POTSDAM DISTRICT, 4KM FROM THE CITY CENTRE
22.54 MST
DAY 1
Tracer rounds leapt out from the darkness and pounded towards the MEF. Men relayed enemy locations when they bounded between the heaps of rubble, firing as they ran. Towards the end of the street, McCabe could see the entrance to the underground Potsdam tram station.
“Contact right!” Sergeant McCabe exclaimed when a new wave of German fire opened up on them. “Two hundred metres. Suppressive fire now!”
The MEF armed with Bren light machine guns belched lead at his order, showering the advancing Wehrmacht soldiers. The men of the MEF and their West German allies ducked behind what cover they could find and kept the pressure on the Nazi forces trying to flank them. The Germans tossed grenades at them from the darkness, causing ripples of flame to dance across the surreal night.
McCabe raised his Lee-Enfield, and aiming at one of the enemy soldiers, fired twice, catching him in the torso. With flailing arms, the Nazi soldier hit the ground, but two more of his colleagues rushed from the nearby alley and fired back at McCabe.
Bullets filled the air, downing anyone not fast enough to find cover on the ravaged street. Howls of distress from friend and foe alike carried in the air, mixing with the oily smell of burning panzers and smouldering apartment blocks, giving the scene a hellish disposition. As the Germans flowed out from the shadows, they yelled and cursed when they threw themselves at the soldiers of the MEF.
“Sergeant McCabe,” Colonel Henke called over the comm. “Your platoon is the closest. We must link up with our forces at the Potsdam station. Move First Platoon to the objective. We’ll cover you.”
“Understood, sir,” McCabe said with a nod before turning to his men. “First Platoon, on me”.
McCabe turned to face the enemy, and lifting his weapon again, he squeezed the trigger. Bullets leapt from his rifle towards the advancing Nazis. He ducked down to reload. Enemy lead pinged over him. Somewhere to his left, Germans shouted at one another, and he wondered if the Wehrmacht had just realised they were mostly fighting their own countrymen. Those from his platoon crawled and crouched their way over to the shell of the panzer he sheltered behind. They kept their weapons on the enemy, firing back as they awaited instructions.
“We need to join up with our soldiers in the station,” McCabe roared at Corporal Boggs and the West German Corporal Maier. “I’ll take Section One, you two lay down as much cover as possible. Once we have the entrance secured, Boggs, you and your boys follow, and then you, Maier. Understood?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they said in unison.
With a nod of good luck, McCabe tapped the soldier nearest to him on his shoulder. He emptied his ammo clip before bolting towards another pile of bricks from an eviscerated house. He landed with a rough grunt and turned to confirm his section followed close behind. Aiming his Lee-Enfield at the Germans, he let off another series of shots. With his section huddled behind what shelter they could utilise, he reloaded and glanced back at Corporals Boggs and Maier. At his signal, both sections opened up, laying down suppressive fire to give Section One some cover. Taking a deep breath, McCabe leapt up and, keeping his head low, charged towards the tram station.
As he ran, he dodged behind piles of debris, as well as Allied and Nazi dead. He ducked behind chunks of brick and fired back at a small group of Germans when they burst from the shadows. Pausing to reload, he took a deep breath before pushing on again. Even in the darkness, his senses sharpened to the noise and signs of movement. Despite exhaustion from the day’s exertion, he bellowed his approach at the MEF positions as he and his section ran for cover.
McCabe landed between four grubby looking MEF soldiers. “Who’s in charge here?”
They glanced around at one another in between taking pot shots. After deliberations carried out entirely by confused looks, the soldier nearest McCabe answered. “I think you are, Sarge.” The tired-looking private slipped a fresh clip into his Bren.
Grunting, McCabe glanced down at the steps that led into the underground tram station. “Have we many lads down there?”
“Not sure, Sarge,” the private said in between unleashing controlled bursts from his Bren. “Sergeant Paxton led a platoon from Eighth Battalion down there about a half hour ago. Haven’t heard from them since, but Jerry hasn’t come gunning for us, either, so not sure what’s happening.”
“Are the Black Visors with them?”
“Yeah, Sarge. Four of them altogether. A paddy, a paki, and two skirts, if you can believe that.”
“Wash your mouth out, sunshine,” McCabe growled.
The private spat on the ground and held McCabe’s glare. A flurry of bullets pounding the ground around him pulled his attention back to his Bren’s sights.
McCabe slapped a fresh clip into his Lee-Enfield and gestured at his section to follow. Ready for whatever lurked below, they stormed down the stairway and took up positions at the entrance to the tram platform. Peering through the small window on the double doors, he spied a single tram on the tracks to his left and what looked like ticket stands and small confectionary shops to the right. He counted at least ten bodies in Wehrmacht uniform slumped along the platform, stripped of their weapons. Bullet holes dotted every wall. After dividing his section to split and take the left and right flanks respectively, he pushed through the doors.
Rushing towards the tram, checking for signs of friend or foe alike, McCabe’s blood turned to ice at the sound of a gun cocking. He spun about and came face to face with the familiar black and red uniform of a Black Visor. From her size and stature, he instantly recognised Noid. Signalling at his men to stand down, he lowered his weapon and approached her.
“You should really check behind doors when you’re clearing a room, Sergeant,” she chided and holstered her sidearm. “Be wary of little people like me.”
“Where’s Sergeant Paxton?” he asked as his section spread out, heeding Noid’s warning and checking the remainder of the platform.
“There’s an emergency exit on the opposite side of the platform,” she said with a nod in the direction. “The Germans tried to take us by surprise, so he did his job. I think he’s dead, but some of his boys are in place. It’s a shame. I quite liked him.”
A flush of anger rushed through McCabe at Noid’s tone. Everything that the MEF experienced since crash-landing on Mars was like a game to the Black Visors. Outside, men were dying to fulfil whatever MJ-12’s secretive objectives happened to be. Sergeant Paxton and his men had given their lives to hold their position, but for what?
“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.
“Who do you think?” Dub called out.
Turning about, McCabe spotted the balaclava-wearing Irishman as he exited the tram. With his strange semi-automatic weapon dangling at his side, the leader of the Black Visors strolled up to him and came to a stop a few steps away.
“A pleasure to see you as always, Sergeant McCabe,” the Irishman continued, extending his hand in greeting.
Ignoring him, McCabe opened a channel to Colonel Henke and confirmed they held the platform. Within minutes, the surviving MEF and their West German allies filled the platform and fortified the tram station’s defences for the inevitable Wehrmacht counterattack. Twelve of their number lay dead, and another twenty sported a variety of injuries, some near fatal. As soon as they had the tram station fully secured, Colonel Henke and his officers pulled the surviving NCOs and senior privates together. Lighting up cigarettes, they gathered near the tram for a meeting with the Black Visors to decide on their next course of action.
After seeing yet more British casualties stretched across the cold floor, McCabe’s temper flared again. Death walked hand in hand with soldiering, but the aloofness of the MJ-12 operatives bothered him. Not just their interaction with the mysterious human back at the Russian Liberation Army base, but the things they said and how they said them ate away at the back of his mind. Similar
to having a word on the tip of one’s tongue, yet not being able to say it, he couldn’t place what irritated him about their behaviour, but he needed answers.
“We’re on a bit of a time limit,” Dub said, checking his watch, “so let’s keep this brief. Big Mo is rigging up one of the trams as we speak. We’re going to take it to a station near Alexanderplatz. There’s an access tunnel outside the station. If we take it, it’ll lead us to the sewers. From there, we can bypass the Wehrmacht and SS patrols and move directly into the government district. After that, my team will do the rest. We just need you to keep the back door open.”
“Won’t there be patrols blocking us from using the tram system?” Colonel Henke said while checking his own map of New Berlin.
“Possibly,” Dub conceded, “but that’s a risk I’m willing to take and why we need your men. This is the most direct route to the government district. The only other option is to go above ground, and that means fighting our way through a couple of Wehrmacht and Volkssturm divisions. My hope is that the continued Jewish insurgency, as well as the MEF’s advance, will keep their forces below ground to a minimum.”
Colonel Henke rubbed his chin and shook his head, seemingly unconvinced with the answer.
“This will work,” Dub pressed. “Even if we do run into a patrol, it’ll be considerably smaller than what we’ll face above ground. We need to get to the government district before the SS turns on the Wehrmacht. Otherwise, it’ll be a bloodbath.”
The assembled NCOs and officers eyed one another. Sensing his moment to force the Black Visor’s hand, McCabe cleared his throat and asked the burning question that ate away at him since they first crossed paths.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Dub snapped back.
“Why are you so determined to lead an understrength company, completely cut off from reinforcements and supplies, right into the heart of Nazi territory. What are you after?”
Dub fired a quick glance at his comrades, like he was seeking a prompt before he returned his full attention to the British sergeant. He remained quiet for a few seconds longer, blinking his eyes as if processing the question.
“That’s MJ-12 business, Sergeant. It’s need-to-know and right now, you don’t need to know.”
“I say we do need to know,” McCabe said, unable to mask the rising fury in his voice. “Before I take my soldiers any farther, I want to know what they’re going to fight and die for.”
“Sergeant,” Colonel Henke said in a conciliatory voice.
McCabe ignored the colonel. The anger within him boiled over and burned through his flesh. The faces of his men killed aboard the USAF North Carolina flashed in front of his eyes. He saw dozens more, all young men with no families, gunned down by RLA weapons and the automated defences of New Berlin. No one would mourn them at home. No tombstones would be erected for them, no parades thrown on the streets of London. They died frightened and alone, millions of miles from anything resembling home. The least they deserved was the truth.
“Have we got a problem here, Sergeant?” Dub said, turning his body towards McCabe.
“You’re damned right we have a problem,” McCabe spat back. “I saw you with that strange-looking human. I heard what you spoke about. Since we’ve crossed paths, I’ve listened to every word you’ve said. Particle weapons. Flexi-plastic. Exo-suits. MOF. All of it. You always seem to know what’s about to happen next, and I want to know why. I want to know the real reason my men have died on this godforsaken rock.”
“Sergeant,” Colonel Henke said again, his voice firmer.
He took a step closer, but McCabe ignored him again and kept his gaze locked on the Irishman, refusing to back down. With every passing second, his anger bubbled and grew like a volcano threatening to explode.
“Colonel Henke,” Dub said, finally breaking eye contact with McCabe. “MJ-12 has authorised us to—”
“I don’t give a flying damn!” McCabe thundered, cutting across him. “That’s another thing. What in the hell type of Irish accent is that? Both my parents are Irish, and I sure as shit don’t recognise it. Same as your three little cohorts over there. I can tell they’re English, but never in my life have I heard accents like that, and I’ve been stationed in every part of Britain that has an army base. I say you’re all a bunch of damned liars.”
“Sergeant McCabe!” Colonel Henke shouted. “You are out of line. You will cease this immediately.”
McCabe turned his rage on Colonel Henke, who glared back at him, but McCabe didn’t falter. They could line him up against a wall and shoot him for insubordination, but he refused to play along anymore. His men relied on him to lead. He asked nothing of them that he wouldn’t do himself, but this was a step too far.
“No.”
McCabe’s curt answer caused the platform to fall deathly silent. The NCOs and officers stood rooted to the spot, shocked at his behaviour, especially towards a senior officer. A flicker of surprise cut across Colonel Henke’s stony features, but quickly faded. McCabe knew that most of the officers of the make-shift company came from the West German delegation, but three-quarters of the NCOs happened to be British. Half of the private soldiers wore British or French battle dress, equally divided amongst the West German platoons.
McCabe glanced over the faces of the officers and NCOs that surrounded him. From their worried expressions, he feared their platoons had overheard everything. On the periphery of McCabe’s vision, British and French soldiers moved quietly closer to one another while turning to face their West German comrades. Whereas minutes ago, they had fought side by side, McCabe sensed an invisible canyon cut its way through the company. Rifles moved from shoulders to hands, and fingers caressed triggers.
As the tension grew, one of the West German officers reached for his pistol and made to apprehend McCabe, but Colonel Henke raised his hand to keep the officer in place, stopping the situation from boiling over. McCabe flicked his gaze from side to side. The wrong move could spark bloodshed.
Clearing his throat, Colonel Henke held his palms open and gestured towards the officers and NCOs. He completed a full circle, driving home the need for calm until his gaze rested on McCabe.
“Sergeant McCabe,” Colonel Henke said in a calm but firm tone. “While I encourage input from all officers and NCOs under my command, never forget that I am your commanding officer. As such, I will ask the questions, not you. Disregard my orders again and I shall report it directly to the relevant MEF authorities and have you court-marshalled for insubordination. Do I make myself clear?”
Before McCabe could respond, Colonel Henke switched his focus to Dub. “My senior NCO has a point. Too much has been asked of us with too little information. I will not commit any more of the men under my command without knowing the reasons or the objectives. As commanding officer, you may report me and me alone to your superiors, should you wish. I accept full responsibility.”
In a single move, the colonel had publicly reprimanded McCabe for his actions and pushed his demand for answers of the Black Visors. The soldiers who had nearly turned their guns on one another seconds ago now concentrated on the four MJ-12 operatives.
Dub stared them down. His gaze moved across them one at a time. His hand wasn’t far from the pistol strapped to his waist.
“Dub, we’re running out of time, mate,” Big Mo whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dub rubbed his temples. “Christ almighty. Fine.” He threw a glance back at his colleagues before facing the crowd of MEF and West German officers and NCOs. “There’s things we can’t talk about, and if that costs us your support, so be it. The reason we’re here is two-fold: to rescue the person Sergeant McCabe saw us with earlier on. Gya, a leader of the Native Martians. The second asset is a former British MI6 operative named Anna Bailey. Right now, she’s being held in a secure location within the Command and Control complex in the government district. It is imperative that we rescue her before the SS turn on the Wehrmacht
. And, believe me, they will turn on them.”
“How do you know they’ll turn on their own people?” McCabe pressed.
Dub glanced back at his colleagues. They gazed back at him and shrugged. Dub wheeled about to continue speaking, but then Smack chimed in.
“Because the SS want to surrender to the MEF. In order to do so, they need the Wehrmacht destroyed. They’re hoping you’ll bleed them dry first. When they’re weak enough, the SS will make their move.”
“But that makes no sense,” Colonel Henke said. “There have always been historic tensions between the groups, but never any open hostilities. The SS are sworn to serve the Führer until death. They would rather die than break their oaths.”
“They’ll do as he bids them, and right now, that’s what the bastard wants,” Noid said from Dub’s side. “There’s technology on this planet that’s worth far more than fighting the last battle in a long-since ended war.”
McCabe folded his arms. “Such as?”
“Sergeant, please!” Dub exclaimed. “Did you not hear me? There’s a woman, one of your country’s operatives, being tortured and held by the SS. Time is of the essence. I’ll answer any other questions you have when I can, but right now time is running out. Are you with us or not?”
The NCOs and officers glanced at one another, whispering under their breath at the nuggets of information. Colonel Henke turned to focus his concentration on McCabe, and they studied one another. As much as he didn’t trust the Black Visors, McCabe couldn’t see any other options. They were already behind enemy lines and if they chose to disobey orders, they’d still have to fight their way back. He remained unsure about their plan, but something about the way Dub spoke about the imprisoned MI6 operative struck him as genuine. After a few moments of silent deliberation, McCabe gave Colonel Henke gave the slightest of nods. The colonel remained quiet for a few seconds before answering.
“We’re with you,” Colonel Henke said. “Although I have a slight amendment to your plan. One which I believe will increase the odds of the success of our mission. However, given the recent…tension and the hostilities outside, I’m reluctant to suggest it.”
Blood Red Sand Page 13