“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Pieter snapped.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Rock of Ages
Undisclosed Location
Berlin, Germany
15th September 1940
The funeral procession wove its way through the Berlin streets, hidden below clouds as the first rain of the autumn hit Berlin. From his place atop the stand, Himmler watched as Hitler saluted the marching Wehrmacht troopers, before retreating from the rain and heading back down to the bunker. Himmler let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding; had the RAF attacked, they would have stood a good chance of wiping out the German High Command.
He followed the Fuhrer thought the winding corridors, still being dug ever deeper by slave labour, until they reached the main briefing room. Hitler’s female secretary had done her best to make him comfortable, but the room was still cold, even with the heater. Himmler shivered and drew his dress uniform around his body; Hitler didn’t seem to feel the cold.
“We have just buried a fine man and a loyal servant,” Hitler said. There was a long moment of silence; almost all of the room had believed the statement. Himmler, who knew better, smiled inside. “The war must proceed. Field Marshal?”
Field Marshal Walter Von Brauchitsch jumped. A competent officer, he was entirely dominated by Hitler. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, saluting.
Hitler smiled. “What is the current status of Operation Rommel?”
Brauchitsch scowled; Himmler sympathised, although for different reasons. Hitler had changed the name of the operation five times so far. “We have moved up the heavy guns, under General Karl Becker, with the exception of the big rail gun, which suffered an… ah, accident.”
Hitler’s face clenched with fury. A roving RAF plane had spotted the big gun on its tracks and bombed it, destroying both the gun and the rail tracks below. Several other planes had snarled up the rail network completely, although not in time to prevent Becker from concentrating most of his force.
“The Spanish have refused to accept large numbers of ground troops from us,” Brauchitsch continued. “They have provided the Blue Division, under General Julio Cordoba, a hero of their recent war. Franco insists on taking the fortress himself, and only accepted our guns under heavy pressure.”
“Excellent,” Hitler said. Brauchitsch looked nervous. “It matters not who holds the fortress, so long as the sea lanes are closed.” He looked over at Ribbentrop, who smiled confidently. “And our partners?”
“The Soviets inform us that their attack on Iran will be launched in five days,” Ribbentrop said confidently. Himmler met his eyes and was pleased to see the incompetent man flinch. “The Japanese are still making preparations, but we expect them to launch in another week or so.”
Himmler frowned. “Could the little yellow men be planning to betray us?”
Ribbentrop hesitated. “Of course not,” Hitler thundered. “This is their one opportunity to break loose from the shackles of the mongrel nation of half-bloods,” he pronounced. “They will follow their own interests; have we not given them enough information to ensure their success?”
Just the information guarantees nothing, Himmler thought. “They have also requested access to information on the nuclear program,” he said. “Is it your wish that we share the information?”
Hitler considered, but not for long. “The secrets are not secret to the enemy,” he said. “As long as they share with us, and not with Stalin, then we will share what we have.”
“General Becker reports that he can launch the attack at any moment,” Brauchitsch said. “Should it be launched tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Hitler said. “Once it is done, then we will be able to begin rolling up Africa and then the Middle East.”
Gibraltar
Mediterranean Sea
16th September 1940
General Robert Flynn lifted his binoculars and gazed across the border into Spain, knowing that there was no way that the fortress could be held. As soon as Franco’s wavering became known, the fortress had been sealed off and the population, all those who would go, had been removed to Saudi. The provisional government there had been delighted to see experienced ports men to assist in the rebuilding, and guards to guard the new farms and desalination plants. A great deal had been achieved in twelve days and Flynn would have liked to have seen it, just once.
Perhaps I will, he thought, and winced. Honour demanded that they made a fight for Gibraltar, but he was too much a professional to have any hope of victory. The War Cabinet had been undecided, until Hanover had ruled in favour of making a token defence. All of the previous administration had been removed; there were only one hundred men and the residents who had refused to leave.
He lowered his binoculars, watching as the sun slowly appeared over the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now. He smiled; he was almost looking forward to it. The British Army of 2015 had never had to hold a fortress; the Germans – or more likely their Spanish allies – had no idea what was waiting for them. With modern weapons, his tiny force could have held, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to make the Spanish hurt.
His radio buzzed. “General?”
“Yes, Tom,” he said. The young civilian had been seconded to his force, one of the thousands who had volunteered for service. “What’s happening?”
“Perimeter sensors are reporting advancing figures, across the border,” Tom said. he held no military rank; Flynn had brevetted him as a Private in order to convince the PJHQ that he could join the defence force.
“They have to be mad,” Flynn said, running down to the command centre. The defenders had strung communication cables all over the fortress, multiplying their forces tenfold. The Contemporaries had dug deep into the rock; the civilians who had refused to leave were already down in the bunkers. He glanced at the report; at least sixty figures were moving across the neutral territory between Gibraltar and Spain.
“It seems that way,” Tom said. He tapped the control for the remote machine guns, newly manufactured in Britain. “Permission to open fire.”
“Fire,” Flynn said.
General Karl Becker was not an easy man to love. His obsession with having everything exactly in its place annoyed his men, who respected rather than loved him. His obvious competency and heroism in the battles in France won him respect from the Germans, but not from his Spanish allies. General Julio Cordoba was many things, but diplomatic was not one of them. He’d already clashed with Becker on many occasions, from strategy to command supremacy. Franco’s insistence on Cordoba holding overall command was… galling; the Spanish believed way too much in élan, in launching bold stokes against overwhelming odds.
“What are those bloody troops doing?” He snapped, as the African forces advanced. Recruited from Spain’s former possessions, they had been imbrued with a hatred of the British. “We haven’t softened them up yet!”
Cordoba’s German was spoken with a strong accent; Becker, who found it infuriating, suspected that the Spaniard did it on purpose. “We have to recover the fortress,” he said. “They have volunteered to accomplish Spain’s destiny.”
Given that Spain had been very quiet on the subject until Germany turned the screws, Becker glared at him. “They’ll be shot to bits,” Becker snapped, as the forces entered the neutral ground. “They’ll be wiped out for nothing.”