Grudge: Operation Highjump

by Brian Parker

  Gabe watched the men and women walk back toward their troops. They were in the final stretch and he was finally going to get his revenge against the Nazis for what they did on the beach all those years ago.

  *****

  11 July 2025

  The United States Institute of Peace, Washington, DC

  “You’ve cocked this up badly, Oberst Albrecht.”

  “Forgive me, Generalfeldmarschall, but how is our current situation my fault?”

  “Your silly stunt in Florida alerted the Americans of our presence and they prepared for our return. My planners estimated that our perimeter would be at least one hundred and fifty kilometers further to the west and south by now.”

  “I admit that my attack may have given the Americans an enemy to prepare against, however, we haven’t faced ground combat troops at all.” Frederick gestured at the collapsed remains of the Lincoln Memorial through the glass front of the building. “The goddamned Luftwaffe spent too much time bombing historical sites instead of strategic positions and they have allowed themselves to become targets of high-altitude bombers by lazily parking their düsenjägers next to each other in neat little rows. They’ve even proven their inability to adjust to older technologies like shoulder-fired rockets. This—”

  “Enough, Oberst,” Generalfeldmarschall Mueller ordered, slicing his hand through the air. “You commanded the 938th Training Brigade and so you are ultimately responsible for the Luftwaffe’s failures to adapt. They learned under your leadership.”

  “Generalfeldmarschall, that is not an accurate assessment. Fewer than twenty percent of the pilots in the cockpit were trained while I was in the brigade, even fewer while I commanded it—and I don’t know of any of the squadron leaders who were born before 1985.”

  “So your belief is that the technology of the Luftwaffe is not the overmatch we had thought it would be?”

  “Certainly it is. The Americans don’t have anything that can go toe-to-toe with a düsenjäger in the air. They have proved vulnerable to sneak attacks from helicopters that hide in amongst the ground cover and from shoulder-fired rockets—all technologies that have existed for forty years, which should have been accounted for.”

  Frederick paused to assess his commander’s mood. He claimed the problem was with the Luftwaffe, but in reality the problem was with the entire strategy. The attempted seizure of nuclear launch facilities across the American West by the Fallschirmjägers had been an utter failure and a waste of two thousand well-trained men. When he’d heard the paratroopers would be used in a manner that would leave small elements alone and completely isolated from support, he’d protested quietly, but the decision had already been made. The same type of mistake was being made on the East Coast, by not pressing their advantage. If they sat back and waited for the Americans to come, they would.

  The field marshal seemed willing to listen right now. He’d even sought council from Frederick, so the colonel plowed ahead. “Sir, what of the Panzer Corps? Our hovertanks have proven to be unstoppable in their limited use in combat so far. Let us release them and destroy the American counterattack that is creeping toward us from both Richmond and Pennsylvania.”

  Generalfeldmarschall Mueller mulled over Frederick’s words, seeming to consider his suggestion. Finally, the field marshal snorted and then laughed. “Why have I handcuffed our forces? The Panzer Corps will wipe the Americans off the map. We must expand our perimeter now and take advantage of the dry summer months before setting up the defenses for the winter campaign.”

  The man’s words soured in Frederick’s ears. Winter campaign? The Wehrmacht was originally supposed to attack, destabilize the nation and then return to Antarctica. His wife, Greta, had been dead for five long years, but he still had four sons in the Heer, one in the Luftwaffe and one in the Kriegsmarine. He’d believed that the party’s thirst for vengeance against the Americans would be sated by the death of millions.

  “Forgive me, Generalfeldmarschall. I thought that destroying the American will to fight was our goal. We have achieved it amongst the civilian population, their television news shows politicians and religious leaders begging for peace. We will destroy their army with your approval to utilize the Panzer Corps. What more could we want?”

  “A homeland, Oberst Albrecht,” the field marshal sighed. “The Reich’s new objective is to establish a homeland for the millions of Germans suffering in the constant cold.”

  “I—That is a wonderful idea, sir! I hadn’t thought beyond our initial occupation and destruction of the American army.”

  “I know you haven’t, Oberst. Since my awakening, I have been continually unimpressed with you. The Americans were prepared for an attack from the sea. They destroyed both of our large transport vessels with missile cruisers at Norfolk on the day of our invasion, leaving us effectively stranded here. Why do you think they were prepared?”

  “I… Erm… Is it because—”

  “It is because of your ignorance and shortsightedness, beginning with the ill-advised attack in Florida. Your foolish desire to take part in a battle warned them, so they prepared in what ways that they could. Most of our cargo transports that operated outside of düsenjäger-controlled airspace have also been shot down.

  “Thankfully,” the field marshal continued, “the Americans are too stupid to heed warnings and it appears as if they’ve done little to prepare their ground forces.”

  Frederick fumed internally. He’d given up his youth, avoiding the cryogenic chambers to train the Wehrmacht. Everyone he knew as a boy, all the Heer Henchmen except himself, appeared to be no more than nineteen years old. They had the opportunity to fight against the Americans on the land and in the air above, while he fought the aches and pains of a sixty-year-old body.

  “Did you know,” Generalfeldmarschall Mueller continued, “that I had every intention of having you arrested today?” He pointed toward the guards standing rigidly at attention several meters away.

  Frederick blanched. “No, Generalfeldmarschall. I did not.”

  “Your recommendation to use the Panzer Corps as a hammer against the American reinforcements saved you—for now.” The physically younger man took a few steps and turned back. “Did you know that I met Erwin Rommel once?”

  “No, sir. I did not.” Rommel was a hero to the Nazis. Frederick grew up studying his tactics with armored vehicles and reading about the man the British called the ‘Desert Fox’. The Führer had him discredited during the war, but later Nazi historians restored his name to its rightful place after Hitler’s death.

  “It was in Italy in 1943—or maybe 1944, the years run together. We’d just shot and killed thirty or forty prisoners from the Italian Army after the Fascists declared an armistice with the Allies. Rommel’s staff car appeared out of nowhere and he surveyed our handiwork. He gave each man in my squad a pack of cigarettes and thanked us for our dedication to the cause. Then he drove off and was later given command of Army Group B, responsible for defending the European coastline against the Allied invasion.”

  “It must have been exhilarating to meet such a great man.”

  “His panzer tactics are legendary. I want that type of attack to rapidly expand our perimeter.”

  Frederick nodded, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked a half-pace behind the commander of the Wehrmacht. Given the information he’d been told of his postponed arrest, he had to be careful with what he said. “Rommel’s tactics worked well in Europe because the population thought we were only interested in fighting the Army. The American population is well-armed and seem willing to fight to the death against the occupation.”

  “Then we will have General der Panzertruppe Arnold crush everyone he encounters under his boot,” the field marshal thundered. “Frederick, you anger me with your suggestion of using the Panzer Corps and then warning that using them would leave us vulnerable to attacks by civilians. The men will bend their knee and the women will lift their skirts for us. We are the most powerful force on the face
of the planet!

  “Even the remaining Allies refuse to come to the American’s aid. The end of their republic is at hand.” Spittle flew from Generalfeldmarschall Mueller’s lips as he carried on. “Leave my sight before I have a change of heart once more and have you arrested.”

  Frederick spun rapidly on his heel and made a beeline toward the headquarters exit. His time in the Wehrmacht was over. He needed to escape before the field marshal changed his mind yet again.

  He thought over the few options available to him. He felt that he spoke English passably, having learned from watching television and using the situations presented on the screen to make a connection with the language, so he might be able to escape the city. The closest exit from the German lines was south, across the river and into Virginia.

  But what would he do once he made it out of the city?

  *****

  11 July 2025

  Highway 301, near Port Royal, Virginia

  Captain Gabriel Murdock’s ass hurt, conspiring with the sweat oozing from his pores to make him miserable. The seat cushion in his Humvee was so thin that he could feel the metal frame along the back of his thighs and the heat from the batteries under his seat. He was cramped into the small space on the passenger side with his knees drawn up to the dash while an unstoppable heat poured from broken vents somewhere near his shins. It was decidedly not the glamorous lifestyle he’d imagined as a kid.

  He stared out the windshield, his eyes roving between the pavement, the trees along the side of the road and the sky above. It was a matter of life or death to identify any Nazi fighter jets and get the Humvees off the road. The civilian vehicles were probably not going to attract attention, unless the pilot was simply bored.

  The Blue Force Tracker beeped, indicating a new message. Far to the east, the blip of his first sergeant’s Humvee had pulled off of the King’s Highway once again. He’d sent the first sergeant’s convoy ahead of his by an hour and a half, choosing to stay behind to ensure the First Cav guys had everything they needed before leaving on the more direct route.

  Since leaving the airport, Gabe hadn’t seen anything in the air, but the first sergeant repeatedly called a halt due to enemy activity. The BFT showed a decent scattering of friendly forces along the direct route as the Army moved steadily northward, but there was nothing over in the area of his second convoy except his troops.

  The further they traveled, the constant aerial passes convinced Gabe that the enemy knew his men were alone.

  He tapped the BFT screen with the stylus to open the first sergeant’s message, which said:

  3 UFO above. Convoy stop.

  It wasn’t a lot of info, but it gave Gabe enough to make his decision. It was too risky on the roads right now. He tapped out a quick message ordering the first sergeant to get off the road and wait until dark to travel the rest of the way. They’d arrive a few hours later than expected, not a big deal.

  He hit send and turned his gaze back to the front, scanning for enemy activity while he waited for an acknowledgement. He waited for what seemed like ten minutes with no response from the first sergeant.

  “What the hell?” he mumbled, twisting in the tiny seat to get a better view of the messaging application.

  It showed that the message was sent three minutes and twenty seconds ago, but hadn’t been opened. That wasn’t like First Sergeant Thomas, the man was obsessive about staying in contact with everyone. He said as much to his driver, Specialist Mendoza.

  “He probably went to take a piss or shit, sir,” the specialist yelled over the vehicle’s engine. “You know how much coffee the first sergeant drinks and he’s always got a dip in his lip. Both of those things make me need to shit.”

  Gabe grinned and shouted back, “Yeah, you’re right. Probably nothing.”

  He tried to put his belief that something wasn’t right out of his mind and scanned for threats, but the feeling persisted. It was made worse by the unit icon flickering a few times on his display. He checked the message history again. It had been nine minutes.

  “Okay, I’m calling him,” Gabe announced. They were too far apart to reach each other over voice communications, so he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the first sergeant’s number. It went directly to voicemail, which could have meant that his phone was off or the battery was dead. There were all sorts of reasons for the call to fail.

  He dialed Lieutenant Phelps, it went direct to voicemail as well. Then he dialed Sergeant First Class Peterson. The same thing happened.

  “Pull over!” he shouted.

  Mendoza complied, pulling the truck off to the side of the road. Behind them, the rest of the vehicles did the same. Gabe noted with satisfaction that the convoy was spread out with at least a hundred meters between vehicles.

  “I can’t reach the first sergeant,” he told the driver. “I tried Lieutenant Phelps and Sergeant Peterson. Nothing. They all go direct to voicemail. Whose number do you have?”

  Mendoza pulled out his phone and dialed a few numbers, each time shaking his head. “I got nothing, sir.”

  “Fuck.” The bottom of his stomach dropped out. It was conceivable that the leadership had their phones off to practice OPSEC, but impossible that the privates and specialists that Mendoza tried would have complied as well.

  He saw movement in the mirror and recognized Lieutenant Jacob Wilcox’s gait. When the lieutenant was beside the rear bumper, Gabe opened the door and stepped out.

  “Sir, what’s going on?” the platoon leader asked.

  “The other convoy. We’ve tried to reach them through BFT and cell phone. Nobody’s answering. I think they’re gone.”

  The lieutenant pulled out his own cell phone and tried a few numbers in futility. “Dammit!” he cursed, jabbing at his phone screen. “Wait. What if they’re jamming us, sir?”

  Gabe inclined his chin, letting the helmet’s weight pull his head toward his chest and stretch out the tight muscles in the back of his neck. “It’s a possibility with the cell phones. I don’t think it can be done with the BFT though. We use encrypted satellite communications networks that bounce all over the world. It would be hard to get into the data stream.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  Gabe swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d deployed and fought in Syria and Yemen and even spent a few months in Cambodia when his battalion deployed to assist the Cambodian government in destroying a worldwide human trafficking ring. Out of all those dangerous situations, he’d lost three men—one of them a suicide. He couldn’t believe that he’d lost half of his company, eighty-one soldiers, in the blink of an eye.

  “We continue mission, Jake,” he answered. “I’ll report up to Battalion that we’ve lost comms with them and they’ll report up to Brigade. If we don’t hear from First Sergeant Thomas by the time we make it to Dahlgren, I’m sure Brigade will send a drone down to investigate.”

  “We could head east and investigate ourselves, sir.”

  The commander shook his head. “I want to. Believe me, I want to. It’s a stupid move though. We’ve been left alone because the large number of anti-aircraft vehicles and soldiers along this route as they road march from the airport to their staging areas. There’s nothing out east…which is why I originally thought it would be the safer route.”

  Gabe took a breath to steady himself. “I was wrong. I sent those men to their deaths.” He wiped angrily at his eyes, the tears that had formed threatened to pour out over his cheeks. “If we go over there too, we’re just making ourselves a target. Understand?”

  Lieutenant Wilcox punched the side of Gabe’s command truck. “This isn’t fair, sir!”

  “I know, Jake. It fucking sucks…” He trailed off and glanced at the BFT screen. The icon indicating the position of First Sergeant Thomas’ vehicle was gone. His BFT was either turned off or destroyed.

  “Get back to your truck, Jake. We’re leaving in one minute.”

  SIXTEEN

  12 July 2025

  A
nacostia, Washington, DC

  “I hope this is it,” Gloria groaned. “I’m so darn sweaty. I think the skin under my boobs is becoming its own ecosystem.”

  James smiled at his wife’s assertion that she was growing something else besides the baby in her stomach. “Is this where we’re going?” he asked the rough-looking teenager who’d escorted them from the bridge, pointing at the large, white brick church.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Double D will know what to do with you.”

  It had taken them several days longer to leave the city than they’d planned. Psycho Shane’s protective order was as good as his word and there’d been gang bangers on the other end of the Metro tunnel to help carry James and his wheelchair, for which he was eternally grateful. Without the help of those men, he’d still be pulling himself up the escalator, one stair at a time.

  After the ordeal of the journey through the tunnels, the stress had caused Gloria to have false labor pains, forcing them to hole up in their apartment for two days. Yesterday, she was feeling better, so they decided to leave, but the Nazis moved a seemingly endless stream of troops and tanks through their neighborhood, causing yet another delay.

  Finally, this morning the streets were clear and Gloria was feeling well enough to travel. They’d made their way through the ruined city, crossing the devastation of the National Mall and the surrounding buildings unmolested until they arrived at a Nazi checkpoint on the 11th Street Bridge. Playing on the Germans’ racism, his wife had convinced the soldiers that she was a social worker who’d been meeting with D’onta’s family when the attack occurred. The children’s parents were dead, so she and James were taking them to their grandparents in Anacostia.

  The soldiers bought her lie, without much more than a cursory rummaging through their bags, which were full of clothing and a few snacks that they were able to pack. They’d made the hard choice to leave everything but the essentials behind, knowing that they would likely be stopped several times along their escape. The Germans didn’t even bother to look at the clothes; if they had they would have realized they were mostly adult sizes and questioned who was leaving.