For that task, he was perfect. In Alaska seven years ago, he’d been a high school history teacher. In the Alaskan National Guard, they had called him “the Professor.” The high school students did the same thing. He knew his history. Even better, he knew his military history and military theory.
They say what goes around comes around. Solomon had once written that there was nothing new under the sun, and Stan believed it. He had thought deeply about the Behemoth tanks. He’d also studied the enemy and the American Armed Forces.
The plant manager pointed at the latest tank.
Stan nodded politely.
He’d worked under General Larson before in California. Larson presently commanded the defense in Denver. The general’s talents in Los Angeles had impressed the Joint Chiefs and possibly the President, which is why they’d put Larson in this hot spot. Denver had to hold. The Joint Chiefs meant to stop the great advance here.
To that end, Stan had spent many long evenings discussing the operational and tactical situation with General Larson. The man had listened to Stan, and the general had incorporated some of his ideas, using them to keep the Chinese away from the city.
The reason Stan was nervous and only paying half-attention to the plant manager was that General Tom McGraw was arriving in Denver tomorrow. Many, many years ago, Stan had gone to Officer Candidate School with McGraw. They had hung out together then and found they both had an interest in ancient history.
Big Tom McGraw…the Joint Chiefs, well, President Sims, had promoted the hard-charging soldier several times already these past few months.
This summer, McGraw had saved his troops in surrounded Dallas. He’d broken out of the Chinese lines and reunited with the main American Army. He did it a second time, saving even more men and equipment from the Canadian River Pocket. Because of that, the President had bumped McGraw in authority yet again. No, it was more like President Sims had rocketed the man to prominence. Tom McGraw had taken over Army Group West. The formations in Denver belonged to that Army Group.
Tomorrow, Stan was sure Tom would demand the Behemoths rumble into battle and push the Chinese far away from their approach position to the Greater Denver area. That was bad because the ground right now was far too wet, far too soggy for the three hundred ton tanks. The U.S. Army needed to use the Behemoths properly or they would prove ineffectual. Could he convince Tom to wait until the ground froze hard?
He had his doubts. Hard-charging Tom McGraw didn’t like to listen to anyone—at least the young man he’d known in OCS hadn’t. McGraw was smart and he’d always been arrogant.
How can I convince him to listen to my advice? Stan wondered. If used right, the Behemoths will do wonders. But if used wrongly, they will be so much scrap metal, and that would be a shame.
QUEBEC CITY, CANADA
John Red Cloud couldn’t believe he was finally going to do it.
He was a short Algonquin warrior with flat, leathery features. His scarred hands were thrust into the pockets of his parka. He had black eyes and seldom smiled, and he wore a toque: the French word for a knit woolen hat.
He walked along a crowded sidewalk in the middle of the city, passing big store displays with their skinny manikins wearing the latest fashions. One wore a sequin bikini that shimmered and glittered green. He shook his head at the stupidity of it. Few pedestrians looked up. Most people walked with their shoulders hunched, faces shielded against the cold wind. Old cars drove by, many with their engines knocking and the tires hissing over brown slush, what snow became in a city.
Many years ago, the Canadian Government had put John Red Cloud on their most wanted list. In those days he had been young and fiery, a soldier in the French-Canadian separatist movement. The separatists had wanted to leave Canada—Quebec for the Quebecers—and make the province its own nation. Yet even then, John had grander designs, and his grievances were older than the French-Canadian resentments, the angry white men. He was Algonquin, a Native American—an Indian by the white man’s words. The Algonquin tribes of the Canadian Shield region had decided to join the French-Canadian separatists. Their secret agenda called for separating from Quebec once the French-Canadians won their independence from the rest of the country.
The Canadian Shield comprised northern Quebec. It was a geological wasteland, curving around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. It largely consisted of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. Few people lived there, but it boasted many lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines, wealth that white men lusted after.
The separatist movement did well the first few years. They even declared independence and formed a militia, on several occasions defeating Canadian Army formations. The split might have worked, but the U.S. interfered. They loaned the Canadian Government several hardnosed Marine battalions. John had fought and killed Marines and he’d seen many of his fellow Algonquians slaughtered, sometimes in the depths of the forest in their sleeping bags when Marine Recon fighters had surprised them.
Lost in his unpleasant thoughts, John forgot to pay attention on the Quebec City sidewalk. A businessman staring down at his smart phone bumped into him, their shoulders hitting. John looked up sharply, his scowl fueled by bitter memories. The businessman paled, his eyes darting away from the fierce gaze, and he muttered an apology. John might have shoved the troublemaker. If he’d been younger, he might have drawn his knife and waved it under the fat nose and watch the man piss his pants. Now…as an old warrior far past his fighting prime, John just stared at the intruder.
The businessman slipped the smart phone into a pocket and hurried away, his shoes clicking on the wet city sidewalk.
After a moment, John shrugged. The man meant nothing. He was a worker-ant for the oppressor of his people. If he was going to change things for the tribe, he must complete his mission.
He continued down the sidewalk, and he remembered the old days. The separatist war had fizzled out in the end, the French Canadians unable to stomach the deaths that fighting incurred. Finally—newspaper columnists said wisely—the Canadian Government offered amnesty to everyone.
On the sidewalk, John’s scowl deepened.
The Canadian Government had offered everyone the deal but the Algonquian tribesmen who had fought to free their ancient land from the white invaders. The government had called the Algonquian warriors terrorists, saying they had gone too far with their atrocities. As always, the Indian had become the pariah, an outcast to the so-called civilized peoples.
To save his hide, John had been forced to flee his homeland, flee Quebec and Canada. He went to the far north, to the oil platforms in the Arctic Circle, in the Arctic Ocean. He worked for Blacksand Security, providing his services as an armed guard. Seven years ago, he’d met one of the Marines who had fought in the Canadian Shield during the separatist war. Paul Kavanagh, a tough man he’d instantly hated and tried to drive away from the oil well.
Then once more, John’s world had turned upside down, changing the direction of his life. The Chinese had struck at night, submarines bursting up out of the pack ice to infiltrate commandos onto the oil platform. White Tigers had slaughtered the oilmen, although three of them had escaped, one of them being Paul Kavanagh. John and the former Recon Marine had trekked across the Arctic ice, seeking to reach Alaska. Along the way, they killed Chinese soldiers.
While walking the city sidewalk, John imagined that Paul Kavanagh was busy fighting the Chinese and South Americans invading his country. John wished him well. Kavanagh had proved to be a fierce warrior and a boon companion. With his help, John might have immigrated to America, but he had other plans, other dreams.
With his hands in his parka pockets, John used his wrists to press against the MAC-10 submachine gun strapped tightly to his torso under his coat. He had several extra magazines attached as well. Three days ago in the safe house, he had taken each bullet and cut a deep X in the tip. That would cause the bullet to expand once it plowed through flesh. Up
on exiting a body, the expanded, X-cut slug would tear out that much more blood, bone and body tissue.
He hated the Canadian Government and had little use for the French-Canadian separatists who had sold out their Algonquian allies at the end of the war. Now they were trying to do the same thing but in a different fashion.
John stopped as he spied the Paris Tower, a large building soaring over the others around it. His targets were there. The fools spoke to prominent, separatist-leaning businessmen and certain traitorous government officials. The dreamers sought their approval of the misguided plan of gaining Chinese aid.
With his face set, John resumed his walk. He had no doubts he was doing the right thing. History and modern examples proved him right. He exhaled sharply, causing white breath to billow before his mouth.
The Chinese and South Americans invaded the U.S. The Canadian Army had helped once in Alaska, and they were preparing to help now, poised on the Canadian-U.S. border. Yes, the brigades were already in southern Saskatchewan and southern Manitoba.
John was surprised the Canadians hadn’t helped sooner, but that was because the Prime Minster was a coward. The Chinese and German Dominion leaders had cowed him by their threats. That made it strange then that the success of Chinese arms in Texas and Oklahoma should have caused the Prime Minister to change his mind. Maybe there was more to his newfound courage.
John shrugged. He didn’t really care. What the Sino-American War meant was a chance for a revived Algonquin separatism.
The Great Father has waited a long time to free my people.
John had trodden a strange path to reach this pregnant moment. After the Alaskan War, he couldn’t go back to the oil platforms, as the Chinese had taken them. He didn’t dare return to Quebec or any other part of Canada, and he didn’t want anything to do with the U.S. Therefore, he went to Europe, France in particular because he knew the language and had an affinity for its customs.
France now belonged to the German Dominion. Chancellor Kleist understood history and he understood his times. Despite the unions of Greater China, the Pan-Asian Alliance, the South American Federation and the Iranian Hegemony, people wanted their old tribal homelands back. For instance, Great Britain had eventually split into Scotland, Wales and England. Yet each of those pieces belonged to the German Dominion. The same was true of Spain, with Catalonia, Castile, Aragon and other splinter states.
The President of France wanted to help the French-Canadian separatists regain their country. John imagined that Chancellor Kleist had cleverly approved of that. Yes, Kleist had once said, “Europe for the Europeans and each country for its people.” Although he ruled the Dominion through guile and German industrial predominance, he left the various countries to mostly govern themselves. Galicia, Transylvania, Gotland in former Sweden, Normandy, Czech, Slovakia, Prussia, Bavaria, each province could follow its own laws and customs to its heart’s content. Therefore, the longings of tribalism were fulfilled, and yet, together in the giant Dominion, they had power and strength.
John Red Cloud believed the promises of the French secret service. In this, they had Chancellor Kleist’s approval. If he would do this thing—and if he survived to do others—John could win the Algonquians their only real chance at tribal freedom.
Historically, the French had always treated the North American tribes with greater respect than the British had done. It was the argument that had won him over; well, that and the chance to kill Canadian Government officials, treacherous businessmen and the Quebec separatists who had sold the movement down the river.
Using an unlocked service entrance, John entered the Paris Tower. A sympathizer had left it open so he could bypass the metal detectors. Behind him, the door shut with a whomp, and the howling wind no longer sang in John’s ears.
He climbed stairs, the workers’ path. There were plain concrete walls and concrete steps. Halfway up, he unzipped the parka. Near the twelfth floor, sweat pooled under his armpits and he debated ditching the coat.
Sweaty and hot, he reached the fourteenth floor, pulled open the door and began to walk down the carpeted hall. He unstrapped the MAC-10, ratcheted the bolt back, preparing the weapon to fire his X-cut bullets. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands again. Once more, he had a reason for existence. Even so, a pool of sadness welled up in his heart. He recalled his slain wife, his murdered children and his best friends, all butchered during the Quebec Separatist War. Others might have forgotten about the dream, but not he. Maybe if the Canadian Government hadn’t outlawed him, chasing him from his homeland—
John drew a deep breath through his nostrils, and sneered inside. Look at this, two guards had fallen down at their posts. They were beefy security agents, asleep on the job. That was thanks to another sympathizer who had given them drugged drinks.
“I am an Algonquin warrior,” John whispered. “I have come to avenge my people and to drive the invaders from our land.”
He spoke to the Great Father, telling him why he indulged in murder.
The people in the room he was about to enter were old French-Canadian rebel fighters, separatist-leaning business leaders and several frightened Canadian government officials. They all had one thing in common—a running dialogue with East Lightning, the Chinese secret service. The French secret service had discovered the information through its links in the separatist movement. France had its own ideas about Quebec, and probably, so did Chancellor Kleist. Probably, the Chinese wished for a sympathetic uprising in Quebec, maybe to tie down Canadian Army units.
We would be foolish to trust the Chinese. Look at how they treat Japan and Korea and demoralized Australia. It is better by far to trust the French. In the past, they always aided the Algonquian people.
Muttering a warrior’s prayer under this breath, John twisted the handle. He pushed the door open and caused the fifteen, or sixteen people sitting at a long conference table to turn abruptly. Some wore stylish suits. Others wore heavy jackets. Most were older, the youngest in his mid-forties. A tall government official in a black suit stood at the front, with a pointer touching a computer screen. It showed the deep Chinese advance into America.
Eyes lifted toward him. A man moaned and a woman sucked in her breath before reaching under her trench coat, possibly for a holstered weapon.
“Can I help you?” the tall man in the black suit asked.
Butchery was never easy, not even with these traitors. John Red Cloud’s lips thinned. He aimed the submachine gun, holding it with both hands, and pulled the trigger. Methodically, starting with the woman pulling out the pistol, he cut them down with his X-cut bullets, reloading twice, killing everyone in the conference room.
Then he left as mysteriously as he’d arrived, leaving the two bodyguards asleep on the carpeted hall. His war was not with them, but against the leaders who sought to guide the separatist fighters in the wrong direction.
DENVER, COLORADO
“You know Colonel Higgins, I believe,” General Larson said by way of introduction.
Stan waited to see if big Tom McGraw remembered him. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. They’d been kids back in those days. McGraw had a lot on his mind now, too.
They stood in the Behemoth Tank Park, set in the Rockies and therefore well outside of Denver, about thirty miles away from the big city. The park encompassed a large area, with the huge machines spread over a two-mile radius. Each monster vehicle was concealed under camouflaged, radar-scattering tarps. Several tac-lasers with accompanying SAMs ringed the area. Barracks and other buildings stood to the east on the road to I-70, which led to Denver. Behind, the mountains looked cold and majestic. What a crazy place to put the biggest tanks in the world. Crazy, but they were well hidden, which was the idea for now.
The men stood at attention in their black tanker uniforms and parkas. Soon, the truly cold weather would hit, and the soggy ground would freeze hard. That would be the time to employ the Behemoths.
“Professor?” asked General To
m McGraw. He squinted down at the smaller man.
Stan saluted crisply. He could feel the charisma radiating from the big general and the vibrancy in the single word from the man.
Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was massive, a bear of a man. He reminded Stan of General Joffre of World War I fame. Joffre had been the commanding French general who’d stopped the Germans at the Battle of the Marne. Joffre had nerves of steel; some commenters said it came from his prodigious appetite and thick frame. Joffre had had the peasant’s calm even within trials of fire.
McGraw had a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. Like Patton, McGraw wore a pistol at his side. Patton had worn a pearl-handled revolver. McGraw’s gun looked like a standard issue .45. The man’s eyes were pale blue and they stared hard like some lion. This was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed. He looked like an old-style Viking, and Stan could envision him hefting a battleaxe. Stan could also envision McGraw wearing a cowboy hat and clutching a Winchester rifle, laying down fire as Apaches raided; or maybe McGraw would gun down outlaws as he fought a range war.
“General,” Stan said in way of greeting.
McGraw laughed. It was a loud sound. “It is you, Professor. I can’t believe it. They finally realized they had a genuine military genius hiding behind his books. I’m glad to see they gave you a fighting command. Even better, they’ve given you the greatest tanks in the world. I bet you’re itching to smash into the Chinese SOBs and send them scurrying home.”
“As soon as the time is right, yes sir,” Stan said.
“Do you hear that, General?” McGraw asked Larson. “The Professor is already worried I’m going to ask him to do something he thinks is stupid. Has he been filling your ears with ideas on how to keep the Chinese away from Denver?”
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