Between Heaven and Hell - Kaiserreich

Thank you, thank you Chapter Nine should be coming soon, with Ten right on its heels.

-L

Chapter Nine: Choosers of the Slain​

“FREEDOM!”

OOOORRAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!

Corporal William Lawrence howled the cries like a wolf, firing blindly at the Federals. Sure, he wasn’t hitting much, but he wasn’t trying to. This would be a battle of the old school – in among them, bayonets flashing with the thirst of Mars’ fury. The god of war rode with the Syndicalists, screaming and shouting hatred for the Federal oppressors, urging his warriors to new heights.

“FREEDOM!”

The charge was unbroken, despite the accurate hail the Federals landed on them. A tommy gun erupted over on one of the flanks, then another. It was answered with a volley of grenades, scattered left and right as the Syndicalists tossed them in fury. Artillery started pounding the city, and Lawrence felt his will falter. Surely Federal artillery would –

It’s ours! It’s not Federal – it’s ours! We still have guns left!

The Federals were taking cover, ducking up to fire every now and then. They fought like veterans – elites, even. Lawrence made sure his bayonet was fixed as he charged.

“ONWARD!” he roared.

OOOOORRRAAAAAAHHHH!



Major Thomas Hardy fired again and again. His rifle was running dry, but he still had a grenade and his pistol to use, let alone the good, old-fashioned bayonet. This would be the kind of battle his great-grandfather had experienced at Vicksburg, at Petersburg and Richmond. Maybe Doug MacArthur wasn’t Ulysses Grant and Jack Reed wasn’t Bobby Lee, and perhaps instead of the brothers Jack and John Hardy it was just Tom – but it was like the past was reaching out to the future.

Crack! Crack! Rattatattatattatatta! Boom!

Gunfire, machineguns, grenades, artillery. It was a maelstrom of chaos and carnage, men firing and going down on all sides.

“Sir!” a voice called. Hardy paused from chucking his last grenade – Boom! – to turn. The Boy – Sam – fired into the charging Syndies, clutching a paper between his fingers.

“I just got word from Double T! His men are closing fast but having trouble with a major enemy counterattack! Looks like this shit is all across the board!”

“Then we have to hold!” Hardy called. “We’re surrounded and outgunned. Fall back to the House! Fall back!”

Men started pulling back, but in the face of the Syndicalist artillery it was almost foolhardy. The guns stopped firing as the Syndies approached – obviously they had a spotter. Someone experienced.

Crack!

Sam went down with a scream, clutching his throat, neatly blown through. Hardy took one look at the angle, and his gut chilled.

“Sniper!” he screamed. “Watch out!”

He grabbed Sam’s last grenade, hurled it at the Syndies. The explosion ripped a hole in their line, but that only seemed to egg them on.

OOOORRAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!



“Clean kill. Through the neck.”

“Target?” Nikolas Kerenskai asked. Marv Keeper paused to relay something to the artillery.

“There, the officer! The one shepherding them to the House!”

Crack!

“Miss. He’s down behind that bench now. There’s some guys on top of the House too.”

Nikolas wasn’t watching the fight. His attention had been drawn by something else, lit by the many fires of Chicago.

“Marv,” he said, using his spotter’s name for the first time.

“What is it, sir?”

“I think we better clear out. NOW.”

OOOOORRRRRAAAAHHH!!



Lawrence surged forward at the head of the pack, firing his last shot. More machineguns blew holes in the formation – there was a .30 cal in the House, at least. Maybe even a fifty. Lawrence didn’t care.

Ahead of him he saw a Federal officer, standing over the body of a young boy. The man – a major – was reloading his rifle, clenching his teeth, obviously braced. He’d already fixed his bayonet.

“FREEDOM!” Lawrence shouted, charging the man. The major ducked his first stab, then came up with a punch – experience, perhaps, from youthful brawls. Whatever it was, Lawrence staggered, barely sidestepping a picture-perfect skewer. His own retaliation was knocked aside by a compact manuever, with no wasted motion. The rifles crossed and slammed into each other, then men hissing as they tried to force their victory.

Time’s on my side, though. If he gets caught up in this fight, my fellow workers will come and destroy him.

“FREEDOM!” Lawrence yelled again. He disengaged and slashed.

The major lost his rifle from the blow, but wasn’t dead. Lawrence couldn’t believe his eyes when the man whipped out the sword at his side – why he’d even brought it into combat was a mystery in and of itself, in the modern day. Perhaps he hadn’t expected a fight?

Lawrence parried a strike, then slammed the butt of his rifle into the major’s leg. The man went down with a grunt, launching a single vicious slash that traced from Lawrence'’ wrist all the way to his shoulder. The Syndicalist soldier screamed as his arm lit on fire.

He stabbed – the Federal dodged, rolling back to his feet. He kicked and knocked him back over, then leaped on top of him. His rifle was useless, his right arm wracked by pain.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

OOOORRAAAAAAHHHH!!!

“FREEDOM!” Lawrence roared. He drew a knife, raised it for a final blow. “FREEEEDDDDOOOOOOOOOOO-”

There was a flash of glorious light, then darkness.



“Free that,” Lenny spat, reloading the shotgun. Tom Hardy pushed the bloody mess off him, grabbing his fallen rifle.

“You got any ammo?” he asked the serial killer. Len shrugged – a damning gesture.

“Do you?”

“No,” Hardy replied. He looked over for a moment at the House, so close but so far away. Most of his men hadn’t made it.

“We go down like heroes, Len,” he said. “America!”

“America!” Len repeated. The man leveled his bayonet at a man fighting Colt, then tore off into the fray.

Hardy dodged a stab, then killed the attacker. He drew his pistol and fired into the throng, rewarded by screams and shrieks.

It’s not enough. We need reinforcements, dammit!

Booooom!

Hardy’s heart stopped beating. The Air Corps can’t fly at night!

Did it matter? Explosions wracked the Syndicalist flank. Men fled from the shelter of buildings, flames racing after them as a wing of B-26 Marauders cruised over the combat zone at an insane altitude, delivering the wrath of the gods.

It was like Ragnarok come to earth, the books of Revelations condensed into one night of pure asskicking, the Four Horsemen having decided this was too hardcore and gone to pick flowers instead as the gods of fire and fury had a drinking contest. The devastation was glorious, terrible – and heavenly. A warrior’s reward for a warrior’s work, while Loki looked on and laughed at the chaos, Mars drank in the dying with glee, and all the spirits of the Old Underworlds rose up to drag newcomers down with them to meet Hades in his fell glory. God himself stood in Chicago at that moment, leveled his finger at the Syndicalists, and decreed Thou shalt have thine asses whupped.

They faltered. The Syndicalists actually faltered. Hardy had one moment of shock, then a sudden sequel moment of purpose. He was insane, out of his mind, crazy, suicidal – all synonyms.

With victorious.

“COUNTERCHARGE!” Hardy roared.

His men – God bless them! – didn’t hesitate. The message was relayed through the lines to Colt, to Gutierrez, to Len, to all the soldiers. The Marines stayed in the House, as did the men who didn’t get the message, but everyone else took their bayonets and charged, ignoring their frailty and weakness, to hammer into the Syndicalists even as they recovered from the wave of sheer asskicking that had been given to them from On High.

One, two, three, four – Hardy lost track. Pistol in one hand, sword in the other, he was dealing death like a machine to the terrified Syndicalists. He surged at the head of his men into their formation, blood everywhere, screaming the call.

“STARS AND STRIPES!”

It wasn’t hollow anymore – now it rang with the fury of an air bombardment, the thunder of an armored attack, though little more than forty men were charging ten times their number.

The Syndicalists began to fall back, began to break. Hardy felt a flash of hope.

Then they reorganized. Someone was in charge over there, and he had pulled his men back together as explosions rained around them. Rifle fire lanced out from all sides, and Hardy realized his men were now fully surrounded.

“Back!” he shouted. Gutierrez was with him, relaying the order. The man broke a Syndie’s neck with one swing of his rifle, but then went down, shot in the head. Len was still roaring orders, but Colt was silent and missing. Hardy felt a pang at their loss – and that of the Boy. Sam. He was young enough he could almost have been Hardy’s son – if Hardy had a son.

“Fall back to the House!” Hardy roared. Len had taken up the call.

“Don’t Stop!” he chanted. “Fall Back!”

Don’t Stop! Fall Back! The soldiers replied. It was a drumbeat tune now – a song, almost. The Syndicalists hesitated, as if they were touched by the fearlessness shown by the Irregulars.

Then they charged anyway.

Hardy ran one through, but lost his sword. He fired the last shots in his pistol, drew his knife – but the first man he ran into knocked him down. His dog tag – dangling right in Hardy’s face – read Tom Jones – he was a hulking man with muscles the size of coffee pots.

“THIS IS FOR THE NEW YEAR’S STRIKE!” he roared, raising back an axe. He’d probably looted it during the fight.

Hardy watched the axe lift. He feel the earth shaking with the fury of impending doom, still hear the chant. Len was calling “Major? MAJOR!”

Hardy saw his sisters, his brother, back in California. They probably hated him for his choice. He had hoped – so hoped – that Amy, at least, would leave the PSA. She was his twin, and closer to him than anyone else. But it wasn’t to be.

I wonder if she’ll feel it when I die, Hardy mused as the axe came down.

Blam!

“Tom Jones” crashed to the ground, blood pouring from a massive hole in his skull. The earth hadn’t stopped shaking.

“On your feet, Major.”

A hand grabbed Hardy and pulled him upright, seeming unconcerned about the mass of men streaming around them.

They were Federal men. Hardy gaped as he saw tanks and infantry surging through the park, chasing the fleeing Syndies. A Union Jack, held by a stalwart bearer, materialized in the gloom, an officer shouting pitched orders and waving his rifle while a nearby sergeant fired a volley of obscenities at a harried messenger.

“-AND IF YOU DON’T DAMN WELL CATCH BANNON I’LL CHOP YOUR HORSE UP AND MAKE YOU SHOVE ITS NOSE UP YOUR-”

“Peters!” shouted the officer. “Focus, man! We’ve got Syndies to kill!”

“Colonel, Price reports his men have cut off the Syndicalist retreat.”

Hardy turned. Another messenger, mounted on a white stallion, was handing a paper to a man with a huge cowboy hat and a smoking revolver in hand.

My god.

“Thank you, Corporal,” Colonel Patrick “Texas Thunder” Walker replied.

An M2 tank bulldozed through some rubble nearby, gun exploding with the fury of all the Presidents reincarnated and given hand grenades, pointed at Jack Reed. A building shuddered and collapsed, the rubble crushing fleeing Syndicalist soldiers. It was amazing.

“Well, Major, I didn’t expect to find you practicing your firewood impersonation,” Walker grunted, kicking the fallen axe aside. “It was a little too realistic for my tastes.”

“Sir, I have wounded–”

“Being taken care of, Major. You’ll work with Captain Sanders. Bannon and Bradford are going to drive Reed out of Chicago.”

“It’s . . . over, sir?”

“I’m afraid so,” Walker grunted. “Pity. I wanted to kill every last one of them.”

He is out of his mind. But I’m glad as hell he’s on our side.

“The Irregulars have done tremendous work, Major,” Walker said. “Remember that. I’m putting in a transfer to have you attached to Third Battalion. You’re too blasted good at what you do. You’ve worked yourself out of your cushy resistance-organizing post.”

“I’ll want to bring my men, sir,” Hardy replied. Walker waved a hand.

“Of course, of course. We’ll talk turkey later. For now, you rest and see to your men. Work with Sanders, like I said.” Walker smiled. “I’ve got a city to capture. Can’t let you boys have all the fun.”

Walker turned and strode off, calmly sliding another bullet into his revolver. Hardy staggered back a few paces, then finally collapsed to a seat on some rubble. He had no energy, no adrenaline, no emotion left at all. Just a sense of – calm. Perhaps out of place in a city burning on all sides, wracked by fighting and war, but still calm.

There was a groan from under the rubble. Hardy jumped upright.

“COLT!” he cried. He heaved a structural support beam aside to reveal his subordinate officer, pinned under it.

“Heya, Major,” Colt gasped. “Little bit unlucky, eh?”

“Sanders!” Hardy waved. An officer turned to jog toward him. “Don’t worry, Colt, we’ve won. We’ll get you out of there.”

“We won?”

“Yeah, handily.”

“’Bout damn time,” Colt growled. Then he leaned his head back and fell asleep.



“Hurry, Mr. President,” the guard encouraged. Jack Reed pulled Louise along a little faster, well out of Chicago by now. They had no guide, no help – trying to make Detroit by dawn was foolhardy in any case. Perhaps there was a car to commandeer?

“Mr. President!” a voice hailed softly. Everyone turned, the guards drawing weapons.

A sniper team emerged from the chaos, covered in dirt. Reed’s eyes widened as he recognized the Death.

“I know this area,” Nikolas Kerenskai said. “And I know how to get to Detroit. You’re in safe hands now.”



Reed Cassidy eyed the storm clouds to the north.

“An omen, Stacks?” he asked. Steven ‘Stacks’ Fitzgerald shrugged.

“Just the usual blows we get. Have we heard any new from Chicago?”

“Not that I know,” Reed admitted. “Drives me a bit mad.”

“Yeah, same. So much pressure. We know how it’s gonna turn out – have from the start – but the feeling of limbo is just . . . well. You know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Reed agreed sourly. He turned back into the RADAR station. The operators were going about their work smoothly and efficiently while he and Stacks nursed drinks and waited for their shift as guards to come on.

“Hey, boys,” called the radioman. “We got news on Chicago.”

“Has it-”

“Garner’s already at the Presidential House. Literally.”



Captain Courtney Bradford waved Peters on. The House was a local CP now, flowing with management personnel, radio technicians, and even the President of the United States himself. Chicago was all but secured, but no one could stop Garner from hopping out here to meet Texas Thunder and commend the Irregulars. MacArthur was with him now, beaming and elaborating on his contribution to the air strike that allowed the Irregulars to counterattack and hold.

“Yank,” Captain Robert Price grunted. “Tosser had nothing to do with it. That was all Double T.”

“I see you’re using the local lingo, my Scottish friend,” Bradford teased. Price grunted.

“‘Local lingo?’ Pot and kettle here, Aussie.”

The two captains sat together, watching Major Hardy overseeing one of his officers being loaded into an ambulance.

“He really is a good officer, isn’t he?” Bradford finally asked. “I mean, for a Yank.”

“Who? Double T or the Irregular?”

“Both, I should say,” Bradford shrugged. Price considered.

“Yeah, they are. For Yanks.”

“Of course. For Yanks.”



Captain Sato Okada sipped calmly from his tea. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Have you decided what to send the admiral?” prodded one of his crew. “For the return message?”

“No,” Sato denied. “I have decided that this needs a bit more heat. But I will give the return message some thought, I assure you. I have misgivings about this operation, but I will of course do as the Emperor demands.”

“Of course, sir,” the officer bowed.



“Mike, wake up.”

Amy sat down on her older brother’s bed in her guest room, uncharacteristically subdued.

“Amy!” Mike started. “What are you doing in here? I mean–”

“I know, I know, I’m your sister and this is embarrassing,” Amy replied, a flash of her personality shining through. “But that’s not what I’m here about. Chicago’s fallen.”

Mike paused. “Are we really surprised?”

“No,” Amy shrugged. “What surprises me is Garner announcing Tom’s name on the radio as the commanding officer of a unit that received a Presidential Unit Citation.”



“Ja, send him in.”

The door opened and an old man walked in. His hair was a chaotic mess of white, his face lined with age, but he didn’t walk with much of a stoop. He was awake and aware, as it were, and regarded his conversation partner with intelligent eyes.

Well, that fits, the Kaiser thought. Intelligence is this man’s stock and trade.

“What is it, Herr Doctor Einstein?” the Kaiser asked. Albert Einstein took a seat.

“Mein Kaiser,” he began, producing a massive sheaf of papers. “I come with a recent discovery I think you should be aware of.”

“It’s early in the morning, Doctor,” the Kaiser replied. “I have just heard of Chicago’s fall and sent my congratulations to the Americans. Can it not wait?”

“No, I don’t believe it can. I have discovered a kind of energy that can level cities if weaponized – with a single bomb.”

The Kaiser paused. “That is the realm of English – oh, what is the book? The Hobbit, ja. The one the Canadian recently published.”

“Tolkein, ja,” Einstein nodded. “But this is no magic ring, mein Kaiser. I have provided all the formulas and equations that support my theory, and I have evidence that the Russians, the French, the Canadians, the Americans, then American Unionists, and even the Japanese are all working on the same project. Even the Pope is looking into atomic energy!”

The Kaiser frowned. “Speak, then, and let this be good. What of this . . . atomic energy?”

____________________

And thus the Battle for Chicago comes to a close. I went through several versions of formatting this as two chapters before deciding to screw it and post to conclusion of the fight as one big whammy.

This will probably mark a slightly longer update gap than usual as I decide which of the myriad plot points will be pursued next when we resume. It's notable that my word document for this AAR has already reached 1/4 the length of both my actual novels. Feel proud you've helped me get there!

And since I'm not that knowledgeble about Kaiserreich, having only played the ACW(albeit repeatedly because dammit it ROCKS) anyone feel free to suggest your own plot threads from anywhere in the world. I'll also likely be playing Kaiserreich here soon for inspiration.

Now I can reveal the big thing: this isn't based on one single game. This is heavily based on a single USA game I played, that's true, but I'm taking elements absorbed from multiple playthroughs of the ACW on all four sides and weaving them into one big narrative. Thus, the AUS is likely to be highly effective - as much as the USA and the PSA and even the Japanese, since I've worked with all three. The CSA isn't exactly out of the picture yet either, since they still control western PA, Ohio, and most of Michigan. Broken but not destroyed, as it were.

In any event, any and all comments and suggestions are appreciated even if I never get around to specifically replying to them. And who knows? I may actually use your ideas.

I will give on hint though. The next chapter will begin several weeks later, from the perspective of someone from a faction we've never seen on-camera even once so far in this AAR.

Until next time, my friends . . . .

-L

“-and they’ve got some guns set up over there, too.”

Corporal Lance Gates scribbled a few notes in his notebook. “Caliber?”

“Looks like heavy artillery,” grunted Corporal Jason Wayne, his partner. While Lance took notes, Jason was observing the other bank of the swampy mess that passed for a river.

“Let me get this straight,” Lance finally said. “At this one good-for-nothing crossing, the goddamn Federals have thrown up two anti-tank batteries, four heavy machinegun nests, an AA battery, and three artillery emplacements, not even counting those bunkers.”

“Pretty much,” Jason agreed. “And I think the river’s fricking mined. Who the hell’s in charge over there?”

“Whoever it is ain’t planning on packing up and going home,” Lance sighed. “This is gonna be bloody.”

“You’re telling me,” Jason grunted. “Eight weeks since the fall of Chicago, the Federals are leaving the Southern Front alone, more or less.”

“I hear Patton’s gone coward in Pennsylvania,” Lance murmured. Jason shrugged.

“Way I hear it, he’s sparring with MacArthur around Philiadelpha and Baltimore, not going coward. He’s got men in NYC too, and Mac probably wants to force a direct engagement, whereas Patton’s trying to outmaneuver the Feds.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, lighting up a cigarette. “I wonder if they’ve been reinforcing down here, or if they’ve put all their forces into the Pennsylvanian front?”

“Hope for the best,” Jason said. “I wanna kill some of these bastards.”

“So do I,” Lance chuckled. “Come on. If there’s nothing else to see, we should report back to Colonel Nantz. He’ll want to know what we found. New Orleans won’t go down without a fight.”



“Stow that, soldier,” Captain James Pelt growled. The unfortunate private quickly tossed his magazine away.

“Yes, sir!” he called. Pelt glared at him for a minute, then turned and strode out of the barrack.

The sights and sounds of Virginia assaulted him from every angle. The Blue Ridge Mountains loomed in the background, still and majestic, as the people of the little town called Marion went about their business.

Screw their business, Pelt thought, pulling out a cigarette. There’s a goddamn war going on here. Most of them are Unionists anyway. Spies, traitors, saboteurs. We should shoot ‘em all and build a new town on the ashes. A loyal one.

The captain grumbled to himself as he lit the cigarette. It made perfect sense! None of these Southerners could be trusted, especially so close to the spearhead of the advance! Pelt was a Maine man, born and bred, and it chafed that the Canadians had enslaved his homeland – but he wasn’t being sent to kill some Canucks and exiled Limeys, oh no. They were allies.

How good allies were they when they took Puerto Rico and the Panama Canal, huh? Pelt seethed. How about when they invited Hawaii into their arms? Or started a rapport with the PSA? Or, or, how about that little tiny matter about INVADING NEW ENGLAND AND KILLING HUNDREDS OF US SOLDIERS!

He realized he was gripping the iron railing outside the barrack so hard he swore it was bending. Pelt took a deep breath and let go.

“Well, fuck ‘em,” he finally said. “We’ll get our revenge, sooner or later. This war would already be over if those bastards hadn’t risen up and stabbed us in the back. Who the hell do they think we are, anyway? We were right with ‘em in the Weltkrieg, as much as we could. What, did they want us to join the war? Not even Teddy Roosevelt was that stupid!”

Pelt grunted and turned, marching smartly off. This close to the spearhead, there was a firm, well-organized base established at Marion to funnel supplies in from Ohio and West Virginia. The motor pool was testing the engines of a few damaged Stuart tanks right now, and by the sound of things it wasn’t going well.

Faintly, artillery rumbled. The big guns traded a lot of fire down around Lynchburg. Both sides wanted to kick the other out of the state, but neither had the resources to do it. Goddamn MacArthur and Patton up north for dancing around like that instead of getting shit done.

“If I was in charge of the First Army, Patton would be dead,” Pelt grumbled. “Hell, if I was president this fucking war would be over and we’d be near Ottowa! Show those damn limeys what we think of them!”

He looked around, then froze. There were some soldiers leading a party of civilians – civilians from an AUS town! – into the base! And they obviously weren’t prisoners!

Spies! Pelt roared mentally. He grabbed his rifle. I’ll get to the bottom of this and make them wish they’d never been born!



“Thank you so much, sir,” one of the men told Sergeant Chuck Willis.

“Think nothing of it,” Willis replied. “We need every man we can get, and I know the guy who was supplying you when you led the resistance. You’ve got battlefield experience and I’m sure we can get you and your lads signed up and attached to a nearby unit. That’s not my area, you understand, but I can’t see why anyone would-”

“WILLIS WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!”

“Oh, fuck,” Willis breathed. “Pelt.”

“Is that your CO?” the resistance leader asked. Willis shook his head frantically.

“No, he’s not. He’s an officer, but not the base commander.”

“And you’re going to be scrubbing toilets until your hands bleed!” Pelt roared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Letting Unionists into the base!”

“They’re not Unionists, sir!” Willis protested. Pelt spat on the ground.

“They’re Virginians. THAT MAKES THEM UNIONISTS.”

“Sir,” the resistance leader began. “Me and my boys here fought against the Unionist occupation from day one. We have the combat logs to prove it, and we can contact the Irregulars who organized and directed us . . . they’re right back in town right now . . . .”

“SILENCE!” Pelt shouted. “A trap, then! Spies on a deep-cover mission! You might have fooled those Irregular bitches, but you won’t fool a Regular!”

“Pelt, shut up.”

Pelt froze, his lips twisting to form a word that looked suspiciously like a curse. Colonel Brian Matthews walked up behind him, his ubiquitous straw still clenched in his teeth.

“What’s this about?” he finally asked. Pelt opened his mouth.

“Sir,” Willis cut in, “these men are from the Seventeeth Irregulars and want to formally join up. Partisans, if you will. They’ve got all the documentation to prove it-”

“SHUT UP, WILIS!” Pelt ordered. “You idiot! They’re spies, commander, you have to realize that. They’re here to sabotage the base and gather information!”

“Pelt, your raving paranoia has been noted,” Matthews grunted, his tone less than amused. “But if they have all the documentation and logs to back them up, and some witnesses in the formal Irregulars, then I see no reason to turn them away. We need all the men we can get.”

“But, sir-”

“Shut up, Captain,” Matthews instructed Pelt. “Go and oversee your detachment. This isn’t your domain. IS THAT CLEAR?”

“Yes, sir,” Pelt grumbled. The xenophobic officer turned and marched away, his back straight with disapproval.

“Well, now that that’s handled,” Matthews replied. “Come with me if you want to sign up. Good job, Sergeant Willis.”

“Thank you, sir.”



“So, as you can see, the encirclement would be complete and they’d be completely cut off.”

“I see,” President Huey Long of the American Union State replied. “But what if there was an attempted breakout maneuver here?” He tapped the big map on the wall.

Colonel Jerimiah Sawyer nodded to his President. “Yes, that would be a bit of a problem. But there’s a whole division moving to reinforce that sector, and it could be quite a while before a breakthrough could be achieved in the face of overwhelming odds like that.”

“The situation isn’t good,” Long replied. “The South’s suspiciously quiet except for that drive through the Shenandoah Valley and the Blue Ridge mountains. I hear General McBride plans on taking New Orleans back?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Sawyer nodded. Long grunted.

“In that case, I give Patton’s plan my full support. It may well be the best way to avert a complete disaster.”

“I’ll inform him immediately, Excellency,” Sawyer replied. Long waved him off.

“Send in the science team,” he said. “They should be waiting outside.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Sawyer said, saluting. He turned and left. Outside there were indeed a few scientists clutching notes and papers. Sawyer wasn’t privy to their work, but given the amount of time they spent with Long, he was beginning to wonder.

Just do your job, he told himself. Just do your job and hope for the best. We can beat the Federals.

____________________

And thus we have met some of the American Union State's soldiers. I hope you enjoy them. Pelt too - he's SOOOO tolerant and understanding of the shades of gray in war.

Expect some serious asskicking soon as the Battle for New Orleans gets in motion.

-L

Yes, they did. Pelt refuses to acknowledge its legitimacy because he views it as a complete puppet . . . which isn't that far off the mark, from an objective point of view. Then again, it DOES protect a lot of Americans from the ravages of war . . . it's just that Pelt is . . . well, spoilers. I'll let you guys figure that one out.

-L

Chapter Eleven: Reconnaissance​

“I have never advocated war except as a means of peace.”
~General Ulysses S. Grant​

The phone rang. Reed Cassidy, having just returned from his barracks – thank God for two days of leave! – groaned. He grabbed the reciever roughly.

“Is that you, Stacks?” he asked, dropping to a seat and reaching for the bottle of whiskey on his table.

“Um . . . is this a bad time?” a female voice answered. Reed jumped.

“Uh, Cassandra! Sorry about that, it’s me. Reed, that is. I just . . . well . . . .”

Cassandra laughed. “So, it’s not a bad time then? I’ve tried to call over the last few weeks but you haven’t been around.”

“No, no, of course it’s not. I’ve been on base, or out training. Um, how are you?” Reed mentally cursed his slow wits, shoving the bottle away.

“I’m doing wonderfully. The sun is shining and there’s some great waves out here at Waimanalo. You want to come show these boys how it’s done?”

“I’d love to,” Reed began. “But I only just got off my shift at the barracks.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Cassandra replied. “How are things there?”

Remember operational security, Reed reminded himself. He paused to consider.

“Well, I can’t tell you a whole lot – stupid officers and their paranoia – but I can say that things have calmed down with Japan. I think everyone’s been mollified that they really are running a training exercise in the Sea of Japan.”

“That’s a relief,” Cassandra replied. “I would hate for paradise to be at war. So, uh . . . well, I don’t want to sound . . . improper . . . but um . . . .”

Reed nearly laughed. “I’m a little tired for surfing, Cassandra, but if you’re up for it I’d be fine with catching a meal in Honolulu. Like I said last time we met, I know this place . . . .”

“Oh, a man with connections,” Cassandra chuckled. Her voice was nervous. “Alright then, my gentleman friend. I’ll be waiting near the Halekulani hotel.”

“Bit of a fancy place,” Reed joked. Cassandra just laughed.

“See you at, say, two?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Reed replied. “I’ll be there.”



“So this is Independence Hall. Looks more like-”

“A courthouse.”

“What?” Major Thomas Hardy asked Sergeant Lenny Goodman. The man shrugged.

“A courthouse. It looks like the place where I got sentenced back in ’34.”

“You didn’t happen to live here in Philly at the time, did you?” Sergeant Jessie Colt asked idly. Len shrugged.

“Been in the Windy City my whole life, Jess. ‘Cept that one time I was in Toronto for . . . never mind. You’d have to arrest me if I told you.”

“In that case, I don’t want to know,” Hardy replied, suddenly missing San Francisco. The three former Irregulars were walking down the Philadelphia streets with a small company in tow, passing checkpoints and patrolling cavalry. There hadn’t been a lot of AUS resistance in Indiana, Illinois and Ohio, but the CSA remnants were still fighting like devils. Detroit was being attacked by Canadian Marines leased by the Ontario provincial government, while General Richardson drove north.

Pittsburgh, even, had surrendered with only token resistance. Hardy and his boys had expected a serious fight for the industrial city, and it had been one of the tougher sells, but the AUS wasn’t committing a lot of forces in the north. Perhaps they were massing in the south for a counterstrike on New Orleans?

Hardy shrugged. At the moment, that wasn’t his concern. What was his concern was finalizing the plans for Trenton.

“Patton’s in Baltimore,” Len finally said. “But there’s a lot of Unionists up around NYC and in New Jersey. This ain’t gonna be easy.”

“But if we can punch through to the coast, we’ll cut ‘em off,” Hardy chuckled. “Then we pound that garrison around the Big Apple into submission before turning about and driving south again.”

“Simple enough,” Colt allowed, kicking a rock absently. The trio passed a wrecked M2 tank, some engineers attempting to salvage the howitzer from its turret. There had been something vaguely resembling a fight for Philly, even if it paled in comparison to Chicago.

“I don’t like this,” Len admitted quietly. “I thought the AUS was supposed to be the big bad – the guys who were tough to beat. These men are pansies.”

“I don’t like it either,” Colt said. “I feel like I did when my pa and I got attacked by a bear. We knew it was following us for a while, but we didn’t know what it was or when it was going to attack.”

“What happened?” Hardy asked. Colt sighed.

“The bear died, but Pa lost his legs.”



“I’m happy that you were stationed in San Francisco,” Amelia Hardy said, putting a plate on the table. “It gives you the chance to slip out here every few weeks.” She began piling the plate with food.

“Amy, I can do it myself,” Michael Hardy said, amused. Amy chuckled.

“Nonsense, Mike. This is the family home, and ever since Mom died I’m the caretaker. So in a way, you’re my guest.”

“If you insist,” Mike grumbled. Amy finished serving him, then took her own seat. They were silent for a minute.

“How’s Jack?” Mike asked finally. Amy shrugged.

“He’s doing fine, from his letters. Though from what the censors didn’t cut out of the letter, I can tell the navy’s bracing for something. I don’t know what, but something.”

“That’s interesting,” Mike said, testing the spaghetti. “I haven’t had this in a long time. It reminds me of Mom and Cecilia.”

“Yeah,” Amy smiled. “Mom would always make spaghetti, and Celia loved it so much. It was never my favorite, though.” As if to prove herself wrong, the brunette scooped up a large helping.

“And Sandra?” Mike finally asked. Amy laughed.

“She’s almost three now, Mike. She’s with her aunt for a few days so I can get this place in order and maybe catch up on my sleep.”

“Three years old?” Mike shook his head. “I remember when she was born!”

“Oh, trust me, so do I,” Amy replied with a slight smile. Mike choked on his drink, trying to fight laughter.

The obvious black topic crept over the table then. Neither sibling wanted to mention it. Finally, Amy decided to meet the issue head-on.

“Tom never saw her,” she finally said. “He was off at West Point when she was born, and his class was pulled out before their final exam when the elections went insane a year ago.”

“It’s almost Christmas, too,” Mike sighed. “I went and celebrated Christmas with him in ’35, you know. In ’34 he came back here, but you and Sandra were visiting Jack’s family and Tom had to go back before you could return.”

“I remember,” Amy said sadly. “But I saw him in ’36, when he cruised through after his vacation in Hawaii. Again, Sandra was off with Jack – he had leave from the Navy.”

“I wonder if Tom ever thinks about Sandra,” Mike grumbled.

“DON’T use my daughter as a weapon against him,” Amy snarled. Mike flinched from the sudden anger in her voice. “I told you last time, and I’ll tell you again: he is FAMILY. That hasn’t changed.”

“Amy . . . I’m sorry,” Mike said, still pale. “You . . . never . . . .”

“I know,” Amy said, mastering herself. “I’m the calm, quiet one. I don’t get angry, do I? Well, turns out I do.” She sighed. “In the first Civil War, there was a family feud on Mom’s side because her uncle ran away from the family ranch in Texas to fight for Lincoln. Her father never forgave him, and they lived their entire lives at war, even after Appomattox and the surrender. It wasn’t until Grandpa died in ’17 that I even met Uncle Pat, and he passed away in ’19.”

“I remember,” Mike said. He pulled at his own brown hair. “I can almost see why, though. I mean, the Federals can’t win this war!”

There was a long moment of quiet around the table. Amy finally took a sip from her drink, then broke it.

“What if they do, Mike? Or what if they make peace and allow the Pacific States their independence? Are you going to continue your war with Tom? Or are you going to finally let go of this betrayal?”



Commodore Kirk McNiel nodded to the helmsman, eyes never leaving the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Take us out to sea.”

“Aye, Commodore,” the man acknowledged. The battleship PSS Arizona turned slightly underfoot. McNiel smiled.

“Just a cruise,” he murmured. “As far as you know, Hirohito. Just in case you get any ideas.”

Task Force Eleven made steam out of San Francisco bay: four battleships, six cruisers, eighteen destroyers and three submarines, plus their support ships.

Just a cruise.
____________________

In other news, I just watched the season finale of Legend of Korra AND IT WAS AWESOME. I especially loved the part about airplanes striking the United Forces Fleet, because that lines up perfectly with one of my current book projects, being a Pearl Harbor kind of scene and all. Plus, DANTE BASCO

So yeah. Now that my fangirl moment is over: I've actually been to Independence Hall once, and my impression, like Hardy's, is that it looks an awful lot like a church. Len's reaction is just me playing up his ..... intriguing backstory.

A lot of action was rolled into the opening, so we're having more of an introspective downtime for the next two or three chapters. Trust me, when the action resumes, it will do so with a bang and a boom and the screams of thousands of lost, tortured souls crying out all at once, then falling silent.

All: Thanks for the comments, thanks for the support, and catch 'ya on the next chapter!

-L

Yeah, that was one of the wording glitches I didn't catch before I uploaded it. It flowed off my tongue when I was vocalizing the chapter(one of my quirky habits is to say and act most of it out before writing) and I never stopped for a minute to think about the logic of it.

So yeah. That's a legit screwup and I can't think of a way to justify it other than Hardy not knowing much about the Canadian military, which is INCREDIBLY unlikely. So I admit I messed up there.

In other news, Kaiser_Mobius - I'm gonna sound like an idiot that it's taken me this long, but. I've had a nagging itch since you started posting here that I used to be a big fan of one of your AARs but for the life of me I couldn't remember it, until just now I consciously noted your sig and realized it was In Defense of Freedom - which is what inspired me to download Kaiserreich and start messing around with it in the first place. So, indirectly, In Defense of Freedom is the grandfather of this AAR

Anyway: update in another two days or so. I need to make sure I've more carefully examined my phrasings in case I say something weird again.

-L

Chapter Twelve: Three, Two, One . . .​

“-and that leaves Fourth Battalion down here at the ford.”

Corporal Lance Gates nodded. “We’re the spearhead then. Just the way I like it.”

“It appears so,” Captain Reznos said. “Once you and your team are in position across the river, you’ll need to dig in while the engineers get the pontoon bridge organized. Then, the armor pushes across to reinforce you, followed by the infantry. We encircle New Orleans and bomb it to smithereens. Any questions?”

“No, sir!” Lance saluted. Corporal Wayne did as well. “We’ll kick some serious Federal ass tomorrow, sir.”

“Just what I like to hear, Observers,” Reznos grunted. “Well done. Patton’s move will come first, and we’ll ride in as the Federals react to his gambit.”

“Affirmative, sir!”



“Major Hardy, Major Bradford, Major Price, Captains Kackle, Melville, Sanders, Malone and Bannon, good to see you.”

Colonel Patrick “Texas Thunder” Walker nodded to each officer in turn as they entered Independence Hall. As a local CP for the Federal forces in the spearhead, it was bustling with personnel and equipment.

“Good to see you too, sir,” Bannon replied. Bradford and Price saluted smartly, as did Kackle and Melville. Sanders, Malone and Hardy gave more restrained salutes, obviously on edge.

Walker grunted. He wasn’t surprised his men were worried. The Aussie and the Scot were too disciplined to show it – probably Weltkrieg veterans, or at least close to – but the Americans oozed nervous energy. Malone and Sanders were fidgeting.

“I know something doesn’t feel right,” Walker began, popping some chew, “but bear with me. Patton’s men are on the run, we have the upper hand, blah blah blah all the shit MacArthur told me. Look, the point is, we’re heads-on in the noose and Patton’s about to yank it tight around us.”

“How?” Hardy asked; not bothering to ask why the colonel believed Patton was in such a fortuitous position. The Irregulars were a practical breed – you had to be to survive behind enemy lines.

Hardy may be a Californian and a West Pointer, but damn if he doesn’t know how to fight, Walker thought – as close to a real compliment as he could come. He broke the entire Syndie charge in Chicago. If he hadn’t held . . . we still would have taken the city, but thousands more would be dead on our side. A lot of men owe him their lives.

“Tomorrow we’re launching a drive on New Jersey to cut off Patton’s elements in New York and northern Pennsylvania. Now, I figure that Patton’s going to let us get into this attack – I mean really into it – then launch a counterstrike on Philly. Our elements are the main body of the force being left behind to protect Philadelphia, so we’re gonna take the brunt of this counterattack. It’ll be aimed at reversing the trap and encircling us, probably coinciding with a drive from West Virginia up through Ohio. I’ve brought my concerns to MacArthur, but he assured me that our flanking elements can handle a ‘ragtag bunch of rebels.’”

“The AUS is a ragtag bunch?” Bradford snorted. “They’re the best soldiers of you Yanks. No offense.”

“None taken, Aussie,” Hardy replied. “We’re new at this, but Americans are quick studies.”

“Indeed,” Walker replied. “Now, in order to salvage what’s left of MacArthur’s vanity project, I want to keep the fight out of Philly. If we let them get in among the forward CP's environs, there’s no telling how much damage they’ll do.” He tapped a point on the map. “I want to fight them here.”

Hardy looked. “Linwood. Looks like a pretty small town.”

“It was pretty badly ravaged by the opening rounds of fighting,” Walker said. “So badly that they pretty much rebuilt from scratch over the last year. It bears little resemblance to the town it used to be. We’re going to move your Irregulars down there, Hardy, together with Bradford’s A Edwards Company and the Mobys. Melville, you are in reserve. Bradford will have overall command of the defense.”

“And the rest of us?” Price asked. The Scot was rubbing his prolific mustache.

“Your B Edwards should deploy around the town in case Patton’s man on the spot tries to outflank Bradford and Hardy. Call upon the Mobys if you need a whale to back you up.” Walker grinned as Melville sighed and the others laughed. “Sanders, Kackle, and Malone are with me. We’re going to dig in here in case Bradford is forced to call a retreat. For this operation, Price, you’ll be subordinate to him.”

Price regarded Bradford coolly. “Been a long time since a Scot took orders from an Aussie. On American soil, no less.”

“I’ll try not to murder you,” Breadford returned. “Seeing as how I’m a convict and all.”

Another round of laughter. Walker grinned darkly. He loved this team already.

“And me, sir?” Bannon replied. “My tanks could form the spearhead of an attack into Patton’s flank to buy Bradford, Hardy and Price time to dig in.”

Walker considered. “That might actually work, but HQ would never go for it. Besides, I need you somewhere else.”

“Anywhere, sir!” Bannon replied. Walker pointed to a place roughly between Linwood and Philadelphia.

“Set up there and shepherd the artillery as it deploys. Once that’s done, I want you to split your command. Keep a company protecting the big guns, but send the rest toward Linwood. Split up so you can attach one to Price and another to Bradford. In the event of an emergency in Philly, I’ll call upon your men protecting the guns – think of them as a flying reserve.”

“Understood, sir,” Bannon replied, obviously put out at not being on the front line. Walker grunted.

“Patton’s men are gonna come up for this city like a cannonball on fire and it’s up to us to stop them. If they can take the CP then they’ll cut the attack force off in New Jersey and quite possibly gain a decisive advantage on the Northern front. Command doesn’t think the attack is coming, but my gut says that the advantage lies with the Unionists and not us at the moment due to the push into Virginia’s failure.”

“At least it got to Lynchburg,” Hardy reasoned. Walker nodded.

“That it did, Major, but it needed to reach Richmond to cut the enemy supplies – maybe even Petersburg. Since it didn’t, the Unionists are free to move lots of men and material north on a daily basis, and they’ll use them here against us.” He folded the map back up, then grabbed his rifle.

“Let’s get to it, gentlemen. You have your orders.”



“-and then I told him what happened with the grease. He got this strange color in his face like he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or beat me into a pulp. He settled for making me chip paint for hours.”

Cassandra Blair bit back a laugh at Reed Cassidy’s blunt conclusion to an epic spanning a machine shop, the USS Arizona – his pre-War station – an irate boatswain, Stacks, and a pair of hula dancers with flaming batons. The Hawai’ian sailor was grinning at her obvious mirth, eating the last of his ahi with a single forkful. Cassandra hadn’t even touched her kajiki, instead trying to control her amusement with a quick gulp of coke.

“That’s unbelievable,” she finally told the grinning sailor. “I’d accuse you of making it up, if it wouldn’t be rude.”

Reed winked, leaning back in his chair as Cassandra finally got started on her fish. He hadn’t expected to enjoy her company so much – to be honest, he’d never tried to really meet a girl before, instead relying on his surfing skills. She was nice, and her black hair and green eyes were alluring – a contrast to Reed’s own red and gray, respectively.

“So, now that the story of the decade is over,” Reed continued, nearly making Cassandra choke from sudden laughter, “I have to ask about you. Only fair, you know.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, after swallowing carefully. “Let’s see. I’m a California girl, born and bred. Los Angeles, you know. I’m the oldest child.”

“You have a sibling?” Reed inquired, taking a drink. Cassandra nodded.

“Yeah, a brother. He ran off though when the war started . . . I think he signed up with the AUS. He sends letters every now and then, somehow. I know he’s somewhere in Pennsylvania, but I can’t tell for sure.”

Reed nodded. “I had a big sister too. We came out here together when I got transferred.”

“Where is she?” Cassandra asked. Reed looked away.

“There were some Syndicalists back in late ’36, when everything was going to hell,” he finally murmured. “Big riot. They got put down, but . . . Callie was caught in the clash and they mistook her for one of the other side.” Reed chuckled humorlessly. “Both sides did, that is. She was shot by a Syndie while a policeman was trying to arrest her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cassandra whispered. “That must have been horrible.”

“Yeah,” Reed said. “But, let’s move on to a brighter topic. There’s no war here, and we can enjoy that peace. By the way, can I call you Cass?”

“Sure,” Cassandra replied. “Everyone does.”

There was a moment of silence between the two, Cass finishing her food before relaxing. Finally, Reed stirred.

“Well, word is that there’s a lot of ships in the Sea of Japan and have been for a while. Intel is sure that the Japanese are just doing some sort of exercise, so we’re safe.”

“That’s good to know,” Cass smiled. “These islands are American, not Japanese, however much the Emperor wants them.”

“Exactly,” Reed replied. He shook himself. “Except that we’re our own islands now, not even American. We can stand on our own two feet.”

“Of course,” Cass shook herself. “I keep slipping back into the old times and old thoughts. I wish it was 1935 again.”

“In some ways, so do I,” Reed said, looking out at Pearl Harbor. There was only one battleship now – the former USS Pennsylvania, now renamed the HMS Kamehameha. A couple destroyers serenely cruised the harbor, as well as a pair of submarines and a trio of cruisers.

Reed identified the Phoenix – his own ship – then returned his attention to Cass. Faintly, he heard the drone of fighter planes on maneuvers – a constant reminder that peace was fragile.

“What about your parents?” Cass asked. Reed shrugged.

“Virginia,” he replied. “With the rest of the clan. Last I knew, they were in some little town near Lynchburg. What about yours?”

“Los Angeles,” Cass shrugged. The planes were getting closer – in a minute they’d buzz by right overhead. Reed mentally cursed the pilots for trying low-level maneuvers in the middle of his date. He had to strain to hear Cass over the drone of engines.

“A bit loud!” Cass shouted over the noise. Reed laughed and gestured flamboyantly, to show he’d heard.

The planes soared over Honolulu, in perfect formation, nearly a hundred of them. Reed raised his hand to salute the pilots.

Then he noticed the red sun on the bottom of each wing.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered, forgetting that Cass was right there.

A small object detached from one of the planes, arcing across the street. Without thinking, Reed lunged across the table and heaved Cass to the ground, ignoring her indignant scream.

The massive blast sent glass flying across the road and through the café, chunks of masonry falling from the small radio station. Somehow, the Japanese knew just where to target for maximum effect.

“Stay here!” Reed shouted, pulling himself upright. In his sandals and shorts, he turned for the Harbor. “I have to get to the-”

Two torpedoes slammed into HMS Phoenix, causing the ship to buck upwards from the center, her keel snapping like a twig. Flames and spray soared over the ship, and Reed distinctly saw men blown into the water.

Kamehameha was the first to fire, a flak cannon going off in exactly the wrong direction. Machineguns all over the harbor began to answer as the Japanese planes spread out, bombs crashing all over Ford Island and into the patrolling – and now frantically dodging – destroyers. The flagship was hit by six bombs and four torpedoes in less than five minutes, flame and smoke pouring into the sky.

Reed grabbed Cass. “Come on!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”

“Where?” she cried.

“Inside the café!” Reed ordered. “Into the basement. NOW!”

Hawai’i was at war.



“It’s begun, Commodore.”

“I didn’t think they’d actually do it. Do we have reliable-”

“Before the telegraph lines went dead, we got a confirmation from no less than four spies. The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor. The Hawai’ian government has sent a plea to the Entente and to Sacremento for aid.”

“Do we have permission to engage?”

“Nothing official, Commodore, but the mission statement was to engage at your discretion.”

“Hm. Hawai’i is calling for aid, you said?”

“Yes, commodore.”

“Then Task Force Eleven will answer. Set course for Pearl Harbor. Radio silence. Let’s not let them know we’re coming.”
____________________

These lessons that we've learned here . . . have only just beguuuuunn . . . . .

/cracks neck

Showtime.

-L