Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: China

“Please,” she said, “don’t do anything like that. They’ll throw you in military prison.”

“No. I’m too good at what I do. Uncle Sam needs me.”

“Paul.”

“You told me these things for a reason, right? Did you expect me to just ignore them?”

She looked down.

“Babe, this is what I do. I protect those I love. I put my life on the line to try to save America, to save you and Mikey. Do you think that means I’m going to let a money-sucking weasel like a Homeland Security dick bother my wife? No. It means I’m going to do what I do best. You get some sleep and let me deal with things. For a few days anyway, your husband is at home.”

“Paul…” she said.

“My promises mean something, sweets. I’m going to pound this punk and after another few missions, I’m coming home to stay.”

She didn’t say anything more, but she watched him with wide, fearful eyes.

After Paul finished lacing his boots, he walked out. He was going to ask Mr. Banker Boy some questions. If he got the wrong answers… well, the man’s answers would determine just how many broken bones Templeton had to deal with. One way or another, Paul was going to protect his own.

What’s in a nickname, or a name for that matter?

Colonel Stan Higgins crunched through the snow, crossing what must have been a used car lot many years ago. Sure. He remembered his youth when every American could afford a vehicle. That seemed like a long time ago now in a different country.

He left his fellow tank officers behind where they sat in an old movie theater sipping coffee and eating donuts. They’d all listened to General McGraw, the Joint Forces Commander of the Southern Front. McGraw had outlined their duties in the coming offensive. It was still several weeks away, maybe even two months. It depended on the weather.

No. That wasn’t completely true. The Chinese were playing games again on their side of no man’s land in Oklahoma. It had the intelligence boys worried.

Stan shivered as a cold gust whipped off the prairies, barreling down Wichita’s streets. He wore a greatcoat and a hunter’s hat with earmuffs.

Stan was approaching his mid-fifties. At five-ten, he battled with his weight, never quite letting it reach two hundred. He popped two glucosamine pills a day to help keep his joints limber. He didn’t run, but he rode a bicycle three times a week and lifted two days, keeping a nice ball of muscle in his biceps. These days, he didn’t have any time for basketball. Besides, he’d lost half a step. It irritated him when a player scored with a shot that he could have stopped even three years ago.

In his younger days, the boys called him “Money” because he made all his shots. No one called him that anymore. No. His nickname was “Professor” because he saw history lessons in everything.

Stan scowled, flipping up his collar and hunkering down. What miserable weather. Dark clouds raced across the sky, threatening to dump even more snow on Southern Front Headquarters.

Volcanism was on the rise worldwide, spewing tons of fine dust into the air. That reflected too much sunlight, the scientists said. The sun also had far fewer sunspots these days. The big orb heated the Earth less than it used to. The two factors had conspired to make this a colder, drearier planet, with constant crop failures in places that used to thrive. With the Earth’s billions, hungry people had become desperate people, willing to go to war for food.

That made perfect sense historically. Sure. Hunger had once driven the Huns off the high steppes of Asia. Well, to be precise, other nomads had done that, staking out the better grazing lands and killing those who disagreed with their choices. The displaced Huns pushed others in their wake, sending German horse barbarians in the Ukrainian prairies against the Roman Empire’s northeastern border. That had brought about the epoch-changing battle of Adrianople in 378 AD where Ostrogothic heavy cavalry shattered Roman infantry. For a thousand years afterward, cavalry ruled the battlefields.

Stan snorted, shaking his head as his thoughts shifted. He headed for an old building, a Catholic church. McGraw would meet him there so they could speak in private.

The general liked to bounce ideas off him, strategic, operational and tactical plans. Stan loved military history more than any other kind. He read about wars, battles and sieges the way other guys sat down for a few hours of sports as they drank beer. It relaxed him while it absorbed his thinking.

Stan had snorted because he felt rueful about the fact that he understood some of the Romans of Julius Caesar’s time better than people today: those patriots Cassius, Brutus and company, the ones who’d carried hidden knives into the senate to stab the would-be-king Caesar to death. They’d wanted a return to the Republic.

Yes, Stan understood them better because that’s exactly how he felt. He wanted a return to the good old American Republic, the kind that real citizens used to enjoy. By real, he meant those who could stand on their own feet without the government giving them the dole. People accepting handouts for long eventually became slaves. If you wanted freedom, you had to fend for yourself. Sure, help your fellow man when the accidents of life knocked him down. But don’t let your government give you freebies in return for tyranny that made a thousand laws concerning your everyday activities.

America had taken the low road in the years before the Chinese invasion. Socialism stole personal initiative. And speaking of senates, the American version had been losing ground to the Imperial Presidency for a long time. Now, President Sims ruled like a king. Monarchs soon developed cronies and favorites, and those people made the decisions.

Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, had clearly become King Sims’ favorite courtier.

Stan grunted as his right foot slipped on a patch of ice, causing his groin to twinge with pain. His hands flew out of his pockets. He lurched and almost went down. At the last moment, he caught his balance. With his hands on his knees, he panted.

Don’t be an idiot.

He went to see McGraw. The general vied for Presidential status, for courtier rank. In the last year, McGraw had gone to the White House many times to give King Sims advice. The general had become a public hero, as Erwin Rommel had during WWII to the Germans. If anyone could beat back the Chinese, it was General McGraw. That was the public feeling, and it gave everyone confidence to know that in the next big showdown, McGraw was going to run the proceedings his way, just as he had in Colorado when he broke the siege of Denver and drove the Chinese into Oklahoma.

Besides, Stan doubted his assessment of the internal situation was completely true. McGraw tugged the President in one direction while Harold tugged the President another, and Chairman Alan of the Joint Chiefs had his own ideas.

What do I want to see happen?

Stan knew the answer to that. He wanted three things. One, he wanted Homeland Security to drop all charges against his boy Jake. Two, he wanted to drive the Chinese out of America and make sure they never returned. Three, he wanted to go back to the Republic where the three branches of government checked and balanced each other, allowing a man like him to live with the least interference possible.

So far, none of the three was even close to happening. That made Stan irritable. He wore his Medal of Honor under his greatcoat. Let McGraw see it and remember that Stan had paid in blood, sweat and tears for his country.

If anyone has a right to speak out, it’s me. Hell, maybe it’s my obligation to speak out. Jake has it right. We have to start standing up for our principles or this war means nothing .