Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

For a moment they were all silent. Xaptz began to twitch nervously.

Himmler laughed. “You give the Allies too much credit, Baron von Berg. What purpose would such a forgery serve?”

“To exploit our fears about the Allied armies gathering in the Middle East.” Von Berg addressed Hitler, eye to eye. “They know we have a fairly accurate assessment of Patton’s Seventh Army and Montgomery’s Eighth Army in North Africa. But Wilson’s Ninth Army in the Middle East is another story. We don’t know how many divisions are down there, much less if any of them are even close to being ready to mount a large-scale invasion. The Allies understand our strategic dilemma, so they devise mystical nonsense such as this Maranatha text to deceive us.”

“To what end, von Berg?” asked Himmler from his chair, sounding as if he’d had enough of the Baron’s tiresome doubts.

Von Berg kept his eyes locked with Hitler’s. “As I said earlier, to make us fear an invasion of Greece and move the focus of our attention away from their intended point of entry.”

Hitler sighed. “Which you still insist is Sicily?”

“Yes,” said von Berg, “and again I must remind the Fuhrer of my opinion that we don’t need additional German divisions in Greece. Once they are there, they cannot be easily moved, certainly not in time to counter an Allied invasion of Italy.”

A faraway look filled Hitler’s eyes as he considered the implications of the logic, and for a second von Berg dared to believe that reason would prevail. But the Reichsfuhrer dashed any such hope to pieces.

“What is it you’re hiding in Greece that the presence of more German troops makes you so uneasy?” Himmler removed his silver pince-nez and polished the lenses as he squinted his small eyes at the Baron. “You’re not still pursuing research on atomistics, Jewish physics, are you? The Fuhrer ordered the Flammenschwert Project abandoned. We don’t want a Sword of Fire. We want a Sea of Fire. We want Greek Fire to protect our shores from invasion.”

Hitler snapped out of his trance. “Yes, von Berg,” he said with newfound authority. “We’ve already been through all this with the armaments ministers. Last year, before he died, Todt told us that an atomic bomb is not worth our time. And Speer says that even if we were to pursue such a weapon, the earliest we could deploy it would be 1946. By then, as Professor Xaptz has shown us, the war will be over. Besides, von Braun’s rocket research at Peenemunde looks much more promising.”

At this point, thought von Berg, no weapon could save Germany if Hitler remained in power. Already Hitler’s failure to appreciate the stealth of the U-boat had cost Doenitz’s underproduced fleet the Atlantic. His blindness to the speed of the Messerschmitt Me 262 jet fighter had cost Goering’s battered Luftwaffe the skies of Europe. Now his ignorance of the power of the atomic bomb could cost Germany the war.

“The ultimate weapon is Greek Fire,” Hitler went on, his eyes sparkling at the mention of the subject. “Greek Fire will provide us with the ultimate defense against any Allied invasion-a ring of fire around the continent. In the twinkling of an eye, we could set our coastlines ablaze, burning the Allies before they even set foot on our shores. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “What are you doing about it, von Berg?”

“My team of scientists is working around the clock on a synthetic formula for Greek Fire,” he answered, although that was a lie. “They are using the latest advances in science to test various combinations of naphtha, sulfur, petroleum, bitumen, potassium nitrate, and other compounds in search of the formula.”

Hitler glared at him. “I don’t want a synthetic formula, von Berg,” he demanded, his voice growing louder. “I want the real thing. I want the Maranatha text. That’s all I ask. Just bring me that infernal text! I want it before the next weapons conference!”

Von Berg realized that the next weapons conference was on his fortieth birthday, less than a month away. “But that’s on the second of June.”

“Which gives you three weeks, von Berg. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

Von Berg knew that Germany’s only hope at this point was the restoration of his monarchy and a peace settlement with the Allies. The Flammenschwert bomb would make it all possible once Hitler was out of the way. All he needed was a few weeks-precisely what the Fuhrer was granting him. Until then he would keep the Maranatha text out of Hitler’s hands or find a way to use it for his own ends. He rose to his feet. “But if I should find that this Maranatha text contradicts the contents of the microfilm, you will reconsider my hypothesis concerning Sicily?”

“Yes,” Hitler sighed. “I will reconsider.”

C hris Andros stood fifty yards away from Adolf Hitler when he turned to face the Fuhrer, lowered his right arm, and fired three bullets from his Colt. 45 automatic into the madman’s face. The cigarette dangling from Hitler’s mouth exploded in a small cloud, the smoke lifting to reveal two holes for eyes. An awed silence was broken by cheers and pats on the back from the fellow cadets who surrounded Andros at the outdoor firing range of the United States Military Academy at West Point.

“What did I tell y’all, the best in the West,” proclaimed First Class Cadet Billy Hayfield. He lit a cigarette for Andros and turned to the fourth-class cadets. “Now pay up, plebes.”

There were groans as the young men began to part with their money, much to the delight of the big, grinning Texan.

Andros, meanwhile, popped his Colt back into its open holster and stared at the makeshift target as he smoked his cigarette. This was as close to a real Nazi as he had gotten in the war, a war that seemed so far away from these green meadows and rolling hills on the banks of the Hudson. To Andros, the river symbolized the uncrossable gulf that separated him from Nazi-occupied Europe and the woman he loved.

“Three hundred dollars!” Hayfield exclaimed, as he finished counting the money. “There’s gonna be a good time in the city this weekend!”

No sooner were the words out of Hayfield’s mouth than Andros heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. The small crowd of cadets dispersed rapidly. Hayfield was still stuffing his pockets with cash when the jeep braked to a halt, engine still running.

“Superintendent wants to see Cadet Andros,” said the driver, an MP whom Andros vaguely recalled from a particular card game. “Pronto.”

“General Wilby?” Andros asked, snuffing out his cigarette.

The MP was stone-faced under his white helmet.

Andros exchanged a long glance with Hayfield before climbing into the jeep.

“Hey, I’m part of this, too,” Hayfield confessed as the MP shifted gears. “I didn’t mean to take O’Brian’s last cent, but he insisted on playing…”

But the jeep carrying Andros was gone.

T he jeep pulled up in front of the cadet chapel, a Gothic edifice on a hillside that soared above the surrounding woods. Andros turned to the driver and asked, “I’m supposed to find the superintendent in here?”

The MP didn’t give an answer, and by this time Andros wasn’t expecting any, so he went up the steps and under King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, which hung above the entrance.

Inside, it was cool and dark. Carvings of the Quest for the Holy Grail glowed dimly from the light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Andros let his eyes adjust and looked down the cavernous chapel toward the altar. A lonely figure sat in the first pew with his head bowed. Andros took off his cap and proceeded down the aisle beneath the procession of flags that arched overhead.