Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

“ Heil Himmler ,” he bellowed, with perfect parade-ground presentation. “ Mein Fuhrer !”

“Ah, Albert,” Himmler said. The young man glowed with pleasure at being addressed by his first name by the Fuhrer himself. Himmler wished that Roth or one of the smarter SS officers had been available for the task, but they were required elsewhere. It was so hard to know who to trust these days, without the knowledge of the future that Professor Horton had possessed and interpreted for them.

“I am at your service, Mein Führer ,” Albert bellowed. Himmler smiled; if he’d asked the young man to bend over for sodomy, he would have done so without hesitation. Himmler scowled; some of the senior Nazis had that kind of bent, despite the fact that homosexuals were marked for extermination, but it wasn’t one of his vices.

“Take this list,” Himmler ordered, checking some of the names. “All, but this one” – indicating the possible case of jealously – “are to be eliminated forthwith. That one, Albert, is to be investigated by… ah, Kurt, I think, and I am to be informed before any action is taken.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer ,” Albert bellowed. Himmler nodded; if the young man were guilty, Himmler would have no hesitation about throwing him – and his lovely wife as well – into the gas chambers, but if he was innocent the Reich could hardly afford to dispose of him.

“Thank you,” Himmler said. The young man glowed. “Please send in my Grand Vizier as you pass his office.”

Albert, who didn’t have the imagination to start wondering why the Fuhrer was associating with such an obvious subhuman, saluted once, about turned, and stamped out of the office in perfect steps. Himmler smiled; the various training sessions that Albert had undergone had stamped imagination out of his system, and any of the initiative that made Roth and Kruger so valuable.

Himmler returned to his reports – a report from the growing network within America – about American military preparations. It made grim reading; the Americans, under their best general, Patton, had finally managed to overcome the manpower crisis that had nearly crippled American operations in Norway. By the time the winter had literally frozen both sides in their bases, the Americans had managed to stem the joint German-Soviet advances that had threatened to shove them back into the Atlantic.

He grinned to himself, as he moved on to the next report. As long as the Americans had a major front open with the Soviet Union, they would have difficulty in trying anything clever in Europe. Without British bomber support – and that had been far less evident in recent months – the Americans couldn’t force the Germans out of Scandinavia, let alone interfere with the extensive mining operations that had sealed the Allies out of the Baltic Sea. The resettlement program could continue… and the Reich would have something it needed desperately, new pure Aryan blood.

“ Mein Fuhrer ,” a voice said from the door. Himmler looked up and smiled, the kind of smile that one would give to a favoured dog or cat. Professor Horton nodded politely to him and took his seat, facing Himmler.

The irony of it all, Professor Horton had found, was that Himmler wasn’t a bad boss, not compared to some of the university deans he’d had to scrape and bow to before getting tenure. You could speak your mind to him, as long as you were respectful, and you could trust him not to shout ‘off with his head.’

He would have smiled, were it still possible for him. His post as ‘Grand Vizier’ was one of Himmler’s little jokes; the new Fuhrer’s sense of humour emerged at the oddest times. Like one of the oriental Grand Vizier’s, he had very little power… except access to all of the information collected by a growing network of German spies and agents across the world. Himmler had been right, of course; there was no way that he could seek to take Himmler’s place.

“I trust that your wife and children are fine,” Himmler said, reminding Horton of the price for his services. He’d watched from the shadows, under the watchful eye of two SS men, as a British helicopter picked them up from Bremen. Since then, they’d exchanged emails through Kristy Stewart’s system.

“They’re fine,” he said. “The children are doing very well in their German studies.”

“That’s good to know,” Himmler said, his face portraying interest Horton was fairly certain was faked. As always, the Fuhrer reminded Horton of a snake… seemingly harmless, but deadly dangerous. “Now… what sort of policies is President Truman likely to follow towards us and our allies?”

Horton allowed himself a moment to consider. Himmler had hoped that the new Truman Government would destroy itself, but Truman had managed to hold America together, with a great deal of luck. Since then, the Americans had poured reinforcements into Norway… and worked hard to impede German reinforcements to Sweden.

“It would depend on the ally,” he said finally. “They’re not likely to be too pleased with the French, or the Spanish. That would suggest that they would impose their own democracies on top of the nations, which would be something of an improvement. The French, especially, could do with a new government. The problem, of course, is Russia; if I was in their place I would be considering a direct land invasion as soon as possible.”

“That accords with my own beliefs,” Himmler said mildly. Horton scowled inwardly; Himmler was way too clever to take himself too seriously. The day that Hitler had died, the Allies had lost their greatest ally. “In fact, given that we have had the most success in converting the future knowledge to practical technology, they will consider us the first target. Now… what will they do?”

Horton frowned inwardly. Misleading Himmler was going to be difficult. “For political reasons, they might well want to… assist the British in Iran,” he said. “America had good relations with Iran before Stalin invaded, and Truman might want to use that as an excuse for post-war influence in the region. He won’t want the British-allied state in Arabia gobbling it all up.”

He smiled. “Oil won’t be as important this time around, with hydrogen-powered cars being mass-produced instead of polluters on wheels,” he said. “He may discover that it’s a bust.”

Himmler smiled. “That’s something I wish we could develop ourselves,” he said. “Oil is a persistent… problem.”

Horton nodded. Ever since the nuclear warhead had vaporised the massive oil refinery in Romania, Germany had been having shortages of oil and other materials. Stalin had provided thousands of tons of materials… but at a price.

“I wonder if we could play on that somehow,” Himmler mused, making a note. He frowned. “It’s a shame that so many American industrialists were tried for treason; they would have protested against losing their oil revenues, would they not?” Horton nodded. “Anyway… carry on…”

“For domestic reasons, particularly after the New York incident, the Americans will want to hammer the Soviets as well,” Horton said. “Intervening in Iran gives them an opportunity for doing that without committing themselves to a conflict that will last for the rest of the year… and perhaps lead to snowy disaster. Their Joint Chiefs – whatever they’re called in this era – will want to defeat Germany – us – before they face any new weapons.”

“Yes,” Himmler said. He stood up suddenly and paced over to the map. “They will come for us. So… my Grand Vizier, where will they land?”

Horton frowned inwardly. He’d wondered about that from the first, knowing that the British – at least – would know that he was in Berlin, and they would know that he would be ‘assisting’ Himmler… and he knew they knew…