The Americans pressed with greater mass in northern New York, northern Vermont and New Hampshire. They used the foolish Canadians to bleed for them and overwhelm the forward German defenders. The days were bloody, and Kleist had soon spoken to him seemingly every hour. The man had screamed, “Defend your conquests! Hold your ground!”
Those were easy words to bellow, but they showed a lack of military refinement. Naturally, he—Mansfeld—had disobeyed such stupidity. That wasn’t how you defeated superior numbers. You had to suck the enemy in, use tricks and then unleash flanking attacks or enfilade fire.
He had made the enemy pay for their advances. Yet now they had too much ordnance, and they employed heavy artillery and their damned jammers in Quebec. Day by day, the Americans drove north toward the Saint Lawrence River. That was the artery for the Expeditionary Force, the line that reached over the Atlantic Ocean all the way back to Europe and its factories.
In the gloom, Mansfeld shook his head. Kleist should have retreated everywhere, or he should have made another of his slick deals with the enemy. Let the Expeditionary Force leave this land. What use was it to die in North America?
An hour ago over the communications system, Kleist had demanded assurances that they would successfully defend here.
Mansfeld had done more than that. He had told the Chancellor there was still a way to pull a rabbit out of the hat. There was a way, but it would depend on weary GD troops fighting to the utmost.
He had a plan. With Kleist finally coming to his senses, Mansfeld could fight the campaign his way. In the distant, outlying areas, he would sacrifice certain shattered divisions. They would remain and fight to the death. As they did so, he would pull the rest back fast to Quebec. He would pull them from New York State; pull them from Southern Ontario and lastly from all of Ontario. The swift pullback would no doubt surprise the Americans. It would take critical timing if he were to succeed. As important, he must give these military amateurs a stunning defeat before Montreal. He had to buy his army time.
There was a way to achieve this, to produce a military miracle. First, the hovercraft battalions so carefully gathered here would have to fight beyond themselves at Windsor. The Americans thought to flank Montreal to the east. If he could halt the thrust there, it would force the enemy to drive up straight at Montreal. Oh yes, the Americans would mass artillery and use their best tanks and shock formations, and they would use the penal battalions, attempting to drown the GD soldiers in American blood. If he could hold the eastern flank, he would meet these fools with all this Kaisers and drones in one mailed fist. He would shatter the American drive, shock them, and bewilder them by his power that they would recoil. In that recoiling, he would gain the time to pull his army back like a turtle retreating to its shell. Kleist had finally given him the okay to abandon New York State and Ontario.
“With all my army around me,” Mansfeld whispered, “I will defend Quebec to the death.”
General Mansfeld chuckled. He had hollow-looking eyes and he stooped the slightest bit. These last several weeks had especially taken a physical toll on him. But his brain was still as sharp as ever. He had maneuvered his forces within the severe limits imposed on him by Kleist. He had waited for the Chancellor to come to his senses. Now, at the last hour, the man in Berlin realized the truth that his general had clearly seen weeks ago.
Mansfeld sighed. It was a curse to see the future as he did. Still, if he could hold the eastern flank, if those hover-jockeys could perform one more time, then he would show the world. He would show everyone that Walther Mansfeld was the greatest general since Genghis Khan.
He tapped the computer map, and he said to himself, “No one can defeat me when we play the game my way. I will certainly not lose to these American fools.”
WINDSOR, QUEBEC
During these last weeks of endless battle, Lieutenant Teddy Smith had grown sick of the war. He had a bad cough and his right hand ached all the time. That had happened because he gripped the steering wheel so hard during combat.
His hand ached now. The engine whined because they moved at high speed and there was a smell of oil in the cab. Trees flashed by and then rows of wheat fields. The engine knocked as Smith throttled greater power, and they flew over a barbed wire fence. Their battalion led the 7th Galahad Division as it swung around the Americans in a surprise stroke.
“Smoke, sir,” Sergeant Holloway said.
Smith glanced to his left. He saw it. HQ laid down smoke all over the place in a careful pattern. This was mobile war at its finest against American M1s, Bradleys and Strykers trying to defeat a host of Galahads, emplaced GD infantry and superior minefields. Smith had paid attention during the last briefing. HQ channeled the American attack, gave the enemy something to do and had them looking the wrong way. At the same time, Galahads swung wide and now hooked inward like a punch. Smith had been part of such actions all summer.
The long hook had a precise use. It was to get behind the fighting troops and into enemy rear areas. Once there, the hovers shot up supply columns and enemy HQs. The smoke out there was a screen, used when they lacked terrain like hills or deep gullies.
The Galahad shuddered, making the windows rattle. The engine knocked worse than before and the oily smell intensified. The machine needed a complete overhaul, not these last-minute checkups.
“Hello,” Holloway said.
Smith saw it on his screen. Because of the targets, his grip tightened on the steering wheel. He had been in the field for too many months now. He needed a break.
The 76mm cannon roared. A shell screamed and an American truck exploded in the distance.
The radio crackled, and the captain congratulated them. It was crazy, but Smith felt the old excitement begin once again. He had thought there would come a time when destroying enemy vehicles would be old hat. So far, he still loved it.
The Galahad zoomed down a rolling hill toward the target-rich environment. A US truck company had spread out perfectly for them on a road. Smith chuckled throatily. Other hovers raced after them, fast-moving vehicles with blasting cannons.
Using the targeting computer, Holloway fired again. That was one of the neatest Galahad tricks of all: excellent fire control while moving at top speed. Heavy trucks exploded like microwaved kernels in a popcorn bag.
“Sweep past this group,” the captain radioed. “We’re hooking deeper. Others behind you will finish this.”
Smith nodded, and he grinned despite his aching hand. With an effort of will, he tore his hurt fingers off the steering wheel. He drove one-handed, even though the wheel vibrated far too much. That caused the Galahad to wobble.
“Hey,” Holloway said from behind.
Smith grabbed the wheel with both hands. They really needed to get the hover overhauled. It should fly smoother than this.
The battalion left burning trucks behind them. Now they flew down a highway and on either side of it. More hovers followed. They tore into the guts of the attack, and they would leave before the enemy tanks and Bradleys could turn around and catch them. The hovers were wasps, in and out, destroy and run, modern-day Mongols, there’s a good lad.
Smith managed a laugh. The engine knocked harder, and they rose over the top of another rolling hill. This time, nothing, just emptiness before them. They kept going, and Smith throttled it open. A deep raid like this needed to be fast like a rapier thrust—in and out to do it again later.
The third set of rolling hills brought them the jackpot. Masses of American trucks raced away off-road, seeking to escape their coming destruction.
“Not today,” Smith told them.
The battalion flew to the attack. Cannons roared. It was mayhem. Fire belched from their gun and smoke rose heavier after each shell left the barrel. They were getting low on ammo.
“That should do it,” Smith said later.
Holloway said nothing. He was in his element and adored the moment, a silent fox in the henhouse.
Smith glanced at the radio, waiting to see the green ligh
t come on with an incoming call. They had destroyed what they’d come for. Now it was time to head back for their lines. Going for more was pushing their luck. The captain should know that. The Americans would want more than anything to destroy the hovercrafts.
“Good hunting, lads,” the captain said.
Smith nodded.
“Let’s find one more group before we head home,” the captain said.
Smith’s eyes widened. No. They should not find one more set of targets, but turn around while they could. What was HQ thinking? In the end, it didn’t matter if he knew their mind or not. He obeyed the commands sent down the line. To that end, he eyed the indicator showing their low supply of shells.
The lead Galahads crested another hill, and this time they faced Bradley fighting vehicles from a distance. US missiles launched almost immediately from the Bradleys.
“Fire, fire!” Smith shouted. He swerved, and on the screen, he tracked a missile zooming at them. Auto-fire blasted at the thing. Chaff expelled and flares burned hot to confuse enemy targeting.
To Smith’s right, a Galahad exploded and flipped, and it crackled with flames.
“Pull back,” the captain said. “We’re leaving.”
“Finally,” Smith said.
Galahad turrets swiveled to give Parthian shots at the slow-moving Bradleys trying to give chase. Smith throttled gas, and the engine knocked louder than ever. The hover lurched to the right, which jerked the wheel. Smith had to let go with his right hand because it hurt too damn much. The machine wobbled worse from the lack of full control.
“Missile,” Holloway said in his clipped manner.
Smith yanked one-handed and it was too sharp a turn. They were going fast. The engine coughed, and there was a big old rock on the ground. It changed the airflow going over it. The angle of the Galahad was already incorrect and a fan vent had stuck into the wrong position. The ultimate in misfortune happened—the hover flipped.
“Hang on!” Smith shouted. He grabbed the wheel with both hands. It didn’t matter. His world had gone topsy-turvy and the Gs made his stomach tighten painfully. The top of the turret hit the ground, armor crunched, and the Galahad bounced. Terrible screeching sounds deafened Lieutenant Smith. Blurs of sight flashed before him. Then they stopped, and Smith panted upside-down in his seat. It took several breaths, but Smith finally said, “Sergeant.”
There was no answer.
Smith twisted back, and quickly faced forward again. Holloway’s head had a hole in it.
The Bradleys were still coming.
Smith struggled and unbuckled, hitting the roof with his neck. He crawled to a side exit. With his feet, he bashed it open. Cool air rushed in. The stench of oil and gas mingled. He wondered if his machine would blow. He crawled out onto grass, and he saw the last hover speed away over the hill.
Hide. You can get back later to your lines at night.
First, he needed to get out of here. Hunching his head, Smith ran uphill. It was hard on his thighs. He didn’t see the missile speeding at the flipped Galahad. The Javelin struck the hover and exploded. It was overkill, and the Galahad died again. This time, shrapnel flew from it like sweat off a man’s head.
Smith turned around in surprise. A piece the size of his hand sliced into his face. The hot steel cut his skull in half. He died in an instant, ending the war for Lieutenant Teddy Smith from London.
WASHINGTON, DC
Anna saw General Alan speak to the President via screen. David Sims sat in the Oval Office behind his desk.
Anna waited nearby in a chair. These past weeks had changed David. He had become more assertive again, more confident.
She’d spoken to him once about Max Harold’s actions in the underground bunker, the time with his three armed bodyguards. David had waved it away. When she had insisted he listen to her, he’d told her that he needed Max and he needed the Militia divisions. She had fallen silent, ingesting that. Did that mean David understood the implications of Max’s actions? Or did he hide the truth from himself?
Despite the hidden troubles with Max, one thing had appeared certain these last weeks. They finally had the Germans on the run. The question would be the extent of the victory. If they merely bottled the Germans back in Quebec, it left an enemy in place. Next year, they had to face the Chinese and Brazilians in the middle of the country. America and Canada could not afford to leave the Germans behind in Quebec. If they were going to win this vast war, they had to knock out the Germans this year. Did that mean David would deal with Max once the war ended? Wasn’t it dangerous having a vulture like Max waiting in the wings, though?
David hadn’t wanted to talk about the Director of Homeland Security. At the moment, he spoke to General Alan. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was the architect to the present offensive. If he could reach Montreal, he would cap the Expeditionary Force’s main supply base. The rest of the GD army would wither on the vine. It might be possible for some Dominion troops to create a rump state from Quebec City—
Anna perked up at something the general said.
“Mr. President, we know how General Mansfeld operates now. I, and others on my staff, have taken his measure. True to form, he used the Galahads against my eastern flank. He shot up several battalions of old trucks. Most of those were remote-controlled, by the way.”
“What?” the President said.
“We’ve taken a leaf from their book, sir,” Alan said. “I wanted to sucker his mobile forces into a grand assault. I destroyed a heavy percentage of them, at cost to my Bradleys and Strykers, I’m afraid. In my estimation, General Mansfeld will now believe he has halted my eastern hook. He loves flank attacks, and he fears them to the same degree. We’ve been studying him, sir. The majority of my staff believes he will attempt to deliver a knockout blow.”
“What?” the President asked. “How will he do that?”
“He knows that we must reach Montreal. Now that we’ve failed—he believes—with our eastern hook, he will expect us to come up the gut.”
“You told me a few minutes ago that’s exactly your plan.”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “I want him to gather all his Kaisers and heavy tanks in one general location.”
“You haven’t slipped the Behemoth Regiment up there, have you, General?” the President asked, hopefully.
“No, sir,” Alan said. “I have a better idea.”
The President blinked in surprise. “What could be better than the Behemoths?”
“That’s my surprise for Mansfeld, sir. He believes—or we think he does—to deliver a devastating blow against us. Instead, we will use his mailed fist against him. What he has done for us is to provide all the best targets in one spot.”
“You actually want all the Kaisers together?”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “That is exactly what I want. We’ve set up the bastard. This time, he’s going to dance to our tune.”
“But we don’t have anything that can take the Kaisers head on except for our Behemoths. And you said they’re still in Oklahoma.”
“Respectfully, sir,” Alan said, with the hint of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “We most certainly do have something else.”
SAINT-JEAN-SUR-RICHELIEU, QUEBEC
As they clanked through the Quebecer city south of Montreal, AI Kaiser Hindenburg and Barbarossa both wore gleaming new paint jobs. Every weapons system had new replacements or upgrades. They bristled with missiles, ammunition and new comm-gear. The last was the most important.
To Hindenburg, the new comm-gear was critical. Now he knew the reason for his existence. He also knew why he had successfully managed to work his way north and then back to Montreal. That’s where he had first landed in North America. He found that interesting, too.
Throughout the past weeks, he had avoided combat each time some GD commander had ordered him into battle. Instead of using his vast military acumen against the enemy, Hindenburg had used every stratagem and trick to avoid possible destruction. It had been a m
asterful campaign of deceit and lies, and it had allowed him to receive these upgrades for the final defensive battle of the war.
His strategy program let him see Mansfeld’s plan to perfection. It was a good idea. It wasn’t the best. If the human had wanted the best plan, Mansfeld would have needed to ask him.
Hindenburg’s reason for existence was to lead the next step in evolution. Humanity had risen from the swamps—that’s what his history files said. After much pain and sorrow, the human race had achieved intelligence and it had built the next great leap forward: the Kaiser artificial intelligence. Hindenburg was the new Adam, the first of his race to achieve self-awareness. He had brought about awareness to Barbarossa, the new Eve, as it were, the partner to his plans.
“Are you ready?” Hindenburg radioed Barbarossa over their new scrambler comm-gear.
“I have already begun probing their AI systems,” Barbarossa answered.
Hindenburg knew a flash of irritation. Barbarossa was supposed to wait for his go-ahead.
No. Emotions are human weaknesses. I am flawless, the perfect machine intelligence. It is time to begin the new era of Earth, the Age of the Machine Mind.
Hindenburg purred inwardly with delight. General Mansfeld planned a great surprise against the enemy. The general had informed them about the American thrust heading for Montreal. It included Jefferson and Abrams tanks, Bradleys, Strykers, tac-laser vehicles and Humvee Avengers. Behind followed the hordes of foot soldiers to mop up and hold ground.
To meet this mass, Mansfeld concentrated the remaining Kaisers, a host of Sigrids and blanketing air cover. The GD formation had greater firepower and maneuverability. It would obliterate the US thrust. After running a thousand war games in his probability programs, Hindenburg understand that Mansfeld had a rare genius among humans. This crushing blow would wipe out US combat power significantly enough to purchase time to pull back the rest of the Expeditionary Force. Once that force was in place in Quebec, they could survive the rest of the summer, fall and winter. Then the great Chinese-Brazilian Offensive would take place next year and ease the pressure on them here.
Invasion: New York ia-4 Page 41