by Lee Rudnicki
Heinkel jumped out of the car and barked orders at his lieutenant. “Put a sniper on each exit and keep the SWAT team ready to go in on my command! I’ll handle the negotiations. What are their demands? What’s the situation?”
“We have one dead security guard. A reporter took a bullet, but he wasn’t a target. He’ll be fine. We haven’t talked to the—”
A sudden shout interrupted the exchange. “Someone’s coming out!”
Heinkel pulled out his pistol and ducked behind his engine block. “If they come out shooting, take them down!” he screamed.
With fifty guns trained on the front door, it opened.
“Hold your fire!” a SWAT sniper yelled.
Meg and the now-limping janitor carried Julia out. She was tied up and looked slightly delirious, the result of a few too many zaps from the stun gun. They stepped over the security guard’s body, walked up to the cops and unceremoniously dumped Julia onto the ground right in front of them.
“Who else is in there?” Chief Heinkel asked.
“What do you mean, who else?”
“The terrorists. How many are we dealing with?”
“Terrorists? There are no terrorists. It’s just this crazy chick. She killed the security guard.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Julia cried. “Let me go! I have diplomatic immunity—I think!”
Chief Heinkel ignored Julia’s pleas and stuffed her into his squad car. As he closed the door, two black SUVs pulled up. He recognized a few of the men who got out as Bundespolizei. What the hell do the feds want?
“Who is in charge here?” Lt. Meyer asked.
“I am,” Chief Heinkel replied.
“Where’s Professor Richter?”
Chief Heinkel laughed. “He’s probably still running for his life. Apparently, the woman in the back seat of my car doesn’t like his book. I thought it was a good read, certainly not bad enough to kill him over. In any case, we arrested her before you got here. Case closed. You can go home and do whatever it is that you do when you are not chasing bad guys. My bad guys.”
“Get her out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get the suspect out of your goddamn car,” Lt. Meyer replied. “We’re taking custody of her.”
Heinkel shook his head. “No, you’re not. This is not a federal matter. This is my jurisdiction and that woman is a suspect in a very active murder case.”
“Let me make this clear,” Lt. Meyer said. “We are here by direct order of the Chancellor. These men behind me are with the American FBI. We are taking Julia Heckmann with us. If you interfere, we will arrest you on federal terrorism charges and take her anyway. Now, get her out of your car.”
“That is not possible. She just killed a security guard.”
“She didn’t kill anyone,” Lt. Meyer said.
“How can you be so sure?”
Boom! The cops spun around ...
Professor Richter’s body was on the hood of Chief Heinkel’s car, as if it had fallen from the sky. His left arm ended in a bloody stump. His briefcase was gone. Julia was in the back seat, screaming her head off.
“Holy” and “crap” were the only two words that Chief Heinkel could muster. Five minutes later, he retired.
11
Washington, D.C.
President Ricardo Duarte paced around the secure conference room deep underneath the White House. The Joint Chiefs of Staff and other advisors sat unmoving around the table. This was Duarte’s first crisis in office, but he wasn’t getting answers and he wasn’t happy. In fact, he was angrier than he had ever been in his life.
“Mr. President, the crisis has been averted,” CIA Director Waldon said. “Everything is going to be fine.”
President Duarte waved his hand. This is not your time to talk; this is your time to listen.
“Let’s get some facts straight, shall we?” he shouted. “On my fourth day as President of the United States, the CIA tried to publicly assassinate a writer in Germany. A security guard was killed and a reporter got shot. Last but not least, the writer got thrown out of a building. Or dropped from an airplane. In fact, we’re not sure what happened to the writer, but apparently it was goddamn dramatic because he fell out of the sky and landed on top of a police car. Am I right so far?”
Director Waldon swallowed hard. “Our agent didn’t kill Professor Richter.”
“I stand corrected,” the President replied. “The CIA librarian who you sent in with a stolen weapon that she didn’t know how to use tried and failed to kill the writer. On another topic—do you think this scandal will be bigger than Abu Ghraib? Because at the impeachment proceedings, I’m going to have a front row seat!”
Waldon ignored the sarcasm. “There will be no scandal and there will be no front row seat. The German Chancellor is aware of the need for secrecy and we have assurances that the investigation will go nowhere. Tomorrow, the Berlin press will go back to writing about the polar bear cub or whatever they have in the zoo these days. We’ll follow up with a strategic disinformation campaign and this will blow over. When it does, we’ll whisk Ms. Heckmann out of Germany and into a desk job in San Francisco.”
“What about the security guard?”
Waldon cleared his throat and loosened his tie. “He was killed by a transient.”
“A transient?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do you mean the homeless guy who miraculously escaped through a ring of German police just as Richter became a flying fucking Walenda? That guy?”
Waldon nodded.
President Duarte laughed out loud. “Oh my God. We spend billions on covert operations and that is the best cover story you got? A transient? That doesn’t even pass the laugh test—you might as well blame Richter’s death on the Pittsburgh Steelers. You better lose the bullshit story, Director Waldon, because I want to know what happened!”
Waldon sighed. The rest of the conversation was going to be difficult, just like it was every time. Maybe the discussion was hardest yet on the handful of government officials who had to explain the implications of Operation Tristan to each new president. In any event, the inquisition was not over.
“Director Waldon, please answer the million-dollar question. Who ripped Richter’s arm off and threw him off the building? The Tooth Fairy?”
“Our allies, Mr. President.”
“Our allies?”
“Yes, sir.” After having this exact same conversation with the last president, he knew what came next.
“What the hell do the Germans—”
“He’s not talking about the Germans, Mr. President,” General Hastings interrupted.
Realizing that the conversation was about to spiral out of control, Waldon cut him off. “Hold on, general. We have to take this one step at a time. He has no idea who we’re dealing with.”
The President had enough. “Look, I don’t care what drug dealers, mafia-types or evil dictators you’re in bed with—I know how the covert intelligence game works. But I never approved a public assassination in a NATO country. Period. Your actions were in violation of federal law and at least a dozen international treaties. As far as I am concerned, this is treason.”
“Air Force One is ready, sir. We’ll brief you on the way to Berlin,” General Hastings replied. “We’re going there to discuss the crisis with the Chancellor in person.”
“No, we’re not. We’re staying right here.” The President picked up the phone but General Hastings grabbed it out of his hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” President Duarte shouted at the top of his lungs. “Is this a coup d’état? When do the Marines take to the streets?”
Waldon handed him a black dossier. “Before you issue any more formal proclamations and accusations of treason, Mr. President, you need to read this. This document represents the highest level of national security.”
“National security does not get higher than the President of the United States.”
“It does on
this issue, sir. And you need to know what we’re dealing with before you shoot your mouth off.”
The harsh words shut President Duarte up. He looked down at the dossier. “1945?”
“Yes, Mr. President. It’s based on interviews of a German soldier and a few other witnesses.”
“Do I really need a history lecture right now?”
“No, sir. But the soldier who provided most of the information in that dossier remains vitally important to the national security of the United States. In fact, Truman gave him the first Presidential Medal of Freedom, albeit covertly. The second one went to his commanding officer. Posthumously.”
“You’re telling me the first recipient of the Medal of Freedom was in Hitler’s army? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Before you pass judgment on previous administrations, Mr. President, read the dossier. You’re about to find out that the world is a far different place than you thought it was when you took office.”
President Duarte rubbed his eyes and wondered what the hell he had just gotten himself into.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff sat quietly as the President read the OSS dossier. They knew that things would move very quickly when he was done.
They always did.
TOP SECRET
FOR THE PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY
CHAIRMAN OF THE JOINT
CHIEFS OF STAFF
DOSSIER: 6561
CODE NAME: MY IMMORTAL
JULY 7, 1945
OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES ANALYST SUMMARY CONCERNING OPERATION TRISTAN.
THIS NARRATIVE SUMMARY HAS BEEN DERIVED FROM APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS OF INTERVIEWS OF WEHRMACHT SOLDIER SEBASTIAN BRINDLE, AND OTHER EYEWITNESSES OF CERTAIN EVENTS THAT OCCURRED IN BERLIN, GERMANY AND PRAGUE, CZECHOSLOVAKIA ON APRIL 30, 1945 AND MAY 1, 1945
WARNING
THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THIS DOSSIER IS CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET.
IT IS A FEDERAL CRIME TO READ, DISCLOSE, EXHIBIT OR REPRODUCE THE CONTENTS OF THIS DOSSIER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. THE UNAUTHORIZED DISCLOSURE OF ANY INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN ISPUNISHABLE BY DEATH, IMPRISONMENT FOR LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE, OR IMPRISONMENT FOR A TERM OF 25 YEARS TO LIFE
12
Götterdämmerung
As 1944 came to a close, the Allied armies fought their way deep into the heart of the Third Reich. Nazi Germany was on the ropes; every significant ally had already capitulated, with the exception of Japan, who was half a world away and fighting a battle for survival that was every bit as desperate as its own.
Of all of Germany’s adversaries, none was more feared than the Russians, whose lands they had brutally occupied in the name of Lebensraum, the concept that Eastern Europe should be conquered in order to give living space to the allegedly superior Aryan race.
In the opening years of the war, the Nazi war machine rolled through the Soviet Union like a hot knife through butter. The Red Army was wholly unprepared for war; its officer corps had been decimated by years of Stalin’s bloody purges. The Russians fought back valiantly, but the German forces reached the gates of Moscow before the advance could be halted.
Over the next two years, the Soviet Union turned the tide of the war, their cause helped by the American Lend-Lease program, a ferocious winter and the almost super-human effort to reestablish arms factories in the Urals. After the defeat at Stalingrad, Hitler’s once invincible Wehrmacht found itself in a chaotic retreat back into the Reich itself. Stalin was obsessed with inflicting total defeat on Nazi Germany; nothing but an unconditional surrender would satisfy his blood lust.
In January 1945, the relentless Allied bombing forced Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun to move into the Führerbunker, a secret concrete fortress located deep beneath the garden of the old Reich Chancellery. Although it was occasionally safe enough to take brief walks in the garden, by the end of April, it had become too dangerous for the Führer to venture outside. He became a creature of the underground, never again to see the light of day.
As the Red Army surrounded Berlin, a few depleted Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS divisions scrambled to defend the city against what had become the largest army in the history of the world. The German units were supplemented by what remained of the police, the Hitler Youth and the Volkssturm—a hastily-organized force that consisted mostly of old men who were previously ineligible for military service.
To prepare for the onslaught, the desperate Germans transformed Berlin into a fortress. They barricaded the roads and prepared the bridges for demolition. They also built a series of defensive rings, with the innermost one based on the S-Bahn circuit. The final defense ring was Citadel, which was based on the island formed by the River Spree and the Lander Canal. The defenders hunkered down in their fortified positions and awaited the final battle. The 1st Belorussian Front fired the first Soviet shells into the city on 20 April 1945. It was Adolf Hitler’s birthday.
Led by Lt. General Vasily Ivanovich Chuikov, the Red Army hit Berlin like a cyclone. The besieged Germans were no match for Soviet divisions that had perfected street fighting tactics long ago in the rubble of Stalingrad. The Russians pounded their way through the fortifications using heavy artillery, Katyusha rockets and flame-throwers that reduced their victims to screaming torches.
As the hours passed, the German perimeter shrank and the beleaguered defenders became concentrated in the city center. The reinforcements that were rumored to be on their way to save Berlin remained their last hope.
Late in the evening of 29 April 1945, General Hans Krebs contacted the German Supreme Army Command via radio to ascertain the status of the reinforcements:
“The situation in Berlin is dire. Request immediate report of the whereabouts of General Wenck’s reinforcements and the time of the attack to relieve Berlin. Also request the location in which the Ninth Army will break through.”
The reply that General Krebs received from Supreme Army Command sent chills down his spine.
“Wenck’s forces are bogged down south of Schwielow Lake and unable to continue. The Ninth Army is surrounded. There is nothing that can be done. You are on your own. Good luck.”
Like the frozen Sixth Army before them in Stalingrad, the defenders of Berlin were surrounded and dying in droves. The end was near for Nazi Germany.
Or so it appeared.
13
30 April 1945
Flames from a burning Panther tank reflected in the few remaining windows of Berlin Cathedral. Darting blue eyes and a blackened face peered out through a broken pane as the sounds of battle took a momentary pause. At that exact moment, the Soviet Red Army sent the owner of those eyes a reminder of what was to come in the morning.
Like stars in the sky, sixteen points of white light appeared on the glass. The eyes behind the pane widened as the high-pitched scream of incoming Katyusha rockets permeated the night.
Former tank driver Sebastian Brindle turned away from the window and jumped for his life. “Incoming!” he screamed as he flew through the air. The windows exploded just as he hit the floor. He covered his head as glass and pulverized stone showered the interior of the cathedral around him.
He opened his eyes as the dust settled. Every muscle in his body ached. From the small amount of blood on his uniform, he surmised that he only had a couple of cuts and bruises. I live to fight another day, he thought. Maybe only one more day, but another day of life nonetheless.
Sebastian got up, his broad shoulders held straight and rigid. His facial features were carved into a rock solid face that was pale, angular and handsome. Berlin Cathedral, on the other hand, was wrecked. The signs of war, including dead German civilians and soldiers, were everywhere.
Despite his physical gifts, Sebastian never wanted to be a soldier. His hero was Mozart, not Rommel. Before the war, he taught children how to play violin and piano out of a small music store in Dresden. When the war in the east went badly and Hitler needed more soldiers, he got drafted. He survived a few rough yea
rs in Russia, but Berlin was definitely the endgame—there was nowhere left for the Wehrmacht to run.
Sebastian found his tank commander, Major Wolfgang Kepler, kneeling behind a column near the front door. “Relax, Major,” he said as Wolf tried to load an MP-40 submachine gun with trembling hands. “We have some time. The Ivans will sleep for a while.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s too dark—an artillery barrage is just as likely to kill their own troops. We’ll be okay for a few hours. But when the sun comes up, all bets are off.”
“Then we need to get out of here before dawn,” Wolf replied. “Gather the others.”
Sebastian laughed and motioned behind him. “Major, look behind me. I am the others.”
Wolf looked at the pools of blood and shattered bodies that filled the cathedral. Everyone else was dead. At that moment, he realized how truly desperate the situation had become. He had always known that the war wasn’t going to end well, but he never expected it to end with Germany in ruins.
Surrender was out of the question. He had seen the horrors that the SS had brought upon the occupied lands in the name of the Reich. The last place that he wanted to end up after the war was a cold Siberian prison camp, from which he would surely never return.
14
The Bunker
General Helmuth Weidling passed through the long dark tunnel from the Reich Chancellery. The newly appointed Commander of the Berlin Defense Area had spent many sleepless nights trying to figure out how to organize and resupply his pitiful forces. With limited resources and no reliable source of heavy weapons, his mission felt more like trying to organize the passengers of the Titanic into a lifeboat than trying to organize the citizens of Berlin into a defense force to take on the Russian bear.
