Dawn crept over the jungle in shades of ash and copper.

Steam lifted from the ruined trees, rising like the ghosts of men who hadn't yet realized they were dead.

Erich stood just outside his armored command vehicle.

one boot planted in mud that reached to the ankle.

Around him, the battalion stirred back to life.

Mechanics moved between the hulks in wordless rhythm, wiping carbon from barrels, checking cooling coils, dragging spent shell casings into heaps that glittered like brass altars.

None of them spoke louder than necessary. They didn't need to. Everyone understood what they'd done in the night.

Across the valley, smoke hung low over what had been an American armored division.

Tracks twisted like broken ribs, steel hulks half-submerged in mud and flame.

Erich took the binoculars from his neck and swept the horizon.

Nothing moved but birds. He lowered the lenses and exhaled through his teeth.

"Report the line secure," he said quietly.

The adjutant nodded, clicking his handset. "All companies report negligible losses. Ammunition at sixty-two percent. Fuel reserves nominal."

Erich gave a short nod. He should have felt triumph.

Instead there was only the dull ache behind his eyes, the after-image of muzzle flashes still burned into them.

He climbed down into the command vehicle.

Inside, the faint glow of the instruments painted every face the color of dawn.

A soft hum from the capacitor banks filled the silence between heartbeats.

"Transmit confirmation to headquarters," he said. "The initial phase of our operation is complete."

The radio operator flicked a series of switches. A single green light pulsed, the uplink aligning with a sattelite relay high above the Pacific.

Within minutes, everything they had recorded would be in Berlin.

Every coordinate, every thermal image, every life extinguished would exist now as clean data.

Erich leaned back against the metal bulkhead.

His gloved fingers tapped absently against his thigh, keeping time with the distant rhythm of cooling engines.

"They never saw us coming," the gunner muttered.

"That's the point," Erich said. "If they'd seen us, they might've had a chance."

The words lingered longer than he meant them to.

---

The war room lay buried five stories beneath the Chancellery, its walls lined with steel and polished stone.

Dozens of projection screens displayed shifting aerial imagery from Luzon: jungle rendered in black-and-white relief, flashes of light where the cameras had caught the first detonations.

Bruno von Zehntner stood at the center table, his uniform immaculate, his posture weary.

He watched the images without speaking until the last frame froze, rows of wrecked American armor glimmering in morning mist.

"Estimated enemy losses?" he asked.

The operations officer replied, "Seventy percent confirmed destroyed or captured.

Communications intercepts suggest General Rose is missing, presumed dead."

Bruno's expression didn't change.

He turned to the analyst operating the relay. "And ours?"

"Fifteen killed, twenty-one wounded, two vehicles disabled."

The room stayed silent. The ratio was obscene, impossible in conventional war.

At the far end of the table, Admiral Reimann cleared his throat.

"An outstanding victory, Reichsmarschall. Proof again that your design philosophy is…"

Bruno cut him off with a glance.

"Spare me the slogans, Reimann. Victory doesn't need applause."

He looked up at the main display again.

The feed had shifted to a satellite overlay: infrared mapping, crater patterns, fragments of wreckage marked with geometric precision.

It looked less like a battlefield than an autopsy.

"Send a message to Manila Command," Bruno said. "Tell Oberstleutnant von Zehntner to hold position until the fleet completes the southern landing. He's not to pursue."

"Yes, sir."

When the officers filed out, Bruno remained, hands resting on the table's cold surface.

For a moment he let the quiet surround him, the hum of the projectors, the distant ticking of air recyclers.

Later that night, Bruno watched the same images on a smaller screen from the safety and leisure of his personal study within his Tyrolean home.

Dim except for the pale light reflected off his spectacles.

The broadcast came through a direct line from the satellite relay, untouched by censors or commentaries.

He saw everything as it was, grainy, unadorned, merciless.

Outside the window, snow drifted down the slopes.

The mountains were quiet, far removed from the jungles of Luzon. Yet when the explosions flickered across the screen, their light still reached him.

He poured himself a glass of water from the decanter beside the desk and set it next to a folder.

The paper inside was still warm from the printer, smelling faintly of ozone.

He flipped it open without urgency. Columns of data, loss ratios, ammunition expenditure, and fuel efficiency.

These weren't just numbers.

They were the tragedy of statistics manifest on a sheet of paper. And Bruno seemed unbothered by them as if he were looking at any other collection of numbers.

He took another sip of his drink when a soft chime broke the silence.

The intercom light blinked once. Bruno pressed the receiver.

"Sir," came the filtered voice of his adjutant, "Prince Erwin requests a brief word. He's calling from the Corporate headquarters in Berlin."

"Put him through."

A moment's static, then his son's measured tone filled the room, smooth, practiced, distant.

"I've seen the Luzon report," Erwin said. "The markets opened two points higher the moment the news broke. Krupp, Rheinmetall, and our aerospace holdings are all climbing. The board wants to know if we should expand production capacity in the East."

Bruno stared at the frozen image on his screen: a burning column, reduced to silhouettes by dawn light.

"Expand if you must," he said. "But remind them that every new contract still carries a cost. Our ledgers are written in more than ink."

Erwin hesitated, perhaps catching the edge in his father's voice.

"Of course, Father. I'll handle it personally."

The line clicked dead.

Bruno exhaled through his nose and let the silence settle once more.

He looked back to the screen.

The satellite feed looped again, replaying the strike from its godlike vantage.

From orbit it was almost beautiful: lines of light threading through darkness, the choreography of total mastery.

Yet behind that beauty, was the senseless slaughter that mankind inevitably forced upon itself.

He couldn't bother to watch the rest and turned off the projector.

The room fell into darkness, broken only by the muted glow of snow outside and the red pulse of the uplink terminal still connected to the heavens.

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