“I hit it!” Charlie shouted.
Before Jake could confirm that, the Razorback passed overhead, roaring toward the woods. This time it didn’t turn around, nor did they hear it crash. Instead, it slowly droned away.
“Tanks!” a militiaman screamed.
“They’re almost on top of us!” Charlie shouted. “Listen.”
Jake didn’t need anyone to tell him to listen. He heard them. He scanned back, but didn’t see any sign of the MDGs. That meant they were on their own. What was the best thing to do with these untrained civilians? There was no way what was left of the company were going to destroy tanks, not destroy them and survive.
“Go!” Jake shouted at Charlie and Lee. “Follow me!” He sprinted for a stand of bushes to his left. He kept hold of his M16, and the air burned down his lungs at he lifted his boots. He dove, thudded onto wet ground and put his head down as he wriggled into a thick stand of bushes. A moment later, Charlie wriggled through with him and then in came Lee.
They lay on the ground, peering through the bushes, and they witnessed seven Sigrids murder the rest of the penal company. Each tracked vehicles boasted a tri-barreled machine gun, a Gatling gun that blazed fire. Militiamen ran everywhere. Militiamen crawled and sobbed. The science fiction war-robots clanked fast and blew men apart one by one.
When it was over, the squat vehicles spun on their treads, searching for more. Jake dreaded the robots’ ability to sense behind the bushes. Did the things have heat sensors? He didn’t know. His mouth tasted like defeat. Jake knew bitter hatred then. He’d fight the enemy the right way if the Militia gave him weapons that could destroy machines like that, and give them training. But to send them to the front in a penal unit without support or leadership… A red haze of anger seethed through Jake. This was BS. This was murder pure and simple.
Finally, the Sigrids headed back the way they had come, leaving the dead company for the crows and wild dogs.
The three surviving militiamen in the bushes waited until they could no longer hear the squealing treads.
“Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.
Jake had been thinking about that. The MDGs would be back soon, or it seemed possible they would be. The three of them would have to write up a report and needed pertinent facts.
“We have to fire our TOW,” Jake said.
“Why?” Charlie asked. “There isn’t anyone to fire at now.”
“The why is because the sergeants will look for ways to blame us,” Jake said. “We can’t give them anything. Then we have to get our stories straight. We fired and hit a GD robot, but it didn’t hurt the thing enough to destroy it. We also have to shoot all our bullets and toss all our grenades. We used up everything before we hid. We have to get our stories straight.”
“Isn’t that lying?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t like to lie,” Jake said. “But our sergeants ran out on us. If they’d stayed and fought, they would deserve the truth. As it is, they deserve a knuckle full of fist at best.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I see what you’re saying.”
“Let’s go,” Jake said. “We may not have much time left to get everything ready.”
The three militiamen crawled out of the bushes, and they fired their M16s as they hurried to the TOW to get it launched, too.
Walther Mansfeld swiveled around on his chair in his command car. He struck his knee a glancing blow and was surprised it didn’t hurt. He flipped on a screen and saw the worried image of General Holk regarding him. Behind Holk aides scurried back and forth.
“I hope this is urgent,” Mansfeld said.
“Sir… I’m afraid—”
“Is this about Hamilton?”
Holk bobbed his head. “It is, sir.”
“The Americans made an ill-coordinated attack,” Mansfeld said. “You annihilated the forward elements. That is the correct report, is it not?”
“Annihilated is too strong a word, sir,” Holk said. “We stopped them, but the enemy has dug in and many more are coming from Buffalo. This is a new army, sir.”
“From their behavior, I would say they are castoff elements hastily thrown together,” Mansfeld said.
“My spotters have counted at least one hundred thousand new soldiers. There could be twice as many marching into position.”
“They are marching more troops into captivity,” Mansfeld said.
“At the moment, they are putting pressure on Hamilton, sir. I suspect they will creep toward the city. If nothing else, those troops are screening heavy artillery farther back. The US tubes will have enough reach to disrupt the Golden Horseshoe autobahns I need to use for my London-directed offensive.”
“I believe they’re called freeways,” Mansfeld said.
“Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I request permission to transfer two armored divisions to the Hamilton region. I cannot screen my southern offensive with the troops presently at hand.”
Mansfeld flipped another switch, studying a second screen that showed him a battle map. The isthmus of land between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie—the Niagara Peninsula—with Hamilton on the west end and Buffalo, New York on the east end, made an excellent position for a static defensive system. He didn’t want Holk suckered into an attrition contest, pushing east toward Buffalo. Once the amphibious assault succeeded, Zeller would swing around from Rochester and trap this new, US scratch army from the eastern end of the peninsula. Yet if the Americans used long-range artillery to disrupt the road systems behind Hamilton…hmm…something would need to be done about the artillery.
“I do not like this,” Mansfeld said. “Switching the two armored divisions will weaken your main assault toward London.”
“If the Americans can afford to throw such ill-coordinated masses at us at Hamilton, I wonder what they’re really planning.”
“No, no,” Mansfeld said. “They’re panicked. They’re moving now out of fear. The latest assault at Hamilton was a mistake.”
“Sir, their long-range artillery tells me this is not a mistake. Perhaps the initial attack was ill coordinated, but they marched near enough to dig in close and there are more Americans on the way. If they move better assault divisions into position, they could possible drive off my forward troops and retake eastern Hamilton. I cannot afford that, as it would upset my timetable.”
“You destroyed the initial attack,” Mansfeld said.
“We smashed several Militia divisions. If that was the extent of it, I wouldn’t be concerned. They dug in, however, and the Americans moved up long-range—”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Sir,” Holk said. “Another assault is coming, one better coordinated and with better units, and meant to drive into Hamilton. I need cushion in the peninsula, some maneuvering room. And I need to keep my autobahns clear.”
Holk had a point. They could not afford to let an American assault reach the outskirts of Hamilton. Perhaps a two-prong armor assault would disrupt the Americans before they truly set up too near the city.
“Yes, permission granted,” Mansfeld said. “Clear out the Militia infestation and silence the long-range artillery. Then build a defense in depth. You will have to hold them in place for Zeller.”
“I understand, sir. I’d also like to point out—”
“Push yourself and push your men,” Mansfeld said, sternly. He knew Holk wanted to tell him that the last days of fighting in Toronto had been harder than expected. That was the way of life. Everything took more effort than one planned for.
They were on the verge of the great amphibious surprise. Things would likely ease for Holk once Zeller made the Lake Ontario and Lake Erie assaults. Then the American High Command would truly panic. Then he would net over one million American soldiers.
“Is there anything else, General?” Mansfeld asked.
