by Brian Parker
“This is Vengeance 519 requesting immediate clearance to land at Wehrmacht Headquarters.”
“Vengeance 519, this is Luftwaffe Control. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I, uh… I have information that Generalfeldmarschall Mueller must hear.”
“What information, Vengeance 519? I’m showing your düsen as destroyed and the pilot killed in action. What is your name, pilot?”
“My name?” He faltered. What if I can’t do this? he doubted himself.
So many people were depending on him. The doctor had told him that the American war effort relied on him accomplishing his mission, which would destabilize the German leadership. Berndt had heard of the fracturing amongst the Wehrmacht’s senior leadership, most notably between the generalfeldmarschall and the commander of the 938th Training Brigade, Oberst Albrecht. Killing Mueller may well destabilize the High Command as the Americans thought.
I can do this, he decided. That fracturing would be blown wide open with the death of Mueller.
“My name is Oberleutnant Berndt Fischer. My düsen was shot down. I was captured, but I escaped and evaded behind American lines for weeks until I was able to steal the düsen I’m in now. I have vital information that the Generalfeldmarschall must hear and I— I think our communications equipment may be compromised. The Americans are more advanced than we thought.”
There was a long pause as the soldier manning the radio relayed his message to their superior. Berndt circled the düsenjäger slowly around the Institute of Peace, where the Wehrmacht High Command had taken up residence.
After what felt like ages, the soldier replied. “Vengeance 519, you are cleared to land at Wehrmacht Headquarters. You will deplane and await the security detail, which will escort you as you relay your message.”
“Thank you,” Berndt replied, easing the aircraft down on the National Mall’s grass across the street from the headquarters building.
He powered off the düsenjäger and then stopped before flipping the switch which would turn off the jet’s electronics. He figured the extra two minutes not spent warming up the system could save his life. He ran his fingers over the small scrap of wrinkled paper that the doctor handed him before leaving. His preflight instructions that were in his pocket when he was captured.
“One more time, old friend.”
He threw the rope ladder toward the ground and he patted the altered German service pistol in the holster on his hip to reassure himself that it remained in place. Upon cursory inspection, the weapon appeared to be a standard pistol, but Doctor Grossman told him that it was much more powerful than a pistol and had instructed him in the weapon’s use. It was the key to ensure he accomplished the mission and escaped alive.
He began to climb slowly down the ladder. As his foot touched the ground, a man shouted for him to halt.
Berndt raised his hands slowly. An SS officer came forward and scanned his wrist with a handheld device. He observed the display until it beeped and then looked up from the machine.
“Very well, Oberleutnant. You are who you say you are,” the officer remarked. “Follow me; Generalfeldmarschall Mueller is most interested to hear of the technology you say the Americans have developed.”
The officer detailed a private to guard the aircraft, ordering him not to let anyone near it until the investigation was complete.
Berndt trailed along behind the SS man, avoiding any stupid moves. Anna promised him she’d be there waiting for him when he returned, and he intended to see her again.
TWENTY-THREE
20 July 2025
Hillcrest Heights, Maryland
Aim. Breathe. Pause. Squeeze the trigger. Breathe.
The mantra repeated itself in Gabe’s head as he fought. His father had taught him to shoot; the Army had refined those rudimentary lessons. Now he applied them with deadly accuracy.
“I’m out!” Sergeant Kelley yelled from nearby.
Gabe broke his cheek-to-stock weld and glanced at the snipers. Both men were out of ammunition for their long rifles, all they had left was pistol ammo. The Germans weren’t that close—yet.
He lowered his cheek and sighted in on a man with some type of tube weapon—likely a panzerfaust, a rocket propelled grenade. Before he could shoot, the man recoiled from the impacts of several rounds.
“That’s it. I’m out too.”
Gabe looked around at his men. One by one, they were running out of ammunition. They didn’t have bayonets like the soldiers of yesteryear, but they could still use their weapons as clubs. It was pathetic. They were members of the most advanced military in the world and they were on the verge of fighting like cavemen.
A massive explosion tore away the perch where Sergeant Kelley and Corporal Hicks were vacating. One second, they were moving off the ledge, the next second they were gone. Blood smeared the surrounding area, but he couldn’t see the two men’s bodies.
He turned back, aiming through his ACOG where the man with the panzerfaust had been killed. The weapon was nowhere to be seen. Another German had recovered it. Beyond the nearby scene, the hovertank that Jake Wilcox saw with his drone rumbled into position at the edge of the road.
“Take cover!” Gabe bellowed, knowing a round from that tank was inbound any second.
He scooted backward in the direction of the concrete wall. His foot touched up against it right as another explosion rocked the southern side of the platform.
“RPG!” someone, possibly Sergeant Cheng, yelled.
A few soldiers returned fire with single shots, but the men on that side had either rotated from the northern edge and were out of ammo or had passed most of their ammo to the defenders on the opposite side of the platform.
Gabe hooked his foot on the edge of the wall and pulled himself toward it. Below him, on the entrance level, the men fired into the Germans attempting to rush across from the parking lot to the station’s entrance. Once they ran out of ammo, there was nothing to stop the Nazis from overrunning them.
Men punched the floor in frustration. They were trapped. If they survived the shelling from the hovertank, the only thing they had to look forward to was being lined up for execution. He could already feel the German barrel against the back of his head.
Once again, he was thrown sideways as a massive explosion ripped a ten-by-ten section of the train platform away. The side of Gabe’s helmeted head impacted against the bench where the colonel’s body still lay. He wasn’t knocked unconscious this time, but he had an oppressive feeling of déjà vu from that day on the beach, making him think he’d been transported back in time.
He found himself staring into the wide, frightened eyes of a blonde woman and he was confused. “Olivia?”
“What?” the woman asked. “No, Gabe. I’m Gloria. We need to get out of here.”
“Gloria?” He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. Everything felt strange, from the incessant ringing in his ears to the odd angle of his leg.
“Shit,” Gabe mumbled, drooling blood. “My leg is fucked, ma’am.”
“Goddamn it,” she said. “Medic!”
“He’s dead,” Sergeant Cheng replied. “Got killed trying to help the LT.”
“You sonofabitches!” the woman screamed, pulling Gabe’s weapon from his weak grip. She stood on the edge of the platform and fired his last four rounds before cursing and moving back behind the concrete wall.
Her symbolic gesture of frustration was met with a volley from the Germans surrounding them. Chips of concrete splintered off, adding to the shrapnel hazard on the platform.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Gabe whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry that we failed to get you out.”
“Don’t say that, Gabe. This wasn’t your fault. This was the Army’s fault. You should never have—”
“Sir!” Specialist Mendoza shouted as he low-crawled toward the captain.
Gabe rolled his head inside the helmet to see his driver, holding out the radio handset. “Sir, it’s Spartan Six. He�
�s inbound with a shitload of helicopters!”
The handset hurt his face as he pressed it to his ear. “This is Berserker Six, over,” he groaned.
“Captain Murdock! Spartan Six. We’re one minute out from your location. Pop smoke, son.”
Gabe chuckled weakly, which turned into a coughing fit. “You’ll see smoke from burning shit, sir,” he replied when he was able to talk. “Be advised, they have RPGs and at least one hovertank.”
A concussion of air buffeted him half a second before the sound of an explosion assaulted his ears, followed by a wave of heat. His men cheered halfheartedly.
“Correction, Berserker Six,” the colonel responded. “They had a hovertank.”
30-millimeter cannons burst to life from the south as Apache gunships sped toward the Metro station, firing at everything beyond the perimeter of the building. The helicopters’ guns chewed the Germans to shreds, punching holes through whatever they tried to hide behind.
The fight at the train station was over in three minutes and the Apaches advanced further toward the city, creating a wall of lead between any German reinforcements and the Blackhawk utility helicopters that landed in the parking lot.
Soldiers swarmed from the helicopters like angry hornets, securing the perimeter on the ground and then moving into the station to evacuate the men from Berserker Company. Gabe made sure everyone was accounted for before he let the medics put him on a stretcher and take him toward the helicopters. They’d even been able to find most of the remains of Sergeant Kelley and Corporal Hicks.
Lieutenant Colonel Adams-Branson stood beside a Blackhawk talking with his boss, Lieutenant Colonel Calhoun and Colonel Graves—Spartan Six. Her husband and the children were inside the helicopter and the crew chief was securing their seat harnesses.
Spartan Six held up his hand and stepped quickly to Gabe’s stretcher. He leaned down to be heard over the noise of the helicopter’s engines. Rotor wash tousled his hair as he took off his helmet to avoid hitting Gabe in the face.
“You did a good job here, Gabriel,” Spartan Six shouted. “Your men survived impossible odds because of the position you occupied and the way you arrayed your forces.”
He patted Gabe’s body armor twice and repeated, “Good job,” as he stood up, placing his helmet back on his head.
Then, Gabe’s stretcher was loaded into a medevac bird and his stomach fell away as the helicopter lurched skyward.
*****
20 July 2025
The United States Institute of Peace, Washington, DC
Berndt was sweating through his uniform. Washington was hot and humid as it was, but now he was nervous as well. His mind reeled at the implications of what he was about to do—and how in the hell he was supposed to get away with it?
The headquarters was in a flurry of activity as aides scurried this way and that. He hadn’t been to the High Command’s headquarters before, so he assumed it was customary for the staff officers to act in such a manner. The few times he’d been at the Luftwaffe command center, it had seemed just as hectic for him, a simple pilot.
The SS officer led him down a hallway to a small room with a glass wall overlooking a large auditorium. The auditorium had been converted into the command center, the nucleus of the entire Wehrmacht. From this room, Berndt could see the large map of the area, projected upon the movie screen. The Germans, it appeared were completely surrounded.
The American Army and Marine Corps advanced steadily from the landward side, while the ocean was blockaded by a collection of flags, primarily British, French and Russian. Oddly enough, the Russian flag even appeared on the northern front, near the border of Pennsylvania.
What are the Russians doing in America? he wondered.
“Sit here,” the SS man ordered. “Generalfeldmarschall Mueller will speak with you when he is able. As you can see, there is a new…wrinkle…in our war plans.”
The officer left with both of his guards, whom Berndt suspected were positioned immediately outside the door. He puzzled over the map for a moment longer and then the door opened behind him.
Berndt whirled, expecting to see the field marshal. Instead, he stared directly into the eyes of Otto Skorzeny.
“Good afternoon, Standartenführer!” Berndt stated loudly, standing at attention.
“Good afternoon, Oberleutnant Fischer,” Skorzeny replied with a rakish smile, made more so by the jagged scarring that ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear. “I hear you have important news for Generalfeldmarschall Mueller.”
“Y-yes, Standartenführer,” Berndt stuttered as the officer lit a cigarette.
Just as all children in Argus Base were taught to revere the Führer, and Rommel, the Desert Fox, they were taught the exploits and heroics of Otto Skorzeny. His skill as a paramilitary planner and as an undercover operator were legendary.
After the war, he’d been tried for his involvement in the war, found not guilty of war crimes—which Berndt now knew were not fabricated by the victors as he’d been taught—and released. He lived in Spain for a period of time and then advised the Egyptian government before traveling to Argentina to work as the head of security for the president and his wife. It was while he was in Argentina that Skorzeny established contact with the remaining Nazi High Command in Argus Base. He took on the role of training indigenous forces worldwide to fight against American, British and Russian expansionism.
The man was, quite literally, a legend.
“Well, are you going to tell me what weapons the Americans have developed? It must be very important for you to steal a düsenjäger and land at the Wehrmacht headquarters.”
Berndt nodded dumbly. “I overheard them talking about intercepting our radio transmissions—”
Skorzeny slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “I knew it! I knew they were listening to us. It’s the Enigma Machine all over again.” He jabbed two fingers at the projection screen, ash from the cigarette suspended between them falling to the table.
Berndt turned to look at the screen. Their encirclement was almost too complete. It was as if they really were intercepting German communications.
“You say you overheard some of the Americans talking about it. Did you see any evidence of it happening or was it only hearsay?”
“I only heard two of the American officers talking about it, Standartenführer. They happened to be walking by my cell, discussing their use of the information to block us in and press from all sides.”
“This is not going as expected… No bother,” Skorzeny stated. “What of their weapons?”
“They are only weeks away from developing düsenjägers of their own. They have captured aircraft that they have reverse-engineered and have even upgraded the cannons.”
Skorzeny didn’t seem impressed with this, so Berndt took his lies a step farther. “And, they know we came from the Southern Continent.”
The man across from him smiled again, making Berndt uncomfortable, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “Did you tell them this?”
“No, Standartenführer. The only questions they ever asked me about were the avionics of the düsenjägers and their operations. But I heard scientists and engineers discussing such things. They mentioned Antarctica, and… And, they are preparing a nuclear response against the Wehrmacht in Washington!”
Skorzeny’s mouth hung open slightly for a moment before he remembered to close it. “You have heard this?”
You’ve stepped in it now, he chastised himself. In his effort to throw the great Otto Skorzeny off his trail, he’d taken his lies too far. “Yes, Standartenführer. They are evacuating key civilians in preparation for the nuclear attack.”
“That goddamned weasel, Albrecht!” Skorzeny roared. “That’s why they were trying to sneak him out of the city. My men had him at the train station until the Americans showed up in their helicopters and ruined everything. They got him out. Now they know everything… Everything.”
The SS man stood rapidly. “I must go. There is
work to be done.”
Berndt stood and shot his arm out, ramrod straight. “Sieg heil!”
“Yes, of course,” Skorzeny replied, returning the salute quickly. “Sieg heil.”
He ducked out through the door, leaving Berndt alone again. The pilot started to relax and began to sit when the door opened once more. He stood at attention as Generalfeldmarschall Mueller walked in, flanked by, Oberst Andreas Wolff, the chief of the Luftwaffe, two light infantry oberschützes—privates—and an oberst that he didn’t know.
“Sit, Oberleutnant Fischer,” the field marshal ordered.
He sat.
“Oberst Wolff has given me the complete record of your training with the Luftwaffe. You have excellent marks—some of the highest in your entire class. And yet, you allowed yourself to be shot down and captured. How did this happen?”
“The propulsion drive on my düsen was destroyed by a missile, Generalfeldmarschall. I was beginning an attack on an American tank and one of the men with the shoulder-fired missiles emerged from the tree line almost immediately underneath me.” He paused, licking his lips. “I was able to control the aircraft enough to crash into a clearing. I must have hit my head because when I woke up, I was a prisoner.”
“How long ago was this?” Wolff asked.
“Forgive me, Oberst, but I don’t know what today’s date is. My mission was on eight July and I was captured immediately on the same day. I remember eight or nine nights in the cell.”
“Where were you kept?” asked the colonel who wore the red-orange collar insignia of a military policeman.
“I don’t know, Oberst. Somewhere to the west, possibly around one hundred kilometers from here. The computer in the düsenjäger I took should have a point of origin for the flight.”
The policeman looked to Oberst Wolff, who nodded his head, confirming Berndt’s assertion that the düsenjäger’s computers would have all of the required information for determining where his flight had originated.
“So, you say the Americans have secret new weapons,” the field marshal stated. “Tell me of them.”
“I did not see them for myself, Generalfeldmarschall. Instead, I heard the engineers who worked on replicating our düsenjäger technology speak of them.”