“72!” the company commander, a captain, shouted. “What are you doing?”
Hans flicked his fingers. Tri-barrels chattered in a burst, and the American died in a hail of bullets.
“I’m killing them, sir,” Hans said.
“This isn’t a game, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I don’t want you killing with treads.”
Hans scowled. Some of the others bragged about tread killing. The captain had gotten wise to that, and no doubt had orders to stick to procedure.
I have to get tread kills. But it will be harder now with the captain watching. Damn, Luger, how does he always think of these things first?
Sergeant Luger sat beside him, running Sigrid #71. He was sandy-haired with freckles and had buck teeth.
“Hey,” Luger said to him.
Hans glanced at his friend.
“Tough luck,” Luger said, grinning. “Maybe next time you can get one.”
Hans lifted a manipulation glove and gave Luger the finger.
“Sergeant Kruger!” the captain shouted.
Hans hunched his shoulders. The captain could be a prick sometimes. Scowling, he decided to take it out on the Americans. Look at them come. They raced to their deaths. Who could figure out the American losers?
The 10th Panzer-Grenadier Battalion proceeded to destroy the American attackers. What did the enemy commander think he was doing anyway? They should have stayed in their foxholes and kept hidden in the rubble. They could have lived another several days or possibly even a week that way. Hans couldn’t understand American thinking. Whatever it took to stay alive, that’s what you did. There were no exceptions.
“At least they’re making it easy on us,” Hans whispered to Luger.
“They’re idiots,” Luger said. “There’s nothing they can do to beat us.”
“Of course not,” Hans said. “They’re too old-fashioned, too stuck in the past to do anything more but scrape a little paint off our Sigrids.”
They both glanced at the company commander. He was busy speaking to the lieutenant colonel.
“How many have you killed tonight?” Luger whispered. “I’ve obliterated seventeen of them so far.”
“Fifteen,” Hans said, in an envious voice.
Luger laughed.
It made Hans double down and begin searching for more enemies. If he couldn’t tread any of these soldiers, at least he could chalk up a higher kill number than Luger. That might also help keep the captain off his butt and let him get a treading later.
Drone wars, Hans decided, were much better than a computer-generated video game. This was real life and real death, and it was a whole lot more fun because of it.
General Mansfeld stood in the GD Expeditionary Force HQ Operational Center. He watched the American assault in Toronto and he tried to decipher their reasoning.
Huge screens hung on the walls. It was like being at King’s Table in Dusseldorf during the soccer playoffs. Well, minus the odor of beer and the sound of drunken cheers every time the home team scored. At King’s Table, screens stood side by side and one atop the other on the walls. Everywhere one peered, one saw massed soccer. Here in Ottawa, it was mass walls of war as seen through the night vision cameras of Sigrids and HKs.
A major handed General Mansfeld a cup of coffee. The trim former Olympic athlete accepted the cup and sipped as he watched a screen. An AI Kaiser HK—a machine known as “Hindenburg”—supplied the images of this screen.
It showed a nighttime wasteland of rubble and the stumps of buildings. Smoke rose from the nearest. Once, this area had been the heart of Toronto’s financial district. Now, instead of accountants, enemy tanks approached. American infantry flanked the big machines. More soldiers on foot followed in back.
Three Kaisers to take on eight M1s and assorted GIs, Mansfeld mused. I didn’t know the Americans had so many tanks left in the city.
Mansfeld handed the cup back to the major. The general then eased forward and touched an operator’s shoulder.
The captain sitting before him stiffened and twisted his head around. The man had a small crossed bones earring. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“Are you in communication with…with Hindenburg?” At the last minute, Mansfeld remembered that AI liaison officers liked to refer to their machines as people and certainly by name. It was odd. It was even a little disconcerting. But Mansfeld wanted information and knew that it helped to put these liaison officers at ease by complying with their rituals.
“Yes, I am communicating, sir,” the captain said.
“I’d like to hear the exchange,” Mansfeld said.
The captain paused for a half-moment, although he obviously kept himself from frowning. Mansfeld found both things interesting. AI liaison officers were like jealous Canine Corps handlers in the attachment to their creatures. Quite odd, if one thought about it. Finally, the captain moved a finger of his manipulation glove.
A speaker with a metallic voice came online. “Probability indicators show the M1A3s will tack onto grid 2-B-12. The first Abrams will commence firing in…six seconds. I wish them to—”
“Fire now,” Mansfeld said, bending down and speaking into the liaison microphone.
In shock, the liaison officer opened his mouth. “Sir, Hindenburg knows how to—”
“Fire,” Mansfeld said, with bite to his words. “I have ordered you to fire. Why do you delay?”
“I must confirm your authority,” Hindenburg said in its metallic voice.
“Confirm me,” Mansfeld told the captain.
The liaison officer tapped his screen. “Hindenburg, the commanding officer of the GD Expeditionary Force has given you a direct order. You will obey.”
“I am initiating battle zone override,” Hindenburg said. “If you will notice, please: the first M1A3 has stopped short, indicating the crew plans to fire. My prediction is off by two seconds, although the end results will be the same.”
On screen, a squat 175mm cannon roared with great effect. At the same instant, two other Kaiser main guns opened fire.
General Mansfeld watched with absorption. He mentally filed it away for later study the Kaiser’s possible insubordination. At present, the attack met with his approval.
The Kaisers were efficient and sudden death for the old American tanks. Once, the M1s had ruled the world through superior technology. There had not been a tank around able to compete against the Americans. Tonight, in Toronto, the Americans became like the Republican Guard of Saddam Hussein in the deserts of Kuwait back in 1991. Yes, most of the Abrams tanks fired their cannons once. Those shells did nothing, as the Kaisers intercepted each shell with a 25mm autocannon and a mathematically sound formula with the beehive flechettes. No, Mansfeld took that back. Three high-velocity shells found the armored hide of the lead Kaiser, of Hindenburg.
“My glacis has taken a twenty-seven percent hull hit,” Hindenburg informed them, “a thirty-three percent strike and a forty-nine percent. None has breached my armor.”
The AI meant how far each shell had gone into the glacis before stopping.
“I repeat,” Hindenburg said, “there was no penetration. I maintain a ninety-six percent capacity.”
The speed of the Kaiser’s turret and ability to elevate or lower its cannon amazed Mansfeld. He watched the salvos butcher the remaining M1s. At the last moment, two Abrams retreated through the rubble, racing to get behind two buildings. None of it mattered. The Kaisers blasted the last Abrams first, blowing its turret clean off, and they killed the second M1 moments later, leaving two smoke-billowing hulks.
In less than two minutes, the tank battle was over. It was a complete victory for GD arms.
“You can turn off the speaker,” Mansfeld told the liaison officer.