"Eyes forward!"
The command traveled across the plaza.
Thousands of soldiers stood in perfect formation along both sides of the wide street, boots gleaming, rifles held at identical angles, breath steaming in the morning air. Not a single man moved. Every eye snapped toward the silhouette emerging between the columns of the Brandenburg Gate.
A sleek black limousine rolled forward, tires movimg over the freshly cleared street. Its roof had been removed for the occasion, turning the vehicle into an open stage. Two men stood tall in the rear compartment, right hands raised in crisp salute.
Paul, the Führer, wore his usual grey uniform. A black leather coat above, the only decoration the simple Iron Cross at his throat. Beside him, Benito Mussolini, the Dictator of Italy, cut a far more theatrical figure in his black marshal's greatcoat, chest blazing with medals and gold braid. The Italian leader's chin was thrust forward, his famous jaw set in a proud motion.
The limousine moved at walking pace, majestic and unhurried, as soldier after soldier snapped their heads toward their leaders. The thunder of ten thousand boots stamping in unison rolled across the Tiergarten. From the rooftops and balconies, civilians cheered wildly, but the soldiers remained stone-faced, disciplined to the last man.
Behind their limousine, tank after tank rolled past. Their engines far from enough to overtune the chants.
Paul kept his salute steady, eyes scanning the endless ranks. Mussolini leaned slightly toward him, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd.
"Magnifico, my friend," the Duce said, his Italian accent thick with satisfaction.
"Look at them. The finest army the world has ever seen. When we march on London, the British will break in a single week."
Paul's expression did not change, but the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest smile.
"We will see," he replied quietly, still saluting."Wether we win this struggle. It all depents on a single gamble."
Mussolini turned his head just enough to glance at him, curiosity flashing in his
"Russia?" he asked under his breath.
Paul gave the smallest nod, his hand still locked in salute as the limousine passed another block of perfectly aligned troops. The tanks behind them continued their slow, unstoppable advance, gun barrels pointing skyward.
The Duce's smile widened, sharp and knowing. He did not need more words. The two men stood side by side in the open car, saluting the might of the Axis while the real game, the one that would decide everything, was already unfolding thousands of kilometres to the east.
Click.
A single bright flash cut through the afternoon light.
The official photographer lowered his camera. In that one frozen moment, the entire leadership of the Axis was captured forever. As well as delegates from Japan and Iran, who were not yet part of the alliance.
Standing before the Reich Chancellery were:
Heinrich Jaeger, Führer of the German Reich
Benito Mussolini, Duce of Fascist Italy
Marshal Ion Antonescu, Conducător of Romania
Francisco Franco, Leader of Fascist Spain
Regent Miklós Horthy, Regent of the Kingdom of Hungary
Tsar Boris III, Tsar of Bulgaria
Ambassador Hiroshi Ōshima, representing the Empire of Japan
Prince Gholam Reza Pahlavi, special envoy of the Imperial State of Iran
Six hours earlier
Click.
A very similar sound, sharp, metallic,echoed far from the gilded halls of the Reich Chancellery in Berlin.
It was part of the gamble Paul had spoken of only minutes earlier.
"Goddammit," Maler hissed between clenched teeth. Then he simply let go.
His body pitched forward into the roaring black void.
Click.
The safety carabiner released. The static line snapped taut, and Maler's parachute burst open with a violent whip-crack above him. The sudden jolt slammed the harness into his chest and shoulders, yanking him upright in the freezing night air.
For a few heartbeats the world was nothing but wind and darkness. Then the canopy blossomed fully, swinging him gently. Below, the vast, snow-toached forests of western Russia stretched out under the brightness of the moonlight.
Somewhere in that landscape lay their drop zone, and the beginning of Roter Schatten A.
Maler exhaled slowly. He checked his risers, then glanced left and right. Another dark shape drifted down a few hundred metres away,
Baumann.
Maler adjusted his course with a tug, as he slipped past the last line of trees by a narrow margin, and landed cleanly in the middle of a snow-covered field. The impact drove the air from his lungs, but he rolled once and came up fast.
He unstrapped the parachute harness. A soft crunch sounded behind him. He spun, weapon up, only to see Baumann sprawled face-down in the snow, cursing quietly.
In the total darkness the two men worked quickly, bundling the parachutes and burying them deep beneath a fallen tree trunk. When they were done, nothing remained but fresh snow and silence.
The air was brutally cold. Even through their thick winter coats it clawed at their skin, biting into their body.
"Remember, we are in enemy territory," Maler whispered, his breath steaming. "Moscow is still far. We'll have to find someone to take us there… or steal a transport."
His submachine gun stayed raised, barrel sweeping the treeline.
Baumann nodded, walking directly behind him. He studied the map by moonlight, the night was bright enough that he didn't need a flashlight.
"According to this there's a small settlement a few kilometres east, behind that forest," Baumann murmured, pointing ahead.
"Fine," Maler muttered. They moved off, boots crunching softly in the snow as they entered the black perimeter of the trees.
Crack.
Maler froze. "What was that?" His voice had dropped to a low, dangerous rasp. He turned slowly, muzzle already up.
Crack.
"I don't know…" Baumann whispered, scanning the darkness beside him.
"Maybe—"
"AHH!"
A thunderous roar exploded directly behind Maler. He whipped around just in time to see the massive brown bear slam into Baumann like a freight train.
The Gestapo man was hurled to the ground, his pistol spinning away into the snow. The animal reared up, jaws wide, roaring again as it swiped at the struggling figure beneath it.
Maler didn't hesitate. He brought the submachine gun to his shoulder and opened fire.
The short, vicious burst ripped through the bear. The bear staggered, roaring in pain and fury, blood spraying dark across the white snow. It turned toward Maler, eyes wild, massive paws tearing up the frozen ground as it charged.
Maler's finger stayed on the trigger. The bear took another handful of bullets before collapsing onto the cold snow, now soaked in crimson.
"Baumann. Baumann!" Maler quickly ran towards his companion, assessing the gash on Baumann's chest.
Baumann, in turn, groaned from the pain, pressing his lips together.
"Fine. Fine. Fine," Maler repeated.
"It's shallow. It's only a flesh wound." Maler sighed, falling onto the snow, sitting there for a moment before pulling out a translucent bottle.
"Here, drink," Maler whispered, handing over the bottle.
"How the fuck did you manage to take that with you?" Baumann joked weakly, while drinking.
"You would be surprised." Maler nodded, his leather-clad hands slowly growing cold, the sensation once again reminding him of the precarious situation they were in.
The atmosphere grew far more chilling than any weather could ever make it.
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