The Veil War

Mumbles cleared the switchback, running as fast as he could. In full armor and kit that’s never very fast and usually looks like a overweight, two-legged crab scrabbling over a hot griddle. Fister, Thomas, Dumbfuck and Arechiga followed right behind, the clatter of their gear clearly distinguishable from the much louder and more metallic clatter of the armor advancing down the roadway.

Every WWII movie I ever watched is coming around that corner, I thought. I had no idea those tanks could be so fucking loud.

“Raptors!” Dennison shouted. A fusillade of small arms fire from my platoon drove the velociraptors back off the shoulder of the ridge up and right of the gully I had chosen as my command post. If fucking Mumbles hadn’t screwed up, this place was just far enough away from the gate to stop the fascist onslaught.

Fucking Mumbles jumped over the lip of the gulley and skidded to a stop next to me just as the tank rumbled into view.

“Holy Jesus Fuck!” I said.

It barely fit on the narrow mountain road, scraping along the cliff side like my sister trying to parallel park.

“If an Abrams raped the USS Iowa, then that’s the baby,” Mumbles said.

It was taller than my house back home. Sharply angular, massive plates of armored steel supported on stupendous treads rolled inexorably forward. Poking up on the back was a quad mount of tank cannon. I knew they had to be tank cannon because they looked pathetic and small compared to the main guns. Guns!

Black smoke belched out the rear to the roar of the biggest diesel engine ever. With a grind of metal and an awful, hollow clank of gears the turret rotated. Two gigantic guns protruded from it, and as they spun slowly toward me it was like looking into the Holland tunnel.

“It’s the Landkreuzer P.1000!” Peters shouted. He sounded giddy.

“Fucking awesome. Now shoot it.”

“Sir, that thing is fifteen times bigger than an Abrams. It has a battleship turret on it.”

“Stop eye-fucking it and shoot it.”

“I don’t think it’s going to do much good,” Peters complained.

“SHOOT THE FUCKING THING, NERD!” I screamed.

Peters raised the AT-4 to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The tiny missile hissed out and the backblast scorched the lichen and bugs behind us. Peter’s launch was the signal, and three other missiles lanced out. Four missiles streaked across the road, spreading slightly and leaving corkscrewing trails of smoke. All of them hit; two on the front treads, two on the turret.

Both front treads were shredded by the explosions, the shaped charge warheads ripping right through the shroud and into the drive wheels. Peters’ rocket detonated at the junction of the turret and the body of the tank, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and fire and triggering secondary explosions somewhere inside.

The last missile hit the front glacis armor head-on and tore a gaping wound. Jagged, foot thick teeth of rolled steel armor jutted out from the man-sized hole, and smoke trickled out. Clearly, Nazi armor techniques had not kept up with modern missile technology.

“Fuckin’ A!” Peters yelled.

The battleship guns couldn’t turn with the turret immobilized, but they could depress. The right gun lowered, it was almost in line. The Landkreuzer lurched as its rear treads spun to push and turn the massive guns toward their target.

“SHOOT IT AGAIN! SHOOT IT AGAIN” I screamed.

Peters dropped the spent launcher tube and grabbed another.

The Landkreuzer rocked back and forth like a dog humping the carpet. The rear treads couldn’t get traction to move the huge weight. The gunners lost patience and fired.

BOOM. The blast of the gun alone was enough to almost kill us. My whole platoon was knocked over by the shock. The shell passed overhead in an instant, shattering the hillside behind us. Blood ran out of my ears and nose and a shower of rocks pelted us where we lay.

Peters picked up his dropped launcher, took aim and fired again. The missile hit the left gun barrel right where it joined the turret. With a deafening report, it detonated. The gun barrel lurched in its seat, and drooped sadly downward.

The titanic vehicle was backlit by a sun-bright flash. Seconds later, the entire mountainside shook. The Landkreuzer lurched sideways on the roadbed and its left tread slipped off to dangle for a moment in space. The 1000-ton bulk dropped to the ground with a clang that hurt my already-deafened ears. It teetered, then settled; billowing smoke pouring out of its many wounds.

“I don’t think we did that.”

Mumbles pointed up the mountain. A small mushroom cloud raced skyward.

***

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A sudden urge to google overtook me this morning, and this is what I found:

When you type “Dinosaur Nazi” into the google, most of the top results are for two things: Dino D-Day and Chronos Commandos: Dawn Patrol. The first is a game, the second a comic book.

Dino D-Day started as a half-life mod, but is now grown up and a complete first-person shooter. The creators did up some fun propaganda posters:

Chonos Commandos: Dawn Patrol is a five-issue comic series from Titan Comics.

Awesome. Here’s some sample pages:

There’s some other stuff, too. In May another comic will be released, Half Past Danger:

Here’s a really old Dinosaur Nazi comic. And then there’s this:

And sprinkled throughout the search results, there’s links to this weird story.

I ran down the situation for the Lieutenant.

“Why should I believe that there are magical SOF types with invisibility cloaks who will blow the gate if we just attack a regimental size unit of fucking dinosaurs?”

“You didn’t believe me when I told you there were dinosaur Nazis, and look what happened to your uniform.”

“OK, point.”

“Hounddog, I need Fister and Thomas.”

“No fucking way. They’re the only two competents we have.”

“Yeah, but listen…”

***

The lieutenant led most of the platoon up the rocky scree to their appointment with destiny. I’d kept Arechiga and the Dumbfucker, and now Fister and Doubting Thomas were looking at me like I’d grown a dick out of my forehead.

Fister was a sleepy-looking little shit. Paranoid as fuck but hey, you get hit three times by RPGs and see how sunny your outlook is. The last encounter with murderous, rocket-propelled explosives was only last week, and his forehead looked like a hippy had tie-dyed it in blue, yellow and brown.

“How’s the head, Fister?”

He opened his eyes a little more and glared. “Right,” I said. “We ready?”

Arechiga and Dumbfucker nodded. Fister glared some more. Thomas looked doubtful. Surprise!

“We wait until Hounddog is in position.”

***

“Poodle, this is Hounddog actual. We are in position.”

“Shit-soo Actual this is the Subcommandante. Commencing operation let’s fuck with the dinosaur fascists some and piss off my lieutenant… on my mark.”

I waited a bit. Then a bit more.

“Mark.”

I dropped the mike and walked up the road.

My plan was simplicity itself. The activities of the overzealous A-10 pilots had wrecked the fascist armor on the narrow mountain road. Now, dinosaurs and actual human Nazis were bottled up behind the wreckage.

Some well-placed ‘splodey would clear the wreckage, and allow the dammed up fascist tide to sweep out, down the road and over the plains. Then Tactical Beardman and the Chad could do their thing and blow the gate.

Only problem? I was going to be on the road when the fascist tide flowed, with only my dear Lieutenant for cover.

***

“Well, there goes that plan.”

The Tiger II tank clanked and rattled down the mountainside like a discarded child’s toy. The triceratops backed up gingerly, the swastika painted on its crest clearly visible and by now only vaguely ridiculous. The fascist mahout rode right behind the crest, shouting commands and pulling on the reins to direct the enormous beast. The only thing missing was a flashing yellow light and a back-up beep.

Another tank clattered down the hill, still burning and leaving a spiral smoke ring as it dropped. Rather pretty, really.

“How now, brown cow?” Fister asked.

“Well, a frontal assault is clearly counter-indicated.”

“No shit, dumbass.”

I looked up the road. The two triceradozers were working hard and at the rate A-10 ravaged armor was going over the hill, the path would be clear in minutes at the outside. “Look, man, our goal was to clear the wreckage and encourage the krauts down the fucking hill. We have already nearly succeeded in our mission! How fucking cool is that?”

I neglected to mention the still-functioning tanks stacked up behind, and what looked like a couple companies of velociraptor Soldaten. “We need to, you know, kind of… punch them in the nose a bit, get them moving down the hill.” I thought hard for a moment. I need them angry, but I can’t slow them down.

“Let’s just light them up and see what happens.”

“Fuck you, Mumbles,” the NCOs muttered in stereo.

Two more tanks remained on the road. I loaded a grenade and with a thuump of my M203 sent it over the heads of the wrecking crew to land in the neatly ordered ranks of featherless ostriches. More grenades followed.

The Soldaten panicked, running into each other and bouncing off the cliff wall to the right. Two even jumped off the other side to cartwheel down a hundred feet of rocky, 60-degree slope. Awesome. Human Nazi officers were shouting orders, but over the screech of the velociraptors I don’t think anyone heard a single word.

We launched another salvo of grenades, and backed around the switchback just as the return fire started up. Machine gun fire sparked off the rocks as we grabbed cover. I ducked as a tank round hit a boulder and spalled rock chips like grenade fragments. A rocket blew past, and detonated in mid air over the valley.

I looked at my men. “Are they angry enough you think, or should we try harder?”

***

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“Well, how do we do the gate, then?”

“Leave that to me. What we need you to do is distract the scaly fascist menace so that we can.”

That left me feeling pissed, and like I just took a step up onto a stair that wasn’t there. Fuck! There I was all ready to sacrifice my command to the greater glory and save the world and now I get a “Thanks, kid, the big boys have got this one. Run along and play.”

Damn me, I do not get stood up at my own prom.

“Right. Who is we? Or are you secretly the king of France?”

“Me and Chad. It’s enough. Actually, he’s enough. I’m just an apprentice Chad.”

“What, like the fucking Sith?”

“Yeah, kinda. Except better-looking and we drink a shit load more.”

OK, that’s fair. “Alright. My lieutenant is probably already charging up the hill, head out the window with his tongue flapping in the wind. I’ll see about creating some FFCC.”

The apprentice Chad cocked an eyebrow. “Fun, Fantasy, Confusion and Chaos.”

“Right on, then.” He smiled and faded from view like a Cheshire cat.

Damn, I need a transfer.

***

I picked up the receiver. “Chow-Chow Actual, this is Poodle. What’s your 20, big mama?”

There was a long pause. “Poodle, Hounddog Actual.” He sounded like he was wired really, really tight. “Waist deep in blood, motherfucker!”

Shit, the LT has gone hardcore. “And coming up the north road on foot.”

“Yapdog Actual, substantial enemy forces deploying on north road ahead of your position. Cute little Nazi tanks in company strength or more, velociraptor Soldaten with small arms; unknown numbers of apatosaurs with heavy weapons. Request air and artillery support, can direct fire.”

“Poodle, CAS inbound…”

***

“You fucked up.”

Damn it, that sneaky shit is annoying. Tactical Beardman looked pissed, but it was hard to tell under all the hair and sunglasses.

“How?”

“You bottled them up. There are now more tangos down by the gate than there were fifteen minutes ago.”

“A lot more dead ones. Those were some good explosions.”

“Distraction, Subcommandante, distraction. You’re the pied piper. Play a tune, and lead the dinosaur Nazis away from the gate.”

***

Hounddog rounded the corner. Tall and slender, he led the first squad up the road. His cement-mixer vomit cammo now had the abattoir variant applied. The rest were more or less liberally coated with blood.

“The British are coming!” I shouted.

Hounddog’s eyes about crossed. He was on the edge. Damn it, I shouldn’t need inter-dimensional dinosaur Nazis to wind up my lieutenant this much. I’m slipping.

“Fucking Mumbles, do you have any idea what happens when three hellfire missiles hit a huge fucking dinosaur?”

“Is there a priest or a midget in this joke?”

He ignored me. “It explodes. And all the insides become the outsides. Now my uniform is soaked in fucking Brontosaurus blood…”

“Apatosaurus,” I corrected.

“Fucking dinosaur Nazi blood, because I waded through a literal river of blood to get up to here. I puked up the best meal I’ve eaten in weeks. Division is going to be up my ass for the Humvees that got washed off the road in that river of blood, and they’re probably going to dock my pay for every single missile that fucking Goatlicker fired. He’s probably not getting me my beer. Thomas has a fucking spear through his arm, for Chrissakes! Somehow, Mumbles, you fucking caused for this, and I will see you hang.”

“Stop your bitching,” I said.

Hounddog leaned into his pointing finger. “It’s not bitching ‘cause I ain’t no one’s bitch. It ain’t griping ‘cause no one here’s my boss. And it ain’t complaining, ‘cause I don’t expect anyone will do anything about it. It’s a rant.”

I stared at him.

“What!” he demanded.

“I’m waiting for Yoda or Socrates to burst out of your chest or something.”

“Fuck you, Mumbles.”

***

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I followed the bloody path that Goatlicker and his wingman left us. And Jesus, it was oceans of bloody. I’ve seen more than one man bleed out, and that left a huge sticky red mess. You have no fucking idea how much blood is in a sixty-foot long brontosaurus.

“I’m no closer to my lifetime supply of beer, sergeant.”

“Those A-10s don’t have infinite ammo. They’re going to run out of bullets before they runout of dinosaurs.”

“Look on the bright side, Thomas. At least they’re not bulletproof.”

Doubting Thomas’ face screwed up as he tried to process good news. His system rejected the data, and he spat on the floor of the Humvee.

***

“Sir?” Dennison asked.

“What!”

“We’ve run out of dead dinosaurs.”

“Okay.”

“Meaning to say, sir, I see some live ones.”

I sat up straight, and set the map down. We were at the edge of the valley, and the ground was turning sharply up. The sandy soil of the valley bottom gave way to rockier ground, and ahead the dusty road twisted into a series of switchbacks as it reached up toward the ridgeline a thousand meters up. Crawling down the road was a menagerie of dinos and vintage warmongery. “A-10s still on station?”

“No sir, they were bingo fuel and went back to base for gas and gulp.” Damn, they were doing such a great job blowing shit.

“Well, it’s up to us, then. Light the fuckers up!”

“What with, sir?” Dennison clearly regretted that statement. Why do these people ask questions about every order?

“Whatever shoots, that far. We do have things that shoot far, don’t we?” I clearly remembered briefings on things that shot really far.

“Aah, TOW missile?”

“Then do that.” Fuck having to focusing on stupid shit when I should be like Mumbles and just give blowjobs for free shit. Damn, I want my free beer. I want pizza. Fuck that, the first thing after we blow these dinosaur Nazis, I will take a run for some Chinese food.

Two missiles leapt from the back of the Humvees, arched into the sky on pillars of smoke colored rose and black. They reached apogee and pitched down, reached for the brontosaurus Nazis. Imagine a poodle in a microwave, but seven orders of magnitude larger. Blood and gore filled the narrow mountain trail, creating a dam of just recently alive flesh. The German tanks stopped, unable to proceed.

“Machineguns!” I ordered. The M2 gunners opened up. Laser lines of tracers reached up the valley, laid low the German soldiers scrambling off the carcasses of the dinosaurs. Sparking off the armor of the tanks.

“Move out!” We raced up the valley wall, and hit the first switchback at speed, simultaneous with the first rounds from the bottlenecked Nazis.

I held on as the Humvee took the turn and the wheels spun. We were in the shadow of the mountain and the enormous dead brontosaurus as we raced up the road. “We’re not going to make it around the corpses. When we hit flesh, dismount.”

Dennison looked at me oddly, but nodded.

***

The dead brontosaurus was fucking enormous. And dead. Blood ran in streams down the dusty path, thick red with a light coating of yellow sand. Its long neck stretched up the hill to the right, its tail drooped off down to the left. The vast bulk of its fuselage blocked the road lengthwise. It was the size of a fucking house. A nice house.

I pointed at the head. “Dennison, flank the Nazis. Climb up on the head and lay down covering fire. Thomas, establish a base of fire on the tail. I will lead an assault up over the ass and mid-section.”

Okay, I thought, that didn’t sound as cool as it did in my head.

***

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I peered over a low rise of bare stone at the top of a low shoulder of the ridge that overlooked the fascist inter-dimensional gate. At least, I assumed it was an inter-dimensional gate. I mean, what the fuck else would it be?

The last of a company of Tiger II tanks squirted out of the glowing disk and motored off to join its comrades at the assembly point half a click down the hill. Even in the bright sunlight, the gate gave off an eldritch, cold blue glow. By rights, that light should be shining in a foglit, sunless night. But we make do with what we have, and that’s a glaring bright day in the mountains.

The surface of the disk wriggled disturbingly. Fifteen meters in diameter, it stretched wide enough to pass most any vehicle though the bigger apatasaurs had to duck to get through. On either side squatted a Frankenstein’s laboratory assortment of apparatus, casting off fat sparks and the occasional lightning bolt to the edge of the gate. Even from here, I could smell the ozone. Thick black cables snaked from the gate equipment to a antique-looking six-wheeled truck spewing diesel smoke.

I slid down and looked at my squad. “There’s no fucking way we’re taking out all the shit that’s already come across. Even vintage tanks are still fucking tanks. And dinosaurs are still fucking dinosaurs.”

“But! That gate looks like a huge sack of fail waiting for us to happen to it. We knock out that gate, and nothing else can get through. We save the world.”

They stared at me blankly. I took that for assent. “Right. Rockets on the gate, rockets on the generator truck. Covering fire on anything that returns fire. Once we have a confirmed kill on the gate, then we run the fuck away up the hill to the OP.”

“Good plan, Subcommandante.”

“Fuck!” I about leapt out of my skin when I heard the low voice behind me. I’m not superfly stealth superninja, but people generally do not sneak up on me like that. I turned, and behind me was a squat little tattooed motherfucker with a huge bushy beard and sunglasses. Dressed head to foot in expensive tactical fashions. A fucking tactical ZZ Top.

“Well, hey, Billy Gibbons.”

“Nice. One problem, though. You light up the gate mechanism, it goes off like a pony nuke. 1.5 Hiroshimas minimum, maybe more depending on the altitude on the other side. Do you think you’re outside the blast radius?”

“OK, pro tip. Good to know. Also good, in roughly descending order of my aching desire to know, would be how we blow the gate without blowing ourselves, how you know, and who the fuck you are.”

“Good questions. You can ask Chad about the last two. The first, well, that’s classified. I assume you know how to stop blowing yourselves.”

“Oh, Jesus H. Fuck. You’re going to pull that shit in the middle of a dinosaur Nazi invasion?”

“Calm the fuck down, Subcommandante. Shit, this ain’t new. Happens every few years. The worst was in 1958. Why do you think the French left NATO? Fucking embarrassment at failing to stop a Nazi invasion for the second time in two decades.”

***

Click here to get see all published episodes of the Saga of Subcommandante Mumbles.

The A-10s blew by the plodding dinosaurs, banked sharp to the right and circled around. The radio crackled to life.

“Hounddog Actual, this is Goatlicker. I have eighteen apatosaurs two kicks south of your position. Those your hostiles?”

I held my hand over the mike. “I thought you said they were Brontosauruses?” I asked the sergeant.

“Same thing.”

I lifted the mike. “Roger, Goatlicker.”

“Engaging targets.”

The A10s came in low and slow. Missiles rippled off the hardpoints along the stubby wings, leaving trails of smoke as the spiraled lazily toward the plodding dinosaurs. They were huge, just fucking huge. That tank driving along next to one had to be at least the size of a Stryker, but it looked like it could drive right under the lizard without even tickling its belly.

Twenty feet above the ground, tracer fire lanced up into the air from the backs of the dinosaurs. The Nazis had rigged them up with baskets like the Africans did with the elephants, and made little pillboxes out of them with guns pointing out in all directions.

“The howdas have machineguns. Hannibal would have liked that,” Doubting Thomas said.

The machinegun fire did nothing to stop the incoming missiles. Navy CIRS could do that, but no human was accurate enough or fast enough to take out a missile in flight.

One of the missiles exploded mid-flight. Okay, normally not accurate or fast enough, I corrected myself. The missiles hit the dinos broadside. I watched as the missile plunged into the side of the brontosaurus like an enormous tranq dart. It disappeared, and a fraction of a second later detonated. The side of the dino bulged, and then burst, showering the tanks with tons of blood and steak tartar.

Four more hellfire missiles did for four more brontosauruses. Hard on the heels of the missiles, the A-10s roared in. Smoke poured from the nose of the planes as Goatlicker and his wingman unloaded thousands of rounds of 30 mm Uranium. Goatlicker walked his rounds up the road, stitching a line right across the tanks, which aggreeably enough exloded in a cloud of black smoke. Then right into lizards.

I couldn’t hear anything, but the dinos writhed in pain. Their long necks twisted back, and their legs buckled as they died. Men fell from the baskets and were crushed by the falling dinosaurs. The planes pulled up, turned to make another pass. The radio spoke, “Hounddog, Goatlicker. Lieutenant, I owe you a fucking lifetime supply of Heineken. All my life I dreamed of doing that.”

“We aim to please.”

“Do you have any goblins or dragons?” Goatlicker asked.

“Sorry, just dinosaur Nazis.” Jesus, some people are hard to please, I thought.

“Shame. I’ll just have to kill these some more.”

***

“We need to find where these things are coming from!” I said.

Doubting Thomas looked up the valley. “Well, follow the trail of dead dinosaurs, sir. That nice Goatlicker fellow seemed pretty enthusiastic and on task.”

“Good plan, sergeant. And I need to claim my lifetime supply of beer.”

***

Click here to get see all published episodes of the Saga of Subcommandante Mumbles.

“Fuck!” Recoil drove the weapon hard up and to the left. Those tiny little arms myst be stronger than they look; that little popgun has a wicked kick to it, I thought. I dropped my arm, let the machine pistol swing. OK, my awesome attack from behind Rambo tactics worked awesomely. With Idaho and Cherry down, we’re minus one effective.

“Arechiga, get eyes on the trail. Richardson, start looking down in the valley, the fuckers must have come from somewhere. In the movies, there’s always a shiny glowing gate or some shit that the monsters come through. Find it. The rest of you, pretend like you’re in the Army.”

I walked over to the dead dinosaur Nazis. Ramirez was going at his task with a will, sorting through the dead fascist lizards’ belongings with the cool unconcern of a veteran butcher. Or, the blank incomprehension of a low-grade moron. One of the two.

Buckshot was being more diffident. I came up behind him, “Dead lizards don’t bite,” I whispered. Half of Buckshot jumped three feet in the air, startled beyond all measure. The other half, aware that his beloved sergeant was in the AO, didn’t. The result was amusing beyond all measure.

God, I love my job.

Ramirez had made a pile of loot. Aside from the military gear – ammo pouches and random kit there were some wallets and personal items. I picked up a wallet and opened it. The main pocket had some money; I pulled it out and saw ones, fives, a ten. They all said “Reichsmark” and had pictures, clumsily printed in reddish-orange and kind of blurry. The fivers had Hitler. Wasn’t sure, but the ones maybe had fat Goering. There was a dinosaur with a fritz helmet on the ten.

The wallet had some ID cards, random shit. And a black and white photo of what I presumed to be a girl dinosaur with a scarf in front of a big building with a volcano in the background, with palm trees. Good Christ, Helga Velociraptor on the homefront. This isn’t helping, I realized. I stuffed the wallet in my pocket.

“Ramirez, where’s the Leutnant’s shit?”

Ramirez pointed to another pile. On top was a leather satchel. I opened that, saw maps and dispatches. The dispatches looked like they were typed with a drunk typewriter, the lines of text wiggled up and down across the page. I stuffed them back in and slung the satchel over my shoulder. Someone would want to see that.

***

“Subcommandante?” Richardson asked.

“What!”

“I found a big shiny thing,” the private said.

“All is proceeding as I have foreseen.” My men looked at me with new-found awe. I walked over and grabbed the scope from Richardson. He pointed down valley, north and maybe 200 m below our level.

And, yes, there it was. A big shiny, sparkly round thing shitting out dinosaurs and Wehrmacht hardware like an assistent crack addict cranking out babies hoping for the welfare moneyz.

“Peters! You play with models and faggoty shit. Tell me what this is.”

Peters trained his eyes through the scope. “Looks like Panzer IVs lining up below the shiny thingy. Aah, further down there’s some Panzerkampfwagen VIB’s… Sweet, Tiger II’s! Those were the best tanks of the war! There’s some FlaK auf Fahrgestell Panzerkampfwagens, and some Sonderkraftfahrzeug 250’s… Holy shit, they’ve got a Landkreuzer P.1000! They never built any of those…

I smacked him in the head. “Translate, nerd!”

“Sorry, sergeant. They’ve got a few dozen tanks, mostly Panzer IVs, good tanks; and a sprinkling of Tiger IIs, arguably the best tank of the war. They’ve got some tracked anti-air, some half tracks for infantry, and some VW jeeps. Not a whole lot yet, but…”

I nodded and waved him silent. Not much now, but the longer the gate is open, the more comes through. Pretty standard, really.

“Gather round!” I ordered. My squad shuffled forward. “The dinosaur Nazi menace is coming through a gate, which Richardson here has helpfully located.”

“I have a plan.”

***

Click here to get see all published episodes of the Saga of Subcommandante Mumbles.