The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty-Six: An Eye For An Eye

RAF Oakhanger

Hampshire, United Kingdom

1^st July 1942

“I confirm NUDET, repeat NUDET,” Captain Bacon snapped. Colonel Gardner cursed; they’d hoped that the warning had been a hoax. “Confirmed detonation; location, Poland.”

Colonel Gardner hit the automated system for alerting the principles and stared down at the display. The blast had been… weird; it had even damaged some of the satellites high overhead. For a region roughly five miles in length, the firestorm would be raging even now; he couldn’t tell if it was going to overwhelm any military units or not.

“Spectroscopic analysis is very clear,” Bacon said grimly. “The bomb is very dirty.”

“There goes the neighbourhood,” Colonel Gardner said wryly, trying to find refugee in humour. It didn’t work; the plume of rising fire and smoke was horrifying. “We have to warn the Poles; hell, we have to warn everyone.”

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

2^nd July 1942

Hanover stared down at the map and felt sick. He knew just how lucky the Allies had been; it had been sheer luck that they’d had even a few minutes of warning. Even so, there had been thousands of causalities, mainly Americans who hadn’t grasped the danger. How could they have? They’d never seen a nuclear weapon before.

He felt like crying. No one – in any known timeline – had tried to fight a massive battle in the ruins of a nuclear war; it had never happened before. Stalin had; the blast had been taken as the signal to launch an all-out attack on the Allies, Russian soldiers charging blithely through radioactive clouds, falling upon the Allied positions with a determination that made up for their tactical disadvantages. The forces in Warsaw, unaware of the poison cloud and lashed on by the NKVD, broke out of the city and tried to raise the siege.

He scowled grimly. The EMP hadn’t damaged the British radios; they had been designed to be hardened against EMP. The American systems, and the new ones made since the Transition, had been damaged; they’d not been intended to face a nuclear-armed opponent. General Flynn had done his best, and the undamaged satellites had come over the horizon to provide new reconnaissance – and thank God that the space stations hadn’t been overhead – but the Soviets had come close to scoring a strategic victory.

If they’d concentrated on us, they might have won, he thought. The Soviets had charged at the American lines, hammering them, and the British forces had been able to cut them off. In hours of brutal fighting, the lines had been driven back several miles, but the advantage of surprise was gone and the Soviets had finally been destroyed. Warsaw itself was for the taking and an American battalion had finally occupied the city, but large parts of Poland would be ruined forever.

Cunningham spoke into the silence. The entire world had been stunned, with pundits predicting total nuclear war and/or the collapse of the Allied lines. The BBC had managed to sneak their reporter – Kristy Stewart – into a hospital, where she’d reported on the gas attacks. The protesters were already outside Downing Street, waving signs.

DO YOUR JOB, one read. DROP THE BOMB.

“We have managed to stabilise the situation,” Cunningham said. His voice was hoarse. “The active soviet combat units have been destroyed.”

“And when can we advance again?” Hanover said grimly. “After today… there will be panic.”

“A lot of people want Russia destroyed,” Noreen said, waving a hand towards the protesters on the streets. The anti-nuke crowds had run into the pro-nuke crowds and come off worst. “Sir… we can’t do that.”

“The Americans have sent formal notice of their intention to use their nuke, the… ah, Fat Lady, on Stalingrad,” McLachlan said. “General Groves is flying the mission himself.”

“How nice of him,” Hanover said. “Not Leningrad?”

“Apparently there were people in the American administration who felt that Leningrad was a bad choice,” McLachlan said. He snorted. “I cannot say that I disagree with them.”

“Which leaves us with a problem,” Hanover said. “Can we advance into the teeth of more nuclear weapons?”

“We don’t know how many there might be,” Stirling admitted. “A lot depends on how much the two powers have shared; the Germans had the ability to build Thande reactors, clearly, but did they share it with the Russians?”

Hanover mentally cursed the scientist who had designed the reactors, purely as a theoretical exercise. If the designs hadn’t been stolen by the Germans, they might have never had to face a German nuke.

“And can the troops advance across the remainder of Poland without being poisoned?” He asked. “The Germans seem to have built a very dirty bomb indeed.”

“The Thande reactors produce a great deal of waste,” Stirling said. “If they packed some of that around the bomb, they would have trebled its radiation count.”

Cunningham coughed. “Yes, the troops can advance,” he said calmly. “The Challenger tanks have been sealed against radiation ever since the dirty bomb became a favoured tool of the terrorists. The troops… do not enjoy fighting in NBC suits, but they can do it.”

“It’s going to take time to ensure that the American units are equipped with NBC suits,” Stirling said. “At least a week, perhaps more, and they won’t enjoy using them.”

“See to it,” Hanover said. “Is Himmler still in that camp?”

“Unless he moved while the nuke went off, then yes,” Cunningham said. “The SAS team was shell-shocked, but they managed to keep an eye on the camp, and at least one satellite has been tasked for the oversight role since last night.”

“Enough games,” Hanover snapped. “I want that bastard’s head on a platter. General, the SAS is to hit that camp and take it out.”

Cunningham nodded. “It’ll take several hours to put the mission together,” he said. “We’ll be risking most of our helicopters in the field.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hanover said. “Make the arrangements at once.”

Over Stalingrad

2^nd July 1942

General Leslie Groves vomited into a bag as the aircraft hit turbulence as it passed over the Black Sea. The Turks had been more than willing to play host to the special bombing crews, which flew from Turkey to bomb Russian positions in the Ukraine and the Balkans, but they hadn’t had any idea of the bomber’s real mission. The Turkish hatred of the Russians was powerful; they hated them with a cold hatred that Groves hoped that America would never develop.

He shook his head, feeling sick. He’d heard about future American hatred of the Arabs and sighed; after the nuclear warhead in Poland, the Americans would have every reason to hate the Germans and their Soviet allies.

“General, are you all right?” Captain Washington asked. “General?”

His voice tailed off in a gasp of disgust. Groves didn’t blame him; his vomit was streaked through with red, very red blood. He’d heard that radiation poisoning killed red blood cells, but the evidence of his own eyes suggested otherwise.

“No, I’m not all right,” he snarled. Washington winced backwards. Groves felt his own body shaking, cursing the day that he’d visited Reactor 5. It had suffered an overload and spat out a burst of radiation, killing nearly fifty engineers and placing two hundred others in hospital. Groves was one of the lucky ones; the radiation was killing him slow, not fast.

“How long until we reach the target?” He asked, calming himself by a sheer effort of will. He didn’t want to throw up again. “How long?”

“Two more hours,” Washington said. “General, we can turn back if you want.”

Groves knew that he was trying to help. “I’ve never heard such a stupid idea in my life,” he snapped. Rage overwhelmed gratitude. “Captain, no hospital in Turkey can help me now. I won’t survive the flight.”

Washington left without another word. Groves frowned to himself; it was a breach of command etiquette, but he found it hard to care. Time passed as he sat on his bench, feeling the aircraft shuddering around him as the GPS system guided them into the darkness. They’d decided to launch the mission at local night time; there was too much danger of a Russian fighter shooting them down in the day.

“Tanks away,” Washington shouted, and the B-29 shuddered. The long-range drop tanks had been perfected for bombing Japan, just before the Japanese took themselves out of the war by surrendering. The aircraft seemed to bounce through the sky; Groves felt more vomit welling up within him. This time, parts of his stomach were in the vomit.

“Dear God, help me,” he breathed. The pain was excruciating; his body just wanted to lie down and die. By sheer force of will, Groves pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the cockpit. “How long…?”

Washington blinked at his tone. Groves knew that he must sound like a man who had already died. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s Stalingrad ahead.”

Groves peered into the darkness. The Russians had good light discipline; he could only see a tiny number of lights glimmering in the darkness. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Washington said. Compassion for Groves’ illness was overridden by annoyance. “Yes, sir; I am certain.”

“Star sight confirms, sir,” the navigator said. Groves nodded. “We’re right on target.”

“I’m going to drop the weapon personally,” Groves said, and left the cockpit. He half-walked, half-stumbled as the aircraft’s machine guns started to chatter, firing at a Russian plane that had come too close. The Russians had no taste at all for night-fighting, but they were very motivated indeed.

“Sir?” The bombardier said. “Sir, are you all right?”

Groves ignored him. Fat Lady was suspended in a cage, held firmly above the bay doors. The weapon had had to be armed on route, just to prevent an accidental detonation on take-off. Whatever covert help they’d received from the British, it hadn’t stretched to a fail-safe detonator.

“We’re over the target now,” Washington shouted. “Drop the bomb.”

“Mine,” Groves said, taking the leaver. He vomited again; the bombardier gasped in disgust and jumped back for cover. One pull of the leaver and the bomb bays opened, revealing Stalingrad below. A few twinkles of light flickered below; perhaps the NKVD guards having a last cigarette.

“Bombs away,” Groves said, and pulled the second leaver. Fat Lady fell… two inches down, and then the cage jammed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Groves swore. His head spun. “What the hell has happened?”

The bombardier pointed to a jammed cable. “There, sir,” he said, reaching for a wrench. Groves snatched it off him, banging away at the jammed cable… and then Fat Lady fell towards the ground. Groves, leaning against the bomb, lost his footing and fell as well, heading down with the bomb.

Oh shit, he thought, and laughed harshly. Time seemed to slow down; it was almost beautiful. Fat Lady fell faster and faster, the detonator waiting for a pre-set air pressure… and then the bomb exploded. Groves died, smiling and unaware.

Waffen-SS Camp

Brest, Belarus

3^rd July 1942

That was too fucking close, Captain Dwynn thought grimly, as the SAS team continued their observation of the German camp. The SS weren’t standing still; even with the weather screwed up by the nuke, they were determined to continue their patrols, just in case the NKVD planned to change their agreement.

“They gone?” Chang asked. The Chinese officer had a scarred face; he’d slashed it while diving for cover when the nuke went off. Dwynn liked to think that the strange rock had come off worst in the tiny confrontation.

“Yes,” Dwynn said. He peered down at the encampment. “Himmler hasn’t shown himself since the nuke went off. Do you think that he knows something we don’t?”

Chang shrugged. “There is too much radiation around, but most of it is over in the west,” he said. “I think he just wants to keep his balls intact.” He smiled. “Anyway, we have our new orders.”

Dwynn nodded. “Where are we to go next?” He asked. “Hell itself?”

“No,” Chang said. “There’s an entire airborne unit coming this way, armed for bear, to capture or kill Himmler.”

“Finally,” Dwynn muttered. “What are our orders?”

“We’re to set up target designators and identify what we can of the German positions,” Chang said. “The attack will be preceded by a Harrier force. If Himmler tries to leave… we’re to shoot him down.”

Dwynn scowled. The orders sounded like a staff officer had drafted them. Sniping wasn’t easy at the best of times, and in the confusion, the German might just slip past them unnoticed. Still, it was something pro-active… and he wanted the war to end.

“Call the team,” he said, checking his watch. “We’d better spread out for the Harriers.”

Two days ago, a Eurofighter had been caught in the nuclear blast and vaporised. No one had found even a section of the plane; no one expected to do so. Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar had been wiped from existence, her passing unnoticed in the chaos of the first Axis nuclear explosion.

Flying Officer Mick Eccleston clenched his teeth as the Harrier swept along the ground, remaining as low as he dared, sweeping around obstacles with ease. The Harriers had always been manoeuvrable – during the Falklands War they had out-flown and out-fought supersonic aircraft – and surprise was their only hope of pulling the mission off successfully. Whatever the truth behind the relationship between Stalin and Himmler – and Eccleston knew that the Internet was filled with rumours of homosexual activity – Stalin would hardly allow Himmler to be kidnapped or killed.

“We’re coming up on the target,” he said. His on-board display tracked the SAS aircraft and helicopters, carrying a mixed force directly to the target. Only the British Army would have put such a mismatched force together, relying on their joint training and professionalism to hold them together. “Ten seconds…”

Time vanished quickly as the final hill appeared in front of them. “Now,” he snapped, yanking the Harrier towards the sky. The German camp appeared below them, the targets already glimmering with laser pinpoints, and the Harrier dropped its bombs automatically. An entire series of explosions blasted out within the German camp and under what Eccleston would have sworn was forest, revealing the existence of the last major German force of the war. A King Tiger exploded as a bomb struck it directly, scattering fuel and burning SS officers around.

“Attack completed, control,” he reported. Some German units attempted to engage the British aircraft; none of them came close to scoring a hit. The Harriers returned fire, using their bombs to take out the JU-88 guns. “Returning to base.”

The chain of explosions blasted Himmler to his knees, even inside the thick Russian building. He quaked, expecting to die any second, but the explosions receded and the roar of enemy planes faded.

“Report,” he snapped. Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz blinked at him. “Report!”

“We’re under attack,” Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz snapped. “The British have found us…”

His voice trailed off as a new sound, a chop-chop-chop sound, appeared, echoing through the air. Himmler spun around… to see a flight of British helicopters sweeping in, heading directly towards the camp. Some of them landed, just outside the range of the guard towers, others fired rockets directly into the towers. As Himmler watched, the defences around the base were peeled away, the helicopters firing mercilessly down into the defenders. A force of King Tigers, the only survivors of the air attack, attempted to shoot them down, and the helicopters killed them with ease.

Himmler gaped and ducked as one of the Helicopters seemed to… look in his direction. It saved his life; a bullet cracked by, just over his head. Gasping in fear, he ran back into the building, knowing that death was only minutes away.

It can’t end like this, he thought madly, searching for the guns he’d placed in the room as a final defence. It can’t… I won’t let it end this way. I won’t!

Corporal Tom Williams recoiled slightly as the helicopter landed sharply, but there was no time for panic or shock. The SBS went through pretty much the same training as the SAS, but the SAS always looked down on their naval counterparts. Except, of course, when they need us, Williams thought wryly.

“Move, move,” the Captain shouted. Williams dumped his pack – it wouldn’t be needed – and ran towards the entrance of the burning camp. Germans tried to fight and the mixed force cut them down, moving in precise formation through their fumbling attempts to defend themselves.

“Shock and awe,” he shouted, and the shout was taken up by the other soldiers, lashing into the German position and fighting the Waffen-SS directly. The helicopters buzzed overhead, firing into German positions indiscriminately, explosions blasted out across the camp. A hail of fire shot past him and Williams dived for cover, before tossing a hand grenade over the German position.

“That building,” an SAS captain shouted, and led the charge towards the hardened building. He tossed a stun grenade in and followed it, Williams followed him. A bullet struck him in the centre of his body armour, knocking him back, and he fired once at the figure hiding behind the big desk.

“You go left, I’ll go right,” he muttered, realising who the figure had to be. Hiding behind the desk, Himmler would have been sheltered from the blast of the grenade. “Now…”

Himmler fired at the SAS officer, heedless of Williams’ presence. Williams jumped on the former Fuhrer, slamming him to the ground and banging his head against the floor. Himmler’s glasses fell off and shattered; he tried to struggle, but it was futile. Williams searched him roughly before cuffing his hands and dragging him to his feet.

“I’ll give you money and wealth,” Himmler stammered. Williams was unimpressed; the leader of Death to America had put up a better fight than that. That Jihadi had killed five Americans and four British before being brought down.

“Fuck you,” Williams said harshly, as the SAS officer staggered to his feet. “You are going to face a trial for what you have done, and then you will be hung and…”

Himmler reeled against him. “No,” he said. “No…”

Williams dragged him out into the battleground. The Germans were surrendering, the handful that had survived. The battle was nearly over and the helicopters were landing, coming to recover them before Stalin could act to save Himmler’s life.

“Say goodbye, Fuhrer,” Williams sneered. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see German territory again.”