Mech Legions: The Complete Trilogy - Box Set

By Michael G. Thomas

The Nazis and their allies won the war, but peace in the twenty-first century is proving much harder to keep. It's twenty years since the failed British Mutiny left London a burnt-out husk. A reminder of the new world order that covers most of the globe. Yet even in this dark time there are rumours of growing resistance movements deep inside North America. The patriotic freedom fighters of New York City have the willpower to succeed, but what can they do against the unending numbers of Reich soldiers that occupy their defeated nation, and their monstrous walking machines of war, known as Landships?

‘Mech Legions’ is the brand new science-fiction series by the bestselling authors, Michael G. Thomas and Nick S. Thomas. The box set includes the complete full length novels Battle for New York, Winter War and Killing Fields.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370813032

Michael G. Thomas

Michael G. Thomas, is a writer, martial artist and military historian. He has written books on European martial arts and military history as well as Zombie Survival books and fiction. He is the co-founder of the prestigious Academy of Historical Fencing that teaches traditional armed and unarmed European martial arts. His specialist subject areas are teaching the use of the medieval two handed longsword and the German long knife in both the UK and other parts of Europe.He academic background is as varied as his writing with degrees in Computing, Classical Studies and Machine Learning. In recent years he has undertaken substantial research in the fields of machine learning and artificial intelligence as well as Ancient Greek and Byzantine military history.Michael is currently completing his Champions of the Apocalypse Series and Star Crusades science fiction series.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

London, 31st March 1997

Last day of the British Mutiny

Get this beast fired up, move it! yelled a Britisher in a grease and oil stained tanker’s boiler suit.

The vast reading room of the British Museum was a hive of activity as armed men and women rushed back and forth. Many wore old military webbing, a few with olive drab button up jackets so threadbare and faded they were almost white in places. Some wore the old turtle pattern helmets with fragments of torn netting barely clinging to the rim. Every one of them had a piece of blue cloth tied around their left arm with a white five-pointed star at its centre, the symbol of the uprising movement.

What are you waiting for, a miracle? asked the filthy soldier, as he stopped in front of a man idly sitting on a collapsed stone pillar, puffing on a cigarette. The man who’d spoken to wore a mid-blue baseball jacket with white sleeves. Though the colours were so dirty they’d started to blend together. A bandolier of magazines was slung across his chest, and under the jacket a boiler suit much like the others wore, except the upper part had ripped open and hung down to his waist. He cradled a compact submachine gun in his lap, a 9mm Sterling; once the pinnacle of British arms manufacture, but now a beaten-up relic, and long past its glory days.

I guess I’m waiting for you to get started, he replied in a thick New York accent. His face was streaked with dirt and oil from what may have been from a weeks’ worth of fighting, or one hell of a dirty job working on oily machinery. Perhaps it was both. He was in his early twenties, and no way would you describe him as fresh faced. The jet-black hair was slicked back, probably with oil rather than gel. His face stubbly, and yet his crystal-clear blue eyes were sharp and clear, a strong contrast to every other part of his dishevelled appearance. The face belonged to Sergeant Raymond ‘Ray’ Barnes, one of the few Americans serving with the British freedom fighter movement.

You could at least have had a shave, the Britisher pointed out as he towered over him.

The Brit was also of filthy appearance, yet his face was clean-shaven, except for his perfectly shaped pencil moustache. Lieutenant Gerry Baker was a stiff upper-lipped traditionalist. Even standing in the ruins while the end drew near, preparing for their final stand, he stayed calm and confident, displaying a semblance of his accustomed neat grooming. Ray puffed on his cigarette as he stared at him in disbelief.

I don’t know how you do it. He regarded Baker’s smooth chin, and his erect, soldier’s stance. His own shoulders were slumped, an unconscious sign he had all but accepted defeat.

The Brit ignored the comment. However this goes, it has been an honour to fight alongside you. For an American, you sure put on one hell of a show.

I can’t say I came here to lose.

Then don’t.

Attention! a soldier roared.

General Sir Thomas Jackson strode into the room. He wore OD fatigues and carried the same Sterling submachine gun as Ray. His uniform consisted of service dress with a crusher cap on his head. Jackson was young to carry the rank and title, but he had a lot to live up to, his renowned father having given exemplary service in the war. A few years older than Ray and Gerry, Jackson gestured for them to carry on as he approached. He stopped before them, took a deep breath, and asked the question he’d come to ask. He looked like he didn’t expect to get the answer he wanted. The answer he desperately needed.

Is it ready?

Well...you know… began Ray.

Baker cut in.

She’s all good and ready to go at ‘em, Sir. His voice was upbeat and enthusiastic.

Jackson’s glance travelled beyond them, toward a huge sheet like a curtain hanging between the tower and opposite wall. Where they’d drawn a piece of the sheet back, he could just make out a large plate of armour with hydraulic equipment attached to it. A number of men and women swarmed over the machine, working to finish.

Final checks or problems? asked the General.

That remains to be seen, whispered Ray, his voice cynical.

She is ready to raise hell, Sir, said Baker, as if hoping the General hadn’t heard the Sergeant.

A petrol engine fired up from inside the curtain and roared at high revs for a few moments. None of them commented, waiting and hoping for the next stage to work. Next they heard a whirring sound as the engine began to crank several larger diesel motors, and then everything roared into life. Smoke belched all around them, and Ray coughed to catch his breath. Over the clatter of the heavy diesel engines they heard gunfire and grenades exploding in the distance. Ray and Gerry glanced across the huge space. Almost two hundred resistance fighters had gathered. Some were former soldiers, some police officers still wearing parts of their uniform, and others civilians who had probably never held a weapon before the start of the resistance movement. They noticed even a few recognisable political figures dotted among the fighters. Many were busy building sandbag emplacements, anticipating the worst.

Two light machine guns were in process of being set up across the room in an enfilade position. The characteristic top-mounted vertical magazines protruded from the receivers in a way that was so iconically British. Like those weapons used since the earliest days of the war, so many years ago. These short barrel versions with near vertical magazines had been re-chambered to the Allied standard 7.62mm. A reliable workhorse of a weapon, but antiquated compared to the captured Nazi machine gun set up beside them in support. The shouts of German soldiers echoed in the distance, and each man and woman knew it was time.

Good luck, gentlemen, and God speed, said Jackson.

* * *

The heavily armoured Kriegsmarine pioneers advanced along the street, their faces wary, searching for signs of the enemy. They carried the standard issue 6mm Mauser G88, a tough assault carbine constructed from the latest polymers. The firearm was loaded with thirty rounds in translucent magazines, and the bulbous tritium telescopic sight provided illumination even in low light. The weapon was powerful, yet weighed a scant three kilograms, even with the sighting system attached. The marines checked the shadows for rifle muzzles poking out or hidden traps, and they moved slowly, weighed down by articulated plates of composite plastic and metal. Their heads were shielded by what appeared to be reinforced welding masks, with overhanging sections stretching to the shoulders.

Experience of fighting the British over the past months had demonstrated they needed as much protection as possible. The Kriegsmarine might not be the most prized posting inside the Reich military, but it was without doubt the most imaginative. Field commanders had created the assault armour in the weeks leading up to the invasion, and it had proved so popular even Waffen SS regiments were copying the designs. Mines, explosives, and hidden traps had taken a severe toll of the Reich ground forces, and no man wanted to return home as yet another limbless hero.

Behind the Kriegsmarine pioneers came the lumbering sixteen-metre-tall, eight hundred-tonne bipedal machine, the dreaded Eiserner Gott, or Iron God. The armoured Kriegsmarine landship was as big as a large building, top heavy, of crude appearance, and bristling with weapons. The name was well chosen. The puffing beast crunched on the ground as it walked, its heavy iron feet pounding the road to dust. Smoke bellowed from the exhausts, and the diesel generators roared, making any chance of a stealthy advance impossible. A small armoured car raced across the street towards the behemoth, its improvised turret blazing away defiantly. The Eiserner Gott scarcely broke stride as it tracked the incomer and opened fire. Two of the lighter cannons blasted the vehicle apart, sending its devastated chassis hurtling into a ruined dwelling house.

Another cloud of black smoke enveloped the machine as it revved its engines to generate greater power. It resembled a massive, slow, lumbering iron-plated demon. The machine’s superstructure was weighty around the top, with a pair of motorised armoured limbs hanging to its flanks. More modern landships carried advanced missiles and weapons, but not Eiserner Gott. The old machine was a Series II armoured landship of the Kanonier Class. She’d been designed for fighting in the streets of a ruined Europe a generation earlier. A street brawler plain and simple, and today the machine was proving its worth.

Hatches closed! Kapitän Klenner shouted.

The few remaining open hatches slammed shut, and the Kapitän slid into his seat. Vision was severely restricted inside the hull, but the armour plating would keep them safe from incoming fire. Machine gun bullets hammered against the sloped frontal armour, some coming perilously close to the fragile periscope lenses. Most of the bullets glanced off the steel in a shower of sparks, a few leaving a series of small dents to add to the hundreds that already covered the machine's hull.

Emblazoned on the flanks of her armour in faded white paint was the name Eiserner Gott. The name they’d given her when she was built, based on her size and configuration. She towered over the burnt-out column of armoured cars like some great monster of old. The metal beast was ugly, with a hull that appeared to have been hacked from the heart of a Wehrmacht issue super-heavy tank. Its waist was hidden behind layered armour and thick hips that extended to the legs. The legs were short, stocky, and perfectly constructed to hold up the vast weight of the fighting machine.

Halt! Klenner snapped, Gunners, check your sectors.

The crew obeyed the order and scanned from left to right, searching for signs of the enemy. The noise of battle faded, to be replaced by a gentle breeze drifting through the streets of the British capital. The contrast between the brutal machine and the elegant structure of the old city couldn’t have been greater. London had become a charred carcass, with entire city blocks reduced to rubble. It had taken decades for the Reich to establish its global dominance, yet even now the British fought on as though their mutiny had any chance of success. Kapitän Klenner would enjoy the moment when the violent insurgency ended in the final battle.

While the advanced, high-tech armoured units of the Waffen SS rampaged through the city, he’d been sent to the borough of Camden, away from the main fighting, to escort two regiments of Wehrmacht foot soldiers. They were pinned down a dozen blocks away along the Thames. But not Eiserner Gott. She continued onwards, striking at the heart of the enemy’s defences.

They’re falling back. Good, at last they understand this is the end.

Kapitän Klenner glanced to the right, where little remained of the low wall and iron railings marking the boundary between the famous British Museum and the rubble-strewn Great Russell Street. The site had been a Mecca to visitors for generations, although now little different from the other shattered streets in the ruins that had once been the gleaming capital city of London. Large concrete barriers like the teeth of some ancient beast littered the area, making it all but impossible for wheeled vehicles to enter. Rubble lay piled in long sections, creating earthworks to protect the enemy.

Good, this is it, said Klenner, Keep your eyes open. This is the location our intelligence flagged as being a place of importance.

A flurry of dots flickered in the distance. To anybody else it might be just a glint of light. Kapitän Klenner knew better.

Incoming!

He didn’t even flinch this time as rifle fire glanced off the armour. He knew they were safe inside the giant metal behemoth, but he was no fool. He’d seen the carnage of the landing grounds in Hythe, along the coast where the heavy equipment had come ashore. The British had secured the ports in the first few days, but the Kriegsmarine simply diverted to the beaches. Eiserner Gott was tough, but a well-aimed missile or shell could end his war in a single moment.

There!

A machine gunner spotted the flash of light, but before he could fire, a rocket hurtled from a hidden position. An old-fashioned wire-guided weapon, so beloved by the British insurgents, it exploded harmlessly against the wire screens hung over the sides of Eiserner Gott. They’d retrofitted armour to the landship, protecting the vulnerable joints from improvised explosive charges and rockets. An unconscious imitation of the chainmail worn by medieval knights. A bank of machine guns rotated to the right and spat bullets, tearing apart those daring enough to defy the presence of the metal machine. Three big guns and batteries of machine guns protruded from armoured cupolas, and bright red Reich war flags fluttered from the tall antennas fitted along the machine’s upper structure.

Eiserner Gott was the perfect fighting machine, or at least, she had been thirty years ago when constructed as the first of the heavy Kriegsmarine Landships, now back from retirement and fighting in Britain. The landships were to have ended the stalemate in less than a month, using superior armour and weaponry to breach the city’s defences, allowing infantry and tanks to continue onwards. Yet even now, after so much devastation and destruction, the final remnants of the enemy continued to fight. Eiserner Gott remained in action, and she would finish what she had begun.

The twenty-eight year-old officer was a veteran of the Afrika War, with experience of fighting rebels in the Ukraine and Vichy France, and now on the hallowed ground of the old enemy. The one nation that refused to accept defeat by the might of the Pan-European Reich. Britain had been defeated militarily years ago, yet its occupation had proved tougher than anyone could have imagined. Even with her air force annihilated, and her once proud navy destroyed or scuttled, the fighting spirit of the long dead Winston Churchill remained.

The fools, there is no reason to continue fighting. The war is over. Their allies submitted long ago, and all they do is destroy their own cities. This mutiny is insanity.

He stared at his crew, the small band of exhausted yet eager men from across Europe. There were seven of them, and like him, they wanted nothing more than to see the fighting over.

We will end this…today. For them, and for us. There can be no peace with the Englanders until London submits.

Jawohl! the chorus of replies came back to him. Klenner smiled and turned to watch the final moments of the battle. The seat felt comfortable and familiar, and his hands moved to the viewing controls as though they were an extension to his arms. He’d commanded Eiserner Gott since she’d re-entered service eight years ago, and the two were inseparable. Man and machine functioned as a single unit, with the crew acting as his limbs and muscles. The machine took another step and froze in the street. Tracer fire reached out from the rubble and distant buildings, but the bullets merely glanced off the thick armour.

Load HE, wait for my command.

The gunners selected the correct ammunition on their toggle switches, and the motorised loaders inserted the shells into the breeches. In seconds, all three guns were ready to fire. Two squads of heavily armoured marine attack troops waited beneath the legs to continue the advance.

Keep watching your sectors, he said calmly, "Take your time, and root them out from their hiding places. Remember, one man in the right place and at the right time can bring down even Eiserner Gott. Ever vigilant!"

One by one the squads of Kriegsmarines went forward, others halting to check for pockets of defenders, and to provide covering fire if needed. Sporadic sniper fire from the nearby rooftops clattered around them, with occasional shots ringing against the hull and impacting the marine’s body armour. Klenner watched the marines moving through the debris, only to run head-on into further hidden infantry positions. Both sides exchanged fire, but the more heavily armoured Kriegsmarines easily brushed them aside.

Driver, move out, but take it slowly.

Eiserner Gott lumbered ahead one careful step at a time. The heavy legs and feet crushed the rubble as they moved. Klenner observed the shattered ground carefully, and his eyes found what remained of a motorcade. Several pennants remained, those of the British High Command.

So, the information was correct.

He’d assumed they were looking for a weapons stash or possibly a VIP. Instead, it seemed they’d run into a trapped military convoy, perhaps taking out the last members of the British government and senior military commanders who had stayed behind. It meant he’d potentially located the one group that could end the fighting.

1st Platoon, advance to the museum perimeter. 2nd Platoon, secure the flanks. Engineers, clear the path. We end this…today.

The Naval soldiers spread out as they’d been trained, watching for signs of hidden enemy troops and booby-traps. Kapitän Klenner watched with satisfaction as two squads of engineers detonated explosive charges, tearing apart the last abandoned fortifications hastily erected by the British in the last week. Something screamed overhead, a trio of Luftwaffe jet bombers. The three aircraft left contrails behind them, a reminder of the total air superiority enjoyed by the Reich.

Herr Kapitän, the street is clear, said Leutnant Waldemar.

Good work, Leutnant. Send in your men. We advance on the museum.

Jawohl!

The squads of armoured marines broke through the shattered wall and fencing, advancing inside. The open courtyard was empty of enemy troops, save for a burnt-out tank. Heaps of rubble was all that remained of the façade, the fourteen-metre-high columns smashed into broken heaps on the ground. Beyond lay the gleaming reading room; a tall, cylindrical, tower like structure that rose from the ashes, resembling some ancient fortress. The metal and glass ceiling lay twisted and shattered around it, offering some protection from above.

There…we’re almost there.

Two flags fluttered over the structure, and just seeing the bright colours of rebellion sent a shiver through his body. The Englanders were not the real enemies of the Reich, and it pained him to fight his brothers in Britain. Many of their kin had been freed following the Reich victories in the Mediterranean, and they’d proven to be some of the most steadfast recruits in the Reich army divisions. Yet none of those units were present for the invasion of Britain. Not even the new Reich Führer would dare take that gamble. He pulled the intercom from the ceiling of the clanking beast.

This is Kapitän Klenner. I’m in position facing the enemy fortification at the British Museum. I have located the British High Command’s convoy, and I have the position surrounded. Requesting orders.

The delay was short, but the harsh voice of regional command made him sit upright.

Your orders are clear, Kapitän. Sanitise the area. No survivors.

He felt a churning in his gut.

Command, please confirm. We have a chance…

Negative. Complete your mission, or wait for Obersturmführer Schneider to take over the attack. His Waffen SS units are four kilometres away. They will finish what you cannot…if that is your choice, Kapitän.

Just mentioning the dreaded Waffen SS sent a surge of distaste through his body. Decades of neglect had eroded the strength of the regular army, navy, and air force units that comprised the Wehrmacht, while the Waffen SS units continued to flourish. They were the golden boys of the Reich military, yet they lacked the honour and professionalism that still existed in every arm of the military.

Contact! Oberleutnant Preston yelled, Enemy armour entrenched near the fortification. They are about to counterattack.

Klenner kept his eyes fixed firmly on the view through the forward periscope while he listened. There was a large ring of periscopes fitted beneath the chin of Eiserner Gott, giving him a clear view of the battlefield. From this raised position, Klenner overlooked the ruined buildings, and could even see into some of the trenches in use by the remnants of the British military. The flags continued to fly, and they resembled burnt rags, all of them punctured with bullet holes. As he looked, men and women, most armed with rifles, rushed out and took cover amid the rubble.

I see them, he said calmly, Gunners, target their defences. Fire at will.

He flinched as more bullets struck the upper hull armour. Riflemen were hidden in the rubble throughout the wrecked museum, and he suspected the tall reading room was just a distraction. What concerned him most was the entrenched tank, half buried under concrete. The British had lost their more advanced munitions months ago, but these antique weapons could still cause him trouble. Eiserner Gott shuddered as the two arm-mounted, massively modified L3 snub-barrelled 150mm cannons opened fire. They were short and looked more like siege-mortars than guns. The experimental E100 tank in ‘48, the precursors to the even bigger E1000 series and its variants, had been the first to carry the powerful weapons. The guns sent high-explosive shells into the broken masonry, kicking up bright explosions that filled the area with smoke, flame, and noise.

Confirmed hits. Wait…the tank…it is moving. I think it’s a…

Kapitän Klenner interrupted him. He had little interest in the model of the tank. His priority was to stay alive.

Use the secondary guns. Do not let it open fire.

The smaller shoulder-mounted howitzers were designed for fire-support and slaved in a dual mount to work together. Though not ideally suited for use against armour, they were more than enough to deal with an old machine like the tank before them.

It’s targeting us. Driver, evasive action!

An alarm sounded inside Eiserner Gott as the driver directed reserve power from the diesel generators and batteries to the legs. The machine lurched to the left just as the tank’s gun fired. A large calibre shell hurtled towards the walking machine. Three articulated amour plates and an entire section of mesh tore off and crashed to the ground.

Firing! said the first gunner.

Eiserner Gott shuddered as the ordnance left the muzzles, and before the British crew could react, both howitzers rained explosive shells onto the hull, destroying it with ease.

Damage report!

Oberleutnant Preston, the landship’s first officer, sighed with relief.

Just minor damage. That was close.

Then he spotted the laden figures moving in around them.

More enemy infantry closing in with detonation charges. I can see a second group trying to flank us.

Klenner glanced to the left and saw the figures surging towards the Kriegsmarine infantry. Two explosions erupted, though he had no idea if they were using suicide weapons, or if it was merely grenades.

"Sir, they’re close!

"Yes. Deploy the shields. Gunners, drive them away. Protect Eiserner Gott at all costs."

The order was unnecessary. Even as he said the words, he heard the chatter of the guns. Eiserner Gott like all armoured vehicles was vulnerable to being swamped by infantry, and her designers had made certain every angle of approach was well protected by machine guns. The shields were simple devices, large metal shutters that could be lowered to protect the legs. A hurricane of gunfire and smoke enveloped the machine, and when his vision returned, Kapitän Klenner observed the surviving enemy soldiers in full retreat as they tried to get away from the devastating gunfire.

"Excellent work, men. Once again, Eiserner Gott drives them away like frightened rabbits."

The small group of men cheered, although the Kapitän understood not all of their hearts were in it. The war had been going on for so long and casualties so high, few of the original crew remained. The current crewmen of Eiserner Gott were truly multinational, and no more than a third native Germans. Kapitän Klenner was from the old city of Hamburg, and came from a long line of Naval officers. The rest were an odd mixture of Vichy French, Hungarians, and Austrians. Unusually for a landship unit, he also carried an English Leutnant named John Preston, a veteran who’d fought in Afrika over a decade earlier; a war in which the landships had seen much service.

Driver, move in close.

The men of the Kriegsmarine were surging ahead, moving over the broken steps and into the museum proper. Gunfire peppered the ground around them, but the last few defenders could put up no more than light resistance. Klenner almost felt sorry for them as his armoured troopers cut their way inside.

It will be over in seconds.

Uh…Kapitän!

He stared in the direction John Preston was pointing.

What is it?

The building…it is moving.

Driver, halt.

Eiserner Gott came to a halt; its multiple diesel engines still rumbled away to power the electrical systems and recharge the reserve battery packs. The fighting in the museum reached a crescendo as both sides fought for the last few hundred metres. Waffen SS armoured units were already coming in from the North, and Wehrmacht regulars were moving through the remainder of the city. And then the unthinkable happened.

Verdammt!

The tall cylindrical building collapsed, and inside the centre of the remains there appeared an even bigger machine than Eiserner Gott. It rose up and stretched out its limbs, and began taking giant steps. The body was crude in shape but still it moved relatively quickly. Machine guns on the lower sponsons opened fire, cutting down the Kriegsmarine soldiers. As it stepped out into the light, Klenner gasped.

My God, I don’t believe!

Rockets spewed out from hidden tubes, and for a few seconds the machine appeared to be about to charge in a frenzied frontal attack. The legs were reversed, like those of a goat, and the hull little larger than a heavy tank. It carried both guns and racks filled with rockets. Klenner was so surprised the machine made it halfway towards him before he was able to react.

Driver, circle that monster. Gunners, aim for the legs. Move shields to the front. We have to disable that thing. We’ll need to examine it when the battle is over.

The first barrage of rockets slammed into the front of Eiserner Gott, blinding them temporarily. When the dust had cleared, the machine was gone, leaving a trail of Kriegsmarine bodies behind it.

What was it? asked a gunner.

You fool, Klenner snapped, Can’t you see? The Englanders have constructed a landship. What a futile endeavour!

He snorted.

Gunners, load high-velocity armour piercing rounds into all guns.

It’s behind us!

At the shout, Klenner spun the viewing periscopes around. The machine was in their rear quarter, half hidden behind three broken columns, and firing rockets once again.

Bring us around! Hurry!

The lumbering landship turned slowly, but before they could aim their weapons and fire, the next barrage slammed into the machine. The rockets hit one after the other, destroying the shoulder-mounted howitzers, and triggering fires along one flank of the landship.

Vehicles are escaping, Kapitän! Preston said.

Three small automobiles were skidding away from the museum. They were moving too fast for him to give chase.

Ignore them, concentrate on that machine!

They’d turned the landship to face the walker. Painted in standard army green, the machine was clearly armed with many components and ground turrets commonly used by the British. It was impressive, if hastily built, and undoubtedly based on captured Reich designs. It moved to the side but was then hit by something from the right. Three more shells struck the enemy machine, badly damaging a leg.

Tanks! Leutnant Preston yelled.

Klenner sighed with relief as he spotted a heavy tank platoon coming in from the West. The machines were covered in camouflage netting, and carrying a dozen soldiers on their upper structures. A large red flag displaying the dreaded cross of the regime hung from the first. Klenner recognised the shape of the E-80, commonly known as the Super Tiger. The standard front-line machine of the Reich, the tank was more than a match for anything in use by the British. His exhilaration faded when he recognised the markings and insignia of the infamous junior company officer, Hans Schneider. Also known as the Butcher of Paris.

It’s Obersturmführer Schneider. He arrives with his platoon of Tigers just in time, as always.

But to all their surprise, the damaged walking tank swivelled its weapons, and loosed off a further volley of rockets. They hammered into the thick armour plating of the tank and it exploded. It shouldn’t have been possible, yet somehow the rockets burst inside the vehicle, setting off a massive denotation that could be felt even inside Eiserner Gott. Small guns opened up, punching further holes into the armour of the burning tank before it turned its attention to the next tank in line. The E-80 was a tough machine, but utterly outclassed by the armoured monster lumbering about the ruins.

Still, the Obersturmführer bought me some time, if nothing else.

He had little sympathy for the men of Schneider’s unit. He’d heard the rumours of their cruel brutality and wanted nothing to do with them. They were the Reich’s rotten underbelly, something he always hoped to avoid contact with.

Fire at will!

The gunner stamped on the trigger, but the main gun misfired. A flash ripped through the upper deck, killing him outright and knocking out the left gun and the loaders for the secondary guns. A chunk of metal flashed past, slicing Klenner’s face, and spraying blood on his Naval uniform.

Driver, move closer. Machine gunners, fire on that thing!

Eiserner Gott moved at a fast walk towards the British machine. It would have been almost comical to watch from outside as it strode ahead, its torso on fire, and long-armoured limbs swinging back and forth. It reached the machine just as the British responded. Two further rockets hit Eiserner Gott at the front, killing the remaining gunners, and pinning Kapitän Klenner to his seat.

Driver, ram that thing! Bring up the arms and engage the blades.

Eiserner Gott travelled the last few steps, lifting its arms high. Long sections of hardened steel pushed out like scythes. It was rare for the landships to use them, but this seemed to be the right moment. They crashed into the machine with such force the British walker flipped onto its back. The machine hit the ground hard and lay still, unable to move. But Eiserner Gott had also sustained catastrophic damage. The driver looked up at him, shaking his head.

Arms and guns are non-functional.

Movement off to the right attracted his eye. He glanced across as another of the E-80 heavy tanks ground its way along the street. At over a hundred tonnes it was overkill for this battle, yet that didn’t concern the Waffen SS crew. The tanks were a terrifying sight on the streets of London, and the gunners fired at anything that moved, slashing into the few remaining enemy soldiers trying to surrender. Klenner glanced back at the stricken enemy machine. The hatches were open and the crew running for their lives.

Let them go. There’s been enough killing for today.

The driver looked up at him.

And the machine?

End it.

With deft control, the driver brought up the left leg of Eiserner Gott, and in a swift movement stamped the iron foot on the torso of the enemy machine. The hull caved in like a broken egg, followed by a series of small explosions that ripped through the interior.

Klenner leant back in his seat and looked at his crew. Half were dead, and Eiserner Gott was badly damaged. Small fires burned inside and were growing larger by the second. It was obvious they were about to rage out of control.

Everybody out, move it!

He released his harness, extricating himself from the hull, and swung down from the short ladder before hitting the ground. The situation was more than dangerous as the battle still raged, and he whipped out his pistol as he raced away from the flames. Yet it was almost over. Around a dozen British soldiers and civilians were moving towards him. Several waved white flags, and at their flanks were the remnants of his Kriegsmarines. A paunchy British officer with a bandaged arm stepped forward.

General Sir Thomas Jackson, he announced.

Squads of Waffen SS soldiers swarmed into the complex, and Klenner glanced at them with as much wariness as he did the enemy. Sensing the violence about to erupt and anxious to contain it, he placed his pistol back in the holster and nodded to the Englander.

Kapitän Klenner, 52nd Marine Attack Troop Company, Kriegsmarine.

The Englander stared back at him, his eyes deep, exhausted pits filled with tired resignation.

As the senior surviving member of His Majesty’s armed forces, I offer our unconditional surrender.

The man reached to his belt holster and withdrew his pistol. A moment of danger, but Klenner was too tired to be worried. He waited as the man reversed the weapon and handed it to him butt first.

Thank you, General. On behalf of the Kriegsmarine, the Wehrmacht and the Reich, I accept your surrender.

Both sides relaxed at the words, and when he looked to the side, Leutnant Preston was standing next to him.

Kapitän, is it over?

Yes, Leutnant, the battle for London has ended. This insurrection…this mutiny is over at last.

A Kriegsmarine officer removed his bulky armoured helmet and rubbed his sweat-covered face. Others did the same, and before long cheering echoed around the ruins. Even Klenner allowed himself a smile.

I can return home…finally.

The smile left his face when he spotted the sour-faced Waffen SS officer. The man’s expression betrayed his livid anger as he approached. An entire squad of his soldiers were with him, and it was easy to deduce the officer had murder on his mind. Behind him, three more E-80 heavy tanks had halted, their turrets constantly tracking as they searched for further signs of the enemy.

Kapitän, what is this outrage?

Kapitän Klenner stared back at him. He outranked the man significantly, but that seemed to mean nothing to the SS man. The Waffen SS were a law unto themselves, and considered the Schutzstaffel superior in every respect to all other military units and their officers. Regardless of rank.

Obersturmführer Hans Schneider, how very nice to see you.

Klenner lowered his head slightly in a polite gesture.

Your platoon was of much use to us. I hope your casualties were not too severe.

Marcus turned away, choosing to ignore the look on the man’s face.

I’ve accepted the surrender of General Sir Thomas Jackson, and so the fighting is over.

The two men exchanged fearsome looks.

That man is a traitor, and a mutineer. He can expect…

The General is in military uniform, and has fought and surrendered according to the articles of war. I would remind you I have accepted his surrender, Obersturmführer.

He almost spat out the SS rank, reminding him who was the boss in this place. A Kapitän, he ranked the same as an Oberst in the Heer, equivalent to a full colonel in the British military. For all his rage and bitterness, the Obersturmführer knew it was over. Victory in London and the end of the mutiny was the military objective, and even he knew that continuing the fighting would merely get him shot by him superiors. It was over, but Klenner knew from that moment on, he’d made yet another enemy in the ranks of the dreaded SS, and that was an enemy he would have preferred not to have.

CHAPTER TWO

Rikers Island, New York, 14th November 2017

Twenty years later

Prisoner 182378 step forward!

Ray sighed. He’d never got used to being called by the number they’d assigned to him. Although he was glad this was the last time he would have to respond to it. He stared at the man behind the desk with contempt. He wore the green uniform of the ORPOs, the heavy-handed law enforcement officers who treated the population as though they were all criminals. He wore the Nazi eagle with obvious pride and refused to make eye contact with Ray.

As he stepped up to the desk, the man lifted a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, before intentionally blowing smoke into his face. The smoke was sweet smelling, an imported German brand, and that made Ray’s dislike of him even greater. He hated anyone who donned the uniform, especially if they were Americans, his own kind. He still didn’t understand how a born and bred American could do it. Yet the Nazi uniform-wearing ORPOs were the sole law enforcement across the entire country, aside from the clandestine operatives who even the ORPOs feared.

Ray leant on the counter, peering at the officer who was rifling through a small box of items, the possessions they’d taken off him when he first arrived. The officer noticed him watching and stopped. He looked up with an expression of utter scorn, and still would not speak. He nodded to another guard behind Ray and coughed. Ray felt the crack as the baton struck the back of his right knee. His leg started to give out, and he fell back from the counter before regaining his balance.

You aren’t out yet! yelled the officer.

Ray turned and stared at the man who’d hit him. Under his searching gaze the ORPO was growing angrier by the second, but Ray’s defiant character would not let him submit.

Eyes front, or we’ll find a good reason for you to stay a while longer!

The impasse lasted another few seconds, and then the baton crashed into the side of his face. His head snapped around so he was indeed looking to the front again. The blow had rattled his teeth, and he felt around to check they were still in place. The side of his face was sore. His teeth had bitten into his gums, and blood trickled from his lip. There was no good reason for the sudden violence, but the reason or lack of one made little difference. In this place they needed no justification for their brutality. The guards revelled in their power, and the violence they were allowed and encouraged to dish out.

One pair of jeans, blue. One leather jacket, brown. One…

The guard reeled off the list of everything he had come in with, but Ray blocked it from his mind. All he could think of was becoming a free man again. Not that the world outside was all that free anymore, but it was better than this place. Rikers, an overcrowded hellhole filled with every kind of criminal from political dissident to murderers and paedophiles. He’d made it through because he could fight hard with his bare hands, but it had been a close-run thing.

Before long he was dressed in his own clothes, and they led him out the door and through a mesh screened corridor into the open air. The guards didn’t say another word to him as he exited the final door, as if resentful he was finally getting out. He was pale and covered in stubble, looking just as bad as he had in the closing days of the rebellion all those years ago. He strolled along the sidewalk and stopped at a scarred concrete wall to look out across the water to the island that had been his home. He exhaled, realising how much of his life had been wasted. Without doubt he would be back inside this place before long. More of his life wasted.

The rasp of a faulty exhaust and the uneven rumble of a poorly maintained straight six-gasoline engine made him look around, in time to see a car pull up behind him. The brakes squealed as it came to a halt. Without doubt it had come for him, but he didn’t recognise the driver. The beaten-up Oldsmobile was long past its best days. The driver’s door swung up, and a man in his mid-twenties, bursting with enthusiasm, leapt out.

Sergeant Raymond Barnes?

The man who asked the question had slick blond hair and a fresh face. He was wearing an old M43 combat jacket with the insignia removed, although the outlines of where the badges had once been were clear for all to see.

Who’s asking? he grunted.

A friend, he smiled, Or I will be. I’m Charlie. Jump in.

He hadn’t expected a welcome, although the offer was appealing. Right now he’d accept a ride from anyone other than an ORPO. He went to the passenger door and lifted the handle. It was stuck.

Just give it a good yank! Charlie yelled.

It wouldn’t budge. The enthusiastic driver lifted his leg across the bench seat and kicked the door panel full force. It swung open with a loud creak, and Ray looked inside. The young man was smiling back at him.

Hey, I bet you could do with a drink!

That was the best offer he’d heard in as long as he could remember. He climbed in, heaving the door shut as they pulled away. He said nothing, despite Charlie clearly expecting him to speak. He kept looking at him in anticipation, but when nothing came, he gave in and spoke.

I know a good little place that serves booze, don’t you worry.

Where?

The Bronx.

Ray shrugged; with no home to go to, he was indifferent.

After a pause, Charlie spoke again. Sergeant, you been inside long?

It’s Ray, he replied solemnly.

But you served, didn’t you?

A long time ago, sure, he said wearily.

Once a soldier, always a soldier, that’s what they tell me.

Who?

You know…people.

Maybe back when that was something for a soldier to be proud of. Who could honestly hold their head up high and be proud of a soldier’s work today?

You’re sure right there.

He spoke in an excited tone as if nothing could dent his enthusiasm. Even Ray felt better, although the man was tiring, he was free and glad to not have to keep looking over his shoulder.

He surveyed the city through the windshield as they made their way across town. It was overcast and bleak, like the hunched, grey expressions of everyone he saw. They passed ORPOs every few car lengths, almost as if they were stationed on the corner of every block. Their patrol cars were in every street. He recalled the photos of how it used to look. The hustle and bustle of a vibrant city alive filled with excitement. He’d not known that time but had often dreamed of it.

On a street corner they watched ORPOs beating a group of youths with their truncheons, and no passer-by intervened. Instead, they went on with their business, making to stay as far away as possible.

It hasn’t got any easier since you’ve been in, said Charlie.

How could it? he replied despondently. They left the scene of the police violence behind them. Both despised what that they saw, but they were desensitised to it. Besides, they could do nothing, not unless they wanted to suffer the same fate or worse. Ray hated having to be that way. He’d served enough time, too much to go back inside just for helping out people like those they’d seen. He didn’t like turning a blind eye, but he prized his freedom above everything.

The car drew to a halt, and he barged the door open. They were outside a rough old bar called O’Neil’s. Once a grandiose little place, the wood-panelled frontage was at least twenty years overdue for a fresh coat of paint.

Come on, I’ll buy ya a beer, said Charlie.

He was enthusiastic, as if life for him was good. For Ray life in present day New York didn’t feel particularly good, but he was keen to move on. To extract what he could from the abhorrent situation they all found themselves in. The shadows were drawing long as the sun sunk low in the sky. He licked his lips, thinking about the beer, mingled with the screams of yet another poor soul suffering a beating in an adjacent street. Three young homeless men huddled in a corner with a fire burning in an old oil drum. This wasn’t the New York he knew and loved, but it was all that existed anymore.

Come on!

They stepped into the dive bar to find it reasonably busy. A card game with money at stake was being played in full view, and a pretty girl little over twenty-years-old danced for several others in a corner. Dealings were going on under the table, and Ray was already getting suspicious looks. He knew those looks all too well. The kind that could get you killed. He heard the crack of bottle caps being prised off the beers, and one was thrust into his hands. It was icy cold, and Charlie tapped the bottles together before throwing back a large mouthful.

But for Ray the experience was rather more special, one to be treasured. He felt the cold and clammy bottle against his palm and took in the slightly bitter flavour of the beer. Though with it came the smell of the dingy bar. It was damp and dirty, and the smell of the alcohol and tobacco masked what would make it intolerable. He smiled; thinking about how much better it was than prison. He took his first sip, and it was every bit as good as he had hoped, even if it wasn’t the best of beer.

Come on, take a seat. Charlie hauled Ray over to an empty table at the back of the bar.

So what do I owe for all this?

Before Charlie could answer, another man took a seat opposite them on the same small table. He was black and a few years younger than Ray. His head was shaved and his expression stern. He held himself like a fighting man, a man who had lived through military discipline, and the open collar on his shirt gave away a dog tag chain. Charlie didn’t look surprised, as if this was all part of the plan.

Sergeant Raymond Barnes?

He signed in response.

It’s Ray, he replied wearily.

My name is Woody.

"Woody? That’s it?’

That’s it, for now.

I'm guessing there is more to this than a drink for a guy who was in dire need of one?

There is a war going on. You may not see it, and you may not hear it, but it is there. All the time. It never stopped, and it will not stop until we are all free men.

Or dead. He took another sip from his beer.

If that is necessary.

Ray shrugged as if he didn’t agree.

We didn’t bring you here for nothing.

No, I figured.

People talk. They say you served in the Uprising, and that you were there in London on the day it all ended. They even say you were at the heart of a weapon technology that could have turned the tide.

You were there? You were there for it? Charlie asked excitedly.

One glance from Woody and he was silenced.

Well, Sergeant, is it true? Were you there the day the Uprising was crushed?

Ray sighed, took another sip, and the two hung on with anticipation. He opened his mouth as if to respond, hesitating when loud sirens suddenly rang out. Two ORPO patrol cars screamed to a halt outside, their blues and twos flashing. Another two pulled in to support them.

Shit! yelled someone from nearby. Everyone was on their feet in seconds, and several raced out of a side door. Seconds later, the ORPOs were through the front door.

Come on, Woody whispered.

He pulled Ray off his chair, past the bar and the telephone. Woody tried the handle of a door, but it was locked, and his face mirrored his shock and consternation.

Everyone stay where you are! yelled an ORPO.

A table overturned and a chair was kicked aside as one patron tried to flee. Two gunshots rang out, and the body of the man crashed into some chairs and slumped to the floor, dead. They were sheltered from the cops where they were, but without a way out.

I told you nobody move! the same cop yelled.

He sounded mightily pleased with himself, as if he truly loved his job, but his accent a native of New York as any of them.

What do we do?

Charlie looked desperate, and likely had never been in such a situation before. Woody drew back his jacket and pulled out an old military issue parkerised Colt 1911. They all knew it wouldn’t be enough to get them out of the situation. More ORPOs poured into the bar.

You sure chose a great place, muttered Ray.

Shhh, said Woody.

He searched around, desperately trying to find some way out. He stared at the lock on the door as if contemplating using his gun to make an exit, although it would certainly be covered. They were desperate, and Ray could see his taste of freedom rapidly disappearing, envisaging being behind bars on Rikers again before the day was through. He wished he’d never accepted the ride from Charlie. He knew it had to be too good to be true, and he kicked himself for not trusting his instincts.

Their attention was drawn to the double kitchen swing doors when a woman barged through. She had an old M3 grease gun in hand and opened fire the moment she was clear of the doors. She fired on full auto from the hip. None of them were able to see what damage she was doing, but she was spraying the front of the bar. The slow thud of the little utilitarian submachine gun at last came to a stop as she emptied the magazine.

Run! she yelled at them.

She had another magazine taped upside down beside the one in the gun, and rapidly switched them as Woody stepped out from cover, opening fire to cover her. She was dressed in a long trench coat and men’s clothes, but her flowing blond hair hid nothing. She wore a red bandana around her nose and mouth like a train robber from the great American West.

Ray made it to the doors and looked across to the door where he’d first come in. There were two dead ORPOs, and the rest ducking for cover.

Go! Woody roared.

They rushed through the kitchens and out a back door. A panel van was waiting with the side doors open and a driver at the wheel. They tumbled into it, and the woman was the last in. She slammed the doors shut behind them, and the driver tore off along the street. A window was blown out on the back of the van, and they ducked for cover. Several more shots rang out, one ricocheting from the back bumper. The driver took a sharp bend around a brick building. The tyres squealed when the back end swung out, throwing them about, but they were soon in a straight line and tearing off into the distance.

Nobody said a word for a few minutes; waiting and listening to see if they had gotten away clean. The woman broke the silence as she pulled down her mask.

Cool it, we’re clear!

She was pale-skinned and pretty, but with a scar around her left ear that extended to her neck, maybe caused by a fire. She seemed unfazed by what had happened.

Nice to meet you, I’m Lisa.

She was so matter of fact, as if it were any other normal day.

Ray.

I know.

He stared out of the front window. The sun was setting on the city, and he’d never been so glad to see it. He’d survived his first day out, and after all he had been through, that seemed like a miracle worth celebrating.

* * *

220 East 60th Street, Upper East Side, Manhattan

15th November 2017, 6.05am

Marcus Klenner was already awake, as he was every morning. The mere act of knowing the alarm would go off ensured he was awake. He watched the glowing red numbers on the alarm unit, waiting for the seconds to count down.

Wake up…wake up.

He could have risen from his bed at any time, but this was what he did, every day. Marcus had a routine, and from experience, he knew that it was best to follow it. He reached out and tapped the alarm, putting it back into standby mode. He moved one leg, and then stopped.

What’s that?

Something rumbled, and the apartment complex shuddered slightly. He hesitated; it was the crackle of gunfire. Marcus knew the sound better than most, and he counted the shots.

Fully automatic firearms, it must be another raid.

In one smooth action, he pulled the duvet aside and sat up straight to take in the sights and sounds of yet another day. Dawn had just broken, but the sound of the city already filled his hearing. He blinked several times and reached for the glass of tepid water. A small amount trickled down his throat, alleviating the dryness he felt after lack of sleep. He replaced the glass and rose to his feet. His legs ached, not from age or lack of exercise, but the act of getting up and knowing what he had to face once again.

He walked to the en suite bathroom to ready himself for the day, but curiosity drove him to the window. He pulled it open and leaned out from the fifth storey, past the iron walkaways of the fire escape. Far off in the distance, and just visible, a distant apartment complex was burning. Smoke rose into the sky and grew into a thick cloud. A Luftwaffe helicopter flew overhead and circled lazily around the burning building. Police sirens wailed as emergency vehicles rushed to get close.

Marcus opened the cabinet door to reach for the soap, taking minutes for a quick shower and to dress himself. Even after all these years, it felt odd to be back in civilian clothes. The three-piece suit was hardly the latest fashion, but the grey trousers, waistcoat, and jacket had become his daily uniform. He paused while adjusting the maroon tie and regarded himself in the mirror.

Another day in the great city.

He moved to the door, waited, and then opened it. The corridor was empty, and the lights off until the sensors detected his presence. He hesitated, wondering whether to chance it without his coat. He could feel the chill entering his modest apartment.

Coat.

Without having to look, he removed the long trench coat from the hook to his right, and then left. It was a short walk to the elevator, and in less than a minute, he was at the lobby and heading for the entrance. There was no doorman here. Even on his salary, and with his pension from the Navy, this was still the best he could afford. He walked out to the pavement and paused. There were few trees along the street, and little light penetrated through the tall buildings on either side. This was not the financial centre of Manhattan, but a popular area used by city professionals.

Morning.

He turned his attention to the two men moving towards him. Unlike the many civilians heading to their various places of work, these two wore uniforms. Marcus might be a civilian, but the Upper East Side ORPOs knew everybody of importance in the area, and Marcus was certainly one of those. He lifted his hand to the brow of his hat and tapped it.

Good morning, officers.

They marched past him calmly, almost disinterested. Marcus was no threat, and as a native German in the New Reich, he was treated as a man of revered status, even among the New York officialdom. The sirens continued their wail, and a heavily armoured vehicle pulled up alongside the men. An officer shouted to them, and arms reached out to pull them onboard. The markings on the six-wheeled Jackal were New York Schutzpolizei, the front-line police that patrolled throughout the city limits. One man stood out among the rest in his elegant SS uniform.

Sturmscharführer! What’s happening?

He stared at him and pointed to the building in the distance.

Terrorists, Herr Kapitän. Do you wish to assist?

Marcus said he didn’t.

Very well, said the man, Good day to you.

With a squeal of rubber, the armoured truck raced off, its siren wailing. The crackle of gunfire had stopped, but he could still make out the gentle thump of the helicopter. Marcus sniffed the air and drew in the cold vapour, mixed with the fumes of motor vehicles and foot vendors. It was a long time since he’d been home, but when he closed his eyes, he could often imagine being back there.

New York is not as we were promised. They wait, and they wait until the time is right.

A woman glanced at him. For a second he wondered if she could read his thoughts. He’d lived in Manhattan long enough to see it as his second home, yet even now he felt the foreigner. He had no ill will towards the Americans still living here, but had little desire to be assassinated as a collaborator by the rumoured rebels. The woman looked up, pointing to the sky. The war had ended long before, but no veteran ever forgot the fear of the sky. Images of the invasion beaches returned as fresh as they’d been back in 1997. He’d been there, in command of Eiserner Gott with the rest of his crew. They’d been one of many landships moving ashore, leading the Kriegsmarine regiments into battle. At their rear came the ships, some of which dated back to the Fall of France, over fifty years earlier. The heavy shells had hit the British defences, pulverising the concrete and anybody sheltering within. But it was above them that had brought real death.

The sky, always the sky.

The British knew it was over, yet the few remaining jets moved in fast to attack them. The Avro 730 Vengeance bombers were a work of art, long hulled craft shaped like a needle, with short stubby wings, devastatingly powerful engines, and small canard wings near the nose. They’d come in under radar and at speeds surpassing 3000 kmh. The rockets and bombs had killed so many of his comrades, even destroying two of the smaller landships before they could move off the beaches.

Marcus blinked and watched the contrails as the civilian jetliner accelerated away. There were many similarities with the craft of the past, with the needle like hulls and short wings. Yet it was the engines that brought it back. When he lowered his eyes, he was surprised to see a long black staff car stop in front of him. Two men in long, dark green coats clambered out and then moved to the door.

What’s going on?

A third exited the vehicle, took three steps, and stopped in front of him. He was tall, overweight, and completely out of his comfort area. This man spent his days behind a deck, and that worried Marcus more than anything else about him.

Herr Keller?

Marcus smiled politely.

Mr Keller, yes. And you are?

The man looked at him carefully. Marcus detected a hint of an accent, most definitely American, though very disguised. He still found it hard to analyse the accents,