Fox On The Rhine (6 page)

Slowly, with mechanical precision, he drew his automatic and raised it toward the reflective reichsführer.

Himmler blinked, the only expression of his surprise. Two shots thundered in quick succession, resonating in the confined office.

The impact of the bullets hurled General Fuller backward, smashing him into the closed door before he slumped to the floor. His eyes were wide, staring in an expression of astonishment.

“Well done, Colonel Bücher,” Himmler observed quietly as a second SS officer emerged from behind a wall partition. The scent of gunpowder followed him as he trained his Luger carefully on the lifeless Fuller. The general’s blood looked black in the shadowy room.

The fierce-eyed SS colonel looked at the dead man with a cold, contemptuous stare, allowing himself the shadow of a smile. The dueling scars that had slashed both his cheeks blazed redly, the only sign of his emotions. As Fuller’s life ebbed away, his passing was marked only by the sharp degrading smell of his bowels releasing.

“Quickly!” he commanded, throwing open the door. “Get this offal out of here!” SS troops rushed in to drag out the corpse. Bücher was sorry only that he would not have a chance to interrogate him. Soon, he was left in the darkness with Himmler once again. Only a little of the odor of Fuller’s death remained in the room, and that was tinged with the smell of gunpowder.

“Herr Reichsführer,” the tall, lean officer said, “I must confess that I found it hard to believe you when you said an SS general would turn against you. And is it true--the führer is dead? This is a black day for the Fatherland.” Left unstated was the two men’s realization that Göring was now destined to become führer--and both men shared the same low opinion of the Luftwaffe head.

“Indeed it is, but from these ashes we will yet come back to life,” Himmler said. “I didn’t expect the attack against the führer at Wolfschanze; I thought the conspirators would wait until the führer and I were together. Still, I have made plans against this day. Only the SS can save Germany now. And as for you--my special thanks,
General
Bücher.”

Before the loyal officer could frame a reply, Himmler absently gestured for the phone, and Bücher hastily handed him the receiver.

“Commence Operation Reichsturm.” The SS reichsführer spoke these three words into the telephone, nodded dismissively at Bücher, and sat back in his chair with an expression of pensive satisfaction. Bücher’s last image of him was Himmler as a black shadow, even darker than the surrounding night.

July 21-31, 1944

Rockefeller Center, New York, United States, 21 July 1944, 0655 hours GMT

Chuck Porter crushed his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and lifted his weary body out of his swivel chair. It was a dull night on the early out of New York, where he was the supervisor of the newsroom, and the minute hand was creeping so slowly toward three o’clock in the morning that he thought it was stuck. It was so boring that he’d spent the last hour doodling variations on the letters “cheAP,” which reflected his opinion of the Associated Press pay scale.

It was hard enough making the change from North Carolina to Manhattan culturally without the additional shock of the living expenses. The payoff was supposed to be prestige, but the title wasn’t prestige enough to compensate for the lack of money.

Worse, he had recently passed his thirty-fifth birthday. His hair was thinning and his waistline was expanding. He’d never been a handsome man, but he had possessed an intensity and a drive that had stood him well in his years of reporting. He could cover a fire and interview a politician. He was even something of a ladies’ man and knew his way around a martini. He’d spent three years in Europe reporting on the German military buildup in the late 1930s, but most of those stories had been spiked.

He was afraid that some of the younger men were starting to think he was over the hill. They didn’t listen to his advice, his experience, and his perspective the way he thought they should. He’d long since forgotten how he himself regarded editors in his own salad days. Well, he’d show them. He had his application in for the Paris bureau chief’s job, just as soon as Paris was liberated. He wasn’t washed up yet. He could even get a smile out of Trish, the secretary.

Earlier that night he’d spent an hour holding forth on the end of the war. One of the new reporters suggested that there might be some surprises to come. “Not a chance,” Porter said. “It’s a straight grind from here on out. They’ll retreat, we’ll advance, and between us and the Soviets, Germany’s going to end up about a mile wide from border to border.”

“No way,” an argumentative reporter said. “They’ll surrender first.”

“You’re wrong,” Porter said flatly. “Hitler’s going to lead the German people over the cliff like a herd of lemmings.” He liked the analogy and made a mental note to use it again soon. “They’ll fight until the last one is alive. Hitler’s like a god to them. People get fanatical when they’re following their god.” But no one was interested in more of his wisdom right now. He was tired of doodling.
When in doubt, check the Teletype
, he thought. A good way to waste some time on a slow news day. He scanned the cavernous newsroom in the Rockefeller Center headquarters--a fluorescent-lit football field stuffed with desks, mostly deserted on the night shift, a few lazy people sipping coffee, chatting, one or two actually typing on their big Underwoods. The clatter of the bank of gray Teletype machines was a constant backdrop.

Then the four-bell “Flash” signal on the Teletype rang. News--real news--was rare on the night shift. Editing filler material and follow-up pieces, that was most of the work. A “Flash”--that signaled breaking news. Get it in, get it edited, get it out to the client papers over the wire.

Porter, already moving, was the first over to the Teletype. The chattering keys printed out the story. His eyes widened as he read, silently willing the slow printer to move faster. A crowd gathered. The only sound was the steady clacking of the machine.

FLASH/BULLETIN
LONDON, 21 JUNE, 0600 GMT
COPY 01 HITLER REPORTED DEAD
DISTRIBUTION: ALL STATIONS

LONDON, 21 JUNE (AP) BY EDWARD REED

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS HAS LEARNED THAT ALLIED RADIO MONITORS HAVE PICKED UP GERMAN BROADCASTS ANNOUNCING THE DEATH OF ADOLF HITLER.

THIS REPORT, SO FAR UNCONFIRMED BY SUPREME ALLIED COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, IS STILL UNCERTAIN AT THIS TIME.

GERMAN RADIO BROADCAST AT 0600 HOURS GMT THAT ADOLF HITLER HAD BEEN ASSASSINATED BY “JEWISH TERRORISTS.” HERMANN GORING, LUFTWAFFE HEAD AND HITLER'S DESIGNATED SUCCESSOR, ASKED FOR CALM BUT DEMANDED REVENGE AGAINST JEWS AND ROOSEVELT, WHOM GORING CALLED “THE JEWS' GREATEST ALLY AND A SUSPECTED JEW HIMSELF.”

GORING IS OFFICIALLY THE NEW FUHRER. “THE VALIANT GERMAN PEOPLE MUST REDEDICATE THEMSELVES TO THE ARMED STRUGGLE,” GORING SAID, “TO REVENGE THE DEATH OF THE FÜHRER AND ACHIEVE THE OBJECTIVES FOR WHICH HE GAVE HIS LIFE.”

NO COMMENT FROM ALLIED LEADERS IN ENGLAND. A HIGHLY PLACED SOURCE SAYS THE BRITISH CABINET IS CURRENTLY MEETING.

A MILITARY SOURCE CAUTIONED NOT TO TAKE THIS REPORT AT FACE VALUE. “THE WHOLE THING IS UP IN THE AIR,” HE SAID. “NO ONE REALLY KNOWS WHAT'S GOING ON EXCEPT THE GERMANS. AND I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE ABOUT THEM.”

MORE

AP LON 333548 JF/072044

With the final routing code complete, the Teletype chatter stopped. There would be more later, but this was enough to go on. There was a brief pause. This was big enough to shock even the most unflappable reporter.

Porter broke the silence first. “All right, people, let’s go! Harry--pull the Hitler obit and spruce it up. Frank--background on the military situation. Lambert, Eaker, McCulley--start calling around. Reactions! I want reactions! Smith--rewrite and get a flash bulletin out now! Go! Go! Go!”

He looked at the other Teletype machines with satisfaction. Nothing on Reuters or UPI yet, he thought. Even a few minutes of scoop was important.

He watched his troops shift into high gear with satisfaction. The sounds of furious typing, of reporters pleading for quotes, waking up newsmakers in the middle of the night, of stories being created out of thin air--suddenly, being supervisor was a good job. “The war will be over inside a month,” Porter opined loudly, his previous certainty forgotten. “Maybe only a week. Göring’s a fat incompetent and he’ll quickly negotiate surrender terms.” No one paid attention in the heat of the moment, but Porter was sure they all agreed with him.

Yes, I sure love the night shift
, Chuck Porter thought with satisfaction as he picked up the telephone to make the first of many calls.

Southampton, England, 0930 hours GMT

Winston Churchill’s resonant voice was flattened by the static hiss of the military radio, but his words were clear.

“It is with a joyous heart that I bring to you good news. At long last, Adolf Hitler, Führer of the Nazis, is dead. At noon yesterday, a brave group of German officers, sickened and disheartened at the ruin caused by this man, this tyrant, this cowardly criminal, finally brought him to his just fate by means of a well-placed bomb.

“Does this mean the final curtain has been brought down on this terrible conflict? Not yet. For there are still Nazis who will struggle to hold on to their inevitably declining power, who will struggle to escape their final fate. Perhaps the brave German officers who slew the tyrant will succeed in ushering in a new age for their beleaguered nation, or perhaps they will fall, as have so many others, to the Nazi sword.

“But it is certain that if this is not yet the final curtain, it is at least the final act, for our brave forces, now securely placed on the continent of Europe, will continue their march, will continue their fight, will continue their great crusade for victory--”

Brigadier General Henry Wakefield, executive officer of the Nineteenth Armored Division, snapped off the radio. “Goddamn it!” he snarled, grinding out the butt of his cigar. “Why does that son of a bitch have to get killed just as I finally get into the war?” His large hands clenched into fists of frustration.

He picked up his hat and shoved it onto his head. He was a solid man, short and squat and powerful. His hair was mostly gone on top, and what was left was shaved so close as to be virtually invisible. Shoving the remains of his stubbed-out cigar into his mouth, the general strode out of his cramped office. He picked his way through a mob of enlisted clerks who tried manfully to master the maze of paper needed to move an armored division across the English Channel. On the other side of the water, action awaited.

Outside, at the overcrowded Southampton harbor, the raucous chaos of his office was magnified. Sergeants bellowed at heavy, slow-moving machinery, trying to speed them up by sheer force of will, while hapless enlisted men tried to jockey tons of mammoth equipment through cramped spaces and around boxes and crates into the awaiting fleet of battered and ugly landing craft tanks, the LCTs that would move his division across the choppy Channel into France. A number of the ungainly flat-bottomed boats were already filled with armor and equipment; they had less than twelve hours to go and would need every minute of that time.

Wakefield shoved his way through the mess, his anger radiating before him, melting away any possible obstacle. It wasn’t nearly the tangle it appeared to be--indeed, this kind of chaos was inevitable, expected. But suddenly his sense of urgency had been magnified. He had suffered through too many training commands and staff jobs to have his war snatched out from under him at the last minute. Hitler’s death wasn’t good news, not at all. That bastard should have died when Wakefield blew a personal hole through him, and not a day before. But now that was too late. Another situation O.B.E.--”overtaken by events.”

Finally, Wakefield saw the man he was looking for. “Jackson!” he bellowed at a young colonel whose eagle insignia was as fresh as Wakefield’s star. Colonel Bob Jackson, slicked-back black hair, sharp face, wide grin, looked up. His uniform was crisp and new, his tall and thin frame made him a contrast in every way--height, weight, age, and coloration--to his division XO. He was the commander of Combat Command B, the second of the armored fists that composed the one-two punch of the Nineteenth Armored.

Jackson handed his red clipboard, filled with a sheaf of papers needing checkmarks and signatures, to a captain standing next to him, who picked up the work without missing a beat, and pushed his way through a cluster of sergeants. “Yes, General?” he said in a laconic southern accent, saluting casually.

“Jackson--I’ve got to go up to London for a briefing on the Hitler situation.”

The young colonel looked at Wakefield, his grin widening. “I guess the Germans figured out we were coming and decided to end it all first, sir. But it would sure put me out if that meant we didn’t get into the war, General.”

“No Nazi son of a bitch is going to keep me out of this goddamn war,” Wakefield growled. “You suffered through too many goddamn training commands with me, and I made us both a promise. We’re going to kick some goddamn Kraut bastards back to where they came from before this thing is over.” He was personally less sure about that than he wanted to let on, but he was damned if he was going to disappoint Jackson on the eve of the transshipment to the Continent.

Jackson’s dark eyes brightened. “Yes,
suh!
” he said with pride and pleasure, his accent becoming even more pronounced.

Wakefield’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “Bob, meeting or no meeting, I don’t want to see the rest of our division leaving one minute behind schedule. Pulaski and General King and all of CCA are already in position. Getting CCB across, and the rest of the division troops ready--that’s now your job. Get them on the boats, get them the hell out of here. Early if possible. I probably won’t be back in time to join the trip, but don’t let anything stop you or slow you down. Get over there and get moving. I’ll catch up. Understand?”

“Yes, suh, General,
suhr
!” Jackson grinned.

He was a good kid, thought Wakefield. Hadn’t yet seen serious action, needed some seasoning, but he had the right stuff. He was smart, hardworking, and aggressive. A new-model tank officer, drilled in the latest ideas and ready for action. Wakefield felt good about having him, though he growled at him a bit about sorting the goddamn mess out a little faster, just to emphasize his seriousness.

“See you in France, General,” Jackson said with a final salute as Wakefield turned to go.

“Goddamn right,” he growled around his cigar, returning the salute with a quick chop.

Fifteen minutes later the sounds of machinery and yelling so characteristic of a big military move ebbed away as his jeep left the harbor area. Southampton looked just like an American military base except for some of the local buildings. As he passed into the southern English countryside, soon all evidence of the war and the buildup began to fade. The landscape was different, but the farms had the same feel as the one where he grew up. Fifteen kids, of which eight survived past age six; good, honest hard work; a solid life. He’d joined the Army in time for the Big One, World War I, got in at the beginning of armored warfare, then, like so many career officers, languished through the years in the wilderness between the wars. Promotions were few and far between, funding was scarce, and he was lucky to have a job at all during the Great Depression.

And then a chance for action. New respect. A chance at the general’s stars he’d coveted for so long. But there were too damn few career officers and too many new soldiers to train, and--for three years--Wakefield had been stuck trying to turn civilians into armored cavalrymen. Important work but not what he wanted, even though he had gone home each night and slept in the same bed as his wife of twenty years. Finally, he’d gotten his call, gotten his ticket to the war, and now he was afraid that everything would be for nothing. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled to himself. Wisely, his driver ignored him. It was easy in the racket of the open car.

London was crowded and twisty as always. The snapping one-star flags that adorned the hood of his jeep didn’t count for much; generals were thick on the ground here and you needed two or three stars to be part of the big game. Wakefield didn’t care; he wanted to be part of the show--the real war.

SHAEF--Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces--was overcrowded and still expanding. Soon, most of its functions would be transferred to the Continent, moving closer to the action, but the bureaucrats would remain, the acres of Teletypes and the dog robbers and the ass kissers and all the other bastards who turned trees into paper and turned the paper into a blizzard that took up more and more of his time.