“That’s banzai charges,” the red-eyed colonel said.
“Maybe on the surface it is,” Zelazny said. “Our reason for the attacks is different, much different from what the Japanese did back then. Now you heard the Recon Marine. He said he could slip back home. I believe him. If you knew his record, you’d believe him, too. That got me to thinking. If Kavanagh could slip away—where the Germans are watching for us to do exactly that—couldn’t Kavanagh also slip forward, too?”
“I don’t get it?” the red-eyed colonel said. “What are you suggesting?”
“That we mount a full assault,” Zelazny said. “We do it for two reasons. The first is to throw the enemy off his timetable. Let him wonder about us and worry. You can be sure the Krauts aren’t going to be expecting us to attack. Now this isn’t for dying gloriously or any other such bullshit as that. The glory in war is in killing the other guy and making him die for his country, not us dying for ours. We attack. The Germans defend, and during the assault—all along the line, mind you—men like Kavanagh quietly slip through the enemy line. They crawl, I don’t know, for a while anyway—for as far as they need to. Finally, these killers get behind the GD drones, HKs and robotic machines. They reach flesh and blood Krauts, Frogs and Limy bastards for a change. That’s when they pull out their knives, their submachine guns, and teach these momma’s boys what it’s like facing an American soldier.”
“It will be an old-time Apache raid,” a colonel said.
“For Kavanagh and the others,” a colonel said. “What happens to us, sir?”
Zelazny nodded, and he looked weary again. “After the assault—don’t kid yourselves. This attack is going to cost us dearly. Afterward, though, we fall back to our prepared defenses. There, we dig in and wait for the machines to dig us out. We die, I suppose, but we make them take a long time doing it. And we take as many of those things as we can with us.”
The colonels stared at Marine General Zelazny. A few grunted in agreement. The others remained silent.
“Well, you’re U.S. officers and our fellow Canadians,” Zelazny said. “So let’s hear your ideas. It’s going to be our last offensive plan. We want to make sure it works the best it possibly can.”
As the colonels and General Zelazny began to work out the details, Paul Kavanagh thought about it. He was bone-weary and just wanted to sleep. His eyes closed on their own accord. This was probably as good as place as any to grab some shuteye. It was a fancy plan, a grasping, final idea. Would it work?
Before Paul could decide, he fell asleep where he sat. For all he knew, this would be the last nap in this life. When he woke up, it would be grinding effort likely until he was dead.
TOPEKA, KANSAS
Jake Higgins stood before a three-person Militia tribunal. It had been several days since his bender and his head no longer pounded from a hangover. His eyes had cleared and they were no longer bloodshot. His dry mouth tasted bitter, and he couldn’t believe the clothes they’d given him.
He had baggy pants and no belt. He had to grab his trousers in the front to keep them from falling down to his ankles. It made him feel foolish and ridiculous. Worse, he knew they’d planned this in order to diminish him. First, they worked to break a person’s spirit. Then they taught the person how to think. Their techniques were tried and true.
Jake stood before three judges who sat on a platform higher than he was, forcing him to look up. It was no doubt another psychological ploy. Each judge wore a uniform, two men and a woman. The woman wore a Detention Center suit of white with brown stripes. She was large, with red hair piled on her head and she sat between the two men. She was in charge, a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. The men were majors in the Militia.
The woman looked down her nose at Jake. She had a mole on the left nostril, and no doubt, hair sprouted from the mole.
He found her thoroughly despicable, even though he’d repeatedly told himself while sitting in his cell that he needed to talk softly today.
A soft answer turns away wrath
. He’d heard that from somewhere, but couldn’t place the saying’s origin.
“Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. She scanned an e-reader. “Disorderly and drunken conduct in a—” She glanced at the leftward major, handing him the e-reader. “Am I reading this correctly?” she asked the major. “The offender committed these disloyalties in a strip bar?”
The pudgy major didn’t take the e-reader, but leaned over, scanning the words in a bored manner. “Oh yes, the offender was in a strip bar. You are correct.”
“Humph,” the Public Safety monitor said. “I find that disgusting.” She glared down at Jake. “You no doubt frequent these places often.”
“Uh, no,” Jake said. “I—”
“Silence!” the monitor said, banging a gavel on a block, making the block jump. She continued scanning the e-reader. Her head swayed back and her eyes widened. Silently, she pushed the e-reader toward the same pudgy major as before.
His pupils went back and forth. His head jerked back sharply and he eyed Jake anew. “Is this correct?”
“I don’t know what you’re reading,” Jake said.
“I can’t see how
anyone
could possibly speak such treasonous trash as I’m reading here,” the monitor said. “Do you realize we are at war with three different power blocs?” she asked Jake.
“I do, yes,” he said.
“The world pours in against us,” the woman said. “We have our backs against the wall and, and—you have the
impudence
to spout this garbage?”
“First,” Jake said, in a reasonable tone. “I was extremely drunk.”
“I cannot believe this,” the monitor said. “Your kind wallows in all kinds of deviancy. Drunkenness, lewdness, sedition—I imagine it’s a long list with you.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Jake said. “I’m the furthest thing from seditious. Have you looked at my combat record lately? I was at Denver this winter.”
The woman glanced at the second major, a thin man with compressed lips. “Is this true?” she asked.
“I think there’s a broader question,” the man replied. “Is his whereabouts this winter germane to what he spouted in the strip bar?”
“Yeah it’s germane,” Jake said. “I’ve spilled blood for America. If anyone…” His voice quieted and he stopped speaking.
The woman raised bushy eyebrows. “It appears you have to think carefully before answering my questions. To my mind, that shows a guilty conscience.”
“No,” Jake said.
“He’s argumentative,” the pudgy major said, the one on her left.
“I cannot believe this,” the monitor said, as she continued reading. “You urinated on your Militia card.”
“No,” Jake said.
The woman looked up with astonishment. “Do you dispute the facts?” she asked.
“Well…not exactly,” Jake said. “I pissed on the card, yeah.”
The woman stiffened in outrage.
“I-I mean urinated,” Jake said. “I urinated on it.”
“So you
admit
to this lewdness?” she asked.
“You have to understand,” Jake said. “I have the highest respect for the Militia. My best friends are in it. You should call them. They can tell you about my combat record.”
“Do you notice what he’s doing?” the pudgy major asked the woman.
She shook her head.
“He’s trying to tell us how to run our tribunal.”
“You’re right,” the woman said. “It’s seditious arrogance.”
“Look, the three of you are telling me how to run my life,” Jake said. “The least I can do is to defend myself. You want to hear the truth, don’t you?”
“You really think you can defend your heinous actions?” the woman asked.
“Getting drunk is heinous?” Jake asked, starting to get angry.
“Don’t play your little games with
me
, young man,” the woman said. “Drunkenness is moral weakness. I do not excuse it. But in this instance I mean showing grave disrespect to the Militia by urinating on your ID card.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Jake said. “I wasn’t pissing—I wasn’t urinating on the card. Don’t you listen?”
The monitor’s eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t urinating on the card, what were you urinating on?”
Jake opened his mouth to tell her, and he paused.
“He’s a schemer,” the pudgy major said. “Look how he has to think about what he’s going to say. A man telling the truth just says it and lets the consequences fall where they may.”
“All right,” Jake said. “You want me to say it? I pissed on the Director of Homeland Security. Is that such a sin? In case you haven’t noticed, the man has enforced some highly suspect laws.”
The three members of the tribunal traded glances with each other.
“What are his Dentition Center records?” the thin major finally asked.
The monitor clicked her e-reader, searching. Finally, she read for a time. Brusquely, she handed the device to the pudgy major. He glanced without touching it, and he traded looks with the larger monitor.
“Do we need to see any more?” she asked the others.
“I’ve fought for America,” Jake said. “I’ve spilled my blood more times than I can count? What have you three done to stop the invaders?”
The monitor picked up the gavel and banged it several times. “You are under investigation, not us.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jake said, as his fingers curled around the fabric of his trousers. Why had them given him such baggy pants? “I’m fighting my heart out on the front lines and you three are hiding back here stealing my freedoms. What a joke.”
“I do not care for your tone or for your treasonous words, young man,” the woman said.
“I bet you don’t,” Jake said. “Tyrants hate an honest man.”
The woman banged the gavel. “I do not need to hear any more. You are hereby sentenced to a penal battalion.”
“Is that another detention battalion?” Jake asked.
“I thought I was clear,” the woman said. “You are headed to a penal battalion.”
“Is that a labor—?”
“You have lost your right to question me,” the woman said. “Perhaps if you fight hard enough, you can regain your American citizenship someday. These seditious acts and words—” She shook her head, making her short bangs swish over her forehead. “I believe one such as you would better serve us as fish food. But the hour is dark and America uses everyone, even you disloyalists.”
While clutching his pants, Jake looked up at her. He felt helpless, and he despised the feeling. He should have stayed with his friends in the bar. If he had… He’d needed to drown his thoughts about killing, and he had those bitter emotions because he’d already fought hard to defend his country. This was wrong, just dead wrong. His stomach churned. He didn’t know what to do. This was just so wrong.
“You’re leaving for New England this evening,” the woman was saying. “There, you will join a penal battalion. Fight hard, Mr. Higgins, and perhaps you can gain your country’s forgiveness.”
“How about the country gains my forgiveness for what it’s done to me?” he said under his breath.
“What was that?” the monitor asked. “Do you have some final word for the court?”
Jake had some words all right, but he refrained from saying them. He was in deep enough. A penal battalion…that sounded ominous.
-4-
Annihilation
From
Tank Wars
, by B.K. Laumer III:
Electronic Warfare
In the opening days and weeks of the war, the German Dominion had a decisive advantage in EW equipment and practice. The heavy GD dependence on drones, UAVs and droids, and on the AI-run Kaisers, demanded a superior communication network. The GD military needed the electronic link so their operators could control their vehicles and so the commanders could order and monitor what the semi-independent AI tanks were doing.
GD High Command believed in the old adage: a good offense was a good defense. Therefore, they practiced intense
ESM (electronic surveillance measures)
. The critical component to this was keeping track of the Canadian and American electronic devices on and near the battlefield. Because of this, the GD EW services kept a continuously updated common operating picture of Allied aircraft, ships, army units and ground vehicles. Every vehicle possessed a particular electronic signature. These signatures the GD specialists found and watched better than their Allied counterparts did theirs. ESM warfare included picking up enemy transmissions. The key advantage lay in the obvious truism: once one knew how the enemy equipment operated, one could jam or deceive that equipment.
The GD Expeditionary Force had more and better active and passive sensors and smarter and quicker
ECD (electronic control devices)
. An example of the latter was the GD Sleeper mine, artillery-fired before advancing or behind retreating enemy vehicles. The Sleeper mine was sensor-controlled and contained powerful microprocessors. Depending on the setting, the Sleeper mine waited until a certain number of vehicles passed before popping up to attack. The GD automated devices worked with greater precision and reliability than American automated devices of similar types.
Lastly, GD
ECM (electronic countermeasures)
were better and more powerful than the American measures. Jamming enemy equipment at the right frequency was the most obvious form of ECM.
Both sides also used
ECCM (electronic counter countermeasures)
and
EDM (electronic deception measures)
. One form of ECCM was to crank up the transmitter and burn through enemy jamming. The last, EDM, could involve setting up a transmitter to fool the enemy by simulating the presence of a unit of where it was not.
All together, these advantages proved decisive for the GD in the race to the Great Lakes. German Dominion EW specialists gained target acquisition through sensors, ESM and signal processing identity, pinpointing the activity, strength and position of enemy units. This gave the GD military the most lucrative targets at the earliest opportunity.
The GD EW specialists worked hard to disrupt enemy command, control and communication, causing American and Canadian commanders to lose track and control of their vehicles or men.
The last offensive component to electronic warfare came from deception. Particularly in the first weeks, EDM helped to deceive the North American soldiers about true GD intentions. When the GD hammer fell, it often came as a grim surprise and shock to the Allied forces.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
There were voices. Then metal clacked from outside, a latch probably. The railroad car’s side door squealed open on rusty sprockets.
Jake Higgins blinked at the bright light. He sat up, pushing aside the worn Army jacket he’d used as a blanket. A rolled up shirt had been his pillow and the hard railroad car floor his bed. Other Militia detainees raised their heads or rolled onto one of their elbows to see what was going on. Thirty of them were in here with Jake: dirty, tired and hungry men.
It stank in the railroad car and several buckets to the sides held last night’s feces. None of them had been out of the car for over twenty-four hours.
“Outside!” a muscled, Militia Detention Guard, or MDG, sergeant shouted.
The man must have used steroids just as Jake’s friend in Denver, the lieutenant, once had. The sergeant had an extraordinarily thick neck and sloping shoulders. He wore a white helmet with the letters “MDG” stamped on the front. The man had heavy features to match his neck, making him a bull with flaring nostrils. Jake wouldn’t have been surprised to see a ring in the nose. The sergeant had a carbine slung on his left shoulder and a nightstick dangling from a thick black police belt. Other MDG personnel waited for the threadbare detainees. The white-helmeted men fanned out in a semicircle behind the first sergeant.
He eyed the detainees with distain, with a sneer twisting his practically lipless mouth. Then he said in a loud voice, “Get your sorry asses out here before we drag them out.”
The detainees stood, as did Jake, and they moved toward the door. Jake put on his coat and waited his turn. He’d been traveling by railroad car like an old-time hobo. At each stop, another political detainee or two joined the growing throng. They ate crusts of bread, drank bottled water and used the outdoors when they could to relieve themselves. This was unbelievable treatment, as if they were Russian POWs during WWII.
“Get out,” another MDG snarled at Jake.
“Out!” the muscled sergeant shouted.
Jake jumped down, and he landed hard on gravel. There must have been hundreds of various railroad tracks here. There were hundreds of railroad cars and engines waiting or being loaded or unloaded, and there were long sheds everywhere and sounds of busy forklifts revving.
Jake felt a hand grab his collar, heave, and he faced the sergeant with the thick neck.
“A double troublemaker, huh?” the sergeant asked.
Jake shook his head.
The sergeant must not have liked that or not liked something about Jake. The man let go of the collar, slid the carbine from his shoulder, grabbed it two-handed and slammed the butt hard against Jake’s gut.
The surprise blow caught Jake hard. His air whooshed out and pain blossomed. His knees unhinged on their own accord and he dropped, slamming down onto his shins. He doubled over as he clutched his stomach in agony. What a bastard.
The sergeant gripped Jake’s hair and forced his head back. The man shoved his own face near and blew bad breath on Jake on he spoke:
“You look at me wrong, you piss wrong, I’ll stomp you flat. You’re a filthy traitor, and I hate traitors, and that means I hate you.”
Jake hurt too much to reply, but this was his first meeting with MDG Sergeant Dan Franks. They were destined to spend much time together.
“Get up,” the sergeant said.
While clutching his gut, Jake struggled to his feet, shuffling over gravel to join the others. The rest of the MDGs marshaled the detainees into a physical training formation. Apparently, the sergeants didn’t care if they formed up in the middle of the famous Chicago rail yards. One of the detention people began taking roll call.
When the man finished, the muscled sergeant who had struck Jake marched in front of the group.
“Look at you sorry traitors,” the sergeant said, in his sneering voice. He had re-slung the carbine tight over his right shoulder. He faced them with his legs spread in an arrogant stance.
“I’m Sergeant Dan Franks!” he roared. “I’m the Militia Detention Guard who is going to make sure each one of you fights and dies for the greatest country in the world. For you worthless dregs that don’t know: that’s the United States of America. It seems you dissidents can’t ever get it right. Well, guess what. We’re not in college now with your communist professors to hold your faggot hand. No, sir, you’re down here with us regular Americans who actually love our country.”
“I love it, too,” one of the detainees said.
Sergeant Franks stopped speaking, with shock on his face. He scowled, and he zeroed in on the speaker. “Bring that lying piece of filth to me,” Franks said.
Jake kept himself from looking directly at the sergeant. There was something wrong with the man’s eyes. They were too close set, and they were too shiny. Was the man high or drunk? Or did Franks get off on pushing others around? Maybe the answer was yes to both.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. When am I going to learn to keep my mouth shut?
Two MDGs hustled a skinny man to Franks. The detainee wore a threadbare coat and nearly useless tennis shoes. The man looked to be thirty-five, but could have been younger. He had a three days growth of beard and sad, tired eyes.
“Did you say something to me, maggot?” the sergeant asked the man.
The skinny detainee looked around.
With a powerful grip, Franks grabbed the man’s face, with his thick fingers tightening against the cheeks. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Detainee. That’s what an American does: he meets another man’s eyes.”
The detainee swallowed hard. Maybe he was finally getting it in his mind that he was in trouble. He stared at Franks, and those shiny eyes must have frightened him. The detainee quickly lowered his gaze.
“I asked you a question, maggot,” Franks said. “Did you say something before?”
“Yes, sir—”
Crack!
Franks let go of the detainee’s face and slapped him, leaving an angry red welt. “Pay attention, you traitorous scum. I’m not an officer. I’m a sergeant. Besides, I don’t want a dickhead piece of filth like you calling me sir. I feel soiled by it.”
“Yes…okay,” the detainee said.
“Are you afraid?” Franks asked.
Jake knew he shouldn’t say anything. He told himself to keep quiet. He could see the skinny man was a youth, someone younger than he was. The youth didn’t seem as if he’d ever been in the military or the militia before. The kid was pure terrified. The slap in the face must have capped it for him. Most people were shocked the first time real world brutality struck them.
“I asked you if you’re afraid,” Franks shouted.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “He’s afraid. Are you satisfied?”
For a moment, Sergeant Franks froze, perhaps out of amazement. Ever so slowly, he turned from the detainee and to Jake.
While looking at Jake, Franks asked, “Who spoke to me just now.”
Jake knew he should shut up. He realized he’d made a bad mistake. He was weary, hungry and fear kept tugging for his attention. He was also pissed off, royally angry for the rifle butt in the gut a minute ago. He knew he shouldn’t, but Jake raised his right hand.
Franks glanced at another MDG. “It looks like we have a funny man among us, Leary.” Facing Jake, Franks said, “Step out here with me, funnyman.”
Jake marched to the head of the formation and then two steps farther. He held himself at attention and kept his eyes forward. He felt Sergeant Franks move toward him. He heard the crunch of gravel, and his stomach throbbed. He didn’t want to get struck in the gut again, but it didn’t matter what he wanted. The rifle butt smashed him in the same place as before. Jake groaned, and he crumpled to his knees.
“Do you feel funny now?” Franks asked, the sergeant looming over him.
Jake shook his head.
“Speak up. I can’t hear you, funnyman.”
It came to Jake that maybe the MDGs could beat a few of the detainees to death. According to the tribunal, he didn’t have any American rights left. He was a penal detainee, a supposed traitor to his country. Jake saw himself as one of the last real patriots, a man who tried to speak truth to power. The Detention people would hate someone like him. The sergeant had already told Jake he hated him. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was about to die. Jake wanted to act tough, but his stomach hurt and the fear of death…
“I do not feel funny, Sergeant Franks,” Jake said.
Franks stared down at him, finally saying, “I guess you been in before, huh?”
“I have, Sergeant Franks.” Jake could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath, not a lot, but it was there.
“Well you know what. I don’t care two cents about that. You’re in my penal platoon and you’re going to do things my way. There’s an emergency going on, and our country needs warm bodies to charge the damn Germans. I’m guessing someone upstairs will actually give punks like you an M16. It doesn’t really matter, one way or another. You’ll probably piss yourself the first time a Kraut shows his face. Isn’t that right, you piece of filth?”
“No, Sergeant Franks,” Jake said. “I want to fight for my country.”
The sergeant didn’t say anything, and finally, Jake dared to look up. He saw Franks staring down at him, sneering.
Franks hawked phlegm in this throat, gathered it and spit in Jake’s face.
Jake should have known better. Lately, he’d received hard life-lessons on the advantage of keeping one’s cool. He should have kept his cool now. Instead, something snapped in him. Militia Detention people had screwed him over just one too many times. Now this bully of a sergeant spit in his face. Jake didn’t roar with rage. He simply moved faster than Sergeant Franks must have expected. His nearly ruptured stomach didn’t slow Jake any, either. Jake moved like a leopard, from his knees, scrambling to his feet and tackling the MDG by the knees.
Jake didn’t realize what he was doing until he had Sergeant Dan Franks on his back, slammed the man’s helmeted head against a railroad tie twice and then he whaled three solid shots to the sergeant’s face. Madness and rage reigned during those few seconds. None of the other MDGs had moved by then, either. On his own, Jake stopped the whaling, and he jumped off Franks, took two steps back and stood at attention.