Chapter 16

Last Moves/First Moves.

USS NIMITZ

The speaker had announced sunset two hours before, but Bob had to finish his work. Sunsets at sea far away from the polluted city air, with a sharp horizon for the sun to slide under, were always something he enjoyed watching. What he saw now was almost as good. He stood with his hands on the rail, first looking down at the foam alongside the carrier's sleek hull, then after a brief moment of preparation, up. Born and raised in Boston, Toland hadn't known what the Milky Way was until joining the Navy, and the discovery of the wide, bright belt of stars overhead was always a source of wonder to him. There were the stars he'd learned to navigate by, with sextant and trigonometric tables- largely replaced now by electronic aids like Omega and Loran-but they were still beautiful to behold. Arcturus, and Vega, and Altair, all blinking at him with their own colors, their own unique characteristics that made them benchmarks in the night sky.

A door opened, and a sailor dressed in what looked like a purple plane- fueler's shirt joined him on the flight deck catwalk.

"Darkened ship, sailor. I'd dump that cigarette," Toland said sharply, more annoyed to have his precious solitude destroyed.

"Sorry, sir." The butt sailed over the side. The man was silent for a few minutes, then looked at Toland. "You know about the stars, sir?"

"What do you mean?"

"This is my first cruise, sir, an' I grew up in New York. Never saw the stars like this, but I don't even know what they are—the names, I mean. You officers know all that stuff, right?"

Toland laughed quietly. "I know what you mean. Same with my first time out. Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. What's that one?" The boy's voice sounded tired. Small wonder, Toland thought, with all the flight operations they've been through today. The youngster pointed to the brightest dot in the eastern sky, and Bob had to think for a few seconds.

"That's Jupiter. A planet, not a star. With the quartermaster's spyglass, you can pick out her moons—some of them anyway." He went on to point out some of the stars used for navigation.

"How do you use 'em, sir?" the sailor asked.

"You take a sextant and plot their height above the horizon-sounds harder than it is, just takes some practice—and you check that against a book of star positions."

"Who does that, sir?"

"The book? Standard stuff. I imagine the book we use comes from the Naval Observatory in D.C., but people have been measuring the tracks of the stars and planets for three or four thousand years, long before telescopes were invented. Anyway, if you know the exact time, and you know where a particular star is, you can plot out where you are on the globe pretty accurately, within a

few hundred yards if you really know your stuff. Same thing with the sun and the moon. That knowledge has been around for hundreds of years. The tricky part was inventing a clock that kept good time. That happened about two hundred and some years ago."

"I thought they used satellites and stuff like that."

"We do now, but the stars are just as pretty."

"Yeah." The sailor sat down, his head leaning way back to watch the curtain of white points. Beneath them the ship's hull churned the water to foam with the whispering sound of a continuously breaking wave. Somehow the sound and the sky matched each other perfectly.

"Well, at least I learned something about the stars. When's it gonna start, sir?"

Toland looked up at the constellation of Sagittarius. The center of the galaxy was behind it. Some astrophysicists said there was a black hole in there. The most destructive force known to physics, it made the forces under man's control appear puny by comparison. But men were a lot easier to destroy.

"Soon."

USS CHICAGO

The submarine was far offshore now, west of the surging Soviet submarine and surface forces. They'd heard no explosions yet, but it couldn't be far off. The nearest Soviet ship was about thirty miles off to the east, and a dozen more were plotted. All were blasting the sea with their active sonars.

McCafferty was surprised by his Flash operational order. Chicago was being pulled out of the Barents Sea and shifted to a patrol area in the Norwegian Sea. Mission: to interdict Soviet submarines expected to head south toward the North Atlantic. A political decision had been made: It must not appear that NATO was forcing the Soviets into a war. In a stroke, the pre-war strategy of engaging the Soviet Fleet in its own backyard had been tossed away. Like every pre-war battle plan in this century, the sub skipper reflected, this one too was being torn up because the enemy wasn't going to cooperate and do what we thought he'd do. Of course. He was putting many more submarines in the Atlantic than had been expected—even worse, we were making it easier for him! McCafferty wondered what other surprises were in store. The submarine's torpedoes and missiles were now fully armed, her fire-control systems continuously manned, her crew standing Condition-3 wartime watch routine. But their orders at present were to run away. The captain swore to himself, angry with whoever had made this decision, yet still hoping in a quiet corner of his mind that somehow the war could be stopped.

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

"It's gotta happen soon," COMAIRCENT observed. "Shit, they got their troops as ready as I've ever seen. They can't wait until all our Reforger units are fully in place. They have to hit us soon."

"I know what you're saying, Charlie, but we can't move first."

"Any word on our visitors?" The Air Force general referred to Major Chernyavin's team of Spetznaz commandos.

"Still sitting tight." A unit of the elite GSG-9 German border guards had the safe house under continuous surveillance, with a second English ambush team between them and their supposed target in Lammersdorf. Intelligence officers from most of the NATO countries were part of the surveillance team, each with a direct line to his government. "What if they're bait, trying to get us to strike first?"

"I know we can't do that, General. What I want is a green light to initiate Dreamland when we know it's all for-real. We have to get our licks in fast, boss."

SACEUR leaned back. Trapped by his duties in his underground command post, he hadn't been to his official residence in ten days. He wondered if any general officer in the whole world had gotten any sleep in the past two weeks.

"If you put the orders up, how fast can you react?"

"I have all the birds loaded and ready now. My crews are briefed. If I order them to stand to, I can have Dreamland running thirty minutes from your signal."

"Okay, Charlie. The President has given me authority to react to any attack. Tell your people to stand to."

"Right."

SACEUR's phone rang. He lifted it, listened briefly, and looked up. "Our visitors are moving," he told COMAIRCENT. To his operations officer, "The code word is Firelight." NATO forces would now go to maximum alert.

AACHEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY

The Spetznaz team left the safe house in two small vans and drove south on the road to Lammersdorf. With their leader killed in a traffic accident, the second in command, a captain, had been delivered copies of the papers his boss had died to get, and fully briefed his men. They were quiet and tense. The officer had taken pains to explain to his men that their escape had been carefully planned, that once clear of the target they'd get to another safe house and wait for their Red Army comrades to arrive in five days. They were the cream of the Red Army, he'd told them, thoroughly trained to carry out dangerous missions behind enemy lines, hence valuable to the State. Every man had combat experience fighting in the mountains of Afghanistan, he reminded them. They were trained. They were ready.

The men accepted this speech as elite troopers usually did, in total silence. Chosen most of all for their intelligence, each of them knew that the speech was merely that. The mission depended largely on luck, and their luck had already gone bad. Every one of them wished that Major Chernyavin were there, and wondered if somehow the mission might have been blown. One by one, they set these thoughts aside. Soon every man was reviewing his part in the mission to destroy Lammersdorf.

The drivers were KGB agents well experienced at working in foreign lands, and wondering exactly the same thing. Both vehicles stayed together, driving conservatively, wary of vehicles that followed them. Each had a scanner radio tuned to the local police frequencies, and another for communicating with each other. The KGB officers had discussed the mission an hour before. Moscow Center had told them that NATO was not yet fully alerted. The lead driver, whose regular cover job was driving a taxi, wondered if a "full" NATO alert meant a parade through Red Square.

"Turning right now. Car three, close in. Car one, turn left at the next intersection and get ahead of them." Colonel Weber spoke over a tactical radio of the sort used by FIST—fire-support team—units. The ambush had been ready for several days now, and as soon as their targets had emerged from their safe house, the word had been flashed all over the Federal Republic. NATO establishments already on alert were brought to full battle-readiness. This could only be the opening move in a shooting war ... unless, Weber admitted to himself, they were simply moving from one secure place to wait further in another one. He didn't know which way things would turn, though surely it had to begin soon. Didn't it?

The two trucks were now in a rural part of Western Germany, driving southeast through the German-Belgian Nature Park, a scenic route often traveled by tourists and sightseers. They had chosen this side road to avoid the military traffic on the major highways, but as they passed through Mulartshutte, the lead driver frowned as he saw a military convoy of tanks on low-hauler trailers. Strangely, the tanks were loaded backwards, with their massive guns facing aft. British tanks, he saw, new Challengers. Well, he hadn't expected to see any German Leopard tanks on the Belgian border. There had never been any possibility of preventing a German mobilization, and he tried to convince himself that the rest of the NATO countries had not moved as quickly as they could have. Ah, if this mission were successful, then NATO's communications would be seriously damaged, and maybe the armored spearheads would indeed come to rescue them. The convoy slowed. The driver considered pulling around them, but his orders were to be inconspicuous.

"Everyone ready?" Weber asked from his chase car.

"Ready." Bloody complex op, this, Colonel Armstrong thought. Tankers, SAS, and the Germans all working together. But worth it to bag a bunch of Spetznaz. The convoy slowed and stopped at a picnicking area. Weber halted his car a hundred meters away. It was now in the hands of the English ambush team.

Flares erupted around the two small vans.

The KGB driver cringed at being in the center of so much light. Then he looked forward to see the barrel of the tank just fifty meters ahead of him rise from its travel-rest and center on his windshield.

"Attention," a voice called in Russian over a megaphone. "Spetznaz soldiers, attention. You are surrounded by a company of mechanized troops. Come out of your vehicles singly and unarmed. If you open fire, you will be killed within seconds." A second voice began speaking.

"Come out, Comrades, this is Major Chernyavin. There is no chance."

The commandos exchanged looks of horror. In the lead vehicle the captain started to pull the pin on a grenade. A sergeant leaped on him and wrapped his hand around the captain's.

"We cannot be taken alive! Those are our orders!" the captain shouted.

"The devil's mother we can't!" the sergeant screamed. "One at a time, Comrades—out with hands high. And be careful!"

A private emerged from the back door of the van, one slow foot at a time.

"Come to the sound of my voice, Ivanov," Chernyavin said from a wheelchair. The major had told much to earn the chance to save his detachment. He had worked with these men for two years, and he could not let them be slaughtered to no purpose. It was one thing to be loyal to the State, another to be loyal to the men he'd led in combat operations. "You will not be hurt. If you have any weapons, drop them now. I know about the knife you carry, Private Ivanov ... Very good. Next man."

It went quickly. A joint team of Special Air Service and GSG-9 commandos collected their Soviet counterparts, hand-cuffed them, and led them off to be blindfolded. Soon only two were left. The grenade made it tricky. By this time the captain had seen the futility of his action, but it proved impossible to locate the pin for the grenade. The sergeant shouted a warning to Chernyavin, who wanted to come forward himself, but couldn't. The captain came out last. He wanted to throw the grenade at the officer who, he thought, had betrayed his country, only to see a man whose legs were swathed in plaster.

Chernyavin could see the look on the man's face.

"Andrey Ilych, would you prefer that your life should end for nothing?" the major asked. "The bastards drugged me and learned enough to kill you all. I could not let them do this."

"I have a live grenade!" the captain said loudly. "I will throw it into the truck." This he did before anyone could shout to stop him. A moment later the truck exploded, destroying the group's maps and plans for escape. For the first time in a week, Chernyavin's face broke into a wide grin. "Well done, Andrushka!"

Two other Spetznaz groups were less lucky and were intercepted within sight of their targets by German units privy to Chernyavin's capture. But twenty additional groups were in the Federal Republic, and not every NATO site had gotten the word in time. A score of vicious firefights erupted on both sides of the Rhein. A war to involve millions began with squad- and platoon-sized units fighting desperate actions in the dark.

BERLIN, FRG.

For the second time in history, Soviet forces were battling it out in the city of Berlin, 44 years since the Great Patriotic War, and it wasn't going as clean as the planners had thought it would be.

Edvard Kaulbers aimed his PSG-1 sniper rifle down an intersection from his position at the window-sill of a hotel. He counted his heartbeats slowly until he felt the interval and squeezed the trigger gently.

The rifle spat fire with a crack and a point man of a Soviet Motor Rifles squad stumbled to the ground, his comrades let out a cry before one of them dragged his body to cover.

He sighed, before sliding the bolt back and chambering another round. Then he pulled the trigger again and took down his 5th Soviet of the day.

The situation in Berlin was…not too great. While the US and British Berlin brigades as well as the French Brigade were holding their positions, the Soviets were being just relentless.

Wave after wave of Soviet infantry were attacking positions, while their vehicles rumbled behind them, Eduard had learned early on, to distinguish the sound of M16s and FALs from the clatter of Soviet Kalashnikovs.

But that wasn't all. Intelligence soon came in that there was only one Soviet formation, the First Tank Guards Division attacking from the front. The other parts of the city were all under assault from two East German Panzerdivisions, 9 and 7 Panzerdivision, rearmed with T-64s, and T-80Bs and BV MBTs alongside their usual T-72Ms. Along with three of the so called MfS Guard Divisions. Apparently, the Soviets had decided that the collapse of Honecker's government and certain units of the Army going over to the west meant that they would have to re-arm and create new units.

Kaulbers winced as the PSGs stock dug into his shoulder with the recoil. A Soviet armed with an RPG-29 launcher had tried to sneak past in order to get a better shot. Till Kaulbers's shot nailed his skull, causing him to fall face first, the RPG clattering uselessly to the ground. He noted that many of the enemy infantry wore camouflaged uniforms and had ballistic vests and body armor on while very few of them were wearing the usual khaki of the Red Army.

"Hey! Let us in! We're friendly! A voice rang out. Kaulbers tensed, peering warily down his scope. A squad of those displaced guys…Karls-somethings. Dressed in uniforms similar to that of the second world war, such as Splinter camo and the Dotted camo's the SS used to wear.

"Get in!" Kaulbers called back cautiously. The entire squad, complete with an MG-42 machine gunner ran into the hotel. Kaulbers nodded to the other sniper, a Bavarian by the name of Meinrad, who took the PSG, while Kaulbers went down the stairs, he wasn't going to risk taking the elevator.

The hotel was defended by a mix of Americans, English and Frenchmen from their respective "Berlin Brigades", though most of the defenders were from the Bundeswehr, and even cops from the Bundespolizei who had been in the area when the attack started. And they were giving the newcomers quite the welcoming committee.

"I'm Lieutenant Otto Kraft, 309th Infantry Division of the Imperial Karlslandic Heer, 1st Battalion. My men and I heard the speech of our emperor. Fredrick. We're glad we found you all."

"You guys' veterans?" a GI asked, lifting his M16A2 to inspect it.

"Of the Neuroi War from 39 to 45."

"Ever fought in a world war?"

"My men and I are quick learners; we'll be outshooting you soon enough."

"Right." A British captain spoke up briskly. "You set up that 42 over there with the 50." He ordered the squad's MG-42 gunner, pointing to where a 50. cal machine gun was set up. It had given the Soviets much grief. The man ran there at once, along with his assistant who was carrying the extra ammo. They began to set up swiftly, the Captain turned to the rest of the men, and the young officer. "The rest of you, set yourselves up at key chokepoints and reinforce defensive positions which we've set already set up! Quickly!"

"Incoming!" a Frenchman shouted out, pointing to the broken roof. A Soviet Su-25 Frogfoot Ground Attack aircraft screamed down towards them. The Englishmen turned his head towards the others.

"Get down! Hit the deck!"

The aircraft was getting closer now, so much so that the men down below could see it's wing mounted pylon's bristling with bombs and rockets. Like a vengeful angel of death, it screamed, the pilot perhaps already preparing to drop tons of ordinance on their heads.

Suddenly, a bright blue beam lanced through the Sukhoi's left wing. Kaulbers watched in awe as the resulting explosion caused by all the mounted ordinance intermixed caused the wing to just disappear in the fiery ball that enveloped it, while also causing the dive to become much more deeper, the Frogfoot's nose had been aimed at the hotel. Now, it was aimed down at some road, the pilot desperately trying to control his descent. It screamed downwards, like a rocket, disappearing from view as it's altitude meant it was too low to be observed by the infantrymen looking up at the roof. The loud explosion though, was evidence enough as to the fighter bomber's fiery fate.

For a minute, everyone was silent down at the hotel stood in shocked silence and awe at what had just occurred. A young American GI crossed himself, whispering prayers of thanks for surviving a situation that they thought would be the death of them all. Kaulbers, like many of them, just sighed In relief as he removed his Hemet, a model resembling the old M1 Pot.

Overhead, a blur screamed past before making another pass before, to the surprise of the NATO Troops was a girl, with animal ears and a tail (looked like a basset hound's) no pants, and what looked like two propellor driven machines strapped to her leg. She also, seemed to be carrying an MG-42.

Upon noticing them, she gave a cheery wave, a gesture returned by a few of the defenders, Kaulbers among them. She smiled before rocketing off. The men watched it all in shocked silence, before a GI spoke up.
"What the hell was that?"

"Those were our angels." Kraft replied instantly. "The witches." He sounded almost smug. "We have them in our army, navy and air forces back in our…universe. Their striker units allow them to fly and use magic."
"Magic?" a Frenchman snorted derisively. "That can't be right. Magic doesn't exist."

Before Kraft could reply, a British rifleman poked his head down from the first floor. "We got another Soviet attack coming, They've got BMPs and that new IFV or APC mixed with them! The one that can take on tanks!"

"Shit." The British captain looked at his American counterpart, who started hollering. "What the hell are we all waiting for! All of you get to your positions! Kaulbers, take the sniper of our new guests up to your nest!"

"Got it." Kaulbers looked at the thin, wiry young man holding a captured SVD while his own scoped Kar 98 hanged on his shoulder. "This way!"

The Soviets, had gotten their game together, so to say. Now, along with the usual squads of Motor riflemen, they were supported by two BMP 2s, and a new IFV that they'd never seen before. Kaulbers led the Karlslander up the stairs before they sprinted down the corridor to arrive at the makeshift sniper nest manned by Meinrad, a few other Bundeswehr infantrymen and even, cops from the West Berlin Bundespolizei Department

Kaulbers gestured towards an unoccupied window, "Set yourself up here. Watch that avenue—BMPs love to roll through there. And keep your head down. They'll be looking for snipers."

Dietrich gave a sharp nod, quickly moving into position and adjusting his scope. His movements were quick, practiced. The boy had clearly seen action, though the type of war he'd fought in was vastly different from this one.

"Stick close," Kaulbers muttered, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. "This place is crawling with Ivan, and they're getting smarter. They've learned our positions."

Dietrich nodded, his SVD held tight against his chest. "I've seen this before. In our world, the Neuroi would adapt too. We'll hold them off."

Kaulbers sure hoped he was right.

Tiergarten, FRG.

Flying officer Jenny von Heinrichs, JG-1. whooped and did another loop-de-loop as yet another of the Soviet Bear Bombers, plummeted downwards, adding yet another kill to her tally.

"Heinrichs, for god's sake stop with the theatrics and focus!" the voice of Captain Wilma Hannelore berated her from the speakers of her earpiece.

"Sorry ma'am!" Jenny apologized with a cheeky grin. She hovered over the Tiergartenn, her Messerscharf Bf109G-10 striker unit strapped to both legs growling.

"Heinrichs, where are you?"

"Just hovering above Tiergarten Ma'am. Why?" Jenny reloaded her MG-42, the magic enhanced ammo whirring slightly.

"The soviets have sent a full squadron of fighters towards you. Give us your coordinates, Me and the rest of the girls will vector on to your position."

Before she could answer, she spotted the contrails. Light blue painted, sleek jet fighters with Red Star's on their tails were screeching towards her at Mach 1. In the intelligence briefings, she remembered those particular models were called Flankers.

She put a hand to her earpiece. "Captain. I am gonna have to call you back later, something's come up.

She heard Hannelore stutter and cough before she cut the connection. Before she cocked the 42 with a grin. It's barrel glowed purple. "Let's dance!"

As a person who'd mostly fought the black and red alien menace, unlike most witches who often had qualms about shooting other people, Jenny had no such trouble. She shot forward to meet the Reds head on, the striker unit allowing her to match the speed of the Flankers, she smirked.

The Soviet Flight commander hesitated. He wasn't expecting the little girl who looked no older than his daughter, with leg mounted engines and fox ears coming out of her head to meet them like this. Either she was getting cocky or he was getting cold feet. Unfortunately, before he could give an order, the little girl fired first, purple streaks looking a lot like lightning hurtling towards him and his planes.

Jenny opened fire almost instantly, the ripping buzzsaw sound of her MG-42 sending streams of enhanced, enchanted bullets towards the bandits. Within each casing, instead of gunpowder, a spell was housed, usually written on a piece of paper with runes. These spells usually had something to do with exploding or anything else that would end anything unlucky enough to be in the iron sights.

One bullet arced through the sky with a purple glow pulsating around it. Each bullet was literally a little arcane missile, and the spells inscribed on the casing making sure that it would remain on target.

The Flanker pilot only saw a small, miniscule flash, before it disappeared from his line of sight. The bullet entered one of the frontal cooling vents, its enchantment activated. The purple glow intensified, and the air around the bullet seemed to warp and shimmer as the magic unleashed its power. Inside the engine, the spell interacted violently with the flammable fuel and the high-pressure environment.

For a split second, time seemed to stretch, as if the universe itself was holding its breath. The enchanted bullet's magic ignited the fuel within the engine's chamber, a sudden burst of intense blue flames flickering through the engine's interior. The engine's structure, already compromised by the bullet's entry, began to fail catastrophically.

Fuel lines, already stressed and strained, burst open, spraying high-octane fuel in a wild, uncontrolled jet. The flames inside the engine spread rapidly, and the entire compartment was soon engulfed in a roaring inferno. The engine's internal components, frazzled and melted by the magical fire, exploded outward in a shower of debris.

The explosion was magnificent in its fury, a brilliant ball of orange and blue flames that momentarily illuminated the sky. The Flanker's fuselage was torn apart, the force of the explosion sending chunks of metal and flaming wreckage spiraling through the air. The aircraft's wing, now nothing more than a twisted mass of metal, sheared off, and the burning remains of the plane spiraled uncontrollably towards the earth below.

"Choryt!" the flight commander swore as he rammed his craft's stick to the left, maneuvering wildly to avoid the little girl's shots. His missiles were useless against her. His Vympel R-23s were semi-active radar homing missiles, and the girl certainly did not have a radar mounted on her legs or anywhere else, that would be too unrealistic, and his R-73s were heatseakers, and he'd been trying to get a lock ever since she met them head on. And Filatov's death only proved that.

"Break formation! Get into two's!" he barked the order into his radio. "We're not going to get outflown by some teenage NATO freak experiment dressed in Fascist memorabilia!"

"Roger that." His pilot's replies crackled back.

Unfortunately, their adversary had a different idea.

Jenny grunted as she did a tight turn, her magic was able to control most of the G-forces, but they were still there. The advantage a witch with striker units over a pilot in the fighter craft was that thanks to magic, Jenny could out turn tighter than any fighter, even an advanced jet fighter. A fact she demonstrated to the second of the light blue camouflaged interceptors by getting onto it's six. She opened fire, the enchanted bullets slicing through the twin tails like they were made of butter. The pilot didn't even notice her presence until it was too late, by then, he was already busy trying to regain control of his aircraft before ejecting. She watched the parachute bloom as he floated down. His craft, ploughed down miles away from the Tiergarten in a ball of flame, one of the twin tails being the only marker for its grave.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT! The sound of a rotary canon brought her head snapping back before she could celebrate. The two remaining Flankers were screaming towards her, gaining on her in minutes.

"Shit!" she cursed as he pulled into a steep dive before pulling up into an Immelmann maneuver. Strangely, the entire Tiergarten seemed to have gone silent, as if everyone, Soviet or other had decided to watch the show. She could feel the vibrations of the rapid-fire cannons, the rounds zipping past her, each one a potential death sentence.

"Not today," she muttered under her breath, her determination steeling her nerves. The G-forces closed in on her, but she urged her Striker unit to the limit, pushing it way past its usual, and expected performance parameters, a risky decision that instructors would constantly warn new recruits not to do. But here, it would either help her survive, or her unit would give out and she'd fall like a bird whose wings got clipped.

Like an acrobat, Jenny swung over the two flankers. She could already see the pilot of one, with his blue flight suit, peering out through his canopy in shock at her above him, she guessed his features were twisted in surprise though she couldn't actually see them as the rubber oxygen mask and visor covered them. She felt the familiar crackle in her veins as she raised her arm, her fingers were glowing purple.

Like a Norse Goddess of old, a lance of purple lighting materialized in her hand. Jenny gave a guttural cry as she swung it toward one of the flankers. The pilot barely had time to maneuver before the bolt struck his craft. He screamed as his instruments short-circuited and began to flame. The lightning destroyed all electronics and also, struck him as well. He screamed louder as enough electricity to put down an elephant shot through his respiratory system. He gave one final strangled gasp, his skin blackened beneath his helmet and flight suit, before he slumped down onto his dashboard, his knees pushing the stick. The Flanker careened into a steep, uncontrolled drive…directly where the Soviet forces had been advancing.

The small group of T-72s supported by Motor Riflemen looked down in abject horror at the aircraft descending towards them. Jenny spotted a tank's hatch swing open and a tank crewman in his black felt helmet grasp the turret-mounted machine gun meant for air defense. As he began to bring it up to bear, the plane had already slammed into an APC.

The resulting explosion sounded like a meteor had just dropped, and Jenny found herself staring at the great, massive column of inky black smoke billowing upwards as flames turned metal to molten liquid.

Craning her head, she found the sole surviving Su-27, one that had a pair of red stripes running down its fuselage, already hurtling back to friendly lines, tail between its legs. She sighed, hovering over Tiergarten. Strangely, she heard what sounded like…cheering.

Looking down, she saw that the NATO troops defending the area were giving her a standing ovation! Like she'd won the football world cup or something!

"Well, well, looks like you made some friends, Heinrichs." A voice called out dryly.

Turning, Jenny found Captain Hannelore and the rest of her flight from Jageschwarder-1 hovering behind her. Hannelore looked like the cat that caught the canary and her smirk was downright devious.

"Ma'am." Jenny greeted, her hand snapping into a respectful military salute.

"At ease." Hannelore drawled. "As much as I'd like to pay you my respects, we gotta move. All NATO and Karlslandic forces in West Berlin are to fall back and disappear."

"But isn't it east Germany once we leave West Berlin?"

"Apparently, we're gonna try and become guerilla's. Slow down the flow of troops that are going to be passing through. You did good kiddo, now c'mon, we're leaving. We have to link up with some troops from NATO and our Imperial Army."

"Understood, ma'am," Jenny replied, lowering her salute. She hovered in place for a moment, looking out over the burning Tiergarten. "Where are we linking up?"

"There's a rally point west of Spandau," Captain Hannelore replied, her tone firm as she scanned the horizon. "We've got reports that the Soviets are pushing hard from the east. We need to get there before they close the noose."

Jenny nodded, feeling the weight of the situation. The idea of becoming a guerrilla fighter, operating behind enemy lines, was daunting, but she knew it was their best shot at slowing down the Soviet advance.

The rest of JG-1 gathered around, their Striker Units humming with barely contained power. The group looked grim but determined. They all knew what was at stake.

"Let's not keep our comrades waiting, then," Jenny said, trying to inject a bit of levity into her voice, though it came out more strained than she intended.

"That's the spirit," Hannelore replied with a nod. "We'll be counting on that enthusiasm to keep us all going. Everyone ready?"

The witches of JG-1 gave a collective nod, their faces set in steely resolve.

As they turned westward, Hannelore took the lead, her Striker Unit cutting through the air with precision. Jenny fell into formation beside her, the rest of the flight following suit.

The Tiergarten, now behind them, was a scene of devastation. Smoke rose in thick plumes, and the sound of distant gunfire echoed through the city. Jenny forced herself to focus on what lay ahead. There would be time to process everything later—if there was a later.

"We'll move fast and low," Hannelore instructed as they sped over the ruins of Berlin. "Stick to the cover of buildings and avoid open spaces. We can't afford to draw any more attention."

"Copy that," Jenny replied, her eyes scanning the ground below for any sign of enemy movement.

The cityscape below was a mix of ancient architecture and modern destruction. Berlin had seen better days, but it was still standing, stubbornly refusing to fall despite everything it had endured.

As they neared Spandau, Jenny spotted movement on the ground—columns of NATO vehicles retreating, soldiers moving with haste but not panic. They were all pulling back, just like Hannelore had said.

"There's our link-up," Hannelore said, pointing to a group of soldiers setting up a temporary command post near a partially destroyed building. "Let's drop down and see what the situation is."

The witches descended, landing gracefully on the ground, their Striker Units powering down as they did. The soldiers on the ground looked up in surprise, but recognition quickly flashed in their eyes. It wasn't every day you saw a group of witches in full combat gear land right in front of you.

"Captain Hannelore, JG-1," Hannelore introduced herself as she approached the command post, saluting the officer in charge.

"Lieutenant Colonel Whitaker, NATO Rapid Reaction Force," the officer replied, returning the salute. He was a grizzled man in his late forties, his face lined with years of experience. "Glad to see you made it. We've been expecting you."

"What's the status, Colonel?" Hannelore asked, getting straight to the point.

"We're consolidating forces here before we move out," Whitaker explained, pointing to a map laid out on the hood of a nearby jeep. "Intel suggests the Soviets are about twelve clicks out, but they're closing fast. We're planning to fall back into the forests west of here and set up a defensive perimeter. Your unit will be key in delaying their advance."

Hannelore nodded, absorbing the information. "Understood. We'll provide air cover and engage any Soviet forces that get too close. My witches are ready."

Jenny, standing a few steps behind Hannelore, couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at her captain's confidence. This was why they fought—to protect their comrades, to hold the line no matter the cost.

"Good to hear, Captain," Whitaker said with a grim smile. "We're going to need every bit of help we can get."

As they finalized the plans, Jenny exchanged a glance with one of her squadmates, a quiet but fierce witch named Ingrid. The unspoken message was clear—they were in this together, and they were ready to do whatever it took.

"Alright, JG-1," Hannelore called out as she turned back to her unit. "We're moving out. Stay sharp, stay focused, and let's give these Soviets something to remember."

With a collective nod, the witches of JG-1 powered up their Striker Units, the familiar hum filling the air as they prepared to take off once more. Jenny took a deep breath, steeling herself for the battle ahead.