“How come you’ve never mentioned this to me before?!” Harmon was genuinely pissed off.
“I didn’t know until tonight,” Weeseman pleaded.
“How could you not know of this until now?” Harmon’s question was pointed at Mythers.
“He brought it up as a hypothetical before we started the invasion. Of course, I advised against it at the time. We didn’t have the weapons anyway. He never brought it up to me again until tonight. He didn’t ask my opinion. He gave me an order. He wants this planned out and done within the next forty-eight hours.”
“The Russians will freak out over this. Have you talked to them?” Harmon’s question was to Weeseman.
“No. When I asked him what we will do about the Russian Federation, he told me to worry about our interest, not theirs.”
“Typical. It’s always ‘America First’ with that man.” Harmon was exasperated. “At a time when we need an international consensus to win this war, Clark wants to act like America is the only country that matters.”
“It such a Jarhead thing. Ragnarsson is the same way. His first response is to kick ass or ‘kill them all, let God sort them out.’” Mythers waved his hands and rolled his eyes. Then his tone went from mocking to serious. “The last major battle we had to fight was Nanjing. The PLA has since been beating a path all the way to the Yellow River. They’re beat, and that’s all we need to negotiate our victory. Clark, McCullough, Ragnarsson—they’re all kill happy. We should be at the conference table now, not the battlefield; and we sure as hell shouldn’t be talking about nukes and total victory, not with China we shouldn’t.”
“Oh God.” Harmon leaned back, crossing her arms and exhaling loudly. “How do we impeach a president in a time of war?”
Weeseman didn’t say a word, just sipped his coffee.
“With all due respect, Madame President—” Mythers chuckled a bit “—excuse me, Madame Vice President, but we’re well past impeachment at this point.”
All of Harmon’s political instincts and acumen kicked in. She could ask him what he meant, but she knew. Besides, Mythers wouldn’t appreciate the show of naiveté. Her mind raced, calculating how possible this could be, also the fact that if it happened, she could serve for nearly ten years as president of the United States. She would have time to do great things. She could leave her mark on history.
“Don’t tell me how, but you can make that happen?”
“Yes.” Mythers didn’t need time to contemplate. Weeseman was content to sip his coffee and see how this played out.
“There will be an investigation…” Harmon didn’t finish the thought.
“There won’t be an investigation. Not if you’re president. There would be no need for one. In this time of national crisis, there are more important things to worry about.” Harmon didn’t care for the way Mythers smiled as he said this, but what was she to do about it at this point?
“Why would you arrange this?”
“I’m a patriot and this is a time of war. I don’t want to see American men and women die to win a war, or Chinese for that matter, when we can negotiate a peace. And besides, Madame President”—this time Mythers did not correct himself—“I know you can do great things that would benefit this country, that would make us safer.”
Harmon smiled. She thought Mythers was cynical, but she did like his thinking.
“I presume, General, that you’ll be at the vanguard of a new administration?” She wasn’t quite ready to say “my administration” yet.
“Madame Vice President, as a public servant I am here to do my part for the country.” Weeseman had finally found the nerve to say something.
“War is hell and sacrifices have to be made.” Mythers sounded more sarcastic than patriotic. “You can bet your career I do expect to do great things for this country, Madame Vice President.”
Harmon decided at that moment she was in. She told herself that duty was calling; she must respond. Her mind was racing as to how Mythers could pull this off. She decided it was probably best not to ask and to give herself some deniability if things went sideways.
“Of course, remember, we serve at the pleasure of the president. Our duty is to see to it that the needs of this country are taken care of.” Harmon felt more alive than she had in decades. She felt in control. “Gentlemen”—she stood up to leave the room—“I think this has been a productive meeting. We’ll meet again when we have something new to talk about.”
With that, the vice president walked out of the Morning Star Café and got into her limousine. She ordered the driver to take her to her office. She had a lot of work ahead of her; she needed to get started.
Chapter Nineteen
“Yes, sir, heart failure is all it says.” Lieutenant Colonel Fraser couldn’t even believe his own words, how could the others? General McCullough’s staff stood in stunned silence for several seconds.
“God help us.” Major Jardin’s voice cracked as she walked out to compose herself.
McCullough hated the news. More than that, he hated the feeling in his gut that an opportunity was lost and would never come back. He pushed the thought from his mind. Now was not a time to be ruled by fear. Without a nuclear option at this point, the war still had a lot of fighting left to be done and a lot of lives to be lost before the People’s Republic of China would fall.
His mind immediately went back to thinking of how to win this war. Task Force Sherman was tediously working its way through the north. Task Force Grant had to get across the Yellow River. Zhang had completed a command center west of Beijing to fall back to. McCullough figured that Mythers would lobby President Harmon to negotiate. He didn’t know exactly how much pull Mythers had with the new president, but he feared it’d be substantial. He’d heard from contacts in DC that they were of a similar mind-set, as a reaction to the negative press about the war over the past year.
His mind wrestled with the dilemma now before him. Should he move forward at full speed to destroy the PRC and achieve complete victory? Or should he hold back to see what new priorities the new president would have? Should he risk the lives of troops whose sacrifice would potentially be wasted in a political negotiation? But to hold back now could cost them momentum against their enemy that might never again be regained. It was against his nature not to fight to win. He would not go against his instincts now.
“Listen up, soldiers,” McCullough bellowed, “we all mourn the loss of President Clark. He was a great leader at a time when our country needed great leadership the most. However, he’s not the only casualty of this war. We can only honor him and our fallen countrymen through complete victory: the unconditional surrender of the People’s Republic of China. Initiate the final phase of Operation Mandate of Heaven.”
McCullough prayed it would not be in vain.
Zhang was overjoyed. He thought his speech on China Central Television could not have gone better. He’d told the people that destiny was on the side of the People’s Republic. The death of Clark was evidence that the People’s Republic would emerge from this time of trial and the youth would be remembered as the greatest generation in the history of the PRC.
The death of Clark was just icing on the cake for Zhang. His guerrilla campaign against noncombatants and collaborators was paying dividends. The Western media was more than eager to present the PRC perspective that these deaths were caused by the corrupt ROC and American troops. Every time he turned on an American or European news broadcast, it was all they were talking about, outside of the philanthropy of Hollywood actors.
He would have thanked the gods, if he believed in any. Instead, the course of events had only worked to affirm his belief in himself. He would not be denied his place in history. So he would be remembered as a great defender instead of a great conqueror. He was already envisioning how the former could lead back to the latter. He’d watched and studied the use of grievance politics the Left used in the West. He had played that card well with American and European media. That sort of
thing had never worked on Clark, who’d seemed stubbornly stuck to doing what he thought was right. Now he had the opportunity to play it on the new American president, whose reputation for compromise and resolution was well known. Zhang was more optimistic than he’d been for the last six years. He relished this new opportunity.
Harris scanned the burned-out village for any sign of danger. He hunkered down a little lower behind the TOW weapon system as the LSV creeped along. He wanted to make himself as small a target as possible for any potential Prick snipers. Second Section had been told that Bravo Company had already secured the area, but it paid not to take anything for granted. A sniper had taken out Sergeant Washington last week in another village that was supposedly “secured.”
It’d been like that for the last several months. The PLA would put up a small fight and fall back. Destroy villages and farms. The cities were generally left alone until the ROC showed up. Then buildings were destroyed and small numbers of people turned up dead. Harris’s mother had told him that more and more the news talked about Allied atrocities and crimes. She didn’t believe any of it, but was tired of hearing it on the news every night. Even when she had stopped watching the news, she heard people talking about it at work. It was driving her insane.
Harris and the other Marines thought it was the Pricks employing some kind of propaganda strategy against them. As long as they kept moving north, they would win the war. When the war was won, the truth would become known.
“Over there,” Harris heard Edwards order Hawke to pull over to the fuel truck. Crespo’s First Squad had already arrived, as had Sergeant Bohanan and his driver, Hart. After Sergeant Washington’s death, Sergeant Crespo had taken over First Squad. His only surviving gun team, Reese and Sheridan, were moved to Edward’s squad. Cortes’s squad was the only one still intact.
Harris was relieved to see Cortes’s squad roll in. It was a chance to catch up with Hastings. While their drivers filled up the LSVs, they walked a few yards away and had a cigarette.
“Man, they fucked this little place up,” Hastings said as he shook his head and exhaled.
“Yeah, there’s a lot of that lately,” was all Harris could think of to reply. He enjoyed his conversations with Hastings, but he was tired and really didn’t feel like trying to talk.
“I suppose some faggot-ass professor in Lincoln will blame this on us also.” Hastings’s sister attended the University of Nebraska and would fill him in on the insane things going on with the fringe element of the student population and the faculty. He and Harris always found it good for a laugh, and Hastings had asked his sister to keep him posted on that stuff. Lately, the two had found it less funny as their vitriol increased.
“Hell, joke ’em if they can’t take a fuck,” Harris said with a smile. Hastings appreciated the humor. There had not been much to laugh about lately.
“Second Section.” Bohanan whistled loudly and waved his hand in circles above his head, indicating he wanted everyone to gather around. “Listen up, Marines.” His demeanor got very serious. It gave Harris that bad feeling in his gut that he got with bad premonitions. “It has been confirmed to me by Captain Richards that as of yesterday evening President Clark has died, and Vice President Harmon is now president. Secretary of State Weeseman is now her vice president. I have no word yet as to who the new Secretary of State is.”
The six full seconds of silence seemed like an eternity.
“How’d he die?” Cortes spoke up first.
“As of now, heart failure is the official cause of death.”
“Well, no shit,” Edwards hostilely spat out, as if he knew he was being lied to. “We all die of fucking heart failure sooner or later.”
“Compose yourself, Corporal Edwards.” Sergeant Bohanan’s rebuke was quick, but he was a bit uncomfortable with it. He’d known Edwards for several years and liked the man. He also knew Edwards to be very cynical and didn’t want that spreading to the other Marines in the section. “Look, I, as I imagine most of you, admired President Clark. He was a Jarhead like us. He fought this war with a warrior’s mind-set”—Bohanan made eye contact with Edwards—“not a politician’s. He will be missed. But he’s not the only casualty of this war. Like you, I signed up for the duration of the war; and I signed up to win, not for college money or technical training. We volunteered for the Marine Corps; we volunteered for the infantry because we wanted to fight this war. We wanted to defeat the motherfuckers who invaded our land, raped our women, and slaughtered our children. We do that with or without President Clark. We fight for our country. We fight for the Constitution. We will continue that fight. We will continue to kick the ever-living hell out of the Prick bastards, or we will die trying! Do you understand me, Marines?”
“Aye, aye, Sergeant! All the way to fucking Beijing,” Harris shouted, uncharacteristically verbalizing his emotions. It went over well. The survivors of the Death Squad yelled a hoorah. Even Edwards displayed emotion.
“You a fucking cheerleader now, Harris?” Edwards said with a smile and slapped him on the back.
Liu Zhiqiang had heard the news about President Clark, and it had bothered him. He worried that the Americans might quit the war without their leader. Would he be allowed to continue killing? His sergeant had told him not to worry; there were plenty of ROC and traitors to the state.
“When does the killing ever stop? The People’s Republic will always have a place for its loyal party members.” Sergeant Wen tried to put the boy at ease, although Liu no longer looked like a skinny, boney fourteen-year-old. Physically he had responded well to the physical rigors of military training. He was sixteen now and bigger than most men, especially those from the south. His training, improved diet, and natural growth spurt had turned him into a physically formidable young man.
Liu had made a mental note to become a party member. His current life was the best he’d ever had. If the Communist Party of China could ensure that it would continue, then he must have an active role in it. First, however, he had a mission to accomplish. One that he was particularly well suited for and could carry out alone. Sergeant Wen appreciated Liu’s talents, and knowing this was exactly what the People’s Republic had in mind with this type of unit, he trusted Liu to conduct these missions with minimal assistance. Besides, he made Liu go in civilian clothes and sterile, no military ID. If he were ever caught, the People’s Republic and the People’s Liberation Army would claim him to be an American agent. Western media would love a story like that.
Just south of the American forces, outside the city of Xuchang, Liu walked the streets. He combed a local street market, looking for his next target. Soon he found her. By all appearances she was a helpful young girl. Her mother was selling vegetables, and she was running from stall to stall, communicating and delivering items for her mother. The young girl’s constant traversing was what made her such an ideal target.
Liu felt the rush from the power over life. It was intoxicating, and why shouldn’t it be? If one controlled life, if one had power over death, then what could not be controlled? He took the time to position the little corpse just right; he truly believed it was an artistic talent of his to create a scene that would shock and disgust lesser human beings. Just before he left, he placed an American dog tag in the little corpse’s hand and closed it tight. He emerged from the alleyway, made eye contact with Sergeant Li, and nodded. Li moved in to “discover” the body and the dog tag that “obviously” belong to the assailant. He would get word of it to international media to see to it that justice was done. The name on the dog tag: Derrick Thomas Schmitt, USMC.
Major General Edgar “Fast Eddie” Ragnarsson did not want to waste any time. He was absolutely in favor of moving ahead with Operation Mandate of Heaven. He knew of Harmon’s and Mythers’s reputations. He had been a strong supporter of Clark when he ran in the primary over six years ago, but he had been disappointed in his selection of a vice presidential candidate. Ragnarsson had just chalked it up to politics. For as much as ther
e shouldn’t be, there was a lot of that in his business. Ragnarsson thought of himself as a warrior and a student of history. Schmoozing and kissing ass just wasn’t his thing. That meant for as good as a combat leader that he was, he had political enemies in and out of the Marine Corps. He didn’t know how the change in Commander-in-Chief would affect his career, but more importantly to him he did not know how it would affect the war effort. But he based his decision on two facts: politicians always wanted to take credit for success, and it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. His goal was to get the First Marine Division across the Yellow River as soon as possible. He knew Major General Jackson of the Second Marine Division and General McCullough were of the same mind. The more success they had, the harder it would be for the politicians to pull out. The faster they moved north, the less of a target they were for the PLA guerrillas and the leftist media. If they were going to win this war, they were going to have to do it fast before the president could change her mind.
Lieutenant Colonel William “Bulldog” McGregor was relieved when he received orders from his commander, and cousin, Colonel Arthur “Lucky” Liddell to move north. He was preparing to move his battalion forward; the orders only reaffirmed what he had started. He had prayed the new president would let Clark’s strategy play out. He knew of her reputation and figured she’d be happy to accept credit for any success, but would be too timid to take any serious risk. He had also heard rumors of Mythers’s desire to negotiate a victory. That had not been Clark’s style, but it sounded like Harmon’s. They had come so far, with better than imagined success; he didn’t want to stop now. The United States now had the advantage of air superiority. The loss of industry was hurting the PLA. They were using less technology on the battlefield. They were resorting to guerrilla tactics that, while they did kill some American troops, were ineffective at stopping the American advance. They were really good at ginning up pro-communist propaganda with some of the Leftwing media in the United States and Europe. None of that would matter if the US won the war. Until now it had not been enough to weaken the resolve of the American people or President Clark. He prayed that would not change with the new president. So with even more vigor than at any point in the war, McGregor planned how to get his battalion across the Yellow River.
The Last Marine Page 19
