Invasion: New York (Invasion America) by Vaughn Heppner Page A

time to suicide against the Germans?” another colonel asked.
    “Not on your life,” Zelazny said. “Americans aren’t suicide soldier types.”
    “What about the Alamo?” a colonel asked.
    “It wasn’t the same thing,” Zelazny said. “But at least you men are thinking now. I like that. But forget about suicidal banzai charges. No. I have something else in mind and men like Kavanagh are the key ingredient. Now, we are going to mount a few attacks and surprise the Krauts.”
    “That’s banzai charges,” the red-eyed colonel said.
    “Maybe on the surface it is,” Zelazny said. “Our reason for the attacks is different, much different from what the Japanese did back then. Now you heard the Recon Marine. He said he could slip back home. I believe him. If you knew his record, you’d believe him, too. That got me to thinking. If Kavanagh could slip away—where the Germans are watching for us to do exactly that—couldn’t Kavanagh also slip forward, too?”
    “I don’t get it?” the red-eyed colonel said. “What are you suggesting?”
    “That we mount a full assault,” Zelazny said. “We do it for two reasons. The first is to throw the enemy off his timetable. Let him wonder about us and worry. You can be sure the Krauts aren’t going to be expecting us to attack. Now this isn’t for dying gloriously or any other such bullshit as that. The glory in war is in killing the other guy and making him die for his country, not us dying for ours. We attack. The Germans defend, and during the assault—all along the line, mind you—men like Kavanagh quietly slip through the enemy line. They crawl, I don’t know, for a while anyway—for as far as they need to. Finally, these killers get behind the GD drones, HKs and robotic machines. They reach flesh and blood Krauts, Frogs and Limy bastards for a change. That’s when they pull out their knives, their submachine guns, and teach these momma’s boys what it’s like facing an American soldier.”
    “It will be an old-time Apache raid,” a colonel said.
    “For Kavanagh and the others,” a colonel said. “What happens to us, sir?”
    Zelazny nodded, and he looked weary again. “After the assault—don’t kid yourselves. This attack is going to cost us dearly. Afterward, though, we fall back to our prepared defenses. There, we dig in and wait for the machines to dig us out. We die, I suppose, but we make them take a long time doing it. And we take as many of those things as we can with us.”
    The colonels stared at Marine General Zelazny. A few grunted in agreement. The others remained silent.
    “Well, you’re U.S. officers and our fellow Canadians,” Zelazny said. “So let’s hear your ideas. It’s going to be our last offensive plan. We want to make sure it works the best it possibly can.”
    As the colonels and General Zelazny began to work out the details, Paul Kavanagh thought about it. He was bone-weary and just wanted to sleep. His eyes closed on their own accord. This was probably as good as place as any to grab some shuteye. It was a fancy plan, a grasping, final idea. Would it work?
    Before Paul could decide, he fell asleep where he sat. For all he knew, this would be the last nap in this life. When he woke up, it would be grinding effort likely until he was dead.

    TOPEKA, KANSAS

    Jake Higgins stood before a three-person Militia tribunal. It had been several days since his bender and his head no longer pounded from a hangover. His eyes had cleared and they were no longer bloodshot. His dry mouth tasted bitter, and he couldn’t believe the clothes they’d given him.
    He had baggy pants and no belt. He had to grab his trousers in the front to keep them from falling down to his ankles. It made him feel foolish and ridiculous. Worse, he knew they’d planned this in order to diminish him. First, they worked to break a person’s spirit. Then they taught the person how to think. Their techniques were tried and true.
    Jake stood before three