The Long Hard Road

Chapter Thirty-Four: Unanswered Questions

The White House

Washington DC, USA

19^th May 1942

It had taken only three days for the surrender of Imperial Japan to be finalised. General Vandegrift, who had been expecting to receive the attentions of a Japanese Army, had been astounded when it offered to surrender instead. A five-sided war had promptly broken out, between Japanese factions who wanted to surrender, Japanese factions that didn’t want to surrender, Chinese and Russian factions who wanted to seize the Japanese equipment and extract revenge, and the Americans.

Ambassador King shook his head as Truman detailed the surrender agreements. The Japanese had expected to surrender to Britain, and so America would not be contributing an occupation army. King was wryly amused; Churchill hadn’t been happy over Britain’s exclusion in the original timeline, but Truman couldn’t care less. Instead, the United States would exercise a protectorate over Korea, until some form of native government could be installed.

He frowned. That might prove difficult; the Japanese had torn up the ethnic Koreans pretty badly. Between heavily-armed Japanese settlers, the remains of the Korean people and Chinese collaborators with the Japanese, it didn’t look good for lasting peace. The rest of China wasn’t much better; some Japanese generals had even allied themselves with warlords against everyone else, and the Japanese bioweapons were still wrecking havoc.

“Odd, what happened to Hoover,” Truman said, breaking into his thoughts. “Who could have wanted to kill him?”

King assumed that the president was joking and responded lightly. “It’s not as if he had no enemies,” he said. “There are – there were – thousands of people who wanted Hoover dead, often with very good reason.”

“And this person knew when to attack,” Truman said. “The FBI doesn’t know what to make of it.”

“We weren’t the only ones observing the house, obviously,” King said, grimly realising that Truman was wondering if he had done it. “There were elements within the FBI that hated Hoover.”

“Those that survived his rule,” Truman agreed. “William Donovan suspects that the Germans did it, perhaps to keep us worrying. There’s still no sign of Hoover’s files, so they might have gone up in the fire.”

King nodded. If they hadn’t gone up in the blaze, he had no idea what had happened to them. That in itself was worrying; who might have them now. “There’s still no sign of Tolson?”

“None,” Truman said. “The state the FBI is in, it will be years before we have a working counter-intelligence service. The OSS is working to take over the operations in Latin America, where there is evidence of German subversion, but it will be years before the new network is ready.”

King nodded. He’d aided in the planning for the OSS himself. William Donovan, he was certain, had taken his advice to heart; there would be no repeat of the CIA’s disastrous failures in 2001. Building networks within Germany and Russia was the priority, and yet they were far less capable than the British of mounting operations within enemy territory.

He smiled. The BBC’s gloating over the mission to Germany, which had involved an officer using forged papers, had seemed indiscreet at first. After the first reports of Germans shooting Germans for misidentification, he understood the point; anything that disrupted German communications was worthwhile.

“Congress is getting antsy about how we don’t have a working nuclear weapon,” Truman said. “After the British struck Germany – over smallpox, of all things – questions have been raised. Groves says that they’re working at maximum speed and they’ll have one in two weeks to a month, but…”

“The British won’t use theirs on us,” King assured him. “They did warn Hitler and then Himmler about bioweapons.”

Truman shook his head. “Smallpox,” he said. “Who would have thought it?” He sighed. “How is the build-up in Britain going?”

General Palter picked up his PDA and flipped through the pages of information on the screen. “We have the best part of the force already there,” he said. “We’re currently stockpiling supplies and weapons, and then we’ll move the last few units over to Britain.”

“I trust that there is a vigorous training program going on,” Truman said. “We can’t have the troops going soft.”

“We’re running constant drills,” Palter said. “One thing is reasonably certain; the Germans have no sources within Britain itself, and certainly not within the military camps. We will seal the camps off for the last week before the invasion, and start running drills centring upon the actual invasion target.” He shook his head. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for the moment.”

He grinned. “As soon as the main landings begin, we can start shipping in the second set of reinforcements,” he said. “We’ll kick off a small offensive in Sweden, just to keep them looking in the wrong direction. Unfortunately, the Turks were unwilling to commit to launching a second diversion in the Balkans, even though they have staked their claim to German-occupied territory.”

“They want it, they fight for it,” Truman said. He took a breath. “Only a week or so to go,” he said. “Was it this bad in your time?”

King considered. How did one explain the media culture of 2015 to a man of 1942? How did one explain that the death of one American was considered a defeat? How did one explain that it was considered perfectly acceptable to make a few airstrikes, perhaps rattle the sabre a few times, and then back out, leaving the enemy alive in its den. How did one explain the howls of outrage that had echoed around the world every time America attempted to correct its mistakes? How did one explain the acceptance that a dictatorship was as legitimate as a democracy?

“Worse,” he said. He frowned inwardly; he hadn’t invested millions of dollars in media and publishing companies to allow America to make the same mistake twice. There would be no Vietnam syndrome here. America would be strong and free, just as she was meant to be. “Much, much worse.”

Truman smiled. “It doesn’t get any easier then,” he said. He looked up at the map; Vladivostok still held out. In 2015, the media would have been screaming for heads, and the President would have given them a few at once, starting with the commanding officer and then a handful of flunkies in the State Department.

King shook his head. Palter was wise enough not to comment. “No, Mr President,” he said. “It doesn’t get any easier.”

Camp Dependable

Near Yarmouth, United Kingdom

22^nd May 1942

Captain Jackie Robinson enjoyed Camp Dependable. It was massive, open, and had perfect training grounds. The tank simulators were absolutely wonderful; they mimicked every last movement of a tank, even to destruction. The sheer processing power, as it had been explained to him, allowed them to simulate entire battles, from careful advancement to crazy charges that only worked in the movies. They might have worked in Libya, back when the Transition was new and the British were fighting on their own, but the Germans were tougher than the Italians had been.

“The invasion will begin soon,” General Stillwell informed his captains, two weeks after they had arrived at Camp Dependable. “In three days, we will be sealing this camp and concentrating exclusively on training.”

There was a collective groan. The training had been so intense that men were dreaming about German tanks attacking their positions. Stilwell scowled at them, gaining silence after a few moments.

“We have to train as if we’re going to be fighting tomorrow,” he said. Robinson lifted an eyebrow; were they going to fight tomorrow? Of course not, he concluded. Stillwell continued. “You have been granted two days of liberty,” he said. “I expect you to conduct yourselves accordingly.”

The Captains filed out and reported to their units, passing the news down the line. Two days of leave made up for a lot, but it was clearly a warning that the war was going to begin soon. At least, their part of the war.

“American forces engaged Soviet forces in Sweden today in what has been called a desperate attempt to evict them before the terrain becomes too cold for further advance,” the BBC reporter said. Robinson paused to watch; most of the news meant nothing to him, but the reporter was worth looking at. Her blonde hair and open cleavage suggested a wantonness that was appealing.

“In further news,” the reporter, who was identified as CHARLENE, continued, “American forces were repulsed from yet another attempt to take Vladivostok. Although the Ministry of Defence hasn’t commented, sources within the foreign ministry have suggested that the surrendered Japanese troops took part in the operation, attacking the Russians beside Americans.”

“That’s probably why the attack failed,” Captain O’Neil said. The bluff Irish-American had never looked at just his skin colour, even though their units were rivals. “You can’t trust the Japanese to turn on their allies.”

“We only have one ally here,” Robinson pointed out. “The British. The French have been sucking German cock.”

“I’d like to have her sucking my cock,” O’Neil said, waving a hand at the TV. Robinson snorted; the first year of the American Internet had provoked outcry, just from all of the blue movies on it. A year later, following Hoover’s rebellion, they had subsided, slightly.

“No argument,” Robinson said. She really was wearing a very open jacket. “Hey, do you think she goes on dates with servicemen?”

“I don’t think you earn enough,” O’Neil said. “They don’t pay us enough for anything here.”

Robinson shrugged. Learning how little American wages were worth in Britain had been a shock to the troops. “True,” he said. “I’m going to the restaurant in Yarmouth; the Indian one. You coming?”

“Nah, the General found me something to do,” O’Neil said, with genuine regret. “Catch you in two days?”

“You’ve found a whorehouse,” Robinson accused mildly. O’Neil blushed. “Naughty man.”

“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may catch some disgusting skin disease,” O’Neil said. They’d watched the comedy movies in the mess. “See you later, man.”

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

28^th May 1942

Himmler studied the results of the nuclear strike, now they had had time to analysis it fully, with a sense of profound dissatisfaction. The casual destruction of nearly two square miles of German countryside was distressing – even if it had provided some unexpected sources of radioactive material for the dirty bomb project – but the loss of the smallpox project was terrifying. It suggested entrapment; it suggested treachery. Who could have betrayed him, he wondered, who might have had a reason to sabotage the bioweapon program?

He peered down at the report from the SS officer commanding the region. The panic of the population had been calmed, and even Radio Berlin had shifted its focus from attacking Britain for inhumanity to trying to calm people down. With determination, skill and a few regrettable incidents, the SS had managed to evacuate the region, but they hadn’t managed to prevent rumours of far greater devastation from slipping across the country.

Himmler sighed. He had been reluctant to test any of the remaining prisoners to destruction; those who hadn’t been needed had been quietly liquidated. The British probably didn’t know it, but they’d managed to kill two of their own people, just by bombing a section of a Luftwaffe factory. The attempt to infect the brown-skinned woman with smallpox hadn’t worked; when she’d been interrogated, she’d explained that she’d been inoculated for countless diseases during the Hajji. The interrogator had predicted that such customs would disappear after the Reich won – and she’d thrown a terrible fit.

“Mien Fuhrer, Field Marshal Kesselring is here to see you,” his secretary said. Himmler nodded grimly; Kesselring was one of those who were worth listening to. “Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, please,” Himmler said, who had found that politeness worked wonders when dealing with subordinates. Hitler would have agreed; he was only rude to high-ranking personnel. His female secretary had cried the day that he had died.

Kesselring entered. His face had grown older and older as the Reich suffered more defeats. Himmler had occasionally considered retiring him, or having him liquidated, but the Reich needed him. Of those who had been great, only a handful remained. Rommel, the arch-traitor, served the British; Guderian had been remanded in a POW camp somewhere in the Middle East. Kesselring was the only real strategist left to him that he trusted.

“Heil Himmler,” Kesselring said. Like all of the Wehrmacht, the salute sounded a little odd from him; he hadn’t sworn loyalty to Himmler personally, like the Army had sworn to Hitler. “Mien Fuhrer, I have a vitally important report to make to you.”

Himmler lifted an eyebrow and waved a hand at a chair, noticing the massive folder that Kesselring was carrying under his arm. “Have the British launched another nuclear strike?” He asked. Kesselring shook his head. “Then it can’t be that important,” Himmler said.

Kesselring scowled. “Mien Fuhrer, I have here the latest reports and images from the satellite program,” he said. “The images of the future Britain have been grim; they are clearly building up for the invasion.”

“And so my sources in America have informed me,” Himmler said calmly. He frowned inwardly; Ritter had vanished and Hoover had been killed by someone, Ritter perhaps? “They place the invasion site as France.”

He studied Kesselring, who he knew had never believed that the British would try to land in France, again. “That is surprising news,” Kesselring said finally. “The amount that they’re building up is remarkable. Our rockets have not been able to make any noticeable dent in it.”

Himmler shrugged. “Let them come here,” he said. “You have the better part of twenty Panzer and forty infantry divisions in France, and there are more in reserve, as we planned. You can advance upon them as they land, accompanied by nearly two thousand of the Luftwaffe’s newest aircraft.”

Kesselring sucked in his breath. “I had not been aware that the mobilising and manufacturing program had had such success,” he said. “However, I question our ability to use the forces in Germany itself as a reserve. The British and Americans will cut our lines of communication.”

Himmler smiled. “It is for that that I have given you and Manstein complete authority in France,” he said. Unlike Hitler, he knew better than to meddle in tactical affairs. “Your mission is to destroy the enemy on the ground; Galland will accomplish that task in the air.”

“Mien Fuhrer, can we stop them?” Kesselring asked grimly. “They used a nuclear warhead in our own country last week, not some out of the way place that no one cares about. What happens when they start using them to clear our forces out of the way?”

“I do not believe that they will do that,” Himmler said. “At worst, their units would have to drive through a radioactive wasteland.”

Kesselring bowed. “Then, with your permission, I’ll get back to preparing the counter-attacks.”

Himmler nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Good luck.”

Kesselring scowled to himself as he reached the Wehrmacht offices in the massive bunker, but he knew better than to say anything out loud; he was certain that more than a few of the clerical workers worked for Himmler as well as himself. Inwardly, he felt like crying; Himmler seemed to be unaware that the war was lost. With the unrest in Russia and the nuclear strikes, not to mention Japan’s surrender, the Reich was about to enter the rubbish bin of history, three years ahead of schedule.

Rommel’s radio transmissions had offered amnesty to Wehrmacht officers who acted to overthrow Himmler, but he knew that that was impossible. All the units near Berlin were SS; the closest Wehrmacht unit was in Denmark. If the SS could be persuaded to act against Himmler, the war might end with Germany intact, except the SS was fanatically on Himmler’s side, except…

He scowled down at the report he’d ‘borrowed’ from Doctor Josef Mengele. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could be used to drive a wedge between Himmler and one of his closest and most trusted subordinates. Perhaps… or perhaps it would lead inevitably to Kesselring’s own doom. He made his decision, the only one he could make, and then he started to lay his plans, both for the defence of Europe and the end of the Nazi Regime in Germany.

Himmler was in a genial mood, Roth was pleased to discover. Himmler wasn’t given to tantrums – as anyone would have called Hitler’s behaviour at times from a very safe distance – but his cold rages were just as terrifying. Roth, who’d been working with the special weapons division, knew about the coming invasion; knew, and was worried.

“Ah, Herman,” Himmler said. “Have a seat.”

Roth saluted and took his seat. He winced inwardly; Himmler clearly wanted something from him. He listened politely as Himmler made small talk, discussing rockets, the plans to put a man in orbit and the defection of Japan to the Allied camp.

“Did you know that the Japanese have actually been helping the Americans?” Himmler asked. “Would Germans help the invader in such a situation?”

“Of course not,” Roth said, who knew the required answer. “You did say that it was urgent?”

“Yes,” Himmler said, shifting to concentration with a speed that was dazzling. “You are of course aware that the American and British mongrels are planning to invade the Reich?”

Roth blinked. “Directly into Denmark?” He asked. “I would have thought that even their logistics would be unable to handle that.”

“No, into France,” Himmler said. “That… might lead to us having to have to make certain concessions in ground and manpower to them.”

“I see,” Roth said. “However, what does that have to do with me?”

Himmler looked oddly vulnerable for a long chilling moment, before pulling himself back into the man who terrified half of the world. “I have every confidence that our brave fighting men will be able to throw them back into the sea,” he said. “However, it may be necessary to make… certain precautions for the future.”

Roth lifted an eyebrow. “They might manage to secure a bridgehead?”

“Yes, they might,” Himmler said. “In the event of them managing to accomplish that, I have a task for you to carry out.” He explained the task. “Do you understand?”

Roth nodded. “Has it really come to that?” He asked. “Do we have to do that?”

Himmler scowled. “This is the final battle,” he said. “Every weapon must be used, whatever its nature.” He peered into Roth’s eyes. “Every weapon.”