The gun barked four loud reports, with flashes belching from the barrel each time. Bullets slammed into Peng until he found himself lying on the carpet. The world spun crazily and narrowed to a tight focus. Peng saw as from a great distance Mr. Cruz standing over him. The old man pointed the gun at his face.
“No,” Peng whispered.
He didn’t hear the sound, but he saw the final muzzle flash. It was the last thing Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division saw before he died.
Three days later, near noon, Stan climbed out of his Behemoth and noticed a terrible black cloud over LA. It seemed gray now rather than black. That was something, at least. The fires were dying out, often because of a lack of fuel. Perhaps the flies would die soon too.
From the top hatch of the tank, he surveyed the enemy lines. He saw a great trench in the rubble, with coils of razor wire before it. The Chinese had put that up yesterday with huge, bulldozer-like machines. He could see machine gun emplacements. Many of those were fake, meant to draw American fire.
Frowning, Stan wondered why the Chinese hadn’t bombarded them today and yesterday. That went against the Chinese methods shown these past weeks. Could the great and mighty offensive have finally halted?
It was too soon to believe that. Yet time in southern California wasn’t on China’s side. Every hour helped JFC SoCal stiffen the defenses. Every hour allowed more trucks to bring badly needed supplies. It meant exhausted and battle-shaken troops could rest and regain their morale. Stan snorted. It allowed the mechanics time to bring the remaining Behemoths a little closer to shipshape.
“Professor!” Jose shouted up from within the tank.
“What is it?”
“They’re sending a jeep for you. You’re to report to Battalion HQ.”
“Now? The Chinese could resume their offensive at any moment.”
“I’m just relying orders, Professor.”
Stan eased out of the hatch and used the rungs on the side of the tank to crawl down to the ground. The weird thing was he actually felt more tired now than he had several days ago. He’d stopped taking stims to stay awake and he almost slept normal hours. It was as if his body had used every reserve it had to keep him going, and now that things had slowed, it was letting go, collapsing from exhaustion.
He leaned against the tank and his mind shied from the endless death and destruction he’d been part of. The things he and the crew had done to stay alive were terrible. Yet what choice did they have? It was either kill or become Chinese slaves.
As Stan leaned against the tank, a jeep roared up. The driver was a Militia teenager, a skinny boy with an oversized helmet. There were too many youngsters in the Army like him, too many hastily drafted kids out of LA.
Slowing down, the kid shouted, “Captain Higgins?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“I’m here to take you to HQ.”
Stan climbed into the jeep. The kid glanced at the razor wire, shuddered and cranked the wheel. He drove faster, dodging shell-holes and big chunks of rubble and other debris. They passed Militia clearing this street, using their hands and wheelbarrows. A bulldozer would have been better. A lot of things would have been better.
The driver took to him Battalion HQ, a relatively intact Rite Aid store. Battered Bradley Fighting Vehicles used the parking lot, together with beat up Humvee Avengers, their Blowdart missiles aimed skyward.
Stan followed the driver, who took him to an old storeroom in back. Data net men swarmed the area with their equipment. Soon, Stan spoke with the colonel, a Militiaman and a former high school football coach. He was big and balding, and had bowed legs.
“I’ve spoken to the General,” the ex-coach said. “We’re pulling out your Behemoths.”
Stan raised his eyebrows. “I thought we were stiffening the line.”
“You were. But the eggheads who decide such things have changed their mind. Now the Behemoths are going to form LA’s reserve.”
“Because the Chinese have taken a siesta?” Stan asked.
“Did you notice all the razor wire they’ve put up lately?”
“That could be a trick,” Stan said. “Maybe they’re trying to lull us.”
“Or it could indicate a change in mindset.”
“There is that, too.”
“Anyway,” the ex-coach said, “here’s the schedule for the pullout. We’re going to do this by stages.” The colonel handed Stan a folder.
He tucked it under his arm.
“By the way,” the colonel said, as he checked his watch. “You have a call in ten minutes. It’s from the Detention Center.”
Stan’s heart went cold. This was highly unusual. By law, there were only a few places allowed to communicate with the Detention Center facility. The middle of a battle zone wasn’t one, either.
“Is it about my son?” Stan asked.
The colonel shrugged. “You can use the comm-equipment over there. Let me say it in case you don’t know. I’m glad you and your tanks were here, Captain. As far as I’m concerned, you saved all our butts.”
The man held out his hand. Stan shook it. The ex-football coach had a bone-crushing grip.
Soon, Stan found himself sitting at a table, staring at a computer screen. What had happened? He hoped Jake had kept his nose clean.
In time, a Detention Center officer came onscreen. The woman looked angry. She read off a list, asking a series of questions.
“What is this about?” Stan asked.
“First,” she said, looking up, “I must confirm that you are Captain Stan Higgins of the U.S. Army. Until such time, I cannot answer any of your questions.”
Stan kept his face neutral and told himself he couldn’t afford another fight with them. He answered the many and sometimes intrusive questions. Finally, the officer gave him a perfunctory smile.
“Thank you, Captain Higgins. You are clearly Jake Higgins’s father. I will now patch you through to him.”
“Is Jake all right?”
“You can confirm that in…” she checked her watch. “In fifteen seconds.” She faded from view.
Stan waited, and in exactly fifteen seconds, Jake appeared onscreen.
“Dad, are you okay?”
Stan found himself grinning from ear-to-ear. “It’s good to see, son. Are you in trouble?”
A wary look came over Jake. “No sir, I’ve learned my lesson. America is the greatest country in the world and President Sims is just the man to see us through these terrible times. I made a stupid mistake in protesting against him. I see that now.”
Stan nodded, but he felt saddened. Yes, America was the greatest country, but no one should have to force that idea onto his boy. It should have come naturally. Still, he couldn’t fault Jake. The Detention Center surely monitored the call. The more he’d thought about it during the weeks, the more he’d liked it that his boy had stood up to them. But there was a time and place to speak up and a time to keep your mouth shut. Maybe this was a sign of Jake finally growing up: knowing when to fight his battles.
“Are you leaving the Detention Center?” Stan asked. “Are you coming home?”
“I am leaving,” Jake said. “But I’m not coming home. I’ve signed up.”
“In the Militia?” Stan asked.
“That’s why I’m calling, sir. I want to thank you.”
“What did I do?”
“You won the Medal of Honor in Alaska, and the exploits of your tanks in California have been in the news almost every day. The Detention Center Commandant has spoken to the President about me, asking for a reprieve.”
Stan’s face split into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful!”
“Yes sir. It means I can volunteer for any service I want.”
Stan blinked rapidly. “What’s that? What are you talking about?”
