by Erik Foge
Table of Contents
Title Page
Legal Page
1. A Change in Events
2. The Meeting
3. Red Herring
4. Broken Promise
5. Seen and Unseen
6. The Journey Begins
7. Jamie Remembers
8. A Descent to Hell
9. Left Behind
10. Unwelcomed Guests
11. Secrets Revealed
12. Unknown Future
13. Wrong Answer
14. Surprises
15. Looking Over Shoulders
16. Promise Kept
17. Just the Beginning
18. On the Edges of the World
19. Man Against the World and Time
20. Trusting and Believing
21. On His Own
22. Chasing After a Shadow
Epilogue: A New Life
Copyright © 2018 — Erik Foge
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED—No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Deeds Publishing in Athens, GA
www.deedspublishing.com
Printed in The United States of America
Cover design and text layout by Mark Babcock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-947309-26-5
Books are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information, email [email protected].
First Edition, 2018
This book is dedicated to Jackie and my son Max,
whom I will see in heaven one day.
“Everything I write has a precedent in truth.”
— Ian Fleming
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, government agencies, places, projects, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1. A CHANGE IN EVENTS
“The future battle on the ground will be preceded by battle in the air. This will determine which of the contestants has to suffer operational and tactical disadvantages and be forced throughout the battle into adoption compromise solution.”
— Erwin Rommel
Somewhere in occupied France, 17 July 1944
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, Commander of Army Group B, walked under the trees with Obergruppenführer Stepp Dietrich, commanding officer of the 1st SS Panzer Corps. Dietrich glanced around, making sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Is Hitler still not allowing troop movements without his approval?”
Rommel nodded and frowned, as he hated being reminded of that absurd order that had persisted since the Allied invasion of Normandy. Rommel, with his voice just below a whisper, said in a conspiratorial tone, “What if I were to tell you I am considering an unauthorized counteroffensive that will be launched within a few days?”
Sporting a grin of satisfaction, Dietrich replied, “Jawohl.”
Rommel smiled inwardly, pleased with his Corps commander’s response.
“Herr Field Marshal,” said Dietrich, “many enemy aircraft have been seen in the last few hours; I suggest that you avoid the main road.”
“It’s near dusk—the darkness will hide us from allied planes.” Rommel looked upward as he spoke.
“Then I would suggest you ride in a Kübelwagen1 to be less conspicuous.”
“Dietrich, you worry too much. I will be fine.”
“I’m also worried about Thursday.”
Rommel turned to face his Corps commander. “I believe Stauffenberg’s plan will succeed; then negotiations with the Americans can proceed.”
“But what if it doesn’t work?”
“Failure is not an option. It has to work.” Rommel referred to a plan that had been plotted by a select few members of German General Staff. If it succeeded, they planned to negotiate a separate peace treaty with the United States. They would never get that chance with the Russians because of the atrocities committed by Hitler’s SS.
Rommel and Stepp Dietrich exchanged salutes, shook hands, and went their separate ways. Rommel marched straight to his personal car, a large, black, open Horch, a popular, high-performance luxury motor car of German manufacture. He took his usual seat and placed the map on his knee, contemplating the news that the allies had broken through still another part of the ever-fragmenting western front, this time in Coutances, France.
Corporal Daniel, Rommel’s driver since Africa, Captain Lang and Major Neuhaus, members of Rommel’s staff, and Sergeant Hoike, whose job it was to spot enemy planes, sat quietly in the Horch, but they stared at Rommel, waiting for news of Dietrich’s stance.
“I have won Dietrich over; he is with me on the counteroffensive.” Rommel finally announced, grinning with delight. “It’s not been a foregone conclusion.” Then he ordered his driver to head back to headquarters.
They drove along the main road near Livarot, an ill-advised route littered with burned-out personnel carriers destroyed by Allied dive-bombers.
Roughly two and a half miles from Vimoutiers, Rommel tapped Daniel on the shoulder and pointed toward a sheltered road. Then he turned to Lang and Neuhaus. “The battle on the ground will be preceded by battle in the air. This will determine which of the contestants has to suffer operational and tactical disadvantages and be forced throughout the battle into adoption compromise solution.”2
“Do you think there’s a possibility that we can bring a halt to the Allied advance?” Lang asked while Rommel studied the map.
He stared into the distance and then replied, “Only if we’d acted sooner … much sooner. Now we must try to hold our ground against overwhelming odds.”
A short while later, at 4:16 p.m., they arrived back on the main road, Route de Ste-Foy-de-Montgomery. Hoike looked up. Eight aircraft flew above in loose formation. Presuming that the enemy had not observed them, he suggested that they continue on the main road. But without warning, two Spitfires descended in attack formation. Their engines whined.
“Aircraft!” Hoike screamed, pointing skyward.
The Spitfires gained ground. Daniel slammed his foot on the accelerator. Rommel pointed to a side road, three hundred yards away, where they might be sheltered from the approaching Spitfires. But it was too late. The lead Spitfire, now only a few feet above the road and within five hundred yards of them, opened fire with a twenty-millimeter cannon; its bullets penetrated the road as they made an impact. Daniel maneuvered the car, trying to avoid being hit. Bullets made dust clouds as they whizzed by the car. A couple of them hit the car, including Daniel, as he bounced it sideways. The impact shattered Daniel’s left shoulder, and splatters of blood filled the air. Though he fought to hold on, Daniel lost control of the car. It barreled down the road and jolted its passengers. Rommel’s head smashed against the dashboard, and he lost consciousness. The car veered to the left and hit a tree stump. The shuddered impact threw Rommel out of the car, which continued without its most important passenger, then skidded into a ditch and stopped. Daniel and Neuhaus, unable to move, moaned in pain. Lang and Hoike, as yet uninjured, leaped from the car and raced to Rommel and dodged the twenty-millimeter rounds that danced around them. They reached Rommel unscathed, picked their commander up by the arms, and dragged him to safety.
“Is he alive?” Hoike asked. “He looks bad.”
“His breathing’s shallow,” Lang replied. “He’ll die if we don’t get to a hospital soon.”
“How are Daniel and Neuhaus?
“Not good. Daniel’
s losing blood, and Neuhaus can barely move.”
Hoike leaped to his feet. “I’ll find a vehicle.” He ran off.
Lang lifted Rommel’s injured head. Streams of blood ran down his hands and arms, as Lang uttered to himself. “Now if Stauffenberg doesn’t succeed, we’ll have no chance to make a separate peace treaty with the Americans.”
* * *
1. A light military vehicle designed by Ferdinand Porsche and built by Volkswagen during World War II for use by the German military
2. Great Aviation Quotes. www.skygod.com, n.d. 1996-2011
2. THE MEETING
“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”
— Henry Miller
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia. 21 July 2008
A musty odor from old newspapers and books consumed the damp, dark office, and the air conditioning struggled to push cold air through a rusted air vent layered with dust. A single light on the desk broke the darkness, its light dissipating over books and classified documents—draft cables and memorandums from the last years of World War II (1944 — 1945) and the post-war years. Behind the desk sat a medium-built man in his mid-thirties. He wore a three-piece suit and hunched over, his inquisitive blue eyes reading and analyzing sophisticated databases and computer simulations. Every few seconds he jotted down detailed notes on his hypothesis of the nation’s domestic, foreign and military policies if Germany had surrendered in 1944 instead of 1945. The sound of graphite scratched the surface of the paper that echoed through the otherwise silent office. The man glanced at a computer screen as the glare reflected on his face. Bookcases filled with historical and reference books covering the European Theater of World War II, Soviet Foreign Policy, and Field Marshal Erwin Rommel lined the office walls. Behind him hung a poster of a duck sitting in a chair and staring over his shoulder at a wall that had two bullet holes by his head. The caption read, “Sitting Duck.” The man turned his head away from the computer screen and glanced at the framed photograph of the love of his life. He drifted into a daydream and a grin appeared on his face. The phone rang and broke the silence. He jolted back to the present and lifted the receiver.
“This is Dr. Függer. Yes, Sir. I’m on my way.”
He got up from his desk, grabbed a few folders and his notes, then placed them in his attaché case, exited his office, and locked the door behind him. The nameplate on the door read “Dr. Erik Függer, Historical Affairs Analyst.” Like the other senior analysts in section thirteen, department four-six-three of the CIA, Erik networked with counterparts throughout CIA and the Intelligence Community without revealing the nature of his work. His job for the past three years had involved researching a “what if” in history. Erik had written his thesis on the likely alternative history if Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had lived rather than committing suicide by taking a cyanide capsule 14 October 1944.
Because members of Erik’s family had fought with the Germans in World War II, his interest in history had begun at an early age. At thirteen he already had a personal library, a vast knowledge of the Second World War, and a tendency to correct his history teachers—a trait that lasted throughout his academic and professional career. Erik’s high IQ made him seem weird to his peers, so he had few close friends, even at the university where (against his father’s wishes) he majored in history with an emphasis on Russia and Europe.
While doing his undergraduate studies, Erik had done an internship as a civilian for the United States Navy and distinguished himself as a junior analyst in the underwater warfare section. He worked under Admiral Bonesteiner, who was in charge of the Sixth Fleet, for seven years as a junior analyst. After college, his internship with the Navy ended, and he became a high school history teacher. Erik thought he could make a significant difference in how people would see history, but he didn’t find it rewarding. In the middle of his first year of teaching, the CIA, upon hearing good reports of his time with the Navy, recruited him initially as a Paramilitary Operations Officer, which he did for the first seven years. After he completed his training, Erik earned a Master’s degree in Military History and his Ph.D. in History.
Erik waited for the elevator and mentally prepared what he was going to say. His eyes absorbed and analyzed everything, whether related to work or not. The elevator arrived, and as he stepped in and pressed the button to the Director of Intelligence’s office on level seven, a hint of perfume drifted under his nose. The elevator ascended, its motor’s subtle hum consuming the cabin until it came to an abrupt stop. The doors opened, and, to Erik’s surprise, his long-time friend, Jacques, walked in.
Jacques’s muscular body, broad shoulders, strong arms, and thick legs made him ideal for a CIA Targeting Officer in Western Europe. His job was the planning and implementation of foreign intelligence collection by excelling in high-pressure/high-impact situations, using his skills in hand-to-hand combat and small arms weapons. Thus, a strike from him would be sure to inflict serious damage to those who opposed him. Jacques and Erik only met on rare occasions, and their reunions had a strange aura about them, as if, even though apparently by chance, there was always a reason.
Jacques’ hazel eyes fixed on Erik. “Haggis!” he said in greeting, something they had done since seeing the movie Highlander in high school.
Erik grinned. “How are things?”
“Busy, you?”
Erik nodded. “Immersed in historical theory”.
Jacques raised his eyebrows. “Hmmm. So where are you off to now?”
“Bonesteiner’s office.”
Jacques’s eyes widened knowingly. “What did you do now? Or should I say, who did you piss off now?”
“No one that I know of yet.”
Jacques gave a mischievous look and laughed. “Key word: yet. Like that time you made Bonesteiner spit up his drink in front of his entire staff. Remember that? Hawaii?”
“Hey, that’s not my fault. He asked me about the Seawolf class submarine.”
They both laughed. The elevator stopped, and a nondescript man got in.
“How is the historical theory going?” Jacques continued.
“It’s complex. So where are you off to?”
“Your favorite place in the world,” Jacques said sarcastically.
“Oh … great,” Erik said, knowing it was France. “Let’s meet and catch up before you depart; when’s a good time?”
“How about lunch at thirteen hundred.”
“Sounds good. What about Sunday?”
“Hmm. Last Sunday wasn’t good. And I know this Sunday won’t be either. So maybe two Sundays from now?”
The other passenger in the elevator frowned and asked, “What are you guys talking about?”
“August,” Erik and Jacques replied at the same time.
The elevator stopped again. Erik and Jacques got out, leaving the man shaking his head. They confirmed their lunch appointment, then headed their separate ways. Erik strolled down the hallway, pondering the purpose of his meeting with the director. He remembered, in 2007. A contact told him the day would come that he would meet with high-ranking officials to discuss his historical theory on Field Marshal Rommel. Could it have something to do with the time travel project he’d heard rumors about? At the door labeled Deputy Director of Intelligence and Operations, he took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered a spacious lobby with eggshell white walls, royal blue carpet and a window behind the secretary’s desk. The secretary glanced up from her typing and acknowledged his presence. She picked up the phone and told the director that Erik had arrived.
A moment later, the door of the director’s office opened, and a man over six feet tall with military-style blonde hair walked out. He stared at Erik with sinister gray, shark-like eyes, then headed toward the outer door. His facial features showed no emotion, and the sharply defined muscles visible through his shirt added to his commanding presence.
Erik entered Baldric Bonesteiner’s office and closed the door behind him. The offic
e took up the complete right corner of the top floor and overlooked the tree-filled Potomac Valley. Framed artwork of naval vessels and aircraft, certificates and awards of merit, and photographs of Bonesteiner’s military past—covering thirty years in the navy and nearly twenty years in the agency—covered the walls. In front of the window sat a large mahogany desk covered in neatly organized piles of folders color-coded by classification. Bookcases filled with books and scale models of military aircraft and naval vessels lined the walls, and a mahogany coffee table sat in the center of the space surrounded by four leather lounge chairs, two of which were occupied by military officers in their full dress uniforms. Each had several rows of multicolored ribbons over their left chest.
Admiral Bonesteiner—solid six foot two with gentle, yet piercing, big brown eyes—walked around his desk towards Erik with his hand extended. “How are you doing?” he asked with a grin.
“Well, I’m alive, Sir.” Erik shook the hand of the man who had recruited him into the agency.
Bonesteiner nodded, then turned to the other two gentlemen, who stood. “Dr. Függer, this is Admiral Cole and Brigadier General Plackett.”
Cole stood six feet tall, with a small but solid frame. “I remember you from Hawaii when you gave the briefing on the Seawolf,” he said as he shook Erik’s hand.
“Do you now?” Erik replied, uncertain of what Cole meant by his comment.
Cole nodded. “You were very outspoken for a Junior Analyst. Maybe times have changed since then.”
“Maybe.” Erik extended his hand to General Plackett, a short, stocky man whose uniform stretched tightly over well-developed muscles.
“Impressive work in the O.G.D.S.3 Team 42,” the general said as they shook hands.
“Thank you, general.”
“Well, since everyone is here, let’s get started.” Bonesteiner motioned to everyone to take their seats.