Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

“Tanks away,” Washington shouted, and the B-29 shuddered. The long-range drop tanks had been perfected for bombing Japan, just before the Japanese took themselves out of the war by surrendering. The aircraft seemed to bounce through the sky; Groves felt more vomit welling up within him. This time, parts of his stomach were in the vomit.

“Dear God, help me,” he breathed. The pain was excruciating; his body just wanted to lie down and die. By sheer force of will, Groves pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the cockpit. “How long…?”

Washington blinked at his tone. Groves knew that he must sound like a man who had already died. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s Stalingrad ahead.”

Groves peered into the darkness. The Russians had good light discipline; he could only see a tiny number of lights glimmering in the darkness. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Washington said. Compassion for Groves’ illness was overridden by annoyance. “Yes, sir; I am certain.”

“Star sight confirms, sir,” the navigator said. Groves nodded. “We’re right on target.”

“I’m going to drop the weapon personally,” Groves said, and left the cockpit. He half-walked, half-stumbled as the aircraft’s machine guns started to chatter, firing at a Russian plane that had come too close. The Russians had no taste at all for night-fighting, but they were very motivated indeed.

“Sir?” The bombardier said. “Sir, are you all right?”

Groves ignored him. Fat Lady was suspended in a cage, held firmly above the bay doors. The weapon had had to be armed on route, just to prevent an accidental detonation on take-off. Whatever covert help they’d received from the British, it hadn’t stretched to a fail-safe detonator.

“We’re over the target now,” Washington shouted. “Drop the bomb.”

“Mine,” Groves said, taking the leaver. He vomited again; the bombardier gasped in disgust and jumped back for cover. One pull of the leaver and the bomb bays opened, revealing Stalingrad below. A few twinkles of light flickered below; perhaps the NKVD guards having a last cigarette.

“Bombs away,” Groves said, and pulled the second leaver. Fat Lady fell… two inches down, and then the cage jammed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Groves swore. His head spun. “What the hell has happened?”

The bombardier pointed to a jammed cable. “There, sir,” he said, reaching for a wrench. Groves snatched it off him, banging away at the jammed cable… and then Fat Lady fell towards the ground. Groves, leaning against the bomb, lost his footing and fell as well, heading down with the bomb.

Oh shit , he thought, and laughed harshly. Time seemed to slow down; it was almost beautiful. Fat Lady fell faster and faster, the detonator waiting for a pre-set air pressure… and then the bomb exploded. Groves died, smiling and unaware.

Waffen-SS Camp

Brest, Belarus

3 rdJuly 1942

That was too fucking close , Captain Dwynn thought grimly, as the SAS team continued their observation of the German camp. The SS weren’t standing still; even with the weather screwed up by the nuke, they were determined to continue their patrols, just in case the NKVD planned to change their agreement.

“They gone?” Chang asked. The Chinese officer had a scarred face; he’d slashed it while diving for cover when the nuke went off. Dwynn liked to think that the strange rock had come off worst in the tiny confrontation.

“Yes,” Dwynn said. He peered down at the encampment. “Himmler hasn’t shown himself since the nuke went off. Do you think that he knows something we don’t?”

Chang shrugged. “There is too much radiation around, but most of it is over in the west,” he said. “I think he just wants to keep his balls intact.” He smiled. “Anyway, we have our new orders.”

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.