Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  The others watched in silence.

  As Tian kicked, Zhu released his tormenter’s legs. He grabbed a rock as his fingers tightened like wires around it. He lifted the rock and lurched at his enemy. He was going to smash Tian Jintao’s face.

  Before that happened, Tian made it to his knees and his fist caught Zhu under the jaw. Zhu dropped the rock as he crumpled to the ground. He lay there, stunned, with ringing in his ears.

  “He’s too stupid to quit,” someone observed.

  “He’s also much too skinny,” someone else said.

  “The Americans will kill him the first time we fight.”

  “I don’t think he’ll run away, at least.”

  “He won’t get the chance because the Americans will kill him like that.” Someone snapped his fingers.

  “I think he meant to kill you, First Rank. It’s clear he has no sense of proportion.”

  “Yes,” Tian Jintao said. “The new boy knows how to hate. That’s better than crying.”

  “I saw tears in his eyes. He feels pain too much.”

  “He’s weak,” Tian Jintao said. “Now that he’s in Mexico, he can eat more. Let him put some muscle on his bones. Who knows what will happen.” He paused before saying, “Anyway, he’s ours, and we know now he’s too stupid to quit. If he can actually control his jetpack, we can at least use him to ferry supplies.”

  “That’s true. He can ferry supplies.”

  “Yes. If he can’t fight, he can still be useful as an errand boy.”

  “Wake up, Fighter Rank,” Tian said. “It’s time we got back to base.”

  Water poured onto Zhu’s head and despite the ringing in his ears, the world came back into focus. First Rank Tian held out his hand. Zhu took it, helped up to his feet.

  Then the world spun and he staggered, trying to remain standing. The world spun worse and Zhu shuddered as his body spasmed. He vomited in front of the others, shamed. When he wiped his mouth, trying to focus his blurring vision, Tian nodded. Tian didn’t smile, but he acknowledged him.

  “You belong to Red Squad,” Tian said. “You are too weak, too small and too slow to fight well. I think it is only that you are too stupid to quit that you made it into the White Tigers. From now on, you will carry our supplies.”

  Zhu bowed his head, and that made him vomit again. His cheeks burned as shame consumed him. When he straightened, the others slung their canteen straps over his head. Then, as a group, they began to run back to camp. Zhu struggled to keep up with them, weighted down by the canteens and slowed by the pounding in his head. Doggedly, he followed. He belonged to Red Squad Bai Hu, and he would die rather than shame himself by failing to bring the others their supplies.

  LAS VEGAS TESTING GROUNDS, NEVADA

  While wearing dark sunglasses, Captain Stan Higgins’s shoulders slumped as he bounced about in his seat. He rode in an old Humvee back to base, with the big tires crunching over sand and gravel. A scowling, sunglasses-wearing Jose drove them through a bright desert.

  Jose was short and fat and he had been with Stan in Alaska, the gunner of their M1A2 tank. After the war, Jose had followed him into the Army, remaining as his gunner, but now of an X1 Behemoth. Jose’s youngest son ran his old mechanic shop in Anchorage. Because of his roly-poly physique, Jose was always wheedling another yearlong exemption for the Army’s weight limit. That he was the unit’s best gunner had something to do with his success gaining it. As did his mechanical skills. In the Alaskan National Guard, Jose had often worked late at night to keep their M1A2s running. Of course, no one had expected an old, fat, ex-National Guardsman to be able to help on the latest technological marvel on the testing grounds. Yet Jose had done that three times already, his “fix” finding its way into the Behemoth’s tech manual each time.

  Stan had just told Jose about his decision to leave the Army and go to D.C. as a John Glen analyst.

  The Humvee roared through the desert sands of the testing ground. They passed rocks and darting lizards, leaving a billowing sand cloud behind them.

  “I can help you,” Jose said.

  “Huh?” asked Stan. He lifted his chin off his chest. He’d been thinking about how he was going to tell the colonel his decision as soon as they returned to base.

  “I can give you a loan,” Jose said. “How much did you say your son needed?”

  “Ten thousand new dollars,” Stan said.

  Jose glanced at him. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Stan shook his head. “I never expected you to give me money or a loan for that matter.”

  Jose tightened his grip of the steering wheel. His fat shoulders hunched up and his head leaned forward. “I could take out a mortgage on the shop.”

  “No,” Stan said. “I could never—”

  “You can’t leave the Army! We need you.”

  “Believe me, it isn’t something I want to do.” Stan frowned, wondering if that was true. He loved tanks but he was sick of taking orders from a martinet like Colonel Wilson.

  Over three hundred years ago, there had been a Jean Martinet, the Inspector General of the army of the Sun King, Louis XIV of France. The Inspector General had been a stickler for rules and etiquette beyond that of common sense. His brand of insanity had coined a word—martinet—and Colonel Wilson could have been a reincarnation of the Sun King’s old Inspector General.

  It would be good to leave the testing grounds, Stan decided as the top of his head struck the Humvee’s ceiling.

  “Sorry,” Jose said. The front left tire had hit and climbed a large rock, shaking the Humvee.

  Stan grunted his acceptance of the apology. Imagine—no more silly orders, no more snapping off precise salutes or penning time-wasting reports for the colonel. He wouldn’t have to endure the colonel’s scathing words either. The Army wasn’t like the Alaskan National Guard. It had been informal in Alaska, working with the same men for years. Here, a man like Colonel Wilson could torpedo those under him, making life miserable enough so the joy leaked away. Sure, the colonel was smart, and he knew more about electromagnetic projectiles than just about any one. The colonel had a Ph.D. on the subject and years of experimental research. He lacked leadership skills and military acumen, however. Stan would hate to see the colonel try to maneuver the Behemoths in battle.

  “There has to be something I can do,” Jose said.

  Stan blinked himself out of his reverie, glancing at his friend. Jose had a round head. He’d been losing hair and was almost bald now. Because of that, the man always wore a cap. This one was an old hunting cap with furry earflaps that were badly frayed on the ends.

  Jose turned to him. “If I mortgage my shop—”

  “No!” Stan said, louder than he’d meant to.

  Jose winced as if Stan had hit him.

  “Look,” Stan said. “It…it is against regulations for me to accept a loan from one of my men, especially a large loan. I appreciate the offer, though. I really do.”

  “We need you,” Jose said, watching the desert, swerving to miss a rock.

  As he swayed in his seat, Stan shook his head. “There are still too many glitches in the Behemoths to take them into combat. That’s all you’d really need me for, fighting Chinese. The colonel can take care of the experiments here. Besides, the Chinese aren’t stupid enough to start a continental war with us.”

  “There are six million reasons why I disagree,” Jose said.

  “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.”

  Stan’s eyes narrowed and he scooted forward on his chair until he felt the edge against his butt. If he moved forward any more he’d slip off. The heat in his chest now leaped onto his tongue, igniting it. “You’re a coward, Wilson. You hide behind your rank and use rules to gloss over your mistakes. I’ve read about your kind. Now I’ve seen your kind in action. What you need is a life. Look at this office. Why is everything so perfectly set? Imagine the time it takes to worry and fuss with all that.”

  Wilson leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin with his two index fingers pressed together.

  “I always knew you were a fake, Captain. The Medal of Honor, it was a prop a former President used to hide…I’m still not sure what he was hiding. But I know it was something.” Wilson shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that you wish to scamper
away at this time, you still have obligations.”

  “I’ll stay until my replacement is sent out,” Stan said. Would Wilson try to keep him against his will? Had the President signed a new order about such things?

  “I will expedite the matter, of that you can be sure,” Wilson said. “The Army doesn’t need your kind. Good riddance to you, I say.”

  Stan nodded, turning from Wilson. I can’t believe it. We’re acting like boys, not men. The Chinese won’t attack, I can’t afford for them to attack.

  “Ah. I see that your time is up, Captain. Or should I say, Mr. Higgins?”

  “No, it is still Captain for a few more days,” Stan said.

  “Hmm,” Wilson said. “Good day then, Captain. Be sure to fill out the proper paperwork and to finish your report on the X1 Five. Dismissed!” he said, standing.

  Stan stood too, feeling more defeated than ever.

  FIRST FRONT HEADQUARTERS, MEXICO

  Marshal Nung’s right hand ached. He had signed hundreds of operational orders today. The bureaucratic procedures needed to move masses of munitions and troops stole precious time from reflective thought. Two millions soldiers and their support troops all carefully coordinated into one—

  Nung shook his head. He sat at his desk surrounded by his staff, all of them busily at work. The rustle of cloth, the tapping of screens, typing, breathing, sipping drinks, munching on snacks added to the hive-like quality. Nung imagined himself as the chief ant in a vast colony, issuing orders that would send thousands of scurrying couriers onto their motorcycles to various divisions and corps headquarters. Most of his orders were personally given by hand, making it impossible for the Americans to intercept or decode them. The little things like this often won a diligent commander immortality on the battlefield. In the end, it was worth taking such pains. Even old Marshal Gang had seen the wisdom of that.

  Gang…Nung shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Kao’s intriguer. He had more important things to spend his time on.

  We’re busy ants. Nung grinned. He used to watch ants as a child outside Shanghai. He would catch a fly in their house, with his little and quite grubby fingers on the window. Once caught, he’d carefully pulled off the fly’s wings. The fly’s legs crawling inside his cupped hand used to make him laugh because it tickled his skin. He’d taken the wingless fly and dropped it onto a busy ant hole. How the ants had swarmed upon the struggling fly, biting its squirming legs and then its head. That’s what he wanted to do to the Americans, immobilize them so he could pick them to pieces. The Blue Swan missiles would be like his little fingers pulling off the wings. That would leave the Americans defenseless against his massed ant assault.