Invasion California

-14-

Conference



BEIJING, PRC



Jian Hong paced restlessly in his study. The room was on the third floor of his palace in the middle of Mao Square.

He could not believe the news. Marshal Shin Nung was dead, slaughtered in his headquarters like a pig. American commandos had burst into the bunker during a particularly savage cruise missile assault. If the reports were true, Nung had burned to death beyond easy recognition. A dentist had identified the marshal through his dental records.

It was this burning to death that troubled Jian.

A knock sounded, and the door swung open. A secretary poked her head in. “Leader, Police Minister Xiao is here to see you.”

“Yes, yes, let him enter.”

The secretary retreated and Xiao entered. It was very late and behind his thick glasses, Xiao’s eyes were puffy. The Police Minister must have already been asleep.

“Have you heard the news?” Jian asked.

Xiao nodded even as he swayed slightly.

“Sit, sit,” Jian said. “You look like you’re about to tumble over.”

Xiao pulled out a chair and sat down.

“The Americans have apparently slain Marshal Nung.”

“It is startling,” Xiao said.

Jian laughed mirthlessly. “It is more than startling. I find it impossible.”

“Leader?”

“These so-called commandos burned Nung to death beyond recognition.”

Xiao blinked several times and nodded hesitantly.

“It is obvious,” Jian said. “This is a staged event.”

“By whom, Leader?”

“That is why I have summoned you. This piece of treachery will not stand. I want to know how such an attack against my chosen marshal could succeed in the center of a heavily guarded headquarters.”

Xiao seemed awake now, and he appeared to choose his words with care. “Are we certain someone among us did this? Perhaps the Americans really—”

Jian laughed harshly. “Do not be naïve, Xiao. Treacherous and cunning enemies surround us. I suspect Deng Fong. Yet if that is true, it means his hooks have sunk into those in the Army. Marshal Kao would have to be complicit in this. Normally, I would not believe it, but I know that he loathes Marshal Nung.”

“I’m sure you are right, Leader,” Xiao hastened to say. “But it seems incredible Kao would help slaughter Marshal Gang.”

“Ah! That was the second piece of evidence that showed me the truth of the matter. Marshal Gang survived the so-called commando raid.”

“How?”

“He wasn’t in the bunker, but in his quarters. He sustained injuries from the cruise missile assault, but they were minor and he is otherwise fit. And listen to this. Kao has already contacted me and suggested that Marshal Gang assume responsibility for the First Front. He was too eager, too ready in this.”

The Police Minister squinted and soon began to nod. “I’m beginning to think you are right, Leader. There are too many coincidences. And you say Nung was burned to death? Why do you believe that is important?”

“We know the depth of Kao’s hatred for him. The burning shows spite. It is Kao’s fingerprint on the assassination.”

Xiao stood and straightened his uniform. “Leader, this is a grave matter.”

“Yes, yes, finally you’re awake. My enemies—our enemies—are making their move against us even as we wage war.”

“It is diabolical.”

“I have learned a valuable lesson concerning these matters,” Jian said. “One must strike first. Well, our enemies have secretly struck against us by chopping at one of the roots of our military high command. Perhaps they believed this blow would frighten me into inaction. Or maybe they thought I was too dull to see this for what it was. No! I’m neither dull-witted nor frightened. Instead, they have roused me to swift action. Tell me, Xiao. Are your flying squads ready?”

“Once you give me the code word, Leader, I can have them knocking on doors in fifteen minutes.”

Clasping his hands behind him, intertwining his fingers so he could feel his knuckles, Jian began to pace. “It is a bold thing we plan. It frightens me, this step. But we cannot wait for our enemies to finish their strike against us.” He whirled on Xiao. “Arrest Marshal Kao and arrest Foreign Minister Deng Fong before dawn.”

“The Foreign Minister has powerful bodyguards,” Xiao said.

“If you cannot do this, tell me.”

The Police Minister straightened. “I can do it, Leader. May I ask one thing?”

“Speak!”

“Arresting Deng Fong might bring repercussions with the German Dominion. They trust him. This could also cause division in our Pan-Asian Alliance.”

Jian laughed grimly. “So be it. I cannot wait for Deng to strike at me. Because he has political power, do I let him plot and execute his assassinations with impunity? No! They made their play. Now, I am about to make mine. Take Marshal Kao into police custody and shoot him in the deepest basement you can find.”

“Yes, Leader,” Xiao said.

“Once you have Deng Fong…use your best doctor. Inject the Foreign Minister with something to bring about a heart attack. We will say you learned of a death plot and hurried to his quarters to warn him. Alas, you were too late and found him beyond recovery.”

“I doubt anyone will believe our story.”

“Perhaps not,” Jian said, “but it will give them a way to save face. People believe Marshal Kao is my man. I thought he was too, until this commando raid left his protégée in control of the First Front. The Japanese leaders and our Southeast Asian allies will not link these two deaths together. Who knows what Germans think? They are a mystery to me.”

“Leader, these…deaths will damage our war effort at a critical time.”

“Not necessarily,” Jian said. “These undercurrents have no doubt sapped Army morale all along and we weren’t even aware of it. Unity of effort is a critical component of successfully waged war. With Deng gone and Kao out of the way, we can prosecute the rest of the North American conquest with singleness of purpose.”

Xiao nodded, albeit with seeming reluctance.

“You have your orders, Police Minister. Now go, eliminate these saboteurs for the good of Greater China.”

“I need the code word, Leader.”

Jian Hong gave it to him.

Xiao turned smartly and marched out of the study.

As the door closed, Jian felt the restlessness surge in him. Yet he sat down, as he was weary. This was a grave risk, and it could cause unforeseen political turmoil. But he had to strike. Otherwise, he would be a fool, waiting for his enemies to finish him. Once in the highest office, one was never completely secure. The death of the Old Chairman proved that.

Jian flexed his hands. He had shot the old man himself while visiting him in the deepest bunker. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done.

What should we do in California?

Jian massaged his forehead. Nung was dead and Kao soon would be. Yes, to confound his enemies, he would let them have Marshal Gang in the First Front. But he would strip the marshal of power by ending the great assault. Jian smiled cruelly. He would remove one of the reserve armies, sending it back to the Second Front. Yes, he would let Marshal Gang employ the old method of heavy artillery bombardments combined with a creeping infantry assault. That would necessitate time for reorganization, which would mean an end to Nung’s strategy.

Jian breathed deeply. His enemies had slaughtered poor Marshal Nung. He been a great fighter, a worthy soldier and officer. China would mourn him. Yes, he would give Marshal Nung a splendid State funeral and would deliver the oration himself. Through Nung, China had pulverized the Americans and destroyed masses of air power. Now it was time to look elsewhere on the continent for ultimate victory.

Nung was gone. Gang could wither on the vine and therefore be taken out of play. His enemies thought they could outmaneuver him. No. He was too cunning for them, able to see through their subterfuge and more than willing to act decisively.

By first light today, Deng and Kao would be dead. He would need replacements for them on the Ruling Committee. He would have to give his enemies a place at the table. Yes, it was wise to give them a spokesman. Now he would have to redouble his Lion Guardsman, as many of his secret enemies would yearn even more to assassinate him.

Am I acting wisely? The restlessness stirred in his heart. They burned Marshal Nung. If they hadn’t burned him, I might have missed the clue.

“Your hatred foiled you, Kao. You should have kept to your charts and battle maps.”



CALIFORNIAN-MEXICAN BORDER



Paul Kavanagh helped Romo sit on a large rock. The assassin’s left arm was in a sling. A bullet had torn muscle and put the man into a state of shock.

Neither of them wore body armor anymore, having shed it long ago. Both were battered, Romo more so.

Paul grunted as he sat on the ground, putting his back against the rock. He unclipped a canteen, unscrewed the cap and took two swallows of water. He held it out to his blood brother.

Romo gripped the canteen and drank greedily. The assassin gasped and handed the empty canteen back.

“What…” Romo licked his lips. “Where are the others?”

Paul closed his eyes. The others were dead, including Donovan. Getting out of the bunker and then the compound…Donovan had remained behind with a heavy machine gun, covering their escape. The Green Beret had been shot in the leg and he’d realized he had been as good as dead.

“I’m too old for this,” Paul said.

“Si.”

Paul checked his watch. They didn’t have much time left. He forced himself up and gripped Romo’s good arm.

“Leave me,” the assassin said. “I’m too tired.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Paul dragged Romo to his feet.

They walked until nightfall, and they reached the rendezvous area. Paul clicked the communicator, and it guided him to a hidden drone.

“Do you believe that?” Paul asked, staring at the tiny aircraft.

Romo was feverish, and although he had his eyes open, he likely didn’t see anything.

Paul guided Romo inside, buckled in and the portal snapped shut. Ten second later, the ultra-stealth drone buzzed into life and lifted.

“Looks like we’re going home,” Paul said.

Romo muttered, shaking his head.

“What did you say?” Paul asked.

“I have no home. I am a man adrift.”

“You’re my blood brother, amigo. I’m going to introduce you to my wife and son. You’re always going to be welcome in my home.”

Juan Romo let his head slump back as he closed his eyes.

Feeling his pulse—it was beating strong—Paul decided not to worry about the assassin right now. Against all odds, he was alive. He was going home and he would go AWOL if they didn’t let him see his wife. Had this stunt slowed the Chinese advance? He didn’t know. He’d find out soon enough.

Paul Kavanagh made himself comfortable, closed his eyes and fell asleep.



MEXICO CITY, MEXICO



Several days later it ended where it had begun, with Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division. He was tired from endless weeks of work. There was a lull right now with the change of command, so he had taken the opportunity to use his special pass.

The lovely Donna Cruz had sent him a written message. It was just like her to pen this little love note. She was a romantic girl, and her ass was so delicious. Peng had been thinking about it ever since the last time they had made love.

It was true it had been a crudely written note, at least in terms of penmanship. She had also written it in Spanish. It would have been too much to expect her to write with Chinese characters. This was a land of barbarians, after all, even if very beautiful and sexual barbarians.

Peng turned the wheel of his jeep and entered the Coco Hotel parking lot. Vines snaked up the posts at the head of each parking space. A few of the vines displayed beautiful purple flowers.

She had mailed him the card-key and said she would be ready for him at 11:00 AM sharp. Smiling, Peng eased his jeep into a slot, shut off the engine and picked up his box of chocolates. Inside was a thousand pesos. He knew she still suffered from the abortion. Maybe he shouldn’t have forced it on her. Guilt had driven him. If Donna had a child, Peng knew he would feel compelled to help raise it. He could barely afford Donna and continue to send his own mother enough money. If he also had to support a child—no, it would be too much.

Colonel Peng shook his head. The chocolates and money would help Donna forget. And she would help him forget the endless weeks of drudgery.

Clutching the box to his chest, Peng hurried up the stairs to Room 14. He knocked and waited, but no one answered.

Was she out somewhere?

Peng looked around at the neat little homes and tall trees. This was a suburb of Mexico City, and looked like a nice residential area. Maybe Donna was visiting a friend. He shrugged, dug out the card-key and slid it into the slot. While clutching the box with his arm, he twisted the door-handle and opened it.

“Hello,” he said, in Chinese.

It was dark in here, hard to see. Ah, he heard the shower. She must be cleaning herself for him.

Grinning, Peng stepped into the room, tossed the chocolates onto the bed and heard the heavy door whomp shut behind him. He turned toward the bathroom and took two steps before stopping in surprise.

“Oh,” he said in Chinese. “I’m sorry. D-Do I have the wrong room?”

An old Mexican man sat in a chair watching him. The man frowned and seemed angry.

Colonel Peng took a step back. Why hadn’t the man said something when he’d first entered?

“Who are you?” the man asked in atrocious Chinese.

“I’m Colonel Peng,” he said, attempting Spanish. “Do you know Donna Cruz?”

The old man nodded. “She is my daughter.”

Peng blinked and then it came to him. Relief flooded his chest. “Oh, you’re her father. Yes, I’ve sent you—”

Colonel Peng’s mouth dropped open as speech failed him. The old Mexican—Mr. Cruz—aimed a gun at him. This was illegal. Mexicans weren’t supposed to have guns.

“You must put that away,” Peng said in Chinese.

A terrible light now shined in Mr. Cruz’s eyes. He struggled upright to a standing position. It appeared as if his knees troubled him.

“Is Donna in the shower?” Peng asked.

The gun barked four loud reports, with flashes belching from the barrel each time. Bullets slammed into Peng until he found himself lying on the carpet. The world spun crazily and narrowed to a tight focus. Peng saw as from a great distance Mr. Cruz standing over him. The old man pointed the gun at his face.

“No,” Peng whispered.

He didn’t hear the sound, but he saw the final muzzle flash. It was the last thing Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division saw before he died.



LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA



Three days later, near noon, Stan climbed out of his Behemoth and noticed a terrible black cloud over LA. It seemed gray now rather than black. That was something, at least. The fires were dying out, often because of a lack of fuel. Perhaps the flies would die soon too.

From the top hatch of the tank, he surveyed the enemy lines. He saw a great trench in the rubble, with coils of razor wire before it. The Chinese had put that up yesterday with huge, bulldozer-like machines. He could see machine gun emplacements. Many of those were fake, meant to draw American fire.

Frowning, Stan wondered why the Chinese hadn’t bombarded them today and yesterday. That went against the Chinese methods shown these past weeks. Could the great and mighty offensive have finally halted?

It was too soon to believe that. Yet time in southern California wasn’t on China’s side. Every hour helped JFC SoCal stiffen the defenses. Every hour allowed more trucks to bring badly needed supplies. It meant exhausted and battle-shaken troops could rest and regain their morale. Stan snorted. It allowed the mechanics time to bring the remaining Behemoths a little closer to shipshape.

“Professor!” Jose shouted up from within the tank.

“What is it?”

“They’re sending a jeep for you. You’re to report to Battalion HQ.”

“Now? The Chinese could resume their offensive at any moment.”

“I’m just relying orders, Professor.”

Stan eased out of the hatch and used the rungs on the side of the tank to crawl down to the ground. The weird thing was he actually felt more tired now than he had several days ago. He’d stopped taking stims to stay awake and he almost slept normal hours. It was as if his body had used every reserve it had to keep him going, and now that things had slowed, it was letting go, collapsing from exhaustion.

He leaned against the tank and his mind shied from the endless death and destruction he’d been part of. The things he and the crew had done to stay alive were terrible. Yet what choice did they have? It was either kill or become Chinese slaves.

As Stan leaned against the tank, a jeep roared up. The driver was a Militia teenager, a skinny boy with an oversized helmet. There were too many youngsters in the Army like him, too many hastily drafted kids out of LA.

Slowing down, the kid shouted, “Captain Higgins?”

“Yep. That’s me.”

“I’m here to take you to HQ.”

Stan climbed into the jeep. The kid glanced at the razor wire, shuddered and cranked the wheel. He drove faster, dodging shell-holes and big chunks of rubble and other debris. They passed Militia clearing this street, using their hands and wheelbarrows. A bulldozer would have been better. A lot of things would have been better.

The driver took to him Battalion HQ, a relatively intact Rite Aid store. Battered Bradley Fighting Vehicles used the parking lot, together with beat up Humvee Avengers, their Blowdart missiles aimed skyward.

Stan followed the driver, who took him to an old storeroom in back. Data net men swarmed the area with their equipment. Soon, Stan spoke with the colonel, a Militiaman and a former high school football coach. He was big and balding, and had bowed legs.

“I’ve spoken to the General,” the ex-coach said. “We’re pulling out your Behemoths.”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “I thought we were stiffening the line.”

“You were. But the eggheads who decide such things have changed their mind. Now the Behemoths are going to form LA’s reserve.”

“Because the Chinese have taken a siesta?” Stan asked.

“Did you notice all the razor wire they’ve put up lately?”

“That could be a trick,” Stan said. “Maybe they’re trying to lull us.”

“Or it could indicate a change in mindset.”

“There is that, too.”

“Anyway,” the ex-coach said, “here’s the schedule for the pullout. We’re going to do this by stages.” The colonel handed Stan a folder.

He tucked it under his arm.

“By the way,” the colonel said, as he checked his watch. “You have a call in ten minutes. It’s from the Detention Center.”

Stan’s heart went cold. This was highly unusual. By law, there were only a few places allowed to communicate with the Detention Center facility. The middle of a battle zone wasn’t one, either.

“Is it about my son?” Stan asked.

The colonel shrugged. “You can use the comm-equipment over there. Let me say it in case you don’t know. I’m glad you and your tanks were here, Captain. As far as I’m concerned, you saved all our butts.”

The man held out his hand. Stan shook it. The ex-football coach had a bone-crushing grip.

Soon, Stan found himself sitting at a table, staring at a computer screen. What had happened? He hoped Jake had kept his nose clean.

In time, a Detention Center officer came onscreen. The woman looked angry. She read off a list, asking a series of questions.

“What is this about?” Stan asked.

“First,” she said, looking up, “I must confirm that you are Captain Stan Higgins of the U.S. Army. Until such time, I cannot answer any of your questions.”

Stan kept his face neutral and told himself he couldn’t afford another fight with them. He answered the many and sometimes intrusive questions. Finally, the officer gave him a perfunctory smile.

“Thank you, Captain Higgins. You are clearly Jake Higgins’s father. I will now patch you through to him.”

“Is Jake all right?”

“You can confirm that in…” she checked her watch. “In fifteen seconds.” She faded from view.

Stan waited, and in exactly fifteen seconds, Jake appeared onscreen.

“Dad, are you okay?”

Stan found himself grinning from ear-to-ear. “It’s good to see, son. Are you in trouble?”

A wary look came over Jake. “No sir, I’ve learned my lesson. America is the greatest country in the world and President Sims is just the man to see us through these terrible times. I made a stupid mistake in protesting against him. I see that now.”

Stan nodded, but he felt saddened. Yes, America was the greatest country, but no one should have to force that idea onto his boy. It should have come naturally. Still, he couldn’t fault Jake. The Detention Center surely monitored the call. The more he’d thought about it during the weeks, the more he’d liked it that his boy had stood up to them. But there was a time and place to speak up and a time to keep your mouth shut. Maybe this was a sign of Jake finally growing up: knowing when to fight his battles.

“Are you leaving the Detention Center?” Stan asked. “Are you coming home?”

“I am leaving,” Jake said. “But I’m not coming home. I’ve signed up.”

“In the Militia?” Stan asked.

“That’s why I’m calling, sir. I want to thank you.”

“What did I do?”

“You won the Medal of Honor in Alaska, and the exploits of your tanks in California have been in the news almost every day. The Detention Center Commandant has spoken to the President about me, asking for a reprieve.”

Stan’s face split into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful!”

“Yes sir. It means I can volunteer for any service I want.”

Stan blinked rapidly. “What’s that? What are you talking about?”

“I’m enlisting in the Army, sir. America is under siege and she needs every patriotic citizen she has. I’m going to request armor, but I’ll go wherever my country needs me.”

“When do you leave for boot camp?”

“Today, sir.”

Stan stared at his boy. There was something different about Jake, about how he was acting. “Is this your idea?”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m—”

Jake glanced to his left, and he nodded to someone mumbling off-screen. He faced Stan again and said, “Sorry, Dad. My time is up. The train is leaving in twenty minutes and I have to be aboard. I’ll call you once I’m out of boot camp.”

“You can write letters during boot, can’t you?”

“I don’t think I can.” Jake stared hard at him then. It almost felt to Stan as if Jake was giving him a secret message. “I’m going to make you proud of me, sir.”

“I’m already proud.”

“Bye, Dad.”

“Good-bye, Jake. You take care of yourself, and you remember what it really means to be a good American.”

“I understand you. Believe me, I do.”

Before Jake could say more, the screen dissolved. The former Detention Center officer reappeared and congratulated Stan on the news.

“Yes,” Stan said distractedly. “Thank you.”

Shortly thereafter he left the Rite Aid store. His tank was ordered out of the front line. The Chinese storm had stopped for the moment. Now it sounded as if the Behemoths were going to be regrouped again. That was a good idea. What about Jake, though? What had all that been about? Stan didn’t know, and he wondered what branch of the service Jake would enter. At least it wasn’t the Militia. They were good people, but their training and equipment were always substandard.

Stan headed for the young driver and his jeep. Jose would want to hear this. All the Behemoth tankers would, those who had survived the terrible battle.



WASHINGTON, D.C.

Several days after Stan spoke to his son, Anna Chen listened as the briefing major spoke in the underground bunker.

There had been a massive shift in Chinese behavior. It was clear the Chinese offensive in southern California had halted. Through drone-intel and other sources, they learned key formations had already left the area and were headed for the Second or Third Front.

“Are the Chinese going to attack in Texas?” the President asked.

“We’re not sure if it’s Texas or New Mexico,” General Alan said. “What does seem clear is that the Chinese and the South Americans are planning a summer offensive somewhere there and sometime soon.”

“What about the Germans?” Sims asked.

“We expect them to attack, too, yes sir.”

“In Florida?”

“That would seem the likely candidate, sir, although we cannot rule out Georgia or Louisiana. If it were me, I would attack Louisiana while the PAA and the SAF assaults Texas. They could help each other.”

“That would also allow us to concentrate against them in one area,” Sims said. “It would help us.”

“There are pros and cons for them no matter what they decide,” Alan said.

“If they even do decide to attack,” Sims said.

“I’m certain they will attack, sir. Every indicator points that way.”

“What about California? Are they done with it for now?”

“That’s an interesting question, sir. They smashed irreplaceable equipment on our side and killed and captured far too many of our soldiers. What’s more, Los Angeles and the Bay Area are under a state of siege. The fight isn’t over there, just the intensity has receded. Yet they could resume their offensives at any time.”

“We’ll be better prepared if they do,” Sims said.

“In some ways, yes sir,” Alan said.

The President tapped his computer stylus on the table. “What are your recommendations for the state?”

“We should shift forces to the Bay Area and drive the Chinese into the sea,” Alan said. “Los Angeles can hold for now. It’s excellent defensive terrain with even better defensive areas behind it. I mean the Grapevine Pass in particular.”

“Can we spare the troops elsewhere to use in the Bay Area?”

“Maybe the right kind of troops, sir,” Alan said. “I’m thinking about the Behemoth tanks.”

“No. That’s the wrong kind of terrain for them.”

“Then—”

“Here’s what I believe,” Sims said. “I was thinking about this last night.” He grinned. “You used historical evidence before, telling me about World War I. I think it was about the Battle of the Somme.”

“Yes sir.”

“The British and French attacked Turkey during World War I. It was called the Gallipoli Campaign.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

Sims nodded. “In all, the British sent 410,000 soldiers there and the French 70,000. They were tied down on a narrow strip of land, never able to achieve anything other than dying in ill-coordinated attacks against the Turks. Those badly needed troops could have been used elsewhere to great advantage to help hasten the defeat of Kaiser Germany. Instead, because of a number of unforeseen problems, the British and French jailed themselves on the Gallipoli Peninsula with the Turkish Army acting as their wardens. I’m wondering if we might stymie the Chinese in a similar way, at least those attempting to capture the Bay Area.”

“You mean lure them into staying there, useless? That could be one way of looking at it,” Alan said. “The enemy troops also tie down our men there.”

“We would have to leave soldiers there anyway to guard the Bay Area from other amphibious assaults.”

General Alan became thoughtful. “Your theory might work, sir, provided the Chinese don’t land too many more troops. I still think we should use the Behemoths to drive them into the sea.”

The President tapped the stylus. “I think one thing is clear. If we’re talking about pulling the Behemoths out of Los Angeles, it means we think the great Chinese offensive into California has stopped.”

“Clearly, for the moment, it has.”

“It was the commandos who bought this success,” Anna said. “Without Nung driving them, the enemy shifted their strategy.”

The President and General Alan, along with everyone else in the chamber, regarded her.

President Sims nodded. “I concur with your analysis, Ms. Chen. It was a good idea and it worked. We’re not out of the woods yet, however. There are still millions of enemy soldiers waiting to invade our country. We’re going to need more ideas like that. In fact, Ms. Chen—”

Sims glanced at Director Levin. “I’m taking her away from you.”

It almost seemed as if Levin was going to shrug. Instead, he said, “If you so desire, sir.”

“I do desire. Ms. Chen, I would like to make you a member of my staff. Does that fit with your approval?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Anna said. This was wonderful.

“We’ll speak after the meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Sims glanced around the room. “We’ve stopped the Californian Offensive. It will likely continue as a siege, but we can deal with that for now. Now I want us to concentrate on how to meet the next Chinese thrust in other areas of the country and to look into ways of stopping any Germen Dominion offensives. We don’t know much time we have, days or weeks, but we’d better start thinking hard about these things.”

The President clicked his stylus onto the table. “First, I would like to look into the possibility of…”

The End