Axis of Evil

Chapter Forty-Three: The End of the Affair

Zek Base

Nr Grozny, Chechnya

29^th June 1941

It was called Zek Base by its workers, the thousands of unfortunates who had been condemned by future history; a massive complex for servicing an advancing Russian army. The Zeks, the slave workers, would do the work, while the NKVD carried out its mission in Chechnya, exterminating the native population. Thousands had been enslaved and forced to work to death, blasting the roads and rail lines through the Caucuses and creating a logistics framework that provided Zhukov’s army with supplies and new regiments. Thousands of soldiers were based there, awaiting their passage down to Iran, or on leave enjoying the minuscule comforts of Zek Base. The only thing the base had was enslaved women for prostitution, but Zhukov had insisted; leave was apparently good for the enlisted men.

After all, the future said so.

The Trident warhead detonated over Zek Base at midnight, a time chosen with malice aforethought. Microseconds after it had detonated, the expanding fireball ravaged over the base, literally wiping it from the face of the Earth. Russians, slaves, Zeks… all perished in the blast. Although the supply lines didn’t entirely depend upon Zek Base, Zhukov’s army had suddenly lost most of their stockpile in one massive explosion.

In the future, the Muslims of the steppes, those who survived, would tell tales of the day Allah smote the infidels with his fire. The day became a holy day, one hotly disputed by almost every other Islamic sect, until the truth came out, years later.

Irbid, Jordan

29^th June 1941

Gunter Jagar, now breveted as a Captain in the Bundeswehr, was finding life as General Rommel’s assistant, aide and general bodyguard more than confusing. Rommel simply refused to behave as he thought a general should; far from staring at maps and planning movements, Rommel was often to be found cruising around in his mobile command vehicle, or his personal CV-22, trying to direct attacks in person. Whenever Rommel arrived, the Bundeswehr bent over backwards to obey, sending new and dangerous attacks against the Waffen-SS.

Jagar glared at the map that had been spread out on the table in the middle of the small tent. Rommel himself stood at one end, giving orders to Colonel Lehmann, one of the Panzer commanders, through the radio telephone. The Waffen-SS, several divisions of the bastards, had been placed near Damascus, their commander, SS-Obergruppenführer Felix Steiner, tasked with destroying the Bundeswehr.

“They don’t trust Heinz to do it,” Rommel had commented; when he’d asked why the Nazis simply hadn’t sent the entire Iraq Korps down to engage the Bundeswehr directly. General Heinz Guderian, the Korps commander, had been fighting a holding action, instead of launching an offensive of his own, apparently waiting for the Soviets to bleed themselves out in Baghdad.

“But the Soviets are allies of the Nazis,” he’d said.

“They’re never going to be friends,” Rommel had said, and ended the discussion.

Jagar swung his attention back to the map as Colonel Muhlenkampf strode in, knocking the sand from his boots, before saluting Rommel with a precision that Jagar couldn’t hope to match. The tall German from the future winked at Jagar, before taking a seat and waiting for Rommel.

“The British had carried out their part of the plan,” Rommel said. “The Nazis can no longer reinforce the Iraq Korps.” He scowled. “And, with the reported destruction of the Soviet supply base, Stalin can’t supply the Iraq Korps, even if he wants to.”

“Yes, Herr General,” Muhlenkampf snapped. “Are we ready then?”

Rommel nodded. “We have to get rid of the Waffen-SS,” he said. “As long as that force remains in the Middle East, Heinz will be unable to move. Tell me, what is the status of the Panzer divisions?”

“1^st and 2^nd are ready to launch the main attack,” Muhlenkampf said, tapping the map. “We have logistical support and air cover in place. 3^rd Panzer Division is supposed to be launching the flanking operation, and Colonel Lehmann reported that they were ready to launch the attack.”

“Good,” Rommel said. He glanced at his watch. “I see no further version to delay, do you?”

Muhlenkampf shook his head. “No, Herr General,” he said. “We need to move before Steiner starts getting ideas.”

“Then send the signal,” Rommel said. His eyes glittered. “The redemption begins now.”

SS-Obergruppenführer Felix Steiner studied the massed ranks of his panzers, and the shining steel of the SS recruits, and refused to admit to the cold despair. Cold hard logic warned that the loss of the supply lines meant inevitable doom – and the loss of communication with Berlin meant that there would be no way to ask for orders – but his determination drove him on. The time for probing attacks was at an end; if the Reich were to lose in the Middle East, he would take the treacherous Bundeswehr down with him.

Swiftly, he considered the problem. He’d sent scouts out with the tribes of nomads who drifted across the entire battlezone like ghosts, and he knew where the Bundeswehr was based. There was no doubt that it was the Bundeswehr; the strange versions of German markings were clear to their eyes.

“Order the panzers to be ready to move,” he barked, and his subordinates jumped to obey. Steiner considered asking for help from Guderian, but dismissed the thought; the Wehrmacht was full of cowards. “Now!”

Steiner didn’t know – only a handful of people in the Reich knew – that the British had successfully completed a network of orbital satellites. Without that knowledge, he was unable to comprehend the possibilities of orbital spies looking down on him unblinkingly, or on the computer programs that flagged his movement for attention.

“Herr General,” Jagar said, “satellite reconnaissance reports that the Waffen-SS is moving. They’re coming our way.”

“Let me see,” Rommel said, ignoring the shaking CV-22 as it headed over the battlefield. The streams of Bundeswehr tanks passed under them as Rommel studied the laptop. The countless vehicles were analysed far faster than a human could hope to do, defined, classified, and designated for attack. Rommel studied the patterns for a long moment, noting the advancing British forces from the south.

“Is that wise with Stalin around?” Jagar asked, noting the small holding forces that had been left near the Russian forces. Rommel ignored him, weighing up the problems for a long moment.

“They’re going to clash headlong into us,” Rommel said, studying the breakdown of the Bundeswehr tanks and associated vehicles. “The question is; do we want to let them and fight it out tank to tank, or do we want to set up a trap?” He thought rapidly. “Steiner isn’t a fool,” he mused. “They won’t impale themselves on our guns.”

He smiled. “I think we’ll allow the tanks the pleasure of scrapping with the enemy,” he said. “Warn Colonel Muhlenkampf that the enemy is on the way.”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Jagar said.

Colonel Muhlenkampf had been a tank driver himself before being sent back in time. The chance to serve under Rommel – a hero to the German Panzers, even in 2015 – had been irresistible, but the staff work had been difficult. He hadn’t enjoyed that while working at the embassy – and it was a thousand times worse in the new improved Bundeswehr.

He smiled. At least Rommel understood the need to get out and take command personally, even if he had insisted that he use a command tank, one that had more armour than the average Firefly. He chuckled, and studied the display; Steiner’s attack was coming in hard – and blind.

“He must be drunk,” he said, and snorted. Steiner’s panzers were aiming at the Bundeswehr’s forward base, unaware that the Bundeswehr was itself advancing. In five minutes, he guessed, the two forces would collide.

“Fire as you bear,” he snapped over the radio, to the 1^st Panzer Division. “Give the bastards hell.”

It happened very suddenly. Before he was fully aware of it, the sand dunes parted… and the wave of SS panzers appeared in front of him. One of them skidded to a stop, stunned by the sight of the Bundeswehr, several others fired at once in panic.

“Idiots,” he muttered, taking personal control of a main gun. He fired, once, and had the satisfaction of seeing a Panzer’s turret blown off. He fired again and again as the closing speed brought them rapidly to point blank range, the SS firing back. One of the Fireflies exploded, another crashed into an SS panzer and exploded, taking the SS tank with it.

“My god, they’re everywhere,” his driver gasped. The command tank wheeled rapidly about to avoid a collision of its own, firing its machine guns madly at a Panzer III that had tried to ram it. He glanced down at the satellite display; it was impossible to tell the difference between the two sides… and then they were in the clear.

“Regroup,” he snapped, grimly aware that Steiner’s men were doing the same thing, having traded sides with the Bundeswehr. “Stand by to hold off attack!”

The Waffen-SS were brave, whatever else could be said about them. They brought their Panzers around and stormed back at the Bundeswehr, firing as they came. The exchange of shells was brutal, slaughtering both sides… and then the Harriers arrived. The remaining Waffen-SS Panzers died as anti-tank missiles dropped from the skies, destroying the enemy for good.

“Deux Ex Machina,” Muhlenkampf muttered, checking the display again. The Waffen-SS’s supply trucks weren’t far away, hauling resupply items for Steiner’s men. “General, we’re going to take them intact, if we can,” he said. Unsurprisingly, Rommel was quick to give permission.

Thirty miles to the east, General Flynn examined the display with considerable interest and a great deal of relief. The Wehrmacht didn’t pose a serious problem once the supply problem – the German and British supply lines – had been handled, the Germans having theirs cut and the British having theirs improved. Now… now the Russians seemed to have dug into the two major cities of Iraq and forsaken offensive operations, nearly the entire Desert Army had been brought west to face the Germans.

“I don’t know if Rommel’s mad plan is going to work, but Guderian has got to be more than a little upset,” he remarked cheerfully. “One way or the other, the German presence in the Middle East is about to be removed.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Campton said. “Are you going to send the signal?”

Flynn shook his head. “We’ll have to airdrop it,” he said. “We don’t want old Adolf issuing any of his ‘stand and die’ orders, do we?”

Without false modesty, General Heinz Guderian knew that he’d done well; he’d fought a brutal battle for nearly eight months, ever since the Germans had forced Turkey into allowing them passage through Turkey into the Middle East. Still, it had finally come to an end – the sudden change of heart from Turkey had ensured that. The short and savage battles over the oil wells had evicted the Turks, but his scouts and aircraft – those that had survived the experience of meeting the RAF – proved that the Turks were re-concentrating in the southeast of their country… ready to attack the Germans in the rear.

Bloody Turks, he thought grimly. The Turks were tough, but they had very little armour. Under normal circumstances, he was certain that he could have handled them, but with the jamming… it was clear that something major was going on. The Waffen-SS division that had been in Jordan had simply disappeared, the last report had had them going to face Rommel and his band.

A roar split the skies as a British jet flew overhead, banking around the camp. It opened its bomb bay and started to drop leaflets, drifting down towards the camp. Guderian gave orders to have one of them brought to him… and waited. Finally, a private passed him a copy. It was printed in fine German.

To: General Heinz Guderian, Commander, Iraq Korps

From: General Robert Flynn, Commander, British Forces Arabia

General – as you may be aware, British forces have sealed your lines of supply and your lines of retreat. Even now, a Turkish force, reinforced by the 2^nd Royal Marines division, is preparing to enter your area of occupation from the southeast, while my force and that of General Rommel is prepared to attack you from Jordan and Arabia.

General – we have deployed a second nuclear weapon against Russia, cutting their lines of supply. Even if you trust Stalin enough to take weapons and supplies from him, he will be unable to supply you with enough to keep your force going, assuming that you could overcome the thousands of little problems in converting your weapons and Panzers.

General – your position is hopeless. Further resistance will only prolong the inevitable; RAF planes stand by to crush you from the air. I ask you now to surrender your force. I promise you that your men, with the exception of those who have committed crimes against the civilian population, will be well-treated and allowed to return to Germany once the current hostilities are over.

In the event of you deciding to accept my offer, fire a single flare into the air. My units will arrive to accept your formal surrender. I must warn you that we can see everything you do; any attempt to prepare an ambush will result in your complete destruction.

I remain, faithfully yours.

Guderian allowed himself a long moment to consider. He had nearly half a million men, scattered out all over the occupied zone, and not all of them would get the surrender instructions. Resistance would be good for his pride, but nothing else; it would just get them all killed.

“Fire the flare,” he said, wondering how the British saw everything. One of the cursed drones, no doubt. As the flare flashed overhead, he waited grimly, ignoring the comments from some of his men. They knew their position was hopeless… the approach of the strange aircraft only proved it.

“Here come their panzers,” one of his men said. Guderian frowned, watching as the aircraft, which had seemed familiar at first, tilted its engines and made a neat landing on the sand. The man who climbed out wore a British uniform, his eyes focusing in on Guderian without worrying about anything else.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. Guderian almost laughed, half-expecting the Englishman to talk about the weather next. “I’m General Robert Flynn.”

“General Heinz Guderian,” Guderian said. “I believe that I wish to offer my surrender.”

“I gratefully accept,” Flynn said. “You fought well and valiantly.”

Guderian shook his head. “We would have beaten you if we had weapons like yours,” he said, as the British trucks arrived behind their tanks. Up close, the British tanks were far more intimidating than any German panzer. “So… what now?”

“We transport your men to a POW camp,” Flynn said. “You will assist us in getting the remainder of your force to surrender, and then… well, let’s just say that you have a choice to make.”

Guderian watched as his men were quickly and efficiently disarmed, their weapons being loaded onboard their panzers. “Do you have a use for the weapons?” He asked, noting the care that was being taken to recover them. “I would have thought not.”

“I imagine that they’ll come in handy for something,” Flynn said. “The priority is to keep them out of Saud’s hands; the bastard has been getting support from you and the Russians, just to carry on his little war.”

“He was our swinehund,” Guderian said wryly. “We needed him to scout for us and to help us locate sources of water. So… what now?”

The tent looked like a British one from 1940 – a Contemporary one, in their vernacular – but it had air conditioning built into the fabric, somehow cooling the entire tent. Guderian didn’t waste time wondering how it had happened; the photographs on the small table drew all of his attention.

“That’s what Hitler and his allies are doing,” a voice said. It didn’t take any effort to recognise the voice as Rommel’s. Guderian studied the former Wehrmacht officer with interest. “That’s what’s happening in our name.”

Guderian stared at a picture involving a young girl and two SS guards. “Nein,” he said. “The Fuhrer wouldn’t allow anyone to do that.”

Rommel met his eyes. “On our march to face the SS Panzergrenadier Division Wiking,” he said, “we came across countless villages that had been wiped clean by the SS. The extermination groups have been slaughtering their way across Poland and the Balkans, wiping out entire peoples… just because they will be troublesome, later. That’s what’s happening in Germany, Guderian; they’re killing everyone who does not meet their standards of racial purity.”

“And you want me to join you,” Guderian said. It was not a question. “Why?”

“More people in the Wehrmacht respect you,” Rommel said wryly. Guderian lifted an eyebrow; Rommel was a skilled self-publicist. His weekly broadcasts to Germany were masterpieces of skill and convincing information. “I won’t lie to you; we need all the help we can get.”

Guderian considered. “You’re asking me to kill Germans, just because of their – our – leaders,” he said. “My fellow Germans, people who I have served with and…”

“Serve an evil master,” Rommel said. “God help me; I loved the Fuhrer!” He picked up a picture and waved it under Guderian’s nose; an old man, beaten to death. “This, Guderian, is what we served!”

Guderian shook his head from side to side. “I won’t kill more Germans,” he said. “Rommel – Erwin – this sort of civil war, and that is what the outcome is going to be, will allow Stalin to take over. You know what sort of bastard he is.”

“Better or worse than Hitler?” Rommel asked. He scowled. “Guderian – Heinz – I wish I could change your views on loyalty, but that’s up to you. Heinz, there’s nothing more I can tell you. I can show you the videos long-range recon teams have taken in Poland, or of camps in Germany itself, if you want.”

Guderian shook his head again. “Erwin, I won’t make that choice, I can’t,” he said. He felt a tear fall from his eyes. “God help me – I can’t fight against Germany.”