Invasion: New York ia-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  Jake laughed sourly, and he looked right and left. “There,” he said. He grabbed the TOW hitch, nodded at Lee, and the two men rushed to a boulder sixty feet away, with the platform bouncing behind them.

  Many of the militiamen had already gone to their bellies. Three turned tail and sprinted east for safety, heading back for the medics caring for the badly wounded. MDG submachine guns chattered, and the three sprinters belly flopped onto the damp Earth, dead.

  About one hundred yards to the rear, Sergeant Franks shouted through his amplifier, “Take out the tanks! That is an order.”

  “They killed them,” Charlie whispered. He hunkered low by Jake and Lee. “The detention guards just murdered those three men.”

  “Where have you been the last week?” Jake asked. “They’ve been murdering us since training camp.”

  “I thought boot camp was supposed to last six weeks at least,” Charlie said.

  “For American citizens,” Jake said. “Not for dirty dogs like you and me.”

  Lee tapped Jake on the shoulder and pointed west.

  Jake cocked his head. From beyond the boulder, he heard squealing treads. The things sounded as if they moved fast, and they were coming out of the shadowy woods.

  Then an enemy UAV roared low overhead with crooked wings like an old time Stuka. The thing was like a tin can, an armored ground-attack UAV. The troops had taken to calling it a Razorback. The Razorback’s machine guns opened up. Dirt fountained up like it did in the movies. A group of militiamen standing around like dorks died, falling like bowling pins. Others hit the ground, crawling away.

  With his back against the boulder, Jake looked up at the thing. It turned in a tight curve. The Razorback launched a missile, and the air-to-ground rocket zoomed fast, hit and exploded against a TOW tube. The team manning the TOW blew apart into bloody bits, smacking against the wet earth.

  Beside him, Charlie groaned in terror.

  The Razorback began firing its machine guns again. Meanwhile, the enemy light tanks or Sigrids seemed to sprint for them.

  “Damnit,” Jake said. “We need some Blowdarts.” He raised his M16, tucking the butt against his shoulder. It was a pitiful weapon to use against a ground-attack UAV.

  Jake led the Razorback as if he was duck hunting, and he depressed the trigger, firing three-round bursts. Lee lifted his grenade launcher, and launched a grenade.

  “Down!” Jake shouted.

  The grenade sailed up and exploded, and it rained shrapnel on fellow militiamen.

  Jake heard Sergeant Franks bellow something. Maybe the man thought they’d turned their weapons on their tormentors: the MDGs. That was one thing about being a penal militiaman: you were only supposed to fire your weapons in the direction of the enemy, never behind you.

  Oblivious to everything, Lee raised his grenade launcher again. Jake jumped up and pulled the barrel down.

  “No,” he told Lee. “Fire at the Sigrids. Don’t fire at the Razorback flying over us.”

  Lee stared at him, and he nodded.

  The Razorback turned tightly again. The thing was going to singlehandedly destroy the company. Jake glanced at the detention sergeants. He saw them slithering away, maybe even retreating. Did they figure the company was as good as dead?

  Bastards, they’re all bastards. I can’t believe this war.

  “Charlie!” Jake shouted. “You’d better get up and aim at the plane. Fire when I fire.”

  Charlie scrambled to his feet, and he tucked the butt of his M16 just as Jake did his.

  “It’s coming straight at us!” Charlie shouted.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I see it.” He figured this was as good a way to die as any other. He aimed, and he fired off an entire magazine. Beside him, Charlie did the same thing.

  A spark erupted on the Razorback, and it quit firing just as its machine gun bullets fountained near them. Had it run out of ammo? That was the likely explanation.

  “I hit it!” Charlie shouted.

  Before Jake could confirm that, the Razorback passed overhead, roaring toward the woods. This time it didn’t turn around, nor did they hear it crash. Instead, it slowly droned away.

  “Tanks!” a militiaman screamed.

  “They’re almost on top of us!” Charlie shouted. “Listen.”

  Jake didn’t need anyone to tell him to listen. He heard them. He scanned back, but didn’t see any sign of the MDGs. That meant they were on their own. What was the best thing to do with these untrained civilians? There was no way what was left of the company were going to destroy tanks, not destroy them and survive.

  “Go!” Jake shouted at Charlie and Lee. “Follow me!” He sprinted for a stand of bushes to his left. He kept hold of his M16, and the air burned down his lungs at he lifted his boots. He dove, thudded onto wet ground and put his head down as he wriggled into a thick stand of bushes. A moment later, Charlie wriggled through with him and then in came Lee.

  They lay on the ground, peering through the bushes, and they witnessed seven Sigrids murder the rest of the penal company. Each tracked vehicles boasted a tri-barreled machine gun, a Gatling gun that blazed fire. Militiamen ran everywhere. Militiamen crawled and sobbed. The science fiction war-robots clanked fast and blew men apart one by one.

  When it was over, the squat vehicles spun on their treads, searching for more. Jake dreaded the robots’ ability to sense behind the bushes. Did the things have heat sensors? He didn’t know. His mouth tasted like defeat. Jake knew bitter hatred then. He’d fight the enemy the right way if the Militia gave him weapons that could destroy machines like that, and give them training. But to send them to the front in a penal unit without support or leadership… A red haze of anger seethed through Jake. This was BS. This was murder pure and simple.

  Finally, the Sigrids headed back the way they had come, leaving the dead company for the crows and wild dogs.

  The three surviving militiamen in the bushes waited until they could no longer hear the squealing treads.

  “Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.

  Jake had been thinking about that. The MDGs would be back soon, or it seemed possible they would be. The three of them would have to write up a report and needed pertinent facts.

  “We have to fire our TOW,” Jake said.

  “Why?” Charlie asked. “There isn’t anyone to fire at now.”

  “The why is because the sergeants will look for ways to blame us,” Jake said. “We can’t give them anything. Then we have to get our stories straight. We fired and hit a GD robot, but it didn’t hurt the thing enough to destroy it. We also have to shoot all our bullets and toss all our grenades. We used up everything before we hid. We have to get our stories straight.”

  “Isn’t that lying?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t like to lie,” Jake said. “But our sergeants ran out on us. If they’d stayed and fought, they would deserve the truth. As it is, they deserve a knuckle full of fist at best.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “I see what you’re saying.”

  “Let’s go,” Jake said. “We may not have much time left to get everything ready.”

  The three militiamen crawled out of the bushes, and they fired their M16s as they hurried to the TOW to get it launched, too.

  MARKHAM, ONTARIO

  Walther Mansfeld swiveled around on his chair in his command car. He struck his knee a glancing blow and was surprised it didn’t hurt. He flipped on a screen and saw the worried image of General Holk regarding him. Behind Holk aides scurried back and forth.

  “I hope this is urgent,” Mansfeld said.

  “Sir… I’m afraid—”

  “Is this about Hamilton?”

  Holk bobbed his head. “It is, sir.”

  “The Americans made an ill-coordinated attack,” Mansfeld said. “You annihilated the forward elements. That is the correct report, is it not?”

  “Annihilated is too strong a word, sir,” Holk said. “We stopped them, but the enemy has dug in and many more are comin
g from Buffalo. This is a new army, sir.”

  “From their behavior, I would say they are castoff elements hastily thrown together,” Mansfeld said.

  “My spotters have counted at least one hundred thousand new soldiers. There could be twice as many marching into position.”

  “They are marching more troops into captivity,” Mansfeld said.

  “At the moment, they are putting pressure on Hamilton, sir. I suspect they will creep toward the city. If nothing else, those troops are screening heavy artillery farther back. The US tubes will have enough reach to disrupt the Golden Horseshoe autobahns I need to use for my London-directed offensive.”

  “I believe they’re called freeways,” Mansfeld said.

  “Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I request permission to transfer two armored divisions to the Hamilton region. I cannot screen my southern offensive with the troops presently at hand.”

  Mansfeld flipped another switch, studying a second screen that showed him a battle map. The isthmus of land between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie—the Niagara Peninsula—with Hamilton on the west end and Buffalo, New York on the east end, made an excellent position for a static defensive system. He didn’t want Holk suckered into an attrition contest, pushing east toward Buffalo. Once the amphibious assault succeeded, Zeller would swing around from Rochester and trap this new, US scratch army from the eastern end of the peninsula. Yet if the Americans used long-range artillery to disrupt the road systems behind Hamilton…hmm…something would need to be done about the artillery.

  “I do not like this,” Mansfeld said. “Switching the two armored divisions will weaken your main assault toward London.”

  “If the Americans can afford to throw such ill-coordinated masses at us at Hamilton, I wonder what they’re really planning.”

  “No, no,” Mansfeld said. “They’re panicked. They’re moving now out of fear. The latest assault at Hamilton was a mistake.”

  “Sir, their long-range artillery tells me this is not a mistake. Perhaps the initial attack was ill coordinated, but they marched near enough to dig in close and there are more Americans on the way. If they move better assault divisions into position, they could possible drive off my forward troops and retake eastern Hamilton. I cannot afford that, as it would upset my timetable.”

  “You destroyed the initial attack,” Mansfeld said.

  “We smashed several Militia divisions. If that was the extent of it, I wouldn’t be concerned. They dug in, however, and the Americans moved up long-range—”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Sir,” Holk said. “Another assault is coming, one better coordinated and with better units, and meant to drive into Hamilton. I need cushion in the peninsula, some maneuvering room. And I need to keep my autobahns clear.”

  Holk had a point. They could not afford to let an American assault reach the outskirts of Hamilton. Perhaps a two-prong armor assault would disrupt the Americans before they truly set up too near the city.

  “Yes, permission granted,” Mansfeld said. “Clear out the Militia infestation and silence the long-range artillery. Then build a defense in depth. You will have to hold them in place for Zeller.”

  “I understand, sir. I’d also like to point out—”

  “Push yourself and push your men,” Mansfeld said, sternly. He knew Holk wanted to tell him that the last days of fighting in Toronto had been harder than expected. That was the way of life. Everything took more effort than one planned for.

  They were on the verge of the great amphibious surprise. Things would likely ease for Holk once Zeller made the Lake Ontario and Lake Erie assaults. Then the American High Command would truly panic. Then he would net over one million American soldiers.

  “Is there anything else, General?” Mansfeld asked.

  Holk shook his head and signed off a moment later.

  Mansfeld leaned back in his chair. The pieces were falling into place. The Militia attack toward Hamilton showed the Americans still had fight left, but they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Army Group A made the great push and the Americans scrambled to stop them. Soon now, soon the new blitzkrieg to victory through New York and Pennsylvania would begin.

  ROCHESTER, NEW YORK

  Paul Kavanagh sat in a loud bar with the music blasting. Men and women danced on the floor, with the band playing on stage. It was an old country band, the guitarist, singer and drummer all wearing cowboy hats and boots.

  Paul sat alone, nursing a whiskey. Around him, men and women talked loudly and laughed even louder. Many of the couples touched and more than a few kissed.

  “Amigo, what are you doing?” Romo asked.

  Paul looked up.

  A beautiful young woman clutched each of Romo’s biceps. The Mexico Home Army assassin attracted the ladies, that was for sure. They sensed his deadliness, no doubt, the hardness of his eyes. Like moths to a flame, they circled until finally Romo drew them in for an evening’s vigorous sex.

  Romo slid his arms free of the women and sat down across the table from Paul. He paused, and looked up sharply. “What are you doing?” he asked the two girls. “Get me a beer, and get ones for yourselves, too.”

  The two girls—one had long black hair and the other had long bottle-blonde hair—glanced at each other.

  “We need money,” the blonde told Romo.

  “You don’t have any in that tiny purse of yours?” Romo asked.

  “We’re the ladies,” she said. What she meant, of course, was that a woman as hot as she didn’t pay.

  “Yes,” Romo said, slapping her hip. “I know you’re a lady.”

  “That means you’re supposed to pay for us,” she said.

  Romo laughed. It was like a tiger mocking its prey. “Why would I pay when any woman here would cut off her pinky finger to receive my love?”

  The two women glanced at each other again. The dark-haired one giggled.

  “You’re bad,” she told Romo.

  “Yes,” Romo agreed. “I am bad.” He snapped his fingers twice in quick succession. “Now hurry. I’m thirsty. Buy me a beer and be quick about it.”

  The two women—they wore the shortest skirts here—hurried to the bar, the blonde opening her purse and extracting bills as they sashayed there. Heads turned as she passed, men tilting their chins to get a look at her.

  “You seem glum,” Romo told Paul.

  Paul still held his whiskey on the table, using both hands to clutch the shot glass. He’d hunched over the drink and stared into its glistening depths. The music caused it to vibrate with tiny ripples.

  “You need a woman,” Romo said.

  Without looking up, Paul shook his head. “There’s only one woman for me: my wife.”

  “And if you die tomorrow?” Romo asked.

  “Then I’ll have stayed faithful until the end.”

  “You Americans,” Romo said.

  Paul finally looked up. He eyed his blood brother, and he seemed to see him better than ever. Romo had an empty heart. It had drained the day he’d murdered his girlfriend. He tried to fill it with sex, and it likely worked for the moment. Yet deep inside, Romo was lonely.

  Paul picked up the shot glass, weighing it in his hand. With a sudden twist, he poured it into his mouth. The whiskey burned going down. That was good…for the moment. He shouldn’t have any more, though.

  “Take a girl,” Romo said. “I will give you your pick.”

  “General Zelazny died,” Paul said. “I heard it over Army radio.”

  “Who?” Romo asked.

  “Did you ever meet him?” Paul asked. “Zelazny died fighting, holding out to the end in the Toronto Pocket.”

  “We all die,” Romo said, shrugging. “It’s the living that concerns me.”

  The dark-haired woman and her friend returned. They pulled out chairs and sat down, crossing their shapely legs. The blonde slammed Romo’s beer glass before him so golden liquid sloshed out onto the table.

  The assassin never complained, but d
rained half the glass in a swallow.

  “You’re thirsty,” the blonde observed.

  Romo pointed at the dark-haired woman. She had large breasts straining to spill out of her skimpy blouse.

  “What did I do?” she asked.

  Romo pointed at Paul. “Do you see him?”

  “He’s sitting right there,” the woman said.

  “He’s the most dangerous man in America. There is no one like him. And do you know what is sad and noble at the same time?”

  The dark-haired woman shook her head.

  “He loves his wife and will only sleep with her. As beautiful as you are, as luscious as those tits staring at me are, he will not sleep with you. No, you are not good enough for him.”

  The dark-haired woman cast curious eyes at Paul.

  He glanced at her. She was beautiful, and it was clear she needed a man tonight. She needed to feel loved.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” the woman asked him.

  “He’s used a knife before and shoved it into a man’s stomach,” Romo said. “I’ve seen him shoot Germans one right after the other. He’s even bayoneted them.”

  “Gruesome,” the woman said.

  Paul’s nostrils flared. He lurched suddenly to his feet.

  Romo sat back, staring up at him.

  “Did I say something wrong?” the dark-haired woman asked.

  “No,” Romo said, as he stared at Paul. “He loves his wife. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Paul said.

  “Yes, my friend,” Romo said.

  “Nice meeting you ladies,” Paul said, touching his forehead.

  The dark-haired woman impulsively grabbed his wrist. She stood, and she pressed her luscious breasts against him.

  “Where’s your wife?” she asked. “Is she still alive?”

  “She’s in Reno,” Paul said.

  “Oh. He wasn’t joking about her?”

  “No,” Paul said, and he disengaged from the woman.

  “You don’t want to…?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  Paul smiled. It was a war-weary thing. He felt a tug to take off her clothes and just take her like an animal tonight. Cheri would never know, but he would know. He’d made an oath before God to her. He would come back alive through all this grim butchery. If he cheated on Cheri…would God continue to protect him? Paul didn’t think so. He had a mission. He saw that more with each passing day. He had a job to do, but he wasn’t going to compromise himself. He would stay faithful to his wife, so God would stay faithful to him, so he would fight faithfully for his beloved land.