The driver looked at his friend and then looked into the smoking barrel of John’s gun.
“No,” the driver said.
With his smile still frozen in place, John shot three times more, obliterating the driver’s features. The man didn’t flop or jackknife anywhere, because his seatbelt kept him securely in place.
John didn’t bother looking around to see if anyone had witnessed this. He was on the death path. That gave him power and it gave him extraordinary luck. Instead of looking around and wasting time, he dropped the gun into a jacket pocket. Then he tried to open the driver’s door. It was locked. John reached within and opened it from the inside.
The smell of blood and death was strong in the BMW. Reaching across the dead driver, John unbuckled him and pushed the corpse over until the two were touching.
He climbed in, ignoring the blood, closed the door with a whomp and shut the window. He glanced at the two dead men. They must be undercover police or secret service agents. He would check for identities later. For now, he eased his foot on the gas pedal and drove away.
The incident solidified his plan. He would drive to the French secret service agent’s house. He would outline his need and accept whatever help the man would give. John was on the death path. That meant he needed to move quickly. Those on the death path only had a short time left on Earth. The extraordinary luck would only last a finite period, so he must utilize it to the fullest now.
As John turned onto a new street, the smile slipped away. He had the normal deadpan look of John Red Cloud again. Yes, that was good, too. John decided that he would never smile again…unless he stood over Chancellor Kleist’s steaming corpse.
Anna Chen sat in Underground Bunker Number Five. It lay several hundred meters below and to the side of the White House. In case of a nuclear attack, elevators would speed down here through immense layers of concrete. There were enough guns and butter—so to speak—in the bunker’s lockers to last ten years, at least.
This was where David and his larger Crisis Staff often watched critical battles or sat to discuss and make war policy.
Director Max Harold of Homeland Security was present, together with the Director of the CIA. There was the Defense Secretary, the Secretary of State, Chairman Alan and the rest of the Joints Chief of Staff.
Anna sat as a Presidential advisor. She along with everyone else listened to a briefing major outline the Toronto Pocket’s assault.
They watched nighttime images on the big screen. It showed flashes of American artillery. There were big silhouettes of American tanks moving like dinosaurs, bent over mortar teams lugging their equipment, machine-gun gunners and the actual assault soldiers, both American and Canadians wearing bulky body armor.
“We attempted to give them air support,” the briefing major said, a youngish woman with a solemn gaze. She clicked a device.
The big screen switched images, showing American V-10 drones boring in toward Toronto’s airspace. For a moment, the deadly-looking craft flew alone. The next instant lasers stabbed upward into the night sky. Drones broke apart. Some dove to escape destruction. Others lifted and still others peeled away in either direction.
GD drones or fighters—the major didn’t know and they were too far away to tell—launched air-to-air missiles. Anna watched their contrails. The GD missiles moved so fast, and they darted like hummingbirds after the jinking V-10s. Each second, another V-10 burst apart in a flash of explosion. Soon thereafter, there was nothing in the sky but smoking parts raining toward Toronto.
“We need cruise missiles,” someone said. “We need hundreds of them hugging the earth. The lasers couldn’t stop a barrage of them. Bam, bam!” the Defense Secretary said, clapping his meaty hands together. “You’d have wasted GD strongpoints instead of useless, destroyed UAVs falling on them.”
“We don’t have hundreds of cruise missiles in one place to use,” General Alan said, perhaps a trifle apologetically.
The Defense Secretary was a large man with a red face and a redder nose. “Then we’d better damn well produce more of them, shan’t we?”
“We do produce them,” General Alan said. “As fast as the plants manufacture the missiles we use them. It’s building up enough missiles in one place that is proving impossible. Our munitions are woefully inadequate. The battles against the Chinese in the Midwest…they burned up everything we had last year.”
“I understand that,” the Defense Secretary said. “I’m talking about saving cruise missiles for a bigger occasion like this. We’re not thinking strategically enough.”
“Maybe you can lend us your expertise,” Alan said. “Tell me: is this one of those occasions? Or is this a time to save cruise missiles?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” the Defense Secretary said.
“He’s simply being factual, Tom,” Max said. “You can’t fault him for that. It’s his job.”
The large Defense Secretary eyed the Director of Homeland Security. “His tone… Oh, never mind. Our boys are dying tonight, that’s what matters.”
“Yes,” Max said. “Sadly, that’s true.” He turned to David Sims. “Mr. President, from the images out of Toronto and the major’s reports, this sounds like a full-blown disaster. We’re in danger of losing these men, everything, in the entire pocket. That’s too many losses piled on top of all our other fatalities.”
Biting her lower lip in worry, Anna watched David. She wondered which President had shown up for the meeting: the forceful man of old or the beaten commander in chief. So far, that had yet to be determined.
President Sims was slow in answering the director. Anguish filled his features. “This… it’s troubling,” he said.
“Agreed, Mr. President,” Max said. To Anna, the Director of Homeland Security felt forceful. He seemed confident and in charge. “The GD arsenal is too modern,” Max said, “too abundant against our under-armed soldiers. Because of that my recommendation remains the same, sir.”
“You mean nuclear weapons, don’t you?” the President asked.
“I don’t see any way around the situation, sir,” Max said. “The GD tanks have run an old-fashioned blitzkrieg against us. They trapped too many of our key formations in Toronto. We need them if we’re going to hold onto the rest of the Golden Horseshoe and the Southern Ontario peninsula. If the GD takes Detroit…”
“That can’t happen,” the President said. “The war might be over if they reach Detroit.”
“Yes, our newest Behemoth Manufacturing Plant is there. After Denver—”
“I know, I know,” the President said, impatiently.
Finally, Anna thought. He can’t let Max walk all over him. I should have warned him. I made a mistake in not telling David.
“This is an unpleasant fact, sir,” Max said. He cleared his throat, bringing up his right hand, making a fist and holding it before his mouth. He lowered the hand and said, “I hate to bring it up.”
No, you don’t, Anna thought.
“The GD Expeditionary Force is taking the time to digest this big lump of American soldiers and equipment,” Max said. “There are over one hundred fifty thousand fighting soldiers in the Toronto Pocket, sir. They’re of the best quality, too. That means their loss will cost more than double in terms of other troops. Once those one hundred fifty thousand are gone, sir, the GD advance will resume. By the pictures we’re seeing, I doubt the men can hold the city more than a few days longer.”
“I don’t know that I’d paint such a gloomy picture as that,” General Alan said. “Len Zelazny is running the show over there. You know he has a few tricks left.”