batons from their belts, and they approached Jake with death on their faces.
Jake saw them approaching. He trembled from rage, and he silently berated himself for having fallen into their trap. Maybe he should have just tried to kill Franks. But he didn’t hate the man, as such. He hated the system that gave men like Franks the room to haze those weaker than him.
Before the first MDG reached him, before Jake went berserk and went down fighting, a sharp whistle blasted through the air.
Jake turned his head. The sergeants faced the same direction as he did. After a half second, they warily lowered their batons.
A Militia Detention lieutenant climbed out of a jeep. He strode to them, glancing at the MDGs with their batons and glancing at Sergeant Franks with his bloody nose. Finally, his gaze locked onto Jake.
The lieutenant kept walking at Jake, and he no longer glanced at the MDGs. They quietly began to holster their batons and stand at attention.
The lieutenant reached Jake, and he asked, “Did you do that to him?”
The lieutenant was regular-sized, had a longish neck, sandy-colored hair and freckles across his nose. He looked like a Staples salesman or a computer programmer.
“Yes, sir,” Jake said.
“Why would you attack one of my MDGs?” the lieutenant asked.
“He spit in my face, sir,” Jake said.
The lieutenant blinked as he took that in. He didn’t turn to ask the MDGs if it was true. Obviously, if it were true, they would lie about it. Everyone knew that, even this young, geeky lieutenant.
“An American doesn’t take an insult like that, sir,” Jake explained. “He fights back. He uses his fists. At least, that’s what my father taught me.”
“And who might your father be?” the lieutenant asked.
“Colonel Higgins, sir, of the Behemoth Regiment. He won the Medal of Honor in Alaska in 2032.”
“What’s Colonel Higgins’s son doing in a penal battalion?” the lieutenant asked.
Here it was. Here was the question Jake had been asking himself for some time. His mind moved at laser speed. He had been that close to death. Likely, the sergeants were going to see him dead, one way or another. He had to outwit them. One thing he’d learned so far: they all believed he was a traitor, and likely, nothing he said would change their opinion of him. Therefore, he needed to work within the limits they would accept.
“Sir,” Jake said, “Colonel Higgins’s son is learning some hard lessons.”
“Give me a for-instance,” the lieutenant said.
“I’m learning that privilege doesn’t mean anything when it comes to my country,” Jake said. “All that counts is action.”
“What does that mean?” the lieutenant asked.
“That I can’t rest on my father’s laurels,” Jake said. “I have to prove my love for America by my own actions.”
“
“Yes, sir, I do,” Jake said. “But I’ve gone about it the wrong way. If I can, sir, I want to hurt the enemies who have come here to rape and steal from us.”
“Why are you here?” the lieutenant asked.
“Because I had a bad attitude before, sir,” Jake said. “I said some things that no one should ever say.”
“What kind of things?”
“I spoke against the Director of Homeland Security.” Jake shook his head.
“Hmm,” the lieutenant said. He turned to Sergeant Franks. “Did you hear that? He’s a war-hero’s son. No wonder he kicked your butt so easily.” The lieutenant’s gaze took in the other MDGs. “I want Jake Higgins to survive training. If he can thrash Sergeant Franks like that, imagine what he can do to the Germans.”
“Sir,” Franks said.
The lieutenant held up a hand. “I want him to survive our short training schedule. Have I made myself clear, Sergeant?”
The muscled man hesitated, but he finally said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now carry on.” The lieutenant surveyed the lined-up men once, glanced again at Jake and then strode to his jeep, kicking up gravel at each step. One stone struck the vehicle a second before the lieutenant opened the door and slid in, leaving them in another crunch of gravel.
Sergeant Dan Franks wiped his bloody nose. Then he marched in front of Jake. Every eye was on them. Franks halted an inch from Jake, staring at him from the side.
Jake didn’t move. He waited to see whether he would live or die.
“This isn’t over,” Franks whispered.
Jake said nothing, as there was nothing to say to that.
“I obey orders,” Franks whispered. “You’re going to survive training, unless you do something really stupid. But I wouldn’t hold too tightly to your chances of surviving combat.”
Jake still said nothing.
“Get back in formation,” Franks said.
Jake marched to his spot, and the MDG who had taken roll call before began their calisthenics soon thereafter. It lasted for three hours. Only after five detainees fainted did Franks call a halt for food and water, a chance to go to the latrines and then a return into the railroad car. They were on their way east to the war, but that’s all any of the detainees knew, other than that only a few of them would survive the coming battles.
Anna Chen sat up late with the President and with General Alan in the Oval Office.
As could be expected, David Sims looked much different in person than he did on TV. The propaganda team had made him seem stern and collected on the tube, an older uncle that everyone could trust. In person, the President tended toward the heavier side, with most of his extra weight in his gut. He wore a well-tailored suit jacket that hid the extent of his stomach, but he’d gained another seven pounds since the GD invasion. Wispy blond hair barely covered his bald spot in front. He had pale blue eyes that scanned a report as he moved back and forth on his rocking chair. It creaked abominably.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—General Alan—was gaunt with sunken cheeks. He took off black-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. Putting them back on, the general took a sheaf of papers from the sofa he sat on and began paging through them.
Like the other two, Anna read reports on various secret projects. They searched for ideas, something to help America stem the tide of GD conquest. A thing like this was really better left to experts. Those experts could tell them about the best projects during a briefing. In Anna’s opinion, the President needed to save his mental energy in order to remain sharp. That way he could okay the right decisions and nix the bad ones, not waste his precious time with these rabbit-hole searches.
Anna had told him so many times before. But since David had once been a Joint Forces Commander in Alaska, he liked to get his hands dirty in the military details. Maybe this was a form of relaxation. Lord knew he needed it.
Anna helped, or she tried to help tonight. She was distracted as she read. She kept wondering if she should tell the President about Max Harold. Of course, she
Anna lowered her reading device and stared out of a window into the darkness. The city lights shined in the background. A blinking red light showed one of the antiair blimps over the city. How long until the Germans neared DC? A foreign power hadn’t occupied the city since the War of 1812. The British had burned the Capitol buildings then. Would the Germans reach here almost 250 years later?
