Invasion: New York ia-4 Page 19

  “My instructions were to put the package into your hands,” he said.

  “I’m—”

  “This is very important,” John added.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, sounding miffed. “If you insist, I suppose.” A lock clicked and she eased open the security door, sticking out a thin old hand with trembling fingers.

  John ripped the door open and stepped inside, forcing her back. She wore a red dress with thick stockings, had gray hair and showed shocked surprise and then dismay.

  “Everything will be fine,” he said, closing the security door behind him.

  “Please,” she said, “you must go outside and—”

  He gripped a frail, upper arm and marched her deeper into the house, slamming the inner door shut.

  “What are you doing?” she complained.

  “You made the right decision,” John told her. “I’m your son’s friend. I’m France’s friend. Now sit down while I explain what you’re going to do.”

  She would phone her son and tell him to hurry home. Then John would speak to him. If his death luck held, the son would agree and the assassination plot would go forward. If he had waited too long to strike…

  Maybe it was time to the pray to the old gods. No. If they were real, they had already failed him once already. He would stick to the death power and win or lose on its strength alone.

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  GD Sergeant Hans Kruger woke up with a start. A burly guard with a nightstick dangling from his belt shook him awake.

  Hans stared up in fright at the sour-looking individual. The man had a crew cut and a face like dough, with a trickle of fluid oozing from the left eye. Up near the ceiling and behind the guard’s head glared a single light bulb.

  “Get up,” the guard said. The man had rank garlic breath.

  Trying not to make a face due to the foul odor, Hans sat up in a sterile room. He had a cot with a threadbare blanket, a steel stink and five feet of pacing room. It was worse than a monk’s cell. And all he had for clothes were white jockey shorts. They’d taken everything else.

  He’d entered the cramped submarine yesterday morning and traveled to the other shore of Lake Ontario. They hadn’t docked, but about three hundred meters from shore he’d jumped into a speedboat together with his two captors. He still remembered the boat’s bottom scraping up against a muddy beach. Several cars waited for them on a nearby road. His two captors had jogged to a different vehicle, and it had followed his car. He hadn’t seen those two since. Last night, Mr. Nightstick or his twin took his clothes and watched him shower as he’d washed with sandpaper-like soap. He’d spent most of the night staring up at the black ceiling of his cell, wondering what these changes would bring him.

  “Go that way,” Mr. Nightstick said.

  Hans wanted to ask for clothes, but he was too afraid. On naked feet, he padded through empty corridors of white tile. His eyes felt as gritty as last night’s soap and his stomach grumbled. What did they plan to do to him?

  “Stop,” the guard said.

  The man unlocked a heavy door, opening it and pointing inside a room.

  Hans entered, and he heard the door slam shut behind him. There was a table, two chairs and a mirror along a wall. He sat down, put his hands on the table and waited. He didn’t look at the mirror. He suspected others stood behind it, watching him.

  Time passed, and Hans shivered at the coolness of the cell. His stomach rumbled several times and he wanted a drink as his mouth was dry and stale.

  Abruptly, a key turned and the heavy door swung open. Three people walked in: Mr. Nightstick, a narrow-faced man in his thirties with a brown suit and a goatee and an exceptionally pretty woman in a green uniform with a white blouse. Mr. Goatee took the chair across the table from him. Mr. Nightstick stood near the door, crossing his arms and staring belligerently. The woman walked around the table and stood behind him.

  Hans twisted around to watch her. She didn’t wear pants, but a dress, nylons and heels. She had exceptional legs, better than the Turkish prostitutes he’d used.

  The man with the goatee cleared his throat.

  Hans faced him.

  “Don’t worry about Ms. Norton,” the man said. “She’s a psychologist and will assess the truthfulness of your words.”

  Hans opened his mouth to speak.

  The man with the goatee held up a slender hand. When Hans closed his mouth, the man nodded and leaned back in his chair.

  “Call me Karl,” the man said. “Do you understand English?”

  Hans nodded.

  “You will refrain from gestures and speak your answers,” Karl said.

  “I speak reasonable English,” Hans said.

  “Good. That will help. What is your name and rank?”

  “I am Hans Kruger, a sergeant in the GD Expeditionary Force. I operated a drone vehicle, the Sigrid antipersonnel platform. Under the Geneva Convention…”

  Hans trailed off, as Karl raised his hand again.

  “Let me explain something, Mr. Kruger,” Karl said. “In your case, we care nothing about the Geneva Convention. We believe you hold vital information toward the American war effort. Now, I have no doubt you’ve heard of waterboarding.”

  “I have,” Hans said, as his stomach tightened.

  “It’s a process you want to avoid, I assure you.”

  Hans nodded, and Karl frowned at him. “Yes!” Hans said. “I agree. I don’t want to be waterboarded.”

  “We can proceed down that road if we have to,” Karl said. “We can…”

  Hans leaned forward earnestly. “May I tell you something, sir?”

  Karl glanced at the woman behind Hans.

  Hans had forgotten about her. He glanced back, and it startled him to see she’d let down her long black hair and that she had opened the first three buttons of her blouse. What was going on here?

  “My psychologist is pretty, isn’t she, Hans?” Karl asked.

  Hans gulped nervously. He was more aware than ever concerning his almost total state of undress. He made a little yelping noise as she stepped nearer and put a hand on his shoulder. She had warm skin, too warm and sexual. He turned to Mr. Goatee.

  Karl sat back in his chair, smiling at him.

  Hans opened his mouth. The woman stroked his neck with a gentle touch.

  “Please,” Hans whispered. “I don’t think you understand. I’m willing to talk. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Karl’s face tightened, and he motioned the woman away. She removed her hand and stepped back.

  “We know how to deal with liars, Hans.”

  “I’m not lying. Tell me what you’d like to know and I’ll tell you.”

  Karl stroked his goatee. He seemed to measure Hans. Finally, he said, “Tell me about your Sigrid. I’m curious how you operated the vehicle.”

  Once more, Hans glanced back at the woman. Her features had turned frosty. She was beautiful, but he didn’t like the idea of her attempting to arouse him in the presence of these two men. The Americans had odd ideas about breaking a man, but this was better than being strapped down onto a board as they poured water down his mouth. He shuddered at the thought.

  “Is something wrong?” Karl asked.

  “No… It’s—it’s chilly in here.”

  “He’s lying,” the woman said. “That wasn’t what he was thinking.”

  Hans’s stomach tightened worse than before. “I-I was just thinking about waterboarding. I…I didn’t like the thought.”

  Karl glanced at the woman.

  “He could be telling the truth now,” she said.

  Hans licked his lips nervously. He didn’t like these two. No. He didn’t like them at all.

  “Let’s try this again,” Karl said. “First, I want to know your exact procedures as you operate the Sigrid drone…”

  In such an unlikely manner, Hans Kruger began an interrogation marathon that would last for weeks.

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  Colon
el Stan Higgins, the commanding officer of the single US Behemoth Regiment, toured the new Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Detroit.

  He was in his fifties and at five ten he weighed a precise two hundred pounds. The last month had almost been as bad as the endless weeks of combat against the Chinese this winter. He had a hectic schedule and didn’t get enough sleep. To compensate, he ate too much and exercised too little. He was athletic and still enjoyed various competitive sports including basketball and ping-pong…when he could find the time. He hadn’t found it lately and had gained too many pounds that had gone directly to his stomach.

  As of this moment, the Behemoth Regiment only had six running machines, and not all of those operated at peak efficiency. The Behemoths were great big tanks at three hundred tons apiece. They boasted the only rail guns in the entire North American theater, Allied or Aggressor. The regiment was stationed in Oklahoma behind the defensive works facing the Chinese and Brazilian invasion armies.

  Stan had arrived in Detroit this morning, coming at the request of General McGraw.

  Stan stood in a spacious hangar filled with heavy equipment. Some of the equipment had come from Denver. Those parts or machines looked rusted and badly used. Just like Stalingrad in WWII, Denver had gone through the meat grinder of sieges this winter. The rest of the assembly line equipment was new, with workers in coveralls boiling over it from one end to the other. Chains rattled in places. Rollers clacked and steam hissed two hundred feet away at the end.

  By turning to his left, Stan spied five battered Behemoth hulks. Big laser burn-holes showed in several of them. Those had faced the Chinese laser tanks, or the Mobile Canopy Anti-Ballistic Missile vehicles, as they were officially called. The Chinese normally used the six-hundred ton, three-trailer vehicles as air and missile defense. But much as the Germans in WWII had used their famous 88mm antiaircraft guns against tanks, the Chinese had done the same with their “laser tanks.” The battle between the two technologically advanced weapon systems had been the Behemoths’ toughest to date.

  America was building more Behemoth plants, but at present this was the only one going. It would take three more months before the Behemoth Regiment was back to full strength. At the same time, the US Army had started a second regiment. Now the GD threatened Detroit, or they would in another few weeks unless something decisive happened to halt their advance.

  “Colonel Higgins!” General McGraw shouted.

  McGraw had commanded the decisive thrust against the Pan-Asian Alliance this winter. Army Group Washington had contained the best divisions America possessed, and that had made the difference. McGraw now commanded the entire Midwestern Defense facing the PAA and the South American Federation.

  Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was a bear of a man, with a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. Like Patton, McGraw wore pistols at his side even here at the civilian plant. McGraw’s guns were old issue .45s, and he had used them on more than one occasion.

  “Good to see you, Stan.”

  “General,” Stan said.

  They shook hands, two of the crucial officers of the dream team that had saved the United States this winter. Stan knew that the general was on his way to Washington to meet with the President. No doubt the Commander in Chief wanted McGraw’s advice.

  They had both been busy in the Midwest, readying their commands in case the Chinese and Brazilians decided to launch another up-the-gut invasion this summer. So far, the Aggressors had been content to lick their wounds and rebuild their depleted formations.

  The plant manager and his aides stepped away from Stan. They must have seen something in McGraw’s face.

  Stan watched them go, mildly surprised at their reaction. “Did you scowl at them?” he asked the general.

  McGraw grinned for only a moment. Then he became serious. “I only have a few minutes for you, old son. I’m off to Washington to see the king.”

  Stan became serious, too. There was something very close to his heart. “Say, before you ask me whatever it is you’re going to, I have something to ask you.”

  “What’s that?” McGraw said, lifting a bushy eyebrow. He had a tuft of white hairs there.

  “I haven’t heard from my son for several weeks. He hasn’t been answering any emails and his cell just rings when I phone. I finally got through to his friends in the Militia. They say he’s in trouble with the Detention people. I phoned them, but they’re stonewalling me. I finally used a back channel and discovered he’s in a penal battalion.”

  “What, your boy?”

  “It’s crazy. My boy fought in Denver and survived the siege. This is total bullshit. Tom, what’s with the Militia people? I know the regular members are great men and women. But some of the leaders are…well, they remind me of the Brownshirts or the SS.”

  A touch of worry creased McGraw’s face. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly. Who knows what little bird will hear you and pass along your words.”

  Stan snorted angrily. “You can bet I’m going to say it even louder if they don’t release my boy from their…their penal battalions. What’s up with that?”

  “Up with that?” McGraw asked. “Are you sure you’re a colonel?”

  “No, sir,” Stan said. “I’m a pissed-off father ready to rock and roll against the Militia leadership. I’ll take this up with Director Harold if I have to.”

  General McGraw’s face grew serious. “You know how the wind is blowing. Director Harold has instituted some rough decrees. He gets things done and the Militia has mobilized millions, and armed them too.”

  “The Army could have done the same thing.”

  “Twenty years ago, yes, you would be right,” McGraw said. “But this isn’t your father’s army.”

  “Tom, I’m dead, dead serious. They can’t—”

  “Hold it right there. Don’t tell me about can’t. They took Jake. At least from what you’re saying they did. I’ll see what I can do, but these Militia leaders usually cover their butts pretty well. If your son has crossed the line somewhere, you’re going to have to be smart and tactful to get him out of this mess, not just bull ahead.”

  Stan turned away. If Jake died because of this nonsense…he’d be ready to turn the Behemoths on the Militia leadership. But there was no sense telling Tom that. The general had enough problems.

  “I appreciate whatever you can do, sir,” Stan said.

  “No, no, Colonel,” McGraw said. “Don’t go all formal on me.” The general grabbed Stan by the elbow and steered him away from the waiting plant manager.

  “Listen to me. I’ll do what I can for Jake. But you know Army brass doesn’t have a lot of pull with the Militia. They might use your boy as a bargaining chip against us. You know what I mean?”

  “I know,” Stan said, and it made his gut ache. What was wrong with those people?

  “But I’ll bend some arms,” McGraw said. “You can count on that.”

  “I know,” Stan said. And he did. He trusted Tom McGraw.

  “You’re good then?”

  Stan wasn’t good in the slightest. He hadn’t been good ever since learning about this. But he was Army. He could put his pain in a box and shut the lid so he could concentrate on the matter at hand. He gave the general a sharp nod.

  “Good,” McGraw said. “Now how about you help me for a moment.”

  “Of course,” Stan said.

  “You’ve been keeping abreast of the GD campaign in Southern Ontario?”

  “Night and day,” Stan said.

  “I knew you would be. Do you have any ideas?”

  Stan knew what McGraw meant. Did he have any ideas about how to stop the GD blitzkrieg? Well, the Army and the reformed Canadians had stopped the blitz for a time. It came at the cost of the Toronto Pocket, and too many prized divisions caught in a trap. The Germans would capture those soldiers soon. Nothing American High Command did had been able to break them free. Once the pocket surrendered, the blitz would likely conti
nue. He had an idea how to keep the Germans bottled afterward, but he wasn’t sure the general would like it much.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Stan admitted. “It’s tight country in Southern Ontario. Especially the area squeezed between Lake Huron, Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. There’s a lot of city there, too, a lot of built-up area. Unfortunately, the GD has better and more armor and better and more mechanized units than we do.”

  “They have plenty of ground-based drones, too,” McGraw said. “That gives them an amazing advantage.”

  Stan agreed. “From the repots I’ve read, our armor is outclassed. Facing GD tanks head-on is too costly in our machines, and our helos have taken crippling losses whenever they’ve attacked. We need to keep our older tanks away from theirs. There aren’t any Jeffersons up north, as we have them all locked up in the Midwest. Frankly, the only way I can see right now at stopping them for good is through mass, lots of warm bodies in the way.”

  “Armed with plenty of anti-tank weapons?” McGraw asked.

  “We need more of that, much more,” Stan said. “But our portable anti-tank weapons aren’t as good as theirs. And those Sigrids combined with the Kaisers, Leopards and laser-armed Sabre fighter-jets—it’s a brutal mix, sir. No. I believe the answer is massed bodies backed by thousands of gun tubes.”

  “Artillery, huh,” McGraw said.

  “Raining down anti-tank rounds by the ton,” Stan said. “If we can, we have to turn the battle from a high-tech contest to something where we can compete at better odds. We need siege lines, Tom, massed SAMs and tactical antiair lasers so they can’t pull any more of their tank drops against us. That was well done on their part. No. I take that back. It was a brilliant maneuver.”

  “They’ve been brilliant, I’ll grant you that,” McGraw said. “They have their own Stan Higgins over there.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir, but the GD generals know their business. We have more men or soldiers than the GD does. They have more machines. Too bad we couldn’t fire giant EMP weapons over them and stall the GD machines.”

  “Nuclear explosions cause electromagnetic pulses,” McGraw said thoughtfully.