Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 643: Lines Drawn

Berlin moved with a rhythm all its own, trains roared like arteries of steel, ministers marched in and out of marble halls, and beneath the great Reichstag dome, Eva von Zehntner sat in quiet contemplation of maps that could decide the fate of millions.

She wore an elegant dress in the colors of House Zehntner, tailored flawlessly, not for ostentation, but to signal that she was her father’s daughter.

Across from her, Prince Wilhelm, her husband, and the Kaiser’s grandson, poured over diplomatic cables, his brow furrowed, his uniform crisp.

He looked every inch the Prussian prince. But next to Eva, he looked like a soldier standing next to a storm.

“De Gaulle is pushing again,” Wilhelm muttered, sliding the latest communique across the table.

“French border patrols near Namur, artillery drills in Metz. They’re not even pretending anymore. The Low Countries are panicking.”

Eva didn’t need to read it. She already had. Twice.

“Belgium has increased arms orders by thirty percent this quarter alone,” she said. “Mostly light anti-tank weapons and munitions. They’re rearming as fast as they can without alarming their own population.”

“The Dutch too,” Wilhelm added. “But more quietly. Radios, fuel reserves, stockpiling rations… They want us close, but not in.”

“And France has made it clear,” Eva said, folding her hands, “that any boots on Belgian soil, even to train their border guards, will be seen as a casus belli.”

Wilhelm scoffed. “De Gaulle is blustering. He knows we’d raze Paris before his second glass of Bordeaux.”

“That’s not the point.” Eva’s voice was calm, precise, more surgical than scolding.

“The French are counting on our restraint. They think Father won’t risk another war over a minor incursion, that he’s too focused on the south, on Mittelafrika.”

Wilhelm glanced out the window, where the shadow of a Zeppelin patrol ship passed over the city like a slow, gliding omen.

“And are they wrong?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Eva said. “They’re not wrong. But they are stupid.”

She stood and walked to the projection board, flicking it on. Satellite images, courtesy of the Reich’s recently established orbital command, and satellite network.

Over the last year Germany had launched dozens if not hundreds of sattelites into space.

At a rate of frequency that had caused significant concern for other nations.

But the technology was too far ahead of nations like France, the United States, and Great Britain to properly understand what they were dealing with.

Germany, more specifically, Bruno lied through his teeth to the international community, stating these satellites were for deep space research. To understand the universe around them.

But currently Bruno was more interested in what was happening on Earth, rather than the great beyond.

These were not probes, but military satellites. Everything from reconnaissance, communication, and even global positioning. It was now within the Reich’s capabilities.

Because of this they were easily able to detect French troop movements, fortifications along the Ardennes, and rail stockpiles moving eastward.

Which Eva showed the copied images onto the table with a heavy sigh.

Then, overlays of German economic arteries: Belgian coal, Dutch electronics, North Sea oil rigs now partnered with Hamburg’s naval fueling depots.

“They think the Reich is still the old empire,” Eva continued, “a monolith afraid to lean too hard on its neighbors. But they forget, this isn’t the age of Metternich. My father ended that age with fire.”

Wilhelm looked at her with a measure of awe and caution, the same expression many had once given her father.

“So what do we tell Brussels?”

Eva turned, eyes sharp.

“Tell them we’ll honor our guarantees, sovereignty intact. But any threat to the Low Countries is a threat to our trade, our security, and our pride. They are not our vassals… but they are under our protection.”

“And The Hague?”

“The same.”

“And France?”

Eva smiled, cool and composed.

“France can keep drawing lines in the sand. But when the tide rises… lines vanish.”

—

Late afternoon sun slanted through the draped windows, filtered to a dull orange glow over the long oak table.

The cabinet had gathered in full, ministers of defense, foreign affairs, intelligence, and finance, all seated with tightly folded folders and tighter expressions.

General Charles de Gaulle stood at the head of the table, eyes trained on the map pinned to the far wall.

Each one marked confirmed German naval deployments, trade ports gone silent, radar anomalies near the English Channel.

France’s borders were lit like the rim of a lit cigarette, glowing, ready to burn.

“They ignored the ultimatum,” said Foreign Minister Bérenger, voice clipped. “Belgium hosted German advisors under the guise of ’logistical cooperation.’ No troops stationed yet, but the footprint is undeniable. Berlin didn’t even offer us the courtesy of a reply.”

De Gaulle didn’t move. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth, unmoving.

“They’re calling our bluff,” said Admiral Drouet, head of the French Navy. “Or rather… they’re treating it like a bluff. And why shouldn’t they?”

A silence settled in the room. Everyone knew what he meant. France had warned Germany not to deploy in the Low Countries.

Germany had responded by doing it anyway, without a speech, without an announcement, without even the performative diplomacy.

“They dismantled the rebellion in Mittelafrika in four days,” Drouet continued. “Four. Not with a prolonged campaign, not with tanks. With high-altitude bombers, thermobaric cluster munitions, and local auxiliaries on the ground. There wasn’t even time for a press cycle to spin it. By the time the papers caught on, Monrovia was a crater.”

“We have no means of intercepting their high-altitude platforms,” said General Lanrezac of the Air Force, defeated. “Our best fighters can’t reach them. Our radar cannot see them. We are, for all intents and purposes, blind.”

“But surely the Americans—” began one minister.

“The Americans are afraid,” De Gaulle snapped, finally turning. His voice cracked like a whip, refined and furious. “They saw what happened in Liberia. They saw what happened when the Reich simply chose to unveil its High Seas Fleet. They are clinging to peace by the fingernails because they know the Reich wants them to.”

A slow, cold silence.

De Gaulle leaned forward over the table, hands flat now, voice low and steady.

“This is no longer about matching tanks to tanks. Bruno von Zehntner has thrown out the old rulebook. He does not negotiate. He does not posture. He does not warn. He speaks with fire. And right now, we have nothing that can burn brighter.”

He looked up.

“So we will buy time. We will build what we must. Shield our skies. Harden our hearts. Because make no mistake, war is coming. And if we are not ready to kill gods, then we will be slaves to one.”