He snorted. It took some combat missions to see what a man was truly made of. If they came back alive without panicking or compromising the mission, then they would be equal.
“Well, what can we say?” The navigator asked. His console – something called an ECM console – started to bleep. “Sir, we have a handful of German aircraft, coming towards us.”
“How did they see us?” Goodfellow asked sharply. “Have they got radar of their own?”
“None registering,” the navigator said. “I think they must be probing, rather than hunting us directly.”
Goodfellow nodded. “Pass the contact details to the gunners,” he said, wishing that the B-29 had the British techniques for slaving the guns directly to the radars. “Order them to open fire.”
The bomber echoed to the chatter-chatter-chatter of the machine guns, loaded with explosive bullets. Goodfellow waited while the navigator shouted out details and targeting instructions, watching as blips disappeared from the screens.
“They didn’t come after us,” the navigator said.
“I noticed,” Goodfellow said. “Time to target?”
“Around ten minutes,” the navigator said. “We’re supposed to spread out.”
Goodfellow shouted navigational instructions at the pilot as the entire formation began to peel apart, heading slightly away from one another. The horror stories about German rockets – or even accidentally shooting down an Allied aircraft – had been enough to convince the USAAF to keep the planes well separated during an attack.
“Reaching bombing range,” the bomber said. His modified bombsight calculated all of the angles instantly, allowing the bombs to be perfectly targeted. “Hold her steady…”
The bomber lightened perceptibly as the bombs fell into the darkness. Moments later, flickering blasts could be seen on the ground. Goodfellow wondered what they’d hit; had they taken out a tank depot, or the barracks itself?
“Time to get out of here,” the communications officer said. The young man lifted his headphones. “The commander wants us heading back to blighty.”
“Really,” Goodfellow said. “Pilot, take us back to Britain. I hear some beers calling my name very loudly.”
“I’m surprised you can hear anything over the engine,” the navigator said. He shouted out a series of directions. “That should get us back home double-quick; has anyone checked the IFF setting?”
Goodfellow glanced at the tiny packet he carried. It was on his person because it was rigged to self-destruct when a code sequence was entered, just to prevent it falling into the hands of the Germans. If they tried to enter the UKADR without one, they would be shot down.
“It’s working,” he said. The tiny transponder was pulsing out its signal. “They’ll see us coming.”
“So will their women,” the navigator muttered. “Ah, well; onwards we go.”
Fuhrerbunker
Berlin, Germany
28th April 1942
Himmler sat in the centre of his office, reading again the rejection of his peace terms. That had stung more than he had expected, and the bombing raids were starting to become a nuisance. Even though he’d replaced Goring with the far more capable Galland, the Luftwaffe simply wasn’t capable of acting as a night-fighting force without radar.
He cursed grimly. Galland had given orders to withdraw most of the surviving Luftwaffe officers and pilots – along with their planes – to eastern Germany and Poland, conserving them for the day that the British and Americans would invade France. He was certain, from the targeting of the bomber raids, that France would be the prime target.
“It makes sense,” he said to himself. The French Government might be a loyal ally – although only for a given value of ‘loyal’ – but the French population was apathetic. There were only a handful of anti-German fighters, true, but the population was hardly inclined to help the Germans, particularly after seeing what a single British bomb had done to the German oil wells. German propaganda had been quick to dismiss the weapons as fakes, but the British silence was more convincing.
He scowled as he considered the map. The final remains of the forces in Sweden were making their way into Denmark. It was the second possible invasion front; an attack through Sweden into Germany, via Denmark. It had been a nightmare during the Franco-Prussian war, and it seemed to have reappeared. Of course, Patton would have to occupy as much of Sweden as possible, but the reports of the disaster in Iran would make Stalin hesitate.
He didn’t know for certain what had happened in Iran. All he knew was that the British had pulled off a strategic victory, finally defeating the Russian advance into Iran. With the fall of Tabriz, they could isolate and defeat the remaining Russian forces, while sending their accursed SAS agents deeper into the Ukraine. He knew from reports that there was a minor insurrection going on against the Russians, even though Stalin had reacted quickly and dispatched more NKVD battalions.
“France or Denmark,” he mused, studying the map. France would be a better choice for logistical reasons; the Royal Navy or the United States Navy hadn’t yet managed to clear the mines in the waters near Sweden. They would hardly risk losing their major combatants in the seas, would they? On the other hand, France was further from Germany; it would give the Germans more time to prepare their defences when the attack fell upon France.
He picked up his phone. “Summon my grand vizier,” he ordered, and put the phone down again. Five minutes later, Horton entered, followed by an SS guard. “They have rejected the peace offer,” Himmler snapped. “Explain!”
“I told you to offer to disarm your nuclear program,” Horton said. Himmler nodded at the guard, who slapped Horton once across his head. Black blood was the same as white blood, Himmler noted absently. “I…”
“You have been kept alive to offer advice,” Himmler hissed, as Horton swayed on his feet. He motioned for the guard to help Horton to a chair. “Why have they rejected my peace overtures?”
“They don’t trust you,” Horton said. His voice was steady, but Himmler could hear the pain under his words. “They think you’re just trying to buy time, like Saddam.”
Himmler ignored the comparison. “So… they have begun bombing France and parts of Germany,” he said. “Why?”
“They want to hurt you?” Horton asked. Himmler shook his head at the guard, who was preparing another slap. “They want to ensure that you cannot move troops into France quickly.”
“That’s what Galland suggested,” Himmler said. “Why? Are they preparing an invasion, or something else?”
“They’ve had time to build up a resistance moment,” Horton said. He must have been hurt worse than Himmler had thought; his voice was starting to slur. “Perhaps the resistance is planning an uprising.”
Himmler considered it. Many of the French Communists, who would have played an important role in the resistance, were loyal to Stalin, who was Himmler’s ally. They might not fight for Vichy, but they would refuse to act against it. On the other hand, ever since losing Algeria, there were Frenchmen who blamed the Germans for it… and the British were clearly meddling in Russia as well.
“That would make sense,” he conceded ruefully. “I don’t suppose you know anything useful about the French resistance?”
Horton shook his head. The motion clearly caused him pain. “You’ve scooped up many of the important figures in the history books,” he said. “DeGaulle vanished along with Britain; at least he hasn’t appeared to protest losing Algeria. I’m as blind as you are.”