Invasion: New York ia-4 Page 16

  The tall German hunched his shoulders, falling silent.

  As he pulled out the one-time pad, Paul said, “Better handcuff him just in case.”

  Romo pulled out plastic ties and bound the German’s wrists behind his back. He did it hard, so the plastic dug into the flesh.

  Paul readied the one-time pad, put earphones over his head and readied the microphone. Then he gave a short-burst transmission, both to burn through any enemy jamming and to make it harder for the GD signals people to pinpoint them.

  He waited for HQ to think about his question. Crickets chirped now that the artillery had fallen silent. The second ticked by. Paul knew their covering darkness would lift far too soon.

  After several minutes, he received a return message. After ingesting what they’d said, he nodded to himself. Romo wasn’t going to like this. Paul didn’t know if he liked it himself. Time was running out for them, and once the sun rose—

  He stowed the one-time pad back into the rucksack, shrugged the pack on and stood. “Are you ready?” he asked Romo.

  “What’s the plan?” his blood brother asked.

  “What I thought it would be,” Paul said.

  Romo scowled. “Are you talking about water and subs?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. The last time he’d entered a sub had been off the waters of Hawaii. The Chinese had chased his team off the beach and nearly sunk the escape dinghy. Those had been ocean waters, much deeper he was sure than Lake Ontario. What kind of submarine could America have in the lake anyway? As far as he knew, the Great Lakes had been demilitarized…maybe until the GD invasion.

  Guess we’ll find out what kind of sub.

  Paul motioned at the lakeshore. Romo shoved a handcuffed Hans Kruger in that direction. Then the three of them set out for the lapping waves.

  “I just thought of something,” Romo said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do we use for a boat?”

  “You’re not going to believe it,” Paul said.

  “It’s that bad?”

  “No,” Paul said. “But it means we’re going to be working hard for the next hour.”

  Romo glanced at him. “Paddling? We’re going to paddle our way into the middle of the lake to die?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Romo raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes, we’re going to paddle for the middle of the lake,” Paul said. “No, I hope we’re not heading for our deaths.”

  Before Romo could reply, the two LRSU men looked up. A noise in the distance, in the dark sky…helos, enemy gunships were coming.

  “Put on your night vision goggles,” Paul said. They both put on their pairs. “You ready?”

  For an answer, Romo slung his assault rifle over a shoulder.

  Paul did the same with his rifle. Then each man grabbed one of Kruger’s arms, and they hustled their captive toward the shoreline.

  USS KIOWA

  In one particular, Captain Darius Green was unfit for the cramped command of the carbon fiber submersible. He was huge, a solid two-sixty in weight and six-nine in height. How anyone had ever seen fit to commission him here boggled the thoughts of anyone who gave it even a moment’s consideration.

  The truth was that no man or woman had made such a decision. Navy protocol and computer errors had seen to it. Darius Green was a competent naval officer, but he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been to submarine school—that had been another computer error. His size simply made his appointment to the submersible a poor choice. Despite that, he’d worked hard to figure out the limits of his strange vessel.

  Darius Green was a black man who had been born into the concrete, bankrupt jungle of Detroit. His father had run with the drug gangs, his grandfathers on both sides had been gangbangers. One died early in a turf war. The other died in prison. Darius Green had never met either of his grandfathers. He’d also never met his father, as the man had disappeared one night, presumed dead. His mother would have raised Darius if she’d been given the chance, but his uncle hadn’t let her. His dad’s brother had joined the Black Muslims of the Mustafa School. The man had known far too much about the ghettoes of Detroit.

  So one day—Darius could still remember it—Cyrus Green had put Darius on his shoulder and marched outside to a waiting motorcycle. Darius had held onto his uncle’s back the entire trip to Chicago. The gangs had been just as bad there, but Uncle Cyrus had moved into a Black Muslim compound. He’d been a foot soldier in the Mustafa School movement. From Darius’s youth on, Uncle Cyrus had made sure he had discipline.

  Darius practiced karate, reading the Koran and math. Uncle Cyrus had liberally used a leather belt on him and he’d beaten the lying and slothfulness out of Darius. Uncle Cyrus had died several years later, never getting to see Darius graduate from the compound’s high school.

  His uncle’s death and the graduation had been many years ago. At this point in the war, Darius Green was thirty-two years old, a giant of a man with fierce convictions. He believed in the Mustafa School, Black Muslim movement, and he believed in the betterment of the black man by relying on his own hard work. He also knew that invaders came to steal his country, and he could work with the American white man to defend their united home. It hadn’t always been easy for Darius Green, but he’d taken his uncle’s dream and had made it his own.

  Captain Green knew the USS Kiowa wasn’t much of a fighting submersible. It had four upgraded Javelin missiles on a single outer mount: the mount was in the place of where an old naval gun would have been on a WWII-era submarine. Kiowa lacked torpedoes of any kind. It wasn’t that kind of submersible, and frankly, it wasn’t big enough to carry internal torpedoes.

  The truth was that only a few submarines had ever cruised in the Great Lakes. Most of those had patrolled the waters during WWII, the vessels built in port cities along the lakeshores. To go from the ocean to the Great Lakes took a long and torturous route. A submarine or a regular ship, for that matter, would first have to travel up the Saint Lawrence River. Then, like a salmon leaping its way upstream, a ship or sub would enter locks, traveling higher each time until finally it would be high enough to slip into Lake Ontario.

  The difficulty meant that the GD hovercraft ruled the lake. The few exceptions were some converted US speedboats.

  The USS Kiowa was a unique craft. It had begun its existence as a drug smuggling submersible. Several years before the war, US Customs had spotted the craft and swooped down with helicopters. Usually, the drug cartel members sank such a submersible. It only took a minute or two to scuttle the thing. The cargo went to the bottom, and as there was no evidence, there would be no conviction of drug smuggling. But this time, US Customs had caught the tiny three-man crew, and had captured the submersible. The machine had sat in dry dock for several years, used as a training aid. With the commencement last year of war, the Navy had commissioned the vessel, renaming it and outfitting it with military equipment.

  Captain Green had one crew member and the situation aboard ship was cramped. He was too big to sit down properly in the head, having to lift his knees up in a disgraceful manner. The sub seldom stayed out for more than one night.

  As the captain stood at his place before the radio, carefully hunched over so he didn’t bump his head, he blinked in astonishment at the message. The brass hats wanted him to surface during daylight and pick up a rubber dinghy full of fugitives. In his knowledgeable opinion, they were ordering him far too close to the GD-held shore during daylight.

  “They’re killing us,” the first mate said, a short man by the name of Sulu Khan. “I don’t know why they think it’s wise, but they’re killing us.”

  The last man aboard USS Kiowa was a wounded SEAL with a bloody bandage over his left eye. He lay propped out of the way. He was the only survivor from last night’s mission.

  That’s what Captain Green did, run secret ops against the enemy. So far, he had successfully landed five teams against the Expeditionary Force. He did not take
any undue risks, as operating in Lake Ontario against the high-tech Germans was hazardous enough.

  “What are you thinking, Captain?” Sulu Khan asked. “Are we going to follow such madness to the letter?”

  Captain Green’s nostrils flared. Surfacing during daylight to pick up rowing fugitives—by the sound of it, the GD hunted these three.

  “They’re killing us,” Sulu repeated. He was a talkative fellow. “They’re killing us by this.”

  It wasn’t duty to Uncle Sam that caused Captain Green to turn to the helm. He had discipline. The laws of the Prophet had taught him to lay down his life for his people if the need ever arose. Well, if the US fell to the GD, it was only a matter of time before the invaders reached Chicago. If how the enemy acted in North Africa toward Muslims were any gauge, the invading Europeans would destroy the Mustafa School in Chicago. According to High Command, the people in the dinghy carried vital information for the successful prosecution of the war.

  Captain Green turned his hard-muscled bulk toward the helm. He had a large face with large features. His total largeness made the submersible seem even smaller than it was.

  “If anyone does any killing today,” he said, “it is going to be me.” Darius Green spoke in an ultra-deep voice than seemed to rumble through a man’s body.

  “Our Javelins against GD hovers…?” Sulu asked. “Begging your pardon, Captain—”

  “That’s it. I’ve already decided.”

  The short first mate stared at his captain.

  Green became thoughtful. His were not just any Javelin missiles, but highly modified ones. Darius knew how GD officers thought. They were arrogant. He’d especially heard about the hover pilots. They were even more arrogant than the usual run of GD personnel. He did not believe the Germans would expect a submersible out here in Lake Ontario. Even better, they would not expect one with teeth, not the kind of teeth he possessed. If they tried to interfere with him, he would pray to Allah, aim the Javelins and send the hovers to the Hell they so richly deserved. In truth, he was more than a little tired of simply sneaking soldiers onto the enemy-held shore. He wanted to hurt the enemy himself.

  “We have work to do,” Captain Green said. “So let’s start doing it.”

  Sulu Khan studied his captain. “Aye, aye, sir,” the short man finally said. “It will be as you say.”

  OTTAWA, ONTARIO

  General Mansfeld wanted to pace in front of the battle screen. He understood it now: the reason for the seemingly senseless American frontal assault. He’d trapped powerful American formations in Greater Toronto, digesting them piece by piece. The remainder should have hunkered down, trying to survive for as long as possible.

  It had been that way at Stalingrad during WWII. Field Marshal Paulus had tied down large Soviet formations by keeping the German Sixth Army defending for as long as they had. During that time, the entire German Southern Front had desperately sought to plug the rupture caused by Soviet Operation Uranus. What few people realized was that Stalin had attempted to net the entire German Southern Front that winter. The sacrifice of Sixth Army at Stalingrad had helped save the others—at least for another year.

  That’s what the Americans in Toronto should have logically attempted. At least, that had been his—Mansfeld’s—belief until a few minutes ago. The American commander in Toronto had been cleverer than he realized. Who would have thought such a thing? Of all Americans, US Marines had a reputation of thinking the most with their balls and the least with their brains, including their generals. It was the nature of the beast. Marines were assault troops. Such combatants needed courage and ferocity above all else.

  Yet… Mansfeld tapped the computer console. The Americans had staved off last winter’s defeat through cunning as much as through their fighting abilities. He should have remembered that.

  The Marine general had gambled. The man must have initiated the full assault in order to slip elite US soldiers behind GD lines. General Mansfeld shook his head. One could hardly even call that a gamble. Gambles had a greater chance of success. This had been more like the last gasp of a dying man. Yet as galling as it was to admit, the gamble had been the correct thing to do.

  A captain marched up and saluted him. The man stank of stale sweat, having been up for twenty-four hours already.

  Mansfeld stared at the officer, finally giving him the barest of nods.

  “General,” the captain said, “I beg to report that there is no one left alive in the 10th PGB controlling station.”

  “Continue,” Mansfeld said.

  “It appears that a squad of American commandos surprised them, sir. The lieutenant in charge of the investigation reports missing equipment.”

  Mansfeld pressed his lips together. What would he do if he were the American commandos? Hmm, of course: they would do the obvious. “Did the commandos head for the water?”

  The captain appeared surprised. “Yes, sir, that is correct. How did you know, sir?”

  “You have ordered jets and hovercraft to sweep the lake?”

  The captain bobbed his head, coughing discreetly. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you have given strict orders about how our hovers are supposed to and not supposed to use the lake.”

  Mansfeld had indeed given such instructions. He didn’t want to give away the second invasion route too soon. If the Americans realized the extent of the GD amphibious capabilities…they might harden the Lake Ontario New York shoreline defenses. Hmm… The captain had a point. This officer thought things through.

  “Use five Galahads,” Mansfeld said, “and three UAVs. That should be sufficient.”

  “How far into Lake Ontario do you want to them to search, sir?”

  “Either they kill the commandos—all of them,” Mansfeld said. “Or I give the Americans leave to kill them.”

  “Sir?” the captain asked.

  “This is a priority mission, Captain. They are not to try, but to do. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said.

  “Make sure you put a good hovercraft team on this. I want to see the bodies, the commandos. And I want to see what sort of information they were able to find.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said.

  “You will keep me informed.”

  The captain saluted and hurried away.

  Mansfeld put his hands behind his back and peered at the battle screen. His forces pounded the shrinking Toronto Pocket. It should be a matter of days now. The trapped Americans had expended themselves last night. Once he dug them out of there, the drive to Detroit would commence in full fury.

  LAKE ONTARIO

  Paul paddled a small rubber dinghy over choppy water. Romo knelt beside him so their left and right thighs touched and his friend likewise paddled. The two LRSU men sweated in the brisk air. Behind them on the horizon, Toronto was a disappearing smudge.

  Because of searching enemy helos earlier, they had gotten a late start. Finally, the helos had either touched down or swept along the shorelines in either direction. Paul and Romo had launched the dinghy then and paddled as swiftly as they could.

  The captive lay on his belly, with his hands tied behind his back. He lay there wide-eyed, listening to everything that went on around him. They’d bagged the equipment in plastic, wrapping each piece and taping them tightly. Included among their booty were two GD one-man portable antiair missiles. Each launch tube and missile weighed fifty pounds, adding another hundred to the small craft.

  Paul’s shoulders ached and the air burned down his throat. Every once in a while he flung his head to the side in order to toss sweat outward instead of letting it trickle into his eyes.

  “Take five,” a winded Kavanagh said.

  Both men set down their paddles, and the dinghy bobbed in the water.

  The five Great Lakes combined to make the largest fresh body of water in the world. Together, they contained twenty-one percent of the world’s surface fresh water. The total surface area was 94,250 square miles, and it made up 10,500 m
iles of shoreline. That was roughly half of the Earth’s equator. Many Americans referred to the Great Lakes shoreline as the North Coast or as the Third Coast.

  Although he just wanted to sit and recoup, Paul dug into his kit and chewed on another two aspirins. He needed these more often these days for too many aches and pains. He thought of aspirin as lubricants for his joints. They helped him keep going and they helped him push injured muscles. He grimaced to himself. He had two pieces of advice to anyone who wanted to be a LRSU man or who wanted to join Marine Recon. Those two pieces were 1) don’t ever get injured and 2) don’t get old. If a person followed just those two rules, he should do well in the service.

  Romo glanced nervously over the side of the dinghy and into the green water. He shuddered and quickly looked away. “Drop me from the sky,” he muttered, “no problem. Send me through minefields or behind enemy lines, who cares? But ask me to float above miles of water… My friend, this is a terrible thing we’re doing.”

  “It isn’t miles,” Paul said.

  “It is enough to drown in.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “I guess it is that.”

  Romo let go of his paddle, put the palms of his hands on his thighs and looked up into the brightening sky. The sun had been climbing now for fifteen minutes. If felt as if the world woke up from yet another long night.

  “We will die out here,” the Free Mexico assassin said.

  “It’s possible,” Paul admitted.

  Romo glanced at him. “It’s not comfort hearing that.”

  “It’s possible you could die out here,” Paul said. “But me on the other hand, I have an oath to keep and therefore I’m off limits.”

  “An oath to your wife?” Romo asked.

  “Si,” Paul said, and he let a grin slide onto his face. He wished Romo would relax. The man’s nervousness was making him edgy. The slap of waves against the dinghy reminded him of better times. The sound of water dripping off his oars relaxed him.

  The assassin went back to staring at the sky. He features became leaden, almost blank. Paul wondered what was wrong now. Then Romo began to speak in a low, flat voice: