Johnson shrugged. “That’s the way it goes, sir.” If he was disappointed—and he was, a little—he’d be damned if he’d admit it. “Did you want me for anything else besides seeing how fast I could get here?”
Brigadier General Healey, unlike Mickey Flynn, had the stereotypical Irishman’s fair skin. When he got angry, he turned red. Johnson watched him flush now, and carefully pretended not to notice a thing. Biting off his words one at a time, the commandant said, “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“All right, sir,” Johnson said. “What is it?”
Healey leaned forward across his desk, for all the world as if he were back on Earth. Nobody else aboard the Lewis and Clark was so good at pretending weightlessness didn’t exist. He said, “You’re the one with the orbital patrol experience. If the Germans and the Lizards start slugging it out, which way do you think the Russians are likely to jump?”
That was a real question, all right. Johnson went from insolent to serious in the blink of an eye. “Sir, my best guess is, they sit on their hands. They hate the Nazis, and the Lizards scare the hell out of them. That’d be a war where they hope both sides lose, so they can pick up the pieces. If there are any pieces left to pick up, I mean.”
Healey’s jowls wobbled slightly as he nodded. “Okay. That makes pretty good sense. Matches up pretty well with what I’ve been hearing from back on Earth, too.” As much to himself as to Johnson, he added, “You always like to get things from more than one source if you can.”
You don’t trust anybody, Johnson realized. It’s not just me. You don’t trust the bigwigs who sent you out here, either. “Besides, sir,” he said, “the Russians fly tin cans. That’s compared to what we’ve got and what the Germans have. Compared to what the Lizards have . . .” He shook his head.
To his surprise, Healey laughed. “What they fly doesn’t matter much, not for this game. They’ve got their missiles aimed at the Lizards—and at the Nazis—and they’ve got their submarines. As long as those work, everything else is gravy.”
Johnson didn’t like to hear what he’d spent his career doing belittled. He could have argued about it; several relevant points occurred to him. Most times, he would have done it. At the moment, he had something more urgent on his mind. “Ask you a question, sir?” When Brigadier General Healey’s bulldog head bobbed up and down, Johnson said, “If the Nazis and the Lizards go at it, sir, will we stay out of it?”
Healey’s eyebrows sprang upward. “We’d damn well better, or this mission will fail. We still need resupply missions from home. We’ll need more people, too, sooner or later.”
“Yes, I understand all that.” Johnson couldn’t very well misunderstand it, not after so much time aboard the Lewis and Clark. “But will we stay out of it if it heats up?”
“I’m hoping it won’t,” the commandant said. “If the Germans were going to jump, they would have jumped by now—that’s what the consensus back home is, anyhow.” He paused and coughed, realizing he hadn’t answered the question Johnson asked. With another cough, he did: “As far as I know, we aren’t going to go to war unless we’re attacked. Will that do?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said. “It’ll have to, won’t it?” Brigadier General Healey nodded again.
Vyacheslav Molotov nodded to Paul Schmidt. “Good day,” the Soviet leader said. “Be seated; take tea, if you care to.” He gestured toward the samovar that stood on a table in a corner of his office.
“No thank you, Comrade General Secretary,” the German ambassador said in his good Russian. “I suppose you are curious as to why I asked to see you on such short notice.”
“Somewhat,” Molotov said, and said no more. No matter how curious he was, he didn’t intend to show Schmidt anything.
Rather to his annoyance (which he didn’t show, either), the German ambassador smiled. Paul Schmidt had known him a long time—since before the Lizards came—and might well guess how much he was concealing. Schmidt said, “My government has charged me with announcing the dissolution of the Committee of Eight and the selection of a new Führer to guide the destiny of the Greater German Reich.”
That was indeed news. It was news Molotov had awaited with a curious mixture of hope and dread. He concealed both of those, too, asking only, “And to whom are congratulations due?” Who’s come out on top in the intrigue and backstage bloodletting?
“Why, to Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner, inheritor of the great mantle formerly worn by Hitler and Himmler,” Schmidt replied.
“Please convey to him my heartiest and most sincere felicitations, and the hope that he will have a long, successful, and peaceful tenure at the head of the Reich,” Molotov said.
Not even his legendary self-control could keep him from putting a little extra stress on the word peaceful. It did, however, keep his most sincere felicitations from sounding too dreadfully insincere. Kaltenbrunner was the man he had hoped would not rise to the top in Germany, and would surely have been Himmler’s chosen successor had Himmler not dropped dead before choosing anyone. A big Austrian with cold eyes, Kaltenbrunner had stepped into Reinhard Heydrich’s shoes after the British arranged Heydrich’s untimely demise in Prague, and filled them all too well.
No one noticed him for a while, either, Molotov thought. Heydrich had been assassinated just as the Lizard invasion began, and the chaos that followed masked many things for a long time. But, when the dust settled, there was Kaltenbrunner, as much of a right-hand man as Himmler allowed himself.
Now Molotov asked the question he had to ask: “What will—Doctor, did you say?—yes, Dr. Kaltenbrunner’s policies be?”
“I expect him to continue on the path laid down by his illustrious predecessor and continued by the Committee of Eight,” the German ambassador said.
That was the answer Molotov had expected. It was also the answer he dreaded. Picking his words with some care, he said, “A change of leaders can sometimes lead to a change in policy with no disrespect for what has gone before.” I have not been nearly such a mad adventurist as Stalin, for instance.
But Schmidt shook his head. “The new Führer is convinced his predecessor followed the proper course. Our neighbors ignore the legitimate claims of the Reich at their peril.”
“At their peril, certainly,” Molotov said. “But also at yours. I hope the new Führer bears that in mind as well.”
Unlike the leaders he served, Schmidt was a man of culture. Molotov had thought so for many years. But the German did serve the ruffians who led the Reich, and served them loyally. He said, “The Führer does indeed have that in his mind. Because he does, he sent me to renew the offer his predecessor, Reichs Chancellor Himmler, extended to the Soviet Union in regard to the illegally occupied Polish regions.”
“He wants us to join him in an attack on the Race, you are telling me,” Molotov said.
“Yes.” Schmidt nodded. “After all, part of the territory between our states was formerly occupied by the Soviet Union.”
“So it was—till 22 June, 1941,” Molotov said with a savage irony he did not try to hide. “I asked you once, and now I ask you again: if our borders marched with each other, how long would it be till the Reich was at the Soviet Union’s throat again?”
“Perhaps longer than it would take for the Soviet Union to be at the Reich’s throat,” Schmidt answered tartly. “Or perhaps—and it is certainly the new Führer’s earnest hope—we could live at peace with each other once the victory has been won.”
“Living at peace with each other if our borders touched would take a small miracle,” said Molotov, using the language of the religion in which he had not believed since youth. “Living in peace with the Race after attacking Poland, however, would take a large miracle.”
“As Reichs Chancellor Himmler did not, Dr. Kaltenbrunner does not share this view,” Schmidt said.
“As I told Himmler through you, so I tell Kaltenbrunner: if he wants to attack Poland on his own, that is his affair,” Molotov said. “I do not think, however, he wil
l be pleased with the result.”
But did that matter to the Nazis? Molotov doubted it. Fascists wanted what they wanted because they imagined they were entitled to it. Whether their desires inconvenienced or infuriated anyone else mattered very little to them. What they wanted, after all, was legitimate. What anyone else wanted was nothing but the twisted desires of subhumans or, in the case of the Lizards, nonhumans.
They couldn’t even see that. Not even the clever, able ones among them, of whom there were a depressing number, could see it. Paul Schmidt, for instance, only shrugged and said, “I obey the Führer.”
“Take him my answer, then. It is the same one I gave to Himmler: no.” Molotov spoke the word nyet with more than a little relish. “And now I will tell you something on a personal level—I think you are fortunate to be here in Moscow. If this war begins, you would not want to be in Germany.”
“I am not worried,” Schmidt said, and for once Molotov had met his match in obscurity. Did the ambassador mean he wasn’t worried because he was in Moscow or because he did not fear what would happen to his homeland? Not even the Soviet leader quite had the crust to ask him.
What Molotov did ask was, “Have we any other issues to discuss?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary,” Schmidt replied.
“Very well.” Molotov said, in lieu of screaming, You’re mad! Your Führer is mad! Your whole country is mad! You are going to wreck yourselves, you won’t beat the Lizards, and you’ll hurt the USSR with the radioactive waste from the explosive-metal bombs you use and the ones the Race will use on you.
Schmidt rose to his feet. He bowed to Molotov. “Good day, then. Be of good cheer. Everything will turn out for the best.” Before Molotov could answer, the diplomat bowed again and left.
Molotov sat behind his desk for some time, silent and unmoving. His secretary looked in, saw him there, and silently withdrew. A few minutes later, though, the telephone jangled. Molotov picked it up. “Marshal Zhukov on the line,” the secretary said.
“Put him through, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov said.
Without preamble, Zhukov demanded, “What did the German have to say?”
As bluntly, Molotov told him, “It’s Kaltenbrunner.”
“Is it?” After that, Zhukov said nothing for perhaps half a minute. As Molotov had been, he was adding up what that meant. When he did speak again, it was with one explosive word: “Shit.”
“My thought exactly.” Molotov’s voice was dry. “As before, Schmidt felt me out for a joint attack on the Race in Poland.”
“And what did you tell him?” Zhukov sounded worried.
“Georgi Konstantinovich, I am not suicidal,” Molotov said. “You may rest assured that I declined the generous offer.”
“I am ever so glad to hear it,” the marshal replied. “The next question is, do you think that matters to the Germans, even in the slightest?”
“No,” Molotov answered.
“Shit,” Zhukov said again. “Comrade General Secretary, if they go at it, the western part of this country takes it on the chin.”
“I am painfully aware of that,” Molotov said. “If you have discovered some secret weapon that will stop a fool from acting like a fool, I suggest that you start using it. It may well be the most powerful weapon in the world today, including explosive-metal bombs.”
“No such luck.” Zhukov sounded like an angry peasant now; a peasant watching his cattle die without being able to do anything about it.
Molotov decided to match his tone: “Things could be worse, you know: if we did go along with the Nazis, the whole country would take it on the chin.”
“Don’t remind me,” Marshal Zhukov said. His laugh was anything but pleasant. “I’m glad I didn’t dispose of you when you turned up alive while the Army was smashing Beria’s men. I thought about it, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich—believe me, I thought about it.”
“You would have been an idiot not to think about it. Whatever else you are, you are no idiot.” Molotov had discussed the liquidation of a great many other people—ever so coldly, ever so dispassionately. He knew a certain amount of pride in being able to discuss his own the same way. “But why bring this up now?”
“Because, if I’d got rid of you, then I’d be the one left with nothing to do but watch while the Reich and the Race throw brickbats at each other,” Zhukov answered. “This way, if anybody ends up needing to take the blame, you’re the one.”
“Yes, having a scapegoat around is always handy,” Molotov agreed. “Stalin was a master at it. The only trouble is, the Reich and the Lizards have nastier things than brickbats to throw.”
“That’s the only trouble, is it?” Zhukov chuckled. “Have you got any nerves at all, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?”
“I try not to,” Molotov said. “If you purge me, Marshal, you purge me. I cannot do anything about it.” Not yet. I wish I could. I’m working on it. “I cannot do anything about the Nazis and the Lizards, either. If I get excited about what I cannot help, that doesn’t change the situation, and it leaves me more liable to make a mistake.”
“You would not have made the worst soldier in the world,” Zhukov remarked after a few seconds’ thought.
He meant it as a compliment; of that Molotov was sure. And so he said, “Spasebo,” though he was not at all sure he wanted to thank Zhukov. To him, soldiers were crude and unsubtle men, relying on force because they lacked the brains to do anything else. They were necessary, no doubt about it. But so were ditchdiggers and embalmers.
“You’re welcome, Comrade General Secretary,” the marshal answered. “Here, for the sake of the rodina, the motherland, we have to pull together.”
When the Nazis invaded, Stalin had said the same thing. He’d practiced what he preached, too. He’d even cozied up to the Russian Orthodox Church after beating it about the head and shoulders for almost twenty years. In an emergency, he’d been willing to jettison a lot of ideology. And hadn’t Lenin done the same when he’d instituted the New Economic Policy to keep the country from starving after the end of the civil war?
“Yes, we all have to pull together. We all have to do everything we can,” Molotov agreed. And then, because he could speak as frankly to Zhukov as to anyone save possibly Gromyko, he added, “For the life of me, though, I don’t know how much good it will do, or if it will do any good whatever.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
When Johannes Drucker strolled into the mess hall at Peenemünde, he discovered that the powers that be had wasted little time. Here it was, only two days after Ernst Kaltenbrunner had been named Führer, and a color photograph of him now occupied the frame that had held Heinrich Himmler’s picture for years.
Drucker wasn’t the only man studying it. From behind him, somebody said, “He looks like a tough son of a bitch. We need one of those right now.”
That struck Drucker as a pretty fair assessment, though he was less sure about the need. Kaltenbrunner was in his vigorous early sixties, with a big head and heavy features. He was leaning forward, so that he seemed to stare out through the camera lens at whoever was looking at him. Even with the advantage of twenty years, Drucker wouldn’t have cared to meet him in a dark alley.
Till Himmler’s death and even afterwards, Drucker hadn’t paid Kaltenbrunner much attention. Himmler kept his strength by not letting anyone around him be strong; the man who now led the Greater German Reich had been just another official in a fancy uniform standing at the old Führer’s back in Party rallies and state functions. Now the whole world would find out what sort of man had been inhabiting that uniform.
Grabbing a mess tray, Drucker got into line. Cooks’ helpers spooned sauerkraut, boiled potatoes, and blood sausage onto the tray. Another helper gave him a small mug of beer. He carried the full tray to a table and sat down to eat.
Nobody sat near him. He’d got used to that. He knew he suffered from political unreliability, a disease always dangerous and often fatal—and highly contagious. He’d stayed away from
men with such an illness in the days before the SS got curious about Käthe’s racial purity, and before Gunther Grillparzer had tried blaming him for the murders during the fighting of which he was, unfortunately, guilty. No one had proved anything—he was still here, still breathing. Even so . . .
No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the loudspeaker in the mess hall blared out his name: “Lieutenant Colonel Johannes Drucker! Lieutenant Colonel Johannes Drucker! Report to the base commandant’s office! You are ordered to report to the base commandant’s office!”
Drucker took a last bite of blood sausage. It might really be the last bite I ever take, he thought as he got to his feet. Most of the men in the hall looked down at their own mess trays. Sure enough, they thought political unreliability was contagious. A few stared avidly. They wanted him to get a noodle in the back of the neck.
He hurried to General Dornberger’s office, wondering if a couple of hulking fellows in SS black would be waiting for him in the antechamber. If they were—well, he still had his service pistol on his hip. But what would they do to his family if he made them kill him fast instead of taking him away to do a lingering, nasty job?
With such thoughts going through his mind, he wondered why he kept heading toward the commandant’s office instead of running. Because you know damn well they’d catch you, that’s why. And maybe he wasn’t in a whole lot of trouble. He laughed. Fat chance.
When he got to the antechamber, he saw no bully boys in black shirts, only Dornberger’s dyspeptic adjutant. Shooting out his arm in salute, he said, “Reporting as ordered.”
“Yes.” Major Neufeld eyed him. “I rather wondered if you would. The general expected you, though. Go on in.”
“Reporting as ordered,” Drucker said again after he’d saluted General Dornberger.
Dornberger puffed on his cigar, then set it in the glass ashtray on his desk. He now had a photo of Dr. Kaltenbrunner in his office, too. “Drucker, you are a man who does his duty,” he said.
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