The Invasion of 1950

by Nuttall, Christopher

  He killed himself when he learnt that there was a German spy somewhere in the establishment, DeRiemer thought, then experienced a blinding flash of inspiration. What if…Hollis himself had been the spy? Had he killed himself when he thought the investigation was getting too close to him? Was that even possible? Hollis’s records showed that he had been an ardent anti-German and anti-Communist. Had that been a cover? The theory slipped slightly the more he thought about it. Hollis, in such a position, would have been far too valuable to be risked on basic spying. He might have been the Director of MI5 within a few years.

  He tested the theory time and time again in his mind. Hollis had been working for the Germans, doing…what? Logically, he would have been employed to ensure that other German spies were covered or passed over by MI5’s investigators, something that he would have been ideally placed to organise. In his position, he could also have made sure the Germans knew exactly what they would face at Felixstowe; he might even have designed the procedures that had allowed the Germans to sail the Hans Bader into the harbour without anything more than a cursory investigation. That would have been enough to cause anyone to be suicidal, but even so, was it enough to cause Hollis to kill himself? He must have known what he was doing…hadn’t he? Even if he hadn’t known, how had he missed it when the Germans actually landed?

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he called. His assistant stepped in. “Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

  Sarah smiled. “The Prime Minister is requesting your presence ten minutes ago,” she said wryly.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. Churchill was scheduled to address a gathering of Londoners and Civil Dignitaries in the heart of London, one of the most secure gatherings in the world…which wasn't that secure. Churchill’s bodyguards, some of David Stirling’s men, had tried to talk Churchill out of going, knowing that in a crowd, it would be very difficult to prevent anyone from getting close enough to take a pot-shot at Churchill. “Why does he want me there?”

  Sarah’s grin grew wider.

  “Because he has a habit of gathering the best and the brightest around him,” she said, knowing that DeRiemer’s rise meant that her position would rise as well. “You’re the one who predicted trouble, so you’re the one who gets the credit and…well, he’ll treat you as a good luck charm.”

  “You’ve been listening to the other secretaries again,” he said. He knew little about the world of the personal assistants. “As long as he wants me…”

  ***

  Skorzeny’s lips twitched as he examined the British lorry. There was nothing much to be said for it, not compared to a panzer or even a standard Speer Lorry that the Speer machine had been grinding out for the German Army. It was nicely anonymous, impossible to tell apart from the hundreds of others that were running through London, and easy to drive. The British had some strange habits when it came to driving, but with Canadians and Australians – and even a handful of Americans – in London, no one would notice the group of British servicemen driving one lorry and looking very urgent. They would get in, carry out their mission, and escape in all the confusion.

  Philby’s face looked resigned as Skorzeny climbed out of the truck. Like it or not, they were all committed now; Philby’s involvement would be easy to deduce when he failed to return to his office. He had been granted permission, along with a few dozen others, to attend Churchill’s speech; Skorzeny hadn’t hesitated to use it as an opportunity to take a clear shot at Churchill. Everything would depend on getting the timing exactly right.

  “Good,” Skorzeny said. They’d parked the vehicle where it should draw no notice, but they couldn’t stay too long, just in case. “Are you sure that these papers will allow us entry into the secured zone?”

  “Yes,” Philby said confidently. His voice weakened. “Are you sure that you can get us out of there afterwards?”

  Skorzeny slapped him on the back.

  “Don’t be such a coward,” he said cheerfully. “I have been through hundreds of occasions when important people have been assassinated and believe me, the confusion is terrible. We get in, take the shot, and get out again, OK?”

  “I suppose,” Philby said. “The papers are set out for a Canadian unit, so you won’t be expected to do anything, but get lost in London. If they order you out, then…well, you can just obey them and then get lost again…”

  “But that’s not going to happen,” Skorzeny said in flawless English. “Are you ready for your part of the arrangement?”

  “Yes,” Philby said. “I’ll move now…”

  “Yes,” Skorzeny mimicked and moved forward as Philby turned his back. The communist wasn't a strong man and was taken completely by surprise. Skorzeny grabbed the back of Philby’s neck with one hand and drew a slash across his throat with the other. The spy gasped and tried to say something as his life bubbled away. Skorzeny watched dispassionately as Philby fell to the ground, dead.

  “Idiot,” he commented and carefully hid Philby’s body in the garage. It would take days for it to be found, but by then, Skorzeny intended to be out of the country. Philby had outlived his usefulness, now that his protector was dead; the shock of discovering who he had worked for had clearly unhinged Roger Hollis. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Otto,” one of his men said. They all wore British uniforms; they would pass undetected, at least until it was too late. “We’re ready.”

  They drove the lorry out of the garage and onto the street. As Philby had promised, the roads were heaving with military traffic, with hundreds of vehicles and thousands of marching soldiers buzzing around, moving through London before they went up to the front-line

  It was just the same in Berlin, Skorzeny knew, although his own unit had never been allowed a parade through Berlin. That was a honour reserved for the more public units…and Himmler was determined to keep as much about his unit as possible a secret.

  It seemed a waste of time now, as he’d lost too many men in London, but maybe some of them had made it out to join the unit he knew would be reforming in the east. His driver kept them moving directly towards Churchill’s location; the British Prime Minister, according to Philby, intended to bore the socks off everyone in London by making a public speech.

  “That’s our turning,” he muttered, and the driver obediently turned the lorry, heading right towards Churchill’s stand. He was a little surprised that the road wasn't permanently blocked – he'd seen some of the defences in the London suburbs and had been amused at the thought of how determined the British were to defend their capital city – but as a group of soldiers appeared at the far end, he nodded in understanding; Churchill’s own vehicle would probably have to pass out this way. “Show them our papers…”

  The driver passed the British officer his papers, and there was a long pregnant pause. “These papers are out of date,” the officer said, one hand falling to the holster he wore at his belt. “I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to come with me and…”

  Skorzeny drew his own pistol in one quick motion and shot the officer, his men spilling out of the lorry like the professionals they were and attacking the British soldiers. Caught by surprise, the unit was quickly wiped out, but Skorzeny knew that the shots would have been heard; the entire British Army would be after them within moments. Philby had either been wrong or had betrayed them and planned to vanish rather than meet at the rendezvous point, but it didn’t matter. The mission had suddenly become a suicide mission.

  “This way,” he barked laughing aloud. He was older than most of his men and saw little good in growing even more so until he died in a training accident or even old age. He would close his arms around Churchill’s fat neck and wring it, no matter what the British did, and they would die together. “Heil Hitler!”

  ***

  Alex DeRiemer heard the shooting as he sat behind Churchill, trying not to show his boredom or his worries. Churchill was a good speaker and knew how to work a crowd, but there was so much work to be don
e that it was all he could do to remain quiet, let alone stay seated when he could have slipped off back to the office. Churchill had requested him specifically, and it was something that could boost his career forward, but even so, it was a waste of time. He had been amusing himself by counting the soldiers and Very Important People at the gathering when the shooting started and he was sure exactly who was behind it.

  Skorzeny, he thought, reaching for the pistol he wore at his belt. It had been too long since he had fired a shot on the training range, something that was a requirement for any MI6 officer who might have to go into German-held territory, and he was far too aware that Skorzeny would probably eat him for breakfast. Churchill’s bodyguards came forward, while Churchill himself, personally fearless, stared in the direction of the shots…as an explosion blasted away a chunk of the wall.

  “Get down,” one of the bodyguards shouted and lunged at Churchill, knocking him to the ground. A group of British soldiers appeared…and opened fire on Churchill. They took fire themselves from a dozen different directions at once, but the first British shots were confused. The antagonists fired back with abandon, forcing everyone to keep their heads down. DeRiemer found himself on the ground without any clear memory as to how he’d gotten there.

  The lead soldier, moving forward with astonishing speed, was easy to recognise; the make-up on his face was falling off as he moved, revealing the very familiar scar.

  “SKORZENY!,” DeRiemer shouted and took aim, only to miss completely as the weapon jerked in his hand. A hail of bullets slashed across the platform, knocking down some of the bodyguards, and DeRiemer gasped as blood showered down onto his face. Skorzeny laughed and jumped up onto the platform, kicking the pistol out of his hand before he could recover. Skorzeny turned to face Churchill…

  ***

  …Skorzeny knew there was no hope of escape, no chance he might pull off one last miracle. . The British Prime Minister was larger and fatter than he’d imagined but that wouldn’t save him. He kept low, knowing that the British would be hesitant to risk firing at him while he was so close to the Prime Minister…and stopped as Churchill rolled over, a small pistol in his hand. Skorzeny had no time to react as the pistol barked twice. He staggered backwards as two red-hot bullets dug into his chest. He could still win…

  Skorzeny was older now than he’d been in his early days; he was still fit and healthy, but he had fewer reserves. More British bullets tore through him and he fell backwards, still trying desperately to lift his weapon enough to draw a bead on Churchill. The Prime Minister rose to his feet, a foolhardy gesture that would have been matched by Skorzeny had he been able to move, and pointed his little weapon directly at Skorzeny’s head. He fired once…

  Chapter Fifty

  North Sea

  Generaladmiral Erich Förste stared down at the plotting table and thought baleful thoughts about landlubbers and the effect they could have on planning naval missions. On the map, his mission looked simple; find and destroy the British fleet. In practice, it wouldn’t be anything like as easy, not against a professional force that almost matched his own technology. The last time the Kriegsmarine had gone up against a second navy had been during war games with the Italians, something that had done nothing to improve the German impression of Italian military capabilities and hadn’t really taught them very much about their own tactics. The fleet had exercised endlessly, particularly just before the war had broken out, but exercises with such ships didn’t include live weapons.

  Förste grimaced. The gap between the Shetlands and Norway looked tiny, but it was large enough to hide a few hundred ships the size of Berlin, let alone the huge battleships that both sides possessed. The people back in Berlin thought that he could launch a massive attack that would somehow fly directly to the British ships, unaware that if he sent them off in the wrong direction, they would be badly out of position when – if – they located the British fleet. If the timing went badly wrong, the three hundred and sixty strike aircraft of his fleet and the two hundred land-based aircraft under his command would go haring off in the wrong direction while British aircraft bore down on his command. The evidence suggested that Germany still had a monopoly on radio-guided bombs, but after British aircraft had sunk one of his carriers, he knew better than to assume his ships were invincible.

  His scowl deepened. He had nearly forty reconnaissance aircraft, long-range jet aircraft flying out of Norway and Denmark, hunting for the British fleet. He’d been able to study some of the British records from the hunt for the Bismarck and a handful of other German battleships, and the British had had real problems in locating enemy ships, let alone bringing their vastly superior might to bear against them. He had the same problem, in a way; if he spread out his units, the British might be able to crush them individually before he could re-concentrate his fleet. Their task was simple; all they needed to do was cut the shipping lanes between England and the Reich.

  The map seemed to mock him as the reports came in. Left to himself, he would have held the fleet back until he had located the British ships, maybe even refused battle until the British came down into the narrows. Berlin didn’t seem to think that that was possible, dreading any possibility of even a small interruption in supply lines, and had ordered him to keep the British fleet well away. That would be easier said than done; it wasn't as if the Channel was a bridge that the British had to cross in order to reach their destination, was it? No, the British fleet could be anywhere in the waters, lost somewhere and able to reach their goal with ease, unless he was lucky enough to locate it beforehand.

  Förste checked the reports again. It wasn’t going to be an easy battle. He’d hoped that submarines could have taken a bite out of the British ships, but the presence of the American ships and the improved British sonar had deterred all but the bravest or most foolhardy U-boat commanders from launching attacks, and most of those attacks had failed. The British had spent the years since the last war working on antisubmarine tactics, and although he hated to admit it, they might well be better at it than his own forces. A British submarine had put a torpedo into one of his pocket battleships a week ago, and the only saving grace was that there was no sign that the British actually knew what they’d done. Time was ticking away…

  His gaze fell to the tactical map again. Ground-hogs really had no idea of the scale of the problem. They talked about land-based air redressing the balance, unaware that mounting a major assault that far from the airbases, such as had happened at Scapa Flow, required a major commitment of tankers. That in turn risked losing the tankers to British attack, an obvious way to degrade and diminish the German forces, and one he knew they didn’t dare risk. If the tankers were knocked down at the wrong moment, the lifespan of a sizeable chunk of the Kreigsmarine’s anti-shipping aircraft would be shortened down to hours, unless they somehow managed to reach home on vapours. The aircraft were forced to remain at their airbases until they found the British fleet, and then they would have to be steered towards the fleet…

  “Herr Generaladmiral,” one of the operators called. Förste stepped over to the man’s seat. He wore a pair of headphones, listening to the reports from the spotting aircraft, and pulled them off as Förste arrived. “We have a report from Spotter Nine. They have sighted the British fleet!”

  “Show me,” Förste ordered as the second report came in and the plotting table was updated. The British fleet was steaming south-east at a reasonable speed, but he had no illusions about them coming so close to Denmark and the Reich’s airbases there. he would have to assume that they would change course at some point, probably within the next two or three hours. He looked over at the plotting table again and nodded. “Show me an area prediction.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generaladmiral,” the operator said and drew out a circle on the chart. The British fleet, assuming that it travelled at its full rate of knots, would be somewhere within that circle. The centre of the circle would be moved as more reports from Spotter Nine came into the ship. “Spo
tter Nine reports that it is following the British at a safe distance.”

  Förste shrugged dryly. The jet-propelled reconnaissance aircraft were the most advanced aircraft in the Reich, capable of long periods of flight and flying too high to be knocked down by the RAF jets, although one had been lost over England to causes unknown. The British surely knew that the aircraft was there and they would have taken note of the fact that their position was now known to the enemy. It wasn't the perfect surprise that Förste would have wanted, but it was still an advantage; as far as he knew, the enemy didn’t have the slightest idea of where his forces were…

  “Send a signal to the main strike force in Norway,” he ordered after a moment’s thought. It would be better to conserve the carrier-based strike force for the moment. They would be needed to complete the job and cover the carriers if the British launched their own strike. “Update them on the course and speed of the British ships and order them to launch at once. The targets are the carriers.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generaladmiral,” the radio operator said. He bent his head to his console, muttering orders into the small microphone that came down from his headphones, one of the most advanced pieces of micro-engineering in the German fleet. Förste had heard rumours of something even more fascinating coming out of some of the Reich’s more secretive laboratories, but so far the fleet had yet to reap the benefits. The operator glanced up again, finally. “The strike force acknowledges and is on its way.”