A RED SUN: A TLIAD.
- Thread starter Sulemain
- Start date
Sulemain
Banned
Thanks for all the compliments guys, I appreciate it. He's a Putin, I'll grant you that. Younger then his OTL counterpart, and rather different in personality. From the very beginning, I was going to end it with Mr Putin staring at Russia, and then it being revealed he is actually a Russian. I mean, he could see the Turkish SSR from Constantinople, but it ain't quite the same thing.
Yeah, that was awesome. I came out of lurking to say that, so it means even more. And him being a Putin, but not Vladimir himself, makes quite a bit more sense.
So Putin's ATL-brother is an exiled journalist and an opponent of authoritarian states everywhere? Something tells me that he and our Putin would have some interesting things to say to each other if they ever met.
Sulemain
Banned
Indeed they would. I have a few ideas as to Alt-Putins back story, but nothing concrete.
Sulemain
Banned
The General walked into the room, and nearly turned straight back around and left it.
He controlled himself, but he couldn’t help but ask, in an accusing voice.
“What is she doing here? Why wasn’t I be told she was here?”
One of the other men in the room tried to speak, but before he could, the woman in question spoke first.
“I might say the same thing about you General. You who hold no elective office, you who no longer have power in this country.”
Her last sentence was joined by a withering look at the man hosting the meeting.
The man in question took it in stride. I suppose he has heard worse on the floor of the Reichstag. By God, we’ve all heard worse things on the floor of the Reichstag. Especially in recent years.
His musings were interrupted by the man who had gathered them all here. His name was Heinrich Brüning, and he was the Chancellor of the German Republic.
“Mrs Luxemburg is here for the same reason you are, General von Lettow Vorbeck. She is here because her party is the largest not present in the current coalition government. You are here because you represent the military establishment, the old elites. Both of you are vital to the survival of the German Republic. You and those you represent are not integrated into that structure. And both of you need to be in order for Germany to survive this crisis”.
General Vorbeck nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at the other two men in the room. There was Konrad Ardenaur, leader of the “Republican” faction of the Centre Party. And there was Otto Wels, whose party was in coalition with Brüning’s own. A majority, but a small one.
Wels at this point spoke, his calm despite the circumstances.
“A crisis that finds the old Hanseatic Cities under this “Peoples Republic of Germany” that the KPD have founded. That see’s Berlin a warzone, Italian troops occupying Austria and Bavaria under the control of Hitler and his brownshirted thugs. Mussolini has recognised Hitler’s junta in Munich, and Stalin has done the same for the Communists. Only the former has moved any troops in, but the Polish Ambassador informs us that Stalin is massing troops on the border with Poland and Romania. Admiral Canaris suspects the Soviets will take advantage of our distraction to crush the East under their boot heel.”
It was Ardenaur’s turn to speak.
“Which is why we need you both of you. Herr Hitler would have us fight against the world. The War showed us we cannot win that that fight. And if he actually believes the madness he shouts over the radio, Germany will enter a long nightmare. And the Communists, well, we’ve all heard the stories coming out of the Soviet Union.”
At that point, General von Lettow Vorbeck turned to Luxemburg.
“Then why are you here? Surely you should be with your fellows in Hamburg?”
At that, Rosa Luxemburg turned an interesting shade of red, and shouted, in a voice that belied her age
“NOT ALL THOSE WHO ARE ON THE LEFT BELIEVE THE SAME THING!. I AM NOT STALIN! I AM NOT MR WELS! I AM A SPARATCIST, AND I SPIT ON THOSE WHO WOULD DESTROY GERMANY’S FREEDOM!”
She finished shouting, and took a deep breath, before continuing.
“I could ask the same to you though. You avoid Kapp’s attempted Putch, this is true. But you did not condemm it either. Where do your loyalties lie, General?”
Vorbeck smiled. The others in the room sat back slightly in surprise.
“My loyalty is too Germany. I have my disagreements with this Republic, but it is a German Republic. So that rule’s out Stalin’s lackeys in Hamburg."
He paused again, and allowed the others in the room to sweat for a few seconds. Leadership is all about timing.
“As Mr Ardenaur says, Hitler would lead us all too ruin, see Germany at war with the world. I met him this last weekend in fact, before this whole mess started. He speaks well in private and public, but I’ve seen far too many people take pride in cruelty. Hitler is of that sort. Which is why I told him to go fuck himself. So tell me, how can we in Frankfurt save Germany?”
He controlled himself, but he couldn’t help but ask, in an accusing voice.
“What is she doing here? Why wasn’t I be told she was here?”
One of the other men in the room tried to speak, but before he could, the woman in question spoke first.
“I might say the same thing about you General. You who hold no elective office, you who no longer have power in this country.”
Her last sentence was joined by a withering look at the man hosting the meeting.
The man in question took it in stride. I suppose he has heard worse on the floor of the Reichstag. By God, we’ve all heard worse things on the floor of the Reichstag. Especially in recent years.
His musings were interrupted by the man who had gathered them all here. His name was Heinrich Brüning, and he was the Chancellor of the German Republic.
“Mrs Luxemburg is here for the same reason you are, General von Lettow Vorbeck. She is here because her party is the largest not present in the current coalition government. You are here because you represent the military establishment, the old elites. Both of you are vital to the survival of the German Republic. You and those you represent are not integrated into that structure. And both of you need to be in order for Germany to survive this crisis”.
General Vorbeck nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at the other two men in the room. There was Konrad Ardenaur, leader of the “Republican” faction of the Centre Party. And there was Otto Wels, whose party was in coalition with Brüning’s own. A majority, but a small one.
Wels at this point spoke, his calm despite the circumstances.
“A crisis that finds the old Hanseatic Cities under this “Peoples Republic of Germany” that the KPD have founded. That see’s Berlin a warzone, Italian troops occupying Austria and Bavaria under the control of Hitler and his brownshirted thugs. Mussolini has recognised Hitler’s junta in Munich, and Stalin has done the same for the Communists. Only the former has moved any troops in, but the Polish Ambassador informs us that Stalin is massing troops on the border with Poland and Romania. Admiral Canaris suspects the Soviets will take advantage of our distraction to crush the East under their boot heel.”
It was Ardenaur’s turn to speak.
“Which is why we need you both of you. Herr Hitler would have us fight against the world. The War showed us we cannot win that that fight. And if he actually believes the madness he shouts over the radio, Germany will enter a long nightmare. And the Communists, well, we’ve all heard the stories coming out of the Soviet Union.”
At that point, General von Lettow Vorbeck turned to Luxemburg.
“Then why are you here? Surely you should be with your fellows in Hamburg?”
At that, Rosa Luxemburg turned an interesting shade of red, and shouted, in a voice that belied her age
“NOT ALL THOSE WHO ARE ON THE LEFT BELIEVE THE SAME THING!. I AM NOT STALIN! I AM NOT MR WELS! I AM A SPARATCIST, AND I SPIT ON THOSE WHO WOULD DESTROY GERMANY’S FREEDOM!”
She finished shouting, and took a deep breath, before continuing.
“I could ask the same to you though. You avoid Kapp’s attempted Putch, this is true. But you did not condemm it either. Where do your loyalties lie, General?”
Vorbeck smiled. The others in the room sat back slightly in surprise.
“My loyalty is too Germany. I have my disagreements with this Republic, but it is a German Republic. So that rule’s out Stalin’s lackeys in Hamburg."
He paused again, and allowed the others in the room to sweat for a few seconds. Leadership is all about timing.
“As Mr Ardenaur says, Hitler would lead us all too ruin, see Germany at war with the world. I met him this last weekend in fact, before this whole mess started. He speaks well in private and public, but I’ve seen far too many people take pride in cruelty. Hitler is of that sort. Which is why I told him to go fuck himself. So tell me, how can we in Frankfurt save Germany?”
Last edited:
Oh boy, I would really like to know how they got out of that crisis.
I assume that this involved an open war with Italy but not the USSR?
And if they won the war with Italy (which they obviously did, seeing as Austria and Bavaria are part of Germany), why is South Tyrol still part of Italy?
I assume that this involved an open war with Italy but not the USSR?
And if they won the war with Italy (which they obviously did, seeing as Austria and Bavaria are part of Germany), why is South Tyrol still part of Italy?
Sulemain
Banned
I'm pretty sure it does. The Austrian part of Germany includes German-speaking Tyrol. The whole Tyrolenese section extends futher south.
Nope, it's not just Trentino; there's a big hole where the whole Bozen/Bolzano region should be. (I'm looking at the map at page three, just for reference)
It isn't really important anyway.
Sulemain
Banned
UPDATE!
It was the coldest year on record, and it was getting worse with every day. The boffins said everything would return to normal sometime next year, but it was still a year without warmth. The Underground was on strike today, and so the Officer was forced to walk in the cold streets of London. He walked past St Pauls, and startled. Someone had painted, in bold red letters, Father, why have you forsaken us? The Officer could appreciate the sentiment, if not the vandalism. People huddled close together, against the cold, against the wind, against the reality that was screaming at them over the radio, in the headlines, on their TVs. He knew the intimate details of that reality. He had seen it in the mass graves that had been dug in Cambodia for the victims of famine. He had heard it in the killing grounds that surrounded Hong Kong, as the half-army, half-human tsunami that had threatened to engulf one of the last vestiges of civilisation on the mainland had been shattered by the British military. He had heard the screech of the artillery shells, the tearing cloth sound of the machine guns. Worst of all was the smell, as the piled bodies were burned. Civilisation is a child’s doll shredded by shrapnel. It is saving who you can, but in doing so destroying many, many more.
He tore himself away from the memories, and continued his on his path. Fuel was being rationed; the upheaval having disrupted supplies, perhaps permanently. Hard to get the pipes built when their factory is now but a breeding ground for unspeakable horrors. From what he had been able to gather, the government had authorised large amounts of money spent on nuclear fission and other, more esoteric forms of power generation. Someone was clearly planning for the long term, and the Officer approved of that. Seemingly every other building had a Public Nuclear Shelter sign clearly displayed. It just means more will starve when the food distribution network collapses after the end comes.
He noticed less obvious things as well. The seemingly random holes in opposite walls, designed so that study steel barriers could be put in place. The reinforced rooftops for short range surface to air missiles. London, turned into a fortress without anyone noticing. Not that it would help if they decided to attack. All that Londoners could do was hide. Or die. There could be no fighting what would happen if the fateful day arrived.
He arrived, a cold and appropriately miserable time later, at one of the secret entrances to his destination. London was an old city, and the builders of its government infrastructure had taken advantage of that. He punched in his one-time entry code into a concealed keypad, and, with barely a sound, part of the pavement in the alley slid away. He knew that he was being watched by some unseen guardian, but he remained resolute. He knew that if he stumbled upon this entry by accident or with malicious intent, his fate would be, at best, one of temporal uncertainty. And other, more grim and terrible punishments thereafter.
It took him only a few minutes to reach the last barrier, a heavy steel hatch, big enough to fit two equipped Commandos abreast at once. One either side stood an armed solider, each carrying American made shotguns. Perfectly devastating at close quarters, but not enough velocity to do damage to the metal work of the containment structure.
He showed his papers, and was admitted though the hatch, albeit after handing all his clothes through a dual lock system for decontamination. He was bathed in ultraviolet light, x-rayed and no doubt subject to yet stranger examination. The Office knew he was prone to flights of whimsy at times, but considering the events of recent weeks, he no longer really knew or cared what people thought.
Upon regaining his clothes, he was escorted into the depths of the building. Past secret rooms and more secret thoughts, past braided officers no doubt moving battalions into East Prussia, carriers to the North Sea. To them, Armageddon wasn’t a threat. It was a job description.
He at last reached his destination.
“Come in Mr Ashdown”, came the voice from within the office.
And Paddy Ashdown, Officer of the Security Intelligent Service, entered the office of Shirley Williams, to deliver his prepared testimony of what he had witnessed, what he had endured, during his world tour in the aftermath of the Sino-Soviet nuclear exchange of 1978.
It was the coldest year on record, and it was getting worse with every day. The boffins said everything would return to normal sometime next year, but it was still a year without warmth. The Underground was on strike today, and so the Officer was forced to walk in the cold streets of London. He walked past St Pauls, and startled. Someone had painted, in bold red letters, Father, why have you forsaken us? The Officer could appreciate the sentiment, if not the vandalism. People huddled close together, against the cold, against the wind, against the reality that was screaming at them over the radio, in the headlines, on their TVs. He knew the intimate details of that reality. He had seen it in the mass graves that had been dug in Cambodia for the victims of famine. He had heard it in the killing grounds that surrounded Hong Kong, as the half-army, half-human tsunami that had threatened to engulf one of the last vestiges of civilisation on the mainland had been shattered by the British military. He had heard the screech of the artillery shells, the tearing cloth sound of the machine guns. Worst of all was the smell, as the piled bodies were burned. Civilisation is a child’s doll shredded by shrapnel. It is saving who you can, but in doing so destroying many, many more.
He tore himself away from the memories, and continued his on his path. Fuel was being rationed; the upheaval having disrupted supplies, perhaps permanently. Hard to get the pipes built when their factory is now but a breeding ground for unspeakable horrors. From what he had been able to gather, the government had authorised large amounts of money spent on nuclear fission and other, more esoteric forms of power generation. Someone was clearly planning for the long term, and the Officer approved of that. Seemingly every other building had a Public Nuclear Shelter sign clearly displayed. It just means more will starve when the food distribution network collapses after the end comes.
He noticed less obvious things as well. The seemingly random holes in opposite walls, designed so that study steel barriers could be put in place. The reinforced rooftops for short range surface to air missiles. London, turned into a fortress without anyone noticing. Not that it would help if they decided to attack. All that Londoners could do was hide. Or die. There could be no fighting what would happen if the fateful day arrived.
He arrived, a cold and appropriately miserable time later, at one of the secret entrances to his destination. London was an old city, and the builders of its government infrastructure had taken advantage of that. He punched in his one-time entry code into a concealed keypad, and, with barely a sound, part of the pavement in the alley slid away. He knew that he was being watched by some unseen guardian, but he remained resolute. He knew that if he stumbled upon this entry by accident or with malicious intent, his fate would be, at best, one of temporal uncertainty. And other, more grim and terrible punishments thereafter.
It took him only a few minutes to reach the last barrier, a heavy steel hatch, big enough to fit two equipped Commandos abreast at once. One either side stood an armed solider, each carrying American made shotguns. Perfectly devastating at close quarters, but not enough velocity to do damage to the metal work of the containment structure.
He showed his papers, and was admitted though the hatch, albeit after handing all his clothes through a dual lock system for decontamination. He was bathed in ultraviolet light, x-rayed and no doubt subject to yet stranger examination. The Office knew he was prone to flights of whimsy at times, but considering the events of recent weeks, he no longer really knew or cared what people thought.
Upon regaining his clothes, he was escorted into the depths of the building. Past secret rooms and more secret thoughts, past braided officers no doubt moving battalions into East Prussia, carriers to the North Sea. To them, Armageddon wasn’t a threat. It was a job description.
He at last reached his destination.
“Come in Mr Ashdown”, came the voice from within the office.
And Paddy Ashdown, Officer of the Security Intelligent Service, entered the office of Shirley Williams, to deliver his prepared testimony of what he had witnessed, what he had endured, during his world tour in the aftermath of the Sino-Soviet nuclear exchange of 1978.
Sulemain
Banned
I've got darker things planned set in that year. Including a view from inside China on the day itself.
Sulemain
Banned
The Ten Rings Clique had gathered in strength for their march on Hong Kong, at least a Brigade in size. There had been attempts to seize the City before, of course. The first of those, the most massive and most tragic, had been in the immediate aftermath of the War, tens of thousands of people marching, moving and mobbing towards one of the few places of safety left in Mainland China. A situation that had been desperate if not dangerous had rapidly collapsed into anarchy when the most civilian mass congregating around the City, a mass being processed and handled and dealt with in a peaceful manner, had been joined by what amounted to a brigade of PLA troops. They had brought far more weapons and equipment then they needed, and under the command of a charismatic General, had attempted to storm the city. Major Aubrey had been born two years after the War, but the epic struggle to keep Hong Kong had entered into British Military myth, along with Trafalgar, Waterloo and the Great War in the Air.
It was only after graduating Sandhurst and completing her training with the Parachute Regiment that the reality behind the myth, the tragedy behind the epic, had begun to emerge. 13 year olds, with nothing but hope and hate and an old rifle mowed down with machine guns. Of neighbourhoods blown apart by naval artillery. The myth was one of a brave brand of men and women defending peace and order. The tragic reality was of mass slaughter, utterly uneven and utterly futile. We never caught that bastard General though. Slinked off back into the Wasteland once he was done. The Parachute Regiment had been the primary Battalion of the Hong Kong Garrison then. The most terrible thing of all though, was that as an institution, the Parachute Regiment gloried in what it had done. It had, at long last, a tale to match that of the Royal Tank Regiment(s) driving across Germany in 1919, or the Royal Green Jackets at Waterloo. Aubrey was a proud officer of the Regiment, but she felt that she was the only one who wished they had a less, well, awful reputation.
The Parachute Regiment was not a stranger to brutality. Founded in 1955, they had served as one of the so called “Post-Colonial” units of the British Armed Forces, alongside the Royal Marine Commandos, the Sikh Regiment, the SAS, the carrier battle groups of the Navy and the Rapid Response Groups of the Air Force. It had been founded on the principle of rapid reaction, of small scale air-dropped units, with their equipment and support all coming from the air. Some had even suggested they be transferred to the RAF, but the top brass had always fought that. Before 1978 they’d built a reputation for being extremely effective and pragmatic, even to the point of ruthlessness. But they had none of the ethnic, racial or political hang ups of the older Regiments of the Army. They recruited from all over the Commonwealth, from every continent. The Regiment was a “Large” one, seven battalions strong. Only the Sikh Regiment was the same size. Up until 1978, for all their performance and excellence, they’d yet to find a niche. The Royal Marines did much the same things they did, as did the various Light Infantry and Rifle Regiments. Being capable of entire Regiment Air-drops was, even then, less than effective. Now days, with OTA DEWs and the like, it’d be positively suicidal.
Hong Kong had given them that niche, no matter how Major Aubrey’s conscience worried over it. That niche was the willingness, even the eagerness, to do, in the minced words of the Army’s press “everything in their power to achieve their goals”. Lacking the prestige of the older, more renowned Regiments, or the allure of the armoured Regiments stationed in Germany, the Paras had developed an institutionalised aggressiveness, an “us against the world attitude”. Whereas the rest of the Army had moved past ritualised hazing, the Paras still unofficially carried on beatings and psychological, well, torture, which had been a part of the Army life in the bad old days. She taken part in those ordeals, on both sides. She’d toughen up and gotten through, despite her conscience, and the code of conduct Sandhurst had drilled into her, screaming at her to stop, to report, to condemn.
But the Parachute Regiment had made its niche a cosy place. The government, of whatever party it was at the time, were generally willing to overlook the internal workings of the Regiment in return for the unique services it would provide. Occasionally some idealist on a crusade would try to investigate them, and they’d kick out the worst of the worst, reform somewhat. But eventually they’d return to the ways things were. All of this was why the Parachute Regiment was about to do what it was about to do.
A single whispered word over the coms set the show in motion. She had lit up the leading tank of the column with a laser. The tank were old A-44s, or at least the Chinese variant their-of. If the tanks, and the men marching with them, or sitting on them, had been moving off-road it wouldn’t have helped them, but it would have made the inevitable a little less easy. The rest of the Cliché would be dealt with by less spectacular, albeit no less brutal methods. The vanguard, such as it was, was her responsibility.
The laser fed information to a satellite dish, which in turn communicated with Excalibur Orbital Weapons System. Or, at least a part of it. No one’s going to give a mere Major access to kinetic rods, or directed nuclear blasters, or anything like that. What the Major did have access was powerful enough.
Two codes were needed, a confirmation of identity and a confirmation firing order. She had given the first, and now that the view through her sight-scope matched what the satellite was seeing, she whispered the firing code. There was no chance of them being seen or heard, the Company she was in command of. Once the orbitals had done their work on the vanguard, the RAF would start hitting C&C via their cyber-bombers, along with manned aircraft. They’d being making an example, so they’d be using equipment that the chattering classes scream bloody murder. Napalm, Willy Pete, shredder bombs, the works.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the harsh electronic countdown. She commend for the Company to cover their eyes, and waited.
4… 3… 2… 1…
It wasn’t the movies. In the movies, you saw the energy beam. Hear, the visual was off a sudden, intense heat shimmer, followed by a roar of noise and a wave of heat, as very air the vanguard, a couple of Companies worth of tanks and men and machines, was super-heated. What couldn’t catch vaporise was reduced to slag. It was worse for those on the edge of the blast. They’d not been vaporised, not had their brains boil. They’d just burst into flames, screaming as they died, or left, ruined and moments from death, in varying degrees of suffering and time. That was a small scale strike. Before joining the Paras, Major Aubrey would have, if she deemed it safe, ordered her command forward to capture and provide assistant to a defeated enemy. It would have been the honourable, the humane, the British thing to do, to be magnanimous, and to match technological superiority with moral superiority.
But our message is death, and hell follows with us.
It was only after graduating Sandhurst and completing her training with the Parachute Regiment that the reality behind the myth, the tragedy behind the epic, had begun to emerge. 13 year olds, with nothing but hope and hate and an old rifle mowed down with machine guns. Of neighbourhoods blown apart by naval artillery. The myth was one of a brave brand of men and women defending peace and order. The tragic reality was of mass slaughter, utterly uneven and utterly futile. We never caught that bastard General though. Slinked off back into the Wasteland once he was done. The Parachute Regiment had been the primary Battalion of the Hong Kong Garrison then. The most terrible thing of all though, was that as an institution, the Parachute Regiment gloried in what it had done. It had, at long last, a tale to match that of the Royal Tank Regiment(s) driving across Germany in 1919, or the Royal Green Jackets at Waterloo. Aubrey was a proud officer of the Regiment, but she felt that she was the only one who wished they had a less, well, awful reputation.
The Parachute Regiment was not a stranger to brutality. Founded in 1955, they had served as one of the so called “Post-Colonial” units of the British Armed Forces, alongside the Royal Marine Commandos, the Sikh Regiment, the SAS, the carrier battle groups of the Navy and the Rapid Response Groups of the Air Force. It had been founded on the principle of rapid reaction, of small scale air-dropped units, with their equipment and support all coming from the air. Some had even suggested they be transferred to the RAF, but the top brass had always fought that. Before 1978 they’d built a reputation for being extremely effective and pragmatic, even to the point of ruthlessness. But they had none of the ethnic, racial or political hang ups of the older Regiments of the Army. They recruited from all over the Commonwealth, from every continent. The Regiment was a “Large” one, seven battalions strong. Only the Sikh Regiment was the same size. Up until 1978, for all their performance and excellence, they’d yet to find a niche. The Royal Marines did much the same things they did, as did the various Light Infantry and Rifle Regiments. Being capable of entire Regiment Air-drops was, even then, less than effective. Now days, with OTA DEWs and the like, it’d be positively suicidal.
Hong Kong had given them that niche, no matter how Major Aubrey’s conscience worried over it. That niche was the willingness, even the eagerness, to do, in the minced words of the Army’s press “everything in their power to achieve their goals”. Lacking the prestige of the older, more renowned Regiments, or the allure of the armoured Regiments stationed in Germany, the Paras had developed an institutionalised aggressiveness, an “us against the world attitude”. Whereas the rest of the Army had moved past ritualised hazing, the Paras still unofficially carried on beatings and psychological, well, torture, which had been a part of the Army life in the bad old days. She taken part in those ordeals, on both sides. She’d toughen up and gotten through, despite her conscience, and the code of conduct Sandhurst had drilled into her, screaming at her to stop, to report, to condemn.
But the Parachute Regiment had made its niche a cosy place. The government, of whatever party it was at the time, were generally willing to overlook the internal workings of the Regiment in return for the unique services it would provide. Occasionally some idealist on a crusade would try to investigate them, and they’d kick out the worst of the worst, reform somewhat. But eventually they’d return to the ways things were. All of this was why the Parachute Regiment was about to do what it was about to do.
A single whispered word over the coms set the show in motion. She had lit up the leading tank of the column with a laser. The tank were old A-44s, or at least the Chinese variant their-of. If the tanks, and the men marching with them, or sitting on them, had been moving off-road it wouldn’t have helped them, but it would have made the inevitable a little less easy. The rest of the Cliché would be dealt with by less spectacular, albeit no less brutal methods. The vanguard, such as it was, was her responsibility.
The laser fed information to a satellite dish, which in turn communicated with Excalibur Orbital Weapons System. Or, at least a part of it. No one’s going to give a mere Major access to kinetic rods, or directed nuclear blasters, or anything like that. What the Major did have access was powerful enough.
Two codes were needed, a confirmation of identity and a confirmation firing order. She had given the first, and now that the view through her sight-scope matched what the satellite was seeing, she whispered the firing code. There was no chance of them being seen or heard, the Company she was in command of. Once the orbitals had done their work on the vanguard, the RAF would start hitting C&C via their cyber-bombers, along with manned aircraft. They’d being making an example, so they’d be using equipment that the chattering classes scream bloody murder. Napalm, Willy Pete, shredder bombs, the works.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the harsh electronic countdown. She commend for the Company to cover their eyes, and waited.
4… 3… 2… 1…
It wasn’t the movies. In the movies, you saw the energy beam. Hear, the visual was off a sudden, intense heat shimmer, followed by a roar of noise and a wave of heat, as very air the vanguard, a couple of Companies worth of tanks and men and machines, was super-heated. What couldn’t catch vaporise was reduced to slag. It was worse for those on the edge of the blast. They’d not been vaporised, not had their brains boil. They’d just burst into flames, screaming as they died, or left, ruined and moments from death, in varying degrees of suffering and time. That was a small scale strike. Before joining the Paras, Major Aubrey would have, if she deemed it safe, ordered her command forward to capture and provide assistant to a defeated enemy. It would have been the honourable, the humane, the British thing to do, to be magnanimous, and to match technological superiority with moral superiority.
But our message is death, and hell follows with us.