Invasion: New York (Invasion America) (48 page)

He heard guns cocking, and he figured it was just a matter of seconds before they blew him away. He released the knife, and very slowly, he straightened and rose to his feet. A glance showed him that Charlie was dead and gone. Jake shook his head. The pain was too much for him to wail or weep.

Charlie, Charlie—I’ll miss you my friend. This was a dirty war from the start. They screwed us. They royally screwed us
.

First rubbing his nose, Jake faced the head MP, a lean man with a scar under his right eye. The MP aimed a .45 at him. Others did likewise, and they watched him angrily.

Jake pointed at Franks. “That bastard killed our lieutenant. Charlie was right. That’s why the sergeant shot him.”

“You just killed him,” the lean MP said.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I’d do it again, too.” He realized that he was screwed to the wall. There was no way he could fight this. He was as good as dead. He shrugged. “The penal battalions are wrong. They’re un-American.”

“Killing your sergeant is wrong,” the MP said.

“Not if you’re Davy Crocket,” Jake said. “Not if the sergeant was a son of a bitch murderer who just killed your best friend. I’m glad I killed him. He deserved it a hundred times over.”

“You’re under arrest,” the MP said.

“Just a minute,” the colonel in the Jefferson turret said.

A large crowd had gathered by now. Clothes rustled as they turned to the colonel.

“What’s your name?” the colonel asked Jake.

“Jake Higgins, sir,” he said.

“Are you any relation to Colonel Stan Higgins?” the tanker asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

“I can see the resemblance,” the colonel said. “And I thought I heard something in your voice and your choice of words just now.” He addressed the head MP. “This is Colonel Higgins’s son.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the MP said. “I don’t care whose son he is. He just killed a sergeant.”

“The sergeant just killed his friend, and turned the gun on him,” the colonel said. “You saw it. It was self-defense.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” the MP said.

“So you’d stand around while someone killed your best friend?” the colonel asked.

“That’s not the point, sir,” the MP said. “He broke the law.”

“I’d say the soldier just served justice to a murderer,” the colonel said.

“Respectfully, sir,” the MP said, with an edge to his voice. “We don’t know that.”

The colonel’s features tightened. “Let me tell you something, son. He’s coming with me.”

“I don’t think so,” the MP said. “He’s a penal militiaman. He’s in the Militia. That means he’s outside of your jurisdiction.”

“Colonel Higgins told some of us what had happened to his boy,” the colonel said. “I fought with the colonel in Colorado. Jake,” he said. “Are you done with the Militia?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Would you like to join the U.S. Army?” the colonel asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Then climb aboard my tank,” the colonel said.

“He can’t do that,” the MP said, and several of his fellow officers stepped up behind him.

“That’s funny,” the colonel said. “I’m doing it, and you’re watching me doing it.”

The MP licked his lips, and he aimed his gun at the colonel.

On the tank from an inside controller, one of the .50 calibers aimed at the MPs.

“Are you certain you want to face off with me?” the colonel asked. “You have a pea-shooter and I have death.”

Jake kept moving. He was still in a daze over Charlie’s death. He was going to miss him. He’d also killed Dan Franks, and that was hard to believe. Now this…it was crazy, and it was a piece of good fortune. Maybe he could finally get out of the Militia and join a real outfit.

“I’m not going to warn you again,” the MP told the colonel.

“That’s right,” the colonel said. “You’re not. Get on with your regular duties, son. This is way out of your league.”

The MP eyed the colonel. He looked like a tough man, but so did the older colonel. “I’ll have to report this,” the MP said.

That’s when Jake knew he had left the Militia organization. The only way they’d get him back again was over his dead body. Did that mean he was in the tank corps? As he scrambled up the Jefferson, Jake figured he was going to find out soon enough.

-15-

Strategic Interlude III

From
Military History: Past to Present
, by Vance Holbrook:

Invasion of Northeastern America, 2040

2040, July 18-28. Battle of Syracuse
. Following the combined ICBM-ASBM/THOR-Air Force destruction of the GD Atlantic Fleet, Mansfeld cast the dice of fate on an all-or-nothing assault upon Syracuse. Phase I of the assault promised the greatest rewards. The defenders, however, had just sufficient numbers and several Heidegger jamming companies to blunt any breakthrough from occurring. Phase II saw a steady increase of forces on both sides as Kaisers from the Niagara Peninsula joined the assaults. The ensuing battle brought about a heavier loss on the GD attackers. Phase III amounted to GD desperation and the last, offensive hurrah of the Expeditionary Force.

2040, July 28-August 7. The Grind
. The end of the GD attack on Syracuse signaled a steady but remorseless trading of places between attacker and defender. The GD forces were spread out over a large area of inhospitable terrain. Their inability to close the ring on US First Front now told against them as numbers and materiel built up heavily against the Expeditionary Force.

In Southwestern Ontario, the massed artillery devoured GD soldiery. In New York State, the GD could not retreat from Buffalo without risking cutting off Twelfth Army, while a retreating Twelfth Army would have risked running the gauntlet of Interstate 90. In the north, the Fromm Offensive ground to a halt as GD engineers began to prepare a defense in depth of Quebec. Reinforcements from Europe failed to match the wastage of the continuing campaign.

On the American side, newly trained levies entered the services, swelling their ranks. The reinforced army groups in northern New York, Vermont and New Hampshire indicated the direction of American strategic thinking. The removal of 70 percent of the Heidegger battalions from Ontario and their placement at the northern US front against Quebec heralded the coming attack.

2040, August 7-17. The Alan Offensive
. General Alan—the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—remained in field command. He switched from Syracuse to the newly combined Army Group North (formerly Army Group New York and Army Group New England). On August 7, a hurricane bombardment signaled the beginning of the decisive Quebec assault…

From
Tank Wars
, by B.K. Laumer III:

Technology in War

The action-reaction of new technology is an interesting phenomenon in modern war. Side A develops a new weapon and introduces it onto the battlefield. If the new weapon has a devastating effect, side B quickly searches for a countermeasure. Once it finds the counter, it is employed as quickly as possible. This in turn often induces side A to find a counter to the counter.

At times, the first countermeasure so effectively disrupts the new weapon system that it leaves the first side at a great disadvantage, having invested so much in a now-useless technology.

World War II provides countless examples of this. The war in North America also had many interesting instances. One of the more intriguing was the extraordinary reliance of the German Dominion on ground drones and AI-run tanks. The Heidegger jammers were the counter to them, rendering them, if not useless, then no more effective than a similar force of standard type. During the latter phases of the 2040 campaign in Quebec, saw one of the most potent turnarounds in the history of war.

-16-

Drive on Montreal

MONTREAL, QUEBEC

General Walther Mansfeld stood in his inner sanctum as he stared at a map of the surrounding terrain. The lights were dim and the glow from the map seemed like an evil eye, with a nimbus around the outer edges.

Three weeks ago, he had spoken with Kleist, telling him about the futility of continuing the campaign along its projected course. He had known what would happen, and without surprise, that’s exactly what had occurred.

The Americans hadn’t been particularly clever. No, no, it had been nothing like that. It had been their old tactic of mass materiel with the added bonus of blood. The artillery barrages in Southwestern Ontario showed their lack of mastery. Any fool could line up rows upon rows of big guns and fire them nonstop. The Russians had done that in WWII. Bah, it was a manufacturer’s way of running a war. He was unimpressed.

The enemy had numbers and pressed everywhere, making it difficult to pull back, to extract the troops they needed. Yet he had done so. Day after day, week after week, he had trickled a few more soldiers all the way back to Montreal where he knew he’d need them.

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 light 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?