Invasion: China (Invasion America) (Volume 5) (59 page)

Stan
believed he understood Director Harold’s game. The man tried to act like a Caesar, the savior on a white horse. Stan had read the book of Revelation before. In it, the Savior rode a white horse called Faithful and True. Harold wasn’t being truthful nor did the Professor believe the director had been faithful. McGraw had been imprisoned, along with Levin of the CIA.

Stan didn’t know how truthful the assassination attempt against
Director Harold had been. Had the CIA actually tried to kill the man? Possibly, but now that the war was over, winding down, more like, now the purges in America would begin.

Harold wants to consolidate power. He wants to rule America as a dictator, as a conquering Caesar. You should have been on the battlefield with us then
.

Stan exhaled
and his heart beat rapidly. He waited behind the Militia guards. This was a Hollywood red carpet job. When Harold showed up, the Army officers along the sides were supposed to cheer and wave as the director marched into the building to accept the Chairman’s official surrender.

Which is exactly what we’ll do
, Stan thought.
We’ll cheer, but we’ll do it more than you expected, at least I hope you’re not ready for this
.

He’d told himself
twenty times already to relax, but Stan couldn’t help the jitters that worked through him. He shuffled his feet. No doubt, Militia profilers watched him and the others ready to act. The hidden profilers must surely understand how nervous he was.

I’ve never been part of a conspiracy before
.

Stan
exhaled once more, and he forced himself to stand still, to quit fidgeting.

Finally, maybe ten minutes later, a heavy black car rolled to a stop at the curb sixty feet away.

Stan pushed up to his tiptoes to look over a big Militiaman’s shoulders. He recognized Director Harold getting out of the car. The man stood beside Militia General Williamson. With Williamson and two other security men in the lead, the group headed for the museum entrance.

The TV people were already recording
the event.

Get ready for it
, Stan told himself.
Get ready
.

Director Harold came closer, closer…fifty feet, forty-five, forty, thirty-five, thirty
feet.

Stan pumped his fist into the air. “Three cheers for Director Harold, the savior of America! Hip-hip hurrah!” he roared, “hip-hip hurrah!”

The Militia guard in front of him turned around.

“He’s our man!” Stan shouted. “If Harold can’t do it no one can!”

Other Army officers began to cheer, began to pump their fists into the air.

Williamson stopped. So did his two beefy boys. Director Harold halted behind them.

“Give it up for Director Harold!” Stan bellowed, and he pushed forward, bumping up against the Militia guard.

That seemed to be a signal. All around, the Army and Marine officers cheered, chanted, raised their fists and shoved against the guards. It was like a college victory against the hated rival, with crowds surging onto the playing field.

Williamson drew his sidearm. The two other guards did likewise. All three aimed against what had become a jostling crowd.

Stan shoved, and a Militia guard shoved back.

“Get back in your designated area,” the guard told Stan.

“Hurrah for Director Harold!” Stan bellowed, “hip-hip hurrah!”

Williamson raised his pistol, and he fired three quick shots into the air.

The shouting died down, and the surge of the crowd lessoned.

“Get back into your areas!” Williamson shouted. “Or I’ll order the guards to begin firing at you. This will be a peaceful event.”

It was then Stan Higgins pressed a secret button
in his pocket.

WAREHOUSE BASEMENT, HARBIN, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

A
buzzer sounded in his ear. Jake Higgins shoved out of his location in a basement. He’d heard people tramping above him earlier, tapping, searching for hidden areas. They hadn’t found his.

Dirt caked
Jake, and his limbs shook with excitement. His dear old dad had made the plan. The “Professor” said they had to take down the Caesar now, while America decided what kind of country it was going to become.

I’m going to die, I know, but I’m sick of the internment camps. I’m sick of looking over my shoulder. If the
government won’t let me protest peacefully, well, then I’m going to pick up my gun and make them wish they had
.

Jake grabbed his high-velocity sniper rifle, and he rushed to the selected
position. It was a bottom basement window, but the warehouse stood on a hill. It meant he looked down at the Mao Museum five football field lengths away.

The window lacked glass
, so he didn’t have to break any. Jake had a suppressor on the end of the rifle. He poked it through the window and rested the end on its mount. Then he put his eye against the scope, centering on Director Harold.

The man had stopped because of the commotion
ahead of him. That had been the plan.

This is it. Remember the Detention Center, remember your friends in the penal battalion
s
.

Jake aimed
at Harold’s upper torso, with a shaky red dot jittering around the suit. Taking a deep breath, holding the dot where the man’s heart should be, young Higgins squeezed the trigger. The high-velocity sniper rifle kicked against his shoulder. Jake clenched his teeth, and he continued to take deliberate aimed shots.

MAO MUSEUM, HARBIN, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

Stan pressed the button several times. Then he backed away from the Militia guard. He shook hi
s head at the young Militiaman, trying to show that he was harmless.

The seconds ticked away. Could his son do this? Could Jake—

Stan must have been the first to see it. A bullet smashed through Director Harold, sprouting from his chest. A second one came on the heels of the first. With bloody red lips, Director Harold pitched forward.

Militia General Williamson turned. He watched Harold fall, hit the sidewalk and twitch. Then the tall
Militia general looked up, and a round drilled him in the forehead, dropping him on the spot.

Stan had seen enough. He faded back, back, and a loud shout told him some of the Militia people saw the director. Without a word, Stan turned around and began to walk. He needed to leave Harbin and get back to his
division. Things were about to get very hairy.

WAREHOUSE BASEMENT, HARBIN, HEILONGJIANG PROVINCE

Jake let go of his rifle and
he raced across the basement. He ran outside to a shed, slipped inside it and uncovered a hidden tunnel opening. He crawled like mad in the darkness, reaching an older tunnel.

He felt around and found a flashlight. Clicking it on,
standing, he ran again, his chest heaving. He couldn’t believe it. Director Harold was dead, with two bullet holes in his chest.

I did it. I killed the tyrant. Now what’s going to happen?

In time, he climbed a steel ladder and popped out onto a street in Harbin. A parked jeep waited. Jake dug out keys, unlocked the vehicle, started it and drove away. Thus was born a new assassination legend to rival an older one from the twentieth century concerning a President named Kennedy.

RENO, NEVADA

Paul Kavanagh
stared out of the back of a taxi. Rain pelted the streets as people hurried for cover. It was unseasonable to have showers in August. The taxi’s wipers went back and forth, but it was old rubber. Probably been a long time since anyone changed them. They streaked water across the window and made everything blurry outside.

How could America field Orion ships, powered armor and lifters, yet have rundown taxis and most people on foot or riding bicycles?

Now that we defeated China, are we on top again or did we just win a few battles?

That was big picture
stuff, and it mattered, but not much to a regular guy.

Is that what I am?

Paul shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. During a war, he knew what to do. Actually, with someone firing bullets, cannon shells or missiles, he knew what to do. Try to work in a shoe store or as a teller in a bank, and he didn’t do so well.

I’m a misfit. Even the general said he was glad to see me go
.

Paul grinned
at the recent memory. At first, when they got back to the States, the general had told him in particular that he had to stay in the orbital arm of the Marines.

“Do you know how much it cost
your country to train you, Kavanagh? Your battlesuit and you are one now, and that’s not easily replaceable.”

“I’m taking a break,” he told the general.

“You? I don’t think so. What will you do as a civilian anyway?”

“Don’t know,”
Paul had said. “Maybe it’s time I learned.”

There had been a pause. Maybe the general had processed his words. Finally, the
general had stuck out his hand, and as they shook, the man said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Kavanagh. It was my job to try to keep you, since you’re a Marine, a damn good one, maybe even the best, but good riddance. We’re better off without you.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Get bent, Kavanagh. If I never see you again, it will be too soon.”

Paul kept smiling as he stared out of the taxi’s window. He was out, baby. He’d done his stint, and he’d done his duty. Maybe he’d become a private eye. It seemed the sort of job for someone like him. Yeah, he’d help people find things. Something different that took a knack for dealing with trouble.

The taxi turned down a street, and he noticed a change. The houses, the businesses looked rundown here, with bars over every set of windows. The people in the rain didn’t run to keep from getting wet. Didn’t look much whether they cared about wet one way or another.

Does Cheri live in this neighborhood?
He looked at the slip of paper he’d shown the driver. He hadn’t been able to remember if it was the same address as during his last leave or not.

He shrugged.
I’m coming home, baby
.

The taxi took another turn, and the houses and apartments lowered another notch in quality. Those
on the street who stopped to stare at the taxi had hard looks and mean features.

That bothered Paul. While he’d been fighting for his country with the latest tech, his wife had lived in squalor. That was wrong. Well, he had a few bucks saved up. He’d used the system of putting ten percent of his pay into an account. He
’d cash out and get his wife and boy a good place to live.

He remembered a lesson from high school
, which hadn’t made sense then. Maybe it did more now. The lesson had been about ancient Rome and its citizen-farmer legionaries. The Romans had been the best soldiers, and had beaten everyone they faced. But at the end of some long war, the good soldiers had each lost his farm because he hadn’t been home to work it. He’d been too busy fighting for his country. The generals had made out. But the grunt, the legionnaire, had been screwed.

Seemed like nothing changed
: different era, different weapons, same outcome.

Not this time, or not for me
, Paul thought.
If I can make a good Marine, I can do something that will bring us the bucks
.

It was going to be better this time between
Cheri and him.

The taxi’s brakes squealed as it came to a stop before a beat
-up apartment complex. Several young men leaned against a wall, in a dry area. They looked like scoundrels.

“You pay now,” the taxi driver said.

“Sure,” Paul said. He counted the bills, crisp new ones that felt shiny and clean, and added a few more for a tip, handing it through a slot in the glass partition between them.

“I
ain’t gonna get out here,” the driver said.

“No problem. I got it.” Paul opened the door, and he aimed his legs out. The right leg had a brace over the knee. It had taken a pounding in China. He grabbed a pair of cru
tches, set the rubber tips on the ground and swung his body out.

With his good foot, he slammed the door shut. The taxi’s nearly bald tires spun and sprayed a bit of water
, some of which struck Paul’s pants. Either the man was in a hurry, or he really didn’t like this part of town.

Yeah,
Cheri and me are finding a new place tomorrow
.

In his leather coat with a duffel bag slung over his back, he crutched his way up the main sidewalk. The three
punks said something they thought was funny, and they laughed.

Paul stopped, glancing at the three.

One of them showed him a switchblade, letting the metal pop out. “What you got in the duffel bag, old man?”