Hans calmly issued an order to the battalion, “Odd numbered Tigers stand by to unmask and engage on my command.”
At his words, Schultz took a firmer grip of the control spades from which he ran the gun, whispering, “Magnification 24x.” The tank’s human-built artificial intelligence system immediately closed the apparent range. Schultz repeated, “Liebe Gott,” as the mass of aliens sprang suddenly into sharp relief. His hands visibly tightened on the controls.
“Do not fire until I give the command,” reminded Brasche, forcing his mind to intense concentration.
Even as Brasche spoke the snow began falling with renewed intensity, the external remote cameras going white with natural static.
“The command to fire will be the opening of the machine gun,” whispered sous-officier Brasche, of the Legion, to the squad assembled around him in the dank and fetid Indochinese jungle. “Any questions?”
Seeing there would be none, Hans pointed northward towards a trail intersection known to be used by the Viet Minh. Wordlessly, the point man, a veteran of the Latvian SS Division once — now a veteran of the Legion Etranger, took the lead and disappeared into the green maze. Brasche followed directly, machine gun team in tow. The rest of the squad, moving single file, followed Brasche.
Berlin, Germany, 28 March 2007
The Tir’s AID projected a hologram in the air over his desk. The hologram showed a map of Europe and North Africa, centered on Germany.
“Stupid centaurs,” the Tir muttered aloud. “Landing most of their force elsewhere and half leaving the Germans alone. Don’t they realize that delay could prove deadly, that these people are not to be underestimated?”
Even as the Tir watched that portion of the map that showed the red of Posleen infestation expanded throughout most of the area, even while it reshaped and deformed, and in places shrank, in Germany. His superiors would be pleased, he knew, at the former. Yet explanations might be required for the latter, explanations he was by no means looking forward to giving.
“Foolish reptiles. Taking the easy meat and ignoring the looming threat.”
The strangely shaped human servant with the disgusting hair color knocked lightly on the Tir’s door. “Herr Stössel to see you, Herr Tir.”
About time, thought the Darhel.
Günter entered and, without taking a seat, placed a briefcase gently upon the Tir’s desktop. “These are the plans you required, Lord Tir,” Günter said.
The Tir nodded. “These will be useful to our interests. Are they complete?” he asked.
“Sadly, not, mein Herr. Oh, yes, we have gotten most of them. But one group refuses to so much as discuss their orders and intentions with anyone but the chancellor. And the chancellor refuses to discuss them with anyone at all.”
“Those ancient warriors? The ones you call the SS?”
Günter’s face twisted into a sneer. “Yes, them,” he answered. “They are out of control.”
The sneer disappeared momentarily as Günter wondered at that. He had been so sure, so utterly certain, that the military mindset had had any forms of disobedience driven from it. After all, hadn’t the Bundeswehr rolled over for restrictions guaranteed and intended to be insulting beyond the endurance of mortal man? Oh, well. Perhaps they are not “soldiers like other soldiers,” after all, as they claimed to be. They must be the madmen I have always considered them to be. Mad dogs, to be put down.
“They are also out of… oversight,” observed the Tir. “With every other part of your force we have no trouble eavesdropping. But these SS refuse to so much as let one of our AIDs near them.”
Günter agreed, “They are as out of step with technology as they are out of step socially. Even their colleagues in the regular Bundeswehr shake their heads with wonder. These old men think so much alike they barely even use their radios.”
“And I have no idea what they are doing,” the Tir cursed.
Interlude
Athenalras cursed. He cursed the humans and their damned cowardly ways of fighting. He cursed the fetid grass and disgusting trees of this world, “Blech, what a disgusting color, green? Red, brown, blue. Those I could understand. But green?”
Mostly, though, he cursed the Aldenata, those sticky-fingered players at godhood whose meddling had driven the People to one disgusting world after another. “Mindless, arrogant, self-righteous,” he muttered. “Stupid, vain and foolish…”
Athenalras heard a faint coughlike sound, though coming as it did from a Posleen throat no human would have found it to be terribly coughlike. More like the hacking of a bird disgorging digestive stones, it was.
“My lord?” interrupted Ro’moloristen.
“What is it, puppy?” growled the senior, reaching forth a finger and pressing a button. In his view-screen a tall, spindly, four-legged metal tower with no obvious purpose began to waver and then melt. Athenalras grunted satisfaction; yet another example of the natives’ nauseating sense of aesthetics sent to perdition.
“Reports here in the human province of France are most favorable. Our rear, in Spain, is almost secure. On the other side, Poland is putting up a spirited resistance, but there is no doubt it will fall completely… and very soon.”
“Good,” hissed the warleader. “And how goes it for our little selective breeding program in the center?”
“A mixed bag,” answered Ro’moloristen, equivocally. In truth, he did not know for a certainty whether Athenalras meant progress in conquest or progress in eliminating stupid underlings. The junior God King thought it entirely possible his chief meant both.
Chapter 7
So far, the lines had held, and held well. Though a glance at the red-spotted map in Mühlenkampf’s headquarters might make it appear to the unlettered observer that Germany was on its way to being overrun, that appearance would have been false. Ingolstadt’s infestation was contained. The Bavarian Panzer Korps, with the aid of two Korps of fairly good mountain infantry, was reducing the landing at Tübingen.
At Meissen, Schwerin, Nienburg, and Guemmersbach the question would remain somewhat open until the two panzer Korps at Ingolstadt and the one at Tübingen could finish off the remnants of the Posleen, reorganize and move to reinforce the others. Yet the men at those places were still holding.
The only really bad news was at the northern Bavarian town of Aschaffenburg, which had seen all her citizens erased, along with the better part of a Korps of infantry. All that stood in the way of the Posleen victors of that slaughter were some much-despised relics of a half-forgotten war — those, and the young men they had been allowed to contaminate with out-of-date views of the world…
Hammelburg, Germany, 29 March 2007
“Sixty-seven landers just over the horizon, heading this way,” announced Brasche’s 1c, or intelligence officer, from the station where he did dual duty as that and as close-in defense gunner.
“What kind?” Brasche demanded.