by Peter Parkin
As far as the Americans were concerned, they’d won the war single-handedly.
And with the power of America, they also had the power over the history books.
But if the truth were properly told, the Russians won the war. Herman hated the Russians, but he had to give them credit. He’d underestimated their ability to fight in winter conditions, and, admittedly, had overstated his own. And the Brits and Canadians—they were relentless. Herman knew that the course of the war would have been a lot different if he hadn’t dared to take on the Brits. And if he’d just left Russia alone.
But he couldn’t stop himself. Winning created such a rush of adrenaline that it was impossible to bring a halt to it, even when the odds were clearly against him. He just needed that feeling, over and over again. Even though Herman wasn’t a gambler, he suspected that the feeling was similar.
But the American version of history always made him laugh. The country that had waited three years to find the courage to get involved in the war, and only then after they’d been attacked by the stupid Japanese.
To this day, they still professed that they understood Nazi Germany more than any other country. Yet, they hadn’t even been able to detect a large fleet of submarines crossing the Atlantic, escaping the collapse of a once powerful nation. Right under the noses of the self-obsessed nation that had bragged about total control of the vast Atlantic Ocean.
Herman smiled as he considered that the Americans still had no idea whatsoever of what his genius had accomplished down in Antarctica. Again, right under American noses. While the war was going on, with distractions everywhere, there’d been another front. A secret front. And, once again, an undetected front.
The wheels had been put in motion under the thick ice decades ago, ready for an awakening one victorious day. The country that had been bragging to the world about winning the war, patting themselves on the back about being a superpower, while at the same time fueling their never-ending paranoia about Russia—were entirely clueless about what had been going on under the ice.
One fine day, at the right time, during the right crisis, there’d be an awakening. The ice would rule, in ways that no one could have ever predicted.
Herman wouldn’t live to see it. He knew that. But, he took comfort in knowing that he would be spitting in their arrogant faces one final time.
He looked up at the sound of a low flying helicopter. A hand extended out of the side window and waved. Herman struggled to raise his frail hand to wave back, just as he managed to do almost every day at this time.
This was his daily newspaper delivery. However, he’d been so nervous the last couple of weeks that he’d stopped his daily delivery. And refused to watch television or listen to the radio. Computers weren’t a part of his life, so there was no temptation there.
Despite the prospects for success, Herman was still a suspicious man, as he’d always been. He’d had visions of some last-minute crisis, something being discovered that might scuttle the election result that he so longed for. A constitutional confrontation that might declare the election null and void.
Angela had arranged for the helicopter delivery to commence again today, because today was a very important day. She knew that her Herman had to know.
The newspaper package contained American newspapers, and only American newspapers. Herman was obsessed with America. And excited that maybe, today, he’d finally hit the motherlode. The ultimate revenge on an arrogant and dishonorable enemy.
Angela ran out the front door at the sound of the helicopter, and dashed to the spot in the courtyard where the package landed.
She picked it up and walked over to where Herman was sitting patiently in his wheelchair.
She knelt down and kissed him gently on his withered cheek.
“Are you ready, mein Fuhrer?”
Herman nodded, and smiled at hearing his old title being used by the woman he loved. Such respect, such devotion. That was what he missed the most from the glory days, back when every single person was prepared to kneel at his feet.
She tore apart the plastic covering and handed him the first paper on the top—The Washington Sentinel.
He unfolded it and spread out the front page on his lap.
Reading the headline, he broke out in a smile that was wider than any smile he’d ever allowed in his life: “Sandford Beech Elected President.”
He gazed longingly at the photo of the blondish-haired, blue-eyed man, standing at a podium, both arms raised victoriously in the air.
Herman turned his head to the side as he felt a tear begin to drip down his cheek. Angela, in her usual gentle fashion, wiped it away with her pinky, reassuring him silently, with just the touch of a finger, that it was perfectly acceptable for the powerful to cry.
“That was a happy tear, mein Fuhrer.”
Herman nodded. He pointed at the photo and gazed up into Angela’s adoring eyes. He started to say something, but, stopped himself.
She cocked her head to the side, and smiled warmly at him. “Go ahead, say it.”
Herman looked up, turning his attention to the sky, wondering if this day might be celebrated with a solar flare or some other celestial event.
But he couldn’t ignore the actual real-life event that was sitting right there on his lap.
His weary war-torn eyes rolled back down to the front page of the Sentinel.
He pounded his index finger triumphantly into the center of the photo.
“My son.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Alison Darby is a life-long resident of the West Midlands region of England. She studied psychology in college and when she’s not juggling a busy work life and writing novels, she enjoys researching astronomy. Alison has two daughters who live and work in the vibrant cities of London and Birmingham.
Peter Parkin was born in Toronto, Canada and after studying Business Administration at Ryerson University, he embarked on a thirty-four year career in the business world. He retired in 2007 and has written eight novels with co-author Alison Darby.