Prologue.
Operational Headquarters of the 3rd Shock Army. Western Theater Forces near Stendal
North German-Karlslandic plain.
July 3rd, 1989.
"Are you absolutely certain that US Army units were spotted working with these "Karlslanders"?" General-Polkovnik Mikhail Andreyevich Karamazov grimly asked his operations officer.
"Da Toviarish Polkovnik-General!" the man nodded vigorously, confirming his statement. "Some of our infantry elements from the 207rh Motor Rifle division have reported and confirmed the presence of US Army units, mainly that of the V Corps, as well as elements of the West German III. Corps."
Karamazov growled. "Fuck me what a mess." He scanned a map with the enraged movements of a caged tiger. "What an absolute fucking disaster…"
The Intelligence officer coughed loudly to bring his superior's attention back to the problem at hand. "If I may inform, one of our Hinds just got lost when it ran into a two-man flight of those…ve'dma…"
"Where?"
"A few miles east of Stendal here, Eschenbach." The man pointed it out on the map.
"Do we have boots on the ground?"
"No sir, but 31st Motor Rifle Regiment is currently pushing in that direction."
"Assuming those flying bitches don't cut them off!" Karamazov snapped irately. "Call off the attack! And get frontal aviation to get us a ground attack strike with fighter escorts!"
"Yes sir." the major about turned and marched off. Leaving the general alone. Karamazov watched the operations officer leave, the door closing with a resounding thud. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as he paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.
"Fuck...we are in some deep shit." he moaned, rubbing his forehead.
Fucking V Corps, fucking Karlslanders... Just what we fucking needed," he growled, eyes darting back to the map. "Why do these bastards have to stick their noses in everything?"
The door creaked open again, and Colonel Ivanov, the chief of staff, entered briskly. "General-Polkovnik, we need to discuss the logistics of withdrawing the 31st Motor Rifle Regiment if we—"
Karamazov cut him off. "Logistics? Ivanov, we're dealing with a fucking catastrophe here! Our Hinds are getting shot out of the sky, and you want to talk logistics?"
Ivanov remained calm, a stark contrast to Karamazov's simmering fury. "Yes, logistics. We need to ensure our forces can regroup and avoid encirclement. The Americans and West Germans are not to be underestimated."
Karamazov slammed his fist on the table. "Tell me something I don't fucking know! This entire operation is turning into a shitshow. Our intel's shaky, our coordination's a joke, and now we have these damned Karlslanders to deal with."
Ivanov nodded, waiting for Karamazov to take a breath. "We need a clear strategy, Mikhail. If we lose the 31st, it'll be a major blow to our efforts in this sector."
Karamazov rubbed his forehead, his mind racing. "Fine. Get me the latest recon reports. I want to know exactly where those flying witches are and what their capabilities are. And for fuck's sake, get our anti-air units ready. We can't afford to lose any more birds."
"Yes, General-Polkovnik," Ivanov said, turning to leave.
Karamazov's eyes narrowed as he returned to the map, tracing the potential routes of enemy advancement. "Fucking Karlslanders," he muttered. "Always a thorn in our side."
A young lieutenant entered, saluting sharply. "Comrade General-Polkovnik, we've received word from the 31st. They've encountered heavy resistance near Eschenbach. Requesting immediate artillery support."
Karamazov nodded curtly. "Inform the artillery. I want a barrage ready to rain hell on those positions. And get me a direct line to the regimental commander. I need to know what the fuck is happening out there."
The lieutenant saluted again and hurried out. Karamazov sighed, leaning heavily on the table, his fingers tracing the lines of the map once more.
"Deep shit, Mikhail," he muttered to himself. "We're in deep fucking shit. But we'll get through this. We always do."
His eyes focused on the village of Eschenbach, dtermination hardening his features. "They want a fight. We'll give them a fucking fight they'll never forget.
Stendal Combat Area.
Operational Sector of 130 Motor Rifles.
"Get into position boys! Once our flyboys and artillery pound the place, we'll sweep in!"
The NCOs marshalled the motorstrelki under their command. The young men wore a mixture of M70 or Afganka tunics and 6B5-15 Ballistic Vests. Many reloaded their AK-74s.
Some East Germans from 9. Panzerdivision ran to their own positions, they would support their socialist brothers against the capitalist fascist West Germans and the vile Karlslanders and their imperialistic monarchy. Many were wearing older 6b2 Ballistic vests.
"Hey look, some East Germans," a conscript whispered to his comrade, nudging him with an elbow.
His friend, a young man barely out of his teens, glanced over, wide-eyed. "Yeah... They look ready to fight."
Nearby, a seasoned sergeant barked orders, trying to keep the men focused. "Stay sharp, boys! Keep your heads down and your eyes open."
A terrified conscript, shaking as he loaded his magazine, muttered to himself. "This is it... We're really going in..."
Another soldier, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, slapped him on the back. "Relax, kid. Stick close to me, and you'll be fine. Just keep moving and don't stop for anything."
A group of young soldiers huddled together, their voices a mix of excitement and fear. "I heard the Karlslanders have some kind of special forces... Real killers," one of them said, eyes wide with apprehension.
"Bah, they bleed just like the rest," another retorted, trying to sound brave. "We've got the numbers and the firepower. They'll be running scared in no time."
The artillery began its thunderous barrage, the ground shaking with each explosion. The men flinched, some instinctively ducking as the shells whistled overhead.
The lieutenant, a steely-eyed officer, raised his voice above the din. "Remember, once the barrage lifts, we move in fast. Keep your spacing, cover your sectors, and watch out for each other."
The conscripts took deep breaths, trying to steady their nerves. One of them, clutching a small photograph of his girl, whispered a prayer under his breath. "Please let me get through this..."
Others who'd been fighting since the first day were more apprehensive.
As the artillery barrage began to lift, the lieutenant gave the signal. "Alright, boys, this is it! For the Motherland!
BMP-1s, 2s and BTR-80s and 70s rumbled forward and began to ford the river. The Motor Riflemen followed, jumping into the shallow water and wading forward, their boots sinking into the muddy riverbed. The cold water splashed up, soaking their uniforms, but the men pressed on, their focus unwavering.
"Stay close to the vehicles! Use them for cover!" an NCO shouted, waving his arm to direct the men.
The armored vehicles provided a reassuring presence, their machine guns and cannons scanning for targets as they advanced. The roar of the engines and the clanking of treads created a symphony of mechanized warfare.
"Keep moving! Don't bunch up!" another sergeant yelled, pushing the men forward.
Bullets began to crack overhead, the enemy reacting to their advance. The water around them splashed as rounds struck the surface, sending up sprays of mud and water. The soldiers instinctively ducked, their adrenaline surging.
"Incoming!" someone shouted as mortar rounds began to fall around them, explosions sending geysers of water and dirt into the air.
"Push through it! Keep going!" the lieutenant bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The lead BMP-2 fired its 30mm cannon, the rhythmic thump of the autocannon adding to the cacophony. A distant building erupted in flames as the rounds struck home, sending enemy soldiers scrambling for cover.
The motor riflemen emerged from the river, their wet boots squelching as they hit solid ground. They spread out, using the terrain and the advancing vehicles for cover. The landscape was a chaotic mix of smoke, fire, and the sounds of battle.
"Over there! Panzerschrek team on the ridge!" a soldier shouted, pointing to a group of enemy combatants setting up a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
"Suppress them!" the lieutenant ordered. A squad of riflemen opened fire, their AK-74s chattering as they laid down a hail of bullets. The enemy RPG team ducked behind cover, momentarily silenced.
A BMP-1 swiveled its turret and fired a HEAT round at the ridge, the explosion sending a shockwave through the air. The RPG team was blown apart, their launcher left as a twisted wreck.
"Clear the village! Move house to house!" the lieutenant commanded, directing the men towards Eschenbach.
The motor riflemen advanced into Stendal proper, their movements precise and coordinated. They kicked in doors and cleared rooms, their training taking over as they methodically secured each building. The East Germans joined them, adding their firepower to the assault.
"Contact! Second floor!" a soldier yelled, pointing to a window where enemy soldiers were firing down at them.
A BTR-80 rolled into position, its heavy machine gun barking as it sprayed the building with bullets. The enemy fire ceased, the shooters either dead or driven into hiding.
"Keep pushing! We're almost through!" the lieutenant urged; his voice hoarse from shouting. The next moment, his popped like a balloon, ruby red ichor coating the ground like compote.
"Sniper!"
"Witches!" a terror-stricken conscript screamed. Before he, his entire squad and a BMP disappeared in a flash of blue light and an explosion. Leaving nothing but a smoking, crackling crater.
"Fuck! Get to cover now!" a scarred starshina hollered, leading some men into a house. It too was wiped off the face of the earth by the flying abominations.
"Fuck my mother I didn't sign up for this!"
The crews of some BMPs and BTR's jumped out of their vehicles, abandoning them as they ran back to the river and began to swim back to the other bank.
"Oy! Where the fuck do you think you fucking cowards are going!" a red faced corporal bellowed. "Get the fuck back here!"
"Apologies, comrade corporal," a crewman said in the singing, musical-accented Russian of either a Lithuanian or Latvian. "But I think I'll pass and not fucking die today, thank you very much."
Another crewman, panting heavily, joined in, "Have you seen what they did to those guys? We don't stand a chance out there!"
The corporal fumed but he couldn't do much. The regiment's push had failed in this area. But that didn't mean it hadn't failed in other sectors.
They would push them back anyway once the bridges had been built and the tanks of the 47th, 10th and 12th Guards Tank Division could storm the frontline. It was just a matter of time.
Downed Mi-24V Hind.
Few clicks east of Stendal.
Leytanant Andreas Vaino.
337 OBVP
Andreas Vaino woke up to find himself hanging upside down in his cockpit. His head hurt and so did his neck. Blearily, he unfastened the seatbelts and grabbed his AKS-74u carbine, hitting it against the plexiglass of the canopy, which shattered like an egg after some effort and elbow grease being put in by Eigims, diminishing his already low energy.
He crawled out like some infant coming out of its mother for the first time, coughing slightly as he took a small sip from his canteen. He wiped the blood on his lips with his sleeve first.
'what the hell happened?' the Estonian thought wearily. 'one moment we'd been in the air the next moment that witch…goddamit.'
He found the top canopy cracked open. Following the trail of debris, he found his Hind's Ukrainian gunner, Sargent Litvinenko dead. The impact had flung him out headfirst, breaking his neck.
He'd never really liked the Ukrainian due to the fact that he was a Slav and Vaino himself an Estonian, a Balt, but he couldn't really help but be sorry for the poor guy. Vaino knelt beside Litvinenko's body, muttering a quick prayer under his breath.
"Rest in peace, comrade. You didn't deserve this."
He stood up, looking around the crash site. The dense forest provided some cover, but also made it difficult to see any approaching threats. He knew he had to move quickly; the enemy would likely be searching for survivors.
Checking his gear, Vaino ensured he had his carbine, spare magazines, and his knife. He also took a moment to grab the emergency radio from the wreckage, hoping it still worked. As he fiddled with the device, static crackled to life, but there was no clear signal.
"Mayday, mayday, this is Leytenant Vaino of 337 OBVP. Downed Hind, east of Eschenbach. Need immediate extraction. Do you copy?"
The radio hissed and popped, but there was no response. Vaino sighed, tucking the radio into his vest. He'd have to make his way back on foot.
He started moving west, keeping low and using the trees for cover. His training kicked in, every sound and movement scrutinized for potential danger. The memories of the battle flashed through his mind, the sight of the witch taking them down haunting his thoughts.
'Stay focused, Andreas. Get back to friendly lines. Stay alive,' he reminded himself, pushing the fear and fatigue to the back of his mind.
As he moved through the forest, he came across more debris from his Hind, including the shattered remains of one of the rotor blades. He crouched, scanning the area for any signs of life or enemy movement.
In the distance, he heard gunfire and explosions, the battle still raging near Eschenbach. He needed to avoid the main conflict and find a safer route back. The sounds of warfare were both a guide and a warning.
He continued his cautious advance, pausing every few minutes to listen. The forest was eerily quiet apart from the distant rumble of the battle. The silence was unsettling, making every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves sound like a potential threat.
Suddenly, he heard voices ahead. Dropping to a knee, he peered through the foliage. A group of those Wehrmacht uniform wearing German soldiers, likely searching for survivors, was making their way through the forest. They were speaking in low tones, their weapons at the ready.
Vaino's heart pounded in his chest. He knew he couldn't take them on alone. He slowly backed away, trying to put some distance between himself and the patrol.
'Think, Andreas, think,' he urged himself, looking for a way to evade the enemy and continue his journey. He spotted a narrow stream nearby and made his way towards it, hoping the water would mask his tracks.
He waded into the stream, moving upstream to throw off any potential trackers. The cold water helped to clear his mind and numb some of the pain from his injuries. He kept moving, every step a struggle against the current.
After what felt like hours, he finally emerged from the stream, soaking wet and exhausted. He found a dense thicket and crawled into it, taking a moment to rest and gather his thoughts.
"Just a bit further," he whispered to himself, "Just keep moving."
He took another sip from his canteen, the water refreshing but not nearly enough to quench his thirst. He knew he had to conserve it, unsure of when he'd find another source.
As he sat there, catching his breath, he heard the faint sound of an engine in the distance. His heart leapt with hope. It could be a friendly patrol or an extraction team. He needed to signal them, but carefully, to avoid drawing enemy attention.
He pulled out the emergency flare from his survival kit, ready to use it if necessary. He waited, listening intently, the sound of the engine growing closer.
'Please be friendly,' he thought, clutching the flare tightly.
The vehicle came into view, a Soviet BTR-80. Vaino's relief was palpable as he stood up and fired the flare into the air, the bright red light cutting through the canopy.
The BTR-80 halted, and soldiers emerged, weapons at the ready. Vaino stepped forward; hands raised.
"Leytenant Andreas Vaino, 337 OBVP. My Hind was shot down east of here. Requesting extraction."
The commander of the BTR nodded, motioning for Vaino to approach. "Get in, comrade. You're lucky we found you."
Vaino climbed into the vehicle, grateful for the respite. As the BTR rumbled away, he allowed himself a moment of relief. The battle was far from over, but he had survived another day.
Stendal.
Private Laurenz Hilmar.
9. Panzerdivision.
"Think we'll survive this?" Oberschutze Dietrich asked him, hand tightly gripped on MPiK-74. Hilmar shrugged. Considering that they'd been forced into a corner, he didn't think their survival was likely.
"Hell no." he told Dietrich. "We'll be lucky enough if we are taken prisoner."
Usually, such talk was treasonous. But the political officer was dead. And Lieutenant Kristof was out of commission with both a busted arm and leg. The situation was looking FUBAR.
The 10-man squad had holed up itself in the remains of a beer hall. Dietz, the RPK gunner had set himself up on the first floor, supported by two of the other Schützen, with their MPi-Ks. The remaining six having taken up positions on the ground floor.
Wisps of smoke fluttered around the now strangely silent battlefield. The men had to keep strict trigger discipline, due to the fact that three precious mags were wasted on false alarms.
The incapacitated Leutnant lay safely behind the counter, face contorted in pain. His leg hung useless, twisted to unnatural degrees. It would be insane to move him off.
And judging by the fact that their Soviet kameraden were gone and the area was silent, it meant that they were all alone. The reason the squad hadn't tried escape was due to the fact they were surrounded. The West Germans and their Imperialist Karlslandic ilk were blaring psy ops from hidden loudspeakers. All the usual reunification nonsense. They'd changed tactics though.
A West German Sergeant appeared, marching forward under the white flag. He halted just a few meters clear of the house.
"I am not a fucking Captain," the NCO announced. "I'm not a major, and I sure as hell am not a General. But I'm a Feldwebel of the Bundeswehr, and you all will listen to what I have to say."
"Fuck you, Wessi!" Dietz, a member of the squad, jeered.
The Feldwebel didn't flinch, his face remaining stoic. "I understand your anger. But listen to me. You are surrounded. Your Soviet comrades have either fled or been captured. You have no reinforcements, no supplies, and no way out."
"Now see here Wessi," Oberfeldwebel Kaulbach butted in. "We're soldiers of the Nationale Volksarmee. And considering that our nation have been merged with some pseudo monarchist Third Reich wannabe that utilizes both the uniforms and a few insignia of said Third Reich, I am astounded that you, West Germans and NATO of all people are working with these guys, just look at those so called "Guardkorp" uniforms! We should be working together in stopping these out of place and time anomalies!"
The Wessi just shrugged, "On your on head it is then." He smartly saluted, before about turning and marching back to wherever truck he came from.
"Did you really just refer to East and West Germany, as one nation?" Dietrich turned to stare at the sergeant, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Why the hell not?"
"I can't believe you just said that" muttered Oberschütze Dietrich, shaking his head.
"Well, it's true," replied Hilmar, "I've heard stories about those Karlslanders. They're brutal, like something out of a nightmare."
"You think the Wessies will treat us any better?" asked one of the other Schützen. "They're still our enemies."
"Yeah, but they're not fanatics," Hilmar argued. "They're more likely to follow the rules of war."
"Maybe," Dietrich said, his grip tightening on his MPiK-74. "But I'm not surrendering to anyone."
"None of us are," Dietz chimed in from his position with the RPK. "We fight until the last round."
The lieutenant, wincing in pain, managed to speak, "We hold this position. No surrender. Our orders are clear."
"But, Herr Leutnant, we're cut off," another soldier whispered. "We're just delaying the inevitable."
"Then we delay it as long as we can," the lieutenant replied through gritted teeth.
"Any of you have family back home?" one of the younger Schützen asked quietly.
"Yeah," said Kaulbach, his voice softening. "A wife and two kids in Dresden."
"Same," Dietz said, his eyes distant. "Got a little girl. She just turned five last month."
"What about you, Hilmar?" asked Dietrich.
"Just my parents," Hilmar answered. "They're old, but they're tough. They'll manage."
Silence fell over the squad, each man lost in his thoughts.
"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" the young Schütze asked.
"Maybe," Kaulbach said after a moment. "If we survive this, maybe we'll see them again."
Dietrich snorted. "You're an optimist, Kaulbach."
"Someone has to be," Kaulbach replied with a faint smile.
"Well, I'm not dying today," said another Schütze defiantly. "We'll get through this. We have to."
"Damn right," Hilmar agreed, clapping the young soldier on the shoulder. "We'll get through this. Together."
The lieutenant sighed, "If we do, it'll be a miracle."
Dietz grunted, adjusting his position. "Then let's make our own miracle."
"Agreed," Dietrich said, his resolve hardening. "No matter what, we stick together."
The men nodded, a silent pact forming among them. They might be surrounded, but they weren't beaten. Not yet.
Alfeld.
5th Shock Army.
2nd Battle Group.
"Ah, Pasha. Good to see you." General Colonel Vladimir Vasilyevich Orlovsky rose to embrace his old friend, General Colonel Pavel Leonidvich Alekseyev.
"Volodya" Alekseyev returned the embrace. Orlovsky pulled a chair for him.
"Please, do sit down. Should I pour you a cup of tea?"
"Yes please do." Alekseyev sat down, before turning to introduce the young man behind him.
"Volodya, meet Captain Ivan Mikhailovich Sergetov, my ADC. Captain Sergetov, this is General Colonel Orlovsky, one of the most capable officers of in all of the Soviet Army."
"How do you do comrade?" Sergetov held out an arm, which Orlovsky took genially in his calloused hand. Before setting down 4 metal cups and pouring tea into them from a warm thermos.
"How is Natasha?" Sergetov accepted his cup gratefully.
"She is very well Pasha." Orlovsky scratched his greying, balding head. "A bit concerned about the fact that our country has been ripped apart, but she is well thankfully." Orlovsky had a misty look in his eyes for a second before they twinkled, and his mustache twitched.
"What about you Pasha? Still a bachelor? You're a handsome fellow for your age, you should settle down, especially with those looks." He referred to Alekseyev's still dark hair, intense dark eyes, and pleasantly handsome features of his clean-shaven face.
Alekseyev coughed slightly in an attempt to change the subject. "I see there are four cups here.
"That'd be for me, I believe." A new voice spoke up. Alekseyev turned to see Major Valerie Fedorovich Lebedjev, Orlovsky's intelligence officer and a KGB officer from the Third Chief Directorate, the Soviet Union's military counter-intelligence organization. A man in his 40s, wearing a 6b15 bulletproof vest with the Berezka camo pattern, the clean-shaven Lebedjev was also married to Aleksandra, the daughter of Kravchenko, the Soviet Defense Minister. "Pavel Leonidvich, it has been a long time, hasn't it?
"Yes, indeed." Alekseyev stiffly replied. He didn't trust chekists very much. But Lebedjev was Orlovsky's friend and trustworthy, so he was decent enough to be a friend.
"Who is the newcomer?" he drawled.
"Captain Ivan Mikhailovich Sergetov."
"Son of Mikhail Eduardovich Sergetov, Candidate (nonvoting) Member of the Politburo and Energy Minister?" Lebedjev asked.
"Yes sir." Sergetov warily answered.
The major made a noncommittal grunt and didn't press further, instead gathering a few dossiers and grabbing the fourth tin cup. "Volodya, I would like you to join me once you are done with Pasha here to pay our guest a visit." And with that cryptic parting shot, he ducked under the entrance of the tent and left.
Orlovsky shook his head with a smile. "That man is always up to something."
Alekseyev took a sip of his tea and sighed contentedly. "You always did make the best tea, Volodya. It's one of the few comforts in these times."
Orlovsky chuckled. "Well, Pasha, when this is all over, you'll come to our dacha near Leningrad, and Natasha and I will find you a good woman. Someone who can make you forget about all this madness."
Alekseyev laughed, a rare sound these days. "I'll hold you to that, Volodya. But I must warn you, I'm not easy to please."
"Nonsense," Orlovsky said with a grin. "We'll find someone perfect for you. And for you too, Ivan," he added, turning to the young captain. "A nice girl to keep you grounded."
Sergetov blushed slightly. "Thank you, Colonel. I'd like that."
"As much as I like talking with you Volodya, we have much more pressing matters to attend to. What is the status of the attack on Alfeld?"
Orlovsky sighed, cheerful mood gone as the subject became serious. "Well, we're winning, sort of. Our tanks are moving quickly but we're wasting valuable time and ammo. If it were up to me, I'd have 3rd Shock's OMG (Operational Maneuver Group) detach and flank the NATO defenders."
"Operational Maneuver Groups are not to move without the theater commander's permission. Who, in turn, must get his own permission from Moscow. Meaning that this is up to CNIC-West, but Malinsky's a competent commander, and the Politburo trusts him if they gave him this position. I know Anton Mikhailovich is Malinsky's son, but the old man had gone to extremes to ensure that there was no favoritism, that Anton earned his own way."
"That is good." Orlovsky sighed in relief. "First good news I heard in a long time." He realized that both Alekseyev and his young aide were dressed in Berezka M88 cut BDUs with 6B5-15 vests.
"Aren't you CNIC-Southwest? Shouldn't you be at your command?"
"I was replaced at the last minute." Alekseyev explained. "Malinsky ordered me to take command of the 1st Battlegroup after its commander died in an air attack. I've been demoted for the time being."
"Don't bother trying to go by helicopter." Orlovsky gulped the last of his tea. "Witches have been targeting our aviation units, especially helicopters. Some of our pilots wanted to paint Red Crosses as they seem to spare those, but Malinsky forbade it, seeing as its perfitidity."
"I'll follow your advice." Alekseyev and Sergetov placed their now empty cups on the tin tray before rising, Orlovsky mirroring them.
"Before you go, would you like to see a Ve'dma?"
Stendal.
4th Armored Division.
1st Battalion Armored Team Yankee.
Captain Sean Bannon.
"Hey Cap'n. What'd you feel about all this? This, fighting alongside these magical girls with feminized versions of the names of WW2 aces." Specialist Kevin "Saint" St Paul asked, looking up from his station in the M1A1 Main Battle Tank designated 'Alpha 66.'
"What do you feel about it Saint?" Captain Sean Bannon countered.
"You aren't going to like his answer." Specialist Ed 'Ski' Sikorsky butted in, playfully punching St Paul.
Saint grinned, rubbing his arm. "Well, Cap'n, to be honest, I think it's all a load of bullshit. But then again, I never thought I'd see magic flying girls taking out jets and choppers either. So maybe there's something to it."
Sergeant Patrick "Pat" Scanlon, the gunner, snorted. "Whether it's bullshit or not, we still have a job to do. Those girls might be our ticket out of this mess, so we better play nice."
Bannon nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the map laid out in front of him. "You're right, Pat. Whether we believe in this merging worlds nonsense or not, we've got to work with what we have. Those witches are a powerful asset, and we need every edge we can get."
"Yeah, I get that, Cap'n," Saint said, leaning back in his seat. "Just wish they wore pants. It's distracting as hell."
Ski laughed, shaking his head. "You're hopeless, Saint. Focus on the mission, not their uniforms."
At that moment, a witch soon appeared, looking irate and angry. Like all witches, she seemed awfully young to be in a warzone. Upon spotting Bannon, her face morphed into a scowl before she marched up to the tank.
"You the one they call Bannon?" she snapped aggressively at the Captain, to the shock of the crew.
"That's me," Bannon confirmed.
"Some GIs here were talkin about a Captain Bannon shit talking about witches. Was that you?" the blonde cracked her knuckles threateningly. Sean sighed.
"No, that wasn't me, that would be Captain Mark Bannon, from the 5th Infantry Battalion." Bannon replied smoothly. Mark Bannon had a reputation for disliking a lot of things, witches were the newest in the category.
"Where's this 5th Battalion then?" the blonde crossed her arms and leaned on the tank.
"Somewhere down the line. Say, what's your name?"
"Marian." The girl replied gruffly. "Marian Carl."
It was a bit jarring, and it still was for Bannon to think that these teenaged girls with magical powers had the names of old-World War 2 pilots, some of whom were still alive.
"Well Miss Carl, I hope I answered your question. How are you finding Alfeld this time of the year?"
The girl smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Damn great. Was a little tough getting used to fighting modern warfare, but I think I'm getting the hang of it."
"Great." Bannon stared at his wristwatch. "Me and the guys would like to continue are conversation, but I think it's best you head back to your squadron. I think Ivan is readying another push."
"Already? But we just finished dealing with one of their assaults an hour ago."
"Ma'am, Ivan wants this town because once he does, it's all flat land. Perfect for his T-80s, 72s, and 64s."
"Drop the ma'am will you Captain, I'm not some old maid."
Bannon chuckled lightly. "Alright then. Take care of yourself."
"You too Cap." She lightly tapped the tank turret before walking back to her unit. Bannon sighed.
He hoped they would survive this mess.
The event known as the merging had changed the course of geopolitics forever. The USSR itself had been split and was now facing a war in the motherland. They'd lost contact with Leningrad and Volgograd and a few regions in the Far East as well as the Baltics. Then news trickled in that seemed to say that Nicholas II of all people and his family had risen from the dead. Moscow itself was dealing with its own problems as now, old-style buildings had somehow appeared. The cities had increased in site. And it was now fighting a desperate battle for control of the capital against Whites and Tsarist forces supported by little girls in leg-mounted flying machines and Magic.
For the unlucky East Germans, it was the same. Cities had swelled to huge sizes, and these Karlslanders appeared. Led by the now strangely alive Wilhelm II, they'd caused confusion and panic as the event affected both Germanies. East Berlin had gone silent, and a good chunk of the NVA had gone missing. Worst. East Prussia was back in German control, it seemed. The GFSG was fighting a war on two fronts.
For the Poles and the Czechoslovaks, it was much more dire. What seemed like the entire Austro-Hungarian Empire, now calling itself Ostmark, had been transplanted into historical territorial boundaries. Warsaw Pact command assumed that parts of the Polish People's Army, the entire Czechoslovak People's Army, and the Hungarian People's Army were lost. Warsaw itself was now in no position to mount any significant operation in East Prussia. Thousands of Poles now found themselves cut off from their own country as a massive German population reappeared.
The USSR lost Karelia too as a newly invigorated Finland saw Gustav Emil Mannerheim take command of the Republic's armed forces.
Yugoslavia seemed to have imploded into civil war, as had Albania and Ceauşescu's Romania. In Bulgaria, the Socialist government had begrudgingly agreed to stand down and Tsar Boris III had been sworn in as monarch again. The Warsaw Pact was collapsing and imploding in on itself as its member states failed to coordinate.
In the midst of it all, a new Premier had been sworn in, Alexander Eduardovich Rodya. A previously hitherto unknown young CPSU functionary, the "young" man had been sworn in as Premier, instead of the chosen choice of Gorbachev, who remained the General Secretary. A hardline Marxist Leninist. Rodya brought the Soviet Union to heel, or at least parts of the union which he could. The situation had worsened so much that OMON troops in the Baltic states were cut off, the Caucasus was pro-Tsarist, and the KGB was struggling. And large parts of the Red Army had turned traitor and switched sides.
In the midst of it all, CNIC of the 1st Western Front, Mikhail Miroslavovich Malinsky had decided to initiate Operation Red Dawn, with Rodya and the Politburo's blessing. World War III began approximately at 5:00 AM, on the 3rd day of the month of July, in the year of 1989.
The Soviets had at least 3 armored divisions:
The Soviet 1st Tank Guards Division was to make the massive assault and breakthrough against the NATO forces on the other side of the wall. Their main weapon is the T-80U, which rivaled the M1A1. They knew that the primary resistance would come from their equivalent, the US 3rd Armored Division.
They were supported by the 10th Guards Motor Rifle Division, which would be protecting their left flank.
The division was equipped with elite guard units, such as T-80Us, T-72, T-64, T-62s and Shilkas, among others.
They were exclusively stationed in East Germany to aid in the assault. The tasks given to the divisions were to destroy the 6th U.S. Armored Battalion, together with the supporting NATO divisions, keep the Moltke Bridge secure, and secure the 5th June Avenue Street for the use of Army Command.
Supporting the main thrust were the remains of the East German 9., 7., and 10. Panzerdivisions equipped with T-72M andT-55AM tanks, A Stasi Guard Regiment and two Motor Rifle Brigades
The Soviet KGB gained information on the NATO forces in East Germany. The enemies they would be facing were experienced men of the NATO member states' military. The US 6th Armored Battalion was also equipped to meet any invading force should the need arise. They were also a strong force, equipped with experienced personnel. Among their arsenal at the time was the M1A1 Abrams Heavy Tank, M60A3 Patton's, M551 Sheridan's, and VADS among others.
They were also backed up by the famed US 3rd Armored Division, nicknamed "Spearhead". Their primary ground vehicle in the battle was the M1A1 Abrams, which had highly trained crews.
The US 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment supported the US 3rd Armored Division. They were also equipped with M1A1s, as well as Bradley IFVs.
The US 5th Armored Battalion was also close to where the main battle would occur but were still a few kilometers out. They are armed with Heavy Armor and Anti-Aircraft vehicles.
The KGB also learned that the Karlslandic Kaiser and his entire family was out of the city, having gone to Bonn to discuss with Chancellor Helmut Kohl of the future of the two Germanies. Additionally, from information they had received from capturing Karlslandic personnel and witches as well as common people who had been merged onto the other side, they also learned that most of the garrison, aside from the usual US Army and Bundeswehr, was made up of Karlslandic Imperial Army and Witch units, and what were termed "joint fighter wings", two of them.
The KGB had little information on this type of formation, but assumed incorrectly that it was an air force formation of some sort currently stationed at Tempelhof airport. It was decided that Frogfoots and East German Su-17s and 22s would saturate the airfield, taking both squadrons out.
The assault was started in the morning of that same day. Soviet doctrine emphasized heavy firepower coupled with mobility; combined arms warfare is the Soviets key to success in large battles. Three divisions were to attack: one on the left flank, one on the center flank, and one on the right flank, respectively.
The assault began with several batteries of artillery firing on the main front of NATO divisions. The barrage devastated the front of the defending NATO troops. After which the Berlin Wall was destroyed by pre-placed explosives and tank gunfire.
This forced NATO units to pull back their defensive line, while trying to inflict damage on the advancing Soviet tanks. The initial battle seemed reminiscent of the battle of Budapest, where the Soviets were drawn closer to the enemy and then suddenly finished off. But the units in the assault were more experienced, and they knew the Americans couldn't afford to pull back. The initial main battle line was at the Berlin Wall.
The T-80Us savaged their enemy counterparts, bagging more than 50 kills in the first few minutes. Armored superiority was quickly gained by the Soviet tank divisions, inflicting severe losses to the US 6th Armored Battalion. A platoon of tanks headed by Romanov plowed through enemy armored columns and expanded the battlefront by securing the Phase Line Volga. This allowed the other Armored divisions to close in.
The NATO armored divisions were severely damaged, and dozens of tanks were lost in the initial assault. NATO tanks faced the Soviets head-on but ended up being a pile of scrap metal. This forced the NATO forces to constantly reverse to more defensive positions.
With the capture of the 17th of June Street, all was lost for the NATO forces. A counterattack was planned against the Soviets to retake Berlin.
Leading the counterattack would be the US 5th Armored Battalion, which was planned to reinforce the NATO forces during the mid-battle but failed to arrive in time. The US 5th Armored Division knew that they could not fare well against the Soviet forces, but desperation overcame them, and they continued with the plan.
Dozens of US tanks formed the spearhead which was intended to break the Soviet forces. Col. Orlovsky, the Soviet commander knew that a counterattack would happen, and had set up defensive structures on the street. The NATO forces finally arrived but ended up getting ravaged like the other NATO divisions before it. But numerical superiority was on their side. They were able to destroy a number of Soviet vehicles before Orlovsky, against his superior's orders, called in a carpet bomb, obliterating all the US forces attempting to counterattack.
Berlin was finally secured, and the Soviet Union has won itself an important military and political battle. As the Soviet flag was raised at the Reichstag once again, the Soviets started their advance into West Germany.
With the NATO defeat at Berlin, the Soviets continued their offensive, steamrolling through West Germany and destroying several US divisions.
Considering Alfeld an important strategic location in West Germany, the Soviets rushed to take over this town, as its capture would give the Soviets an opening through vast plains around the town, allowing a quick advance through the rest of West Germany. It was here, that the war, would go sideways...
The Third World War, by Max Hastings and Sir Antony Beevor, released in 2015, on the anniversary of the Third World War.
5th Story on this Platform!
Taking a break from my 40K project, here's something that's a lot more "Cold War Gone Hot"
There is a disturbing tiny amount of fics where our world collides with that of SWs. So I'm creating this to fulfill all my Cold War gone hot and strike witches' headcannons and ideas. You'll see characters from Red Storm Rising, Red Army by Ralph Peters and World in Conflict.
I hope you enjoy this explosive beginning, to an explosive tale!
As always, review and enjoy!
Edit No1 july 29th/2024.: Changed month for the purpose story progression