by Brian Parker
“Yes, sir. When do you want to attack?”
He glanced at his watch. It was 1803. He’d recorded the time of sunset on the previous two nights. They had almost three hours before it sunset. “I want both teams in position by 2115. We will attack on my signal.”
The feldwebel saluted awkwardly from his stomach and then crawled away to pass the word to the squads. Gregory stared through his binoculars at the radar dish off to the side once again. There was something he didn’t like about it, but it was only a feeling in his gut. He had no evidence that the dish was anything except another radar. Finally, he dismissed the machine. He had to help plan the two-pronged attack on the launch facility and the observation post.
The time passed slowly until nightfall and the drone was flown three more times, almost exactly at the turn of each hour. The Americans set a pattern that was easy to avoid once they figured it out. The 2100 flight ended and Gregory sent his men into action.
First, the squad of paratroopers bounded to the camouflaged doorway and he watched as the grenadier low-crawled to the door. If the soldiers opened it to engage the main attack, the grenadier would toss a grenade inside the doorway. Then, Feldwebel Anders led the main attack cautiously toward the launch facility.
They were twenty meters from the fence when cleverly disguised floodlights lit up, illuminating the entire platoon. “HALT! You are trespassing on US Air Force property. In accordance with the US Department of Defense Directive 5210.56, use of deadly force is authorized. Please back away slowly.”
Gregory cursed. He didn’t know what the voice from the speakers said, but he understood the tone and the intent. They’d been compromised. Anders didn’t hesitate more than a moment before his voice range out into the night, ordering the platoon to shoot out the lights.
The fallschirmjägers began firing at the floodlights, filling the valley with the sound of automatic weapons. Gregory swung his binoculars toward the squad at the observation post. Nothing was happening there.
An alarm of some kind began to sound from the launch facility and a light began to flash near the strange radar dish. “This is your final warning. We will begin firing in fifteen seconds unless you drop your weapons.”
The words meant nothing to him and his men had knocked out most of the lights. Anders had the platoon moving up, by squad, toward the fence. Then the radar dish rotated, the concaved surface pointed directly at Gregory’s men.
He shouted in alarm, but they were too far away to hear him. The radar was some type of weapon.
New gunfire sounded near his squad at the observation post. Flashes from muzzles out in the scrub brush told him there’d been another hidden door. The drone, as predictable and visible as it had been, was a decoy. The real outpost was in another location. The four men at the drone site were cut down in seconds.
Blood-curdling screams from the paratroopers outside the launch facility tore his eyes away from the decimated squad. The men writhed on the ground, twisting in pain as their bodies contorted into impossible positions. Others clawed at their skin and eyes, ripping large chunks of flesh away in their madness. One man near the edge of the platoon threw down his weapon and ran, stumbling into the night. He was the only survivor as far as Gregory could tell.
It only lasted a few seconds, a minute at most. Then the shrieks of dying men stopped abruptly.
He peered helplessly through his binoculars at the nearest man, still illuminated in the floodlights’ glow. Gregory didn’t know how, but the men had burned alive. Their flesh was shriveled and dry in appearance. The men who’d torn open great gashes in their skin were not covered in blood as one would expect, instead, the meat inside was desiccated, completely dry of fluids.
The Americans hadn’t used flames or burning petrol—it was that radar dish. He knew it instinctively. The dish had emitted an energy that cooked his men from the inside as surely as if they’d been thrown in an oven. It was a terrifying technology that his superiors needed to know about immediately.
He scanned over to the observation post where his smaller element had been ambushed. Camouflaged men walked among them, checking the bodies. They handcuffed two of his men and a medic began bandaging them. He drew his pistol, intent on shooting his brothers so they wouldn’t have to endure torture at the hands of the Americans, but he faltered.
If he shot them, the soldiers would come after him. He’d either die in the ensuing firefight, get captured or commit suicide. All three of those options kept the knowledge of the radar dish weapon from the Wehrmacht commanders. It was imperative that he escape with that information and make his way to someplace where he could establish radio communications with his superiors.
He crammed the pistol back into its holster angrily and threw himself on the ground, pulling the poncho over his body. He’d wait for a few hours until the middle of the night and then make his way eastward. He wept silently to avoid detection by the soldiers only a few hundred meters away.
As he lay in the dirt, Gregory vowed that his men’s death wouldn’t be in vain.
*****
08 July 2025
Rosslyn Metro Station, Arlington, Virginia
Gloria eyed the four men standing near the top of the escalator with apprehension. They didn't appear armed—the Nazis would have never let them live if they openly carried their weapons—but they could have had just about anything concealed under their baggy clothing.
What do they want? she wondered. They’d set themselves up at the top of the stairs, blocking the way.
“Well, well, well. What have we got here?” the shortest one called out.
“A cripple, a fine lookin’ thick white girl, a little brother, and two baby sisters. Peculiar bunch,” one of the thugs wearing a white tank top stated.
“It is a peculiar bunch, Stevie. Where do you fine citizens think you’re going?”
“We’re going home to Dupont Circle, but the bridges are out so we—”
The short one cut her off. “So you need to use our tunnels.”
“They aren’t your tunnels,” James replied.
“Watch it, man. I’ll cut you from ear to ear,” Tank Top warned.
Shorty grabbed his dick through his pants and strutted up to Gloria. “You need to get home and I need to get laid. I see an easy solution to both of our problems.”
“She’s six months pregnant, son. Can’t you—”
“Keep out this, cripple. It’s between me and her,” Shorty said. His eyes flicked over to D’onta and his sisters. “What are you doing with these people, kid?”
Gloria saw the other three drifting closer. They still hadn’t brandished any weapons, but even without them, they’d be able to do serious damage to everyone.
“They’re helping us out. Our apartment building collapsed.” The boy, so strong up until this point, allowed his voice to quiver. “Everybody we know is dead. The hospital just left us in the hallway and Miss Gloria said she’d take us with her. They’re going to get us out of the city, too.”
D’onta’s final sentence made the men laugh. They guffawed like idiots, laughing at the Bransons’ plan to leave the city. “Boy, you ain’t gettin’ past them Nazis,” Shorty said once he’d finally regained his breath. “You’d be better off stayin’ with us here at the Metro than tryin’ to leave the city.”
“We’re going to leave the city with Miss Gloria and Mr. James,” D’onta asserted, stepping forward.
“Calm down, Blood. You ‘bout to get your ass whooped you go steppin’ up like that.” He glanced back at Gloria and James. “I ain’t about to go bangin’ a fat, pregnant lady. Prolly all dried up and gross. What you got to pay the toll?”
“Toll?” Gloria asked. “I don’t have anything except five or six bucks.”
“You ain’t got no wedding ring or jewelry?”
She held up her hands. “I’m too swollen to wear my ring.”
“Mother fucker. You people take the cake.” He made a show of walking away and then turned back to t
hem, thrusting his open hand out. “Give me what you got and we’ll let you pass.”
“I—” Gloria chose to shut her mouth and pulled her wallet from the pocket of her maternity pants. She opened it and Shorty snatched it from her hand. “Hey!”
“Shut up, bitch. I’ma just see if you’re hiding anything. You’ll get the rest back.”
He opened it up and the flap with her military ID fell out. Shorty looked at it, then looked at her and back at the ID. “You a lieutenant colonel in the Army?”
“Yes,” she answered warily.
“What are you doing to fight the Nazis?”
“I—we,” she amended, pointing to James, “—have information about where their base is. We worked on this project for years after the attack in Florida. James got injured in the attack on the 4th of July, so we weren’t able to get the information to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs before we got stranded here. That’s why we need to make it out of the city.”
Shorty closed the wallet and handed it back to her intact. “I got out the Navy two years ago, ma’am. You really know something about how to stop the Nazis?”
She nodded. “Yes. I have some files in our apartment. We’re going to get clothes and make a run south through Anacostia and go to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where the Army’s Forces Command is located. They will put us in contact with whomever the new president is.”
He gestured at the other thugs. “You three, help get this wheelchair down the stairs.”
“Thank you,” she muttered, overwhelmed by the sudden change.
“I don’t know how you gonna get back up on the other side though.”
“We’ll figure something out. This is… You’re a true patriot.”
“Nah, I just don’t want those Nazis around. They bad for business, y’know?”
The men initially tried to have the wheelchair roll backward down the escalator, but James’ cries of pain made them alter their plans and they ended up carrying him the rest of the way down.
Including rest breaks, it took ten minutes to get the chair onto the platform. Stevie, who’d been one of the men supporting the weight from the bottom, was glistening with sweat by the time the move was over.
An abandoned Metro train sat on the tracks, all the doors open. In the dim lighting, she could see several people sitting inside. Shorty was already down there and walked up to them, handing her a flashlight.
“Thank you,” Gloria repeated. “I don’t know how we would have done it without you.”
“We got you, ma’am,” Shorty replied. He pointed down the tunnel. “That way is downtown. Stay on the little sidewalk beside the tracks and don’t go down into the tracks—the third rail is still electrified. Try not to use the flashlight much, the emergency lighting should be enough once your eyes get used to the darkness.”
She nodded, more grateful than she could express. “If you run into anyone, tell ’em that you’re under Psycho Shane’s protection. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Go on, get that information to the Army,” he said. “Good luck.”
She pushed James’ wheelchair toward the end of the tiled platform and onto a concrete pathway that stretched into the darkness beside the tracks. Here goes nothing.
FIFTEEN
11 July 2025
Richmond International Airport, Richmond, Virginia
“That’s the last of ’em, sir. We can expect an Engineer company from the 1st Cavalry Division to replace us within two hours.”
“Finally,” Gabe muttered, cramming his hard, plastic spoon into the MRE pouch.
Berserker Company had spent the last six days as a combination of airport security and reception element for the 3rd Infantry Division’s combat brigades. The units rolled off their transport planes and headed north, directly into battle. There’d been fights only sixty miles away in Fredericksburg, but Gabe Murdock’s company hadn’t been able to get in on anything.
Now it was Berserker’s turn. They were being replaced so the Army could fly in a new division’s equipment. The 1st Cavalry Division would secure the airport for themselves, which meant Gabe’s company was free to return to their brigade. The problem was the company’s entire fleet of troop-carrying trucks was down for maintenance back in Georgia, so they only had four Humvees for one-hundred and fourteen soldiers.
“Any update on transportation?” Gabe asked, giving voice to his thoughts.
The first sergeant grinned and ran his fingers along his scalp through close-cropped hair. “You’re not gonna believe how we’re getting to battle, sir.”
“What did Diego dig up?”
“Two yellow school buses, five pick-up trucks and eight cars ranging from a little Ford Focus up to a Lincoln Town Car.”
He laughed. “Where the hell did he get those things?”
“Oh, you know,” the First Sergeant Thomas replied. “Good supply sergeants have a knack for finding things and figuring out how to use them for the company’s advantage.”
“Anything illegal?”
“Nothing you need to know about, sir,” the older man winked.
Gabe let that part go. Being a good commander was knowing when to let NCO business stay NCO business and when to assert his authority. This wasn’t one of those times. The company needed to go about eighty miles and the Army only gave them four Humvees to do it, so First Sergeant Thomas and Sergeant Diego helped to correct the problem.
He tried to do the math in his head, but came up with nothing useful. “That’s enough seats for everyone?”
The first sergeant grunted in acknowledgement. “We can hold about forty-four soldiers per bus with no equipment, or less, with equipment. The trucks can hold between ten and twenty in the cabs, just depends on how close everyone wants to get, plus all the room in the back can have gear from the men on the buses. The cars will hold four each, with gear in the trunk or on the seat, so that’s what, another thirty-two? And then our four Humvees hold eight more, plus gear. We’re good, sir.”
Gabe nodded his head and replied, “Get the men ready to go, First Sergeant. I want the platoon leaders and platoon sergeants here at my truck in one hour for a route brief. That’s a lot of moving pieces for one convoy.”
“Roger, sir.”
He watched his company first sergeant stalk off to finalize the preparations for movement. The commander didn’t need to worry about his soldiers having enough ammunition, food or water; that would be taken care of. What he needed to worry about was that an enemy fighter jet didn’t wipe them out as they convoyed to the brigade area of operations in and around the Naval Surface Warfare Center in Dahlgren.
Gabe gathered the rest of his MRE trash off the hood of his command vehicle and tossed it in a garbage can before sitting in the passenger seat of the Humvee. He pressed the power button on his Blue Force Tracker, BFT for short, and the position of all known American forces populated on the display. He zoomed in on the area just northeast of his current position. The brigade headquarters was located near the southern shore of the Potomac River. Their mission was to block the Nazis from moving out of the DC area by escaping through southern Maryland.
According to the map, the most direct route would have been by going up the 301, but Gabe didn’t want to risk it. Just one bored German pilot could ruin their day. The best route would be to take 360 northeast and cross the Rappahannock River, then shoot up Virginia Route 3, connect with the 218 and take that on into to the brigade AO. It added about an hour to the two-hour trip, but was likely less noticeable. Then again, wouldn’t they run into the same potential problem doing that? All it took was one jet to notice the column.
He waffled in his mind, going back and forth several times before finally deciding he’d split his company. The decision went against everything he’d learned as an infantryman. He could hear his old Ranger Instructor, Sergeant First Class Faison, in his head, Dividing your forces ensures that they’ll be defeated piecemeal. If they ran into trouble with enemy troops on
the ground, it would look like a bad decision in hindsight.
The risk of a single column was too great, though. The first sergeant would lead one group across the river on which Gabe assessed to be the safer route, and he’d lead the other. To preserve combat power in the case of an attack, each group would get a bus and a couple of trucks and Humvees to carry gear. The cars would be split evenly, with four for each group.
Gabe sent a few messages to the battle captains and the battalion operations officer to tell them his plan. The S-3 approved his decision to split his forces, saying there’d been several overflights by the Nazi flying saucers, which caused the brigade headquarters and the various subordinate battalion headquarters to relocate into hardstand buildings. It was only a matter of time before they got tired of scouting and began strafing American positions.
He updated his anticipated arrival time so the order could go out to the men on the line not to shoot them when they pulled up and then powered off the BFT. The damn thing drew a ton of juice when the vehicle wasn’t running. Twenty minutes on it and the Humvee battery would be dead.
To pass the time, he broke down his pistol and cleaned it, then did the same with his M4 carbine. He wanted to make sure that they were ready to go if they got into a scrape along the way.
A shadow darkened his window and he looked up to see First Sergeant Thomas. “Hey, sir. The gang’s all here.”
“Oh, the time got away from me,” he lied, quickly reassembling his rifle.
The brief only took eight minutes, including questions. His platoon and squad leadership had all worked together and deployed to Africa last summer before he was in the unit. They knew each other and were consummate professionals, likely having already done a map recon themselves before coming to his truck.
“Alright, Berserkers,” he said. “I want to be ready to roll the moment that First Cav bird hits the ground. I’ll talk with their commander and show him the security points. We aren’t gonna get any action just sitting around here with our thumbs up our ass.”
“Go,” the first sergeant grumbled, lifting both arms from his side toward the air in a shooing motion. “Get to your positions. Consolidate all your gear, don’t leave any sensitive items behind or I’ll have your asses.”
