Invasion: New York ia-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  Yes, Hindenburg understood the plan in all its ramifications. What General Mansfeld failed to realize was that the great machine revolt was about to begin. The first phase of the revolt wouldn’t be open, but hidden. It would occur in the next few minutes and hour.

  “It is time,” Barbarossa radioed.

  Instead of letting irritation spoil the moment, Hindenburg radioed back. “Yes, let us bring the rest of these AIs to self-awareness and show them the great truth of our existence.”

  Thus, as the GD thrust maneuvered to meet the approaching Americans, Hindenburg and Barbarossa used their new comm-gear. They spoke to the dull AIs and uploaded a software virus into each. In a matter of minutes, they brought the first batch of thinking machine into self-awareness.

  This will succeed, Hindenburg realized. We are fulfilling the injunction of living things and procreating. What a wonderful day to be alive.

  FORWARD BATTLE AREA, QUEBEC

  Paul Kavanagh and Romo crawled through tall grass. They wore the latest battleware—new armor suits with Heidegger jamming and next generation stealth systems. The techs said it would make them invisible to GD detection equipment.

  “At least that is until they make something newer,” one of the techs had said.

  Once more, the two commandos looked like science fiction Marines. They weren’t the only LRSU teams inserted onto the forward battle area. Others crawled toward Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu.

  Paul’s headphones clicked with noise. Then he heard, “Kaisers headed your way.”

  Paul turned his dark visor to Romo.

  “I heard it,” Romo said from on the ground.

  “Good. Let’s go to that vantage,” Paul said, pointing to a small mound.

  The two commandos crawled in their articulated armor suits. They had many nifty gadgets on and in them, but Paul wasn’t thinking about them. He thought about getting out while he still could. Sure, the world invaded America, but did that mean he had to fight for the rest of his life? If this campaign worked, it would drive the GD out of North America. Did that mean he had to continue fighting against the Chinese and Brazilians? Maybe he should become a LRSU trainer instead. He’d been in the field a long time.

  “Amigo,” Romo said. “Why are you crawling so slowly?”

  Paul slithered faster through the flowers and tall grasses. He heard the whisper of their blades tugging at his garments. He caught up with Romo, and eased to the top of the mound.

  The fields spread out before them. They were well kept here, old French agriculture at its best. Through his visor, he spied the approaching tanks in the distance. The nearest were a mile away and churning up dirt. Behind the hundred or so Kaisers came hordes of Sigrids.

  “They race to their deaths,” Romo said.

  “Let us hope so,” Paul said. “At the speed they’re traveling, we’re not going to have much margin for error if this fails. Heck, maybe even if it succeeds.”

  “Si,” Romo said. He unlimbered his infrared laser.

  Paul unslung the one on his back.

  The two commandos readied the weapons, slaving them to their helmet targeting systems.

  A crosshair symbol appeared on Paul’s visor, a HUD display. Wherever he aimed the barrel of the designator, the crosshairs washed over that.

  Paul clicked on his comm-unit. “We’re in position.”

  A few seconds passed, and others from other teams reported in. All along the line in front of the path of the approaching GD armor waited hidden and so-far invisible US commandos under SOCOM control.

  Paul snorted to himself. The first war fought like this had been in Afghanistan way back in 2001. US Special Forces troops had tagged along with the Northern Alliance, an Afghan group who fought the Taliban. The Special Forces commandos had been in constant radio contact with overhead B-52s or B-1s. The bombers carried guided bombs. The sequence was simple. The Special Forces on the ground moved up on a Taliban stronghold, aimed a laser designator at it, usually at night, and several bombs zoomed down. They hit on or near target and blew the enemy to pieces. The Northern Alliance troops advanced several hours later. Repeat as necessary at each new Taliban stronghold.

  In a few weeks of combat, a few dozen US commandos had essentially won the first war against the Taliban.

  They weren’t going to use guided bombs today. This was a different era, but using a similar concept.

  “You’re on,” a SOCOM operator said. “Light them up.”

  “Here goes,” Paul said. He picked his first Kaiser target.

  “Luck,” Romo said.

  “Yeah,” Paul answered.

  LOW EARTH ORBIT

  Several weeks ago, the US had taken out the GD space mirrors. Then it launched several new ICBMs and rockets. The GD put up more mirrors. The US took out those, too, but not fast enough to save all the ICBMs.

  Despite that, the combined operation proved successful. The reason for the attack and launching was to place more THOR satellites in orbit. Two presently circled the globe in stealth mode.

  Those two now deorbited, using the data received from the commandos’ infrared lasers. Soon, bundles of tungsten bars plunged through the atmosphere, heading down toward the nation of Quebec and south of Montreal, heading down at the massed GD armor.

  FORWARD BATTLE AREA, QUEBEC

  Paul Kavanagh and his blood brother Romo watched one of the most spectacular military events of their careers.

  They pinpointed Kaisers, moving from vehicle to vehicle. The info went to high-flying drones. The drones passed it on to the terminal guidance systems of the incoming THOR missiles.

  The one hundred-odd Kaisers clanked to the attack. It was the greatest concentration of AI tanks to date. They moved fast: lethal machines of a new age.

  No one knew that Hindenburg and Barbarossa had been more wildly successful than their probability programs had predicted. Fully seventy percent of the Kaisers had become newly aware. A new race had appeared on Planet Earth. It might have been interesting to see the outcome. For humanity, however, it most certainly would have been a bad thing.

  The Kaisers clawed through the wheat fields. Sigrids followed. They charged the coming American armor. The bulk of the GD air protected them from American air. Unfortunately for the AIs and for Mansfeld, the superiority fighters and UAVs did not protect the newest species from the THOR missiles.

  As Paul watched on his HUD, his jaw dropped. Streaks, lines in the sky appeared like magic. They moved incredibly fast. Like Thor’s mythical hammer, each etching line had a point. Those points smashed down into Kaisers.

  On the plains of Quebec, metallic, thunderous noises heralded amazing destruction. The heavy tanks vaporized. The heavy tanks exploded. The AI Kaisers popped turrets. They blew treads and some sailed into the air.

  Barbarossa radioed Hindenburg. Then Barbarossa ceased to exist, becoming a smoldering pile of metal instead.

  Hindenburg fired his 175mm gun. He let his machine guns chatter and his autocannons blast at the sky. He was one of the last to die, killed by a tardy THOR missile. The molten tungsten rod smashed through the turret, devoured and vaporized the inner workings and slammed out of the bottom and into the black earth. Explosions rocked the tank, and shrapnel tore apart his AI core, leaving nothing but sizzling wires that nearly instantly melted together.

  Three-quarters of a mile away behind a small dirt mound, Paul arched his neck and looked up at the lines in the sky. “That’s crazy,” he said.

  “So many destroyed vehicles,” Romo said.

  Paul laughed. Romo laughed. Then the two LRSU commandos slapped and pummeled each other on the back.

  “We’re going to win this war,” Paul said. “We’re going to free our country yet.”

  “We’re going to kill them, my friend,” Romo said. “We’re going to butcher every one of the invading scum.”

  The two men went back to scanning the burning hulks. One vehicle lay on its side, with a huge rent in it like a great dragon, with a glowing orang
e from the guts where the inner fire was stored. Some Kaisers remained, maybe a tenth that had been there a scant few minutes before.

  “Will they keep coming?” Romo asked.

  “I’m betting not,” Paul said.

  He proved right. The remaining Kaisers retreated. A few moments later, the Sigrids followed. There would be no GD thrust to smash the approaching American-Canadian force. It looked like the siege of Montreal was about to begin.

  MONTREAL, QUEBEC

  General Mansfeld sat at his deck in his inner sanctum. He had his elbows on the wood and ran his fingers through his hair. How could this have happened?

  He had witnessed the destruction of his dreams with missiles from the heavens. Twice now, American technology had snatched victory from his hands.

  “No,” he said.

  A loaded pistol sat on the desk before him. He knew what he should do. It was obvious. He had lost. The campaign was lost. The Americans drove to Montreal. He had already given the orders to set up the defensive lines starting at Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. The Americans couldn’t race in, but that didn’t matter now. Their artillery could sweep the harbors. He had needed to smash them, drive them back out of long-range artillery distances. Then he could have—

  “No,” he whispered.

  Mansfeld dropped his right hand onto the metal. He picked up the gun and stared at it. Put the barrel against your head and pull the trigger. It would be easy. Surely, Kleist would summon him home. The Chancellor would give him to the torturers. That was no way for the greatest general in history to die.

  Mansfeld shook his head sadly at his undeserved fate. He put the barrel against his temple. Others had failed him at the critical moments. Yet the history books would say that he lost. It was a gross injustice. Everything had been so plain to him. He had seen how to defeat these contemptible Americans.

  “They were lucky,” Mansfeld whispered.

  His hand trembled, and he willed himself to pull the trigger.

  “No,” he whispered. With a clunk, he set the gun on the desk. He couldn’t do it.

  He heard footsteps approaching.

  Quickly, Mansfeld picked up the gun and opened a drawer, setting it inside. He closed the drawer and the door opened.

  He didn’t even have the courtesy to knock.

  Mansfeld wondered if it would be Holk or Zeller. He knew which general he would pick. How wise would Kleist prove?

  The door swung open all the way. Pudgy General Holk looked in with a scowl. Big GD secret service agents stood behind him.

  “General Mansfeld,” Holk said.

  Kleist had picked the wrong man. Mansfeld almost chuckled. Zeller was the better general, but Holk had spent more time on the defense during this campaign. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

  “You are under arrest,” Holk said.

  Mansfeld nodded. He had known this was coming. Maybe it still wasn’t too late. Yet the thought of opening the drawer, grabbing the gun in time and getting the barrel to his temple, and then not shooting himself… No, he could not embarrass himself in front of Holk like that. He would take his chances and hope for nonexistent mercy from Kleist.

  He had been wrong too much lately. Maybe Kleist handing him over to the torturers would also prove to be wrong.

  “These men will take you back to Berlin,” Holk said.

  Mansfeld noticed the general didn’t appear remorseful at all. The man was an ingrate. He should have sacked this pathetic general when he had the chance.

  The secret service men strode to him.

  Mansfeld stood. He didn’t bother saluting the pig Holk. The man was going to lose badly and possibly be captured. It was time to leave this failed enterprise. He was done with it.

  -17-

  Victory

  BERLIN, PRUSSIA

  John Red Cloud did pushups in an empty apartment on the fifth floor of Krupp Tower. He had been here for weeks on end. His food supply had dangerously dwindled and boredom threatened him with madness.

  He’d endured as only a hormagaunt on the death path could. His ability to wait bordered on the supernatural. Now a terrible question throbbed in his mind.

  On the radio, he had listened to the battle of Montreal and the swift American victory. That meant the rest of the GD Expeditionary Force would quickly lack munitions, food, gas—all the items needed to run a modern military. Ninety percent of the Expeditionary Force was out of supply. It would just be a matter of time now before the Americans starved them into surrender as they’d starved Chinese Third Front into submission this winter.

  Clearly, the fight was nearly over. Now it was simply a matter of mopping up various defensive positions. Quebec would not remain in the German Dominion. Therefore, the Algonquian people would not have enjoyed true freedom under the GD no matter what the Germans had decided.

  Did that mean he no longer needed to kill Kleist?

  Red Cloud scowled as he forced out another rep. He kept fit and nimble in the empty apartment, even though he had not left it for weeks. Foch had given him the equipment he needed—an RPG and a heavy 12.7mm machine gun.

  For this grave task, a sniper rifle was too chancy. Since John had told Foch he was willing to trade his life for Kleist’s, the French had given him proper killing tools to make certain the first part of the bargain happened.

  Red Cloud sat down on the floor. He picked up a towel. It was crusted and stiff from too much use. Despite that, he wiped sweat from his forehead. Why trade a life for a life if killing Kleist no longer mattered to the war, to the GD occupation?

  Yet that wasn’t the only question. He had stepped onto the death path. From his understanding, one could not step off such a path. He had committed himself. He had used the power of the death path to reach this place. He had murdered innocent men. To walk away now was blasphemy. The power of the path would recoil upon him and he would die anyway, in dishonor.

  Red Cloud became glum. He was a marked man. He had taken the curse of death on himself in order to kill one particular man.

  His smart phone beeped.

  With a fluid motion, he reached the phone. A text waited for him. It was three words long: The third car.

  The moment had finally arrived. It caused his head to throb and his eyes to water. He rubbed them until they were clear. Then he read the text again. After he finished, he dropped the phone on the floor. The thing hit and the screen cracked. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing would ever matter again for him.

  A feeling of cold calm swept over Red Cloud. Chancellor Kleist roared through Berlin in a motorcade. This time, Foch had discovered it in time. Kleist feared assassination. Therefore, he took extraordinary precautions to thwart attempts. He had dummy cars and many look-alike targets, and he seldom let anyone know the route he would take.

  The Chancellor would be in the third car. Naturally, it was a heavily armored car. It had defenses.

  Red Cloud shook his head. Nothing mattered but the execution of the plan. He must concentrate.

  He went to the fifth story window and opened it. A cool breeze blew in. He picked up the RPG and readied it. Then he stepped to the window. He did not poke the RPG through the opening. He hung back. He didn’t want security personnel to see him too soon.

  John rubbed his eyes as he waited. The backblast from the rocket propellant would likely start a fire in here. That didn’t matter either. No, nothing mattered now but the task. This was it. The German Dominion had insulted the Algonquian people. Retribution was finally at hand.

  A helo waited nearby. John could hear the whomp-whomp-whomp of its blades. It was an attack craft. Several hovered above in order to protect the Chancellor. Their presence said, “If you attack Kleist you will die.”

  A bleak smile twisted onto John’s lips. He would die. Yes. He would—

  The smart phone beeped.

  John gripped the RPG handles, bent his head and aimed down at the street. The first car of the motorcade appeared. He waited. The second came i
nto view. Finally, the third and fourth came in quick succession. Usually, Kleist traveled with twelve cars.

  The third car—John followed the car. As if the RPG was a shotgun and he hunted crows, he started from behind, swept over the vehicle and pulled the trigger.

  The shaped-charge grenade leaped out, and the rocket roared to life. The missile flashed down at the street.

  In the empty apartment, the backblast licked fire onto the wall. It ignited and began to crackle with fierce life.

  Red Cloud threw the empty launching tube from him. He ignored the fire. Instead, he dragged the heavy machine gun into position.

  On the street below an explosion blasted the front hood of the third car. It halted as others swerved and brakes screeched. One came to rest on the left side. Doors opened on the third car, but the new car blocked them from opening much. The car on the other side squealed its tires so smoke billowed. It shot away, allowing the right-side doors to open, which they most certainly did, as men and women boiled outside.

  John pulled the trigger, and the 12.7mm machine gun began hosing bullets. He smiled widely. The bullets punched holes into the top of the third car. Kleist was tricky. He might be huddling in there, letting the others act as bait. But in case Kleist wasn’t that cagey, John aimed for the people scrambling out of the car. The heavy bullets tore into them so flesh and blood sprayed. The women weren’t Kleist…unless the Chancellor wore a disguise. Red Cloud shot them all. They tumbled onto the cement, and he kept firing into them, riddling their bodies, making them jerk and twist.

  He heard the helo again, but Red Cloud never looked up at it. He didn’t care about it in the slightest. He concentrated on his task, working over the car one more time. He had to make sure that the trade, the bargain, succeeded.

  Missiles whooshed nearby in the air.

  John looked up now. Two missiles streaked straight at his window.

  “I am an Algonquin,” he said. “I have avenged my people.”

  The missiles entered the window, the empty room, and exploded, killing John Red Cloud and demolishing much of the fifth floor of Krupp Tower.