Soldiers of Tomorrow: Iron Legions

by Michael G. Thomas

  Another day in the great city.

  He moved to the door, waited, and then opened it. The corridor was empty, and the lights off until the sensors detected his presence. He hesitated, wondering whether to chance it without his coat. He could feel the chill entering his modest apartment.

  Coat.

  Without having to look, he removed the long trench coat from the hook to his right, and then left. It was a short walk to the elevator, and in less than a minute, he was at the lobby and heading for the entrance. There was no doorman here. Even on his salary, and with his pension from the Navy, this was still the best he could afford. He walked out to the pavement and paused. There were few trees along the street, and little light penetrated through the tall buildings on either side. This was not the financial centre of Manhattan, but a popular area used by city professionals.

  “Morning.”

  He turned his attention to the two men moving towards him. Unlike the many civilians heading to their various places of work, these two wore uniforms. Marcus might be a civilian, but the Upper East Side ORPOs knew everybody of importance in the area, and Marcus was certainly one of those. He lifted his hand to the brow of his hat and tapped it.

  “Good morning, officers.”

  They marched past him calmly, almost disinterested. Marcus was no threat, and as a native German in the New Reich, he was treated as a man of revered status, even among the New York officialdom. The sirens continued their wail, and a heavily armoured vehicle pulled up alongside the men. An officer shouted to them, and arms reached out to pull them onboard. The markings on the six-wheeled Jackal were New York Schutzpolizei, the front-line police that patrolled throughout the city limits. One man stood out among the rest in his elegant SS uniform.

  “Sturmscharführer! What’s happening?”

  He stared at him and pointed to the building in the distance.

  “Terrorists, Herr Kapitän. Do you wish to assist?”

  Marcus said he didn’t.

  “Very well,” said the man, “Good day to you.”

  With a squeal of rubber, the armoured truck raced off, its siren wailing. The crackle of gunfire had stopped, but he could still make out the gentle thump of the helicopter. Marcus sniffed the air and drew in the cold vapour, mixed with the fumes of motor vehicles and foot vendors. It was a long time since he’d been home, but when he closed his eyes, he could often imagine being back there.

  New York is not as we were promised. They wait, and they wait until the time is right.

  A woman glanced at him. For a second he wondered if she could read his thoughts. He’d lived in Manhattan long enough to see it as his second home, yet even now he felt the foreigner. He had no ill will towards the Americans still living here, but had little desire to be assassinated as a collaborator by the rumoured rebels. The woman looked up, pointing to the sky. The war had ended long before, but no veteran ever forgot the fear of the sky. Images of the invasion beaches returned as fresh as they’d been back in 1997. He’d been there, in command of Eiserner Gott with the rest of his crew. They’d been one of many landships moving ashore, leading the Kriegsmarine regiments into battle. At their rear came the ships, some of which dated back to the Fall of France, over fifty years earlier. The heavy shells had hit the British defences, pulverising the concrete and anybody sheltering within. But it was above them that had brought real death.

  The sky, always the sky.

  The British knew it was over, yet the few remaining jets moved in fast to attack them. The Avro 730 Vengeance bombers were a work of art, long hulled craft shaped like a needle, with short stubby wings, devastatingly powerful engines, and small canard wings near the nose. They’d come in under radar and at speeds surpassing 3000 kmh. The rockets and bombs had killed so many of his comrades, even destroying two of the smaller landships before they could move off the beaches.

  Marcus blinked and watched the contrails as the civilian jetliner accelerated away. There were many similarities with the craft of the past, with the needle like hulls and short wings. Yet it was the engines that brought it back. When he lowered his eyes, he was surprised to see a long black staff car stop in front of him. Two men in long, dark green coats clambered out and then moved to the door.

  What’s going on?

  A third exited the vehicle, took three steps, and stopped in front of him. He was tall, overweight, and completely out of his comfort area. This man spent his days behind a deck, and that worried Marcus more than anything else about him.

  “Herr Keller?”

  Marcus smiled politely.

  “Mr Keller, yes. And you are?”

  The man looked at him carefully. Marcus detected a hint of an accent, most definitely American, though very disguised. He still found it hard to analyse the accents, but he was certain there was a hint of the Northwest about him. The uniform was obvious, but the Department D, Ausland-SD insignia sent a shiver down his spine.

  Security Police!

  One of the guards answered for the man, spitting the words back at him. His accent was classic New Jersey, and his pronunciation of the German words put a smile back on Marcus’ face.

  “Inspektor des Sicherheitspolizei!”

  The tall man looked at the guard and silenced him with a single glance. When he looked back, he smiled again. A polite yet forced expression.

  “I am Inspector Miller, Manhattan Department of the Security Police.”

  “I see. How may I help you?”

  The Inspector nodded politely.

  “You are Marcus Keller. Recipient of the Kriegsmarine Landship War Badge, and Kapitän in the 52nd Marine Stoßtrupp Kompanie?”

  Marcus regarded the man carefully. The Ausland-SD unit was the Reich’s civilian foreign intelligence agency, and the senior security unit in the Americas. The man didn’t look much of a threat, but he’d met enough of them to know that looks could be deceiving. Many of those who bore a grudge, or whose lives were a failure, turned to such units for fast promotion.

  “I was.”

  “And now?”

  Marcus hesitated, and then recalled his training.

  “Might I see some identification first?”

  The Inspector didn’t hesitate, whipping out a smart black wallet in a fraction of a second. Marcus examined it, picking out the name, unit and photograph, as well as the dreaded iconography of the police unit.

  “Very well, Inspector. I am retired from the regular Navy, and I retain my rank in the reserve. Currently I run a small publishing house downtown…Do you require my assistance with the…”

  The Inspector looked sheepish.

  “No, the Schutzpolizei are more than capable of dealing with criminals.”

  He took a step closer, while his guards fanned out, making sure nobody came too close to the men in the long coats.

  “The walking machines, the landships? You are still involved?”

  Marcus’ eyes narrowed. It was something he was always asked about, but never by the Security Police. As one of few men to survive the war, and having commanded a landship, he was something of a minor celebrity in this part of the city.

  “Yes. I spend two days a week at the Kriegsmarine Compound on Roosevelt Island to assist the new landship crews. All part of my duties in the Kriegsmarine Reserve.”

  “I see. According to my paperwork, you are the senior lecturer in landship operations, as well as war studies for new officers.”

  The man pulled out a leather-covered pad. Marcus stared in amazement as the man unfurled the cover, as if he’d had plenty of practice.

  What is it about leather with these people?

  “And according to your Reich file, you are also the foremost expert on historical war machines from the War. You are quite an asset to the Reich, are you not? It surprises me that you are not working with High Command on…larger projects.”

  His face remained looking towards the pad. At that exact moment, there was shooting, followed by three rifle shots. They were far away, and nothing t
o do with the conversation. They did, however, do much to increase the menace. Marcus glanced to the right where a military truck had just stopped at the side of the road. Fully armed soldiers leapt out and smashed their way into the apartment complex across the street. The Inspector appeared nonplussed about the entire thing.

  “Would you agree with this assessment?”

  Marcus took in a long, deep breath. He’d intended on a casual stroll downtown, a nice long walk to stretch his legs, and then spend a few hours editing his latest work. Now he knew his day was about to get a lot worse.

  “Yes, if you want to know about equipment and technology that is as old as I am, then you’ve found the right man. I remain an advisor to the Kriegsmarine, and as always, I am happy to help an officer of the Ausland-SD.”

  The Inspector smiled, and once again it was that fake smile, worse than a grimace.

  “Excellent.”

  He handed the pad to Marcus and left it open to show a detailed schematic.

  “Tell me, have you ever seen this before?”

  Marcus lowered his gaze, but it was obvious in the first few seconds that he had. He almost dropped the pad as he looked upon the same machine he’d seen so many years ago, in the rubble of the British Museum. He swallowed, and try as he might, could not shake the memories of that day. When his gaze returned to the officer, he was a changed man.

  “Yes, Inspector. I have seen this design before. Where did you find it?”

  They exchanged looks, but Marcus was having a hard time with this man.

  “So far we have found four copies, all smuggled in from Europa to cities along the East Coast, as well as numerous other designs. It is the belief of Polizeiführer Schneider that an attack in the city is imminent.”

  “Attack by whom?”

  Again that smile. The man reached out, and Marcus handed him back the pad.

  “You have further information about these designs at your Kriegsmarine Compound?

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Please bring all information pertaining to this machine to City Hall. Something is going to happen, and we have need of your knowledge, expertise, and advice. All of us have a great deal of work to do.”

  He turned and lifted a hand. Another black car the same as the first appeared from the shadows and raced towards them.

  “My driver will take you where you need to go. We will meet within the hour.”

  He then saluted and turned to his car, leaving Marcus in the street, and with the driver waiting patiently for him. Marcus called after him.

  “Inspector. What exactly do you want of me?”

  The man stopped, but for just a second.

  “The Reich military is mobilised for the coming war with the Communists. All of our best units have been deployed for service, which leaves our garrisons in the Americas and elsewhere…barren.”

  “And?”

  The man’s nostrils flared.

  “We have information on a series of multiple terrorist attacks against the Reich. If we fail, many, many people will suffer. It is our duty to ensure this does not happen.”

  The Inspector left, without even checking to see if Marcus agreed. He watched the vehicle move away, leaving the sound of distant sirens still wailing. Marcus was left with the feeling that this request for advice was something much more. Worse, the mention of people suffering sounded more like a threat from the Sicherheitspolizei than a plea for help. He walked to the car.

  The war just never ends, does it?

  CHAPTER THREE

  15th November 2017

  The van pulled in through an open roller shutter on a small shop front, and they slid to a halt. Woody was first out of the door and wound down the shutter with the chain that lay beside it. A car hurtled past seconds after it was shut. They couldn’t tell if it was the ORPOs, but it most likely was.

  Nobody said a word as they piled from the van and slumped on the few old wooden chairs that remained in the abandoned auto repair garage. They’d parked over the rusty remains of a pillar lift, and it stank of damp. Water was leaking in through several holes in the roof. The sole relief, there were no windows to look in or out.

  “Not a word, we don’t know who is watching or listening,” said Woody.

  “How long have we got to stay here?” Charlie asked.

  “As long as necessary, until first light at least. Get some sleep if you can, we’re in for a long night.”

  Nobody said another word. A few more cars passed, but nobody stopped. It seemed they were safe, and as uncomfortable a place as it was, the cell Ray had been forced to live in was considerably worse. He soon fell asleep propped up against a wall.

  Someone shook him, and he suddenly woke up. For a moment he thought he’d dozed for a few moments, but the first rays of light were piercing the holes in the roof.

  “Come on, we’ve got to move,” said Lisa who was kneeling over him.

  “It’s too early. We should wait,” Mark insisted.

  “I’m not waiting any longer.” Woody heaved the door open with the chain once again. He poked his head out onto the quiet street to look for any sign of trouble.

  “Let’s move!”

  They loaded back into the van and pulled out. Woody closed the door behind them and climbed in. Then they took off along the empty street. They went unhindered for many blocks and several turns, and it seemed they might be free and clear, but no such luck.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” yelled the driver.

  The van stuttered and spluttered as if running out of gas. The engine cut out as they rolled to a halt. It wasn’t for lack of fuel that they had stopped. Steam began to pour from the hood, along with a hot hissing sound.

  “You kidding me? You couldn’t keep this thing running, Mark?”

  He appeared at least as irate as Lisa when they climbed out. A man in his late thirties, but with hair receding like that of someone twice his age. He was out of shape and restless.

  “This ain’t on me. I checked the van. I double checked it,” he insisted.

  He went to the front and lifted the hood, stepping back as he was engulfed in steam, and coughed to clear his throat.

  “I don’t get it.” He looked into the engine bay as it began to clear.

  “Took one right through the wing and into the rad,” said Ray.

  “What?” Mark leant over the wing. A bullet had passed through, leaving a jagged hole. As he stood up, he saw the path of the bullet and where it had struck the radiator. It hadn’t been visible in the unlit garage they had taken refuge in.

  “Goddamnit!”

  “Hey, keep your voice down,” Woody ordered.

  Mark rubbed his bare forehead and paced back and forth.

  “Can you do anything about it?” Lisa asked.

  “Do anything? She’s completely overheated. We’ll be lucky to save the motor, if we can get to a garage, that is.”

  Blue lights flashed as an ORPO car flew past a junction up ahead.

  “Well, we can’t stay here.”

  “I told you the van ain’t going anywhere under her own power.”

  Woody looked up and down the street. It was empty, and not a single parked car in sight.

  “Then we go on foot, and we get transport when and if we can.”

  “We’ve got a long walk out of here.”

  “And what choice do we have, Lisa?”

  Red and blue lights lit up the street once again as another car went past. They couldn’t stay there for long. The streets were quiet, as they always were at this time of morning. Few people wanted to be out and about, and risk attracting the attention of the ORPOs. They had a reputation of detaining or beating anyone they found out at night and before the commute had started. The reputation had been fairly earned.

  Headlights flashed past them, and a car pulled into the street from where the ORPO cruisers had past.

  “Come on, move!” Woody yelled.

  He led them into a small alleyway beside where the van had stalled. They�
��d made twenty metres when they heard the car pull up next to their abandoned vehicle. Woody leapt into the cover of a dumpster, hauling Charlie in with him. Ray jumped in beside another, but he stepped on something uneven and lost his footing as someone cried out. He realised he had trodden on a living human being. He collapsed on top of him, wrapping his hand over his mouth to stop him making a sound.

  A flashlight shot up the alleyway, and they heard a cop talking on his radio. Lisa and Woody held their weapons ready to use, but they knew they couldn’t afford to fight here. Not on the open streets. They were lucky to escape the first time. The tall brick walls and early light of day kept them in relative darkness, and the light in the street was further masking them to the eyes of the officer.

  “Just move on,” Ray whispered, thinking of the cops as he listened for their footsteps. One came a few metres into the alleyway, stopping and moving his flashlight around looking for movement. But it was dead, and none of those hidden could be seen to him. Had he carried on a little further they would have been discovered, but it wasn’t the most inviting of locations. The ground was slimy and slippery, there was no lighting at all, and it stank of food waste and urine. Exactly the kind of place one would expect to get shanked on a dark night. Attacked for nothing more than a few dollars in your pocket, and there was a lot more at stake. The cop probably knew it, and he just wanted to live just like a regular guy.

  Ray looked at the poor soul he had fallen on. It wasn’t a man but a young woman, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen-years-old. She was filthy, her eyes wide with terror, without doubt as scared of him as she was of the ORPOs. They both knew the homeless were frequently rounded up to keep the streets clean, but few were seen again. Where they went and their ultimate fate was anyone’s guess, but the constant rumours left people in fear. He lifted a finger to his lips, “Shhh.” He knew he needn’t have, but had to for his own sanity.

  She looked so innocent and desperate, a tragic casualty of the heavy-handed government tactics they had all grown up in. A reminder of what he had fought for back in London, and also another bitter reminder of how little they’d achieved. He turned his attention to the beam of light flickering past them. The cop was considering whether he was willing to penetrate the foul street any further. A decent cop would, and that was what they were relying on, the lack of initiative and training of the ORPOs. They knew how to dish out abuse, but their police skills left a lot to be desired. That was the hope that they had to cling onto, that they would prove incompetent. He spoke into the radio.