The following story is an alternate history. In this timeline, the Germans were victorious in WWII. In the final months of the war in Europe, German scientists uncovered the secrets to the workings of the Manhattan project, and managed to complete it before the Americans could. On July 17th, 1944, Germany unleashed a wing of desperate bombers modified to hold the ungodly weapon. Only one made it to the intended target, but it was more than enough. London, England, disappeared in a blinding flash in the depths of the night. One hundred thousand dead, with the promise of more to come. A week later, a second wave of bombers strikes down Moscow and demolishes the English rear lines. As a third wave was built, and the German army mowed down the remaining Allied forces, Hitler sounded on every radio channel. “The Final Solution has been altered. All countries must stand down at once, or the Sun will destroy you.” With that ominous note, the world began it’s countdown to doomsday. A hundred years later, Hitler’s statement has yet to be fulfilled. Country after country had been devastated, and even the U.S., a titan in its struggle against the ever-increasing onslaught, eventually fell. The U.S. armed forces however, fought on. And here the story begins. 2044. A retired general lives out his possible final days in Florida before the Nazi encampments there realize who he his. When his counterpart in the Nazi army finds out he lives in their backyard, he sees a chance to end their bitter rivalry once and for all.

Chapter 1: Old soldiers

Darkness. From horizon to horizon, all was dark. The crescent moon was obscured by a blanket of clouds, but a sliver of light shone through. That sliver pierced the window of a bedroom. A clock inside the silent room read “1:07” in bold red numbers. A bed lay unmade and the door ajar, but there was no light on. Nearly silent footsteps faded away from the stairwell beyond. The door to the garden at the back of the house swings open with an ominous creak. Out came a shadow, silent and hidden. Dark gray hair barely showing from under his cap, the old man crept along the wall. Edging his eye around the corner, he saw lights. A humming noise came from the same direction. He sighed. Mr. Gaevin must be here; it had taken him long enough to figure it out. Shifting slightly, as the moon comes out from behind the clouds, the old man’s hand reaches to his hip. A glint of silver shows in the silent night.

Gaevin had, in fact, arrived. Black clothes, and a rifle slung across his back, the Sergeant rode towards the house of his sword enemy, the man who had killed his commanding officer. Two of his guards, faceless in their red armor, were with him. Just hours before, a prisoner had been forced to give him a name. Jack Delvinski. Delvinski, the man who was single-handedly responsible for the destruction of five divisions. Delvinski, the old geezer with the rusting revolver. Well, that revolver would trouble him no more. Tonight must be the last night of his life. Whether he knew it or not. The ATV’s stopped, riders and all. Mr. Gaevin flung himself off.
“Even soldiers die, old man.” He said with a chuckle to himself aloud.

Jack crouched and watched. Slowly he raised his aging pistol. The barrel pointed directly between Gaevin’s eyes. It was a wonder he never noticed.
“Old soldiers never die, Michael. They just look that way.” Jack murmured. The night split open with a thunderous crack. A thud and a whimper arose from the dying man. The moon made the blood look like silver. The two men stared. One raised his rifle, and looked for a target. He never found one. The silence was shattered twice more. A crackling series of shots rang from the other gun. Windows exploding in showers of diamond knives. Jack’s shaky hand missed when he loosed another bullet. The next two found their mark. An old soldier, returning to his work after what he thought to be retirement, leaned against the wall of his house. His breathing came fast and hard. There was no possibility he could stay here. He had only one choice. He just wished he hadn’t left that radio so damn far from his house so the Nazis didn’t find it…

On the barrens of the Florida coastline, a patrol group rides along the oily coastline. Men in red armor stop and stare at the flashing lights and the sound of gunshots. When all is made silent, one of the men points and twists the handle on his right. The silence is once again broken, by the roar of five engines, and the gentle thumping of the wheels over craters made by bombs and mines, reminders that the war is not over yet.

Jack notices another group of lights moving towards him.
“Of course, they have to notice right away. I’m an old man, take it easy on me.” He swings himself onto the vehicle formerly occupied by Mr. Gaevin, and rides slowly, quietly, into the night. The only problem is that the headlight is still on. Jack fumbles for the switch. Upon not finding one, he curses. A flash of metal and a small smashing noise, and the light is off. The old man roars off into the darkness. Just as he passes beyond the flickering glow of an ancient streetlight, the five men searching for him fly over the hill. One takes goggles from a side compartment of his ATV.

He slips them on and flicks a switch. Sweeping his head, he shields his eyes when he sees the glare of the streetlight. Waiting for the light to flicker off, he looks, and sees his target. Whipping his rifle out, he opens fire and directs his men to do the same. Sporadic shots sing out into the night. The streetlight, like a guardian angel for an aging war hero, provides enough glare that not one shot finds its mark. The noise and light in the once silent night has reached a level appropriate for a war zone. Spotlights sweep over the land around the German camps. Shouts come from men wondering what the commotion is. The patrol fires their rifles with a steady deliberation, stopping momentarily to gun their engines beyond the streetlight. Moving swiftly away from it all, the shadow that is Jack speeds recklessly towards the rusting shipyards.

Shooting may be hard at night, but between five men, a hit was almost guaranteed, as Jack knew well. Swerving the ATV around a mound of dirt, he reached for the accelerator, and was interrupted by a sudden series of lurches. The rear tire exploded into a cloud of shredded rubber. Two short screeching noises came from the general location of the engine. Jack was thrown off the side unceremoniously into the dust. Coming to a kneel on his decidedly sprained leg; he spat blood on the ground. Snapping his head sideways, he saw the five lights once again. Groaning, he reached for his pistol, but stopped short. Crawling over to the useless ATV, he flipped open the side. Fumbling around inside, he pulled his hands out with a submachine gun, which he discarded because it wasn’t loaded, and a steel cylinder with a pin-a flash grenade. A brief moment went by. The pin fell into the sand, and the shining cylinder rolled around the corner, as the shadowy man limped over to the edge of the mound, reloaded, and shielded his eyes. A blinding white light erupted, and the dazzled lead driver slammed on the brakes of his ATV. The second rammed into him with a terrible crunching sound, and the third and fourth just managed to swerve out of the way with a stream of swears. Even as Jacks revolver loosed death into the night, the fifth ATV flew over the hill itself.

Two men were out cold from a horrendous accident, two more lying motionless with blood flowing from their chests. The fifth slid to a stop and let loose a burst of bullets. Jacks already injured leg blossomed with blood in two places. Once, twice, three times he squeezed the trigger of his avenging sidearm in desperation. The man before him slid off of the ATV, took one staggering step forward and raised his gun. One last shot rang out into the darkness. The waves slowly slid up, and returned stained red. Jack painfully made his way over to the wreck where the two men had crashed. One was obviously dead, pinned between handlebars and a burning engine. The other was struggling to get up and find his leaders radio, which was squawking with orders to report in. Jack stood over him, and put the radio to the terrified mans lips, and then leveled the revolver at his head. The man who moments before had tried to kill him gulped and hesitantly spoke into the radio.

“We have eliminated the target, situation under control. Will report…” He glanced helplessly at Jack, who silently held up two fingers. “Will report again in two hours.” He breathed out as the radio gave the all clear. The spotlights turned off, one by one. Just before the last faded, one last flash of metal caught the man by the temple. All was silent once again.

Chapter 2: Silent Night
The setting silver moon shines softly on the bleeding corpses. The light reflects off of the ocean onto Jack’s tired face. Sitting painfully against the hill, he cradled his leg absentmindedly. There was no time to worry about that, the bullets could be removed and any infection treated. The problem was to get somewhere where he could be treated at all, preferably in no worse shape than he was in now. He had only two hours. The old terrestrial radio that the former U.S. still monitored lay buried just a hundred feet away from him, he saw with deep brown eyes. It may as well have been a hundred feet straight up, with regards to his leg. Jack Delvinski, the fabled military mind of the 21st century, a West Pointer with twenty years in the field, was beaten by a few dozen yards of uninhabited sand. It would be quite funny if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking, he mused. Shaking his head lightly, he cleared his head of thought.

“Haven’t been a baby for some time now.” Jack observed as he fell to his knees slowly, and reached his hands out in front of him. Beginning the agonizingly slow crawl, he glanced over to the unconscious man. Motionless, the moon shining off his still-bleeding temple, the sole survivor of his patrol breathed slowly, alive but silent. Satisfied, Jack moved onward. Five feet passed. His leg was no longer bleeding as freely, although it hurt more, he noticed. A few crawl strokes went by, and with each one, the bullets hurt more. Rolling over onto his back, Jack sighed in frustration. Closing his eyes, he reached his arm up to his forehead. Another hand got to his head first. An iron grip twisted around his neck.

Flashing his eyes open, he saw the man he had struck with his pistol minutes before kneeling over him, black hair cut short and mussed from the earlier struggle. With one fair-skinned arm in a death grip around his neck, the other fumbling at Jack’s hip for his revolver, the soldier acted every bit the heartless murderer. Snapping his hand to the soldier’s wrist, Jack tugged as hard as he could, aging muscles straining with the effort. The soldiers clutch was impervious to any effort he could put forward. Swinging his good leg upwards, Jack caught him by the crotch. Rolling over, with one final burst of strength he shoved the grip off. Grabbing his revolver from his hip once again, Jack lay, breathing heavily, staring. The injured man stared back, wiping blood from his forehead, and slowly raised his hands.

Jack steadied his gun silently. The soldier’s eyes flashed with anger. Clenching his hands, he desperately searched around him, bright blue eyes sweeping nervously around.

He sized up the revolver. “Drop the act. You’re out of bullets. I know a six-shooter when I see one.”

“Says the man with his hands in the air.” Jack responded, chuckling. “Actually, this is a seven-shooter. Modified it myself. Now, if you’ll listen to me, I just might let your army find you among corpses, instead of as one.” Taking one hand off of the gun, he pointed towards the small mound he was crawling towards. “See that? Go dig it up, there’s a radio underneath. Bring it here.”

The young man slowly complies, and walks back with the dusty radio in hand. Leaning down, he drops the radio in front of Jack, and with the same motion whips his other hand out to knock the pistol away. Diving, he came up with the gun in hand, leveling it at Jacks head. Slowly he pulled the trigger. A click softly accompanied his confounded stare. Two more clicks. He screamed in frustration.

“Actually, I lied. It is a six-shooter.” Jack said with a smile. “I should win an award for pulling that off, don’t you think?” Lunging out, with his arm he twisted the gun around until the wrist of the young man starts to crack, forcing him to release it. Pulling himself back, he slides one bullet into the gun and once again aimed it. “Actually, you’re lucky it only has six shots, because if you had killed me you would have sealed your own fate.”

A quizzical look on his face, the man asks: “What were you smoking in that old house of yours?”

“Just some old cigars. Now, seriously, do you really think you won’t be tortured to death, or at least hung, for conveying false information?” Jack sighed. “If you kill me, I can’t get a ride back to the U.S., and you stay here to die when your army finds you.” Pausing once more, he raises an eyebrow. “If you be a good little boy, you get a ride with me. You must have a family to return to. Where do they live? And what is your name, anyway?”

Growling slightly, the man replies. “I have a wife and children. They live in Toronto. My name is Mark. Mark Hound.”

“How did a Canadian end up in the German army?” Jack queries.

“The Allies thought I was a spy, being of German descent. They forced me to flee, and I escaped to Germany. There’s your answer. Now stop with the questions.”

“Whatever floats your boat, but I don’t believe you.” Jack turns his attention to the radio. Searching his memory, he tries to remember what the channel was. A flash of insight, and he twists the dial. Lifting the radio to his mouth, he clearly speaks. “Mayday, mayday, this is former General Jack Devlinski, requesting a pickup onshore by Florida Oil Rig #17” Repeating his message, he waits. A few moments later, a female voice sounds out.

“Admiral Bolivar has been alerted to your request, and regrets to inform you that a pickup of this nature would do nothing to benefit the war effort. Request denied.” Jack visibly deflates.

“Damn.” He turned his head towards the cloudy skies. If and when he got back, someone was getting court-martialed.

He thought for a moment, as Mark fiddled with the satellite radio. Lifting his gun, Jack softly says:

“Put it down.” Mark did so, keeping his eyes on the barrel, and watching nervously as Jacks finger rode the trigger. Jack reached with his left hand to take the radio, and tossed it away over his back. As it landed with a soft thud in the sand, he returned to the terrestrial radio. Once again, he spoke into it. “Jack Devlinski once again, requesting a direct line to Admiral Bolivar. Comply or I give my prisoner everything I know and let him go.” With that ultimatum, Jack smiled. No army could ignore a threat of that caliber.

Hundreds of miles away, a secretary in a white office in Trenton was about to do just that. Finger hovering over the talk button, she sighed after a brief moment and pushed another, and spoke.
“Mr. Bolivar sir, call for you. Man named Jack Devlinski. Says he’ll compromise security if I don’t patch him through.” She impatiently waited, flicking brown hair back over her shoulder.

“Jack, you say?” A deep voice sounded. “Put him right through.” Sniffing indignantly, the secretary did so.

In a tan-colored office the next door down. Bolivar sat at his metal desk. It was quite messy, various stacks of papers lay around a map of North America in no orderly fashion. A picture of a family, himself, wife, and two sons, hung on the wall behind him. A sign on the front of the desk read ‘Do you have your paperwork done?’ His rough, tan face was eager as he spoke. “Jack? That you?”

“Oh, no, I must have the wrong number.” Came the sarcastic response. “I need a pickup. Florida rig #17, ASAP. Can you spare a pilot?” Breathing into his fist, Bolivar shifted a pile of memos aside to reveal a list. Running his finger down it, he spoke.

“Lessee here… I have one John Rose available to fly, and an Arnold Jacumson for gunner. I can send them out and they’ll be there inside of three hours.” Shaking his head slightly, he continued. “You wouldn’t know either of them, they came on a few years after you left.”

“A thousand years ago, Patrick.” Was Jacks soft response. “Thank you.”

“You owe me service after this,” Patrick chided, but we’ll talk about that later. I’ll give the order now.” Turning the dial on his radio to ‘Dispatch Office’, he spoke thoughtfully into it. “On duty dispatcher, alert John Rose and Arnold Jacumson that they have a pickup on their schedule. Admirals orders. I’ll radio them the details when they take off in 0100 hours, due South. High priority.”

Outside in the humid July morning air, soldiers drilled, awaiting the rising of the sun. Gray light shone over a formation of ten figures, rising and falling in a series of push-ups. A middle-aged man directed them, telling them to stand. They do, the one young man falling to his knees before finally rising.

“AIR RAID!” He calls in a booming voice, and all ten throw themselves on the ground. “FLOOD!” The man watched without emotion as they struggled to rise. He breathed in to call out again, but is interrupted by a beeping from his belt. Crying “Halt!” he turns aside, pressing an earpiece to his ear.

“Please tell John Rose and Arnold Jacumson that they have a pickup assignment, and to report to John’s usual hanger immediately.” A curt voice crackles.

“Will do. Now leave me alone, I haven’t had my coffee yet.” The drillmaster dryly responds. Pointing with two fingers, he speaks. “You two! Report to John’s chopper, ASAP!” The two comply, an average-height young man with a wiry profile and a stiff gait, and an imposing silhouette lumbering behind him. Accidentally bumping into the drillmaster, the latter turns and apologizes silently. Dismissing him, the man returned to his work, resuming “AIR RAID!”

Walking swiftly across the grass towards the looming hangar, the two men look over at the brightening horizon. A thick, accented voice spoke, emanating from the larger man.

“So whatcha think the brass ‘assus doing today?”

“No idea. We’ll find out in a moment.” A level response comes from the other. As they pass within range of the lights of the hanger, their faces are revealed. The larger man, a silver bar on his chest reading “Arnold Jacumson” has dark skin, and an imposing square jaw complimented by his overall size. Tall, thick, muscular, his black-hole eyes scanning the hangar, Arnold is very much intimidating in his dark green military suit and black buzz-cut. The smaller man, John Rose, is very much his opposite. Thin and wiry, around average height, brown eyes look lifeless as he walks with a stiff, awkward gait. Fair skin shining white under the bright lights, he has a brushed-back light brown head of hair, which, together with his skin, offset the gray suit he wears, blue vest loaded with pockets.

Slowly pushing the iron door inwards, John walks into the hanger, followed by Arnold. The brightly lit building is empty but for sole mechanic by a maroon-colored helicopter. The man with the yellow vest has messy blonde hair and fair skin, and he toys with a wrench, twirling it as he glances at various dials on the engine. Snapping a panel back in place, he calls over to John with a clear, boyish voice.

“All set Rose, go ahead and take off due South. Admiral Bolivar says he’ll give you your orders en route.” As John passes by the mechanic, he lightly smacks his hand as he climbs into the cockpit.

“Thanks Brian, now to go sleep.” He replies.

“Just a moment.” Brian calls as he rounds the helicopter, coming back holding a gun with a long black barrel and a thick wooden stock at the end, wrapped in several magazines of bullets with a tripod folded on the bottom. “Here you go,” he says as he drops the gun into an impressed Arnolds hands.

“Do I really need this much firepower?” Arnold asks with a wry smile, continuing “Don’t answer that. And don’t listen ta Rosie, he don’t know what he talking about. Goin to sleep at this hour is stupid, go to the pub and find yaself a girl. Kay?”

“Um, well…” Brian stammers as Arnold hops into the helicopter, sliding the side shut behind him. Brian backs away as the blades begin to spin, buttoning his vest close as it flaps in the newly formed wind. Inside the helicopter itself, John snorts at Arnold as he swings the tail around and eases out of the hanger. Ascending rapidly, he soon pivots, putting the bright sky to his left as he flies outward. Moments later, the radio bursts.

“Launch 7-15-1, you are clear, patching the Admiral in now.”

“Rose, I’m sure you don’t appreciate me interrupting your precious exercise-” Patrick began, but he was interrupted by John.

“Actually, I appreciate it very much. Thank you for limiting my time with old Pops out there.” He interjects, pushing the throttle forward a little more.

“-But this is important. Wait-what?” Patrick starts, chuckling softly before continuing. “I doubt you’ve ever had any experience in the armed forces while Jack Devlinski was still in command of the Seventh, however,” Johns eyebrows raise at the sound of Jacks name, as Arnold inspects his gun. “He is still alive, and we have reason to believe he will compromise our security if we leave him in Florida. So I’ve decided to let you pick him up. I’m loaded a flight path onto your computer now, it should give you everything you need. Besides, you can’t miss him. He’s most likely the one surrounded by fire and dead bodies.” Patrick finishes with a humorous tone in his voice.

“That all? And here I thought you were going to order me on another suicide mission.” John scoffs. “All right, I’ll report in an hour when I pick him up.” He continues despite Patrick’s continuing insisting that he be aware of ‘the gravity of the situation’ and other such useless brass-speak. Taking a disc from a side compartment on the door of the cockpit, John puts it into the slot on the radio. Turning the knob, he reclines and smiles as the radio croons.

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