The lead Galahads crested another hill, and this time they faced Bradley fighting vehicles from a distance. US missiles launched almost immediately from the Bradleys.
“Fire, fire!” Smith shouted. He swerved, and on the screen, he tracked a missile zooming at them. Auto-fire blasted at the thing. Chaff expelled and flares burned hot to confuse enemy targeting.
To Smith’s right, a Galahad exploded and flipped, and it crackled with flames.
“Pull back,” the captain said. “We’re leaving.”
“Finally,” Smith said.
Galahad turrets swiveled to give Parthian shots at the slow-moving Bradleys trying to give chase. Smith throttled gas, and the engine knocked louder than ever. The hover lurched to the right, which jerked the wheel. Smith had to let go with his right hand because it hurt too damn much. The machine wobbled worse from the lack of full control.
“Missile,” Holloway said in his clipped manner.
Smith yanked one-handed and it was too sharp a turn. They were going fast. The engine coughed, and there was a big old rock on the ground. It changed the airflow going over it. The angle of the Galahad was already incorrect and a fan vent had stuck into the wrong position. The ultimate in misfortune happened—the hover flipped.
“Hang on!” Smith shouted. He grabbed the wheel with both hands. It didn’t matter. His world had gone topsy-turvy and the Gs made his stomach tighten painfully. The top of the turret hit the ground, armor crunched, and the Galahad bounced. Terrible screeching sounds deafened Lieutenant Smith. Blurs of sight flashed before him. Then they stopped, and Smith panted upside-down in his seat. It took several breaths, but Smith finally said, “Sergeant.”
There was no answer.
Smith twisted back, and quickly faced forward again. Holloway’s head had a hole in it.
The Bradleys were still coming.
Smith struggled and unbuckled, hitting the roof with his neck. He crawled to a side exit. With his feet, he bashed it open. Cool air rushed in. The stench of oil and gas mingled. He wondered if his machine would blow. He crawled out onto grass, and he saw the last hover speed away over the hill.
Hide. You can get back later to your lines at night.
First, he needed to get out of here. Hunching his head, Smith ran uphill. It was hard on his thighs. He didn’t see the missile speeding at the flipped Galahad. The Javelin struck the hover and exploded. It was overkill, and the Galahad died again. This time, shrapnel flew from it like sweat off a man’s head.
Smith turned around in surprise. A piece the size of his hand sliced into his face. The hot steel cut his skull in half. He died in an instant, ending the war for Lieutenant Teddy Smith from London.
Anna saw General Alan speak to the President via screen. David Sims sat in the Oval Office behind his desk.
Anna waited nearby in a chair. These past weeks had changed David. He had become more assertive again, more confident.
She’d spoken to him once about Max Harold’s actions in the underground bunker, the time with his three armed bodyguards. David had waved it away. When she had insisted he listen to her, he’d told her that he needed Max and he needed the Militia divisions. She had fallen silent, ingesting that. Did that mean David understood the implications of Max’s actions? Or did he hide the truth from himself?
Despite the hidden troubles with Max, one thing had appeared certain these last weeks. They finally had the Germans on the run. The question would be the extent of the victory. If they merely bottled the Germans back in Quebec, it left an enemy in place. Next year, they had to face the Chinese and Brazilians in the middle of the country. America and Canada could not afford to leave the Germans behind in Quebec. If they were going to win this vast war, they had to knock out the Germans this year. Did that mean David would deal with Max once the war ended? Wasn’t it dangerous having a vulture like Max waiting in the wings, though?
David hadn’t wanted to talk about the Director of Homeland Security. At the moment, he spoke to General Alan. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was the architect to the present offensive. If he could reach Montreal, he would cap the Expeditionary Force’s main supply base. The rest of the GD army would wither on the vine. It might be possible for some Dominion troops to create a rump state from Quebec City—
Anna perked up at something the general said.
“Mr. President, we know how General Mansfeld operates now. I, and others on my staff, have taken his measure. True to form, he used the Galahads against my eastern flank. He shot up several battalions of old trucks. Most of those were remote-controlled, by the way.”
“What?” the President said.
“We’ve taken a leaf from their book, sir,” Alan said. “I wanted to sucker his mobile forces into a grand assault. I destroyed a heavy percentage of them, at cost to my Bradleys and Strykers, I’m afraid. In my estimation, General Mansfeld will now believe he has halted my eastern hook. He loves flank attacks, and he fears them to the same degree. We’ve been studying him, sir. The majority of my staff believes he will attempt to deliver a knockout blow.”
“What?” the President asked. “How will he do that?”
“He knows that we must reach Montreal. Now that we’ve failed—he believes—with our eastern hook, he will expect us to come up the gut.”
“You told me a few minutes ago that’s exactly your plan.”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “I want him to gather all his Kaisers and heavy tanks in one general location.”
“You haven’t slipped the Behemoth Regiment up there, have you, General?” the President asked, hopefully.
“No, sir,” Alan said. “I have a better idea.”
The President blinked in surprise. “What could be better than the Behemoths?”
“That’s my surprise for Mansfeld, sir. He believes—or we think he does—to deliver a devastating blow against us. Instead, we will use his mailed fist against him. What he has done for us is to provide all the best targets in one spot.”
“You actually want all the Kaisers together?”
“Yes, sir,” Alan said. “That is exactly what I want. We’ve set up the bastard. This time, he’s going to dance to our tune.”
“But we don’t have anything that can take the Kaisers head on except for our Behemoths. And you said they’re still in Oklahoma.”
“Respectfully, sir,” Alan said, with the hint of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “We most certainly do have something else.”
As they clanked through the Quebecer city south of Montreal, AI Kaiser Hindenburg and Barbarossa both wore gleaming new paint jobs. Every weapons system had new replacements or upgrades. They bristled with missiles, ammunition and new comm-gear. The last was the most important.
To Hindenburg, the new comm-gear was critical. Now he knew the reason for his existence. He also knew why he had successfully managed to work his way north and then back to Montreal. That’s where he had first landed in North America. He found that interesting, too.
Throughout the past weeks, he had avoided combat each time some GD commander had ordered him into battle. Instead of using his vast military acumen against the enemy, Hindenburg had used every stratagem and trick to avoid possible destruction. It had been a masterful campaign of deceit and lies, and it had allowed him to receive these upgrades for the final defensive battle of the war.
His strategy program let him see Mansfeld’s plan to perfection. It was a good idea. It wasn’t the best. If the human had wanted the best plan, Mansfeld would have needed to ask him.