In the next room, the rest of Germany's brain trust stared though the glass and awaited Adolf Hitler's decision. He stared back at their eager faces. He had made it. Now it was time to inform them of their duties to expand and strengthen the German-occupied land in Canada now referred to as the North Reich and by implementing the operation called North Storm.
Some of his generals, Heinz Guderian in particular, would not like it and would protest both noisily and vehemently. They would say that Russia was only defeated, not destroyed, and that the mongrel state was doubtless rebuilding a massive army east of the Urals. No matter, the Red Army would be destroyed this summer and that war with the Soviet Union finished for good.
They would also say that England was milking the time needed to make a true peace with Germany with the hope that the U.S. would jump in on Britain’s side. So what if they did, Hitler thought. The American army was nothing, and would be defeated by German forces. Both America’s and Great Britain’s navies would be sent to the bottom by the scores of U-boats currently patrolling in international waters off North America.
With America defeated, Great Britain would finally cave in and sign a treaty favorable to Germany. The swastika would fly from Buckingham Palace. Perhaps Oswald Mosely, founder of the British Union of Fascists, would become Prime Minister.
Hitler stared in rare appreciation of the remarkable view. In their dramatic grandeur, the mountains reminded him of the works of Wagner, his favorite composer. Germany should not be afraid of its destiny, he thought. No, Germany should seize it.
Chapter One
Tom Grant abandoned the now useless Chevrolet after driving it into the bushes. Steam was pouring from under the hood and one of the tires was shredded flat. He hoped the car was out of sight, at least long enough for him to escape his pursuers. He ran the several hundred yards through the woods and tall grasses to the quickly flowing water that separated the United States and Canada. By the time he reached the narrow sandy beach, he was exhausted. He promised to exercise and take better care of himself, assuming, of course, that he survived this unholy night.
Behind him, he heard car doors slam and the sound of angry, anxious voices. He'd hoped that he'd lost them while driving the twisting and turning dirt roads, but obviously he hadn't. The water looked cold, dark, and deep, and the safety of the far shore looked like it was miles away. It wasn't, but he had never been that good a swimmer and the thought of making it that far was terrifying. At least the ice hadn’t formed on the river.
The voices were closer and he made up his mind. He had three choices: surrender and likely disappear forever, try to swim the river and either drown or freeze to death, or swim to possible safety. A desperate and almost impossible swim was better than getting shot or, at best, imprisoned and interrogated by the merciless Gestapo and their local thugs, the Canadian Legion’s Black Shirts. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and stepped into the water, gasping at the cold. It was late fall and the river, never really warm, had cooled down considerably for winter. At least it wasn’t frozen, he thought again. He gritted his teeth and dived in, nearly screaming when the frigid water grabbed his testicles. He could hear the sound of the roaring Niagara waterfall and was glad he was downstream from it and wouldn't have to fight the possibility of being swept over it to certain death. On the other hand, the current was very strong and he might be swept out into Lake Ontario where he would surely drown if he didn’t first die of exposure. He looked across and realized that it didn't matter. The current would place him where it wished.
He began to swim, using an economical pace that he hoped would conserve the strength and body heat he would need to fight the current, the distance, and the cold that was sucking the life out of him. Maybe, just maybe, his pursuers wouldn't see him until he was far enough out.
Again, no such luck. Shouts pointed him out and he heard the sound of guns being fired. He wasn't hit and nothing splashed near him, so the bastards weren't the great shots they always bragged they were. Of course, hitting a bobbing head in the night at a good distance with pistols would be a good trick under any circumstances.
As he plowed through the water, he wondered if his bad left arm would hold up. It'd been a while since the injury, but the wound sometimes kicked in and his arm cramped up. Not today, please.
He heard a faint creaking sound and realized to his dismay that the men chasing him had gotten their hands on a rowboat. At least it didn't have an outboard motor, which was a blessing, but they would still be able to row their boat much faster than he could swim, and they wouldn’t be weakened by nearly freezing to death.
More gunshots and this time something did splash near him. He threw caution to the wind and tried to pick up his pace as his breath came quicker and quicker. It was make it or die. He swallowed water and gagged. He couldn't keep this up much longer. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he knew he was slowing. He was losing feeling in his limbs. He couldn’t last much longer. Something touched him and he realized to his horror that it was a chunk of ice. He heard them yelling. They were closer and gaining rapidly. The shouting stopped and he sensed that they were dropping back. He risked looking behind and saw that the rowboat, with four men in it, was pulling away and leaving him. He turned to his front. He was only a few yards off shore and two policemen were standing there with their guns drawn.
Tom staggered and fell to his knees as his bare feet found the muddy ground. One of the cops snickered as he took unsteady steps towards them. "Kinda gives new meaning to calling someone a wetback, now don't it?"
His partner chuckled but kept the gun leveled at Tom. "He's so cold even his pecker's shrunk and blue. Poor little thing."
Tom tried to adjust himself so he wasn't exposed and promptly vomited some of the water he'd unwillingly swallowed. He took great care not to puke on the cops' shoes.
The first cop took the lead. "Who are you and what are you doing here, and why you didn't cross in from Canada on a bridge like most people do? And don't tell me you went for a moonlight swim and got lost. In your spare time you can tell us why those guys in the boat were trying to kill you."
It was difficult for him to talk and he began to shiver violently. "My name is Thomas Grant and I'm a colonel in the United States Army," he managed to gasp and wandered if his words were intelligible. He was actually a major but decided he'd sound more important with the higher rank.
"Yeah, and I'm the king of England," the first cop chortled. "Hold out your hands."
Tom did as he was told and was quickly handcuffed. "You really claiming to be an American?" the first cop asked. They both seemed blithely unconcerned that Tom might be dying. Tom nodded and again tried to speak. He felt consciousness slipping away. "I'm an American citizen and an officer in the United States Army."
His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left. He was shivering from the shock of nearly being killed and the cold that was invading his exhausted body. He staggered and nearly collapsed.
The cops' attitude softened slightly as they realized that their catch might just die on them. "We'll see," said the first cop. They half carried and half dragged him to their squad car that was parked on a dirt road behind them. They dumped him in the back seat and covered him with a couple of blankets while they turned the car’s heater on high.
"Let's get your ass warmed up and we'll get this all sorted out. Who knows, maybe you’re even telling the truth."
The police station was a small cement block building located at an intersection a few miles inland from Lake Ontario, and near the village of Youngstown. If the place had a name, Tom never did find out and he really didn't care. He was just too cold and miserable. He thought he was in Niagara County in upper New York, but even that was irrelevant. Nor was he particularly concerned by the stares he received by the two other cops and one middle-aged woman dispatcher as he walked across their office to a holding cell that was blessedly warm and dry. They gave him more blankets and a couple of towels. He was beginning to think he would live.