Stan bared his teeth. The Army: fighting… killing… running from overwhelming odds, from enemy tanks. He’d never told anyone about his nightmares, not his wife, not Jose and for sure not the base psychologist who diagnosed each of them in the experimental unit, seeing if they were still mentally fit for duty. About once a month in his dreams, he relived the worst horrors of the Alaskan War. He dreaded the nightmares: the screech of Chinese shells, watching long-dead friends burn to death and fearing the terrible tri-turreted tanks rumbling toward him, knowing that every shell he fired would bounce off the incredible armor.
Lately his wife had begun asking if he was okay. He’d wake up in the morning hollow-eyed, or he’d start up from sleep sweating. He made up all kinds of excuses. Now, sitting here, Stan wondered if he was going the route of his dad. Old Mack Higgins had gone around the bend—crazy in the head. These days, Stan had a greater appreciation as to why it might have happened.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Stan quoted to himself. He dreaded the idea of going crazy. For sure, he wasn’t going to tell the base psychologist anything she might use against him.
Stan blew out his cheeks. He was a captain in an experimental unit. Seven years ago, he had been a captain in the Alaskan National Guard, in one of the few tank units there. He had received the Medal of Honor for helping stop the Chinese Invasion into Anchorage. Some people said his actions had been critical for victory. Afterward the Army Chief of Staff invited Stan to accept a commission in the Regular Army. Since Stan’s expertise had been Armor, he’d entered that branch of the service and had soon found himself in the experimental department.
With that kind of start—even though he’d been old by Army reckoning—he should have risen in rank. Allen had just received a promotion from captain to major. Stan had been counting on getting the promotion. With better pay, could he go to a bank and finance ten thousand?
“Seven years of service,” Stan muttered, as he rubbed his forehead. Now that he thought about it that was too long for a man of his age and expertise and with the Medal of Honor. He knew what was wrong. The colonel in charge of the experimental unit disliked him and his methods and Stan wasn’t good at politicking, at butt kissing.
Stan slammed his fists onto the desk, jarring the computer screen.
Once, the TV volume would have lowered if he did that. His wife would have asked if everything was okay. Now, the volume increased. She didn’t want to think about Jake being in the Detention Center.
“Ten thousand new-dollars,” Stan whispered.
Maybe he could call Crane. The man was a former National Guard Colonel who belonged to the John Glen Corporation, a military-funded think tank in D.C. Crane had known him during the Alaskan War. Crane knew his nickname of “Professor” and Crane had said many times that he appreciated Stan’s military historical knowledge. “John Glen could use a man like you, Stan.”
The last offer had come two years ago. Stan had been too absorbed then in the experimental unit, in the Mark I Behemoth battle tank. The Behemoth dwarfed all known tanks. It was a three hundred ton monstrosity, three times the size of a Chinese tri-turreted tank.
Stan flexed his hands. Two years ago, the possibilities of the Behemoth had excited him. Now he needed ten thousand new-dollars. Besides, the Army had passed him over yet again. He had learned that the Chief of Staff who had invited him into the Army—President Clark had twisted the officer’s arm. The truth was the Army didn’t want a man they considered a maverick at best and a hotheaded, insubordinate fool at worst. Which was funny really, because Stan knew himself to be a plodding man who always tried to do the right thing. There was nothing maverick about him, unless seeing historical parallels from time to time in a given situation was considered eccentric.
Stan stared at the judge’s ruling as his mind raced from one thought to the next. He wanted to feel appreciated, as when he taught high school in Alaska. He was afraid that remaining in the military would only intensify his nightmares. Lastly, the bugs in the Mark I Behemoth—it was possible the three hundred ton tank would never see action and would never fulfill the destiny the U.S. needed against the threatening aggressors.
Stan tapped the screen, removing the judge’s decision. With his mouth in a grim line of determination, Stan began writing an email to Crane, seeing if the John Glen Corporation still had a spot for a fifty-year-old captain. If there was such a spot, he would have to talk to the base colonel tomorrow about resigning his commission.
What would Jose say about that? What would his tankers tell him? How was he going to cope with the coming guilt as he bailed out this near to war?
You have to think about your son. Besides, you’re an old man now. War—leave that to the young, to the strong. You need to understand that your days of action are over.
The idea made Stan miserable. No one liked to admit he was old. But it was time to face reality. He had to do whatever he could to bail Jake out of the Detention Center.
Marshal Shin Nung’s stomach seethed even though outwardly he seemed placid as he sat in a window seat of a large military helicopter.
Nung was sixty-six years old and a hero of the Alaskan and Siberian Wars. His hover/armored thrust across the Arctic ice to Prudhoe Bay had succeeded after a fashion, although it had been bloody and costly. His armored thrust in Siberia years earlier had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.
He was the commander of the First Front, of the three Armies on the Californian-Mexican border: the most heavily defended real estate in the world.
Even at sixty-six, Nung still had blunt features and an aggressive stare, though he was more jowly than seven years ago. In his distant youth he had studied at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence and had earned him the reputation among the Chinese military that he was half-Russian, a terrible slur.
Nung allowed himself a bitter smile. Many in the Army hated him because he had continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack, as the Russians used to teach. Once, the old Chairman had backed him. Now the new Chairman known simply as the “Leader” felt obligated to him. During the Alaskan War, they had shared the task of securing Dead Horse, particularly the oil fields there.
Jian Hong was Greater China’s “semi-divine” Leader, if one believed the propaganda messages. It was foolish to disagree openly. That was one lesson Nung had learned: to keep dangerous truths to himself.
Marshal Nung flew out of Mao Zedong Airport in Beijing, having arrived from Mexico, from near the American border actually. He was to attend an emergency session of the Ruling Committee. He knew why: the Americans had broken the secret of Blue Swan. It was a terrible blow to Chinese plans, or it could be. Marshal Nung knew the answer to the present dilemma. He usually knew what to do in an emergency. It was his gift and curse to see farther than those around him could. Once, he would have openly declared to anyone who cared to listen what should be done. At sixty-six, he had learned a modicum of wisdom. These days, he kept such opinions to himself and practiced mediations in order to keep his once explosive temper in check.
Nung stared out of the helicopter’s window. Below him, Beijing spread out in all its glory. It was rush hour, he supposed. Enormous Chinese cars crawled along the wide avenues and city streets. Many flew large flags with the single Chinese star, showing their patriotism. The vehicles moved past giant glass towers, monumental buildings and titanic statues, products of the Leader’s mania for size and grandeur, and of the largest and longest construction boom in history. Beijing was the chief city in the world, the center of civilization, the Middle Kingdom. It was a riot of colors, boasting the most people, the most cars, the most billionaires and the highest concentration of political power.