Königstiger: Odin's Warriors - Book 3

by Aeryn Leigh

  "EASY, HAPLO, EASY," said Wolfgang, peering through his observation slit. "We don't want to spook them that much." With the slight downward slope, one long straight, and a supercharged V 12, Haplo couldn't resist finding what the Königstiger was capable of. Mouse hadn't said anything, so Haplo opened her right up.

  Haplo lifted the throttle, and seventy tonnes of metal eased into a more steady, sedate pace. As the Republican waved his makeshift banner of truce, his legs dangling inside the tower, occasionally working Wolfgang in the shoulders, the Major thumbed his throat microphone. "Status?"

  "Ready," came the reply tinged with static.

  An entire battalion of self-propelled artillery, not to mention two more battalions of regular towed artillery, plus mortars and their precious Nebelwerfer rocket batteries were armed and ready beyond the hill. In the space of twenty seconds they could unleash twenty to thirty tonnes of high explosive amongst the infantry. And once the barrage was fired, the Republic would have to deal with the Panzer charge supported by machine guns and small calibre artillery.

  This Republic wouldn't stand a chance. It would be slaughter. And that's exactly how war should be fought, thought Wolfgang. But hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

  At five-hundred metre closing distance, Wolfgang notched Haplo with his foot. Haplo slammed on the right brake and the Königstiger swivelled up the shallow embankment through a gap in the trees and still moving at 30 km/h moved directly for a spot in front of the hill, out in the open, so that if things did go to hell, they had some manoeuvring room. Yet they had the satisfaction of hearing the man called Merrion swear as the tank suddenly changed direction.

  Three-hundred metres, the Königstiger eased to walking speed, and slowed to a stop. Hans swung the turret around tracking the head of the Republic until Wolfgang nudged him. The vanguard of the Republic moved off the highway towards the tank, spreading out on either side.

  Inside the very cramped turret, Wolfgang gave instructions to the corporal, who spoke to Merrion. The corporal pulled himself out of the hatch.

  "Keep the motor running Haplo", Wolfgang said. “Andreas, cover us with the machine-gun. But keep frosty." With that, he clambered out of the turret. The wheat field seemed only a few months old, not quite ready for harvesting. The stalks barely came to his shins. He turned his attention to the commander of the Republic. The woman seemed to be in her early fifties, her silver hair cropped short. Thirty metres away, she dismounted, and so did what Wolfgang assumed was her right-hand man, the two walking towards them.

  "Corporal," said Wolfgang, "you are going to earn your pay today."

  Both sides met halfway between their instruments of war. No one spoke as both sides sized each other up. Merrion began to speak but the general held up a finger. Birds chirped in the distance, the soft rustle of wind through the wheat and nearby trees. In that moment, the universe held its breath.

  As Wolfgang looked at both the general and the brick of a man next to work, not one of them showed an ounce of fat. They looked like they'd gone to hell and back. They were not afraid, or intimidated. Respectful, yes. And both of them carried copies of MP 40s, bastard swords belted to their waists, and incredibly, sawn off elephant blunderbusses on their other hip. Those medieval weapons had to fire a ball the same size as a big golf ball. Useless over anything remotely considered medium to long range, hell even short range, anything over five metres, ten even, but verdammt would it blow you back stone dead.

  Wolfgang grinned. Genuinely grinned. Getting into melee combat with these bastards would be well hard, as the Pommies would say.

  The general noticed his gaze fall upon her weaponry, and recognised the appreciative smile. She in turn smiled, and quite carefully and slowly holstered her point defence weapon. Nimble fingers spun around, and she presented the weapon to Wolfgang stock first.

  Wolfgang took the proffered weapon, and held it up to his head, slowly rotating it. Mein Gotts this thing belonged in a museum. It was centuries old, wrapped in exquisite etchings, gold inlays, a style of weapon not seen on Earth for ages, but well maintained and still quite deadly. And on the stock, well-worn with use, Wolfgang could just make out the words of the old German manufacturer. Wolfgang took hold of the barrel, and returned it to the general. Palms facing forward, he then slowly reached into his own breast pocket, and pulled out the ivory handled Luger. With care, he presented the pistol to the general, repeating the ritual.

  The woman took it, and Wolfgang noticed she paid extra attention to the inlaid ivory, and her left index finger pointed straight, resting along it's barrel. She hefted it this way and that, smiling as she played with the weapons weighted balance, then returned the weapon to him.

  Her gaze turned to the Lieutenant Colonel. "Report, Merrion." The childhood friend of her daughter was looking remarkably worse for wear.

  "My mission went according to plan. At least until we made landfall." The soldier next to the still smiling man began talking in a foreign language. The same language as the woman her daughter had seemingly fallen in love with. Merrion kept talking, allowing short breaks for the translator. "All Inquisition fortifications were abandoned. We were making good progress to our objective, that refinery there, when we stopped for a small break. And then, well general, everything went to shit, frankly. It seems we chose to rest in a small nest of our daemon friends, upon which these gentlemen here were tracking, as the daemons attacked them too."

  Merrion waited for the translator to finish. The senior German took a sharp intake of breath.

  "Major Wolfgang Mauss," he said, standing at attention and saluting, "Commander of the German 501st Heavy Tank Battalion, and defacto commander of the German Seventh Armoured Division." The general returned the salute crisply. "I must apologise for killing your men. These daemons, as you call them, are quite clearly a threat to both your forces and mine."

  "Your army over that hill," replied the general. "I gather your army is similarly equipped to your war machine right there?"

  Now Wolfgang looked a little off balance. "Yes," he replied wryly, "that and a whole lot more. But how did you know?"

  "We have always," replied the general, "thanks to that fellow countrywoman of yours." She looked up into the sky. Wolfgang followed her direction, eyes squinting, trying hard to not look into the two suns. He couldn't see anything. Hear anything. "My aerial reconnaissance spotted you yesterday. Tell me, Major, do you have the means to communicate with your forces up on the hill?"

  "Yes," said Wolfgang.

  "Then contact them, and look to the west."

  Wolfgang walked back to the tank and jumped up, the general and major following, and Wolfgang spoke into his throat mike. "Look west. Anything to report?"

  "Nothing Major," said Sergeant Bismarck. "Wait, we have movement. A large enemy force has moved out from the tree line. At least five score artillery pieces, Major."

  Wolfgang looked down at the General. "Well played," he said. "But nothing you have could cause us much damage before we obliterated you." The corporal finished speaking, he was again slightly unsettled to find the general point blank laughing at him.

  "Tell me," said General Sarah Versetti, leader of the First and Last, "surely you know something called mustard gas? Thanks to the Inquisition, we've managed to make our own. Compared to mustard gas, our poison gas is even more hellish. I have enough artillery shells loaded with gas to turn your hillside into poison soup."

  Wolfgang's face blanched visibly, turning pale. How could they know those words, he thought, unless they'd directly experienced it? Or have it?

  They had gas marks. Every soldier was issued with one, right there in their German army books. But after six long years of fighting, no side had used chemical weapons against the other, for fear of triggering an even worse retaliation. Napalm, flamethrowers, civilians in populated cities as viable targets, so many creative ways of death had been wrought. But not poison gas. Wolfgang knew their gas masks were not readily handy. Most of if not all his divisio
n’s gas masks would be secured in the back of trucks or equivalent storage containers, their canisters full of handy equipment and contraband. Toothpaste and shaving cream. Minor things. By the time it took for his men to reach their gas masks and get them ready, and properly don them, they'd be foetal on the ground, screaming in their own excrement as gas seeped through clothing and blistered flesh upon contact.

  Wolfgang regarded the General of the Republic. In his gut, he knew she wasn't bluffing. "It seems we are at an impasse," he eventually said.

  "It would appear so, Major. I have but one objective. The elimination of both the Inquisition which first use this poison gas upon us, and the daemons which have killed hundreds of my troops. Do you know of the Inquisition?

  "From Earth, yes. A religious scourge in the Middle Ages which killed untold thousands, and tortured countless more."

  "Well then," said General Versetti, throwing her arms out wide, "they too were brought to Elysium, and brought such pain and suffering untold. Are you a good man, Major Wolfgang Mauss?"

  Across the solar system, an collective intake of breath.

  Now Wolfgang burst out laughing. "Fair, yes. The rule of law, yes. Your word is your honour? Definitely. But good? Once, maybe. But I've seen too much death, killed far too many men, stared too long into the abyss, for me to be a good man."

  General Versetti regarding him, and then put two fingers between her lips, and blew hard. Her army relaxed and stood down. Artillerymen stepped away from their cannons.

  The stars breathed out.

  "If you answered any other way," said General Versetti, "the hills would have run red." She extended her right hand. "As Commander of the Republic, I hereby offer an alliance. Help us defeat the enemy, then you and your men are free to do as you wish." The dagger appeared from nowhere in her left hand, and she sliced across her right palm. Blood dripped onto the golden wheat. Her expression did not change.

  Without hesitating, Wolfgang removed the Bowie knife on his waist, eight inches of American forged steel, taken from an unlucky Sherman tank commander, and with the knife’s point upside down cut into his own flesh. "My men's freedom," he said, and shook her hand. "We have a deal."

  Below them, wheat soaked up blood.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  THE DIE IS CAST

  GERMAN PANZER TANKS advanced alongside Republic manipular legions, and Wolfgang could scarcely believe the sight. If only Rommel could see this. The bleeding military edge of the twentieth and the fifth century fighting together. The vast, open volcanic plains were prime hunting grounds. The general sat on top of his tank, legs dangling over the side and hitting the bazooka shielding, her right arm leaning against the curved turret. Alongside the tank, rode Major Brutowsky, the man seemingly never left her side. Wolfgang tilted his head slightly at the major, and got one in return.

  The Republic had an interesting way of communicating orders. Various signal flags were run up the main war banner, and after a little trial and error, by the end of that first afternoon, both forces were moving as one organised whole. On the other side of his tank, sat Merrion and Corporal Müller. He'd given back Merrion his confiscated weapons, including the curious but deadly looking crossbow. They advanced on a front, fifteen-kilometres wide, the sum width of the island. Through the translator, Merrion informed Wolfgang of the geographical nature of this island, its defences, and what to expect when they reached the main wall.

  The island was an hour glass, slightly misshapen and deformed. On the east coast, the volcano, dominating everything in sight. By the end of the day, at their current progress, they would reach the narrowest point, about late afternoon the next day, and natural choke point at the foot of the volcano, the island a mere four miles wide. Past that point, they would find a great wall, running diagonally away from them, curving around in a convex arc until it reached the ocean on the southern far side.

  And two thirds along its length, the Gate of God, flanked by two statues three hundred feet tall. Wolfgang couldn't wait to see it. Or use it as target practice. One of the two. Or both. It wasn't every day you got the chance to put 88 mm high explosive shells into the head of such a mammoth statue. His men could do with some stress relief. Gods knew they could do with it once all this was over.

  The day ended, and the men from Germany watched with amazement and fascination as the Republic army set up camp, or camps for that matter. The Republic army picked positions on uphill ground, in an area free of cover, which wasn't hard given the open plain, and made a square encampment a hundred metres long each side. White flags were hammered into the ground, to mark the position of officers’ tents. At this stage, the Germans were offered to integrate defences. After a quick consultation, a plan was arranged. Within the long chain of square camps, the Seventh and 501st set up for the night between them.

  When the order was given to begin, the Republic soldiers began construction in earnest. Each manipular legion was given a small section of wall, or imaginary wall at this point, before the men broke out small shovels and begun digging a four-foot-deep ditch, piling the dirt up on one side to make a stout rampart.

  Upon seeing this, and refusing to be seen as lazy, the German battalions begin digging their own earthworks, and so a spirited and friendly competition began.

  The Republic men and women began singing, and the Germans responded in kind. Shoulders were squared, soft, rich earth was broken, and piled high. As the first sun kissed the horizon, along the entire four-mile section, the old and the new guard of Elysium alike were dug in.

  For the first time since coming to this world, a majority of Germans slept well, tired to the bone. But for a significant part of each army, both German and Republic alike, would never have or experience a full night’s sleep again.

  And so even with a language barrier, as night patrols and centuries carried out their duties, the people of Elysium and earth swapped food and drink and whatever seemed appropriate.

  The night passed without incident.

  At dawn, a great horn blast rent the air. Major Brutowsky lowered the horn, and so a new day started. Soldiers clambered out of bed rolls, or from tents, and began preparing breakfast, maintaining their equipment while they ate. A second blast from the horn signalled time to break camp. Tents were broken down and folded, equipment and supplies loaded back onto wagons, and horses fed.

  The German army followed the same principle, more or less. When Major Brutowsky blew into the horn for the third and final time, the legions fell into line, and a tiny section of ditch was filled in. Hundreds and hundreds of engines started, roaring their own song of readiness, and with a shared signal from the commander and the general, they advanced towards the great wall. General Versetti sent a pigeonhawks back to their garrison stationed at the naval port, ordering Lucius to send up another reconnaissance flight.

  Advance scouting units reached the foot of the volcano by mid-afternoon, and the beginning of the great wall. Fire over the horizon, they could see smoke. And still no sign of the Inquisition. Fortifications on top of the gigantic great wall were abandoned. They made camp again at nightfall, nine miles away from the main gate. Wolfgang sent the First Mechanised Recon out, with strict instructions not to get too close to the gate. Merrion insisted on going along, and with the general's blessing, all of Sergeant Bismarck’s men and one man in black set off into the almost night sky. A pigeonhawk returned to its roost, and Brutowsky read the cipher. The recon flight had not returned.

  The evening passed without further incident.

  That was until just before 4 a.m., when Wolfgang started from sleep, a scant three hours old. The sound of a BMW motorbike at high revs. A bike from the first recon. In the pale light of the new moon, Wolfgang climbed out of the trench underneath the Königstiger and ran towards the motorbike, its headlight a horizontal sliver of white. The BMW sidecar screeched to a halt, in front of the entrenched 501st. Right in front of the ditch. The men were covered in blood. The MG 42 mounted on the sidecar was dry. Wolf
gang looked at Merrion in the sidecar, then at Sergeant Bismarck in the saddle, and back to Merrion again, and last settled on the sergeant. Both men were breathing hard.

  "What happened?" demanded Wolfgang. An icy tendril ran down his spine. It took a lot to shake the sergeant.

  "We were ambushed," replied Sergeant Bismarck, "right from the very ground beneath us. We were right within visual range, about four fucking kilometres from the gate. We never stood a chance."

  Wolfgang grimaced. The sergeant never swore unless things had gotten bad. ”Your recon?"

  Sergeant Bismarck shook his head. "They didn't make it. Only by chance were we both next to the sidecar when the ambush sprung."

  He heard the sound of galloping hooves, and General Versetti dismounted from her warcharger. She strode quickly, firing question after question at Merrion.

  The commanders of the Republic and the Germans held a short conference, where Wolfgang won his argument over an exasperated General and Major Brutowsky.

  "Trust me and my men, my equipment," he said. "We want a killing ground, and where we are right now, makes us the ones sitting in it. They have a wide frontal area of attack, and presently we are compressed. We sit at the bottom of a long, sloping plain. Make them come to us, General. Unless we retreat, and lose even more men?”

  A scant hour later, having retreated two miles back up the slight hill, but still at the foot of the omnipresent volcano, every able person that could wield a shovel dug for their lives.

  The Seventh's Engineering Battalion, comprising of two light mechanised companies, attached great steel ploughs to the front of turretless-Panzer IVs and stubby-barrelled StuG IIIs and helped establish primary and secondary trenches across the new seven-mile front. Support trenches ran parallel between staggered latticework sections.

  The Anti-Tank Battalion of both self-propelled StuG IIIs and IVs bunkered down along the hill, next to Republic howitzers and cannons straight from the 19th Century.