by Aeryn Leigh
Wolfgang thumped a fist down upon the upturned crate. "Enough," he said. "One battalion has to secure this area. I don't care which one of you does it, as long as someone does. There's plenty of oil and supplies out there, gentlemen, ripe for the taking. We have spent so long on the run, constantly withdrawing, rearguard action all the way, we have lost sight of who we are. Two companies of self-propelled artillery and panzergrenadiers should be enough. If a seaborne attack comes, they can withdraw and reform with us." With that, he glared at them until it was decided via short straws.
A FEW HOURS LATER, in the afternoon of the day, the entire German contingent assembled at the main junction to hear Wolfgang's announcement. With the help of the 23rd Engineers, they'd rigged up a PA loudspeaker system big enough to address seven-thousand odd souls.
At the junction, in the sea of worried humanity, all of their mechanised equipment hidden in the leading edge of the forest three-hundred yards away, clogging the first quarter-mile of the wide, paved highway, reasonably camouflaged with cut-down branches, another habit which would die hard, Wolfgang held the wireless microphone.
"Most of you know who I am. To the men that joined us on from Poland however, perhaps you do not. I am Major Wolfgang Mauss, one of the founding members of The Ghosts That Could Not Be Found. I know you are afraid, that you have many questions. If it makes you feel any better, I have them too. At the moment, there are more questions than answers.
"Our communications officers report that we are being jammed by some signal. Our inter-communications work fine. But in this moment in time, we are cut off from High Command. And the Fuhrer. And the BBC. Things are not so bad after all." A small tipple of laughter. "But our standing orders remain."
He jumped up onto the top of his King Tiger's turret. "Seek out and destroy, harass, deny the enemy. And Mein Gott men, we're going to carry that out. Our reconnaissance this morning showed oil refineries." He pointed down. "These babies don't run on our German sweat, as much as we want them to."
Quite a few in the crowd chuckled. Wolfgang seized the moment. That small spark of levity. "The land out here is rich and fertile, ours for the taking. Are we The Ghosts That Could Not Be Found?" He boomed the question into the loudspeaker. The men roared, but not quite enough.
"Are we The Ghosts?" Massive cries of yes. "Can we be found?" A triumphant No. "Do you want to be The Ghosts That Could Not Be Found?" The roar of Yes. "Then let's do this! We move at dawn!"
THE MAIN ROAD winding through the forest was jammed full of trucks, tanks, Panzers, everything, and anything that had to three or more wheels. Entire panzergrenadier companies walked alongside, extending sixty yards out on either side covering the column.
The 1st Reconnaissance resumed their position at the division's spearhead. Self-propelled artillery trundled along next to trucks carrying fuel. Ammunition carriers formed behind their respective counterparts, each self-propelled gun or artillery only carrying a few dozen rounds at most, reliant on their towed trailers or trucks for supply. StuG 105mm howitzers advanced behind flakwagons and Jagdtigers, in turn behind multiple-rocket launching Nebelwerfer Hanomags and flamethrower half-tracks, everything interlaced with trucks and more trucks. Towards the rear of the column, the engineering battalion, food, logistics, and then the unsung heroes of the Panzer divisions, the grease monkeys who kept everything running.
Wolfgang kept the 501st up at the spearhead, wanting to keep the heavy tanks right where there would be tactically useful. So far, none had suffered mechanical breakdown, but the terrain had been easy thus far. Perhaps that mad mechanic Piers knew his tanks after all. He hadn't seen much of the man since they'd come through the storm, but then again, he hadn't really seen much of anybody. Neither somewhere down the rear of the procession, the mechanic would be on his Kettenkrad, hauling trailers of mechanical supplies.
At the progress they would be at the progress they were making, they'd reach the edge of the forest well before sundown, well before. Enough time to set up their assault on the refinery town, their attack covered by artillery and howitzers along the tree line.
PIERS WENT to chew his fingernail, only to realise he had none left. Even though his hands were regularly covered in oil and grease, and small cuts and nicks here and there, he usually kept his fingernails well-trimmed. Now, his nails were nothing more than jagged stumps. He rolled on the Kettenkrad's throttle just a little bit more, then slowed her right down again, as the distance between him and the captured Ford Lend Lease truck he followed closed rapidly again.
The hallmark of an intelligent mind, thought Piers, is the ability to think rationally about situations, but in this moment, Piers wished he was anything but intelligent. The nagging questions of how they got here, the maddening vista of two suns, no radio chatter whatsoever, the Spanish architecture, all of them buzzed around his head like a motor losing its serpentine belt.
And like a motor which had lost its belt, his mind spun at dizzying speed, turning over on the sure path towards self-destruction. From his rally motocross days across Europe in the 30s, and all throughout Germany in the Luftwaffe cross-country competitions, Piers considered himself well travelled. Well acquainted with Europe's forests, the dirt tracks, all the fun places to race a car, bike, or in the case of the Kettenkrad he rode, the modified half motorbike half tank he sat on.
None of this looked familiar. But his lungs loved it, and so did the engines. The oxygen rich air gave the motors just a few more horsepower, itching to get up to full speed. He'd seen photos of North American redwood forests, impossibly tall trees, and they looked kind of similar, save for the fact here their trunks were silver grey. Smooth and without much bark. In two hours, they surely could have not been transported to somewhere next to North America.
Besides, who ever heard of the Americans being cultured? The Spanish architecture and Mediterranean vibes disproved the North American theory, that was being circulated by few of the men. Two suns. Two shadows. How could that be even possible? But in the gaps of canopy high overhead, when streams of sunlight fell upon his skin, the burn of their light was all too real.
Chapter Thirty
CROP DUSTING
COMMANDER LUCIUS GAVE one final round of encouragements to his pilots. The Republic fleet formed a protective ring around the British warship towing the seaplane barge. On the barge, Lucius stood, rested the five modified Gruder Mark IVs, or Mark Vs, as they should be properly called, thought Lucius. Heavily-laden with fuel drop tanks, and their deadly payload, the pilots looked nervously at each other. They knew what they were doing. Where there were going, and the slim chance that any of them would get back alive.
Inger Tucker smiled back at Lucius. "We'll give our best, sir," she said.
"I know you will," said Lucius. This obliterating, take all comers leave no prisoners raid was a hell of a dice throw. But if the Republic fleet was to have the best chance at beginning their assault, this was the only way. After all, it was his idea. Even though he'd flown in the Battle for Harmony Bay, and commanded those in the Battle for Fairholm, sending pilots up into the skies, day after day, an awful amount to their deaths, Lucius kept waiting for the moment when command got easier.
It never did.
"Godspeed. Give them hell, and get back alive. That's an order."
The five pilots saluted back. "You heard the Commander," said Inger. "Let's get to it." She clapped her hands.
On the flagship's bridge next to the barge, General Sarah Versetti watched the five aircraft begin their start-up procedures, the scuttled barge sinking right beneath them, and one by one, taxi along the ocean and lift up into the sky. She turned to Major Brutowsky, standing with her on the bridge of the sailing warship. "So, it begins."
Major Brutowsky stared at the horizon. "Vengeance for our First."
"The Path of Blood," said General Versetti.
"May we Reign in Blood, General."
Sarah could only nod, standing next to her best friend, on the ocean waves, in the gentl
e sunlight, but in their minds, all they could see was the hell pit of their imprisonment, and the darkness consuming all, as it had their friends.
INGER LED her staggered formation towards the enemy coast. Her orders were simple, clear, concise.
Eliminate all coastal fortifications.
Apparently, the Inquisition was big on grandiose displays of military power. Gunfort castles lined the entire coastline of the Inquisition mainland, no more than ten miles apart at any one location, and even that was being generous. Lieutenant Colonel Merrion Blackheart had given them his own briefing yesterday, just before he left with his reformed recon legion on some undisclosed mission.
The Inquisition would have to be pried out of their stone fortifications inch by recalcitrant inch. Securely dug in, they could withstand any assault for weeks if not months. The only way to get them out, quickly and efficiently, with minimal bloodshed, was the secret weapon contained in the canisters underneath the seat and in the main fuselage, extending to small tubing along the trailing edge of each wing, dotted with holes.
Lucius had called it crop dusting. The poison gas was much heavier than air, she had been told, so would seek out any nooks and crevices and ventilation ducts in fortification earthworks, and fall into it. By the time it took the Republic fleet to advance and land, the deadly gas would have become no more.
Inger didn't know how to feel about the weapon. She knew it had been tested upon the First and Proud, killing thousands. She also knew it had been tested upon the Inquisition prisoners that escaped and murdered soldiers and citizens alike on their failed attempt to reach the Bay.
The thought gnawed at her. Killing people where they sat didn't seem quite glorious, or honourable. But, as she flew through the cloudy skies, was there even such a thing as a good death in war? At any case, she had orders, and she intended to carry them out.
IN THE SEVEN-ODD hours of their flight, they'd yet to spot an Inquisition air patrol. Each of the planes had used their four drop tanks, and now flew purely on their main fuel reserve. Things were going well. Too well. Inger hadn't survived the battle of Fairholm without developing a few eyes in the back of her head. Her intuition told things were going a little bit too easy.
This close to the mainland, there should have been Inka patrols of some kind in the grey, overcast skies. They were flying pretty high to at least mitigate the chances of being seen, yet as the enemy coastline appeared on the horizon, the relative safety of height ended.
She led them down, the ocean creeping by underneath, and on the horizon Inger squinted to make out the finer details. Tiny puffs of gunpowder smoke drifted lazily up into the still air, right above the target area. With the roar of the rotary engine up front and the wind whipping past her ears, she wouldn't have been able to hear shit – gunshots or cannon fire anyway, she thought. They couldn't be fighting anyone down there. Had to be some kind of ceremonial marching display. The Inquisition was huge on pomp and ceremony.
She waggled her wingtips, and with the signal given, the five aircraft began their attack run. Pointed near 45° down, they dove towards the objective. A wide, reasonably deep section of beach, the Inquisition's biggest port on this side of the mainland. Dozens upon dozens of jetties ran a quarter mile out into the ocean, and an easy thirty or so warships lay at anchor, men scurrying around on them no bigger than ants, the muzzle flash of orange here and there.
Were they practising wargames? There was no visible sign of any enemy as they shot closer, the shore only a mile out now. On each side of the beach, a huge stone castle, bristling with cannons, one of their primary objectives. Stone bunkers ran the entire length of the beach, just above high-water mark. She kicked the rudder, leading the four behind her around to the left, aiming for eight-hundred yards left of the tower, then did hard banking turn to the right leading her pilots line abreast.
Two-hundred yards before the rocky wall of the gunfort, surf breaking upon the foundations, Inger reached underneath her seat and found the small metal chain, and she yanked on it. The seal broken, the pressurised poison gas spurted along to the T-junction underneath the fuselage, before it spread to both hose pipes, spewing out noxious fumes. She got a quick visual confirmation to see that the other four aircraft were doing the same and Inger pulled back on the control stick, and the Mark IVs nose lifted up as she gave the little aeroplane full throttle and the five aircraft zoomed up and over the Inquisition stronghold, streaming yellow gas.
But now, at this short range, the Inquisition soldiers running this way and that barely registered their presence, completely focused on their war game. Now she heard the sound of Maxim machine guns, pistol shots, MP 40 fire, the screams of men, continually expecting to see lines of bullet holes in her fuselage, in her canvas covered wings, the staccato impact of lead hitting her frame, sending her to death.
But none hit. Wing tip to wing tip, like they'd practised over and over back at Fairholm's rocky peninsula leading to the former lighthouse, the five aircraft covered the ground behind them in yellow poison gas. The gas dissipated in the slipstream of the aircraft, spiralling contrails of yellow.
Support roads and factories stretched inland on her left, and parts of it burned here and there. Inger turned her attention back to the task of obliterating Inquisition opposition.
Artillery pits, full of guns and cannons and artillery pieces of all shapes and time periods and sizes, the guns all pointing inland. Better inland than on us, she thought. They climbed up over the right-hand side walls, skimming the top of the battlements and just as their flight split in two for the final part of their plan, dropping remaining gas on the rows of Inquisition warships and the army barracks, did she see something like that drunken, scarred, white-dotted veteran of the First and Proud had been yelling about one night in the Rusty Axe, before his companions carried him away.
Something big, black, and ugly, in the yellow soup of gas.
She blinked her eyes as they flew through billowing clouds of a burning jetty down at the shore, and when she looked back, it was gone. Must be my imagination, thought Inger. She aimed right for the tethered warships, and men jumping over the sides, and sprayed them all until the tanks ran dry.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE REFINERY
BOTH SELF-PROPELLED ARTILLERY and towed howitzers of the Seventh's Infantry Battalion deployed along a kilometre-wide section of tree line. The rocket-armed half-tracks kept close to the main road, and the 501st. Their objective lay far in the distance, conditions were clear and Wolfgang thought, perfect for a dash across enemy countryside. Their target lay on the edge of the horizon, on top of a small rise.
Wolfgang considered his options. As much as he wanted to take the Tiger IIs, the top speed was severely curtailed by their mammoth weight. Here, in the tree line, like the rest of them, there were at least safe from enemy air patrols. Not that they'd seen any humans whatsoever.
A battalion from the Seventh would have to suffice. But, how things have changed since 1939, from those Panzer IIs and IIIs and even the short barrel Panzer IVs. The sixty-five Panzer IVs the Seventh had available, divided into two battalions, were at a minimum Ausf-D variants, equipped with a high-velocity 75 mm long-barrel. Unless there was a battalion of T-34/85s and a few heavy Ils2 stationed at the refinery, the self-propelled artillery would provide compensation, sacrificing defence for the ability to pulverise. Another three battalions of panzergrenadiers would join the assault, but transported in trucks, covered by three flakwagons.
Wolfgang didn't want to show all his cards, not quite yet. He once more looked into the foot-wide German telescope. From where the forest ended, nothing but fields and their late bountiful harvest, swaying in the wind.
Wolfgang knew how much vehicles meant to people. He wasn't about to commandeer a tank when he had his own.
A modified Tiger II with the Luftwaffe supercharger, Wolfgang was itching to see what it could what it could do across open, flat terrain. And on a paved road no less. Although, given the c
ondition of the road once their entire mechanised army had traversed along it, he suspected these roads weren't built for thirty-ton machines, let alone fifty, sixty or even seventy.
The only object of curiosity lay halfway between their current position and the refinery complex. The broken, smashed remnants of a waggon of some kind, abandoned by the roadside. The compasses stabilised and stopped spinning merrily around, showing the main road headed south-east.
He pressed the throat microphone three times. Thirty-eight Panzers, over three companies worth, advanced out of the trees. Behind them the panzergrenadiers. Half-track flak wagons, or otherwise known as meat-choppers, rumbled out after them. He tapped the side of the metal. Haplo engaged the Königstiger's first gear, then released the clutch. Seventy tonnes of German metal rolled out.
BY THE TEUTONIC GODS, Wolfgang's heart sang in joy. With the Messerschmidt supercharger, Piers had squeezed another eight or nine km/h in top speed. And damn the fuel consumption. That's what the refineries were for. This Tiger II, manufactured in Germany, obviously had a lot of love and care poured upon it. The level of finish quality and attention to detail was unlike Wolfgang and his crew had seen. Whoever the dead SS commander was of the Waffen 503rd, he sure liked things done exactly right.
Wolfgang as always stood in the turret of the tank, upper torso out. The only true way to lead a Panzer division, to get an undiminished 360° view of the battlefield. Over the roar of the supercharged Maybach engine, he could hear Haplo singing. Wolfgang smiled. Been a while since he'd heard Haplo happy, and he was glad to hear it again. He must really like this tank.
Ahead, over the stupendously long 88mm barrel, more details of the oil refinery. The oil tower pistons still spun, pumping black gold from the earth. No visible walls that he could see. The refinery however was surrounded with low stone structures that might be bunkers around its perimeter. And a single stone tower, three stories high.