The Chinese Solution

By James Sladack

Top Secret Mission: The President suspends the laws of war. Use any means necessary to kill Hitlers greatest commando, Otto Skorzeny. Skorzeny and a company of Nazi SS soldiers have been transported back in time by Red China, tasked with murdering George Washington and assassinating the Founding Fathers. Green Beret Colonel Bob Lake, two Marine snipers, a beautiful intelligence expert, a Navy SEAL and an eccentric professor transport to Fort Duquesne and the bloody French & Indian War. The hunt for the most dangerous Nazi commando in history begins.

If Skorzeny succeeds, the Thirteen Colonies will never unite as a country. 20th Century Germany will win WW I and China will emerge as the sole superpower of the 21st Century. Lake doggedly pursues the brilliant Colonel Skorzeny and his SS storm troopers through the colonial period and across the American wilderness, desperate to save the American Revolution. Through it all, deadly Indians threaten both the Nazis and the American commandos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479709755

James Sladack

Jim Sladack is a retired US Army lieutenant. colonel with 38 years of active and reserve duty, including tours as an S3 operations officer, paratrooper, and a Special Forces ("Green Beret") officer. He served seven years as adjunct faculty at the US Army Command & General Staff College. He has decades of training with various martial arts, edged weapons, sticks and modern small arms. For years, he volunteered as a part-time EMT on the "second busiest ambulance squad" in New Jersey. He was a real estate manager at the HQS of CCC, ITT, GE and Director-Global Real Estate for Allied-Signal/Honeywell and Director, Strategic Consulting Group for Newmark Knight Frank in New York City. Jim lives in Orange, California with his wife, Nancy.

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The Chinese

Solution

James Sladack

LTC, US Army (Ret.)

Copyright © 2012 by LTC James Sladack.

ISBN:         Ebook         978-1-4797-0975-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Erin Bruner at, [e-mail]

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Chapter 1 Paris April 2025

Chapter 2 National Maritime Intelligence Center near Washington, D.C. April Year 2025

Chapter 3 Washington, D.C. April Year 2025

Chapter 4 Forks of the Ohio (Old Pittsburgh) Dusk; 2 May 1754

Chapter 5 Paris Summer 2025

Chapter 6 Forks of the Ohio (Old Pittsburgh) May 1754

Chapter 7 Forks of the Ohio The Hour Before the Dawn, 20 June 1754

Chapter 8 Forks of the Ohio 21 June 1754

Chapter 9 Forks of the Ohio 21 June 1754

Chapter 10 Forks of the Ohio 1 July 1754

Chapter 11 Thirty-Five Miles South from Fort Duquesne 5 July 1754

Chapter 12 Forks of the Ohio 7 July 1754

Chapter 13 Forks of the Ohio July 1754

Chapter 14 Parade Ground at Fort Duquesne July 1754

Chapter 15 Northern Side of the Allegheny River (Old Pittsburgh) June 1775

Chapter 16 Forest about Fifteen Miles from Fort Necessity July 1754

Chapter 17 Time Lacuna, Allegheny River Early October 1773

Chapter 18 Pennsylvania Colony Late October 1773

Chapter 19 Time Lacuna, Allegheny River November 1773

Chapter 20 Fort Pitt May 1775

Chapter 21 Time Lacuna, Allegheny River Spring 1774

Chapter 22 Philadelphia August 1774

Chapter 23 Philadelphia August 1774

Chapter 24 Philadelphia September 2, 1774

Chapter 25 Philadelphia September 2, 1774

Chapter 26 Philadelphia September 1774

Chapter 27 Philadelphia September 1774

Chapter 28 Philadelphia Early September1774

Chapter 29 Philadelphia April 1775

Chapter 30 New York City July 1776

Chapter 31 Lake George, New York July 1776

Epilogue Washington, DC July 2026

Appendix Partial Chronology of Major Events and Names of the Players

Endnotes

For Mom and Dad

Special Thanks to:

Afro-American Consultant: Mr. O. Jay Lipscomb

Martial Arts Adviser: Daniel Higgins, 4th Degree Black Belt, Shaolin Kempo; 1st Black Belt Jiu Jitsu; Senior Instructor Kali/Escrima

Medical Adviser: Michael Hodges, R.N.

Military Fact-Checkers and Advisers

John Chris Franchek, USMA 1985; Deputy S3, US Army Medical Recruiting Brigade; Arthur Sladack, Major, USMC; Paul Ware, Lieutenant Colonel, USMC (Ret.); Robert Watson, Lieutenant Colonel, US Army (Ret.)

Narrative Critics and Proof Readers

Dave Sladack; Nancy Sladack; Kate Lee

Nature of Bullies, Rednecks and Stone-Age Warriors: Sam Aldo Edwards

Not for the Weak or Fainthearted

Caveat from the cover of the Ranger Handbook

February 2011 edition

United States Army Infantry School

french%20and%20indian%20war.tif

If my warriors are to fight, they are too few; if they are to die, they are too many.—Mohawk Chief King Hendrick’s reply to his British commander in September1755, assessing the impending Battle of Lake George, New York, against a large French and Indian force.

The bloody French and Indian War had commenced in North America, 15 months earlier, as a result of George Washington’s reckless engagements near the Forks of the Ohio.

Chapter 1

Paris April 2025 

Roxanne, I swear I sent no such message to the Colonel. I just came back from a five-day survival course in the Uwharrie National Forest. I only just got access to my cell phone. I’d love to see you and the Colonel tonight but I’m here at Fort Bragg, not Paris. Is everything OK?

Thanks, Dave. I’ll have to call you back. Roxanne felt her stomach tightening as she ended the telephone call with Sergeant Major Foster. The Sergeant Major was a highly decorated Green Beret and her husband’s closest friend in the US Army.

She thought back to the text message from an hour earlier that her husband had read aloud to her: "Hey, Roxy, Sergeant Major is in Paris! He texted, Can you meet me at Café Florence in one hour? Urgent. Special mission."

"Special mission! He just wants to have a drink with you and beg you to ask me to fix him up with a date." Roxanne had stepped from the shower and paused to admire her naked body in the full-length mirrors. From every angle, her statuesque body and sensuous breasts looked ravishing. Slowly, she began toweling her long legs. She took a second towel and wrapped it around her shoulder-length, blond hair. At age 37, she retained a striking figure and radiated sexuality.

Call him and invite him over to our hotel for dinner, Bob. I know Café Florence. It used to be a lovely place until the Chinese Embassy expanded and took over most of that block. They built the ugliest embassy in Europe. All that black stone—it looks like a medieval fortress.

I tried calling him, Roxy. It keeps going into Voicemail. There’s probably a weak signal where he is. I’ll text him, meet him and bring him back for a late dinner. He’ll get in trouble in Paris by himself. It’ll give me something to do while you dress.

Grabbing his cell phone, Colonel Robert Lake typed: Dave, see you 2000 hours local time. Pls acknowledge."

Roxanne thought back to the odd text reply. "Roger, Colonel. Sir, I’ll be wearing a blue blazer and white shirt with open collar."

"Foster must be jet-lagged, honey. He called me sir in a text message. And after all we’ve been through—he thinks I wouldn’t recognize a 5'8 black man with a shaved head and a build like one of those short, NFL running backs who drive a defensive line crazy!

She laughed at Foster’s strangely worded message. After her husband had departed, the message began to trouble her, spurring her to telephone Foster. If he was really at Fort Bragg, who had texted her husband? Who knew they were in Paris? Who was meeting her husband?

Anxiously, Roxanne looked at her watch. 7:45 p.m. He’ll be there, in just another five or ten minutes. Lake was always punctual for meetings. Roxanne dialed her husband’s cell phone.

C’mon, Bob, pick up. Please, pick up.

I’m sorry, the automated voice replied. The number you are calling has been disconnected. Please check the number again or call your operator for assistance.

A wave of nausea struck Roxanne at the word disconnected. His phone had been active just an hour ago. Her husband was a Special Forces Green Beret Colonel, 43-years-old, six feet tall, and a muscled 190 pounds. His slightly graying hair was the only indicator of his chronological age—he looked younger. Because of his clandestine and frequently violent actions against other countries, Lake had made numerous enemies. Quickly, Roxanne dialed the private number of an old friend, Lieutenant Antoine Barri of the Paris Prefecture de Police.

*     *     *

Construction work forced Colonel Lake to exit his taxi a half block from the Café Florence. He stepped around a parked Hitachi excavator and glanced at his Rolex Submariner. Five to eight, I’ll just be on time. Lake strode purposefully down the tree-lined street.

Well, this is the Rue Washington, Lake said to himself. That must be the Café Florence. It looks closed. The streetlights are all dark. It must be because of the embassy’s construction work. The Chinese government sure is flaunting its economic strength and growing political clout.

He had read online that the Chinese had installed a working version of their second Meng Po supercomputer at this embassy last May. The first Meng Po supercomputer had drawn critical acclaim, when it defeated the American Athena II supercomputer in a 10-game chess tournament. It had won all five times when it opened as white, won twice when it played the black pieces, and stalemated the other three times it played black. Its success had the same impact on the United States as the launch of the first satellite into orbit by the old Soviet Union in the late 1950s. The American news shows talked endlessly about the ascent of China and the need to improve the teaching of math and science in US schools.

Why would they need a supercomputer at an overseas embassy? Colonel Lake wondered.

Lake turned as if to admire a saucy-looking, lingerie-clad mannequin in a shop window. Years of special operations work had heightened his situational awareness. Front and peripheral security were easiest, precisely because they were to one’s front and sides. Rear security required an excuse to turn, so as not to alert any pursuers that you were on to them.

"That’s curious . . . two athletic males paralleling me across the street. They look like blonde clones. Glad I have my Recon 1 clipped to my trouser pocket." The Cold Steel Recon 1 folder opened effortlessly with one hand. Fully opened, it was nine inches long with a four-inch, half-serrated blade. The blade on Lake’s version was black, not silver, making it harder to spot for even a practiced eye. In dimming light, it would be invisible until it slashed or stabbed deeply into an opponent’s flesh. Lake did not pat his knife. Young gang members carrying knives gave themselves away by touching their knife pocket when they saw a cop. After 25 years of clipping a large knife in his right trouser pocket, Lake knew exactly where his folder rested.

Continuing his reconnaissance, Lake thought, OK. There’s a stocky man standing in the shadows by the restaurant with his back towards me. He’s wearing a blazer. Just caught a glimpse of his profile—is that Sergeant Major Foster? No, he’s white not black—an impostor! And there’s a taller man five yards down acting uninterested but watching everything. He can’t hide his command presence—possesses the bearing of a Prussian cavalry officer. This smells like a trap. Thank God Roxy is safe in the hotel.

Virgil taught that Fortune favors the bold, Lake thought. He listened to the footsteps of the two assailants as they approached him from his rear. Patience. Let them get a little closer. Draw and open the knife as you turn, smile and ask them a question, the dumber the better. Keep the knife out of sight behind your right hip as you do. Just like you’ve practiced a thousand times in the dojo.

Pardon, monsieur, Lake said to the nearest man. He lifted his left hand with flair as he spoke to distract the men from his knife flipping open in his other hand. Each of them is carrying a fixed blade knife, Lake observed. Each has cold eyes. These are professional killers, not robbers. At least they aren’t using guns. I have a chance.

Do you believe in Je-sus? Lake shouted in heavily accented French, stretching out the syllables in Jesus just as he had heard an old Baptist preacher do years before in South Carolina. The question threw the assassins off for just an instant. But an instant was all Colonel Lake needed. In a flash, he cleaved the index, middle and ring fingers from the opened left hand of the man closest to him.

"Defanging the snake! So few martial artists know to protect their free hand," Lake thought. Quickly, Lake stepped to the rear of his opponent, slashing and stabbing him a second and third time in the neck as he did. The man stood perfectly still in utter disbelief, as blood spurted seven feet from his carotid artery, the phantom fingers on his maimed hand unable to stop the bleeding.

Without hesitation, Lake shoved the crippled man hard into the second assassin. Now I disengage and let the bastard bleed out. Blood lost will put him in shock in under thirty seconds. Killer #2 is paralyzed by caution for the time being. But where are the phony Foster and the Prussian? Against multiple opponents, Lake was happy for a stalemate. The trick was not so much to win a knife fight, as not to lose one.

Lake spun halfway around. "There he is! False Foster is blocking my escape. No, this is France, Faux Foster blocks my escape. That sonnuvabitch has a huge knife. Correction—a bayonet. The crazy bastard has a WWII-era German bayonet. It must be sixteen inches long! Who the hell is this guy? And the boss is yelling in German? Whoops! The command worked. Killer #2 just let his buddy drop and is resuming the attack."

Lake whirled and moved to meet #2. He needed to fight them individually. If they paired or tripled up on him, one would engage from his front while the others struck from his sides or rear. He did not have much time before they would attack in unison. Killer #2 was the optimum target. He had just seen his comrade die and would be psychologically intimidated. Moreover, he was drenched in his dead teammate’s blood. He carried a short knife, not a bayonet. His bloody, sticky fingers would make his stainless steel knife slippery, compromising his grip and strikes.

Attaboy, don’t listen to the Prussian. Hesitate. Forget your training and watch my knife, not my shoulders. Eyes and hands lie; shoulder movement alone tells the truth. That’s it. Wait for reinforcements while I set you up for a counterattack.

With calculation, Lake allowed #2 to nick the top of his left forearm, which he held shield-like covering his chest and face, with the fist closed. Emboldened by his false success, #2 stretched too far as he tried to cut Lake again. In anticipation, Lake made himself skinny, minimizing his profile by sidestepping to the right, causing his opponent’s blade to cut air. With his free hand, Lake caught the man’s fully extended knife hand above the wrist and rolled it outwards. Deftly flipping his own knife into a reverse grip, Lake slashed deeply though the other man’s ligaments below his bicep, immobilizing the knife arm. Seamlessly, Lake backhanded the point deep into #2’s right eye. The man shook for an instant, and then fell forward to his knees, dying as his head crashed into the cobblestones.

In the distance, Lake heard the wail of police sirens. Steadily, the sound grew louder. How did they know to get here so fast? Lake wondered. "Gendarmes," he yelled at the stocky attacker, without any visible effect.

Hell, just my luck to get a robot with a longer blade. He doesn’t care if he gets arrested or killed. All he cares about is implementing the order from his commander.

The fourth man had moved up behind Faux Foster and was coolly issuing instructions. He was very tall, about 6'4". Lake could see the man’s face clearly. It was chilling to behold—a face from a black & white newsreel. "That’s impossible. It can’t be him. He died decades ago. What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

Faux Foster closed methodically. "He’s very smooth with his bayonet. He must’ve had knife training, somewhere along the way. Good that I’m taller. It gives me a little more reach. But that bayonet is so long. It’s best to retreat toward the intersection. Lake remembered the old NRA warning justifying owning a gun for when seconds count and the police are minutes away.

Carefully, Lake backed up, using karate crescent steps. First, he lightly swept his right foot in a half-moon motion to the rear, followed by a quick half-moon with his left. Periodically, he slid 45 degrees to the side. Then he repeated the sequence again. All the time he guarded his chest and stomach with his left forearm and the knife in his right hand. He progressed backwards in this manner, covering a lot of ground quickly. Maddeningly, the stocky man kept marching straight on, narrowing the gap, oblivious to the approaching sirens. Twice he tried to stab Lake by using a fast upward hook—the prison shank—which was even difficult for a skilled knife fighter to block. A police car screeched to a stop and two officers jumped out. A second unmarked car with a blinking gumball light on the roof pulled up and a plainclothes officer stepped out. The three French policemen sprinted toward Lake and his adversary with their pistols drawn.

"Arrête! Arrête!" a French policeman yelled, commanding both men to stop.

"They’re yelling in French. Wait, the plainclothes cop is speaking English. Drop your weapons or we will shoot. How in the hell does he know I’m an American?"

Lake waited until the last possible moment then let his Recon 1 fall to the ground. He raised his hands in the air, all the while keeping his eyes on his closing adversary. Faux Foster glared fearlessly at the policemen moving toward him. The Prussian barked a command and the stocky knifeman sprinted at Lake with the bayonet raised over his head. A half-dozen shots rang out. The bullets jerked the bayonet-wielding attacker’s body, making him look like a puppet walking. He managed a half-step forward before collapsing to the ground.

The police spun Lake and pulled his hands up hard behind his back, handcuffing him. Lake could only catch bits and pieces of what they were shouting. In the distance, Lake watched the Prussian sprint to the ornate iron gates bordering the side of the Chinese Embassy. Two embassy guards swung the huge gates open as if they were expecting him. The Prussian smiled in Lake’s direction, saluted sharply, and then vanished. Lake automatically stood erect to reciprocate the gesture. He would have returned the salute if his hands had not been bound.

Five minutes later, Lieutenant Barri sat with Lake in the back of the police car. One of the uniformed officers followed behind, driving his superior’s unmarked car.

Colonel Lake, I’m a lieutenant of detectives and an old friend of your wife, Madame de St. Victor. She will be joining us at the police station with an excellent French attorney whom I’ve recommended. Despite the three dead, I believe you were the victim in this attack and not the initial aggressor. After some hard questioning and too much paperwork, you’ll eventually be released. Of course, it may take a few days.

Not a problem, Lieutenant Barri. Police protocols are similar in the USA.

Colonel, who were those men? Did you recognize them? Why did they attack you?

Lake looked calmly at the French police officer. Lake’s breathing had already steadied. His pulse had resumed its resting rate of 66 beats per minute. Lieutenant, I do not know why they attacked me. I never saw any of the three dead men before tonight. But I did recognize the tall one, who slipped into the Chinese Embassy. I know his face from books and old newsreels.

Old newsreels?!! The lieutenant wondered if the American Army officer sitting next to him had become delusional. Please tell me, Colonel Lake, who it was you recognized.

The long fencing scar on his left cheek leaves no question. It was Colonel Otto Skorzeny of the Waffen-SS. He was the most formidable German commando of WW II—maybe the greatest commando of all time. He’s alive, in the Chinese Embassy and younger than me!

french%20scar.tif

Otto Skorzeny of the Waffen-SS

Chapter 2

National Maritime Intelligence Center

near Washington, D.C.

April Year 2025 

Professor Emory gazed at the Athena II Supercomputer with affection—the same way a man does when looking at a picture of his first car or when rubbing the neck of his old dog. Athena II had reigned until the Chinese Government brought the Meng Po Supercomputer on line. It was nearly 12 times faster than Athena.

Meng Po, the Chinese Goddess of Forgetfulness, he thought. Next week, Athena II would shut down for 36 hours to receive modifications that should allow her to achieve an exaflop or one million trillion mathematical operations in a second. If successful, it would render her almost 15% faster than Meng Po.

Athena, my love, he said aloud. Did I tell you your implants arrived today? With those enhancements, you’ll once again be the sexiest computer on the planet!

Lacking a true personality, the supercomputer did not react. The idea of becoming quicker than another computer held no attraction. The anthropomorphic projections of the Professor did nothing to change the reality that Athena was a machine.

"Athena, dear, let’s generate a hypothetical scenario using disease as a time distorting vector," Professor Charles Emory spoke softly to the Athena II Supercomputer. The voice interface was quicker than keyboarding data. Athena understood his pronunciation, even when he whispered or was tired and slurred a word or phrase. Athena spoke in a feminine voice, which caused the professor unconsciously to be affectionate in his speech.

Charles, Athena replied. The Professor had earlier established Charles as his preferred form of address. I’m hypothesizing a variation of the pandemic Spanish influenza of 1918 which killed thirty million people, with particular virulence for Christopher Columbus’s crew. Most probable result: all officers and seamen perish at sea and Columbus never reaches the Caribbean. The discovery of America by a European is delayed by 75 years.

No, no, sweetie. Assume the crew has sufficient immunity so that most do survive. Let them carry the disease to America to infect the Native Americans and then run permutations.

Charles, adding the 1918 flu strain to the existing European diseases of the era results in a 15% increase in deaths of the white immigrant population. However, the Cherokee Nation in Georgia suffers 68% fatalities due to a recessive gene peculiar to that hominid subgroup. The surviving population is too small to resist European immigration, eliminating the need for President Jackson to evict them forcibly and drive them west. The Trail of Tears never occurs. In any event, the time line quickly heals itself and our present history is restored. No changes of significance after 1833.

Thank you, dear. That one is another dead end. There’re just too many variables. If we had even one concrete event to feed into the algorithms, the data would re-array itself. Something happened four months ago, or is about to happen, that potentially causes a distortion in the future—our present. But what can it be? What can it be? Athena knew Professor Emory well enough to recognize rhetorical questions.

Charles, the resonance in your voice indicates extreme fatigue. You need to return to your room and rest.

What?!! What?!! Well, perhaps just a short break. I’ll walk outside on the grounds for fifteen minutes. My watch indicates 5:00 o’clock. But is that morning or evening? Emory shrugged his shoulders, No matter.

Five minutes later, Professor Charles Emory, Nobel Prize winning physicist and eccentric scientist, strolled on the rear lawn of the Time Center. In the distance, through the rings of fences that enclosed the compound, he could see a security SUV making its rounds. His quirky mannerisms had become more extreme as he became older. He had few friends. Wistfully, he thought back to his adventures with the Bravo Team a year earlier or, more precisely, two thousand years earlier. Liberated from the thick walls of the underground vault where Athena II resided, his cell phone activated again.

Roxanne! My dear, I make it a rule never to answer my mobile phone when engrossed in a project. But when I saw it was you, of course, I had to make an exception! How are you? And how is Colonel Lake? My dear, it is truly wonderful to hear your voice!

Professor, I’m sorry to bother you but we have a problem. My husband was attacked two nights ago by a hit team. I think it was a criminal organization. Roxanne paused embarrassed. I know it sounds bizarre but Bob insists it was the Waffen-SS. Professor, he’s in a French mental hospital . . . well, really it’s a jail for crazy people who have committed violent acts.

The Colonel in jail? No, that can’t be!

"Professor, is there anything unusual going on with Athena II? You know what I mean by unusual."

My dear, I can’t speak about Athena over an unsecured line. You and the Colonel no longer have security access to Athena’s . . . ahhhh . . . gambling handicapping.

Professor, please. Have you ever heard of a Nazi named Otto Skorzeny? I’ve Googled his name. He was a German commando who disappeared and was declared dead near the end of WW II. Bob insists he survived the war, acting as a consultant on unconventional warfare to several governments for another thirty years. Do you have any Permanent Memory of Skorzeny? Can Athena program a scenario involving Skorzeny and the Chinese Government?

My dear, this is an unsecured line. Allow me a few hours and I’ll get back to you. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.

The professor walked back toward the main building and its subterranean elevators to Athena II. Permanent Memory was a time travel term applied to persons who had successfully journeyed to the past. Whatever memories they had prior to Time Travel survived, even if modern history had changed. Others would not know they were living an alternate history but the Time Traveler would always recall the original scenario.

Athena, please pull up a biography on Otto Skorzeny. When did he die?

Charles, my records indicate that Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny died in December 1944 during the Battle of the Bulge. However, his body was never located.

"Thank you, my dear. Assignment: Please consider a hypothetical situation involving the following parameters: Herr Skorzeny did not die during WW II but was instead brought forward in time by the current Chinese government. Herr Skorzeny and the Chinese government attempted to assassinate Colonel Robert Lake—you remember him, dear—in Paris two nights ago. Time Impact: The resulting time change is to distort minimally 21st century Chinese history, while maximizing changes to American history. Without becoming too fanciful, what mischief could our Chinese friends possibly be up to involving the Time Line?"

In a few minutes, the Athena II produced 52 possibilities. Some were benign like postponing the Industrial Revolution to delay global warming for a half century—a noble goal from an artificial intelligence perspective but hardly one the Chinese Government would expend billions to accomplish. Professor Emory quickly rejected most of them. There was still a role for human intelligence, particularly in assessing the economic and political goals for which other humans might consider changing the Time Line.

One possible Time Impact in particular caught the Professor’s attention. My Lord, that’s the thread. Brilliant in its simplicity, in the same monstrous way crashing civilian jet liners into the World Trade Center was. How devilishly ingenious that the Chinese Communist Party survives intact from such a tear in the fabric of Time! This outcome will force an intercept mission. I must call Secretary O’Sullivan.

Professor Emory rode the elevator up one floor and strode to another room. He directed the USAF Major on duty to place a call to the Secretary of Defense. An officious aide answered.

I don’t care if he’s meeting with a delegation of defense officials and senior admirals from Russia. Tell him that this is Professor Charles Emory and this is a Time Priority Alpha event.

*     *     *

In Paris, the attaché from the French Government to the American Embassy pressed the French Medical Director relentlessly. The Deputy Ambassador from the US Embassy himself was in attendance, as was Police Lieutenant Barri. Roxanne and a prominent Parisian attorney stood in the rear, watching attentively.

Monsieur, this is all highly irregular, the doctor objected, wiping beads of nervous perspiration from his forehead. I’ll file a formal protest if you persist. The patient insists he was accosted by a 120-year-old SS commander and three blonde Nazis, two of whom he killed with a folding knife clipped conveniently to his trousers. Unsurprisingly, when Lieutenant Barri inquired about the fictional SS officer, the Chinese Embassy categorically denied that anyone had entered through its gates at the hour in question. Really, gentlemen, plainly Colonel Lake is insane and his lack of even the slightest remorse at killing two men demonstrates that he is a psychopath! In my judgment, for his own good and the good of the citizens of France, Colonel Lake must remain confined and begin receiving antipsychotic medication without further delay.

The attaché regarded the psychiatrist coolly. "Doctor, your judgment is subordinate to that of the French Government. This is a matter of the highest national security. Colonel Lake meant only that his assailant resembled the late Otto Skorzeny. As Lieutenant Barri will indicate, his police report has been finalized and Colonel Lake has been officially determined to have acted in self-defense. He isn’t insane but merely traumatized as anyone would be after such an ordeal.

"Doctor, your records will be amended at once to reflect the corrected data and then sealed. I caution you to think very carefully before filing any protest. We’re still puzzled as to how you came to be the examining physician when Colonel Lake was detained and why 50,000 Euros were wired into your account this morning from a bank in Shanghai. A thorough audit of your hospital’s operations for the last 24 months might reveal irregularities and result in your medical license being suspended. Even worse, it’d be a pity if you were to end up as a patient in your own hospital."

Lieutenant Barri watched the doctor’s resolve collapse beneath the crushing pressure of the French Government. The doctor began revising his records. The French police detective was pleased