Max Jäger Runs
The provisional bridgehead on the Bern River was a roar of engines.
Tanks of the 1st Armored Battalion thundered across the pontoon bridge one after another.
Clunk, clunk.
The weight of steel pressed down on the rubber pontoons linking the bridge, making the river water slosh and heave — but the bridge held. It had been worth every drop of Charming Speechcraft I'd poured into the engineers.
I perched on the hood of the command half-track parked at the riverbank, watching the tanks that had just finished crossing.
[Status: Fuel 40% — Ammunition 60%]
On paper, we needed rest. We'd fought the orcs yesterday, pushed through the forest all night, and executed a river crossing that very morning. The machines were holding — for now — but their physical limits were plain to see.
The textbook move was to halt here, take on supplies, and dig in a defensive line.
But.
If we stop now, we die.
I studied the Minimap. Red dots scattered in panicked, disorderly clusters. The enemy's command structure had already collapsed.
That said, my window was anything but generous. Even if a commander died or communications went dark, an army is a great machine that instinctively clumps together to survive. The moment those bastards collected themselves and built a defensive line, the operation would grind into a stalemate.
"Lieutenant Colonel."
Right on cue, Major Frederica approached.
"1st Company has completed the crossing. All follow-up echelons can be over within thirty minutes."
She unfolded her map and began the conventional recommendation.
"Per doctrine, we will establish a defensive line at our current position. Dig in a semicircular perimeter and hold the bridgehead until the main force — until Division Commander Falkenhein joins us…"
"No need to hold anything."
I cut her off flatly.
"We don't defend. We keep moving."
"…I beg your pardon?"
Frederica looked flustered. I preempted her before she could start reciting doctrine in protest.
"Major. The tactical manuals you studied assume the enemy is in a normal state. These bastards' command apparatus is paralyzed."
"With respect, Lieutenant Colonel," Frederica said, "the fuel gauge is scraping bottom and we have no spare parts. If we push another forty kilometers like this, the tanks will start falling apart."
The point was valid. Machines don't run on willpower. But I gave a dry little laugh.
"So — your proposal is to stop here, dig trenches, and wait for the main force?"
"It's the safest and most certain—"
"Wrong."
I said it coldly, cutting the air with my hand.
"If we stop, they stop too. We'd be handing them exactly the time they need to catch their breath and re-form their lines. But if we run straight into their heart right now?"
I tapped Soissons on the map with my finger.
"Their reporting chain will be so tangled they won't even know where we are. They'll burn their golden hour confirming, doubting, and re-reporting. We run on that confusion — we use it as fuel."
Frederica fell silent. Her blue eyes flickered rapidly — not with vague fear, but because she was simulating my insane operation inside her head.
Time to drive the wedge home.
Charming Speechcraft.
Charming Speechcraft (Lv. 3)
Stimulating Frederica von Kessel's competitive pride and tactical reasoning.
"Major. You're the youngest armored battalion commander in the Empire, aren't you?"
I put a subtle emphasis on youngest as I looked her in the eye.
An armored battalion commander barely into adulthood at twenty. She was a war hero in her own right — a figure straight out of a novel, someone who had graduated the academy before she was even of age and piled up staggering honors crisscrossing the battlefield.
"Did you climb to that seat by rote-memorizing doctrine? Or by doing the things nobody else could?"
The look in Frederica's eyes changed.
"……You're saying we requisition fuel locally?"
"That's right. The roadside is littered with their gas stations."
Frederica began slashing rough lines across the map with her pen, firing off thoughts faster than I could follow.
"Then speed is life. There's no time to stop at enemy fuel depots and refuel. We'll have to seize their fuel trucks wholesale and top off on the move, hose to tank."
"Oho."
"And to prevent engine overheating we'll have to remove the governors. That halves engine life. By the time we reach Soissons, every engine in the battalion will be scrap metal. Does that bother you?"
Killer instinct was blazing out of her eyes. I smiled with satisfaction.
"Not in the least. If we win, His Majesty the Emperor will buy us brand-new ones."
"……Ha. Unbelievable."
In the end, Frederica couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing.
"In my entire military career, I have never met anyone like you, Lieutenant Colonel."
"An honor, truly — to hear that from the Empire's prodigy."
"That wasn't a compliment. It means you're insane."
"On the battlefield, the lunatics always outlive everyone else."
"……I can't exactly argue with that."
I rolled my shoulders and raised the radio handset to start issuing orders.
"Lead element — do not stop. On contact, suppress with fire on the move and pass through. Take no prisoners."
Then I went one step further.
"One more thing. From this moment, cut the wireless net to Division HQ."
I climbed into the command half-track. The engine growled to life.
"Let's go."
To Soissons.
Ashen Forest — main body of the Imperial 1st Armored Division.
Major General Wilhelm von Falkenhein had spread his map across the hood of his command vehicle, a cigar clamped between his teeth.
"Whew…"
His attention was fixed entirely on the vanguard — the Jäger Battlegroup. Heaven only knew what sorcery the man employed, but the battlegroup had already punched out of the forest, and the main body under his own command was scrambling just to follow in its wake.
"Chief of Staff."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you honestly believe this makes sense?"
Falkenhein stamped the ground with his boot. By every outward appearance, it was a swamp.
"According to the engineer report… the substratum is bedrock."
The chief of staff reported, sweat pouring down his face.
"Clear away the underbrush and there's a granite shelf running underneath. Lieutenant Colonel Jäger… traversed precisely along that bedrock line. Without a single meter of deviation."
"I suppose he travels with a geologist in tow."
Falkenhein barked a dry laugh.
Everything he'd witnessed from the forest's edge to this point was beyond staggering. Areas that had been judged impassable for armor and routed around — Max Jäger had smashed straight through them, almost ostentatiously. And not by simply grinding forward, either. He had uncovered secret corridors that nature itself had hidden away.
What shocked Falkenhein most of all was the ground. Lining the route, crushed beyond recognition under tank treads, lay orc corpses in unbroken succession.
"S-Sir. Look at this."
The chief of staff, white as a sheet, pointed at something caked in mud.
"This is… Zagros?"
"…Yes. The newly emerged Orc Great Chieftain, they say. As you can see, he is currently…"
"Ha. Incredible. The man's become road pavement."
"……"
Falkenhein marveled in earnest — but the chief of staff who'd delivered the report could hardly share the sentiment.
He distinctly remembered opposing Max's operation in the briefing room. By armored doctrine, tanks did not enter forests. But the reality before his eyes said otherwise.
"For that Jäger bastard, this wasn't even a battle. He just stepped over it all like speed bumps."
The division commander's mutter was exactly right. The outlandish strategy of breaking through a forest with tanks to strike the Republic's rear — an attempt doctrine deemed flatly impossible — and he'd pulled it off this easily.
Lieutenant Colonel Max Jäger. What in God's name is that man? Unless he has elven blood in him…
Leading massed lumps of steel weighing dozens of tons through a forest at forty kilometers per hour? That wasn't tactics. That was a circus stunt.
"Distance to the vanguard?"
Falkenhein asked next. Confirming his spearhead's position was only natural.
"…That's the thing, sir. Communications have been severed."
The chief of staff answered with a pained expression.
"What?"
"Since the last transmission announcing that the Jäger Battlegroup successfully crossed the Bern River, they've gone radio-silent. It appears… they've cut the net deliberately."
The staff officers around him stirred.
Severing contact with higher headquarters on his own initiative and acting unilaterally? That was a court-martial offense.
"He's lost his mind. He's uncontrollable."
"We should dispatch the military police this instant and strip him of command—"
The staff officers fretted — but Falkenhein alone threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Hahahaha! The military police? Are you lot joking?"
"B-But, sir…"
"He knows exactly what he's doing."
Falkenhein pressed his finger hard against the map — on the city of Soissons, the enemy's rear supply base.
"He knows that if we try to link up with him, we'll only tie his ankles."
Falkenhein had no choice but to admit it. Max Jäger's tempo of maneuver had already escaped the bounds of common sense.
Suppose he ordered the man to slow down for coordination with the main body? The effect of surprise would evaporate. Max knew that — which was why he'd shut his ears and bolted.
Cheeky bastard. My command is nothing but a hindrance to him, is that it?
Did that sting? No.
On the contrary, Falkenhein felt his blood catch fire. As the Emperor's own Guard Captain he had seen every species of elite, but never a commander who fought like that — feral, wild, like a mad dog off its chain.
"Leave him be."
"Sir?"
"Let's see how far a foal with a snapped rein can run. Besides, whatever ground he's trampled over is as good as a highway."
Falkenhein stepped down from the hood and walked toward his dedicated command tank.
"Entire division — advance at full speed! Forget maintaining formation! Just don't lose sight of that madman's tail!"
He grinned as he climbed aboard.
"If we want to keep up with him, we'll have to run until our soles smoke!"
GRUUUUMBLE—!
The 1st Armored Division's main body roared back to life.
"Out of the way! Get out of the damn road!"
HONK! HOOOONK—!
Highway 4, heading for Soissons.
The driver of a Jäger Battlegroup tank was hammering his klaxon like a madman.
SCREEEECH!
A Republic supply truck ahead swerved in blind terror and slammed into the roadside ditch with a tremendous crash. Potatoes and cabbages from the cargo bed tumbled all across the road.
"Aaah — my potatoes!"
The driver thrust his head out, on the verge of tears — then froze, mouth hanging open, at the thing sweeping past him.
RUMBLE-RUMBLE-RUMBLE!
A steel monster tearing down the road, spewing black exhaust. On the turret's flank, the Iron Cross — the emblem of the Empire — gleamed unmistakably.
"An… an Imperial tank…?"
The driver rubbed his eyes.
This was the rear — forty kilometers behind the front. Behind the natural fortresses of the Ashen Forest and the Bern River lay a peaceful country highway a world away from any war.
So why were Imperial tanks racing down it?
"Hey — hey! There's more coming!"
His companion shouted. Behind the first, dozens more tanks and armored cars were streaming down the road in a single column.
The highway descended into chaos. Buses carrying soldiers back from leave, mail trucks, even civilians' ox carts — everyone scattered to the roadside in a panic.
The Jäger Battlegroup didn't spare them a glance. Not even a warning shot, though the turrets swiveled past.
They simply ran. As if nothing on this road — not one single thing — was their destination.
I opened the hatch of the command half-track and let the wind hit my face, savoring the chaos.
Spread across one corner of my vision was a 3D map more precise than any navigation system.
Structure three kilometers ahead… a checkpoint. Anti-tank obstacles, too. We'll go around.
I picked up the radio.
"Lead element, three klicks ahead. Checkpoint — there's a barricade. Don't punch through it; swing right onto the farm track and bypass."
[…Understood.]
Frederica accepted the order without complaint.
Before long the lead tank left the highway and eased onto a narrow dirt track between the fields. With a juddering racket, the tank column cut straight across a cornfield.
The Republic military police dozing at the checkpoint stared blankly at the procession of tanks gliding right around their post.
"Is… is that ours?"
"Unbelievable… wrecking the whole field, the sons of bitches."
"Say, that cross marking looks a little off, doesn't it?"
"Must be the new pattern."
It never once crossed the military police's minds that those tanks might be the enemy. The driving was too confident, too utterly natural.
"……Lieutenant Colonel. They're… waving at us?"
Hanna said, her tone pure incredulity.
"Wave back."
I smirked.