Jenkins picked himself up and reloaded. He jogged towards the SS soldier’s former position while his colleagues cleared the rooms to their left and right. More artwork adorned the walls, showing ancient knights and large-chested SS soldiers looking heroic and virtuous. Jenkins spit on the ground in contempt and reached the large double doors where the soldier had stood. He peered through the broken window to see the lifeless body of the SS soldier smashed on the ground below.
Swinging his gaze to the double doors in front of him, Jenkins kept his finger on his Lee-Enfield’s trigger. He extended his left hand. Without touching the wooden handles, the doors snapped open, causing him to jump back in surprise. A tall SS officer with a scarred face stood in the centre of the doorway and fired a scowl at Jenkins.
Jenkins fired once, catching the SS officer in the face and knocking him straight to the ground. When Jenkins lifted his eyes to view the room, his blood froze.
Two rows of SS officers flanked a large wooden table. At the head of the table, a chair with its back turned rested in front of a blazing fire. Dominating the room, a massive portrait of Adolf Hitler glared down at him. None of the SS officers flinched at the sight of Jenkins and their fallen comrade. With hands folded in front of them in a uniform manner, they continued gazing at him as he stood there taking in the strange sight.
The chair at the head of the table wobbled slightly as it turned, causing Jenkins to aim his weapon at it. The chair rotated slowly until its occupant faced the doorway. Jenkins’s jaw dropped when he saw the withered face and drooping eyelids. His gaze flashed to the portrait above and back down to the occupant of the seat. He looked aged, saggy, and sickly, but the same dominating gaze blazed from both portrait and person alike—Adolf Hitler, leader of the defeated Third Reich and war criminal.
“That’ll be enough,” an American accent said from behind the door.
To Jenkins’s surprise, a man in a black suit and slicked-back hair stepped directly in front of him, blocking his view of the Nazi Führer.
Major Wellesley, Sergeant McCabe, and a dozen MEF soldiers reached Jenkins’s location and looked past the civilian. They drank in the shocking scene.
“Who’s in charge here?” the American snapped.
Major Wellesley stepped forward. His face dropped, as if he recognised the stranger. “Mr. Myers. What a surprise,” Major Wellesley hissed.
The American slid a hand into his pocket. He pulled out a set of papers and handed them to the major.
“On the authority of Majestic-12, I order you and your men to stand down. Contact Major General Hamilton and order him to report here immediately. The National Socialist government and the SS have agreed to an unconditional surrender.”
Major Wellesley’s face glowed red from the tone of the civilian’s voice, but he followed his words to the letter. He ordered everyone to stand down but instructed them to remain directly outside the room. Jenkins, Sergeant McCabe, and dozens of MEF soldiers stood there, gaping at the assorted collection of Nazis and their mysterious MJ-12 guest.
After fifteen minutes, Major General Hamilton arrived with his cadre of senior officers. He strolled through the corridor towards the conference room in a pristine, immaculate uniform. Likewise, his senior officers didn’t seem to have a spec of dirt between them. Jenkins and the MEF soldiers outside stood to attention as Major Wellesley delivered a salute. The major general snapped his hand to his head and returned the gesture before marching into the room. He hesitated in the doorway of the room while inspecting the assembled crowd of SS officers. He stepped in and circled the right side of the room, coming to a halt a few paces to Hitler’s left.
Hitler reached for a hand-carved wooden box resting on his lap and placed it on the table. He opened the lid. A golden light emanated from the box, shining far brighter than the fire that burned behind him.
Major General Hamilton ground to a halt at the sight. His eyes opened wide in shock as he peered down at the contents. Without a word, an unseen guard closed the double doors on Jenkins and Sergeant McCabe, giving the MEF and Nazi leadership privacy.
Rather than have them stand around outside, Sergeant McCabe assigned everyone duties. Jenkins found himself posted at the top of the stairs, pacing back and forth in a monotonous loop to keep his tired limbs from seizing up. His thoughts moved to the strange light in the box, but his weary mind was unable to process what it could have been. After fifteen minutes of guarding the steps, the double doors to the conference room swung open again. Jenkins took aim with his rifle, half-expecting the SS officers to storm out of the room shooting.
He lowered his weapon after Sergeant McCabe signalled at him to stand down and watched in bewildered silence as Major General Hamilton strolled out with a huge smile on his face. He paused briefly to speak with Major Wellesley before he and his staff officers made to exit the manor. Jenkins stood to attention as they passed by him, noting that one of the officers carried the mysterious wooden box in his hand.
“All right, lads,” Sergeant McCabe called out to anyone in earshot. “Spread the word. The surrender has been signed, but we need to evacuate this building now. Everybody out!”
Dumbfounded by the sergeant’s words, Jenkins watched the SS officers stroll out of the room. Each looked more content than the last. Like a procession, they tore off their swastika armbands and Nazi party pins and dumped them at Major Wellesley’s feet. A few of the junior officers drew their pistols and dropped them carelessly to the ground. Then the SS officers formed themselves into two lines and stood at attention.
“C’mon, Jenkins lad,” Sergeant McCabe said, falling in beside him. “Outside. Looks like this is done and dusted.”
“But Sarge,” Jenkins said, trying to mask the explosive fury building within him again. “We’re letting those SS sacks of shit go?”
The decrepit figure of the “defeated” Führer joined the assembled SS officers. Flanked on both sides, he started walking. His withered hands twitched with every step.
“That’s above our pay grade,” Sergeant McCabe said as he eyed the procession. “Now, outside with everyone else.”
Without making eye contact, the small group of Nazi murderers marched towards the stairs. They were wheeling about to descend the staircase to the lower level when a short, sharp command halted them where they stood, directly in front of Jenkins and the sergeant. Out of instinct, Jenkins went to raise his Lee-Enfield, but Sergeant McCabe’s iron grip fell onto the barrel of his weapon, freezing it in place.
Hitler lifted his withered face and eyed the British soldiers. The flesh under his eyes hung loose, giving his sinister features a more reptilian quality. He ran his gaze over the men before opening his mouth and mumbling something in German. After a few moments, he spoke again. Then he and the SS officers continued on their way.
“What was that about?” Jenkins asked as his gaze tracked them down the stairs.
Sergeant McCabe shook his head. “Forget it.”
“C’mon, Sarge. What did he say?”
Sergeant McCabe took a step onto the stairs but came to a halt. He looked back at Jenkins and sighed. “He said something I’ve heard too many times since reaching this God-awful place.”
Jenkins’s curiosity piqued. “Which is?”
“We have always been here.”
NORTH OF THE CITY CENTRE
21.32 MST
DAY 2
Oberst Brandt aimed his pistol and fired again, emptying the clip at the approaching Allied soldiers. The street ahead of him lay ablaze. Dozens of his panzers were engulfed in flames. Mortars pounded the buildings around him, sending avalanches of concrete spilling onto the street, washing his men away forever. Overhead, a single enemy aerial craft twisted about, avoiding the anti-aircraft fire from his surviving panzers and preparing to launch another barrage of missiles.
Dodging a flurry of enemy bullets, Brandt leapt towards Captain Fischer’s panzer. He clicked another clip into his Luger, took c
areful aim and fired. Two of the oncoming British soldiers hit the ground while the other three dove for cover. To his right and left, another volley of enemy shells obliterated groups of his infantry. Particles of concrete sprayed high into the air, showering everything and everyone in reach.
“We need to fall back,” Captain Fischer called out after he swung open his panzer’s hatch. “We’ve lost too many panzers. We need to regroup.”
“We’ve fallen back far enough,” Brandt snarled and pointed his weapon at the enemy again. “We draw the line here. Here, and no farther.”
As if bolstering his words, the panzers opened fire in unison. Shells smashed into the ranks of oncoming invaders and blasted large craters into the ravaged street. The Allied line waivered as many sought shelter. Less than a heartbeat later and the enemy advanced again.
The Allied aircraft rolled about in the sky above them. Like a bird of prey swooping, it dove straight at the German columns. With machine guns blazing, it ripped Brandt’s soldiers to shreds, tearing men apart where they stood or cowered. Cries died as another thunderstorm of shells blasted the empty husks of what had once been homes.
“Oberst!” Captain Fischer yelled over the ever-increasing din of battle. “Oberst!”
Brandt ignored his subordinate’s calls as he raised his reloaded Luger. He tracked a British soldier trying to help an injured colleague and squeezed the trigger. The first two shots went wide, but the third struck him in the side. The soldier hit the ground, and his face contorted in agony. A cascade of return fire forced Brandt to hunker on top of the panzer.
“Oberst!” Captain Fischer called out again.
“What, damn you?” Brandt shouted back in answer.
Braving the storm of lead and shrapnel, Captain Fischer slid out of the hatch and rolled to Brandt’s side. He aimed his own pistol and fired. With his free hand, he drew out the earpiece connected to his panzer’s communications system and shoved it into Brandt’s ear.
The Allied push faltered as German firepower broke their most recent assault.
Brandt kept shooting his weapon as he listened to the words in his ear. It took a few moments for him to register the meaning of those words and the voice of the speaker. The noise of the raging battle faded into nothingness. Only the mesmerising words of the Führer existed for him, drawing his full attention and sucking him in. But as he listened, patriotic duty and fierce national pride didn’t sweep through him. He sensed the undercurrent of rage and defiance, but the Führer’s words spoke of something unthinkable.
Surrender.
“No,” Brandt screamed and bashed his hand off the scratched panzer armour in frustration. “No, no, no, no, no!”
The Allied aerial craft circled about the dimming New Berlin sky. It dodged between anti-aircraft flak explosions. Missiles crashed into the panzer up ahead, killing the entire crew and reducing the machine of war into a pile of burning scrap metal. Brandt saw it all, but he found himself unable to react. Even as bullets pinged around him, the idea of another defeat tore through him.
“Herr Oberst,” Captain Fischer pleaded. “We must withdraw now. There are other units within the colony and outside it that we can link up with. We can serve the Führer and our people, but we must go now.”
“No,” Brandt spat and lifted his pistol.
He tapped on the trigger, shooting at any enemy soldier in sight. Even after the clip emptied, he kept squeezing the trigger, willing his hatred to morph into an endless stream of rounds to cut down the invaders. With fire and flame ravaging the structures around him, Brandt jumped to his feet. He snapped in a fresh clip and continued blasting his pistol, daring any and all to give him a glorious hero’s death in the name of the fatherland.
A devastating wallop gutted an apartment block to his left. The violence of the blast caused him to stumble, and a piece of shrapnel belted him across the skull. He collapsed onto the roof of the panzer as if a thousand tonnes of concrete had struck him. Pain cut though his skull and jaw and carved deep into his flesh. With blurry vision, he tried to look up, but the world refused to remain steady. Hands grabbed at his limbs and dragged him towards the panzer hatch while the sounds of fighting faded from his ears.
“Retreat!” Captain Fischer’s voice called out from somewhere far away. “Fall back to the northern entrance. Retreat!”
Brandt’s head hung heavy, as if filled with lead, causing his vision to blur in and out. He tried to compel his lips to move as he found himself dragged into the heart of the panzer.
“No,” he tried to shout. “Stay and fight.” But his words disappeared into nothingness amidst the growl of the panzer’s engines. He tried to summon the last of his reserves to speak, but the energy leaked from him and spilled onto the floor of the panzer.
“All units,” Captain Fischer roared again. “Fall back to the northern entrance. Repeat, fall back to the northern entrance.”
Brandt shook his head as his chance for vengeance slipped from his grasp.
“Do not worry, Herr Oberst,” Captain Fischer shouted. “They may have won the battle, but they will not win the war. We will have our revenge for Führer and for fatherland, this I swear.”
Darkness closed around Brandt, and a single word floated to the forefront of his mind—revenge. If he survived this night, he vowed to never rest until he had humiliated and vanquished his opponents.
Whether it took a day, a month, a year, or a lifetime, Brandt would have his revenge.
GOVERNMENT DISTRICT
04.23 MST
DAY 3
McCabe groaned as he slipped his backpack off and allowed it to drop to the floor. In the hours that followed the news of the German surrender, chaos reigned across New Berlin. Although virtually every SS member who didn’t blow his brains out surrendered with immediate effect, a few Wehrmacht units continued to hold out.
To add to the chaos, the Army of David resumed their attacks on the Nazis, determined to reap vengeance upon their oppressors. Mobs ransacked and looted homes and businesses owned by the Germans, causing the citizenry to pick up the weapons of their fallen soldiers and fight back. Fires spread throughout the housing districts, leaving thousands homeless. Through all this, the MEF fought to establish some semblance of order.
Officially, the ceasefire came into effect as of one o’clock in the morning, which led to a lull in the madness, but MEF units still found themselves ferried to all parts of the colony to disperse mobs and demobilise surrendering German soldiers. Exhausted from the two days of fighting, McCabe nearly collapsed where he stood when Major Wellesley dismissed him and his platoon and ordered them to snatch a few hours of sleep. He handed over the HK-17 Dub had given him and wasted no time in finding shelter for his men.
McCabe and his platoon trudged through the wasteland that was the government district of New Berlin and seized an abandoned police station. They piled inside, eager to find a corner of floor to curl up on. Despite his tiredness, McCabe ordered his platoon to strip and clean their weapons, which they did in record time. Once finished, several collapsed where they sat, not even bothering to remove their equipment. McCabe on the other hand found a carpeted office in the back of the police station. After delegating a picket to stand guard, he stumbled into the back office and stripped off his equipment.
Corporal Brown, who had checked himself out of the field hospital, shared one side of the office. His long-time colleague had braved the ongoing street fighting with a wounded leg to search for his section and found Jenkins the only one left alive.
On the other side of the room, Junior Sergeant Alexeev lay sprawled out, his AK-47 resting in his arms. He snored quietly. The Red Army NCO remained a man of few words, but McCabe admired his abilities. He appeared fearless under fire and inspired respect and fear from the men under his command.
McCabe slipped off his helmet and belt and sank to the floor. He rested his head against his bag as a pillow and sighed. His shoulder and arm screamed in pain
when he fidgeted to get comfy, but his tired limbs thanked him when he discovered the perfect spot. Darkness was creeping over his vision, as his mind drifted towards slumber, when the static from a radio jolted him awake. Sitting bolt upright, he saw Corporal Brown lying on the floor with a portable radio to his ear, adjusting the volume of a broadcast.
“Sounds like the other colonies have surrendered, too,” he said, oblivious to the frustrated stare burning from McCabe’s eyes. “The outposts and research stations as well. We have the planet. It’s over!”
“Great,” McCabe grunted. He lowered his head back onto his backpack, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes. Again, he started drifting off when the screech of static cut through him. With his temper flaring, he bit the inside of his lip to stop from screaming. Clearing his throat, he sat back up and tried to burn a hole through Corporal Brown’s face using the power of his mind. “Jim, turn that damn radio off or I’ll ram it so far up your arse, it’ll come out of your throat.”
“Jesus,” Corporal Brown exclaimed, pressing the radio closer to his ear. “You hearing this?”
“Hearing what?” McCabe snapped.
A few seconds passed as the corporal listened to the transmission. He tilted his head from side to side, as if adjusting it by a few degrees would allow him to hear it better. With a shake of his head, he switched the radio off and leaned himself back against the wall. “They’re advising all units to be on the lookout for werewolves.”
“Werewolves?”
“Yep, werewolves.”
“Christ,” McCabe said as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, “not this again, Jim. We heard this shit in the last war. The so-called Nazi werewolf plan to lead an insurgency against the Allies was bullshit then, and it’s bullshit now. Sure, there’s bound to be some form of resistance, but it’s just Nazi propaganda. It’ll fade once the hype blows over.”
Blood Red Sand Page 26