She turned away, but Jake decided that she had touched him, why couldn’t he touch her? Fair was fair, right? So he grabbed her and pulled her back.
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
He let go. “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you. Are you okay?”
“You can’t touch me. Frank will kick you out of here if you touch me.”
“Mr. Square, you mean?”
“Look,” she said.
Jake slapped his chest, and until this moment, he hadn’t gotten himself into any more trouble than a young man might in such a place. He opened his mouth, and he talked loudly again.
“I killed for our country. I shot and stabbed Chinese invaders so free Americans can speak their mind. I don’t mind saying what I think, do you know that?”
The girl stared at him.
Jake slapped his chest again. He liked her staring at him and he liked talking about something so close to his heart. He had spent time in the detention center because he had what his dad called moral courage. He dared to speak truth to power. America needed more of that. Sure, it was a fight to the death with the invaders, but freedom only came to those willing to pay the heavy cost.
“I’ll speak to who I want to speak to and I’ll say what I think about anything,” he said.
She nodded, with her eyes wide.
“Do you know that the President has made decrees that are against the law?” Jake asked.
She shook her head.
“Oh yeah,” Jake said. “But I figure Sims believes he’s doing right. It’s that other guy.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Jake made a face. He was so drunk his features felt numb, as if he moved cardboard. “Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, he’s a fascist. He doesn’t like letting Americans say what they want to. You know what…”
“What?” she asked.
“What’s your name?” Jake asked.
“Sheila.”
“Sheila,” Jake said—and suddenly he had to take a piss again. He really needed to go. He’d been drinking beer like a horse for hours upon hours. The need welled up and overpowered him. If he rushed into the restroom, Sheila would go elsewhere. He liked her. She even wanted to meet after work.
His drunken mind spun fast, and it came to him then in totally clarity what would impress a stripper.
“Watch this,” Jake said. He pulled out his wallet, fumbled to open it and fumbled even more to draw out his Militia card. It was like a driver’s license, but had two pictures instead of just one. It had his mug shot, and it showed in the opposite corner Director Max Harold of Homeland Security.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you said you don’t have any more money.”
“I’m giving you a visual of my feelings,” Jake said. He tossed the ID card onto the floor and zipped down his fly.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” she said.
Jake dug out his shlong and whipped it out. Normally, he couldn’t use a urinal if someone stood beside him using the next one. He needed to piss alone. But the beer poured through his system and his bladder was just plum full. Jake proceeded to urinate onto the Militia ID card, particularly on the director.
It caused a minor outrage in the strip joint. The square-shaped bouncer hurried near. Sheila backed away and looked at Jake in horror, while a large man with red eyes and a redder nose took out a voice recorder. He spoke into it before marching near.
“Hey,” Jake said. “Unhand me.”
The bouncer had a fierce grip, and the man was strong.
“Let me zip up at least,” Jake said.
“Just a moment,” the large man with red eyes said. “You’re a Militiaman?” he asked Jake.
“That’s right. What’s it to you?”
“I heard some of what you’ve been saying. What did you just think you were doing?”
“Pissing on the director,” Jake said proudly.
The man’s red eyes squinted. “The director of what?” he asked.
The girl stepped near, and maybe she was thinking about warning Jake.
Jake missed it, and he therefore missed his last chance to stay out of bad trouble. “Are you kidding me, mister?” Jake asked. “I’m an American and I tell it like it is. The director is the dictator’s puppet, and he’s taking away too many of our liberties.”
“Do you mean Max Harold?” the red-eyed man asked.
“Yeah, I mean him,” Jake said.
“Shut up!” Sheila said. “Don’t say anything more.”
The big red-eyed man glanced at Sheila and then back at Jake. “Would you care to repeat that?” he asked Jake.
Jake saw the voice recorder. In his blurry mind, it seemed like a TV reporter’s microphone. He leaned near, figuring that finally someone would go on record and say it like it was.
“Jake,” Sheila said.
“The Director of Homeland Security is the dictator’s puppet,” Jake said slowly in his slurry voice. “He’s taking away too many of our precious American liberties, and I for one am not going to stand for it any longer.”
Sheila groaned and shook her head.
Jake grinned at the red-eyed man.
The big man used his thumb to turn off the recorder. He stuffed it in his pocket before turning to the bouncer. “Put him in the other room,” he said.
“Beat him up?” the bouncer asked.
“No,” the big man said. “I’m calling my MPs. I know exactly what to do with a dissenter like this.”
“What’s that?” Sheila asked.
The big man looked at her in surprise. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“No. I just met him tonight.”
“Well, say goodbye to him,” the big man said. “Unless I miss my guess, he’s headed for New England for one of the new penal battalions.”
“Who are you?” Jake asked, with the first touch of worry in his voice.
“Take him,” the big man told the bouncer. “And keep him there until my MPs arrive.”
The bouncer twisted Jake’s arm behind his back.
“Hey, let go of me,” Jake said. No one paid any attention as Mr. Square marched him against his will into a holding room. He struggled, but then it hit him hard: the amount of alcohol he’d poured into his system.
“Just a minute,” he mumbled. Then Jake vomited for the second time tonight. He would pay for this later, he knew, but he didn’t really realize just how much.
-3-
Choices
General Walther Mansfeld, the commanding general of the GD Expeditionary Force in North America, rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He was an athletic man, a former gymnast who had won a bronze medal on the parallel bars in the 2016 Olympics. At fifty, he was short, trim and in excellent condition. He ran three kilometers every day and stretched to keep himself limber. More importantly, he had a razor-sharp intellect and he knew himself to be the best battlefield commander in the German Dominion, which meant he was the best in the world.
Excellence in all things, it was Mansfeld’s motto. The only one who had ever approached him in ability was the Chancellor. Normally, Kleist held all the cards. The one thing Chancellor Kleist couldn’t do was win a battle brilliantly. It’s why the man had let him live four months ago when Kleist had summoned him with the thought to execute him.
Mansfeld tapped the computer battle map. A hot cup of coffee steamed beside it, his fifth this morning. He drank far too much, but he needed the caffeine, as it helped to stimulate his thoughts.
Mansfeld picked up the cup and sipped delicately as his steely eyes studied the military situation. So far, the battles had gone to form just as he had predicted in Berlin that day. The Canadians fought well given their inferior weaponry. The Americans showed stubbornness, and they steadily added reinforcements as they lost engagement after engagement. He had tested his opposite number and found the commanding American general wanting. The man would continue to add driblets. The American General Staff and perhaps the President hadn’t yet realized their danger. How could they? They were not geniuses of battle like him.