Disclaimer: SOME of the details, events, statements, and characters in this story are made up, fictional, and designed to suit alternate historical events. This is an alternate universe story where the Cold War turns hot. Moreover, technological advancements and progress have vastly improved compared to real history.
This would result in some being anachronistic or just outright fictional and made up in this story.
...
It was the 1980s — Reagan and Gorbachev's era — a time of nuclear tension. In this year, the Cold War went hot.
July 15, 1987 — the Soviets launched a large-scale offensive and penetrated the Iron Curtain. What began as a rapid breach in parts of the border turned into a grinding campaign of maneuver and logistics across Germany.
By late November 1987, Soviet spearheads had pushed deep into Bavaria and occupied towns and cities in the corridor south of Nuremberg — Regen, Rötz, Regensburg, Bayreuth, Coburg, Bamberg, Nuremberg, and others — exploiting temporary local collapses and the fog of war to keep momentum.
Up north, NATO fought hard. By November 11, British I Corps, German I Corps, and Dutch forces were locking down the approaches to Hamburg; in that sector they were inflicting heavy casualties — often at several times the rate they took losses — and blunting Soviet advances through well-prepared defensive belts.
On November 20, elements of the 2nd Armored Cavalry Regiment and the 8th Infantry Division mounted a local counterattack against units of the Soviet 20th Guards Combined Arms formation and a Guards tank formation, supported by a U.S. artillery brigade. The fighting was hard and costly on both sides.
Between November 21–22, around Kassel and the Fulda corridor, U.S. 1st Armored Division elements together with British armored units checked and pushed back Soviet armor in heavy local engagements. NATO air power — F-15s, F-16s, Dassault Mirages and A-10s — struck Soviet assembly areas and railheads around Erfurt. Allied fighters shot down several Su-25 attack aircraft, at the cost of losing some of their own aircraft in the exchange.
A fresh, elite Soviet tank formation that has been rushed into the theater — referenced as the 3rd Guards Tank Army — operating in support of the veteran 1st Guards Tank Army.
There's a whole lot more in store more than the mentioned units and battles, and you may be in one of these battles right now, so take care and may God be with you
My fellow brothers and sisters... Forty years ago, your parents and grandparents answered the call when Hitler rose. Thirty years before that, their parents answered the same call in the Great War."
Now, you must do the same. Some of you may not come home alive. But you will live forever — in the minds, the hearts, and the souls of your countrymen We may not see a world in our lifetimes where war itself is impossible, But we can build a world where war is unnecessary. And peace — real peace — is overwhelming
November 29, 1987
....
Name?
Woubeck Loushire
Date of Birth?
December 12, 1967
Rank?
Private First Class
Inside the camp was filled with the low thrum of diesel generators, the sharp tang of cordite still clinging to uniforms, and the restless murmur of soldiers moving between sandbagged command posts and canvas tents marked with stenciled "XVIII ABN CORPS" insignia. Half-tracks and M577 command vehicles sat parked at angles, their antennas bristling like steel quills. A Humvee—still rare enough in 1987 to draw a glance—idled near the aid station, its hood smeared with mud from the Bavarian countryside.
Woubeck stood at stiff attention despite the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. Three days. That's all it had taken for the Sky Sentinels to punch through Soviet rear guards and seize Nuremberg—a city the Reds had held since early November. Now, the spires of St. Lorenz Church loomed over the rubble-strewn streets, half-charred but standing. The Brigade had paid for it: 2nd Battalion took 30% casualties in the final push.
The clerk, a wiry Specialist Four with "JENKINS" stitched over his left breast pocket and a 71L MOS badge barely visible beneath coffee stains, had finished pecking at his battered IBM Selectric. He didn't look up as he slid a carbon-copied sheet into a manila folder stamped 95TH ABN BDE / PERSONNEL IN-PROC.
"Welcome to the Sky Sentinels," Jenkins said, voice flat from repetition. "Report to Lt. Hale—Second Platoon, Alpha Company, 1st Battalion. He's holding in the old Polizeipräsidium on Lorenzer Platz. Don't be late. He doesn't like rookies who wander."
He finally glanced up, eyes sharp beneath a fatigue cap pulled low. "And keep your weapon tight and your mouth shut. Nuremberg's quiet, but the Ivans left minders behind. We lost two MPs last night to a booby-trapped Kuchenbäcker."
With that, Jenkins waved him off and called, "Next!"
Woubeck nodded once—no flourish, no wasted motion—and stepped out into the gray November light. Somewhere overhead, a C-130 droned on a resupply run. He adjusted the strap of his M16-WAID, squared his shoulders, and began walking toward the city center.
He was Sky Sentinel now.
The replacement truck—a faded olive-drab M35 2½-ton cargo truck, its canvas top patched with duct tape and soot-streaked from last week's shelling—rattled eastward along Karlstraße, wheels crunching over broken cobblestone and spent 7.62mm casings. Woubeck sat on a fold-down bench, his back against the cab, PTA vest snug but stiff around his ribs. The early-pattern Protective-Tactical-Armor wasn't standard issue even in elite units yet; only XVIII Airborne and Ranger had field trials. Two ballistic ceramic plates—front and back—were lashed into nylon pockets stitched over a Kevlar weave base. It felt like wearing a coffin lid, but it stopped 7.62x39mm at 200 meters. He'd seen the test footage at Fort Bragg.
His K-pot helmet—the PASGT (Personnel Armor System for Ground Troops), still new enough in '87 that veterans called it "Fritz" or "Fritz Jr."—sat low over his brow, chinstrap snug but not tight. Beneath it, sweat had already darkened the collar of his ERDL-pattern BDU, standard for European deployments since REFORGER rotations proved woodland camo worked better in Bavarian forests than desert khaki. On his hands: OD-green fingerless gloves, knuckles scuffed from rifle drills and rope burns from the jump tower.
The camp he'd just left—Battalion Rear Assembly Point (RAP) "GRIFFIN"—was set up in the parking lot and grounds of Nuremberg's Messezentrum, the city's exhibition center just south of the Dutzendteich lake. It made sense: flat, defensible, with open sightlines and proximity to the A3 autobahn for resupply. Sandbagged .50 cal positions covered the northern tree line; fuel bladders and pallets of MREs were stacked under camo netting near Hall 3. The smell of diesel, wet wool, and burnt sugar from a destroyed bakery hung in the air.
Now, the truck turned north onto Bayreuther Straße, passing the skeletal shell of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum, its shattered Gothic windows staring like empty eyes. To the west, the medieval city walls still stood—pockmarked but intact—where 1st Platoon had dug in during the final assault. Soviet T-64s sat belly-up near Plärrer intersection, one wedged diagonally across tram tracks, turret blown clean off.
"Two more blocks!" the driver shouted over the engine. "Lorenzer Platz is hot—keep your head down!"
The truck slowed as it passed St. Sebaldus Church, its spire cracked but upright. Civilians—what few remained—huddled in doorways, eyes hollow. A German MP in a feldgrau parka waved them through a checkpoint manned by U.S. and Bundeswehr troops, their rifles slung but ready.
Then: Lorenzer Platz.
The square was a scarred amphitheater of war. The historic Polizeipräsidium—Nuremberg's old police headquarters—stood on the southeast corner, its limestone facade cratered by RPG hits but structurally sound. U.S. flags flew from two upper-floor windows. Sandbags lined the entrance. A M998 HMMWV—one of the first dozen deployed to Europe—sat idling out front, its turret-mounted M60 swiveling slowly.
"Your stop, Loushire!" the driver barked.
Woubeck jumped down, boots hitting wet pavement slick with oil and something darker. He adjusted his PTA, checked his rifle sling, and walked toward the shattered double doors of the Polizeipräsidium—where Second Platoon and Lt. Hale waited in the bones of a fallen empire's stronghold.
Woubeck stepped through the splintered double doors of the Polizeipräsidium, boots echoing on marble cracked by blast waves. The lobby—once grand, with bronze sconces and Nazi-era eagles half-scraped off the walls—now reeked of cordite, wet boots, and field-expedient latrines.
He didn't get even five paces before a wall of muscle and malice blocked his path.
Sergeant Alan Fitchers stood like a sprung bear trap—6'1", jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot beneath the brim of his tilted K-pot. His PTA vest was unfastened at the sides, revealing a sweat-darkened BDU blouse stitched with the Sky Sentinels' unit patch: a silver hawk clutching a lightning bolt over a parachute. His left sleeve bore a black armband, hastily stitched.
"Another goddamn motherfucking FNG?" Fitchers spat, voice gravel-dry. "Can't see where you going or what?! Or did the bus drop you off at the wrong war?"
Woubeck froze. "i'm so-sorry, Sergeant!" PFC Loushire, reporting for—"
"Don't," Fitchers cut in, stepping so close his breath hit Woubeck's face—coffee, nicotine, and something sour beneath. "Even shit is more useful than your name. You haven't bled for this patch. You haven't buried anyone who wore it." His hand twitched near his M1911 holster. "You're just filler—warm body to plug the gap 'til the next mortar round opens up."
Woubeck didn't flinch. Didn't speak. But his fingers curled inside his fingerless gloves.
Before Fitchers could shove him, a calm voice cut through the tension like a knife through smoke.
"Let the FNG go, Alan."
Staff Sergeant Abraham Montrench—22, lean, with calm eyes and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow—stepped between them. He placed a firm but gentle hand on Fitchers' shoulder.
Fitchers jerked away like he'd been burned. "Don't touch me, Abe."
"I know," Montrench said quietly. "But Hale's got eyes. And you're two seconds from company punishment."
Fitchers glared, chest heaving. Then, with a guttural grunt, he shoved past Woubeck, muttering, "Waste of oxygen…"
Montrench turned to Woubeck, offered a tired but genuine half-smile. "Ignore him. He's been running on C-4 rations and grief since Munich."
He didn't explain. He didn't need to. Every Sky Sentinel knew: Third Platoon got hit in the Munich train yard two weeks ago—ambush by Soviet sappers. Twelve KIA. Including his younger brother, PFC Daniel Fitchers.
"You're with the new batch?" Montrench nodded toward a cluster of wide-eyed replacements huddled near a shattered directory board, rifles slung too high, helmets askew. "Go stand with them. Hale'll call you in soon. And don't worry—he's seen Fitchers chew through lieutenants. You'll be fine."
Woubeck gave a curt nod. "Yes, Sergeant."
As he walked away, Montrench called after him—soft, but clear:
"And Loushire?"
"Sir?" Loushire replied.
"When you fire your rifle in anger for the first time… aim slow. Breathe. Then squeeze."
Woubeck didn't look back. But he remembered.
Calmed by Staff Sergeant Montrench, he now stood among a cluster of new replacements in the shattered marble lobby of the former Nazi-era police headquarters, the air thick with cordite, damp wool, and exhaustion.
Then the door to the inner command room swung open.
Platoon Sergeant Sergeant First Class Kitchner stepped out, followed by a lean, sharp-eyed officer in a subdued BDUs, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a silver bar glinting on his collar.
Second Lieutenant Elias Hale—24 years old, airborne-tabbed, West Point '85—looked like he hadn't slept in 72 hours. But his voice was steady.
"PFC Loushire," he said, not unkindly, but with the clipped efficiency of a man who'd already written too many condolence letters. "Front and center."
Woubeck stepped forward, boots clicking on cracked tile.
Hale motioned him inside a makeshift office—a colonel's old desk shoved against a wall, maps pinned with red yarn, a field radio buzzing softly in the corner. On the desk lay a laminated sheet, taped at the corners, labeled in bold stencil:
95TH AIRBORNE BDE – ALPHA CO, 1ST BN – 2ND PLT (REINFORCED) – TO&E (NOV 28, 1987)
Hale handed Woubeck a carbon copy. "This is your platoon. Memorize it. Live it. It's the only thing standing between you and a Soviet Spetsnaz sapper with a satchel charge."
He tapped the top of the sheet.
PLATOON STRUCTURE – 2ND PLATOON, ALPHA COMPANY
(Per XVIII ABN CORPS Directive: "IRON HAWK" Reinforced Airborne Platoon Model)
PLATOON HQ
Platoon Leader: 2LT E. Hale – M16A2-WAID
Platoon Sergeant: SFC Kitchner – M16A2-WAID
RTO: PFC R. Cho – M16A2-WAID + AN/PRC-77
Combat Medic: SP4 T. Kowalski – M16A2-WAID
TACP (USAF): SSgt D. Reyes – M16A2 + M203
FIRST SQUAD
Squad Leader: SSG A. Montrench – M16A2-WAID
Alpha Fire Team
Team Leader: SGT R. Pike – M16A2-WAID
Assistant TL: CPL M. Ellis – M16A2-WAID
Automatic Rifleman: PFC J. Ruiz – M249 SAW
Grenadier: PFC L. Tran – M16A2-WAID + M203
Designated Marksman: CPL H. Finch – M21 Sniper Rifle
Bravo Fire Team
Team Leader: SGT A. Fitchers – M16A2-WAID
Assistant TL: CPL D. Morse – M16A2-WAID
Automatic Rifleman: PFC T. Boyle – M249 SAW
Grenadier: PFC C. Lin – M16A2-WAID + M203
Rifleman: PFC W. Loushire – M16A2-WAID
(Second and Third Squads followed identical structures—each with 10 men, 2 SAWs, 1 DM, 2 grenadiers, and embedded TACP support at platoon level only.)
Hale watched as Woubeck scanned the list—his name printed cleanly beneath "Bravo Fire Team, First Squad."
"You're replacing Dvorak, under Montrench's squad, you're under Sergeant Alan's team" Kitchner said quietly. "He took three rounds clearing a basement near Königstorgraben. Died before the medevac bird even lifted off."
He paused. "Fitchers was holding his hand when he went. So don't expect a welcome hug."
Woubeck didn't flinch. "Understood, sir."
"Good." Hale reached under the desk and lifted a rifle wrapped in oiled cloth. He placed it in Woubeck's hands. "Here's your new toy, get rid of that A2"
"This is your M16A2-WAID—Weapon Action Improvement and Development. Only issued to Sky Sentinels for. Chrome-lined bore, short-stroke piston—won't choke in mud or frost. Full-auto, burst, semi. Flash-hider's birdcage style. Handguards are round—pencil profile—for better grip and heat dissipation. You can slap a suppressor or optic on it if the mission calls for it."
He tapped the magazine. "Thirty-rounders. Rust-resistant springs. Tracer mix: red every fourth round. Effective range—610 meters on a man, 900 on a building or truck. And it'll fire after four days buried in Arctic snow. We tested it in Norway."
Woubeck ran his fingerless-gloved hand along the receiver. It felt alive—denser, more balanced than the M16A1s he'd trained on at Fort Benning.
"Your zero's already set," Hale said. "But you don't sight it in till Fitchers says so. Don't switch to full-auto unless ordered. One mag on full burns through in five seconds. Then you're dead weight."
He stepped back. "Gear's staged in the east wing. Ammo, PTA vest, three canteens, two MREs. Be kit-ready in ten. Patrol wheels up at 1800—sector NORDOST, from Hauptmarkt to Weißer Turm. Fitchers leads. You follow, watch, and keep your finger off the bang switch unless you see a red star."
Woubeck saluted. "Yes, sir."
As he turned to leave, Hale added, almost as an afterthought "And Loushire?"
"Sir?"
"You're in a war, Don't ever complain that you're getting shot at every direction like it's a war game, Don't be the reason Fitchers has to write another name on that black armband."
Woubeck didn't reply. He just tightened his grip on the WAID and walked into the echoing hallway—past the ghosts of empire, past the scars of war, and into the ranks of the Sky Sentinels.
Woubeck stepped out of the Polizeipräsidium's command wing, the M16A2-WAID cradled against his chest like a relic. The late afternoon light—thin and gray—cut through the shattered skylight above, casting long shadows across the marble floor streaked with boot mud and dried blood.
Behind him, footsteps echoed. Not the angry stomp of Fitchers, but a measured, unhurried stride.
"Loushire."
He turned. Staff Sergeant Abraham Montrench stood there, helmet off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a fresh bandage taped around his left thumb. He wasn't smiling now. The easy calm from earlier had hardened into something quieter—watchful.
"Come on," Montrench said. "Your squad's staged near the east courtyard. Fitchers is already chewing through sandbags like they owe him money."
Woubeck fell in step. The weight of the WAID felt strange—not heavy, but present, like it knew what it was meant for.
After a few paces, Woubeck spoke, voice low but steady.
"Sergeant… what's war?"
Montrench didn't slow. Didn't look at him.
"Check your sling tension. Yours is too loose."
Woubeck adjusted it automatically—habit from Benning. Then, quieter:
"I mean… what's it like?"
Montrench finally stopped. Turned. His eyes were dark, tired, but not unkind.
"Let's start with: 'Yes, Sergeant.' And 'Where's my kit?'"
They rounded a blasted archway into the east courtyard—once a formal garden, now a staging area. Canvas lean-tos, ammo crates, and a smoldering barrel of trash filled the space. A dozen soldiers moved with the dull efficiency of men who'd seen too much too fast.
Montrench pointed.
"That's your squad."
First Squad stood clustered near a gutted Opel sedan used as a sandbag anchor. SSG Montrench—yes, himself—was their squad leader, but he was already walking away from his own men to handle platoon business. The fire teams were split: Alpha Team cleaning weapons under Pike's watchful eye; Bravo Team huddled near a map spread over a crate—Fitchers at the center, arms crossed, jaw working like he was grinding stone.
As Woubeck approached, Montrench called out, voice light but firm:
"Bravo Team—meet PFC Woubeck Loushire. He's Dvorak's replacement. Try not to get him killed before chow."
A few glances. A grunt from CPL Morse. PFC Lin gave a half-wave. PFC Boyle—the SAW gunner—just stared, then spat into the dirt.
Then Fitchers looked up.
And Woubeck felt it.
Not hatred. Not exactly. But something colder—a wall of grief so thick it radiated heat. Fitchers' eyes locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, Woubeck's pulse spiked. His fingers twitched near the WAID's pistol grip. He forced himself not to step back.
Fitchers uncrossed his arms. Slowly. Deliberately. He took three steps forward—boots crunching on broken tile—and stopped just inside personal space.
He didn't speak.
He just looked—not at Woubeck's face, but at the black armband on his own left sleeve. Then back up. His nostrils flared. His shoulders, massive under the PTA vest, rose once—then dropped.
And in that micro-gesture, Woubeck saw it:
Fitchers hated that he was feared.
Hated that this new kid—this replacement—looked at him like he was a storm about to break.
And hated himself more for wanting to be feared, because fear kept people alive.
But he also knew: fear wouldn't bring Daniel back.
Fitchers exhaled sharply through his nose. Turned without a word. "Boyle—show him how to clear a mag well. Lin, issue him two M203 rounds. Morse, strip his old sling and give him the padded one."
Then he walked off toward the courtyard wall, where he leaned against the stone, stared at the ruins of St. Lorenz Church, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled—just once.
Montrench, watching from the doorway, gave Woubeck a single nod. "Welcome to Bravo Team. Now get to work."
And Woubeck did.
Because in war, questions wait. But tasks don't.
Bravo Team moved with the quiet efficiency of men who'd learned silence saves lives.
PFC Boyle stripped the bolt carrier from his M249, wiping carbon with a rag already blackened beyond recognition. CPL Morse checked his M203 breech for moisture—Nuremberg's November dampness clung to everything. PFC Lin stacked 40mm rounds in cloth pouches, counting under his breath: "One for the window, one for the door…"
Fitchers was sitting alone on an overturned ammo crate near the courtyard's eastern wall, back to the squad, facing the skeletal remains of a bombed-out tram station. His PTA vest lay open. His K-pot rested on the ground beside him.
In his hands: a battered Zippo lighter.
Not lighting a cigarette this time.
He just turned it over and over—thumb tracing the engraving on the side, worn nearly smooth. The metal caught the weak afternoon light in dull flashes. His shoulders, usually squared like a fortress, were slumped, just slightly—enough that only someone watching closely would notice.
His other calloused hand, scarred across the knuckles rested on his thigh, fingers curled loosely around nothing. But the way his thumb rubbed the side of his index finger, again and again, suggested muscle memory: the feel of a dog tag chain. Or a revolver's hammer.
Then, almost absently, he reached into his BDU blouse pocket and pulled out a folded photograph and opened one creased corner. A glimpse of two men in jungle fatigues, one young, one older, standing in front of a Huey. The photo was yellowed at the edges. Water-stained.
He didn't look at it long. Just long enough for his breath to hitch—once—before he snapped it shut, tucked it away, and stood abruptly.
He picked up his K-pot. Slammed it onto his head. Adjusted the chinstrap with sharp, precise motions—too sharp, like he was punishing himself.
Then he turned.
His face was blank. Jaw set. Eyes dry but hollow, like wells tapped too deep.
"Loushire," he said, voice flat, back to command tone. "You got your M203 rounds?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Load one. Keep the other in your left chest pocket, not your thigh. Thigh gets wet. Round corrodes. You'll jam on the trigger pull."
He stepped closer, not to intimidate this time, but to inspect. His eyes flicked over Woubeck's gear—sling, mag pouches, canteen. Then, almost as an afterthought "Your gloves. Swap 'em out. These are fingerless. Patrol's night op. You'll lose dexterity to frostbite by 2100."
Woubeck nodded, already reaching for his pack.
Fitchers lingered a second too long. Then, quieter—so only Woubeck could hear "And if you write letters home… don't promise you'll come back."
He didn't explain. Didn't look at him. Just turned and walked toward Boyle. "SAW's gas tube—clean it again. Last thing we need is a cook-off in a hallway."
As he passed the smoldering trash barrel, he paused. Took out the Zippo. Lit a cigarette this time. But his hand shook just for a heartbeat from the weight of two ghosts:
One buried in Vietnam mud, another in Munich snow.
And between them, a son and a brother who'd learned too late that some wars never end—they just change uniforms.
The courtyard's gray light was fading fast, and frost already feathered the edges of sandbags. Woubeck knelt beside his open rucksack, fingers fumbling with the new padded sling Morse had tossed him. He'd just threaded it through the front swivel when a shadow fell across his hands.
"Loushire, was it?"
He looked up. Bravo Team's SAW gunner PFC Terrence Boyle stood over him, chewing gum like it owed him money. His own M249 lay across his thighs, disassembled, gleaming with fresh CLP.
"Yeah. Woubeck Loushire."
Boyle knelt, took the sling from him without asking, and re-rigged it in three swift motions. "You're tying it like you're hitching a horse. Tighten the adjuster here" He tugged a webbing loop. "—so it doesn't slap your neck when you go prone. Fitchers'll chew your ass if you're slow on the draw."
"Thanks."
Boyle grunted, then nodded at Woubeck's WAID. "How long you been in the Army?"
"Basic at Benning. Airborne School after. Shipped here two days ago."
"FNG." Not an insult—just fact. Boyle spit into the dirt. "You'll live. Most do. Some don't. Dvorak didn't." He paused, then added, almost gently: "Don't take the empty bunk personal."
Woubeck didn't answer. He just tightened the sling.
After a beat, he asked: "Back at the door—when Sergeant Montrench stepped in… I saw a tab on his shoulder. Said 'RANGER.' What's that mean?"
Boyle stopped wiping the SAW's gas piston. Looked at him like he'd asked why the sky was blue.
"You really are fresh." He sighed, but not unkindly. "That's the Ranger Tab. Earned at Ranger School—Fort Benning. Three phases: Benning, mountains, swamps. Twenty-one days, no sleep, carrying a ruck heavier than your ego. They starve you, drown you, march you 'til your feet rot off."
He reassembled the bolt carrier group with a soft click.
"If you pass, you wear that tab for life. Doesn't mean you're in the 75th Ranger Regiment—though some are. Most just go back to their units. But anyone with that tab? They've been through hell and came out the other side with their mind intact. Or mostly."
He glanced toward the courtyard arch where Montrench had disappeared minutes earlier.
"Montrench got his at nineteen. Youngest in his class. Hale's got one too—West Point let him skip his senior year to go. Fitchers…" Boyle's voice dropped. "Fitchers went. Washed out in mountains. Frostbite in his toes. Never talks about it. But he respects the tab more than his own rank."
Boyle handed Woubeck a spare cleaning rod. "Point is—tabs like that? It mean the guy's been tested and is real shit. Tested means trusted at times of war." He stood, slung his SAW. "Now quit gawking and check your mag springs. We don't carry dead weight here in Bravo Team."
Woubeck nodded, running his thumb over the WAID's magazine release. "Understood."
Boyle gave a curt nod back—then, almost as an afterthought:
"If you ever do go to Ranger School… don't quit on the mountain. That's where the weak die. And the strong start lying to themselves."
He walked off toward Fitchers, leaving Woubeck alone with his rifle, the cold, and the weight of two things, being assigned is one thing, what it means to earn your place there, is another.
Polizeipräsidium – Battalion Operations Cell (Sub-Basement)
1645 Hours // November 28, 1987
The air in the basement reeked of damp concrete, diesel fumes, and stale coffee. Maps of Nuremberg covered every wall, pinned with red and blue yarn. A single field lamp cast long shadows over Lt. Hale, SFC Kitchner, and the three squad leaders—Montrench, Ortega, and Rivas—hunched over a folding table.
Hale tapped a red circle near Weißer Turm.
"**Forget Spetsnaz. Intel's updated as of 1500. What's left in the city isn't sabotage teams—it's 3rd Battalion, 76th Guards Airborne Regiment—the 'Stalingrad Hawks.'"
A murmur ran through the NCOs.
Kitchner, arms crossed, grunted. "Airborne? Here?"
"Yes." Hale's voice was flat. "They jumped into Nuremberg the night of the 23rd, behind our lines. Got chewed up bad during our counterattack, but elements survived. They're elite. Two-tour vets from Afghanistan should be proof enough . Trained for urban ops and they've got PKM teams, RPG-22s, and at least one AGS-17 grenade launcher hidden in the old town."
Montrench leaned in. "So we're hunting real soldiers this time."
"Exactly." Hale straightened. "Captain DeWitt's order: clear Sector NORDOST—sweep and hold. Deny them observation, deny them rally points. We're the anvil."
He pointed to two other sectors.
"1st Platoon's pushing west—securing Hauptmarkt and the Frauenkirche bell tower. They'll overwatch our left flank. If the Soviets try to retreat toward Fürth, they'll catch them in the open."
He shifted his finger east.
"3rd Platoon's moving at 2000—airmobile insertion via Black Hawks to Königstorgraben industrial zone. They'll set up an L-shaped ambush along the rail yards. Intel says the Guards are trying to exfiltrate wounded through the freight tunnels."
Kitchner nodded slowly. "So we're the bait. They're the hammer."
"We're the wall," Hale corrected. "We don't engage unless fired on. But if we do, we fix them in place until 1st and 3rd close the sack."
He looked at each squad leader.
"You tell your teams: no heroics. No chasing shadows. If you see movement, call it, mark it, hold position. We win by discipline, not body count."
Montrench exchanged a glance with Ortega. Both knew what Hale wasn't saying: After Munich, after Dvorak… we can't afford another emotional trigger-pull.
East Courtyard – 1730 Hours
Fitchers stood in the center of Bravo Team, arms loose but posture rigid. He didn't yell. He didn't need to. His presence was command enough.
"Boyle—SAW loaded?"
"Two hundred rounds, linked. Clean."
"Lin—M203 zeroed?"
"Point of aim, point of impact at 150."
"Morse—radio check with Cho?"
"Solid copy."
His eyes landed on Woubeck.
"Loushire."
"Sergeant."
"Magazines seated?"
"Six. Tracer mix confirmed."
"WAID selector?"
"Semi."
Fitchers gave a single nod. Not approval. Acknowledgement.
"Fall in."
Bravo Team snapped into a loose line. Across the courtyard, Alpha Team formed up under Pike. First Squad's DM, Finch, adjusted his M21 sling. Medic Kowalski slung a trauma kit over his shoulder.
Then—boots on stone.
Lt. Hale emerged from the command wing, followed by SFC Kitchner and the other squad leaders. The platoon closed ranks without a word.
Hale stepped onto an overturned crate. His voice carried, low but sharp.
"Listen up. We move in thirty. Objective is securing Sector NORDOST—Hauptmarkt to Weißer Turm—and deny it to the Soviets."
We're facing the 76th Guards Airborne—elite, disciplined, heavily armed. Not Spetsnaz. Not conscripts. Veterans. Two tours from Afghanistan should be proof enough but we'll learn from them.
1st Platoon is holding the west—Frauenkirche to Pegnitz River. They've got eyes on all approaches. If we push the enemy left, they'll catch them.
3rd Platoon is going mobile—airlifting into Königstorgraben at 2000. They'll cut off any retreat east.
Our job? Hold the center. Watch. Wait. And if the Hawks show their beaks… we break them.
Rules of engagement: Positive ID only. No firing into windows unless engaged. Civilians are still in the AO—some hiding, some collaborating. Use judgment.
Comms: Squad nets open. Platoon net silent unless contact.
Casualty protocol: Drag to cover. Tourniquet. Call 'Casualty, Bravo-2, grid 447812'—then keep fighting.
Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good." Hale stepped down. "Mount up. Wheels out in ten."
As the platoon dispersed, Fitchers turned to Bravo Team. His voice was barely above a whisper—but every word carved into the cold air. "Stay behind me. Watch my six. And if you see a red star on a helmet… don't hesitate. Because they won't."
Woubeck checked his WAID one last time.
The selector stayed on semi.
But his finger rested just below the trigger.
Ready.
Königstorgraben Industrial Zone – Eastern Nuremberg
1945 Hours // November 28, 1987
The Black Hawks came in low and dark—no lights, no running lamps, just the growl of T53 engines muffled by the skeletal cranes and bombed-out warehouses of the Königstorgraben rail yards. Snow flurries swirled in their rotor wash, stinging exposed skin like ground glass. Inside Hawk 3-Alpha, 3rd Platoon sat shoulder-to-shoulder in full assault order—PTA vests, M16A2-WAIDs slung, M249s cradled like infants. The cabin smelled of sweat, CLP, and fear held in check.
At the front, 25 year old Ranger-tabbed 2nd Lt. Darius Cole pressed his helmet mic, jaw set like stone. "Five mikes out. Stick to the plan: First Squad secures the north gantry. Second holds the rail tunnel mouth. Third provides silo overwatch, We box 'em in. No one walks out."
Next to him, Platoon Sergeant SFC Ruiz a Grenada vet with a scar that split his eyebrow, nodded, eyes fixed on the thermal feed from the crew chief's FLIR. "Thermal's picking up movement near Tunnel 4. Four, maybe five heat signatures. Digging in."
"Guards boys occupy," Cole muttered. "They're turning that tunnel into a kill zone."
The pilot's voice crackled "Thirty seconds. Hot LZ. Expect resistance."
The crew chief slid the door open. Cold air howled in. Below, the rail yard stretched like a graveyard of rusted steel—shattered boxcars, torn-up tracks, and the gaping maw of Tunnel 4, half-collapsed but still passable.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Men spilled out into the snow, boots hitting frozen gravel. First Squad sprinted for the gantry—a rusted iron tower that once controlled switching signals. Second Squad fanned toward the tunnel entrance, M249s sweeping the dark. Third Squad broke right, sprinting for the grain silo's ladder.
Then—crack.
Not a rifle. An SVD.
PFC Mendez—Bravo's point man—dropped without a sound, a red blossom blooming on his temple.
"CONTACT FRONT! SNIPER, TUNNEL ROOF!" Sgt. Vasquez yelled, diving behind a derailed flatcar.
Return fire erupted, controlled, disciplined. M16A2-WAIDs on semi, rounds pinging off steel. The SVD cracked again. Another miss but close.
Cole keyed his mic "Silo, do you have eyes on that shooter?"
From the silo, SSG Teller's voice was calm "Affirmative. One shooter, SVD, prone on tunnel roof. But he's not alone." A pause. "I count six more PKM team behind sandbags at tunnel mouth. AGS-17 further back. They're dug in deep. A delaying action is what they're doing here."
Ruiz cursed. "They're buying time for someone to escape west."
Cole made the call fast. "First Squad, suppress that roof! Second get grenadiers, smoke the tunnel mouth!—AGS-17 is your priority. Take it out!"
M203s thumped. White smoke billowed. The PKM opened up—thwack-thwack-thwack—ripping through the haze.
Then, from the tunnel's darkness, shouting in Russian. Not panicked. Commanding.
And then—movement as three figures in Afghanka field uniforms, red shoulder tabs of the 76th Guards, dragging a wounded comrade. They weren't running. They were executing a tactical withdrawal—covering each other, using the smoke.
"They're slipping out the west service tunnel!" Vasquez shouted.
"Not if we move now!" Cole drew his M1911. "Bravo—follow me!"
But Ruiz grabbed his arm. "Lieutenant, We'll lose the trap if we chase, hold for now, Sir."
Cole froze. Looked at Mendez's body. Then at the vanishing Guardsmen. He exhaled hard. "Hold position. Engage what's in the kill zone. Let 2nd Platoon clean up the stragglers."
From half a klick away, in the heart of Nuremberg old town, 2nd Platoon hadn't even seen the first shot yet.
But they would.
Because the Stalingrad Hawks always left blood trails.
Sector NORDOST – Near Hauptmarkt, Nuremberg
2003 Hours // November 28, 1987
The patrol moved like shadows through the snow-dusted alley behind St. Sebaldus Church. Woubeck kept two paces behind Fitchers, WAID held low, eyes scanning rooftops. The city was too quiet—no dogs, no wind, just the creak of burnt timbers settling.
Then—static.
The platoon net hissed to life.
"—multiple contacts, heavy PKM fire, AGS-17 confirmed—"
"—Mendez KIA, repeat, Mendez KIA—"
"—they're breaking west, toward your sector—"
Boyle froze mid-step. "That's 3rd Platoon. They're lit up."
Lin whispered, "Hawks are coming here?"
Morse keyed his mic "Platoon, this is Bravo-4. We hearing that right?"
A beat. Then Lt. Hale's voice, calm as stone "Affirmative. 3rd Platoon's in contact. Heavy enemy resistance—76th Guards, withdrawing west. Anything can happen. I'm not surprised. Cho, relay to Captain: '3rd Platoon engaged, enemy exfiltrating toward NORDOST."
"All teams—go hot. Weapons tight. Expect contact within ten mikes."
No panic. No hesitation. Just clarity. Woubeck's pulse hammered—but his hands stayed steady. This is it.
Hauptmarkt Square – Western Edge of Sector NORDOST
Same Time
Captain Reese DeWitt stood in the shattered archway of the Frauenkirche bell tower, M16A2-WAID slung across his chest, field glasses in hand. At his elbow: First Sergeant Marcus Velez—42, salt-and-pepper buzzcut, eyes that missed nothing.
DeWitt lowered the glasses. "They're pushing hard."
Velez didn't look at the map. He already knew it by heart. "3rd Platoon pinned them, but the Guards are maneuvering. And they picked the one corridor we can't fully cover."
Velez added "They know we're stretched."
DeWitt was already speaking into his mic "1st Platoon, Shift south, secure the rail underpass at Königstraße. Intercept any enemy movement toward Hauptmarkt. Do not let them cross the tracks. 3rd platoon follow them in"
Then, quieter, to DeWitt "You're giving 2nd Platoon the hardest job. Holding ground while the enemy comes at them head-on."
DeWitt checked his WAID's magazine. "Hale can handle it. Besides, Fitchers has been waiting for this."
Velez gave a grim half-smile. "Just hope them FNGs ready."
DeWitt slung his rifle. "No one's ever ready, First Sergeant. We just show up and do the work."
He stepped out from the archway, into the snow. "Let's move. I want eyes on that intersection before the shooting starts."
Velez fell in beside him—two officers walking toward gunfire, not away.
Hauptmarkt – Firefight Engaged
2022 Hours // November 28, 1987
The first shot didn't come from Woubeck.
It came from Finch, the DM, perched on the burnt-out van.
Crack.
A Soviet rifleman crumpled mid-stride—7.62x51mm through the throat.
Then hell erupted.
The remaining two Hawks didn't flinch. They dropped, rolled behind a shattered tram car, and returned fire with economy and precision.
Thwack-thwack-thwack! — the PKM opened up from a side alley Woubeck hadn't seen.
PFC Ruiz (Alpha Team) took a round through the shoulder—spun, fell. CPL Ellis dragged him behind cover, screaming for Kowalski.
"CONTACT EAST! PKM AT THE ALLEY MOUTH!" Kitchner roared over the net.
Fitchers was already moving. "Loushire—second window, third floor! Man with RPG!"
Woubeck swung his WAID up—heart hammering, breath shallow. Through the sight, he saw him: a Guardsman in Afghanka gear, red star on helmet, shouldering an RPG-22.
He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
He'd fired his last round during the approach—forgot to chamber a new one.
Panic flared—cold, electric. His hands shook as he fumbled for a fresh mag. The 30-round curved magazine slipped from his fingers, clattered on stone. "Damn it—!"
He snatched it back, tried to seat it—angled wrong. The mag catch wouldn't click.
Above, Finch's M21 barked again.
CRACK!!
The RPG gunner dropped, forehead punched open.
"Target's down, Bravo-5!" Finch called.
Fitchers didn't thank him. He just grabbed Woubeck's shoulder hard. "Breathe. Seat the mag flat. Slam it home. Then pull the charging handle—all the way back."
Woubeck obeyed, fingers trembling. Click. The bolt slammed forward.
But it was too late.
The PKM gunner had shifted—now raking the courtyard. CPL Morse took a round in the leg—screamed, dropped his radio. "MEDIC! BRAVO-3 DOWN!"
Kowalski crawled through snow, dragging his aid bag.
From the church spire, Hale's voice cut through the chaos "Enemy reinforcements—two more, moving from the east! They're flanking!"
Kitchner: "Alpha Team—suppress that PKM! Bravo—fall back to the bakery ruins! NOW!"
Fitchers shoved Woubeck toward cover. "Stay behind me! And for God's sake watch your muzzle!"
Woubeck stumbled, WAID heavy as lead. His gloves were slick with sweat despite the cold. He wanted to fire—but didn't know at what. Every shadow moved. Every sound was a threat. In urban warfare, you will almost never know where are those gunshots really coming from.
Then—a face.
Twenty meters away, in a bombed-out doorway: a Soviet rifleman, scanning, M72 slung, eyes sharp. He saw Woubeck and he raised his AK-74.
Woubeck froze.
But Boyle's SAW roared—a long, controlled burst.
Brrrrt—brrrt!
The Soviet vanished in a spray of brick and blood. Body dropped as if it's puppet strings were cut.
Silence deafens just for a heartbeat. Until LT Hale broke the silence "PKM gunner neutralized. One enemy KIA, two unaccounted."
Kitchner "All teams reform at Rally Point Delta. We're pulling back to Hauptmarkt center."
As they moved, Woubeck saw Ruiz—pale, bandaged, propped against a wall. Morse was leg wrapped, teeth gritted.
Two wounded. No KIA yet. But they've had one confirmed dead from the Soviets. The rest escaped.
Fitchers looked at Woubeck with disappointment rather than anger. "You froze." Not a question. A fact.
Woubeck didn't deny it. "Yes, Sergeant."
Fitchers exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Next time, you won't have Finch to save you. Or Boyle. Or me." He turned, motioning the team forward. "So learn fast. Or don't come back."
Woubeck reloaded—this time, smooth, deliberate as he chambered a round and set his selector to semi.
He wouldn't freeze again. But the war had already marked him.