Invasion: New York

-3- Choices

General Walther Mansfeld, the commanding general of the GD Expeditionary Force in North America, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He was an athletic man, a former gymnast who had won a bronze medal on the parallel bars in the 2016 Olympics. At fifty, he was short, trim and in excellent condition. He ran three kilometers every day and stretched to keep himself limber. More importantly, he had a razor-sharp intellect and he knew himself to be the best battlefield commander in the German Dominion, which meant he was the best in the world.

Excellence in all things, it was Mansfeld’s motto. The only one who had ever approached him in ability was the Chancellor. Normally, Kleist held all the cards. The one thing Chancellor Kleist couldn’t do was win a battle brilliantly. It’s why the man had let him live four months ago when Kleist had summoned him with the thought to execute him.

Mansfeld tapped the computer battle map. A hot cup of coffee steamed beside it, his fifth this morning. He drank far too much, but he needed the caffeine, as it helped to stimulate his thoughts.

Mansfeld picked up the cup and sipped delicately as his steely eyes studied the military situation. So far, the battles had gone to form just as he had predicted in Berlin that day. The Canadians fought well given their inferior weaponry. The Americans showed stubbornness, and they steadily added reinforcements as they lost engagement after engagement. He had tested his opposite number and found the commanding American general wanting. The man would continue to add driblets. The American General Staff and perhaps the President hadn’t yet realized their danger. How could they? They were not geniuses of battle like him.

All his life Mansfeld had seen further and more deeply than those around him could. The only man whose mind he respected was Chancellor Kleist. Maybe the American who had come up with the battle plan this winter to maul the Chinese had a superior intellect. Otherwise, the world was a barren desert, a wasteland in terms of thinkers.

He sipped more coffee, holding the liquid on his tongue as he attempted to extract the greatest amount of enjoyment from it he could. He wished he could find a way to make this drink taste as good as the first one in the morning. Every day, he looked forward to his first sip of coffee. Nothing tasted quite as good. He wondered why that was, and smiled indulgently. He knew the answer, of course, but he asked himself the question almost every morning around now.

Mansfeld clicked the cup onto its saucer and tapped the battle map. He enlarged the area around the Toronto Pocket.

The fierce defensive fighting hadn’t surprise him. These were first-rate American units in Toronto. Their commander had used them to plug the gap to try to halt the relentless GD advance toward Detroit.

Mansfeld smiled. He knew it made him seem like an eagle surveying the countryside for prey. He fought at too swift a pace for the Americans. The Canadians had melted like butter those first few days. Later, the Canadians had stiffened for a time. He kept producing surprises, though, keeping the enemy off balance.

Yes, the enemy commander had thought to stem the relentless tide of GD victory before the largest city of Canada, Toronto. It had been the obvious thing to do, and in many ways, the correct move. Cities, especially big cities, could often become defender fortresses.

The allied Canadians and Americans finally had the numbers they needed. They had first-rate soldiers and for their side, modern equipment. Yes, the enemy commander had made the correct choice—or so it had seemed. Stop the relentless GD torrent at Toronto.

Thinking about it, Mansfeld smirked.

He had saved one of his trump cards for just such a moment. Actually, he had saved two trumps. Until that moment, he had kept the laser-armed Sabre fighter-jets out of battle. With them providing air cover, he had mass-airlifted light tanks. Then he had dropped the Ritter tanks as if they were paratroopers behind the main enemy concentrations. In conjunction with that, he had used mass Galahad hovers to swing around the city on Lake Ontario.

Oh yes, the American general had attempted to seal Southern Ontario between Lake Huron and Lake Erie. He had thought to turn Toronto and the Golden Horseshoe into a fortress so the dreaded GD couldn’t practice anymore blitzkrieg tactics. The so-called horseshoe area contained over nine million people, twenty-six percent of Canada’s former population. The enemy commander had not realized the GD ability to use the air as a flank.

Some of Mansfeld’s staff had shown surprise at this. The Americans often employed helicopter-borne troops in mass. The enemy had also faced Chinese jetpack commandos before. Surely, the Americans should understand better than anyone that air was another flank in modern war.

As he studied the computer map, Mansfeld had known the Americans wouldn’t understand. Who could airdrop tanks? No one had ever done it before. Therefore, no one thought of it, no one that is except for General Walther Mansfeld of the GD Expeditionary Force. Because of the brilliant maneuver, he had trapped the first-rate Americans and Canadians in Toronto. Now he began the annihilation of those soldiers—soldiers the Americans would badly need in the coming weeks.

“In six more days,” Mansfeld said aloud—he was quite alone. “In six more days I will kill or capture the last of you trapped men.”

The blitzkrieg would resume and the American command would panic. They would rush reinforcements before him, putting them in exactly the wrong places. Why were commanding officers of armies and the leaders of countries and power blocs so obvious?

Mansfeld picked up the coffee cup and sipped. He took a deep breath afterward. He would win the war. He knew that. His true opponent wasn’t the Americans or the broken Canadians. No. Chancellor Kleist was his real foe. So far, Kleist had kept his nose out of his affairs in running the day-to-day operations. There would come a moment, however, when Kleist would interfere. The Americans were stubborn, and they would fight hard. They would produce one seeming crisis moment, and that crisis would break Kleist’s so-called steely nerves.

Clicking the half-full cup back onto its saucer, Mansfeld sat down and put his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes, and he visualized what had happened four months ago. His recall was incredibly sharp, better than anyone else’s that he knew about. His near-photographic retention was one of his secrets.

Kleist was his enemy. The reason was clear. Chancellor Kleist feared a man with such abilities as his. History supplied the reasons. No one else could outthink and outmaneuver the Chancellor except for him. Therefore, to keep himself secure as the ruler of United Europe, Kleist would believe he needed to eliminate the threat of the only other superior thinker in his midst.

With his eyes closed, Mansfeld smiled. This was a game of wits, of titans among pygmies. It would seem that Kleist held all the cards. Clearly, the Chancellor had the superior position of power.

“So it would seem,” Mansfeld whispered.

Yet it had also been that way four months ago. Kleist had summoned him back from Quebec to order him before a firing squad or lock him in with torturers. No one else had quite known that, although Mansfeld had known it with certainty. He’d faced Kleist and the GD General Staff alone in the den of lions. The Chancellor had planned to pin on him the fruits of his own—Kleist’s—mistake. The Chancellor had planned to shovel the blame and rid himself of his only true opponent. But the move had been so obvious that it had surprised Mansfeld that the Chancellor hadn’t recognized what the countermove would be.

With his hands behind his head, and with his eyes closed, General Mansfeld frowned. Kleist possessed a superior mind. Therefore—

Mansfeld opened his eyes and sat up. Did I miscalculate four months ago?

The idea galled him at first. Then he shook his head. Another of his powers was the ability to admit a mistake. It was conceivable that he had made an error at the meeting four months ago.

Mansfeld peered up at the ceiling. The tiles there had thousands of indentations that almost looked like holes. He closed his eyes and once more, he put his hands behind his head. He let himself relax.

He needed to use his memory. He needed to replay the meeting and see if Kleist had outfoxed him. The Chancellor could be incredibly subtle.

You must not let yourself become arrogant, Mansfeld reminded himself. That is the great trap for a genius like you. Repeat after me: I am not invincible.

“I am not invincible,” General Mansfeld whispered while in his chair.

He concentrated, and he thought back to the meeting four months ago in Berlin.

“General Mansfeld,” the Chancellor said in a dangerously silky voice, “tell us about that, won’t you?”

They met in the Defense Ministry, a midmorning meeting. Outside, cold rain pelted against the windows. At times, hail hit, sounding like pebbles as they struck.

Hostile eyes turned toward General Walther Mansfeld. He sat alone at the end of a long conference table. Along the walls, the Chancellor’s security detail watched Mansfeld with reptilian eyes. They were big men in black suits who could draw their weapons with startling speed. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. Neither would they hesitate to drag him to the Chancellor’s “doctors.” There, Mansfeld knew, he would take many months dying as the specialists inflicted ever more ingenious pains. They would turn him into a mewling thing begging for death.

The thought might have weakened another man, but not Mansfeld. He played for the highest stakes in the most deadly occupation possible: political power. He was also the superior of every man he’d ever met in his life.

“Can it be you lack words, General?” Kleist asked, with a hint of his infamous gloating tingeing his speech.

The Chancellor had a strong voice and he was the same height as Mansfeld. They were two short men among physical giants—even if the others were mental pygmies compared to them. But where Mansfeld was trim like a rapier, Kleist was fat like a knotty oaken club. That was a key to understanding the man. Despite the Chancellor’s intellect, to Mansfeld Kleist seemed like a gutter-born thug. Despite his outer gloss of sophistication, Kleist was a brutal man with the instincts of an alpha wolf. All his life, the Chancellor had struck first and struck hard.

Kleist wore a brown suit and expensive Italian shoes. His chin was strong, his hands thick but small and he wore a silver wedding ring with a large diamond that seemed strangely out of place among these military men.

The General Staff members sitting along the sides of the table were large men with stiff, military postures. Each was well fed and each wore a crisp uniform, with the red General Staff stripes running down the legs of their trousers. Mansfeld wanted to sneer at them. To him, they were like Great Danes secretly quivering in fear of their master. They were also afraid of what he—Mansfeld—might say and that Kleist would hold the words against them.

It’s clear that none of them can understand my calm. None of them realizes how valuable I am to Kleist. What is sad is that Kleist doesn’t realize it yet either. Otherwise, he would not have called me back from Quebec to initiate this farce.

Kleist stared across the conference table at him, and the gloating had reached the Chancellor’s eyes. Yes, Kleist believed himself in control of the situation.

How can he not see that I am his only hope?

Finally, Mansfeld saw a hint of doubt cross the Chancellor’s face. It was a subtle thing. By now, Kleist had to be wondering why his general refused to let this spectacle cow him.

Because I know my worth, Mansfeld told himself. And I know that you will be wise enough to see it…as soon as I explain it to you.

“Are you tongue-tied?” Kleist asked.

“No, Excellency,” Mansfeld said in a ringing voice.

A few of the General Staff members looked at him with new eyes. It seemed their dull minds finally realized that none of this frightened him. A few frowned in puzzlement. It was clear they couldn’t fathom the source of his courage. Chancellor Kleist needed a scapegoat and the man had chosen the commanding officer of the German Expeditionary Force in Quebec, General Mansfeld.

“Well…?” Kleist asked. “What do you have to say for yourself? Come now, speak while you are able.”

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, having waited for the moment to ripen. “My prediction concerning the Sino-American War proved incorrect in one particular only. Everything that went wrong afterward hinged upon that one fact.”

Kleist frowned, which meant the gloating had disappeared. When the man was winning at something, he became jovial. When he was losing, his bad temper was legendary. It must finally be dawning on the Chancellor that he had made a miscalculation, and he didn’t realize yet what that mistake was. It obviously troubled Kleist.

In an expert’s hands, the rapier always defeats the club. Despite his knowledge of that truth, Mansfeld did not smile. That would have been an error. I am not so stupid.

“You are free to speak, General,” Kleist said. “Please, enlighten us, if you would.”

The exquisite nature of the moment produced a churning feeling in Mansfeld’s gut. Some people referred it to as “the butterflies,” and they hated the sensation. It was otherwise with him. The churning told him he was alive, on the very knife-edge of existence.

I’m actually enjoying this. “The failure was political, Excellency,” Mansfeld said.

The statement electrified the chamber. The bovine faces of the General Staff members showed a mixture of fear and disbelief. Political mistakes weren’t the province of the military but of the Chancellor’s office, which was to say the Chancellor himself.

The words produced a reaction upon Kleist. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks.

“Would you care to elaborate?” the Chancellor asked.

He chooses this route, does he? Very well, let it begin.

“If you will recall, Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “your political analysts made a clear prediction some months ago. A few of us questioned their findings, me in particular. Then you reprimanded the General Staff and the Planning Committee. If you recall, you told us that politics was outside our scope. You said that we understood military matters, but economics and politics were things best left to the experts.”

The wolf in Kleist showed in his eyes. It meant the man was ready to kill.

Mansfeld knew he would either rise higher than ever because of what he was about to say or he would leave this room dead. For him there were no other choices now. Since he had already weighed the odds and the outcome, he boldly proceeded with his plan.

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “the political analysts of the Home Office predicted a clear outcome. Last year, you offered the Americans our neutrality on the condition they cede us Quebec. The Home Office analysts were quite clear on the outcome of that. If the U.S. forced the Canadians to give us Quebec, the Canadians would effectively pull out of their alliance with America.”

“Yes,” Kleist said. “I remember.”

“We all remember,” Mansfeld said. “I accepted your office’s prediction as a truth because you said I must. Then I took into account what we knew concerning American recruitment, training and industry. Given all the facts, I calculated that the Americans would stop the Chinese-Brazilian advance in Wyoming-South Dakota-Iowa. I predicted the Americans would achieve the Aggressor stoppage at great cost in men and materiel to both the U.S. and Chinese-Brazilian forces.”

“It was because of your prediction that I agreed to neutrality,” Kleist said. He tugged as his right suit sleeve, fingering one of the buttons there. “You put yourself on the line and failed us all.”

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “My prediction would have proven true if the Canadians had acted as the Home Office said they would. Instead of acting how you predicted, Excellency, the Canadians wisely swallowed the insult to their sovereignty. They gave up Quebec and then acted in their ultimate best interest. They came to America’s aid and sent their army south. In other words, the Canadian military tipped the scales against the Chinese at the most critical moment. You must remember that the winter campaign was a close-fought affair.”

“What?” Chief of Staff Wessel asked, with his voice climbing an octave. He was a giant with snowy-white hair and he was the only Field Marshal present. “You call it close fought?” For such a large man, he had a surprisingly high voice when excited.

“I choose my words with care, sir,” Mansfeld said. “Yes, it was a close-fought thing.”

“No!” Wessel said. “It was not close fought. The Americans pulled a ‘miracle on the Marne’ against the Chinese.”

“It was not a miracle,” Mansfeld said. “It was well applied principles of war, used with some finesse, I might add. I find their result impressive, even worthy of study. Someone over there knows how to think.”

Wessel shook his ponderous head. “Your supposed intellect has driven you mad, General. How can you call the winter fighting close fought? The Americans broke through enemy lines and surrounded the Chinese Third Front, pinning them against the Rocky Mountains. After devastating battles, the Americans marched nearly a million Chinese soldiers into captivity. It was a catastrophe both for the Chinese and for us. It has allowed the Americans to solidify their defenses and makes our offensive this year impossible.”

“Yes, yes, yes, no, yes and no,” Mansfeld said.

“What?” Wessel asked.

Mansfeld noticed how Kleist watched him, searching for a sign of weakness. He would answer the Chief of Staff, but the words were really for the Chancellor.

“Yes,” Mansfeld said, “the Americans surrounded the majority of the Chinese Third Front, not its entirety. That’s an important distinction. Yes, the Americans captured one million Pan-Asian soldiers this winter. Yes, it was a catastrophe for the Chinese, but no, it wasn’t one for us. Yes, the American and Canadian defenses have stiffened. No, we are still quite able to mount an effective offensive this year out of Quebec.”

“What?” Wessel asked. “That’s preposterous. In fact, your words are meaningless. Your miscalculation will cost the Dominion dearly. It is too bad the Chancellor trusted you. You have betrayed his faith in your military acumen.”

Mansfeld allowed himself a brief smile. He let Kleist see that the smile came at Wessel’s expense. He did so for a purpose, not because he thought Field Marshal Wessel was a buffoon. The Chief of Staff was a buffoon, but that wasn’t the reason for the smile. This was the turning maneuver: to show Kleist where he needed to let the hammer fall. Because the Chancellor had summoned Mansfeld back to Berlin, Kleist needed to axe someone. That had been clear to Mansfeld from the moment he’d read the summons in Montreal three days ago.

Like a trapped bull being readied for castration, Wessel must have sensed danger. It was impossible the Chief of Staff understood the exact reason for the danger, but he must have smelled wolf in his nostrils and it likely terrified him.

Wessel pointed a big finger down the table at Mansfeld. “Have you conveniently forgotten? You predicted the Chinese and Americans would be locked in a wrestler’s embrace during the 2040 spring and summer. You said each would have bled themselves white against the other. Instead, the two have disengaged. They are not entwined in a wrestler’s hold. Each has built strong defensive lines. Such is the strength of the American line that they can pull troops from it and send large numbers elsewhere on the continent. Some of those excess numbers even now circle Quebec.”

“Correct,” Mansfeld said.

Wessel banged a fist against the table. “The Chinese have been bled white, but the Americans are stronger than ever.”

“No,” Mansfeld said. “That is incorrect.”

“You predicted that the situation would be ripe for us to exploit this year.”

“Correct,” Mansfeld said, “given that the Canadians did nothing, or at the very least refrained from helping the Americans. As I’ve said, the Canadian formations came to the rescue. They tipped the scales. The failure wasn’t mine…but that of the Home Office.”

“Tipped the scales?” Wessel asked in amazement. “The Americans won a strategic victory. That means the Canadians more than tipped the scales. The very extent of the victory means that what the Canadians did had no real bearing on the outcome of the battle. You grossly miscalculated. Because of our trust, you have harmed the Dominion.”

Mansfeld allowed himself to laugh aloud.

“You find our situation amusing?” Wessel asked. “We bartered with the North Americans to improve our strategic situation. Instead—”

“If you had studied the winter battle more intently, sir, you would realize how closely fought it truly was.” Mansfeld glanced at the others. Must he teach them the rudiments of war? The General Staff members didn’t even have second-rate minds. Third-rate would be more accurate.

“In every battle,” Mansfeld said, “there is a critical phase or moment. Upon that moment, everything hinges. I tell you that it was at that point the Canadians gave the Americans the needed edge.”

“You are wrong,” Wessel said.

“If you would pull your foot out of your mouth for a moment,” Mansfeld said, “maybe you could learn something.”

The words shocked Field Marshal Wessel, even as his face turned red. The red crept down his neck and disappeared under his tight collar.

“I refer to the time when the Americans and Canadians barely had enough military power to keep the encircled PAA Third Front trapped,” Mansfeld said. “That was the critical phase. With the Canadians’ help, the Americans had enough to keep the Chinese bagged. The gigantic encirclement is what cost the Chinese so dearly, the one million lost soldiers. Due to the loss, the Chinese and Brazilians wisely pulled back to New Mexico and Oklahoma.”

Field Marshal Wessel worked his mouth several times. Maybe in desperation, he finally turned to the Chancellor.

“Interesting,” Kleist said in a suave voice. “Perhaps there is merit to your opinion. I refer to the idea that it was closely fought at the critical phase. The important point lies elsewhere. The Chinese and Brazilians will now need time to gather their strength for a renewed offensive. The Americans surely realize this: that they have little to fear concerning a 2040 Chinese offensive. That means the Americans will be able to safely siphon large numbers of troops from their Midwestern defensive line and place them against us.”

“Perhaps,” Mansfeld said, “although I doubt it.”

“General,” Kleist said, “you are not here to sit in judgment of my words. I am here to sit in judgment of yours.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Then perhaps it is time for me to give you a clearer reading of the situation.”

The chamber seemed to drop to freezing as the military men sat motionlessly, as the security detail along the walls held their breaths and as the color brightened on Kleist’s cheeks.

Mansfeld saw his death in the Chancellor’s eyes. Yet he also saw the curiosity there. He could have spoken with meekness a moment ago. Mansfeld did not do so in order to teach Kleist a lesson the Chancellor would remember. He needed Kleist to understand that only one man could give him what he desired in North America—and that man one was General Walther Mansfeld. There was going to come a time this summer when Mansfeld would need Kleist to keep his nerve. That’s why he spoke as he did to the Chancellor. For others, this might have been a mad gamble. For the supreme strategist and tactician on Earth, this was a precise move calculated to perfection.

Wessel turned his head as if the neck had rusted into place. “Excellency,” Wessel said in a choking voice. “Let me—”

“Silence,” Kleist said.

Wessel blinked several times until the man dipped his chin.

“You have courage,” Kleist told Mansfeld. “And some acclaim you as the most gifted strategist since Erich von Manstein. Very well, tell me how you see the situation.”

Mansfeld noted the tell me, not tell us. The distinction was important.

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “the Chinese-Brazilian invasion hurt the Americans deeply, both in terms of slain, captured, destroyed materiel and in lost territory. While it is true the Americans have made up for lost numbers, they have a long way to go to replace the destroyed trucks, tanks, planes, trains, missiles, helicopters and other equipment. And if they have more numbers, they have lost many trained troops. A large percentage of their new soldiery are Militiamen. They lack Army or Marine training.”

Mansfeld put his hands on the table. This was the moment. “If you will permit me to explain in greater detail, Excellency?”

There was a half-second hesitation before Kleist gave him a nod.

Mansfeld pulled out a memory stick and inserted it into the nearest computer slot. Then he pulled out a keyboard and began to type. A holographic map appeared in the center of the conference table.

“First,” Mansfeld said, “we need to examine the strategic overview. Despite the greatest battlefield victory in their history this winter—greatest in terms of enemy killed and captured—the U.S. is still in a critical situation. Our combined coalitions threaten them with a two-front war and with an even larger number of enemy soldiers than the previous year.”

“You’re badly mistaken if you think Chairman Hong will coordinate with us now,” Kleist said. “We have burned our bridges with him.”

Mansfeld shook his head. “We don’t need Hong’s cooperation, Excellency. China is too deeply engaged in North America to pull out. They need our help. That forces the Chinese into making predictable moves.”

“So you think,” Kleist said.

“No, Excellency, so I know.”

Kleist drummed his fingers on the table. “You are bold because you have nothing to lose.”

“Of course,” Mansfeld said, “but I am still speaking the truth. The fact of the Chinese army in Oklahoma is what counts for us this summer. Their presence is all we need.”

“Proceed,” Kleist said slowly.

Mansfeld manipulated the holo-image as he began to speak about the strategic situation.

He understood that this was the deadliest competition on the planet. Because of worsening worldwide glaciation, the PAA, the SAF and the GD wanted to carve up North American farmland in order to help feed their peoples. If the Chinese were too strong—as they had been originally—they would grab the lion’s share of North America. That was why Kleist had offered the Americans neutrality last year. The Chinese had been poised to grab just about everything, and Kleist couldn’t allow that. The GD needed to get its armies on the continent so it could grab the lion’s share of spoils.

“This is the critical point,” Mansfeld said, finishing his strategic overview. “The Chinese lack of offensive punch this year gives us a limited window of opportunity.”

Kleist laughed as a wolf might if watching a sick deer struggle through a snow bank. There was something shiny about his eyes, something almost lustful. “I’d expected to hear something stunning, General. Instead, you point to what infuriates me the most. Compared to last year, the Chinese are ailing. But they rearm quickly. By 2041, they will be ready again. The trouble is that because of Chinese weakness this year, the Americans can peel off enough forces to hem us in Quebec. They already have peeled off enough troops. We won’t be ready now until 2041. That invalidates our neutrality ploy, giving us nothing extra. You told me four months ago—”

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “If you would let me continue to show—”

“Bah,” Kleist said. “I’ve heard enough.”

Mansfeld knew a moment of doubt. Could he have miscalculated Kleist’s intelligence? He would have to speak fast.

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “Chinese weakness this summer will keep them from exploiting our coming victories this year.”

“Victories…?” Wessel muttered. “You’re mad to think we can achieve victories this year.”

“Not so,” Mansfeld said. “It isn’t madness but my ability to see what others cannot. That frightens the pedestrians among you.” He pointed to himself. “To those like me who see the possibilities, this is an exciting time.” As he spoke the last words, he stared at Kleist, challenging him with his eyes.

Wheels seemed to turn in the Chancellor’s mind. A crafty look stamped his features. “Tell me more about this limited window of opportunity?”

“Yes Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Numbers and a strong defensive position have allowed the Chinese and Brazilians to entrench in safety. Meanwhile, new weapon systems make the long journey from mainland Asian factories, across the Pacific, through Northern Mexico and to the waiting soldiers. Given Asian production and shipping, this will bring their armies to offensive capabilities within a year.”

“I understand that,” Kleist said. “This—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “I will be brief and to the point. Before we speak about Quebec and our expeditionary force, we should first examine the American-Canadian situation.”

With the diamond of his wedding ring, Kleist stroked his chin. “Yes, continue.”

Mansfeld tapped the keyboard, changing the holographic chart. “Here is a quick rundown of American-Canadian military resources at present…” He proceeded to tell them.

“It’s worse than I realized,” Kleist said, after Mansfeld had finished talking. “We have—you have caused us to squander a golden opportunity.”

“On the surface it might appear so,” Mansfeld said. “The reality is quite different.”

“Excellency,” Field Marshal Wessel said. “We have a little over one million soldiers in Quebec.”

Mansfeld spoke for a time about HKs, drones, robotic equipment and GD quality.

“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, summing up. “Counting our forces as they are, not the mere number of flesh and blood soldiers and operators, and adding the Quebecers, we have nearly three million troops versus the 1,600,000 American-Canadian defenders. That being said, we also possess two critical advantages.”

“Those are what?” Kleist asked.

“The first is the German edge in terms of quality,” Mansfeld said, “our planes, drones, tanks, hovercraft, missiles, lasers, space forces, etc. In that sense, we have a preponderant advantage.”

“You spoke of two assets,” Kleist said.

“Yes, Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Not to put too fine a point on it, our second great advantage is me.”

Chancellor Kleist sat back, and he smiled.

Field Marshal Wessel had been eyeing Kleist. He chuckled in a manner that said he understood how mad and arrogant General Mansfeld was. The other General Staff members dutifully chuckled in response.

They’re misreading the Chancellor, Mansfeld thought. Kleist is smiling because he appreciates the truth of what I’ve said. I believe he’s finally beginning to realize that I’m the only one who can give him what he wants.

“The Americans will have two million or more troops in place by the time you’re ready to move,” Kleist said. “What’s more, the Americans also have an advantage.”

“Of course,” Mansfeld said. “They have many veteran soldiers. I have not discounted that.”

Kleist drummed his fingers on the table. “So you’re a strategic asset, eh?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Mansfeld said.

Wessel slapped a meaty palm on the table. “This is an outrage. You are here to explain—”

Without looking at the old Field Marshal, Kleist raised a hand.

Wessel stopped speaking, and he looked helplessly at the Chancellor.

You are an obedient dog, Mansfeld thought, who heels well. Such as you do not produce world-winning strategies, and the Chancellor knows that.

Kleist ignored his white-haired Field Marshal. He kept his wolfish gaze on Mansfeld. “I presume you have a plan?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Mansfeld said.

“And you’ve brought it with you on that memory stick?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Give me the outline of the plan.”

Mansfeld tapped the keyboard, switching the holo-image.

This was the plan of a lifetime, and he knew it followed in the footsteps of the great German strategists. Since the rise of Second Reich under Otto von Bismarck, German military planners had fallen in love with the Battle of Cannae in 216 B.C. There, Hannibal had encircled and destroyed one of the largest Roman hosts in history. Many had considered it the perfect battle. The Schlieffen Plan of World War I had used many precepts gleaned from Cannae, and it had almost given Germany the victory in the first months of the war. Erich von Manstein’s brilliant plan that gave Hitler France in 1940 also followed the Cannae model, as did the greatest battlefield victory on the Russian Front in 1941, when Germany captured 665,000 enemy soldiers in the Kiev Pocket.

Mansfeld spoke tersely and continued to tap the keys as he outlined the plan. During the first phase, he would blitz into Southern Ontario, driving for Detroit. In the second phase, he would amphibiously invade across Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, heading for the Atlantic Ocean.

As Mansfeld spoke, Kleist put his elbows on the table. The man’s eyes gleamed with appreciation.

General Mansfeld’s hands tingled with anticipation. This was the key to the invasion, the winning move: phase three, the amphibious invasion of New Jersey and New York City. The second hook launched from Cuba would meet the first hook from the Great Lakes. The two-pronged pincer move—the Cannae—would meet in mid-state New York and Northern Pennsylvania. They would trap the bulk of the million-man or larger American force holding New England, New York and New Jersey.

“I begin to perceive your plan, General,” Kleist said. “It is daring.”

“Chancellor,” Wessel said, “may I add a thought?”

Kleist studied the large Chief of Staff.

The man surprised Mansfeld, and maybe he surprised the Chancellor. Wessel held his ground and met Kleist’s stare. He shuffled his right foot, perhaps in nervousness, the sound noticeable in the quiet chamber.

“By all means,” the Chancellor said, “speak.”

“General Mansfeld’s plan strikes me as reckless,” Wessel said. “The American-Canadian defenders plan an attack against Quebec. You yourself have told us they long to strike. Presently, the American-Canadians have positioned 1,600,000 soldiers there. By mid-summer, they could have closer to three million. Against three million, the general’s plan will falter.”

“My plan calls for blitzkrieg strikes,” Mansfeld said. “It calls for boldness and risks, calculated risks. Let the Americans stuff more troops into the trap. That will make next year’s campaign that much easier for us.”

“No,” Wessel said. “Considering your plan—as the enemy—I would do the obvious.”

“Please,” Mansfeld said. “Tell us the obvious.”

Wessel pointed at the holomap hovering over the conference table. “Army Group C of Marshal Fromm must hold the strip of land south of the Saint Lawrence River. You’ve allotted them three siege armies, is that not correct?”

“I have,” Mansfeld said.

Wessel snorted like a bull. “Ninety percent of the people in Quebec live between Montreal and Quebec City. It is a pitifully short distance for the Americans to cross. All our supplies enter through the Saint Lawrence River. What if the Americans mine it?”

“We must prevent that,” Mansfeld said.

“Must, will…” Wessel shook his head. “You live in your ivory tower, planning dreams. I talk about reality. The Americans will mass against Fromm’s armies and shove them back through brute force if necessary. They will cut off your supply by capturing Montreal. That will bring a swift end to your campaign.”

“You said an interesting thing, sir,” Mansfeld said. “You said it is the obvious move.”

“Yes,” Wessel said, “it is obvious.”

“And that is why the Americans will fail,” Mansfeld said.

“You will build a defensive wall there?” Wessel asked. “Have you studied modern war? The Americans tried that in SoCal. The Chinese smashed through their defenses.”

Mansfeld shook his head. “I will build no wall.”

“Then how will you defend Montreal?” Wessel asked.

“By two methods,” Mansfeld said. “I will attack—”

“You will attack with Fromm’s siege armies?” Wessel asked. “Have you studied the terrain there or the number of Americans? It is clear they plan to attack us there as soon as the ground dries out.”

“Fromm will make a spoiling attack…after the Americans have stripped their defenses,” Mansfeld said.

“What?” Wessel asked. “That’s preposterous. You can’t know what the Americans will do four or five months from now.”

“I realize you cannot predict that,” Mansfeld said. “But I can, and I do here, right now. After the Americans strip their defenses, Fromm will attack with Kaiser HKs and under our air and space umbrella.”

“You truly plan an attack there?” Wessel asked.

“You’re not listening: I said a spoiling attack. It will give us ground, space. Then I will build a Kursk-like defense that will make the Russian buildup in 1943 seem like a lark.”

“No, no,” Wessel said, shaking his head. “You’re no prophet of God or Allah, or Apollo, either, for that matter. I believe you fail to grasp reality.”

“And you fail to grasp our qualitative superiority in equipment over the Americans,” Mansfeld said. “We are a generation ahead of them, in some cases, two generations. They will be like Iraqis to us. I have no doubts concerning our ability to hold them in place. The challenge will be in attacking and bagging a million Americans. In the end, we will do to them as they have done to the Chinese. And we will have conquered New England, New York and parts of Northern Pennsylvania and New Jersey.”

Mansfeld turned to Kleist. “Then, Excellency, you will be able to begin your reorganization of American society. That is the lynchpin to our conquest of North America. I will give you the first victory and the American territory needed for your political genius to assert itself.”

Kleist nodded slowly, glancing from the Field Marshal to Mansfeld. “Perhaps…” He nodded firmly. “The meeting is temporarily adjourned. I wish to hear General Mansfeld’s ideas in detail. We will meet again…in five hours.”

Chief of Staff Wessel blinked stupidly. “But I thought…”

“The meeting is adjourned,” Kleist said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, Excellency,” Wessel said.

Everyone rose as Kleist stood.

“Come, General Mansfeld, you will ride with me. There are a few matters that have made me very curious indeed.”

The churning in Mansfeld’s stomach had lessened. He had passed the first test, and it was likely the hardest one of all. Still, one needed to practice caution with Kleist. The man was an alpha wolf. For now, he should be safe. The great danger would be later. But on that subject, Mansfeld refused to even think about it until the proper moment presented itself.

His survival, his life, depended on doing that right.

General Mansfeld opened his eyes. He let his arms drop and sat up, automatically reaching for the coffee cup. No. The coffee would be cold by now. He needed to pour himself a fresh cup.

With a grunt, Mansfeld stood. He moved to the computer map. Was Kleist more subtle than he realized?

Having just gone over the meeting four months ago, he would have to say yes. Kleist hadn’t tried to shoot down his ideas. The man was famous for his wit and scathing attacks. Instead, the Chancellor had been content to let Field Marshal Wessel do the questioning.

I was so absorbed with deflecting my death sentence that I failed to fully grasp the situation.

Kleist had put him on record. Yes, the Chancellor had teased the battle plan out of him before the General Staff.

Frowning, Mansfeld readjusted the computer map. He did it with three sharp taps and a quick widening of his thumb and index finger. He went over the last week of battle. What was he missing? What had Kleist seen four months ago?

Phase by phase, General Mansfeld mentally walked through his plan. He knew no plan fully survived contact with the enemy. There were always adjustments. But his plan…

Is Kleist counting upon the fog of war? Does he believe I’ll falter?

Mentally, Mansfeld added different variables to the mix and came up with his adjustments. No. He would annihilate the Americans. The Canadians were chaff now or at best a broken reed. He would hand the German Dominion New England, New York and northern Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The jaws of his trap would be too strong for whatever the Americans could bring to bear. And his military teeth—his formations—they were like iron. He would chew the Americans and swallow over a million soldiers into captivity.

Am I being paranoid? Perhaps Kleist isn’t as cunning as I believe.

Mansfeld shook his head. He couldn’t accept that. Kleist was cunning. Perhaps Kleist didn’t fully realize how brilliant he—Mansfeld—was. Far too many people in his life had underestimated him. Usually, that only happened once. Then it didn’t matter because he had already moved ahead of his detractors.

Toronto was the key for this phase. He would grind the massed Americans trapped in the city, using his iron teeth to devour them. If he were the Chinese, he’d have fought a slow battle of attrition and starvation of food and materiel. If he were Chinese, it would take time to cause such a large number of first-rate American and Canadian divisions to die or surrender. He didn’t have time for that. His timetable called for fast attacks. Thus, he aggressively used the robotic forces to kill and kill again, and shrink the Toronto Pocket.

What have I failed to discover about the Chancellor?

Tapping the computer map, Mansfeld decided he would read over Kleist’s manifesto again. It would be well to remember the Chancellor’s ultimate plan for North America. Perhaps there would be the hint. Kleist must surely believe he held something over his general’s head.

I must find it.

Mansfeld tapped the computer map one more time. Kleist was subtle, but he dealt with his most brilliant foe. Only one of them would survive this war. It was time to get out the manifesto and study it.

From The Life and Times of Chancellor Kleist, by Count von Hohenzollern:

Chancellor Kleist believed he had discovered a “new” political theory of breathtaking scope and military utility. Briefly, it was internal autonomy for a homogenous ethnic or religious community, allowing a “people” their own laws and customs. Examples were legion: Bavaria for Bavarians, Normandy for Normans and Quebec for Quebecers.

Wedded to the larger Dominion, these semi-autonomous states supplied tax monies and soldiery hirelings for Kleist’s grander ambitions. He had already welded Europe and North Africa—minus Egypt—into a powerful military bloc. With the “peaceful” occupation of Quebec in 2039, he possessed the nucleus for a new subdivision of the North American continent.

Kleist recognized better than most the failed American ideal of the “Melting Pot.” Instead of a uniquely American identity, many considered their ethnic or religious heritage as trumping their U.S. citizenship. For instance, Aztlan separatists wished for union with Mexico or their own “Aztec” state carved out of California and Arizona. Many politically vocal African-Americans still desired reparations for past wrongs, while certain Muslim Americans insisted on Sharia law.

Disregarding the morality of the issue, Kleist’s political solution was simple, straightforward and revolutionary brilliant. As the ancient Assyrians and modern Soviets under Stalin had practiced, Kleist envisioned enforced resettlements: the creation of North American ethnic and religious enclaves or states. He would carve out a niche for the Sharia Law Muslim, for the fundamentalist Christian, for the Black, Aztlan and Alaskan separatists and for various conservative and liberal diehards of European extraction.

Thus, the German Dominion Invasion of 2040 created a crisis on two fronts for the American military. Firstly, the famous and physical Second Front that the Chinese and South American generals desperately desired. Secondly and possibly just as damaging, an inner, spiritual or loyalist fronts for many American citizens disgruntled with the present state of affairs.

In the PAA and SAF conquered regions of the Southwest, countless American guerilla and partisan forces rose up to contest the invaders. Kleist’s semi-autonomous enclaves—if given a chance to flourish like Quebec—potentially provided the GD with several advantages. One, the GD would need only a minimal military occupation force in the rear areas. Two, in their own self-interest, various North American groups might swell GD ranks with needed soldiers.

In this manner, Kleist hoped for a political-military conquest of North American instead of a purely combat-oriented solution.

Paul Kavanagh sat in an underground bunker lit by long fluorescent tubes. Enemy shells shook the ground above and caused the tubes to flicker as bits of dust and debris rained from the ceiling. Some of the debris rattled lightly on the main table.

The colonels and general looked up at the lights. One of the colonels swore and rubbed at an eye hit by dust.

The shelling paused, and the shaking soon quit. For quite some time now, the Germans had pounded their positions day and night. The Toronto Pocket had shriveled since Paul fled from the HK. Few friendly forces came through to help them, few airdrops made it and only a trickle of sea transport at night. Essentially, they were on their own, trying to buy America the time to build an impenetrable line somewhere behind Toronto.

It had all happened so fast, and the Germans never stopped to rest and refit. With their drones, HKs and robotic troops, the GD soldiery didn’t need to stop like ordinary soldiers. The Germans just changed the controllers or added gas and munitions to the AI-run HKs, and their offensive continued.

The Marine general doing the talking now stood to his feet near his position at the middle of the table. The bunker down here stank of sweat, stale bread and gunpowder. The general put a helmet on his head. The straps dangled past his chin, and he gazed at his colonels.

The blocky Marine general—he was five-seven—had a patch over his right eye and a bandage on his right cheek. He believed in leading from the front and he had paid for it with his injuries. The man still wore a combat vest and kept a holstered .45 on his hip. Although he was a Marine, not all the watching, listening colonels were. Nor were they all Americans: two of the colonels were Canadians.

The Marine general—his name was Len Zelazny—inhaled through his nose, making his nostrils flare. The man looked tired but undefeated. He had been at Colorado this winter and had helped crush the PAA Third Front. He knew what it was like to win.

“The Germans don’t fight fair,” Zelazny growled. “They send robots at us instead of facing us themselves. I say they’re smart to do that, because we would kick their Kraut asses otherwise. Okay. That’s the way it is. You don’t cry over spilt milk but you can at least point it out.”

He quit talking for a moment and breathed in and out. Anger shone in his brown eye. He balled his hands into fists and his right struck the table.

“I don’t have to tell you gentlemen that the Krauts have been slaughtering us. I guess it’s payback from Word War Two when Patton stomped the shit out of them. Now they’ve come here to play in our sandbox. Well, we’re good and trapped in this city. I know you men understand that. There’s no getting out of this one, right?”

Several of the colonels nodded. They looked tired and defeated. Every division, every battalion and company had taken a horrible pounding and bloodletting. It had come as a rude shock. They had arrived from the US Strategic Reserve, well, a few had originated from New England, and driven here into Canada in order to stop the Germans cold. They hadn’t expected death for everyone.

“Their tank drop,” Zelazny said, “no one expected it. No one figured the GD hovercraft could keep the enemy divisions supplied the way they have. Well, it’s time for us to do something unexpected to the Krauts instead of just taking it all the time.”

A few of the grim-eyed colonels perked up.

From where he sat in the back, Paul Kavanagh forced his eyes open. He’d been falling asleep. He’d been running messages for the past few days. When had he starting doing that, three days ago? Yeah, three days ago Zelazny had finally understood that the Germans intercepted every radio message he sent out. So Zelazny had gone back to basics and used runners. Three days of endless, back and forth running had exhausted Paul. Sitting here felt good but it made his eyelids heavy.

Standing at the middle of the table, Len Zelazny raised his voice so even Paul heard him clearly. “The flesh and blood Krauts don’t want to get dirty this war. They’ve been rich too long and standing at the top of their heap for decades. Most of them are momma’s boys and couldn’t stand up to a bareknuckle brawl.”

“They don’t need to,” a colonel said.

Zelazny pointed a dirty finger at the colonel. “That’s where you’re wrong, Brad. Maybe we could break out of here if we poured everything into one spot. Well, I don’t mean that. The Krauts are smart. They always have been at war. I’ll tell you want I suspect. They’ve left one special weak spot for us. The old Mongols of Genghis Khan used to do that. The Mongols never totally surrounded a foe, but gave him a gauntlet to freedom. Once those beaten foes rode for and through the gauntlet, the Mongol horse-archers poured arrows by the tens of thousands, slaughtering the running enemy.”

Zelazny eyed the colonels. “I think that’s what the Germans have done here. We could maybe break a small corridor open, but we sure as Hell couldn’t all slither through. We’d lose all our heavy equipment and die by the tens of thousands. No. I don’t plan on running, and I’m not just going to stay and take it.” He scratched at the eye patch. “I don’t like the idea of sitting in these rat holes waiting for Krauts and Frogs to come and collect us.”

Colonels nodded.

“I’ve been done some hard thinking,” Zelazny said. “I’ve tried to dredge up some advantage we have over the GD.”

“They have better tanks, better planes, better—”

“Stow it, Tom,” Zelazny said. “I don’t want to hear that right now. I’m talking about our strengths, not theirs.”

A thin colonel with terribly red eyes nodded.

Zelazny cleared his throat, and he pointed his dirty finger again. This time he pointed at Paul Kavanagh.

Colonels made rustling noises as they turned to look at Paul.

Realizing he was the object of scrutiny, Paul sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up.

“Do you mean we’re supposed to look at that Marine?” a colonel asked.

“He’s Marine Recon, an LRSU man,” Zelazny said. “We have a good number of his kind here. I don’t just mean recon specialists, but elite soldiers used to working alone and often behind enemy lines.”

“I don’t get it,” the red-eyed colonel said. “Are you saying they can help us break out of Toronto?”

“I already told you,” Zelazny said. “There is no breaking out for us.”

“Is that right?” a small Canadian colonel asked Paul. As he spoke, the man’s left cheek twitched. It happened twice. “You couldn’t slip away?”

Paul glanced at Zelazny.

“Go on, son,” Zelazny said. “Tell him what you believe. I’m interested in hearing it too.”

“Sir,” Paul said. He paused, thinking about it. Then he decided to speak his mind. “I could slip away. Don’t know if I could take many men with me. It wouldn’t be like retreating with conventional troops. Regular soldiers wouldn’t know what to do. But I and a few others could get back to our lines easy enough. Is that what you’re thinking, sir?”

“No,” Zelazny said, with a scowl.

Paul shrugged. He hadn’t thought so, but he’d hoped for a second. He didn’t much like the idea of dying here. That went against the oath.

The colonels stared back at Len Zelazny. They looked confused, but he had their attention.

“The Krauts are invading our country,” Zelazny said, “and the Japanese are getting their shot at us again as they soldier under the Chinese. This is a replay of World War II, but with America on the receiving end. During the War in the Pacific, the Japanese faced elimination like this on more than one occasion. The officers usually sharpened their samurai swords and led their men in banzai charges against their foes.”

“I’ve read about those,” the red-eyed colonel said. “They were suicide charges against Marines and U.S. Army soldiers. Our boys back then cut them down. The Japanese would have lasted longer defending. I did read it worked sometimes against the Chinese of that era.”

“That’s right,” Zelazny said.

“You’re saying it’s time to suicide against the Germans?” another colonel asked.

“Not on your life,” Zelazny said. “Americans aren’t suicide soldier types.”

“What about the Alamo?” a colonel asked.

“It wasn’t the same thing,” Zelazny said. “But at least you men are thinking now. I like that. But forget about suicidal banzai charges. No. I have something else in mind and men like Kavanagh are the key ingredient. Now, we are going to mount a few attacks and surprise the Krauts.”

“That’s banzai charges,” the red-eyed colonel said.

“Maybe on the surface it is,” Zelazny said. “Our reason for the attacks is different, much different from what the Japanese did back then. Now you heard the Recon Marine. He said he could slip back home. I believe him. If you knew his record, you’d believe him, too. That got me to thinking. If Kavanagh could slip away—where the Germans are watching for us to do exactly that—couldn’t Kavanagh also slip forward, too?”

“I don’t get it?” the red-eyed colonel said. “What are you suggesting?”

“That we mount a full assault,” Zelazny said. “We do it for two reasons. The first is to throw the enemy off his timetable. Let him wonder about us and worry. You can be sure the Krauts aren’t going to be expecting us to attack. Now this isn’t for dying gloriously or any other such bullshit as that. The glory in war is in killing the other guy and making him die for his country, not us dying for ours. We attack. The Germans defend, and during the assault—all along the line, mind you—men like Kavanagh quietly slip through the enemy line. They crawl, I don’t know, for a while anyway—for as far as they need to. Finally, these killers get behind the GD drones, HKs and robotic machines. They reach flesh and blood Krauts, Frogs and Limy bastards for a change. That’s when they pull out their knives, their submachine guns, and teach these momma’s boys what it’s like facing an American soldier.”

“It will be an old-time Apache raid,” a colonel said.

“For Kavanagh and the others,” a colonel said. “What happens to us, sir?”

Zelazny nodded, and he looked weary again. “After the assault—don’t kid yourselves. This attack is going to cost us dearly. Afterward, though, we fall back to our prepared defenses. There, we dig in and wait for the machines to dig us out. We die, I suppose, but we make them take a long time doing it. And we take as many of those things as we can with us.”

The colonels stared at Marine General Zelazny. A few grunted in agreement. The others remained silent.

“Well, you’re U.S. officers and our fellow Canadians,” Zelazny said. “So let’s hear your ideas. It’s going to be our last offensive plan. We want to make sure it works the best it possibly can.”

As the colonels and General Zelazny began to work out the details, Paul Kavanagh thought about it. He was bone-weary and just wanted to sleep. His eyes closed on their own accord. This was probably as good as place as any to grab some shuteye. It was a fancy plan, a grasping, final idea. Would it work?

Before Paul could decide, he fell asleep where he sat. For all he knew, this would be the last nap in this life. When he woke up, it would be grinding effort likely until he was dead.

Jake Higgins stood before a three-person Militia tribunal. It had been several days since his bender and his head no longer pounded from a hangover. His eyes had cleared and they were no longer bloodshot. His dry mouth tasted bitter, and he couldn’t believe the clothes they’d given him.

He had baggy pants and no belt. He had to grab his trousers in the front to keep them from falling down to his ankles. It made him feel foolish and ridiculous. Worse, he knew they’d planned this in order to diminish him. First, they worked to break a person’s spirit. Then they taught the person how to think. Their techniques were tried and true.

Jake stood before three judges who sat on a platform higher than he was, forcing him to look up. It was no doubt another psychological ploy. Each judge wore a uniform, two men and a woman. The woman wore a Detention Center suit of white with brown stripes. She was large, with red hair piled on her head and she sat between the two men. She was in charge, a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. The men were majors in the Militia.

The woman looked down her nose at Jake. She had a mole on the left nostril, and no doubt, hair sprouted from the mole.

He found her thoroughly despicable, even though he’d repeatedly told himself while sitting in his cell that he needed to talk softly today. A soft answer turns away wrath. He’d heard that from somewhere, but couldn’t place the saying’s origin.

“Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. She scanned an e-reader. “Disorderly and drunken conduct in a—” She glanced at the leftward major, handing him the e-reader. “Am I reading this correctly?” she asked the major. “The offender committed these disloyalties in a strip bar?”

The pudgy major didn’t take the e-reader, but leaned over, scanning the words in a bored manner. “Oh yes, the offender was in a strip bar. You are correct.”

“Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. “I find that disgusting.” She glared down at Jake. “You no doubt frequent these places often.”

“Uh, no,” Jake said. “I—”

“Silence!” the monitor said, banging a gavel on a block, making the block jump. She continued scanning the e-reader. Her head swayed back and her eyes widened. Silently, she pushed the e-reader toward the same pudgy major as before.

His pupils went back and forth. His head jerked back sharply and he eyed Jake anew. “Is this correct?”

“I don’t know what you’re reading,” Jake said.

“I can’t see how anyone could possibly speak such treasonous trash as I’m reading here,” the monitor said. “Do you realize we are at war with three different power blocs?” she asked Jake.

“I do, yes,” he said.

“The world pours in against us,” the woman said. “We have our backs against the wall and, and—you have the impudence to spout this garbage?”

“First,” Jake said, in a reasonable tone. “I was extremely drunk.”

“I cannot believe this,” the monitor said. “Your kind wallows in all kinds of deviancy. Drunkenness, lewdness, sedition—I imagine it’s a long list with you.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Jake said. “I’m the furthest thing from seditious. Have you looked at my combat record lately? I was at Denver this winter.”

The woman glanced at the second major, a thin man with compressed lips. “Is this true?” she asked.

“I think there’s a broader question,” the man replied. “Is his whereabouts this winter germane to what he spouted in the strip bar?”

“Yeah it’s germane,” Jake said. “I’ve spilled blood for America. If anyone…” His voice quieted and he stopped speaking.

The woman raised bushy eyebrows. “It appears you have to think carefully before answering my questions. To my mind, that shows a guilty conscience.”

“No,” Jake said.

“He’s argumentative,” the pudgy major said, the one on her left.

“I cannot believe this,” the monitor said, as she continued reading. “You urinated on your Militia card.”

“No,” Jake said.

The woman looked up with astonishment. “Do you dispute the facts?” she asked.

“Well…not exactly,” Jake said. “I pissed on the card, yeah.”

The woman stiffened in outrage.

“I-I mean urinated,” Jake said. “I urinated on it.”

“So you admit to this lewdness?” she asked.

“You have to understand,” Jake said. “I have the highest respect for the Militia. My best friends are in it. You should call them. They can tell you about my combat record.”

“Do you notice what he’s doing?” the pudgy major asked the woman.

She shook her head.

“He’s trying to tell us how to run our tribunal.”

“You’re right,” the woman said. “It’s seditious arrogance.”

“Look, the three of you are telling me how to run my life,” Jake said. “The least I can do is to defend myself. You want to hear the truth, don’t you?”

“You really think you can defend your heinous actions?” the woman asked.

“Getting drunk is heinous?” Jake asked, starting to get angry.

“Don’t play your little games with me, young man,” the woman said. “Drunkenness is moral weakness. I do not excuse it. But in this instance I mean showing grave disrespect to the Militia by urinating on your ID card.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Jake said. “I wasn’t pissing—I wasn’t urinating on the card. Don’t you listen?”

The monitor’s eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t urinating on the card, what were you urinating on?”

Jake opened his mouth to tell her, and he paused.

“He’s a schemer,” the pudgy major said. “Look how he has to think about what he’s going to say. A man telling the truth just says it and lets the consequences fall where they may.”

“All right,” Jake said. “You want me to say it? I pissed on the Director of Homeland Security. Is that such a sin? In case you haven’t noticed, the man has enforced some highly suspect laws.”

The three members of the tribunal traded glances with each other.

“What are his Dentition Center records?” the thin major finally asked.

The monitor clicked her e-reader, searching. Finally, she read for a time. Brusquely, she handed the device to the pudgy major. He glanced without touching it, and he traded looks with the larger monitor.

“Do we need to see any more?” she asked the others.

“I’ve fought for America,” Jake said. “I’ve spilled my blood more times than I can count? What have you three done to stop the invaders?”

The monitor picked up the gavel and banged it several times. “You are under investigation, not us.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jake said, as his fingers curled around the fabric of his trousers. Why had them given him such baggy pants? “I’m fighting my heart out on the front lines and you three are hiding back here stealing my freedoms. What a joke.”

“I do not care for your tone or for your treasonous words, young man,” the woman said.

“I bet you don’t,” Jake said. “Tyrants hate an honest man.”

The woman banged the gavel. “I do not need to hear any more. You are hereby sentenced to a penal battalion.”

“Is that another detention battalion?” Jake asked.

“I thought I was clear,” the woman said. “You are headed to a penal battalion.”

“Is that a labor—?”

“You have lost your right to question me,” the woman said. “Perhaps if you fight hard enough, you can regain your American citizenship someday. These seditious acts and words—” She shook her head, making her short bangs swish over her forehead. “I believe one such as you would better serve us as fish food. But the hour is dark and America uses everyone, even you disloyalists.”

While clutching his pants, Jake looked up at her. He felt helpless, and he despised the feeling. He should have stayed with his friends in the bar. If he had… He’d needed to drown his thoughts about killing, and he had those bitter emotions because he’d already fought hard to defend his country. This was wrong, just dead wrong. His stomach churned. He didn’t know what to do. This was just so wrong.

“You’re leaving for New England this evening,” the woman was saying. “There, you will join a penal battalion. Fight hard, Mr. Higgins, and perhaps you can gain your country’s forgiveness.”

“How about the country gains my forgiveness for what it’s done to me?” he said under his breath.

“What was that?” the monitor asked. “Do you have some final word for the court?”

Jake had some words all right, but he refrained from saying them. He was in deep enough. A penal battalion…that sounded ominous.