Invasion: New York

-11- Breakout

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

2040, July 7-10. Beachhead. A scratch US battalion and Marine company in Rochester, with strong concentrations of SOCOM commandos, sniped at the amphibious landers. This was also the first GD amphibious assault in its history and something of a muddle. Together, the two situations sowed confusion on the beach and delayed an immediate capture of the city.

GD General Zeller landed in New York State with the second wave across Lake Ontario. His first action was to act as a traffic control officer, speeding the capture of Rochester.

Loud knocking woke Anna out of a deep sleep. She lifted her head and saw the first dawning of light beside the edges of the curtain. What time was it? Beside her, David stirred uneasily as if he’d had a bad dream.

To Anna’s shock, the bedroom door opened. An abashed secret service agent poked his head in.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, “but it’s something of an emergency. Do you think you could wake the President?”

Anna glanced at David. While half-asleep, he dragged a pillow over his head, jamming it down to keep out the waking world. She turned back to the agent.

“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is here,” the agent said, “together with the Director of Homeland Security. There’s been an invasion.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Anna asked. The GD Expeditionary Force had invaded Canada, but that had happened weeks ago. The agent looked sober, not as if he’d been hallucinating. So what was he talking about?

“The Germans have crossed Lake Ontario,” the agent said, as if reading her thoughts. “They’ve entered the United States.”

She blinked at him with incomprehension, still not understanding.

“They’re in New York State,” he said. “They’re unloading at Rochester even as we speak.”

Rochester? But that was in New York, not in Ontario. Her eyes widened. It finally registered what he was saying. The GD had used Lake Ontario to surprise them. It sounded as if they’d invaded en masse, not just raided. This was terrible.

“Give me a minute,” she said. “The President will be up soon.”

Fifteen minutes later, General Alan finished explaining the situation. He used a large map spread over the coffee table in the living room. Tracing with his finger, he’d showed where the Germans had landed and their likely destinations the next day, the next three days and the next week.

The President wore a blue bathrobe as he sipped coffee. The robe had a Presidential seal on the right breast. His hair was still messy from sleep. Director Harold sat on the sofa with him. He had been quiet throughout the general’s talk, leaving his coffee untouched.

Anna reentered the room and set a plate of sandwiches on the table beside the pot of coffee. Quietly, she sat down and covertly studied David.

He stared too much, as if his thoughts drifted. The burdens kept piling onto his shoulders, didn’t they? The generals had finally sealed the GD blitzkrieg in Southwestern Ontario before it could hit Detroit, and now this happened.

“They suckered us,” the President said.

General Alan nodded. “I believe you’re right, Mr. President.”

David leaned over the map, tracing places with his index finger. “They’ll want to open up the Niagara Peninsula so they can transport supplies more easily into New York.”

“I agree,” Alan said.

“Why come in at Rochester?” the President asked.

“Maybe because it’s the midpoint between Buffalo and Syracuse,” Alan said. “If they take Syracuse, they’ll cut off Army Group New York holding the north. The supplies will dry up for them up there.”

“I can see that,” David said, as he stared at the map. “Clearly, we can’t let Syracuse fall.”

Director Harold stirred. “I’m afraid that we lack the troops to hold on there, sir.”

David glanced at Max.

Anna waited for the man to suggest nuclear weapons to destroy the amphibious beachhead. If they annihilated Rochester—made it a nuclear wasteland—might they not nip this in the bud?

Max didn’t meet David’s gaze. Instead, the director studied the map, and he held his tongue, saying nothing further.

That’s unusual, Anna thought. Why isn’t he suggesting nuclear weapons? This seems like the obvious moment to use them.

David turned to the general and then glanced at the map. His thoughts seemed to drift off to another place.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs cleared his throat.

David looked up at him again. It seemed to take an effort of will, but the President unglued his lips. “What do you suggest? I’d admit… this one baffles me. I’m not sure what to do.”

Alan took off his glasses, blew on a lens and brushed it against his uniform. He put the glasses back on before speaking:

“I’ve given this some thought, sir. The first thing is that we’re going to have to get creative to solve the dilemma. I believe we’re going to have to accept risks that might otherwise seem…well, seem imprudent perhaps.”

“How many Germans are landing at Rochester?” David asked.

“Yes,” Alan said. “That’s the question. The answer so far is many different corps. I’m beginning to think that all of GD Twelfth Army will come ashore there. That’s far too many enemies at the worst possible place for us. A single GD corps would be too much now. We have nothing in reserve, sir.”

“Then…what do we do?” David asked. “Is it over?”

“I have an idea,” Max said quietly.

Here it comes, Anna thought. He’s going to suggest we use nukes. It’s his mantra.

“Mr. President,” Max said. “This is an emergency. I totally agree with General Alan on that. The Germans have outmaneuvered us. We need to get extreme. First, we need our best commander at Syracuse. I suggest you send the Chairman,” Max said, indicating General Alan, “and give him executive authority to do as he sees fit.”

David turned to Alan. “What do you think of that?”

“I’m not sure that I’m the right man for the task, sir,” Alan said.

David clutched the general’s sleeve.

It’s as if he’s grabbing a lifeline, Anna thought. David is desperate. We all are.

“Listen to me closely,” the President said. “This isn’t time for modesty. This is the time for clear thinking and for taking chances.”

Alan nodded.

“Max is one hundred percent correct,” the President said. “I want you in Syracuse to coordinate from ground zero. You have to take charge and stop the Germans from taking the city.”

“What do I use for troops?” Alan asked. “There are a few battalions, I suppose, and some SOCOM commandos. That isn’t enough to stop the Twelfth Army, though.”

The President grimaced, and he went back to studying the map.

“I do have a possible idea,” Alan said. “As I said, I’ve been doing some thinking.”

He’s been waiting to make his suggestion, Anna thought. He’s let David see the hopelessness of the situation because…why? There’s a reason why Alan has built this up.

“Tell me,” the President said. “We don’t have time to dither. We have to act now to save the situation before it’s too late.”

“Sir,” Alan said, “I suggest we move all of XI Airmobile Corps from the Atlantic coast and entrain it for Syracuse.”

David bit his lower lip, gnawing on it with his front teeth. Finally, he stammered, “W-What defends the seaboard from an amphibious assault then? What protects New York City and protects Boston, New Jersey—?”

“That’s the rub, sir,” Alan said. “I don’t think we need to defend the coast.”

“But the amphibious troops waiting in Cuba—”

“Mr. President,” Alan said. “I don’t believe there are any GD troops in Cuba, not in any meaningful numbers.”

“How can you say that?” the President asked. “Our experts have shown—”

“Our experts knew nothing about a GD invasion across Lake Ontario,” Alan said. “We didn’t realize the Germans had been collecting freighters and ore haulers. Our enemy has become an expert at misinformation, at the clever ruse. That’s what I’ve been thinking about during my ride here. I finally asked myself a key question. What does the German Dominion lack in their North American invasion?”

“They don’t lack anything,” the President said.

“That’s wrong, sir,” Alan said. “They’ve always lacked numbers of actual soldiers. That’s why they have so many drones. They’ve worked overtime to compensate for their lack of numbers, for boots on the ground. Are we to seriously believe that the GD has let two hundred thousand soldiers sit idle all this time in Cuba? No, sir, I believe those are dummy troops. The enemy wants us to believe they’re ready to sweep onto our coastline. That ties down an unbelievable number of our formations defending the seaboard. We’ve already stripped much of the East Coast southern shores. That’s given us the advantage in Southwestern Ontario. We’ve turned the tide there because we quit letting ourselves get faked out by the nonexistent Cuba-based troops.”

The President appeared thoughtful, and he began to nod. Then he leaned forward and tapped the map. “Looking at this, at Rochester, it seems clear that the Germans wanted us to stuff all our extra troops into Southwestern Ontario. Those men are engaged now at the wrong point and can’t rush around easily to plug the new gap.”

“That may have been the German intent, sir,” Alan said. “It’s more than possible. Whatever the case, though, I believe the Cuba-based forces are an illusion. That means we can safely entrain the airmobile corps to Syracuse. They will form the heart of my defense.”

“How many soldiers is that?” the President asked.

“Roughly, sir,” Alan said, “twenty-four thousand.”

The President rubbed his chin. “That’s better than the scattering of battalions on the ground now. Still, twenty-four thousand soldiers, no matter how good, will not stop the mass of Twelfth Army for long, if at all.”

“I agree,” Alan said.

David scowled in a way that said—then what are we talking about anyway? “We need more troops,” he said. “But we don’t have any more, unless we wish to deplete the Oklahoma defenses and make ourselves vulnerable to the Chinese.”

“That’s not exactly the case, sir,” Alan said. “There is a supply of unused soldiers we can possibly tap.”

“Don’t hold me in suspense,” David shouted. “What’s your answer?”

“Right here, sir,” Alan said, tapping the Canadian province of Manitoba.

The President’s scowl worsened. “Don’t be oblique. Just tell it to me.”

“At the start of the campaign, the Germans smashed the Canadians on the Ontario-Quebec border,” Alan said. “In rough numbers, the GD killed or captured about a third of that force: two hundred thousand soldiers. A different third retreated toward Toronto and has been fighting in Southern Ontario with our soldiers for some time now. The last third retreated west. First, they headed to Sudbury, Ontario. From there—just as the British in WWII retreated from Burma to India—the Canadians moved away to Thunder Bay and toward Manitoba.”

“What does that mean for us?” the President asked.

“If we can get the Canadians to agree,” Alan said, “I suggest we entrain that army to New York State. They’ve been idle, well, recouping from their terrible ordeal against the GD. With those soldiers, we can keep Syracuse—if they get to the city fast enough and if our airmobile corps fights heroically.”

David sat back against the sofa. Finally, he said, “It’s brilliant.”

General Alan couldn’t hide his grin. “First, sir, you’ll have to get the Canadians to agree to the idea.”

“This may be a stupid question,” Anna said. “But if the Canadians all board the trains and leave, why won’t the Germans march into an unprotected Manitoba?”

“Because they lack the numbers to do so,” Alan said, crisply. “The Germans simply don’t have enough boots on the ground to do everything at once. Just like the British in Burma used distance to flee from the victorious Japanese, so the Canadians have used distance to get away from the Germans. At this point, the GD needs every soldier they have to take New York State.”

“Yes,” David said. “Your plan gives us hope.”

“That’s all it is right now, sir,” Alan said, “a hope. We have to move those Canadians as fast as we can, and we have to fight like hell with the airmobile corps to stop the rushing onslaught of the Germans.”

“What if the GD troops in Cuba are real?” Anna asked. “What happens then?”

David cast her a nervous glance.

“If that’s the case,” General Alan said. “We’re going to need those Canadians sooner than ever.” He looked at the map. “If the Germans are in Cuba, we have to do everything double time.”

“Maybe the Germans commanders are thinking the same thing,” Anna said.

Max looked as if he wanted to say something, but the director closed his mouth and remained silent.

Anna wondered what he’d wanted to say.

The President sat up and brushed his hair with his fingertips. “We have hard, dark days ahead of us. The Germans have stolen a march on our country. We have to work to the utmost now and hope we can outfight and outmarch them.”

We haven’t been able to do that so far, Anna thought. But she wasn’t going to say that. This was a plan, and they would have to implement it as quickly as possible. Just like last winter, much rested on the Canadians. Would they be willing to send those previously defeated soldiers to New York State? Would they be willing to leave Manitoba undefended for now, or defended solely by space? There were too many unanswered questions for comfort.

Without knocking to give warning, Mansfeld opened the door and stared at General Holk. The pudgy general sat at his desk, with his tie undone, his hat on the floor and his thin hair messy on his head as if he’d been running his hands through it.

“General Mansfeld,” Holk said, obviously startled. “This…this is a surprise.”

Mansfeld had received a strange communication this morning. It had come from a colonel on Holk’s staff. The man said General Holk had become increasingly listless and indecisive throughout the past few days. Mansfeld could hardly believe such a thing, as it was a tossup as to who was the better offensive general: Holk or Zeller. How could such an excellent commanding officer lose self-control at such a critical juncture? Still, it was best to check and see for himself, which was why he was here.

Mansfeld closed the door behind him, cutting off the keyboard noises of the situation room. He had much to do today and a thousand things to oversee. The offensive had reached one of its most decisive stages. At Rochester, Zeller had peeled off two corps from Twelfth Army, sending them toward Buffalo sixty-five miles away. Twelfth Army headed toward Syracuse, seventy-five miles away from Rochester. Everything now depended on speed, on surprise and aggression.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mansfeld asked. “I checked, but found that Fourth Army has failed to make any attack yet against US Fifth Army this morning. Were my orders unclear?”

Holk blinked at him, and almost appeared unable to answer.

“This is undignified,” Mansfeld said. “Put on your hat, sir, and straighten your tie.”

For a moment, Holk looked confused. Then he spied his hat on the floor. He reached, and his swivel chair creaked as he bent down and picked it up. First smoothing his hair, he put the hat on his head.

“Hurry,” Mansfeld said. “Tighten your tie. What’s the matter with you?”

Holk appeared to think about it before finally tightening his tie.

The slowness angered Mansfeld. “On your feet, sir!” he snapped. “Stand at attention when I’m speaking to you.”

Something seemed to spark in Holk’s eyes, a touch of belligerence perhaps.

Finally, Mansfeld thought. What’s wrong with you, man? Have you lost your nerve? Must I sack you and find a replacement? What a wretched encumbrance this is.

Holk stood slowly and then came to attention.

Mansfeld understood that he’d been pushing his generals hard, but he’d chosen Holk and Zeller for a reason. War demanded strong nerves. Sending men into battle where those soldiers died took a certain kind of officer. Holk had been making difficult decisions for many weeks now. His enemies had outnumbered him almost all along the line. Yet each time Holk had maneuvered and fought brilliantly. Had the man used up his inner reserves? Mansfeld had thought Holk made of sterner stuff. Was the general a weakling after all?

“Why hasn’t Fourth Army begun its attack?” Mansfeld repeated. “My orders were explicit on that account.”

“I understand, sir,” Holk said.

“If you understand, why hasn’t it happened?”

Holk just stood there.

“Is the pace of the campaign too fast for you?” Mansfeld asked.

Holk stiffened, and the fire in his eyes increased.

Mansfeld had to know whether Holk could continue to act decisively or if he needed to find a replacement for the general. Putting a scathing tone in his voice, Mansfeld said, “I come here and what do I find? You sit with your hat on the floor. You run your hands through your hair as if you’re bewildered by the pace of events.”

“You are wrong, General.”

“Then what’s the matter with you? Tell me.”

“Herr General,” Holk said. “With all due respect—”

“No!” Mansfeld snapped. “Get to the point.”

The words seemed to flick a switch in Holk. He quit standing at attention. With a shift of the neck, he regarded Mansfeld. Holk spoke now in a crisp, clear voice, “Sir, we’ve bitten off too much of a bite.”

That caught Mansfeld by surprise. He almost turned around and shouted for the staff officers to assemble. It looked as if he would have to sack Holk after all. The only thing that caused him to hesitate was uncertainty as to who could take Holk’s place. The general had operational flair. Such men did not grow on trees.

“My time is limited, sir,” Mansfeld said. “Get to the point.”

“I’ll do exactly that, General,” Holk said, with the fire entering his voice. “You’ve flung my army group as a man flings a spear, caring nothing as to whether it shatters or not, as long as it impales the enemy.”

“What does any of that have to do with your failure to attack Fifth Army?”

“Everything,” Holk said. “My soldiers are grossly outnumbered and still you force me to hurl them at the enemy.”

“You’re fond of historical parallels. Did not British General O’Connor drive the Italians before him in North Africa in 1941?”

“Sir?” Holk asked.

“Bah,” Mansfeld said. “You study German military history. I study all military history. Let me make it easier on you. Didn’t Rommel drive the British pell-mell before him in the desert later in 1941?”

“The Americans aren’t Italians or British,” Holk said. “And we’re fighting on their home soil.”

“In point of fact,” Mansfeld said, “we are not. Zeller is fighting on their home soil, and he’s driving them before him. You’re facing Americans in Canada.”

“Zeller faces minuscule resistance,” Holk said. “I face the bulk of the enemy. There is a great difference.”

“By your tone, I believe you still have fire in your belly,” Mansfeld said. “I want to know, therefore, why you’re sitting in your office fretting over my commands.”

Holk opened his mouth, and he closed it.

“Come, come, sir,” Mansfeld said.” I don’t have time to dally. Get to the point while you’re still able to do it.”

“Is that a threat, sir?” Holk asked.

Mansfeld refrained from answering. He’d pushed the general to find out whether the man had lost his nerve or not. It didn’t seem as if the commander had, not yet anyway. He needed to get to the root of this and do it now. To that end, he stared silently into Holk’s eyes.

Holk held the stare for a total of two seconds before looking away. He scowled so lines appeared in his forehead. “Sir, my command withers away around me. The Americans rain artillery at us, turning this into an attritional contest, one that I cannot afford to play. The area where we battle is too small, leaving me without room to maneuver. That’s our specialty and mine in particular. Now you want me to smash against Fifth Army. You know they’re heavily entrenched in the Niagara Peninsula and fortified to resist me. The enemy will meet any breakthrough on my part with suicidal counterattacks led by their penal battalions.”

“My only question for you, General,” Mansfeld said, “is this: so what? That doesn’t tell me why you’ve failed to obey a direct order.”

“There may come a point very soon now when the Americans begin to drive me back toward London,” Holk said, angrily. “We’ve bitten off too large a bite. We don’t have the men—”

“Hold it right there,” Mansfeld said. “I’m beginning to suspect the real reason for your petulance. And it has nothing to do with what you’re saying.”

Holk stiffened, and two red spots appeared on his cheeks.

“You’re an attacker, sir,” Mansfeld said. “It appears you do not have an appetite for defending. Yes, for now, at this place and at this time in Southwestern Ontario, you are on the defensive. Yet you must attack Fifth Army in the Niagara Peninsula in order to fix them in place. The Americans have foolishly put their men in the wrong places, at least in the numbers that they have. The Niagara Peninsula is a trap, but only if you can keep the Americans on your end from pulling out too many excess troops to turn around and face east. The enemy will need those extra soldiers to stop Zeller’s III Armored Corps and IV Corps heading for Buffalo. You must fix the Americans in place and cause them to use all their soldiers to stop you breaking into the peninsula from the west.”

“It will be a bloodbath, sir,” Holk said. “It will uselessly burn up my men, the ones I need to hold back the Americans in the southwest as they drive north for London.”

Mansfeld stepped closer as if he was an American baseball manager ready to argue an umpire’s call. He clutched a pair of leather gloves in his left hand. Instead of slapping Holk across the face with them, he slapped the desk. “Speed, sir. You must employ speed and burn up whatever number of troops and machines of ours that are necessary. This is the moment where we scoop up trapped Americans. Once we destroy Fifth Army in a Cannae maneuver, freeing that flank, you will easily be able to withstand the southern American assaults. I know you see that.”

Holk looked away.

“It’s that stubborn pride of yours,” Mansfeld said. “You’re angry that Zeller has the glory. Isn’t that what’s causing you to pout?”

Holk’s head snapped back. He glared at Mansfeld while the red spots seemed to burn a brighter red.

“Yes,” Mansfeld said. “That’s what this is about. Finally, I understand you.”

“No,” Holk said.

“Yes!” Mansfeld said, and he raised his gloves as if to slap the general across the face.

Holk glared harder, and suddenly, his shoulders deflated. Without asking for permission, Holk sat on his chair. He stared at the floor, opened his mouth and managed a shrug.

“Listen to me,” Mansfeld said.

Holk continued to stare at the floor.

Mansfeld almost told the man to look at him, but he decided it wasn’t needed. Holk was listening finally, truly listening.

“Yours is the precarious position,” Mansfeld said. “I have entrusted you and no other with the most difficult task. Do you think my memoirs will gloss over your part? Zeller attacks. I have not called upon him to preform difficult defensive maneuvers. You are the Renaissance general, the one able to both attack and defend. You have the true mettle, sir, not Zeller.”

“I’m not concerned about such things,” Holk whispered.

Mansfeld laughed aloud.

Holk looked up.

“Let us not lie to each other, Erich,” Mansfeld said. “What military man doesn’t seek glory in combat? You are a genius at battle. Your reputation means everything to you just as it means everything to me. We are older men now, but we still have the spirit of the boy in us. We are human. We’re not machines. Don’t think of yourself as a machine. We all have breaking points and we all have fierce pride. I want you to harness that pride for the glory of Germany and for your own glory, sir. Do not let Zeller hear about you sulking. Let him see that no matter what kind of military situation you find yourself in, you excel. Beat him at being the well-rounded general.”

Slowly, Holk nodded.

Who would believe I needed to give such a pep talk to a GD general like Holk. Yet I spoke the truth a moment ago. We all have the boy hidden in our spirit. Men fight because in the end they like to.

Holk stood up. “I’m sorry about this, sir.”

Mansfeld clapped Holk on the shoulder, and he held out his hand. The two generals shook.

“Can I count on you to the end?” Mansfeld asked.

“Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I will do my duty.”

“Good.”

Holk saluted.

Mansfeld saluted back, turned without another word and took his leave. This wasn’t the only fire that needed putting out, but it was likely the biggest one he’d have today.

Militia Private Jake Higgins stood at attention as MDG Sergeant Franks prowled in front of the platoon. After leaving them during the battle, the sergeants had returned to find the three survivors. The lieutenant presently stood behind the sergeant, watching the proceedings as he leaned against his jeep. He fingered something, a crucifix perhaps. Was the man a Catholic? The jeep had a big tarp in back, hiding something bulky underneath.

Charlie stood on one side of Jake while Corporal Lee stood on the other. The rest of the penal platoon was a bunch of newbies. Well, most of the MDGs were the original members, but Jake hardly thought of them as human. The newbies shied away from the three survivors. These newbies were a little better trained than the original batch had been, but not by much.

“The Krauts are stirring,” Franks said in his arrogant way. “They’re obviously going to attack us. They have to, because Fifth Army HQ is planning to send Syracuse Command some extra battalions lying around here. Our side has to drive out the little amphibious attack made at Rochester. That doesn’t mean squat to you girls except for one thing. We’re going to throw a little surprise for the Krauts today. Our CO believes the Germans will spearhead the assault with Sigrids. Like what else is new? So we have a little surprise for them.”

Franks turned and pointed at the lieutenant’s jeep. The lieutenant motioned to another sergeant. The MDG whipped back the tarp to reveal a stack of RPGs.

From his place in the lineup, Jake couldn’t tell for certain, but they looked newer than the old ones—the ancient RPGs they’d used days ago. The older pieces of junk had usually bounced off a Sigrid’s armor. The HEAT shells hadn’t even ignited, and therefore had done as much damage as an M16’s bullet.

“Most of you will get an RPG,” Franks said. “Those that don’t will team up with a militiaman who does. If your partner dies, you take his weapon and use it. Anyway, you’re all going to crawl out into no-man’s land. I suggest you do it slow and easy. Otherwise, the enemy’s automated system will pick you off, and we don’t want that.”

Yes, you do, Jake thought.

“Find a shell-hole to hide in,” Franks said. “There are a lot of them out there and plenty of them are deep. Just make sure you don’t hide in one with an unexploded warhead.”

Several of the newbies glanced at each other with incredulous stares. Jake knew they were still getting used to the sergeant’s morbid humor, which always came at a penal militiaman’s expense.

“After you get comfortable,” Franks said, “you wait. When the Sigrids came, you hunker down in the bottom and use your ears instead of your eyes. You let them pass. Once they’re clanking at our first trench, firing at our strongpoints, then you’re going to pop up like gophers. You let them have it at from behind—ka-boom. It will be easy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake noticed some of the newbies turn white with fright.

“That’s suicide,” one newbie said, an older guy with white in his hair. Jake heard the man had been a pastor teaching the wrong things about homosexuality. The government had certain rules about what priests and preachers were supposed to say behind their pulpits.

Franks strode to the newbie, pulling out a shock rod from his holster as he did. “What did you say?” the sergeant asked.

The newbie with white in his hair began to tremble, and he shook his head.

Franks smirked, and he raised his voice. “Does anyone else have anything to say?”

Jake raised a hand.

Franks’ eyes lit up, and he approached, with the shock rod ready, his thumb resting on the on-off switch. “Go head, Private. I’m listening.”

“Will you be out there with us, Sarge?” Jake asked.

Franks glared at Jake, but finally, he turned toward the lieutenant.

“Tell him,” the lieutenant said. “It’s a reasonable question.”

Jake didn’t twitch or quit looking straight ahead. He still felt the surprise from the newbies: the survivor could ask questions without receiving a beating from the guards.

Jake had wondered before about the lieutenant. Did the man feel remorse sometimes for being part of such a dickhead organization?

“If you had a brain in that thick skull of yours,” Franks said, “you would have already figured out that we’ll be in the trenches.” The sergeant grinned. “We’ll be watching each of you heroes. If any of you runs away…” The sergeant’s grin turned nasty. “If you run, you’re dead meat. We’ll be at the machine guns today.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Jake said. “That answers my question.”

Sergeant Dan Franks stared at him. Then he said under his breath, “One of these days, Higgins…”

Yes, Jake thought. One of these days, he was going to kill Franks. Maybe he’d kill all the MDGs of his platoon. The detention sergeants were monsters who delighted in tormenting penal militiamen and in killing some of them as the opportunities arose.

“Line up!” Franks shouted, as he put away the shock rod. “You’re going to get your RPG and then you’re going to head out into no-man’s land.”

What was left of the Galahad C Troop, along with the other hovers of 8th Squadron, maneuvered through the city streets of Batavia. The town was along Interstate 90 from Rochester to Buffalo, and III Armored Corps HQ wanted it cleared of any active hostiles or partisans.

Lieutenant Teddy Smith didn’t like it. He sat in the pilot’s seat, with his hands sweaty on the controls and his eyes peeled. The town was too quiet, too ghostlike. Fleck’s hover led the way, and he kept passing overturned dinner plates.

The Americans finally have a chance to use IEDs against others, Smith thought. He knew what the overturned dinner-plates were supposed to be: decoys to frighten them. It was odd and a bit funny that the Americans didn’t actually have any IEDs on hand. Therefore, they pretended to have some, setting out overturned plates.

Holloway must have been thinking similar thoughts. The sergeant said from his seat, “I thought America was supposed to be filled with guns.”

Smith glanced back at the sergeant. The man tensely watched through the main gun-port like a man looking out of a cave. For once, the sergeant appeared nervous, wiping beads of perspiration from under his nose. That wasn’t a good sign. They weren’t in Canada anymore, but in the good old U.S.A.

“Why doesn’t anyone fire at us?” Holloway asked. “This is as good a chance as any of them is going to get. I don’t know who sent hovers into a built-up area, but it’s daft.”

That was the military for you. But it was no good complaining about it, especially not out here. So Smith answered the first question instead of the second.

“Didn’t you study your history in school?” Smith asked.

“I guess not,” Holloway said.

“In the past, the Americans debated each other on gun control,” Smith said. “I remember my history teacher talking about it. The US Government used to try to take away the regular folks’ guns. The gun owners wouldn’t budge, though, and there were enough of them that they had the votes to stop any congressman foolish enough to try it.”

“Americans love guns,” Holloway said. It was an old proverb.

“I remember my teacher saying the Americans had a good argument concerning their right to have guns, at least as long as the powerful had theirs. The argument went something like this: As soon as the President and the members of Congress and the rich went without their gun-toting bodyguards, the ordinary people would give up their firearms. But as long as the President wanted to protect his family, the regular folk figured they had a right to protect theirs, too.”

“So what happened?” Holloway asked.

“The US Government got wise. Instead of taking people’s guns away, they bought up all the ammo. Let them have empty guns, right?”

Holloway laughed, nodding in appreciation.

“It’s not really that funny,” Smith said, “because in the end, a lot of the American people started making their own ammo.”

“You’re kidding,” Holloway said. “Their government allowed that.”

“I don’t think their government had much of a choice,” Smith said. “If they wanted a civil war against the gun owners, they could try to grab the firearms, but those in power must have realized that then they would have soon been dead. Bloody Hell!” Smith shouted.

Fleck’s Galahad led the way sixty meters ahead of them. Fleck had been pausing at most of the overturned dinner plates, having his gunner shoot several rounds into each, breaking the things. It looked like Fleck must have become lazy. Maybe the Americans had been counting on that. These gun lovers were sly bastards.

Lieutenant Fleck’s Galahad went over something that exploded. A bright flash preceded billowing smoke. The armored skirt likely saved Fleck’s life, but the hover grounded hard, sparking down the street until it came to a halt.

That must have been the signal, though. From nearby buildings—a hardware store, a grocery store and a bicycle repair shop—rifles and something bigger opened up. The gunfire pinged off the grounded Galahad’s armor. Then what looked like a crude rocket roared out of the bicycle repair shop. The rocket wobbled as it flew and it struck the Galahad, igniting with a boom.

Holloway shouted a curse. It showed that he was far too wound up today.

“Smith!” 8th Squadron’s colonel said over the radio. “Take out the bicycle shop.”

“You heard the colonel,” Smith said. He revved the engine and turned sharp left.

Their 76mm thundered. A HE round entered the repair shop and exploded, destroying a section of wall.

“Give it another!” Smith shouted.

Two more Galahads moved up. As they did, a homemade rocket barreled out of the grocery store. This one didn’t wobble, but it had longer to go to reach one of them.

Holloway’s machine gun and Fleck’s burning vehicle took it down so the missile plowed on the street and exploded against a flower shop. It paid to have better targeting computers and better electronics.

The skirmish in outer Batavia went on for another eight minutes, but it quickly turned against the Americans. Artillery rained down from nearby GD mobile vehicles. Smoke shells also landed. Then Smith saw running American partisans trying to flank him. Holloway saw it, too. He brought the 12.7mm machine gun around, and the sergeant knocked down or killed three of the enemy. A woman scrambled behind a building, getting away.

“More are coming,” Holloway said in his clipped voice.

“Fleck!” Smith said. Then he stopped. Fleck staggered out of a cloud of smoke as he half dragged, half carried his gunner. No wonder they had been taking so long. Bright red blood streaked down the gunner’s leg.

“Hang on,” Smith said. He goosed the controls, and the Galahad started for Fleck.

Then both the pilot and wounded gunner went down as two grenades landed at their feet. Fleck saw the rolling metal balls at the last second, and he froze. The grenades blew. Fleck and the gunner tumbled backward in a tangled, gruesome mess.

Before Smith could comment about it, a ground-attack plane showed up. The squat thing released napalm, several canisters of it. Batavia began to burn as oily smoke billowed skyward.

This wasn’t a matter of destroying a town to save it as practiced in Vietnam back in the 1960s. Instead, by the radio chatter, Smith realized that HQ had decided on a new procedure. If the Americans fought too stubbornly in a town along Interstate 90, the Expeditionary Force would burn the place down—or they would drop enough napalm to give it a go. It was time for the gun-lovers to grow up and know when they’d been outmaneuvered, and when the GD soldiers had honestly beaten them.

Smith used a rear-viewing camera to glance back at the burning place. This was a bit like the Lock Ness Submarine. The Americans fought from hiding. That wasn’t like the bloody chaps in the old days, when Americans had owned all the firepower. Smith frowned. Maybe these Americans went back to deeper roots. Hadn’t the Americans in 1776 fought from behind trees, fences and boulders, sniping at British Redcoats?

This time it will be different. This time, the Europeans are going to win the war.

John Red Cloud was near despair as he lay on a sofa in the safe house that had become his jail. The place had an odor of stale sweat, cigarettes and cheap coffee. He had spent many days here, guarded by three suspicious gunmen of Serbian extraction. None of the three spoke French, English or Algonquin. He could understand the last two, but not the lack of French.

He had walked into the secret service agent’s house. The old woman had called her son. Instead of him appearing, these three had entered with guns drawn. John could have snapped the old woman’s neck—the French agent had betrayed him. But Red Cloud did not war against old women.

He went with these three to this house, and for the past days, they had guarded him, given him food and made him understand that if he attempted to leave, they would kill him.

John did not despair out of fear. What bothered him was his weakening resolve. Days of nothing had sapped his morale. He knew that everyone had his or her breaking point. The path of death wasn’t a good place to sit. One had to move on the path, heading for destruction. The resolve gave one power. Unfortunately, the power leaked away as his certainty wavered.

Maybe he should have returned to Quebec when he had the chance. Maybe it would have been better to end his days in his homeland. Let the Old World and New World Europeans fight among themselves and destroy each other. What did he care?

John closed his eyes. He recalled the meeting with the GD ambassador last winter. The man had insulted him, and through the insult, the man had insulted the Algonquin people.

I have no right to fear. I am the representative of my people. I am the Spirit of Death of the Algonquians. I will destroy Chancellor Kleist. I will leave this prison and—

From outside, a key inserted into the front door lock and turned.

The Serbians stood. One drew a pistol. One picked up a pump shotgun and the other clacked the bolt of a submachine gun. All three of them aimed their weapons at the door.

The door opened, and the odor of smoke preceded a small man in a plain overcoat. He had dark, tousled hair, a cigarette between his lips and dark eyes like Red Cloud.

The Frenchman glanced at the Serbians. He rapidly spoke their language. The three put away their weapons, sat and went back to playing dominoes on the table.

The man in the overcoat approached Red Cloud, who sat up on the sofa.

The cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth smoldered. He stopped before Red Cloud and studied him. “You are not Basque,” the man said in French, speaking crisply.

John shook his head.

“The Basque died in Halifax,” the Frenchman said. “Someone cut his throat.”

“I did,” John said.

“To gain his ID, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“You killed two CID men several days ago?”

“I left them in the BMW.”

“You’ve left quite a trail of death,” the Frenchman said. “And you frightened my agent’s mother. Neither he nor I appreciate that.”

“I understand.”

Ashes fell from the Frenchman’s cigarette, landing on the carpet and beginning to smolder. He stepped on the spot and turned his foot. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it onto the coffee table. While unbuttoning his coat, the small man sat in the sofa chair. He never took his eyes off Red Cloud.

“You are an Indian,” the man said.

“Algonquin.”

“Call me Mr. Foch,” the man said.

“John Red Cloud.”

Foch did not hold out his hand. Since this was his land, John followed the man’s example and did not hold out his either.

“Why did you come here, John Red Cloud? Why did you pester my agent’s mother?”

John glanced at the three Serbians.

“They understand nothing of what we say,” Foch told him. “But if I snap my fingers, they will kill you without hesitation. Perhaps I should tell you, I am inclined toward snapping my fingers. Everything I know about you so far smells of desperation and stupidity. I like dealing with neither.”

“I am on a quest,” John said. “I have come to Europe to kill Chancellor Kleist.”

Foch laughed softly. “That is ridiculous.”

“It is the truth. I am on a quest.”

While shaking his head, Foch asked, “Why would you come to a French secret service agent’s house then? It does not make sense.”

“The French hate the Germans, is that not so?” John asked.

“Ridiculous,” Foch said. He stood up, beginning to button his coat with one hand.

John stood too.

The three Serbians also stood, and they readied their weapons.

Once more, Foch studied Red Cloud. “I am to believe you truly killed the Basque for his ID?”

“The German Dominion offered my people their freedom,” John said. “Because of that, I helped the GD sway the Quebecers.”

“Sway how?” Foch asked.

“By killing rebel Quebecers who wished for Chinese aid,” John said.

“Ah. I see. This is more ridiculous by the moment. Go on.”

“When the time came for the Dominion to grant us our freedom,” John said, “the GD ambassador told me to go away. He insulted us and reneged on his promises.”

“Hmm, I recall something about our ambassador dying several months ago in Quebec.”

“I killed him,” John said. “That was my declaration of war against the GD.”

“That part makes sense at least. The ambassador was the Dominion representative. He insulted you—your people—and you killed him, insulting the GD. Still, I fail to see why you would come to us. We are part of the Dominion.”

“Do you want Kleist to succeed in his endeavors, cementing German dominance over Europe, over the world?”

Foch stared at Red Cloud until he said, “The Expeditionary Force is winning. If Kleist dies, nothing changes. Another like him will rise up.”

“You do not know that.”

“But I do,” Foch said. “No. We cannot help you. Neither can we let you go.”

Red Cloud grew tense, and there was a tightness under his heart, a sudden prick of pain. Perhaps it would be better to attack now and end the waiting.

Foch might have seen him tense, or seen something about Red Cloud to trouble him. “However…” the Frenchman said.

Red Cloud let his shoulder ease, and the pain under his heart receded.

“If something dramatic should happen to change the North American situation…” Foch said. “I will have to ponder your information. It is very odd, very strange.”

Red Cloud couldn’t think of anything wise or even pithy to say. He sat down. Once more, it was time to wait. He was willing to die, but he wanted to make his death worth something.

The small Frenchman nodded to the three Serbians and headed for the door. He exited the safe house and turned the key, locking it again.

The Serbians glanced at John.

He lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes and practiced patience one slow breath at a time.

Jake crawled through the bomb-blasted, moonlike terrain. Behind him were coils of concertina wire and the deep trench system of the first American line of defense. Far above, a crow circled lazily. To his left, Charlie crawled through muddy ground, passing straight through a puddle. The veteran ground-pounder must figure it was safer to crawl through the muck then to go around. The longer one moved through no-man’s land the worse it was.

There were patches of dying, brown grass and long weeds here, but that was about it as far as vegetation went. Otherwise, there were shell holes, bloated, dead bodies, rusting drones and APCs and hordes of flies and mosquitoes. The annoying bugs made it a nightmare crawl.

Like the others, Jake wore camouflage fatigues and helmet, and plenty of mosquito-repellant. He clutched an RPG, and he kept his M16 with him. He slunk across the ground very slowly. This had to be about the stupidest, most harebrained scheme of all. It was murder. Once he found his spot, he was going to turn his weapon on Franks and kill the bastard before he died. Crawling out into no-man’s land was too much, and it had Jake seething with righteous indignation.

He wore face paint and he scanned the enemy trench system in the distance. The GD pricks had little black sticks in the ground: cameras or sensors of some kind.

At times, Jake watched the GD outposts so hard that it felt as if his eyes would bug out. The enemy system was different from the American trenches. For one thing, the Germans didn’t have any people in their first trench line. Automated systems watched, and they were highly effective.

A shot rang out, a militiaman shouted in pain, and one less newbie existed in the lieutenant’s penal platoon.

Out of the corner of his eye to the left, Jake noticed as the man slumped as if the air had just hissed out of him. The dead newbie had to be eighty yards away. At least the platoon was spread out. Still, wouldn’t the enemy have a computer system that realized a whole bunch of fools was crawling around out here?

“This is murder,” Charlie whispered.

“Don’t talk,” Jake whispered. “And for Pete’s sake, don’t move right now. Stay still. Give it time to rest.” He meant give the enemy system time to dull down. From observation, they knew that once the GD system fired a weapons system, it was much more likely to do it again really soon.

As if on cue, another shot rang out. This time, the targeted militiaman didn’t shout or yell. The bullet punctured his helmet and spilled his brains like jelly. He just stopped, end of reality that fast: snap, snap.

The enemy trench system was higher up than they were. It gave the GD yet another advantage. Hadn’t the Germans had that advantage in WWI, in the trench systems in France? His dad would have known the answer. Jake remembered something about the Germans being able to look down into the Allied trenches, at least most of the time.

For now, Jake remained motionless and it set his mind to whirling, thinking. He couldn’t believe he had survived this cockamamie penal screw-job for as long as he had. Franks had a death wish going for him, and higher command used the penal units for the dirtiest tasks.

As he lay still, Jake used to his eyes to scan the situation. Nearby, Charlie waited like a mannequin. One thing the penal screw-job had done was turn Charlie into a decent soldier. In this outfit, either you got good fast or you died. It had been that way in Russia during WWII against the Germans, at least in the early years of 1941 and ‘42. Corporal Lee had already been good at this. Jake’s two new best friends were survivors, and they’d become canny in many different ways.

“Can we move now?” Charlie whispered.

“Give it a full twenty minutes,” Jake whispered, “and don’t get antsy.”

A couple of minutes later, a fly buzzed near, and of course it landed on Jake’s cheek. He didn’t twitch a muscle and for sure he didn’t move up his hand to brush the fly away. He endured, and told himself he liked the feeling of the fly’s legs crawling over his skin. The thing crawled onto his eyelid. He wanted to roar curses and brush the fly away. He’d be dead if he did that, so Jake merely flicked his eyelid, and the creature buzzed away, to return soon and start the process all over again.

The minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness. Finally, Jake continued his crawling trek. Maybe he was the fly, and he crawled upon the Earth’s face. Naw, that was stupid. One thing was certain; he knew where he planned to go. There was a shell hole thirty yards away. It looked deep. Likely it had water in the bottom, as it had been raining on and off for several days.

Every night Jake took off his boots and socks and checked his feet. He dried them all the time and used the tip of his knife to scrape dirt from under his toenails. He told Charlie and Lee to dry theirs. Fungus had started to spread among the newbies, that and athlete’s foot. If your feet went, you were done, kaput. Was kaput anything like Kraut?

Jake sighed. The word was that the Krauts had landed in Rochester. That couldn’t be good. He wondered what his dad was doing now. How was his mother? He thought about his old buddies. Man, Denver seemed like a lifetime ago. The strip club…what had ever happened to the girl he’d talked with? She’d been a babe, all right.

Will I survive the war?

He didn’t see how. He didn’t see how America would, either. We’re not the nation we used to be. How could he help America once again become the land of freedom? First, they had to stop the Krauts and throw the Chinese and Brazilians back home. Then, eventually, the real, old-fashioned Americans needed to take care of those who wanted to enslave the rest of them. Maybe once this is over it will be time for a civil war. The Davy Crocket Americans can set up their own country and the communist types can have their country, which won’t be America, but what the heck. It’s what they seem to want.

Jake decided that as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t afford to use his last RPG to kill Dan Franks. The sergeant was a grade-A bastard. In Jake’s experience there was none worse. Franks deserved to die for the Americans he’d killed. The penal battalion militiamen were the real Americans, the kind who spoke up when those in power did something wrong. For evil to triumph, all good men must do is to do nothing. Some English theorist had said that a long time ago.

The statement told Jake several things. One, there were good men and there were evil men. Those who said otherwise were idiots. Those who said ideas and culture were relative and equal to each other didn’t know what they were talking about. Those who said people should accept everything as being equal to everything else were straight up fools, and America had been listening to the fools for far too long now. Why didn’t they listen to the Daniel Boone types? That’s why it had come to this. Having penal battalions was the socialist thinking of the schoolmen who wanted to brainwash the rest of America.

For evil to triumph, all good men must do is to do nothing.

Jake had spoken up, and that’s why he was in a penal unit. America, America: what had happened to the land of the free and the home of the brave?

If I survive this, I’m going to change my country. I’m going to bring back Daniel Boone America. I’m going to fight to free her from the invaders, and then I’m going to fight to free her from the homegrown tyrants and their useful idiots.

Thinking such thoughts made Jake feel better. Then enemy artillery opened up. There were loud, thunderous booms in the distance. Giant flashes told of big shells on the way.

“That can’t be good,” Charlie said.

No. That wasn’t good. Jake wanted to speed up, but he continued the slow crawl. If he moved too fast, he was dead. So slow and easy won the game.

The enemy shells howled over them. Big, car-sized hunks of metal tumbled overhead. None landed among them. Was that a miracle?

Who knew?

Finally, Jake gained his great reward: a waterlogged shell hole. With infinite patience taught from the school of hard knocks, Jake slipped into the watery hole. The yellow water came up to his hips. Soon Charlie and Lee joined him, making tiny splashes as they hunkered down in the hole with him.

“Now what?” Charlie asked. “We made it and the enemy is pulverizing our lines.”

Jake squinted. He knew which outposts on their trench line were dummies and which were heavy machine guns and rocket launchers. He was pretty sure he knew the one that Sergeant Franks hid behind. If he lifted the RGP…

Don’t be stupid, Jake told himself. Franks has been watching me the whole time. He expects me to shoot at him. If you want to kill the sergeant, you’ll have to let the Sigrids pass and attack Franks for you.

That wasn’t a bad idea, but he kept it to himself.

The enemy artillery thundered. The shells hammered the ground, searching for puny men hiding in the Earth.

“Do you hear that?” Charlie asked ten minutes later.

“All I hear is pounding in my ears,” Jake said.

“Listen,” Charlie said.

“Get down,” Lee hissed. The corporal lowered himself into the yellow water until only his head remained above it. The RPG lay higher up beside the shell-hole lip. Lee must have figured he could pick it up later.

Jake still couldn’t hear a thing except for the artillery, but he followed Lee’s example. Charlie did likewise.

Soon enough, Jake heard the squealing, clanking noise of Sigrid drones. His stomach tightened and fear began to claw for his attention.

This is wrong. This is murder putting us out here. I should be safe in the trench. Why does it make any difference if we fire these from the front or the back of the machine?

“Sometimes,” Jake said. Then his mouth dried up. The words wouldn’t come now. He wanted to close his eyes and just slip his head underwater.

An AI Kaiser HK appeared in his limited gaze. The thing was monstrous, and it had a squat, ugly cannon. The 175mm gun was like a short stogie clenched between the teeth of a psychopath. The Kaiser had a host of antennae sprouting from its top. Jake had never been this close to one before. The monster had poking autocannons everywhere and heavy machine guns, and beehive flechette launchers up the ying-yang. The HK could murder them all, no sweat. The good guys didn’t have any heavy stuff, not out here in no-man’s land to take out Kaisers.

Behind the Kaiser appeared another, and then a third and a fourth.

Now we know where they enemy is making his main assault.

“What do we do?” Charlie whispered.

Jake stared at his friend from Idaho. The look said one thing: keep your yap sewed shut, thank you oh-so much.

The three penal militiamen waited in their watery slop-hole. Three puny RPGs waited below the lip like metal sandbags.

Trying not to look directly at the things, Jake counted seven Kaisers. There were probably more. He could only see so much ducked down in his hole. It was like being mice as a herd of elephants walked by, or being antelope as a hungry pride of lions trotted past.

Treads clanked. Gun turrets rotated and barrels elevated. The ground shook and trembled as the big tanks passed. Bits of dirt from the edge of the shell hole plopped into the yellow water. It was like doom coming, and Jake feared the three of them would be buried alive as a Kaiser squashed them as he might squash a beetle with his heel.

In the distance, artillery boomed.

Is that theirs or ours?

The artillery ended up being American, and it was aimed at the Kaisers, meaning the shells screamed down onto no-man’s land.

We’re dead, Jake thought. It looks like our side is going to kill us after all.

As the HKs rumbled past their shell hole—big, looming machines casting them in death-shadows—their flechettes hissed and machine guns chattered relentlessly. The autocannons chugged, spewing shells skyward. Jake saw a sight of a lifetime. The metal monsters knocked out the incoming artillery tank-killers. Black ink seemed to explode in the sky, violent art like an anti-Fourth of July. It was crazy-sick and it likely saved his life by keeping the Kaisers busy, even as shrapnel plunked and rained like hail into the soggy ground of no-man’s land.

What am I supposed to think about this?

Jake might have heard a man wail in agony. Had a piece of shrapnel killed the sucker? He had no way of finding out. His nostrils were just above the water so he could breathe.

Then a Kaiser clanked its way directly over their hole. The two sets of treads passed on either side of them. They saw up into the oily underbelly. Maybe they could have fired a rocket and done some damage. Each of them just stared upward in shock and disbelief.

The machine passed, and they breathed normally again. Shortly thereafter, the American artillery stopped firing. The Kaisers obliged and likewise quit shooting. Soon, the last Kaiser clanked out of no-man’s land and reached the first American trench.

A few of the newbies must have had no idea of the AI tanks’ deadliness. Jake couldn’t believe it. As the last Kaisers clanked away, several unthinking newbies put their RPGs on their shoulders, aimed and fired at the enemy backsides.

One Kaiser paused. Autocannons knocked down the shaped-charge grenades flying at it. It was like swatting fleas. Machine guns chattered for less than ten seconds. Every militiaman who’d fired a rocket died in no-man’s land.

Jake, Charlie and Lee continued to wait. They eased up from time to time and watched the Kaisers take out the few MDGs who remained at their posts in the forward trench.

Charlie looked at Jake as if he wanted to comment. Jake already knew what the potato-grower was going to say. “Where did all the MDG sergeants go?” Too few of them had remained at their posts.

Jake could have told him where the others had gone, and no, it hadn’t been their own artillery killing them. Most of the MDGs took off before the Kaisers reached the trench system. It was suicide to fight the un-killable, and the detention guards certainly weren’t suicidal.

After the Kaisers trundled out of sight, heading deeper into the American defensive system, Charlie finally spoke:

“Now what do we do?”

Jake was ready to tell him.

“Wait,” Lee said. “I hear more coming.”

Charlie turned pale. “Come on. That isn’t fair. Do you guys think that’s fair?”

“These sound smaller,” Jake said, who had his head cocked.

“Yes,” Lee agreed. “These are the Sigrids.”

“Wonderful,” Jake said.

“What are we going to do?” Charlie asked.

“For one thing,” Jake said. “We’re going to wait right here. The Kaisers left us alone. I doubt the Sigrids will look for us either.”

But Jake was wrong: not dead wrong, just wrong.

Five Sigrids squealed and clanked into view. Each of the smaller vehicles had its special tri-barrel, and they hosed bullets into the first penal militiaman, slamming an older man with white in his hair and blowing his head clean off.

“They know we’re here!” Jake shouted. “Fire! Fire at them!”

He didn’t know if anyone other than Charlie and Lee heard him. Maybe waiting out in no-man’s land had changed some of the newbies. Maybe watching Kaisers roll past had changed them.

Five Sigrids faced a host of RPG-armed Americans in shell holes.

“One, two, three, four, five!” Jake shouted.

“I’ll take one!” Charlie shouted.

“Two,” Lee said.

“Yeah, I’ll take out number five,” Jake said. “It’s the farthest away.” He didn’t want them to all shoot at the same machine.

Jake took a deep breath. “Ready?”

His two best friends nodded.

“Go,” Jake said.

Each militiaman slipped up and took his RPG. The five Sigrids hosed death at everything. Their tiny turrets swiveled and the tri-barrels rotated as they spit flames and lead. Despite their smaller size, the things were living mayhem.

With practiced skill, Jake readied his RPG, aimed it at the number five Sigrid and pulled the trigger. The shaped-charge grenade whooshed out. Beside him, Charlie and Lee’s rockets did the same thing. Other militiamen must have heard Jake’s instructions, because now all over the shell holes in no-man’s land, penal militiamen popped up and fired.

These weren’t guided missiles. These were aimed just like a rifle or a BB gun. Dozens of rockets flew at the Sigrids. Most of the missiles missed their targets, burning past to blow up harmlessly out of range of any enemy.

Charlie’s grenade hit, exploded and tore a tri-barrel into uselessness. Lee’s struck and launched the vehicle airborne enough to flip it so it landed on its rounded head. Jake’s destroyed a port, and the thing died. Three other HEAT grenades blasted the fourth Sigrid and obliterated it. That left one useable vehicle against the rest of the penal platoon.

“All together!” Jake shouted. His voice was loud like a PE coach. “We have to fire at it all together.”

Unfortunately, they were out of RPGs. All they had left were their regular M16s.

“Here we go,” Jake said. “One more time.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said.

Jake popped up. Charlie popped up and so did Lee. The three militiamen fired, hammering the armored hide with bullets. Then more militiamen did likewise: they were the last newbies left. Maybe the Sigrid had taken damage elsewhere. Who knew, who cared? The point today was that with all the bullets pinging off it, enough did enough damage that the drone trundled into a shell hole, tipped over and plunged in headfirst. Maybe they had shot out its camera lenses.

“Stop firing!” Jake roared.

As the sound of rifle fire died away, a feeling of awe worked over Jake, a chill of disbelief on the back of his neck. They’d done it. They had stopped the Sigrids or this small bunch anyway. Five lousy machines: were the Germans running out of them?

“Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.

Jake climbed out of the shell hole. The sound of combat came from farther down the line, but right now, their sector was quiet.

Water dripped from him and water soaked his clothes. It made his underwear ride up too high. Someone had to take over now that the lieutenant and his butt-boys had run off or died. It might as well be him. Lee was a corporal, but Jake had once been a sergeant.

“All right!” he shouted. “Let’s gather round, and follow me to the first trench. We need a plan if we’re going to make it back to our side.”

The others didn’t need any more urging. They hurried to him and he led them back to the overrun trench system.