“The brilliant planning of Lieutenant Charles Foxtrot,” he’d privately vented to Edwards in reference to their new platoon leader. Edwards found humor in the remark, but was in no mood to laugh. “We’ve also lost Ingraham and Jones. For now I’ll keep your and Crespo’s squads as one-gun team squads.”
“Roger.” Edwards glanced over at Hawke, who was patting down the dead Pricks. “So now what?”
“We got Marines north of the Yangtze now, so keep an eye out for them. We don’t want any more friendly fire bullshit. Engineers are to come to this area and build a temporary bridge; Second Section will rendezvous here, and later with the rest of TOW Platoon. Then it’s on to Beijing to win this goddamn war.”
It was one week to the day since Lieutenant Kai had entered the Nanjing metropolitan area. He was told by a senior officer that it was a short time to take a city of eight million people. It did not feel short to Kai, but he also felt satisfaction in liberating the land of his ancestors from the communist regime that had ruled for nearly the last century. The mayor had surrendered when the PLA had pulled out of the city. Like in the south and east, most citizens were happy, or at least didn’t seem to care, to have the PRC out of power. It had not been as smooth an operation as the cities along the coast, however. There were disturbing reports of ROC troops raping and even killing some of the noncombatants. None of the ROC officers had witnessed any of this, but civilians were reporting it. Another mystery was the destruction of several civilian apartment buildings. There had been reports that the Allies had destroyed the river tunnel and bridge while civilians were trying to escape the battle. High command was upset that civilian casualties were unnecessarily high. This was not how the Republic of China had wanted to retake its former capital city. The People’s Republic was already screaming to the United Nations about war crimes, and some media were running stories of another “Rape of Nanking.” Kai figured all that would wash out once they had full control of the city and could rebuild it to its former glory. When the Chinese people were free and prosperous, how could they talk of atrocities?
His platoon had pushed through to the river. Some, presumably PLA, were jumping in and trying to swim across the river to escape. Kai thought it suicidal. The Yangtze was supposed to be about two miles wide; all but the best swimmers would drown. He raised his rifle and zeroed in on the back of a head of a man stripping his clothes to swim across. When he straightened up, he turned around to face all the soldiers shooting in his direction. Kai thought the man crazy, or perhaps he was choosing to die from a gun rather than the river. He placed the crosshairs on the man’s face only to see he was little more than a boy. Even with what looked to be a bad scar on his face, he looked so young. At less than two hundred meters, Kai was confident he could not miss, but he lowered his rifle. Besides, the boy didn’t stand much of a chance with all the incoming rounds and the last of the PLA fleeing. If the guns didn’t kill him, the river would. After a few seconds the boy dove into the river to swim for his life.
“Good luck, my friend, good luck.” Kai spoke out loud to the boy, who couldn’t hear him. Those that could have heard him were not paying attention. Kai was suddenly filled with the warm sentiment of him and the boy someday living in a united China and being united in a common goal of freedom and prosperity for their people. He thought perhaps then he could look back at this past week and think it was all worth it.
For all the power Private Liu had felt during the past week, he now felt so helpless. He regretted staying in the city as long as he had, but how could he walk away from an opportunity to kill those not loyal to the People? If they did not deserve to die, who did? He’d stayed to do his duty. He’d stayed to serve the People’s Republic.
Now, however, no matter how righteous his actions might have been, he was truly frightened that he would die for it. Exits to the city were cut off, ironically he had played a big role in that, but now he could not get out of the city. Some said they could swim across the river. It had sounded simple enough, but now that he saw it, he wondered how he could. He knew how to swim, but he had only done so in ponds and pools. This river was so wide. As he stripped down, he thought he’d rather be shot than drown. He stood exposed, facing the enemy fire. He even thought he saw a man pointing a rifle right at him. He waited for a quick end, but nothing happened. Bullets flew all around him, but none struck. Perhaps he had been right all along. He was the master of death. He had power over life. It was by his will, and not that of others, that he stayed alive. He bellowed a crazy laugh and dove for the water. How could he possibly drown? He was the master of death.
Chapter Eighteen
“It would line up perfectly,” General McCullough mumbled as he stared at all the maps and screens in front of him.
“Sir?” his aide, Lieutenant Colonel Fraser, responded.
“Oh, nothing, Lieutenant Colonel, I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Yes, sir.” Fraser moved off to another part of the warehouse that was currently being used as a command center.
Fraser was a good man, but McCullough’s thoughts at that moment were highly classified. As far as he knew, outside of those involved in the project, only he and General Mythers were privy to President Clark’s thoughts on this contingency. McCullough didn’t even know if the resources were available for this option, or if Clark would even go through with it. At the start of the Invasion of China, just over two years ago, McCullough wasn’t even certain he would be in favor of such an option. Any doubts had long since been swept from his conscience.
The PRC defense of Nanjing had been to delay the Allies. He could see it now, but at the time he’d thought they’d use that natural barrier for defense. Since the crossing, the PLA would fight and fall back, fight and fall back, destroying anything in their path. The damn PLA had gone scorched-earth policy on them north of the Yangtze River. To the general’s chagrin, the little commie bastards would then whine about the destruction of their land, cities, people, etc. to the Western press. The plan was ludicrous and audacious, but not without its merits. Whether most of the Western media actually believed the charges was questionable, but it did not matter. They reported it. They obsessed over it. It had been the major news cycle for going on ten months.
In the United States, Clark’s political opponents made hay out of it. If national polls were accurate, it had not affected the American public’s resolve to win the war. It had, however, weakened the resolve of many of those in Clark’s party who were more in touch with media elites than their own constituents. Of course, there was that fringe element in the American population that would protest, rant, and rave in order to subvert the American war effort. McCullough generally had ignored domestic matters during the war; he had other obligations and responsibilities to those actually fighting the war. However, he had begun to pay more attention. He thought reporting had gone from politically biased to being more subversive of late, and it sent off all kinds of alarms in his military thinking.
After twenty plus years in politics, McCullough thought Clark was still more Marine than politician. To Clark’s credit, his resolve had remained strong. He had promised to use all the nations resources to drive the PLA from its shores and leave the homeland safe. He had been reelected on the promise to destroy the regime that had tried to destroy the United States of America. He had won reelection in a landslide. Politicians were fickle, however, and the bad press, or rather communist propaganda, had many focused on political careers instead of national service.
Still, when Clark had brought this option up to him two years ago, the whole topic was hypothetical. It might still be, but the president had told him if he ever thought the perfect moment presented itself, to communicate that to him personally. McCullough now thought that moment had arrived. He was obliged to follow that order.
President George Rogers Clark sat alone, contemplating his decision. He stared at a photograph of President Abraham Lincoln. Clark didn’t know when exactly the photo was taken. He presumed i
t was sometime during the Civil War. The old photograph had fascinated him for some time. Lincoln, with no smile nor posturing, just stared into the camera. He thought it was such a blunt picture of Lincoln, especially when compared to the crafted photos of modern politicians. Clark thought Lincoln had such a hard look on his face, such a hard look in his eyes. He saw a strength and a hardness in Lincoln’s face that he wanted to exercise as president.
Lincoln had led the country in a time of Civil War. He had made decisions based not on what would preserve his political career, but on what he thought would make a stronger United States of America. At a time when many had questioned the war as it became more destructive, Lincoln stated publicly that victory was owed to those that had sacrificed all. He’d seen it as a duty to win the war as quickly as possible, despite the immediate pain, so the healing could start as soon as possible. He’d won America’s most difficult war in four years.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt found himself leading a nation caught in a two-front war against the greatest military powers in world history. Like Lincoln, he had also used the nation’s resources and had used all his resolve to win that war as soon as possible. Although Roosevelt would die before the end of that war, President Truman would see that vision to its conclusion.
Clark thought it ironic that had Truman shown that same kind of resolve to win the Korean War, perhaps this current war would never have taken place. But he didn’t, and now Clark found himself making the same choice that Truman did in the summer of 1945, and later in the Korean War with a different conclusion. However, there was a big difference between Clark’s and Truman’s decisions: in World War II the United States was the only one with nukes. Now many nations had them to one extent or another. His decision would not be isolated and could kick off a destructive chain of events. Another big difference between World War II and the Sino-American War: Truman could act on his own decision. Clark had to get “permission” from Russia. The United States’ world dominance had declined so much since 1945 that Clark needed the Russian Federation’s approval to prevent United Nations’ support for the People’s Republic of China.
Ten minutes earlier he had gotten that approval, on the condition that the United States looked the other way as Russia used nuclear weapons in their war against the jihadist forces in the Middle East. As well, the Russians were looking to expand their sphere of influence in parts of Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Clark had no problem with the former. The Russians were dealing with a problem that American political leaders had walked away from a generation ago. Clark had been a young Marine in those wars. He’d lost friends. He, as did the American nation, had dealt with the wounds of unhonored sacrifice as politicians crafted careers and political factions tore the country down.
Clark had sworn he would not allow the same thing to happen to the men, women, and families that were fighting this war. Not on his watch. He had publicly vowed to do everything within the power of the United States to defeat the People’s Republic of China before the end of his presidency. Would he walk away from that vow now? This decision could have political repercussions. Members of the opposition party would cry for impeachment. Even the moderate members of his own party would love to see his political power and agenda diminished a bit. He hated the thought of his political enemies leading the United States back into descent.
He stared at Lincoln. His hard eyes stared back at Clark from the photograph. Clark had thought and prayed over how to win this war for nearly six years.
“You know what the right answer is.” Clark spoke out loud to himself. “Fear is the only thing slowing you down now.”
He reached for his phone.
“Get ahold of General Mythers and Secretary of State Weeseman. Tell them to be here in thirty minutes.”
Alexandra Harmon would not have admitted it to anyone in the world, but she was excited. When the phone had woken her up two hours before, her first thought was has something happened to the president? That idea dissipated as she realized she was being called on her unofficial, and untraceable, cell phone. Still, something was up for Mythers to have called her and want to meet. She loved the intrigue. Without it, the last six years as vice president of the United States would have been like a prison sentence, which was more or less what it had felt like anyway.
Harmon had never cared for Clark. She thought his political style to be too blunt and unsophisticated. She believed he never would have made it in national politics if it had not been for the progressive extremism of Leakey. She thought Clark had a gift for quoting the Constitution in such a way that she thought made him sound smarter than he really was. After all, the man had never even attended law school. No doubt his Marine Corps war record had been well received by flyover country, but what did that really mean? She had done enough campaigning and politicking to know shooting a gun did not make you good at governing. And quite frankly, something else she would never admit to anyone in the world, she was sick and tired of war veterans always getting a free pass when it came to politics. As a philosophy major in college, she had come to the conclusion that some were born thinkers, some were born laborers, and some were born fighters. Being good at one did not make you good at another.
In her mind Clark was not a thinker, or at least not a good one. His directness, the way he wore his patriotism on his sleeve, his righteous approach to decision making. As if all decisions could be based on a matter of right and wrong. She found his thinking naive and not what America needed to move forward. But he had won the primary, much to the chagrin of her party’s elite. However, another four years of Leakey would have been dangerous. The country appeared to be dying right before everyone’s eyes. The party had had to unite and defeat Leakey. Clark had asked Harmon to be his vice president as a way to unite that party. She’d accepted, not because she completely supported his agenda, and she definitely didn’t like his style, but to promote her career. After all, Clark was very popular with many Americans. Besides, if he was a failure, she would claim she always tried to temper his extremism, even if he would never listen to her. If he was successful, then she would ride his coat tails into the White House.
Like most Americans, she was happy to have a fighter in the White House when they were attacked by the People’s Republic of China. Her political path had seemed very clear to her at the time. Harmon was not surprised that Clark was reelected, but to be reelected on the promise of destroying the communist government of China had flummoxed her. She thought it too aggressive and provocative. She thought it could create an international backlash and go very badly for the United States. She had wanted an international coalition, headed by herself, to negotiate terms by which the United States and the People’s Republic could coexist. After all, she had built and maintained a political career on her ability to build consensuses. Why not use it for the war effort?
In usual Clark style, he had wanted to go for victory, not consensus. Harmon had begun a subtle campaign to distance herself from Clark. The fact that the United States was winning with the use of a total war strategy, she saw as her bad luck. But then the war was not over, and she had her own cadre of secret Clark dissenters. Not the least among that group was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Secretary of State Weeseman, the two that had requested this early morning meeting.
Sitting in the Morning Star Café at two hours before it opened to the public, waiting to have a secret meeting with two of the highest members of the president’s cabinet made her feel important.
Harmon’s nephew, for whom she had procured this choice establishment, always allowed her to unofficially meet with people when she needed to during off hours. She sat there in the middle of the shop with a cup of her favorite dark roast and a plate of pastries, wondering what could be so important that Mythers and Weeseman would have requested this meeting at four o’clock in the morning.
Weeseman walked in, looking paranoid and disoriented, although he’d been secretly meeting Harmon at this location for over two
years.
“Where’s Mythers?” Weeseman sounded short of breath.
“Did you run here? Why are you so short of breath?”
“I went around the block and ran through the back alley. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being followed.” It was an extreme effort for the short heavyset man, and now he could barely talk.
“Seth, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack. What is going on?” Harmon had gone from feeling important to feeling concerned for her career, but had no sooner asked than Mythers walked in, looking far more relaxed.
“Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger drama, but then I guess that’s exactly what it is.” Mythers had a smile on his face. His demeanor could not be any more different than Weeseman’s.
“What are you two up to?” Harmon’s voice betrayed more concern than she would have liked it to.
“He hasn’t told you?” Mythers nodded towards Weeseman.
“I just got here myself.” Weeseman was still trying to catch his breath.
“Hell, Weeseman, what’d you do, rappel through the ceiling? What took you so long?”
“So what’s this all about?” Harmon was feeling impatient. Weeseman looked at Mythers, which Mythers noticed, then turned to Harmon.
“Are we alone?”
“Yes. My nephew won’t be back until 4:30 a.m. He opens at 5 a.m.”
“Cowboy Clark”—Mythers’s favorite nickname for the president—“wants to nuke the PLA.”
“What?! How? Leakey dismantled our arsenal.” Harmon sounded more outraged than surprised.
“He’s been secretly building our arsenal. It’s been his top secret pet project,” Mythers stated with casual contempt.
The Last Marine Page 18
