View Full Version : The Dogs of War (CRITIMACIZE ME)
10-22-2007, 02:15 PM
The Stuff You Should Read FIRST:
This is not any kind of pollitical symbolism, nor should it be treated as such. This is a story, and nothing more, about a fictional universe in which Germany won WWII. Comment, criticize (please), even speculate about what will happen next if you want, but DO NOT discuss your opinion on the countries and groups involved, especially the Nazis.
In the timeline we know, Germany fell to the Allied powers during the final months of WWII in the European theater. What if they had not fallen? Suppose German spies had managed to swipe some very important information in time for Germany to develop it into a working weapon and use it--the Manhattan Project. The bomb was dropped on July 17th, 1944. A strike team of several bombers surrounded by a small swarm of suicidal fighters punched a hole through the RAF (barely) and headed for London. As the clock struck 3 A.M., the remnants of the group arrived--a bullet-riddled fighter and a bomber with one wing on fire. As both planes succumbed to the oncoming RAF fighters, the bomber dropped its apocalyptic payload. That payload was a 15-foot long bomb weighing over 10,000 pounds. The explosion contained the approximate energy of over 20,000 tons of TNT. In a word?
As the world stood by, paralyzed in horror, the Germans mercilessly struck at country after country, the radiation poisoning areas for decades to come. This story picks up in 1996, 57 years after the war in Europe began with the invasion of Polland. Most countries have been utterly ruined. The Soviet government is struggling against the Mafia. The Japanese and the Germans are in a cold war rapidly turning hot. The British have fled to Ireland years ago. The Arabs band together to rush headlong into the German meat grinder.
Amid it all, the United States--also in ruins--desperately holds off the Germans stationed in Florida, Maine, and Texas. It is a losing war. The stage is lit, the props are set, and the curtain has long since raised. Now a retired American general returns to the fight for what may be his final show--and his performance may just carry the day.
Chapter 1: Old soldiers
Darkness covered Florida from horizon to horizon. The crescent moon was obscured by a blanket of clouds, but a sliver of light shone through. That sliver pierced the window of a bedroom. A clock inside the room read “1:07” in bold red numbers.
A bed was unmade and the door ajar, but no light broke the darkness. Nearly silent footsteps faded away from the stairwell beyond. The door to the garden at the back of the house swung open with a creaking, out of place in the peaceful night. Out came a shadow, near-silent and slowly walking. Dark gray hair barely showing from under his cap, the old man crept along the wall. Wiping his brow, he sighed.
Clearly he had been keeping himself in shape, but the paunch that shows itself on many an older man was beginning to form. Edging his brown eye around the corner, he saw lights. A humming noise came from the same direction. He sighed once more. Gaevin, you took too long. As the moon came out from behind the clouds, the old man’s hand reached to his hip. A glint of silver showed to his eyes alone.
Black clothes, and a rifle slung across his back, the Sergeant rode towards the house of his sworn enemy, mind flashing back to the death of his Colonel, caused by the same man. Two of his guards, faceless in their red armor, were with him. Just hours before, a prisoner had been forced to give him a name. That name was Jack Delvinski. Delvinski, single-handedly responsible for the destruction of five divisions. Delvinski, the old geezer with the rusting revolver. Tonight is the last night of his life. Whether he knows it or not. The ATV’s stopped, riders and all. Michael Gaevin flung himself off.
“Even soldiers die, old man.” He said with a chuckle to himself aloud.
Jack crouched and watched. Slowly he raised his aging pistol. The barrel was aimed directly between the eyes of the Sergeant before him.
“Old soldiers never die, Michael. They just look that way.” Jack murmured. The night split open with a thunderous crack. A thud and a whimper arose from the dying man. The moon shone softly off of the silver blood. The two guards stared. One raised his rifle, and looked for a target. He never found one.
The silence was shattered twice more. A crackling series of shots rang from the rifle of the uninjured man. Windows exploded in showers of diamond knives. Jack’s shaky hand missed when he loosed another bullet. The next two found their mark. An old soldier, returning to his work after what he thought to be retirement, leaned against the wall of his house. His breathing came fast and hard. “In hindsight, it would have been better to bury the radio in my garden as opposed to the beach.” He softly murmured as he pondered his situation.
On the barrens of the Florida coastline, a patrol group rode along the oily coastline. Men in red armor stopped and watched openmouthed at the flashing lights and the sound of gunshots. When all is made silent, one of the men pointed and twisted the handle on his right. The silence was once again broken, by the roar of five engines, and the gentle thumping of the wheels over craters made by bombs and mines, reminders that the war is not over yet.
Jack noticed another group of lights moving towards him.
“Of course, they have to notice right away. I’m an old man, take it easy on me.” He swung himself onto the vehicle formerly occupied by Gaevin, and rode slowly, quietly, into the night. Jack fumbled for the switch to turn the headlight off. Upon not finding one, he cursed. A flash of metal and a small smashing noise, and the light was off. The old man roars off into the darkness. Just as he passes beyond the flickering glow of an ancient streetlight, the five men searching for him fly over the hill. One took goggles from a side compartment of his ATV.
He slipped them on and flicked a switch. Sweeping his head, he shielded his eyes when he sees the glare of the streetlight. Waiting for the goggles to adjust, he looked, and sees his target. Whipping his rifle out, he opened fire and directs his men to do the same. Sporadic shots sang out into the night. The streetlight, like a guardian angel for an aging war hero, provided enough glare that not one shot found its mark.
The noise and light in the once silent night was becoming deafening. Spotlights swept over the land around the German camps. Shouts came from men wondering what the commotion is. The patrol fired their rifles with a steady deliberation, stopping momentarily to gun their engines beyond the streetlight. Moving swiftly away from it all, the shadow that is Jack sped recklessly towards the rusting shipyards.
Jack lowered his head as he drove, the bullets stitching the air around him. Swerving the ATV around a mound of dirt, he reached for the accelerator, and was interrupted by a sudden series of lurches.
The rear tire exploded into a cloud of shredded rubber. Two short screeching noises came from the general location of the engine. Jack was thrown off the side unceremoniously into the dust. Coming to a kneel on his decidedly sprained leg; he spat blood on the ground. Snapping his head sideways, he saw the five lights once again. Groaning, he reached for his pistol, but stopped short.
Crawling over to the useless ATV, he flipped open the side. Fumbling around inside, he pulled out a steel cylinder with a pin—a flash grenade. The pin fell into the sand, and the shining cylinder rolled around the corner, as the shadowy man limped over to the edge of the mound, reloaded, and shielded his eyes.
A blinding white light erupted, and the dazzled lead driver slammed on the brakes of his ATV. The second rammed into him with a terrible crunching sound, and the third and fourth just managed to swerve out of the way with a stream of swears. Jack backed away and crouched as the fifth ATV sailed over the dune behind him.
The three men cautiously examined the area around them. The man with the goggles on stopped suddenly, the green eyes pointing directly at Jack. The old man shivered as the scene slid into perfect focus for him.
The man with the goggles was the obvious threat, the other two could barely see. Jack himself could only aim by the lights of the goggles. Within the space of a half second, the old man had thought through his entire plan.
Like rats sniffing out poisoned cheese. Jack thought as his revolver flashed twice while he backed away around the dunes.
As the man with the goggles moaned in agony, the other two rushed after Jack. They edged around the dune, rifles raised. No old man stood before them.
Jack crawled down the opposite side of the dune, and paused when seeing that the man he had shot still lived. He jumped down and staggered slightly, running towards him.
As one of the two men climbed the dune and put his own goggles on, he saw Jack deliver a violent pistol whip to the mortally injured man. Jack then grabbed the rifle out of his limp hands.
The man atop the dune aimed his rifle, scowling. Before he fired, Jack had stumbled and fell on his sprained leg.
Jack rolled, pointed the rifle underneath the ATV and squeezed the trigger until the sandy weapon jammed. The green eyes slowly slumped down, the glow shining off of the bloody sand. Jack drew his pistol once again, and breathed heavily, chest heaving in and out several times. He then slowly got to his feet and began to search for the last man—at exactly the wrong moment.
The fifth man slid around the corner and let loose a burst of bullets. Jacks already injured leg blossomed with blood in two places. Once, twice, three times he squeezed the trigger of his avenging sidearm in desperation. The man before him ran into the first two shots which struck his shoulder, firing wildly. The third stopped him dead in his tracks as he stood in the edge of the water.
The soldier took one staggering step forward and raised his gun. One last shot rang out into the darkness. The waves slowly slid up, and returned stained red.
Jack painfully made his way over to the wreck where the two men had crashed. One was obviously dead, pinned between handlebars and a burning engine. The other was struggling to get up and find his leaders radio, which was squawking with orders to report in. Jack stood over him, and put the radio to the terrified mans lips, and then leveled the revolver at his head. The man who moments before had tried to kill him gulped and hesitantly spoke into the radio.
“We have eliminated the target, situation under control. Will report…” He glanced helplessly at Jack, who silently held up two fingers. “Will report again in two hours.” He breathed out as the radio gave the all clear. The spotlights turned off, one by one. Just before the last faded, one last flash of metal caught the man by the temple. All was silent once again.
10-22-2007, 05:05 PM
Any thoughts? Second chapter should be up by the weekend.
10-24-2007, 04:41 PM
Chapter 2: Silent Night (Beginning of Ch2)
The setting silver moon shines softly on the bleeding corpses. The light reflects off of the ocean onto Jack’s tired face. Sitting painfully against the hill, he cradled his leg absentmindedly. There was no time to worry about that, the bullets could be removed and any infection treated. The problem was to get somewhere where he could be treated at all, preferably in no worse shape than he was in now. He had only two hours. The old terrestrial radio that the former U.S. still monitored lay buried just a hundred feet away from him, he saw with deep brown eyes. It may as well have been a hundred feet straight up, with regards to his leg. Jack Delvinski, the fabled military mind of the 21st century, a West Pointer with twenty years in the field, was beaten by a few dozen yards of uninhabited sand. It would be quite funny if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking, he mused. Shaking his head lightly, he cleared his head of thought.
“Haven’t been a baby for some time now.” Jack observed as he fell to his knees slowly, and reached his hands out in front of him. Beginning the agonizingly slow crawl, he glanced over to the unconscious man. Motionless, the moon shining off his still-bleeding temple, the sole survivor of his patrol breathed slowly, alive but silent. Satisfied, Jack moved onward. Five feet passed. His leg was no longer bleeding as freely, although it hurt more, he noticed. A few crawl strokes went by, and with each one, the bullets hurt more. Rolling over onto his back, Jack sighed in frustration. Closing his eyes, he reached his arm up to his forehead. Another hand got to his head first. An iron grip twisted around his neck.
Flashing his eyes open, he saw the man he had struck with his pistol minutes before kneeling over him, black hair cut short and mussed from the earlier struggle. With one fair-skinned arm in a death grip around his neck, the other fumbling at Jack’s hip for his revolver, the soldier acted every bit the heartless murderer. Snapping his hand to the soldier’s wrist, Jack tugged as hard as he could, aging muscles straining with the effort. The soldiers clutch was impervious to any effort he could put forward. Swinging his good leg upwards, Jack caught him by the crotch. Rolling over, with one final burst of strength he shoved the grip off. Grabbing his revolver from his hip once again, Jack lay, breathing heavily, staring. The injured man stared back, wiping blood from his forehead, and slowly raised his hands.
Jack steadied his gun silently. The soldier’s eyes flashed with anger. Clenching his hands, he desperately searched around him, bright blue eyes sweeping nervously around.
He sized up the revolver. “Drop the act. You’re out of bullets. I know a six-shooter when I see one.”
“Says the man with his hands in the air.” Jack responded, chuckling. “Actually, this is a seven-shooter. Modified it myself. Now, if you’ll listen to me, I just might let your army find you among corpses, instead of as one.” Taking one hand off of the gun, he pointed towards the small mound he was crawling towards. “See that? Go dig it up, there’s a radio underneath. Bring it here.”
The young man slowly complies, and walks back with the dusty radio in hand. Leaning down, he drops the radio in front of Jack, and with the same motion whips his other hand out to knock the pistol away. Diving, he came up with the gun in hand, leveling it at Jacks head. Slowly he pulled the trigger. A click softly accompanied his confounded stare. Two more clicks. He screamed in frustration.
“Actually, I lied. It is a six-shooter.” Jack said with a smile. “I should win an award for pulling that off, don’t you think?” Lunging out, with his arm he twisted the gun around until the wrist of the young man starts to crack, forcing him to release it. Pulling himself back, he slides one bullet into the gun and once again aimed it. “Actually, you’re lucky it only has six shots, because if you had killed me you would have sealed your own fate.”
A quizzical look on his face, the man asks: “What were you smoking in that old house of yours?”
“Just some old cigars. Now, seriously, do you really think you won’t be tortured to death, or at least hung, for conveying false information?” Jack sighed. “If you kill me, I can’t get a ride back to the U.S., and you stay here to die when your army finds you.” Pausing once more, he raises an eyebrow. “If you be a good little boy, you get a ride with me. You must have a family to return to. Where do they live? And what is your name, anyway?”
Growling slightly, the man replies. “I have a wife and children. They live in Toronto. My name is Mark. Mark Hound.”
“How did a Canadian end up in the German army?” Jack queries.
“The Allies thought I was a spy, being of German descent. They forced me to flee, and I escaped to Germany. There’s your answer. Now stop with the questions.”
“Whatever floats your boat, but I don’t believe you.” Jack turns his attention to the radio. Searching his memory, he tries to remember what the channel was. A flash of insight, and he twists the dial. Lifting the radio to his mouth, he clearly speaks. “Mayday, mayday, this is former General Jack Delvinski, requesting a pickup onshore by Florida Oil Rig #17” Repeating his message, he waits. A few moments later, a female voice sounds out.
“Admiral Bolivar has been alerted to your request, and regrets to inform you that a pickup of this nature would do nothing to benefit the war effort. Request denied.” Jack visibly deflates.
“Damn.” He turned his head towards the cloudy skies. If and when he got back, someone was getting court-martialed.
10-24-2007, 07:42 PM
Criticism? I know it's nowhere near perfect.
Tear me apart! It's the only chance you people will get. :wink:
10-25-2007, 04:11 PM
Well, here you go!
I really like the setup, and the thought that nazis are just soldiers on the wrong side instead of the ultimate evil.
But your way of telling the story is very confuising. YOu should add some descriptions, so that the reader knows which side's vehicles and men are being stolen, shot, captured and blown up. Also, I do not understand why Mr. Gaevin, who is obviously the German assasin sent to eleminate Jack allows him to shoot him and his men without acting himself.
But apart from that, very nice, keep it coming! I would also like to hear more about the world itself, which parts are still free, which parts are annected, if the nazis are still running their hideous genocide, and what exactly those men in red are who are mentioned at the beginnig.
Note also that I am no native speaker of the fine English tongue, so that might be part of the confusion mentioned above. :smallbiggrin:
10-26-2007, 04:17 PM
Thanks for the idea, I'll try to add more descriptions. Mr. Gaevin wasn't aware Jack was there, he was hiding by the side of his house. When he fired the pistol, it was a headshot, and the other two soldiers were confused. No one expects the old man to be up and armed at one in the morning. And yes, the world will be described more, but I need to get past the opening first.
Thank you for being the first to actually say something.
EDIT: And I may decide to add more to the foreword/introduction in my first post, possibly a list of countries and what condition they are in.
Further EDIT: Added a bit more description in opening, not worth going back to read if you have already, but should help envision Jack a bit more. Finishing third chapter by mid-next week. Problem came up where my computer had a hard-drive failure, so I'm lucky I had posted this. Problem was the next part of the third chapter was on there and hadn't been posted, so that will set me back a few days.
10-28-2007, 02:25 PM
Baleeted. It was too full of holes and was written without looking at meh notes.
10-28-2007, 08:57 PM
Wow. This is incredibly detailed. I don't have any suggestions, which is why I haven't said anything, but I think that this project is amazing and want to let you know that you should continue.
10-29-2007, 03:45 PM
Chapter 2 Continued:
He thought for a moment, as Mark fiddled with the satellite radio. Lifting his gun, Jack softly says:
“Put it down.” Mark did so, keeping his eyes on the barrel, and watching nervously as Jacks finger rode the trigger. Jack reached with his left hand to take the radio, and tossed it away over his back. As it landed with a soft thud in the sand, he returned to the terrestrial radio. Once again, he spoke into it. “Jack Devlinski once again, requesting a direct line to Admiral Bolivar. Comply or I give my prisoner everything I know and let him go.” With that ultimatum, Jack smiled. No army could ignore a threat of that caliber.
Hundreds of miles away, a secretary in a white office in Trenton was about to do just that. Finger hovering over the talk button, she sighed after a brief moment and pushed another, and spoke.
“Mr. Bolivar sir, call for you. Man named Jack Devlinski. Says he’ll compromise security if I don’t patch him through.” She impatiently waited, flicking brown hair back over her shoulder.
“Jack, you say?” A deep voice sounded. “Put him right through.” Sniffing indignantly, the secretary did so.
In a tan-colored office the next door down. Bolivar sat at his metal desk. It was quite messy, various stacks of papers lay around a map of North America in no orderly fashion. A picture of a family, himself, wife, and two sons, hung on the wall behind him. A sign on the front of the desk read ‘Do you have your paperwork done?’ His rough, tan face was eager as he spoke. “Jack? That you?”
“Oh, no, I must have the wrong number.” Came the sarcastic response. “I need a pickup. Florida rig #17, ASAP. Can you spare a pilot?” Breathing into his fist, Bolivar shifted a pile of memos aside to reveal a list. Running his finger down it, he spoke.
“Lessee here… I have one John Rose available to fly, and an Arnold Jacumson for gunner. I can send them out and they’ll be there inside of three hours.” Shaking his head slightly, he continued. “You wouldn’t know either of them, they came on a few years after you left.”
“A thousand years ago, Patrick.” Was Jacks soft response. “Thank you.”
“You owe me service after this,” Patrick chided, "but we’ll talk about that later. I’ll give the order now.” Turning the dial on his radio to ‘Dispatch Office’, he spoke thoughtfully into it. “On duty dispatcher, alert John Rose and Arnold Jacumson that they have a pickup on their schedule. Admirals orders. I’ll radio them the details when they take off in 0100 hours, due South. High priority.”
10-30-2007, 07:30 PM
End of Ch2
Outside in the humid July morning air, soldiers drilled, awaiting the rising of the sun. Gray light shone over a formation of ten figures, rising and falling in a series of push-ups. A middle-aged man directed them, telling them to stand. They do, the one young man falling to his knees before finally rising.
“AIR RAID!” He calls in a booming voice, and all ten throw themselves on the ground. “FLOOD!” The man watched without emotion as they struggled to rise. He breathed in to call out again, but is interrupted by a beeping from his belt. Crying “Halt!” he turns aside, pressing an earpiece to his ear.
“Please tell John Rose and Arnold Jacumson that they have a pickup assignment, and to report to John’s usual hanger immediately.” A curt voice crackles.
“Will do. Now leave me alone, I haven’t had my coffee yet.” The drillmaster dryly responds. Pointing with two fingers, he speaks. “You two! Report to John’s chopper, ASAP!” The two comply, an average-height young man with a wiry profile and a stiff gait, and an imposing silhouette lumbering behind him. Accidentally bumping into the drillmaster, the latter turns and apologizes silently. Dismissing him, the man returned to his work, resuming “AIR RAID!”
Walking swiftly across the grass towards the looming hangar, the two men look over at the brightening horizon. A thick, accented voice spoke, emanating from the larger man.
“So whatcha think the brass ‘assus doing today?”
“No idea. We’ll find out in a moment.” A level response comes from the other. As they pass within range of the lights of the hanger, their faces are revealed. The larger man, a silver bar on his chest reading “Arnold Jacumson” has dark skin, and an imposing square jaw complimented by his overall size. Tall, thick, muscular, his black-hole eyes scanning the hangar, Arnold is very much intimidating in his dark green military suit and black buzz-cut. The smaller man, John Rose, is very much his opposite. Thin and wiry, around average height, brown eyes look lifeless as he walks with a stiff, awkward gait. Fair skin shining white under the bright lights, he has a brushed-back light brown head of hair, which, together with his skin, offset the gray suit he wears, blue vest loaded with pockets.
Slowly pushing the iron door inwards, John walks into the hanger, followed by Arnold. The brightly lit building is empty but for sole mechanic by a maroon-colored helicopter. The man with the yellow vest has messy blonde hair and fair skin, and he toys with a wrench, twirling it as he glances at various dials on the engine. Snapping a panel back in place, he calls over to John with a clear, boyish voice.
“All set Rose, go ahead and take off due South. Admiral Bolivar says he’ll give you your orders en route.” As John passes by the mechanic, he lightly smacks his hand as he climbs into the cockpit.
“Thanks Brian, now to go sleep.” He replies.
“Just a moment.” Brian calls as he rounds the helicopter, coming back holding a gun with a long black barrel and a thick wooden stock at the end, wrapped in several magazines of bullets with a tripod folded on the bottom. “Here you go,” he says as he drops the gun into an impressed Arnolds hands.
“Do I really need this much firepower?” Arnold asks with a wry smile, continuing “Don’t answer that. And don’t listen ta Rosie, he don’t know what he talking about. Goin to sleep at this hour is stupid, go to the pub and find yaself a girl. Kay?”
“Um, well…” Brian stammers as Arnold hops into the helicopter, sliding the side shut behind him. Brian backs away as the blades begin to spin, buttoning his vest close as it flaps in the newly formed wind. Inside the helicopter itself, John snorts at Arnold as he swings the tail around and eases out of the hanger. Ascending rapidly, he soon pivots, putting the bright sky to his left as he flies outward. Moments later, the radio bursts.
“Launch 7-15-1, you are clear, patching the Admiral in now.”
“Rose, I’m sure you don’t appreciate me interrupting your precious exercise-” Patrick began, but he was interrupted by John.
“Actually, I appreciate it very much. Thank you for limiting my time with old Pops out there.” He interjects, pushing the throttle forward a little more.
“-But this is important. Wait-what?” Patrick starts, chuckling softly before continuing. “I doubt you’ve ever had any experience in the armed forces while Jack Devlinski was still in command of the Seventh, however,” Johns eyebrows raise at the sound of Jacks name, as Arnold inspects his gun. “He is still alive, and we have reason to believe he will compromise our security if we leave him in Florida. So I’ve decided to let you pick him up. I’m loaded a flight path onto your computer now, it should give you everything you need. Besides, you can’t miss him. He’s most likely the one surrounded by fire and dead bodies.” Patrick finishes with a humorous tone in his voice.
“That all? And here I thought you were going to order me on another suicide mission.” John scoffs. “All right, I’ll report in an hour when I pick him up.” He continues despite Patrick’s continuing insisting that he be aware of ‘the gravity of the situation’ and other such useless brass-speak. Taking a disc from a side compartment on the door of the cockpit, John puts it into the slot on the radio. Turning the knob, he reclines and smiles as the radio croons.
“I’m in love with a beautiful man…” Cries softly through the helicopter as John rests and Arnold watches the sky fly by. Life is beautiful. John thinks. How wrong he would prove to be.
10-31-2007, 06:48 AM
Well, let's see where this is heading. Are you planning a greater story arc or a collection of short stories about the (so far) fortunate Mr. Jack Delvinski?
I am looking forward to seeing more of your stories.
And maybe, just maybe, if you find the spare time, a hero on the german side would be great.
10-31-2007, 02:07 PM
I have an outline of what is in a way like he story of an RPG game campaign, a series of smaller story arcs related to one large one. And yes, there are two characters I am planning for that, one is on the German side the entire time, the other switches on and off between several different sides.
11-07-2007, 10:50 PM
Chapter 3: The Sun Also Rises
Brian blinked in confusion as the helicopter slowly maneuvered out of the hangar. Rather than listen to either set of advice, he decided to get to work setting up Nick’s plane for his eight o’clock patrol.
“An hour, that’s it. Then I can have that nice, relaxing Sunday I always wanted.” He said to himself in a somewhat hopeful voice. “Fat chance.” He continued under his breath, walking over to a blue fighter jet, footsteps echoing in the empty hangar. It was thick at the back, thin at the front, split down the middle with a cockpit bubble and a swiveling gatling cannon attached to it, a sharp reminder that Nick was not the Mr. Nice Guy he appeared to be, he had no qualms about firing that cannon, and firing it well. Flipping one side open, Brian set to work.
Nick himself was outside at that very moment, under the watchful eye of Sgt. “Pops” Peterson. Only eight remained in their drill group, and they all struggled to continue exercising. Nick stood, breathing heavily, fair skinned brow shining with sweat, dark brown hair that was originally brushed forward over his forehead in no particular shape. He smoothed out his dark camouflage suit complementing his steel gray eyes.
“Squat thrusts.” Peterson nonchalantly spoke as the sun began to show. All eight crouched and snapped their legs backwards, then came back up. Nick reached his arm over to the girl next to him, helping her up even as he shook with the effort of rising himself. “Again.” Peterson stated, as though giving the time of day. The girl, named Jessica, nearly falls coming back up, but, limbs shaking, Nick again steadies her. A few repetitions go by. “The more you sweat here,” Peterson motions around him, repeating an old adage of the police force he used to be in, “The less you bleed out there.” “Dismissed.”
Walking towards a low-rise building, the barracks, Nick and Jessica keep pace with each other. Black hair tied back in a ponytail, tired blue eyes warmly sweeping over the landscape, Jessica wears a maroon combat suit, and one arm, shining in the early daylight, rests on Nick for support.
11-07-2007, 10:51 PM
“Is it just me or is he working us harder?” She breathes out. Shaking his head slowly, Nick responds.
“Pops may not be the nicest guy I’ve ever met, but he has sense. He wouldn’t be doing this if there wasn’t a reason. I just wish I knew what it was.” As the barracks neared, Jessica closed her eyes and walked slowly, dragging her feet. Nick turns his head and looks at her. I’ve never noticed her as a girl before… He thinks as he opens the barracks door. “Hey, my patrol ends at 11 today, are you free to get lunch?” Nick blurts as the door clicks shut with an imposing sound.
“Could be.” Jessica smiles. “Meet you at your hangar if you pay.”
“Lady, it’s not a date.” Nick shot back as he led her to her door.
“Hey, you’re the one who kept touching me during the drills.” Jessica coyly responded as she shut the door behind her, leaving Nick out in the hallway, dumbfounded.
“Harsh.” Nick spoke to himself as he went up the stairs and into his bed so he could-finally-sleep. And sleep he did. He dreamed he was flying patrol when a battle broke out. Soaring over the mountains, he loosed a series of missiles, only to find one coming insistently towards him, following him no matter what kind of loop he flew, no matter how many flares he released. Just a little faster… He thought as the missile drew closer. The tip was inches away…
His alarm blared. Thumping his hand on the clock a few times before it shut off, he rose. Dressing himself, he set out for his hangar, glancing at Jessica’s room as he passed it. As the sun shone over the bright fields of grass, Nick entered the hangar. Surprisingly, Brian wasn’t there, but his plane had a yellow note stuck on the side.
“All clear, take off when ordered to. Just, you know, not before ordered to. Because we know how that worked out.” Nick scoffed as he read it, and hoisted himself up to the open cockpit, sliding himself inside and turning on the radio as the glass swung shut. Only now did he notice the helicopter John Rose flew. It was lying in the usual spot, one wing blackened and two bullet holes in the side.
“What in the…?” Nick shook his head as the radio spoke.
“Mr. Deliado? You are to perform the usual patrol, consisting of-“
“Twice around a ten mile semicircle, straight line out to the shore, back and land.” Nick mocked the speaker, talking in the same tone of voice and speed. “I got it rumbler. Hey, what exactly happened to Rose’s chopper? He doesn’t normally get shot while flying, so this is a shock. Pray tell?”
“No idea sir, you’ll want to check up on that one when you get back. You are clear.” Nick steadily rolled his plane onto the tarmac, and flipped on the thrusters. A soft humming quickly expanded into a thunderous roar, and he was off into the wild blue yonder.
Slowly cracking her eyes open, Jessica slid out of bed. Readying herself for the day, she mused. Her mind filled with questions ricocheting off of one another, uninvited, but unrelenting.
She thought about Nick, whether he thought of her as anything other than a childhood friend, and whether she would find out at eleven. In all the years, he had never once shown any attraction, but then again, he couldn’t seem to keep his arm off of her during drills.
She wouldn’t admit it to herself, but she thought about whether she thought of him as more than a friend as well. After all, she had put her arm around him after drills. Did she need to? Was she that tired, or did she want to? She couldn’t remember.
“Whatever.” She mumbled to herself as she walked out the door. She had to meet Haley by nine-thirty for breakfast, and stopping to think about the roses wouldn’t help any.
11-08-2007, 10:19 AM
Chapter 3 Continued
The air was warm and sticky, the sun was rising into the sky, and the sku was clear. It was a beautiful day. Swiftly walking, oblivious to the passerby giving her looks, Jessica noticed none of it, trying to clear her head. Stopping suddenly, she blinked in confusion, realizing she had walked too far while thinking. Turning around, she jogged back to the door. Swinging it open, she was greeted with a friendly cacophony of sounds. The wooden floor squeaked as chairs slid back and forth across it. Steam rose from the kitchen, as the host took orders, nodding and sliding drinks down the counter. Voices and laughter filled the air, bits and pieces of conversations reached her ears.
“Yeah, did you hear, he’s-“
“I know, really!”
“And then, here’s the best part, that’s when she tried to…”
Speed walking by all of it, Jessica slid into a seat at a table for two. The other was occupied already. Haley sat with a soda, legs crossed. Sweeping blonde hair off of her face, her brown eyes looked Jessica over.
“You look out of it.” She noted.
“Pops had us drilling at three in the morning.” Jessica responded.
“Well, yeah, but he does that every Sunday and you’re fine after.” Haley half frowned, sipping.
“Sorry, I’m just…”
“Just what?” Haley coaxed.
“Just thinking.” Jessica softly said as she stared up at the light above the table.
“About what? Come on, tell aunt Haley.”
“Fine...” Jessica groaned. “I was thinking about Nick. He’s on patrol again. I always worry about him.”
“Jess dear, he’s on patrol. Not on a mission. I know he’s your friend, but you have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, I don’t think you’re worried about his safety.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you’re worried about that pretty post-flight mechanic getting too close to him.” Haley smirked, taking a long gulp of her soda.
“Would you stop?” Jessica laughed falsely.
“Look, I can tell. I shared a room with you for four years, I know what you think about,” She tapped her forehead with her finger, continuing “and in all the years during and since we shared a room, you’ve never once worried about me or any of your friends, even Nick, while they were on patrol, and then suddenly you decide that you can’t walk straight—yes it’s that obvious—on a random Sunday?”
“Haley… he’s just a friend…”
“Right now he is, but I’ll bet he knows you like him-”
“-and if he doesn’t know, he will soon. And there’s no way he could resist you and you know that. That’s why you won’t let yourself like him, isn’t it? You know what would happen, and you’re scared of ruining things if you broke up?”
“Haley please… it’s complicated…”
“No it isn’t. I just told you all of it. You like him, he likes you or he’s a fool, what’s been holding you back all these years?”
“He’s never shown that he-“
“-For the same reason you don’t. He’s scared something will happen. And so are you.” Pointing a finger at Jessica, Haley’s voice took an even more serious tone. “Girl, this is a war. Something could happen to anyone, at any given moment. You both know that. And honestly, I’m sure you would much prefer to go out knowing there would be someone who really cared for you—and he would too.”
“Well… I could see what he does at lunch…” Haley giggled at this.
“You’re meeting him for lunch? Well, a fine friendship this is, if the first thing he wants to do after patrol—before a shower, rest, or even beer—is meet up with you.”
“You don’t think—“
“Oh no, he’s too… himself… to go after you. But he wants you to. He wants to believe that you like him, even if he won’t admit it.” Haley finishes her soda, and glances at the clock. “My, ten already! I think we’re done here, you need to go home and get on something more dateworthy.”
“But…” Jessica protested.
As Haley and Jessica slowly walked back, chatting amicably, Nick completed his second semicircle, wagging his wings in a salute at the second 0900 patrol. Shooting out towards the coast, he knit his brow, wondering deeply what had happened with John. Any mission that could put a bullet in his helicopter was one worth hearing about.
After a half hour of soaring through the skies, Nick lands on the runway. Hopping out of his plane, the post-flight mechanic is already opening the side panel on the plane, and she looks at him as he climbs down the ladder.
“Hey, do you want to go somewhere for—” She starts.
“Can’t. Plans. Sorry.” Nick shoots over his shoulder as he jogs by John’s helicopter, as Brian works on it.
Wait a sec. Brian! “Hey, Brian!” Nick calls. “What happened?”
“You might want to go out with John for lunch. He’s at the mess hall. It’s heckuva story. I’ll just say it involves one former fleet commander Jack Delvinski.” Nick thanked him and stood by the door, contemplating. Eh, John can wait. It’s just a few bullet holes, how interesting could it be? Turning, he said to Brian:
“I’m going to pass, have to go meet up with Jessica. If you get the chance, tell him I’ll meet him for dinner.” Brian nodded and pulled something out of his pocket.
“AJ gave me these, but I think they’ll better help you.” Brian said, tossing the box of mints in Nicks direction. Catching it with one hand, the other to his forehead, Nick sighed.
“That would be AJ. Thanks man, but I won’t need them.”
Opening the door, he thought to himself. You never know though… And with that, Nick burst out into the sunlight.
11-08-2007, 11:34 AM
Chapter 4: Beautiful Disaster
John looked down at the nav computer. The final leg of the journey to Florida was blinking. The iron helicopter soared through the skies, as clouds blew away from the peninsula, revealing the rising sun. The ocean shimmered with an innocent light, as Arnold clicked the tripod on his gun out, and bolted each leg to a hook on the floor of the helicopter. John glances out the window, and sees the German encampment and the set of wasteland towns around it. Even the buildings seem to cower in fear from the German machinegun towers. Diving to within twenty feet of the bounding waves just before reaching radar range, John sees the spot where Jack was shot. Blood on the sand, bodies in the water, and flaming ATVs are his first sight of the shore up close.
“He’s got a lot of pep for someone his age.” John says with eyebrows raised. “Wonder who the second guy is.” Pulling the helicopter into a smooth landing on the sands, John slides open the door. “Pizza!” He yells.
“I wish.” Jack murmurs as he limps over. Nearly falling into the helicopter, he looks up, surprised as Arnold lifts him in with one hand, the other pointing the gun at Mark. Jack calls out.
“Mark, get in or we leave you.” Mark slowly walks over, and steps in. A radio sticks out his back pocket, which he casually shoves deeper, out of view, before the others see it.
“SS?” Arnold snarls as he notices Marks rank on his shoulder. Turning to Jack, fire in his eyes, he continues. “Who is he and why isn’t he dead?”
“My name is Mark Hound and-” Mark begins.
“He can’t hurt us, he has no weapons.” Jack said simultaneously. “Conversion is preferable to death, or we’re Nazis ourselves.”
Arnold glared at Mark, then steadily lowered the gun away from him, which had unconsciously been pointing very threateningly in his direction. “Just get us out of here.” He spoke to John.
“But I never dropped off that pizza.” John laughingly complained, trying and failing to relieve the tension. As the helicopter rose, the only sound was that of the blades chopping through the air. Marks face lit up with horror as he realizes something.
“What time is it?” He calls urgently.
“Nine thirty, why?” Jack nonchalantly speaks.
“There are patrols again now. Helicopter patrols.” John snapped his head backwards and Arnold pointed his gun out the door at this.
“Well son of a-” John was interrupted by the faint noise of several rotors. He curses and wheels the helicopter around to face North. “Jack, whatsyourname, seat belts. Now.”
“Mark!” He yells as he rushes to the back and complies along with Jack.
John slammed the throttle forward, and Arnold ran to the back and released a catch opening a back door, for another firing lane. The sound of what were decidedly two sets of rotors grew louder. Two gunships appeared over the low bomb hills. Arnold opens fire, machinegun crackling, loosing bullets into the air, which streak unerringly into the nose of the first helicopter.
A metallic ringing was the only response from the first, as the trails of several rockets formed from the second. John whirled around, allowing all three to pass by as Arnold snapped his gun to the side door, letting loose another set of bullets into the first helicopter. Both helicopters fired two rockets, and the damaged one fired its own gun. Bullets rang into the side as John cut power to the rotors, allowing all the rockets to sizzle overhead.
Flicking the switch to turn the engine back on, which it did after an ominous pause, he gunned the helicopter forward as Arnold managed to shatter the windshield of the first helicopter, sending it into a slow spiral downwards among shining fragments of the cockpit. Swinging the tail around once more as rockets and bullets again fly by, John momentarily flew at the second helicopter, which hesitantly dives underneath to avoid a collision.
The tail exposed, Arnold is able to gun the rear rotor down, launching the helicopter into an uncontrollable spin. Reaching to his belt, Arnold casually tosses a grenade into the side of the helicopter, which explodes on impact. Flames licked at the engine as it fell slowly into the unforgiving ocean. John pauses for a moment, raising his eyebrow, and shook his head. Turning the helicopter slowly, he flew off to his well-deserved rest.
After landing, Jack walked--or rather, limped--to his old office to see Bolivar, John headed to his bed to sleep, and Arnold to the gym. Mark followed Jack. Brian stared dumbly at the damaged helicopter, Jack, Mark, and John after he tells the story.
As the retrieval team and those retrieved go their separate ways, Nick waits in the restaurant Jessica had met Haley at just hours before. As Jessica opens the door and enters, Nick glanced curiously. Was she walking normally? Shaking his head, he turned to the barkeep.
“Cherry soda and…” He glances towards Jessica, and remembers how similar they were. “Actually two sodas, a hamburger and-“
“Two hamburgers. Not one.” Jessica finishes for him. The barkeep wrote on a note, and passed it down to the kitchen. As the two move towards an empty table, he taps Nick on the shoulder.
“Breath mints on the first date?” He chuckles as he notices the box in Nick’s pocket. Nick hastily shoves it out of view, face reddening. Sitting down, he glances at Jessica.
“So. You ok from this morning?” He spoke.
“Mostly.” Jessica responds, noticing that she was in the same seat Haley was in before. She, however, did not have all the answers the same way Haley did. “So you are paying, right?” She spoke up after a minute.
“Sure, why not.” Nick sarcastically fired back as he rose to go do exactly that. Returning with the trays, he set them down. “Seriously, you seem out of it. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jessica quickly said. Nicks steel gray eyes bore into her, knowingly.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah.” Jessica slowly starts eating. Nick follows suit.
“Mmm. Good.” He says absentmindedly while thinking to himself. Can’t I read minds for once?
The rest of lunch went by without much talking, and that that took place was mostly small talk. When they finish, Nick talks suddenly. “I have the rest of the day off. What about you?”
“You just tried to ask me on a date this morning, and you’re doing it again before the first one is over?” Jessica returns to her normal self.
“It’s not a date, ok?” Nick laughs.
“Well, what is there to do here that isn’t a date? Honestly.”
“We could go walk somewhere—oh, wait.” Nick scratches his head.
“Hah! Sure, why not.” Jessica says, and Nick is silently thankful.
The two exit, and wander around the base, conversing about their childhoods.
“…and then you took the hose and you sprayed it all over me! Remember, I was so mad at you?” Nick was saying.
“Oh yeah! And then Haley was asking why I didn’t get a picture of you without your shirt on afterwards. That was awkward.” Jessica laughed.
“You did have a picture of me afterwards, you just won’t admit it.” Nick chuckles as he steps over a rock.
“No! I so did not have-” Jessica is interrupted as she trips over the same rock. She grabs onto Nicks arm as she falls, and, surprised, he falls as well. A passerby stepped over the two of them.
Nick stared up and slowly got off.
“That was awkward.”
“Oh yes.” Jessica agreed as Nick helps her up. “Aw, that’s so sweet, helping me up all boyfriend like.”
Nick scoffed. “No, if I were trying to be your boyfriend I would kiss your hand afterwards like this.” He demonstrated.
“So you are trying to be?” Jessica says, her eyes a strange mix of hopeful and amused.
“No. I was just proving you wrong.” Nick chuckles. “Sorry if I had your hopes up.”
“Shut up.” Jessica says.
“What, I didn’t have them up, did I?” Nick glances at her.
Jessica sighs and rises. “No, you didn’t.”
“Heh. Ok then…” The two continue walking. God damn it. Jessica scolds herself as Nick speaks about something involving a childhood soccer game. I’m only going to get so many chances like that…
12-01-2007, 02:56 PM
Chapter 5: Story Time!
After returning from the rescue mission, there was only rest for one of the weary. Even as John hesitated before deciding to sleep, Arnold had no such consideration. Swiftly walking across the open field he had drilled on hours before, he kept his head down, eyes avoiding the beating sunlight. Reaching the row of buildings that made up the semi-circular “square” named in honor of the area in New York of the same name, he turned to his left and headed towards the one marked “Gym” as he passed by several low-hanging stores of various names.
Swinging open the squeaking door, he entered silently, and deliberately moved himself over towards a desk by the entrance. As he signed his name off, marking “One hour” next to it, the balding man behind the desk checked over a computer on it, keyboard clicking insistently.
“Did you not just have two hours of drilling in the wee hours of the morning, followed by a three hour rescue mission?” He stared at Arnold as he spoke in a slightly wavering voice. “Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometime when I gets really bored I close my eyes a while, yeah.” Arnold remarked as he put down his pen and headed over towards the treadmill.
As Arnold casually typed in “6 MPH” on the treadmill, and John threw himself on his bed in the barracks, Jack and Mark stood in the same field Jack had once trained parts of his division in.
Jack surveyed the area around him. What happened to the convoys? The Bradley V4’s carrying around soldiers? Observing how the base has spread out in an imitation of a small civilian town, he shook his head slowly. It’s all gone downhill. Remembering his life at the base, Jack was assailed by a rush of images of himself rising from a recruit to a general.
In the same way, would he attempt to raise Trenton base from the poor, disorganized wreck it was, to the functioning military godsend it was before he left. Thank god I made it back.
Mark nervously glanced around. The base itself seemed all too friendly for his taste. His eyes passing over the street of civilian-style buildings, he envisioned a tank rolling around the corner of one, or a bomber screaming overhead in a mock air-raid. Why are they all so careless? He questioned as he saw the men and women going about their daily lives as though the hangers—the weapons—the war—did not exist.
Jack leaned over to Mark, snapping him out of his daze, and quietly said, as several passing soldiers glanced suspiciously.
“You might want to take the SS armor off at some point. I don’t think it plays very well with the people here.”
“Oh, no, I was so going to leave it on in a U.S. military base and see how long I could live for.” Mark heatedly whispered back, continuing “Where’s somewhere where I can change into something?”
“By my old office. Patrick should have a uniform for you.” Jack said as he set off swiftly towards a fairly large, brown, building without windows to his right. Only two guards? He noted as he approached it.
Jogging to catch up, Mark responded “I think you misunderstood me. There is no way in hell that I’m going to change into a U.S. uniform. I just want someone to fly me to Toronto so I can see my family again, and get as far away from Sarasota base as possible, where my C.O. probably has the dogs out after me already.”
As they drew near the building, Jack shrugged. “That’s your loss then. U.S. army, U.S. rules.” Stopping at the guards in front of the metal door, Jack addressed them quickly. “Former General Jack Delvinski, personal guest of Admiral Bolivar. I most likely gave your father push-ups until his hands bled at one point, you may want to let me in.”
“And he is?” the guard on the left asked after a pause, straightening in his green jacket involuntarily.
“Prisoner of war, Bolivar wanted to see him personally.”
“Weapons at the door,” the guard on the right insisted as the two prepared to enter. Jack drew his revolver and laid it in a basket which already contained several other small arms. The guard on the left grabbed Mark roughly by the arm and patted him down when he made no motion to remove any weapons. Finding nothing, he motioned for them to enter.
“First door on the left up the stairs.”
“Yes, thank you, I know where my office was, I’m only fifty-seven.” Jack said as he climbed the stairs with Mark following. Knocking lightly on the door, he waited a moment before hearing the response,
“It’s open.” Jack entered at this, chuckling softly when Patrick blanched at seeing Marks red armor.
“What a nice present you got me, an SS trooper treading dirt in my office?” Patrick said after a moments hesitation. Mark glared, keeping his mouth firmly shut in a barely-held silence.
“I have reason to believe I can convince him not to kill us all with his oh-so frightening display of his inability to strangle a bullet-riddled old man.” Jack smiled softly as Marks fists turned white and Patrick’s eyes snapped to his leg.
“Son of a… Jack, you need an ambulance.” Patrick dialed the radio on his desk and quickly spoke into it “Requesting a medical vehicle outside of the ‘Brass Factory’ on Admiral’s orders, ASAP.” As the radio squawked back, he cut it off with “Yes, you will know who to pick up, unless things have gone exceptionally wrong today there should be only one old man trailing blood from his leg.”
“I was going to walk to the hospital after I—” Jack began as Patrick ushered him out the door, motioning to Mark to stay put.
“Doesn’t matter what you were going to do. What you are doing is getting yourself the heck in the ambulance right now.”
As Patrick and Jack waited for the ambulance, the guard from the left of the outside door entered to watch over Mark, rifle not quite pointing at him.
After depositing Jack in the ambulance as the ex-general hummed “America the Beautiful”, Patrick returned, shooing away the guard. Sliding himself back in to his chair, he paused for a moment, mouth formed into a slight frown.
“Do I want to know how you wound up here or should I just go for my coffee break?”
“You want the short or the long story?”
“The long one. But make it snappy.” Patrick motioned for Mark to sit as he halfheartedly shuffled a small stack of envelopes.
12-01-2007, 03:10 PM
Lokking pretty good, But on the first chapter, I don't think they had digital clocks in the 30's and 40's :smallwink:
12-01-2007, 03:46 PM
They may not have in the 1940's but I would hope they would by the 2040's in which this is set. :smallwink:
12-09-2007, 09:16 PM
Chapter 6: A Heartfelt Story
Mark tilted his head backwards slightly and began to speak softly after a moment of silence.
“I guess I should start with the first thing I remember remembering, if that makes any sense at all.”
“That first thing would be being shoved from my bunk in a barracks. I had no name, no memory, no family or friends, only a number. Seven-zero-two-five-nine. I was taken outside and told to fall in. Somehow I knew how to. An SS Colonel came out… I remember seeing the sun glinting off of the swastika on his shoulder and shivering. He walked by us all, staring at us…” Mark closed his eyes and said no more.
“Talk, talk.” Patrick said as he poured a clear golden drink into a glass. “Drink and talk.”
“Thank you.” Mark sighed as he drained the glass. “He walked by us, and when he passed by me I no longer saw him. My head just flashed with these—these images—of people who I guess were my friends at some point. He had killed them for disobeying orders… I think it was because they tried to get me some medicine while I was sick one week. I must have collapsed when I saw this because the next thing I saw was the sky with his face obscuring the sun.”
“My god, that face. Half was German, half was this… thing, like the skin had been ripped off and replaced with a clear mask, red with showing muscle laced with veins. The one eye was black as the depths of the Abyss, the other just wasn’t there, there was only a hole, it looked like he’d lost it to a bayonet.”
“He kicked me in the ribs. Again. And again. I finally got up and he moved on. After he had passed all of us, we ran. Around and around. Finally we were allowed to stop, given disassembled rifles and told to put them together and fire at a target. I remember he stood behind us and said, like he was giving the time of day… ‘Last one to fire dies. The rest graduate.’”
“He told us to begin. I somehow just… knew… how to do everything. In about a minute, maybe two, I had the rifle set up and loaded. I leveled it at the target and for a moment all I saw was a man there, bound and with a sack over his head. My hallucination was broken by rifle shots. I looked around, and the rest of the trainees had fired, except the one. I looked at him, and saw him struggling. He couldn’t get the stock to attach to the barrel. I remember he was crying as he tried. I raised my rifle once again and got ready to fire, but before I did I looked over again.”
“The man, or rather boy, was younger than I am now, younger than I was then, by several years. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. And he was looking at me… he was staring at me… and I fired.”
“I just… I don’t know how I managed to. The Colonel walked up to the man, and he fell to the ground. He looked at me again. I dropped my rifle. A pistol cracked, and I felt like the bullet went through my soul. I glanced over one last time, and the man was still alive. He mouthed ‘I understand’ and then he closed his eyes.”
Mark breathed in as though about to continue, and then stopped, his eyes beginning to shine. “I’m sorry, can I finish later?”
“Certainly. Now, the question is, where to put you…” Patrick answered.
01-13-2008, 02:56 PM
Chapter 7: Take Two Bullets, and Call Me From the Grave
“I would prefer Toronto.” Mark answered.
“Why there? Doesn’t matter though, we have no station there.”
“I have… a family there… I think. And this girl. I remembered her a few months ago. I want to know what happened to her.”
Patrick sighed and frowned. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do. We have no jurisdiction being anywhere near Toronto at the mo—”
The small black box on his desk burst out in an insistent beeping. Patrick smacked his hand down on a black button on top of it. The voice of the secretary who had connected him with Jack floated through hesitantly.
“Doctor Marlis would like you to know they have received that annoying veteran at the hospital, and he has a substantial chance of living.”
“Substantial my—if he’s not busy put him on.” Patrick turned to Mark once more and said in an apologetic tone: “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, I don’t want anyone knowing more about Jack’s condition than necessary, he thrives on fame too much already.” Mark shrugged and turned to walk out but stopped by the door. He swung his head back and opened his mouth, however Patrick cut him off, scribbling his signature on a piece of paper along with a short sentence.
“Go ask one of the guards out front to take you to a man named—well, actually, just say ‘Pops’ and they’ll know where to go. And don’t try anything, there’s a marksman watching the hallway and the stairs.”
Mark left the room, and slowly walked down the steps, head bowed and body limp. He pushed open the door, the sunlight flooding through, and stepped outside. The guard who had watched him as Jack was put in the ambulance was the next sight for his eyes.
Patrick asked the secretary to wait a moment, and then quietly moved down the side of the stairs a few seconds after Mark had left. Like Jack, he wore a pistol on his hip at all times, which was now drawn. Unlike Jack, he carried, not a rusting relic of an older age, but a machine pistol that he cleaned daily and serviced weekly.
There was no marksman; the base did not have enough men to guard the inside of important buildings as well as the outside. Patrick waited, watching Mark speak. Though infuriated at taking orders from an SS trooper, one of the guards began to walk Mark towards a nearby barracks. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his paperwork.
Across the Atlantic, another man was at his desk surrounded by paperwork as well. Jason Saan held one paper in particular in his hand. The white walls of the room were sharply contrasted by the back chair and deep brown desk he sat at. The window behind him revealed a view that stretched out over a field of factories and training grounds. The sun was setting below the horizon of Berlin, the reddening rays throwing Jason’s shadow onto the door before him.
The paper in particular was a list of various statistics of one ‘Echo-9’ over several weeks. Jason glanced over the entire list, head resting on one hand. He stood and briskly walked down the long hallway to his right.
Jason wore a business suit, black with a blue tie and white undershirt. His skin was tan and his deep brown hair was ‘kept’ in a decidedly untidy mop reaching down to a few inches above his shoulders. He brushed back this hair as he passed by doors, green eyes flicking about the hallway and the metal portals.
Like gateways to an unknown terror, the iron doors were spaced regularly along the hallway. Jason passed a half-dozen of them by. He stopped at the seventh door, a small light to the side of which read ‘Occupied’ in orange letters.
Jason pressed his thumb into a small white square underneath the light, and the sound of a bolt sliding open dully emanated from the wall. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.
There to greet his eyes were a young man laying on a stark white bed and a middle-aged man with a syringe in hand. The older man brought his free hand up in a crisp salute, speaking in a quiet voice.
"Echo-9 is almost ready for the trials, sir. Just one more round of HGH."
01-24-2008, 08:01 PM
‘Echo-9’ kept his eyes closed as the man spoke. Jason tilted his head slightly as he spoke in turn, glancing over the young man, who was dressed in a simple outfit, black sweatpants and a white shirt.
“Speak if you are awake, Nine.”
“Yes?” The young man responded, his eyes flashing open. His sudden, swift rise to a sitting position made Jason tighten and take a half-step back. The response came after a moments pause, said slowly and deliberately.
“You have shown improvement in all areas; you can maintain a pace of seventeen miles per hour over fifty meters, and twelve over a thousand meters, and you have a reaction time hovering over thirty miliseconds. You have passed every test with room to spare, and you are physically ready for the surgery. Are you mentally ready?”
Jason composed himself, the shock fading after he finished talking. He looked forward, his eyes unwavering as he stared down the icy blue ones facing him until Nine broke the silence.
“For future reference, I am Aidan. I will be ready when you tell me exactly what this surgery entails, and not a moment sooner.”
“You are to be named when you—if you—come out of the surgery. For now you are Nine.”
“I’m not playing with you, I won’t submit until you tell me what the man with the scalpel is going to do with me.” Nine spoke, his voice beginning to rise along with his body. Jason slowly took two steps backwards as Nine spoke.
“Nine, you are to stand down at once. I order you, as ranking officer of the Third Reich, to stay yourself.”
Nine took a threatening step forward. Jason saw the doctor next to him draw a second syringe, filled with a yellowish-green liquid. Here’s to modern medicine. Jason thought in anticipation of the stab that would cause Nine to fall to the ground, unconscious.
Except there was no falling. Instead, a blinding flurry of movement erupted. As the doctor swung his arm, Nine shifted his body away, the syringe whistling through the air beside him.
Catching the doctor’s wrist in one hand, Nine brought his other around in a flattened chop, separating the doctor’s forearm from his upper arm with a loud crack.
He proceeded this retaliation with sudden kick to the kneecap, further extending his leg to knock the man over. Reaching to the limp doctor’s hand, he snatched the syringe out of his hand and rammed it through his neck.
03-26-2008, 11:05 AM
As the spurt of blood erupted from the dying doctor, Jason took a final step backwards and slammed the door. The bolts within again made their clunking, this time sliding out to hold the door in place.
Jason blinked as the door boomed with the impact of what must have been a body check from Nine. He reached to the same panel he had used to open the door, this time flipping it from the wall revealing a second panel.
As the door boomed once more as Nine futilely slammed into it, Jason pressed his thumb into the square, and relaxed as a hissing came from inside the room.
The door was struck a third time, with less force, and a fourth, with even less strength. Jason continued to stare as the door shuddered once more.
He did not feel threatened, the door was made of two inches of steel with five one inch bolts holding it shut. Rather, he was disturbed that Nine continued to struggle against the K-1 ‘3 second’ gas.
Finally, after a fifth slam and seven seconds, the room was silent. A few moments later, the hissing subsided. Jason shook his head silently.
The America’s for this one. The Council would not approve of a murderous psychopath guarding their bedrooms at night.
03-26-2008, 11:06 AM
Just as Alex slipped into unconsciousness, another man was awaking from it—a much older man. Jack’s eyes opened, and the room came into focus. He looked down the bed he lay on, at his injured leg. He was unable to feel it, but it was certainly still there, hanging from a sling uselessly.
Just as he became used to the bright light, Jack lost interest in his motionless leg. Soon, his dark eyes returned to their usual constant scanning of everything within sight.
He lay on simple bed without a sheet, inside of an unpleasantly white room. I assume a hospital room, though knowing Patrick it’s just as likely to be an insanity ward.
A man approaching middle age entered through the open door. Jack let his eyelids droop in the appearance of sleep. He watched as the man stepped over to a small table next to the bed, and briefly studied the instruments on it.
Turning as though to leave, the man stopped by Jack’s leg to adjust the sling.
“It’s fine that way, you know.” Jack spoke up, causing the doctor a neck spasm as he turned and looked.
“Why didn’t you say you were awake? Mr. Bolivar has been waiting to see you.” At that very moment, Patrick walked in as though on cue.
“Well how was I supposed to know the man was stalking me?” Jack responded.
As the doctor turned his eyes to the ceiling and exited, Patrick sat on the edge of the bed.
“You seem to have a tendency to introduce yourself in the most annoying way possible.”
“I’ve matured, then? You always used to say it was in the most violent way possible.” Patrick chuckled as Jack shrugged.
“You were hardly in a position to commit violence.” Patrick stole a glance at Jack’s leg, blanching a little at the sight of the bandages. “But you soon will be, I assume. The doctors say you are looking at a week in this bed, so I’m sure you’ll have talked your way and/or ran out inside of four days.”
“I’m getting older. Not weaker.” Jack said as he raised himself up into a sitting position—or at least tried. He stopped halfway, grimacing as he lowered himself back down. “On second thought…”
“You’ve burned out, Jack. Admit it before you hurt yourself more. It’s been twenty years since you’ve seen any kind of action, and you spent twenty before that in the hell that was and is Europe.”
“You were there two. And others, older and weaker than I.”
“None have made it. You are the oldest soldier on the grounds. There are three people here older than you. One is a tank mechanic. One is a doctor. One has flashbacks of violence daily and can’t remember his own name.”
Jack twisted his mouth into a lopsided half-grin and slowly spoke.
“J-A-C-K. I’m so healthy, I can spell my own name.”
“That you decide to show off your grade school education does little for my confidence.” Patrick said. “In any case, I must insist that you stay the week.”
“If someone would hand me my pistol, I could blow the doorknob off of the barracks across from this hospital. I have an injured leg. Nothing more. I can still fight this war.” Jack fully smiled. Patrick crossed himself as he responded.
“You have a damn Colt .45. It’s a wonderful piece of machinery, or at least it was twenty years ago. It’s rusting, it’s dirty, it’s unsafe, and unstable. It was useful in the wars you still believe in, like you. This is a new fight. You are not up to it.”
“You yourself once compared me to a marksman crossed with a Spartan.”
Patrick closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened, he spoke slower and with a thin patience. “And a Spartan you certainly were—a hero. And therein lays the problem. Heroes no longer live more than five minutes into battle. The age of brashness and suicidal charges won by a quick trigger finger is over.”
Jack opened his mouth indignantly, and then laughed as Patrick continued. “When you left us, we were fighting Germany and Japan in a war. Five years later Japan destroyed the West Coast. As the years marched on, we lost position after position to guns, bombs, and starvation.” Patrick gazed off at nothing in particular.
“New York and the first nine companies of the Eighth Division was the last to go. They say it took five divisions to wrest the Nine Hundred from the streets of Manhattan. Currently, we have less than a hundred thousand troops across the continent—Toronto included, though we don’t know where it is.”
Jack was also lost in thought, his smile slowly widening as his idea began to take form. Patrick continued as Jack paid no attention. “Here, Pittsburgh, Staten Island, Boston, Providence, various stragglers in Appalachia, and Toronto. That’s all. We make our synthetic fuel from rusting wind generators, and use it to power factories that make us bullets and vehicles. We have one farm here. It’s only a matter of time before our food, fuel, and firepower disappears.”
“Lost a city, have you?” Jack said as he clasped his hand to where his jacket pocket would normally be. “I could find it for you, if you tell me where my Bible is.
Patrick had a slight smirk on his face as he pulled open the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. “And here I was thinking you would wake up at three in the morning asking for you essentials, which are—” He paused as he emptied the contents of the jacket out onto “—a revolver, twenty-one bullets, a pocket sized roll of duct tape, sunglasses with red lenses—which should be broken, but you seem to have an uncanny knack of breaking the unbreakable while keeping the delicates spotless.”
“And the Bible?” Jack asked as he patiently sat.
04-01-2008, 08:05 PM
With one final shake, Patrick dumped the pocket-sized Bible onto the bed as well. “It’s here, but praying to God won’t make your leg heal faster.”
“That’s not what I have in mind.” Jack thoughtfully responded. He swept the bible into his hand, deftly whipping it open to the back cover with the same fluid motion. As Patrick watched with increasing interest, he felt around the edge of the cover, digging his fingers into the side and pulling. A layer of black peeled away.
Behind the black, the cover held a small, yellowed note card. On it was an address. Patrick removed the card, and read it aloud.
“Villa Walsh. Four-fifty-five Western Avenue, Morristown, New Jersey.” Patrick looked up at Jack. “And why, pray tell, is this address so well hidden?”
“I left here with that address twenty years ago, because in that academy is a way for you to know everything—everything—that has gone on in this world since a year before I left.” Patrick moved to respond, but Jack continued over him. “I can get it for you. All the information you need. Where the Germans have moved their troops, what they have done, and where they are now. Where the war projects we abandoned a quarter-century ago are.”
“That’s all very nice, but I count what I have in my hand. Tell me what this—this thing—is, and where in this building I will find it.” Patrick said, his voice slightly faster than before.
“Give me my pistol and my command when I recover, and I will tell you.” Jack said softly as he leaned closer to Patrick.
“So help me, I’ll shove that pistol up your ass if you don’t tell me.”
“A company, then? One hundred men. That’s all I ask for right now.”
Patrick somehow managed to appear to wither even as he stood. “A squad. I’m forming new units in the companies that were smashed over the summer campaign.”
Even as Patrick exited, Jack spoke. “Give me a squad and I will tell you what you’re missing. Give me a company and I will give you what you’re missing. Give me a division, and I will give you the war.”
Patrick raised one eyebrow, chuckled, and left.
EDIT: 666 views. W00t.
04-15-2008, 07:59 PM
Across the base, Mark sat in a less-than-comfortable chair inside the main barracks. The same guard who had escorted him to “Pops’” office waited behind him next to the door, his will to be in contact with the young SS man clearly waning.
Mark surveyed the room about him, outwardly bored, but inwardly feeling caged. The room was somewhat small, about ten feet to a side. There were no windows to bring daylight in along with the slightly yellow glow from an uncovered light bulb on the ceiling.
That yellow light shone on a simple, functional office. Mark sat in one of two metal chairs on one side of a medium-sized desk with a few neat piles of paper on it. Across the desk was a third chair which looked only marginally more comfortable.
The walls were mostly bare, save for a few filing cabinets and a frame with about a half-dozen medals inside. As Mark finished his once-over of the room, the door opened behind him, and Pops’ thick figure entered.
The Sergeant stepped with a mechanical precision as he sat down in the chair across from Mark, who immediately noticed his chocolate eyes and dark brown hair which was beginning to lose a battle with baldness. Mark remained silent as he spoke in his gravelly voice.
“After we finish here, you are going to go put on a U.S. uniform. I’m already sick of looking at that thing, and I’ve only been in this room for about ten seconds.” Mark bit his lower lip and lowered his eyelids as the Sergeant continued. “My name, before anyone else tries to make you call me Pops, is Ryan. Ryan Fasano.”
04-16-2008, 12:33 AM
I didn't really like this story for a number of reasons. Mostly lore wise. Wouldn't the nazis settle down after awhile? Wouldn't nuclear armanent mean automatic surrender for the allies and a pact of eventual peaceful takeover for the nazis? If Hitler has died of old age (and believe me, by 1944 most upper-class germans had thought his ambitions had become pretty insane; and hell, how can you be sure he even allowed himself to marry and have children, which means the dictator had no heir), wouldn't all this eventually boil over and lead to the inevitable rise of corporate pop culture that is so prevalent in every first world society in real life? Why would the nazis continue to leave land mines throughout the americas when they pretty much own the americas? Wouldn't that be a hazard to their own civilians and soldiers? And with over a century of war, wouldn't their be some sort of rise and rebellion due to inevitably ****ty leadership on the german homefront?
04-16-2008, 02:04 AM
I didn't really like this story for a number of reasons. Mostly lore wise. Wouldn't the nazis settle down after awhile? Wouldn't nuclear armanent mean automatic surrender for the allies and a pact of eventual peaceful takeover for the nazis? If Hitler has died of old age (and believe me, by 1944 most upper-class germans had thought his ambitions had become pretty insane; and hell, how can you be sure he even allowed himself to marry and have children, which means the dictator had no heir), wouldn't all this eventually boil over and lead to the inevitable rise of corporate pop culture that is so prevalent in every first world society in real life? Why would the nazis continue to leave land mines throughout the americas when they pretty much own the americas? Wouldn't that be a hazard to their own civilians and soldiers? And with over a century of war, wouldn't their be some sort of rise and rebellion due to inevitably ****ty leadership on the german homefront?
Too the mine thing, they wouldn't necesserely take it out.
I know a place in Israel that I viseted about two years ago, that still has mines from a war that occured around 20 years ago.
Removing mines is a very dangerous thing to do, so usualy they just block off the areas with fences or whatever.
04-16-2008, 05:47 AM
Wouldn't the nazis settle down after awhile? Wouldn't nuclear armanent mean automatic surrender ... If Hitler has died of old age ... Why would the nazis continue to leave land mines throughout the americas when they pretty much own the americas? ... And with over a century of war, wouldn't their be some sort of rise and rebellion due to inevitably ****ty leadership on the german homefront?
All good points.
First, yes, I have realized that a full century of war is excessive (even the Hundred Years War was off and on), so in my offline version I have changed the date, but I haven't changed it here yet because I can't decide on an exact year. Figure something more along the lines of 50-60 years instead of 100.
Second, they would be settling down. I haven't referenced this yet in the chapters so far, but the Axis broke apart a while ago, and Germany is distracted from America because Japan is the only other nuclear power in the world--and is pushing the envelope as far as the nonaggression pact they signed goes.
As such, Germany has been reserving every one of their WMD's for a retaliation against Japan (which is much bigger than it is today). They are also massing most of their armored forces and air force to fight against the Arabs. Because of this, they are mantaining the Americas with a relatively small force because they can't afford anything more.
Explanation on the home front to come later today, I don't have any time left this morning.
04-17-2008, 02:54 AM
I always imagined the laws of 'cold war' dictate that there will be a sense of mutual distruction law coming afoot. The germans would likely foresee this, because they aren't that stupid. It's like think: If two sides have nuclear weapons, how can it end?
Also think of rising powers. Would Russia, now supposedly occupied by Germany (more or less completely, but don't forget the barren tundra), get any richer now that it has been subsumed into imperial life?
04-17-2008, 05:41 AM
During the Cold War, both powers stocked up on their weapons, even going so far as to develop the H-Bomb before it ended. As it is, both powers are in relative peace in a way, because neither is threatened except by the other. The only reason they are even bothering to stock up on their nuclear weapons is because their conventional forces are fully occupied but not really threatened, the Germans mostly by the Arabs, and the Japanese mostly by the eastern Russians and the remainder of the Chinese.
Both sides think that if they other side piles up more, that they will fire first, or at least be the survivors left at the end.
But at the same time, neither side wants to fire a nuke anywhere else, in case it would be seen as a first strike.
04-17-2008, 06:18 PM
I'm going to tackle the Encyclopedia and Introduction first, to examine the premise before I go into the actual quality of the work itself.
The following story, my first attempt at writing an original story, is an alternate history. In this timeline, the Germans were victorious in WWII. In the final months of the war in Europe, German scientists uncovered the secrets to the workings of the Manhattan project, and managed to complete it before the Americans could. On July 17th, 1944, Germany unleashed a wing of desperate bombers modified to hold the ungodly weapon. Only one made it to the intended target, but it was more than enough. London, England, disappeared in a blinding flash in the depths of the night. One hundred thousand dead, with the promise of more to come. A week later, a second wave of bombers strikes down Moscow and demolishes the English rear lines. As a third wave was built, and the German army mowed down the remaining Allied forces, Hitler sounded on every radio channel. “The Final Solution has been altered. All countries must stand down at once, or the Sun will destroy you.” With that ominous note, the world began it’s countdown to doomsday. A hundred years later, Hitler’s statement has yet to be fulfilled. Country after country had been devastated, and even the U.S., a titan in its struggle against the ever-increasing onslaught, eventually fell. The U.S. armed forces however, fought on. And here the story begins. 2044. A retired general lives out his possible final days in Florida before the Nazi encampments there realize who he his. When his counterpart in the Nazi army finds out he lives in their backyard, he sees a chance to end their bitter rivalry once and for all.
This doesn't quite hold together under scrutiny. The United States, a nation with a vastly larger amount of resources and industry during the war, could not have managed to outfit a whole wing of aircraft with nukes. They were producing like 3 a month, maybe one a week, and this was after the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I cannot imagine Germany having a better time of it.
Secondly, you simply cannot lose aircraft at that rate. It doesn't happen. It takes too long to train reinforcements. The Luftwaffe of 1944 was an emancipated shadow of its former self already; tossing planes away in this manner that quickly, they would run out of crews and pilots at a stunning rate.
Of course, this depends on what you mean by "wing." If you mean a U.S. style wing, then there is noooooooo way in heck they can take losses like that and keep coming. Even if you're using the British size of just 2 or 4 squadrons, that's a lot of planes to lose in one go.
A suicidal strike against Britain is theoretically possible. Although the RAF had total air superiority, I can see one getting through. What I cannot see is the bomb hitting Moscow. The distance was vast and the Russians had air superiority in the corner pocket, easy. We're talking the Russians having 7 planes for every German one, with better pilots and aircraft such as the Yak-3, a plane so infamous that Luftwaffe pilots would deliberately avoid combat with it. Add in Russian AA ground defenses, and I don't see that working out at all.
I'm not even sure that German planes have the range to reach Moscow from the bases they held at the time. Incidentally, June 17, 1944 was the date the Russians launched the Lvov-Sandomierz Offensive, which in one short month would rout all German forces from the Ukraine and Eastern Poland, potentially knocking out the airfields needed to perform such an assault.
But here is the big thing:
Each and everyone of those planes the allies shot down had a nuclear bomb in it. In theory, those weapons could have survived the crash. By throwing so many nuclear equipped vehicles at the Allies, the Germans could accidentally give them nuclear weapons. The bombs aren't armed until they're dropped; otherwise one might have exploded in mid air among the formation when the RAF or Russians tore into the bomber wing. Given the way aircraft travel, it is plausible that a nuclear weapon could have been recovered from a plane that was shot down before it released its payload and wrecked beyond the blast radius of the one that did get through.
Awfully short sighted of Hitler to hand his enemies the power of the atom unleashed.
In other words, I'm not quite sure Nazi Germany could pull off the nuclear punch you describe, and from a production standpoint it is certainly an impossibility.
I'm going to examine the entries, mainly for plausibility.
A problem with all of these are a hideous vagueness. We don't know who the major leaders and players in these factions are.
Germany: Looks good.
Russia: Good, except for the Mafia bit which I'll get to next.
Russian Mafia: What. The. Hell.
I've actually done some reading about the Russian crime element from Tsarist times onward. Fascinating stuff, really. At the time of WWII, however, organized crime had been mostly devastated by NKVD under Stalin, with the remaining criminal element in labor camps. Although a powerful black market formed under corrupt Soviet officials, the type of organized crime most people think of as a Mafia tends not to exist under repressive regimes. Smuggling, sure, but not much beyond that.
However, the idea of an army of lonewolf hit men in of itself is so patently ridiculous I break out giggling at the very thought of it. Seriously. Hit men. Assassins really aren't that common in the first place, but the thought of them attempting to seize territory is ludicrous. Your typical assassin kills individuals from ambush; going head on against troops trained for conventional combat plays against their strengths. The idea of hit men being so common as to be able to form an army is also very silly.
Secondly, the "Russian Mafia" is hardly some monolithic collective of every single criminal in Russian. There are many sub-gangs and divisions within it. I could accept a powerful warlord rising up and organizing an army that included a lot of criminals. But your current setup is just sort of silly.
Arab Coalition: Acceptable.
Israel: Quite frankly, this is the biggest improbability on the list. Israel was created by the UN after an Allied victory. You would think Hitler would get around to invading such a large concentration of the Jewish population, or at least spare a nuke or two. Secondly, without U.S. and U.N. support, Israel probably would have collapsed under the combined dog pile of every single Arab nation surrounding it.
Which brings us to the next absurdity: A Israeli-Arab alliance. Do I even need to say it? The mutual hate between these two groups was smoothed over under intense international pressure and the fact that the Arabs were defeated in several wars (where U.S. aid proved to be a very important factor.) I don't see how the state of affairs reached with the information you've given us. And don;t say "the German threat." The U.S. and Soviet Union were mucking around in the Middle East in a similar manner and that didn't keep the wars from happening.
Also, modern Israel has a population of 7 million. I doubt they can raise 4 million soldiers. That's pretty ridiculous. Unless you're including non combat personnel. But even that is ridiculous. Seriously. Over 50% of your population? Not. Happening.
Celtic-Briton Alliance: More like instant annihilation. A nuclear blast would have wiped out all the aircraft in the sky. Every interceptor over London would have gone down. That probably wouldn't have defeated the RAF entirely, but they would have been more than a bit set back by that.
Are you claiming that the entire population of Britain migrated to London, or just the army and command structure? Might want to clarify, as given your Israel comment earlier some people might get the impression that you meant literally the whole population. Which would be silly.
The United States: Acceptable. Except wouldn't the President flee? You know. He doesn't do much if he's dead. Better to live on and lead the U.S. And wouldn't someone be appointed President? V.P. anybody?
New York City- Why does New York get its own section?
I'll review the Chapters and the actual story proper tomorrow. Also, what happened in Vietnam? In 1945, September 2, Ho Chi Minh and his followers seized Hanoi and declared independence from the French. Without a French government to combat them was the revolution successful?
Also, what the hell happened to China? Did the Communists under Mao or the Nationalists under Chiang Kai Shek win the civil war?
Edit: FURTHER THOUGHTS!
What happened to Italy? Benito Mussolini survives in your alternate timeline, as I assume one of the top German priorities was kicking the Allies off of the Italian peninsula.. How important is Italy in your alternate timeline?
Also, what happened to all those French and British colonial possessions and territories, like India?
04-17-2008, 09:07 PM
In advance, thank you for pointing this out before I mentioned it in the actual chapters.
The Germans of WWII did have a very strong war machine, otherwise they could not have beaten back almost all of Europe the way they did. Supposing they discovered the secrets to the Bomb first, my idea is that they began stockpiling them, fearing to use them against countries other than Britain because of how close many of them were, and unable to use them on Britain because of the RAF and the U.S. because of the Atlantic Ocean.
Then, once the "all your base are belong to us" seemed inevitable, Germany would have let loose. Moscow would not have been the next target, the idea being that the Germans would first bomb the bases they had lost, and then go for the kill(ish). And the loss of airplanes is the reason why more of the world isn't nuked, because by the time Germany recovered its airforce after a series of suicide strikes which nearly totaled it, most of the Allies would be in disarray anyway, so Germany would want to clean the mess up with conventional weapons rather than poison their new empire anymore with radiation.
The encyclopedia is mostly crap, the whole reason I wrote it was because my computer had a hard drive failure just before I finished the second chapter and I didn't feel like writing it again while waiting (and then never touched again to put in anything about any of the other countries).
Pretty much all of Washington D.C. dies during that raid. Not to say that there weren't survivors, but they couldn't keep the U.S. stable for long after having the figurative head crushed. New York gets its own section because it turns out to be pivotal later on. The Israel thing is more of a forgot the research (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DidNotDoTheResearch) than anything else, however, the conflict between the Arabs and the Israelis is, as you said, more about the wars the Arabs lost than anything else. I believe the refugees coming to the region would have let the Arabs keep or share Jerusalem and the area around it without a fight in exchange for not booting them back to the Germans.
The Germans had planned for world domination anyways, the Arabs would have been attacked with or without Jews there, and having more troops to throw against the war machine would have been welcome (when the Jews first arrived, the Arabs mostly treated them as second-class, but accepted them, if only to exploit them. Without the U.S. to help Israel take land away from the Arabs, I don't see why they would have come into conflict with the Germans beating down both of their necks anyway.)
The Mafia, well, I don't have much of an excuse, it shouldn't have been that much. I'm still going to keep it, but it will be more along the lines of the organized gangs exploiting the sudden absence of the Red Army (all off for the meat grinder) to do what organized crime generally does, except in much bolder ways. Russian crime is one of my fuzzier areas of knowledge. Any other things here I should watch out for?
Italy is ravaged by the Germans when the Axis breaks up (leaving Germany in a cold but warming war with Japan).
Most colonial regions take a much different course without the imperial powers there. Korea becomes Communist, Vietnam goes the way it did except faster. India was free in 1947 anyway, so not a lot changes there. China was the first country to be more or less totaled by the Japanese, so there isn't any cultural revolution--at least, there is no real government to have a civil war over, anyway.
Well, it's late, so I'm going to post this and look at everything again tommorow with a rested mind.
04-18-2008, 12:48 AM
Another thing I forgot to mention (considering I hadn't read every chapter) is that Israel shouldn't even exist if the Nazis still exist, which means the Jews could be more or less still incarcerated/exiled/forced to work as serfs in manors or whatever.
Oh, and I imagine Mussolini would become a retired person in the German senate which would be like a useless bench of power that's really a vacation spot. The man would've had to be bribed into this or be shot in the head. I think it would have been safest for germany (supposedly, their forces are all over the place) for a peaceful take over of Italy. Italy embraces nazism. The ideologies are similar. There is little rebellion, and to become a part of the German empire is supposedly beneficial so the bureacrats have to agree or get shot, essentially.
- That'd make sense. Not to step on your lore, or rain on your parade, or do some alternate history follow up suggestions for you that pretty much mislead other forumgoers. :P
The arab land issue also makes sense. I imagine most religious Arabs in the region would have simply wanted the land as a 'kill all jews' goal like Hitler wanted seems a little infantile. Even in real life, they religiously claim that Jerusalem belongs to them, so there.
04-18-2008, 05:36 AM
Forgot to mention/didn't see:
The British were forced to flee for obvious reasons, the millitary took as many civillians as possible along with them, but migrating an entire country is next to impossible.
The reason they haven't been nuked yet is because the RAF is now much more concentrated even though they are somewhat smaller (the suicide strike by Germany didn't really affect the RAF too much, except over London, because the point wasn't to destroy the planes, the point was to get one of the bombs through).
The Israelis are less a country than they are a protectorate of the Arabs, i.e. they have some representation in the government, but are not concentrated entirely in one spot where it would be easy for the Germans to attack them--but the Germans are coming for both groups anyway. The Muslim/Arab empires have somewhat of a history of being (http://www.wsu.edu/~dee/MUGHAL/AKBAR.HTM) more religiously tolerant (http://www.globaled.org/nyworld/materials/ottoman/turkish.html) than many other empires.
Benito was dismissed as Prime Minister of Italy (and arrested) in July 1943 (this happened). Italy surrendered to the Allies shortly thereafter. Once Germany reclaimed the offensive, they entered Italy again and reinstated the fascist regime--minus Mussolini. The new government turned out to be aggressive towards Germany, and the Germans invaded, sparking the breakup of the Axis and putting them in the standoff with Japan.
04-19-2008, 10:05 AM
Haven't quite finished reading the chapters, so I'll respond to your points:
Germany actually didn't have a strong war machine, at least compared the U.S. and absolutely insane Soviet Union production figures. As I said earlier, in 1944, The Soviets produced 7 planes for every German one produced, and 10 tanks for every German one produced.
The reason the Germans were so successful can really be summed up in one word: tactics. German tactics and strategy were light years ahead of their Allied counterparts, which focused mainly on a repeat of WWI. German tactics and strategy, particularly the Blitzkrieg or Lightning War, were largely responsible for German successes. On the west front, German tanks were completely outclassed by their French counterparts during the early days of the war, but German tank tactics proved vastly superior.
German soldiers in WWII, despite what war movies might tell you, were armed mainly with bolt action rifles. Other weapons did exist, but primarily, most infantry were using bolt action rifles. American, British, and French troops could count on having semi-automatic rifles, and an avid supply of cheap submachine guns like the Grease Gun and the Sten. And the Soviets... Oh, those crazy Russians. They would equip whole regiments and even entire divisions with the PPSh 41, giving them unmatched short-range firepower.
In terms of production, Germans only outmatched Japan, Italy, probably Britain, and anybody they had conquered with their tactics. They were dwarfed by the U.S. and the Soviet industries to an extreme degree.
The German war industry wasn't a lightweight, but it wasn't very strong in the context of comparison to other major nations in WWII.
I, however, have just had something of an epiphany, although rather than a eureka moment, it is more of a "What the hell is wrong with me?" type thing.
Why is Hitler wasting dozens of planes and bombs when he could just use a V-1 or V-2 derivative to deliver the nuclear warhead?
Hitler didn't initially like the V-2, because it was essentially an artillery shell with longer range and higher cost. And now he has an atomic device, the perfect firepower upgrade for the weapon. And instead he mobs the Allies with planes, losing difficult to replace crews and bombers.
On to the Washington raid: The problem is there is this whole Presidential line of succession thing. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_presidential_line_of_succession) The Secret Service must have been very incompetent to allow all those individuals to be in one place to be conveniently wiped out by a German attack.
As for Israel: Good sir, you do realize that the Israeli's defeated the Palestinians in a civil war, thus leading to a flood of refugees triggering the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, where aside form token British support the Israelis fought off the Arab armies by themselves? Later wars were won very narrowly with by Israel with U.S. support, but that Arabs had Soviet support, or at least Soviet armaments, in those wars as well...
The origin of that civil war was the dispute over the U.N.'s division of the country, which was perceived to favor the Jewish population. With no U.N., and no British rule due to the annihilation of the British government, it is sensible that the Palestinians and Israelis would turn upon each other. And this time no international community would try to save them. No U.N. to push for peace and impose sanctions. No U.S. to supply the IDF with high tech weaponry.
In all honesty, I think British rule was all that kept the conflict bottled up. Once the British mandate ends, things turn ugly.
I'd also like to note that the Arabs pursued these wars with the U.S. and international community "breathing down their necks", alongside Soviet intervention. Big powers have been sticking their fingers into the Middle East for a long time, and for the most part they act the way they want regardless.
My question about the mafia/crime gangs: If there is truly a power vacuum, no form of powerful authority present, then why do the gangs continue to act criminally? A pattern repeated across history is the fact that anarchy does not reign for long. If a government falls, one will rise to replace it, even if it is just the tyrannical rule of a warlord. Why would they continue to be criminals when they could seize power? Why would anyone allow such an apparently lucrative territory to remain unclaimed for so long?
On to colonial possessions: (I'll hit Italy later.)
India was granted its freedom in 1947 by the British government. A government you have rendered to irradiated ash. What I was wondering was how is India responding to the threat of Japan? Have the formed an alliance with, say, Australia? (What is going on in Austrailia anyway? Or the entire Pacific theater, for that matter? None of you events have affected that locale.)
Korea did not become communist in your alternate timeline. That is because Korea was occupied by Japan in WWII. It would a Japanese territory.
What happened in Vietnam was a Soviet and Chinese backed North defeated a U.S. backed South. The backers are all previously engaged. And France probably doesn't have the troops to hold Vietnam. (Whatever happened to Charles DuGalle and Free France, anyway?)
In China, during WWII, the various warlords, including Mao and Chiang Kai Shek allied to fight the Japanese. I was wondering how they fared, considering how you haven't altered the Pacific theater much.
On to your "The Muslim/Arab empires have somewhat of a history of being more religiously tolerant than many other empires." point.
Firstly, the two pages you liked are to Turkish and Indian empires. Muslim they were, but they were not Arabs or Palestinians, two groups with an extreme hatred for Zionism. Secondly, they were ancient empires, not 20 century countries. Muslims after WWI were a bit miffed because the Caliph of the Ottoman Empire, the last successor to the Prophet Muhammad, had been deposed by Western powers. It would be like if the Pope was overthrown. People would be very, very, upset and not in their best, most tolerant moods. Some people in the Middle east today are very angry about that little incident.
On to Italy:
I don;t understand why Hitler, when setting up a puppet state like the Italian Social Republic, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Social_Republic) would allow it to be autonomous enough to rebel against him, and why he would not use Mussolini, a loyal ally in debt to him, and instead pick some random guy who would try to backstab him.
Hell, I don't even understand how the Italians managed to revolt to the point were their country needed to be devastated, considering that the German army seized most of Italy and its army during the establishment of the new puppet.
Governments like Vichy France, the Italian Social Republic, and the Warsaw Pact are usually the type you set up with collaborators who won't try to fight you, and instead will help you.
05-29-2008, 07:28 PM
Well, I've taken out the uncyclopedia and reworked the introduction into something that's (hopefully) more reasonable, better to read, and definitely more flexible.
Anyways, 8 Continued:
Mark began to respond: “My name is—”
“I know what your name is,” Ryan interjected, “or I would have asked you what you were doing in my office. Now, before you make yourself comfortable, let me spell out one thing for you: I was born a decade and a half after Pearl Harbor. All I remember growing up is story after story of the atrocities committed by your fellows, and your ex-allies. I lost my family, most of my friends, and all of my will to compromise to the bombing raids of the seventies. As such, you will never convince me that you are anything but another brainwashed killer sent to make my trip from birth to the grave as miserable as possible.” Ryan had begun to rise from his seat as he continued. “I’ve been through Spain, France, Morocco, I have seen men your age and younger crack the skulls of innocents with rifle butts, laughing before I interrupted them—fatally. I have seen and caused death on a larger scale than any man has a right to. And now I see you, and believe me, I do not like the view.”
If Mark had felt caged before, he now felt outright threatened.
“That must be because you see your reflection in my eyeballs.” He retorted. “I’m not under your command, and seeing as you all seem to have a respect for this psycho geezer who brought me here, I’m sure you don’t to piss him off by causing me bodily harm.” Mark’s mouth twisted into a sort of half-smile as he continued, saying: “Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing in your office, and what I’m supposed to do now?”
Ryan made a finger-gun out of his right hand, pressed it to his temple, and pulled the imaginary trigger as he responded.
“Unfortunately—for you at least—you are under my command as of now. If you had bothered to read the piece of paper Patrick gave you, you would know that I’m supposed to, ah, ‘recondition’ you. Believe me when I say it will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”
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