Meyer-Hofmann AG

42

In the war room, Bremen had started pacing. He felt like a spare wheel and was jealous of the men he could now see on the screens in front of him. The text message from Von Klitzing read simply “Package delivered”, but meant much more. In essence, it was the key to the real pandemonium they had planned. It was more good news on a day, which, despite a rather mediocre start, was picking up. The stock markets were all down by more than eleven percent. Meanwhile, the world governments were pleading for calm, issuing statements about glitches and anomalies and pleading for people to have faith in the new laws and controls that they had passed since 2008.

At the same time, Meyer-Hofmann’s anarchists were flooding the social media with horror stories about crashes and depressions on a scale not yet seen. Recommendations for everyone to withdraw their savings from the ailing banks before it was too late were abundant. Queues were already forming on high streets around the world fanned by still more rumours on Twitter that they didn’t have enough money to pay out all of their customers.

Meyer-Hofmann’s politicians appeared on live television. They were busy distancing themselves from their old political parties and preaching a new brand of federalism for Northern Europe, with promises of financial aid to anyone suffering hardship who was willing to join them.

Bremen watched as Anton Brandt moved from one tent to another, carrying cases of supplies and munitions, ready for the move to Bushehr. Clone soldiers, moving twice as fast and carrying far heavier loads than their Iranian colleagues, kicked up clouds of dust as their heavy boots trod a beaten path between the tents and the waiting trucks. The men oozed self-confidence, and Bremen could tell the whole camp felt invincible. When the trucks were loaded and the small company was ready to leave, the troops fell into line for some rousing words from their new German commander, Anton Brandt.

Brandt had changed into camouflage fatigues similar to those the Americans wore in Desert Storm. An old cloth military cap was the only sign of bygone days. He looked down the line of men, from the dishevelled ranks of the Iranians to his clone warriors. Each of them was a perfect Heinz, not quite identical but scary as hell. The Iranians had named them ‘hell’s brothers’, which Brandt found quite appropriate under the circumstances.

“Gentlemen, this is the start of a new era. An era that will see the rise of a new world order. A world order where Germany and Iran will take their rightful place.”

The Iranians’ chests visibly rose with his words.

It is so easy to manipulate these people, he thought.

“We wish to thank you, the Iranian people, for giving us this opportunity. As a sign of our good will and intentions toward your people, my men have something for you.”

The twenty clone soldiers broke ranks, lining up directly opposite their Iranian colleagues. Raising their weapons as if to salute them, they opened fire directly into their ranks.

Bremen watched the carnage with a smile on his face. Hardly a shot was returned as the poor souls twisted and jumped at the bullets biting at their torsos, arms, and heads. When the clones stopped shooting, they were just a bloodied heap of cotton, flesh, and bones, surrounded by clouds of billowing dust.

Turning to Captain Bald, who was looking away from the screen towards the stock market tickers, he boomed, “Can this day get any better!”

“It is going very well.” The Captain returned.