“A good thing too,” Steiner said grimly. His men had stripped down to their bare chests; only trousers and caps were worn. In six months, the Germans had learnt a great deal about fighting in the desert. “I’m not sure how much of this we can take.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mon General,” Picard said cheerfully. His bronzed skin shone under the sun. “We learnt to take it and so will you.”
Steiner felt like shooting the imprudent Frenchman down. Picard was right, of course, and he was competent; if all Frenchmen had been as competent as he France would never have fallen in 1940. Still, he was annoying.
A flicker of light ahead of them caught his eye, and then a Panzer IV exploded violently. “Guns,” he snapped, as the Panzers slowed and started to fall back. Three more exploded before they managed to escape.
“A professional ambush,” Picard said. he barked orders at the white-capped legionaries. “Down, and forward,” he commanded. “Take out the guns.”
“Open fire,” Steiner snapped. The Panzers began to fire, covering the Frenchmen. A rattle of machine gun fire told him that the tactic was unsuccessful. A contrail high in the sky told him that sneaking up would be impossible.
“Blasted Anglo aircraft,” Picard sneered, for once in total agreement with the German. “They might try to bake us like they did the uncouth Slavs.”
“Perhaps,” Steiner said, realising again why Picard hadn’t been sent to the regular army in 1940. More explosions billowed ahead as one of the Panzers scored a lucky hit on something; perhaps a large ammunition dump. “Forward,” he shouted, and the Panzers roared forward.
“They’re breaking through the guns,” Jagar said, examining the laptop and trying to keep it on his knees. You would have thought that someone as tall as Rommel would have balked at riding inside a Command Firefly, but Rommel hadn’t hesitated. It was worse than a sea crossing; the Panzer bounced backwards and forwards as it charged across the desert.
“That wasn’t quick,” Rommel said. His voice sounded faintly disapproving. “They must have a slow officer in command.”
“Firing range in three minutes, Guv,” the tank’s commander said. He spoke British, acted British, and yet had German grandparents who might be alive at the moment in Germany. Jagar looked up at the portal; the sea of sand dunes stretched ahead infinitely.
“They’re cloaked by the sand dunes,” Rommel muttered, answering his unanswered question. “Sergeant, give them hell.”
It happened faster than Jagar would have believed. Suddenly, the dunes fell away, exposing a line of grey tanks, prominent against the sand. “Fire,” the commander snapped, and the tank shook violently as it fired a shell. Explosions blasted through the German ranks, hacking away at Wiking’s numbers. Three Panzers exploded, and then a forth and then…
“Brace,” the commander shouted, and then the tank shook violently. A Wiking tank had begun to return fire, but its shells were useless against the frontal armour. “They’re useless!”
“Careful of the rear,” Rommel murmured, as the tank skidded around, its main gun rotating faster than Jagar would have believed possible. For all the primitiveness of the Firefly, compared to the modern British tanks, it was a powerful and capable machine. It shuddered again, and then fired once, blowing the turret of a Wiking tank right off. An explosion shook the tank violently as the remains of the 1st Panzer powered their way across the battlefield, firing violently at tanks without an IFF signature.
“Wow,” he breathed, as the Firefly came to a stop.
“Report,” Rommel said sternly. Jagar flinched, and then recognised the warmth within Rommel’s voice. “What’s happening?”
“We’ve broken up this attack,” Jagar said, examining the laptop. “There’re trying to outflank us.”
“Then let’s not let them,” Rommel said. He picked up his radio and started to issue orders. “Order the other tanks to move up and outflank the outflankers,” he said. “We have the speed advantage and I’m not about to waste it.”
“Moving out,” the tank commander said. “Now.”
Jagar shuddered as the tank leapt back into action, pulling backwards with a complete disregard for safety. He took a breath, feeling excitement spreading through his body as the tank jumped over a dune and was back among the dunes. He looked up at Rommel and was astonished to see a smile on his face; the General was enjoying himself.
Steiner cursed violently as the new tanks, British, but carrying an Iron Cross, danced over the desert. They weren’t jamming his radios, but they might as well have been; he’d lost command of the various detachments. He heard a cheer as one of the 88s finally managed to destroy a British tank, knowing that it was futile. They’d been caught with their pants down, and it was costing them.
“Send the signal to withdraw,” he commanded, cutting his losses. “We’ll be back, with more and better tanks. Send a signal to the bases in Syria, order them to get ready for an attack.”
“Jawohl,” his aide said, talking rapidly into his radio. Steiner ducked as a bullet cracked past him and he laughed, he had survived. “Colonel,” he began, and then he realised that Picard had been hit. The Frenchman would never return to France; his blood stained the desert sands.
“Go with God,” he muttered, and then ran to join the retreat.
Chapter Twenty: Chapatti And Chips
Chamber of Indian Princes
New Delhi, India
13th May 1941
The room was ornate, decorated to a taste that only the very wealthy and the jaded could possibly stand. Gold and jewels, enough money to buy an entire fleet of battleships, were merged into the walls of the room, which was a sleeping bedroom. The owner of the room, His Most Gracious Highness Yadavindrah Singh, 8th Maharajah of the Indian State of Patiala, had other rooms for activities other than sleep.
The door opened soundlessly and a servant, a single turbaned Sikh, tiptoed into the room. Bowing once towards his master’s bed, where Yadavindrah Singh lay sleeping, he carried his single silver tray towards his master and set it down on the table. He stood up and glanced around the room, ensuring that everything was in place, from the row of tiger heads to the new mobile phone from Britain, and knelt beside his master’s sleeping head.
“Bed tea,” he whispered, with obsequious softness. Yadavindrah Singh’s eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling, decorated with golden leaf. The scent of the finest tea drifted across his nostrils and he sniffed once, loudly.
“Thank you,” he muttered. The servant bowed and left. Yadavindrah Singh sat up and picked up the single china cup, sipping the tea appreciatively. It was perfection itself; the drink was warm and arousing. Slipping out of bed, Yadavindrah Singh stood up and clicked the button on the laptop.
“You have thirty news messages in your inbox,” the tinny computer voice announced. “You have fifty-two messages from people you have added to your ‘block’ list.”
Yadavindrah Singh allowed himself a smile. He’d programmed the computer to speak in the voice of his favourite wife, a task it could do with ease. Some of the videos it carried were home movies, some recorded by his wives and mistresses. Other videos were Bollywood movies, an institution that might never exist now. Finally, there were videos that appealed to tastes that were truly degraded; Yadavindrah Singh disliked them on principle.
Still, he had to admit that the little machine was one of the blessings of the Transition. It helped him to remain in touch with his advisors, even as he travelled to New Delhi to represent his people. Not the common people; not even the folk he ruled in his state, which was one of the smaller princely states, but the Princes themselves. The 565 Princes collectively ruled over one third of India’s surface and a quarter of its population. Those Indian leaders who had been quick to bend the knee to the haphazard British conquerors, or had proven worthy foes, had been permitted to continue to rule in their own states. Some of them ruled lands greater than a European state; some commanded only a few square miles. All of them, without exception, had expected their rule to last forever.