Himmler smiled, oddly reassured. At least this time the British would be equally blind. “We could move more troops into the region in defence against a British attack, and use them to crush resistance,” he mused. “I’ll have Kesselring see to it at once. Now… where will they land?”
Horton stared at him. Himmler would have enjoyed his fear if there had been time. Part of him knew that it wasn’t a reasonable question, but he was angry. He wanted a solution quickly; one that would allow him to buy time.
“It depends how many troops they can spare,” Horton said softly. “Most of their army will still be in the Middle East, heading into Russia. Spain would be the best target if they want to meet a resistance; Franco has hundreds of enemies, after all. Then southern France, or even Italy.”
“We have crushed any opposition in Italy,” Himmler said. The entire program had been carried out during 1940; Italy had been turned into an occupied country so quickly that resistance had been futile. The so-called independent Italian army in Ethiopia survived only because the British had other things to worry about.
“Then southern France,” Horton said. “I don’t think that they would gamble on Normandy again…”
“Kesselring believes that they have the capability to do that,” Himmler said. “If they were able to land a force in Norway, they can certainly land a major force in Normandy.”
Horton frowned. “They did land there once before,” he said. “Western France, near Bordeaux?”
“Perhaps,” Himmler said. “Another possibility is making the leap into Denmark.”
Horton seemed to be recovering; he shook his head with more vigour. “They wouldn’t dare do that when they have the Soviets at their back,” he said. “They need intact supply lines for the attack to succeed, and they won’t have them if Stalin puts a major offensive into Norway and Sweden.”
“Perhaps,” Himmler said again. “You may go; Kurt, escort him to the hospital, at once. Gently.”
“Jawohl,” Kurt said. “Right this way… sir.”
There was an option that Horton had been careful not to mention, he knew. If it were used by a 1942 force, it would have probably have been a disaster, as Operation Market Garden had been in the original timeframe. A 2015 force, however, might just be able to pull it off.
His head hurt, even as the doctor poked and prodded it thoughtfully, but his mind was singing. One way or another, there would be an end to the nightmare, and perhaps soon. The doctor, who’d managed to get his hands on some medical texts from 2015, bombarded Horton with questions, even as he examined the bump on his head. He wanted to invent a better x-ray machine, and a bone-setting machine that had been a prototype when the Transition occurred – and Himmler wanted the SS medical corps to develop genetically engineered superhumans.
“You may return to your rooms,” the doctor said finally. Kurt led him out of the room. Horton followed the SS man, trying to hide a relieved smile. He knew that there was no way that he could warn Jasmine… or perhaps he could. As he re-entered his quarters, he booted up the laptop and started to type. He frowned as he typed; the message would have to pass German inspection, before Stewart could forward it for him.
Dearest heart – I hope that you and the children are fine. Heinrich doesn’t have to go to the Market Garden, and won’t unless he’s taken. Inform my granddad Charles that he doesn’t have to go there – and he’s not to force him to go.
He smiled to himself, before typing a longer message, one that would be sweet and loving and entirely in character. Perhaps Jasmine would understand, perhaps not. He’d done the best he could at such short notice.
The car was outside the entrance to one of the bunker’s sub-sections; the entire complex had now spread under almost all of the city. Stewart ignored protocol to give Roth a passionate kiss goodbye – feeling her transmitter vibrate as it dumped its entire memory back to Britain – and climbed into the car.
“The pick-up site is due north of Berlin,” her driver said. He’d been introduced to her as Kurt. Two other SS men sat in the front of the large car; her bodyguards. They drove away from the entrance, heading away from Berlin. Stewart sat back and relaxed as best as she could; the long assignment was finally over. As she started to close her eyes, she felt the car pull over in a woodland grove.
“Is the pick-up here?” She asked, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Kurt said. The… lust in his voice jerked her awake, even as the first of the goons opened the door and reached for her. Acting on instinct, she kicked him in the groin, only to be grabbed by the second goon. Her hand grabbed her camera and hit the emergency button, before she realised how foolish that was; they’d warned her that there would be no rescue mission. The goon knocked the camera to the floor; the lights went off.
“Bitch,” Kurt snapped, as she was forced against the side of the car. His hands snapped handcuffs on her, before tearing her skirt away from her. She screamed once, struggling as hard as she could, before she felt a little prick at the back of her neck. The effect of the drug was instantaneous… she felt her mind drifting away from her body, and she was barely aware of their violation.
She lost track of time, and came back to herself in the backseat of the car. Her entire body was covered in bruises; she hurt everywhere. Handprints could be seen along her legs, her breasts, and her vagina hurt. She started to cry as the car continued to drive, knowing what they’d done.
“Woken up, Jew bitch?” Kurt asked. He leered at her body; her position revealed far too much of her for comfort, even without the sudden knowledge that they could take her whenever they wanted. “How are you feeling?”
A sudden fury flashed through her. “Fuck you,” she snapped, and cringed mentally, expecting a beating. Her eye lit on the camera and a dim memory surfaced; the system would appear broken if the emergency mode were to be selected.
“It’s broken,” Kurt jeered. She picked it up with her handcuffed hands, looked at it, and gave vent to the tears that were lurking behind her eyes. The system was in emergency mode; she was confident of that. Sudden hope flickered inside her mind; rescuers could find her! “We’re here, look,” Kurt said, and she felt her hopes crash.
The car passed through an SS checkpoint without more than a cursory look at their papers. The guards didn’t seem too worried about them having a half-naked woman in the back, perhaps it happened a lot in the place. The car passed up a woodland drive and stopped in front of a manor house.
“Welcome to the sanctuary of the blind,” Kurt said, opening the door. “Out, bitch!”
Stewart, knowing that he could force her out at any time, complied. He squeezed her breast as she crawled out, having difficulty moving with her handcuffed hands. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her to her feet. Stewart tried to focus, but it was hard.
“Don’t forget this,” Kurt sneered, passing her the camera. “Useless system; you may as well keep it as a reminder of how you got into that trouble in the first place.”
He laughed. Stewart wanted to cry. “Come along, bitch,” he said, and pulled her into the grand house. A man in a white coat met them. “This bitch is to be placed in a special cell,” Kurt informed him.
“Yes, but on whose authority?” The man asked. Stewart instantly rejected any thought of asking him for help; he didn’t see her as a person at all. There was a strange deadness behind his eyes. “Who gave you the right…?”
“Fuhrer Himmler, long may he live,” Kurt said firmly. The doctor stood up straighter. “Heil Himmler,” Kurt bellowed.