Himmler was in a genial mood, Roth was pleased to discover. Himmler wasn’t given to tantrums – as anyone would have called Hitler’s behaviour at times from a very safe distance – but his cold rages were just as terrifying. Roth, who’d been working with the special weapons division, knew about the coming invasion; knew, and was worried.
“Ah, Herman,” Himmler said. “Have a seat.”
Roth saluted and took his seat. He winced inwardly; Himmler clearly wanted something from him. He listened politely as Himmler made small talk, discussing rockets, the plans to put a man in orbit and the defection of Japan to the Allied camp.
“Did you know that the Japanese have actually been helping the Americans?” Himmler asked. “Would Germans help the invader in such a situation?”
“Of course not,” Roth said, who knew the required answer. “You did say that it was urgent?”
“Yes,” Himmler said, shifting to concentration with a speed that was dazzling. “You are of course aware that the American and British mongrels are planning to invade the Reich?”
Roth blinked. “Directly into Denmark?” He asked. “I would have thought that even their logistics would be unable to handle that.”
“No, into France,” Himmler said. “That… might lead to us having to have to make certain concessions in ground and manpower to them.”
“I see,” Roth said. “However, what does that have to do with me?”
Himmler looked oddly vulnerable for a long chilling moment, before pulling himself back into the man who terrified half of the world. “I have every confidence that our brave fighting men will be able to throw them back into the sea,” he said. “However, it may be necessary to make… certain precautions for the future.”
Roth lifted an eyebrow. “They might manage to secure a bridgehead?”
“Yes, they might,” Himmler said. “In the event of them managing to accomplish that, I have a task for you to carry out.” He explained the task. “Do you understand?”
Roth nodded. “Has it really come to that?” He asked. “Do we have to do that?”
Himmler scowled. “This is the final battle,” he said. “Every weapon must be used, whatever its nature.” He peered into Roth’s eyes. “Every weapon.”
Chapter Thirty-Five: Invasion
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
1st June 1942
Hanover nodded grimly to himself as the war cabinet filed out of the room. Some went grudgingly, some went willingly, but they all had acceded to his will. Somehow, the sheer effort involved in the decision to launch the invasion was chilling; for the first time he faced the prospect of political destruction. The people and Parliament might have accepted the nuclear detonations, but would they accept the loss of an entire army? Hanover knew that they would not.
His gaze drifted up to the portraits on the walls. William Pitt the Elder stared down at him; Margaret Thatcher urged him on. Churchill, who had faced a similar dilemma, seemed to be laughing at him. He knew the choice was his; this wasn’t a Harry Potter movie, where the portraits could talk to him.
He lifted the phone without hesitation. “This is Hanover,” he said, staring into the grey darkness. “The operation is approved.”
He put down the phone and took his seat. Even now, thousands of men and thousands of aircraft would be moving, heading into their targets in the Netherlands. Thousands of missiles, from the improved Tomahawks to knock-off Scud missiles, were being launched from Britain, aimed into German-occupied Europe. The American bombers were being launched, ordered to hammer at the German positions in France, and his own aircraft were concentrating on precision bombing.
As he had not done since he was a young boy, growing up with his parents, Sir Charles Hanover, Prime Minister and Peer of the Realm, prayed to God. The die was cast… and there was no turning back.
Battlezone
Belgium/Netherlands
1st June 1942
“About bloody time,” Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar muttered, as she took the Eurofighter out of formation and into Germany. She winced as she glanced down at her onboard radar; there were thousands of planes in the sky, all British or American. It wasn’t the first time that only Allied planes were in the sky, but she knew that it wouldn’t last; the Germans would hardly allow them to set foot on Europe without mounting a sustained offensive to evict them.
Or, as she phased it in the privacy of her own thoughts, they were going to throw everything, including the kitchen sink, at the British and American forces. She’d fought in the Battle of Britain and she knew the dangers of being swarmed by the German planes; she hoped that the RAF’s new recruits understood as well.
“Eagle-one, you are coming up on your targets,” the controller said. The Germans had a whole series of bridges across their nation, allowing them to move troops and tanks around Germany quickly. The RAF had painstakingly located thousands of targets to hit, selecting them with care and genuine malice, designed to separate the Germans from their western conquests.
The target designator changed to red. A commando, perhaps one of the SAS trainees, had been emplaced, providing her with a target. Behind her, the other planes spread out, their weapons targeted on power stations, barracks, police stations, the handful of communication lines that they knew about… anything that might be militarily useful for any counter-offensive.
“Launching weapons,” she said. The Eurofighter shuddered as it released its bombs; she saw pinpricks of fire flaring against the darkened ground, knowing what they meant for the poor citizens below. Hardening her heart, she swooped around, returning to base. They had to be rearmed as quickly as possible.
HMS Warspite sat in the centre of the English Channel, moving closer and closer to The Hague. In her combat information centre, General Flynn analysed the reports from the SAS teams on the ground and the satellites, which were working overtime. He’d heard that the space station had been moved into geo-stationary orbit, but he didn’t believe the rumour.
“I think we can proceed with stage two,” he said, after the first reports had been completed. German targets had been struck everywhere; even as he watched, more attacks were being launched. “Send the signal.”
HMS Warspite shuddered as her main guns began to fire. The mighty battleship, and the three American battleships beside her, was pounding the German defences on the shore, knowing that a force of Special Forces troopers were already on the ground, providing targets for the bombers.
“The Ark Royal is launching now,” Admiral Somerville said. The Contemporary ship had been adapted to carry some of the new Harriers, equipped with precision bombs. “They’ll be overhead in five minutes.”
Flynn nodded. “Stage two; complete neutralisation of the Germans on the ground from the air.”
He looked up at the big display. Nearly two hundred aircraft were moving into position, from the three adapted Hercules to the dozens of B-29’s armed with precision weapons and JDAM bombs. In five minutes, the Germans on the ground would never know what had hit them.
Captain Hoffman rather enjoyed his posting in Amsterdam. The small Dutch city was peaceful and quiet; there was almost no resistance to German rule. The three divisions that had been stationed in Amsterdam had grown used to peace, even with the new directives coming out of the Fuhrerbunker, warning of invasion.