“Yes.”
“That’s six days,” Mansfeld said, “a net saving of only a single day, as I want you at London in a week.”
“A day faster, clear supply routes and the elimination of a troublesome stronghold,” Holk said. “Either that, sir, or give the Toronto holdouts to Zeller to eliminate. We must get rid of them as fast as possible.”
“That’s General Zeller to you,” Zeller said. “And I do not want to take care of your problems. I’m having enough of a headache getting my forces ready for the amphibious assault.”
“You’re far from launching the assault yet,” Holk said. “It will likely be a week before any GD formation is ready to cross Lake Erie. More like nine days at the soonest. For all our sakes, we must clear out Toronto now.”
“Listen to me, both of you,” Mansfeld said, his mind made up. “General Holk, you will destroy the Toronto Pocket. That is your first priority. You will clear the defenders and open the way for full movement. Then you will bring everything to bear against Hamilton and rush through to London and then Detroit.
“General Zeller,” Mansfeld said. “You will continue with your war games and ready Twelfth Army for the great jump across the Great Lakes. I want your soldiers ready to commit mayhem once they reach the farther shores.”
Zeller nodded.
“At the moment the load is now on you, General,” Mansfeld said, speaking to Holk. “I will accept no excuses or delays.”
“I will need priority on supplies,” Holk said.
“You may be right,” Mansfeld said. “I will look into that.” He would look into it, but Holk would get what he would get. He studied the two men. They were unalike, but they were both drivers. They both made the men under them fight, although through different styles of command.
“Have I made myself clear on these issues, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” Zeller said. And it seemed that it was all he could do to keep from smirking at Holk.
Mansfeld understood that he’d sided with Zeller in this. Holk had done splendid work, but the decisive attack would be Zeller’s thrust into New York State and through the top of Pennsylvania.
“General Holk?” Mansfeld asked.
The general nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, in a quieter voice. “I understand and will obey your directives.”
Mansfeld stood and the two generals stood. He still had much to do. He shook hands, took their salutes and saluted back. Then he watched them go: Holk to his tank and Zeller to the hover.
There had been a few setbacks these past few days: nothing major, but enough to have called the meeting. Soon now, he would blow open the campaign.
Len Zelazny helped his corporal down a trembling sewer line. Every time someone shined a light on the water to their left, they saw ripples. The young lad Zelazny helped used a crutch with his other arm. His right was draped around the general’s shoulders.
A line of weary American and Canadian soldiers marched along the underground chamber. It stank down here. Dust drifted in the air and the thud and crash of artillery kept shaking the ceiling above. They had flashlights. Seven beams played on the walkway and sometimes on the damp walls and soiled water. The soldiers and Marines carried personal weapons only. A few had grenade launchers. They were out of Javelins and heavier machine guns.
The GD soldiers had finally broken the pocket and mopped up survivors. It was a rat war now. The stars shone outside, but Zelazny wondered if he’d ever see them again. How many countless good boys had died in Toronto?
He shook his head, and he concentrated on helping the corporal one shuffling step at a time.
A shout came from ahead. Then Zelazny heard screams.
“What’s going on, sir?” the corporal asked.
“We’re losing the war, son. That’s what is going on.”
“At least we fought hard, didn’t we, sir?”
“Yes,” Zelazny said. But there was a taste of defeat in his mouth like old mothballs. He didn’t like it. Maybe it even tasted un-American. In his youth, his country had won all the time. They had stood astride the globe, the dominant world power. It sure wasn’t like that anymore.
“Tanks!” a man shouted from the head of the column.
“Down here?” someone else shouted.
“Tanks,” the first man repeated. “I hear them, so they’re down here.”
The line of soldiers stopped. The seven beams played along the sewer line.
“What are we going do?” a soldier asked.
Zelazny took a deep breath, making him scowl at the odor. This was the last battle. “Listen up!” he shouted. “We’re going to set up an ambush.”
“Maybe we should surrender,” one of the soldiers said. “We can’t do anything more. Not down here.”
Zelazny hesitated. The boys had fought hard in horrible conditions. He didn’t have the heart to call the man who’d just said that a quitter.
Before Len Zelazny could speak the words, a violent explosion hammered against the ceiling. Chunks of masonry rained down and plunked into the water. Debris drifted like doom and soldiers and Marines went down under the hail…
Zelazny found himself blinking. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he lay on concrete. He had a terrible sense of deja vu. He strained and he saw the corporal dead beside him. Zelazny struggled to bring up his weapon.
He heard treads squeal. It was so close. Was this another terminator? A GD search beam played across his body. Zelazny looked up and saw a camera peering at him, a robotic eye with a red light in its lens. He hated these things. This wasn’t how men should fight wars: through soulless machines.
A 12.7mm tri-barrel aimed at his head. He didn’t care anymore. The long slog was over. Some kid was probably doing this to him from his remote-control set.
With a desire to go down fighting, Zelazny tried to bring up his weapon for one last shot.
The Sigrid tri-barrel whirred with thunderous noise, and Marine General Len Zelazny died as he’d begun—a regular grunt with a gun. Only this time, for the first time in his life—and the last—he utterly lost.
Colonel Stan Higgins sat in a plush rail car, staring out at passing cornfields when he read the news about Toronto. The last formations were surrendering. For the Toronto Pocket, the fighting and the war had ended. Now came the POW cages for the survivors.
Stan set down his e-reader. He still hadn’t heard about Jake. He’d been making calls though, and had found out the new penal battalions had headed for Buffalo and Hamilton, while others had gone north to New England.
Where are you son? What happened? I can’t believe no one will talk to me about you.
Stan watched the passing cornfields and slowly, they became a blur. After a time, he shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. He remembered Pastor Bill who had died in Alaska back in 2032, fighting the Chinese. Bill and he had been best friends for so many years. Their wives had been best friends. Bill and he had had fierce ping-pong matches down in Stan’s basement. He’d never found anyone as competitive as Bill. If the pastor were sitting beside him now, he’d tell Stan to pray about Jake.
Breathing heavily through his nostrils, Stan didn’t know if he cared to pray. How could God have let this happen to his son? His boy had been through Denver this winter. That should be enough pain for one man’s lifetime, especially that of his son.
The miles slid away as Stan thought about it. Finally, sighing, he decided this showed him the Devil was alive and well on Planet Earth. Bill had been right about that.
Opening his eyes, Stan smiled sadly. He missed Bill. They’d had long talks together, usually while fishing or while riding up the interstate together to go hunting. Bill had made some cogent arguments.