by Brian Parker
He was bundled against the deep cold of below, but he was used to it by now. The Henchmen had been going to the storage rooms for their meetings for eight months. It was amazing what your body could become accustomed to.
The training brigade’s unteroffizieres knew that the boys formed clubs like the Heer Henchmen. It was one of the few luxuries allowed to help combat the boredom of Argus Base, deep beneath the surface of the ice above. Likely, most of the men in the training brigade had been in a club of their own before being told in their last year of preparation that they would not be frozen and would instead join the ranks of the 938th. It was a crushing blow for any boy to learn that he wouldn’t take part in the mission he’d trained for his entire life—and yet another reminder that the Reich owned every aspect of your life.
In just two days, on the anniversary of the American invasion of Europe, Frederick would learn of his own fate. He’d scored well enough, he hoped, to be in the top five percent of his generation who were allowed to choose whether their name went into the training brigade lottery. They wouldn’t find out that part until tomorrow.
It was all so much to process for a seventeen year-old boy. He’d been preparing his entire life to be a Wehrmacht soldier, frozen in the ice like thirty generations before him, until the day to attack came. If he fulfilled his duty to the Reich, then he would see battle one day. If he chose to opt in to the training brigade lottery, he had a chance to stay with his beloved Greta and their three-month old son, Henrik.
Frederick didn’t want to condemn Greta to life as a breeder. If he joined the training brigade, then he could marry her and continue to produce children. Otherwise, she’d be given to the next available male that the breeding program declared was a good genetic fit —something he didn’t want to happen. Could he give up his opportunity to avenge his nation’s betrayal?
The walls passed from the rough granite of the original base to the smooth basalt rock that the miners discovered the deeper they went. The basalt, a remnant of the lava flows that helped form the continent millions of years ago, also helped to shape the current design of Argus Base as engineers followed the grain of the rock where they could. The result was oddly-shaped rooms and corridors throughout the lower levels that one had to be careful traversing or risk injury.
He navigated down eight more levels, passing thousands upon thousands of soldiers, cryogenically frozen and stacked four high, head to foot, before a solid metal shelf separated another layer of four men stacked in the same manner. Each was dressed in the grey combat uniform of the Fourth Reich’s army, minus the helmet and web gear.
Technicians worked amongst the unmoving soldiers, checking their minimal vital signs to ensure that each man survived the ordeal. Tending to the frozen soldiers had become a job unto itself in Argus as the sheer numbers became too many to simply be an additional duty shared by combat troops and medical personnel.
When he finally reached the tenth level, he bundled himself against the cold he knew would set in now that he was no longer exercising on the stairs. Ten levels belowground was the deepest that they’d gone—so far. The miners were always digging deeper, but for now, the Wehrmacht had sufficient storage space. Within two or three generations, though, they’d need to open another level since the tenth would be full.
Or would they finally break out from Argus to attack before that was required? While he hadn’t seen the recent numbers, when he was the lowly Soldat Frederick Albrecht, newly elevated from his years in the farms at age fourteen, he’d been told that the Wehrmacht stood at 782,000 men. There were another two hundred thousand or so in the four-year military training cycle at the moment.
He’d seen old newsreel footage of Generalfeldmarschall Mueller speaking of the number of troops needed to attack. One million was what he stated; surely they were nearly ready?
That idea warmed him as he walked the two kilometers from the stairwell to the meeting room of the Heer Henchmen. They hadn’t always been so far from the stairs, but as the storage rooms filled, necessity caused them to push further and further away.
Finally, he arrived. The lighting had recently been completed in this segment where it hadn’t before. In less than a month from now, this chamber would be filled with sleeping soldiers as well. Frederick wondered if he would go into the long night as bravely as the others had.
“Gefreiter Albrecht! Why are you standing in the hallway? You’ll catch your death of a chill out there.”
Frederick looked up to see his friend, Obersoldat Wagner, standing in the doorway to the storage room they used as their meeting space. “Gregory,” he acknowledged with a dip of his chin. “How was your obstacle course run today?”
“Six minutes and fourteen seconds!” Gregory Wagner grinned. “The best in my brigade. I am sure to be sent to fallschirmjäger candidate school with those scores.”
Frederick returned the smile and congratulated his friend. “Good job. You have a month to beat the record.”
“I know. I’m only eleven seconds away, so if I can just skim a few, then I will earn the record.”
“You deserve it—and you’ll get it, too.”
“Thank you,” Gregory replied, ushering Frederick into the meeting room of the Heer Henchmen.
There were ninety-nine members of the Henchmen, but tonight there were only the club’s officers. They’d hold the final general meeting after the announcement of everyone’s assignments on June 6th. All told, there were fourteen men present; one from each of the thirteen Army brigades in training, plus the president of the Heer Henchmen, Alfred Bormann, a direct descendant of the Führer’s personal secretary, Martin Bormann.
Frederick and Gregory settled on one of the metal shelving units that awaited the next generation of soldiers to listen to their president speak.
“Welcome, Henchmen!” Bormann shouted.
They cheered in response, not caring whether anyone heard them. All across Argus Base, organizations would be holding their own meetings in preparation for the assignment lottery.
When the cheers died down, Bormann continued. “Tonight, we have a special treat before we discuss leadership options for the next generation. Christoff? Where is he?”
Everyone looked for the club’s signalman. He was slippery, always disappearing when he was needed, and yet, somehow, coming through at the last minute with outstanding communications.
“Here! Here I am, Alfred!” the radioman called from the darkness. A strange squeaking sound accompanied his voice “I’m sorry that I’m late, gentlemen. I wanted to give you all an even greater surprise.”
He appeared, pushing a television set on a cart. It was a newer, giant twenty-four inch model that the suppliers had purchased on their last trip to Japan. The cart was the source of the squeaking.
“I was able to get a television set!”
The men clapped approvingly. Normally, they listened to rock music on the radios that Christoff brought, but tonight, they may have the opportunity to see an uncensored television program from America.
“Are we going to watch All in the Family?” someone shouted.
“Even better,” Christoff smirked. “Tonight, we will watch a program called MTV!”
*****
19 June 2025
Dupont Circle, Washington, DC
“Ugh! These are the most unflattering uniforms I’ve ever seen,” Gloria sneered at her frumpy appearance in the body-length mirror of her apartment bedroom.
“You look great, babe,” James assured her, wrapping his arm around her and rubbing her swollen belly.
“And you’re a goddamned liar, James,” she chastised him, causing him to retreat into the closet for safety. “Seriously, there aren’t even any pockets in the stupid pants. Where am I supposed to keep my ID card when I leave my workstation?”
Lieutenant Colonel Adams-Branson hated the US Army maternity uniform. Hate is too mild, she thought. She abhorred the US Army maternity uniform. The only pockets in the entire damn thing were the ones
on the front of the blouse, so she was supposed to keep her keys, her ID tags and wallet in two ridiculously small pockets on the front of her uniform, where they would press against her stomach any time she stood up.
“God, you can tell that men designed these stupid uniforms,” she grumbled as she looked at herself once again. “What a crock of shit.”
She’d held off switching to the maternity uniform as long as possible, but at five months, her old uniforms were no longer a viable option. She’d gotten away with no belt at first, then one, two, three, and finally four unfastened buttons on her pants, but those days were past. Her protruding belly made it impossible to fit into her size four-tall trousers any longer. Today was the day that she had to make the switch.
But I am not going to wear tennis shoes in uniform, she promised herself, thinking of the pregnant soldiers she’d seen walking in uniform with sneakers on their feet.
“At least my hair is more full and practically shimmering.”
“Just like the rest of you, dear,” James called from the closet.
She bit back a question about what he meant. They’d been married for two years, so at this point he could have been complimenting her or making fun of her because his words could have been taken either way. She chose to think he meant them as a compliment and not a jab at her expanding waistline.
“I’m craving steak,” Gloria said, changing the subject of her size. “Want to go out to dinner tonight after you get off work?”
“Uh…” James emerged from the closet wearing a tie and holding his suit jacket over his left arm. “Yeah. I won’t be done until six, then Metro back to here and then—”
“Just meet me at Old Ebbitt Grill at 6:30; that way you’re not fighting the crowd to get back here and then back into downtown.”
He smiled, obviously relieved that he wouldn’t be fighting the Thursday after work crowds coming and going. “That’s a good suggestion. Thank you.”
Gloria glanced at the clock. They were both going to be late if they didn’t get out the door. Her boss would cut her slack and let a few minutes slide since she was pregnant; James’ boss would not. The section she’d helped him create at the Pentagon was in danger of being shut down and any slip up would be another nail in the department’s coffin.
Five years ago, they’d convinced then-Colonel Mark Carpenter to go before the Joint Requirements Oversight Council and argue to establish a separate section within the JOC for the coordination of the defense of North America, not just monitoring events and letting others know. The new office was to be more responsive and have greater control over active duty forces with the ability to work directly with the state National Guard and the Coast Guard instead of going through the cumbersome National Guard Bureau or the notoriously slow Homeland Defense Agency.
In the wake of the Florida attacks, in an election year, the office was created with little or no resistance and resources were shifted internally to fund the organization. James was elevated to the deputy position of the new organization and they worked tirelessly to ensure the safety of our borders.
They’d coordinated shoreline response drills, established rapid transit corridors for military units in the heart of the country to the coasts, worked with the various state highway administrations to improve evacuation routes, often securing funding to increase the width of the roads where possible, and even increased partnerships with privately-funded space-monitoring agencies. The Joint North American Defense Branch was truly value-added to the nation for the first three years.
Gloria had even briefed the president on the Operation Highjump theory and the Navy sent a task force with almost ten thousand Marines to Antarctica. Satellite imagery, ground-penetrating radar, aerial flyovers and men on the ground had been unable to discover any remaining secret base. Intelligence agencies worldwide were unable to find a credible source to take responsibility for the attack. The attacks might as well have originated from the moon—or the depths of the ocean.
Then military funding dried up with the new administration earlier this year. There had been no new, large-scale attacks on American shores, just that one isolated and unexplained incident. The American public fractured along political lines once again, moving on from the loss. The new administration took power in January, seemingly with the express desire to deplete the military and undo all the hard work that had been done over the years.
James rushed by, kissed her on the cheek and bent down to kiss her stomach. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”
“Yeah, okay. Love you!” she yelled after him.
“Love you too!” The front door slammed shut on their apartment and she was alone.
Gloria walked slowly down the hallway to the kitchen. She wasn’t quite big enough to call her movements a waddle, but they sure weren’t as graceful as they used to be. There was a paper bag of butter croissants from the bakery downstairs on the counter. One of those went into the toaster oven while she cracked an egg in a frying pan on the stove.
The idea of James losing his position as the deputy was depressing. He wouldn’t lose his job, he’d be moved somewhere else in Crystal City or back to the Pentagon, but he’d really grown during these last five years. When she’d met him, he’d been content with his role in life, swimming along and not particularly caring about improving himself. The deputy position had helped to shape him into the man he was today and it worried her that he’d lose part of himself if they shut down that section.
What made the idea of the closure of the Joint North American Defense Branch even more depressing for Gloria was that she was sure that they hadn’t seen an end of the attacks. The last one was so sudden, so random—and yet, coldly calculated, with overwhelming force—that there were going to be more of them. James had worked hard to prepare for that eventuality and it was already beginning to unravel due to political infighting.
Regardless of the current data to the contrary, her historical documents convinced her that it was the Nazis. They were coming back, she just didn’t know when.
NINE
02 December 1982
Ballykelly, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland
“I don’ like this one bit. Smells like a setup,” Colleen muttered from the passenger seat.
“Aye, it’s odd,” Sean replied. “But, if what this guy knows gives us a chance against those RUC fucks, then I’m willing to risk it.”
“You willin’ ta sit in tha Maze for ten years if your contact turns out to be a RUC agent or some other Brit intelligence officer?”
He glanced to his left, through the window beyond the gorgeous brunette who sat beside him. They’d been together on assignment from the Irish National Liberation Army for almost six months. So far, she’d waved off every one of Sean’s advances. If today’s meeting went well and the techniques the German offered to teach were useful, then he’d kill scores of Paras and their collaborators, maybe some of the Peelers as well.
Colleen’d be droppin’ her knickers for me then, he thought as he turned the rickety Renault food and coffee truck toward St. Finlough's Catholic Church.
As they crept down the drive, Sean examined their destination. The timeworn, grey church was large by Ballykelly standards, what with the massive height of the roof itself and the belfry atop that, plus the four drum towers on each corner. The church looked like it could have held off a siege for weeks. The rectory, much newer than St. Finlough’s, was where they were to meet with the man whom Dominic had told Sean would teach them how build bombs capable of wiping out an entire platoon of British soldiers.
He pulled the truck into the lane marked for disabled persons and shut off the engine. A priest appeared at the rectory doorway and lifted a hand to shield against the cold gusts of wind coming off Lough Foyle from the north.
“That’s our man,” Sean stated, jabbing a finger toward the priest.
“That’s the German?”
“For fuck’s sake, Colleen. No, the priest is not the German. He’s our contact.
He’ll take us to the German.”
“Well ya weren’t very clear, were ya now, Sean? Ya don’ need to be an arse all the time.”
Sean suppressed a growl and opened the door. He looked around the premises warily, still on edge that Dominic, the current leader of INLA, had been given bad information and they were walking into a trap. The revolver’s reassuring lump in his waistband gave him the confidence to carry on. He wasn’t going to prison.
“Good mornin’, Father,” he called.
“Good mornin’, my son. The sanctuary is sealed ’til Vespers. Is there something you may need assistance with?”
“Aye, there is. I’m Sean, that’s Colleen,” he pointed a thumb over his shoulder to where his partner stood on the opposite side of the bonnet, wisely using the lorry as a shield. “I’d like to talk to ya about preserving our Catholic heritage.”
The priest beckoned him forward and he looked back at Colleen, tossing his head toward the rectory. She nodded and came around, holding a cut-down shotgun.
“Please, it’s just us here, child,” the priest said. “You can put that away.”
“I’ll be keepin’ it where I can use it, thank you much,” she replied and continued toward the rectory with the weapon.
The older man sighed, clearly used to stubborn republicans who refused to surrender their weapons. “Come inside then. The weather’s turnin’ and we’ll get a blow soon—maybe even some snow. I love snow. We get a lot more here than in Derry where I lived as a lad. Well, actually, I lived in Culmore, which is part of Derry these days. I—”
“Nervous, Father?” Sean asked, chuckling at the priest’s unending flow of words.
“I’m a man of God—and loyal to Ireland—but I don’t like what’s a brewin’,” the older man replied. “I assume you’re here to meet with him.”
“Is the German here?” he asked.
“Aye. That big, scar-faced brute is inside. He’s drank four cups of tea in twenty minutes and smoked at least half a pack of my cigarettes. Things must be harder to come by in East Germany than I thought.”