Invasion: New York by Vaughn Heppner

Author:Vaughn Heppner [Heppner, Vaughn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781496105172
Google: ioD2oAEACAAJ
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2014-03-07T11:00:00+00:00

MARKHAM, ONTARIO

General Mansfeld stepped out of his command vehicle and onto hot blacktop. He could feel the heat radiate through the soles of his shoes. Several armored cars surrounded him, together with a squad of black-clad Jaegers. They were elite GD commandos, and with their VR-enhanced visors, they scanned the street and rubble.

Mansfeld surveyed the wreckage of Markham. Black smoke hung in the sky, with fumes drifting upward from burning areas near the last American holdouts in Toronto. Blasted, gutted cities all looked alike to him. During WWII, too many German cities had looked like this due to aerial devastation from Canadian and American airmen. Later, the Russians had destroyed much of East Germany. They had done so with tanks and artillery.

Mansfeld grinned mirthlessly. The Russian bear slumbered now. They had their own troubles with internal Muslim unrest and a dying Slavic people due to low birthrates. After the GD finished with North America…maybe then it would finally be time to deal with the ancient Russian menace. For now, the GD paid back the Americans for decades, for a century, of unwanted intrusion.

A tank rumbled near, a Leopard IV. It came from the south. Ah, a hover whined as it arrived from the north.

The massed rubble and wreckage of Markham wasn’t a good place for hovers. Their time would come as they crossed Lake Ontario to the other side. General Zeller of Army Group B had chosen to arrive in a hover. The general was making a point, Mansfeld supposed. Despite a nominal belief in subtlety, Zeller lacked the actual trait.

The main turret hatch on the parked Leopard tank opened. General Holk of Army Group A climbed out. Holk was rotund and wore glasses, and his ill-fitting uniform was much too tight. He practically waddled to General Mansfeld, and his salute was sloppy and nearly disrespectful.

In return, Mansfeld snapped off a perfect salute. Then he grinned as he shook Holk’s small right hand.

The meeting today was very similar to the WWII meetings on the steppes of Russia. There, German generals had met like this to discuss the coming strategy for the next phase of a campaign. In those days, a few men discussed the problem and came to the conclusions and decisions. It had been one of the secrets to swift German actions: no bureaucracy to slow down ideas and implementations.

Today, in the ruins of a once-great Canadian city, he would once again attempt to patch the rift between the two commanders, and the campaign would proceed to its logical outcome.

The hover landed with a thud, and its fans slowed as the whining noises lessened. A side hatch opened, and General Zeller jumped to the ground.

Zeller had long features: a face like a dachshund’s body. The man never smiled and he was incredibly formal. Where Holk wore a uniform like a muddy shoe, Zeller’s dark uniform looked perfect as if fit for a ball, and he wore polished jackboots that gleamed.

“Gentlemen,” Mansfeld said, as the two officers approached. “I’m glad you two could come.

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