on breaking through at Pinglin. If they don’t break through there, they lose the war.”
The Taiwanese soldier nodded. “The Taiwanese Army is fully engaged in the field already. It’s all up to the Airborne. Two more days.” She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “It’s hard to believe it’s almost over, one way or another. You can’t imagine what it’s like. We’ve all lost someone…” she trailed off.
Thunder crashed to the west. “Massed artillery,” Dietrich said immediately. “They’re shelling Citadel.”
The Taiwanese sergeant said coldly, “They are making a big mistake.”
“Why?”
“Our mini-satellites have precisely recorded the flight of the artillery shells from their guns. Our quantum computers can instantly solve the equations to figure out where the shells were fired from. They automatically transmit that data to… well, just watch.”
The Taiwanese sergeant pointed her finger to the southwest. From our vantage point high up near a mountain peak, we could see several gray shapes streaking barely above the treetops, heading west. They pitched up over hills and mountains and were still just barely visible to us when they popped over one last mountain and then disappeared. We heard several small pops, not quite as loud as the artillery shells, and pillars of smoke emerged from behind the mountain.