AUTHOR'S NOTES: Welcome to chapter 2. A little bit of air combat, a little bit of exposition, and a little bit of everything going to hell. Many thanks to Danishvulkanhestan for helping me get the EU down a little better than earlier, and giving me a great idea for Jacques Schnee.
Incidentally, the "60 Mark Strasse" mentioned later actually existed at one point, though it was known as the "40 Mark Strasse" and was outside of Kaiserslautern. Though my dad never, er, partook, some of his single friends did. And there really was a girl they called the Stormtrooper...
North Sea Aerial Training Range
Near Bornholm, Denmark
15 August 2001
"Good afternoon, ladies," said the voice of the range controller. "Per your request, this is a 1V1 ACM training exercise. Weapons are limited to guns and heats only, no DUST. Hard deck is 5000 feet. Blizzard Lead, you are in north to south. Ruby Two, you are in south to north. Maintain 1000 feet separation. Check in."
"Blizzard."
"Ruby," Weiss said, trying to control her breathing.
"Fight's on," the range controller called out, and Weiss rammed the throttle of her Typhoon forward, pulling the fighter into a climb. She kept her radar off, though it didn't matter: Winter Schnee might not have Ruby Rose's phenomenal eyesight, but she was no slouch, and would spot her very quickly. Weiss rolled inverted and scanned the sky through her canopy. There she is! She could see the other Typhoon against the blue of the North Sea. Winter was climbing to meet her, so Weiss pushed over into the dive. Both Schnee sisters were flying the same aircraft, and without DUST, neither would use off-boresight missile shots. It was dogfighting, old fashioned style, so it would be up to the skill of the pilot.
"Blizzard, Fox Two on Ruby."
"Shit," Weiss growled, and steepened the dive, dropping flares behind her, then rolled out above the hard deck and broke left. "Missile shot trashed," Range Control reported, but Weiss knew that Winter hadn't fired hastily. She never expected the simulated missile to hit, but it had forced Weiss to abandon her own solution, and maneuever away—and now Winter was in a perfect position to roll in behind her. Weiss craned her head around, and suppressed a sigh: sure enough, Winter was now settling into Weiss' six o'clock.
"All right, dear sister," Weiss whispered to herself, "let's see how badly you want this." Weiss pushed the Typhoon to the limits, making eight-G breaks and turns that forced the breath from her lungs and made it feel like a giant was squeezing her in its fist. Every time she looked back or in the mirrors on her canopy, Winter was still there. Weiss was keeping her from getting missile shots, but Winter kept tracking for gun attacks. She tried climbing, but just as quickly dropped back down, and Weiss began to curse under her breath. Winter had allowed her to trap herself, less than thirty seconds after the fight began: if Weiss climbed, she would be perfectly outlined for a missile shot. If she dived, she would "hit" the invisible hard deck and be declared just as simulated dead. That left horizontal tactics, which were predictable, and sooner or later Winter would get her.
It was time to do something Ruby or Yang would do, which meant doing something crazy. Weiss stole a quick glance in the mirrors, and saw her opportunity: Winter was following just a shade too close. Taking a deep breath, Winter pulled up, then throttled back and opened her speedbrakes. It was the oldest trick in the book, but that was because it often worked. The Typhoon shuddered on the edge of a stall and skidded.
"Mein Gott!" Winter shouted over the open channel, which meant she had hit the mike button on the throttle by accident. Weiss saw the blur of her sister's Typhoon as it broke hard right, missing the other aircraft by less than twenty feet. Weiss let Myrtenaster fall over on one wing, then shoved the throttles back into afterburner; a twitch of the stick, and she was now on her sister's tail. Winter tightened the turn, then began rolling to defeat any gun attack by Weiss, but now it was the younger Schnee who refused to be thrown off. Weiss settled the gunsight over the twin engines of Winter's Typhoon and opened her mouth to call for a gun pass.
She was surprised when Winter suddenly climbed. Weiss immediately switched back to her simulated IRIS heat-seeking missiles and followed her sister into the vertical. It was a perfect infrared shot, the one Weiss herself had feared ten seconds previously: hot afterburners against a cold sky. Then Winter twisted to one side, still climbing, and Weiss blinked as she found herself staring into the sun. Good move, she complimented Winter; even the most sophisticated IR missiles might blindly and overoptimistically home in on the sun itself. Still, she couldn't hold the course forever.
Weiss saw the Typhoon's nose begin to drift to the left. You're going for the hard deck, Winter. I know you are. Her hand tightened on the stick. Sure enough, the other Typhoon suddenly hammerheaded, the nose dropping down and over as Winter let her aircraft stall. Weiss' hand was already moving: she rolled and dived, then rolled out again. If she had anticipated correctly, Winter would drop down nicely at excellent gun parameters. "Check," Weiss smiled.
Except Winter did no such thing. After a second of waiting, Weiss looked up, and to her disgust saw that Winter was the one to throw out her speedbrakes, as well as her flaps: the Typhoon was wallowing, on the edge of going out of control, but still flying. "Blizzard, Fox Two." Weiss threw Myrtenaster into another break, but she'd waited too late.
"Ruby Two is a mort," Range Control reported. Weiss leveled out and waggled her wings, acknowledging her sister's victory, even as the other Typhoon roared downwards for a moment before Winter was able to pull it out of its dive. "Blizzard is a mort," Range Control said. "Blizzard, you have broken the hard deck. Knock it off." The latter wasn't an insult, but an order for both aircraft to cease fighting—since technically, both Weiss and Winter were dead.
"Roger," Winter said, with a chuckle. "Range Control, that's enough for today. Ruby Two, RTB—go to channel four."
"Roger," Weiss replied, waited until the controller cleared them both out of the range, and took up position behind and to Winter's right as she switched over to the more discreet channel. "A tie, Blizzard?"
"It would appear so, Ruby Two," Winter said, emotionlessly. "Your technique is still sloppy, and that deliberate stall when I was behind you was lunatic. We almost collided." She paused. "Still, it's impressive. You've learned much."
"That was very close to a compliment, Blizzard," Weiss chided.
"It was not intended as such."
"We all make mistakes."
Weiss heard her sister laugh at that. "You've grown up a bit, haven't you? You're not the little girl clinging to the family name."
"I'm not sure I ever was," Weiss countered, "but since Beacon, I'm not sure I had much choice."
"Whatever the case, I'm glad to see you've grown beyond our name. Distancing myself from the Schnee family is the most beneficial thing I've ever done. Keep it up, and I think you'll have your own command someday. Perhaps sooner than you think, if General Ironwood has anything to do with it."
My own command, Weiss thought. Only six months previously, she would have jumped at the chance. Now, it almost frightened her. Eventually, that was likely to happen: she would be promoted to Major and become the second in command of a geschwader, an air wing, and have her own squadron. But that would mean leaving Ruby Flight. She could refuse, of course—Huntresses had that option—but there would be enormous pressure to leave her friends. After all, the Luftwaffe needed skilled flight leaders, and at the moment, there were none as experienced as Weiss, unless it was her sister. "I'm not sure I could accept," Weiss finally told her sister.
"Oh?"
Weiss checked the sky around them, then their spacing. Normally, flying close formation was not the place to have a conversation, but they were over northern Germany, and the frontier was a long way off. "We're not supposed to be like this, Win—Blizzard. We're supposed to be united against the GRIMM, not at each other's throats."
"I think we're more united that it seems, Ruby Two. And once we've weathered this current storm—and we will—we will come out of it stronger for doing so. I know the general hasn't done everything perfectly, but he's doing what he thinks is right."
Weiss wasn't so sure about that. They had thought that about Ozpin as well, among others. Everyone had secrets. "I suppose, but can we be sure he's not keeping anything from us?" Even as she said it, Weiss felt like a hypocrite: they had yet to tell Ironwood that they had activated JINN, twice, and by doing so might have allowed Salem to track Ruby and Norn Flights from China to Poland. Ruby had promised to tell the general at some point, but Weiss wondered if her friend was just trying to run out the clock.
"Ironwood's not keeping secrets from me," Winter answered.
"Are you sure?" Winter immediately wished she hadn't said that, either. It sounded accusatory, like Weiss was trying to turn Winter against her commanding officer, and father figure. Certainly James Ironwood had been more of a father to Winter than their own father had been.
"Ruby Two, go to channel two." They switched back to a more general frequency. "Teddy Bear, this is Blizzard."
"Blizzard, Teddy Bear, go ahead." Teddy Bear was the codename for the radar station in the heart of Berlin, at the old Templehof airport. It controlled military airspace around the capital.
"Changing flight plan from Tegel to Schonefeld. Authorization is Whiskey India Sierra."
There was a pause. "Roger, Blizzard. You are cleared to Schonefeld."
"Ruby Two, follow me," Winter said, and gently turned more towards the south. Weiss knew better than to question the order.
The two sisters landed at Schonefeld, Berlin's other major international airport, southeast of the city, which tended not to be used by the military—though there was a small section of the airport reserved for military traffic, it was not a mixed-use location like Tegel to the northwest. They taxied into the military section and parked; both Typhoons were the only aircraft there. As Weiss followed a ground crewman around to postflight Myrtenaster, Winter disappeared to make a phone call. When she returned, she merely motioned Weiss to follow her. "Where are we going?" Weiss asked as they went through a chain-linked gate, but Winter didn't answer. Instead, the sisters waited in silence until a SUV arrived, painted German Army green, its only markings small German flags on both doors. Weiss climbed into the back seat; the only other occupant was the driver. "Sommerpalast," Winter instructed him, and showed him her ID card. The driver glanced back at Weiss, and Winter nodded. "I'll vouch for her."
The driver returned her nod and pulled out into the airport's main road. They were not on it for long before the driver started taking side roads away from the airport, rather than the autobahn. They drove southwest over narrow rural roads, through a small suburb of Berlin, to a forest. Just inside the treeline, they reached another double chainlink fence, topped with razor wire. A single guard shack stood by the gate. The armed guard stepped out as the SUV came to a stop, inspected everyone's ID cards, and waved them through, opening the gate. He looked bored. Weiss read the sign on the fence: Radar Station 1138, Berlin Sector. Beneath it, in smaller script, were the words Luftwaffe Military Installation, Use of Deadly Force Authorized. To the nonmilitary, the latter might have sounded ominous, but the same sign was around every military base in the world, in many languages. Weiss wondered why Winter was taking her to a radar installation, but had a bad feeling that Radar Station 1138 was more than that.
Her suspicions were confirmed two minutes later. The SUV went deeper into the forest, made a slow 90-degree turn, and ended up in a dell, where another guard shack and another fence awaited. This time, however, the shack was concrete, the fence had warning signs that it was electrified, and the guards there were not bored. Unlike the first guard, who only had a submachine gun, these guards had assault rifles and body armor. Weiss followed Winter out of the SUV and into the shack. One of the guards asked her to wait while Winter went into an adjoining room. After about ten minutes, Weiss was ushered into the room and the door closed behind her.
Her sister stood against another door, in her customary parade-rest pose. The guards here wore only regular Luftwaffe uniforms, and all three were female. "Hauptmann Schnee," one said politely. "May I have your sidearm?"
"Certainly," Weiss replied; she'd expected that, at least. She reached into her survival vest and unclipped the Beretta, the handed it over grip first. It was given to one of the other guards, then the first one faced her again. "My apologies, Hauptmann, but I must ask you to strip."
"Strip? Do you mean take off my G-suit and survival vest?"
The guard looked embarrassed. "No, Hauptmann. Take off everything but your underwear." Weiss almost told the guard exactly what she could do and where she could place it, but a warning glance from Winter stopped her. She noticed that Winter's survival vest and G-suit were on a table. Weiss nodded, and did as instructed. "Hands behind your head, please," the guard instructed, and Weiss put her hands behind the tight bun of her white hair. The three guards efficiently went through her flight suit, checked her boots and socks, and even felt through her hair and checked the waistband of her panties. "What, no body cavity search?" Weiss joked. To her surprise, one of the guards looked at Winter for confirmation. Winter gave a minute shake of the head. Once they were finished, the guard told Weiss she could get dressed. Mortified, Weiss did so. Once she had, Winter led her through the door. This door was a foot thick, steel and counterbalanced. Winter then walked down a long hallway that sloped gently, deeper into the earth.
"Where are we?" Weiss asked. "What was all that about?"
"You are not to tell anyone about this place," Winter said instead. "Not even your friends. You may tell them who we are meeting, but not a word about where. I mean this, Weiss. This secret is just as important as JINN, if not moreso."
"The strip search was necessary?"
Winter's mouth quirked into a smile. "You're lucky. The first time I was here, there was a cavity search."
Weiss said nothing more. They came to the end of the hallway, through another security checkpoint—though this time, only their IDs were checked—and into an underground chamber. The walls were concrete, but white painted, while huge prints were hung on the walls to give the illusion of there being an outside. There were several people going to and fro, all wearing the various uniforms of the Bundeswehr, the German armed forces. "Welcome to the Summer Palace," Winter told her sister. "This was originally built by the East Germans in the 1950s, as an underground bunker for their leadership should a nuclear war break out. It was where they surrendered in 1963; they were down here for six months. Since then, it's become an underground command post for our military and, if necessary, our government." Winter gave a small shrug. "It's our equivalent of the Americans' Cheyenne Mountain, but it's nowhere near as well known. In fact, less than ten Americans even know about the Summer Palace—General Ironwood is one of them, of course."
"I don't understand," Weiss admitted.
"You will." They went through two more checkpoints, then down a deserted hallway, before coming to a door—one of a dozen in the hallway. Winter reached under her flight suit and withdrew a key, then unlocked the door. "I'm never without this key." To Weiss' surprise, Winter blushed. "Well, almost never. Come in—wash your hands, please."
Weiss did so, then slipped plastic booties over her combat boots. "It's not a completely clean room," Winter explained. "Not like…well, I suppose that doesn't matter now." Winter said nothing further as they entered the main room.
The room was large and airy, with more of the lighted prints on the wall, and the soft noise of a mountain brook and forest birds playing over hidden speakers. There was a small kitchen and refrigerator, but Weiss' eyes went to the medical equipment, and the single bed. Lying in it, reading a book, was an old woman.
"Good afternoon, Fria," Winter said. "Feeling better today?"
"Ah, good afternoon, Winter." The old woman took off her glasses and set them aside. "And this must be your sister, Weiss." She inclined her head to Weiss. "Good afternoon, Hauptmann Schnee. Forgive me if I don't get up—I'm afraid I took a bit of a fall last week and almost broke my hip." She held out a hand, and Weiss gently shook it. The hand was pale, veins clearly visible beneath, and the grip was frail. "My name is Fria Gletscher. I'm sure you've heard of me."
Weiss' eyebrows rose. "I have," she replied. "You were the first female Luftwaffe pilot—at least postwar. You started flying around…1959? In Sabres?"
Fria smiled. "1955, but yes, I started off in Sabres. Then F-84s, and then F-104s." She looked past Weiss to Winter. "Coffee, please. No sugar." She smiled. "I do like hot coffee on a cold day. Reminds me of home. I was born in Bertchesgaden."
"Certainly." Winter began brewing some coffee.
"I suppose it's not cold outside," Fria said. "Being summer and all." Her smile widened at Weiss' quizzical expression. "You're wondering why your sister brought you all this way underground to meet an old relic, yes? Well, I'm surprised you haven't guessed it." Fria held up her left arm. Around it was a thick metal bracelet.
Weiss didn't recognize it, but she knew all the same. "You're the Winter Maiden."
"Technically, the holder of the Winter Maiden controller," Fria corrected. She waved a hand towards the ceiling. "The actual Winter Maiden is orbiting about a hundred miles above us. But I suppose you knew that already, if you're here." She raised her voice. "Winter, is there any more of that cake left?"
Winter checked the refrigerator. "A few slices."
"Excellent! Let's have it, then." Fria sat up in the bed, fended off Weiss' attempts to help, and raised her voice again. "I don't suppose you'll let me have a smoke."
"I most certainly will not," Winter chuckled.
Fria leaned closer to Weiss. "The doctors here won't let me smoke or drink. Why, I don't know."
"Because it will kill you?" Winter said.
Fria laughed. "My God, Oberst Schnee, I'm already dying. Why bother?" She sighed. "Of course, that's why I'm sitting in a hospital bed." She motioned Weiss to a chair. "Terminal cancer, my dear. I'm afraid I'm not long for this world. I could pass any day now."
Winter handed the old woman a plate with the cake, and slid out a tray from the side of the bed to set the coffee on. "It's not as bad as all that, Fria."
"Close enough." She took a bite of cake and washed it down with the coffee. Weiss could see her hands were shaking. "You see, Weiss, Winter is my chosen successor. It's why she comes down here at least once every three or four days. If I keel over, then she can transfer the controller bracelet quickly."
Weiss looked at her sister in amazement. "Ironwood chose you to be the next…"
"Not just Ironwood," Winter said. "Ozpin as well. I believe Colonel Goodwitch had some input as well; certainly the Chancellor did."
"As did I," Fria added. "As Winter could tell you, I have practically interrogated her." She laughed. "She is perfect for the role. Of course, that's not surprising. I had my eye on Oberst Schnee since she was a mere leutnant."
"When did you know?" Weiss asked her sister.
"Since just before Vytal Flag started."
"So you've been groomed your entire military career," Weiss said. "Doesn't that bother you?"
"A little, at first," Winter replied. "But the more I thought about it, the more I saw it as a privilege, to better serve my country, and the world."
"It's a great honor," Fria told Weiss. "Winter would be only the second Winter Maiden holder. And of course, she's appropriately named." Another laugh.
"But your destiny was chosen for you, without your input," Weiss protested.
Fria set aside the coffee and took Weiss' hand. "Not so, Weiss. Winter is a volunteer, as I was. Being a Maiden, as it were, is a tough job. Much of your time is spent in places like this. You have no privacy. You are constantly watched. I never married because of this. But it has been worth it." She smiled at Winter. "My passing is easier, knowing that I have a worthy successor."
"It has nothing to do with Father, or the general," Winter said. "It is something I want to do. That belongs to me, no one else."
Weiss stared into her coffee. "I guess we've both done a little bit of that. Carving out our own way." She raised her mug to take a drink.
"Though I never had to go AWOL," Winter commented, and Weiss nearly spit out her coffee.
Fria laughed, hard, and started coughing. She waved them off. "No, no. I'm all right." She let go of Weiss' hand, and picked up her own coffee. "Now, enough of that. Winter has mentioned that you have had many adventures, Hauptmann. I would like to hear them."
Weiss opened her mouth to begin, but then the phone rang. Winter excused herself, got up, and answered it. She muttered through a one-sided conversation, hung up, then crossed over to the television. "Speaking of adventures, Father giving a speech."
"Wonderful," Weiss groaned.
Zur Krone Gasthaus
Cottbus, Federal Republic of Germany
15 August 2001
"So we pick up this gal on the 60 Mark Strasse," Sergeant Robert Lee said, leaning across the table, "and I says to Bud—you know Bud, Heather, he's the gunner over on 55—I says, 'Dude, we should drop her back off. That's the Stormtrooper.'"
Corporal Heather Redfeather gave Lee a cool look. "The Stormtrooper?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, she's one of the girls out there. Nice body, but a face that would make a train take a dirt road. I tells Bud, 'You can do better,' but he says, 'I been in the field for a month, boy, and I don't care what she looks like. I just need pussy.'" He glanced at his tank commander. "His words, ma'am, not mine."
Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata only shook her head in amusement. "I'm sure, Sarge. By all means, continue." She took a drink of her mug of beer. "Are you paying attention, Sammy?"
Specialist/4 Sammy Lougheed nodded. "Unfortunately, Captain." Karelia laughed, and Sammy turned to Lee. "They charge extra for Faunus on the 60 Mark Strasse?"
"How should I know? I'm not a furry, like you." Had it been from anyone else, Lee's words would've been an invitation to a fight. The stocky Lougheed was a raccoon Faunus: he was short, but built like a pro wrestler—he needed to be, to lift the 120mm tank shells that their M1 Abrams used for its main gun. He was the loader. Lee, who was a human and so stereotypically Southern that people wondered if it was a prank, was the gunner. Heather Redfeather, a tall, willowy lynx Faunus, was the driver. All four were in fatigues, headed back from a 48-hour pass in Berlin.
"If it was only 60 marks," Redfeather remarked, "then I'd get checked for herpes when we get back to Kalisz." The 60 Mark Strasse was the nickname for a stretch of road east of Berlin where prostitutes could be picked up; it was generally frequented by US Army forces stationed in the area. The Army turned a blind eye to the practice, knowing there was no way to stop it.
"Hey, that's just a nickname," Lee insisted. "And what did you do on your pass, Heather? Go to church?" He nudged Lougheed. "I expect it from this Calvinist bastard—"
"I'm Anglican, you Baptist heretic," Lougheed interrupted.
"—whatever. I expect it from Sammy, but you're a party girl, Heather."
"I was, until I lost my stripes for that barfight in Madison at Junior's place," Heather replied. "What? I just took a lot of pictures of Berlin. Photography's my thing now." She patted the camera pack on her hip.
Lee was about to remark on that, when Karelia shushed him. The TV was showing Jacques Schnee, and the bartender turned it up so that the packed gasthaus could hear it. Conversation stopped. Karelia spoke enough German to hold a conversation; neither Redfeather nor Lougheed spoke more than enough to order dinner. Lee, for all of his reputation as a redneck, spoke it fluently, and he quietly translated for his friends.
"All of us are being hurt by this senseless embargo between the European Union and the United States," Jacques was saying. "If I'm elected to the EU Council, I've made it no secret that I will demand General Ironwood withdraw all but one American division from Poland and Germany. Were it not for the general's reckless and, in my opinion, criminal and illegal measures, this embargo could have ended weeks ago. The withdrawal of one division was a step in the right direction, but unfortunately Ironwood has refused to pull out a single American soldier since. President Shawcross has said publicly that he would support such a withdrawal, but Ironwood seems to think he is above the law."
Jacques paused, and shook his head sadly. "With so much of the Schnee consortium's business in the United States, I know that so many of my employees are suffering. My family has been weathering the same storm as many of you. I have been forced to lay off much of my staff, and my son Whitley has agreed to remain here in Germany, rather than resume his studies in Great Britain, in a show of solidarity." He sighed, deeply. "Effective immediately, Schnee GmbH will be shutting down all nonessential operations. This extends to our coal mining operations in Cottbus, our heavy manufacturing interests in Dusseldorf, and our Airbus assembly operations in Hamburg. Other operations will continue, but at a reduced rate." He looked out at his audience squarely. "One hopes this will be very temporary, and everyone can be back to work soon. If elected to office, I will make the changes necessary to fix what Ironwood has broken. To my Polish friends and constituents, I must ask you: your economy is also suffering, moreso even than Germany, from this embargo. Robyn Hill supports Ironwood. Can you trust her? Or should you do the sensible thing and vote for me?"
The bartender turned the TV back down as Jacques took questions. "How the hell can he even run for office from Poland?" Redfeather asked.
"Dual citizenship," Karelia explained. "He owns a big plot of land around Zagan."
"What a fucker," Lee growled. "Ironbutt is kind of a prick, but damn, we're just trying to protect Europe. Schnee could end this tomorrow."
"Heads up," Karelia warned. Someone had noticed that there were US Army personnel in the gasthaus. Karelia had noticed that they were also the only Americans in the bar. It was a working man's bar, and the majority of the people here were coal miners—which meant, Karelia knew, that Jacques Schnee had just thrown them out of work.
One of the bar patrons, a burly man with a face that had seen a few miles, walked up to the table, and stopped in front of Karelia. "You Americans?"
Karelia looked up at him. "We are. Is there problem?"
He tried to poke her in the chest, but she intercepted the finger, shoving him back. Instead, he pointed at the TV. "You hear that? You understand German?" His English was accented, but passable.
"We understood. And we are sorry." She got up and put a hand on his shoulder, switching to German. "We don't want fight. We are leaving, okay?"
"This is your fault!" a woman screamed. "My husband doesn't have a job now!"
Lee got to his feet, raising his hands. "Fraulein, we're just soldiers. We don't make policy, ma'am! We're just following orders."
"Ah, just following orders!" The first man laughed. "Where have we heard that before, my friends? That sounds very familiar!"
Another man stepped forward, and two more women. "Get out. Get out of this bar and out of our town!" the second man shouted in English. "Get out of our country!"
Lougheed was on his feet now, as was Redfeather. "Hey," he said, also in English, correctly guessing that a few of the patrons spoke it, "we don't like being here anymore than you want us here. We're defending you from the GRIMM."
"GRIMM, ha!" the burly man jeered. "I see no GRIMM around here."
"Go about a hundred klicks east," Lougheed snapped. "You'll see plenty."
"And you'll defend us from these 'GRIMM'?" The man used his fingers as quotation marks.
"Yes," Karelia answered. "Now let us through. We will leave." Most of the patrons who had gotten up began moving aside, and Karelia began to think they might just get out of the gasthaus without a fight.
"Maybe you should hump a rifle," Redfeather snarled. "Get out there and help us, rather than sitting on your fat ass collecting welfare. That's all you Krauts ever do—sit around while we defend your lazy asses."
Karelia turned to tell Redfeather to shut up, but it was too late. The big man yelled a horrible oath and punched Redfeather in the jaw. She was not expecting it and went down, hard. Lougheed launched himself at the man and speared him through a table, which collapsed under them.
The fight was on.
Karelia ducked a punch, swung and missed, then stepped back as Lee connected. She took another step back to cover Redfeather, who was shaking her head free of the cobwebs and trying to get up. Someone came in to kick her, so Karelia grabbed a chair and smashed it across the woman's back. She saw Lougheed pull his opponent up to punch him, but the burly miner grabbed a knife. It was a butter knife, not able to do much, but it was an escalation. Luckily, Lougheed sidestepped the clumsy thrust and smashed an elbow into the man's face. Beyond them, Karelia saw the bartender grab the phone and start dialing, undoubtedly calling the police. That was a good thing, she supposed; the Polizei would certainly see reason—
She was distracted, and didn't see the punch. White stars exploded behind her vision, and she found herself sitting on the floor. Karelia rolled over as someone else tried to kick her as well, but now Redfeather was on her feet and punched that person away. She grabbed another chair and was raising it to hit yet someone else, and then gasped and dropped the chair. Redfeather looked down at the knife protruding from her abdomen. In front of her was a young man, and he looked as shocked as she did, as if he could not quite believe he had just stabbed her. He pulled back the steak knife, and blood welled up from the wound. The young man stepped back and raised the knife; Karelia couldn't be sure if he was going to drop it or stab again.
In theory, US Army troops in Europe were not allowed to carry weapons off station or away from the battle area. Karelia, however, had heard about the murders in Berlin and had decided, before she and her crew left Kalisz, to bend the rules. Concealed in an ankle holster was a .32 Llama pistol, just in case. Karelia drew the pistol and raised it. The knife descended, and she pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out through the gasthaus, and it hit the young man an inch right from his left armpit. The impact and the surprise of the shot caused him to fall to the floor; the knife clattered next to him, and Karelia realized he'd been trying to drop it. "Oh God," she breathed.
No one else in the gasthaus was armed. The sound of the pistol shot changed the crowd's mood from rage to panic, and they stampeded out the front door. A woman screamed as she was trampled in the rush.
The young man groaned and tried to sit up, as he put a hand against the bullet hole. Karelia scrambled to her feet, but as she did so, she heard Redfeather croak, "Cap? I think I'm hit, Cap." Lee was at her side and lowered her to the ground, pressing his hands against the stab wound. Dark blood welled around it. Redfeather's fingers were shaking with shock, and she feebly pawed at the blood, smearing it across her uniform tunic. "For fuck's sake!" Lee shouted at the stunned bartender. "Call an ambulance, you asshole!"
"I didn't…I didn't mean…" The pistol fell from Karelia's fingers as the Polizei stormed through the gasthaus' entrance.