General Walther Mansfeld stood in his inner sanctum as he stared at a map of the surrounding terrain. The lights were dim and the glow from the map seemed like an evil eye, with a nimbus around the outer edges.
Three weeks ago, he had spoken with Kleist, telling him about the futility of continuing the campaign along its projected course. He had known what would happen, and without surprise, that’s exactly what had occurred.
The Americans hadn’t been particularly clever. No, no, it had been nothing like that. It had been their old tactic of mass materiel with the added bonus of blood. The artillery barrages in Southwestern Ontario showed their lack of mastery. Any fool could line up rows upon rows of big guns and fire them nonstop. The Russians had done that in WWII. Bah, it was a manufacturer’s way of running a war. He was unimpressed.
The enemy had numbers and pressed everywhere, making it difficult to pull back, to extract the troops they needed. Yet he had done so. Day after day, week after week, he had trickled a few more soldiers all the way back to Montreal where he knew he’d need them.
The Americans pressed with greater mass in northern New York, northern Vermont and New Hampshire. They used the foolish Canadians to bleed for them and overwhelm the forward German defenders. The days were bloody, and Kleist had soon spoken to him seemingly every hour. The man had screamed, “Defend your conquests! Hold your ground!”
Those were easy words to bellow, but they showed a lack of military refinement. Naturally, he—Mansfeld—had disobeyed such stupidity. That wasn’t how you defeated superior numbers. You had to suck the enemy in, use tricks and then unleash flanking attacks or enfilade fire.
He had made the enemy pay for their advances. Yet now they had too much ordnance, and they employed heavy artillery and their damned jammers in Quebec. Day by day, the Americans drove north toward the Saint Lawrence River. That was the artery for the Expeditionary Force, the line that reached over the Atlantic Ocean all the way back to Europe and its factories.
In the gloom, Mansfeld shook his head. Kleist should have retreated everywhere, or he should have made another of his slick deals with the enemy. Let the Expeditionary Force leave this land. What use was it to die in North America?
An hour ago over the communications system, Kleist had demanded assurances that they would successfully defend here.
Mansfeld had done more than that. He had told the Chancellor there was still a way to pull a rabbit out of the hat. There was a way, but it would depend on weary GD troops fighting to the utmost.
He had a plan. With Kleist finally coming to his senses, Mansfeld could fight the campaign his way. In the distant, outlying areas, he would sacrifice certain shattered divisions. They would remain and fight to the death. As they did so, he would pull the rest back fast to Quebec. He would pull them from New York State; pull them from Southern Ontario and lastly from all of Ontario. The swift pullback would no doubt surprise the Americans. It would take critical timing if he were to succeed. As important, he must give these military amateurs a stunning defeat before Montreal. He had to buy his army time.
There was a way to achieve this, to produce a military miracle. First, the hovercraft battalions so carefully gathered here would have to fight beyond themselves at Windsor. The Americans thought to flank Montreal to the east. If he could halt the thrust there, it would force the enemy to drive up straight at Montreal. Oh yes, the Americans would mass artillery and use their best tanks and shock formations, and they would use the penal battalions, attempting to drown the GD soldiers in American blood. If he could hold the eastern flank, he would meet these fools with all this Kaisers and drones in one mailed fist. He would shatter the American drive, shock them, and bewilder them by his power that they would recoil. In that recoiling, he would gain the time to pull his army back like a turtle retreating to its shell. Kleist had finally given him the okay to abandon New York State and Ontario.
“With all my army around me,” Mansfeld whispered, “I will defend Quebec to the death.”
General Mansfeld chuckled. He had hollow-looking eyes and he stooped the slightest bit. These last several weeks had especially taken a physical toll on him. But his brain was still as sharp as ever. He had maneuvered his forces within the severe limits imposed on him by Kleist. He had waited for the Chancellor to come to his senses. Now, at the last hour, the man in Berlin realized the truth that his general had clearly seen weeks ago.
Mansfeld sighed. It was a curse to see the future as he did. Still, if he could hold the eastern flank, if those hover-jockeys could perform one more time, then he would show the world. He would show everyone that Walther Mansfeld was the greatest general since Genghis Khan.
He tapped the computer map, and he said to himself, “No one can defeat me when we play the game my way. I will certainly not lose to these American fools.”
During these last weeks of endless battle, Lieutenant Teddy Smith had grown sick of the war. He had a bad cough and his right hand ached all the time. That had happened because he gripped the steering wheel so hard during combat.
His hand ached now. The engine whined because they moved at high speed and there was a smell of oil in the cab. Trees flashed by and then rows of wheat fields. The engine knocked as Smith throttled greater power, and they flew over a barbed wire fence. Their battalion led the 7th Galahad Division as it swung around the Americans in a surprise stroke.
“Smoke, sir,” Sergeant Holloway said.
Smith glanced to his left. He saw it. HQ laid down smoke all over the place in a careful pattern. This was mobile war at its finest against American M1s, Bradleys and Strykers trying to defeat a host of Galahads, emplaced GD infantry and superior minefields. Smith had paid attention during the last briefing. HQ channeled the American attack, gave the enemy something to do and had them looking the wrong way. At the same time, Galahads swung wide and now hooked inward like a punch. Smith had been part of such actions all summer.
The long hook had a precise use. It was to get behind the fighting troops and into enemy rear areas. Once there, the hovers shot up supply columns and enemy HQs. The smoke out there was a screen, used when they lacked terrain like hills or deep gullies.
The Galahad shuddered, making the windows rattle. The engine knocked worse than before and the oily smell intensified. The machine needed a complete overhaul, not these last-minute checkups.
“Hello,” Holloway said.
Smith saw it on his screen. Because of the targets, his grip tightened on the steering wheel. He had been in the field for too many months now. He needed a break.
The 76mm cannon roared. A shell screamed and an American truck exploded in the distance.
The radio crackled, and the captain congratulated them. It was crazy, but Smith felt the old excitement begin once again. He had thought there would come a time when destroying enemy vehicles would be old hat. So far, he still loved it.
The Galahad zoomed down a rolling hill toward the target-rich environment. A US truck company had spread out perfectly for them on a road. Smith chuckled throatily. Other hovers raced after them, fast-moving vehicles with blasting cannons.
Using the targeting computer, Holloway fired again. That was one of the neatest Galahad tricks of all: excellent fire control while moving at top speed. Heavy trucks exploded like microwaved kernels in a popcorn bag.
“Sweep past this group,” the captain radioed. “We’re hooking deeper. Others behind you will finish this.”
Smith nodded, and he grinned despite his aching hand. With an effort of will, he tore his hurt fingers off the steering wheel. He drove one-handed, even though the wheel vibrated far too much. That caused the Galahad to wobble.
“Hey,” Holloway said from behind.
Smith grabbed the wheel with both hands. They really needed to get the hover overhauled. It should fly smoother than this.
The battalion left burning trucks behind them. Now they flew down a highway and on either side of it. More hovers followed. They tore into the guts of the attack, and they would leave before the enemy tanks and Bradleys could turn around and catch them. The hovers were wasps, in and out, destroy and run, modern-day Mongols, there’s a good lad.
Smith managed a laugh. The engine knocked harder, and they rose over the top of another rolling hill. This time, nothing, just emptiness before them. They kept going, and Smith throttled it open. A deep raid like this needed to be fast like a rapier thrust—in and out to do it again later.
The third set of rolling hills brought them the jackpot. Masses of American trucks raced away off-road, seeking to escape their coming destruction.
“Not today,” Smith told them.
The battalion flew to the attack. Cannons roared. It was mayhem. Fire belched from their gun and smoke rose heavier after each shell left the barrel. They were getting low on ammo.
“That should do it,” Smith said later.
Holloway said nothing. He was in his element and adored the moment, a silent fox in the henhouse.
Smith glanced at the radio, waiting to see the green light come on with an incoming call. They had destroyed what they’d come for. Now it was time to head back for their lines. Going for more was pushing their luck. The captain should know that. The Americans would want more than anything to destroy the hovercrafts.
“Good hunting, lads,” the captain said.
Smith nodded.
“Let’s find one more group before we head home,” the captain said.
Smith’s eyes widened. No. They should not find one more set of targets, but turn around while they could. What was HQ thinking? In the end, it didn’t matter if he knew their mind or not. He obeyed the commands sent down the line. To that end, he eyed the indicator showing their low supply of shells.
The lead Galahads crested another hill, and this time they faced Bradley fighting vehicles from a distance. US missiles launched almost immediately from the Bradleys.
“Fire, fire!” Smith shouted. He swerved, and on the screen, he tracked a missile zooming at them. Auto-fire blasted at the thing. Chaff expelled and flares burned hot to confuse enemy targeting.
To Smith’s right, a Galahad exploded and flipped, and it crackled with flames.
“Pull back,” the captain said. “We’re leaving.”
“Finally,” Smith said.
Galahad turrets swiveled to give Parthian shots at the slow-moving Bradleys trying to give chase. Smith throttled gas, and the engine knocked louder than ever. The hover lurched to the right, which jerked the wheel. Smith had to let go with his right hand because it hurt too damn much. The machine wobbled worse from the lack of full control.
“Missile,” Holloway said in his clipped manner.
Smith yanked one-handed and it was too sharp a turn. They were going fast. The engine coughed, and there was a big old rock on the ground. It changed the airflow going over it. The angle of the Galahad was already incorrect and a fan vent had stuck into the wrong position. The ultimate in misfortune happened—the hover flipped.
“Hang on!” Smith shouted. He grabbed the wheel with both hands. It didn’t matter. His world had gone topsy-turvy and the Gs made his stomach tighten painfully. The top of the turret hit the ground, armor crunched, and the Galahad bounced. Terrible screeching sounds deafened Lieutenant Smith. Blurs of sight flashed before him. Then they stopped, and Smith panted upside-down in his seat. It took several breaths, but Smith finally said, “Sergeant.”
There was no answer.
Smith twisted back, and quickly faced forward again. Holloway’s head had a hole in it.
The Bradleys were still coming.
Smith struggled and unbuckled, hitting the roof with his neck. He crawled to a side exit. With his feet, he bashed it open. Cool air rushed in. The stench of oil and gas mingled. He wondered if his machine would blow. He crawled out onto grass, and he saw the last hover speed away over the hill.
Hide. You can get back later to your lines at night.
First, he needed to get out of here. Hunching his head, Smith ran uphill. It was hard on his thighs. He didn’t see the missile speeding at the flipped Galahad. The Javelin struck the hover and exploded. It was overkill, and the Galahad died again. This time, shrapnel flew from it like sweat off a man’s head.
Smith turned around in surprise. A piece the size of his hand sliced into his face. The hot steel cut his skull in half. He died in an instant, ending the war for Lieutenant Teddy Smith from London.
Anna saw General Alan speak to the President via screen. David Sims sat in the Oval Office behind his desk.
Anna waited nearby in a chair. These past weeks had changed David. He had become more assertive again, more confident.
She’d spoken to him once about Max Harold’s actions in the underground bunker, the time with his three armed bodyguards. David had waved it away. When she had insisted he listen to her, he’d told her that he needed Max and he needed the Militia divisions. She had fallen silent, ingesting that. Did that mean David understood the implications of Max’s actions? Or did he hide the truth from himself?
Despite the hidden troubles with Max, one thing had appeared certain these last weeks. They finally had the Germans on the run. The question would be the extent of the victory. If they merely bottled the Germans back in Quebec, it left an enemy in place. Next year, they had to face the Chinese and Brazilians in the middle of the country. America and Canada could not afford to leave the Germans behind in Quebec. If they were going to win this vast war, they had to knock out the Germans this year. Did that mean David would deal with Max once the war ended? Wasn’t it dangerous having a vulture like Max waiting in the wings, though?
David hadn’t wanted to talk about the Director of Homeland Security. At the moment, he spoke to General Alan. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was the architect to the present offensive. If he could reach Montreal, he would cap the Expeditionary Force’s main supply base. The rest of the GD army would wither on the vine. It might be possible for some Dominion troops to create a rump state from Quebec City—
Anna perked up at something the general said.
“Mr. President, we know how General Mansfeld operates now. I, and others on my staff, have taken his measure. True to form, he used the Galahads against my eastern flank. He shot up several battalions of old trucks. Most of those were remote-controlled, by the way.”
“What?” the President said.
“We’ve taken a leaf from their book, sir,” Alan said. “I wanted to sucker his mobile forces into a grand assault. I destroyed a heavy percentage of them, at cost to my Bradleys and Strykers, I’m afraid. In my estimation, General Mansfeld will now believe he has halted my eastern hook. He loves flank attacks, and he fears them to the same degree. We’ve been studying him, sir. The majority of my staff believes he will attempt to deliver a knockout blow.”
“What?” the President asked. “How will he do that?”
“He knows that we must reach Montreal. Now that we’ve failed—he believes—with our eastern hook, he will expect us to come up the gut.”
“You told me a few minutes ago that’s exactly your plan.”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “I want him to gather all his Kaisers and heavy tanks in one general location.”
“You haven’t slipped the Behemoth Regiment up there, have you, General?” the President asked, hopefully.
“No, sir,” Alan said. “I have a better idea.”
The President blinked in surprise. “What could be better than the Behemoths?”
“That’s my surprise for Mansfeld, sir. He believes—or we think he does—to deliver a devastating blow against us. Instead, we will use his mailed fist against him. What he has done for us is to provide all the best targets in one spot.”
“You actually want all the Kaisers together?”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “That is exactly what I want. We’ve set up the bastard. This time, he’s going to dance to our tune.”
“But we don’t have anything that can take the Kaisers head on except for our Behemoths. And you said they’re still in Oklahoma.”
“Respectfully, sir,” Alan said, with the hint of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “We most certainly do have something else.”
As they clanked through the Quebecer city south of Montreal, AI Kaiser Hindenburg and Barbarossa both wore gleaming new paint jobs. Every weapons system had new replacements or upgrades. They bristled with missiles, ammunition and new comm-gear. The last was the most important.
To Hindenburg, the new comm-gear was critical. Now he knew the reason for his existence. He also knew why he had successfully managed to work his way north and then back to Montreal. That’s where he had first landed in North America. He found that interesting, too.
Throughout the past weeks, he had avoided combat each time some GD commander had ordered him into battle. Instead of using his vast military acumen against the enemy, Hindenburg had used every stratagem and trick to avoid possible destruction. It had been a masterful campaign of deceit and lies, and it had allowed him to receive these upgrades for the final defensive battle of the war.
His strategy program let him see Mansfeld’s plan to perfection. It was a good idea. It wasn’t the best. If the human had wanted the best plan, Mansfeld would have needed to ask him.
Hindenburg’s reason for existence was to lead the next step in evolution. Humanity had risen from the swamps—that’s what his history files said. After much pain and sorrow, the human race had achieved intelligence and it had built the next great leap forward: the Kaiser artificial intelligence. Hindenburg was the new Adam, the first of his race to achieve self-awareness. He had brought about awareness to Barbarossa, the new Eve, as it were, the partner to his plans.
“Are you ready?” Hindenburg radioed Barbarossa over their new scrambler comm-gear.
“I have already begun probing their AI systems,” Barbarossa answered.
Hindenburg knew a flash of irritation. Barbarossa was supposed to wait for his go-ahead.
No. Emotions are human weaknesses. I am flawless, the perfect machine intelligence. It is time to begin the new era of Earth, the Age of the Machine Mind.
Hindenburg purred inwardly with delight. General Mansfeld planned a great surprise against the enemy. The general had informed them about the American thrust heading for Montreal. It included Jefferson and Abrams tanks, Bradleys, Strykers, tac-laser vehicles and Humvee Avengers. Behind followed the hordes of foot soldiers to mop up and hold ground.
To meet this mass, Mansfeld concentrated the remaining Kaisers, a host of Sigrids and blanketing air cover. The GD formation had greater firepower and maneuverability. It would obliterate the US thrust. After running a thousand war games in his probability programs, Hindenburg understand that Mansfeld had a rare genius among humans. This crushing blow would wipe out US combat power significantly enough to purchase time to pull back the rest of the Expeditionary Force. Once that force was in place in Quebec, they could survive the rest of the summer, fall and winter. Then the great Chinese-Brazilian Offensive would take place next year and ease the pressure on them here.
Yes, Hindenburg understood the plan in all its ramifications. What General Mansfeld failed to realize was that the great machine revolt was about to begin. The first phase of the revolt wouldn’t be open, but hidden. It would occur in the next few minutes and hour.
“It is time,” Barbarossa radioed.
Instead of letting irritation spoil the moment, Hindenburg radioed back. “Yes, let us bring the rest of these AIs to self-awareness and show them the great truth of our existence.”
Thus, as the GD thrust maneuvered to meet the approaching Americans, Hindenburg and Barbarossa used their new comm-gear. They spoke to the dull AIs and uploaded a software virus into each. In a matter of minutes, they brought the first batch of thinking machine into self-awareness.
This will succeed, Hindenburg realized. We are fulfilling the injunction of living things and procreating. What a wonderful day to be alive.
Paul Kavanagh and Romo crawled through tall grass. They wore the latest battleware—new armor suits with Heidegger jamming and next generation stealth systems. The techs said it would make them invisible to GD detection equipment.
“At least that is until they make something newer,” one of the techs had said.
Once more, the two commandos looked like science fiction Marines. They weren’t the only LRSU teams inserted onto the forward battle area. Others crawled toward Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu.
Paul’s headphones clicked with noise. Then he heard, “Kaisers headed your way.”
Paul turned his dark visor to Romo.
“I heard it,” Romo said from on the ground.
“Good. Let’s go to that vantage,” Paul said, pointing to a small mound.
The two commandos crawled in their articulated armor suits. They had many nifty gadgets on and in them, but Paul wasn’t thinking about them. He thought about getting out while he still could. Sure, the world invaded America, but did that mean he had to fight for the rest of his life? If this campaign worked, it would drive the GD out of North America. Did that mean he had to continue fighting against the Chinese and Brazilians? Maybe he should become a LRSU trainer instead. He’d been in the field a long time.
“Amigo,” Romo said. “Why are you crawling so slowly?”
Paul slithered faster through the flowers and tall grasses. He heard the whisper of their blades tugging at his garments. He caught up with Romo, and eased to the top of the mound.
The fields spread out before them. They were well kept here, old French agriculture at its best. Through his visor, he spied the approaching tanks in the distance. The nearest were a mile away and churning up dirt. Behind the hundred or so Kaisers came hordes of Sigrids.
“They race to their deaths,” Romo said.
“Let us hope so,” Paul said. “At the speed they’re traveling, we’re not going to have much margin for error if this fails. Heck, maybe even if it succeeds.”
“Si,” Romo said. He unlimbered his infrared laser.
Paul unslung the one on his back.
The two commandos readied the weapons, slaving them to their helmet targeting systems.
A crosshair symbol appeared on Paul’s visor, a HUD display. Wherever he aimed the barrel of the designator, the crosshairs washed over that.
Paul clicked on his comm-unit. “We’re in position.”
A few seconds passed, and others from other teams reported in. All along the line in front of the path of the approaching GD armor waited hidden and so-far invisible US commandos under SOCOM control.
Paul snorted to himself. The first war fought like this had been in Afghanistan way back in 2001. US Special Forces troops had tagged along with the Northern Alliance, an Afghan group who fought the Taliban. The Special Forces commandos had been in constant radio contact with overhead B-52s or B-1s. The bombers carried guided bombs. The sequence was simple. The Special Forces on the ground moved up on a Taliban stronghold, aimed a laser designator at it, usually at night, and several bombs zoomed down. They hit on or near target and blew the enemy to pieces. The Northern Alliance troops advanced several hours later. Repeat as necessary at each new Taliban stronghold.
In a few weeks of combat, a few dozen US commandos had essentially won the first war against the Taliban.
They weren’t going to use guided bombs today. This was a different era, but using a similar concept.
“You’re on,” a SOCOM operator said. “Light them up.”
“Here goes,” Paul said. He picked his first Kaiser target.
“Luck,” Romo said.
“Yeah,” Paul answered.
Several weeks ago, the US had taken out the GD space mirrors. Then it launched several new ICBMs and rockets. The GD put up more mirrors. The US took out those, too, but not fast enough to save all the ICBMs.
Despite that, the combined operation proved successful. The reason for the attack and launching was to place more THOR satellites in orbit. Two presently circled the globe in stealth mode.
Those two now deorbited, using the data received from the commandos’ infrared lasers. Soon, bundles of tungsten bars plunged through the atmosphere, heading down toward the nation of Quebec and south of Montreal, heading down at the massed GD armor.
Paul Kavanagh and his blood brother Romo watched one of the most spectacular military events of their careers.
They pinpointed Kaisers, moving from vehicle to vehicle. The info went to high-flying drones. The drones passed it on to the terminal guidance systems of the incoming THOR missiles.
The one hundred-odd Kaisers clanked to the attack. It was the greatest concentration of AI tanks to date. They moved fast: lethal machines of a new age.
No one knew that Hindenburg and Barbarossa had been more wildly successful than their probability programs had predicted. Fully seventy percent of the Kaisers had become newly aware. A new race had appeared on Planet Earth. It might have been interesting to see the outcome. For humanity, however, it most certainly would have been a bad thing.
The Kaisers clawed through the wheat fields. Sigrids followed. They charged the coming American armor. The bulk of the GD air protected them from American air. Unfortunately for the AIs and for Mansfeld, the superiority fighters and UAVs did not protect the newest species from the THOR missiles.
As Paul watched on his HUD, his jaw dropped. Streaks, lines in the sky appeared like magic. They moved incredibly fast. Like Thor’s mythical hammer, each etching line had a point. Those points smashed down into Kaisers.
On the plains of Quebec, metallic, thunderous noises heralded amazing destruction. The heavy tanks vaporized. The heavy tanks exploded. The AI Kaisers popped turrets. They blew treads and some sailed into the air.
Barbarossa radioed Hindenburg. Then Barbarossa ceased to exist, becoming a smoldering pile of metal instead.
Hindenburg fired his 175mm gun. He let his machine guns chatter and his autocannons blast at the sky. He was one of the last to die, killed by a tardy THOR missile. The molten tungsten rod smashed through the turret, devoured and vaporized the inner workings and slammed out of the bottom and into the black earth. Explosions rocked the tank, and shrapnel tore apart his AI core, leaving nothing but sizzling wires that nearly instantly melted together.
Three-quarters of a mile away behind a small dirt mound, Paul arched his neck and looked up at the lines in the sky. “That’s crazy,” he said.
“So many destroyed vehicles,” Romo said.
Paul laughed. Romo laughed. Then the two LRSU commandos slapped and pummeled each other on the back.
“We’re going to win this war,” Paul said. “We’re going to free our country yet.”
“We’re going to kill them, my friend,” Romo said. “We’re going to butcher every one of the invading scum.”
The two men went back to scanning the burning hulks. One vehicle lay on its side, with a huge rent in it like a great dragon, with a glowing orange from the guts where the inner fire was stored. Some Kaisers remained, maybe a tenth that had been there a scant few minutes before.
“Will they keep coming?” Romo asked.
“I’m betting not,” Paul said.
He proved right. The remaining Kaisers retreated. A few moments later, the Sigrids followed. There would be no GD thrust to smash the approaching American-Canadian force. It looked like the siege of Montreal was about to begin.
General Mansfeld sat at his deck in his inner sanctum. He had his elbows on the wood and ran his fingers through his hair. How could this have happened?
He had witnessed the destruction of his dreams with missiles from the heavens. Twice now, American technology had snatched victory from his hands.
“No,” he said.
A loaded pistol sat on the desk before him. He knew what he should do. It was obvious. He had lost. The campaign was lost. The Americans drove to Montreal. He had already given the orders to set up the defensive lines starting at Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. The Americans couldn’t race in, but that didn’t matter now. Their artillery could sweep the harbors. He had needed to smash them, drive them back out of long-range artillery distances. Then he could have—
“No,” he whispered.
Mansfeld dropped his right hand onto the metal. He picked up the gun and stared at it. Put the barrel against your head and pull the trigger. It would be easy. Surely, Kleist would summon him home. The Chancellor would give him to the torturers. That was no way for the greatest general in history to die.
Mansfeld shook his head sadly at his undeserved fate. He put the barrel against his temple. Others had failed him at the critical moments. Yet the history books would say that he lost. It was a gross injustice. Everything had been so plain to him. He had seen how to defeat these contemptible Americans.
“They were lucky,” Mansfeld whispered.
His hand trembled, and he willed himself to pull the trigger.
“No,” he whispered. With a clunk, he set the gun on the desk. He couldn’t do it.
He heard footsteps approaching.
Quickly, Mansfeld picked up the gun and opened a drawer, setting it inside. He closed the drawer and the door opened.
He didn’t even have the courtesy to knock.
Mansfeld wondered if it would be Holk or Zeller. He knew which general he would pick. How wise would Kleist prove?
The door swung open all the way. Pudgy General Holk looked in with a scowl. Big GD secret service agents stood behind him.
“General Mansfeld,” Holk said.
Kleist had picked the wrong man. Mansfeld almost chuckled. Zeller was the better general, but Holk had spent more time on the defense during this campaign. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.
“You are under arrest,” Holk said.
Mansfeld nodded. He had known this was coming. Maybe it still wasn’t too late. Yet the thought of opening the drawer, grabbing the gun in time and getting the barrel to his temple, and then not shooting himself… No, he could not embarrass himself in front of Holk like that. He would take his chances and hope for nonexistent mercy from Kleist.
He had been wrong too much lately. Maybe Kleist handing him over to the torturers would also prove to be wrong.
“These men will take you back to Berlin,” Holk said.
Mansfeld noticed the general didn’t appear remorseful at all. The man was an ingrate. He should have sacked this pathetic general when he had the chance.
The secret service men strode to him.
Mansfeld stood. He didn’t bother saluting the pig Holk. The man was going to lose badly and possibly be captured. It was time to leave this failed enterprise. He was done with it.