by John Ringo
"Holy Christ," muttered the gunner.
"Christ, holy or otherwise, has nothing to do with it, boy," answered Brasche. "Gunner!" he ordered, "Sabot! DU, inert. Lamprey!"
To Anna's right and left, other panzers spit out destruction even as Schultz searched in his sight for his next victim.
* * *
Seven khaki-clad bodies lay upon the trail behind him. Seven times had Hans' knife swept and the red blood splashed. And still young Brasche pursued. There was an eighth victim ahead, even a ninetieth if the strength of his arm held out.
* * *
"I don't understand this," said Harz. "We are slaughtering them from behind like so many deer. They have to notice us. Why haven't they reacted?"
"It isn't a question of what is there to be seen. I have seen the reports on the Posleen ships myself," Brasche answered. "They can see us. Absolutely, they can. Their ships' sensors are more than capable of that."
"Then what, Herr Oberst?" queried Harz.
"We're here to be seen, Unteroffizier. But they just are concentrating on other threats and opportunities elsewhere. To their front, specifically. And even if one has seen us? They do not communicate or coordinate very well."
In Hans' view another dim shape, a C-Dec he was certain, began to materialize. "Gunner! Sabot! DU-AM . . . point one kiloton. C-Dec!"
"Target!"
"Feuer!"
* * *
Marburg an der Lahn, Germany
29 March 2007
Friedenhof ran, his lungs straining at the bitter cold air. Snow swirled around everywhere, everywhere blotting out sight. No matter, young Pieter's eyes were fixed on the barely perceived snow-covered ground to his front. His own beating footsteps and the pounding of his own blood in his ears drowned out the sounds of massacre coming from behind. They drowned out, too, the soft padding of alien claws on the snow-covered ground behind him. Friedenhof missed completely the hiss of a boma blade being drawn. He had no clue of its descent.
Even the fall of his dismembered body was softened and hushed by the new fallen snow. Pieter never heard.
* * *
In the awkward confines of his command ship Fulungsteeriot rejoiced aloud, his followers baying around him. That for Athenalras and his sacrifice mission into the center of this continent. The thresh, these dreaded gray-clad thresh, were in a pure panic, running hither and yon. Briefly, Fulungsteeriot knew a moment of regret; the more they ran the less food they could provide his host.
But—never mind! The thresh-filled town of Giessen lay ahead; a town, he was sure, swarming with young and tender flesh. The host would eat well, this day . . . and for many days yet to come.
Interlude
Ro'moloristen looked out upon a scene from hell, though to him it seemed no more hellish than would a slaughterhouse to a human. From every direction, humans had been herded here, to the vicinity of Athenalras' command ship, to serve as a larder. Like a slaughterhouse too, this group of humans was being efficiently and ruthlessly processed for food.
He watched as a human—a female he thought, based on the curious bumps on the creature's chest—had her nestling torn from her arms. The human emitted an incomprehensible wailing shriek as the nestling was first beheaded, then sliced into six pieces.
Incomprehensible, thought the God King. After all, it was only a nestling.
He understood better why the human tried to escape her own end, twisting and fighting. Finally, the Posleen normal grew tired and annoyed of the game. He grabbed the human by the thatch on the top of its head and lopped its legs off. The shrieks briefly grew more intense, then ended suddenly as the normal removed the head.
After that, it seemed that the remaining humans grew much more cooperative, kneeling and bending their heads on the gestured command.
Ro'moloristen noticed that many of the humans uttered the same vocal denial: "This is impossible . . . this can't be happening." He thought it very curious that any sentient creature could deny something which was not only patently possible but was, in fact, happening.
"A most curious species," he muttered, as he turned from the scene of slaughter to return to his post aboard ship.
Chapter 8
Hammelburg, Germany
29 March 2007
Brasche's fingers drummed the arm of his command chair nervously. It had been some time since the last report of a kill or an engagement had come in. "I am curious, 1c. How many have we accounted for?"
The intelligence officer turned from his weapons station to face Brasche. "Herr Oberst, the battalion has taken out forty-nine, so far. But all panzers report the same: there are no more to be found ahead."
Schultz asked aloud, "Do you think they're on to us, Herr Oberst?"
"I don't know, Dieter. But I think that might be the way to bet it."
Brasche considered for a moment, then touched the communication button built into his command chair. "All Tigers," he commanded, "all Tigers. Halt and lager around this position. Number One company, you have from six to ten o'clock. Number Two, ten o'clock to two o'clock. Three, two to six. Two thousand meters between tanks."
All three of Brasche's company commanders answered "Wilco" instantaneously. Brasche was quite gratified to see all three companies begin moving across his tactical display nearly as quickly. And then . . .
The strain in the company commander's voice was palpable, even over the radio. "Battalion this is Number One Company . . . Number one to Battalion. Enemy here . . . Too many to . . . Scheisse, Scheisse, Scheisse!36 . . . Turn this damned tank arou—"
Brasche acted instantly. "All units, action left. Move it boys, Number One company's in trouble."
Without waiting for the order, a cursing Krueger cranked the steering as hard as it would go. With both tracks spinning in opposite directions at nearly top speed the Tiger's turn was almost immediate. Even deep in the crew center the men could hear the high-pitched squealing of tortured tread. A few muttered prayers: Please, God, don't let us throw a track.
The sudden turn tossed Harz from his seat to the metal floor and then bounced him across the deck. He gave off a painful grunt as the turn slammed him into the opposite side of the crew compartment. Harz managed to rise to his knees just in time for Krueger's next maneuver, the sudden launching of the tank forward in its new direction. This sent him rolling to the rear.
Brasche looked down to where a stunned Harz had come to a bruising rest against the podium on which sat the command chair.
"Back to your station, Harz."
Shaking his head to clear it, Harz—still on hands and knees—began working his way back to his duty position. As he reached it the radio crackled again.
The voice on the radio was preternaturally calm, "Battalion this is Leutnant Schiffer. Tiger 104—and presumably Hauptmann Wohl and his crew—are dead. I have assumed command."
"What happened to Wohl, Schiffer?" asked Brasche, then, on second thought, "Never mind, tell me later. What is your condition?"
"Sir, I have three functional Tigers and about twelve to eighteen enemy ships trying to kill us. Visibility is rotten, even with the thermals. Every Tiger has taken at least one hit. The frontal armor is holding up well. The commander's tank was hit in the rear with some kind of kinetic energy weapon. That immobilized it and the enemy were able to gang up and pound it to scrap."
Hans Brasche's mind drew a picture for him of one of his Tigers, helpless, while a force of the aliens' landers took their time with taking it apart piece by piece.
Schiffer continued, "If they hadn't stopped to finish off 104 they might well have gotten us all."
Unseen by Schiffer, Hans nodded. He had seen such things before.
"I have the company facing the enemy and driving backwards towards you, Herr Oberst, but the enemy is damnably hard to engage in this weather when they know we are here. They are able to sense us, it seems, from further than we can sense them. If it weren't for the quality of the frontal armor we'd all be dead by now."
"G
ood lad, Schiffer," Brasche answered. "We're coming for you, son."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But, sir? You had better hurry."
* * *
Giessen, Germany
29 March 2007
Fulungsteeriot rejoiced, "Onward my warriors. Hurry my children, lest the thresh escape."
Like a yellow wave, broad and thick, the Posleen host lapped around the rock of Giessen, surrounding it. Occasionally a Posleen normal, or even a God King, would fall—the thresh trying their futile best to hold back the tide. Yet the wave diminished not at all. Soon, Giessen would be surrounded by the tide . . . and then the tide would come in . . . and the thresh drown in it.
Off to the south, along a road choked with escaping thresh, Fulungsteeriot observed with detachment the panic as the first of his warriors reached the crawling herd in their strange and primitive wheeled vehicles. The rendering soon began.
There was no time for an orderly butchering; the normals slaughtered the thresh as soon as they could reach them. The primitive vehicles were sliced open by boma blades to expose the rich flesh within. Amidst shrieks and plaintive pleas the thresh those vehicles contained were hauled forth, sometimes in pieces. Of those pulled out whole, a simple sweep of a blade ended their cries. Death for these thresh was sufficient for now; later others would do the detailed work.
Some thresh escaped, of course. Using the time unwillingly purchased by their brethren falling under the Posleen's swords, these ran for their lives in stark terror across the snowy field to the east.
* * *
Gudrun saw a blade slice through the roof of the car in which she and her family had sought escape from the doom encircling the town. The blade passed through her wide-eyed, screaming mother from crown to hips before being withdrawn. Though the mother's screams abruptly ceased, the sight of her separating neatly into two pieces, lengthwise, accompanied by a veritable wave of crimson brought forth an animal shriek from Gudrun. Then, as the iron smell of her own mother's flooding blood assaulted her nostrils, instinct took over. She could not fight this; she must flee.
Indeed, Gudrun's swearing father ordered her to run as he himself drew a large-bore pistol and fired two shots past the mother's corpse into the Posleen mass. Gudrun never saw whether he hit anything or not.
The girl's hand fumbled with the door release. The father fired several more times at the nearest Posleen; the roar of the shots both hurting her ears and lending urgency to her actions. The door flung open, Gudrun sprang from her seat behind her father and fled, coatless. Safety lay, if anywhere, across the snow-covered field. As she fled, the screams behind her arose to a heartrending crescendo, then rapidly grew fainter and fewer. She heard no more shots. This only served to spur her flashing feet.
* * *
East of Paris, France
29 March 2007
Isabelle fled mindlessly, driving the family auto in a dream-state. Better said, she drove through a nightmare and dreamt of a time it might be over.
She had waited for a day or more, eyes fixed to the television, hoping to discover from the news some route of escape for herself and her boys. In that time two things had been made clear. The first was that the old line of fortresses to the east, the ones facing Germany and misdubbed the "Maginot Line," were holding out well for the nonce, and butchering the invaders in the process. The second was that the French Army was holding open, however tenuously, an escape route from Paris to the east.
Sound carried poorly through the densely falling snow. Light was diffused. Nonetheless, so intense was the fighting some miles to either side of the road on which Isabelle drove that some must leak through.
Some even leaked through a brain gone on autopilot with terror. She kept her foot on the accelerator, moving as fast as snow and the traffic would permit.
* * *
Hammelburg, Germany
29 March 2007
"Spur it, son, spur it," whispered Brasche to the distant, unhearing, Schiffer.
Another Tiger, number 102, had gone down; first immobilized by an unlucky hit then pounded to scrap by the mass fire of nine C-Decs. Schiffer was bounding backwards with the remaining pair, himself holding stationary and firing at the dimly sensed enemy while the other Tiger moved back to reinforcement and relative safety, then switching over.
Brasche's 1a, or operations officer, pointed out, "There is a ridge, between us and Number One Company, Herr Oberst. I was just thinking . . ."
Hans thought about it, looking at the tactical display, his mind measuring distances and interpolating times. "Yes. Yes, Major . . . it has possibilities."
* * *
Thirteen had been Brasche's unlucky number. His arms grown tired, he missed a kidney. The Vietminh had managed to call out to his comrades, once, before the crimson river spilled to the ground. Hans soon found himself running from a fusillade of ill-aimed shots.
The number of shots suggested to Hans that his pursuers numbered no more than twenty, the original number his squad of legionnaires had expected to ambush. A thought grew.
* * *
"Schiffer, how goes it?"
"Tight, Herr Oberst. The enemy presses us . . . but I have lost no more tanks."
"Very good, Leutnant. Do you see the ridge about three kilometers behind you?"
"Yes, Herr Oberst. I was hoping to get a moment's shelter behind it."
Unseen, Brasche shook his head. "I want you to go right on past it and keep on going until I summon you. Do you understand?"
"No, sir," answered Schiffer over the radio.
Brasche sighed audibly. "The problem, Leutnant, is that the enemy sensors outrange ours in the snow. But if you can entice them to follow you over to this side of the ridge the rest of the battalion can be waiting, within range of our sensors and sights. I doubt they will sense as well through solid rock as they can through diffuse frozen water. Nine Tiger IIIs, with an element of surprise, can handle that many of the enemy."
"Ah, I see now, sir. How much time do you need to set up on your side of the ridge?"
The 1a answered aloud, "Five minutes, Herr Oberst, no more."
"I heard that, sir," announced Schiffer. "I will gain you that much time."
Seeing that the 1a understood, Hans ordered, "Do it." To Schiffer, via the radio, "Good lad. Five minutes."
* * *
Amidst the shots fired at him, the fleeing Brasche kept up a running monologue, quite a loud one, in the practical language of the Legion of the times—German. Far too many Vietnamese for comfort spoke French.
Puff, puff . . . "Don't answer" . . . Grunt, grunt . . . "They're following me" . . . Pant, pant . . . "About twenty of them" . . . Wheeze . . ."Stand ready" . . . Gasp . . ."Let me through then let them have it when they're in the kill zone." . . . Groan . . ."I'm almost there . . . nicht schiessen."37
With a heart pounding as much from fear as exertion, Hans jumped the first Viet corpse and then sprinted through the kill zone. From behind him came more shots and the chatter of furious, enraged Vietminh fighters. He thought about ducking to the side to rejoin his men but rejected the notion. The Viets had to have a reason to follow, and he thought only a fleeing man, one who had left a trail of throat-slashed corpses along the trail, would serve as reason enough in the jungle gloom.
Hans felt a sudden blow to his back. He never heard the shot that hit him. The shot spun him to the ground. The blow was painful enough, but then came the burning, a fiery agony that inflamed the entire path taken by the bullet. Hans moaned, "Shit, not again." He closed his eyes from the pain.
When he opened them, the Viets had arrived. Precaution thrown to the winds, the little anatomies clustered about Hans. They all apparently wanted to plunge a bayonet into the monster who had hunted their comrades and slaughtered them like pigs.
Beginning to lose consciousness, Hans saw two of the Viets lift high their bayoneted rifles. He braced himself for the coming cold steel.
* * *
Giessen, Germany
29 M
arch 2007
The snow was cold, so cold, under her exhausted body. Gudrun's heart beat within her like that of a trapped rabbit on the approach of the trapper. She had run her race . . . and she had lost. Now she awaited the pot.
And she was trapped, she knew. Though the horrid aliens behind her pursued in only desultory fashion, the other arm of the pinching Posleen impi was before her, stretching as far as the eye could see in the still falling snow. Even though the sound was snow-muffled, her ears told her that many more Posleen closed in beyond the range of her view.
Helpless and alone, afraid beyond terror, the girl began to weep softly. The sound of her quiet sobs attracted the attention of a Posleen normal. It approached.
"No . . . please no," Gudrun pleaded. "Please? I have so many reasons to live. Don't hurt me. Don't eat me, please?"
The normal was unmoved. Nothing human could move it. Its needs were simple: food, work within its limited skill set, service to its God. At the moment the greatest need was food. Standing over Gudrun it drew and raised its boma blade.
The girl—innocent, bright, the "battle maiden" who would never hurt a soul—gave off a final scream. "Dieeeterrr!"
* * *
Hammelburg, Germany
29 March 2007
"Steady, Schultz. Steady," intoned Brasche. "Wait for it."
Dieter merely nodded, so intently was his gaze fixed on his sight.
The radio sounded, "Schiffer to battalion."
Hans took a second to review the tactical display. "Brasche here, Schiffer."
"Sir, we are about to ascend the ridge."
"I see that, Schiffer. We are waiting in the woods on the far side, about four kilometers back. Pass through us and hold up about two kilometers behind."
"As you command, Herr Oberst. But it is not going to be easy."
"I understand, son," Brasche answered.
Brasche turned to his 1a. "Take command of the tank for a moment, Major. I am going topside. Krueger hold the engines steady; no acceleration at all."
Not waiting for either the major's or Krueger's acknowledgment, Hans stepped to the elevator that led up to the commander's hatch atop the turret. The elevator whisked him skyward quietly, opening the hatches automatically, as the 1a took over the command chair below.
