by G T Almasi
Indeed it is. We enter the thin passage and slow to a trot to catch our breath. The shivering thunder from the large tunnel behind us gives way to the sporadic cracks and shouts of a dying firefight. Our brick-lined route loops back to the main tunnel a few hundred feet from the site of the flamethrower battle.
We approach the smoldering remains of the two patrols. It’s hard to decide which portal to Beer Hall Heaven was worse: burned, shot, or suffocated.
Burned, I suppose.
The foul air stinks of grilled flesh and scorched hair. One deadhead crawls away from the conflagration, wheezing like a broken accordion. I finish him off with a shot to the head.
To my utter amazement, he stands up. But it isn’t him. It’s a teenage girl with black hair.
This can’t be happening, I killed all those bitches.
The girl leaks vital fluids from multiple holes in her body. Pistols materialize in her hands, which have turned into metal and plastic prosthetics. In fact, her hands are the guns.
I knock her arms away with a roundhouse kick. I land facing away from her then jab my leg backward, plunging my foot squarely into her stomach. She doubles over and falls down.
Somebody yells something. The other freaks must be coming back to life. I finish Gun-Hand off with a long .30-caliber burst from Li’l Bertha and turn to face the rest of these Staatzombies.
“Scarlet!” Brando yells.
None of the other dirtbags have risen from the dead. Maybe Gun-Hand was an officer.
“Hey!” My partner grabs my shoulder and turns me to face him. “Scarlet, knock it off. He’s already dead.”
“Now she is,” I say.
Patrick’s eyes bore into me like microscopes.
“What?” I point at the dead competitor. “You didn’t…”
See him stand up and transform into a killer teenage robot?
I look at Gun-Hand Girl. But it’s only that last mud-for-brains, who now has even more bullet holes in him.
Ah, shit.
“C’mon, Alix. I think that’s all of ’em. Let’s see what’s happening topside.” Brando leads me away. “We’ll get ourselves some air.”
We’ll get you some air, crazy girl.
It takes us seven minutes to climb to the city streets. The battle for Berlin is in full swing. Wolf’s shrinking fiefdom is under assault from all sides. Swarms of artillery shells and rockets sail in from the surrounding neighborhoods to pound the enemy’s defensive positions along the north–south axis.
The sky is so dark with heavy, greasy smoke you’d never know it’s the middle of the day. The streets bear layers of rubble, broken glass, and bodies. Suitcases lie next to their dead owners. Directly in front of us sit the smoldering remains of three baby strollers.
At least, that’s what I think is there. Long rows of government buildings? Real. Trio of burning baby carriages? I’m not sure until Patrick walks straight through the strollers. He doesn’t notice the horrible squeals from the roasting infants.
I activate my millimeter-wave radar vision—partly to help me see beyond the gunpowder smog, but also because my Mods are immune to my traumatic stress symptoms. So far, anyway.
No strollers.
We approach a bustling intersection. A pair of soldiers bawl directions at sixty or so other troopers. The noisemakers get their grunts in line and then double-time them into the churning maelstrom. Other yelling soldiers—sergeants, probably—defer to a Loyalist army officer who stands at a cracked folding table set up in the middle of the street. The table is slathered with maps, printed reports, scribbled diagrams of troop deployments, and lists of comm-codes. The insignia for colonel is pinned to the officer’s shirt collar. His makeshift command post teems with bodyguards and document-covered ammo crates. A cadre of fast-talking lackeys surround the colonel. They repeat his rapid-fire instructions into their bulky, heavy-duty comm-sets.
We approach the commander’s security detail and introduce ourselves. Moments later we’re brought to the man in charge, Colonel Weiss.
Weiss turns from one of his aides to us. “You must be two of Kennedy’s people.”
“Yes, sir, I’m Darwin.” Brando answers. “This is Scarlet, my Level 10 Interceptor.”
Weiss takes a good look at us. I can only imagine what he thinks of our burns, bruises, and bandages. We’re both scrawny-looking and caked with filth. If you waved soap anywhere near us, our clothes would spontaneously dissolve. He asks, “How long have you been in Europe?”
“We’ve been in-country for a month, sir.”
The colonel regards me for another moment. “You’re the agent who took down the Zoo Tower?”
Man, news really does travel fast.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Brando indicates the noisy surroundings. “Can you tell us what the situation is, sir?”
Colonel Weiss nods his head. “Wolf is finished.” The commander taps his map of Berlin. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
According to Weiss, Markus Wolf’s coup d’état has lost practically all of its popular support. Three events have directly influenced this shift.
The first was how the fighting expanded from a singular battle for the leadership of Greater Germany to a many-faceted rebellion against the Reich in general. This fragmentation of objectives hampered Wolf’s ability to carry out large initiatives like capturing Berlin.
Another big reason was the atomic destruction of Munich. Not only was it Wolf’s base, but the indiscriminate nature of the catastrophe absolutely shocked every living soul on the Continent. Everything people had been worrying about—the war, the chancellor, the price of Berliners—was swept away by the horrible stories from Munich’s survivors. Even some of the country’s surviving Nazis called for an end to the hostilities.
“So who’s left with Wolf?” I ask.
“A few Wehrmacht regiments, the Gestapo, and the Staatszeiger.” The colonel looks toward the Great Dome, where Wolf is expected to make his last stand.
Colonel Weiss tells us the final factor contributing to Wolf’s loss of support has been the public’s fury toward Carbon’s depraved record of inhuman abuses. We aren’t the only people who discovered these gruesome secrets.
Destroyed real estate attracts a lot of attention. The bombed university in Karlsruhe was a beacon for local police, firemen, and other first responders. A similar group of officials descended on the burning camp in Dachau. Their primary mission of aiding the survivors gave way to cataloging the soul-numbing terrors hidden within these deviant labs. The police reports attracted swarms of TV news teams, who beamed these nightmares straight into every living room in Greater Germany.
Taxpayers hate seeing their hard-earned money spent on pointlessly crazy Frankenstein shit. Even though the secret police only took possession recently, responsibility for this massive breach of decency has been placed at Wolf’s feet.
The outrage has crossed the Atlantic. Patrick and Doska’s communiqués made it all the way to the Oval Office. President Jackson was so repulsed, he immediately called for a humanitarian mission to help the Reich reform its research programs. Ol’ “Scoop” Jackson also sent copies of Patrick’s reports to every member of Congress to gather political support for this initiative.
“Wait,” I comm to Brando. “Did the colonel just say our reports shocked the White House?”
“A-yup,” my partner comms.
I adjust the bandage on my head and cock an eyebrow at Patrick. “I didn’t think anything bothered those fucks.”
Weiss waves one of the younger assistants toward him. To us he says, “Hauptmann Neukirche has a mission for you.”
The colonel’s aide approaches. He’s a kid, really; not even as old as I am. Colonel Weiss gives him directions in very fast German mil-speak. The young man leads us away from the colonel’s command post to a grou
p of armored vehicles parked in the shadow of the arch.
An army captain in a tanker’s helmet shouts directions at his men, who hurriedly prepare their rolling steel boxes to move out. The name tag on the captain’s tunic reads, NEUKIRCHE. Our escort interrupts Neukirche and tells him Colonel Weiss has assigned us to his group.
“You are Americans?” the captain asks us.
“Yes, sir,” we both answer. We don’t necessarily have to call military people “sir,” but it’s such common currency to these joes it helps us fit in.
But we don’t fit in that much.
“You are spies?” Captain Neukirche asks.
“Uh,” Brando pauses. Army dudes tend to reserve a special disdain for us sneaky shits, no matter which side we’re on. “We’re covert irregulars, sir.”
“Hm.” Neukirche examines our dirty faces and filthy clothes. “I see.” The captain waves at his collection of vehicles. “I’ve been ordered to roll up the north–south axis and reduce the enemy’s defenses. You are welcome to ride along and assist as you see fit.”
We survey his armored stable. Three heavy tanks, six light tanks, and a pair of armored personnel carriers busily ingest Neukirche’s soldiers and crews. I’m tempted by the tanks—they look badass—but being such an obviously high-value target goes against my training. I check out the personnel carriers. Each of them mounts a pair of automatic cannons leering from a turtle-shell turret. Not too slouchy looking.
“Whaddya think?” I comm to Brando, “I’m liking the APCs.”
“I agree. Less of a priority target.”
I hold his hand as we dash toward the nearest armored truck.
Great minds, blah-de-blah.
As we approach at the personnel carrier, Patrick finds the company’s radio frequency and comms the driver to let us in. The vehicle’s rear hatch drops open. We run up the ramp.
“Wir sind an Bord,” Patrick comms. We’re aboard.
“Verstanden, achten Sie auf die Tür,” the driver answers. Understood. Mind the door.
The hatch swings itself shut, muffling some of the ungodly clamor and flashing lights from the battle outside. We hang on to the grab-rods welded to the ceiling as the heavy transport jolts into motion. Our eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior.
Twin benches face each other along the APC’s centerline. Six heavily armed German troopers sit on the benches, swaying in sync with the lurching truck. A round metal plate hangs from the roof to provide a firing platform for the twin 20mm cannons mounted to the top of the vehicle. Narrow viewing slits in the sides give the occupants a chance to defend themselves while on the move. All the slits have their blast covers lowered, so we can’t see what’s happening outside. But the vehicle’s ranking officer—a lieutenant—does. His info is even more up-to-date than his commander’s.
The Reader’s Digest version is that Eisenberg’s army has Wolf’s forces surrounded. As soon as the Flak Towers fell to me and my ExOps brethren, Victor unleashed his attack. One hundred thousand foot soldiers rushed into Berlin’s closest suburbs. These columns are supported by dense clouds of Luftwaffe fighters, bombers, and scout planes. The pilots wasted no time clearing a path for the assault troops with a devastating carpet of rockets, bombs, and machine-gun bullets.
Any of Wolf’s defenders who survived the Luftwaffe’s Death Broom were slammed by Victor’s tidal wave of artillery. Reports from advance Loyalist units consist primarily of body counts, kilometers advanced, and a few stories about prisoners so desperately shell-fucked they may never walk straight again.
We’ve backed the enemy into a few dozen blocks of office buildings, but these places are built like titanium shit-houses. I have to credit Albert Speer for his foresight. He constructed Hitler’s expansive government district so it could be rapidly converted to a fortress. In fact, the area’s nickname is The Citadel for this very reason.
The Citadel consists primarily of long, heavy buildings along the main avenue—called the north–south axis—which runs from the Arch of Triumph to the Volkshalle. The defensive perimeter encompasses some of the structures along the east–west axis, including the Reichstag and presidential residence, both of which sit in the towering shadow of the Volkshalle’s Great Dome. Our mission is to stay in front of the approaching army and soften up The Citadel. Director Kennedy has thrown a task force together from whatever assets he had in place, including us.
I squeeze myself into the turret and swing the gun around. The periscopic sight shows me a fish-eye view of the confused fighting outside. I swivel left and see Captain Neukirche’s APC chugging over the sidewalk on the boulevard’s far side. Between us, the heavy tanks clank up the middle of the street.
Small-arms fire pings off the top of my turret. I duck out of the way. After I stand up again, a searing explosion envelops one of the tanks and nearly blinds me. I squint away from the periscope and comm, “Incoming!”
Two Loyalist soldiers riding with us cry out in fear. Their sergeant scowls them back to their agitated silence. Our driver swerves toward the first ministry building on the right. He quickly tucks his vehicle behind the structure’s monumental staircase. When I ask him to let me return fire, he reverses enough for me to see past the wide steps. I swing my gun from side to side until I spot a muzzle flash from the north. A medium-caliber anti-tank gun sticks its nose beyond the edge of the next building’s roof. The enemy gunners have walled themselves in with a curtain of sandbags.
I fiddle with the turret’s controls until the scope’s crosshairs are directly over the enemy gun barrel. I fire a burst. The recoil shakes our truck, and my weapon’s crosshairs bounce around my target. A ball of fire engulfs the anti-tank position. I release the triggers then wait for the smoke to clear. The wall of sandbags has been ripped apart and the anti-tank gun lies pointed at the sky.
“Enemy gun destroyed!” I swivel the turret left. The damaged tank has lost a tread, but the gunners lay down cover fire with their main shell-thrower and two machine guns. The rest of the armored column rolls past their crippled comrade and presses north.
My vehicle’s driver backs us into the avenue to follow the tanks. I rotate forward. The Great Dome’s bulk glows in the battle’s eerie light. The monument is at least a mile away, but it’s so freaking gigundous, it seems much closer.
We rumble into range of a series of machine-gun emplacements set in top-floor windows of the thickly walled ministry buildings. The tankers suppress the enemy positions with thunderous cannon fire. I join in and spit 20mm shells at the sundered windows. Our APC passes into a narrower section of the north–south axis, Leipzigerplatz. We’re two-thirds of the way up the avenue.
Ahead, shattering cannon fire whips from both sides of the avenue into Neukirche’s tanks. The drivers swerve to evade the incoming maelstrom. The tanks’ gunners elevate their main barrels and give as good as they get. A roiling cloud of hot smoke and thick dust fills the street. Visibility drops to less than a foot and totally obscures our view of the gun battle. My driver, completely blind, parks our APC on the sidewalk. I pivot the turret left. The sign for the Leipzigerplatz U-Bahn station, only a few feet away, fades in and out of sight. The other APC emerges from the churning gloom and nearly rams us.
The captain’s voice crackles through the team’s comm-channel. “Neukirche to ground squads, dismount and proceed north on foot.”
“Okay, Scarlet.” Patrick tugs my pant leg. “Let’s go.”
I shimmy out of the turret and pass through the open hatch into the dark, smoky street. My partner and I follow the troops from our APC to the cover of a building. They pause to re-form and plan their next move.
“Let’s keep going,” Brando comms to me. He points toward a small café. “That way.”
We scamper up the street like squirrels. The café is walled in with tall piles of sandbags. We crouch outside the front door. Brando tur
ns his head to watch something happening in the street. I follow his eyes. A pair of enormous commandos follow Captain Neukirche out of the other APC. They’re both at least six foot five; 250 pounds, easy. The weapons slung across their expansive chests are bigger than I am.
Vindicators.
Brando waves them over and comms, “Vindicators with Captain Neukirche, this is Scarlet and Darwin. We’re just across the street in front of—”
Small-arms fire bursts from the windows above the restaurant and splangs off the APCs. The drivers shift into reverse to rumble away south. My vision Mods reveal heat sigs behind every window in this place, including the ground floor.
Patrick calls out something as I kick in the front door and charge inside. Bullets pepper the ground and walls around me. I sprint across the restaurant’s entrance then vault over the bar. I roll to the bar’s far end while my competitors riddle the near side with submachine-gun and pistol fire.
I ready my guns and stand up just in time to watch a wall of steel consume the café from top to bottom. I lower my sidearms. The two Vindicators have entered the restaurant and placed an order to go.
Two Vindys in the same battle sector is one more than you need. Two in the same fucking room is almost obscene.
Anything worth killing is worth overkilling.
One of the human weapons platforms unloads hurricanes of bullets from his triple-barreled Gatling gun. The other Vindicator presses a Bitchgun to his shoulder and pounds big round holes into the walls and ceilings. Explosions from the rooms beyond indicate his shells’ final destinations.
Patrick leaps over the bar and hurries to my side. Gunsmoke completely fills the dining room. The acrid murk makes our eyes water. The Vindicators stop firing.
Gatling Gun comms, “Scarlet, Darwin, what’s your status?”
“We’re okay, King,” Patrick comms. “Welcome to Berlin.”
King? Whoo, baby. King is Level 17.
“Glad to be here,” he rumbles. King’s voice is like a deeper version of Barry White’s.