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 This story is part of New Olympus, the Armageddon Girl Companion book. You can purchase it here:

The Red Baron's Last Flight

Berlin, Germany, July 1, 1944

“This is foolish,” Fat Hermann said, his plaintive tone sounding almost like a wail of despair. “You will get killed, and for what? Think of the damage to morale!”

Generalfeldmarschall Manfred von Richthofen looked at his former fellow flier – his friend, now, after all these years – with a mixture of pity and contempt. Hermann Goering had once been a powerful, decisive man, a fellow fighter ace with a sharp hunter's mind and sharper reflexes. Manfred looked at the overweight, tremulous wreck in front of him and marveled at the the damage time could inflict on the mere mortal. Being exempt from such limitations did not make Manfred immune to witnessing them, if only second-hand. Hermann's physical and moral decay had matched the steady decline of the Third Reich. Years of morphine addiction and other vices had left Hermann in as hopeless a state as the Fatherland they all served.

Eleven years ago, Goering had invited Manfred to join the rising Nazi Party. It had not been the first invitation, but Manfred had politely rebuffed all previous offers. As far as he was concerned the National Socialists were a rabble of brawlers and malcontents, good enough to fight Communists on the streets but little else. By 1933, things had changed a great deal, however: the economy was in shambles, all legitimate parties had completely discredited themselves, and Herr Hitler's speeches were resonating with the discontented people of Germany. The Nazis had become a leading force in the nation.

Richthofen had reluctantly accepted the new offer, feeling he would regret the decision but seeing no alternative, not if he wanted to join the Luftwaffe, which had been covertly growing in strength over the years. His fame had devolved into mere notoriety, and a nation without an air force had little use for the Red Fighter Pilot. He wanted to help restore Germany to its former glory, and if that meant following the lead of the brownshirts, so be it.

Following their lead had taken him to this place and time. “Hermann,” Manfred said in a kind tone. “I have my orders. I did not go to war to collect cheese and eggs, but for another purpose,” he mock-quoted himself.

The old joke drew a ghost of a smile from his old friend, but only briefly. “I'm still head of the Luftwaffe,” Goering said. “I can talk to the Fuhrer, try to reason with him.”

“He is right, Hermann.” For once, he did not say out loud. One never said such things out loud. “We have to bring down the enemy Aesir or the war is as good as lost.” The war was as good as lost, Manfred knew deep in his heart. The best Germany could hope for at this point was to exact a high enough price from the advancing Allies that some form of honorable surrender could be negotiated.

At the mention of the Aesir – the superhuman beings the English and Americans called Neolympians – Hermann’s mood suddenly changed. “Those unnatural monsters,” Goering spat out, forgetting in his sudden fury that he was speaking to one of those unnatural monsters. “Yes, if you could do for that Englishman, the butcher of Dresden...”

“Meteor, yes,” Manfred said. The British Aesir was so popular for his murderous deeds that the English had named their newest class of jet fighters after him. “Twenty thousand souls, mostly civilians, burned to death by one man. I will avenge them, if I can.”

Or die trying. The phrase went unspoken between the two men.

“If only the Fuhrer had let me consolidate the Teutonic Knights under the Luftwaffe...” Hermann lamented, his rage dissipating into melancholy languor once again. Manfred had to repress a sigh. Goering's deplorable love for empire-building grew tiresome rather quickly. Of course, Fat Hermann was not alone in trying to gain control over Germany's Aesir. Himmler had desperately tried to place them under the SS. Not being a fool about such matters, however, Hitler had decreed that the Knights and all Aesir of the Reich would be under his direct command. Manfred was officially part of the Luftwaffe but in effect was in two separate chains of command, always subservient to the wishes of the Fuhrer. 

Manfred patiently let Goering ramble on for a while. The two men were a study in contrasts. Richthofen was an athletic, handsome man who most people would have thought was in his mid-twenties, unless they happened to look too closely into his eyes. Hermann looked old, tired: his formerly harsh, almost brutal features had been softened by layers of fat and assorted drug addictions. He could have passed as Manfred's father or even grandfather, despite the fact that Manfred was actually a year older than the Luftwaffe's commander. Of course, Goering was merely human.

“We could spend eternity bemoaning what did or did not happen, Hermann,” Manfred said after a while. Goering subsided. Despite the fact that he was Manfred's superior, Hermann always deferred to him in private, as long as Manfred was properly respectful in public. “We have our duty. Let us carry it out. We have to deal with the Allies before they can consolidate their gains in France.”

“Yes, yes. Duty,” Goering said dully, deflating even further. “I had hoped to dissuade you; then between the two of us we might be able to talk the Fuhrer into reconsidering. But if you are determined to do this thing...  I only wish you could keep doing your work developing strategy and tactics for our new planes. The new Me-1100 fighters are inflicting significant losses on Allied aircraft. If we had enough of them – and figure out the best ways to use them – we could sweep the Allies from the skies.”

The Me-1100 had started to be produced in numbers earlier that year. They were meant to replace the Me-262s jet fighters which had nearly won the air battle over Great Britain in 1940 – if only there had been enough of them. The Reich kept developing amazing Wunderwaffen, wonder weapons greatly superior to anything their enemies could develop, but the amazing machines could never be produced in enough numbers to counter the hordes of lesser weapons they were pitted against. Even worse, the enemy had managed to develop their own wonder weapons. German jet fighters had been the terrors of the skies for a little over a year before the first American-made Airacomets (provided by the allegedly-neutral US to Great Britain) rose to challenge them. When your foe could nearly match your weapons in quality and far surpass them in quantity, the end was foreordained.

In some ways, the genius of the Reich's chief weapon designer had proven to be as much a curse as a blessing. Every year, sometimes every few months, the deformed madman would come up with some new invention, and since the obese monster had the Fuhrer's ear, he would end up commanding more of the finite resources of Germany's industry to turn the designs into reality. The clashes between the man the American and British press dubbed 'the Mind' and Albert Speer had become legendary.

Speaking of the hideous genius... “I have to meet with Herr Neumann later today,” he told the head of the Luftwaffe. Hermann's face twisted with distaste at the name. Konrad Neumann, best known in Germany as Geistesblitz, was not popular with the rest of Hitler's inner circle. “He has a new toy for me,” he explained, and Goring's expression brightened up a little. Nobody liked the the Mind, but everyone valued the weapons he created. “If I'm going to be hunting the American Ubermenschen, I will need every possible advantage.”

Goering nodded in agreement, but something in his expression told Manfred Hermann did not think even the Mind's toys would be enough this time. Manfred agreed with that assessment. Neither men voiced those thoughts, however. Saying those things was not safe, not even inside the headquarters of the Luftwaffe.

“The new Jagddrache?” Goering asked. At Manfred's nod, he grew slightly more animated. “If only we could have a fleet of them! Even the Mark I could put our most advanced fighter to shame. Give me a hundred of them and I could obliterate the Allies!”

“Miracles cannot be mass-produced, unfortunately,” Manfred said. Some of the wonder-weapons Aesir geniuses like Geistesblitz could produce were simply advanced devices their febrile minds could conceive and design in impossibly short time spans. Others were unique marvels, creations that were not truly the products of technology but manifestations of the same unknown and possibly unknowable force that had spawned the Aersir themselves. In the case of the Dragoncraft, that uniqueness was compounded by the fact that only Manfred could fly the damn thing. Of course, if there were a hundred pilots like him, they wouldn't need a fleet of Jagddraches. With his skills, he knew without any false modesty, he could sweep the sky clear of Allied aircraft at the helm of any aircraft, possibly even while flying Fokkers from the previous war. Such thoughts were useless, of course. There was only one Manfred, and one Jagddrache.

“Yes. That is a pity,” Goering agreed. “Which is why I think you're wasted up in the air. You may be the best pilot that ever lived, but you are also a master tactician, Manfred. I need you to help improve our fighter doctrine.”

“Fighter doctrine will not win this war, Hermann. If I can kill enough enemy Aesirs, I might just turn things around.”

And if I can't the war is lost and most likely I'll be in no position to care about the war, or anything at all.

* * *

“Schnapps?” The grotesquely obese man with the oversized head was already pouring himself a drink.

Manfred shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said, keeping his gaze on the inventor’s desk rather than him.

It was hard not to stare at Konrad Neumann's hideous face: one eye was a solid red orb placed inch lower than the other, and was also twice as large. It looked as if the man's features had partially melted and then congealed into a monstrous visage. According to the rumors, some accident in a laboratory during the 1920s had disfigured the man while awakening his latent abilities. 

The two men had known each over for well over a decade and had worked, often closely, for nearly as long, but Manfred didn't care for Neumann. The man had no social skills or graces, and his tendency for lecturing and pontificating at any excuse or none annoyed the pilot. Manfred had never had much use for academics; he was a man of deeds, not words. The disregard was surprisingly not mutual, however. The Mind seemed to feel little but contempt and mild amusement for everyone who crossed his path but he accorded Manfred a measure of respect he otherwise reserved only for the Fuhrer himself.

“Suit yourself.” Geistesblitz tossed back his drink. His multiple chins quivered as he swallowed. “Panzerfaust is dead,” he added casually as he refilled the glass.

The news hadn’t been unexpected, but Manfred still felt a surge of shock upon hearing it. “Are you sure?” The massive Teutonic Knight had been missing since the Normandy landings, along with the rest of his unit, sent forth in a forlorn hope to slow down the Americans and their super-soldiers.

Geistesblitz finished his second drink and visibly considered having a third one before setting the empty glass on his desk. “I saw the body myself. Some poor brave souls went through considerable trouble to bring his corpse to me. I tried everything I could think of on dear Hans, but he was beyond anything I could do. He was nearly a week dead; even God could only manage his little trick after three days. Not even that ghoul Totenkopf could revive him, more's the pity. Hans is gone. ”

Manfred cast his eyes downward for a moment. He'd never cared much for Hans Eiffel, a.k.a. Panzerfaust; the man whose fists could batter through the frontal armor of a tank had been a bully and a blowhard. Still, he had been there from the beginning, one of the Original Twelve, the first Teutonic Knights, sometimes dubbed ‘the twelve Apostles’ by the sharper-tongued wits, back when having a sharp wit wasn't quite as hazardous to one's health as it was nowadays. Manfred had stood among the Knights during the 1936 Olympics, wearing his traditional World War One aviator uniform, his fame as the Red Battle Flier helping lend a measure of credence to the whole spectacle.

During the Great War, Manfred had been one of the heroes of the Reich, the most famous pilot of the Luftstreitkräfte. After sustaining a serious head wound, things had changed in strange and unexpected ways. He recovered from the near-mortal injury in less than one day, and his already sharp reflexes became truly superhuman.  His amazing recovery from any injuries he received during the remainder of the war – he was shot down four more times and walked away from every crash – continued to amaze physicians, to the point that he started to outright lie about his injuries to avoid closer scrutiny. He also noticed that even old wounds that used to bother him, like a broken collarbone incurred years before, had disappeared completely. He wondered about those things, but mostly he was too busy fighting.

Manfred became a legend in his own time; his autobiography, Der rote Kampfflieger, written while on forced leave in 1917, had been read by millions. He kept on killing Allied pilots until Germany sued for peace in November of 1918.

The glory and renown of the Great War had faded quickly with defeat and Germany’s humiliation at Versailles, however. He might have been the greatest pilot of the war, with a hundred and sixty-five confirmed victories, but all those killings had been for nothing. After the war, Manfred had returned to his family home in Silesia, only to witness the loss of his patrimony in the chaos of the 1920s. The downfall of Germany had left him bankrupt, angry and embittered.

Manfred spent most of the ensuing fifteen years working as a civilian pilot. It was during that time that he realized he was not growing old like everyone else around him. When Goering summoned him to Berlin in 1933, Manfred was forty-one but he still looked like a man in his mid-twenties. His brother Lothar and his younger cousin Wolfram, both of whom would also join the Luftwaffe, looked like they could be his uncles or parents. That might have been passed off as simply being in good health, but his other superhuman abilities became apparent quickly enough. He was soon hailed as one of the Aesir, the Aryan gods that would help usher a new age for Germany under Hitler’s auspices.

Those had been heady times. He had stood tall and proud in the company of his fellow heroes. Donner, who could control lightning like the gods of old. Shatterhands, the deadly hero of the Condor Legion. Panzerfaust, who led the way in Poland and Norway and many other battlefields. Surtr, wielder of a flaming sword and owner of an even more fiery temperament. Freya, who could create mythological beasts with her mind and paraded the Olympics bestride an enormous glowing boar. The Aryan Supersoldier, master of all weapons. Geistesblitz, of course, although his unpleasant appearance had led to his always wearing a full face mask during public occasions. There had been four others, but they had been fakes, normal humans in gaudy costumes to round off the total number to an even dozen. Back then, they all had felt invincible, even the ersatz heroes.

Most of the twelve apostles were dead or otherwise lost. The Aryan and Shatterhands had died in '43 during the massive Soviet counteroffensive that had relieved Leningrad, one of the last blows the Russians had delivered before their gradual collapse. Surtr had fallen a few months later in the Ukraine at the hands of Baba Yaga herself. The Aryan Supersoldier had disappeared during operations in North Africa and was presumed dead. Freya lived, but she had deserted and joined the Iron Tsar's growing superhuman army. The fake Knights had all died, in some cases several times, their identities re-used and substitutes, some of them actual Aesir, replacing the deceased. And now Panzerfaust. Of the original twelve, only Donner, the Mind and Manfred remained. Donner rarely left the Fuhrer's side, his great power wasted in performing bodyguard duties. Then again, could even his mastery over thunder and lightning prevail against the likes of Ultimate? Manfred had his doubts.

“Who killed Panzerfaust?” Manfred asked, breaking the long pause.

“Who else? The American, Ultimate. He caught Hans with the First SS Panzer Division while they were trying to contain one of the Allied beachheads. The survivors said it was a good fight. Panzerfaust even knocked the damn Ami down a couple of times before Ultimate broke him over his knee like a dry branch. After the fight was over, Ultimate destroyed the whole division. Almost a thousand dead, most of the rest wounded and taken prisoner. Ultimate now has this tactic where he breaks the right leg of every man who doesn't surrender, to render them combat ineffective without killing them.”

“How merciful of him.”

“He still killed one in every four men in the division, give or take. He must have been in a hurry and couldn't take the time to be careful.”

“I have been charged by the Fuhrer to liquidate Ultimate, Meteor and as many other enemy Aesir as I can,” Manfred said, getting down to business. The Mind was looking longingly at the two-thirds empty bottle of Schnapps on his desk, and Manfred wanted to get through the meeting before the obese genius drank himself into a stupor. “You were supposed to brief me on the newest version of the Jagddrache,” he continued.

The Mind nodded brusquely. “Yes, yes. The Mark VIII is ready. Come with me. Might as well show you.”

The two men left the office and walked through the well-guarded facility, with checkpoints and alert sentinels everywhere. An armored car waited for them at the gate and drove them to the hidden airfield on the outskirts of the city. Geistesblitz remained silent during the drive, lost in thought. Manfred was glad for the quiet interlude.

The weapon testing process had become almost ritualized over the years. Given his skills and the ability to survive even a hard crash landing, Manfred had become the ideal test pilot. He'd flown every fighter and most bombers developed by the Reich during their initial trials. He'd flown Dorniers, Focke-Wulfes, Heinkels, Junkers, Messerschmitts and many others, an endless assortment of designations. He'd flown the first jet prototype in 1936, and a year later had used the Jagddrache Mark I to rain death and destruction onto Barcelona. After the war began, he'd split his time between flying combat missions and returning to the rear lines to try the new devices the Mind and other German researchers had dreamed up. His reports and recommendations had doomed many a project, often to the anger and dismay of powerful men, including Geistesblitz himself.

He'd come closer to death testing the Mind's toys than in combat, amusingly enough. The jet prototypes had been the worst: in one case the wings had been ripped clean off the fuselage and he'd bailed out too close to the ground for the parachute to do much more than mildly slow his fall to the ground. The aircraft weapon tests had also provided their share of thrills. In 1943, a light-emitter weapon malfunction caused his airplane to explode in mid-air. As it turned out, minute impurities in the crystal arrays designed to excite light into a coherent beam caused the weapon to overheat rather dramatically after a certain number of uses. The weapon, which had been tested and certified on the ground, chose to blow up when mounted on the Jagddrache Mark V. His report, written while in the hospital, had killed dreams of a fleet of aircraft equipped with the deadly beam weapons. The Reich simply did not have the resources to produce the light emitters in quantity, given the tolerances required. Only a handful of aircraft had been equipped with the marvelous weapons, his own included. Most light-emitters were on the ground, used as anti-aircraft and anti-armor artillery.

Unfortunately even the 200-kilowatt light-emitters of his beloved Jagddrache Mark VII would not be enough to perform his latest mission. He would have to hope that whatever Geistesblitz was going to show him would do the job.

* * *

The man in the colorful propaganda poster looked strong, confident, and offensively American, jaw thrust up and forward, hands on his hips, standing tall against a background of marching tanks and a swarm of stylized aircraft. The poster's slogan made a proud announcement: ULTIMATE SAYS: BUY WAR BONDS! The poster had been affixed on the wall of Geistesblitz's office. Someone, most likely Neumann himself, had drawn a target over Ultimate's face and used it as a dart board. Several darts were stuck on or near the American hero's head.

“If we can't kill this man, the Reich is doomed,” Neumann said in a quiet voice.

“I still find it hard to understand how an individual can inflict so much damage,” Manfred replied.

“I conducted detailed studies before the Poland campaign,” Geistesblitz said in the customary pedantic, lecturing tone Manfred despised: it reminded him of his loathed instructors at cadet school. “Based on the knowledge of our own Aesir and their capabilities, and projecting estimates of similar percentages of their kind elsewhere in the world, the studies indicated we Aesir would have a relatively small strategic impact. Tactically they could be highly effective, and our experience in the Spanish War and in Poland bore this out. But strategically? Their numbers were too small, and their power, while incredible, was limited compared to the devastating nature of modern weaponry. The Britisher Meteor ignited a blaze that consumed Dresden, yes, but so could have a fleet of bombers.”

“Yes, I know all of this,” Manfred tried to interrupt, but Neumann was not so easily deterred.

“We underestimated how damaging they could be if not carefully monitored, however. We all remember what happened to Stalin.”

“Yes.” A rogue Aesir had murdered Stalin and most of the Politburo and gone on a rampage through Moscow that left a good portion of the city in ruins. The news had sent Hitler into a frenzied combination of elation and terror. Hopes the death of the Soviet premier would lead to victory had been dashed quickly by defeat at Stalingrad and a brutal mass tank battle at Belgorod that had ended inconclusively at best, before the Ukrainian uprising had sunk the Eastern Front into complete chaos, chaos that had swallowed all of Army Group South and most of Army Group Central, along with untold numbers of Soviet divisions. Hitler had learned to fear his own Aesir, trusting none of them to appear in his presence again with the exception of Donner and Geistesblitz Manfred had never been part of the Fuhrer's inner circle, but even his limited access to it had been severely curtailed after Stalin's death.

“And that was just a ‘common’ Aesir. We never accounted for what the Americans call Type Three Neolympians,” the deformed genius continued. “Mainly because we never found any of their ilk within the Reich. As things stand, neither us, the Italians or the Japanese have any of those ‘Third Generation’ creatures. Neither do the Soviets. The Ukrainians and the Americans have two each, and there is one in China, carving his own kingdom if the Japanese reports are accurate.”

The Mind's demeanor changed. Manfred noticed an element of wonder, perhaps even of worship in the man's voice as he continued his tirade. “I was given a chance to study the initial reports from the Normandy invasion. Ultimate has perfected a number of techniques to destroy fortifications, artillery formations and large troop concentrations. He can collapse our largest bunkers at a rate of two to five in a minute, depending on how far apart they are situated. He will fly through a cannon battery and disable every single gun in it in as little as thirty seconds, often only inflicting minor casualties among the gunners, although God have mercy on the ones too close to his flight path. Of course, he has no reason not to spare the gunners’ lives. Without artillery, they are nothing but badly trained infantry. What he can do to a panzer column out in the open... Even worse, no weapon accurate enough to hit a man-sized object moving faster than a jet fighter has inflicted any noticeable damage on him. There were some reports of limited success with our special coherent light emitters, but at best they only inflicted light injuries.”

Neumann's worshipful tone was tempered with dejection as he went on. “His only limitation is that he can only be in one place at a time. According to reports, some American units become reluctant to advance until their great hero arrives to soften up the opposing forces, even if other members of the Freedom Legion are available. Conversely, even rumors that Ultimate has been deployed in their area of operations have driven some of our troops into a panic. Men will face tanks and artillery and even ordinary Aesir. Against someone who can destroy them with utter impunity, however...”  Geistesblitz trailed off and took a swig from a flask he'd brought along. There really was no need to complete the thought.

“How did this happen? Why did they come to possess them, and not us?” Manfred found himself saying out loud, not really expecting an answer. He got one in any case.

“Five people, out of a population of over two billion, comprise such a small number no meaningful statistical analysis is possible! When you have anomalies at such miniscule scales, you cannot expect anything remotely resembling an even distribution. All five individuals could have been born in the Reich, or Poland, or Bolivia, and the result would have only been marginally more unlikely. As things stand, the Americans and the Ukrainians have in effect won a cosmic lottery of sorts.”

“And we have lost,” concluded Manfred bitterly.

“Perhaps. We are going to use a Wunderwaffe from the Ukraine, a creation of the so-called Iron Tsar. Perhaps it will be enough to deal with Ultimate.”

“Yes,” Manfred said, nodding. The Iron Tsar's super-weapons had become legendary in the last couple of years. Mechanical men who could survive everything but a direct hit from an anti-tank cannon. Death rays that could shoot down not only aircraft but even artillery shells in mid-flight. Lumbering but nearly invulnerable floating fortresses armed with a formidable array of weapons. Manfred had seen some of them first-hand, and had barely survived the experience. After years of slaughtering helpless Soviet airmen, encounters with enemies that rivaled or exceeded his capabilities had been a sobering experience.

Even if the Reich managed to wrestle some acceptable peace from the Allies, there would still be the Iron Tsar to deal with. At least it seemed the man and his equally powerful consort were content with ruling over the Ukraine and whatever chunks of Belarus, Poland and Russia they could bite off. Perhaps an accommodation could be reached with him.  But that would only happen if peace with the West was achieved. And that would only be possible if he killed Ultimate. Killing Meteor would be satisfying, but vengeance did nothing for the future. For the future's sake, the American hero must die.

Geistesblitz glanced over the paperwork in the hangar's office for a few minutes while Manfred looked at the colorful poster depicting the man he must kill to save the Reich. “Everything is ready with the Mark VIII,” Neumann finally said. “Let me show you the wonder of the age.”

The red aircraft in the underground hangar had the familiar lines of the Mark VI and VII. The two designs had changed little in outward looks, and the Jagddrache Mark VIII was no different. The sleek craft with had the same frame as the Messerschmitt P. 1100, with turbojets built into the swept-back wings and a sealed cockpit. There were some glaring differences, however. Two guns for some sort had been added under the wings, in addition to the standard coherent light emitter mounted on the nose. The guns made a stark contrast against the neat lines of the Jagddrache. The sight reminded Manfred of one of his first airplanes, which he'd fitted rather crudely with a machinegun in an improvised mount. The weapons’ design looked rough and far less well-machined than what he expected from German workshops. Furthermore, he noted as he completed his first walk around the aircraft, the guns looked slightly different from each other. They were clearly of the same type, and yet...

“Those are hand-made,” Manfred said, pointing at the weapons.

Geistesblitz nodded. “Some Ukrainian blacksmith put the damned things together, using components provided by the Iron Tsar himself. They were mounted on what passes for tanks in the Ukraine, more of a tank destroyer class actually. Instead of armor, it relied on an energy shield for protection. The story behind the guns’ provenance could fill an entire novel. Suffice it to say, we captured four of these guns intact. I managed to master their secrets in the last two weeks. It is a good thing I can give up sleep without ill effect.”

“Yes,” Manfred agreed rather dishonestly. The Mind’s disposition had clearly not been improved by the lack of rest, and neither had his mental stability.

“Each of those guns can burn through the entire length of a Panzer VI and destroy the tank behind it, should one be unlucky enough to be there. They can do so at ranges of over two thousand yards. The energy pulses they fire strike at the speed of light, or close to it, making them ideal anti-aircraft weapons as well, although they are rather overpowered for the purpose. These weapons are orders of magnitude more powerful than our excited light emitters, even our heavy anti-tank and anti-aircraft weapons. The Ukrainians only have a few dozen of them, thank Providence, or we'd be fighting them on our eastern border instead of Poland. The same system also generates a protective energy shield. As long as this shield is active, the vessel is effectively immune to conventional air defense artillery or even armor-piercing tank rounds. The Mark VIII is a flying panzer, able to destroy any man-made vehicle on the world, and to survive any conceivable conventional attack. Of course, your targets are not conventional,” Geistesblitz concluded.

“What is the power source for the weapon and shield system?”

“Let me show you.” The Mind took a step towards the plane, hesitated and turned to Manfred. “This is going to be rather disturbing.”

Manfred tried to steel himself as the Mind carefully swung open a panel on the side of one of the guns. Its inside was filled with metal structures covered with etchings of some sort... and something else.

“Those are...” He had seen many horrible things in the wars he'd fought, but this...

“Human brains, yes,” Neumann said. “Along with some nervous and connective tissue, wired into place, and surrounded by a nutrient fluid. And yes, all the biological material in there is still alive.”

Manfred turned away from the sight.

“The Tsar used the brains of Aesir to power these guns,” the scientist explained. “Perhaps to power all his machines, although I doubt it; there just aren’t enough of us to power so many devices. You see, all Aesir are, all we are, is a living conduit to some unknown energy source. The brains of those unfortunates are kept alive somehow, and used to provide the power to fire the guns, as well as the power to protect the guns themselves and their mountings from the residual heat generated by the discharges, which by itself would be quite enough to destroy an airplane or damage a panzer. From our testing, the guns in their original configuration can be discharged no more than sixty times before the biological tissue must rest for a period of no less than an hour. Or ten shots with ten minutes’ pause in between, or any combination thereof. Beyond that point, the organic material may die, in a manner of speaking.”

“I see,” Manfred said. He still felt vaguely sick, but he was a veteran. He'd been more shocked than disgusted, he realized, and the realization bothered him more than the sight of four human brains and attached flesh and bones wired to the weapons.

“Once I understood the principles behind the guns, I was able to improve on the design. The original weapons had one brain attached. I have connected each of them to four. That provides for a larger payload, six times greater, or more intense energy discharges. From the tests, at its highest safe setting each gun releases enough power to sink a pocket battleship. The payload at that level is limited to twenty to twenty-four shots, however.”

“You said ‘highest safe setting.’ Is there a higher setting?”

“There is a third setting, yes. The resulting energy discharge will burn out all the empowering biological components,” the Mind explained. “The aircraft will also be damaged and quite likely destroyed, despite its shields. I cannot accurately calculate how powerful the release would be, but it certainly would inflict enormous damage at the point of impact. Based on the initial tests we conducted on one of the weapons, possibly enough to consume an entire city, I would say.”

Manfred looked at the monstrous weapon. “That should be enough,” he said, and wished he sounded more certain. He would find out one way or another soon enough.

“You said the weapons were each powered by one Aesir brain. You captured four weapons. That means four of the brains came along with them. Yet there are eight in here, four for each gun.”

Manfred didn't have to ask the question he was leading to.  Geistesblitz understood. “We had three functioning brains; one of them 'died' in transit. We had to procure five more to power these systems. Three were Juden who were discovered to have Aesir-like abilities.” The Fuhrer had declared that Untermenschen would not be given the honor of being named as Aesir, no matter what powers they possessed. Any such were dubbed ‘abominations’ or ‘aberrant mutations.’ “One of them was a boy with the power to manipulate metals; he caused quite a stir at one of the camps before being subdued. The others a man and woman with minor abilities. The last two brains came from captured enemies. A Russian and a Pole. We had nine enemy Aesir in our power, and now all of them serve the Reich, in their own way.” The Mind glared at Manfred as he spoke, as if daring the Field Marshall to say anything. Manfred remained silent. “The others went to a similar project I'm developing for the SS. If your operation fails Himmler has his own program to deal with the Freedom Legion.”

Himmler would probably squander any Wunderwaffe he got in pointless, grandiose schemes, Manfred knew, but he remained silent.

“You understand the stakes involved now,” Geistesblitz said coldly. “If you fail, Himmler will try his own operation – and most likely fail. After that, there is little else we can do. Our losses on the Eastern Front have been catastrophic. Some four million men are dead, including some of our best veteran soldiers. We have little in the way of a reserve. If you eliminate enough Aesir, we might force the Allies to the peace table. If not, we will have to accept whatever terms they deign to offer us.”

“The Fuhrer will never surrender unconditionally.”

“If you fail, steps will be taken to ensure the safety of the Fatherland.”

Manfred looked incredulously at Neumann, who was glaring defiantly at him. They were alone in the hangar, and the Mind would have made sure no listening devices were nearby. Yet, by speaking thus the inventor was putting his life in Manfred's hands. “What are you saying?”

“If you fail, the Third Reich is doomed. I will see to it that Germany is not doomed as well. If we collapse completely, the Russians might break through into the Fatherland, and they are not apt to show our people any mercy. Neither will the Americans and British, not if they have to spend too much blood bringing us down. If the Fuhrer cannot be made to see this…”

“You are speaking about treason. We gave our oaths, Neumann.”

“I'm speaking about saving what we can! They don't listen to me! They take my inventions and waste them. We had a perfect opportunity to destroy the Soviets. The Ukraine was in open rebellion when we invaded. If we had worked out an agreement with the Iron Tsar like I suggested, we would have crushed Russia. Instead, we behaved like barbarians and the only reason the Ukrainians aren't pursuing us is that they lack the logistics to do so and because the Soviets still refuse to make peace with them. That's just one example. I warned them about my suspicions the Allies had broken our Enigma encryption systems and were reading our coded messages. I was ignored. And then there is the Fuhrer's obsession with the Jews. Do you know how many scientists we lost because of that? I was told not to waste my energy into ‘Jewish science’ theories like splitting the atom to release energy, and now we're lagging behind the Allies on that front as well. And now... Now our only hope is to make peace before the Fatherland is annihilated. And if that means our leadership has to be sacrificed, so be it. They should be willing to sacrifice themselves, if they truly cared for Germany and the German people.”

Manfred listened in silence. Much of what his fellow Aesir was saying was true, although the Mind was omitting his own role in leading Germany to this point. The constant diversions in the search for perfect weapon designs had helped diffuse the production of enough equipment to match the Allies' massive industrial output. He'd seen it in the air, fighting through swarms of enemy fighters, inferior in every respect but their numbers, and catching up in quality without sacrificing their quantitative advantages.  For all his genius, Geistesblitz had own his blind spots.

The man had also been quite willing to conduct human experiments on Jews, Gypsies and other undesirables, for all his complaints about Hitler's obsessions. Manfred had never paid too much attention to that aspect of the Reich; he’d made it a point not to delve into it.

When he was fighting on the Eastern Front, however, he had witnessed one such incident first hand. He’d gone off hunting by himself, and stumbled on an SS operation the liquidation of an entire Jewish village. He was a hard man who had grown up under military discipline and lived through several wars and all the hardships involved, but he could not stomach such things. But if he did nothing about them, what did that make him? A coward, an accomplice, that was what.

Geistesblitz broke the awkward silence. “I’ve laid my cards on the table, Richthofen. If you wish to tell on me, I won’t stop you, but I need not remind you that without me you may have some difficulties in learning how to use this latest wonder weapon.”

“There is nothing to tell,” Manfred said. “We are just two old friends engaged in some idle talk. In any case, if I succeed, none of that will matter.” That wasn't quite true. He did not know if the Fuhrer would deal rationally with the Allies even if a stalemate could be achieved, or whether or not the Allies would be willing to deal with Hitler at all. The sacrifices Geistesblitz had spoken of might still be necessary. “And if I fail, I doubt I will be in any position to care about the aftermath.” That was nothing but the truth.

“For all our sakes, I hope you succeed,” the Mind said.

Manfred nodded, but a part of him felt nothing but near overwhelming weariness. When would this end?

It would end in death, of course. He had a brief flashback to men, women and children made to dig their own graves before being machine-gunned. His world had become a nightmare. He wanted to wake up, to be done.

He desperately wanted to be done.

* * *

As a young child Manfred had climbed to the top of a church in Wahlstatt and watched the world from that dizzying height before tying his handkerchief to the steeple, leaving it as a marker that had still fluttered in the air ten years later when he returned for a visit. That glorious moment had been eclipsed by his first time in the air, a combination of fear and exhilaration that had been nearly overwhelming. Some remnants of that feeling were awakened every time he left the ground and felt his aircraft begin to rise. As the Jagddrache took off on her maiden flight, Manfred enjoyed the moment, knowing it would not last.

He was flying over Berlin. Daylight raiding had stopped completely after the deployment of light-emitter weapons earlier that year, so the skies over the Reich's capital were free of enemy aircraft while the sun was up. At night, things still got exciting thanks to the new American B-35 bombers. The impressive flying wings were hard to spot on radar and carried a deplorably impressive bomb load. Most nights Berlin and all German cities suffered under their onslaught, despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe. This morning, however, he should have nothing to worry about as he tested the new aircraft.

Everything was in order. All the systems were operational. Manfred had gone over the checklist out of habit, although that was no longer necessary. He knew that everything in the aircraft was working perfectly. His Aesir gifts included a preternatural awareness of any vehicle he drove or piloted. He could control his aircraft without touching its controls, could feel if even a screw or bolt were loose, could perceive radio transmissions and radar signals as clearly as he could see through his eyes. That control affected the performance of anything he flew. He could make an airplane perform maneuvers that should be beyond its physical limitations. As soon as his hands touched the aircraft’s yoke, Manfred became one with the newest Jagddrache, and he knew everything was in perfect working condition.

Manfred rose over Berlin. The test was being filmed both on the ground and by a number of camera-equipped aircraft, to be later used in a propaganda film, ideally a film that would include news of the deaths of one or more American heroes. He dutifully performed some aerial acrobatics for his audience before changing course and heading towards the practice range some miles away, a field sown with targets. The empty hulks of antiquated Panzer IVs and Panthers were scattered through the field, alongside moving targets. The moving targets were Russian prisoners ordered to run for their lives. The casual brutality of the test bothered Manfred, but only slightly. Every night innocent German women and children were being slaughtered while cowering in inadequate bomb shelters. He would shed no tears over the poor bastards now running in his sights.

The guns performed as advertised, obliterating the target panzers even at their lowest power settings, and they were accurate enough to strike – and vaporize – a running man with a single pulse. Only a handful of Russians made it to the other end of the field, where waiting SS death squads would make sure they'd tell no one of this little experiment. The Jagddrache Mark VIII was ready for action.

 He'd been monitoring other radio chatter while performing the tests; the ability to effectively handle multiple tasks at once was another of his Aesir abilities, one of the reasons he could fly and fight the Jagddrache by himself. A general alert had been issued and the Luftwaffe was scrambling every available aircraft.

Ace the Boy Pilot was had been spotted over Berlin.

Manfred's pulse quickened. Here was a worthy challenge. The American flier was not as much of a threat as Ultimate, but he'd been a fearsome enemy, thankfully one who had until recently confined his actions on the Japanese in the Pacific theater.

The intelligence reports on Ace had included copies of the gaudy colored magazines that lovingly depicted the teenager's adventures. Both the comic books and the more sober newspaper articles agreed on the basics of Ace's story. Early in 1941, twelve-year old Arthur ‘Ace’ Wood had built his own airplane with the help of his grandfather, a former Great War aviator and current stunt pilot. Weeks after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the boy had flown his toy to the Pacific and proceeded to shoot down two dozen Japanese aircraft in a couple of days. In the ensuing years, the murderous child had downed over two hundred machines, gleefully slaughtering entire squadrons with impunity.

Ace's aircraft was called Lil’ Eagle. It had been built out of a collection of spare parts from a dozen other flying machines. Most notably, it didn't have any engines. From all reports, the boy's grandfather had mostly helped build the cursed thing as a playground of sorts for the child. It had been never meant to fly, but with the boy at its controls, fly it did, powered by Arthur Wood’s will and imagination. The boy’s grandfather had been infected by the child's madness; when the war started, he'd helped install a pair of ancient water-cooled machineguns on the aircraft and sent young Arthur off to war. Manfred wondered if the old man had been punished by whatever American authorities watched over the welfare of children.

The impossible device could attain speeds in excess of 800 kilometers per hour, had withstood direct hits from 20mm cannon and even 120mm anti-aircraft artillery, and its armament would shred most machines with a burst or two, even though the weapons themselves were allegedly nothing more than a pair of antiquated Vickers machineguns. No human pilot could face the Boy Pilot and live. The only survivors from such encounters had managed to flee while he was busy with other prey. Even the Japanese Aesir, the so-called Kami Warriors, had been unable to deal with him. Ace had killed two of them in aerial duels.

With Japan largely neutralized and being slowly ground away, Ace the Boy Pilot had flown back to America for a brief triumphant celebration (and to help sell war bonds) and then turned his attention to the European theater. He had only arrived to France a week ago, and in the last five days had shot down eleven precious Me-1100s. What brought him over German airspace? Since the boy wasn't in the regular Allied chain of command or even the Freedom Legion, it could be merely a childish whim of his. Manfred smiled grimly. Time to find out what his new crate could do. If he couldn't take down the Boy Pilot, going after Ultimate would be futile.

* * *

The stage for the aerial duel was set. All nearby aircraft had been grounded and anti-aircraft emplacements around Berlin instructed to hold their fire. The Boy Pilot was circling the city, looking for prey. Manfred could see the machine on his radar screen, although the image wavered and randomly appeared and disappeared. Lil’ Eagle seemed to be able to absorb radar signals for brief intervals, which would make it very difficult to use radar-guided weapons against it. Thankfully, Manfred’s weapons did not need radar targeting.

As he broke through some cloud cover, he spotted it. The Ami was fast, but Manfred matched his speed, and he was above him, the perfect attack position. The Boy Pilot wasn’t attempting to evade, either; he was flying in a straight course, making himself an easy target.

It should have been a simple kill. He pressed the firing button on the joystick, unleashing a torrent of energy onto the seemingly unsuspecting American.

The Ami airplane changed course at the last moment, beginning to climb and shedding speed in return for altitude. The energy discharges missed it cleanly. Manfred's eyes widened as the Jagddrache flew past the American. It should have been impossible, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He was dealing with a fellow Aesir after all, another living impossibility like himself. Somehow the Boy Pilot had sensed his approach and set up a trap.

The American performed a high-speed Immelman maneuver, and now he was behind Manfred, firing his machineguns as it closed in for the kill. The impacts staggered the Jagddrache but the energy shields held. The boy's weapons could not penetrate the aircraft defenses, at least not for the few seconds before Manfred maneuvered out of the line of fire.

The fight became a duel not unlike the ones he had fought in the Great War, as the two pilots maneuvered in long circles, trying to get behind the enemy. The speeds were much higher, of course, and the stress on both men and machines commensurately so. Human pilots or normal aircraft could not have survived the deadly dance for more than a few seconds. For Manfred and Ace, the battle took several minutes.

The boy was good, a natural flier, his expected superb reflexes matched by his coolness under fire. Even as it became clear that Manfred was cutting the circles closer and closer, Ace didn't panic and kept making things as difficult as possible for his foe.  It did not matter. Eventually Manfred had his shot. This time he did not miss.

Lil’ Eagle had survived direct hits from most antiaircraft weapons made by human hands. The monstrous creations of the Iron Tsar tore the American plane apart in a fiery explosion. Manfred flew through the smoke and turbulence. He could see no parachute, so he most likely had killed the boy. Just one more dead child, a little younger than most of his victims.

The killing was reaching an end, however. One way or another, he would be done with all of this.

Caen, France, July 14, 1944

  The Flying Circus went off to war.

Jagdgeschwader Richthofen consisted of sixteen pilots, each of them a multiple ace with over fifty confirmed kills. The elite unit flew the latest Me-1100 fighter jets, all armed with powerful light-emitter weapons, all painted red just like Manfred's own  Jagddrache. The paint jobs were partly a display of pride and partly to help protect the unit's infamous leader from being singled out by the Allies. Today, the job of the sixteen fliers would be to provide cover and concealment for Manfred as he carried out his mission. The men all understood they were very unlikely to survive the mission.

France stretched out below them, the rear areas still largely pristine and untouched by the scourge of war, except for strategic targets like railroads and bridges, many of which were burning merrily. Up ahead, pillars of smoke marked Caen. The city was the focus of the latest Allied offensive. The 1st SS Panzer Division was there, armed with the latest special weapons – light emitters that could destroy Allied tanks and aircraft with ease, armored suits that combined the mobility of an infantryman with the protection and weaponry of a panzer, and the dreaded Totenkopf units made of reanimated corpses brought to life by the dread Aesir of the same name. The Freedom Legion had been concentrated there to help the British and Canadian forces tasked with taking Caen. Manfred should find plenty of worthy targets for his Jagddrache.

His first targets were incidental. An Allied flight of B-35 bombers and their escort of antiquated P-51 fighters crossed the path of his squadron. Manfred authorized one pass as the two formations came into contact. The Flying Circus tore through the American aircraft with their light emitters, setting bombers on fire and detonating their ordinance. The prop fighters escorting the doomed mission were similarly slaughtered. Jagdgeschwader Richthofen went on, leaving behind the burning remains of two dozen enemy aircraft scattered all over the French countryside. All of his fliers came through unscathed. He chose to take it as a good omen.

One of Geistesblitz's newest creations spoke to Manfred through microphones built into his helmet. The Oracle Device had been described to him as a mechanical brain of sorts, designed to collate information at inhuman speeds. The machine monitored German and Allied radio traffic, searching for reports of Aesir activity. Its cold mechanical voice reported a sighting of Swift, one of the best-known Legionnaires. Manfred vectored his squadron in and started descending onto the battlefield.

The chaos of war became more detailed as one got closer to it. What had been anonymous pillars of smoke resolved into burning vehicles surrounded by antlike human figures. Artillery explosions erupted among the scurrying figures, creating black and red flowers of destruction. Attack aircraft swept down and rained destruction onto the infantrymen and vehicles below. A P-51 fighter-bomber came into Manfred's view, rising in the air after dropping its load on the defending German forces. He casually exploded the American fighter with a burst of his nose-mounted light emitter. A moment later, he spotted Swift.

The Fastest Man in the World was creating a wake of displaced earth and pieces of equipment and human bodies as he ran through a defensive trench at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Manfred overflew the Aesir and looped back, seeking a good angle of fire. A warbling sound in his helmet warned him he had been targeted by ground to air missiles. He ignored the alarm. His wingman would be even now activating countermeasures, and even if those were ineffective, the new energy shields protecting the Jagddrache should keep him safe.

There! He returned to the battle site above and behind the American speedster and opened fire. The reports claimed that Swift was impervious to most weapons while on the move, protected by some sort of energy aura. The Ukrainian death rays struck him nonetheless and turned his lethal dash into a graceless sprawl. The Ami ubermensch fell, his colorful costume ablaze. Manfred flew past the burning target. He would have to make a return pass and make sure the man was dead.

Two members of his squadron were down, including his wingman. Enemy missiles had hit ‘Bubi’ Hartmann's plane just as Manfred fired on the American Aesir. ‘Bubi’ had been a good man, one of the best pilots he'd ever met. He would be missed. There was no time to mourn, however, only time to kill.

He came back from a different angle, guided by the still-glowing spot where earth had been fused into glass by the heat of his death rays. Swift lay at the bottom of a molten crater. Just as Manfred came into range to fire, however, a silver and scarlet blur dashed past and carried off the fallen American. Manfred's shots hit only the already scorched crater.

Ultimate had arrived.

Manfred flew past, seeking altitude. He distantly heard the reports as four of his fellow pilots engaged Ultimate to buy him some time to position himself. The American hero took to the air. Seconds later, all four jets had been destroyed; four more friends and colleagues were dead. He would be next.

The Jagddrache turned in the air, seeking its target. Ultimate was flying straight for him. Manfred fired as the two foes closed in on each other at supersonic speeds.

A blinding flash of light was followed a second later by an impact that sent his airplane spinning out of control, shaking him violently in his flight harness. Manfred tasted blood in his mouth. The collision had been brutal even through the protective shields. Alarms were blaring in his ears; multiple systems were damaged or destroyed, and he was in free fall. He fought gravity's implacable pull and managed to level off a couple of hundred feet over the ground. The Jagddrache started climbing once again, no longer graceful. Something was vibrating with painful loudness. The windshield, made of nearly impervious transparent sapphire, had a spider web of cracks at the point of impact.

It took him a few seconds to assess the damage. Nothing vital was out of commission. The Jagddrache was still airworthy. The protective shields were down but slowly coming back into action as Geistesblitz's ghoulish living batteries went to work. He had collided with the strongest man on Earth, and survived the experience.

One question remained, however. Had Ultimate survived as well?

The Oracle Device scanned the battlefield below and gave him a vector. Soon enough he could see Ultimate's landing site: it was a smoldering crater, larger than the one he'd carved for Swift, some distance behind German lines.

Ultimate was staggering to his feet.

Manfred raised the special weapon's power levels to their maximum safe setting and fired on the still unaware titan. Earth and stone boiled away as Ultimate was transfixed by the death rays. A massive explosion that staggered the aircraft even from three hundred meters away blotted out the target, and an instant later Manfred was climbing past the flaming pyre he’d made, turning for another pass. An unnecessary pass, he hoped. He had kept the energy beams on the American hero for several seconds, unleashing incredibly amounts of heat. That had to be enough.

But what if it wasn't?

Numbly, Manfred pushed the levers that set the weapons to fire at their maximum possible level. The ensuing detonation would devastate the area, possibly destroy any nearby German units, but nothing would survive it. With his aircraft damaged and the protective shields still down, neither would Manfred. But it would be worth it, wouldn't it?

The loss of their most powerful hero would shake the Americans' morale, and provide enough time for the Reich to build more super-weapons. The war would go on.

The war would go on. The idea made him want to vomit.

The enhanced viewing systems of his craft showed Ultimate crawling through the inferno below as Manfred made his final attack run. The American was clearly gravely injured. Just as he reached the optimum firing range, Ultimate collapsed, burning and unmoving. Dead or dying? Only one way to make sure.

His thumb touched the firing button. One little push...

He never knew what made him hesitate. All he knew was that a moment later he had flown past, his weapons unfired. Through the numbness and shame, a new emotion poked through. Relief. He was done. Done with the war. Done with the killing.

Manfred ignored the threat warnings. Unheeded, the squadron of Airacomets that had been scrambled after him opened fire. A volley of missiles struck the unprotected Jagddrache. He spun out of control; he was surrounded by flames, burning. The aircraft became an ungainly piece of metal plummeting to the ground. Manfred didn’t care.

He was done.







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