The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty: The Price of Pride

Over France

27^th April 1942

Darkness cloaked the green fields of France, but the bombers were not affected by their inability to locate any landmarks or lights on the ground. They’d seen a handful of burning fires as they’d crossed over the coast – the remains of an RAF attack on the German radar stations – but apart from that France was as dark as ever. No lights broke the darkness; the Germans took a very dim view of it.

“Dark as a nigger’s tits,” the navigator exulted. He glanced down at his screen; the simple GPS system that would tell them when they were over the target, a joint German-French barrack house for the Wehrmacht. The Germans had been moving more and more units into France, preparing for the invasion that everyone knew would be coming soon.

“We’re not allowed to say that anymore,” Captain Paul Goodfellow reminded the navigator crossly. Officially, the USAAAF 5^th Air Force was mixed-race; a number of black pilots had already arrived, working with the whites as equals. Goodfellow wasn’t sure what he felt about that; they knew what they were doing, but they were convinced that they were equals.

He snorted. It took some combat missions to see what a man was truly made of. If they came back alive without panicking or compromising the mission, then they would be equal.

“Well, what can we say?” The navigator asked. His console – something called an ECM console – started to bleep. “Sir, we have a handful of German aircraft, coming towards us.”

“How did they see us?” Goodfellow asked sharply. “Have they got radar of their own?”

“None registering,” the navigator said. “I think they must be probing, rather than hunting us directly.”

Goodfellow nodded. “Pass the contact details to the gunners,” he said, wishing that the B-29 had the British techniques for slaving the guns directly to the radars. “Order them to open fire.”

The bomber echoed to the chatter-chatter-chatter of the machine guns, loaded with explosive bullets. Goodfellow waited while the navigator shouted out details and targeting instructions, watching as blips disappeared from the screens.

“They didn’t come after us,” the navigator said.

“I noticed,” Goodfellow said. “Time to target?”

“Around ten minutes,” the navigator said. “We’re supposed to spread out.”

Goodfellow shouted navigational instructions at the pilot as the entire formation began to peel apart, heading slightly away from one another. The horror stories about German rockets – or even accidentally shooting down an Allied aircraft – had been enough to convince the USAAF to keep the planes well separated during an attack.

“Reaching bombing range,” the bomber said. His modified bombsight calculated all of the angles instantly, allowing the bombs to be perfectly targeted. “Hold her steady…”

The bomber lightened perceptibly as the bombs fell into the darkness. Moments later, flickering blasts could be seen on the ground. Goodfellow wondered what they’d hit; had they taken out a tank depot, or the barracks itself?

“Time to get out of here,” the communications officer said. The young man lifted his headphones. “The commander wants us heading back to blighty.”

“Really,” Goodfellow said. “Pilot, take us back to Britain. I hear some beers calling my name very loudly.”

“I’m surprised you can hear anything over the engine,” the navigator said. He shouted out a series of directions. “That should get us back home double-quick; has anyone checked the IFF setting?”

Goodfellow glanced at the tiny packet he carried. It was on his person because it was rigged to self-destruct when a code sequence was entered, just to prevent it falling into the hands of the Germans. If they tried to enter the UKADR without one, they would be shot down.

“It’s working,” he said. The tiny transponder was pulsing out its signal. “They’ll see us coming.”

“So will their women,” the navigator muttered. “Ah, well; onwards we go.”

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

28^th April 1942

Himmler sat in the centre of his office, reading again the rejection of his peace terms. That had stung more than he had expected, and the bombing raids were starting to become a nuisance. Even though he’d replaced Goring with the far more capable Galland, the Luftwaffe simply wasn’t capable of acting as a night-fighting force without radar.

He cursed grimly. Galland had given orders to withdraw most of the surviving Luftwaffe officers and pilots – along with their planes – to eastern Germany and Poland, conserving them for the day that the British and Americans would invade France. He was certain, from the targeting of the bomber raids, that France would be the prime target.

“It makes sense,” he said to himself. The French Government might be a loyal ally – although only for a given value of ‘loyal’ – but the French population was apathetic. There were only a handful of anti-German fighters, true, but the population was hardly inclined to help the Germans, particularly after seeing what a single British bomb had done to the German oil wells. German propaganda had been quick to dismiss the weapons as fakes, but the British silence was more convincing.

He scowled as he considered the map. The final remains of the forces in Sweden were making their way into Denmark. It was the second possible invasion front; an attack through Sweden into Germany, via Denmark. It had been a nightmare during the Franco-Prussian war, and it seemed to have reappeared. Of course, Patton would have to occupy as much of Sweden as possible, but the reports of the disaster in Iran would make Stalin hesitate.

He didn’t know for certain what had happened in Iran. All he knew was that the British had pulled off a strategic victory, finally defeating the Russian advance into Iran. With the fall of Tabriz, they could isolate and defeat the remaining Russian forces, while sending their accursed SAS agents deeper into the Ukraine. He knew from reports that there was a minor insurrection going on against the Russians, even though Stalin had reacted quickly and dispatched more NKVD battalions.

“France or Denmark,” he mused, studying the map. France would be a better choice for logistical reasons; the Royal Navy or the United States Navy hadn’t yet managed to clear the mines in the waters near Sweden. They would hardly risk losing their major combatants in the seas, would they? On the other hand, France was further from Germany; it would give the Germans more time to prepare their defences when the attack fell upon France.

He picked up his phone. “Summon my grand vizier,” he ordered, and put the phone down again. Five minutes later, Horton entered, followed by an SS guard. “They have rejected the peace offer,” Himmler snapped. “Explain!”

“I told you to offer to disarm your nuclear program,” Horton said. Himmler nodded at the guard, who slapped Horton once across his head. Black blood was the same as white blood, Himmler noted absently. “I…”

“You have been kept alive to offer advice,” Himmler hissed, as Horton swayed on his feet. He motioned for the guard to help Horton to a chair. “Why have they rejected my peace overtures?”

“They don’t trust you,” Horton said. His voice was steady, but Himmler could hear the pain under his words. “They think you’re just trying to buy time, like Saddam.”

Himmler ignored the comparison. “So… they have begun bombing France and parts of Germany,” he said. “Why?”

“They want to hurt you?” Horton asked. Himmler shook his head at the guard, who was preparing another slap. “They want to ensure that you cannot move troops into France quickly.”

“That’s what Galland suggested,” Himmler said. “Why? Are they preparing an invasion, or something else?”

“They’ve had time to build up a resistance moment,” Horton said. He must have been hurt worse than Himmler had thought; his voice was starting to slur. “Perhaps the resistance is planning an uprising.”

Himmler considered it. Many of the French Communists, who would have played an important role in the resistance, were loyal to Stalin, who was Himmler’s ally. They might not fight for Vichy, but they would refuse to act against it. On the other hand, ever since losing Algeria, there were Frenchmen who blamed the Germans for it… and the British were clearly meddling in Russia as well.

“That would make sense,” he conceded ruefully. “I don’t suppose you know anything useful about the French resistance?”

Horton shook his head. The motion clearly caused him pain. “You’ve scooped up many of the important figures in the history books,” he said. “DeGaulle vanished along with Britain; at least he hasn’t appeared to protest losing Algeria. I’m as blind as you are.”

Himmler smiled, oddly reassured. At least this time the British would be equally blind. “We could move more troops into the region in defence against a British attack, and use them to crush resistance,” he mused. “I’ll have Kesselring see to it at once. Now… where will they land?”

Horton stared at him. Himmler would have enjoyed his fear if there had been time. Part of him knew that it wasn’t a reasonable question, but he was angry. He wanted a solution quickly; one that would allow him to buy time.

“It depends how many troops they can spare,” Horton said softly. “Most of their army will still be in the Middle East, heading into Russia. Spain would be the best target if they want to meet a resistance; Franco has hundreds of enemies, after all. Then southern France, or even Italy.”

“We have crushed any opposition in Italy,” Himmler said. The entire program had been carried out during 1940; Italy had been turned into an occupied country so quickly that resistance had been futile. The so-called independent Italian army in Ethiopia survived only because the British had other things to worry about.

“Then southern France,” Horton said. “I don’t think that they would gamble on Normandy again…”

“Kesselring believes that they have the capability to do that,” Himmler said. “If they were able to land a force in Norway, they can certainly land a major force in Normandy.”

Horton frowned. “They did land there once before,” he said. “Western France, near Bordeaux?”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said. “Another possibility is making the leap into Denmark.”

Horton seemed to be recovering; he shook his head with more vigour. “They wouldn’t dare do that when they have the Soviets at their back,” he said. “They need intact supply lines for the attack to succeed, and they won’t have them if Stalin puts a major offensive into Norway and Sweden.”

“Perhaps,” Himmler said again. “You may go; Kurt, escort him to the hospital, at once. Gently.”

“Jawohl,” Kurt said. “Right this way… sir.”

There was an option that Horton had been careful not to mention, he knew. If it were used by a 1942 force, it would have probably have been a disaster, as Operation Market Garden had been in the original timeframe. A 2015 force, however, might just be able to pull it off.

His head hurt, even as the doctor poked and prodded it thoughtfully, but his mind was singing. One way or another, there would be an end to the nightmare, and perhaps soon. The doctor, who’d managed to get his hands on some medical texts from 2015, bombarded Horton with questions, even as he examined the bump on his head. He wanted to invent a better x-ray machine, and a bone-setting machine that had been a prototype when the Transition occurred – and Himmler wanted the SS medical corps to develop genetically engineered superhumans.

“You may return to your rooms,” the doctor said finally. Kurt led him out of the room. Horton followed the SS man, trying to hide a relieved smile. He knew that there was no way that he could warn Jasmine… or perhaps he could. As he re-entered his quarters, he booted up the laptop and started to type. He frowned as he typed; the message would have to pass German inspection, before Stewart could forward it for him.

Dearest heart – I hope that you and the children are fine. Heinrich doesn’t have to go to the Market Garden, and won’t unless he’s taken. Inform my granddad Charles that he doesn’t have to go there – and he’s not to force him to go.

He smiled to himself, before typing a longer message, one that would be sweet and loving and entirely in character. Perhaps Jasmine would understand, perhaps not. He’d done the best he could at such short notice.

The car was outside the entrance to one of the bunker’s sub-sections; the entire complex had now spread under almost all of the city. Stewart ignored protocol to give Roth a passionate kiss goodbye – feeling her transmitter vibrate as it dumped its entire memory back to Britain – and climbed into the car.

“The pick-up site is due north of Berlin,” her driver said. He’d been introduced to her as Kurt. Two other SS men sat in the front of the large car; her bodyguards. They drove away from the entrance, heading away from Berlin. Stewart sat back and relaxed as best as she could; the long assignment was finally over. As she started to close her eyes, she felt the car pull over in a woodland grove.

“Is the pick-up here?” She asked, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Kurt said. The… lust in his voice jerked her awake, even as the first of the goons opened the door and reached for her. Acting on instinct, she kicked him in the groin, only to be grabbed by the second goon. Her hand grabbed her camera and hit the emergency button, before she realised how foolish that was; they’d warned her that there would be no rescue mission. The goon knocked the camera to the floor; the lights went off.

“Bitch,” Kurt snapped, as she was forced against the side of the car. His hands snapped handcuffs on her, before tearing her skirt away from her. She screamed once, struggling as hard as she could, before she felt a little prick at the back of her neck. The effect of the drug was instantaneous… she felt her mind drifting away from her body, and she was barely aware of their violation.

She lost track of time, and came back to herself in the backseat of the car. Her entire body was covered in bruises; she hurt everywhere. Handprints could be seen along her legs, her breasts, and her vagina hurt. She started to cry as the car continued to drive, knowing what they’d done.

“Woken up, Jew bitch?” Kurt asked. He leered at her body; her position revealed far too much of her for comfort, even without the sudden knowledge that they could take her whenever they wanted. “How are you feeling?”

A sudden fury flashed through her. “Fuck you,” she snapped, and cringed mentally, expecting a beating. Her eye lit on the camera and a dim memory surfaced; the system would appear broken if the emergency mode were to be selected.

“It’s broken,” Kurt jeered. She picked it up with her handcuffed hands, looked at it, and gave vent to the tears that were lurking behind her eyes. The system was in emergency mode; she was confident of that. Sudden hope flickered inside her mind; rescuers could find her! “We’re here, look,” Kurt said, and she felt her hopes crash.

The car passed through an SS checkpoint without more than a cursory look at their papers. The guards didn’t seem too worried about them having a half-naked woman in the back, perhaps it happened a lot in the place. The car passed up a woodland drive and stopped in front of a manor house.

“Welcome to the sanctuary of the blind,” Kurt said, opening the door. “Out, bitch!”

Stewart, knowing that he could force her out at any time, complied. He squeezed her breast as she crawled out, having difficulty moving with her handcuffed hands. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her to her feet. Stewart tried to focus, but it was hard.

“Don’t forget this,” Kurt sneered, passing her the camera. “Useless system; you may as well keep it as a reminder of how you got into that trouble in the first place.”

He laughed. Stewart wanted to cry. “Come along, bitch,” he said, and pulled her into the grand house. A man in a white coat met them. “This bitch is to be placed in a special cell,” Kurt informed him.

“Yes, but on whose authority?” The man asked. Stewart instantly rejected any thought of asking him for help; he didn’t see her as a person at all. There was a strange deadness behind his eyes. “Who gave you the right…?”

“Fuhrer Himmler, long may he live,” Kurt said firmly. The doctor stood up straighter. “Heil Himmler,” Kurt bellowed.

“Heil Himmler,” the doctor echoed. “Bring her with you this way, if you please.”

Stewart felt tears trickling down her face; she fought hard to concentrate. “What is this place?” She asked desperately. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Should she have that thing with her?” The doctor asked, ignoring her. She was just another subject to him. “We don’t let them have toys here.”

“Yes, she should,” Kurt said. The SS man chortled. “This place, Englander bitch, is where we attempt to develop new drugs and you know that they need test subjects, don’t you? It produced the drug that was used on you earlier, and it will be producing painkillers that will keep the soldiers of the Reich going for hours, even with broken bones and internal bleeding.”

He leered down at her. “The Fuhrer’s orders were to ensure that you never went home,” he said, as he pulled her through the corridors. The doctor opened a door to a private cell. “This place is for the real trouble-makers; the people who would have betrayed the noble Hitler, and now you.”

He shoved her inside, onto the bed. She dropped the camera as he unlocked the handcuffs, before kicking her leg hard enough to make her scream in pain. “I think you’ll be very useful to the Reich, this way,” he said. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Josef Mengele?”

The door slammed shut. Stewart held herself together with an effort of will, picking up and examining the camera. Checking its display, she realised that it was on emergency mode, still broadcasting a signal to the orbiting satellites. She cursed as she checked the system; it wasn’t capable of doing anything else.

A small hatch opened in the door. “No one leaves here alive,” Doctor Mengele said, and closed it with a snap. She heard his laughing for hours afterwards, ricocheting around in her head.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered, and realised that she was helpless. Unless someone came to help her, she would be trapped forever with the insane doctor.