Invasion: New York (Invasion America) (23 page)

“You can’t guard everywhere,” Stan said. “That’s a truism of battle and of war. Sometimes you have to gamble and weaken yourself at a spot so you can be strong at the critical sector. That’s what we did this winter. If it was me—and it isn’t, I know—I’d strip the southern East Coast for soldiers.”

Thoughtfully, McGraw pursed his lips. “The GD has some potent amphibious forces in Cuba waiting. We’ve learned about them. They’ve been quietly building up their numbers, ships and landing craft.”

“I’ve read those reports too,” Stan said. “I know about them.”

“Then you realize that by stripping the southern East Coast of soldiers we’d be leaving ourselves open. That’s just a short hop from Cuba to there.”

“We would be open there, yes sir. What do we have, something like seven hundred thousand soldiers from southern Mississippi to Florida and to North Carolina. I’m talking about winnowing out four hundred thousand from that. I would think the bulk of the remaining troops would particularly guard Mississippi to Florida.”

“That wouldn’t be enough,” McGraw said. “The coastline is long, especially the Florida coasts.”

“I understand, sir. Mississippi and Florida would have to keep the bulk of the staying three hundred thousand. The other areas— Sir, the way I see it, in a pinch or in a crisis we could ship troops back to the depleted areas fast enough to make the GD rue the day they landed in the wrong place. I mean, they could land in Georgia or South Carolina, but then where would they do?”

“Are you serious?” McGraw asked. “They would capture the state. They would create a third front against us. That would be a disaster.”

Stan shook his head. “The GD amphibious force wouldn’t be like D-Day in Normandy. It would be more like Dieppe in 1942. The Allies landed there in WWII and the Germans annihilated them. Yes, the Cuba-based GD forces could capture a few cities, possibly even more than a few. But that in itself isn’t going to win them much. We could pour troops around them and crush the amphibious force out of existence. They simply don’t have a large enough amphibious force to grab enough territory. It would create a temporary third front for us, but one heavily in our favor. We’re talking millions of troops to face them and they could put down what: two hundred thousand at the most?”

“Now you’re conjuring more millions of American troops out of thin air?” McGraw asked.

“That’s not what I mean,” Stan said. “If you’re playing a war game, such an invasion might make sense. But if they invade such a lonely spot—lonely in the sense that the invasion force would be far from other Aggressor forces and help—it would only be a matter of time before America encircled them with mass. That mass would be too much for such a tiny GD force, and they would end up dying to a man. I don’t think even Chancellor Kleist can throw away that many soldiers on a suicide mission. It would have the potential of shattering GD morale.”

“Hmm, I think I see what you’re driving at.”

“The GD has to be careful where they invade,” Stan said. “I suspect that if they do invade this summer, it would be in support of the present Expeditionary Force. At least, that’s how I would do it, a one-two punch.”

“Interesting…” McGraw said.

“Therefore,” Stan said. “I’d strip the present forces from Georgia, South and North Carolina and take some maybe from coastal Alabama and the strip of Florida south of Alabama. We’d leave token forces there and build fake troop emplacements to try to fool the GD as Patton did to the Germans across the English Channel. With the extra soldiers—four hundred thousand perhaps—and with more levies from the New England command—say another two hundred thousand—we could begin to really mass in Southern Ontario. I’d also be gathering as many artillery tubes as I could. No matter what the tech is, it’s hard to defend against tons of metal raining down on you. Maybe as good, the artillery will use up all those smart anti-munitions, leaving the Kaisers vulnerable to direct fire. Then you dig trenches, big, nasty systems better than WWI, more like the Iraqis built against the Iranians back in the 1980s. I’d make it impossible for the GD to race anywhere in Southern Ontario.”

“Nothing fancy,” McGraw said, as if to himself, “just mass. That would mean a lot of blood—of death—on our part, wouldn’t it?”

“Most likely,” Stan admitted. He brushed a fly away that had landed on his right cheek. “I wouldn’t suggest such a thing, but—”

“I understand, old son. We’re not talking niceties here, but national survival.”

“Despite the number of troops,” Stan said, “this is a stopgap measure until we figure something else out.” He stared at his boots for a moment, before meeting the general’s gaze. “In the long run, we can’t win a war of attrition against the world. We couldn’t even win one against the Pan-Asian Alliance, never mind adding in the South American Federation and the German Dominion. But this is a tight spot, both in the actual land mass—the peninsula of Southern Ontario—and that we find ourselves in. The key to our defense would be manpower and hordes of defending artillery tubes. The Germans will have to try for the tubes. That would be a given. When they try, that’s when we throw a surprise at them.”

“What kind of surprise?” McGraw asked.

“I don’t know at the moment, sir, but you’re likely going to need something. I’m guessing the GD still has some tech surprises for us.”

McGraw nodded, before shaking Stan’s hand. “You’ve given me food for thought, Colonel. I like it. It isn’t fancy this time like we did against the Chinese.”

“You’d better move fast on this one,” Stan said. “I mean emergency fast. From the reports I’ve read, the Toronto Pocket isn’t going to last much longer. If the GD reaches Detroit and breaks out…then it could get very ugly for us.”

McGraw checked his watch. When he looked up, he waved to the plant manager and began to button his coat.

The manager hurried near. “You aren’t staying, General?”

McGraw grabbed Stan by the shoulder. “This is the officer you need to impress. If he gives you advice, you listen to what he says.”

The plant manager studied Stan, soon nodding.

With that, Tom McGraw took his leave, and Stan started the plant inspection on his own.

First, the Chinese and Brazilians had attacked America, now the German Dominion did. America needed more allies than just the Canadians. Stan was grateful for their help, especially last winter, but America had to find heavier partners if they were going to throw these massed military coalitions out of the country.

TORONTO, ONTARIO

US Marine General Len Zelazny looked up at the bunker ceiling. The entire edifice shook as debris rained down. On impulse, he grabbed his helmet and shoved it onto his head. It likely saved his life.

For the last several days the GD had pounded the shrinking pocket with artillery and sent in hunter-killer teams to dig them out. The Canadian and American soldiers would have surrendered or died at least two days ago, but Lady Luck had smiled on them. They had found a deep and forgotten warehouse full of weaponry and dried goods. Given their small numbers, it proved critical. Generously resupplied, they fought and died, but some of them still survived, although in ever-dwindling numbers.

Now a chunk of masonry fell from the ceiling and dashed itself against the general’s head. His eyes rolled up and he slammed against the floor. He might have died, but his aide, a corporal, grabbed him under the armpits and dragged Zelazny out of the bunker just in time. The place collapsed, killing some of the command team.

Zelazny woke up with a splitting headache several hours later. Men argued behind him and the sound of tanks grew louder. Rousing himself, Zelazny sat up. The headache worsened and he vomited onto his lap.

“General,” the corporal said, squatting before him. The boy had a grimy, dusty face, with his eyes peering out like a raccoon. “You should take it easy.”

With his forearm, Zelazny wiped vomit from his mouth, and he grunted as he struggled to his feet. Vertigo threatened and the half-sunken chamber seemed to spin around. He vomited again. He felt awful. He lost track of what the men said. With his hands against an old wooden table, he braced himself so he wouldn’t go crashing to his side.

“It’s coming here!” a soldier shouted. The man stood by a basement window, looking out at ground level. He turned to the others and shouted, “Run!”

The men forgot Zelazny this time, including the corporal, as they bolted out of the chamber. Something had them terrified. From his spot at the table, Zelazny blinked and his head pounded with pain. Then the loud and immediate sound of squealing tank treads brought the general around to reality. He looked around and spied weapons scattered about the room. Taking several wobbling lurches, he bent and picked up a Javelin missile. This was the wrong place to fire one, but he was going to die anyway, so he might as well hurt the enemy.

Gritting his teeth—that made his head worse—wrestling the thing upright, Zelazny staggered to the nearest window. This one was just a little higher than his head but showed the ground outside. He was in a Canadian basement.

Thirty feet to the side of his position, he saw a vast shape heading straight toward the building. A second later, the war machine crashed into the wall and explosively blew bricks into the basement. Then the tank stopped, with several feet of its treads and body hanging over open basement space. Zelazny staggered away from the window. Like a dinosaur the tank shoved a little more into the room. Zelazny tried to will the machine to clank forward even more and tumble into the basement. Instead of obeying his will, he saw something detach from the tank and fall. It clanged heavily onto the cement floor. The mine or bomb was metal and shaped like a barrel.

Zelazny dropped to his stomach, covering the Javelin launcher with his body. The barrel exploded, producing a violent concussion followed by roaring, crackling flames. Zelazny lifted and slammed against a basement wall. He grunted painfully. Then fire engulfed him. He shouted in panic, and he rolled and rolled. He put out the flames and he shoved up to his knees. Fires raged around him and an oily smell along with billowing black smoke nearly gagged him. The tank—it was a Leopard IV—began pulling away, and bricks rained down and clanged against its metal hide.

Zelazny worked on automatic, a lost soul in a basement inferno. Maybe he was no longer altogether sane. His face was black and his eyebrows were singed away. He set the Javelin launcher on his shoulder. Missiles such as this normally had a minimum aiming distance in order to protect the operator. These had been modified. He pulled the trigger. The missile hardly had time to pop out of the launcher and fly. It struck the side of the tank and exploded. The concussion blew the general backward, and he grunted as he struck a desk and saw flames sprouting between his legs.

He crawled away and slapped his legs. He had burn holes on his pants. Time spun around, soared and dived down into pain. The oily, billowing smoke filled the top of the basement and poured out of the tank-made hole. He crawled along the bottom and it hurt his chest to suck down air to breathe.

I’m a Marine, and this is my last battle.

Silently, Zelazny repeated the saying to himself. He had begun his service long ago in Iraq and had fought in the Second Battle of Fallujah. He had dished it out there harder than he’d taken it. Why should he turn pansy now in Toronto?

Just because I’m on old man doesn’t mean I should quit
.

Finding a gas mask, putting it on, finding the glasses were smudgy and making it harder to see, Zelazny tried to ignore the smoke and fire. He picked up a grenade launcher and staggered to the dead enemy tank. It had been a lucky strike, but he needed some more luck about now. He crawled over rubble as if it were stairs and slid to a position where he could look across the street. The smoke would hide him; he was sure.

Ah, look at that. A rare GD infantryman peered around a building.

Zelazny didn’t know it, but inside the gas mask, he grinned like Death. He readied the grenade launcher and waited. Suddenly, the GD infantryman sprinted for a new position. For these seconds, the soldier exposed himself. Several others followed the man. Zelazny fired two grenades—
pop, pop
—and he had the extreme gratification of watching an enemy soldier go down and shout in German for a medic.

A US machine gun poured fire from somewhere, and the GD infantryman died in a hail of bullets that shredded his body armor. Good, good, that was very good. Zelazny whooped with savage lust.

A Sigrid clattered around a corner and into view. Zelazny aimed and emptied the grenade launcher at the thing. The explosions were gratifying, but they had little effect. He released the weapon and slid down the rubble back into the basement. There had to be something around here—

“General!” the corporal shouted from a half-buried door. “You’re alive! Follow me. We have to go.”

Zelazny stood dump struck. “Kill the thing,” he finally muttered in his mask.

“You look terrible, sir. Let’s go. Come on!”

“Weapons,” Zelazny slurred. “We need weapons.”

It seemed impossible the corporal could hear him, but the young man answered. “We have plenty, but we don’t have many men left. Are you coming, sir?”

Zelazny vaguely realized that he was in no condition to make decisions. So he crawled under the smoke to the corporal and climbed to his feet. The young aide gave him a shoulder, and they retreated from the fiery basement.