He then addressed Hitler: “My Fuhrer,” he began, “What you have asked of me a fortnight ago has been accomplished.” He smiled about the room as if a child who had just pleased his parents.
Hitler suddenly came to life. He pounded on the table in front of him. “Faith!” he yelled. “Faith and a strong belief in success will make up for all of your inefficiencies!” He looked about the room as if 10 years younger than when he entered. His face now crimson, the gray since vanished, his eyes vibrant once more. “Field Marshall Goering has brought me the best news of the war.” He turned to his generals assembled about the small table. “I will tell you,” he yelled, if you are conscious of the fact that this war should be won, it will be won! If your troops are given the same belief — then you will achieve victory, and the greatest success of the war!”
In the tense silence that followed, Hitler dismissed all about him but Goering, motioning for him to stay. Goering nodded before closing the room’s door. Now, just the two of them stood face to face about an empty room.
Hitler took the seat at the head of the table; Goering took a chair beside him. It was remarkable the change in Hitler’s health, if just for the moment.
“My Fuhrer,” Goering began, “I can still have you flown out within the hour. We don’t have long before the whole city is surrounded. You can go to Bavaria and bring our new weapon to our engineers. They have been working for years to achieve our miracle. They only lacked the material to set the bomb in motion. In a matter of days they could have a working prototype ready for use against our enemies, one that could destroy whole cities with a single blast! It must be you, My Fuhrer!”
Hitler shook his head. “No,” he said meekly, “I have made my decision to stay. I shall not leave Berlin. I will defend the city with my troops to the end. Either I will win the battle for our Reich’s capital or I shall die as a symbol for the Reich.”
Goering thought his decision was madness. “I must insist,” he said to Hitler, “you must leave for Berchtesgaden within the hour.”
Hitler refused to hear anymore. “I want you to fly to Berchtesgaden, but not before our two guests arrive,” he yelled at Goering, before leaving the room.
A ½ mile from the Bunker, along the East-West Axis — the broad highway running from the river Havel on the west to the Unter den Linden on the east — a plane suddenly swept in and landed, maneuvering up to the Brandenburg Gate. It was a small Fieseler Storch piloted by General Ritter von Greim and a well-known German Aviatrix named Hanna Reitsch. The two had been summoned to Berlin by Goering and Hitler.
Goering knocked once on the door leading into Hitler’s private quarters before entering. As he entered he saw Hitler sitting in a chair facing a painting of Fredrick the Great; he was having a one-way conversation with the painting. He cleared his throat before announcing: “My Fuhrer, they have arrived!”
General von Greim and Hanna Reitsch were escorted into Hitler’s private quarters. Hitler beamed as he gracefully took Hanna’s hand, kissing it softly before releasing it. He curtly nodded to General von Greim. “I have a mission for you that could help save Germany,” he said before providing them the details. Ten minutes later they were escorted back to their awaiting plane and a heavy metal suitcase was placed in its rear. “It’s our new Wonder Weapon,” said the soldier in response to their disapproving looks.
Their plane never arrived at its Salzburg destination; crash landing somewhere within the Soviet Army lines. Its case disappearing for some 30 odd years….
Chapter Two
A rain induced haze intermittently obscured the Kremlin’s distinctive “onion dome” as the early morning showers moved obligingly from one unsuspecting area to yet another. This simple act of nature allowed the government complex to majestically appear in full view, presenting one with a sheer sense of awe when viewed from afar.
The streets were missing their normal traffic. With the upcoming May Day celebrations, many officials were settling in for a three-day weekend at one of their dachas outside the city limits.
The lone exception this night was a Soviet military truck that carefully weaved its way through Moscow’s moonlit streets.
Lieutenant Yuri Stenko slowed his vehicle as he approached each turn not wanting to disturb his precious cargo nor his unit of six heavily armed Soviet Marines in the rear of the truck. With their blue berets tilted to one side and AK-47’s at the ready — they were the pride of the Soviet military.
The truck continued along a well-lit road that ran parallel to the Kremlin’s red brick walls before slowing for the first set of security gates. Lieutenant Stenko smiled as he flashed his identification card at the heavily armed guard who approached him.
The immaculately dressed State Security Guard snapped to attention upon seeing the distinctive red-bordered identification card of a ranking Party Member, begging forgiveness for even stopping the Lieutenant’s vehicle. The second guard swiftly followed suit, saluting and allowing the truck to proceed without the usual, thorough search.
As the truck rolled past the guards, a bolt of lightning streaked across the early morning sky as if announcing the trucks arrival to those below.
Cigarette smoke hung eerily in the air above the hand carved mahogany conference table as if it were an angel of death awaiting its cue before striking. Gathered around the table at this early morning hour were two of the most powerful men in the Soviet hierarchy; Soviet Premier Alexi Brezhnev and KGB Chief Luc Andropov. Both were of the same mold — tall, brooding, sadistic, and merciless in their actions. They rarely doled out rewards to their subordinates, mostly punishments for what they perceived as failure.
For several hours they had toasted to the demise of their American nemesis by drinking glass after glass of Vodka in celebration of Russian TV images showing the victorious Vietcong standing in the lobby of the American Embassy in Saigon.
Of course it didn’t hurt that the Soviet government supplied most of the equipment and missiles to the North Vietnamese Military.
Alexi stood and raised his glass, gripping the table for support, feeling the impact from drinking almost half a liter of vodka. “To our Mother Russia, may she always counter the American swine in their quest for global domination,” consuming the contents in one quick swallow.
Luc Andropov did the same. When finished, he proceeded to fill the Premiers glass, then his own. He stood gazing at his boss for the moment, pondering the potentially fatal step he was about to embark on. He felt the time was right to brief the Premier on his plan, one he had kept hidden for 4 long years. It was Luc’s turn to raise his glass in celebration. “May we once again assume the role of superpower in the game of world domination with the Americans.”
Both quickly consumed the vodka in their glass.
“Come, come, Comrade Andropov; we both know the Americans will win this marathon race we have endured for some 30 years — allowing us to choke in their dust. We will be forced to withdraw from the world stage in order to concentrate on more pressing matters within our own borders. Mark my words my friend, you will see.”
Luc smiled knowingly at the Premier, realizing he was correct in his belief — but only if the Soviet Union continued on its present course. Luc had greater ambitions for both himself and Mother Russia. On numerous occasions he had wanted to broach the subject with the Premier but decided it best to wait until he had a working prototype. He had no desire to be portrayed as some fool in front of his lifelong friend, a friend who controlled both the purse strings and the ability to crush his dreams.