Dwynn nodded. “Where are we to go next?” He asked. “Hell itself?”
“No,” Chang said. “There’s an entire airborne unit coming this way, armed for bear, to capture or kill Himmler.”
“Finally,” Dwynn muttered. “What are our orders?”
“We’re to set up target designators and identify what we can of the German positions,” Chang said. “The attack will be preceded by a Harrier force. If Himmler tries to leave… we’re to shoot him down.”
Dwynn scowled. The orders sounded like a staff officer had drafted them. Sniping wasn’t easy at the best of times, and in the confusion, the German might just slip past them unnoticed. Still, it was something pro-active… and he wanted the war to end.
“Call the team,” he said, checking his watch. “We’d better spread out for the Harriers.”
Two days ago, a Eurofighter had been caught in the nuclear blast and vaporised. No one had found even a section of the plane; no one expected to do so. Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar had been wiped from existence, her passing unnoticed in the chaos of the first Axis nuclear explosion.
Flying Officer Mick Eccleston clenched his teeth as the Harrier swept along the ground, remaining as low as he dared, sweeping around obstacles with ease. The Harriers had always been manoeuvrable – during the Falklands War they had out-flown and out-fought supersonic aircraft – and surprise was their only hope of pulling the mission off successfully. Whatever the truth behind the relationship between Stalin and Himmler – and Eccleston knew that the Internet was filled with rumours of homosexual activity – Stalin would hardly allow Himmler to be kidnapped or killed.
“We’re coming up on the target,” he said. His on-board display tracked the SAS aircraft and helicopters, carrying a mixed force directly to the target. Only the British Army would have put such a mismatched force together, relying on their joint training and professionalism to hold them together. “Ten seconds…”
Time vanished quickly as the final hill appeared in front of them. “Now,” he snapped, yanking the Harrier towards the sky. The German camp appeared below them, the targets already glimmering with laser pinpoints, and the Harrier dropped its bombs automatically. An entire series of explosions blasted out within the German camp and under what Eccleston would have sworn was forest, revealing the existence of the last major German force of the war. A King Tiger exploded as a bomb struck it directly, scattering fuel and burning SS officers around.
“Attack completed, control,” he reported. Some German units attempted to engage the British aircraft; none of them came close to scoring a hit. The Harriers returned fire, using their bombs to take out the JU-88 guns. “Returning to base.”
The chain of explosions blasted Himmler to his knees, even inside the thick Russian building. He quaked, expecting to die any second, but the explosions receded and the roar of enemy planes faded.
“Report,” he snapped. Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz blinked at him. “Report!”
“We’re under attack,” Obergruppenfuehrer Muntz snapped. “The British have found us…”
His voice trailed off as a new sound, a chop-chop-chop sound, appeared, echoing through the air. Himmler spun around… to see a flight of British helicopters sweeping in, heading directly towards the camp. Some of them landed, just outside the range of the guard towers, others fired rockets directly into the towers. As Himmler watched, the defences around the base were peeled away, the helicopters firing mercilessly down into the defenders. A force of King Tigers, the only survivors of the air attack, attempted to shoot them down, and the helicopters killed them with ease.
Himmler gaped and ducked as one of the Helicopters seemed to… look in his direction. It saved his life; a bullet cracked by, just over his head. Gasping in fear, he ran back into the building, knowing that death was only minutes away.
It can’t end like this, he thought madly, searching for the guns he’d placed in the room as a final defence. It can’t… I won’t let it end this way. I won’t!
Corporal Tom Williams recoiled slightly as the helicopter landed sharply, but there was no time for panic or shock. The SBS went through pretty much the same training as the SAS, but the SAS always looked down on their naval counterparts. Except, of course, when they need us, Williams thought wryly.
“Move, move,” the Captain shouted. Williams dumped his pack – it wouldn’t be needed – and ran towards the entrance of the burning camp. Germans tried to fight and the mixed force cut them down, moving in precise formation through their fumbling attempts to defend themselves.
“Shock and awe,” he shouted, and the shout was taken up by the other soldiers, lashing into the German position and fighting the Waffen-SS directly. The helicopters buzzed overhead, firing into German positions indiscriminately, explosions blasted out across the camp. A hail of fire shot past him and Williams dived for cover, before tossing a hand grenade over the German position.
“That building,” an SAS captain shouted, and led the charge towards the hardened building. He tossed a stun grenade in and followed it, Williams followed him. A bullet struck him in the centre of his body armour, knocking him back, and he fired once at the figure hiding behind the big desk.
“You go left, I’ll go right,” he muttered, realising who the figure had to be. Hiding behind the desk, Himmler would have been sheltered from the blast of the grenade. “Now…”
Himmler fired at the SAS officer, heedless of Williams’ presence. Williams jumped on the former Fuhrer, slamming him to the ground and banging his head against the floor. Himmler’s glasses fell off and shattered; he tried to struggle, but it was futile. Williams searched him roughly before cuffing his hands and dragging him to his feet.
“I’ll give you money and wealth,” Himmler stammered. Williams was unimpressed; the leader of Death to America had put up a better fight than that. That Jihadi had killed five Americans and four British before being brought down.
“Fuck you,” Williams said harshly, as the SAS officer staggered to his feet. “You are going to face a trial for what you have done, and then you will be hung and…”
Himmler reeled against him. “No,” he said. “No…”
Williams dragged him out into the battleground. The Germans were surrendering, the handful that had survived. The battle was nearly over and the helicopters were landing, coming to recover them before Stalin could act to save Himmler’s life.
“Say goodbye, Fuhrer,” Williams sneered. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see German territory again.”
Chapter Forty-Seven: The Russian Revolution
Moscow
Russia
5th July 1942
Molotov sighed grimly as he considered the situation. Rumours of the destruction of Stalingrad had been denied by Radio Moscow; an unusual step that had convinced the population that the rumours were in fact true. Stalin had acted quickly, but not quickly enough; the NKVD units that had attempted to seal the ruins of the city had been torn apart by desertions and internal dissent. Everyone of them knew about radiation; they didn’t want to be near any possible source of the deadly poison.
Molotov scowled. The war was lost; everyone knew that. The Red Army was collapsing; the Ukraine and Belarus were in open revolt… even the Finns were scoring successes against the occupation force. To add insult to injury, Vladivostok had surrendered when General Iosif Apanasenko had realised that Americans possessed atomic bombs. Rumour had it that certain members of the city’s population had petitioned for recognition as an independent state, rather than joining Trotsky’s promise of a democratic Russian federation.