“I can quote the ancient sage, too,” Nung said. “Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend, march swiftly to places where you are not expected.”
“You misapply the great Sun Tzu because your judgment is tainted by your Russian education. You do not understand the Chinese way to victory. Perhaps as debilitating, you lack judgment on these matters because of your victorious thrust against demoralized and under-armed Siberians. We will use overwhelming force on the Americans.”
“Yes,” Nung said, “if they wait for each of your phases to end before the next begins.”
“General Nung, it is true that sometimes a brash plan works, but that is more a matter of luck than true military calculation. Crossing thousands of kilometers of pack ice calls for planning and logistics more than it does for wild cavalry charges. You are a fighter. I will grant you that. What works for a two-hundred kilometer thrust, however, will most certainly fail for a two-thousand kilometer attack. Therefore, to keep your Russian tendencies in check, Commissar Ping and ten East Lightning operatives will join your command team. Ping will have veto power on all your military decisions.”
“That is outrageous.”
“If you refuse such a situation,” said Kao, “resign your commission.”
“No.”
“Then you will follow the Army plan. Combined arms will give you victory, and however distasteful it is to me, you will once again become a battlefield hero. Still, you will always know that I gave you this victory and that your way would have spelled disaster.”
General Nung looked away. A slow methodical advance across the ice—it was wrong. He knew how to win. This Commissar Ping…he’d have to find a way around the policeman. It would be dangerous—
“It’s time to leave,” said Kao.
“Yes,” Nung said. He would think this through later. He would not let these over-cultured mandarins thwart him or thwart China. The time would come when he would crush them as a moth in his fist. Despite every handicap, he would find a way to win this war with élan.
“Let us return to base,” Nung said. “There is much that still needs doing.”
Kao scrutinized him before nodding and heading for the ladder.
-5-
Last Call
Stan Higgins rubbed his eyes as he said, “Exceptional. Use your fingers to sound out the syllables.”
The skinny high-school freshman beside him, the one hunched over a history textbook, nodded slowly. The boy’s right index finger was under the word, and the skull ring on that finger and the black-painted nails spoke volumes. The boy, Nicky, could barely read, but he could name you a thousand songs. Nicky had never seen his father, and his mother only came home at night around seven from the Anchorage Fifth District Court. Juneau was the capital of Alaska, but even these days Anchorage boasted more government workers.
It was almost four PM, and Stan had been helping Nicky since three when the last bell rang, dismissing the students for the day. There were too many like Nicky in Stan’s sixth period World History class. Seven weeks ago, there had been five students coming after school for help. Now there was just this one. Because Nicky had stuck it out, he’d become Stan’s favorite student. The various historical posters on the wall could explain the reason. The one Stan pointed to the most during the school year showed Winston Churchill holding a Tommy gun and, his teeth chomped on a huge cigar. The caption below it read: Never give up, never, never, never.
The cell phone in Stan’s cargo pants vibrated. He didn’t like interrupting their sessions. Reading concentration was often difficult for these boys, especially for those who listened to music twenty-four seven. One of his rules was that his students had to take out their music-plugs while in class and after school as he tried to teach them to read.
“Just a minute,” Stan said, as he took out his cell, checking it. “I’d better take this call.”
“Sure thing, Professor,” Nicky said, who sat back with a sigh.
Stan no longer rolled his eyes when his students called him “Professor.” He’d gotten used to it in the Alaskan National Guard a long time ago. He was a captain in an armor company, one of the few such companies in the state.
National Guard units never used to have tanks. That began to change years ago as the U.S. military demobilized countless formations. There had simply been too much equipment to mothball properly. So the Army had donated heavy equipment like M1A2 Abrams tanks or M2 Bradleys to various National Guard units. Alaska had a few, old vehicles carefully kept up throughout the years.
Stan was in education and he wore glasses while in the tanks. He had tried contacts, but the constant vibration in them irritated his eyes, so he used his old glasses instead. Jose Garcia, a car mechanic and his tech/gunner, had first called him Professor many years ago, and the nickname had stuck. A few years later, one of his men’s kids had called him that in class. The class had loved it, and it had quickly spread around the high school. Somehow, year after year, the nickname stuck even though he never told his students about it.
“Hello, Jose,” Stan said.
“Professor,” Jose Garcia said on the other end of the line. “You’d better get out here. A guy came into my shop a minute ago, telling me your dad’s been knocking on doors again. Your dad’s warning people the aliens are coming. It’s just a matter of time before someone calls the cops on him. And you know what that means.”
“Has he been drinking?” Stan asked with a sickening feeling in his gut. Not the aliens again—he’d carefully explained to his dad why space aliens couldn’t hurt the Earth. It had been more convincing to his dad giving him bogus reasons than trying to tell him that space aliens didn’t exist. At least, Stan had thought so at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure it had been the right strategy.
“I know it ain’t my place,” Jose said, “but you need to get him into a clinic or something. The cops have it out for your dad.”
No, not the cops, Stan thought. One cop: Sergeant Jackson.
“What street?” Stan asked.
“Ah… Fifth and Michael,” Jose said. “I think you’d better hurry. From the sounds of it, he’s been at it for a while.”
The sinking feeling in Stan grew. He wasn’t aware of it, but his shoulders slumped, and suddenly he felt the long school day. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep.
“Thanks, Jose,” Stan said. “I appreciate the call.”
“Hey, Professor, we’re the Guard. We stick together no matter what.”
It was silly, but the words steadied Stan. It felt as if someone had his back, because someone actually did.
He had two different worlds of friends. There were his intellectual buddies from school and those from the Guard, usually working class guys who drank beer and liked to hunt. Both worlds had good people, but there was no doubt they were different. Stan had theorized to his wife about the two. The first world talked about ideas. The second seemed to live them. Stan liked to think of himself as an ancient Athenian from before the Peloponnesian War. The great playwright Aeschylus had fought in the world-changing Battle of Marathon. Socrates, the philosopher, had fought at the Battles of Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium and he’d been lauded for his heroism. In that time, even exceptionally brilliant men had lived whole lives, not the fractured existence that seemed to be people’s lot in post-industrial America.
Stan pocketed the cell phone, told Nicky that they were stopping early today and urged him to use the reader he’d loaned him. One of the tricks to teaching boys to read was helping them find material they were genuinely interested in. Too often, the school-selected reading material was too dated or too tame for a young man. Too many boys were bored sick with school, especially because of the stress the schools placed upon keeping things non-competitive. In Stan’s opinion, boys thrived under competition, and they wanted action in a story, the more the better. Why did people think Hulk comics still sold so well?