Second Chance

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Light of Truth

Berlin, Germany

20^th September 1940

Somewhat to Roth’s surprise, neither Himmler nor the Fuhrer had said anything about his sudden relationship with the English reporter. Kristy Stewart was many things, but discreet wasn’t one of them; and in the Fuhrerbunker even the walls had ears. Three days after they became lovers, Roth watched beside her as the recording of the Fuhrer interview was broadcast in Britain, and transmitted directly to the small television she’d brought with her.

“I can’t access any other channels,” she explained, as Roth lay beside her. Her naked body glistened with her sweat. “Each channel has a particular frequency, and if you haven’t purchased access you can’t watch it.” She chuckled; it did interesting things to her breasts. “Of course, most of the channels are complete and total crap, but some are worth watching.”

Roth watched as the Fuhrer’s warning about the use of atomic weapons was concluded. The Fuhrer’s press director, a short squat little man, had been delighted with the editing software that allowed even lighting and shadow to be changed. The Fuhrer looked far more impressive after the original image had been altered slightly, making his words clearer and body firmer. Roth, who’d seen the original footage, was impressed.

“Do we have any way of seeing reactions to it?” He asked, as the presenter spoke on. Stewart shook her head. “Pity.”

“The Bracken Consortium, the recent development of numerous small companies, was delighted to announce the beginnings of a trade deal with equipment,” a black presenter said. Stewart had already dismissed her as a real bitch; someone without an ounce of integrity in her stacked body. “Jim Oliver, recently released from German custody, has been appointed Managing Director of the American concerns, which will help to aviaiate the economic crisis that has been ongoing since the Transition.”

Roth leaned forward as the presenter spoke on. “Is there anyway to get more details?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stewart said. “Someone you recognise?”

“I met him briefly,” Roth said absently, knowing that Himmler would not be happy if he discussed anything concerning Oliver with her. The TV image changed to a cartoon, he was amused to discover that the Americans were portraying their people as yellow-skinned. “What on Earth is that?”

“The Simpsons,” Stewart explained. “It’s a comedy cartoon about a stupid American family.”

Roth shook his head. “I won’t ask,” he said, checking his watch. “The Fuhrer was quite happy with your report, so the Reich information bureau has cleared your travels around Berlin, although they do warn that if the British launch an air raid, there is often hardly any warning from the coast watchers before the planes start launching their missiles.”

Stewart shrugged. “Danger exists everywhere,” she said. “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”

“Reichminister Goebbels was also very happy,” Roth said. “He would like to discuss the power of the press with you at some later date. I would advise you not to be in the same room with him alone.”

Stewart gave him a blinding smile, totally unselfconscious in her nakedness. “But I’ve got you to protect me,” she said. Roth felt a sudden surge of protectiveness. “Not to worry; Goebbels has quite a reputation back home.”

Roth smiled. The files had been very clear on how Goebbels had ended his own life after Hitler killed himself. It had led to even more promotion for the man the SS called the ‘mouse-doctor’ behind his back; whatever his skill, he wasn’t the sort of Aryan the SS wanted. Himmler had a private, but widely-known reward for anyone who found evidence proving Goebbels’ involvement in any number of seedy practices; even Roth had tried to uncover something incriminating.

“I suppose he is well-known back there,” he said finally. “Are you ready to go out?”

Stewart grinned, squeezing one of her breasts. “I don’t think that going out in the cold like this is a good idea,” she said. “Let me get dressed first, ok?”

Roth nodded. Her devotion to her work was almost as amazing as her appetite for sex. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said. “I have to clear our trip with the Reichsführer-SS.”

“You don’t want to watch?” Stewart asked. Roth grinned, shook his head, and slipped outside. Picking up the telephone, he made arrangements while pulling on his own clothes, finally donning his black uniform jacket. Suitably attired, he waited for her as patiently as possible; even Russian women took less time to get ready to go out!

One of the most annoying details about the Fuhrerbunker, at least in Stewart’s view, was that it’s construction blocked the UHF transmissions she’d been planning on using to send her reports directly back home. The edited version of the Hitler Interview, as she’d termed it in her mind, had been transmitted – from a transmitter she’d placed on the outskirts of the city.

“Of course the RAF wouldn’t write you off by slamming a missile into the Fuhrerbunker, if they knew where it was,” Roth had said dryly, when she’d enquired about the refusal to bring the declared transmitter into Berlin. Her poor cameraman, bored and alone, was been treated well, at least according to a text message from him. Still, he wasn’t with her – and there were only a limited amount of things to do.

She felt Roth take her hand as they walked down the long tunnel to the entrance, which was somewhere in Berlin. She knew she was totally lost, and didn’t care. Roth, she was confident, would look after her; she’d worked hard to make him have feelings for her. Her own fear and shock, astonishing to a person not given to self-introspection, had driven her forward; she’d acted wanton in the knowledge that it wasn’t entirely an act.

I guess I wanted a big strong man to hold me and tell me it was going to be great, she thought wryly. What would the Association of Female Reporters think of that?

“Here we are,” Roth announced, in his improving English. Stewart let him lead her up into Berlin, somewhere around the centre of town. Her pocket PC buzzed; it was receiving signals from the new network emanating from Britain. The signal was still weak, still nothing like what it would have been in 2015, but it began the task of transmitting her complete report to the BBC anyway.

“Impressive,” she said, and meant it. Even under the threat of war – a pile of rubble showed where one of the government’s buildings had once stood – Berlin still seemed to be a gay town… except for the limited number of men. There were guards around the rubble, and a handful of gaily-decorated officers, but where were the civilian men?

“They’ve gone to be soldiers,” Roth said, when she asked. “Your people, with the empire you seem intent on rebuilding, scared us. The women here are on their leave; most of them work in factories and other industries.”

Stewart blinked. “What will it do to your society when the men come back?”

“I imagine that the women will go back to their kitchens,” Roth said absently. Stewart smiled to herself; nice abs usually meant limited brainpower. Roth seemed more than willing to look at her breasts and no further; playing the wide-eyed innocent came easier.

“You don’t think that they’ll want to keep control of their earnings?” She asked. “Female spending power might become very important to the Reich, you know.”

Roth shook his head. “The Fuhrer has decreed that women are to work to produce the next generation of Germans,” he said. “Nothing is more important than that; women in the workplace is a temporary emergency measure.”

Stewart very much doubted that the Fuhrer was right about that, but didn’t say anything. Roth led her on a long walk, wandering around the centre of town, before coming to a building. A man sat there, riding a wheelchair, and Roth saluted him.

“This is Gunter,” Roth said. “He used to teach here.”

Stewart looked at the pile of wreckage and gasped. “I taught junior boys,” Gunter said. His voice was a dull rasp; he hawked and spat. “There were thirty boys in the classroom when your missiles came calling; only five survived.” He waved a hand at his legs. “Look what happened to me.”

Stewart shuddered. Gunter’s legs ended in bloody stumps. Even 2015 technology couldn’t entirely fix such a serious problem. “What did the children do to deserve that?” Gunter demanded. “They were killed!”

“I’m sorry,” Stewart said automatically.

“Gunter comes here every day, despite the SS guards,” Roth said, as he steered her away. “His school no longer exists and we can’t give him back his legs.”

Stewart checked her camera. It had faithfully recorded the entire scene; a touch of a button sent it to Britain. She shook her head sadly; had that really happened?

The five Eurofighters swooped in across Denmark, their presence reported by German radar stations as they closed in on Germany. Behind them, a single large transport followed, concealing powerful broadcasting systems. Flying Officer Victor Abernathy checked his radar as the small force crossed over Denmark and headed towards Germany.

“Eagle-one, I have seventeen German aircraft rising from near Bremen,” Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar reported. “Victor, one of them is a jet!”

“We confirm, Eagle-one,” the AWACS said. The AWACS, despite prodding by Abernathy and his wingmen, was hanging back over the North Sea, protected by a further ten Eurofighters. “Confirmed; flight profile matches simulation of early ME-262 design.”

Abernathy shook his head inside his helmet, wondering at the German action. Unless he was wrong, the ME-262 wouldn’t be able to match the Eurofighter; the Germans would have difficultly supplying it with the materials it needed to be a threat. On the other hand, the ME-262 might be able to match the Eurofighters height; they had been a nuisance to the allies in the first war by doing just that.

“Only seventeen,” he said, into the radio. “They must be running scared. Eagles, salvo ASRAAMS, Sierra-one, designate targets for Eagles.”

There was a moment’s pause as the AWACS distributed target locks to the Eurofighters. The ASRAAMS were fire and forget missiles, designed to operate independently, but computers on the AWACS could control them if necessary.

“Fox-two,” he said, as the targeting data appeared on the screen. “Blow through them!”

The Eurofighter shuddered as three ASRAAMS launched from its wings in quick succession. The other planes launched, their missiles lancing ahead of them, swatting down the German aircraft with ease.

“We confirm, all targets serviced,” the AWACS said. “The mission is good to go.”

“Oh really,” Dunbar said, her strong contralto easily drowning out any comments from the other pilots. “How much do you want to bet that the response is ‘go to hell’ or some other comment along the same lines?”

Abernathy shrugged. He knew that the mission was dangerous – the Germans hadn’t bothered to return the two pilots they knew to have landed on German-held territory – but he also knew that the flight was almost untouchable. With seventeen of their aircraft destroyed in less than a minute, the Germans would be less eager to challenge them – he hoped.

“It’s worth a try,” Abernathy said finally, when none of the other Eagles commented. Dunbar was known for her temper; Abernathy was perhaps the only pilot who dared to contradict her. “Anything that takes some weight of us is for the good, eh?”

“This is Speaker,” a new voice said. “We are beginning transmission now; stand by.”

In the early evening, at 1700hrs precisely, Radio Berlin broadcast from Berlin to every corner of the Reich. Everyone in Germany was supposed to listen to the programme; failure to do so could be considered evidence of impure thoughts. In a comforting blast of martial music, the announcers read out the latest news – or propaganda – and encouraged everyone to do their duty for the Reich. Afterwards, everyone stood for the German anthem, and returned to work.

“This is Radio Berlin,” a particularly annoying nasal voice announced. Stewart smiled to herself; Goebbels, for all of his skill, wasn’t good at choosing announcers. Whatever criteria he used, it wasn’t good enough; a honeyed female voice might have been better. “Today the glorious forces of the German Reich, under the leadership of Fuhrer Hitler, crushed…”

The nasal voice vanished under a blast of static. Stewart blinked up at Roth, who looked puzzled. All around the small café, the patrons stared at the radio. The owner thumped the set a couple of times, but the static remained.

“We’re being jammed,” Roth said, his tone puzzled, until the static vanished. A new voice appeared, speaking, and Stewart felt her jaw drop.

“This is Generalmajor Erwin Rommel,” the voice said. “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Apparently, at some time in the future, I would have realised the truth; the Fuhrer, in the name of his own power, would commit the most terrible crimes, crimes for which Germany would be blamed and punished. I was lucky; I was rescued before the SS could execute me.

“Tell me; have you considered the price of Hitler’s Reich?” Rommel asked. Stewart noticed the café patrons glancing nervously at Roth, whose face was darkening. “Across Poland and the Balkans, all those who would pose a threat to the Reich are being exterminated, to the last man, woman and child. In Germany itself, all those who do not confirm to the impossible ideal of German manhood will be destroyed; the Reich will destroy everyone who does not fit its ideal.

“For a man of honour to refuse to fight such evil would be a grave sin. I have no choice, but to take up arms against Adolf Hitler, and fight until the Reich, until the SS, until the evil, is burned from Germany, or it destroys me. If you know, deep within your heart, that Hitler is evil, then come and join me. Help me take back our country, before the British and the Americans and the Russians occupy us, and crush us for years.

“Already, Germans living in America are joining the Free German Army,” Rommel concluded. “If you want to fight and you can make it to free territory, join us. Help recover Germany, because if the other nations, the democracies, do it for us, they will not be gentle. Germany cannot win this war; Germany can only survive by overthrowing the Nazis and returning the nation to its people.”

There was a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “We return you now to your normal program,” he said. “Reports on the progress of the Free German Army will be transmitted every week to you, same time, same channel.”

The transmission ended. Static hummed for a long moment, and then the nasal voice was back, talking about production levels as if nothing was wrong. Stewart wondered; would the Nazis bother to respond, or would they seek to ignore Rommel?”

“I think we annoyed them,” Dunbar said, as the radar suddenly lit up with contacts. Dozens of German aircraft, some jet-propelled, the others more conventional propeller planes, were rising from the ground, being vectored up towards the British planes.

“I noticed,” Abernathy said. The temptation to engage the Germans was considerable, but he knew that it would be futile. “All planes, its time to return to the hanger.”

“Aww,” Dunbar said. “Victor, how about just taking a few pot-shots?”

“No,” Abernathy snapped. “All planes, return to the base. We’re not here to fight.”

“Naturally, it was decided to keep the truth from the German public for the benefit of his family,” Goebbels said, speaking into a microphone and at Stewart’s camera. She held it steady, ignoring Goebbels’ eyes trailing all over her body, despite the conservative dress she was wearing. “The facts of the matter required tact and discretion.

“Generalmajor Erwin Rommel, the former commander of 7^th Panzer, was discovered to have been influenced by evil Jewish elements after the arrival of the warped Britain,” Goebbels continued. “The intention of the Jews was to corrupt him and turn him into a weapon against the Reich; for his own safety the Fuhrer ordered him removed from command and placed into a private rest home. When he showed signs of recovery – he was on the verge of denouncing the Jews – they assassinated him.

“Fellow Germans, the man who spoke on the radio was a fake,” Goebbels said. Stewart had to admit that it was clever; how many people had heard Rommel? “He is a faux Rommel; a Jew pretending to be one of the greatest Germans who ever lived and served the Fuhrer. The Fuhrer himself gave Rommel his command, trusted him with his own protection; could such a man ever submit to Jewish manipulation? We buried the real Rommel only a week ago; how dare they try to pretend that he still lives!

“Towards this extent, the Fuhrer today pronounced a death sentence on the fake Rommel, and all associated with him. When the Reich secures its final victory, the false one will hang, and no one will see his final tomb! For the moment, the Reich advises people not to listen to the transmissions; they will introduce dangerous ideas and dilute the perfection of the Aryan nation. Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuhrer!”

The transmission creased and a fawning technician ended the recording. Stewart tapped the button on her camera as she lowered it; the recording would continue, but neither Goebbels nor Roth would know.

“A fascinating instrument,” Goebbels said, as she slung the camera around her neck. “Perhaps you could obtain a few for us.”

Stewart shuddered; even the most sexist producer had never addressed her in those oily tones. “I very much doubt that I will be permitted to bring more of them here,” she said. “This one is keyed only to me; anyone else would be unable to use it.”

“A great pity,” Goebbels said, and leered. It took all of her self-control to avoid slapping him hard enough to knock out some of his teeth. “You will, of course, allow us to see the finished… data stream before you transmit it back to England.”

“Of course,” Stewart said, and allowed Roth to lead her out of the room. Danger was doing what it always did to her hormones; she wondered if Roth felt the same. Didn’t men get erections before they died?

“He means it, you know,” Roth said quietly, leading her back to her quarters. Despite her knowledge of German, she knew that she would be quickly lost within the bunker if she tried to navigate on her own. “Don’t transmit without his permission. Even the Reichsführer-SS would be unable to protect you.”

“I’ll get on editing it,” she said, as they reached her quarters. “Unless, of course, you have something else you want to do?”

He grabbed her and kissed her, hard. It was hard and brutal and it was just what she needed at the moment, something to force the demons and the stress away for just a few more days. The lovemaking was savage, almost painful. Afterwards, she held him while he slept, plotting her next step.