by Bill Walker
“...were telling the truth. Yes. Jack figured it was all that beer I drank. Funny, huh?”
“Then what you said about nineteen ninety-four and all that is...”
“True as well.”
Simmons tried to assimilate everything. He rubbed his eyes and attempted to pour a glass of Scotch from a decanter with his trembling hands. He gave up and drank directly from it. He coughed as the fiery liquid coursed down his throat. Sensing his mental inertia, Denise moved forward and planted herself on his desk, her face inches from his.
“Pull yourself together, Simmons. Jack’s in over his head. We’ve got to get in that room and clear everyone out.”
At the mention of the briefing, Simmons became alert, his eyes widening. “Shit!” he said, grabbing his cap
Denise turned to Harry and winked. “Let’s go, Harry. Time to party.”
Harry smiled and all three ran for the door.
Jack’s pulse quickened when Kruger whispered to Montgomery and then left the room. As instructed, Jack reached for his helmet and touched the brim. It was the agreed-upon signal that he would be going on a bathroom break. He saw the others nod and he began moving. He descended two steps and walked the length of the seats until reaching the area near the door. He then climbed down as quietly as possible and knocked on the door. The MPs nodded and let him through.
Barreling down the hall, Jack burst into the lavatory, the M1 raised, his heart pounding. One by one he bashed open the stalls.
Empty.
Where the hell was he? Had Kruger given him the slip again? He remembered passing another classroom door. Bolting into the hall, he crept up to the classroom door and placed his ear against the wood. He listened. Through the thick mahogany, he heard what sounded like a faint, high-pitched beeping.
A timer!
Wrenching open the door, Jack saw Kruger putting the final sequence of numbers into a compact digital timer held in the palm of his hand. From it snaked wires that terminated at two beige-colored mounds pasted against the paneling. A third wire ran into a hemispherical-shaped charge that rested on the floor ten feet from the wall.
“Hold it right there!” Jack said.
“So glad you could make it, Dunham,” he said.
Kruger laughed and pushed the final button. A series of tones emitted from the timer and the clock began running. Kruger placed it gently on a nearby table and began moving toward Jack.
“Turn it off.”
Jack raised the carbine and pointed at Kruger.
“Turn the goddamned thing off. Now!”
“Sorry, old friend, but once the sequence begins, it cannot be stopped.”
He kept approaching, causing Jack to retreat.
Feeling himself losing control of the situation, Jack turned the gun toward the timer. The numbers glowed brightly, the last two digits a crimson blur.
“I would not do that, Jack. You will turn us into hundefleisch.” Kruger smiled again and moved toward Jack.
The gun came up again. “Stay right there.”
“What are you going to do, Herr Dunham. Shoot me? Aim true, old friend,” he said, pointing to a spot between his eyes.
He never stopped moving. He crept closer and closer.
Jack wondered if all the time traveling had loosened the man’s screws. “Fine, dickhead. You got it.”
Jack raised the carbine, flicked off the safety, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He lunged toward Kruger, holding the rifle in front of him with both hands. He caught the man head on and smashed him against the wall. He pushed with all his strength, wanting to crush the life out of him. But Kruger fooled him again. A bright flash and suddenly the roles reversed. Jack was on the floor, Kruger’s hands clenched about his throat. The room began to turn gray and bright flashes swam before his eyes. Desperate, he fought back, hitting Kruger about the head with his hands. But his blows landed ineffectively. He began to lose consciousness. With unconsciousness and death rapidly approaching, he thrust his hand upward and dug his thumb into Kruger’s left eye. The man screamed and fell back. Instantly Jack fell upon him and pummeled his face with his fists. With one final roundhouse, Kruger went slack. Jack took the man’s head in his hands. This time, Kruger was his.
One hard twist and it will all be over, he thought.
Suddenly, the small hairs stood up on his body and the air in the room took on an electric smell. He knew what that meant. Kruger was not unconscious. Had only faked it.
“NO!” Jack said.
With a loud snap, the world turned white, and when his vision cleared, he was inside a darkened room. Constructed of poured concrete and bare of any ornament, it stank of stale cigarettes and rancid urine. The only furnishings were a scarred wooden table and two matching chairs. The only light spilled from a bare fifteen-watt bulb hanging from a braided cloth-covered wire. It barely dispelled the shadows. Kruger stood away from him, smiling as he buttoned up the tunic of an SS-Obersturmführer.
“Finally awake, are we?” Kruger said. The man’s puckish grin made Jack angry all over again. He tried to rise, but his vision blurred, and he fell back against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit.
“I am sorry, but you materialized ‘head-first,’ so to speak.”
Jack shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
“The uniform... How—”
“Did I come by this? The previous owner won’t be needing it.”
Jack followed his gaze to the corner and saw a man lying there dressed in Kruger’s RAF uniform. The man stared sightlessly at him, his eyes and tongue bulging from his face, the skin a darkening purple.
Kruger walked over to the corpse, closed his eyes, and chanted softly. A moment later the body glowed and snapped out of existence. The subtle odor of ozone permeated the room.
“You won’t get away with this,” Jack fumed. “I’ll find you.”
“I doubt that very much, old friend. You see, we are now in the basement of Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin. You would know it better as Gestapo Headquarters.”
With a growl in his throat, Jack rose, ready to rush Kruger, when the door bashed open. In walked two men in field-gray SS uniforms like the one Kruger now wore. The two SS men appeared surprised to see them both.
“Who are you?” the officer barked in German.
Kruger instantly snapped to attention and gave the Hitler salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The SS officer, a Hauptsturmführer, ignored the salute and motioned for Kruger to move back, away from the door. The other German, a Scharführer, stood with his back to it, barring any chance of escape.
“I asked you a question,” the officer said, his tone threatening.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Kruger said. “I am Obersturmführer Werner Kruger. I have been on assignment in Paris. This man here is my prisoner. I have brought him back for questioning.”
“How did you get in here? This room is supposed to be empty.”
“I am sorry, sir. I assumed it was free for my use. Here is my identification.”
Kruger reached into his tunic and pulled out his Gestapo ID, an oval metal disk. Stamped on one side was the Wehrmachtadler, the eagle and swastika emblem. On the other side, presumably, was Kruger’s name, rank, serial number, and blood type. The Hauptsturmführer glanced at the disk, grunted, and handed it back.
“Where are your orders, Obersturmführer? I should have been informed of your arrival. Instead, I find you in a room that is supposed to be empty.”
“I am sorry, Hauptsturmführer. My written orders were lost during an Allied strafing run on my way here from Paris. My orders stated I was to deliver this man to Prinz Albrechtstrasse for questioning. We believe he is OSS, part of an advanced unit paving the way for the invasion.”
This got the man’s attention.
“Ja?” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Good work, Obersturmführer Kruger. I shall see your commander receives word of your fine achievement.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kruger said, bowing and clicking his heels. “I assure you, he already knows. May I tell him your name as well?”
“Hauptsturmführer Johann Streicher, at your service.”
“You’re not letting him walk out of here, are you?” Jack said. “This man’s a fraud!”
“SILENCE!” Streicher screamed.
“I leave the prisoner in your capable hands, Hauptsturmführer. I regret I must catch the next train back to Paris. Guten Abend.”
Again, Kruger bowed and clicked his heels. “Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Streicher responded. A moment later, Kruger was gone, the steel door slamming behind him.
“STOP HIM!” Jack screamed, leaping to his feet. Streicher turned and shot him a murderous look. He then shouted an order to the sergeant who stepped forward, clubbed Jack across the face, and threw him down into one of the chairs.
At that moment, Jack felt the walls close in on him. He knew deep in the pit of his soul that all was lost. Without Denise to help him, he would end his life in the bowels of this infamous building, the plaything of sadistic men bent on extracting every tidbit of information they could.
“Who are you?” Streicher said.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Scowling darkly, Streicher stepped forward and backhanded Jack across the face. The blow stunned him.
“You will tell me!”
“I know... ‘You haf vays of making me talk,’” Jack said, rubbing his mouth. The man stared at him blankly. The humor of the old Hollywood cliché rang hollow in this shadowy room. He knew he was in dire trouble, something he could not talk his way out of, even if he told the improbable truth.
Where are you, Denise?
About to speak, Jack held back when he saw Streicher make for the door.
“Think long and hard, my Americanische freund. I will return and I shall expect answers.” He turned and, followed by the sergeant, marched out the door. An instant later, he heard the tumblers click on the lock.
Jack began to tremble, and he had to fight to keep the tears back. How long could he last before he broke? And what of Kruger? The man no doubt was laughing at his cleverness. Even now he would be on his way to the residence of Armand Bock’s uncle, Field Marshal Fedor von Bock, and through him, Adolf Hitler. And the worst of it was, the bomb still sat there in London, ticking away. He hadn’t prevented a thing. All he succeeded in doing was putting himself into a world of shit, a world destined to remain as screwed up as the Nine Old Men wanted it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
London, England
15 May 1944
Denise, Harry, and Lieutenant Simmons raced across the immaculate green lawn of St. Paul’s, picking up two bewildered MPs on the way. In front of them lay the large, barrack-like school building where Monty had his headquarters, the same building where the briefing was now going on. Denise found her breath coming in ragged gasps, a vestige of her childhood asthma. Even now she could taste the familiar coppery taste in the back of her throat. Simmons stabbed a finger at the two MPs.
“You two take the back way,” he ordered. “Check the brig and release anyone inside!”
The soldiers ran around the side of the building as Simmons and Denise banged through the front door. Following him up the wide staircase, Denise began to feel afraid for the first time. Was she too late? They reached the second floor and Simmons tore down the hall, his cap flying off his head and rolling to a stop against the mahogany wainscoting.
Not waiting for him, Denise began running from room to room, opening doors, and scanning the interiors. She felt a mounting sense of panic. Where was the bomb? Where was Jack? She burst into the room next to the briefing and stared, wide-eyed with fright. In a flash, she took in the three mounds of plastique, the wires, and the timer with its red numbers flashing. Running to it, she grabbed it, wanting to rip out the wires, but something stopped her. How many movies and books had she read where tampering with the timer or the wires made the device detonate? She had no idea what to do, whether she could do anything. Her heart pounded when she read the time left: 3:07... 3:06... 3:05...
Stifling a scream, she ran out of the room and down the hall toward Simmons and the four MPs. He looked angry, panicked.
“This is an emergency, Corporal. I’ll take responsibility.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve got my orders.”
Simmons’s face turned beet-red and his neck appeared to swell with unseen pressures. “I am countermanding those orders!”
The MP squared his shoulders and stared straight ahead, his expression blank, save for a tiny spasm in his left eye.
The two MPs they’d brought stood by, not knowing what to do, their expressions wide-eyed.
“Goddammit! You will listen to me!”
The MP remained frozen, immovable.
“Shit,” Denise said, stepping forward.
In a flash of movement, she plucked the rifle from one of the other MPs and snapped back the bolt.
“All right, shit-kicker, open the fucking door!”
A pounding sounded on the door from the inside.
“Hey, Leavitt, what gives?” someone whispered. “The brass are getting all bent out of shape.”
Denise could tell Leavitt was sweating bullets as he tried to reconcile his orders with the immediacy of the situation.
Denise raised the carbine. “We don’t have much time.”
“Fuck it,” Leavitt said, turning to the door. He slid back the bolt and both Simmons and Denise rushed into the room. The MPs along the top of the seats reacted as one, their rifles aimed at her.
“What is the meaning of this!”
Denise jerked her head toward the man who’d shouted. General Montgomery.
“BOMB!” she shouted.
At first, no one moved. Incredulous, Denise pointed the gun into the air and fired. “BOMB!”
Far from a panicked stampede, the men rose and filed quickly out of the room. It was as if four years of war and bombs falling every night had blasted the fear out of them. As they exited the briefing room, their pace picked up and they clattered down the flight of stairs, out the front door, and onto the lawn.
Denise and Simmons brought up the rear. The lieutenant looked both relieved and apprehensive.
“I hope the hell this isn’t all some sick joke. They’ll have our hides,” he said, nodding toward the group of dignitaries huddled together on the grass.
Denise stared back at Simmons and smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.
The first explosion blasted out the windows as it roared through the venerable building. The second and larger of the two rumbled through the ground, rattling the windows of the neighboring building. They watched as the roof collapsed, belching thick smoke and the beginnings of what would be a raging blaze. An air-raid siren wailed, and troops poured out of yet another building now converted to barracks. Already in the thick of the action, General Patton shouted orders to the troops bringing up the firefighting equipment; his salty expletives carried over the siren’s ululant cry.
Denise watched the burning wreckage, unable to stop the tears. “Oh, Jack.”
“My God,” someone said.
Denise turned and saw a man approaching, his face knotted with rage, his cigar puffing like a steam engine full throttle. She felt a moment of panic as she came face-to-face with none other than Winston Churchill. In spite of all she and Jack had gone through, all the training and the trip through time, nothing prepared her for meeting a man she knew to be long dead and familiar only through old films and television documentaries. Yet here he stood, alive, vital, and totally livid!
“You are the man in charge of security?” he snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Simmons said, his voice cracking.
“How on earth could you allow something like this to happen?”
Simmons appeared to deflate as he tried to come up with something that would satisfy this irascible old warrio
r.
“Sir, I... uhhh.”
“He didn’t know until just now, Mr. Churchill,” Denise interrupted.
Churchill turned toward her, and in spite of his anger, she could see a twinkle of male appreciation in his eyes. “Damned handy with that carbine, aren’t you, my dear? Wish I could say the same for myself.”
Denise opened her mouth to speak, but the Prime Minister rolled right on, his manner hardening again. “He bloody well should’ve known. It’s his job.”
“He couldn’t have known, sir, because the bomb was brought in by someone with top-secret clearance.”
“Who?” he said, chomping on the cigar. Even in the open air, the stench made Denise want to retch.
“Flight Lieutenant Arthur Liddington, General Montgomery’s aide. If you check with the general, you will find out the man reported for duty only this morning. In reality, he is a German spy by the name of Werner Kruger.”
“And how do you know this, young lady?”
Denise hesitated, looking to Simmons. The lieutenant blanched and turned away to stare at the burning building. Also drawn to the blaze, Denise was hypnotized by the undulating fire. The heat made her face flush and her skin had a parched sensation, as if the flames had robbed her flesh of all its moisture. Suddenly, timbers from the ruined roof crumbled in, causing a great shower of sparks and collapsing the floor of what was once the briefing room. Black smoke curled skyward. Patton now stood up on one of the fire trucks, gesticulating with his swagger stick.
“Come on, you sons of bitches. Move those butts!”
The soldiers scrambled back and forth, laying out the hoses. Despite the general’s able directions, the building was clearly lost.
“My dear...” Churchill began, his tone sounding annoyed.
Denise whirled to face him, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, sir. There was someone else in there trying to help us. I didn’t see him come out... I...”
Denise began to cry in earnest. Instead of becoming flustered like a lot of men do when women cry, Churchill stepped forward and put his arm around her.
“There, there, my dear,” he said. “I’m sure he got out. No one was in the room after us.”
