by Paul Kane
“That’s for what you lot have done to Stacey,” said the driver, hitting the raider again just to make sure he stayed down.
Robert nodded a thanks to the man.
There was an engine gunning off to his right. God, what now? He looked over to see the raider who’d been trailing them all this time, who he’d forced off his bike. The guy looked half dead, practically slumping over the handlebars, but was able to get the bike upright, gun it, and get it going in spite of the damaged front wheel.
Bill was bringing his cannon of a gun to bear, but Robert motioned for him to lower the weapon.
“But he’s getting away,” complained Bill.
“Let him.” Robert’s eyes trailed the lone, injured biker as he made his way up the road, attempting to mount the verge. “We need someone to go back and tell whoever’s running the show. Tell them what happened here. Tell them they can’t get away with what they’re doing anymore.”
Bill shook his head. Shoot first and ask questions later, that was his philosophy. The number of arguments they still had about the use of modern weapons... Robert went over and retrieved his sword from where the biker had left it, after plucking it from the wheel. This was the weaponry of the future; he’d tried to get Bill to see that. Someday, all the bullets and missiles would run out and this is what they’d be left with: swords, bows, arrows. Robert and his Rangers were just getting a head start.
You only had to look at this convoy to see the way things were going: horses and carts mixed in with the trucks. Of course, not everyone wanted to accept that.
“Bill? Was this your idea?” asked the driver of the truck, slapping the baseball bat into the palm of his hand.
“Aye, Mick,” he admitted. “Had to draw them bastards out.”
“So we were bait?”
Bill looked down for a moment, then back up. “I was keeping an eye on things, making sure ye were all safe.”
“You call that safe?” Mick pointed down the road at the truck that had ended up in the crater, the Rangers digging its driver out “Explosions were going off all over the place!”
“Look,” said Robert, cutting in. “Those raiders would have attacked anyway, whether we were here or not.”
“That’s right.” Mary had joined in now, Peacekeeper still trained on her captives. “You’d probably all be dead right now if it wasn’t for us, so maybe a little more gratitude would be nice.”
Robert suppressed a grin. When his wife had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. It was one of the many reasons he loved her so much.
Mick thought about this for a moment. “I suppose when you put it like that... You still could have warned us you suspected an ambush today. And that bloody Rangers were hiding in our cargo.”
“We needed you all to act as naturally as possible,” Robert explained.
“Running scared, you mean?”
“To keep them lot on the back foot,” Bill told him.
Azhar joined them to report – or rather to whisper his report to Bill. The dark-skinned young man didn’t say much, and when he did it wasn’t to an audience. “Ta, lad.”
Robert inclined his head, waiting for the information to be relayed.
“He says the raiders are rounded up – didn’t put up much o’ a fight. Weren’t expectin’ this kind of resistance.”
“Excellent,” said Robert. “And do we have confirmation about who runs their operation? Is it who we suspected?”
Bill said nothing.
“Then let’s find out, shall we?” Mary said. She pushed the barrel of her Peacekeeper into the face of the closest raider, tearing the goggles and breathing mask off. “Who do you work for? C’mon, talk.”
The man shook his head. Mary smiled, then grabbed his privates with her free hand, squeezing. “If I don’t get a name, I’ll just keep twisting until they come off. Understand?”
The raider nodded vigorously.
“So?”
“Th-the Widow.” the raider gasped. Mary let go and the man breathed a sigh of relief.
“I knew it,” said Robert.
“Widow?” asked Mick.
“Someone we’d heard rumours about, but couldn’t confirm the existence of until now,” Robert said. “She’s been gathering troops in Scotland, and by all accounts generally making a nuisance of herself with the local population. That tartan they’re wearing must be her personal calling card.”
“Seems like it’s time the Rangers looked into this Widow character more closely.” Mary said.
“Agreed, especially if we’re to cultivate better links with the Scots, and recruit more local Rangers to help police those territories.”
It was something they were already experimenting with in places like Wales, and even down south. Robert realised he was running the risk of being seen as just as much of a dictator as the men he’d fought against in the past, which was far from the truth. All he wanted was to extend the protection he was offering people in and around Nottingham outwards, across the land. He envisaged local Ranger stations being run by locals. It was the only way to stop people like this Widow from rising to power. And it was the only way to keep invading forces out. If they saw a more unified territory that could fight back, they’d definitely think twice before coming here.
It wasn’t going to be easy, Robert understood that as well, but then it hadn’t been easy getting the Rangers off the ground in the first place. Hadn’t been easy rebuilding what they’d lost when the Tsar had almost brought them to their knees over a year ago. But then, what worthwhile thing was ever easy?
Robert noticed Bill frowning, rubbing his chin. “What is it?”
“Hmmm.” He was looking at the jeep next to them, then at the bikes that had fallen by the wayside during the attack. Bill bent and picked up one of the raider’s pistols.
“Bill?” prompted Robert.
“AGF Serval jeeps, Motorrad motorcycles, Heckler & Koch P8 handguns. And can I see a few MP7 rifles, tucked away in the jeep there?”
“So?” Robert was tempted to add how scary it was that Bill recognised that kind of weaponry and equipment now; his interest in military aviation had extended further over the past couple of years.
“So,” said Bill, “they’re all German issue, Rob. Don’t that strike ye as a bit odd?”
Robert considered Bill’s words for a moment. Was this kind of equipment freely available over here? He didn’t have a clue. But yes, it did seem strange that it should all be German. He didn’t know what that meant just yet, or what connection it had with the Widow’s people, but he intended to find out.
And where to begin was with the prisoners they’d bagged today. Like Mary, the Rangers had them all by the balls.
They’d just twist until someone started talking.
Germany, thought Robert, as he began to give the orders to round up the Widow’s men.
Germany.
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAD WAITED a long time to become the rightful seat of power once more.
Constructed to house the parliament of the German Empire, the Reichstag Building was formerly opened in the late nineteenth century. It existed solely for that purpose until 1933, when a fire – supposedly part of a Communist plot, though some suspect otherwise – ravaged the place, paving the way for new masters to seize control. After the Second World War, the parliament of the Federal Republic of Germany decided to meet in the Bundeshaus in Bonn, but it wasn’t long before the Reichstag Building was made safe again and partially refurbished in the 1960s.
It would take the reunification of this country, though, before the building was itself fully renovated, at last becoming the meeting place of the modern German parliament, the Bundestag.
Then the virus struck.
The parliament itself had been just as helpless as the rest of the world’s politicians. Nations blamed other nations back then, arguments raging while the clever few got themselves to safety and hid away. No-one really knew what happened to them, but they’d
never been seen again. By the time any kind of plan had been agreed on, it was too late. The virus was killing anyone who didn’t have O-Negative blood, and what few safeguards were put in place to try and halt the infection proved ineffectual.
Inevitably, the survivors ran amok. Months, years of anarchy followed – of gangs on the streets of all sizes and allegiances, from small youth groups to much larger and more organised armies. Several attempts were made to take over the entire country, of course: those with lofty ideas looking to Russia for their inspiration, and tales of an all-powerful Tsar – now rumoured to be dead, but quickly replaced to prevent the fall of the system.
There had even been an attempt by a Frenchman called De Falaise, who had, in the end, travelled to England to try his hand there – with just as much success.
Failed; every one of them.
Until he came along.
Loewe patted back his slicked-down hair, taking in the scene from one of the levels of the huge glass dome that sat atop the Reichstag Building. He’d had any cracked glass replaced a long time ago, so it wouldn’t spoil his enjoyment of the 360-degree view of Berlin. Or his enjoyment in watching the troops that he’d amassed outside, along with the many tanks, jeeps, Tiger and NHI NH90 helicopters, Tornado fighter planes, Skorpion minelayers and so on. Not a bad little defensive force from which to move outwards – and upwards.
Not bad, especially for a monumental conman like him.
Loewe began his walk back to the command centre he’d established. “With me!” he snapped, and the two magnificent Alsatians that went everywhere with him dutifully came to heel and trotted alongside. As he walked, Loewe came across various members of his staff, soldiers and military brains alike, nodding to each in turn. All wore the muted grey uniform of his legion, the Army of the New Order: its emblem a variation of the Mursunsydän symbol, overlapping squares in a very familiar shape.
God, not even he’d thought he could pull the trick off, managing to convince those few who still believed in the old doctrines that he was the guiding light of a new force – one which looked simultaneously to the past and the future – when in actuality he didn’t give a shit about their dogma. He wasn’t a neo-Nazi and never would be. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use them to get what he wanted. After all, hadn’t his whole life been a tissue of lies and deception?
From an early age he’d discovered that you could get more by hiding things than coming right out with the truth.
(“Was that you who trailed that mud into the house, Achim?” “No Mütti, I swear. It was the dog.” His mother thrashed that animal to within an inch of its life, while it looked at him accusingly.)
In his teens Loewe found that the more he lied, the more women would fall at his feet. He dumped them when he’d had his fun, usually after he’d taken them for their money. That fun soon ended when he was drafted into the armed forces, though he’d pulled a fast one to make sure he was given light duties; the doctor at his medical taken in by his protestations about his bad back. He had to admit he’d learned a lot during his time in the military, however, like where the real money was. When he eventually left – without permission, naturally – he took a stash of weapons with him and sold them all on the black market. It was enough to fund his escape from Germany, and further operations in Belgium, Switzerland, Hungary and further afield. His reputation, under an assumed name, as an international thief spread throughout the criminal underworld.
He’d stumbled into the world of terrorism quite by accident, after getting involved with a woman called Letty who’d introduced him to her cell: fighters against the injustices of the world.
“So what do you believe in?” he was asked, and he’d told them exactly what they wanted to hear. There was money to be made here, he could smell it. To prove himself, Loewe had to plant a device in the lobby of a certain office building with links to slave labour in the third world. He’d tried to convince them to blackmail the company, but they’d gone ahead and detonated the bomb instead. What a waste. Not of human life, but of an opportunity. And he really hated that.
Once he’d ingratiated himself with the people really pulling the strings, and had got bored with Letty in the bedroom, Loewe planted another device which took out the cell. Then he convinced the organisation that expansion was the key to taking over the world, and to do that they’d need money. “For the cause, you understand,” Loewe insisted – embarking on his schemes to blackmail other businesses, banks; even holding entire towns and cities to ransom. Sometimes he was paid, other times he wasn’t; then, he’d had to follow through, or the next time he’d have no leverage. It didn’t bother him.
Loewe amassed a small fortune in that time. He would have lived comfortably off the profits of his extortion for the rest of his life, had it not been for the small matter of that damned disease. What use was money then? You couldn’t buy yourself out of a bullet in the head, not when the monetary system had collapsed. He didn’t even count himself lucky that he was immune, just cursed whatever gods were up there for taking away his luxuries.
Once again, he’d had to think fast, and talk faster. Because he knew the place better than anywhere else, Loewe had returned home. And it was as he observed the situation there that a plan formed in his mind. It was obvious – and should have been all along – who the most organised groups belonged to in his country. They’d been biding their time, waiting for something like this to occur. But they’d also been waiting for a leader to emerge, someone to bring them all together under one flag, and finally under one roof. Someone like General Loewe, military hero – just check his (forged) records – and bringer of terror to the Motherland’s enemies.
He told his faithful followers, who’d soaked up his fake promises like sponges, that they should take up residence in the place that once raised Hitler to power. It had waited, just as they had, to be put to use again. Not as the home of a democratic parliament, but as their home, their headquarters from which to plan their next move. Indeed, hadn’t Hitler promised there would be a special place for the building in his Welthauptstadt Germania renovation of Berlin after his ‘assured’ victory in World War II: a key structure in his vision of a World Capital, a reward for services rendered? Now they would make good on that promise.
His growing legions had lapped it up, helping him to take the place from those who were already in residence – hopelessly outmatched amateurs playing at being soldiers. The skirmish had lasted less than five hours.
Now his forces owned not only the building, but most of Berlin. And he was working on the rest of Germany; already they had stretched into Hamburg, Magdeburg, Leipzig and Dresden. He might not be as big as the Tsar yet, but it was a start. As with the terrorism, it was all about expansion, which kept not only his troops occupied but also ensured a comfortable standard of living for him. It might not be about money anymore, but he had people at his beck and call. What’s more, he was safe, in a world where that word no longer had much meaning for most people. Loewe knew that any number of his men would willingly give their lives for him; were already doing so out there.
He descended the levels with his dogs, hands behind his back, heading towards the main control centre. Striding inside, he noted the maps on walls with dots on them, the table with a miniature landscape built on top: models of tanks, jeeps and soldiers covering it – everything Loewe imagined a command centre should look like, in fact. He, of all people, knew how important it was to look the part. Men in uniform were busying themselves, some on radios, others looking at the charts and discussing how their plans to take over the country and beyond were going. Because they weren’t a force the size of Russia’s, they couldn’t just invade a country outright. No, they had to play things a bit more subtly. At the moment his Army of the New Order had its fingers in a lot of pies, covert agents in every country you could think of. But Loewe wasn’t doing this to take over the world; rather to take out any other opposition before they came looking for him. It was all about security again. He
’d made himself a target over here, and it was only a matter of time before the Tsar or another warlord came to challenge him. The only thing that had put them off so far was that Loewe talked a good battle, spreading rumours that they were much better armed and equipped then they actually were. That and the fact they were committed fanatics. Nobody would be stupid enough to go after the Nazis unless they absolutely had to, or were completely assured of a victory.
The men all stood to attention when they saw him, and he told them to be at ease. He walked through the area, pretending to be interested, peering at a few maps and nodding. Really, he just wanted to get to his office on the other side. It amused him when the men parted to let his dogs through, standing well back so that they wouldn’t even brush against the dangerous-looking creatures.
Loewe’s spacious office had been furnished to his specifications – lined on one side with books he would never read, on the other with a well stocked bar. A huge oak table had been positioned near the window, with a reclining leather chair behind it and an antique globe of the world not far away, which he would spin whenever he got bored. He had been inside only a few minutes, having just had time to sit down – the dogs taking up positions on either side of the desk – when there was a knock at the door. Loewe spread out papers in front of him and picked one up to study it, before shouting, “Enter!”
It was his second, young Schaefer, who dealt with the day-to-day running of the New Order. Behind those eyes, shielded by thick-rimmed glasses, was a frighteningly large intellect. Loewe was more than happy to let the man deal with organisational matters and supervise military operations, just as long as he was kept in the loop every step of the way. Which was what Schaefer was doing here now.
“I was just about to send for you,” Loewe lied. “I wanted an update on the situation in –”
“Sir, I come with grave news about –”
“Schaefer!” screamed Loewe, sitting bolt upright in his chair. He may only have been pretending to be their leader – and wasn’t really interested in an update on anything at the moment – but if there was one thing Loewe couldn’t stand it was being interrupted. “Never speak before I have finished, is that understood?”
