Flynn smiled grimly. Against the Americans of 2015, or even the Iranians of 2009 before they were finally smashed flat, his plan would have been a disaster waiting to happen. Against the Russian force, which might have made vast progress, but not enough to react fast enough, it might just work. Certainly, once the RAF got to work, anything with a red start outside the cities would be dead.
“A pity they still haven’t managed to get the Thor units up in orbit,” he muttered, as he rechecked the dispositions. Given sufficient Thor units, he was confident that he could have retaken the cities without suffering major casualties, but the cities were hardly the prime objectives. Zhukov might think that Basra and Baghdad composed a defence line, but when the RAF’s command of the air was absolute… they were just traps for Russian might.
“General Rommel informs us that the Bundeswehr is in position,” Colonel Toby informed him. “They’re ready to attack the Russians near Baghdad.”
“Excellent,” Flynn said. He rubbed his hands together. “We are about to launch the single largest British military operation since Operation Crusader, which was in the last time we fought this war.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Toby said. “Air Commodore Cromwell also reports that the RAF is ready to engage the enemy.”
“Good,” Flynn said. He looked up at the display, which – in a display of disregard for 2015 security – was showing the IFF transmissions of every British force in the region. It was an awesome sight. “The stage is set, the dancers are ready… blow the whistle.”
Toby nodded and headed off to send the activation signal. Flynn smiled at his retreating back; it had been a terrible mixed metaphor, but it got the idea across.
Near Baghdad
Iraq, Middle East
18th April 1942
The Bundeswehr had grown in the months since it had played such a crucial role in Operation Redemption, when it had redeemed such a large part of the German Wehrmacht. Not only had it gained two new Panzer divisions of Germans from the surrendered divisions, but it had also acquired the services of some German combat engineers. Captain Gunter Jagar, Rommel’s aide and assistant, watched as the famous general shouted instructions to the combat engineers, who were erecting a pontoon bridge across the mighty Euphrates. The river had only a handful of bridges, none of which could take a single Firefly.
He checked his PDA, heading over to report to Rommel. Up close, he could see Rommel’s famous face, which had been hailed as a hero and villain on successive German broadcasts. The news that Himmler had taken over in Germany had sickened Rommel, but Jagar knew that it had also relieved many of the men who would otherwise have refused to fight against Adolf Hitler. Jagar shuddered; like the rest of the SS, he had sworn an oath to Hitler… until he’d seen what that meant for the world.
“Yes, Captain,” Rommel said, speaking in English. Rommel’s English wasn’t bad, and he had insisted that Jagar learn the language as well. “Have we been given our marching orders?”
Jagar wasn’t sure what to make of Germans serving as a junior partner in an allied force, but Rommel seemed quite happy with it, so he held his tongue. Rommel – and Ambassador Ernst Schulze – had explained in their private strategy sessions that the Bundeswehr had to prove that it could fight, just to prevent all of Germany being torn apart for the crimes of a few.
“We’re to commence the attack as soon as reasonably possible,” Jagar said, holding out the PDA. Rommel took it, reading the short message quickly, as the scream of jet engines echoed across the sky.
“It looks as if the RAF have beaten us to the first punch,” Rommel said. Jagar could only nod as the jet aircraft raced towards Baghdad. Rommel looked down at the ranks of the Bundeswehr, massed in their lorries and tanks. “Not a bad thing, of course.”
Jagar nodded. The Bundeswehr had been moved to a forward camp near Kabala while it absorbed the new recruits and watched them for signs of allegiance to the SS. In absolute terms, the Bundeswehr was still powerful, but the original camaraderie had faded slightly, although Rommel was certain that fighting – and victory – would change that.
“All right, move out,” Colonel Muhlenkampf bellowed, as the combat engineers finished their bridge. Armoured Fighting Vehicles moved first, each one capable of handling a suicide charge with its machine guns, crossing the bridges and spreading out. Infantry units had already crossed the river by swimming, heading out to ensure that the Soviets didn’t catch the Bundeswehr at its most vulnerable, and then the tanks started to move.
“We’ll press on as fast as we can,” Rommel said. “We’re forbidden to enter the city itself – our lords and masters are worried about the civilians – but we can handle the Soviet forces near the city. PDA?”
Jagar passed it over without comment. Rommel examined the small computer, before bringing up a map of the region. The units of a large Soviet armoured regiment were positioned near the city; more units were garrisoned inside the city. The fate of the civilians within the remains of the city was a matter of rumour; refugees had told horrible stories.
“Only an hour’s hard march,” Rommel said. With all of its units mechanised, the Bundeswehr could move faster than a standard Wehrmacht unit. “We hammer them from the air, and then we take them at a run.”
Colonel Muhlenkampf peered through the range finder as the turrets of Baghdad, broken and shattered by the Soviet invasion, appeared in the distance. Smoke rose in the distance from the remains of a Soviet armoured regiment, which had been battered mercilessly from the air.
“And to think they complained about the Americans,” he muttered, as the damage to the famous city became apparent. “They didn’t set out to level the place.”
He scowled. Stalin had decided that the population of the Middle East was surplus to requirements and the Red Army had been more than happy to comply, slaughtering people who got in their way like bugs. Civilisation in the Middle East hung by a thread – and the Soviets had gleefully set out to cut the thread with a knife.
“Panzer ahead,” the new driver snapped. Colonel Muhlenkampf took direct command of the main gun, swinging around to confront the Soviet T-34. The tanks were moving to counter the Bundeswehr, spreading out to avoid a lucky hit killing more than one of them. A T-34 fired… and a Firefly exploded in a gout of fury.
“What the fuck was that?” The driver snapped, yanking the Firefly about. Colonel Muhlenkampf ignored him, concentrating on destroying the enemy tanks. Three T-34s died rapidly, the others killing three more Fireflies before they were destroyed. Colonel Muhlenkampf cursed; the Russian tactics sucked, but they had nearly mounted an effective defence.
“Incoming rockets,” one of the drivers snapped. The Firefly’s machine guns started to chatter, slashing away at Russian infantry, looking terribly out of place in their uniforms. There was nothing wrong with their weapons; they were firing small anti-tank weapons, slamming away at the Bundeswehr panzers. They were ineffective against the main frontal armour, but more than a few Fireflies were struck in the rear or the tracks and crippled.