plumnovel Chapter 89 Ghost Frequency
Chapter 89 Ghost Frequency
Chapter 89 Ghost Frequency (Long Chapter)
June 6, 1940, 07:45, France, north of the Somme River, Tactical Highway D928.
Command sequence of the 999th SS Special Operations Battalion.
The morning mist had not yet dissipated.
In the coffin-like enclosed rear compartment of the Sd.Kfz. 251/1 half-track command vehicle, Arthur Sterling was not sitting in the comfortable co-pilot's command seat with its leather cushions.
He was squeezed among the sophisticated electronic devices in the rear cabin, his gray-blue eyes fixed on a point in the void—an RTS tactical map.
In this God's-eye view, the world is stripped of its color, leaving only cold data and lines.
The blue dots that originally represented friendly forces—though in reality they wore the chilling grey-black uniforms of the SS—were moving rapidly along a thin grey line. That line was the D928 highway, a tactical artery connecting the northern coast with the southern Somme defense line, wide and paved with high-quality asphalt, capable of supporting heavy armored columns speeding at 40 kilometers per hour.
On this road, Arthur is the king.
That was true at least a minute ago.
"drop-
'
A sharp alarm blared in Arthur's mind. A chilling red light suddenly flashed at the edge of the RTS system.
At the southern end of the map, in that unknown area that should have been covered by the "fog of war," a large number of dense red dots suddenly emerged, like an anthill bursting open.
They were not scattered patrols, nor were they stray soldiers. They were arranged so neatly and densely that they converged on the map into a thick, red python, surging towards us from south to north along the D928 highway.
The system's friend-or-foe identification module was beating wildly, and finally an analysis box popped up:
[Contact Warning: German Heavy Logistics Transport Column]
[Affiliation: Logistics Department of the 7th Panzer Division]
[Size: Regiment level]
Distance: 3.5 kilometers
Relative speed: 30km/h
Arthur's pupils suddenly contracted.
7th Panzer Division. Erwin Rommel's "Ghost Division".
This elite armored force, which moved faster than telegrams during the French campaign and often had no idea where even its own command was located, clearly inherited its commander's fine tradition of "speeding" in its logistics units.
"Henry".
Arthur's voice broke the monotonous background noise in the carriage, which was only accompanied by the low rumble of the Maybach engine.
He didn't turn around; his fingers continued to slide lightly through the air, as if measuring the distance that symbolized death: "Open your ears. Listen not only to people, but also to machines. Wake up that damn big guy in front of you."
Captain Henry—now SS communications platoon leader—was huddled in a corner of the rear compartment. Upon hearing the order, he immediately lunged at the black metallic monster that occupied a quarter of the carriage.
This is a FuG11 (SE100) 100-watt high-power mobile radio.
In the field of radio communications in 1940, this was the crown jewel, a cutting-edge technology of the time. Usually, only command vehicles at the corps level or army group level were qualified to be equipped with this precision instrument manufactured by Telefunken.
It has a huge independent power supply unit, two whip antennas that are up to two meters high, and FM capability that can cover almost all frequency bands from shortwave to VHF. Its panel is covered with complex bakelite knobs, precision voltage dials, and dozens of vacuum tubes emitting a faint red glow.
Henry's fingers moved extremely slowly across the frequency knob, like a thief breaking into a bank vault. He wore those heavy Sennheiser military headphones, intently catching the ripples of radio waves in the air.
As the knob was turned, the static in the headphones suddenly fluctuated violently, then was replaced by a noisy, chaotic but energetic German call.
A few seconds later, Henry took off his headphones, and his face immediately turned somewhat ugly.
"Sir—oh no, flag captain."
Henry swallowed hard, turned to look at Arthur, his eyes filled with terror: "We're in trouble. Big trouble."
"He's one of Rommel's men."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, showing little surprise. He had expected to run into Rommel's men in this area, though his heart was already racing. "Proceed. I need the details."
"Based on the intercepted call sign Tross-Geist, this is a heavy ammunition transport column belonging to the logistics department of the 7th Armored Division."
Henry pointed to the receiver that was still flashing a green signal light, his voice tinged with excitement: "They're heading back. Probably to Amiens or Alaska in the north to restock their high-explosive bombs and fuel."
The scale was enormous. I heard the troop movements between the different units; there were at least two full-strength heavy truck battalions, plus escorting half-track vehicles and an anti-aircraft company.
How many cars?
"The monitor is reporting the distance between vehicles—I estimate at least two hundred. All Opel Lightnings and Henschel 33 heavy trucks."
The air inside the carriage seemed to freeze instantly.
Major Ryder tightened his grip on the steering wheel and glanced at both sides of the road.
"Two hundred trucks—" Ryder glanced at the rearview mirror, his voice hoarse, "Sir, the road is too narrow."
""
Although the D928 highway is called a "national road", in the countryside of northern France, it is actually just a two-lane asphalt road that can barely accommodate two trucks side by side.
The road is lined with typical Piccadilly-style trees—tall, straight poplars that form walls along the roadside. Beyond these tree walls lie farmland that has turned into muddy swamps due to days of torrential rain. The roadbed is half a meter higher than the farmland, meaning vehicles cannot easily leave the road unless they want to get stuck in the mud.
"If we were to collide head-on on the road—" Ryder mentally simulated the scenario, and cold sweat instantly broke out. "Neither of us could pass. One of us would have to pull over, or even reverse to let the other pass."
"This isn't about passing other cars, Ryder, it's a traffic disaster."
Arthur added coldly, his mind racing: "In this narrow passage, two large convoys meeting means you have to slow down to zero and then incline slowly, at five kilometers per hour."
"That was a traffic jam that lasted for two hours."
Arthur turned and looked through the bulletproof glass at the long convoy behind them: "Imagine thousands of Scottish soldiers crammed into the canvas covers of those trucks. If the convoy stops, they'll be stuck right under the Germans' noses for hours—"
"During this time, if anyone vomits because of motion sickness, if anyone jumps off the bus to pee because they need to, or—" Arthur sneered, "or if some unlucky guy in our special operations battalion gets a cigarette offered by an enthusiastic German driver and gets a greeting like, 'Hey bro, how's the weather in Berlin?'"
"Just a sentence of English with a Glasgow shipyard accent, or a wrong German word, or even a panicked look."
Arthur made a karate chop motion: "This suit is ruined. We'll have to fight two hundred German trucks loaded with ammunition on the plains. Believe me, while the spectacle of those explosions is spectacular, I don't want to be fuel in them."
"So what do we do?"
Lieutenant Gray's voice came through the walkie-talkie in the rear cabin, tinged with obvious anxiety: "Should we stop? We can find a side road to hide at—"
"There's nowhere to hide. Both sides are muddy ground. And—"
Arthur glanced at the rapidly approaching red line on the RTS map: "At this distance, suddenly stopping or making a U-turn is highly suspicious. It's like they're writing 'I'm the problem' all over my face for the Germans."
"We cannot retreat, nor can we stop."
Arthur patted Henry on the shoulder, gesturing for him to move aside. The gesture was rough and firm.
"In this world, there are things that are tougher than tanks and louder than cannons."
Arthur plopped down in front of the FuG11 radio. The black metal panel reflected the cold light of the indicator lights, like a huge pipe organ waiting for its player.
He picked up the heavy bakelite headphones, put them on his head, and the enclosed feeling instantly shut him out of the outside noise. Then, he adjusted the belt of the microphone in his throat, making the two black sensor blocks fit tightly against the sides of his Adam's apple, feeling the throbbing of his pulse.
"Henry, tune the frequency to the Army Group A logistics and traffic control main frequency. That's the one called 0lymp."
The channel for "(Olympus)".
Henry's hand trembled as he was tidying up the cables, and he almost dropped the screwdriver.
His eyes widened as if he were looking at a madman: "Sir? That's the dedicated control channel for Army Group A headquarters! It's for generals and senior staff officers! Once we transmit a signal on this channel, not only that convoy on the other side, but all the radio direction finding stations in the entire theater, and even the listening center as far away as Aachen, will receive our signal!"
"If it's discovered that the call sign is fake—"
"Then let them investigate."
Arthur's fingers gently turned the power control knob, a precision knob with a ratchet-like feel.
Without any hesitation, he turned it directly to the red "MAX" (maximum power) position.
The voltmeter needle jerked, reaching the very top of the dial, emitting a soft hum of current. This dormant electronic beast was fully awakened, ready to unleash its 100 watts of power and take over the airspace like a tyrant.
"Listen, Henry. And you, Jeanne."
Arthur turned his head and looked at the two people in the carriage.
In the dim red tactical light, Arthur's face looked somewhat sinister. He had transformed into his new role in that instant.
The elegance of the British aristocracy had vanished, as had the ruthlessness of the SS captain.
Instead, there is an aura that appears extremely tired, extremely irritable, yet possesses absolute authority.
It's like a senior German staff officer who has been working continuously for three days and three nights in an underground bunker, handling the dispatch of tens of thousands of tons of supplies every day, and would fly into a rage if even a single screw was lost.
"Now, I'm going to give you a drama lesson."
Arthur pointed to the silent microphone, a smirk playing on his lips. "This thing isn't just for giving orders. It can also be used for scriptwriting. On this frequency, whoever's voice is the loudest, whoever's story is the most convincing, is God."
He looked at Jeanne, pointed to an empty iron barrel in the corner of the carriage used to store discarded parts, and then pointed to a large pipe wrench next to it—a heavy tool used to repair tracks.
"Jeanne, I need you to be my sound engineer. This is important; it's about whether we can trick those two hundred trucks into the mud."
"When I wave, you hit that barrel hard with those pliers. Make it rhythmic, like—a distant anti-aircraft gun or a muffled explosion."
Jeanne was stunned. She was wearing her crisp SS uniform, but in her hand she was holding a greasy pipe wrench, pointing at a broken iron bucket. The absurdity of the scene was something she couldn't accept for a moment.
"Knock—on a bucket? Here? Young master, are you serious?"
"Yes. Right here. Acoustic deception, Jeanne. Sound transmitted through a one-way microphone is distorted; the metallic clanging sounds very much like a high-explosive bomb. Believe me, in my past life—oh no, back when I was studying at Oxford—I was the chief noise maker for the Drama Society (OUDS)."
He turned and winked at Jeanne, who looked at him with suspicion, a mischievous grin that only appeared when recalling pranks: "Back then, to simulate thunderstorms on stage, we broke the principal's three most beloved galvanized iron bathtubs. Compared to that, fooling a few Germans is child's play."
Arthur then turned his gaze to the two Scottish guards at the rear cabin door—McTavish and the big guy named Douglas.
The two men, clutching MP40 submachine guns, stared blankly at their superior's madness.
"And you two. Stick your heads out of the carriage. Don't fall out."
"When I give the signal, you all shout these words in your foot German: Sanitater! (Medic!)", Schnell! (Quick!)", Verdammt! (Damn it!)"
"Remember, shout as if you've really broken a leg, or just seen a comrade blown to pieces. Make your voice carry far away, create a sense of space, and create a chaotic background noise."
McTavish scratched his head, a look of confusion mixed with excitement on his face. "Sir, if I'm going to yell like I have a broken leg—can I actually kick Douglas?"
"If you feel that would help you perform better, then go ahead."
Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He quickly constructed in his mind the virtual transportation network covering the entire northern part of France. He didn't need to look at a paper map because the RTS system had imprinted every road, every bridge, and every intersection on his retina.
In this dimension, he is an omniscient and omnipotent god.
Now, God is about to begin his performance.
"Get ready."
Arthur's fingers rested on the red call button. His Adam's apple bobbed slightly as he adjusted the tension in his vocal cords, making his voice deeper, hoarse, and metallic.
"3————2————1."
Shafulin—no, Arthur suddenly opened his eyes.
"Action."
"Zi La Yi"
With a piercing crackle of electricity, the 100-watt high-powered transmitter instantly shattered the previously busy but orderly radio waves over the Somme.
The signal cut was so brutal and inopportune. It was like a burly man reeking of alcohol kicking open the door to a conference room where an academic discussion was in progress, and then slamming a loaded pistol on the table.
"Achtung! Achtung! (Attention! Attention!)"
Arthur's voice, amplified through a throat microphone and layers of vacuum tubes, transformed into the metallic, taut, and authoritative roar he desired, instantly blasting through every German vehicle with its radio activated within a fifty-kilometer radius: "This is Olymp! Traffic control post! Emergency call to all units in the area! Especially that ghost crawling like a snail on the D928 highway—the 'Tross'—"
(Geist) column! Respond immediately!
A few seconds of deathly silence.
Only the background noise of the current echoed in the headphones.
Clearly, this illegal intrusion, which directly borrowed the code name of the army group headquarters, completely baffled the communications soldier on the other side.
As for whether the other party would suspect that the voice came from an Englishman, the thought never even crossed Lieutenant Colonel Steiner's mind for a second.
Because this frequency band—the 44.6MHz FM band—is the top-secret tactical channel of Army Group A.
According to the German army's rigid, almost obsessive, communication regulations, this was an "absolutely secure zone" that could only be accessed by command vehicles with three layers of authentication, after the Enigma machine changed its keys daily.
In the Germans' minds, the British radio technology was still using Morse code and could not possibly penetrate such advanced voice channels.
But in Arthur's eyes, this so-called "top secret" was as conspicuous as a door-to-door service advertisement written on a public toilet door.
On that RTS tactical map floating on his retina, next to the red cursor representing the German 7th Panzer Division column, floated a detailed data box, shimmering with a ghostly blue light, visible only to Arthur:
[Unit: 3rd Logistics Regiment, 7th Armored Division]
Current Status: On the march
[Communication frequency: 44.6MHz (encrypted/decrypted)]
[Commander's call sign: Tross-Geist (Ghost-Heavy)]
This is like a poker game where Arthur not only sits in the dealer's seat, but he also wears glasses that can see through all the hole cards.
Under the strict communication discipline of the German army, no new recruit would ever dare to do such a thing. Precisely because no one dared, when it happened, the Germans' instinctive reaction was not "there is an enemy," but "the officer is coming."
Finally, a response came through the earpiece. It was a hesitant, confused voice, accompanied by an extremely clear signal strength—indicating that the other party was very close, just behind that hillside ahead.
"This is the Ghost-Supply" command vehicle. I am Lieutenant Colonel Oberstleutnant Steiner, the corps commander. May I ask who you are?"
The fish has taken the bait.
A wicked smile crept across Arthur's lips.
On his retina, a new floating window automatically popped up in the RTS tactical interface; it was a [Psychological State Analysis Panel] that only he could see.
On this panel, two colored progress bars are trembling slightly:
[Green (Trust Level): 35%] — (In a state of "doubt")
[Red (Suspicion Level): 40%] — (In "Alert" state)
Arthur didn't answer immediately, but looked at the panel thoughtfully. Clearly, he had to either fill the green progress bar to the maximum or crush the red one.
He suddenly waved to Jeanne.
Jeanne gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, raised the heavy pipe wrench, and smashed it hard against the empty iron bucket.
"Bang! Bang! — Bang!"
The sound was deafening in the enclosed carriage, even causing eardrum pain. But just as Arthur had expected, this sharp metallic clanging sound, captured by a directional microphone and then distorted by radio transmission, actually sounded in the other person's headphones like a muffled, echoing explosion coming from hundreds of meters away.
That was the sound of engineers detonating unexploded ordnance.
[Note: Target suspicion level has decreased to 25%]
Strike while the iron is hot.
Arthur immediately looked at McTavish at the back of the car and made a "scream" gesture.
The burly Scottish man took a deep breath and stomped hard on Douglas's foot, causing Douglas to let out a genuine, pig-like scream.
Immediately afterwards, McTavish shouted at the sound of the wind outside, using the German words he had memorized beforehand:
"Sanitäter! (Medic!)"
But he was too nervous. Or perhaps that damn Glasgow accent was already ingrained in his bones.
What should have been a standard German "Sanitäter" turned into a strange, heavily accented Scottish "r" sound, like someone ordering a drink in a bar: "Sanny-TATER!!!"
Arthur's eyelids twitched suddenly upon hearing this, and even Jeanne frowned.
Almost simultaneously, the red bar representing the level of suspicion on the RTS panel on my retina surged, breaking through the warning line!
[Question level for the target has surged to 85%]
[Status: High Alert]
Sure enough, Lieutenant Colonel Steiner's voice, which had suddenly become extremely sharp, came through the earpiece: "Wait—what's that accent? That's not German at all! Olympus, who are you talking to?!"
It’s over.
The atmosphere in the carriage instantly plummeted to freezing point. Jeanne's pipe wrench froze in mid-air, and McTavish covered his mouth in terror, his face showing the horror of having caused a major disaster.
In this critical moment, Arthur did not panic. Instead, a hint of extreme calm flashed in his grey-blue eyes.
Since it can't be hidden, let's make it part of our persona.
"accent?!"
Arthur suddenly erupted into an even more furious roar into the microphone, abruptly interrupting Steiner's questioning: "You still have the nerve to criticize his accent?! That's a Bavarian country bumpkin from the 1st Mountain Division! Those damned Austrian mountain folk just stepped on a landmine, their jaws were blown off! Their tongues are rotten! You expect him to recite Goethe's poetry to you now?!"
"Do you want me to shove the receiver down his still-bleeding throat and make him sing you 'Edelweiss'?"
"Only now would you believe there's a bomb on the road?!"
This was a textbook example of crisis management.
Arthur exploited the deep-seated regional prejudice within the German army—Prussian officers typically looked down on Bavarian or Austrian accents—and the perfect excuse of "severe injury causing unclear speech," instantly covering up this huge flaw.
[Hint: Target suspicion drops sharply to 15%]
[Hint: Guilt related to the target has increased to 60%]
Lieutenant Colonel Steiner on the other end of the earpiece was clearly stunned by this sudden rebuke, his voice immediately tinged with panic and guilt: "No—I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't know your casualties were so heavy—"
The situation was back under Arthur's control.
Amidst the cacophony of background noise, he launched his final, Oscar-worthy performance. His speech was rapid, laced with the exhilaration of someone experiencing a surge of adrenaline—the tone of someone witnessing a disaster, witnessing death firsthand: "Lieutenant Colonel Steiner! I don't care if you're a ghost or a devil! Stop your convoy immediately! Repeat! Stop it immediately!"
"The K12 section ahead—that damned place you're about to cross—was just attacked by British warplanes at low altitude a minute ago!"
"Those British pigs didn't throw high-explosive bombs! They threw SD-2 butterfly bombs! The entire kilometer of road is now covered with those little gadgets with clock fuses!"
The SD-2 butterfly mine that Arthur mentioned was actually a major weapon of the German Luftwaffe, but the British occasionally copied or used similar cluster bombs. These bombs were extremely small and, upon landing, would spread out like butterfly wings, scattering across grass and roads.
Its most disgusting feature is that it has extremely sensitive time-delay and vibration fuses. It might explode a few minutes after landing, or it might explode several hours later, or it might explode when someone walks by and the ground vibrates.
For thin-skinned, heavy-duty transport trucks, this thing is an absolute dream. A single butterfly mine can ruin a truck's tires and cause a chain reaction of explosions.
Lieutenant Colonel Steiner on the other end of the radio was clearly bewildered by this sudden intelligence. He looked at the peaceful road ahead and saw no signs of gunfire.
"What? An air raid? But—Olympus, we're only two kilometers south of the K12 line, with excellent visibility. We didn't hear any explosions, nor did we see any planes—"
[Note: Target skepticism has risen to 45%]
Doubt. This was the instinct of Prussian officers. They were meticulous, rigid, and trusted only their own eyes, not easily swayed by threats from the radio.
Arthur was waiting for this question. It would be abnormal if the other party immediately believed it.
"Didn't you hear me?"
Arthur's voice instantly dropped eight octaves. His previous anxious roar transformed into a chilling, sinister interrogation.
That tone was like saying, "Have you lost your mind?"
"Because that was low-altitude glide mine laying! Idiots! The British dropped the bombs from above the clouds! The wind blew those little things all over the ground!"
Jeanne cooperated and knocked on the iron bucket again, this time harder.
"Bang!"
"Did you hear that?!"
Arthur roared into the microphone, spitting as he spoke onto the black bakelite: "Our sappers are detonating the first batch of duds! But I don't have enough sappers to clear the whole road! My sappers are busy dragging that Bavarian bastard with his jaw blown off from the burning truck!"
[Notification: Target trust level exceeds 90%! Successful!]
"Lieutenant Colonel, I'm giving you two choices now."
Arthur's tone turned icy and chilling, the kind of threat unique to a ruler who held the power of life and death over countless lives: "First, keep going. Take your two hundred trucks loaded with high-explosive ammunition and drive into this minefield. Go test the British's fuse sensitivity with your Michelin tires."
"But I assure you, if General Rommel's offensive is halted for even an hour because of the loss of this ammunition—"
Arthur paused, letting the suffocating silence build up for a second on the radio: "I will personally fly to Berlin and put your name on the indictment of the Supreme Military Court!"
"The charges are: deliberately sabotaging Imperial war materials, and—colluding with the enemy!"
All that could be heard on the other end of the radio was heavy breathing and a crackling sound from an unstable electrical current.
Lieutenant Colonel Steiner hesitated.
Arthur could sense that the other person's psychological defenses were crumbling. The red doubt bar on the RTS panel had been completely cleared, replaced by a dark blue bar representing [obedience].
What do logistics officers fear most? Not death.
If someone is killed in a bombing on the battlefield, that's sacrificing their life for their country, that's being a martyr. But if it's because they "ignore the command's advice and forcibly enter a minefield," resulting in the destruction of supplies, that's dereliction of duty, that's being a fool, that's being a traitor to the empire.
They would be hanged, and their families might even be sent to concentration camps.
Moreover, the call sign "Olympus" represented a very high level. In the hierarchical German military system, it would be difficult for a lieutenant colonel to have the courage to question a "senior staff officer" who was in charge of intelligence from the army group headquarters and had such a bad temper.
"There's another way," Arthur abruptly changed the subject, offering the other man a "way out" without giving him any time to think. "Turn right immediately! At the K11 signpost, there's a B4 country road. It's a bit rough and muddy, but it's safe! The engineers have confirmed there are no landmines there!"
"Now, make your decision, Lieutenant Colonel Steiner!"
"My engineers are out rescuing people, they don't have time to collect your corpse! Get out of the main road! Don't block the way!"
After saying that, Arthur did not cut off the communication, but deliberately left the channel open, panting heavily as if he had just done a 100-meter sprint.
He was gambling. He was gambling on those few dozen seconds of silence.
Major Ryder drove with his eyes glued to the bend ahead. Once around that bend, he'd see the German convoy. If they didn't move, if they continued straight, they'd really crash into them.
At that time, all the lies will fall apart on their own.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Jeanne's hand holding the pipe wrench was trembling, and McTavish also shut his mouth, looking at the machine flashing red light with lingering fear.
at last.
A clear sigh, tinged with humiliation, helplessness, and yet a sense of relief, came through the earphones.
"Received — Olympus."
Lieutenant Colonel Steiner's voice sounded ten years older: "Ghost-Supplies, understood. We—we are implementing a detour. We will enter the B4 auxiliary road."
"But I must record this in the wartime log, because I received your explicit instructions, and—"
"Keep writing! Fill up your damn diary! Carve it on your tombstone if you want!"
Arthur abruptly interrupted him, then slammed the switch shut, cutting off the communication.
"call----"
Arthur took off his headphones and tossed them onto the table with a sharp "thud".
He felt that the shirt on his back was soaked with cold sweat and stuck to his back, feeling icy cold.
He turned around and looked at Jeanne, who was still holding the pipe wrench and looking dazed, and McTavish, who was still covering his mouth and looking bewildered.
"Sergeant McTavish." Arthur wiped the sweat from his forehead, his tone tinged with a helpless smile.
"Yes, sir." The burly Scottish man stood at attention, like a schoolboy who had made a mistake.
"Next time you play a German, remember to tolerating the taste of Scotch whisky in your mouth."
"You almost sent our entire team to meet the real God because of your 'Sonny Tate' comment."
"Yes, sir. I'll be more careful next time. I'll learn the Bavarian accent."
A suppressed chuckle rippled through the carriage.
"Look ahead."
Arthur gestured to the windshield of the cockpit, his tone regaining its reassuring calm and elegance.
Major Ryder had just rounded that sharp bend.
The sight before them made everyone in the carriage gasp, followed by a surge of ecstasy, despite how absurd it all seemed.
About 500 meters ahead, a miracle is taking place on the D928 main road, which was originally completely blocked.
The massive steel dragon, consisting of more than two hundred Opel Lightning trucks, half-track tractors, and anti-aircraft guns covered with camouflage nets, was slowly and laboriously twisting its body.
They were leaving the flat, dry main road, turning right one after another, and plunging into the narrow, muddy, and even rain-soaked B4 country road on the right.
The moment the first heavy truck's wheels hit the ground, it kicked up half a meter of black mud—clay soaked in rainwater, as sticky as glue. The trucks behind had to slow down, and the entire convoy instantly descended into chaos.
Several trucks were seen with their rear wheels sliding into roadside ditches due to sharp turns, and a group of German soldiers were jumping out of the vehicles and pushing them through the mud, cursing under their breath.
Driven by the immense fear of "minefield ahead," they still rushed to burrow into the mud, afraid that if they were a step too late, they would be blown up by a non-existent butterfly mine.
The once wide and flat D928 national highway that belonged to them is now deserted.
The black asphalt road gleamed in the morning light, like a red carpet laid out especially for Arthur.
"My God—"
Major Ryder looked at the scene before him and felt that his worldview had been completely reshaped.
He had always thought war was about bayonet charges, tank battles, and who had the bigger cannon barrel. But now, he saw a man sitting in a chair, shouting a few words into a microphone, banging on a metal bucket, and making thousands of fully armed elite German troops obediently clear the way, while he himself jumped into the mud pit.
"This...is this modern warfare, sir?" Ryder muttered to himself.
"Yes, Ryder."
Arthur sat back in the passenger seat, took off his white gloves, which were slightly stained with cigarette ash, and threw them on the dashboard.
He looked at the German trucks struggling in the mud, and at the German soldiers who were in a sorry state because they were stuck in the mud, and a smile that was unique to "con artists" curled up on his lips.
It was a kind of arrogant, almost divine, condescending attitude that looked down upon all living beings.
"Moses parted the sea."
Arthur flicked his cigarette ash: "The only difference is that we're not using canes, we're using radio waves. And we're not dividing the Red Sea, we're dividing the German supply lines."
"Speed up. Don't keep our audience waiting."
At Arthur's command, the fake SS convoy, painted with exaggerated white skulls, suddenly accelerated down the empty avenue.
The Maybach HL120 engine roared merrily, its tracks kicking up a light cloud of dust.
They were like a group of noble knights, about to inspect the "infantry" who were rolling in the mud.
There will be another chapter tonight.
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