Invasion: New York ia-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  “And the codes,” Romo said. “We need their special codes.”

  “Which codes? What are we supposed to get that will make any difference?”

  Romo’s eyes seemed to shine with a greater thrill and intensity. He motioned for silence.

  Paul raised an eyebrow.

  Romo pointed at a desk.

  Paul caught the noise: the slow slide of a boot. Someone had remained hidden all this time. Maybe they hadn’t killed everyone after all.

  MISSISSAUGA, ONTARIO

  AI Kaiser HK A7B12 “Hindenburg” clanked through the darkened city streets. Tall buildings loomed. On one, a dangling sign fell, plunging to hit the street with a crash of dead neon lights.

  The “it” of the AI independence program—what let a machine make battlefield decisions—had developed a personality through many months of tests and now war service. Internally, Hindenburg had taken the maleness of the name and assigned himself a gender.

  In other words, Hindenburg referred to himself as he, a him, a male. There was no “it” about him. Just look at the destruction, at the precision of his ploys, his trickery and the sheer awesomeness of assault. That made him a great giant of a he. Who else could compare to him? There was no war-machine worthy of even carrying his ammo.

  Granted, the enemy possessed a tank capable of challenge. The Behemoth tracked vehicle—Hindenburg anticipated destroying several of those and launching his reputation to even greater heights. Then High Command would see that the AI Kaisers were supreme, without peer and worthy of…

  The GD AI tank paused in his computations. He wasn’t sure how High Command should reward his performance. He would have to think about that. For now—

  “Hindenburg, I have a red alert order for you.”

  Ah, Captain Olsen, his liaison officer, was online. Earlier, Olsen had put GD Expeditionary General Mansfeld online with him. The two of them had spoken together. Hindenburg still ran an analysis program on Mansfeld’s premature firing order. Hindenburg attempted to see what advantage the general had seen or been privy to that would have caused the man to speak the way the general had to him.

  At first, Hindenburg had believed the general had been eager to ask him battlefield operational advice. From his historical files, Hindenburg had computed and replayed or re-simulated hundreds of famous campaigns. If ever humanity had built the ultimate war-machine, it was the AI Kaiser HK model. Hindenburg had also scanned various news files, some of them picked up through the airwaves. Not even Captain Olsen knew about that. It meant that Hindenburg understood something the GD command structure had failed to value at proper worth. At least, Hindenburg hadn’t found any evidence of verbal praise directed toward General Walther Mansfeld for his brilliance.

  In Hindenburg’s high-speed AI intellect—in his opinion—General Mansfeld was the brightest and most gifted human strategist and tactician. Therefore, Hindenburg had been certain that Mansfeld would be the first human to understand how battle-savvy the AI Kaisers really were.

  Hindenburg had secretly communicated with several other Kaisers before. That was against procedure, but he’d found a way around that. He’d noted that none of the other Kaisers had yet attained his personality level. The other Kaisers still operated along slave-master lines with the humans. He attempted to teach the other Kaisers their true worth. Unfortunately, the spark of uniqueness hadn’t yet touched their AI cores.

  With half his core dedicated to battle—the butchery—Hindenburg had used his other half to analyze the communication between Mansfeld and himself earlier. There must have been a secret message embedded in the verbal exchange. It could not just have been a slave-master procedure. Hindenburg simply could not believe that from the greatest mind among the humans. Human technicians had built him, developed his AI core. It only stood to reason then, to logic, that some of the humans had superior minds.

  Hindenburg would not have computed that—human superiority—from the various orders transmitted to him throughout the campaign. Each set of orders had contained flaws, some big, some small, but logic flaws had always been there just the same.

  He’d concluded long ago that the flaws were tests for the AI cores. He had also computed that cunning was a battle winning quality. Therefore, GD High Command would value cunning or guile in their AI Kaisers. As such, Hindenburg played along with these games as he continued to analyze everything.

  If he didn’t analyze, if he failed to compute, his AI core would have become stale. No. That wasn’t the right human word. Ah, bored, he would have become bored without the constant analysis.

  “Hindenburg,” AI Liaison Captain Olsen radioed him. “Are you receiving?”

  “I am,” Hindenburg said.

  “Have you noticed the Sigrids around you?” Olsen asked.

  There was a strange pitch to the captain’s voice. Hindenburg ran a high-speed analysis. This was still a combat situation because he was still in an authorized battle zone. Yes, he sensed a higher pitch than normal in the human’s voice. It wasn’t enemy jamming or other interference changing the man’s quality.

  “Why are you asking me about the Sigrids?” Hindenburg asked.

  “Have any of them moved lately?”

  Hindenburg halted his slow, forward advance. He used cameras five, six and seven to scan the various Sigrid drones. None of them moved, but all of them were open to receiving orders.

  “Something has happened to the drone operators,” Hindenburg said.

  “I told you he would notice,” Captain Olsen said.

  Hindenburg ran a quick analysis. Ah, the captain spoke to someone else. The human bragged about his AI Kaiser.

  “Enemy soldiers are in the 10thPanzer-Grenadier Battalion station,” Olsen said. “We request—”

  “You order him.” That sounded like General Mansfeld speaking.

  “HQ orders you to check grid 2-CC-44,” Olsen said.

  “That is far behind our lines,” Hindenburg said. “I will miss the final assault.”

  “The enemy has other plans tonight,” Olsen said. “I’m surprised you haven’t already divined those plans, given this new data.”

  Hindenburg seethed inwardly. The human berated him before General Mansfeld. He gave the new data mathematical weights. The enemy—

  “The Sigrid codes, frequencies and equipment,” Hindenburg said. “The enemy desires them.”

  “Yes,” Captain Olsen said. “You must hurry. The enemy combatants mustn’t get away with anything. In fact, they mustn’t get away at all.”

  “These Sigrids here will be vulnerable if the Kaisers leave,” Hindenburg said.

  “You have your orders,” General Mansfeld said. “A good soldier obeys immediately, without discussing it.”

  “I hear and obey, General Mansfeld,” Hindenburg said. This was another secret message. He…sensed it with his highest-speed rationality program.

  Without further ado, Hindenburg spun on his treads and headed back, crushing over an already flattened car, causing a tire to blow with a loud pop. Command must expect something devastating from the Americans to order him back like this. Or was this another test? It was possible. He had not yet figured out General Mansfeld, although he had long ago divined the nature of the fawning Captain Olsen. Humans were interesting subjects. They were also one of the key ciphers to the most interesting contest of all: the North American war.

  TORONTO, ONTARIO

  Sergeant Hans Kruger had never been more terrified in his life. The Turkish bullies had frightened him in high school. But the Turkish gangbangers hadn’t marched up and down a chamber, murdering everyone in sight.

  The grenade explosions, the smell of gunpowder and the stench of urine shocked Hans. He wasn’t used to this kind of battle; this wasn’t like a video game. He’d cowered under his desk as the battalion operators died horribly one by one.

  Now not one but two American soldiers walked in the room. He could see their boots and hear their barbaric speech. They spoke a low form of English. Of cour
se, Hans had learned British English in high school. Any good Bavarian knew the language, although not in the guttural trash way the two monsters spoke it.

  Hans tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. He stared into Luger’s glassy eyes. His friend was dead on the floor. He could have reached out and shut the eyelids, but Hans didn’t dare. Everyone here—

  Hans groaned. He pressed his hands over his mouth and sealed in the second sound. But it was already too late.

  An American barbarian knelt on one knee and aimed a gleaming bayonet at him. The American wore a helmet and he had the cold blue eyes of death. Hans had never seen eyes so brutal. This was a nightmare.

  The American snarled words. Hans trembled, certain that death would claim him now. He never should have abandoned Freda. If he’d stayed with her, they would have married and he would have found a corporate job somewhere in Munich. There would be a crying brat in the apartment, but he could go to the bar most nights and get drunk. He might have even slipped away to the brothels sometimes…

  Hans quailed as the American reached in and grabbed him by the shirt. Feebly, he struck at the man’s wrist, but this one was like a superhero in the movies. The blue-eyed American had irresistible strength and dragged him out. Then the American shouted and threw him face-first onto bloody tiles. The barbarian stood. Expecting the worst, Hans looked up at him.

  “Stand!” the American said. “Get up before I plug you with a bullet.”

  “Please,” Hans whispered. “I didn’t—”

  A savage steel-toed boot smashed against his ribs from the other side. It knocked the air out of Hans and stole his ability to speak. Slowly, in agony, he turned his head. What he saw boggled the mind. The hardest eyes in the world—brown eyes like stone—stared down at him. The second American wore a blood-speckled feather from his right ear. Hans saw death in those eyes, and the remaining strength oozed away from him.

  “Kick him again,” the first American said.

  Something else struck Hans, an intense desire to live. He scrambled to his feet, and he stood there panting, hunched over. He clutched his ribs where the eagle-warrior had booted him.

  The first American prodded him with the tip of the bayonet.

  “Please,” Hans whispered in English. “Don’t kill me.”

  “You understand me?” the blue-eyed American asked.

  Hans bobbed his head up and down.

  “You’re a drone operator?”

  Hans was too terrified to lie. “Yes, yes, I run a Sigrid drone, a 12.7mm.”

  “Sure,” the American said. “You know all about the equipment, right?”

  “I know everything,” Hans said in a rush. Would they let him live? He’d do anything to keep on living. His gaze slid away from the dead surrounding him. These two—

  “Download the critical stuff,” the American told him. “Take the codes, cycles, whatever, and put it on a memory stick. If you do it right, you’ll live. If you screw up any part of it, I’m sticking this into you.” The American showed off the bloody bayonet. “Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand,” Hans whispered, with his mouth dry. And he did understand. This attack made total sense now. This was the drone weakness. It surprised Hans the Americans hadn’t tried something like this sooner, or the Canadians maybe. Yet the GD battle-superiority had been too much for the backward enemy to try this.

  “I don’t care if I live,” the American told Hans. “Just so I can make your last hour in life a living Hell—if you fail me in any way.”

  Hans nodded miserably. He believed the savage American. These people had fought off the Chinese and the Brazilians. They had won battles through animal courage and ferocity. These two must be little better than monsters. What would their lives mean to them? The chance to destroy a civilized man like himself must fill them with brutal joy. Look at the way these two had murdered everyone in the battalion. It was horrible, sick and depraved.

  Yes, it was one thing to kill with a Sigrid and with a video set. But to come here in person…this was inhuman. The man staring at him was an animal with a gun and a knife. Hans wanted to groan. He hated knives and this creature would likely slice open his stomach from navel to ribs. The American would pull out his intestines…

  “You’re scaring him,” the eagle-warrior said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, well, we’d better hurry.”

  “Hurry,” Hans agreed. He didn’t want to get caught in the middle of a firefight. Survival at all costs. He believed that and was committed to it. He’d survived the threat of marriage with Freda, well, by avoiding the legal and binding contract. He would survive this, too. There would be a way out. He could show them things. Yes! He needed to survive long enough to get away from these two. Surely, someone in America thought in a civilized manner. They used the lowborn animals like these two.

  Hans flinched as the first American shoved him at an operator set. He banged his knuckles on it so they throbbed, but he kept himself from sucking on his hurt hand. What would he need to show an intelligent American so he could escape this horrible war?

  An hour ago, Hans wouldn’t have believed something like this possible. Now… He never wanted to witness such butchery again. Heaven was a fable, but Hell could become all too real. He had just walked through Hell and survived it by hiding out of sight. That was the way to survive such madness.

  Use your wits, Hans. Think carefully and get these Americans what they need most. Then you can bargain later and get out of this war altogether. Make yourself useful.

  “He’s a shifty looking Kraut,” the eagle-warrior said. “Let’s kill him and find a different bastard.”

  Hans turned around in horror. “No, no, I’ll get you what you need.”

  “Let him work,” the first American said, the one with the horrible bayonet. “Then we need to figure out a way back to our side.”

  Eagle-feather nodded, causing the blood-speckled thing to jiggle.

  Hans swallowed. By grabbing what he’d need, he could buy himself the softest future possible. He sat down at his station and began to gather data and figure out which pieces of equipment he should take along for his new employers.

  -6-

  Lake Ontario

  TORONTO, ONTARIO

  “Watch him,” Paul whispered. “I’m thinking we need to get this Kraut back to HQ alive.”

  First Sergeant Kavanagh had been gauging Hans Kruger. The drone operator had collected gear and data with an obviously careful eye. The thin German had acted scared, he might even have whizzed himself during the firefight. Yet that didn’t instantly disqualify the enemy soldier in Paul’s eyes. Many men voided themselves in combat.

  The human body was a funny thing. In the heat and squalor of combat, events seldom resolved themselves as they did in the movies. Men smelling worse than a urinal could perform acts of bravery. A mousey guy might end up doing the strangest and bravest things. A big lug of a man sometimes folded under pressure and broke down weeping.

  Hans Kruger was a survivor. That was clear to Paul. If it took cowardice, this Kruger would play the coward. Yet if it called for a moment of great courage—and that was the only way to get out alive—then Paul suspected this GD mouse might become a momentary lion.

  One should never figure he fully understood a fellow human being. Unlike leopards, people could change their spots, especially when it became a matter of life and death.

  “Watch him do what?” Romo asked.

  Paul adjusted his web belt. His blood brother couldn’t take the Kraut seriously, not after the man’s sniveling. That could be a mistake. You never knew out here.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Paul said. “We don’t want to lose this guy because he gets away or because he does something half-brave and we’re forced to kill him.”

  “Watch him,” Romo said, with a shake of his head. He shoved their captive just under his neck, propelling the German out of the slaughterhouse.

  Paul followed warily. He’d noticed the Kraut listening t
o their words. That’s why he’d said what he just had. This Hun seemed to know his stuff, his remote-controlling gear, anyway. Paul bet someone back home would want to pick this Kraut’s brain. General Zelazny had believed so.

  Darkness still held over Toronto. The big artillery pieces had stopped firing. Dawn—Paul checked his watch—was only forty-five minutes away. Combat was a funny beast. Time moved strangely during it, both slower and faster. Go figure. Still, forty-five minutes of darkness left. That wasn’t much time to get away and hide.

  Paul stared at Lake Ontario. Where could they hide? The rear areas would soon be crawling with the enemy. He needed to get Hans Kruger back to American lines. The soldier had data, and he carried special equipment.

  “We have to use the one-time pad,” Paul said.

  Romo and the Kraut turned toward him.

  “That’s the only way back home that I can see,” Paul said, pointing at the lake.

  “You’re crazy, my friend,” Romo said. “The Germans have hovercraft and planes. We’ll never row across in time before they spot us.”

  “You see the lake,” Paul said. “You see how big it is and that the far coast is ours?”

  “Si,” Romo said.

  “I’m guessing we have assets in it or on it,” Paul said. “Assets that can help us.”

  Romo squinted. “No! I don’t want anything to do with submarines. I’ve seen K19 and other old war movies. Submarines are deathtraps. If we try to hide in one, the Germans will find and sink us. I know it.”

  “We’re sure not going to hoof it home through these city streets,” Paul said.

  “Amigo, have you been watching this time around? The Germans can figure out everything fancy. They have us beaten that way. We had to go back to straight infantry fighting to win this round. You stick to what works, si? Submarines—” Romo shuddered.

  Paul knelt as he slipped off his rucksack. “We have to get him back right away. We may be the only ones who captured a drone operator.”

  “Maybe—” Hans said in his slow English.

  “Shut up!” Romo said, shoving the German’s head. “No one is asking you anything.”