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Chapter Five of a Furry Speculative Fiction Novel that takes place in a hypothetical universe where Germany won World War One. Despite Konrad's efforts, not only has William left their mateship, but another World War looms on the stormy horizon ...

_ Ein Wolf in der Falz _

_ Chapter V - For King and Country _

July 26th, 1935

Guadalajara, Spain

Hauptmann Konrad Wagner rotated the Gundlach periscope, studying the arid landscape spread out before him. His production prototype kampfwagen idled hull down in small gully, almost invisible. As the hot sun beat down on the scraggy bushes and bone dry hills, the glimpse of a long dust trail in the distance shimmered through the heat waifing up from the parched ground. A small trickle of sweat dripped down the black wolf's head, but he was too busy trying to make out the lead vehicles kicking up most of the dust in the Republic convoy passing by to wipe it away.

"What you see, Captain?" His loader whispered up to him below the cramp turret of their command vehicle. His large jackal ears perked with nosy interest. A burly bear sitting next to Konrad pushed the inquisitive jackal's muzzle back down with the heel of his jackboot.

"Deutsch sprechen verdammt!" the bear grumbled out, thick claws tightening around the turret controls. His thumb claw brushed against the fire button in barely restrained anticipation. Konrad was too busy squinting through the magnified viewfinder to admonish his green crew. Few of the new recruits had seen major combat action; most of them recruited far from Serbia. The wolf didn't know how he felt about the temporary assignment as trainer, but he was not one to question his orders lightly.

While Konrad continued to speak German, he knew Oskar spoke a little English as well. He wondered why his loader sometimes did that. Was it to get his undivided attention? He didn't want to confuse the crew by breaking into English, but his thoughts came through in both just the same.

"I see an armored column escorting a supply convoy." Konrad finally rumbled out, leaning back to wipe away the sweat settling into his yellow eyes. "Twenty supply trucks in standard two by ten formation. Four BT-26's flank them near the front, two to a side."

The gunner and loader looked at their company commander with a nervous look. The four soviet light infantry battle wagons were juggernauts compared to their eight lightly gunned cavalry battle wagons. With 15mm steel plate armor and a 45mm anti-armor gun, a frontal assault against the convoy would be suicide. Even so Konrad picked up the radio transmitter off its hook next to him and barked out orders after relaying the opposition's strength, speed, and direction.

"First Squad, follow my lead and cut across the front of the convoy. Flank them on the east side, where we will draw the escort's fire. Do not engage the escorts with cannons until I give the signal. Second Squad, proceed between up the middle of the convoy, firing at will. Retreat to high ground if the escorts notice you. Commander out."

The wolf hung up the muzzle piece after Second Squad acknowledged their orders. As he settled deeper into his seat, the back of his sweat stained uniform squished against the cushion in the sweltering, stuffy heat of the turret. He nodded to his gunner and opened the forward view port before his black paws grabbed a hold of the steel handles hanging down from above.

"Driver, forward! Full speed!" Konrad shouted into a speaking tube in front of him. The steady knock of the idling diesel engine behind them clattered to life, a dark billow of smoke pouring from out of the battle wagon's exhaust pipe. With a soft grind of gears from the Hopkins AK 7-200 transmission, the combat vehicle lurched forward, its off road caterpillar track spewing out dirt from underneath the six ton chassis.

A 150 hp Steyr turbo-diesel engine shot Konrad's battle wagon, and the three others following close behind, up and out of the gully so fast that Konrad's vehicle's treads momentarily left the dusty ground. They landed not so much with a jar than a deep sag thanks to their innovative hybrid torsion suspension. Konrad, used to the small jumps and sags, just held on to the handles above the commander's seat and leaned with the rapid pitch and yaw.

The limited sight out the front view port alternated between blue cloudless horizon and brown, sandy dirt. Somewhere in between the dust cloud from the armored convoy grew larger as First Squad raced past the convoy's western flank at well over 75 kph. Despite the roar of their engines, the cloud of dust kicked up from the BT-26's in front blinded the rest of the unarmed convoy behind. The Republic dogs never saw the attack coming.

"Driver, 45 degrees right!" Konrad barked into the tube, and their battle wagon cut across the front of the first BT-26. The bear sitting next to him swung the turret around and fired off a burst from his dual MG-13's. Sparks bounced off the thick armor as the 7.92 x 57mm rounds did little more than chip the paint off their pissed off opponent. The bear hadn't even fired a shot with the wagon's main 20mm anti-armor cannon.

Just as Konrad had ordered.

The wolf's brazen, almost reckless slap in the muzzle drew the attention of the first escort, which tried to track the speeding wagon cutting across its line of fire with its main gun. It's ponderous swivel couldn't keep up with the faster target, and the gunner's round plowed into the dirt far behind Konrad's vehicle. On orders from the T-26's commander, the driver gave chase, only to have the second wagon in First Squad cut him off. The Republic driver slammed on the brakes in confusion, bringing the entire left side of the convoy to a grinding halt.

Two more wagons roared past. Two more ineffectual booms roared out across the arid battlefield. Two more smoking shrapnel filled craters smoldered into the ground, but still no hits. Without radios, the two BT-26 commanders on the left side of the convoy formation couldn't relay they were under attack, and with a jumble of trucks now blocking their way, Konrad's maneuver effectively split the Republic convoy's Soviet escort force in half.

The two Soviet BT-26's on the right guard heard the cannon fire and their gunners swung their turrets around only to be blinded by a dust storm kicked up by four German Cougar II's roaring past. First Squad made a tight circle of the convoy, their stormy wake creating cover for Second Squad to begin their charge up the middle while Konrad's Squad engaged the two remaining escorts. Konrad leaned in to the tight turn his driver made, his wagon's treads spewing out dirt like the teeth of a chainsaw as the AFV almost power slid to face the enemy. The wolf grabbed the radio and barked into it.

"Wagons Three and Four, engage target left. Two, follow my lead."_Konrad leaned forward to peer into the periscope, one paw on the transmitter piece, the other tight on the handle above. He shouted into the tube just in front of his muzzle. "_Driver, sixty right, half speed!"

The vehicle crawled forward through the cloud of earth with the distinctive rolling chatter of continuous track. Dust drifted in through the opened view port to settle on top of the anxious jackal loader, ready to replace a 20mm shell as the gunner needed. Konrad's muzzle lips tightened as he looked for the shadows of the BT's lurking in the dust cloud, his grit and sweat matted brow pressed hard against the view finder. The ghostly outline of one rolled out of the gritty haze.

"Bosch! Ten O'clock! Fifty meters!" Konrad barked out, and the bear rotated the turret left twenty degrees, lining up his sights.

"FIRE!" The war wagon rocked with the boom and recoil of its 2cm KwK 30, and the round slammed into the BT-26 front armor with a loud 'ding'. Konrad didn't waste any time assessing the battle damage. "Driver, full speed, thirty right!"

Konrad's battle wagon sped off just as the BT-26 sent a round whizzing past the spot where he had just been. Wagon Two of First Squad sped by on it's left flank, sending another 20mm round slamming into its thinner side armor, but the BT-26's hulk continued to swivel and come after them. The jackal had to stand up and push his wolven commander out of the way just to dump the smoking 20mm casing from the firing chamber. Before the casing could hit the bottom of the hull with a dull ring, the jackal had another round re-chambered. Konrad weighed his options heavily as he spun the periscope to keep track of the battle chaos erupting around them.

"Wagon Two. Draw fire." Autofire sparked off the BT-26 from Wagon Two, the Soviet's treads slowing as its main battle gun started swinging its way over to its attacker. "Driver, One eighty. All stop." Konrad leaned as his AFV swiveled, his fangs tight against his muzzle lips as he frantically spun his view finder back around. "Bosch, can you hit their track from here?" The bear's claws flexed on the turret controls as he engaged its gyroscope, left thumb claw flicking twice on the magnifier sights. His huge brown eyes narrowed in concentration as he lined up the cross hairs on the weakest part of the BT-26.

"Ihre Befehl, Hauptmann."

"FIRE!"

The BT-26's cannon had just leveled at Wagon Two when its left treads blew apart. Wagon Two sped off right before a 45mm round could blow its turret clean off. Konrad had his driver leave the disabled enemy behind rather than finish him off. While immobile, it wasn't toothless. The wolven commander spun the periscope three-sixty trying to assess the situation through the thinning dust. He couldn't see any of his vehicles, and that made him nervous.

"SecondSquad, Report!"

"Twelve confirmed kills on the convoy. The three remaining escorts are giving chase, but we are taking to the high ground as ordered." Konrad gave out a relieved sigh. Three fourths of the convoy down, and their was no way a BT-26 could catch a Cougar on hilly terrain. "FirstSquad, report in."

"Wagon Two reporting in."

"Wagon Three Reporting in. Wagon Four disabled by enemy fire." Konrad's muzzle lips tightened at the loss of one of his wagons. He hated causalities, but the convoy was carrying supplies and munitions to combat the Nationalist's front at Guadalajara. He couldn't just let the convoy through without taking a shot at it.

"Pick up the remaining crew and destroy whats left of Wagon Four. Disengage from the battlefield." Konrad leaned back into his sticky, dirt dusted seat as what remained of Squad One disengaged from battle and sped off across the arid plateau. His thoughts weighed heavily on him. Had the price of his men's blood and company's armor been worth the ideals of anarchists and pompous Spanish Generals?

Behind them, a light breeze blew away most of the lingering dust. Smoldering hulks of supply trucks burned under the relentless sun, their escorts rounding up the remaining stranglers and continuing their trek northeast past the mountains. The gentle rolls of the plateau made Konrad's land ship bob gently, the hypnotic motion lulling the adrenaline worn crew to an uneasy rest. Konrad pulled out a map of the region and started charting a possible rendezvous point with Squad Two when his gunner nudged him.

Hauptmann, contacts on the horizon. Approaching ground vehicles. Bosch yelled over the growl of their engine, and pointed through the opened view port to a small dust trail heading their way in the far distance.

"Captain, are they ours?" Oskar poked his narrow jackal head up into the turret again, only have the heel of Bosch's jackboot push his forehead back down.

"No. Not according to our field orders anyway." Konrad tapped the map in unease before turning to the radio and alerting First Squad about the situation. He spun a few dials on the frequency changer before radioing in a report to HQ. They only confirmed the ominous: Reconnaissance dirigibles reported no Nationalist forces in the area. The black wolf chewed his muzzle lip before barking into the driver's tube. "Driver, pull off into the closest washout."

The vehicle swiveled and drove down into a small dried up creek bed, the two other remaining wagons of First Squad following suit. Konrad knew if his gunner had spotted them, then whoever approached had probably seen their own dust trail as well. The top hatch of the turret opened up and Konrad's upper body poked out, bringing a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. Bosch's hatch popped open as well, and the burly ursine had issues squeezing his thick arms past the narrow ring. His huge brown eyes narrowed at the dust trail still approaching, but at least they hadn't changed course to make a direct intercept at their column.

Konrad frowned as he looked at the armored column making their way past them. He spied a good fifteen vehicles, but he didn't recognize their low set hulls, narrow treads, and turret less designs. The black wolf strained to make out any military markings on their flat welded hulls and bolted plate steel armor. Even by war wagon standards, these were small, and yet they seemed to be on a direct intercept course with the Republic convoy.

"Republic Reinforcements, or?" Bosch questioned, thinking the same thing as his commander.

"I don't know." Konrad trailed off. "But those vehicles are packing 8mm machine guns. Hardly a threat to a BT, unless ..." Almost at the same time their acute ears perked up to the distant drone of airborne, high speed engines. Konrad's yellow eyes widened up at the small black dots approaching in the cloudless sky. They looked like little more than gnats. He turned in horror to Wagon Three with the remnants of Wagon Four's crew clinging to the top of the armored vehicle. He screamed out, but it was already too late. "Take coverrr!"

The first gnat, growing to the size of a huge bird in the blink of an eye, buzzed over top of them. A thin whistle dropped out of the sky, and those still clinging to Wagon Three jumped away from the huge camouflaged target. After a terrible roar and a bright flash, the explosion knocked Konrad and Bosch back, hard enough to rattle their bones. Shrapnel peppered the bear, turning the ursine's uniform into a ragged, bloody mess. Bosch's limp body sagged, his lifeless brown eyes staring up at the steel birds that zipped past. A dazed Konrad looked back to where Wagon Three had been, light grit falling out of the sky above.

Now only a smoldering crater of mangled steel and scorched bones remained.

Two more angry steel birds buzzed over head, and Konrad half dropped, half fell down into the turret, almost crushing Oskar underneath him. The last thing Konrad saw right before his kampfwagen shuddered violently was the terrified look of the raw recruit.

And then all was black ...

July 28th, 1935

Madrid, Spain

William Hopkins looked over his newspaper and past his vino tinto to the crowded patio around him. He really didn't know what to order for lunch off the open air restaurant's menu, but the fresh air and festive local music played in the background put him in an easy going, relaxed mood. Despite the civil war, the people around him seemed unconcerned, driving right in to the baskets of tortillas and tapas dropped off fresh and sizzling right to their tables by the energetic wait staff.

The coyote glanced halfheartedly at the Trolex on his wrist before taping the Swiss knock off against his table. One of the alley vendors had fleeced him on the way here, but considering how many bombed out blocks he had passed to make it here, he guessed the Spaniards here were doing whatever it took to put food on their tables. Even with the siege against the capital, the violent clashes between loyalists and rebels spilling into the streets, and the clandestine paseos breaking out across the Spanish countryside, Madrid seemed safe. At least for now.

While the Republic forces pushed back the Nationalists to Guadalajara, many foreign analysts found it hard to believe the secular, liberal government could remain in power much longer. One such war reporter offered to treat the coyote to lunch in exchange for his views on the matter, and while William was not much for politics, High Command wanted him to be present for a high profile meeting on the performance on his latest kampfwagen design. Since he was going to be in the country anyway, he didn't see any harm in granting a brief interview.

As long as the reporter didn't ask any questions about the Serbian processing camps in Subocita, that is.

William flipped through the small menu again, squinting at the words. His Spanish was more than rusty. It was a good thing the correspondent spoke English. The writer was American. Even though the international community lifted the quarantine of North America back in 1925, the fear of another Kansas outbreak lingered in the minds of most Europeans. A shadow fell across the well dressed coyote's muzzle, and William blinked up to the dark outline of a large house cat cast against the high noon sun.

"William Hopkins?" the feline asked, setting his straw hat down on the patio table.

"Mr. Hemingway I presume?" the yote grinned before getting out of his metal chair and offering a paw. The smiling domestic feline took it, and for a moment William felt surprised to feel a sixth digit on the paw. William then realized Hemingway was polydactyl; not an uncommon mutation for his breed. The coyote found a mild revulsion nagging him, wondering if the feline was inbred. Would he had been as put off if he had stayed in America?

The writer seemed jovial enough; six foot tall with a stocky build. He had an oval face framed with a black pair of Windsor style eye glasses. His ocher colored kahis gave him a more rugged, outdoors look than William expected a writer to sport.

"Its good to see another American in Europe." Hemingway continued to beam, the black patch of fur under his nose winked like a mustache. "For a while I thought we were a lost generation." He sat down just as a waiter came by, and the cat ordered a pitcher of Sangria.

"I was just eighteen living in Liverpool when Kansas broke out." William forged a weak smile. "So for better or worse, I missed out."

"Well you didn't miss much, I'll tell ya. We were too busy defending the Rio to notice how many from Fort Ripley had dropped. It got so bad some days we couldn't tell if the Mexicans across the trenches were dead or taking extended siestas." The cat rubbed his chin in reminiscence and for a moment looked tired. William noticed one of Hemingway's six digits on his left paw was missing. "Beautiful country out there, though."

"Yeah?" The coyote asked, ears perking. As a kid he had never been out from the East Coast. He had always romanticized about the Old West and the rugged wilderness of the untamed Northwest Territories, mostly from reading such authors as Karl May and Zane Grey.

"Without a doubt." Hemingway shook his head, his slitted eyes partially closed, as if remembering. "When the sun set against the bare rock hills and gullies of the Southwest well ... it liked like God himself had painted everything with a fresh coat of brick red." His head turned a bit as if thinking, and his grin widened.

"Here." Hemingway fished out a paperback from one of his over sized khaki pockets. "I think you might enjoy this." He slid the book across the table over to the curious coyote. William squinted at its cover and read its title out loud.

"Red in the Rio?" William asked, running a paw over the worn cover.

"Not the best title, agreed." Hemingway's huge shoulders gave a slight shrug. "But my publisher thought it might attract a younger audience. I don't think its ever been published overseas. I want you to have it." The waiter returned with the Sangria and Hemingway poured himself a glass, the thirsty feline downing it quickly.

"Really?" William's ears perked up, his tail swishing a little. How did the feline know he this was his favorite type of novel? A sudden wave of Drake-like deja vu swept over him. His paw turned the first few pages, already lost again in the fantasized rugged American frontier.

"Have any problems getting here?" Hemingway asked after a while, and only then did William realize he had been reading for a good two minutes. The coyote looked up with a overmodest grin and put the book away.

"I had issues getting a taxi with all the craters."

"Yes, General Miaja is doing his best. Some would say not enough." Hemingway's smile flattened, his slitted eyes narrowing without realizing it. "But no ... I mean did the Geheimes Polizeiamt try to stop you from meeting with me? With the media crackdown in Berlin and Vienna, I wasn't sure if they would have allowed this stop in Madrid."

"I don't think the Secret Police are too concerned with American journalism. You don't seem like a muckraker to me."

"No, I don't suppose I do." His smile came back, his white tail giving a slow feline twirl past the back of his chair. "But I did write some articles about the Santa Fe Railroad's involvement in the Second Spanish-American War for the Galveston County Daily. Seems they were rather keen to 'forcible acquisition' of disputed No Man's Land. The US marshals didn't seem to have an issue with it. It put a lot of survivors back to work, and put a lot of money in Santa Fe's pocket books." William just nodded.

"Right before the Great War, my Uncle went bankrupt because of the Steel Barons." The coyote leaned back in his chair. "Free markets are a haven for corruption and personal excess. It's like moral and financial anarchy."

"Exactly!" One of Hemingway's index paw tips jabbed the air with animated excitement. The cat leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in contemplation. "You know we have a lot in common." He gave a long pause. "When was the last time you were out on the sea?"

William blinked.

"Way ... too long?" The coyote's tail swished as he thought of of the crisp scent of tangy salt air and shirtless seamen. Again, the feline seemed to know just how to pander to memories of his youth.

"Tell you what. Why don't I take you marlin fishing aboard the Pilar the next time I head to Havana. My treat."

"Well ... I don't know." William stumbled over himself. "There is a lot of work High Command wants me to finish before the Nationals make their next push from Sevilla."

"And when is that?" Hemingway's tail did a small flip.

"August. September at the latest if supply ships sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar continue to be harassed by Soviet U-boats." Hemingway seemed to think it over carefully.

"We'll, I can't push it off farther than October. Fishing is hell in the Caribbean in early November. But the offer still stands." William nodded.

"It's settled then. I'll take a vacation." The coyote seemed excited for the first time in several years. He smiled and shook paws with the cat before Hemingway glanced at his own watch. It took a little bit longer for the big feline to get up, his right leg stiff from a Mexican bullet he took twenty years ago.

"Well, I have an important NANA meeting I have to run off to, but do you mind if I stay in touch?"

"Not at all!" William grinned, paw tips feeling their way over the cracked paperback in anticipation. Hemingway picked up his straw hat and headed off after a graceful nod. Within moments the big feline disappeared into the bustling crowds milling through the busy streets. William spent the rest of the afternoon absorbed in the novel, enjoying the open air and feel of the capitol. Later that night an odd thought plagued him.

Hemingway really hadn't asked him anything about the war.

August 8th, 1935

Pamplona, Spain

William gave a half hearted glance to the black wolf sitting left of him at the meeting table. The coyote reached for the pitcher of ice water sitting in front of him and poured himself a glass. The beads of water condensing on the outside of the glass pitcher felt good against his sweaty paw pads. William couldn't blame his dry muzzle lips on just the heat, but the cold slosh in his churning stomach still felt good. A ceiling fan swished above them, stirring the stuffy, humid air of the military room, but succeeding at little else.

Konrad didn't even bother to acknowledge the uncomfortable coyote shifting about his chair. For the first time he thanked the thick pad of gauze taped over his right eye. He'd be tempted to look over otherwise. His claws idled along the cushioned arm rest of his posh office chair. While perspiration still dampened his black military dress and beaded on the medals and insignias Konrad had earned through his various campaigns, this was Paradise compared to the Purgatory of battle.

Small colored blocks and pins adorned the war map behind them. Splotches of Red covered a great deal more of Spain than either of them would have liked. Thanks to Soviet intervention, Communism threatened to overtake Spain despite an early stalemate.

The main door leading into the debriefing room opened, and three officers stepped through. William gave a dry swallow as he recognized the officer leading the three in as Oberstleutnant Gottschalk, Konrad's commanding officer. Konrad stood up and saluted, knocking the heels of his jackboots together. William felt silly just standing, but no one would mistake him for a military man. His mind translated the complex German engagement.

"Hauptmann Konrad Wagner, at ease." The Sheppard hound nodded before introducing the two standing next to him. "This is Major Thoma and Oberst Guderian. They've come for your personal assessment of Project BlitzKampf so far."

"I've already submitted my report." Konrad remained stiff and at half attention despite holding his officer's hat at at his side. His good eye didn't seem to focus on any one thing in the room. William noted how distant his ex-lover seemed, even in the face of his superiors.

"And we've read it," Oberst Guderia nodded, and the Rottweiler Metzgerhund dropped a manila folder onto the meeting room table with a flat whoosh, "While the tactical analysis of our kampfwagens is insightful, we are here for more personal and less ..." there was a slight pause "...whitewashed assessment."

Konrad seemed to stiffen, the seams of his tightly pressed military dress all but disappearing.

"The Cougar II performs as well as expected given its design limitations." The black wolf continued to stare straight ahead, but his muzzle lips grew tight against his fangs. William flinched at the subtle insult to his battle tested design.

"Explain, Hauptmann." Major Thoma folded his paws behind his back.

"Permission to speak candidly, Sir."

"Granted."

"The soviet war wagons are twice as heavy, twice as armored, and have twice the firepower. Our designs cant repel firepower of that magnitude."

"Nor were they meant to." William suddenly blurted out, stepping forward out of turn. Only then did Konrad turn his sore neck to stare at his old mate, trying hard to not growl. "With all due respect, High Command's budget for the project only increased five years ago. The initial contract drafted ten years ago did not call for direct front line combat. Before the Reichstag Bombing, we produced less than fifty production prototypes per year."

"You can blame social democracy for that bureaucratic failure." Major Roma sneered. "Now that High Command has direct control of the Federation's economy, we can appropriate any means we deem necessary for the defense of our people. We tripled appropriations at Mr. Skeffington personal request. We are not interested in excuses, Mr. Hopkins, only results."

William shrank back at that. His former boss, Walter Christie, would have know just what to say to put the overstuffed waracrat in his place. Walter had a more barbarous tact than he, an engineer, could ever hope for. The coyote instead resigned himself to silence.

"Please Hauptmann Wagner," the Rottweiler colonel offered,"Continue." Konrad's muzzle lips tightened against his fangs for what he was about to say_._

"Project BlitzKamp is a failure." Konrad found the words hard.The three superior officers looked at each other before Major Thoma titled his head to the wolf.

"How so?" The ferret asked.

"Our kampfwagens are easy targets for close air and infantry support. My last engagement is proof of that." Konrad's left eye narrowed, the gauze pad covering the right bunched up. "My kampfwagen company never capitalized on any gains against the Republic's supply lines because infantry reinforcements couldn't keep up with our pushes. A single one hundred kilogram bomb will cut through our armor even ten meters away from ground zero, and we have no anti-air weapons that elevate past thirty degrees."

"What do you propose, Hauptmann?" Major Thoma rubbed his chin after contemplating the wolf's bleak assessment.

"Our own air forces should sweep any enemy interceptors and and then bomb fortifications during a simultaneous ground assault. Some of our kampfwagens should carry only infantry. Once a kampfwagen division establishes a break in the enemy's flanks, the ground troops disembark from the rear of the kampfwagen through a ramp. There they hold that break, allowing additional reinforcements to route through it as needed. This forces the enemy to either pull forces from their own front, or they risk us pinching off their logistics."

Konrad took a deep breath before exhaling, the few wrinkles of his military dress reappearing. He wasn't used to telling the upper brass how to wage their war. Oberst Guderian seemed to rub the fur of his jowls in thought.

"A very conservative strategy." The rottweiler's piercing eyes seemed to crawl over Konrad's expression."I think its too defensive for an offensive measure."

"Yes Sir. It is." Konrad admitted."But offensive pushes are at an extreme disadvantage in rough terrain, which is what our kampfwagens were designed for. And if it is a rapid front line assault you are interested in, consider building a kampfwagen-jager. An artillery piece mounted on a turretless tracked chassis. If camouflaged correctly in an earthen fortification, a BT assault will never get the first shot off. After the enemy's heavy armor has been nullified, our Cougars can capitalize and sweep in following the same method I just outlined."

Oberst Guderian seemed to take a moment to mull over the strategy, assessing its strengths and weaknesses. Konrad hated it when his superiors put him on the spot like this, but thankfully, it didn't happen often. The thoughtful silence from the colonel eased Konrad's mind a bit, and for the first time he took stock of the two commanders.

Thoma seemed the more restrained of the pair, and the ferret's thin build was at odds with the hawkish look in his beady eyes. Konrad knew the posture of a practical commander; one who had seen front line action and who received a more than a few wounds to give testimony to those medals and rank insignia pinned to his lapel.

Guderian on the other paw seemed to have a headstrong streak, and Konrad could almost see the gears turning in his mind. The wolf pegged the rottweiler for a military theorist. After a while it dawned on Konrad why High Command would send Thoma and Guderian here to pick through his tactical assessment of William's latest design.

"Have you read 'Der Kampfwagen und Abwehr dagegen'?" Guderian finally spoke, folding his arms across his chest.

"No Sir, I'm afraid I haven't." Konrad admitted. His sweat broke out cold now, washing down his spine. He knew he had no formal training in strategic warfare. He owed the limited success of the last operation to the insurgents of the Serbian occupation. They had taught him first paw how to confuse and cull the weak from an escorted convoy.

"My instructor at the Dresden Officer school, Ernst Volckheim, came to many of the same conclusions." the rottweiler gave a look of approval over to the black wolf. "Major Thoma will be in charge of testing these proposed tactics and strategies, so I am moving your company over to his direct command." Konrad blinked.

"Thank you, Sir!" The black wolf clicked his heels together again and stood straighter, a little surprised that a colonel would even care what a captain even had to say. Major Thoma tapped the manila folder on the table.

"In response to your assessment of the Cougar II, we will increase the thickness of the armor in all future production variants. From now on the Bundesheer will address our mechanized cavalry as panzer kampfwagens." The thin weasel's eyes narrowed to the coyote who felt peripheral to the course of this meeting. "Mr. Hopkins. You will work closely with Hauptmann Wagner and make sure that his design changes are implemented as soon as possible."

"This meeting is otherwise adjourned." Guderian nodded to the the two behind the table and left immediately with Thoma in tow.

As soon as the meeting room's door clicked shut, Oberstleutnant Gottschalk stepped forward to scoop up the folder. He glanced between the wolf and the coyote for a moment, but refused to say anything. A tense silence ensued. During an routine inspection of Konrad's quarters, the Sheppard dog noticed that Konrad no longer kept any picture of the coyote among his personal affects. In fact, the only non-military item he uncovered was an old letter addressed from the American, sent from Novi Sad. Gottschalk didn't have to read it.

Konrad's salty tears had long since dried from the yellowed envelope, but their lighter colored stains were unmistakable.

"Hauptmann Wagner, will there be any ... issues ... working with Mr. Hopkins on this close assignment?" Gottschalk watched the wolf's expression. The unfocused look never faltered.

"Nein."

"Very well Hauptmann, carry on."

Gottschalk spun and left, marginally satisfied that Konrad would not be swayed by previous reflections. The door closed with a solid click, the constant whoosh of the ceiling fan above them the only sound filling the empty war room. William turned to Konrad, expecting the wolf to at least address him. The onyx statue never moved, its emotionless facade as hard as the stone it impersonated.

"How could you pick apart my work like that, Konrad?" the coyote whined "I've worked on this project for almost ten years. Every ... minor ... variant, I oversaw for yo ..."

Konrad snarled and spun before grabbing two paws full of William's suit. As the black wolf picked up and smashed the smaller canid into the war map, small blue blocks and stuck pins fell off to clatter on the recently re-varnished wooden floor. According to the new strategic map, The Spanish Civil War had just tipped in great favor to the Republic forces.

"You sniveling little bitch!" Konrad snarled into the muzzle of his ex-lover, slamming the coyote back hard into the wall again, enough to make William's black tipped ears ring. "You made the armor too thin, dammit!" He screamed profanities in English, hoping Gottschalk wasn't listening in with his Norwegian aide, Putzkammer.

"I ... I ... " William stammered, remembering what happened the last time he made Konrad loose his temper. His hind paws kicked about empty air, scrambling for footing.

"A quarter of my company is DEAD. Do you know that?" A bit of spittle flew from Konrad's growling muzzle to go splat across the top of William's snout. It lingered there before slowly dropping to the floor like a runny egg. Konrad continued to go on, livid, and tore off the pad of gauze covering his right eye. The iris and pupil, once a stark contrast of yellow and black, had turned a milky white. "I'm blind in this eye because of your cowardly American way of thinking. You made the Cougar fast so it could run away. Just like YOU did to Berlin.

"You cant engineer perfection without some sacrifice, Konrad!" The coyote's paws clenched around the wolf's wrists, but he was as helpless as he had been in Belgrade ten years ago. "Too much armor would weigh down the kampfwagens and slow them down. You told me to keep the design simple so it would be easier to perform field repairs. The entire engine housing is modular. It can be swapped out in half an hour with the proper cranes and just three men. What MORE did you want?"

"My men paid YOUR sacrifice with THEIR blood you bastard. Give me something that can keep up with the Soviets!"

"First it was the Serbs. Now its the Spanish Republic. Soon it will be the Reds. When are you going to stop fighting, Wolf-chen?"

"I fight to keep you safe. The defenseless flock of the Federation! When will you see that?" Konrad growled, clinging to his only purpose in life now that his mate had left him.

William looked down at the fisted paws pinning him to the war at his backside.

"Who is going to keep me safe ... from you?"

Konrad's good eye widened from the narrow, furious gleam. The words of a younger, more humane Oberfeldwebel whispered to him from out of the past. "But Mien Hauptmann? If the wolves are constantly watching each other, who watches the sheep? What happens if a Wolf gets in the Fold?" The biceps in the wolf's arms slowly relaxed, and the coyote's feet touched down on the varnished floor.

"I don't see you." Konrad whispered, his yellow eye focusing on William.

The captain left the briefing room, leaving the engineer to pick up the pieces at his hind feet. The coyote knelt on the floor and began scooping what remained of the represented Nationalist forces up to his chest. He stopped halfway through when he remember what Konrad had muttered while picking up the pieces to a dropped ceramic bowl at their apartment back in Vienna. Back when they were just twenty years old, and still in love. Drake had just made an offer that William felt Konrad could not turn down.

An offer to join the military.

"Its a mess." The coyote whispered, tears misting in his green eyes. "I understand now ..."

Oviedo, Spain

August 15th, 1935

Konrad sat at the bar and studied his pale ale before taking another half hearted swig. It promoted a large slap on the back from the red deer sitting next to him. The black wolf almost choked before setting the glass down, giving the stag a mean gleam with his white eye. The other patrons in the Spanish bar gave the two a sideways glance, wondering if a fight would break out between the two military men.

"Dun go looking at me like dat Paddy. Dun you like the taste? I brought it all the way from Cork." His old friend Miles grinned, his flat white teeth forming a goofy look against his black cervine lips. Konrad turned back to his drink.

"Sod off Miles." The German wolf felt strange for using British slang again. It had been what, twenty years since he had last served with Miles aboard the Lucy? It seemed so long ago.

"That's the spirit!" The half drunk stag bellowed, slapping the grizzled wolf with the mean white eye on the back again. The Major had to adjust his beret back again before it almost fell off. After a while he gave up and just hung it on a part of his antlers. The rest of the patrons shrugged and went back to their own drinks.

The bar wasn't exactly a pub, but the Irish stag didn't seem to mind bellowing out crude limericks in Gaeilge anyway. Konrad just continued to stare at the glass, not really caring at the spectacle his long time friend made.

"Miles, cork it already." The wolf's bark felt muted and insincere. "What are you doing in Spain anyway?" Konrad felt safe in distracting the stag in duty talk rather than risk a bar fight with the bouncers eying them from the front doors.

"Why protecting the good name of the Virgin herself, to be shar." Miles nudged the reserved wolf next to him. "Although, I dun think she'd be caught dead in a den quite like this. I'd give my right eye to see dat." Another grim stare from the white eye prompted another crackle from the crass cervine.

"Makes sense, I suppose." The wolf shrugged. "The armored convoy that wiped out my Command Squad came from Italy."

"What's dat got to do with the Isle's?" Miles cocked his head.

"I didn't recognize them at first. But High Command confirmed my suspicions in a classified report a few days ago. The armored wagonettes that bombed my squad were CV-35's."

"So why did they destroy yer squad?"

"A diplomatic liaison to the Vatican claims it was a friendly fire incident; their close air support thought we escorted the Republic convoy." Konrad sipped some more of the pale ale. While he could have cared less for international politics, dark clouds stormed on the horizon for Deutscher Staatsbund's political situation.

"But why would the Vatican involve themselves in the Spanish civil war?" The stag rubbed his chin, his inebriated mind struggling to comprehend.

"Ever since the Partito Popolare took power in the Kingdom of Italy, Sturzo has been building for strong Catholic Supra-nationalism."

"I dun think the Virgin Mother would approve of bombs being dropped on wee children."

"Come off it Miles. Organized religion has always been a tool for any militarized state to wage war. When those few in power need to keep the restless many in check, a religious cause makes any atrocity seem justified."

"Dun you go dragging da Church through da bog now ..." The stag threatened, his hoove fingers curling in a clenched fist. A fact that Konrad did not fail to notice.

"Your church or my church, its the all same." Konrad snorted, his paw tips feeling their way up his collar to feel about the rank insignia pinned to his lapel. Some of them had shapes similar to Armanen runes. His white eye went back to his drink. "The Virgin Mother or the Great Mother, it doesn't matter. We both spill blood in her righteous name."

Miles' fist relaxed, and he settled back on his stool in somber reflection. They sat there for some time without saying anything to each other, listening instead to the relaxed conversations in Spanish all around them. There was even some laughter sprinkled about, a rare thing in this world as of late.

"Paddy?"

"Yeah, Miles?"

"Me son is enlisting in the IRA. He wants to join my commando team. If anything happens to me, will you make shar to look after him?"

"I promise, Miles." Konrad nodded. Miles' hoove fingers tapped at the lip to his glass.

"You evar gunna have a wee one?"

Konrad blinked. He knew Miles had no idea about his previous relationship to William. His paw tips fished about one of his uniform's pockets to pull out a cracked picture of Helga. True to her spirit, she had enlisted with the Bundesheer, her black and white fur fitting perfectly with her military dress. Like Miles, the wolfess had written to him quite a bit in the years since Vienna.

The captain knew the Geheimes Polizeiamt secretly screened all the letters sent to him. He had no doubt of their relief when William stopped writing, and when Helga's letters turned more personal. He flicked the picture back and forth between his claws, contemplating.

"I don't know ..."

Bor, Serbia

Oktober 31st, 1935

Konrad looked up to the dreary autumn sky, and a flake of ash mixed snow fell on his canid nose. He wiped it away with the back of his uniform's sleeve before continuing past the rows of emaciated laborers struggling to push the cart of iron ore past him though the mud. The mud was deep; deep enough to swallow his jackboots up past his ankles. As the approaching Balkan winter bit at his nostrils, one of the Serbs pushing the endless line of carts proceeding from the mine to the smelting factory collapsed into the mud.

Konrad stopped and the lower officers behind him halted. Some of the lieutenants mocked the skeletal feline lying face down in the mire, kicking mud on top of him. Others stared past the coils of barbed wire sitting atop the linked fence to the forest of conifers beyond with marked boredom. They'd rather be hunting.

The black wolf leading the formal inspection snarled at the small band of Serbs trying to pick their brother out of the muck. They shrank back as Konrad pulled out his Luger. He lunged forward and grabbed the nearly unconscious laborer by the scruff, no more than a loose sac of skin now. Konrad pulled the feline Serb out of the mud with a thick slurp. He didn't even bother berating the lazy feline before putting the barrel of his pistol to the back of the Serb's skull.

With an unceremonious crack that echoed across the work yard, Konrad blew the Serb's hot brains into the mud before dropping the slack body back into the frigid mire. He waved over two soldats standing at attention at the base of a guard tower. They rushed over and dragged off the body, leaving a red and gray smear trailing through the muck. As Konrad re-chambered his pistol, the groveling laborers around him redoubled their efforts.

"Unterbewerten sie der Betrag von positiver Begründung niemals, meine Herren." Konrad turned and said to the lower officers, the small hint of a smile playing across his muzzle. They chuckled at the barbarous joke. The Captain looked to the lieutenant in charge of the processing camp. "Brauchen sie mehr arbeiter?"

"Nien, Hauptmann Wagner." The junior officer smiled, his small jackal stature straight and rigid with pride. "Ich hab schon der Abtrieb meines Affinerie doppelt. Wir werden sein Aufruf für mehr Stahl bei Januar Treffen."

"Gut, Ich werde das Oberkommando von seinen Ausführung melden und persönlich fragen Oberst Guderian ein wort für seinen Erhebung stellen." Konrad nodded graciously, and the jackal's smile widened. "Anderenfalls, hab ich alles gesehen die ich brauche zu sehen. Wegtreten!"

The small troupe around him dispersed, back to their quarters for the shortened seasonal evening. The overhead sun dipped lower now to the overcast west. A deepening chill set into Konrad's bones, but he refused to button up his jacket. Instead he looked around to the labor camp, watched the Serb labors grind themselves to the grave to feed High Command's rapidly expanding war machine. Considering the high turnover rate at the processing camp, the black wolf wondered where the jackal buried all the bodies.

Another ash flake alighted on the top of his square nose from the smoke stacks billowing out black soot.

"Taking in the sights, are we, Captain Wagner?" asked a dark feline rumble from behind. Konrad could not mistake the British accent's owner for anyone else. Konrad's muzzle lips tightened into a snarl as he pulled out his Luger from its holster again and turned, leveling it between the yellow cougar's amber eyes.

"I warned you that the next time I saw you, I would shoot you." The edges of a growl trailed Konrad's words.

"So you did." Drake smiled, not flinching the slightest at the barrel leveled between his large, predator eyes. His grin widened when the black wolf fished about his fur lined winter jacket to tear off its price tag, dangling there since, at least to Konrad's perspective, 1920. The cougar just smiled at him, the look in his eyes touch by timeless sadness and sacrifice, as they always had.

"I have no problems burying an Englishman today." He spat into the frosty sludge engulfing his shiny black boots. "You are almost as bad as Americans. Do you know why the sun never set on the British Empire?" Drake only shook his head. "Because your chauvinist God didn't trust you bastards in the dark."

Drake laughed at Konrad's insult, and the wolf pressed the freezing barrel of the P08 into the cougars forehead, leaving a slight dimple in the faded yellow fur there. Flakes of ash and snow continued to fall past the feline. The shouts of foremen and yells of guards in the tower rang out across the work yard.

"You don't seem afraid to die." Konrad's remarked. His eyes, the yellow and white, narrowed together.

"I'm already dead. I'm going to be shot at 11:23 tonight." The look in Drake's eyes turned the hot burning hatred in Konrad's belly to ice. It was the same look of grim certainty the feline had given him right before the dud torpedo slammed harmlessly into the Lucy's outer hull twenty years ago. Konrad contemplated the cougar and his odd statement, but knew Drake well enough that it was no lie.

"Fine." Konrad growled before hastily shoving the well dressed businessman towards a low crop of shoddy buildings that made up the soldier bunks and officer quarters. "But before someone kills you I want some answers."

The wolf prodded the cougar along with the narrow muzzle of his Luger, the gimp feline almost falling into the cold muck on more than one occasion. The soldats standing up in the towers gawked at the rough spectacle. They knew that there was a high profile inspection from High Command and their suppliers, but they had no idea why a Captain would treat a VIP on the list of 'Do Not Shoot' with such disdain. They weren't trained to question orders however.

"Where is Will?" Drake asked, a little curious. "I thought he was supposed to be here today for the inspection."

"He's fishing." Konrad spat out his bitter reply. The wolf didn't offer any more explanation than that.

As Konrad force marched Drake to his temporary quarters, he threw the front door open and pushed the feline up the short ramp inside. The wolf climbed inside out of the wet mud and slammed the door shut behind him. Drake turned and smiled, promoting a hard shove from the Captain that landed him on the hard floor with a thud, ebony walking cane clutched tightly to his mud spattered winter coat.

"Was that really necessary?" The wizened feline looked up to the thirty five year old wolf. A hint of a smile still pulled at the cracked corners of his muzzle lips despite the treatment.

"Yes." Konrad turned halfway and locked the door, trying to keep his pistol pointed at the cougar at the same time.

Drake looked around to the quarters, surprised by the amenities. Konrad's officers quarters had its own latrine and sink. The semi-polished furniture, aside from a few scuffs from moving, looked new. A fire stove sat in the corner, freshly chopped stack of wood piled neatly beside it. Besides the usual officer amenities, a writing desk, a couch, a bed that looked comfortable if a bit plain, some pictures adorned the walls. It was a stark contrast to the barren bunks his men cohabited.

"You won't need that." Drake looked at the gun, using his mud caked ebony walking cane to pull himself stiffly to his hind feet. "I'm not a killer."

"Wrong." Konrad growled out and tucked the wrought iron key safely inside a pocket on his black officer's uniform. He hung his Captain's cap up on a peg by the front door. "You're the worst kind. A Capitalist. You have other people kill and die for you. Meanwhile you rake in money safe in a warm bed while officers like me write to their wives and children."

"I've never claimed to be innocent. We all do horrible things. And great things as well. Sometimes to be a saint, we must deal with the devil."

"I can't believe in the devil. The Federation won't allow it." Konrad smirked before making his way, pistol still pointed at the cougar, to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself some rum before downing it swiftly. "But if he did exist, surely I drink in his presence." Drake only continued to smile.

"Whether or not you consider me a devil or a saint does not matter, I only ask that you understand the things I have set in motion." The cougar's smile thinned, and then faded altogether.

"I've been trying to understand that for over twenty years. Try me old man." Konrad snorted, and poured himself another shot of rum.

Before the black wolf could bring the alcohol to his muzzle lips, Drake hoisted up his ebony walking cane to to the ceiling and clicked on a small depression inset near its top handle. The length of the cane crackled with eerie blue electricity. A sphere of blue light exploded from the rounded ivory handle top with an vibrant, resounding thrum. The expanding globe of blue reached the ceiling before a digitized blue three dimensional face of a dingo appeared.

"Drake Skeffington." The dingo announced with a light Australian accent. His three dimensional muzzle rippled as he talked, the expression on his face riding on one last hope. Konrad's good eye widened and he dropped the glass of rum in pure shock. It shattered on the floor with a loud, wet crash.

"Dear God," the wolf whispered, forgetting that the Federation had begun to suppress all forms of Christianity.

"This device's memory storage is small, so I must be brief. It was the only shape we could send back that would not arouse suspicion. Prevailing winds will bring nuclear fallout hanging in Earth's troposphere to Brisbane within two months. After that, everyone on Earth will be dead." The muzzle disappeared, and two dimensional moving pictures sprang to life within the globe. Some in black and white, some in color.

"What ... is that?" Konrad murmured out, still staring up to the projection.

"They call it a hologram."

"Who made it?"

"Listen." Drake offered with some measure of inevitable sadness. It seemed like the cougar had watched it many times.

As the feline and the wolf watched the spectacle unfold above them, moving pictures flashed armies in motion: panzers of unknown design racing across the battlefields at unheard of speeds, submarines that looked more like whales, and airplanes shaped like black flying wings. Cities lay decimated beneath their onslaught, millions murdered, their shattered bones scattered about bombed out ruins.

The moving pictures changed. Scenes from the Armenian genocides flashed above them. Scores of Roma's dumped into mass graves. Then an unknown Jewish Holocaust. For the first time in years, a pang of guilt sank into Konrad's stone set gut, realized what Drake had referred to at their last meeting.

"After a Second World War ends in 1945, the Communist Soviet Union will engage in a cold war with the Capitalist United States." The voice over went on. "The wain of available fossil fuels creates an economic dispute over the ?Adria pipeline in the Balkans. On Oktober 16th, 1984, three Typhoon class soviet missile submarines enter the Adriatic sea. Three Los Angeles class American attack submarines soon follow. On Oktober 18, 1984, at approximately 0122 hundred hours, Moscow loses contact with TK-12, Simbirsk. It is not known if any of the Los Angeles class were involved."

Konrad watched on, muzzle agape.

"At approximately 0422 hundred hours, after conflicting orders from Moscow, the captain of TK-20 launches a single R-39 SLBM, aimed at American armored divisions on the ground pushing through Kosovo. It releases 10 nuclear warheads, each with a blast of 200 kilotons, nominal yield." A strategic map of the Balkans displayed, but with countries Konrad had never heard of, like Yugoslavia. Small bubbles sprang up on the map, indicating where the ten warheads exploded.

"In response, the United States counters with two LGM-30S 'Minutemen III' ICBMs. Three Warheads each. 350 Kiloton's nominal yield" Small swaths of Russia bubbled up, Moscow all but vaporized now. "Russia counters with five SS-24 'Scalpel' ICBMs. 10 warheads each. 550 Kilotons nominal yield."

The map zoomed out, right before small bubbles of radioactive death peppered the North American east coastline. Other strategic hits included NORAD and missile silos in the mid west. Footage of a nuclear air burst over Colorado blinded the black wolf, and his paw threw itself up on instinct. While the airborne wave of EMP disabled air to ground interception electronics, another blinding light overtook the insides of Konrad's officers quarters from a moment later. The second blast obliterated an entire mountain, and the facility contained within.

"The limited nuclear exchange was not the end." The voice over continued. "But the beginning of the end. Fallout lingering in the troposphere falls across fields in the American Midwest and rural Russia. Eighty five percent of the world's food surplus wains. In the next decade, famine and disease run rampant across Earth." Scenes of starving, rioting droves flashed across the screen. Cities not touched by nuclear flame instead now set ablaze by a cornered, desperate animal.

"Seeking exodus, English engineers, in collaboration with Austrian physicists, begin accelerated research on Quantum Dynamics. But Space is vast, and Terraforming is long. Fearing the end, religious extremists gain control of remaining nuclear stockpiles. The result is predictable, if not inevitable."

Konrad's good eye closed before the next blast could blind him again. While the hologram could not project heat, the wolf imagined his skin and fur turning to ash and being swept away by the shock wave. The rubble of the slowly erupting mushroom cloud shook the black wolf to his back teeth, brought the fear of a wrathful Christian god back into his soul. He stood there in shock and awe, unable to do anything else.

"Earth is now irrevocably tainted. We are all that are left." The digitized muzzle began to dissipate. "Our quantum based computer algorithms predict an 86% probability that conflicts in the Balkans lead to all out World War. There is an 96.6% probability that direct intervention on our part will not change the course of history."

"For reasons that are unclear to us, the probability engine has singled out you, Drake Skeffington, as our best hope of preventing our Third World War. The scientist most directly credited for the discovery of the quantum wave form pattern that powers our machines once implied that God does not play dice. We can only trust that is true."

The black wolf turned to look at the aged war profiteer. The cougar that had spent his life manipulating the course of history.

"We leave our fate in your paws. Instructions on how to work the four instruments we have given you will follow ..." The holographic muzzle dissipated altogether, and Drake clicked on the depression on the cane again. The thrum died, and silence overtook the room. Drake hobbled over to a stammering Konrad.

"I ... don't understand ..." The wolf fumbled. The cougar stepped up, closer than he had ever dared before. Their muzzles almost touched.

"I have been to the Halls of Montezuma. I have been to the Shores of Tripoli. I have seen Empires rise and crumble. All those things pale in comparison to the things that you will do." Drake's paws latched on to Konrad's shoulders to steady him. His fiery amber eyes speared Konrad's icy heart. The wolf's hind legs threatened to buckle.

"But ... I ... " Konrad's head swam. Without depth perception, the floor beneath him swayed.

"I have spent my entire life criss crossing yours." The cougar continued, his deep, gravely feline rumble almost bringing the black wolf to his knees. "I love you, Captain Konrad Wagner."

Drake muzzle lips pressed into Konrad's, the fire of its passion hotter than anything the wolf could have seen, felt, or imagined. Its sincerity seared his lupine lips. Now that the old feline's cryptic story had finally come out, Konrad felt overwhelmed by what had been a timeless wait for this admission.

Was this what Drake meant on board the Lucy thirty years ago?

Konrad didn't have time to think it over much, as Drake gently edged the wobbly wolf over to the neatly made bed near the fire. The black wolf felt sweaty and cold at the same time as he sat down hard on the mattress, its springs sagging with the heavy weight of them both. Drake seemed reluctant to lead his advances forward, his thin feline lips hesitant to leave Konrad's muzzle. Konrad's arms felt like lead, sluggish to respond to the feline's paws roaming about the tight fabric covering his back.

Drake was the first to remove his vest and undershirt, careful to slide his black armband off, and them immediately back on the same arm once his upper body was free of clothing. The wolf sat there with a dumbstruck look on his muzzle. How long had the cougar waited for this? Thirty years? An eternity?

With hesitant paws, Konrad reached over to feel the war profiteer's bare chest, feeling the deep seated rumble of feline content. The muscles there had once been able and strong. The cougar's yellow pelt felt warm and well groomed despite the faded look of time and travel.

The older cougar urged the black wolf to follow suit by unbuttoning his oppressive black uniform. Konrad eventually caught on, pealing off his uniform. His war wounds complained, old injuries hissing their contempt and slowing him down. The spit and crackle of the fire next to him bathed his sore muscles in a soothing wave of heat. The cruel wind shrieked past the thin walls of the officer's quarters, rising and falling in a siren's call. It almost put Konrad to sleep, and for the first time, the wolf understood and appreciated the slow pace of their conversation back at the Serbian farmhouse.

They were two old males now; both worn down by bloodshed and sacrifice. Was this small respite too much to ask for?

Still, with a little effort, they helped each other out of their trousers and undergarments. Konrad knew what Drake had waited for now for so long. And he planned on living up to the cougar's dream, even if he didn't fully understand why Drake felt so strongly for him. The older feline felt so light in his arms, willing to submit to anything the wolf desired. Drake didn't resist in the slightest as Konrad maneuvered the feline on his paws and knees, feeling the mattress springs underneath them sag deep as Konard knelt behind Drake.

Drake mewled lightly as Konard entered him. Their lovemaking was slow and deliberate, missing the exuberance of youth and discovery but enjoying the subtleties of experience and appreciation. What they lacked in stamina they made up in skill and devotion. They savored every thrust, every touch, every shared kiss.

This was their moment.

The knife edge of suspense and sensation rushed upon them both, shooting past them even as they emptied themselves into rumbled bedding and receptive flesh alike. And like Drake once implied, the fleeting moment was over before either was ready or willing to accept it. Konrad's lungs fought to keep breath as he collapsed onto Drake's backside. They eased into the cum and sweat stained bedding, welcoming the tender afterglow.

Something that Konrad had always rushed through with William on his way to sleep, work, or duty.

Later that blizzard filled night they snuggled naked under a fur lined blanket, listening to the howl of the wind scrape across the snowy work yard outside. From within the iron stove, the fierce heat of a crackling fire bathed them in warm, soothing waves. The military bed creaked as Konard cuddled the older feline closer. His paw pads felt their way up Drake's naked chest, making the wizened feline purr.

"How old are you?" The black wolf suddenly blurted out.

"Now?" The golden eyes of the feline looked up to the ceiling, thinking. "I've lost count of the years I'm afraid."

"Guess."

"Let me put it to you this way, Konrad." Drake paused, a coy manipulative grin spreading across his cracked, dry muzzle lips. "Your grandfather and I were both twenty when we enlisted for the War of Brothers."

"In 1866?"

"Something like that." Drake's grin faded to something a bit more rueful. Konrad's paw slid up and down the feline's outer right thigh, feeling the elevated bumps of Drake's shrapnel wound.

"Is that how you got this?" The wolf's square black nose buried itself in the cougar's scruff.

"No. I got it right before ... the first time I met you ..." Drake's upper body twisted under the sheets, his short muzzle coming in to intertwine with the wolf's own.

"On board the Lucy?"

"No, much later than that." Drake closed his eyes, remembering. "A panzer commander saved me from a Russian advance." The feline looked up at the wolf and cupped the side of his cheek, tears welling up then falling from the corners of his eyes. "His muzzle was the first one I saw as they pulled me from the remains of the fox hole. I knew at that moment who he was. The one destined to stop the Russians."

"I don't understand ..." Konrad whispered, drowning in Drake's bottomless eyes.

"From what the dingo said, America and Russia must not become nuclear superpowers. The Spanish Flu, Kansas to us, has already decimated the United States. But Mother Russia ... the only nation that ever posed a threat to post-empirical Russia was a unified Germany."

"What does that have to do with me?" The panzer commander's black lupine ears twitched, lost.

"When Russia invades through Poland in the coming war, Gottschalk's panzer battalion will be the one to break their initial spearhead. The tactic you proposed to Oberst Guderian will prove to be the counter that puts Russia on the defensive for the rest of the war. Your female mate and pup will accept the Ritterkreuz for your company's role in the pivotal battle."

Konrad blinked at the posthumous implication.

"And Germany wins this new war?" The wolf asked, suddenly feeling a clammy cold despite the stove's dry heat.

"I don't know." Drake looked back up to the timbers of the ceiling, unsure.

"Why not? I thought you could travel back and forth through time?"

"I can only travel forward to the point where I first put on this armband."

"Why, what's it do?"

"It keeps me, for lack of a better explanation, outside your contiguous time stream."

"Stream?"

"Rivers sometimes branch off, become streams. Sometimes those small streams will combine back into the same river, or form a new one altogether. The lines of divergence can be altered, the points of convergence cannot. It seems, from what I understand of non-relative state formulation, some things will continue to happen despite overwhelming improbability against it."

"Like?"

"War in the Balkans."

"I see." Konrad rolled over on his back and seemed thoughtful for a time. His mind seemed to put two and two together, and his eyes turned to the cougar with some measure of suspicion. "Did you plant the bomb in the Reichstag?"

"No." Drake gave a wistful smile. "You may find it hard to believe, but in one time stream, a political party in Germany allows Communists to set a fire to the building, accelerating its rise to fascist power."

"What is a fascist? I'm lost again." Konrad confessed. "Why would any German party do such a thing to its own people?"

"You will have to ask William's close circle of friends." The predator's smile from the old war profiteer returned. "In that time stream, their outspoken criticism of the government culminates in the Sturmabteilung."

"That's the second time you've made mention of Adolf." The wolf raised up on the bed by one elbow. "How does this involve William!?" Drake's smile widened, but instead of answering, the old cougar pulled himself from the sheets and got up stiffly from the bed, allowing the wolf to draw his own conclusions.

"The Lucy!" Konrad exclaimed. "You were always there to make sure we kept finding each other, but ... why?"

"To give you something to fight for." Drake hobbled to the chair and started dressing.

Konrad watched Drake pull on his pants, then button up his undershirt. The feline seemed to take his time, smoothing out his rumpled attire, the one he had worn for what seemed, at least to Konard, over twenty five years now. While he was careful to slide his black armband back into place over the sleeve of his overcoat, Drake pulled out his pocket watch and pen before laying them on the nearby table. He laid the ebony walking cane, the most peculiar of his devices, against it and began hobbling to the door.

"Where are you going?" Konrad asked before sliding naked out of bed and pulling on some underpants.

"To eternity." Drake mused before stopping half way to the door. "One more thing before I go. The next time you see me, make sure you give me back the armband and the trinkets on the table, please."

"Why ... when's the next time ...?" The wolf began, but a series of urgent bangs against the front door cut him off.

"Herr Wagner, open up!" Konrad knew Putzkammer's distinct Norwegian accent. "This is the Geheimes Polizeiamt. We have orders from High Command to arrest Skeffington!" Konrad stood there, mostly naked, his muzzle agape.

"Drake?"

The feline half turned, and the wolf only now understood the look of sacrifice and inevitable sadness.

"No!" Konrad's paw reached for Drake just as Putzkammer and three plainclothes agents broke down the door with a heavy crash, the thick wood splintering near its metal hinges. Two agents immediately latched on to the old feline, who didn't even struggle. They beat him down to the floor with electric torches, the third leveling a pistol at his nose. Blood trickled out of one large flared feline nostril.

"Stop!" The black wolf started, lurching for the three agents, but the larger Elk Hound pushed him back.

"Herr Wagner, do not interfere ..." Putzkammer warned, his dour look turning suspicious at the wolf's bareness "... unless you want to join him." Konrad growled, his fangs now bared.

"What is he being charged with?" The wolf's black paws pushed off the Elk Hound's own leather clad ones off his chest.

"Treason, to begin with. Although if he had a public trail, his perverse proclivities would also come to light." Putzkammer seemed to wipe his gloves off on his black leather jacket in reflection. "What were you two ...?"

"Putzkammer!" A protective growl in sharp German cut the suspicious enforcer off, and Oberstleutnant Gottschalk appeared in the doorway. The Sheppard hound pulled off his thick leather gloves one paw tip at a time. "I will deal with my own officer's conduct, if you don't mind. Please explain to the Britain the charges against him."

The Elk Hound turned back to Konard with a nasty gleam in his brown eyes before spinning around. His curled tail seemed repulsed and chided at the same time. Gottschalk's tight uniform creaked as he straightened his back and folded his paws behind his back. He leveled a pompous stare at Drake.

"Mr. Skeffington." Putzkammer began. "One of your engineering assistants, Leopold Molyneux, was caught last night passing engineering plans to Russian industrial spies. When, interrogated, he named you as the one who hired him, knowing full well his contacts in the French Resistance. For this act of negligent treason and willful sedition, you are to be summarily executed."

Drake just continued to smile.

"Take him outside and shoot him!" Putzkammer yelled, his brutish goons dragging Drake outside into the snow. The Elk Hound followed just behind.

"Drake!" Konard yelled after him into the blizzard. He started to the door, but his superior officer stepped in front of him.

"Hauptmann Wagner, restrain yourself." Gottschalk snapped with more commanding German, halting the wolf. "If you insist on making a scene, High Command might begin to ask questions_about your_ personal conduct." Konrad's good eye quivered back into Gottschalk's hard look. There was no doubt now that Gottschalk knew.

"I would hate to lose a good officer. But I can only do so much. It might serve you well to be seen more in the company of a wolfess once in a while. High Command feels that certain camaraderie is considered, seditious. Are we, understood?" Konard nodded, a hard lump forming in his throat.

"Ja mien Leiter." A pit of ice formed in his gut after the Oberstleutnant turned and left out the door.

Snowflakes swirled in through the broken in doorway. Konrad looked out once more to the brutal scene out in the work yard. The clandestine agents of the secret police had dragged the old feline through the drifts before planting dropping him to his knees. As two held his arms, the third leveled a luger at Drake's head.

Konrad crept to the door, the bitter bite of the Balkan Winter stinging his exposed, mostly naked form. Putzkammer was yelling something at Drake, but even the wolf, with his acute ears, couldn't hear the insults over the cruel shriek of the blizzard outside. Drake looked up the the pistol leveled between his eyes without fear, then calmly looked straight at Konrad.

His knowing smile widened, moments before finally giving fight.

The two goons latched on to either arm fought to subdue him, and in the ensuing struggle, one of the them accidentally pulled off Drake's black armband. The feline tensed for one second as his outline blurred, his body dissipating into brilliant specks of blue and white light. The brightest lights twinkled, like a hundred distant stars going nova at once, then ... the war profiter simply vanished.

In the confusion, the one goon holding the armband dropped it. They all looked at Putzkammer, who in turn looked around for the feline. He thought he saw one in the snow flecked distance, and the four took off after the phantasm. While they were chasing after ghosts, Konard crept out into the work yard, the tiny shards of ice pelting his thick black coat. He knelt into the dimple left in the drifts, his paws sweeping the fresh dusting of snow of the armband.

Konrad clutched it tightly in his stiff paw, the metallic fabric trembling. He remembered the trinkets on the table inside his quarters, and suddenly felt caught up in an irresistible current sweeping him to his fate ...

~ Fin Chapter V ~

I'd like to thank Augie Hyena and Normain adibael for their input during the inital first draft of this expansive novel.