Interceptions

The Panzer Treibjagen 62 armored train rumbled across the countryside, well behind the front lines. The engine, first car, fifth, seventh, and rear all boasted the formidable Tiger VI 100mm turret as well as a machine gun port on each side. The armored plow at the front was thicker than any tank, and could sweep anything up to and including the O-279 from the tracks without even slowing down. Atop the lead car, a rotating quad barrel flak gun stood ready, scanning the Soviet sky for threats.

In the third car, Sturmkreiger Vogel sat, the harsh light from the cross-shaped firing port filtering into the dark interior. This was most certainly not like the luxury railcars back in Berlinstadt, but the cold comfort that this train had never been derailed provided at least an opportunity to relax. He sat opposite his squad mate, Herr Von Malkin, intently focusing on a chessboard in front of him. They'd sat a folded up wool blanket on the dining car table to cushion the rattle of the armored beast as they played. Vogel moved a pawn forward, kept his fingers on it, and placed it back. He sighed.

"What vexes you, Herr Vogel?" Von Malkin asked, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. He was several moves ahead, as always. Von Malkin had been fond of the game since his youth, and had indeed kindled an interest in it in his compatriot. Vogel let out an incredulous puff of breath, and chose to advance his Rook. Von Malkin kept his smile to himself, thinking three moves ahead. He casually slid a pawn into place, and puffed his cigarette.

Vogel tugged on the sleeve of his uniform as he surveyed the board. He was not a strategic thinker like Von Malkin; preferring to seize opportunities presented. It was why he chose to enlist in the Sturmkreiger regiment after jump school rather than try for the officer's corps. The Sturmkreiger provided immediate solutions to pressing tactical problems; and sacrificed the sublime satisfaction of the route for the immediate satisfaction of victory.

"What vexes me?" Vogel said, glancing around the room. Seeing no officers, he hunched down and said in a harsh whisper: "Throwing us into the fucking meat grinder vexes me. We should be securing the port, not being used as shock troops in Moscow." Von Malkin chuckled as Vogel slid his Bishop all the way across the board.

"You see, you never think ahead." Von Malkin said, taking his Bishop immediately with a Knight. Vogel slapped the table, and fumed. "We are moving against Moscow now precisely because the Party wants to move the Navy through the straights. It's as clear as day." he said, tapping his cigarette again. Vogel thought about lighting his own, but he found smoking during chess more of a distraction than a relaxation tool. He feebly advanced a pawn that was in no danger of taking a piece or being taken. "That's why I let those lechers fuck me before basic training." Von Malkin said, matter-of-factly.

"What?" Vogel replied, with shocked eyes. He knew his compatriot didn't discriminate amongst the captives, but he never suspected he'd be an Unter. Such a thing was shameful enough for a civilian, but utterly ignoble among the military.

Von Malkin laughed as he puffed. "It's true. The officers see those big, ugly warts when they pull my pants down and decide to find someone else to bother. My cock is clean, and I get out the "debriefings" unscathed." Vogel sighed. He'd wished he'd thought of that. His time in jump school had been rather harsh, as it was for all living under the Ubermensch Doctrine. No one spoke of it, of course. Who would they tell? Von Malkin slid his Queen two squares diagonally. Vogel couldn't be sure, but he sensed he'd just lost, as usual. He surveyed the board, and decided a bold move was best to get out danger. He took Von Malkin's Knight with his Rook.

Von Malkin smiled. Vogel hated that smile. He braced himself as he waited for the move. "You see..." Von Malkin said as he placed his hands on the Queen. "I always..." was all he got out before the sudden, sickening sound of steel rending steel filled the rail car. The entire section heaved and rose in the air, Vogel and Von Malkin tossed hard against the ceiling and then slammed mercilessly against the far wall. The car shifted and pitched, sending them crashing back against the floor. Von Malkin was screaming, his arm snapped in two places; as Vogel clung desperately to a fixed barstool. Slowly, they tipped over, and they could hear the rocky Earth grinding against the side of the car, the steel cross cutout of the firing port slowly churning earth into the compartment. Vogel's grip faltered as he slid between two booth seats while explosions roared outside of the car. 20 seconds later, the horror was over, and the car pitched slightly up before slamming down with a deafening, final thud.

Vogel felt blood running down his face as his ears rang. His armor was in his cabin, and he patted his sides in a stunned haze; trying to find his Luger. The faint memory of it sitting in his belt in his room entered his mind as his fingers trembled against his hip. Von Malkin's twisted, broken face stared down at him as its lips parted and groaned, his spine snapped around the metal base of a barstool.

Agonizing minutes went by before the door was opened and the men stepped inside. Vogel's left eye was swollen painfully shut, and his prosthetic right arm was badly damaged. He tried to push himself out from under the booth, but the effort let him know that he'd broken at least three ribs in the tumble. He winced in pain, and retreated into the darkness. "Bhoow! Bhoow!" their pistols rang, executing the survivors as they walked. Vogel thought of his wife, and his son Gunter. He took a small comfort knowing his letter had been already been sent. It was all he had. "Bhoow!" he heard above him, knowing without looking that Von Malkin's smug smirk had been blasted from his face.

He watched in slight disbelief. It was not the thick leather of Bloc boots he saw walking passed him, but rather farmer's boots, firmly wrapped and riveted to keep them from falling apart. "Militia? Irregulars?" he thought to himself as he retreated further into the corner. One of them kicked something against his shoulder, sweeping it out of his way as they slowly made their way down the overturned car. A steak knife from some dinner plate. Vogel reached a trembling hand out to grasp it.

Suddenly, a powerful hand gripped his wrist, and violently yanked him out into the open. Vogel scrambled to his back and kicked the man in the testicles. When he bent over, he clamped his good prosthetic hand onto the man's throat and squeezed, watching the unshaven peasant's eyes bulge as the pinnacle of Stadti engineering crushed his windpipe. Taking a deep breath, Vogel stood, tightening his grip as his cold, blue eyes stared into his opponents while the clockwork-like gears in his forearm tightened his grip. He would surely die today, but not before he did his duty. The man clawed at his wrist desperately as he choked. Vogel smiled a sinister smile as he felt the weak flesh give way.

Just then, a cold gun barrel pressed against his temple. Vogel didn't even glance over until he saw the last breath flee the unwashed peasant. When the man stopped twitching, he released his grip, sending the crumpled body to the floor. Slowly, Vogel turned so that the gun barrel was on his forehead. The "man" with the gun was barely a boy, or possibly a woman. He couldn't tell in the dim light. He straightened his bearing as best he could. He would die with dignity.

"He'll do." he heard from the entrance of the car. Vogel looked up, trying to see who had spoken the words. Just then, a rifle butt crashed into the back of his skull, and Herr Vogel's vision went black.

.................................................

Sophia boarded the train, and was ushered into a sleeping car for officers. She wore the Commissar Commander's overcoat, her uniform left in the armored car. She had done her best to straighten her hair and wipe the grime from her exposed skin, but it wasn't until a trip to the bathroom that she was able to truly clean up. The coat was long and belted, which she was thankful for as she was nude beneath; save for the bandages.

She was unsurprised to find that she was to share a cabin with three others, two members of the Junior Commissariat that would act as bodyguards and a young woman that would act as her communications officer. Along with her, some 700 fighting Comrades were accompanying her to one of the most grueling battlefields in this planet's history.

Sophia settled down onto her bench seat, and beheld her traveling companions. One of her guards was a thin but wiry man in full uniform, his PPSH seated beside him as he broke up crispbread rations to thicken up his runny soup. The other was taller and more muscular, probably a product of the Army Intelligence corps that held an AK-60 in low-ready at the door. He glanced over at her, and winked. "Definitely from the military." she thought. The last was a pale skinned, dark haired girl that wore a Romanian uniform. She was attractive in an odd sense, possessing a sort of exotic beauty sometimes seen among the more rural folk.

"Well, since we are stuck in the room together, I suppose introductions are in order. I am Commissar Sophia Ivanova. You?" she said, glancing at the thin man. His steely eyes met hers.

"Sgt. Dorin Albescu, 20th Infantry." he replied. Sophia nodded. She'd heard of the famed "Black Scorpions"; a much decorated regiment from the Bloc province of what was formally Romania.

"Sgt. Alex Bodgan, Commissar Guard." the man at the door replied without looking at her. She couldn't learn anything from that, other than he also shared a Romanian name. She was starting to see a pattern. Sophia's eyes slid from the men to the girl. She looked up from her code book, and blushed.

"Elisabeta Romani, signal corps." the shy girl replied. Sophia smiled at that.

"A gypsy?" she replied. The girl blushed again, and nodded. Sophia glanced from one to the other. She didn't know the Commissar Commander had assigned an all Romanian crew to accompany her, but she intended to find out.

"Very well." she said, settling down into her seat. Sophia slowly slid one leg over the other, letting the overcoat fall to expose her thighs. "As you may know, I am wounded and must keep off my feet for a couple of days. If I'm to be bedridden, I am at my Comrade's service." she said. Sgt Bogdan glanced over, and nodded. Sophia appreciated his stoic demeanor. Such men, in her experience, lasted the longest. "And as such, if you would be so kind as to leave Elisabeta alone to concentrate on her charts, I'm sure she'd appreciate it." Sgt Albescu grunted, but said nothing. Elisabeta smiled at her faintly. The signal corps was known for being notoriously prudish.

"Don't worry, I shall keep her company." Sophia said, with a wry grin. Elisabeta blushed so badly that Albescu laughed out loud. Only Bogdan maintained his stoic demeanor. Sophia noted it, even as she was untying the overcoat. She pulled the wool garment apart, and beckoned to Elisabeta to approach. The girl sat her code book beside her, and dropped to her knees, crawling across the bare steel floor.

"Just one question, Comrade Commissar." Bodgan said as Elisabeta's delicate hands slid onto Sophia's knees. The officer tore her gaze from the girl, and nodded in acceptance of the question. "Why are we going to Stalingrad?"