“So what happened?” Holloway asked.
“The US Government got wise. Instead of taking people’s guns away, they bought up all the ammo. Let them have empty guns, right?”
Holloway laughed, nodding in appreciation.
“It’s not really that funny,” Smith said, “because in the end, a lot of the American people started making their own ammo.”
“You’re kidding,” Holloway said. “Their government allowed that.”
“I don’t think their government had much of a choice,” Smith said. “If they wanted a civil war against the gun owners, they could try to grab the firearms, but those in power must have realized that then they would have soon been dead. Bloody Hell!” Smith shouted.
Fleck’s Galahad led the way sixty meters ahead of them. Fleck had been pausing at most of the overturned dinner plates, having his gunner shoot several rounds into each, breaking the things. It looked like Fleck must have become lazy. Maybe the Americans had been counting on that. These gun lovers were sly bastards.
Lieutenant Fleck’s Galahad went over something that exploded. A bright flash preceded billowing smoke. The armored skirt likely saved Fleck’s life, but the hover grounded hard, sparking down the street until it came to a halt.
That must have been the signal, though. From nearby buildings—a hardware store, a grocery store and a bicycle repair shop—rifles and something bigger opened up. The gunfire pinged off the grounded Galahad’s armor. Then what looked like a crude rocket roared out of the bicycle repair shop. The rocket wobbled as it flew and it struck the Galahad, igniting with a boom.
Holloway shouted a curse. It showed that he was far too wound up today.
“Smith!” 8th Squadron’s colonel said over the radio. “Take out the bicycle shop.”
“You heard the colonel,” Smith said. He revved the engine and turned sharp left.
Their 76mm thundered. A HE round entered the repair shop and exploded, destroying a section of wall.
“Give it another!” Smith shouted.
Two more Galahads moved up. As they did, a homemade rocket barreled out of the grocery store. This one didn’t wobble, but it had longer to go to reach one of them.
Holloway’s machine gun and Fleck’s burning vehicle took it down so the missile plowed on the street and exploded against a flower shop. It paid to have better targeting computers and better electronics.
The skirmish in outer Batavia went on for another eight minutes, but it quickly turned against the Americans. Artillery rained down from nearby GD mobile vehicles. Smoke shells also landed. Then Smith saw running American partisans trying to flank him. Holloway saw it, too. He brought the 12.7mm machine gun around, and the sergeant knocked down or killed three of the enemy. A woman scrambled behind a building, getting away.
“More are coming,” Holloway said in his clipped voice.
“Fleck!” Smith said. Then he stopped. Fleck staggered out of a cloud of smoke as he half dragged, half carried his gunner. No wonder they had been taking so long. Bright red blood streaked down the gunner’s leg.
“Hang on,” Smith said. He goosed the controls, and the Galahad started for Fleck.
Then both the pilot and wounded gunner went down as two grenades landed at their feet. Fleck saw the rolling metal balls at the last second, and he froze. The grenades blew. Fleck and the gunner tumbled backward in a tangled, gruesome mess.
Before Smith could comment about it, a ground-attack plane showed up. The squat thing released napalm, several canisters of it. Batavia began to burn as oily smoke billowed skyward.
This wasn’t a matter of destroying a town to save it as practiced in Vietnam back in the 1960s. Instead, by the radio chatter, Smith realized that HQ had decided on a new procedure. If the Americans fought too stubbornly in a town along Interstate 90, the Expeditionary Force would burn the place down—or they would drop enough napalm to give it a go. It was time for the gun-lovers to grow up and know when they’d been outmaneuvered, and when the GD soldiers had honestly beaten them.
Smith used a rear-viewing camera to glance back at the burning place. This was a bit like the Lock Ness Submarine. The Americans fought from hiding. That wasn’t like the bloody chaps in the old days, when Americans had owned all the firepower. Smith frowned. Maybe these Americans went back to deeper roots. Hadn’t the Americans in 1776 fought from behind trees, fences and boulders, sniping at British Redcoats?
This time it will be different. This time, the Europeans are going to win the war.
John Red Cloud was near despair as he lay on a sofa in the safe house that had become his jail. The place had an odor of stale sweat, cigarettes and cheap coffee. He had spent many days here, guarded by three suspicious gunmen of Serbian extraction. None of the three spoke French, English or Algonquin. He could understand the last two, but not the lack of French.
He had walked into the secret service agent’s house. The old woman had called her son. Instead of him appearing, these three had entered with guns drawn. John could have snapped the old woman’s neck—the French agent had betrayed him. But Red Cloud did not war against old women.
He went with these three to this house, and for the past days, they had guarded him, given him food and made him understand that if he attempted to leave, they would kill him.
John did not despair out of fear. What bothered him was his weakening resolve. Days of nothing had sapped his morale. He knew that everyone had his or her breaking point. The path of death wasn’t a good place to sit. One had to move on the path, heading for destruction. The resolve gave one power. Unfortunately, the power leaked away as his certainty wavered.
Maybe he should have returned to Quebec when he had the chance. Maybe it would have been better to end his days in his homeland. Let the Old World and New World Europeans fight among themselves and destroy each other. What did he care?
John closed his eyes. He recalled the meeting with the GD ambassador last winter. The man had insulted him, and through the insult, the man had insulted the Algonquin people.
I have no right to fear. I am the representative of my people. I am the Spirit of Death of the Algonquians. I will destroy Chancellor Kleist. I will leave this prison and—
From outside, a key inserted into the front door lock and turned.
The Serbians stood. One drew a pistol. One picked up a pump shotgun and the other clacked the bolt of a submachine gun. All three of them aimed their weapons at the door.
The door opened, and the odor of smoke preceded a small man in a plain overcoat. He had dark, tousled hair, a cigarette between his lips and dark eyes like Red Cloud.
The Frenchman glanced at the Serbians. He rapidly spoke their language. The three put away their weapons, sat and went back to playing dominoes on the table.
The man in the overcoat approached Red Cloud, who sat up on the sofa.
The cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth smoldered. He stopped before Red Cloud and studied him. “You are not Basque,” the man said in French, speaking crisply.
John shook his head.
“The Basque died in Halifax,” the Frenchman said. “Someone cut his throat.”
“I did,” John said.
“To gain his ID, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“You killed two CID men several days ago?”
“I left them in the BMW.”
“You’ve left quite a trail of death,” the Frenchman said. “And you frightened my agent’s mother. Neither he nor I appreciate that.”
“I understand.”
Ashes fell from the Frenchman’s cigarette, landing on the carpet and beginning to smolder. He stepped on the spot and turned his foot. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it onto the coffee table. While unbuttoning his coat, the small man sat in the sofa chair. He never took his eyes off Red Cloud.