Phoenix Weather War: Phoenix Apocalypse Series, #2

By Ernest Nichols

Russia's weather weapon causes global economic collapse 300 years from now.

 

But the Midwest Alliance (MWA) economy thrives through their secret weather control system. When Washington takes control of state economies, the MWA wins the Second American Civil War.

 

Thirty years later, Samuel Walker Harrison and Andrew Davis Edwards fight a Russian invasion. Moscow will add MWA's weather machines to the Russian network to achieve world-wide control. But this strengthens the Phoenix Empire's transportation beam and advances their invasion schedule.

 

Phoenix rebels align with the MWA, hoping to overthrow the Phoenix Empire and prevent the invasion.

But the Phoenix invasion fleet launches. ETA is eight minutes. Buy now to discover what happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernest Nichols
• Release date: May 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201779184

Ernest Nichols

Ernest C. Nichols is the author of the Phoenix Apocalypse Series. He brings 20 years of United States Air Force experience and 18 years of high tech, clean-room manufacturing engineering to this science fiction adventure/thriller epic.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Lost - May 1941

THE BLUE FIRMAMENT screams failure at Lars Kjelgaarde. Heat radiating from the vacuum tubes confirms his defeat. It is like flames from hell and is incontrovertible proof of his damnation.

Three days, and all we’ve done is boil fish.

Doctor Hermann Buhler chuckles at his impatience. A year ago, Lars was slaughtering Russians troops when they invaded Finland during the Winter War of 1939 and 40. He and the Finns, armed with Swedish Mauser carbines, use cross-country skis to outpace Russian vehicles and make repeated ambushes on Red Army columns. The record-breaking harsh winter favors the Finns for a time, but their luck runs out. Lars suffers battle wounds and they evacuate him to Sweden. The Finns lose before he recovers.

Buhler enlists him while Lars was doing graduate work in Sweden for electrical engineering. The team is a fortuitous alliance between the sciences of meteorology and radio frequency transmitting.

This damn war interrupts every tier of our work, from theory, to equipment design, to experimentation, Buhler says. How many replacement tubes remain?

Twelve. But we will use them up quickly.

I’ll spray the remaining alcohol on the water. The increased evaporation rate will help.

The doctor reflects on his own struggles with the powers involved in this war. His degree is from Berlin University. He continued as a professor while taking German grants for research in weather modification. Life is promising until the Nazi takeover.

When Hitler became interested in weather modification as a military weapon, Buhler disavowed his citizenship and became a Swede. Weather control shouldn’t be in the hands of a madman.

But his international fund-raising tours cause his research fall behind his admittedly unrealistic timetable. This offer from Trans-Jordan is a bright ray of hope in a world darkened by the poisonous gloom of escalating military conflict.

This last-minute donation from King Abdullah is a project saver, Lars says. But that desert won’t become the Garden of Eden. It will remain a million acres of sand, wet or not.

We must first prove we can deliver rain. However, Rommel is about to secure all of North Africa, and the Luftwaffe is bombing Cyprus. We’re no longer safe while boiling Mediterranean waters for a Jordanian rainstorm.

Why have the Brits and the Germans left us alone? Our fleet of five boats positioned equidistantly around this central vessel, each boat loaded with transmitting antennae, looks like a military operation.

Buhler shakes his head. The British know what we’re doing, even if they don’t believe our goal is possible. They’re happy to give Abdullah a distraction. In fact, the Brits supplemented Abdullah’s donation to ensure he stays distracted for as long as possible. They want him to side with them instead of Hitler.

What about the Germans?

If our experiment works, Hitler will grab it. That is why Ibrahim Khalil will hide the gear. Khalil protects the equipment so Abdullah can become the King of Rain.

One of the Turkish deck hands rushes into the wheelhouse and bows to Buhler. He circles his finger at the sky and says, Clouds.

Buhler watches as ominous shadows germinate concern among the Turkish crew. They wonder if we summoned this storm though the power of Allah, or the Devil.

Lars stares as the swirling clouds fill the sky in minutes. Have you ever seen this reaction before?

Buhler’s jubilant expression gives way to concern. Nobody has seen this.

Waves toss their ragged fleet so much that the five ships cannot keep their radio frequency beams focused on the water. Lars watches the turmoil from the railing of the wheelhouse and estimates the power of the building storm. Our heaters are bobbing too much.

Turn off the transmitters before we burn each other.

I’ll radio for the Trans-Jordan station to energize their tower. Let’s try to send these clouds to King Abdullah.

Steering the storm is the biggest challenge. But we have a southeast wind in our favor.

Let’s get our rust-bucket fleet to harbor, Lars says. Boy, this came up fast. How much of this did we create?

Let’s hold off taking credit for anything, Buhler replies. I don’t want to draw Hitler’s attention one minute earlier than necessary. Let’s return to Beirut before we’re beaten to pieces.

GRITTY TENSION STIFLES the cockpit of the Focke-Wulf-200 as the crew battles a voracious sandstorm. The four 1,200 horsepower BMW engines struggle valiantly against the raging fury, but the crew’s efforts to fly over or around the vengeful tempest suck too much fuel.

Intermittent navigation systems compound their problems, plus headquarters’ insistence on total radio silence. The aircrew feels abandoned and exposed.

Every eye strains to glimpse landmarks that verify their position, but the darkness and unrelenting sand keep them blind and hopeless. They no longer veil their desperation as they glance at the emptying fuel gauges. The pilot and copilot rehearse the grim procedures for a crash landing.

Wilhelm Decker strains to see through the windshield. Where did this come from? The forecast was for clear skies. I will use my Luger on the meteorologist in Catania.

Heinrich Vogelmann addresses their navigator. Are we over water, Eric?

Eric Gruber swears and swipes at his useless stack of maps. I can’t get a reading. We might be 200 miles too far east.

Heinrich glances around the cockpit at his crew. They were an airborne brotherhood since those long-ago days in the sailplanes of the German civilian flying club. By 1930, he and his copilot, Wilhelm, graduated to commercial flying status with Lufthansa. The few Versailles Treaty restrictions on commercial aviation provided a loophole to resurrect the German Luftwaffe.

In 1935 Hitler publicly thumbed his nose at the hated Versailles Treaty and revealed the existence of his Air Force. The Spanish Civil War was a fortuitous bloodletting that provided a backdrop for the Luftwaffe to practice and perfect the aerial choreography of their destructive art.

By late 1937, Axel Hindemann and Eric Gruber join them. All four fly the infamous JU-87 Stuka dive-bomber in the feared Condor Legion. It is a far cry from tedious commercial passenger flights enjoyed by pampered European nobility. Their Stukas become the feared sharks of the Spanish skies.

Those heady days of victory continue throughout the Blitzkrieg victory over Poland. The defeat of the French and the near destruction of British forces in 1940 soon surpass their success in Spain.

The Luftwaffe mission was to prevent evacuations of British and French soldiers from Dunkirk. The following ten days were the beginning of the Luftwaffe’s self-doubt. German aircraft losses were high, and they failed to prevent evacuation.

More disappointment follows, during the Battle of Britain. In one sortie in August, Heinrich’s squadron loses all eighteen Stukas. Hurricanes and Spitfires set them aflame with humiliating ease.

Only Heinrich emerges unscathed from the chilly waters of the channel. Wilhelm recovers from burns for the next three months, returning to duty as a transport pilot. Axel sustains arm and leg wounds, and they assign him to ground duty while he recovers.

Stukas return to frontline service, but only when the Luftwaffe has air supremacy. However, the Condor Brotherhood gains too much rank or too many injuries to resume duty in combat aircraft. It is an honor to fly the large, four-engine plane to transport high-ranking military and government officials. It’s not combat, but it is noble service.

However, they gut the plush interior of their FW-200 courier aircraft to make room for small, heavy boxes neatly stacked and strapped to anchor points, loaded and accompanied by a dozen surly SS troopers. The mystery is further heightened by the absence of cargo markings and no flight manifest for two Italian-speaking Gestapo agents, and a French-speaking government representative who board during their refuel in Rome.

Heinrich invites Axel Hindemann to apply for courier duty with them. Heinrich’s endorsement will put Axel’s application on the fast track for party approval. He hopes the old Condor brotherhood will soon take flight again.

I expected to see Axel when we arrived at Catania, Heinrich comments. He should have approval by now.

Wilhelm flushes with anger, making his old burn scars turn purplish. He’s on the run from those SD thugs that deplaned.

Nothing goes well when Sicherheitsdienst agents get involved.

Eric Gruber draws closer to the front of the cockpit and steadies himself against the storm. What are you talking about?

You remember Gert von Shuller? Wilhelm says.

Gruber’s low opinion of the man is apparent in his tone. Flew 87s in Spain until using his family influence for a position at Luftwaffe Headquarters.

I got an earful from him when we landed at Rome, Wilhelm says. I planned to fill you in after the flight, but the situation has changed.

You’ve been silent ever since Rome, Heinrich says. What’s up?

Those agents in Catania are spying on Axel. I’m sure they will arrest him.

Why?

His father is a Lutheran minister who preaches loud and long against the Nazi party. They uncovered this during Axel’s background check for an assignment with us.

Nazis don’t care what goes on in church. Heinrich objects.

Usually not. However, there are rumors that Axel is helping his father smuggle Jews out of German-held territory.

Gruber lets out a snort. He’s been too busy being a war hero to smuggle anything.

Someone from a Catania bank alerted the Nazis that Axel has a personal bank account with more money than is possible from his military pay. His parents sent him their meager savings before the Nazis arrested them. Axel used some of it to finance a partnership with a local fisherman, and has been banking the profits for ten months.

Making profits from smart business investments makes the war hero an enemy of the state?

They claim the profits come from smuggling Jews, Wilhelm replies. Those SD agents, Karl Ritter and Walter Erhard, are spying on Axel, hoping to apprehend all the smugglers. Axel didn’t know they arrested his parents until I told him. They are dying in Dachau.

They will arrest Axel, even without evidence, Gruber concludes.

I told him everything before we left Catania. He says he has a way to disappear.

They will suspect you helped him escape, Heinrich says. We will all come under Gestapo scrutiny because we are his friends.

What is our cargo? Gruber inquires. What is this secret mission to Damascus?

They made a point of not telling me anything. Only the SS soldiers could carry the cargo on board in Berlin. It was obvious those small boxes were heavy.

Axel suspects we’re carrying three tons of gold to bribe the Vichy French government. After payment, they will allow us to stage Luftwaffe sorties against the British from Syrian airfields. Now, we’re lost and out of gas. If any of us survive, we will be the scapegoats, Wilhelm says.

Only the Nazi high command knows about this mission, Heinrich says. How does Axel know anything?

He was to compile a list of supplies required for flying sorties out of Syria. That was before he came under suspicion.

The tossing storm adds to Eric Gruber’s rage. That makes sense. The SS are here to guard valuable cargo and that French-speaking Nazi political parasite will make deals with the Vichy government. If this delivery goes wrong, the gangsters running our country will feed us to the camps like animals to the slaughterhouse.

Keep those sentiments to yourself, Heinrich warns.

I will look at the cargo, Wilhelm says. Eric can watch my back while I poke around.

The SS will shoot you dead and no one will ask questions.

They’re too busy puking on each other’s fine black uniforms to pay attention to me.

Don’t be insane!

Wilhelm grabs Eric and careens his way to the cargo area. He glances at the SS guards and says, I don’t like the company I have to keep these days.

The storm tosses Wilhelm into the cargo boxes. Eric pulls him to his feet before the SS can react. He pushes Wilhelm towards the tail.

Heinrich struggles alone at the controls and mutters, What else can go wrong?

Wilhelm and Eric pretend to inspect the fuselage for storm damage. When Eric is out of view, he pries up the corner of a box.

When Eric stands, all tension and concern disappear. He exudes an unnatural calm as he unlatches an MG15 machinegun from the airframe mount. Eric strides to the front of the cargo deck with the ammo belt trailing beside him.

Machinegun fire rips into the rows of SS soldiers strapped into seats on each side of the fuselage. However, the shooting ends all hope of a controlled crash.

Armor-piercing bullets strike critical control wires, structural parts, fuel lines, and the BMW power plants. The inboard engines sputter to a fiery halt and flames chew at the wings.

Heinrich has no choice but to dive towards the ground and ditch the dying aircraft before the flames eat through the wing spars. Heinrich must trust to luck they won’t ram headlong into a ridge of granite, but luck has been conspicuously absent.

The wounded courier plane hurtles through the blackness, spiraling, falling, then going level for a few seconds, then falling again. Heinrich levels the wings just in time for the impact.

He regains consciousness and grabs the controls, but realizes that the rocking motion is the storm pounding the battered wreckage. After several tries, Heinrich unbuckles his chest strap and stumbles to the ruptured cargo deck.

Wilhelm is weaving as he massages the bruises to his head. Eric Gruber and the passengers are as dead as the aircraft. Heinrich notices a few inches of brackish water seeping into the wreckage.

He finds the cargo still tied down. Only a few crates sustain damage, mostly by machinegun bullets.

Heinrich and Wilhelm shine flashlights inside the shattered edge of a ruptured box. Heinrich pulls out a heavy bar with the deep stamp of the Nazi eagle and cross. Axel was right.

GIUSEPPE FALCIONE GLANCES towards the dock as he prepares to cast off. It is not unusual to see Axel Hindemann at the fishing docks, but he could tell by Axel’s tightly packed duffle bag and rumpled civilian clothes that today’s visit means trouble.

The Luftwaffe seems busy today, Giuseppe observes. It’s strange that the director of Luftwaffe ground operations would not be at his duty station this morning.

Let’s call it a career change. We should cast off immediately. You should also get Gina out of Catania as soon as possible.

Today’s fishing is merely a cover for me to smuggle antiquities away from the Germans.

I guess I’m now a full-time smuggler. They arrested my parents in Germany and the Gestapo came for me this morning.

Becoming a smuggler of antiquities is not a career change for a German soldier. They have been looting France and Belgium for the past year.

They put my parents in a concentration camp. My father attracted too much attention by sermonizing against the Nazis. I’m afraid they’ll be dead soon. My father hasn’t spoken to me since I joined the Luftwaffe years ago.

Are they arresting all ministers?

No. They arrested my father for his condemnation of the Nazi persecution of the Jews. His fellow ministers complain because my father calls them an anti-Semitic mob of heretics for claiming the Old Testament a pack of Jewish poison.

Your father sounds like a godly man.

God has abandoned my family. Becoming a martyr is not the career change I want. Axel throws his duffle bag on the deck and says, Let’s run some guns to Cyprus for use against the Germans.

You jump into a new career with both feet. I did that on the sly, and I didn’t think it wise to admit this to my business partner, who is also a Luftwaffe officer. But those days are over.

Chapter 2 - The Puzzle

AXEL SCANS FOR PORT authorities while entering Haifa Harbor. He sports a full beard and dresses like a trawler deckhand, but his blond hair, blue eyes, and bad English draw attention. Stepping onto land is dangerous.

Things are quiet, Giuseppe says. They’ll nail us for cargo inspection.

I have business at the bank after I stop by the office.

Giuseppe rolls his eyes. A business license requires an office, but this office has a back room with a shower, stove, refrigerator, and bed. The office business is mostly between Gina and Axel.

Is Gina there?

She would radio if not.

Maybe she is out of range.

Axel shrugs and smiles. I’ll check the office.

When will my daughter become an honest woman? There’s an enormous Catholic cathedral in Jerusalem.

I made diligent inquiries. The Brits demand too much documentation, and the cathedral staff won’t bend the rules for a Protestant. She wants that big Catholic wedding in Catania, so we must wait. Calvino’s unofficial ceremony and hand-written marriage certificate must suffice. I am a German deserter and Gina is from a criminal family. An official wedding is impossible.

Calvino is a deckhand, not a ship’s captain. He officiated because he knew some words typically said by Protestants.

To us, that unofficial ceremony is as binding as anything performed inside a cathedral. Nothing can become official until I can present my German birth certificate without getting arrested.

We’re making another fishing run to spy on Sicily.

You should pick up your wife during one of these Sicilian trips.

She gets violently seasick. She hides in the mountains. How do you not draw suspicions at the bank with your imperfect English?

I tell them I’m from South Africa. I’m safe until someone speaks Afrikaner. Give me some money for a deposit.

More Moshe Shuler business?

He’s excited about something. I’ll meet him at the bank after the office visit.

Standard procedure is to draw the office curtains, hang the CLOSED sign, and lock the door. He knocks in the way she will recognize. That was how she avoided answering the door to that self-absorbed Nazi-sympathizing bore from the Catania bank, Enrico Bellini.

Axel rehearses their sad history as he reflects on their situation during the British Mandate of Palestine. She met Axel when he approached Giuseppi about investing in a fishing fleet. Their relationship develops into rendezvous at family restaurants. Her mother, Maria, was their ever-present chaperone.

Giuseppe trades his small trawler for a 40-footer able to draw a larger net and quickly expands into a fleet of three. They supply German and Italian military installations along the eastern coast of Sicily, and the