Soldiers of Tomorrow: The Winter War

by Michael G. Thomas

  THE WINTER WAR

  By Michael G. Thomas & Nick S. Thomas

  Part of the SOLDIERS OF TOMORROW universe

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2017 Michael G. Thomas & Nick S. Thomas

  Published by Swordworks Books

  The official SOLDIERS OF TOMORROW website:

  www.soldiers-of-tomorrow.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lower Manhattan, New York

  7th February 2018, 8.21am

  The massive Arado E.580 Blitz II tactical bomber flew low and fast as it cleared the skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. The aircraft was an elegant, six-jet, angular flying wing, with remotely operated turrets and capable of intercontinental flight. Two tall rudders extended upwards from each swept-back wingtip. The craft was painted in a light beige and green camouflage pattern, while the movable rudder sections were a contrast dull yellow. The multi-panelled glass nosecone shared much in style with the antiquated Heinkel ‘schnellbomber’ of the 1940s, yet better streamlined; a perfect example of the Reich technology and engineering skills, liveried in the harsh black markings of the dreaded Luftwaffe.

  Behind the great bulk of the Arado E.580, a formation of five Messerschmitt BO 87 Albatross tiltrotor aircraft followed. They flew as fast as their rotors allowed, and swept in low over the horizon, leaving behind white contrails. They were little more than a third the size of the Arado E.580, yet just as deadly. Hauptsturmführer Jack Krosigk rose from his seat and moved to window in the side doors. He had a clear view of the city below him, and he smiled as they roared past the Empire State Building and onwards to the southern end of Central Park. Back home, Krosigk hailed from a long line of career politicians, and though failed to follow in their footsteps, he’d risen through the ranks of the SS to command this airmobile company. He stared down in contempt.

  Just look at all of this. New York could have been among the greatest cities in the Reich. Now…it’s a crime-ridden cesspit.

  The pilots of the five Albatrosses kept a wary eye on the ground, while the gunners used the chin-mounted turrets to track for signs of danger. The Luftwaffe might control the skies, but all it took was a single missile to bring down an aircraft. Jack Krosigk gripped a harness strap tightly as a gust of wind buffeted the fuselage. The aircraft flew closer to the large green area at the centre of Manhattan, and he noted small plumes of black smoke marking the many barricades still held by the rebels.

  “Check your weapons. This is going to be fast and violent.” He smiled to himself in satisfaction.

  Just the way I like it.

  The light weapons of the tilt-rotor aircraft were not as powerful as those of the Messerschmitt, although they carried a fair number of guns, plus stubby wing-mounted rocket launchers. More important was the precious cargo, twenty-four Stoßtruppen of the 80th SS Volunteer Grenadier Division ‘Amerika’ inside each aircraft. The Messerschmitts were designed to fulfil the role of both fixed wing strike aircraft and infantry helicopters. By utilising powerful tilt-rotors they could move fast, yet land vertically in a narrow space to disgorge their soldiers. They were the front-line aircraft of the Waffen SS and took a different approach to combat, compared to the trucks and armoured cars of the Police Division.

  They’d raised the 80th SS in Virginia, but almost half their members were from Europe; men totally fanatical in their devotion and loyalty to the Führer and the Reich. The men were as well trained and equipped as regular assault infantry. Each trooper waited patiently, not one man uttering a word as they waited to reach their destination. The soldiers were held in place by straps over the metal seats, with their personal weapons across their bodies. The Stoßtruppen wore heavy metal helmets with integral faceplates, and long armoured aprons that could defect even the most powerful bullet.

  They watched Krosigk as he addressed them. “Soon, we’ll return New York to its rightful position as the key city of the East Coast.” He spoke with a thick Southern accent. “It’s worth the trip north just to see this place, and I have to hand it to them. The old United States loved its tall buildings!”

  When he looked at them he saw nothing but lines of faceless warriors, each man’s face hidden behind his armoured helmet and mask. Any other man might have been uncomfortable leading such a group, but not him. He’d been born in the Americas, and had welcomed his current role as though born to it. He looked down, and below him the Park slipped away, along with all signs of the fighting that took place several months earlier.

  There it is. Columbus Circle, scene of the infamy.

  He felt annoyed at seeing the damaged buildings, none of which had been repaired since the fighting had started. The assassination of the Deputy Führer was a stain on the reputation and honour of the SS. Jack Krosigk was a loyal American citizen of the Reich, and he intended to show that not all Americans were traitors to the cause. He paused for another second and returned his seat. The young SS-Scharführer opposite spoke loudly to him.

  “The unit is ready, Hauptsturmführer.”

  “Good, very good. It’s time to show these traitors how the 80th fights.”

  “Yessir. We’re no police unit, Hauptsturmführer. We’ll do whatever is necessary.”

  Jack Krosigk grinned; he’d said exactly the right thing.

  “You’re right. Maybe if we’d been there in the first place, this might not have happened.” He shrugged. “What it means is today we right a wrong. If our intelligence is correct, the 80th will strike a hammer blow against these rebels, one from which they will never recover.”

  They watched and waited in silence as they cleared the north of the Park, flew across the Harlem River, and over old Harlem.

  Disgusting place, poverty and hardship. These people need the Reich.

  The engines roared as the two huge rotors cut into the cool morning air. The craft moved fast, leaving a low cloud of dust in their wake as they dropped lower and closed on their target. Krosigk’s attention locked onto a single target, a tall, pale building. The infamous Yankee Stadium. As it grew larger, the smile on his face widened.

  Payback time.

  * * *

  Madison Avenue, Upper Manhattan, New York

  Lisa grinned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  They were rocking up and down as the pickup they travelled in bumped and jarred over the potholes in the road. They were sitting on the wheel arches, clutching their weapons. Two German MG3 ligh
t machine guns were visible over the cab, mounted on a crudely made post bolted to the floor. Woody and Mickey were in another similarly battered pickup truck, driving alongside them. An old Browning .50 calibre heavy machine gun was mounted in their vehicle. They were travelling in full daylight, and the streets teemed with people going about their business. Two vehicles, a panel van, an SUV, and two motorcycles brought up the rear. They occupied two lanes as they thundered down the road, and to anyone who saw them pass; they clearly were on serious business.

  “What feels good?” Ray asked.

  “Turning things around at last. Stepping out from the shadows, and taking back the streets.”

  “We aren’t quite there yet. This is just hit and run.” He grinned back, “But it’s a start.”

  Her grin widened. “That feels good enough to me.”

  He looked around at the posse they were riding with, and cheers rang out as passers-by clapped and whistled. They realised who they were and what they were doing. Not running and hiding because of fear, but openly cheering them on. Two ORPOs were sitting on the bonnet of their cruiser. They looked away as they approached, as if not wanting a confrontation in the face of the approval they were getting from the civilians.

  They pulled onto the Madison Avenue Bridge, and the cold sea air struck their faces. The Bronx lay ahead.

  “So we’re taking the Bronx back?”

  “Operation Hammer, you’re damn right. It’s time to start hitting back. You want to reclaim the streets? Well, this is just the beginning!”

  Water cascaded as the gun turret of Eiserner Gott abruptly rose up to the level of the bridge. Seawater poured from every orifice as the hulking machine climbed out on the north bank to tower over the waterside buildings. People at the end of the bridge stood mesmerized by the monstrous machine, staring and pointing with eyes wide in astonishment. Most clapped and cheered as if their very own superhero had appeared before them.

  Ray heard radio chatter through the open window of the cab, and the driver brought them to a halt at the Bronx bank of the bridge. Eiserner Gott stopped alongside them as they met up.

  “What is it?”

  The passenger on the truck turned to reply; a young black woman with dreadlocks hanging over her shoulders, and a black bandana holding her hair back from her face. Zoey was a hardened Bronx native, wise and tough far beyond her years.

  “We’re getting reports of SS activity in Claremont Village.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  “I’m not sure, but something substantial is going on.”

  “Pass that to me.” Ray pointed to the radio.

  “Marcus, are you hearing this? Over.”

  “Yes.” The reply was stern.

  “Head to the target. We’ll check this out.”

  “What about the mission?”

  “This is the mission. This is what we came here to do. Operation Hammer is a go.”

  He threw the radio back to her and gestured towards the driver. An older, grey-haired man with a salt and pepper beard and weathered face was waiting.

  She gave him a pointed look. “What are you waiting for?”

  “For you to give the word.”

  “Isaac, what the fuck is this? You heard him.”

  “Yes, I did, but I don’t presume to know our orders,” he snarled.

  Zoey sighed and slumped back in her seat. She’d had more than enough.

  “You don’t get it do you?” she muttered.

  “I get more than you know.” His voice was belligerent.

  “Enough! Both of you!” Ray roared.

  They fell silent and waited for him to go on.

  “Our mission is to free the Bronx, and I intend to do just that. If Claremont is where they’re fighting, then that’s where we are going.”

  Lisa stared at him. “What about Yankee Stadium? That was our target.”

  “Marcus is more than capable of handling it. Our target is now Claremont Village. Let’s move!”

  Isaac took his words as a command, and they lurched forward. As they tore away to Claremont, Ray watched Eiserner Gott storm off into the distance. They lost sight of the machine as they went deeper into the urban jungle. Soon, the sound of the machine’s giant steps faded. He suddenly felt lonely without the machine as they made their way towards a new and unknown threat. They needed to be ready for whatever lay ahead, and he climbed up to stand behind the twin guns. Cocked back both the charging handles in readiness.

  From his vantage point, he could look out over Park Avenue. The place was a world apart from Manhattan. Locals hurried to get inside, not just to shelter from the snow and bitter cold, but from the violence they knew was coming. The Bronx belonged to nobody right now. This was a war zone. Two columns of black smoke rose from behind the east side of the street, and he could smell the acrid stench of burning. One could have been an ordinary house fire. Two in the same street was something different. It carried the stench of the SS, and of the foul tasks they carried out under the authority of the Reich.

  The aging tower block apartments of Claremont came into view. A bleak landscape of grey concrete overlaid by a fall of snow. At first glance he saw no sign of trouble, although he knew it couldn’t be far away. He shouted to the men and women of his command.

  “Keep your eyes peeled!”

  They saw nothing obviously wrong up ahead, so Isaac took a right, and immediately they spotted it. An SS truck and a car beside it with SS markings. Troops were scattered around the shadow of a tower. Their purpose wasn’t clear, but it made little difference. The enemy froze when they spotted the heavily armed rebel force appear. They weighed each other up in silence, and the atmosphere crackled with tension.

  Until Mickey shouted, “Die you motherfuckers!”

  He cocked the Browning .50 mounted atop the other pickup and opened fire. The slow cyclic rate of the machine gun chattered and roared. Bullets whined and ricocheted around the apartment blocks. The heavy rounds struck two of the SS, killing them instantly, and tearing holes in the truck as others took cover. Ray squeezed the triggers of the two German machine guns mounted on his truck, and they spat out a hail of bullets.

  Bullets riddled the SS truck as the rebels leapt from their vehicles, taking cover in the buildings. The relentless fire pinned down the enemy troops, who dared not look out as Ray sprayed their position, keeping their heads down to allow his people to deploy. The brutal rate of fire caused the box magazines to run empty in record time. Exposed to the enemy’s return fire, he had no time to reload, so he grabbed his rifle and leapt off the pickup to take cover behind the engine bay.

  Bullets struck the body of the truck. More shots zipped past his head and struck the apartment block behind them. Civilians were rushing for cover as yet more rounds peppered their homes, and Ray felt a twinge of sympathy as screams of agony echoed around the buildings. One man had taken a bullet in the arm, but he looked okay, running for cover as he cradled his bleeding arm.

  The clatter of the Browning .50 stopped, and Ray glanced over the hood of the truck. The .50 calibre had jammed, and Mickey was fighting to free it. Enemy fire smashed into the windshield, but he struggled to free the gun, refusing to move.

  “Get down! Leave it!”

  He wouldn’t listen, and Ray sighed.

  “Impetulant boy,” he growled. He dashed to the rear of the truck, and darted out into open ground. He reached the other vehicle and grabbed Mickey just in time as a bullet impacted the receiver of the gun. He yanked him down behind the vehicle as more bullets hammered into the cab.

  “Thanks.”

  He didn’t sound grateful, but angry at being hauled off the vehicle. Although he knew it had saved his life. Gunfire continued to ring out around them. Ray peered over the truck’s hood to find the source, and a number of SS troops were running. Already, engines were starting past the corner where they were heading. The cruiser started up and pulled away, but a burst of gunfire struck the rear window and tailgate. The vehicle mana
ged to keep moving, disappearing out of sight as more rounds chipped concrete from the corner of the apartment building.

  “You gonna let those sons of bitches get away?” Mickey demanded, his voice a challenge.

  Ray didn’t like the way he’d questioned him, but neither did he relish the idea of them escaping.

  “Like hell, come on!” He leapt back into his truck. Isaac followed him and was behind the wheel an instant later. Lisa jumped in beside him, and Zoey had barely got into her seat when they pulled away. She swayed and almost fell, regained her balance, and quickly slammed the door shut.

  “Hey, what the hell!” she protested.

  “No time to waste. You’re either in or you’re not,” replied Isaac.

  Smoke was now pouring from the engine bay of the other pickup that carried the Browning. Mickey and Woody jumped into the SUV and followed, but Isaac had already got far ahead. He swerved around the corner without considering what lay beyond. Ray held his rifle ready to fire, expecting to need it the moment they took the bend. But they were too late. Ahead of them they watched the damaged SS car and two Skoda Strykers turn a bend and tear off into the distance.

  As they raced in pursuit, he considered the odds they faced. The Stryker was a cab over engine off-road utility vehicle, the standard Reich military light utility. It carried eight men inside a hull that was unarmoured. One Stryker was open-top and the other an enclosed van back. They could take them.

  “Don’t let ‘em get away!” Ray roared.

  He ripped the empty ammo boxes from the machine guns and lifted two new magazines into place. As he locked them into their cradles, the truck hit a pothole, and the vehicle swerved. The sudden movement threw one ammo box from the vehicle, and he held onto the weapons to save him from being thrown out as well.

  “Take it easy, will you!” he shouted at the driver.

  Isaac gave him a fierce glance. “This is no time to take it easy!”

  Ray regained his footing as they increased speed and closed on the three SS vehicles. He looked behind to check they still had support. The SUV was trying to catch up, but the panel van was not there. He pulled the belt from an ammo box and fed it into an MG3, cocked the weapon, and took aim as they closed the fleeing vehicles.