Blood Red Steel

PART 1:-3

“I’d be happy to, sir,” McCabe said, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “The Colonel has been busy…”

He trailed off, mind focusing on Henke’s words. As he replayed the sentence over in his head, a lump of ice formed in his stomach.

“If I may, sir. What assignment?”

“The Second Battalion being deployed to Forward Base Zulu for operational experience and training up the new MOF arrivals. The First New Berliner Freikorps Battalion will be sent, too. I’m sure you’re sick of the field after your last stretch, but for me, it will be good to get out of the colony for a little while.”

The world collapsed around McCabe. Head spinning, he battled to maintain his composure. Two years. For two years, he had fought and bled on Mars. Reinforcements had finally arrived, ships orbited the planet, and each one had ferried thousands of soldiers to Mars, which meant they had vacancies to ship the veterans of the Mars Expeditionary Force back. Especially considering only a fraction of their original number still lived. They couldn’t keep him there any longer. Could they?

“Excuse me, sir,” McCabe said, flicking his cigarette away. “I must speak with Colonel Wellesley immediately. I’ll be sure to pass on your message.”

Without pausing to salute, McCabe took off down the corridor at the fastest pace he could muster short of sprinting. His mind raced. The tightness in his chest squeezed its iron grip around his lungs, and dizziness cascaded through his vision, but he pushed on. The MOF had to send them home. They had fulfilled their obligations. Served Queen and country.

They had to let them go. They had to.

FORWARD BASE ZULU, THE CUTLINE BORDER

03:17 MST

DAY 737

(-13 DAYS)

Against the bleak Martian landscape, one structure towered over all. Adjusting the binoculars, Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Brandt soaked up the sight of the building situated on plain, open land with a spine of hills and peaks on its east where he hid. He had studied the plans smuggled out of New Berlin but seeing it with his own eyes brought the Allied construction to life.

“Forward Base Zulu,” General Fischer said from his side. “I do not like to give the Allies credit, but to construct such a thing in five months is impressive.”

“Never underestimate the enemy,” Brandt said, lowering his binoculars. “My predecessor made that mistake once, and it cost us everything.”

The thoughts of that old fool Generalfeldmarschall Seidel caused Brandt’s blood to boil and the shrapnel scar covering half his face to ache. He glared at the shadowy outline of Forward Base Zulu, wishing his unadulterated hatred alone could obliterate such an eyesore from the face of Mars.

Two years had passed since Seidel’s defeat at the hands of the Mars Expeditionary Force. The traitor General Schulz’s surrender was the final nail in the coffin of the Third Reich’s grip on the planet. In that time, werewolf agents fought bravely to disrupt the enemy’s occupation. Hit squads targeted the MEF’s leadership and the prominent Jewish activists. Bomb attacks spread even more disruption, but it wasn’t enough.

Singlehandedly, Brandt took the disorganised remnants of the Wehrmacht and built them into something new. Even some SS units, still loyal to the Führer, came over to his side. During that time, he invested every waking minute in gathering these disparate elements and forging them into one unstoppable force. It meant laying low, staging minor operations to keep the enemy engaged and even causing grumblings from his officers, but it was worth it. Soon, they would lead an all-out offensive against the invaders, aided by millions of the natives about to cast their lot with the German Volk.

Keeping low, Brandt slid down the hill out of view of the base and circled back around a rocky outcrop. He paused long enough for Fischer to catch up and then carried on down the path. In the dark, it took them longer to navigate, but within five minutes, they reached the hatch leading into the underground installation established by their native allies. He marvelled at their ingenuity in building an extensive network beneath the surface to counter the MOF’s air superiority. Such tenacity reflected their status as honorary Aryans.

Fischer unlocked the outer airlock, allowing Brandt to climb down first. They worked their way through the narrow shaft and waited for the airlock below to pump atmosphere in before they removed their EVA suits. Brandt took a moment to adjust his uniform, fix his cap, and wipe dust from the medals dangling from his chest. As the highest-ranking member of the Wehrmacht, it was on him to set a good example and become the beacon for their dreams of revenge.

Walking into the corridor, he snapped up his hand in anticipation of the salute from his personal guard. They trudged on down the hallway, soldiers and native militia stepping aside and coming to attention in his presence. When he entered the command centre, all rose and lifted their arms.

“Heil Hitler,” every voice echoed.

“Heil,” he said and waved his hand for everyone to stand easy.

Along the flanks of the room, radio operators relayed orders and jotted down updates. Junior officers used counters to move the positions of enemy and allied forces across a huge map that took up the centre of the room. All stepped aside at his approach, and he glanced down at the latest reports. He studied the entire area of MOF control and the disputed zones along their so-called Cutline border. Smiling, he wondered if they even knew how many native units had infiltrated their territory in preparation for the offensive.

“Herr Feldmarschall.”

Brandt turned and accepted the salute from Oberst Walu. Despite his stature, the Native Martian officer looked prim and proper in his officer’s uniform, chin tilting up with pride. Initially, Brandt had been hesitant to allow natives into the Wehrmacht, but the need for manpower overruled any reluctance. Their conduct, zeal, and adherence to National Socialist ideology dispelled any notions of incompetence, and he remained grateful for their commitment to defending the Reich. In many ways, he had taken Walu under his wing, training him to be the ideal leader of the native militia who would spearhead the up-and-coming offensive.

“Stand easy, Oberst.”

“Thank you, Herr Feldmarschall,” Walu said in the accented German twang the natives spoke. “The reports you asked for.”

After accepting the files, Brandt flipped them open and skimmed through the requested information. Every day, the native militia, known amongst their own people as the Red Blades, grew in strength. Volunteers flocked from across the twenty-three clans, eager to join the struggle against the Jewish-Bolshevik invaders and their Mars Occupation Force puppets.

“Have you any reports on your leaderships council meeting, Oberst?”

Walu’s demeanour changed ever so slightly, chin lowering, shifting his weight from side to side. “No, Herr Feldmarschall. Eleven clans stand with us, ten against, with two undecided. Unless we can convince the remaining two to vote for the Red Blades’ plan to commence the war of liberation, the legitimacy of our actions remains in question. Volunteers will join us, but without a council majority devoid of abstentions, we will not have official support.”

Returning his attention to the map, Brandt focused on New Berlin. Without the mass mobilisation of millions of Native Martians to aid the cause, the outcome of the war lay in jeopardy. He would not allow another defeat to taint his honour. The time to cast the dice and strike had arrived. Any further delay threatened their morale and could permit the initiative to slip to the MOF.

“Do what you must,” he said, facing Walu again. “Take any and all actions necessary to persuade the council to support our efforts. Do I make myself clear, Oberst?”

“Yes, Herr Feldmarschall.”

Dismissing him with a hand flap, Brandt’s gaze shifted to Forward Base Zulu on the map. Soon, he would have his chance to test his new fighting formations in the field. Many good men and natives would die in the approaching conflict, but their blood would cleanse the Martian soil of its occupation by the decadent Western Democracies and their Red Horde allies.

Revenge drew near. Sooner than they expected.

423KM EAST OF NEW BERLIN, FORWARD BASE ZULU

08:55 MST

DAY 739

(-11 DAYS)

Hopping out the transport door, Private Shirley Watford soaked up the hustle and bustle of the hangar bay and tried to stop grinning. Adjusting the bag straps on her shoulders, she fell into line and followed her comrades as they trekked across the bay to the waiting officers.

Rows of vessels lined the floor. Teams worked in precise movements, unloading crates of ammunition, food, and equipment. She glanced up at the ceiling at least three stories above her, marvelling at the sheer size of it all, giving her an idea of how sprawling the facility was. To think its construction took five months astounded her. It spoke volumes on the British ability to roll up its sleeves and get the job done.

The line halted at three desks manned by officers. For the dozenth time in the last hour, she patted down her red and black Mars Occupation Force uniform. As she gazed at the women in front of and behind her, a smile crossed her face again. She knew she had to wipe it away before facing the officer, but she allowed herself a moment of triumph. Shirley Watford from Manchester – an actual, real-life soldier.

The sense of glee faded when she thought of the day she came across the advertisement. Tears still in her eyes from burying her father, she noticed the flyer hanging from the lamppost calling on volunteers to do their part and offering a challenging adventure. With her two brothers killed in the war and her mother long since dead, Watford took the leap. She was surprised to learn the job was affiliated with the army and even more so when they accepted her after all those interviews and tests. No women were allowed to serve in the British Army outside of wartime, so at best, she expected to be relegated to a support role. For once in her life, a man held the door open rather than slamming it in her face.

“Male or female, it makes no odds to me,” her instructor, Lieutenant O’Reilly, barked at her recruit platoon. “You’re all equal piles of dog s**t in my eyes.”

The training nearly broke her, but she clung on. Nowhere else to go and no prospects, she dug in with an animalistic ferocity, even when men and women she considered stronger than her gave up. She endured the catcalls and wolf whistles. The eyeballs soaking up her figure, staring at her curves, and the snickers behind her back. Being called “princess,” “sweetheart,” and “darling.” She took it all on the chin, gaze set on the prize. Shirley Watford – an actual soldier.

The line inched forward at a snail’s pace, but Watford used the time to attempt to suppress the growing giddiness building within her chest. She’d survived the gruelling training at the Atacama Desert base in Chile. Not only endured but flourished. No matter what her instructors threw, she took it with a calm head and achieved any objective they set. Even with her claiming the highest scores on the firing range, the old guard sought to demoralise her. Flabby, balding desk jockeys tried to tell her and the other gals it was all an experiment gone wrong. Women couldn’t serve in frontline roles.

“It would be bad for unit cohesion,” they said, singing from the same hymn sheet.