Thunder Run (Maelstrom Rising Book 6)

by Peter Nealen

  I glanced over at Scott. We were still in a precarious position, and how much information we revealed was still a bit up in the air. Again, we didn’t have specific guidance on what to tell and what to hold back—that had been left to our discretion, depending on the situation. It could be a hell of a burden to put on a team leader, but that was the reality we’d lived with for the last five years or more. It was a reality that American soldiers and Marines had been living for a lot longer than that, but one that a lot of higher-level decision-makers didn’t always want to think about. Every decision made in a warzone has strategic consequences, particularly in a Fourth Generation War without big, sweeping, kinetic campaigns. Modern war does include set-piece battles, but the majority of it is decided by dozens—or hundreds—of small, local actions.

  It’s cheaper that way, and it allows states to wage war semi-deniably and without the threat of nuclear annihilation. At least, until somebody gets desperate enough, which was why we’d had to fly into southern France in the dead of winter a few months before.

  “So, how do you suggest we establish that we can trust each other?” I kept my own voice cold.

  Pascal found a chair and sat down, his back against the wall. His two colleagues stayed standing, as did most of my team, myself included. None of us were visibly armed, our Rattlers still secured in day packs, but we all had our pistols on us, and we were all very fast on the draw.

  “As we have discussed the matter, given your side’s very probable offensive in the near-term, it has come to our attention that we have a certain mutual interest.” He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Ever since the failed coup last winter, the European Defense Corps has expanded its operations to include direct supervision of domestic ‘counter-terrorist’ operations. The definition of ‘terrorist,’ of course, is quite…” He paused, as if searching for the right word.

  “Malleable?” We were quite familiar with that phenomenon. Despite the fact that targeting innocents for political purposes was specifically against Triarii principles, to the best of my knowledge had never been done in the organization’s name, and would be punished—by Colonel Santiago’s direct order—with far greater severity than the American justice system could manage, we caught the “right wing terrorist” label all the time.

  “Yes. Malleable.” He frowned. “Sometimes it seems as if anyone raises any public objection to either Berlin’s actions or, worse, the European Defense Council’s, they are labeled ‘terrorists,’ and at the very least subjected to investigation. More often, they are harassed and eventually arrested.

  “The media, of course, is for the most part playing along with the government and the Council. They have been prating on for months about the threat of an invasion from Poland along with ‘fascist’ domestic threats—all orchestrated by Moscow, strangely enough. The increased European Defense Corps supervision of the Bundeswehr, the Bundespolizei, and KSK and GSG-9 is being painted as necessary for defense against all of these threats to their new order.”

  I thought I could see where this was going. “So, you think that the same ‘counter-terrorist’ forces that are targeting you will also be the backbone of the defense against any offensive from our side of the line.”

  Pascal raised his eyebrows, resting his chin on his fist. “We don’t just ‘think’ that. We know.”

  Something about the way he said that made me raise an eyebrow. “You have my attention.”

  He smiled coolly. “We are not all amateurs. The Bundeswehr might be a hollow shell of what it was even during the Cold War, but there are still those of us who study warfare. Even Fourth Generation Warfare. We know the value of intelligence, and how to get it. And we have friends, including friends on the inside.” He pulled a thumb drive out of his pocket. He’d clearly been prepared for this conversation. Lifting it into the air, he looked at Elias and nodded with a cocked eyebrow. Elias dutifully went to the back room and came out with a laptop.

  Pascal plugged in the thumb drive. I watched him with some interest. Whatever files were on there, they weren’t in the clear. He entered at least two passwords. These guys took their data security seriously.

  As Pascal pulled up the slideshow, I could see why. This wasn’t some thrown-together amateur intel report, consisting of little more than a couple of leaked photos put together with some analysis. It was a formal European Defense Corps briefing document.

  And it was chilling.

  The briefing laid out how the Vogt coup was part of a vast, Russian-supported, “fascist” conspiracy against the “rich, multicultural tapestry of Europe.” The enumerated signs of this conspiracy weren’t surprising, but it was a bit disconcerting to see them stated so baldly in what amounted to a set of targeting parameters for military and police. The list was long, but it basically boiled down to any open and public objection to the European Defense Council’s program of creating a vast, borderless, politically-correct, nanny-state amounting to being a “fascist” and therefore subject to targeting.

  Now, some of it could well have applied to the Fourth Reich, and I had no problem with targeting those assholes. But I trusted the soft-leftist technocrats about as far as I trusted the Fourth Reich and the hard-core Communists. They were another arm of non-martial warfare, and they were more effective than the violent revolutionaries. Sometimes the hard part of this kind of war is understanding that the enemy of your enemy is not in any way your friend.

  That was, of course, still a concern when it came to Verteidiger in Bayern, but so far, we didn’t have a reason to class them as enemies. Not that we didn’t have plans already in place to break away and pop smoke if they turned on us—or turned out to be the very sort of crypto-fascists that the European authorities insisted they were.

  While warfare has always been a realm of uncertainty and conflicting loyalties, it seemed to me that modern warfare had taken that fog of suspicion to new heights. We could trust our teammates. And that was about it.

  The briefing went on. We read it in silence, frowns deepening as we saw a whole hell of a lot of confirmation—provided the document was legit—that our concerns about Settar’s plan for a thunder run to Brussels from Poland were well-founded.

  Because of the threat of this vast fascist conspiracy, the European Defense Corps had ramped up recruiting a great deal, attempting to construct three more divisions. According to the briefing, two were nearly ready for deployment, and would be heading for the eastern borders to reinforce the Bundeswehr and the Armee de Terre auxiliaries who had deployed from France. The third was still in train-up.

  Two of the three existing EDC divisions were deployed in Germany and France on domestic “stability” operations. This document appeared to be intended for them, and it included many cautions about the “fascists” in Poland taking advantage of the domestic Western European “fascists’” activities to attack the progressive utopia of the New Europe. And, somewhat to my surprise, it included an order of battle for most of the major cities in Germany.

  The forces arrayed in any one place wouldn’t be enough to stop the four to five divisions that were currently planned for the offensive. Not by themselves. But they could slow the advance down long enough for supporting units to close in to reinforce them, and there were clearly such contingency plans in place, judging by this briefing. It went over several response scenarios, up to and including an extremely fanciful and far-fetched combined Polish-American-Hungarian-Russian invasion of Germany.

  “This was a command-staff-level briefing for the EDC First Division.” Pascal was watching us as we scrolled through, his elbow on the arm of the chair, two fingers against his temple. “So, as you can see, we do have mutual enemies.” He pointed at the laptop. “I take it that information will be helpful?”

  I turned toward him. “If it’s legitimate, yes. This could have some far-reaching effects, if it’s true.”

  “It’s quite true.” His face was blank, his eyes and his voice cold. He stood up abruptly. “And I can prove it.
Provided you are willing to help us.”

  “What’s the target?” I already had some idea of what he was getting at.

  A faint smile might have crossed his face. “The EDC commander here in Ingolstadt. If you’re feeling up to it.”

  ***

  Fortunately, Pascal didn’t expect us to simply jump on a pre-built op plan and go that very minute. When I’d said that we needed to run some reconnaissance of our own, he’d readily agreed. In fact, he’d wanted us to be an integral part of the planning and preparation process.

  After contacting Hartrick and updating him and Gutierrez on the situation, we got down to planning the reconnaissance. Urban recon is an entirely different beast from “greenside,” and requires a different sort of planning and preparation.

  We’d all done urban hides, either overseas, Stateside, or both. I didn’t like them; too many had turned bad, even in warzones. That abandoned building might not be as abandoned as you thought. That construction site where nothing had happened for a week might suddenly have gotten the money in to continue. And your quarry had a lot of places to hide. You could easily pick the perfect overwatch position, only to have the target’s plans change and they never set foot in your view during the limited time you can be on site.

  Now, I’d also been a lot of places where vehicle surveillance was almost as difficult. People notice foreigners driving around their city, especially in places where the foreigners are a different color than the general populace. Here in Germany, it would be quite a bit easier. But it’s still possible to give yourself away all too easily when driving a vehicle. A change in demeanor can be a tell, especially in a place where suspicion runs rampant. And after Vogt’s failed coup, suspicion in Germany was beyond rampant.

  If I’d had my druthers, I’d take a greenside operation any day of the week. But unfortunately, Arthur Klemme was a city boy, and hadn’t taken a house out in the countryside, opting instead for a suite in the Altstadthotel Ingolstadt.

  Pascal’s people were better prepared than I’d expected. They had about half a dozen cars and the van for us to use. And they already had most of Klemme’s movement patterns mapped out. That Pascal wanted us to do our own reconnaissance was a good indicator that he really was acting in good faith, and I was pretty sure he was well aware of it.

  We’d seen some of the security presence in Ingolstadt on the way in, but Elias had chosen his route well, taking us in through the laxest checkpoint on the roads leading into town. Now that we were out on the street, it was a lot more obvious.

  From where I was parked in a tiny Mercedes hybrid, I could see the front door of the Alstadthotel, as well as up and down the Neubaustraẞe. I could see the old Fuchs armored vehicle parked on the street outside the cathedral, down at the intersection with the Bergbräustraẞe, behind me. The four-man Bundespolizei patrol coming around the corner up ahead of me were all wearing vests and carrying MP5s.

  I briefly wondered where they were getting the personnel. I couldn’t imagine that there were that many people so thoroughly devoted to the EDC’s vision of Europe that they’d throw themselves into the breach to defend it.

  Maybe they were just paying well enough. With no one’s economy doing well, that was a distinct possibility.

  Sometimes all it takes is a paycheck. Especially if you’ve skewed things so much that the government and its lackeys control most of the wealth.

  My little burner phone lit up. I would have preferred to have bought the burners ourselves—that way we wouldn’t have been completely reliant on allies we couldn’t be sure about yet. But it’s not that simple. We would have needed to both provide passports and an address in Germany. Even with our not-entirely-accurate passports, that still would have created security problems. Pascal’s people had burners, so we were using those. Of course, I’d had Scott go over the phones with a fine-toothed comb, and he was about as confident as he could be that there weren’t too many back doors.

  He’s coming out. The text message was from Christof, one of Pascal’s people. He had a different angle as he walked down the street. He could blend in better than most of us, even though we were all in civilian clothes. There are certain tells for foreigners that he could avoid.

  I was partially screened from the hotel’s front door by the pair of trees standing in the courthouse yard next to me. Admittedly, parking in front of a courthouse wasn’t the most auspicious spot for a surveillance position, but our options in the old city were limited.

  The door opened, and Klemme stepped out. He looked awfully young to be a full colonel, or whatever the EDC equivalent was. I hadn’t really bothered to figure out the EDC’s rank structure. Klemme was commanding a reinforced battalion stationed at Ingolstadt, which made him something equivalent to a lieutenant colonel or a colonel.

  Klemme hardly looked at the street as he walked out to the staff car waiting for him. Two men were already in the car, and two more came out after him and got into a second car across the street.

  He’s moving. Christof was about to lose contact.

  Rgr. I’m on him. I had to type fast. The small motorcade was already moving.

  I pulled away from the Amstgericht Ingolstadt as the motorcade passed the corner and neared the T-intersection where Gymnasiumstraẞe met Oberer Graben. There wasn’t a whole lot of traffic on the streets—I suspected that the heavy security presence was discouraging it. That, plus the short sightlines within the old city, made it difficult to tail Klemme without getting too close.

  I slowly crept toward the intersection, allowing a few seconds’ head start after they turned right. I had a pretty good idea where they were going. This was more a confirmation run than anything else.

  Sure enough, as I rounded the corner, getting some looks from the Bundespolizei foot patrol but otherwise not attracting undue attention that I could see—there were plenty of CCTV cameras around—the motorcade was turning left onto Harderstraẞe, as expected.

  They weren’t moving particularly slowly, especially with the streets as clear as they were. It wasn’t a long follow, either. In a couple of minutes, I paused at the intersection of the Harderstraẞe and Dreizehnerstraẞe, and watched the motorcade go through the checkpoint at the entrance to the massive parking lot next to the old fort, which had been turned into a Euro Defense Corps FOB.

  I kept rolling north, through Hindenburg Park and into the newer part of the city. We’d confirmed what we’d expected, and what Pascal had told us. Now we just had to wait for him to go home, map that route, and then start planning.

  But even as I drove the roundabout route back to the safehouse, I already knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chapter 15

  Timing was going to be everything.

  The evening’s reconnaissance had confirmed that Klemme used the same route to and from the FOB, all the time. He had a good-sized security detail, but with the numbers of Polizei on the streets, he clearly wasn’t that concerned, despite the fact that he and his unit were in Ingolstadt ostensibly to suppress domestic “terrorists.”

  But the route was so damned short, and the cross streets were so few, that our opportunities to hit him were extremely limited.

  We’d thought about going after him in the hotel. That had been an almost two-hour argument. The hotel gave us a much wider time window, and we could have done it at night. But we also hadn’t been able to determine which suite he was staying in, and a room-to-room search would take too long, especially with the Bundespolizei on almost every corner. We had to hit him hard, hit him fast, and get out before the security forces could come down on us.

  Of course, we weren’t going to go in on the hit without some kind of diversion to get the Bundespolizei looking the other direction first. And that was where Pascal’s Verteidiger came in.

  It was somewhat gratifying to find out that Pascal and Christof weren’t planning on an actual bombing. I was sure it had been considered, but Pascal had frostily pointed out the generally Christian character of the V
erteidiger in Bayern, and that if they could accomplish their aims without civilian casualties, they felt obligated to do so.

  In fact, Pascal had insisted on assurances from us that if we took Klemme, he would be treated as a prisoner of war, not tortured and summarily executed.

  I’d spent too much time in Africa and the Balkans. It seemed that some people were still trying to be civilized, after all, even as civilization burned down around them. And in this case, I mean “civilized” in a good way.

  “Thirty seconds.” We had to risk radios. The timing was too delicate to try to type text messages for comms.

  I was in the van with Scott, Jordan, and David. Tony was driving the intercept vehicle. Chris, Greg, and Reuben had the blocking positions, along with several of the Verteidiger.

  Blue lights were already flashing up north. The Verteidiger’s falsified emergency calls were drawing a lot of the Polizei away, though not nearly enough. This could get really interesting, real fast.

  The motorcade came around the corner, turning onto the Gymnasiumstraẞe. It was go time.

  The trail vehicle had let a little bit too much space open up between them and the lead. So, when Greg drove a big Mercedes box truck into the intersection and parked it, the trail vehicle was suddenly cut off.

  If the lead vehicle driver noticed, he didn’t react. At least, he didn’t react fast enough.

  There hadn’t been time to reinforce the Skoda Karoq SUV beforehand, but Tony was buckled up and had a mouthguard in. He had to be doing almost fifty miles an hour when he slammed into the BMW X3’s front quarter panel.

  The BMW’s cab might have been armored, but the engine compartment was not. Both vehicles’ front ends crumpled with a loud bang that echoed up and down the Gymnasiumstraẞe. Plastic, wiring, and shattered glass flew, and the Karoq’s rear end broke loose and skidded halfway around, the vehicle slamming into a bike rack set into the sidewalk in front of a law office.

  Tony had to kick the door open; the frame had been twisted in the impact. The armored BMW was in slightly better shape, but it clearly took some work for the driver to get his door open. That said something about the state of their security right there—the driver should have stayed put, and the right seater should have gotten out, on the far side of the vehicle.