One Way Roads

by Erik Foge

  In the near distance, Erik heard Plackett, who was still on the phone. “What do you mean he’s having trouble with his ID?” Plackett’s eyes enlarged with rage. “What? Why? Was his ID badge not allowing him in secure areas?” Plackett gave Erik a cold stare, and Erik grinned back.

  “Hey, Cole!” Erik yelled. Cole turned to face him, and Erik quoted from Willem De Kooning: “The past does not influence me; I influence it.”

  The black door slid open, revealing stark white hallway fifty feet in length. Erik walked to the end and entered a circular room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in raised metal strips that formed a pattern of rectangles, and a gunmetal rectangle sat in the center of each. The walls began to emit an electronic bee-like humming. It consumed the room and grew louder by the second, assaulting Erik’s eardrums. A blinding, bluish-white light appeared. Erik took a deep breath. A chill suddenly ate through his body, and he had the sensation of being pulled back. His eyes bulged and he felt as if he was falling.

  “Ooooooooooh Sssssshhhhhiiiiiit!” Erik screamed as he got transported back to 1944.

  Plackett walked back to Cole’s side, as he shook his head. “Has he always been this way?” he asked Cole as they watched the proceedings.

  “Yes! Bonesteiner always protected him, but no one will be able to protect him where he’s going.”

  Plackett smiled. “I made sure of that. Cerberus will be waiting for him.”

  “Your people better get the job done; there’s a lot at stake,” Cole said.

  “They won’t fail. You can be assured of that,” Plackett replied with confidence, and the men exchanged grins.

  “Well, I want Cerberus informed of what we just learned from Dr. Függer’s briefing. He needs to know what Rommel’s intentions are.”

  Plackett looked troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “He has already been sent back.”

  “Damn it! Is there a way we can get him that information?” Plackett shook his head. “What if he is successful in bringing Rommel to Bradley’s headquarters?”

  “Dr. Függer is a threat to this agency and our objectives. You gave orders to kill both him and Rommel,” Cole said.

  “Yes, Sir. But we’ll have a problem if, by some chance, Rommel lives.”

  Cole shrugged. “The worst he could do is influence other generals. It’s safest to have him out of the way, but what’s really important is killing Hitler. Once he’s dead, the Third Reich will fall, and the United States will have a better position in Europe during the Cold War. Kennedy will not be elected president, and we will have control of Southeast Asia.”

  “In which case,” Plackett said, “we don’t have to worry about sending someone back to November 1963 to solve that issue in Dallas.”

  “Yes. I have a meeting with the Bilderberg Group, and they might agree that it’s better to deal with him in 1943 than in 1963.”

  “I’ll start planning for that.”

  “Good. Now we have to send Ahriman to take care of Dr. Függer and Crowley to kill Hitler.”

  “Cerberus can fix that,” Placket said. “We don’t need Ahriman.”

  Cole shook his head. “I’m not taking any chances. He’s much more resourceful than the other two analysts, Mulder and Knight. Just make it happen.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Footsteps stomped up behind them. They turned to see Gordon race in and take his seat. “Where were you?” Cole asked.

  “I had trouble with my ID, Sir. I was on my break and on my way back I was not allowed in certain areas. Then I realized it wasn’t mine and someone swapped my ID.”

  Plackett walked over to Gordon and requested his ID. “How was someone able to swap your ID?” Plackett asked as Gordon handed it to him.

  Gordon explained a man bumped into him, and when he described his looks, Cole and Plackett knew by the description it was Erik.

  “What’s wrong?” Cole asked, seeing the panic in Plackett’s eyes. Plackett placed the ID in Cole’s hand, and Cole realized it was Erik’s. “Oh God!”

  6. THE JOURNEY BEGINS

  “Two roads diverged in a wood and I — I took the one less traveled….”

  — Robert Frost

  Bernay, France

  Erik tried to stand and stumbled forward as if he were drunk. He opened his eyes but saw only a blur. The world felt as if it had flipped upside down, but as his eyes adjusted it went back to normal, and his surroundings slowly came into focus. Flat, open grasslands reached to the horizon in all directions and gradually gave way to hills. A gray Kübelwagen drove down a country road near him.

  Without warning, a P-51 Mustang roared above Erik’s head, and its six machine guns unleashed their bullets of death on its target, the Kübelwagen. The P-51, like a hawk, attacked its prey, closed on the Kübelwagen which swerved from side to side, trying to escape. Bullets tore the earth apart and left a trail as they inched their way to the defenseless Kübelwagen. Dirt flew in the air. They penetrated the thin metal exterior of the Kübelwagen, accompanied by the sharp, pierced sounds of metal being twisted. The driver lost control; the Kübelwagen swerved off the road and hit a tree with a loud thud. The engine cycled one last time, then stopped. The P-51 circled around and made sure its prey was disabled, then it disappeared as fast as it came.

  Erik sighed, relieved he was still alive, but apprehensive about what he might find in the car. “Oh boy,” he said under his breath, then raced to the motionless Kübelwagen bent around the tree.

  The smell of petrol and seared blood and flesh emanated from the metal carcass, and numerous puncture wounds riddled the sides. Erik took a deep breath and peered inside; his eyes widened in shock. The driver’s chest cavity had been torn open, exposing vital organs that slowly oozed out like jelly from a jar. His lungs, no longer held by his shattered ribcage, looked like hamburger meat. His arm was severed at the elbow and the skin was torn off, revealing biceps and triceps that were slowly detaching themselves from the exposed bone. The hand of the severed limb still held the steering wheel. A corpse with the right side of its face blown off—probably impacted by a fifty-caliber shell—slumped against the seat in the back. The jawbone had detached from the fractured skull. The right eye was gone, and the left hung out of its socket, still attached by the optical nerve. Flesh and bone fragments covered the back seat. The rear passenger’s chest slowly leaned forward, and to the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones, the head detached itself from the body and plunged to the floor, landing with a muffled thump. Brain matter rolled out of the skull in a spray of blood. Erik gulped and retreated from the Kübelwagen. Then he reached back inside, grabbed the briefcase from the back seat and ripped it open. He quickly scanned the organized documents and occasionally glanced up and looked for oncoming troops or vehicles.

  He stumbled across a document that looked familiar. Oh, my God. He realized that it was a flow chart of the individuals in the provisional government. Dear God, they were on their way to arrest Rommel, and this attack stopped it from happening.

  Erik looked up at the sound of vehicle engines that rumbled in the distance and saw a group of army vehicles draw closer. He slipped the document back into the briefcase, grabbed a useless paper and crumpled it while he walked to the fuel tank cap and drew the cigarette lighter from his trouser pocket. He opened the cap, lit the paper, shoved it in the gas tank, and ran. Within seconds, a large explosion of fire and a shower of metal shattered the quiet countryside.

  Erik sat on the side of the road and stared at the mangled mess. The fire consumed the vehicle and spewed thick-black, choking smoke into the air. The smell of burning flesh and leather mingled with the acrid smoke. The first of many vehicles—troop carriers and a staff car—stopped with a screech a few feet from the blazing Kübelwagen, and soldiers jumped out.

  One raced toward Erik, squatted down beside him, and stared into his eyes. “Herr warden sie verletzt? Are you okay, sir?”

  Erik stared back, too shocked for emotion. H
e glanced at the Kübelwagen and took a deep breath. The soldier quickly and gently patted him down, examining him for injuries, then he turned his head and yelled, “Bekommen sie einen medizinstudenten hier schnell! Get a medic here quickly!” Erik placed his hands by his sides for support and pushed upward, trying to stand. The soldier assisted him and helped him to the closest staff car, again yelling for a medic. He tried to comfort Erik. “Herrwird die Sanitäter kommen. Herr alles wird gut. Sir, the medic is coming. Everything will be fine.”

  The soldier opened the back door, and Erik took a seat as the medic arrived and pulled out his equipment. He asked Erik routine questions while he checked his vitals. Erik reassured him he was okay, just a little shaken up from the ordeal. He closed his eyes and switched his mind to speaking German.

  “Sir, we will take you to the Luftwaffe Field Hospital in Bernay, where a doctor can further check you out,” the medic said.

  Erik nodded. The medic closed the door, and the car headed to the hospital, leaving some of the troops behind. On the way to the hospital, the driver made small talk while Erik reevaluated the various ways he might convince Rommel to go with him. He pulled out the picture of Jamie and wondered what she was doing right now. Try not to worry about me. I’ve seen things I hope you’ll never see.

  They entered the congested streets of Bernay. Cars and trucks roared down the roads, and people busy with conversations and activities filled the footpaths. It appeared that everyday life continued as if there wasn’t a war—apart from the huge, blood-red Nazi flags with the overbearing black swastika that hung from flagpoles and buildings.

  At the hospital gate, a guard approached with his hand extended. Another stood at point with his finger on the trigger of his MP-40. The car drove up and the driver lowered his window as the guard walked up. “Papers.” The driver and Erik handed over their identification. “State your business,” the guard said as he scanned their documents.

  The driver explained the situation. The guard handed the documents back, and he and Erik exchanged salutes. The staff car pulled up directly in front of the hospital’s entrance where a stream of people flowed in and out. The driver quickly got out and opened the door for Erik. Erik assured him that he could walk on his own. They exchanged salutes and the driver headed toward the parking lot.

  Erik headed to the entrance and collected his thoughts on what to say to Rommel. Inside the hospital, the outside noise became muffled. Low whispers and the sound of wooden heels against the linoleum tile floor echoed throughout the hallways and open areas. Erik made his way to the elevators and waited with several nurses, doctors, and a few visitors. He caught a glance from an attractive nurse. Her warm smile and batting eyelashes made Erik grin back and nod in acknowledgment.

  The doors opened, and a flood of people exited and spread out in every direction. Erik and the others got in, and with a bump and a low-pitched metallic moan, the elevator ascended to the next floor. Once out, everyone dispersed like atoms being split in a nuclear reaction. Erik glanced at the sign on the wall that displayed room numbers and directions. A calming voice broke his concentration.

  “What room are you looking for?”

  Erik turned to a petite, stunning young woman, maybe in her early twenties, with soft brown eyes and long brown hair neatly put up. She wore a white nurse’s dress, baby-blue pinafore apron tied in the back, and a nurse’s cap.

  “Room 247.”

  “Follow me.” She proceeded down the hallway. “Who are you seeing?”

  “A friend.” Erik smiled. Clearly, he was in the right place, as he saw Hans Speidel and other members of Rommel’s staff walking with a doctor down the hallway toward them. Erik overheard their conversation.

  “Doctor, we will move him to the hospital at Le Vésinet,” Speidel demanded.

  “I wouldn’t recommend moving him until a few more tests are completed,” the doctor replied. “You know he’s a very demanding patient.”

  “I know, doctor. He’ll be checking out tomorrow.”

  “I don’t agree with this. He needs to rest a few more days.”

  Speidel stopped and faced the doctor. “I am not asking you; I am telling you,” he said in a stern voice. The others stopped behind them, and Erik and the nurse passed by. He slowed his pace to keep within hearing distance as long as possible.

  The doctor sighed. “What time are you planning on moving the field marshal?”

  “Around five in the morning.”

  The nurse tapped Erik on his shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

  Erik nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I hope your friend is doing well.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  She stopped before they got to the room and looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Do I know you?”

  “No, I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”

  “Well, my name is Raquel Bonheurve. Nice to meet you; here’s your friend’s room.”

  “Nice to meet you, Raquel. I’m Erik …” He stopped his train of thought and stared at her. “What’s your name again?”

  “Raquel Bonheurve. Is there anything wrong?”

  Erik realized he was talking to Jamie’s grandmother and hid his surprise. “No, everything’s fine. Once again, thank you. Have a nice day.”

  “You, too. Bye.”

  Erik waved goodbye and collected his thoughts before he opened the door to Rommel’s room and stepped inside. Sunshine poured in through a large window and warmed the room, flooding it with light. Rommel lay still in his bed with his head tilted to face Captain Lang, who sat in a chair like a guard dog. He stood abruptly the moment Erik placed a foot in the room. Both he and Rommel stared in Erik’s direction, no doubt trying to make out who he was.

  Lang, a medium-built man in his late forties wore a gray field uniform, stomped toward Erik, stood directly before him, and said in a strong voice, “Can I help you, Herr Major?”

  “I’m here to see the field marshal.”

  “State your business, Sir.”

  “Herr Captain, I cannot discuss my business with you. You do not have the security clearance.”

  Lang raised his eyebrows. “Oh really. What clearance is that?”

  Erik stared into Lang’s cold expression, trying to think of something that would be higher than the traditional Top Secret. “How dare you question me?” He said in an authoritative manner. “This is state business, and for your information, the clearance is War Decisive. Now I demand to speak to the field marshal.”

  Lang’s stare changed to a look of puzzlement.

  “Who is it, Herr Captain?” A deep voice asked from behind Lang. Lang moved aside so Rommel could look at Erik.

  “Who are you?” Rommel peered at Erik through his right eye; his left was swollen shut.

  Erik stepped forward, clicked his heels and saluted. The man’s brown hair—thinning on top—high cheek bones and straight aristocratic nose were unmistakably Rommel’s. Even in his bathrobe, he looked like every photo Erik had ever seen of him, his chiseled features softened by the serenity in his gaze.

  “Herr Field Marshal, my name is Major Függer. Sir, I have an urgent matter I need to address with you. However, I cannot state my matter in front of the captain.”

  Rommel glanced at Lang, who crossed his arms and locked his jaw. Lang glanced at Rommel then back at Erik. “Why is that, Herr Major?” Rommel asked.

  “Herr Field Marshall, what I have to tell you is Top Secret War Decisive, and it is for your ears only, Sir.”

  Rommel motioned Lang over, and he leaned over so Rommel could whisper in his ear. Lang nodded while he kept his eyes on Erik. Meanwhile, Erik mentally prepared the points that he had planned to use to try to win his case with Rommel. A few minutes later, their conversation ended. Lang strolled by Erik and gave him a bitter glance before he left the room. The door closed.

  “So, Herr Major,” Rommel said when the door was closed, “what do you have to tell me that’s so important? I’m assuming you are fr
om Berlin?”

  “Before I start, Herr Field Marshall—”

  “Wait, I need you to speak up. I can’t hear out of my left ear.”

  Erik increased his volume. “Herr Field Marshall, did you hear the news about the failed assassination attempt of Der Führer?” Rommel nodded, and Erik continued. “At this present moment, the Gestapo is arresting all those involved directly or indirectly in the plot to kill Hitler. And no, Sir, I am not from Berlin.”

  Rommel sat up, frowned thoughtfully, and rubbed his chin while looking at Erik with his one good eye. “Why is this important to me? I’m not involved, and I know nothing about the plot. Therefore, the Gestapo would have no business arresting me.”

  Erik took a deep breath. “Bormann is certain of your involvement, but Goebbels is not.”

  Rommel’s eye narrowed. “Herr Major, how do you know of such things in Hitler’s inner circle?”

  “Herr Field Marshall, I have my sources.”

  “Herr Major, I do not believe you have any sources. What I do know is that Bormann will do anything to gain more power and influence. He is a pain in the ass every time I see Hitler, but I have one advantage—Hitler holds me in high favor.”

  “That is true, Herr Field Marshall, however—”

  “You don’t know the power I have, and my influence.”

  “I do, Sir, but there’s another issue.” Erik pulled out the sheet with the flow chart of the provisional government and handed it to Rommel.

  “What is this?” Rommel glanced over the document, his expression flickered between guilt and careful neutrality.

  “It’s the provisional government.”

  Rommel peered up from the page. “Where did you obtain this?”

  “As I said before, I have my sources.”

  “You must know some powerful people to obtain this.” Rommel paused. “The Gestapo is not known for giving such information.”

  “I can be very persuasive.”

  Rommel continued looking it over. “Go on, Herr Major; tell me what else you have. Or should I ask, what else have your sources told you?”