The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  “A long way from here,” Kruger said, his eyes taking on a faraway look. He eased his grip and the boy took a step back. For a moment it looked like the kid would scamper away, now that Kruger’s guard was down. Instead, he began to swagger towards a nearby alley, his gait very much like a strutting rooster. He looked back over his shoulders.

  “You comin’?”

  Kruger followed.

  The alley was much darker than the parking lot, the light from the lot’s sodium vapor lamps too weak to plumb its depths. The boy beckoned him over to an area next to a large, battered dumpster. It smelled even worse back here. In a pool of light farther up the alley, Kruger could see a couple of rats fighting over the remnants of meat a restaurant had thrown away.

  “The money, bro, let’s see the green,” the boy said impatiently.

  Kruger walked over to him, his hand inside the pocket of his jacket.

  “How about we see red, ja?”

  “Huh?”

  In a blur, Kruger whipped out a switchblade, and swiped it across the boy’s throat. Great gouts of dark, red blood jetted out from the wide slice in his neck. The boy’s eyes bugged out as he clamped his hands around his throat. It did nothing to stop the torrent of gore. He struggled to scream, his voice coming out like wet, gurgling croaks. In a moment, he slumped over and lay still.

  Looking about to make sure no one had stumbled across their little dalliance, Kruger picked up the boy’s limp body and threw it into the dumpster, covering it with some of the loose trash. With luck, no one would discover it for a couple of days. Of course, if the heat of the last few days persisted, that time would be considerably shortened. Kruger wiped the blade on a piece of newspaper, closed it, and put it back in his pocket.

  “No one steals from me,” he said, a pitiless smile creasing his brutal face. “Guten nacht, my little mongrel.”

  Kruger walked swiftly back to the Camry, got in, and drove off. Normally, he might’ve let the little Schwarze go, but in light of “future” events, he was doing the little bastard a favor. When the new world order came to pass, all his kind would be rounded up and destroyed, just like the Jews, Gypsies, and mentally deficient. It occurred to him that, with the changes he would make, the boy would never be born to begin with. He laughed out loud at that. The perfect crime. All traces of it ceasing to exist in the blink of an eye. Nothing in this decadent, dying country would ever be the same.

  Kruger pulled through the stone gates of the Normandy Club and sped up the cobblestone road to the front entrance. He turned off the Camry’s motor and stepped out. No one. Not a sound. The grounds lay swathed in darkness, with only the chirping crickets and the ticking of the Camry’s cooling engine breaking the illusion of stillness.

  Kruger’s pulse quickened as he looked up toward the building’s top floor.

  The third floor glowed, the warm, yellow light spilling from the dormers and out into the night, looking cozy and inviting. He knew they would all be there. Waiting. Bock, Chessman, and the others. They wanted to watch. Never mind that their presence could affect the experiment—the mission. They had paid good money and wanted to watch Werner Kruger fade into the past.

  That was what Chessman had said it would be like, a slow fade into yesteryear, like a ghost disappearing into the ether. Kruger smiled. He was right. But what he hadn’t told the old professor was that he was making extracurricular journeys. Aside from the jaunts to Dallas in 1963 and Suez in 1956, he’d followed his own instincts. It took no more energy to put oneself back fifty years than it did one day. And that is what he’d done the day before.

  Or was it the day before that? It didn’t matter. He’d lived the day twice. With one essential difference. He was now thousands of dollars richer.

  He’d sat in his rented room and gone through the drill. It was simple, really, so simple that it boggled the mind. It came down to channeling one’s telekinetic ability back on oneself. By using a form of mantra, the subject would direct the energy back on himself and whatever objects he had touching his body. The most important aspect was to keep one thought uppermost in the mind: TIME... DATE... PLACE. In this case it was noon... August 3, 1993... the men’s room at Hialeah Racetrack. When it happened, his whole body rippled, like a flag snapping in the breeze. From his point of view, the whole world performed a kind of lap dissolve, much like the kind one saw in the movies. One moment he was in one place and time, the next in another. For one brief moment, the two would overlap, making him feel almost godlike.

  Breaking out of his reverie, Kruger walked into the building and into the small, paneled elevator, wrinkling his nose at the odor of pine-scented cleanser that assailed his nose. And although someone had just cleaned it, it still stank of tobacco smoke and the Nine Old Men’s greed.

  On the top floor, the door slid open and Kruger strode toward the steel door. It already lay open, the light spilling into the darkened hallway. Was it inviting—or daring—him to enter? As he walked, he heard the timbers creaking under his feet. No doubt the Nine Old Men wanted it that way. No one approached undetected.

  He stepped inside and felt the expectancy, the hush that fell across the room, as if he were a great leader about to receive accolades for an extraordinary act of statesmanship. This pleased rather than disturbed him, for in a sense, this was exactly what he was about to do. He was about to rewrite history, to change all that had come before.

  Armand Bock stood and applauded, and the rest of them followed suit. Kruger noted that Chessman remained seated, his hands folded in his lap. He stifled the flash of anger that rose in his heart and smiled, bowing graciously.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The applause died down quickly and Bock came over to him.

  “We are at the crossroads of history, Werner, the crossroads of limitless opportunity. Can you feel it?” he said, grasping Kruger’s shoulders.

  Kruger nodded, unable to think of anything to say. He looked toward the center of the room. The topographical map table had been moved to the side. Under the large, overhanging light now stood a single chair with clothes neatly folded on the seat. These would be the clothes he would wear: the blue gabardine uniform of an RAF Flight Lieutenant. Near the chair lay a haversack containing changes of uniform, British Military ID, orders posting him to SHAEF headquarters in Bushey Park, and £10,000 in various denominations, all issued prior to 1944. Inside the bag, under a false bottom, lay civilian clothes with German labels, 10,000 Reichsmarks, Bock’s letter to his uncle the Field Marshal, and the Semtex plastic explosive and detonator.

  At first the Nine Old Men had wanted Eisenhower to die quietly, appearing to succumb to natural causes, but they ruled this out as too undramatic. After two years of careful planning, the Allies would have their day off for a funeral and the invasion would proceed as planned, as if nothing had ever happened. No, to strike terror into the heart of the Allies, to stop them in their tracks, something big would have to occur. A small, poisoned dart fired from a pistol using compressed air had no drama.

  But there existed one such opportunity for drama that outweighed everything else. On May 15, 1944, Eisenhower and everyone connected with the planning for Overlord had gathered at a small private school in London’s West End for a final briefing. Besides Ike, Bedell-Smith, Montgomery, and the others, King George VI and Winston Churchill also attended. With all of them in one room, it presented an unprecedented moment, a moment that never came again, a moment that begged to be seized.

  In one fell swoop, the whole of Overlord and the British government would lie decapitated, the damage incalculable. A masterstroke.

  The plan might have appealed to Bock’s sense of theatrics, but it made Kruger nervous. The security around the Saint Paul’s briefing would be nearly impenetrable. Even with his impeccable credentials and flawless accent, there was no guarantee that the man he was replacing would be authorized to go. And even then, ten pounds of Semtex took up a lot more space than a small air pistol. But Bock and the rest of the Nine
Old Men held all the cards. It was their way, or no way.

  Still, no plan was foolproof, and a backup plan remained in effect. Regardless of the outcome at St. Paul’s, Kruger had orders to proceed to Germany. For Werner, this part of the plan still held the greatest hope. He knew he could convince the Führer and his Generals to move the Fifteenth Army. He had to, or all was lost.

  “Would you like some privacy to change?” Bock said.

  Kruger smiled. Modesty was not in his makeup.

  “Nein.”

  “English, Flight Lieutenant Liddington, English,” Bock chided.

  “Right you are, squire, good show,” Kruger said, snapping to and giving Bock the British salute.

  The accent was perfect.

  Kruger had spent months listening to tape recordings, zeroing in on the particular regionalism that would both befit his officer status and match that of the real Flight Lieutenant Captain Liddington, a man born and raised in Surrey, educated at Eton and Oxford. He also took care to read magazines and books of the period, absorbing the contemporary expressions then in use. In class-conscious England, an officer with the wrong accent, speaking the vernacular of a future age, would stand out like a sore thumb. Worse than that, it would jeopardize everything. His accent had to be perfect—for 1944.

  Kruger quickly stripped down and put on the uniform, starting with the old-fashioned button-waist briefs. In a few moments the transformation was complete. His own clothes he bundled and placed a few feet from the chair. He then sat on the chair and placed the haversack in his lap.

  “ I am ready,” he said.

  Bock nodded and looked to Chessman, who got up and approached.

  Chessman’s expression looked troubled.

  “You do realize, Herr Kruger, that there is a chance you may not be able to return?”

  Kruger smiled, his lips curling in contempt.

  “Yes. But then I will have the pleasure of being away from you, doctor.”

  Chessman stiffened, his features hardening into an unreadable mask. He turned to the others.

  “The lights,” he said.

  No one moved, but the lights around them dimmed, all but the one directly above Kruger.

  “Begin,” Chessman said.

  Chessman felt the acid in the back of his throat and resisted the temptation to reach for a Tums. He wouldn’t give Kruger the satisfaction, the pleasure of seeing him suffer. Oh, God, how he hated the man. After working with him for six months, Chessman now knew what Victor Frankenstein felt like after his creation ran amok. Scared and responsible. Though he’d wanted what Bock and the others wanted with equal passion, now he was not so sure. What world would Kruger create? Would he be better off as he’d hoped? Or would nothing change at all? These very questions now ate him night and day, the antacid he gulped continually often useless.

  I will remember, I must remember, he thought.

  But for all his genius, for all his research, he still did not know if that was possible. In a moment, theory and fact would meet and one would vanquish the other. His attention riveted on Kruger as the man closed his eyes and began muttering.

  “Yitgadal V’yitkadash Sh’mei Rabba...”

  The mantra he had taught Kruger came from a surprising source and one Chessman felt provided a touch of irony. It was the opening line to the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead. Though Chessman was Russian Orthodox, he’d learned it from the years of accompanying his wife to synagogue. He watched Kruger repeat the line over and over and realized the joke might be on them all.

  Suddenly, objects in the room began to shake, as if caused by a mild earthquake. Chessman felt the skin on his face begin to pull. Kruger muttered faster. A golden glow appeared around him. Chessman struggled to breathe.

  It was working.

  He stared at Bock. The old man’s eyes shone with a queer light. The rest of the Nine Old Men leaned forward as one, their sunken eyes reflecting the amber glow surrounding Kruger.

  Chessman turned back to Kruger just as the glow intensified. It was now like looking into a small sun. The room shook violently, objects crashed to the floor. And then, amidst all the other noise, Chessman heard it. Soft and faint, at first, it grew in direct proportion to the glow around Kruger. It sounded like voices merging into an unearthly multi-part harmony, a cosmic oratorio, and it grew louder and louder and louder. Chessman and the others covered their ears. The light and sound built to a terrifying crescendo. And in an instant was gone. The spot where Kruger had sat stood empty. Kruger and the bag were gone, as was the chair. Chessman noted that even a layer of the floor where Kruger’s feet had rested had gone with him. He could see faint impressions of the man’s shoes.

  Bock rocketed to his feet.

  “WE HAVE DONE IT!” he screamed.

  And then the world went black...

  Chapter Seven

  Miami, Florida

  15 April 1994

  Jack opened his eyes just as the small Blaupunkt clock radio’s alarm went off. Even with the buzzer turned off, he still felt like burying his head in the pillows and forgetting the day, but the cheery announcer from WNZI made that impossible.

  “Good morning, Miami, and welcome to another sunny day in the Southern Sector. Temperatures will be in the high eighties for the rest of the week and the skies will remain hazy until late today. Seas will be heavy, but the bay should stay at a moderate chop.

  “In local news, State Security reports another arrest of terrorists in the Tamiami District. Though no names have been released, State Security reports that guerrilla leader John Franz was not among them. Authorities say an arrest is imminent.

  “The last of the Liberty City Ghetto was razed today to make way for the Keitel Terrace Condominium project. According to developer William Bennett, the project is expected to attract large numbers of retirees from the Fatherland. All SS, Wehrmacht, and Luftwaffe veterans will receive special low-cost loans.

  “The Führer has announced an official holiday in honor of the National Resettlement Bureau’s efficient handling of the resettlement of African-Avalonians to their ancestral homes on the Dark Continent. The last boatload left New York harbor early this morning bound for New Iberia. We at WNZI send our heartfelt congratulations to the men and women of the National Resettlement Bureau.

  “In world news, fighting in Mexico intensified yesterday as the Sepp Dietrich Division encircled Acapulco. Fighting is house by house with heavy casualties reported. Field Marshal Wayne Kurtz expects the city to fall within hours.

  “Back in the Fatherland, preparations for the May fifteenth ‘Heroes Day’ celebrations are in full swing. As is the custom, Adolf Hitler’s tomb will be opened to the public and a televised speech by our glorious Führer will go around the world via satellite at precisely twenty-one hundred hours Berlin time. That’s oh-three hundred hours for us Southers. And don’t you just know I’ll be watching...”

  That was dangerous, Jack thought, as he sat up in bed and clicked off the radio. He could just imagine State Security bursting into the studio and dragging off the hapless announcer, who would, like all of them, proclaim his innocence loudly.

  It wouldn’t matter.

  If State Security said you were guilty, you were guilty. They had no sense of humor, no sense of fair play, no mercy. Jack shook his head and wiped the hardened mucus from the corners of his eyes.

  Climbing from the bed, he went to the window, pulled back the blinds, and stared out through the heavy plate-glass onto Brickell Ave. From his vantage point on the fiftieth floor, the bumper-to-bumper traffic reminded him of the tiny Matchbook/Heinkel cars he’d collected as a kid. He still could not get used to living so high up, but his position in the Ministry of Propaganda rated a class-2 apartment, and one never refused perks. Not only did it look bad, but it was also just plain stupid. Perks like these made the job bearable. Jack took one last look at the street below, noting that the drawbridge was up. A large Dönitz-class submarine passed through on its way from it
s berth on the newly widened and deepened Miami River to its patrol point off Miami Beach. The entire crew stood on deck, standing stiffly at attention while it glided silently by.

  Letting go of the blinds, Jack trudged into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped off his underwear, and stood under the steaming spray, letting the water cascade over his body. He closed his eyes and thought back over the last weekend with Leslie. They’d met at a Party function the previous month and both felt an immediate, almost chemical attraction. She worked as a secretary to some party bigwig and, as a perk, got to attend the monthly soirees. The only reason he’d been there was because Reece had ordered him to go. Funny how things worked out. He and Leslie spent the entire evening dancing and talking, hardly taking their eyes off each other. Before they realized it, the band was packing their instruments and they were the only couple left. Neither one wanted to end the evening.

  They didn’t.

  Back at his apartment, clothes came off and flesh fused together in an explosion of heat and passion that surprised them both. Afterwards, with the sun peeking over Biscayne Bay, Jack watched her sleep, marveling at the way the crimson rays played on the contours of her face. He could hardly believe that in less than a day, he’d met and fallen madly in love with someone. Life was incredible.

  Snapping out of his daydream, Jack turned the shower ice-cold and nearly screamed. His manhood shrunk under the frigid spray. Now was not the time to get carried away. After a moment, he turned off the shower and got out.

  “Shit,” he said, looking at the clock embedded in the bathroom wall. It read 0738 hours.

  He was late. There was a meeting that morning, a meeting to help coordinate the Heroes Day celebrations. Instituted at the end of Das Groß Kampf (The Great Struggle) in 1944 by Adolf Hitler, the day celebrated all the heroes that helped bring about the New World Order. Thousands were honored worldwide, but the men and women personally chosen by the Führer each year received special accolades. This year, on the fiftieth anniversary, there were hints of special honors. This was the purpose of the meeting, to help coordinate the celebrations and make any last-minute changes.