He had just said as much to high command and they had responded with their usual platitudes. Help would come, the American Armored Combat Suit battalion was still mobile and was on the way. What they could do when they arrived he had no idea. The officers of the 10th Panzer had spent the division as frugally as a miser, as frugally as any officer corps in Germany's illustrious history. But it had been to no avail.
Early on they discovered that in the heat of battle the God Kings' targeting systems could not spot sniper fire and Steuben's late battalion commander had pressed that to great advantage. By targeting God Kings and relentlessly counterattacking in the confusion immediately following their deaths they long delayed the inevitable. But now it was simple mathematics. They were surrounded by overwhelming force and the best they could do was spend their lives as carefully as possible.
"Major," said the one of the few remaining communication technicians, holding out a microphone, "Corp Command."
"Major?" barked the voice of the American Corp commander.
"Yes, Herr General Leutnant," he replied tiredly.
"You are about to receive a pleasant shock. It will not take the pressure off you, but it will allow the other units to reinforce you. The megascrapers to your east and north are about to fall over, hopefully missing yours."
"Ex . . . excuse me, sir? Could you say that again?" As the startled major stuttered into the microphone, the ground began to shake. "Mein Gott! Was ist so heute los, hier?"
Around him the sturdy panzer grenadiers were screaming in supernatural terror as the ground surged beneath their feet. The communications tech, with the consummate discipline so characteristic of the panzer grenadier, hurled himself into their last remaining long-range transmitter just before it crashed to the floor.
"Major!" screamed an operations NCO from the landward side, "the other buildings!"
The street to the east was suddenly filled with dust and rubble as the building to their northwest scattered its upper stories along the boulevard. Rubble crushed the front rank Posleen and a few of their remaining Leopards were covered until they huffed and grunted out from under the debris. However, most of that front was covered by the French and English, with the remnants of the American 3rd Armored and 7th Cav on the north. Now if he only had viable contact with those units he could call on them for aid to break out toward the lines. He suddenly realized he had a Lieutenant General on hold.
"Herr General?" said the major, coughing on the cloud of dust that blasted through the headquarters.
"I take it worked?"
"Yah, all ist so heute los at the moment but we'll soon be over it. This may give us a chance, Herr General!"
"That's the idea. Now order those other armored units over to your position, we're out of communication with them, and break out as fast as you can."
"I would, Herr General," said the major, apologetically, "but I regret to inform you that we have been out of communication with those units as well, for over two hours."
"Damn! Well, send runners."
"I have, sir, and radios, but none have returned. We have Posleen infiltrated into the building in company strength at this point. My flank is in contact with a French unit but I am out of communication with that flank and I cannot get to the other NATO units without detaching all of my reserve." He paused and considered the situation. "I have had to use it too many times to be willing to do that, sir, without a direct order. For all practical purposes I am only in control of the troops in my immediate vision."
"No, you're absolutely correct. Major, this is a direct order. If you can get your unit out without the support of those units, do so. Do not hold that position in the hopes they will turn up, we can't take that sort of gamble at this point; for all we know they could already be gone."
"Jawohl, Herr General."
"Good luck, Major."
"Danke schön, Herr General. Good luck as well."
"Yes, we all need a dose of luck at this point."
"Major!" shouted an NCO, listening to a radio. "The seaward flank!"
* * *
Would the a'a'lonaldal battle demons of this world never quit? What new surprise would await them? Tulo'stenaloor had heard of the great fall near the mesa, but that had been put down as battle damage by most observers or perhaps poor construction. This was clearly an action designed to deny the area from the oolt'ondai to the north and west. Here on the south, they would soon face the full wrath of the combined or'nallath in the building.
The only good note was that Al'al'anar's oolt'ondai had completed its move to reinforce his seaward flank and had started a te'naal charge the likes of which he had rarely seen. He might not like Al'al'anar but he had to hand it to him, he could motivate his oolt'os. The oolt'ondai had descended on the gray demons as they tried to recover from the disaster to the west and had been pressed home hard. It was taking tremendous damage but they were down to hand to hand at which the Po'oslena'ar excelled. The fistnal or'nallath would soon be cleared to the seaward side and they could press forward here in the center.
The 10th Panzer Grenadier command post was completely abandoned. Major Steuben hurled the entire reserve and every clerk and walking wounded he could find into the seaward flank but the new Posleen battalion pushed them steadily backwards into the building. The grenadiers were down to hand to hand and as he reached the line he saw the turret of one of the remaining Leopards leap into the air in a catastrophic kill. The sheet of fire from the exploding ammunition cooked the grenadiers and Posleen packed around the tank into one continuous bubbling mass.
Seeing there was nothing else to be done, he grabbed a G-3 from a dead trooper and raced into the battle, determined at the end to at least get an honor guard in Valhalla. Overcome with emotions, all the anger and frustration of the day welling up out of control, he leapt to the top of a pile of rubble, fully exposing himself to fire, and searched for the enemy commanders.
* * *
Al'al'anar of the Alan Po'oslena'ar, battlemaster and warrior, was in his element. The ill-favored blood of his enemies anointed his head and he searched for honorable single combat. His oolt'os and oolt commanders knew their jobs, leaving him free to engage himself as he would. He drove his tenar forward, driving down oolt'os that failed to leap clear and striking down the gray-clad thresh like so much wheat. He saw, on the far side of the battle line, a thresh brandishing its puny chemical weapon. It met his eyes and contemptuously tossed the weapon aside, drawing an even more puny knife. Al'al'anar drew his blade, raised his saucer on anti-grav and pounced on the thresh with a bitter laugh.
* * *
The Posleen saucer swept across the battle with blinding speed. Major Steuben's Gerber combat knife was contemptuously sliced off three inches from the tang by the God King's monomolecular blade and the saucer banked around for another run. Steuben spun around, determined to go to his end like a man, on his feet and facing the enemy. As he turned to meet his fate he stopped, arrested by a form rising from the sea. A multiheaded red dragon the size of a building was humping itself up out of the green waves. Dozens of heads were snaking low out of the water, while one central head was raising itself to full extension with a broad fringe ruffling and puffing around the purple-lined maw.