Captain Caddell didn’t say anything, but he beckoned for the men to regroup near an alpine stream, lower than the landing site. They could see a small town below them, typically Norwegian. Smoke rose from a number of buildings, some which were still on fire, but they could still see Germans milling about, pointing to the helicopters.
“Look, you can be sick all over them,” Private Manlito said to Buckman, who was still looking green.
“Shut up, you dago dirt bag,” Buckman snarled.
“That’s enough, form lines,” Captain Caddell bellowed. “Who are you?”
The man had popped out of nowhere. The Marines swung around to point their weapons at him, but he didn’t seem bothered. “Captain Dwynn, British Special Air Service,” he said calmly. “I assume you’re the Marines?”
Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter pulled himself out of the wreckage by sheer force of will, ignoring the Norwegians scurrying around. No matter what the Fuhrer, they were subhumans, unworthy of the farms in Poland that were now being prepared for their use, along with thousands of right-thinking Germans. He’d often considered the virtues of a breeding program, using SS men to impregnate Norwegian women while castrating the men, but Generalmajor Muller had argued against it.
“We like a peaceful life here, ja?” He’d asked, and Richter had submitted, although he had continued his breeding program with two Norwegian mistresses. Now… now Generalmajor Muller was dead, struck down by treacherous attack from the air.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” He demanded of an unfortunate Unterscharfuehrer, and then looked up at the hills. Seventeen flying vehicles had landed there, disgorging troops onto the hills; green-clad Americans. He swore, once, and started to issue orders. If the Americans wanted to recover Skien, the city he’d been ordered to defend, they would have a fight on their hands.
“Oh, and round up the civilians,” he ordered. “We don’t want them doing something stupid, after all.”
“We can take that city by frontal attack,” Captain Caddell insisted. Captain Dwynn sighed; the Marine had no sense of care. “We have two hundred marines and air support.”
“And if you let them get into position, the air support can kill more of them,” Dwynn said. “Once that’s done, you can just walk in and take over.”
“Sirs,” a private said, “look what they’re doing.”
Dwynn cursed. The SS force in the town were rounding up all of the Norwegians, guarding them with armed guards. “So much for any internal help,” he said, but he smiled. It was a glorified hostage situation, and he knew how to handle them. “Chang, you get your sniper rifle ready,” he ordered into his communicator.
“You have more men around?” Captain Caddell asked. Dwynn nodded shortly. “Where are they?”
“Around,” Dwynn said. “Captain, I’m designating their concentrations for MOAB attack,” he said. “Bomb attack,” he explained, realising that it meant nothing to the Americans. “Then you get to attack anyway.”
Captain Caddell started to bark orders. The Marines spread out, preparing their assault. Dwynn absently admired their bravery; they had no bullet-proof outfits, no chameleon outfits, nothing, but their courage. It was very impressive.
“Captain, bombs inbound,” the controller said. “Impact in ten… nine…”
Private Max Shepherd braced himself for the attack, lifting his rifle as he prepared to run towards the main German centre nearest him. The plan was simply; hit the Germans in the aftermath of the bomb attack, killing them all before they could start slaughtering Norwegians.
“Where the hell are those bombs?” Buckman asked, and then an explosion shattered the main German position. Shepherd jumped up and ran forward, trusting Buckman to cover his back, and skidded in the blood. The Germans had all been killed, except one.
“Surrender,” the German said, in bad English. He fell forward; Shepherd realised that he had no legs. “I…”
“Poor bastard,” Shepherd said, and then a hail of shots ran past him. Three Germans were mown down by Buckman, who’d seen them coming.
“Compassion has a price on the battlefield,” Captain Caddell said grimly, as they checked through the bodies. Most of the townsfolk were alive; their guards had been shot neatly through the head. “Check them all.”
“Of course,” Shepherd murmured, too tired to care, and then one of the Norwegian girls kissed him. He forgot his woes as the kiss grew and grew, before she finally broke the kiss and let him go. All of the Marines were being kissed.
“Control, Skien is secure,” the creepy SAS officer said. Shepherd shivered; the SAS had shot all the hostage-takers neatly, at far greater ranges than he would have imagined possible. “I think the Marines want a lift.”
“How about a night here?” Buckman asked, who was kissing a Norwegian girl. Shepherd noted with a flash of jealously that it was the girl who had first kissed him. “Ah, come on, Captain…”
“It’s a couple of hours until the pick-up anyway,” Dwynn said. He paused. “Now, what are you?”
Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter reached for his pistol, noticed that there were five weapons pointed at him, and froze. The American in the lead bent down and picked up his pistol, before planting a foot on his back.
“I claim this body for America,” he said. Richter glared wordlessly at him. “Who are you?”
“Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter, SS Wiking,” Richter said. He rattled off his serial numbers. “That’s all I have to tell you.”
“You attempted to use people as human shields,” the Englishman said. “Under the Washington Protocols of 2010, I am permitted to summarily execute you for crimes against humanity. Do you have anything you wish to say in your defence?”
“You can’t just shoot him,” one of the Americans said. Richter tried to look meek and mild. “He hasn’t done you any wrong.”
“They have to be taught that taking hostages is wrong and will lead to summary punishment,” the Englishman snapped. “Damn it, it took us five fucking years to learn that that was the only way to prevent it!”
“I can tell you things,” Richter pleaded. An eerie warmth spread though his underpants. “I know things that you would find useful.”
“We might need what he has to tell us,” the American Captain said. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we need him alive.”
“On your head be it,” the Englishman snapped. He produced a pair of handcuffs from a back pocket and slipped them on Richter, securing his hands behind his back. “On your own head be it.”
Over Norway
5th June 1941
“This is Bomber one,” Paradise said. “Ground Control, we’re running out of bombs.”
Abernathy nodded, waiting for the response. He’d expected that the Germans would seek to disrupt operations, but apart from the handful of jets, there had been no other challenge to their air superiority. Perhaps we finally killed them all, he thought, and knew that it was wishful thinking.
“Bomber one, Eagles, you may return to base,” the controller said finally. “Good work; General Patton was impressed.”
“Thank the Yank,” Paradise said. “Setting course now.”
There was a pause. “Eagles, do you have the fuel to recon Oslo for us?”
Abernathy blinked, and then remembered that there wasn’t a satellite in position at the moment. “That’s a positive, Ground Control,” he said. “We can buzz them, but we’ll have to meet a tanker in the air.”