Axis of Evil

Chapter Thirty-Two: Encirclement

Allied Headquarters

Bergen, Norway

5^th June 1941

“Where the hell is my goddamned support?” Patton bellowed, pacing around swinging his stick. “Blasted allies!”

“It’s already lined up for you,” Major Bloodnok assured him, ignoring the comment about allies. Patton had a lot on his mind. “We have precision weapons ready; they just need targets.”

“Splendid,” Patton said. “Explain this to me again; the RAF transport does what?”

“It’s a transport converted to a tactical bomber,” Bloodnok said patiently. Despite a great deal of effort, the only tactical support that the Americans had been able to scrape up were Dauntless Dive Bombers from the carriers, which had at least been fitted with Napalm bombs. “It orbits the battlezone, out of range of enemy fighters…”

“And yet you give it an escort,” Patton injected.

“And it drops one of its precision bombs on the target you select,” Bloodnok said, ruefully aware that Patton wouldn’t be interested in the technical details. The RAF Hercules had been spared from transport duty, simply to assist in the conquest of Norway. The weapons, American-designed MOABs, had been mass-produced for the invasion.

“Good enough,” Patton said. He waved a hand at the chart. “My troops are advancing across Norway, but very slowly. How many more helicopters can you supply?”

Bloodnok shook his head grimly. Patton had almost the entire strength of the 27^th Reserve Squadron, one of the Operational Conversion Units, almost seventy helicopters that had been pressed into operational service, along with Puma squadrons and an entire deployed RAF tactical radar system. In all, nearly one hundred helicopters and twenty VTOL Harriers had been deployed to Norway, testing the supply logistics to the limit.

He shook his head again. Patton, to give the devil his due, had seen the importance of the airborne forces at once, assigning elite American forces to be transported behind German lines and hammering away at German strongpoints. The 1^st Airborne Corps, as everyone was calling it, was the first joint formation in existence, although Bloodnok knew that Patton was screaming at the American factories to produce an indigenous helicopter version.

“Well?” Patton demanded, and Bloodnok realised that the American had been saying something. “When can the next round of attacks begin?”

Bloodnok checked his watch. “The bomber should be here in twenty minutes,” he said. “Have your teams designated the targets with the laser pointers?”

“Of course,” Patton snapped. “Your SAS has been doing that as well, remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Bloodnok said. “In twenty minutes, then, the attack can begin.”

Over Norway

5^th June 1941

It was a cold clear day, perfect flying weather. Flying Officer Victor Abernathy held his Eurofighter on station near the Hercules Bomber, the massive transport that had been adapted into a heavy bomber. He’d seen the plans for real bombers, copies of the B-52 from the Cold War, and had been impressed, assuming, of course, that the strange war lasted long enough for them to be deployed.

“Eagle one, I read a flight of jets,” Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar reported. Abernathy glanced down at his display; nine German jets were rising from Denmark. “They’re coming our way.”

Abernathy considered for a long moment. The Germans couldn’t catch them if they decided to refuse engagement, and they had to be careful to avoid being swarmed, but otherwise they could kill the Germans easily.

“Cleared to engage with ASRAAM missiles,” he said. “Bomber one, adjust course to avoid meeting the enemy.”

“Acknowledged,” Flying Officer Clarence Paradise said. The pilot of the bomber adjusted course westwards, preparing to run if the worst happened. The Hercules was handling sluggishly; “God help us if it has to make an emergency landing” had been the considered opinion of the entire pilot force.

“They must have caught a sniff of the Hercules,” Dunbar said, as the two forces closed in on one another. “Cleared to engage?”

“Radar-guided missiles,” Abernathy said. “Clear to engage… now!”

His Eurofighter launched four ASRAAM missiles in quick succession. Beside him, Dunbar launched her own salvo, the missile trails heading off into the distance. “They’re launching flares,” he said, impressed. The Germans had reacted quickly, but it was useless; the radar-guided missiles couldn’t be fooled by heat sources.

“One plane left, beating a retreat,” Dunbar said, as the missiles found their targets.

“Let him go,” Abernathy. “We’re due over Norway in twenty minutes.”

The cold grey sea gave way to the green hills and mountains of Norway as the three planes banked in from the west. They flew over the American-held territory, before forming into loitering formation, waiting for orders.

“This is sector control,” a new voice said. “Bomber one; targets should be designated, confirm.”

“I confirm fifteen targets,” Paradise said. “Target relay in place; transmitting confirmation now.”

“Confirmed; all targets genuine designations,” the sector control officer said. “General Patton says you may fire when ready, Gridley.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Paradise said. “Bombs away… now!”

Telemark Region

Norway

5^th June 1941

Telemark Region, Captain Dwynn knew, had had quite a history of involvement with World War Two, even before the Transition had disrupted the course of history. Quisling, whose proclamations of Norwegian independence – under German protection, of course – still filled the airwaves, had been born in the region, and the heavy water plant had seen one of the most daring raids of World War Two. Dwynn smiled; the heavy water plant had been conclusively demolished by Tomahawk missiles, back in 1940.

He studied the scene without apparent concern, wearing the garb of a Norwegian shepherd. The remainder of his team were further back, among the mountains, but he and Eric had been required to come out in the open. Down below, in the mountains and small towns, the Germans had been digging into the mountains, trying to put a cork in the bottle. Guns, mines and several hundred Germans, carefully preparing to hold off a force ten times their size.

“Bastards,” he muttered, carefully adjusting the laser pointer to angle down on the German fortifications. Patton’s advance could not be slowed, now that the Americans were finally moving in major reinforcements, and Oslo had to be surrounded quickly. That meant that the German attempts to hold them up had to be smashed as soon as possible.

His communicator chimed, vibrating a signal though his head. He’d never gotten used to the covert system, even though it was nearly perfect when against a foe that lacked any real ECM capabilities. It buzzed in his ear and rattled his skull.

“The bomber is in position,” sector control said. “Confirm target?”

“Target confirmed,” he said, staring into the sky. He didn’t expect to see the bomber; the RAF would probably have insisted on not sending it anywhere near the German-held regions, just in case. “Laser point locked.”

There was a long pause, just long enough for him to wonder if something had gone wrong somewhere… and then a massive explosion blasted through the valley. Three more followed as the other targets were struck, smashing the German position to rubble.

“I confirm targets destroyed,” he said. “When should we prepare for pick-up?”

“Forty minutes,” the controller said. “We’re moving 1^st Airborne in now.”

The Army wanted helicopters, even though – with the exception of General Patton – it didn’t have a proper doctrine for their use yet. The navy wanted helicopters as well; they didn’t know what they wanted to do with them yet either, but they did know that they didn’t want the army getting their hands on all of the helicopters. The net result had been that the Marines of the 1^st Marine division had been given a crash course in using the helicopters, assigned to the 1^st Airborne – although no one expected that to last – and given orders to clear part of Telemark.

“I’m going to be sick,” Private Buckman muttered. His face was green; he held the bag to his mouth as the helicopter flipped around a mountain at a very dangerous speed.

“Keep your fucking eyes shut,” the co-pilot yelled at them, as the helicopter twisted again. For his part, Private Max Shepherd was fascinated; the mountains were passing by so fast that he couldn’t make out any details at all. “If you’re sick on my fucking helicopter you’ll be cleaning it up with your fucking tongue!”

At that moment, the helicopter flipped up over a mountain peak and passed over a tiny village. “Anyone see any fucking Germans, or even just Germans?” The co-pilot shouted. “Who forgot to include that fucking village on the map?”

“We’re landing in five minutes,” the pilot said. He seemed less excitable, somehow. “As soon as we touch the ground, grab your kit and run, understand?”

“Yes,” Captain Caddell said, glaring around at the small group. “We understand.”

Shepherd stared; he could see smoke rising from ahead. “We’re putting you down on a level plain,” the pilot said calmly. “There should be some SAS to greet you; take the target and wait for resupply, understand?”

Without waiting for a reply, the helicopter executed one last swoop and descended upon a grassy slope. “Go, go, go,” the co-pilot snapped, as the doors were flung open. The other helicopters landed near them, unloading their passengers, some of whom looked worse than Private Buckman.

“Follow me,” Captain Caddell snapped, leaping out of the helicopter. “Form up by rows, move it!”

“Move away from the fucking helicopter,” the co-pilot bellowed. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”

Captain Caddell didn’t say anything, but he beckoned for the men to regroup near an alpine stream, lower than the landing site. They could see a small town below them, typically Norwegian. Smoke rose from a number of buildings, some which were still on fire, but they could still see Germans milling about, pointing to the helicopters.

“Look, you can be sick all over them,” Private Manlito said to Buckman, who was still looking green.

“Shut up, you dago dirt bag,” Buckman snarled.

“That’s enough, form lines,” Captain Caddell bellowed. “Who are you?”

The man had popped out of nowhere. The Marines swung around to point their weapons at him, but he didn’t seem bothered. “Captain Dwynn, British Special Air Service,” he said calmly. “I assume you’re the Marines?”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter pulled himself out of the wreckage by sheer force of will, ignoring the Norwegians scurrying around. No matter what the Fuhrer, they were subhumans, unworthy of the farms in Poland that were now being prepared for their use, along with thousands of right-thinking Germans. He’d often considered the virtues of a breeding program, using SS men to impregnate Norwegian women while castrating the men, but Generalmajor Muller had argued against it.

“We like a peaceful life here, ja?” He’d asked, and Richter had submitted, although he had continued his breeding program with two Norwegian mistresses. Now… now Generalmajor Muller was dead, struck down by treacherous attack from the air.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” He demanded of an unfortunate Unterscharfuehrer, and then looked up at the hills. Seventeen flying vehicles had landed there, disgorging troops onto the hills; green-clad Americans. He swore, once, and started to issue orders. If the Americans wanted to recover Skien, the city he’d been ordered to defend, they would have a fight on their hands.

“Oh, and round up the civilians,” he ordered. “We don’t want them doing something stupid, after all.”

“We can take that city by frontal attack,” Captain Caddell insisted. Captain Dwynn sighed; the Marine had no sense of care. “We have two hundred marines and air support.”

“And if you let them get into position, the air support can kill more of them,” Dwynn said. “Once that’s done, you can just walk in and take over.”

“Sirs,” a private said, “look what they’re doing.”

Dwynn cursed. The SS force in the town were rounding up all of the Norwegians, guarding them with armed guards. “So much for any internal help,” he said, but he smiled. It was a glorified hostage situation, and he knew how to handle them. “Chang, you get your sniper rifle ready,” he ordered into his communicator.

“You have more men around?” Captain Caddell asked. Dwynn nodded shortly. “Where are they?”

“Around,” Dwynn said. “Captain, I’m designating their concentrations for MOAB attack,” he said. “Bomb attack,” he explained, realising that it meant nothing to the Americans. “Then you get to attack anyway.”

Captain Caddell started to bark orders. The Marines spread out, preparing their assault. Dwynn absently admired their bravery; they had no bullet-proof outfits, no chameleon outfits, nothing, but their courage. It was very impressive.

“Captain, bombs inbound,” the controller said. “Impact in ten… nine…”

Private Max Shepherd braced himself for the attack, lifting his rifle as he prepared to run towards the main German centre nearest him. The plan was simply; hit the Germans in the aftermath of the bomb attack, killing them all before they could start slaughtering Norwegians.

“Where the hell are those bombs?” Buckman asked, and then an explosion shattered the main German position. Shepherd jumped up and ran forward, trusting Buckman to cover his back, and skidded in the blood. The Germans had all been killed, except one.

“Surrender,” the German said, in bad English. He fell forward; Shepherd realised that he had no legs. “I…”

“Poor bastard,” Shepherd said, and then a hail of shots ran past him. Three Germans were mown down by Buckman, who’d seen them coming.

“Compassion has a price on the battlefield,” Captain Caddell said grimly, as they checked through the bodies. Most of the townsfolk were alive; their guards had been shot neatly through the head. “Check them all.”

“Of course,” Shepherd murmured, too tired to care, and then one of the Norwegian girls kissed him. He forgot his woes as the kiss grew and grew, before she finally broke the kiss and let him go. All of the Marines were being kissed.

“Control, Skien is secure,” the creepy SAS officer said. Shepherd shivered; the SAS had shot all the hostage-takers neatly, at far greater ranges than he would have imagined possible. “I think the Marines want a lift.”

“How about a night here?” Buckman asked, who was kissing a Norwegian girl. Shepherd noted with a flash of jealously that it was the girl who had first kissed him. “Ah, come on, Captain…”

“It’s a couple of hours until the pick-up anyway,” Dwynn said. He paused. “Now, what are you?”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter reached for his pistol, noticed that there were five weapons pointed at him, and froze. The American in the lead bent down and picked up his pistol, before planting a foot on his back.

“I claim this body for America,” he said. Richter glared wordlessly at him. “Who are you?”

“Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter, SS Wiking,” Richter said. He rattled off his serial numbers. “That’s all I have to tell you.”

“You attempted to use people as human shields,” the Englishman said. “Under the Washington Protocols of 2010, I am permitted to summarily execute you for crimes against humanity. Do you have anything you wish to say in your defence?”

“You can’t just shoot him,” one of the Americans said. Richter tried to look meek and mild. “He hasn’t done you any wrong.”

“They have to be taught that taking hostages is wrong and will lead to summary punishment,” the Englishman snapped. “Damn it, it took us five fucking years to learn that that was the only way to prevent it!”

“I can tell you things,” Richter pleaded. An eerie warmth spread though his underpants. “I know things that you would find useful.”

“We might need what he has to tell us,” the American Captain said. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we need him alive.”

“On your head be it,” the Englishman snapped. He produced a pair of handcuffs from a back pocket and slipped them on Richter, securing his hands behind his back. “On your own head be it.”

Over Norway

5^th June 1941

“This is Bomber one,” Paradise said. “Ground Control, we’re running out of bombs.”

Abernathy nodded, waiting for the response. He’d expected that the Germans would seek to disrupt operations, but apart from the handful of jets, there had been no other challenge to their air superiority. Perhaps we finally killed them all, he thought, and knew that it was wishful thinking.

“Bomber one, Eagles, you may return to base,” the controller said finally. “Good work; General Patton was impressed.”

“Thank the Yank,” Paradise said. “Setting course now.”

There was a pause. “Eagles, do you have the fuel to recon Oslo for us?”

Abernathy blinked, and then remembered that there wasn’t a satellite in position at the moment. “That’s a positive, Ground Control,” he said. “We can buzz them, but we’ll have to meet a tanker in the air.”

“Or we’ll be landing in the North Sea,” Dunbar chimed in. “Would this be a good time to mention that I have a hot date tonight?”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” the controller said. “Eagles, we’re vectoring in a tanker now; confirm receipt of course data.”

“Confirmed,” Abernathy said. “Changing course now.”

Performing the calculations in his mind, he kicked in the afterburners and swooped high over Norway. He expected that he would have to make a low-level pass, but until specifically ordered to do so he would stay high; there was no point in risking a German scoring a golden BB. He looked down as they crossed over Oslo, German anti-aircraft fire bursting harmlessly below them, and smiled. Oslo was smaller than he remembered.

“Looks like they’re not happy to see us,” Dunbar said. “Think we could spend a missile on them?”

“We don’t have any bombs,” Abernathy reminded her. “Ground control, are you receiving uplink?”

“Yes, Eagle One,” the controller said. “Can you give us one last pass?”

“I wonder what that is?” Dunbar said, as they orbited high over Oslo’s harbour. A small warship floated in the fjord, defying them. “A battleship?”

“That’s a destroyer,” Abernathy said. “That’ll teach you to make eyes at the history teacher while he’s teaching us to recognise German craft instead of MIG-29s.”

Dunbar chuckled. “He wasn’t much good anyway,” she said.

“Far too much information,” Abernathy said. “Ground control, are we done here?”

“Yes, Eagles,” the controller said. “You are cleared to return to the tanker.”

Abernathy kicked in the afterburners again and left, trailing sonic booms behind him. Thoughtfully, he checked the location of the tanker and lifted an eyebrow; to meet them it was entering the zone that it had been banned from, just to prevent the Germans bringing it down and reducing the RAF’s capability to fly longer missions.

“I wonder what all that was about,” he said, and they spent a happy return flight speculating like mad. Even odder, particularly for sensitive missions, they weren’t ordered to keep it to themselves, or even only to discuss it with their fellow flyers.

“Curious,” he said, and left it alone for the moment. There were other matters to attend to, and all of them demanded his attention.