Jörg. H. Trauboth - Three Brothers

Why always these huge machines? Marc wonders, I hope this works out.

The leviathan lowers itself to the ground, first landing on its rear wheels, then the front.

It hits the ground, bounces, and finally comes to a halt on the lightly sloping, rocky ground. Charlie Force troops immediately jump out of the Chinook equipped with their night vision devices.

They kneel on one leg and take aim.

The Apaches rotate toward the target like remote-controlled robots to provide Echo Force cover from the fire.

Marc flips onto his back and assesses the situation for the forces. Next comes the most dangerous endeavor among all this pandemonium for them and the helicopters as this is a potentially perfect opportunity for an extraordinary ball of fire from only one of the Taliban rocket launchers.

The three Seals carry Les and Buddy, who in the meantime has lost consciousness, to the Chinook amidst the fire from the Apache helicopters.

Mission accomplished.

The medic rushes to Buddy with an IV and oxygen mask in hand. Buddy now has a chance of survival. Hopefully.

One of the Americans outfitted with a wire waves hectically at the door of the Chinook.

“GET IN, GET IN!”

“TIM, TANGO BEHIND YOU!”

Marc can’t help him. His brother is standing directly in the line of fire.

As sprightly as a cat, Tim shoots from the hip. The Taliban throws up his arms as he falls to the ground. His AK-47 flies into the air like some grotesque circus act.

“Thanks, Marc.”

Tangos on all sides. Echo Force runs, bent over, toward the helicopters.

Look, assess, shoot, new magazine, go!

Each of them secures a radius of sixty degrees.

Six times sixty. No sector is left unsecured. One for all and all for one.

Only more ten yards to the Chinook.

Charlie Force and Navy Seals One and Two are in and give cover to George and the three Germans, with assistance from the two death machines hovering nearby.

Thomas kneels down under the protection of the helicopter and activates the mobile device. In the distance they hear a massive explosive and the entire valley quakes. The echo reverberates for a long time as though the entire Hindu Kush is about to burst.

Mission accomplished.

Anything that was hidden must be destroyed now. The U.S. jet fighter would be reduced to only a heap of metal shards.

“HURRY UP, HURRY UP!” one of the Americans was still waiting in the door of the Chinook, wildly waving his arm. The giant monster is in danger. It wouldn’t be the first time soldiers had to be left behind.

Tim and Thomas make it in with a powerful leap, George and Seal One are right on their tails.

Marc is still on the ground. As always. First his troops, then him.

The monstrous helicopter starts to ascend. George waves to him in desperation.

Marc throws his weapon over his shoulder and sprints to the door, George grabs hold of his arm and pulls him in. Half hanging in the doorway, Marc shoots his last rounds of ammunition in the direction of the muzzle flash from the ground.

The three helicopters with Echo Force and the rescued F-15 crew disappear through the hazy valley.

Seal One proudly slaps his German friend on the shoulder from behind in acknowledgment.

Marc Anderson is currently at the zenith of his career, albeit unaware that his biggest challenge still lies ahead of him and that his luck as an elite soldier has now, as of today, just run out.

Also, on this day, the 17th of December, the barely legal exhaust pipe of a Harley Road King roars a little too loudly in the garage entrance of the German Federal Foreign Office in Berlin. The officers on duty at the local police station know right away: Rudi’s here. Dr. Rudolf Kürten is the man to call when German citizens find themselves in grave danger somewhere around the world.

“Good morning, Dr. Kürten.”

Rudi flipped up the visor on his helmet.

“I told you already to forget that doctor business!”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Kürten!”

Indeed, this man is rather atypical for an undersecretary of the Foreign Office sporting a leather biker jacket, a stud earring, a pointy goatee, and a ponytail.

His domain is the underground, high-security, twenty-four-hour Crisis Response Center. The finest in Germany. His people are experts from the Foreign Office, the German military – the Bundeswehr , and the various intelligence agencies. People whose résumés he himself has sometimes never seen. But Rudi has to rely on them completely. Any incorrect coordinate or time specification, any incorrect name, weather analysis, or political evaluation can be life-threatening. It’s Rudi’s job to save lives. He only wishes he could do it first-hand.

But he is not a soldier on the front line, his place is behind a desk. He is something like the nation’s chief crisis manager. Often enough, he finds himself at the helm of responsibility when the administration or even the head of state herself doesn’t want to make a decision.

Rudolf enters the Crisis Response Center via the steel vaulted door, a relic of Germany’s old central bank, the Reichsbank, that used to inhabit this site.

The location was a smart choice. The steel-reinforced, soundproof walls of the building are almost four feet thick and the two and a half feet thick steel window shutters are the best defense against anyone listening from outside. However, since the enemy could also potentially come from within, each participant of a crisis meeting is forced to lock their cell phone in one of the eighteen small lockers outside the entrance, including the ministers.

Rudolf quickly peaks into the Lombard Room, the control center of the operation.

“Good morning, everyone, anything special happen?”

What a dumb question he thinks to himself. Every night there is something that happens that the night shift, under the command of the employee on duty, takes care of. Kidnapped persons are recovered, family members are called and consoled, paramedics and social workers are arranged, and they are constantly on the look-out for all the German citizens reported missing, who, very often, just reappear on their own. Nothing special. For those in the know, there is a distinction made between incidents and special events. Special events are the kinds for which those on the nation’s night watch would pull him out of bed.

Those on duty sit in front of four telephones, one of them is marked “Caution: possibly tapped.” Not really necessary anyway, thinks Rudi, my people are naturally confidential. They also only use the encrypted devices and only say the minimum amount necessary. Preferably only: “Understood” – “Roger” – “Over” – “Out”.

The entire outside world is packed into this single room. Nine clocks marked with the names of the various capital cities are identical to those of the current crisis areas and their time zones. On one wall hang maps and the private and cell phone numbers of the ministers and state secretaries. Sensitive information that must be concealed in case an outsider enters this most sacred of rooms. Reports come in around the clock from agencies via picture and text, as well as the German Federal Intelligence Service, the BND, and the German Federal Criminal Police Office, the BKA, plus those of the more than two hundred forty German Consulates and Embassies. They are still called “wires” even though they have been electronic now for many years. Television screens flicker all over the room, there are ten specifically designated for the various news channels. A file exists for almost every country. There is almost nothing here that wasn’t thoroughly thought through.