“Oh, yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Krueger said, and outlined it. Himmler had to laugh; the plan was delightfully simple in its cunning. “We can launch the mission right now,” Krueger said, “and hopefully hand the Americans a blow from which they will never recover.”
“I want all the arrangements made now,” Himmler ordered finally. “You have full authority to launch the mission as soon as possible.”
Kristy Stewart had once read a description of combat that characterised it as months of boredom, followed by moments of screaming terror. Her life in Nazi Germany was exactly the same; she spent days or weeks within the bunker recording interesting facts, or out on the streets of Berlin, recording how well the Germans were coping with the war. There were few interviews of any significance; she was only granted the occasional interview with the higher-up Nazis, all of which were edited before she was allowed to broadcast them back to Britain.
She smiled to herself. The Nazis hadn’t realised that everything the camera saw was stored and burst-transmitted back to England. Still, there was so little to send back that was of real significance – they kept her away from the real centres of power within the bunker.
“The Americans have invaded Norway,” Roth said. Much as she hated to admit it, she was becoming bored of the SS officer. She’d taken him to bed in a wave of fear and terror after meeting Hitler, and he was good in bed, which made up for a lot, but he wasn’t very imaginative. Still, there were compensations.
“They’ve landed the Marines?” Stewart asked, delighted. Perhaps now there would be real news. “What’s happening?”
Roth shrugged. “Reports are confused,” he said. “There’s talk of atomic weapons being used in Bergen, the city is such a wreck.”
“The government wouldn’t use atomic weapons in Norway,” Stewart said. “There are thousands of innocent lives there.”
“Perhaps it was the Americans,” Roth said. “They must have their own nuclear program.” He smiled and gave her a kiss. “I have something special for you today,” he said. “An interview with Herr Palmstron, the Norwegian Ambassador.”
Stewart thought rapidly as Roth led her though the corridors. In theory, Norway was an independent country under the rule of Quisling, who had invited in the Nazis. In practice, it was ruled by the Germans though Quisling, who had almost no power at all. It was a very tricky problem for all involved; she suspected that the Germans regretted having come up with the legal fiction.
“Here we are,” Roth announced, opening the doors. “Herr Palmstron, this is the English reporter.”
No blow job for you tonight, Stewart thought angrily, as Palmstron examined her breasts. They must have passed the inspection, because his eyes wandered all over her body, swaying in a way she had come to understand as being caused by drunkenness. Why was the Ambassador drunk?
“A pleasure to meet you,” he slurred. “I hope that you will take back the statement of the legal government of Norway, as headed by Prime Minister Quisling.”
He had been drinking. Stewart caught a whiff of the fumes as he talked. “Naturally, I will relay your statements to the British people,” she said. She made a show of setting up her camera, aware that it had been recording from when she entered the room. “Now, you may speak.”
Palmstron pulled himself up into an upright position. It would have looked impressive if Stewart hadn’t known how much he had drunk. “From the Government of Norway to the British Government,” he said, and Stewart saw Roth’s frown. Doubtless the idiot was reading the message as it had been written. “You have illegally entered the territory of a state that was not at war with you. Your weapons have wrecked great devastation on our soil, slaughtering thousands of our citizens, our troops and the forces deployed to protect us from Soviet invasion.
“We demand that you withdraw your forces at once from Norway, or we will be forced to wage total war against you,” he continued. He was starting to sway on his feet. “We will use each and every means at our disposal if you refuse to pull out. End communication.”
“Thank you,” Roth said quickly.
“A few questions, if I may,” Stewart said quickly. Perhaps the Ambassador was too drunk to notice, or even to care. “What do you think about the rumours of British forces – or American forces – using atomic weapons?”
“Totally true,” Palmstron said, swaying. His eyes focused in on her breasts. “What else could destroy the small town of Bergen so completely?”
“I have no idea,” Stewart said, pressing her luck. The SS minders didn’t seem to know what to do. “Do you feel that your government is accepted by your people?”
“Of course it is,” Palmstron bellowed. “Prime Minister Quisling is a great man and…”
He slumped to the floor, passed out. “I guess he can’t take his ale,” Roth said. “I’m sorry about that; he’s been drinking all day.”
“Pretty disgusting,” Stewart said, carefully unimpressed. “Is there any chance of an interview with the high commanders?”
“I’m afraid not,” Roth said. A distant explosion echoed though the bunker. “The British air force is back,” he said. “We have to go deeper.”
“You always do,” Stewart said, and was rewarded with a blush. “Where are they targeting?”
“How should I know?” Roth asked dryly. “Could be the Reichstag, could be one of the barracks for the troops, could be a factory… could be some children’s home that didn’t get blasted before. All I know is that they’re striking at anything that might be useful in reaching Norway; Luffwaffe bases, communication centres, everything that might be even slightly useful.”
He scowled. “We heard from Japan,” he said. “They lost a battle against a British fleet, although they claim to have inflicted heavy losses on it.”
“That’s interesting,” Stewart said. He didn’t pick up on her sarcasm as they headed into the deeper bunkers. “Do you think that they will succeed in taking Australia?”
“I don’t think so,” Roth admitted. “Still, the ultimate victory of the Reich is assured.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Return to the Forbidden Island
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
27th May 1941
The room was packed for once, with nearly thirty people around the table or standing at the back. Under unwritten protocol, Hanover had been forced to invite the Leader of the Opposition and the Shadow Cabinet, provided that they agreed to honour security restrictions. Fortunately, most of the people who would break such an agreement had never been sullied by being offered a place in Government – and the Nazis were far more of a clear-cut enemy than the enemies of 2015.
Hanover tapped the table firmly, taking control of the meeting. “This meeting will now come to order,” he said. “God Save the King.”
There was a brief embarrassed muttering. The one thing that almost all of the men in the room would have agreed upon was that the King was useless. Hanover, who knew that more than a few had supported the former King Edward’s attempt to reclaim the throne, had often considered making a republican move. He shook his head absently; there was no time to risk the upheaval that would result.
“We have been called here today,” he said, more formally than usual, “to hear the report on progress of Operation Arctic; the invasion of Norway by largely American forces, with support from ourselves.” The table, less disciplined than usual, buzzed for a long moment with conversation. Hanover scowled around the table until he finally achieved some silence.