Original Work The Counterfactual War (Conquistadors II)

Chapter Eighteen: Flint, Texas, Timeline F (OTL)

Miguel hated to admit it, as the coach drove towards Flint, but he felt oddly conflicted.

Texas was a strange place, marred by the invasion. The coach had driven through a handful of towns had been devastated by the fighting and a couple of others that appeared to be under occupation, although few Protectorate troops were visible, then passed over a bridge that had been hastily repaired and through a battleground filled with burnt-out military vehicles that had faced the Protectorate and come off worst. A handful of would-be immigrants who hated the United States even as they sought to live there cheered loudly, but the rest were silent, chilled to the bone by the sheer level of destruction. There were no visible bodies, yet somehow that made it worse. He swallowed hard as he saw a tank lying half-buried in the ground, gritting his teeth as he realised something had punched right through the frontal armour and exploded inside. It was unlikely the crew had had a chance to bail out before it was too late.

His mood didn’t improve as the coach stopped on the outskirts of the ever-growing town, the guards ordering the sepoys out of the vehicle to be searched before they were allowed into Flint. It wasn’t the first time – the MPs in the camp carried out random searches every few days, checking for drugs, weapons and pornography – but it was still annoying. They checked his ID, ran sensors over his body, inspected the contents of his knapsack, and checked his ID again before allowing him through the security fence and into the compound. He couldn’t help thinking there was a distinct lack of individuality around the houses, as if they’d been put together in a 3D printer. A handful had flowers outside; the rest were practically unchanged. The only hint of anything that wasn’t strictly practical was a small church. The whole compound gave the impression of being a model village, one so perfect there was no room for actual inhabitants.

A guard eyed him. “Who’ll you looking for?”

“Carmen Ruiz,” Miguel said. A sudden flicker of panic shot through him. Carmen would have been faithful … wouldn’t she? He knew wives who had cheated on their husbands; sometimes after their husbands had gone north and abandoned them, sometimes out of revenge for being cheated on themselves. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if his wife had cheated on him. “Where can I find her?”

The guard checked a tablet. “She’s in D/3/23,” he said, pointing. “You can see the street numbers from here.”

“Thank you,” Miguel said. It was always wise to be polite to cops, no matter where you were. “I’ll find her myself.”

He strode odd, the odd sense of unreality growing stronger as he walked through the checkerboard of houses. A school was clearly visible at the end of one block, the children wearing grey uniforms that made them look like miniature soldiers; he frowned, suddenly, as he realised the boys and girls were segregated, unable to share their playground and probably their classrooms too. He wasn’t sure if that were a good thing or not. Marina was more than old enough to attract male interest, no matter how determined her father was to keep her safe, and he couldn’t supervise her everywhere. She had her mother’s stubbornness … his too, if he were forced to be honest. An all-female classroom would be less dangerous. He frowned as he spotted the teacher watching the students, a nasty-looking switch in his hand. That boded ill for naughty – or nonconformist – children.

He kept walking, hesitating as he reached the house. Carmen hadn’t done much with the exterior, not even a pot of flowers … a shiver ran down his spine. Was she being faithful? Or … he told himself not to be silly as he tapped the door. Carmen had had plenty of opportunity to cheat before, if she’d wished. It wasn’t as if he’d been home all the time.

The door opened. Carmen stared at him, then smiled. “You’re back!”

Miguel grabbed Carmen and hugged her tightly. “Shall we go inside?”

Carmen giggled and pulled him into the house, closing the door behind them. Miguel looked around with interest, noting how much the interior resembled a hotel. A handful of his son’s drawings were pinned to the wall, but otherwise … he had the odd feeling it wasn’t intended as a permanent home. Carmen pulled him upstairs, letting him see a smaller bedroom before she led him into the master bedroom. Miguel hoped his children weren’t sharing a room. A teenage girl needed some privacy, at least in her own house, and her younger brother no doubt felt that sharing with his sister was a foretaste of hell. Miguel loved his sister, but he didn’t want to share a room with her either. And there had only been a year or two between them,

“You’ve been working out,” Carmen said, as they undressed. “I like it.”

Miguel grinned, then hesitated. “How long do we have?”

“The kids get out of school at 3.30,” Carmen said. She gave him the smile she reserved for him and him alone. “If you finish quickly, I’ll murder you.”

Miguel kissed her, then pushed Carmen onto the bed and mounted her. They’d always had an active sex life, even after having two children, but he’d been deprived for the last few weeks … weeks? It felt like years. Carmen groaned as he slipped inside her, again and again; Miguel did his best to keep from coming too quickly, to make sure it was good for her too. His father had given him a great deal of advice when he’d become a teenager and that had been one of the best titbits. A woman who didn’t enjoy being fucked wasn’t going to want to do it again and again and again …

Afterwards, they lay together, drenched in sweat. “It feels like forever,” Miguel said, absently playing with a breast. Two children hadn’t ruined Carmen’s figure. “How have you been? Did you get my letters?”

“Yes.” Carmen sounded irked. “Did you get mine?”

“Just before we were sent on leave,” Miguel said. He’d barely had time to glance at the letters. “They were all held for me.”

“I was worried,” Carmen admitted. “Are you …?”

Miguel shrugged. “How are the kids?”

“Coping,” Carmen admitted. “The school is strict, but fair. A couple of bullying brats were given the boot – I don’t know what happened to them afterwards. Marina has a set of friends … she’s being taught a bunch of skills too. Santiago appears to be having fun.”

She paused. “There’s all types there,” she added, after a moment. “I hope the kids won’t pick up bad habits.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Miguel said, although he had his doubts. There was no way he could influence what his children were being taught, or who they were forced to work with. “I hope there’s no sign of a boyfriend.”

“Not yet,” Carmen said. “I will keep her from doing something stupid.”

“She’s not married,” Miguel reminded her, sharply.

Carmen reached out and wrapped her hand around his shaft. “Remind me. Were we married when I took you in my mouth, the first time?”

“That’s different,” Miguel protested.

“It is?” Carmen tightened her grip, making his manhood stiffen. “Remind me. Were we married the first time you went inside me?”

Miguel flushed. It was hard to think as her hand stroked him. “That’s … that’s not the same.”

Carmen turned over and straddled him. “Your daughter is not stupid. Her mother” – she tapped the space between her breasts – “has had a long talk with her about the dangers of doing something stupid, then made sure she has the knowledge she needs to make an informed decision. Miguel … having sex with you before marriage didn’t ruin me. Did it?”

“No.” Miguel knew better than to even think about disagreeing. It hadn’t ruined her. “But it could have been very bad.”

He sighed, knowing he was likely to lose the argument no matter what he said. They’d kissed and fondled and fucked well before they’d married, and … he knew just how badly things could have gone, if he’d gotten her pregnant. Carmen’s mother had been a domineering shrew and she would have beaten her daughter, then ordered her husband to beat Miguel up. Or worse. He’d been too ignorant to know the risks …

“But it wasn’t,” Carmen said, firmly. “Trust me. I will take care of it.”

She tapped his chest, then smiled. “Now, your turn. What’s it like to be a soldier?”

“Recruit,” Miguel corrected. “I wasn’t a soldier until yesterday. It was …”

He wasn’t sure what to tell her. The training accidents? The hasty lessons in everything from basic tactics to battlefield medicine? The tests to see who had leadership potential? Tessa coming on to him … he couldn’t tell her about that. No one could possibly describe Carmen as submissive and if he gave her the slightest hint someone had tried to seduce him …

“Rough,” he said, finally. Words failed him. “But it’s worth it, as long as you are safe.”

Carmen smiled, then lifted her hips and brought herself down on him. Miguel smiled and played with her breasts as she started to move, feeling a twinge of guilt. He only had a few hours before he went back to the lines, and then …

Forget it, he told himself. He could die, when he went off to the war. He’d leave her a widow. Carmen wasn’t stupid. She knew what could happen if her husband didn’t return. They might not have very long together after all. Right now, all that matters is her.

***

Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped off the coach, gritting her teeth as the guard poked and prodded at her with a scanner before allowing her to enter the complex. The Protectorate guards didn’t take advantage of any young women who happened to pass through their checkpoints, but in some ways that was almost worse. There was no hope of them being distracted by a low-cut blouse and miniskirt; indeed, they might be suspicious if they saw her wearing such an outfit. There weren’t many women inside Flint wearing anything more revealing than a long skirt and blouse covering everything below the neckline. It felt oddly wrong, a reminder the region was in enemy hands.

It could be worse, she told herself. It could be the Taliban.

The thought didn’t make her feel better. It would be easier to resist the Taliban. The Protectorate was a great deal harder to challenge, offering the carrot as well as the stick. She was honest enough to admit they’d changed some things for the better, even if the price tag was too high. They might well win hearts and minds, at least at first. Later … it would be too late.

If you toss a frog into a pot of boiling water, the frog will jump out, she mused. Her handler had said as much, using the gruesome example to illustrate what was happening to the occupied zone. But if you put the frog in cool water and slowly raise the temperature, the poor beast will be cooked before it realises it’s in danger.

She made her way through the streets, hoping and praying her contact was in place. The instructions had been vague, her handler cautioning her that nothing could be guaranteed. Flint was the heart of enemy power – the giant structure looming over the town was a chilling reminder of just what they faced – and it was possible the contact had been uncovered, even if he didn’t do anything openly threatening, or simply been ordered to leave. She kept the thought to herself as she walked out of the new town and into the old, noting a handful of closed stores and others barely keeping themselves alive. A body dangled in front of the town hall, another reminder of the zero-tolerance policy. The placard read SABOTEUR. She swallowed hard. She could wind up there too, one day. If she were caught …

The bar looked like a classically western speakeasy, to the point she wondered if someone was taking the piss. A pair of hobbyhorses sat outside, so rusted she doubted any children had used them in decades. The interior was dim, the air surprisingly clean. The Protectorate hadn’t banned smoking, not exactly, but it wasn’t trying to import tobacco and it was absolute death on drugs. She’d seen several young men thrown into work gangs for smoking marijuana, after being forced to give up the name of their supplier. The bastard had been hanged without trial.

The bartender eyed her narrowly, his eyes flickering between her and the handful of other customers. “What can I get you?”

Dorothy took a breath. “I’d like a Flaming Moe with extra Homer,” she said. The code words felt ridiculous, although for all she knew they were real drinks. “And a Marge on the side.”

The bartender tapped his lips, then beckoned her into a sideroom. Dorothy gritted her teeth, half expecting to be arrested on the spot. The bartender could have been compromised … or worse. She’d seen the files. Most of the people working for the Protectorate knew their families would pay the price, if they did something stupid. She was lucky she had no family within the occupied zone. Did he?

He closed the door. “Arnold?”

“Benedict Arnold did nothing wrong,” Dorothy said. As code challengers and answers went, it left something to be desired. It did have the great advantage it was unlikely to be proffered by accident. “And yourself?”

The bartender nodded stiffly, then pointed to a chair. “This room is as secure as we can make it,” he said. “We tore out everything that could be a spy.”

Dorothy hoped to hell he was right. The room was crammed with shelves, groaning under the weight of bottles and barrels … judging from the faintly unpleasant smell, he was brewing his own booze behind the bar. She made a mental note not to try any. Homemade alcohol wasn’t always safe to drink. Her uncle had told her to leave it well alone. She scowled as she eyed the mess. There were plenty of hiding places for a mundane microphone, let alone something so small it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. Perhaps drenching the shelves in alcohol every so often wouldn’t be as effective as they hoped, if the speakeasy was being monitored.

“Call me Moe,” the bartender said. He picked up an old-style cassette player and turned it on, producing a sound so dramatically sexual that Dorothy was sure the couple were faking it. She coloured, regardless. “Keep your voice down, through. Just in case.”

“Oh.” Dorothy tried not to roll her eyes. “Bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not to them,” Moe told her. “You know, they spent some time looking for Roy Rogers and Bret Maverick. They got very excited when they captured some poor bastard who happened to be called Rhett Butler. It took them some time to realise they were being messed with.”

Dorothy had to smile. “How the hell did they fall for that?”

“Imagine you found yourself in … China. Or Japan. Or even Britain, which is close enough to America to be profoundly disorientating, because they speak the same language without actually sharing the same outlook,” Moe said. “How would you know what’s real and what’s fictional? Is Robin Hood a real person, or a legend born out of a real person, or a story made up of whole cloth? Would you instantly understand the underlying meaning of anything they told you? We had enough trouble in Iraq and … well, at least we could have done a great deal more preparation before the invasion. The Puritans knew nothing about us before they arrived.”

“So I heard,” Dorothy said. It sounded insane to her, but so far it had worked out for them. “If it is safe to talk here …”

Moe shrugged. “If you want to leave, the door is behind you.”

Dorothy met his eyes, suppressing her doubts. “Can you get a message out of the town?”

“…Maybe,” the bartender said. “There’s no easy way to do it. You know what they’re like.”

“Yeah.” Dorothy knew just how effective the Protectorate was, when it came to checking people moving in and out of their territory. They had no qualms about strip searching anyone they suspected of smuggling forbidden goods – or intelligence. “We need to act fast.”

“There are some things we can do,” Moe said. He didn’t go into details. She had no need to know. “What’s the problem?”

“They know we’re planning to attack New York,” Dorothy said. She ran through a brief outline of everything she’d overheard, wishing she knew more. Montrose hadn’t discussed his plans in anything beyond the vaguest of terms. “They’re going to be ready for us.”

Moe swore, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Are you sure?”

“I heard the conversation,” Dorothy said. “I don’t think it’s a trick.”

Moe studied her for a long moment. Dorothy looked back at him, fighting her fears. She couldn’t imagine any reason why Essex and Montrose would have participated in a ruse to test her loyalty, not when they didn’t need to keep her sweet. If they had doubts about her, they’d have moved her to a penal camp or assigned her to a work gang or simply shot her. There was no need to play games. And besides, she thought Essex’s reactions afterwards were real. The man was drinking to excess. It was out of character for a Puritan.

“Fuck,” Moe said, finally. “If you’re right …”

Dorothy felt ice prickling down her spine. “If?”

“If you’re right,” Moe said, “it might already be too late.”

 

Chapter Nineteen: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

James was half-asleep in his command vehicle when the alarm sounded.

He jerked awake instantly, sitting upright. “Report!”

“The drones are reporting minor movements to the east,” Lieutenant Lawton said. He sounded disgustingly fresh, for someone who had been awake half the night. “It’s on a bigger scale than usual.”

James nodded, studying the map. The contacts were vague and ill-defined, but he would expect no less. The enemy knew his forces now, knew how to evade sensors they hadn’t even able to imagine a few short months ago. Except … they had, in a sense. James couldn’t help wondering of their embrace of science-fantasy had worked out in their favour, allowing them to envisage uses for technology that hadn’t even gotten onto the drawing board yet. His own people were far less imaginative, far less willing to consider advanced technology let alone other ways of living. It didn’t bother him now, but …

Once the war is over, we can round up most of their writers and put them to work, he mused, thoughtfully. See what we can do when we combine their imaginations with our technology.

A staffer brought him a cup of coffee. He sipped it gingerly, the taste making him grimace. There was no room for local coffee blends here, not in the middle of a war zone. The enemy were on the move … his eyes narrowed, recalling all the arguments he’d had with his captains about how he intended to meet and beat the enemy offensive. He had to be in command himself, gambling everything on the success of his counteroffensive. There was no alternative. If someone else took the lead, his position would be weakened no matter who won the coming engagement. It had to be him.

He walked to the observation port and peered outside. The airport had once functioned day in and day out, aircraft coming and going at all hours of the day. Now, it was dark and silent. The Protectorate had ordered everyone to leave, making it clear that lethal force would be used if anyone tried to slip into the perimeter. A handful of passenger aircraft remained near the terminals, searched and then shut down by his troops, but otherwise … his eyes lingered on the terminal, serving as one of the command hubs for the occupation. Did the enemy know it? He dared not assume they didn’t. The operators had already been evacuated, their roles taken over by the mobile command vehicles. If the enemy hammered the airport, they’d do more damage to themselves than the PEF.

The more missiles they waste on useless targets, the better, he told himself. They have their own problems with resupply.

His wristcom bleeped. “We have more movement, sir,” Lawton said. “I think they’re about to move.”

“Signal the defence line to stand ready,” James ordered. “And inform the armoured units that they are to move on my command.”

“Aye, sir,” Lawton said.

James closed his eyes, envisaging the map. New York City was immense, a sprawling nightmare unlike anything the PEF had faced in its long history. The house-to-house fighting that had marred the Battle of Moscow was centuries in the past, both sides using technology that was outdated in both the Prime Timeline and Timeline F. If the Americans had realised what was coming and dug in, they would have cost his forces dear. A relatively small force could cause a great deal of damage, simply by sniping, laying booby traps and harassing his aircraft and drones, all the while buying time for the destruction of infrastructure and evacuation of key personnel. The local politicians seemed to think of themselves as the most important people in the city, if not the country, but their military leaders were smarter. The bar wasn't set very high. They would likely get the really important people out if they had a free hand …

But leaving them behind creates a dilemma, he mused. Can we trust them not to turn on us if they think they have a chance?

It was impossible to be sure. The hostages might guarantee good behaviour … or they might not. The locals had a staggeringly high divorce rate, by Protectorate standards, and some parents seemed actively to resent, even despise, their children. For all he knew, some of the key workers were already plotting trouble. They might even be hoping the hostages would be killed. His lips twisted in distaste. Disgusting. If you didn’t want children, you shouldn’t have had them in the first place.

He tapped his wristcom. “Any movement in the city itself?”

“Not as yet,” Lawton said. “The curfew for essential personnel will be lifted in an hour.”

James nodded. It was almost dawn – 0530 – but the curfew would remain in place for everyone until 0630. Very few locals were permitted out of their homes outside curfew; anyone caught outside wouldn’t be given the benefit of the doubt. It would make it harder, he hoped, for anyone to plan an uprising, but it was hard to be sure. New York was big and the occupation force relatively small. It didn’t help that it wasn’t hard to note which key workers were living alone, their families moved elsewhere to ensure they stayed honest. Any underground fighters would know better than to trust them.

We do have some agents who aren’t so obvious, he mused. But will they be enough?

He turned and clambered back down the ladder to the CIC. The big holographic display was sharpening now, as more drones were deployed and fixed defences came online. The enemy movements were still vague, but there were an awful lot of them. The balloon was about to go up.

His lips twisted as he recalled, once again, his family’s motto. He fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small. That puts it not unto the touch, to win or lose it all.

James liked to think his ancestor would have approved.

***

“You can’t get more people?”

Chief Chet Harmon scowled as he surveyed the small group. Nineteen men in all, in a city that boasted a population in the millions and a government workforce that was nearly twenty percent of the inhabitants. Most would be useless mouth breathers, he was sure, but still … he’d hoped for more. It was bad enough that they didn’t have half the weapons they needed, let alone the radios and other devices that would let them coordinate an invasion. It was intolerable.

His brother-in-law met his eyes. “Most of my workforce has family in the camps,” he said, bluntly. “I’m not going to force them to choose between their wives and their government. I can’t reach out to anyone beyond my department because I don’t know who can be trusted, let alone do it without raising the alarm.”

Chet bit down several nasty remarks. A handful of days in Protectorate New York had convinced him that long-term infiltration would be very difficult. The Protectorate had the tools to monitor the population in ways that weren’t very obvious, covertly collecting data that could be used to identify and eliminate spies and sabotagers. If Brian tried to talk to someone outside his department, it would be noted and logged and … perhaps … used in evidence against him. The bodies dangling from lampposts were grim reminders the Protectorate’s troops didn’t need conclusive evidence before they hanged someone.

You work with the local allies you’ve got, not the ones you want, he reminded himself. Too many Arab and Afghani allies had had their own interests during the war, concerns that made them reluctant to commit suicide on America’s behalf. It had never been easy to convince a warlord to send his troops to fight the Taliban when those troops were the basis of the warlord’s power – and if he lost them, he’d lose everything else shortly afterwards. You can’t force them to stick their heads out for you.

He scowled. This was America, not some tribal wasteland. But …

“When the shit hits the fan, we move,” he said. He didn’t know exactly what was coming – or when – but he knew the dice were cast. “If any of you want to change your mind now, say so. You’ll be held here but otherwise unhurt. If you change your mind afterwards, it will be too late.”

He allowed his eyes to move from face to face. Some looked determined, others ashamed of their collaboration and willing to do whatever it took to prove themselves loyal. Some looked scared, one looked alarmingly like a recruit Chet had known who had been pressured into joining the military by his family. The poor bastard had washed out, thankfully. The military wasn’t for everyone and if he hadn’t toughed up he’d probably have gotten himself killed. There was no shame in admitting you couldn’t hack it …

Easy for me to say, he reflected. I did hack it.

Sadie cleared her throat. “What about the rest of the population?”

“Hopefully, they’ll stay in their homes,” Chet said. There was no way to warn everyone without warning the enemy too. He’d be surprised if the Protectorate hadn’t noticed something was afoot – they had very good sensors and their hacking skills were practically supernatural – but the longer the element of surprise could be maintained, the better. “Hopefully, the fighting will be over quickly.”

“Hopefully,” Sadie repeated.

Chet grimaced. The team had done what they could to locate enemy positions and count enemy troops, but he was painfully aware they hadn’t done anything like enough. The Protectorate guarded its positions carefully, chasing away or detaining anyone who appeared to be taking an interest, and they moved vehicles around so often that it was hard to be sure just how many vehicles there actually were. He was fairly sure there were at least thirty tanks and lighter hovervehicles in the city, yet … the Protectorate didn’t seem to give their tanks any individual markings, certainly none of the paintings he’d seen on American tanks. It didn’t help that they hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the airports. The figure they’d collected might be dangerously low.

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Chet said, finally. “All we can do is hope.”

He sighed, inwardly. There had been an outbreak of panic buying when people had finally realised the united states was being invaded, even if they’d been a little confused about just who was doing the invading. He’d felt the same air of unreality when he’d heard the news, although clashes with the Protectorate had brought home the reality in a manner no words could possibly match. But the shops had rapidly started to run out of food, as their online payment and logistics networks were scrambled and shut down, and it was hard to tell how many people in New York had enough food to keep them alive long enough for help to arrive. He’d always had a habit of storing dried food and bottled water, just in case, but how many others did the same? No matter what happened, a great many people were going to suffer over the next few days.

Brian made a face. “How long do we have?”

“Not long,” Chet said. He didn’t know the exact time, but he had heard the warning signal – a seemingly innocuous comment on a radio broadcast, something the Protectorate was unlikely to notice even if they were listening to talk radio. “We won’t miss it.”

He looked at Sadie, wanting to tell her to go into hiding. The fighting was going to be intense even if they won – and if they lost, Sadie would be on the list of people to execute. He was mildly surprised she hadn’t been taken into custody already, no matter how useful she was elsewhere. A mistake? Or had the Protectorate turned her? It felt wrong to even consider the possibility, but he was all too aware that anyone – no matter how loyal – could be broken by a skilled interrogator, their minds torn apart to the point they no longer knew what side they were supposed to be on. Sadie was his sister and Brian was his brother-in-law … he cursed himself for his paranoia, even though he knew it wasn't paranoia if they really were out to get you. The Protectorate was dangerously advanced. If they had turned her …

The tension rose. He drew on his training, calming himself. They were committed. He’d made the decision to trust her and … if she’d betrayed him, the SEALs would have been rounded up by now. The bad guys wouldn’t let a highly-trained team of SF soldiers run around behind their lines, not if they knew what the SEALs could do. There was nothing to be gained by pretending they hadn’t noticed. He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.

And then we will see, he told himself. We will.

***

The HQ left something to be desired, compared to the facilities General Grey and his predecessors had enjoyed in United States Central Command. CENTCOM had been a hive of high-tech activity, with Blue Force Trackers monitoring every vehicle, aircraft and ship in the region and live feeds from drones and orbiting satellites providing detailed imagery of enemy movements in the region. In some ways, General Grey reflected as his eyes swept the chamber, CENTCOM had been a little too good. The command and control systems had given the operators the unfounded belief they could see everything on the battlefield, while unleashing the worst habits of micromanaging officers who thought they could direct operations from a safe distance and override the concerns of men who were actually on the ground. They had been lucky they hadn’t faced a peer power in the Middle East, Grey had often thought, certainly not one capable of tracking down the HQ and doing something nasty to it. He’d often worried just what would happen, in the opening moves of a war with Russia or China, if the enemy took down the command and control network. The confusion would make it difficult to coordinate any response until it was far too late.

He studied the paper map for a long moment, all too aware of just how much rested on him. The United States had massed thousands of soldiers and hundreds of vehicles, committing much of their remaining stockpile of missiles and other advanced weapons to the battle. It was going to be costly even if they won, he knew, and defeat would be disastrous. The urge to take direct command was almost overwhelming … perhaps it was lucky, in a sense, that it was impossible. The combat engineers had laid hundreds of miles of telephone cables – gear so primitive it should be impossible to hack – but his men would soon advance ahead of the wires. They didn’t dare use radios or indeed any other kind of wireless signalling, not when the enemy would detect the emissions and bomb them. Hell, half the prepositioned units were already ahead of the wires.

“General,” Cozort said. “We’re detecting additional enemy drones in the yellow zone.”

Grey kept his expression blank. He’d never expected their preparations would remain unnoticed. The Protectorate’s drones were terrifyingly advanced … and besides, it wasn't as if they hadn’t known the army was sealing off the occupied zone. But now … did they know what was coming? There was just no way to be sure.

The red telephone rang. Grey reached for it automatically. “Mr President?”

“General,” the President said. His tone was flat, as if he didn’t dare show any emotion. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Mr President,” Grey said. He didn’t go into details. They’d hashed out the battle plan over the last week, getting their ducks in a row as much as possible before time ran out. There was no need to go over them once again. The line was as secure as they could make it, but … there was just no way to be sure. The Protectorate was dangerously advanced. If they’d spotted the line, they could have tapped it easily. “All is in readiness.”

The President said nothing for a long cold moment. Grey understood, all too well. The wars in the Middle East had been unpleasant, but even a complete disaster would not have been fatal. Here … it was a different story. If they lost the battle, it would take years to rebuild and they didn’t have years. He thought he’d covered all the bases, but what if he were wrong? No battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy because the enemy, that dastardly dog, had plans of his own. It was a cliché, because it was true.

He waited, biting his lip to keep from urging the President to give the order. If the enemy knew they were coming … they hadn’t moved more troops into New York, as far as anyone had been able to tell, and in fact it looked as if they’d drawn their troops down. Grey knew better than to take it for granted, but the prospect of being able to trap and destroy a small enemy force was an opportunity they could not allow to pass. The Protectorate forces in America had no reinforcements … not yet. They had to win the war before that changed. And it would.

“General, you are authorised to begin the operation,” the President said. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Mr President,” Grey said.

He put down the phone, then took one last look at the map. The greatest offensive the United States had mounted for decades, with everything resting on the outcome. They’d said Admiral Jellicoe had been the only man who could lose the First World War in an afternoon – he couldn’t recall any American commander who had been in such a dangerous place, save perhaps George Washington – and now, he knew exactly how Jellicoe had felt. If he fucked up …

“Mr Cozort, send the signal,” he ordered. “Commence Phase One.”

 

Only one chapter today, sorry. I woke up feeling rotten and it turned out I couldn’t power through it as much as I had hoped.

Thank you for all the comments so far - as some have noted, the first volume was written a couple of years ago (more or less) and the idea that Donald Trump would successfully return to the White House, for better or worse, seemed rather absurd. A great deal has changed since then, which I have chosen not to acknowledge in the book because there is no way to go back and edit the first volume. On the other hand, perhaps the story takes place after Trump leaves office for the second time and things don’t really improve.

Monday is looking to be a pain, but I will do my best to carry on then.

Chris

 

Hope you feel better.

Whynot

 

Chapter Twenty: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

It had caused some minor amusement, Captain John Smalls recalled as he stood on his command deck, that the newly-appointed commander of USS Robert Smalls - formerly USS Chancellorsville – was a direct descendent of the ship’s namesake, a slave during the Civil War who had commandeered a Confederate ship, taken her to the North and gone on to a long and illustrious career that had put the lie to any number of stereotypes about black slaves in the Confederate States. He had never found the thought too pleasing himself, if only because it suggested he hadn’t earned his post, but there was little to be gained by arguing about it. There were worse problems facing the United States.

He sucked in his breath, studying the display as the timer tucked down to zero. The United States hadn’t had to blockade its own coastline since the Civil War and that had been in the absence of a major enemy force capable of challenging the blockade. The Atlantic Fleet was holding position quite some distance from New York, the carriers and guided missile ships protected by a swarm of destroyers and frigates, but no one was quite sure if they were outside enemy missile range or not. The USN had trained for Chinese and Russian antiship missiles, or the cruder designs favoured by Iran and North Korea, yet the Protectorate’s missiles were an order of magnitude faster and more dangerous than any conventional foe. The escorts would do their duty, if the Protectorate engaged the fleet, but it was difficult to escape the feeling they were about to take heavy losses. The enemy was just too advanced to fool easily, their weapons so fast they would strike their targets well ahead of any warning. It wasn’t going to end well for anyone.

The timer bleeped. “Captain,” an officer said. “It’s time.”

Smalls gritted his teeth. The idea of bombarding New York was fundamentally wrong. He’d heard all the jibber-jabber about civil wars and insurgencies and whatever, but he’d never placed much credence in it. The United States had its flaws, yet the vast majority of Americans were good people who were unwilling to tear the system down when it could still be fixed. He’d envisaged firing his missiles at Iran, not America. The whole idea of New York falling to enemy invasion was absurd. Or it had been, a few months ago. The world had turned upside down.

“Update the targeting systems,” he ordered. The words caught in his throat. “And then activate the firing sequence.”

“Aye, sir.”

Robert Smalls shook as the first land-attack cruise missile blasted out of the launcher, following rapidly by the rest of the ship’s complement. The remainder of the missile ships were opening fire too, expending nearly two hundred missiles that couldn’t be replaced in a hurry – if ever. There were NATO stockpiles in Britain and France, but getting to them in time would prove tricky. If, of course, the enemy had missiles to expend on naval targets. They might assume the ships had shot themselves dry and were now largely harmless. Might.

“Helm, bring us about as planned,” he ordered. The Protectorate would have seen the missile launch. If they intended to retaliate, their missiles would be launching shortly if they weren’t already in the air. The fleet was already altering position. “Point defence, stay on alert.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Smalls nodded reluctantly, all too aware his ship was now out of the fight. They’d cover the carriers, of course, doing everything they could to preserve the largest ships in the fleet, but there was little else they could do to strike at the enemy. They’d given it their best shot, literally, yet they were now out of the game.

***

“Incoming missiles,” Lieutenant Lawton snapped. “I say again, incoming missiles!”

James studied the display. He hadn’t anticipated the enemy ships would fire cruise missiles at the city, not when they weren’t going to get very much bang for their buck. The missiles were generations behind their Protectorate counterparts, their courses easily tracked and projected and then fed to antimissile stations positioned along the coastline. A handful were coming in low – they were likely to be the most dangerous ones – but the rest were easy targets. The enemy ECM wasn’t anything like good enough to spoof his sensors.

“Engage at will,” he ordered, reminding himself not to get overconfident. The enemy could have fitted nuclear warheads to the cruise missiles, and if a single nuke detonated within the city the results would be disastrous. James knew the old President had lacked the ruthlessness to kill thousands of his own people to get at the enemy, but his replacement was a different kettle of fish. Would he make the call to destroy a city in order to save it? “Order second and third rank units to take cover.”

“Aye, sir.”

James counted down the seconds, bracing himself. The majority of the armoured units were tough enough to survive a nuclear strike, as long as they weren’t at ground zero. It was the footmen in the open who were in real danger, along with the collaborators who had been making their way to work before all hell broke loose. They were expendable, in the coldest possible sense, but letting them get killed was bad politics. Governing an occupied city required both thye stick and the carrot and if the collaborators started refusing to cooperate it would get a great deal harder. He simply didn’t have the manpower to keep the city functioning without local help.

“Broadcast a warning,” he ordered, finally. “Tell the population to get inside and stay inside.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Lawton said.

The display updated again. Tanks and armoured support units were rushing east, getting into position to engage the incoming missiles. The enemy hadn’t realised how quickly he could reinforce his point defence, although they certainly knew his tanks carried weapons that could be repurposed to take down incoming shells and missiles. The drones followed, active sensors sweeping the battlefield and feeding targeting data to the tanks, turning his entire force into a single entity. There would be no wasted shots, he told himself; every shot would have a target. If the first shot missed, the second wouldn’t.

“They’re targeting the airports,” Lieutenant Lawton noted. “The point defence is engaging now.”

James nodded as enemy missiles started to vanish. Some dipped low, slamming into targets along the coastline … he swore under his breath as several point defence stations vanished from the display. The bloodless flickering hid a grim reality, men dead before they knew what had hit them or wounded, hurt so badly they were crying for their mothers. He tapped his console, directing patrolling infantry to secure the rubble and do what they could for any survivors. The citizens would have to take their chances. He’d worry about them later.

The ground shook. He cursed again. Another missile had come down hard, only a kilometre short of Newark. It hadn’t been a nuke, he thought with a twinge of relief, although that made very little difference to the poor bastards underneath it. The explosion had been targeted on a barracks … he congratulated himself, grimly, on having the footmen withdrawn two days ago. The enemy agents within the city hadn’t noticed or hadn’t managed to report to their superiors before the attack got underway. The missile hadn’t come near to damaging his forces.

Not that it won’t panic the locals, he thought, grimly. New York’s population lacked the discipline of a proper city. They’ll assume they’re all going to die.

Lieutenant Lawton looked up, sharply. “Sir, we have incoming shells! From the west!”

James sucked in his breath. The enemy tactic was obvious now. They’d forced him to relocate his point defence, moving many of his vehicles to the coast to take down the missiles. The shells were less dangerous, probably, but the enemy gunners were very good and they’re probably had more than enough time to locate and target his remaining point defence units. It was a clever solution to their dilemma, he had to admit. They’d caught him off balance and all it had cost them was a few dozen cruise missiles.

They can’t replace those missiles in a hurry, he thought. But they don’t have to.

“Order the Vipers to engage the enemy gunners,” he said. He wished he had more of the self-propelled artillery vehicles. Getting five out of the fabricators in time for the engagement meant putting back the rest of the production line. In hindsight, a regiment of long-range guns would have been a good addition to his forces. “And switch position after every barrage.”

“Aye, sir.”

James tapped his display, studying the unfolding conflict. The enemy had caught him by surprise, luring him into an engagement in which he was in something of a disadvantage. Their guns were primitive, but they had enough to make sure that a handful of shells would get through the point defence and hit their targets. Their missiles launchers were firing too, engaging his dug-in infantry and armoured units. They’d be dangerously effective, given time.

Let them think they’re winning, he thought, grimly. We’re not short of cards to play yet.

***

“Report!”

“The enemy point defence has slackened,” Colin Cozort said. Five cruise missiles had come down within the city – he refused to think about just how many lives had been lost, taken by their own side – but the remainder had been downed well short of their targets. He hoped to hell the targeting data had been accurate. They thought they’d been aiming at enemy positions, but it was hard to be sure. “I think we can proceed.”

General Grey nodded. “Give the order,” he said. “Commence shock therapy.”

Colin nodded, tapping the switch. The order sped through the network of cables and … he sucked in his breath, bracing himself as the swarm of tiny drones took off and flew towards the city, their programming directing them into evasive manoeuvres no manned aircraft could hope to match. Some were little more than dumb projectiles, aimed at known enemy bases; some were designed to home in on enemy drones, slamming themselves into their targets and destroying both beyond all hope of repair. His lips twitched sardonically. He’d never been a fan of commercial drones, not when they raised all sorts of security headaches for his office, but he had to admit the vast production lines had come in useful. The United States had churned out enough drones to give the enemy a very hard time indeed.

He studied the laptop thoughtfully, watching the live feed from the sensors they’d pushed as close to the lines as they dared. The enemy sensors were good, but they’d figured out how to track them now. Orders were already snapping through the network, directing artillery and MLRS units to hammer the sensor nodes as hard as possible; antiaircraft missiles, originally designed to engage enemy aircraft, were now being aimed at the drones. The enemy had a flat choice between shutting down their network or accepting the losses. Either way, the attackers had the edge.

“There’s definitely some degradation,” he reported. It was impossible to tell which decision the enemy had made, but it didn’t matter. “They’re having problems keeping their network up and running.”

“Good,” General Grey said. “Send in the aircraft.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

Captain Angelica Jackson smiled, grimly, as she got the order, even though she knew it was likely suicide. She’d been deployed to Europe when the Protectorate arrived, her squadron hastily recalled when it became clear the United States was facing an existential threat, but her brother and her boyfriend had been thrown into the first disastrous engagement and hadn’t made it home. It had shocked her at first, then fuelled her with a burning desire for revenge. She hadn’t hesitated when the CO had asked for volunteers. The odds were against the squadron, but it had to be done.

The twelve Fairchild Republic A-10 Thunderbolt II - Warthogs, to everyone else – were flying as low as they dared as they flew towards New York, their pilots scanning the ground for any signs of the enemy’s presence. They’d been assured the enemy sensor net would be degraded, but Angelica had heard such promises before and automatically discounted them. The United States hadn’t been that successful in suppressing enemy fire in Iraq, at least during the early stages of the invasion, and the Protectorate was a far tougher enemy. They might already be zeroing in on her aircraft, ready to blow her away. Angelica had no illusions about what would happen if a plasma bolt struck her aircraft. The Warthog was tough, and it had soaked up enemy bullets and kept flying, but plasma bolts were far more dangerous. The superhot plasma would vaporise her aircraft unless she was very lucky indeed.

She swallowed hard as she saw the smoke billowing above New York. It was hard to tell what had happened, if the shells had hit something explosive or someone was detonating IEDs inside the city to harass the Puritans, but … she told herself, sharply, to concentrate on her job. The flashes of lightning flickering around the city were enemy fire, some darting up to infinity and others rising and falling in ballistic trajectories. The latter seemed to crawl, gliding through the air with a ponderous inevitability. It struck her, suddenly, that they were the enemy’s version of counterbattery fire. She didn’t know what would happen when they hit their targets, but she doubted it would be good.

A proximity alarm screamed. She didn’t hesitate, her fingers flipping off the protective cover and pushing down hard on the trigger as a Protectorate tank came into view, guns already traversing towards her. Most tanks couldn’t engage flying targets, but the Protectorate vehicles could and did. Their accuracy wasn’t great, she’d been told, yet they pumped out enough plasma bolts to be fairly sure of scoring at least one hit. She might evade one bolt and steer right into another. That would be galling as hell.

Her guns yammered, the shells punching into the enemy tank as if it were made of paper. The force of the impact picked the vehicle up and tossed it over; she hoped, with a flicker of vindictive rage, that the crew had been thoroughly banged up inside the cab. If they were still alive. She’d never seen inside an American tank, let alone a Protectorate vehicle, but she was fairly certain the bullets would have hit at least one crewman. Hell, given how much of the tank remained intact, it was possible the bullets were bouncing around inside the armour.

She dropped her remaining bombs on the enemy infantry as they stood their ground and opened fire, more plasma bolts slashing through the air. One passed so close she was sure she could feel a prickle running down her spine, a sense that the air was charged with electricity. She threw herself into an evasive pattern a moment later, all too aware that their plasma rifles could be just as deadly as the tank’s point defences. The odds of being shot down by a terrorist with an AK-47 were incredibly low, even if the bastard scored a hit, but here …

Explosions billowed behind her. She yanked the aircraft aside and drove north, hoping and praying she could get into the safe air corridor before it was too late. The antiaircraft defences weren’t supposed to engage conventional aircraft, but there was no way to be sure. She wasn’t broadcasting an IFF, not when it could – would – get her killed. The Protectorate had no sense of fair play.

Neither do we, she reminded herself, dryly. It isn’t as if we gave the Iraqis a chance to fight us on even terms either.

She stayed low as she flew clear, all too aware that great things were happening below her. The groundpounders were advancing, going into the cauldron. She hoped she’d cleared the way for them, that the enemy would remain stunned and disorientated long enough for the troops to overwhelm them before it was too late. If half the stories were true, the Protectorate had never faced an enemy that knew how to make steam engines, let alone anything more advanced. They were in for a nasty fright.

Her lips twisted. She’d get back to the makeshift airfield, rearm and refuel, then get back into the air. And then …

***

“They’ve hit the defence lines with light ground-support aircraft,” Lieutenant Lawton reported, grimly. “They took out four tanks and seventeen dummies.”

James grimaced. The enemy would have been suspicious if the tanks hadn’t returned fire. There was no need to conserve ammunition, naturally, and they’d have wondered why the troops weren’t even trying to resist. Hell, the odds of scoring a hit would have been higher than anyone expected, given the sheer firepower his regiments could put out. And yet, four irreplaceable tanks had been lost to maintain the deception. It was a price he knew he might come to regret paying.

“Clever of them,” he admitted, finally. Flying low wasn’t a bad tactic, given how easy it was for his gunners to blast the enemy aircraft out of the sky, and it had clearly worked. “How many aircraft did we take down?”

“Five, perhaps six,” Lieutenant Lawton said. “The rest made it clear.”

“Dispatch the drones to locate their airfields,” James ordered. “Direct the flyers to take them out with fuel-air bombs.”

“Aye, sir.”

James grimaced. Hypersonics would be better, but he dared not waste the few he had remaining. Besides, the enemy aircraft didn’t need elaborate airbases. There was no point in wasting a hypersonic on an airfield that was little more than a road or a field. For all he knew, the enemy was hoping he’d do just that. They might even let him see where the aircraft were going, in a bid to lure him into a fatal mistake. It was what he would do.

And now they think there’s a gaping hole in our defences, he mused. What will they do with it?

 

Chapter Twenty-One: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

“The Warthogs have reported back,” Cozort said. “The enemy lines have been hammered.”

General Grey nodded, unable to avoid feeling ice curling around his heart. The plan had been carefully worked out to let him cancel the offensive at any moment, if the enemy had proved more resilient than expected. It was clear they were tough, their point defence still holding despite the rain of shells his gunners had unleashed. There was no way to be sure how much damage the Warthogs had inflicted, no way to be certain the drive to the airports wouldn’t be bogged down by enemy counterbattery fire. They certainly hadn’t expected the enemy to develop counterbattery weapons, rather than using their flyers. It suggested worrying things about their ability to resupply their forces.

His heart raced. No American General had found himself in such a position since the end of the cold war. There had never been any real risk of a major defeat, let alone one that could cost everything. Operation Iraqi Freedom had been as close to a certain victory as was physically possible. A defeat at D-Day would have been painful, but far from disastrous. Gettysburg had been the last battle in which the fate of the United States rested on the outcome, and even then the North could have kept fighting. Lee would have enjoyed a longer period of supremacy, but it would have come to an end. Now … if the battle was lost, it might be the end.

We have no choice, he told himself. We can no longer retreat behind a huge ocean, secure in the knowledge our enemies cannot follow us. There’s nowhere to run.

“Pass the word,” he said, finally. “All units are to advance as planned.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

Along the lines, they waited.

There were thousands of American soldiers preparing to advance and thousands more moving up to secure the rear, before advancing themselves. Some were regulars who’d expected to be deployed to Eastern Europe or the Middle East, others were National Guardsmen or State Defence militiamen who had never really expected to fight a war in their own backyards; some were vets who had been called back to the colours, paired with raw recruits who had never fired a shot and never even considered going to war, at least until their homeland had been invaded by a military power straight out of pulp science-fiction. They had no illusions about the task ahead, as they waited in the trenches, no confidence the enemy would melt away as soon as the American forces began their advance. Some meditated, bracing themselves for combat; some shuddered as the guns boomed over the battlefield, or prayed for their survival, victory, or even that they wouldn’t let their peers down when the order finally came. Some relished the chance to get their own back, or test themselves against the invaders; others steeled themselves to do their duty, promising themselves they wouldn’t found wanting.

It was hard not to reflect on wives and girlfriends, on children and parents and friends and family who might never see their soldiers again. They had known – of course they had known – that they might die in combat, if they joined the military, but it had never seemed quite real, not until the Protectorate started its invasion. Some thought of family who had fought in the Civil War, or the Mexican War, or the Indian Wars; others, their families new to the United States, told themselves they were fighting for their place in their new homeland. They had written their wills and prepared themselves as best as they could and now …

The whistle blew. It was time.

***

“Stay low,” Sergeant Callam Boone hissed. “Keep your fucking heads down!”

The earthworks were supposed to be camouflaged, but he hadn’t been too convinced they were good enough to conceal the troops as they readied themselves for the big push. The Protectorate had a nasty habit of flying drones over the defences and not all had been shot down, or lured into electromagnetic traps that held them immobile long enough for a sniper to pick them off. He glanced back at the missile teams, carrying both Javelins and primitive RPGs, then turned and led the way out into the open. The gunfire was louder now, the skyscrapers ahead wreathed in smoke. He couldn’t help wondering how many civilians were already dead. 9/11 had been bad. This was worse.

He inched forward, eyes scanning for trouble as a flight of cheap drones shot overhead and vanished into the distance. The landscape had been devastated, buildings turned into defensive positions or torn to pieces, the rubble used to build antitank traps and blockades. Callam doubted that was a very good idea, not when the enemy hovertanks could surmount most earthworks without even slowing down, but it was better than nothing. It would certainly provide a shield to anyone intent on stopping a thrust out of New York, perhaps out of Newark itself. He ground his teeth in silent frustration. On paper, the advance had seemed easy. In practice, it was going to be slow even if the enemy didn’t get in their way.

The sound grew louder, MLRS units launching missiles over their heads and into the teeth of enemy positions. Flashes of light rent the skies, missiles detonating high overhead before they could come down on the enemy’s head. Callam hoped the debris would give them a few nasty moments. Protectorate body armour was very good, better than anything the United States had managed to produce, but it had its limitations. A piece of missile casing falling to the ground would go right through one of their helmets, cutting a footman in half. The shooting echoed oddly, the sound bouncing off the skyscrapers in a manner that chilled him to the bone.

A mortar team set up in the open and fired a handful of shells, then scooped up their weapon and ran. Callam ran too, snapping at his men to take cover before he saw a ball of crackling white lightning fall from the skies. It moved with eerie slowness, as if time itself had slowed down, before hitting the ground and exploding into a colossal fireball. Callam turned away, feeling his skin prickle. A wave of heat washed across the air, setting fire to everything flammable it touched. It felt like he was back in the desert, only worse.

“Keep moving,” he snapped. There was something random and disorganised about the offensive, something he'd known to expect and yet found disconcerting. “Don’t stay put!”

He kept his eyes wide open as they plunged through a suburb, devastated by the fighting and abandoned by its owners. A handful of burned-out vehicles lay on the streets … he wanted to believe they were enemy tanks and armoured cars, but he knew better. A suitcase lay on the ground, torn open by the impact … the contents, he noted grimly, were gone. There had been reports of looters making their way through no-man’s land, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down and trying to get it to buyers before it was too late. He felt a hot flash of hatred as he took cover behind a ruined house, wondering what sort of assholes would loot from people who had already lost far too much. But then, it was common to see looters poking through the ruins after natural disasters. They really needed to be shot.

A prickle ran down his spine, combat instincts warning him to move an instant before a plasma bolt popped through the air. His hair tried to stand on end as it passed over his head and splattered uselessly against a distant home, leaving a nasty-looking scorch on the wall. An enemy soldier … perhaps more than one, using a half-wrecked home as cover. He fired a couple of shots back to convince the bastard to keep his head down, then motioned for the rest of the team to get ready. A pair of RPGs were shot through the window, exploding inside the house. He felt a stab of guilt as he darted forward, throwing a HE grenade in himself and waiting to detonate before charging into the house himself. The interior had been wrecked, to the point the structure would have to be demolished, but there was no sign of the enemy. A hint of motion up ahead suggested the bastards had gotten clear before it was too late.

He cursed under his breath. The insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan would have stood and fought, sacrificing their lives in hopes of taking down an American soldier. The Puritans knew better. Their teams would get in, fire off a handful of shots or lay a trap or two, then get out again before it was too late. Experienced teams could use the tactic repeatedly, causing considerable delay. The sound of gunfire grew louder just for a second, followed by a white-tinged explosion that rapidly turned into a fireball. A plasma grenade, used as an IED? Callam had been taught to use his own grenades to do just that and he dared not assume the enemy were any less capable. They were lucky the Puritans hadn’t had the time to turn the region into a death trap. A company of United States Marines would have been enough to stop the offensive in its tracks.

Sweat prickled down his back as the fighting progressed, the offensive slowing every time the enemy showed himself. He had to admire their nerve, and their willingness to take risks. A tank brought up to offer fire support was blown away by a plasma bolt, an officer who should have been out of range was hit by a sniper and instantly killed. Callam couldn’t tell if the man had been identified or if he’d just been a convenient target, but it hardly mattered. Enemy drones swooped through the air, sometimes snapping off shots themselves and other times blasting the advancing troops with strobe lighting and subsonic weapons. He said a prayer of thanks for his goggles and earpieces, although they were far from perfect. Better than nothing, despite the nagging headache that made it harder to think clearly. One man was caught without protection and left a gibbering wreck, throwing up everything he had in his stomach and then dry retching until he finally collapsed, to be carried back by two of his teammates. He was one of the lucky ones. Callam had seen people permanently injured by the Protectorate’s crowd control weapons.

More guns boomed. The fighting went on.

***

“They appear to be concentrating on Newark,” Lieutenant Lawton observed. “They’re not pushing towards Kennedy with anything like so much determination.”

James nodded, silently complementing the Americans on their determination, military skill and persistence. The primals would have gotten themselves blown away by now, if they didn’t decide the first bloody nose was a sign the offensive wasn’t meant to succeed and give up. They rarely had access to any sort of artillery, certainly nothing that could keep the Protectorate from raining shells and plasma bolts on their heads. The Americans, by contrast, had more than enough firepower to make life tricky for his point defence.

Their offensive was developing nicely, he noted. Smaller forces were pressing to cut off the routes leading north and south, trying to secure positions they could use to shell the city itself or bring immense pressure to bear on him from two more directions. Their aircraft were proving themselves, although their loss rates were growing as the footmen learnt how to counter them. Their drones were a major nuisance and their ability to operate with a certain degree of autonomy a serious threat, given how easily they could home in on worthwhile targets. He was lucky they didn’t carry bigger warheads. They’d already done more damage than he’d expected.

“Signal Flint,” he ordered, shortly. “They are to deploy the decoy force as planned.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

Captain Horace Caminetti knew he shouldn’t be annoyed about his orders, but he was.

He’d been outside New York City when the shit hit the fan, his air defence unit ordered to a military base in upstate New York to learn what they could from the past engagements and prepare for redeployment down south. No one had expected that the Protectorate would leapfrog so many defences to seize New York, nor that they’d seal off the city before more than a handful of civilians could get out. Horace knew his wife and children were behind the lines and he was terrified of what would happen if, perhaps when, their captors realised who they were and use threats against their lives to force him to betray his country. He’d tried to volunteer to go into the city himself, only to be turned down. If more experienced men couldn’t get in and out safely, what hope did he have?

“Sir, we have incoming from the south,” the operator said. “Their signature match enemy transports.”

Horace nodded, curtly. He’d thought the Super Galaxy transport aircraft was big, but the Protectorate’s transports were over five times their size. The sheer power that went into their constriction and flight was staggering, as were the defences they used to protect their transports from enemy fire. One had been taken out by a MANPAD fired at point-blank range, from what he’d heard, but the reminder they knew the enemy had lost had been taken out on the ground. They might not be combat aircraft, but they packed one hell of a lot of defences and weapons into their hulls.

“Lock missiles on targets,” he ordered. The transports were alarmingly fast as well as powerful. Given a chance, they could climb or descend fast enough to avoid standard SAM missiles … perhaps even shoot back at the launcher that dared to fire on them. “Prepare to fire.”

“Missiles locked,” the operator reported. “Ready to fire.”

“Fire on three,” Horace ordered. “And run!”

The operator flipped the switch, then bolted for the nearest cover as the missiles started to launch. They’d been designed to take out satellites in orbit, targets that were rarely capable of taking evasive action but existed at the top of a gravity well that made it hard to shoot at objects outside it. The transports were fast, yet could they avoid missiles capable of reaching escape velocity? Horace breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the trench, threw himself into its scant protection, and rolled over. The missiles had all been launched, without the enemy throwing a missile or bomb back at them. It was too late now …

He grinned. “Results?”

The operator checked the terminal linked to the sensor dome. “Enemy targets destroyed,” he said, slowly. “Why didn’t they return fire?”

Horace shrugged. He hadn’t expected to escape unscathed. He’d known they might be blown away by an enemy counterattack, even if they hit their targets. Perhaps they had been caught by surprise, or perhaps they’d been trying to defend the aircraft rather than hit back at their tormentors. It took around two months to build a modern transport, assuming one had all the parts on hand, and he doubted the Protectorate could replace the destroyed aircraft any quicker. They didn’t have a supply line. Not yet.

“Report to HQ,” he ordered, allowing himself a smile. “All targets downed.”

***

The enemy earthworks were larger than Callam had expected, a twisted nightmare of rubble and concrete that had been put together with local machinery and slave labour. The shelling narrowed down to strike targets just behind the lines, trying to weaken the enemy as much as possible, but it didn’t seem to be doing enough damage. He’d studied the fighting in Ukraine and noted how the Russians had hammered a position flat, only to have the Ukrainian defenders pop out again the moment the shelling came to an end and resume the fight. Clearing networks of underground bunkers and concealed fortifications was no joke, even at the best of times. And yet …

He glanced at the rest of the team as they readied themselves for the push. The enemy had thrown up the barricade, but – if intelligence was accurate – there were no more fixed defences between their current position and Newark. He told himself not to take it for granted. The Protectorate had plenty of room to slow the offensive, while using the civilian population as human shields to ensure the defences weren’t smashed flat from a safe distance. Not that that was always on call, he reflected sourly. One group of MRLS launchers had gone off the air so abruptly he knew they’d been killed.

A final set of explosions shook the barricade, then died away. Callam led the way forward, clambering over the rubble and looking for targets. The enemy appeared to have retreated, something that puzzled him. They had a strong position … why abandon it? Had there been a major breakthrough, to the north or south? The radio net was in tatters, the troops restricting themselves to signalling only when there was no other choice. He scrambled over a chunk of debris bigger than he was and stopped, dead. An enemy tank was right in front of him. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He’d seen men vaporised by plasma cannons, or caught up in the hoverfield and ripped to pieces. He was dead …

Except he wasn’t. The tank was an empty shell.

His blood ran cold. The tank was a model, no different to the dummies he’d seen in the east. Up close, it was obviously a fake. He’d seen enough real hovertanks in action to know it was rare for one to stay still for long, even when the drivers felt safe. But this fake tank … he didn’t like the implications.

Either they’re weaker than we thought, or their tanks have been sent elsewhere, he thought. And that means trouble.

He keyed his radio, but a screech of static cut him off before he could say a word. Oh shit …

 

Chapter Twenty-Two: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

The distant explosion shook the city.

Chet sucked in his breath as he turned to look out the window. A giant fireball was rising somewhere to the west, suggesting a cruise missile had come down hard along the edge of the city. The skies were alight with lightning, flickering impressions of beams stabbing into the air competing with plasma flashes and explosions high overhead. Another explosion shook the world a moment later, the window rattling oddly as the shockwave tore through the buildings and vanished into the distance. He had a sudden awful impression of mighty skyscrapers tumbling one by one, a row of giant dominos collapsing into rubble, burying most of the population underneath them. It was unlikely to happen, not unless someone hit the city with a nuke, but …

The radio crackled. “… Emergency broadcast system. The military is moving to liberate New York. Remain in your homes, take shelter underground if possible. I say again …”

A screech of static swallowed the rest of the words. Chet cursed under his breath as he heard yet another explosion, hoping and praying the rest of the population had heard the message before it was washed away by jamming. The curfew was supposed to lift around now, at least for essential personnel, and there would be too many people on the streets for his peace of mind. He told himself they’d have the sense to seek cover and stay out of the way, before it was too late. The Protectorate might not deliberately set out to slaughter civilians, but it didn’t hesitate to shoot through them either. Anyone on the streets who looked even remotely threatening was likely to be shot down, before any questions could be asked. The Protectorate didn’t take chances.

The static faded, slightly. “A civil and military emergency is under way,” an atonal voice said. “Remain in your homes. I say again, remain in your homes. Remain in your homes …”

“Well, that’s us told,” Brian said, dryly. He shifted oddly, unused to the NYPD uniform. It hadn’t been easy to obtain them, but it was the only way to be sure they wouldn’t be stopped on the streets or simply incapacitated by a drone. “Shall we go?”

Chet nodded, checking his weapons one final time before the squad headed out the apartment and down the stairs. The distant rumble of gunfire grew louder as they stepped onto the streets, suggesting a full scale military assault was underway. Chet didn’t know the details – what he didn’t know, he couldn’t be made to tell – but he could guess. Most of the city was tactically insignificant and would be mopped up after the attack succeeded, leaving the military with only a relative handful of possible targets. A shadow flickered overhead and he looked up, just in time to see a cruise missile fly over and throw itself on a distant target. He covered his eyes as he saw the flash, followed by another fireball. The thunderous rumble passed over him a moment later. He thought he heard the sound of breaking glass and swallowed hard. He vaguely recalled something about building codes that were meant to ensure skyscraper windows weren’t so easy to shatter, but they weren’t designed for repeated shockwaves. A couple of nearby skyscrapers looked as if they were swaying in the wind. He hoped to hell it was an illusion.

“Send the runners as planned,” he told Brian. “The night shifts can shut everything down.”

“Got it.” Brian started to turn away, then stopped. “Be careful, alright?”

Chet nodded, although he knew they were about to put themselves in harm’s way. He would have preferred a few hundred light infantrymen, even if they weren’t SEALs. It was possible there were other teams in the city, something else that would have been kept from him for security reasons, but as far as he knew the four of them were the only active force behind the lines. A few civilians would probably come onto the streets too, once they knew the city was being liberated; he shuddered at the thought of just how many were likely to be killed, once the enemy grew desperate. They might be better off staying out of the way and letting the military handle it.

He turned and led the way down the street, trying to stay under cover as much as possible. A full-scale military assault was a hell of a distraction, and the handful of people on the streets were seeking shelter as fast as possible. Two flyers flashed overhead, heading west … he hoped to hell the navy was ready for them, if the Puritans had traced the cruise missiles back to their launchers. A drone followed, sweeping the city in a manner that deeply worried Chet even though they were wearing policed uniforms. American drones were capable of scanning faces and comparing the images to the files in their databases and he dared not assume the Protectorate was any less capable. An American drone didn’t have authority to fire without a human – or a lawyer – in the loop, but he had no idea if that was true for the enemy drones. He allowed himself a moment of relief as he saw the drone move on, although he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. It was quite possible the drone had vectored enemy troops or collaborators to check the policemen out before they got any closer to Police Plaza or City Hall.

A humming filled the air and he took cover, a moment before a line of armoured vehicles appeared at one end of the street and practically flew up it. They were moving with astonishing speed for New York – the endless congestion was a thing of the passed – buzzing past the squad without bothering to so much as wave. The tanks were buttoned down, the commander keeping his head inside his vehicle. Chet hoped that was a good sign. The Protectorate’s sensors were good, and it was difficult to blind them, but there was no substitute for the Mark-I eyeball. The tankers keeping their heads down suggested they expected to be sniped without warning. New York had plenty of places for a sniper to hide.

He put the thought aside as he neared City Hall, keeping his eyes open for trouble. The building had been turned into Collaborator Central, with the surrounding buildings evacuated and turned over to the Protectorate’s various Civil Affairs units. There were a handful of footmen on guard outside the building, but otherwise the guards were unnamed. The Protectorate didn’t trust the NYPD, no matter how many hostages it held to ensure their cooperation and collaboration. Chet allowed himself a moment of relief. If the police had been allowed to carry guns, the whole operation would become impossible.

“Go,” he muttered.

There was no time to be clever. He unhooked a grenade from his belt and hurled it at the footmen, who had no time to react before it exploded right in front of them. Their armour was good, but not that good. Chet ran forward, finishing the men off with headshots and tossing a second grenade into an enemy vehicle that looked like a mobile air defence unit. It shuddered and died, tongues of fire bursting out of open portholes before fading away. Anyone inside was dead – or wishing they were.

Chet pointed his gun at the nearest policeman. “Get running now or get shot!”

The policemen turned and ran, their faces conflicted. Chet fired a shot over their heads to keep them running, feeling oddly conflicted himself. What would he do if his family were being held hostage? He liked to think he would resist anyway, but … he put the thought aside as he led the way into City Hall, hoping to hell Brian’s reports of the Mayor’s presence within the building were accurate. The Mayor of New York normally lived in Gracie Mansion, but the Protectorate had insisted he stay in City Hall for the duration of the war, along with his staff. Chet wasn’t sure if it was a flex to remind the collaborators that they were under the Protectorate’s power, or a security measure to keep them safe from insurgents, yet it hardly mattered. They were all about to die.

They’re too useful to the enemy to be allowed to live, he told himself. No one had seen the Mayor’s wife in public since the occupation had begun, which was probably a bad sign, but he pushed any doubts aside. They have to be taken down.

He shoved open the door to the Mayor’s office and opened fire, picking off the Mayor himself and two of his lackeys. A young woman in an unfamiliar uniform stared at him, then threw herself aside while drawing a pistol from a concealed holster … Chet shot her twice, blinking in astonishment as she kept trying to raise the gun. He put a third bullet through her head and kept his weapon pointed at her, in case she tried to keep going. Her face was odd, as if there were people from all over the world in her family tree …

“She’s Protectorate,” O’Rourke said. “So that’s what their women look like.”

Chet snorted, then gave the women a final inspection. She was trim, muscular in a manner that bothered him in a manner he couldn’t quite put into words. She’d been impressive too … a normal person should have been unable to keep going after being shot the first time, certainly not after being shot twice. He eyed the pistol, then discarded the thought of taking it. For all he knew, the enemy had ways to track it.

“Come on,” he snapped. War or no war, the enemy would respond to their presence shortly. “We have to move.”

***

James forced himself to wait as the enemy kept pressing against his defences, unknowingly moving further and further into the killing ground. They’d hidden most of their troops very well, he conceded sourly, but those troops had to move east now and that meant his drones could pick them out. What they could see, they could kill.

An alarm rang. “Sir, City Hall is under attack!”

James turned, cursing the timing under his breath. There had been a handful of insurgent attacks once the shit hit the fan, most nothing more than pinpricks. He didn’t see any point in diverting troops to deal with them when the occupation itself was on the line – the insurgents could be punished later, once the main enemy thrust had been destroyed – but an attack on City Hall itself was a different matter. Even if it were beaten off without losses, and a look at the display told him the air defence unit stationed in front of City Hall had gone off the air, it would damage relationships with the collaborator administration. If they thought they might be held accountable for their treason, and it was treason, they would become much less eager to cooperate.

“Order the police to deal with it,” he snapped. There were too many fires and not enough fire-fighters. The enemy was pressing hard and he dared not divert too many troops from the front lines. It was bad enough that they’d managed to hit their own city with several cruise missiles, causing panic on the streets. “Now.”

“The police have gone off the air,” Lieutenant Lawton reported. “I can’t raise Police Plaza.”

James cursed, again. Treason? Or foul play? New York’s electronic infrastructure was laughably primitive even by local standards and his forces were jamming the radios … all radios. The enemy was broadcasting everything from warnings to stay inside to incitement to riot, if he was any judge, and he dared not let those messages go through. The most dangerous moments of any occupation were their first and last hours, and if the citizens thought liberation had come they’d rise against their masters. It was ungrateful, to say the least, but gratitude meant nothing when they had to pretend they’d remained loyal Americans all along.

“Direct the drones to blanket the area, take them all down,” he ordered, finally. If they could stop the intruders from doing more damage, well and good, but he wasn’t going to imperil the entire battle by sending more than a handful of units to deal with them. “And I think it is time to show the enemy what we’ve been hiding.”

He took a breath, turning back to the real engagement. “Launch Gamma Strike in five. And then send in the transports.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

Chet kept moving, shooting down anyone who wasn’t a SEAL as he ran through City Hall. A handful of staffers tried to run, but others seemed frozen or shocked that anyone had tried to break into the building and open fire. He told himself that they all deserved to die, that they all needed to die, as he ran onwards, tossing two of his remaining grenades into the server room. The damage would be a pain to repair, although he doubted it would be enough to force the occupation force to start from scratch. They’d probably have copies of their databases stored somewhere in Texas. It was what he would do.

Flynn blew his whistle, one long blast followed by a shorter one. Company. Chet checked his remaining ammunition – he’d expended most of his rounds – and then led the way to the rear windows. There was no way to predict how the Protectorate would react to the incursion, but they needed to capture, kill, or at least drive the SEALs away before they wound up looking weak and ineffectual. Their troops were badly outnumbered by the local population and if they looked weak …

The others joined him as he led the way through the rear windows, eyes scanning their surroundings as they headed into the streets. They were emptier now, the police and government workers having decided it was better to remain out of sight and hope for the best. He heard the whine of a drone and lifted his rifle, bracing himself as the machine came into view. The sound made his bladder ache, as if he wanted to pee. He took aim at the drone and snapped off a single shot, shooting the tiny machine out of the sky. It was tougher than the drones he’d used on campaign, he noted coldly. The bullet had killed it, but it hadn’t shattered beyond hope of repair … not yet. He made a point of stamping on it as hard as he could, in hopes it would make life a little harder for the bastards. They couldn’t replace all their losses, could they? There had to be some hard limits.

He kept running as the noise of distant gunfire grew louder. It was hard to tell who was winning or even what was happening, although he could guess. There were …

His entire body convulsed, blue-light light flickering at the edge of his vision. He fell forward, his arms suddenly so stiff he couldn’t catch himself before he crashed into the ground. The shock jarred something loose and he rolled over, one hand grabbing for his rifle an instant before a second blue-white flash struck him. A drone flew overhead, silently … he cursed as he realised his mistake. They’d wondered why the Protectorate didn’t produce silent drones … they’d been wrong. They used the noisy drones to conceal the ones that flew so silently it was impossible to get a hint of their presence before it was too late.

Fuck, he thought, numbly. His eyes moved slowly, but just enough to let him see the rest of the team had been taken down too. He wasn’t sure what they’d been hit with, perhaps some kind of taser, but it had been effective. The body armour they’d stuck under the police uniform had been useless. If they interrogate us …

He tried to think of a way out, but nothing came to mind. His fingers refused to move properly, as if he’d gone to sleep on top of them and now the blood wasn’t flowing quite right. He couldn’t swallow his own tongue, let alone shoot himself or cut his own throat … he recalled the debate over suicide pills and poison capsules inserted in teeth and cursed helplessly, wishing he’d pressed for something similar when he’d agreed to the mission. Perhaps the shock had been enough to damage his heart … he doubted it. He was in good health and a heart attack probably wasn’t on the cards. And that meant he was fucked. He didn’t want to admit he could be made to talk, but … he knew it could happen. It had happened before.

The drone hovered over them, a spinning nightmare all the worse for being so small. Chet couldn’t help thinking it was laughing at them, or the operator was having a good laugh from his seat well behind the front lines. God knew he’d met some American drone operators who thought they’d gone into danger, although the only risks they’d faced had been the café running out of their favourite food. Or a lecture from their CO, if they expended their drone needlessly. It wasn’t as if they were in any real danger …

The skies turned white for a long second, the flash so bright Chet thought for a horrible moment he was going to go blind. He twisted his head, just in time to see the mushroom cloud rising in the west. It was a horrific sight, an eerie red-orange shape that was utterly unnatural, utterly wrong. Horror washed through him as the shockwave hit, slamming across the city with terrifying force. One side had detonated a nuke, perhaps more than one, and everything had changed. It was the end of the world as they knew it.

He closed his eyes. It was over.

 

Chapter Twenty-Three: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

The ground heaved, violently.

General Grey spun around. “What the hell was that?”

Colin had no answer. Half the landlines had suddenly gone down, cutting him off from the drones and the advancing army heading towards Newark. A number of sensors had also failed, their last reports offering no clue as to what had happened. The ground shook again, a second later … he glanced at the ceiling uneasily, unsure if it would stand up to whatever was happening outside the command post. It wasn’t a proper bunker, despite their best efforts. There was no time to construct a bunker and no way to be sure it would survive if the enemy located it. They’d certainly taken out a number of other bunkers over the last few months.

“Sir! Sir!” A soldier ran into the room, waving his hands frantically. “They nuked us!”

Colin swore as General Grey turned and hurried towards the exit. A nuke? The thought was unthinkable and yet … he’d known the Protectorate had fewer qualms about harming civilians or using weapons the modern world considered taboo. He was no military expert, but one or two nukes might just be enough to shatter the offensive and push the army back before it was too late.

Why didn’t we think of it? The thought echoed through his mind. Why didn’t we even consider the possibility?

His thoughts answered the question. Because it was unthinkable.

He forced himself to stand and hurry up the makeshift corridor to the surface. It was mid-morning, but … he swallowed, hard, as he saw the towering mushroom cloud. The sight was appalling, terrifying beyond words … he looked around and saw trees knocked down, a handful of vehicles picked up and tossed over and over by the blast. Flashes of light lined the horizon …

“Get an NBC team up here,” someone snapped. “Check for radiation …”

“Sound the retreat,” General Grey ordered, cutting the speaker off. “Now!”

Colin nodded and ran back to his laptop. Several more landlines had dropped out, but enough remained for him to send the order. The radio crews would start broadcasting the signal too, a simple message with a meaning everyone would understand … if they had a radio set of their own. The laptop was still functioning … did that mean there hadn’t been an electromagnetic pulse, utterly destructive to fragile electronics? The military’s communications systems were supposed to be immune to EMP, but it had never been tested under real-world conditions. He told himself it was a good sign, although it was hard to be sure …

The ground heaved again, twice. He heard pieces of debris falling from the ceiling and swallowed hard. The command post had probably remained undetected, or the enemy wpould have dropped a bomb on it, but it was still far too close to the front lines for anyone’s peace of mind. He finished issuing the orders, then disconnected the laptop and folded it up, sticking it under his arm and running for the exit. The command post wasn’t designed to take any sort of beating. Even a near-miss – insofar as there was such a concept when nukes were involved – could do immense damage, perhaps taking down the whole structure.

General Grey looked grim. Colin gritted his teeth, all too aware the battle had just been lost. The advancing armies had been caught in the nuclear blasts and the survivors – he told himself the nukes wouldn’t have wiped out the entire army – were cut off and isolated, unable to do anything other than turn and run for their lives. There were contingency plans for a retreat, if the enemy defences proved too strong to crack, but no one had envisaged a nuclear attack. He had no idea how many men could get out of the trap in time, before the enemy counterattacked. The isolated companies and platoons would have no idea what was happening behind them.

“Get to the vehicles and head to the rallying point,” General Grey ordered. “I’ll bring up the rear.”

Colin nodded, grimly. The mushroom clouds were fading now, their presence now a spectral shroud hovering over the battlefield, but the sound of distant guns was getting louder. The enemy was counterattacking and that meant they had to move. Fast. There would already be drones in the air and that meant they would be hunted down, if they didn’t get moving. He swallowed hard. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to flee the Protectorate, but … it just felt wrong. They’d been so optimistic …

***

“All three plasma warheads detonated as planned,” Lieutenant Lawton reported. “The enemy forces are in disarray.”

James nodded. The enemy had been foolish not to anticipate a nuclear attack – or something comparable to a nuke. The plasma warheads weren’t quite as powerful as a nuclear warhead, but they did have the great advantage of leaving little or no radiation behind to clog up the battlefield and poison his troops. He was surprised the enemy was so reluctant to use nuclear weapons themselves, after one use nearly a century ago, but … their loss, his gain. Their taboo against using nukes had left them wide open for his counterstroke.

“Order the transports to move in as planned,” he said. If the Americans had any sense, they’d be calling off the attack and ordering a general retreat. “I want as many enemy troops caught in the bag as possible.”

“Aye, sir.”

James allowed himself a tight smile. Did the enemy know they hadn’t shot down his transports? It was difficult to say. The drones had flown high, carrying enough explosive to explain the lack of debris crashing to the ground below. The enemy would certainly want to believe they’d taken down his transports … his smile grew wider as the transports flew in from the east, heading around the city and flying straight to their landing zones. The enemy airfields had already been hit twice, leaving their defences in ruins. The transports and hovertanks would do the rest.

And they’re broken now, he told himself. After Washington, it was a hell of a relief. Once the victory is in the bag, I can secure my position and press on.

***

Captain Angelica Jackson knew she’d been lucky, when the enemy flyer swept over the makeshift airfield and blew away the four aircraft and the motley collection of jet fuel barrels before vanishing into the distance, leaving burning rubble behind. The devastation looked bad – and there was no way she could rejoin the battle, at least not as a pilot – but at least she was alive and unhurt, free to be assigned to another plane and rejoin the fight. The guards had shoved a rifle into her hands and told her to stay ready, just in case. She’d stayed in the trenches on the edge of the makeshift airfield, waiting for transport further west. Instead …

Fear crawled down her spine as she stared at the fading mushroom clouds. A guardsman had been looking right at the nuke when it had detonated and was now blind, his comrade struggling to keep him from removing the cloth he’d pressed to his eyes. Angelica had no idea if there was anything they could do for him, if the poor bastard’s eyes would recover or if he was going to be blind for the rest of his life. The fact the enemy had used nukes was a grim reminder of their ruthlessness, that they wouldn’t hesitate to use the most barbaric tactics to win. Angelica was very familiar with barbaric enemies – she’d mown down terrorists in the Middle East, inhuman monsters who killed women for daring to wear makeup or show even a hint of skin – but her old enemies hadn’t had anything capable of threatening her Warthog. The Protectorate was different. They had enough firepower to take her down. She’d been lucky they hadn’t blown her out of the air.

An instinct made her look up, just in time to see a massive aircraft flying towards the airfield. The enemy transport was huge, easily dwarfing the largest aircraft in American service … she swallowed, hard, as she realised what it was doing. The enemy weren’t just content with nuking the battlefield, they were landing troops behind American lines … she reached for her radio and caught herself a second later. The enemy had been jamming all wireless communications … and even if they’d turned off the jammers, broadcasting a signal would be a good way to get herself killed.

“Get to the CP,” someone yelled. “Get the word out …”

Angelica gritted her teeth as two men took off, running for a pair of motorbikes. The rest of the airfield staff grabbed their weapons, ducking into the trenches as the enemy transport came to a halt over what remained of the landing strip. Angelica sucked in her breath. She’d escorted the largest transports the USAF had to offer and they’d all needed landing strips, while the Protectorate’s transports could land anywhere they chose, as easily as Thunderbird 2. A handful of drones buzzed overhead as the transport lowered itself to the ground, crushing the remnants of a Warthog under its hull. The hatches slammed open a second later, a line of men in silver armour charging out into the open air. Their armour seemed to shimmer, to adapt to its surroundings. It made them oddly hard to see.

The guardsman barked an order. The rag-tag defenders opened fire. Angelica felt the rifle jerk in her hands as she fired too, unsure if she was hitting anyone. She felt a rush of hope as the enemy hit the ground, then realised they were drooping to take cover. The transport seemed unconcerned about bullets bouncing off its hull, the first tank emerging from its interior a moment later. She swallowed hard as she saw its turret traversing the scene, coming to point at the defenders. Angelica threw herself to the ground as it opened fire, a wash of heat blasting over her head and vanishing in the distance. She rolled over and felt her gorge rise when she saw the guardsman who’d taken command. At least, she thought it was him. His upper body had been vaporised.

She started to clamber to her feet, too late. An enemy footman seemed to come out of nowhere, grabbing her and shoving her back to the ground. Angelica went limp as he yanked her hands behind her back, binding them in place with a plastic tie, then picked her up and tossed her out of the trench. Two more men had survived, one badly wounded. Angelica gritted her teeth as she watched two more tanks rolling out of the transport, heading into the distance. It wasn’t common to carry more than one tank in a single aircraft – in theory, the Galaxy could carry two main battle tanks, although it put immense strain on the airframe – but she’d counted at least five tanks coming out of the enemy transport, along with at least thirty infantry. They weren’t hanging around either, but rolling into the distance.

Her heart sank as another transport came into land, unloading with practiced ease. The enemy had won the battle …

And her quest to avenge her brother and her boyfriend had come to an abrupt end.

***

Tank Commander Patrick Hennessy allowed himself a tight smile as he led the troop of Cromwell Hovertanks onto the battlefield.

His VR helmet provided a near-perfect picture of the world around him, ensuring he could keep the tank buttoned up as long as possible. The plasma warheads shouldn’t have left much in the way of radiation, and his environmental sensors would alert him to poison gas or other nasty surprises, but he knew better than to expose himself so cavalierly. He'd seen service against primals who couldn’t make modern weapons for themselves, yet could envisage uses for captured gear that caught even the Protectorate by surprise. The Americans – such an odd concept, a superpower in North America – could actually produce weapons for themselves and they had plenty of experience fighting their own bunch of primals. They were likely more dangerous than any previous opponent.

He kept scanning the horizon as the tanks picked up speed. The landscape had been devastated, from the enemy tearing down buildings to turn them into barricades to the shockwave from the plasma warheads shattering what little remained. He wanted to think there was little cover for the enemy, but he knew better. His drones were picking up all kinds of enemy movements, men trying to get out of the trap before it was too late. He smirked as he checked the live feed from Newark. More tanks and infantry were being dropped behind enemy lines, closing the trap with astonishing speed. The enemy couldn’t hope to get most of their men out in time to matter, certainly not without their heavy equipment.

They plunged onwards, heading straight towards a ragged enemy convoy. The Americans opened fire the moment they saw his tanks, unleashing a spread of RPGs, antitank missiles and machine gun fire, the latter posing no threat whatsoever to his vehicle. His point defence activated automatically, blasting the antitank missiles out of the air before they could do any real harm. He knew better than to take them too lightly. The Cromwell was heavily armoured, and it had shrugged off American missiles before, but the enemy had killed a number of tanks over the last few months. He keyed his main guns, spraying plasma fire into the enemy vehicles and watching them explode as the driver plunged onwards, tearing through what remained of the enemy formation. Some Americans stood their ground – one fool kept firing with a pistol, until the tank crushed him beneath the hoverfields – while others ran, trying to get out of range before it was too late. Patrick let them go. The infantry would mop them up.

A dull thump echoed through the tank, a shell slamming straight into the frontal armour. Patrick cursed as the drones sounded the alert, too late. An enemy tank had been lurking behind a damaged building … no, inside the hollowed-out shell of a building. He had to admire the nerve of the crew as they fired a second shot, then reversed as fast as they could. A third shot struck one of his tanks and sent it spinning backwards, before it caught itself. Patrick put a full-intensity plasma bolt through the enemy tank before it was too late. It went up like a firecracker.

He checked his display, then smirked. The jaws of the trap were closing now …

And the enemy would soon be unable to escape.

***

“This is not the end of the war,” Callam said, sharply. The enemy nuclear strike had shattered the command net, insofar as it had existed at all, and he’d wound up in command of the remnants of a dozen units. He wasn’t sure if he was the senior officer, but no one else appeared to be trying to take command. “But we have to get out of here and report in before anything else happens.”

He thought fast as he organised the hasty march west. The Protectorate had used dummy tanks to deceive the attacks into thinking they were advancing towards their tanks, which meant their real tanks were elsewhere. He wanted to believe the enemy was running short of tanks and other armoured vehicles, but it didn’t seem too likely. They’d certainly been disturbingly willing to take the offensive, despite the risk of heavy losses. They certainly wouldn’t have used nukes so freely if they didn’t have a plan to take advantage of the hole they’d blown in the American formations.

They must have expected a counterattack at some point, he thought, checking his remaining ammunition as they started to walk. Lure us in, pin us down, use nukes and then …
He felt cold. The USMC had planned and trained for operations in nuclear, chemical and biological battlefields, but none of their exercises suggested it was a good idea. They’d worn heavy protective gear, making it impossible to move freely … he wished, suddenly, for a radiation detector. Were they heading into a radioactive hotspot? Or …

Thunder rumbled, in the distance. He thought he heard something behind him, but there was nothing when he turned to look. The battlefield in front of them – to the west of the city – was a burning nightmare. A nuke wasn’t just a fireball, a mushroom cloud and a cloud of radiation, he reminded himself. The superhot flash could and would set fire to everything flammable within range, turning the ruins into a foretaste of hell. He tried to think clearly, but it was so hard … was it the radiation, already taking a toll, or was it simple tiredness? He was older than most of the young men in the platoon … he stumbled and caught himself, trying not to shudder at the sight of a burning Abrams. There was no sign of the crew.

He saw a flicker dead ahead of him and dived for cover, an instant before the enemy troops opened fire. Plasma bolts shot through the air, far too close for comfort. He raised his rifle and fired twice, an instant before a pair of drones shot overhead. The enemy were just too close and …

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS,” a voice boomed. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND RAISE YOUR HANDS OR DIE.”

Callam felt his heart sink. He wanted to keep fighting and if it had just been him … he had escaped the Protectorate before, but now … he felt trapped. The Protectorate didn’t kill POWs for shits and giggles, his treacherous mind pointed out, and as long as there was life there was hope. And an entire squad was depending on him. He had led them right into a trap.

Grimly, telling himself it wasn’t the end, he raised his hands.

But it still felt like the end of the world.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four: Washington DC, Timeline F (OTL)

It was very quiet in the underground chamber.

Felix had known that defeat was a possibility, but – in truth – he had never really admitted it could happen, not in the privacy of his own mind. The United States had taken a beating before – of course it had – yet Hamlin had been the President, a weak man unable to do anything decisive unless pushed by circumstances. His lack of a power base had made him unthreatening to many within Official Washington, but it had also crippled him at the worst possible time. Felix had told himself that he would be different, that he would be a war leader like Washington, Lincoln and even Roosevelt.

His heart turned to ice as he read the report. It was very preliminary, and the writer had gone to some trouble to make that clear, but it was a disturbing read. Upwards of eight thousand soldiers, sailors and airmen dead, hundreds more badly injured: God alone knew how many civilians were dead too, in the chaos that had swept over New York. The nuclear blasts had wiped out more than just men and machines, he noted coldly; they’d ensured the United States no longer dared to assemble vast formations, certainly not within range of enemy missiles. If word spread – and it was spreading, slowly but surely – there would be panic. It would be impossible to maintain the war effort if everyone was trying to get away from possible targets.

He looked up, his eyes sweeping the room. “What went wrong?”

It was hard to keep his anger out of his tone. He knew better than to shoot the messenger. He knew it was possible to do everything right and still lose. It was one of the very first lessons he’d learnt in politics. And yet he wanted someone to blame. He wanted to wrap his hands around someone’s neck and squeeze, making them pay for the sheer scale of the defeat. He wanted … how the hell, he asked himself, had Lincoln coped? He’d been in office when the Confederates had won the Battle of Bull Run …

General Grey leaned forward. “The fault was entirely mine, Mr President,” he said. “You will have my resignation on your desk after this meeting.”

“Rejected,” Felix said, shortly. The one advantage of the current crisis was that he didn’t need to find a suitable scapegoat. No doubt there would be arguments and recriminations galore, and Grey’s career might come to an abrupt end later on, but for now he couldn’t afford a shakeup at the top. “I need you in the field.”

“I didn’t believe they’d resort to nuclear weapons,” Grey said, grimly. “Nukes …”

“They weren’t nukes,” Admiral Leone said. “The detonations might have been comparable to small tactical nuclear weapons, but our orbital sensors confirmed they weren’t actually nuclear warheads. The lack of radiation confirms it. Our best guess is that they used scaled-up plasma warheads.”

“I doubt it makes much difference to the dead,” Felix said, quietly. He understood the use of pedantry to avoid thinking about something much worse, but … it wasn’t the time. “What is the current situation?”

“The defensive lines we assembled around the occupied zone have been smashed,” Grey said, flatly. “Thousands of troops and civilians remain unaccounted for, Mr President, and the overall death toll could be a great deal higher. They landed tanks and troops behind our lines and basically trapped our men in a cauldron. Anyone who didn’t get out before the jaws slammed closed is likely dead or captured.”

He paused. “We have the lines reforming to the west, but a great deal of heavy equipment was lost. The attacking forces gave it their all, sir, yet … it will take quite some time to replace the lost gear, let alone the tanks and aircraft. We underestimated their battlefield mobility.”

“We saw what we wanted to see,” Admiral Leone put in. “They tricked us into thinking we downed their transports.”

He rubbed his forehead. “My office obtained footage of the interception, taken by a war blogger with a cellphone. The quality is bad, but it’s fairly clear we shot down a bunch of drones, rather than enemy transports. They probably circled their transports out to sea instead and then came in from the east, using the cover from the enemy missile strikes to hide their presence until it was too late.”

His eyes flickered to the map. “New York appears to be calming down,” he added. “But we’ve lost contact with the team inside the city. It doesn’t bode well for their fate.”

“No,” Felix said. He stared at the map. “Is there any good news?”

“They took losses too,” Admiral Leone pointed out. “Some of our countermeasures worked pretty well. Not perfectly, I will admit, but we had them reacting to us for a change.”

Felix winced, inwardly. It was good news, he supposed, but compared to the sheer scale of the defeat it was minor. Very minor.

“We need to hit back,” he said. “Is there anywhere where they don’t have a bunch of our people as human fucking shields?”

“No, Mr President,” Admiral Leonie said. “A few people? Yes. None? Probably not.”

He met Felix’s eyes. “It’s also not easy to get a nuke into their territory.”

Felix scowled. He’d been cautioned that America’s antiballistic missile defences were nowhere near perfect, certainly not good enough to risk launching a first strike. The kinks in the system had never been worked out, raising the spectre of a lone missile from North Korea getting through the defences and blowing an American city off the map. The Protectorate, by contrast, had near-perfect antimissile defences. The United States would need to launch hundreds of missiles at Texas to be sure of scoring a hit and that would leave the US unable to retaliate if Russia or China took advantage of the crisis to strike first themselves.

“Find a way to hurt them,” he said, quietly. “We can’t let them hammer us with nukes – or close enough – with impunity, or they will do it again.”

He dismissed both military men and sat back in his chair, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him. The map looked optimistic, but it concealed a grim reality. The United States had lost a major battle and it would take time to recover, time he didn’t have. He wondered, sourly, how Putin had managed to cope with expending thousands of Russian lives for tiny objectives, some never secured. It was a mentality he found impossible to emulate.

And if I start moving imaginary armies around the map, he thought numbly, I’ll end up like Hitler. Or worse.

The reports on his desk mocked him. Their titles were designed to be unthreatening, not even rising to the level of clickbait, but they too masked a grim reality. The economy was collapsing, threatening to take the country down with it. The United States was looking more disunited by the day and it would only get worse, once news spread. The nukes might not be real nukes, but it was a distinction without a difference. He didn’t know how he could even begin to put the country back together again.

It would have been a hell of a lot easier during Lincoln’s time, he thought. And even during the Cold War …

He rubbed his forehead. Too much of America’s vital industries had been sent overseas. They were effectively lost now, forcing America to rebuild far too many parts of her industrial base from scratch. The United States had nearly everything she needed within her borders and yet … they hadn’t done anything like enough, after COVID, to repair the damage. That should have been a wake-up call, and not just for America. Their allies in Europe were no better. There was no point in trying to buy British, French or German weapons when they didn’t have the weapons to sell.

There was a tap on the door. Felix looked up. “Yes?”

Albert Atherton, the current Director of the FBI, was shown into the room. “Sorry to bother you, Mr President, but we have a problem.”

Felix swallowed several nasty remarks. He’d never liked Atherton, who had been too busy playing political games to do his fucking job, and he’d been on the list of appointed officials Felix intended to terminate when he won the nomination and then the election. It wasn’t so easy to get rid of the man when he’d become President after the death of President Hamlin, not when the country was at war and the last thing anyone needed was a power struggle in Washington. The Protectorate was already reaching out to possible allies in the United States …

“Yes,” he said, finally. He needed more coffee, not more problems. “What’s the latest problem?”

“As you know, we have been running agents in the occupied zone,” Atherton said. “It isn’t that easy to get informants into place within enemy territory. They’re damn good at tracking them down.”

“And?”

“And one of our agents found out that they knew the New York offensive was coming,” Atherton said. “Word reached us too late.”

Felix sucked in his breath. “And you didn’t get it to the troops in time?”

“There are no landlines leading in and out of occupied territory,” Atherton reminded him. “Radios and cellphones are worse than useless. The message had to be taken to a drop off point outside their city, then relayed up the chain to Washington. By the time it reached us, it was already too late.”

Fucking incompetence, Felix thought, even though he knew it was unfair. If they’d done their fucking jobs ..

He took a breath, calming himself. “How did they find out?”

“We’re uncertain as yet,” Atherton admitted. “How many people knew the attack was impending?”

Felix gritted his teeth. “At least … somewhere between ten or twenty people in Washington heard the plans,” he said. “The troops would have heard rumours even if there was nothing officially passed down to them” – he recalled his own experience and scowled – “and there was no way to hide the scale of the preparations. Soldiers aren’t stupid. They would have seen some of the preparations and drawn the right conclusions.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Atherton said.

“If some idiot put it online somewhere,” Felix added, “the Puritans could have hacked it.”

He scowled at the paperwork on his desk. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that his computer wasn’t his personnel servant, let alone an extension of himself. It could be hacked, it could be turned into an unwitting spy … he recalled how many soldiers had kept journals online, despite the risks, and if someone had done that as he waited outside New York, ready to go to war …

“The report suggests we have a fox in our henhouse,” Atherton said. “A spy.”

“Fuck it,” Felix said. “Who and why?”

He looked up. “I don’t suppose your source picked up the name?”

Atherton shook his head. Felix wasn’t surprised. “Damn.”

He cursed under his breath. Washington might not be the most corrupt city on the planet, although he knew some people who would disagree with that, but it was up against some pretty stiff competition. The Senators and Congressmen might come to Washington with ambitions to represent their constituents, yet far too many were rapidly seduced by the promise of wealth, power, and future directorships that everyone knew were rewards for services rendered even though nothing was ever written down. It wasn’t easy to be a clean politician when trying would often render you powerless, left out in the cold by your own party, and the rewards of allowing yourself to be used were so high. Sure, sometimes a particularly corrupt politician would be brought to book, but it was rare. Washington protected its own.

“So they have an agent within our government,” he mused. The thought of such treachery was staggering, beyond comprehension. Benedict Arnold had had an understandable motive, which didn’t excuse his choices, but … what sort of motives did the mystery agent have? “Why?”

He felt his stomach churn as he realised the answer. Or a possible answer. America had been largely immune to all kinds of attack for decades, save a rogue nuclear strike, and its security had bred complacency as well as corruption. The idea that America could lose, and lose so badly it would never recover, was simply unthinkable. There was no need to worry about consequences if they were never going to come, allowing the government to make all sorts of foolish and short-sighted decisions, from not standing up to terrorist regimes to abandoning allies to gruesome fates. His earlier thoughts returned to haunt him. The decision to become dependent on overseas factories might have made sense, at one point, but it had been incredibly short-sighted. In hindsight, it should have been regarded as outright treason and cut off before it could get so far.

The bastard probably doesn’t realise he’s playing with fire, he thought. Damn him.

“Find him,” he ordered. “Whatever it takes. But don’t arrest him until we see what use we can make of him.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Atherton said.

“And keep it on the down low as much as possible,” he added. “We don’t need a spy panic as well as everything else.”

***

Catherine kept her face under tight control as she navigated her way through a supermarket, pretending to be as dull and easy to please as the rest of the rabble. The crowd was a disgusting mess of women who had really let themselves go and men who were clearly useless for anything, even brute labour. They were so badly addicted to whatever they were smoking, sniffing or sticking where the sun didn’t shine that she was surprised they hadn’t already overdosed and killed themselves. Or been rounded up and sent somewhere – anywhere – else.

She took a handful of items and paid for them with a forged ration card and paper money, then shoved them into her bag and carried them outside. Everyone knew most Protectorate cities had a region that belonged to the degenerates, men and women who had dropped out of society to drink themselves to death, but none of those areas were anything like as bad as large chunks of Washington. The sheer level of degeneracy was staggering, as was the unwillingness of local authorities to tackle the problem. It was one thing to let someone drop out and die in a gutter, quite another to let them threaten the rest of the population. She scowled as she saw a young man harassing a woman, who was nervously trying to shy away while using her body to shield her child. The man was so drugged up he was slurring his words, making it impossible to tell what he wanted. Catherine walked up behind him, slammed her hand into his back with augmented strength, and walked onwards, keeping her face angled away from the woman. She probably hadn’t had a chance to get a good look, but there was no point in taking chances.

The thought cheered her as she made her way through the streets, taking a wandering path back to the mansion. The forged money and ration cards were close to perfect, but not perfect enough to pass inspection. Word would get out, of course, and shopkeepers would suddenly become more reluctant to take either, at least until the government came up with a countermeasure. It was a minor move, in the grand scheme of things, but anything that shook the local government was worth doing. Who knew?

She ignored the butler’s disapproving stare as she strode into the mansion, projecting an image of a spoilt little brat as best as she could. It was absurd to her, if only because her official papers insisted she was twenty-one and therefore an adult by any reasonable measure, but it was better to be pigeonholed than have people wondering what she really was. Besides, a quick inspection had revealed that the local youth – ranging from actual children to adults who appeared to have childish minds in adult bodies – were far brattier than her. The butler probably considered Catherine something of a relief. She wasn’t demanding insanely expensive meals, or seducing the staff, or harassing them. Catherine found it difficult to believe anyone was allowed to act in such a manner. Children being children was one thing, adults acting like children was just begging for a flogging.

Senator Thaddeus Remington looked up as she strode into his office. “The reports from New York are in …”

Catherine held up her hand and ran through a basic sensor sweep. She didn’t think anyone had sneaked into the chamber and bugged it, but she’d been taught to check everything she could, just in case. If she started to forget, she might miss something. The enemy might not know they had a spy in their city, but they’d be fools not to consider the possibility. It wasn’t as if she was an actual alien.

“Go ahead,” she ordered.

“The reports from New York are in,” Remington repeated. “Your forces won the battle by using nukes.”

“Noted,” Catherine said, once he’d finished outlining everything that had happened. “You will, of course, take advantage of this situation to press for peace.”

Remington hesitated. “If I push too hard …”

“You will have some help,” Catherine assured him. Remington wasn’t the only politician who was under her thumb, although he was the most effective. The reminder couldn’t be pushed so hard. “But it is time to start weakening your President’s resolve.”

She turned away to hide her disgust. Remington was a slug. A useful slug, but a slug nonetheless. There was no need to keep the promises she’d made him, as long as she could hide the fact she’d chosen to break them. And she could. When he had outlived his usefulness, she would take great delight in stepping on him.

Just you wait, she thought, coldly. Just you wait.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

Callam had never been quite so humiliated in his life.

He shuffled along the street of New York in shackles, picking up pieces of debris and tossing them into skips. Several dozen other prisoners followed, shackled together in a chain gang that gave them enough freedom to do their work without allowing them to run into the shadows before they were shot down by their captors. A handful of drones flew overhead, a clear warning that resistance meant death. He’d been told a couple of prisoners who had tried to object, citing the Geneva Conventions, had simply been shot, pour décourager les autres. It would have been funny if it didn’t mean two good men were dead, their bodies left to rot. The Protectorate had never heard of the Geneva Conventions. They’d probably never even heard of Geneva.

It had been a long time since he’d visited New York and he’d never liked the city, but he was still astonished to see how much it had changed. A handful of city blocks had been devastated, smashed by cruise missiles or scorched by IEDs; others looked untouched from the outside, yet the original furnishings had been torn out and replaced by cots for workers who would otherwise have to commute in and out of the city every day. There was no sign of the once-common homeless population, nor the endless array of panhandlers, costumed beggars and pickpockets that had once plagued the city. The streets looked cleaner in places, somewhat to his shock, save for the handful of bodies dangling from lampposts. He scowled as he saw the placard on the nearest body. SEX CRIMINAL. If there had been a little more harsh justice in the cities, making damn sure a known criminal couldn’t return to his haunts and offend again, the world would have been a better place. And perhaps liberalism wouldn’t have been so thoroughly discredited.

He put the thought out of his mind as he kept working, gritting his teeth as he scooped up the next piece of dirt. The prisoners had been stripped of their uniforms and everything else they carried, then issued orange shorts and put to work. It was a minor miracle the female prisoners had been allowed to keep their bras, although the guards had seemed oddly unsure about it in a manner that suggested they didn’t want to stare at bare breasts. It made him wonder if they thought a bra could be a weapon, or if there was something in their society that made them immune to the allure of a pair of breasts. Perhaps their women went around topless all the time, to the point they were used to it. God knew, he’d had the same experience on a nudist beach.

But we call them the Puritans, he mused. Topless women and Puritanism don’t go together.

He kept his eyes open, telling himself to play dumb and servile until there was a chance to escape. There weren’t many civilians on the streets, the few that came out of their homes avoiding the prisoners as if they were ashamed to look at them. Good. Callam didn’t understand why the civilians weren’t doing everything in their power to harass the Protectorate, to rise up in the rear when the army tried to liberate the city. There were millions of people in New York and yet only a handful had taken to the streets, trying to carry out attacks before it was too late. If even a tenth of the city’s population had risen, the Protectorate’s position would have become untenable. But he supposed they’d had a point. The liberation had died in nuclear fire.

His eyes narrowed as he spotted a pair of cops walking down the street, averting their gaze from the prisoners. Bastards. Bastard collaborators. The NYPD was an organised body of men, for a certain value of the word, and they should have hidden weapons and supplies they could use to take their masters in the rear. A stab in the ass would have worked wonders … what sort of assholes, he asked himself, sacrificed their country for their families? But then, patriotism had been beaten out of big-city cops for years. The media turning every last incident into a racist nightmare in which the cop was always in the wrong, no matter what happened, ensured the good cops tried to get out, the middling cops did as little as they could get away with and the bad cops kept on being bad cops. Why put yourself at risk when your political masters were quite happy to shove you onto a branch and start sawing it off behind you? Why?

The day wore on, the line of prisoners making their way through Central Park. A handful of children were playing happily, their mothers oddly relaxed despite being in a crime hotspot. Or what had once been a hotspot … clearing away the druggies, putting muggers to work in labour gangs and executing paedophiles had clearly had one hell of a deterrent effect, he noted bitterly. It was safe to take one’s kids to the park now, safe to let them run around outside … he wondered, numbly, if it was nothing more than a planned seduction. It was dangerous as hell to give up liberty in exchange for safety, but when someone felt they had neither liberty nor safety …

There was no let up as they were finally marched along the long streets and loaded into coaches for the drive to the airport. Callam looked for familiar faces and saw none, not even a single infantryman from the great offensive. The guards put them in their seats, made sure the chains were secured, then let the driver put the coach into gear. Their security seemed lax … Callam felt a twinge of hope, which died as he spotted the drones keeping pace with the small convoy. Anyone who jumped out would simply be blasted on the spot, without any questions being asked. Callam was mildly surprised their captors hadn’t tried to interrogate him, although he had to admit he knew very little. He certainly hadn’t seen any officers in the bundle of prisoners. They might have been taken away earlier for interrogation – or murder. If the reports were accurate, police officers and city workers who didn’t have families who could serve as hostages had been rounded up and never seen again. Callam guessed they’d been taken a long way from the city and put to work there.

His mood darkened as he heard someone sob. It was rare for American troops to be taken prisoner, certainly in such large numbers. The handful that had been taken prisoner – at least officially – had often vanished without trace, or had been traded back for prisoners held by the United States. He made a mental note to suggest the Conduct After Capture course be revised, now there was a full-scale war raging across the Continetal United States. When he got back to the lines …

There will be a chance to escape, he told himself, firmly. He knew his duty. Keep your head down and pretend to be harmless, right until you make your bid for freedom.

The coach drove onwards, through a tunnel he vaguely recalled from his last visit to New York. It had been crammed with traffic then: hundreds of cars crawling forward, their drivers honking their horns as if the cars in front of them were being slow deliberately, instead of simply being trapped in traffic themselves. Now, it was largely empty, a handful of trucks and coaches driving through without impediment. He made a face as he saw the workers, doing their job even under enemy occupation. Would it have been that hard, he asked himself, for them to down tools and refuse to cooperate?

They shot prisoners who refused to do grunt labour, he thought, answering his own question. Why would the workers assume they’d be treated any better?

It had been a long time since he’d been anywhere near Newark, but he was fairly sure the airport hadn’t been surrounded by a ring of steel. A handful of enemy tanks guarded the approaches, backed up by a small army of armoured infantrymen. There were no policemen anywhere within eyeshot, suggesting the Protectorate’s trust in their collaborators was very limited. Callam didn’t blame them. The civilian airport had become the nerve centre of their operations and letting an American, even one who’s family were held hostage, into the airport was asking for trouble – big trouble. Callam had lost friends to Afghanis who had seemed perfectly reasonable, right up to the moment they grabbed their guns and opened fire. The Taliban had been fond of infiltrating the government’s troops and undermining them from within. No wonder the wretched provisional government had collapsed so quickly. It had never really controlled the country in any real sense of the word.

And if we had kept their families hostage too, he reflected, would it have been better – or worse?

His heart twisted painfully. The whole idea was unthinkable. There were things the United States did not do, and taking hostages to ensure their relatives behaved themselves was one of them. He’d prided himself, they all had, in being the civilised side, even when it meant putting themselves in danger to uphold their valves. It had been easy to tell themselves they were morally superior and yet, what did moral superiority matter when you were losing the war? Might didn’t make right, but it did tend to determine what happened. And the Protectorate was mighty indeed.

The coach came to a halt in the car park, now seemingly empty of cars. The guards marched the prisoners off the coach, pushing them through the terminal and onto the tarmac outside. His lips twitched – the guards were being more decent than the TSA – then thinned as he saw the stand and the hundreds of other prisoners who were being forced into rows in front of it. The whole scene looked like a Nazi rally, right down to the flags fluttering in the wind. Up close, he couldn’t help thinking the Protectorate flag looked odd, as if someone had taken the English flag and placed a gun on top of the cross. It probably had some deep meaning, but heraldry had never been his thing.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw Sally Luanne … it had been months since he’d seen her with his own eyes, back when she’d been a young woman desperately trying to get out of her small town before it killed her and he’d been a small-town lawman. They had never been friends, but everyone in Flint had known everyone else; she’d been beautiful, like so many other girls her age, yet she’d always considered herself better than her peers. She’d been consumed with the desire to make something of herself, to get out of a dying town. And it had led her into outright treason.

He wished for a gun. But he was unarmed and chained besides.

Sally’s voice boomed through the air. “You have been selected to work for the betterment of mankind and …”

Callam tuned out the rest. It was bullshit, little more than jam spread on a shit sandwich. They were going to be put to work, again, and probably worked to death. Sally was deluding herself if she thought the Protectorate was going to let her build up an independent power base, or even make something of herself. Callam had read the files they’d uploaded onto the internet and dumped into every PC and Mac across the country, if not the world. The Protectorate wanted immigrants and even encouraged them, but it didn’t give them any real power. They certainly weren’t allowed to keep their old culture. The price for having your children and grandchildren become citizens was giving up your old world and embracing the new.

The speech went on for hours – it certainly felt that way. Callam had never had the impression Sally was particularly fond of the sound of her own voice, although she’d never really had the opportunity to develop that part of her personality. There’d been no opportunities for the young in Flint, not even drug-dealing and other criminal behaviour. He stared at her thoughtfully, wishing – again – for a gun. It would mean certain death and yet …

She’s not the only one, not any longer, he thought. And killing her won’t stop others from taking her place.

Sally finally came to an end and looked at the crowd, perhaps waiting for applause. There were a handful of mocking claps, but little else. Sally flushed and walked off the stand, while the guards started organising the prisoners and marching them towards the waiting aircraft. Callam had hoped they’d be put onto a Protectorate transport and he was rather disappointed to see a common or garden jumbo jet, still painted in her original livery. The pilot was clearly visible in the cockpit … Callam frowned, inwardly, as they were marched up the stairs, their shackles adjusted to give them a little more freedom, and pushed into their seats. The hatch to the cockpit was clearly sealed. He couldn’t help wondering if the pilots were prisoners too.

“If I could have your attention, please …”

Callam looked up, grunting uncomfortably. The chains made it hard to buckle himself in, let alone go to the toilet in the middle of the flight. Someone had stuck a ration bar and a bottle of water in front of him … he guessed it was all they were going to eat. The man at the front of the plane was a Protectorate official, rather than a pretty stewardess. Callam couldn’t help thinking he was a better person than Sally. He might be an invader, but at least he wasn’t a fucking traitor.

“You are being moved from New York to Texas,” the man said. His accent was odd, surprisingly close to American. “There will be no Protectorate personnel on this aircraft, which will be flying over unincorporated territory. We have informed your countrymen of this. Should they decide to shoot the aircraft down, it will kill you all for nothing. Should you manage to break out and take control of the aircraft, or your pilots decide to betray us, we will know and we will blow you out of the skies ourselves. I suggest” – the word was laced with sarcasm – “that you remain seated, enjoy your flight, and prepare for the rest of your lives.”

Callam swallowed, hard. The Protectorate didn’t control much, if anything, outside Texas and New York. Would the USAF shoot the aircraft down? Or try to force it to land? He glanced back as the flight crew banged the hatch closed, the whine of jet engines echoing through the hull. There didn’t seem to be anyone who wasn’t a prisoner, either in chains or held in bondage through threats to their family’s safety, and that meant … he gritted his teeth as the jet started to move, heading onto the runway. Were they all about to die, once they crossed the border? Or would they be allowed to complete their flight in peace?

They have us, no matter what we do, he thought, numbly. If the United States shot down a jet crammed with American prisoners, it would shatter its already fragile morale beyond repair. The Protectorate would make sure the country knew exactly who’d fired the fatal shot. If they let the POW transport go, the prisoners would find themselves working for the Protectorate and then …he cursed under his breath. The bastards might even blow the aircraft out of the skies themselves and blame it on the USAF.

He tilted his head to stare out the porthole as the aircraft took off, surprisingly smoothly for Newark. It puzzled him for a moment, until he realised there simply hadn’t been many aircraft coming in and out of New York since the occupation had begin, ensuring there was relatively little turbulence to bedevil the few flights that were making their way through the city’s airspace. A chill ran down his spine at the thought … it was a minor issue, and he knew people who would see it as a good thing, but it was another reminder of just how much the world had changed in six months. He grew colder as he saw the devastation underneath, the city’s suburbs giving way to a devastated nightmare that blended ruined buildings and shattered roads with melted structures and miles upon miles of ash. It reminded him of the photos he’d seen of the aftermath of Hiroshima, only worse. No one had used tactical nukes in battle, not until now.

A hand touched his arm. He looked up. The young woman beside him looked scared. He felt a twinge of the old concern about women in combat, mingled with protectiveness and a grim awareness they needed all the soldiers they could get. “What are they going to do to us?”

“Put us to work, probably,” Callam said. There hadn’t been any combat engineers or anyone else who might be useful for anything beyond brute labour in his squad. The enemy might have captured other specialists, but they’d be reluctant to put them in places they could do actual damage. It was unlikely the poor bastards had any relatives behind enemy lines. “They’re very efficient.”

He gritted his teeth. He would keep his head down and be obedient, right up to the moment he got his chance and not a second beyond. The enemy had made a mistake by taking him alive, he told himself. They should have killed him on the spot. He would be everything they wanted, he would let them relax, and then he would make his escape. Or find a way to hurt them even at the cost of his life.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six: New York, Timeline F (OTL)

Sally had to bit her lip to keep from snarling.

She had gone out on a limb for the prisoners, arguing with James that they should be kept alive and put to work instead of being confined to a POW camp or simply executed. She had little sympathy for the military – she’d known too many vets who thought their service made them superior, or drank themselves silly every night and then staggered home to beat up their wives and kids – and she thought there was nothing to be gained from risking one’s life for a country that didn’t deserve it, but there was no need to keep them locked up. Given time, she was sure, they would appreciate their new role in the world …

And yet, they hadn’t even bothered to applaud her.

She gritted her teeth in frustration as she walked onwards. She knew she was doing the right thing, that she’d made life better for tens of thousands across Texas and New York. She only had to look into the eyes of the perpetually unemployed, who now had good jobs that brought home a decent wage, or the women who felt safer on the streets now the homeless, druggies and outright criminals had been rounded up and put to work. Sally herself had never felt safe, even in her hometown. She might have been more loyal to her country, she conceded sourly, if her country had been more loyal to her. But instead …

Her cheeks burned. The bastards hadn’t been grateful. Of course not. They went off to fight in pointless wars and then returned home, broken shells of men, who got nothing in return for putting their lives at risk. They didn’t have the wit to understand they were being screwed, and not in a good way; they didn’t have the honesty to admit, even to themselves, that she was doing the right thing. But then, they had never been young women trapped in small towns …

The office had once belonged to some overpaid bureaucrat, who had covered the walls with pictures from foreign resorts Sally knew, all too well, she would never get to see with her own two eyes. The thought made her scowl again, remembering how she’d felt when her college roommate had talked about going to Paris to shop … the filthy rich bitch had never thought, not for a moment, that Sally might not have two cents to rub together. The bitterness billowed up within her, a reminder of why she’d chosen to join the Protectorate in the first place. She’d deserved so much better and it had been denied her, for all sorts of stupid reasons. They’d all been stupid, because in the end they’d denied her. She had no regrets.

She sat down and tapped her terminal, checking the latest reports. The Protectorate Manpower Commission had done an excellent job at registering everyone living within the occupied zone and putting them to work, everything from picking up litter in the streets to washing and cleaning the subways … and now, picking up the rubble on the battlefield. She felt a thrill of pride at how well the machine she’d built worked, another piece of vindication to wash away the disdain she’d felt from the captured soldiers. The city had been looking better, before the offensive, and it would look better once again. She would make sure of it.

Her wristcom bleeped. “Sally,” James said. “Please join me in my office.”

Sally nodded, hurrying out the door. James couldn’t be kept waiting. She needed him more than he needed her, no matter how hard she worked to make herself indispensible. She’d be there for him, building up a power base that would ensure she never had to go back to unemployment hell, never had to face the risk of selling herself to live. She didn’t care how many people she had to step on, as she climbed as high as she could. They had never done anything for her, had they?

And it was all, she reminded herself firmly, in a good cause.

***

“Congratulations on your new position, Mr Mayor,” James said.

He didn’t bother to keep the disgust out of his voice. The cowering man wasn’t just a degenerate, part of a polycule marriage arrangement that decent people would keep firmly out of the public eye, but an outright criminal, using a number of shell companies to defraud the city of millions of dollars. The minibrains had had no trouble spotting the pattern and drawing it to the attention of their human masters, certainly not when the corruption wasn’t very well hidden. It was a mystery why the local cops hadn’t caught on to him long ago. They certainly should have noticed, if they bothered to do their job.

“Thank you,” the Mayor said. It was clear he would sooner be somewhere – anywhere – else. If he hadn’t been the high-ranking survivor from City Hall, he would have remained in obscurity rather than being promoted. “I won’t let you down.”

James met his eyes. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “If you do well, you will be rewarded. If you try to betray us, your two husbands and three wives will pay the price.”

The Mayor paled. James tried not to snort in disgust. It was one thing for consenting adults to do as they wished, in private, but quite another for them to make their polycule nonsense a public matter. How was it anything of the sort? James knew precisely what his people would think of a man who flaunted his sexuality in such a manner and it wouldn’t be anything kind. They’d be more likely to demand the man be locked up, for all sorts of reasons. If he was that invested in his polycule, he probably wouldn’t be anything like as invested in doing his bloody job.

“You know what to do,” he said. “Go.”

He watched the Mayor stagger out, closing the door behind him. James shook his head in exasperation. The wretched man was a coward as well as a degenerate. James would almost have preferred a brave degenerate, although the coward did have his uses. He was too afraid of losing his own skin, and that of his partners, to do anything other than follow orders. The real problem lay in just how many civil workers were now unreliable. Some had been lured into sin and others were dead, or had seen the dead bodies being carried out of City Hall and started to think twice about their collaboration. They would require careful watching, which put another limit on his freedom to take the offensive.

His terminal bleeped. He tapped it to bring up the latest report from the post-battle assessment team, which was about as unhelpful as he’d expected. The plasma warheads had done so much damage that it was difficult to be sure just how many enemy soldiers had been fed into the fire, let alone how many had managed to get out of the trap before the jaws slammed closed. Their panic had actually worked in their favour, giving them the impetus to get moving before it was too late. He didn’t understand their taboo on nuclear weapons, and the plasma warheads hadn’t been nukes, but …

They took a beating, he thought. But we’re not strong enough to go on the offensive.

He allowed himself a tight smile. His captains had congratulated him on his victory, a couple grinding their teeth as they spoke. The plotting against him wouldn’t stop – there could be only one captain-general, and the captains all wanted the job – but it would slow down, a little, until he gave them an excuse to speed up their plots once again. He had a window of opportunity to regain momentum, yet … he lacked the resources to make use of it. The fact the enemy had adapted was worse. Given time, they’d find newer and better ways to hamper the conquest.

Sally knocked, then stepped into the room. James motioned for her to close the door and sit down. She was loyal, if only because she was dependent on him. Her power base was a castle built on sand, one that could be knocked down in an instant if the tide came in. No American could be trusted completely – they’d learnt that lesson the hard way – but she had everything to lose if she betrayed him. The new Captain-General wouldn’t give her anything like as much leeway. And besides, she was good in bed.

And you want someone to boast to, he reminded himself, dryly. That’s not something you can do with anyone else.

He sighed, inwardly. Life had been simpler when he’d been a lowly footman, although his burning ambition wouldn’t have let him serve his term and get out. He’d had friends and comrades, men who’d risked their lives for him and vice versa; now, he had few friends and most of his allies put their interests first, rather than committing themselves to his cause. The higher they rose, perversely, the less they could be relied upon. If he messed up so badly his relief and execution were certain, his clients would jump ship before they went to the block too.

“The Mayor is a slime bag,” he said, shaking his head. The Protectorate had never quite managed to eradicate corruption, but there was always someone willing to rat out their superiors in hopes of being promoted into their former post. Here … corruption seemed to be a way of life. “Why do you put up with them?”

“The political elite doesn’t care about the people,” Sally said. “They support their own to the hilt.”

James rolled his eyes. That was what you got when you let everyone and his dog vote. The local voters had no conception of just how important their vote was, because they hadn’t done anything to earn it beyond being born in the USA … sometimes, not even that. An engaged citizenry, dominated by ambitious men working every angle to climb to the top, would be far more effective, if only because such men understood the value of giving people what they wanted. No citizen would put up with the paternalist nonsense that passed for American political discourse. Their politicians couldn’t even keep dangerous criminals off the streets. It worked in his favour, but it was still disgusting.

He leaned forward. “I trust the cleanup is going well?”

Sally looked pleased with herself. “We’ve got most of the debris off the streets,” she said. “We’ve also recovered several hundred bodies, mainly civilians. My PR team has already started putting together a piece on the upcoming funerals, an outline of how their lives were improved before being tragically cut short.”

James nodded. The locals were oddly edgy about civilian casualties, something he blamed on the lack of military experience amongst the upper crust. President Hernandez had been a soldier, at least, but he was practically unique. The remainder had never seen war, never known so much as a single day of real deprivation. The internet going down for an hour or two wasn’t remotely comparable to starving to death, or having an enemy army crash through your hometown, leaving nothing but rubble in its wake. It gave them an unrealistic idea of what their military could achieve. James knew better. Accidents happened. Friendly fire was a fact of life, no matter what precautions’ were taken to avoid it. And civilian casualties were inevitable.

“If it works, good,” he said. He doubted anyone would believe a word that came out of the occupied zone, but it was worth a try. It wouldn’t cost him anything he couldn’t afford to lose. “We’ll see.”

Sally stood and came around the table, sitting neatly on the desk. James grinned up at her, appreciating her forwardness even as he felt a twinge of disquiet. It felt wrong to take pleasure in her and yet …

“We cannot yet go on the offensive,” he said, instead. Sally was a good sounding board. “There’s just too much ground to take.”

And if I had realised the full size and power of the United States, he added in the privacy of his own mind, I might have thought twice about starting the war.

He put the thought aside, with a flicker of irritation. Sure, he could have followed the contingency plans and opened friendly relationships, rather than opening fire, but it would have been the end of his career. It had taken years of effort to get the post and there would be no second chance. There would be no room for patronage, no way to build himself an even bigger network of clients to pass down to his children … no, there was no way he could have called off the war if there had been a reasonable chance of victory. The thought of being considered a coward, even if nothing was said out loud, was too much. He had to win. He needed to win.

His eyes lingered on the map. The United States was vast. The Roman Empire had been vast too, he supposed, but it had also been so primitive it took weeks to get a message from one end of the empire to the other. The local communities hadn’t been completely isolated from each other, yet … the invasion hadn’t set off ripples of change. They’d often had no idea anything was happening until the Protectorate visited their villages for the census, and even if they had it wouldn’t have made a difference. The might of the Roman Legions, assembled in full battle array, wouldn’t have posed a threat to a single tank, let alone an army. They’d done better than anyone had expected, he conceded ruefully, but they’d still been fighting a hopeless war.

America was different. Her technology was primitive, and half her citizens seemed to hate the other half, but she wasn’t so far behind the gap was insurmountable. She was already working to close that gap, churning out better weapons and adapting tactics that might just give them a fighting chance. The sheer size of the continent worked in their favour, as did the tradition of gun ownership and military service. Their insurgents lived in a virtual wonderland of materials that could be converted to military use, from simple fertilizer to radios, cellphones and computer networks. He might have underestimated how easy it would be to break up the United States and even if he won that battle, there was still the rest of the world. It was a very challenging target.

“We hold the line and get Orion in the air,” he said, more to himself than to her. The project was moving ahead rapidly, absorbing a great deal of local manpower as well as his fabricators. It was astonishing how much you could do if you didn’t have to worry about paperwork or other bureaucratic nonsense. The enemy didn’t know what was coming and even if they did, they were unlikely to realise how quickly they were running out of time. “And once we hold the high orbitals, we can smash the enemy flat.”

The thought made him smile. The Americans did have some weapons they could aim at targets in orbit, but they were too slow to have a chance of hitting Orion before the battlestation’s point defence took care of them. And then the launcher would be smashed from orbit …a waste of a good projectile, he thought, but they would have a near-unlimited supply. The moon was just there, waiting to be mined. It wasn’t as if the projectiles needed to be much more than a chunk of rock. They’d run out of targets well before they ran out of ammo.

He sobered. Castle Bothwell was still expanding slowly. Captain-General Lambert was working on his own gate, slowly putting the pieces into place. It would take weeks, if not months, to get everything in order, but once it was all in place … he cursed under his breath. The moment they opened direct contact with the Prime Timeline, his independent command would be over. His enemies would pounce. He had that long and no longer.

Sally reached out and patted his shoulder. “And after that?”

“After that, the world will be our oyster,” James promised. He glanced at the timer. They were due to fly back to Texas shortly, leaving New York in the capable hands of a trusted subordinate and a civil administration too scared to do anything that might impede his operations. He would resume his own work, pushing the engineers to move as fast as possible. It was a race against time. “Stand up.”

He kissed her hard, his hands stroking her rear through her skirt before turning her around and bending her over the desk. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, he discovered as he hiked up her skirt, something that thrilled and repelled him in equal measure. It made him feel dirty in a good way, like the first time he’d been to a brothel. He dropped his trousers and pressed his manhood against her, parting her legs to slip inside her. She gasped as he pushed her hard, slipping in and out of her with all the energy he could muster. She was his. She knew it. He grunted as he came inside her, then pulled out. It felt wrong and yet right.

“Get showered, then report to the transport,” he ordered, flatly. She liked to cuddle, but there was no time. He had too many other matters to attend to. “We’ll continue back in Texas.”

Sally nodded, pulled her skirt back into place, then left the room. It was shameless and yet … James shook his head. Sally had her uses. As long as she was useful, she would be rewarded. And afterwards … who knew? His future would be bright, with glory everlasting, or a failure so profound they’d be laughing at him for years afterwards, holding him up as an example of what not to do.

Whatever the outcome, he promised himself, he would do everything in his power to make sure he came out ahead.

 

Chapter Thirty: Washington DC, Timeline F (OTL)

“We must face facts,” Senator Thaddeus Remington said. “We are losing the war.”

Felix wondered, not for the first time, why he’d appointed Remington to the Inner Cabinet. The man was a political mover and shaker, with friends and clients at all levels, a born political operator who was too wedded to his own self-interest to think about the long-term good of the country. He had few principles, beyond a certain determination to keep what was his. If he hadn’t been so deeply embedded in the party, the odds of him being elected even once would have been minuscule. As it was, he was a headache Felix couldn’t discard without a fight.

“They beat us in New York,” Remington pressed. “The army is in fragments, unable to take the offensive and drive them out of our country. The economy is in tatters, large swathes of the country are outside our control … we are losing the war.”

“And so you want to sell the country out,” Felix said, curtly. “Do you think they’ll be satisfied with Texas? Or maybe we should throw in Nevada, Arizona and California as well? I can name a few … million … people who’d be quite happy to abandon California to enemy control.”

Remington flushed. “This is no time for sarcasm,” he snapped. “We are losing the war.”

“They haven’t won yet,” Felix said. He dropped a deliberate crudity into the conversation. “There will be time enough to lower our trousers, bend over and spread our legs when they actually win the war.”

“They don’t need to crush us to win,” Remington snapped. “If this goes on, we won’t have much of a country left!”

His voice hardened. “You know they’re winning hearts and minds!”

Felix counted to ten under his breath. He’d seen the propaganda broadcasts. He’d also read reports from people who’d escaped the occupied zone and agents who remained embedded in deep cover. The Protectorate had done a lot of good, he conceded sourly, but it had also taken hostages and imprisoned politicians, military officers and policemen who could be held surety for their good behaviour. Felix could see the allure of letting them take control, as much as he hated to admit it, yet he also understood the dangers. The Protectorate could turn nasty very quickly. And in a way, it already had.

“It is your duty to find us a way out of this conflict,” Remington pointed out. “If we can discuss peace …”

“That’s what they said at Munich,” Felix reminded him. “How well did that work out for them?”

He met the older man’s eyes. “If we could trust them, then perhaps we could come to terms,” he said. “But we can’t trust them, and even if we could we’d have very real problems coming to an agreement we could tolerate. How much of the mainland do you want to give up, in exchange for peace? And how long could we trust them to keep it?”

His mood darkened. “I understand your problem, really I do. But there’s no way out of this war that doesn’t include either total victory or defeat.”

Remington met his eyes. “How long do you want your people to suffer? Our people?”

Felix gritted his teeth. He’d campaigned, years ago, on a platform of devolving authority to the states, the cities, the towns, and the people. Washington wasn't a cesspit of evil, at least in his opinion, and most politicians didn’t set out to screw the population, but it was short-sighted and largely unaware of the problems facing the voters. It was easy to really fuck someone over if you didn’t know what you were doing, and Washington rarely did. He was a long way from the front, insofar as that meant anything where a crosstime invasion was concerned, and he was relatively safe and well-fed. How many others were on the brink of starvation, because the economy was breaking down? He didn’t know. But he was sure the number was in the millions.

“Churchill faced the same problem,” he said, finally. “Yes, he could have sold out Europe to Hitler and won a few years of peace. But those years would not have been enough to prepare Britain for the second war, and that war would have come the moment Hitler felt strong enough to launch it. He stayed in the war because it was the best of a set of bad choices and it worked out for him.”

“Only because Churchill had us riding to the rescue,” Remington said. “And victory cost him his post and Britain her empire.”

“But she still won,” Felix said. He was surprised Remington knew even that much history. He’d always thought history was largely unknown in Washington. It certainly explained why the government made the same mistakes over and over again. “We can win too.”

Remington scowled. “Who’s going to come to our rescue?”

He went on, before Felix could answer. “I understand your point, Mr President, but the fact remains we are losing the war. If we lose another battle, it will be the end.”

Felix showed no hint of his disgust as Remington stood and left the office. His ancestors had been bloody-minded sons of bitches, to quote one of their biographers, but they’d been men. Remington’s father was probably turning in his grave, wondering how he’d sired such a coward and fool. The bastard still had his fucking mansion, for God’s sake. He wasn’t sharing an apartment block with a bunch of other refugees, nor was he going hungry … he wasn’t even on the front lines. And yet …

He scowled as he looked at the report on his desk. The economy was in a mess. It would be difficult to rebuild even if the Protectorate vanished in the blink of an eye. He had teams working on streamlining production, as well as recruiting troops and workers and yet … it was going to take years to repair the damage, let alone build more factories and start churning out newer and better weapons. There were limits to what they could get from their allies. Anyone with any military hardware didn’t want to let go of it.

And we’re expending weapons much faster than we’re replacing them, Felix thought. Didn’t anyone learn any lessons from Iraq?

He shook his head. Remington wasn’t a lone wolf, not in any sense of the word. The man had been a reluctant participant in Felix’s plan to invoke the 25th and remove Hamlin, too wary of committing himself to come into the open … at least until the dust had settled and everyone knew who’d won. If he’d shown a little more nerve, the Battle of Washington might have been avoided. If …

And if he’s the one speaking to me, he won’t be alone, he thought, mentally reviewing the senior senators and congressmen in Washington. There weren’t many who had come out in favour of peace at any price, save for a couple of crazies on both sides of the aisle, but he’d be surprised if a great many more weren’t re-evaluating their position in the wake of New York. Remington wouldn’t have moved if he hadn’t felt sure of political support. How many have already joined his peace faction?

His intercom bleeped. “Mr President, Admiral Leone requests an immediate meeting.”

Felix put the matter aside. Admiral Leone wouldn’t have come to the bunker if it wasn’t important. “Send him in, please, and then hold all my calls.”

The door opened, revealing Admiral Leone and Cozort, the latter carrying a paperback book under his arm. They looked grim. Felix felt his heart sink. It had to be bad news.

“Mr President,” Admiral Leone said, once the door was firmly closed. “We have bad news.”

“I guessed,” Felix said, dryly. “Another crosstime incursion?”

“No, but …” Admiral Leone took the offered seat, and motioned for Cozort to sit beside him. “It could be worse.”

Felix leaned forward. “Go ahead.”

“As you will recall, we got a warning about the enemy waiting for us in New York from … ah, a source within the occupied zone,” Admiral Leone said. “The warning reached us too late” – Felix cursed under his breath, recalling it all too well – “but it did give the source a certain degree of credibility. We urged the source to continue reporting to us and gave their reports a very high priority.”

“I see,” Felix said. He didn’t blame the admiral for keeping his words vague. “Are you sure we’re not being fucked with? After everything else they’ve done?”

“It’s hard to be sure, Mr President,” Admiral Leone said. “Yes, it is possible they sent us the warning too late to do any good, in hopes of boosting the credibility of a fake defector. That’s been done before, and it’s never easy to get any independent confirmation. In this case, though, we have some reason to think they’re genuine. We have had some independent confirmation of parts of the story.”

He paused. “It’s also given us new insights into their command structure, which match what we’ve learnt from the POWs. We are cautiously optimistic we’re not being set up for a fall.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Felix said. “What are they doing now?”

Admiral Leone glanced at Cozort. “Colin?”

“They’re building an orbital weapons platform,” Cozort said. “And if they manage to get it into orbit, they’ll have us over a barrel.”

Felix leaned forward, ice prickling along his spine. “In what way?”

Cozort hesitated, noticeably. “Whoever controls space controls the world,” he said, flatly. “It isn’t just spy satellites and communications networks, although those are a major part of the issue. It’s the ability to drop kinetic projectiles on our positions, shattering our forces on the ground and hammering us into submission. They could do unto us what we did unto Iraq, only much – much – worse. A few days of bombardment would break us.”

He put the book on the desk. “Footfall was written decades ago, and it follows an alien invasion rather than a crosstime war, but it’s rooted in hard science rather than fanciful technology that is awesome and completely impractical. The aliens are actually less advanced than the humans, in some ways, yet their control of the high orbitals gave them the edge. The Protectorate intends to do the same to us.”

“They’ll run out of ammunition,” Felix said. There had to be hard limits on how much the Protectorate could cram into their castle. “They’ll have too many targets …”

“They don’t need anything more than small rocks,” Cozort said. “They can mine lunar rock and convert it into projectiles. Their aim might not be very good, but they can just keep dropping the projectiles one by one until they hit their targets. They don’t even need warheads, Mr President. The force of the impact will be more than enough to destroy whatever they’re aiming at.”

Admiral Leone nodded at the map. “There are thousands upon thousands of targets across the country,” he said. “Factories and bridges, dams and nuclear power plants, military bases and ports and everything else. They can see a tank brigade forming up and smash it from orbit, or blow up a locomotive hauling supplies from one end of the country to the other, or … even blast trucks on the interstates. They wouldn’t need to physically occupy every last inch of the country to win. They could just smash our industry flat and open their gates in peace.”

Felix felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. America’s great advantage had always been a certain degree of physical security. Her industrial base had been safe from German and Japanese attacks during the Second World War, allowing it to churn out the tidal wave of tanks, aircraft, guns and everything else the Allies had needed to bury the Axis once and for all. The Battle of Midway could have been a total disaster for the Americans and yet it wouldn’t have affected the balance of power in any real way. The United States would have replaced the lost carriers and then built a few dozen more, before returning to the seas. Imperial Japan hadn’t been doomed at Midway. Japan had been doomed by the decision to go to war.

“It gets worse,” Cozort said, quietly. “They could drop an asteroid somewhere in the Pacific. Tidal ways would batter our west coast, doing immense damage, and spread out to hit Japan, Australia, perhaps even Russia and China. Even the threat of such an attack would cause panic – or worse. They might think to drop a rock somewhere in the Atlantic too. New York would get drenched, but …”

“Drenched,” Felix repeated. It was beyond him. The numbers were little more than statistics. It was hard to accept that millions of people would die … it was hard to recall, in a way, that they had names and faces, friends and family. “If they do that … they’d be hitting their own people.”

“New York isn’t that useful to them,” Admiral Leone said. “They might just evacuate and blame everything on us.”

“Charming.” Felix shook his head. “Do we have confirmation?”

“We got some images off a commercial satellite that passed over Flint,” Cozort said. “They’re definitely building something next to the fortress. Our sources within Austin and Houston report factories being tapped to provide supplies, which could easily be for an orbital structure of some kind.”

“But they’d have to get it into orbit,” Felix pointed out. “How?”

“They do have some kind of antigravity system,” Cozort told him. “They’re certainly convinced they can get the structure into space, and we dare not assume they’re wrong.”

He paused. “That’s the bottleneck,” he said. “Manufacturing a module for a space station isn’t actually difficult. There’s no reason you couldn’t turn a submarine into a starship, if you have the ability to get it into orbit. I suspect most of their planned structure will be built with our technology, just the drives and suchlike coming from their fabricators. It won’t matter once they get it out of the gravity well. They’ll be able to rain death on us from high overhead.”

“And that will be the end,” Felix said. He recalled Remington’s words and shuddered. Was it time to sue for peace? If they tried to come to terms before they ran out of cards to play … he shook his head. There was no reason to think the peace terms would be honoured any longer than it suited the Protectorate to honour them. “How did they win in the book?”

“They built an Orion spacecraft, powered by nuclear bombs,” Cozort said. “It wouldn’t work here. The Protectorate could slice the craft in half before it got close enough to do real damage.”

Felix snorted, humourlessly. “What then? Do we steal one of their flyers and use it to upload a computer virus?”

“We do have a plan,” Admiral Leone said. “But there’s also another complication.”

He took a breath. “Montrose wants to beat us before he opens his gate. The other fortress, Mr President, is working to open their own gate as quickly as possible. They’ll be able to bring in more troops and supplies, allowing them to crush us underfoot.”

“I see,” Felix said. The Protectorate controlled most of the Arabian Peninsula now. They’d been lucky they’d managed to get most of the soldiers and sailors out of the region before the Gulf States had bent the knee. “Can we stop them?”

“We have a rough idea,” Admiral Leone said. He sounded confident, but General Grey had sounded confident before the Battle of New York. “But it will be for all the marbles. If they open their gates, or get that weapons platform into orbit, we’re done. We will need to take off all the brakes, Mr President, and hit them as hard as possible. There will be no second chance.”

He paused. “We also have to make damn sure no one outside the core group knows the plan. If this gets back to the enemy …”

“They’ll act first,” Felix finished. Somewhere in Washington, there was a spy. Who? Why? The FBI hadn’t turned up any evidence that narrowed it down, certainly not enough to quietly exclude certain people from top secret briefings. Perhaps they could get a name from their source in the enemy’s camp. It was certainly something to keep in mind … assuming the enemy wasn’t running a long con. The gambit pile-up could wind up harming both sides. “Can we keep it from them?”

“We’ll have to put the pieces in place carefully, without letting them know it’s part of a greater plan,” Admiral Leone said. “No one will know what we’re really doing, not until it’s too late. They may get a hint of one or two movements, but not all.”

Felix closed his eyes for a long moment. Wars were rarely decided by bold strokes, not in the real world. It was vanishingly rare for a modern country to gamble everything on one throw of the dice, and when they did it was when they thought the odds were firmly on their side. To gamble so desperately after New York … it was his last chance. What, he asked himself, would Washington do? His lips quirked. Washington had been losing the war when he’d crossed the Delaware and given the British a bloody nose, boosting his men’s morale and keeping the flame alive. Felix found it hard to believe Washington wouldn’t take the chance. The only other option was surrender.

I will not be the last President, he told himself. He had no idea what fate awaited him, if the Protectorate won the war, but he doubted it would be pleasant. He certainly had no intention of being a collaborator. Whatever it takes, I will not.

“Good,” he said, finally. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. “What do you have in mind?”

The admiral told him.