Invasion: New York (Invasion America) (18 page)

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 to 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.”

The tall German hunched his shoulders, falling silent.

As he pulled out the one-time pad, Paul said, “Better handcuff him just in case.”

Romo pulled out plastic ties and bound the German’s wrists behind his back. He did it hard, so the plastic dug into the flesh.

Paul readied the one-time pad, put earphones over his head and readied the microphone. Then he gave a short-burst transmission, both to burn through any enemy jamming and to make it harder for the GD signals people to pinpoint them.

He waited for HQ to think about his question. Crickets chirped now that the artillery had fallen silent. The second ticked by. Paul knew their covering darkness would lift far too soon.

After several minutes, he received a return message. After ingesting what they’d said, he nodded to himself. Romo wasn’t going to like this. Paul didn’t know if he liked it himself. Time was running out for them, and once the sun rose—

He stowed the one-time pad back into the rucksack, shrugged the pack on and stood. “Are you ready?” he asked Romo.

“What’s the plan?” his blood brother asked.

“What I thought it would be,” Paul said.

Romo scowled. “Are you talking about water and subs?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. The last time he’d entered a sub had been off the waters of Hawaii. The Chinese had chased his team off the beach and nearly sunk the escape dinghy. Those had been ocean waters, much deeper he was sure than Lake Ontario. What kind of submarine could America have in the lake anyway? As far as he knew, the Great Lakes had been demilitarized…maybe until the GD invasion.

Guess we’ll find out what kind of sub
.

Paul motioned at the lakeshore. Romo shoved a handcuffed Hans Kruger in that direction. Then the three of them set out for the lapping waves.

“I just thought of something,” Romo said.

“Yeah?”

“What do we use for a boat?”

“You’re not going to believe it,” Paul said.

“It’s that bad?”

“No,” Paul said. “But it means we’re going to be working hard for the next hour.”

Romo glanced at him. “Paddling? We’re going to paddle our way into the middle of the lake to die?”

“Yes and no.”

Romo raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes, we’re going to paddle for the middle of the lake,” Paul said. “No, I hope we’re not heading for our deaths.”

Before Romo could reply, the two LRSU men looked up. A noise in the distance, in the dark sky…helos, enemy gunships were coming.

“Put on your night vision goggles,” Paul said. They both put on their pairs. “You ready?”

For an answer, Romo slung his assault rifle over a shoulder.

Paul did the same with his rifle. Then each man grabbed one of Kruger’s arms, and they hustled their captive toward the shoreline.

USS
KIOWA

In one particular, Captain Darius Green was unfit for the cramped command of the carbon fiber submersible. He was huge, a solid two-sixty in weight and six-nine in height. How anyone had ever seen fit to commission him here boggled the thoughts of anyone who gave it even a moment’s consideration.

The truth was that no man or woman had made such a decision. Navy protocol and computer errors had seen to it. Darius Green was a competent naval officer, but he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been to submarine school—that had been another computer error. His size simply made his appointment to the submersible a poor choice. Despite that, he’d worked hard to figure out the limits of his strange vessel.

Darius Green was a black man who had been born into the concrete, bankrupt jungle of Detroit. His father had run with the drug gangs, his grandfathers on both sides had been gangbangers. One died early in a turf war. The other died in prison. Darius Green had never met either of his grandfathers. He’d also never met his father, as the man had disappeared one night, presumed dead. His mother would have raised Darius if she’d been given the chance, but his uncle hadn’t let her. His dad’s brother had joined the Black Muslims of the Mustafa School. The man had known far too much about the ghettoes of Detroit.

So one day—Darius could still remember it—Cyrus Green had put Darius on his shoulder and marched outside to a waiting motorcycle. Darius had held onto his uncle’s back the entire trip to Chicago. The gangs had been just as bad there, but Uncle Cyrus had moved into a Black Muslim compound. He’d been a foot soldier in the Mustafa School movement. From Darius’s youth on, Uncle Cyrus had made sure he had discipline.

Darius practiced karate, reading the Koran and math. Uncle Cyrus had liberally used a leather belt on him and he’d beaten the lying and slothfulness out of Darius. Uncle Cyrus had died several years later, never getting to see Darius graduate from the compound’s high school.

His uncle’s death and the graduation had been many years ago. At this point in the war, Darius Green was thirty-two years old, a giant of a man with fierce convictions. He believed in the Mustafa School, Black Muslim movement, and he believed in the betterment of the black man by relying on his own hard work. He also knew that invaders came to steal his country, and he could work with the American white man to defend their united home. It hadn’t always been easy for Darius Green, but he’d taken his uncle’s dream and had made it his own.

Captain Green knew the USS
Kiowa
wasn’t much of a fighting submersible. It had four upgraded Javelin missiles on a single outer mount: the mount was in the place of where an old naval gun would have been on a WWII-era submarine.
Kiowa
lacked torpedoes of any kind. It wasn’t that kind of submersible, and frankly, it wasn’t big enough to carry internal torpedoes.

The truth was that only a few submarines had ever cruised in the Great Lakes. Most of those had patrolled the waters during WWII, the vessels built in port cities along the lakeshores. To go from the ocean to the Great Lakes took a long and torturous route. A submarine or a regular ship, for that matter, would first have to travel up the Saint Lawrence River. Then, like a salmon leaping its way upstream, a ship or sub would enter locks, traveling higher each time until finally it would be high enough to slip into Lake Ontario.

The difficulty meant that the GD hovercraft ruled the lake. The few exceptions were some converted US speedboats.

The USS
Kiowa
was a unique craft. It had begun its existence as a drug smuggling submersible. Several years before the war, US Customs had spotted the craft and swooped down with helicopters. Usually, the drug cartel members sank such a submersible. It only took a minute or two to scuttle the thing. The cargo went to the bottom, and as there was no evidence, there would be no conviction of drug smuggling. But this time, US Customs had caught the tiny three-man crew, and had captured the submersible. The machine had sat in dry dock for several years, used as a training aid. With the commencement last year of war, the Navy had commissioned the vessel, renaming it and outfitting it with military equipment.

Captain Green had one crew member and the situation aboard ship was cramped. He was too big to sit down properly in the head, having to lift his knees up in a disgraceful manner. The sub seldom stayed out for more than one night.

As the captain stood at his place before the radio, carefully hunched over so he didn’t bump his head, he blinked in astonishment at the message. The brass hats wanted him to surface during daylight and pick up a rubber dinghy full of fugitives. In his knowledgeable opinion, they were ordering him far too close to the GD-held shore during daylight.

“They’re killing us,” the first mate said, a short man by the name of Sulu Khan. “I don’t know why they think it’s wise, but they’re killing us.”

The last man aboard USS
Kiowa
was a wounded SEAL with a bloody bandage over his left eye. He lay propped out of the way. He was the only survivor from last night’s mission.

That’s what Captain Green did, run secret ops against the enemy. So far, he had successfully landed five teams against the Expeditionary Force. He did not take any undue risks, as operating in Lake Ontario against the high-tech Germans was hazardous enough.

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Sulu Khan asked. “Are we going to follow such madness to the letter?”

Captain Green’s nostrils flared. Surfacing during daylight to pick up rowing fugitives—by the sound of it, the GD hunted these three.

“They’re killing us,” Sulu repeated. He was a talkative fellow. “They’re killing us by this.”

It wasn’t duty to Uncle Sam that caused Captain Green to turn to the helm. He had discipline. The laws of the Prophet had taught him to lay down his life for his people if the need ever arose. Well, if the US fell to the GD, it was only a matter of time before the invaders reached Chicago. If how the enemy acted in North Africa toward Muslims were any gauge, the invading Europeans would destroy the Mustafa School in Chicago. According to High Command, the people in the dinghy carried vital information for the successful prosecution of the war.

Captain Green turned his hard-muscled bulk toward the helm. He had a large face with large features. His total largeness made the submersible seem even smaller than it was.

“If anyone does any killing today,” he said, “it is going to be me.” Darius Green spoke in an ultra-deep voice than seemed to rumble through a man’s body.