“Let’s hope it gives the Krauts a nasty shock. I think you’ll get to try ’em out sooner than you think.” The general went on to outline Bradley’s attack plan, watching as Pulaski’s eyes lit up at the prospect of battle.
“We’ll be standing by,” the colonel reported. “Just give me the word.”
“It’ll be a few days, I’m guessing, before the infantry chew you a hole. But when they do, I want you to move, and to move fast. This is the best chance we’ve had to win this war, and you’ll be the one to get the job done. Pulaski--by the way--?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You might want to let the sergeants run the welding. You’ll have enough on your hands trying to run the combat.”
Wakefield could see the embarrassment flit through the young colonel’s face. “Sorry, General. I let my enthusiasm get out in front,” he declared as the crimson sun shone in his blond hair.
“That’s okay, son. Happens to all of us. Ready for some action?”
“Yes, sir! We’ve got what we’ve wanted--a chance. Just let me at ’em!”
Headquarters, General Staff, Berlin, Germany, 1434 hours GMT
“We got everything we wanted,” Colonel Karl Schwartz grinned, leaning forward in the narrow jump seat as the crowded Mercedes limousine navigated the wide Berlin streets. “Operational control of the military, appointment of our own officers, everything! And a chance to win the war ... if Operation Carousel succeeds.”
“Everything--” Müller added dryly, “including the right to stay alive.” The damp and spreading sweat stains on his clean uniform shirt threatened to bleed through onto his coat, the combination of summer heat and emotional tension. He leaned back in the seat, reminiscing on the powdered cakes--he had managed to snatch a second one as the conference was ending--and feeling a sense of contentment that reminded him of pleasant afternoons spent at his father’s bakery.
“Oh, Himmler would never have had us shot,” Schwartz retorted. “Tortured, perhaps, but shot, never.”
Reinhardt lifted a slim finger to his lips and glanced at the driver’s impassive face in the rearview mirror. Schwartz swiveled around to look, then laughed nervously, “Just kidding, Müller. You looked so scared.”
“Scared, no,” Müller shook his head. “But relieved, yes. It is a good arrangement, one that at least gives us a fighting chance.”
“What do you know about fighting, Herr Supply Officer?” Schwartz questioned, eager for an argument to cover his own lapse.
Reinhardt interjected, “ ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ Napoleon.”
Schwartz lapsed into silence. Then he started again. “What did you think of the plan?” he asked.
“Interesting,” Colonel von Reinhardt stated, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Desperate, of course, but not without historical precedent.”
“Naturally, you’d say that,” Müller retorted. Müller’s head was still spinning with Himmler’s revelations. Would it really work? Was the war not lost, after all?
“No, no, Wolfgang, let us look at the situation. Himmler indeed has returned operational control of the military to the Wehrmacht. This is not only good for the nation, but it was Himmler’s only historical option. Again, remember that he could have killed us easily were that his choice, but our deaths would not have given him power and might even have made powerful enemies.”
“I’m glad you can consider your own death so dispassionately,” Müller said sarcastically.
“I am merely a leaf floating in the stream of history,” Reinhardt smiled. “We are all subject to fate’s iron hand; I merely recognize and accept that reality.”
“What about this power sharing?” Schwartz interjected.
The negotiation of the power-sharing relationship had followed the presentation of Himmler’s Operation Carousel. Breathtaking in its scope, the actual arrangement was simple in details, just as Reinhardt had described. Himmler had the State, the Wehrmacht the military, with clear lines of demarcation, for the most part. The generals had supported it gladly; only Jodl, who had expected more for himself, was disappointed.
“Again, it conforms to the historical reality. Think about the Roman Senate faced with the death of Caligula. On the one hand, the Praetorian Guard is on the spot, close to the seat of power. On the other, the Roman legions can always return to Rome. Power sharing is in everyone’s interest because civil war is in the interest of no one who has any power at all. Of course, power-sharing arrangements are always unstable, but someone will eventually win out. History will settle this; it always does.”
Reinhardt was now in lecture mode, navigating in the mirror maze of history. Müller knew from experience that he could cheerfully continue in this vein for hours, so he interrupted. “I don’t care what history decides; I want to know what to expect now.”
“You, my friend, merely want to know where your next meal is coming from.” Reinhardt reached over to pat Müller’s ample belly as Schwartz roared with laughter.
When they arrived back at the headquarters, Müller followed Reinhardt back to his office and closed the door behind him. One issue in the Reichstag meeting had surprised Müller, something he felt a need to talk about. The suggestion had come from General Rick, who, like Rowekamp, was one of the old school.
“If we are to conclude a satisfactory arrangement to the war, one thing is critical,” the old man had announced.
“And what is that?” Himmler had replied, in the oily friendliness that was beginning to grate on Müller, who believed none of it.
“We must stop the transportation of the Jews.”
There was dead silence. Most of those at the table had long suspected some of the details of the “transportation to the east” that had been going on. However, a general conspiracy of silence, of willful ignorance, made this a forbidden topic to most. They didn’t want to know, so they didn’t know. They refused to know.
Himmler had smiled. “And your reasons for this extraordinary statement?” he had asked.
“World opinion,” the old general had stated. “Even if Operation Carousel succeeds completely, we will need to negotiate a peace. The Jewish question is important to the West, and if we undercut the issue now, publicly, by stopping the excesses of previous policy, we will be in a better position.”
Himmler had paused for a moment. “Hmm. Perhaps it is as you say. We must discuss this further. After all, a halt need not be permanent.”
In response to Müller’s question, Reinhardt’s opinion was clear and straightforward. “Himmler’s lying, of course. He has no intention of stopping the transportation,” he said calmly. “In fact, he will probably speed it up.”
“Why?” Müller asked.
“Because it is an SS and Gestapo operation and he is up to his neck in it. Stopping transportation may help those of us not directly involved in the event that we lose this war. But it will not help Himmler at all. His only hope is to finish what he has started and bury all evidence. If the entire story comes out--well, I think for once this is something quite unprecedented historically.”
SHAEF, London, England, 1450 hours GMT
“This whole German situation is simply an example of shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic,” pronounced Captain Keegan, his voice slipping into its annoying nasal register. “If the conspirators had succeeded in taking control of the government, perhaps the war would have ended sooner. With Himmler in control now, there will be few changes. Germany will inevitably be defeated, just as it would have been had the assassination not happened. No change.”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Reid Sanger, scratching his head thoughtfully.
“Right,” drawled Keegan. “So, what improbable little scenario have you cooked up this time?”
Keegan was generally of the expressed opinion that anyone without the right school background was necessarily an idiot, which infuriated Sanger, but he’d figured out that the more successfully he ignored that supercilious tone of superiority, the easier his life was.
On the other hand, Keegan had a point. Sanger liked to come at problems about ten degrees different from anyone else. He was often wrong, but occasionally he saw something that no one else could see. This time there was something nagging at him, something important. He was the sort of person who needed to think aloud, which was very hard to do when sniper fire was coming at him from his fellow intelligence analysts.
Fortunately, Colonel Cook intervened. “Right now, I want to listen to any idea, no matter how half-cocked, if there’s even a slim chance of coming up with something useful. Keegan, put a sock in it. Sanger, if you have something to say, spit it out.”
“Yes, sir,” Sanger said, not looking directly at the colonel, but instead fastening his eyes on the ornately decorated ceiling in the small conference room. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk. “I was just thinking...”
Keegan snorted sarcastically, drawing an evil look from the colonel.
“I mean, Himmler had a countercoup plan in reserve, just in case someone managed to take out Hitler, which is logical. And Himmler doesn’t seem to be quite as crazy as der führer, and he’s got to have a more realistic view of his situation....”
“Go on,” the colonel said, encouragingly.
Sanger paused for a minute. “He probably did what most people would do, which is imagine what he’d do differently if he were top dog...
“Pay close attention,” Keegan whispered to Lieutenant Foster. “You, too, can learn to be a top-flight intelligence officer.”
“Shut up,” said the colonel quietly, without rancor, but forcefully enough that Keegan retreated.
Sanger continued, not having registered the interruption. “So he’s got to have some sort of plan he thinks will give him a chance to shine, because why bother taking over a country if you’re going to lose shortly? Maybe it’s just a plan to loot the treasury and skip town, but he’s a true believer, so it’s got to be some sort of big move he thinks will change the war and give him a chance to win....”
“Interesting,” said the colonel. “Keep going.” He glared preemptively over at Keegan.
“So what kind of big move would he have up his sleeve? Germany has a two-front war and it’s losing on both fronts--if he had some sort of time machine, he’d probably go back and keep Germany from getting into that situation in the first place, but he doesn’t...”
“No shit,” muttered Keegan, disgusted.
“... so the only hope is to figure out how to cut this back to a one-front war...” His voice trailed off for a moment, his eyes unfocused. Then he blinked suddenly and looked down.
“Colonel, if I were Himmler, I think I’d try to cut a deal with Stalin. I think it’s the only move open to him.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Sanger!” burst out Keegan. “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.” This time the colonel let him run on. “First, it completely ignores the fact that the Soviets and the Germans hate each other’s guts. Second, there’s just no way Stalin would even listen to a proposal from the Germans. It’s completely contrary to the man’s personality, and it makes no geopolitical sense from the Soviets’ perspective. They’ve got the victory, and Stalin knows it. The only possible motive for Stalin dealing with the Germans is believing that we were going to attack him, and if there’s one thing we’ve made completely clear, it’s that Stalin is on our team to stay.
“Third,” he continued, barely drawing a breath, “Stalin agreeing to such a peace also totally abrogates the long-term Russian goal of weakening Germany so it doesn’t pose a threat. Stalin isn’t expansionistic; he wants protection and safety so he can work out his own problems. He didn’t attack until provoked, but once he was, he defended himself, like Russia did against Napoleon. Fourth, there’s nothing Germany can offer him that he can’t take on his own. No reason to make a deal. I thought you said you didn’t think Himmler was as crazy as Hitler. But this idea is crazier than anything Hitler ever thought of.”
Sanger was still trying to work out his own thoughts. “I’m not so sure about that. I grant you it might be a tough sell to Stalin, but let’s look at it this way. This is the end game, and Russians are chess players. Let’s look at setting up the board for the next game. There’s anti-Soviet sentiment in the west, and Stalin knows it.”
“There is some ignorant paranoia, but it’s not a big deal,” pronounced Keegan. “We won’t go Communist ourselves, of course, but that sort of paranoia is common only among the uneducated.”
Sanger looked at Keegan directly. “Maybe, but I think you’re wrong. In any event, even if you’re right, Stalin will see it as more dangerous; he can’t help it He wants more Communist countries; that’s the next goal after Germany is defeated. He’s going to be looking at postwar positioning. He has to. So if there’s a German proposal that makes sense on his terms, he’ll listen.”
“That assumes once again that the USSR is an expansionistic power, but there’s no evidence whatsoever for that. They’ve minded their own business and kept the peace unless attacked. So why on earth would they even consider making peace with their historical enemies?”
“Because Himmler will make them an offer too good to refuse,” said Sanger.
Colonel Cook leaned across the table and took the pipe out of his mouth. “Sanger, I’m afraid I have to agree with Keegan on this one. That’s just too far-fetched.”
Sanger shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m right either. I just can’t think of another move for Himmler, and I know he’s got some kind of move planned.”
The colonel grinned. “Better be careful, son,” he said. “If you keep talking like a crackpot, you’ll never get that combat transfer you asked for.”
Luftwaffe Airbase, West of Lublin, Poland, 2130 hours GMT
Paul Krueger lifted the bottle, let the clear liquid trickle into his glass. It was potato vodka, really vile stuff, but he tossed off the contents in a single, burning gulp, allowing the caustic liquor to sear its way down his throat, to rage like fire in his belly.
The pilot was already drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough. He didn’t know if there was enough vodka in the world to deaden the impact of the event that had at first stunned, then horrified him, and ultimately left him grasping for any kind of meaning, of purpose, in his existence. His mind still reeled with the shocking news, the assassination that had pulled the rug out from under him.
At first he had refused to believe the radio reports, had turned furiously on those of his mates in the Jagdgruppe who had dared to ponder aloud the implications of Hitler’s death. They were too afraid of him to argue. Then, when his colonel had finally received confirmation from Berlin, Krueger had wandered the airfield for hours, until finally he had found himself here, at the humble farmhouse that had been commandeered as a drinking hall for the pilots and officers of the fighter group.
“Mein führer!” He whispered the phrase, fought against the tears that stung his eyes, knowing that he could not reveal his sentiments here, when there were a dozen other pilots sitting quietly at the other tables. Even now, a few of them cast surreptitious stares at Krueger. Not that it was unusual to see him drinking alone--Hauptmann Paul Krueger had no friends--but it was strange to see the usually domineering ace working so hard at impairing his awareness.
He could feel them looking at him, and he wanted to kill them for it. They couldn’t know that it wasn’t his mental acuity, his keen and nimble brain, that he tried to obscure. It was the anguish that threatened to shatter his heart.
Krueger sneered at a couple of majors sitting nearby, and the older officers quickly averted their looks, muttering quietly between themselves. They were fools, the pilot knew--they couldn’t understand the impact of Hitler’s death upon their future, upon the future of all der Vaterland. Then he had an even darker thought: perhaps they were not fools, but traitors!
It had come as no surprise to him that there were those among the Luftwaffe, no doubt throughout all Germany, who were relieved and gladdened when they heard the news of Colonel von S
tauffenberg’s treachery. Some of his own countrymen thought the man a hero, instead of the vilest kind of coward, one who turned against the flag, the uniform, the nation of his birth. But Krueger knew the truth. He was certain that the count would burn in hell for his betrayal of the Aryan ideal, of everything that had formed the high purpose of the German nation during the last eleven years.
Krueger lurched to his feet, sending the chair slamming backward to the floor and drawing looks from all across the dingy room. He raised his empty glass, ready to hurl it at one of the majors, and saw the man’s eyes widen in fear. With a harsh bark of laughter, Krueger dropped the glass to the floor and staggered out the door.
He remembered, and relished, the terror that had flashed across the other man’s face. He knew that many people found him frightening, and he cherished that sense of power. They should fear him--and they did.
How many people had he killed during this war? More than he could count, far more than the 150 pilots he had blasted from the sky. His face twisted into a tight smile as he recalled the long lines of refugees on the Polish highways five years ago, the way they had scattered before his bullets as his invincible fighter had roared along, stitching the roadway, the vehicles, the bodies with a lethal thread of gunfire. And before them there had been numberless Spanish peasants, members of a subrace every bit as low as the Slavs, who had felt the lash of his weaponry as he learned the potential of his splendid fighter, had exercised his marksmanship against the antlike creatures who fled the violence of the war that ripped at their country.
And finally there had been the fat Soviet columns, and the cities and the encampments, that had suffered under the righteous fire of his attacks. Sometimes his Me-109 had carried bombs, and Krueger knew of no greater thrill than to drop a lethal explosive into a fuel dump, to watch the hellish fireball billow into the sky, flames tickling the tail of his fighter as he raced away. Other times fusillades of bullets had speckled his aircraft, but never once had they nicked his skin... always the killing violence remained beyond him, burning and shattering his enemies while sparing his own life.
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