Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner had quickly proven himself among the most valuable officers of the German Army.
Now commander of an elite battalion, his unit was anything but standard.
These were Fallschirm-Panzergrenadiere, an airborne armored battalion forged from the doctrine Bruno had crafted.
Drawing inspiration from the VDV of his past life, and perfecting it in a way the Russians had never managed.
Gone were the days of lightly ard paratroopers hoping to link up with armor.
Erich’s soldiers brought their armor with them.
Each company under his command fielded a fleet of lightweight armored fighting vehicles built on the E-10 and E-25 chassis.
A marvel of composite armor, autoloader firepower, and wireless battlefield integration.
The heavier E-50s of the main line divisions were too burdenso for airdrop; the E-10s, and E-25s, however fulfilled the role nicely when their designs were rebuilt from the ground up for this very role.
That was exactly what they were doing today.
France had drawn its so-called "red line" in Belgium, publicly declaring that any German troop presence there would be viewed as an act of war.
But Belgium had already given Germany permission.
Their king, a legend of two tilines, had risen again to defy French aggression.
He denounced the ultimatum as a grotesque violation of sovereignty and invited Bruno’s Reich to conduct joint training exercises under the terms of their mutual defense pact.
Now, high above the Belgian skies, Erich sat strapped into his command variant of the PzJagd-E25 Ausf F, his gloved fingers curled around the safety railing above him.
The P.1108/II strategic lifter rumbled around him, its four turboprops and Tesla-assisted turbines humming with barely restrained energy.
They had launched from a field near Innsbruck. It had taken less than ninety minutes to cross half the continent.
"Zehntner-Actual, two mikes to drop." Ca the pilot’s voice over the comms.
Erich checked his watch. Green light imminent.
He felt the first jolt as the ramp began to descend. A hiss of hydraulics.
Then, the shift.
That unmistakable tilt as gravity reclaid its prize.
Twenty tons of German steel fell from the sky.
Not just one, but hundreds...
From the bellies of the Reich’s lifters, entire platoons of vehicles scread toward the Earth like silver teors hurled by Wotan himself.
They plunged, howling through the thin air over Belgium’s Ardennes.
And then... snap.
Parachutes deployed in synchronized bursts of silk and tensile cable.
Composite struts absorbed the jerk. Shock-dampers kicked in. As the descent slowed, the teor beca a falcon.
To any watching from the ground, it must have looked like a divine storm, gleaming armored birds descending with machine precision, their engines already warming, their guns already slaved to rangefinders, their commanders already barking orders as if this were war.
For all intents and purposes, it was.
Erich could already hear the dull thuds of other vehicles touching down on soft Belgian soil.
They were landing in combat dispersal formation.
Within sixty seconds, his unit would be ard, mobilized, and advancing.
He could not feel like he had just suffered a sense of whiplash. Not because he actually had.
But when he was younger he had heard stories from nobles fawning over his grandfather, speaking of a ti he once jumped out of a plane to break a siege on Luxembourg’s palace.
While Bruno had jumped as infantry, Erich had done so as an armored battalion.
He recovered his senses the mont the engines began to roar, and takeoff.
The radio chatter confird all forces had succeeded in dropping within the landing zone. And all without a single accident.
Erich clutched his rifle in his hands.
It’s sleek, and modern polyr was concealed beneath a layer of paint that soldiers were encouraged to apply over their rifles.
Even its optic was hidden well beneath the pattern.
As the battalion’s commander, he was unlikely to see combat directly himself, but he was ard and prepared for it nonetheless, even if this was just a training exercise.
The response on the radio was direct coordination with Belgian land forces in the area. As well as other Fsch-PzGren units.
The armored vehicles were already speeding up to make contact with the OPFOR targets, who were simulated holding a Belgian town on the border.
And when the Belgian tanks, which were of a dostic design saw their German counterparts speed past them with what one might consider unusual speed for an armored battalion.
They couldn’t help but pop their heads out of their vehicles’ hatches and stare in astonishnt.
Ultimately, Erich got on the wire and ordered his forces to slow down.
"Rember boys, this is a joint-military exercise. If we show up too quickly and clear out the OPFOR, our allies will be left out. Slow down and match speed."
The order was given, and the German Airborne Battalions slowed down, moving alongside their Belgian counterparts who stared at the vehicles as if they were completely alien in design.
Eventually, the units arrived at the border town. Where the German Airborne infantry, ever the professionals, jumped out of the back of their APCs and IFVs, rifles in hand, optics zeroed, and reticles aid on the targets directly.
The ensuing combat exercise was an absolute slaughter on paper, as the German Airborne BTG’s surrounded the enemy, and overwheld them with sheer armor, and firepower.
While French observers watched from their side of the border in uneasy silence, the Belgians stood beaming.
They shook hands with the Germans, clapped them on the shoulders, and shouted for soone to bring out the beer.
The simulated battle had ended before it began, and everyone present knew it.
Erich remained seated atop his vehicle, helt off, sweat-soaked hair tousled by the wind.
His gaze drifted to the border, where the French soldiers loitered like vultures, watching, recording, silently evaluating.
He couldn’t help but wonder what their analysts would write in their reports tonight.
Outclassed? Outmaneuvered? Outgunned?
He smirked.
The Belgians certainly had no doubts now.
Their confidence in the Reich had only grown, not out of propaganda, but from results, hard proof that they were not alone, and that in the shadow of Germany’s new war machine, they had little to fear.
Erich finally understood why his grandfather had spoken so confidently of the "coming war."
It wasn’t bluster. It was preparation.
Confidence.
Not born from arrogance, but from proof.
And now, the Belgians shared it.
User Comments
0 comments from readers