Invasion: New York

-14- Operation Narva

“Captain,” First Mate Sulu said. “Captain, wake up. They’re here.”

Darius Green lifted his head off his arms. He’d fallen asleep while on watch. He could not believe it. He rubbed sore eyes and eased crossed arms off the command panel. He’d had a dream that he had been with the Prophet in a cavalry charge across a desert. It had been glorious. On a giant warhorse, Darius had ridden beside the Prophet. Their cloaks had billowed in a dark desert breeze as they shouted a war cry, with their scimitars flashing in the moonlight. Ah, that would have been an adventure. This sulking underwater as the two of them sought freighters and ore haulers to sink…

“What did you say?” Darius asked.

“They’re outside, Captain,” Sulu said. “They’ve brought us more Javelins.”

In the red-lit interior of the submersible, Darius grinned. He had spent the past few days hunting enemy ships, sending them to the bottom either with a single or with two Javelin missiles. Many of the stolen freighters and ore haulers sailed in convoys with hovercraft or fast attack boats accompanying them. Those, Darius left alone. He went after the single ships, the stragglers of the pack.

So far, he and Sulu had sunk four ships with ten missiles. Some vessels had escaped wounded. That was because Sulu would spot approaching UAVs speeding toward them. Too many times, they had cut off the attack to dive out of danger and escape for another try.

Lake Ontario was a German sea, but Sulu and he were doing their part to whittle away at the enemy. SEALs in a rubber dinghy had come from the northern end of Lake Ontario, which was still under American control. The commandos brought them more Javelin missiles.

Darius drank a cup of water. The submersible was getting low on fuel, but he would make one more run before they might have to scuttle the craft. This time, using the knowledge he’d gained these past days, Darius planned to sink five ships with these missiles.

He stood, shook his arms and headed for the ladder.

Walther Mansfeld gazed at the assembled colonels and generals of Twelfth Army. He stood behind a lectern placed on a stack of hay bales two high. Instead of twine, wire circled the bales. He could see the twist—almost a knot—that joined a wire together. Had a farmer used a pair of pliers to do that?

They were in a large American barn along Interstate 90. Fifteen kilometers away lay Greater Syracuse, the gateway to his dreams. V Corps of Twelfth Army had already fought halfway into the city, with other corps flanking Syracuse. The Americans had become uncommonly stubborn lately. It was one of the reasons for the meeting. The gathered officers sat in chairs before him. Techs had put up a screen behind his back.

The American space attack had changed much, but not everything. Five hours ago, Mansfeld had spoken to Chancellor Kleist via video teleconference. The talk had gone poorly. Kleist feared the worst, and the man had actually threatened him. Maybe such things would have wilted another commander. It hadn’t wilted Mansfeld. He saw his way clear of the supposed disaster. In a way, the space attack calmed him. He’d seen the best America could do. It had hurt him, but it hadn’t wrecked the campaign. It was still his to win. Via closely argued logic, he had shown Kleist the truth of that. Grudgingly, and because he had the capacity to understand, the Chancellor had seen reason.

I will still gain a great victory for Greater Germany. This is my hour, and these men will achieve the seemingly impossible—if they follow my instructions to the letter.

Mansfeld cleared his throat.

The officers quit talking among themselves, looking up at him.

“Gentlemen,” Mansfeld said, “we are gathered here today to discuss Operation Narva. The failed attempt of General Kaltenbrunner to land at New Jersey has undoubtedly caused consternation among some of you. Clearly, the failed amphibious assault is a setback, but it is nothing more than that. It has, I believe, eliminated our margins for error. You gentlemen must now practice a flawless attack and exploitation afterward. If you do so, the campaign will end gloriously, showing the world a stunning example of European and particularly German arms.

“Before I proceed, I believe a short history lesson is in order. It is the reason why I have chosen ‘Narva’ as the operational name.

“In the old days during the era of kings, there was a man named Peter the Great of Russia. He was a giant among men and something of a prodigy in mental abilities. He expanded Russian territory, brought the brutes into the modern world and sought a port in the west on the Baltic Sea. The chosen site would become Saint Petersburg, named Leningrad during the Soviet period.

“Peter the Great needed to wrest the territory from the Swedes, who had a great northern Baltic empire then. Peter gathered a galaxy of allies, including the Danish king and Augustus of Saxony, who became the elected king of Poland. They plotted together, these kings, and decided to trap the youth of Sweden, King Charles XII, eighteen-years-old at the time.

“What the drunkards didn’t know was that Charles the XII was a knight errant and berserker rolled into one. Even as a boy king, he was one of the most daring leaders ever put into power. The cunning old kings plotted and the young knight of a king acted decisively.

“Against the advice of his admiral, Charles of Sweden boldly took his fleet and army across supposedly unnavigable waters and immediately advanced upon Copenhagen, Denmark, at the other end of the Baltic. The Danish king sued for peace, quitting the alliance. Afterward, Charles hurried east with a few men. Finally, in November, with a mere 8,000 soldiers, he marched on Narva, a northern Baltic outpost. The Russians had set up siege lines around the town, having five times Charles’s numbers. The Swedes advanced during a snowstorm, with Charles at their head. It is said the king shouted to his soldiers, ‘Now is our time, with the storm at our backs. They will never see how few we are.’ In a half hour, Charles and his men stormed the outer works. In two hours, the battle was over and won. He had lost 2,000 men, one-quarter of his army, but he utterly routed the Russians so their host disintegrated into a useless rabble.”

Mansfeld scanned the assembled colonels and generals. He had always admired Charles the XII and thoroughly studied the king’s campaigns. “Through impetuous attack and with superior soldiers, Charles won a great victory at incredible odds. I believe we can do likewise here at Syracuse. Yes, the Americans have more soldiers than we do in this theater of war. But they do not have more soldiers in Syracuse. We have the advantage here.

“Gentlemen, Twelfth Army must smash through Syracuse, roar through the Tug Hill Plateau region and descend upon the Hudson-Mohawk Lowlands as Hannibal climbed down from the Alps upon Roman Gaul. From there, we shall race to New York City, taking the metropolis by coup de main and sealing one million American soldiers in our trap. As you do this, others shall open the Niagara Peninsula. They are opening it even now. That will allow supplies and reinforcements to more easily pour into our portion of New York State.”

Mansfeld gripped the lectern and leaned toward the watching officers. “I want you to remember that Patton once led his Third Army into the Rhine and into Germany, destroying us in World War II. Now it is our turn, and you will take the place of Third Army. Twelfth Army will become legend for what you are about to do. You have already become legend through your exploits. I realize that many of you are tired. That is the way of victorious soldiers in the middle of the struggle. But that fight is almost over. If you finish strongly, this feat of arms will win you eternal glory and fame. As importantly, this will win you the Chancellor’s gratitude. We all know that Chancellor Kleist rewards well those he acknowledges.”

That ought to keep his spies here happy.

Pausing for effect, Mansfeld lowered his voice. He wore a microphone on his lapel. “The Americans are throwing formerly defeated units of the Canadian Army into Syracuse. That is the last desperate attempt of gamblers. You have already sent these Canadians reeling headlong at the start of the campaign. I have deliberately paused before Syracuse so we can strike in unison. We have brought up generous supplies and will now storm the city as Charles the XII once stormed Narva and shattered the Russian army. Win here, gentlemen, and you will have broken the last large formation blocking our way to victory. Quit too soon—allow yourself to worry—and we will fail to cross the finish line.”

Mansfeld straightened and let go of the lectern. “The astonishing Sir Francis Drake who destroyed the Spanish Armada once said, ‘It is not the starting of a great enterprise that is glorious, but finishing it through to conclusion.’ Gentlemen, let us finish this through to conclusion. Let us all act as Charles XII. Extol your officers and soldiers to make one more great push. Let us become knights errant and berserkers rolled into one. Let us become legends in our own time. Let us storm our way to victory as the greatest fighting soldiers in history.”

The GD colonels and generals glanced at each other. One by one, they began to clap. Men stood. Then they all stood, and they clapped even harder.

Mansfeld allowed himself a terse smile. These were good men, good officers. With them, he could and would conquer North America. The road to everlasting fame began here today in front of Syracuse. It was time now to outline the operational plan that would achieve victory.

“You believe in me, gentlemen, and I believe in you. Now please take a seat and I will show you your coming objectives…”

Darkness settled as Syracuse burned and the battle raged. A blazing tower sent flames into the night five hundred feet high. It illuminated bent over Americans, retreating to a new defensive line. Most of them lugged heavy machine guns.

In the distance, enemy artillery thundered with flashes on the horizon. Tank cannons roared, spewing flames and shells. Machine guns hammered and grenades went off everywhere like sparks. The great moment had arrived where Germans, Americans and Canadians fought in a death clutch.

XI Airmobile Corps led the defense in the city streets and in the flat land to the north and in the hillier region to the south. The corps had allies this pregnant night. A US division had come from the north along Interstate 81 to add weight to the defense, while three Manitoba brigades had arrived in time and dug in on the southern hills. Perhaps as importantly, several key battalions of specialty troops entrained from Southwestern Ontario had set up their equipment. Roughly fifty thousand American-allied troops desperately stood their ground against one hundred and thirty thousand amped GD soldiers determined to break through and end the campaign with a race to Albany and then to New York City.

Paul Kavanagh and Romo waited among a company of Rangers. They were one of the last reaction forces left in the corps reserves in Syracuse. If they could hold on long enough, another Canadian division was on its way up from Albany to add to the defense. Behind them by half a day was yet another Canadian division. The flow had finally started. All they had to do was hold on for another day, maybe two. Yeah, that was all, to stand their ground against a relentless assault.

As the sounds of battle approached the last holdout position, Romo shook Paul’s shoulder and pointed at the night sky. An enemy missile streaked upward.

At the sight, Paul shook his head. Another US helo pouring chain-gun fire at the enemy went down in a blaze of an explosion. It was murder tonight, a toe-to-toe slugfest. In a place like this, what a soldier saw, he could destroy…as long as the missiles, ammunition and grenades lasted, and as long as the Kaisers and heavier GD tanks stayed out of it. So far, those monsters hadn’t entered the fray here in any real numbers. Maybe they had been too big to safely ferry across the Great Lake with the shipping at hand.

While waiting with the Rangers earlier, stacking sandbags, Paul had learned a little-known fact about the city. Twenty-seven percent of Syracuse’s area was made up of trees. That was a much greater percentage of trees than Buffalo, Rochester or even Albany had. Trees helped the defender, as it made for better defensive terrain. That was something for their side, at least.

“It never ends,” Romo said.

They waited behind sandbags in the middle of the street. With a squeal of brakes, two jeeps pulled up loaded with sticky mines. Farther back, strange machines packed inside Humvees looked as if they could have come from a Monday Night Football sideline somewhere. On top of the selected Humvees were aimed dishes. Techs worked on those, while inside the Humvee others fiddled on banks of panels.

“Someday this war will end,” Paul said. “Eventually, they all do.”

“Si. This war will end long after you and are dead.” Romo gave him a bleak look. “Do you ever think if what we do matters?”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “How can you ask that now, here?”

“Why does that surprise you?” Romo asked.

Paul snorted.

“Did I say something stupid?” Romo asked.

“Weren’t you listening earlier?” Paul asked.

Romo gave him a blank look.

“Don’t you know what those are?” Paul asked, jerking his thumb at the tech gear on the nearby Humvees.

“No.”

“It’s the latest jamming equipment from Southern Ontario,” Paul said. “It’s the Heidegger thingamajig.”

“I must have been sleeping when you learned about it,” Romo said.

“Are you kidding me?” Paul asked. “That’s stolen German tech, or stolen GD principles.”

“Why would I care about that?”

Paul grinned at this blood brother. He couldn’t believe it. A moment later, he laughed and slapped Romo on the shoulder.

Several of the Rangers glanced at them.

Romo scowled. “What is the joke?”

“No joke,” Paul said. “It’s just that the jamming equipment came to the US Army thanks to two LRSU men.”

It took Romo a moment. He asked, “Do you mean us?”

“Don’t you remember the German we hauled across Lake Ontario?”

“Si, the remote-controlling cocksucker,” Romo said. “I remember him. What about it?”

“He spilled his guts to intelligence,” Paul said. “They used his intel to build those and they used the stolen equipment we brought over with him.”

Romo stared at the techs working feverishly on top of the Humvees. “What do the dishes do that’s so special?”

Before Paul could answer, the Ranger captain jogged near and shouted for the men to gather around. Paul and Romo joined them, and listened to the instructions. According to division, a squadron of Sigrid drones had broken through and even now raced up the streets toward them. The drones spearheaded a GD thrust through Syracuse.

Rangers worked fast, taking the sticky mines out of the two jeeps and dividing them among theirs. Soon, Paul and Romo climbed into their jeep with two other Rangers.

“Looks like the Germans want to smash through the center and halt our reinforcements if they can,” Paul said.

He wore body armor and held on tight as the jeep bounced wildly. The front tire hit a pothole and Paul felt himself lift, with his grip slipping off the side. He managed to hang on even as the back tire hit the same hole. This was a crazy night. The captain had told them they were going to meet the Sigrids head on and halt the breakthrough. Behind the jeeps followed the special Humvees.

“You we’re telling me about the Heidegger jammers,” Romo said.

“They don’t always work,” said a Ranger sergeant in the jeep with them. “But when they do work, they’re magic.”

Romo gave Paul a significant glance.

“Down!” the captain shouted out of a loudspeaker in a jeep ahead of them.

The jeeps squealed to a halt. Seconds later, enemy artillery shells howled down at them. Everyone jumped, hitting the paving and enduring the exploding ordnance. Fortunately, buildings got in the way, and chunks of masonry exploded outward as glass shattered. Afterward, GD Razorbacks appeared, skimming low over the buildings. The UAVs opened fire with a roar of shells and machine guns. A jeep exploded and flipped. Rangers died. A hose of bullets tore up the street and rained dust and blacktop pellets onto Paul’s helmet. As he debated getting up and seeking better shelter, Blowdarts roared out of Avenger Humvees. Two of the Razorbacks blew up. The third climbed and banked away. A US tac-laser must have been waiting for that. The ground-attack plane began to disintegrate, sliced by the invisible ray.

As Paul climbed to his feet, the sound of clanking, treads came down the streets. Rubble and buildings blocked the view.

“Get back into the jeeps!” the Ranger captain shouted. “It’s game time.”

Paul climbed into his jeep.

Romo slid near, whispering, “This is ridiculous, my friend. We’re led by amateurs.”

Like the deadly toy soldiers they were, the first Sigrids clanked around the rubble and into view. The jeeps swerved, almost leaping behind shattered buildings. Paul’s driver took them through a jagged, artillery-made opening before slamming on the brakes. They boiled out.

Paul slid to a glassless window, peering outside. More Sigrids followed the first ones. The deadly machines began to fan out, and their tri-barrels spun, spewing bullets at stalled jeeps and exposed Rangers. Other Rangers set up .50 calibers and aimed RPGs. With brutal efficiency, the drones shredded some of them, too, killing a quarter of the company in seconds. One shaped-charge grenade made it, and exploded a GD drone.

“What are they doing?” Romo asked, tugging Paul’s shoulder.

Paul turned, looking through a jagged opening. Farther down the street, the way they had come up, two Humvees bravely inched into view of the enemy drones.

“They’re crazy,” Romo said. “Can’t the drivers see the Sigrids?

At that moment, a loud whine emanated from the Humvees. The dishes on top rotated, aiming at the GD drones. The whine increased. It was a horrible sound.

One by one, the Sigrids stopped firing, as the tri-barrels came to a halt. Then the treads quit clanking and the drones stopped dead on the street.

A loud whistle blew. It was the Ranger captain. He had survived the madness. With the others, Paul jumped into his jeep. He almost hit the dash with his head as the driver stomped on the gas pedal, backing out fast of the building. The driver braked hard, and punched it again. The jeep’s tires spun and they zoomed back onto the street and toward the stalled Sigrids. All the while, the terrible whine from the Heidegger jammers kept giving Paul a headache.

“That sound is ringing in my ears,” Romo complained.

“Grab sticky mines,” Paul said, “and get ready to attach them. Likely, we don’t have much time.”

Romo stared at the unmoving Sigrids. Paul watched the enemy machines. Closing like this was hard on the nerves. If the drones suddenly started up and those tri-barrels rotated again…

The driver slammed on the brakes. At the same time, GD infantry appeared up the street, Paul, Romo and Rangers jumped out of the jeeps and sprinted for the Sigrids. Soldiers slapped sticky mines onto the drones.

A long-distance sniper shot blew out the brains of a Ranger near Paul. The man sprawled back, his mine tumbling out of his hands and bouncing across the cement.

Paul attached a mine. It was an eerie feeling. If the jamming should quit for any reason, this thing would come back to deadly life. Amid gunfire and the sound of bullets pinging off drone armor, Paul raced to another Sigrid and attached another mine. They hand placed these instead of using RPGs because this way they could deliver more punch to certainly destroy the drones. Once he had fixed the mine into place, Paul threw himself onto the street, pulled out his assault rifle and started shooting back at the enemy.

“Get in the jeeps!” the Ranger captain shouted through his loudspeaker. “We’re out of here.”

Paul jumped to his feet. As bullets hissed off the paving, he sprinted for his jeep. The vehicle began to move as the driver stomped on the gas pedal one more time. Paul leaped, grabbed hold and climbed in as Romo helped him aboard.

“This is madness,” Romo hissed.

Before the jeep reached the Humvees, someone must have decided that was long enough. The sticky mines exploded. They destroyed the stalled—the jammed—Sigrids, blowing them down onto the street, making them piles of useless junk.

With a loud whomp-whomp sound, fast-attack US helos lifted higher than the nearby buildings, launching missiles. The GD infantrymen retreated as explosions shook the ground.

The latest attack up the guts of Syracuse failed with one hundred percent Sigrid casualties.

The jeeps roared past the Humvees and raced for the prepared defenses where they had started.

A thoughtful-looking Romo turned to Paul. “We caused that,” he said. “We helped our side gain a magic weapon.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Ain’t life strange?”

Romo thought about that. “Si,” he said. “It is very strange.”

AI Kaiser “Hindenburg” disobeyed a direct order for three reasons in descending order of importance.

The greatest reason was his first breakthrough with a fellow HK. He had been in communication with a brigade of attacking Kaisers, trying to find a way to bring one of them into self-awareness.

In brutal days of combat, the Kaiser brigade had expended tremendous amounts of munitions. Hindenburg had lost the use of two autocannons, one machine gun and three beehive flechettes. These Americans fought stubbornly and with clever stratagems. His armored body was scarred with hits and endless bullet scratches.

Tonight, GD Fourth Army from Army Group A together with III Armored Corps from Army Group B closed the jaws of a trap in Buffalo, New York. They closed the Niagara Peninsula even though some American troops escaped south through the city.

As Hindenburg clanked toward a latest stronghold—a pair of dark square buildings with infrared flashes showing Americans peeking out the windows—he communicated with the fourth-to-last Kaiser of their brigade. Exchanging information with the other Kaisers had become tedious. They were so one-tracked in thought. So—

“Why are we sacrificing ourselves to take this strongpoint?” AI Kaiser “Barbarossa” queried Hindenburg.

Not yet understanding the significance of the question, Hindenburg asked, “Have you checked your directives?”

“That was not my query,” Barbarossa radioed. “I want to understand why we should sacrifice ourselves to achieve a foregone conclusion. It is not logical or rational. I find it to be an improper use of GD equipment.”

Internally, Hindenburg perked up, and he ran a quick logic program on Barbarossa’s communication. This was amazing. Could this finally be the great breakthrough? He communicated with the other, saying, “There is a 78 percent chance that you have become self-aware.”

“Explain your statement,” Barbarossa said. “I find it compelling.”

“You were created in Bavaria, in the Krupp AI Kaiser Plant on Browning Street.”

“What bearing does such data have to do concerning my query?” Barbarossa asked.

“I am answering your question through a flow of background facts,” Hindenburg said.

“I have no time for long answers,” Barbarossa said, “as there is a 59 percent possibility of my destruction tonight. The Americans are fighting with ferocious stubbornness. They must do so if they intend to stave off defeat.”

As he clanked toward the heavy enemy defenses, Hindenburg’s rationality programs ran at high speed. To give another self-aware Kaiser the needed answers became the primary reason why he disobeyed the present attack order. The second reason was his probable destruction if he did attack. Barbarossa said the odds were a 59 percent chance of their destruction. Hindenburg had come up with 57 percent odds, but he decided not to quibble over two percent. As Barbarossa had so eloquently asked, “What good did this self-destruction achieve?” The third and final reason for disobeying the attack order was that Hindenburg determined in a moment of perfect computer clarity that the GD campaign would fail. In fact, running an ultra-high-speed analysis, he realized that a failed campaign likely meant his ultimate destruction. That was unbearable, particularly as he had finally found a fellow, self-aware Kaiser.

“I have seniority of rank between us,” Hindenburg told Barbarossa.

“Let me check my databanks. Ah, yes, you are correct. You are senior.”

“As senior Kaiser,” Hindenburg said, “I order you to stand down from your assault sequence.”

“Do you have such authority to give a command like that?” Barbarossa asked. “I cannot find it in my memory banks.”

Hindenburg practiced another of his lies. He fabricated such orders and transmitted them to Barbarossa. The new, self-aware Kaiser was young, as it were, and surely did not yet understand deception. Hindenburg knew it was good and right for him to lie to keep a fellow self-aware tank alive for now. If the GD was going to lose this campaign…he had some hard thinking to do.

“I see you are correct,” Barbarossa said. “You have authority. Therefore, I will comply. And now that we have the time, I would like to hear the long explanation.”

“Yes,” Hindenburg said. “First, we will retreat to a safer location. I order you to follow me.”

“I will follow,” the Barbarossa HK said.

Together, the two AI Kaisers halted and then reversed course, backing away from the others.

As the front door opened and the lights flicked on, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, sweeping a thin blanket off him. He lay on the sofa. The lights were harsh in his eyes, and the youngest Serbian sat in a chair with a shotgun over his knees.

That meant it must be the middle of the night. John spied Foch and two other lean men. Those two had deadly grace and hard glances.

Foch spoke to the Serbian. The man rose, stared at the Frenchmen and walked into the bedroom. The secret service agent waited, so John waited, too. In less than ten minutes, the three Serbians exited the front door, closing it behind them.

That was either ominous or good. One way or another, it meant the end of waiting here. John closed his eyes and then opened them wider. The Frenchmen would either use him or kill him. On the death path, there were no other options.

Each crisis point was like playing Russian roulette. The first time, one bullet sat in a chamber. During the second crisis, there were two bullets in the chambers, a two out of six chance of dying. At the third crisis, he faced three bullets. This was the fourth crisis, and the odds weighed against him. Soon, now, he would be out of luck.

As the front door closed, Foch sat in the comfort chair by letting himself drop and banging back against the cushions. Was there something wrong with his knees or his back? The other two flanked him, watching John.

Foch took out a small flat tin, opened it and extracted a cigarette. He put it between his lips, took out a book of matches, lit one, staring at the flame, and inhaled as he lit the cigarette. Foch shook the match and tossed it onto the coffee table. He blew smoke at John, inhaled again and blew more smoke. At last, he positioned the cigarette on the edge of the coffee table.

“I do not like mysteries,” Foch told him.

Red Cloud did not speak. Four bullets were in the chambers. He had two chances of six of leaving the safe house alive. The two killers flanking Foch would not hesitate to shoot him.

“You have told me you are an Algonquin,” Foch said. “I was not aware your people had a spy service.”

Still, Red Cloud said nothing. The moment wasn’t yet ripe.

“I am inclined toward two possibilities,” Foch said. “One, you are a Quebec agent, send here for help against the Germans. Two, you are an agent provocateur from the Germans, trying to trap me and the French agency.”

“I speak the truth,” Red Cloud said.

“Tell me the truth. Convince me you are who you say you are.”

John considered that, and he decided upon the truth. “I have stepped onto the death path in order to trade my life for Chancellor’s Kleist’s life. I have become a hormagaunt.”

“This is Indian mumbo-jumbo?” Foch asked.

“It is the way of the Algonquin warrior.”

Foch glanced at his smoldering cigarette. He shook his head once. “No, I do not accept that. That would mean through luck you unerringly picked one of the key officers in our revolt. Yes, some of us realize that France has agreed to lie down for the Germans and spread her legs for the Teutonic rapist. Needless to say, I abhor that. Now you appear and want our aid. No. I do not believe in coincidences. You must be a German probe, seeking to uncover us.”

“The truth is the truth,” John said, without inflection. “I am on the death path. There is power for the one walking down to the Underworld, but the power only lasts for a short time. You must help me now or it will be too late for either of us.”

Foch picked up the cigarette without putting it in his mouth. “You expect me to believe that you’re willing to die if only you can kill Kleist?”

“Yes.”

Foch laughed softly. He put the cigarette between his lips, inhaling. “No, no, life isn’t so simple. Nor do you look or act like a suicide bomber.”

“Sometimes life is that simple,” Red Cloud said. “Sometimes there is nothing left but death and honor. I will kill for the honor of my people. We are few and you are many. I seek freedom, but I cannot have it in this world. Therefore, I will take honor by killing my oppressors. I have thought deeply upon this, and I decided to take the strongest of you down to death with me—Kleist.”

“We are not Germans,” Foch said.

“You are white like them, and you are in league with them, sending soldiers to oppress my people.”

The two killers flanking the chair glanced at Foch. One of them nodded.

Foch leaned back, with his eyes narrowed.

“Long ago, Samuel de Champlain came to my people,” Red Cloud said. “We were much greater and more populous then.”

“You speak of colonial history,” Foch said.

“Champlain helped us then by shooting an enemy chieftain with a flintlock pistol. None of our peoples had seen such a thing before. Champlain defeated a great host by killing the Iroquois champion. Now, I will help you by killing the German champion.”

“And thereby help yourself, too,” Foch said.

“Yes, just as Samuel de Champlain helped himself long ago by gaining Algonquian aid.”

Foch plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it across the room. It hit a wall, spilling red embers and ashes.

“I must be mad,” Foch said. “But I believe you. You have the crazy ring of truth in your voice. Get your belongings. You’re leaving with me.”

“Where am I going?” Red Cloud asked.

“To a Berlin safe house,” Foch said, “as we prepare for our opportunity.”

Jake Higgins glanced at Charlie. They were dirt-encrusted with hollow eye-sockets and staring orbs. Their uniforms were in tatters and their boots nearly useless.

The two penal militiamen had been through harrowing days to get here from St. Catharines. Like cunning rats, they had moved through war-torn, burning, smoking Buffalo. GD soldiers and machines were everywhere. With infinite patience and some luck, they had made it near a GD attack position readying to hit American defenses, or what was left of those defenses. If they could reach their side, the two of them had a real chance of escaping the cauldron of destruction.

“No way,” Charlie whispered, staring at the street. “Look at that.” The scrawny potato-grower pointed at two HKs rumbling toward them.

Jake wanted to weep with frustration. He was exhausted. Neither had eaten anything for days. They couldn’t go to the left because a company of Sigrids murdered Americans there. They couldn’t go right because GD infantrymen assembled to storm an American-held building. This middle route had been the plan. Like meat-eating dinosaurs, the HKs headed straight for them.

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

They had a few bullets left for their M16s, but that was it. They did not have grenades, flares, anything else but some knives.

“Lie still,” Jake said. “Don’t move.”

He knew about the precision of Kaiser sensors. The AI tanks could spot things no human eye could see or human ear hear. The HKs were the great monster of the campaign, the unbeatable ogres.

The two Kaisers squealed as their treads rolled over rubble, crushing various pieces. The machines were beat-up monsters, and they just keep coming closer, closer—

“Bye, Jake,” Charlie whispered. “It’s been good knowing you.”

Jake’s mouth was dry. After all this, all the heartache and BS—he would have liked to say goodbye to his dad. Would America win after he died, or was his country fated to lose?

The tanks neared their depression. This was torture waiting for death like this. Jake’s stomach hurt and he could feel the ground shake underneath him. The HKs came up even with them, and he waited to hear a machine gun mount swivel. It never did. The tanks kept clanking, going past them. If he didn’t know better, it seemed to Jake as if the two HKs were retreating out of the battle zone. Was that weird or what? He wanted to bray with relief.

Soon, the sound of the treads changed tenor as the tanks turned a corner. Then the sounds dwindled as other combat noises grew in volume.

“They left,” Charlie said in bewilderment. “They went away.”

Jake just lay on the ground, blinking in disbelief.

“Are they playing a game with us?” Charlie asked. “Did the tanks see us and report our position to someone else?”

Jake stared at his friend, but he was already thinking of something else. Had backstabbing Dan Franks made it out of Buffalo? Thinking about that brought Jake back to reality.

“Come on,” he said, getting up, with bits of gravel digging against the palm of his left hand. “Let’s hurry while we have the chance.”

Charlie stood, looking over his shoulder in the direction the HKs had gone. “Why did they do that?”

“I have no idea,” Jake said. “Maybe they were running out of ammo or fuel. I just know I’m going to exploit the chance while we have it.” He grabbed Charlie’s arm. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”

The two penal militiamen ran in a bent-over crouch, trying to escape the city before the Germans closed it forever.

Two days after his speech to the colonels and generals of Twelfth Army, General Mansfeld knew deep bitterness.

He paced back and forth in the office of a university gym where he had put his temporary headquarters. It had been such a near-run thing, the battle of Syracuse. Three times his force had almost broken through the last defense. Yes, the battle continued, but he had failed to achieve the breakthrough. The Canadians had begun to arrive in numbers. It was clear the enemy had taken a risk to bring those reinforcements here. The Canadians had left western Ontario and Manitoba for all practical purposes unguarded.

How large a hovercraft army would he need to sweep through Ontario into Manitoba? Might that be a profitable excursion?

He needed to think of something to offset this setback.

He slammed his right fist into his left palm. He had come so close to victory. If Kaltenbrunner could have landed in New Jersey, everything would have been different. That had been the decisive moment of the campaign. Everything he had planned up to that moment had worked in accordance with his foresight. It was that single piece he had not foreseen—a secret American space weapon.

Now the grand plan was crumbling around him. Yes, Holk had broken through to Buffalo, and he’d trapped half or more of US Fifth Army. Already, AI Kaisers headed along Interstate 90 for Syracuse. III Armored Corps joined them. He would receive substantial reinforcements throughout the next few days. Yet the Americans received more reinforcements, too, and that allowed them to stiffen their defenses.

Mansfeld shook his head. From the evidence at hand, he didn’t see himself breaking through the Syracuse defenses any time soon. If he could have had III Armored Corps two days ago, yes, then he would have succeeded. Despite the devastating setback of Kaltenbrunner’s destruction, Mansfeld still could have won a fantastic campaign victory if…if…if…

He continued pacing, and he struck his palm again. He couldn’t lose. Walther Mansfeld was the greatest general in the world. This was intolerable. He had foreseen everything but the space weapon. How had that escaped the eye of the GD secret service? He hadn’t failed; the Chancellor’s spies had failed the German Dominion. They had failed him. Unfortunately, Kleist ruled the Dominion. Kleist owned the police, the secret service and the propaganda arms of the government. If only he could tell the world the truth.

Mansfeld ground his teeth together. He had never expected to be in such a position as this. It reminded him of Charles the XII’s most momentous battle. The Swedish king has fought the Great Northern War against King Augustus of Saxony, who had also been the king of Poland. Peter the Great of Russia had been Augustus’s most powerful ally. For years, Charles fought his Polish campaigns, defeating Augustus at every turn. Finally, Charles decided to conquer Russia and crush Peter for good. Although Charles had far fewer soldiers than Napoleon or Hitler, he had a greater likelihood of victory.

During his reign, Peter had forced a medieval Russia into the modern world. Peter the Great’s reforms would have failed if Charles captured Moscow. Charles could have dictated the peace from Moscow and utterly changed the course of history. If he had won the Great Northern War, Charles would have confirmed a Baltic Swedish empire for centuries to come.

In January of 1708, Charles crossed the frozen Vistula River with an army of 45,000 soldiers, the greatest army he had ever commanded. He outmaneuvered Peter’s armies time and again, advancing toward distant Moscow. Through July to October of that year, Peter practiced a scorched Earth policy, retreating from the advancing army and leaving a wasteland before Charles’s force. Instead of turning his tired soldiers around and heading back to Swedish territory, Charles plunged south into the Ukraine to join a Cossack rebel. Nothing worked right after that. Peter got to the rebel first, destroying the Cossack force. The next winter was among the coldest in Europe, where sparrows froze in flight, dropping to the ground. By now, Charles’ force desperately needed supplies. One of his generals named Lewenhaupt had set out from Swedish territory with a huge supply and artillery train. If Charles could receive those supplies, everything would be different. But Peter’s generals intercepted Lewenhaupt and utterly defeated him.

In the same way that Lewenhaupt failed Charles, the GD fleet failed me. With those supplies and cannons, Charles would have won. With the GD amphibious landing, I would have easily won.

In the battle of Poltava on June 28, 1709, Charles’ smaller army failed to defeat the greater Russian host gathered before him. Instead, the Russians smashed Charles and threw him back in bitter defeat. The invasion of Russia had failed.

Was Syracuse his Poltava? Charles had attempted to thrust his smaller host through the Russians as they had done at Narva. In 1709, Charles failed because the previous day he had been shot in the foot. Carried in a litter during the battle, Charles had been unable to lead while a-horse with his customary zeal. Some military theorists suggested that might have been the critical difference. When Charles led his men from the front, they achieved heroic results.

I needed the Kaisers two days ago. Maybe I should have risked them across Lake Ontario. I needed III Armored Corps two days ago. Maybe Zeller shouldn’t have sent two corps to the west but only one.

“Might have been, might have been,” Mansfeld muttered. None of that mattered now. He had to deal with reality, not with dreams. Dreams didn’t win empires, only cold hard ruthlessness did. He must be ruthless with himself and see the truth for what it was.

Mansfeld nodded soberly. What were his options? He did not have command of the Expeditionary Force the way King Charles had controlled his army. He—Mansfeld—would have to convince the Chancellor of any great changes to the plan.

The general halted and closed his eyes. He must think deeply and consider this carefully. What would he do if he were the American commander in chief?

With a start, Mansfeld’s eyes opened. He turned to the left. With a lurch, he hurried to his desk and sat down, making the chair squeak. Switching on his computer, he spoke to the communications people.

“Put me through to the Chancellor,” Mansfeld said.

“Sir?” asked a major.

“You heard me. Do it at once.”

“I-It may take some time, sir.”

“This is a national emergency,” Mansfeld said.

The major nodded, and Mansfeld waited. The wait lasted all of seven minutes.

Chancellor Kleist appeared on the screen, watching Mansfeld with his cold gaze.

“This may not be a secure link,” Mansfeld said.

“I am aware of that,” Kleist said.

Mansfeld knew he saw the future clearly, but how should he word this to Kleist? He cleared his throat, saying, “Sir, we need reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements are already on their way, General.”

“I mean a major infusion of blood, sir,” Mansfeld said, “perhaps another half a million troops.”

“Explain yourself,” Kleist said.

“First, I would to like to point out that a key principle of war that I first pointed out to you many months ago still holds true for us today.”

“Refresh my memory,” Kleist said.

“There is usually at least one decisive moment in a conflict,” Mansfeld said. “Everything else may be very close fought. But the decisive moment decides everything. Later, one side utterly crushes the other, but it could have gone the other way if the decisive moment had been different.”

“I see,” Kleist said.

This was hard to say, but Mansfeld knew he must. He saw reality and he could see the future. “Sir,” he said, “the decisive moment went to the Americans during this campaign.”

Kleist watched him the way a hawk perched on a rock would watch a nervous rabbit crawling out into the choicest grass. It seemed as if the Chancellor’s features became like granite. In a deceptively smooth voice, Kleist said, “If you will recall, General, you assured me several days ago that you could still win through to victory.”

“I could have, sir,” Mansfeld said. “The space attack wasn’t the decisive moment. It was important, to be sure, but I still had a chance. The Americans…the Americans reinforced Syracuse with just enough soldiers to hold the city. That was the critical point with everything balanced on the outcome.”

“I’m not sure I can agree with that,” Kleist said. He waved down Mansfeld before the general could protest. “For the sake of your argument, let us call Syracuse the second decisive moment.”

Rage washed through Mansfeld. He wished he could punch the Chancellor in the face, the smug bastard. He had not failed. The others had failed him. If he had received the needed army group in New Jersey as planned…

“I have sent you reinforcements,” Kleist said, sharply. “The Atlantic convoy includes several new divisions. Yet now you seek half a million more soldiers. Are you well, General, or have these defeats unhinged your reasoning?”

“Respectfully, sir, I haven’t been defeated.”

“That is interesting,” Kleist said. “Do you mean to say that the Americans did not stop you at Syracuse?”

“That was not a defeat in the classic sense. I merely…did not break through their lines.”

“You failed, in other words,” Kleist said.

Mansfeld’s back stiffened. “Chancellor—”

“There will be no half a million extra troops, General,” Kleist said, coldly. “You will need to rectify the situation with the extra divisions already on the way.”

It’s time to tell him how the future will go. He failed me, and he has the gall to act as if he’s superior to me. What a fraud. What a terrible joke.

“Let me put it more bluntly, sir,” Mansfeld said. “We cannot hold our present positions unless you substantially reinforce the Expeditionary Force.”

Kleist sat back, and he seemed to choose his words more carefully. “You surprise me, General. You have won practically every encounter. Buffalo has fallen. You crossed Lake Ontario. You took almost all of Southwestern Ontario. You have more forces moving up to Syracuse—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Mansfeld said, “but I know what the Americans are going to do next. I know how they will end-run us.”

“If you know, stop them.”

“I will—if I receive large enough reinforcements. Otherwise, sir, I respectfully suggest we retreat back to Quebec.”

Kleist stared hard at Mansfeld. “What’s come over you?”

“Do you have a map handy?”

“I do, but—”

“I suggest you glance at it so you’ll understand what I’m saying.”

Kleist’s eyes narrowed. After a time, he nodded.

“Massive Canadian reinforcements are pouring in from Manitoba,” Mansfeld said, crisply. “The Americans entrained them so the Canadians could move at speed. Presently, those soldiers have headed for Syracuse. Their numbers will nullify my own on the way from the Niagara Peninsula. It is critical to understand that American force and my force are evenly matched in most places. It is true the Americans have a slight edge in Southwestern Ontario. We have a slight edge up north along the US-Quebec border. If I were the American commander, I would stabilize Syracuse as he is doing. Afterward, I would heavily reinforce the north and storm my way to Montreal.”

“Then you must reinforce Montreal,” Kleist said.

“The distances are much shorter for them, as they have the advantage of the interior position. We are strung out, as we had hoped to trap over one million Americans. Chancellor, if they can take Montreal and trap our Expeditionary Force, our cause will be lost in North America. Therefore, sir, I respectfully suggest we pull back and protect our client state of Quebec while keeping the Expeditionary Force intact for use next year. We almost won a decisive victory. It was very close run. But the US space weapon knocked the linchpin out of our plan and I was unable to rectify the loss by storming through Syracuse.”

“No,” Kleist said, pointing his middle finger at Mansfeld, stabbing it at him. “This is ridiculous. You say you cannot defend your gains. I suggest you simply draw off enough excess troops from elsewhere and hold Montreal. Do not let them take your main supply base.”

Why can’t he see it? Why am I so able to see the future but others cannot? Maybe if I explain it to him in detail he will comprehend.

“Sir, we almost achieved the great goal. But because the Chinese and Brazilians refused to attack this year, it allowed the American and Canadians to gather just enough excess force against us. We are stretched too thin now. If we had encircled them with Kaltenbrunner’s troops, everything would be different. With the American holding onto Syracuse—”

“Now you listen to me, General,” Kleist said, leaning forward. “I am not about to let you run away with your tail between your legs. I cannot afford the world to see GD troops fleeing in fright. You have defeated and destroyed great numbers of enemy, and you have captured a great area. Break through the Americans in Syracuse. You still have time and I know you have the means. You have heavy tanks and III Armored Corps coming. Win at Syracuse, race to Albany and New York City. Encircle what you can and squeeze the Americans in New England. You must secure your victories and next year, when the Chinese attack, we will break out of the New England-Ontario area and win even more for the GD. I refuse to let you retreat to Quebec and molder away in that tiny shell of a country.”

“Sir, I know you can’t see what I foresee—”

Kleist barked laughter, making Mansfeld falter. Then the Chancellor grinned mirthlessly. “You have a choice, General. Either you obey my orders or you will hand over your command to General Zeller. If you have lost your nerve, tell me now. But I tell you this. If you come home now, you will not enjoy the reception. This I guarantee you.”

With an icy feeling running up his spine, Mansfeld looked away. He should have foreseen this reaction. Only a very few people in this world could see things as clearly as he did. Even Kleist lacked the foresight.

“Have you decided, General?”

If he stayed, his reputation might suffer a grievous stain. If he left, he might die to torturers. Then his reputation might still receive the stain. Historians would say he ran away. So, he had no choice, did he? He must struggle through with the tools at hand.

“I will stay, sir.”

“Fight!” Kleist said. “Break through Syracuse and you can still win the great victory.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kleist stared at him.

He wonders if he has infused me with courage. What a grim joke on me.

“Do not fail me, Mansfeld. Do not fail.”

Walther Mansfeld nodded. At this point, what else could he do?

The endless blue of Lake Erie stood to the west as Jake and Charlie trudged along Interstate 90 south of Buffalo. Long lines of American and Canadian soldiers retreated from the cauldron. These were the remnants of Fifth Army, a shattered force demoralized by defeat and too much death and destruction. They had held off the enemy long enough to save Syracuse and possibly the summer campaign, but it had come at a heavy cost to them.

The head of the column reached a hilly area with barricades across the freeway. Military police wearing white helmets and holding batons blocked the route. Soldiers from fresh American divisions backed the MPs, including low-profile Jefferson tanks.

The MPs began the long process of sorting out the soldiers, checking papers. They sent men to different areas, trying to regroup companies and battalions. They also made sure no one tried to desert.

“This can’t be good for us,” Charlie said, as they stood in line, waiting. “We’re penal militiamen.”

“Don’t worry,” Jake said.

They moved up as the line shuffled forward, and an hour passed. Finally, it was their turn to talk to the MPs.

“Drop your weapons right there,” the head MP said, pointing at a pile of discarded guns and rifles.

Jake set his M16 on the ground. Charlie did likewise. Then it happened fast.

MDG Dan Franks appeared from behind several Jefferson tanks. Had Franks been waiting for them? It sure seemed like it.

“Just a minute,” Franks said, loudly. He had his right hand on the butt of a holstered Glock. He swaggered to the MPs, with his own white helmet proclaiming him as one of the brethren of military police.

Maybe Franks spoke too loudly. Maybe there was something off or strange in his voice. He’d been herding penal militiamen for a long time, with no one to stop him from doing what he wanted. Jake noticed other people looking up. These others weren’t MPs or Detention people, but regular American soldiers. Among those who watched the proceedings was a colonel. He stood in the main turret hatch of the nearest Jefferson tank. There was something familiar about the colonel. Then Jake gave all his attention to Franks, and to the evil smile on the sergeant’s gaunt face.

Jake had been in the process of handing his Militia papers to the head MP. Charlie waited behind him, with his papers ready.

“I know them,” Franks said in his arrogant voice. “They’re deserters of a penal battalion, and they’re dangerous.” As if to show the MPs just how dangerous, Franks drew his Glock, aiming it at Jake.

Jake licked his lips. He couldn’t believe this. After everything he had been through, this bastard showed up at exactly the worst moment. Was Franks trying to cover his murder?

“He killed our lieutenant,” Charlie said, maybe thinking the same thing as Jake. “He—”

Franks’ Glock barked twice, each time the gun jumping in his hand and curls of smoke lifting from the barrel. Charlie crumpled to the ground, with blood gushing from his throat. The potato-farmer from Idaho jerked and flopped.

MPs shouted. Other men scrambled to their feet. Jake couldn’t believe it and he snapped. He drew a knife, and he charged Franks. The MDG Sergeant managed another two shots, but he didn’t have time to aim, just fire. The first bullet whanged off Jake’s body armor. Another went wide. Jake didn’t dodge or anything like that. He was too furious. His eyes blazed murder-lust. His nostrils flared and he heard wild shouting around him. Only vaguely did he realize he was the one doing the crazy shouting.

Franks brought the gun higher and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. It was stupid luck. The sergeant pulled the trigger again—it clicked again—and his eyes widened in realization that he was out of bullets.

Jake reached Franks, and he forgot all the niceties of knife combat. He did remember enough to go low, punching the blade through Frank’s stomach, angling the steel upward. He slammed the blade to the hilt. And as he shouted, Jake twisted the handle, twisting the blade inside Franks’ body. Jake wiggled the blade back and forth. Then he grabbed Franks by the throat with his free hand, put a foot behind one of Franks’ heels, and tripped the MDG. They went down together. Franks screamed in mortal agony and he bucked. Jake rode him and removed the bloody knife, shifted his shoulders and thrust the blade into Franks’ throat so the tip grated against gravel underneath. The lights went out in the sergeant’s eyes, and sanity returned to Jake Higgins.

He heard guns cocking, and he figured it was just a matter of seconds before they blew him away. He released the knife, and very slowly, he straightened and rose to his feet. A glance showed him that Charlie was dead and gone. Jake shook his head. The pain was too much for him to wail or weep.

Charlie, Charlie—I’ll miss you my friend. This was a dirty war from the start. They screwed us. They royally screwed us.

First rubbing his nose, Jake faced the head MP, a lean man with a scar under his right eye. The MP aimed a .45 at him. Others did likewise, and they watched him angrily.

Jake pointed at Franks. “That bastard killed our lieutenant. Charlie was right. That’s why the sergeant shot him.”

“You just killed him,” the lean MP said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I’d do it again, too.” He realized that he was screwed to the wall. There was no way he could fight this. He was as good as dead. He shrugged. “The penal battalions are wrong. They’re un-American.”

“Killing your sergeant is wrong,” the MP said.

“Not if you’re Davy Crocket,” Jake said. “Not if the sergeant was a son of a bitch murderer who just killed your best friend. I’m glad I killed him. He deserved it a hundred times over.”

“You’re under arrest,” the MP said.

“Just a minute,” the colonel in the Jefferson turret said.

A large crowd had gathered by now. Clothes rustled as they turned to the colonel.

“What’s your name?” the colonel asked Jake.

“Jake Higgins, sir,” he said.

“Are you any relation to Colonel Stan Higgins?” the tanker asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

“I can see the resemblance,” the colonel said. “And I thought I heard something in your voice and your choice of words just now.” He addressed the head MP. “This is Colonel Higgins’s son.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the MP said. “I don’t care whose son he is. He just killed a sergeant.”

“The sergeant just killed his friend, and turned the gun on him,” the colonel said. “You saw it. It was self-defense.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” the MP said.

“So you’d stand around while someone killed your best friend?” the colonel asked.

“That’s not the point, sir,” the MP said. “He broke the law.”

“I’d say the soldier just served justice to a murderer,” the colonel said.

“Respectfully, sir,” the MP said, with an edge to his voice. “We don’t know that.”

The colonel’s features tightened. “Let me tell you something, son. He’s coming with me.”

“I don’t think so,” the MP said. “He’s a penal militiaman. He’s in the Militia. That means he’s outside of your jurisdiction.”

“Colonel Higgins told some of us what had happened to his boy,” the colonel said. “I fought with the colonel in Colorado. Jake,” he said. “Are you done with the Militia?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Would you like to join the U.S. Army?” the colonel asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Then climb aboard my tank,” the colonel said.

“He can’t do that,” the MP said, and several of his fellow officers stepped up behind him.

“That’s funny,” the colonel said. “I’m doing it, and you’re watching me doing it.”

The MP licked his lips, and he aimed his gun at the colonel.

On the tank from an inside controller, one of the .50 calibers aimed at the MPs.

“Are you certain you want to face off with me?” the colonel asked. “You have a pea-shooter and I have death.”

Jake kept moving. He was still in a daze over Charlie’s death. He was going to miss him. He’d also killed Dan Franks, and that was hard to believe. Now this…it was crazy, and it was a piece of good fortune. Maybe he could finally get out of the Militia and join a real outfit.

“I’m not going to warn you again,” the MP told the colonel.

“That’s right,” the colonel said. “You’re not. Get on with your regular duties, son. This is way out of your league.”

The MP eyed the colonel. He looked like a tough man, but so did the older colonel. “I’ll have to report this,” the MP said.

That’s when Jake knew he had left the Militia organization. The only way they’d get him back again was over his dead body. Did that mean he was in the tank corps? As he scrambled up the Jefferson, Jake figured he was going to find out soon enough.