Invasion: New York (Invasion America)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Holk glared harder, and suddenly, his shoulders deflated. Without asking for permission, Holk sat on his chair. He stared at the floor, opened his mouth and managed a shrug.

  “Listen to me,” Mansfeld said.

  Holk continued to stare at the floor.

  Mansfeld almost told the man to look at him, but he decided it wasn’t needed. Holk was listening finally, truly listening.

  “Yours is the precarious position,” Mansfeld said. “I have entrusted you and no other with the most difficult task. Do you think my memoirs will gloss over your part? Zeller attacks. I have not called upon him to preform difficult defensive maneuvers. You are the Renaissance general, the one able to both attack and defend. You have the true mettle, sir, not Zeller.”

  “I’m not concerned about such things,” Holk whispered.

  Mansfeld laughed aloud.

  Holk looked up.

  “Let us not lie to each other, Erich,” Mansfeld said. “What military man doesn’t seek glory in combat? You are a genius at battle. Your reputation means everything to you just as it means everything to me. We are older men now, but we still have the spirit of the boy in us. We are human. We’re not machines. Don’t think of yourself as a machine. We all have breaking points and we all have fierce pride. I want you to harness that pride for the glory of Germany and for your own glory, sir. Do not let Zeller hear about you sulking. Let him see that no matter what kind of military situation you find yourself in, you excel. Beat him at being the well-rounded general.”

  Slowly, Holk nodded.

  Who would believe I needed to give such a pep talk to a GD general like Holk. Yet I spoke the truth a moment ago. We all have the boy hidden in our spirit. Men fight because in the end they like to.

  Holk stood up. “I’m sorry about this, sir.”

  Mansfeld clapped Holk on the shoulder, and he held out his hand. The two generals shook.

  “Can I count on you to the end?” Mansfeld asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I will do my duty.”

  “Good.”

  Holk saluted.

  Mansfeld saluted back, turned without another word and took his leave. This wasn’t the only fire that needed putting out, but it was likely the biggest one he’d have today.

  NIAGARA PENINSULA

  Militia Private Jake Higgins stood at attention as MDG Sergeant Franks prowled in front of the platoon. After leaving them during the battle, the sergeants had returned to find the three survivors. The lieutenant presently stood behind the sergeant, watching the proceedings as he leaned against his jeep. He fingered something, a crucifix perhaps. Was the man a Catholic? The jeep had a big tarp in back, hiding something bulky underneath.

  Charlie stood on one side of Jake while Corporal Lee stood on the other. The rest of the penal platoon was a bunch of newbies. Well, most of the MDGs were the original members, but Jake hardly thought of them as human. The newbies shied away from the three survivors. These newbies were a little better trained than the original batch had been, but not by much.

  “The Krauts are stirring,” Franks said in his arrogant way. “They’re obviously going to attack us. They have to, because Fifth Army HQ is planning to send Syracuse Command some extra battalions lying around here. Our side has to drive out the little amphibious attack made at Rochester. That doesn’t mean squat to you girls except for one thing. We’re going to throw a little surprise for the Krauts today. Our CO believes the Germans will spearhead the assault with Sigrids. Like what else is new? So we have a little surprise for them.”

  Franks turned and pointed at the lieutenant’s jeep. The lieutenant motioned to another sergeant. The MDG whipped back the tarp to reveal a stack of RPGs.

  From his place in the lineup, Jake couldn’t tell for certain, but they looked newer than the old ones—the ancient RPGs they’d used days ago. The older pieces of junk had usually bounced off a Sigrid’s armor. The HEAT shells hadn’t even ignited, and therefore had done as much damage as an M16’s bullet.

  “Most of you will get an RPG,” Franks said. “Those that don’t will team up with a militiaman who does. If your partner dies, you take his weapon and use it. Anyway, you’re all going to crawl out into no-man’s land. I suggest you do it slow and easy. Otherwise, the enemy’s automated system will pick you off, and we don’t want that.”

  Yes, you do, Jake thought.

  “Find a shell-hole to hide in,” Franks said. “There are a lot of them out there and plenty of them are deep. Just make sure you don’t hide in one with an unexploded warhead.”

  Several of the newbies glanced at each other with incredulous stares. Jake knew they were still getting used to the sergeant’s morbid humor, which always came at a penal militiaman’s expense.

  “After you get comfortable,” Franks said, “you wait. When the Sigrids came, you hunker down in the bottom and use your ears instead of your eyes. You let them pass. Once they’re clanking at our first trench, firing at our strongpoints, then you’re going to pop up like gophers. You let them have it at from behind—ka-boom. It will be easy.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jake noticed some of the newbies turn white with fright.

  “That’s suicide,” one newbie said, an older guy with white in his hair. Jake heard the man had been a pastor teaching the wrong things about homosexuality. The government had certain rules about what priests and preachers were supposed to say behind their pulpits.

  Franks strode to the newbie, pulling out a shock rod from his holster as he did. “What did you say?” the sergeant asked.

  The newbie with white in his hair began to tremble, and he shook his head.

  Franks smirked, and he raised his voice. “Does anyone else have anything to say?”

  Jake raised a hand.

  Franks’ eyes lit up, and he approached, with the shock rod ready, his thumb resting on the on-off switch. “Go head, Private. I’m listening.”

  “Will you be out there with us, Sarge?” Jake asked.

  Franks glared at Jake, but finally, he turned toward the lieutenant.

  “Tell him,” the lieutenant said. “It’s a reasonable question.”

  Jake didn’t twitch or quit looking straight ahead. He still felt the surprise from the newbies: the survivor could ask questions without receiving a beating from the guards.

  Jake had wondered before about the lieutenant. Did the man feel remorse sometimes for being part of such a dickhead organization?

  “If you had a brain in that thick skull of yours,” Franks said, “you would have already figured out that we’ll be in the trenches.” The sergeant grinned. “We’ll be watching each of you heroes. If any of you runs away…” The sergeant’s grin turned nasty. “If you run, you’re dead meat. We’ll be at the machine guns today.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Jake said. “That answers my question.”

  Sergeant Dan Franks stared at him. Then he said under his breath, “One of these days, Higgins…”

  Yes, Jake thought. One of these days, he was going to kill Franks. Maybe he’d kill all the MDGs of his platoon. The detention sergeants were monsters who delighted in tormenting penal militiamen and in killing some of them as the opportunities arose.

  “Line up!” Franks shouted, as he put away the shock rod. “You’re going to get your RPG and then you’re going to head out into no-man’s land.”

  BATAVIA, NEW YORK

  What was left of the Galahad C Troop, along with the other hovers of 8th Squadron, maneuvered through the city streets of Batavia. The town was along Interstate 90 from Rochester to Buffalo, and III Armored Corps HQ wanted it cleared of any active hostiles or partisans.

  Lieutenant Teddy Smith didn’t like it. He sat in the pilot’s seat, with his hands sweaty on the controls and his eyes peeled. The town was too quiet, too ghostlike. Fleck’s hover led the way, and he kept passing overturned dinner plates.

  The Americans finally have a chance to use IEDs against others, Smith thought. He knew what the overturned
dinner-plates were supposed to be: decoys to frighten them. It was odd and a bit funny that the Americans didn’t actually have any IEDs on hand. Therefore, they pretended to have some, setting out overturned plates.

  Holloway must have been thinking similar thoughts. The sergeant said from his seat, “I thought America was supposed to be filled with guns.”

  Smith glanced back at the sergeant. The man tensely watched through the main gun-port like a man looking out of a cave. For once, the sergeant appeared nervous, wiping beads of perspiration from under his nose. That wasn’t a good sign. They weren’t in Canada anymore, but in the good old U.S.A.

  “Why doesn’t anyone fire at us?” Holloway asked. “This is as good a chance as any of them is going to get. I don’t know who sent hovers into a built-up area, but it’s daft.”

  That was the military for you. But it was no good complaining about it, especially not out here. So Smith answered the first question instead of the second.

  “Didn’t you study your history in school?” Smith asked.

  “I guess not,” Holloway said.

  “In the past, the Americans debated each other on gun control,” Smith said. “I remember my history teacher talking about it. The US Government used to try to take away the regular folks’ guns. The gun owners wouldn’t budge, though, and there were enough of them that they had the votes to stop any congressman foolish enough to try it.”

  “Americans love guns,” Holloway said. It was an old proverb.

  “I remember my teacher saying the Americans had a good argument concerning their right to have guns, at least as long as the powerful had theirs. The argument went something like this: As soon as the President and the members of Congress and the rich went without their gun-toting bodyguards, the ordinary people would give up their firearms. But as long as the President wanted to protect his family, the regular folk figured they had a right to protect theirs, too.”

  “So what happened?” Holloway asked.

  “The US Government got wise. Instead of taking people’s guns away, they bought up all the ammo. Let them have empty guns, right?”

  Holloway laughed, nodding in appreciation.

  “It’s not really that funny,” Smith said, “because in the end, a lot of the American people started making their own ammo.”

  “You’re kidding,” Holloway said. “Their government allowed that.”

  “I don’t think their government had much of a choice,” Smith said. “If they wanted a civil war against the gun owners, they could try to grab the firearms, but those in power must have realized that then they would have soon been dead. Bloody Hell!” Smith shouted.

  Fleck’s Galahad led the way sixty meters ahead of them. Fleck had been pausing at most of the overturned dinner plates, having his gunner shoot several rounds into each, breaking the things. It looked like Fleck must have become lazy. Maybe the Americans had been counting on that. These gun lovers were sly bastards.

  Lieutenant Fleck’s Galahad went over something that exploded. A bright flash preceded billowing smoke. The armored skirt likely saved Fleck’s life, but the hover grounded hard, sparking down the street until it came to a halt.

  That must have been the signal, though. From nearby buildings—a hardware store, a grocery store and a bicycle repair shop—rifles and something bigger opened up. The gunfire pinged off the grounded Galahad’s armor. Then what looked like a crude rocket roared out of the bicycle repair shop. The rocket wobbled as it flew and it struck the Galahad, igniting with a boom.

  Holloway shouted a curse. It showed that he was far too wound up today.

  “Smith!” 8th Squadron’s colonel said over the radio. “Take out the bicycle shop.”

  “You heard the colonel,” Smith said. He revved the engine and turned sharp left.

  Their 76mm thundered. A HE round entered the repair shop and exploded, destroying a section of wall.

  “Give it another!” Smith shouted.

  Two more Galahads moved up. As they did, a homemade rocket barreled out of the grocery store. This one didn’t wobble, but it had longer to go to reach one of them.

  Holloway’s machine gun and Fleck’s burning vehicle took it down so the missile plowed on the street and exploded against a flower shop. It paid to have better targeting computers and better electronics.

  The skirmish in outer Batavia went on for another eight minutes, but it quickly turned against the Americans. Artillery rained down from nearby GD mobile vehicles. Smoke shells also landed. Then Smith saw running American partisans trying to flank him. Holloway saw it, too. He brought the 12.7mm machine gun around, and the sergeant knocked down or killed three of the enemy. A woman scrambled behind a building, getting away.

  “More are coming,” Holloway said in his clipped voice.

  “Fleck!” Smith said. Then he stopped. Fleck staggered out of a cloud of smoke as he half dragged, half carried his gunner. No wonder they had been taking so long. Bright red blood streaked down the gunner’s leg.

  “Hang on,” Smith said. He goosed the controls, and the Galahad started for Fleck.

  Then both the pilot and wounded gunner went down as two grenades landed at their feet. Fleck saw the rolling metal balls at the last second, and he froze. The grenades blew. Fleck and the gunner tumbled backward in a tangled, gruesome mess.

  Before Smith could comment about it, a ground-attack plane showed up. The squat thing released napalm, several canisters of it. Batavia began to burn as oily smoke billowed skyward.

  This wasn’t a matter of destroying a town to save it as practiced in Vietnam back in the 1960s. Instead, by the radio chatter, Smith realized that HQ had decided on a new procedure. If the Americans fought too stubbornly in a town along Interstate 90, the Expeditionary Force would burn the place down—or they would drop enough napalm to give it a go. It was time for the gun-lovers to grow up and know when they’d been outmaneuvered, and when the GD soldiers had honestly beaten them.

  Smith used a rear-viewing camera to glance back at the burning place. This was a bit like the Lock Ness Submarine. The Americans fought from hiding. That wasn’t like the bloody chaps in the old days, when Americans had owned all the firepower. Smith frowned. Maybe these Americans went back to deeper roots. Hadn’t the Americans in 1776 fought from behind trees, fences and boulders, sniping at British Redcoats?

  This time it will be different. This time, the Europeans are going to win the war.

  PARIS, ILE DE FRANCE

  John Red Cloud was near despair as he lay on a sofa in the safe house that had become his jail. The place had an odor of stale sweat, cigarettes and cheap coffee. He had spent many days here, guarded by three suspicious gunmen of Serbian extraction. None of the three spoke French, English or Algonquin. He could understand the last two, but not the lack of French.

  He had walked into the secret service agent’s house. The old woman had called her son. Instead of him appearing, these three had entered with guns drawn. John could have snapped the old woman’s neck—the French agent had betrayed him. But Red Cloud did not war against old women.

  He went with these three to this house, and for the past days, they had guarded him, given him food and made him understand that if he attempted to leave, they would kill him.

  John did not despair out of fear. What bothered him was his weakening resolve. Days of nothing had sapped his morale. He knew that everyone had his or her breaking point. The path of death wasn’t a good place to sit. One had to move on the path, heading for destruction. The resolve gave one power. Unfortunately, the power leaked away as his certainty wavered.

  Maybe he should have returned to Quebec when he had the chance. Maybe it would have been better to end his days in his homeland. Let the Old World and New World Europeans fight among themselves and destroy each other. What did he care?

  John closed his eyes. He recalled the meeting with the GD ambassador last winter. The man had insulted him, and through the insult, the man had insulted the Algonquin people.


  I have no right to fear. I am the representative of my people. I am the Spirit of Death of the Algonquians. I will destroy Chancellor Kleist. I will leave this prison and—

  From outside, a key inserted into the front door lock and turned.

  The Serbians stood. One drew a pistol. One picked up a pump shotgun and the other clacked the bolt of a submachine gun. All three of them aimed their weapons at the door.

  The door opened, and the odor of smoke preceded a small man in a plain overcoat. He had dark, tousled hair, a cigarette between his lips and dark eyes like Red Cloud.

  The Frenchman glanced at the Serbians. He rapidly spoke their language. The three put away their weapons, sat and went back to playing dominoes on the table.

  The man in the overcoat approached Red Cloud, who sat up on the sofa.

  The cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth smoldered. He stopped before Red Cloud and studied him. “You are not Basque,” the man said in French, speaking crisply.

  John shook his head.

  “The Basque died in Halifax,” the Frenchman said. “Someone cut his throat.”

  “I did,” John said.

  “To gain his ID, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “You killed two CID men several days ago?”

  “I left them in the BMW.”

  “You’ve left quite a trail of death,” the Frenchman said. “And you frightened my agent’s mother. Neither he nor I appreciate that.”

  “I understand.”

  Ashes fell from the Frenchman’s cigarette, landing on the carpet and beginning to smolder. He stepped on the spot and turned his foot. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it onto the coffee table. While unbuttoning his coat, the small man sat in the sofa chair. He never took his eyes off Red Cloud.

  “You are an Indian,” the man said.

  “Algonquin.”

  “Call me Mr. Foch,” the man said.

  “John Red Cloud.”

  Foch did not hold out his hand. Since this was his land, John followed the man’s example and did not hold out his either.