Blood Red Steel

PART 1:-2

How to Hunt Werewolves on the Red PlanetRed Werewolf Hunters“Drink.”

Jenkins threw back the shot, then turned his glass upside down when he replaced it on the table. That, he had learned, was the only way to stop Alexeev from pouring him any more. Standing smaller in height and far thinner, he couldn’t hope to match his burly colleague’s ability to consume alcohol. Alexeev could drain two bottles of vodka and still be fresh as a daisy with four hours sleep, primed to prowl the halls for any unsuspecting soldiers sneaking in after curfew.

Rapping on the door caused Jenkins to jump to his feet, hand already on his rifle. Talking himself down, he loosened his grip and told himself he was safe. The insurgency inside the colony had long since ended. The Wehrmacht soldiers captured during the Battle of New Berlin were still in their de-Nazification camps.

“Expecting company, Boris?” Jenkins said as he approached the door.

“Nyet.”

NyetIt could have been someone from the platoon checking in, but Jenkins’s instinct flared to life all the same. He slipped his boot behind the door and opened it a few centimetres. In the corridor, he recognised an officer and two armed soldiers in Soviet uniforms.

“Sergeant Boris Alexeev,” the officer said.

Jenkins began to speak when one of the soldiers pulled back his foot and crashed it at the door. It caught against Jenkins’s boot, stopping it from swinging wide open. The two soldiers barged in all the same, one rifle barrel aimed at his face, forcing him back. The officer marched inside, stood at the end of Alexeev’s bed and exploded into a tirade in Russian. The second soldier swung around the room, but, seeing no one else, fell in beside the officer, g*n aimed at Alexeev. Anger rushed through Jenkins as he stared down the barrel, the Russian soldier smirking.

“Boris, what’s going on?” Jenkins asked, his gaze locked on the weapon pointed at his face.

The officer maintained his steady stream of words, Alexeev answering in one or two syllables and remaining seated on his bed. Fury at the disrespect shown to them both tightened in Jenkins’s chest. The smile curling on the soldier’s face became a flaming match to the oilwell of hatred within him.

Jenkins waited until the soldier shifted his gaze to glance at the officer. He lunged, grabbed the rifle, and jabbed the butt of the weapon into the Soviet soldier’s face. Blood spurted from his nose, and he fell to the ground. Stepping across him, Jenkins hammered the butt again into the skull of the second soldier.

He, too, collapsed, but the startled officer reacted and tried to grab at the weapon. Jenkins let it slip from his fingers, pulled the knife from the back of his belt, and rammed it against the officer’s throat, his left hand grasping his forehead to expose his neck even more. Without hesitation, he swung about to gain a better view of the downed soldiers and pressed the edge of the blade against the officer’s skin until a trickle of blood slipped free.

“I’m going to say this once,” he said into the officer’s ear. “You speak the Queen’s English, or I’ll cut your throat right here and now. You’re not the first Russian I’ve gutted, you red commie piece of shit.”

The bile in Jenkins’s words startled him, especially in the presence of his friend Alexeev, but the intent was true. Many pro-Nazi Russians had died in the Second Battalion’s first firefight after crashlanding. Plenty of them by Jenkins’s own hand. He pressed the blade harder, the hatred threatening to spill over.

“Peter Jenkins, stand down,” Alexeev said, rising from his bed. “This lieutenant and these men are Cheka. They are here to take me back to Soviet Zone for questioning.”

“Questioning? Over what? We’re back a couple of days, and you’ve spent every minute in the barracks.”

Alexeev approached and, reaching out a meaty hand, loosened the blade from the officer’s skin. “I have spent too much time with imperialist dogs like you, Peter Jenkins. Now that the Cheka have arrived with the reinforcements, I am to be relocated to the Soviet Zone where I will be interrogated and found guilty of crimes against the Soviet Union.”

Jenkins blinked at Alexeev’s response. Everything about his answer seemed wrong, yet the Russian appeared unfazed, even going so far as to help the soldiers back to their feet. Unsure of what to do, he loosened the blade further but kept it close enough to kill the officer if he needed to.

“Mate,” he said. “That makes no sense. How can you be guilty before you’ve even had a court martial? There’re so many things wrong about what you just said.”

“The State is never wrong, Peter Jenkins. Now, I am still your sergeant. You will drop knife and step aside.”

Gobsmacked, Jenkins stared at his colleague, but Alexeev focused his glare on him. With great reluctance, he released the Cheka officer, slipped his blade back into its sheath, and took a few steps towards his bunk with the rifle leaning against it. Shaking his head, Alexeev warned him off. The two bloodied soldiers prodded their weapons and shepherded him out the door, the officer following close behind.

Shocked by Alexeev’s words, Jenkins downed his shot of vodka and raced into the corridor to find Lieutenant McCabe.

MEDICAL BAY, COMMAND AND CONTROL BUILDING, NEW BERLIN

07:38 MST

DAY 732

(-18 DAYS)

Sitting on the hospital bed, McCabe pulled out a cigarette and glanced again at the curtains surrounding him. He lit up and took several rapid drags while Dr Fawcett paced around, studying his charts. He had snuck into the medical bay early, hoping to avoid seeing anyone who might know him. The elderly doctor tested his blood and ran him through a variety of checks. Even in full British battledress, McCabe felt more exposed than when he stripped himself down.

“And you say you feel the sensations of not being able to breathe, even though you can?” Fawcett said, squinting over his spectacles.

“Yes, sir. It’s like I know I’m breathing normal, but this feeling comes from the inside and makes me think I’m not. It’s the same with my heart. It’s like it’s hammering, but if I check my pulse, everything is grand.”

“Interesting. And do these sensations occur when you’re under fire?”

“No, sir. Never. It happens at random intervals, normally when things are going fine and dandy. That’s what makes it so strange.”

“Well, it’s nothing physical,” Fawcett said, resting the chart on a nearby table. “I doubt it’s battle shock, considering it’s not affecting you when under attack. May I ask how many cigarettes you smoke and how much alcohol you consume?”

“Yes, sir. About a pack a day and five or six pints a week. When not in the field, of course. They haven’t built an EVA to facilitate the smokers in the battalion yet.”

“Well, there’s something we can start with straight away then, Lieutenant. I want you to begin smoking two packs a day and move on to hard liquor. Whisky, perhaps, or brandy. Cigarettes are an excellent way of relaxing the mind, while a nice scotch can ease it of any undue worries and concerns.”

McCabe nodded, not entirely convinced of the doctor’s reasoning. The sensations and uncontrollable hand shaking had happened twice since settling into the barracks and neither a cigarette nor a stiff drink made him feel any better. Still, with no other remedy suggested, he had no other options. As medicines went, at least he’d enjoy this prescription.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and rose to exit.

Flapping his hands, Fawcett mumbled a reply while McCabe slipped out from behind the curtains. Puffing on his cigarette, he glanced about and relief washed through him at not seeing anyone he knew in the empty medical bay. Somewhat placated, he turned his thoughts to Sergeant Alexeev’s predicament and that of the other Soviet-aligned soldiers recalled after returning from the field. He’d attempted to inform Mad Jack the moment Jenkins told him but, so far, had been unable to reach their commanding officer. He stepped out into the corridor, flicked his cigarette away, and stopped in his tracks at recognising a face he hadn’t seen in a while.

“Colonel Henke,” he said, saluting the West German officer.

“Lieutenant McCabe,” Henke said, returning the gesture. “I heard about your battlefield promotion. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

Henke extended a gloved hand to the auburn-haired woman standing next to him. Piercing, cool granite eyes stared back at McCabe. It took a moment to place her face, but he recognised her from the battle outside the government district.

“I trust you remember the Army of David leader Miss Zofia Nowak?”

“Captain Nowak,” she said, eyeing McCabe.

Blinking at her words, McCabe enacted a confused salute and brought his hand back down.

“Of course,” Henke said. “Please, forgive me. Captain Nowak. As you can see, Lieutenant, old habits die hard.”

“Congratulations,” McCabe said. “I wasn’t aware the Army of David had been incorporated into the Mars Occupation Force.”

“The MOF leadership would never make such a wise decision,” Nowak said, her lips curling into a snarl. “With Colonel Henke’s assistance, my fighters have formed a Freikorps battalion alongside the West Germans. We operate outside the normal chain of command and provide security within the colony.”

Not for the first time since arriving on Mars, McCabe found himself caught off guard with their unique alliance. Colonel Henke had been an officer in the Wehrmacht during the war back on Earth. Although he served with distinction throughout the Battle of New Berlin and had since sworn allegiance to West Germany, McCabe had never been able to shake off his mistrust of the man’s previous commitment to the Third Reich.

Nowak, on the other hand, had been a slave for at least ten years and, under Nazi boots, had built the Army of David. Those fighters had engaged in some of the bloodiest encounters to seize the colony. Given both groups’ history, it would have been natural for them to be enemies. Yet the two opposites stood side by side in front of him.

“I take it from your expression you haven’t heard of our work?” Henke said.

“No, sir. Then again, I’ve spent eight months hunting down werewolves out in the Badlands. I did notice there’re considerably less explosions than the last time I was here.”

“I must give full credit to Captain Nowak for that,” Henke said, drawing out his cigarette case and offering one to McCabe and Nowak.

Both accepted, and after lighting them, Henke continued. “After the insurgency started dying down, we still had daily clashes between the Jewish and German populations, sometimes even against the MEF peacekeepers. Nowak suggested we form an all-German-speaking battalion to try and forge a bridge between these disparate communities. We took her fighters, a handful of recruits from the anti-Nazi minority here in the colony, and former Wehrmacht and Volkssturm soldiers deemed sufficiently de-Nazified. Staffed and led by my West German NCOs and officers, we kept a lid on the violence and perhaps even prevented some atrocities.”

“My compliments to you,” McCabe said and dragged on his cigarette. “Whatever results in fewer bullets flying around is a win in my books.”

“Speaking of which,” Henke said, leaning in close. “I hoped to speak with Lieutenant Colonel Wellesley about our up-and-coming assignment, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Perchance you could ask him on my behalf? There is much that needs to be discussed.”