by Schow, Ryan
“No,” Hu replied, his answer immediate.
“I’m not sure you have a choice,” Guerrero challenged with a hint of humor to his voice. When Hu didn’t respond right away, Zheng stepped in and took the reins.
“You most certainly have that choice,” Zheng said to President Guerrero, “but if that convoy does not reach its destination, I will personally hunt you and your General to the ends of the earth. And when I find you, I’ll cut you from sternum to stem, then pull out your guts and shove them down Desoto’s throat.”
Zheng was not known for his diplomacy; he was, however, notorious for his cruelty and a man of his word. Faint laughter filled the line.
General Desoto.
The heat in Zheng’s cheeks doubled, his fist tightening, the grip on the phone blanching his knuckles.
“I will give you and your troops safe passage into Southern California, but we will retain Northern California,” Hu said with resolve before Zheng could reassert himself. “But I need your assurances that my team at Diablo Canyon will remain under your protection. I know your concern for the welfare of this land is minimal, but if you want to keep your spoils—and they will be your spoils—then you must let them decommission this plant.”
“I will bring in my own people for that,” Guerrero said. “And your men and women will have safe passage into Northern California, should we reach an agreement.”
“Drawing the lines in California,” Hu said, as if he expected this, “I suggest we divide the state by cities, starting with Monterey, Salinas and Paicines on the West Coast. Are you looking at a map?”
“I am,” Guerrero said.
“Draw a line through Mendota, Kerman and Fresno and everything south of highway 180 in the center of the state.”
“I’m following,” the Mexican President replied.
“Then cross Kings Canyon National Park, Waucoba Mountain and Grapevine Peak on the eastern border of the state. If you are in agreement with that, I believe we can successfully seal this accord.”
“I’m in agreement,” Guerrero said.
“I’ll wait to hear that my men in Arizona have resumed their journey and will suffer no further setbacks,” Hu said, “and then I’ll give the orders allowing your men to cross into Southern California safely.”
“Your men will be allowed safe passage to the Palo Verde plant, President Hu,” Guerrero beamed. “I will call in the orders as soon as we conclude here.”
They exchanged formal good-byes and then all parties hung up. Zheng’s line rang back. He picked it up right away, speaking before Hu could even offer a formal greeting. “I didn’t expect that, President Hu. Nor did I know about the intercepted transport.”
“I want you to know that I don’t blame you for not knowing about Arizona. That happened while you were in the air.”
“Still, someone could have alerted me to this,” Zheng argued, embarrassed, but covering it up with a slight tone of agitation.
“We’re upgrading your phone’s software and fine tuning the satellites now,” Hu said. “This has to do with Yale and our forward operations there. It was not necessary that you were alerted, nor is this an issue.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, remembering mention of the software upgrades several days back. This was when Zheng was in the final stages of planning his visit to the former United States of America.
“As soon as Guerrero’s troops are given safe passage into California, the moment the last man enters this state,” Hu said, a darkness creeping into his voice, “we will lay waste to California, reducing their bones to nothing more than smoke and cinder.”
“That makes me happy to hear, sir,” Zheng said.
“I want the SAA’s troop movements tracked to the meter,” Hu demanded. “We’ve got a dedicated satellite for your phone. You should be online within thirty minutes. Forty-five at the latest.”
“What about our men?” Zheng asked, already working on the logistics.
“By then,” Hu said, ignoring the question, or preparing to answer it another way, “our fleet of B52 Stratofortresses will already be over the Pacific.”
“What about our men?” he asked again, stressing the question. “I cannot mobilize them and get them out in time. Not with so many of them dug in.”
“Like I said,” Hu replied, blind to Zheng’s concern, “we’re going to turn that state into a pile of ash.”
“The entire state?” Zheng asked, a cold slick washing over him.
“With the exception of Diablo Canyon,” Hu said, that familiar ominous edge back in his voice, “not even the cockroaches will survive.”
“How can we ensure Diablo Canyon doesn’t suffer the fallout?” Zheng asked.
He had not been privy to Hu’s plans. This sign of distrust was a grave concern. He thought he had the President’s confidence, but perhaps Hu knew him too well. Zheng would never have agreed to such a betrayal.
“There will be no fallout with the ordnance we have prepared,” Hu said, his voice bright once more. “And I have ordered a wide berth around the plant, as you know. This is why the plant housing authority created such clear lines—to avoid any interruptions the deaths of our technicians might present.”
“What about Pismo Beach and San Luis Obispo?” Zheng asked.
“We’ll hit San Luis Obispo with a different strategy, but Pismo Beach will get boots-on-the-ground. It will be a confiscation and mop up operation.”
He swallowed hard, his throat unexpectedly dry. “What about our troops?” Zheng asked again. He was getting tired of asking the same question and getting no response. But it was the only question that truly mattered to him anymore.
“What about them?!” Hu barked.
“They’ll be killed, sir,” he said, uncharacteristically soft spoken.
“This world has an overpopulation problem, Da Xiao Zheng,” Hu snarled. Then, taking a breath and settling his tone, he added, “I’m sure you understand the brilliance of this plan. We will stomp on this stack of problems with one giant foot.”
Forcing a smile he did not feel, Zheng said, “Truly enlightening, sir.”
“Get to Yale tonight,” Hu ordered. “That will put you in the air for a good five to six hours. We have a convoy with Washington’s step-up generator en route. It is to cross the Oregon border without disruption.”
“Do you have a current location on this particular convoy?” Zheng asked.
“They are traveling the last leg of California, heading for the Oregon border. They may need air support if Five Falls proves to be the menace I’m told they are. Beyond that, with our foothold in Roseburg, I am not worried.”
Zheng looked at his watch, started the calculations in his head. “That would put the convoy ahead of schedule and arriving in Five Falls…within an hour or so.”
“I trust you’ll make direct communication with them,” Hu said.
“When I am online, that will be the first call I make. But I don’t expect to hear from them unless we have an issue, do you?”
“No,” Hu said.
“If any problems arise, I will fly over Five Falls personally.”
“If they need assistance getting through that pestilence of a town—if Five Falls gives them the slightest hint of resistance—you are to provide our convoy with air support.”
“I understand.”
“And if that happens, if so much as a single, defiant bullet flies, you are to clear the convoy and level the entire town. Five Falls and its brigade of redneck Americans has been nothing but a pain in all of China’s ass.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.”
“On second thought,” Hu said, “I would like you to fly over that town regardless. What you do there is up to you. I trust your discretion.”
“Yes, sir,” Zheng said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Keep me posted,” Hu said.
Within thirty minutes, Zheng’s satellite phone was back online. He radioed ahead to the convoy, getting the senior field officer on the line. Zheng addressed the man for
mally, even though they were familiar with each other back home.
“What is your ETA, Shang Xiao Tan?” Zheng asked.
“We’re about an hour out,” Tan said.
“I’m about four hours from Five Falls,” Zheng offered. “If you have even an ounce of resistance, level the entire town. If you can’t get through, let me know and I’ll provide air support, but that won’t be right away due to delays. We’re loaded down and conserving fuel for the flight.”
“Yes, sir,” Tan said. “Should we plan for an alternate course?”
“There is no alternate course,” Zheng assured him. “California is going to be hot in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours and it’s best that we’re long gone by then.”
“How hot, sir?” Tan asked, hesitant.
“Hot enough to melt your bones,” he replied, eliciting from the man a long bout of silence. “I gather from your reticence that you understand.”
“I do,” Tan replied, humbled. All of their countrymen were going to die in the offensive.
“Do we have confirmation about Shao Xiao Chen?” Zheng asked. “He was last heard from just before Five Falls. And Hu is still insisting on confirmation of his death.”
“We have a local asset who claims to have proof Shao Xiao Chen was killed by Five Falls locals in an assault,” Tan responded. “But the asset is not China born, and he is not PLA. Which is to say, his reliability has yet to be tested or verified to my liking.”
“What about your forward team?” Zheng said. “Have they arrived yet?”
“We sent a drone over Five Falls, and there has indeed been a massacre,” Tan answered. “There are the remains of a previous convoy. This seems to fit with our asset’s intel.”
“When you get there, I want visual confirmation of the assault. And I want to know if there are any survivors.”
“I’ll reach out when I get eyes on,” Tan said.
Zheng was flying in the newest version of the Z-10 attack helicopter; his security detail was in a troop transport behind them, in the air and directly on their six. This was much better than being on the ground, in the EQ2050s.
Sitting upper deck as the only passenger on the attack chopper, the weapons controls at his hands, he wondered if he’d get a chance to use the Z-10 to its fullest capabilities. In getting familiar with the panel, he thought of the earlier massacre and prayed for such an opportunity.
As they flew over Redding, Zheng reached out to his counterpart in China. After a brief but formal conversation, he was informed that the fleet of Chicom-built B52 Stratofortress long range bombers were already in the air. He felt a cold chill run through him.
Plans from the famous American long range bomber were stolen decades ago, but production in China did not ramp up until a few years back when the anti-American offensive was overt and underway. By then, the stolen plans and materials meant very little to the American intelligence agencies. With the American president now dead, and half of Congress and the intel agencies on the Chicom payroll, who was going to object? The people? Patriots? He snorted out a subconscious laugh.
Not only was the Chicom government proud that they’d put their hands on this classified data, President Hu and the PLA were even more proud that they were about to use America’s own weapons to destroy them. That’s why the bombers kept their given name.
Now, with five men per craft and a fleet of thirty mega bombers, California didn’t stand a chance, for the newly formed People’s Republic of America was about to have a whole lot less people. When this took place, communist control of the West Coast by the Chicom government was due to reach its pinnacle.
Turning the SAA into a literal bone pile would be the feather in China’s cap. And California? The first Chicom state was done for anyway. They’d seen to that early on. Strategically, having eight hundred miles of wasteland between Mexico and Oregon would insulate California’s two northern states from the hostile southern forces.
The more he thought about Hu’s plan, the more he understood how solid it was. The sacrifice of their forces in the bombing still bothered him, but Hu was right—they had an overpopulation problem. They have always had an overpopulation problem.
Still on the line with his General in China, and turning his attention back to the conversation he’d started, Zheng said, “When will the bombers arrive?”
“I will alert you at the four hour mark,” the man said, “then you can track them from there.”
Zheng checked his watch, then looked at the SAA troop movements using the new program installed via an updated software pack.
“That will be fine,” Zheng said. If anything, Hu was a skilled tactician. Perhaps the most skilled tactician he’d ever encountered. This is what earned Hu his undying respect.
“May I speak freely?” the General asked.
“You may,” Da Xiao Zheng said, irritated by the formality.
“Are we really going to destroy the entire state?”
He heaved a sigh, his attention on the landscape ahead. The horizon was lined with trees and low lying cityscapes, the controlled Chicom-run cities bisected by clean, clear highways. Knowing all of this would soon be laid to waste, he said, “We will destroy as much of it as we can with the ordnance we have. I trust production of the additional bombs is underway?”
“It has been for months,” the man said, a hint of remorse in his tone.
“Well then, you have your answer.”
Chapter Two
Sheriff Clay Nichols started his morning by heading up the hill to the Madigan household. With the windows cranked down, the drive was gorgeous and serene. If he didn’t think about how everything had gone to hell so quickly, he might have felt at peace. But he was not relaxed. If anything, he was the exact opposite.
He pulled the Blazer into the cul-de-sac right where Boone had said to go, then came to a slow stop on soft brakes. Before him was a collection of Chicom vehicles.
Was this a warning to Chicoms, vagrants or thieves, or were the Madigans blocking the tire-tracked hill leading up to their place? He parked, got out of the truck and looked around. The second he squeezed through the cluster of Chicom metal, he saw the massive pile of bones and broken skulls sitting atop a blanket of ash.
“Mother of God,” he said to himself.
How many bodies had been cooked? Rumor had it that they’d been attacked by fifty or more men. He’d chalked this up to exaggeration. Looking at the bone pile, he was now sure the number was accurate.
Clay drew a stabilizing breath, then trudged up the somewhat grassy hill, stepping on loose stones and hard earth. The house came into view just over the hill’s crest. He made his way across a long stretch of battle worn dirt with the feeling of being watched. Moving slowly, non-threateningly, he assumed there was more than one gun on him in that moment. Stephani Madigan stepped out onto the porch just before he reached the house.
“Well don’t you look all dreamy,” she said.
He let out a laugh, the anxiety bleeding out of him. “What the hell happened here?” he asked, hitching a thumb over his shoulder.
“Tough times on the Madigan property,” she replied. “But I’m guessing by now you’ve heard we’re the type of rednecks who defend our land to the death, right?”
“There are whispers,” he answered in jest.
“After we dispensed of the riffraff, we thought we were in the clear. Then those commie pukes decided to press their luck.”
“What do you mean the riffraff?”
“You won’t need to worry about mutineers,” Orbey said, walking out on the porch behind Stephani. She was drying her hands with a hand towel, an apron around her waist.
Clay almost joined them on the porch, but without an invitation, and with that pile of bones just down the hill, he decided it was best to maintain his distance for now.
“When my mother says you don’t need to worry about mutineers, that was the same thing as me saying we took care of the riffraff,” Stephani said, this time tilt
ing her head, like he was supposed to get it.
Yeah, he was pretty sure he was getting it.
Harper joined them out front, held the door open for Logan, who hobbled out on a makeshift cast and some ill-fitting crutches. He found his way to the porch swing. He sat down, handing Harper the crutches. She leaned them against the house.
“She means we killed the bad people in this town,” Harper admitted, spelling it out for him like he was in fifth grade rather than a grown man or the law.
“I got that,” he said.
The house looked like it had taken a hundred rounds easy. Even the back of the porch swing was rebuilt, the wood fresh looking, not yet treated with stains or sealants.
The front door opened again and Cooper moseyed out, heading straight for Clay. If this was a welcoming party, he wasn’t sure if they meant to welcome him or intimidate him. Instead of sniffing him up and down, the German Shepherd pup wandered off a dozen feet into the dirt then walked in a circle with his nose to the ground. Finally he popped a squat and pushed out a hot fudge Sunday.
“Kick a little dirt on that,” Conner called to him. Then to Clay, he said, “Morning, son.”
Clay nodded to the man, and that’s when he realized none of them were smiling. They’d been friendly in town, but up there, on their property, they seemed less than enthusiastic about his presence.
“Look at his brain working overtime,” Stephani said, low, a sneaking smile on her face. “It’s like he’s trying to figure us out. Should he arrest us for murder, or thank us for making his life as Sheriff easier? This is some moral conundrum, Sheriff.”
“Indeed it is,” he said.
He could see each person trying to decide what kind of a Sheriff he would make. Or were they trying to figure him out as a man?
“The truth is, I couldn’t care less if you killed the town degenerates,” he finally said. “My curiosity is peaked, however. Who exactly did you kill?”
“You asking as Clay or Sheriff Nichols?” Orbey wondered aloud.
“As Clay,” he said.
“We don’t really know you,” Logan interrupted, “even though you seem legit, and even though I think maybe we like you. We can work on a basis of trust, right?”
