Axis of Evil

Chapter Thirty-Eight: No Surrender, No Retreat

Oslo, Norway

22^nd June 1941

The end could not be long delayed.

General der Infanterie Hermann Hoth, commander of Army Korps Norway, studied the defensive positions and scowled to himself. His face, always pale, paled further; the Americans were pushing closer and closer to Oslo – and to the final German forces in the mainland. The Fuhrer had promised that some reinforcements would be sent via Sweden, but Hoth had no faith in them. The Swedes might be Aryans, but they disliked the Germans and hated the infringements on their neutrality.

Bastards, Hoth thought, as he studied the map. Oslo had been carefully prepared for a last stand, in accordance with the Fuhrer’s orders, but he knew that it wouldn’t be able to hold for long. Thirty thousand Germans had dug themselves into the city, along with countless Norwegians who dared not be taken by the resistance, and he knew that they were all doomed. The most optimistic estimate said that fifty thousand American troops were pressing in to surround them… and the cursed British bombing was continuing all the time.

He stared as a building, which had mounted some anti-aircraft guns, was blown apart. He’d considered using human shields, but the single message from the British had been clear; any German who tried that would not be treated under the Geneva Convention, but shot out of hand. They’d dropped leaflets to explain this to any Germans who wanted to try the tactic. Hoth scowled; he hadn’t wanted to even consider it, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer options all the time.

“Herr General, the American battleship is retreating,” his aide said. Hoth nodded, wishing that it were as good news as his aide made it sound. The Americans had been attempting to sail a battleship up the fjord, but after a long duel with the coast guns it had retreated. A series of explosions marked the death of some of the coast guns, killed by the British bomber, which was orbiting high above, far out of range of his anti-aircraft weapons.

“Have the Americans begun their advance yet?” Hoth asked. The noise of distant shelling grew louder. “Well?”

“Ja, Herr General,” his aide said. “They’ve started to press against the east defences.”

Hoth nodded. He’d expected that. “It won’t be long now,” he said. The aide, a devotee of Hitler, gaped at him. Hoth almost laughed. “Do you really think that we can win here?”

“We fight for the Fuhrer and for Germany,” his aide said stiffly.

“We fight to buy time,” Hoth corrected. Another explosion echoed, closer to the two men. “We fight to ensure that the wonder weapons can be used before the Americans get to Norway, to France… and to Berlin.”

His aide sagged. “Then all is lost?”

“We will be lost,” Hoth said. He allowed no trace of bitterness to cloud his thoughts. “The Reich goes on.”

The scream of jet engines echoed through the mountains and valleys as Captain Dwynn peered down at Oslo though his helmet sensors. The hills were alive with Americans moving their ponderous forces into position for the final offensive, with row after row of guns being prepared for shelling the city.

Dwynn scowled as the laser designator began reporting new targets. The SAS was operating more and more in the open now, as American control was consolidated, and he wasn’t certain that he liked it. Unlike the battles across Central Asia, the Germans were cunning, clever and far more disciplined. If they’d had the same technology as the Allies, Dwynn wasn’t certain what the outcome would have been.

A mammoth explosion blasted up from the outskirts of the city, on one of the German defence lines. The designator was providing targets to the massive bomber, systematically hammering away at the Germans, while Dwynn himself could only wait and watch.

“Captain?” Chang asked. For the first time, he wasn’t wearing what Plummer had snidely referred to as the Norwegian burka, a balaclava that covered his oriental features. “Are you ok?”

“No, I’m not ok,” Dwynn snapped. “Look; they don’t stand a chance, and yet we’re wasting precious weapons on them.”

“I imagine that PJHQ knows what it’s doing,” Chang said. Dwynn snorted. “It beats watching the Americans level the town, along with every citizen inside.”

“At least the Germans finally got the message about human shields,” Dwynn said grimly. The entire affair with the SS man had left a bad taste in his mouth. “There are reasons for the Protocols, you know.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Chang said dryly. “How many Germans did we shoot on the spot?”

“Seventeen,” Dwynn said. “We should have made it eighteen.” Another explosion billowed up from the town. “We have to teach them that such behaviour will be punished.”

“I imagine that they’ll try Hitler rather than just shooting him,” Chang agreed. It was generally felt that the policy of shooting the senior terrorist officers on the spot had done more to reduce terror than show trials. “They should send us into Berlin, we could do it.”

“They have countless guards and a great deal of knowledge,” Dwynn said sadly. He’d proposed the mission himself. The laser designator bleeped; all of its targets had been hit. He chuckled. “They must be able to see us up here,” he said, when Chang asked why he’d laughed. “And think how pissed they must be, being unable to hit us at all.”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter found it hard to believe that the little American was in fact their greatest general, even though his captors had explained this at some length. Surely someone so short was a product of a breeding program, even if Patton wore the silver stars of a general.

“The British wanted to shoot you,” Patton snapped, smoking a cigar in the corner of his mouth. His jaw worked incessantly. “I’m not sure that they were wrong.”

Richter kept his mouth shut. It seemed the safest thing to do. “Still, I need you to carry a message into Oslo for me,” the American continued. “If your own people shoot you… small loss.”

“What sort of message?” Richter asked, finally finding his voice. “If you want me to tell them to surrender…”

“That’s exactly what I want you to tell them,” Patton snapped. He passed over an envelope and a white flag. “They’re trapped in Oslo and we can kill them all, for nothing.”

“I’ll carry the message,” Richter said finally. Patton nodded. “When do I leave?”

“Now,” Patton said, nodding to a pair of burly American marines. Before Richter could ask any more questions, they grabbed his arms and blindfolded him, before carrying him between them through the camp. He tried hard to count the twists and turns, but it was impossible with his eyes covered.

“That way,” one of the Americans muttered, pointing a hand. Richter pulled off the blindfold and stared down at a road leading down to Oslo. “Follow the black pitted road.”

“Thank you very much,” Richter muttered in German, as sardonically as he dared. If the American noticed, he gave no sign, just pointed down towards Oslo. Waving his white flag, Richter headed down towards the town, stumbling in the pitted road. Suddenly aware of the possibility of mines, he tried to walk lighter, and then saw a German patrol.

“Hands high,” the leader bellowed in German. “Who are you?”

Richter saluted. “Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter, late of the division near Trondheim,” he said. “I have a message for General Hoth from the American commander.”

“Oh, really,” the leader sneered. He examined the letter from Patton, but didn’t open it. “Very well; Dieter, you take Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter back through the lines, schnell!”

Dieter proved to be a small man with an air of competence, leading Richter through a series of minefields that were completely invisible from the front. They weren’t marked; Richter realised that if he hadn’t met the patrol he would have blundered into them. Once they had passed through several checkpoints, they reached the main command tent, erected well back from the lines.

“Identify yourselves,” the sentry bellowed. Richter noted that he was standing well under the covers. “Who are you?”

Richter sighed and explained again. The sentry passed him through wordlessly. General Hoth looked up as he entered, taking the document wordlessly. He opened it with a small knife and read it quickly. “Nuts,” he said finally, and dropped it on the ground. Richter picked it up as Hoth strode out of the tent and read it quickly.

To the German Commander, General Hoth. General, your position is hopeless. You have no way to escape Oslo. You have no way of receiving supplies. You have no way of defeating my forces when we finally come for you. You have no defence against the bombardment we can deploy against your positions.

I beg you to surrender now to avoid further futile bloodshed. If you surrender, fire a green flare above the town before 1400hrs. If not, then you will be crushed by the sheer power of my force.

Yrs – General Patton, Commander, Allied Forces (Norway).

“We’re going to fight,” Richter realised. He smiled as he headed out of the tent. Back under the SS’s control, how could they lose?

“The Germans just opened up on the American guns,” the radio said. “Designate their guns for the remaining JDAM bombs.”

“Understood,” Dwynn said. The designator was already at work, tracking the shells that were being launched from the German lines. “Targets acquired.”

“Launching weapons now,” the controller said. “Stand by to report on impact and…”

The explosion caught them all off-guard, blowing them down the hill, rolling until they crashed into a ditch. The SAS team picked themselves up; Dwynn stared back to see a burning fire, only fifty meters from their former location.

“My radios broken,” he said grimly. “Anyone’s working?”

Chang passed him his radio soundlessly. “Control, this is team one. The Germans targeted us on the hill; the designator is destroyed. I repeat; the designator is destroyed.”

“Understood, team one,” the controller said. “Evacuate to the drop zone. Further orders may be forthcoming, until then, head to the drop zone and wait for pick-up.”

“We’re out of the battle,” Dwynn muttered, as the team gathered themselves, before heading back around the hills. It was only a mile to the drop zone, but it felt like running away from the battle, even though he knew better.

The tank fired once, sending a shell crashing into the German lines. It advanced slowly, allowing the infantry to keep up, so they sheltered behind the tanks as the Germans fired burst after burst of machine gun fire at them. More shattering explosions blasted through the German lines, then a streak of light lanced out and struck one of the tanks. It exploded with a blast of fire, scorching the hapless infantry behind it.

“Kill those bastards,” Sergeant Pike bellowed, firing a blast from his automatic rifle at the Germans. The tank Private Max Shepherd was hiding behind began to move backwards; he threw himself out of the way, firing at the Germans.

“Keep firing,” someone shouted. He saw the German weapon; a long tube firing rockets at the tanks. One of them was hit by an American bullet and destroyed; the explosion knocked the Germans to their knees.

“Move it,” Pike bellowed, firing down at the few remaining Germans. Perhaps some of them tried to surrender, but they were mown down anyway. After losing the tanks, Shepherd found it hard to care.

“I guess that tanks aren’t as safe as they thought,” Buckman muttered, as the platoon regrouped. “Now what do we do?”

“Everyone watch,” Captain Caddell snapped, as the Marines regrouped. “The British are about to use a new weapon on the minefields…”

A strange vehicle moved forward, a small car with a loudspeaker mounted on it, pointed at the ground. Before Shepherd could work out what it was doing, it began to make the ground vibrate, moving forward slowly.

“What the hell is it doing?” Buckman asked, and then the explosions began, shattering the German minefield as the mines detonated. “Wow!”

“Forward,” Pike bellowed. He never spoke softly. “Onwards to Oslo; last one there buys the drinks!”

General der Infanterie Hermann Hoth allowed himself a moment of shock as the minefields detonated. He’d counted on them to hold the Americans back for a while, but they had failed; the Americans were pouring into the city from all directions, while the citizens were trying to remain out of the way. The constant shelling was starting to wear his men down, slaughtering them in their trenches. They never stood a chance.

This is my fault, Hoth thought. He’d hoped that he could hold out for weeks, but the sheer firepower that the British and Americans could deploy was too overwhelming. Strongpoints were crushed from the air by the monstrous bombs that the RAF could launch, the handful of small tanks he had smashed with Panzerfaust rockets that the Americans themselves had deployed, just like the Germans.

“Still, at least we know that our anti-tank rockets work,” he muttered to himself, as his aides busied themselves burning the files. Hitler had ordered Oslo itself burnt to the ground, but Hoth had chosen to ignore the order… although the sheer firepower that the Americans were deploying was destroying Oslo anyway.

“Herr General,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter snapped. Hoth looked up to see a massive explosion ripping through the defence lines surrounding his headquarters, which was totally invisible from the air. He wondered for a moment how they’d been found, but then he realised that it didn’t matter.

“Stand your ground,” he shouted, lifting his pistol. As the Americans appeared, he opened fire… and went down firing.

The fires were almost all out, with the aid of the citizens who had emerged from bunkers and basements, pumping water from the fjord to extinguish the fire. The stink of death; fire and rotting bodies, was still in the air, even with the American soldiers working to clear away the bodies.

“And move that German filing cabinet to intelligence,” Patton ordered, as Major Bloodnok hurried up to his side. “Ah, Major; how did your SAS fare?”

“They survived,” Bloodnok said. The Englishman looked over the wreckage. “We’re lucky that it ended when it did,” he said.

“You don’t say,” Patton said. “The fools that say war is glorious never see the cost.” He grinned suddenly. “Still, it’s a damn fine war.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bloodnok said. “We had run out of bombs and missiles. If the Germans had launched another airborne attack, we might have been in trouble.”

“You worry too much,” Patton said. “Now, all we have to do is get into Sweden.”

“The bastards tore up the train line,” Bloodnok reminded him.

“Those helicopters of yours can move an infantry force forward,” Patton said. “I would ask you to start planning such a move.”

Bloodnok saluted. “I’ll see to it at once,” he said. “Sir, are you going to email the President?”

“I better had, don’t you think?” Patton said. He lit a cigar. “I’ll awaken the helmsmen of America with victorious news.”

SS Moskva

New York Harbour, USA

22^nd June 1941

According to the future histories, which Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig had been allowed to read to prepare him for the suicidal nature of the mission, a group of subhumans – who would be ground out of existence before they could ever threaten the Reich – would attack New York, their funding prepared by a group of Jews eager to expand their puppet empire into the Middle East. He studied the towers of Manhattan as the ship entered the harbour; they were wondrous in their own way.

“We’ll rebuild, when we win the war,” he said, checking the ship’s equipment. There were preparations to be made. “Start moving!”

Quickly, the SS men, now wearing the uniforms of the Russian sailors, started to move the boxes onto the deck. The harbour wasn’t ready for them yet – there were dozens of ships in the dock – and placing crates on the deck wasn’t unusual. After all, time was money, and Americans worshiped money.

Kortig chuckled. After the beating he’d inflicted on the soviet ship’s engines, just to get to New York as fast as they could, the ship would require a massive – and expensive – overhaul before it could ever make full speed again. Not that it mattered, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer, the crates have all been placed on the deck,” his aide said. “They’re ready for use.”

Kortig nodded. His force didn’t know what was in the crates. Kortig, who did, had felt bad every time he’d passed close to one of them. The entire island of Manhattan was covered in docks; they were waiting for a pilot to guide them to the dock he’d booked earlier. No one had bothered to check his identification; Americans had no concept of security or the measures needed to ensure a safe homeland.

“Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer, here comes the pilot,” his aide said.

“No German,” Kortig snapped, signalling to the helmsman to follow the pilot’s boat. The Moskva glided through the water, heading into the harbour. Kortig smiled; the oil tanker nearby, shipping some oil to the United Kingdom, was right where he’d expected it to be. “Any sign of port inspectors?”

“Yes, Captain,” his aide said, as the Moskva came up to the dock. Five men in black suits stood near the gangplank, waiting for it to be connected to the ship.

“If they knew what we were carrying, they would never have allowed us to dock,” Kortig muttered. He checked the connection lines to the explosives; almost all of the ship was packed with enough explosive to vaporise it and send shockwaves throughout Manhattan and New Jersey.

“I think they want to come aboard,” his aide said, as the inspectors made impatient hand-signals.

“No shit,” Kortig grinned, making the final connection. “I die, but the Reich lives on!”

He pressed down on the button.