Invasion: New York

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?”