Invasion: New York

-10- Beachhead

Under the personal escort of the Chancellor’s bodyguards, General Walther Mansfeld rode an elevator down into an underground chamber. His stomach lurched from the speed, and he momentarily felt light on his feet. Five big men towered around him, although they had acted deferentially to him ever since helping him out of his armored limousine.

Mansfeld had rushed back to Montreal, expecting to meet the Chancellor, but without anyone confirming or denying it. Like many heads of state, Kleist feared assassination and took extraordinary precautions against it.

The Americans fought hard. They fought well and they had become cunning with their special jamming companies, moving from hot spot to hot spot. The enemy had finally forced caution into General Holk. The man must have phoned back to Europe. Holk had become fainthearted in his use of the drone battalions, and that as much as anything had slowed the offensive to the ridiculous crawl.

The elevator lurched to a halt, the doors opened and the biggest bodyguard gently pushed against Mansfeld’s back, propelling the general out of the elevator.

More big men in black suits waited. Mansfeld counted seven this time. Three already stood. Four of them played cards at a table.

“General Walther Mansfeld,” the chief bodyguard in the elevator said.

“You’re late,” a blond giant of a bodyguard told the other.

“Traffic.”

“You want me to write that down?” the blond giant asked.

“It’s the truth.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the blond giant said.

“Go ahead. Put it down.”

“Suit yourself.” The giant bodyguard turned to the card players, snapping his fingers.

One of the players set down his card hand, took out an electronic device and made a notation.

The guard who’d pushed Mansfeld stepped back into the elevator and pushed a button. The doors closed as the lift pinged, taking the first set of bodyguards away.

Without seeming to, General Mansfeld examined his new surroundings. He stood in a large, underground concrete corridor. Condensation caused water to form on the ceiling. A drop dripped, and there was a smell of fungus in the air. The place felt like a deep tunnel, and he didn’t like it here. He doubted anyone would.

The general didn’t see any signal, but now all the bodyguards set their cards on the table. Chairs scraped back and guns appeared.

No one said a word to him. No one apologized. Two of the smaller guards approached and gave him a thorough pat down, even to running a hand down his butt and feeling his groin. It was insulting, and Mansfeld would have liked to strike the man doing it. He knew better. There was a time and place for anger. This wasn’t it.

Finally, the blond giant waved the others away. They sat back down, picked up their cards and resumed their game. All in a day’s work, their actions said.

“Follow me, General,” the huge man said in a low rumble.

“Do you have a name?” Mansfeld asked.

Every bodyguard stopped what he was doing. They watched him, waiting expectantly. They felt like a feral pack of Rottweilers. Finally, they seemed to realize it had been an honest question. They stared at the blond giant.

“You want a name?” the huge man asked.

“If you can spare to tell me,” Mansfeld said.

The huge bodyguard showed his teeth in a grin. “I’m Mr. Death to you, General. Someday one of us is going to kill you. That is, unless you please the Chancellor in everything.”

“Ah,” Mansfeld said.

“Kleist wants love,” said one of the bodyguards at the table.

The hard eyes of Mr. Death tightened.

“I’m going to shut up,” the other man said.

Mr. Death grunted a rumbling, monosyllabic response. Then he motioned for Mansfeld to follow him.

The general hurried to keep up, taking two steps for every one of the other. He felt eyes behind him and half turned. It surprised him that two more bodyguards followed. He hadn’t heard them. These two should have been in the Expeditionary Force in the commandos. They wasted their talents down here. He doubted Kleist thought so. Powerful tyrants had kept the best soldiers around them from time immemorial.

Mansfeld could imagine the blond giant, Mr. Death, as one of Caesar’s bodyguards long ago. There had been a time in Roman history when only German barbarians had been allowed into the Praetorian Guard. In those distant times, the various Caesars had invariably feared their most successful generals. It had been far too easy in those times for a general to turn his legionaries on the government and become the next Caesar of Rome. Yet that wasn’t why Kleist had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to come to Montreal in secret. It wasn’t why he—Mansfeld—had left his command post to travel here for a face-to-face meeting.

The summer campaign had entered a critical phase, a troubling one. It had been inevitable, given the nature of war. Even Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan had troubles during a campaign, at least from time to time. This is what Mansfeld had feared many months ago: Kleist losing his nerve. He didn’t know the Chancellor had lost his nerve, but Mansfeld suspected that is what had happened.

Mr. Death opened large doors and ushered him into a much different sort of underground chamber. The wet smell of fungus vanished. Warmth hit Mansfeld in the face and something else as well: pure air. From the utilitarian concrete corridor, he entered a plush chamber. A massive conference table stood in the middle of a carpeted room. Vast chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the GD General Staff sitting in attendance. Field Marshal Wessel presided over the meeting, dominating the others by his white-haired presence.

So, Mansfeld thought. The Chancellor felt the need for backup, did he? How very interesting. He has lost his nerve after all—just as I predicted to myself he would.

A fire roared in the fireplace, and more security personnel stood near tall purple curtains blocking what should have been windows. There were no windows down here, of course. The curtains were pretense. Far above them, Mansfeld knew, rain poured upon Montreal. Yet if he swept back the curtains, all he would find would be more concrete or possibly wooden panels.

“Welcome, General Mansfeld,” Wessel said. “Won’t you sit down, please?”

It took a moment for Mansfeld to readjust to normality. The bodyguards wouldn’t grope him like perverts now. Instead, he had reentered the land of civilized behavior. It was like leaving a highly dangerously pressurized land where breathing was a chore and now finding he could draw air down to his lungs by the simple expedient of opening his mouth.

Mansfeld inclined his head toward Wessel, and he asked, “Was there a reason why I wasn’t allowed to bring an aide?”

“All in good time, sir,” Wessel said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” The old man indicated a chair at the end of the table. “Take a seat, please.”

This is just like Berlin all over again. Mansfeld shrugged. He had envisioned this taking place over a two-way screen, with Kleist faraway in Europe. If anything surprised him, it was Kleist’s presence in the New World. Along with assassination, the Chancellor dreaded traveling over large bodies of water like an ocean. While the man had many positive character traits, physical courage wasn’t among them.

Mr. Death drew back the specified chair for Mansfeld. As the general sat, the blond giant helped push the chair in.

“Are you hungry?” Wessel asked.

“Thank you, but no,” Mansfeld said. “A cup of coffee—”

Mr. Death snapped his fingers. One of the bodyguards by the purple curtains picked a pot of coffee off a silver tray. He strode near, poured into a cup and brought the cup and saucer to Mansfeld.

“Thank you,” the general said, accepting the drink.

The bodyguard never even looked at him, but backed away.

As Mansfeld set the cup and saucer on the table, large oaken doors opened. Chancellor Kleist strode in. The man might have gained a few pounds since Mansfeld had seen him last in Berlin. Kleist had certainly tanned since then.

“His Excellency, Chancellor Kleist,” a majordomo said, a tall fellow with silver hair and wearing special livery.

Mansfeld along with everyone else in the room stood to attention.

Kleist grinned as his gaze darted around the chamber. Mansfeld felt a shock as he looked into Kleist’s eyes. He sensed unease, maybe even a touch of worry in the Chancellor. This didn’t seem like the same confident man who had controlled the meeting in Berlin. What had changed him?

“Sit, please, gentlemen,” Kleist said. “We have much to discuss and time races away with us.”

Mansfeld sat down, frowning thoughtfully. With all its complexities, dangers and rewards, he had become engrossed in the summer campaign. What had happened in the outer world that could openly cause Kleist to worry?

They sat. The Chancellor sat, spoke pleasantries for a time and finally, he asked Field Marshal Wessel to outline the operational situation.

The white-haired chief of staff rose ponderously. An aide gave him a pointer and the man stepped to a large screen slid into position for him. Wessel gave a lucid rundown of the campaign, spending too much time perhaps on Southwestern Ontario as Holk’s army group bogged down on the approach to the American border and the old motor town of Detroit.

“You’re saying Americans outnumber us two to one here?” Kleist asked.

“Begging your pardon, Excellency,” Wessel said. “The Americans and Canadians outnumber us closer to three to one in Southwestern Ontario.”

“I see,” Kleist said, giving Mansfeld a pointed glance.

Wessel also directed his gaze at Mansfeld. For such an old, white-haired man, he had perfectly tailored eyebrows. “Perhaps you’ll say Holk has a greater weight of metal, of offensive machinery, there.”

“He did,” Mansfeld said, “but not anymore.”

Wessel nodded like an old bull. “Correct. The weight of metal and firepower now inexorably grows against us. The Americans have moved a greater number of artillery pieces into position here. I believe they are denuding the Chinese Front in order to mass against us.”

“I agree,” Mansfeld said.

Wessel hesitated, looking confused and glancing at the Chancellor.

“You agree?” Kleist asked Mansfeld.

“The facts speak for themselves, Your Excellency,” Mansfeld said.

Kleist made a notation on a yellow pad.

“There is another problem, Excellency,” Wessel said. “Whereas before our generals relied upon drone vehicles to offset the enemy’s numerical advantages, now the Americans have mastered…uh…”

“The Heidegger Principle,” a colonel sitting at the table said.

“The Heidegger Principle,” Wessel said. “This allows the Americans to successfully jam our control signals and frequencies, rending our drones useless.”

“Allow me, please, to amend your last statement,” Mansfeld said. “While it is true the Americans have discovered our secret, it has not rendered the drones inoperative. We have had to adjust, certainly, and reconfigure our tactical mix, going back to the combined arms approach.”

“Why have we not practiced combined arms the entire time?” Kleist asked.

“The previous lack of Allied jamming allowed us a great advantage,” Mansfeld said. “Entire drone battalions, entire drone divisions, have given us a tremendous operational tool. Repeatedly, we could mount otherwise suicidal assaults, fixing the enemy in place, outmaneuvering him and then annihilating his formations. Granted, the loss of this advantage has hurt our efficiency. But we knew it could never last. No technological advantage in war ever does. I would like to point out that the Americans still lack overall jamming capability, and we have begun to target their special Heidegger jamming companies.”

“You’ve made your point,” Kleist said. “I would like to return to the first observation. The Americans have massed against us in Southwestern Ontario. Their weight of metal and machines now overpowers us there.”

“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Overpower is too strong a word. They have an advantage over us in antiquated equipment. That merely means—”

Kleist waved him to silence. “I admit that I am not the strategic wizard such as many proclaim you to be. Yet correct me if I’m wrong: but we cannot continue the assault there. In fact, we are in danger of losing ground.”

“Any ground we lose—”

“I am not finished speaking,” Kleist said.

Mansfeld dipped his chin.

“Field Marshal,” Kleist said, “show me how much coastline we’ve secured along Lake Erie.”

“The US Fifth Army anchors the northern stretch of Lake Erie, Excellency,” Wessel said. “The portion of Lake Erie coast we secured to the north of London has now come under considerable attack.”

“We cannot launch an amphibious assault across Lake Erie at this time,” Kleist said. “Is that correct?”

“Not in sufficient strength, Excellency,” Wessel said.

Kleist turned to Mansfeld. “We cannot land in Northern Pennsylvania from Lake Ontario. We cannot land south of Buffalo and cut off the American forces there. Isn’t that correct, General?”

Mansfeld remained silent.

The Chancellor folded his hands, resting them on the table. “I am reminded of a historical parallel. In the First World War, the German armies swept the Allied forces ahead of them. Kaiser Germany made impressive military gains in those opening weeks. Yet the armies were supposed to swing behind Paris in their scythe through Northern France. Instead, the armies did not swing wide enough, but swept before Paris instead of behind it, leaving the capital intact and thereby saving France. That single mistake led to four years of horrendous warfare and the downfall of Imperial Germany. I fear that here in America our great blow will not strike deeply or far enough. I fear that you will fail to garner sufficient victory for this vast outlay of GD expenditure and blood.”

“We have Lake Ontario,” Mansfeld said quietly.

“Back in Berlin you said we would have Lake Ontario and Lake Erie by this stage in the campaign. Your plan called for a sweep through New York and through Northern Pennsylvania. We need to stretch the American defense so they are not strong enough where our main blows fall. Your blow might possibly fall short as you make the great attempt to encircle several American Army Groups, as you attempt to capture an entire front.”

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “I will give you as a gift one million American captives by the end of summer.”

“You boast,” Kleist said. “You tell me what you will do when you cannot even accomplish your prerequisites for victory given me in Berlin. The Americans have outfought you in Southwestern Ontario. Now they have begun to go on the offensive there. Just like Hitler in Russia, you lack sufficient manpower to complete the task at the critical juncture.”

Mansfeld’s eyes narrowed and he felt heat in his chest. “You have misjudged the situation, Excellency.”

Kleist’s eyes seemed to glimmer. “Have I?” he asked, softly.

“I have sufficient reserves that if I so desired I could smash through the Americans in Southwestern Ontario,” Mansfeld said. “I could also secure the Lake Erie coastline. Instead, I save my strength for the critical blow. Yes, it is true the Americans are stronger in Southwestern Ontario than I expected. Yet for them to achieve this they have stuffed their precious reserves in the wrong place. That means they will not have sufficient numbers or firepower to stop the amphibious assaults from the east and west. That is where I will use my reserves to the greatest advantage.”

Kleist gazed at Mansfeld. Finally, he said, “I have bad news for you, General. I have bad news for the German Dominion. Two days ago, I learned that Chairman Hong went before the Ruling Committee. He tried to convince them to order the North American PAA into a limited assault. I happen to know that Hong would have preferred a general offensive in the Midwest, but he knew the Ruling Committee would never agree to that. Yet if he could persuade them to launch several limited offensives and provide extended artillery bombardments, it would have frightened the Americans. Hong requested the demonstration of force and the Ruling Committee voted him down. The Chinese and Brazilians are going to wait this year as they rebuild their armies.”

“That is unfortunate news,” Mansfeld said, “but not altogether unexpected.”

Kleist barked a sharp laugh. “Unfortunate, our strategic wizard says to us. That is an understatement, General. It means once the Americans learn of this, they can ship vast reinforcements against us and crush our Expeditionary Force. They will hurl our amphibious landings off the various shores.”

Mansfeld glanced at the assembled officers, at the Field Marshal standing with his pointer. Slowly, he began to shake his head.

“Oh, the strategic wizard disagrees, does he?” Kleist asked. “You believe we have unlimited numbers, I suppose? But the Americans have already begun to outnumber us in Southwestern Ontario. They have denied us the Lake Erie coasts we needed. We are so strong and powerful that we cannot even complete the prerequisites for victory.”

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said. He tried to ignore the heat in his chest. It burned hottest in his heart, and he wondered for a second if that was a signal for a heart attack. No, no, he could not afford that now. He must speak with utter calm. He must soothe their fears and let them see how he viewed the situation. All great conquerors had moments of doubt. Nothing was certain in war. But it was always good to remember that the enemy had his own sets of worries. The trick was to steel your nerves and act boldly at the correct moment.

“Speak,” Kleist said, waving a hand. “Spin your webs of fancy and tell us how everything will come out well.”

Mansfeld forced himself to speak slowly and to keep every inflection off his features. “Excellency, the Americans and Canadians have always outnumbered our Expeditionary Force. We have predicated the assault on our superior training, weapons and tactics. From the beginning, we struck first and pulverized one set of enemies before the next could come up and support them. We smashed the Canadians, hurled back the rest and hit the approaching American Strategic Reserve. They have repeatedly attacked us piecemeal and we have devoured their forces one by one. Finally, the enemy stripped reserves from critical coastal defenses. With those numbers, they have brought greater firepower to bear against us in Southwestern Ontario. But that is exactly the wrong place, Excellency. They must believe I desire Detroit. I do not, and I never have.

“Now we must move with speed, using our advantages while they squander their momentary gains. We will land in mass at Rochester. One third of the amphibious force will rush to Buffalo. There, they will encircle the US Fifth Army in the Niagara Peninsula, cutting them off from their supply base. The other two thirds will head east along the lowland route. Shortly thereafter, Kaltenbrunner will land on the Jersey shores and capture New York City. He will head northwest, heading up the Hudson River for Albany. The two amphibious forces will met, trapping US Army Group New York and US Army Group New England. Together with the US Fifth Army that will combine to over one million American soldiers in our net. It will be a monumental victory, Excellency, and it will be the beginning of our continental conquest. ”

“You speak glibly,” Kleist said. “Why not also speak Southwestern Ontario into the bag as well while you are at it?”

Mansfeld allowed himself a brief smile. “I have deliberately kept myself from giving General Holk the reserves he needed to reach Detroit. Those reserves will land in New York State. From there they will race unopposed to Buffalo and to Albany. The Americans should have kept more divisions back. Instead, they have put them in Southwestern Ontario where they will do them no good. I wish you could see that as I do, sir.”

Kleist glanced at his yellow pad on the table. He drummed his fingers, soon asking, “Once you land in New York, why won’t the Americans simply redeploy their excess numbers?”

Mansfeld shook his head. “Holk will attack in Southwestern Ontario. He will keep the pressure on them and cause them to fear for Detroit. Under those conditions, Excellency, it will take the Americans time to decide on the correct move. By that time, my speeding armies will have reached their destinations. It is inevitable.”

Kleist glanced at Wessel.

As he stood by the screen, the old Field Marshal cleared his throat.

“Do you believe General Mansfeld’s plan is feasible?” Kleist asked.

“On the surface it has some interesting possibilities,” Wessel said. “But I would need to hear the plan in detail before I pronounced judgment on it.”

Once more, Chancellor Kleist drummed his fingers on the table. Soon, he spread his fingers on the wood. “Get up, General. Take the pointer. Tell us the specifics of your plan.”

Mansfeld shot to his feet and strode to the computer screen. He accepted the pointer from Wessel. Ponderously, the Field Marshal went to his chair and sat down.

He had them, Mansfeld knew. Kleist worried about the coming assault. No doubt, the Field Marshal had his doubts. Before a great assault, fear and doubts always stirred and rose up. He would show them that he had the situation under control. The German Dominion had already achieved greatness this summer. Soon now, they—and he—would enter into the military halls of the gloriously victorious against amazing odds.

“First,” Mansfeld said, tapping Rochester, New York, “you should realize…” He proceeded to outline his plan and show them that he had everything under control.

From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

2040, July 7-10. Beachhead. General Mansfeld carefully readied the assets needed for the daring Lake Ontario amphibious invasion. He lacked the shipping to move the entire GD Twelfth Army at once, and would need to control the lake for extended voyages and for supplies. Despite a large number of hovers, the majority of the men, machines and materiel would cross on impounded Canadian and American freighters, ore haulers, tugs and recreational craft. Some historians believe Mansfeld now operated on the old SAS maxim: Who dares, wins.

Despite hard weeks and months of war and constant attrition, a large number of Beowulf short-range ballistic missiles heralded the assault, striking targets along the American Lake Ontario shore and farther inland. In the predawn hours, the bulk of the GD XIV and XV air corps lofted, flying constant sorties and providing CAP protection for the ad hoc fleet. GD stealth craft and UAVs challenged several critical US strategic lasers. The UAVs took substantial losses while the stealth craft inflicted surprising damage to the sites.

Several hours after the barrage and led by daring Galahad hovers, the lead elements of GD Twelfth Army headed for the Ontario Beach Park shore of Rochester.

Captain Penner of the Canadian Air Force flew low over the lake’s water. At this height, his plane had a horrible tendency to dip. It forced him to concentrate harder than normal. He didn’t want to plow into the water.

GD ballistic missiles had cratered the runway in Buffalo. Others had destroyed several F-22s and a squadron of V-10s.

The captain flew an F-35A2, with advanced Harpoon missiles attached. Lieutenant Aachen was his wingman. They stayed low—a mere thirty feet above the choppy waves—and kept their radar off. Far to the rear flew American AWACS. This was suicidal being out here tonight. The sky was full of Germans, and the enemy hunted for aircraft like his.

An air controller gave Penner the word: finally, he was going to strike back. Penner popped up to one hundred and thirty feet before he flipped a switch. A moment later, a Harpoon Block II cruise missile deployed. It was an upgraded AGM-84. Since this was an air launch, the Harpoon lacked a solid-fuel booster. After leaving the Lightning II, the turbojet engine turned on, and the 12.6-foot missile with its three-foot wingspan shot across the waves. The Harpoon was a sea-skimming missile with active radar. It sped for the Canadian ore hauler forty miles away. The ship carried Sigrid drones and a few GD crewmen.

“I’m ready to launch another,” Penner told the control officer.

“Negative,” the air controller said. “We’re waiting to see if your Harpoon’s guidance system can crack GD ECM.”

“Roger,” Penner said. If the Harpoon failed to pierce enemy ECM, they would have to abort the mission or move closer into the heavily defended sea corridor.

Lieutenant Teddy Smith sat at the controls of his new Galahad hover. His radar and towed sonar array searched the predawn darkness for possible American targets of opportunity but more critically, he searched for American missiles heading toward his charges. Sergeant Holloway waited at weapons controls, his face as bleak as ever.

The sun would be up soon, and they weren’t even halfway across the lake yet. He still couldn’t believe his bad luck at getting shepherd duty for these wallowing tubs. The mismatch of Canadian ships carried a battalion of Sigrid drones along with a battalion of infantry. Their little flotilla was going to have to make several runs today, and C Troop would have to escort them to each shore.

Instead of a regular shell in the cannon’s chamber, they had an antiair round.

“Still all clear,” Smith said.

Holloway didn’t answer. He never did during combat unless it was absolutely necessary.

Well, at least he had a Galahad again. Smith had taken a lot of ribbing about losing a hover to a Great Lake’s sub. That was like losing it to the Loss Ness Monster.

I’d sure like to meet that sub again, Smith thought. It would go differently this time, I tell you the truth.

Smith twisted his neck and heard something pop. At the same time, his air screen pinged an alert.

Behind him, Holloway sat up.

Smith stared at his air screen. “Do you see that?”

“Cruise missile,” Holloway said in his clipped way. “It must be a Harpoon. It’s heading straight for the ore hauler.”

Lieutenant Smith of C Troop shouted into the comm-unit and alerted the rest of the Galahads. Where was the air cover? The Americans shouldn’t have been able to get a Harpoon-launching platform this close to the transports. And they certainly shouldn’t have been able to do this so soon in the lake crossing. Was the mysterious sub out there, sniping at the fleet?

“Put up a curtain of steel!” Smith shouted. The cruise missile flashed toward the flotilla at 537 miles per hour.

Holloway moved methodically and with deceptive calm. He directed the targeting computer and put the hover’s machine gun on interlocking fire with the other Galahads. Then he fired the first antiair round from the cannon.

The other Galahads did likewise.

This was an advanced Harpoon and not one of the ancient ones. The thing jinked and popped off a flare, and then a second one. The flares generated intense heat. The hovers’ antiair rounds fixed on those hot signals and headed for them instead of the Harpoon.

“It’s moving straight for the ore hauler,” the Troop’s commander said. “Fugal, it’s in your sector.”

“Destroy it,” Smith said under his breath.

Their Galahad shook as the 76mm gun fired another antiair shell.

The enemy cruise missile was good. Worse, it seemed to have locked on target. At the last minute, Smith saw that he was wrong. The Harpoon readjusted, no doubt making the course change because of something its internal guidance system saw. The missile veered away from the ore hauler that sat low in the water. Instead, the Harpoon smashed against a Galahad of C Troop.

Each of the hovers had been fitted with an emergency emitter, to give off decoy signals. Command said it would help to save the more important troop transports. Command also believed it would make the hover crews more intent on destroying the incoming missiles if the hovers themselves became the targets.

This time the target was Lieutenant Fugal’s hover. The cruise missile’s 488-pound warhead exploded, killing the pilot and his gunner. It also destroyed the Galahad in a flash of light and burst metal and plastics, the pieces raining onto the lake, plopping into it like hail. The sacrifice had saved an ore hauler and half a battalion of Sigrid drones.

“Well?” Captain Penner asked in his F-35, now forty-two miles away from the action. “Did we get lucky?”

“Negative,” the air control officer said. “Incoming data suggests we splashed a decoy instead of the target.”

“Damnit,” Penner said. He hated the German Dominion. He’d lost his brother and an uncle to them earlier this year. They had both been officers in the Canadian Air Force. His family lived in Manitoba, and he knew they would be next if the Germans captured a large chunk of northeastern America.

“Let me go in and get them,” Penner said. “I’ll skim right up their back end and put the Harpoons where the sun doesn’t shine.”

The air controller took his time answering. “We’re still assessing the situation.”

“Yes, sir,” Penner said. He was angry and he wanted these Krauts. He was tired of them getting all the breaks all the time.

Captain Darius Green squinted tightly at his screen. The tiny carbon fiber submersible surged at top speed. He could hear the hiss of water outside the thin skin. The Kiowa was a hundred meters below the surface as Darius cataloged the number and type of enemy surface craft moving above.

Given the speed of most of the enemy vehicles, they must be the two-man Galahads. He’d also seen a few fast attack boats. Those were the most dangerous to him. And he’d seen a flotilla of big hovercraft carriers. Tonight, Lake Ontario swarmed with enemy vessels.

Near the radio slumped the first mate, Sulu Khan.

“We should slip away,” Sulu said for the fifth time in as many minutes. “What good are we doing out here?”

Darius ignored the first mate. He was cataloging the enemy, getting their precise direction of travel. Yet Sulu had a point. What did any of this matter? In a few hours, the enemy vessels would have offloaded onto the New York coast and likely be heading back for more men and materiel. This had to be an amphibious invasion. Already, five convoys of GD vessels had passed overhead, streaking toward the New York coast.

“We have four Javelins,” Darius rumbled.

Sulu looked up in alarm. “You’re thinking about attacking, are you? That’s crazy talk.”

“We’re a US Navy vessel,” Darius pointed out.

Sulu snorted. “We’re one lone submersible, sir. Whatever we do won’t have any impact on the outcome of the war.”

“What if every sailor thought like that?” Darius asked.

“There would be a lot fewer wars,” Sulu muttered.

It was the wrong answer for Darius Green. In silence, the big man studied the screen. The longer he looked the quieter and more intense he became.

“We should slip away,” Sulu said.

Darius looked up at Sulu Khan. “I am not a coward. I am a warrior.”

Maybe Sulu sensed the difference in the captain. The small man became wary. “Yes, you’re a warrior. You destroyed hovers before. But if we surface, we’re dead.”

“I do not fear death,” Darius said.

“But are you looking for it?”

Darius scowled, and he looked down at the screen. The last of the sixth convoy passed overhead. He moved a big hand and slapped a control.

“What are you doing?” Sulu cried.

“I want to see the stars one more time,” Darius said.

“Then let’s slip away and surface elsewhere, sir.”

“Now,” Darius said. “We see them now.”

“Captain!” Sulu pleaded, and the small man stood as if he was going to do something drastic.

Darius ignored him, and after a moment, Sulu Khan sat back down, glummer than before.

The carbon fiber vessel eased up from the depths, surfacing. Darius used the outer cameras, scanning—

“Look,” he said.

With a leaden step, Sulu moved over to the screen. He must have seen what his captain did: a convoy of Lake Ontario freighters. Maybe they were captured Canadian ships. An escort of Galahads shepherded them across the water. It was like tying down greyhounds to a herd of water buffalos.

“We can’t fight all of them,” Sulu said.

“Not with Javelins perhaps,” Darius said. He moved to the radio.

“The Germans have fantastic detection gear, sir,” Sulu said. “There must be plenty of GD AWACS up this morning.”

Once more, Darius ignored his first mate. In several minutes, the captain of the Kiowa spoke to an officer in US air control. He was soon put through elsewhere, to a major who had spoken a few minutes ago to Captain Penner of the Canadian Air Force.

“Can you give me precise coordinates?” the air control officer asked Darius.

“Yes, sir,” Darius said.

Sulu shook his head in obvious dismay.

“The GD ECM gear is too good for our Harpoon missiles,” the air control officer said. “If you had a laser designator, we could have the Harpoon home in on it and the enemy ECM wouldn’t matter.”

A knot of righteousness hardened in Darius Green. He served Allah. He was a warrior and these Germans invaded his homeland. In fact, he had two such designators in the sub. Both of them were leftover devices from ferried SEAL teams.

“I happen to have such a device,” Darius said.

“You’re in a sub, is that right?” the air controller asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“It will take…several minutes for the missiles to reach where you’re at,” the air controller said.

“It will take me two minutes to paint the target,” Darius said.

Sulu Khan groaned.

“Yes!” the air controller said. “We have to do something. We can’t let them land unopposed.”

Darius had been thinking likewise.

“Captain,” Sulu pleaded. “We can’t stay up here on the surface this near a convoy.”

“You’re correct,” Darius said. He stuck out his big right hand. It had large, scarred knuckles—those had come from his youthful days of brawling. “It has been a pleasure serving with you, First Mate Khan. Let us meet again in Paradise.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sulu said.

Darius kept his face impassive as he continued to hold out his hand.

Glumly, Sulu shook it, the big black fingers engulfing his smaller palm.

Then the big man from Chicago moved fast. He grabbed a laser designator and headed for the hatch.

Captain Penner of the Canadian Air Force whooped with delight. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” the wingman said.

“Reroute your Harpoon guidance system,” the air controller said.

Penner’s right-hand fingers moved fast on a touch pad control. “There. It’s done,” he said.

“Are you in launch position?” the air controller asked.

“We both are,” Penner said.

“This could be a small window of opportunity,” the air controller said. “Launch them all. Then return to base.”

As Captain Penner leveled the F-35, he and his wingman launched the remaining cruise missiles. One after another, the Harpoons kick in their turbojets, showing orange contrails. The sleek missiles zoomed for the enemy over forty-three miles away.

“That’s it,” Penner said a minute later.

Then the two F-35 Lightning IIs banked and headed back for Buffalo, New York. Their first sortie tonight was over.

“Fire!” Lieutenant Smith shouted.

Sergeant Holloway and the other gunners put up a sheet of lead from their 12.7mm machine guns. At the same time, the 76mm cannons launched a flock of antiair shells. Tracers burned red-hot, moving like wasps at the low-flying Harpoons streaking toward the ore haulers and freighters.

Everything happened fast. Harpoons launched flares. Antiair shells zoomed at the hot objects, and they ignited against some. One antiair shell struck an actual Harpoon, taking it out.

“Smith and Sheds,” the Troop’s leader ordered. “They’re heading through your sectors. Turn on your emitters.”

Lieutenant Smith hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he turned on the decoy emitter. It put out a false signal, making his Galahad look like an ore hauler.

“Good luck, Sergeant,” Smith managed to say.

Holloway merely grunted.

Smith shook his head. He hadn’t figured it would end like this. He was going out as a duck decoy. What bloody bad luck was that?

The Harpoons kept boring in. One veered away from an infantry freighter. It lit up Shed’s Galahad in a great fireball, casting huge shadows on the lake. It destroyed the hover but saved hundreds of lives in the freighter.

“It’s our turn now,” Smith said.

Two more Harpoons came on fast. The antiair shells missed. The bullets failed to hit and the emitter—

Smith watched open-mouthed as both cruise missiles flashed past his Galahad.

“Is the emitter on?” Holloway asked.

“Look at your screen,” Smith said.

“What went wrong?” Holloway asked.

Before Smith could answer, the first Harpoon struck an ore hauler. The warhead exploded. The second cruise missile plowed into the wounded hauler a moment later, but the warhead failed to ignite. The kinetic speed still crumpled metal, and might have been the tipping point for the hauler. The long vessel split in two and both ends began to sink. At the same time, Sigrids slid into Lake Ontario and submerged as huge bubbles rose up. The drones headed for the muddy bottom.

“Lieutenant Smith!” the troop commander shouted over the radio. “Did you turn on your emitter?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Smith said.

“Are you lying to me, Ted?” the commander asked.

“Look at your screen, sir. You’ll see that our emitter is still on. Sergeant Holloway can confirm that.”

“Then what—”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Fleck said. “I’m picking up a laser signal.”

“What does that have to do with—?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt again, sir,” Fleck said. “But the laser’s origin point is near the water four thousand meters away.”

“The sub!” Smith shouted. “The submarine is back.”

“What’s that, Lieutenant?” the commander asked. “What are you babbling about?”

“The American sub, sir,” Smith said. “It must be out there and it’s guiding those missiles into the ships.”

“We must find it,” the commander said. “We must find it before more Harpoons hit my convoy.”

Darius Green smiled so hard that his mouth hurt. This was glorious. He had helped destroy a GD troop transport.

I have four Javelins. Maybe I can destroy even more.

Could he work in close enough to—?

“Captain,” Sulu said in his earpiece. “The Galahads have spotted us. They’re coming our way.”

“How many,” Darius said into his microphone.

“Sir,” Sulu said. “You do realize that the Germans own the skies. Our planes have left. They were smart enough to plan to live again to fight again another day. Shouldn’t we do the same thing, sir?”

“Now is the moment to strike the enemy and keep striking,” Darius said.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but Allah has allowed you to act the part of a warrior. You are a warrior. I think doing more now would be pushing it and might even be an insult to Allah.”

Darius doubted that. The Galahads were fast, though. And likely there were nearby GD aircraft around. He couldn’t fight those. Maybe if he submerged and slunk around, he could do the same thing again later. What a feeling to destroy a large enemy ship. This was why he had joined the Navy: to fight like a warrior.

“Sir, those hovers are coming fast,” Sulu said.

Darius Green ducked in, shut the hatch and slid down the ladder. He hit the bottom landing hard and his feet slid out from under him. He banged his forehead just above his right eye. Ignoring the pain, he shouted for Sulu to take them underwater.

At emergency speeds, Sulu did exactly that.

Lieutenant Smith and Holloway remained in the area for twenty-five more minutes, hunting for the mysterious American submarine. They had several depth charges, and they used every one of them. Finally, a different hover approached to take over the hunt.

Smith licked his lips. He was glad Fleck had spotted the laser designator. Otherwise, the commander might still believe that he had been derelict in his duty. He’d turned on the emitter, but he had to admit, he was glad it had failed to attract the Harpoons. He was overjoyed to be alive.

Teddy Smith turned the hover around and kicked the Galahad into high gear, zooming across the waves, speeding to catch up with the convoy. The tip of the sun broke over the horizon, casting long orange beams across the water. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful sunrise he’d ever seen.

Smith grinned wildly, and he laughed. Right now, he didn’t care if Holloway thought he was strange or not. Lieutenant Teddy Smith out of London laughed with gusto. It was good to be alive. It was glorious to zip across the waters in this fast machine.

After the laughter died away—Holloway had remained silent the entire time—Smith nodded to himself. It was daylight now. It would be harder for the submarine to do that again. Twice the American submarine had bested him. He wanted another crack at it. He wanted to sink the damned thing.

Yes, one way or another, he was going to get the better of the Lake Ontario Loch Ness Monster.

Paul Kavanagh squinted tightly as he scanned Lake Ontario with his binoculars. Dawn broke over the horizon. He’d been awake for three hours already, ever since the first enemy missiles had struck the city.

Behind him parts of Rochester burned. The worst hit had been at the airport, an artillery park and several dummy mobile shore batteries. The real shore batteries were big trucks with Harpoon cruise missiles.

He’d already been on the horn with the local SOCOM colonel. Romo and he were out here with a Marine company. The Marines had Javelins, some older TOWs and with a DIVAD system to take down the next low-level air strike. An Army battalion in the middle of the city was already supposed to be out here with them, but the soldiers were taking their sweet time to get into position.

“It’s too late for Rochester,” Romo said. He also lay on his belly, scanning the lake. “Look at grid 2-A-22.”

Paul swept his binoculars to the left. Oh yeah, he saw them now. Galahad hovercraft and bigger, infantry-carrying hovers headed toward shore. They moved fast and acted like a fleet. The difference would be that this fleet could keep right on coming, up the shore and into the city.

“We have to stop them,” Paul said.

“Of course,” Romo said. “What else would we do?”

They both wore body armor, and today they had some of their old gear on: helmets with HUD visors. Both of theirs were flipped up at the moment.

Paul figured there was one thing on their side today. This wasn’t a blue water Navy amphibious assault. This was something different because these were the Great Lakes, or one of them at least. Instead of destroyers, the GD had Galahads. Instead of light cruisers, the enemy had big hovers. There were no battleships and certainly no aircraft carriers out there. Unfortunately, the enemy didn’t need the carriers today, because the far shore held plenty of GD runways. That meant the enemy had plenty of aircraft. Some of Rochester burned because of enemy air strikes. The battleships, on the other hand—

“Down!” Paul shouted.

Other Marines took up the cry.

There were falling streaks in the sky: more SRBMs—short-range ballistic missiles—coming down fast at Rochester.

For the next few minutes, Paul endured tremendous explosions. His bones shook and his teeth rattled, until he remembered to close his mouth tightly.

They were stationed almost at the edge of the shore, behind buildings that fronted Ontario Beach Park. Some of the buildings vaporized under the missile barrage. Razor-sharp shards of wood and molten metal flew through the air and slaughtered half the Marine company. It left the others shocked and dazed, not knowing what to do.

Stirring, forcing himself to think, to act now while he had the chance, Paul raised his head. His brain throbbed. His body hurt. So did his right hand from clutching the binoculars so hard. He put the lenses to his eyes.

The GD Galahads and carrier hovers were a lot closer than before. Enemy air swept over the water, flashed over the hovercraft and raced toward shore.

“Wonder if we have any antiair missiles left?” Romo said.

“Not against planes moving that low over the water,” Paul said.

About two hundred yards to the right, an old DIVAD air defense cannon opened up. Out there over the water, in a hail of bullets, a Razorback ground-attack UAV disintegrated.

A few of the Marines cheered.

“They have no idea of what’s about to happen, do they?” Romo asked.

With fiery contrails and lines of smoke, air-to-ground missiles launched from the rest of the ground-attack planes and UAVs. The DIVAD system kept spewing lead into the air. Then the missiles arrived, big explosion and there no more DIVADs to fire back.

Half a minute later, the ground-attackers arrived. Ancient Stingers took down two. A Marine .50 caliber ended the career of another and then the GD air shot up men and materiel.

The big surprise came with three US AH-4 Cherokees. The armored helos had afterburner-equipped tri-jets and a large load of rockets, autocannons and defensive beehive flechettes. Those swerved, jigged up and down and hosed munitions at the GD ground-attack planes.

One, two, three GD planes exploded. It was awesome. It was about time that America showed these invaders a thing or three.

Paul knew there were few US personnel around Rochester, anywhere along the south Lake Ontario shore. If the GD could get a toehold here…it might be more than serious. It might start looking like it had last winter when the Chinese rampaged up the gut between the Rockies and the Mississippi River.

Unfortunately, the Cherokees must have been low on ordnance. After destroying the planes, the helos went away, likely to go back to base to rearm.

It was up to the men on the ground now. Paul crawled for the nearest Marine position. Romo crawled after him. More of Rochester burned around and behind them. More explosions told of GD shells and warheads slamming onto shore.

“They badly outnumber us!” Romo shouted.

Paul paused and ducked low as a concussion swept overhead. Wood chips rained and paper blew. When the blast passed, Paul looked back at Romo and asked, “What else is new?”

“Nothing,” Romo said.

Finally, Paul found dead Marines. There was blood, hunks of human meat…he tried not to look too closely at any of it. He found a Javelin missile launcher, the thing he’d been hunting for. Then he found a good spot behind a blasted-out window from what must have once been a restaurant.

Romo wrestled a heavy machine gun into position. Then they waited for the enemy to near shore.

They heard the high-pitched whine of the Galahads long before the enemy vehicles reached shore. Out there in the farther distance, Paul saw hover transports waiting. They would likely only come in once the others cleared the beach. How many hover carriers did the Expeditionary Force have in North America? Not enough would be the likely answer. Paul wished he could blow up some of those.

“Shoot and scoot?” Romo asked.

Before Paul could answer, American artillery opened up from somewhere in the middle of Rochester. The seconds passed. Then geysers leapt up beside the approaching Galahads. Rockets zoomed from the bigger, following machines, heading inland. Paul watched one flash overhead. It landed somewhere in Rochester and exploded.

Before the hovers reached the beach, the US artillery had fallen silent.

“Might have been a good idea to wait for the hover transports to get here before they opened up,” Paul said.

“Is that what we’re going to do?” Romo asked. The assassin stared at him with a grimy face. The stupid feather dangling from his ear was clean, if you could believe it. He’d never seen Romo clean the feather, but he must do it some time for it to look like that.

Paul didn’t say anything regarding his blood brother’s question. He had his orders from SOCOM. They were to observe, get an idea of what was going on, and get the heck back to report and to survive. From the few words Paul had received, High Command figured this was going to be a running battle for some time, and they needed commandos who knew how to play the game.

Readying the Javelin, Paul waited. He judged the distance to the nearest Galahads. Four thousand meters, three thousand five hundred meters, three thousand meters, two thousand five hundred meters—

He pulled the trigger. The missile popped out, and it flashed at the enemy. Romo hadn’t needed to use the heavy machine gun yet, so he watched the interplay.

“Let’s go,” Paul said.

Romo seemed as if he might take a few shots first with the .50 caliber. Then he shrugged and let go of the machine gun, abandoning it. They started crawling away across the floor, heading for the back door. A second before the Javelin took out a Galahad, Paul and Romo climbed to their feet and ran. They barely made it in time. Another set of Razorbacks had arrived, and they hosed the beachfront area with chain-gun fire. It was mayhem, and the few Marines shooting back soon stopped doing so. Some had folded up shop and retreated. The others died at their posts.

“This isn’t good,” Romo said, as they sprinted past a burning scuba rental shop.

“No,” Paul said. “It isn’t.”

They saved their words after that, using their breath for running deeper into the doomed city.