“Yeah, I know,” Stan said. He peered out his side window. There was a jackrabbit out there, running away, zigzagging. You never did that in combat. If you needed to get somewhere, you ran hard to reach safety. There wasn’t any of that goofing around with zigzagging. Stupid rabbit.
Stan remembered reading an article about Bernard Montgomery, the English Field Marshal who had defeated Rommel at El Alamein during World War II. Montgomery had said:
“Rule 1, on page 1 of the book of war, is ‘Do not march on Moscow.’ Various people have tried it, Napoleon and Hitler, and it is no good. This is the first rule. I do not know whether your Lordships will know Rule 2 of war. It is ‘Do not go fighting with your land armies in China.’ It is a vast country, with no clearly defined objectives.”
Stan would have liked to add Rule 3. Do not bring your land armies to America to fight because we will whip your ass.
Yes, the Chinese had six millions soldiers, with Mexican allies and with millions of South American Federation soldiers. But the U.S. was a big place with many tough fighters and American determination. Stan frowned. Would the Chinese dare attack? Yes, the Chinese had knocked out the satellites, cyber-assaulted and helped terrorists ignited a nuke. The scope of a land war, though, dwarfed the imagination. It would be World War III, and for what?
Stan’s frown deepened. The Chinese talked about food, but that was just an excuse. It was about power, about being the biggest dog on the block. The truth was that some men loved to fight. History showed that some men or nations rose up to conquer. The Assyrians, the Persians, Macedonians, Romans…it was a long list. They conquered for a time and finally settled down again, becoming like everyone else once more. Was this China’s era? Was it their turn to collect nations like trophies on their belt and kill millions?
“They won’t attack us,” Stan said. He had to believe that. He hated the idea of running out on his men if the Chinese were really going to attack. Why had his son protested Sims? Why couldn’t his boy keep his head down and get on with his studies? The young were always so reckless.
“You keep saying the Chinese won’t attack, Professor. So how come I don’t believe you really mean it?”
“It’s foolish to attack us,” Stan muttered.
“Like you said many times, ‘People are fools’.”
“The expenditure in money, blood and treasure,” Stan said, “it would beggar them.”
“Maybe they mean to beggar us,” Jose said.
“No. They want our farmland. The world does, too. In the end, it would be wiser and more productive for them to find new ways to grow food. Look at what the Germans are doing in Saharan Africa. That’s the right way to fix this mess. But that takes too much thought for most people. Besides, men with nifty weapons like to use them. They figure, ‘It’s easy. We’ll just conquer the Americans and steal their bread. They aren’t what they used to be.’ But invading a country, it seldom goes how you think it will. Ask the Iraqis about that after they invaded Iran in 1980.”
“So you’re staying?” Jose asked.
Stan closed his eyes. The truth, he could probably do more good at John Glen than he could do here. Congressmen would listen to him. Maybe he could even help shape policy. What was he going to do out here, driving these overweight tanks with their nitpicky problems and commanded by Colonel Martinet himself?
His wife wanted him to leave. His son desperately needed him to leave. From John Glen, if nothing else, he could pull strings. Crane had already said the corporation had a policy about helping relatives in trouble with the government. Besides, Stan thought, he could no longer endure the humiliation of serving here, not with being passed over yet again for major.
“I can’t stay, Jose. I’m sorry.”
Colonel Walter Wilson sat behind his mammoth desk staring at Stan.
Everything in the office was at right angles to everything else. The photographs on the wall showing Wilson with various dignitaries or superior officers were perfectly aligned. The desk and everything on the desk sat precisely at the right spot. There was no dust, no dirt and absolutely no sand on anything. The colonel’s shirt and jacket were impeccably pressed. His shoes shone. His black hair looked as if he’d just left the barber’s shop and his pinkish skin showed that he zealously kept the sun’s rays from damaging his cells.
“You have three minutes,” the colonel said.
It was three minutes to twelve and Stan and everyone on base knew that the colonel would be in the officer’s mess sipping a glass of wine as he watched the waiter march out to take his order at 12:05. It took four minutes to walk from the office to the officer’s mess, and it took one minute for the colonel to walk into the mess and reach his chair at his table. Thus, he could now afford Stan three minutes.
Stan wiped his brow. He was still sweating. The air conditioner in the Humvee had quit working several days ago. His jacket was stifling. Why couldn’t Wilson lower the temperature in here?
Stan wondered if Wilson had read how Douglas MacArthur had changed his clothes several times a day. MacArthur had seldom appeared to sweat or show any sign that heat bothered him. He had simply changed shirts, and thus they had usually been free of stains.
A trickle of sweat worked down Stan’s back, letting him know he was nothing like Douglas MacArthur or Colonel Wilson.
“Sir—” Stan said.
“You’d better hurry up,” Wilson said. “You have two minutes and thirty-five seconds. I suggest you use the time judiciously.”
Stan wiped his brow again as his heart thudded. This was just so damn hard to say. Just do it then. Get it over with, already.
“I’m resigning my commission, sir,” Stan blurted.
Wilson couldn’t sit any straighter, as he already sat ramrod stiff. He placed his hands on the desk, spreading his fingers until they were all equidistantly apart from each other.
“Is this more of your Alaskan humor?” Wilson asked.
“No, sir, I’m…I’m going to John Glen in D.C. It’s a think tank, sir.”
Wilson frowned. He had a long face. The frown put two vertical lines between his eyes. One of those lines was slanted off-center. Stan had never noticed that before.
Wilson is off-center. He tries, but he isn’t straight like he wants to be. I wonder what the colonel is trying to hide.
“You’re quitting the Army during its darkest hour, is that it?” Wilson asked.
“No, sir, that’s not it.”
Wilson snorted in derision. “If you resign your commission it means you’re quitting the military, the Army. That is what you’re saying, is it not?”
“No, sir, it means I’ll be able to help my son. He’s in a Detention Center.”
Wilson’s chin lifted as he made a scoffing noise. “Our country is the on the brink of war facing ten million enemy soldiers and that’s the best excuse you can find to scamper away in fear. Let your son stew there and learn a valuable lesson about patriotism.”
“There isn’t going to be a war,” Stan said. If he said it enough times, he might even come to believe it. Why, Jake, why?
“Ah, more or your gifted historical insight, is it?” Wilson asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“Ah, we have grown bold now, Captain.”
“No sir. What I think—”
Wilson held up a long-fingered hand. “I do not accept criticism from a quitter. Nor do I accept criticism after the fact. If you had wanted to criticize, you should have done so while under my command.”
“I did criticize your actions,” Stan said with heat. “It’s why you failed yet again to help promote me to major.”
“So, you’re sulking over that, are you? This talk about your boy is merely your cover story.”