General der Infanterie Hermann Hoth allowed himself a moment of shock as the minefields detonated. He’d counted on them to hold the Americans back for a while, but they had failed; the Americans were pouring into the city from all directions, while the citizens were trying to remain out of the way. The constant shelling was starting to wear his men down, slaughtering them in their trenches. They never stood a chance.
This is my fault, Hoth thought. He’d hoped that he could hold out for weeks, but the sheer firepower that the British and Americans could deploy was too overwhelming. Strongpoints were crushed from the air by the monstrous bombs that the RAF could launch, the handful of small tanks he had smashed with Panzerfaust rockets that the Americans themselves had deployed, just like the Germans.
“Still, at least we know that our anti-tank rockets work,” he muttered to himself, as his aides busied themselves burning the files. Hitler had ordered Oslo itself burnt to the ground, but Hoth had chosen to ignore the order… although the sheer firepower that the Americans were deploying was destroying Oslo anyway.
“Herr General,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter snapped. Hoth looked up to see a massive explosion ripping through the defence lines surrounding his headquarters, which was totally invisible from the air. He wondered for a moment how they’d been found, but then he realised that it didn’t matter.
“Stand your ground,” he shouted, lifting his pistol. As the Americans appeared, he opened fire… and went down firing.
The fires were almost all out, with the aid of the citizens who had emerged from bunkers and basements, pumping water from the fjord to extinguish the fire. The stink of death; fire and rotting bodies, was still in the air, even with the American soldiers working to clear away the bodies.
“And move that German filing cabinet to intelligence,” Patton ordered, as Major Bloodnok hurried up to his side. “Ah, Major; how did your SAS fare?”
“They survived,” Bloodnok said. The Englishman looked over the wreckage. “We’re lucky that it ended when it did,” he said.
“You don’t say,” Patton said. “The fools that say war is glorious never see the cost.” He grinned suddenly. “Still, it’s a damn fine war.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Bloodnok said. “We had run out of bombs and missiles. If the Germans had launched another airborne attack, we might have been in trouble.”
“You worry too much,” Patton said. “Now, all we have to do is get into Sweden.”
“The bastards tore up the train line,” Bloodnok reminded him.
“Those helicopters of yours can move an infantry force forward,” Patton said. “I would ask you to start planning such a move.”
Bloodnok saluted. “I’ll see to it at once,” he said. “Sir, are you going to email the President?”
“I better had, don’t you think?” Patton said. He lit a cigar. “I’ll awaken the helmsmen of America with victorious news.”
SS Moskva
New York Harbour, USA
22nd June 1941
According to the future histories, which Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig had been allowed to read to prepare him for the suicidal nature of the mission, a group of subhumans – who would be ground out of existence before they could ever threaten the Reich – would attack New York, their funding prepared by a group of Jews eager to expand their puppet empire into the Middle East. He studied the towers of Manhattan as the ship entered the harbour; they were wondrous in their own way.
“We’ll rebuild, when we win the war,” he said, checking the ship’s equipment. There were preparations to be made. “Start moving!”
Quickly, the SS men, now wearing the uniforms of the Russian sailors, started to move the boxes onto the deck. The harbour wasn’t ready for them yet – there were dozens of ships in the dock – and placing crates on the deck wasn’t unusual. After all, time was money, and Americans worshiped money.
Kortig chuckled. After the beating he’d inflicted on the soviet ship’s engines, just to get to New York as fast as they could, the ship would require a massive – and expensive – overhaul before it could ever make full speed again. Not that it mattered, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.
“Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer, the crates have all been placed on the deck,” his aide said. “They’re ready for use.”
Kortig nodded. His force didn’t know what was in the crates. Kortig, who did, had felt bad every time he’d passed close to one of them. The entire island of Manhattan was covered in docks; they were waiting for a pilot to guide them to the dock he’d booked earlier. No one had bothered to check his identification; Americans had no concept of security or the measures needed to ensure a safe homeland.
“Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer, here comes the pilot,” his aide said.
“No German,” Kortig snapped, signalling to the helmsman to follow the pilot’s boat. The Moskva glided through the water, heading into the harbour. Kortig smiled; the oil tanker nearby, shipping some oil to the United Kingdom, was right where he’d expected it to be. “Any sign of port inspectors?”
“Yes, Captain,” his aide said, as the Moskva came up to the dock. Five men in black suits stood near the gangplank, waiting for it to be connected to the ship.
“If they knew what we were carrying, they would never have allowed us to dock,” Kortig muttered. He checked the connection lines to the explosives; almost all of the ship was packed with enough explosive to vaporise it and send shockwaves throughout Manhattan and New Jersey.
“I think they want to come aboard,” his aide said, as the inspectors made impatient hand-signals.
“No shit,” Kortig grinned, making the final connection. “I die, but the Reich lives on!”
He pressed down on the button.
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Terror in New York City
RAF Oakhanger
Hampshire, United Kingdom
22nd June 1941
“Dear holy shit!”
It wasn’t the normal way to make reports to a superior officer, but Colonel Gardner let it past; only one thing set off alarms like that. RAF Oakhanger, one of the RAF’s satellite communications facilities, had several missions, but the most important was watching for nuclear detonations. Gardner remembered seeing the nuclear blast that had gone off near Panama… and now they had to watch for a Nazi or Soviet nuclear test.
“I confirm NUDET, repeat NUDET,” Captain Bacon snapped. Gardner hit the emergency button out of sheer habit; there was no need to institute the procedures prepared for nuclear war when a growing number of states possessed nuclear warheads and ballistic missiles.
“Location?” He asked, checking the threat boards. Everything was clear; neither GCHQ or MI6 had reported any evidence that any of the Axis powers – or the Americans, for that matter, were preparing to test a device. “Where is it?”
“New York City,” Bacon said. His voice was stunned. “It’s… I’m not sure what it is. The blast wasn’t hot enough to be nuclear, but spectroscopic analysis indicates some radioactivity within the blast, spreading out over New York.”
“Map display,” Gardner ordered, and cursed. The spreading blast would make 9/11 seem like nothing. He cursed again; the map was from 2015, not 1941. The maps they needed didn’t even exist.