“Listen,” Charlie said.
In the rail yard a few days ago, Jake had stuck up for him. Charlie had been caught several weeks ago painting anti-Sims slogans in Boise. Charlie’s dad used to hoard silver and gold, and his dad’s grandfather had belonged to the Tea Party long ago. Charlie was from Idaho and used to ride range for scrawny cattle and grow potatoes. Now he took care of his mom in Boise. He was tougher than he looked and could get by on hardly any food. That’s what he’d been doing for a long time. He hated Sergeant Franks and he was sick with embarrassment for being frightened in the Chicago rail yard. His dad had told him stories about Homeland Security and their Gestapo tactics. Back in Chicago, he’d figured that had been the end. Seeing Jake attack Franks had filled Charlie with admiration for him. Since then, Charlie had become Jake’s shadow.
“Do you hear that?” Charlie asked.
“I hear it,” Jake said, after a minute. “That’s not thunder, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s artillery.”
Charlie nodded thoughtfully, and he became quiet.
So did Jake. They were headed for Hamilton, or for somewhere nearby there. The word had come down. They were going to help the Americans in the Toronto Pocket.
As if we’ll ever get near Toronto. Jake shrugged. Likely, they were the spearhead. He’d heard that more troops were coming from New England where they had faced the GD up near Quebec. Troops in New York were also heading out to Southern Ontario.
Rain pelted their truck. Tires churned and the old engine coughed, making the bed lurch.
I’m on my way to battle again, part of an untrained crew.
Jake looked up out of the back of the truck. Dan Franks drove the big Militia truck behind him. The sergeant glared across the distance, their eyes meeting. Something welled up in Jake. Maybe it was the sound of GD artillery. Maybe it was remembering the sergeant spitting in face or the promise Franks had made that Jake would never survive battle.
Jake met the sergeant’s glare and grinned at Franks.
The sergeant noticed, and he scowled.
Jake raised his hand and even started lifting his middle finger. Beside him, Charlie grabbed his wrist and yanked it down.
It took a second, but Jake stared at Charlie.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Charlie asked.
“Giving the sergeant the finger,” Jake said.
Charlie shook his head. “I know you know that’s stupid. They hate you bad enough as it is, and out here they can make sure you never come back home alive.”
“We aren’t coming home alive. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Don’t say that,” Charlie said. “It’s bad luck. I have a mom back home I need to get back to.”
The horn in the truck behind them blared. Jake looked up through the rain at Sergeant Franks. The wipers slid back and forth and a circle of fog on the inside glass showed they had a heater in the cab. Through that circle, the MDG flipped him off.
Heated dislike flared in Jake’s chest. But he didn’t raise the bird finger. Instead, he waved, smiled and looked away.
“Why do you do that?” Charlie asked.
“Maybe because I’m pissed off,” Jake said.
Charlie nodded. “You’re a tough guy like my grandfather. I respect that, but right now I think you should piss them off even more by living through this mess.”
“Okay, sure,” Jake said. He fell silent and stared at his rucksack. The rain increased and so did the sound of it pelting against the outer covering. They were headed for the front, for Hamilton. The MDGs had already explained it. The penal battalions were going to be the very tip of the US spear that drove the GD out of Southern Ontario.
What that really meant: we’re heading for the meat grinder, and likely none of us will survive the process.
-8-
Southern Ontario
HAMILTON, 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 salvo
s 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.
MARKHAM, ONTARIO
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—”
Invasion: New York (Invasion America) Page 22