“Explain yourself,” Kleist said.
“First, I would to like to point out that a key principle of war that I first pointed out to you many months ago still holds true for us today.”
“Refresh my memory,” Kleist said.
“There is usually at least one decisive moment in a conflict,” Mansfeld said. “Everything else may be very close fought. But the decisive moment decides everything. Later, one side utterly crushes the other, but it could have gone the other way if the decisive moment had been different.”
“I see,” Kleist said.
This was hard to say, but Mansfeld knew he must. He saw reality and he could see the future. “Sir,” he said, “the decisive moment went to the Americans during this campaign.”
Kleist watched him the way a hawk perched on a rock would watch a nervous rabbit crawling out into the choicest grass. It seemed as if the Chancellor’s features became like granite. In a deceptively smooth voice, Kleist said, “If you will recall, General, you assured me several days ago that you could still win through to victory.”
“I could have, sir,” Mansfeld said. “The space attack wasn’t the decisive moment. It was important, to be sure, but I still had a chance. The Americans…the Americans reinforced Syracuse with just enough soldiers to hold the city. That was the critical point with everything balanced on the outcome.”
“I’m not sure I can agree with that,” Kleist said. He waved down Mansfeld before the general could protest. “For the sake of your argument, let us call Syracuse the second decisive moment.”
Rage washed through Mansfeld. He wished he could punch the Chancellor in the face, the smug bastard. He had not failed. The others had failed him. If he had received the needed army group in New Jersey as planned…
“I have sent you reinforcements,” Kleist said, sharply. “The Atlantic convoy includes several new divisions. Yet now you seek half a million more soldiers. Are you well, General, or have these defeats unhinged your reasoning?”
“Respectfully, sir, I haven’t been defeated.”
“That is interesting,” Kleist said. “Do you mean to say that the Americans did not stop you at Syracuse?”
“That was not a defeat in the classic sense. I merely…did not break through their lines.”
“You failed, in other words,” Kleist said.
Mansfeld’s back stiffened. “Chancellor—”
“There will be no half a million extra troops, General,” Kleist said, coldly. “You will need to rectify the situation with the extra divisions already on the way.”
It’s time to tell him how the future will go. He failed me, and he has the gall to act as if he’s superior to me. What a fraud. What a terrible joke.
“Let me put it more bluntly, sir,” Mansfeld said. “We cannot hold our present positions unless you substantially reinforce the Expeditionary Force.”
Kleist sat back, and he seemed to choose his words more carefully. “You surprise me, General. You have won practically every encounter. Buffalo has fallen. You crossed Lake Ontario. You took almost all of Southwestern Ontario. You have more forces moving up to Syracuse—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Mansfeld said, “but I know what the Americans are going to do next. I know how they will end-run us.”
“If you know, stop them.”
“I will—if I receive large enough reinforcements. Otherwise, sir, I respectfully suggest we retreat back to Quebec.”
Kleist stared hard at Mansfeld. “What’s come over you?”
“Do you have a map handy?”
“I do, but—”
“I suggest you glance at it so you’ll understand what I’m saying.”
Kleist’s eyes narrowed. After a time, he nodded.
“Massive Canadian reinforcements are pouring in from Manitoba,” Mansfeld said, crisply. “The Americans entrained them so the Canadians could move at speed. Presently, those soldiers have headed for Syracuse. Their numbers will nullify my own on the way from the Niagara Peninsula. It is critical to understand that American force and my force are evenly matched in most places. It is true the Americans have a slight edge in Southwestern Ontario. We have a slight edge up north along the US-Quebec border. If I were the American commander, I would stabilize Syracuse as he is doing. Afterward, I would heavily reinforce the north and storm my way to Montreal.”
“Then you must reinforce Montreal,” Kleist said.
“The distances are much shorter for them, as they have the advantage of the interior position. We are strung out, as we had hoped to trap over one million Americans. Chancellor, if they can take Montreal and trap our Expeditionary Force, our cause will be lost in North America. Therefore, sir, I respectfully suggest we pull back and protect our client state of Quebec while keeping the Expeditionary Force intact for use next year. We almost won a decisive victory. It was very close run. But the US space weapon knocked the linchpin out of our plan and I was unable to rectify the loss by storming through Syracuse.”
“No,” Kleist said, pointing his middle finger at Mansfeld, stabbing it at him. “This is ridiculous. You say you cannot defend your gains. I suggest you simply draw off enough excess troops from elsewhere and hold Montreal. Do not let them take your main supply base.”
Why can’t he see it? Why am I so able to see the future but others cannot? Maybe if I explain it to him in detail he will comprehend.
“Sir, we almost achieved the great goal. But because the Chinese and Brazilians refused to attack this year, it allowed the American and Canadians to gather just enough excess force against us. We are stretched too thin now. If we had encircled them with Kaltenbrunner’s troops, everything would be different. With the American holding onto Syracuse—”
“Now you listen to me, General,” Kleist said, leaning forward. “I am not about to let you run away with your tail between your legs. I cannot afford the world to see GD troops fleeing in fright. You have defeated and destroyed great numbers of enemy, and you have captured a great area. Break through the Americans in Syracuse. You still have time and I know you have the means. You have heavy tanks and III Armored Corps coming. Win at Syracuse, race to Albany and New York City. Encircle what you can and squeeze the Americans in New England. You must secure your victories and next year, when the Chinese attack, we will break out of the New England-Ontario area and win even more for the GD. I refuse to let you retreat to Quebec and molder away in that tiny shell of a country.”
“Sir, I know you can’t see what I foresee—”
Kleist barked laughter, making Mansfeld falter. Then the Chancellor grinned mirthlessly. “You have a choice, General. Either you obey my orders or you will hand over your command to General Zeller. If you have lost your nerve, tell me now. But I tell you this. If you come home now, you will not enjoy the reception. This I guarantee you.”
With an icy feeling running up his spine, Mansfeld looked away. He should have foreseen this reaction. Only a very few people in this world could see things as clearly as he did. Even Kleist lacked the foresight.
“Have you decided, General?”
If he stayed, his reputation might suffer a grievous stain. If he left, he might die to torturers. Then his reputation might still receive the stain. Historians would say he ran away. So, he had no choice, did he? He must struggle through with the tools at hand.
“I will stay, sir.”
“Fight!” Kleist said. “Break through Syracuse and you can still win the great victory.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kleist stared at him.
He wonders if he has infused me with courage. What a grim joke on me.
“Do not fail me, Mansfeld. Do not fail.”
Walther Mansfeld nodded. At this point, what else could he do?
INTERSTATE 90, NEW YORK
The endless blue of Lake Erie stood to the west as Jake and Charlie trudged along Interstate 90 south of Buffalo. Long lines of American and Canadian soldiers retreated from the cauldron. These were the remnants of Fifth A
rmy, a shattered force demoralized by defeat and too much death and destruction. They had held off the enemy long enough to save Syracuse and possibly the summer campaign, but it had come at a heavy cost to them.
The head of the column reached a hilly area with barricades across the freeway. Military police wearing white helmets and holding batons blocked the route. Soldiers from fresh American divisions backed the MPs, including low-profile Jefferson tanks.
The MPs began the long process of sorting out the soldiers, checking papers. They sent men to different areas, trying to regroup companies and battalions. They also made sure no one tried to desert.
“This can’t be good for us,” Charlie said, as they stood in line, waiting. “We’re penal militiamen.”
“Don’t worry,” Jake said.
They moved up as the line shuffled forward, and an hour passed. Finally, it was their turn to talk to the MPs.
“Drop your weapons right there,” the head MP said, pointing at a pile of discarded guns and rifles.
Jake set his M16 on the ground. Charlie did likewise. Then it happened fast.
MDG Dan Franks appeared from behind several Jefferson tanks. Had Franks been waiting for them? It sure seemed like it.
“Just a minute,” Franks said, loudly. He had his right hand on the butt of a holstered Glock. He swaggered to the MPs, with his own white helmet proclaiming him as one of the brethren of military police.
Maybe Franks spoke too loudly. Maybe there was something off or strange in his voice. He’d been herding penal militiamen for a long time, with no one to stop him from doing what he wanted. Jake noticed other people looking up. These others weren’t MPs or Detention people, but regular American soldiers. Among those who watched the proceedings was a colonel. He stood in the main turret hatch of the nearest Jefferson tank. There was something familiar about the colonel. Then Jake gave all his attention to Franks, and to the evil smile on the sergeant’s gaunt face.
Jake had been in the process of handing his Militia papers to the head MP. Charlie waited behind him, with his papers ready.
“I know them,” Franks said in his arrogant voice. “They’re deserters of a penal battalion, and they’re dangerous.” As if to show the MPs just how dangerous, Franks drew his Glock, aiming it at Jake.
Jake licked his lips. He couldn’t believe this. After everything he had been through, this bastard showed up at exactly the worst moment. Was Franks trying to cover his murder?
“He killed our lieutenant,” Charlie said, maybe thinking the same thing as Jake. “He—”
Franks’ Glock barked twice, each time the gun jumping in his hand and curls of smoke lifting from the barrel. Charlie crumpled to the ground, with blood gushing from his throat. The potato-farmer from Idaho jerked and flopped.
MPs shouted. Other men scrambled to their feet. Jake couldn’t believe it and he snapped. He drew a knife, and he charged Franks. The MDG Sergeant managed another two shots, but he didn’t have time to aim, just fire. The first bullet whanged off Jake’s body armor. Another went wide. Jake didn’t dodge or anything like that. He was too furious. His eyes blazed murder-lust. His nostrils flared and he heard wild shouting around him. Only vaguely did he realize he was the one doing the crazy shouting.
Franks brought the gun higher and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. It was stupid luck. The sergeant pulled the trigger again—it clicked again—and his eyes widened in realization that he was out of bullets.
Jake reached Franks, and he forgot all the niceties of knife combat. He did remember enough to go low, punching the blade through Frank’s stomach, angling the steel upward. He slammed the blade to the hilt. And as he shouted, Jake twisted the handle, twisting the blade inside Franks’ body. Jake wiggled the blade back and forth. Then he grabbed Franks by the throat with his free hand, put a foot behind one of Franks’ heels, and tripped the MDG. They went down together. Franks screamed in mortal agony and he bucked. Jake rode him and removed the bloody knife, shifted his shoulders and thrust the blade into Franks’ throat so the tip grated against gravel underneath. The lights went out in the sergeant’s eyes, and sanity returned to Jake Higgins.
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.
Invasion: New York (Invasion America) Page 40
