Dragonhunters
"They're coming." The wind grew stronger and sharper, and she pulled the edge of her scarf, which covered the lower half of her face just below her eyes, higher. It was actually already mid-December, but it was still unnaturally hot. The radioactivity released during the so-called Dragon Crisis was still affecting the climate. Winter heat waves were now as common as midsummer cold snaps. Since the Black Summer, it hadn't rained as often in her part of the world. "Get ready." She clipped her radio back onto her belt and began the descent from her observation deck in the crown of an old windmill made of dented tin, which offered a clear view of the stepped heights of the Eifel Mountains, rising almost 1,000 meters above the forest of bone-dry conifers. Ghostly shadows circled the peaks, now covered in snow only at the highest points. From a distance, they seemed barely larger than moths, but Madi knew better. Up close, these creatures were larger than a minibus and possessed of a temper fiercer than that of a wolverine. The flock they'd spotted numbered up to 40 animals, too many to handle alone. Their best chance was to wait until the younger ones went hunting together, leaving only three or four older ones to guard the clutches. If they managed to lure these sentinels away, the eggs would be easy prey, preventing more of these flying demons from appearing.
"Susi, give takeoff clearance for Raptor III." At the foot of the rusty hill, her aide was already waiting for Madison behind the wheel of her armored SUV. She slid into the passenger seat.
"I already have it, it'll be airborne in 30 seconds," the neat German-Italian promised her, and pedaled with all her might and without any consideration. The car shot off with a howl.
"Who actually came out on the short end this time?" Madi asked as she adjusted the onboard computers.
"Will," Susi said.
"Really? Too bad. I liked him."
The number of their fighters was comparable to that of their pilots. Since the Battle of Frankfurt am Main in 2011, their life expectancies had plummeted. Compared to a dragon, jets were like insects, bees, or hornets, deadly alone in a swarm. Occasionally, they could only annoy and temporarily distract the giants, but it was playing with fire. The fighters were on a direct collision course with the most powerful creatures of all time, gods incarnate, eye to eye. As expected, after all these years of endless, grueling petty wars, there were hardly any volunteers left, only those who longed for death more than life. Unfortunately, the last of these lunatics in their company had been eaten two missions ago.
"This is Raptor III, begin attacking the nest now." Came the radio. Far away, above the peaks, the battle began. Their last jet began indecisively bombing the mountain peaks, only to turn around the next moment and head for the lowlands. Naturally, the half-dozen sentinels they'd left behind immediately chased after them. These flying scavengers weren't exactly evolutionary gems in terms of intelligence, and they still fell for this trick. They all pursued their bait blindly in rage and would chase it far beyond the boundaries of their territory, leaving their clutch of newly hatched chicks and eggs, which they were supposed to be guarding, defenseless. Their demolition team would then do its work in peace.
"Grenadiers, it's your turn, you have fourteen minutes for a nice scramble." On her computer's radar, she tracked her aircraft's trajectory; five blinking objects were chasing it closely behind.
"Beginning approach to the Moselle Valley now. Passing first marker in one minute." Will reported over the radio. Driving the sentinels away from the nest wasn't particularly difficult; the trick was getting rid of them again. These scavengers chased you with the tenacity of rabid bloodhounds, and the surrounding area was too barren and monotonous to be flown out. They had to come up with something better. The easiest way would have been to simply shoot them down with heavy artillery in the form of ground-based air guns, but such military equipment wasn't available at the moment, not here, so they had previously primed the narrow passages of the Moselle with explosives. Will would lure the large beasts, which had difficulty maneuvering in such tight spaces, and then detonate various mines. An old, rusty bridge and parts of the walls would blow up around their ears.
"First explosion on my signal." She followed her. They shared their common trajectories and watched the countdown timecode in the top right corner of the screen: "Now."
For Madi, it was just a simple change in the graphics, a flicker in the programming, but after that, Will was only tracking four red dots instead of five. They repeated the same thing after a sharp left turn followed by a steep narrowing.
"Very good, I can see markers three and four," said Will.
"Well, don't get cocky then, that was our last remaining explosives for the month, so it must be worth it," said Madi crisply. They fought with what they had. It wasn't much, apart from a few sticks of dynamite; their supply of mines had been used up two weeks ago. They had barely more than a dozen canisters of gasoline and crude oil at their disposal, and to get them, they had to laboriously visit every abandoned gas station within a three-kilometer radius. Her arsenal of weapons reflected her troops, composed primarily of hardened veterans with more scrap metal in their bodies than teeth in their mouths, and inexperienced recruits fresh out of training camps, mostly the worst in the units, those who had failed the test. However, due to the pervasive scarcity of resources, recruitment procedures were not particularly selective. Of course, there were also the occasional exceptionally disciplined soldiers in their prime who had sometimes refused every promotion, mostly out of personal loyalty to her. But the best fighters were simply needed on the front lines in the Blood Zone, the core of the Dragons' sovereign territory in the west. Her company was assigned as a reserve unit to the Fire Lines, a far less important border, surely an idea of her overprotective father, Director Mark Brünner, who, if he couldn't keep his headstrong daughter from military service, was at least trying to keep her as far away as possible from any major battlefields. Many fathers had struggled with their children's decision to fight, but Director Brünner of the European Battlegroup was one of the lucky few who was in a position to both respect his child's wishes and ignore them to his heart's content.
"Okay, I can't stop you from leaving, but it's still my damn army!" He had shouted to her during their last argument before Madison's basic training: "I swear, I'll personally see that you're stationed as far away from the front lines as possible! When this war finally ends, your unit will be so far back that they'll be the very last to hear it!" He really tried his best; he could keep that promise, but none of them. It was a deeply unfair bet; the front lines were collapsing around them at every turn, most recently after the Second Battle of Shanghai and the Night of Terror over Sydney. Despite his apparent omnipotence as Supreme Commander of the United Forces of the EU, her father couldn't completely shield her from the chaos of her time. The fire lines were fault patterns in the dispersal areas of Wendigos, also known as vulture dragons, giant dragon monsters that were ugly and deformed even by their standards. They originally came from the Hollow Earth, but climate change had driven isolated individuals back to the surface, where the few remaining specimens soon multiplied hundreds of times thanks to the abundant supply of defenseless food and the lack of similarly powerful predators. Their swarms soon roamed over large parts of the Northern Hemisphere, but it was particularly bad in the foothills of the Eifel Mountains; her company occupied an outpost in Koblenz. You fight with the army you have, not the army you wish you had, she told herself over and over again, trying to make the most of what they had. What else could Madison do? Complain about how cruel and unjust the world was? So many others could sing a far better song about that than she could. Everything had changed.
"Three and four happen!"
"Fire." The Moselle's striking curves and bends were reminiscent of the slopes of North America's Grand Canyon. At least, she'd heard of them. The famous bridges overhead were designed to accommodate ropes and nets.
"Damn it! That was the last booby trap, and I still have two right on my tail! Damn it, what am I supposed to do now!?" Will screamed, increasingly hysterical. He was by no means a coward, but smart enough to realize he was as good as lost.
"Retirius, prepare the nets."
"He's already cut our last one, boss!"
"Will, stay calm," she ordered sternly.
"That's easy to say, Corporal!" he replied curtly.
"Keep flying to the lookout at the Mosel Bridge A61, we'll be waiting for you there," Madi explained.
"Do you think we'll reach the meeting point in time?" Susi asked skeptically, turning the wheel.
"Only if you step on the gas. Noman, get the cannon ready."
The third man in the back seat was almost overlooked; it seemed to be in this people's genes to be able to breathe so calmly, even under the greatest stress, that they simply blended in with their surroundings. They didn't just adapt to it, they literally disappeared into it. Dresden had gone down in flames, the population had tried to escape to the mountains, and Noman was one of the last survivors. They had discovered him during a rudimentary patrol that had unintentionally strayed from its course. He had hidden in a crevice behind the body of his dead sister for almost three months, defiantly refusing to die, and so survived. Now he was their second officer and one of the deadliest and most efficient warriors they had ever seen. His name probably wasn't "Noman," but without personal details and a working internet, they had no other name. Without a word, he stretched his upper body into the casing of the double-barreled cannon on the roof of the armored car and aimed it.
"They're getting closer and closer, are you there yet?!"
"Yeah, almost, just be careful you don't get eaten first."
"It's always funny, boss!"
"Drive them close to the observation deck." They may not have been completely defenseless, but they were gradually becoming increasingly threatened on almost all fronts. It wasn't a war seeking their total annihilation or subjugation; they were still animals simply claiming their old territories. While some possessed strong protective instincts, others were very territorial. Only, over the last ten thousand years, humans had spread everywhere across 'their' land, built cities on their nesting sites, and built roads crisscrossing 'their' hunting grounds. What followed were three years of uninterrupted chaos and madness. For three years, they had been trying to adapt to the new world order; lost metropolises and cities were abandoned, and new colonies were founded. Most of the EU governments had either fled underground or to the high seas. Over a dozen states were now controlled from mobile capitals out in the North Sea or the Atlantic. Spain from its flagship Juan Carlos, Belgium from the Amsterdam, and Great Britain from the bridge of the aircraft carrier Argus.
"Go now! Go now! Go now!" The car came to an abrupt stop at the edge of a sharp cliff, above which protruded the remains of a former lookout point and below which lay a sheer drop over fifty meters. A wide, light-blue river snaked its way through the land at the bottom of this scar. She and Susi shouldered their heavy-caliber sniper rifles through the open windows of their flung car doors, while up on the roof, Noman aimed her cannon.
"I see them, five hundred meters east at one o'clock!" Susi shouted. She was right. Her hunter came howling through the tightly packed rock walls. Two Wendigos almost twice his size snapped at his wings and missed him by only a few meters.
"Now, Noman! Get them down!" Madi ordered. The taciturn Saxon fired a volley of armor-piercing acid bullets at short intervals, dissolving the thick layers of skin on the Wendigos' stomachs and necks. Madi and Susi aimed at these burned-in weak spots in their dilapidated armor. Their bullets tore gaping wounds from which steaming fountains of blood dripped. The blood of young vulture crows was high-octane acid that burned skin and sometimes even flesh down to the bone, but with age, its effectiveness diminished. As the two injured veterans and guards flew overhead, still chasing their fighter, neon-green blood rained down on the three of them, but it did little more than stick to their hair and fill their filthy, sweat-soaked uniforms with an even more foul stench. Flapping weakly with their tattered wings, they staggered and chased Will for a few hundred meters before their strength gave way and they crashed to the ground.
"Let's finish this, guys."
One of the beasts' skeleton had shattered like glass, shards of broken bone protruding from his bloody carcass. He had died instantly, but the second was still croaking and stoically craning his ugly head in their direction, unwilling to die, as they drove up to the crash site in the car. A jet of fire shot in their direction. He couldn't fly, one of his wings was too twisted, almost broken, but he could still move in a manner reminiscent of a mixture of climbing, crawling, and hopping. Given his enormous size, he advanced between ten and fifteen meters with each jump/slurp. He repeatedly tried to fly, resembling a rickety chicken, but his main weapon was still as deadly and terrifying as ever.
"Back! Back! Back!" Madi ordered. Her windshield began to glow red-gold as the flames licked over her car. "Plan C, we need something bigger! Towards the airfield!"
"Already on the way!" Susi replied, pulling back the clutch. At the Koblenz/Winningen airfield, old M109 self-propelled howitzers had been set up to secure the city, or what was left of it.
"Anthony, get ready, we're bringing something for dinner!"
"Good, but I'd like to point out again that a howitzer isn't meant for THAT!" replied the commander of their battery.
"None of our weapons are meant for kites, that's our problem!" Madi retorted.
"That's true, too." They drove across the Winningen mountain golf course with the kite right at their heels. A howitzer was actually meant for bombarding enemy positions, not for firing at moving targets or for anti-aircraft defense, but they also had by far the greatest penetrating power in their arsenal, alongside Leopards. And improvisation was by no means uncommon these days. Grenades were tied to sticks with adhesive tape or duct tape to make them easier to throw, just like the Wehrmacht used to do. Farms and biogas farms were converted into weapons factories to make fertilizer bombs from plastic bottles. Some even trained pigeons and ravens to fly towards kites loaded with small explosives. It was all more or less primitive, but it worked. They communicated with earth radios and rough signals.
"Aim for the ridge just above the runway!" Madi ordered.
"Understood! Ready."
"On my cue! We'll be there in four, three, two... now!" They raced over the ridge. For a moment, they saw the huge projectile flying toward them, then gravity pulled them downward, just enough for the missile to clear their roof. It flew on and struck the limping dragon behind them. The sound as it was struck by the missile was first like a high-pitched whistle like a teapot, followed by a boom. A loud bang, like the Big Bang from which all life had emerged eons ago. Scraps of flesh and burnt bones flew in all directions. As hard and deprived as these days were for them, for the crows, there was a feast almost every day. A sigh of relief echoed through the interior of the car.
"Oh great, damned..."
"Grenadiers, how... how did the... egg hunt go?" She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand after the danger had been eliminated.
"You can choose between scrambled eggs, omelets, or fried eggs. About three dozen," reported the sabotage squad.
"Well, it was worth it." Better to kill dragons while they were still small and weak. Every broken egg, every stolen nest, and every slaughtered youngster was one less city burned. Saved ammunition, saved soldiers, saved suffering.
"All right, guys, pack up. We'll meet you at home." In Koblenz, the heart of the city was still alive. The historic quarter, also simply called the "German Corner." The city continued to be administered from the Ehrenbrettstein Fortress. The old Prussian fortress dominated the river triangle where the Moselle flows into the Rhine, forming one of the main waterways of the West. Until the 19th century, Ehrenbreitstein Fortress was considered impregnable, partly due to its location on the mountain of the same name, and partly because the enemy could always be attacked from all sides by the other fortresses and forts in the fortress complex. Ehrenbreitstein was bordered on three sides—to the south, to the east, and to the west, facing the Rhine—by high, steep slopes. The fortress was accessible from the banks of the Rhine, past the Helfenstein outpost, and from the mountain plateau to the north. Due to its characteristics, this mountain spur had been used for military purposes for some time. During the war against the Dragons, the castle experienced an unwanted rebirth. Almost 450 men were permanently stationed here, plus additional federal police forces in the city itself.
"The missile of war, hatred reacts,
the love of game, the rifle guides." Said one of the mechanics in greeting as they drove into the garage and got out.
"Kill them in large numbers,
and make them suffer in agony."
Madi replied with a smile and slapped the hand offered to her.
"Dragonhounds Three Hundred and Eleven, Hei-Hoo!"
"Huntman's hoo!"
Boarhounds, that was a historical term for a very specific breed of hunting dog. As the name suggests, these were dogs that hunted exclusively the most dangerous and defensive game they could find. When hunting, only young boars and stragglers were still "easy" to hunt. Hunting fully grown wild boars bordered on a life-threatening test of courage. For this, hunters needed the strongest dogs they could breed, and in the greatest possible numbers. The rule was two pounds of dog for two pounds of wild boar. Boarhounds became a status symbol of European royal families, who kept packs of up to a thousand dogs or more. Great Danes, German, Danish, and English, Broholmers, Mastiffs, Bracken, Bloodhounds, Terriers... Boarhounds were among the most dogged and toughest breeds of all. As the dragon crisis gained momentum, it became fashionable among the "professional dragon hunters," the army divisions that fought dragons, to give themselves new crests. Dragonhounds, as they were now called. Dragon packers or dragon biters, nest-diggers, and egg-snatchers for those who focused on dragon eyries and clutches. They were the Dragonbrieguard Three Hundred and Eleven, and their mascot was one of the most daring and reckless dogs ever bred: the wire-haired dachshund.
"Well, boy, are you all right? Are you keeping an eye on everything?" A few of the divisions even had real living mascots, the same ones on their banners. They had found Diesel, an initially rather rough-and-tumble male dachshund, in the rubble of a burned-down village a year ago and had taken him in. The soldiers of the Brieguard all voluntarily gave up part of their rations to feed him. He slept in the mechanics' garage and, well, generally helped keep everyone calm. The dragon hunters' mascots were less figureheads than freelance therapy dogs. Most of them had lost loved ones in the last three years. Or seen their own hometowns go up in flames.
"My goodness, what have you done with that car again? Did you get into a fight with a rhino?"
"That would be nice. Rhinos don't breathe fire," Susi replied, slamming the driver's door, which then flew off its hinges and fell down.
"Well, now the car is yours again. Have fun," her driver said, handing him the keys as they left.
"Reports from the south?" Madi asked the first private she encountered in the castle courtyard. A huge swarm of dragons had been seen in the direction of the Black Forest, and it was steadily spreading. Strasbourg, Zurich, Stuttgart, and Karlsruhe were all acutely threatened. Available forces had been withdrawn wherever possible to carry out a preemptive strike against this kind of mega-swarm. Four battalions, composed of diverse units. Almost one-fiftieth of their total number of soldiers and equipment. The entire fortress therefore eagerly awaited news from Hohenzollern Castle, where the campaign was coordinated.
"No, Ma'em, nothing new from the south."