“Idiots,” he muttered, taking personal control of a main gun. He fired, once, and had the satisfaction of seeing a Panzer’s turret blown off. He fired again and again as the closing speed brought them rapidly to point blank range, the SS firing back. One of the Fireflies exploded, another crashed into an SS panzer and exploded, taking the SS tank with it.
“My god, they’re everywhere,” his driver gasped. The command tank wheeled rapidly about to avoid a collision of its own, firing its machine guns madly at a Panzer III that had tried to ram it. He glanced down at the satellite display; it was impossible to tell the difference between the two sides… and then they were in the clear.
“Regroup,” he snapped, grimly aware that Steiner’s men were doing the same thing, having traded sides with the Bundeswehr. “Stand by to hold off attack!”
The Waffen-SS were brave, whatever else could be said about them. They brought their Panzers around and stormed back at the Bundeswehr, firing as they came. The exchange of shells was brutal, slaughtering both sides… and then the Harriers arrived. The remaining Waffen-SS Panzers died as anti-tank missiles dropped from the skies, destroying the enemy for good.
“Deux Ex Machina,” Muhlenkampf muttered, checking the display again. The Waffen-SS’s supply trucks weren’t far away, hauling resupply items for Steiner’s men. “General, we’re going to take them intact, if we can,” he said. Unsurprisingly, Rommel was quick to give permission.
Thirty miles to the east, General Flynn examined the display with considerable interest and a great deal of relief. The Wehrmacht didn’t pose a serious problem once the supply problem – the German and British supply lines – had been handled, the Germans having theirs cut and the British having theirs improved. Now… now the Russians seemed to have dug into the two major cities of Iraq and forsaken offensive operations, nearly the entire Desert Army had been brought west to face the Germans.
“I don’t know if Rommel’s mad plan is going to work, but Guderian has got to be more than a little upset,” he remarked cheerfully. “One way or the other, the German presence in the Middle East is about to be removed.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Campton said. “Are you going to send the signal?”
Flynn shook his head. “We’ll have to airdrop it,” he said. “We don’t want old Adolf issuing any of his ‘stand and die’ orders, do we?”
Without false modesty, General Heinz Guderian knew that he’d done well; he’d fought a brutal battle for nearly eight months, ever since the Germans had forced Turkey into allowing them passage through Turkey into the Middle East. Still, it had finally come to an end – the sudden change of heart from Turkey had ensured that. The short and savage battles over the oil wells had evicted the Turks, but his scouts and aircraft – those that had survived the experience of meeting the RAF – proved that the Turks were re-concentrating in the southeast of their country… ready to attack the Germans in the rear.
Bloody Turks, he thought grimly. The Turks were tough, but they had very little armour. Under normal circumstances, he was certain that he could have handled them, but with the jamming… it was clear that something major was going on. The Waffen-SS division that had been in Jordan had simply disappeared, the last report had had them going to face Rommel and his band.
A roar split the skies as a British jet flew overhead, banking around the camp. It opened its bomb bay and started to drop leaflets, drifting down towards the camp. Guderian gave orders to have one of them brought to him… and waited. Finally, a private passed him a copy. It was printed in fine German.
To: General Heinz Guderian, Commander, Iraq Korps
From: General Robert Flynn, Commander, British Forces Arabia
General – as you may be aware, British forces have sealed your lines of supply and your lines of retreat. Even now, a Turkish force, reinforced by the 2nd Royal Marines division, is preparing to enter your area of occupation from the southeast, while my force and that of General Rommel is prepared to attack you from Jordan and Arabia.
General – we have deployed a second nuclear weapon against Russia, cutting their lines of supply. Even if you trust Stalin enough to take weapons and supplies from him, he will be unable to supply you with enough to keep your force going, assuming that you could overcome the thousands of little problems in converting your weapons and Panzers.
General – your position is hopeless. Further resistance will only prolong the inevitable; RAF planes stand by to crush you from the air. I ask you now to surrender your force. I promise you that your men, with the exception of those who have committed crimes against the civilian population, will be well-treated and allowed to return to Germany once the current hostilities are over.
In the event of you deciding to accept my offer, fire a single flare into the air. My units will arrive to accept your formal surrender. I must warn you that we can see everything you do; any attempt to prepare an ambush will result in your complete destruction.
I remain, faithfully yours.
Guderian allowed himself a long moment to consider. He had nearly half a million men, scattered out all over the occupied zone, and not all of them would get the surrender instructions. Resistance would be good for his pride, but nothing else; it would just get them all killed.
“Fire the flare,” he said, wondering how the British saw everything. One of the cursed drones, no doubt. As the flare flashed overhead, he waited grimly, ignoring the comments from some of his men. They knew their position was hopeless… the approach of the strange aircraft only proved it.
“Here come their panzers,” one of his men said. Guderian frowned, watching as the aircraft, which had seemed familiar at first, tilted its engines and made a neat landing on the sand. The man who climbed out wore a British uniform, his eyes focusing in on Guderian without worrying about anything else.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. Guderian almost laughed, half-expecting the Englishman to talk about the weather next. “I’m General Robert Flynn.”
“General Heinz Guderian,” Guderian said. “I believe that I wish to offer my surrender.”
“I gratefully accept,” Flynn said. “You fought well and valiantly.”
Guderian shook his head. “We would have beaten you if we had weapons like yours,” he said, as the British trucks arrived behind their tanks. Up close, the British tanks were far more intimidating than any German panzer. “So… what now?”
“We transport your men to a POW camp,” Flynn said. “You will assist us in getting the remainder of your force to surrender, and then… well, let’s just say that you have a choice to make.”
Guderian watched as his men were quickly and efficiently disarmed, their weapons being loaded onboard their panzers. “Do you have a use for the weapons?” He asked, noting the care that was being taken to recover them. “I would have thought not.”
“I imagine that they’ll come in handy for something,” Flynn said. “The priority is to keep them out of Saud’s hands; the bastard has been getting support from you and the Russians, just to carry on his little war.”
“He was our swinehund,” Guderian said wryly. “We needed him to scout for us and to help us locate sources of water. So… what now?”
The tent looked like a British one from 1940 – a Contemporary one, in their vernacular – but it had air conditioning built into the fabric, somehow cooling the entire tent. Guderian didn’t waste time wondering how it had happened; the photographs on the small table drew all of his attention.