The Great Destroyers

by Caroline Tung Richmond

I round my shoulders. As much as I want to stay on Team USA, we’ve got a few things to clear up.

  “If you’re going to be my coach again, we’ve got to get some things straight. I can overlook the fact that you underestimated me, but I can’t ignore that you flat-out didn’t believe me when I said that I didn’t poison anyone.”

  Malcolm’s jaw works. “In my defense, I did find the evidence in your own room.”

  “And that evidence wasn’t mine, now was it? You never even apologized.”

  Color flushes over his throat and up into his cheeks. “You sure you want to go down this route?”

  “If we’re going to work together, you have to trust me. And, yeah, I want an apology.”

  I think he’s going to turn around and walk away, especially since his face is getting pinker and pinker by the second, but in the end, he says grumpily, “I apologize for not believing you.”

  I’m tempted to gloat. To be smug. To say, Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? But since we’ll be spending a lot of time together over the course of the next year, I opt for a nod and a handshake.

  “Looks like we have a championship title to win,” I say.

  “It won’t be easy. Chances are that Lidiya and Zoya will both be there.”

  I grin. “Good.”

  In the distance, I see a car pull up to the entrance gate and realize that my ride is here. But Malcolm isn’t quite finished yet.

  “One more thing. You’ve got yourself a sponsorship offer.”

  “I do? Who?” I say, utterly shocked. I’d figured that every endorsement deal had dried up like the Sahara days ago.

  “It’s an esterium refinery in South Vietnam. Minister Tran reached out to me and made the introductions.”

  I almost laugh. So that’s why the minister mentioned that he had something to discuss with me back at the hearing. “What do they want me to sell? Batteries?” I imagine myself with a made-up face and a pasted-on grin while holding a heavy esterium battery under each arm.

  “My take is that they want to snap a few photos of you in front of their logo and cash in on your newfound fame to raise their profile over in the Orient,” Malcolm says.

  This time I do laugh, mostly out of bewilderment. The only company that wants me as a spokesperson is a refinery halfway across the world that happens to appreciate the fact that I’m half Chinese. It feels a little too scripted, a little too Hollywood, but I’m not complaining because this means that I won’t leave Washington with empty pockets.

  “Take a few days to think it over,” Malcolm says.

  “Nah, I don’t need that much time. How’s the compensation?”

  “It won’t make you a millionaire, but it’s fair.”

  That’s all I needed to hear. “Then when can I sign on the dotted line?”

  Malcolm clucks his tongue at me. “I’ll drop the contract in the mail for you to look over. Read the fine print before you agree to anything, rookie.”

  I smirk as I shoulder my bag, “Don’t flip your wig, but you shouldn’t say Orient anymore unless you want to sound like a dipstick. Later, Coach.”

  I jog away with a new pep in my step, not only because I got in one last dig against Malcolm but because this sponsorship money will go a long way back home. For the first time in a long while, I feel a tension ease inside my chest, and I start breathing a little easier.

  I open the car’s trunk and shove my things inside.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I say to Sam, who’s in the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird.

  “Don’t mention it. You all set?” he says as he leans over to open the front passenger door for me.

  I slide right into those soft leather seats. “You have no idea.”

  Sam presses on the gas, and we drive straight past Malcolm, who slowly vanishes as we coast through the Pavilion. I can’t say that I’m going to miss my coach very much.

  “Did Malcolm invite you to the Invitational? He mentioned that he would,” Sam says.

  “I start training for it next month.”

  He takes a hand off the wheel and gives me a high five. “Attagirl. Looks like I’ve found a replacement on Team USA.”

  “Don’t worry. Your slot will be in good hands,” I say teasingly. “If all goes well, I’ll be heading to the World Championships next summer.”

  “Getting cocky already, huh?” Sam chuckles before sliding a glance my way. “Promise me you won’t let Lidiya take that title again?”

  “She’ll have to pry it out of my Goliath’s cold dead hands.” I let myself relish that thought, of beating Lidiya on the world stage and hoisting that medal above my head. I swear that image is going to fuel me through the end of this year and into the next. “How about you? Have you decided to go pro?”

  “My first match will be in September. It’ll be in Macau against Pyotr Karelin.”

  I whistle. “Karelin the Cretin. Watch out for his uppercut, although he must be pushing forty by now. You’ll beat him.”

  “I better. I do have a reputation to maintain, you know,” Sam says in his breezy way.

  I look out the window. Even though the Games are over, a fair number of tourists bustle about the city, heading to the memorials and posing in front of the Reflecting Pool and waiting at a monorail stop.

  “You know, I kept meaning to take a ride on that thing,” Sam says as we drive parallel to the monorail tracks.

  “Same here,” I reply. We both could’ve stayed longer in Washington if we really wanted to—played tourist and all that—but I get the feeling that Sam wants to put the ’63 Games behind him just as much as I do. We’d rather focus on what’s ahead. “Any big plans for the summer?”

  “You’re looking at it. I’m driving cross-country and aiming for San Diego this time. Never been before, so why not? I have a cousin there who’ll probably let me crash with him for a while.”

  “Probably? As in he doesn’t know you’re coming?”

  “Nope, but how can he turn away this handsome mug?” He bats his eyes at me, and I swat at him like old times. “I plan on heading up the coast after that. Maybe I could stop by Frisco on the way up.”

  “Oh God. Nobody calls it Frisco.” This makes me crack a smile. “But yes, you better stop by. I can show you around town and take you out to the best seafood you’ve ever had.”

  “Your treat?”

  “My treat, you cheapskate.”

  “Then pencil me in for sometime in July.”

  “You sure it won’t be August? You know, in case you decide to bum around the beaches of San Diego for a while.” I can’t resist ribbing him. “I bet your fan club would take turns rubbing tanning oil on your shoulders.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I’ve got other plans around then.” His easy smile fades and his face turns somber. “I’m finally going to do it. I’m heading to Iwo Jima.”

  “Wow,” I breathe out. “That’s really something, Sam.”

  “It’s the closest I’ll ever get to meeting him. The wreckage is too deep, but being out there, smelling the air, touching the water, I think it’ll be enough.”

  “Your father would be proud.”

  “Yeah, well …” Sam shrugs. He’s still staring through the windshield, but I can tell his eyes are focused on something else. On the open ocean, maybe. Or on his dad. “What about you? Ever thought about visiting where your mom died?”

  “No, not really,” I say swiftly, but it’s the truth. I’ve never been curious at seeing where she passed. It hasn’t held any appeal to me—because it wouldn’t change the fact that she left us.

  But I am starting to think more about where she came from. Not only the little farm town where she grew up, but where her family called home long before that, way back in China. Long ago, one of our ancestors decided to sail across the Pacific and make a new home in a place they’d never seen. They’re the reason why I was born in California and why I’m an American today.

  And even though they couldn’t become citizens or cast a vot
e, they were Americans too. No matter what anyone else believed.

  If it weren’t for them, could I have ended up like Rushi?

  Or Envoy Yu?

  The thoughts make me shiver.

  “You look like you’re plotting to kill someone,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “Hope it isn’t me, kiddo.”

  “It will be if you call me kiddo again,” I say, thinking quickly.

  His grin returns. “I only call you that because I can never remember your name, youngster.”

  We share a laugh and he punches me on the arm but I don’t mind it one bit, and I get a strange feeling that I’m going to miss him. Just a few weeks ago, I would’ve spit on the ground he walked on if given the chance. I guess it only took an international crisis to get us to this point.

  When we reach Washington National Airport, Sam and I say our official goodbyes. He deposits me on the curb, gives me a great big hug, and sees me off.

  “See you soon, Jo,” he calls out, one arm waving at me lazily before climbing back into the car.

  The airport isn’t huge, so it isn’t too difficult to locate Peter and Dad. I chuckle when I spot them because it looks like my brother has dragged our father to one of those tacky souvenir shops that hawks magnets and beer mugs. Peter is sporting a new red-white-and-blue baseball cap while Dad is clutching on to a couple of gift bags and looking none too pleased about it.

  When Peter sees me coming, he’s already on his feet and pulling me toward his chair because he wants to show me something.

  “Look!” he says, riffling through one of the bags to lift up a white T-shirt that looks perfectly ordinary until he unfolds it to reveal a print of Sam’s face and mine right next to it, under the words Team USA!

  It scares me a little because my face has been printed in a garish orange hue, giving me the look of a jack-o’-lantern. “What is that, Peter?”

  “I had to get something for Mrs. Watters! And wait until you see this.” He proceeds to hold up the newspaper article he has been reading that includes a picture taken during my official photo shoot where I look like a spiffed-up cream puff. I feel myself blush, so I turn the page.

  “You didn’t even read the thing!” Peter says. “It said that the mayor of San Francisco wants to rename a street after you. What do you think about Josephine Linden Way?”

  “Can they even cram all those letters onto a single street sign?”

  “Or they could shorten it to Linden Street,” he offers.

  “And let you claim some of the credit? No thank you,” I tease.

  “Hey, I did save your butt on the National Mall.”

  “You’re going to keep reminding me about that, aren’t you?”

  “Sure will. I’m not too bad working a Goliath from the inside. Maybe I’ll join you in the pit more.”

  I turn to look at him, really look at him. My little brother who isn’t so little anymore, and I smile because I can’t think of anything I’d like more than having a sparring partner. “Sounds like I’ll have some competition.”

  Over the loudspeakers, we hear that our plane is now boarding first-class passengers. It doesn’t quite register that she’s talking about us until Dad gets to his feet and motions for us to do the same.

  “Let’s get moving. Don’t you two want to go home?” he says. “Peter, help your sister with her things.”

  It’s more of the other way around in that I have to help Peter gather all the magazines he has bought from the newsstand to keep him company on the plane—there’s a copy of Popular Mechanics and another of Bot Daily and another of Mechas of Tomorrow. And while I’m doing that, I hear a gasp behind me.

  It’s a young white boy, probably eight or nine years old. He’s staring at me with big eyes. “You’re … you’re her!”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “I am her. What’s your name, buddy?”

  “G-G-George.” He starts rooting through his backpack and quickly produces a notepad and a pen. “Say, could you sign this for me?”

  I’m smiling as I uncap the pen. Who would’ve thought that I’d be doing this last month? Heck, just a couple days ago, I’d figured that my whole reputation would be stained for the rest of my life and now here I am signing an autograph. And no one’s throwing rotten rice at me this time.

  “I want to be a fighter like you when I grow up. So does my sister,” George says.

  That’s when I glance behind him to see a little girl, maybe six years old, hiding behind their father’s legs. She’s clutching on to a camera and her dad is trying to push her toward me, but she’s shaking her head.

  “Hi there,” I say, my voice going soft as I kneel down. “You want a picture?”

  She nods.

  “Let’s take one together, okay?”

  Shyly, she gives her dad the camera and shuffles toward me, her eyes flitting between mine and the floor until we’re side by side. Her father tells us to say “Cheese” and the flash goes off.

  “I heard you want to be a fighter,” I say to her. “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she practically squeaks. “Just like you.”

  “Well, you can and you should. We need more girls in this game.”

  “I watched all your matches on TV.” She gets this twinkle in her eye. “I shouted so loud that my mommy told me to be quiet.”

  I let out a deep laugh and give her ponytail a playful tug. “I think I might’ve heard you all the way in the stadium.” Then I crouch down again so that I can talk to her eye to eye. “And I’m going to need you cheering for me next summer. You think you can do that?”

  “You’ll be on TV again?”

  “You bet I will, and you know what?” I make sure to lean in close so that only she can hear me. “I’m going to win the World Championships, just you wait.”

  For my editor, Jody Corbett, especially for your endless patience and generosity while I tried (and tried some more) to get this book right. Thank you for never giving up on me! The Great Destroyers simply wouldn’t exist without you.

  For my literary agent, Jim McCarthy, who has stuck with me through thick and thin for over a decade. I’m so lucky to have you on my side.

  For all the folks at Scholastic who worked on this book and got it in your hands: Stephanie Yang, Josh Berlowitz, Jael Fogle, Janell Harris, Erin Berger, Rachel Feld, Shannon Pender, Elisabeth Ferrari, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, the entire sales force, and the Clubs and Fairs.

  For my two children, who make me smile every day, even when you’ve been very naughty. This book is dedicated to you.

  For my sister, Kristy, who has listened to me gripe and groan whenever I struggled with writer’s block and who sent me funny memes to cheer me up. I’m forever grateful for you, little sis.

  For Allie and Amanda, who are the best friends I ever could’ve asked for. Thank you for always cheering me on, even when I was extra surly in high school.

  For the childcare providers and teachers who watched over my two precious overlords so that I could draft and revise in blessed quiet. You’re the real heroes.

  For all the writers who are struggling with their manuscripts. I feel you. I am you! And I’m here to say that you can get through this. Take a breath, take a break, scream into a pillow if you need to—and come back to your book when you’re ready. We writers can be a solitary bunch, typing away in our little darkened corners, but I hope you know that you aren’t alone. I raise my cold mug of coffee to you in salute.

  And finally, for the readers: thank you!

  Caroline Tung Richmond is the author of the alternative history novels The Only Thing to Fear and Live in Infamy, as well as the historical fiction novel The Darkest Hour. She also works for We Need Diverse Books, a nonprofit that seeks to create a world where all children can find themselves on the pages of a book.

  A self-proclaimed history nerd and cookie connoisseur, Caroline lives in Maryland with her family and her dog, Otto von Bismarck—named for the German chancellor (naturally). You can find out more about a
t her at carolinetrichmond.com.

  ALSO BY CAROLINE TUNG RICHMOND

  The Only Thing to Fear

  Live in Infamy

  The Darkest Hour

  Turn the page for a peek at The Only Thing to Fear …

  The Nazis always arrived on schedule.

  Today would be no exception.

  At four o’clock sharp, Zara St. James gripped the sides of her canteen, her dark eyes fixed on the Sentinel flying toward her. He soared across the cloud-ridden sky, zipping through the breeze with his arms locked in front of him, like a superhero from an old comic.

  But there was nothing heroic about him.

  As the Sentinel neared the fields, he dipped down so low that Zara could see the rifle looped over his shoulder and the fist-size swastika on his olive-green uniform. His golden hair flapped in the chilly April wind, cementing the look of the prized Aryan soldier: sturdy frame, snowy skin. Adolf Hitler’s shining legacy.

  “Not you again,” Zara whispered. The corners of her mouth tightened with worry. Twice this week she had noticed him patrolling the farm, always around four o’clock. One visit was routine. Two, a bit alarming. A third could mean trouble. Possibly an interrogation.

  Or worse.

  Zara’s worry sank deeper as the Sentinel headed straight for the farm. He skimmed over the Shenandoah hills, which were bursting with fresh spring leaves. Then his gaze swept over the St. James land, scanning the worn-looking house and the decades-old barn and finally settling on Zara, who stood at the edge of the rain-soaked fields.

  He slowed to a stop. “Heil Hitler!” he shouted in crisp German, hovering thirty feet above her head.

  Zara’s heartbeat clattered, but she stretched out her arm in the proper salute, just as her mother had taught her years ago. “Heil Hitler,” she replied. Her own German was passable due to the mandatory classes in primary school, but her accent had always been atrocious, which didn’t bother her in the least. On most days she rather enjoyed offending the Germans’ delicate ears—one of the few crimes they couldn’t beat her for—but now she made sure to enunciate each syllable. She didn’t want any trouble.