Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 734: Djinns and Demons
Chapter 734: Djinns and Demons
Klaus sat with his sniper posted on a sandstone ledge, the rifle’s heavy night optic resting against his cheek.
His usual 10×42 was gone, replaced by a bulkier, battery-fed sight that glowed faintly green in the dark.
An instrument built on the same principles as the AN/PVS-2s American special forces would field half a century later in another world.
It gave him magnification when the rest of the desert offered only black and rumor.
Around him, the men wore primitive night goggles; lenses fogged by breath, fabric harnesses chafing at the temple.
As the fireteam’s marksman, Klaus preferred the optic.
Through the night, it simplified: a braided web of shadows became shapes, and those shapes became information.
His reticle steadied squarely between the shoulders of a man downrange, an American colonel standing at the rear of a formation, hands on a map case, unaware he had been made legible.
This colonel was not targeted for execution tonight. He was a target for observation.
Gunfire knifed across the dunes, human and ugly.
The sound was American, rifles barking, machine guns answering, explosives cracking like old ice.
In the distance, a compound burned, a tongue of orange that licked the night sky.
Klaus felt the practiced detachment of a man who had seen similar scenes many times: the same frantic yelling in a language you pretended not to understand, the same stupid courage of men who believed their uniforms were talismans.
He kept his breath measured and watched.
“Unfucking believable,” he hissed, voice low as sand through a sieve. “Those cunts call us the Axis of Evil, accuse us of tyranny, and yet here they are, burning a village to the ground because they still haven’t figured out we’re the ones fucking with them.”
Oskar Kühn, the machine-gunner, didn’t flinch.
His words, when they came, were slate-flat and oddly philosophical. “Hypocrisy is inherent in all men. Some are just better at it.”
No one stayed to turn that sentence into a sermon. There was work to be done after all.
The Americans moved through buildings that were more ruin than shelter, walls holed where shells had found them, roofs caved, plaster hanging like dead skin.
They tossed grenades through doors because it was faster than opening them; they entered afterward to scoop out whatever remained.
Children’s toys sat half-buried in ash. The smell of diesel and iron and burning cloth filled the air.
Klaus watched the colonel fuss with his map and transmit orders into a handset.
The fireteam’s radio operator murmured numbers back: positions, vehicle types, times.
Somewhere, a forward observer called in coordinates that would draw truckloads of steel onto a road that might never move again.
Deep reconnaissance teams were everywhere, planted like thorns across the Sahara, Jagdkommando detachments, trained local cells, long-range patrols feeding a steady diet of imagery back to Berlin.
Satellite mosaics stitched the battlefield into neat panels. The Reich did not fight by chance; they fought with data.
The men under Klaus’s scope were a procession of habits and insignia: pale helmets, a strip of canvas with a Latin American flag sewn crudely where a division patch would have been, grease on the colonel’s hands where he adjusted his radio knobs.
The colonel smiled once at a sergeant and laughed; the laugh bounced off the ruined walls and came back small.
Klaus’s finger rested on the trigger guard but never on the trigger itself.
He watched the man, catalogued him, and fed the information upstream, time, bearing,
Posture. Observation, not execution. Tonight the Jagdkommandos wanted fear measured and returned, not bodies stacked for a photo.
—
Across a continent and a sea, in the Reich Chancellery, Bruno watched the same night in a different texture.
He watched it as a mosaic of numbers and static, as wires and glass, as the soft glow of command consoles where men translated movement into meaning.
Reports arrived as a steady rain: encrypted packets bearing interceptor logs, photographs taken by aerial reconnaissance. Silhouettes were picked up through thermal passes and satellite imagery.
Each feed was a small, obedient lie that, when placed next to others, made a truth.
Standing at the table, watching the global map, Josef Dietrich moved figures over North Africa with the practiced hand of a man who had ordered others’ deaths and found no surprise in it.
He spoke without heat.
“The Americans are brutal in reprisals,” Josef said. “They lash out at locals who have nothing to do with our work. They burn villages because they need a visible wound to match their fear. Their reports call the attacks ’unnerving’, and these words spread faster than facts.”
Bruno opened the dossier marked Operation Sandgeist and let the photograph inside lie between his fingers.
The image was not beautiful; it was necessary: a boot half-buried in sand, a singed sleeve, the body of an officer caught in a detail that would be replayed in greater and lesser guises.
He set the photo down without comment.
“Good,” he said. “Let the story build itself.”
Reimann, the director of intelligence, spoke from the dim corners of the room.
“Their patrols refuse to move after dusk. As you are already well aware. They will do so only if they are able to deploy at the brigade level. Believing the size of their numbers, and the armor attached with them to be the only thing capable of protecting them against ghosts of Algiers.”
At the table, a man from High Command tapped a gaunt finger against a printed photo of a Liberty tank assembled from Allied blueprints and desperate engineering.
“They mass these in numbers,” he said. “By the end of the month, they will have a forward outpost established. Within three they will cross the Mediterranean.”
Bruno smiled, small and controlled.
“Let them come. We have built a wall to withstand whatever tide of steel they throw at us. When the Americans finally arrive on our doorstep, they will be greeted like the intruders they are. There will be no avoiding this bath of blood.”
He turned the picture of the Liberty tank over in his hands. He then set it aside on the table as he moved a photograph of their own main battle tanks onto the scene.
“The Liberty is an inspiring design. And would have been cutting edge a decade ago. Sadly, it is already a rusty old piece of junk. And if the Americans think their armored columns will bring them victory in Europe or in Asia, they are sorely mistaken.”
There was an old, thin laugh at the edge of the room.
Reimann slid a packet across the map. “We have intercepted enemy radio communications. Allied naval doctrine has shifted to convoy protection. It would appear they have finally realized they cannot contest us on the sea itself.”
Bruno let that sit, then leaned in and sighed heavily, shaking his head as if this were some lamentable fate forced upon him.
“It is a pity…”
The rest of the officers stared at Bruno in surprise, believing perhaps for the most fleeting of moments that the Allies had managed to reveal an unexpected hand. Until finally the Reichsmarschall spoke.
“It is a pity I will not be able to see the look on Roosevelt’s face when his convoys and their escorts are reduced to little more than scrap metal beneath the sea.”
Not a hiss of breath escaped from any living being who stood to witness the chilling words that Bruno had spoken.
—
Back on the ridge, Klaus watched the colonel in command of the burning compound’s perimeter.
He watched the colonel’s face in the night optic, pale and pinched; he watched a young corporal stumble as he lifted a stretcher and curse when it snagged a charred beam.
Through the scope, every breath and blink became evidence, the opportunity, if you wished to call it that, of what might be taken or left.
“Orders have come through. The target’s status has escalated from observation to termination. When you’re ready, take the shot, then we exfil….”
Oskar whispered. His voice had the emotional range of a machine.
Klaus exhaled heavily as he shifted the focus of his optic away from the Colonel’s head and instead towards his torso.
The American officer had only revealed his side to Oskar. It wasn’t a clean shot. And he was a patient man.
He waited for what felt like a lifetime. Sweat pooled on his brow. And then finally the Colonel turned his body into the line of sight. When he did so, the gunshot crackled through the air.
A spray of blood flew from the Colonel’s torso, and his corpse fell to the ground lifeless.
A giant hole where his heart had once been, as the man’s face stared in disbelief at the sudden impact that had claimed his soul for the Lord.
Oskar didn’t say a word. He retrieved his rifle, and the spent casing before fleeing into the Sahara with his fireteam, their footprints disappearing beneath the shifting sands.
It took the Americans longer than one would reasonably suspect to realize their colonel had been assassinated.
After all, they had been engaged in combat operations all night. The sound of gunfire was nothing unexpected.
Nobody had seen the ghosts that had danced across the sands. Nor the man who pulled the trigger.
By the time a proper investigation could have been held, one that would have revealed the trajectory of the shot had come from a foreign agent, it was already too late.
The entire village had already been burned to ash by the Americans in retaliation for the death of their commanding officer.
The official story became that one of the locals had fired the shot.
Even the OSS would not dare to think that German soldiers had snuck up on their men, executed a high-ranking officer, only to vanish without leaving the slightest trace of their existence.
Some may have suspected this was the case, but to spread such ideas would only increase the panic among American soldiers who had already begun to believe in local superstitions of Djinns and Demons haunting the sands of the Sahara.
