“Well?” Patton demanded, and Bloodnok realised that the American had been saying something. “When can the next round of attacks begin?”
Bloodnok checked his watch. “The bomber should be here in twenty minutes,” he said. “Have your teams designated the targets with the laser pointers?”
“Of course,” Patton snapped. “Your SAS has been doing that as well, remember?”
“Yes, sir,” Bloodnok said. “In twenty minutes, then, the attack can begin.”
Over Norway
5th June 1941
It was a cold clear day, perfect flying weather. Flying Officer Victor Abernathy held his Eurofighter on station near the Hercules Bomber, the massive transport that had been adapted into a heavy bomber. He’d seen the plans for real bombers, copies of the B-52 from the Cold War, and had been impressed, assuming, of course, that the strange war lasted long enough for them to be deployed.
“Eagle one, I read a flight of jets,” Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar reported. Abernathy glanced down at his display; nine German jets were rising from Denmark. “They’re coming our way.”
Abernathy considered for a long moment. The Germans couldn’t catch them if they decided to refuse engagement, and they had to be careful to avoid being swarmed, but otherwise they could kill the Germans easily.
“Cleared to engage with ASRAAM missiles,” he said. “Bomber one, adjust course to avoid meeting the enemy.”
“Acknowledged,” Flying Officer Clarence Paradise said. The pilot of the bomber adjusted course westwards, preparing to run if the worst happened. The Hercules was handling sluggishly; “God help us if it has to make an emergency landing” had been the considered opinion of the entire pilot force.
“They must have caught a sniff of the Hercules,” Dunbar said, as the two forces closed in on one another. “Cleared to engage?”
“Radar-guided missiles,” Abernathy said. “Clear to engage… now!”
His Eurofighter launched four ASRAAM missiles in quick succession. Beside him, Dunbar launched her own salvo, the missile trails heading off into the distance. “They’re launching flares,” he said, impressed. The Germans had reacted quickly, but it was useless; the radar-guided missiles couldn’t be fooled by heat sources.
“One plane left, beating a retreat,” Dunbar said, as the missiles found their targets.
“Let him go,” Abernathy. “We’re due over Norway in twenty minutes.”
The cold grey sea gave way to the green hills and mountains of Norway as the three planes banked in from the west. They flew over the American-held territory, before forming into loitering formation, waiting for orders.
“This is sector control,” a new voice said. “Bomber one; targets should be designated, confirm.”
“I confirm fifteen targets,” Paradise said. “Target relay in place; transmitting confirmation now.”
“Confirmed; all targets genuine designations,” the sector control officer said. “General Patton says you may fire when ready, Gridley.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Paradise said. “Bombs away… now!”
Telemark Region
Norway
5th June 1941
Telemark Region, Captain Dwynn knew, had had quite a history of involvement with World War Two, even before the Transition had disrupted the course of history. Quisling, whose proclamations of Norwegian independence – under German protection, of course – still filled the airwaves, had been born in the region, and the heavy water plant had seen one of the most daring raids of World War Two. Dwynn smiled; the heavy water plant had been conclusively demolished by Tomahawk missiles, back in 1940.
He studied the scene without apparent concern, wearing the garb of a Norwegian shepherd. The remainder of his team were further back, among the mountains, but he and Eric had been required to come out in the open. Down below, in the mountains and small towns, the Germans had been digging into the mountains, trying to put a cork in the bottle. Guns, mines and several hundred Germans, carefully preparing to hold off a force ten times their size.
“Bastards,” he muttered, carefully adjusting the laser pointer to angle down on the German fortifications. Patton’s advance could not be slowed, now that the Americans were finally moving in major reinforcements, and Oslo had to be surrounded quickly. That meant that the German attempts to hold them up had to be smashed as soon as possible.
His communicator chimed, vibrating a signal though his head. He’d never gotten used to the covert system, even though it was nearly perfect when against a foe that lacked any real ECM capabilities. It buzzed in his ear and rattled his skull.
“The bomber is in position,” sector control said. “Confirm target?”
“Target confirmed,” he said, staring into the sky. He didn’t expect to see the bomber; the RAF would probably have insisted on not sending it anywhere near the German-held regions, just in case. “Laser point locked.”
There was a long pause, just long enough for him to wonder if something had gone wrong somewhere… and then a massive explosion blasted through the valley. Three more followed as the other targets were struck, smashing the German position to rubble.
“I confirm targets destroyed,” he said. “When should we prepare for pick-up?”
“Forty minutes,” the controller said. “We’re moving 1st Airborne in now.”
The Army wanted helicopters, even though – with the exception of General Patton – it didn’t have a proper doctrine for their use yet. The navy wanted helicopters as well; they didn’t know what they wanted to do with them yet either, but they did know that they didn’t want the army getting their hands on all of the helicopters. The net result had been that the Marines of the 1st Marine division had been given a crash course in using the helicopters, assigned to the 1st Airborne – although no one expected that to last – and given orders to clear part of Telemark.
“I’m going to be sick,” Private Buckman muttered. His face was green; he held the bag to his mouth as the helicopter flipped around a mountain at a very dangerous speed.
“Keep your fucking eyes shut,” the co-pilot yelled at them, as the helicopter twisted again. For his part, Private Max Shepherd was fascinated; the mountains were passing by so fast that he couldn’t make out any details at all. “If you’re sick on my fucking helicopter you’ll be cleaning it up with your fucking tongue!”
At that moment, the helicopter flipped up over a mountain peak and passed over a tiny village. “Anyone see any fucking Germans, or even just Germans?” The co-pilot shouted. “Who forgot to include that fucking village on the map?”
“We’re landing in five minutes,” the pilot said. He seemed less excitable, somehow. “As soon as we touch the ground, grab your kit and run, understand?”
“Yes,” Captain Caddell said, glaring around at the small group. “We understand.”
Shepherd stared; he could see smoke rising from ahead. “We’re putting you down on a level plain,” the pilot said calmly. “There should be some SAS to greet you; take the target and wait for resupply, understand?”
Without waiting for a reply, the helicopter executed one last swoop and descended upon a grassy slope. “Go, go, go,” the co-pilot snapped, as the doors were flung open. The other helicopters landed near them, unloading their passengers, some of whom looked worse than Private Buckman.
“Follow me,” Captain Caddell snapped, leaping out of the helicopter. “Form up by rows, move it!”
“Move away from the fucking helicopter,” the co-pilot bellowed. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”