Click. Click. Click.
"Adjust firing range!"
The command was sharp and immediate. Oliver gripped the controls, the massive turret rotating with a labored, metallic creak.
The ground shook. Sand cascaded onto the hull, raining through the narrow gaps in the armor as another shell impacted nearby.
"They have us in a crossfire!" the Oberleutnant of Panzer IV 098 shouted. His tank shuddered, fire erupting from the muzzle once again.
Inside the cabin, the crew shared a brief, breathless moment, their eyes locking in the stifling heat.
"YES!"
Through the optics, a British tank disintegrated into smoldering flames after taking a direct hit to its side armor. Similar scenes of wreckage were appearing across the entire battlefield.
"Rommel has engaged the enemy directly," Manstein remarked. He looked up from the map spread before him, which showed the exact location of the fighting.
"He chose a slightly elevated position, using a large sand dune for cover," Hoth noted while analyzing the terrain. "Quite clever."
"He could have bypassed the enemy entirely with the fuel from the raided transport," Manstein added, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
"Either way, what about the fuel convoys from Romania and Italy? When will they arrive?" Manstein suddenly asked, as if the logistics had suddenly surfaced from the dark void of his concerns.
"Reichsmarschall Raeder has reported that the convoys started this morning, with protection by the Mediterranean fleet," Von Fritsch said, crossing his arms before his chest.
Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click. Click.
In a dark room somewhere in Berlin, a man was typing into an intricate wiring machine. He stopped for a moment to read from a paper beside him, which he had unfolded from a peculiar, black envelope lying on the table.
"Mhm, mhm," he hummed, a low song, while continuing to type on the keys.
A few moments before he finished, he read the last words of the black letter.
He smiled, almost forgetting the most crucial part of the task. Then he finished and leaned back, even he himself unsure of the magnitude of what he had just done.
Washington D.C.
The morning light was a pale, yellow as it began to crawl over the city. Inside a secure, windowless room at the headquarters of the CIA, the silence was absolute until the sharp, jarring ring of the red phone cut through the air. The man stationed there did not hesitate. He snatched the receiver.
"Password?" he asked. His voice was a low, his entire body filled with tension.
"Charly. Delta. Sonny. Tom. Anna. Timothy."
The man looked down at the authentication sheet on his desk, his eyes darting across the characters before he gave a sharp, single nod.
"We have an intercepted message," the voice on the other end said. The British accent was unmistakable, cutting through the static with clinical urgency.
"Understood," the man replied. Even as he spoke, the silent machinery of the American intelligence apparatus was beginning to grind into motion. Signal corps were being alerted and runners were already moving through the cold hallways of the capital.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Lehmann! Open up!" Gimpel shouted. He hammered his fist against the wood of the urban apartment door, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet morning.
"Yes, yes," a muffled voice called out from within. It sounded hurried and breathless.
When the door finally creaked open, Gimpel was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of irritation. He looked past Werner immediately, his sharp, calculative eyes scanning the interior of the apartment like a predator looking for a scent. He noticed the bedroom door was ajar, showing sheets that had been folded with a strange, almost military precision.
Gimpel raised an eyebrow, his skepticism deepening. To him, every detail was a potential piece of evidence. This morning, Werner seemed far too prepared for someone who had just been woken up.
Werner worked quickly to pull on his boots, his fingers fumbling with the laces while he tried to smooth down his messy hair with his free hand.
"What is it?" Werner asked, standing up and grabbing his coat.
"Nothing for you to worry about," Gimpel answered. He turned on his heel and stretched out a hand toward the hallway in a gesture that was more of a command than a courtesy.
"After you."
A black limousine pulled up to the headquarters, its tires crunching on the gravel. Werner and Gimpel exited the vehicle. Waiting for them was a man in a wheelchair, his blonde hair and a prominent, jagged scar defining his appearance.
"James," both Gimpel and Werner greeted him, their voices lacking any real enthusiasm.
"Gimpel. Werner," James replied. He was rolled toward them by a silent assistant.
They entered the grey building together, an elevator carrying them deep into the earth. The descent lasted a long time. Gimpel broke the silence, his voice loud and provocative. "It seems the Germans are fighting in Africa now. Have you heard?"
He was clearly trying to get a reaction from James, the man who had been the greatest rival to Paul. James did not bother to look at Gimpel, but his mind was already racing. He understood Paul's movements perfectly. It was simple enough to avoid the mistakes of history while replicating the victories.
The elevator stopped with a sharp ding. They stepped out into a hallway that was still a skeleton of concrete and exposed wiring. Construction workers were busy covering the raw, grey shell of the facility. The group moved past them into a central office where a single machine sat on a table.
"Go on. Do your magic," James said, motioning toward the device.
Werner sat down and placed the peculiar paper beside him. Gimpel stepped forward, looming over Werner as if trying to memorize every movement.
"What are you doing, Gimpel?" Werner asked. He could practically smell the other man's breath on his shoulder.
"I am trying to understand," Gimpel said, a devilish smile spreading across his face. "If I learn how you do it, we won't need you anymore."
"That is exactly why I will not explain it," Werner replied, knowing the stakes all too well.
"What would happen to me once I am no longer useful?"
The two men locked eyes, exchanging murderous smiles of mock politeness until James sighed loudly to break the tension. Werner turned back to the paper. His eyes darted to a small, inconspicuous line at the bottom. Gimpel did not notice. He began to type, the machine clicking as the wiring shifted.
A equals T.
H equals E.
Gimpel watched with a ghostly expression, shaking his head as he stepped back. "Just how is he doing it?"
James offered no answer. He simply waited until Werner finished and leaned back. "This one is big," Werner murmured, his voice sounding distant.
Gimpel did not wait for an explanation. He snatched the paper from Werner's hands and scanned the text. His eyes widened. He turned and sprinted from the room, nearly colliding with several people as he rushed toward the secure chamber housing the red telephone.
"Inform the Briti..." he barked into the receiver.
His voice began to fade, slowly drowned out by the rhythmic, heavy crashing of the tide. The sterile air of the bunker was replaced by the scent of salt and the cry of seagulls.
Across the deep, rolling void of the Atlantic, a massive metal hull cut through the swell. The ship was a heavy beast of steel, its machinery letting out a thunderous groan as it climbed over the crests of the waves. Beside it, another vessel emerged from the mist, followed by a long line of silhouettes stretching toward the horizon.
The German flag snapped violently in the freezing wind. A screen of destroyers flanked the transports...
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