John Ringo - Aldenata 07 - Watch On The Rhine

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Watch On The Rhine

Table of Contents

PART I

Prologue

Chapter 1

Interlude

Chapter 2

Interlude

Chapter 3

Interlude

Chapter 4

Interlude

Part II

Chapter 5

Interlude

Chapter 6

Interlude

Chapter 7

Interlude

Chapter 8

Interlude

Chapter 9

Interlude

Part III

Chapter 10

Interlude

Chapter 11

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Interlude

Chapter 12

Interlude

Chapter 13

Interlude

Part IV

Chapter 14

Interlude

Chapter 15

Interlude

Chapter 16

Interlude

Chapter 17

Part V

Interlude

Chapter 18

Interlude

Chapter 19

Interlude

Chapter 20

Epilogue: In a further future . . .

Afterword

End Notes

PART I

Mögen andere von ihrer Schande spreche,

Ich Spreche von der meinen . . .

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O' Deutschland bleiche mutter!

Wie haben deine Söhne dich zugerichtet

Dass du unter dem Völken sitzest

Ein Gespörtt oder eine Furcht!

—Bertolt Brecht, 1933

Prologue

Villers Bocage, 12 June 1944

The soldier wore black. Silver lightning bolts flashed on his right lapel;

the three rosettes of a Hauptsturmführer—or captain of the

Schützstaffeln, the SS—shone on the left.

He stood in the hatch of a Tiger I tank, peering with binoculars through

the gloom of the battlefield. Arising out of the gloom he saw the rising

smoke from the engines of an enemy armored column halted on the road

below. The soldier counted twenty-five or so enemy vehicles, mixed half-

tracks and tanks. There were likely more, unseen. So much he

suspected, in any case. He was unimpressed.

Though he stood alone, and though his tank was alone, the black-

uniformed soldier knew no fear. If he had ever known true fear there were

no witnesses to tell of it. His comrades had never seen it and few of his

enemies could have detected it, even had they lived.

Neither, so far as the soldier could tell, had the enemy detected his tank.

It took him scant moments to reach his decision. With a roar hidden by

the mass of the enemy's idling engines the driver started the engine and

headed for a cart track to the left of the enemy column. Already the

gunner, Wohl, was swinging his turret to the right.

"Take the first one, Balthazar," ordered the soldier, the commander.

"The half-track?" asked Wohl, incredulously. "It can't hurt us."

"I know. But by blocking the road it can help us."

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"Ahhh . . . I see, Herr Hauptmann," answered Wohl, returning his

attention to his sight. He whispered, "Come on, baby . . . just a little

more . . ." then shouted into his microphone, "Target!"

"Fire."

The eighty-eight millimeter, L56 gun belched smoke and flame.

Downrange, at the head of the enemy column, a British half-track was

thrown violently across the road, blocking it. The half-track caught fire

and began emitting great plumes of smoke of its own.

Onward the Tiger roared, its gun belching death and destruction at a

fantastic rate. Tanks, Bren Carriers and half-tracks were smashed with

each round. At this range Wohl couldn't miss. The enemy, blocked by the

wrecked half-track, could not advance. Neither, given the narrowness of

the road and its border of trees, could they easily retreat. Instead, they

simply died.

A lone enemy tank swung into the path. In a race against time the two

hostile turrets and guns swung towards each other. Though Wohl

trembled slightly, the commander did not. The Tiger proved the faster of

the two and yet another British machine went up in smoke and fire.

The way into the town was clear. Though built-up areas were death

ground to a tank, the commander felt no fear. He directed his driver into

the town. There the Tiger met three more British tanks. Boom . . .

Boom . . . Boom . . . and they were reduced to charred, bloody scrap.

The road and the town littered with ruined fighting machines and dead

and dying men, the soldier, the commander, withdrew to refuel and

rearm. The Seventh British Armored Division had been stopped cold by a

single tank, more importantly, by a single man's will and daring. Soon,

the commander would return with reinforcements to finish off the point

of their armored spear.

Though he had a month more to live, it was on this day, by this obscure

town, that Michael Wittmann entered immortality.

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* * *

In the recent past:

Though the smoke in the room came not from tobacco but from incense

burnt upon the Altar of Communication, and though shimmering

tuniclike garments covered the beings attending the meeting, and even

though those beings were elfin, with pointed ears and needlelike teeth,

any human corporate CEO would have recognized instantly that here was

an assemblage of unparalleled economic and political clout.

The beings—they were called "Darhel"—were seated around the low

boardroom table. All were senior leaders of most of the leading clans

which formed that species. The table, a rare and precious iridescent

hardwood from a little known or settled planet, spoke well of the wealth

of the assembly. Each board member's chair was individual, crafted by a

group of Indowy master craftsmen to suit that member's size and body

shape alone. An Indowy servant—given the nuances of the galactic legal

and economic system one might as well have said "slave"—stood behind

each of the Darhel lords, ready to cater to their every need and whim.

Though some Darhel were perhaps aware of it, most were blissfully

unaware that these servants, never comfortable with their status as

slaves, were one of the prime sources of intelligence to the Bane Sidhe,

the galaxy-spanning plot to unseat the Darhel as lords of creation.

Holographic projections stood before each chair, visible to that board

member alone. Though information was available concerning things like

loss of life among the inhabitants, mostly the green-furred, humble

Indowy, of the planets falling one by one into the fanged maws of the

invaders, few Darhel cared to look at them. This was not squeamishness

on their part. The Darhel were simply indifferent to loss of Indowy life.

With eighteen trillion Indowy within the Federation, the loss of a few

billion, or a few hundred billion, was a matter of no moment.

But profits? Losses? These were the key and critical bits of information

played out on the holographic projections.

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Studying his hologram intently, one Darhel burst out, "Lords of Creation,

the loss of capital to this invasion is unsupportable! Factories lost?

Profits squeezed? Trade imbalanced? Staggering! Intolerable! It must not

be allowed to continue." Almost overcome by his own unseemly and even

dangerous outburst, the Darhel then lowered his head, forced his

breathing into a calm, steady, measured pace while reciting a mantra to

fight off lintatai, a form of catatonia inevitably resulting in death, to

which the Darhel were uniquely susceptible.

The Ghin, first among equals of those present, silently tsk-tsked,

thinking, These young ones, and especially of the Urdan clan, are so

emotional. They must spend half their lives bringing themselves to the

very edge of lintatai, the other half recovering from that. Not for the first

time the Ghin regretted the system of galactic control which allowed even

third-rate Darhel to amass power and wealth, at the inevitable expense of

the Indowy. Not that he cared a whit for the Indowy. But the Ghin was

not without some sympathy for the plight of the Urdan. He knew they

were very heavily leveraged. And they tended to produce far too many

third-rate minds.

Whatever his thoughts, the Ghin knew that a Ghin must lead. "Fear not

about losses of capital. Fear instead the extermination of our people if

this plague of Posleen is not contained."

The Urdan leader looked up from his attempt to stave off catatonia and

death just long enough to ask, "And what are you doing about it?" His

head immediately dropped again, his lips playing the life-saving mantra.

"Everything possible," the Ghin returned calmly. "Armies and fleets of the

barbarian mercenaries, the humans, are already engaged in holding the

frontier, even in rolling it back in places. Projections show that, with

current-sized forces, and with the ability to breed more human

mercenaries from among their children we have taken as our . . .

guests . . . we shall be able to insulate and isolate ourselves until this

plague has passed. Look for yourselves."

With a wave of an arm, every hologram changed to show a map of the

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Federation sector of the galaxy, systems already fallen to the invaders

appearing as red in contrast to Federation blue. The map was framed on

all sides by statistical indicia, the profit and loss sheets so beloved of

Darhel merchants and bankers.

"Obscene," muttered the Urdan. "By what right do you charge us the

absurd wages these barbarians demand? I have shareholders and

investors to whom I am responsible. The cost of these humans is

unsupportable. They should take an Indowy's wage and be grateful for it."

The Ghin rather agreed with that last. The arrogance of the humans was

infuriating. Nonetheless, he answered, "It is the fault of the most

numerous among the human subspecies, the ones they call the Chinese."

A little of the Ghin's own fury at human arrogance began to peek

through. He suppressed that fury ruthlessly; lintatai, once entered into,

was as much a danger to a Ghin as to any Darhel.

"The humans that are called 'Chinese' did some calculations and

determined that the wages we were offering were much less than we

would have been willing to pay. They, along with the other barbarians,

simply held out and refused us aid until we had given them a better

offer." With a smug smile the Ghin concluded, "Not that we would not

have paid three times what the humans demanded. But they didn't know

that, of course. Rejoice that the cost is so low. It could have been much

worse. And rest assured, my expenses were even greater than yours. And

I have plans for these Chinese to answer for their effrontery."

Head still bowed, because the Urdan really was dangerously close to

lintatai, that Darhel lord raised his eyes back to the hologram and asked,

"And that is another thing. I see the frontier plainly marked. But why

have the human mercenaries permitted this open sector where the

Posleen are pushing through en masse?"

In response, the Ghin merely smiled.

* * *

Closing on the present:

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The tunneling ship hummed with life and purpose; though that purpose—

life for the Po'oslen'ar, the People of the Ships—was death for all who

stood in their path.

Athenalras mused in pride and satisfaction, contemplating the thrice-

cursed Aldenata instruments few of the People but he could comprehend.

Around him bustled the Kenstain, a few Kessentai, and the minimal

number of superior normals necessary to the running of the battleglobe.

The bulk of the People rested, unconscious and hibernating—most

importantly, not eating—deeper in the bowels of the globe. All was well

and the People were well on their way to yet another conquest in the long

and fiery path of fury and war.

"My lord?" queried the Kessantai, Ro'moloristen, with something between

respect and awe. "I have the information you demanded."

"Give it, young one," ordered the senior and elder, curtly.

"This peninsula, jutting away from the direction of rotation of the target,

looks to be our best unclaimed landing area. It is populous, rich with

industry and refined metal, fertile and fruitful. It would be a fitting place

for the People of our clan . . . until, of course, it is time to move on

again." The Kessentai then hesitated, his chief noted.

"Rich and fruitful, but . . . ?" queried the senior.

"It is a strange place, this 'Europe,' as they call it. United and divided.

Wise and senseless. Fierce and timid. Heedless in peace, so say the

records we have gleaned, but potentially fearsome in war."

The senior's crest came up. "They are worse than the gray threshkreen of

Diess? The metal threshkreen of Kerlen? They are worse than the

accursed thresh of the lesser continent, who battered and destroyed our

first landing and even now defy the People with fire and blood?"

The younger God King looked deckward, answering, "My lord . . . these

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are the gray thresh, their home. The beings of the lesser continent? They

are the descendants of colonists, much like the People, who left their

original home for a new and almost empty one, smashing and

exterminating the thresh they found there."

The chief bristled, crest unfurling. "So you are saying, young

Ro'moloristen, that this place, this Europe, is too difficult a task for the

People, too difficult for me?"

"No! My lord, no!" apologized the junior hastily. "It can be done. But we

must approach more cautiously than is our wont. We must seize a

base . . . or, I think, perhaps two. There we shall build our strength

before completing the subjugation of the rest. Look, my lord. See. Here is

my recommendation." The younger God King played claws over an

Aldenata screen.

Mollified, if only partly, Athenalras glanced at the screen. "I see. You

would have us land here, east on the flat open area . . ."

"They call it Poland, my lord."

"Poland?" queried Athenalras. "Barbarous name," he snorted.

"Indeed," agreed Ro'moloristen. "And the reputation among the

threshkreen of these thresh of this barbarous place, Poland, in war is no

mean one, though they have had scant success."

"And the other major landing?"

"They call that France. Again, their reputation on the Path of Fury is no

mean one, and yet, they too have had scant success."

"I do not understand, puppy. We land, so you propose, at two locations

where the local thresh are fierce in war but do not succeed in it? I simply

do not understand."

Ro'moloristen answered, "Sometimes, my lord, one can be powerful on

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the Path of Fury, and yet fail because there is one more powerful still."

The young God King touched a claw to the screen. "Here. Here is the

place. The home of the gray-clad thresh. The place which puts into the

shadow the threshkreen of France and of Poland. The place for which we

must prepare an assault such as the People have never seen."

"And what is this fearsome place called, puppy?"

"My lord, the local thresh call their home, 'Deutschland.'"

Chapter 1

Fredericksburg, VA, 11 November 2004

Snow flecked the cheeks and eyebrows, falling softly to cover a scene of

horror with a clean white blanket. White snow fell upon, melded into, the

hair of a man gone white himself. He was stooped, that man. Bent over

with the care of ages and the weight of his people resting on his old, worn

back.

The Bundeskanzler2 turned his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle

even now being covered by snow. Bad enough to have seen a once vibrant

and historical city scoured from the face of the earth as if it had never

been. Worse to see the roll of casualties . . . such crippling casualties . . .

from the army of a state in every way more powerful than his own. The

Kanzler trembled with fear for his country, his culture and his people.

Yet, as badly and as plainly as he trembled, the nausea of his disgust

was in every way worse.

Fearing to look at his aide, the Kanzler whispered, "It's the bones,

Günter. It's the little piles of gnawed bones."

Günter, the aide—though he was really rather more than that, heard the

whisper and grimaced. "I know, mein Herr. It's disgusting. We . . . we

have done terrible things in the past. Horrible, awful, damnable things.

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