The President of France wanted to help the French-Canadian separatists regain their country. John imagined that Chancellor Kleist had cleverly approved of that. Yes, Kleist had once said, “Europe for the Europeans and each country for its people.” Although he ruled the Dominion through guile and German industrial predominance, he left the various countries to mostly govern themselves. Galicia, Transylvania, Gotland in former Sweden, Normandy, Czech, Slovakia, Prussia, Bavaria, each province could follow its own laws and customs to its heart’s content. Therefore, the longings of tribalism were fulfilled, and yet, together in the giant Dominion, they had power and strength.
John Red Cloud believed the promises of the French secret service. In this, they had Chancellor Kleist’s approval. If he would do this thing—and if he survived to do others—John could win the Algonquians their only real chance at tribal freedom.
Historically, the French had always treated the North American tribes with greater respect than the British had done. It was the argument that had won him over; well, that and the chance to kill Canadian Government officials, treacherous businessmen and the Quebec separatists who had sold the movement down the river.
Using an unlocked service entrance, John entered the Paris Tower. A sympathizer had left it open so he could bypass the metal detectors. Behind him, the door shut with a whomp, and the howling wind no longer sang in John’s ears.
He climbed stairs, the workers’ path. There were plain concrete walls and concrete steps. Halfway up, he unzipped the parka. Near the twelfth floor, sweat pooled under his armpits and he debated ditching the coat.
Sweaty and hot, he reached the fourteenth floor, pulled open the door and began to walk down the carpeted hall. He unstrapped the MAC-10, ratcheted the bolt back, preparing the weapon to fire his X-cut bullets. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands again. Once more, he had a reason for existence. Even so, a pool of sadness welled up in his heart. He recalled his slain wife, his murdered children and his best friends, all butchered during the Quebec Separatist War. Others might have forgotten about the dream, but not he. Maybe if the Canadian Government hadn’t outlawed him, chasing him from his homeland—
John drew a deep breath through his nostrils, and sneered inside. Look at this, two guards had fallen down at their posts. They were beefy security agents, asleep on the job. That was thanks to another sympathizer who had given them drugged drinks.
“I am an Algonquin warrior,” John whispered. “I have come to avenge my people and to drive the invaders from our land.”
He spoke to the Great Father, telling him why he indulged in murder.
The people in the room he was about to enter were old French-Canadian rebel fighters, separatist-leaning business leaders and several frightened Canadian government officials. They all had one thing in common—a running dialogue with East Lightning, the Chinese secret service. The French secret service had discovered the information through its links in the separatist movement. France had its own ideas about Quebec, and probably, so did Chancellor Kleist. Probably, the Chinese wished for a sympathetic uprising in Quebec, maybe to tie down Canadian Army units.
We would be foolish to trust the Chinese. Look at how they treat Japan and Korea and demoralized Australia. It is better by far to trust the French. In the past, they always aided the Algonquian people.
Muttering a warrior’s prayer under this breath, John twisted the handle. He pushed the door open and caused the fifteen, or sixteen people sitting at a long conference table to turn abruptly. Some wore stylish suits. Others wore heavy jackets. Most were older, the youngest in his mid-forties. A tall government official in a black suit stood at the front, with a pointer touching a computer screen. It showed the deep Chinese advance into America.
Eyes lifted toward him. A man moaned and a woman sucked in her breath before reaching under her trench coat, possibly for a holstered weapon.
“Can I help you?” the tall man in the black suit asked.
Butchery was never easy, not even with these traitors. John Red Cloud’s lips thinned. He aimed the submachine gun, holding it with both hands, and pulled the trigger. Methodically, starting with the woman pulling out the pistol, he cut them down with his X-cut bullets, reloading twice, killing everyone in the conference room.
Then he left as mysteriously as he’d arrived, leaving the two bodyguards asleep on the carpeted hall. His war was not with them, but against the leaders who sought to guide the separatist fighters in the wrong direction.
“You know Colonel Higgins, I believe,” General Larson said by way of introduction.
Stan waited to see if big Tom McGraw remembered him. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. They’d been kids back in those days. McGraw had a lot on his mind now, too.
They stood in the Behemoth Tank Park, set in the Rockies and therefore well outside of Denver, about thirty miles away from the big city. The park encompassed a large area, with the huge machines spread over a two-mile radius. Each monster vehicle was concealed under camouflaged, radar-scattering tarps. Several tac-lasers with accompanying SAMs ringed the area. Barracks and other buildings stood to the east on the road to I-70, which led to Denver. Behind, the mountains looked cold and majestic. What a crazy place to put the biggest tanks in the world. Crazy, but they were well hidden, which was the idea for now.
The men stood at attention in their black tanker uniforms and parkas. Soon, the truly cold weather would hit, and the soggy ground would freeze hard. That would be the time to employ the Behemoths.
“Professor?” asked General Tom McGraw. He squinted down at the smaller man.
Stan saluted crisply. He could feel the charisma radiating from the big general and the vibrancy in the single word from the man.
Tom McGraw stood six foot five and had to weigh a solid three-fifty. He was massive, a bear of a man. He reminded Stan of General Joffre of World War I fame. Joffre had been the commanding French general who’d stopped the Germans at the Battle of the Marne. Joffre had nerves of steel; some commenters said it came from his prodigious appetite and thick frame. Joffre had had the peasant’s calm even within trials of fire.
McGraw had a thick face and a General Custer beard and mustache. Like Patton, McGraw wore a pistol at his side. Patton had worn a pearl-handled revolver. McGraw’s gun looked like a standard issue .45. The man’s eyes were pale blue and they stared hard like some lion. This was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed. He looked like an old-style Viking, and Stan could envision him hefting a battleaxe. Stan could also envision McGraw wearing a cowboy hat and clutching a Winchester rifle, laying down fire as Apaches raided; or maybe McGraw would gun down outlaws as he fought a range war.
“General,” Stan said in way of greeting.
McGraw laughed. It was a loud sound. “It is you, Professor. I can’t believe it. They finally realized they had a genuine military genius hiding behind his books. I’m glad to see they gave you a fighting command. Even better, they’ve given you the greatest tanks in the world. I bet you’re itching to smash into the Chinese SOBs and send them scurrying home.”
“As soon as the time is right, yes sir,” Stan said.
“Do you hear that, General?” McGraw asked Larson. “The Professor is already worried I’m going to ask him to do something he thinks is stupid. Has he been filling your ears with ideas on how to keep the Chinese away from Denver?”
“As a matter of fact he has,” Larson said. “They’ve been good ideas, too.”