Axis of Evil

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Cornered Animal

Führerbunker

Undisclosed Location, Berlin

25^th May 1941

The German High Command had been amused when the British had deployed a radio-jamming weapon against the Russians, watching the chaos though the lives of their attached officers with interest. Russian attacks had simply stalled when they lost contact with the commanding officers, who had howled and shrieked about the unfairness of it all with commissioners looking over their shoulders. It hadn’t taken long for the Germans to realise, however, that the same technique could be used against them, perhaps to even greater effect.

Under Speer’s pressure and Kesselring’s urging, the Germans had spent six months carefully laying out thousands of miles worth of landlines, leading all over the Reich. In a display of German thoroughness that would have surprised – and horrified – the British intelligence services, they had created a multiple-redundancy network that would have survived anything up to a nuclear attack, providing communications without relying on the radio. Still, it was only through the landline to Sweden that the German High Command first realised that the attack had begun… and by then it was too late.

Himmler moved as calmly as he could into the Fuhrer’s meeting room. Hitler’s behaviour had become more and more erratic as the year passed, ranging from supporting entirely sensible and prudent plans from the Wehrmacht to proposing and insisting upon monstrous plans that could not have hoped to work, even under pre-Transition conditions. His focus on Stalin’s threat – a threat that had not yet materialized – was proving a detriment to the German war effort; his insistence on preparing a two million man army in Poland was drawing strength away from the Middle East front.

Himmler smiled to himself and took a little pleasure in seeing how some of the senior Wehrmacht and Luffwaffe officers quailed. It didn’t matter about Goring still being the Fuhrer’s chosen successor, or how Rudolf Hess had proven so unreliable; Himmler was the second most powerful man in the Reich, almost a demigod. He grinned to himself; there was only one god in the Reich.

Hitler’s voice was sharp and questioning. He hadn’t been quite the same since the quack Doctor Theodore Morell had started to prescribe future medicines for him, although even Himmler was unable to say if they were genuine. He didn’t believe it; one of the few details he agreed with Goring on was that Morell was untrustworthy and probably a Jew.

“Well?”

There was a brief embarrassed silence. “Mien Fuhrer,” Kesselring said carefully, “the Americans have invaded Norway.”

“How dare they?” Hitler screamed. “The mountains of Norway will eat them alive!”

Himmler made a mental note to have Morell assassinated. “Have everything moved up to Norway at once,” Hitler bellowed. “Panzers, guns, men, submarines, move them all up!”

There was a second uncomfortable pause. “Mien Fuhrer, we lost most of our transport capability at Malta,” Kesselring said, and flinched as Hitler rounded on him. The Fuhrer hadn’t taken that news very well at all. “We can only hope to fly in a handful of troops.”

“We spent millions on those transports,” Hitler erupted. “You assured me that they were necessary.”

Himmler took a breath. Kesselring was needed in the war cabinet. “Mien Fuhrer, we have other options,” he said. “We have to punish the British for their imprudence, by using the new terror weapons.”

“Excellent,” Hitler proclaimed. “The new weapons will bring us victory!” He smiled around the room. “However, we need something else. I want the special weapon readied for use in Norway if necessary.”

“It will be done,” Himmler assured him. The special weapon could be prepared at once. “I’ll see to it at once.”

Information came in to the bunker in fits and patches as landline operators strove to reconnect the Reich together. Cruise missiles, unstoppable and highly dangerous, had struck at targets all across northern Germany, as well as several locations in Denmark. The new and terrifying British weapon, the firebomb, had been deployed; the British had used it against Luffwaffe bases in Germany and France.

The news from Norway, relayed through Sweden, wasn’t good. Himmler expected that the Swedes would switch sides as soon as they were convinced that the Anglo-Americans were unstoppable; they hadn’t been happy about working with the Germans in the first place. Only the dread of a Soviet invasion had forced them into Germany’s arms.

He watched silently as the master strategists put the new information on the map. He scowled, for the first time appreciating the sheer distance of the Reich; units on the map might well have been destroyed by now. Narvik had fallen silent; had they been attacked or were the communication cables simply destroyed? He almost wished that he were ignorant; the known landing sites were intimidating enough, even to him. A major American force had come ashore at Bergen, another near Trondheim. He glared at the map; whatever forces remained near Narvik had been cut off.

“A word, Herr Reichsführer,” Kesselring said. “In my office.”

Himmler followed the Field Marshall into his office. It was one of the few rooms in the bunker that didn’t have an SS listening device inside. The only other rooms were Hitler’s apartments, which he shared with Eva Braun, and his own office. The Wehrmacht experts regularly swept the rooms – under the pretence of searching for British bugs – and removed the SS bugs. It had become almost a game between the SS security experts and the Wehrmacht experts, Himmler knew, and he had tolerated it because it gave his people better training than anything the SS could provide elsewhere.

He shook his head. Perhaps it was time for that practice to end. The Wehrmacht might be a hotbed of subversion.

“Herr Reichsführer, we cannot withdraw the troops from Norway,” Kesselring said flatly, as soon as they were alone. “We have to order them to surrender.”

“The Fuhrer would not like that,” Himmler said, rather unnecessarily. “He dares not lose face in front of Stalin.”

“Herr Reichsführer, we do not have the air or sea transports required to either supply them or withdraw them,” Kesselring said. “Most of the air transport capability was destroyed over Malta. That little we have left would be totally exposed to British aircraft.”

“Then we will have to do what we can to divert British attention,” Himmler said. “Are the V1s not ready?”

“Yes, but you know how unreliable they are,” Kesselring protested. “Even with the improved targeting data, we still cannot guarantee that they will hit anything worth hitting.”

Himmler shrugged. “They are cheap and don’t cost a life to build,” he said. “I think that’s worthwhile, don’t you?” He smiled darkly. “These British are far too concerned about civilian deaths,” he said. “We’ll simply launch a handful of them at the British cities.”

Kesselring met his eyes. “The Fuhrer wishes to use gas,” he said. “You know what they’ll do in return.”

Himmler nodded grimly. “Ignore that order,” he said. “I’ll cover you; claim that the gas-armed missiles were shot down.”

Kesselring nodded. Himmler almost laughed; the poor man had to be wondering what the hell was going on. Kesselring being beholden to him would make life easier, in the future. A reputation for being reasonable might just come in handy, when the Fuhrer overdosed on something and died.

Professor Horton looked up from the book he was reading when the SS guard knocked on the door. After a quick and futile check for intruders or ambushers, the SS guard stepped aside, allowing Himmler to enter. As always, the Reichsführer looked like a dapper little schoolmaster, except his smile never touched his eyes.

“Good” – he glanced at the clock, having long since lost track of the passage of days – “morning, Herr Reichsführer,” Horton said.

Himmler scowled at him. “It’s not a good morning,” he said. “The Americans have invaded Norway. Why?”

Horton wanted to scream at the unfairness of the question. Even his extensive knowledge of history didn’t cover events that hadn’t happened. Still, Himmler demanded answers… and the lives of his family depended on the answers.

“Convenient target,” he said finally. “They have to give the army some experience, and diving into Norway is the only way to do it if they won’t want to risk a clash with the Russians as well.”

Himmler’s eyes glittered. “You feel that they would be scared of the Russians?” He asked. “Could we lure them into conflict with them?”

“Perhaps,” Horton said. “They won’t want to add to the enemy list with so much trouble in America itself.”

Himmler smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “We have been working on shipping supplies to the different factions in America, particularly the ones that agree with us, as well as selling guns through Portugal to the Mexicans.”

Horton blinked. Yet again, Himmler was showing that he was far more clever and dangerous than future history had painted him. “The French Canadians were more than happy to accept help from the Vichy French, but we have to smuggle the weapons in via Portugal again,” Himmler continued. “However, what about Norway?”

Horton considered. “Their logistics can’t be very good,” he said. “However, they’re likely to be better than your logistics, simply because they command the sea and the air. Once they overwhelm Norway, I think they’ll try and turn it into a bomber base.”

Himmler nodded. “And, where will they land the year afterwards?”

Horton considered. There weren’t many options, really. “Depends on what they want to do,” he said. “Landing in Spain would force you to fight on the end of long supply lines, but it would take them years to fight their way up through Spain to France to Germany. Italy wasn’t such a bright idea the first time around, even with more of your factories positioned in Italy, but they might want to lay claim to Sardinia and Corsica as more bomber bases. Once they have entire fleets of bombers, they’ll overwhelm you by force of numbers.”

“The precision weapons are bad enough,” Himmler scowled. “We’ve been building newer weapons of our own, but every so often they hit something vital by accident and we get tossed back a few weeks.”

“France is probably the most likely target,” Horton said. It occurred to him that a combination of modern technology and luck could put a force in Denmark, but he dismissed the thought. “It worked before.”

“We’ve been building defence lines for the last three months,” Himmler said. “They would have to be determined.”

“It rather depends on the outcome of the battles in Norway,” Horton said. “Can you resupply them?”

Himmler shook his head. “The Fuhrer has ordered that they stand and fight to the last,” he said. “They should tie up the enemy for several weeks.”

“I suppose,” Horton said.

Himmler’s next meeting was with someone totally different, the head of the German atomic project. SS Obergruppenfuehrer Hans Krueger heard the news with a grim face.

“The Fuhrer has decreed the use of the special weapon in Norway,” Himmler said. “How long will it be before the weapon is ready?”

“The weapon can be made in a week,” Krueger said. “It’s basically simple; we take the extremely radioactive rubble from the British site and pack it all into the container. Once we move it to the target, we detonate it, which will spread radioactive dust everywhere.” He coughed. “Unfortunately, it is impossible to predict the immediate effects – the British didn’t send us that data, after all.”

Himmler smiled at the weak joke. “Tell me, how can it be used in Norway?”

Krueger took a moment to think before answering. “Herr Reichsführer, I would advise against using it in Norway,” he said. “I have a strong suspicion that trying to ship one of the weapons to Norway would result in the weapon ending up at the bottom of the sea.”

“I know,” Himmler said. He’d been hoping that Krueger would raise that objection. “Do you have an alternative deployment plan?”

“Oh, yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Krueger said, and outlined it. Himmler had to laugh; the plan was delightfully simple in its cunning. “We can launch the mission right now,” Krueger said, “and hopefully hand the Americans a blow from which they will never recover.”

“I want all the arrangements made now,” Himmler ordered finally. “You have full authority to launch the mission as soon as possible.”

Kristy Stewart had once read a description of combat that characterised it as months of boredom, followed by moments of screaming terror. Her life in Nazi Germany was exactly the same; she spent days or weeks within the bunker recording interesting facts, or out on the streets of Berlin, recording how well the Germans were coping with the war. There were few interviews of any significance; she was only granted the occasional interview with the higher-up Nazis, all of which were edited before she was allowed to broadcast them back to Britain.

She smiled to herself. The Nazis hadn’t realised that everything the camera saw was stored and burst-transmitted back to England. Still, there was so little to send back that was of real significance – they kept her away from the real centres of power within the bunker.

“The Americans have invaded Norway,” Roth said. Much as she hated to admit it, she was becoming bored of the SS officer. She’d taken him to bed in a wave of fear and terror after meeting Hitler, and he was good in bed, which made up for a lot, but he wasn’t very imaginative. Still, there were compensations.

“They’ve landed the Marines?” Stewart asked, delighted. Perhaps now there would be real news. “What’s happening?”

Roth shrugged. “Reports are confused,” he said. “There’s talk of atomic weapons being used in Bergen, the city is such a wreck.”

“The government wouldn’t use atomic weapons in Norway,” Stewart said. “There are thousands of innocent lives there.”

“Perhaps it was the Americans,” Roth said. “They must have their own nuclear program.” He smiled and gave her a kiss. “I have something special for you today,” he said. “An interview with Herr Palmstron, the Norwegian Ambassador.”

Stewart thought rapidly as Roth led her though the corridors. In theory, Norway was an independent country under the rule of Quisling, who had invited in the Nazis. In practice, it was ruled by the Germans though Quisling, who had almost no power at all. It was a very tricky problem for all involved; she suspected that the Germans regretted having come up with the legal fiction.

“Here we are,” Roth announced, opening the doors. “Herr Palmstron, this is the English reporter.”

No blow job for you tonight, Stewart thought angrily, as Palmstron examined her breasts. They must have passed the inspection, because his eyes wandered all over her body, swaying in a way she had come to understand as being caused by drunkenness. Why was the Ambassador drunk?

“A pleasure to meet you,” he slurred. “I hope that you will take back the statement of the legal government of Norway, as headed by Prime Minister Quisling.”

He had been drinking. Stewart caught a whiff of the fumes as he talked. “Naturally, I will relay your statements to the British people,” she said. She made a show of setting up her camera, aware that it had been recording from when she entered the room. “Now, you may speak.”

Palmstron pulled himself up into an upright position. It would have looked impressive if Stewart hadn’t known how much he had drunk. “From the Government of Norway to the British Government,” he said, and Stewart saw Roth’s frown. Doubtless the idiot was reading the message as it had been written. “You have illegally entered the territory of a state that was not at war with you. Your weapons have wrecked great devastation on our soil, slaughtering thousands of our citizens, our troops and the forces deployed to protect us from Soviet invasion.

“We demand that you withdraw your forces at once from Norway, or we will be forced to wage total war against you,” he continued. He was starting to sway on his feet. “We will use each and every means at our disposal if you refuse to pull out. End communication.”

“Thank you,” Roth said quickly.

“A few questions, if I may,” Stewart said quickly. Perhaps the Ambassador was too drunk to notice, or even to care. “What do you think about the rumours of British forces – or American forces – using atomic weapons?”

“Totally true,” Palmstron said, swaying. His eyes focused in on her breasts. “What else could destroy the small town of Bergen so completely?”

“I have no idea,” Stewart said, pressing her luck. The SS minders didn’t seem to know what to do. “Do you feel that your government is accepted by your people?”

“Of course it is,” Palmstron bellowed. “Prime Minister Quisling is a great man and…”

He slumped to the floor, passed out. “I guess he can’t take his ale,” Roth said. “I’m sorry about that; he’s been drinking all day.”

“Pretty disgusting,” Stewart said, carefully unimpressed. “Is there any chance of an interview with the high commanders?”

“I’m afraid not,” Roth said. A distant explosion echoed though the bunker. “The British air force is back,” he said. “We have to go deeper.”

“You always do,” Stewart said, and was rewarded with a blush. “Where are they targeting?”

“How should I know?” Roth asked dryly. “Could be the Reichstag, could be one of the barracks for the troops, could be a factory… could be some children’s home that didn’t get blasted before. All I know is that they’re striking at anything that might be useful in reaching Norway; Luffwaffe bases, communication centres, everything that might be even slightly useful.”

He scowled. “We heard from Japan,” he said. “They lost a battle against a British fleet, although they claim to have inflicted heavy losses on it.”

“That’s interesting,” Stewart said. He didn’t pick up on her sarcasm as they headed into the deeper bunkers. “Do you think that they will succeed in taking Australia?”

“I don’t think so,” Roth admitted. “Still, the ultimate victory of the Reich is assured.”