Franks groaned, and he raised his head, with blood trickling down his nose. Several of the other MDGs drew 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.”
“
Do
you love America?” the lieutenant asked in a quiet voice.
“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.
Everything I said was true. You’re all jackbooted thugs, and you hate people speaking their minds
. “I don’t think I understood how we have to all pull together for the good of the country. We can’t—I can’t expect to rest on the privilege of being a war-hero’s son.”
“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.
WASHINGTON, DC
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
should
. But wouldn’t that be playing into the director’s hands? To keep silent, though, might be worse.
If David can’t handle the truth, maybe he should step down
. Was that a treasonous thought? Or did it show she loved him more than his position, or hers, for that matter?
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?
I have to tell him. I should have already told him
. Now the question was: should she wait until Alan left or would it better if the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs heard this?
“What’s this?” the President asked.
Anna looked over from her chair and General Alan looked up from the sofa.
The President had stopped rocking and held up his reading device. “Do you know anything about the THOR Project?” he asked Alan.
Gaunt General Alan blushed, and he nodded, almost reluctantly.
That’s an odd response
, Anna thought.
“It’s says here this thing is a space weapon,” the President said. “I didn’t know we had any space weapons left.”
“We don’t exactly have one, sir,” Alan said, seeming to choose his words with care. “The THOR Project is still in the experimental stage, the early phase of testing.”
“So this is new?” the President asked.
“It’s an old idea that’s never been implemented before,” Alan said. “Otherwise, yes, it’s new.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Anna glanced at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. She wasn’t sure, but his body language, the way his face seemed blank like a good poker player… Had Alan wanted to keep the project under wraps for now? If so, why would he keep it secret from David?
“Explain it to me,” the President was saying. “I’m interested. It says here the missiles will strike from space, literally like lightning from Thor’s hammer. That can’t be correct, can it?”
Alan cleared his throat. “In essence, sir, the missiles of the project act in a simple manner.” He frowned. “First, before I tell you any more, you should know that the missiles in question are the size of crowbars.”
The President pursed his lips. “What kind of warhead are we talking about?”
“None, sir,” Alan said. “The object is the warhead.”
“You’d better explain that one. It’s beginning not to sound like much of a missile to me.”
“Mr. President, I wouldn’t place much hope in these THOR—”
“Just tell me how this thing is supposed to work,” the President said, with the hint of an edge to his voice. “I’ve never heard about the project and I’m curious, very curious, in fact.”
Alan nodded, and he glanced upward. He did it as if searching for the answer, the extreme tops of his pupils disappearing for a moment.
Or maybe he’s been dreading this moment
, Anna thought.
I can’t see why, though. What’s so awful about the missiles that he wouldn’t want to tell David?
After a moment’s contemplation, the general said, “Let me begin by saying that a satellite two hundred miles above the Earth’s surface has to travel seventeen thousand five hundred miles per hour to balance it against the gravity trying to pull it down. You see, its speed and orbital capacity are important for several reasons.”
The President closed his eyes, maybe to envision the data. Upon opening his eyes, he said, “I understand. Please, continue.”
“At seventeen five hundred miles per hour, the satellite completes an Earth orbit every ninety minutes.”
“That’s fast,” the President said.
“Yes,” Alan said. “I, um, should point out that the basic physics of orbital motion would give the U.S. global coverage with these. At least, it would with several thousand of them. We only have a few up at present.”
“What?” the President asked. “That’s amazing. We actually have satellites in orbital space? You should have told me the moment it happened. But I’m confused on one issue. China and the German Dominion and Russia, too, all have strategic laser defense stations. We have strategic laser defense stations to shoot down enemy satellites.”
Every important country had strategic lasers, Anna knew. It’s what kept the ICBMs from launching. If China fired thermonuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles to help with their invasion, the U.S. could shoot down the vast majority of them with the strategic lasers. It worked the other way, too, if America launched at China. Due to strategic lasers, big nuclear exchanges were a worry of the past. The lasers could take down anything in Near-Earth Orbit that they could see in a straight line of sight. With spaceborne mirrors, they could bounce the beam and reach even farther. That was one reason why each side’s ground control kept a constant and desperate watch on orbital space.
“We actually have a few satellites up there,” the President said, sounding bemused. “I didn’t think anyone did, at least not for very long. China has some in geosynchronous orbit over China, but that’s about it. How do you propose keeping our satellites up there for any length of time? Have we made some fantastic breakthrough in stealth technology?”
“No, sir,” Alan said. “There aren’t any breakthroughs.”
“Then how?” the President asked. “What’s our secret?”
“First, these are small satellites, bundles of crowbars, as I’ve said.”
“None of this makes sense,” the President said.
“It will in a minute, sir, if you’ll just bear with me.”
“I am, I am,” the President said. “Continue.”
Alan cleared his throat. “Under normal conditions, enemy radar stations could locate the satellites. But the conditions do not stay normal as we heavily wrap the satellites in stealth foam.”