The Long Hard Road

Chapter Two: The Price of Power

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

23^rd March 1942

They were out to get him, of course.

Führer und Reichskanzler Heinrich Himmler sat in his office and stared down at the report. He’d been careful, in the days before the future Britain had arrived to… complicate matters, to ensure that the SS had good eyes and ears in the other segments of the German system. It had been that – that and sheer bloody determination and calculation – that had allowed him to pick up the reins of power since Adolf Hitler had passed away, struck down by a brain spasm caused by the so-called future medicines from his doctor.

He’d blamed it on the British, of course, extracting a confession from the doctor of British involvement in the plot, striking down the greatest military genius that Germany had ever known. It had provided an excuse to purge Germany of defeatists and troublemakers, people who dared to suggest that the war was lost. He smiled to himself; all they had to do was hold out long enough to build the feared weapons of mass destruction… and use them to force a draw.

Hitler never thought like this, he thought, and smiled. Hitler had devised the plan to trick the Americans into fighting the Soviets personally, but he hadn’t taken it to its logical conclusion. If the Germans provided a great deal of support to the Russians, they would have time to work Russia into their empire… without the brave, powerful and utterly futile invasion that Hitler had ordered, minutes before he died.

It had been a dangerous couple of weeks, just after Hitler had passed away. Some elements in the Wehrmacht had believed that Himmler himself had killed the Fuhrer; even his alliance with Field Marshal Kesselring hadn’t distracted them from several plots to end his rule. Himmler smiled; he’d learnt a great deal from books pilfered from America… including how to run a surveillance state. How could anyone mount a coup if the landline network, built to hide their messages from British decryption computers, was under SS control?

“Rommel,” he cursed. He’d worked hard to turn the former General’s name into a curse. The renegade British cocksucker still broadcast to Germany, sending a recorded transmission every week to the Volk, trying to corrupt their holy purpose. German intelligence, working with the NKVD and GRU, hadn’t been able to establish what had happened to the Germans who had surrendered along with Guderian – another traitor – but Himmler was grimly certain that many of them would have joined Rommel’s band of traitors.

After all, you could find traitors anywhere these days.

“Pah,” Himmler snapped, glancing down the list of people suspected of harbouring treacherous thoughts. It wasn’t a big list; just a handful of Wehrmacht officers suspected of being part of the conspiracy that had nearly cost him his life. One officer, in particular, had a lovely young brown-haired wife… and the agent who had accused him had been a rival for her affections. Himmler considered; was it a genuine case of treachery… or just jealously?

“Albert,” he snapped into the air, without looking up. Seconds later, his young male secretary and bodyguard marched into the room, pulling a perfect salute as he stopped in front of Himmler’s desk.

“Heil Himmler,” he bellowed, with perfect parade-ground presentation. “Mein Fuhrer!”

“Ah, Albert,” Himmler said. The young man glowed with pleasure at being addressed by his first name by the Fuhrer himself. Himmler wished that Roth or one of the smarter SS officers had been available for the task, but they were required elsewhere. It was so hard to know who to trust these days, without the knowledge of the future that Professor Horton had possessed and interpreted for them.

“I am at your service, Mein Führer,” Albert bellowed. Himmler smiled; if he’d asked the young man to bend over for sodomy, he would have done so without hesitation. Himmler scowled; some of the senior Nazis had that kind of bent, despite the fact that homosexuals were marked for extermination, but it wasn’t one of his vices.

“Take this list,” Himmler ordered, checking some of the names. “All, but this one” – indicating the possible case of jealously – “are to be eliminated forthwith. That one, Albert, is to be investigated by… ah, Kurt, I think, and I am to be informed before any action is taken.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Albert bellowed. Himmler nodded; if the young man were guilty, Himmler would have no hesitation about throwing him – and his lovely wife as well – into the gas chambers, but if he was innocent the Reich could hardly afford to dispose of him.

“Thank you,” Himmler said. The young man glowed. “Please send in my Grand Vizier as you pass his office.”

Albert, who didn’t have the imagination to start wondering why the Fuhrer was associating with such an obvious subhuman, saluted once, about turned, and stamped out of the office in perfect steps. Himmler smiled; the various training sessions that Albert had undergone had stamped imagination out of his system, and any of the initiative that made Roth and Kruger so valuable.

Himmler returned to his reports – a report from the growing network within America – about American military preparations. It made grim reading; the Americans, under their best general, Patton, had finally managed to overcome the manpower crisis that had nearly crippled American operations in Norway. By the time the winter had literally frozen both sides in their bases, the Americans had managed to stem the joint German-Soviet advances that had threatened to shove them back into the Atlantic.

He grinned to himself, as he moved on to the next report. As long as the Americans had a major front open with the Soviet Union, they would have difficulty in trying anything clever in Europe. Without British bomber support – and that had been far less evident in recent months – the Americans couldn’t force the Germans out of Scandinavia, let alone interfere with the extensive mining operations that had sealed the Allies out of the Baltic Sea. The resettlement program could continue… and the Reich would have something it needed desperately, new pure Aryan blood.

“Mein Fuhrer,” a voice said from the door. Himmler looked up and smiled, the kind of smile that one would give to a favoured dog or cat. Professor Horton nodded politely to him and took his seat, facing Himmler.

The irony of it all, Professor Horton had found, was that Himmler wasn’t a bad boss, not compared to some of the university deans he’d had to scrape and bow to before getting tenure. You could speak your mind to him, as long as you were respectful, and you could trust him not to shout ‘off with his head.’

He would have smiled, were it still possible for him. His post as ‘Grand Vizier’ was one of Himmler’s little jokes; the new Fuhrer’s sense of humour emerged at the oddest times. Like one of the oriental Grand Vizier’s, he had very little power… except access to all of the information collected by a growing network of German spies and agents across the world. Himmler had been right, of course; there was no way that he could seek to take Himmler’s place.

“I trust that your wife and children are fine,” Himmler said, reminding Horton of the price for his services. He’d watched from the shadows, under the watchful eye of two SS men, as a British helicopter picked them up from Bremen. Since then, they’d exchanged emails through Kristy Stewart’s system.

“They’re fine,” he said. “The children are doing very well in their German studies.”

“That’s good to know,” Himmler said, his face portraying interest Horton was fairly certain was faked. As always, the Fuhrer reminded Horton of a snake… seemingly harmless, but deadly dangerous. “Now… what sort of policies is President Truman likely to follow towards us and our allies?”

Horton allowed himself a moment to consider. Himmler had hoped that the new Truman Government would destroy itself, but Truman had managed to hold America together, with a great deal of luck. Since then, the Americans had poured reinforcements into Norway… and worked hard to impede German reinforcements to Sweden.

“It would depend on the ally,” he said finally. “They’re not likely to be too pleased with the French, or the Spanish. That would suggest that they would impose their own democracies on top of the nations, which would be something of an improvement. The French, especially, could do with a new government. The problem, of course, is Russia; if I was in their place I would be considering a direct land invasion as soon as possible.”

“That accords with my own beliefs,” Himmler said mildly. Horton scowled inwardly; Himmler was way too clever to take himself too seriously. The day that Hitler had died, the Allies had lost their greatest ally. “In fact, given that we have had the most success in converting the future knowledge to practical technology, they will consider us the first target. Now… what will they do?”

Horton frowned inwardly. Misleading Himmler was going to be difficult. “For political reasons, they might well want to… assist the British in Iran,” he said. “America had good relations with Iran before Stalin invaded, and Truman might want to use that as an excuse for post-war influence in the region. He won’t want the British-allied state in Arabia gobbling it all up.”

He smiled. “Oil won’t be as important this time around, with hydrogen-powered cars being mass-produced instead of polluters on wheels,” he said. “He may discover that it’s a bust.”

Himmler smiled. “That’s something I wish we could develop ourselves,” he said. “Oil is a persistent… problem.”

Horton nodded. Ever since the nuclear warhead had vaporised the massive oil refinery in Romania, Germany had been having shortages of oil and other materials. Stalin had provided thousands of tons of materials… but at a price.

“I wonder if we could play on that somehow,” Himmler mused, making a note. He frowned. “It’s a shame that so many American industrialists were tried for treason; they would have protested against losing their oil revenues, would they not?” Horton nodded. “Anyway… carry on…”

“For domestic reasons, particularly after the New York incident, the Americans will want to hammer the Soviets as well,” Horton said. “Intervening in Iran gives them an opportunity for doing that without committing themselves to a conflict that will last for the rest of the year… and perhaps lead to snowy disaster. Their Joint Chiefs – whatever they’re called in this era – will want to defeat Germany – us – before they face any new weapons.”

“Yes,” Himmler said. He stood up suddenly and paced over to the map. “They will come for us. So… my Grand Vizier, where will they land?”

Horton frowned inwardly. He’d wondered about that from the first, knowing that the British – at least – would know that he was in Berlin, and they would know that he would be ‘assisting’ Himmler… and he knew they knew…

He smiled. There weren’t that many options. “The Americans will want to move for a quick kill,” he said. “At the same time, they won’t be practiced enough to land directly in… say, Denmark. That close to our shore-based air, their losses would be appalling… and they know it. Their options really boil down to France, Spain or Italy.”

He waited while Himmler considered. There was an unmentioned option – and a handful of stupid options – and he wondered if Himmler would notice. If he did, he had some good reasons for ignoring it; the question was, would Himmler?

“What about a Balkan offensive?” Himmler asked finally. “Could they not launch an invasion through Turkey into Greece and Bulgaria?”

Horton relaxed slightly, glad that his face could not pale. “They could,” he said. “The problem would be that they would have to batter their way all the way to Berlin, passing through endless bloody slaughter… and the future British will know how bloody-minded the Balkan population is. They would have to spend several years marching to Berlin… and their lines would only get longer and longer. They’d dismiss it out of hand.”

“So… France, Italy, Spain,” Himmler said. “Which one would you bet on?”

Horton considered. “Either France or Italy,” he said finally. Himmler lifted a single eyebrow. “France because it lets them deploy near to Germany; Italy because you have a lot of your industry in Italy. Spain, on the other hand, is bad terrain for any invasion; you know how much trouble both sides had in their Civil War.”

Himmler nodded. “So… not Spain,” he said finally. “And do you think we could launch an invasion of England?”

Horton blinked, trying to conceal his shock. Himmler’s smile proved that he had failed. “I don’t think you have anything like the required shipping capability,” he said finally. “The Government would have ensured that there is enough troops in England to kill any that passed the RAF.”

“True, true,” Himmler mused. “The unsinkable aircraft carrier… well, well, well.”

“Is there anything else?” Horton asked politely. In a spy novel, he would have a code for passing messages to his wife, but he wasn’t in a novel and he didn’t have a code. “I would like to compose my next message.”

“Nothing else,” Himmler said. “Have Kesselring and Roth sent in as you leave.”

Himmler allowed himself a smile as Horton left, before resuming his seat and looking attentive. Field Marshal Kesselring, one of his closest allies, and Roth entered, taking their seats. Roth began to unravel a massive set of display papers for him, while Kesselring saluted him.

“Heil Himmler,” they both said, as soon as Himmler looked up.

“Heil,” Himmler replied. They were among his closest allies. He’d once joked, and said ‘Heil Me,’ and only a couple of people had laughed. Hitler had used to say that all the time when with his closest confidents. “What is the current status in Sweden?”

“Confused,” Kesselring said wryly. “As you know, we have the better part of a hundred thousand men in the south, while the Russians have nearly five times that many in the north. Between us… we just don’t have the ability to force the Americans back into the sea, and they don’t have the ability to do the same to us.”

“Splendid,” Himmler said, and outlined his conversation with Horton. “If the Americans land, can we stop them?”

“If we move quickly, then yes,” Kesselring said. “The most important and dangerous moments in a forced landing are the first twenty-four hours. If we can stop them then, we have won ourselves a breather.” He looked into Himmler’s eyes. “We have to spend everything then, planes, ships, men, to stop them from establishing a foothold.”

“Whatever it costs,” Himmler said. “What will this do to them?”

“Apart from costing them whatever it takes to invade us?” Kesselring asked. “It would certainly force them to rethink their plans, even to hold back for a few months. They, however, will do everything in their power to prevent us from counter-attacking at once.”

“I would expect no less,” Himmler said. “Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth, what about the development programs?”

“We have made considerable improvements to our anti-aircraft defences,” Roth said. “Although we cannot count on maintaining radio or radar contact, we have managed to slave guns to our radar. Our calculating device may be – is – primitive compared to the British equipment, but we have a far greater chance at bringing down enemy bombers than we had before.”

He smiled. “With some of the new warheads, we should be able to really convince them that they don’t want to fly the new American bombers over Europe,” he said. “In addition, we have a handful of radio-controlled bombs, using radio and television equipment to guide them in, which should make life interesting for the Americans.” He scowled. “Unfortunately, I’m pretty certain that the British can jam them, but we should get at least one blow in.”

“Good,” Himmler said. “What did dear Speer say?”

Roth flicked through his notes. “The Minister said that production was continuing to increase, based upon the reports of clashes with the new British tanks, which we imagine the Americans will use as well. The new anti-tank rockets have been improved as much as we can, but Speer wants more of them if we can make them.”

“I see,” Himmler said. He’d wanted to purge Speer, but the man was needed. “And the superweapons?”

Roth nodded. “The V1, which has more than proved its worth, remains in production,” he said. “Current units are over a thousand at the moment, mainly being aimed at American positions in Norway. The V2 rocket is being mass-produced at the moment; it awaits your decision on how to use them.”

Himmler frowned. “Have they worked all the bugs out?”

Roth snorted. “It’s hard to be certain,” he admitted. “We’ve only test-flown the ones in Siberia, and they worked fine.” He re-sorted his notes. “The V3 is being prepared for its test-flight now,” he said. “It represents a far greater effort than the V2, although its ability to hit America makes it worthwhile. Unfortunately, we’re fairly certain that the British will see it being launched, but what can they do to stop it?”

Himmler smiled. “Bringing home to the Americans the real cost of the war,” he said. “I assume that we passed on the V1’s to Japan?”

“The designs, yes,” Roth said. Himmler smiled; the little yellow men hadn’t proved themselves worthy of joining the master race, but they could at least soak up some of the British attention.

“Good,” Himmler said. “Now… what about the cooperation project?”

Roth hesitated. The idea didn’t sit well with him at all. “We can send the broken-down designs to Russia,” he said. “We assume that they know enough to build their own now, and we’ve been setting up factories in Russian territory, well out of the range of Allied bombers. Still… Mein Fuhrer, this isn’t just a tank design.”

Himmler waved a hand dismissively. “It won’t be long before the Russians become dependent upon us for their weapons,” he said. If Germany fell – and Himmler knew better than to plan for success – they would need bases in Russia. “Besides, the value of the V2 lies in its ability to shock the enemy… which is why we will be using it on Britain. What can it give Stalin that he doesn’t already have?”