If we hadn’t dispersed as much of possible of the government, they might have won in one blow, Roth thought, and shivered. He slipped under the awing and pulled on a cloak, leaving his SS jacket and cap in the false front. Thus convinced that no high-flying British plane could mistake him for an SS officer, Roth went back onto the streets and wandered through several blocks before reaching the real headquarters, hidden in a meat-processing facility.
Roth sniggered. The irony had always appealed to him.
“Your papers, Herr Standartenfuehrer,” the guards said. Unlike the poor Unterscharfuehrer on the streets, they knew who he was, but Himmler would have had them both executed if they had failed to check his papers. Roth passed them over without protest, allowing them to check everything. The SS had been busy once the captured documents had revealed dozens of new ways to forge documents.
“You may pass,” the leader said finally. “The Reichsführer will see you at once.”
Roth nodded and entered the facility. On the surface levels, it seemed just like a real facility, but once inside it changed dramatically. The basement, seven levels that had once held frozen meat, now held an entire SS command post. There were dozens more scattered through Germany, concealing the German command structure from the all-seeing British reconnaissance planes. Hitler himself had a fully refurbished bunker; the military had a deep series of rooms under Berlin, linked together by the landlines they’d thought to abandon.
“Heil Hitler,” Roth snapped, coming to attention. Himmler returned the salute, before waving Roth to a chair. “Reporting as ordered, Herr Reichsführer.”
“Heil,” Himmler said. “How is your life?”
Such concern on the part of Himmler was unusual, to say the least. Roth managed a noncommittal grunt. “I have just been talking with Goring,” Himmler said, which explained his odd behaviour. “The fat fool wants to know why we can’t give him a million Me-200s or whatever they were called back in the Jewish history.”
Roth sighed. “Herr Reichsführer, we have been given complete plans and diagrams for many aircraft, including the historical version of the jet plane we build before… well, you know.” And of the reason for the plane’s uselessness, he thought silently. “The problem is that we do not have the tools to make it, or in some cases the tools to make the tools that make the tools… and so on ad infinitum. For the Me-262, we require considerable advances in materials and production facilities; they are nowhere near as easy to build as a Me-109.
“In some cases, it was merely a matter of taking an idea from a book and copying it, such as the mobile launcher for the V1s. For the V1s themselves, we have something like a forty-percent launch failure rate, and pilots have observed them blowing up in mid-air. While we are hurting the British, I submit that that sort of failure rate would shortly wipe out the Luffwaffe more completely than even the British super-weapons could.”
He waved a hand absently at the laptop on Himmler’s desk. “That device, Herr Reichsführer, is at least thirty years away, and probably longer. The… situation with the future British will have resolved itself by then, I fear. We have managed wonders, but some things require time and more time.”
Himmler glared at him. “And if I order you to produce a Me-262?”
Roth met his eyes without flinching. “Then I’m dead,” he said flatly. Himmler deserved the truth; he’d led the SS through the… difficulties without flinching. “Herr Reichsführer, I cannot change natural law with a wave of my hand.”
Himmler nodded. “Tell me, what is the status of Project Kern?”
Roth took a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking. “We have gathered together the scientists in three different, heavily concealed locations,” he said. “The German scientists, and the… other ones.”
Both men knew he meant Jewish. “Research is proceeding, and we have a plan for a basic reactor,” he said. “Unfortunately, building the reactor will take nearly a year, the more so because we dare not let the British get even a sniff of the location. They must know that we have one; the heavy water program in Norway was smashed beyond recovery. After that, they believe that we might have a working device in another year.”
“So 1942 at the earliest,” Himmler said. “There’s no way to speed matters up?”
“None at all,” Roth said. “Two years, Herr Reichsführer, is a very optimistic estimation.”
“The Fuhrer wants one as soon as possible,” Himmler mused. “Is there any possibility that the Jews are sabotaging the project?”
“We believe not, Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said. “Everything contributed by a Jew is examined by a review board of Aryan scientists. Basic theory is understood now, although the scientists want to continue research into some areas. The dangerous part is building the reactor, and the Jews will be watched very carefully.”
“Good work,” Himmler said. “The sooner we can get on with destroying the menace of Stalin, the better.”
“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Roth said, and left.
The principle reason that the Japanese lost the war was because of the sheer weight of power that the Americans could bring to bear against Japan. On a general estimation, America possessed close to nine times the total war-making potential of Japan, and included many hidden advantages. America could absorb the massive demands for material, and create huge armies and navies, without suffering economic ruin as the Japanese suffered in the closing years.
Bad strategic calculations made a difficult situation impossible. The Japanese were at war with too many different groups, including the British Empire, the Chinese, and dozens of little nationalist groups. This strategic dispersal reduced the chances of knocking out even one of the enemy to almost nothing; a concentration against India and/or Australia, ideally without involving America, would have made fighting the war further very difficult. The failure to appreciate the powers of the submarine, which would have disrupted American shipping…
“I brought you a cup of… well, I think its tea,” Jasmine said, passing Professor Horton a cup. He sipped it gratefully, feeling his wife’s body pressed against his. Nearly two months of captivity – and being stuck in the small suite of rooms with the girls – was taking its toll on both of them.
“Thank you,” he said grimly. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said airily. She slammed her fist down on the table. “I’m just stuck in a fucking bunker with fucking Nazis watching us all the time!”
Horton reached out and held her, feeling tears flicker in his eyes. Jasmine was taking the pressure badly; she knew that the only thing keeping her children from the concentration camps, or death, was the work that her husband – who would be stuffed in a gas chamber – was doing for Himmler. She didn’t take their total helplessness well; she knew that they were watched all the time under the burning white lights.