Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: China

Those in power didn’t really like men of honor unless they were honorable themselves or if they could aim the men of honor like arrows against their enemies. Those in power didn’t want to hear uncomfortable truths from honest men.

Stan glanced both ways and crossed a street. The next sidewalk glittered with ice. Since he knew it was there, he compensated and kept himself from slipping again. Two blocks later, the church came into view. Several armored cars were parked in the lot, with big security soldiers standing around smoking cigars. McGraw kept up an image, which included his personal detail. No cigarettes for his boys, they had to smoke stogies.

The guards intercepted him before he could enter the building. They had submachine guns in their fists, with straps over their shoulders. The biggest checked a manifest, eyed Stan and nodded toward the church doors at the top of wide granite steps.

He took the stairs carefully. A big man opened a door for him, shutting it behind Stan. The heat struck him in the face. Stan took off his hat and nodded to the padre, a tall old man in a black robe.

“He is praying,” the priest said in a quiet voice.

The information surprised Stan. He’d never known McGraw for prayer or any religious observance for that matter. Then he spied the general pacing back and forth before the altar.

Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was a bear of a man, with a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. In Patton style, McGraw usually wore pistols at his side. The general’s guns were old issue .45s, and he had used them on more than one occasion. For once, though, McGraw didn’t wear them.

Oh, that’s why the priest stood out here. The man guarded McGraw’s guns. Stan saw them on a nearby table.

“Would you like to place your weapons here?” the priest asked.

Silently, Stan unbuttoned the great coat and took a pistol from its holster, laying it beside McGraw’s guns and belt. Then he walked down the center aisle.

The general stopped pacing, watching Stan, finally thrusting out a meaty hand.

Stan gripped it, and McGraw yanked his hand up and down, nearly ripping the arm out of the socket. As he did so, McGraw spewed his breath in greeting, which reeked of alcohol, most likely whiskey.

“What did you think of my presentation, Professor?” McGraw asked in a hearty tone. He meant the one in the movie theater.

“Straight to the point, sir,” Stan said.

“Don’t sir me in church, son, and don’t kiss my butt either. What did you think, really?”

“Okay. I doubt the Chinese are going to fall as easily as you explained it to us.”

“Ha! There you go. That’s what I wanted to hear. You don’t trust American technology, is that it?”

“No, sir,” Stan said. “I mean, yes sir, I do. What I don’t trust is the idea that any battle plan will survive contact with the enemy.”

“You of all people can say that? You’re the master planner.”

“History shows—”

“Ah, history,” McGraw said. “I’m tired of hearing that. Director Harold spouts historical nonsense just as you like to do.”

“He does?” Stan asked, surprised to hear this.

“When it suits his purposes, of course,” the general said.

Stan glanced around.

“What’s wrong, Higgins? I thought you were a religious man. You don’t like it here?”

“I believe in God, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I just did.”

Stan waited.

“You got something against Catholics?” McGraw asked.

“No, sir,” Stan said. “I’m just wondering why you wanted to meet here.”

“I don’t strike you as a praying man?”

“No, sir, you don’t.”

“You’re right. I’ve gotten where I’ve gotten by my own brains and guts. I haven’t asked anything from anybody, and I don’t plan to start anytime soon.”

Big Tom grinned down at him, and he extracted a slim metal container from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he took a slug of whiskey. He sighed, smacked his lips and took another long swallow.

“I’d offer you some, old son, but I think you’d turn me down.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t like being turned down these days. It hurts my feelings. So I’m not going to ask, you understand?”

Stan blinked several times, and he realized that McGraw was already drunk. The knowledge tightened his chest. The general hadn’t been drunk a half hour ago. That meant he must have been drinking heavily since the theater briefing. Why would McGraw drink so much before meeting here with him?

“I can see the wheels turning inside your head,” McGraw said. He pointed the flask at Stan. It had a dent in the side. The general scowled at the small container, glanced toward the back where the priest stood and stuffed the flask into his jacket pocket.

“Sit down,” the general muttered. “I’m tired of pacing.” Before Stan could decide where to sit, McGraw lumbered to a front pew, dropping his butt onto it so the wood creaked.

Stan moved onto the same one, with plenty of space between them.

McGraw took a deep breath, opening his mouth as he turned to Stan. The general’s gaze darted away.

It was then Stan knew things were bad. Normally, McGraw shied away from nothing. Is this why the man had gotten drunk?

“I’m speaking in confidence, old son. You do understand that, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That means if you breathe a word about this to anyone I’ll nail your hide to a wall, and I’ll deny everything. I’ll break you, Higgins, or circumstances will. I won’t have to do anything other than to deny I said any of this.”

“Okay.”

“I like you, Higgins. I have from the start.”

The general meant their days together in Officer Candidate School as young men a long time ago.

“Even better, I’ve learned to trust you and trust your judgment.” McGraw paused.

Stan had the feeling the general wanted to take out his flask again and sip some more whiskey.

“The war’s been hard,” McGraw said. “You’d agree to that.”

“Of course.”

“It’s hard on soldiers and even more on generals.”

“Seems like it’s hardest on the dead,” Stan said.

“Yes,” McGraw said, as he nodded. “But most of all, it’s hard on the President. To make all those decisions and know that men and women die because of it…”

Stan waited, and he didn’t like the direction this was headed. If it was so bad King Sims should step down and let the people vote for a replacement—a real election, not the rigged events they had these days. He didn’t want to hear anything that might make him sympathetic to the tyrant. Ever since Jake had told him what had really happened last year in the penal battalion, he’d become more critical of America’s highest leadership.

“The war has taken a psychological toll on Sims,” McGraw said. “He isn’t anything like the man we knew in Alaska.”

The Alaskan War in 2032 seemed like a lifetime ago. Sims had been the Joint Forces Commander back then. He’d driven the Chinese out of the frozen state. It had turned him into a national hero and won him the presidency later. The Chinese had regrouped for seven years before trying again out of Mexico, leading to their present predicament.

“We have to win the next battle,” McGraw said. “I don’t know if the President can withstand another disaster.”

“He can step down any time he wants,” Stan said.

McGraw scowled. “That’s a foolish statement. The country needs Sims. The people trust him. They’ve developed a national faith in him.

The Caesars eventually claimed to be gods. Roman policy demanded people make sacrifices to them. It’s why they burned the earliest Christians, who refused to worship anyone but God Almighty. Is that where this is headed?