Invasion: New York

-12- The GD Armada

From Military History: Past to Present, by Vance Holbrook:

2040, July 11-16. Breakout. From Rochester, Zeller sent two corps heading for Buffalo sixty-five miles to the southwest. A weakened Twelfth Army sped east on Interstate 90 for Syracuse seventy-five miles away. New York City was 250 miles away from Rochester.

In Southern Ontario, Holk’s heavy assaults against US Fifth Army in the Niagara Peninsula retarded its disengagement and threatened the army’s entrapment within the peninsula.

To the east in New York State, the lead elements of the coastal US XI Airmobile Corps set up screening battalions in Syracuse as the others rushed for the city. Meanwhile, the first Canadian units in Manitoba entrained for the long, roundabout trip to New York. All along the north of First Front—from the northern edge of Lake Ontario to the Quebec border and then stretching across northern New York, Vermont and New Hampshire—US Army Group New York and US Army Group New England strove to contain the GD Fromm Offensive.

The Americans sought to defend nearly everything of First Front, as they waited for the Canadian reinforcements. It was a matter of time. They had to stop the new GD blitz along New York Interstate 90 long enough for the Canadians to give them overwhelming numbers. Mansfeld, meanwhile, readied his masterstroke from the Atlantic Ocean.

The unsolvable crisis point for America had almost arrived.

In the darkness, Paul Kavanagh slid his motorcycle on gravel, taking it down in a controlled crash. He flipped out of the bike at the last second, twisting his ankle—his foot wrenched against the gear-shifter. He tumbled, weapons rolling off him and body armor compressing against his torso. His helmeted head slammed against a rock, and he lay there for a moment, stunned.

Since leaving Ontario Beach Park and Rochester, Paul and Romo had been involved in one long running and losing gun battle against the enemy.

Paul heard a dirt bike engine, and a tire crunching gravel. From seemingly far away a voice asked, “Amigo, what happened to you?”

While groaning and blinking, Paul sat up. The stars shone above. In the distance and lower down, a dark GD tank column used Interstate 90. Littered along the freeway were blasted M1 tanks, overturned Bradley fighting vehicles and holed Strykers. The US 9th Armored Battalion had made a stand a half hour ago. The brave soldiers had slowed the GD advance, but not for long enough. Paul had watched some of the battle from the air in a stealth helo. He’d seen the battalion die a bitter death.

Now he and Romo used dirt bikes. They’d landed several miles back, wrestling their machines out of the helo. They were close enough to the interstate now that they were going to crawl nearer and wash the tank column with a laser designator. It was the best way to defeat GD ECM, guiding US missiles straight onto target.

“Are you hurt?” Romo asked.

Paul felt along his helmet as if feeling his head. The skull didn’t throb, but his eyes felt wobbly. Digging into a pocket, he came up with some painkillers, swallowing two capsules. He didn’t have time to hurt, and he certainty hadn’t had time for sleep these past thirty-six hours.

“I’m fine,” Paul said.

“Is that why I hear a frog in your throat?” Romo asked, shutting off his bike and lying it down. “We don’t dare ride any closer.”

There was scrub here on the rolling hill. A dark farmhouse and barn stood lower down in the distance and to the side. There was a long driveway to a dirt road near the freeway.

Romo crouched low beside Paul, and he scratched his left cheek, digging in his fingernails, making scraping noises. “I fear your country doesn’t have enough to win this one. The Germans are slicing through everything command can throw at them. The Germans are going to take Syracuse. If they do…” Romo stopped scratching because he shook his head.

Paul knew what he meant. Syracuse was the key to the campaign. North and south, Interstate 81 went through Syracuse. It was the supply lifeline for Army Group New York to the north. From Lake Ontario to Cornwall near the Quebec border, the Army Group held back mass GD forces. Without the lifeline, Army Group New York would have to fall back. That would open up Army Group New England’s western flank. If Army Group New England collapsed…

America had to hold Syracuse. The US XI Airmobile Corps stationed on the Atlantic coast rushed to the city. Now, though, nothing guarded the Atlantic seaboard. If the German Dominion used its amphibious force in Cuba to rush to New Jersey, New York or the Connecticut cost…it wouldn’t face anything but for a few policemen in their squad cars.

Paul knew it looked bad for their side, awful in fact. But it had been that way in California, too. It had been that way in Texas, in Kansas, in Colorado…

“This can’t go on,” Paul said.

“This is a sad day for your country, my friend,” Romo said. “I know the feeling. It’s too bad there is nowhere for you to run. When Mexico fell to the Chinese, I could come here. We can’t go to Canada, because soon there will not be a Canada.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Romo held him back. “Let us wait a few more minutes. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Paul picked up the laser designator. It looked like a bulky, overheavy assault rifle. He shouldered the strap and tested his bad ankle. Pain flared, but he’d had worse. Slipping off the strap, he set down the designator, sat on the gravel and began tightening the laces of his combat boots. He was going to tie this sucker tight. His ankle could worry about swelling later.

“You’re driven,” Romo commented.

“I guess.” Paul stood, tested the ankle and could feel the tendons stretch until pain flared. It hurt, but he figured he could go another five hundred miles if he had to. If he didn’t, his wife would be a widow and maybe even some Chinese soldier’s play toy. He didn’t like the Chinese. He didn’t like the Brazilians, and he sure as hell didn’t like these Germans either.

“Come on,” Paul said.

Romo sighed, following him.

They worked down the hill, climbed through a barbed wire fence and moved through a pasture.

The enemy column moved in the darkness. No moon, just shining stars up there. Had the Germans planned that, too, attacking during the right phase of the moon? The Krauts were good at war. Maybe they always had been. That didn’t make him like them any better.

“This is a good spot,” Romo said.

“We’re close enough?” Paul asked.

“Si.”

Paul lay on the grass. So did Romo. Soon, Paul trained the designator on the distant column. “I got it,” he said.

Romo used a one-time pad, and he spoke with their SOCOM coordinator. In the dark, he told Paul, “They’re on their way.”

There weren’t too many cruise missiles left in stock in this part of the country. Their side had to use them wisely now. It wasn’t like the old days when America could pour hardware at a problem and make it disappear in a haze of countless explosions.

Enemy ECM was damn good, but it couldn’t beat an infrared laser painting the target. No, sir—

“Here they come,” Romo said.

Dark streaks slid through the sky. They homed in on the infrared signal, and the fireworks started. Enemy beehive flechettes, autocannons, antimissile rockets: they blasted munitions that raced to meet the onrushing American cruise missiles.

GD tech was the best. The counter fire took out all but one cruise missile. That one exploded and blasted a Ritter tank, flipped the mother and took out a second one. Paul heard the tremendous clangs as the 40-ton tank smashed back onto the ground. A grass fire started, and then a GD fuel carrier exploded. That made things blaze, and smaller vehicles raced away from the mayhem.

“Not enough cruise missiles to stop the column,” Romo said. “We scratched the enemy is all.”

“We need to start thinking about using nukes,” Paul said.

From on the ground, Romo glanced at him. “That wouldn’t be too good for you or me.”

“I guess not,” Paul said.

“Your wife wouldn’t like that either.”

“No…”

“But a nuclear warhead would be more effective,” Romo said. “You are right.”

“Let’s go—”

At that moment, hisses punctured the night, and a German shout alerted Paul and Romo that they were under attack by GD commandos.

Paul slithered around the other way, and he crawled on his hands and knees. He moved faster than a man had a right to move like that. Romo was right behind him. Shots kicked up gravel, bits of dirt around him. Then something slammed against Paul and knocked him face-first onto the ground.

He grunted, and his chin slid through dirt.

Romo cursed in Spanish, surged up and grabbed Paul Kavanagh under the armpits. Paul got his feet, and he ran.

A GD bullet had put him down. American body armor had saved his sorry hide. Now the two LRSU commandos sprinted uphill.

Romo panted, and he was on the horn with a shoulder microphone. They had a helo to pick them up. It was five minutes away.

“We’ll never make it up the hill,” Paul said.

“Si. I’ll take right.”

Romo let go of Paul, and the assassin dove right. Paul dove left, and the two commandos crawled through the grass. They hadn’t made it back to the barbed wire fence yet.

Paul stopped crawling and panted on the ground. Then he slid his sniper rifle from his back. GD Humvee utility vehicles roared this way from the interstate. That was bad. Paul chambered a round, and he used his night vision scope, hunting for the enemy sniper who had put him down.

It might have been nice to use his high-tech visor and computer ballistic hardware. It gave off too much an electronic signature, at least for GD tech to pick up. This old-fashioned night scope could do the trick just fine and without giving him away.

Paul took out a sound suppressor and quickly screwed it into place. Low sound was good. Less flash was better. With his elbows on the ground, Paul searched the darkness and the weeds out there. One bigger weed moved in the wrong direction, at least for the way the breeze blew. Paul studied the weed and the area around it, and he caught a dull color. Was that a GD helmet?

Paul concentrated, aimed and squeezed the trigger as he held his breath. The rifle butt slammed against his shoulder. He watched, and there wasn’t any spume of dirt. The dull patch twitched, though. It had a hole in it, and fluid leaked out.

Backing up, moving to a different position, he heard Romo’s sound suppressor. Then he heard the assassin curse softly.

GD rounds split the air. Three enemy commandos must be firing at them.

“Romo?” Paul said softly.

His blood brother made an owl sound.

That’s all he needed. From prone on the ground, Paul kept hunting, and he grinned, although he didn’t know he did. This was his kind of warfare. He could take these Germans. He could—

“Helo,” Romo said softly. The assassin had crawled near. “It’s going to pop up and give us a barrage. Get ready, my friend.”

Paul scanned the darkness. Then he heard the stealth machine. It would be better if they were on the other side of the hill. Then they could climb aboard and leave. He didn’t like the pilot risking himself and the machine. But everyone was going the extra mile tonight. They couldn’t let Syracuse fall. Everyone had to take a chance.

Paul heard the helo. He heard missiles launch, and he saw missiles and heavy machine gun fire erupt from the GD Humvees.

“Go!” Romo shouted.

Paul got up, and he saw Romo get up from ten feet away. They raced for the helo. Kavanagh was hardly aware of bulling between two strands of barbed wire. Clothes tore, a long, bloody gash spilled blood from his arm, but he was through the fence and sprinting uphill.

That’s when a GD missile slammed into the stealth helo and an explosion tore into the night, causing lines of light to etch across the darkness.

“No!” Paul shouted. He dove, but not fast enough. The concussion shoved him into the dirt. Then metal and other debris rained around him. One piece slashed across his body armor, and Kavanagh was surprised when he took another breath.

The helo crashed into the side of the rolling hill, and another grass fire blazed. This one would outline them for sure.

“Run!” Romo shouted. “Just run! Give it everything!”

Paul knew Romo was right. He got up, but he felt surreal. Blood dripped from his forearm and his back throbbed. His ankle hurt. A bullet whizzed past his ear.

Is this how I die?

He would miss Cheri, and he would miss Mikey growing up to be a man. Damn, he wanted to hold his wife again. He wanted to kiss her and tell her how much he loved her. This sucked. He hated this. Man, he wanted to live. He—

“No,” Paul Kavanagh said. He dropped onto his belly, and he took out his sniper rifle. It took him seconds to set himself and another second to find a GD bastard. The enemy commando must have decided he didn’t need to hide anymore. He had exposed himself for a better firing position, and took a shot.

Paul didn’t flinch. He was too angry. He heard the bullet. It might even have grazed him. It was a great shot, but it wasn’t good enough. Paul’s shot was good enough, and the German commando didn’t learn why he should have stayed in his home country. The German didn’t learn because he would never learn anything ever again. He was dead, and he was missing a face because Paul’s bullet had blown it away.

Paul Kavanagh took out two more GD commandos. He gave Romo time to reach the hill. He gave Romo time to reach the dirt bikes on the hill. He even gave Romo time to start a bike.

“Good bye, friend,” Paul said to himself.

He shot the last GD commando in the neck. The Humvee enemy vehicles were halfway here, and one of the machine gunners had already started blazing with its 12.7mm.

I wonder if I can take out that bastard, too?

Paul was sick of running, and his back hurt throbbing bad. The shrapnel had done something. He might as well fight it out this last battle. Paul was in the process of sighting the lead Humvee gunner when the whine of Romo’s dirt bike penetrated his thinking.

“You’re a crazy-man, Kavanagh,” Romo shouted from the bike. “All you can think about is killing the enemy.”

If Paul were another man, he might have thought about things a few precious seconds longer. The moment he realized Romo was here on the bike, Paul jumped up in a smooth move and slammed down behind Romo. The assassin twisted the throttle. The rear tire spun, blowing out dirt and grass, and the motorcycle’s back end slewed around, aiming them back uphill. Then they shot forward, the engine revving, with bullets causing fountains of dirt to spew around them.

They beat the GD Humvee light vehicles. Romo didn’t bother stopping for Paul’s bike. They fled before enemy air came, or a missile, or whatever the invaders used to do the dirty to kill them. They knew the fight wasn’t over yet. They had survived another commando mission to fight again another time.

Warrant Officer Gunther Weise smoked a cigarette outside the control tower of the greatest GD supercarrier of them all, Otto von Bismarck. It displaced one hundred and thirty thousand tons, and carried nearly two hundred of the latest UAVs. Even now, a steam catapult fired another drone into the brisk ocean air. The UAV moved like a wasp, climbing into the sky to fly CAP for the giant armada.

All around him in the hazy mist and low swells, Gunther spied war vessels. The GD had seven carrier groups out here, seven supercarriers, each with their accompanying escorts. They had ten battleships altogether with the latest strategic defensive systems. Those masses—the carrier groups and the battleships—were the heart of the armada. There were more cruisers and destroyers. There were helo-carriers, endless transports, dozens of big infantry and tank carriers and giant hover landers. Then there were hundreds of smaller vessels, fuel tankers, supply vessels…

The world had never seen a fleet like this, one able to disgorge two hundred thousand foot soldiers and vast numbers of fighting vehicles onto a beach. This was the war winner for the 2040 North American invasion, and he—Gunther Weise—was a part of history in the making.

Gunther was an intel analyst, and he worked in the central situation room. He was one of the operators keeping the big screen updated with the latest intelligence. General Kaltenbrunner of Army Group D and the armada’s admiral often debated within earshot of him. Sometimes he glanced over his shoulder and saw one of them scowl or shake his head in disagreement.

Wait until my father hears about this.

His father worked in the aerospace industry in Bonn, building the latest satellites. After high school, the old man had immediately wanted Gunther to enter the industry. Gunther planned to follow his dad’s path, of course. There wasn’t a man alive he respected more. First, he wanted an experience of a lifetime. This was an exciting time to be alive. Father could see that. Yes… He supposed there was the specter of famine in the world.

Gunther shrugged, inhaling cigarette smoke. He’d been told that he was too young to understand things like famine and war. Probably his dad was right. They’d played countless board games together, and Gunther had usually lost. A man was only young once, however. This was Gunther’s time to risk and have a great and lasting experience.

The events he’d written about had impressed the older man. Gunther had heard the grudging acceptance of that in his father’s voice the last time they had talked.

Because of his technical expertise and placement, Gunther had the rare privilege of listening to high strategy in the making. He would sit at his spot near the big screen, drinking in the details as he monitored his equipment.

A door at the bottom of the control tower now opened. A bald-headed officer stepped out, with a purple birthmark shaped like a fist over his right eye. “Warrant Officer Weise!” the man shouted. “You’d better get in here. The screen is acting up, and the commander is back in the situation room.”

With his right-hand thumb and index finger, Gunther pinched the cigarette, taking a last inhalation. Then he removed the cigarette from his lips and flicked it toward the flight deck. The breeze would blow it overboard soon enough. The ashes and butt would tumble into the Atlantic Ocean. They were headed for America, toward New York City and the New Jersey shore. They were already one hundred kilometers beyond the Bahamas and moving fast.

The great event of his life was about to take place. Warrant Officer Gunther Weise strode for the control tower door. He was going to remember every detail today, so he could tell his son someday while the two of them played board games together.

Anna Chen felt sick, as if she was going to vomit onto the great circular conference table down here in Underground Bunker Number Five.

The President sat slumped in his chair, staring at the main screen with wide eyes. He looked ashen, and he had not spoken for a time, almost as if he’d been struck dumb by the newest sight.

I think it’s happening. This is the thing too big for us to handle and it’s crushing him. It looks as if Alan was wrong. The Cuba-based troops did exist after all.

The door to the chamber opened. Without the Marine guard announcing him, Director Max Harold strode in. Behind him followed three larger men in black suits.

Anna watched them, and she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then it struck her. The Marine guard hadn’t announced them and those three men had holstered weapons under their suits. They came to a meeting with the President while bearing arms. Only the Marines or Secret Service were supposed to be armed down here.

Then Anna noticed the guard closing the door. He almost seemed sheepish, quite unlike any Marine she’d ever seen before.

Those three are the director’s bodyguards. What are they doing with Max down here?

The director quietly took his place at the table. Behind him, where aides sat, the three bodyguards eased onto seats. They didn’t sit back and relax. No. They began to look around, and they eyed the people.

Am I being too paranoid? Anna asked herself.

General Norton sat in the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s chair today. He had been doing that ever since General Alan went to Syracuse to take over command on the ground.

Norton was medium-sized, a handsome man in his late fifties, with wavy dark hair. He must dye it. He looked like a movie star general, like a military man who could make fast and hard decisions. The funny thing was that’s exactly how he was. He didn’t have the greatest strategic breadth, but he could say yes or no when the President asked him a question.

General Norton now glanced at Max. Anna wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but the director nodded fractionally.

What’s going on here?

She remembered now that it had been Max’s idea to send General Alan to Syracuse. Max had said the country needed a firm hand to guide them in this desperate hour. For once, Max hadn’t suggested they use nuclear weapons to stop the Germans from running wild along the interstate.

What did General Norton think about using nuclear weapons? Had Max been angling for the man’s appointment as the chief military advisor down here?

“Sir,” Norton told the President. “This is one hundred percent reliable information we’re viewing.”

On the big screen, they all watched an immense GD armada steaming toward the United States. They came from Cuba, past the Bahamas and toward the New Jersey shore. Finally, it seemed as if the last piece of the puzzle was coming into place.

A high-altitude surveillance drone far out in the Atlantic Ocean gave them the imagining. Likely, the plane wouldn’t last long. While it did, the drone showed them the unbelievable extent of the GD armada. Many in here had said the Cuba-based troops were clever fakes: decoys to cause the American military to put garrison divisions along the Eastern seaboard instead of deploying them on the battlefield where the decision raged. General Alan had been the strongest proponent concerning the belief. It had been Alan’s argument that had swayed the President into letting the general move the XI Airmobile Corps from the coast and to Syracuse. Now it looked as if Alan and those who thought like him had been wrong.

The briefing officer had been showing them the extent of the infantry transports, tank carriers and amphibious landing craft. This was the real deal, and it was devastating.

The President leaned forward, putting tired elbows on the table. “They waited,” he said in a slow voice. “The Germans waited. They baited us first. We thought they were going to break through at Detroit and run crazy in Michigan and Ohio. No. That was misdirection. Then their surprise attack across Lake Ontario almost caught us flat-footed. It’s obvious now that they were going to do that. It should have been obvious they planned a greater amphibious assault on the Atlantic coast. They’re springing a giant trap on us.”

“Their maneuvering was deceptive,” General Norton said in a crisp voice. “It’s easy to see something after the event, sir. We had no real idea they had gathered enough ships in Lake Ontario to make a huge amphibious assault like they did.”

The President stared at General Norton. David didn’t nod or change expression. He just stared.

He’s weary, Anna realized. He is deep down exhausted. He thinks he caused this by letting the Germans into Quebec. Maybe he did. But what else could he have done? We wouldn’t have stopped the Chinese otherwise. I wish someone else besides me would say that to him.

“We’re using everything we have trying to stem the Lake Ontario amphibious invasion,” the President said in his listless way, with a noise whistling through his nostrils. “We pulled our troops from the coast—the few we had there. We pulled them in the hope of plugging the gap between the Allegheny Plateau and the Adirondack Mountains. Because the XI Corps is gone, the GD will land unopposed on the seaboard. With these last armies, they’ll swing the gate shut and trap our forces. It’s clear what they planned. They must have decided to do this from the beginning.”

Director Harold cleared his throat.

As if on cue, General Norton sat down.

Max rose to his feet. He touched the top of the table with his fingertips. Slowly, he surveyed the chamber.

Does he feel stronger with three bodyguards present? Has he been maneuvering for this moment? Anna still couldn’t fathom the Marine’s behavior at the door. The Presidential Guard was incorruptible, right? So why had the Marine let the director’s men in while they were wearing guns?

“Mr. President,” Max said, “this is the crisis we’ve all been dreading. It has arrived at last.”

David looked up at the Homeland Security Director. Exhaustion made the President look weak.

“We faced a grave crisis this winter,” Max said. “We faced it and overcame the challenge. This is America. We have always overcome our challenges. I believe that today is going to be no different, sir.”

“I…” David sat a little straighter, but his shoulders were still slumped. “I know what you’re going to say, Max.”

Max waited, with his face impassive.

“You’re going to tell me to launch ASBMs,” the President said.

ASBM meant Anti-Ship Ballistic Missiles.

“We tried that once against the Chinese,” the President said. “We attempted to halt their Alaskan Invasion back in 2032 using ASBMs.”

David had been the Joint-Forces Commander in Alaska at the time.

“We failed to stop the Chinese eight years ago,” the President said. “Why do you think our ASBMs will do better against the more tech savvy Germans?”

Max stared David in the eyes. “Sir,” the director said in a strong, level voice. “Eight years ago, you used conventionally-armed ASBMs. I’m talking about using nuclear-armed ballistic missiles.”

“Nuclear?” the President asked in a soft voice.

“Yes, sir,” the director said. “The great crisis has arrived and we must rise to the challenge. It’s clear that we cannot move enough men into place to stop the GD forces from swarming onto New Jersey. If the Germans do that, they will have encircled a large portion of our military, cutting off—”

The director paused and glanced at the general.

“The GD will have cut off over one million men,” Norton said.

“That many?” the President asked in his strangely soft voice.

“We cannot allow the GD to land their soldiers, sir,” Max said. “I realize you have a reluctance to use nuclear weapons.”

“I… I…” the President seemed to grope for words. He seemed lost, dazed.

“I understand, sir,” Max said. His voice softened, too, almost as if he really did have compassion.

But Anna was not fooled. They planned this. Norton and the director are working together. Maybe someone bribed the Marine guards by finding out how to get to each one.

“This is a terrible moment in our history,” Max was saying. “The blows against our country have been staggering. You have staved off several grave defeats, sir. It would have drained anyone. Each time, you’ve summoned the resolve and refused to let our country’s enemies win. Unfortunately, the grim resolve needed to stave off these defeats has taken a grave toll of you, sir. I respect your service to our country. No one could have done more. However…maybe it is time for you to rest a while.”

The President blinked at Max, and a tired frown appeared on David’s face.

“Sir,” Max said. “I could order the nuclear strike for you, if you would give me the authority.”

“You would do this?” the President asked.

“We must stop them,” Max said. “We must use a number of our ICBMs while the enemy is still far enough away from our coast.”

“Uh…” General Norton said.

Max didn’t glance at the general, but he shook his head minutely.

The idea of their collusion and the possibility of corrupt Presidential Guards galvanized Anna. “Sir,” she said. “If you decide to launch nuclear weapons, I think you should give the orders and no one else.”

David moved his head on a seemingly rusty neck. He gave her a hurt look.

It stabbed her heart. He hated using nuclear weapons. It had grated on him giving such orders before, and it had caused him nightmares. Was she using him now because she didn’t like Max? Being President was a demanding job under ordinary circumstances. During war, it became much worse. Maybe the endlessly hard decision had rung David dry. Likely, no one in American history but for Jefferson Davis of the Confederacy had faced a moment like this. Costly, maybe even debilitating defeat stared them in the eyes.

Despite the hurt in her heart for him, Anna decided that she owed it to David to tell him the stakes.

“Mr. President,” Anna said.

“I think you should quit talking,” Max told her. “You’ve said enough.”

“Mr. President,” Anna said, ignoring the director.

Max made a small gesture with his left hand. The three bodyguards rose ominously from their chairs.

“You are the Commander-in-Chief,” Anna told David in a rush. “You should not relinquish your authority unless you’re willing to step down as President. Are you ready to do that, sir?”

David blinked at her.

“Ms. Chen,” Max said. “You are out of line.”

“This is the terrible crisis, sir,” Anna said. “You faced such a moment in Alaska when you fought in 2032. Do you remember that time?”

Ever so slowly, David nodded.

Max cleared his throat, and he looked angry.

Anna didn’t want to say her next words, but she forced them out of her mouth before it was too late. “Are you folding up under pressure, Mr. President? Is that’s what happening here?”

David stopped blinking, and he grew ashen.

“That is quite enough,” Max said. “In fact, I deem it as treasonous to try to break the President’s resolve at a time like this. I will not stand by and do nothing. Men,” he said, half turning to his bodyguards. “Would you please escort Ms. Chen from the chamber?”

The three big men in suits started toward her.

“Mr. President,” Anna said, speaking faster than ever. “I think you should summon your Marine guards.” If the Presidential Guards were corrupt, it was all over anyway. But if Max had barged his way past the door guard through force of will, then maybe David still had a chance.

The President watched her a moment longer. Then he seemed to notice the bodyguards advancing around the conference table. Something came over his features, a mulish stubbornness perhaps.

David Sims stood, and he rapped his knuckles against the table. “Sit down,” he told the three big men in suits.

It seemed as if they hadn’t heard or refused to hear the President.

It was then the Director of the CIA—Dr. Samuel Levin—scraped back his chair. He was Anna’s old boss, and Levin was a wizened figure, with uncombed, thick white hair jutting in disorder. He sat nearest the door to the chamber.

The bodyguards glanced at the CIA Director. With his hunched left shoulder held in its crooked way, Levin started for the door. His left foot slid a bit. Anna remembered hearing about a stroke some time back. It must have been worse than she’d realized.

The three bodyguards finally stopped. They stared at the President. Then they half turned and regarded Max.

They want a confirmation of the order, Anna realized.

Levin didn’t stop his slow walk, and his right arm reached for the door handle.

It was a pregnant moment. Would Max order the bodyguards to draw their guns? If he did, the Director of Homeland Security would have to order them to fire and kill people, if he hoped to keep his position, perhaps even keep his life.

Before Levin turned the handle, Max asked the President, “Would you like Ms. Chen to stay, sir?”

Then Levin pushed open the door, and he stared into the outer room. Something in his eyes must have awoken the Marines there. Three of them wearing white gloves and holding rifles entered the inner chamber.

“Ms. Chen stays,” the President said, with his voice strengthening.

The director’s three bodyguards weren’t stupid. Likely, they were sensitive to leadership and the sway of the wind. Maybe they could sense it like dogs. They must realize what was at stake. Either they had to draw their guns and shoot, or they’d better back down. But if they were going to draw their guns, they should have already done so. A coup took decisiveness and a whole lot of stones. To Anna’s relief, the three bodyguards headed back for their chairs.

Without a word, wizened Dr. Levin headed back to his seat.

Seemingly on their own initiative, the Marines took up station near the door, and they watched the three bodyguards sitting down.

Anna found that her hands were shaking. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Had Max just attempted a soft coup, losing his nerve right at the end? If so, this didn’t seem like the time to push the issue. They needed to meet the GD emergency right now.

“General Norton,” the President said. “What do you think? What is your recommendation?”

“Sir?” Norton asked, in a scratchy voice.

“Concerning a nuclear attack?” the President asked.

It took two blinks before the confident General Norton returned. “We have no choice but to go nuclear, sir. We must launch the ASBMs. I mean ICBMs. We must annihilate the GD armada or we’ve lost this round to the enemy. And if we lose this round, this campaign…I’m not sure we can recover to win the war.”

The chamber grew still as those present absorbed his words.

Max sat down, and he avoided looking at Anna or Levin.

She wondered what went on behind Max’s skull. The man had asked to wield Presidential authority. Did he truly aim to take over? Then why hadn’t his men drawn their guns just now? Had she misjudged the situation? Or had Dr. Levin’s act saved David’s Presidency. Was history made through such chance decisions?

“I cannot let the enemy land those troops on our shores,” the President said. “You gentlemen are right. And you’re right, Anna. It is time to take the terrible step. We’ve lurched toward nuclear war on two separate occasions. But we managed to keep it small each time. This time we have to take out everything. Yes… How many ICBMs do you suggest, General?”

“Ten of the intercontinental ballistic missiles, sir,” Norton said. “They’re MIRVed, so that will be more than enough warheads. We also want to keep enough ICBMs in reserve, sir. As you know, we don’t have as many nuclear missiles as we used to.”

“I see,” the President said.

“We should also launch as many of the ASBMs as we can,” Norton said. “They’re conventionally armed, but the GD is said to have effective missile defenses. The ASBMs can act as decoys, if nothing else. I’ve read before one of their admirals boasting of their ability to withstand a nuclear assault.”

“Can they?” the President asked, with alarm.

“No, sir,” Norton said. “Not with ten ICBMs combined with our ASBMs. We’re going to take them out, sir, every last ship that they own.”

The President took a deep breath. He had a haunted, an almost guilty stare, but he squared his shoulders.

“This is the crisis we must overcome,” David said, in a less than confident voice. He took a breath, hesitated and finally said, “Launch the ICBMs and time them to strike as the ASBMs come down on the enemy fleet.”

Colonel Larry Marks couldn’t stop blinking, as he stood frozen in the bunker. He was a lean man, and he wore a large watch on his right wrist. It was waterproof, glowed in the dark and combined intricate timing devices. His wife had bought it for him last Christmas. She had been pregnant then. Now she was at home with their new baby girl.

Colonel Marks felt as if he was going to pass out. He kept telling himself to take deep breaths. Despite those mental commands to drink air, only his eyes moved. They kept twitching from the seconds-hand ticking along its path in the watch. The very end of the hand had a tiny luminous green bulb. He stared at that and then looked at the screen before him.

I’m launching ICBMs. It’s happening. It is really happening. We’re doing it and my baby isn’t even a year old yet.

Long ago with his grandfather, Colonel Marks had watched the movie The Book of Eli. Marks had been twelve at the time, and he’d never forgotten it. In the film, Denzel Washington had called the nuclear holocaust “the Flash.”

Am I about to unleash the Flash upon the Earth?

Klaxons rang in the bunker, but this wasn’t a test. This was for real, for real, for real. It felt as if he had echoes in his mind. He couldn’t believe he was going to do this.

On screen, Marks watched base silos open. They were like giant, metallic flowers moving with robotic hearts. His human heart sped up as he watched. The silos opened in order for them to spew forth their terrible thermonuclear cargoes.

How can I be doing this? I never thought it would happen. I’m unleashing the Flash.

He knew why he was doing this. They had discussed it among themselves here in the bunker. The German Dominion sailed toward America with a dagger, meaning to plunge the knife deep in his country’s heart. There was only one thing now that could stop these Krauts.

Colonel Marks would launch ten T Mod-5s. The “T” stood for Triton, the last new ICBM America had manufactured. “Mod-5”, of course, meant this was the fifth major modification to the Triton missile type.

There were no GPS satellites these days to watch the enemy. The Air Force had launched more high-flying drones to spy on the GD fleet. The ICBMs didn’t use radar or any other guidance. That was by design. They went up, took readings from the stars for perfect navigation and dropped their warheads at a programmed point on the Earth, or out a sea for this one. They would wreak thermonuclear havoc on the GD armada.

“Sir,” the operator said.

Colonel Marks lowered his precious watch. He knew his babies. He wanted to bray with laughter. Babies—he only had one baby now, and she was at home in the crib. Each missile weighed 192,000 pounds. Most of that was solid fuel to burn his baby thousands of miles if needed. He would reach out and touch the enemy with an extremely brutal and heavy hand. He would swat them out of existence with the Flash.

The operator turned around and looked up at him. “Sir,” he said, “we have a narrow launch window.”

Colonel Marks knew that. They were timing his babies to hit along with ASBMs using regular warheads. Those ship-killers would be the decoys. Could you imagine that?

Lean Larry Marks raised his hand and chopped it down decisively. He did it thinking, I’m killing you because you went too far.

The operator relayed the physically-given command.

In the command bunker, everything soon shook, even the screen. Colonel Marks stepped up behind the operator, putting his left hand—four lean fingers and a lean thumb—on the man’s shoulder. Wide-eyed, Marks watched the screen as he tightened his grip.

I hope I haven’t doomed the Earth to centuries of Dark Ages. I hope I haven’t doomed you, little Jewel. That was the name of his baby daughter.

The first ICBM Triton roared into life. The massive death-machine rose from its silo as smoke billowed in a vast, chugging, churning cloud. Flames raged out of the back end as the Triton climbed slowly at first and then with greater speed.

Inside the bunker, Colonel Marks mentally computed the situation. The initial boost phase would last a little over three minutes. The solid fuel booster would put the missile into suborbital space flight. None of the missiles would complete a full orbital revolution around the Earth. Each missile’s flight path used a trajectory that went up and down in a relatively simple curve, well before it had a chance to orbit around the Earth like a satellite.

Despite his worries, a smirk spread across Marks’s face. Conventional ASBMs used regular warheads and Mach 10 plus kinetic energy to destroy ships. Those missiles would need great precision to kill: not so his thermonuclear-armed missiles.

The GD fleet was spread across many nautical miles of ocean. It would take more than one nuclear warhead to destroy them. As incredible as it was believe, they had launched ten ICBMs to make sure some got through the GD defenses. In truth, nothing on Earth was going to stop his babies, not the T Mod-5s.

Marks’s smirk grew. The GD ships were spread out, but not nearly far enough apart to save them from the coming destruction. The surprise of a lifetime was about to fall upon the invading armada.

I just hope the German Dominion doesn’t decide to launch their thermonuclear ICBMs at us and ignite the Flash in angry retaliation.

A secret GD sensor-satellite packed in stealth sheathing was in an equatorial stationary orbit high off the coast of French Guiana. The sensor picked up the boost-phase burn of the ten Triton ICBMs leaving Minot, North Dakota.

The satellite’s onboard computer analyzed the data. In a microsecond, it came to the proper conclusion. The enemy launched ICBMs. A second later, the orbiting sensor burned through its sheathing as it aimed a communication laser. The laser speared across space to a relay station in the Mauritanian Desert, which was in western Saharan Africa.

Afterward, with the primary task completed, the sensor continued to track the lifting ICBMs, beaming all the telemetry data to the relay station.

The GD major on station in the Mirror Launch bunker also made a nearly instant decision. He had a single function: to negate an automated system from launching a heavy missile into space.

With hot coffee spilled on his uniform—the cup hit the wall even now, shattering. He’d been leaning back a second ago, drinking the coffee as the alarm rang and surprised him. With hot, soaking coffee beginning to scald his skin, the major nevertheless scanned the simple amount of data on his emergency screen. As he did, he had three thoughts: This is real; it isn’t a test. And those are ICBM boost-phase burns. Holy shit.

The middle thought was the important one. He saw American ICBM boost-phase burns. Therefore, he did not raise his hand and reach for a red button. Because he did not, he did not depress the switch that would shut down the launch sequence. Therefore, the automated system continued to function smoothly as designed.

Fifteen seconds later, the bunker shook, making the light overhead rattle. He thought it might explode. A heavy K-14 rocket sped for space, with massive boosters shooting long flames. The missile did not carry a warhead. This was not a retaliatory strike. The missile’s payload was a mirror, one that possessed fantastic adjusting ability. Even as the rocket roared toward the Heavens, telemetry data poured into its onboard AI, data that originated from the sensor high above French Guiana.

Warrant Officer Gunther Weise stared in shock at the big screen. For a moment, he forgot his duties. Many did in the central situation room aboard the supercarrier.

General Kaltenbrunner and the admiral stared silently at the screen.

“Can we intercept?” Kaltenbrunner finally managed to ask.

The admiral—a small, neat man with a white goatee and white uniform—merely smiled in his restrained way. “Matters are already proceeding for our defense, General.”

That woke up Gunther, as did a nudge in the back from the lieutenant in charge of the warrant officers.

Gunther returned to monitoring his controls. Sweat began to pool under his armpits as he realized the sick truth. The Americans had launched nuclear missiles at the fleet. Those missiles raced here even now. This was horrible. He didn’t want to die.

Once more, the lieutenant poked him in the shoulder “Keep on task, Weise. Don’t freeze. There’s a good fellow.”

Gunther licked his lips. The sweat under his armpits became worse. He swallowed, and with greater concentration, he monitored his station. A pain spiked between his eyes. He found that he stared hard at the controls. Fortunately, his training took hold, helping him to remember his tasks.

Even as he felt himself floating out of his body—it was a terrible sensation, he hated it—he readjusted for static.

“Ah, better,” Gunther heard the admiral say.

Commands soon went out, and klaxons rang with seemingly greater urgency. There was a flurry of activity in the central situation chamber. Gunther badly wanted a cigarette. He craved one, in fact. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Look at that. Death raced toward the fleet. Certainly, the Americans would first try to take out the command ship. That was the GDN Otto von Bismarck, this ship.

“One nuclear warhead could ruin everything,” General Kaltenbrunner said in his gruff voice.

“Certainly, General,” the admiral said. “Ah, look, Strategic Defense is ready, and not a moment too soon.”

“Explain what’s going on,” Kaltenbrunner said.

Gunther sneaked a glance over his shoulder. He saw the admiral point at the big screen. Gunther also looked up at the screen. It showed a strategic map of the US Atlantic seaboard, the Atlantic Ocean and parts of Western Europe and Western Africa. Red lines streaked across the US. Flashing red dots kept moving over the US and toward the fleet. Those were the enemy ICBMs.

Gunther wanted to groan. Maybe his father had been right after all. Excitement was better, and certainly safer, when gained from watching a movie. The real thing could hurt too much. Gunther had never truly believed he himself could get into danger that would maim him for life or kill him.

What was I thinking joining the Navy? In the end, father always knew best.

“What in the world is that?” Gunther whispered to himself. Fortunately, he heard the admiral explaining to General Kaltenbrunner that the blue lines that had just appeared on screen from Iceland and from Brittany were strategic-strength lasers beaming at the rapidly deployed space mirrors.

“Now we shall see how things go,” the admiral said. “Now we shall see if the Americans are any good at this.”

The ICBM boosters had already fallen away and back to Earth. Boost phase had lasted a mere three minutes. The warheads presently sped through suborbital space and would do so for another ten minutes.

They were all presently unpowered and moved in ballistic trajectories like artillery shells. The warheads sat safely in cone-shaped reentry vehicles, grouped together on what was called a “bus.” They were hard to spot, as there was no rocket exhaust to see or other emissions to give them away. As they moved, each reentry vehicle released aluminized balloons to fool any enemy attempting to track them.

Now, however, far away in Iceland and on the continent near Brest, Brittany, strategic lasers shot their high-energy beams at the deployed GD mirrors high in Earth orbit.

The rays flashed up through the atmosphere, bounced off the precisely angled mirrors and flashed down at the speed of light at the reentry vehicles. Most of the beams missed, but one laser hit a reentry vehicle bus with its load of cones. The beam heated the mechanism to an intolerable degree, destroying the connections to the warheads and warping its structure. Soon, its role in guiding and releasing the reentry vehicles at the proper time was completely eliminated.

Now the warheads, lacking their final enabling update, would not cause a nuclear yield. They would fall in random places with massive kinetic energy, but nothing resembling the explosions they would otherwise deliver.

The silent but deadly war continued. GD automated tech battled American know-how. During the midcourse phase—and while using up tremendous amounts of energy—the strategic lasers eliminated six different reentry buses, causing sixty warheads to become simple dumb meteors, splashing down across thousands of miles of ocean.

Then that portion of the battle ended as the four surviving reentry buses took their final star readings, enabled their warheads, and released the cone-shaped reentry vehicles into the Earth’s atmosphere at high speed.

Warrant Officer Gunther Weise could hardly breathe. It felt as if his lung muscles had frozen or he’d forgotten how to use them. What he had just seen was incredible. He knew how difficult it was to bounce a laser off a space mirror precisely enough to hit and destroy a midcourse warhead. That GD Strategic Defense had gotten any of the US missiles surprised him. It almost made him laugh to hear the next words.

“We’re doomed,” General Kaltenbrunner told the neat little admiral with the white goatee beside him.

“Nonsense,” the admiral said. “Now it’s time for you to witness the effectiveness of my battleships. They are remarkable vessels, I assure you.”

As klaxons wailed, as the ships of the great armada continued to churn in various directions—like beetles scurrying from an overturned board—the ten battleships entered the fray.

Watching it, Gunther’s chest swelled with pride. This was why he had joined the Navy. His father was a good man, but sometimes, even fathers could be wrong.

I thought it was over. Now I realize we’re going to stop these nukes. We’re better than the Americans, far, far better than they could ever hope to be.

Gunther checked his controls. Everything was green. Everything was good. The pride in him rose even higher. He looked up at the big screen. Many of the personnel in here did likewise. The next two minutes would decide—

The fate of the world, Gunther realized. One way or another, this is history.

One part of the big screen did a zoom-in of the nearest battleship, the Blucher. The thing aimed a large targeting array into the sky. A missile launched, then another and another. They roared heavenward, carrying kinetic kill vehicles.

The missiles lofted, burning away their bottom stage. The next stage continued to accelerate them. The kinetic kill vehicles would smash against the incoming warheads. It was like shooting bullets at bullets.

On the screen, Gunther witnessed the first collision. More occurred, one, two, three, four—

“How many warheads are there?” Kaltenbrunner shouted.

“Yes, the Americans are dropping quite a few today,” the admiral admitted. “There must be ten warheads in each missile nosecone, forty targets for my battleships to destroy.”

Gunther didn’t want to hear that. Forty nuclear bombs headed for the fleet?

A minute ticked by, and Gunther sweated harder than before. Everyone in here watched the big screen. This was too much. He wished it would end. The suspense…

No, you must remember every sensation. If you live, you must describe everything to father.

“Did we get them all?” Kaltenbrunner asked.

“I’m not sure,” the admiral said, with the first hint of unease in his voice.

Then, from outside, came a tremendous, violently bright explosion.

Gunther’s jaw dropped. He watched the big screen. A vast, yellow symbol showed where a thermonuclear warhead destroyed a supercarrier and—one by one, other ship symbols winked out. In all, nineteen vessels disappeared from the screen.

Gunther sat back in shock. When was the next nuclear warhead going to ignite and destroy yet more ships?

“What about radiation?” General Kaltenbrunner asked in a loud voice. “Are we in danger from radiation poisoning?”

“Look,” the admiral said, pointing at the big screen. “That particular warhead ignited at the southern edge of the fleet. We’re steaming away from the blast. The radiation—”

“What if there are more bombs?” Kaltenbrunner shouted. “What if—” The general stopped shouting as the admiral touched his arm.

“Look at that!” Gunther shouted, as he stared at the screen.

General Kaltenbrunner, the admiral and everyone else in the chamber turned and stared at Gunther Weise. He had stood up and now pointed at the big screen. It showed a red hit, and then another and another. They came in swift succession, and they numbed Gunther. Were those more successful nuclear strikes? If so, then why were they still afloat? Why hadn’t more blinding flashes occurred?

Slowly, it dawned on Gunther that people stared at him. Few of those were friendly stares. Burning with shame, Gunther hurriedly sat down. He wished he could disappear.

“What of those?” Kaltenbrunner asked. “What do the red hits signify?”

The lieutenant poked Gunther in the shoulder. “You’re a GD sailor. Act the part, mister.”

Gunther put his hands on the controls trying to overcome the growing static.

“Is that it then?” General Kaltenbrunner asked.

Gunther didn’t know if the general meant the end of the attack or the end of the armada. Maybe the admiral didn’t know what Kaltenbrunner meant either.

“General?” the admiral asked.

“Those red splashes we’re seeing,” Kaltenbrunner said. “How many nuclear strikes can the fleet take?”

The admiral chuckled softly.

“Are you mad to laugh at a time like this?” Kaltenbrunner asked in a thick voice.

“No, no, excuse me, please,” the admiral said. “I’m relieved.”

“Talk sense,” Kaltenbrunner said, angrily. “We’ve lost ships, far too many ships.”

“General,” the admiral said. “I think I know what happened. The Americans must have also attacked with regular ASBMs.”

“What?” Kaltenbrunner asked.

“With non-nuclear ballistic missiles,” the admiral said.

“The Americans destroyed more ships?”

“Yes,” the admiral said. “I should not have chuckled. We have taken losses. Many good men and women died just now. I am relieved that the Americans failed to destroy us as a fighting force. The realization of our success—I’m afraid I laughed out of nervous relief. Please, forgive me.”

“Failed?” Kaltenbrunner asked. “They just destroyed over… How many ships did we lose?”

The admiral accepted a slip of paper from a major. The small officer glanced at it, crumpled the slip and let it drop to the deck. Then he looked up at Kaltenbrunner. “As of now, sir, we’ve lost twenty-five vessels. Two of those were carriers, and that is a terrible blow. One of the lost vessels was a battleship and one was a major troop ship. The rest were minor ships. The Americans made their great assault, General Kaltenbrunner. They made it and failed to hurt us significantly enough to halt the invasion. While I mourn the loss of twenty-five good GD vessels, I still realize that we’re about to end this campaign in glorious victory. And you are going to spearhead that victory with your ground troops. Congratulations, General Kaltenbrunner.”

The admiral held out his hand. In a bemused fashion, Kaltenbrunner took it, and the two commanders shook.

“History,” Gunther whispered to himself. I was there and I even said a word or two.

Gunther wanted to caw with laughter. He felt so relieved to be alive. He had just survived a nuclear attack against the fleet. It was the first nuclear naval attack in history, and now, they were going to make the Americans pay for attempting it.