Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: New York

“With all my army around me,” Mansfeld whispered, “I will defend Quebec to the death.”

General Mansfeld chuckled. He had hollow-looking eyes and he stooped the slightest bit. These last several weeks had especially taken a physical toll on him. But his brain was still as sharp as ever. He had maneuvered his forces within the severe limits imposed on him by Kleist. He had waited for the Chancellor to come to his senses. Now, at the last hour, the man in Berlin realized the truth that his general had clearly seen weeks ago.

Mansfeld sighed. It was a curse to see the future as he did. Still, if he could hold the eastern flank, if those hover-jockeys could perform one more time, then he would show the world. He would show everyone that Walther Mansfeld was the greatest general since Genghis Khan.

He tapped the computer map, and he said to himself, “No one can defeat me when we play the game my way. I will certainly not lose to these American fools.”

During these last weeks of endless battle, Lieutenant Teddy Smith had grown sick of the war. He had a bad cough and his right hand ached all the time. That had happened because he gripped the steering wheel so hard during combat.

His hand ached now. The engine whined because they moved at high speed and there was a smell of oil in the cab. Trees flashed by and then rows of wheat fields. The engine knocked as Smith throttled greater power, and they flew over a barbed wire fence. Their battalion led the 7th Galahad Division as it swung around the Americans in a surprise stroke.

“Smoke, sir,” Sergeant Holloway said.

Smith glanced to his left. He saw it. HQ laid down smoke all over the place in a careful pattern. This was mobile war at its finest against American M1s, Bradleys and Strykers trying to defeat a host of Galahads, emplaced GD infantry and superior minefields. Smith had paid attention during the last briefing. HQ channeled the American attack, gave the enemy something to do and had them looking the wrong way. At the same time, Galahads swung wide and now hooked inward like a punch. Smith had been part of such actions all summer.

The long hook had a precise use. It was to get behind the fighting troops and into enemy rear areas. Once there, the hovers shot up supply columns and enemy HQs. The smoke out there was a screen, used when they lacked terrain like hills or deep gullies.

The Galahad shuddered, making the windows rattle. The engine knocked worse than before and the oily smell intensified. The machine needed a complete overhaul, not these last-minute checkups.

“Hello,” Holloway said.

Smith saw it on his screen. Because of the targets, his grip tightened on the steering wheel. He had been in the field for too many months now. He needed a break.

The 76mm cannon roared. A shell screamed and an American truck exploded in the distance.

The radio crackled, and the captain congratulated them. It was crazy, but Smith felt the old excitement begin once again. He had thought there would come a time when destroying enemy vehicles would be old hat. So far, he still loved it.

The Galahad zoomed down a rolling hill toward the target-rich environment. A US truck company had spread out perfectly for them on a road. Smith chuckled throatily. Other hovers raced after them, fast-moving vehicles with blasting cannons.

Using the targeting computer, Holloway fired again. That was one of the neatest Galahad tricks of all: excellent fire control while moving at top speed. Heavy trucks exploded like microwaved kernels in a popcorn bag.

“Sweep past this group,” the captain radioed. “We’re hooking deeper. Others behind you will finish this.”

Smith nodded, and he grinned despite his aching hand. With an effort of will, he tore his hurt fingers off the steering wheel. He drove one-handed, even though the wheel vibrated far too much. That caused the Galahad to wobble.

“Hey,” Holloway said from behind.

Smith grabbed the wheel with both hands. They really needed to get the hover overhauled. It should fly smoother than this.

The battalion left burning trucks behind them. Now they flew down a highway and on either side of it. More hovers followed. They tore into the guts of the attack, and they would leave before the enemy tanks and Bradleys could turn around and catch them. The hovers were wasps, in and out, destroy and run, modern-day Mongols, there’s a good lad.

Smith managed a laugh. The engine knocked harder, and they rose over the top of another rolling hill. This time, nothing, just emptiness before them. They kept going, and Smith throttled it open. A deep raid like this needed to be fast like a rapier thrust—in and out to do it again later.

The third set of rolling hills brought them the jackpot. Masses of American trucks raced away off-road, seeking to escape their coming destruction.

“Not today,” Smith told them.

The battalion flew to the attack. Cannons roared. It was mayhem. Fire belched from their gun and smoke rose heavier after each shell left the barrel. They were getting low on ammo.

“That should do it,” Smith said later.

Holloway said nothing. He was in his element and adored the moment, a silent fox in the henhouse.

Smith glanced at the radio, waiting to see the green light come on with an incoming call. They had destroyed what they’d come for. Now it was time to head back for their lines. Going for more was pushing their luck. The captain should know that. The Americans would want more than anything to destroy the hovercrafts.

“Good hunting, lads,” the captain said.

Smith nodded.

“Let’s find one more group before we head home,” the captain said.

Smith’s eyes widened. No. They should not find one more set of targets, but turn around while they could. What was HQ thinking? In the end, it didn’t matter if he knew their mind or not. He obeyed the commands sent down the line. To that end, he eyed the indicator showing their low supply of shells.

The lead Galahads crested another hill, and this time they faced Bradley fighting vehicles from a distance. US missiles launched almost immediately from the Bradleys.

“Fire, fire!” Smith shouted. He swerved, and on the screen, he tracked a missile zooming at them. Auto-fire blasted at the thing. Chaff expelled and flares burned hot to confuse enemy targeting.

To Smith’s right, a Galahad exploded and flipped, and it crackled with flames.

“Pull back,” the captain said. “We’re leaving.”

“Finally,” Smith said.

Galahad turrets swiveled to give Parthian shots at the slow-moving Bradleys trying to give chase. Smith throttled gas, and the engine knocked louder than ever. The hover lurched to the right, which jerked the wheel. Smith had to let go with his right hand because it hurt too damn much. The machine wobbled worse from the lack of full control.

“Missile,” Holloway said in his clipped manner.

Smith yanked one-handed and it was too sharp a turn. They were going fast. The engine coughed, and there was a big old rock on the ground. It changed the airflow going over it. The angle of the Galahad was already incorrect and a fan vent had stuck into the wrong position. The ultimate in misfortune happened—the hover flipped.

“Hang on!” Smith shouted. He grabbed the wheel with both hands. It didn’t matter. His world had gone topsy-turvy and the Gs made his stomach tighten painfully. The top of the turret hit the ground, armor crunched, and the Galahad bounced. Terrible screeching sounds deafened Lieutenant Smith. Blurs of sight flashed before him. Then they stopped, and Smith panted upside-down in his seat. It took several breaths, but Smith finally said, “Sergeant.”

There was no answer.

Smith twisted back, and quickly faced forward again. Holloway’s head had a hole in it.