because Stan knew himself to be a plodding man who always tried to do the right thing. There was nothing maverick about him, unless seeing historical parallels from time to time in a given situation was considered eccentric.
Stan stared at the judge’s ruling as his mind raced from one thought to the next. He wanted to feel appreciated, as when he taught high school in Alaska. He was afraid that remaining in the military would only intensify his nightmares. Lastly, the bugs in the Mark I Behemoth—it was possible the three hundred ton tank would never see action and would never fulfill the destiny the U.S. needed against the threatening aggressors.
Stan tapped the screen, removing the judge’s decision. With his mouth in a grim line of determination, Stan began writing an email to Crane, seeing if the John Glen Corporation still had a spot for a fifty-year-old captain. If there was such a spot, he would have to talk to the base colonel tomorrow about resigning his commission.
What would Jose say about that? What would his tankers tell him? How was he going to cope with the coming guilt as he bailed out this near to war?
The idea made Stan miserable. No one liked to admit he was old. But it was time to face reality. He had to do whatever he could to bail Jake out of the Detention Center.
Marshal Shin Nung’s stomach seethed even though outwardly he seemed placid as he sat in a window seat of a large military helicopter.
Nung was sixty-six years old and a hero of the Alaskan and Siberian Wars. His hover/armored thrust across the Arctic ice to Prudhoe Bay had succeeded after a fashion, although it had been bloody and costly. His armored thrust in Siberia years earlier had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.
He was the commander of the First Front, of the three Armies on the Californian-Mexican border: the most heavily defended real estate in the world.
Even at sixty-six, Nung still had blunt features and an aggressive stare, though he was more jowly than seven years ago. In his distant youth he had studied at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence and had earned him the reputation among the Chinese military that he was half-Russian, a terrible slur.
Nung allowed himself a bitter smile. Many in the Army hated him because he had continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack, as the Russians used to teach. Once, the old Chairman had backed him. Now the new Chairman known simply as the “Leader” felt obligated to him. During the Alaskan War, they had shared the task of securing Dead Horse, particularly the oil fields there.
Jian Hong was Greater China’s “semi-divine” Leader, if one believed the propaganda messages. It was foolish to disagree openly. That was one lesson Nung had learned: to keep dangerous truths to himself.
Marshal Nung flew out of Mao Zedong Airport in Beijing, having arrived from Mexico, from near the American border actually. He was to attend an emergency session of the Ruling Committee. He knew why: the Americans had broken the secret of Blue Swan. It was a terrible blow to Chinese plans, or it could be. Marshal Nung knew the answer to the present dilemma. He usually knew what to do in an emergency. It was his gift and curse to see farther than those around him could. Once, he would have openly declared to anyone who cared to listen what should be done. At sixty-six, he had learned a modicum of wisdom. These days, he kept such opinions to himself and practiced mediations in order to keep his once explosive temper in check.
Nung stared out of the helicopter’s window. Below him, Beijing spread out in all its glory. It was rush hour, he supposed. Enormous Chinese cars crawled along the wide avenues and city streets. Many flew large flags with the single Chinese star, showing their patriotism. The vehicles moved past giant glass towers, monumental buildings and titanic statues, products of the Leader’s mania for size and grandeur, and of the largest and longest construction boom in history. Beijing was the chief city in the world, the center of civilization, the Middle Kingdom. It was a riot of colors, boasting the most people, the most cars, the most billionaires and the highest concentration of political power.
The rich here maintained private zoos and botanical gardens of gargantuan size. The Leader’s polar bears had been pictured in several documentaries, and he had often shown his favor by gifting a lucky official a prime polar bear cub. No longer did masses of pedestrians clog Beijing’s sidewalks, nor did bicycles clutter the streets as in many foreign cities. Mexico City had seemed like an overturned ant colony with its tens of thousands of bicyclists. Everyone in Beijing went by car at least, if only in a taxi.
The helicopter’s intercom crackled. “Sir,” the pilot said. “In case you were wondering, those are two Air Force jets pacing us.”
Nung stared out of the window. He spied a J-25 air superiority fighter. Sunlight winked off the craft’s canopy.
The pilot banked the helicopter. They were headed for the Leader’s summer palace outside the city. Nung closed his eyes, willing his seething stomach to settle down. The next few hours… they might well decide the fate of the world for many years to come.
Twenty minutes later, the helicopter banked once more and lurched, going down toward a landing pad in a vast garden of gingko trees. Nearby, there stood a huge palace dominating a luxurious villa. Grecian marble and Californian redwoods predominated as building material. There were gold inlaid fountains, a pagoda and even a large bronze Buddha with half-lidded eyes.
Armored cars ringed the landing pad. Each car bore a lion head on the hood and on the sides. Those belonged to the Leader’s Lion Guard, his personal security apparatus.
Without looking at the Army security team in the helicopter with him, Nung said, “Maintain decorum throughout the proceedings and on no account will you take offense at anything said.”
His chief of security, a large man with sloping shoulders, turned a stern face toward him, nodding once. The man never wasted words and Nung appreciated that.
A last lurch told him the helicopter had landed. Together, Nung and his security detail strode down the helicopter’s carpeted walkway.
First divesting his security personnel of weapons, Lion Guardsmen hustled them to waiting cars. The Leader’s mania against assassins real and imagined was well known among those in power.
The chief Lion Guardsman, a hulking specimen, stepped up, blocking the sunlight. He bowed before Nung, although there was nothing conciliatory about it. “I must frisk you, sir,” the giant said in a deep voice.
Nung froze for an instant. This was a grave indignity for a man of his rank. He resisted the impulse to turn to his security chief—the man wasn’t there, but going away toward a confinement cell. For the first time in years, Nung had no security. It was a strange feeling, as if he’d left his fly open or forgotten to put on his tie.
“There is no need to touch me,” Nung said gruffly, handing the man his service pistol.
“I’m afraid there is, sir.” The Lion Guardsman had hard, pitiless eyes.
“If you would lift your arms…”
Nung complied, enduring the shame of a pat down. The man groped everywhere, running his fingers down and under his buttocks. This was an insult, and it almost broke Nung’s resolve. He clenched his teeth, telling himself the rumors must be true then that the latest assassination attempt against Jian Hong had come within centimeters of success.
Once finished with the frisk, the Lion Guardsman looked down at him, smiling faintly before motioning to an armored car. It was a short drive to the palace. Soon, Nung marched down corridors and climbed what seemed like endless flights of stairs.
The hulking Lion Guardsman snapped his fingers. The four flanking Nung turned, and soon they entered a new corridor with portraits of the Leader and the old Chairman in their earlier days. The corridor led to maple double doors with golden handles. The chief guardsman took out a whistle and blew a shrill blast. He yanked open both doors to reveal a cavernous chamber with giant chandeliers and an enormous conference table among other grand furniture.
The chief guardsman shouted in a loud voice, “Marshal Shin Nung of the First Front!” The guardsman stepped
