Invasion: New York (Invasion America)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Without a word, wizened Dr. Levin headed back to his seat.

  Seemingly on their own initiative, the Marines took up station near the door, and they watched the three bodyguards sitting down.

  Anna found that her hands were shaking. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Had Max just attempted a soft coup, losing his nerve right at the end? If so, this didn’t seem like the time to push the issue. They needed to meet the GD emergency right now.

  “General Norton,” the President said. “What do you think? What is your recommendation?”

  “Sir?” Norton asked, in a scratchy voice.

  “Concerning a nuclear attack?” the President asked.

  It took two blinks before the confident General Norton returned. “We have no choice but to go nuclear, sir. We must launch the ASBMs. I mean ICBMs. We must annihilate the GD armada or we’ve lost this round to the enemy. And if we lose this round, this campaign…I’m not sure we can recover to win the war.”

  The chamber grew still as those present absorbed his words.

  Max sat down, and he avoided looking at Anna or Levin.

  She wondered what went on behind Max’s skull. The man had asked to wield Presidential authority. Did he truly aim to take over? Then why hadn’t his men drawn their guns just now? Had she misjudged the situation? Or had Dr. Levin’s act saved David’s Presidency. Was history made through such chance decisions?

  “I cannot let the enemy land those troops on our shores,” the President said. “You gentlemen are right. And you’re right, Anna. It is time to take the terrible step. We’ve lurched toward nuclear war on two separate occasions. But we managed to keep it small each time. This time we have to take out everything. Yes… How many ICBMs do you suggest, General?”

  “Ten of the intercontinental ballistic missiles, sir,” Norton said. “They’re MIRVed, so that will be more than enough warheads. We also want to keep enough ICBMs in reserve, sir. As you know, we don’t have as many nuclear missiles as we used to.”

  “I see,” the President said.

  “We should also launch as many of the ASBMs as we can,” Norton said. “They’re conventionally armed, but the GD is said to have effective missile defenses. The ASBMs can act as decoys, if nothing else. I’ve read before one of their admirals boasting of their ability to withstand a nuclear assault.”

  “Can they?” the President asked, with alarm.

  “No, sir,” Norton said. “Not with ten ICBMs combined with our ASBMs. We’re going to take them out, sir, every last ship that they own.”

  The President took a deep breath. He had a haunted, an almost guilty stare, but he squared his shoulders.

  “This is the crisis we must overcome,” David said, in a less than confident voice. He took a breath, hesitated and finally said, “Launch the ICBMs and time them to strike as the ASBMs come down on the enemy fleet.”

  MINOT, NORTH DAKOTA

  Colonel Larry Marks couldn’t stop blinking, as he stood frozen in the bunker. He was a lean man, and he wore a large watch on his right wrist. It was waterproof, glowed in the dark and combined intricate timing devices. His wife had bought it for him last Christmas. She had been pregnant then. Now she was at home with their new baby girl.

  Colonel Marks felt as if he was going to pass out. He kept telling himself to take deep breaths. Despite those mental commands to drink air, only his eyes moved. They kept twitching from the seconds-hand ticking along its path in the watch. The very end of the hand had a tiny luminous green bulb. He stared at that and then looked at the screen before him.

  I’m launching ICBMs. It’s happening. It is really happening. We’re doing it and my baby isn’t even a year old yet.

  Long ago with his grandfather, Colonel Marks had watched the movie The Book of Eli. Marks had been twelve at the time, and he’d never forgotten it. In the film, Denzel Washington had called the nuclear holocaust “the Flash.”

  Am I about to unleash the Flash upon the Earth?

  Klaxons rang in the bunker, but this wasn’t a test. This was for real, for real, for real. It felt as if he had echoes in his mind. He couldn’t believe he was going to do this.

  On screen, Marks watched base silos open. They were like giant, metallic flowers moving with robotic hearts. His human heart sped up as he watched. The silos opened in order for them to spew forth their terrible thermonuclear cargoes.

  How can I be doing this? I never thought it would happen. I’m unleashing the Flash.

  He knew why he was doing this. They had discussed it among themselves here in the bunker. The German Dominion sailed toward America with a dagger, meaning to plunge the knife deep in his country’s heart. There was only one thing now that could stop these Krauts.

  Colonel Marks would launch ten T Mod-5s. The “T” stood for Triton, the last new ICBM America had manufactured. “Mod-5”, of course, meant this was the fifth major modification to the Triton missile type.

  There were no GPS satellites these days to watch the enemy. The Air Force had launched more high-flying drones to spy on the GD fleet. The ICBMs didn’t use radar or any other guidance. That was by design. They went up, took readings from the stars for perfect navigation and dropped their warheads at a programmed point on the Earth, or out a sea for this one. They would wreak thermonuclear havoc on the GD armada.

  “Sir,” the operator said.

  Colonel Marks lowered his precious watch. He knew his babies. He wanted to bray with laughter. Babies—he only had one baby now, and she was at home in the crib. Each missile weighed 192,000 pounds. Most of that was solid fuel to burn his baby thousands of miles if needed. He would reach out and touch the enemy with an extremely brutal and heavy hand. He would swat them out of existence with the Flash.

  The operator turned around and looked up at him. “Sir,” he said, “we have a narrow launch window.”

  Colonel Marks knew that. They were timing his babies to hit along with ASBMs using regular warheads. Those ship-killers would be the decoys. Could you imagine that?

  Lean Larry Marks raised his hand and chopped it down decisively. He did it thinking, I’m killing you because you went too far.

  The operator relayed the physically-given command.

  In the command bunker, everything soon shook, even the screen. Colonel Marks stepped up behind the operator, putting his left hand—four lean fingers and a lean thumb—on the man’s shoulder. Wide-eyed, Marks watched the screen as he tightened his grip.

  I hope I haven’t doomed the Earth to centuries of Dark Ages. I hope I haven’t doomed you, little Jewel. That was the name of his baby daughter.

  The first ICBM Triton roared into life. The massive death-machine rose from its silo as smoke billowed in a vast, chugging, churning cloud. Flames raged out of the back end as the Triton climbed slowly at first and then with greater speed.

  Inside the bunker, Colonel Marks mentally computed the situation. The initial boost phase would last a little over three minutes. The solid fuel booster would put the missile into suborbital space flight. None of the missiles would complete a full orbital revolution around the Earth. Each missile’s flight path used a trajectory that went up and down in a relatively simple curve, well before it had a chance to orbit around the Earth like a satellite.

  Despite his worries, a smirk spread across Marks’s face. Conventional ASBMs used regular warheads and Mach 10 plus kinetic energy to destroy ships. Those missiles would need great precision to kill: not so his thermonuclear-armed missiles.

  The GD fleet was spread across many nautical miles of ocean. It would take more than one nuclear warhead to destroy them. As incredible as it was believe, they had launched ten ICBMs to make sure some got through the GD defenses. In truth, nothing on Earth was going to stop his babies, not the T Mod-5s.

  Marks’s smirk grew. The GD ships were spread out, but not nearly far enough apart to save them from the coming destruction. The surprise of a lifetime was about to fall upon the invading armada.

  I just hope the
German Dominion doesn’t decide to launch their thermonuclear ICBMs at us and ignite the Flash in angry retaliation.

  AUTOMATED ORBITING SENSOR, SPACE

  A secret GD sensor-satellite packed in stealth sheathing was in an equatorial stationary orbit high off the coast of French Guiana. The sensor picked up the boost-phase burn of the ten Triton ICBMs leaving Minot, North Dakota.

  The satellite’s onboard computer analyzed the data. In a microsecond, it came to the proper conclusion. The enemy launched ICBMs. A second later, the orbiting sensor burned through its sheathing as it aimed a communication laser. The laser speared across space to a relay station in the Mauritanian Desert, which was in western Saharan Africa.

  Afterward, with the primary task completed, the sensor continued to track the lifting ICBMs, beaming all the telemetry data to the relay station.

  REYKJAVIK, ICELAND

  The GD major on station in the Mirror Launch bunker also made a nearly instant decision. He had a single function: to negate an automated system from launching a heavy missile into space.

  With hot coffee spilled on his uniform—the cup hit the wall even now, shattering. He’d been leaning back a second ago, drinking the coffee as the alarm rang and surprised him. With hot, soaking coffee beginning to scald his skin, the major nevertheless scanned the simple amount of data on his emergency screen. As he did, he had three thoughts: This is real; it isn’t a test. And those are ICBM boost-phase burns. Holy shit.

  The middle thought was the important one. He saw American ICBM boost-phase burns. Therefore, he did not raise his hand and reach for a red button. Because he did not, he did not depress the switch that would shut down the launch sequence. Therefore, the automated system continued to function smoothly as designed.

  Fifteen seconds later, the bunker shook, making the light overhead rattle. He thought it might explode. A heavy K-14 rocket sped for space, with massive boosters shooting long flames. The missile did not carry a warhead. This was not a retaliatory strike. The missile’s payload was a mirror, one that possessed fantastic adjusting ability. Even as the rocket roared toward the Heavens, telemetry data poured into its onboard AI, data that originated from the sensor high above French Guiana.

  GDN BISMARCK

  Warrant Officer Gunther Weise stared in shock at the big screen. For a moment, he forgot his duties. Many did in the central situation room aboard the supercarrier.

  General Kaltenbrunner and the admiral stared silently at the screen.

  “Can we intercept?” Kaltenbrunner finally managed to ask.

  The admiral—a small, neat man with a white goatee and white uniform—merely smiled in his restrained way. “Matters are already proceeding for our defense, General.”

  That woke up Gunther, as did a nudge in the back from the lieutenant in charge of the warrant officers.

  Gunther returned to monitoring his controls. Sweat began to pool under his armpits as he realized the sick truth. The Americans had launched nuclear missiles at the fleet. Those missiles raced here even now. This was horrible. He didn’t want to die.

  Once more, the lieutenant poked him in the shoulder “Keep on task, Weise. Don’t freeze. There’s a good fellow.”

  Gunther licked his lips. The sweat under his armpits became worse. He swallowed, and with greater concentration, he monitored his station. A pain spiked between his eyes. He found that he stared hard at the controls. Fortunately, his training took hold, helping him to remember his tasks.

  Even as he felt himself floating out of his body—it was a terrible sensation, he hated it—he readjusted for static.

  “Ah, better,” Gunther heard the admiral say.

  Commands soon went out, and klaxons rang with seemingly greater urgency. There was a flurry of activity in the central situation chamber. Gunther badly wanted a cigarette. He craved one, in fact. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Look at that. Death raced toward the fleet. Certainly, the Americans would first try to take out the command ship. That was the GDN Otto von Bismarck, this ship.

  “One nuclear warhead could ruin everything,” General Kaltenbrunner said in his gruff voice.

  “Certainly, General,” the admiral said. “Ah, look, Strategic Defense is ready, and not a moment too soon.”

  “Explain what’s going on,” Kaltenbrunner said.

  Gunther sneaked a glance over his shoulder. He saw the admiral point at the big screen. Gunther also looked up at the screen. It showed a strategic map of the US Atlantic seaboard, the Atlantic Ocean and parts of Western Europe and Western Africa. Red lines streaked across the US. Flashing red dots kept moving over the US and toward the fleet. Those were the enemy ICBMs.

  Gunther wanted to groan. Maybe his father had been right after all. Excitement was better, and certainly safer, when gained from watching a movie. The real thing could hurt too much. Gunther had never truly believed he himself could get into danger that would maim him for life or kill him.

  What was I thinking joining the Navy? In the end, father always knew best.

  “What in the world is that?” Gunther whispered to himself. Fortunately, he heard the admiral explaining to General Kaltenbrunner that the blue lines that had just appeared on screen from Iceland and from Brittany were strategic-strength lasers beaming at the rapidly deployed space mirrors.

  “Now we shall see how things go,” the admiral said. “Now we shall see if the Americans are any good at this.”

  ATLANTIC OCEAN

  The ICBM boosters had already fallen away and back to Earth. Boost phase had lasted a mere three minutes. The warheads presently sped through suborbital space and would do so for another ten minutes.

  They were all presently unpowered and moved in ballistic trajectories like artillery shells. The warheads sat safely in cone-shaped reentry vehicles, grouped together on what was called a “bus.” They were hard to spot, as there was no rocket exhaust to see or other emissions to give them away. As they moved, each reentry vehicle released aluminized balloons to fool any enemy attempting to track them.

  Now, however, far away in Iceland and on the continent near Brest, Brittany, strategic lasers shot their high-energy beams at the deployed GD mirrors high in Earth orbit.

  The rays flashed up through the atmosphere, bounced off the precisely angled mirrors and flashed down at the speed of light at the reentry vehicles. Most of the beams missed, but one laser hit a reentry vehicle bus with its load of cones. The beam heated the mechanism to an intolerable degree, destroying the connections to the warheads and warping its structure. Soon, its role in guiding and releasing the reentry vehicles at the proper time was completely eliminated.

  Now the warheads, lacking their final enabling update, would not cause a nuclear yield. They would fall in random places with massive kinetic energy, but nothing resembling the explosions they would otherwise deliver.

  The silent but deadly war continued. GD automated tech battled American know-how. During the midcourse phase—and while using up tremendous amounts of energy—the strategic lasers eliminated six different reentry buses, causing sixty warheads to become simple dumb meteors, splashing down across thousands of miles of ocean.

  Then that portion of the battle ended as the four surviving reentry buses took their final star readings, enabled their warheads, and released the cone-shaped reentry vehicles into the Earth’s atmosphere at high speed.

  GDN BISMARCK

  Warrant Officer Gunther Weise could hardly breathe. It felt as if his lung muscles had frozen or he’d forgotten how to use them. What he had just seen was incredible. He knew how difficult it was to bounce a laser off a space mirror precisely enough to hit and destroy a midcourse warhead. That GD Strategic Defense had gotten any of the US missiles surprised him. It almost made him laugh to hear the next words.

  “We’re doomed,” General Kaltenbrunner told the neat little admiral with the white goatee beside him.

  “Nonsense,” the admiral said. “Now it’s time for you to witness the effectiveness of my battleships. They a
re remarkable vessels, I assure you.”

  As klaxons wailed, as the ships of the great armada continued to churn in various directions—like beetles scurrying from an overturned board—the ten battleships entered the fray.

  Watching it, Gunther’s chest swelled with pride. This was why he had joined the Navy. His father was a good man, but sometimes, even fathers could be wrong.

  I thought it was over. Now I realize we’re going to stop these nukes. We’re better than the Americans, far, far better than they could ever hope to be.

  Gunther checked his controls. Everything was green. Everything was good. The pride in him rose even higher. He looked up at the big screen. Many of the personnel in here did likewise. The next two minutes would decide—

  The fate of the world, Gunther realized. One way or another, this is history.

  One part of the big screen did a zoom-in of the nearest battleship, the Blucher. The thing aimed a large targeting array into the sky. A missile launched, then another and another. They roared heavenward, carrying kinetic kill vehicles.

  The missiles lofted, burning away their bottom stage. The next stage continued to accelerate them. The kinetic kill vehicles would smash against the incoming warheads. It was like shooting bullets at bullets.

  On the screen, Gunther witnessed the first collision. More occurred, one, two, three, four—

  “How many warheads are there?” Kaltenbrunner shouted.

  “Yes, the Americans are dropping quite a few today,” the admiral admitted. “There must be ten warheads in each missile nosecone, forty targets for my battleships to destroy.”

  Gunther didn’t want to hear that. Forty nuclear bombs headed for the fleet?