“How…?” General Kaltenbrunner asked in a hoarse voice. “How was this even possible?”
The admiral shook his head.
Gunther Wiese sat at his station. His stomach knotted horribly with pain. He couldn’t take his eyes off the big screen.
Then the THOR missile struck the supercarrier, a molten, glowing-orange meteor that punched through metal as if it was paper. Incredibly, it smashed through the air control tower first, burning antennae. It sliced down through deck after deck of the great ocean-going vessel. Lastly, the missile tore a hole out of the bottom of the carrier. Meanwhile, fuel storage tanks blew. Friction caused munitions to explode with tremendous force, causing the entire vessel to shudder horribly.
Gunther was already dead, with a piece of hot shrapnel sticking out of his skull. The admiral no longer possessed a head as blood jetted out of his neck. His uniform was no longer white. General Kaltenbrunner bellowed in agony before blood loss rendered him unconscious, and his big frame slumped onto the burning floor.
As the great pride and joy of the German Dominion Armada began to sink below the surface, the rest of the THOR missiles likewise smashed through other carriers, into battleships, cruisers, infantry transports, hovers, against every major ship in the fleet.
Ships blew up. Ships sank. A few limped along with brutal damage. It happened so fast, too, as if Heaven had rained vengeance upon them. Then the attack from space ended, with nothing but hundreds of luminous trails in the sky.
ATLANTIC OCEAN
“Are you seeing this?” Lieutenant Penner shouted.
On his screen, beamed from an American AWACS, Penner watched the greatest air reversal in history. He didn’t know yet that it was part of the greatest sea reversal in history, a bigger upset than the Battle of Midway.
One moment, US fighters died to swarming GD drones. The F-35s and V-10s battled gamely, but there were outmatched by numbers and by better technology.
Now, the GD drones simply stopped firing. The drones ceased launching missiles, shooting shells; they stopped doing anything as they flew straight. Some went down into the rough swells. Others traveled east. More flew to the west. If Penner didn’t know better, he would say that the drone operators had all at once ceased to exist. Yet how could that happen? It did not make any sense.
“What’s going on?” Penner asked his wingman.
“I don’t have any idea, sir,”
Then an air controller began to explain it to them. The THOR missiles had just taken out the majority of the GD invasion fleet.
“Say again,” Penner said.
He listened as the air control officer explained it. THOR missiles, what in the world were those.
As Penner wondered, he noticed that the US fighters amongst all those GD air began to shoot down the enemy planes.
This is turning into a turkey shoot, he realized.
Penner laughed. It felt wonderful to be alive. Then he sobered up. He still had a task to do, and maybe now he would be able to accomplish it.
It was time for the air force to destroy whatever was left of the enemy ships out there.
The air traffic controller told them to concentrate on GD infantry and ground-vehicle transports.
Penner nodded. That’s exactly what he planned to do.
TORONTO, ONTARIO
General Mansfeld stood in a hushed operational chamber. Screens lined the walls, with technicians seated below them. His staff officers stood as a group, silent and staring. They had been doing both for the past few minutes.
Mansfeld stared at a screen in disbelief. He found it hard to comprehend what he saw. His eyes were fine. His brain worked to full capacity, but the switch from conquering brilliance to catastrophic defeat left a bitter taste in his mouth and a cold black hole in his thinking.
The luminous trails from space had already dissipated. The Americans had found a way to harness meteors. It was amazingly brilliant and cleverly done, and it had just annihilated his chances of ending the campaign in a crushing German victory.
On the screen Mansfeld watched yet another enemy cruise missile. The sleek thing skimmed over the waves.
It’s going to hit a troop transport. I can’t afford that.
True to the prediction, the missile stuck and blasted a surviving troop transport at the waterline. The transport began to list. Mansfeld watched as panicked sailors and infantrymen jumped overboard into the sea.
That’s the wrong thing to do. You must keep your head. That was the only way to survive a disaster.
Another cruise missile skimmed the sea. It destroyed a hover-carrier holding a large number of Sigrid drones.
A disaster, this is a disaster. The Americans have broken the closing jaw. I cannot believe this.
A hard knot of anger washed through General Mansfeld. This technologically advanced blow could ruin his hard-won reputation. Historians would pen down that he had miscalculated. Instead of a great victor—the greatest of modern times with far-seeing vision and—
“No,” Mansfeld said. He turned to stride away into his study, but he realized he needed to rally his command staff.
Clearing his throat, Mansfeld said, “The Americans have done well. It would be petty to say they haven’t. But this will not save them. Nothing came save them from their coming dismemberment.”
“General?” one of the staff members asked. “How…what will we do now?”
Mansfeld forced heartiness into a mocking laugh. “Why, we will close the trap, Colonel.”
“But we needed those ships. We needed those soldiers.”
“Oh,” Mansfeld said. “I admit this will make things more difficult, to be sure. But the Americans have already shown us their panic by using the ICBMs.”
“Maybe we should use some of ours on them, sir,” the staff officer said.
Yes, maybe we should at that. I will have to contemplate the possibility. Who expected space weapons from the Americans? They abandoned space long ago.
“We badly needed those troops, sir,” the staff officer said.
“Yes,” Mansfeld agreed. The man spoke truth. It was always good to see the truth, no matter how harsh it was.
“You will instruct whatever ships survived the disaster to head out to sea,” Mansfeld said. “Get away from the American air. Afterward, we’re going to swing the troop transports around and bring them down the Saint Lawrence into Quebec.”
The staff officers gazed at him like dumb bovines. The nearest had glazed eyes and a slack mouth, looking as if he’d been hypnotized. It was clear they couldn’t perceive just yet. They let a disaster shake them. But disasters happened to everyone, even to geniuses of war. He would recover from this and find his victory that much more gratifying. Enough of that, though. He needed to galvanize these men.
“We must salvage what we can from this,” Mansfeld said. “A single defeat does not a war lose. We have the enemy on the run, gentlemen. This would have been the deathblow, to land Kaltenbrunner’s soldiers in New Jersey and New York. Now we’re going to have to finish this the conventional way. We’ll trap the US Fifth Army in the Niagara Peninsula and, and…”
“Will a reduced Twelfth Army be able to break through Syracuse, sir?” the staff officer asked. “Can the Twelfth Army smash through Albany and race to New York City, all while keeping the line intact and sealing the enemy in our trap?”
“I’m well aware of the odds,” Mansfeld said. “We need reinforcements across Lake Ontario. That’s why we’re swinging the surviving transports wide east and then to the Saint Lawrence. We’ll use those troops in New York yet.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the staff officer said. “But maybe we should consider pulling out of New York State. Maybe we should cut our losses before the Americans—”
Mansfeld strode to the defeatist staff officer. Normally, the man was a brilliant colonel of logistics, a real go-getter.
In a cold voice, Mansfeld said, “You are dismissed and relieved of your position.”
&nb
sp; “Sir?” the staff officer asked.
“I will not countenance defeatist talk,” Mansfeld told him. “What you gentlemen have witnessed is a single American success. They will not get any more. I will personally see to that. Therefore, I will not tolerate even a hint of a defeatist speculation. We have the enemy on the run. That is the time to ride him down and stick a spear in his side.”
We’re on the tiger, and you cannot stop such a monster and climb off. No, we must stay on until the very end. There is no turning back for any of us, especially not for me.
The staff colonel must have seen something in the general’s eyes. He did not argue. Instead, he saluted crisply, turned and marched out of the operational chamber.
“What about the rest of you?” Mansfeld asked. “Is there anyone else who wishes to spout defeatist talk?”
The staff officers shook their heads.
“Very well,” Mansfeld said. “Carry on and make sure you get the surviving transports headed east first and then north to the mouth of the Saint Lawrence. We’re going to need all the troops we can…gather.”
He almost said, “Scrape together.” That would have sounded wrong. This was a time for confidence. This was not a time to panic and to lose one’s head.
General Mansfeld strode for the door to his inner office. What am I going to do? This is a disaster. What will the Chancellor say?
Mansfeld didn’t bother shaking his head. The Chancellor might panic. Well, he would cross that bridge when the time came. Right now, he had to push the attack on Syracuse and the Niagara Peninsula. The Americans must be congratulating each other right now. He would give them something to worry about, and then he would give them a surprise that would wipe away this bitter sea defeat.
-14-
Operation Narva
USS KIOWA
“Captain,” First Mate Sulu said. “Captain, wake up. They’re here.”
Darius Green lifted his head off his arms. He’d fallen asleep while on watch. He could not believe it. He rubbed sore eyes and eased crossed arms off the command panel. He’d had a dream that he had been with the Prophet in a cavalry charge across a desert. It had been glorious. On a giant warhorse, Darius had ridden beside the Prophet. Their cloaks had billowed in a dark desert breeze as they shouted a war cry, with their scimitars flashing in the moonlight. Ah, that would have been an adventure. This sulking underwater as the two of them sought freighters and ore haulers to sink…
“What did you say?” Darius asked.
“They’re outside, Captain,” Sulu said. “They’ve brought us more Javelins.”
In the red-lit interior of the submersible, Darius grinned. He had spent the past few days hunting enemy ships, sending them to the bottom either with a single or with two Javelin missiles. Many of the stolen freighters and ore haulers sailed in convoys with hovercraft or fast attack boats accompanying them. Those, Darius left alone. He went after the single ships, the stragglers of the pack.
So far, he and Sulu had sunk four ships with ten missiles. Some vessels had escaped wounded. That was because Sulu would spot approaching UAVs speeding toward them. Too many times, they had cut off the attack to dive out of danger and escape for another try.
Lake Ontario was a German sea, but Sulu and he were doing their part to whittle away at the enemy. SEALs in a rubber dinghy had come from the northern end of Lake Ontario, which was still under American control. The commandos brought them more Javelin missiles.
Darius drank a cup of water. The submersible was getting low on fuel, but he would make one more run before they might have to scuttle the craft. This time, using the knowledge he’d gained these past days, Darius planned to sink five ships with these missiles.
He stood, shook his arms and headed for the ladder.
INTERSTATE 90, NEW YORK
Walther Mansfeld gazed at the assembled colonels and generals of Twelfth Army. He stood behind a lectern placed on a stack of hay bales two high. Instead of twine, wire circled the bales. He could see the twist—almost a knot—that joined a wire together. Had a farmer used a pair of pliers to do that?
They were in a large American barn along Interstate 90. Fifteen kilometers away lay Greater Syracuse, the gateway to his dreams. V Corps of Twelfth Army had already fought halfway into the city, with other corps flanking Syracuse. The Americans had become uncommonly stubborn lately. It was one of the reasons for the meeting. The gathered officers sat in chairs before him. Techs had put up a screen behind his back.
The American space attack had changed much, but not everything. Five hours ago, Mansfeld had spoken to Chancellor Kleist via video teleconference. The talk had gone poorly. Kleist feared the worst, and the man had actually threatened him. Maybe such things would have wilted another commander. It hadn’t wilted Mansfeld. He saw his way clear of the supposed disaster. In a way, the space attack calmed him. He’d seen the best America could do. It had hurt him, but it hadn’t wrecked the campaign. It was still his to win. Via closely argued logic, he had shown Kleist the truth of that. Grudgingly, and because he had the capacity to understand, the Chancellor had seen reason.
I will still gain a great victory for Greater Germany. This is my hour, and these men will achieve the seemingly impossible—if they follow my instructions to the letter.
Mansfeld cleared his throat.
The officers quit talking among themselves, looking up at him.
“Gentlemen,” Mansfeld said, “we are gathered here today to discuss Operation Narva. The failed attempt of General Kaltenbrunner to land at New Jersey has undoubtedly caused consternation among some of you. Clearly, the failed amphibious assault is a setback, but it is nothing more than that. It has, I believe, eliminated our margins for error. You gentlemen must now practice a flawless attack and exploitation afterward. If you do so, the campaign will end gloriously, showing the world a stunning example of European and particularly German arms.
“Before I proceed, I believe a short history lesson is in order. It is the reason why I have chosen ‘Narva’ as the operational name.
“In the old days during the era of kings, there was a man named Peter the Great of Russia. He was a giant among men and something of a prodigy in mental abilities. He expanded Russian territory, brought the brutes into the modern world and sought a port in the west on the Baltic Sea. The chosen site would become Saint Petersburg, named Leningrad during the Soviet period.
“Peter the Great needed to wrest the territory from the Swedes, who had a great northern Baltic empire then. Peter gathered a galaxy of allies, including the Danish king and Augustus of Saxony, who became the elected king of Poland. They plotted together, these kings, and decided to trap the youth of Sweden, King Charles XII, eighteen-years-old at the time.
“What the drunkards didn’t know was that Charles the XII was a knight errant and berserker rolled into one. Even as a boy king, he was one of the most daring leaders ever put into power. The cunning old kings plotted and the young knight of a king acted decisively.
“Against the advice of his admiral, Charles of Sweden boldly took his fleet and army across supposedly unnavigable waters and immediately advanced upon Copenhagen, Denmark, at the other end of the Baltic. The Danish king sued for peace, quitting the alliance. Afterward, Charles hurried east with a few men. Finally, in November, with a mere 8,000 soldiers, he marched on Narva, a northern Baltic outpost. The Russians had set up siege lines around the town, having five times Charles’s numbers. The Swedes advanced during a snowstorm, with Charles at their head. It is said the king shouted to his soldiers, ‘Now is our time, with the storm at our backs. They will never see how few we are.’ In a half hour, Charles and his men stormed the outer works. In two hours, the battle was over and won. He had lost 2,000 men, one-quarter of his army, but he utterly routed the Russians so their host disintegrated into a useless rabble.”
Mansfeld scanned the assembled colonels and generals. He had always admired Charles the XII and thoroughly studied the king’s campaigns. “Through i
mpetuous attack and with superior soldiers, Charles won a great victory at incredible odds. I believe we can do likewise here at Syracuse. Yes, the Americans have more soldiers than we do in this theater of war. But they do not have more soldiers in Syracuse. We have the advantage here.
“Gentlemen, Twelfth Army must smash through Syracuse, roar through the Tug Hill Plateau region and descend upon the Hudson-Mohawk Lowlands as Hannibal climbed down from the Alps upon Roman Gaul. From there, we shall race to New York City, taking the metropolis by coup de main and sealing one million American soldiers in our trap. As you do this, others shall open the Niagara Peninsula. They are opening it even now. That will allow supplies and reinforcements to more easily pour into our portion of New York State.”
Mansfeld gripped the lectern and leaned toward the watching officers. “I want you to remember that Patton once led his Third Army into the Rhine and into Germany, destroying us in World War II. Now it is our turn, and you will take the place of Third Army. Twelfth Army will become legend for what you are about to do. You have already become legend through your exploits. I realize that many of you are tired. That is the way of victorious soldiers in the middle of the struggle. But that fight is almost over. If you finish strongly, this feat of arms will win you eternal glory and fame. As importantly, this will win you the Chancellor’s gratitude. We all know that Chancellor Kleist rewards well those he acknowledges.”
That ought to keep his spies here happy.
Pausing for effect, Mansfeld lowered his voice. He wore a microphone on his lapel. “The Americans are throwing formerly defeated units of the Canadian Army into Syracuse. That is the last desperate attempt of gamblers. You have already sent these Canadians reeling headlong at the start of the campaign. I have deliberately paused before Syracuse so we can strike in unison. We have brought up generous supplies and will now storm the city as Charles the XII once stormed Narva and shattered the Russian army. Win here, gentlemen, and you will have broken the last large formation blocking our way to victory. Quit too soon—allow yourself to worry—and we will fail to cross the finish line.”
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