Axis of Evil

Chapter Twenty-One: Unto Us a Child is Born

Undisclosed Location

Berlin, Germany

15^th May 1941

The early-morning period in the bunker, as far as men who hadn’t seen the surface for weeks could tell, was broken by a baby’s cry. Heinrich Horton, Professor Horton’s child, was born at precisely 0930hrs, named for Himmler. Horton, who would not have chosen that name, made a mental note to have it changed once the nightmare was over.

“He’s gorgeous,” Irma whispered. The blonde bombshell stared at the child in Jasmine’s arms; the labour had gone very smoothly. The midwife, a pureblood German, sniffed in disapproval before cleaning up the mess and departing from the room with a final sniff.

“Yes, he is,” Horton said, looking down at the child. Heinrich’s skin was a very light brown, later it would darken as the other two children’s had. He felt a surge of love, combined with a surge of pure worry; Himmler now had yet another hold on him. His escape plans, ones that had relied upon the members of the German Resistance, had gone down with the resistance, and without them he knew that there would be no help. He’d known the Berlin of 2015, but not the dark eerie Berlin of 1941.

“My heartiest congratulations as well,” Himmler’s voice said from behind him. Irma’s face lit up with the kind of joy Horton had only associated with orgasm; the SS guards jumped to attention. “I dare say that the Fuhrer will extend his congratulations as well, later.”

“Thank you, Herr Reichsführer,” Horton stammered. “I would be honoured if he would agree to be the child’s godfather.”

Himmler led him out of the hospital ward into a private room. “After Fralein Braun broke down and demanded that he marry her, I suspect that the Fuhrer would not be happy at the suggestion,” Himmler said. “However, he did send a gift.”

He passed across a box of cigars. Horton saw them and blinked; the cigars weren’t Cuban, or American, but British. The date was 2015. His mind raced; clearly Himmler had managed to secure a pipeline into Britain itself. That was… distressing.

“They’re a bit weak for the tastes of my men,” Himmler said, “and I don’t smoke at all, but feel free to light up if you want to.”

Horton shook his head and took a seat. The tiny room wasn’t equipped as an office, more of a small common room. “What do you want me to tell you, Herr Reichsführer?”

Himmler smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes. “I have questions,” he said. “Are you aware of a man called Bose?”

Horton frowned. “Dudley Bose?”

“No,” Himmler said, lacking the background to recognise the joke. “Subhas Chandra Bose.”

“The Indian Nationalist,” Horton said.

Himmler nodded. “As you may have realised,” he said, passing over a folder from the little bag he always carried around with him, “the effects of the… Transition have gone all around the world by now.”

“The butterfly effect,” Horton said. Privately, he was aghast; if events were changing, he might be making mistakes and never know until it was too late. “A changed event changes the next event.”

“I assume that the Japanese were not defeated so badly by British forces when that war broke out?” Himmler asked. “Personally, I despise the little yellow men, but they have their uses.”

Horton shook his head. “The four carriers they lost in the Indian Ocean were supposed to be destroyed at Midway, a year in the future,” he said.

“Indeed,” Himmler said. He gave Horton a long calculating look. “We have sent Bose into India,” he said. “What effect will he have on the Indians?”

Horton frowned. Again, it was difficult to provide a mixture of accurate and misleading information. “Probably very little,” he said, and Himmler scowled. Still, the Reichsführer knew better than to demand the impossible. “In the original timeline, the Raj was shaken by a series of defeats, including Singapore and the original battles in the Indian Ocean. That damaged the prestige of the Raj – always a difficult factor to account for – and led to demands for increased autonomy.

“Unfortunately, the Indian Nationalists were divided,” he continued. “The Muslims, I think, remained outside the ‘quit India’ campaign, as did most of the Princes. The British still had overwhelming strength and crushed the few examples of armed rebellion that broke out.”

Himmler glared down at the floor. “Do you feel that Bose will be able to do anything worthwhile?”

“I don’t know Bose as well as I do some of the other figures,” Horton admitted. “Under the circumstances, with the British in a far better position, his only hope would be to recruit some of the princes. Unfortunately, they dislike both fascism and communism.”

“Perhaps they will have no role in the new independent India the British have promised,” Himmler mused. “Tell me, how will the British seek to use Rommel?”

Horton considered. “As a alternate focus of loyalty and as a commander,” he said. “The skills of the Desert Fox are not skills to be wasted.”

“And as the figurehead for the so-called government in exile, he could turn people away from the Reich,” Himmler muttered. Horton hid his annoyance; this was the fifth time they’d gone over this. “Thank you for your comments.”

As if I had a choice,” Horton thought. He stood up. “I may return to Jasmine and Heinrich?”

“Not yet,” Himmler purred. “I have a special task for you.” Horton felt his blood run cold. There was something in Himmler’s voice that was simply… terrible. “It involves our propaganda efforts.”

Horton blinked. He had thought that attempting to influence either 2015 British or 1941 American opinion a waste of time. Everyone knew something about Hitler’s crimes; it wasn’t as if Germany looked as weak and defenceless as Iraq had, twelve years in the past or sixty years in the future.

“As you know, we have had the pleasure of a reporter from your nation in Berlin,” Himmler said. “With Shieir’s arrest, she remains the only real reporter in Berlin. She has requested an interview with one of the people from the jet.”

Horton felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Me?” He asked. “Why me?”

“Because you have been the most cooperative,” Himmler said. “Captain Jackson was most unhelpful; we had to torture the mud person who was with him to get him to cooperate, and we have to check each and every bit of his work.” He smiled thinly. “Naturally, as a new father – again – you would be inclined to discuss the matter.”

Horton felt the glimmerings of a plan. “I assume that you want me to answer questions?”

“Of course,” Himmler said. “You can, I’m sure, think of a few questions that she might ask.”

Horton nodded. “What do you want me to say?”

Himmler beamed. “Only that you are here of your own free will,” he said. “I want you to invite others to come if they’ll come. We guarantee good treatment and payment.”

“I’ll get writing a few questions,” Horton said. “Do you want to read them first?”

Himmler shook his head. “I trust you not to do anything to endanger your children,” he said. “I’m sure that you can be trusted that far.”

Kristy Stewart grinned openly as she read the note from Himmler, written in his own hand. It had taken her several minutes to parse out the note – her written German was nowhere near as good as her spoken German – but as soon as she’d done it she hugged Roth hard enough to hurt.

“Ouch,” he complained, as she started to run kisses down the back of his neck. “I do have work to do.”

“Oh, who has time for work?” She asked, pulling the airhead persona around her like a shroud. “This is a time for celebration.”

Afterwards, Roth plucked the note from her fingers and read it with considerable interest. “You are to interview Herr Doktor Professor Horton,” he said. “You are to record an interview with him, which is to be reviewed by Herr Goebbels before it is transmitted back to the United Kingdom.”

Stewart leaned forward, allowing her breasts to drift across his chest. She found that that short-circuited the male thinking process. “I can’t wait,” she breathed in his ear. “This could really boost me into the top ranks of reporters.”

“You’d better get dressed for it,” Roth said. She felt the regret in his voice, smiled as he rolled over to watch her. His face suddenly changed. “Kristy, what’s to stop you getting pregnant?”

The alarm in his voice made Stewart giggle. “I have the full implant,” she said. “I’m good for five years of unprotected sex.”

Roth relaxed visibly, watching avidly as she pulled on her basic German outfit. A simple brown skirt, matching brown jacket, and yellow blouse. Her brassiere and panties, plain white cotton, were hidden under the clothes as she donned them; her hair was pressed back by a simple clip. She checked herself finally in the mirror; she looked stunning.

“Don’t you think you’d better get dressed?” She asked, as Roth stretched out on the bed. “We have only…”

“Two and a half hours,” Roth said, sitting up. “I think you’d better make certain that all of your equipment is in working order.”

Stewart picked up the first camera and checked its self-diagnostics. “I wish you’d allowed me to keep my cameraman here,” she said. “What happened to him anyway?”

“Sent him back to England, via America,” Roth said dryly. “Remind me to tell you sometime how much trouble that caused.”

Stewart laughed. “I’m sure that you found it easy,” she said. “Everything seems to be checking out – how is the offensive going?”

Roth blinked at the sudden change in topic. “The troops that were supposed to secure Malta were slaughtered by British infantrymen after they had surrendered to the Reich,” he said. “The troops had accepted a surrender and started to collect weapons when the British opened fire.”

“Bad British,” Stewart said. She didn’t believe him; the year that had almost passed since the Transition was hardly time for the British Army, so concerned about bad press, to acquire new bad habits. It was far more likely that the defenders had defeated the attacking force and killed most of them.

“Indeed,” Roth agreed. He glanced down at his watch. “Only a few hours left to go,” he said. “Are you excited?”

Professor Horton wasn’t sure what he had expected; a fat elderly woman or a young girl. Kristy Stewart managed to transcend the stereotype; she wore basic German clothes, but with long blonde hair streaming out behind her, despite the best efforts of a clip in her hair. She reminded him of Jasmine; she had the same basic air of competence.

“Professor Horton, I presume,” Stewart said. Her voice was warm and thrilling, but also professional. Horton realised that she understood the dangers as well as she did; they were acting out a play for their watchers. “My name is Kristy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Horton said, offering her his hand. Doctor Goebbels’ experts had worked on his appearance, shaking their heads over his skin colour, but they’d worked wonders. The neatly-tailored suit was an exact copy of the Fuhrer’s, from before the period he’d sworn to only wear a uniform until the war was over.

It must be getting pretty rank by now, Horton thought suddenly, and avoided a giggle only by an effort of will. He waved Stewart into a chair, noting how the little camera perched on her shoulder continued to follow him with its unblinking eye.

“First, would you mind explaining for the viewers how you got here?” Stewart asked. “Enquiring minds would like to know.”

Horton remembered a Sherlock Holmes story when two men had passed secrets in Greek. That wasn’t possible here. “The air liner we were in – myself, my wife and our two children – crash-landed in France. After some confusion, the Reich decided that I could best serve them as a Professor of History.”

He saw Stewart’s eyes flicker; was she bright enough to understand the implications? “An interesting story,” she said. “What exactly do you do here?”

“I advise the Reich on finding a peaceful solution to the conflict between Britain and Germany,” Horton said, parroting the lines Himmler had given him. “The need to allow the Jews to leave peacefully means that we must have peace. If Britain recognises the Reich as the pre-eminent power in Europe, peace could come quickly.”

Stewart’s eyes narrowed. He wished for telepathy, for some way to talk privately. “Do the Nazis have a proper peace plan?”

Horton knew that the plan would be unacceptable to the British, no matter who was leading them. “The Fuhrer chooses to offer a truce in place, followed by a withdrawal back to the original lines, with the exception of the oil wells in Iraq,” he said.

“Well, that’s not one of my priorities,” Stewart admitted. “Tell me, what’s your life like here?”

Horton felt his pulse race. “It’s not bad,” he said. “We spend almost all of our time in the bunker here. My wife just had our first child.”

Stewart lifted an eyebrow. “And you’re here of your own free will?”

“Like those who went to Iraq in 2003, Andy McNab, John Nichol and John Peters,” Horton said. He relaxed inwardly; the dreaded words were out. “It’s an interesting life, down in the bunker with the Fuhrer and the others in charge of the Reich. It’s designed to survive a nuclear attack, don’t you know?”

Stewart smiled. She’d missed the keywords. “Any messages for the folks back home?”

“Just one,” Horton said. “The Reich wishes to invite anyone who wants to move to Germany to move here,” he said. “If a person has skills the Reich needs, payment will be good and forthcoming.”

The meeting of the inner inner circle of the Reich took place in a single meeting room, deep under Berlin. The engineers had been expanding the network of bunkers constantly, digging deeper and deeper under Germany, until nearly a third of the population could have sheltered underground. The Luffwaffe reconnaissance experts, although they were certain that the British had picked up on some of the digging, were confident that they would be unable to track the full extent of the tunnels. After all, they were designed to survive a nuclear attack.

“The attack on Malta was a complete failure,” General Galland reported grimly. He scowled; General Student had come close to shooting himself before his subordinates burst in and saved him. “The British destroyed almost all of the 1^stFallschirmjäger Division, under General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann.”

“This is intolerable,” Hitler snapped. His fist pounded the table. “Am I always to be surrounded by incompetents?”

There was a long pause. “There is good news from the Middle East,” Kesselring said finally. “The Russians are taking the brunt of the British counterattacks, particularly with their raids into northern India. That allowed us to move closer to Baghdad and Amman.”

He didn’t mention Rommel’s successful counterattack. “Excellent,” Hitler proclaimed. “When will we take the Suez?”

Kesselring hesitated. “We need to strengthen our logistics first, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. It was a good a way as any of saying ‘not soon.’ “Our attack was glorious, and we destroyed a number of British tanks, but we took a beating ourselves. We need time to repair, time to scout out the enemy positions, and time to prepare.”

“No later than a month,” Hitler said. He had something else on his mind. “Speer?”

Speer coughed nervously. “Production of tanks and V1s is continuing,” he said. “I must caution against any plan to invade Britain that way, particularly after Malta. Not only were the elite paratroopers wiped out, but we took heavy losses in transports, even the older transports. Aircraft production is concentrated on fighters, long-range bombers, and transports.”

Hitler rounded on him. “You promised that we would be able to create craft equal to the British super craft,” he snapped. “Explain!”

There was sweat on Speer’s brow. “Mien Fuhrer, we have had problems in endeavouring to adapt modern technology – British technology – to our productive capabilities. We may have a complete… tech ladder, but it is still the work of years to move onto production.”

“Indeed,” Hitler sneered. His people’s eyes flickered nervously; the Fuhrer was no longer the man he had been. Some of them considered the possibilities for expanding their own power bases, others considered how bad it would be for the Reich if he fell. “So, burning out Britain is not an option?”

Himmler coughed. “At the moment, the British are playing host to a number of American troops,” he said. “Although they don’t know for certain, our sources suggest that they’re aimed at Norway.”

Hitler growled. “They will not take Norway,” he snapped.

“No, Mien Fuhrer,” Kesselring said. The Field Marshal had found it hard to keep track of Hitler’s newest schemes, each one crazier than the last. “However, we will have to… withdraw some of the infantry units from Poland and…”

“Then Stalin will grow stronger,” Hitler protested. His voice rose to a scream. “The Communists must be crushed…!”

“And they will be,” Himmler said, reassuringly. “I think what Field Marshal Kesselring means is that the combat power of Army Group Centre will not be reduced significantly if we send a few infantry divisions and their supports to Norway. Once we crush their invasion, we can turn on Stalin before the Allies can regroup their efforts.” He smiled darkly. “Indeed, they might end falling out with each other.”

There was a long pregnant pause. Kesselring shot Himmler a mixed look of admiration, gratitude, respect and annoyance. Himmler, who could hardly have cared less, ignored it. Hitler seemed to be lost in thought, his mind ticking over the details.

“I approve,” he said finally. “Naturally, I will work with you on the operations plan, but I will leave the general implementation up to you.” He glared around the table. “I want the American attack defeated before July, at which point we will head east,” he said. “I want to snatch the oil wells in the Ukraine before General Winter intervenes on their side, and then we will renew the conflict in spring. By this time next year, I expect to see German bulldozers levelling the Kremlin.” He smiled. “Once we hold the resources of Russia, we will bleed them white… and when we have our own bombs, they will have to make peace on whatever terms we desire.”

“Steig Heil,” they chorused in unison, chanting to hide their disquiet. They knew the verdict of history, and some of them knew that events would not unfold the way that Hitler demanded. In their hidden hearts, some of them began planning for their own survival… or for their own power.