Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: China

The TV people were already recording the event.

Get ready for it , Stan told himself. Get ready .

Director Harold came closer, closer… fifty feet, forty-five, forty, thirty-five, thirty feet.

Stan pumped his fist into the air. “Three cheers for Director Harold, the savior of America! Hip-hip hurrah!” he roared, “hip-hip hurrah!”

The Militia guard in front of him turned around.

“He’s our man!” Stan shouted. “If Harold can’t do it no one can!”

Other Army officers began to cheer, began to pump their fists into the air.

Williamson stopped. So did his two beefy boys. Director Harold halted behind them.

“Give it up for Director Harold!” Stan bellowed, and he pushed forward, bumping up against the Militia guard.

That seemed to be a signal. All around, the Army and Marine officers cheered, chanted, raised their fists and shoved against the guards. It was like a college victory against the hated rival, with crowds surging onto the playing field.

Williamson drew his sidearm. The two other guards did likewise. All three aimed against what had become a jostling crowd.

Stan shoved, and a Militia guard shoved back.

“Get back in your designated area,” the guard told Stan.

“Hurrah for Director Harold!” Stan bellowed, “hip-hip hurrah!”

Williamson raised his pistol, and he fired three quick shots into the air.

The shouting died down, and the surge of the crowd lessoned.

“Get back into your areas!” Williamson shouted. “Or I’ll order the guards to begin firing at you. This will be a peaceful event.”

It was then Stan Higgins pressed a secret button in his pocket.

A buzzer sounded in his ear. Jake Higgins shoved out of his location in a basement. He’d heard people tramping above him earlier, tapping, searching for hidden areas. They hadn’t found his.

Dirt caked Jake, and his limbs shook with excitement. His dear old dad had made the plan. The “Professor” said they had to take down the Caesar now, while America decided what kind of country it was going to become.

I’m going to die, I know, but I’m sick of the internment camps. I’m sick of looking over my shoulder. If the government won’t let me protest peacefully, well, then I’m going to pick up my gun and make them wish they had .

Jake grabbed his high-velocity sniper rifle, and he rushed to the selected position. It was a bottom basement window, but the warehouse stood on a hill. It meant he looked down at the Mao Museum five football field lengths away.

The window lacked glass, so he didn’t have to break any. Jake had a suppressor on the end of the rifle. He poked it through the window and rested the end on its mount. Then he put his eye against the scope, centering on Director Harold.

The man had stopped because of the commotion ahead of him. That had been the plan.

This is it. Remember the Detention Center, remember your friends in the penal battalions .

Jake aimed at Harold’s upper torso, with a shaky red dot jittering around the suit. Taking a deep breath, holding the dot where the man’s heart should be, young Higgins squeezed the trigger. The high-velocity sniper rifle kicked against his shoulder. Jake clenched his teeth, and he continued to take deliberate aimed shots.

Stan pressed the button several times. Then he backed away from the Militia guard. He shook his head at the young Militiaman, trying to show that he was harmless.

The seconds ticked away. Could his son do this? Could Jake—

Stan must have been the first to see it. A bullet smashed through Director Harold, sprouting from his chest. A second one came on the heels of the first. With bloody red lips, Director Harold pitched forward.

Militia General Williamson turned. He watched Harold fall, hit the sidewalk and twitch. Then the tall Militia general looked up, and a round drilled him in the forehead, dropping him on the spot.

Stan had seen enough. He faded back, back, and a loud shout told him some of the Militia people saw the director. Without a word, Stan turned around and began to walk. He needed to leave Harbin and get back to his division. Things were about to get very hairy.

Jake let go of his rifle and he raced across the basement. He ran outside to a shed, slipped inside it and uncovered a hidden tunnel opening. He crawled like mad in the darkness, reaching an older tunnel.

He felt around and found a flashlight. Clicking it on, standing, he ran again, his chest heaving. He couldn’t believe it. Director Harold was dead, with two bullet holes in his chest.

I did it. I killed the tyrant. Now what’s going to happen?

In time, he climbed a steel ladder and popped out onto a street in Harbin. A parked jeep waited. Jake dug out keys, unlocked the vehicle, started it and drove away. Thus was born a new assassination legend to rival an older one from the twentieth century concerning a President named Kennedy.

Paul Kavanagh stared out of the back of a taxi. Rain pelted the streets as people hurried for cover. It was unseasonable to have showers in August. The taxi’s wipers went back and forth, but it was old rubber. Probably been a long time since anyone changed them. They streaked water across the window and made everything blurry outside.

How could America field Orion ships, powered armor and lifters, yet have rundown taxis and most people on foot or riding bicycles?

Now that we defeated China, are we on top again or did we just win a few battles?

That was big picture stuff, and it mattered, but not much to a regular guy.

Is that what I am?

Paul shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. During a war, he knew what to do. Actually, with someone firing bullets, cannon shells or missiles, he knew what to do. Try to work in a shoe store or as a teller in a bank, and he didn’t do so well.

I’m a misfit. Even the general said he was glad to see me go .

Paul grinned at the recent memory. At first, when they got back to the States, the general had told him in particular that he had to stay in the orbital arm of the Marines.

“Do you know how much it cost your country to train you, Kavanagh? Your battlesuit and you are one now, and that’s not easily replaceable.”

“I’m taking a break,” he told the general.

“You? I don’t think so. What will you do as a civilian anyway?”

“Don’t know,” Paul had said. “Maybe it’s time I learned.”

There had been a pause. Maybe the general had processed his words. Finally, the general had stuck out his hand, and as they shook, the man said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Kavanagh. It was my job to try to keep you, since you’re a Marine, a damn good one, maybe even the best, but good riddance. We’re better off without you.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Get bent, Kavanagh. If I never see you again, it will be too soon.”

Paul kept smiling as he stared out of the taxi’s window. He was out, baby. He’d done his stint, and he’d done his duty. Maybe he’d become a private eye. It seemed the sort of job for someone like him. Yeah, he’d help people find things. Something different that took a knack for dealing with trouble.

The taxi turned down a street, and he noticed a change. The houses, the businesses looked rundown here, with bars over every set of windows. The people in the rain didn’t run to keep from getting wet. Didn’t look much whether they cared about wet one way or another.