Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1

by Doug Dandridge

  Just our damned luck that the continent is about to go to war, thought the half African American, half German guitar player that many were comparing to Jimi Hendrix. He could never see the comparison himself. Steve Howe had been his favorite growing up, and he had loved the comparisons of his band with old Yes. They only needed a Wakeman class keyboard player and they would have the sound he wanted.

  The crowd was getting into the music now, dancing in place, while flash bulbs went off throughout the Berlin auditorium. The laser light show was also really warming up, beams of light playing patterns over the walls and ceiling.

  Rolling Stone was calling the Tarantulas the next big thing from Europe, and their time seemed to have arrived. But the time of troubles had arrived with it, and Dirk expected the planet to go up in a nuclear fireball any day. Of course I could have gone back to the States, he thought as he unconsciously played the lead riffs to the song. He had dual German-American citizenship, which made him welcome in both nations. He had served his time in the U S Army, wanting to see more of the world than the Bundeswehr offered. His father had been proud of his son serving, and had been disappointed when Dirk left the service after one tour of duty. He had thought about attending school in America. But he had a deep love for his mother’s country, and decided to come back to form his band here.

  He had to concentrate now, as it was improvisation time. Time to think about his playing, and mesh it with that of the others that he knew so well. This was the tight music that made his band stand out among all the rest. The ability that was going to make them superstars around the world, and not just in German.

  Dirk smiled at his other guitar player as that man followed his riff with a complimentary one. Peter flashed a smile back, then nodded his head at a quartet of beautiful frauliens in the front row. Dirk smiled at the girls and nodded. He thought of how nice it would be to have some company after the show, especially since he had broken up with Gundar over a week ago.

  The band played for two whole hours, wanting to give this loyal following a show they would remember, and give them something to make them forget about this troubled time. Then they gave an hour encore, the band playing their asses off. Tomorrow they would be in Munich, and maybe a little safer than Berlin. Or maybe not, thought Dirk as he walked off the stage waving to the adoring fans. He wondered not for the first time is anywhere in the world was really safe.

  Chapter Two

  Private First Class Salvatore Maritoni had plenty to worry about, even if it wasn’t as much as the brass was sweating. He had never expected to be in a shooting war when he had joined the U S Army. He had expected to maybe see some of the world, interact with people different from those at home, and get a free education out of it. After all, the mess in the Middle East was more or less over, and the Western powers had gotten sensible and hired mercenary outfits to handle the needed security. Instead the rifleman with Company B, 1st Battalion, Third Brigade, 1st U S Armored Division, was sitting in a bunker manning a light machine gun. While his Striker Light APC sat under camouflage netting twenty meters away, under a stand of trees.

  I don’t even get a heavy APC to hide in, he thought. Old Ironsides was no longer a total heavy division like the Third AD. It still boasted heavy tanks, but it had been thought that the lighter APCs would reduce its transportation footprint enough to let it be moved to any trouble spot rapidly. The tungsten carbide armor was just as tough as the same material on the Brad IIs and the Abrams’, which had both been stripped of the slightly better depleted uranium by the past green administrations. It just wasn’t thick enough to protect Mama Maritoni’s boy’s hide in his opinion. Especially if tactical nukes started going off in the neighborhood.

  “You doing OK, Private?” said Sergeant Jackson as he crouched to look into the back entrance to the bunker. His eyes shone out of a coal black face while he looked at the Private.

  “As good as can be, Sarge,” said Maritoni. “Haven’t seen any Russian commandoes yet, out here in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from the Polish-Ukrainian border.”

  “Don’t expect you will either,” said the Sergeant with a laugh. “But stay alert for our own officers. They, for some reason, want us to be ready for instant action. And the only action I expect is a couple of dozen kilotons dropped on our heads.”

  Salvatore shook his head, his almost above regulation hair moving slightly. He was sixth generation American, and did not look much like the son of Italy, with his blond hair and blue eyes. He smiled for a second as he thought about what he was achieving here. The smile turned to a frown as he thought about a bright burst of light overhead, the blast that would obliterate his bunker, and the wave of heat that would put an end to him if the blast didn’t.

  * * *

  Leutnant Franz Sturgil stood in the hatch of his Leopard 2A9 and called down to his crew members.

  “Come on Hanz, Joseph,” he yelled over the high rumble of the engines. His gunner and assistant gunner waved their hands and ran over to the tank, clambering over the skirts and onto the hull. Within seconds they were in their places in the seventy ton monster, their helmets plugged into the intercom.

  “Forward, Rudolph,” he ordered the driver over the intercom, then switched to the platoon net to talk to the commanders of the other three tanks in his unit.

  “We’ve been ordered to road march to the Polish Border, men,” he said over the circuit while he watched the Brandenburg countryside begin to roll by. The roads were good, and the tanks ahead of his, First and Second Platoons, as well as the command tank of Company 1, First Battalion, First Brigade, Fourth Panzergenadier Division, were not throwing up much dust. And the morning breeze was taking the thin turbine exhaust away before it could work on his lungs.

  “And then, sir?” asked the commander of the number three tank, Feldweble Grosser. “Are we going to the front to face down Ivan?”

  The Leutnant frowned at the tone in the tank commander’s voice. The yearning for the glory of combat. He himself did not want to fight. He knew the Russians were tough customers, even if NATO outmatched their technology. They didn’t even really have the numbers anymore. The Western nations had more troops and vehicles in the field, and more aircraft on the runways. But it would still be damned bloody if they did come to blows.

  “I don’t know, Feldwebel,” said Sturgil, watching a pair of Euro-fighters sweep over the horizon heading east. “We will do as we are told. But right now we are just shifting our position a little, because those in charge have decided that we must do so.”

  There was laughter over the circuit as the three other tank commanders saw the humor of his pronouncement. Initiative had always been a prized asset in the German Army. But orders from above were orders from above, and were not to be questioned. Until one was in a position where orders from above were not available.

  * * *

  The voices were getting worse and James Drake was not sure what to do about them. He knew he needed his medication to be increased. But his dissertation committee was meeting tomorrow, and the Risperdal always left him feeling stupid. Not something he needed when he would be discussing theoretical physics with the faculty of the Technical University of Munich.

  I wish I were home, he thought, trying to concentrate on the newscast coming in from the BBC on his cable. Things were going to hell in the world and here he was in Central Europe, where things looked to be going to hell faster than most places.

  “And they will be going to hell with or without you,” said the strong voice in his head. “Today will bring a new world to you. One in which your disease will become your power.”

  Damned Schizophrenia, he thought, trying to force the voice from his head. Why did he have to suffer with this disease? He, who had one of the great young minds in his field. Of course he could take medication to get rid of the voices. He had done it before, but it clouded his mind to the point where he couldn’t process the math he needed to work in his field. But the voices were getting stronger, an
d he might have to choose between cloudy mind or eventual hospitalization.

  Neither one, said the strong voice in his head. You will see, young Mage. Neither one.

  Young Mage? he thought. What the hell did that mean? Mage, like in wizard or magician. He didn't believe in such. He believed in physics and the physical sciences. And he believed in the disease model of modern medicine. And if the voices kept it up in his head he would have to avail himself of that medicine, and soon.

  * * *

  First Lieutenant Jacquelyn Jackie Smith would have been happier to be at home as well. A graduate of West Point, the light skinned African American woman was a striking beauty who enjoyed turning the heads of the German men. The only German men she was around now were members of their army, who were too preoccupied to pay her much attention, with their country on the brink of destruction. Her mind was also somewhat preoccupied with keeping the CO of the First Brigade, 4th Panzergrenadier Division, in the loop of the U S III Corps.

  That division and one other had been assigned to fight as a Corps unit with the American Corps if it came to running into Poland to face the Russian Horde. She would rather have been with an American unit, but her command of the local language had made her a natural pick for liaison officer. Of course her command of French, Spanish and Russian would have made her a pick for many positions. Languages came easily to her. Hell, everything came easily to her, so that she graduated first in her class. And one of the best athletes to ever attend the Academy, lettering in men’s, not women’s, track and field, fencing, and judo.

  Oberst Walther Wittman sneezed again while he looked over the map that projected his brigade's intended march through Poland. His eyes were running from either allergies or a virus, and the man was obviously not at his best. He looked over at the American officer and smiled.

  “I am so sorry, Fraulein Leutnant,” said the Colonel, rubbing at his watering eyes. “I hope it is nothing you catch from me.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said Jackson, smiling back. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

  Which is really strange, she thought, her mind drifting back for a second. Even as a small child she had not gotten any of the maladies that hit the children around her. She didn’t know what a cold felt like. The chemical training agents also hadn’t affected her as much as they had her colleagues in officer boot.

  “I know you would rather have had an infantry command,” said the Colonel, rubbing his nose with a cloth.

  Jackson reached up with one hand and fingered the crossed rifles on one of her collar tabs. That as much as the jump wings and Ranger tab should have told the world that she was a combat officer first and a woman second. But even in the middle of the third decade of the twenty-first century some people didn’t tend to agree with that.

  “I serve where I am told to serve, sir,” said Jacquelyn, trying to keep the anger out of her voice.

  “We’re glad to have you, Leutnant,” said the Colonel. She could tell that he meant what he said, even though his military still kept women out of combat positions. It was still one of the best armies in the world, despite its dearth of recent combat experience.

  Not bad people to fight and die beside, she thought, looking around the command tent. If it came to that.

  * * *

  Senior Feldwebel Johan Schmidt looked up at the snow caps of the Alps while his squad found seats or places to lay down in the Alpine meadow where they had stopped. He remembered when he was a boy, and the mountains had larger caps on them throughout the year. But the slight warming of the Earth had caused the caps to retreat. He wasn’t sure if that was because mankind had heated up the world as some claimed, or whether it was part of the natural climate cycle of the planet as thought by others. But he knew it was a fact that they had changed.

  That was the least of his worries at this time. As a Platoon Sergeant in the 2nd Platoon, Company 3, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Brigade, 3rd Gerbigsjager Division, he was responsible for forty-four other men. And one green as hell officer. And it looked like a World War was approaching fast. They might be in the relative safety of the German Alps right now. But they were sure to go to where the action was when the shit came down, if the action didn’t come to them first.

  “A beautiful day, yes Feldwebel,” said a voice in almost unaccented German from behind. Schmidt turned to find Master Sergeant Paul Baurieth, second in command of an A Team in the U S Fourth Special Forces Group, walking toward him, large mountaineer pack on his back. The German respected the American Special Forces men, who he knew were as tough as any of his mountaineers. They were deployed with the Germans to hone their mountain warfare skills, as it was envisioned that they might lead German resistance from the heights if the Russians did manage to push into Germany through the NATO armored forces. A possibility which the German Sergeant thought was unlikely.

  “Every day in the Alps is gorgeous,” said the Sergeant, holding out his hand and grasping the strong palm of the American. “Your men do well to keep our pace, Master Sergeant.”

  “All my younger guys are tough SOBs,” said the American, looking back at the ten enlisted men and an officer who made up the team. The First Lieutenant led the team on paper of course, but he mostly deferred to the twenty year veteran of special ops who was his team second. He talked with a few of the Senior Sergeants as they found comfortable places to break. “And so are yours,” he continued, looking at the German troops wiping sweat from faces or swigging from canteens.

  “We do this every week,” said the German, shaking his head. “The mountains are our normal highway. To you this is something different, yes?”

  “Different yes,” said the Master Sergeant with a laugh. “A lot more pleasant than the Congo, I would say.”

  Schmidt shuddered as he thought about the tropical jungle. A place he had heard of, but hoped never to have to fight in.

  “You got that right,” said the Green Beret, taking his cue from the German's shaking head. “Lots of heat, terrible bugs, and people who grew up in the terrain shooting at you. I’ll take this clean mountain air any day. Beats the hell out of the cities too. No smog. No noise.”

  “That is what I love about this job as well,” said Schmidt. “And the fact that we haven’t had a war here in almost seventy years. Not that I wouldn’t like some excitement. But not in the homeland.”

  “I hope it continues that way,” said Baurieth, nodding and looking at the contrails of some jets over flying the mountains. “While it would be more pleasant to fight in this country than most of the third world hell holes I’ve been in, I don’t wish that on your people.”

  “Your people as well, Master Sergeant,” said the Feldwebel. “Your name is German after all. And you have the look of the country.”

  “Not for a couple of generations,” said the Master Sergeant, looking the Feldwebel in the eye. “But I know that my grandfather talked about the stories his father told him. And I do love this country, and the people. So I guess I can claim them as adopted countrymen as well.”

  And you will fight hard for them, thought Schmidt. You and your fellow Americans. Which is all that we can ask in this place and time.

  * * *

  Paul Mason-Smyth returned the salutes of the Foresters as he walked toward the command tent. At six foot seven he towered over every other member of the First Battalion, Sherwood Foresters (Mechanized). In fact, the red haired Major was slightly over regulation height for the British Army. But having family connections with the Ministry of Defense, as well graduating first in his class at Sandhurst, removed such hurdles.

  He ducked his head and entered the command tent, coming to attention in front of the battalion commander for a second. The Colonel looked up for a moment and waved the XO to a seat at the table. Paul lowered his tall, heavily muscled frame into the seat, listening to the creaking as it accepted his weight.

  “How are the lads doing, Major?” asked Lt. Colonel Simon Hardessy, looking back up from the map he had to his front
.

  “They’re doing well, sir,” said Mason-Smyth, smiling at the Colonel. “They’re wishing that the waiting would be over with, one way or the other.”

  “Well, we have orders to sit tight,” said the Colonel. “If the Russians come over the border we’re to stay right where we are. The Germans and Americans can rush into Poland, and we’re to backstop them on the Plains of Hanover.”

  “Sounds bloody boring to me,” said the Major, accepting a cup of tea from the command staff steward.

  “You need to get back up onto your white charger at those anachronism things you like to attend, Paul,” said Captain Teddy Whitaker, coming into the tent and giving the men an abbreviated salute.

  “I prefer fighting from the ground,” said the Major with a grin. “I’m too bloody tall for most horses, and I like the heft of a battle ax.”

  “One or two handed?” asked the Captain, taking a seat on the other side of the Colonel.

  “I use a two handed ax,” said Mason-Smyth, mimicking an overhand smash. “But only with one hand. It’s useful to be able to cover oneself with a shield.”

  “Why bother?” asked the Colonel as another of the company commanders entered the tent.

  “Because, sir, the other fellow is trying to whack me with his weapon while I try to do the same to him.”

  “Not very sporting, what?” said Captain Nathan Lyons as he entered the tent, completing the complement of line company commanders. “You still carrying your panoply with you, Major?”

  “Of course,” said Mason-Smyth to the laughter of the other officers. “Never know when we might run out of ammunition, and I’ll need to whack a few Ivans for the glory of the regiment.”

  The other officers laughed again while Paul thought back to the nagging voice that had directed him to order the armor and weapons in the first place. And to bring them with him to the continent. He had felt stupid at the time, and still felt a bit put out at following internal directives. But he had done it anyway. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.