Invasion: New York (Invasion America)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  John didn’t bother looking around to see if anyone had witnessed this. He was on the death path. That gave him power and it gave him extraordinary luck. Instead of looking around and wasting time, he dropped the gun into a jacket pocket. Then he tried to open the driver’s door. It was locked. John reached within and opened it from the inside.

  The smell of blood and death was strong in the BMW. Reaching across the dead driver, John unbuckled him and pushed the corpse over until the two were touching.

  He climbed in, ignoring the blood, closed the door with a whomp and shut the window. He glanced at the two dead men. They must be undercover police or secret service agents. He would check for identities later. For now, he eased his foot on the gas pedal and drove away.

  The incident solidified his plan. He would drive to the French secret service agent’s house. He would outline his need and accept whatever help the man would give. John was on the death path. That meant he needed to move quickly. Those on the death path only had a short time left on Earth. The extraordinary luck would only last a finite period, so he must utilize it to the fullest now.

  As John turned onto a new street, the smile slipped away. He had the normal deadpan look of John Red Cloud again. Yes, that was good, too. John decided that he would never smile again…unless he stood over Chancellor Kleist’s steaming corpse.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Anna Chen sat in Underground Bunker Number Five. It lay several hundred meters below and to the side of the White House. In case of a nuclear attack, elevators would speed down here through immense layers of concrete. There were enough guns and butter—so to speak—in the bunker’s lockers to last ten years, at least.

  This was where David and his larger Crisis Staff often watched critical battles or sat to discuss and make war policy.

  Director Max Harold of Homeland Security was present, together with the Director of the CIA. There was the Defense Secretary, the Secretary of State, Chairman Alan and the rest of the Joints Chief of Staff.

  Anna sat as a Presidential advisor. She along with everyone else listened to a briefing major outline the Toronto Pocket’s assault.

  They watched nighttime images on the big screen. It showed flashes of American artillery. There were big silhouettes of American tanks moving like dinosaurs, bent over mortar teams lugging their equipment, machine-gun gunners and the actual assault soldiers, both American and Canadians wearing bulky body armor.

  “We attempted to give them air support,” the briefing major said, a youngish woman with a solemn gaze. She clicked a device.

  The big screen switched images, showing American V-10 drones boring in toward Toronto’s airspace. For a moment, the deadly-looking craft flew alone. The next instant lasers stabbed upward into the night sky. Drones broke apart. Some dove to escape destruction. Others lifted and still others peeled away in either direction.

  GD drones or fighters—the major didn’t know and they were too far away to tell—launched air-to-air missiles. Anna watched their contrails. The GD missiles moved so fast, and they darted like hummingbirds after the jinking V-10s. Each second, another V-10 burst apart in a flash of explosion. Soon thereafter, there was nothing in the sky but smoking parts raining toward Toronto.

  “We need cruise missiles,” someone said. “We need hundreds of them hugging the earth. The lasers couldn’t stop a barrage of them. Bam, bam!” the Defense Secretary said, clapping his meaty hands together. “You’d have wasted GD strongpoints instead of useless, destroyed UAVs falling on them.”

  “We don’t have hundreds of cruise missiles in one place to use,” General Alan said, perhaps a trifle apologetically.

  The Defense Secretary was a large man with a red face and a redder nose. “Then we’d better damn well produce more of them, shan’t we?”

  “We do produce them,” General Alan said. “As fast as the plants manufacture the missiles we use them. It’s building up enough missiles in one place that is proving impossible. Our munitions are woefully inadequate. The battles against the Chinese in the Midwest…they burned up everything we had last year.”

  “I understand that,” the Defense Secretary said. “I’m talking about saving cruise missiles for a bigger occasion like this. We’re not thinking strategically enough.”

  “Maybe you can lend us your expertise,” Alan said. “Tell me: is this one of those occasions? Or is this a time to save cruise missiles?”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone,” the Defense Secretary said.

  “He’s simply being factual, Tom,” Max said. “You can’t fault him for that. It’s his job.”

  The large Defense Secretary eyed the Director of Homeland Security. “His tone… Oh, never mind. Our boys are dying tonight, that’s what matters.”

  “Yes,” Max said. “Sadly, that’s true.” He turned to David Sims. “Mr. President, from the images out of Toronto and the major’s reports, this sounds like a full-blown disaster. We’re in danger of losing these men, everything, in the entire pocket. That’s too many losses piled on top of all our other fatalities.”

  Biting her lower lip in worry, Anna watched David. She wondered which President had shown up for the meeting: the forceful man of old or the beaten commander in chief. So far, that had yet to be determined.

  President Sims was slow in answering the director. Anguish filled his features. “This…it’s troubling,” he said.

  “Agreed, Mr. President,” Max said. To Anna, the Director of Homeland Security felt forceful. He seemed confident and in charge. “The GD arsenal is too modern,” Max said, “too abundant against our under-armed soldiers. Because of that my recommendation remains the same, sir.”

  “You mean nuclear weapons, don’t you?” the President asked.

  “I don’t see any way around the situation, sir,” Max said. “The GD tanks have run an old-fashioned blitzkrieg against us. They trapped too many of our key formations in Toronto. We need them if we’re going to hold onto the rest of the Golden Horseshoe and the Southern Ontario peninsula. If the GD takes Detroit…”

  “That can’t happen,” the President said. “The war might be over if they reach Detroit.”

  “Yes, our newest Behemoth Manufacturing Plant is there. After Denver—”

  “I know, I know,” the President said, impatiently.

  Finally, Anna thought. He can’t let Max walk all over him. I should have warned him. I made a mistake in not telling David.

  “This is an unpleasant fact, sir,” Max said. He cleared his throat, bringing up his right hand, making a fist and holding it before his mouth. He lowered the hand and said, “I hate to bring it up.”

  No, you don’t, Anna thought.

  “The GD Expeditionary Force is taking the time to digest this big lump of American soldiers and equipment,” Max said. “There are over one hundred fifty thousand fighting soldiers in the Toronto Pocket, sir. They’re of the best quality, too. That means their loss will cost more than double in terms of other troops. Once those one hundred fifty thousand are gone, sir, the GD advance will resume. By the pictures we’re seeing, I doubt the men can hold the city more than a few days longer.”

  “I don’t know that I’d paint such a gloomy picture as that,” General Alan said. “Len Zelazny is running the show over there. You know he has a few tricks left.”

  “Yes, Zelazny is a hard-charging Marine general,” Max said. “I appreciate that and I feel secure he’s using my—the Militia battalions there to good effect.”

  “Zelazny is a gifted general and a cunning battlefield tactician,” Alan said. “He has a plan, a scheme. I can assure you of that.”

  “Whatever it is,” Max said, pointing at the big screen. “It isn’t working.”

  General Alan glanced at the images up on the screen. He must have seen what Anna did: an American Bradley blowing up, taking a dozen soldiers with it.

  “In fact,” Max said. “It’s looking more and more like a bloodbath. What was Zelazny thinking by launching an attack? Do you have
any idea as to his objective?”

  “Yes,” Alan said quietly. “I don’t think you’re going to like it, but it is clever. Mr. President, with your permission…”

  David nodded.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs gave them a brief rundown of Zelazny’s plan as heard by Paul Kavanagh. The Chairman added the wrinkle that could possibly make the assault worth it later.

  “I can see what you’re hoping for,” Max said. “But in truth this is worse than I thought. Zelazny is spending lives like ammunition, all with the off chance of getting a few elite soldiers into the GD rear lines. Mr. President, I can’t help but thinking that after hearing this—”

  “We can’t go nuclear,” the President said. “We have an obligation to the world. I know that’s what you’re going to suggest—nukes—but it cannot be done in this place and not at this time.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Max said. “What about the world’s obligation to America? Three huge power blocs have invaded our soil. I say that it’s time to take off the gloves and hit them as hard as we can in the face. Let’s drop these bastards in their tracks.”

  The President massaged his forehead. He picked up a water glass, and Anna could see the slightest tremor in his hand. First sipping water, the President pushed his lips against each other, and he faced Max Harold.

  “Punching our enemies in the face is one thing,” the President said. “That would be a nuclear strike against their homelands. That’s beyond our delivery capabilities, at present. You’re talking about using a hammer to smash a fly on our nose.”

  A few grim chuckles arose from several of those present.

  “Sir,” Max said. “This is no laughing matter.”

  David scowled.

  “I know you realize that, sir,” Max said. “We have some key GD units fixed in place and far enough away from our main troop concentrations. I suggest that if General Zelazny plans to sacrifice his troops, why not use them as bait. Saturate bomb the GD formations around Toronto. Pulverize them, Mr. President. Annihilate these GD invaders and then unleash the main force in New England against Montreal and cut their supply base.”

  The President stared across the large circular table at Max. “Is this a serious suggestion?” he finally asked.

  “I am not in the habit of giving frivolous suggestions, sir,” Max said.

  Anna stared at David, willing him to look at her. Max had gone too far. The President should sack him on the spot. No one should speak to David that way in front of others.

  The President broke the eye contact first, and he rubbed his forehead. “I will not be party to using nuclear weapons against American troops, certainly not using the troops as a goat in a tiger hunt. Nor do I plan to win this war with nuclear weapons on land. I will not do it, Director.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that, sir.”

  “I’m open to other suggestions. Chairman,” David asked Alan. “What about the THOR missiles? Could we use those here?”

  “Uh, sir…I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” Alan said.

  “THOR missiles,” Max asked. “What are those? I don’t believe I’ve heard of them.”

  “Do we have any missiles of any type that we can use to aid General Zelazny?” the President asked Alan.

  “There are a carefully built up number—”

  “How many,” the President asked, “and of what type?”

  “Twenty conventionally-armed medium-range ballistic missiles, sir,” Alan said. “But given what we’ve seen of the GD antiair cover, I think at best only half would break through to land and explode.”

  “You’re serious?” Max asked. “At best only half will touch down?”

  “That’s right,” Alan said. “Touch down. I’m not even talking about hitting their targets.”

  Max faced the President, “Sir, a nuclear airburst might render the GD antiair equipment useless. Then all our missiles would hit.”

  The large room fell silent. One by one, every member present looked at Max and then at the President.

  “I don’t want to hear any more about nuclear strikes,” the President said. “And I do not want to repeat myself, Director. Have I made myself clear?”

  Max glanced at several faces. Finally, he nodded, saying, “Yes, Mr. President. I understand.”

  “I hope you do,” the President said. “Continue with the briefing,” he told the major. “Don’t leave anything out, no matter how depressing or grim.”

  The major glanced at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—Alan tugged his left earlobe like a baseball manager giving a signal—before she continued speaking.

  This is awful, Anna thought. The GD is slaughtering our soldiers, and for what? The Marine general is throwing his men away on a crazy notion. How is any of this going to help David?

  TORONTO, ONTARIO

  Paul Kavanagh crawled through city rubble, with Romo behind him. It was a nightmare, and nothing was going to get better anytime soon. Artillery thundered in the darkness, creating vast explosions on the horizon. Then flashes came from all around. Shells of all shapes and sizes landed around them. The ordnance crashed into buildings, against the ground and reworked the already pulverized rubble, throwing up tall geysers. The bigger ones shook the ground like quakes and they rained shrapnel everywhere like a November blizzard.

  The worst—

  From behind Paul, Romo whistled between his teeth. Paul barely heard the sound, but he heeded the warning, attempting to press his body into the concrete. Closing his eyes, Paul remembered to open his mouth. It was to keep his ears pressurized from the nearest blasts. Seconds ticked by before it happened. Somebody—the Germans likely—had dropped a fuel-air bomb. It went off, and it felt as if a sun had gone nova, lighting existence and sucking air like a mythological titan. It caused a rising shriek.

  Titanic sound waves from the blast came on like giant hammers. They washed over Paul, shaking him so it felt as if the bones vibrated in his body.

  He would have liked to use the high-tech equipment of last winter. They still had the equipment in the arsenals, and he could have donned it for this battle, but not against the tricky Krauts. That meant his side didn’t launch any tiny recon drones to go and find out what the enemy were doing. It also meant Paul didn’t have a HUD visor, computer battle processors and any targeting aids for his weapons. He and Romo had gone primitive because the Germans were masters at triangulating enemy electronic gear and killing the recipients.

  He and Romo had body armor, of course, wore regular helmets and carried assault rifles, grenades and had knives, a one-time cypher pad just in case and medical kits. Fighting this way was like closing your eyes compared to how they’d been doing it against the Chinese. No doubt the enemy had infrared scanners and night vision. Yeah, he had night vision, too, but he hadn’t turned it on yet.

  Soon he would.

  Thinking of that, Paul opened his eyes. The distant flashes continued, as did the pounding, the ground shaking and the wrecks of buildings crumbling some more. Somewhere out there a soldier screamed in agony.

  While drawing a deep breath, Paul eased up to his hands and knees and started crawling again. He looked back. Romo still lay on the ground, with his arms covering his head.

  Paul whistled. He had to do it twice. Finally, the Mexican Apache looked up. Romo seemed drugged, but his friend eased up to his hands and knees and crawled after him.

  To their left, a tank’s cannon belched. A tongue of flame stabbed outward. The wall of a building exploded. A moment later, the entire edifice collapsed.

  Paul must have been imagining it, because it sounded as if he heard yelling and then long loud cries of “Medic! We need a medic here!”

  Had the enemy AIs exactly calculated that? Had a Kaiser brought down the building on its hiding American occupants?

  “They’re devils,” Romo said.

  Paul’s mouth twitched with distaste. He wondered if this is what it had felt like being an Iraqi in the early twenty-first centur
y. America had gone conquering in those days. They had been the ones with the wonder weapons. They had slaughtered any enemy soldiers foolish enough to fight them face to face.

  How the mighty have fallen.

  Well, America didn’t have time for IEDs and a guerilla war fought against conquerors. They would defend the old-fashioned way, by sending out their soldiers to fight like knights. The trouble was, the Germans hadn’t sent out any knights of their own, but wizard constructs, empty suits of armor that fought harder and longer than a man could, and without the vulnerable spots.

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said. He listened. The ground shook, but not from shells this time. Enemy tanks clanked, and antipersonnel robots no doubt followed close behind.

  “Get up!” Paul hissed. “Follow me.”

  He didn’t wait to hear Romo’s answer. Paul rose to his feet and he ran crouched over, clutching his rifle. He panted, and his heavy body armor slowed him down. His foot came down on an uneven piece of rubble. The stuff shifted, but Paul had tied his boots tightly, and the leather braced his ankle enough so it didn’t twist and cripple him. If he became a gimp out here, it would all be over. There were no rescue helos coming to get them this time. The Germans had better radar than even the Chinese possessed.

  The Germans are techno-wizards, Paul thought. His ankle held, but it put extra pressure on his knee. Fortunately, the knee didn’t buckle, but a twinge of pain speared there and sweat popped onto his forehead.

  The rubble and broken buildings loomed bigger here than they actually were. The flashes of lightning lit up the cityscape, producing crazy shadows.

  Paul strained his eyes. It felt as if they were bugging outward. Should he dare the night vision? With a dry swallow, he went down in a controlled manner so as not to injure himself. Paul crawled and wriggled under a slab of reinforced concrete. It was a dangerous cave to use, as it might shift and crush him at any time.

  A second later, Romo shoved in beside him.

  The two LRSU men stared out of their tiny cave. Fifty feet away, a Kaiser hunter-killer appeared on an otherwise deserted street. The squat thing clanked, and Paul watched it twist a girder as it creaked, flattening the metal with a tread. Meanwhile, the turret rotated and 25mm autocannons swiveled as if in anticipation of American shots.