see them now.
As the treads churned over rubble, broken glass and discarded assault rifles and RPG tubes, Hindenburg ran a logic program concerning the defenders’ behavior. His main cannon continued to chug shells at high speed, and as he moved into thinner smoke, his 25mms blew down two incoming missiles.
This was too easy. He fought his way near the first fortified building. Americans fired from window in a blaze of spewing weapons. The tiny projectiles were a joke, and he listened to a hail of them striking his armor. Then he rammed into the old building, churning inside and racing from one corner to the next and everything between. He was a juggernaut of destruction, blowing apart and crushing furniture, wood, plaster and bricks. He judged it perfectly, roaring out of the building just in time to see it fall like an axed redwood. The five-story fortress went down in a billowing pall of dust and smoke, taking the defenders with it.
General Mansfeld stepped out of his command vehicle and onto hot blacktop. He could feel the heat radiate through the soles of his shoes. Several armored cars surrounded him, together with a squad of black-clad
Mansfeld surveyed the wreckage of Markham. Black smoke hung in the sky, with fumes drifting upward from burning areas near the last American holdouts in Toronto. Blasted, gutted cities all looked alike to him. During WWII, too many German cities had looked like this due to aerial devastation from Canadian and American airmen. Later, the Russians had destroyed much of East Germany. They had done so with tanks and artillery.
Mansfeld grinned mirthlessly. The Russian bear slumbered now. They had their own troubles with internal Muslim unrest and a dying Slavic people due to low birthrates. After the GD finished with North America…maybe then it would finally be time to deal with the ancient Russian menace. For now, the GD paid back the Americans for decades, for a century, of unwanted intrusion.
A tank rumbled near, a Leopard IV. It came from the south. Ah, a hover whined as it arrived from the north.
The massed rubble and wreckage of Markham wasn’t a good place for hovers. Their time would come as they crossed Lake Ontario to the other side. General Zeller of Army Group B had chosen to arrive in a hover. The general was making a point, Mansfeld supposed. Despite a nominal belief in subtlety, Zeller lacked the actual trait.
The main turret hatch on the parked Leopard tank opened. General Holk of Army Group A climbed out. Holk was rotund and wore glasses, and his ill-fitting uniform was much too tight. He practically waddled to General Mansfeld, and his salute was sloppy and nearly disrespectful.
In return, Mansfeld snapped off a perfect salute. Then he grinned as he shook Holk’s small right hand.
The meeting today was very similar to the WWII meetings on the steppes of Russia. There, German generals had met like this to discuss the coming strategy for the next phase of a campaign. In those days, a few men discussed the problem and came to the conclusions and decisions. It had been one of the secrets to swift German actions: no bureaucracy to slow down ideas and implementations.
Today, in the ruins of a once-great Canadian city, he would once again attempt to patch the rift between the two commanders, and the campaign would proceed to its logical outcome.
The hover landed with a thud, and its fans slowed as the whining noises lessened. A side hatch opened, and General Zeller jumped to the ground.
Zeller had long features: a face like a dachshund’s body. The man never smiled and he was incredibly formal. Where Holk wore a uniform like a muddy shoe, Zeller’s dark uniform looked perfect as if fit for a ball, and he wore polished jackboots that gleamed.
“Gentlemen,” Mansfeld said, as the two officers approached. “I’m glad you two could come.”
Three of the commandos finished setting up a folding table, three chairs and an awning overhead. A different commando put refreshments on the table, while a fourth put down a battle-screen. Afterward, the commandos circled them, with their weapons ready as they watched for partisans.
Between the armored cars, the command vehicle, the tank and the hover, the three top generals of the Southern Ontario invasion sat down to discuss their differences.
In the distance, artillery boomed, while from closer by, a heavy machine gun opened up. A distant scream punctuated the attack.
“Foul air,” Zeller said, as he waved a hand in front of his face. “The Americans over there in Toronto have lasted longer than anyone would have believed.”
“I hope you are not accusing me of negligence,” Holk said.
“You?” Zeller asked, looking down his nose at the pudgy general. “Don’t be absurd. Why would I accuse you when your chief of staff keeps demanding I loan him several of my divisions in order to clean up your mess?”
“It’s as I thought,” Holk said. “Instead of helping a fellow soldier, you would rather see my formations bled dry for the joy it would give your prickly pride.”
Zeller became even more formal, holding himself as if he had a bad back and couldn’t afford to move it a millimeter. “Might I remind the general that he has the bulk of the Expeditionary Force’s Kaisers and Sigrid drones? Surely he could achieve the moon if he would but use them properly.”
“You may remind me if you so desire,” Holk said, beginning to pant as if winded, with two red spots appearing on his cheeks. “I hope in turn you don’t mind hearing a little reminder. Namely, that my soldiers have made every breakthrough to date.”
Zeller set down his drink. “Bah! I will not sit here and listen to—”
Mansfeld coughed sharply.
The general of Army Group A glared at the general of Army Group B. The two men had hated each other for a long time…since cadet school in East Prussia. Rumor said it had begun over the affections of a fourteen-year-old girl. They had both been fifteen and a half at the time. Rumors also said the girl in question had drowned to death in a jet-ski accident two years later in Zeller’s company. By that time, the seeds of romantic competition had already borne evil fruit in the two young men. As telling, Holk never forgave Zeller for the girl’s death.
At the table here in Markham, as if disengaging with swords, the two men turned away from each other. They gave Walther Mansfeld their attention.
“Sir,” Holk told Mansfeld, “the Americans have proven harder to crack than we anticipated. I refer in particular to the Toronto defenders.”
“Yes,” Zeller said. “After loaning him my best drop-tank division, he keeps demanding that the rest of my soldiers finish the fight for him. He’s always requesting extra divisions…when in fact the general already knows that I am readying my formations for the amphibious assault against New York. I will need all my troops in top condition, as the campaign’s success rests on me. Surely the general understands that such an ambitious action takes time: time for planning, rehearsals and flawless execution. Even now I’m running an extended war game —”
Holk slapped the table, shaking the drinks and sandwiches on it. “A war game! Am I hearing correctly? I’m fighting stubborn Americans building to building and sewer-line to sewer-line all while you practice flying those fancy hovers of yours?”
Zeller stiffened. “You, sir, are a—”
“A moment,” Mansfeld said in an icy tone.
The two generals stopped glaring at each other long enough to stare at him.
Seeing that he had their attention, Mansfeld leaned back, and he eyed his two generals. Despite their animosity toward each other, there were few better in the German Dominion.
The third commanding general of the Expeditionary Force—Fromm—remained in Quebec. General Fromm was ready to begin a limited offensive into northern New York and into northern Vermont and New Hampshire. Mansfeld waited for the perfect moment to unleash Fromm’s three siege armies. Even now, American troops left the New England areas, rushing for Southern Ontario as reinforcements, one would presume.
“I summoned you here to see if you gentlemen have learned anything about cooperation,” Mansfeld said. “We’re in a war, if you’ll recall.”
“We’re in a tour de force,” Zeller said. “I do not understand why the general keeps—”
