Invasion: New York ia-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  I must find it.

  Mansfeld tapped the computer map one more time. Kleist was subtle, but he dealt with his most brilliant foe. Only one of them would survive this war. It was time to get out the manifesto and study it.

  From The Life and Times of Chancellor Kleist, by Count von Hohenzollern:

  The Political Solution to the North American Conquest

  Chancellor Kleist believed he had discovered a “new” political theory of breathtaking scope and military utility. Briefly, it was internal autonomy for a homogenous ethnic or religious community, allowing a “people” their own laws and customs. Examples were legion: Bavaria for Bavarians, Normandy for Normans and Quebec for Quebecers.

  Wedded to the larger Dominion, these semi-autonomous states supplied tax monies and soldiery hirelings for Kleist’s grander ambitions. He had already welded Europe and North Africa—minus Egypt—into a powerful military bloc. With the “peaceful” occupation of Quebec in 2039, he possessed the nucleus for a new subdivision of the North American continent.

  Kleist recognized better than most the failed American ideal of the “Melting Pot.” Instead of a uniquely American identity, many considered their ethnic or religious heritage as trumping their U.S. citizenship. For instance, Aztlan separatists wished for union with Mexico or their own “Aztec” state carved out of California and Arizona. Many politically vocal African-Americans still desired reparations for past wrongs, while certain Muslim Americans insisted on Sharia law.

  Disregarding the morality of the issue, Kleist’s political solution was simple, straightforward and revolutionary brilliant. As the ancient Assyrians and modern Soviets under Stalin had practiced, Kleist envisioned enforced resettlements: the creation of North American ethnic and religious enclaves or states. He would carve out a niche for the Sharia Law Muslim, for the fundamentalist Christian, for the Black, Aztlan and Alaskan separatists and for various conservative and liberal diehards of European extraction.

  Thus, the German Dominion Invasion of 2040 created a crisis on two fronts for the American military. Firstly, the famous and physical Second Front that the Chinese and South American generals desperately desired. Secondly and possibly just as damaging, an inner, spiritual or loyalist fronts for many American citizens disgruntled with the present state of affairs.

  In the PAA and SAF conquered regions of the Southwest, countless American guerilla and partisan forces rose up to contest the invaders. Kleist’s semi-autonomous enclaves—if given a chance to flourish like Quebec—potentially provided the GD with several advantages. One, the GD would need only a minimal military occupation force in the rear areas. Two, in their own self-interest, various North American groups might swell GD ranks with needed soldiers.

  In this manner, Kleist hoped for a political-military conquest of North American instead of a purely combat-oriented solution.

  TORONTO, ONTARIO

  Paul Kavanagh sat in an underground bunker lit by long fluorescent tubes. Enemy shells shook the ground above and caused the tubes to flicker as bits of dust and debris rained from the ceiling. Some of the debris rattled lightly on the main table.

  The colonels and general looked up at the lights. One of the colonels swore and rubbed at an eye hit by dust.

  The shelling paused, and the shaking soon quit. For quite some time now, the Germans had pounded their positions day and night. The Toronto Pocket had shriveled since Paul fled from the HK. Few friendly forces came through to help them, few airdrops made it and only a trickle of sea transport at night. Essentially, they were on their own, trying to buy America the time to build an impenetrable line somewhere behind Toronto.

  It had all happened so fast, and the Germans never stopped to rest and refit. With their drones, HKs and robotic troops, the GD soldiery didn’t need to stop like ordinary soldiers. The Germans just changed the controllers or added gas and munitions to the AI-run HKs, and their offensive continued.

  The Marine general doing the talking now stood to his feet near his position at the middle of the table. The bunker down here stank of sweat, stale bread and gunpowder. The general put a helmet on his head. The straps dangled past his chin, and he gazed at his colonels.

  The blocky Marine general—he was five-seven—had a patch over his right eye and a bandage on his right cheek. He believed in leading from the front and he had paid for it with his injuries. The man still wore a combat vest and kept a holstered .45 on his hip. Although he was a Marine, not all the watching, listening colonels were. Nor were they all Americans: two of the colonels were Canadians.

  The Marine general—his name was Len Zelazny—inhaled through his nose, making his nostrils flare. The man looked tired but undefeated. He had been at Colorado this winter and had helped crush the PAA Third Front. He knew what it was like to win.

  “The Germans don’t fight fair,” Zelazny growled. “They send robots at us instead of facing us themselves. I say they’re smart to do that, because we would kick their Kraut asses otherwise. Okay. That’s the way it is. You don’t cry over spilt milk but you can at least point it out.”

  He quit talking for a moment and breathed in and out. Anger shone in his brown eye. He balled his hands into fists and his right struck the table.

  “I don’t have to tell you gentlemen that the Krauts have been slaughtering us. I guess it’s payback from Word War Two when Patton stomped the shit out of them. Now they’ve come here to play in our sandbox. Well, we’re good and trapped in this city. I know you men understand that. There’s no getting out of this one, right?”

  Several of the colonels nodded. They looked tired and defeated. Every division, every battalion and company had taken a horrible pounding and bloodletting. It had come as a rude shock. They had arrived from the US Strategic Reserve, well, a few had originated from New England, and driven here into Canada in order to stop the Germans cold. They hadn’t expected death for everyone.

  “Their tank drop,” Zelazny said, “no one expected it. No one figured the GD hovercraft could keep the enemy divisions supplied the way they have. Well, it’s time for us to do something unexpected to the Krauts instead of just taking it all the time.”

  A few of the grim-eyed colonels perked up.

  From where he sat in the back, Paul Kavanagh forced his eyes open. He’d been falling asleep. He’d been running messages for the past few days. When had he starting doing that, three days ago? Yeah, three days ago Zelazny had finally understood that the Germans intercepted every radio message he sent out. So Zelazny had gone back to basics and used runners. Three days of endless, back and forth running had exhausted Paul. Sitting here felt good but it made his eyelids heavy.

  Standing at the middle of the table, Len Zelazny raised his voice so even Paul heard him clearly. “The flesh and blood Krauts don’t want to get dirty this war. They’ve been rich too long and standing at the top of their heap for decades. Most of them are momma’s boys and couldn’t stand up to a bareknuckle brawl.”

  “They don’t need to,” a colonel said.

  Zelazny pointed a dirty finger at the colonel. “That’s where you’re wrong, Brad. Maybe we could break out of here if we poured everything into one spot. Well, I don’t mean that. The Krauts are smart. They always have been at war. I’ll tell you want I suspect. They’ve left one special weak spot for us. The old Mongols of Genghis Khan used to do that. The Mongols never totally surrounded a foe, but gave him a gauntlet to freedom. Once those beaten foes rode for and through the gauntlet, the Mongol horse-archers poured arrows by the tens of thousands, slaughtering the running enemy.”

  Zelazny eyed the colonels. “I think that’s what the Germans have done here. We could maybe break a small corridor open, but we sure as Hell couldn’t all slither through. We’d lose all our heavy equipment and die by the tens of thousands. No. I don’t plan on running, and I’m not just going to stay and take it.” He scratched at the eye patch. “I don’t like the idea of sitting in these rat holes waiting for Krauts and Frogs to come and collect u
s.”

  Colonels nodded.

  “I’ve been done some hard thinking,” Zelazny said. “I’ve tried to dredge up some advantage we have over the GD.”

  “They have better tanks, better planes, better—”

  “Stow it, Tom,” Zelazny said. “I don’t want to hear that right now. I’m talking about our strengths, not theirs.”

  A thin colonel with terribly red eyes nodded.

  Zelazny cleared his throat, and he pointed his dirty finger again. This time he pointed at Paul Kavanagh.

  Colonels made rustling noises as they turned to look at Paul.

  Realizing he was the object of scrutiny, Paul sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up.

  “Do you mean we’re supposed to look at that Marine?” a colonel asked.

  “He’s Marine Recon, an LRSU man,” Zelazny said. “We have a good number of his kind here. I don’t just mean recon specialists, but elite soldiers used to working alone and often behind enemy lines.”

  “I don’t get it,” the red-eyed colonel said. “Are you saying they can help us break out of Toronto?”

  “I already told you,” Zelazny said. “There is no breaking out for us.”

  “Is that right?” a small Canadian colonel asked Paul. As he spoke, the man’s left cheek twitched. It happened twice. “You couldn’t slip away?”

  Paul glanced at Zelazny.

  “Go on, son,” Zelazny said. “Tell him what you believe. I’m interested in hearing it too.”

  “Sir,” Paul said. He paused, thinking about it. Then he decided to speak his mind. “I could slip away. Don’t know if I could take many men with me. It wouldn’t be like retreating with conventional troops. Regular soldiers wouldn’t know what to do. But I and a few others could get back to our lines easy enough. Is that what you’re thinking, sir?”

  “No,” Zelazny said, with a scowl.

  Paul shrugged. He hadn’t thought so, but he’d hoped for a second. He didn’t much like the idea of dying here. That went against the oath.

  The colonels stared back at Len Zelazny. They looked confused, but he had their attention.

  “The Krauts are invading our country,” Zelazny said, “and the Japanese are getting their shot at us again as they soldier under the Chinese. This is a replay of World War II, but with America on the receiving end. During the War in the Pacific, the Japanese faced elimination like this on more than one occasion. The officers usually sharpened their samurai swords and led their men in banzai charges against their foes.”

  “I’ve read about those,” the red-eyed colonel said. “They were suicide charges against Marines and U.S. Army soldiers. Our boys back then cut them down. The Japanese would have lasted longer defending. I did read it worked sometimes against the Chinese of that era.”

  “That’s right,” Zelazny said.

  “You’re saying it’s time to suicide against the Germans?” another colonel asked.

  “Not on your life,” Zelazny said. “Americans aren’t suicide soldier types.”

  “What about the Alamo?” a colonel asked.

  “It wasn’t the same thing,” Zelazny said. “But at least you men are thinking now. I like that. But forget about suicidal banzai charges. No. I have something else in mind and men like Kavanagh are the key ingredient. Now, we are going to mount a few attacks and surprise the Krauts.”

  “That’s banzai charges,” the red-eyed colonel said.

  “Maybe on the surface it is,” Zelazny said. “Our reason for the attacks is different, much different from what the Japanese did back then. Now you heard the Recon Marine. He said he could slip back home. I believe him. If you knew his record, you’d believe him, too. That got me to thinking. If Kavanagh could slip away—where the Germans are watching for us to do exactly that—couldn’t Kavanagh also slip forward, too?”

  “I don’t get it?” the red-eyed colonel said. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That we mount a full assault,” Zelazny said. “We do it for two reasons. The first is to throw the enemy off his timetable. Let him wonder about us and worry. You can be sure the Krauts aren’t going to be expecting us to attack. Now this isn’t for dying gloriously or any other such bullshit as that. The glory in war is in killing the other guy and making him die for his country, not us dying for ours. We attack. The Germans defend, and during the assault—all along the line, mind you—men like Kavanagh quietly slip through the enemy line. They crawl, I don’t know, for a while anyway—for as far as they need to. Finally, these killers get behind the GD drones, HKs and robotic machines. They reach flesh and blood Krauts, Frogs and Limy bastards for a change. That’s when they pull out their knives, their submachine guns, and teach these momma’s boys what it’s like facing an American soldier.”

  “It will be an old-time Apache raid,” a colonel said.

  “For Kavanagh and the others,” a colonel said. “What happens to us, sir?”

  Zelazny nodded, and he looked weary again. “After the assault—don’t kid yourselves. This attack is going to cost us dearly. Afterward, though, we fall back to our prepared defenses. There, we dig in and wait for the machines to dig us out. We die, I suppose, but we make them take a long time doing it. And we take as many of those things as we can with us.”

  The colonels stared at Marine General Zelazny. A few grunted in agreement. The others remained silent.

  “Well, you’re U.S. officers and our fellow Canadians,” Zelazny said. “So let’s hear your ideas. It’s going to be our last offensive plan. We want to make sure it works the best it possibly can.”

  As the colonels and General Zelazny began to work out the details, Paul Kavanagh thought about it. He was bone-weary and just wanted to sleep. His eyes closed on their own accord. This was probably as good as place as any to grab some shuteye. It was a fancy plan, a grasping, final idea. Would it work?

  Before Paul could decide, he fell asleep where he sat. For all he knew, this would be the last nap in this life. When he woke up, it would be grinding effort likely until he was dead.

  TOPEKA, KANSAS

  Jake Higgins stood before a three-person Militia tribunal. It had been several days since his bender and his head no longer pounded from a hangover. His eyes had cleared and they were no longer bloodshot. His dry mouth tasted bitter, and he couldn’t believe the clothes they’d given him.

  He had baggy pants and no belt. He had to grab his trousers in the front to keep them from falling down to his ankles. It made him feel foolish and ridiculous. Worse, he knew they’d planned this in order to diminish him. First, they worked to break a person’s spirit. Then they taught the person how to think. Their techniques were tried and true.

  Jake stood before three judges who sat on a platform higher than he was, forcing him to look up. It was no doubt another psychological ploy. Each judge wore a uniform, two men and a woman. The woman wore a Detention Center suit of white with brown stripes. She was large, with red hair piled on her head and she sat between the two men. She was in charge, a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. The men were majors in the Militia.

  The woman looked down her nose at Jake. She had a mole on the left nostril, and no doubt, hair sprouted from the mole.

  He found her thoroughly despicable, even though he’d repeatedly told himself while sitting in his cell that he needed to talk softly today. A soft answer turns away wrath. He’d heard that from somewhere, but couldn’t place the saying’s origin.

  “Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. She scanned an e-reader. “Disorderly and drunken conduct in a—” She glanced at the leftward major, handing him the e-reader. “Am I reading this correctly?” she asked the major. “The offender committed these disloyalties in a strip bar?”

  The pudgy major didn’t take the e-reader, but leaned over, scanning the words in a bored manner. “Oh yes, the offender was in a strip bar. You are correct.”

  “Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. “I find that disgusting.” She glared down at Jake. “You no d
oubt frequent these places often.”

  “Uh, no,” Jake said. “I—”

  “Silence!” the monitor said, banging a gavel on a block, making the block jump. She continued scanning the e-reader. Her head swayed back and her eyes widened. Silently, she pushed the e-reader toward the same pudgy major as before.

  His pupils went back and forth. His head jerked back sharply and he eyed Jake anew. “Is this correct?”

  “I don’t know what you’re reading,” Jake said.

  “I can’t see how anyone could possibly speak such treasonous trash as I’m reading here,” the monitor said. “Do you realize we are at war with three different power blocs?” she asked Jake.

  “I do, yes,” he said.

  “The world pours in against us,” the woman said. “We have our backs against the wall and, and—you have the impudence to spout this garbage?”

  “First,” Jake said, in a reasonable tone. “I was extremely drunk.”

  “I cannot believe this,” the monitor said. “Your kind wallows in all kinds of deviancy. Drunkenness, lewdness, sedition—I imagine it’s a long list with you.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Jake said. “I’m the furthest thing from seditious. Have you looked at my combat record lately? I was at Denver this winter.”

  The woman glanced at the second major, a thin man with compressed lips. “Is this true?” she asked.

  “I think there’s a broader question,” the man replied. “Is his whereabouts this winter germane to what he spouted in the strip bar?”

  “Yeah it’s germane,” Jake said. “I’ve spilled blood for America. If anyone…” His voice quieted and he stopped speaking.

  The woman raised bushy eyebrows. “It appears you have to think carefully before answering my questions. To my mind, that shows a guilty conscience.”

  “No,” Jake said.

  “He’s argumentative,” the pudgy major said, the one on her left.

  “I cannot believe this,” the monitor said, as she continued reading. “You urinated on your Militia card.”