“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.
Colonel 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
