“It’s in everyone’s interest that we keep our fingers on the pulse, Kurt,” Strauss countered without any humour whatsoever, “and without our own avenues of gathering information, we’d be completely in the dark about the course of this war! It’s been weeks since we received anything official from your office, and every request for an audience is refused!”
“You’ll excuse me if I prioritise the prosecution of a world war over sending you a weekly ‘newsletter’, or inviting you all up to the front for tea and cakes,” Reuters retorted unapologetically.
“I’d hope there’s no need to remind the Reichsmarschall that none of this would’ve been possible, had it not been for the initial inspiration and financial backing of the Neue Adler ‘Board of Directors’?”
“No need at all,” Reuters responded after the barest of pauses, his thin smile becoming tight-lipped and distinctly grim at the obvious insult. “Just as I’m sure there’s no need to point out that as Reichsmarschall and Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht, I now answer directly to our Führer, Adolf Hitler.” He changed tack before the heating discussion degenerated into full-blown conflict. “I’m also certain that you two didn’t come over here so we could all argue about ancient history.” He forced a conciliatory smile back onto his face and made it almost believable. “You’ve learned of the arrivals at Scapa Flow… what else did you need to know?”
“The Directors want assurances that this change in circumstances won’t affect the timetable of our conquest in the west.”
“If that’s your greatest collective concern, Oswald, then I’m more than happy to assuage it right here and now: on the subject of the upcoming invasion of Great Britain, we all appear to be in agreement. I can guarantee you there’ll be no delays to Unternehmen Seelöwe as a result of this minor glitch in our planning.” That news produced an almost visible sigh of relief from both men.
“That is reassuring,” Strauss conceded, almost managing a smile of his own. “Unlike the Führer, we clearly recognise the necessity of removing Britain as a threat prior to any move against the Soviets.”
“That’s something we all recognise,” Reuters agreed without reservation. “Please advise the rest of the ‘Board’ that these newcomers present no further danger to us, and that there are already plans in place to deal with them.”
“Glad to see we’re all on the same page on this,” Zeigler said finally as he rose from the makeshift seat, Strauss following his lead as he forced a smile that was as insincere as Reuters’. “We’ll bother you no longer tonight then.”
As Reuters and Schiller also stood, the pair made a move toward the bulkhead hatch. Zeigler halted at the opening, turning for a moment to add: “In future, Herr Reichsmarschall, the Directors would appreciate it if you found a little more time for us in your busy schedule: that might go some way toward removing the necessity of unannounced visits such as this evening.”
“Duly noted, Mein Herren…I’ll do my humble best to comply…”
Outside the aircraft, Zeigler and Strauss climbed into the rear of their waiting Maybach limousine, their faces grim as the driver selected first gear and the huge black sedan moved away from the airstrip and back up the mountain toward the nearby market town of Berchtesgaden and their exclusive chalet accommodation.
The Maybach – a Zeppelin DS8 model with an eight litre, V12 engine – belonged to Strauss, and had been his preferred mode of transport since he’d bought the luxury sedan brand new in 1934. Weighing close to three tonnes, the huge machine was nevertheless still capable of over 160 kilometres per hour on a good stretch of flat road.
Oswald Zeigler and Dieter Strauss were both filthy rich. Both owned the rights to numerous worldwide patents for a whole range of industrial and commercial products and inventions that had allowed both men to amass huge fortunes in the years since the end of the Depression. Both were members of a group known as the New Eagles ‘Board of Directors’: a group comprised of seven men who were all equally wealthy and prominent pillars of German industry. Like Reuters and Schiller, both men (and indeed all seven) were also originally from the future.
The Directors had been the group who’d financed the New Eagles’ accumulation of technology and equipment in preparation of the group’s return to the past to change the course of history. It had been the business and scientific connections within the group that had made possible the disappearance of physicist Samuel Lowenstein, along with the bulk of his research notes, and had ultimately brought about the creation of the device known as the temporal displacement unit as a result. An unlikely collection of individuals with quite differing personalities and demeanours, all were bound together by two significant things in common: an unfailing belief in National Socialism and an unquenchable greed.
It was this group of men who’d originally conceived of the incredible idea of travelling back through time and of a triumphant Nazi Germany. It was these men who’d recruited General Kurt Reuters of the Deutsche Bundeswehr, forced into early retirement by the tail-end of a downsizing trend that had swept through armies right across Western Europe in the years following the collapse of Communism and the destruction of the Berlin Wall. It was these men who’d provided the bitter and disillusioned Reuters, an orphan and a product of a Germany shattered by the aftermath of the Second World War, with a new drive and purpose: the opportunity to erase a childhood filled with a nation’s shame and humiliation at the hands of uncaring Allies, along with the oppression and separation of half the country by the Soviet Union.
“He’s progressively becoming a greater liability,” Strauss observed with soft bitterness as the sedan cruised smoothly along the dark, narrow mountain roads.
“He always was a liability, Dieter,” Zeigler countered evenly, more thoughtful than disapproving, “but a necessary one: we could never have accomplished all this without him.” He gave a non-committal shrug. “Of course, no one can ever be considered indispensable. If this war progresses to the successful conclusion we expect, I can easily foresee a not-so-far-off future in which we’ll no longer require the services of our friend, the Reichsmarschall.”
“I think I should very much like to be present when that time comes,” Strauss growled in a decidedly evil tone.
“I’m sure we can work something out, my dear fellow,” Zeigler grinned wryly. “Consider it my gift to you…”
“I feel like I should be carrying a crucifix and hanging garlic from the walls,” Schiller shuddered openly once the pair had gone, only half joking. “It’s like being too close to a pair of hyenas at feeding time whenever they pay us a visit.”
“Fortunately, this aircraft does have a shower,” Reuters added, joining in on the attempt at humour to release the tension he’d repressed throughout the meeting. “I may well avail myself of it shortly.” He gave a faint snort of derision. “With all the dubious alliances I’ve had to forge with Nazis in this era, I regret none of them as much as the unpleasant necessity of dealing with those ‘creatures’ from our own time!” That in itself was a significant statement, and he grimaced as he recalled memories long past. “The number of times we’ve sat through their ‘When We Rule the World’ speeches over the last decade!”
“They’re not going to like it when they find out you’ve talked to The Führer about postponing Barbarossa: they’re as fixated with the idea of invading the USSR as he is.”
“Of course they are, and for the same reasons, albeit on a far smaller scale: Russia’s where they’re all going to build their personal little ‘empires’… as if the fortunes they’ve amassed here in Germany aren’t huge enough already.” He let out another derisive snort. “Fortunately, we are in the business of making decisions based upon sound tactical and strategic principles rather than irrational actions born from an overwhelming desire for economic gain.”
“And they’re just going to take that lying down are they?”
“Oh, I suspect they’ll probably try to have me killed… you too, most likely,” Reuters replied wit
h a cheery, matter-of-fact tone that did nothing to make his friend feel any better.
“Well, that’s something to look forward to,” Schiller observed sarcastically with a grimace.
“I did say ‘try’,” Reuters countered with a genuine smile. “What’s the point of having a very close relationship with the Reichsführer-SS if you can’t make use of the resources he has at hand once in a while.” His smile became thin and quite evil as he spoke. “We’ve already compiled enough evidence on the personal activities of four of them to have them shot, and guilt by association should well be sufficient to take the rest of them along for the ride.” The Reichsmarschall shrugged. “They’re support and their money are both vital to Germany’s industrial capabilities at the moment, and that in turn makes them indispensable… for the moment. That’s not going to go on forever, though, and it’d take just one word in the right ear and the whole lot would be rounded up within twenty-four hours, should the ‘Directors’ decide to make themselves too much of a problem.”
“It’s such a pleasure to watch you work sometimes, Kurt,” Schiller observed with a sly grin of his own, shaking his head at his superior’s growing talent for backroom wheeling-and-dealing. “I’m just glad I’m on your side! It’s the Brits I truly feel sorry for…”
Wehrmacht Western Theatre Forward HQ
Amiens, Northern France
Wednesday
July 3, 1940
A few minutes after midnight, and stars filled the dark, cloudless sky over Northern France. Although a relatively mild night for the middle of summer, it was still warm enough to move about quite comfortably outside without need of a jacket. There was still activity at the mansion outside Amiens, even so late into the night: a military headquarters never really slept, and the movements of security guards and men manning the surrounding anti-aircraft batteries was matched by the unloading of supply trucks at the kitchen doors of the main building. It’d only be a few hours before the catering staff awoke before dawn and began baking bread in preparation for the morning breakfasts.
Just a few dozen metres away at the rear of the mansion, the stables had become a quite serviceable guardhouse for the Wehrmacht security force billeted in the servants’ quarters nearby. A long, narrow structure of white-painted wooden planks and beams, a low-set thatched roof covered the lot and did a good job of keeping out the elements. Beneath that roof, the majority of the building was designed with a wide, central ‘aisle’ running down the centre, off which were six individual horses’ stalls, three to a side. The far end held a large hopper for hay, and food for the horses on one side of the aisle, while on the other was a small room that’d originally been intended as a changing area for riders.
The room had been easily converted into a makeshift quarters for the single prisoner currently being held in the guardhouse. A basic but nevertheless quite comfortable wooden cot with a straw mattress lay against one wall, while a small table and two chairs were positioned against the other, and a small cast iron stove provided ample heating in cold weather at the far end of the room, its chimney pipe rising straight up through the roof above. A small book case had been squeezed in against the wall between the cot and the doorway, and was filled almost to overflowing with text books of a variety of sizes and bindings.
The guard on duty made no effort to challenge Joachim Müller as he arrived at the entrance to the building at that time of night. Müller was well known, as was his proximity to the Reichsmarschall, and they’d all become accustomed to his regular visits at the guardhouse in any case. The single prisoner they held within had arrived with the HQ group, and had remained there with them the whole time, during which he’d been no trouble whatsoever and had actually become quite friendly with most of the guards.
The door to the small room at the far end of the stable was open, but Müller waited and knocked anyway as a matter of course. Inside, the single occupant lay on his back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. He’d heard the man’s approach, but only looked up as he’d heard the knock at the door to catch sight of the Müller silhouetted in the opening.
“Does it really serve any purpose to knock?” He asked with a tired voice, only the faint hint of sarcasm in the soft tones. “I’m hardly in a position to refuse.”
“It costs nothing to retain good manners all the same,” Müller countered with a genial smile. “I’m not disturbing you?” Both men spoke in English, and the prisoner’s Cambridge accent clearly indicated he as a native Briton.
“Well, I was thinking of taking a nice walk, and perhaps a boat ride across The Channel, but with the weather and all those guards, I decided to stay in instead… come…” he added finally, a wave of his hand bidding the other man to enter. As Müller stepped into the room and turned on the light switch near the door, before moving across to sit at one of the chairs by the table. At the same time, the man he’d come to visit sat up, turning about on the cot until his legs were hanging over the side and they were facing each other.
At fifty-eight years of age, Samuel Michael Lowenstein had dedicated more than three decades of his life to research into physics and quantum theory, prior to his disappearance late in Realtime 2009. With piercing, pale blue eyes and a rough-hewn beard and moustache of around two months’ growth covering the lower half of a weathered and knowledgeable face, Lowenstein stood at just average height, although he was nevertheless somewhat taller than Müller.
His hair was as grey as his beard, and was generally thick and unruly, although a thinning section at the crown of his head threatened the likelihood of eventual baldness. Having been transported back in time with the New Eagles group however had of course removed that danger as he was now as impervious to ageing as any of those who’d come from the future with him.
“It’s been a while, Joachim,” Lowenstein observed softly, watching the other man with subtle intent. “I’d started to think you’d finally forgotten about me.”
“It’s been crazy, Samuel,” Müller replied, almost sounding apologetic, “so much organising still to be done, and none of it made easier with a war going on.”
“Yet still you find time to come and visit a humble man such as myself… I feel honoured.” The remark contained more bitterness than Lowenstein had actually intended, and he immediately relented somewhat. “Don’t mind me,” he added with a dismissive wave of his hand, nevertheless noting that the words indeed seemed to have hit their mark in the guilty reaction on Müller’s face. “That’s just the boredom talking…idle hands and all that. I can see you’ve come for a reason, Joachim. What do you wish to ask me?”
“Just a chat, Samuel… just a chat…” Müller shook his head, relief clearly evident on his face that the ice had finally been broken. “For all my abilities, I’ve never come close to attaining a fraction of the understanding you’ve gained of temporal displacement over the years. It’s me who’s honoured to have the opportunity to talk to so knowledgeable a man as yourself.” Although there was no hiding that there was an as yet unspoken agenda in Müller’s presence, that statement was also the truth. “I never seem to spend time with you without learning something knew about the processes behind what we’ve accomplished here.”
Lowenstein almost found that remark almost amusing. Müller had used the pronoun ‘we’, and had actually included him in that statement. It was a somewhat ironic concept for a man whose entire initial involvement in assisting the New Eagles had only been secured through the use of kidnapping, brutality and torture. He recognised that Joachim Müller hadn’t personally been involved in any of that – he’d been brought in as technical advisor to the project quite late – yet the man, pleasant as he was, was still a member of the same despicable group that had subverted his legitimate research and used it to bring about what might eventually prove to be the extermination of the Jewish race in Europe.
Born and bred in Southern England, Sam Lowenstein neither sounded nor looked anything like the stereotypical caricature image of a Jew that many less tolerant
beliefs espoused. His Cambridge accent and almost Celtic appearance gave no real indication of the Judaic heritage that his surname suggested and he fiercely adhered to.
Fifth-generation English, his ancestors had nevertheless suffered more than their fair share of anti-Semitic discrimination and abuse from fellow Englishmen and Europeans alike in the generations who’d lived prior to the Second World War. Even after the end of the war that had supposedly ended the Nazis’ reign of terror in Europe and their attempted extermination of the Jewish faith… even after the creation of the State of Israel and the Jewish homeland… the persecution and discrimination around the world continued, albeit in a far more subdued fashion that was– for the most part at least – considered to be unacceptable by a larger part of the Western World.
Lowenstein had met fellow researcher, Hal Markowicz, while still finishing his PhD at Cambridge, and the pair had instantly forged a close professional relationship and personal friendship that would see them both working together for the better part of the next three decades.
“Have the guards been treating you well, Samuel?” Müller ventured softly.
“Well enough, Joachim, aside from the whole ‘not allowed to leave’ part of the deal,” Lowenstein gave a wry smile. “They’ve been kind enough to allow me the small luxury of my reading collection,” he added, extending a hand to the nearby bookcase. “I believe I also have your good self to thank for the books, and they’re mightily appreciated.” The thanks were genuine on that matter: about the only thing that had managed to keep him even halfway sane through almost an entire decade of solitary imprisonment was the reading material Müller had ensured he was given access to.
“It’s the least we could do,” Joachim replied with a humble shrug, unconscious to the fact that the statement was true on a number of levels, some less pleasant than others. “Your work was the foundation stone of everything we’ve accomplished, and I know that you were subjected to terrible conditions prior to my coming on board at the end of ‘Oh-Nine.” Müller was a gentle man by nature and his disgust was genuine as he shook his head in recollection of finding Lowenstein that first day in his cell, the man a battered wreck both physically and psychologically. “I would never have allowed that kind of treatment, Samuel.”
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 30