Final impact

He wondered if that was a lesson they could have learned earlier. Might the Reich have had a chance had the fuhrer died a year ago?

Well, there was nothing to be gained by such maudlin fancies.

All he could do was try to save some of the German people from enslavement and genocide at the hands of the Bolsheviks. The Reich was in general collapse on all sides. The Western Front was more an idea than a reality. In the east the Communist horde was being held at bay only by the profligate use of chemical weapons, which would probably poison the earth for so long that it could no longer be considered part of Greater Germany. It really was no-man’s-land now. To the south two of Stalin’s airborne armies had leapt into southern France and were driving toward the Atlantic. Perhaps they would crash into the Allies at some point and a new war would begin. But again, what did it matter? Heinrich Himmler knew that by then, it would be too late for him and his people.

He rubbed at the stubbled beard that was itching so much in the hot sun. It might help, if and when he tried to make good his escape to South Africa, but he doubted it. The Boer Emergency Council had offered him covert sanctuary, but what would the British do when this war was over? He doubted they would allow their former colony to be governed by the new regime. It looked too much like his own. And even if the Allies lost interest in pursuing him, the Jews never would. What a cruel joke history had played on him. He well remembered his horror at reading the electronic archives from the Sutanto, and their revelation of a world without the Reich, a world in which a Jewish state was a-what did they call it? — a superpower. And now it seemed inevitable that that perverse result was going to come about anyway, despite his best efforts. The SD-Ausland had just this morning sent him a report of fighting in Jerusalem between Arabs and “Israelis,” as the hook-nosed scum now insisted on calling themselves. It was not going well for the Arabs.

“Mein Fuhrer, the car is ready.”

Himmler acknowledged his bodyguard with a nod. It was a pity to be heading back to the bunker. He had spent so little time in the sun and fresh air during the last weeks that even a few minutes stolen in the open air were like a month at a spa. He replaced his hat, straightened his cuffs, and strode across the small garden to the armored Mercedes, wondering if he would ever return to this particular building.

D-DAY + 41. 13 JUNE 1944. 1546 HOURS (LOCAL TIME).

IN FLIGHT.

Far beneath them to the south a convoy was tracking eastward, crawling across the Atlantic on the cusp of the horizon. Llewellyn gave them a cursory glance as the last of the jet fuel poured down the hose from the in-flight refueler. She tapped her copilot, Major Vallon Davies, on the arm.

“I think I forgot my wallet, Val,” she said. “Can you pay for this tank? I’ll get the next one.”

She heard Davies’s snort of laughter through the headset.

A chime sounded, alerting them to the end of the fuel transfer.

The drogue disengaged with a loud clunk, a few spots of JP-8 hitting the windscreen before disappearing. The tanker, a newly built analog of the old KC-135, banked away to top up the other two bombers in the flight. It was another custom-built system, designed especially for Strategic Air Command. In-fight refueling had become a common practice with all Western air forces, but converted DC-3s were the standard workhorse. The 135, known locally as a “Whale,” was smaller and less powerful than its uptime progenitor. And as best she knew there were only three of them in existence. But it was still a long way ahead of the nearest competition.

Llewellyn watched it maneuvering into place for its next customer.

“Okay, boys,” she announced through the intercom. “Let’s go make some history.”

D-DAY + 41. 13 JUNE 1944. 2150 HOURS (LOCAL TIME).

HMS TRIDENT, NORTH SEA.

“Thanks for letting me watch this, Karen.”

Julia spoke in a low voice that carried no farther than the captain of the stealth destroyer, who was standing right next to her in the chilly blue cave of the ship’s Combat Information Center.

Halabi smiled, briefly. “General Patton is not the only one who understands the power of publicity.”

She took her eyes off the main display and turned them directly on Duffy.

“I would have let you come up here anyway, Jules. Old school tie and all that. But in fact I had orders from Downing Street. First, just to keep you on board, and then to make sure you got an A-reserve seat. I suppose the PM wants everyone to remember that England had her own role to play at the death.”