A Lost Generation
While it was in progress, it would be called World War III. After it was all said and done, it would be called Armageddon. Whatever it was referred to as, it would go down in history as the bloodiest, costliest, most destructive event in human history. Though not a single nuclear or fusion weapon and not a single chemical warhead would be used during the ten long years of the war, more than six hundred million people would be killed as a result of the fighting.
It would also be the most unexpected war in human history. No conflict had ever been thrust upon the world with such shocking surprise, with such shocking speed. On December 31, 2012, the world was relatively at peace. Armed forces throughout the globe—those that were not to participate in the opening attacks anyway—were at the lowest level of alert possible. Twenty-four hours later, on New Year's Day, 2013, Chinese and Indian forces, in a surprise attack of staggering complexity, burst with lightening speed into the resource rich Siberian region of Russia and into the strategically located western Russian steppes. That the Asian Powers (as they would quickly become known) of China, Japan, India, Korea, and Vietnam had been planning the attack for nearly two decades would be apparent only after the massive invasion took place. The rest of the world was completely clueless about their intentions beforehand.
The primary reason the Asian Powers were able to penetrate so deeply into opposing territory in such a short period of time could perhaps be summed up in one word: underestimation. The Americans, the British, the French, the Germans, and especially the Russians, underestimated both the strength of the Asian countries and their ambition. They had allowed their own armed forces to be cut to the bone, to a staffing and equipment level that had not been seen since before the First World War. They had allowed the Asian Powers, whose numbers equaled more than a third of all human beings on earth, to amass an army, a navy, and an air force of staggering size right under their noses.
Most of the military hardware and weapons the Asian powers would use were old, outdated models of American and Russian equipment. The Russians had sold them the very tanks they used to smash across their border. The Americans had sold them the very planes they used to wipe out their carrier groups at the beginning of the war. They had sold them this equipment and had pocketed the currency, using it to beef up their own economies, all the while telling themselves that the outdated equipment would be ineffective over the high-tech, computerized and satellite guided weaponry they themselves possessed. They told themselves they were doing the old divide and conquer trick, getting China and Japan and India to engage in a military build up against each other and against their neighbors. This mistake would turn out to be the most deadly one ever made in the history of warfare.
For a period of more than ten years the three primary countries of the Asian Powers had seemed to be at each other's throats. Nobody, not the CIA, not the British Intelligence, not the Mossad, not the Russian intelligence, ever suspected the whole thing was just an act. The three powers would constantly chip at each other in UN sessions. There would be the occasional border skirmish or naval clash. There would be the occasional scuffle between opposing air forces. That the Asian Powers could keep such a massive secret for so long had been inconceivable. The Western powers and the Russians had simply watched in concealed amusement as the Asian countries went through their paces and kept buying up weapons, tanks, and planes.
Of course none of the western countries were foolish enough to sell the Asian Powers the sheer numbers of weapons they eventually amassed. Though they liked the hard currency they were receiving from the sales they were not about to arm up Asia with enough military might to actually become a threat. In intelligence files formulated just days before the outbreak of war, the total strength estimate of the Asian Powers' tank forces and air forces were listed at less than one fourth of what it actually turned out to be. Again, this was due to a vast underestimation of the enemy. While the Asian Powers had been pretending to chip at each other during those years, their factories, particularly those in Japan, had been turning out three tanks, three airplanes, three artillery pieces, and three bombs for each one they had been sold. They built these weapons from steel that they had purchased from the United States and Russia, and they stored them in secret hangers and staging areas.
On the eve of January 1, 2013, the Russians had no idea that they had more than four million soldiers sitting on their border ready to smash through and seize their country. They had no idea that thousands of attack planes were idling at Chinese air bases ready to take off and penetrate their airspace. Such a deception, had it been suggested prior to the war, would have been thought impossible to achieve. After all, satellites peered down upon the world constantly, monitoring every move that is made by any country's armed forces. But satellite passes are predictable and heavy combat equipment, as the Asian Powers showed, can be moved from place to place between passes a little at a time; it can be effectively camouflaged during the pass, letting the peering eyes see exactly what they expected to see. It took the better part of three years for this build up to happen, but the Asian Powers were nothing if not patient. Again, with hindsight it was easy to see the deceptions for what they were. It was easy for the NSA and CIA analysts to look back at those old satellite pictures and wonder how they had not known, how they had not seen what was about to occur. They had not seen because they had not been expecting to see and probably wouldn't have believed it even if they had.
The goal of the Asian Powers in this endeavor was a very grand and wide-reaching one. They were gambling everything that they had on their success, literally everything. After all, every one of the countries of the Asian Powers had extensive business holdings in the United States, in England, in South America, holdings that were frozen and confiscated by the first week of the war. Each of the Asian Powers countries also had thousands, in some cases millions, of their citizens living abroad, citizens that were arrested and confined to POW camps. That they were willing to sacrifice these things, some of their most valuable foreign possessions, some of their most influential and wealthy citizens, spoke volumes about the grand scale of their intentions. They were not just intending to take Russia and the resources of Siberia. Their goal was no more and no less than complete world domination. They planned to initiate a new world order of their own, to enforce the principals of world communism under a single government by force of arms.
Their plan, which was intended to require less than a year of fighting, was to seize the world's oil supplies as quickly as possible, thus making it impossible for any country to oppose them. They were counting on the sheer overwhelming numbers of their forces coupled with the lightening speed of their attacks to insure victory. Their planning was sound, well thought out, and very detailed. Their armed forces were well trained and well motivated. Despite all of this, things did not quite work out the way they had planned. Things rarely do in war.
It would be an underestimation of their own that would make the war so costly and so long and so bloody. They had assumed that the powers that they were fighting would not be able to guess their intentions and would not be able to react quickly enough to stop them. The Asian Powers had studied their history well and knew that the failings of other would-be world domination schemes had been in attacking too soon at a prepared enemy. They were attacking after years of planning at an unprepared enemy whose industries were gripped in a peacetime recession. They had thought that it would be enough. It very nearly had been. Historians after the war would realize that the difference between a quick Asian Powers victory and the bloody, decade long stalemate that killed hundreds of millions on three different fronts would turn out to be a single decision, a single lucky guess made on the part of the United States early in the war.
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Roseville, California
May 23, 2015
Saving Center Food and Drug was a large corporate owned store that anchored the suburban strip mall at Wood Oak Drive and Citrus Boulevard. Its parking lot, which had been designed in the late 1990's to hold more than three hundred cars, was now empty of any vehicle that contained an internal combustion engine. Between the faded white lines where minivans and SUVs and other yuppie vehicles had once waited for their owners to return from the Saving Center laden with groceries, were only a few bicycles, most of which had trailers attached to the back, and a few personal wheeled carts, called "walkers" by those that employed them. The days when people could just hop in a car to take care of their weekly shopping were gone, as vanished as the automobiles themselves.
The inside of the Saving Center was also vastly different than it had been in days gone by. Built in a time when the corporation was king and when huge inventories of every conceivable stock that the average family would desire were the ruling decree, the shelves on each one of its twenty aisles had brimmed with canned foods and fresh produce and dairy products and countless other food and consumer items. Now, many of the aisles were empty, the items once thought staples of modern life no longer available or affordable. Fresh produce was one casualty of the times. The refrigerated and lovingly maintained aisles where lettuces and carrots and onions and potatoes had been stacked by the hundreds now stood empty, their refrigeration units long since shut down. The only fresh vegetables available these days were those grown in the backyard victory gardens that nearly every American household maintained. Any food that had once come in cans had also disappeared from the modern grocery store. The metal that had been used to make the cans was now needed to make tanks, airplanes, missiles, and bombs. If a food could not be put into a glass jar with a reinforced cardboard lid, it could not be packaged and shipped. Likewise, any food or consumer item that had been packaged in plastic containers was no longer available since plastic was a byproduct of petroleum, perhaps the most precious resource in the western hemisphere these days.
The most startling difference inside of the impossibly huge grocery store was not the lack of stock however, but the lack of people shopping. The aisles had once been packed during the daylight hours of any given day of the week, crowded with housewives and businessmen and welfare recipients and people from all other walks of life picking out their daily or weekly shopping in the tradition of American capitalism. But that had been before the war, before the loss of the majority of the United States' oil supply to the Chinese, before what remained of that oil supply was desperately needed to fuel armored vehicles and aircraft at the front. No longer was it a simple matter of hopping in the family car and motoring to the Saving Center (or anywhere else for that matter, including work) when you needed or wanted to go. The standard ration card allowed only one gallon of gasoline per household per month. And at current prices that gallon would cost $130. For this reason it was not surprising that all but the very wealthy did not bother collecting the rations due them at all. Well over ninety-eight percent of the personal automobiles in the United States had been sold for pennies on the dollar as scrap metal. These days, you walked to the store or you biked to it and you only bought what you could carry home via these means of transportation.
However, not everyone was capable of walking to the store when they needed some vital item or items. The two groups of people most affected by this were the elderly and the single mothers, of which there were very many of in any given American city these days. The solution to this seemingly insurmountable problem was a resurgence of an occupation that had vanished many decades before: the bicycle delivery person. Nearly every grocery store and drug store chain now employed at least six of these people during their hours of operation. They were paid minimum wage, which had been fixed at fourteen dollars an hour at the beginning of the war, but were allowed to keep any tips they received. The vast majority of the bicycle delivery drivers, as had been the case in days gone by, were high school kids trying to keep busy and earn a few bucks. Most of these modern day delivery people did not stuff their salary and their tips into college funds. Most of them knew the moment they graduated from high school the draft would be waiting for them. As a result they tended to be much more fatalistic than their grandfathers had been in the same position. Instead of looking forward to dormitory life, future careers, future wives or husbands or children, they looked forward to basic training, military assignments, and, for the males among them, the significant possibility of being killed on the battlefield. After all, it didn't look like the war was going to be ending any time soon, at least not with a friendly victory anyway.
Mark Whiting was one such delivery boy. He had turned eighteen years of age a month before and was now one month away from high school graduation and the beginning of his draft eligibility period. His grade point average as of the last semester had been 3.4, which was fairly respectable but not quite the 3.8 required to qualify for college admission and the college deferment that went along with it. He, like nine out of ten others in his graduating class, was left with the savory choice of either waiting for the draft to catch up with him (which it was bound to do within four months according to Internet statistics) or to join up voluntarily with the service of his choice. A believer in championing his own fate, Mark was leaning quite heavily towards the latter option.
Like all of the delivery personnel for this particular chain, Mark was dressed in a red Saving Center T-shirt. He was a little shorter than was average—five foot, six inches with shoes on—and, as such, even the small sized shirt hung somewhat long on him making the corporate logo center at the bottom of his ribcage instead of over his heart. The shirt was tucked into a pair of camouflage-patterned shorts that hung nearly to his knees. Though short, Mark's legs were well muscled and toned, a result of biking more than thirty miles each workday with a load of groceries in the trailer behind him. His hair was an uninteresting shade of brown, as were his eyes, and his face was still occasionally marred with the last traces of adolescent acne.
It was Friday and school had just ended less than an hour before. Mark, along with his best friend Darren and two other delivery people, had just checked in for the afternoon shift and had been given their first orders of the day. They pushed carts up and down the aisles, grabbing jars of pasta and meat and just about anything else, checking each item off on their personal computers, or PCs, as they went. Mark had two orders to fill for his first trip, one a small order of less than ten jars, the other a moderate one of nearly thirty. An experienced loader now, he figured he would be able to fit both orders into his bike's trailer and pound them out at one time. That at least would save him a trip back to the store.
Once he had everything on the two lists he took them up to the front of the store, where a special check stand had been set up just for delivery personnel. Belinda Swensen, one of the prettier girls at Wood Oak High School, was staffing this particular station. Belinda, a cheerleader and a former homecoming queen, was somewhat stuck up, particularly around such average people as Mark Whiting. She hardly gave him a look as she ran her laser scanner over the items in his cart and added up the totals.
"Looks like $45.50 on the first order," she told him, her voice high and nasal, "and $163.33 on the second."
"Static," he replied, taking a moment to admire her silky legs in the cammie shorts she wore.
She caught him looking at her and let an expression of mild disgust filter across her face. "Your PC?" she asked.
He handed a small pocket computer across to her. It was not actually his PC, but Saving Center's. His own, a camouflage patterned one of course, was clipped to his waistband. She took it from him, seeming to make a point to avoid touching his hand as she did so. A small data probe attached to a piece of fiber optic cord protruded from her scanner. She plugged it into the back and a moment later the order itemizations and price summaries were downloaded to it. Once the transfer was complete she unplugged and set the PC down on the counter. She immediately turned her attention to Jennifer Smiles, the delivery girl in line behind him.
Mark pushed his cart toward the delivery access doors of the building, not glancing back at her as he went, unaffected by her attitude towards him. There had been a time not long ago when he would have been quite intimidated by her, but those days were now gone. He had learned much about women during his tenure as a Saving Center employee, much more than he was ever meant to know at his tender age. As a result, the only emotion that he could muster towards Belinda and others like her was a quiet contempt at their immaturity, an immaturity they had no idea they even displayed.
The delivery doors led him out into a sixty-foot square enclosure that was fenced in by chain link and topped with barbed wire. The employees parked their bikes out here and readied them for delivery. The security was due to the high theft rate of bicycles, which had topped the list of most common crimes against property nationwide. Mark's bike was a relatively inexpensive one that had been purchased from Wal-Mart shortly after the war had begun. It was a 21-speed that was painted in the winter camouflage scheme popular with adolescents. Attached to the seat post was a Saving Center two-wheeled delivery trailer capable of hauling fifteen bags of groceries in relative safety. Parked next to it was the more expensive bike that belonged to his best friend, Darren Caswell. Darren himself was loading his own massive load of groceries into an identical trailer.
"What's up, sarge?" Darren asked him, utilizing the term that had recently replaced "dude" as a generic salutation or descriptor. Military terms as slang had pervaded the speech of the young in recent years. Darren was three months older than Mark but much larger. A former varsity football linebacker, he was blessed with a handsome face, free of acne, and a thick growth of black hair. His body, which outweighed his smaller friend's by nearly sixty pounds, was well proportioned and well muscled. He had also mastered the facial expressions of boredom and contempt that were the staples of teenage society. The two of them had been friends for many years, since Darren's family had moved into the neighborhood back when they had been in sixth grade. Mark's father did not particularly care for Darren, considering him, rightly so, to be a bad influence upon his son. But he had never told him not to hang out with him, probably because he knew how useless such a command would be.
"Same old orders," Mark replied, utilizing yet another piece of military slang. "How 'bout you? How's it advancing?"
"That fuckin' prick Johnson has me pushed to the line with orders today," he said, shaking his head a little. "But on the bright side, I got three requests today." Requests were orders in which the person calling it in had asked for a particular delivery person by name. Usually the requests came from young war widows who had been without male companionship for quite some time. Darren, with his rugged good looks, got a lot of them.
"Oh yeah?" Mark said, grinning a little. "I only got one today. My second order. I'll hit her on this first trip though."
"Yeah? What's she look like?"
"Not too bad," he said analytically. "A little wide in the hips—she has two kids running around—but definitely doable."
"Close to landing her?"
"Maybe," Mark told him. "This'll be my third trip there and I think she's getting ready to make her move. She's a little shy."
"I hate the shy ones," Darren said, lifting one of his bags and putting it in his trailer.
"Makes it more challenging," Mark said. "They're so cute when they're shy. Besides, she tipped me thirty bullets on a hundred dollar order last time."
"Static," Darren said, impressed. "You gotta love that."
"That ain't propaganda," Mark agreed with a grin.
Darren loaded another bag, his last one, onto his cart. "Got any smokes?" he asked.
Mark did. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the red and white box he had purchased the day before at a liquor store in central Roseville for six dollars. He shot one out and handed it across to Darren. He then put one in his own mouth. They each pulled out matches—butane lighters were not available for purchase by the general public these days—and lit up, relishing the carcinogenic smoke as they inhaled.
"Fuckin' aye, that tastes good," Darren proclaimed, exhaling his hit through his nose.
"Goddamn right," Mark agreed, copying the technique.
Cigarette smoking in America, which had been nearly wiped out only three years before, had made a big comeback, especially among teenagers. The argument that smoking might kill you in forty years or so just did not seem to carry the same weight it once had. Most teenagers knew that if they managed to stay alive long enough to contract emphysema or lung cancer then they would already be way ahead of the game. Darren had been the one to introduce Mark to cigarettes. It was one of those bad influences that Jeff Whiting constantly worried about. Though Darren had been the teacher of smoking technique it was now Mark who supplied the bulk of the Marlboros they inhaled day after day. Darren, if asked why he did not buy his own, would always say that he was trying to quit and he just wanted one or two. He would continue saying that as he bummed half the pack in the course of a day. Mark knew he was being taken advantage of, that Darren was using their friendship as an excuse for free smokes, but he never complained. After all, Darren had pretty much kept him from being killed by bullies throughout their four years at Wood Oak High.
"Guess what," Darren said. "I got a line on some good buds. You want to go in with me?"
"I might," Mark replied, interested. Darren was of course talking about that most favorite of adolescent indulgences: marijuana, yet another one of those bad influences. "What's the specs?"
"My friend Paul just got in a fresh load from Humbolt," he said.
"Greenbud?" Mark asked hopefully. Humbolt County greenbud was still the best variety of cannabis available in California, though its supply was somewhat limited due to the lack of available means to transport it more than two hundred miles south. Most of the available herb in the Sacramento region, of which Roseville was a part, was homegrown that was produced in closet hothouses and backyard victory gardens.
"Fuckin' aye," Darren assured him. "The cost is a hundred an eighth. You got the account status to go in halves with me?"
Mark nodded. "For greenbud, I can spare it." He chuckled a little, in the fatalistic manner that many of his generation had adopted. "It ain't like I have to save up for a car or anything."
"You the commander," Darren said happily. "I'll head over there right after work and pick the shit up. I'll meet you at the tower at about eight or so."
"Why so long?" Mark wanted to know. They got off work at 6:30. And though he had never met the mysterious Paul whom Darren bought his illegal wares from, he knew he lived only a short ride from where they now sat. It certainly was not a long, torturous trip.
"He's kinda weird," Darren answered mysteriously. "You know how it is? He wants me to hang out with him for a while and bullshit. He's kinda nervous these days. He's going low profile you know."
"Yeah," Mark said, snorting a little, as was expected when one heard about someone going "low pro", which meant he was eligible for service but had not volunteered, that he was just waiting to be drafted. In popular culture going low pro was considered a pussy thing to do.
"Hey, to each his own," Darren said, obviously showing a little contempt of his own however. "His time is running out though. He's been eligible for six and half months now and his number hasn't come up yet. They'll pop him pretty soon and that'll be that."
"What's his rating?"
"1A," Darren said, smiling a little. "And he doesn't have any special skills or family deferments. He's gonna be on the line. No doubt about it."
"He squeams about that?" Mark asked, imparting a twinge of disgust into his voice.
"A little," Darren said seriously. "I mean, he's got as much balls as the rest of us but he gets scared sometimes." He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe when my time starts to get near, I'll be scared too."
"If you get scared," Mark reminded him, "you don't have to go. Because of your brother, you can take a non-hazardous posting." Darren's brother, a former fuel transfer technician aboard a fast frigate, had been killed in the opening days of the war. As the only remaining son, this made Darren eligible for rear area assignment under the selective service rules.
"I'm not a fuckin' pussy," Darren said, showing genuine anger at the suggestion. "Only a fuckin' pussy would try to get a non-hazardous. Besides, it's because of my brother that I'm going right to where the shit is. I wanna get some payback for what they did to him. I'm gonna even the score for the Caswells."
"You gonna take out twelve thousand of them?" Mark asked, knowing that Darren wanted him to ask that. Twelve thousand was how many of Brett Caswell's comrades the Chinese had killed and Darren enjoyed making reference to that number when he talked of payback.
"At least," he replied toughly. "If I can take out twenty thousand I'll do that too. If they gave me a fuckin' nuke I'd personally carry it over to their side and cram it up Li Chang's faggot ass."
"Shit," Mark said, "you don't wanna do that. Chang would get off on it. He'd probably ask for one of the new anti-matter bombs they're working on to go up there with it."
Darren found this crudely funny. "Now that," he said, laughing, "would be an ass-fuck that that chink motherfucker would never forget."
They made a few more jokes, some even cruder, at the expense of the infamous General Li Chang, commander of the Chinese armies in North America. It was a politically correct thing to do. Finally they butted their smokes and climbed aboard their bikes, maneuvering them carefully through the keypad secured security gate and out into the parking lot. They paused outside long enough for Mark to transfer fifty dollars from his checking account into Darren's.
"Link up with you later," Darren hailed as he rode off to the south.
"You got it," Mark replied, heading in the opposite direction.
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When the initial attack came on January 1, 2013, the Russians, who were still trying to initiate a market economy and were suffering from runaway inflation, had been ill prepared for it. Before they even realized they were at war, the bulk of their air force was destroyed, the bulk of their border security was dead or captured, and Asian spearheads were more than two hundred kilometers inside their border in four distinct thrusts. The infamous Russian winter, which had defeated Napoleon and Hitler in previous conflicts, impeded the enemy not the slightest in this one. Moscow fell within two weeks. Russia was out of the war completely inside of a month, all of its mineral and petroleum rich land, all of its military equipment, and all of its nuclear warheads in Asian Power hands.
The Indian army had attacked to the west in Russia with more than two million men. The Chinese had attacked to the east into Siberia with another two million. The European Union had of course immediately mobilized their armies, navies, and air forces and had moved to counter the onrushing Indians. It was quite clear that the Middle East was their objective. The Americans, thinking themselves in no danger of invasion in their own country but greatly concerned about the threat to their oil supply, began to mobilize their army and navy and air force in preparation to assist in Europe.
The United States Navy had had three active aircraft carrier groups in the Pacific Ocean when the fighting started. One was just off the coast of Japan, one was on shore leave in Pearl Harbor, and one was in dry dock in San Diego. As the Asian Powers had predicted, the Americans immediately moved the group cruising near Japan towards the Yellow Sea in order to "show force". The Americans loved to show force during a crisis, loved to project power with their mighty carrier groups. Unfortunately they were foolishly overconfident in just how much force one of their carrier groups actually represented. So long had they used them to intimidate other nations that it never occurred to any of their high command that a nation would fail to be impressed by the movement of such a group to their shore. They had also been under the impression at the time that the Chinese would not dare deliberately draw the great United States into the conflict, would never risk war with America. How naïve of a view that would seem in retrospect. How neatly the trap set by the Asian Powers would spring shut upon the United States Navy.
Before the aircraft carrier group was even on station, American-designed F-111 bombers operating out of Shanghai attacked it. More than four hundred of the twin engine, supersonic medium-range bombers (a hundred more than the CIA had even believed the Chinese possessed) each carrying two Russian made Kingfish anti-ship missiles, swarmed upon the group in the early morning hours of January 3. The attack group was supported by more than two hundred MiG-29 and F-18 fighters carrying air-to-air missiles. The fighters plowed through the pitifully outnumbered combat air patrol that the carrier had placed aloft and the F-111s, though taking nearly thirty percent losses by the protective ring of frigates and high-tech Aegis cruisers, launched their missiles from near point-blank range. More than six hundred of the four thousand pound missiles streaked towards the fifteen ships of the carrier group at better than twelve hundred miles per hour. Ships began to explode and sink a few minutes later while the surviving attack aircraft withdrew. When the smoke cleared, the mighty, thought to be invulnerable United States aircraft carrier was on the bottom of the sea along with eight of its escorts. Of the remaining six ships still afloat, only one, a fleet oiler, was undamaged. A follow-up attack six hours later took care of these battered survivors. Less than two hundred of the twelve thousand sailors assigned to that carrier group were eventually fished from the water by the Japanese Navy.
The second American carrier group, which had immediately began speeding towards China from Hawaii once the war broke out, reached the coast of Japan a week later. At this point things were still quite confusing as far as which players were involved in the conflict and the United States was still under the impression that Japan was its ally. This illusion was shattered when the second carrier group was sank in three successive attacks by Chinese Backfire bombers and escorts operating out of Yokohama on the main Japanese island of Honshu. In less than two weeks a good portion of the Unites States Pacific Fleet had been destroyed and many of its highly trained crews were dead.
The Indian Army, meanwhile, had pushed westward through Russia where they dug in along a 1300-mile long front that stretched from St. Petersburg to the Black Sea. The European Union Forces—soon to be known as the Eastern Hemisphere Forces as the Australian, South African, and Egyptian armies joined in the struggle—would strike again and again at this line over the next seven years. Though they would occasionally manage, at horridly high cost, to push it temporarily back a few kilometers, they would not break through it.
Having secured their first objective: Russia, the Asian Powers then turned their attention to their next. For the Indians, it was the Middle East and all of its rich oil supplies. In a two-pronged attack their forces invaded the country of Iran from both sides of the Caspian Sea, driving south and west towards Iraq. Within two months the entire Arabian peninsula was under occupation and the Suez Canal was in their hands. Though the oil rich countries of Egypt, Sudan, and Libya would remain free of Indian forces, their oil supplies were kept from reaching the Eastern or the Western Hemisphere forces by Indian air superiority over the Mediterranean Sea and Persian Gulf. Any tanker attempting to leave a port was immediately attacked and sank by American-made, Indian-piloted P-3s staging out of Haifa, Israel.
While the Indians were digging in against the Europeans and securing the richest oil region on earth, the Chinese were concentrating their energies upon another very oil-rich region of the planet: Alaska.
Once again, underestimation of Chinese intentions and capabilities were the biggest contributor to what followed. To the Americans it was inconceivable that the Chinese could possibly invade American soil. Though they were massing troops on the Kamchatka peninsula in plain sight of the peering satellites, the Americans simply did not believe their enemy had the capabilities to launch a seaborne invasion. It was only when a huge armada of Chinese and Japanese naval ships escorting freighters, tankers, and more than sixty car-carrying ships belonging to Nissan, Toyota, and Mitsubishi was detected heading across the Bering Sea that the American forces began to realize what was about to happen. By then, it was far too late to counter it in any meaningful way. The American Air Force attempted to attack the armada with B-1 bombers armed with anti-ship missiles. A flight of more than sixty of the bombers took off from Seattle and streaked northward towards the formation. More than a hundred fighters from Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska met up with the force to provide air cover. The attack turned into one of the biggest disasters in USAF history. The attacking Americans were met by wave after wave of MiG-29s, F-14s, and F-15s while they were still more than three hundred miles out from their targets. The American aircraft that survived this onslaught were then hit by the Chinese and Japanese protective ships that were cruising sixty miles south of the main formation. When it was over, only two of the B1s remained aloft to limp their way to Alaska. Not a single B1 had managed to fire its missiles. Though a great many of the Chinese planes had been shot down during the battle, the fleet itself sailed on without damage.
Two days later the Chinese forces landed, almost without opposition, at Valdez, Alaska. For the first time since the War of 1812, large numbers of American citizens found themselves under occupation by a foreign power. Within a week the entire Alaskan peninsula was in enemy hands along with the United States' primary domestic oil supply. In addition, the Chinese now had an unbreakable supply line between Kamchatka and the North American mainland. It was a supply line that was unapproachable by aircraft or by surface craft and that was nearly suicidal to approach by submarine. The Chinese put this supply line to immediate use and began to amass troops, equipment, and aircraft on the Alaskan-Canadian border.
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Mark turned out of the parking lot and onto Wood Oaks Boulevard with only a careless glance to his right. In truth he was looking mostly for other bicycles bearing down upon him and not for cars. Though once a very heavily traveled boulevard through the western section of Roseville, Wood Oaks was now an almost deserted strip of asphalt that you could stand in the middle of for hours without ever having to make way for anything but a bike. All along its length, at every intersection, stood darkened traffic signals, the multicolored vertical lights now the nesting spots of sparrows and robins. To the younger members of society, those who did not remember crippling traffic jams and rush hours, the four lane roads and the six and eight lane freeways seemed an absurd case of overkill. They could not conceive that just a few years before those roads had been choked with cars and trucks stacked bumper to bumper for miles on end. The highways and freeways of America were now used more for bicycles and hydrogen powered commuter trams than they were for anything else.
The AM/PM mini-mart in the corner of the stripmall was also a victim of the times. Once a thriving gasoline station where men and women and even teenagers had pumped their tanks full for the impossibly low price of only three dollars a gallon, it was now a boarded up, decrepit building. Graffiti marred every wall and weeds were growing through the cracks in the asphalt parking lot. The gas pumps themselves were smashed and broken, a few of them missing entirely, most likely carted away by some person who wanted to possess a relic of another age. Mark remembered when the store had been open. He used to ride his bike there to buy sodas or baseball cards or comic books. His mother and father used to fuel their Japanese-made sport utility vehicle there. The store had always done a brisk business, with every gas pump constantly in use and a perpetual line before the two clerks that were on duty. In a way, looking at the ruins made him sadly nostalgic. Would things ever return to the way they had been? Could they?
He did not know, could not guess. And what was the point of speculating about it anyway? The world was what the world was. The now was what they had.
He rode on, his legs pumping the pedals up and down, a thin sheen of sweat beading up on his forehead from the late May heat of California's central valley. He passed the front entrance of Wood Oak High School, where the marquee in front of the administration building read: SUPPORT OUR TROOPS, BUY STUDENT WAR BONDS!! From there he turned off the main road and into a residential neighborhood full of twenty-year-old tract houses. An American flag hung from nearly every roof and yellow ribbons adorned nearly every tree. Children played with toys on front lawns and older kids played basketball or soldier games in the streets. Nearly all of them, boys and girls alike, were dressed in the camouflage-patterned clothes that were all of the rage. Conspicuously absent from the landscape were vehicles parked in driveways or men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.
His first delivery of the day was to Margaret Blancher, an eighty-year-old diabetic on social security. She lived by herself in a small three-bedroom house tucked away in a cul-de-sac. Mark, as well as most of the other delivery people, had been to her house many times before. She was a pleasantly feisty old lady who liked to chatter on about her garden and her grandson who had qualified for the college draft deferment but who had elected to go ahead and volunteer for the army anyway. He was currently serving as an infantryman at the front. Mrs. Blancher was fiercely proud of him and spent the majority of her days watching news coverage of the war.
"Good afternoon, young man," she told Mark as she answered the door for him. "My goodness, don't you look hot?"
"Yes ma'am," he said dutifully, picking up her two bags of groceries and hauling them into her tidy house. He followed her to the kitchen where he put them on the counter by the sink.
"Have you heard about those nasty chinks and their offensive?" she asked him as he pulled the Saving Center PC from his belt.
"Yes ma'am, I did," he told her. And he had. The offensive had been the talk of the school during the first half of the day. For a while there the news had not been encouraging and it had been feared that a break-through was imminent. If they managed to break through, how long would it be before they fell upon California, upon Roseville? Wouldn't the Sacramento area, with its major road junctions and its huge railhead be a primary objective for General Li Chan's troops? But by the second half of the day, the news that the lines were holding had filtered through and the talk had turned back to normal high school matters like girls and sex and drugs and alcohol.
"We held those dirty buggers back," she said with satisfaction, her hand actually clenching into a fist of victory. "I certainly hope we can start pushing them back where they came from now."
"Me too," Mark said absently, reading the screen on the PC. "That'll be $45.50 for this one, Mrs. Blancher."
She clucked a little at that. "My goodness how the price of groceries has gone up these last few years. Why I remember when I could get four bags of groceries for less than twenty dollars. And that was with fresh vegetables too, not those horrible jarred ones. Do you remember fresh vegetables?"
"I sure do," he said. "Corn on the cob was my favorite. My mom used to boil up a bunch whenever she made beef for dinner."
"Oh, that sounds just heavenly," she said nostalgically, picking up a large purse from beneath her telephone. "Those rotten chinks. Darn them for taking away our corn on the cob."
"I agree," Mark said with a smile.
She dug around in her purse for a moment and finally came out with a roll of bills. Mark internally sighed as he saw this. Many of the elderly still insisted upon using cash for their transactions, which created a royal pain in the ass for everyone involved. Why the hell couldn't they get with the times and use a PC or a debit card like everyone else?
"Here you go," she said, handing him a fifty-dollar bill. "The leftover is for you."
"Why thank you, ma'am," he said graciously, even though it was almost more trouble than it was worth to actually go down to the bank and deposit the $4.50 into his account.
Mrs. Blancher of course wanted him to stay for a glass of iced tea and a little conversation but he pleaded bicycle security and a tight schedule. With a few more comments about those rotten chinks and how she hoped her grandson was safe fighting them, he made his escape, mounting his bike once more and heading off deeper into the suburban neighborhood.
Diane Grommet was his next delivery. She was a thirty-year old widow who survived on the meager offerings of a military death pension. Her husband had been a fairly successful independent truck driver before the war. Once the supply of diesel fuel that was needed to work his trade had dried up he had entered a government lottery that had been held to pick those lucky few who would be allowed to continue delivering needed stocks around the country. He had lost that particular lottery—for some suspiciously bizarre reason it had been the employees of corporate trucking companies who were mostly picked—and had been forced to sell his truck for less than a tenth of what he had paid for it. Left with no other option he had joined the army and been assigned to the transportation division driving a supply truck. Eight weeks later he was killed in British Columbia when Chinese planes attacked the convoy he was a part of.
She was sitting on her porch swing when he wheeled up, sipping from a glass of ice water and fanning herself with a magazine. Dressed in a pair of blue jean shorts and a half shirt, her blonde hair tied into a ponytail, she looked at him nervously as he came to a stop before her. Mark was careful to keep an innocent expression upon his face. Diane, as she insisted he call her, was nearly ready to try to "seduce" him and he didn't want to screw it up. Though Darren preferred the direct approach, actually flirting with his conquests to speed up the process, Mark had always been on the hesitant side and let his target be the one to make the first move. He had gotten pretty good at guessing when that move was going to be made. Diane had already exhibited two of the three signs he looked for. She had asked him about his girlfriends on the previous visit and she was tipping much more than was customary for the service he provided. The third sign, which he was expecting very soon, was explaining how lonely she had been since her husband's death. That usually came right before the invitation to come over for dinner.
"Hi, Mark," she said softly, her eyes flitting back and forth as he dismounted. "I'm glad to see you this early. I was wondering if you'd bring me my groceries in time for me to start tonight's dinner."
"You were second on my list today," he told her gallantly. "They had you a little further up but I shifted it around a little to make sure you were early in the route." This was, of course, a lie. One did not mess with the boss's precious delivery schedule. But she had no way of knowing this and the impression that she was receiving special treatment was certainly helpful to his cause.
"You're such a dear," she said, offering him her smile. "I hope you don't mind my asking for you by name, but you're so polite, not like some of those other people."
"I don't mind at all," he said, glancing at her two boys, who were playing with a collection of wooden military models on the grass, completely oblivious to his presence. They were four and six years old and dressed in identical cammie overalls. The game they were playing with their tanks and APCs was something they called "kill the chinks".
"Well," she said, standing up and setting her glass down on a small table, "shall we get them inside?"
"I guess we should," he said, reaching down and grabbing two of the bags.
She grabbed the other two and led the way into the neat, two-story house. Her kitchen was sparkling clean, almost medically sterile, and the scent was of some citrus-based cleaning product. A bowl of tomatoes and onions from her victory garden sat on the table. He set the bags down on the counter and she put hers down next to them. Their hands briefly touched as they performed this motion. Diane did not seem too eager to pull hers away.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked him as she pulled a few jars from the first bag and carried them to the refrigerator.
Normally his policy was to turn down such offers, which nearly every customer made (and the vast majority of the customers, even the single mothers, were not trying to seduce him). He had his own bottle of ice water strapped to his bicycle and time was somewhat of a factor in the bicycle delivery business. However, with likely prospects such as Diane, he always accepted, whether he was thirsty or not. It was over such drinks that the important conversations, the ones that got him laid, took place. "Ice water would be nice," he said casually.
"One ice water, coming up," she said, abandoning the groceries for the moment and reaching into a cupboard above the sink. She withdrew a glass and carried it over to the refrigerator, which had an ice and water dispenser in the door. She dispensed some of both and handed the glass to Mark.
"Thank you," he said softly, putting a tone of shyness into his voice. "It's very hot out today."
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" she said, putting a hand to his forehead and wiping at the perspiration that had gathered there. "You're all sweaty. I don't know how you young men can hold up, hauling groceries around for us old women in this heat."
He enjoyed the touch of her soft hand against his forehead, and knew she was enjoying the contact as well. Yes, she was well on her way to making her move. He wondered how she would be in bed when she finally "enticed" him to it. He was starting to learn that the women's performance during coitus was directly linked to his own performance. When he was good, the woman tended to be good as well. He had now gained enough experience with the previous six war widows he had slept with to consider himself a decent lay. Those women had taught him much.
"You're not an old lady," he told her. "You can't be more than twenty-five, right?"
She laughed a little, giving his hair a playful tug. It was obvious she had enjoyed his compliment immensely. "You're a sweetheart," she said. "But you're not fooling me. I'm pretty sure I told you a few deliveries ago that I was thirty, didn't I?"
"I don't remember," he lied, manufacturing an embarrassed smile.
"Oh, you," she said, finally pulling her hand away. "Anyway, I thank you for saying that to me, even if it is a fib." She sighed a little. "It's so nice to have adult conversation once in while."
"Yeah?" he asked, sipping from his water.
"Oh yes," she said, grabbing a few more groceries from a bag and carrying them over to the cupboard. "I love my boys to death but sometimes I just feel like I'm going crazy in here, talking about nothing but television shows and Internet games and military toys." She shook her head a little. "I guess I just miss my husband a lot."
Bingo! Mark thought, suppressing a smile. There was sign number three, the final sign. "It must be rough," he said, quiet sympathy in his voice.
"I know it's been more than a year," she said, "and I should be over it by now. For the most part I am. But it's hard not having a man around the house sometimes. I guess you wouldn't understand."
"Well," he said, maintaining the sympathetic tone, "maybe not the man part. But I know what its like to lose someone to the war. My mom was a teacher at Thomas Jefferson School and ... well ... you know what happened there."
Her face immediately turned to syrupy sympathy. She did indeed know what happened there. Everyone in the Sacramento region knew what had happened there. "Oh, you poor dear," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
He shrugged a little, keeping his eyes cast downward, as if he were barely restraining tears. "Like you said, I'm mostly over it. You know when I miss her the most though?"
"When's that?" she asked.
"Dinnertime," he said. "My mom was the best cook. She used to make the best food, every night, even when she had lots of papers to correct from school. Even after the war started and we couldn't get vegetables or fresh meat anymore, she could still whip up some really static stuff. My dad tries to cook sometimes, but it's not even close. Mostly we just eat pizza and stuff we can put together out of jars."
He could see that his speech, which he had given to three other women to that point, was having the effect he intended. Diane's pretty face was puckered into an expression of pity and motherliness. "Well you know," she said softly, "I'm probably not up to your mother's standards, but I'm not too bad of a cook myself."
"I'm sure you're not," he said, as if he had no idea what she was hinting at.
"So maybe..." she said, blushing a little, " uh ... well, maybe you'd like to come over and let me make dinner for you some night."
Score! Mark's mind screamed triumphantly. It was now all over but the copulation. And he would get a free meal out of it as well. "Oh, I couldn't do that," he said, giving the token I-don't-want-to-impose-upon-you refusal. "Not with what groceries cost these days."
She slapped playfully at his shoulder. "Now don't you go worrying what groceries cost these days," she told him. "It would be a pleasure to cook for a man for once. It's been so long since I've been able to do that. I simply insist that you come over and let me feed you."
"Well..." he said, as if on unsure ground, "if you're really sure that..."
"I'm really sure," she insisted. "How does tomorrow night sound?"
"It sounds good," he told her, letting the shy smile come back to his face. "What time?"
"How about seven o'clock? I'll make you my famous burgundy beef stroganoff. My husband used to love it." And then, almost as an afterthought. "The boys love it too."
"That sounds very good, Diane," he replied. "I'll be here then."
"I'll be looking forward to it," she said, entirely truthfully, and for more reason than one.
-------
Once the Chinese began massing on the Alaskan-Canadian border, it finally came home to the Americans that they were really at war and that they were really in significant danger. This was not a foreign border skirmish, this was not a dispute over a few oil fields in the Middle East, this was not a small, ineffective country that needed to be bombed into submission for daring to threaten American business interests. This was the real thing, the worst nightmare of a nation come true. The Chinese were intending to invade the continental United States! And what was more, it looked like they just might be able to do it.
The American and Canadian armies immediately began shifting their equipment northward in anticipation of the coming invasion of Canada. The amount of tanks, aircraft, and other military equipment available at the time was recognized as being inadequate for the task of stopping the huge army that was building. The American factories were moving frantically to try to switch over to wartime production in order to produce the weapons needed to fight. Automobile factories in Detroit, Los Angeles, and other cities stopped producing cars and began gearing up to produce tanks and armored personnel carriers and artillery weapons and rocket launchers. The aircraft factories in Seattle and Los Angeles stopped making civilian airliners and began gearing up to make F-47s and F-22s and B1s and A-21s. The armed forces themselves quickly lobbied successfully for the reinstatement of the draft and began trying to sort through and train the hundreds of thousands of draftees and volunteers that were inducted. But all of this required time and it was recognized that the Chinese were not going to allow them much of that most precious commodity.
That was when the Western Hemisphere Military Alliance was formed. The United States pleaded for help from the very countries it had always looked down upon and derided as second class throughout its history: The Latin American nations. And the Latin Americans responded to the request with enthusiasm, giving all needed assistance. This was not due to any sense of friendliness towards the arrogant, bullying nation to their north, but rather a sense of self-protection. They knew if the United States fell to the Chinese, it would not be long before those tanks began to roll southward. The Mexicans, who would be the next to fall, were the first to send aid. They sent nearly every piece of armor and every soldier they had across the border into the United States. The bulk of the Central American and South American countries, some of which were bitter enemies of the US and each other, quickly followed suit. The biggest contributors were Brazil and Venezuela, each of whom possessed fairly modern armor and aircraft and, more importantly, large petroleum reserves with which to power the armor and aircraft.
The question now became where to make a stand against the invading Chinese. The WestHem forces were woefully outnumbered by the Chinese in all aspects of warfare: men, munitions, armor, artillery, and aircraft. The WestHems were also vastly inferior as far as command and control structure went. The forces assembling to repel the invasion were piecemeal groups of regular army, National Guard forces, and units from Latin American countries, most of whose soldiers did not even speak English. There was no time to try to figure out the best method of mixing these groups together. Instead, they were simply formed into two large armies with a shaky and often changing chain of command.
The majority of the generals and government military experts felt that the Chinese plan was to smash into Canada, moving east along the Arctic Circle and then to turn south and begin moving towards the heartland of the United States. They would have wide open plains in which to operate in and they could fall upon the cities of Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee in the Great Lakes region before splitting the country in two by smashing through the Great Plains. This seemed a logical course of warfare. The impact of such an invasion would be devastating upon the populace, destroying morale, disrupting transportation, and denying the US of many of its essential cities. The Great Plains invasion was the way for the Chinese to occupy the greatest amount of American soil in the shortest amount of time. It would also be the hardest for the American forces to counter. These generals and experts wanted to move the majority of the hastily assembling WestHem forces into defensive positions around the Great Lakes and send the rest into Canada to start assisting the Canadian Army.
But a much smaller group of military experts disagreed with this reasoning. While the Great Plains invasion would indeed be easy to accomplish and would indeed send American morale into turmoil, what, they asked, would be the real point of it? The Great Plains would be easy to capture but difficult and expensive to hold. The Chinese supply line would stretch for thousands of miles and would be vulnerable along nearly its entire length to counter-attack and severance. Occupation of the entire United States would take years, maybe a decade if it were attempted in this manner. Did that really go along with what the Asian Powers had done so far?
They thought not. They pointed out that every major attack that the Asian Powers had initiated had been for a specific goal. And what, in almost every instance, had that specific goal been? Oil. They had invaded Russian Siberia in which a great wealth of only recently exploited petroleum resources was located. They had invaded the Middle East, in which the world's greatest supply of petroleum was located. They had invaded Alaska, the primary oil supply for the United States. In Europe, where no significant petroleum was available, they had not invaded. They had simply dug in to prevent the Europeans from re-taking the conquered territory. There was a method, a frightfully clever method to their madness, these military experts argued. The Asian Powers were not intending to invade the entire United States or the entire world. They were only going to invade the areas in which oil was located. If they could deprive the WestHem and the EastHem forces of oil, they would not have to forcibly invade. All of the tanks, ships, and airplanes of their enemies would be nothing more than useless toys. The world would be theirs by default.
And they were so close to achieving that goal already! Already they had deprived both EastHem and WestHem of three-quarters of their former petroleum. This had resulted in unheard of rationing and had caused a virtual shutdown of all personal travel. The economies of the WestHem and EastHem countries were reeling as they tried to deal with getting people to work each day and to keep their populace fed without the use of gasoline or diesel fuel. Currently, California, Texas, Oklahoma, and South Dakota were supplying the majority of the domestic oil to fight the war. Mexico, Brazil, and Venezuela were supplying the majority of the foreign oil. This supply, with severe rationing, was perhaps enough to carry on. Perhaps. But if they lost any more oil fields...
Using a detailed relief map of the North American continent, these military experts advanced the opinion that the best way for the Chinese to end the war quickly was not to attack the Great Plains but to drive directly south from Alaska. By driving south, keeping to the coast, they would have a powerful spearhead that could push aside nearly everything in its path. Their flanks and their supply line would be protected by the Pacific Ocean on the west and by the towering mountain ranges that stretched from the Arctic Circle to central Mexico on the east. They could push down the Al-Can highway corridor of Canada and enter the United States north of Seattle. They could then drive down the Interstate 5 corridor, taking the major cities of Seattle and Portland on their way to California's Great Central Valley. From there, the San Francisco Bay Area and the Central Valley itself would be easily occupied. The oil fields of southern California would only be a two-day march from there. Once those were secured, a hook to the east would quickly take them through the open deserts of the southwest to Texas and Oklahoma. Or they could continue their drive to the south into Mexico, taking the oil fields there. Either way, the war would effectively be over at that point. Unable to run their war machines, there would be nothing left to do but surrender.
This group of military experts would be very much in the minority among their colleagues at the onset. But they managed to convince the people who made the real decisions that their theory was correct. The greatest gamble of all time was initiated. Instead of ordering the rag-tag WestHem armies to head for the Midwest and the Great Lakes region, they were ordered instead to head northwest, towards Western Canada.
Had the Chinese done as the majority predicted and headed east from Alaska and then south towards the American heartland, they would have met almost no opposition. But they didn't. Just as predicted they broke out of Alaska directly south, pushing aside the vastly outnumbered Canadian army with ease and driving towards the west coast of the continental United States at a rate of more than sixty kilometers a day.
-------
As a member of the United States government that was involved in what was termed: "critical wartime employment," Jeff Whiting, Mark's father, rated a Class A gasoline ration card which allowed him to purchase up to twenty gallons per month. This was a privilege usually granted to only the wealthy and those in power. Jeff fit into neither of these categories. In days gone by, before the war, he had been a simple customs agent assigned to Sacramento International Airport and tasked with checking the baggage of travelers entering the United States from Canada. He used to joke that he was the only thing standing between civility and the utter chaos that would erupt if the smuggling of Canadian goods were allowed to go unchecked.
Jeff Whiting did not joke much these days. The death of his wife a year before had taken the sense of humor right out of him. Nor did he inspect Canadian baggage at the airport anymore. There were no more Canadian travelers to the United States; there was no more personal air travel at all anymore. The days when you could simply hop aboard an airliner and travel to a distant city in a matter of hours had ended. If you were on an airliner these days, you were either in the war or on the way to it. Jeff, like many of the customs officers nationwide, had been absorbed into the FBI and given a new task by his government; a task he found decidedly distasteful but that his president and his congress found necessary during these troubled times.
What Jeff Whiting and most of the other former United States customs agents were doing these days was monitoring. What they were monitoring were US citizens of Asian descent. They did not monitor Chinese or Japanese nationals. People fitting that description had already been rounded up and imprisoned by the FBI. It was American citizens, some of whom were of the fourth and fifth generation in the United States, who were being watched for signs of collaboration with the enemy. It had been made legal by the US Congress, the US Senate, the US President, and the US Supreme Court in the Emergency War Powers Act of 2013 for government agents to ply through the computer and Internet records of "American Citizens of Asian descent" in search of "suspicious activities or transactions". Not even the ACLU had opposed the measure, which had been proposed, written, and passed nearly unanimously in the first three months of the war. The gist of the public opinion towards it seemed to be: "If they don't have anything to hide, then they shouldn't mind us looking them over."
That was what Jeff Whiting spent his days doing: going through lists of Asian citizens in the Northern California region and checking, by means of his home computer terminal, into the most private aspects of their lives. He poured through their checking and savings account records, through their grocery and personal purchases, through their Internet usage accounts and email. Mark knew that his father, as a life-long advocate of personal privacy laws, felt soiled doing such things, felt as if he were being asked to sacrifice his soul in order to support his family. If not for the fact that they desperately needed the money in order to survive, in order
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