Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Well, we know the MTB they were using was engaged in a fire-fight off Rathlin Island with Kriegsmarine air and see units and was severely damaged as a result...” Bauer continued, leaving out other ‘unnecessary details’ such as the loss of many fine German servicemen during the battle as no one present – himself included – cared one whit about such things “...and we also know that the vessel disappeared from radar not long after the engagement, somewhere off the coast of Nordirland near Fair Head in County Antrim... no more than perhaps seventy kilometres from where we are right now, as it so happens.”

  “And that, Mein Herr, is why we are here,” Stahl added as emphasis, his thin smile confident and somewhat smug. “I’d hoped my earlier requests to Gruppenführer Barkmann would perhaps produce a little more background information that might assist us with tracking this character down.” He gave a snort that might almost have been considered derisive. “At this point, we don’t even have a name for this man.”

  “Lowenstein,” Heydrich stated coldly in an instant. “That much I can give you, although even the SD knows little more than that at this point. I can also advise that the reports we have suggest he is travelling with two children of approximately twelve or thirteen years of age.”

  “Yes, Mein Herr, we were aware of this also.” Those words from Bauer this time.

  “Are you also aware of their names, Standartenführer...?” Without waiting for an answer, the Blond Beast added quickly: “A girl by the name of Evelyn Graham and a boy by the name of Levi Lowenstein...” He left that last piece of information hanging there for all to think deeply on, inwardly pleased with himself although his cold, impassive features showed none of that.

  “The man’s son...?” Bauer mused instantly, making the obvious supposition.

  “Not from what we’ve been able to ascertain,” Heydrich replied quickly, having expected the assumption. “Our records – which are verified – show that the boy’s parents were taken to the Sheffield Camp almost eight months ago, and both have since been disposed of through the usual means.”

  “Then who...?” Stahl was so intrigued now that he momentarily forgot the correct use of military protocol in addressing his superior. “An uncle...? A cousin...?”

  “The boy had neither, so far as we’ve been able to determine,” Heydrich replied, shaking his head as he graciously chose to ignore the younger man’s faux pas. “Yet the matching surname does present some intriguing questions, does it not?”

  “I should very much like to know more about this man now,” Bauer remarked with a serious expression, his own dark curiosity most definitely piqued.

  “...And that is exactly what I expect of the two of you,” Heydrich stated firmly, his words hard as steel, as if accompanied by the sound of a trap falling quite finally shut. He turned his attention to Barkmann for the first time. “Herr Gruppenführer, these men are to have all and any resources they need that stand at your disposal to provide. I expect regular updates as to their progress, and I also expect results. Be as discreet as is possible, but do not allow discretion to stand in the way of answers.” The thin smile that flickered momentarily across his lips was positively glacial. “I trust we understand each other...?”

  “Of course, Mein Obergruppenführer...!” Bauer answered instantly, speaking on behalf of everyone else inside the vehicle.

  Island of Hirta, St Kilda Archipelago

  Atlantic Ocean, west of Scotland

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  The feather store was a large, two-storey stone building on the south-eastern outskirts of Am Baile, the only major settlement on Hirta (or St Kilda as a whole, for that matter). Just thirty metres further south, a lone 4-inch gun pointed forlornly out across Village Bay from a pedestal mount set atop a small rise and surrounded by a low, concrete wall. The gun had been installed by the Royal Navy during the First World War in response to a U-boat attack that had involved the shelling of a wireless station there. The weapon was never fired in anger, and twenty-four years later, it stood in mute disrepair, quietly rusting as if in recognition that it too had been abandoned, much like the rest of the island as the last inhabitants had left, over a decade before.

  The feather store itself had once been exactly that – a repository for the storage of fulmar and gannet feathers, collected by the locals for sale in order to pay rent. A plain, brownstone building, it was fitted with a single door at both the front and rear, along with just a handful of small windows left gaping and glassless through years of disrepair. As one of the few relatively large and solid structures on the island – one of the few with a chimney and fireplace, in any case – the advanced parties of Wehrmacht engineers had decided to make use of the feather store as a makeshift officers’ mess.

  Cleaning the building out had proven to be an arduous process, and the removal of a build up of literally years of refuse, droppings and leftovers from the numerous colonies of various bird species that had set up residence inside since the last inhabitants had left had been an onerous task indeed; one that had on occasion left many of the army workers and forced POW labourers ill from the initial stench alone.

  Weeks later, the place seemed almost to be a different building altogether. A diesel generator had been set up to provide power for lighting and appliances as required, positioned far enough away from the store itself for its operation to be heard as no more than a dull murmur from within. Long trestle tables had been set up for meals within the main storage space on the ground floor, and a now quite warming and homely fire crackled happily from the fireplace at one end of the room.

  The rain had set in overnight and although it wasn’t altogether heavy, it nevertheless refused to abate or allow a moment’s respite for the hundreds of engineers and workers that were now tasked with dismantling the tons of equipment that had been brought to the island specifically for the test they had just concluded. The mess itself would be one of the last areas to be packed up of course, and it was therefore packed with officers as the more privileged of military circles sought shelter from the inclement weather as they waited for work to be completed or for the call that their ships had been loaded and were ready to sail.

  Reuters and Schiller also stood at the makeshift bar on that wet afternoon, their own departure delayed by a minor equipment failure on the flying boat moored in the bay that had been requisitioned as their personal transport at the last moment. Mechanics were working as quickly as they could to rectify the problem, but the reality was that it would be several hours yet before they were able to return to what both of them would describe as ‘some level of actual civilisation’.

  There was time to rest and talk in good company at least, and one of the topics of discussion were the new Allied tanks that had appeared at Suez, news of which had finally reached Hirta the day before, a few hours after the test.

  “Nice to see Thorne and his comrades have been using their time well,” Schiller observed with no small amount of sarcasm, holding a mug of beer close to his lips but not actually drinking. “We knew the Detroit Arsenal had been tooling up for some new models, but they’ve done well to keep all this secret for so long!” He grimaced. “I should think even the new-model Panthers will have a hard time breaking through if there’s more than the two we’ve seen so far...”

  “I wouldn’t concern yourself too much about that, Albert,” Reuters countered evenly, not particularly happy about the revelation but willing to be pragmatic about the whole thing. “If there’d been any more of them, we’d have had reports of them in North Africa before now. No doubt they’re exactly what we suspect they are: a field test of their new prototypes.”

  “Dangerous game, bringing such valuable assets into a combat zone...”

  “Indeed...” Reuters mused softly, a faint smile crossing his lips “…but it’s so typically Max Thorne to do something so risky, and we’re going to make the most of it. Erwin’s heading back to the front on the fastest plane we could supply him – hence our own last min
ute changes to itinerary here – and he’s completely clear on what to do: we’re going to capture those two tanks intact.”

  “Thorne’s not going to like that,” Schiller pointed out with an evil smirk of his own. “He’s never been particularly disposed toward ‘sharing’ before...”

  “We’ve never had concrete proof of his proximity near such a weak combat front line before either,” Reuters replied coldly, the humour draining from his words and expression in that moment. “From the early availability of Mustang Fighters and Sherman Fireflies right through to the deployment of Carl Gustav recoilless rifles and LAWS rockets with their infantry, Hindsight has been a ‘Thorne’ in our side for far too long! This is our best chance to cut the head off the snake once and for all and deal those bastards a killing blow. I’ve given Erwin clear instructions that he’s to reallocate one of Skorzeny’s best units to the task at hand: to secure those two prototypes and to bring Max Thorne back here to Berlin... preferably alive, but dead will be sufficient if nothing else is possible...”

  “Begging your pardon, Mein Herr, but why not just drop one of those bombs on their heads? That would sort the Eighth Army out once and for all...” the words came from an unexpected direction, causing both men to turn and face the speaker. To their surprise, they found SS officers Schmidt, Wisch and Böhm propped at the bar not two metres away, and from the men’s expressions, it appeared they’d been listening in on their discussion.

  “Is it customary for junior officers to eavesdrop on the conversations of the Reichsmarschall?” Reuters asked coldly, his glare almost withering.

  “My apologies, Mein Herr,” Schmidt began again, recognising the potential trouble he was creating for himself but unable to resist the opportunity to ease his curiosity. “We didn’t mean to overhear, however we did hear what you and the generaloberst were discussing and I couldn’t help but think that would be a perfect opportunity to use the device that was tested yesterday.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more that to have another one or two of them to throw at the British, sturmbannführer, however one is unfortunately all we have at present. Those weapons use an active element called type U-235 uranium– something that’s extremely difficult to refine in any significant amount. I won’t bore you with unnecessary scientific jargon but until we get a couple of ‘fast-breeder’ reactors up and running and start cranking out plutonium en masse, that one device from yesterday is all we have.” That response left Schmidt momentarily lost for words.

  “But... but mein herr...” Schmidt stammered blankly “…what about the other device...?”

  “‘Other device’…?” Reuters repeated, eyebrow raised and displaying a total lack of comprehension as his eyes showed the instantly recognisable glare of a commanding officer suddenly suspicious that a junior officer might be about to make him look foolish. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sturmbannführer… what ‘other’ device are you referring to?”

  “You said there was just one of those weapons, sir – the one that was tested yesterday – but surely the Kormoran delivered two of them?” A terrible thought occurred to Schmidt in that moment: that Reuters was well aware of what he was talking about but was denying it due to reasons of secrecy… in which case, he could be in a great deal of trouble indeed. “Of course if you’re not able to say, mein herr…” He backpedalled quickly, hoping not too much damage had been done.

  “It’s quite all right, major – this isn’t a security matter and you’re not in trouble... not at the moment, anyway; I simply have no clue what you’re referring to… I’d now be very pleased however if you’d be so kind as to explain…”

  Wisch and Böhm both released silent, inward sighs of dismay. To lower ranks, a staff officer was often like a sleeping monster: sneak past quietly and leave it alone and it would most likely continue to sleep, minding its own business. Wake it up however and you would gain its full attention, and that was something no junior officer in their right mind wanted. Reuters of course, being the Reichsmarschall and C-in-C of the entire Wehrmacht, was pretty-much the biggest ‘monster’ there was, and it now appeared that they had indeed woken his curiosity.

  “We were at the Kiel Docks three weeks ago, sir… when the Kormoran left. We saw two of those devices loaded… we were close enough to see that they were identical…”

  “I’m still not following you, sturmbannführer,” Reuters warned softly, irritation creeping into his tone. “You’ve mentioned the Kormoran twice now but I’m not sure what that vessel has to do with anything going on here…”

  “But… but she carried the bombs here, sir… we saw her loaded...”

  Reuters threw a quick, pointed glance back toward Schiller, only to receive a shrug and a similar look of bewilderment.

  Sturmbannführer Schmidt...” Reuters began with the slow, implacable pace of an officer close to losing his temper and deciding it might not be a bad idea to remind the young man that his name was well known to the Reichsmarschall. “The device that was tested yesterday has been on this island for over six weeks now awaiting a break in this shitty weather... it most certainly did not travel here aboard the Auxiliary Cruiser Kormoran and it most certainly wasn’t at the Kiel Docks three weeks ago...” he paused to take a calming breath “Whatever it was that you saw loaded onto that vessel at that time, it was not ‘our’ device.”

  “I – I am sorry mein herr – my apologies,” Schmidt backed down, finally realising he was fighting a losing battle and recognising he needed to salvage what he could of his own good fortune. “I thought I’d seen two lead crates at Kiel that were identical to the one that carried the device... when we noted Herr Hegel’s presence again at the test yesterday, we just assumed...”

  “Direktor Hegel’s presence ‘again’...?” Reuters queried sharply, becoming annoyed with himself now over what seemed to be becoming a common practice of repeating what the man was saying by way of a question. He threw another glance in Schiller’s direction at the mention of the head of the RFR, this time one filled with concern rather than any lack of comprehension. “If you didn’t have my full attention before, sturmbannführer, you certainly have it now! You’re saying that Herr Hegel was present at Kiel docks three weeks ago – at the same time you saw two crates loaded that were identical to the outer casing of the bomb we tested yesterday?”

  “Exactly so, Mein Herr,” Schmidt nodded enthusiastically, inwardly a little relieved that the Reichsmarschall finally seemed to be getting something of what he was saying. “Milo here spotted the Director on the wharf while he was bringing back our coffee – he was in the bloody great car of his.” The mention of the man’s unmistakeable Maybach was a powerful piece of evidence in its own right. “While we were watching the crates being loaded later on, a ‘Chain-Dog’ came and warned us off: made it clear it’d been noticed that we were paying too much attention and that we should mind our own business...” Schmidt shrugged. “The hauptmann didn’t actually say it was Direktor Hegel who’d ordered him to tell us so but it was certainly implied.”

  “We’ve been pressing the RFR for almost a year to get us enough U-235 for a field test...” Reuters growled softly, an icy fear of the unknown suddenly churning in his stomach as he turned back toward his aide. “Month after month, the same excuses: the refining process is flawed… it takes time... there’s been a delay because of breakdowns... delays because further development of the process was required...” His features hardened. “But now that I think of it, U-238 has been pouring continuously into the Oranienburg facility for more than eighteen months!”

  “And where has Chief Technician Fuchs gotten to?” Schiller pointed out suddenly, thinking back to the morning before. “That grinning bugger lived and breathed for his research! Family illness my arse…! He’d not have missed that bloody test for the world… unless…”

  “…Unless he had something else to do that was more important…” Reuters finished the sentence for him, seeing where Schiller was going with it. “Herr Sc
hmidt!” He snapped suddenly, turning his attention back to the SS officer to his other side. “The Kormoran... I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where it was bound for...?”

  “None, sir...” Schmidt shook his head quickly, but another voice cut in, gaining everyone’s attention.

  “Tokyo, Mein Herr...” Milo Wisch moved to a position by his CO’s shoulder, almost as if ready to stand by him in a fight. “I’ve an old friend working on the Kormoran. He told me they were headed for Tokyo with scientific exchange equipment, then back into the Indian Ocean and the Pacific to do some commerce raiding.”

  The cold uncertainty in Reuters’ stomach lurched as it struck the unpleasant reality of there being possibilities far worse that not knowing what was going on. A sudden wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him and he stretched out a hand against the bar to steady himself although only Schiller recognised the signal that his friend wasn’t okay.

  Mama… mama...! No, mama… don’t wanna...! Unbidden and completely unexpected, a young child’s desperate, plaintive voice formed in his mind, the terrified words chilling him to the core.

  “Be quiet!” Reuters hissed venomously under his breath, the constricted tone in his voice for a split second frightening Schiller into thinking he was having a heart attack. “I’m not listening to you…! You’re not real…!” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the voice in his mind, but it was the first time it had manifested itself while others were present; something that proved to be incredibly inconvenient. Reuters had often wondered if others also heard the voices or if it were only him, but he dared not mention it to anyone – not even his closest friend and confidante. He was Reichsmarschall and the Commander-in-Chief of Germany’s entire armed forces: allowing anyone to know such a secret – something that might appear to be a weakness – was far too dangerous.

  With knuckles momentarily white against the bar as he waited for the moment to pass, Reuters allowed a long, deep shudder to ripple through him before using most of his remaining willpower to force himself upright once more and regain some semblance of normality.