The year is 1858. The world is at war. The good people of Heliopolis live under constant bombardment as Persian Cavalry and German Tanks duel just outside the city walls. Central African farms and villages are razed with impunity by Malinese fighters. Starvation runs rampant throughout Europe as the embargoes on Indian foodstuffs and medicines allow disease to spread unchecked in the larger cities.
It is a static war as good German people huddle in their homes against the numberless armies of Persia and their snarling battle-thralls. Government officials promise that soon, the attacks will lose their momentum and then the glorious Wehrmacht will go on the offensive, gaining land and glory for Germania. But there is no abatement in sight. The German people have nothing to show for their troubles but hardship, suffering, and a few scraps of insignificant land.
Deep within his palace, far away from the hungry masses of greater Berlin, Frederick stares pensively at a map. The Persian homeland is enticingly close, defended by but a few battalions of troops, but to send the army out now would be to invite disaster. Heliopolis must not fall. The Statue of Liberty there is nothing more than a symbol, true, but it is a symbol of all that the German Empire stands for. Time is not on Frederick's side, though, as it is only a matter of time until the once-friendly Indians and the inscrutable Chinese bring their war machines to bear.
The Suez airbase is a constant bustle of activity. It's not much of a town, just a canal and a landing strip in the middle of the desert, a few support personnel and a theater to entertain the troops. Fresh planes come in every year from all over the empire, from as far away as Madrid. They are immediately sent out to help break the near-continuous sieges that plague Heliopolis and Mecca. The airmen fight the good fight. Not a single plane has been lost in the war.
But the garrisons of the besieged cities grow thinner and more tired. Air support can only do so much. And Suez itself is woefully unprepared for attack, should Cyrus seek to wipe it off the map. Optimism is in short supply this close to the front lines, and more and more pilots have taken to drink.
The Age of the Panzer is over. The Arabian outpost of Najran may have been their last unassisted conquest, and that came at a heavy cost. Of the eight battalions sent to take the city, only three survived to see it fall. Newly trained troops are wise to the limitations of the lumbering armor, and are no longer subject to the shock and awe of the Tank Charge. Helicopters have the power to attack Panzers from angles that the old machines cannot hope to even see. More and more factories once dedicated to Panzer production now build Bombers and the sophisticated weaponry of Marines. Scientists work feverishly on technologies that they hope will bring Armor into a new, Modern age, but progress is slow.
Protests spring up across the Empire as idealistic students band together with starving workers and the parents of the fallen to call for the end of the war. Before long, Jails will be needed across Germania.
A bit wobbly from having denied himself a proper meal for days and a good night's sleep for weeks, Frederick boards a private train bound for Rome. As the Alps speed by, his thin fingers clutch at the thin folder of all of the intelligence available to him. He mentally berates himself for bringing it; any maps or charts he had available to him would be available in triplicate in the War College. This war was getting beyond him. It was time to seek the advice of the numerous generals stationed in Rome.
"Well," Frederick says thinly, standing before the Hall of Generals. "As you know, our situation is dire. What do you recommend?"
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