He allowed himself a sigh of relief. With the entire combined team working at the hidden bunker, doing research as a united group, Jews and Aryans, they would make progress. He’d snatched every physicist he could; with the new information, they would succeed – he was certain of it.
“Heil Hitler,” a stern voice said from behind him. Roth snapped to attention and gave the salute before his mind caught up and identified the newcomer as Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. The Reichsführer looked tired; Roth knew he was about to come back to life.
“Heil Hitler,” he snapped. “Herr Reichsführer, you have to see this.”
He passed over the list of known traitors. Himmler skimmed down the list, his face darkening. “These vermin will not be allowed to infest the Reich any longer,” he snarled. “Have copies made of the list and I will get the SS to begin the purge.”
“Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said carefully, “some of these men are important to the Fuhrer, Rommel for example. He was slated for command of a force for the invasion of the future Britain and…”
“I will show the Fuhrer the evidence,” Himmler snapped. He picked up the sheets of paper and the CD-ROM. “The purge will begin now.”
He stalked out, leaving Roth behind with his thoughts. One thought in particular; Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler had attempted to negotiate with the Allies towards the end of the would-have-been war. He wondered if Hitler would ever see that.
It had been easier than Himmler had allowed himself to fear. While he was preparing for the meeting with the Fuhrer, he read through the entire list, thanking God that it had been cross-referenced by some kindly British academic. The handful of SS men who would show weakness in the future were quickly arrested by his men in Berlin; they at least could be arrested without informing anyone. He made notes beside their names; most would be executed, but some might ‘volunteer’ for a special mission.
The Fuhrer had read the list in a kind of shocked silence. Rommel, who’d once commanded his bodyguard, had been given his command in France by Hitler; he’d been earmarked to command the entire operation in Greece and the Balkans. When he was finished, Hitler issued some specific instructions regarding individual people, and then gave Himmler permission to go ahead and start another purge.
Himmler returned to his own bunker, a non-descript building that had once belonged to a Jew, and issued his orders. SS men fanned out all over Berlin, arresting those who had plotted against Hitler in the future that would never be. Resistance was minimal; Hans Oster shot down several SS men before being dragged away into the nearest camp. Several other long-term plotters, including a handful whose only crime had been opposing Himmler, were arrested; they didn’t go quietly.
Burst transmissions from France and Italy came in over the next few days. The Wehrmacht officers who had known about their plots fled, or tried to mount a mutiny, all of which failed. Himmler ordered them all to be returned to Germany; the only exception was Rommel, whom the Fuhrer had ordered to be held in France and away from anyone else. The pace of the war over Britain slacked sharply, even with the British punching into the French holdings in Tunisia, and both sides were relieved by the break.
Other officers, those who would become competent commanding officers in the future, were offered promotions and command of their own forces. Many of them accepted; Himmler received some credit for their promotions.
“We can put the new tanks into production in six months,” Speer reported, after studying Oliver’s information. “While they will not be competitive with the British tanks we have seen in the desert, they will be ahead of Soviet or American designs.”
Kesselring nodded. The news about the T-34 and the JS-1 had come as an unpleasant surprise to the Wehrmacht. “When can we expect a tank equal to the British designs?”
“Not for some time,” Speer admitted. “Their armour is made from a process we don’t understand, let alone be able to duplicate, and they have production lines we don’t have. However, there are other tactics that can be used against them; the Wehrmacht officers are developing them now.”
“Very good,” Hitler said. A new light burned behind his eyes. Knowledge of how close death had come had shocked him into new activity. “When can we proceed into the Balkans?”
The group looked at each other. “It will take some time to redeploy units,” Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel said finally. “At least a month, just in time to join the Japanese and the Soviets.”
“Ah, Wilhelm,” Hitler said jovially. “You always counsel caution.”
Keitel smiled weakly. The future history told of how he’d foiled the plot against Hitler. “I will take your advice,” Hitler said. “I want the attacks to be launched in a month, no more and no less, understand?”
Chapter Nineteen: Jihad
Pyramid Heights
London, United Kingdom
1st August 1940
Foreign Secretary John McLachlan knew that there was someone in his apartment before he even entered the lobby. Decades of television melodrama aside, even the relatively light security situation, post-Transition, was capable of preventing assassins, reporters and idle members of the public from bothering government ministers. The four people who’d come to see him hadn’t exactly been invited – their MP had interceded – but he had cleared their way into his apartment.
“They’re in there, sir,” a security guard said. Pyramid Heights had its own security force, SAS-trained, and the guests would have been searched before they were even allowed to enter the main centre uninvited. McLachlan took a breath and stepped into his apartment.
“Good evening, dad,” the young man waiting for him said. All of McLachlan’s planned remarks vanished in an instant as he rushed forward to embrace his son, the young man who’d left his family a long time ago. He hadn’t seen him in four years; all the little pains within his heart tore open.
“Steve,” he breathed, holding his son. “It’s good to see you.”
“Shahan,” Steve/Shahan corrected. He’d changed his name four years ago. “I’m Shahan now.”
“You’ll always be Steve to me,” McLachlan said. “Is… she here?”
“Yes, she came as well,” Shahan said. “Are you ready to meet your daughter-in-law?”
“I suppose,” McLachlan said, with a twinge of the old pain. His son’s… conversion had shocked him; he’d blamed it on the girl he’d fallen for and eventually married. People in their station didn’t marry people of her station, let alone adopt her religion. The former might have been acceptable; the latter definitely was not.
“Sameena,” Shahan called. McLachlan looked up as his son’s wife came into the foyer. She was from an Indian family; her skin was dark brown, with long dark hair. He supposed that she was pretty; he’d never looked at another woman after his wife died.
“Good evening,” she said, a little nervously. McLachlan lifted an eyebrow; she was clearly pregnant.