Dawn — Oder–Neisse Line
Morning came thin and gray.
Mist clung to the low ground, turning ruined earthworks into silhouettes and making every shadow feel deliberate. The watch changed quietly; boots crunched, mugs were passed, radios checked. No alarms. No sudden sky-fire. Just the slow, careful inhale of a front that had survived another night.
Siegfried handed off the watch and stretched his shoulders. Fatigue settled in where adrenaline had been. It felt honest.
"Nothing moved," he reported.
"Good," Arno replied. "Let's keep it that way."
Orders Roll In
By mid-morning, the briefings were routine again—sector stabilization, patrol grids, a short escort task for Huckebein engineers shoring up a breach. No Schwarzesmarken on the schedule. No Stasi ghosts.
Simo addressed the platoon without ceremony.
"Same rules," he said. "Eyes open. Don't chase rumors. We hold what we're paid to hold."
Acknowledgments clicked back. The battalion dispersed with practiced ease.
A Different Kind of Pressure
On patrol, Siegfried found himself flying wing for Jäger-Five again. The terrain slid beneath them—mud, wire, broken concrete—familiar now.
"You know," she said after a while, "people keep thinking the danger is when someone points at you."
"Isn't it?" Siegfried asked.
"Sometimes," she replied. "Other times it's when they don't. Means they're waiting."
He nodded. That felt true.
Far South, Same War
Hundreds of kilometers away, Laser-Class BETA died in precise, ugly bursts as another hunt concluded. Artillery followed. Bombers roared. The line bought hours.
No one mentioned mercenaries in the reports.
Back at the Line
The escort mission finished without incident. Engineers waved. Huckebein thanked them. The sky stayed quiet.
When they powered down, Simo pulled Siegfried aside—not to lecture, not to warn.
"You handled yourself out there," he said. "That's all I need."
"Yes, sir."
A pause—then Simo added:
"If anyone asks you who you are… you tell them who you fly with."
Siegfried met his eyes and smiled, small but certain.
"I do."
Evening, Again
As the sun dipped, the camp returned to its low hum. Someone tuned a radio. Someone else started heating water. The front breathed.
Siegfried sat near his Balalaika, cleaning grit from a panel seam. He didn't feel watched—not tonight. Just aware.
The war would keep testing lines and people and names. Units would cross paths again. Doctrines would collide.
But for now, the choice held.
He stood, wiped his hands, and headed back toward the light—
not a wolf,
not a mark,
just a pilot with a place to be when morning came.
The Days After — Holding Pattern
Rain arrived without warning and refused to leave.
It turned the Oder–Neisse line into a slick of mud and broken reflections, a place where engines sounded closer than they were and shadows stretched too long. The Jäger Battalion worked through it anyway—escort at dawn, perimeter checks by noon, quick-reaction drills at dusk.
No Schwarzesmarken sightings.
No Stasi echoes.
Just BETA pressure—constant, grinding, familiar.
A Test Without Teeth
Late one evening, sensors flickered along a shallow bend in the river. Not a surge—just probing movement. Simo ordered a measured response. Jäger-Three and Five anchored the line while Siegfried ran a lateral sweep, quiet thrust, eyes wide.
They found it: a thin Warrior-Class screen testing the wire.
They cut it down cleanly.
No heroics. No chase.
When the last contact dropped, Simo's voice came calm over comms.
"Good discipline. Stand down."
Siegfried exhaled and realized he'd been smiling.
Quiet Conversations
Back at camp, rain drummed on canvas as Arno passed out mugs.
"You notice something?" he asked Siegfried, low.
"What?"
"You don't rush anymore."
Siegfried thought about it.
"I don't feel like I have to."
Arno nodded, satisfied.
Southbound Silence
Far to the south, a report closed with the words Laserjagd erfolgreich abgeschlossen. No addendum. No cross-references. The Schwarzesmarken moved on to the next hunt.
Data filed.
Names omitted.
A Small Signal
Two nights later, a brief transmission skimmed the edge of their net—encrypted, unfamiliar, gone before it could be tagged. Not a hail. Not a threat.
Simo noted it, archived it, and said nothing.
Some signals weren't meant to be answered.
Another Morning
Dawn broke pale and unremarkable. Engineers laughed at a bad joke. A pilot cursed a stuck latch. The line held.
Siegfried walked the length of his Balalaika, checking seals, wiping rain from a sensor window. He paused, listening—to the base, to himself.
No names in his head.
No orders from ghosts.
Just the work.
He climbed into the cockpit as the first tasking came through and settled his hands on the controls.
Whatever crossed his path next—wolves, marks, or the endless tide—
he would meet it the same way:
with people he trusted,
on ground they held together,
one deliberate choice at a time.
Oder–Neisse Line — Defense Mission
The warning came too late.
"Grappler-Class—CLOSE!" someone shouted over the open channel.
A massive shadow burst from the smoke and debris, its grotesque limbs snapping shut around Jäger-Six's MiG-21 Balalaika. The impact was brutal—metal screamed as the Grappler-Class wrapped itself around the TSF's torso, crushing actuators and tearing armor plating free.
Inside the cockpit, alarms howled.
The canopy fractured.
"Agh—! It's got me—!" Jäger-Six screamed, his voice breaking as the pressure began to cave the cockpit inward.
Siegfried's heart slammed.
"Six! BREAK FREE!" Jäger-Five yelled, firing desperately at the Grappler's limbs.
Rounds tore chunks from the BETA's carapace—but it didn't let go.
The Grappler-Class tightened.
Metal folded. The cockpit frame bent inward, inches from Jäger-Six's chest.
His breathing turned ragged over comms—short, panicked gasps drowned by grinding steel.
"I—I can't—"
"It's crushing—!"
Simo's voice cut through, sharp and urgent.
"All units focus fire on the Grappler—NOW!"
They obeyed.
But it wasn't enough.
The Decision
There was a sudden clarity in Jäger-Six's voice—fear burned away, replaced by resolve.
"Commander… I'm done."
The channel went dead quiet.
"Six, don't—!" Jäger-Five shouted.
Siegfried felt his throat tighten.
"I'm not letting it through," Jäger-Six said calmly.
"Sorry… see you on the other side."
A half-second pause.
Then—
"JÄGER-SIX—WAIT—!"
Detonation
A blinding flash tore through the battlefield.
Jäger-Six's Balalaika detonated from within, the reactor overload ripping outward in a violent sphere of fire and shrapnel. The Grappler-Class was obliterated instantly—its massive form torn apart and hurled across the ground in burning fragments.
The shockwave knocked nearby TSFs off balance.
Snow, dirt, and organic debris rained down in silence.
Aftermath
Static filled the channel where Jäger-Six's voice had been.
No telemetry.
No vitals.
No signal.
Siegfried stared at the smoking crater, his hands frozen on the controls.
Jäger-Five said nothing—her TSF hovering motionless, cannon lowered.
Simo closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"…Jäger-Six," he said quietly.
"KIA. He held the line."
The battle continued—because it had to.
But something had changed.
Another name carved into the battalion's memory.
Another empty space in formation.
And as Siegfried forced himself to move, to fire, to breathe—
he understood with terrible clarity what being part of the Jäger Battalion truly meant:
Not glory.
Not survival.
But choosing—
again and again—
to stand where others could not.
Oder–Neisse Line — The Seconds After
No one spoke.
The crater where Jäger-Six had been was still burning, a rough-edged bowl of flame and blackened earth. Shards of carapace and twisted metal lay scattered like a radius drawn in blood.
Then training—brutal and necessary—took over.
"Line's still open!" Simo snapped. "Five—Seven—seal the gap! Three, anchor right!"
Jäger-Five answered first, voice tight but steady.
"Copy."
Siegfried forced his hands to move. He swung his Balalaika into position, firing controlled bursts to keep Warrior-Class from exploiting the breach. Each recoil felt heavier than the last, as if the machine itself knew what it had just cost.
They pushed.
Tank-Class fell under combined fire. Destroyers stalled, then broke. The swarm recoiled, momentum spent against the price Jäger-Six had paid.
Holding What Was Bought
Artillery finally came online—late, but decisive. Shells walked across the field, tearing the remaining BETA apart. The line held.
When the last contact faded, the comms stayed quiet a heartbeat longer than usual.
Simo didn't fill it with words. He let the silence stand.
Roll Call
Back behind the wire, TSFs powered down one by one. Mechanics moved in; medics checked pilots who didn't need checking.
Simo called it softly.
"Jäger-Six."
No answer.
He nodded once and continued.
No ceremony. No speech. Just the truth recorded where it mattered.
The Weight Settles
Jäger-Five dismounted and stood with her helmet tucked under her arm, staring at the smoke thinning over the crater.
"He didn't hesitate," she said, not quite to anyone.
Siegfried shook his head, throat tight.
"He shouldn't have had to."
She glanced at him, eyes red but hard.
"None of us should."
They stood there until the wind carried the smoke away.
A Commander's Promise
Later, as dusk crept back over the line, Simo gathered the battalion—close enough to hear him without raising his voice.
"He did his job," Simo said. "And because he did, we're here."
He paused, then added the part that mattered.
"We don't waste that."
No one argued. No one needed to.
Night Again
Siegfried returned to his Balalaika and wiped a smear of grime from the canopy, slower than necessary. He replayed the moment—the scream, the calm, the flash—and then forced himself to stop.
This was the cost.
This was the line.
He climbed into the cockpit for the next watch and set his hands on the controls. They shook once. He breathed. They steadied.
Somewhere far south, other units hunted lasers with cold precision. Here, the Jäger Battalion held ground with people's names attached to it.
Siegfried looked out into the dark and chose to stay.
For Jäger-Six.
For the gap that never opened.
For the quiet promise that when the moment came, none of them would stand alone.
Aftermath — Orders from the Rear
The call came before dawn.
Logistics had already queued the transports; contracts rotated, sectors reassigned. The Jäger Battalion was ordered back to Norway Garrison—their part of the Eastern Front complete for now.
The line would be held by Huckebein…
and the Schwarzesmarken.
Engines spooled. Ramps lowered. The battalion began to pack itself away with the efficiency of people who knew better than to linger.
A Request, Quietly Made
Siegfried stood at the edge of the hardstand, eyes fixed on the scorched earth where Jäger-Six had fallen. The crater had been marked—nothing elaborate, just a simple indicator so no one would forget what it cost.
He turned as Simo approached.
"You should be boarding," Simo said gently.
Siegfried swallowed.
"Sir… I'd like to stay. Just for a bit."
Simo didn't interrupt.
"I want to help hold the line," Siegfried continued.
"For Six. I don't want to leave like he was just another number."
The wind carried ash across the ground between them.
For a long moment, Simo said nothing.
Then he nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Short-term. You return to Norway as soon as rotations allow."
Relief flickered across Siegfried's face.
"Thank you, sir."
Simo met his eyes.
"You honor him by staying alive," he added.
"Don't forget that."
New Patch, Same War
Simo keyed a channel and spoke with Huckebein command. The paperwork moved quickly—war always preferred clean lines.
"Effective immediately," Simo announced,
"Jäger-Seven is temporarily assigned under Huckebein Battalion operational control."
Acknowledgments came back.
Jäger-Five stepped close and clasped Siegfried's shoulder once—hard, brief.
"Don't be a hero," she said. "Be useful."
He managed a smile.
"I will."
Arno gave him a nod from the ramp, a promise without words.
The Convoy Departs
Transports lifted into the gray morning, engines fading northward toward Norway. The Jäger Battalion shrank to specks against the sky, then vanished entirely.
Siegfried remained.
One pilot.
One machine.
One quiet vow.
Holding the Line
He walked back to his Balalaika and climbed in, the cockpit sealing around him with familiar weight. Huckebein channels filled his headset—different voices, same urgency.
"Seven, you're slotted on the inner ring," Huckebein command said.
"We'll keep you busy."
"Copy," Siegfried replied. "Standing by."
As he powered up, he glanced once more at the marked ground beyond the wire.
"This is for you," he whispered—not to the crater, but to the choice that followed it.
The Oder–Neisse line waited.
The Schwarzesmarken hunted ahead.
And a young pilot stayed behind—not because he was ordered to, but because he chose to.
For Jäger-Six.
For the gap that never opened.
For the line that still held.
Oder–Neisse Line — Afternoon
The ground began to move.
Sensors screamed as the horizon darkened—Destroyer-Class hulks pushing through ruined farmland, Tank-Class masses grinding forward in disciplined waves. Grappler-Class silhouettes scuttled low and fast, while Soldier-Class poured in like a living tide.
And above them—
Laser-Class emitters rose, skeletal and lethal, locking their crimson gaze toward the sky.
"Confirmed multi-class swarm," Huckebein command announced.
"This is not a probe. This is a push."
Steel Answers the Call
Engines roared along the defensive belt.
T-80s and T-72s rolled into firing positions, their turrets slewing in practiced arcs. Fire-control lights blinked green.
Then—
BM-21 Grad launchers screamed.
Dozens of rockets arced overhead in howling salvos, crashing into the advancing swarm. Explosions stitched the earth, tearing apart Soldier-Class clusters and staggering the front ranks of Tanks.
But the BETA kept coming.
TSFs Wake
Hangar alarms wailed.
Huckebein pilots sprinted for their machines as F-5G Tornado TSFs powered up, intakes glowing, control surfaces flexing like waking muscles.
Among them, one Balalaika moved with quiet familiarity.
Siegfried climbed into his MiG-21, the cockpit sealing around him as the HUD bloomed to life. His visor lit—cool green—casting his reflection back at him.
Steady breathing.
Weapons green.
No hesitation.
"Huckebein elements," command called,
"launch and intercept. Protect the armor. Laser-Class priority when windows open."
Siegfried keyed his channel.
"Jaeger-Seven ready."
A brief pause—then:
"Jaeger-Seven, you're cleared hot. Stay with us."
"Copy."
Into the Fire
Hangar doors yawned open.
One by one, TSFs leapt into the afternoon, contrails slicing the smoke-filled sky. Tornados surged forward, cannons barking as they dropped into attack vectors.
Siegfried followed, Balalaika accelerating hard, the battlefield unfolding beneath him in brutal clarity.
Laser-Class beams lanced upward—
and were answered by evasive thrust, flares, and disciplined timing.
As he lined up his first firing run, Siegfried felt it—not fear, not anger—but a familiar, heavy resolve.
Hold the line.
For Jäger-Six.
For the tanks rolling below.
For the pilots launching beside him.
The Oder–Neisse line burned and shook as steel and fire collided—
and in the heart of it, a young pilot flew forward, visor glowing, ready to pay whatever price the afternoon demanded.
Oder–Neisse Line — Afternoon
Laserjagd Commences
The sky split.
High-speed contacts tore through the upper cloud layer, descending at impossible angles with brutal intent. Old frames, flown like knives.
The 666th TSF Squadron Schwarzesmarken had entered the battlespace.
"Schwarz units, Lux formation," a calm female voice commanded.
"Laserjagd priority. Ignore all non-laser targets."
Inside her MiG-21PF, Irisdina Bernhard watched the battlefield unfold like a map already memorized.
"Schwarz-Two through Seven," she continued,
"break and hunt."
No hesitation.
The Schwarzesmarken punched straight through the airspace, weaving between laser fire with surgical precision. Assault cannons and support guns barked in perfect timing as Laser-Class BETA began to fall—one emitter collapsing, then another.
Laserjagd was underway.
Collateral Chaos
For Huckebein and the ground forces, the effect was immediate—and dangerous.
Laser cover collapsed unevenly. Artillery tried to exploit gaps that shifted too fast. Tank formations advanced—and were suddenly exposed on their flanks.
"Airspace is unstable!" Huckebein command warned.
"TSFs maintain cohesion—do not overextend!"
But the Schwarzesmarken did not slow.
They surged deeper, chasing retreating Laser-Class nodes beyond the planned engagement zone.
And the line fractured.
Separated
Siegfried felt it before he saw it.
His HUD flickered as overlapping laser suppression windows collapsed. A Tornado pulled hard left to avoid a beam—and Siegfried instinctively compensated right.
Too far.
"Seven, you're drifting—correct!" Joachim Balck's voice snapped.
Then the world lurched.
A Destroyer-Class rose from the smoke directly beneath him, its massive frame blotting out the ground. Another followed. Then another.
Siegfried slammed thrust, barely clearing the first as his radar bloomed red.
"Multiple Destroyer-Class—close range!" he shouted.
No response.
Static.
"Huckebein, this is Seven—do you copy?!"
Nothing.
Joachim tried to cut in—his signal spiked, then vanished under interference and laser scatter.
"Seven—break vertical—SEVEN—!"
The channel died.
Alone
The smoke closed in.
Four… five… six Destroyer-Class converged, their massive forms boxing Siegfried into a killing bowl of shattered terrain and fire. Soldier-Class swarmed beneath them like ants around a trapped insect.
Siegfried's Balalaika shuddered as he dodged a claw strike that would have ripped him in half.
Breathing steady.
Ammo check.
No backup.
Above him, contrails marked where the Schwarzesmarken continued their hunt—already gone, already chasing the next Laser-Class.
Laserjagd did not look back.
"Okay," Siegfried muttered, tightening his grip.
"Then I hold."
He rolled low, fired into a Destroyer's joint, boosters screaming as debris and organic matter filled the air. Warning lights flared, but the machine answered him—scarred, loyal.
Somewhere far away, Huckebein fought to regroup.
Somewhere higher still, the Black Marks hunted lasers without pause.
And in the killing bowl below, Jäger-Seven stood alone—
not as prey,
not as an objective—
but as the last thing between the BETA and the line.
The Destroyer-Class closed in.
Oder–Neisse Line — The Breaking Point
The ring tightened.
Grappler-Class BETA burst through the smoke, low and fast, their limbs snapping shut around Siegfried's escape vectors while Destroyer-Class giants lumbered in to finish the trap. The air trembled with their mass.
"Schwarzesmarken—request immediate support!" Joachim Balck barked into the channel.
"Our pilot is isolated—laser hunt can wait!"
No answer.
Only the distant contrails of the laser hunters, already gone.
Joachim tried another channel—static. He clenched his jaw.
"Seven—hold on," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "You hear me? Hold on."
Silence.
Then—Impact
Two Destroyer-Class were suddenly thrown—not staggered, not pushed—hurled end over end through the smoke, crashing into the ground hard enough to shake the sector.
Every channel went quiet.
Huckebein pilots froze mid-maneuver. Even the Schwarzesmarken—mid-chase—hesitated, sensors snapping back toward the disturbance.
At the center of it all stood Jäger-Seven's MiG-21 Balalaika.
The Change
The Balalaika's movement pattern shifted—no longer reactive, no longer defensive.
Deliberate.
A Type-77 Close-Range Battle Halberd locked into place with a metallic snap.
Siegfried's machine advanced.
He didn't fire.
He cut.
The halberd traced clean, surgical arcs—joints severed, cores split, limbs removed with precision that bordered on artistry. A Grappler lunged; its grasp met empty air as the Balalaika stepped inside the strike and opened it from shoulder to thorax in one smooth motion.
Another Destroyer swung—
the halberd hooked, twisted, and the giant fell apart.
No wasted thrust.
No panicked corrections.
Just motion, intent, and steel.
Over the Swarm
The Balalaika ignited its jump unit and leapt, clearing the swarm in a single bound. It landed behind them, shockwave rippling outward—then turned and continued the work.
Methodical.
Relentless.
Soldier-Class evaporated in seconds. Tank-Class tried to reorient and died where they stood. Grapplers reached and found only severed limbs.
From above, Huckebein pilots stared.
"…That's Seven?" someone whispered.
The Schwarzesmarken slowed, their hunt momentarily forgotten as they watched the lone MiG-21 carve a corridor through what should have been a killing bowl.
Stunned Silence
Joachim Balck finally found his voice.
"All units—hold fire," he ordered, disbelief creeping in.
"Give him space."
No one argued.
They watched.
Not because they were ordered to—
but because they couldn't look away.
The Balalaika finished the last Destroyer-Class with a clean, decisive strike and stood amid the wreckage, halberd lowered, engines humming evenly as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
Smoke drifted. Debris settled.
Across multiple channels, veterans who had fought BETA for years shared the same stunned realization:
They had just witnessed something outside doctrine.
Not a wolf's hunt.
Not a mark's execution.
But a pilot who—alone—had decided the swarm would stop here.
And for the first time that afternoon, the Oder–Neisse line breathed.
Oder–Neisse Line — After the Impossible
For several heartbeats, the battlefield existed in suspended disbelief.
Smoke drifted. Burning BETA carcasses collapsed inward, their massive frames settling like fallen buildings. At the center of the devastation stood Jäger-Seven's Balalaika, halberd still in hand, posture steady—almost calm.
No erratic movement.
No berserk thrashing.
Just… stillness.
Huckebein Regains Its Voice
Joachim Balck finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse.
"All Huckebein elements… advance. Secure the breach."
The Tornados moved again—slowly at first—forming a wide perimeter around Siegfried's position. They half-expected another explosion, another impossible leap.
None came.
"Seven," Joachim tried again, more carefully this time.
"Do you copy?"
A pause.
Static.
Then—faint, controlled—
"…Copy."
The single word hit harder than any shout.
Relief rippled through Huckebein's channels.
"Hold position," Joachim ordered. "We're coming to you."
Eyes from Above
Farther out, the Schwarzesmarken had stopped their pursuit entirely.
MiG-21s hovered at altitude, their pilots staring down at the carnage left behind by a single machine.
Inside her cockpit, Irisdina Bernhard watched the replay scroll across her HUD—frame by frame, each movement dissected by sensors.
Perfect spacing.
Perfect timing.
No wasted motion.
Not luck.
"So," Walther Krüger murmured on the command net,
"the report was incomplete."
No one contradicted him.
Sylwia Krzasińska's voice was quieter than usual.
"That wasn't improvisation," she said. "That was… recall."
Irisdina did not answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was measured—thoughtful.
"That was someone who knows exactly how much force is required," she said.
"And no more."
A pause.
"Resume laserjagd," she ordered at last.
"But log everything."
For the first time, Jäger-Seven was no longer just data.
On the Ground
As Huckebein units closed in, Siegfried powered down the halberd and let it lock back into its housing. His Balalaika's systems began to protest—overheat warnings, stress fractures, red lights cascading in delayed protest.
Only now did the cost arrive.
His hands trembled.
Not from fear—
from the effort of stopping.
"Easy," Joachim said gently over the channel. "You're safe."
Siegfried exhaled, long and shaky.
"Sorry," he said. "I… lost track of time."
Joachim didn't respond right away.
"You saved my battalion," he said finally. "That's all that matters."
What Everyone Saw
Huckebein pilots would talk about it for years—how a lone MiG-21 stood its ground and rewrote the geometry of the fight.
The Schwarzesmarken would file it under restricted observations, tagged and cross-referenced, discussed only in quiet rooms.
And Siegfried—
still inside his cockpit, surrounded by the dead—
would remember only fragments.
The weight of the halberd.
The silence between strikes.
The moment when the swarm stopped feeling endless.
The Oder–Neisse line held.
But something else had broken open that afternoon—
something no doctrine, no contract, and no handler could fully close again.
Because now, everyone had seen it.
And once a miracle is witnessed,
it stops being dismissed as impossible.
Oder–Neisse Line — The Cost Arrives
The adrenaline drained all at once.
Inside the Balalaika, warning tones layered into a steady wail as heat finally caught up with stress. Siegfried's vision tunneled; the HUD dimmed itself to emergency contrast. He felt the machine settle—heavy, tired—like an animal that had run too far.
"Seven, power down non-essentials," Joachim said gently. "We've got you."
Siegfried complied, hands moving slower now. When the canopy cracked open, cold air rushed in and he realized his jaw ached from being clenched.
He didn't remember sitting down on the ground. He remembered boots around him, gloved hands steadying his shoulders, someone taking the halberd away with care, as if it might bite.
"Vitals?"
"Stable."
"Dehydrated. Shock, maybe."
He nodded at the voices without quite focusing.
What the Line Learned
As Huckebein secured the sector, the radio filled with clipped professionalism—artillery adjustments, armor repositioning, damage assessments. Underneath it all ran an unspoken current: everyone had seen it.
Not a lucky break.
Not a fluke.
A lone pilot had held where a platoon should have died.
Joachim walked over when the medics finished their checks. He crouched to meet Siegfried's eyes.
"You don't owe us an explanation," he said. "Rest."
Siegfried swallowed.
"Did… did it work?" he asked.
Joachim allowed himself a thin smile.
"It worked."
Above, a Decision Deferred
At altitude, the laser hunters finished their run and peeled away. The Schwarzesmarken did not descend. They did not hail. Their contrails faded southward, leaving behind a quiet heavier than before.
No one chased them.
No one needed to.
Evening Falls
By dusk, the line was patched again—never whole, but standing. Fires burned low. The cratered ground where the swarm had broken was marked and mapped.
Siegfried sat wrapped in a blanket near his Balalaika, sipping water. His hands still shook when he tried to steady them. He stared at the machine's scored armor and tried to reconcile it with the images replaying behind his eyes—clean arcs, perfect timing, the moment the noise fell away.
He felt… empty.
Not hollow.
Just quiet.
A Promise Kept
Later, when the generators hummed softer and the radios dropped to routine chatter, Siegfried stood and walked—slowly—back to the marked ground from yesterday. He stopped there, helmet under his arm.
"We held," he said aloud, voice barely carrying. "Like you said."
No answer came. None was needed.
He turned back toward the lights.
The Line Breathes
Night settled over the Oder–Neisse again. Somewhere far off, another sector burned. Here, for now, it did not.
Siegfried returned to his machine and rested a hand on the cool metal.
Whatever had moved through him that afternoon—memory, training, instinct—it had passed. What remained was choice.
He chose to stay awake for the next watch.
He chose to keep the line boring.
And as the camp settled and the smoke thinned, one truth remained for everyone who'd been there:
The war would remember this day—
not because of a doctrine fulfilled,
but because one pilot decided the swarm would go no farther.
Oder–Neisse Line — The Night After
The front did something rare.
It stayed quiet.
No probing swarms. No sudden laser flares. Just the low wind moving smoke aside and the steady clatter of crews working under floodlights. Where chaos had been hours ago, there was now order stitched together by habit and fatigue.
Siegfried sat near his Balalaika, blanket pulled tighter around his shoulders. A tech finished a scan and shook his head in disbelief.
"Frame's stressed to hell," he muttered. "But it held."
Siegfried nodded once, eyes still on the dark beyond the wire.
Huckebein Closes Ranks
Joachim Balck gathered his pilots without ceremony.
"What happened today stays professional," he said. "We don't mythologize it. We learn from it."
He glanced toward Siegfried—brief, respectful.
"Seven's with us until rotation. Treat him like one of ours."
No one objected. A few pilots gave Siegfried a nod that said we saw and we've got you.
Jäger-Seven answered with a quiet nod of his own.
Southbound, Again
Far above, contrails thinned into nothing.
In another airspace, the laser hunters finished refuel and rearm. Reports were concise; footage flagged and sealed. No speculation. No adjectives.
Only one line lingered in the margins of several minds:
"Unexpected close-combat dominance by isolated MiG-21."
Filed.
Not discussed.
Remembered.
The Body Catches Up
Later, when the lights dimmed, the tremor returned—soft, insistent. Siegfried braced his hands on his knees and breathed through it.
Jäger-Five's earlier words echoed: Be useful.
He drank water. He slept in short stretches. When dreams came, they were quiet—no voices, no names—just motion and space and the relief of stopping.
Morning, Again
Dawn broke pale and unassuming, as if nothing remarkable had happened. Engineers laughed at a bad joke. A radio crackled with routine traffic. The line exhaled.
Siegfried stood, shrugged off the blanket, and walked the length of his Balalaika. He checked a seal, wiped a sensor, tightened a strap—small acts that anchored him.
Joachim passed by and paused.
"You good to fly light duty?"
"Yes," Siegfried replied. Honest.
Joachim nodded.
"Then let's keep today boring."
Siegfried allowed himself a thin smile.
What Remains
The war did not change course because of one afternoon.
But the people who were there did.
Huckebein learned the value of giving space when something extraordinary happened.
The hunters learned there were variables they hadn't modeled.
And Siegfried learned that whatever surfaced under pressure did not own him.
He climbed into the cockpit, visor coming down with a soft click, and brought the systems up—slow, deliberate.
Outside, the Oder–Neisse line held.
Inside, a young pilot chose the same thing again:
Stay.
Stand.
Make the next hour uneventful.
Sometimes, that was victory enough.
Schwarzesmarken — POV
High Altitude, Returning from Laserjagd
The hunt was almost complete.
Schwarz-2, Pham Thi Lan, adjusted her vector, sensors sweeping for any remaining Laser-Class stragglers as the squadron prepared to disengage. The mission timer ticked down. Clean. Efficient.
Then—
A voice cut across an open combat channel.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Human.
"CHESTOOO!!!!!"
Pham froze.
Her HUD spiked—not from weapons fire, but from audio capture, the source tagged below and behind them.
She snapped her head toward the replay buffer.
The Moment Caught
The feed resolved instantly.
Jäger-Seven's MiG-21 Balalaika—isolated, surrounded—launched forward in a close-range assault. The Type-77 halberd drove straight through the torso of a Grappler-Class, the strike punctuated by that single, defiant shout.
The Grappler tore apart from the inside.
Silence followed.
Shock in the Squadron
"…Did he just—?" Sylwia Krzasińska muttered, disbelief slipping through her discipline.
"That channel wasn't encrypted," Walther Krüger added slowly. "That wasn't command traffic."
Pham replayed the clip again. And again.
The timing.
The commitment.
The voice—not controlled, not conditioned.
Alive.
She opened a private channel.
"Schwarz-1," she said carefully,
"we picked up an audio event from the isolated mercenary. Verbalization during terminal strike."
A pause.
Then Irisdina Bernhard replied, calm as ever.
"Playback."
Pham sent the clip.
Understanding Dawns
The cockpit remained quiet as the audio echoed through Schwarz-1's channel:
"CHESTOOO!!!!!"
Not fear.
Not obedience.
Not a command.
Will.
Irisdina did not speak for several seconds.
When she did, her voice carried something new—measured interest sharpened by clarity.
"So," she said,
"it isn't recall alone."
Pham exhaled slowly.
"No, ma'am," she replied.
"That was… choice."
Around them, the Schwarzesmarken held formation, no one laughing, no one dismissing it.
Because they all understood what that shout meant.
A Line Rewritten
Laserjagd doctrine prized silence.
Efficiency.
Emotionless execution.
What they had just witnessed violated none of it—
and yet challenged all of it.
"Log the audio," Irisdina ordered.
"Restricted. No speculation."
She paused, then added:
"But remember it."
Pham acknowledged, eyes still on the fading feed from below.
A mercenary pilot.
An obsolete frame.
A battlefield shout that cut through doctrine like steel.
As the Schwarzesmarken turned south, resuming their disciplined withdrawal, one truth settled quietly among them:
The White Hound was not an asset waiting to be reclaimed.
He was a variable—
one that shouted his intent into the void
and bent the fight around it.
And variables, once observed,
changed equations forever.
Weeks Later — Rotation Orders
The fighting ebbed the way it always did—
not with victory, but with replacement.
After weeks of grinding defense along the Oder–Neisse line, orders finally came down: rotations approved, contracts fulfilled, units reshuffled to plug the next set of leaks in a long, wounded front.
Jäger-Seven was cleared to return north.
The Farewell That Mattered
At the hardstand, Siegfried stood with his kit slung over one shoulder, his Balalaika already secured for transport. The air smelled of fuel and wet earth—familiar, almost comforting.
Joachim Balck approached, helmet tucked under his arm.
"You didn't have to stay," Joachim said. "You know that."
Siegfried nodded.
"I wanted to."
Joachim studied him for a moment, then offered a firm handshake.
"You held when it counted," he said. "My battalion won't forget that."
Siegfried felt his throat tighten—just a little. He managed a small, honest smile.
"Glad I could help."
No speeches.
No medals.
Just a nod that meant you were one of us.
Boarding
The transport's ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss. Siegfried took one last look at the line—the patched fortifications, the muddy ground, the place where the swarm had broken and stayed broken.
He didn't linger.
He turned and boarded.
As the ramp lifted and the engines spooled, the field shrank away beneath the rising hull—another chapter closed not with fanfare, but with quiet respect.
Northbound
The transport banked toward Norway, clouds swallowing the scarred earth below.
Siegfried settled into his seat, closed his eyes, and let the vibration of the engines carry him forward.
He left behind a line that held.
A debt repaid.
A name honored.
Ahead waited cold air, familiar hangars, and a battalion that would ask no questions—only whether he was ready to fly again.
He opened his eyes and smiled faintly.
He was.