Chapter 1

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.

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.

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.