Chapter Twenty-Two

Hanson

 

They came in the night, in that darkest time when even shadows disappear. The first hint that they had was heat-seeking radar images. And within seconds, the once-dark night was lit by bright flashes and red explosions. Hanson, so used to being on ship and far from his targets, found himself sitting on his hands to stop himself from covering his ears.

A large mortar struck the edge of camp, shrapnel and rocks raining down, sounding like hailstones on the canvas tent tops.

“We heavily outnumber them,” Granger said, more to console himself than to give Hanson information. “It should be over relatively quickly.”

“It was to be expected,” said Hanson.

And it was. The United States wasn't going to wait long before trying to reclaim their territory. The longer they waited, the more of their servicemen defected. Time was not on their side. This would be a small incursion force, checking the boundaries, rating their firepower. A skirmish, nothing more. A couple of days from now, a week at most, the real fighting would begin.

There was nothing Hanson could do, so he waited it out. Waited with the command center as the bangs grew less frequent, and the flashes less bright as day began to dawn. And then it was over, and he could walk out into the cool morning, tents wet with dew, and see the men coming back. Tired, dirty, bleeding, but triumphant. A stretcher here, another there. He met with the incoming troops, wanting to congratulate them and thank them personally.

When the first stretcher came, bearing its black, body-bagged load, he removed his cap, standing silently as it passed. He did the same for the second. And the third.

 

***

 

The drive to Sacramento was not a long one. Hanson and Granger passed the time in silence. Hanson had not spoken since giving the order to be driven back. The reality of battle so close to him had brought home what they were truly doing. Ashlee and Matt would meet him at the governor's office. He wanted the same message brought home to them all.

“I've already heard,” said Merriweather, ushering Hanson into his office.

He didn't specify what he'd heard, but it was clear from his tone that he knew. His face looked a little more lined, his skin grey. Hanson wondered if he'd stayed awake listening to the news as it came in. He pulled out a chair at the conference table, nodding at Callahan, who was already seated, and was sitting as Ashlee and Matt were shown in.

“Right,” Hanson said, once all were seated. “Let's get to business. We need more firepower, and probably more men as well. Though there are more servicemen crossing the border, that flood of soldiers is about to be either cut off or slowed to a trickle as US forces start blockading us in. Merriweather—Jim, I'd like you to consult the . . . what are we calling it now? The California Senate? Whatever the hell it is. Anyway, I'd like permission for a draft. We need able-bodied men to man the borders. The more the better. We can put out a call for volunteers as a start.”

Merriweather firmed his jaw but nodded. He obviously didn't want to do this. Hanson didn't care. He wasn't going to have men slaughtered if he could help it.

“Weapons, weapons, and more weapons,” he went on. “Ashlee, you'll need to earmark most of the money given by Jake Silva to go toward arming more men.”

Ashlee nodded.

“Hold up here,” said Callahan. “Aren't we being a little premature? Asking for a draft and arming you to the teeth? This could all be over within a few days, weeks even. This isn't your end plan, surely?”

Hanson gritted his teeth. “It could be over soon, might not be. I saw this morning what the US military is capable of, even during a small incursion. The real attack, when it comes, will be severe and deadly. They will strike with ultimate force, and we must be ready to face them. I don't think it is wrong to be prepared.”

“Jim, you're talking about equipping an entire army and having them stand on California soil. You're talking about a draft, which hasn't been seen in almost a hundred years in this country. Rein him in here,” Callahan said, turning to appeal to Merriweather.

“We're talking about protecting ourselves,” Hanson said before Merriweather had a chance to speak.

“And saving lives,” added Ashlee, who clearly agreed with Hanson.

“No, you're talking about risking more lives,” said Callahan.

“Now listen,” Hanson said, trying to remain calm. “This morning I saw the bodies of three men being brought back to camp in body bags. And that's just the beginning. We're asking men to go and die for our freedom, for our ideals. The least we can do is send them decently equipped.”

“You are decently equipped,” argued Callahan. “And while the loss of three men is sad, it's hardly a tragedy on a great scale.”

“They were men. Americans.” Matt's voice was steady but laced with anger.

“They were soldiers, servicemen,” said Callahan. “And they knew the risks going into this. That is their job. You're talking about drafting in civilians against their will; that's not the same thing at all.”

“They were men,” Matt said again, standing up now. “And now they're dead. And you're talking about risking the lives of all of us because we're not ready or able to defend ourselves.”

“They were men who had chosen to defend us,” Callahan persisted, even as Matt rounded the table. “That is an entirely different matter. You . . .”

But he couldn't finish, as Matt had punched him square in the face. Callahan grunted, more in surprise, Hanson thought, than pain. And pulled both hands up to his face. Matt calmly walked back around the table and took his seat again.

“You have my absolute and abject apologies,” said Matt, quietly and seemingly sincerely. “But that had to be done.”

Hanson bit his tongue for a moment. He knew Matt didn't like Callahan, though he hadn't given much thought to why. And what Callahan had said had annoyed him as much as it did Matt. He glanced over at Merriweather, who had his eyebrows raised but seemed otherwise entertained if anything. He cleared his throat.

“I think it would be best if we left. Ashlee, Matt, please?”

Taking the cue, Ashlee shuffled her chair back and escorted Matt out of the room. Hanson slid a box of tissues across the table to Callahan.

“You have my apologies too, Mr. Callahan,” said Hanson.

Callahan took a handful of tissues to staunch his bleeding nose.

“Funnily enough, I thought we were fighting for free speech,” he said, his consonants softened by the bloody nose.

“Matt had no right to do that. I'll ensure that it doesn't happen again.”

The moment was awkward, but Callahan was graceful enough to brush it aside.

“The governor and I will discuss your proposals,” he said.

Merriweather walked Hanson to the door.

“I am sorry, sir.”

“Enough with the ‘sir.’ And to be honest, there are times when I wouldn't mind giving Callahan a thwack myself. He can be quite full of himself. On this particular occasion, he was perhaps too forceful and forgot the audience he was speaking to. Though his points were fairly good ones. Leave all this with me. I'll see what can be done.”

“Thank you.”

“And, Hanson? I am sorry about your men.”