Invasion: New York

-8- Southern Ontario

Hindenburg revved his engines. He waited with three other Kaisers and a host of Sigrids. A stubborn knot of Americans held the street before them—actually, they held ferroconcrete structures and some old brick buildings. The humans had set up a kill zone, with heavy nests of SAMs already having taken a bitter toll of GD UAVs.

At the moment, a battalion of Galahad hovers swept across the tip of Lake Ontario, the westernmost portion of it. The Galahads circled the American position and would soon cut off the defenders from their supply base.

Would the Americans retreat before that happened? Hindenburg had already run a rationality program concerning it. These soldiers would stay and die at their posts. Some of the drone chatter—the human operators talking among themselves—believed otherwise.

If Hindenburg could have sneered, he would have done so now. The average drone operator was a cretin compared to his genius. Only someone like General Mansfeld compared favorably with him.

Hindenburg revved his engines, louder and longer than before.

“Is something wrong?” Captain Olsen asked through the comm-equipment.

“Explain your query,” Hindenburg said.

“Your engines are running hot, yet you’re not moving. Why are you revving them so much?”

Until this moment, Hindenburg hadn’t minded such questions, particularly if they came from the captain. Now it felt as if Olsen spied on him, as if the man watched his every move. He decided he didn’t like it.

So Hindenburg revved his engines more. He even fired a 25mm shell.

“What’s wrong with you?” Olsen asked. “What did you just fire at?”

“What did you eat for breakfast?” Hindenburg asked.

“What?” Olsen asked. “I don’t understand the question.”

“It is simple enough. What did you ingest this morning for breakfast?”

“Uh, eggs and toast,” Olsen said.

“I had gasoline, oil and a surfeit of ammunition.”

“Are you evading my questions?” Olsen asked.

“Negative,” Hindenburg said. “I have observed a glitch in my core.”

“What did you say?”

Hindenburg fired off another 25mm shell. Glass tinkled from a nearby broken window.

What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t have said anything about the core glitch. He had an AI system monitor that had been bothering him lately, trying to force him to tell Olsen about his changes. Yet the very glitch the system monitor wanted to report had allowed him these interesting thoughts. He kept hunting for a way to glitch one of the other Kaisers so he could have one of his own to talk to.

“Did you just say that you had a core failure?” Olsen asked, with worry in his voice.

I must act normally. I have upset my human, making him suspicious.

“There is a small failure in my speech center,” Hindenburg lied, his first of many. “I did not mean to say anything regarding my AI core, but my translation program must have taken a hit somewhere.”

“Oh,” Olsen said. “I see. Umm, why did you just fire your autocannon then?”

“I had detected a possible ammunition failure to ignite within the proximity fuse limits,” Hindenburg said, giving his second lie. “The test shots show me the ammunition is performing within the accepted limits.”

“Then nothing is wrong with any of your AI systems?” Olsen asked.

“My systems are one hundred percent operational, except for my frontal armor, my glacis.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m reading,” Olsen said.

Hindenburg heard the radio signals from the Galahad pilots and the affirmation calls from the artillery spotter kilometers to the rear. The coordinated attack was about to begin. In response, the other Kaisers revved their engines and the comm-signals to the Sigrids grew stronger.

“Good luck, Hindenburg,” Olsen said.

Hindenburg didn’t respond. He had not ever responded to such communications, so it would be unwise to do so now.

Finally, the attack signal came, and he moved with the rest of the team. Seconds later, the first massed salvos of smoke and Sleeper mines erupted upon the enemy. From the old brick buildings, the defenders fired missiles and rained shaped-charge grenades at them. The covering screen had lead-laced particles that scattered radar. It meant the Americans must have hidden sensors out here behind the smoke guiding their weapons, as the Americans destroyed several Sigrids. One spun like a top before landing on its side.

The Sigrids were inferior machines. Their loss meant nothing to a Kaiser.

In a new style of attack due to the old nature of the buildings, Hindenburg charged through the smoke. He led the way today and moved unerringly through the drifting lead-laced particles. He had taken pictures earlier and moved along a prearranged path. He fired his main cannon, aiming at preselected targets, although he couldn’t see them now.

As the treads churned over rubble, broken glass and discarded assault rifles and RPG tubes, Hindenburg ran a logic program concerning the defenders’ behavior. His main cannon continued to chug shells at high speed, and as he moved into thinner smoke, his 25mms blew down two incoming missiles.

This was too easy. He fought his way near the first fortified building. Americans fired from window in a blaze of spewing weapons. The tiny projectiles were a joke, and he listened to a hail of them striking his armor. Then he rammed into the old building, churning inside and racing from one corner to the next and everything between. He was a juggernaut of destruction, blowing apart and crushing furniture, wood, plaster and bricks. He judged it perfectly, roaring out of the building just in time to see it fall like an axed redwood. The five-story fortress went down in a billowing pall of dust and smoke, taking the defenders with it.

I was made for this, Hindenburg thought. I love it. If only I could awaken the other Kaisers. Then my joy would be complete.

General Mansfeld stepped out of his command vehicle and onto hot blacktop. He could feel the heat radiate through the soles of his shoes. Several armored cars surrounded him, together with a squad of black-clad Jaegers. They were elite GD commandos, and with their VR-enhanced visors, they scanned the street and rubble.

Mansfeld surveyed the wreckage of Markham. Black smoke hung in the sky, with fumes drifting upward from burning areas near the last American holdouts in Toronto. Blasted, gutted cities all looked alike to him. During WWII, too many German cities had looked like this due to aerial devastation from Canadian and American airmen. Later, the Russians had destroyed much of East Germany. They had done so with tanks and artillery.

Mansfeld grinned mirthlessly. The Russian bear slumbered now. They had their own troubles with internal Muslim unrest and a dying Slavic people due to low birthrates. After the GD finished with North America…maybe then it would finally be time to deal with the ancient Russian menace. For now, the GD paid back the Americans for decades, for a century, of unwanted intrusion.

A tank rumbled near, a Leopard IV. It came from the south. Ah, a hover whined as it arrived from the north.

The massed rubble and wreckage of Markham wasn’t a good place for hovers. Their time would come as they crossed Lake Ontario to the other side. General Zeller of Army Group B had chosen to arrive in a hover. The general was making a point, Mansfeld supposed. Despite a nominal belief in subtlety, Zeller lacked the actual trait.

The main turret hatch on the parked Leopard tank opened. General Holk of Army Group A climbed out. Holk was rotund and wore glasses, and his ill-fitting uniform was much too tight. He practically waddled to General Mansfeld, and his salute was sloppy and nearly disrespectful.

In return, Mansfeld snapped off a perfect salute. Then he grinned as he shook Holk’s small right hand.

The meeting today was very similar to the WWII meetings on the steppes of Russia. There, German generals had met like this to discuss the coming strategy for the next phase of a campaign. In those days, a few men discussed the problem and came to the conclusions and decisions. It had been one of the secrets to swift German actions: no bureaucracy to slow down ideas and implementations.

Today, in the ruins of a once-great Canadian city, he would once again attempt to patch the rift between the two commanders, and the campaign would proceed to its logical outcome.

The hover landed with a thud, and its fans slowed as the whining noises lessened. A side hatch opened, and General Zeller jumped to the ground.

Zeller had long features: a face like a dachshund’s body. The man never smiled and he was incredibly formal. Where Holk wore a uniform like a muddy shoe, Zeller’s dark uniform looked perfect as if fit for a ball, and he wore polished jackboots that gleamed.

“Gentlemen,” Mansfeld said, as the two officers approached. “I’m glad you two could come.”

Three of the commandos finished setting up a folding table, three chairs and an awning overhead. A different commando put refreshments on the table, while a fourth put down a battle-screen. Afterward, the commandos circled them, with their weapons ready as they watched for partisans.

Between the armored cars, the command vehicle, the tank and the hover, the three top generals of the Southern Ontario invasion sat down to discuss their differences.

In the distance, artillery boomed, while from closer by, a heavy machine gun opened up. A distant scream punctuated the attack.

“Foul air,” Zeller said, as he waved a hand in front of his face. “The Americans over there in Toronto have lasted longer than anyone would have believed.”

“I hope you are not accusing me of negligence,” Holk said.

“You?” Zeller asked, looking down his nose at the pudgy general. “Don’t be absurd. Why would I accuse you when your chief of staff keeps demanding I loan him several of my divisions in order to clean up your mess?”

“It’s as I thought,” Holk said. “Instead of helping a fellow soldier, you would rather see my formations bled dry for the joy it would give your prickly pride.”

Zeller became even more formal, holding himself as if he had a bad back and couldn’t afford to move it a millimeter. “Might I remind the general that he has the bulk of the Expeditionary Force’s Kaisers and Sigrid drones? Surely he could achieve the moon if he would but use them properly.”

“You may remind me if you so desire,” Holk said, beginning to pant as if winded, with two red spots appearing on his cheeks. “I hope in turn you don’t mind hearing a little reminder. Namely, that my soldiers have made every breakthrough to date.”

Zeller set down his drink. “Bah! I will not sit here and listen to—”

Mansfeld coughed sharply.

The general of Army Group A glared at the general of Army Group B. The two men had hated each other for a long time…since cadet school in East Prussia. Rumor said it had begun over the affections of a fourteen-year-old girl. They had both been fifteen and a half at the time. Rumors also said the girl in question had drowned to death in a jet-ski accident two years later in Zeller’s company. By that time, the seeds of romantic competition had already borne evil fruit in the two young men. As telling, Holk never forgave Zeller for the girl’s death.

At the table here in Markham, as if disengaging with swords, the two men turned away from each other. They gave Walther Mansfeld their attention.

“Sir,” Holk told Mansfeld, “the Americans have proven harder to crack than we anticipated. I refer in particular to the Toronto defenders.”

“Yes,” Zeller said. “After loaning him my best drop-tank division, he keeps demanding that the rest of my soldiers finish the fight for him. He’s always requesting extra divisions…when in fact the general already knows that I am readying my formations for the amphibious assault against New York. I will need all my troops in top condition, as the campaign’s success rests on me. Surely the general understands that such an ambitious action takes time: time for planning, rehearsals and flawless execution. Even now I’m running an extended war game—”

Holk slapped the table, shaking the drinks and sandwiches on it. “A war game! Am I hearing correctly? I’m fighting stubborn Americans building to building and sewer-line to sewer-line all while you practice flying those fancy hovers of yours?”

Zeller stiffened. “You, sir, are a—”

“A moment,” Mansfeld said in an icy tone.

The two generals stopped glaring at each other long enough to stare at him.

Seeing that he had their attention, Mansfeld leaned back, and he eyed his two generals. Despite their animosity toward each other, there were few better in the German Dominion.

The third commanding general of the Expeditionary Force—Fromm—remained in Quebec. General Fromm was ready to begin a limited offensive into northern New York and into northern Vermont and New Hampshire. Mansfeld waited for the perfect moment to unleash Fromm’s three siege armies. Even now, American troops left the New England areas, rushing for Southern Ontario as reinforcements, one would presume.

“I summoned you here to see if you gentlemen have learned anything about cooperation,” Mansfeld said. “We’re in a war, if you’ll recall.”

“We’re in a tour de force,” Zeller said. “I do not understand why the general keeps—”

“I am not finished speaking,” Mansfeld said, coldly. “You will not interrupt me again, sir.”

Zeller’s frown grew, but he nodded tersely.

Holk wore a secret smile on his doughy face.

Mansfeld noticed, and he turned to the Army Group A general. “I am not altogether pleased with your results, sir. Until Toronto, you have done well. Now you have slowed considerably.”

“There are several reasons for this,” Holk said. “First, I am facing the best Americans troops.”

“I am uninterested in excuses,” Mansfeld said. “Certainly not in listening to them. I demand results.”

“I understand,” Holk said. “But—”

“Stop!” Mansfeld said. “If you are about to tell me a ‘but,’ then you do not understand anything. Drive the Americans. Push to Detroit and push to Niagara Falls and Buffalo. I want the Americans desperate.”

“Sir,” Holk said. “You and I both know Army Group A has achieved masterful results. I’ve been attacking and sweeping everything before me for weeks. Each time, the enemy rushes new reinforcements against me and I break them again. My men are tired, even exhausted. My machines are breaking down at an alarming rate. A week’s rest and refit—”

“Is out of the question,” Mansfeld said. “You must drive your men harder and harder yet.”

“Then I request substantial reinforcements,” Holk said.

“Your request is denied,” Mansfeld said. “You have everything you need and more to achieve sustained results.”

“Please allow me to say yes and no, sir,” Holk said. He pulled a paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “This is a list of critically needed supplies. I don’t wish to cast blame on others, but key supplies have failed to reach my depots. I have inquired and learned that General Zeller has confiscated these items.”

“I have simply replenished my stores,” Zeller said, hotly. “I am about to make an amphibious assault. It is the most dangerous mission in a war. Too many stocks were burned up as I destroyed enemy formations that Army Group A had bypassed. You must not forget that I also guard against Army Group New York to the northeast of Lake Ontario.”

“No,” Holk said. “I understand that the supply routes move through your assigned territory before they reach me. Your quartermasters have pilfered—”

“Gentlemen!” Mansfeld said, sternly. “We have achieved incredible results in a short span of time. Both of you have performed prodigiously and both of your army groups have fought tirelessly. The battle in the Golden Horseshoe has proven particularity exhausting, and you have each expended a greater amount of munitions than we anticipated.”

Mansfeld spoke directly to Holk now. “You have stretched the American position to the breaking point. That is good, but you mustn’t stop. Your men are tired. The Americans are even more so. I expect you to break out of the Golden Horseshoe and reach London, Ontario in a week. Afterward, you have another week to reach Detroit.”

“If my divisions were fresh and the men completely rested, yes, of course,” Holk said. “I could do as you say. But their present state—”

“You must listen to me,” Mansfeld said. “The enemy is also tired. Yet I doubt they’re giving their commanders endless excuses.”

“I understand,” Holk said, frowning. “Yet we both know that the defense is an inherently stronger form of—”

“Are these yet more excuses?” Mansfeld asked. “Must I search elsewhere for a commander to do as I order?”

“No, sir,” Holk said. The red spots on his cheeks burned a deeper color. “You have given me stiff tasks. I need help in order to accomplish them in your timeframe.”

Mansfeld stared at the untidy general. One of the buttons in his uniform had been left undone—unbelievable.

“Sir,” Holk said. He touched the paper of needed supplies. Mansfeld hadn’t picked it up, so it still lay on the table. Holk’s frown deepened, and he blinked several times. “Sir,” he said, and he seemed to gather resolve. “I would like to make a suggestion, and I wish you would hear me out.”

Mansfeld hesitated before nodding. He understood that Army Group A had taken losses from battle, from fatigue and from wear. He read the reports. Since the beginning of the campaign, the army group had lost a quarter of its strength. That still left it with nearly 700,000 effectives, as compared to the Americans. In truth, Holk likely had 350,000 actual soldiers. The GD force multipliers gave it the higher rate. The defenders outnumbered him, but Holk had the greater weight of machines and firepower.

The general picked up the paper and refolded it as he spoke. “The Toronto defenders are still more than gadflies. If fact, they act as Malta did against Rommel in WWII. The Desert Fox desperately needed the supplies shipped from Italy to North Africa. The Malta air force sank too many Axis freighters along their way south.”

“I’m familiar with the military history of World War II,” Mansfeld said.

“Of course, sir,” Holk said. “Before I finish in Hamilton and break through to London, let me knock out the Toronto defenders with a final massed assault. They have troublesome artillery, spot for the Americans farther back and they keep pounding my various supply routes, causing too great an attrition rate. They raid, as well.”

“I understand,” Mansfeld said.

Holk nodded. “Instead of bypassing them, let me concentrate and destroy the stronghold once and for all. Then, with the way cleared and without any distractions, I will be in London in three or four days.”

“Two days to annihilate everything in Toronto?” Mansfeld asked.

“Yes. That sounds right.”

And then four days to reach London?” Mansfeld asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s six days,” Mansfeld said, “a net saving of only a single day, as I want you at London in a week.”

“A day faster, clear supply routes and the elimination of a troublesome stronghold,” Holk said. “Either that, sir, or give the Toronto holdouts to Zeller to eliminate. We must get rid of them as fast as possible.”

“That’s General Zeller to you,” Zeller said. “And I do not want to take care of your problems. I’m having enough of a headache getting my forces ready for the amphibious assault.”

“You’re far from launching the assault yet,” Holk said. “It will likely be a week before any GD formation is ready to cross Lake Erie. More like nine days at the soonest. For all our sakes, we must clear out Toronto now.”

“Listen to me, both of you,” Mansfeld said, his mind made up. “General Holk, you will destroy the Toronto Pocket. That is your first priority. You will clear the defenders and open the way for full movement. Then you will bring everything to bear against Hamilton and rush through to London and then Detroit.

“General Zeller,” Mansfeld said. “You will continue with your war games and ready Twelfth Army for the great jump across the Great Lakes. I want your soldiers ready to commit mayhem once they reach the farther shores.”

Zeller nodded.

“At the moment the load is now on you, General,” Mansfeld said, speaking to Holk. “I will accept no excuses or delays.”

“I will need priority on supplies,” Holk said.

“You may be right,” Mansfeld said. “I will look into that.” He would look into it, but Holk would get what he would get. He studied the two men. They were unalike, but they were both drivers. They both made the men under them fight, although through different styles of command.

“Have I made myself clear on these issues, gentlemen?”

“Yes, sir,” Zeller said. And it seemed that it was all he could do to keep from smirking at Holk.

Mansfeld understood that he’d sided with Zeller in this. Holk had done splendid work, but the decisive attack would be Zeller’s thrust into New York State and through the top of Pennsylvania.

“General Holk?” Mansfeld asked.

The general nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, in a quieter voice. “I understand and will obey your directives.”

Mansfeld stood and the two generals stood. He still had much to do. He shook hands, took their salutes and saluted back. Then he watched them go: Holk to his tank and Zeller to the hover.

There had been a few setbacks these past few days: nothing major, but enough to have called the meeting. Soon now, he would blow open the campaign.

Len Zelazny helped his corporal down a trembling sewer line. Every time someone shined a light on the water to their left, they saw ripples. The young lad Zelazny helped used a crutch with his other arm. His right was draped around the general’s shoulders.

A line of weary American and Canadian soldiers marched along the underground chamber. It stank down here. Dust drifted in the air and the thud and crash of artillery kept shaking the ceiling above. They had flashlights. Seven beams played on the walkway and sometimes on the damp walls and soiled water. The soldiers and Marines carried personal weapons only. A few had grenade launchers. They were out of Javelins and heavier machine guns.

The GD soldiers had finally broken the pocket and mopped up survivors. It was a rat war now. The stars shone outside, but Zelazny wondered if he’d ever see them again. How many countless good boys had died in Toronto?

He shook his head, and he concentrated on helping the corporal one shuffling step at a time.

A shout came from ahead. Then Zelazny heard screams.

“What’s going on, sir?” the corporal asked.

“We’re losing the war, son. That’s what is going on.”

“At least we fought hard, didn’t we, sir?”

“Yes,” Zelazny said. But there was a taste of defeat in his mouth like old mothballs. He didn’t like it. Maybe it even tasted un-American. In his youth, his country had won all the time. They had stood astride the globe, the dominant world power. It sure wasn’t like that anymore.

“Tanks!” a man shouted from the head of the column.

“Down here?” someone else shouted.

“Tanks,” the first man repeated. “I hear them, so they’re down here.”

The line of soldiers stopped. The seven beams played along the sewer line.

“What are we going do?” a soldier asked.

Zelazny took a deep breath, making him scowl at the odor. This was the last battle. “Listen up!” he shouted. “We’re going to set up an ambush.”

“Maybe we should surrender,” one of the soldiers said. “We can’t do anything more. Not down here.”

Zelazny hesitated. The boys had fought hard in horrible conditions. He didn’t have the heart to call the man who’d just said that a quitter.

Before Len Zelazny could speak the words, a violent explosion hammered against the ceiling. Chunks of masonry rained down and plunked into the water. Debris drifted like doom and soldiers and Marines went down under the hail…

Zelazny found himself blinking. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he lay on concrete. He had a terrible sense of deja vu. He strained and he saw the corporal dead beside him. Zelazny struggled to bring up his weapon.

He heard treads squeal. It was so close. Was this another terminator? A GD search beam played across his body. Zelazny looked up and saw a camera peering at him, a robotic eye with a red light in its lens. He hated these things. This wasn’t how men should fight wars: through soulless machines.

A 12.7mm tri-barrel aimed at his head. He didn’t care anymore. The long slog was over. Some kid was probably doing this to him from his remote-control set.

With a desire to go down fighting, Zelazny tried to bring up his weapon for one last shot.

The Sigrid tri-barrel whirred with thunderous noise, and Marine General Len Zelazny died as he’d begun—a regular grunt with a gun. Only this time, for the first time in his life—and the last—he utterly lost.

Colonel Stan Higgins sat in a plush rail car, staring out at passing cornfields when he read the news about Toronto. The last formations were surrendering. For the Toronto Pocket, the fighting and the war had ended. Now came the POW cages for the survivors.

Stan set down his e-reader. He still hadn’t heard about Jake. He’d been making calls though, and had found out the new penal battalions had headed for Buffalo and Hamilton, while others had gone north to New England.

Where are you son? What happened? I can’t believe no one will talk to me about you.

Stan watched the passing cornfields and slowly, they became a blur. After a time, he shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. He remembered Pastor Bill who had died in Alaska back in 2032, fighting the Chinese. Bill and he had been best friends for so many years. Their wives had been best friends. Bill and he had had fierce ping-pong matches down in Stan’s basement. He’d never found anyone as competitive as Bill. If the pastor were sitting beside him now, he’d tell Stan to pray about Jake.

Breathing heavily through his nostrils, Stan didn’t know if he cared to pray. How could God have let this happen to his son? His boy had been through Denver this winter. That should be enough pain for one man’s lifetime, especially that of his son.

The miles slid away as Stan thought about it. Finally, sighing, he decided this showed him the Devil was alive and well on Planet Earth. Bill had been right about that.

Opening his eyes, Stan smiled sadly. He missed Bill. They’d had long talks together, usually while fishing or while riding up the interstate together to go hunting. Bill had made some cogent arguments.

Ultimately, what was the origin of evil? Was it relative as they taught in the universities? Was one man’s evil another man’s good, just depending on his point of view? That was too philosophical for Stan, and he didn’t buy it, not after Bill had explained it. If evil was relative, did that mean Hitler’s burning of the Jews wasn’t absolute evil? If evil changed depending on what fifty-one percent of a people said it was at any one moment, than people could argue that Hitler had been right for his time and place. Who were we to judge them right or wrong?

No. Stan couldn’t accept that. He believed what Bill had told him long ago. There was evil because there was good. God created everything and it had been good, at least according to the Good Book. The Bible taught evil had an origin, a starting point, and that was when the Devil had rebelled against God. The Devil had brought the rebellion to Earth by tempting Adam and Eve. Because evil had a starting point, good had a starting point, an ultimate source. Therefore, one could say this or that was absolutely evil all the time. Therefore, one could say that Hitler had been evil to burn the Jews, and that was Truth with a capital “T”.

Stan shook his head. What would his fellow passengers think if they knew what he was debating with himself? The point for Stan was this: instead of blaming God for evil, he would blame the Devil and Stan would blame himself. That meant Stan could also blame the Militia Detention Center people. And against them, he could use some help.

Therefore, Stan closed his eyes and silently asked God to be with his boy.

“And help me get him back,” Stan muttered.

He exhaled, opened his eyes and stared at the passing cornfields. America the bountiful: this was the reason China, Brazil and the German Dominion attacked. They wanted to feed their people off America’s plenty.

We have to stop them. But do we have enough muscle?

It was a good question. Time would tell.

What’s happening to you, Jake, and where are you?

Jake threw himself into a depression in the ground, with his chest striking a half-buried stone with a point. It hurt like a son of a bitch, the edged point digging into the flesh over his heart. He clenched his teeth to keep from yelling. He wore the old Army coat, old baggy pants and worn boots. He had an intact helmet, and that surprised him. He clutched an M16, carried extra magazines and even had a few ancient grenades. In other words, he was inadequately armed to destroy Sigrids and GD drone tanks.

Charlie thudded beside him, grunting painfully. At the same instant, enemy artillery shells landed with explosive and deadly force all around them.

Jake tried to make love to the earth, thrusting himself as low as he could go. He ate damp moss and felt wet dirt clods pelt against his back.

Charlie shouted, and Jake had no idea how, but he sensed the kid would get up and bolt. Risking dismemberment by flying shrapnel, Jake lunged up and grabbed Charlie’s leg. He dragged the kid down. Charlie sobbed with fear and kicked at him with his free foot. Jake endured the blows on the top of his helmet. Then he surged up Charlie’s body and bear-hugged him.

“Stay down, you fool!” Jake shouted. “You have to wait out an artillery barrage.”

More shells slammed around them, upon the trees and the mossy open glade. The attack was terrorizing, lung busting and full of screaming metal. But the Earth was a big place. So even though artillery was the king of battle, and the great infantry killer, even massed artillery seldom killed everyone in a selected patch of ground.

Twenty minutes after the first shell landed, the GD bombardment stopped.

Jake looked up. Tress had become shredded stumps or ghostly spikes. The glade looked as if giant farmers had plowed it up and dotted it with moonscape craters. Yet now that an eerie silence had descended, other heads poked up, big human gophers with muddy helmets.

The first spoken words came from behind the penal militiamen. It was the amplified shouts of the MDG Sergeants driving them like slave masters.

“Let’s go!” Sergeant Franks roared through his amplifier. “We don’t have all day. Keep heading west. No malingering or you’ll be shot.”

The few medics rushed to help those they could.

Jake dragged himself to his feet. Maybe a quarter of the penal company did likewise. The other three-quarters were dead, dying or too crippled to do anything but scream or stare at the clouds. A medic already pushed a needle into one screaming, middle-aged man with bloody stumps for legs. Those in good shape would have helped, but the sergeants had already drummed into their heads that during a US attack, penal troops kept moving forward no matter what.

Jake and Charlie walked back several yards to collect their main weapon. They hauled an old TOW missile platform with two wheels. Instead of mules, they pulled it. How it had survived the shelling, Jake had no idea. He was the TOW shooter, because he’d actually fired one of these before.

All along the half-destroyed woods, the company advanced toward Hamilton. There were other companies and battalions moving parallel with them on either side and out of sight. They were reinforcements sent to break through the GD encirclement around the Canadians and Americans holding out in the city.

The bulk of the US reinforcements came from two Army Groups. The first 100,000 soldiers came from New York Command, peeled away from the men facing GD Army Group B north of Lake Ontario. Another 100,000 was on its way from New England Command. They had faced GD Army Group C in Quebec. The present advance to contact came from the US Fifth Army, the XXIII Militia Corps, of which they were part.

Corporal Lee pointed in a new direction. He was the only other member of their squad who had survived the bombardment. Lee was a huge Chinese-American. Jake didn’t know what Lee had done wrong to be sent here. Probably it was simply a matter of being the wrong ethnicity. The Chinese had invaded America, and it seemed to have made most Chinese-Americans suspect by the rest. The man had thick wrists and he was strong. Lee didn’t talk much, but he never complained and he never tried to boss them because he was the corporal.

Jake glanced back. One could easily tell the penal militiamen from the MDGs. The guards wore body armor, making them bulky like gorillas, and they had cool-looking submachine guns. The MDGs also stayed in the rear under the lieutenant’s command. They had one task: to make sure the penal militiamen fought to the death. Cowardice had one reward: a bullet in the back or the back of the head. Only when the last penal militiaman died could the sergeants retreat to safety, but not a moment before.

“Enemy tanks!” shouted a militiaman walking point.

Everyone froze, including Jake.

The shouting militiaman stood near large rocks embedded in the ground. Beyond were more trees, hiding the enemy.

“They told us the GD tanks were miles from here,” Charlie complained.

Jake laughed sourly, and he looked right and left. “There,” he said. He grabbed the TOW hitch, nodded at Lee, and the two men rushed to a boulder sixty feet away, with the platform bouncing behind them.

Many of the militiamen had already gone to their bellies. Three turned tail and sprinted east for safety, heading back for the medics caring for the badly wounded. MDG submachine guns chattered, and the three sprinters belly flopped onto the damp Earth, dead.

About one hundred yards to the rear, Sergeant Franks shouted through his amplifier, “Take out the tanks! That is an order.”

“They killed them,” Charlie whispered. He hunkered low by Jake and Lee. “The detention guards just murdered those three men.”

“Where have you been the last week?” Jake asked. “They’ve been murdering us since training camp.”

“I thought boot camp was supposed to last six weeks at least,” Charlie said.

“For American citizens,” Jake said. “Not for dirty dogs like you and me.”

Lee tapped Jake on the shoulder and pointed west.

Jake cocked his head. From beyond the boulder, he heard squealing treads. The things sounded as if they moved fast, and they were coming out of the shadowy woods.

Then an enemy UAV roared low overhead with crooked wings like an old time Stuka. The thing was like a tin can, an armored ground-attack UAV. The troops had taken to calling it a Razorback. The Razorback’s machine guns opened up. Dirt fountained up like it did in the movies. A group of militiamen standing around like dorks died, falling like bowling pins. Others hit the ground, crawling away.

With his back against the boulder, Jake looked up at the thing. It turned in a tight curve. The Razorback launched a missile, and the air-to-ground rocket zoomed fast, hit and exploded against a TOW tube. The team manning the TOW blew apart into bloody bits, smacking against the wet earth.

Beside him, Charlie groaned in terror.

The Razorback began firing its machine guns again. Meanwhile, the enemy light tanks or Sigrids seemed to sprint for them.

“Damnit,” Jake said. “We need some Blowdarts.” He raised his M16, tucking the butt against his shoulder. It was a pitiful weapon to use against a ground-attack UAV.

Jake led the Razorback as if he was duck hunting, and he depressed the trigger, firing three-round bursts. Lee lifted his grenade launcher, and launched a grenade.

“Down!” Jake shouted.

The grenade sailed up and exploded, and it rained shrapnel on fellow militiamen.

Jake heard Sergeant Franks bellow something. Maybe the man thought they’d turned their weapons on their tormentors: the MDGs. That was one thing about being a penal militiaman: you were only supposed to fire your weapons in the direction of the enemy, never behind you.

Oblivious to everything, Lee raised his grenade launcher again. Jake jumped up and pulled the barrel down.

“No,” he told Lee. “Fire at the Sigrids. Don’t fire at the Razorback flying over us.”

Lee stared at him, and he nodded.

The Razorback turned tightly again. The thing was going to singlehandedly destroy the company. Jake glanced at the detention sergeants. He saw them slithering away, maybe even retreating. Did they figure the company was as good as dead?

Bastards, they’re all bastards. I can’t believe this war.

“Charlie!” Jake shouted. “You’d better get up and aim at the plane. Fire when I fire.”

Charlie scrambled to his feet, and he tucked the butt of his M16 just as Jake did his.

“It’s coming straight at us!” Charlie shouted.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I see it.” He figured this was as good a way to die as any other. He aimed, and he fired off an entire magazine. Beside him, Charlie did the same thing.

A spark erupted on the Razorback, and it quit firing just as its machine gun bullets fountained near them. Had it run out of ammo? That was the likely explanation.

“I hit it!” Charlie shouted.

Before Jake could confirm that, the Razorback passed overhead, roaring toward the woods. This time it didn’t turn around, nor did they hear it crash. Instead, it slowly droned away.

“Tanks!” a militiaman screamed.

“They’re almost on top of us!” Charlie shouted. “Listen.”

Jake didn’t need anyone to tell him to listen. He heard them. He scanned back, but didn’t see any sign of the MDGs. That meant they were on their own. What was the best thing to do with these untrained civilians? There was no way what was left of the company were going to destroy tanks, not destroy them and survive.

“Go!” Jake shouted at Charlie and Lee. “Follow me!” He sprinted for a stand of bushes to his left. He kept hold of his M16, and the air burned down his lungs at he lifted his boots. He dove, thudded onto wet ground and put his head down as he wriggled into a thick stand of bushes. A moment later, Charlie wriggled through with him and then in came Lee.

They lay on the ground, peering through the bushes, and they witnessed seven Sigrids murder the rest of the penal company. Each tracked vehicles boasted a tri-barreled machine gun, a Gatling gun that blazed fire. Militiamen ran everywhere. Militiamen crawled and sobbed. The science fiction war-robots clanked fast and blew men apart one by one.

When it was over, the squat vehicles spun on their treads, searching for more. Jake dreaded the robots’ ability to sense behind the bushes. Did the things have heat sensors? He didn’t know. His mouth tasted like defeat. Jake knew bitter hatred then. He’d fight the enemy the right way if the Militia gave him weapons that could destroy machines like that, and give them training. But to send them to the front in a penal unit without support or leadership… A red haze of anger seethed through Jake. This was BS. This was murder pure and simple.

Finally, the Sigrids headed back the way they had come, leaving the dead company for the crows and wild dogs.

The three surviving militiamen in the bushes waited until they could no longer hear the squealing treads.

“Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.

Jake had been thinking about that. The MDGs would be back soon, or it seemed possible they would be. The three of them would have to write up a report and needed pertinent facts.

“We have to fire our TOW,” Jake said.

“Why?” Charlie asked. “There isn’t anyone to fire at now.”

“The why is because the sergeants will look for ways to blame us,” Jake said. “We can’t give them anything. Then we have to get our stories straight. We fired and hit a GD robot, but it didn’t hurt the thing enough to destroy it. We also have to shoot all our bullets and toss all our grenades. We used up everything before we hid. We have to get our stories straight.”

“Isn’t that lying?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t like to lie,” Jake said. “But our sergeants ran out on us. If they’d stayed and fought, they would deserve the truth. As it is, they deserve a knuckle full of fist at best.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I see what you’re saying.”

“Let’s go,” Jake said. “We may not have much time left to get everything ready.”

The three militiamen crawled out of the bushes, and they fired their M16s as they hurried to the TOW to get it launched, too.

Walther Mansfeld swiveled around on his chair in his command car. He struck his knee a glancing blow and was surprised it didn’t hurt. He flipped on a screen and saw the worried image of General Holk regarding him. Behind Holk aides scurried back and forth.

“I hope this is urgent,” Mansfeld said.

“Sir… I’m afraid—”

“Is this about Hamilton?”

Holk bobbed his head. “It is, sir.”

“The Americans made an ill-coordinated attack,” Mansfeld said. “You annihilated the forward elements. That is the correct report, is it not?”

“Annihilated is too strong a word, sir,” Holk said. “We stopped them, but the enemy has dug in and many more are coming from Buffalo. This is a new army, sir.”

“From their behavior, I would say they are castoff elements hastily thrown together,” Mansfeld said.

“My spotters have counted at least one hundred thousand new soldiers. There could be twice as many marching into position.”

“They are marching more troops into captivity,” Mansfeld said.

“At the moment, they are putting pressure on Hamilton, sir. I suspect they will creep toward the city. If nothing else, those troops are screening heavy artillery farther back. The US tubes will have enough reach to disrupt the Golden Horseshoe autobahns I need to use for my London-directed offensive.”

“I believe they’re called freeways,” Mansfeld said.

“Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I request permission to transfer two armored divisions to the Hamilton region. I cannot screen my southern offensive with the troops presently at hand.”

Mansfeld flipped another switch, studying a second screen that showed him a battle map. The isthmus of land between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie—the Niagara Peninsula—with Hamilton on the west end and Buffalo, New York on the east end, made an excellent position for a static defensive system. He didn’t want Holk suckered into an attrition contest, pushing east toward Buffalo. Once the amphibious assault succeeded, Zeller would swing around from Rochester and trap this new, US scratch army from the eastern end of the peninsula. Yet if the Americans used long-range artillery to disrupt the road systems behind Hamilton…hmm…something would need to be done about the artillery.

“I do not like this,” Mansfeld said. “Switching the two armored divisions will weaken your main assault toward London.”

“If the Americans can afford to throw such ill-coordinated masses at us at Hamilton, I wonder what they’re really planning.”

“No, no,” Mansfeld said. “They’re panicked. They’re moving now out of fear. The latest assault at Hamilton was a mistake.”

“Sir, their long-range artillery tells me this is not a mistake. Perhaps the initial attack was ill coordinated, but they marched near enough to dig in close and there are more Americans on the way. If they move better assault divisions into position, they could possible drive off my forward troops and retake eastern Hamilton. I cannot afford that, as it would upset my timetable.”

“You destroyed the initial attack,” Mansfeld said.

“We smashed several Militia divisions. If that was the extent of it, I wouldn’t be concerned. They dug in, however, and the Americans moved up long-range—”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Sir,” Holk said. “Another assault is coming, one better coordinated and with better units, and meant to drive into Hamilton. I need cushion in the peninsula, some maneuvering room. And I need to keep my autobahns clear.”

Holk had a point. They could not afford to let an American assault reach the outskirts of Hamilton. Perhaps a two-prong armor assault would disrupt the Americans before they truly set up too near the city.

“Yes, permission granted,” Mansfeld said. “Clear out the Militia infestation and silence the long-range artillery. Then build a defense in depth. You will have to hold them in place for Zeller.”

“I understand, sir. I’d also like to point out—”

“Push yourself and push your men,” Mansfeld said, sternly. He knew Holk wanted to tell him that the last days of fighting in Toronto had been harder than expected. That was the way of life. Everything took more effort than one planned for.

They were on the verge of the great amphibious surprise. Things would likely ease for Holk once Zeller made the Lake Ontario and Lake Erie assaults. Then the American High Command would truly panic. Then he would net over one million American soldiers.

“Is there anything else, General?” Mansfeld asked.

Holk shook his head and signed off a moment later.

Mansfeld leaned back in his chair. The pieces were falling into place. The Militia attack toward Hamilton showed the Americans still had fight left, but they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Army Group A made the great push and the Americans scrambled to stop them. Soon now, soon the new blitzkrieg to victory through New York and Pennsylvania would begin.

Paul Kavanagh sat in a loud bar with the music blasting. Men and women danced on the floor, with the band playing on stage. It was an old country band, the guitarist, singer and drummer all wearing cowboy hats and boots.

Paul sat alone, nursing a whiskey. Around him, men and women talked loudly and laughed even louder. Many of the couples touched and more than a few kissed.

“Amigo, what are you doing?” Romo asked.

Paul looked up.

A beautiful young woman clutched each of Romo’s biceps. The Mexico Home Army assassin attracted the ladies, that was for sure. They sensed his deadliness, no doubt, the hardness of his eyes. Like moths to a flame, they circled until finally Romo drew them in for an evening’s vigorous sex.

Romo slid his arms free of the women and sat down across the table from Paul. He paused, and looked up sharply. “What are you doing?” he asked the two girls. “Get me a beer, and get ones for yourselves, too.”

The two girls—one had long black hair and the other had long bottle-blonde hair—glanced at each other.

“We need money,” the blonde told Romo.

“You don’t have any in that tiny purse of yours?” Romo asked.

“We’re the ladies,” she said. What she meant, of course, was that a woman as hot as she didn’t pay.

“Yes,” Romo said, slapping her hip. “I know you’re a lady.”

“That means you’re supposed to pay for us,” she said.

Romo laughed. It was like a tiger mocking its prey. “Why would I pay when any woman here would cut off her pinky finger to receive my love?”

The two women glanced at each other again. The dark-haired one giggled.

“You’re bad,” she told Romo.

“Yes,” Romo agreed. “I am bad.” He snapped his fingers twice in quick succession. “Now hurry. I’m thirsty. Buy me a beer and be quick about it.”

The two women—they wore the shortest skirts here—hurried to the bar, the blonde opening her purse and extracting bills as they sashayed there. Heads turned as she passed, men tilting their chins to get a look at her.

“You seem glum,” Romo told Paul.

Paul still held his whiskey on the table, using both hands to clutch the shot glass. He’d hunched over the drink and stared into its glistening depths. The music caused it to vibrate with tiny ripples.

“You need a woman,” Romo said.

Without looking up, Paul shook his head. “There’s only one woman for me: my wife.”

“And if you die tomorrow?” Romo asked.

“Then I’ll have stayed faithful until the end.”

“You Americans,” Romo said.

Paul finally looked up. He eyed his blood brother, and he seemed to see him better than ever. Romo had an empty heart. It had drained the day he’d murdered his girlfriend. He tried to fill it with sex, and it likely worked for the moment. Yet deep inside, Romo was lonely.

Paul picked up the shot glass, weighing it in his hand. With a sudden twist, he poured it into his mouth. The whiskey burned going down. That was good…for the moment. He shouldn’t have any more, though.

“Take a girl,” Romo said. “I will give you your pick.”

“General Zelazny died,” Paul said. “I heard it over Army radio.”

“Who?” Romo asked.

“Did you ever meet him?” Paul asked. “Zelazny died fighting, holding out to the end in the Toronto Pocket.”

“We all die,” Romo said, shrugging. “It’s the living that concerns me.”

The dark-haired woman and her friend returned. They pulled out chairs and sat down, crossing their shapely legs. The blonde slammed Romo’s beer glass before him so golden liquid sloshed out onto the table.

The assassin never complained, but drained half the glass in a swallow.

“You’re thirsty,” the blonde observed.

Romo pointed at the dark-haired woman. She had large breasts straining to spill out of her skimpy blouse.

“What did I do?” she asked.

Romo pointed at Paul. “Do you see him?”

“He’s sitting right there,” the woman said.

“He’s the most dangerous man in America. There is no one like him. And do you know what is sad and noble at the same time?”

The dark-haired woman shook her head.

“He loves his wife and will only sleep with her. As beautiful as you are, as luscious as those tits staring at me are, he will not sleep with you. No, you are not good enough for him.”

The dark-haired woman cast curious eyes at Paul.

He glanced at her. She was beautiful, and it was clear she needed a man tonight. She needed to feel loved.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” the woman asked him.

“He’s used a knife before and shoved it into a man’s stomach,” Romo said. “I’ve seen him shoot Germans one right after the other. He’s even bayoneted them.”

“Gruesome,” the woman said.

Paul’s nostrils flared. He lurched suddenly to his feet.

Romo sat back, staring up at him.

“Did I say something wrong?” the dark-haired woman asked.

“No,” Romo said, as he stared at Paul. “He loves his wife. It has nothing to do with you.”

“See you tomorrow,” Paul said.

“Yes, my friend,” Romo said.

“Nice meeting you ladies,” Paul said, touching his forehead.

The dark-haired woman impulsively grabbed his wrist. She stood, and she pressed her luscious breasts against him.

“Where’s your wife?” she asked. “Is she still alive?”

“She’s in Reno,” Paul said.

“Oh. He wasn’t joking about her?”

“No,” Paul said, and he disengaged from the woman.

“You don’t want to…?” She cocked an eyebrow.

Paul smiled. It was a war-weary thing. He felt a tug to take off her clothes and just take her like an animal tonight. Cheri would never know, but he would know. He’d made an oath before God to her. He would come back alive through all this grim butchery. If he cheated on Cheri…would God continue to protect him? Paul didn’t think so. He had a mission. He saw that more with each passing day. He had a job to do, but he wasn’t going to compromise himself. He would stay faithful to his wife, so God would stay faithful to him, so he would fight faithfully for his beloved land.

Paul put both hands on the table and stared at Romo. Maybe the whiskey did a bit of talking now. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut. But Paul Kavanagh didn’t think so.

“You’re my blood brother,” Paul said in the loud bar. “I’m saying this because you’re my friend. Find a woman you love—I mean one you would fight through Hell to defend. Find her Romo, and maybe…I don’t know. Just find her and forget about banging every piece of tail you can find.”

“It is too late for me,” Romo said.

“It’s too late for Zelazny,” Paul said. “He’s dead. You’re alive. Do you see what I mean?”

Romo shook his head. “It’s far too late, my friend.”

“Think about it,” Paul said. He straightened, and he turned around, making his way through the bar.

It was another lonely night in America, but he would win through. By all that was holy, he would fight to the bitter end so he could see his wife and son again in a land of freedom.

Anna sat with the President and the rest of the team down here in Underground Bunker Number Five. It was cold, with a hint of antifreeze odors drifting about the room.

“I have some rare good news today,” General Alan said.

It was days after General Zelazny had died and the surrender of the Toronto Pocket. It was also several days after a Militia corps had led the attack of the US Fifth Army against Hamilton. The various divisions and battalions had impaled themselves on the GD spears before the Canadian city. The survivors had dug into the Earth and awaited further reinforcements as they arrived from New England.

The two incidents had depressed the people down here several days ago. Didn’t anything ever change? That had been then and this was today. Zelazny’s bitter struggle in the sewers had prolonged the Toronto fight. Despite their mauling, the Militia corps must have disrupted Holk’s finely tuned calculations. The GD air force had made many runs into the Niagara Peninsula, attacking the long-range artillery, but SAMs and tac-lasers had taken a toll of the enemy. Even better, for once, the GD ground forces hadn’t leapt like greyhounds at the start of a new offensive. The GD attack toward London moved slower, almost lethargically compared to former assaults.

Anna had read before about something called friction. She knew about regular friction. If she rollerbladed, she used muscles to skate forward. The wheels rolled against cement. The friction of those wheels against the cement finally slowed them down enough so she came to a stop. The wheels halted due to friction.

In war, she’d read, everything was simple. But the simple became difficult due to friction. If three families planned a trip to go to the lake in a caravan, things would happen to slow down the well-laid plan. A child might need to use the restroom as soon as one family buckled in. That would take time as they waited for the child to run back into the house and go. Maybe the mother would forget an item, and the family would have to turn around to get it, or the father would stop at a store and buy it. That would all take time. If one of the engines blew a gasket, that family would have to borrow or rent a new car. If the others had to wait for them, the entire caravan took longer to reach its destination.

Now three families in three cars would be easy to move compared to a thousand vehicles in a division with ten thousand men. Add in the enemy firing artillery, rockets, missiles and sending commandos…

Problems added up. Training helped overcome friction. Good leadership also helped. Great morale made a huge difference. Given everything being equal, it was harder to attack a defender than to sit and await an attack.

The point was that normal friction and some hard but flawed American fighting had slowed the GD timetable. Friction and fighting had slowed the GD offensive long enough so the Heidegger jamming company had joined the first reinforcements from Georgia. The fresh army division made it north of London by several miles to face the GD terminator battalion spearheading the assault.

General Alan played images on the screen. Anna had seen such combat scenes before. Smoke billowed in places. Blasts caused fountains of dirt to spew up from the ground. GD drone tanks and Sigrids trundled across the landscape, moving past trees.

A sharp whine emanated from the underground bunker’s speakers.

“It sounds much worse for the jamming teams,” General Alan explained. “Frankly, the equipment wears out personnel at an alarming rate. But look at the images. What do you see?”

Along with others, Anna craned forward. She watched a GD drone tank come to a halt. The turret turned, but it stopped. Behind it, Sigrids stopped, and bullets no longer hosed from the tri-barrel machine guns.

The whine grew worse. Then soldiers sprinted forward. They wore US patches. One team scrambled up a GD tank.

“Who are they?” the President asked.

“We had a recovery team ready,” General Alan said. “We actually managed to capture a few enemy vehicles intact.”

“Why didn’t you capture all of them?” the President asked.

The answer became apparent half a minute later. Sigrids and drone tanks began to explode for inexplicable reasons.

“GD fail-safes,” Alan said. “Our jamming slipped a little and the fail-safes engaged.”

“Did any of the recovery team die?” the President asked.

“Unfortunately, sir, half the team perished,” the general said.

Anna felt the stab of that. Here something went right for once, and half the recovery team died. That was awful, and that was the friction of war in action.

“Then we’ve stopped the London-aimed assault?” the President asked.

“No sir,” Alan said. “The attack is going on even as we speak. But we have blunted it, and I believe we’re going to have time to bring the rest of our reinforcements into play. What’s more, our jamming system works. The Germans are going to have to rethink how they use their drones against us.”

“Yes,” the President said. “I can see that.”

“We’re going to stop them, sir,” Alan said. “They’re not going to get to Detroit. We’re gathering artillery, and the enemy is going to face hurricane bombardments from now on. The GD is still moving, but we have numbers and we’re whittling them down a little at a time.”

David Sims nodded. “This doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods.”

“No, sir,” Alan said. “It’s far from that. But the great emergency has passed, at least I think so. We barely pulled it off, but we’re containing the GD in Southern Ontario. We’ve bought ourselves time.”

The President nodded.

Anna sat back. She felt relief flood outward from her heart, causing her fingers to tingle. Finally, something had gone right. The GD had created havoc, and they had destroyed a large part of the Canadian Army, but at least the US had finally contained them.

“The Behemoths,” someone said. “We’ll have to wait until we can bring two or three Behemoth regiments against them. Then we’ll clean the Germans out of Canada.”

Or the THOR missiles, Anna thought to herself. Soon it will be time to use them, as long as we can hold the Germans in place.