Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Jake proved to be one of the lucky ones, although very sick. He was alive, and he lay on a cot under a warm quilt. There were hundreds upon hundreds of beds pushed side by side in long rows. Giant heaters roared at either end of the circus-sized tent.

  Nurses pushed carts and doctors checked victims. The endless gaging and moaning sounds didn’t induce sleep or a feeling of well-being. Someone always seemed to be vomiting, and many of the acute victims wept quietly. Maybe the worst part was the smell. Behind the strong odor of ammonia lingered worse stenches.

  Jake clenched his teeth, trying to suppress any noise. He’d vomited so much in the past few days that he was seriously losing weight. There wasn’t anything left in his stomach to hurl.

  More radiation had hit the crew then Jake had realized at the time. Patches of hair kept falling out and his eyesight had become blurry.

  Chet, Simon and Grant had similar symptoms. Like Jake, each of them had received blood transfusions. Unfortunately, the Army had already run out of antibiotics in the state, although more were on the way. The doctor also told him the Militia had started a nationwide blood drive. There was more blood coming, too.

  Jake hoped so. Otherwise, he doubted he or the others would make it. The Chinese had gone crazy, changing the nature of the war. Why did they have to use nuclear weapons?

  “Hey,” a man whispered with a raspy voice.

  Jake turned his head to see Simon staring at him. The man had horribly red eyes and blotches on his skin. As the driver, Simon seemed to have gotten the worst of it. Jake wasn’t sure how or why that happened. Maybe Simon had just been in the wrong place in the tank.

  “I’m sorry, Corporal,” Simon whispered. “I’m so sorry. I-I panicked.”

  “It’s oaky,” Jake said. “It happens.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Simon whispered, as tears began to leak from his eyes, leaving wet trails on his cheeks. “I screwed us bad, huh Jake?”

  “Forget it,” Jake said. “We wouldn’t have shot down the missile anyway. We have a fighting chance at living now because you took us out of there so fast.”

  The tears flowed more freely.

  Jake wished he could believe what he said. In his heart, he did blame Simon, but he couldn’t tell the man that, not now. Simon apologized about once an hour. Either the driver didn’t remember he’d already apologized or the guilt of their predicament tore at him too much.

  “It was just our turn to be screwed,” Jake said.

  Simon nodded.

  Closing his eyes, Jake tried to get some sleep. He felt achy and cold. He wished they would crank up the heat in here.

  He must have fallen asleep, because he opened his eyes as a nurse rolled back a sleeve.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked groggily.

  She smiled down at him. She was so beautiful, with a heart-shaped face. If he felt better— “We just received a mass transshipment of blood,” she said. “That’s good, too. You boys need another transfusion.”

  Jake watched her swab his arm. As she did, an orderly rolled a bag of blood near. The plastic-encased blood was life. Even though his hair was falling out, he wasn’t as bad off as many others. He— “What are you doing to him?” a hard-voiced man asked.

  The nurse looked up, and she frowned.

  Jake didn’t like that. He concentrated, craning his head to look up where she did. He spied three Militia MPs at the end of his bed. One of them looked familiar. He was a flat-faced man.

  “We’re moving him,” the MP said.

  “It’s time for his next blood transfusion,” the nurse said.

  “No, not just yet,” the MP said.

  The nurse turned around to face the man.

  “Don’t worry about it, sister,” the MP said. He took out his wallet and showed her a badge. “We’re under Presidential orders.”

  “Oh,” she said. Then her eyes lit up as she glanced down the row. “Doctor,” she called out, “these men are trying to take one of our patients. Couldn’t we give him a blood transfusion first?”

  Jake watched the doctor walk up to them. The bald man’s hangdog look didn’t give him any confidence. “It won’t matter,” the doctor told the nurse.

  “Shut your mouth,” the MP told him.

  The nurse’s eyes widened with surprised. Then she stared at Jake. “What did he do?”

  “He’s a traitor,” the MP said. “He shouldn’t get good American blood before these others.”

  “Is that what you think?” Jake said.

  “I told you to shut up,” the MP said. “If you say another word—”

  “Is that necessary?” the doctor asked.

  The MP glared at the doctor. The man in the white coat wilted, nodded and turned away.

  “Move aside,” the MP said, and he bumped the nurse, making her stagger against Simon’s cot.

  Jake wanted to be angry, but he felt too cold and achy. “Can’t you see I’m sick?” he whispered.

  “My heart bleeds for you,” the MP said. “Come on,” he told the other two. “Give me a hand.”

  Jake sucked in his breath. At least he could say goodbye to his friends.

  The MP had palmed a small stunner into his hand. With big horse-sized teeth, he grinned down at Jake, and the Militia cop pressed the stunner against his neck.

  Jake heard it buzz as he arched in pain. In a fog, he heard the nurse ask what they were doing. Then he fell into a deeper fog, slipping away into unconsciousness.

  STILLWATER, OKLAHOMA

  In his jeep, Stan Higgins screeched to a halt before an Army checkpoint. For the last three weeks, he had maneuvered what remained of the original penetrating armor against the formerly trapped Chinese and SAF forces. It had been a nightmare, with radiation counters in selected vehicles helping the units avoid highly radiated zones.

  Combined with a few fresh divisions along the front, they had captured hundreds of thousands of nuclear-shocked SAF soldiers and starved into submission as many PAA forces. The post-Red Dragon operation had catapulted Stan into national fame. The praise tasted like ashes in his mouth. What had happened to his boy? Several hours ago, he’d found out Jake had survived the nuclear strike, and had been brought here. Now no one could put him in touch with his son.

  The vast tent city rose to the north of Stillwater, a huge area where medical personnel tried to cope with the hundreds of thousands of cases of the radiation poisoned.

  In the weeks since the attack, several things had become clear. Despite the success of the latest operation, the front was in shambles on both sides. The nuclear warheads had thrown everything into turmoil. Casualties numbered in the millions. This tent city was one among many, and it was far too near the fallout zones.

  The good thing was that the South American Federation forces had panicked en masse. They had never signed up for nuclear war. The nukes had also enraged the American people. This was far uglier than the September 11 attack on the Twin Towers and much worse than Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese made their sneak attack.

  It’s universal. Everyone wants to nuke China in retaliation.

  Stan showed his credentials. The guard snapped to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins, I can have a man park your jeep over there.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Sir—”

  “Where’s administration?”

  “Over there, the central tent.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel Higgins,” the guard said, saluting again.

  With an aching chest, Stan turned the steering wheel and crunched over gravel. He parked, jumped out and hurried to the central tent. Big Army trucks moved down a narrow lane. No doubt, they carried precious blood and newly made antibiotics.

  Stan glanced up at the sky at moving clouds. They would have to relocate these tents—well, relocate the sick. The weather patterns were finally changing. The wind might blow radioactive contaminants over Stillwater.

  Fallout had been raining onto areas of norther
n Mexico, and it had made the people there furious with their Chinese overlords.

  This is halftime. The side that can regroup faster will have a huge advantage.

  A loud noise caused Stan to glance east. A big Chinook helicopter flew low toward the tents. It must be transporting more sick people.

  Stan scowled. The Red Dragons had changed more than just the battlefield. The President had a heart attack and those vultures, Harold and McGraw, had used it to step into Sims’ place. After all these years, it was finally happening to the United States of America. The Caesars had finally appeared, the men on the white horses who would supposedly save the country from disaster.

  Would David Sims recover from his heart attack? Stan had his doubts. McGraw played a dangerous game. At the moment, though, Stan didn’t care about that. What happened to Jake?

  It took an hour of red tape and checking, and Stan began getting angry. Finally, he cornered a balding doctor with shifty eyes. Stan found him in a tent full of sick people with horrible sores. The doctor wore a white lab coat and checked a slate at the end of a bed.

  “I’m talking to you,” Stan said.

  The doctor ignored him as he continued to study the chart.

  Stan grabbed an arm, and he spun the doctor around to face him. A nurse watched, and she didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Maybe this happened too much around here lately.

  “Do you know who I am?” Stan asked.

  “I heard you the first time you spoke,” the doctor said, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “My son was here.”

  The doctor made a bleak gesture. “Do you see how many patients we’re processing?”

  “Where is he? What happened to Corporal Jake Higgins?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” the doctor said.

  Stan’s grip tightened. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “A weary one, Colonel Higgins—this is monstrous. Why do you folks insist on butchering each other? Isn’t there enough despair in the world that you people have to excel at killing?”

  Stan let that pass; the man was a healer, after all. “There isn’t a discharge paper for Jake and I haven’t found a death certificate. What happened to my son? I know he was here. The records prove it.”

  The doctor frowned. “I’ve been very busy, as I’m sure you see. I must have forgotten to write out his death certificate.”

  “He died?” Stan asked, his voice turning hollow.

  The doctor paused for just a moment. He seemed to cringe, which was odd. Then the man jutted his chin, and said, “Yes, he must have died. I don’t believe he was discharged.”

  The words almost struck like physical blows. Stan let go of the doctor’s arm. It felt as if a giant ghost reached through his chest and squeezed his heart, which constricted his throat. He found it difficult to talk, difficult to gather his thoughts. Yet he said, “You seemed uncertain.”

  “No…”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  The doctor brought up the chart in his hands, scanning it. “I’m very busy, Colonel. I’m sorry about your loss. I truly am.”

  “What about his friends?”

  “I’m sure I don’t—”

  With a fierceness that seemed natural now, Stan grabbed the man’s arm again and yanked him closer. “You’d better start being a little more helpful. Where are his friends?”

  “Let me check.”

  The anger drained away, and Stan released the doctor. With slumped shoulders, he followed the man.

  A half hour later, Stan spoke with Simon. Chet and Grant had already been discharged.

  Stan knelt beside Simon’s cot. The boy was thin and hollow-eyed, clearly dying. First touching the soldier’s arm, Stan let go as Simon winced in pain. He spoke pleasantries to the soldier, but the boy proved delirious. Finally, Stan couldn’t help himself. “Do you remember seeing Jake?”

  It must have been the urgency in Stan’s voice. Simon blinked several times, and he focused. “Yes, Jake. He commanded our tank.”

  “Jake was my son.”

  “He was a good tank commander.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Simon’s lower lip trembled. “I panicked. I took off too soon. It must have upset the calibrations of our last shot.”

  Stan almost patted the boy’s arm. He was in obvious misery about something. “What happened to Jake?” Stan asked softly.

  “Jake?”

  “He was your commander. It says here you slept beside him for a while.”

  “Oh, yes, Jake. I woke up one morning and he was gone. He died.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Poor Jake,” Simon said. “He was a good tank commander.” Simon frowned, and he looked up at Stan. “I’m sorry I panicked.”

  “God be with you son. He forgives you. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

  “Really?” Simon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you.”

  Gingerly, Stan patted the soldier’s arm. Then he got up and slowly walked outside. This damn war. Those damn nukes. They had killed his boy. A hollow sensation in his heart gave Stan an empty feeling.

  He wanted to sit down and weep. His boy was dead. What was he going to do now? Stan shook his head. With blurry vision, he headed for his jeep. The Chinese had killed his boy. He wanted to hate them with a vengeance, but sorrow and sadness filled him. A part of him died, and his shoulders slumped.

  His boy was dead.

  From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

  WORLD WAR III

  OPERATIONS IN 2041

  The Red Dragon Cruise Missile Strike

  A fundamental shift in the war took place as American armor threatened to engulf the PAA First Front in Oklahoma. Chairman Hong’s notorious “tactical” nuclear strike order destroyed two-thirds of the Behemoth tanks and immediately annihilated approximately 233,000 US soldiers. As the days progressed, that number rose to well over one million casualties including the wounded and radiation poisoned.

  This did not free the encircled PAA and SAF forces as anticipated by the Chinese, but rendered most of them impotent. SAF morale sank to zero and entire divisions surrendered to the Americans without another shot fired in anger. A small number of Chinese brigades fought their way into Texas, marching to the new PAA front in the middle of the Lone Star State. The rest of the nuclear shocked divisions surrendered after McGraw hurried reinforcements south. Colonel Stan Higgins rose to national fame in those dark days, skillfully maneuvering the remaining armor in conjunction with McGraw’s moves.

  During the six weeks that followed, each side hastily reorganized and refitted their fronts with new levies and equipment and as the US attempted to decontaminate large portions of Oklahoma. The unofficial armistice benefited the Americans more, as US submarines and THOR missile took their toll against the Chinese merchant marine along the PAA Pacific Ocean route.

  In retrospect, the nuclear attack helped the American war effort and its diplomacy in a number of vital ways. One, it devastated the morale of the remaining SAF troops in North America. Two, it dismayed the ruling junta in Brazil. They began to drag their feet, reluctant to send more soldiers into a possible atomic meat-grinder in Texas and New Mexico. Three, it angered many Mexican citizens as fallout drifted into the northern half of the country. That in turn began to shift the puppet government away from China as revolt and rebellion simmered. Four, Japanese leaders protested the nuclear usage, further souring relations with Beijing. Five, Berlin, Paris, London and New Delhi drew up plans for PAA economic sanctions.

  Premier Konev of Russia played a cagier game. As his military beefed up the armies in western Siberia, he began secret talks with Chairman Hong, offering neutrality for massive food shipments. Russians had been tightening their belts for quite some time, and needed Chinese rice.

  However, it would be wrong to suggest the strike did not have positive value for Greater China and C
hairman Hong, at least in several areas. The Iranian Hegemony leaders congratulated him on his fortitude in facing the Americans. This helped cement relations between Beijing and Tehran. In an ancient Assyrian sense, it also shocked many people by the ruthlessness of the action, and it gave them pause. Brutality often engendered passivity in others, and possibly Hong had counted on this effect. People understood that one did not trifle with him lightly. Many American troops now began to show severe signs of strain, as the thermonuclear attack blunted the edge of their aggressiveness.

  That said, except for most of the Pan-Asian Alliance countries and the ayatollahs of Iran, the world recoiled in horror at the act. Not since Adolf Hitler had the majority of the planet agreed on a leader’s villainy.

  American Leadership

  President Sims’ heart attack and subsequent illness meant he was bedridden and often delirious for the rest of 2041 and throughout 2042.

  Disregarding the Constitution, a triumvirate of personalities took over presidential duties. The senior partner was Director Harold, with the full backing of Homeland Security, including the entire Militia Organization. General McGraw provided inspirational military leadership, while Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs of Staff brought the full force of the US military behind the triad.

  Director Harold proved more adroit at the political and domestic maneuvering, although General McGraw caught the public’s eye as the hero of the hour. The interim triumvirate governed as the President recuperated. Harold led the country through this time with one phrase: “We will have our revenge.”

  Americans—particularly those on the home front—burned with fierce resolve and determination, longing to strike back at China. Not since WWII against Japan had such animosity so fully exhibited itself in a social and cultural sense.

  The conditions of the Summer Offensives

  The nuclear strike with its immense casualties had a debilitating effect on the morale and fighting stamina of each side. SAF troops could garrison quiet areas, but proved unequal to any form of heavy combat, often fleeing or surrendering as the first artillery barrages fell. Non-Chinese PAA units would fight to defend their sectors, but they could no longer be relied on to advance against the enemy. Elite Chinese units could still attack with vigor, although their commanders noticed what they termed quick fatigue syndrome. It meant that any Chinese offensive would have to be of short duration.