Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) (3 page)

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 w
as 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
.

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 flas
k 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.

“Si
t 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?

The general continued to scowl, and his manner
became colder.

Despite his feelings, Stan decided on restraint. What could
he do about any of this anyway? “Okay, we need Sims,” he said.

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“The President is getting tired. I believe that’s what you’re saying.”

McGraw rubbed a big hand across his chin, and he seemed to measure Stan with his eyes.
“There’s talk about helping him,” the general said quietly. “The President might need a rest, a vacation.”

Stan became alert, and something must have given it away.

“I’m finally getting through to you,” McGraw said. “Good. Homeland Security and the military are engaged in…talks concerning this.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I think you do. If the President lacks the will to do what needs doing…then we’re duty bound to help him.”

“By staging a coup?” Stan asked
, blurting the words before he could monitor himself.

McGraw’s face hardened, and the man’s gaze bored into Stan
, becoming ugly, maybe even dangerous. A moment later, a grin broke out. “You’re missing my meaning, Higgins. FDR had a stroke at the end of World War II. No one said anything as those around him coped with the situation.”

“Sims is going to have a stroke?”

“Damnit, Higgins, can’t you be delicate for once? We’re talking about saving the country.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. McGraw is one of them, hungry for power.
At least they’re getting their lingo right. No. I can’t believe McGraw is suggesting a coup, not Tom.

“Sir, if the President is unfit for duty, we should elect a new man. That’s what the
Constitution says.”

“What century are you living in
, son? We haven’t been following the Constitution for seventy years already. The politicians do whatever they want, making things up as they go along. When the people try to limit them in some way, that’s the only time the President or the others talk about the sacred Constitution.”

Stan sat back, stunned.
“Are you talking about a triumvirate?” he asked.

“Speak English.
What are you talking about?”

“Pompey,
Julius Caesar and—”

“What?
Caesar? Why are you talking about Roman history now? I don’t get you.”

“
Back then, Caesar and the others formed a triumvirate that bypassed Roman laws. It sounds like that’s what you’re suggesting here.”