COMMENT: In retrospect, the GD drive on Detroit had three distinct phases. The first was the initial surprise against the Canadians on the Ontario-Quebec border. The GD military achieved masterful success during this stage. Each technological superiority came as a rude shock to the Canadians, and they needed time to adjust—time the GD didn’t give them. The second phase started with the arrival of American reinforcements from the US strategic reserve. The Expeditionary Force still achieved stunning victories during this period. Despite those victories, the sheer volume of US reinforcements combined with their tenacity finally slowed the blitzkrieg, which culminated in the siege of Toronto. Phase Three started with General Zelazny’s death. During this stage, the US gained a new addition: jammers applying the Heidegger Principle. The second addition was an even greater number of reinforcements from New England and especially from the Gulf and East Coast garrison troops. The jammers increasingly blunted the distinct GD machine advantage, although it did not altogether eliminate it. The massed US formations in a narrow region together with heavy concentrations of artillery finally ended any thought of GD advances in the final portion of Southwestern Ontario.
However, because Detroit had never been Mansfeld’s final objective, the American victory came at a heavy cost. They were weak at the wrong place—The Erie-Ontario Lowlands of New York State Interstate 90—and the GD now threatened to achieve its true campaign objective.
-10-
Beachhead
Under the personal escort of the Chancellor’s bodyguards, General Walther Mansfeld rode an elevator down into an underground chamber. His stomach lurched from the speed, and he momentarily felt light on his feet. Five big men towered around him, although they had acted deferentially to him ever since helping him out of his armored limousine.
Mansfeld had rushed back to Montreal, expecting to meet the Chancellor, but without anyone confirming or denying it. Like many heads of state, Kleist feared assassination and took extraordinary precautions against it.
The Americans fought hard. They fought well and they had become cunning with their special jamming companies, moving from hot spot to hot spot. The enemy had finally forced caution into General Holk. The man must have phoned back to Europe. Holk had become fainthearted in his use of the drone battalions, and that as much as anything had slowed the offensive to the ridiculous crawl.
The elevator lurched to a halt, the doors opened and the biggest bodyguard gently pushed against Mansfeld’s back, propelling the general out of the elevator.
More big men in black suits waited. Mansfeld counted seven this time. Three already stood. Four of them played cards at a table.
“General Walther Mansfeld,” the chief bodyguard in the elevator said.
“You’re late,” a blond giant of a bodyguard told the other.
“Traffic.”
“You want me to write that down?” the blond giant asked.
“It’s the truth.”
“That’s not what I asked,” the blond giant said.
“Go ahead. Put it down.”
“Suit yourself.” The giant bodyguard turned to the card players, snapping his fingers.
One of the players set down his card hand, took out an electronic device and made a notation.
The guard who’d pushed Mansfeld stepped back into the elevator and pushed a button. The doors closed as the lift pinged, taking the first set of bodyguards away.
Without seeming to, General Mansfeld examined his new surroundings. He stood in a large, underground concrete corridor. Condensation caused water to form on the ceiling. A drop dripped, and there was a smell of fungus in the air. The place felt like a deep tunnel, and he didn’t like it here. He doubted anyone would.
The general didn’t see any signal, but now all the bodyguards set their cards on the table. Chairs scraped back and guns appeared.
No one said a word to him. No one apologized. Two of the smaller guards approached and gave him a thorough pat down, even to running a hand down his butt and feeling his groin. It was insulting, and Mansfeld would have liked to strike the man doing it. He knew better. There was a time and place for anger. This wasn’t it.
Finally, the blond giant waved the others away. They sat back down, picked up their cards and resumed their game. All in a day’s work, their actions said.
“Follow me, General,” the huge man said in a low rumble.
“Do you have a name?” Mansfeld asked.
Every bodyguard stopped what he was doing. They watched him, waiting expectantly. They felt like a feral pack of Rottweilers. Finally, they seemed to realize it had been an honest question. They stared at the blond giant.
“You want a name?” the huge man asked.
“If you can spare to tell me,” Mansfeld said.
The huge bodyguard showed his teeth in a grin. “I’m Mr. Death to you, General. Someday one of us is going to kill you. That is, unless you please the Chancellor in everything.”
“Ah,” Mansfeld said.
“Kleist wants love,” said one of the bodyguards at the table.
The hard eyes of Mr. Death tightened.
“I’m going to shut up,” the other man said.
Mr. Death grunted a rumbling, monosyllabic response. Then he motioned for Mansfeld to follow him.
The general hurried to keep up, taking two steps for every one of the other. He felt eyes behind him and half turned. It surprised him that two more bodyguards followed. He hadn’t heard them. These two should have been in the Expeditionary Force in the commandos. They wasted their talents down here. He doubted Kleist thought so. Powerful tyrants had kept the best soldiers around them from time immemorial.
Mansfeld could imagine the blond giant, Mr. Death, as one of Caesar’s bodyguards long ago. There had been a time in Roman history when only German barbarians had been allowed into the Praetorian Guard. In those distant times, the various Caesars had invariably feared their most successful generals. It had been far too easy in those times for a general to turn his legionaries on the government and become the next Caesar of Rome. Yet that wasn’t why Kleist had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to come to Montreal in secret. It wasn’t why he—Mansfeld—had left his command post to travel here for a face-to-face meeting.
The summer campaign had entered a critical phase, a troubling one. It had been inevitable, given the nature of war. Even Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan had troubles during a campaign, at least from time to time. This is what Mansfeld had feared many months ago: Kleist losing his nerve. He didn’t know the Chancellor had lost his nerve, but Mansfeld suspected that is what had happened.
Mr. Death opened large doors and ushered him into a much different sort of underground chamber. The wet smell of fungus vanished. Warmth hit Mansfeld in the face and something else as welclass="underline" pure air. From the utilitarian concrete corridor, he entered a plush chamber. A massive conference table stood in the middle of a carpeted room. Vast chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the GD General Staff sitting in attendance. Field Marshal Wessel presided over the meeting, dominating the others by his white-haired presence.
So, Mansfeld thought. The Chancellor felt the need for backup, did he? How very interesting. He has lost his nerve after all—just as I predicted to myself he would.
A fire roared in the fireplace, and more security personnel stood near tall purple curtains blocking what should have been windows. There were no windows down here, of course. The curtains were pretense. Far above them, Mansfeld knew, rain poured upon Montreal. Yet if he swept back the curtains, all he would find would be more concrete or possibly wooden panels.