Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: New York

“We’re going to win this war,” Paul said. “We’re going to free our country yet.”

“We’re going to kill them, my friend,” Romo said. “We’re going to butcher every one of the invading scum.”

The two men went back to scanning the burning hulks. One vehicle lay on its side, with a huge rent in it like a great dragon, with a glowing orange from the guts where the inner fire was stored. Some Kaisers remained, maybe a tenth that had been there a scant few minutes before.

“Will they keep coming?” Romo asked.

“I’m betting not,” Paul said.

He proved right. The remaining Kaisers retreated. A few moments later, the Sigrids followed. There would be no GD thrust to smash the approaching American-Canadian force. It looked like the siege of Montreal was about to begin.

General Mansfeld sat at his deck in his inner sanctum. He had his elbows on the wood and ran his fingers through his hair. How could this have happened?

He had witnessed the destruction of his dreams with missiles from the heavens. Twice now, American technology had snatched victory from his hands.

“No,” he said.

A loaded pistol sat on the desk before him. He knew what he should do. It was obvious. He had lost. The campaign was lost. The Americans drove to Montreal. He had already given the orders to set up the defensive lines starting at Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. The Americans couldn’t race in, but that didn’t matter now. Their artillery could sweep the harbors. He had needed to smash them, drive them back out of long-range artillery distances. Then he could have—

“No,” he whispered.

Mansfeld dropped his right hand onto the metal. He picked up the gun and stared at it. Put the barrel against your head and pull the trigger . It would be easy. Surely, Kleist would summon him home. The Chancellor would give him to the torturers. That was no way for the greatest general in history to die.

Mansfeld shook his head sadly at his undeserved fate. He put the barrel against his temple. Others had failed him at the critical moments. Yet the history books would say that he lost. It was a gross injustice. Everything had been so plain to him. He had seen how to defeat these contemptible Americans.

“They were lucky,” Mansfeld whispered.

His hand trembled, and he willed himself to pull the trigger.

“No,” he whispered. With a clunk, he set the gun on the desk. He couldn’t do it.

He heard footsteps approaching.

Quickly, Mansfeld picked up the gun and opened a drawer, setting it inside. He closed the drawer and the door opened.

He didn’t even have the courtesy to knock .

Mansfeld wondered if it would be Holk or Zeller. He knew which general he would pick. How wise would Kleist prove?

The door swung open all the way. Pudgy General Holk looked in with a scowl. Big GD secret service agents stood behind him.

“General Mansfeld,” Holk said.

Kleist had picked the wrong man. Mansfeld almost chuckled. Zeller was the better general, but Holk had spent more time on the defense during this campaign. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

“You are under arrest,” Holk said.

Mansfeld nodded. He had known this was coming. Maybe it still wasn’t too late. Yet the thought of opening the drawer, grabbing the gun in time and getting the barrel to his temple, and then not shooting himself… No, he could not embarrass himself in front of Holk like that. He would take his chances and hope for nonexistent mercy from Kleist.

He had been wrong too much lately. Maybe Kleist handing him over to the torturers would also prove to be wrong.

“These men will take you back to Berlin,” Holk said.

Mansfeld noticed the general didn’t appear remorseful at all. The man was an ingrate. He should have sacked this pathetic general when he had the chance.

The secret service men strode to him.

Mansfeld stood. He didn’t bother saluting the pig Holk. The man was going to lose badly and possibly be captured. It was time to leave this failed enterprise. He was done with it.

John Red Cloud did pushups in an empty apartment on the fifth floor of Krupp Tower. He had been here for weeks on end. His food supply had dangerously dwindled and boredom threatened him with madness.

He’d endured as only a hormagaunt on the death path could. His ability to wait bordered on the supernatural. Now a terrible question throbbed in his mind.

On the radio, he had listened to the battle of Montreal and the swift American victory. That meant the rest of the GD Expeditionary Force would quickly lack munitions, food, gas—all the items needed to run a modern military. Ninety percent of the Expeditionary Force was out of supply. It would just be a matter of time now before the Americans starved them into surrender as they’d starved Chinese Third Front into submission this winter.

Clearly, the fight was nearly over. Now it was simply a matter of mopping up various defensive positions. Quebec would not remain in the German Dominion. Therefore, the Algonquian people would not have enjoyed true freedom under the GD no matter what the Germans had decided.

Did that mean he no longer needed to kill Kleist?

Red Cloud scowled as he forced out another rep. He kept fit and nimble in the empty apartment, even though he had not left it for weeks. Foch had given him the equipment he needed—an RPG and a heavy 12.7mm machine gun.

For this grave task, a sniper rifle was too chancy. Since John had told Foch he was willing to trade his life for Kleist’s, the French had given him proper killing tools to make certain the first part of the bargain happened.

Red Cloud sat down on the floor. He picked up a towel. It was crusted and stiff from too much use. Despite that, he wiped sweat from his forehead. Why trade a life for a life if killing Kleist no longer mattered to the war, to the GD occupation?

Yet that wasn’t the only question. He had stepped onto the death path. From his understanding, one could not step off such a path. He had committed himself. He had used the power of the death path to reach this place. He had murdered innocent men. To walk away now was blasphemy. The power of the path would recoil upon him and he would die anyway, in dishonor.

Red Cloud became glum. He was a marked man. He had taken the curse of death on himself in order to kill one particular man.

His smart phone beeped.

With a fluid motion, he reached the phone. A text waited for him. It was three words long: The third car .

The moment had finally arrived. It caused his head to throb and his eyes to water. He rubbed them until they were clear. Then he read the text again. After he finished, he dropped the phone on the floor. The thing hit and the screen cracked. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing would ever matter again for him.

A feeling of cold calm swept over Red Cloud. Chancellor Kleist roared through Berlin in a motorcade. This time, Foch had discovered it in time. Kleist feared assassination. Therefore, he took extraordinary precautions to thwart attempts. He had dummy cars and many look-alike targets, and he seldom let anyone know the route he would take.

The Chancellor would be in the third car. Naturally, it was a heavily armored car. It had defenses.

Red Cloud shook his head. Nothing mattered but the execution of the plan. He must concentrate.

He went to the fifth story window and opened it. A cool breeze blew in. He picked up the RPG and readied it. Then he stepped to the window. He did not poke the RPG through the opening. He hung back. He didn’t want security personnel to see him too soon.