The Counterfactual War

(The Multiverse War – Book Two)

Christopher Nuttall
17 St. Ronan’s Terrace
Edinburgh
United Kingdom
EH10 5NG

Christopher_g_nuttall@hotmail.com
Christopher@changingthetimes.net
http://www.mywriting.changingthetimes.net/index.html 
Cover Blurb

In our world, the German Reich lost the war; Adolf Hitler committed suicide as Soviet tanks smashed their way through Berlin.  But that was only one possibility…

In an alternate world, the Greater German Reich survived, conquering Britain in 1940, Russia in 1941, the Middle East in 1942…and finally America in 1960.  It has taken the world, taken the moon – and now it is experimenting with inter-dimensional travel.  Our world is about to face a nightmare from the past, one more deadly than ever…
Author’s Notes

This book represents a unique effort on my part; a book related to a preceding book without requiring the reader to read the first book, Carrier Wars.  In that book, a number of ships were swept up by a powerful unknown force and lost at sea with all hands.  This is what happened to the world that those ships left behind.

This may cause some confusion over the timeline.  TimeLine A is our timeline.  TimeLine B is the one that the ships were swept into.  TimeLine C is the Nazi-dominated world that features within this book.

On a different note, I have decided to limit the German language used within the book to the bare minimum, simply to make life easier for the reader.  German terms – with the exception of common well-understood terms – have all been translated into English.  I apologise for any confusion that this might cause.

Prologue

Once upon a time, in the very near future, a task force, comprised of vessels from many different nations, was swept into a dimensional shift and transported to a very different universe.  The faction behind the transition intended to use them to force the world forward…so that their part of the Multiverse War could be won.

This isn’t their story.

This is the story of the world they left behind…and what happened to it.

Chapter One: Mirror Image

Reich MOS Research Laboratory
Cambridge, Britain (TimeLine C)

The Republic of Great Britain, a loyal and obedient component of the Greater German Reich, had been free of partisans for at least thirty years.  Long-standing habits of caution kept Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth wary as he drove through the roads of Britain, heading towards the research laboratory.  He spared no glances for the historic streets of Cambridge, or the meetinghouse of the local British Union of Fascists, which received a regular 90% of the vote at the local elections.

Perhaps there was something to be said for allowing them the appearance of democracy, Roth thought, checking his GPS system.  Space travel, a Germany monopoly, gave the Reich an utterly unparalleled control of the world; not even the British Empire had come close, before the Panzers had driven through London, Cairo, Delhi…

Here, he thought, as he reached a secluded driveway.  His portable security sensor bleeped, recording scanner beams that were already probing for his IFF transponder, the one implanted in his body.  He cringed, despite nearly twenty years of service in the SS, knowing that one little error in the IFF and the automated guns would open fire. 

No hail of bullets cut his life short.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Roth drove up the driveway, weaving through trees that had a uniquely British feel, before pulling up in front of a large building.  It was new, built in the grandiose style of Albert Speer; the Fuhrer’s architect.  Before Speer’s death in 1970, he’d remodelled Berlin and Moscow, styles that were now duplicated all over the world.

“Heil Hitler,” he snapped, as he climbed out of the car.  The guards, plain-clothed guards from the Skorzeny Regiment, kept their submarine guns trained on him, while a weak-chinned unarmed man checked his papers.  Roth wasn’t fooled; the man might have looked puny, but he moved like a combat veteran.

“Heil Hitler,” the guard replied, after checking everything.  Standartenfuehrer or no, the guards wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot him down if he’d managed to penetrate this far into the complex without permission.  “Your papers seem to be in order.”

His voice was disappointed.  Roth would have smiled under other circumstances.  He knew better than to assume that the seven guards in the facility were the only defences around the base; he just didn’t understand why it was in Britain, rather than Germany or even the new settlements in what had once been Russia.

“Thank you,” he said.  “Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth, reporting for duty.”

He’d assumed that he had been called to assist with the security around the complex.  As one of the Reich’s foremost experts on subversive warfare and infiltration, even though there was so little to practice on these days, it would have been reasonable.  The guard commander, who hadn’t bothered to share even his name, shook his head.

“Herr Doctor Rommel is inside,” he said.  “He will brief you.”

Roth concealed his astonishment, saluted the guards again, and stepped inside.  Herr Doctor Rommel was one of the Reich’s experts on higher-order sciences; his name was on a whole series of breakthroughs that had improved the life of Germans everywhere.  He remembered the Wehrmacht’s complaints about how the third Rommel to serve Germany had gone into the sciences instead of the military, but he’d dismissed them.  Herr Doctor Rommel might not have had the military skill of his father and grandfather, but he was a very respected professor in his field.

“Right this way,” a female voice said.  Roth studied her with some interest; she held herself with a confidence that suggested that she was more than just a secretary.  She was…well built, with jutting breasts, but her blue eyes glittered with intelligence and understanding.

“Thank you,” he said, looking around as he followed her down a long corridor.  The building might have been new, but someone hadn’t skimped on the decorations; he saw paintings from several famous artists on the walls.  One of them, he was sure, had once been in the Goring Collection; the portly head of the Luftwaffe had been a famous collector before his sudden and unexplained death.

“Herr Doctor Rommel is in here,” she said.  “I look forward to you joining us.”

“Thank you,” Roth said again.  “Might I enquire as to your name?”

It was almost as constant as a law of physics that every eligible woman – and she had no wedding ring on her finger – would fall into the arms of an SS man with open legs.  The female professor – Roth was almost certain that that was what she was – just considered him for a long moment before nodding.

“Professor Madeline Richter,” she said.  “I would suggest that you go right in; the professor is not known for respecting fools and sluggards.”

“Thank you,” Roth said, wondering if that was all he would ever be saying to her.  He tapped once on the door and stepped inside when a gruff voice shouted for him to come inside.  He took a quick moment to examine Doctor Rommel before he spoke, under the guise of removing his cap, and was pleased.  The famous Rommel profile had come through in the lines of the man’s chin; his eyes burned with unspeakable determination.

This man would make one hell of a soldier, Roth thought, and saluted.  “Heil Hitler,” he snapped.  “Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth, reporting for duty!”

“Welcome to this research post,” Rommel said, without preliminaries.  “Have you been informed as to the purpose of your mission?”

Mission?  “No, Herr Rommel,” he said.  “All I was told was to report to this place and report for duty.”

“Security,” Rommel said.  It wasn’t the curse than many men would have made it, but then; scientists could be demons about security.  They were scared about competition.  “You have been selected for a special mission, Herr Standartenfuehrer.  This is your only chance to back out.”

Roth said nothing.  “Excellent,” Rommel said.  “I will begin by explaining something about this base.  In these halls, we have a very strange collection of professions; physicists, engineers, biologists, sociologists and historians.  What does that suggest to you?”

Roth was honestly puzzled.  “I don’t know, Herr Rommel,” he said.  “Physicists and engineers make sense if you’re trying to build something, but why the others?”

Rommel held his gaze.  “How much do you understand about the theory of multiple realities?”  He asked.  “Just how…aware of them are you?”

“I know nothing,” Roth said, automatically.  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

It wasn’t always safe in the Reich to know things, or to admit to knowing them.  Rommel glowered at him anyway.  No patience for fools, Roth reminded himself.  The professor seemed…annoyed that Roth knew nothing, or at least that he had claimed to know nothing.  Had he led that sheltered an existence, as a scion of one of the greater families?

“Imagine, for the sake of argument, that a certain battle was lost,” Rommel said.  “Take our Fuhrer’s greatest gamble; the invasion of Britain.  Are you aware, for instance, that it was war-gamed several times in the years after the war ended?  In none of those games, admittedly run with the benefit of hindsight, was the invasion a success.  In all of those games – but not reality – Sealion was a total disaster, with the loss of six divisions and almost all of the Kriegsmarine.”

Roth thought about the two hundred front-line divisions that the Reich maintained, even now, after nearly fifty years of peace.  Losing six divisions would be annoying, but hardly fatal.  “I’d heard something about that,” he said.  “I had always assumed that that was a joke.”

“No joke,” Rommel said.  “The same, more or less, goes for the Battle of Washington; General Hoth’s gamble could have failed really badly and utterly destroyed the Reich’s one main chance at taking Washington itself.  What might have happened if the Japanese had stumbled into war with America in…say 1941?  It looked quite likely; instead of striking north into Stalin’s rear, the Japanese would have headed south against the remaining British possessions and America.”

Roth shivered.  The study of history wasn’t popular – no one in the Reich liked thinking about how badly it could have gone – but he knew some details.  After the fall of Britain, the Japanese had seized the Dutch East Indies…and managed to secure themselves enough resources to power their campaign for the icy wastes of Siberia.  If Stalin had been able to spare the forces that had fought the Japanese in the winter of 1941 for the Battle of Moscow…well, who was to say how it would have gone?

Rommel smiled at his expression.  “For each of those choices, there were a number of ways it could have gone,” he said.  “Take the simplest; heads or tails?”  He pulled an old British coin out of his pocket and passed it over.  “If you’ll flip that coin, you’ll see that there are two possible outcomes.”

Roth tossed the coin in the air and examined it.  “Heads,” he said.

“And now there is also a universe where it was tails,” Rommel said.  “What you have to understand is that there are universes where the war went very differently; either the war of 1960 or the Second Great War.  In some of those universes, the Reich would have lost the war.”

“That’s…not exactly what I expected to hear,” Roth admitted.  He wasn’t sure what he should do; such words were rather…treasonous.  “You mean, Stalin might have conquered the world instead of us?”

Rommel read his thoughts.  “The Reich Council are fully aware of our activities here,” he reassured him.  “They did, in fact, provide most of the funding.”  Roth relaxed.  “As you may or may not be aware, we did considerable research into heavy-duty physics as part of an investigation into the possibilities of an advanced space drive for the space program.  I can’t tell you everything – security again – but we accidentally started to displace things through universes.”

He smiled suddenly.  “It took us a while to work out what was happening,” he said.  “The maths were perfect, the items…didn’t go.  It wasn’t until we saw a scratch in a slightly different place that we realised that we were just sending ours to one universe, and at the same time receiving one from a different universe.  Eventually, we worked out that that was what was happening – and then we worked out how to start searching for other timelines that weren’t so closely related to ours.”

Roth lifted an eyebrow.  “Didn’t it occur to you to…ah, displace a living person?”

Rommel hesitated.  “Yes,” he said.  “Fortunately, we ended up with a replacement from a different universe, which is why we now have two versions of Professor Madeline Richter.”

Roth felt his jaw fall open in astonishment.  “Are you telling me that she has a twin from another universe?”

“Oh, yes,” Rommel said.  “You’ll meet them both later.”  He picked a photograph out of a drawer and passed it over to Roth.  “Examine that.”

Roth stared at the photograph.  The two women on it were identical.  “How are they different?”  He asked finally.  “They look the same.”

“Apparently, they ate a different breakfast that day,” Rommel said.  “However, we are now getting ahead of ourselves; we continued to experiment…and we finally managed to open a portal to an alternate universe that was…well, more alternate than the one from where Mad – we call her Mad to tell them apart – came from.”

Roth shook his head.  “I see,” he said.  “And what, exactly, does this have to do with me?”

Rommel smiled.  “I would have thought that that was obvious,” he said.  “Why do you think that the Reich Council was so interested?”

Roth flushed slightly.  “We’re going to invade them, aren’t we,” he said.  Inside, he felt a flicker of delight at the prospect of a real war, something that would finally allow his unit to be tested in action.  “That’s why I’m here.”

***
“Intelligence is the one thing we must have before launching any invasion,” Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt said.  He seemed absurdly young for the rank he held; Roth wondered if he had a relative on the Reich Council.  “That will be the task of your people.”

He waved a hand at the map on the wall.  Roth took the invitation and studied it carefully, remembering the details he’d been taught in his lessons.  From the Atlantic to the Urals, the deep red of the Greater German Reich bestrode the continent like a colossus, matched by red sections in Britain itself and America.  Algeria, controlled by the Vichy French, and South Africa, controlled by the Afrikaners, were coloured the pink of puppet states; the remains of Africa were either German or Italian colonies.

What had once been the British Empire was being broken to German or Japanese control, from the Raj in India – controlled by the British Union of Fascists – to the Japanese protectorate over Australia.  The former United States of America had been broken, some of the states controlled by parties who supported the Nazi ideology, others directly occupied by German forces.  Partisan activity, Roth remembered, was on the rise in northern America; the Wehrmacht had been making additional kill-sweeps for Americans who somehow believed that their nation had a chance of returning to its sleep…the sleep that had left them unprepared for the German-Japanese invasion of 1960.

Of the remaining independent states in the world, all of them knew that they were independent as long as the Reich Council decreed that they were more useful to the Reich as independents, rather than occupied or puppet states.

“That map will be very different in the other timeline,” Schmitt said.  “It may have the entire world held by us, in which case we stay well out of it.  If not, particularly if it’s a world ruled by Stalin’s heirs, your orders are to prepare to engage in some limited espionage, learning the lie of the land.”

He smiled at his pun.  “Your first priority is to establish a link into their computer network, assuming they have one,” he said.  “Then…we can start to make long term plans.”  He smiled again.  “Any questions?”

“Yes, Herr Brigadefuehrer,” Roth said.  “Am I allowed to recruit assistance from the rest of my force?”

Schmitt nodded.  “That was the plan in assigning them to the training base here,” he said.  “That, and convincing the British that their interests are best supported by working with us, instead of wasting time.”

Roth blinked.  “I thought that partisans were on the fall here,” he said.

“Oh, there hasn’t been any trace of Gubbins’ little army for nearly four decades, ever since America fell,” Schmitt said.  “The problem is political; the Union of Fascists here wants a bigger say in how the Reich is run.”

Roth snorted.  “They should have taken over the British Empire before Churchill committed them to war,” he said.  “Like Italy did.”

“And they were hardly worth the effort,” Schmitt pointed out.  “The first generation, Mosley and his chums” – he smiled as he used the British term – “were too grateful to us for letting them out of Dartmoor to make a fuss.  The second generation saw the nuclear weapons in America and knew better than to try to make a fuss.  The third generation was too occupied with rebuilding India.  The fourth…well, they’re the ones we have now.”

He smiled darkly.  “And that’s not the only problem,” he said.  “Do you know why this complex was built here?”

Roth shook his head.  “That puzzled me before,” he said.  “Why here?  Why not the heart of our defences?”

Schmitt snorted.  “Herr Doctor Rommel doesn’t think that anyone can do better than us on the sciences,” he said.  “What happens…if we bump into a reality where the Americans rule the world?”  He tapped the map.  “Or…what about a reality where the British Empire never lost the American colonies?  In both of those cases, we can expect them to have greater understanding of technology than we do…and if something gets back to the Reich, we have plans to nuke a large section of Britain, rather than lose the Reich as a whole.”

***
It took two weeks to focus the portal on a reality that was accessible.  For reasons even Doctor Rommel didn’t even try to consider within his understanding, some realities were further away from others.  Roth, who had only one suggestion to make, spent most of the time trying to court Professor Madeline Richter – both of them.  Finally, however, they succeeded in locking a portal to a world’s individual quantum signature.  It was then that the problems began.

“Why can’t you open the portal at any point?”  Roth asked, puzzled.  The scientists, at least, had managed to accept him as a human, rather than an omnipotent SS officer.  “If we could start opening portals in space, we could start reading their transmissions before stepping through.”

Rommel shook his head slowly.  “It can’t be done,” he said.  He tapped his computer, which was attempting to read the quantum signature of the new universe.  “The portal has to be precisely attuned to the new universe; we don’t have the slightest idea which of these figures” – he nodded to the constantly scrolling list – “represents location within the new universe.”

Madeline coughed.  Beside her, Mad made to speak as well.  Their double-act was eerie to watch.  “Perhaps,” they said together, and then glared at one another.  Rommel impatiently waved at Madeline to speak.  “Perhaps we could move a station to the moon,” she said.  “If we did that, we could read their communications at leisure.”

“That’s a good idea,” Schmitt said.  “However, we need to know what’s beyond the portal.”  He looked across at Rommel.  “Are you ready, Doctor?”

Rommel checked his equipment once, and then nodded.  “Let’s proceed,” he said.  He tapped a button on his computer, and then stood to watch.  A shimmering light appeared in front of them, forming rapidly into a square of shimmering white light hanging ahead of them.  The shimmering faded and the portal stabilised.

“We have an open portal,” Rommel said.  Roth sighed; he’d wanted to have the experiments conducted by remote control.  “Herman?”

Roth nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into the light.

Chapter Two: Mirror Image (II)

Abandoned Warehouse
Cambridge, Britain (TimeLine A)

The square of light felt like nothing; Roth didn’t feel a thing as he stepped through.  He’d half-expected to bump into himself passing through the portal, but instead he stepped into an empty room.  Quickly, he drew his pistol and glanced around; the room was filthy and covered in dust.  The only light came through slats in the roof; instead of the secure research facility, it looked more like a warehouse – one that had been abandoned for a long time.

Struck by a sudden panic, Roth looked around and sighed in relief to see the Portal shimmering in place.  He stuck his head back through it to report, and then started his investigation.  Two of his team-mates stepped through to follow him, their weapons already drawn, and then one of the scientists holding a passive sensor array.

“Is there any sign of life?”  He asked, keeping his voice hushed.  Something about the situation forced them to remain quiet.  “No noise, no nothing?”

“None,” Roth said, trying hard to keep his voice normal.  No sound, apart from their breathing, broke the air.  “Nothing at all.”

“Give me a few minutes,” the technician said.  Roth had been introduced to him, but had forgotten his name.  “Why don’t you three search the compound?”

Werner, Roth thought.  His name was Werner.  “I think we should,” he agreed.  “Stay ready to jump back if you have to.”

“I will,” Werner said.  Roth beckoned to his men and they stepped up to the door, listening carefully before opening it.  Their eyes were greeted by a vast empty room, coated in dust.  The room was dark, there was only enough light to see themselves in the darkness.

“Filthy,” Horst muttered.  “Herr Roth, we should look up there.”

Roth followed his gaze and saw what looked like a small control room, looking down onto the warehouse.  He scrambled up the ladder into the control room, and peered inside; it was an office.  A quick check around produced a magazine full of photographs of naked ladies and a newspaper from 2001.

“I think that they’re decayed,” Horst muttered.  Such materials were not permitted in the Reich.  Roth examined the newspaper with some interest; the lead story was about a war against Islamic terrorists.  It actually took him a few moments to remember what they were; Islam, along with Judaism, had been destroyed during the expansion of the Reich.  

On one of the walls, there was a local diagram of the warehouse.  It wasn’t large; they had clearly arrived in one of the smaller storage rooms, with a far larger warehouse below them.  Absently, he wondered what would happen if the warehouse walls had intersected with the portal; it defied belief that they would all be in perfect correspondence with the research centre.  A small map of Cambridge, which hadn’t changed that much, hung on the other wall.  Roth took it from the wall and tossed it down to the warehouse floor.

“I think we’re alone here,” he said, and hoped that he was right.  “Horst, Günter, take a look outside; carefully.”

Horst nodded and slipped down the ladder again.  Günter followed him, while Roth checked the rest of the office.  “It would be just too convenient for them to have a history book around, wouldn’t it?”  He asked himself.  There were no traces of anything else, so he returned to the paper.  America still existed and the Reich…did not.  There was a long article on Germany, but he didn’t recognise it at all.

“Bother,” he said mildly, and slipped back down the ladder.  Horst had opened a door and stepped outside into the fresh air, which – Roth was amused to note – smelt worse than the Rhineland did.  A small complex of abandoned buildings, surrounded by trees and defended by a wire fence…that was all he saw.  He smiled with sudden amusement…and then glanced up slightly as he heard a noise in the sky.

“An aircraft,” Horst said.  “We’re not alone here.”

Roth shaded his eyes and looked up, wishing he had a pair of tactical binoculars.  The aircraft was large, clearly a civilian design rather than a military design.  The noise of its passing echoed across the land, even though it was very high in the sky.  A single hand-held missile could take that down, Roth thought, and smiled darkly.

“Herr Standartenfuehrer, I found someone,” Günter shouted.  “Look!”

Roth lifted his pistol as Günter came over, escorting a bearded man with several bottles clinking in his baggy coat.  He smelt terrible; his face bore the signs of exposure to the cold and damp.  A tramp, Roth thought coldly.  Don’t these people find work for them to do?

“Look, Mr Policeman, I’m sorry for living here,” the man said.  “Don’t force me out of here, I beg you.  I don’t have anywhere else to live…”

“Silence,” Roth said.  “Who are you?”

“You’ll give me a night at the old bill?”  The man asked.  “You’ll give me something to eat…”

Roth shoved his pistol in the man’s face.  “Who are you?”  He snapped.  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot off your penis and…”

“I’m Sidney Barrett,” the man said.  “Sir” – for the first time he got a look at Roth’s uniform – “you’re just trying to scare me, aren’t you?”

A thought occurred to Roth.  He holstered his gun; it wasn’t as if the man could pose a serious threat to them.  “Perhaps you could answer some questions,” he said.  “If you do, you’ll be paid well for your trouble.”

Horst gaped at him.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer, he might be a spy,” he protested.  Roth, who had always encouraged his men to question, didn’t bite his head off as many Standartenfuehrers would have done.  “He might be working for whoever’s in charge here.”

Roth shook his head.  “We need the information he has,” he said.  “Come along.”

He took one last glance around the small complex and led the way back into the warehouse.  The tramp said nothing until they entered the small office and he saw the Portal.  “What the hell is that thing?”

“Speak when you’re spoken too,” Horst said, and slapped him on the side of the head.  In confined quarters, the man stank worse; a curious mix of alcohol and urine.  Roth ignored the byplay, examining the passive sensor array that was bleeping away on the ground.  The small computer had extended all of its antennas and was hunting for local signals and computer transmissions.

“We seem to be safe for the moment,” Roth said.  “Can you get a signal back through the Portal?”

Werner shook his head.  “That wasn’t entirely unexpected,” he said.  “The Portal doesn’t exactly exist in this universe; radio signals don’t go through it, or get hopelessly scrambled in the transmission.”

Roth nodded.  “This pathetic specimen is going to tell us everything,” he said.  “For the moment, what have you found?”

“There is a very complex system here,” Werner said.  “These people have a far more developed infrastructure of electronic bandwidth than we do, with hardly any security at all.  I haven’t attempted to hack into the system, but just by picking up what’s floating through the air…

“Anyway, there is a civilisation here,” he said.  “Although I cannot yet tell you what form it takes.  I’ve been intercepting radio and television transmissions; they certainly seem to speak English, although with a slight American accent.  However, we’re going to have to investigate further and…”

“What are you people?”  Barrett demanded.  “Men from Mars?”

“Not exactly,” Roth snapped.  “Horst, take him back through the Portal, give him a good meal, and then turn him over to the interrogators.”  His nose twitched.  “Better wash him first, I think.  Have them asking him questions about…”

Barrett broke himself free and ran for the door.  Horst was on him like a shot, knocking him down and stamping on his leg.  “That’s enough,” Roth said, as Horst picked Barrett up with ease.  “Take him back through the Portal and then report to Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt.  We have to decide what to do next.”

“I think it will have to be a reconnaissance mission,” Werner said, as Horst stepped back through the Portal.  He tapped his little passive sensor system.  “We can upload our own queries into this system, Herr Standartenfuehrer, but whatever security they have is bound to notice that.  Hell, we couldn’t even log into one of our systems without being noticed.”

“It does look that way, doesn’t it,” Roth mused.  “I suppose that we’ll just have to see what the Brigadefuehrer has to say about it.”  He smiled.  “Wouldn’t want to defy him, would we?”

The Portal shimmered and several more black-garbed men stepped out.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer,” one snapped, “we have been ordered to secure this location.”

“Search this complex thoroughly,” Roth ordered.  He was fairly certain, from the map, that the complex was some distance from Cambridge, but that didn’t mean that the tramp – whose name had already left Roth’s mind – was the only person around.  “If you find anyone else, bring them to me.  Do not leave the complex.”

“Jawohl,” the leader said, and the force moved out.

“That’s going to risk us being seen,” Werner commented.  “If they’re seen, then the local authorities might investigate.”

Roth shrugged.  “Those were from the crack force,” he said.  “Any local authorities bump into them, they’re going to have one hell of a shock.”

***
It was three days before the Brigadefuehrer felt confident enough to allow Roth and one of his men to leave the complex.  In that time, a staggering amount of information had been gleaned from the computer network – they’d learnt from the tramp that it was called the Internet – and considerably more had been learnt from the tramp.

The first fact, the most important one, was that the complex itself had been up for sale for ages.  While that did worry Roth – some buyers could turn up at any moment – it also offered an opportunity; they could buy the place themselves and have plenty of time to explore and feel out the new world without being interrupted.  The second fact was that money in the new universe was simple, far easier to understand than the pounds, shillings and pence of their England.

“There were hardly any problems with forging this,” Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt said, passing over a handful of notes.  “Don’t hand over more than one, Herman; they have the same serial numbers.”  Roth nodded.  “We can’t risk any communications,” Schmitt said.  “If you don’t return within the day, we won’t be able to come after you.”

Roth nodded again, already feeling naked without the implanted equipment, all of which had been deactivated beforehand.  “Thank you, Herr Brigadefuehrer,” he said.

“Good luck,” Schmitt said.

Roth nodded and headed out of the complex.  The civilian clothes he was wearing, ones duplicated from images found on the Internet, felt uncomfortable, but they’d learned enough to know that wearing Nazi uniforms would be a bad idea.  The gate of the complex itself wasn’t locked at all, something that puzzled Roth; didn’t the owners care what happened to it?

The driveway was hauntingly similar to the one in his universe, but the main road was very different; there were thousands more cars present.  In his universe, there were only a small number of civilian cars outside of Germany itself; even the Americans had only a small amount.  He looked down towards the small town and started to walk towards it.  The walk only took him half an hour.

“Good God,” he breathed, as he looked around.  The old town had thousands more people, not all of them Aryan.  Hundreds of subhumans, black, brown and Chinese, wandered around, apparently equal to the Aryan population.  “With such mingling, how can they be anything, but weak?”

He concealed his shock as a brown girl and a white boy walked past, hand in hand, and wandered on into the centre of town.  A newspaper boy was shouting out headlines; “Bolton Wanderers up five, Manchester United to lose Ahmad!”

“Can I buy a paper?”  Roth asked, and then stopped.  The ‘boy’ wasn’t a young man, but a very old man; old enough perhaps to have fought in whatever version of the war had happened here.

“Of course,” the old man said, without any of the concern that a British man might have shown when a German asked for a newspaper.  Roth paid for it with one of his ten pound notes, ignoring the man’s protests at being given such a large note for a fifty-pence paper, and sat down on a bench to read it.

There was very little of interest in the stories; this world didn’t seem to have any regard for serious news.  Someone called Princess Di had a memorial that had been vandalised.  There was staving in the Sudan.  A small task force of ships sent to deal, of all things, with a Chinese threat had suffered some kind of disaster.  He read that carefully, but it wasn’t clear; there, at least, they showed some proper regard for security.

“Time to move,” he muttered to himself, and left the bench behind.  Carefully placing the newspaper in his rucksack, he wandered into a bookshop and started to examine the books on sale.  The shopkeeper, a pretty red-haired girl, smiled at him; Roth would have been interested under other circumstances.

“Help you with something?”  She asked.  “My name is Sarah, by the way.”

“Herman,” Roth said, giving his real name.  “Can you point me in the direction of a general fact book on world affairs?”

“Oh, doing a research project, are you?”  The girl asked.  “All of you students come in here, looking for books that hardly ever go out of print.”  She looked along the shelves, finally pulling a large book off the shelf and handing it to him.

“The Global Reader, 2009,” Roth read out loud.  “That’s pretty good, I think.”

Carefully, he opened the book to Germany and read the note.  There was very little actual history, but what there was wasn’t encouraging.  The Third Reich had been defeated in 1945; there had been no invasion of Britain.  Germany itself wasn’t a major military or nuclear power; simply an economic powerhouse.  There was apparently some bunch of nasty people in Germany – or so the article implied – who wanted to send a bunch of foreigners back to where they came from.

He glanced down at the book, reading the price tag.  “Do you have a good introduction to the Internet as well?”  He asked.  Sarah passed a small book, the User’s Guide to the Net, over to him.  “Thank you.”

“Fifteen pounds, seventeen pence,” Sarah said.  He paid her using the change from the newspaperman and another new note; she took it without looking at it.  “Thank you, come again.”

On a German girl, her smile would have been one of invitation.  Roth, unsure of his ground, simply smiled back and waited until she’d put the money in the till.  “Do you happen to have a good map of the local town?”  He asked.  “I’m a tourist for a while.”

“Just you wait until your classes start,” Sarah said, having mistaken him for a student.  “Then you won’t have time for sightseeing.”  She passed over a small map.  “No, you don’t have to pay for this,” she assured him.  “The local council is under the impression that if they hand out free maps, they’ll encourage tourists.”

“Thank you,” Roth said, and left the shop.  As soon as he found a quiet place to sit down, he examined the map, locating himself and the warehouse with ease.  Smiling, he started to look for the public library; he had a lot of work to do.

***
The library itself was a massive building, designed in a style that suggested that the council had heard of good taste – and then rejected even the slightest hint of it in the design.  It was completely open to the public; Roth continued his pretence of being a student and was assured that he was welcome to browse the library; actual borrowing could wait until he had proof of his current address.

The history section contained thousands of books on Hitler’s War, the Second World War.  Roth skimmed through a primer with considerable astonishment; here, there had been no Operation Sealion – it was dismissed as an impossible gamble that had never even been tried.  Here, Britain’s survival had led to Japan joining the war, bringing America into the war on the wrong side.  Instead of the Invasion of 1960, the Reich had been crushed by the united forces of America, Britain…and the Russians.  

Roth realised that his clenched hands were damaging the book and he stopped, trying hard to recover from the shock.  A world without the Reich; it seemed a madhouse.  He skimmed through a book on current affairs and shook his head; an endless round of slaughter, starvation and death across Africa and the Middle East.  An ongoing series of attacks in America and Europe, committed by people who could be wiped out with ease if the government just worked up the nerve to purge them.  Whole nations full of barbarians…and no attempt to bring them to heel.  

“It’s obvious they can’t govern themselves,” Roth muttered, making a mental note to take some of the books back to his world.  There were always people who thought, now that most of the non-Aryans had either been slaughtered by the Germans or the Japanese, that there had been something wrong with that approach.  With the proof in front of them, how could they deny that the non-Whites, with the exception of the Japanese, were inherently inferior?

“There are always fools,” Roth muttered, making notes on a notepad.  It was nearly time to head back to the factory…and he really didn’t want to have to buy food in this town.  He smiled darkly; one thing had been clear – without any control over space at all, these people would be overrun with ease.  

Chapter Three: Presidential Puzzlement

The White House
Washington DC, USA (TimeLine A)

The job of President had never been a nominal post, nothing like the Queen of England or President of Corruptstan, where the leader had to do almost nothing.  The President of America represented his people; he was not only the head of their government, but the head of state as well.  

President Sam Woods, elected only a year ago, was finally starting to understand what that meant.  He’d had such ambitions when he’d entered politics; twenty years scheming towards the highest position in the land had taught him realism.  No one, not even the President, was above the law – which meant in practice that the President was blamed for everything that went wrong.

“There’s still no sign of the ships?”  He asked.  Admiral Joan Rawlings, Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, shook her head.  Four days ago, Task Force India had vanished, after being sent to the Chinese waters.  If there had been any proof that nuclear weapons were involved, which the President had feared might have been the case, there would have been war with China.  Instead…

“We have several ships out searching now,” she said.  “Even the Chinese are cooperating.  They’re more than a little stunned.”

“I bet they are,” the President said.  “Do they have any idea what might have happened?”

Joan shook her head again.  “The head of the NRO – the National Reconnaissance Office – is on his way,” she said.  “He thinks he has a lead, but…”

“How the hell does such a large force just vanish without trace?”  The President asked.  “We should at least have some orbital imagery.”

“Nothing,” Joan said.  “There’s a moment of disruption…and then the seas are empty.”

“Bah,” the President said.  “There’s going to be panic once the news gets out.”

He stared down at the press brief from his press secretary.  With five carriers, including a French and British ship – in the case of the French the pride of their navy – missing, the death toll was likely to be horrendous.  For once, the French National Front was actively cooperating; French ships had joined the search and rescue effort.  So far, the world hadn’t believed any of the rumours that had leaked out, but…

“I think we’d better remain on alert,” he said.  Joan nodded.  “What the hell do we tell them?”

Joan said nothing.  How did one explain the loss of such a fleet?  “We know, I think, that it wasn’t the Chinese,” she said.  “Even an attack with nuclear-tipped missiles would have been noticeable.  They might have destroyed the fleet, but we would have seen it coming and we would have recognised it even if we hadn’t seen it until the weapons exploded.  The George Washington wasn’t carrying any nukes – and the French swear blind that their ship wasn’t carrying any either – and the reactors weren’t able to explode.”

“Wonderful,” the President said.  “They’ll be blaming it on UFOs next.”

“I’m afraid so,” Joan said.  “So far, no one believes a word of the rumours, but…”

“They’ll find out soon enough,” the President said.  “I don’t think that we can sit on this any longer, do you?”  Joan shook her head.  “I think I’d better make a statement to the nation today, before the rumours really get out of hand.”

There was a chime from the intercom.  “Mr President, Mr Rogers, from the National Reconnaissance Office, has arrived.”

The President nodded slowly.  “Send him in,” he said.

The door opened and Mr Rogers looked in.  The President nodded as he entered; Rogers looked competent, although grim and pale.  His curly brown hair, mixed with his glasses and sharp blue eyes, gave him an impression of concern.

“Thank you for coming,” the President said.  “Admiral Rawlings assures me that you have something on the missing ships.”

“Yes and no,” Rogers said.  “As you may be aware, the National Reconnaissance Office has been looking at ways of hunting for rogue state nuclear weapons, including better sensors than the average intelligence satellite.  One of the traces of nuclear research is radioactive leakage, so we designed and lifted systems that were intended to track energy burst on the surface of the planet.  The system, unfortunately, is far from perfect; we have had alerts caused by high-energy research in America itself.

“However, there was no logical reason for a major burst of an unidentified source of energy over the fleet,” he said.  “We were lucky; we had several satellites recording at the time.  The energy seemed to appear out of nowhere, completely blanketing the fleet…and when it was gone, the fleet was gone too.”

Joan glared at him.  “It’s been four fucking days,” she snapped.  “Why the hell didn’t you bring this to us before?”

“Because it took time to collate everything,” Rogers said.  “The energy itself flickered over the fleet, radiating up and down the spectrum, and then vanished.  Once we realised that it might have something to do with the disappearance” – he ignored Joan’s snort of anger – “we started to try to discover what it was.”

He pulled out a laptop and set it up quickly on the President’s desk, talking all the while.  “The energy we recorded, we think, seems to be a by-release of a powerful gravitational twist in space-time.  Such events have been recorded before, but always out in space; the effects of the suspected black hole half the galaxy away are believed to operate on similar principles.”

The President put his head in his hands.  “Are you telling me that a black hole swallowed up the entire fleet?”

“No, Mr President,” Rogers said.  “We in the National Reconnaissance Office do not believe that it was a black hole, just something that had some things in common with such an event.  For one thing, if a black hole was that close to Earth, we’d be dead by now.  However, we also believe that it was generated artificially.”

He turned the laptop around for the President to see.  “This is the sequence of events,” he said.  “The fleet is sailing” – he pointed to the icons on the display – “towards China.  One second; there are a number of little…eddies in the gravity flow.  At the same time, signals from the fleet become scrambled and cut out altogether.  Five seconds; the eddies are forming into one gigantic eddy around the fleet.  Ten seconds; the entire fleet is within the eddy…and thirteen seconds, the fleet is gone.”

Joan shook her head slowly.  “So, assuming that you’re telling the truth, who did this to us?”

“I hesitate to mention the ‘E’ word,” Rogers said.  ‘E’ stood for extraterrestrial.  “Power like this simply doesn’t exist on Earth.  If the Chinese could do this, they could have taken over the world already.”

“And the fleet has been taken,” Joan said.  “Do you happen to know anything useful?”

Rogers smiled.  “The National Reconnaissance Office needs a bigger budget,” he said.  “It so happens that three days ago, a day after the fleet vanished, a second source of radiation was detected.”

The President looked up sharply.  “They returned the ships?”  He demanded.  “Whoever did this returned our ships?”

Rogers shook his head sadly.  “The energy spectrum, the release of energy associated with the…gravitational construct, weren’t the same,” he said.  “If I were a betting man, I would bet that they came from two different sources.  The second trace, and the third trace” – he smiled at the President’s expression – “are both more…primitive than the first one, the one that stole the ships.”

The President sighed.  “Enough with the games,” he said.  “What are the other traces doing?”

“I wish I knew,” Rogers said.  “However, we do have a rough location for them; Cambridge.”

Joan blinked.  “Cambridge, Massachusetts?”

Rogers smiled.  “Cambridge, England,” he said.  “Whatever is happening, it’s happening somewhere within Cambridge.”

“The British have lost ships as well,” the President said.  “Exactly what do they think they’re doing?”

“I don’t think that it’s a British project,” Rogers said.  “Cambridge does have thousands of theoretical physicists, but I don’t think that any of them are advanced enough to create such an effect.  Certainly, if they did have, they would have some idea what’s happened to HMS Invincible and the other ships.”

Joan slapped the table.  “One question,” she snapped.  “What’s going on?”

Rogers lowered his eyes.  “I don’t know for sure,” he said.  “It just struck me; if someone was preparing an invasion, taking the task force might have been a way of sampling our defences and our weapons.”

The President scowled, trying to think it through.  “Can you locate the…sources of the radiation?”  He said.  “Can you find out what’s going on without sending a team into Britain?”

Rogers shook his head.  “No, Mr President,” he said.  “We’re not able to locate the exact source of the radiation.  We’ll have to be closer and operating with British help.”

Joan blinked.  “Can’t we run it from RAF Feltwell or one of the other bases?”  She asked.  “Something like this should be kept away from everyone else until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Rogers scowled.  “I think that that will be difficult,” he said.  He smiled suddenly.  “To say nothing of the British suspicions if they discover us operating under their noses.”

The President nodded.  “I’ll have to call the British Prime Minister,” he said.  “In the meantime, this is a priority project; find out everything you can.”

Joan coughed.  “Mr President,” she said, “assuming that this cock and stallion story is indeed true, then what’s to stop them – whoever they are – doing the same thing in America itself?”

The President looked at Rogers, who shrugged.  “I don’t think that there is any way to stop them,” he said.  “We simply don’t know for sure what’s happening.  Hell, for all we know, it could be just after-effects of the event that kidnapped the fleet.”

“I have to give a Press Conference,” the President said.  “However, I’ll call the Prime Minister first and ask him for help.”

***
The relationship between the United States and Great Britain had been strained in recent years, following the endless debates and arguments over the Iraq War.  President Bush had ended up looking bad; his British counterpart had been lucky not to have been assassinated on two separate occasions.  At bottom, however, the two nations had more interests in common than any other nation, and President Woods and Prime Minister Hamilton had done much to rebuild the alliance.

“Bernard, how are you?”  The President asked, as soon as the secure connection was established.  He kept one eye, out of long practice, on the security monitor; CNN and the other global news networks had been more than willing to try to hack their way into the system, despite global lawsuits and legal action.

“I dare say I could be better,” Prime Minister Hamilton said.  “And yourself; life in the land of the free not getting you down?”

There was a grim undertone to the banter; both men knew how dangerous the world was at the moment.  If China got over its panic over the missing ships and decided to attack Taiwan, both men knew that it would get very nasty before the situation could be repaired – if it could be repaired.  China had made considerable progress towards building a modern navy – with more French help than either man found comfortable – and might well be capable of landing a major force on Taiwan.

“Only reporters and pesky laws saying that we can’t shoot them,” the President said.  “Bernard; I wish this was a social call, but its not.  I have something important to broach with you.”  He quickly ran through the situation.  “Would you allow us to send in a research team?”

“Your people think that this might be connected to the missing ships?”  Hamilton asked.  “You do know that we have lost ships as well?”

The President snorted.  “I believe that that was mentioned in a briefing somewhere,” he said.  “Yes, I know; and this might be what we need to discover exactly what the hell is going on.”

Hamilton sighed.  “Politically speaking, cooperating with you is proving difficult,” he said.  “After the last government collapsed, it’s been harder to get anything worthwhile done around here.”  There was a long pause.  “As far as I know, the MOD or anyone else isn’t operating anything around Cambridge, although I will look into it first.”

He sighed again.  The President was wise enough to say nothing.  “If we agree, it will have to be a joint mission, with open and equal access,” Hamilton said, after a long moment.  “Sam, unless your people agree to that, there is no way that we can cooperate.”

The President nodded slowly.  America had gotten away with the Iraq War; the British hadn’t, at least not exactly.  Mentally, he cursed his own people; why had they been only willing to fight to remove WMD from Iraq?  Why were the elites so disconnected from non-political reality?

“For the record, we will be happy to cooperate,” the President said.  “You’ll see to arranging police protection and escorts?”

“I dare say we can,” Hamilton said.  “The normal rules apply, of course.”

“Of course,” the President agreed.  “Nice talking to you again, by the way.”

“You too,” Hamilton said.  “When are you going to make an announcement about the fleet?”

“Later today,” the President said.  “The rumours are getting to the stage of a Chinese nuclear attack, and we can do without that, I think.”

“Me too,” Hamilton said.  “I’m supposed to be addressing Parliament later today myself, so I’ll tell them about the fleet.”  He scowled.  “That will really put the cat among the conspiracy theorists.”

***
Joyce Patterson, reporter for the New York Times, stepped into the press conference room with a scowl, elbowing her fellows out of the way.  It wasn’t as if the newspaper would not be receiving any footage from the room itself – they had an agreement going with CNN to receive copies – but they wanted her insights into what the President was really saying.  Politicians, she knew, often said more than they meant; it was just hard to pick out what they hadn’t meant to say.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America,” the press secretary said.  Joyce looked up to see the President, an older man, looking older than his years, stepping onto the podium.

He looked grim, his dark hair seeming to grey as she watched.  His face was tired and old, lined with concern; the ongoing war against terror had drained the laughter that had once delighted a nation into giving him a chance at the top job.  They’d thought that the President, a self-made businessman, was one of them…and indeed, Joyce considered him to be a good President.

“He looked old,” Julius Driver, reporter for the Memphis Gazette, muttered.  His dark skin creased as he studied the President’s form; the man looked far too unstable to last for long.  “They say he might not even last out one term in the job, let alone re-election.”

Joyce shook her head.  “Perhaps its just rumours,” she said.  “Remember all the claims about Clinton?”  She smiled.  “How many of them were later proven to be exaggerations?”

“My fellow Americans,” the President said.  His voice was grim; strong, but grim.  “You have heard rumours, over the last two days, about a disaster affecting Task Force India, which was heading to Chinese waters in hopes of cooling the fire that was threatening to bubble over.  It is with heavy heart that I confirm the loss of the task force, apparently with all hands.”

There was a long chilling pause.  “Are we are war with China?”  Someone shouted from the rear.  “Did the Chinks attack the fleet?”

“As far as can be discovered, the task force was not attacked by the Chinese,” the President said, ignoring the racism of the speaker.  “There were no Chinese naval units within attack range, no missiles in flight, no mines or nuclear warheads.  What happened to the fleet…is a mystery.”  He held up a hand for silence.  “We have been promised the full cooperation of the international community in discovering what has happened to the fleet,” he said.  “It is my belief that we will find out the answers soon, and then we will know what happened.”

Joyce felt her mouth fall open.  “Did they run into the Bermuda Triangle?”  A reporter shouted, showing more signs of understanding the supernatural than geography.  “Did UFOs beam them up?”

“We don’t know,” the President admitted.  Joyce, who knew how unusual it was for anyone to admit to not knowing something, was amazed.  Either the President was lying, which was unlikely, or he really didn’t know.  In which case…

“Mr President,” a reporter called, “will there be a funeral for the sailors?”

The President nodded.  “Yes…ah, Clara,” he said.  “We’re currently searching for any possible survivors.  If we find no one and nothing within a week, we’ll organise a state funeral for the crew of the ships, all of whom deserve what respect we can give them.”  He paused.  “I will be hosting a meeting for the families later today, all of whom are very worried about their relatives and really do not need press attention.”

Before any more questions could be asked, the President stepped off the podium and vanished through a side door.  Joyce smiled to herself and started to tap away on her PDA, filing her impressions with the New York Times while they were fresh in her head.  One thing she was certain of; the President didn’t know what had happened to the ships, which meant….

Incompetence in high places, she decided, and started composing her story.  If the President was ill, as some people had suggested, then were there grounds for a medical resignation?  She shook her head, mentally kicking herself; there were other things to worry about.

Like…what the hell could destroy an entire warfleet without being noticed?

Chapter Four: Planning Offensive

Reich Strategic Planning Department
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

If there was one thing many in the Wehrmacht and the Kriegsmarine were in agreement with their sworn rivals the Luftwaffe on, it was that the Reich didn’t need a Strategic Planning Department.  Who was there to fight?  The Americans and British were either allies or occupied.  The Russians, Africans and Chinese were being exterminated.  The Japanese were the only real threat, but with their constant internal turmoil…how could they hope to stand against the Reich?  No, they all decided; the Reich didn’t need the department that had planned the invasion of America.

Doctor Zimmermann disagreed, and not just for the obvious reason that it was his department.  The Reich needed his people, the ones who would plan their next steps, from the mission to Mars and the moons of Jupiter…to the other world the dimensional transport system had located.

“Don’t you think that this is fascinating?”  He asked his prime aide, Jung.  The German Wehrmacht officer grinned through the pain it caused him; he’d been in the running for a Skorzeny force, before suffering an accident that had crippled him.  “A whole new world.”

Jung’s voice was harsh, as always.  Zimmerman didn’t mind; he appreciated his aide’s mind.  “I didn’t believe it at first,” he said.  He tapped the books that had been brought in through the Portal and dumped on the table.  “How could we have lost the war?”

“I suspected that historians, those let in on the secret, will be preparing elaborate briefings on the subject,” Zimmermann said.  He shrugged.  “It won’t ever become public, you know; we learnt far too many American plans to ever release information we don’t need to release.  However…”

“It’s obvious where the point of change is,” Jung said.  “Sealion; it was never launched in the other universe.”

Zimmermann shrugged.  “We have already had problems with unpleasant surprises getting into the computers we connected to their…Internet,” he said.  “Who would have thought that they would have so many viruses on such a rickety system?”

Jung smiled absently, his eyes on the documents that would remain forever classified.  “So, we are to invade,” he said.  He smiled darkly.  “Look how much they have released for their public; bases, aircraft, technology…if we could get a single assault platform into orbit in their world, we would own it.”

“There are problems in opening a portal to everywhere we might want it,” Zimmermann reminded him.  “A Portal simply refuses to form if it intersects with any material, and we don’t know why.  Anything that remains within the portal’s field will break off, eventually, and we don’t know why.”

“Professor Richter had this theory about random quantum effect changing the properties of anything that remained within the field for too long,” Jung said absently.  “However, the Reich Council has set its heart upon invasion.”

Zimmermann nodded.  “We would enjoy formidable advantages and disadvantages,” he said.  “On one hand, we can open portals to any point within their world…”

“Provided it does not insert within solid matter,” Jung reminded him.  He leafed through the data on defences.  “We might be able to drive a Panzer directly into their bases, but…how many Portals can we build if we have to?”

“Doctor Rommel is working on that now,” Zimmermann said.  “He thinks that we can have ten major Portals operating within a month.  Unfortunately, building a Portal is cumbersome.”

“And we’re limited to what we can drive though them,” Jung said.  Zimmermann smiled.  “We can drive a few dozen Panzers through.”

Zimmermann smiled again, his mind racing backwards and forwards.  “It’s going to be a conventional campaign, past the actual entry,” he said.  “Where do we attack?”

Jung flipped open the political map.  It was bemusing; there seemed to be hundreds of countries, some of which had never existed within his timeline.  Zimmermann read again the note from the forward teams; many countries were worse than useless.  What was the point, one of them had asked, of making a fuss about small inferior countries possessing nuclear weapons when the bigger countries were unwilling to do what was necessary to prevent them from gaining them?

A few nuclear blasts and it would be ‘Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,’ Zimmermann thought coldly.  

“We’re going to need more information,” he said thoughtfully, his hand tracing across the map.  “For the moment, our worst opponents will be America, Europe and Russia.  No one below the equator really counts.”

“We’re talking about taking on a whole planet,” Jung said.  His tone darkened.  “Are we really ready for this?”

Zimmermann smiled.  “The Wehrmacht can lick anything,” he said, revealing his origins as a lowly panzer-driver.  “But you’re right; an entire planet requires special handling.”

Jung shrugged.  “If I was in their place, I’d nuke the Portals as soon as they formed,” he said.  “Will a nuclear blast translate itself back through the Portal?”

“Unknown,” Zimmermann said.  “I’ll make a note of it.”  He tapped his computer, sending a request to Doctor Rommel.  “Radio does not come through the Portal, so we might have coordination problems.”

He smiled.  Brainstorming with Jung was just like old times.  “I think we’d better make certain that we open portals in places they’re reluctant to nuke,” he said.  “In our world, the Americans were reluctant to use nuclear weapons on San Francisco and New Orleans, even when that might have reversed the course of the war.  By the time they did, it was too late to use them.”

Jung tapped the map.  “They used them on Atlanta,” he reminded him.  “Open a Portal near a city?”

“They will be unable to guess where we might open a portal,” Zimmermann said.  He allowed himself a quick chuckle.  “They will have to be on the alert at all times, while we…”

“What’s to stop them opening portals of their own?”  Jung asked.  “Where do they stand on this sort of science?”

“There’s no way that they could duplicate the achievements of the Greater German Reich,” Zimmermann said warningly.  “Off the record, it’s a possibility, I admit.”

“We won’t be able to snatch all of their bases in one swoop,” Jung said.  “We’re going to be fighting a conventional campaign on very…odd supply lines.”

Zimmermann nodded.  “We’re going to need a full mobilisation,” he said.  “We’re going to have to move things through the Portals as quickly as we can, setting up Luftwaffe bases on the far side, and concentrating on expanding as rapidly as possible.”  He shook his head.  “I think, in fact, that our main priority should be to seize America, Europe, Russia and the Middle East.”

Jung lifted an eyebrow.  “There will be problems with that,” he said.  “Why the Middle East?”

“They get most of their oil from there,” Zimmermann said.  “They seem to have failed to develop power cells or fusion power.  Everyone knows that Arabs can’t fight, so…”

He shrugged.  Jung nodded; the Arabs had been delighted to have been given the contract for aiding in the extermination of the Jews…and horrified to have been exterminated themselves in 1970.  After Mecca and the other cities had been razed to the ground and the ground deliberately poisoned, hardly any were left to protest against the settlers moving in to take over the ground.  

“We need more information as well,” Zimmermann said.  “Perhaps if we were to launch nuclear strikes at once, directing them against Arab cities…they’re not the sort of breeding stock we want to preserve.  And as for Israel…”

He scowled.  Every year, there were rumours of secret Jews being found, some within the Slavic subhumans, others hidden within America.  It was astonishing how resilient the breed was, even as they wallowed in their inferiority.

“Israel will be burnt off the surface of the planet,” Zimmermann said.

Jung frowned.  “They have defended themselves for years,” he said.  “We should start with nuclear weapons and poison gas, then advance to take possession of the rubble.”

Zimmermann smiled, carrying on the line of advancement.  “Perhaps, if we used missiles launched from the Arab states, we would cause them to lash back at those states.”  He smiled darkly.  “Israel is so small that a few nuclear warheads would completely ruin it.”

Jung coughed.  “There is a problem,” he said.  “Europe in our timeline is a united entity, the Greater German Reich,” he said.  Zimmermann nodded sharply.  “In this timeline, it is not united.”  He tapped the map to explain the point.  “There will be many armies, not one; many air forces, not one.”

“And doubtless many navies as well,” Zimmermann snapped.  “The point is…?”

Jung smiled.  “We will face many different armies,” he said.  “They will be many separate armies, we will be one, but one that will be spread thin.  Even without trying to take the southern lands at first, we will still be spread thin.”

“We can do it,” Zimmermann said.  “Their disunity will only be our strength.”  He smiled, unwilling to allow anything to prevent him from enjoying his one chance to plan a major campaign.  “Now, how many anti-satellite missiles could we get into their world, perhaps an SSTO or two…”

***
Karl Jung left the building late that night, stepping out into Berlin’s main governing complex, overshadowed by the massive building that held the Reichstag, the body that held only a nominal power over the Reich.  The massive headquarters of the three armed forces and the SS, the real rulers of the Reich, were only slightly smaller; technically, in the case of the Luftwaffe, higher.  Field Marshal Goring hadn’t been known for accepting second-best to anyone; only his stroke had ended his attempt to out-build his archrival, Himmler.

He shook his head as he climbed into his car, careful not to say anything aloud.  The SS watched every citizen of Germany like a hawk, from everything from treason to suspected Jewish ancestry.  Few people indeed could cope with such surveillance if they had been born outside the Reich, and Jung knew just how lucky he had been so far – unless, of course, the SS were being really clever or sadistic.

No, he corrected himself.  Given what is at stake, if they had any idea at all that I wasn’t what I claimed to be, they would have tossed me into the cells long ago.

He allowed himself a smile as he drove out of Berlin, sliding onto the autobahn towards one of the small housing complexes for civil servants.  He passed one of Goring’s countless mansions, this one built like an American home, on his way, driving as carefully as he ever had.  Outside the city itself, a man was free…well, freer.

He shook his head as he drove into the compound.  It looked as neat and simple as ever; he was careful when driving into his house.  To have lived the role of a German officer for so long…the slightest mistake could have given him away.  He scowled to himself, wishing that he’d been able to take a wife.  Only sheer chance and daring had placed him within the German ranks, and ironically, had made him useless in the role he’d been planned for.

It was only a moment to step inside the small house, one assigned to him by the state.  It was neat and tidy, intended for a married couple or a single man.  A few moments later he was drinking a glass of beer and reading a chess magazine, wishing that he was somewhere else.  He sighed; what could he do now?

“I wish I knew,” he muttered, and then scowled to himself.  He looked as if he was pouring over a chess problem, but he knew that the bugs wouldn’t see that.  If the computer software designed for audio-discrimination picked it up, he would attract attention.  What role was left for him now?

He shook his head again.  He knew what it meant, what would happen if Zimmermann had his way.  There would be a long period, perhaps a month, perhaps two months, of reconnaissance, learning how the other world worked.  The SS and the Gestapo would carefully feel out the workings of the other world, learning who was important and who was not, locating weapons factories and weapon dumps and making covert contact with groups that would help them.  Even the mighty Wehrmacht would have difficultly holding down an entire world, but with local help they would have less trouble.

In two months at most, the Reich Council would be certain that it would have all the information it needed and the portals set up.  It would take them time to mass all of the troops in the right locations, but who was there to fight in their world?  He looked up, his mind passing beyond the roof to outer space…where a series of armed orbital weapons platforms circled the Earth.  Who could hope to defeat them?

And then…invasion.  Thousands of troops, Wehrmacht and SS, bursting through the Portals to take the other world by storm.  Three Portals for Europe; three for America; three for Russia and one for the Middle East, joined by a hail of nuclear bombardment for the so-called Third World.  The world, unaware, without having the slightest idea of what was coming, would be totally surprised.

Jung shook his head slowly, sipping his beer and thinking.  One thing that was true of all armies, both American and German, even the dreaded Waffen-SS, was that they were not always ready for war at a moment’s notice.  He was confident that the other world would have its own rapid reaction forces, but would they have time to get into position without warning?

No, he thought, they won’t.  Unless I warn them first…

The thought scared him; he wasn’t afraid to admit that.  He’d been within the heart of the Reich for so long that he’d almost forgotten his real name.  He’d once had hopes of contacting the German Resistance, but he was now convinced that that the organisation no longer existed – if it ever had.  There was nothing like victory to destroy opposition…and the Third Reich had been victorious indeed.  He was alone.

***
General Neumann rather enjoyed his job as one of the Wehrmacht’s primer commanders, even though the Wehrmacht hadn’t gone to war properly for years.  His main experience, apart from commanding kill-sweeps from America to Afghanistan, had been conducting the massive drills that put the Wehrmacht though its paces, developing new weapons and techniques.  The one thing he’d missed was the real fighting, against an opponent who was as determined to win as he was.

Perhaps I’ve finally found one, he thought, as he read through the briefing paper.  The strategy might be the work of Doctor Zimmermann, but the tactical work was his.  Some parts of it were worrying; the Wehrmacht had never been away from its logistics train since…well, since 1960, when it had advanced into America.

“You do understand some of the logistical problems?”  He asked, after reading through the paper and thinking on it over a good meal.  “They are not likely to be destroyed in the opening blows, you know.”

Doctor Zimmermann nodded.  “Logistics are going to be one of the problems,” he agreed.  “We can solve that by moving supplies through the pipeline at once.”

“Pipeline is the operative word,” General Neumann said.  He paced the room, smoking one of the cigars Cuba sent to the Reich every year in gratitude for freeing them from American neglect.  He smiled as he smoked; if the Americans had done more to win friends in the Caribbean, they might not have had such a bad position when the war began.

He tapped the map of the other world.  “The problem,” he said, “is that they are likely to have plans of their own.  I admit – this will be an unusual tactical problem for both sides, but at the end it boils down to a river crossing problem, one where for whatever reason you can’t send people across the river directly.”

He tapped his cigar into the rubbish bin.  Lighting a second one, he continued.  “That’s the main problem,” he said.  “We have to hold the end of the Portal; they have to take the end and sit on it.  Tell me…is it possible to close down a Portal?”

“The team in Cambridge doesn’t know,” Doctor Zimmermann admitted.  “The Portal can be closed down from this end, of course, simply by turning off the power.  However, we don’t know if it’s possible to force one to collapse.”

“Find out,” General Neumann snapped.  “That’s what they will be trying to do.  Hell, they might just toss a nuke through the Portal, which would destroy the generator.  We’d better move ABM lasers through as soon as we can, just to prevent them bombing us from orbit.”

“They have no significant space-based presence,” Doctor Zimmermann assured him.  He held up a hand.  “Yes, I agree; that’s stupid of them.  Still, it makes our lives easier, so why complain?”

“I dislike it when the enemy does what I want,” General Neumann quoted.  “Field Marshal Rommel, on the breakthrough into Baku.  Logistics are going to be the main problem; we’ll have to move supplies through as fast as we can.”

He shook his head slowly.  “Assuming that they don’t discover us, we can take some time to build up supplies on the other side,” he said.  “That would make our logistics much simpler.”  He scowled.  “Frankly, if we have to slip Panzers – or more likely assault troops – in one by one, we might never gain a bridgehead.”

“We could toss a nuke through first,” Doctor Zimmermann pointed out.  “Unfortunately, what we don’t know is what will happen to the Portal.  Will the blast go through the Portal?  We don’t know.”

“True,” General Neumann agreed.  “However, there are also political considerations.”

Doctor Zimmermann lifted an eyebrow.  “I fail to see how,” he said.  “I know for a fact that we have no political ties with anyone over there.”

General Neumann shook his head.  “You’re missing the point,” he said.  “Over there, there’s a Germany; one that lost the war.  Do we treat it as a friend, like Prussia or one of the other German states, or as hostile territory?”

Chapter Five: Hunting The Snark

Cambridge
England, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

“It’s a great pleasure to have you here, Mr Rogers,” Doctor Thande said.  The British scientist was as fascinated as Rogers himself was with the strange energy readings.  “I’m the local expert from the High Energy Research Lab, University of Cambridge.”

Rogers, who’d been brought up to believe that only the best and brightest went to Cambridge, was astonished at all of the students flocking around the universities.  The massive buildings were as busy as any back in the States; there were thousands of students, of all races and colours.

“So you’re not responsible for it?”  Rogers asked.  He scowled.  “It would have been so nice to have been able to solve everything at once.”

Thande shook his head.  “I’m afraid not,” he said.  “I did a full check around, with every university, and once I managed to convince them that it wasn’t some elaborate attempt to steal their research, they were quite cooperative.”

Rogers blinked.  “That happen a lot round here?”

Thande snorted.  “You’d be amazed.  Publication is the holy grail of scientists here; to be beaten by someone who had no connection with the research team is rather galling.”  He laughed.  “If I publish anything along these lines within the next decade, everyone will say that I stole it from someone.”

Rogers laughed.  “Why not just ask the Joint Chiefs or whoever you have to step in and ask?”  He asked.  “Can’t your government enforce any disclosure regulations?”

“What, the States are good at that?”  Thande asked.  He smiled.  “Quite frankly, even if whoever is doing the experiments is doing them for commercial research, they can get quite uncooperative if you try to force them to tell anyone.  And then, if it was a MOD project – and I think that’s what you meant, by the way – there would be secrecy laws in place; they could lose all of their funding if they breathed a word to me.

“However, we checked with the MOD, and they’re not involved,” he concluded.  “So, whoever is behind it, it’s not official.”

Rogers sighed.  All this bonhomie got on his nerves.  “And no one can run an experiment without someone in authority knowing about it?”  He asked.  “In the States, we have problems with idiots doing that all the time.  I keep expecting to wake up and discover that some fool has actually made antimatter in a university.”

Thande hesitated.  “It’s a possibility, I admit,” he said.  “However, the energy requirements to do something like that would be awesome.”

“Well beyond even a single dedicated reactor,” Rogers said.  That was one of the more worrying aspects of the whole crisis; he’d run the maths and didn’t like even the most optimistic solution.  “So, we have an unknown group running something in the region, and we can’t locate them.”

Thande smiled.  “I understand that it’s going to be hard,” he said, “but why can’t we simply triangulate the source?”

Rogers sighed.  “It’s either moving around or its bloody peculiar,” he said.  “We don’t even begin to understand how the source, whatever it is, works.”

“A non-localised phenomena,” Thande said.  He thought for a long moment.  “But it does remain in the same general area, does it not?”  Rogers nodded.  “Then if we search that area, we might find something.”

Rogers shook his head.  “I don’t even pretend to understand how it works,” he said.  “The problem is that the energy covers” – he unfurled a map – “pretty much the entire region.”

Thande strolled over to the window and peered out.  “I don’t see any flying saucer out here,” he said.  “I don’t even see a crashed Aircraft Carrier.  Do you?”

Rogers glared at him malevolently.  “You know what I mean,” he snapped.  “This energy, I’m convinced, is a by-product – I assume you know what that means – of whatever process stole the fleet.  There are thousands of lives at stake, Doctor Thande; we don’t have time for jokes.”

Thande smiled, refusing to be abashed.  “I quite understand,” he said.  “What we need is to localise the source.  If we set up monitoring stations, very close around the location, we can triangulate and close in.”

Rogers considered.  “If we’re monitoring the eddies and flows, we might not be able to locate a source,” he said.  “It’s non-localised.”

Thande leered at him.  “Perhaps you’ve been approaching it from the wrong angle,” he said.  “You were talking about formations made out of gravity, right?”  Rogers nodded.  “Simple logic suggests that the energy releases you’ve been tracking aren’t the process – whatever it is – itself, but the by-effects.”

“I said that,” Rogers said.

“Not quite,” Thande said.  “The by-effects are clearly not released intentionally; I would go so far as to suggest that what we have is the gravitational equivalent of a hose that’s somehow broken free of its owner, spraying water everywhere.  Got me so far?”  Rogers nodded.  “All we have to do is monitor for a few days…and then we’ll know what they’re doing, or at least where they’re doing it.  Speaking of which…do you have any idea of who they are?”

Rogers sighed.  “Only the answer I didn’t dare tell the President,” he said.  “Extraterrestrials.”

Thande, much to his private relief, didn’t laugh.  “That was my conclusion as well,” he said.  “There was a television show, some time ago, about aliens coming to Earth that way.  It’s quite possible that they’re actually doing that, using gravity to bend two locations until they’re touching.  In which case, they wouldn’t need starships or FTL drive, just cross from one point to the other.”

Rogers smiled.  “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you,” he said.  “Any other important points?”

“Just one,” Thande said.  “How much of this whole crazy scenario do you think I should tell the Dean, let alone my Lords and Masters from Ten Downing Street?”

Rogers hesitated.  “I thought that they had cleared you for this,” he said.  “Don’t they already know?”

Thande shook his head.  “They know that you picked up strange energies,” he said.  “They don’t know anything about aliens, and – if I know my lords and masters – they won’t want to know.  Do we tell them?”  He paused dramatically.  “And, at the same time, do we ask for a CP Detail?”

Rogers blinked.  “Corporal punishment?”

Thande gave him a dry look.  “Close-protection,” he said.  “If we’re driving around the country with multimillion pounds worth of equipment, then we might need someone to help look after it, such as the SAS.”

Rogers had heard of them.  “Yes, if they’ll come,” he said.  “We could use them.”

***
It had actually taken several days before the grand experiment could begin.  A problem that occurred to neither of them was that Cambridge simply lacked the required equipment to watch for the specific energy particles – until they started looking for equipment.  One portable system was being built at Oxford – a coincidence that made Thande very paranoid until they found out that it was for something totally unrelated – but there were no others within Britain itself.  The negotiations to borrow one from the Japanese and Harvard University took several days, which Rogers spent getting to know Cambridge better.

“There have been a lot of kidnaps around here recently,” he commented, one night in the small house.  Professor Thande had kindly offered to put him up for the time he was spending in Cambridge.  “Is that normal?”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Thande said.  “Are the UFOs kidnapping people as well as ships?”

Rogers frowned.  The news of the missing ships had finally broken upon a world that had been inclined to regard it as an elaborate April Fool’s joke.  There was a great deal of panic everywhere, from America – where gun-purchasing had skyrocketed – to China, where they were worried about the unknown event kidnapping their ships as well.  In later years, Rogers suspected, everyone would be talking about a South China Seas Triangle, but for the moment there was panic.  The military remain on alert, but against what?

He scowled.  “Do you think that that’s likely?”

“I don’t know,” Thande admitted.  “Unfortunately, many of the students who come here have the reputation of being very rich indeed, and kidnappings have been known to happen.  They always increase during the start of term; we get all the weirdo people coming here just for amusement, or even for serious studies.  The police, sooner or later, manage to catch the perpetrators.”

Rogers considered.  “And have any of the ones since the ships disappeared been solved?”

Thande shrugged.  “Such information is rarely made public,” he said.  “Unless it was one of my students who disappeared, I wouldn’t know about it.”

“It stands to reason that the unknowns must have human agents,” Rogers said.  “Are there any unusual people around here?”

Thande chuckled.  “Which people would you class as ‘unusual?’  He asked.  “The men who walk around wearing bell-toppers?  The black man who walks around in a Leopold skin and has three times been stopped by the police for indecent exposure?  The girls who walk around in bra and panties and nothing else?  The women who wear things that make Burkas look revealing?”

“All right, all right,” Rogers said.  “I take your point.”

“It’s a bloody Mardi Gras here,” Thande said.  “If we want to catch people out of place…we’ll have to look for the sober people.”

Rogers scowled, thinking fast.  “You don’t have any security architecture around here,” he commented.  “Anyone could be coming in and you’d never know about it.”

Thande nodded.  “This is still based on theory,” he said.  “Still, it will add some importance to the request for a close-protection detail.”

“I suppose,” Rogers said.  “Can you ask the local police for any information they might have?”

“I’m going to have to,” Thande said.  “If I can talk my supervisor into asking them, then they’ll cooperate.”

***
Sofia Nixon was bored, something that happened, on average, three times a week.  Her classes didn’t start until next week, so she had nothing to do.  Cambridge was supposed to be a great party town, but everyone – everyone she was interested in, at any rate – was too busy getting ready for their own classes to spend time with her.

“All right, I’m off for a run,” she shouted to her flatmate, an outrageously gay man from Manchester.  When they’d met, she hadn’t been sure if she should have been insulted by his lack of interest in her long blonde hair and shapely body, but she’d learnt to accept him very quickly.  Unlike many men, he didn’t even try to eye her in the shower.

“Piss off,” he shouted, still working through his course assignments.  Sofia laughed and headed out of the flat, checking that she had her keys and portable GPS system.  Her father had insisted on her keeping that with her; it was easy to get lost in a strange town and it wasn’t always wise to reveal that you were lost.  She’d run outside the town before, heading along one of the nature walks that she’d seen long ago.

“Time to beat my personal best,” she muttered to herself, looking up towards the end of the track.  There was no one else around, no one to slow her down.  She laughed and threw herself forward, running up the track with her heart pounding, so glad that she was alive…and then a rope came up around her feet and she tripped over, hitting the ground hard enough to stun her.

A voice barked an instruction in a language she couldn’t understand.  Before she could scream or scramble to her feet, she felt a prick behind her ear and her body went limp.  My God, I’m going to be raped, she thought, feeling strangely unable to panic.  The man – she hadn’t even gotten a look at either of them – picked her up with ease, carrying her back into the woods.  Her head flopped from side to side, the strange limpness making it impossible to move at all, but she didn’t see anything at all.

Another command.  She thought that the language was German.  The man carrying her put her down on the ground and she flinched, expecting to feel hands clawing at her breasts and thighs, but instead her captors searched her roughly, but professionally, not even taking the time to cop a feel.

She scowled inwardly, not even able to make a noise, as her mobile phone and the GPS system were confiscated and dropped in a metal box.  She cursed mentally; there would be no location signal from there, no way that the police could track her down.  Her captors rolled her over onto her front, checking her rear pockets and removing her purse, before snapping a pair of handcuffs on her wrists.  They picked her up again, without showing the slightest trace of difficulty, and carried her onwards until they reached a black van.

Her head felt funny; the drug was starting to wear off.  Before she could say anything, the men placed her inside the van and handcuffed her to the side of a chair in the van.  She almost giggled; how dangerous did they think she was?  Unable to move, unable to even talk as they fixed what felt like an iron gag across her mouth, she was helpless.

“Do not move and you will not be harmed,” her captor promised her, in English.  He had a strange accent and she tried to remember it, in hopes that she would be able to identify it later.  The men got into the front seat and drove off; she tried to keep track of how long the trip was, but she lost track after counting over a thousand seconds.  It felt like hours and it felt like minutes.

The van doors opened and she was unlocked from everything, but the handcuffs holding her hands behind her back.  She looked around, trying to work out where she was, and saw only a massive warehouse room.  Her captors seemed to have an entire operation going on; she saw several men, all armed with large weapons she didn’t recognise.

“There is no possibility of escape,” her captor said, as he pulled her out of the van.  “Come with me.”

He held his grip on her arm, forcing her to follow him through the door.  She stopped dead as she saw what lay within; a glowing white shimmering square of light in the air.  As her captor pulled her towards it, she started to struggle, trying to escape.  A single slap across her head prevented her from struggling further and he picked her up and tossed her through the wall of light.  She screamed as she…fell into a different room, landing hard on her rump.

For a long moment, her brain refused to grasp what she was seeing.  There was a massive room around her, with several men and two women – perfect twins – eyeing her.  The entire room was filled with equipment she didn’t recognise, but she recognised the flag on the wall – a Nazi flag from the Second World War.

“Welcome to our timeline,” her captor said, in his rough English.  “There is absolutely no chance of escape.”  He leered at her as she felt her bowels loosen.  “And even if you did escape, where would you go?”

***
Rogers was immediately impressed with Sergeant Dwynn, SAS.  He was less impressed with the concept of a low-key approach, even though he understood the point.  The President was demanding answers; Congress was putting the pressure on to supply answers he didn’t have.

“To hear them talk, anyone would think we had dead aliens in the basement,” the President had commented to him, angrily.  “We need results, quickly.”

“We don’t want to be noticed,” Thande snapped, waving a hand at the three lorries.  “These lorries are not going to be noticed, Mr Rogers; they will blend in with the traffic.”

Rogers considered the lorries and decided that Thande had a point.  The lorries wouldn’t be looked at twice by any self-respecting car thief.

“And we will be able to protect you more in unmarked vehicles with forces close by,” Dwynn injected.  “Wonderful time for forest drills, you know.”

Rogers scowled.  It was decided that Rogers, Thande and Dwynn would take the first vehicle; the other two would be driven by two of Thande’s students and some additional SAS support.  Rogers relaxed slightly as they drove off into the countryside, outside the town.  

“You have a lovely verdant heritage,” he said.

“So the bleeding-heart environmentalists keep telling me,” Thande commented, as they pulled into a lay-by.  “If I hear one more word about how wonderful it was before mankind invented fire, I’m going to scream.”

Rogers nodded as he powered up the device.  “I understand what you mean,” he said.

Results came in slowly, even with the triangulation.  The energy surges seemed to be strangely random, blinking in and out of existence without any sign of where they came from.  Even so, they were picking up a great deal more information from being so close to the source, whatever it was.

Rogers shook his head.  It was like trying to locate the origins of the Northern Lights.  Only his conviction that the source was somehow artificial keep him trying to collate the data, trying to locate the centre of the disturbance.

“We might have to move closer,” Thande commented.  “It’s somewhere within that region there.”

Rogers peered over his shoulder.  “That’s a square mile,” he said.  “How do we locate it within that?”

Thande smiled.  “Well, for a start, its not within the town itself,” he said.  “That does rather narrow it down a bit, doesn’t it?”

Rogers nodded, automatically dumping the information back to America and London.  “Then we should move closer,” he said.  He peered at the map.  “If we go to that location, and the others go there and there, then…”

His cell phone rang.  Rogers cursed and pulled it out of his pocket, examining it for the number.  It was the NRO office in Washington; not something he could afford to ignore.  “Rogers,” he said, opening the phone.  “What’s up?”

“Sir, there’s been a development with the satellites,” his assistant said.  “We’re now tracking two more sources; America and Saudi Arabia.”

Rogers felt his mouth fall open.  “Whoever’s doing this has moved to America and Saudi?”  He asked.  “What the hell are they?”

Chapter Six: Forwards and Backwards

Reich MOS Research Laboratory
Cambridge, Britain (TimeLine C)

“I think that we can make some decisions now,” Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt said.  “What exactly do we do now?”

Werner coughed.  “One good thing is that our current base of operations remains undetected,” he said.  “According to records we hacked out of their Internet, it is owned by a company in Japan that is using it as a tax dodge.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t even begin to understand it.  However, no matter how secluded it is, it may be broken open at any moment.”

Roth nodded.  “We needed to kidnap people,” he agreed.  “However, it will attract attention.”  

He paused for effect, knowing that he was briefing Doctor Zimmermann and his aide as well.  “We have twenty-seven people, all kidnapped over the past week,” he said.  “In all cases, we took them far from our base and carried them through the Portal.  Unfortunately, none of them knew much of use.”

Zimmermann lifted an eyebrow.  “No military personnel then?”  He asked.  “No one who might be able to give us the tactical rundown on their forces?”

“I forbade trying to snatch military or police personnel,” Roth said.  “They might be able to resist.  The last thing we need is someone escaping and raising the alarm.  Even if they lack the ability to understand what’s actually happening, the news that there is a band of kidnappers will alarm them.  So, we stay with the ones who will attract less attention.

“Unfortunately, none knew anything useful, except for one girl who claimed to have protested against a war in Iraq – that’s part of the Middle East settlements to us.  As it happens, we have been able to collect a great deal of information either through raiding their Internet, or through browsing at the public libraries.”

He nodded at Werner.  “One area in which they do have an advantage is computers,” Werner admitted.  “Their computers are considerably better than ours, at least in some areas, and their computer security is better than ours.  We…have a controlled system for our Internet; they do not.  They have thousands of people who think its funny to create viruses; we torture those who do to death.”

He scowled.  “And with good reason,” he said.  “Fortunately, we have fewer access points into our system and now we have security like theirs here as well.”

Zimmermann nodded.  “Then we can start the offensive once the first groups are in position,” he said.  “What about the current project for opening new Portals?”

Doctor Rommel coughed.  “We have two new Portals open,” he said.  “One of them links into the American South, which, you may remember, we found many allies during the Invasion of 1960.  The other one links into Saudi Arabia, which is one of the Arab states that was destroyed after the Americans fell.  In both cases, the Portals have been opened in buildings and carefully concealed.”

Karl Jung, Zimmermann’s assistant, raised a hand.  “How long does it take to shut down a Portal?”  He asked.  “We may have to do that to prevent them from coming in to our dimension.”

Rommel seemed astonished that an aide could come up with a relevant question, Roth realised.  He concealed his amusement; it was an important question and one that he’d been wondering about himself.  If the enemy gained a foothold in their dimension, he knew, the Wehrmacht planned to detonate nuclear weapons under the Portal.

“Around five minutes,” Rommel said.  “That’s the safe way.  Desynchronising the Portal is quicker and makes it impossible to cross.”

Jung nodded.  “The Wehrmacht will handle the invasion,” Roth said.  “The question is; now what?”

Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt nodded.  “The question is simple,” he said.  “Do we attempt to send more people into their society, either as agents or spies, or do we close contact now until the invasion is launched?”

“We keep sending people in,” Jung said.  “We have to try and figure out what they’re doing in areas that even they aren’t stupid enough to broadcast to the world.”

Roth frowned.  “That would be difficult,” he said.  “We now can forge any of their notes and coins with ease.  However, many of their transactions are done through the Internet or credit cards, and we can forget about copying that.  What we really need is a willing ally.”

Jung blinked.  Zimmermann beat him to the question.  “We cannot forge records within their banks?”

“I would hesitate to try,” Werner said.  “The banks are very dependent upon their computers, so they have all kinds of security systems built in, from write-only memory to read-only content.”

Roth lifted an eyebrow.  Computer operations were not often taught to SS officers.  “Someday you’ll have to explain the difference,” he said.  “However…”

Werner grinned, only too happy to explain something to an SS officer.  “A write-only memory is changed by the mere act of accessing a copy,” he said.  “If we enter those files, they’ll know we’re there.  Further, a read-only memory, which is something different, cannot be changed and any attempt to do so will ruin the system.”

“I see,” Roth said.  “Brigadefuehrer?”

“I think that we have no choice, but to move our people into the region,” Schmitt said.  “I understand the urgency for security, but we need to know more.”

Zimmermann nodded.  “And, of course, we need to know targets.  We’ll be using nuclear weapons on their Third World; we want to kill off all the unproductive masses and scare hell out of the productive ones.”

Roth scowled.  There was something about that approach he found very inelegant, even though he was confident that it would work.  “Do we look for allies, then?”  He asked.  “Can we take the risk of exposing ourselves?”

Jung frowned.  “If we had more time, we might be able to move some of our space-based resources into the mix,” he said.  “Or, perhaps…”

“Not a good idea,” Rommel said.  “Building a Portal in space would be difficult.”

Roth coughed loudly.  “Returning to the matter at hand,” he said, “we’ll have to risk exposing ourselves, or we won’t find allies.”

Werner made a face.  “The Nazi Party of that dimension is a dead duck,” he said, his words skirting on Nazi blasphemy.  Roth, who knew that some of the attempts within the SS to return to the old religion were stronger than outsiders knew, scowled.  “We won’t have allies there, Herr Schmitt.”

Schmitt ignored the rudeness.  “I take your point,” he said.  “Still, they could hardly have fallen so far as to have embraced mud men and niggers.  Why, in America alone; thousands aided us to wipe out or return to slavery every last nigger.”

Jung smiled.  “All the more reason to have an operative base in America,” he said.  “Herr Doctor; I volunteer for the mission.”

Zimmermann smiled.  “It’s not something we’ve had much practice with, isn’t it?”  He asked.  “But you’ve served in America.”

“I’ve served in Britain,” Roth said.  He allowed some concern into his voice.  “Herr Jung; it won’t be the America you remember.”

Jung nodded.  “I understand that,” he said.  “But if we were to get our people into the station, then we would have a better understanding of what they are and what they will fight for.”

Roth remembered some of the descriptions he’d read of the Middle East.  He didn’t understand it; if a powerful nation – and the alternate America was powerful indeed – didn’t like the Middle East and the so-called allies there, then why not simply stamp on them as hard as possible?  Nuclear weapons had done the job in their universe; the silence of the grave floated over regions unsettled by German colonists.

“I have a feeling that if we nuke the Middle East in their timeline, half of America will stand and cheer,” he said.  “Still, we cannot rely on getting help from them.”  He frowned.  “That female student seems to know stuff that might be helpful, perhaps I should ask.”

Schmitt nodded.  “I think that I will recommend that we expand our operations within the other Cambridge,” he said.  “The Reich council will approve or disapprove, as they will.”

***
Sofia Nixon had spent nearly a week in the cell, her hand firmly linked to the wall.  It was overkill, one of the SS guards had admitted, but they didn’t take chances.  She smiled bitterly, wondering what the point was.  Naked, chained, helpless…just how much of a threat did they think she was?  

She’d been given a bed and some books to read and she’d gone through them all.  She hadn’t believed them at first, when they’d told her that they lived in a different dimension, but she had finally – reluctantly – begun to believe.  She hadn’t been raped, or molested, and she had been well fed, but the questions they were asking her made no sense for any other context.

“I’m a bloody student,” she’d snapped at one, her anger overriding her sense of self-preservation.  “How do you expect me to know about military tactics?”

The SS guard had whacked her with a strange whip, right across her breasts.  It had hurt like nothing on Earth and made her cry, before returning to the questions.  Government, politics, weapons, geopolitical relations…they seemed to expect her to know everything.  They’d even spent several hours trying to interrogate her on Russian politics, and the post-Nazi era.

“You were all wiped out,” she’d screamed.  The guards hadn’t hurt her for that; she was starting to realise that one of the tools they’d attached to her was a lie detector.  She’d been whipped for lying, but not for telling the truth.  She’d told them everything she knew about the local government and the British Government, but it hadn’t been enough for them.

There was a knock on the door.  The SS guards were surprisingly courteous when they weren’t actively interrogating her.  “Come in,” she shouted, and wished that she had dared to scream ‘go away’ instead.  The door opened and one of the SS men stepped inside.

“Good afternoon,” he said, in flawless English.  One thing she suspected was that they were learning English from her, at least to mimic her accent.  “How are you today?”

She glared at him as much as she dared.  “I could be worse, I suppose,” she said.  “I could be a slave for a wealthy Arab.”

The Nazi shrugged.  “I am Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth,” he said.  Sofia glared at him.  “Do you understand what has happened here?”

Sofia scowled at him, wondering if she could loop her chain around his neck before he could beat her to death.  “You’re Nazis from a world where Germany won the war,” she said.  “My boyfriend was very fond of Harry Harrison novels; it was why I dumped him.”

“Really,” Roth said.  He didn’t sound as if he cared.  “I have an offer to make to you.”

“Roll over and spread my legs, in exchange you will refrain from killing me?”  Sofia asked.  She knew that her tone was more than insolent, but she no longer cared.  “I’m already at your mercy, am I not?”

Roth looked her up and down.  As naked as she was, she still had the feeling he simply didn’t get her body.  “Yes, you are,” he said, and his tone was pregnant with menace.  “You may be useful, or you may be disposable.  There is a brothel nearby for the Wehrmacht and the British Union of Fascists; you would be considered prime horseflesh there.”

Sofia felt her nose twitch.  “And then there are the colonial administers, the people in America and Africa, who would be delighted to stop spending time with inferiors.  Or you could be placed into the breeding program for more children, like many Aryan women who refused to accept their place in the New Order.  Or you could be used for medical experimentation; our medical science is more advanced than yours, you know.”

“And how was I supposed to know that?”  Sofia demanded.  “If you want me, take me!”

She flopped theatrically onto the bed, as she’d seen in a blue movie once, and spread her legs.  She was a little disappointed when Roth didn’t respond.  “I need you to advise me,” Roth said.  “For that, I need your willing cooperation.  I will know if you tell a lie, but I need you volunteering your assistance.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll have gorilla-features out there come in and rape me?”  Sofia asked, trying hard to remain calm.  Sheer panic kept her focused; she didn’t want to scream or lose it at all.  “What do you want me to tell you?”

Roth smiled.  “Everything,” he said.  He held up her purse.  “How does one of these work?”

“A purse?”  Sofia asked, and then understood as he took out a credit card.  A sudden hope flew through her; if someone tried to use the card, they would attract attention – if someone had noticed that she was missing.  “It’s a credit card.”

Roth nodded.  “Explain to me how this works,” he said, passing over the GPS system.  “What exactly does it do?”

Sofia explained the idea, at least as far as she understood it.  Roth understood; the Germans had something similar.  “A final question,” he said, after a long discussion.  “How many groups are there with interests like ours?”

Sofia blinked.  The question was so wide that it covered too much.  “I don’t understand,” she said.  “Nazi groups in Germany?”

“Everywhere,” Roth said.  “Possible allies.”

Sofia wished, for the first time, that she knew enough about far-right groups to mislead him.  “There’s supposed to be none back in Germany,” she said.  “There’s the National Front here, but I don’t know anything about them other than their inane chant of ‘wogs out, wogs out.’”

“What is a wog?”  Roth asked.  Sofia shrugged.  “Do you have any idea how to get in touch with them?”

Sofia smiled.  If Roth tried, he was likely to tip off all sorts of alarms.  “They’ll have a website,” she said.  “Access it, and that will give you their address.”

***
Karl Jung studied the reports from the opened Portal in America and scowled.  He’d hoped that the Portal would have been opened near Washington, but someone in the Wehrmacht had shown more sense than he was comfortable with them showing; the Portal was in Mississippi.  Apparently, the first Portal, opened at night time, had opened into a rubbish dump, but the advance scouts had found an abandoned building and the coordinates had been moved to there.

Doctor Zimmermann gave him a sharp look and Jung felt a tremble in his chest.  Did the man suspect him now?  Had he been too eager to go?

“Are you sure that you can manage in the alternate America?”  Zimmermann asked.  “Have you been outfitted with the suicide equipment?”

Jung nodded.  They’d decided that signals would be noticed by whatever security measures the other side possessed, but some augmentation, including a suicide implant, would pass unnoticed.  As long as they did nothing to attract attention, they could move around like a bunch of tourists.  

“Yes, I have,” he said.  “What we need is more people telling us how to be German tourists.”

Zimmermann smiled.  “Yes, that would be useful,” he said.  “We’re going to have to do much more research, perhaps even recruiting the help of the local criminals, before we can insert people into their society for the long-term.”

Jung shrugged, playing his role.  “Their society won’t exist for the long term,” he reminded him.  “The damage we will inflict upon them will merely make that easy.”

Zimmermann nodded.  “That was a good idea of yours, burying bases,” he said.  “Now we have some large tents set up in the middle of Saudi Arabia – what a stupid name for a country – we can start moving equipment through and then start moving the weapons into place.”

Jung smiled.  He wished that he’d been able to get a list of bases, but such information was restricted.  Nearly two weeks after the first Portals had been opened, there was already considerable, if restricted presence on the other side.  The Gestapo might not suspect him for learning anything, but they wouldn’t let him go through the Portals until it was too late.  

“Have they decided upon a date for the invasion?”  He asked.  “If we have to start moving weapons around, we’ll need to prioritise.”

“The Reich Council is working on it,” Zimmermann said.  “Half of them want to move at once; the other half wants to wait until we have better intelligence.”  He smiled.  “Fortunately, it’s so easy to learn what the other side has in the way of weapons…”

Jung lifted an eyebrow.  “Am I allowed to ask how the balance falls?”

“Oh, we’re better armed and we have better tanks,” Zimmermann said.  Jung scowled inwardly; Zimmermann might just be giving him the party line, just in case he fell into enemy hands.  “The downside is that we won’t be fighting a single Reich, but a lot of minor countries.”

Hey, Jung thought.  That had been his point.  He showed no sign of his annoyance on his face.  “And space-based weapons?”

“We have a vast advantage there, if we could actually get anything into orbit,” Zimmermann assured him.  “Their collective ability to launch anything into space is utterly stupid; they can barely lift a couple of satellites per launch.  The big station in the Congo launches more daily than they do in a year.

“On the other hand, we won’t have any launch facilities there,” Zimmermann said.  “I have hopes that we will be able to tap into their GPS system, which is like ours, but I suspect that General Neumann will want us to take all of their satellites down with lasers.  Once we have some secure beachheads, we can get an SSTO through and start putting up satellites of our own, perhaps even some space-based lasers and projectiles.”

He tapped the map.  “You will be careful, won’t you?”  He asked, and Jung was astonished to hear a note of genuine concern in Zimmermann’s voice.  “Losing you would be irritating.”

You don’t know the half of it, Jung thought.  “Yes, Herr Zimmermann,” he said.  “I will take very good care of myself.”

Chapter Seven: Warning Shots

The White House
Washington DC, USA (TimeLine A)

Steve Rogers had been pleasantly surprised by the reaction of the President – and the Cabinet – to the report from Cambridge, England.  After learning that there were two more…non-localised phenomena, the President had recalled Rogers at once for emergency consultations, sending an F-15 to pick him up from England.  Concorde itself could hardly have moved faster.

“So, we have one fairly…localised…whatever in England,” the National Security Advisor, Gavin Macdonald, said.  “Then we have two more; one in this country and one in the heart of our enemy.”

The President gave Macdonald a sharp look.  The National Security Advisor’s opinion of Saudi Arabia was that it was a nation that could only be improved by a demonstration nuclear strike.  For those trying to reform the nation without invading it, his views were something of a pain.  Rogers, who knew that he was too low to get involved in such a dispute, kept his head down.

“What are they?”  Macdonald demanded.  “Do they present a threat?”

“And if they do,” the Secretary of Defence, Shelia Campbell, said, “how do we get rid of them?”

Rogers scowled inwardly.  It wasn’t a situation he knew how to deal with, even though Professor Thande had offered a few suggestions.  The main problem, of course, was that they didn’t know exactly what was causing the…non-localised phenomena.  If they had known, they could have done something – or so they hoped.

Macdonald scowled.  “More importantly, why haven’t you located the one in the Deep South?”

The President held up a hand to prevent Shelia Campbell and Macdonald coming to verbal blows.  “Doctor Rogers?”

Rogers decided not to correct the President.  “With all due respect, the problems only show up on systems designed to track and locate extremely high frequency bursts of high-order radiation.  What those systems – and the satellites – track, we suspect, are by-products of whatever is causing them to happen.  This is not something as simple or easy as radar technology, sir; this is something that is barely detectable.”

He paused for effect.  “Of the systems that give us any chance at all of detecting the events, there are only three portable units in the world.  Of those, all three are currently zeroing in on the Cambridge event, which is here.”  He unfurled a photograph taken from orbit.  “This factory complex, here.”

Shelia scowled.  Macdonald glared.  “Then why haven’t you investigated?”  He demanded.  “Why are you unwilling to risk investigating the place?”

Rogers fought down the flicker of anger.  “The British have tactical control,” he reminded Macdonald, as calmly as he could.  “Even though we have located the source of the disturbance, we are nowhere nearer to understanding what it is.  We don’t know what will happen; if we send the RAF to bomb it, anything could happen.  One of the prime theories is that it’s a gravitational rupture; in that case it could become very unstable and perhaps even explode in the heart of England.”

The President banged the table.  “These are not good times,” he said, pasting a noble, Presidential expression upon his face.  “Everyone wants to know what happened to the ships, Doctor Rogers.  How do you plan to proceed from here?”

Rogers took a breath.  “I think the only thing we can do is investigate the factory complex,” he said.  “The British have been planning a raid by the SAS, under the anti-terrorism laws they have.  As we believe that the unknowns have human agents - they seem to have been kidnapping people from the surrounding area – we may face opposition.”

Macdonald scowled.  “They might be kidnapping people in the Mississippi as well,” he said grimly.  “Have there been any results?”

The Secretary of Homeland Defence, Robin Carter, frowned.  “I’ve found nothing,” she said.  “That said, people go missing all the time.  They could have taken a few dozen squatters from the east of the state and no one would have noticed.  In all the panic over the missing ships, anything might have happened – and we might not have noticed.”

“Balls,” the President commented.  “And that leaves, of course, Saudi Arabia.  What do we tell them?”

“And do they already know?”  Macdonald asked.  “For all we know, one or more of the Princes might be involved with the scumbags.  Kidnapping people is pretty much their stock in trade.”

“I don’t think they will,” Rogers said, when the President invited him to speak.  “Whoever – whatever – is behind this, they don’t seem to be interested in talking.”  He paused.  “On the other hand, we think we know where the formation is; inside a large group of tents south of their capital.”

Macdonald scowled.  “And you can’t do that for the one we have?”

“It’s the only place in the desert that even begins to stand out,” Rogers said.

The President closed his eyes for a long moment.  “What exactly do we tell the people?”  He said.  “Hell; what do we do?”

“If the British intend to deal with their…whatever it is, then let them,” Campbell suggested.  “In the meantime, we can watch carefully for the one in the Mississippi; there has to be some trace of what it is.”

Rogers, who wouldn’t have bet money on it, scowled.  “There’s no trace at all of the one in Cambridge,” he said.  “We only know its there because we triangulated it with great care.”

Macdonald scowled.  “Why can’t you just build more of the scanners?”  He asked.  “If we have to find more of them, then we’ll need more.”

“There are currently three portable scanners in the world,” Rogers asked, deciding not to point out that he’d already mentioned that once.  “These, sir, are not nuclear warheads; they are precise and complex devices that take some time to build.  I have taken the liberty of asking several places to start work on building them, but it will be outside of a month before we see the first one.  Oxford University might be able to put one together in Britain, but that will take time.”

The President sighed.  “Robin, I want Homeland Security to work with the FBI and the local police,” he said.  “If anything odd happens in Mississippi, I want to know about it.  Have some plain-clothed officers down there, looking out for anything odd.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Robin said.  “A thought; what do we tell the Governor?”

“I’ll talk to Governor Brogan later today,” the President said.  “Also; the British Prime Minister, who will be taking the risk.  As for the Saudis…I think we’d better avoid mentioning anything to them until we know what’s going on.”

***
As soon as the room had emptied, the President stood up and wandered over to the windows, looking out over the White House lawn.  He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the world settling down around his shoulders.  What was happening?  Why?

His gaze passed over to the families holding a vigil outside the White House, praying for the safe return of their relatives.  Over forty ships had been lost in the…event that had destroyed Task Force India, or perhaps…there was still hope.  The President knew enough not to declare the men all dead, but he knew that political pressure was mounting on him and his people.  When Congress finally ran out of patience and demanded answers, what was he going to tell them?  What could he tell them?

He shook his head and walked over to his desk.  As always, it felt reassuringly powerful; some of the greatest and the most notorious Presidents had sat at this desk.  Presidents like Bush and Kennedy had struggled to deal with war; Presidents like Clinton, if rumour served, had engaged in sexual acts in the desk.  The President, after his first year in the job, wondered how they’d ever found the time.

He picked up his phone and requested the direct line to Britain.  His morning briefing had revealed that there were no crisis in Britain, apart from the obvious one.   Prime Minister Bernard Hamilton came to the phone quite quickly, something that relieved the President, who didn’t need more unpleasant surprises.

“Ah, good evening,” he said.  “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Hamilton’s dry voice said.  “Have any of your people turned up anything new on it?”

There was no need to ask what ‘it’ was.  “Nothing,” the President said.  “Were you informed about the new gravity…well, whatever they are.  The ones in America and the land we dare not name.”

Hamilton chuckled.  “Yes, your person told Professor Thande, who told me,” he said.  “We’re really going to need a better term for the…whatever’s before all this is through.”

“Events?  Whorls?”  The President asked.  “Under the circumstances, Bernard; I think we have other things to worry about.  Can your people take the building?”

There was a heavy sigh over the line.  “The SAS staff are confident that the SAS can take the building,” Hamilton said.  “The problem, Sam, is that we don’t know what’s inside the building.  Professor Thande, for what its worth, is confident that the gravity constructs are gateways to…somewhere else.”

“That’s what Mr Rogers said,” the President said.  “What do your scientists say?”

Hamilton snorted.  “Oh, those cleared to hear about it hummed and hawed before finally agreeing that it might be possible,” he said.  “Unfortunately, they have a morbid dread of committing themselves to anything.  There are some other theories, but everyone agrees that its artificial.”

There was a pause.  “There’s a possibility that it could be a Chinese wormhole,” Hamilton commented.  “That’s one theory.”

The President snorted.  “That’s been mentioned here as well,” he said.  “If that were true, then why bother kidnapping people.”

Hamilton’s voice was grim.  “There have been more disappearances,” he said.  “Whatever is happening seems to be spreading.”

The President scowled.  “Or perhaps they’re not related to the whatever – all right, you’re right; we need a word for it.”  

Hamilton laughed tiredly.  “I know, that is a problem,” he said.  “There have always been kidnaps on the first few days of term, particularly in the university towns.”  He shook his head.  “I could be sending the SAS into hell.”

“You send them into Iran,” the President reminded him.  “They weren’t happy about that.”

“The SAS loved it,” Hamilton said.  “It was the Iranians who were pissed.”  He paused.  “I assume that you people will be doing the same to the one in your south?”

“Once we find it, then yes,” the President said.  “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Hamilton said dryly.  “We’ll start tomorrow, then.”

“One other thing,” the President said, and then corrected himself.  “Two things; first, what about the Invincible?”

“Parliament is asking questions,” Hamilton said crossly.  “It’s the largest naval loss since the Falklands, so they’re unhappy about it.  Losing the other ships only made life harder.”

The President nodded.  “One last thing then,” he said.  “Can you keep the experts back from the attack?  They’re just the sort of people that the unknowns would want to kidnap.”

“Good thinking,” Hamilton said.  “Chat to you tomorrow, hopefully with better news.”

Nr Biloxi
Mississippi, USA (TimeLine A)

The white square of light hung ahead of him and grew closer…and then it vanished.  It took Karl Jung a moment to realise that he’d passed through it; the room ahead of him was another dilapidated warehouse, rather than the research centre in the Deep South of one of the allied American states.

“Welcome to the United States of America,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Becker said.  He smiled.  “It’s nothing like as developed as it is in our timeline.  Apparently they had a hurricane a few years ago.”

Jung shrugged.  Weather was important, but it wasn’t that important.  He took a quick moment to look around the room and realised that his first impression had been wrong; it was a barn, rather than a warehouse.  It was in a terrible state, as if someone had hammered it several times with a whole fleet of hammers.

The hurricane, he realised, and scowled.  He hadn’t heard of any hurricane in his timeline; the weather patterns must be different.  For the first time in his life, he was standing on a free United States; the realisation almost made him smile.

“The campsite is this way,” Becker said.  Several more SS officers faded out of the woodwork, guarding the Portal.  “We’ve been moving people through over the last couple of days, all heading into the terrain.  I understand you’re going into the town itself.”

“Need to know,” Jung reminded him, as they stepped outside the barn, heading into the wilds.  “Can you lead me to the camp?”

“Right this way,” Becker said, as they headed into the swamps.  “This is pretty ghastly terrain, but with some effort it could be turned into proper land.”

Jung through about the slave plantations in his world and shivered.  “How many Negroes are here?”  He asked.  “Enough to make a plantation viable?”

“I think so,” Becker said.  “We’ve had scout teams moving all over the country.  There’re a lot of people in small farms, which you’re going to be posing as when they ask who you are.  Many of them are good Aryans, and many are black.”  He spat.  “First time I’ve ever seen one of them.”

Jung said nothing, too busy thinking rapidly.  How strong was the potential for resistance here?  “We’ve got nearly a thousand people spreading out across the country,” Becker said, mistaking Jung’s silence for an invitation.  “You’ll be the first one in the city.  It’s called Biloxi, by the way.”

Jung scowled.  “The city where General Frank landed,” he recalled.  The general had been daring; he’d forced a landing in Biloxi, despite reports that the weather was about to become much worse.  By the time the Americans had pushed his force back into the sea, the thrust from the South had captured many of the Southern States of America.  

“One expects that there will be a version of the Ku Klux Klan here as well,” Becker said.  “I look forward to meeting them.”

***
Jung was pleased, on the surface, with the small camp.  The SS teams had done well; others, he’d been informed, had posed as hikers and taken up residence in American camping sites.  Long habit kept them out of sight in the secret camp, the one where many of the weapons had been stored.

Jung’s mind refused to grasp it.  With the Portal open, they could move thousands of tons of supplies forward into America – and the Americans didn’t even have the slightest idea they were there.  That night, he spent it peering into the sky, seeing no trace of a significant orbital battle station or indeed even a significant space presence.  Thousands of satellites did not make a permanent presence; he shivered at the implications.

The morning came and Jung pulled himself to his feet, eating a hearty breakfast before preparing to hike to the city.  He shook hands with the entire SS force, mentally preparing their backs for the knife, and slipped southwards towards the city.  He crossed a small road and was lucky; he met a farmer who gave him a lift to the big city.

“Thank you,” he said.  English – American English – seemed strange in his ears.  The surprise lasted long enough for him to look around…to see free Americans.  White, black, brown, colours he had never seen in his life…they existed.  It was almost enough to make him fall to his knees; these people had never known true suffering, or occupation.

It didn’t take him long to find a public library.  The librarian was very helpful, allowing him access to the computer, and that was a marvel.  He spent nearly an hour exploring history, reassuring himself that it wasn’t a dream.  This America was strong, free…and asleep.  They had no idea what was coming our way.

“What the hell?”  He muttered, as he looked through current news.  A number of ships had vanished, disappeared without trace.  It was odd; as far as he knew, the Third Reich had had nothing to do with that.

I need to find someone in authority, he thought, and started to hunt for military bases.  One was close by; Keesler Air Force Base.  The name meant nothing to him; all that matters was that it was within reach.  Smiling to himself, he picked up his rucksack and headed over to the desk.

“Can I call a cab from here?”  He asked, in his careful English.  This America was so different from his that he suspected that the slang would be different.  “If that’s possible, that is?”

“Of course,” the Librarian said.  “I’ll call one for you right away.”

“Thank you,” Jung said, and waited.  It only took five minutes for the cab to arrive; the driver, an Indian-looking man, proved more than capable of navigating streets far more exciting than anything outside Germany.  Jung spent the entire trip with his mouth hanging open, taking in all of the sights.

“Here you go, mate,” the driver said.  “That’ll be that fare, thank you.”

He pointed a hand at the meter.  Jung paid him absently, staring at the base.  It flew the Stars and Stripes above it, with no trace of a Nazi flag in the air.  “I need to see the base commandant,” he said, as soon as the guards hailed him.  “I have vital information for him about the disappearance of the ships.”

“Another crackpot,” the guard muttered.  “Look, we don’t need more UFO spotters here…”

Jung stared at him in silent astonishment.  Even the United States of 1960 – the last year that America had been independent – hadn’t been as asleep as this.  “I have important information, soldier, that you are not cleared to hear,” he snapped, drawing on the SS training to project an air of command.  Something must have worked; the guards agreed that he could enter and see the commandant.

“In here,” a guard said, opening a door.  Jung stepped in, to be confronted with a secretary.  “Got a man who claims to know about the lost ships,” the guard said.  “The commandant will want to see him.”

They exchanged nasty looks.  Jung ignored them, looking at the door.  The sign on the door was very clear, but it couldn’t be real.  The door opened and a man stepped out.  “What seems to be the trouble here?”  He asked, and then stopped dead.  Jung felt his mouth open as he took in the sight, and then the room span around him and he fell to the ground in a faint.

Chapter Eight: Disaster

Cambridge
England, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

“This is an outrage,” Professor Thande snapped, his small goatee waving under his chin.  “I should be up there, not five miles away!”

Sergeant Dwynn took a breath.  “I should be up there too,” he said.  “Nearly twenty-three SAS men are up there, preparing to attack the factory complex.  That’s my regiment up there, and I’m struck here baby-sitting you.”

Thande scowled.  “This is the greatest scientific encounter of the age,” he said.  “It doesn’t need thousands of soldiers…”

“Twenty-three and some regulars in reserve,” Dwynn reminded him.

“It doesn’t need twenty-three SAS men putting bullets into whatever equipment there is in there,” Thande said.  “The energy pulses have been spreading backwards and forwards; there must be something going on in there.”

“But what?”  Dwynn said.  “I admit I know little about this, but surely it should be stable?”

“It’s supposed to be, yes,” Thande said.  “Unfortunately, we don’t know what it is or how it’s generated, so…for all we know, it’s powering itself through direct contact with the universal energy source, and what we’re seeing is the side effects of that.”

He scowled as he realised that he’d slipped into lecture mode.  “However…”

“We do have considerable experience,” Dwynn pointed out.  “Look; as soon as its safe you and the other boffins will be going in anyway, but a soldier is more expendable than you.”

Thande scowled, returning his gaze to the screens.  The eerie energy fluctuations hadn’t creased; they were still flicking in and out of existence.  Staring, he understood; the pulses weren’t bound to any one reality.

“They’re moving in and out of our reality,” he muttered, wondering if there was a way to test the theory.  It suggested interesting possibilities for cross-dimensional travel.  “Like fish leaping in and out of the water.”  He frowned.  “I wonder if that’s how it’s powered; the energy running backwards and forwards and transmitting energy onwards…”

“They’re about to go in,” Dwynn said, interrupting his musings.  “Are you still monitoring the...whatever?”

“The gravimetric fluctuation,” Thande said, who was already planning the paper he intended to write on the subject.  “Yes, it’s still being monitored.”

***
Captain Kevin Hawk tapped the table in the building’s conference room, marvelling at the odd circumstance that could put the SAS to work within their own country, attacking a building that might have been occupied by hostile forces.  He scowled; the local authorities hadn’t pushed their surveillance too far forward, people might have slipped through the cracks.

“This is our target,” he said, and the team gathered around him.  “The Dante-Graham Factory complex, built thirty years ago and abandoned ten years ago.  It’s currently owned by a Japanese investor, who is currently under investigation by the Inland Revenue for the dreadful sin of dodging his taxes.”

He smiled as the troops chuckled.  “As you can see from the map, there’s only one road to the factory,” he said.  “We must assume that the unknowns have the road under surveillance, so we will proceed along the western and eastern forest paths, here and here.  In the event of us meeting resistance, we will engage with minimal force, in hopes of taking some alive.”

He paused.  “That, by the way, is only if it can be done without excessive risk,” he said.  “You people are important, so we don’t want to lose you.  If we reach the fence without meeting resistance, we will cut through the fence simultaneously and split up; team one will tackle the warehouse, team two will tackle the main factory.  We suspect that it is the warehouse that is the core of the enemy operation, but just in case.  At the same time as we breech the fence, the regulars will come up the main road, hopefully trapping the enemy between two fires.

“The main priority is to secure the warehouse,” he said.  “Unfortunately, we have to carry the cameras on our helmets, just to ensure that there is a complete visual record.  Once the warehouse is secured, any prisoners are to be removed from the complex and the eggheads move in.  Any questions?”

A young corporal put up his hand.  “What about air support?”

“I’ve been informed that there will be helicopter support from the regulars,” Hawk said.  “If we run into trouble that requires more, RAF strike aircraft have been placed on alert.”

“Seems a lot of trouble for one little factory,” Sergeant Brown commented.  “Are we sure that this is as important as the briefing suggested?”

Hawk hesitated.  “We lost a lot of our friends in the loss of Task Force India,” he said.  “If whoever’s in there are responsible for stealing the fleet, then we might be able to get them back, or at least to extract revenge.”

Brown lowered his eyes.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “Ready to move out?”

“Good,” Hawk said.  He quickly checked his men, all twenty-three of them.  The regulars, he knew, would not be able to interfere in time to help them if they ran into real trouble.  “Move out,” he said.  “To the vans.”

The men moved out in disciplined order, filing into the four vans that had been prepared for their trip.  Some had wanted to move overland, but little attracted attention more than a bunch of highly-trained soldiers…and all it would need was someone with a mobile phone to raise the alarm.

“You’ll take the eastern approach,” Hawk ordered Brown.  “Don’t get lost.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Brown said pleasantly.  “I’m not the one who got us lost in the middle of Iraq.”

Hawk grinned.  “Take care of yourself mate,” he said.  “I’ll be there before you.”

“You did have to take the more dangerous path, which also happens to be the shortest,” Brown said.  “I always knew that you were a lazy sod.”

“Me thinks the March of Death needs to be rebuilt,” Hawk said, as the last soldier got into the vans.  “Move out!”

Underneath the banter, there was something that neither man wanted to acknowledge; they were nervous.  Terrorists they understood; possible extraterrestrial threats…?  The SAS didn’t train for them.

***
Scharfuehrer Mayer was bored and had been bored ever since being sent into the weird alternate reality.  The infiltrators headed out across country and were never seen again, the sociologists spent time in the alternate Cambridge…but Mayer remained in the factory complex, commanding the seventeen crack soldiers who would defend the building if it was attacked.  

He glared down at his console, wishing that he could patrol the ground properly.  Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth and Brigadefuehrer Johan Schmitt had forbidden it; electronic surveillance only.  Mayer, who’d seen some of the surveillance devices that were on sale to the public in Cambridge, suspected that the enemy would have more advanced ones hidden away.  It defied belief that they would show all of their capabilities, and in fact…

They’d spent several hours one night rigging up a line of sensors and security equipment, and then a number of mines, but he knew that it was flawed.  He’d hoped to have been able to build more, but there were restrictions on what could be brought through the Portal.  He knew, of course, about the final line of defence, so why did they refuse to allow him to bring more advanced devices?  With a little effort, the complex could be held for days.

He resumed his perusal of a magazine that had been bought in Cambridge, one featuring naked women from all over the globe.  He watched the screens with one eye, flickering back between the door – which Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth might emerge from at any second – and the screens.  He was reading a tale involving acts he would have bet money were physically impossible – and would have been banned in the Reich in any case – when an alarm sounded within his ear bug.

“What the hell is that?”  He demanded, wishing that he’d been allowed to bring an electronic radio system to the strange new world.  He understood the point – unknown electronic signals tended to attract attention – but landlines could be cut.  “What the…”

He scowled.  One of his sensors had been hidden within the forests and it was reporting contacts; lots of contacts.  A second contact sounded, this time near a camera, and he activated it, staring at the screen.  A group of armed soldiers, moving like a Skorzeny force, were advancing towards the complex.  They were professionals, he recognised, moving forward carefully and covering one another.

“Alert,” he bellowed.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer Roth, we have a problem.”

Roth came into the small office at a run.  “I see,” he said, biting down a word that Mayer’s mother would have slapped him for.  “Get your people on alert, Scharfuehrer Mayer; we have to evacuate everyone from the complex and then destroy it.”

Mayer smiled.  Deep inside, he longed for destruction…and the device they’d brought into the new world would deliver all that he could possibly ask for.

***
There was something ludicrous about fighting within the wood, Hawk felt; the woods were typically English.  Weak trees and strong ones, drawing their water from a complex system of small streams and ditches, lit throughout with the gaze of the warm sun.  It was so…homely that he felt bitter anger at even having to fight within it.

“Look,” Corporal Patterson muttered.  Hawk followed his gaze; a wire ran up a tree, leading to a device that blended in neatly with the tree itself.  A squirrel ran past, chirping happily to himself, ignoring the device.

“I think they know we’re coming,” Hawk said, examining the device as carefully as he could.  It seemed more like an infrared sensor than anything else; the SAS used them to secure their camps in hostile territory.  “Spread out and…”

A burst of automatic fire tore through the trees.  The SAS men didn’t hesitate; they threw themselves to the ground at once.  The enemy, whoever they were, were firing normal bullets, the machine gun refusing to track them where they were on the ground.  That’s odd, Hawk thought, as the bullets spat past them, slashing through trees and frightening the birds.

“Take that out,” he muttered.  Corporal Vash tossed a grenade over towards the machine gun, the explosion blasting the gun and setting off a whole series of secondary explosions.  Two of the SAS men leapt forwards, weapons ready, and nearly fell over the wreckage.

“It’s a robot,” Vash commented.  As if in answer, another machine gun opened fire, and another, trying to bracket their position.  Hawk nodded; the aiming wasn’t very precise at all.

“Sergeant, we’re under attack,” he subvocalised.  “Report.”

“Being fired upon, shooting our way through,” Brown replied.  “We’ll beat you there yet…”

A massive explosion deafened Hawk for a long second.  A hail of ball bearings slashed through the air, hitting two of the SAS men.  “Take them all out,” Hawk snapped.  “Sergeant, push forward as hard as you can.”

The SAS advanced carefully, using grenades to clear the automated weapons from their path.  Several more mines detonated, one on each side of the fence, blasting a hole in the fence.  Hawk smiled grimly; he could see the factory complex through the wreckage of the fence.

“Snipers in the windows,” Brown snapped, almost breaking subvocalising discipline.  Hawk cursed; whomever they were facing was professional.  He wished that he’d had a moment to examine the machine guns properly; he hadn’t recognised the make at all.

“Not RPGs,” Hawk snapped.  “We need that building intact.  Whatever you do, don’t fucking destroy it!”

***
One thing that hadn’t been included on the floor plans of the complex was a series of underground tunnels, linking the warehouse to the factory.  Scharfuehrer Mayer supposed it made sense; it was just a little surprising that they would want to keep the obviously necessary tunnels a secret.

“They’re professionals,” he reported, watching as the green-clad soldiers moved forward.  They were good, he realised with genuine admiration; worthy foes for the Waffen-SS.

A series of contact reports, followed by a line of heavy explosions, reported that some of the enemy were coming up the road.  Scharfuehrer Mayer glanced out of the window, watching the column of smoke rising from the drive.  Almost as an afterthought, he triggered the FAE bombs he’d hidden within the forest, watching as flames blasted through the forest and caught, fanning into an inferno.

“That has to be bad,” Roth said.  “We’re moving everyone out through the Portal.”

Scharfuehrer Mayer admired the calm in Roth’s voice.  “How long do we have to hold them?”

“Not long,” Roth said.  They shared a long look; Scharfuehrer Mayer knew that he would die this day.  “Not long at all.”

“It was a pleasure to serve with you,” Scharfuehrer Mayer said, holding out a hand.  Roth shook it.  “Make these bastards pay, won’t you?”

Roth smiled.  “I will,” he said.  “I’ll make them pay for everything.”
***
The flames were an unpleasant surprise, as were the mines in the driveway.  Two lorries full of troops had been destroyed; Hawk cursed the dead officer who’d somehow thought that it was a good idea to keep his troops in the vehicles.  

“Sir, Brown’s been badly burnt,” Corporal Roberson snapped.  “What do we do?”

“Snipers forward,” Hawk snapped, hoping that the helicopters would arrive soon.  “Take out those men in the windows!”

He lifted his own M-16 and fired a long burst.  Windows shattered as bullets tore through them; very human screams marked the deaths of dozens of people.  They sounded human; Hawk was starting to suspect that there was something wrong with the alien theory.

He scowled, trying hard to think.  The factory had only one door and no windows on the ground floor; the warehouse had only the large reinforced door.  Might there be a tunnel between them?  There hadn’t been one marked on the plans, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t exist.  A series of explosions marked the enemy deployment of mortars; shells began to land in the forest, fired from the roof of the factory.

“We’re going through that door,” he snapped, lining up five of his men.  “Robins; a RPG through that door, now!”

Robins didn’t hesitate; firing an RPG at the door, which exploded violently.  Whatever reinforcing the enemy had installed hadn’t been enough to hold them back, it exploded inwards and slashed into the enemy positions.  The SAS ran forward, firing as they came, tossing grenades and firing madly at any enemy – any human enemy.

“Up the stairs, now,” Hawk snapped, leading the charge.  He threw a grenade ahead of him, hoping that the factory was strong enough to take the blast, and sighed in relief when the entire building didn’t come crashing down.  “Forward!”

They broke onto the roof, meeting a hail of fire from hand weapons.  Hawk cursed as one of his people was hit, before returning fire with his M-16.  The enemy, all blonde humans, died quickly, but bravely.  Hawk narrowed his eyes, motioning for Patterson to keep his head down; there would be no point in being shot by his own side.  It would be very embarrassing.

“Head shed, where are the reinforcements?”  He demanded into his radio.  “We need them now.”

“They’re on their way,” the coordinator said.  “They’re all regulars, that ok with you?”

We don’t have time for this, Hawk thought grimly.  “At the moment, I’d be glad of the Royal marines,” he said.  “Hurry them up…”

“We’ve had a report from the stations monitoring the energy flow,” the coordinator interrupted.  “They’ve discovered that the ebb and flow is increasing; get into the other building now!”

“Not even any time to catch my breath?”  Hawk snapped, clicking the radio off.  He’d started with twenty-three men; he now had eleven left.  He couldn’t remember when the SAS had been hurt like that before; it had been ages.  Whoever they were facing, they were professionals.

***
“Destroy that tunnel,” Roth ordered, and winced as a series of explosions shattered the tunnel between the two main buildings.  The other buildings had never been very important; all they’d done had been housing some people who hadn’t wanted to return to their world.

“Get everyone back through the Portal now,” he snapped, watching as the last few people came through and jumped into the shimmering square of white light.  Scharfuehrer Mayer had disappeared in the desperate attack on the factory; the enemy had clearly managed to kill him.  

Bastards, he thought, tapping a command code into a computer pad.  He cursed the delay as the computer thought about his code, and then decided that it was acceptable.  He selected five minutes, then disconnected the computer pad and crushed it, just to make certain that no one could prevent detonation.  Turning, he jumped into the Portal, just as the door came crashing down behind him.

***
The interior of the warehouse wasn’t dark; it was lit by dozens of lights, all powered by a single generator sitting on the floor.  It was also deserted; Hawk couldn’t see any sign of life, except an eerie white light coming from a side room.  Cursing, he loped over to the room and peered in, seeing…a white square of light, hanging in the air.  Even as he watched, it shimmered, flickered, and collapsed to nothing.  A strange sense of…incompleteness, something he hadn’t noticed feeling until it was gone, vanished as the…gateway vanished.

“That’s how they’re getting here,” he snapped into his radio.  “Spread out and search the room!”

He scowled down at a flag on the ground, and then blinked as he recognised it.  A red flag, with a white circle in the centre, with a black symbol in the centre.  “A nazi flag?”  He asked.  “What the hell are we dealing with here?”

“Secure the region,” his coordinator said.  “Have you got any prisoners?”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Hawk said.  “Whatever has been going on here, sir; it seems to have terminated.”

It was at that moment when a timer in the basement ran out…and the world went away for Captain Hawk.  

Chapter Nine: Aftermath

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The centre of the United States war-fighting machine, Cheyenne Mountain watched constantly for any signs that anyone was even thinking about detonating a nuclear device anywhere around the world.  With both Iran and North Korea – and strange rumours about Saudi Arabia – still attempting to develop nuclear technology, the watch had never been slackened.

“Sir, we have a FLASH signal,” the young sergeant shouted across the room.  General Joshua Howard ignored the breech in protocol; a FLASH signal had total priority.  It was the highest signal in the directory; someone, somewhere, had detonated a nuclear weapon.

“Inform the Pentagon and the White House, now,” Howard ordered sharply.  “Where is it?”  The sergeant’s face paled.  “Where is it, soldier!”

“Sir, its in England,” the sergeant said.  “Cambridge, the heart of England.”

Cambridge
England, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

Professor Thande found himself on the ground without any clear memory of how he’d gotten there.  His room was a mess; the blast that had knocked his chair over had wrecked it.  Sergeant Dwynn lay on the ground, clutching his head.  A trickle of blood ran from it to the ground, dripping everywhere.

“Shit,” Thande said, trying hard to concentrate.  His mind felt awful, as if he’d spent most of the day drinking.  “Sergeant?”

He pulled himself to his feet, trying to reach the phone.  His gaze fell on the shattered window…and the awesome sight rising from the forest beyond Cambridge.  Glowing an evil colour, red and yellow and darker shades, a massive mushroom cloud rose above the city.  

“My God,” he breathed, suddenly careless of the dangers of radiation.  Cambridge itself was a wreck; he could see fires rising everywhere.  A whole series of explosions had destroyed the cars on the road, slaughtering thousands of people.  The flames would destroy the city before long…and the fire and medical services would be totally overwhelmed.

A noise from behind him made him spin around, almost falling back to the floor.  Sergeant Dwynn was groaning in pain, trying to move and recover himself.  The flow of blood had abated somewhat, allowing Thande to stanch the rest without problems.  “Don’t try to move,” he said, wondering if they could call for help.  A nuclear attack might mean an EMP, and if that happened, then the phones might not work.

“What happened?”  Dwynn asked, his voice stunned.  “Did you get the number of the bus that hit us?”

Thande wondered if telling him the truth was a good idea.  “We’ve been nuked,” he said, and a thought he’d been trying to avoid crystallised in his mind.  “Did we do this?”

“I doubt it,” Dwynn said, trying to stand up.  “Call for help.”

“Look, I know you SAS people eat nails for breakfast, but stay there for a moment,” Thande snapped.  “You’ve been hurt.”  He opened his pocket and found his mobile phone.  “No signal,” he said, after a long moment.  “EMP.”

“Check the computers,” Dwynn said.  “They’re Government Issue; they should be…”

“Overpriced and useless?”  Thande asked bitterly.  He hit the reset key on a heavy laptop and was relieved to realise that it rebooted without delay.  “Maybe there is some point to the system.”

Dwynn fell back to the floor.  “There’ll be emergency protocols activating now,” he said.  “All over the world, people will be wondering who the hell nuked Cambridge.  It’s not as if it is an important town.”

“They did it to cover their tracks,” Thande said, with a bitter certainly.  “We found them and we attacked them and they were vanishing inside that gateway and then the nuke goes off.  They’re human; not aliens at all.”

Dwynn chuckled harshly.  “Don’t you like the thought of fighting humans?”  He asked.  “I do; humans are understandable.  Aliens might well not be, you know.”

Thande shrugged, tapping the computer.  Setting up for a direct transmission to the MOD was simple; getting a line into the MOD with the disaster proved to be harder.  Finally, however, a female officer took the call.  Thande vaguely recognised her; one of the women who worked for General Shawcross.

“Oh, Professor Thande, thank God,” she said, in a voice so harried that it was almost human.  “We thought that you were all dead!”  Her voice almost broke.  “There’s been no communication with Captain Hawk at all, or any of his people, and the direct feed has stopped…”

“That is because they detonated a nuke in Cambridge to cover their tracks,” Thande snapped.  It sank in, then; whoever they were fighting had breached a sixty-year-old taboo merely to cover their tracks.  “I assume that you’ve worked that out?”

“General Shawcross is aware of it,” the woman said, apparently unaware of any security problems in discussing it.  “Troops are being placed on alert to provide support to the medical centre and…”

“I understand,” Thande said.  “Now, I need a medical flight for Captain Dwynn, and then I have to start work on finding a way to prevent that from happening again.”  He checked the computer quickly; much to his relief it had stored all of the direct feed until the mobile stations had…gone off-line.

“Yes, sir,” the woman said.  “Umm, do you need support yourself?”

Thande smiled wryly.  “I need computer time,” he said.  “Can you ask General Shawcross to call me as soon as he’s got a moment?  There are some very interesting details I wish to discuss with him.”

Her brow furrowed.  “That may be a while,” she said.  “He’s on the way to the Whitehall Bunker now.  He has to brief the PM, and then have the troops on their way.”

Thande briefly considered attempting to make his way – with Sergeant Dwynn – out of the city and dismissed it.  The streets would be in absolute chaos.  A thought occurred to him and he checked one of the sensors; the radiation count was almost normal.

“I imagine that there’ll be an NBC team coming in,” he said, and was gratified when she nodded.  “Tell them that there doesn’t seem to be much radiation, but they should take care anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said.  “I’ll inform General Shawcross as soon as I can.”

She broke connection.  Thande snorted bitterly.  “Your call is important to us, please wait until you get bored and piss off,” he muttered.  “Sergeant, are you ok down there?”

Dwynn felt the side of his head grimly.  “Could you do anything about it if I wasn’t ok?”

“No,” Thande admitted.

“Then shut up,” Dwynn snapped.  “Find out what happened.”

Thande made a rude sound and returned to the computer.  All of the Internet communications were working, but not very well; anything wireless seemed to have been badly disrupted.  Carefully, he opened databases stored from the direct feed, before the bomb went off, and started to consider them.

“Listen,” he said, forgetting to be annoyed with Dwynn.  “The blast wasn’t caused by the gateway” – he remembered the final images and shuddered – “but by one of the humans there.”

Dwynn blinked.  “How do you know that?”

“I don’t think we were recording the gateway itself,” Thande said, growing more enthusiastic now he knew what it was.  “In fact, I think that the gateway was a lot more than a simple gateway; it would have been a twist in reality that disrupts reality when something passes through.  That’s what we’ve been tracking; the side effects of it warping reality.”

“I think I see,” Dwynn said.  Thande lifted an eyebrow.  “However, how does that help us?  Do you think that you could build a bomb to destroy them?”

Thande scowled.  “I think, and as yet I don’t have a way to test the theory, that the gateways are structures in extra-dimensional space.  If so…it would be like trying to punch fog.”  He frowned.  “I’ll have to think about that, and ask for other specialists.  There must be a way to punch undirected energy into the extra-dimensional space, just to break up any structures in extra-dimensional space.”

He paused.  “Or, with sufficient research, we might just manage to return the favour and counter-attack.”

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

Prime Minister Bernard Hamilton hated the Whitehall Bunker with a passion, one not born out of the sheer arrogance and condensation in its construction, providing security for the governors of Britain, but not for the people.  In an early and radical life, Hamilton had known one simple fact; a nuclear attack would ruin Britain utterly.

He wished that he had time to talk to his wife.  She – and most of the Ten Downing Street staff – was on her way out of London on a private helicopter, heading to the bunker in Cheshire.  The news was already on the BBC and CNN; the world as a whole would know about it within a few more minutes.  He would be astonished if any tin-pot dictator didn’t know about it…and there would be more dancing in Palestine to celebrate.

“Bastards,” he snapped, unsure who he meant.  The people who’d been so certain that attacking the base in Cambridge was a sensible idea?  The people, whomever they were, who’d operated the base in Cambridge?  The fools and wreckers who would attack the west for no better reason than simple malice?  Countless Islamic factions had proclaimed the loss of Task Force India to be the work of God, or perhaps the Devil, and they’d been encouraged in their attacks on the west.

General Shawcross entered, raising his eyebrows at the lack of other people in the room.  “I sent them away,” Hamilton said absently.  “The last thing I need is spin-doctors.  I’ve asked for the BBC to prepare to accept a general message from me…so, what do I tell them?”

Shawcross blinked.  “It was a tactical nuclear device,” he said, rattling off a lot of details the Prime Minister hadn’t wanted to know, hadn’t wanted to even think about.  “It’s a very…modern design; in some respects, such as radiation fallout, it was a better design than our designs, or American designs.”  He paused.  “Of course, the fact that the blast was underground might have helped with that; we’re seeing a lot of radioactivity in the air.

“There’s a panic in Cambridge,” he said.  “Sir; I need your permission to declare martial law over the region.  People with radiation poisoning are likely to be fleeing the region, carrying radiation with them.  We have to stop looters as well, and there are prisons in the region that have to be secured and…”

Hamilton held up a hand.  “Enough,” he said.  “I authorise the deployment of troops.  Go to the region yourself and take command.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Shawcross said.  “We also need to shut down all air and rail traffic now.”

“Do it,” Hamilton snapped.  “Do everything you need to do.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Shawcross said.  

There was a knock on the door.  “Come in,” Hamilton snapped.  His secretary came in, holding a cup of coffee.

“Prime Minister, the press conference is set up,” he said.  “There’s only a handful of reporters, but they have agreed to share all of the video.”

“Good for them,” Hamilton said.  “General, you know what the event in Cambridge was caused by?”

“Professor Thande thinks that whoever was behind the events in Cambridge did it to cover their tracks,” Shawcross said.  “For what its worth, I agree with him.”  He paused.  “Did you see the final images?”

“The Nazi flag?”  Hamilton asked.  “I did…so, what are we dealing with here?  Nazis from Dimension X?”

Shawcross shook his head.  “I don’t know, Prime Minister,” he said.  “I just don’t know.”

***
Hamilton, in common with everyone in politics in Britain, had come to dread facing the Press.  This time was easier; only a handful of reporters stood in front of Downing Street, pointing cameras at the doors.  The heavy police presence outside the gates kept a lid on panic, but Hamilton knew that there was already panic across the country.

Only half an hour and there’s already riots, he thought grimly.  He’d given orders to have riots dealt with as quickly as possible, but there simply weren’t enough resources to handle them all.  The police were already overstretched; they would be on the brink of asking reservists to come back to the colours and recruiting people who had the discipline to assist the needy.

He faced the cameras, taking a breath as he prepared his statement.  The British Government had had a contingency speech – the irony amused him as much as anything else – but he hadn’t wanted to use it.  It was heartless; it spoke nothing of his fear for his people – and his hatred for those who had committed the act itself.

“People of Britain,” he said, trying to project his feelings.  “For the first time since 1945, a nuclear weapon has been used in anger.  Today, only half an hour ago, a small nuclear weapon was detonated by unknown forces near Cambridge.  The blast has wrecked horrifying devastation upon the city and the people living near it.

“I must ask you all to remain calm,” he said, hoping that they would listen.  “If you are outside the region itself, you will be safe; you must not make it worse by fleeing and jamming up the transport network.  For the moment, there is no sign that there are any other nuclear weapons within Britain under terrorist control – and there is every reason to believe that the people responsible will be brought to book as soon as possible.”

He paused.  He’d wanted to explain exactly what had happened, but General Shawcross had talked him out of it.  “I have been forced to declare martial law over Cambridge and the region surrounding it,” he continued.  “The first priority is ministering to the sick, something that can only be handled by a massive effort and no bureaucracy.  If you have medical experience and are willing to work in the blast-zone, please make yourself known to the local authorities, who will arrange transport.  If you are a member of the armed forces or the armed forces reserve, please report at once to your local bases for duty.”

He looked into the camera.  “I pledge to you, now, that whoever is behind this will be made to pay,” he said.  “We will hunt them down and chase them until the ends of the Earth, if that is what we have to do.  We will not let them get away with it, whatever it takes.  For the moment, I ask you all to remain calm – the BBC will broadcast regular updates throughout the night.”

He stopped speaking.  “Thank you for listening,” he said, and waited for the reporters to put away the cameras.  “I have one other thing to say to you all; this is a disaster zone and it doesn’t need you poking around, disrupting efforts.”  He waited for them to stare at him in horror, as if the very concept was astonishing.  “If any of you impede the medical effort, you will be jailed for a very long time indeed.”

***
The voice of the President, Hamilton’s old friend, was reassuring to his ears.  “I’ve ordered the George Bush to divert itself to Britain,” the President said.  “The Admiral commanding has orders to out himself under your command, Bernard, or your First Sea Lord.  Whatever other help we can give, just ask.”

“Thank you,” Hamilton said.  “What use is a single carrier?”

“You might need the firepower,” the President said.  “What have the EU nations said?”

“A great deal of shock and sympathy,” Hamilton said.  It had been the only pleasant thing of a harrowing day.  “Everyone’s promised cooperation, from the French to the Poles and Russians.  We’re working with the French and the Netherlands to search all of the ships that left Britain, looking for terrorists.  The French Air Force and the RAF are working on join sea-air patrols; quite frankly, this might have done more for inter-EU cooperation than anything else.  The UN is supposed to be debating it tomorrow, but that leaves another problem.  What do we tell them?”

The President hesitated.  “What do we tell them?”  He asked.  “Can we tell them the truth?”

“There’s another of these gateways in your nation,” Hamilton reminded him.  “Will you attack that now, given what happened here?”

The President hesitated.  “Actually, we might have a lead on that,” he said.  “Would you object if we asked one of your science people – that Professor Thande, perhaps – to sit in on the debriefing?  I don’t want to say more over an open channel.”

“I’ll have the arrangements made,” Hamilton said.  “However, that also leaves the Saudi one?  Do we warn them?”

“I’m going to try to stall the UN,” the President said.  “There’s so much to do that I think I would have a good precedent for that.  That would need your cooperation, though.”

“You have it,” Hamilton said.  “Sam…what if this isn’t the end of it?”

The President snorted.  “No, it’s not,” he said.  “What do we tell the other nations, if anything?”

Hamilton sighed as a new email came in.  He read it quickly; seventeen looters had been arrested after being caught looting in the wake of the blast.  A news reporter had already dubbed it the ‘Cambridge Event,’ clearly believing that there would be more blasts in the future.  The economy was frozen, but clearly fragile, along with the rest of the developed world.

He scowled.  “I would suggest telling them nothing for the moment,” he said.  “Can some of your troops in Iraq investigate within Saudi without telling them?”

The President chuckled.  “Bernard, the day that the Green Berets or the SAS cannot out-perform them will be the day that the war is lost,” he said.  “Yes, we can do it, and we will.  They won’t be happy, of course, but after what’s happened in Cambridge, they’ll understand.”

Hamilton doubted that.  Saudi Arabia believed that it was important because it was important and it would always be important because it was important, a concept that made his head hurt.  If they learnt what was going on, they would be likely to panic, which would make the economic problems worse.

“I understand,” he said.  “I’ll talk to you later, once Professor Thande reports back.”

The President coughed.  “Yes,” he said.  “For the moment, you’ll have all the support we can give you.  God be with you.”

Chapter Ten: Dark Mirror

The White House
Washington DC, USA (TimeLine A)

Major General Frederick Lawson was...him.  Karl Jung had almost forgotten his real name, buried deep under the surface of his mind, hiding it from the prying ears of the Gestapo.  Like Jung, he was forty, but his face was…free.  It stood in his attitudes; Lawson had grown up in a world of freedom.  Karl Jung had grown up in a nightmarish version of America.

And yet…they were the same person.  Inside, they seemed to be different; Lawson, a registered right-wing Republican, was milder than Jung, but he thought along the same lines.  It was uncanny; they were the same person at bottom.  The base medical officer had run a basic DNA test; they were the same person.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, willing himself to wake up, scared that it was all a dream.  The White House had been blown up by its defenders after the Battle of Washington concluded; this White House was intact and stocked with the finest items American freedom could buy.  Lawson had muttered about Presidents who’d spent more time chasing women than governing the country, but Jung would have given everything to live in a world where such things were possible.  The President of the New Confederacy might have the time, but it came at the expense of sucking German cocks.

“What’s not to believe?”  Lawson asked.  “I always wanted a brother.”

Jung shook his head.  He had wanted a brother as well.  Both sets of parents had died a decade after their sons had been born, both of natural causes.  He didn’t understand it; the changes in the timeline alone should have wiped one of them from history.  The shock of meeting…himself had almost killed him; it had made him faint and fall to the floor.

“You’re so lucky,” he said.  Their lives had changed after that; Lawson had gone to a distant cousin who’d brought him up to be a Marine.  In rebellion, he’d joined the Air Force.  Jung had been brought up by a widowed woman who spoke perfect German, teaching him the language when the Germans had begun to…discourage English.  Both had wanted to serve their country; both had had very different options available to them.

A man stepped in, the textbook definition of an egghead.  He looked oddly familiar to Jung, as if he’d seen him before somewhere, which was impossible.  The man examined the two of them with lifted eyebrows; the similarities were closer than twins and yet a world apart.

“Professor Thande, at your service,” he said, extending a hand.  “I understand that you wanted to speak to the President first?”

Jung nodded.  Thande was English, but the accent was…odd, different to the Englishmen he was used to dealing with.  “Only the President can handle the matter,” he said, knowing how lucky he was not to be dealing with the SS.  “I have to talk to him first.”

Thande eyed him thoughtfully.  “You’re from a different dimension,” he said.  “How do you know as much as you do?”

Jung sighed, feeling the strength falling out of him.  “I was born here,” he said.  “Not this America; another America.”

“The President will see you now,” an aide said.  “They’re waiting for you inside.”

***
The Secret Service had had a collective heart attack, following the Cambridge Event, about the President meeting with a man from the other dimension.  They had wanted to move the President at once to a secure location, NORAD or one of the other bunkers in America.  The United States was on Red Alert…and the world was trembling.  No one knew if there would be more attacks against Britain – or the rest of the world.

The President had overruled them.  The visitor, whoever he was, had demanded to talk to the President first, and the President had agreed.  Whatever else he was, Sam Woods was not a coward…and they needed answers.  The rest of the Cabinet would be scattered around the country, watching from afar, just in case.  

The door opened and three men stepped in, followed by two Secret Service agents.  The President recognised Professor Thande from a prior meeting yesterday, but the other two men were…twins.  The President stared at them; they were clearly the same person.  One had some stubble on his chin; one was freshly shaved, but they were identical underneath.

“The President of the United States of America,” Thande said.  Steve Rogers, who’d started all of the crisis, stepped in behind them and took a seat in the corner.  “Now, Mr Jung; what do you have to say?”

Jung, a man who seemed older than his counterpart, leaned forward.  “A real President,” he said.  “Mr President; your world is about to be invaded.”

The President felt…unsurprised.  After the Cambridge Event, his advisors had warned him than the behaviour of the unknowns was very much like a reconnaissance-in-force.  They had sneaked around, kidnapped people for interrogation, and they had used high explosives – a small nuclear warhead – to cover their tracks.  He didn’t think that they were friendly at all.

He nodded slowly.  “Who by?”  He asked.  “What are you people?”

Jung hesitated.  “Are you familiar with the concept of alternate timelines?”  He asked.  The President nodded.  “You’re about to be invaded by an alternate Earth.”  He sighed.  “It’s rather a long story.

“I was born in 1964, in an America that had already been occupied by the Nazis for three years,” he said.  The President sucked in his breath.  “They had slaughtered or enslaved the Negroes, executed the last President and nuked several cities for daring to resist them.  My…adopted parent was a member of a resistance organisation and I joined when I was old enough.”

The President frowned.  “You sound very German,” he observed.  It was true; Jung had a stronger accent than many German-Americans had.  “Is that because of the occupation?”

Jung shook his head.  “For one reason or another, we had an opportunity – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to replace a German officer, a young fool who had been raised above his station.  I volunteered and took his place; it wasn’t expected to last for long.  By pure luck, I survived long enough to cover my own tracks…as I was recalled to Germany just after taking Jung’s place.  Jung wasn’t a well-liked person; I was lucky enough that he had few close friends.

“To cut a long story short, Jung was pushed around until he – I – found a niche in the Strategic Planning Division,” Jung said.  “Once the Portals were developed, my department was asked to prepare a plan for invading your world through the Portals and taking over completely.”

The President felt the ground shivering under his feet.  “You – they – plan to take the entire world?”  He asked.  “The world is…massive!”

Jung shook his head.  “They can do it,” he said.  “The plan, before I left, was to launch a lightning campaign against America, Europe and Russia, knocking you over before you can get back on the defensive front and strike back.  Once you’d been dealt with, the rest of the world could be taken.  They have…ways to deal with the Middle East, Mr President.”

Professor Thande spoke into the silence.  “How do those Portals work?”  He asked.  “What’s the basic theory?”

“I have no idea,” Jung said.  “All I know is that they link from place to place, world to world.  Umm” – he picked up a piece of paper and held it up – “if you imagine this bit of paper as the division between worlds, they can punch a hole directly through, from their Biloxi to yours.”

“They can’t hop from…say, Berlin to Washington,” Thande said thoughtfully.  “The Portals must be synchronised to a particular location.”

Rogers blinked.  “But what’s the point?”  He asked.  “Every time they open a Portal, we detect it.”

“Do we?”  Thande asked grimly.  “All of a sudden, a lot more makes sense; the energy we can track is someone crossing over…how big can a Portal be?”

“I don’t know,” Jung said.  “They have quite high energy requirements, though.”

The President held up a hand.  “How did they survive the war in the first place?”  He asked.  “We beat them in 1945.  How did they survive?”

Jung scowled.  “They invaded Britain in our universe,” he said, “and we went back to sleep.  By the time we started getting ready for the invasion, it was too late.”

“That makes sense,” Thande said.  “So…what do we do?”

The President tapped the table, looking over at Rogers.  “Tell the manufactures that I want more detectors, whatever it takes,” he said.  “This is a program with emergency priority.  Professor Thande; I need a weapon that will shut down a Portal, quickly.”

Thande frowned.  “That might be difficult,” he said.  “Short of shooting something through a Portal, hopefully destroying whatever generates the Portal, we have no weapons that can shut one down.  I’ll work on it, but I have no hope.”

“They’re working on adjusting the flow of energy from one universe to the other,” Jung said.  “They won’t want to risk allowing any of you into their reality.”

Thande frowned darkly.  “That…violates the laws of balance,” he said.  “If something slips into this universe, why does nothing go back?”

“Perhaps it does,” Rogers said.  “We still don’t know what happened to the ships.”

“They didn’t take any ships,” Jung said.  “It was nothing to do with them.”

“If they didn’t take any ships, then…where are they?”  Thande asked.  “What happened to the fleet?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the President said.  He looked up at one of the monitors.  “General, I need a meeting of my Cabinet at once,” he said.  “Mr Jung; is it correct to say that they could appear anywhere within the United States?”

Jung nodded slowly.  “Anywhere,” he said.

“But we could detect them,” Rogers protested.  “We’d know where they were coming.  Hell, what are the other men in Saudi and Biloxi doing?”

Jung looked up, meeting the President’s eyes.  “The teams in Biloxi are dangerous,” he said.  “Their task will be to sabotage your response to the invasion.”  He paused.  “The teams in Saudi intend to ensure that the Arabs no longer remain a problem – and the Jews.  They will be launching missiles in the Middle East, destroying whole cities and exterminating the problem.”

He paused, perhaps sensing the President’s horror.  “That, Mr President, is the fate that awaits your entire world…unless you can somehow beat them on the field of battle.”

***
“You know what I said about the Saudis?”  Gavin Macdonald asked.  The National Security Advisor seemed pensive.  “Do even they deserve that?”

The President shrugged.  He’d sent orders to CENTCOM to have flights prepared to search Saudi Arabia, but the Saudis were likely to refuse to allow the USAF to hunt for the missiles.  Would they try to resist the USAF aircraft?  If so…what would happen then?

“Let us look to our own defences,” Shelia Campbell, Secretary of Defence, snapped.  “If they can come at us from any point, they could open up a Portal outside and send the SS in to kill us.”

“I don’t think that it’s as bad as it seems,” the Secretary of Homeland Defence, Robin Carter, said thoughtfully.  “They will have limits as to how much they can send through.”

The President shook his head.  “What’s to stop them just…launching the invasion tomorrow?”  He asked.  “Nothing.  Now that their base in Cambridge has been exposed, they’ll be moving up their own plans.”

“But we don’t know that,” the Secretary of the Treasury said.  “Suppose we make the CONUS-wide alert formal and permanent…but for how long?  If we put the National Guard on permanent alert – and you know there are places that pay very little attention to the Guard formations – the cost will be awesome.”

Carter glared at her.  “I cannot believe that you’re placing such concerns above the lives of the citizens of America,” he snapped.  “We have to move to an alert position, at once.”

“And the President needs to be out of here,” General Easterhouse said sharply.  “If they know everything there is in the public domain, they will know about here and they’ll come here.  Hell, if I was them, I would launch an attack on the White House as the first strike.”

“Then we have to base the 1st Marine Division here,” Admiral Joan Rawlings said.  She pulled at her hair; a sign of distress.  “We’ll have to start digging in now.”

“But that’s part of my point,” the Secretary of the Treasury said.  “What happens if they don’t show up?  We’ll look like fools.”

“We could always call it a drill,” General Easterhouse said.  “Operation Brave Defender; the troops dig in to defend vital locations.  In the event of a terrorist attack, we’ll be ready to stop them.”  His voice had become a parody of an advertisement spokesman.  “It’s just a matter of selling it properly.”

“Or they might be out of place,” Carter said, ignoring the jibe.  “If we dig in here, they might have time to deploy in…say, Fredericksburg.  We have to move many of the regular forces back from Iraq and deploy them here.”

Alistair Wilson, Secretary of State, coughed.  “That will require telling the Iraqis something,” he said.  “The new government may have the violence under control, or something reassembling control, but if we show weakness now…”

“If the Nazis launch their missiles against the Middle East, it may not matter,” Macdonald said grimly.  

The President stood up and tapped the map on the wall.  “We have a mandate – and a legal requirement – to defend the people of America,” he said.  “That’s what we will do.  General Easterhouse; under my authority I want you to place all of the troops on alert and start making plans to ship troops home from Germany – where we don’t need them anyway – and Iraq.”  He paused for a moment.  “The same goes for South Korea; they’ve been saying that they don’t need us recently.

“I’ll talk to the State Governors myself,” he continued.  “They’ll probably think I’ve gone mad, but after Cambridge there’s some real grounds for panic.  The National Guard can be federalised, along with the other units, and all of the reserves can be called up.”

“Most of them have been called up already,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President, where will you be during the crisis?”

The President ignored the question.  “The final question,” he said.  “What do we tell the people?”

“The truth,” General Easterhouse said.  “We have to warn them about the threatened attack.”

“I’m not sure we dare,” Carter said.  “If they do have agents over here, then they’ll know that we’re getting ready to move.”

“But we can detect a Portal,” General Easterhouse protested.

“The location of a Portal, within fifty kilometres,” Carter corrected.  “By the time we narrow it down enough to attack it, we might have a major German force – Nazi force – in our rear.”  He thought for a moment.  “Satellites might be helpful,” he said.  “They’ll be able to see the Portals if they’re out in the open.”

“Good thinking,” General Easterhouse said.

“We have to tell them the truth,” the President said.  “Dottie” – he looked over at his Press Secretary – “please schedule an emergency press conference for…1345.”  He looked around the room.  “After that, I will go to the bunker at Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Thank you,” Macdonald said.  “You have to remain out of the path of an invasion.”

“There is another point,” Wilson said.  “What about the rest of the world?  The British already know, of course, but what about the Europeans and the Russians?”

“The Russians will go absolutely mad,” Carter said.  “You know what they’ve been like lately, making threats against Iran – which isn’t so bad – and Poland, which is.  They’ll probably think that it is a capitalist conspiracy or something.”

The President snorted.  “I was more worried about the French,” he said.  “Good God; this could go on for a long time.”  He shook his head slowly.  “We’re just not geared up for high-intensity war.”

Wilson scowled.  “We have to tell them,” he said.  “Otherwise they’ll be completely unprepared.”

“The rioters in the French streets would slow them down for…oh, about two minutes,” Macdonald said.  “Will they believe us?”

“We have to try,” the President said.  “Alistair, if you could see to arranging a conference call with the main world leaders, I’ll speak to them after the Press Conference.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Wilson said.  “I’ll see to it at once.”

The President looked around the table for a long moment.  “I have faith that each and every one of you will perform his or her duty to the best of their abilities,” he said.  “This…war, whatever had brought it upon us, will be won.”  He smiled.  “Good luck, all of you.”

They filed out of the room, leaving the President alone with his thoughts.  He wished, not for the first time, that he’d thought better of accepting the nomination.  Was that what being President meant; making the decisions that would affect the entire world?  

He looked up at the portraits of Presidents from the past.  George Washington, Abraham Lincoln…and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.  What would they have thought of an invasion by a hostile force?  Washington had fought for freedom; Lincoln to hold the United States together.  Roosevelt, who had led the struggle against the last Nazis…what had happened to him in the other timeline?

He almost picked up the phone, to call Jung and ask him, but the man was being debriefed and would be too busy to answer a trivial question.  The President smiled for a grim moment and then returned to drafting his speech in front of the press.  It had to be a good speech, one that covered the important points…and yet struck a note of confidence.  

“How can we be confident?”  The President asked.  “These days, we leave evil alone until it gets too annoying, and then we slap it in the wrong place.  How can that deter someone like Hitler?”

Chapter Eleven: Final Hour

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

Adolf Hitler, man and monster, had built what his descendents, in the privacy of their own hearts, would classify as a ramshackle system.  Hitler, interested more in his cause than his power, had allowed the Nazi system to form around several conflicting personalities, from fun-loving and indolent Goring to stern and intolerant Himmler.  The personality clash when Hitler was assassinated had nearly destroyed the Reich.

The survivors of the brief period of mayhem and murder – no one had the position to launch a civil war – looked upon the political devastation and breathed a sigh of relief, before vowing ‘never again.’  The system that Speer, the genius who’d built the manufacturing machine that had made the Reich second to none in military strength, had built embodied both the Nazi belief that competition gave strength, and the belief that the Reich had to hang together – or they would hang each other.  No one could seek to take Hitler’s place as Fuhrer; no one could seek absolute power for themselves.

The centre of the Reich was not the Reichstag.  That collective assembly, elected by everyone who had a vote, which meant every male Aryan who had at least three generations of German blood and could prove that he had no taint of Jewish blood, had very little power indeed.  It existed only to allow those who might rebel an outlet for their political desires; any actual work it did was considered a bonus.  

The Reich Council, the highest authority in the Reich – and hence the world – consisted of nine members, all representatives from the main services within the Reich.  At their level, the struggles between the Luftwaffe and the Kriegsmarine, the industrialists and the civil service, did not exist.  They worked together, on the principle that between them they held the power of Hitler…and separately they were nothing.

General Neumann stood in the centre of the room, looking up at the shadowed forms around him, sitting at their desks and facing him.  He stood alone; security requirements meant that there were no aides or secretaries in the room itself.  Indeed, hardly anyone even knew who the council members were…and speculation was considered high treason.  Orders were issued in the name of Adolf Hitler…and there was already a growing cult that had Hitler as an immortal God on Earth.

“The…incident in the opposing Cambridge,” a voice said.  General Neumann turned slightly to face who he thought was the speaker; the room played strange tricks with the echoes.  “What effect will this have on our plans?”

General Neumann took a breath.  “They will have to be moved forward,” he said.  “The…other side now knows that we exist.”

A different voice, as dry as dust, spoke into the room.  “The alternate Cambridge was destroyed by the nuclear detonation device,” he said.  General Neumann was somehow convinced that the voice’s owner was from the civil service; he sounded like a beuorocrat.  “Whatever evidence exists will have been destroyed.”

“That is possible, but unlikely,” General Neumann said.  There was a hiss of indrawn breath from…someone.  General Neumann winced; speaking bluntly to the Reich Council was permitted, but it had to be truthful.  The truth was – he smiled at the thought – he wasn’t sure if he was being truthful at all.  “They will have made certain to dump the information outside the blast range.  Their soldiers will also have seen us; they may also have had time to report on the Portal if they saw it.

“But that’s not the real problem,” he continued.  “The officer from the Strategy section, Karl Jung, has gone missing.  If they found him in America, they will have been able to make him talk…and then they’ll know.  Even if he’s just gotten lost…”

“But surely he would have killed himself rather than let himself be taken alive,” a councilman objected.  General Neumann half-wondered if he was a woman; the voice was curiously light and breathy.  Someone like that should have been instantly recognisable outside the chamber and it annoyed him no end to know that he had no idea who was behind the voice.  An SS man, perhaps; one of them would have been able to hide outside of public life.

He smiled grimly.  One of the fanatical SS men would have been more than willing to kill himself, so they would also have projected that onto Jung.  Yes, light-and-breathy was SS; that made sense.

“He may have managed to kill himself,” he said carefully.  It didn’t do to annoy the SS for nothing.  “However, we must assume that everything he knows is in the hands of the enemy.  Even now, they will be putting their forces upon alert.”

“And what exactly do we have to fear from them?”  Light-and-breathy asked.  “Their weapons are weak compared to ours.”

General Neumann sighed.  “That is not completely accurate,” he said.  “Their electronics are better than ours; their computers more capable.  They would be able – they should be able – to make lasers and particle beam weapons like ours.  They should be able to launch more into space than they have; there is no massive difference between us in…capability, if not actual deployment.

“They also have precision weapons, which we have never seen the need for,” he continued.  “They have not fought a major war for years, but then…neither have we.  We’ve only practiced major deployments, and seeing that it may be impossible to get a carrier through a Portal…”

“Herr Professor Rommel is working on that, General Neumann,” a different voice said.  General Neumann winced inwardly; it was dry and clipped.  It almost hurt his ears to hear it.  “We may yet be able to transit an entire aircraft carrier though the Portals into their world.”

General Neumann smiled grimly.  “That’s not the point,” he said, taking his life in his hands.  “They located our base!”

Light-and-breathy spoke with a tone of cold annoyance.  The SS were determined to underestimate their new foe.  “Then one of the kidnapping squads was careless,” he said.  “That does not mean that they located our base.”

“They attacked the base with their Special Forces,” a cold voice said.  General Neumann smiled; he recognised that voice!  General Horst, late of the Wehrmacht ground combat division.  “They would not have done that unless they expected heavy resistance.”

“They must have had a way to locate the Portal,” General Neumann said.  “Herr Doctor Rommel suggested that the endpoint of the Portal would cause some leakage of high-order radiation, which is invisible to our sensors.  As their sensors are actually more advanced than ours, they might be capable of seeing it.”

There was an appalled silence.  “The secret might have been blown,” General Horst said.  “We have to move at once.  What is the status of the attack plans?”

“The forces are in position for the attack,” General Neumann said.  “It’s just a matter of making some slight adjustments to the plan.”

Dry-as-dust spoke in a dry tone.  “Adjusting the plan,” he said slowly.  “In what way?”

“They will enjoy considerable advantages in space, at least until we can get some weapons up there,” General Neumann said.  “I propose to remove some of them.”

He detailed his plan quickly and carefully.  “An excellent idea,” General Horst said, afterwards.  “The infiltrators can see to that?”

General Neumann nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “Dealing with their satellites, I think, would be a good first step.”

***
Roth paced backwards and forwards, trying to make the arrangements he needed.  “They want us to transport materials only one way?”  He asked.  “Can the Portals do that?”

“Under the correct circumstances, yes,” Doctor Rommel said.  They’d both been summoned to Berlin to discuss matters with the committee planning the invasion.  “Adjusting the flow so that it only pours into the other dimension is possible, at the risk of making the effect of the Portals more noticeable.”

Roth stopped his pacing.  A nasty thought had occurred to him.  “Doctor, you said that the radiation that the othersiders are seeing comes from the effects of putting someone new into the other universe,” he said.  “Is that harming the universe?”

“Madeline worked out that it wasn’t,” Rommel said.  Roth smiled; his attempts to court Madeline, one of a handful of German women in the sciences, weren’t exactly working out.  He could have had a whore at any time, or a woman from the research camps, but it wasn’t the same.  “The energy is caused by the universe pouring some of its energy back here, just to keep the balance.”

Roth frowned.  There was something about the concept he found…unlikely.  There was something wrong with it; he just wasn’t sure what.  He looked up as Zimmermann arrived, puffing and out of breath.

“They have refused permission for the people to search for Karl,” he said, as soon as he had gotten his breath back.  “He could be anywhere!”

“Of course he could,” Roth said, and thought cold thoughts about Jung.  He had seemed too eager to cross to the other side.  “Doctor, we don’t have the resources to search all of the alternate world, nor do we have the time.  The invasion is being moved up…”

“But the plan is not perfect,” Zimmermann protested.  “We have not yet made the plan foolproof.”

“There are some very clever fools,” Roth murmured.  “Doctor; I understand your concerns, but it is the opinion of General Neumann that we have to hit them as hard as we can and establish a beachhead.  Once that’s done, we will have time to develop a more conventional campaign.”

Zimmermann scowled.  “I hope that you’re right,” he said.  “What could they have learned from Karl?”

“Everything he knew,” General Neumann said.  Roth jumped to his feet and saluted; he hadn’t seen the general behind Zimmermann’s rear.  “If they have him, they’ll make him talk.  We must assume that everything he knows is compromised.”

“Yes, sir,” Roth said.  “Are we to deploy the special weapons?”

General Neumann nodded.  “See to it at once,” he said.  “What about the other invasion forces?”

“According to the last reports, they were ready and raring to go,” Roth said.  “That’s nine forces, including one for Washington directly.  We might just manage to take the head of their President.”

“We’ll be lucky,” General Neumann said.  “If they take even the slightest precautions against us, they will move him away from Washington.”

Roth thought about the Reich Council, which would never have fled Berlin, and scowled.  “Yes, Herr General,” he said.  “I’ll go issue the orders at once.”

SS-Adolf Hitler Training Ground
Washington DC Ruins, Occupied America (TimeLine C)

The Waffen-SS had only expanded and expanded since the end of the first war, to a point where it was pretty much a separate army in its own right.  The Wehrmacht considered it a fanatical force, one where fighting fury superseded discipline, but there was no question that the Waffen-SS, Adolf Hitler, was one of the most capable armoured forces on the surface of the planet.  It lacked, admittedly, an inbuilt air component, but its five hundred heavy tanks and support vehicles carried considerable anti-aircraft systems, from missiles to heavy radar-guided guns.  They had never felt the lack of air support, not when Japan, the only threat, was far behind Germany in armoured combat tactics.

“Attention,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer bellowed.  “Silence for Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann!”

“Heil Hitler,” thousands of SS officers bellowed, saluting for their commanding officer.  Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann, the commanding officer of SS-Adolf Hitler, was well known and trusted.  The SS, ironically, encouraged a far greater degree of fraternisation than the regular Wehrmacht.  “Heil Hitler!”

“At…ease,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann snapped.  The entire force clicked to a slightly less alert position.  “Men of the Adolf Hitler!  You are the best of the best of the best; the greatest armoured warriors in the history of the world.”  They cheered.  “In two days, you will pass through a Portal to another world, where you will fight Americans and the other subhumans who have somehow overrun that world.”

The shout of ‘Heil Hitler’ wasn’t as loud this time.  Many of the men wouldn’t have heard about the Portals.  Those that had heard rumours probably would have refused to believe them.  Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann smiled; they would be in for a surprise when they drove through the Portal.

“Our mission is the most important one that exists,” he said, knowing that he only knew part of the entire plan.  “We can only move through the Portals to the corresponding location on the other side, which is where…?”

He waited for an answer.  No one spoke.  “Washington,” he said.  “In our timeline, it was reduced to rubble and never rebuilt.  In theirs…it is the home of their interracial breeding program, one designed to reduce the Aryan race to nothing!  Their seed is already weak; are we going to allow them to continue to fall from their heritage?”

The shout would have raised the roof, had there been one.  “No,” they shouted.  “No!”

“Our mission is to capture Washington DC, United States of America, on the other side,” he said.  “We will advance through the Portal, assault teams first, followed by the tanks.  Once we secure the city, we will press onwards, capturing or killing anyone within the city…for the Reich!”

“For the Reich,” they shouted, echoing him.  “For the Reich!”

“We will not fail,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann promised them.  “On many fronts, our forces will break out…and we will win!  We will take the world and impose upon it the New Order, the force that has put a German base upon the moon, and sent missions to Mars.  We will shape them in our image…for the Reich!”

“For the Reich,” they shouted, echoing him again.  “For the Reich!”

“For the rest of this day, we will practice filing through the Portal and deploying on the other side,” he proclaimed.  “Then we will have more practice, until we get it right.  It has been too long since we had a real war…and this one will purify the Reich as no other.  For the Reich!”

“For the Reich,” they shouted, echoing him for the final time.  “For the Reich!”

***
“Tell me, Dieter,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said afterwards, “am I growing soft in my old age?”

“You did have that rapist flogged to death,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer, his aide and trusted friend, pointed out.  “The Americans were most grateful.”

Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann shrugged.  He had no objection to his men engaging in a little fun with the local woman – provided that it didn’t interfere with the mission.  The unfortunate Rottenfuehrer had been foolish enough to rape a young American girl, rather than spending time guarding a supply dump for the latest drill.  Discovering that the Wehrmacht – the official enemies for the drill – had managed to capture the dump had not pleased Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann – and when he’d discovered the reason for it, he’d been utterly furious.

It had taken the young rapist several hours to die.

“I suppose they were,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said, scowling.  “There was a time when I would have greeted the thought of stepping across worlds with considerable scepticism.”

“We wouldn’t want the soldiers to think that we thought that they were capable of thinking,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer quoted.  “You’re right; I would have expected more surprise, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer.”

“It’s all of the science-fiction films that they’ve been making these days,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said, and smiled.  The latest, an epic about Aryans spreading across the galaxy, had been genuinely fantastic, putting thousands of young men on a course towards the space program.  Hitler’s pet film producer could hardly have done better at such a perfect propaganda attempt.  

He shook his head.  “Still, I am disturbed by the data on their weapons,” he said.  “I find it hard to believe that they would reveal so much to just anyone.  Their weapons could be bigger or nastier than the intelligence men found out.”

“Anyone would think you didn’t trust them,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said, taking a liberty few others would have dared to take; joking with the commanding officer.  “They do know their jobs, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer.”

“We know the Japanese here, and they’re the only ones who would spy on us,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said thoughtfully.  “The other side…did you read the briefing on their computers?”

“Computers won’t give them that large an advantage, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  “So their computers move quicker than ours; it’s hardly going to change the fact that we have bigger tanks and bigger ones.”

Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann ignored the weak joke.  “They can make weapons that can hit someone inside a building,” he said.  “That’s something we’ve never worried about, for all kinds of reasons.”

He scowled, thinking about the political brief he’d been given.  He hadn’t wanted to believe it; the otherside nations seemed to actually pay attention to the smaller weaker nations, even the ones that were useless.  In their world, the smaller nations were ignored…and they were grateful for that.  

“They are very concerned about accidentally killing civilians,” he said.  “Even enemy civilians.”

“Then they won’t be trying to get nukes through the Portals,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer pointed out, with a great deal of practicality.  “If one went off here, it would destroy our staging area and take out several thousand American citizens.”

“You make it sound as if that was a problem,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said.  “However, their weapons seem to have better targeting than ours, which will affect the campaign, will it not?  I wonder how their aircraft shape up, compared to the Luftwaffe.”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer glanced down at his watch.  “We’ll find out in a couple of days, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said.  “It should be interesting.”

“You young people,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said, with genuine amusement.  “Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to visit the latest brothel,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said, smiling darkly.  “They have those women from India in, shipped in by our dear allies the British.  They’re supposed to be able to make a man come just by touching his head.”

“No, you’re not,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said firmly.  “You can help me do the final reports, and then you can go to the brothel.”

Chapter Twelve: Sounding the Alarm

The White House
Washington DC, USA (TimeLine A)

An emergency press conference wasn’t a usual event in Washington.  Under normal circumstances, the President’s press secretary – or the secretary of whoever was giving the conference – would set a time and ask for reporters to be assigned to the conference.  This time, with half of the city’s best and brightest reporters at Cambridge or on their way to England to interview the survivors, the short notice had caused half of the local offices to send out stringers, rather than the more famous reporters they had on contract.

Even more unusual, in the eyes of Joyce Patterson, was that emergency protocols had been invoked, placing the President’s speech on all channels from America and many of those across the world.  The system had hardly even been tested; far too many people remembered the incident when a hacker had broadcast a pornographic movie to the Arab world to allow any tests that might be hacked into and redirected.  She was certain, morally so, that whatever was happening was important…and somehow related to the events in Cambridge.  

“I have my contacts at the Hill asking what’s up,” her editor murmured in her ear, through her tiny transceiver.  Her editor had covered the Washington region for years before being promoted upwards; he’d covered 9/11 and other events with an aplomb that had amazed some people and horrified others.  “Half of the senators and congress-critters have vanished; they’ve left town in a hurry.”

“A nuclear attack?”  She subvocalised.  Carelessly causing a panic was a criminal offence these days.  “The President’s still here.”

“I know, Joyce,” her editor said.  “I’m scared, I…”

His voice cut off as she stepped into one of the White House’s protective zones, blocking communications from unauthorised devices.  The cameras, ones produced by the staff, would relay the President’s speech, but devices that hadn’t been checked by the Secret Service were denied contact with the outside world.  Smiling grimly, she took her place in the crowd, waiting to see what it was all about.

“My fellow Americans,” the President said.  “Two days ago, an atomic blast destroyed Cambridge.  What wasn’t discovered until recently was that the loss of Task Force India was connected to the Cambridge Event; the same party appears to have been behind it.  

“We have discovered that there is a new and dangerous threat; the loss of the fleet and Cambridge were merely the opening shots in a new war.  We face a deadly enemy, one who has already launched a nuclear attack, and the war has begun.  Soon, perhaps even today, they will burst out of trans-dimensional portals and start the hard task of conquering the world.

“In consultation with our allies, Congress and the State Governments, I am formally declaring a state of emergency across the United States of America, effective immediately.  All military personnel are to report to their bases at once; all emergency personnel are to report to their headquarters.  Volunteers for military service within America are to report at once to the local recruitment centre; we need all the manpower we can get.  With the full agreement of Congress, all restrictions on the use of military force within America have been suspended; the enemy could literally appear on my front lawn.”

Joyce smiled, unable to take the news in, as several reporters glanced towards the White House lawn.  “Military units will begin digging in to defend important locations across the United States, preparing to confront the enemy.  Troops in Iraq and Germany and the other stations across the world are being redeployed at this moment, racing against the clock to defend America.”

Joyce shuddered suddenly.  That not only explained the heavy presence of troops outside the White House, but also proved how serious the situation was.  Iraq was still fragile; pulling American troops out of the nation might encourage the enemies of democracy.  

“I have faith in our country,” the President said, and at that moment he seemed to be a walking avatar of America.  “I have faith that together we will see this threat defeated and that we will walk triumphantly upon our own world again.  I ask each and every one of you to work with me to defend this country, upon which so many hopes and dreams are founded.”

He paused.  “We have beaten them once before,” he said.  “We can do it again.  We will fight for America and the entire world, fighting them everywhere until they are defeated and sent back to where they came from.  If we hold together, we can win; we have nothing to fear, but fear itself.”

He looked around the room.  “From this moment on, planet Earth is at war.”

He stepped off the podium and headed out of the door, ignoring the silence.  Normally, reporters would have hurled questions, but they were too stunned; none of them wanted to believe in the threat.

“It has to be a joke,” Julius Driver said.  His dark face was creased with worry.  “An invasion from another dimension?”

Joyce shook her head.  “Love, it has to be real,” she said.  “The destruction of Cambridge was not a joke.”

“I know,” Driver said.  “I just don’t know what to believe.”

Joyce shrugged.  “Hang on a second,” she said, as they left the White House.  Both of them had cars waiting, but she wanted to call in first.  When had a president made such an astonishing statement before?  Was there any that had been made since Pearl Harbour?

“Hello, Bill?”  She asked, as soon as the line was established.  “Were you watching?”

“They had it everywhere,” Bill, her editor, said.  “The entire nation is currently howling in alarm at losing the super bowl to a low-budget remake of the Thing from Dimension X.”

“I really hope that’s a joke,” Joyce said.  “Bill; what do you want me to do?”

Bill hesitated.  “I’m calling in every favour I’m owed,” he said.  “For the moment, I want you to stay in Washington.  If I can convince one of the friends at the Pentagon, you’ll be embedded with whoever’s defending Washington…assuming that it’s not all a cock and bull story.”

“Yes, sir,” Joyce said.  She put down the phone.  “Julius, what are you doing?”

“God knows,” Driver said.  “I might be heading back to Memphis.  They might send someone else here…hell, look at that.”

An explosion had billowed up in the distance.  “I hope that’s the signs of a riot, rather than the invasion starting,” Joyce said.  “I have the strong desire to run for my life.”

Driver nodded.  “So do I,” he admitted.  “So do I.”

***
“This am big capitalist trick,” President Gorbanov snapped.  “You have invented this to make us spend money on alerting our people.”

The President sighed.  President Gorbanov, he knew, had actually studied at Harvard…where he’d fallen in love with the image of a Hollywood communist.  He sometimes suspected that President Gorbanov regretted the fall of the USSR, even though it had propelled him to power.  How could he give vent to the stereotypical ‘nyet’ when everyone was friendly now?

“The Cambridge Event was not a joke,” Prime Minister Hamilton said.  The main members of the United Nations Security Council, and several counties that had been demanding permanent seats of their own, were engaged in a videoconference.  “Nor was the loss of the fleet.”

The President frowned inwardly.  Jung had told them that the fleet, whatever had happened to it, hadn’t been stolen by the Nazis.  He’d linked the two largely in his speech because Professor Thande believed that they were linked in some way; it was hardly a coincidence that the two inter-dimensional events were occurring at the same time.

“One of our attack submarines and a troop transport has been lost with that fleet,” President Gorbanov snapped, reverting to more typical English.  “Some of our most promising officers have been kidnapped.”

“That enemy intends to invade us,” the President said, wishing that he could just tell them all to shove it.  “They’re nazis from the other side of the looking glass.”

“So you tell us,” Chancellor Kroger said.  The German Chancellor scowled at the President.  “Is this another attempt to make us feel sorry for killing thousands of people?”

The President sighed.  “Chancellor Kroger, all of you, the threat is real,” he said.  “It is no game that we are calling troops home from South Korea, risking…”

“A breakdown in world peace,” Prime Minister Jean Caroche proclaimed.  “The north might decide to invade the south.”

The President swallowed the comments, including a long statement on the subject of French sales of Hellebore missiles to rogue states, that came to his lips.  A nasty thought had occurred to him; if one German could be replaced by an American from the Nazi world, what about a German replacing a German?  Might Chancellor Kroger have a counterpart who was, genetically, exactly the same?

“World peace is already on the verge of breaking down,” Hamilton said.  “The Cambridge Event has scared many, including Iran and North Korea.  They are not likely to start a war now, not when they might be blamed for the nuclear strike.”

The President looked up as Rogers entered the room, passing him a small sheet of paper.  He sucked in his breath as he read it; the news wasn’t unexpected, but it was bad.

“We have a problem,” he said, deciding to share all of the information and hope.  “Two more portals have been detected.  The mere fact of their detection means that they’re sending people through.”

He scribbled a note on the paper and passed it back to Rogers, ordering the NRO to concentrate on using satellites to watch for any infiltrators, before watching the reactions of the assembled world leaders.  They all seemed to be waiting to see who would speak first.

Hamilton broke the silence.  The President smiled; Professor Thande had probably informed him already.  “Where are these new Portals?”  He asked.  “Cambridge again?”

The President shook his head.  “Portal One is in the Ukraine, near the Russian border,” he said.  “Portal Two is near Sedan…”

“In France?”  Caroche demanded.  “They’ve put one of them in France?”

It’s astonishing how active the French can get when they’re directly under threat, the President thought wryly.  “Yes, Prime Minister; that’s exactly what they’ve done.  They could be moving some units into France right this minute!  What are you going to do about it?”

Caroche seemed to be stunned.  “I’ll order the Police to pick them up,” he said.  “It’s far too fragile in France at the moment to deploy troops to hunt them down…”

“Are you out of your mind?”  Hamilton demanded.  “These are not terrorists or immigrants or even both at once!  These are trained combat soldiers, experienced at fighting.  You have to secure your bases, fast.”

“And I assume that the Royal Army has already seen to that?”  Caroche asked.  “You do not understand global power politics.”

“The British Army,” Hamilton corrected.  “Caroche – Jean – we won’t be able to take refugees.  You have to order an alert.”

Caroche scowled.  “It’s not easy,” he said grimly.  He made an obviously difficult decision to level with them.  “You know how many of the people react to even the thought of military action.  Somehow, this will be an American war…and we won’t be involved unless we do something provocative, like mobilising.”

He sighed.  “Yes, I know; we will face the same attack,” he said.  “But, at the same time, I would have to ask the assembled delegates, and that won’t be easy.”

Oddly, the President felt a flicker of sympathy.  “I understand,” he said.  “Congress wasn’t easy to convince either.  Look, can’t you warn of other terrorists with nuclear weapons, claim perhaps that you don’t believe us, but just in case…”

“I’m going to have to,” Caroche said.  “Erwin?”  

Chancellor Erwin Kroger scowled.  “There are strong laws against Nazism in Germany,” he said.  “That said…with all the recent events, there are many who might be tempted.  Some of them are even within my government.  However, I will take a stand against them; I’ll convince the elected government that they have to remain the government – and the only way to do that is to put the army on alert.”

He paused.  “We don’t have that large an army though,” he said.  “The Bundeswehr is only around two hundred thousand strong – and only half of them are front-line soldiers.  Can we count on your support?”

The Chinese Premier, who possessed an unpronounceable name, coughed.  “I think that this is a case of looking to your own defence first,” he said.  “For our part, the troops are already being deployed within China…and at some considerable economic cost.  If this is some kind of mistake, it will cost us dearly.”

The President nodded.  “Chancellor, we will do what we can, but we have to look to our own defence first,” he said.  “For the moment, I suggest that we share intelligence and military data.”

Caroche frowned.  “Politically, that will be difficult,” he said.  “Tomorrow, you may be talking to a new Prime Minister.  The middle-rankers will share what information they can, provided that you do the same.”

“We will,” the President said.  “Bernard; we need to talk later.”  Hamilton nodded.  “Until the next time, Gentlemen.”

“And let’s hope that all of this is a hoax,” Chancellor Erwin Kroger said.  All of them, even Caroche, knew that it was not.

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

Oddly enough, the President had only visited NORAD – the centre of the United State’s nuclear war-fighting capabilities – once before, on a visit to get to know the facility.  The strategists, working hard to understand the nature of their enemy, had concluded that NORAD itself would not be a primary target; it would be difficult to open a Portal within the mountain itself.  The main command centre for the United States would be at NORAD; other government centres and redoubts were already being activated.

The officer commanding the facility, who had already been superseded by General Easterhouse, saluted as the President entered the facility, escorted by a whole wing of Secret Service men.  The Secret Service had wanted to place the President somewhere totally out of the way, but that had been impossible; the President needed to be visible as much as anything else.  

“Welcome to the Crystal Palace, Mr President,” he said, shaking the President’s hand.  “It’s a real honour to have you here.”

“Thank you,” the President said.  It had been a long flight from Washington and a nerve-racking one.  Three more Portals had been detected, one in China, one in Africa and one in South America.  Oddly, no more had been revealed within Britain…nor were there any more forming within America itself.  The governments had been warned…but two of the Portals had vanished again within an hour of their formation.

The President shook his head slightly.  “Have the scientists been shown to their quarters?”  He asked.  “Is this place secure?”

“Yes, Mr President,” the officer said.  The President looked up; General Easterhouse was walking around the balcony, coming to greet him.  “There are Marines on every level, armed to the teeth, and the better part of a heavy division dug in on the outside.  Even if they go nuclear, it will take several missiles to crack through the network of ABM launchers and hit us, and then several more just to break in.”

“That’s…reassuring,” the President said.  He nodded to General Easterhouse.  “Have you got the latest reports?”

“A great deal of panic,” General Easterhouse said wryly.  “We have briefing officers ready to brief you.”

“Oh joy,” the President sighed.  “And the high points?”

“The high points are that we have an almost complete call-up of the active duty forces and the reserves,” General Easterhouse said.  “The forces are digging into their bases and locations now, from National Guard bases to Air Force bases.  The Navy has launched all of its ships that can be moved now, taking up stations outside the United States.  The boomers are in the water and moving under cover, just in case we need to use them.”

“God forbid,” the President said, as they climbed up to the balcony.  “And the rest of the world?”

General Easterhouse scowled.  “Hitler was quite popular in several Arab states,” he said.  “They’re…looking forward to the Nazis burning Israel off the map.  The Israelis have warned of war if that happens or if the Arabs show any aid whatsoever to the Nazis.”

“But we warned them,” the President said.  “They’re first in line for the nuclear extermination!  We didn’t hold anything back.”

“Ah, but they think that seeing they’re such good Nazis themselves, Hitler’s goons – I wonder if he’s still alive in their world – will recognise kindred sprits.”

“I don’t know if he’s still alive,” the President said, and repeated his worries about Chancellor Erwin Kroger.  “Do you think that that’s possible?”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “I would tend to believe that it’s not,” he said.  “But we had some success integrating our people into Russia and they’ve managed to do it to us…so I suppose that it is possible.”  He shook his head.  “No way to be sure, of course, who has a duplicate and who doesn’t.”

“None,” the President agreed.  “What about the…Portal in the south?”

“Still no trace of it,” General Easterhouse said.  “We’ve been looking for it, as quietly as we can.  They’ll be panic if people think that we’re going to attack it like the British did.”  He cursed.  “If only that equipment had not been wrecked!”

“We’ll make more units,” the President said, as they reached the briefing room.  “So, all we can do now is wait?”

General Easterhouse smiled.  “You’ll be pleased to know that we have had quite a lot of volunteers,” he said.  “The more time they give us, the more time we’ll have to turn the volunteers into combat soldiers.”

The President nodded.  “I see briefings and more briefings in my very near future,” he said dryly.  “General Easterhouse; if there is any sign of them, you are to call me at once.  Until then, all we can do is wait…”

General Easterhouse nodded.  “And see…”

Chapter Thirteen: Opening Shots

Deployment Centre
German Arabia (TimeLine C)

The preparations for the invasion had gone slower than General Neumann had wished.  Part of that was because of the need to deploy new weapons and agents within the target zone, the other part was because Doctor Rommel had managed to improve the Portal generating systems.  There were two significant improvements; the Portals could be made larger…and they could be made one-way with a little extra power.  It didn’t last for long – Doctor Rommel had explained something about universal co-efficient that had confused General Neumann completely – but it limited one other danger.

He paused as night time started to fade into daylight.  It was 0600, local time; a good time for an invasion.  He’d wanted to command the thrust into America, either of them, but the Council had overruled him.  He was the overall commander…and therefore could not be permitted to lead the attacks into the most dangerous regions personally.  The Americans clearly had some way of detecting the Portals…which meant that they would be able to detect them as they transited into the new world.

General Neumann shook his head.  All that they could do had been done.  One force would invade Washington directly; another would seek a lodgement in the south of America.  One force would transit into Russia, one force would transit into China…and two forces would head into Europe.  If they succeeded, well and good; General Neumann would make their victory certain by securing a position within the Middle East.  If they failed, they would distract attention from the real danger.

He smiled darkly and squinted over at the Panzers, awaiting the command – his command - to charge into the Portal.  The Portal itself had been moved, in order to avoid detection, with an unpleasant surprise left for anyone foolish enough to track it down to where it had been.  It was shut down at the moment; when it was activated the first attack force would proceed.  He looked over at the missiles, carried neatly on trucks, and smiled.

“Time to go lay down the law,” he said, and stepped neatly into the command truck.  The lorry, almost a tank in its own right, would provide communications with the other attack forces, bouncing communications off the ionosphere until satellite communications were established.  Runners would move backwards and forwards between the Portals, relaying communications, but it was hardly a perfect system.

“Herr General,” the technician said.  “The conference call is ready.”

“Excellent,” General Neumann said.  He took his command seat, watching as the horde of data spilled onto the display in front of him.  His assault force, its tanks waiting in stand-by mode, was waking up.  “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler,” the seven generals; two of them Waffen-SS, the rest Wehrmacht, replied.

“This will be our last chance to talk directly for a while,” General Neumann said.  “You have your orders and your assignments.  If you can, conquer.  If you cannot, then you are to fight to the death.  You are to take and hold territory if possible, bleed them out if not.  They must be kept back from the Portals.

“They will attempt to destroy the Portals,” he said.  “You must not let that happen.  As long as we can pour reinforcements in, as we have far more deployable forces than they do, we will win.  It is our destiny to win!”

He paused.  “Are there any final questions?”

Obergruppenfuehrer Hoth nodded.  “Herr General, you have ordered that we are to limit our communications,” he said.  “Exactly why have you ordered that?”

General Neumann felt a flicker of pure anger.  Could the SS avoid playing politics for a while?  Hoth wasn’t even one of the real fanatics or the extermination groups; he was a genuine combat soldier.

“Because the other side has better anti-communications weapons than we do,” General Neumann said.  “They also presumably have better cryptographers than we do.  Their computers will reveal where any of our signals are coming from…and their precision weapons will take them out.”

Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann coughed.  “The Metalstorm units will prevent them from taking us out,” he said.

“Until you run out of Metalstorm,” General Neumann pointed out.  “They’re also designed for turning on their armoured vehicles, many of which are inferior to ours.  You’ve all studied the enemy, my Kamradin, you know what to do with them.”

“Secure the gate, deploy anti-aircraft and anti-missile weapons, advance outwards,” Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann said.  He paused.  “Herr General; why do we not employ the ultimate sanction before we advance?”

“We are already doing a variant on that,” General Neumann said.  “However, it would be too likely to provoke them into returning the favour…and we might not be able to hold the curtain against such actions.  If anyone requires the use of weapons above tactical level, he is to inform me first, understand?”

They nodded.  “Then, in the name of the Reich, we conquer!”

The connection broke.  General Neumann sat back in his chair and began to issue orders.  Slowly, the tanks and other vehicles woke up…and now there was only the countdown to invasion.

“It’s time,” he said, as the timer reached zero.  Great event would be happening on the other side of the Portals…and they would remain untouched by them.  “Activate the portals.”

“The Portals are coming online now,” Doctor Rommel’s voice said.  “Good luck, General Neumann.”

“Thank you, doctor,” General Neumann said.  He peered at the screen; the shimmering light of a Portal appeared ahead of them.  “All units; prepare to advance.”

“The Portal is stable,” Doctor Rommel said.  “You may proceed when ready.”

General Neumann smiled.  “All units…advance!”

Nr Riyadh
Saudi Arabia (TimeLine A)

Ahmed Rahman was bored and seriously annoyed with the Americans.  It wasn’t enough that they had to maintain vast bases within his nation – they’d all been closed down or drawn down over the last few years – but they had to put his force on alert, searching for, of all things, a Nazi base in the middle of the desert.

He scowled as his tanks crossed the desert.  The Royal Saudi Army was rarely allowed to actually engage in drills…and it showed.  An American force – he’d watched the invasion of Iraq with considerable envy – could spread out without losing cohesion.  A Saudi force had to stay close together, just to prevent the commander from losing control.

He glared down at the map, wishing that the Americans had been more specific.  Doubtless it was an attempt by the Americans to test the Saudi forces…without bothering to inform them that that was what was going on.  He scowled; if the Americans asked, the Princes would be sucking their cocks and spreading their legs for them before they could even complete the request.

He swallowed his resentment – such thoughts were hardly safe in an army full of spies and fundamentalist plants – and stared down at the map.  The Americans – helpful as ever – had given them a rough location to search…it just happened to be fifty square miles.  He’d called in for support from the Royal Saudi Air Force, but the commanding officers had been reluctant.  Officers who had been loyal, as far as that term could be used, had been beheaded for even daring to suggest improvements.  As far as the Princes were concerned, the Saudi Army existed only to support the Americans – if necessary, to give the Americans their weapons.

Find some people in here, he scowled.  It wouldn’t be difficult; the desert was alive with people, from smugglers to terrorists to Shia refugees to terrorists to Zionist agents to terrorists, to American Special Forces to freedom fighters…if Bin Ladin had managed to kill the Saudi Princes and take over, Rahman knew that he would have welcomed him.  Most of the Saudi armed forces would have switched sides with delight and…

“Sir, I think we have something,” his driver said.  Rahman glared down in the direction he was pointing; a hint of a…hidden tent?  Rahman smiled; recommending the man for promotion wouldn’t be doing him any favours, but he certainly deserved it.  

“Take us up there,” he ordered.  He smiled; it had been sheer luck – or the grace of Allah – that they’d seen it.  The tent was well-hidden and well-camouflaged; but his driver was from the desert and knew its ways.

He scowled as they reached it.  Up close, there wasn’t anything important about it, so he drew his gun, expecting to meet Americans or terrorists or a man from one of the tribes that refused to bow to Riyadh.  He opened the tent, noting with some admiration that it was made from materials he didn’t even begin to recognise…and peered inside.

It was empty.

“Perhaps it’s been abandoned,” his driver said.  “Perhaps…”

Rahman shook his head.  It felt as if it had just been abandoned.  All of his senses were telling him to run, but it was too late.  A massive blast of white light literally blew him and his men into their component atoms.

***
General Neumann hadn’t been certain what crossing over to the other side would feel like.  In the end, it felt like nothing; his command tank passed though with the same sense of…nothingness as it had crossing the normal desert.  The sudden disappearance of the Reich’s massive series of communications systems confirmed that they had left the world that they knew…and stepped into a brave new one.

“The nuclear warhead has detonated,” his aide said.  “I confirm EMP pulse after-effects.”

“Noted,” General Neumann said.  “Any sign of hostile activity?”

He would have been astonished if there had been; even an EMP-configured weapon left some blast in the physical plane.  “None,” his aide said.  “The Panzers are requesting permission to deploy.  Orders?”

General Neumann smiled.  “Deploy,” he said.  “I want a total control of the air and ground.  Light up the radars; they can hardly be unaware that we’re here.”

There was a long moment of work.  On impulse, General Neumann turned the screen around to face the Portal; a stream of Panzers, three abreast, were advancing from the Portal, heading into the desert.  He smiled as the missile launchers came through, their computers already targeting the Arab cities.  It wouldn’t be long before they were all smoking rubble.”

“Inform Standartenfuehrer Gruber that he has clearance to fire,” he said.  “The missiles are to be launched as soon as possible, then the trucks are to move out of the way.”

A map of the region appeared in front of him.  Riyadh appeared to be larger in this timeline than it ever had been in his; it was a massive sprawling city.  Cameras mounted on the missiles would provide information on the cities, seconds before they would be vaporised.  He smiled.  “Access the launch permissions,” he said, typing in his personal code.  “They have permission to fire.”

A truck stopped, just behind the Portal.  Slowly, almost sexually, it lifted its missile to the sky.  The computers inside the missile, one directly derived from the V3 that had bombarded America during the War of 1960, were very simple; they could hardly be fooled.

“We have aircraft,” his aide said.  “At a rough guess; they’re comparable to Falcons, perhaps to Hawks.”

“Really,” General Neumann said.  He scowled at their flight paths; they were the paths of incompetent or untrained airmen, not competent pilots.  “Link them into the anti-aircraft net and take them down.”

“Engaging,” his aide said, as three missiles lanced into the air.  Seconds later, the enemy aircraft vanished from the screen.  “Three direct hits.”

General Neumann felt his lips curve into a delighted smile.  “This is going to be easy,” he said.  The ground shook as the first of the missiles launched from the trucks.  “And now their cities will be destroyed.”

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The sudden howl of the alarms brought the President out of a feverish sleep.  The urgent buzz of his intercom only made the nightmares vanish…to be replaced by reality, which was worse.  The President clutched the side of his head, cursing, even as he pulled on a dressing gown and a pair of glasses.  Mentally, he cursed the Chinese; he’d been staying up too late to try to convince them to coordinate with the rest of the world.

“Report,” he snapped, wondering what time it was.  A glance at a clock made him scowl; it was early noon.  He'd slept through most of the day, a rare gift for a President.  “General, what’s happening.”

The grim look on the General’s face made him realise that something had gone very wrong.  “They’ve detonated nuclear warheads in several places, including Florida and California,” General Easterhouse said.  His voice was shaky.  “Sir, the warheads were configured for generating a massive EMP pulse; the footprint has played merry hell with our satellites.”

The President felt his blood run cold.  “We no longer have the satellites?”  He asked.  “No communications at all?”

“We have most of the satellites,” a man who’d been introduced to him as Captain Mikado reported.  “The EMP has damaged many of them, however, particularly the older ones.  NASA is having fits.”

“Bastards played fast and loose with our security for years,” General Easterhouse snarled.  The President scowled at him; it wasn’t the time for debating NASA’s impact on the space program.  “Sir, we’re in trouble.  Captain?”

Mikado, a tall Asian man, looked up grimly.  “Sir, just before the EMP pulse hit, our satellites reported nearly a dozen nuclear detonations, all EMP-optimised.  We experimented with such a weapon, but they were never deployed.  Sir, a large percentage of the satellite network is damaged.  It will take years to repair.”

“It’s a good thing we have all that fibre optic,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President; we have a serious situation.  Many satellites are down; CNN and the other news stations are off the air.  We’re reprioritising now, but it will be hours before we have even a ghost of the detection capabilities we had before.  Mr President; they could be launching an attack right now!”

The President took a breath.  “We are still in communication with the bases and forces in the United states, right?”  He asked.  “If so, we’ll know if they are attacked.”

“Unless the attackers are coming through at Florida and California, seeing that a nuclear warhead has just gone off there,” General Easterhouse said.  “I’ve ordered the Air National Guard to attempt to recon the sites; NBC teams are on stand-by.”

“Understood,” the President said.  He scowled, trying to think.  He'd been through the emergency protocols, but it was so much harder when there was a real emergency – something that the drills constantly forgot to include.  “What communications do we have with the rest of the world?”

“All of the undersea cables are intact,” Mikado said.  “We have communications with the forces overseas.  Sir, we could call the rest of the world and ask…”

“NUDET,” someone shouted.  The tension in the room rocketed upwards.  “General, Mr President…sir, there have been a number of new nuclear detonations.”

The President felt cold inside.  He really didn’t want to know.  Duty forced him forward.  “Calm down, son,” he said, as best as he could.  “For a start, how are we seeing them?”

“The nuclear detonation monitoring satellites are hardened against EMP,” General Easterhouse murmured, allowing the young officer to get a grip on himself.  “We may end up having to use them to rely communications.”

“Sir, we read five nuclear detonations, all within Saudi Arabia,” the young officer said.  His black face was soaked with sweat.  “Sir…Mecca, Medina, Riyadh” – his voice broke off as his console chimed – “and they’ve just added to the death toll, now in the UAE and Oman.”

“That’s the end of Al Jazeera,” General Easterhouse commented.  “Serve them right for saying that we made the entire threat up.”

The President sighed.  “They never believed in the threat,” he said.  “The bastard Princes fled and left the rest of their people to die.”

There was a long pause.  “Sir, that’s seventeen cities gone,” the young officer said.  The President winced; the Middle East was in ruins.  Centuries of history, both good and bad, had been wiped out in mere moments.  “We’re also reading traces of Portal activity.”

“A land invasion of the ruins of the Middle East,” General Easterhouse said.  “Sir…”

“The price of oil is about to go through the roof,” the President said.  “Let’s hope that the price controls remain in place and effective.  Yes, General?”

“Mr President, if they secure control of the Middle East, we will have to fight a land war,” General Easterhouse said.  “I recommend an immediate nuclear strike, once we have an undamaged satellite orbiting overhead.  Once we have proper targeting ability, we might be able to get a missile though the Portal and wreck the other side.”

The President, to his shame, had considered the idea already.  There was something about the idea of nuking the Middle East that appealed to him.  At the same time, it would have consequences…and they would be borne by American citizens.

“If we do that, they will retaliate against our cities,” the President said.  “It’s not a cost we can pay, not now, not with the entire situation so confused.”

“Mr President, they have already destroyed one of our cities, or at least a British city,” General Easterhouse said.  “I think this is a mistake.”  He paused.  “This might be our only chance to destroy them before they can deploy to fight us.”

“Duly noted,” the President snapped.  He knew that he should call a press conference, but there were more important matters.  “Is there any signs of Portal activity within the United States?”

“It’s hard to be certain,” Mikado said.  “The satellites got badly damaged and…”

His console chimed again.  “Yes, I think there are signs,” he said.  His voice didn’t sound stable at all.  “There are three Portals currently active.  Mr President; one’s in Dixie, ones in Texas…and the third is in…my god.”

General Easterhouse shook him.  “Where is it?”  He snapped.  “Where is it, man?”

“Washington,” Mikado said.  “Mr President; Washington is being invaded.”

Chapter Fourteen: The Battle of Washington

Washington DC
USA (TimeLine A)

Gunnery Sergeant Burtis had enjoyed the deployment in Washington for the three days that the regiment had been deployed there.  The four divisions; three light and one heavy infantry, had been dug in around the major landmarks, from the Pentagon to the White House.  A force of Marines had dug themselves into Arlington Cemetery and several dozen armoured vehicles had prepared themselves as best as possible for an attack from any direction.  It was the very unpredictably of the expected attack, Burtis suspected, that would pose the most dangerous threat.

He scowled.  Service in Washington, at least without any actual fighting, was better than patrolling the Iran-Iraq border; the problem was that in Washington, at least, they were under very restrictive rules of engagement.  It would have…unpleasant consequences if they opened fire on the wrong person, no matter how suspicious they were of their intentions.  Worse, perhaps, they were in the middle of a city; the four divisions would only be able to give limited support to one another.

General Morrigan, who had had a relative on the George Washington, had deployed his mixed force around the centre of the city.  One Army division; three National Guard divisions were dug in, but they were spaced out.  Burtis, who suspected that some of the force would be unable to support other parts of the force, would have preferred to have had solid intelligence on where the enemy would be coming from before deploying.

He shook his head, checking the location of his people.  Half of his force was on defence duty, divided between people who manned the weapons and people ready to move into position at a moments notice.  The other half were sleeping, or playing games; their weapons near them.

His radio buzzed.  “Sergeant Burtis, check in,” a voice asked.  Burtis didn’t recognise it; it might have been a legitimate request, or it might have been a reporter trying to hack in.

“Authorisation code, please,” he said, wondering which it was.  “I repeat; code first.”

“Code Perfect Zulu,” the voice said.  It sounded more familiar – and irritated.  “Check in.”

“We’re at the White House and all is well,” Burtis said.  “Anything from higher up?  How long are we going to wait here?”

“Nothing,” the voice said.  Burtis recognised it now; Captain Jaggar, one of General Morrigan’s aides.  “There’s supposed to be an armoured division on the way, but it may be kept in reserve.  Signing off.”

The radio contact terminated.  “Son of a bitch,” Burtis muttered, turning to study the Washington skyline.  The population hadn’t entirely moved out, but the presence of the armed force was impossible to disguise.  The Congress, the Senate, the Supreme Court…all of them had been moved out and dispersed around the country.  The population, by and large, had followed them; the countryside was seeing a massive influx of civilians.  The provision of refugee facilities had already collapsed, but the people of America had responded well…although Burtis suspected that it wouldn’t hold for long.  Most people in the city were…well, not used to working outside the city.

He paced forward, checking the positions of his men again, muttering words of comfort and encouragement to some of the less experienced soldiers.  There was no reason to expect that today would be the day, but he knew enough to know that the longer the observed time period…the more likely that a given event would happen.  He was heading back behind his lines when he felt…sick.

He staggered and almost threw up the MRE he’d eaten earlier.  All around him, soldiers were suffering; a sense of total wrongness passed over them.  There was a final blinding spark of pain in his head…and it was gone.  

“Radiation,” he shouted, acting on his first thought.  He span around, ready to start shouting out orders…and stopped.  A shimmering wall of white light had appeared on Constitutional Avenue, rapidly stabilising into a stable wall of light.  Black-garbed figures were already spilling from it, firing at random around them.  Burtis stared, unable to understand how they could know where the opposition was…and then he understood.

“Return fire,” he shouted.  Merely seconds into the fight and the enemy – the Nazis – had an advantage.  He gabbled instructions into his radio, trying to warn everyone, as the machine gun nests opened up on the Nazis.  The Germans, those who were lucky, threw themselves to the ground, returning fire with strange portable machine guns and micro-missile launchers.

“Fuck,” Burtis swore, as an explosion destroyed a machine gun.  “Where’s my fucking…uh-oh…”

The first enemy tank had appeared from the Portal…and then the second.  Burtis’s mind refused to accept what he saw; for a long crazy moment he thought that the process had somehow split the tank in two.  Two tanks appeared, from each side of the Portal, already firing.

“Anti-tank weapons, now,” Burtis snapped.  The tanks were nasty; fully twice the size of an Abrams.  They reminded him more of Soviet tanks; very heavy armour and weapons.  They were armed like the modified Abrams the manufacturers had been talking about creating, with anti-personnel weapons as well as anti-tank.  “Now, damn it.  Where the hell is my artillery?”

An explosion from the side of the Washington monument announced the death of an Abrams tank.  Two more – well, he supposed they were Panzers – appeared from the Portal, their weapons already blazing…and then one exploded.

“The 3rd Artillery is opening fire,” someone said over the radio.  “There’s trouble going on at the Pentagon…”

The voice vanished in a howl of static.  Antitank weapons opened up, firing at the Panzers, hitting them several times in a second.  Explosions flickered over the mammoth tanks…and then they came on, undaunted.  A shell slammed into the White House and detonated, a high-explosive shell that sent flames racing through most of the building.

Burtis keyed his radio, ducking as a spray of machine gun bullets lashed over his head.  A hail of shells slammed down near the Portal, missing the Panzers, but their weapons changed position, aiming upwards and firing short bursts into the sky.  Burtis cursed aloud, diving for cover, as the explosions shattered the incoming shells.

“We have to jam their radars,” someone said.  The radio channel was breaking up; he couldn’t decide if it was being jammed or if it was accidental.  The enemy Panzers were moving away from the Portal, firing blast after blast into the buildings and the defenders.  A shell from an Abrams slammed into the treads of a Panzer, which ground to a halt, but could still fire.  The crew of the Abrams was well trained; they hit the Panzer again, just below its massive turret.

“Gotcha, you bastard,” Burtis shouted, as the Panzer exploded in a gout of red fire.  Its companions poured fire towards the Abrams, killing it and wrecking more of Washington, even as the vehicles from the Portal changed into some other vehicles.  The German infantry were sorting themselves out, spreading out to support the vehicles, firing as they came.

Burtis cursed suddenly.  Retreat didn’t come easily to him, but it was clear that it would be necessary.  The artillery was shooting still – a shell killed one of the softer vehicles – but the effectiveness wasn’t as good as they had hoped.  Seconds later, one of the vehicles revealed its true nature; a self-propelled gun, firing heavy shells towards the 3rd Artillery.

“Gunnery Sergeant Burtis, this is General Morrigan,” a new voice said.  “Can you describe the situation?”

Burtis nearly laughed.  “We’re fucked,” he said.  Leavenworth would be heaven on Earth compared to living in a Nazi world.  “General, they’re sending them through on each side of the Portal.”

Morrigan ignored his language.  “Can you get a missile through the Portal?”

Burtis took a moment to assess his remaining force.  At least two thousand American soldiers had been killed in the first…was it really seven minutes?  He shuddered; it had felt like hours.  “No, sir,” he said.  “We have only a handful of heavy weapons left and none of them bear on the Portal itself.”

“Understood,” Morrigan said.  He didn’t seem inclined to say anything else for a long moment.  When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with…bitter resignation.  “Gunnery Sergeant Burtis; do you still have your designator?”

Burtis checked his belt.  He was astonished to discover that he still had it with him.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “Is the 3rd still going?”

“Yes, Burtis, but that’s not what you’re signalling to,” Morrigan said.  “The fighters are on their way.  Order the rest of your men to retreat and start targeting the Portal.”

“Yes, sir,” Burtis said.  “What do I do after lunch?”

Morrigan snorted.  “Once the Portal has been hit, leave as fast as you can,” he said.  Burtis nodded; either the Portal would be closed, or it would not be.  If the former, the forces in reserve could mop up the Nazis; if the latter, they would have to hold the Nazis inside the city.  “Good luck.”

Burtis asked a question before the line could close.  “Sir, what’s happened at the Pentagon?”

There was a long pause.  “Let’s just say that deciding not to command from there was a very wise decision on my part,” Morrigan said.  “Good luck, Sergeant.”

The line closed.  Burtis shouted to his remaining men to retreat, before pulling himself into a position from which he could observe the Portal.  The aircraft would be on the Portal soon, a B-52 or a B-1; a massive display of airborne bad temper.  He looked down at the Portal and frowned; it was acting…oddly.  There was something about it that his mind refused to grasp, far from the recordings of the one seen at Cambridge.

He frowned.  The entire perspective flickered…and two more enemy vehicles appeared.  It flickered again…and two more appeared, this time what appeared to be anti-aircraft vehicles.  There was something about the Portal’s motion that rang a bell in his head…except he didn’t have time to think, or to worry, about it.  The bomber would be overhead any second now.

***
The USAF had begin the 21st century under the impression, shared by many of the other western nations, that it could afford not to evaluate its doctrines.  Primary among them was the conviction that America itself could not be invaded; a containable problem to the south and a friend to the north – along with the USN’s total dominance of the seas – kept America safe.  Everyone concluded that the ability to strike at the United States was outside the capability of any real enemy…except that they were wrong.

The USAF had been forced to change for the nine bloody years of the terror war, a war that might have come to a screeching halt; developing itself into a deployable force that could be moved around the world at short notice.  The sudden arrival of the new threat had been an unwelcome surprise; the USAF was heavily committed elsewhere.  Suddenly, its home bases in the United States and England were under threat. 

Captain Eric Harry checked the display as the B-52 roared towards Washington.  The USAF’s asserts had been deployed – dispersed – around the country; there was no reason to assume that the enemy were somehow incapable of opening Portals into the heart of Andrews Air Force base, or indeed any of the others within the United States.  That had, unexpectedly, limited what the United States could deploy still further…and no one knew what anti-aircraft capabilities the enemy possessed.  For the moment, the remainder of the bombers were being held back; Harry knew, without any false hope, that he was in effect a test subject, a guinea pig.

“I won’t lie to you, Eric,” his superior officer had said.  “If they have weapons like ours, you’ll be threatened, perhaps even blown out of the sky.  But if you can take out that Portal, it will be worth it.”

“Coming up on the battlezone now,” his navigator said.  Harry nodded; the plumes of smoke rising from the city were hard to miss.  “I have a lock on the targets.”

Harry smiled grimly.  The United States communications systems had come a long way.  There were two portals operating within the battlezone; both of them due for a hammering with a JDAM each.  He would have preferred a MOAB, on the principle that more was better, but his commander had overruled him.

The alarms shrilled.  “Missile lock,” his co-pilot snapped.  “I count two heat-seeking missiles.”

Harry kept his face calm.  If they broke off, command wouldn’t know how capable the Nazi weapons were.  “Deploy countermeasures,” he said.  He scowled; the USAF had never faced an opponent of equal capabilities since…world war two.  The Koreans had challenged the United States from time to time, the Chinese had built up their air power, but none had threatened the United States since the end of the Could War.  “Stand by for evasive action.”

“Telemetry being forwarded to command,” his co-pilot said, with a calm that Harry could only admire.  Here’s one for Dale Brown.”

“Up yours,” Harry said, as the Nazi missiles saw the flares…and separated, pursuing the flares instead of the B-52.  “Command, I confirm that the enemy missiles followed the flares and not us.”

“Target lock acquired,” the bombardier said.  “I repeat; I have a confirmed target lock on Portal One, Portal Two.  Requesting permission to deploy JDAM weapons.”

“Deploy,” Harry said.  He felt the aircraft shudder as the JDAM weapons were launched…and then he felt a wave of fire…and then he felt nothing, ever again.

***
Gunnery Sergeant Burtis watched as the German – the Nazi – missiles lanced away from a vehicle than reassembled the old Sergeant York system, heading for the dark shape of the bomber…and whooped as the missiles failed to hit their target.  The skies were clear, apart from the bomber itself, but he was certain that the skies would soon be black with bombers, heading to rip the Nazis apart.

“Bombs away,” he shouted, uncaring of any patrolling SS man who might have heard.  The Germans were spreading out, coming from the Portal and being directed by men he recognised as Sergeants; some things never changed from army to army.  The tone of the incoming vehicles had changed; Panzers spilled from one opening in a steady stream, the other side disgorged infantrymen, armed with weapons Burtis suspected were actually inferior to his own.

He stared as one of the German vehicles changed rapidly, deploying a weapon of some kind, pointing it at the sky and…a blue bolt of light speared the bomber, vaporising it in an instant.  He thought that it was some kind of laser; except…it reminded him of something he’d seen before somewhere.  The bombs were still falling and…one of them struck the Portal directly.  The shockwave of the explosion blasted across Burtis’s position, shaking him to the core, and he fell over.  Picking himself up, he looked down at the Portal…and saw that it was still there.

He stared.  Something wasn’t right with the Portal; it was flickering around, discharging energy all over the place.  He thought for a long moment that it was collapsing…and then it stabilised, snapping back into the form it had held since appearing.  Seconds later, the torrent of German soldiers resumed.

“At least the bomb blast did some good,” he muttered, as he scrambled away from the centre of Washington.  Several dozen German vehicles, from massive Panzers to the lightly-armoured anti-aircraft units, had been wrecked by the blast, but dozens more were still operating, firing into Washington and continuing the advance.

He keyed his radio, hoping that the Germans couldn’t track his transmissions.  It was supposed to be impossible, but then; so was inter-dimensional travel.  He crouched low as a hail of shells flew over his head, aimed – he hoped – at units on the other side of the city.  That wasn’t really good news, but it proved that there was still a coordinated resistance.

“General Morrigan, the bombs didn’t close the Portal,” he said, into his radio.  “General, they shot the B-52 down.”

“Understood,” Morrigan’s voice said.  His tone was devastatingly tired.  “Pull back and…”

The thought that had been at the back of Burtis’s mind finally broke loose.  “Sir, they were using a Metalstorm weapons on the aircraft,” he said.  “That’s what got it.  Their missiles were useless, sir; the flares were sufficient to handle them.”

Morrigan laughed bitterly.  “The AWACS is picking up radar transmissions from there now,” he said.  Burtis scowled; if the Germans had radar of their own now, they would have yet more defences against air attack.  “Burtis; make your way out of the city and join up with the remains of your unit.  We’ll have to counter-attack as fast as we can.”

Burtis hesitated, and then asked.  “Sir, are there reinforcements on the way?”

“You don’t need to know that,” Morrigan said.  Burtis scowled at his mistake; whatever he knew, the Germans might get out of him.  “Make your way out of the city, rejoin your unit, and get ready for the counterattack.”

“Yes, sir,” Burtis said, and unkeyed the radio.  He paused for a long moment, looking back at Washington.  Flames were rising from the Pentagon; the White House was a ruin.  Even as he watched, the Washington Monument exploded in a hail of fire; German Panzers using it for target practice before advancing further.  Screams from the distance suggested that some civilians hadn’t been able to escape in time; Burtis couldn’t stand to think of what might happen to them.

“Don’t get too fucking comfortable,” he muttered, and turned to run as fast as he could.  The Nazis had gotten as far as they had through surprise and heavy weapons; without one, their weapons would be insufficient against the might of the Army.  “We’ll be back, you fucking bastards,” he swore, and ran as fast as he could.  Behind him, the endless mass of German Panzers and other vehicles continued to emerge, heading outwards into the city.

Chapter Fifteen: The Face of the Enemy

Washington DC
USA (TimeLine A)

The Portal creased its flickering and returned to normal; Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann breathed a sigh of relief.  He already had a large percentage of the SS-Adolf Hitler over, but it wouldn’t be enough to secure a commanding position within the city, let alone advance outwards to the rest of the country.

“The units are returning to their normal output,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer reported.  “We have more tanks and infantry now.”

Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann nodded.  They had had maps of Washington, but from the start he’d discarded most of them as useless or misleading.  The ones from their own timeline were worse than useless; Washington with an extra sixty years of development, rather than being reduced to more or less rubble, was far more developed than it had been in their timeline.

“Activate the mobile radars, set up the ground-based units as quickly as we can,” he ordered.  He glared down at the only good map, overlaid on the map showing the location of his vehicles.  He scowled; the other side’s more capable ECM and their electronic warfare capabilities would make the use of beacons actively dangerous.  “What about the Pentagon?”

The reply took a few moments in coming.  They’d drilled under the impression that they would have total communications security – the Japanese couldn’t match the Reich in such matters – and trying to handle the new security precautions was taking time.  Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann looked down at the map, watching as it updated itself; the force was spreading out over the city.

“Sir, we have secured the ruins of the Pentagon,” Obersturmfuehrer Schmid reported.  “They fought like Aryans, sir.  They destroyed the building after it was clear that it would fall.”

Lehmann’s attention was distracted by a contact report; three of his Panzers had encountered a strongpoint, where Americans were digging in to fight.  The…alternates were absurdly concerned about civilian causalities; his forces cared nothing how many American civilians were killed in the fighting.

“Standartenfuehrer, see if you can move some extra reinforcements out there,” he said, and turned back to Obersturmfuehrer Schmid, who was waiting on the radio.  “Understood,” he said.  “I’m having a special weapons team investigate the building, but you stay there and prevent anyone from getting near it until the building has been checked.”

“Jawohl,” Obersturmfuehrer Schmid said, and signed off.  Lehmann nodded and scowled down at the contact reports; American resistance to the German advance wasn’t very well coordinated at all.  Some regions of the city seemed to be abandoned; others teemed with soldiers and civilian combatants.  He smiled darkly; German doctrine called for the immediate execution of any fighter wearing civilian clothes.  It would take the Americans only a few hours to learn that; resistance from civilians was intolerable.

“Order all surrendered soldiers to be separated from the civilians,” he said.  “All of the civilians are to be herded into the concentration camps.”

He nodded as the acknowledgements came in, and then the command vehicle shuddered.  “Incoming shells,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer reported.  “Scanners are triangulating the contacts now…Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, they’re targeting our radars.”

“Return fire, now,” Lehmann snapped.  Counter-battery fire began blazing away from the growing wave of German self-propelled guns.  The American fire was diabolically accurate; only the rapid motion of the radars saved them all from dying.  He cursed as two radars vanished from the screen, knowing that without the radars they would be doomed to failure.

“Targets acquired and serviced, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer reported.  “Enemy fire has slacked by forty percent.”

“Wonderful,” Lehmann muttered.  “Order the guns to keep firing; the infantry are to expand further outwards.  Any sign of enemy aircraft?”

“Radar and other sensors report that there is a radar aircraft hovering, well out of range,” Untersturmfuehrer Peters reported.  “There are other aircraft, but none of them are dangerous…no, sorry, permission to revise that?”

Lehmann scowled.  There was something in Untersturmfuehrer Peters tone he didn’t like. “What’s happened?”

“Incoming missiles,” Peters said.  “Automatically prioritising Metalstorm to engage the missiles.”

“Do so,” Lehmann said.  “Take them all down.”

***
The loss of a single B-52 had taught the USAF caution; they hadn’t lost a heavy bomber in action for a long time.  As long as the Nazis had that Metalstorm system, any aircraft that flew too near was doomed.  The remains of the 3rd Artillery were trying to take down the radars, but Captain Glico knew better than to think that that would succeed.

“The Metalstorm pellets fly so fast as to practically allow the blasted things to be fired line of sight,” he muttered to his co-pilot, as the twenty-seven aircraft massed, well away from Washington.  From their height, smoke and fires could be seen, but little other sign of the invasion.  

The tactical net had been badly hammered in the opening shots of the invasion.  Satellites that they would have normally relied upon had been damaged or even destroyed beyond easy repair; landlines across the occupied zones were destroyed in most cases.  The Internet had taken a beating, but had survived; the information on it was sketchy.  There had been a massive wave of atomic explosions across the Middle East; the Iranian Revolutionary Council had blamed it on Israel, Britain and the United States…seconds before Tehran had vanished in an atomic fireball.  The war seemed to be breaking out everywhere; there was fighting in France, Russia…and Texas.  

“All aircraft, this is command,” a new voice said.  Major General Frederick Lawson, a man who’d been in command of a small base near Biloxi, now suddenly jumped to a role in the air defence of Washington.  The senior officer had been at the Pentagon; he hadn’t escaped.  “Stand by to receive your orders.”

There was a long pause as aircraft signalled their readiness.  “We are to hit the enemy locations with a full spread,” Lawson said.  “Missile targeting instructions are being relayed now, including HARM and Tomahawk missiles.  Stand by to engage.”

Captain Glico nodded as he banked the B-52 into a new course.  The force was spreading out; the ruthlessness the Nazis had shown would be enough to have them using nuclear-tipped missiles against the American aircraft.  “Ready to launch,” he said, wishing that he dared take the aircraft closer.  “Weapons ready to launch.”

We need a Desert Storm type mission, he thought, as the other aircraft added their own assent to the mission.  Taking down Iraq’s radar network had been easy; this time, it wouldn’t be so easy, but it could be done.  If they massed the Nighthawks, or the B-2 bombers, then…”

“Launch,” Lawson ordered.  Captain Glico tapped the single button, clearing the launch.  The aircraft shuddered as it released its missiles, before banking away from the battlezone.  Captain Glico had one look at the dozens of missile trails heading away towards the battlezone, before the aircraft found its new course…heading back to the base.

***
“I count one hundred and seventeen missiles, loosely comparable to Kill Class,” Untersturmfuehrer Peters reported.  “Sir, Metalstorm is engaging.”

Lehmann watched as the missiles started to vanish from the screen as the Metalstorm pellets lashed out, hamming into the missiles and destroying them.  He smiled; some were so tightly bunched that it was hard to tell if they had been hit by the counter-fire, or if they had been taken down by the deaths of their comrades.

The ground shook violently.  “One missile has impacted,” Lehmann said dryly.  The ground shook again.  “Damage report?”

“Seven missiles impacted, one harmlessly,” Untersturmfuehrer Peters reported.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, we lost five Tigers and three mobile radars.”

Lehmann cursed.  If they lost all their mobile radars, the battle would be within shouting distance of being lost.  “Have a runner on standby for when the Portal flips,” he said, wishing that they had invented a way of communicating through a one-way Portal.  “I want the radars prioritised for reinforcement.”

“Yes, sir,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  He gave the orders.  Lehmann returned to his display, watching as the remainder of Washington was secured.  The prisoners were being grouped together, near the radar installations.  He smiled; if the enemy targeted them, they would kill a lot of their own people in the process.  The only question was…how to inform them that that was what would happen?

I’ll have to send a messenger, he thought.  “Whom?”

“Your pardon, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer?”  Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer asked.  “Who whom?”

“Never mind,” Lehmann said.  “No, on second thoughts; I want you to find me a prisoner.  One who’s young, female, and attractive…or as close to that description as you can find.”

“Sir?”  Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer asked.  “I thought that…”

Lehmann gave him a sharp look.  “I want her to carry a message,” he said.  “Move it; now!”

***
“The Nazis have crossed the Potomac and are advancing into the rest of Washington,” Joyce Patterson muttered into her landline.  The telephone cable had been dedicated to the reporters…and as far as she knew she was the last one using it.  A lot of reporters had been encamped at the Hotel Splendid in Washington, sleeping off their hangovers, when a German Panzer had blown it into little pieces.  “The missile attack seems to have failed and…”

She broke down.  She’d never seen a war before, not at first hand.  She’d watched appalling pictures, from Iraq and Sudan and other places that few Americans could place on the map, but none of them had touched her.  Slowly, she peered out of her window again, hoping that she wouldn’t be seen and fired on as a suspected sniper.

Luck was with her.  The Germans were advancing on the strongpoint at the end of the street, one with a handful of real soldiers and more militiamen.  Washington had never had a large militia movement - the real militias tended to form in Texas and other border states – but there were thousands of volunteers in Washington.  She’d heard that the defending soldiers had considered them worse than the irregulars in Iraq – untrained and convinced that they knew everything there was to know about warfare – but they were determined to die for their country.

“There’s a heavy German tank,” she muttered, trying to scrunch down so that she would not be seen.  “It’s advancing on the position and…”

There was an explosion.  A building, further down the road next to the tank, had exploded.  Seconds later, the rubble cascaded down…right on top of the tank.  Joyce cheered despite herself…and it died in her mouth.  The tank’s engines roared and it burst forward, firing as it came.  A hail of fire smashed the makeshift barricade and the tank came on, ignoring the mines detonating under its treads.  It was clearly damaged, clearly in trouble, and it kept shooting regardless.

Joyce spoke quickly into her landline as the building shook around her.  Quickly, knowing what to do from her briefing by the public relations officer, she dumped the landline, smashing her radio as she did so.  She was wearing civilian clothes; it was a matter of moments to ditch everything that even remotely suggested that she was talking to anyone outside the city.

“If they think you’re a sniper or directing fire, you’ll be killed outright,” the public relations officer had warned her.  Joyce, that warning echoing in her head, threw caution to the winds and jumped though the hole in the wall, heading into the next building and then the next, running towards the fire escape at the end of the row of buildings.  She kicked down the door, entering the stairwell, and fled down the stairs.  The entire building shook violently and she pitched against the wall, banging her head hard enough to hurt.

“Ouch,” she gasped out once, and then closed her mouth with a snap.  If there were Germans nearby, then they might hear her and…her imagination stopped at that point.  She reached the final door and opened it, stepping out into a scene from hell.  She stopped, staring at the burning city…and then she felt the gun jabbing into her back.

“Hands high,” a voice snapped, in oddly accented English.  She jumped and lifted her hands, feeling sheer terror passing through her.  The voice wasn’t American; it was German.  “Who are you?”

“Joyce Patterson, reporter for the New York Times,” she stammered.  “You’re not allowed to shoot reporters…”

Her captor poked her in the back sharply with his guns.  “Put your hands behind your back, now,” he snapped.  Joyce, trembling, did as he ordered.  She felt one of his hands touching hers – the feeling was unpleasant – and then she felt the cold iron of handcuffs on her wrists.  Before she could resist, her arms were bound behind her…and she was helpless.  

“You are a prisoner of the Greater German Reich,” her captor informed her.  His hands checked her pockets and coat quickly, searching for any equipment.  Her equipment had been dumped; there was nothing to find beyond her pens and notepad.  His hands paused briefly on her rump…and then he swung her around roughly.  “Walk this way,” he commanded, holding her with one strong hand.

For the first time, she got a good look at her captor.  He was massive, dressed in a single black uniform with a handful of silver insignia.  One insignia, a pair of lightning bolts, made her shiver; she knew what that one meant.  His face, all that she could see of his body, was strong and powerful, rather like a young Arnold Swaznagger.  

Joyce thought rapidly.  “Let me go and I’ll make it worth your while,” she bargained.  Her captor slapped her hard across the face, sending her stumbling to the ground.  He caught her by her handcuffed arms and yanked her back to her feet,

“Move, American slut,” he snapped, using several German words she didn’t recognise.  Tears dripping from her eyes, she let him drag her back to the centre of Washington, passing countless piles of rubble that had once been the heart of America.  She struggled hard to regain some kind of control over her legs, but they were bruised; she could hardly walk.  If her captor hadn’t been holding onto her, she knew that she would have fallen down.

“There,” he said.  Joyce shivered; dozens of American citizens were sitting on the grass, their hands bound behind them.  A handful of SS guards were watching them, their weapons covering them despite their bound hands.  In the centre of the lawn, a massive military vehicle sat, the radardome moving constantly.

I’m a human shield, Joyce realised, as her captor attached her hands to the vehicle.  He took one final grope of her body, squeezing her breasts hard enough to make tears come to her eyes, and let her go.  Other young women were attached to the mobile radar…and Joyce realised to her horror that if the vehicle had to move in a hurry, it would crush them without the Germans even caring.

Helpless, lost, she started to cry again.  A series of explosions echoed out over the city, sending flames flickering out of control.  Parts of Washington were burning, other parts were being occupied by the Germans…and they were using Joyce as a shield.  Her mind ran round and round that point; if her own people fired, she was more likely to die at their hands than at the hands of the Nazis.

***
Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann listened carefully to the prisoner’s instructions on how to use the instant camera, and then sent the old reporter back to the camp.  It was, he decided, a very clever machine; it could produce photographs almost instantly.  The Third Reich had nothing like it.  He spent five minutes taking photographs of the human shields, before returning to his command vehicle.  

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, we have the American,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said, as he entered the command truck.  Lehmann nodded and looked up…to see a scantily clad American girl, wearing only a t-shirt and a miniskirt.  He scowled; what on Earth was she supposed to be in that uniform?  A whore?  He would have thought that she was too young, even though there were Indians who sent their daughters into prostitution at thirteen in his world.

“What are you?”  He asked, more harshly than he had intended.  “Who are you?”

“I’m Jane,” she said.  She sniffled.  “I’m a cheerleader.  Are you going to rape me?  You can have me if you free my parents.”

Lehmann had to laugh.  There was something so absurd about the situation that it made him smile.  “I’m not going to rape you,” he said.

“Your people said that you wanted first crack at the whores,” she said.  “Sir, I…please spare my parents…”

Lehmann made a mental note to discipline his guards.  Rape, looting and pillage could wait until after the conquest was completed.  “I’m not going to rape you,” he said.  “I want to make a deal with you.”

She looked up.  Her eyes were stunningly blue and filled with fear.  It disgusted him.  “I need you to take a message to the commander of the American forces outside Washington,” he said.  “I will give you a letter from me and some photographs, and a safe-conduct through our lines.  All you have to do is give the commander the information and ask him to broadcast his understanding.”

He looked into her eyes.  “If you do that, I will send your parents out of the city,” he said.  “You and they could be heading away tomorrow, if you do as I say.”

How old was she?  Fourteen?  Any German girl would have refused to act against the needs of the state.  “I’ll do as you want,” she said, trying to look defiant.  It came out as more of a vulnerable gaze.  “Promise you won’t harm my parents?”

Any German girl would have known better than to try to extract such a promise.  It would have been literally paddled into them, or smacked into them by their husbands after they married.  “I promise,” he said.  “Now…do you require food or drink?”

She thought about it.  “Some water would be nice,” she said.  Lehmann nodded at one of the guards, who produced a hip flask.  “Thank you,” she said.

“Excellent,” Lehmann said.  “Now…we’ll give you the messages, and you can be on your way.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Second Holocaust (I)

Israel/Saudi Arabia
Middle East (TimeLine A)

In all the countries of the world, there is none so controversial, at least in the eyes of the media, as Israel.  To the Left, Israel is a nation engaged in holding down thousands of Palestinians, depriving them of their lands, their rights and their human dignities.  To the Right, Israel is a nation locked in a death struggle for survival with the forces that threaten the entire civilised world; a nation that suffers the brunt of a public relations campaign and a terrorist offensive that made Osama Bin Ladin’s one look like nothing.

It was said, by a person who tried to remain apart from the debate, that the problem with Israel is simple.  The people of Israel believe that their neighbours will try to kill them all one day – again – and the people of the Arab nations blame Israel for everything, therefore wanting to kill every last Israeli one day.  The Arab states, humiliated on the battlefield because of their social systems, have scored the greatest successes on the terrorist and media battlefields; attempting to isolate Israel from the world.  Their success, more for internal reasons than any genuine desire to repeat Hitler’s attempt to exterminate the Jews, has made certain that peace is impossible.  To those who rule those states, such a situation is not unpleasing.

The map of Israel hung in front of General Mordecai.  The Cabinet had been informed first by the Americans; only the British had found out quicker…and that was because of the Cambridge Event.  The proof of a nuclear explosion, General Mordecai knew, was hard to deny…and the truth of the Nazi Invasion was far harder to deny.  Deep down inside, every Jew feared those who had brought them to the brink of complete annihilation…and they were back.

“The IDF is deployed,” General Mordecai said.  The Prime Minister of Israel, Daniel Benjamin, was the only other man in the room.  Judith Jakob, the head of the feared Mossard, was the only woman in the room.  “And the Palestinians are revolting.”

“They’re always revolting,” Judith said.  The joke had been funny the first time; twenty years later; it was no longer funny at all.  “They think that the Nazis are going to deliver Israel into their hands.”

General Mordecai snorted.  The Americans had not shared any of the other information with anyone apart from Britain…but the Mossard had picked up on it anyway.  From the picture of the alternate Middle East, the Arabs had been exterminated or enslaved with the same determination that had led to the extermination of the Jews.

Benjamin held up a hand.  “The Arabs have refused to share any intelligence with us on an official level,” he said.  “The Iraqis have shared a little, but they don’t have much.  Any chance of actually cooperating…”

General Mordecai shrugged.  “It hardly matters,” he said.  “You saw Iraq in 2003.  They can’t build powerful armies because they would have to promote capable officers to run them.”

“So you keep saying,” Judith said.  “I wish I knew where they were coming from.”

General Mordecai smiled.  For the director of the Mossard to confess ignorance was more than a little…unusual.  It was easy to forget, looking at the slight Judith, that she had once torn a man apart with her bare hands.  

“The Americans have been tracking activity in Saudi,” he said, mentally cursing the Saudis.  “The Saudis say that they are looking for the source of the…”

The telephone, the red link to the nuclear monitoring section, shrilled.  General Mordecai stared at it, not quite registering it for a long chilling moment, and then he grabbed the phone.  A voice on the end spoke rapidly into his ear; he cursed aloud.  “Continue to monitor the situation,” he ordered, and put the phone down.  

“Prime Minister, someone has just detonated a nuclear warhead in Saudi,” he said, turning to Benjamin.  He paused.  “A large portion of the satellite network has been damaged by EMP.”

Judith paled.  “Prime Minister, that might have damaged the radar network…”

“Find out,” Benjamin snapped, as her voice trailed off.  Technically, she wasn’t supposed to know about such matters.  He found it hard to care at the moment.  “General Mordecai; have the alert status raised everywhere.”

General Mordecai nodded.  Judith picked up a phone and snapped questions into the handset.  “All forces are reporting in,” General Mordecai said, looking up at the big display screen.  In the bunker, everyone was cleared to see everything.  “The landline network remains fully active.”

“A good investment,” Benjamin said.  There had been those who’d wanted to avoid developing the hardened network, but with the certainty that, sooner or later, a RIF group or an Arab state would toss a nuke at them, the Cabinet had decided to build the hardened network.  It would survive, even if Israel did not.  “Judith?”

“Some minor damage to ground-based Hawk and Patriot radars,” Judith said.  “A great deal of disruption in the airwaves.  The Sentry AWACS took a beating in its electronic systems and has to return to base.”

“The blast wasn’t aimed at us,” General Mordecai said.  “It was designed to damage the satellite network.  We may no longer be able to count on the surveillance and nuclear detection satellites, or on American…”

The red phone shrilled again.  General Mordecai swore and picked it up.  “Mordecai,” he said.  His face paled as he heard the news.  “Yes, I understand,” he said.

Benjamin stared at him.  “What’s happened?”

General Mordecai put down the phone.  “Nuclear explosions,” he said.  “All across the Arab world, the Americans warned us; the sensors counted three in quick succession.”  He paused.  “That’s Mecca, Medina and Riyadh.”

“All gone up in smoke,” Judith said.  “They’ll be launching at us next.”

“Want to bet we get blamed for it?”  Benjamin asked.  “Mordecai, why have they not fired on us?”

General Mordecai shook his head slowly.  “Perhaps they want to kill us in person,” he said.  “Or perhaps; they want to establish themselves first here.  If they take out the oil wells in Saudi and Iraq, they’ll cripple the global economy.”

***
Napoleon, the last French commander of any note and the only one who was studied regularly in the Wehrmacht’s training centre, had spent nearly a month getting Egypt in order – at least his definition of order.  General Neumann spent nearly an hour tearing it all down.  In the space of thirty minutes, his force launched over a hundred nuclear warheads into the Middle East and Africa, destroying cities and facilities with a reckless abandon.  The only target to be spared was Israel; General Neumann had his own plans for the region, but securing the oil supplies came first.

“The drones have reported back,” his aide said.  “The radiation weapons have detonated on their targets.”

“Excellent,” General Neumann said.  He examined the map for a long moment; the Arabs hadn’t even been able to mount a defence.  None of their cities had ABM protection; none of their governments seemed to have prepared for the war.  What forces they had seemed to be destroyed or in hiding; radars tracked no aircraft, except…”

“We have radar contacts,” the radarman warned.  “Thirty-seven fighters.  They seem to be searching for us.”

“The EMP must have been more effective than we had thought,” General Neumann muttered.  “Clear Metalstorm to engage as soon as they come within range.”

“Jawohl, General Neumann,” the radarman said.  “Targets will be within range within ten minutes.”

General Neumann nodded and returned to studying the display, watching as units from the other Portals reported in.  Nine Portals had been opened within the Middle East, surrounding Israel, and troops were flooding through.  It wouldn’t be long before they could advance against Israel, and put it to the sword.

“Baghdad and Tehran have just been hit,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Becker reported.  “That’s seventeen cities destroyed.”

“Excellent,” General Neumann said.  “Anything from the invasion forces in France?”

“Nothing yet,” the radioman said.  “Herr General, that is to be expected.”

“True,” General Neumann said.  He smiled darkly.  “Inform me when all of the first wave of missiles have struck their targets.”

He studied the map thoughtfully.  His private nightmare had been the enemy launching a major nuclear strike on the Portals as soon as they arrived, but they hadn’t; instead his forces spread out to deploy, activating their powerful radars and standing on the defensive…while the Arab cities burned.

“Metalstorm away,” the air defence officer said.  “Herr General, Standartenfuehrer Richter wants permission to secure the remaining air bases within this nation, so that we may proceed with the deployment of the Luftwaffe.”

“Scared of missing out on the glory,” General Neumann observed.  “Tell him that he can go, provided he is accompanied by some troops to secure the air bases.”

“Herr General, all of the nuclear warheads have detonated,” Standartenfuehrer Weib said.  “I think it’s time to proceed with stage two.”

General Neumann nodded.  “Yes, I think its time,” he agreed.  “Have the launchers been deployed?”

“Yes, Herr General,” Standartenfuehrer Weib said.  His role, coordinator of the nuclear weapons, was an important one.  As he was a man prone to self-importance, General Neumann had always felt that Weib deserved his post more than he knew.  “They have been reloaded with the new weapons.”

General Neumann smiled.  “It’s time to ensure that the Jews do not escape with their crimes again,” he said.  The Jewish survival in this timeline was proof enough of their escape.  “Launch the missiles.”

***
Captain Jacob Brennen examined his radar screen with care, cursing the effects of the nuclear explosions across the Arab crescent.  Watching the Arabs driven to the brink of extinction had not cheered him; he knew that the old enemies were back…and they were determined to exterminate the Jews as well.  Some officers had cheered as the Arab cities went up in smoke – Jordan was close enough for them to see the blasts – but the effects on the Patriot batteries was considerable.

He scowled.  In theory, Israel was defended with an entire series of ABM systems.  In practice, the system had never been seriously tested – not since Saddam had fired on Israel during the Gulf War – and the Arabs had never managed to use an atomic weapon so close to Israel.  He smiled for a brief moment; the Arabs had never managed to detonate a nuke – full stop.

“It’s numbers here,” his commanding officer had said, and Brennen could only agree.  “In an Arab attack with Scuds, we could expect to allow them to fire missiles through our defences if they were projected to hit nothing.  In this case, with nuclear-armed Nazis out there, we will have to hit everything!”

Brennen jumped as something flickered on his radar screen, before it vanished.  That wasn’t unusual; more things than most people knew showed up on radar screens, even in a normal environment.  From birds to sudden rapid changes in air pressure, radar operators had to work their way through a series of checks, just to make sure that they didn’t waste a missile on a flock of birds.

Ping!  Brennen gasped as a new contact appeared, confirmed by the ground-based radar, his organic radar unit and the remains of the satellite network.  A single missile had risen from the north of what had been Saudi Arabia, heading towards Israel.  Even as he watched, three more appeared, then more; heading from Iraq and Syria.

“Incoming missiles,” he snapped, passing the contact on to higher authority.  There were twenty missiles now, rising at a speed of around mach five; they would be on Israel in less than twenty minutes.  “Alert red!”

The massive Israeli command and control system sprang to activity.  Patriot batteries activated, came to attention, and received targeting instructions.  The IAF, with many aircraft on launch standby, launched them into the air, preparing to launch retaliatory raids into…Nazi territory.

“We have confirmed targeting orders for 004, 007 and 009,” his fellow operator said.  “Confirm launch…now!”

The Patriot battery outside swung around and fired three missiles in quick succession.  Brennen watched on his radar screen as twenty missiles raced into the sky from Israel, closing in on their targets.  Missiles started to vanish from the screen and then…”

“010 has escaped,” he snapped.  “Commit missile, now!”

“We don’t have orders,” his fellow said.  “Sir…”

“Fire, now,” Brennen snapped, launching the missile on his own authority.  The missile was struck by the Patriot, smashing it high above the ground.  “God will judge me…”

“You have clearance to fire,” their superior officer said, absently.  “Retrospective, of course, but…”

The radar chimed again.  Brennen cursed; thirty new missiles were rising, followed by twenty more, all heading for Israel.  Some of them were clearly decoys, following strange courses or breaking up in flight, pulsing out complicated radar pulses, confusing the defenders still further.  Brennen swore violently; fifty missiles were heading their way and…

“Now reading seventeen more missiles, designated as wave three,” his fellow said.  “Sir, orders?”

The computers flickered as new orders came in.  Brennen swore; even shooting at the ones they were certain were not decoys, they were going to burn through their stocks of weapons pretty quickly.  He followed his orders, hoping that the higher command was right, launching missiles towards the German swarm…

“Uh-oh,” his fellow said suddenly.  Brennen glanced over at his display; five of the first wave were making their way through the defences.  A missile was about to strike a Nazi attack…and then the computers failed all at once.

“What the hell?”  Brennen asked, kicking the computer.  The radar screen was blank; even the hardened equipment had failed.  “What happened?”

“EMP,” his fellow said.  “I think we’re in serious trouble.”

***
“The Jewish defences are better than predicted,” Standartenfuehrer Weib said.  His tone was astonished.  “Their missiles have taken down my first attack.”

“We do not need to conserve missiles,” General Neumann snapped.  “Launch the second attack, but this time configure the warheads to explode if the missile is about to be hit.”

“Jawohl,” Standartenfuehrer Weib said.  His hands danced over his console.  “The orders have been sent.”

“Launch,” General Neumann said, watching as one of his advancing Panzers met a Saudi remnant.  The battle was short, swift…and ended in the complete destruction of the Saudi force.  What had they been thinking; taking on Panzers with civilian vehicles?

“Missiles away,” Standartenfuehrer Weib said.  “We may need more to engage the enemy…”

“They’re launching more missiles,” the radarman snapped, interrupting Standartenfuehrer Weib.  General Neumann didn’t mind; such interruptions were required.  “They’ll start killing our weapons in minutes.”

“EMP protocol, now,” General Neumann snapped.  “Close down all, but the hardened electronics.”

There was a distant flash in the sky.  “I confirm nuclear detonation,” the radarman said.  “Herr General, I request permission to reactive our systems.”

“Granted,” General Neumann said.  “Results?”

“At least one explosion, over Israel,” the radarman said.  Standartenfuehrer Weib grinned.  “Two more on the ground, taking out two of their cities.  No other missiles in flight.”

Some of them must have been swept out of the sky by the blast, or detonated as well, General Neumann thought.  “So, do we launch more nuclear warheads, or do we send in the Panzers?”

Standartenfuehrer Weib shook his head.  “We have enough nukes left to exterminate the rest of them,” he said.  “Use them.”

General Neumann shook his head.  “Send in the Panzers,” he said.  “They have to come to grips with us personally.”

***
If it weren’t for the bunker, the Israeli Government would have been destroyed when Tel Aviv was hit; the nuclear blast destroying the city in microseconds.  Radiation counters went through the roof; they were very deadly weapons indeed.  The loss of a large percentage of the Palestinian territories, with hardly any shelters between the entire population, went almost unnoticed.

“Well, that’s it, then,” Judith said.  Her voice was stunned; like the rest of them, she hadn’t expected that Israel’s defences would be just…pushed aside.  “We’re defenceless.”

“Never,” General Mordecai said, knowing that it would be futile.  “We’ll fight on, like we did at Masada.”

“Everyone died there,” Benjamin said.  The Prime Minister seemed to have aged to death within the hour.  “General Mordecai, is there any way for victory?”

General Mordecai closed his eyes and sighed.  “I don’t think so,” he admitted.  “We have thousands of people getting onto ships for Europe, but sooner or later the supply of boats will dry up.”

“Or the captains will see the mushroom clouds and start running,” Judith said.  “So, what do we do?”

“Fight to the end,” General Mordecai said.  “Prime Minister; I request nuclear release permission.”

“Where do you intend to hit?”  The Prime Minister asked dryly.  “All our planning for the Sampson Option…and the enemy that’s going to kill Israel has already taken out the targets that we had on the ‘hit here’ list.”

“Tactical warheads,” General Mordecai said.  “Sir, we’ve taken a beating, but its not over, not yet.”

“They’ll just nuke us into submission,” Judith said.  A thought occurred to her and she smiled suddenly.  “No, they won’t,” she said.  “They’ll be trying to force us to surrender without nuclear weapons, just to see us ground in the dust.  They’ll send in a ground attack against our positions and crush us.”

“Exactly,” General Mordecai said.  “Prime Minister…”

Benjamin nodded grimly.  “Do what you think best,” he said.  “If you can locate their Portals through the satellites, launch Jericho missiles at them.  In the meantime, we’ll have to work at moving as many people as we can out of the nation before…”

His voice broke down.  “Before the heirs of Adolf Hitler come kill us all,” he said.  “I’m going to call the Europeans; they’ll have to give us some shelter.”

“I’m not leaving this country,” General Mordecai said.

Benjamin smiled grimly.  “Nor am I,” he said.  “My deputy was supposed to be in Italy today; I’ll send him ahead to do the planning.”  He sighed.  “As for myself, I will die in Israel.”

Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of France

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

Prime Minister Bernard Hamilton paced backwards and forwards, wishing that more people were less given to panic.  Only a few hours after the news of the invasion had been announced, the panic had begun; thousands of people purchasing everything they could from shops, causing riots when storekeepers began to increase their prices, attempting to make more money.  The bloody lynching of a storekeeper in London had only started the first riots; the police had had to break it up by force.  Four days after the announcement, the United Kingdom was reasonably peaceful, but the economy had nearly crashed.  Only draconian controls and united action by the G7 had prevented outright collapse, but Hamilton knew that it would be a long time before the market began to rise again.

“Prime Minister?”  General Shawcross asked.  Hamilton turned slightly; at this hour, just past midnight, both of them should have been in bed.  Neither of them could have slept.  “It’s begun.”

“The invasion?”  Hamilton asked, uncaring how weak it made him sound.  “Where?  Cambridge again?”

General Shawcross shook his head.  “Not here,” he said.  “So far, there have been no reports of Portals within the UK or Ireland.”

Hamilton scowled.  The Republic of Ireland had promptly put its head under the sand; they’d denied the existence of any such things as Nazis.  All attempts to forge a defence agreement with them had come to nothing.  

“Why not here?”  He asked.  “Aren’t we worth the effort?”

General Shawcross smiled.  “I think they want to secure lodgements,” he said.  “So far, we have reports of Portals in America and several nuclear warheads have detonated.”

On cue, the lights flickered overhead.  Hamilton glanced up sharply.  “It seems that they have attempted to hammer the satellite network,” General Shawcross said.  “The effects have spread rapidly into our other systems as well.”

Hamilton sighed.  “The landlines are still working, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” General Shawcross said.  “The situation just seems to be confused.”

Hamilton nodded.  Professor Thande was working in America; soon he would have more data than he knew what to do with.  “Inform me if any Portals open within Britain itself,” he said.  “At the moment, do they pose a threat…?”

General Shawcross’s mobile phone rang.  “That’s the priority line,” he said.  “Excuse me.”  He listened for a long moment.  “Several cities have been destroyed in the Middle East.”

Hamilton made a face.  “Didn’t the Americans tell them?”  He snapped.  “Why didn’t they prepare?”

“I think they did,” General Shawcross said.  “That’s why the Bahamas suddenly have more Saudi princes on extended holidays than they have ever had before.  France and Spain have also both received more; we would have done except for the new regulations.”

Hamilton nodded.  Few of the Saudi princes would have waited for the security check.  “The bastards just fled their people,” he said.  “You know; we always assumed that we would have to take them in when their people revolted against them, and now…”

General Shawcross smiled.  The Prime Minister’s phone suddenly rang.  “Excuse me,” Hamilton said.  “Hamilton here.”

“It’s Prime Minister Jean Caroche,” his secretary said.  “Prime Minister; he sounds desperate.”

Hamilton activated the speakers so Shawcross could hear.  “Put him through,” he said.  “Bonjour, Jean,” he said.  “What’s happening?”

“We’re being invaded,” Caroche said.  “Bernard, we need help.”

Hamilton scowled.  One truth about the French was that they would always be there when they needed help.  “I don’t know how much we can spare,” he said.  “Exactly what is happening?”

“They’ve opened Portals into France,” Caroche said.  “Bernard, we need as much as you can send!”

Shawcross was scribbling on a sheet of paper.  He held it up; we cannot spare any men at the moment, it read.  “Jean, we cannot spare much at the moment,” Hamilton said, feeling as if he was bargaining for France’s life.  “We might be invaded too.”

“Please, send what you can,” Caroche said.  “Bernard…”

The line went dead.  “Prime Minister, something happened to the line in France,” his secretary said.  “We’ve lost communications.”

“Try to re-establish them, or communications with anyone in France,” Hamilton ordered.  “General, is there nothing we can do?”

“We have most of our army deployed in the United Kingdom,” Shawcross pointed out.  “We cannot spare anything, even for Ireland; let alone France.  We could send some RAF aircraft to help out, but only after we know where the threat actually is and what they’re doing.”

“Keep the army on alert,” Hamilton ordered.  He glanced at his watch.  “I’m going to have to address Parliament this morning, or what’s left in London; have all of the information collected for 0900hrs.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Shawcross said.  He hesitated.  “Prime Minister, has there been anything from Professor Thande or one of the other research teams?”

“Nothing,” Hamilton said.  “Nothing at all.”

Sedan
France (TimeLine A)

Captain Bellemare had always loved Sedan, even though the French Army as a whole liked to pretend that it didn’t exist…that the Germans had never succeeded in crossing the river…that France itself had proven impotent when faced with a challenge it could not surmount.  At thirty-nine, he knew that he would never rise higher than Captain and command of the small section of an Armoured Division; he was too outspoken and competent.

Bellemare paced backwards and forwards, wondering if the entire mission was a dream.  The armoured unit, along with several other units and regiments, had been deployed only yesterday, moving with the glacial slowness that typified the French High Command.  His unit was present, along with some of the infantry that were meant to screen them…and they only had enough ammunition for one battle.

We should have fired on the students, Bellemare thought bitterly.  As they’d passed through the towns they couldn’t have avoided with ease – and several they could have avoided, merely to show the flag – students had jeered and mocked.  The temptation to turn his AMX-30’s main gun, or even the machine guns, on them had been awesome; none of them had ever even considered fighting for France.  

“Bastards,” he snarled, wondering – again – if the entire tale of the Nazi invasion had been a pipe dream; what had the Prime Minister and the President been drinking?  The southern cities, Toulon and Marseilles, were already suffering unrest; Islamic groups were claiming that the massive deployments were actually intended to prepare for crushing them…something that Bellemare half-hoped was true.  

He peered down at his map, wondering where they should go next, when there was a strange sound from the direction of Sedan.  He lifted his binoculars and saw a massive square of light ahead of him, in the direction of the town.  For a long moment, he didn’t believe his eyes; the government had told the truth!  Massive tanks, each one larger and slower than his tank, were pouring out of it, wrecking the town simply by their presence.

“This is Bellemare,” he snapped into his radio, hoping that someone was listening.  “I have major contacts; at least two Portals and enemy units, I say again; enemy units!”

“Understood,” the voice at the end said.  “Stand by.”

“Stand by?”  Bellemare demanded, as the enemy tanks opened fire, smashing the town to bits.  They were expanding towards his force, clearly unaware of their presence, but they would soon run across them.  “I need permission to engage or withdraw…”

“Incoming fire,” one of his people shouted.  Seconds later, a shell struck one of his tanks, blowing it apart in a gout of fire.  “They’re firing at us.”

“Return fire,” Bellemare snapped.  “Take one of the big ones down!”

“Yes, sir,” his driver said.  The AMX-30 swung its main gun around, locking in on one of the enemy tanks, only half-seen within the darkness, but radiating more heat than any French or American tank.  “Take the shot.”

Bellemare pressed the trigger, watching as the shell slammed into the big tank.  It shrugged the blast off and kept coming.  Seconds later, it fired back, blasting another of Bellemare’s tanks to little pieces.

“Concentrate fire,” Bellemare snapped.  He thought rapidly; the tank was slow and perhaps it could be out-manoeuvred.  Three French tanks fired as one, slamming shells directly into the enemy’s turret.  It blew off with a massive explosion, then its comrades – kamradin, part of Bellemare’s mind whispered – started shooting.

“Pull back,” Bellemare snapped.  The tank lurched back, just in time to avoid a shell that would have killed it.  The rest of his tanks weren’t so lucky; they were ripped apart by heavy shellfire.  Seconds later, his unarmoured vehicles were destroyed, even as his driver yanked the tank backwards and forwards through a series of crazy manoeuvres.

“We were defeated,” he snapped into his radio, trying desperately to get all of the news out.  “Sir, their tanks need heavy firepower to stop them, but they’re slow; they can be killed, but…”

A German gunner got lucky.  Bellemare and the last of his force died before they knew what hit them.

***
Sedan, Oberstgruppenfuehrer Hoffmann knew, was only the start of the plan to invade Europe.  Finding it so undefended – the French unit had been in a dangerously fatal position right from the start – was a stroke of luck, but not one they could count on.  Spies and sabotage units had been dispersed across the country, sabotaging everything they could, but he’d known that everything would depend on his force.

He smiled darkly.  No one in the Wehrmacht, or the SS for that matter, had wanted to risk invading the weak Germany of this timeline, not when there were thousands of good Aryans there who could actually fight.  If Germany – the other Germany – were to be invaded, they would fight the invaders with everything they had.  On the other hand, if they were invited to join the Reich, he was confident that they would be more than happy to do so.  

“We have deployed the blocking forces to the east, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” his aide said.  Obersturmbannfuehrer Wolf, a young man for his rank, was supremely competent.  “The dispersal of forces has proceeded according to the plan.  The Portal that opened up into one of their airbases has succeeded in its mission; the airbase at Reims is in our hands.  We expect that the one at Cambrai will be in our hands soon.”

His tone darkened.  “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer, the French managed to destroy most of the aircraft before we took over the base,” he said.  “We only have a couple of their aircraft to study.”

“No matter,” Oberstgruppenfuehrer Hoffmann said.  “It’s hardly a problem.  What about the deployment of the assault forces?”

“They’re moving into their deployment positions now,” Wolf said.  “So far, we’ve had a number of encounters with armed resistance, but nothing serious.”

Oberstgruppenfuehrer Hoffmann snorted.  “I expect that they were still arguing over whose turn it was to be boss,” he said.  “How soon can we begin the advance towards Paris?”

“In one hour, at this rate,” Wolf said.  “The supply of anti-aircraft units has ensured that there is nothing that they can do to prevent us from completing the reinforcements.”

Oberstgruppenfuehrer Hoffmann nodded.  “I had hoped to be able to enter Paris through a Portal,” he said.  “They refused to risk bothering the Vichy Government over it.”

Wolf smiled.  “They’ve been so kind as to provide this road system,” he said.  “The least we could do is take advantage of it.  Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer; we’ll be in Paris before nightfall.”

“Perhaps,” Hoffmann said.  “Perhaps they’ll have done the sensible thing and put their forces around the city, just to knife us as we advance.  Have the drones been launched?”

“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer, but there have been…problems,” Wolf said.  “Several of the drones have been shot down.  They know we’re here.”

“They have better radio equipment than we do,” Hoffmann said.  “They can track the drones.”  He shook his head.  “No matter,” he said.  “We’ll be moving faster than they can hope to stop us.”

***
“The…ah, Nazis are probing towards Paris,” General Breton said.  His massive weight problem couldn’t quite account for his trembling.  “They have very little to stop them until they hit the main defence lines and…”

Prime Minister Jean Caroche couldn’t take it anymore.  “General, we are no longer going to heed the concerns of the Politically Correct Brigade,” he said.  “The President is en route to London, where – hopefully – he’ll be able to return after we win.  I assure you” – a long pause – “that I will not seek to take your rank for the ill-chosen word.”

Breton looked…relieved.  “Prime Minister, they are very likely to break into Paris,” he admitted.  “In the three hours since the invasion began, they have been probing towards Paris, blasting their way through all opposition.  Our main line of defence is in front of Paris itself, but it’s not going to be enough.”

Caroche closed his eyes in real pain.  The mobilisation had taken place only two days ago; the confusion was at its height.  He wondered; had the Nazis done it on purpose?  If they had, it was diabolically timed…and the devastation to the communications network had only made it worse.  Could they have even planned to coordinate with the revolts that were brewing in the south?

“So, what do you recommend?”  He asked finally.  “General, how do we save France?”

“We cannot rely on help from anyone else,” Breton said.  “We could always deploy tactical nuclear weapons…”

Caroche shook his head.  “I understand the impulse,” he said, “but the Nazis would retaliate against our cities.”

Breton nodded sadly.  “In that case, might I suggest that we abandon Paris?”

Caroche felt his eyes go wide.  “Why?”  He demanded, and then understood.  “It cannot be defended?”

“Not with the forces we have in place,” Breton admitted.  “If we send the troops south, and the Government to Nantes or Lyon, we would be able to establish a proper defence line in the south.”

“Giving up Paris,” Caroche mused.  “What will that do, down south?”

“It will encourage the dirty bastards,” Breton commented grimly.

“We’re under martial law,” Caroche said, knowing that the opinion of the rest of the government no longer counted.  What would Napoleon have thought of the incessant fiddling with mistresses while Paris burned?  “General, begin the troop withdrawal; the Government will move to Lyon.”

“Yes, Prime Minster,” Breton said.

“I’ll speak to the nation today,” Caroche said.  “For the moment, however, if the dirty little bastards in the south give us any trouble…well, this is martial law and accidents will happen.”

Breton smiled.  “I believe that we understand one another,” he said.  “Thank you, sir.”

Caroche felt, for the first time, like he deserved it.  “No, thank you,” he said.  “It’s time to move.”

***
The massive Königstiger Panzer had its uses, but Strumscharfuehrer Herrmann preferred the Panther X; a smaller design, but one almost as capable and powerful, and at the same time much faster.  The Königstiger Panzer held territory; the Panther took it from the enemy.

“We just lost the drone ahead,” the radio said.  Herrmann listened absently as the tanks crashed onwards, heading for Paris.  “That suggests that the enemy are in the vicinity.”

“I never would have guessed,” Herrmann muttered.  Combining the Wehrmacht and the SS together had seemed like madness when it had been ordered.  It had actually worked out better than they had expected.  “Driver, gunners, stand on alert…”

“Enemy position ahead,” the driver sang out.  The Panther began to shudder as machine gun bullets slashed into it…and bounced off the armour.  “They’re firing at us.”

“Beats inviting us for French cuisine,” Herrmann muttered, taking control of the main gun.  The French position was a simple machine gun nest, firing at the German infantry.  A burst from the machine guns killed the Frenchmen with ease.  “Anyone would think that…”

A streak of fire lashed out from the French position and struck a Panther, which ground to a halt.  “Anti-panzer rockets,” Herrmann snapped.  “Gunners, take them out!”

The machine guns fired as the Panther lurched forward, narrowly avoiding being struck by a rocket.  The French killed two more Panthers as the Germans slid forwards, crushing Frenchmen under their tracks.  A blockade, made of cars and lorries, exploded under the impact of a single shell.  

“They must have kept the petrol in there,” the driver commented.  Herrmann waved to him to be quiet; the radio was whispering in his ear.  “Herr Strumscharfuehrer?”

“They want us to advance faster,” Herrmann said.  “They’re sending additional anti-aircraft formations forward; the drones are reporting that the French are withdrawing.”

“Cowards,” the driver commented.  “Are we going to get into Paris today?”

“If they’re withdrawing, then they won’t be making a fight for the city,” Herrmann commented.  “Just think of the French women.”

“They’ll be waiting for real men,” one of the gunners said, with a leer.  “The entire bloodline has been improved in our timeline, though children from our men, and…”

“They’re brave enough,” Herrmann said, as a tank shell slammed into the Panther.  They were lucky; the tank was damaged, but intact.  He hit the trigger himself, blowing a French tank apart with a single shell.  “This lot here haven’t had us keeping the boots firmly on their balls for the last few decades.”

“Perhaps we should just shoot all the men and take the women,” the driver said, and laughed nastily.

“You feel that way, go join the Einsatzgruppen or the Totenkopfverbände,” Herrmann snapped.  Neither of the two groups were liked by the rest of the SS, let alone the rest of the Reich’s armed forces.  They were necessary, but they were also a disgrace.  “For us, we have a job to do.”

“Jawohl, Herr Strumscharfuehrer,” the driver said, subdued.  “I’m sure that there’ll be a brothel around somewhere.”

Herrmann said nothing, just studied the map they’d taken from a tourist shop in a small village.  The French had built a wonderful road network, and they hadn’t even bothered to consider that they might need to defend it one day; it was simple to drive down the roads.

“A handful of mines would have really slowed us up,” he muttered.  Ahead of them, the road to Paris was open…

Chapter Eighteen: War of the Worlds (I)

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The situation map changed as new information came in from moment to moment, but the general gist was clear.  In America itself, there were three main areas of invasion; Washington, Texas and Mississippi.  The Nazis, so far, had remained content to reinforce their beachheads, but everyone was agreed that it was only a matter of time before they sought to link them up and conquer the rest of the country.

The President shuddered, contemplating the cost of the war so far…and knowing that it had been much worse for other parts of the world.  Israel had been badly hammered and was now desperately preparing to stand off a land invasion.  The Arab states, one and all, had been nuked back to barbarism – some would say that they hadn’t really changed a bit – and chaos was spreading everywhere.  From South America to Africa, society – never very stable there at the best of times – was breaking down; some hostile factions were even trying to make contact with the Nazis.  The CIA was running around, trying to find proof…but it was like grasping at shadows.

He sighed, looking up at Europe…and Russia.  The French had taken a beating; their political situation had prevented them from deploying as much as they could have done to the Sedan area, something that might have helped them as much as it had hurt.  The Russians had intruded into the Ukraine, to the quiet relief of the Ukrainian Government, to engage the Nazis, but nearly two decades of problems with funding their military had had a cost.  

The only real success for their timeline had been in China; the Chinese had noted the location of the one Portal – within the troublesome Muslim regions – and started launching nuclear warheads at it.  Thirty-seven detonations later, the Portal had either collapsed or been closed…after flinging a hail of missiles into China.  Seven Chinese cities had been destroyed outright…and the government was on the verge of collapse.

“One day,” the President said.  In one day, the world had plunged into war.  In one day, countries that had seemed unbeatable had been shattered.  In one day, the core region of three different religions had been bathed in radioactive fire.  In one day…

There was a cough.  “Mr President?”  General Easterhouse asked.  “It’s time for the briefing.”

“I’m coming,” the President said.  He felt awful; he hadn’t been sleeping at all.  NORAD had its own staff of doctors, one of whom had prescribed a sedative, but the President had refused it.  Why should he sleep, when the rest of the world had no such rest?  “Has there been any change?”

“Not enough to be helpful,” General Easterhouse said, as they entered the conference room.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America.”

The room stood to greet him.  “As you were,” the President said, suddenly embarrassed.  He took his seat; General Easterhouse took the stand, activating a secure display on the wall.  “General?”

“We have successfully disengaged from the battlezone in all three invasion sites,” General Easterhouse said, only the ice in his tone revealing his frustration with the war situation.  For the United States to give up territory, only temporarily…it hadn’t happened since the Second World War.  “The death rate was, I’m afraid, very high; units within the battlezone suffered nearly complete casualties.”

He tapped the control, calling up a display of Washington.  “The enemy launched an attack through two Portals,” he said.  “Each Portal, apparently, could be used either way; the enemy came out of both sides of the Portal, firing as they came.  Several positions were annihilated by random fire by enemy forces.  As soon as they arrived, Mr President, it was a slugging match at point-blank range…which we lost.  To add to our problems, they have powerful and capable antiaircraft defences, which mean that we cannot fly most aircraft near them without losing them.

“In Texas and Mississippi, events proceeded differently,” he said, as he altered the display.  “In both cases, the closest defence forces, dug-in units of the National Guard, were some distance off, unprepared for a rapid advance.  We also met a second Nazi design of tank, one loosely comparable to an Abrams, with the single difference that their armour seems to be less capable.  Unlike the massive bastards, the smaller bastards can be killed by an Abram; unfortunately, they can kill the Abrams as well.”

“That’s good news, I suppose,” Carter said.  “Exactly why can’t we kill the big fuckers?”

“They have very heavy armour,” General Easterhouse said bluntly.  “They have vulnerable spots, but hitting them is difficult under combat conditions.  The good, news, such as it is, is that they seem to be built for close-in battles and defensive actions, not running battles.  They’re much slower than either their other tanks or ours.  For elements of the Texas National Guard, that proved to be a lifesaver.

“For the moment, the enemy seems to have concentrated on securing a safe area, of roughly fifty kilometres around the Portal.  We suspect, from satellite imagery, that they’re currently reinforcing the forces on the ground, before launching further offensives.  Biloxi and New Orleans are the only major cities under occupation, apart from Washington itself, but that won’t last.”

The President coughed.  “General, how are they treating the civilians?”

“So far, reasonably well,” General Easterhouse admitted.  “They’ve rounded up a lot of guns from the citizens and have reacted very heavily against civilian resistance, although there seems to be an irregularity to it.  There have been several rapes, although its hard to tell just who committed them, and a tiny amount of looting.  The bastards are better behaved than Saddam’s soldiers, that’s for sure.  Most of the time.

“There was some resistance,” he said.  “They killed those who resisted without hesitation.  Anyone caught out of uniform was shot out of hand.  Any soldier in uniform was hauled off to a camp after being captured; they seem to respect uniforms.  That’s not the worst news, though.”

He paused for effect.  “We had a message from the commanding officer of something called the SS-Adolf Hitler,” he said.  “In effect, the Nazis have placed human shields around their radar stations and mobile vehicles.  If we start shelling them, we’ll kill them.”

Carter frowned.  “How did the message get to you?”  He asked.  “I was unaware that we were in contact with them.”

“A young teenager brought it out,” General Easterhouse said.  “General Morrigan acknowledged, as per the message, and her parents were released soon afterwards.  Mr President; I don’t see that we have any choice, but to fire on them when we begin our counter-attack.”

The President looked down at his hands.  “I don’t see any either,” he said, and his voice was like ashes.  “Do so.”

General Easterhouse nodded.  “So far, at least as far as I know, they haven’t bothered to try to talk to us formally,” he said.  The President shook his head.  “We have units deploying around them now; we should be able to stand off an attack out of Washington, or perhaps launch a counterattack of our own.”

The President nodded as General Easterhouse sat down.  “Alistair?”

Alistair Wilson, Secretary of State, stood up.  “Israel is dying,” he said, bluntly.  “We underestimated the strength of their missile shield against a utterly ruthless enemy who has plenty of nukes and is willing to use them.  I spoke to Prime Minister David Benjamin; he wants any help we can provide.”

General Easterhouse spoke in a voice like grim death.  “Short of launching ICBMs at the Portals, we can do nothing,” he said.  “What was left of CENTCOM has been crippled; the Iraqi armed forces have been wrecked.  As for the Saudis…they seem to have been slaughtered with outstanding ruthlessness.  No one else in the region had an army before the war began.”

It was an exaggeration, but not much of one.  “For the moment, the Nazis are probing Israel’s borders,” Wilson said grimly.  “The IDF has slapped a couple of attacks back, but it won’t be long before the Nazis finish with Saudi and move into Israel proper.  Thousands of Palestinians, dying of radiation poisoning, are fighting Israeli troops, while the Nazis sit back and watch.”

His voice had become darker.  “We are looking at a second holocaust here,” he said sharply.  “The Israelis are moving as many people as they can out of the country, but it won’t be long before they all get killed.  The Italians are taking some in, but there’s a lot of panic over radioactive refugees, which, I’m afraid, is a valid concern.  There’s also a considerable lack of shipping, even with the help of several European nations.”

He smiled tightly.  “They’re not the only ones begging for help,” he said.  “The French, as is their wont, have been asking for help from us and the British.  They’ve lost Paris to the Germans; their main force is building a new line below Paris and the government is intact.  At the same time, their Arab – oh, what the hell; Muslim – population is rioting in their rear, despite the orders of the French Prime Minister to crush rebellion at once with maximum force.”

General Easterhouse chuckled.  “The first time a French leader gets some balls for years, dealing with that particular can of worms, and his country is looking down the barrels of extinction.”

“Enough,” the President said, quietly, but with great force.  “Alistair, please continue.”

“They’ve asked for help,” Wilson said.  “The Germans, in the meantime, are having problems of their own; sabotage and some right-wing extremism.  It was never a major threat before, but their government has suddenly become too weak to clamp down on them before they became a major threat.  For the moment, their armed forces are on alert, but I don’t think that they will pitch into the rear of the Nazi formations in France.”

He shook his head.  “So far, Britain, Australia, Japan and Africa have escaped direct attack,” he said.  “The British are playing host to a number of French Air Force aircraft, ones fleeing the Nazi air defences.  Prime Minister Hamilton is under a great deal of pressure from the EU; both to send troops to Europe and to take in refugees.”

“I spoke to Bernard,” the President said grimly.  “His Parliament won’t let him do either, not when the Nazis could start spilling into Britain at any moment.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “One thing that bothers me,” he said.  “Why have they left Britain alone?”

“Bernard’s people have a theory,” the President said.  “They think, that with the Portals, Britain simply isn’t that important.  Hitler’s goons, or whoever is in charge over there, can deal with it later.”

“Which leaves us with a problem,” General Easterhouse said.  “What – exactly – do we do about helping to defeat the overseas invasions?”

“The only thing you said we could do,” Sheila Campbell said.  The Secretary of Defence looked tired.  “We have some boomers out there; have one of them unload itself in the direction of a Portal, provided we know where it is.”

“We do,” General Easterhouse said.  He tapped the display.  “These photographs were taken by BigEye Seven; one of the constellation launched in 2008 to recon the Chinese military preparations.  BigEye Seven is one of two survivors; its cameras arte quite fragile.  The others might as well be lumps of metal for all the good that they will do us now.

“As you can tell, we cannot locate the Portal through its energy release, but naked-camera images can locate it,” he said, activating the video.  Nazi Panzers and lorries, aircraft on trucks, supplies and weapons; all pouring out of…nowhere.  “That has to be one of their Portals; there are three other locations that show similar activity.  A single nuclear warhead would mess that up, even if the Portal itself was unharmed.”

Wilson coughed.  “What about the dangers of them retaliating against our cities?”

“With all due respect,” General Easterhouse said, “this is an enemy that has already killed somewhere around a tenth of the Earth’s population.  We are facing a genocidal-level threat here; not some poxy little Arab dictator with one or two suspected weapons of mass destruction.  This is not the time to keep the gloves on.”

He paused, significantly.  “And you’re the one who wanted to help Israel,” he pointed out.  “We’re out of options; we can’t just send a carrier in to help them.  We either try to launch the nukes, or we give up on Israel.”

The President held up a hand.  “We will launch the nukes,” he said firmly.  “We’ll target one Portal first; if that works, we’ll move on to the others.”

Wilson stared at him.  “You cannot seriously be thinking of deploying nuclear weapons in our own nation,” he said.  “We’d be lynched in the streets!”

“It may not be necessary,” General Easterhouse said, before an argument could break out.  “My office has been looking at a possible plan to evict them from Washington, either destroying them or driving them back through the Portal.  In fact, if we’re really lucky, we might manage to get a foothold in their dimension.”

The President doubted that that would be possible, but he let it pass.  “You have a plan,” he said.  “How do you intend to deal with the problem?”

“It will need a week before it can be launched,” General Easterhouse admitted.  “We have to route more forces into the region, as well as preparing the soldiers for the mission.  However, we do seem to have some advantages.”  He paused.  “One advantage we have is that our decryption systems are way ahead of their encryption systems.  Their German is oddly accented, but we seem to have time to prepare properly.”

Wilson sighed.  “You cannot move faster?”

“Act in haste, Mr Secretary, repent at leisure,” General Easterhouse said.  “In this case, we need to kick their butts, not try to deal with them by pouring small glasses of water on the fire.  A second advantage we have, you see, is that their radars are actually inferior to ours…and one of our analysts worked out why.

“Our radars are designed to track aircraft which are partly stealthy, and theirs are not,” he said.  “That suggests, in fact, that they don’t have stealth aircraft themselves; they don’t seem to have worked on ways to develop them.  That suggests, Mr President, that we could launch a night attack and take out their radars with F-117s.”

The President took a breath.  “Killing all of the hostages,” he said, with a sigh.  “I understand; carry on.”

“Once their radars were down, we would attack using long-range missiles from aircraft and artillery,” General Easterhouse continued.  “During the bombardment, we would throw in a major attack from the forces under General Morrigan’s command, crushing them under our weight.”

“I see,” the President said.  “Why Washington?  Why not Texas?”  He paused.  “That’s the question that everyone is going to be asking.”

“We don’t like Texas?”  General Easterhouse suggested wryly.  “Washington is the smallest invasion site, which makes it the easiest to crush.  It’s also important for our national morale to prove that we can beat the bastards, and Washington offers the best chance we have for actually doing that, for actually pulling off a strategic victory against them.”

“We’re going to be fighting for a long time,” the President observed.  “We’ll have to gear up for a war that will make World War Two look like a tea party.”

General Easterhouse nodded.  “I’m afraid so, Mr President,” he said.

“Don’t you miss Bin Liner now?”  The President asked.  General Easterhouse shrugged.  “So, what can we do about the others?”

“If we can defeat the Washington invasion, we can handle the other two at our leisure,” General Easterhouse said.  “The think-tanks are already coming up with all sorts of ideas for dealing with the situation.”

Gavin Macdonald nodded.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.  “I think we’re going to have to go to space to handle the threat properly.  We’re going to have to improve our launching capabilities very quickly, perhaps even within the year, just to prevent them from seizing control of space.”

“Which would doom us,” General Easterhouse added.  “Mr President; we need space access, whatever the cost.”

“And NASA can’t be trusted to do that right,” the President said.  “Very well; Gavin, have a bill drawn up, one revoking all OSHA and other rules over commercial space development programs.  If anyone has an idea, we’ll fund it, offering future benefits to the companies in exchange for their cooperation now.”

”Yes, Mr President,” Macdonald said.  “What about the Russians?”

The President lifted an eyebrow.  “They’ve been warning us for years about deploying weapons in space,” Macdonald said.  General Easterhouse snorted rudely.  “What do we do about that?”

“One imagines that they will be desperate for any help that we can provide,” the President said.  “If we do put weapons in orbit, they will have to be deployed against any other Portals that appear.”

“True,” Macdonald said.

“Besides, how can they interfere with us now?”  General Easterhouse asked dryly.  “They have an invasion on their hands.”

“So do we,” the President said.  “General; does your battle plan have a name?”

“Operation Patton,” General Easterhouse said.  “One of the analysts picked it.”

The President smiled wryly.  “General, I order you to begin preparations for Patton at once,” he said.  “Until Patton, continue to hold the line in the other two invasion sites; we cannot afford a political battle along with the real one.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Easterhouse said.  “We will kick their butts in the end, sir; we did it once before.”

The President nodded.  “And may God be with us all,” he said.  “I’m going to talk to the British Professor, Thande,” he said.  “What we need, more than ever, is a permanent solution.”

The room slowly emptied as the Cabinet went to carry out their tasks.  The President remained, staring up at the display, at the red shade covering parts of America, parts of Earth.  Whatever happened, he knew that it would be a long bloody road to victory, for whoever won…

Chapter Nineteen: Professor Thande

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The President found Professor Thande in his laboratory, which had been converted from a computer centre into a research station, collecting all of the information that had been gathered so far on Portals and the theory behind their use.  Every university and private research facility had opened a program into Portal construction; the President knew that that might provide a problem for another day.  

He tapped on the door as he entered, smiling at the cool air from the overworked air conditioning.  Thande, apparently, wasn’t keen on the heat in Colorado, even deep below the ground.  A day after the invasion had begun, he looked sweaty and unshaven, but his eyes were bright.  Absently, the President wondered if he’d slept at all since the invasion began, and then he saw the rumpled cot next to the second blackboard.  Thande himself was writing away on the first blackboard.

The President coughed for attention.  Thande looked up and nodded, looking slightly annoyed at the distraction.  “Why a blackboard?”  The President asked.  “Why not a computer?”

Thande’s voice was tired, but happy.  “On a blackboard, I can see what I’ve written,” he said.  “I can track my own thoughts, and add more as I proceed.”  He tapped one long complex equation.  “I’m almost sure that that’s the equation that allows power to be drawn from the zero-point energy source.”

The President was too tired to be amused.  “Professor, the war situation is grim,” he said.  “Have you made any progress on tracking down the Portals, or even something that we can use?”

Thande gave him a reproving look.  “Translating high energy physics into something that is actually practical takes time,” he said dryly.  “We knew how to build an atomic bomb in 1939; it was the engineering that proved such a problem.  The Germans never cracked it; we did.”

“They cracked it in the other universe, according to Jung,” the President said.  “They’ve also managed to crack the process behind generating the Portals.  How do they do that?”

Thande smiled.  “A Portal, as far as I can tell, is an area of the universe where two universes brush up against one another,” he said.  He made a note on the blackboard.  “Rather like pushing two bubbles together and watching them link together.”

“Or merge into one,” the President said.  “Professor; is that possible?”

“I don’t believe so,” Thande said.  “Mr President, quite frankly, if it is possible, what are you going to do about it?”

The President gave him a sharp look.  “Professor, could the Nazis cause the two universes to smash together?”

“I don’t believe so,” Thande said, repeating himself with a sigh.  “The energy of the links between our universe and theirs seem to be rather limited; so far, the largest Portal we’ve seen has been roughly twenty square meters…and that one didn’t last very long.”

He shrugged.  “My guess is that the universe simply doesn’t like the violation,” he said.  “It’s as good an explanation as any.”

“I see, I think,” the President said.  “Professor, it might have escaped your notice, but nearly a billion people have died within a day!  The Middle East and Africa are in ruins!”

“They were not known for producing great scientists,” Thande said.  The President felt his face redden, although with what he could not say.  Anger, embarrassment, or something else?  “Look, Mr President; I know perfectly well that people are dying.  I choose, however, to work on solving the problem of Portal creation; that might just give us a way to end the war before it gets too bad.”

The President said nothing.  “Jung knew nothing about how the Portals were created, but I think I know what they do,” Thande continued.  “They…transpose an area of one universe onto another; a region where you walk in at one end and come out in a different universe.”  He smiled.  “I can even see how they do it; they create a gravity wave that carried their quantum signature, then they alter it.  Volia; instant Portal.”

“Can you duplicate it?”  The President asked.  “Can we make our own Portals?”

Thande hesitated.  “Yes, and no,” he said.  “NASA’s research into FTL drives was pretty much useless – what were your people thinking?”  He paused; the President said nothing.  “However, channelling energy into creating a framework…that’s something that they did manage to come up with, a project that no one was willing to fund.  It’s useless for actual space travel, because its…”

He paused.  “How much do you know about the multiple-world theory?”

“Only what I know from briefings so far,” the President said.  “Someone makes a decision; it splits off into a series of different choices and therefore different universes.”

“Exactly,” Thande said.  “For want of a nail…a kingdom was lost, and won, and lost in a different way.  According to Jung, the change in their timeline was that they launched Operation Sealion; invading Britain and therefore not needing to launch any troops into North Africa, therefore…”

“Defeating Stalin and destroying Russia,” the President said.  “We need to know more about their world, Professor.”

“I know,” Thande said.  He tapped the chart on the wall.  “That’s the world map, as Jung remembers it.  Note how China is divided between Japan, the puppet Britain and a small German base in Tibet and the Muslim regions.”

“Which are now bathed in radioactive dust,” the President said dryly.  “Two problems killed with one stone.  Except…they managed to fire missiles through the Portal.  Do they communicate though them?”

“I doubt it,” Thande said.  “I’ve been running endless simulations” – he waved a hand at the bank of computers – “and I suspect that only matter passes through intact.  Energy passes through, but is warped by the experience; their radio signals would be scattered quite badly.  In fact, I suspect that they could only move through very quickly; remaining in the…inter-universal space would be fatal.”

“Jung said that the transition was instant,” the President said.  “Is that because of their perceptions?”

Thande grinned.  “You’re more than just a pretty face, then,” he said.  “Yes; their time is locked to ours.  Time travel might not be possible, this way.  However, I think that Jung was in the space for a time period that he didn’t sense because his mind had paused – just like a computer game – before coming out.”  He paused.  “In fact, it might be more important than we know to shut them down quickly.”

The President smiled.  “Another reason?”  He asked.  “I thought that we already had plenty.”

Thande tapped the blackboard.  “A universe has only a limited supply of energy,” he said.  “At our level, some of it is actual, such as radio signals; some is potential, such as uranium.  That is, of course, a simplistic example; at the deeper levels everything is made of energy.  Which suggests, of course, that some kinds of energy must pass through the Portals, which suggests…but I digress from the point.

“The universe has only a finite amount of energy,” Thande said.  “If more arrives, what happens then?  I don’t know, but it might be one reason why some of the Portals are generating more…energy signatures than normal.  I suspect that a two-way Portal balances things automatically, and a one-way Portal does not.”

“That was a nasty surprise for us,” the President commented grimly.  “We had counted on putting a warhead through the Portal.”

“Bad idea to count on anything,” Thande said.  “Just because they’re Nazis doesn’t make them stupid, except…they must be risking a great deal to make the Portals one-way.  I suspect that they can’t do it for long…and that there’s some kind of effect that makes doing it for long dangerous.”

The President shook his head.  “Professor, can you make a Portal?”

Thande nodded.  “I can – with the aid of the technicians – make a Portal generator,” he said.  “It will link to this location in another reality.  Except…where is their reality?”

The President looked puzzled, and felt worse.  “I don’t understand,” he said.

Thande smiled grimly.  “The discussion forums on alternate history have been buzzing,” he said.  “There are millions of potentials – millions of realities – so which one is invading us?”

“You mean…we might blunder into a timeline where the Confederate States of America won the war?”  The President asked.  “We might invade the wrong timeline?”

“Or one where the only difference was that you put on different socks,” Thande said.  “Guessing at random, we might well hit the wrong timeline; the odds would be vastly against us.”

“So its useless,” the President said grimly.  “We might as well not bother.”

Thande shook his head.  “Once we knew what we were dealing with,” he said, “we had more detectors made.  Now that we have a better idea what to look for, it should be possible to pick out the quantum signature of their universe.  I tried one of the detectors on Jung, Mr President; biologically he’s identical to Major General Frederick Lawson, but on a quantum scale…?  They’re two different people.”

The President smiled.  “So we can tell any infiltrators?”  He asked.  “That’s one piece of good news.”

“That threat was overrated,” Thande said.  “Lawson and Jung were both born in out of the way regions.  Germany had thousands of people killed when the Russians took Berlin; people who would have lived in their timeline.  I don’t think that there will be many, Mr President, but we can guarantee that none live long enough to get into our inner circles.  The butterfly effect will do the rest.

“The point is, Mr President, that if we can get a detector close enough to a Portal, then we might be able to get a read on its signature…and follow it back home.”

The President felt real hope for the first time.  “We can counterattack into their timeline,” he breathed.

“Even better,” Thande said.  “Jung was surprised to learn that we can track Portals being used.  They’ll be working to build their own sensors now they know that they exist, but they’ll be starting from further behind and…we know where their main centre of Portal research is; Cambridge, England.”

“Can we open their Portal and break in?”  The President asked.  “We could invade their Germany.”

“Only if the Germans cooperate,” Thande said.  “The reason NASA got nowhere with the line of research was that it folded back; there’s no motion at all.  From their point of view, it was treading water instead of swimming.  From our point of view…you can go from Washington in TimeLine A – here – to Washington in their timeline, TimeLine C.”

“TimeLine C?”  The President asked.  “Why not TimeLine B?”

“I think, from a piece of work done by one of my students, that the Task Force went somewhere else,” Thande said.  “That’s TimeLine B.”

“We could go there too?”  The President asked.  “We could find the ships?”

“We would need the signature of TimeLine B,” Thande reminded him.  “But we could reach their timeline, once we get the signature.  We invade Cambridge, take the place, steal their research, kidnap their people or kill them…”

“Why Cambridge?”  The President asked.  “Why not…here?”

“Cambridge is the centre of their efforts,” Thande reminded him.  “We kill their top men, they’ll be crippled.”

“You have an astonishing streak of ruthlessness, for a scientist,” the President said dryly.  “Very well; are there any other reasons?”

Thande smiled.  “The British Army isn’t doing anything at the moment?”  He asked.  “Prime Minister Hamilton was very interested when I told him; the Parliament is hopping mad over the Cambridge Event.”

“Hopping mad,” the President repeated.  “The Middle East is in ruins, Professor.”

“That’s a long way off,” Thande said.  “They care more about Cambridge, Mr President.”

The President nodded slowly.  “Professor, is there any way of collapsing a Portal from this end?”

Thande grinned.  “I’m working on it,” he said.  “I suspect that a large energy release can destabilise a Portal for brief moments; that’s what happened when a JDAM went off too close to the Portal in Washington.  The Chinese might have managed to cause the feedback to overload their generators; the bastards have more power on tap than we do.”

The President thought of what some nation, unburdened with poor engineers or raving eco-fanatics, could do with nuclear power.  They could quite literally heat the entire world, providing cheap-rate electricity to every home in the land.  They could power lasers that could communicate with Tau Ceti; they could…generate Portals at the drop of a hat.

“They do,” he said, remembering Jung’s debrief.  They’d been desperate for information, but so much of it had been unbelievable…until the Portals had opened in Washington and the war began.   “They can devote fusion power to it; they have no stupid limits on nuclear experiments.”

“We now know that it works,” Thande pointed out.  “With enough funding, we can develop it for ourselves.”

The President sighed.  “We’re going to have to,” he said.  “We have only intermittent contact with the troops in Iraq.  Baghdad and Basra are gone, along with most of the Iraqi Army.  Most of the troops are on ships heading back here…which means that we’re going to lose the oil wells, which means…

“I’ve given orders to have every last project for replacing or limiting the amount of oil we have pushed forwards as hard as we can,” he said.  “Congress has given us a blank check; they’re scared that the eggshell might be really broken this time.  Even if they vanish tomorrow, we’re still screwed.  For the moment, we’re pushing forward Alaskan oil, but it will be months until that comes online.”

Thande nodded.  “You did it to yourself,” he said.  “You became addicted to cheap oil, and you’re about to go through withdrawal symptoms.  The Germans have taken your measure and calculated their attacks precisely.”

“General Easterhouse believes that the Germans intend a land campaign from the Middle East, if they lose here,” the President said.  He wasn’t sure why he was discussing it; he was hoping, perhaps, that Thande would have a solution.  “Of course, that’s going to be a problem, don’t you think?”

Thande shrugged.  “I know nothing about military affairs,” he said.  “I’ve done consultancy before, but I’ve never been asked for my input into the decision-making process.  As long as I got my funding…”

His voice trailed off.  “Mr President, we can get to them,” he said.  “If we can get into their world, we can hit them back – hard.”

The President nodded.  “Professor, whatever it takes; get us a Portal generator,” he said.  “We’ll get a detector to the Washington Portal, and then…then we can start thinking about attacking them directly.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Thande said.  “I’ll get right on it.”

***
The woman on the TV screen, Rachael Fair-weather, was black as the night.  The President, lying on his sofa, listened to her speaking in a clipped precise tone.  CNN, like all of the other major broadcasters, had been disabled by the EMP storm that had hammered the satellites, but it had recovered.  As soon as some agreements had been made as to sharing any information CNN gained, they were back on the air, reporting to the world.

“There has as yet been no information from within the occupied zones in the Middle East,” Rachael said.  “The devastation has been immense; every major city from Iran to Algeria seems to have been hit with nuclear warheads, destroying them and utterly smashing the national infrastructure that might have otherwise have saved lives.

“In revenge, Muslim mobs within Spain and France have raided homes belonging to Saudi Princes and Iranian Businessmen, many of whom bribed the mullahs to let them work on their businesses, including importing alcohol across the world.  Dozens of Saudis who fled Saudi Arabia after the war warning have been lynched.  On a darker note, Muslim mobs within Germany itself, lashing out at Germans on their own streets, have been brutally suppressed by the Government.

“So far, Chancellor Erwin Kroger has refused to comment on accusations that his government is in negotiations with the other-dimensional Germans,” she said.  The President, who knew that the German government had said little after the Battle for France had begun, leaned forward.  “The German armed forces remain on alert, but so far there has been no word on German intervention with the fighting in France and the Benelux countries, nor have there been any clashes between Germany and the Nazis.  Several far-right groups within Germany, however, have publicly applauded the destruction of the Middle East…and are lynching any Turk they find.

“In China, there has been no official word on events inside Beijing, which wasn’t hit by a Nazi nuclear warhead,” she continued.  “Unofficially, non-governmental sources reveal that there has been some open fighting between reformers and communists, while there have been clashes between the army and students, along with Taiwan.  The Taiwanese Government has kept its forces on alert, but so far there has been no major confrontation between the mainland and Taiwan.”

She paused.  The President sighed, wishing that he could sleep.  Taiwan was now beyond American ability to help, just by the Nazis having invaded America.  If the Chinese Government, desperate to avoid an internal struggle, perhaps even civil war, invaded…then Taiwan would be on its own.

“Back on the home front, refugee groups have been turned away from communities, despite attempts by state governments to house them, often at gunpoint,” Rachael continued.  “This has, unfortunately, included an element of open paranoia; aimed at German-Americans and people suspected of being duplicates from the other timeline.”  Her voice became incredulous.  “Despite claims by various eminent scientists that quantum duplicates are very unlikely, several dozen people have been lynched.

“There has been no word from the government on a counter-offensive against the enemy positions, but retired military men are questioning the decision of the Pentagon, or what remains of it, to stand on the defensive.  The use of human shields, who have had their names revealed by the Nazi commander, has apparently convinced the army to refrain from shooting at the positions inside the United States.  Governor Harrison, Texas, has gone on the record as demanding…”

“Bitch,” the President swore, clicking off the television.  “How the hell are we supposed to get anything done when the enemy can hear her talking out loud to the world and revealing everything?”

Chapter Twenty: The Second Holocaust (II)

Israel
Middle East (TimeLine A)

Israel was dying.

General Mordecai stared up at the display and knew that escape was impossible.  The battles along Israel’s borders had only begun worse; nibbling away at Israel rather than simply trying to crash through the defences.  The IAF had fought well, but one by one their aircraft had been swatted out of the sky by Metalstorm weapons.  He’d hoped that the Americans might have had some aircraft based in Iraq, but a small nuclear warhead had accounted for them.

“It won’t be long now,” he said, as the display flickered again.  A small force of dug-in tanks was under attack, fighting with skill to buy time for more refugees to escape Israel.  Everyone along the coastline, even the Turks, had pitched in to help; the Turks had even offered to take Israeli soldiers and civilians.  Not, General Mordecai knew, out of the kindness of their hearts, but from practicality.  Turkey was the land bridge to Europe…and they would be next on the Nazi list.

He shook his head.  Several thousand Israelis had been pulled from the nation to Italy, Crete and Greece, but the host governments were running out of space.  It wouldn’t be long, he suspected, before they were forced to close the doors, which would trap the remainder in Israel…and kill them all.

“No, it won’t,” Judith said.  She had regained her calm; like him, she was determined to die in Israel.  The Mossard had killed several politicians in Italy who had jumped on the anti-refugee bandwagon, throwing away years worth of contacts just to gain time, but it wasn’t enough.  Nothing short of a massive nuclear strike would be enough…and there was no longer time.

“Enough,” Prime Minister Benjamin said.  “We have to bleed them as long as possible.”

General Mordecai nodded.  “We have some access to satellites,” he said.  “We know where many of their forces are located; the problem is getting a nuke close enough to do some good.  Those Metalstorm systems are far too capable.”

“We can take some of the tactical warheads out of storage and fire them from shells,” Judith said.  “At least…they’ll have some problems swiping all of them out of the sky.”

General Mordecai smiled.  Metalstorm could handle some shellfire, but too much overloaded the system.  “It will have to be a massive bombardment,” he said.  “And, of course, they may retaliate with their own nuclear weapons.”

Benjamin laughed, a little unstably.  “I think that we are past the stage of worrying about that,” he said.  “If the local commanders need our tactical weapons, then use them.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” General Mordecai said.  “Colonel Avishai was asking for permission to launch an armoured counterattack into Jordan, so he could use a nuclear spearhead.”

Benjamin nodded slowly.  “See to it,” he said.  “The only thing we need, now, is time; time to move as many as we can from here to anywhere else.  Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, that’s what we must do.”

***
Colonel Avishai stuck his head out of his command tank, an Israeli-built Merkava tank, and peered into the distance.  His small force, only three hundred tanks of various types, had been hammered together from several different units that had been disrupted by the nuclear attacks.  Communication with higher authority was almost non-existent; only the landlines provided any link to the command bunker.

General Mordecai’s words rang in his ears.  “You have clearance to launch a nuclear attack,” he had said.  Colonel Avishai thought of the organic artillery battery that his division included, one that now had a collection of nuclear shells ready to launch, and shivered.  He shook his head, remembering his grandfather’s tales.  If they couldn’t stop the Nazis, Israel was doomed.

“They’re in that direction,” he said, as he saw the plumes of smoke.  Nazi tanks, advancing through the ruins of Jordan, slaughtering the remains of the population with a cold dispassion that was truly horrifying.  The Palestinians hadn’t known which way to jump; far too many were still fighting Israel, rather than the Nazis.  He shrugged; it wouldn’t have made any difference, anyway.

“Launch the drone,” he ordered, watching as the small drone launched from one of the tanks.  The Nazis had deployed drones of their own; massive lumbering aircraft that had been easily swatted out of the sky.  The American-designed units were tiny and almost impossible to track, even by those who knew that they were there.  “Let’s see what’s out there.”

He ducked back into the tank and examined the relay screen.  If the Nazis had detected the transmissions, they showed no sign of it; a massive line of the smaller tanks and their support vehicles – including some Metalstorm units – was advancing towards Israel.  He tapped commands into the system, ordering the drone to recon further, and saw a massive staging area.  The Nazis were preparing to assault Israel; concentring their units before launching the main attack.

“That’s our target,” he muttered, dismissing any thought of a nuclear attack.  The Nazis had dozens of the little Metalstorm units in; they certainly understood force protection far better than the Arabs ever had.  Dead men died for their country, rather than making the enemy die for their country.  “Mount up!”

There was no grumbling as the men prepared the attack.  He thought it through quickly, designating an attack path.  The gunners would open fire, pouring shells onto the enemy, and the Merkavas would crash into the enemy, hopefully breaking through before they had time to prepare for an offensive.  The shells, he suspected, wouldn’t been as useful as they would have been with the Metalstorm units active, but if they got everything else right, it would hardly matter.

“I have drone activity,” the radar operator said.  They were only on passive, active radars would have given them away, but they could still sense enemy active sensors.  “They’ll have us soon, sir.”

“Advance,” Colonel Avishai ordered.  “Charge!”

The wave of tanks spread out and advanced, bouncing over sand dunes without any regard for the damage to the vehicles.  Colonel Avishai smiled; he had always wanted to do that, but poor Israel couldn’t afford to risk too much damage outside of wartime.  Suddenly, it no longer mattered at all.  

“I see you, Nazi bastard,” his driver muttered.  “Sir…”

Colonel Avishai smiled.  The enemy had been totally surprised, but like their counterparts from his world, they reacted quickly.  The smaller tanks – each one around the size of a Merkava – swung their guns around, preparing to fire.

“Fire,” he snapped.  A hail of shells slashed out towards the enemy position from the Merkava tanks; his gunners poured long-range fire onto the Nazi position.  The Metalstorm units began to shoot at the shells, long streaks of blue light lancing through the air, fading slowly.  

I thought that they would be invisible, he thought absently, as the wave of shells crashed into the Nazi position.  Several of the Nazi tanks were blown apart, others were clearly damaged.  They started to return fire, hitting Merkavas with their own shells.  Merkavas had good armour, but the Nazis were punching through them with ease; they clearly used the same kind of shells as the Americans did.

“Blow through,” he ordered, as the enemy position careened closer and closer to them.  They closed with frightening speed; he saw a German unit explode at nearly point-blank range, then a chain of explosions as someone – it was impossible to tell who – hit the ammunition supply.  A German lorry, packed with soldiers, exploded as he blasted a shell directed into it…and the German position came apart.

“I think we won,” he said, twenty minutes later.  “Report!”

“They’re in retreat,” the drone operator said.  “We’re shelling them as they run.”

“Good,” Colonel Avishai said darkly.  “Our losses?”

“We lost fifty-two tanks,” Captain Ehud said.  “Sir, that’s nearly a sixth of our force.”

“Secure the location,” he snapped.  “Drones; any more enemy contacts.”

“Yes,” the operator said.  “Sir, they’re moving in more of their tanks, including the heavy tanks from Washington.”

Colonel Avishai silently blessed the Americans who’d slipped the information to the Mossard.  “Where are they going?”  He asked.  “How many?”

“At least five hundred,” the operator said.  “Sir, they’re coming here.”

“The you-know-what?”  Captain Ehud asked.  “It seems that it’s what we need here.”

Colonel Avishai nodded and switched to the secure channel.  “Captain Doran; this is Colonel Avishai,” he said.  “You are cleared to release the first of the special weapons.  Inform me when it’s launched.”  He adjusted the channel again.  “Nuclear protocol, now,” he snapped.

“We’re firing a hail of conventional weapons now,” Captain Doran said.  “Nuclear launch in five minutes.”

“Nuclear protocols,” Colonel Avishai repeated.  “Now!”

“Nuclear warhead launched,” Captain Doran said.  “Impact in…ten…nine…”

The ground shook violently.  “Impact,” Captain Doran said.

“Colonel Avishai, we lost the drone,” the operator said.  Colonel Avishai wasn’t surprised; the drone was so tiny that such a massive blast would knock it out of the sky.  “Sir, should I launch a new one?”

Colonel Avishai nodded.  “Yes,” he said.  “Captain Ehud; I think we’d better move from here.  You know what the bastards will do for that if they can still find us.”

***
The distant flash of a nuclear detonation could be seen from General Neumann’s command post, set up at the border between Saudi Arabia and Jordan.  In his timeline, a major farm had been built there, using desalinated water to feed crops for the population, but it was all scrub and desert.  There had been survivors, but all of them had been rounded up, or shot if they tried to resist.  Many of them would starve to death in the concentration camps, but General Neumann didn’t care; they weren’t important.

“The Jews used a nuclear warhead on us,” he snapped, wondering why he was surprised.  Something had to have protected Israel from its enemies, and a nuclear shield was better than most defences, even though he would have launched the warheads as soon as they’d been built.  Exterminating the Arab populations would have guaranteed their safety…before they arrived.

“Yes, Herr General,” his aide said.  “I have targets ready for your permission to launch.”

“Retaliate?”  General Neumann asked.  “We’re going to crush them!”

“Yes, Herr General,” his aide said.  “Here are the targets.”

General Neumann examined the list with some interest.  “The rest of their cities and their military bases?”  He asked.  “What about the requirement to take some alive?”

“Herr General, they have proved themselves to be good fighters,” his aide said, placing his career in General Neumann’s hands.  The thought that Jews and Arabs could fight was blasphemy to the SS; only good Aryans could fight, the rest could only brawl.  Everyone knew that, at least everyone who wanted a quiet life, or indeed any sort of life at all.

“I noticed,” General Neumann said.  “However, we do have to take some alive.  Perhaps…”

He examined the title of each target.  “We’ll start by hitting their defence lines here and here,” he said.  “The Arab population here” – he didn’t understand why the Jews hadn’t simply exterminated them or driven them out – “is surplus to requirements, so they can be targeted as well.  That…should convince them that they are beaten.”

“Yes, Herr General,” his aide said.  “I’ll have the targeting data passed on at once.”

General Neumann nodded.  “Once the nuclear warheads have detonated, we’ll attack on all axis at once,” he said.  “We’ll burn them to death.”

***
Colonel Avishai saluted the commanding officer of the infantry force that was digging into the West Bank.  It wasn’t where he would have chosen to have been stationed – the Palestinians were still revolting – but the force had had to return to Israeli lines.

“Pleased to see you,” the commander, a harried Major, said.  “Get dug in and…”

“Incoming artillery,” Captain Ehud snapped.  “Lots of shells and missiles.”

“Everyone get down,” the major shouted.  Colonel Avishai ducked back into his tank, praying as he slammed the lid down.  As long as the shells weren’t nuclear, his tank should be safe unless hit directly and…

The tactical atomic weapon detonated half a mile from his position.  A wave of fire and shock passed over his force, rubble crashed down on the turret of the tank.  By some miracle, his tank survived, but many others were destroyed outright.  Two more tactical weapons landed in the west bank, slaughtering the civilians and terminating the Palestinian Revolt.  Other shells landed across Israel, burning massive holes in the defence lines…and opening the way for the Nazi invasion.

“I count seventeen tanks left,” the gunner said.  “Colonel Avishai; what are we to do?”

“Today is a good day to die,” Colonel Avishai said.  “Stand by to repel attack.”

He didn’t stick his head back outside.  The Merkava was built, in some ways, for a nuclear battlefield; they had always known that the Arabs would use such weapons, if they got them.  The radiation counter was beeping an alarm; there was a lot of radiation floating around.

“No contact with higher authority?”  He asked, hopefully.  He didn’t expect any and wasn’t surprised when the radio refused to work.  “Stand by to fight to the last.”

“We’re pretty buried in the rubble,” the driver said.  “I don’t think that we can move.”

Colonel Avishai, who had a very good idea of what the rubble consisted of, didn’t react.  He had known that he would die this day.  “Can you still fire?”  He asked the gunner.  “Exactly what can we do?”

“Fire,” the gunner said dryly.  “Fortunately, we’re pointing in the right direction…”

Three jet aircraft passed overhead from the south, heading into Israel.  Colonel Avishai stared up at them; he had the idea that he was seeing the first Nazi aircraft to enter his timeline.  They seemed capable enough, but…

“More nuclear explosions,” the driver said quietly.  “They must be launching the Jericho missiles at the Portals.”

Colonel Avishai nodded.  The flashes were coming from the south, too far away to be tactical warheads.  “How much longer?”  He asked.  “How much longer until they come?”

Time passed.  There were a handful more nuclear explosions, then the first wave of Nazi armour crested over the horizon.  The radiation levels hadn’t dimmed; Colonel Avishai had expected that they wouldn’t send in unprotected infantry.  Instead, there was just a wave of tanks.

“They think we’re all dead,” he said.  “Choose your targets…and fire!”

The tank shook oddly as it fired, blowing a hole through a Nazi tank.  The driver was already reversing the engine, trying to escape, as the gunner fired again.  The tank was trapped; they couldn’t escape.

“Incoming fire,” the driver said calmly.  “Hear, O Israel, the lord…”

An armour-piercing shell slammed through the tank and killed the crew in one final blast.  Undaunted, the other tanks continued to fire, until one by one they were killed.  Between them, they held up the enemy for over half an hour.  It wasn’t enough.

***
The explosion shook the bunker as the Nazis launched yet another nuclear warhead onto the ruins of the city.  Either they knew that the city held the bunker, or it was plain sadism; General Mordecai didn’t really care any longer.

“We’re the last,” he breathed.  Judith nodded; the Prime Minister had gone to be with his family in the last few hours of Israel’s life.  Her dark hair fell around her face; General Mordecai felt oddly horny for the first time since the final war had begun.  

“Why haven’t they killed us yet?”  She demanded.  The ground shook again; the lights flickered.  “What the hell are they doing?”

“Digging in,” General Mordecai said, in sudden understanding.  “They know we’re here.”

Judith cursed then, cursed the Americans who had known about the bunker and allowed the information to leak, cursed the Arabs who had probably told the Nazis where to find the bunker.  Cut off from her contacts, from the rest of the nation…they were alone.

The lights flickered.  “We’re all going to die,” she said.  Her voice wasn’t calm.  The stress was finally getting to her.  “General, we no longer have communications with the silos.”

General Mordecai nodded.  “We launched the missiles at the closest Portals,” he said.  “We might have hit something on their side.”

He scowled.  Their weapons had been designed for airbursts.  They might have managed to pass through the Portals, or to detonate on the ground, or they might have been shot down.  Airburst weapons were harder to shoot down than ones that went lower before exploding.

“It hardly matters,” Judith said.  She changed the subject.  “I had no husband,” she said.  “I had no children, General; was that the right decision?”

General Mordecai shrugged.  “Ask God when you meet Him,” he said.  “I thought that there would be time for that after my service had ended…except it never did.”

Judith smiled.  General Mordecai could hardly avoid noticing how attractive it made her.  “Married to your career, just like me,” she said.  “General, what about the remnant?”

“The Deputy Prime Minister will try to ensure that they live somewhere safe,” General Mordecai said.  He found it odd, trying to reassure her, but there wasn’t any other choice.  “The Americans or someone else will beat them; perhaps their own people will rise against them.”

“Too late for us,” Judith said.  The ground shuddered again.  The main display flickered and died.  “We are truly alone now.  No more contact, with anyone inside or outside the country.”

It wasn’t an effort to reach out and take her hand in his.  The slight motion turned into an embrace, born of final desire and desperation.  “I know,” he said, although he wasn’t sure what he knew.  “I know.”

The lights flickered and died.  This time, they stayed off.  General Mordecai found her body in the darkness and they took what pleasure they could from each other, just before the air ran out and killed both of them, killing the last of Israel with them.  

Chapter Twenty-One: Life During Wartime

Washington DC
USA (TimeLine A)

The first day as a German captive had been hellish.  Joyce Patterson had discovered that they might not have looted or raped – except for some military equipment that was taken back through the Portal – but they were fully as nasty as she had come to fear from her childhood, learning about the Nazi atrocities in Europe.  The Nazis simply didn’t hate them; they just considered the Americans to be beneath their attention.

The second day had been a little easier.  An SS officer had come around, checking names and identities, warning them that the region was now under the governance of the Greater German Reich…and that they were all citizens; third-class.  A man who’d objected had been shot; the SS clearly considered it a useful lesson.

“I want only one thing from you; obedience,” the SS man had said.  She didn’t know his name or his rank, just his attitude.  He could not even be bothered to feel contempt.  “You are citizens of the Reich, which has embarked upon its glorious destiny of expanding across weak timelines.  As citizens, you have certain rights and responsibilities; failure to carry them out will result in immediate execution.  It you obey orders, you will be safe and well-treated.”

A young teenage boy called out a question.  “What happens when you run into a universe of super-advanced dinosaurs?”

His mother cringed.  “They will be exterminated,” the SS man said.  “Now; the children will remain attached to the vehicles, deterring your weak leaders from attacking us.  The rest of you will work for us, after we have collected your details for the record.”

She’d had to sit in front of an SS officer, who’d recorded her details and occupation, taken her identity documents and then a blood sample, before being detailed to a work group.  Washington had been heavily damaged, but a lot of buildings had survived; their task was to clear all of the remaining documents out of the buildings and surrender them at once to the Nazis.

She shuddered as she entered the first building.  The building had been struck by several shells; the SS guards didn’t go in to the building, just ordered them into the former workplace.  She wasn’t sure what the building had been before it had been rendered useless; an office block, perhaps.  She found documents, ones relating to share trading, and smiled; the Nazis would get no use out of those.  As they moved from floor to floor, she tested the telephones in the building, but none of them were working.

No way to call out, she thought, trying to decide what to do.  The Nazis hadn’t bothered to handcuff or chain them together, like she would have done; she had her hands free, for all the good it would do her.  They…simply knew that she couldn’t offer them any resistance at all.

Bastards, she thought, as she opened drawers, banging and thumping to express her frustration.  The Nazis had said that they’d conquered over a hundred miles from the Portals, but she didn’t believe them; their vehicles couldn’t move that fast.  Even so, she had no way of communicating outside the enemy lines…and no way of convincing them to let her go.

For a long moment, she sank down on the chair, trying to decide what to do.  She’d been through the standard training course for reporters who wanted to be embedded in a military unit, but it hadn’t been clear on what to do when captured.  Their advice, which didn’t seem all that useful, had been to make yourself known as a reporter – and naturally, the enemies of the United States would be quite happy to let you go.  Shooting reporters was bad publicity.

Unfortunately, the Nazis didn’t think like the Jihadis, who were very kind to reporters.  She could hear them outside, shouting for them to hurry up, not even bothering to supervise them.  She pulled herself up, feeling her body ache, and staggered to the door.  With a sudden thought of mischief, she picked up the documents in the room, ones that would hopefully cost the SS countless man-hours to prove that they were useless, and headed down the stairs.  A younger girl was at the stairwell, crying.

“Don’t cry,” Joyce said automatically.  A woman who was crying was weak in the eyes of many men; an open invitation to rape.  So far, the SS had been disciplined…but how long would that last?  “What’s your name?”

“Melanie,” she said.  Close up, Joyce could see that she had blonde hair, cut into a short elfin hairstyle.  With her face cleaned, she would have been beautiful.  “Who are you?”

“Joyce,” Joyce said.  “Don’t worry; the army will come and toss them back out.”

“The army hates me,” Melanie said.  “I marched against the invasion of Iraq.”

Joyce snorted.  Melanie could hardly have been more than twelve at the time.  “We all make mistakes,” she said, a little tartly.  “Don’t be stupid; they don’t even remember you.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Melanie said, her face trembling.  “My family were so proud of me, getting a scholarship to Washington and then an internship to one of the Senators…”

“Did the Earth move for you?”  Joyce asked, unable to resist.  “Did you have sexual congress with him?”

“He was a gentleman,” Melanie protested.  “And then he had to go, and he offered to take me with him, but I wanted some time to explore Washington and…”

Joyce, despite herself, felt sorry for Melanie.  “It could be worse,” she said.  “Did you find any documents?”

Melanie held up a black bag.  Joyce looked inside quickly; they weren’t important.  How could data on grain transfer help the Germans?  “Come on,” she said.  “We have to keep our heads down until there’s a chance to escape.”

Melanie looked up hopefully.  “You think we can?”  She asked.  “You think we can get away from them?”

“Perhaps,” Joyce said, knowing not to say too much.  “Come on.”

A German shouted for them in German; Joyce didn’t understand it.  The gun he pointed at them as they stepped out of the building spoke for itself.  He motioned for them to drop the documents onto a small trolley and to proceed back towards the Washington Monument, which seemed to have been turned into a base of operations.

“Poor girls,” Joyce muttered, as they turned to see the man standing on the podium.  Dozens of children, mainly girls, had been grouped around the base, shielding it from enemy – American – shellfire.  They didn’t seem happy; some of the women in the group cast helpless looks at them – their parents and family.

Bastards, Joyce thought, as a distant explosion drifted across the air.  A plume of smoke rose up in the distance, marking…what?  A mine?  A random shell?  She didn’t know; couldn’t know.  Closing her mind to the horror, she concentrated on gathering as much information as she could.

“Thank you for your work,” the Nazi leader said.  Joyce had the odd feeling that it was sincere; she hoped that the other women had thought of collecting useless documents and supplying them to the Nazis.  “You will now assist us in clearing the streets of rubble and collecting food.”

“But we’re hungry,” a woman wailed.  “I cannot go on…”

“Unless you wish to starve, you will work,” the Nazi said.  “And stop trying to seduce my officers; I have strictly ordered them not to touch any of you; I hope that you are grateful.”

Joyce smiled.  Her one attempt to seduce an SS man had failed.  She didn’t quite understand it, and then she remembered when a man was most vulnerable…when he was naked in bed.

They think we’re all going to seduce them into bed and kill them, she thought, with a sudden flicker of amusement.  Why are they using us to do this?  Where are the men?

“You will be chained together and sent out to clear the streets of rubble,” the Nazi said, ignoring the fact that he’d put most of the rubble there through shellfire.  “Fall out!”

Joyce followed Melanie, trying to stay with the young girl, as one of the SS men attached a simple chain to their wrists.  She scowled; the chain was loose enough to allow them to move almost independently, tight enough to make running away as a group difficult and running away as an individual impossible.  The SS men didn’t take any notice of their bodies, or their concerns; they just pointed them towards the first piles of rubble.  With a sigh, Joyce bent to the new task, picking up the rocks and dropping them on the small carts the Germans had provided.

“Joyce, I can’t do this,” Melanie said.  “Joyce…”

“Keep your voice down,” Joyce snapped.  The guards were some distance off, but they might have had sharp hearing.  “Melanie, I understand, but you have to play along with them for the moment.”

She picked up what had once been a street sign, now broken beyond any hope of repair, and tossed it towards the cart.  The noise made the Germans look sharply around them, but they didn’t react in any other way.  The pile of junk grew larger and larger; she didn’t understand what they were going to do with it.  

Melanie held up what had once been a superbly manicured hand.  “Look,” she said.  It was torn and broken; blood trickling from her fingers.  “I can’t go on.”

“You must,” an older woman said.  “They’ll kill us all if you don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Joyce said.  “She’s right.”

Melanie started to cry again, but kept working.  Joyce shook her head and returned to clearing the site, moving bits of broken glass with unprotected hands and carefully separating it from the rest of the junk.  The Germans – the Nazis, she had to keep reminding herself – were moving more and more equipment into the city, from more of the fearsome tanks to smaller, more active tanks.  She scowled, wishing she had a camera, or some other way of getting information out of the region.

An unsafe building collapsed, far too close to them for comfort.  “New work,” the supervisor called, as they finished the first site.  Joyce understood; the Germans were knocking down parts of Washington, just to give themselves room to deploy.  Tired, bleeding, the women stumbled over and returned to work.

***
“Those dirty little bastards,” Zack Tyler snapped, as he watched the activity from what he hoped was a safe distance.  The tiny two-man Special Forces team had inserted themselves into Washington under the cover of darkness, using a very low frequency transmitter to make their reports back to headquarters.  So far, the Germans had proven incapable of detecting them.

“Bastards,” Jeff Stasheff agreed.  The black navy SEAL was horrified; the sight of thousands of women and a handful of men working at clearing the rubble reminded him of old darker race memories.  “They’re using them as mine-clearing terms.”

Tyler nodded.  It made sense; the retreating Americans had mined as many buildings as they could, and the enemy were using their own people to check out if the buildings were safe.  “Can you see the Portal?”

“It’s there, I think,” Stasheff said.  “I wish we had a better view from here.”

“We could go higher in the skyscraper,” Tyler pointed out.  “Still, even from here, making an escape would be difficult.”

He glared down at the map of Washington and the surrounding region they’d laid out on the table.  The Nazis had spread out, attacking every concentration of troops that they’d found, establishing their control over the entire city and then outwards.  They were now concentrating on rounding up all the civilians they’d caught within their encirclement; surely a unique military achievement.

He made a bitter face.  They’d watched, only half an hour ago, a desperate man firing on the Nazis as they advanced.  The Germans had put three high explosive shells into the tower block, bringing it down with a thunderous crash.  He worried, sometimes, that there were other resisters in their tower; they’d searched it, but with only two of them it was impossible to check everywhere.

“One of us might have two,” Stasheff said.  “Fight you for it?”

Tyler looked sharply out of the window, his attention caught by a motion in the sky.  “Forget it,” he snapped.  “Look.”

Stasheff looked out of the window, and then cursed loudly.  “That’s a fucking helicopter,” he snapped.  “Can you make out the weapons?”

Tyler lifted his binoculars, hoping that they wouldn’t catch any sunlight, and peered at the helicopter.  “There’s machine guns, and rockets, I think,” he said.  The German helicopter was swinging out over the city, hunting for…what?  Them?

“I think we’d better send in the contact report,” Stasheff said, tapping the transmitter.  Tyler nodded, activating the recorder on the binoculars and watching the helicopter long enough to gain a visual record.  It took only a moment to attach the binoculars to the transmitter; a moment longer to send the entire video to a satellite in burst mode.

“Done,” he said.  “They have to know that the bastards are deploying helicopters and…”

An explosion brought both men back to the window.  The helicopter was firing rockets into a series of warehouses, creating a series of explosions that tore the buildings apart.

“Resistance fighters, or just the Germans showing off?”  Stasheff asked.  “You think we’d better move?”

“It might be dangerous down there,” Tyler said, affecting a cowardly voice.  “Still, we have to slip closer…”

A flickering blast of light distracted him for a long moment.  “Yes, I think we have no choice,” he said.  “If they’re knocking down buildings, then we’d better move.”

“But why?”  Stasheff asked, as they packed up their equipment.  Both men wore their universe, under a black coat that might have been mistaken for an SS overcoat at long distance.  Tyler hadn’t been convinced, but the SS shot people who they caught out of uniform.  “Don’t they want the buildings themselves?”

Tyler shook his head.  “Washington is…not an industrial town,” he said, checking the stairwell.  “They’re doing it to rub in that they hold the town now…and getting rid of pests like us.”

They slipped down the stairwell, finally slipping out of the rear exit of the building.  “I see no Germans,” Stasheff muttered, keeping his voice low.  “What now, boss?”

“We can’t get near the Portal,” Tyler said.  It had been one of their mission objectives, but a single look at the defences around the Portals had convinced them that it would be impossible to get close enough to matter.  “I think we’d better try to sneak close enough to see what they’re doing.”

The streets were oddly deserted as they moved through the alleys and the roads, keeping under cover.  Three more German helicopters appeared, moving overhead in a search pattern, looking for…what?  A burst of gunfire in the distance made them both duck for cover, but the Germans ignored them or hadn’t noticed them.

“There must be still resistance,” Stasheff muttered.  “There’s another reason for knocking down buildings.”

Tyler looked at the burnt-out shell of a building, only a mile from the Portal, and shivered.  “I don’t know how much closer we can get,” he said.  He paused and ducked for cover as a slave group moved past; men and women working for the Germans.  He scowled; with their hands chained together like that, they would be unable to escape, or in fact to do anything, but what the Germans wished.

“Bastards,” Stasheff growled, keeping his voice low.  “Do we make contact?”

“No,” Tyler said, using his microcam to take pictures.  “Too dangerous; there’s always someone out to curry favour with the enemy.”

Stasheff nodded.  “I think we’d better fall back,” he said.  “Hole up somewhere on the outskirts and wait for darkness, so we can make it back out of the city.”

“I suppose,” Tyler said.  He watched as an SS officer paced by, carrying a rifle of unfamiliar design and a club designed to inflict maximum pain.  “We could kill that bastard.”

“Then the Germans would kill the civilians,” Stasheff said.  “Come on.”

Carefully, as quietly as they could, the two men headed back out of the city, evading the Germans with inbuilt skill.  Tyler smiled quickly; he had a suspicion that the Germans didn’t have anyone with real experience at covert warfare.  Certainly they hadn’t worried about securing too much of their conquered territory.

“Look at that,” Stasheff muttered.  “They’re moving in, sure as eggs are eggs?”

“Scrambled or fried,” Tyler muttered.  A building had been taken over by the Germans; a long line of infantry was queuing up outside it.  “That’s a whorehouse, or I’m a preacher’s daughter.”

Stasheff snickered.  “They should have taken over the Supreme Court for that,” he commented dryly.  “And you don’t look like a daughter; more like the ugly one who gets put to the rear of family pictures.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tyler said.  “I wonder if they would notice if we joined the line.”

“Shut up,” Stasheff said.  “I really hope that was a joke.”

Slightly subdued, Tyler nodded once and followed Stasheff through a twisting series of streets.  It wasn’t until they were two miles from the German lines that both men felt safe enough to rest and make contact with headquarters.

“They want us to remain within the city?”  Tyler asked.  “Are they out of their heads?”

“They don’t say why,” Stasheff said.  Both men knew that what they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell the Germans.  “Just that further orders will be forthcoming soon.”

Tyler glanced around the small apartment.  It had belonged to some rich couple, he was certain; it was decorated in a style that only the very rich could afford.  He checked the refrigerator and the freezer; there would be enough food, as long as they were careful.

“I guess we can hide here for a while,” he said.  “It won’t be long before they reach here, though; you know.”

“I know,” Stasheff said.  “You know what the orders mean?  It means…”

Tyler held up a hand.  “Don’t even speculate,” he said.  “Just…get some rest.  We might have to move in a hurry.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Advance and Retreat

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

The Reich Council Building was decked out in Nazi flags and decorations, celebrating the victories that the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS had achieved on the other side of the dimensional barrier.  The massive building had been decorated to the utmost; every building in Berlin and the regional capitals had been decorated as well.  The puppet states – and indeed many of the independent states – had been celebrating as well…if they knew what was good for them.  For the moment, the Reich was distracted…but there was always time to punish disobedience.

General Neumann stood in the centre of the room, looking up at the shadowed forms around him, sitting at their desks and facing him.  A single light shone down upon him; the decorations that the Reichstag had voted to award him glittered on his chest.  He hadn’t been happy about the recall order, not when there was so much work to do in securing a foothold in the alternate timeline, but the Reich Council had insisted.  They’d heard most of the propaganda – they’d written most of the propaganda – but they wanted to hear it from his lips.  They’d ordered him back through the Portal, and then ordered him to take a supersonic fighter from Arabia to Berlin, just for the report.

He scowled; there was so much to do!  His people were good, but they needed to be supervised.  Taking over an entire planet wasn’t easy; they had never done anything on that scale before.  They couldn’t risk a defeat in the Middle East; it was the key to their strategy.

“General Neumann stands before us,” light-and-breathy said.  The man didn’t seem pleased, merely…unwelcoming.  “General, detail for us the results of the four days of campaigning.”

“We have successfully destroyed the largest Jewish redoubt in that world,” General Neumann said, addressing the entire room.  “We have several thousand prisoners; the rest are either dead or have managed to escape…”

Dry-as-dust spoke, his voice dryer than ever.  “Why were they permitted to escape?”

General Neumann scowled.  “The Jews fought harder than we expected, including the indiscriminate use of nuclear weapons,” he said.  “They even managed to detonate one near enough to a Portal to have an effect on the other timeline – our timeline.”

“I thought that Doctor Rommel had managed to make the Portals one-way,” light-and-breathy said.  “How did they get the blast back through into our timeline?”

“And what were the effects?”  Dry-as-dust added.

General Neumann hid his reaction carefully.  He found it hard to believe that the council was somehow unaware of the effects in their territory; the blast had been unmistakable.  It had been sheer luck that the generator had only barely been damaged; a blast that had gone off on the other side of the Portal would have crippled it – or even destroyed it beyond repair.

“The Portals cannot be held one-way for long, only a few hours,” he said, concentrating on the details Doctor Rommel had supplied.  “There is a feedback effect with a one-way Portal that doesn’t happen when the Portal is open at both ends.  After a few hours, the Portal collapses…unless it’s switched back to two-way.  The Jews got lucky.”

“I see,” dry-as-dust said.  “The effects on our side of the Portal?”

“A lot of vehicles were destroyed,” General Neumann said.  “No serious losses.”  He paused for any more questions.  “Now, for the rest of the world.”

He tapped the display on the wall.  “We hold the Middle East,” he said.  “We have been as indiscriminate in the use of nuclear weapons as the Jews; resistance has been seriously punished.  We have taken care to destroy the oil wells in the region; even in the event of a total defeat, we will have crippled their economy for a long time.  At the moment, we’re building up our forces in the region, preparing for a strike north through Turkey, or perhaps a strike up towards Stalingrad – which is back to being called Volgograd in this timeline.

“In Africa, we have wrecked endless damage with several dozen nuclear weapons,” he continued.  “I expect no resistance to our attacks across the Suez canal, should we decide to attack that way, or indeed to permanent settlement later.  The natives, having been so foolish as to fail to develop according to any degree of sense, will have been seriously reduced in number by the time the settlement can begin.”

“A task for the extermination squads,” light-and-breathy said.  “I will have some of them put on alert for the task.”

“Biological warheads would be useful, I think,” dry-as-dust said.  “We could hardly find better weapons for the task.”

General Neumann winced.  “I must advise against it,” he said.  “The developed powers within the other timeline will certainly try to retaliate in kind.”

“They lack a biological weapons infrastructure like ours,” light-and-breathy said.  “Can they really harm the Wehrmacht with their weapons?”

“I would prefer not to find out the hard way that they can,” General Neumann said.  German soldiers got countless vaccines against biological weapons as they were developed – and they had vast stocks of smallpox, which the other timeline seemed to have largely exterminated – but all it would take was one virus they had no counterpart for to infect the troops.  “If I may continue?”

“Of course you may,” General Horst said.  “And exactly what happened in China?”

General Neumann adjusted the display.  “We opened two Portals into China, using our regions within China as a base point.”  He scowled; so far the council hadn’t decided if they should offer the Japanese some control over the alternate Japan in exchange for help with the invasion.  “This happened to be within one of the areas where they had a strong military presence, but they lacked the ability to fend us off.  Two hours after the attack, they started to launch tactical and strategic nuclear warheads at us.  They overloaded the Metalstorm defences and the weapons began to go off.  The commander gave the order to launch our weapons against their cities, but it was too late.

“Seventy-four warheads exploded in the region,” he said.  The Reich Council looked astonished at the bloodshed.  “The Portals were disrupted by the energy release.  They had to be shut down and the invasion was abandoned.  We learned later from intercepting their radio transmissions that the Chinese were hit badly by our weapons, and they’re on the brink of outright civil war.”

“One piece of good news,” General Horst said.  “Once we have a secure position, we can finish the job with China.”

General Neumann nodded.  “The invasions of France and Russia have been successful,” he said.  “We have occupied Paris and Belgium; as yet we have not crossed the border into their Germany.  The French, however, have not surrendered; instead, they have managed to establish a defence line below Paris.  We have to make some decisions on what to do about that.

“In Russia, we have managed to snatch most of the Ukraine,” he continued.  “With some reinforcements, we can proceed towards Moscow, but that will be a long campaign.  So far, the Russians have limited their use of nuclear weapons, but they seem to have a lot of them.  I think, as we continue to defeat them, we will see more nuclear weapons used.”

“What is it with that world?”  Dry-as-dust asked.  “All of the little countries have nuclear weapons.”

“I think that their superpowers proved unwilling to actually assert their authority in line with history,” light-and-breathy said.  “They seem not to understand that it is the duty of the strong to rule the weak and that it is the duty of the weak to bow to the strong.”

“America proves to be the most interesting case,” General Neumann concluded.  “We currently have three bridgeheads within the nation; Texas, Mississippi and Washington itself.  We have expanded the first two out for fifty kilometres, the last one to twenty kilometres.  Washington is currently being developed as a permanent base, but at the same time we cannot expect them to leave us there unchallenged.”

“The Americans will attempt to evict us,” General Horst agreed.  “How much chance do they have of succeeding?”

General Neumann thought rapidly.  “It’s hard to say,” he said.  “Their main battle tanks seem to be roughly equivalent to a Panther; they have so far shown us nothing comparable to a King Tiger.  Their aircraft, by and large, are better than ours, but at the same time totally vulnerable to Metalstorm.  So far, we have not had any direct air-to-air clashes between the Luftwaffe and their front-line aircraft, but sooner or later they will happen.  We have been moving aircraft into the Middle East, Russia and France, so it won’t be long before we have a clash.  Then we’ll know for certain.

“Their artillery is longer-ranged and more accurate than ours,” he concluded.  “At the same time, Metalstorm can take that down…until we run out of pellets.  We almost did during the Battle of Washington; we did in the Middle East and China.  So far, the Americans have not deployed nuclear weapons against us in their own homeland and we have returned the favour.”

“Nice of them,” light-and-breathy said.  “How are the enslaved Americans coping?”

“A curious mixture,” General Neumann said.  “Of course, we can’t trust them with anything important; Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann, the commanding officer of SS-Adolf Hitler, has been using them to clear the rubble and collect documents.  A lot of them have protested; others have rolled over for us, despite strict warnings on our part to our men against sleeping with the enemy.”

“Soldiers will be soldiers,” General Horst observed, unconcerned.  “It might improve the breed in the future.”

General Neumann nodded.  “We’ve been using them to check buildings that might have been mined,” he continued.  “They’ve saved quite a lot of our lives at the cost of their own – anyone with a useful occupation, such as a doctor, has been separated from the rest and put to work.  Some of them may be useful in the longer-term; others, such as lawyers and servants, will be useless for more than menial labour.

“In the long-term, of course, we’ll have to make some different decisions,” General Neumann said.  “The majority of Americans captured are not blacks; they’re white citizens.”

There was some mutterings between the council members, too low for General Neumann to hear.  The New Confederacy enslaved black men as a matter of course, using their cheap – free – labour to keep the white population down.  The Reich itself enslaved Slavs; the French enslaved the few remaining Arabs.  The Japanese did things to the Chinese that had shocked even hardened members of the SS extermination squads.  

But none of those people were white.  None of them could even have qualified for fourth-class citizenship of the Greater German Reich.  The Reich, as a compromise between racial purity and manpower needs accepted pureblood Aryans from outside Germany as second-class citizens; their children would be full citizens.  Nations like Finland and South Africa, which had large white Aryan populations, were encouraged to join the Reich; they could make the jump to full citizenship if they accepted the offer.

There were times, General Neumann thought, in the privacy of his own head, that Adolf Hitler had been drinking the day before sitting down and writing up what constituted an Aryan and what constituted an inferior human being.  Certainly, there was as much whim as serious science behind it; white men good, all else bad.

“I think that we will have to keep them working for us for the moment,” dry-as-dust said.  “We do not have the time to bring mechanical movers through the Portals; we need to reinforce as quickly as we can.  At the same time, we can grant them some basic rights, such as food and shelter.”

“I think they would appreciate that,” General Neumann said.  “Perhaps we could also allow them to write letters to the outside world as well.”

The slight hint of sarcasm in his voice was ignored.  “General, how do you plan to continue the campaign?”

That question, at least, General Neumann could answer without feeling as if he was lying to the council.  “In France, I intend to break the rest of the French resistance,” he said.  “We are currently preparing to attack through another Portal near Toulouse, which will break the back of their resistance by appearing in their rear.  Once their armies are broken, we can advance into Spain or Italy at leisure.

“In America, on the other hand, I intend to defeat them if they launch a counterattack towards Washington,” he continued.  “Interception of their radio and television broadcasts implies that they have no intention of launching an attack, but it’s hard to count on something like that.  Once we defeat them, once the attack begins, we will launch attacks from the other two bridgeheads, defeating what remains of their army and crushing resistance.  We can then mop up at leisure.”

He indicated Russia on the map.  “Russia is perhaps the least important of the major powers, but we need to defeat it regardless,” he said.  “So far, I am inclined to suggest that we open more Portals and hit Moscow in the rear, perhaps with nuclear weapons as well against their bases.  Once we have some satellites of our own up – we’re preparing to launch SSTOs from the Middle East – we’ll be able to pinpoint resistance and crush it.  Once we destroy the centre of the country, we will be able to occupy it at leisure.”

“Excellent,” General Horst said.  “What about the scientific advancements they’ve made?”

One of the council members spoke, his voice thick and deep.  General Neumann hadn’t heard him speak before; who was he?  An industrialist?  It made sense; the representative from the Reich Industrial Council would have a strong interest in producing new weapons, as that was what they did for the Wehrmacht and the SS.

“Their main advancements are mainly in the field of computers and related fields,” he said.  “Duplicating them will be tricky; we will have to build the tools to make the tools.  They have achieved astonishing success with computing; at least twenty years ahead of us.”  He paused.  “It is quite possible that they will be able to build Portals of their own.”

There was an instant uproar.  Light-and-breathy managed to speak first.  “That is impossible,” he said.  “That was an achievement of Aryan science!”

“They now know that they are possible,” General Neumann said.  “They will not, however, be able to locate us; they will lack the address for our universe.”

“The process of computing the correct way of creating a Portal into one particular universe took our finest computers a week,” the industrialist said.  “Their computers might be able to do it faster.”  General Neumann nodded; it made sense.  “Their main problem is power; they lack fusion power, for reasons that the sociologists blame of rampant memes.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”  Light-and-breathy demanded.  “How can they have such good computers and not have fusion power?”

The industrialist sighed.  “Apparently – and it makes no sense to me either - they are scared of nuclear power,” he said.  “Their research is simply not pushed forwards towards generating more power, but to ensure safety.  They simply haven’t done as much research as we have…and we have more power on tap as a result of it.”

He didn’t mention the stretches of Africa and Russia that would be contaminated for generations hence as a result of ‘accidents.’  “Once they duplicate our fusion power, which they will do if they know that it exists, they will have enough power to open a Portal themselves.”

“Assuming that they crack the secret behind making them,” General Horst said.  “It’s not a great threat; they don’t know where we are in an infinity of possible universes.”

General Neumann nodded.  “It will take them time to get away from universes that are almost identical,” he said.  “How long?  It took us an accident to understand how to stay away from such universes.  Will they have such accidents?”

“Impossible to say,” the industrialist said.  “They will, however, be able to open Portals soon.”

“There is one final matter to discuss,” General Horst said.  “The other Germany; what do we do with them?”

“I suggest sending an emissary to see them,” light-and-breathy said.  “Will they not want to join us?  We could use their help, could we not?”

“So far, we haven’t infringed upon their formal territory,” General Neumann said.  “We have overrun Alsace-Lorraine, but that was held by the French after their war ended with their defeat.”

“Which means that they could knife us in the back at any time,” General Horst said.  “Opinions?”

“We offer them a chance to join us,” light-and-breathy said.  “If they refuse, then we can break them to our will.”

General Neumann frowned.  He wasn’t sure that he wanted to add another front to the warzone in Europe; the French were fighting harder than any of them had predicted.  It wasn’t fair; could they could upon the French for nothing?

General Horst coughed.  “Perhaps we should offer to respect their borders if they respect ours,” he said.  “They are our fellows, after all.”

“So were the communists before the great Hitler defeated them,” light-and-breathy said.

“Adding more Portals to the warzone would stretch our resources,” dry-as-dust said dryly.  “There’s also the issue of opening Portals right next door; do we want to do anything like that?”

“I don’t understand,” light-and-breathy said.  “Next door?”

“If we open Portals to reach the alternate Germany, they will have to be opened from here,” General Neumann said.  “They’re Germans; they might manage to defeat us.”

“They’re weak,” light-and-breathy said.  “They have been taking orders from the French.”

General Neumann shrugged.  He wasn’t particularly confident of any of the information from the alternate Internet.  “Perhaps,” he said.  “Sir; do we really want to open a new front in the alternate world?”

Dry-as-dust made the final decision.  “Send that young Roth to talk to them,” he said.  “If they refuse our offer, then we can take strong action against them.  They’re our cousins, after all; they deserve the same chance we gave the other Aryans on our world.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Nazis in the Family

Safe House
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine A)

Chancellor Erwin Kroger had grown up in a world where Germany was split into two and blamed for everything from the Russian occupation of Eastern Europe to the near-extermination of the Jews.  Germany would not – could not – assert itself on the world stage; the last German politician to do that had been Adolf Hitler.  Divided between NATO and the EU on one hand, and the Warsaw Pact on the other, Germany could not develop into an economic power…or even a military one.

An angry man had gone into politics.  The young Erwin had experimented with the skinhead movement, the neo-Nazis and others, looking for something he couldn’t define, even to himself.  He was looking for something to be proud of in his country, and watching how other nations both condescended to and feared Germany; its industrious people, it’s new democracy…and its growing military power.  In the late 1990s, Germany had become more self-assertive, despite what many on the German right saw as French handicapping of the German people.  Even the moment when French interests and German politics became intermingled, during the Invasion of Iraq, hadn’t prevented Germany from becoming more and more dominant; the new Chancellor Erwin Kroger had intended to turn Germany into the leader of the European Union, or die trying.

Irony of ironies, the year after he secured election, a ghost from the past had appeared.  As history repeated itself, although not exactly, Kroger had found himself faced with a dilemma.  It wasn’t necessarily in Germany’s interests to help France – certainly France had done a lot of damage to Germany over the past two decades, which had been a major part of his campaign – but at the same time…Nazis?  Kroger felt the same hatred for them that many of his people did, even at the same time as cheering them on as they hammered the French.

The French had invoked the NATO treaty almost at once.  Kroger had hesitated; while he wanted to defeat the Nazis, there was always the requirement to watch one’s back.  The Bundeswehr had warned that there was no good reason why the Nazis couldn’t open a Portal directly into Berlin itself…and the ensuring panic in the chambers of government had provided a good excuse for doing what Kroger wanted to do – procrastinate.  As long as Germany itself wasn’t challenged, Kroger was inclined to play a waiting game…until a message had come from the occupied regions of France, offering to talk.

“Erwin, this is not wise.”

Kroger looked up at Kathe, his closest political ally.  Kathe and he had been friends from a long time before either of them had gone into politics; she’d managed to gain votes in the same way he had managed to gain votes – blaming everything on the EU and the French.  Twenty-two years after they’d started, she was still pretty, in a handsome firm-jawed kind of way.  Her blonde hair fell over a face that was rugged, almost masculine, rather than pretty.

“I know,” Kroger said, unwilling to admit that part of him was fascinated.  They’d never been lovers, despite the slurs of the opposition; he was married quite happily to his old girlfriend, with whom he had two children.  Hans had entered the military; Klaus had entered industry.  Kathe had never married; her failure to gain nomination for the highest post in government might have stemmed from the accusation that she’d had more than one affair.  

Kathe snorted at her friend.  “Then why did you agree to the meeting?”  She asked.  “You know what the Socialists will say about it, to say nothing of the Greens.”

“The Greens aren’t important at the moment,” Kroger said.  “They want to keep the Nazis away from us; the Socialists don’t want us to fight, but at the same time they want us to resist the Nazis by non-violent means.  Except…both sides are taking a beating, in the week since this war began.  Public opinion seems divided; some want us to fight, some want us to stay out of us, and yes – some want us to join them.  It doesn’t help that we’re getting the blame for this from certain quarters.”

Kathe nodded grimly.  German citizens abroad had been lynched on several occasions.  Racial violence on Germany’s streets, particularly after the Nazi nuclear weapons had started to explode within Turkey and the Middle East, had only grown; martial law had had to be declared in a number of areas.  In short, the war had already touched Germany…and it wouldn’t get any better.

“And at the same time, we don’t have many forces available to fight,” Kroger continued.  “Two armoured divisions are digging in along the border; two more are held in reserve.  They won’t last long; even with the call-up we simply don’t have that big a reserve to draw on.  If we’d built the extra forces I wanted to build…oh fuck it, it doesn’t matter.  Point is…can we stop them?”

“You’re the military expert,” Kathe said.  “Can we?”

“No,” Kroger said flatly, noticing her surprise.  “We have enough observers with the French to know the truth.  They’re practiced; we…haven’t taken part in a real war for years.  Damn it – I should have pressed for us to contribute some units to Iraq; we might have gained some real experience.  If they come over the borders, we’re in trouble; if they come out of a Portal in our rear, we’re fucked.”

“I’m going to tell your wife you used those words,” Kathe said dryly.  “So it’s hopeless?”

Kroger smiled.  “Hope springs eternal,” he said, trying to conceal the fact that he knew perfectly well that he was grasping at straws.  “We have to meet with their representative, just to find out what they want.”

“I would have thought that that was obvious,” Kathe said.  “They want the world.”

“I know,” Kroger said.  “The question is; are they going to come up with a compromise we can live with, or are they going to declare war on us?  On Germany?”

Kathe stared at him.  “If you would bargain with the devil, use a long spoon,” she quoted.  “These are Nazis!  Have you forgotten ‘the Sunderland is the last territorial demand I have in Europe’?”

“Adolf Hitler,” Kroger said.  “I’m not sure that we can trust them – in fact I’m pretty certain that we can trust them as far as I can throw this building – but we are in a worse position than Chamberlain and whoever the French Prime Minister was in 1938.  Kathe; we might want to start planning to sell out for the best terms we can get.”

“Don’t you think that you’re being…well, defeatist?”  Kathe asked.  “It’s not that bad?”

“Bad?”  Kroger asked.  “It’s disastrous.  You know the damage in the Middle East; it’s already having an effect on our economy.  We need oil, Kathe, and we’re running out of supplies.  If we’d had longer to prepare for it…it would have still been a pain.  We have to prepare for a possible war without having oil; the Russians can’t supply us with enough to help us, even if they didn’t have troubles of their own.”

He paused.  “And they hate us,” he added, with a wry smile.  “That does make a difference.”

“But Nazis,” Kathe said.  “They’ve exterminated thousands of people.”

“Probably more,” Kroger noted.  “Kathe; what happens when they say something like ‘join us or be nuked’?  No one doubts their willingness to use nukes; only a Swedish Social Democrat could be so stupid.  They just used lots of nukes against helpless nations; do you think that they’ll hesitate to use them here?”

“Not if they intend to put us to work for them,” Kathe said practically.  “Erwin, this still seems wrong.”

Kroger nodded.  “It seems wrong to me too,” he admitted.  “We’ll hold out as long as we can, just to see if the Americans manage to pull of a miracle.”  He snorted.  “Damn it; we should have built up ourselves when we started having disagreements with the Americans and their lapdogs.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” Kathe said.  “Erwin; you know I will advise you to the best of my ability.”

“But not support?”  Kroger asked.  “That’s good; if it all goes wrong you’ll have to disown me.”  He smiled.  “You never know; we might shake hands with them one day…and then kill them all for daring to disgrace Germany.”

***
The really annoying thing about the whole series of instructions, Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth felt, was that it drew him away from pursuit of Professor Madeline Richter or possibly her counterpart, Professor Mad Richter.  He was sure that the statuesque blonde – or blondes – was beginning to weaken; she’d already been out to the local restaurant with him three times.

He shook his head.  Chasing them was weird; they seemed to act as one person from time to time.  Absently, he wondered if they were lovers, and if they were, did that count as homosexuality, incest or masturbation.  Two were forbidden in the Reich; the other frowned upon by all concerned.  He smiled, enjoying the flight; the orders had been very specific and addressed only to him.

He ran through them as the helicopter flashed over the German countryside, heading for Berlin.  It was hauntingly familiar and yet different; familiar enough to be disconcertingly different.  The massive farms and factories, the ones that were the core of Germany’s massive industrial might in his timeline, didn’t exist; these people didn’t have slaves working in the mines or breaking the land in the Outer Reich.  The countryside was the same, though, and the cities were…different.

They’d been burned to the ground in many places, or bombed heavily, in this timeline.  Here, Speer had never been given a license to create whatever he wanted, from massive housing blocks for the new citizens to awesome demonstrations of Nazi might.  They passed over the site of the Victory Monument, a massive collection of Panzers and aircraft from the war…and it was a farm.  Roth felt dizzy; this wasn’t his Germany.

“Are you feeling all right?”  The pilot asked, in his oddly accented Germany.  The sociologists had come up with all sorts of explanations as to why that was so, ranging from massive American cultural influence to Jewish attempts to steer the Germans away from their past.  Roth didn’t care; it was the first halfway civil thing the pilot had said to him since boarding the helicopter.

“Just a little stunned,” he said.  “It’s nothing like it was back home.”

“No slave camps, no extermination chambers?”  The pilot asked.  “You people make me sick.”

Roth snorted.  “Yes, it is terrible to be on the wrong side,” he said dryly.  “That being, of course, the one that lost.”

The pilot said nothing, returning to his panel.  Roth smiled; the otherside – this side – Germans had insisted on him walking into their territory and being picked up by a helicopter, just to show off who was in charge.  Roth, who’d seen the details on the German army in this timeline, wasn’t too worried about it – if it came to a fight, they would win with ease.

Still, it would be…galling to fight their fellow Germans.

“That’s the closest military airfield,” the pilot said, as the helicopter swooped down towards the airfield.  Roth lifted an eyebrow; there were no aircraft on the field, none at all.  “You’ll be driven from there to a safe house outside Berlin.”  He smiled.  “I hope that you have a disappointing visit.”

“Thank you for the flight,” Roth said, refusing to rise to the bait.  The helicopter landed; seconds later a black car drove up, inviting him to enter.  The two guards checked him for weapons – he’d come unarmed, as they’d requested – and then invited him to take a seat.

“It’s only ten minutes to the safe house,” one said.  “Have a pleasant drive.”

There was a book on the chair; A Short History of Germany.  Roth smiled and picked it up, turning to the chapter on recent affairs.  He had a lot to catch up on, before he met the Chancellor of Germany.

***
Kroger was almost disappointed in the Nazi; the man was a stereotypical blonde, as inhumanly toned as one would expect from a film Nazi.  Unlike the stereotype, Herman Roth proved to walk normally; he shook the Chancellor’s hand with every appearance at cordiality, if not friendship.  Kathe submitted to his gentle kiss on her hand with grace, if not acceptance.

“Thank you for coming,” Kroger said, after pleasantries and insincere questions about the other’s heath had been exchanged.  “I must admit; the situation is unprecedented.”

The Nazi smiled.  It didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “It never crossed our mind that the Third Reich might…lose,” he said.  “At least; it never crossed the mind of anyone in authority.  You are our brothers and sisters; we should be allies.”

Kroger lifted an eyebrow.  “If you have done your research,” he said, “you should know that…Nazis are not popular here.  We know about the crimes that ours committed; you have slaughtered millions of people in the Third World, and the dying is still going on.”

“We destroyed people who could do nothing, but wallow in their own misery,” Roth said.  “It was very merciful.  I didn’t notice any of you moving to help them out of the trap they built for themselves.”

Kroger felt a flash of hot rage.  It was true, in a sense; the west rarely acted to prevent suffering.  It was also…hypocritical beyond belief.  “You killed millions of people,” he snapped.  “Mr Roth; what do you want here?”

“Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth,” Roth said.  “You could at least use my proper title.”

“An SS title,” Kroger said, lacing his tone with as much scorn as he could muster.  “Very well, Standartenfuehrer; what do you want here?”

“I have a considerable brief for negotiation,” Roth said.  “Allow me, first, to detail the situation as my superiors in the Reich Council see it.  Your people are Germans; the people who quality for first-class citizenship in the Reich.  Waging war against the French, the English and the Americans is popular back home, as is the mass slaughter of the Arabs…but waging war against fellow Germans would be rather less than popular.

“We believe that you feel the same way too,” he continued.  Kroger smiled at the unintentional joke.  “Your forces have not pitched into our rear; you have given up your best chance to destroy the forces lodged in Europe.  What keeps you in your place?”

The danger of you opening a Portal in our rear, Kroger thought coldly.  “You have a point,” he conceded.  “In some quarters, war against you would not be popular.  In others, they would want us to do everything we could against you, provided it meant no drop in living standards, social programs were maintained, taxes remained low…”

Roth blinked.  “I think you’re joking,” he said doubtfully.  

Kroger smiled.  There was more truth in it than he cared to admit.  “We have to put our self-interests first,” he said.  “A lot of my platform was against EU over-regulation and French interests” – it was convenient to blame the French – “and yes, I don’t want a war with you.  So, Standartenfuehrer; what do you want here?”

Roth smiled.  “On the first hand, we would be interested in an alliance with you,” he said.  “Our forces and yours would work together to take the rest of this world; we would offer to recognise Eastern Europe as your permanent sphere of interest, perhaps even France and Italy as well.  You would recognise the rest as ours.  We would help you to develop your technology to match ours, particularly in regions such as space travel and medical technology.”

“Developed through human testing,” Kathe observed.

Kroger thought about it.  He had to admit that it was tempting, and getting their hands on some of the Nazi technology wouldn’t be a bad idea, but…he knew that it would never be accepted.  It took him longer than he would have liked to dismiss the thought; it was that tempting.  Still…

“An active alliance would be impossible,” he said flatly.  People like Clinton and Cheric promised more than they could deliver; he knew better.  “My people wouldn’t go for it.”

Roth shrugged.  “Then a non-aggression pact,” he said.  “We won’t attack you if you don’t attack us or allow your land to be used as a base for attacks against us.  In exchange, we will leave Poland to you, and Denmark as well.  In time, you will come to appreciate the value of the New Order.”

Now he sounded stereotypical.  “I believe that that would find some acceptance,” he said.  “Exactly what precautions would you suggest to ensure that the agreement was maintained?”

“Poland and Denmark?”  Kathe muttered.  “Are you having ambitions?”

Kroger shrugged.  “A ten kilometre security zone,” Roth said.  His people had clearly thought through all of the details before sending him.  “You keep your forces back from the border; we’ll do the same as soon as we have hammered the French out of resistance.  Both sides patrol the demilitarised zone with light forces, trying to keep the peace.”

Kroger thought rapidly.  “What about refugees?”  He asked.  “Or, for that matter, people you consider criminals?”

“Refugees you can keep,” Roth said.  “Criminals…we will want returned.”

Kroger met Kathe’s eyes.  It was dangerous; it would be easy for the Nazis to break the agreement, simply by allowing resistance fighters to slip over the border.  “Criminals will be jailed by us,” he said flatly.

Roth’s blue eyes bored into his for a long moment.  “You cannot let them return over the border,” he said.  “They have to remain jailed.”

Kroger nodded.  “That would be easy,” he said.  “I assume that you want us to draw up an agreement today?”  Roth nodded.  “Then there is one other thing,” Kroger said.  “We need supplies of oil.”

“And you want them from our occupied territories,” Roth said.  “We can send them to you, I suppose, but escorting them will be a pain.”

Kroger nodded.  “When events have settled down, then we want guaranteed sources,” he said.  “With that agreement, I can sell a non-aggression pact to everyone important; without that, it will be a lot harder.”

Roth nodded.  “I think that agreeing in principle will not be a problem,” he said.  “If we can solve the escort problem…then I think we have an agreement.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Facing the Face of Reality

Cambridge
United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

Even two weeks after the blast, Cambridge was still a wreck.  It would take years, Prime Minister Hamilton knew, before the entire city could be habitable again – and who knew what would happen in the years between the radiation fading or being cleared away?  After the incidents in the Middle East and Africa – the Nazi extermination of the surplus population – Cambridge seemed a minor matter indeed on a global scale.

It wasn’t a minor matter to the British people, however, and so he suffered the agonisingly long ceremony and the speeches made by countless dignitaries, led by Her Majesty the Queen.  Like many official people, they were free with other people’s money; pledging vast sums to aid the population of Cambridge rebuild their lives.  Hamilton shrugged; would there be a taxpayer’s revolt over it?

Afterwards, it was almost a relief to visit the centre of the blast, travelling in a specially-reinforced vehicle provided by the research centre at Porton Down; the centre of British biological and chemical warfare research.  General Shawcross accompanied him, along with two members of the SAS’s close protection squadron, just in case.  Anti-nuclear prejudice was at an all-time high, even with the war on.

“Conscription is proceeding remarkably well,” General Shawcross said, changing the subject.  Parliament had authorised limited conscription the day after the Nazis had come charging through the Portals to destroy and conquer the world.  A week after the war had begun, the first trainees were going through their basic training.

“Will they be ready in time?”  The Prime Minister asked, feeling the weight of his office settling on his shoulders.  “How long will it be, General?”

“I have no idea,” General Shawcross admitted.  “They could open a Portal here again tomorrow; that’s why we have some infantry up here and RAF strike aircraft on permanent standby.”

“That didn’t work out as well as it could have done for the Americans,” the Prime Minister said.  “What’s to say that it will work out just as well for us, if not worse?”

General Shawcross waved one gloved hand towards where the Portal had once stood.  It was now a radioactive crater.  “Up here is the dirtiest part of the blast zone,” he said.  “They’re not exactly clean nukes, but they’re cleaner than anything we have.  I guess they just considered them to be…bigger thunderbolts, like the machine gun, and went looking for ways to make them less dangerous to themselves and their soldiers.

“But America?  The Americans were caught by surprise,” he said.  “They knew that Washington would be a target, but at the same time…no military force can be on alert 24/7.  The Nazis would always have the advantage of surprise, Prime Minister; they took the Americans on at point-blank range.”

“If Professor Thande’s calculations are correct,” the Prime Minister said, “they sent people through without any way to warn them about heavy resistance.”

“Radio doesn’t go through the Portals,” General Shawcross said absently.  “In those cases, people couldn’t go back either.  But I digress; the Americans didn’t have any serious mobile reserve within the city itself, while we do.  Our forces will converge on a Portal; their forces were already within the Portal’s range and struggling to come to alert while the enemy were already pouring fire out at random.”  He snorted.  “There were so many Americans there that they had to hit something.”

“I hope you’re right,” the Prime Minister said.  “General, what’s to stop them from opening a Portal in Trafalgar Square?”

“Nothing,” General Shawcross admitted.  “I think that we’ll have to accept that we will be on the defensive for the foreseeable future.”

The Prime Minister scowled.  “I’m glad to see that you can take it calmly,” he said.  “What’s to stop them opening Portals and dumping nukes out?”

“Very little,” General Shawcross admitted.  “Unfortunately, we can’t do much about it if they do.  The first we’d know about it was when the weapons started going off.”

The Prime Minister looked up towards the blast.  “I’ve seen enough,” he said to the driver.  “Take us back to the trailer.  General Shawcross; what about the recovery effort?”

“We saved a lot of lives,” General Shawcross said.  “Thousands of people have been dispersed around the country, just to spread them out over the hospitals.  If we hadn’t closed so many of the hospitals, we might have been in a better situation.”

“We’re going to have to start conscripting medics as well,” the Prime Minister said.  He pulled a PDA out of his pocket, tapping into it with a practiced hand.  “There are thousands of young people who want to be doctors, but don’t have the qualifications.  Perhaps an emergency Act of Parliament; one insisting that the NHS takes on everyone who wants to be a doctor, to fill the gap.”

“It takes time to learn to be a doctor,” General Shawcross pointed out.

“That is a problem,” the Prime Minister agreed.  “Perhaps…if we have people trained in basic first aid, then working their way upwards from there.”  He shrugged as the small vehicle began to make its way towards the decontamination centre.  “There’s so much to do and so little time to do it all in.”

***
“The influx of French refugees is testing our capabilities to the limit,” the Home Secretary said, two hours later.  “It’s a second Dunkirk, sir, except they have women and children with them.  The Germans – the Nazis – are driving them ahead of them, securing the coastline and hammering their way down toward Normandy.  Paris has already fallen and it won’t be long before the Channel Tunnel falls.”

The Prime Minister nodded.  “I assume that it’s already been rigged for destruction?”

General Shawcross nodded.  “That’s been part of our contingency planning for years,” he said.  “We have a small force on the far end, mainly SBS, helping the French, but at the same time we have explosives in the tunnel itself.  When the Germans break through the French perimeter, which won’t be long, we’ll blow the tunnel.”

“And God help anyone in it at the time,” the Home Secretary said.  “Prime Minister; they’re also taking ship in everything that can hold water out.  We have upwards of ten thousand refugees; it would have been more except the Germans seem to be capturing some people for reasons of their own.”

General Shawcross looked up, interested.  “Is there any common denominator?”

“Young and strong, apparently,” the Home Secretary said.  “The best guess is that they want slaves or whores; young girls have been taken as well.  Sir, what are we to do about the refugees?”

The Prime Minister put his head in his hands.  “I assume that the camps are overflowing?”  He asked.  The Home Secretary nodded.  “Then I think we need more camps.”

“Prime Minister, that can only be a temporary solution,” the Home Secretary protested.  “Sir…”

“Do you have a better one?”  The Prime Minister asked reasonably.  “I imagine that we could conscript the young men and young women – and that wouldn’t be a bad idea – but at the same time…how the hell are we going to feed them?”

He looked across at the Ministers who were supposed to handle such matters.  “We were taken completely by surprise by this new threat,” he said, refusing to pass the blame, not now.  “I think its time we started planning for a long-term war.”

There was a long pause.  “What exactly are you suggesting?”  The Foreign Secretary asked finally.  He was in the bunker at Cheshire, well away from the remainder of the government.  If London fell, the government would continue.  “This is an unexpected and dare I say it completely out of the books scenario.  How do we fight something like the Portals?”

“We organise ourselves for war,” the Prime Minister said.  “We’ve done it before, when fighting our Nazis.”

General Shawcross frowned.  “Prime Minister, with all due respect, during that war we had the Channel to block them from marching into Britain.  We don’t have that now.”

“Then we have to prepare,” the Prime Minister said.  “What other choice is there?”

“Total mobilisation,” the Home Secretary said.  “Do you know what effect that would have on the economy?”

“It would be bad,” the Prime Minister said.  “Problem is…the global economy has already collapsed, more or less.  No one expects Africa to pay its debts now, do they?  Bankers started to squeeze Latin America…and they defaulted.  China is on the verge of civil war…and their money is suddenly in the middle of a collapse.”

“Their own stupid fault,” the Foreign Secretary said.  “They used their own people’s savings to purchase things on the global market…and then the shock caught up with them.”

The Prime Minister rather regretted that telecommunications didn’t allow someone to bang his hand on a table.  “That’s beside the point,” he said.  “We have, with the help of the Americans, bandaged some of the leaky holes in the bucket.  We have run out of band-aid, if you’ll pardon a mixed metaphor.”

He looked at the Cabinet.  The handful of people with him; the people looking at him out of the screens.  “The party’s over,” he said.  “It’s time to make the hard decisions; the ones that will ensure that there’s still a Britain standing at the end of this war.”

***
It took hours of arguing before the plan began to take form.  The problem, of course, was that the global economy had been integrated…and now it had been shattered.  Britain was dependent upon food imports, which might not be coming with many of the main grain-growing areas under enemy occupation, struck by nuclear weapons, attacked by the Germans…or just not fond of the west.

“South America is going through one of its periods of hating us,” the Foreign Secretary said.  “We can’t offer them protection; hell, we can’t threaten them unless we go nuclear.”

“Perhaps if we were to see what we could offer them in the way of supplies,” the Prime Minister said.  “What about war machines?  They’ll need them for when the Germans come…”

“But we need them ourselves,” General Shawcross said.  “Prime Minister; we have to start a rationing plan now, just in case we get radioactive contamination from Europe or Russia.  We have to have food evenly divided, or we will have riots.”

“Worse riots?”  The Home Secretary asked.  “Much of the rioting and unrest in Dover is happening because of the refugees.  Take them away and we would end much of the unrest.  They think, not entirely without reason, that the French are taking food without giving anything back.”

“We’re going to have to solve that problem permanently,” the Prime Minister said.

General Shawcross tapped the map, showing the Nazi advance towards Calais and the Channel Tunnel.  “It will solve itself soon,” he said.  “once the Nazis get to the coastline, they will prevent further escapes from their territory.”

“Still, we have to put them to work,” the Home Secretary said.  He registered the disapproval of many of the Cabinet.  “I know; refugees are not supposed to be exploited, but, as the Prime Minister pointed out, we have a crisis!  We can no longer afford to distribute largess to the rest of the world!”

“Not that we did much of that anyway,” the Foreign Secretary pointed out snidely.  “I know what you mean, but…”

“Enough,” the Prime Minister snapped.  “This is what we are going to do.  In the case of orphans, or young children, we are going to ask for them to be adopted by willing parents, who will treat them as part of their families.  In the case of people old enough to serve in the army, we will conscript them and include them in a Free French-style army.  We may, along with the Americans, be committed to liberating all of France and the Middle East…”

“Or on striking the German positions with nuclear weapons,” General Shawcross injected.

“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said.  “We need an army; the refugees want some food.  Our interests match.”

“It takes time and effort to build an army,” General Shawcross reminded him.  The Prime Minister nodded; he’d read the confidential report.  “I would give them at least a year before they are ready for serious operations.”

The Prime Minister sighed.  “We don’t know how long we have,” he said.  “We have to start planning now.  I’m going to inform the Leader of the Opposition and ask for a War Cabinet, and then I’m going to inform the Queen.  Time, General, is no longer on our side.”

“It never was,” General Shawcross said, trying to snatch the last word.  “We just didn’t realise that it was running out.”  He scowled.  “What will happen to us next, I wonder?”

Over the English Channel
England/France (TimeLine A)

Flying Officer Jock Wilber watched his scopes as the flight of two Eurofighters patrolled the English Channel, watching for German – Nazi – encroachment upon Britain.  The RAF – indeed, every part of the British armed forces – wanted revenge for Cambridge, and at the same time they knew just how dangerous flying near Nazi-held territory could be.  So the RAF, and the elements of the French air force that had flown to Britain, kept well away from Nazi territory, watching and waiting…

“Eagle-one, this is Charlie-one,” the AWACS operator said.  “We have five aircraft on the scopes; heading towards you.”

“Roger,” Wilber said, checking the download from the AWACS.  The satellites were still pretty flaky – and so were many American news stations – but the RAF had managed to improvise.  “More French aircraft?”

“It’s possible,” the AWACS said.  “However, they rose from an airfield that is definitely under Nazi control.”

Wilber felt a flicker of real interest…and alarm.  If the aircraft were rising from that section of France, then they might just be Nazi aircraft.  The final transmissions from Israel had warned that they existed, but so far no one in the west had seen them.

“Requesting permission to close in and engage,” he said.  “We could take a proper look at them.”

There was a pause.  “You may get your chance sooner than you expect,” the AWACS said.  “They’re coming this way; speed mach one and rising.”

Wilber felt his tension levels rise and controlled his breathing, watching his scopes.  It would be minutes before they could make contact, and he didn’t want to be caught at a disadvantage.  “Scatter,” he ordered, watching as his wingman flew in the other direction, splitting up from him.  “Charlie-one, I request permission to investigate.”

“Granted,” the AWACS said.  “Be aware; aircraft are scrambling from RAF Coningsby to assist you.”

“We don’t need no assistance,” Wilber snapped.  “Moving in…now!”

He grabbed the stick, swinging the Eurofighter around, heading directly towards the contact.  He glanced down at his scope again and cursed; the enemy aircraft was closing in on him, fast.

”They want a look at me too,” he muttered, as the two aircraft closed in on one another, a supersonic game of chicken.  The unknown craft grew rapidly from a dot in the distance to a real aircraft, a somehow chunky delta-winged aircraft, carrying missiles and wearing Nazi markings.  He couldn’t see the pilot’s face; it was hidden under a black helmet.

“Charlie-one, I think we just saw a Nazi aircraft,” he said.  “Bastards just took a look at me and….”

“There are seven more of them coming our way,” the AWACS interrupted.  “Eagle-one…”

“They’re locking weapons…firing weapons,” Wilber snapped, as the lead Nazi aircraft launched a missile at his aircraft.  He flung the Eurofighter into a rapid series of evasive manoeuvres, launching flares to attract their missiles…and smiled in relief as the missile followed the flare and harmlessly destroyed it.

“Give them hell,” the AWACS said, as Wilber pulled the Eurofighter out of the dive, heading back towards the hostile aircraft.  His missile reported a lock-on; he fired one ASRAAM at the German aircraft, jinking away from the enemy aircraft as soon as he fired a missile.  Two German aircraft fired back at him with missiles; he dropped more flares and dived for cover.

“Coming up behind you,” his wingman said.  “Eagle-two; fox two.”

“Direct hit,” the AWACS said, as a German aircraft exploded.  “Two direct hits!”

“This is Baker-one,” one of the newcomers said.  “Can we join in?”

A German aircraft emptied its cannons at Wilber’s Eurofighter.  Wilber cursed as bullets struck his wing.  “Be my guest,” he snapped.  “Eat their lunches!”

“Fox-two,” Baker-one said.  “Incoming missiles…”

“I’m hit,” Eagle-two snapped.  “Jock, I’m going…”

An explosion marked the death of a Eurofighter.  Wilber scowled; he had hoped to be able to limp back to base, not to fight it out with the Nazis.  He launched two ASRAAM missiles in quick succession, aiming at the same German aircraft.  The entire engagement had turned into an ultra-modern dogfight; the Germans had inferior equipment, but knew what they were doing.

“This is Charlie-one,” the AWACS said.  “The enemy is in retreat.”

“Requesting permission to chase their sorry asses back to Germany,” Baker-one asked.  “We put them on the defensive; now we finish the job!”

“Permission granted,” the AWACS said.  “Eagle-one; return to the barn.”

“Bastards,” Wilber muttered.  He wanted to chase the enemy back to their base as well.  “I’m on my way…”

“They’re lighting up radars,” Baker-one snapped.  “Taking evasive manoeuvres!”

“Get the hell out of there now,” the AWACS snapped.  “Baker-force, retreat now…”

Wilber swore as three Eurofighters were blasted out of the sky in quick succession.  “Metalstorm pods,” he snapped.  He scowled, thinking it though; the Nazis must have intended to test their aircraft against the British aircraft – when they’d found their aircraft to be inferior, they’d fallen back on their own trick.  Metalstorm just made it too dangerous to fly, unless…

The germ of an idea appeared in his mind.  As he guided his damaged aircraft into land, he detailed it to his Wing Commander.  “I’ll have to kick it upstairs,” his Wing Commander said.  “For the moment, however, I think it’s the best plan we have.”  

Chapter Twenty-Five: Preparing for War

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The President had never shared some of his predecessors’ fascination with moving combat units around the map.  That was what generals were for; his only task was to set policy.  Having given the orders for preparing to launch a counterattack to liberate Washington, the President found himself working to reassure various Governors that the military was in fact doing all they could to liberate their states and/or remove the threat forever.

“We have massive military forces,” Governor Harrison of Texas had protested.  “They have to fit everything through a handful of Portals.  We should be able to crush them by weight of numbers.”

“They have everything massed on their side, waiting to come though,” the President had replied.  “We have to move troops in to set up a cordon, and at the same time we have to prevent their sabotage forces from getting out of hand.”

It had not been a pleasant conversation.  The President knew, that for all kinds of reasons, the military was stalling on the attack plans.  What he didn’t dare tell Harrison, for reasons that might have been broadcast over the airwaves, was that the military was doing so on his orders – a vital part of the attack plan was missing.  It was something of a relief to be called into Professor Thande’s rooms, just to see that the waiting had not been in vain.

“Meet the latest development of designer-drug induced thinking,” Thande said, waving him to a chair.  “Meet…the Mark II Quantum Resonance Detector.”

The President examined the box.  It was featureless; a sealed plastic container, designed to appear like an all-weather laptop.  A single red sticker, marked PRESS HERE YOU IDIOT, pointed to a single red button, the only patch of colour on a featureless black box.

“Press here you idiot?”  He asked.  “Who’s it for?”

Thande had the grace to look embarrassed.  “I thought that the single red button would be obvious, but the builders have a low opinion of anyone who would run the risk of having their googlies shot off.”

“Googlies?”  The President asked, and then decided that it wasn’t worth the effort of asking for an explanation.  Some British slang, no doubt.  It didn’t really matter.  “Does the system work?”

Thande nodded over at a complex cat’s cradle of electronic equipment.  “Oh, yes,” he said.  “I’ve been running simulations for Portal generation, Mr President, and with the help of some really advanced computers I formed a working Portal.”

The President stared at him.  “You made a Portal, here?”

“Yes,” Thande said.  He grinned.  “It was a very tiny-scale Portal; barely two millimetres across.  The detectors picked up on it all right, with some feedback from our universe.”  He smiled dryly.  “In fact, it should be a lot easier when we get the detectors near their Portals, because we’ll know what to sift out of the data to get their location code.”

“You made a Portal here?”  The President asked, his tone horrified.  “Professor, what if they’d locked onto it somehow?”

“No danger of that,” Thande said dryly.  “I don’t think that that’s possible, even though I did manage to get some truly interesting information from the research.  For example, did you know that their equipment probably couldn’t handle a Portal smaller than a meter or two?”

The President scowled at him.  “Professor, my country has been invaded,” he said.  “Yours is facing air attacks that are testing your defences, feeling out the limits of what you can do.  It may even herald an invasion.”

Thande shrugged.  “I doubt it,” he said.  “If they have total control over Portals and their Britain – and Jung assures us that they do – then why not simply open a Portal somewhere out of the way in the United Kingdom and flood through?”

The President smiled.  “There is that,” he said.  “How the hell are they moving so much into our world?”

Thande gave him the look of a man amazed at the sudden mental failure of a simpleton.  “Oh, that’s easy,” he said.  “Do you know; I once did a research project for the Permanent Joint Headquarters on the problem of moving an entire armoured force around the country?”

The President shook his head.  “Well, we concluded that it would take weeks to move all the elements of the 1st Armoured around,” Thande said.  “In this case, however, all they have to do is fit through a Portal.  From what Jung said, I think they simply took the forces they had in place in America – their America – and moved them through the Portals.”

“So the invasion sites could be where they have bases in their timeline?”  The President asked.  “That would make a great deal of sense.”

Thande beamed.  “Indeed,” he said.  “However, something else came up.  If it takes one of the most capable, powerful, ingenious and…expensive quantum calculating computers to do the maths required to generate a tiny Portal, how did they learn how to generate them in the first place?”

The President blinked.  “They have better space equipment then we do,” he said.  “Perhaps they stumbled on the Portals by accident.”

“No they don’t,” Thande said.  “They have what you would have had if you’d actually bothered to fund NASA properly.  They have heavy rockets that make a Saturn V look tiny.  They have an attitude to risk that makes you look like cowards.  They must have lost thousands of volunteers, but…did that stop them?  No, Mr President; how did they get Portals?”

He paced around the lab.  “It’s something I’ve been wondering about,” he said.  “Scientific progress, I suppose, doesn’t have to follow a pre-designated path; the Incas, for example, never developed something as simple as a wheel.  I suppose that an FTL drive was as logical – perhaps more logical – a requirement for them as it was for us, and they might have followed NASA’s path…except they shouldn’t have been able to get as far as NASA, let alone…”

He waved a hand at the Portal framework.  “How did they get as far as they did?”

The President shivered.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

Thande shrugged.  “It’s impossible to be sure,” he admitted.  “It’s just a puzzle, and I hate puzzles.  It’s a mystery.”

“I don’t pretend to understand,” the President admitted.  “Professor; you now understand how to make Portals?”

Thande nodded.  “Once we know where they are, we can find them,” he said.

The President nodded.  “One final point, then,” he said.  “How many Mark II Quantum Resonance Detector units can you make?”

Thande smiled.  “I subcontracted it,” he said.  “We have four from one source, five from another, six from Silicon Valley.”  He smiled again.  “Incidentally, you owe them a lot of money; they were rather complex to make.  That’s fifteen in all, Mr President.  Enough?”

The President smiled.  “Enough?”  He asked.  “It should be more than enough.”

***
“There’s definitely been some kind of agreement between our Germans and the Nazis,” Alistair Wilson, Secretary of State, said grimly.  “Exactly what…well, we don’t know.  For the moment, however, satellite reconnaissance reveals that the Germans are remaining well back from the borders, and the Nazis are being surprisingly respectful of the German border.

“In the meantime, the British have been duelling with German aircraft over the channel, particularly after the Channel Tunnel was destroyed,” Wilson continued.  The President listened impartially.  “So far, the RAF holds a strong advantage, mainly in ECM and missile guidance systems.  Their missiles are either weak radar-guided or heat-seeking…and they’re not very smart.”

“That’s one bit of good news,” the President said.  “We must have other advantages somewhere around.”

“The Germans have climbed back into bed with the Nazis?”  General Easterhouse demanded, his voice finally managing to give vent to his shock.  “I don’t believe it!  I served with a lot of the Bundeswehr and they hate the Nazi bastards!”

“Volume,” the President said quietly, his tone reproving.  “Alistair, why have they done that?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Wilson admitted.  “I think…I think they’re scared of the war and the Nazis.”  He shrugged.  “Short of you asking Chancellor Kroger directly, I don’t know how we can find out.”

“I may have to,” the President said.  It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to having.  “Do the British know?”

“If they do, they haven’t mentioned it to us,” Wilson said.  “Perhaps they heard and didn’t believe it.  We only caught it from NSA communications intercepts, so it would be a difficult matter to discuss without revealing more than we want to, if that still matters now.”

“Yes, it does,” General Easterhouse insisted.  “Our advanced communication interception capabilities must remain a secret.  We’ve been using them to read Nazi communications from Washington to Texas and vice versa.”

The President dismissed the matter with a flick of his head.  It could wait until they had a victory, or they might be looking for an accommodation themselves.  “General Easterhouse, what is the current status of preparations for Operation Patton?”

General Easterhouse took control of the display, showing a tactical map of Washington.  “One advantage of the delay is that we were able to get some more satellite images from the network, even though its still pretty damaged.  The NRO re-tasked a few satellites and we’re working on boosting more into space.  However, NASA is having fits about launching Shuttles so close to occupied territory, so…

“For the moment, however, we have good recon of Washington and the occupied territories,” he continued.  “One of the Portals, the one that opened next to the Pentagon, seems to have been moved to outside the city limits; Panzers poured from it for hours.  As near as we can tell, they have something like four hundred heavy tanks – the really big bastards – and eight hundred of the lighter ones.  Incidentally, they’re also pouring more into the other two locations within the US and France; they’re concentrating on biting a hole in us and the French.”

“And putting pressure on their counterparts,” Wilson observed.  “Nothing like powerful armed forces on the border to make people be reasonable.”

“It didn’t work for Saddam,” General Easterhouse observed.  Only an armed invasion, almost too late, had managed to end that particular threat.  “Now; infantry.  Unfortunately, we don’t have good figures on how many infantry they have, they moved a lot of them into the occupied buildings.”

The President felt a hot flicker of anger.  One of those buildings was the White House.  “They also have thousands of prisoners, mainly women, who they have been using to clear the rubble,” he snapped.  “We have to rescue them.”

General Easterhouse paused.  “There is an peculiarity in the data,” he said.  “Something like fifty percent of Washington’s population is black, so where are they?  The majority of their…slaves are white.  By the law of averages alone, they should have more than a handful of blacks.”

“I don’t know,” the President said, his imagination providing all sorts of possible answers.  None of them were the ones he wanted to hear.  “What do we have to hit them with?”

“We pulled in forces from all over the states,” General Easterhouse said.  “Canada offered the use of an infantry division, which is on the way, but it won’t be here for another week or so.  For the moment, we have nearly four thousand troops of our own, with plenty of tanks, fire support and new weapons.”  He grinned.  “There are shells that we produced and never put into active service because they weren’t needed; ones that have one hell of a kick.  They were considered massive overkill – and they could be dangerous to our tankers as well.  If we’re lucky, they should be able to really burn through the armour on the big brutes.”

He smiled.  “Mr President, that’s not the best news, though,” he said.  “We flew a stealth drone over their heads at darkness…and they never noticed.  Never tried to locate it, never locked on to it, never even fired at random.”

“They wouldn’t want to, with Metalstorm,” Wilson observed.

“No,” General Easterhouse agreed.  “Mr President; we can take down their air defence network at will.”

The President frowned.  “We can take out their radars?”

“More or less,” General Easterhouse said.  He smiled, tapping the display with one hand.  “We have mission protocols for the F-117 and the B2 bombers that will allow us to hammer their network.  Of course, this will mean that they will know about the aircraft the minute they launch their weapons, but they will still be hard to lock on to, even with Metalstorm.”

He shrugged.  “That won’t be their main problem, though,” he said.  “We’ve fired a handful of missiles at them over the past week, trying to tease out the details of their air defence network.  When the bombers go in, we’ll be firing at them from our commanding positions, using shellfire to force them to bring their radars online and then the stealth aircraft can take them down with HARM missiles or bombs.”

He adjusted the map.  “The main plan is simple,” he said.  “There will be two angles of attack; force one, heading towards the Pentagon from the west, and force two, which will be heading down south towards the White House.  Force one will probably have the best chance at seeing a Portal close-up; theirs is only half an hour’s drive from the staging area, assuming that the enemy don’t try to interfere.”  He snorted.  “Which they will,” he said.  “I rather think we can rely on them to do that.

“The main enemy concentrations are in three locations; on the west of the city, on the north, and around the White House and the Portal there,” he said.  “They have defended positions, particularly with Metalstorm, so if we’re lucky we will be able to soften them up with JDAM bombs from the air force.  If we’re not lucky, we will have to seal them off and wear them down with artillery fire.”

His face darkened.  “It’s going to be quite dangerous and bloody,” he said.  “Mr President; we can recover the objective, but the cost will be high.”  He paused.  “There’s also the danger that they will resort to a scorched earth option, like they did at Cambridge.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” the President admitted.  “I don’t see that we have any choice, though, do we?”

Wilson shook his head.  “It won’t be long before the Nazis start making bargains with other nations,” he said.  “What happens if they open a Portal in Venezuela or Mexico?  What happens if they sign an agreement with Cuba?  What about North Korea?  Hell, what about Pakistan; they’re not very stable at the moment, are they?”

The President frowned.  “That would be something of a problem,” he admitted.  Pakistan and India were on the verge of shooting at one another again, this time without anyone being in a position to call time out.  “We would have to launch missiles at the Portals and hope.”

“It didn’t work too well before Israel fell,” General Easterhouse pointed out.  The missiles had all been destroyed before detonating.  “Mr President, much as I hate to suggest that the air force gets more toys, perhaps we should start work on more stealth aircraft.”

The President scowled.  “What we need, more than ever, is a way of getting back into their timeline,” he said.  “Who would object if we fired off nuclear missiles in their timeline?”

“Few,” General Easterhouse said.  “Unfortunately, they have loud voices.”

“How true,” the President said.  He shook his head slowly, suddenly feeling very tired.  “But seriously…how can we win, unless we attack back into their world?”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “I see no way of winning otherwise,” he said.  “Even with the conscription program and the rapidly expanded manufacturing program…hell, we’re going to have to go to a controlled economy just to survive.  Mr President, can we get back into their timeline?”

The President nodded slowly.  “If we can get a reading from their Portal, then we can do it,” he said.  “We can get into their world.  Except…General Easterhouse; what do we do there?  We could barely hold the line against terror; what do we do against Nazis on their home turf?”

“Nuke it till it glows,” General Easterhouse said at once.  “They have committed genocide here; why can’t we do the same to them?”  He paused.  “With all due respect, our problems against the terrorists were caused by our fear of treading on toes, rather than anything else.”

“We…are better than them,” the President said slowly, ignoring the judgement on foreign policy.  “We ought to be trying to help their subjects.”

“I know,” General Easterhouse said.  His tone was genuinely regretful.  “Mr President; we cannot take on an entire world.”

Inspiration struck like a bolt of lightning.  The President felt a smile stretching across his face.  It wasn’t, he was confident, a pleasant smile.  “But we don’t have to,” he said.  “We don’t have to at all.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “Mr President?”

“There must be people in their world who hate them,” the President said.  “What happens if we supply them with arms and ammunition?  Weapons?  Medical aid?  ABM technology?”

General Easterhouse smiled slowly.  “That…would really keep them busy.”

“Yes,” the President said.  “Busy enough to leave our timeline in peace for a while?”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “We know very little about how their society works,” he said.  “We have to find out more.”

“We have Jung and we have other prisoners,” the President said.  He smiled.  “They cannot detect Portals themselves, can they?  We can slip into their world and remain unnoticed for years, if we have to.”

“If we have years,” General Easterhouse observed.

“If we have years,” the President agreed.  “For the moment, however, we need a victory.”  He looked up at the American flag, hanging from the war.  “General Easterhouse; Operation Patton is approved.  May God be with us all.”

Chapter Twenty-Six: Operation Patton

Washington DC
United States (TimeLine A)

Gunnery Sergeant Burtis had been astonished to have been seconded to General Morrigan’s personal staff, after the retreat from Washington.  The small cordon of army and National Guard units, growing over the week since Washington fell, seemed too thin to handle the problem of a Nazi breakout.  Some of the men worried endlessly about their own states, others wondered if they would ever see combat.  

Burtis himself had done what he could to warn others of the danger of the Nazis.  Many soldiers had the idea that they were facing a force from World War Two; one that would have fallen easily below them.  They didn’t understand how Burtis and his force had been almost annihilated, nor how the Nazis had managed such great success with huge, but slow tanks.

“They’re not trying to advance,” he’d snapped.  “They were already at point-blank range!”

“We finally have our orders,” General Morrigan said.  “We are to implement Patton at once.”

Burtis looked up into the darkened skies.  It was just after midnight; the sun would be rising in a few hours.  In the distance, Washington had once spilled light across the sky, but now there was darkness.  Thousands of civilians had fled, during the first few days…now no one left the city.  Burtis was grimly aware that that was almost certainly a bad sign.

Morrigan tapped the map.  “We will begin in thirty minutes,” he said.  “Have your units come to full alert status slowly and carefully; we don’t want them hearing us revving our engines.  You all know your place in the plans…?”

“Yes, sir,” they said, one after the other.  “We attack, as hard as we can, and we don’t stop for anything.”

“That’s about it,” Morrigan said.  “We will begin with a heavy artillery bombardment, in twenty minutes, and then we will advance.”

The staff, except for Burtis, filed out of the room.  “Sergeant, what exactly do you want to do?”  Morrigan asked.  “You’ve told us all you can; I don’t need you here any more.  So…where do you want to go?”

“I want a tank,” Burtis said.  “There must be one that needs a spare commander or gunner.”

Morrigan smiled.  “Report to Colonel Sheldon,” he said.  “He lost a commander to a Nazi shell.”

Burtis smiled.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “Thank you for everything.”

Morrigan snorted.  “Thank me when you come back alive,” he said.  “Good luck.”

Burtis smiled once, saluted, and left the tent behind him.  Ahead of him, Washington was shrouded in darkness…and it had never seemed more inviting.

***
The seven F-117 Nighthawks had taken off from a secluded airport, one where no aircraft had been launched from since the crisis – since the war – had begun.  They had landed in darkness, three days ago, gathered from locations that had remained classified for years.  Despite himself, despite his reputation as a high-flying pilot, Captain Sven Dawson was worried; the F-117 wouldn’t be able to evade any of the Luftwaffe aircraft the British had encountered.  So far, none of the AWACS had tracked German aircraft in Washington, but it would be just like them to refuse to show the Americans all of their tricks until the fighting began.

“I count seventeen full power radars,” he whispered into his radio, which passed the signal on in a microburst.  They thought, they believed, that the Nazis could no more track the microburst transmissions than Saddam’s forces could, back in Baghdad.  Finding out the hard way that they were wrong would be…embarrassing.

“Confirmed,” his wingman whispered back.  The Nighthawks were spread out, to reduce the chances of a lucky hit, and there was no need for whispering.  The very silence and darkness of Washington was oppressive; he would have found it difficult to speak aloud.  Jokes aside, a rumbling stomach couldn’t betray a Nighthawk, but it was so nerve-wracking…

“They’re firing,” the AWACS said.  That aircraft was far away enough to use its transmitters with impunity; it was outside of even Metalstorm range, let alone the pathetic missiles the Germans used.  On the ground, they were tough; in the air, they were no match for the USAF.  “Incoming shells.”

“Dear God,” Dawson breathed, as the sight unfolded in front of them, underneath them.  From positions outside Washington, hidden from German eyes with careful planning, dozens of guns fired as one, firing at the German radar systems.  All of the German radars lit off at once, channelling orders to the Metalstorm units; streaks of blue light flashed through the sky as the Metalstorm units started to lash out at shells.

“Targets acquired,” Dawson said.  All of the German radars were active, burning away at the incoming shells, all vulnerable like they had never been before.  He could just imagine their crews, desperately trying to launch their Metalstorm packages at the incoming shells, unaware of the threat hanging high above their heads.  “Launching weapons…now!”

The Nighthawk shuddered as four bombs dropped from its bomb bay.  Dawson didn’t hesitate; he flung the Nighthawk through a complex series of manoeuvres, trying to escape the contact that the German radars would have acquired when he launched the weapons.  If they had time to react…

They didn’t.  No burst of Metalstorm blasted him from the sky.  Instead, almost all of their radars vanished from the display, creasing transmitting in almost the same moment.  “I think we got them,” he said, watching carefully.  Two radars were left, trying to direct their counter-battery fire at the American guns, and trying to coordinate the Metalstorm packs.  They couldn’t handle it; Dawson could see explosions billowing up on the ground – a massive explosion marked the end of an ammunition dump.

“I think we got them too,” his wingman replied.  “A nearly clean sweep, I would have said.”

Dawson smiled, recording a burst for the AWACS.  “Do you want us to engage their last two radars?”

“Negative, Nightfighter-one,” the AWACS said.  “Return to base.”

Dawson opened his mouth to object, and then closed it without speaking.  A wave of explosions billowed up from below, killing the two radars as the shells slammed down, destroying them and blinding the Germans.  He felt his mouth fall open in an evil delight; payback was a right bitch!

“Roger that,” he said.  “We are returning to base.”

The Nighthawk led the way back out of the battlezone.  Dawson took a moment to take one last look back at Washington; the city was burning brightly as fires spread out of control.  He scowled; he was sure that it would cost a lot of money to rebuild.

“Take that, you fuckers,” he snapped.  “This is our world, you bastards!”

***
The sudden crash of the Metalstorm weapons brought Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann to full wakefulness at once.  The second crash, and the sound of the explosions as the radars were destroyed, brought him to his feet; jumping out of the commandeered bed with a speed he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of, under normal circumstances.  Ignoring the protests of the bed mate, a whore from one of the SS whorehouses on the other side of the Portal, he sprang to the window and looked out.  Washington was burning.

“It’s an attack,” he snapped, grabbing his clothes from where he’d left them, blessing his foresight in leaving them in a position for hasty dressing.  “Stay there, you stupid slut!”

He ran down the stairs, buttoning up his jacket, and nearly ran into his aide.  “We’ve been attacked,” his aide burbled out.  Lehmann snorted; it was fairly obvious.  “We’ve lost most of the radars.”

A billowing explosion from the other side of the Potomac silenced him for a moment.  “Make that all of the radars,” his aide said.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer…”

“We’re under attack,” Lehmann snapped.  “I think I noticed.”  He took a breath to calm himself, noting with a sudden sick horror that shells had landed directly on the human shields, blowing them to bits along with the items they were supposed to be protecting.  “They’ll be attacking along the ground as soon as they can, Werner; we need to get a defence line in place.”

They ran together to his headquarters, a commandeered building near the Portal.  It had no radio or radar transmitters; nothing marked it out as important to prying electronic surveillance systems.  “Report,” he snapped.  “What’s happening?”

“Heavy shellfire from outside our own range,” his artillery coordinator said.  “I’ve given orders to have our guns shut down; they’re just tracking us back and shelling us with their damned accurate shells.”

“They never fire in bulk,” Lehmann pointed out.  He glared around the room.  “Are we under attack on the ground?”

“Not yet,” another aide said.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, what do we do?”

“We are Germans, Hitler’s own regiment,” Lehmann snapped.  “We will not panic.  Now; have the deployed forces been informed?”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” the communications officer said.  “Low-powered radio only.”

Lehmann nodded.  “Close enough,” he said.  “Now…inform them that I want them to move slowly back towards the White House Portal.  Has a runner been sent through the Portals?”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” the communications officer said.  “So far, there’s been no reply.”

“There won’t be,” Lehmann said.  “Now, I want us to deploy our Panzers under cover, hidden from their aircraft in the sky, understand?”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” the communications officer said.  “I shall issue the orders at once.”

Lehmann smiled.  “I want us to be informed of where their main attack is developing,” he said.  “Once we are informed, we will launch a local counter attack.  The Panthers are to be pulled back into a mobile reserve; the Metalstorm units are to fire only on passive contacts.  We might as well try to keep back what we can.”

“Jawohl,” the air defence officer said.  “Should we deploy the Metalstorm units in their anti-tank role?”

Lehmann thought rapidly.  The Metalstorm had grown out of such a project; an attempt to repeat the fantastic success of the Ju-88 anti-aircraft weapon.  “If necessary, yes,” he said.  “The Metalstorm operators are not to go out seeking trouble, understand?”

“Jawohl,” the air defence officer said.  “The Metalstorm units will open their weak Panzers like a knife though paper.”

Lehmann smiled.  “All we have to do is fend this attack off,” he said.  “They were hardly at the stage of being ready for war, were they?”

***
“The AWACS confirms that all of the German radars are offline,” Colonel Natasha Gregor reported.  The forty-two-year-old Russian blonde, descendent of parents who fled Stalin, was a devoted United States loyalist.  “General, should we open up a whole can of whoop ass on their ass?”

Morrigan smiled.  “It’s getting lighter,” he said.  The distant roar of the guns echoed across the land.  “I think we’d better send in the aircraft, and then send in the ground forces.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Natasha Gregor said.  She barked orders into her radio.  “The first strikes are inbound now.”

Morrigan nodded, staring over at the constantly updating display.  It was strange; America had trained so long to fight an information-dominated war, but the first time the system was seriously tested it was on the verge of breaking down, just because of his reluctance to have aircraft broadcasting freely.  The Iraqis hadn’t been able to hinder the air attacks; the Nazis were all too capable of doing just that.”

“Send in the aircraft,” he said.  Another round of explosions billowed up in the distance.  “Then we can advance, under their cover.  You never know; a taste of hot airpower and they might surrender.”

***
Sturmann Ernest Fuchs clutched his submachine gun to his chest as the hail of shellfire passed over his head, heading towards the inner regions of the city.  He winced; he hadn’t wanted to join the army at all – let alone the SS – but his father, who had influence, had insisted on it.

“Wake up, Fuchs, you little sissy,” Scharfuehrer Mollar bellowed.  Fuchs said nothing, crouching in one of the trenches that had been dug just outside Washington.  “Get your fucking ass out on guard, or help me dig this fucking trench!”

An explosion shook the ground.  Fuchs put down his weapon and took up the spade, working on expanding the trench as fast as possible.  Scharfuehrer Mollar seemed pleased at his efforts; the older man had been on his back ever since he’d joined the SS-Adolf Hitler.  It wasn’t the place for someone who’d had artistic talents – like the great Adolf Hitler – but his father had insisted.

“One would have expected your father to raise a braver offspring,” Scharfuehrer Mollar had sneered, the day after Fuchs’ first combat drill.  It had been terrifying, but nothing like as terrifying as trying to dig a trench in the dark.  He cut himself twice, his blood pouring into the trench, the pain freezing his hand.

The radio buzzed suddenly, snapping out a command in German.  “Take up defence positions,” it snapped.  “Incoming aircraft and probes…”

Fuchs glanced up.  Was something moving against the sky?  The noise was so high he couldn’t pick out any specific sound, but Scharfuehrer Mollar could; one push from his beefy hand sent him falling into the trench.

“Get down, you silly fool,” he snapped, just before the ground shook violently.  Fuchs felt his bowels loosen as the bombs went off, far too close for comfort.  He looked up and saw what looked like a Panther tank flying overhead, trailing liquid fire.  “Stay down,” Scharfuehrer Mollar snapped at him.  “Keep your fucking head down…”

The bombardment ended as soon as it had begun.  The sky was noticeably lighter; Scharfuehrer Mollar pulled himself slowly to his feet and peered around.  “Fuck,” the grizzled old veteran breathed.  “I don’t…”

Fuchs climbed up and peered over the edge.  Where several Panzers had once been parked, there was only burning debris.  The entire encampment had taken a beating; the aircraft themselves could still be seen, massive bombers larger than almost everything the Luftwaffe had.  As he watched, one of them was struck by a burst of Metalstorm, ripping it apart and sending it crashing towards the ground, but its companions returned the favour, dropping bombs down on the centre, down towards the Portal there.

Scharfuehrer Mollar used several words that Fuchs didn’t recognise.  “They’re all gone,” he said.  “It’s just you and me…”

A bullet blew the top of his head off.  Fuchs spun around, to see a group of soldiers wearing strange green berets.  He met the eyes of their leader and knew that resistance would be futile.  Slowly, nervously, he raised his hands.  He had been told that all of them would be murdered on the spot, but the Americans simply took him prisoner and sent him towards the rear.

For him, the war was over.

***
Gunnery Sergeant Burtis had only commanded a tank twice before, but it was something no one ever forgot.  The small force of Abrams tanks pushed their way forwards, passing bombed-out trenches and weapon emplacements, heading northwards towards Washington.  The buildings they passed had all been wrecked; the Nazis had been very determined to demolish them all.

Or perhaps they were the mines, Burtis thought, or the aircraft.  He smiled grimly; lawyers would be spending extremely expensive months and years arguing over who was to blame…and if the original owners could claim compensation.  Privately, Burtis doubted that they would ever be able to make a claim from the air force, but lawyers had never made money by pointing out impossible cases.

“Panzer ahead,” his driver snapped.  Burtis looked ahead, seeing a damaged Panther turning to face them.  The enemy tank looked crippled, but it was clearly still dangerous; its gun was swinging around to face them with a clearly malevolent intention.

“Fire,” he snapped.  The gunner fired once; one of the new shells.  It punched through the armour and detonated inside, blasting a wave of fire though the enemy vehicle.  Seconds later, it exploded in a blast of fire.

“Wow,” the driver breathed, as bits and pieces cascaded down on the tank.  “That’s good ammunition.”

“Move on, slowly,” Burtis ordered.  “Watch out for enemy helicopters, understand?  The last thing we need is one of them ruining our day.”

“No argument,” the driver said, his tone filled with new respect.  “Sir, we’d better watch out for occupied buildings as well.”

An explosion next to the tank cut his words off.  Burtis cursed, looking around for the threat.  A massive King Tiger stood there, aiming its massive cannon at the Abrams.  The explosion, he realised grimly, had been their companion being destroyed.  The Nazi tank had fired from its concealed position; he felt a flicker of admiration as he realised that he could still barely see it under the rubble.

Clever bastards, he thought, as the gunner prepared to fire.  Burtis winced; they’d walked into a trap.  “Fire,” he snapped.  “Now!”

The Abrams jumped once as it fired one of the new shells.  It slammed into the turret of the Tiger, burning though and exploding just under the armour.  The explosion wasn’t as spectacular as the previous explosion had been, but it destroyed the Tiger.  Nazi infantry jumped out of the tank, seconds before there was an even more powerful explosion, utterly destroying the tank.

“That was odd,” Burtis mused, putting the matter to one side for the moment.  The machine guns chattered, mowing down the Nazis who stood to fight the tank.  The others ran back into the city, trying to escape the advancing Americans, or perhaps to mount a counterattack.

“Perhaps the ammo wasn’t as good as we thought,” the driver said grimly.  “Some of them survived the encounter.”

“Just be glad it’s as good as it is,” Burtis said.  “One of those bastards took a standard round and walked away from it.  The standard rounds have to hit somewhere vulnerable to hurt the little fuckers.”

“Unbelievable,” the gunner said.  “Sir, I…”

Burtis glanced down at the display.  “Uh-oh,” he said.  He thought, under the circumstances, that that was positively Shakespearian.  “I don’t think we’re going to enjoy this so much…”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blood and Guts

Washington DC
USA (TimeLine A)

Although he hated to admit it, Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann was wise enough to understand that he had underestimated his enemy.  The greatest flaw in the Metalstorm system was that it could be overloaded or burnt out, even with the most advanced target-discrimination software in the Reich.  He was ruefully aware that the computers on the other world – the one that might see his death – could probably have done better.

He’d given orders to limit the use of Metalstorm as the sun rose, only using it to hit incoming aircraft.  It wouldn’t matter, not in the long run.  This timeline didn’t use artillery to the same degree that his timeline did, but they had adapted what they had to force his gunners to burn through their stockpiles of Metalstorm projectiles.  The hail of incoming fire, neatly picking off anything in sight of their satellites, was still depleting the stockpiles of Metalstorm…and the enemy possessed countermeasures to all of their surface-to-air missiles.

He scowled.  The counter-counterattack was just beginning, and it might just bloody the American noses a bit, but not enough to have a real lasting effect.  The second line of American advance, from the northwest, would complete the task of breaking up their control over Washington.  American airpower would do the rest.

We understood some of their advantages; the control of their own interior lines, their limited control over space, their computers and advanced electronics, he thought, rather bitterly.  We didn’t realise how their advantages could be used to counter our advantages!

He scowled.  But then…no one in the Reich planning office had seriously considered using Washington as a base for further offensives.  The geography was next to useless; the population surly and uncooperative except at gunpoint.  Parts of the population had already been quite seriously reduced.

“Summon a runner,” he said, as the attack went in.  A burst of Metalstorm rose up into the air, the gunner desperately trying to track on an aircraft high overhead.  An enemy bomb fell from the skies, destroying the Metalstorm unit and its hapless gunner.  “Do it; now!”

“Jawohl,” his aide said.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lehmann said crossly.  “Summon the runner.”

The runner, a young member of the Hitler Youth, appeared and saluted him.  The youngsters salute was perfect, his eyes in exactly the right posture for a mixture of respect and watchfulness.  Lehmann sighed; it was merely another sign of how the Reich Council had considered the Washington bridgehead – and the SS-Adolf Hitler – expendable.

“Here are your orders,” Lehmann said sharply, seeing Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer approaching from the rear.  “You are to run through the Portal and order them not to send any further reinforcements.  The Portal is to be cleared and all personnel are to be evacuated.  I’m going to slip some people back through the Portal and then it’s to be closed, understand?”

“Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” the youngster thundered.  Lehmann pointed at the Portal, ordering him to move, and then he looked up at Fischer.

“Yes, Hans?”  He asked.  Fischer blinked at the familiar form of address on the battlefield.  “What is it?”

“The counterattack has begun,” Fischer said.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, you should leave the area.”

So Hans thinks that its going to fall too, Lehmann thought, with sudden bitter amusement.  “No, old friend,” he said.  “I’m going to stay.  Hans; I want you to round up everyone on the evacuation list and chase them through the Portals.  Understand?”

Fischer nodded.  The evacuation list comprised all of the scientists and military intelligence workers on their side of the Portal.  The rest of the force was expendable.  “Good,” Lehmann said.  “I told that young pup that the Portal was to be closed after that, understand?”

Fischer smiled.  “Oh, I bet that he enjoys delivering that message,” he said.

Lehmann laughed.  “I’m sure that he will,” he said.  His lip quirked at the thought of the young lad explaining that to the SS officers on the other side.  “Which is why you are to go as well.”

Fischer stared at him.  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer…”

“There isn’t time,” Lehmann snapped, unwilling to discuss his real motives.  “Someone has to convince them of the truth; someone has to tell them that there’s no way this place can be saved.”

Fischer sighed.  “It’s that bad, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer?”

Lehmann nodded.  “It’s been a honour to serve with you,” he said.  “Light a candle to Thor for us.”  He smiled at Fischer’s snort; he didn’t believe in the half-hearted attempts to bring back the old god-worshiping religion.  At the moment, Lehmann wished that he could cling to something, anything.  “Good luck, Hans.”

“You too,” Fischer said.  “It’s been a honour to serve with you.”

He left the room, turning to enter the Portal.  Lehmann scowled; the Portals had to be closed, and quickly, before the enemy could seize the chance to toss a nuclear warhead though the Portal and detonate it.

“Move extra anti-aircraft weapons to the Portal location here,” he ordered.  “We’ll make our stand there.”

His command staff didn’t argue with him.  They were all well trained.  If some of them understood the dangers, they didn’t argue.  “Any questions?”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” one of the overseers asked.  “What about the workers?”

Lehmann shrugged.  “What about them?”  He asked.  Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a pressing concern.  “Leave them where they are; they can take their chances.”

***
The sound of explosions had woken all of the slaves - Joyce Patterson knew better than to believe the lies about them being citizens, third class or not – as soon as they began.  Crouching in the darkness of the warehouse that had been converted into a holding pen, they could only cling to each other and shake.

“I’m scared,” Melanie admitted.  “Are they going to kill us?”

An explosion went off close enough to shake the building.  A massive flare of red light beat against the walls for a long chilling moment.  “I don’t know,” Joyce said, cradling the almost-child.  Melanie was shaking and Joyce didn’t blame her; they were trapped under Nazi guns.

A single shot, close enough to be heard by everyone, caught their attention.  A single SS man stood there.  Joyce noted with some amusement that his uniform was unkempt.  “Your people are attacking us,” he said.  “They have already killed off the human shields.”

His voice couldn’t even be bothered to show contempt or pleasure, no emotions showed in his face.  Joyce felt pure hatred boiling though her blood.  “This attack will be repelled soon,” the SS man said.  “For the moment, you will all lie on the ground and stay low; unless this building is hit directly, you should be safe.”

I wonder if we’re supposed to thank him, Joyce thought, as another explosion echoed across Washington.  Some of the women did, but he didn’t acknowledge them at all.  Joyce scowled as he just left them alone, just as the lights flickered off.

“Don’t panic,” she snapped, as murmurs of panic began to rise up.  “We’re all in this together.”

It was corny, from a war movie she’d watched once, but it worked.  Somewhat to her astonishment, most of the panic stopped…just in time for the scream of aircraft engines to echo over their heads.  She frantically searched her mind for more ideas, but only ended up with one.

“We’re going to sing hymns,” she said, forcing aside her own panic.  “Who knows Morning Has Broken?”

***
Burtis forgot, for one chilling moment, that he was in a tank.  The hail of German rockets, tiny tactical short-ranged weapons, took him right back to infantry training school; the shower of deadly rockets reminded him of a particularly sadistic training session.  He ducked reflexively, then his training asserted itself; rockets like that were no real danger to an Abrams…so why were the Nazis using them?

“We’re about to be attacked,” he snapped, as he realised why the Germans were deploying the weapons.  They had to be covering something; how far were the rockets progressing?  “Control, we’re about to face a counter attack…”

“We know,” the controller snapped back.  “Pull back; satellites reveal several large heat sources closing in on your position.”

“Bugger,” Burtis swore.  “Pull us back, now; Guns watch for them and fire at will.”

The Abrams drove backwards violently, smashing into rubble as the driver forced it backwards at random.  “Nazis on the horizon,” the gunner snapped.  The Abrams jerked as it fired one shell at the incoming Panzer.  The German tank exploded in a blast of light.  “What the hell are they doing?”

“Counterattacking,” Burtis said dryly.  “Control, we have contact!”

“That’s two,” the gunner said.  “They have infantry with them…”

“Our own infantry is setting up for a defensive engagement,” Burtis snapped, as a German shell lanced over a burned-out building, slamming into an Abrams and blowing it apart.  It reminded Burtis of a mortar shell, but he didn’t believe it; couldn’t believe it.  “Open fire; machine guns only.”

“Here comes a big one,” the gunner said.  Two Abrams fired as one.  The Tiger Panzer blew apart into a brilliant blast of explosives.  “It’s gone.”

“Wonderful,” Burtis said, as they fired a shell at a Panther.  “Hit those infantry!”

The chatter of the machine guns echoed through the tank.  German infantry dived for cover, even as more of the strange mortar-like shells lanced out.  Burtis scowled; whatever they were, they were deadly and precise.

“Calling for support,” he said, tapping his radio.  “I need a FAE or artillery onto those buildings there!”

“What?”  The gunner asked.  “Sir?”

“They’re directing fire,” Burtis snapped.  “That’s what they’re fucking doing; that’s how they’re hitting us!”

A series of explosions billowed around the small bunch of skyscrapers.  General Morrigan or whoever was in charge had clearly agreed at once.  Burtis smiled openly as the buildings collapsed in a billowing cloud of dust.

“Here come more Panzers,” the gunner said.  “I think we’d better…”

A streak of light lanced down from the sky and blasted the lead Panzer apart.  The others followed quickly, smashed with the same deadly weapon.  Burtis blinked and then stuck his head out of the turret, looking upwards into the dawn air.

“I think we owe the air force a drink,” he said, as the A-10 Warthog flew overhead, its weapons pounding the German positions.  Three more followed it, looping backwards and forwards, pouring fire onto the German positions.  Streaks of blue light lanced out, trying to hit the agile aircraft, smacking one out of the sky…but revealing their position to the heavier bombers standing back.

“You’re telling me,” the gunner said, as a JDAM weapon took out the Metalstorm weapon.  “Tell me, do you think there’ll be anything left of Washington by the time those guys are finished?”

A hail of German missiles lanced up towards their flying tormentors.  One aircraft was unlucky, exploding in midair.  Burtis looked for a parachute, but saw nothing.  Bastards, he thought, as the aircraft avenged their fallen comrade.  No more Metalstorm blasts emerged from the centre of Washington; the Nazis had to have run out of the pellets.

Burtis listened to the orders, as the radio buzzed with instructions.  “We’re to hold for ten minutes, while the aircraft pound hell out of them, and then we’re to head for the White House on a Thunder Run.”

“And stop for nothing, seeing nothing, hearing less” the driver said, his tone sardonic.  “God, I’m glad I’m buttoned up in here.”

“Oh, stop moaning,” Burtis said.  An explosion across the river underlined his words.  “You love it.”

“It’ll be just like Baghdad,” the gunner said.  “Now that was easy…in hindsight; or hindshit as we call it in the trade.”

***
Professor Thande had concluded that it would be possible for the American SEALS or the Marines to transport a Mark II Quantum Resonance Detector within detection range of a Portal.  What he hadn’t taken into account, as General Morrigan pointed out to the President when the idea had been outlined to him, was that the Germans were unlikely to leave a Portal open by the time anyone got close enough to it to run the scans.  Fortunately, he’d had another idea.

“The aircraft is closing in on the Portal,” Corporal King reported.  Morrigan nodded; Corporal King was something new in the army, a cyber-warrior; someone who used computer hacking skills for the forces of good.  Morrigan hadn’t been amused; he found it somewhat…distasteful that a hacker, controlling a RPV, could kill armoured vehicles while remaining safe outside the battlezone.  Sure, Predators and their descendents had done good work in Afghanistan, but real decisions could only be made on the spot.

In this case, however, someone on the site was impossible.  The aircraft, an aircraft designed to be invisible to radar – and almost completely invisible to the naked eye – was closing in on the Portal, slipping closer and closer to it under the hail of shells and bombs from the air force.  Morrigan smiled darkly; the USAF would not have been amused to know that half of their Herculean effort had been planned to give the Germans other things to think about than looking up – he wasn’t convinced that the aircraft was as invisible as the designers promised.

“I’m activating the detector now,” Corporal King said.  “Data transmission is at optimal levels, sir; there’ll be a record of whatever the detector saw.”

Morrigan scowled.  If it had been up to him, he would have sent the aircraft in at night…except it might have been heard in the darkness.  A simple audio-discrimination program might – no one could offer a guarantee one way or the other – allow Metalstorm units to track and destroy the drone.  In that case, the deadliest enemy the United States had ever faced would have gained a once-working model of the United States’ most advanced surveillance device.

“Contact,” Corporal King said.  “I think…we’re getting the readings we need now.”

“Good,” Morrigan said.  “Make sure that all of them are transmitted outwards, now.”

Corporal King scowled at him – the longhaired degenerate – but he was wise enough to say nothing.  Morrigan paced his office, knowing that the real reason the offensive was being delayed was to give Thande’s detector time to work, and knowing that the longer the Nazis waited, then…

“Got it,” Corporal King announced.  He tapped the screen; an exaggerated series of letters appeared on the display.  “Ladies and General; the address of our extra-dimensional enemies.”

Morrigan nodded.  “Then the offensive can proceed,” he said.  He lifted his radio, savouring the moment.  “All units; this is the officer commanding,” he said.  He paused; surely such a situation deserved inspiring words.  “Today, we’re taking back what is ours,” he said.  “Engage the enemy!”

***
Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann looked down at the display and knew that the time was up.  His Metalstorm units had done good work, but without their computer-controlled radars they’d been forced to fall back on manual aiming…which expended projectiles like nothing else on Earth.  Their surface-to-air missiles had tried their best, but the American countermeasures were too good for them to have much luck; they’d scored hits, but he knew that they were all luck.

He shook his head.  “Has Hans and his crew gone through the Portal?”  He asked.  “Has he?”

If his aide questioned the wisdom of sending an experienced Hauptsturmfuehrer back before the Portals closed, he didn’t show it.  “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said.  “He’s passed though and Portal Two has already closed.”

A series of explosions drifted across the river; enemy missiles or shells.  Lehmann shrugged.  It didn’t matter.  “Order Portal One closed,” he ordered.

His aide blinked, but didn’t object.  Lehmann was proud of him, in a wry way.  “Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said.  He shouted out the order to an SS man, standing by the Portal.  Moments later, after the man had jumped though, the Portal shimmered and vanished.

“Gather them all together,” Lehmann ordered, and waited until all of his senior staff had gathered together.  “Gentlemen; this will be our final battle.”

There were no melodramatic objections.  All of them were sensible men.  “We owe it to the Reich to buy as much time as we can,” Lehmann said.  “We will fight to the last to hold this place, and, when they finally destroy us, we will have cost them much and shown them how to fear us.  Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler,” they echoed.  “Heil Hitler!”

Lehmann started to issue his final orders, and then stopped.  Was that a bomb he heard?  Before he could react, or say anything, a JDAM weapon landed right on top of his command room, smashing through the ceiling and detonating inside the room.  Moments later, there was nothing left of Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann, or any of his command staff.

***
It was nothing like Baghdad.

Burtis crouched in his tank as thousands of bullets pinged off the hull of the vehicle, desperately shouting orders to the infantry to kill Germans armed with antitank weapons.  Complicating matters was the fact that the Germans seemed to have two types of antitank weapon; one that killed Abrams and one that didn’t.  The savagery was nothing like that of the Jihadis; they had only fanaticism on their side.

“Fire,” he snapped, as a damaged Tiger swung its turret around to engage them.  The Germans had training, numbers, and, although he hated to admit it, skill.  They had booby-trapped everything, killing infantry and National Guardsmen with traps made from dozens of ordinary objects, from microwave ovens to cars.

The Tiger exploded as the savage battle went on.  The USAF dropped dozens of heavy bombs, clearing entire areas of resistance by main force, even as the tanks pressed on, supported by infantry.  At times, the Germans forced the Americans back, hammering them hard enough to make even seasoned infantry back off.  The ground-pounders drew back, allowing the aircraft to do their grizzly work.

“That’s the Pentagon,” the driver said, after nearly three to four hours of fighting.  “It’s in ruins.”

“You have a remarkable talent for stating the obvious,” Burtis snarled.  “When the fuck are these people going to give up?”

An explosion echoed across Arlington.  The bridges across the Potomac had been destroyed.  A radio message spoke of liberating thousands of women who had been held as slaves, prompting ribald speculation as to what sort of slaves, before General Morrigan came on the air and chewed them all out.  

“I don’t know,” the gunner said.  Burtis scowled; in the first war with the Nazis, in World War Two, the Nazis had fought right to the end.  “I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Covering the Rear

Nazi Headquarters
Saudi Arabia (TimeLine A)

The desert was warmer in this timeline than General Neumann remembered from his time in German Arabia; the former rulers of the Arabian Peninsula had done very little, but extract oil from the ground.  They hadn’t bothered to desalinate enough water to make the desert bloom; they hadn’t been worried about anything, past their own wealth and power and the ability to indulge their every desire.  It had cost them; a missile shield like Israel had built would have made their destruction so much harder.

And ours?  General Neumann asked himself, staring at the final report.  Washington had fallen; there was no question of that.  The enemy…had proven themselves in combat, the only school that mattered, and they had defeated a major SS force.  It didn’t matter, in the end, that the force was considered expendable; all that mattered was that they had managed it.  

“Thank you for coming,” he said, turning to Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer and the young SS officer.  “Exactly how did they defeat the Metalstorm units?”

“They had invisible aircraft,” Fischer said, his tone bitter.  “They used artillery to draw off the Metalstorm and force us to activate all of our radars, and then the stealth aircraft killed the radars.  At that point…”

General Neumann nodded.  He’d underestimated the American stealth aircraft; they hadn’t been deployed before and so he’d assumed that they were useless.  Once the stealth aircraft had cleared the way, the rest of the American air force had moved into the battle…and crushed the remaining anti-aircraft systems.

“I need your impressions,” he said, to the young SS officer.  His name escaped his mind, but he refused to show weakness and ask.  “You’re an expert in Panzer operations; how did they defeat us so quickly?”

The SS officer, Hauptscharfuehrer Walter, paled.  “They combined their aircraft strikes with their armoured pushes,” he said.  “They didn’t give us time to relax, or to deploy; they took command of the air and then hit everywhere that could hold resistance and destroyed it.”

General Neumann thought as quickly as he could.  Luftwaffe doctrine called for tactical support, true, but it had never had the precision weapons that the Americans had.  In a world where trouble spots could be bombed from orbit, precision weapons were hardly needed, were they?  He thought of some of the more exaggerated promises that the Luftwaffe had made and shivered.

“I see,” he said.  “I assume that the Reich Council is aware of these developments?”

He wasn’t surprised when Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer nodded reluctantly.  He hadn’t really considered…shading the truth for the Council, but he would have liked to have had some time to consider it.  He scowled, dismissing the thought, and then he turned to other matters.  There were other points to consider.

“Our aircraft weren’t present during the battle,” he muttered.  Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer nodded, even though it hadn’t been a question.  “They’re up in Texas.  They’re also no match for what the Americans can send to the battlezone.”

“No, Herr General,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  General Neumann ignored him, thinking rapidly.  The British air defences, at least, seemed designed to handle aircraft, but they had real problems with missiles.  Cruise missiles, even the primitive missiles – it cost him a pang to admit it – used by Germany, seemed to get through with ease.  Apart from the fighters and a handful of ground-based systems, they had almost no defence at all against missiles.

Idiots, he thought, with the warm complacency that came of being protected by dozens of radar stations and Metalstorm launchers.  A moment later, he swore violently; the commander of the defences at Washington had doubtless felt the same way too.  Could the enemy deploy stealth aircraft over the Middle East?  They could be on their way now.

“Herr General?”  Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer asked.  “Herr general, what unit should I report to?  I want to get back into action against the Americans.”

“You’re going to be on my staff for the moment, both of you,” General Neumann said.  “I need your eyes, gentlemen; you know what the Americans are capable of.  Report to the staff sergeant, get your equipment…and report back here in two hours.”

“Heil Hitler,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer snapped, clicking his heels, and left.  The younger officer followed him, leaving General Neumann alone in his room.  He was thinking as hard as he could; what would the Americans do next?

What would I do in their position?  He asked himself.  “I would deal with the other two invasion sites,” he answered himself aloud.  “Either Texas or New Orleans; which one first?”

He scowled, considering the map.  The Americans had fought hard in both locations; only surprise and overwhelming force had allowed the Nazis to force the Americans back.  The Americans were constantly probing the occupied territories; sometimes with real military formations, sometimes with militia units that had hardly any experience or training.  General Neumann knew that some of the probes might have been nothing more than people looking for their relatives, but none of them could be discounted…all of them were dangerous.

“So, what do we do to counterattack?”  He asked himself.  One thought that came to mind was trying to take Austin directly, or trying to link the two invasion sites together by attacking towards New Orleans.  The problem with the former was that the Americans had had plenty of time to evacuate Austin; the problem with the latter was that the Americans had very little worth destroying between the two invasion sites.  The conquest of Houston had been important for the morale of the men, but it hadn’t given them more than an insight into enemy technology.  

“We could head down, into Mexico,” he muttered, and shook his head.  Missiles, even missiles armed with nuclear warheads, could make that trip.  Until he got major reinforcements, which would be at least another two weeks, aiming for Mexico would be stretching their forces too far apart.

“Austin would be the better target,” he decided, drawing up the basic manoeuvring orders for his forces.  One advantage with fighting the Americans was that their country was so large that they could hardly cover everywhere, particularly with the use of the special weapons.  Thoughtfully, he turned his attention to France and the Middle East.  Most of the Middle East was in their hands, which left him with a problem.

Absently, he called for his aide, Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller.  “Fritz, what is the current status of the reinforcements?”

“They’re moving into position for the advance northwards into Turkey,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller said.  “I repeat my suggestion about hitting Pakistan – a real abortion of a country – with heavy weapons.”

“At the rate they’ve been exchanging shots with their long-term enemies, the Indians, then they won’t be around for much longer,” General Neumann said absently.  India was united, under British rule, in his timeline.  It wasn’t a serious problem in the new timeline, but it was fascination; truly the lesser races couldn’t take care of themselves.  “Those children are playing with nuclear weapons.”

“True,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller agreed.  “Herr General, within a few more days we can enter Turkey in force, or punch through the mountains and join up with our forces in Russia.”

General Neumann scowled.  “Yes, that is a possibility,” he said.  “Still, we need control over Turkey, and we need control over France.  We need…”

A thought struck him and he smiled.  “We need to move more space technology into here,” he said.  “How’s the plan for moving an SSTO into this timeline going?”

“Slowly,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller said wryly.  “You know what they’re like.  They’re worried about losing one to the Americans or the French, and the defeat in Washington will only encourage them to be stiff-necked about it.”

“I have to report to Berlin, our Berlin,” General Neumann said.  “They’ll…want explanations for the defeat – and it was a defeat, no matter how we think that we planned it that way – and I have to give them some.”

“Ouch,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller said.  “My sympathies.”

General Neumann smiled.  “I’ll take up the matter of the SSTO with them at the time,” he said.  “For the moment, I want my staff to concentrate on plans for launching an offensive into Turkey…and perhaps one towards Austin in the United States.”

Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller frowned.  “Is it wise to attempt to attack further in America?”

General Neumann snorted.  “If we don’t launch the attacks, what will happen to us?  They’ll have all the time in the world to concentrate against us and crush us.  In fact…why don’t we try to open a Portal in their rear, directly in Austin again?”

Obersturmbannfuehrer Geller smiled.  “That would make their life difficult,” he said.  “I wish we had better surveillance of their deployments, though.”

“Another reason to have the SSTO out here as fast as we can,” General Neumann said.  He looked up as a helicopter appeared.  “Never forget; we’re in this for the long term, Fritz; the defeat in Washington doesn’t do more than put us back a few steps.  With the build-up here, we can take the remains of Russia…and then conquer the rest of Europe.”

He paused as the helicopter landed.  “And if our…cousins cooperate to do that, so much the better,” he said.  “For us…and for them.”

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

General Neumann knew at once that Berlin hadn’t been told anything of the disaster.  The streets were still decked with the bunting and flags, celebrating the early victories…and indeed the victories that General Neumann fully expected would be forthcoming in the later months of the war.  The Reich Council had sent some of their personnel guards to collect him from the airport; a high honour and a quiet warning.

He scowled.  He’d been on the radio ever since boarding the intercontinental flight from German Arabia.  One set of calls had been to the Luftwaffe, the department examining the documents recovered from the invasion sight.  If an easy counter to stealth aircraft existed, the Americans themselves hadn’t found it.  There were hints that massively complex radars could reveal the existence of the stealth aircraft, or that a distributed radar network might pick up traces of their presence, but hardly anything definite.

They also hadn’t been able to help him with a second problem.  “No, General Neumann,” the Luftwaffe’s chief designer had said.  “We have examined the details we recovered from their libraries and their Internet, but they’re incomplete.  Making a copy of their stealth aircraft will take us time, Herr General.”

“Time we don’t have,” General Neumann had snapped.

“I know, Herr General,” the designer said.  “An aircraft, particularly one as advanced as this, is a complex design.  It could take months, perhaps even years, to duplicate the design.”

General Neumann was brought back to reality by a cough from the Reich Council’s steward; the man who handled all of the services within their massive building.  “General Neumann, you may enter,” he said.  General Neumann nodded, stepped up to the massive doors, and slowly stepped though, holding his head up high.

Inside, the room was as dark as it always was, only the flickeringly insistent shapes of the Reich Council’s members could be made out in the semi-gloom.  The room didn’t smell of fear, much to his relief and concern; did they really understand the situation?  The defeat wasn’t a disaster in the military sense, but it was…alarming.  Those who fought them on the other side would know all about it…and they would be encouraged to fight the Reich.

“General Neumann, attend us,” light-and-breathy said.  His voice trembled slightly; the SS had been the main provider of the forces involved at Washington.  “Exactly what happened at Washington?”

General Neumann kept the smile from his face by force of will alone.  It was something the SS would have approved of; the ability, if not the idea behind it.  “We lost,” he said flatly.  “I assume that Washington – and Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann – fought to the end, but the Americans have defeated us.”

Dry-as-dust spoke into the silence.  “You do not know?”

“The Portals were closed as the enemy closed in,” General Neumann said flatly.  “All signals from Washington to either Texas or New Orleans were jammed.  Resistance may be continuing, but it is unlikely to affect the final outcome.  My masters – we no longer have a base in Washington.”

“We will not pass judgement on this affair now,” General Horst said.  “Exactly how did the enemy defeat the SS force, commanded by one of our finest officers; Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann?”

General Neumann scowled at the question.  He had collected all of the information from the few survivors, but there was hardly enough to answer the question properly.  “As far as I can tell,” he said, knowing that the unfortunate Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann would have been in a far better position to have answered the question, “they used their advantages masterfully.”

There was a long pause.  He took it as an invitation to continue.  “The enemy possesses precision weapons that we never developed for ourselves,” he said.  “They were able to take out our radars with considerable ease, once they had massed their own fire to our standards, or at least as close as they could get.  As you know, their idea of massed fire is puny compared to ours.”

“Spare us the jingoism,” dry-as-dust said.  “Continue with the explanation.”

“They used their bombardment to draw off the Metalstorm, then used stealth aircraft to drop bombs from very low attitude.  At the moment, it is impossible to tell if there were any hits on the stealth aircraft from our forces.  Once our anti-aircraft units were stripped away, they send in their air force and bombed us heavily, using a combination of heavy precision weapons and shellfire to batter through most of the defences, and then launched a heavy ground attack with armour, aided by infantry support.”

In other words, he knew, it had been straight out of the Wehrmacht tactical handbook.  “Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann managed to organise a counter-counterattack with Panzers, backed up by what remained of the mobile infantry.  The powerful attack managed to hammer them on both sides, destroying dozens of their tanks…and then the air force struck.  Their precision weapons stopped the counter-counterattack dead in its tracks.

“At that point, Obergruppenfuehrer Lehmann gave the order to close the Portals, therefore preventing any possibility of the weapons coming back into our world, and – we assume – fought to the death.  Past that point, honourable members, it is impossible to know what happened.”  He paused.  “I expect that we will hear some version of it from their news media.”

General Horst spoke first, quickly and sharply.  “Can we still win?”  He asked.  “Can we defeat them?”

General Neumann nodded.  “Yes,” he said.  “In the wisdom of the Reich Council” – some praise was appropriate, he judged – “we were careful not to commit too much to Washington, therefore allowing us to reinforce the forces in the rest of America.  Once the Texas force has been reinforced, we can and we will hammer northwards towards Austin, taking that vital city from them and battering their industry and the new army units they have been building there.

“At the same time, we must not lose sight of our final goal,” he continued.  “We have to take the entire planet, and that means changing our strategy slightly.  For the moment, we must complete the conquest of Europe; both by terminating the French free areas and by attacking through Turkey and Algeria.  With the attendant devastation in Algeria, thanks to our nuclear warheads, and the chaos, moving a large force though the Portals should be easy.  Once Algeria has been occupied, it will offer a base for attacks into Europe or settlement.

“This, in fact, offers other advantages,” he continued.  “With a major thrust into Europe, we are more likely to be able to convince our cousins to join us fully, and we might be able to capture a factory which can produce components for their computers.  Once we have some of those, we can begin closing the computer gap – perhaps even forming an alliance with the other-side Japan, which is quite capable on the computer front.”

“Will miracles never crease,” light-and-breathy muttered.

“Perhaps we should offer an alliance to the Japanese on our side,” General Horst said.  “They would, I’m sure, be interested in pillaging a new Japan, a new Australia…”

Dry-as-dust chuckled, very dryly.  “Perhaps that would induce them to go looking for a world where they own the world,” he said.

“They might have done so, had they not sealed their borders,” General Horst said.  “What about Russia?”

“I think we’d better take the gloves off,” General Neumann said.  “Russia…is a poor nation in their timeline; it just has a lot of nuclear weapons.  I think we’d better just terminate them as quickly as we can.  Once we’ve exterminated almost all of the population, then we can take over in a few years and colonise.”

Light-and-breathy laughed.  “I think that that’s an excellent idea,” he said.  “Do you have any more?”

General Neumann took his chance.  “We have to move an SSTO into the other timeline,” he said.  “A space-based radar might be able to track the stealth aircraft; optical sensors might be able to do so as well.  We also need satellites of our own, and lasers on the ground, targeting their satellites.”

“They have repaired the network, then?”  General Horst asked.  “That was quicker than I expected.  What about the satellites we wrecked?”

“They didn’t lose enough to really cripple them,” General Neumann said grimly.  “We have to do that, or else we will be forever losing to their eyes in the sky.”

“See to it,” General Horst ordered.  His tone darkened, suggesting danger.  “Are there any other issues?”

General Neumann shook his head, understanding the undertone; there had better not be any.  General Horst probably wanted to discuss matters with the rest of the Council.  “I will see to taking the rest of the world,” he promised.  “The Reich will conquer.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Counting the Cost

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The camera drifted slowly across the bombed-out building, revealing the shapes of destroyed digging machines and bulldozers.  The President knew what he was going to see almost before he saw it; a massive trench, half-dug before the counterattack had begun.  Specialist teams from the department charged with investigating war crimes had already gone to work, but there was no real need for them to produce a long and complicated report.  The President knew what had happened already; the bodies in the pit shared one thing in common.

They were all black.

“I think we now know what happened to the blacks in Washington,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President; that’s likely to have happened in Texas and New Orleans as well.”  

The President nodded.  “I know,” he said, grimly.  “I know.”

Suddenly, he hit the table.  “What the hell does it take to stop this?”  He demanded.  “We beat them the first time around…and they’re back!  Are we always going to face evil?”

“Evil never ends,” General Easterhouse said.  “Not even on our world.”

The President wanted to protest.  He knew that it would be futile; the…nearly twenty years since the end of the Cold War had been marked by bloodshed on a scale just below World War Two’s massive bloodshed.  Now…the ghost of the past had wiped out entire populations…and shot down Americans like dogs.

“How many prisoners did we take?”  The President asked, in a voice like ice.  “How many of the little bastards are currently enjoying the good life in our hands?”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “Around two hundred,” he said.  “Some of them refused to surrender; some killed themselves while in capability.”

“Some will suffer worse once that particular bit of news gets out,” the President snarled.  “We’re at war, are we not?”

General Easterhouse blinked at the question, then understood.  “Congress did formally declare war on them,” he said.  “We can treat their prisoners as prisoners of war.”

“Inform the interrogators,” the President snarled.  “All of them are to be drained dry of whatever information they possess, all of it.  There is to be no ranting from anyone about their…rights now; they are to be drained dry!  Everything they know about their world, everything they know about their technology, everything they know that might be useful…get it out of them, whatever it takes.”

General Easterhouse smiled.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.  “It will be done.”

The President paced the office.  “What can we do to stop them?”  He asked.  “My God; how many people of non-white colour are there in New Orleans?  Texas?  Are they all going to die like that?”

“I don’t think that the Germans – the Nazis – could have really exterminated all of them,” Wilson said.  The Secretary of State scowled grimly at the screen.  “Some of them might have been killed by the bombardments and the fighting.”

“That is precisely what we’re not going to discuss,” the President said.  The preliminary report had been clear; most of the bodies had been shot execution style.  A single bullet in the back of their necks; killing them instantly…and economically.  “There is no question – the Nazis were responsible for their deaths…and we are going to wipe them off the face of the Earth!”

“Off both Earths?”  Admiral Joan Rawlings, Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, asked.  “Can we do that?”

The President glared across at the screen.  “Do we have a choice?”  He asked.  “Such evil must be fought!”

He waited for a long moment, and then sighed.  “Jack, how many reporters do we have in this complex?”

“Five,” Jack Rollins, the base’s press attaché, said.  “All friendly ones, including the woman from Washington.”

The President, whose experience of reporters did not include friendly ones, smiled.  “Tell them that I want a press conference in” – he glanced at his watch – “three hours.  That should be long enough, I think, to have the rest of the briefing and then to write my speech.”  He scowled and took his seat at the head of the table.  “General Easterhouse?”

“Washington is back in our hands,” General Easterhouse said.  “Although there are still holdouts in some parts of the city, we’re rounding them all up as they run out of ammunition.  The city has been heavily booby-trapped, but most of them were apparently destroyed by the bombing or disabled in other ways.  Only seven people have died since the battle ended.”

He scowled.  “The city is going to take years to rebuild,” he said.  “Almost every building in the city has been destroyed by one side or the other.”  He smiled for a long second.  “A lot of insurance salesmen are going to go bankrupt.”

“I bet they’re already filing hold orders at the local courts,” the President said, amused.  “They’ll end up claiming that it was an Act of God, or something like that.”

“This will have serious problems for the post-war world,” the Attorney General said.  “Mr President; you might want to consider legislation slowing such matters, perhaps even putting them on hold for years.”

General Easterhouse scowled.  “What about people who need their insurance for vital matters, such as health care?”  He asked.  “It could lead to more lawsuits, which is the last thing we need.”

The President thought that such matters were premature and said so.  “David” – looking at the Attorney General – “please could you draw up some emergency legislation freezing all such transactions and insurance, except for vital matters like health insurance.”  He paused.  “However, that doesn’t matter…unless we win the war!  General, what’s the bad news?”

General Easterhouse sighed.  “Our losses were severe,” he said.  “The Nazis were not Iraqis or Iranians or cowardly terrorists; they fought with skill and dedication.  We put upwards of twenty thousand men – two-thirds of what the British sent to aid us in conquering Iraq – into the battle and we lost nearly three thousand.”

The President felt his mouth fall open.  Three thousand deaths; that brought the total American military death toll from this new war to over seven thousand, spread out among the military and the National Guard.  “Three thousand deaths,” he repeated.  “Three thousand deaths.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Easterhouse said.  He didn’t flinch at the number.  “It was intended to be overwhelming force, and if the air force hadn’t been there…there is a good chance that it wouldn’t have been anything like enough.  We discovered afterwards that they’d moved upwards of forty thousand infantry and nearly a thousand Panzers into Washington.”

The President felt his mouth open.  “How did they get there?”  He asked.

“Walked,” General Easterhouse said laconically.  “It’s a really neat system; open the Portal and men just walk through.  I could get to like it.  Apart from the manpower losses, we lost nearly three hundred tanks of our own, fifty-two support vehicles and thirteen aircraft.  Dozens more were damaged and we expended hundreds of bombs.  Mr President, it’s going to take time to build up again.”

The President stared down at his hands, half-expecting to see them dripping with blood.  He’d just presided over the greatest American combat losses since…since the Second World War.  He shook his head, feeling the pain; that didn’t include the loss of seasoned and experienced soldiers who could have trained new soldiers.

He looked up, feeling pain in his eyes.  “And the civilians?”  He asked.  “How many of Washington’s population survived?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” Wilson said.  The Secretary of State looked down at his hands for a long moment.  “Thousands of people are scattered out all over Virginia and the surrounding states and we don’t have a clear list of who’s where.  The worst-case estimate is eighty percent losses…”

The President gave out a strangled sound.  “Eighty percent,” he said.  “Eighty percent of the population of Washington…just gone.”

“It’s not likely to be that bad,” Wilson said.  “A lot of people did leave the city during the invasion.  We’re appealing for them to register now, so we’ll get better numbers, but you know what some people are like about registering.”

“I hope you’re right,” the President said.  “So…what do we do now?”

General Easterhouse smiled tiredly.  “Well, we now know for certain that stealth aircraft work against them,” he said.  “That means that we have one advantage that they cannot get round; only a handful of radars of ours can really track stealth aircraft with any degree of certainty.”

“If we’re lucky,” Carter muttered.  “The Russians were supposed to have invented a way to burn through stealth; they might sell one to the Nazis.”

“The Russians are having too much trouble,” General Easterhouse said.  “They were asking for help, weren’t they?”

The President nodded.  “They were warning that they might have to go nuclear soon,” he said.  He scowled.  “That’s the last thing we need.”

General Easterhouse shrugged.  “We have to move against the other two German invasion sites – bridgeheads – as soon as possible,” he said.  “That poses problems of its own – we also have to cover our other bases, including here.”

“They might attack here,” the President said.  “Are we well defended?”

General Easterhouse nodded.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.  “We are very well defended indeed.”  He paused.  “We have to launch attacks at the other bridgeheads,” he said.  “I’d prefer New Orleans, myself; we have two carrier battle groups in the Caribbean, even without the Washington.  The Iowa is steaming to join them; a shame that the nuclear-powered battleship isn’t ready, but…”

“Spilt milk,” the President said.  The plans for the nuclear-powered heavy bombardment unit – battleship, to everyone else – had been finalised only two years ago, when it had finally been agreed that they needed such a unit; air power wasn’t always sufficient.  “So, when can you launch that attack?”

“The sooner the better, I assume?”  General Easterhouse asked.  The President nodded.  “I would advise two weeks,” he said.  “We could launch air attacks in the meantime; keep knocking down their radars and hammering them.”

Carter frowned.  “That might also bring them charging out, intent on ending the struggle,” he said.

“That’s not so much of a problem,” General Easterhouse said, as confidently as he could.  “We have seven National Guard battalions dug in, waiting for them to try.  Now that we can get around their armour, production of the antitank weapons has only increased; we can stop one of their offensives.”

He smiled.  “If we devote some of the new F-22’s to SEAD missions, we can take down their radars, should they come boiling out.  Then the rest of the air force can go to work on them.”

“And break up the attack,” the President said.  “Have you developed a operational name?”

”Operation Winfield,” General Easterhouse said.  “It was named for Winfield Scott, who designed the Anaconda Plan.”

The President nodded.  “Move your preparations as fast as you can,” he said.  “I have a nasty suspicion that time is running out.”

He nodded grimly.  “Robin, what about our industrial production?”

“It’s improving,” Carter said.  “For the moment, we’re concentrating production on antitank weapons that can be deployed quickly, infantry weapons and bombs.”  He smiled.  “Fortunately, we were still expanding the plants for JDAM kits, particularly after Iraq, and we have pushed that forward as hard as we can.  Seriously, Mr President; we can hold out like this for a while longer, but are we going to fight abroad?”

“I think we have no choice,” the President said.  “What about the ABM system?”

“Their Metalstorm is much simpler than our designs,” Carter said.  “At the same time, it’s not very clever; the technicians have been impressed and astonished at the same time.  Now we know how they do it, duplicating it is simple…and it won’t be long before we have the weapons.”

“We need more,” the President said.  “Has NASA got off its fat butt yet?”

“They’ve reluctantly contracted for SSTO designs,” Carter admitted.  “Mr President; I think we’d better take that out of their hands.”

The President nodded.  “Very well,” he said.  “Tell NASA that their monopoly is going to come to an end.  I want more space capability, fast.  Replacing all the satellites is going to take years, and I don’t think we have them.”

***
In Washington DC, Joyce Patterson knew, there were a lot of very happy soldiers.  The women had been very grateful for the rescue, grateful enough to spend time thanking the soldiers in the oldest way in the world.  Joyce herself hadn’t done that; she’d been asked to travel to NORAD, just to share her experiences with the military intelligence teams.

“I guess they’re pleased,” Simon Anderson said.  The OFOSI agent smiled; she’d just told him about the ‘hero’s reward.’  “However, I need the information.”

Joyce nodded.  “Ask your questions,” she said.  “I’ll do my best to answer.”

Anderson nodded.  “Tell me,” he said, “did they just use you to clear rubble?”

“And to search for documents,” Joyce said.  “We tried to give them useless documents, ones that would drive them mad trying to make them useful.”

Anderson frowned.  “It’s hard to tell what might or might not be useful in intelligence,” he said.  “Still…information on the stock exchange prices from before the invasion won’t be too helpful.”

Joyce smiled.  “And old newspaper, toilet paper and romantic fiction,” she said, giggling.  “I hope that they have fun reading The Erotic Adventures of Peter.”

Anderson snorted.  “They’ll get hard-ons,” he said.  “Fun?  Perhaps; did they try to rape you?”

The question was so casual that Joyce answered honestly.  “Not exactly,” she said.  “Some of the guards copped feels; but there was no systematic mass rape, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“They killed many – almost all – of the blacks they captured,” Anderson said.  “Did you even know?”

Joyce gasped, feeling pain shooting though her mind.  “No, never,” she said.  “I never knew about that at all.”

“I believe you,” Anderson said.  “It seems to have been concealed from most of our prisoners, as well, you see.”

Joyce felt her reporter instincts come to the fore.  “Were the black women raped?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Anderson said.  “The war crimes units are working on it now, but for the moment…they never tried to rape any of you?”

“I don’t think so,” Joyce said.  “I never got raped and I don’t think that any of the women in my group were raped…what’s this obsession with rape anyway?”

Anderson smiled dryly.  “We have to know how they are treating people,” he said.  “If there are Nazis guilty of rape, we have to catch them and hang them higher than the nearest tree.  But, more seriously, we have to understand the threat…and one way of understanding them is understanding how they treat captives.”

Joyce shook her head.  “They just used us to work for them,” she said.  “They told us that we were now citizens of the Third Reich, and that we had to work for the Reich.  And then they shot everyone who disagreed or tried to fight.”

“I wonder if they seriously meant to assimilate you into the Reich,” Anderson mused.

Joyce grinned.  “They did keep telling us that resistance was futile,” she said.

“I’m serious,” Anderson said.  “What if they killed all of the black men, but kept the whites alive…intending to induct them into their society.”

Joyce shivered.  “I don’t find that a pleasant thought,” she said.”

“Me neither,” Anderson said.  “Me neither.”

Before Joyce could say anything, her phone rang.  The voicemail was simple; all reporters were to report at once to the conference room.  Joyce frowned.  “Where’s that?”  She asked.  “I hardly know this place.”

“I’ll show you,” Anderson said.  “Follow me.”

She followed him through a long twisting series of corridors, finally reaching a large conference room.  Anderson opened the door for her, allowing her to enter the room.  Only three other reporters – people she knew by reputation – were there; a fourth joined them a moment later.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a voice said.  Joyce looked around to see a Secret Service agent.  “The President of the United States of America.”

He looks terrible, Joyce thought, as the President entered the room.  His hair seemed to have greyed over the past two weeks, shading towards white.  The President waved them to seats, taking the podium at the end of the room.  Even his walk seemed tired; the footsteps of a man who’d seen and done too much to live.

“Thank you for coming,” the President said.  His voice, at least, was strong.  “You have all seen the footage from Washington; you have seen what they’re doing to our people.  In Washington, the nightmare is over; in Houston and New Orleans and other towns and cities…it’s not over yet.  It’s not over around the entire world; in many places, thousands upon thousands have died, killed by nukes or by simple violence.  We cannot let it go on.”

His tone sharpened.  “In agreement with both the majority and minority leaders in the Senate, with the full approval of Congress, the United States has declared war on the alternative Nazi Germany.  This declaration was joined, mere moments ago, by formal declarations from Australia, Britain, Canada, France, China – such as it is – and Russia.  Together, the grand alliance will defeat them and force them back to their world.

“Towards this end, I have given orders, again with the agreement of the majority and minority leaders, that the United States gears up for war on an unprecedented scale.  We will be building thousands of tanks, thousands of aircraft, thousands of new weapons for the war.  We are committing ourselves to establishing control of space; we are committing ourselves to ending the war, once and for all.

“We will fight them in the United States until they are gone,” he said.  “We will assist the valiant French to evict the Nazis from France.  We will mount attacks into the Middle East, destroying their bases there.  Wherever they are, we will oppose them.  We will oppose them…and we will triumph!

“Sixty-four years ago, we killed the Nazi beast in its lair.  We beat them once; the power of freedom and democracy proved stronger, in the end, than the mad racial dreams of a lunatic.  We can, and we will, beat them again; this is our world…and Nazis are not welcome.  From this moment on, it’s total war…and may God defend the right.”

Chapter Thirty: Thunderbolts

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

“I understand your concerns, President Duchamp,” Prime Minister Bernard Hamilton said, wishing that the fat fool would shut up.  He understood Prime Minister Jean Caroche’s motives in sending him to Britain – no one in their right mind would want Duchamp trying to assert his authority when there was a war on – but he wished that Caroche hadn’t practically handpicked Duchamp as President.

Crafty bastard probably wanted a dumbass in the job, Hamilton thought, although he wasn’t certain if he should be impressed or disgusted.  In France, the President held most of the power, but the leader of the National Front had chosen to be Prime Minister instead.  In this case, the Prime Minister, Caroche, had selected the President…so that he would have an idiot to take the blame.  ‘Idiot’ was being complementary; Duchamp had spent nearly an hour urging the Prime Minister to spend more time considering the effects of the war on the European Union.

Idiot, Hamilton thought, and decided to stir the pot a little.  “In fact, we have been preparing the army for an attack into France,” he said, not quite untruthfully.  “We should be able to liberate France from its new overlords very quickly.”

Charles DeGaulle had had less arrogance than Duchamp.  “But France must be freed by Frenchmen,” Duchamp protested.  Hamilton suddenly had a mental flash of why Caroche had gotten rid of Duchamp; he talked the talk, but he was completely unable to walk the walk.  He tapped a hidden button under his desk, sending a signal to his secretary.  Develop an emergency meeting, right bloody now.

“Ah, excuse me, Prime Minister,” his secretary said, a minute later.  “General Shawcross is here to see you.”

The Prime Minister gave her a thankful look.  “I’m sorry, President Duchamp, but duty calls,” he said.  Duchamp frowned, uttered one last completely meaningless warning and left the room.  The French Embassy had been hosting him; the Prime Minister pitied Ambassador Qulin for the first time in years.

“Thank God,” he said, as soon as the door closed.  “Is it a real emergency?”

His secretary smiled.  “General Shawcross is on his way,” she said.  “He called in two minutes ago.”

Hamilton smiled.  “That’s good,” he said, and returned to his papers.  It took him seven minutes to read though a detailed report on the rioting in Brixton and Blackburn, mainly people outraged at the destruction of all of the Holy Cities – as if that were somehow our fault – and other people outraged at the rationing.  Britain had enough food to feed itself, barely…but not if people kept hoarding.  Hoarders weren’t the real problem; the Black Market and the limited police force were the real problem.  How could a police force, cut badly in numbers and worse in morale, hope to hold back looters all across the country?

Hamilton scowled.  One advantage, at least, of martial law was that it allowed a number of measures that could never be considered outside of full-scale war.  Looters could be shot out of hand and frequently were; truly terrible criminals could be executed and were.  He’d taken that opportunity, not out of vengefulness – or so he told himself – but out of the need to secure the streets.

A polite cough from the door made him look up.  General Shawcross was standing there.  “Good afternoon, General,” Hamilton said.  “What can I do for you?”

Shawcross sighed.  “The bastards hit a civilian airport again,” he said.  “Nearly three hundred dead.”

Hamilton cursed.  Learning of the liberation of Washington had boosted their morale.  At the same time, it put pressure on the alliance members to liberate the rest of the world, or at least alliance member territory.  With the Russians and Ukrainians in serious trouble, and the Germans invading France and probing the UKADR…there was so much that needed to be done, with very little time.

“We need to hurry up with duplicating their Metalstorm system,” he snapped.  “Anything from the labs?”

“The Americans captured several sets,” Shawcross said.  “They’ve sent us the details and there’s a tech team heading to America now that we can cross the Atlantic again.  Production will take time, though.”

“I know,” Shawcross said.  “That idiot wants us to help France, and at the same time to leave liberating it to Frenchmen.”

Shawcross shrugged.  The National Front might rule France – in the person of understood Prime Minister Jean Caroche – but it would take even them time to fix everything.  Duchamp had been a compromise; Caroche must have laughed his head off at the thought.

“We would have problems building an army we could risk losing,” Shawcross said.  “However, an AWACS picked up some useful intelligence from France; the Germans – the Nazis – have made some interesting changes to their routine.”

Hamilton scowled.  “So have our Germans,” he said.  “What have they done?”

Shawcross frowned.  “I’m not sure how to explain this,” he said.  “They’ve started to coordinate their radars, linking them all together into one massive radar system.  Everything is on the same frequency and the power levels are astonishing.  They’re monitoring everything from France to Poland, perhaps even as far as Ireland.”

Hamilton lifted a single eyebrow.  “Why?”  He asked.  “What’s the point?”

Shawcross smiled.  “The idea of combining a radar network has been discussed in several places as a possible counter to stealth aircraft,” he said.  “Clearly, they managed to raid the French Ministry of Defence or whatever they call it; the tactic is straight out of their handbook.”

“The Americans must have really pissed them off,” Hamilton observed.  “If they’re risking burn-out on their equipment like that.”

“Scared hell out of them,” Shawcross agreed.  “I suspect that their radars can handle such power for longer than ours can; they seem to like brute force tactics.  However, with some effort, we can really hurt them ourselves.”

He unfurled a map.  “This is an idea drawn up by a pilot from the first battles,” he said.  “If we use all of our ECM to jam their radars, we could hammer them very hard indeed.  Their aircraft are no match for the RAF and the French Air Force; the problem is that we have to deal with their close-in air defences, Metalstorm units and others.”

He smiled darkly.  “Sir, Prime Minister, if we use the AWACS to take down their radars, we can send in a major air offensive.  The Americans, through RAF Feltwell, have satellite images of all of their deployments; we can hit them all in one massive raid.”  He grinned.  “If we’re really lucky, we might be able to drop a missile though a Portal before they can adjust it to one-way.”

“That would be pointless without a nuclear warhead,” Hamilton said.  He thought rapidly.  “Could we get a Harpoon with a nuclear tip through?”

“I don’t think so,” Shawcross admitted.  “It would be riskier; the nuke might detonate against their Portal, or it might shatter rather than detonate.  Nukes don’t go off at the drop of a hat, so they would know what we’d tried.”

“And then they might retaliate,” Hamilton said.  “We really have to get that Metalstorm network of our own up and running.”  He scowled.  “I assume that the French can launch an offensive against the Nazis at the same time?”

“I spoke to General Blum,” Shawcross said.  “He wasn’t optimistic; the French Atlantic Fleet can take part in the operation – they’ve given us overall command of the operation – but their army’s in no state to launch an attack.”

“How generous of them,” Hamilton said.  “Inform the PJHQ then; the operation is approved.”

“Today, then,” Shawcross said.  “We’ll give them a beating they won’t forget.”

Over English Channel/France
Europe (TimeLine A)

It was a warm afternoon, too hot for anything outside the cockpit, but Flying Officer Rupert Patel didn’t mind; heat was something he was used to.  The force of Eurofighters had been severely tested for the first day of what the Press was calling the ‘second Battle of Britain,’ but once they’d gotten a handle on enemy tactics and technology, it had turned into a turkey shoot.  If the alternate Luftwaffe hadn’t had their superlative close-in air defences, the RAF would have swept them from the sky within a day.

He glanced over at the massive AWACS, flying with its own powerful escort of Eurofighters, backed up by Tornados from the RAF Reserve.  Two more AWACS and their tanker support had taken up their positions to the west, standing by to act in coordination with the first AWACS.  Nearly half of the priceless aircraft were being deployed in the operation, along with two-thirds of the fast-jet fighter force.  

He scowled.  If the operation failed, and it wasn’t aborted in time, then the losses would be catastrophic.  The RAF would be unable to recover before the Germans began their invasion of the United Kingdom; his family, fourth-generation immigrants, would be killed like the blacks of Washington had been killed.

He clutched his stick, vowing to die if it were necessary, just to prevent that from happening.  The talking heads had been talking – as if they would do anything else – about how unlikely it was that a third of the population had been killed – murdered – by the Germans.  Surely no civilised nation, they’d ranted, could do such things.

They’re missing the point, he thought coldly.  The Nazis weren’t civilised; they were evil beyond all standards of evil.  They made Osama look like a naughty boy; Pol Pot look mildly deviant.  He looked down at his scopes; a dozen Nazi aircraft were rising from France, staying well within the defence parameter’s range.

“All aircraft, prepare to engage,” the controller said.  “Stand by…”

His screen flickered as the jamming began.  Their radars could punch through the jamming, but the Nazis – hopefully – would find their screens covered in static.  They could discriminate between false radar pulses; the Nazis would have problems trying to sort out what was real and what wasn’t.

“Jamming has commenced,” the controller said.  “Clear the path.”

“Roger,” Patel said, kicking the afterburners into full power.  The Eurofighter leapt forward; part of him was aware that he was testing the concept for the first time, but he didn’t really care.  No bolt of Metalstorm rose to smash him from the sky.  “They’re not engaging us.”

“Take down the aircraft,” the controller said, his voice unemotional.  “Now; Delta-one.”

Patel selected a single ASRAAM, locked it onto a target, and fired.  He could have killed the German almost as soon as he moved into their defence zone, with a BVRAAM, but there was no need.  If the Germans didn’t have radar; they didn’t have a chance to even see the missiles coming.

“They’re trying to evade,” his wingman said, as the first missiles struck home.  Distant flashes revealed where the Germans had once been.  “They’re too late.”

“I confirm all targets destroyed,” the controller said.  “Don’t pat yourselves on the back, Gentlemen; you have more work to do.”

***
The radar screen was jammed hopelessly, covered with signals that Hauptscharfuehrer Sven Harold knew were useless.  The radar set was picking up signals from elsewhere, overriding their genuine returns; the awesome number of contracts had to be a malfunction.  He’d heard that the British – these British – were capable, but this defied belief.

He reached for his radio, desperate to report before his commander blamed him, and cursed as a howl of static blasted from the radio.  Harold tried to switch frequency and cursed again; the signals were being blanketed out everywhere.

“Explain,” his commander demanded, coming up behind him.  “What’s happening?”

Harold winced.  Sturmbannfuehrer Stutz wasn’t known for his patience.  “We’re being jammed,” he said desperately.  “Herr Sturmbannfuehrer; they have overridden our radar systems.  We cannot fire the Metalstorm units because…”

A distant explosion echoed across the sky.  “They must be launching attacks now,” Stutz snapped.  “Warn the headquarters…”

“Jammed,” Harold said, taking his life in his hands by interrupting his commander.  Stutz didn’t seem to care.  “Herr Sturmbannfuehrer; they have managed to jam all of our communications.”

“They could be attacking on the ground as well,” Stutz said.  “No radio…we need runners…”

An explosion blasted the radardome that Harold had set up, linking it into the entire air defence network.  Stutz cursed.  “Harold, run to the Panzer force down there and warn them that there’s an air attack incoming, and they have to switch their Metalstorm to manual control.”

Harold thought of just how wasteful Metalstorm was, when fired in manual mood, and shuddered.  “Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer,” he said, and turned to run.  The second explosion killed him and his commander before they could escape the blast range.

***
“We have finally received our firing coordinates,” Lieutenant Hilda Goddard reported.  The nuclear-powered submarine, HMS Artful, lurked just under the water, near France.  “They want us to hit the following coordinates.”

“Bloody French, depriving us of the chance to fire Tomahawks at Paris,” Captain Ernest Bynum muttered.  The targets within occupied Paris had been saved for the French Air Force.  “Mr Exec; I confirm the following targets.”

His exec nodded.  “I confirm,” he agreed.  “Launch at once.”

Bynum smiled.  “That’s what the orders say,” he said.  He placed his key in the firing control and turned it.  His exec followed, a moment later, and thirty cruise missiles launched, heading towards France.

“I guess we get to realise a dream,” the exec said, as the final missile left the launch tubes.  “Bombing France!”

***
The French countryside gave way to the Belgium countryside, also occupied by the Nazis, as the Eurofighters forced their way northwards.  Flying Officer Rupert Patel checked his scopes with genuine concern; rumours about some kind of deal between the Germans and the Nazis had been rife…and one of their missions was to see if their German air force attempted to contrast the skies.

“I confirm that we’re coming up on the target,” his wingman said.  “No response from air defence units…Gordon Bennett!”

Patel acted on instinct, flipping the Eurofighter into a tight dive.  The blue streaks of Metalstorm fire lashed up from the ground, trying to hit them…and moving to chase the fighters.  He sighed in relief as the tracer vanished; the manual firing system was clearly quick to burn out all of the projectiles.  

“Target acquired,” his wingman said.  “Launching bombs…now!”

Patel followed, launching a second bomb towards a major Nazi barracks.  By now, the Nazis would know that something was very wrong; the jamming alone would tip them off to that fact, but would they have had time to take up their defensive positions?  He didn’t know; they would be trying to make the Nazis panic.

“Cruise missiles incoming,” his wingman said.  Patel glanced towards the coastline; a spread of missiles, probably Harpoons adapted for the shore-bombardment role, were crossing the coast, heading towards Brussels.  Absently, he wondered if the European Parliament was among the targets; there were few friends of Europe within the RAF.  

“Awesome, aren’t they?”  He asked.  “Does anyone have any major update on the war?”

“No,” his wingman said.  “We’re not supposed to broadcast that over the airwaves.”

“All aircraft, this is control,” the controller said.  “All units; return to base.”

“But we’re still having fun,” Patel protested, only half-seriously.  “Returning to base, now.”

Smiling, he pulled the Eurofighter into a tight turn, heading back towards his base.  Quickly, he checked the location of the nearest tanker, just in case, but he didn’t need to refuel.  “It’s been a good day’s work,” he said.  “The best bit is; we can do it again whenever we feel like it.”

***
General Weinberg was having a difficult time adapting to the multi-faceted attack on a number of fronts, using different weapons.  The jamming only made matters worse; how could he coordinate any defences if he couldn’t talk to his men?  He’d managed to press the French telephone system into action, but it was annoying and prone to sudden failures.  

He glared down at the map, wishing that his full battle-controlling software were available.  The damage had been extensive; every radar had been hit, along with most of the major Metalstorm units.  The damage didn’t stop there; every airfield and airport they’d captured had been hit, often badly.  Fuel-Air Explosives had struck all of the airfields, vaporising or destroying the aircraft that had been on the ground…while the combat air patrol had been wiped out of the air.

General Weinberg clenched his fist and vowed revenge.  The damage had spread further; every Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS base had been hit, with a high cost in Panzers and their supporting elements.  The Waffen-SS bases had come in for special attention; it was as if the British hated the Waffen-SS.  Several units had been literally wiped out to the last man; nuclear weapons could have hardly been more destructive.

“Inform the Reich Council,” he ordered his aide, knowing that it would probably mean his execution.  He should have expected such an attack, they would say; unfair though the charge was.  They would hold him to blame for the losses, just as they would hold him to blame for the French offensive…except that hadn’t come.  The moment of his greatest weakness, with Panzers destroyed by the dozens…and the French hadn’t taken advantage of it.

Perhaps they’re weaker than I dared believe, he thought, and smiled for the first time.  If the French were weaker than they’d dared fear – and they could get an anti-satellite laser deployed here – then perhaps the defeat could be rectified.  A single major armoured push would punch through the French lines…if one could be mounted as soon as possible.

He stepped out of his building and started to bark orders.  The first step was to establish new telecommunications lines; they would almost certainly be jammed again, and that would be bad.  With some work, however, they could get back limited communications, even to the point of some limited coordination again.  And then…

He returned to his room and studied the map.  If the French responded to his attack, the surprise could go into effect…and if they didn’t respond, then he would have them anyway.

“No,” he said, as his aide entered the room.  “It’s far from over.”

Chapter Thirty-One: Reflections on the Eve of Annihilation

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

The President’s speech – and Congress’s formal declaration of war – brought a new life to Cheyenne Mountain.  As Jung watched, from his isolated room, the forces of the United States of America – a really free nation – went to work.  The news of Washington cheered him up – as much as anyone else in the complex – but he knew more than anyone else just how powerful the Nazis were.  In their own dimension, they were powerful…and he suspected that they had more soldiers than the new alliance had between them.

The Americans had been careful, for obvious reasons, not to let him near any sensitive information, but they could have learnt a few lessons from the Reich about security.  He knew, more or less, how many soldiers the Americans had…far fewer than the Reich, even not counting the Reich’s reserves.  The Wehrmacht could call upon nearly half of Germany’s male population if it had to, sacrificing economic pleasures in exchange for a quick victory.  They could do that, if they had to; could the alternate Americans?

He paced his room, dividing his time between research and reading history books.  The history was very different; this America had spent fifty years facing the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, even after Stalin died.  In his timeline, Stalin had disappeared in 1941, during the fall of Moscow.  No one knew what had happened to him; it was the main source of imaginative literature concerning the Russian War.  This America had fought a strange war in Korea and a stranger one in Vietnam – losing the war – and then they’d stayed firmly on the ground.  They hadn’t bothered to develop space at all.

He’d tried to warn them of the dangers, that the Reich might manage to get over whatever the problem was with opening Portals in space and manage to move an entire orbital weapons platform through into their space.  If they did that, the United States was…well, fucked.  His lips twitched; instead of confronting communism, his America had spent twenty years in the pit of self-delusion, arguing over such trifles as the role of black Americans in their society, while Hitler’s successors built up there forces…and struck.

They could have built utopia, he thought, and sighed.  What would the rest of his cell – God rest their souls – have thought of their dream world?

There was a knock at the door.  He jumped, old reflexes still working merrily, as if he was still under the eye of the Gestapo, before relaxing with an effort.  “Come in,” he called, wondering at his audacity.  It would be a rare visit from the Gestapo that allowed him to invite them into his room.

“Good afternoon, Mr Jung,” a voice said.  He looked up to see Agent Ken, one of the Secret Service officers, peering in.  “Are you decent?”

Jung smiled.  “As you can see, I’m fully clothed,” he said.  He knew now who his visitor had to be.  “The President can enter without covering his eyes.”

“Thank you,” the President said dryly.  He stepped inside, older, somehow greyer, but with a new light in his eyes.  He held himself firmly under control; he had clearly developed a backbone somehow.  Professor Thande followed him; the English scientist taking a seat in the corner without waiting for an invitation.

“Have a seat,” Jung said.  He watched as the President sat down, wrinkling his nose at the smell of hamburgers and pizza.  “Mr President…is it bad news?”

The President looked up sharply.  “No,” he said.  “We defeated them at Washington.”

Jung frowned.  “And the city wasn’t destroyed?”  He asked.  “I thought that the Waffen-SS would have destroyed the city.”

“A mystery,” the President said.  “We bombarded the place quite heavily.  Perhaps we destroyed the nuke before it could go off.”  He paused.  “I suppose we’ll never know, Mr Jung.”

Jung nodded.  “I don’t have access to any more information,” he said.  “Now I’m here…they must have worked out that I’ve come to join you, rather than stay with them.”  He paused.  “Mr President, it won’t be long before they start interfering with your satellites.”

“Or at least the rest of them,” the President said.

“If you lose your satellites, you lose your ability to make global war,” Jung said.  “Mr President; they will one day figure out how to move a orbital weapons platform directly from their world to yours, emerging into space above your heads.  If they do that…”

Thande lifted an eyebrow.  “Why can’t they?”  He asked.  “What stops them forming a Portal in space?”

“I don’t know,” Jung admitted.  “All of the information was restricted.”  He paused.  “All I needed to know was that the Portals existed, and then what information had been removed from your world.  We – they – had intended to wait for some months, gathering information.”

Thande blinked.  “What happened to that plan?”

“You did,” Jung said dryly.  “I’d left by that time, but my guess is that they decided to move at once, with what forces they had in place.”

The President frowned.  “I would hate to see them fully mobilised, then,” the President said.  “If what we’ve faced so far is their idea of a quick reaction force…”

“It’s the gravity,” Thande said, with considerable delight.  “That’s why they can’t form a Portal in space.”  He paced around the room, drawing a diagram on a sheet of paper.  “Their Earth occupied the same coordinates as ours, you see, it’s just…separate from ours.”  He paused.  “I’d hate to think of what might happen if some idiot builds a portal big enough to take an entire planet.  The worlds would smash into one another.”

He smiled.  “But that’s not the point,” he said.  “They must be unable to compensate for the effects of low gravity on the Portal.  The endpoint refuses to stabilise before it changes and it cannot stabilise because it doesn’t stabilise…or something along those lines.”

The President frowned.  “Could you compensate for the effect?”  He asked.  Something was nagging at the back of Jung’s mind.  “Could you open a Portal into space?”

“From space to space,” Thande said.  “The endpoints remain the same, just in different quantum realities.  I don’t know, Mr President; I would have to run endless simulations and work on it for a while.”

The matter at the back of Jung’s mind burst out.  “You can build Portals?”  He asked.  “You can open gateways into other worlds?”

Thande smiled.  “Yes,” he said.  “We can get back into their world, if we have to.”

“We do have to,” the President said.  “Mr Jung; your country needs you.”

***
In his own way, the President prided himself upon his judgement of men.  He understood Jung’s actions; his desertion of the Nazis just to warn them.  As the last survivor of a resistance movement, he had every motive to keep his head down; did that make him a coward or not?  He was scared of the Nazis, scared of the Gestapo, but he didn’t seem to be a coward.

The President knew that they’d been lucky.  Washington DC hadn’t been destroyed – he’d gambled that it wouldn’t have been destroyed – but he didn’t think that they would be so lucky again.  With the Germans clearly preparing something in Texas – and the British success only two days ago – they would be needing something to prove to themselves, and to the world, that they could still win.

“We have the ability to get into their world,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was also Jung’s world.  “We need a native guide, if you will; we need you.  You know where to find the resistance…”

“There is no resistance,” Jung said, his voice flat and…dead.  “Where do you think it might happen?  The New Confederacy may not have the love of all of its citizens, but it keeps them down; the American Party holds the niggers down and uses them as an excuse to keep everyone else down.  In the occupied territories, the resistance was destroyed long ago; I’m the last of them.

“People don’t resist, Mr President,” he said.  “How can they?  If they’re black, they’re tagged from the moment they’re born, treated as chattel and told just what will happen to them if they stray out of the plantation.  They spend their entire lives in the plantations, unless they’re sold on to someone else, such as a doctor for medical experiments.  If they’re white, they’re either one of the ruling class or the lower classes; the people who do most of the work.  Resist?  Survival itself is a struggle?

“And even if they do, do you know what happens?  They get firebombed, or crushed by tanks, or even hit from orbit.  Every year, some slaves rebel, kill all of their masters and take the plantation…and before they can escape there are posses on their tail, or fighters strafing them as they run.  The spies are everywhere; resistance to the American Party gets nipped in the bud before it can become a threat.”

The President listened in silence.  Jung’s voice was frustrated; the voice of a man who believed that he had nothing left to lose.  “Even if the American Party was overthrown, how long would it be before the Panzers rolled out of their bases, heading to suppress the trouble?  Twenty years ago, all of Missouri revolted; they crushed them like bugs.”

“We have to beat them,” the President said.  “What else is there?”

“We could ask another timeline for help,” Thande said.  “There’s no reason why we can’t find someone else who might be able to assist…”

“No,” the President said, firmly.  “We have quite enough trouble without finding more, I think.”  He held up a hand to prevent Thande from saying anything else.  “You might reach another Nazi world…”

“They don’t have any other worlds,” Jung injected.  “Just theirs and their bases here.”

“Or one dominated by the Soviet Union,” the President continued, ignoring him.  “No, Professor; you are not going exploring in other timelines.”

He looked up at Jung.  “We have to make contact with the resistance there,” he said.

“I told you,” Jung said.  “There is no resistance!”

“Would you know about it if it did exist?”  The President asked.  “As far as they knew, you were a German of German descent.  Tell me; why would they have made contact with you?”  Jung looked up, new hope in his eyes.  “How could we make contact if they did exist?”

“I have no idea,” Jung said, seriously.  “I imagine that you could attack their bases in the alternate America, Mr President, but there’s one major problem…”

“Their control of space,” the President said.  “How do we get round that?”

Jung shook his head.  “You can’t launch missiles at their space stations,” he said.  “They’d shoot them down.  Metalstorm can’t reach that high.  You don’t have real lasers and they have shielding anyway.”

Thande smiled.  “The same thing they did to us,” he said.  “EMP.”

A thought emerged in the President’s mind.  “Professor, how large a Portal could you make?”

Thande considered.  “The real problem is power,” he said.  “They used brute force, as I said, so we can use finesse instead.”  He paused.  “We might get one twenty – thirty – meters across, perhaps larger.”

“Enough to fit a submarine in?”  The President asked.  “Could we slip a boomer through the Portal?”

Thande nodded.  “We could,” he said.  “Getting it back would be difficult.”

The President made a note.  “Perhaps,” he said.  “I have an idea.”

“General Easterhouse wanted to send a carrier battle group through a Portal,” Thande said.  “It would be possible; we could do it.”

“Not while they have command of space,” Jung said.  “Mr President, you could foster a low-level war against them, but not for long…”

“No?”  The President asked.  “I have an idea; several ideas, in fact.  Tell me; how would we make contact with the resistance, assuming it exists?”

Jung paused.  “They don’t have websites, you know,” he said.  He laughed, then hesitated noticeably.  “If you could raid their computer banks, you might get a list of escaped prisoners – escaped from capture, I mean – that you might want to talk to.  They’ll be reluctant to commit themselves, however; why should they?”

“We’ll find a reason,” the President said.  “For the moment, we have to get back into their world.”

Thande smiled.  “I can open a Portal at any moment you want,” he said.  “I still think that raiding their Cambridge base is the correct step forwards.  We might get their experts, to say nothing of raiding their computer systems for what information they hold.”

“Your people have scored a spectacular success,” the President said.  “I think, for the moment, that we’ll make certain that we have a working Portal first, and then…we’ll start raiding their world.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Jung said, as Agent Kay’s communicator vibrated.  

“It’s General Easterhouse,” Kay said.  “Mr President, there’s something of a situation.”

“I could grow to hate those words,” the President said.  “Mr Jung; please work on some way of contacting the resistance.  Professor Thande, please prepare your equipment for transport to the location of the probe into their world.  Agent Kay; with me.”
***
The massive display was the heart of NORAD, displaying information from all over the world.  The President had admired it in the last few days; it showed the situation in the Middle East and the war in Russia with more detail than the Russian government admitted.  The Middle East, on the other hand, had no governments left; the fall of Israel had marked the end of any organised resistance, at least until the Pakistani border.

“We have a problem,” General Easterhouse said.  “In fact, we have two problems.”  He waved a hand at the display.  Red traces showed on the display, resolving – under the President’s horror-struck eyes – into missile icons, heading north.

“They’re launching missiles,” he exclaimed.  “Where?  Are they firing at us?”

“No,” General Easterhouse said.  “They’re firing at the Russians; there are three missiles targeted on Moscow, two apiece for the other cities.”

The President felt his blood run cold.  “Have you informed the Russians?”  He demanded.  “President Gorbanov is our ally, after all.”

“We’ve shared the information with their Ambassador in New York,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President…”

A new alarm shrilled.  “Missile launch,” one of the technicians called.  “Seventeen of the latest SS-25 missiles, each with ten warheads.”

“Some of them will be decoys,” General Easterhouse muttered.  “Where are they going?”

“The Middle East, the holdings within the Ukraine…they’re trying for a saturation bombardment,” the technician called.  “Now reading…thirty more missiles, and several thermal blooms…”

“Their missiles exploded rather than launch,” General Easterhouse said.  “Will they succeed?”

“They must have gone mad,” the President breathed, trying to regain control of himself.  “Have they any chance at all of success?”

“I very much doubt it,” General Easterhouse said.  “The Nazis have been setting up ABM systems all over their territories.  We would have problems launching against them; hitting the bases in the Middle East didn’t work.”

“President Gorbanov on the hotline, Mr President,” his aide said.  “Do you want to take it in the General’s office?”

The President nodded, following General Easterhouse into his small office and taking the secure phone.  “Boris, what are you doing?”

“My country is doomed,” President Gorbanov said.  “I might live, in my bunker, but all of our cities are targeted.  The Gorgons and Gazelles will do their best, Uncle Sam, but they won’t be enough.  Moscow might be protected, but then they will just launch more missiles.”

He paused, the tension and…despair in his voice evident to all.  “I can take out the bases in Texas and New Orleans at the same time,” he said.  “You’ll be needed to help my people, under the terms of the alliance.”

The computer on the desk activated, showing a live feed…as missiles started to intercept President Gorbanov’s warheads.  One missile reached Volgograd, detonating in a burst of near-clean atomic fire.  Hundreds of thousands had died.  The President closed his eyes in horror; was there going to be anything left of their world?

“Remember us,” President Gorbanov said.  “The FSB thinks that you have a way into their world.  If I survive, we want revenge.”

The President groped for words and found none.  “We’ll hurt them,” he promised.  “We’ll make them pay.”

President Gorbanov chuckled bitterly.  “You’re finally learning,” he said.  “They must have been working towards this for a long time” – Minsk vanished in a ball of atomic fire – “and they had time to make their preparations.  So did we; the old plans from the Cold War.  There are thousands of my people outside their cities now, trying to relearn old skills.  We have hidden treasure and equipment we’ll need, just to prevent the war from destroying us all.”

“You’ll have all the help we can provide,” the President said.  A missile icon moved closer and closer to Moscow, closely followed by two more.  One vanished in the flare of a tactical atomic warhead; one followed…and one reached its target.  The line cut off before the President could say anything else.

“Moscow’s been hit,” General Easterhouse said.  “A fairly clean burst, by all accounts.”

“They don’t want to irradiate their living space,” the President said.  “What about their bases in the Middle East?”

General Easterhouse shook his head.  “Their systems are going flat-out,” he said.  “They’ve taken down most of the ballistic warheads.  The Russians might slip one though, but I doubt it.  That’s the Russians in trouble…”

“They’re out of the fight,” the President said.  “Are we going to be alone?”

“Not quite,” General Easterhouse said.  “The Nazis were aiming at exterminating the civilians; much of their army is already deployed.  They won’t be affected by the blast.  Perhaps…perhaps President Gorbanov has survived, to take control of the forces again.”

“Perhaps,” the President said.  “You wanted to slip a boomer into their world, didn’t you?”

“Maybe not a proper boomer,” General Easterhouse said.  “One with cruise missiles, not ICBMs.  They can get through defences…and teach them that payback’s a bitch!”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Nuclear Nightmares

Nazi Headquarters
Saudi Arabia (TimeLine A)

General Neumann knew that he didn’t fully understand the nations on the new world.  Israel, a tiny nation with a permanently hostile group of neighbours, had deployed a fairly effective ABM system, one that had brought down many of the tactical weapons he’d deployed against the country.  Israel was tiny; a handful of successful weapon strikes had destroyed it completely.

But none of the other nations had deployed such a shield.  The Russians had a single – very primitive, even by their standards – network, deployed around Moscow.  The nuclear-tipped rockets had actually had some effect; backed up by proper computers, radars and laser weapons they might have held off Moscow’s destruction.  Instead, many of Russia’s main cities had gone into the fire, crippling Russia and cowing many other nations.  Even as armoured columns smashed their way through the weakened Turkish defences, the resistance was starting to melt away.

If it wasn’t for the Council’s rules, he thought bitterly, I would cow the Americans with a handful of tactical strikes.  He scowled; the Reich Council had been very clear on the matter.  America, with its Aryan population, and the other handful of Aryan nations were to be spared mass holocaust.  The British, the Scandinavians, Iceland…all of them were to be added to the Reich fairly intact, once they had been broken to the rule of the Reich.

“We could cow them into submission with a handful of heavy nukes,” he’d argued.

“No,” light-and-breathy had said.  “They will adapt to our ways, our New Order, once they have lost the Jews, the blacks, the Mexicans, all of the inferiors they have allowed to contaminate their bloodstream.”

General Neumann suspected that they were wrong; the American president’s speech had been broadcast around the world, followed quickly by the British defeat of their forces in France.  Yes, the damage hadn’t been decisive…but it was dangerous; further attacks like that could cripple the Reich’s forces on the new world…leaving the war within shouting distance of being lost.

He scowled down at the display.  The nuclear bombardment of Russia had been completed; thousands of millions of the Slavic masses had been shoved into the fire.  A handful of tactical weapons had burnt holes within their defence forces, but Russia was a large place.  In this history, the Wehrmacht had been overstretched in the conquest; in his history, they had come closer to defeat than anyone knew, except the handful of people permitted to study the conquests in detail.

A flash of light in the sky announced the destruction of another Russian missile.  The Russians had fired over fifty missiles at their positions in the middle east; simple cumbersome missiles that were easy to see and easier to destroy.  A simple Brilliant Pebbles-style network, like the ones he’d seen detailed in their own space warfare books, would have stopped them all; his network had handled all, but one of the warheads.  Tehran – or what was left of it – had been nuked a second time; the only major hit the Russians had scored.

He checked the display, ensuring that there were no more unpleasant surprises coming towards the bases, and shook his head.  The Russians had been more successful in the Ukraine; they’d seriously damaged two of the invasion forces and wiped one off the face of the Earth.  The Ukrainian Government, from its current seat in Belarus, had accused the Russians of targeting their cities deliberately; apparently Russia and the Ukraine didn’t get on.

General Neumann laughed.  “If they’re always at one another’s throat, the conquest would be easy,” he said, and smiled.  The news networks had – correctly – blamed the Russians; he would have had them blame the Nazis for the attacks, just to whip up hatred and fear.  “Dieter!”

His new aide bustled in.  “Jawohl, Herr General?”

“What progress has been made on the laser weapon?”  He asked.  “Is it finally ready to use?”

“Yes, Herr General,” Dieter said.  “The weapon is ready to use as soon as you command it.”

“Come,” General Neumann said, stalking out of the building into the darkness of the night, and headed down towards the main construction zone; a massive base was already taking shape.  He scowled; it would have to be halted until their anti-aircraft systems were improved radically.  The massive laser weapon, he suspected, wouldn’t be anything like as capable as the Americans – or the Japanese of this timeline – could build.

“Are you ready to fire?”  He asked Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer, whom he’d given the task of organising the massive project.  “What about the power problems?”

“Solved,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer assured him.  The former officer of the SS-Adolf Hitler seemed pleased with his work.  He pointed down at the ground, indicating a place where something had clearly been buried.  “The small reactor is working perfectly.”

“I should hope so,” General Neumann said.  “For your sake, if not for mine.  So…what’s the first target?”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer picked up a small computer, connected by a cable to the bigger aiming computer within the laser itself.  General Neumann scowled; he was ruefully aware that a computer built in this timeline would be far more capable…and perhaps even smaller.

“We cannot use the laser for anti-aircraft work,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  “Unfortunately, the performance capabilities of the…contemporary aircraft are too high for the laser to be of much use.  However, we can damage, if not shoot down, satellites, which cannot dodge the burst.  A sustained burst of around ten seconds would cause considerable damage to their electronic systems…and cripple them still further.”

General Neumann nodded.  The Reich, mainly the Army, had been looking for a second-generation anti-artillery weapon; Metalstorm could be overwhelmed by sustained fire by any determined enemy.  Lasers had seemed the way to go, but they hadn’t managed to produce a viable death ray; just sustained bursts of high energy, fired from a system that couldn’t move very quickly.  As an anti-artillery weapon, lasers weren’t too useful – yet – but as an anti-satellite weapon, they were very good indeed; any satellite hit was overloaded and was turned into flying junk.

“This had better work,” he said.  “What’s the first target?”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer checked the system.  “It’s a recon satellite, American in origin,” he said.  “The French classed it as an older system, but one still capable.”

“Excellent,” General Neumann said.  “How long until firing?”

“Five minutes,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  “May I have permission to fire?”

General Neumann grinned.  “I assure you that there was no doubt about that,” he said.  “Fire as soon as you see the whites of their eyes.”

“The weapon has been preset for a sustained burst,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  “Firing in…four minutes…”

Precisely on time, the massive laser hummed.  Somewhat to General Neumann’s disappointment, there was no massive beam of energy; just an increasing hum from the machine.  “I see nothing,” he said, disappointed.

“It’s drawing power all right,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Fischer said.  He lifted his radio and muttered an instruction into it.  The radio buzzed back.  “The telescopes report that we hit it.”

“Marvellous,” General Neumann said.  “Continue firing…and don’t stop until the satellites are gone.”

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

“The disruption started two hours ago,” General Easterhouse said.  “Satellites passing over the Middle East started to suffer problems, ranging from power overload to camera blindness.  Several other satellites, including parts of the GPS system, have been damaged as well.”

The President stared down at his hands.  “Another EMP?”  He asked.  He scowled; the last communication from Russia had not been encouraging.  “They’ve started to use EMP again?”

General Easterhouse looked over at Steve Rogers.  “Mr Rogers?”

The President smiled, noticing Rogers for the first time.  “Long time no see,” he said.  “What are they doing to us?”

Rogers frowned.  “We’re fairly certain that it’s not an EMP,” he said.  “An EMP would be indiscriminate against all satellites.  This seems to be fairly selective; it’s aimed at reconnaissance satellites and a couple of GPS satellites.  In effect, we found this from one of the satellites before it…went offline.”

He put an image on the screen.  “This is a video of the pass over Saudi Arabia,” he said.  “Notice here?  We think that it’s their main headquarters on this side.”  He pointed to a series of buildings and ran the image forward.  The satellites moved towards a strange telescope like object…and then a crimson light flickered…and the screen died.

The President found that he was leaning forward.  “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a ground-based laser,” Rogers said.  “It’s not a perfect weapon, but its good enough for the task.  In the last few hours, they’ve taken out a number of satellites.”

“They’re crippling our ability to take the war to them in the Middle East,” General Easterhouse said.  “Our communications have taken a beating; we might lose contact with parts of the world completely.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in.  “God damn it,” the President snapped.  “What the hell are they doing?”

“They’re playing to win,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President; without satellites, we might fall all the way back to Third World status.”

The President shook his head.  “It’s not that simple,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Rogers said.  “Billions of dollars worth of operational capital are floating in orbit around Earth…and they’re now at risk, or at least those that weren’t hammered right back at the beginning of the war.  The telecommunication companies are going to be up shit creek.”

“Without a paddle,” General Easterhouse said.

“We already have economic problems,” the President said.  “Damn it; I was hoping to tackle the problems we did have with bills intended to prevent us from digging the hole again.  Now…”

“The military implications are worse,” General Easterhouse said.  “So far, they have one laser, but they’ll bring through more…and wipe the network out of space.  Once they do that, we’ll be blind completely; they’ll be able to do whatever they please in the Middle East…and we won’t see them at work.”

“And to think there was good news this morning,” the President said, wishing that he could demand that the General brought only good news.  It would be self-delusion, but perhaps it would be worth it.  “Italy has joined the war on our side.  Greece and Turkey have buried the hatchet and started joint operations against the Nazis in the Middle East.”

“They have a counter to that now,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President; the odds are very likely, from the recon drones, that they intend to launch an attack from Texas.  The recovery of Washington, and the battering the British and French handed out, must have scared hell out of them.  They intend, we suspect, to take Austin and then press north.”

“But why?”  The President asked.  His politicians’ instincts were sounding an alarm.  “They’ve just taken two beatings.”

“Then they have to hit us back at least once,” General Easterhouse said.  “With the danger that we could develop Portals, they’ll want to hammer us…”

“And they might go nuclear,” the President said.  “If they do that, we’ll destroy their positions in the Middle East.  We can slip weapons through their shield.”

“We might have to,” General Easterhouse said.  “They’re preparing for a land campaign in Texas…and they might manage to batter their way to Austin.”

“No,” the President said, putting as much power into his words as he could.  “That will not happen.”

He stood up, pacing around the room.  “General, if we pull in the garrison troops from nearby states – do we have any idea when they plan to attack?”

Rogers frowned.  “Communications intercepts suggest a week,” he said.  “It’s hard to trust that; they will almost certainly know that we can intercept their communications and break their codes.”

The President looked up at the display.  “We have two carrier groups in the Caribbean,” he said.  “We have hundreds of warplanes.  If we pull troops from the nearby states, taking up position near Texas, we can stop them dead in their tracks.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “They’re tough on the offensive,” he said.  “It will be costly.”

“I’ve lost more territory to an invader than any other president ever has,” the President snapped.  “No more; we are going to stop their offensive, dead in its tracks.  If the British can jam up their radars and their communications, then we can do it ourselves.  We can send in the airpower and stop their offensive dead in its tracks!”

General Easterhouse lifted an eyebrow.  “All of the Governors will howl,” he said.  “They want more troops in their states, not less.”

The President smiled.  “I can live with that,” he said.  “Re-election no longer matters, General; all that matters is beating them into submission.  Whatever it takes.”

“Including tactical nuclear warheads?”  General Easterhouse asked.  “It might come to that.”

The President winced.  “Standard command authority,” he said.  “Only with my permission.”  General Easterhouse nodded.  “Call the Cabinet,” he said, into his radio.  “I want everyone in the meeting room, now.”

***
The President waited impatiently as the Cabinet took their seats, motioning to Agent Kay to check that the room was secure, and then began to speak.   “The Nazis are about to try to hammer us,” he said.  “They intend to hammer upwards from their bases in Texas towards Austin, destroying the city and taking prisoner the thousands of people in the city.”

He paused.  “We are going to stop them,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with determination.  “We know what they do to people they capture, from people who share their skin colour to those who don’t; those they consider subhuman.  We are going to stop them.”

He glanced around the room.  Three of his people were black; one Hispanic.  The black population had been astonished, then horrified, at their treatment by the Nazis.  The exaggerated death tolls had found wide currency; organisations like the Black Panthers and the Black Muslims had declared war on the Nazis…and just incidentally German-Americans.  After a riot had been crushed, thousands had volunteered for the army; they were willing to fight to save the rest of their families.

The President smiled.  Anything that got thousands of young black men doing something socially useful was fine by him.  “We are going to stop them, whatever it takes,” he said.  “Comments?”

“It would perhaps be a good idea to have FEMA online,” Wilson said.  “They have to evacuate the region and get as many potential human shields out of the battlezone.”

The President nodded.  “No argument,” he said.  “What about the refugee centres?  The redoubts?”

“After Washington, we got one hell of a lot more support from the state governments,” Carter said.  “We can hold thousands more people if we have to, moving them out of the battlezone in cars and trying to direct them towards shelter.  It’s going to be bad…”

“It’s going to be very bad,” the President said, cutting him short.  “It has to happen; I need to convince Governor Harrison that that’s what has to happen.”

General Easterhouse spoke, his tone dry and ironic.  “After Washington, I don’t think that anyone could object to preparing for the worst,” he said.  “We might face their tactical nuclear weapons as well.”

“Then we have to be prepared to retaliate,” Carter said.  “At least with our own tactical weapons, if not enhanced radiation weapons.”

“And we’ll need tactical ABM systems,” the President said, pleased at the brainstorming.  “If they resort to missile fire, we’ll want a counter.”

“The Navy stands ready with anti-missile fire from Aegis cruisers,” Admiral Joan Rawlings said.  “We can hammer their bases flat.”

“Even without satellites?”  General Easterhouse said.  “We’re going to have to start assigning aircraft to supporting telecommunications systems.”

“Balls,” the President said.  “The Navy will have to do its part.”

Rawlings smiled.  “We could send in the 1st Marine Division,” she said.  “It was embarked for transport to China and remains embarked, waiting for its orders.  We were expecting to have to send them to Gitmo.”

“Castro still having fits about us dumping the Nazi prisoners there?”  The President asked.  A special Presidential Finding had removed the Nazis from any legal protections; the special prison was safer for them than leaving them to the tender mercies of lynch squads.  “Anyone would think that he would be worried about a Nazi-dominated world.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “Did anyone ask Jung what happened to Cuba in his timeline?”  He asked.  He cursed suddenly.  “There’s another problem,” he said.  “They might try to attack us in the rear.”

“Through a Portal,” the President understood.  “My God; if we could catch them by surprise as they come through…”

“We’d need more of Thande’s detectors,” General Easterhouse said.  “If all of the satellites start going down, we’re suddenly going to be blind for Portal detection as well.”

The President swore.  “Leave that problem for the moment,” he said.  “What about the ground-based ballistic missile detection systems?”

“They won’t be affected by the lasers,” General Easterhouse said.  “If they try to use ICBMs against us, we’ll see them coming.”

The President nodded.  “General, I’ll talk to Governor Harrison,” he said.  “For the moment, make your preparations.”  He scowled.  “Robin…I want a total – and I mean total – media blackout on this.  Promise them embedded reporters if they cooperate; prison sentences if they don’t.  The last thing we need is for them to catch on to us and act against us in some other place.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Carter said.  “After Washington, a few minds got concentrated nicely.  They’ll cooperate.”

“We could tell them that we plan to attack New Orleans,” General Easterhouse said.  “If they tell that to the world, the Nazis might assume that we intend to attack them, rather than going onto the defensive…”

“Too clever,” the President said.  “Too much could go wrong.”  He paused.  “I have confidence that we will come through this storm; this opportunity gives us the chance to hand them a defeat that will shatter their confidence forever.”  He looked around the room.  “Let’s get started.”

Chapter Thirty-Three: Remember the Alamo

Houston/Austin
Texas, USA (TimeLine A)

There were no less that seventeen Portals open within the occupied regions of Texas, most of them covered to hide what came through from American spy satellites.  The Reich used its own satellites to spy on their own people…so why would the Americans not do the same, or at least have the capability to do that?  General Ernst Steiner, commander of the occupation force, assumed that they would…and planned accordingly.  All major movements were made at night; all units were carefully hidden from orbital surveillance during the day.

“I just had the latest report from headquarters,” his aide said.  Captain Klein was young, but competent; he had served well in the first battles around Houston.  “They’re sending us SS-Himmler.”

“Wonderful,” Steiner said, sardonically.  Unlike the Wehrmacht, the SS armed forces – almost a second army in their own right – gave their divisions names as a formal designation.  SS-Adolf Hitler had been wiped out at Washington…and the SS needed to save face.  He scowled; the SS were brave, no doubt about that, and they were tough, but they were fanatics.  Retreat wasn’t in their list of words, even as a ‘tactical retreat,’ much less a ‘tactical strike without arms.’  The Wehrmacht’s snide term for surrender was anthemia to the SS, who had unaccountably failed to destroy Washington.

“Yes, Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “They’re supposed to begin transit in half an hour.”

Steiner muttered a description of Himmler’s commanding officer under his breath.  “If they do that, then some of our supplies won’t be ready in time for the grand offensive.”

“I have tried to explain that to the commanding officer,” Captain Klein said.  “You know what they’re like.”

Steiner scowled.  The SS and the Wehrmacht were forbidden by law and custom from resorting to open violence to settle disputes, but disagreements could turn really unpleasant very quickly.  They even disagreed over tactical doctrine; the SS believed in launching an attack during the preliminary bombardment, while the Wehrmacht believed in softening the enemy up first.

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” he said, checking his watch.  “How long until they complete their transition?”

“There’s five hundred Panthers and three hundred support vehicles,” Captain Klein said.  “It won’t take them more than an hour to make transit and take their positions.”

Steiner scowled.  “Let me guess,” he said.  “They want prime position for the attack?”

Captain Klein nodded.  “I’m afraid so,” he said.  “They want to attack at the same time as the bombardment of the closest known enemy position.”

Steiner smiled.  “Cannon fodder,” he said.  “Very well; they can have their wish…and good luck to them.”

“Jawohl,” Captain Klein said.  “I’ll inform the commanding officer at once.”

***
General Morrigan lifted an eyebrow as Julius Driver was escorted into the headquarters, a small building that had once been a state police headquarters before it had been abandoned in the wake of the war.  The journalist was middle-aged, with grey hair starting to appear in his fine dark hair…and handsome dark face.  Too dark for a tan, General Morrigan realised; Driver was a black man.

“Thank you for having me,” Driver said.  His accent was pure Washingtonian.  “I was intended to be in the Washington force, but instead…I got sent down here.”

“Yes,” Morrigan said, shaking his hand.  “I confess to some concern, Mr Driver; have you seen the bodies from Washington?”

He meant the bodies of the executed black men.  “Yes, I have,” Driver admitted.  “I won’t lie to you and say that that pleases me…”

“It doesn’t please me either,” Morrigan said.  “I have one success under my belt, at Washington, and then that happens to prove that my success is only limited.”

“It hardly matters,” Driver said.  “What matters is simple; I have agreed to take the risk of falling into their hands.”

Morrigan blinked.  “You’re their worst fear, an educated black man,” he said.

Driver frowned.  “An uppity nigger?”

“Exactly,” Morrigan said.  “They have been shooting black men in Houston; we assume that they’ve been shooting black women as well.  If you fall into their hands, you will be executed; understand that?”

“I do,” Driver said.  “I have agreed to take the risk.”

Morrigan smiled.  “You’re a braver man than I am,” he said.  “There is another point; I cannot – I will not – risk the army to rescue you if you get into trouble.  If they catch you, you may not be rescued before they pass sentence and kill you.  I assume you know the standard rules for embedded journalists?”  Driver nodded.  “Many of our satellites are having problems,” Morrigan said.  “That may make it difficult for you to give live reports.  However…if you do anything to risk the safety of the division to which you will be assigned, you will be locked up for the next fifty years – at minimum.  You could be executed by us at worst.”

He was amused to notice that Driver didn’t swallow.  “I understand,” he said.  “I will follow instructions.”

Morrigan felt a brief burst of humour.  “If you do something stupid like transmitting their location, which is your location, you might get killed by the enemy,” he said.  “Don’t forget that either.”

Driver frowned.  “I thought that they couldn’t track microbursts,” he said.  “I thought that they didn’t have that technology themselves.”

“Or so the intelligence weenies think,” Morrigan said.  “I would prefer not to find out the hard way that they were wrong.  They know what we can do, Mr Driver, and an unflinching refusal to panic and overestimate the enemy can compensate for technological inferiority.  If they adapt their tactics....”

Driver lifted an eyebrow.  “Would that have helped the Zulus?”

“One of those back to the motherland people?”  Morrigan asked.  He smiled.  “Yes, it would have helped them; they could have hurt the British badly if they’d adapted their tactics to meet the British weapons in areas advantageous to them, rather than charging madly at British weapons.”

“I spent two years in Somalia,” Driver said.  “That knocked all of the back to the homelands shit out of me.”

“Very wise,” Morrigan said.  “You are being embedded in the 3rd Mixed Division, which is being held in reserve for the moment.”

Driver blinked.  “A Mixed Division?”

Morrigan nodded.  “A lot of units got chewed to bits in the fighting,” he said.  “The survivors have been integrated as new units; we don’t have time for anything fancy.  The Mixed Divisions won’t last for long, Mr Driver, but we need them.”  He smiled.  “The only problem is putting Marines and soldiers together.”

Driver laughed.  “One final question,” he said.  “What do you feel about the Canadians taking over the defence of Washington?”

Morrigan smiled.  “It’s not a problem for me,” he said.  “I know about many of the debates on the Internet about it, but frankly…we need the troops down here.  It was a pain in the ass moving so many around, but we’re going to need them.”  He stood up.  “Good luck, Mr Driver.”

He watched as Driver left his office, and then lifted his radio.  “This is command,” he said.  “Any updates?”

“Some hints from the stealth drones,” Captain Nancy Manlito reported.  “Sir, they might be preparing to come for us.”

Morrigan nodded.  “Send the updates to the NCA,” he said, “then warn all of the bases around Texas.  Tell them…it’s on.”

***
SS Oberstgruppenfuehrer Felix Bauer, at least, proved to be a reasonable and competent man…provided that he got his way.  His volunteering of the entire SS division to storm the first line of American defences had been annoying to Steiner, but it would save the Wehrmacht units for later, for the penetration.  He checked the map again, ensuring that he knew where the main American lines were, and then he lifted his telephone.

“Fire,” he said.

The single crash of the guns echoed across the air, as all of the German guns fired at once.  Ten seconds later, there was a second crash, and then a third, launching thousands of shells towards the American positions.  The Americans had no effective anti-artillery weapon; even if they had a working Metalstorm they would be unlikely to be able to take down all of the shells before they arrived.

“Impacts observed by the scouts,” Captain Klein said.  “We’re scoring hits.”

“I expected that,” Steiner said.  “How effective are they?”

An alarm sounded from the Metalstorm controller.  “They’re returning fire,” he snapped.  “Herr General; they’re firing back at us.”

Steiner scowled.  “And that’s a surprise?”  He asked dryly.  He’d expected that as well; American artillery might never be massed in the same concentrations as the Wehrmacht, but it was devilishly accurate.  “Shift our fire to take out theirs,” he ordered.  “Where’s the Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”

“The SS are nearly at the first of the lines,” Captain Klein said, listening to his radio.  “They’re about to hit the Americans.”

Steiner smiled.  “Hope they’re keeping their heads down,” he said, checking the map.  One problem the Americans – and his own forces – faced was that it was literally impossible to throw a wall of steel around the invasion site, or at least one that could fend off more than a small attack.  The Americans had concentrated on strongpoints; one of them was about to be attacked by the SS.

He lifted his telephone and barked an order.  “The 7th Panzer and the 23rd Heavy Panzer are to move in five minutes,” he ordered.  The Americans had left – had had no choice, but to leave – holes in their lines; places where their defences were weak.  While the SS was gaining glory, the Wehrmacht would score the real victory, by breaking through the lines and surrounding the American positions.

“They report ready,” Captain Klein said.  “The SS is engaging the enemy now.”

***
“On your feet, you bastards,” Sergeant Len Maobi bellowed, as the Nazi shelling stopped.  He was grimly certain that they would only stop shelling when their attack was about to go in; the American shelters seemed to have held against most of the shelling.  “Grab your weapons and take up positions, now!”

The infantry scrambled to their feet, running forward towards their positions, a heavy trench that they’d converted from a building site into a defensive strongpoint.  Houston itself seemed to be covered in smoke; the Nazis had fired thousands of shells at the Americans.  From time to time, blasts of fire would leap up when the American artillery scored a hit, but their attention was diverted…by the black-garbed troopers approaching their position.

“Fire,” Maobi bellowed, firing a long burst towards one of the Nazi infiltrators, as the young man saw that the Americans were taking up their positions.  The Nazi jerked backwards as three bullets struck him, blowing the side of his head off and killing him instantly.  His companions threw themselves to the ground, hurling grenades and small bursts from their weapons back at the Americans.

“Panzers,” one of his men shouted, as three of the Nazi tanks, the smaller ones, rounded the crest of the ridge.  “They’re firing!”

“Rockets,” Maobi snapped.  The Nazi infantry were gathering their strength as the Panther roared onwards, firing massive bursts from its machine guns into the American positions.  “Someone kill that thing, now!”

“Take that, you bastards,” one of his soldiers shouted, firing an anti-tank rocket towards the Panther.  The rocket, one of the new ones, melted through the Panther and exploded inside; the Nazi tank exploded completely seconds later.  There were no survivors.

A bullet cracked just past Maobi’s head; a grenade went off seconds later, tossing him to the ground.  He staggered to his feet, firing randomly to force the Nazis to keep their heads down, looking at the situation.  It was grim; the Nazis were on the verge of falling into the trenches…which would allow them to unravel the entire defensive point.

“Oh, piss off,” he snapped, firing at a Nazi officer.  He hoped that his snipers were busy; the Nazi officers were leading their attacks in person.  He could have almost admired their bravery; few of the real enemies of the United States dared to face the American soldiers in person.

“I think we’d better fall back, Sarge,” one of his men said.  “They’ve broken into the next trench…”

“Oh, fuck,” Maobi swore.  He blew the whistle around his neck, the signal for retreat.  He fired a final volley, and then pulled a switch to start the timer.  Ten seconds later, several mines detonated, providing a distraction for his forces.  “Move, everyone move!”

He ran, following the rest of his men.  The second defensive position had been hammered by the shellfire, but it was still intact.  The men who had come forward were already taking up positions, covering the retreat.  One of the officers was talking into a tactical radio, calling in shellfire to aid the defence.  A rifle was sitting on his knees, carefully pointed towards the enemy.  

Maobi staggered over to him.  “I beg leave to report that the first line has fallen,” he said.

Insanely, the officer laughed.  “Believe me, I noticed,” he said.  “Take your positions here and…”

A single shot killed him, right in front of Maobi.  The Sergeant threw himself down, lifting his weapon.  A pack of Nazis had sneaked around, trying to attack the Americans in the rear.  Maobi fired madly, trying to stop them all…when a shot caught him in the shoulder.  He dropped his weapon, trying to reach the grenades at his belt.  

Was there enough explosive to kill them all?  He wondered.  It was the hardest thing in the world to slowly, somehow, reach down and pull the pin out of a grenade.  There was enough explosive to kill most of the Nazis…but Maobi was past caring.  The blast ended seventeen lives…and allowed the strongpoint to hold out for an extra ten minutes.

***
“The bastards have managed to punch though the first lines,” Captain Nancy Manlito reported grimly.  “General, they have managed to…uh-oh.”

“That is not a report, Captain,” Morrigan snapped.  “What’s happened?”

“The first attacks were a diversion,” Captain Nancy Manlito snapped.  “Sir, they’ve punched through our lines with heavy armour at three separate points.  All of a sudden, the remaining strongpoints have proven untenable.”

“As is their social system,” Morrigan muttered.  The display adjusted as the drones tried to keep up with the changes.  “Pull back all of the soldiers from the remaining strongpoints if they can leave safely.  If not, tell them to fight to the last.”  He scowled.  “That’s a heavy attack,” he said.  “I think it might be time to deploy the air force against it.”

“There is the Mixed Division nearby,” Captain Nancy Manlito suggested.  “If we gave them a bloody nose, we could hold the aircraft in reserve until more of the enemy are committed.”  She paused.  “You know how reluctant the air force weenies are to use their precious aircraft in dangerous situations.”

Morrigan nodded absently.  “A good suggestion,” he agreed.  “Inform the 3rd Mixed Division that they are to move forward and engage the enemy with all speed.”  He paused.  “Remind them that they are a holding operation, nothing more.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  “It will be done.”

Morrigan smiled.  “Let’s hope so,” he said.  “Keep pulling back units from the strongpoints; we don’t want them too exposed to the fury of German artillery.”

***
Gunnery Sergeant Burtis had been horrified at the thought of spending time fighting beside soldiers from the Army, rather than his fellow Marines, but he knew that there was no real choice.  His unit had been shot to pieces; the other Marine units didn’t have time to take him in…and there were plenty of other survivors of Washington who no longer had units.  He didn’t know who had thought of the idea of putting them into three large units – some staff puke, no doubt – but he had to admit that it had proven workable…once the inevitable fights had been dealt with.

Less amusing was the presence of the reporter in his tank.  He’d tried to protest, but his commander had been insistent; Burtis was one of the heroes of Washington and deserved some press coverage.  He was also considered responsible enough to command a tank, his commander had pointed out, and so he could shut up and soldier.  

“Take it like a man,” his commander had ordered him, before the Abrams had been moved to its location, some twenty miles from Houston.  The massive build-up of vehicles had been obvious to all concerned; Burtis could only hope that the Germans were unaware of the build-up.  He didn’t believe it; the United States had thousands of designs of reconnaissance drones, some of which could hide from radar with ease.  What stopped the Nazis from deploying similar weapons?

“Take your position there,” he ordered, as the orders came through.  “I have to fight this tank, so please say nothing” – his tone indicating that ‘please’ was a very firm command – “that might get us both killed.”

“I understand,” Driver said, taking the place that Burtis had pointed out.  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The black reporter had to have been cramped in the location, but he said nothing.  Unwillingly impressed, Burtis stuck his head out of the tank, glancing around at the other tanks.  The other vehicles, the self-propelled guns and the anti-aircraft systems, were positioned behind the tanks; it was the tanks that would carry the main burden of the fighting.

“Mount up,” he bellowed.  He checked his radio.  “Orders, captain?”

“We’re to advance to oppose the enemy breakthrough at…”

Captain Harry Bunton’s voice broke off.  Burtis blinked, then scowled as his system blinked an alert.  He stared down at the small computer, at the small icon that had appeared, only a few hundred meters from their position, and cursed in several different languages.  The icon had never been used in drills; they’d only been told about it once.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, ignoring all the warnings about getting good press.  “That really…puts the fat in the fire and the Nazis up the ass…”

Chapter Thirty-Four: In Death Ground…Fight!

Houston/Austin
Texas, USA (TimeLine A)

Morrigan glanced up sharply as the alarm shrilled.  It took him a moment to remember what that alarm was for, and then he cursed violently.  The alarm was connected to a series of Portal detection sensors, all designed by Professor Thande and built rapidly in California.

“General, there are Portals opening behind the lines,” Captain Nancy Manlito snapped.  “At least one; perhaps more!”

Morrigan bit down on his sudden anger.  The Nazis had planned it well; their attack force was emerging near the reserve positions…except they hadn’t gotten it quite right.  Perhaps the runner hadn’t been as fleet as possible, perhaps, or perhaps it was something else, but it didn’t matter.  This time…there was a possible counter.

“Order the 3rd Mixed Division to engage the Portal directly,” he snapped.  “Everything coming through has to be blasted.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito snapped.  “I’ll inform them at once!”

***
Burtis swore as the icon for the Portal appeared, only a few hundred meters from his position.  Seconds later, an explosion marked the death of several of his people; the Germans had clearly come through shooting.

“Captain Bunton, we have to engage,” he snapped.  “We have to seal the Portal off before they get into position…”

“We have orders to do that,” Bunton snapped.  “Get over there, now!”

“Move us,” Burtis snapped.  “There’s a Portal in the rear and it needs to be closed.”

“Moving,” the driver said.  “Crikey; its back in the base.”

Burtis nodded as the Abrams swung around, heading back towards the sudden rising column of smoke.  The tank roared towards the former base; Burtis saw a store of fuel for the tanks exploding as they drew closer.  Then…

“A Tiger,” he snapped.  “Gunner; load heavy shells, now!”

“Loaded,” the gunner sang out, as the German Panzer noticed them.

“Fire,” Burtis snapped.  “Kill that bastard!”

The tank jumped as it fired a shell directly into the Tiger.  The shell damaged the enemy tank, melting through its armour, but not quite destroying it.  “Fire two,” Burtis snapped.  Even a damaged Tiger was a dangerous foe.  “Kill him!”

The gunner fired again.  “Got him,” he said, as the Tiger exploded.  “Better armour or a lucky glancing hit?”

“More like bad shooting,” Burtis muttered, as they drove towards the Portal.  Their companions opened fire in their mad charge, firing on the Tigers that were emerging from the Portal.  The five that had already deployed – two had clearly been destroyed by the forces on the base before they were killed – fired back madly at the American tanks, hitting three and destroying them with ease.

“Kill them,” Burtis snapped, as German infantrymen deployed from the Portal.  One fell back into the Portal, vanishing within its white light…and something clicked within Burtis’s mind.

“The Portal isn’t one-way,” he snapped.  “We need a precision bomb, now!”

“That could prove risky,” the gunner said, scoring a hit on a Tiger.  One Tiger was left, trying to hit the Americans and steer out of their way, but it was too slow to avoid the faster Abrams.  “We’re close…”

“Pull us back, now,” Burtis snapped.  He glanced down at his display.  “Captain, you have to hold the other units back…”

“More infantry,” the gunner noted.  “I think that…”

A Tiger materialised out of the Portal, its guns blazing away at the American force.  Burtis snapped out orders; the Abrams lurched backwards, firing its main gun at the Tiger and scoring a direct hit.  The Portal flickered madly as the Tiger exploded; part of the tank was right inside it.  The Portal stabilised…and then the JDAM arrived.  This time, it went through the Portal…and some of the blast came back through the Portal, which vanished microseconds later.

“I think we got it,” Burtis said, absolutely astonished.  He’d expected to be pouring water on the fire, smothering it with the bodies of his own men, but the disappearance of the Portal was a complete surprise.  “Why didn’t they make it one-way?”

***
“Herr General, the Portal on our side was hit and destroyed by one of their weapons,” the runner gasped.  “The Portal has been closed permanently.”

General Ernst Steiner took a breath.  “Remind me again why General Neumann wanted us to leave the Portal two-way,” he ordered.

“I believe that he wanted to maintain communication between our side and their side,” Captain Klein said.  “It’s not all bad news; we made major advances while they were distracted.”

“Thank you,” Steiner said absently.  “How many losses did SS-Himmler take?”

“Twenty Panzers and nearly two hundred men,” Captain Klein said.  “The SS Oberstgruppenfuehrer wasn’t pleased.”

“He was the commanding officer,” Steiner said dryly.  “I think we’d better press the offensive forward towards Austin.”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “The SS in the lead?”

“I think we better had,” Steiner said.  “This time, however, I think we’d better send in the aircraft as well.”

“Herr General…”

“I know,” Steiner said, overriding his aide’s concern.  “I understand, but we need a diversion…before they send in their own aircraft.”

***
Captain Hank Goldberg was fourth-generation German-American; a child born of Jewish parents who’d fled Germany during the 1930s.  He’d been brought up to love America and to respect Israel, serving his country as best as he could.  His service as a skilled F-15 pilot had led to him being invited to serve in one of the newest squadrons equipped with the latest in American combat technology; the F-22 Raptor.

He checked his display, accessing transmissions from the AWACS rather than using the Raptor’s own radars; radar signals would attract attention to the squadron from the Germans…and the British had lost Eurofighters to ground-based weapons.  No on wanted to lose the first Raptor in a combat mission to a Metalstorm blast.  His mission was simple; provide air cover to the forces battling on the ground.

“Alpha flight, we have incoming enemy aircraft,” his controller said.  “Kill them for us, would you?”

Goldberg smiled at the cold disdain in the controller’s voice.  Washington had shocked hell out of a lot of people.  “Yes, sir,” he said, activating the Raptor’s weapons systems.  The German aircraft were pieces of junk compared to the Raptor, but there was no need to get overconfident.  Even a primitive aircraft, with a good pilot, could cause trouble.

“Squadron orders, selected AMRAAM missiles,” he snapped.  The Raptor should be invisible to German radars, but he swung the aircraft around randomly, just in case.  A single hint of their presence and the Germans would fire on them with their ground-based weapons.  The rest of the tactical air force was lurking well away from the Germans, waiting for their chance…

He smiled.  The German aircraft were heading for the command base, perhaps to bomb it with their own weapons, clearly unaware of their presence.  “Fire,” he said, launching two of his AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles at the German aircraft.  The Germans reacted slowly, trying to dodge…and their countermeasures were useless.  Twelve German aircraft exploded as his wingmen fired, slaughtering the Germans.

“Whose your daddy?”  One of his wingmen demanded.  “We kicked their ass!”

“Silence,” Goldberg snapped.  He scowled; the remaining German aircraft were not retreating, but they were clearly stunned; looking for them instead of continuing with their mission.  “Control; should we kill the others?”

“Yes, Captain,” his controller said.  “Kill them.”

Poor brave stupid bastards, Goldberg thought, selecting two more of his AMRAAM missiles.  “Lock on…and fire!”

***
Steiner cursed as he realised just how outclassed the Luftwaffe was.  “It’s no good,” he snapped.  “We can’t even get any good out of their deaths.”

Captain Klein nodded.  “Should they be withdrawn, Herr General?”

Steiner nodded.  “Order them to pull back,” he said.  “It’s time to finish this, quickly.”

***
“The Air Defence Network is reporting that the Nazis have abandoned their attempt to attack us from the air,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  “I think every last dollar we paid for the F-22 has just proven itself.”

“Good work,” Morrigan said.  “I think its time we tried to break up their attacking force, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  She waved a hand at the map; the Nazis had overrun all of the positions and were heading up towards where their Portal had opened.  “Air attacks?”

Morrigan considered.  “Not…yet,” he said slowly.  “I want the Mixed Division to fight…here,” he said, pointing to a location.  “the enemy should bump into them and try to pile on.”

He smiled.  “At that point, the aircraft go into action.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  “We’d better start jamming them then too.”

Morrigan smiled.  “Yes, Captain,” he said.  “We’ll crash their radar net…and kill them all from the air.”

***
Burtis checked the map as the force of tanks prepared themselves for the coming battle, wondering what the hell was going on.  The infantry, those who had survived the first battle, were preparing a defensive line, with lots of heavy weapons and artillery, which was even now firing at the oncoming enemy.  It was as if they wanted to lure the Nazis to the spot.

“Hold the tanks back in reserve,” Colonel Faulkner snapped.  “Your job is to counterattack when they break through.”

Burtis shook his head at the lunacy of his orders, scowling all the while.  It would be easy to break contact and employ the Abrams in their proper role, but instead…the Mixed Division was being staked out for the wolf.  He blinked; it wasn’t just the 3rd Mixed Division.  Several other units were rolling up, preparing to fight as well.

“Incoming enemy,” Captain Harry Bunton said, his voice grim.  Burtis understood; the Captain suspected that his entire force was being thrown to the wolves.  He thought for a moment that he should say something to Driver, but he changed his mind.  What would have been the point?  “Stand by to engage…”

The wave of Nazi armour crashed into the line of infantry, ignoring the mines exploding under their treads.  Some Panzers ground to a halt, others exploded under the antitank weapons, but they kept coming.  “Move us,” Burtis snapped, as the infantry line began to break.  “Gunner; fire as you bear.”

The tank shuddered as it launched a shell towards the closest Panther Panzer.  The target exploded; its companions fired back.  The driver threw the tank through a series of wild manoeuvres, trying to escape, but Burtis knew that it was only a matter of time before they were hit.  Two more of their tanks exploded as the enemy closed in, firing…and then the aircraft appeared in the sky.

“Fuck me,” Burtis breathed, as a chain of explosions ran down the line of Nazi armour.  Three massive B-52s flew overhead, dropping hundreds of little bombs on the Panzers…and destroying the entire regiment.  “Perhaps it wasn’t so stupid after all.”

A flicker of blue light lanced up towards a B-52, blasting it out of the sky.  The aircraft crashed into the ground in a spectacular explosion.  A missile lanced down from the sky, slamming into the Metalstorm unit and destroying it.  Explosions rang across the entire German force, utterly shattering it.  

“It’s a by God damned highway of death,” the driver said.  “Just like happened in Iraq, sir; we blasted an entire Iraqi division and then we didn’t finish the job.”

Burtis casually allowed Driver to look up, outside the tank.  The flames were burning brightly as FAE and other weapons were deployed, completing the slaughter.  “They’ve been broken, sir; how can anyone survive that?”

***
Captain Klein’s voice was as stunned as Steiner had ever heard it; the losses were horrifying.  “Herr General, that’s…nearly four complete divisions gone, including the SS-Himmler and the two main Panzer forces.”

Steiner nodded, trying to think.  “They haven’t started to jam our radars,” he said.  “That’s just a matter of time, however; have we located some of their main staging posts?”

“Yes, Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “Three of them.  The scouts found them as they were watching for the Portals.  They have quite a lot of tanks moving through them.”

“I think its time to end this,” Steiner snarled.  “Even without that SS bastard along, we should have been able to win.  Do we have precise locations on their armoured forces?”

“They’re gathering for an attack,” Captain Klein said.  He tapped the map.  “They’re rushing forces forward into these locations here.”

Steiner glared at the map.  It had been taken from a shop in Houston and was far more detailed than anything the Reich had possessed for the other timeline.  “Perfect bases,” he said.  “I think its time to use the tactical weapons.”

Captain Klein lifted an eyebrow.  When he spoke, his tone was curiously reluctant.  “The radiation weapons or the blast weapons?”

Steiner thought for a moment.  “The blast weapons, I think,” he said.  “We don’t want to leave them anything they can use later.”  He paused.  “Oh, and as a final fallback, I want a long-range missile prepared.  One with a heavy warhead.”

“Jawohl,” Captain Klein said.  “And the target?”

Steiner told him.

“Herr General, are you serious?”  Captain Klein asked.  “Do you have the authority to order such a strike?”

“We have to cow them,” Steiner said.  “As soon as that weapon is ready, I want it launched.”

“Jawohl,” Captain Klein said.  He put as much disapproval as he dared into his voice.  “It will be done as you command.”

***
General Morrigan sighed in relief as the last German vehicle outside their air defence umbrella was hunted down and destroyed.  He’d ordered a handful of cruise missiles to be fired at the German positions inside Houston, in the interests of discovering how capable the German network was at the moment, and it was still working.  Metalstorm units had intercepted the cruise missiles before they could do any damage.  

“Pity, that,” he muttered.  His sprit of slight experimentation with German capabilities had faded slightly.  “Taking it down won’t be hard, but it will be annoying.”

“The air force reports that its ready to attack the city,” Captain Nancy Manlito reported.  “They want your permission to attack the German defences around the city first, and then move on to the Portals themselves.”

“Slight slip of the tongue there?”  Morrigan teased.  “Who lives there that you don’t like?”

“Old boyfriend,” Captain Nancy Manlito admitted, her face slightly flushed.  “What do you want to tell them?”

Morrigan considered.  Re-taking Houston would be a real feather in his cap…if he could do it with the city reasonably intact.  A ruined city, like Washington, would not please anyone, least of all the President.  There was something to be said for trying, but it might be simpler to besiege the city rather than take it by force.

“Tell them to take down the network and hammer their defences,” he said.  “The Portals are not to be touched, at least until everything else has finished.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  She smiled.  “You want to give them somewhere to retreat to?”

Morrigan nodded.  “And I want the armoured units to move forward with infantry support, now,” he said.  She nodded.  “If there is an opportunity to take the city in a single blow, I want us positioned to take advantage of it.”

Captain Nancy Manlito nodded and headed over to the computers to issue the orders.  Morrigan shook his head, examining the display.  If they were really lucky – and with some help from the Air Force and the Navy they might just be – they might be able to drive to Houston and cut the Nazi positions into three separate sections.  Hell, they might be able to land the Marines and…

“General,” Captain Nancy Manlito snapped.  “We have a problem.”

Morrigan’s head snapped around at her tone.  “What?”  He snapped.  “What is it?”

“That,” she said.  “Missile launches; three of them.  There’s no attempt to hide the launches.”

“Take them down,” he snapped.  Missiles were bad news.  “Where are they going?”

“Four of them now,” she said.  Her voice rose slightly.  “Three of them are heading towards our forward bases, including here; Patriot missiles are coming online now.  The fourth one…no target yet, which means its some distance away.”

“Hit it if you can,” Morrigan snapped.   “Find out where it’s going…”

“Shit,” she said.  “Sir…that’s the target!”

“Hit it,” Morrigan said.  “Take them all down…”

“Two interceptions,” she said.  “Sir, staging post two is about to be hit, and so is” – she couldn’t bring herself to say it – “the other target.”

***
Burtis was lucky; he was facing away from the blast when it detonated.  A wash of heat passed over the land, scalding his back.  He gasped in pain and turned, half-expecting to be dead, to see a massive mushroom cloud rising over the land.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed.  The sight was awe-inspiring and sickening at the same time.  “Mr Driver, I think you’ll want to see this.”

“They nuked Texas?”  Driver demanded.  “What happened?”

“That was one of the staging posts,” the gunner said.  “At a guess, that’s a small tactical nuclear warhead – small, of course, is a relative term when nukes are involved.”  They looked at him.  “Hell, I study.”

Burtis forced down an insane urge to laugh.  “What the hell do we do now?”  He asked.  “They just nuked Texas…”

Driver blanched; an impressive effect on his dark skin.  “Are we in any danger?”  He asked.  “What about radiation?”

“No idea,” Burtis said.  A second flash, from the north, glittered in the distance.  He scowled, trying to remember what lay in that direction; the blast had been quite some distance away.  “Where the hell was that?”  He asked.  “Guns; check the counter.”

“Only a small dose,” the gunner said, after a moment.  “Sir, there’s a message coming in.”

Burtis scowled.  “Probably the warning,” he said.  He took the headphones and listened.  “My God.”

“What’s happened?”  Driver asked.  “What have they done?”

Burtis let the headphones fall to the ground.  “They just nuked Austin,” he said.  “The entire city is gone.”

Chapter Thirty-Five: Across the Dimensional Divide

Thule Research Station
Greenland (Timeline A)

It had been a surprise to Professor Thande to discover that the United States maintained a nuclear-powered research facility in Greenland; one originally intended for sensitive atomic research.  The reactor itself might have been removed – and wouldn’t be able to provide enough power for the research anyway - but the complex had never been closed down completely; the Pentagon had fully expected that research would continue – one day.  As it happened, it made a perfect location to jump into TimeLine C; it was out of the way in both timelines, as far as they could tell.

Thande examined the complex with considerable interest.  One thing that Jung had said – and his own simulations confirmed – was that Portals didn’t exist in matter.  In effect, an attempt to form a Portal that passed through a building was doomed to fail.  That had been more than a little disappointing – his sense for profitable research that might fund more research had suggested that it might be possible to use a Portal to mine for rare metals – but at least it meant that secure areas could be sealed against direct invasion.  

He scowled.  That offered dangers, however, and one of them was that their own Portal had to be opened in an old building, in the hopes that the pre-1930’s building would exist in TimeLine C.  Jung hadn’t been too clear on the state of Greenland in his timeline, but Thande didn’t expect that there would be a strong German presence.  Whatever the ideological importance the Germans attached to Greenland, it simply wasn’t as necessary a base as it had been before the War of 1960.  Why garrison Greenland if you had major bases on the mainland?

That didn’t apply, of course, to his timeline.  The bases on Greenland had been run down slightly after the end of the cold war, only to be brought back to full active status when the new war began.  There were over two thousand soldiers on Greenland, with a remit to stop any hostile penetration of their timeline…by any means necessary.  Most of the air power had been removed; the aircraft carrier close by would provide any necessary air cover.

Thande smiled.  He’d worked for the Ministry of Defence before, of course, but he’d never had an entire carrier battle group providing security for any of his previous experiments.  He chuckled, shivering in the cold, and looked towards the projected base of operations.  

The building, apparently, had been built for fishermen from Iceland.  Greenland, a flat country with hardly any trees, had very little in the way of natural shelter, which suggested that a Portal that wasn’t opened inside the building would be visible from space.  Steve Rogers had reported that Portals couldn’t be seen directly, but Thande knew that one false camera angle and they would be revealed.

“Professor Thande?”

Thande turned slightly to see Steve Rogers, the man who’d brought the puzzle to him so long ago.  “Steve,” he said, as gravely as he could.  “What’s happening?”

Rogers frowned.  “The Ethan Allen reports that it’s reactor is ready to go,” he said.  “We can proceed at will.”

Thande looked over the semi-darkened land towards where he knew the nuclear submarine was positioned, hooked up to a series of power relays that would pump power into the Portal generating system.  After that…it was all up to him.

“Let’s go,” he said.

***
Once he had become aware of the existence of alternate timelines, it had been easy to design the math that detailed the nature of a link between two separate timelines.  One irony was that it was easier to link to a timeline that was further diverged from the ‘home’ timeline; the ‘address’ of any single timeline was apparently defined as its unique quantum structure.  Thande had a very quiet suspicion that some of his early experiments had actually accessed fragments of his own timeline, but as no experiment – by order of the President and confirmed by the Prime Minister – had made contact with an alternate timeline, it was hard to be certain.  

The math, however, had a number of interesting implications.  One, as it happened, was that a Portal was really a fold in time and space, linking two dimensions together.  A person could walk into the front or back of a Portal and step through; a person who tried to walk into the edge of the Portal was apparently tossed through anyway.  For some reason, there had been a shortage of volunteers to test that theory.  

Thande scowled.  A further implication of the math was that it should be possible to generate a waveform that would disrupt the link between the two universes; effectively collapsing a Portal.  The problem was that the President had been reluctant to throw the project open to the outside world…despite the fact that every university and research company had already opened a project into Portals.  Emergency legislation had been passed…which Thande suspected would be no good at all; the effects of a Portal might not appear in the origin world.

He shook his head as he examined the display.  That wasn’t the problem; the problem was that the more minds working on a project, the more chance of actually making significant discoveries.  What one man could discover – and prove to be possible – another could duplicate; genius was only required for the first spark.  What one man could discover, another could improve upon…just as Thande himself had improved upon the concept from the Nazi World; TimeLine C.

But as long as the President insisted on keeping the project under security, the progress would be slower…and they might not have access to any more improvements…and God only knew what someone else might let into TimeLine A.  He smiled; hell, the nomenclature might not be consistent if there were dozens of separate projects…

“Professor Thande?”  Rogers asked.  “Is the Portal ready for activation?”

Thande quickly checked the display.  “The Portal is ready,” he said, looking along the long room.  The Portal itself would materialise in the centre of the room.  “I wish I was coming with you.”

“The President gave his orders,” Captain Tony Pasco said.  The Special Forces officer sounded understanding, but firm.  “You have to stay on this side of the Portal.”

Thande muttered under his breath.  “I have set the quantum coordinates for TimeLine C,” he said.  “It is vitally important that you return at once, Captain, and then we can work to confirm that it actually is TimeLine C.”

Pasco blinked.  “You are not confident in your maths?”

Thande scowled.  “The maths are perfect,” he said firmly.  Several dozen American and British academics had checked them; a breach in security that he had no intention of discussing with anyone.  “The problem is translating them into reality.”

He scowled.  He’d put a lot of thought into proving that the team had actually reached TimeLine C; it would be ironic indeed for them to attack a third, unconnected timeline.  The problem had seemed unsolvable…until it had occurred to him that the Nazi portals could be detected at quite long range, at least; their presence could be detected.  If their locations coincided with the ones they knew to be operative within TimeLine A, there was a good chance that they’d found the right timeline.

“The power is ready,” Rogers said.  “Can we go?”

“I see no reason why not,” Thande said.  “Captain, get your team ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Pasco said, calling for the rest of his team.  The seven heavily armed soldiers, all experts in hard entry, lined up along the wall, standing ready.  “Go as soon as you say go?”

Thande nodded.  “Jump when I tell you and not a moment before,” he said.  “Beginning Portal activation sequence.”  He smiled.  “In fact, this is the sort of moment that deserves a rousing soundtrack…”

Rogers laughed nervously.  “Get on with it.”

Thande smiled mischievously.  “Power flowing into the activation systems,” he said.  “Active satellite and ground-link relay…online.  Whatever happens, whoever comes after us will know what went wrong.”  He smiled.  “Portal activation in three seconds, two seconds…activation!”

He tapped the big red button on the complicated jury-rigged device.  There was a massive hum, spreading through the room and putting his teeth on edge, and then a shimmer built up in the middle of the room.  It was an unstable Portal, but it was clearly there; there was nothing blocking its formation.

“Portal stabilising now,” Thande said.  “Go!”

Greenland Preserve
Greenland (TimeLine C)

There was, as it happened, a very good reason why the Nazi regime had very little to do with Greenland; after the War of 1960 it had become the private preserve of an SS officer, one with an interesting taste in bed mates.  For Jan Mitt, a senior officer of the SS, to be caught in bed with his current lover would be disastrous; his lover wasn’t even something as shocking as a General’s wife.

He allowed his hand to stroke the buttocks of his lover Klaus, a young clerk who worked for the Gestapo in Berlin, before reaching around his thighs and gently grasping the young man’s penis.  Women had never really interested him, but homosexuality was a crime within the Reich; one attributed to a man possessing Jewish blood.  For him and his lover, the best they could expect was a quick death; the SS would not be keen on admitting that there were homosexuals within their ranks.

He pressed himself against his lover’s back, feeling his penis harden…and then a strange noise echoed through the air.  Mitt was instantly alert, looking around for the source of the noise, and saw a wavering square of light appear in the air.  He stared at it, unable to believe his eyes, and then five armed men jumped through, weapons raised.

“Hands high, now,” the leader bellowed, in English.  Mitt tried to think, even as he tried to combine lifting his hands with hiding his lover.  It didn’t work; one of the soldiers exposed Klaus and dragged the young man out of bed.  Klaus was begging, even through his shock, but the soldiers ignored him.  Why were they speaking English?

“A nice little love nest, here,” the leader said.  “Who are you?”

Mitt realised with a sudden shock that whoever the soldiers were, they weren’t German or puppet English.  “I’m a high officer within the Reich,” he said, in his best English.  “You have committed vast crimes, simply by…”

“Oh, shut up,” the leader said.  Swiftly, both men were handcuffed; the evidence of their activities plain for all to see.  “Take them back through the Portal, Dan; we’ll continue work here.”

***
“I guess they were busy,” Rogers commented, glancing around the room.  It had been designed as a hunting lodge, even though there was nothing to hunt in Greenland; there was no sign of the base outside through the one window.  The bed stank of man and male activities, from the permitted to the unthinkable…at least in Nazi Germany.

“Fuck them,” Pasco said.  He stuck his head back through the portal, much to Thande’s alarm.  “I’m sorry, professor,” he said.  “I won’t do it again.”

Rogers snorted.  “Don’t stay within the Portal,” he said.  “Inter-dimensional shifts will kill you…if you’re lucky.”

Pasco scowled.  “And if I’m not lucky?”

“You really don’t want to know,” Rogers said, clearing the table with the simple expedient of sweeping everything onto the floor.  “Check out the rest of this place and see if it’s any larger.”

Pasco nodded and left, leaving Rogers to continue his research.  The sensing device was working well, trying to monitor the levels of quantum energy spreading through the universe.  He scowled; it would be a lot easier with satellites, but so far he assumed that it was impossible to send a satellite through a Portal.

“It’s a lot more luxurious, but nothing really different,” Pasco said.  “Any luck?”

Rogers checked the device again.  “Yes, sort of,” he said.  “Have you found any papers?”

“My German is pathetic,” Pasco said.  “Do you read German?”

“There was this girl in Berlin,” Rogers said absently.  “That’s the device up and running; let me see the paper.”  He picked up the newspaper and tried to read it.  “Funny language,” he said.  “I think it must have slipped a bit, in one of the universes.”

“Cultural drift,” Pasco said.  Rogers blinked at him.  “I’m not just a dumb grunt, I’ll have you know.”

Rogers laughed.  “I wonder if there are any history books around,” he said.  He skimmed through the paper.  “This article is talking about the increasing use of” – he shuddered – “whips to punish Slavic slaves in Germany itself.  It seems to think that there should be more of it; apparently there have been more incidents of…insolence lately.”

“You’re fucking me,” Pasco said.  Rogers glared at him.  “It really says that?  It’s like the Domination of the Draka or something.”

“I think so,” Rogers said.  He smiled suddenly.  “Paydirt,” he said.  “We’re in the money.”

Pasco smiled.  “You found confirmation?”

Rogers read from the paper.  “The Reich Ministry of…I think it translates as cultural colonisation, has stated that there will be new farms opened in World Two – which must mean our world – and colonists are wanted.  Apparently, there will be a great many staff, some even…near-human.”

Pasco lifted an eyebrow.  “Near-human?”

Rogers shuddered.  The sheer casualness of the evil was shocking; the sheer scope even more so.  “I think that’s how it translates into English; it makes distinctions between subhuman life forms and near-human,” he said.  “We know that they have a screwed up racial system.”  The sensor bleeped; he laughed as the results were displayed on the screen.  “Ah, ha!”

He examined the results.  “There are seventeen Portals within detection range,” he said.  “There are hints of several more, further away.  Unfortunately, no one is quite sure just how far detection range happens to be, you see.”

Pasco frowned.  “How can you not know that?”

“It’s a new field of study,” Rogers said.  He worked the system for a long moment.  “Most of them appear to be in the south of America, so they would correspond with the ones we know to be there.”

“So this is the right timeline,” Pasco said.  “Send the information back to the Professor, and then we can go look outside.”

Rogers unplugged a simple memory chip and quickly passed it through the Portal.  “The machine will continue to gather information,” he said, and headed for the door.  Pasco stopped him.

“Me first,” he said.  “Your life is worth more than mine.”

Before Rogers could object, he opened the door and stepped outside, into a bitterly cold night.  Rogers shivered in the cold, but followed him outside, wishing that he’d brought a heavier jacket.  It had been too warm in the room inside; the entire building seemed to have been carefully camouflaged in TimeLine C.

“How the hell is it colder here?”  Pasco demanded.  Rogers shrugged; it made little sense to him either.  “Do you think that’s an effect of the nuclear detonations?”

Rogers shook his head.  “The effects of nuclear weapons on a global scale have been vastly overestimated,” he said.  He looked into the sky.  “What’s that?”

Pasco followed his gaze.  A single large speck of light was gliding across the sky, clearly not a star or a planet.  It was unnatural; moving against the spin of the Earth.  Others followed it, some larger, some smaller.  It was an awe-inspiring sight.

“If I hadn’t believed that we had somehow crossed dimensions, I would have believed it now,” Pasco said.  “Those are space stations.  Those are big space stations.  I saw the International Space Station from the ground on duty more than once, and it was smaller than those bastards.”

Rogers counted under his breath.  “Seven, at least,” he said.  “How the hell did they do that when our own fucking government does fuck all and leaves it all in the hands of people who couldn’t be trusted to run a fucking gang rape in a whorehouse!  What fucking natural law is it that the bad guys get the best of everything?”

“Bad guys tend to be more determined to keep what they’ve got?”  Pasco suggested, pulling out a small pair of enhanced binoculars.  He peered into the sky, studying the stations as they moved in their majestic orbit around the Earth.  “Wow,” he breathed.

He passed the binoculars to Rogers, who took them and stared up at the station.  The binoculars were the latest in enhancement technology; automatically enhancing what their user was trying to look at and storing the images in the encoded memory.  Rogers sucked in his breath as he tried to take the sight in; the stations were awesome, massive shapes floating in orbit.

He tried to estimate their size and failed; the binoculars provided the figures for him, displayed in a tiny screen in the lenses.  The first station was massive, a spindle-shaped form, constructed from hundreds of tanks that had been lifted into orbit, spinning slightly to provide a limited gravity field.  The second was a vastly expanded version of the International Space Station; it too was composed of tanks, but it made no pretence at being an orbital habitat.  It was clearly a place of business, rather than pleasure.

“A work shack,” he muttered, remembering plans drawn up by NASA before the Challenger disaster.  “A place for the workers to work from, rather than a living space.”

He stared up, trying to make out details on the Moon.  Lights could be seen glinting on the surface; signs of vast cities, almost unperceivable from Earth.  He felt his heart nearly burst as he took in the vast silent activity; tiny objects, far too small to gain a proper view, moving around in space.  He was astonished to find his vision blurring; tears had formed unbidden in his eyes.

A cold wind, colder than ever before, blew across them.  They shivered together, struck to the very depths of their souls.  “I think we’d better get back to the Portal,” Pasco said.  “Professor Thande will be wondering what has happened to us.”

Chapter Thirty-Six: Warning Shots

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

According to the 2008 census, Austin had possessed around 700’000 people, half of whom had been evacuated before the war had suddenly become very nasty indeed.  The nuclear warhead that had detonated over Austin was, according to the NBC team, a fairly clean warhead…which was no consolation to the dead.  Many people had been caught outside, or in tall buildings, burnt to death by the force of the blast.  The survivors might just envy the dead.

“Interrogation of the two from TimeLine C has revealed a number of useful details,” Rogers said.  The NRO officer looked uncomfortable; the interrogators had really taken the gloves off.  “Jan Mitts, as luck would have it, is a fairly senior officer; we’re finally in a position to put together the details of how the Reich is governed.”  He smiled.  “All we really had to do was threaten to return them with a note of what they’d been doing and they become very cooperative.”

“Both men have applied for asylum,” Carter injected.

“Wonderful,” the President said.  “The war in Texas has stalemated; I need a way to hit them back hard.”

“We can move a boomer through the Portals now, if we have to,” Rogers said.  “Then we can give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Except for the minor detail that they have hundreds of space stations in orbit, armed to the teeth,” the President said.  “We have to give them a black eye.”

General Easterhouse coughed.  “There is a way to hit them where it hurts,” he said.  “We know where that laser is based; we can hit it with a nuclear warhead if we have to, using a B2 bomber.”

The President nodded.  “Everyone wants us to burn them off the face of the planet,” he said.  “Can we get the aircraft through their defences?”

“Yes,” General Easterhouse said, seriously.  “We’ll stage out of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean; the B2 can make the flight there with ease.”

Rogers hesitated.  “We might be able to slip more weapons through their Portals there,” he said.  “If they don’t expect an attack, there’s no need to keep the Portals one-way.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Thande,” the President said.  His face darkened.  “How many have died in this war?”

“Impossible to estimate,” General Easterhouse said.  “Between the nukes in Russia and the Middle East, and Africa…”

“Enough,” the President said.  “So…what do we do now?”

“We proceed with trying to contact the Americans in the other timeline,” General Easterhouse said.  “If we can convince them to rebel…”

“There is another possibility,” Rogers said.  “Exactly where do the Germans stand on the matter?”

The President looked over at Wilson.  “It’s hard to say,” the Secretary of State said.  “They’re being very quite on the matter.”

Rogers frowned.  “If we could get them to help, we could attack directly into their Berlin,” he said.  “They don’t have a distributed command structure; if we took out their Berlin, we might be able to cripple them.”

“I…”  The President took a breath.  “I don’t know exactly what to do,” he said.  “If we send in a boomer, one armed with cruise missiles, and hammer a few of their cities…”

“For which there would be considerable public support,” Carter injected.  “A lot of people, from the man in the street to congressmen, want to know why we haven’t nuked New Orleans yet.”

“Because its American territory,” the President said.  “We can’t go around blowing up our own cities.”

“Then we have to force them out of Texas, now,” General Easterhouse said.  “We have the ability to launch a massive attack, now; we have to launch it before they start launching more missiles.”

“And cow us into submission,” the President said.  “General, is the man in the streets prepared to see his wife and children vaporised rather than submit to the Nazis?”

General Easterhouse took a breath.  “For which part of the American population?”  He asked.  “They killed all the blacks they caught in Washington; the blacks will fight to the end.  They killed Hispanics; they killed Jews.  No one will benefit from surrender.”

“I know,” the President said.  “General, what can be done about additional weapons?”

“The USAF has moved some of the mobile laser systems, the ones mounted on 747 aircraft, into the surrounding area,” General Easterhouse said.  “We could use them, once we take down their air defence network, to handle any missiles they happen to launch.”

“The NRO drones have been finding the missile launchers,” Rogers injected.  “Once we crash their network, we can hit them all very quickly.”

The President placed his head in his hands.  “Do it,” he said.  “One thing; that bomber going to the barbarian lands?”

“Texas or Saudi?”  Carter cracked.  “They’re both pretty bad.”

“Shut up,” the President said.  “The bomber going to Saudi; do we have any location information on a large concentration of their people?”

“There’s a force advancing into Turkey and a major base near the laser system,” Rogers said.  “Is that big enough?”

“That base,” the President said.  “It needs to be nuked.  There has to be retaliation.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Easterhouse said.  “That will mean using two bombers, three if you want to hit all of the Portals.”

“Use as many as you need,” the President said.  “Just hit them as hard as we can.”

“And hope its hard enough to make them sit up and take notice,” Wilson said.  “I suppose that that’s all we can do.”

Houston
Texas, USA (TimeLine A)

General Ernst Steiner examined the map with considerable interest…and not a little concern.  With much of the Wehrmacht’s force destroyed in the failed breakout, the Texas pocket might be vulnerable.  Already, his scouts were reporting clashes with American infantry, protecting the American lines as they closed in around the city.

“The nuclear warhead failed to cow them,” he observed, more to himself than anyone else.  The SS had been certain; striking a civilian target would strike fear into the heart of the weak Americans…except it hadn’t.  He didn’t have many nuclear warheads left, and the Americans were closing in.  So far, they were keeping a respectful distance from his lines, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before they closed in for the kill.

The Wehrmacht had learned a great deal from the first battle, but he knew that there wouldn’t be time to use the lessons.  He’d spent the night wondering if there would be a night attack against his lines, but one hadn’t materialised; the Americans had clearly been busy building up their own forces.  He’d considered more tactical strikes, but without accurate information it was impossible to aim…and the Americans had deployed their own ABM systems.

“What would I do in their place?”  He asked himself.  One answer came to mind at once; nuke Houston and get rid of the German base.  He didn’t think that they would do that, but city fighting, block to block, was awesomely costly in lives, enough to make even the Waffen-SS blanch.  

“Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “We have a messenger.”

Steiner blinked.  “A messenger?”

“An American,” Captain Klein said.  “He walked towards us with a white flag.  We blindfolded him and brought him to the base.”

“Show him in,” Steiner said.  Captain Klein nodded and shouted a command; a man wearing an American uniform was brought into the office.  “Take off the blindfold,” Steiner ordered.  He looked at the American, who looked back without any trace of fear.  “I understand that you have a message for me.”

“I have been sent with a message from General Morrigan, commander of the Texas Front,” the messenger said.  He didn’t introduce himself.  “He wants you to know that with the new ABM systems, you will not be able to repeat your barbaric attack against civilian populations.”

A new note of anger entered his voice.  “General Morrigan informs me that your position is hopeless,” he said.  “If you surrender your force, under the authority of the President he offers to treat your men well, with the exception of those guilty of war crimes.  If you refuse to surrender, you will all be massacred.”

“To avoid…unnecessary effusion of blood?”  Steiner asked.  He’d read about that back during the Thirty Years War.  “Unfortunately, I do not share his opinion of my prospects.”

The messenger glared at him.  It was curious; a junior officer would normally be more cautious about showing emotion to a senior, even one from a different army.  “You are refusing to surrender?”

“Exactly,” Steiner said.  “Captain, blindfold him and escort him back out of the lines.”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “Come on, you.”

The messenger submitted without a fight, allowing the SS guards to blindfold him, before following them out of the room.  Captain Klein remained behind.  “Herr General, we could give the dumb bastard a noodle and dump him in the graves.”

Steiner shrugged.  In the three weeks of their occupation, they had had to dig hundreds of mass graves, just to bury all those who had died when the city fell.  The extermination groups had promptly begun to dig more, for the…undesirables in the city, and their gruesome work went on.

Cowardly bastards, he thought.  The men who formed SS extermination groups were men who had failed any chance to join the Wehrmacht or the Waffen-SS.  They normally fled at the first sign of resistance, leaving the real soldiers to clear up the mess and suppress the rebellion.

“No,” he said.  “We want to establish a precedent of good treatment of messengers.”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Captain Klein said.  “Should I call the men to alert?”

“Yes, you should,” Steiner said.  “I imagine that they will attack as soon as they can.”

***
Sergeant Tom Robertson was a braver man than General Morrigan considered himself to be; he had been right to the heart of the enemy base.  The tall wiry Sergeant had actually volunteered for the mission.

“You’ll get a medal for that,” Morrigan said.  “So…they refused to surrender?”

“Yes, sir,” Robertson said.  “They thought that they can still hold out.”

Morrigan clenched his fists.  “You told them about all of their men being massacred?”  He asked.  “I wasn’t bluffing.”

“I told them,” Robertson said.  “He wasn’t impressed.”

“Bastard,” Morrigan said.  “Thank you, Sergeant; please report to your unit for the massacre.”

Robertson saluted and left the tent.  “The press won’t be too happy with the term massacre,” Captain Nancy Manlito pointed out.  “American troops don’t commit such things.”

“Fuck them,” Morrigan said.  “Is the air force ready to move?”

“The air force, the navy, the ground support units…everyone is ready,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  “That’s over two thousand warplanes.”

Morrigan nodded, wandering over to the map.  The night had not been wasted; everything worth hitting in the first air attack had been marked out from drone surveillance and assigned to a particular bomber.  The skies would be black with aircraft, hammering the city to bits.  The Metalstorm units, positioned in the open, would be struck first; the Nazis wouldn’t stand a chance at actually managing to hit anything.

“We are not going to let them get away with this,” he said.  “After we finish this, we wheel around to hammer New Orleans…then we can take a breath.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Nancy Manlito said.  She checked her PDA.  “All of the ground units are in place.”

“And let’s hope that the tactical ABM system is working right,” Morrigan said.  “This is the sort of situation that calls for a dramatic laugh.”

Captain Nancy Manlito blinked.  “Sir?”

“Never mind,” Morrigan said.  “Order the attack to begin.”

***
“We have major enemy air activity,” a young officer reported.  General Ernst Steiner looked down at the display with concern; hundreds of aircraft were showing up on the screen.  “They’re all out of range of Metalstorm, sir; we can engage with missiles…”

His words trailed off.  The radar screen suddenly flicked, and then filled with static.  “Sir, we’re being jammed.”

Steiner cursed.  “Reroute the sensors,” he snapped.  “Activate passive systems…”

“No luck,” the officer said.  “Sir, they’re overloading everything with so much energy that we cannot find anything that we can actually hit.”

“Launch missiles towards the targets that are broadcasting the jamming signals,” Steiner ordered.  A thought occurred to him and he whirled around.  “Everyone out, now!”

The crew knew their jobs.  Without waiting for further orders, they abandoned their seats and fled for the door.  Steiner waited until the last man left, and then followed him out of the door onto the streets.  The howl of the air raid sirens was waking all of the citizens; the ones not in the camps that had been built to house them.

“Herr General?”  Captain Klein asked.  “What’s happening…?”

A missile impacted some distance from their position, setting off a chain of explosions.  “Herr General, that was a Metalstorm post,” the radarman said.  More explosions followed, destroying radar stations, guns, Panzers…and then a missile impacted right on top of their control centre.

“How the hell did they find it?”  Captain Klein asked.  “We never sent any signals from there!”

In hindsight, it was clear.  “That messenger must have had an implanted device of some kind,” Steiner said.  It didn’t matter now; explosions continued to shatter the city and the skies were black with aircraft.  “Order the remaining missile launchers to fire randomly.”

“I can’t get any signal,” Captain Klein said.  “Herr General, they have cut us off from everything.”

Steiner felt his blood run cold.  “To the Portals, now,” he snapped.  “We have to warn them on the other side.”

An explosion, far too close to them, knocked him to the ground.  He scowled as he picked himself up and ran; they’d thought that the Americans were soft, but there was nothing soft about the bombardment.  He thought he heard artillery over the noise of the bombardment; American ground forces were clearly advancing as well.

We underestimated them, he though, wondering if he should still surrender his force.  All of his men were being slaughtered, by an enemy they could neither see nor hurt.  We underestimated what they could do.  What got us into this mess?

“The Portal is still open,” Captain Klein said, in astonishment.  Steiner looked up to see the Portal under the awning; it hadn’t been targeted for some reason.  No, he realised, it hasn’t been hit.  For some reason, that bothered him.  

“Herr General?”  Captain Klein asked.  “Do we go through?”

“Through, now,” Steiner snapped, and jumped for the Portal.  There was the moment of hesitation, a hint that nothing was quite right, and then he was through…into a scene from hell.

“They put their missiles through the Portal,” Captain Klein exclaimed.  “Herr General, why is the Portal still open?”

“I don’t know,” Steiner said.  He glanced behind him and saw the answer; the Portal generating system was somehow – miraculously – intact.  “Shut that down, now!”

***
The shape of a Tiger loomed up in front of the Abrams, its main gun spitting fire and death at the American tank.  Burtis snapped an order and the gunner fired, blowing the German tank apart.  The Germans had been hammered – Burtis could see the wreckage of dozens of Panzers that hadn’t survived the round with the air power – but they were still firing.

“That building, high explosive round,” he snapped.  “Take it down!”

“Yes, sir,” the gunner said, as machine gun bullets began to ping off the tank.  He fired one shell; the building exploded in a gout of fire.  “There must have been high explosive in there,” he commented.

“Keep pushing forward,” Burtis ordered the driver.  Houston was burning; almost every building seemed to be on fire.  “We have to find them all in the camps.”

“We’re nearly there,” the driver said, his voice uncharacteristically grim.  He’d been born in Austin; watching the city being destroyed had shocked him.  “We’re almost at the camps.”

The Nazis had established camps for the civilian population, keeping them out of the way while they established themselves.  They had been heavily defended, but the air force had hit them hard enough – they hoped – to make retaking them easy.

“I see it,” the driver said.  “Look at that fence.”

Burtis scowled.  The fence was still intact; a massive metal fence designed to keep people in, mixed with barbed wire to make climbing it impossible.  The Americans in the camp were looking out, unable to leave, with the Nazi guards staring helplessly between them and the advancing tanks.

“Kill them,” Burtis said.  A single burst of machine gun fire slaughtered the handful of guards.  Aircraft thundered overhead, ready to help, but there was no need.  Burtis smiled.  “Mr Gorbachov, knock down that wall.”

“My name is Earle,” the driver protested, as he steered the tank into the fence.  It shattered under the pressure, falling backwards into a heap of crumpled metal.  The crowd surged forward, cheering.  The driver stopped the tank, worried that they would accidentally hurt a prisoner.

“Call the helicopters,” Burtis ordered, as he stuck his head out of the tank.  “Tell them we need medical support.”

He waved at the crowd.  They were all white Americans; something he’d expected, but it was still shocking.  They were dreadfully thin, but not as thin as the pictures they’d been shown of the camps in Germany from 1945.  Men, women and children, all cheering him.

“We come in peace,” he shouted, as one woman scrambled up on the tank and kissed him.  “Welcome back to the United States of America!”

“Kill all the traitors,” a man shouted.  Burtis frowned.  “There were those who helped the Nazis!”

Burtis winced as the first flight of helicopters landed, unloading medical personnel and supplies of food.  The FEMA crew were well trained; they set up a soup kitchen quickly, feeding everyone their first proper meal in weeks.  Burtis tried to listen to the former prisoners as they talked about their experiences…and about those who had chosen to serve the Nazis.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the gunner muttered, “but surely there should be fewer problems after we destroy an enemy invasion bridgehead, not more?  It doesn’t seem fair, somehow.”

Burtis shrugged.  A pretty girl kissed him, her body too thin to hold much flesh.  “Life is not fair,” he said.  “I suppose that we’d better do something about them, you know.  The quislings.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shattered Mirror

Washington Security Region
Occupied USA (TimeLine C)

Operating a stealth drone within the Security Region was a considerable risk, but after nearly three days of sneaking around, it had become rapidly clear that they wouldn’t pick up enough information in the timescale before the boomer came through and started to launch its missiles.  Agent Seth Fanaroff, who belonged to a highly classified CIA section that had deployed the team to Iran, Pakistan and a number of countries that would have astonished people to know that the CIA even had interests there, had ordered the drone deployed.

“Its like bloody year zero,” Agent Gavin Baxter muttered.  The seven-man team was deployed only twenty kilometres from Washington, but it was like a Third World country.  The darkness of the sky at midnight was matched by the feeling of the land; it had given up hope a long time ago.  It was America…it wasn’t America.

“I know,” Fanaroff said.  “Gavin, what’s the news on the electronic interception system?”

“Trouble,” Baxter admitted.  “Look.”  He waved a hand at a complicated system that had been brought through the Portal and rigged for destruction, even though intelligence was confident that TimeLine C couldn’t duplicate the technology.  “There are fewer signals in this timeline and hardly any are detailed Internet signals.”

Fanaroff scowled.  “According to intelligence, they don’t use open internet signals,” he said.  “A shame; sample pages from their websites would be very useful indeed.  What about the other signals?”

“There’s very little radio chatter,” Baxter said.  “The Germans seem to control all of it; only a handful of messages are in English.”  He paused.  “One of them was in a language I couldn’t understand.”

He played the signal.  After a moment, Fanaroff shook his head.  “It means nothing to me,” he said.  “How the hell does one go about contacting resistance members in this land?”

“I don’t know,” Baxter admitted.  “What about the drone?”

Fanaroff turned his attention back to the drone’s feed.  The ULF signals should be outside TimeLine C’s ability to detect, but he hadn’t been keen on testing the concept.  There hadn’t been any choice, however, and so the drone had been launched.

“Bugger me,” he breathed.  “Look at that.”

It was Washington…and it wasn’t.  The White House was recognisable, but utterly damaged; it would be the work of years to repair all of the damage.  Many of the other famous buildings no longer existed; instead, there were German barracks and airbases.  Air defence systems and guards surrounded the entire base, which was still active even in the middle of the night.

“Where are the Americans?”  Baxter asked.  “They can’t have wiped out the entire population, can they?”

“There would be resistance to that, surely,” Fanaroff said.  He examined the drone’s signals; cursing the decision to give the drone an independent automated flight path, rather than direct control.  They dared not attract attention to the Portal, let alone their presence here.  “I wonder…”

The feed changed as the drone swung over towards Fredericksburg, revealing the first signs of a native American presence.  It was…horrifying; the city was practically a prison camp.  German guards patrolled the streets; German vehicles guarded the fence around the city.  The city was almost unrecognisable; it held hardly anything of the world they knew.  If it hadn’t been in the same place, they would never have known what they were looking at.

“I don’t believe it,” Baxter said, his voice hushed.  “Where the hell are all the people?”

“Curfew, perhaps,” Fanaroff guessed.  “It doesn’t matter; all that matters is finding someone who can aid us to found a resistance movement.”

“You think that we can find someone here?”  Baxter asked.  “Look at it; they’re sheep, nothing more!”

“They’re Americans,” Fanaroff said.  “Shit; I wish I could take a look at their history books.”

“Activity on the southern flank,” Agent Maxwell snapped.  They’d taken two days to fortify the location; just enough to buy them time to escape if they had to leave.  “Several men, heading out of the city into the woods.”

Fanaroff scowled.  The woods hadn’t existed in his time, at least not in their form in TimeLine C.  “Who are they?”  He asked.  “Germans?”

“It looks that way,” Maxwell said.  “Can you order the drone to follow them?”

Fanaroff shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “Take Jones and follow them yourself.”

Maxwell nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he said, and left.  

Fanaroff returned to studying the display.  “They’ve been busy in Washington,” he said, as the drone headed back over the Potomac.  “Do you think they’re up to something?”

Baxter scowled.  “Perhaps they want to try to get back in,” he said.  “We’re fighting in Texas, and now…they could be planning to invade again.”

Fanaroff swore.  “And most of the forces have gone south,” he said.  “This isn’t fair at all, you know.”

Baxter scowled.  “Life is not fair,” he said.  “You should know that.”

Fanaroff snorted.  “I know life is not fair,” he said, “but why is it never unfair in my favour?”

***
They had come for Wallace Greenbrier in the middle of the night, armed to the teeth.  They had broken through his door, only locked with a lock provided by the German authorities, and taken him before he could resist.  The thirty-one-year-old teacher hadn’t been able to fight; they’d dragged him, his wife and their daughter out of bed and handcuffed them before he could even wake up fully.

“Search this house,” their leader had snapped.  Greenbrier would have been insulted if he hadn’t been scared; he hadn’t been raided by the Gestapo, but the Free Corps.  The Free Corps, Americans who served their Nazi masters, not the Germans themselves.  He would have cried, if it would not have been taken as an admission of guilt; had the Germans not thought him worthy of their attention?

“Success,” one of the American traitors said, after twenty minutes of lying handcuffed on the ground.  He felt his heart sink; his hiding place hadn’t been perfect, after all.  “Book, sir; illegal books.”

“A History of the American Revolution,” the leader said.  “The Influence of Sea Power Upon History.  The Great War.  The German Threat.  Hitler; My Life as his Enemy, by none other that Churchill himself!”  The rest of the Free Corps laughed derisively.  “My dear Greenbrier, teacher of lies, teacher of hate, you are in trouble.”

Greenbrier wanted to defy them, but he was shaking with fear.  He’d tried to teach the children the truth, teach them more than he had been permitted to teach them, including the real reason they lived under German rule.  The Germans were not trying  to raise them to the status of full Aryans out of the goodness of their hearts, but their enslavers.

“You are in trouble,” the leader repeated.  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Greenbrier said nothing.  The leader kicked him in the back.  “Nothing?”  The leader said.  “You are in so much trouble, you know.”

“Let us go,” his wife pleaded.  “I’ll do anything!”

Greenbrier wanted to tell her not to do anything, but it was too late.  “Oh, we can’t do that,” the leader said.  “We would be in trouble with the Reich if we let your husband go, and if we tell them about him, they’ll want to know why we didn’t catch him earlier.”

He laughed.  “Have your fun with her and their brat,” he said.  His daughter, only thirteen, was too young.  “Mr Greenbrier, we can’t let them think we’re incompetent…”

“Because then you’ll be joining us in the graves?”  Greenbrier asked.  “Because…”

The leader pulled him roughly to his feet.  “Quite right,” he said.  His wife started to scream as one of the Free Corps pulled her nightgown up, exposing her rear.  “Now, come,” the leader said.  “Quick march!”

They marched him out of the house, leaving the remaining Free Corpsmen to have their fun, and walked him out of the city.  “A bit of a walk, what?”  The leader asked, affecting a fake English accent.  “Churchill would be proud, what?”

Greenbrier didn’t – couldn’t – say anything.  He tried to concentrate, tried to see a way out of his trouble, but unless the woodsmen came to his aid, he knew that he was dead.  He shuddered; one thing he could say, the truth about the woodsmen, would buy him a few more hours of life, except…”

“So,” the leader said, conversationally, “where did you get the books?”

Greenbrier lied as convincingly as he could.  They had entered the woods, where mass graves awaited those who failed the German rulers and their servants.  “They belonged to my father,” he said.  “I only read them after he died.”

“And yet you tried to teach the children according to them,” the leader sneered.  “Are you stupid or are you stupid?”

Greenbrier didn’t answer.  “Your wife will be having the time of her life,” the leader said, as he positioned Greenbrier just in front of an open grave.  “Say your prayers.”

Greenbrier glared at him, finding dignity.  “Oh, get on with it,” he said.  A single shot rang out and he fell forward, into the grave, as a second shot rang out.  It took him several moments to realise that he hadn’t actually been shot.

“Are you all right in there?”  A voice asked, in English.  The accent was odd, strange.  “Well, are you?”

Greenbrier smiled.  The woodsmen must have come to his rescue.  “No,” he said.  “They found the books.”

“Did they?”  The voice asked.  A hand caught on to his shoulder and gently helped him to his feet.  “Who are you?”

For the first time, Greenbrier got a clear view of his saviour.  He wore a strange black uniform, with an American flag on the shoulder.  He stared at it; no one was allowed to fly the Stars and Stripes these days.  Even the New Confederacy used the Stars and Bars.

“William Greenbrier,” he said.  “Who are you?”

His rescuer chuckled.  “Now that, Will, is rather a long story,” he said.

***
Fanaroff was furious and allowed his anger to show.  “I trust that you have a perfectly good explanation for this?”

Maxwell stared at him.  “But boss…”

“Don’t try to kiss my ass,” Fanaroff snapped, trying to resist the temptation to shoot the pair of them.  “I repeat my question; what the hell did you think you were doing?”

“They were going to shoot him,” Maxwell said.  “Sir…”

“They saved my life,” the American – Greenbrier – said.  “Sir, who are you?”

Fanaroff sighed.  “Who are you?”  He asked, wishing he knew what was going on.  “Why were they trying to kill you?”

“I’m a teacher,” Greenbrier said.  His voice was pleading.  “They caught me trying to tell the children the truth.”

“A capital offence?”  Fanaroff asked.  “What did you try to tell them?”

“I’m a woodsman,” Greenbrier said.  The term meant nothing to Fanaroff, beyond the obvious.  “We try to keep something of America alive under the occupation.  My crime was in trying to dispel the lies they tell us about why the Germans are here.”  His voice broke down.  “My wife,” he said.  “They were hurting my wife…”

Fanaroff blinked.  “Boss, we might have hit paydirt,” Baxter muttered.

“It’s too good to be true,” Fanaroff muttered back.  “Who are the woodsmen?”

Greenbrier looked at him.  “Who are you?”  He asked.  “What are you?”

“I am getting really sick of that question,” Fanaroff muttered.  “We are from the other timeline,” he said.  “Haven’t the Germans told you about that?”

Greenbrier stared at them.  “According to the Germans, they’ve conquered you all,” he said.  He smiled.  “What are you doing here?”

“Scouting,” Fanaroff said, refusing to say anything else.  “Now, for the final time, what are the woodsmen?”

He locked eyes with Greenbrier.  “They’re the men who live in the woods, away from the Germans,” Greenbrier said.  “They try to keep America alive, in the woods.  They’re running out of people because of the Germans attacking them, so they sent me to try to convince some children to join them, but I must have trusted the wrong person and…”

His voice broke off as he took a deep breath.  “Can you help us?”  He asked.  “We don’t have any weapons past a handful of captured German weapons.  Every time someone tries to resist them, they slaughter entire villages.”

Maxwell coughed.  “We saved your life and killed two of them,” he said.  “What will they do for that?”

Greenbrier hesitated.  “I don’t think they’ll do anything,” he said.  “They were Free Corps, people who work for them, not Germans themselves.”

Fanaroff scowled.  “Home-grown Nazis?”

Greenbrier nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “Can you help us?”

“You clearly cannot return to Fredericksburg,” he said.  “How much do you know about the rest of the world?”

“Only what the Germans have told us,” Greenbrier admitted.  “They’re not very informative, unless they’re boosting about their successes.”

Fanaroff nodded.  “Jones, take him to one of the tents and let him have something to eat, then guard him,” he ordered.  “Everyone else, its time to have a chat.”

He waited until Jones had left.  “Maxwell, if you do something as stupid as that again, I will cap you myself, understand?”  Maxwell nodded, not bothering to answer.  “Thoughts?”

“It looks as if we have want we wanted,” Baxter said.  “Should we not seek to make contact at once with the woodsmen?”

“I think we have no choice,” Fanaroff said.  “That concerns me; it’s too convenient.”

Baxter frowned.  “There have to be a lot of rebels in a place like that,” he said, waving a hand down towards Fredericksburg.  “My feeling is that he’s genuine.”

“I know,” Fanaroff said.  “I don’t trust him, though; what if he’s a spy?”

“If the Germans could detect Portals, they would be on us by now,” Maxwell said.  “The Portal is not that far away.”

“I know,” Fanaroff said.  “I think I’m going to report all this back home, and then I suppose we have no choice, but to try to make contact with the woodsmen.”  He sighed.  “Get some sleep,” he said.  “We’ll move in the morning.”

***
The main woodsman base, or so Fanaroff was given to understand, was somewhere within the Appalachian Mountains, well outside of walking distance.  The main meeting point was a small farm twenty miles from Washington, one of the farms that supplied food to the towns and cities nearby.  The Germans didn’t even try to control the number of hikers in the country; Greenbrier recounted tales of them actually joining in the hikes.

“It was designed to make the woodsmen paranoid,” he said.

Fanaroff frowned.  “They know that the woodsmen exist?”  He asked.  “Why haven’t they killed them all yet?”

Greenbrier shrugged.  “It’s hard to know,” he said.  “They catch some members of a cell, but they don’t catch them all and some manage to escape from captivity.  Many of them are caught by the Free Corps, who kill them quickly, like they were going to kill me, just to prevent the Germans from getting the idea that they’re incompetent.”

“Just like Iraq,” Fanaroff said, with a grim pleasure.  Iraq, in TimeLine C, was a major German colony; the natives having been exterminated long ago.  “They don’t want to report failure up the line, for fear of being punished.”

Greenbrier nodded, pointing towards a farm.  Fanaroff scowled, feeling the unfamiliar outfit against his skin, knowing that being caught out of uniform meant a certain death sentence if captured.  Greenbrier had insisted; their semi-uniforms would stand out a mile in a landscape that looked as if it had come out of Dies the Fire.  He’d mentioned that to Greenbrier and the native had given him a blank look.

“At least your timeline has time to think about such matters,” he said, walking on and hiding his face.  Fanaroff understood; he wouldn’t have wanted another man to see him crying.  He looked up; the space stations could be seen in the flickering of the light as the sunlight glinted off them.

“Here we are,” Greenbrier said, reaching the farmhouse.  “Take off your shoes and come in with me.”

Fanaroff followed him, stepping inside the finest house he had seen in TimeLine C, although he knew that he had little to compare it with.  He stopped dead; the farmer had produced a gun from nowhere and was pointing it at Greenbrier.

“We heard you were dead,” he snapped.  “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story,” Greenbrier said, and outlined it.  Halfway through, when he got to the bit about his rescue, the farmer looked up at Fanaroff sharply, his eyes studying him carefully.  “And now they want to send weapons and aid to the woodsmen.”

“Really,” the farmer said.  “I suppose…your friend doesn’t hold himself like a Lord of Creation, like one of those little shits.”

Fanaroff noticed that Greenbrier had flinched at the term.  “All right, I’ll buy it,” the farmer said.  “So, what can you send us?”

Fanaroff blinked.  “What authority do you have?”  He asked.  “I would prefer not to have to repeat myself, time and time again.”

“Oh, none,” the farmer said.  “Point is, I’m the only one you will meet.”

“They won’t let you see the leaders,” Greenbrier said.  “They don’t trust you.  They’ve been betrayed for too long, too many times, too many comrades gone.”

Fanaroff scowled.  “We defeated one of their attacking forces,” he said.  “We can and we will defeat the others.  That’s not enough, however; we have to bring their little empire shattering down.  It has to be destroyed, and we need your help to do it.”

The farmer looked at him.  “Words are one thing,” he said.  “The Japanese supply us with thousands of fancy words and a handful of weapons.  What can you send us?”

“All the weapons we can,” Fanaroff said.  “We want you to make the Germans hurt!”

“They will want proof,” the farmer said.  “What can you send us now?”

Fanaroff looked at him for a long moment.  “We can open a Portal within your barn,” he said.  “We can allow you to enter our world, and then start moving weapons into your world.  Would that be good enough for you?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Plans and Counter-Plans

Nazi Headquarters
Saudi Arabia (TimeLine A)

General Neumann knew just how lucky he had been to survive the attack on the base.  As he surveyed the destruction, he suspected that the Reich Council would punish him, just for failing to expect such a savage attack on his base.  He stared over from the Tiger’s display screen, looking at what had once been a major Reich base, complete with satellite-destroying laser.

“Damn it,” he muttered, as the Tiger drew up outside a base on the outskirts of the affected zone.  There was some radiation, but he found it hard to care; his life was likely to be measured in weeks anyway.  “Open the hatch.”

The driver took one look at his face and complied.  General Neumann stepped out onto the ground, feeling a strange sensation in the air, and opened the airlock of the base.  It had been designed for research into weapons to rid the second Earth of subhumans; it had been protected against weapons and radiation.

“You’re here,” he said to his aide.  “What’s the news from the other side?”

“It’s bad,” Obersturmbannfuehrer Fritz Geller said.  He didn’t make any attempt to hide the news from his boss, for which General Neumann wasn’t sure to be grateful for or to be angry.  “Two nuclear warheads detonated on the other side of the Portal, each with a major warhead.  The damage is…considerable.”

General Neumann thought of all the supplies, lined up outside the Portal and waiting to be transported into the new timeline, and shuddered.  “Carry on,” he said, in a voice like ice.  “What happened after that?”

“The nuclear explosions warned the Portal computers to shut down the other Portals,” Geller said.  “They managed this in time to avoid more weapons detonating on their side, but that meant that three detonated here.  One destroyed the laser, the base nearby, and several panzer forces.  The other two destroyed bases and parts of the air defence network.  Losses are upwards of a hundred thousand on our side; God alone knows how many on the homeland side.”

General Neumann scowled.  The Americans had answered Austin all right; using nuclear warheads of their own to take out parts of his own infrastructure.  How long would it be before they were deployed against the bases in France, or Algeria, or New Orleans?

“I think we have to do something drastic,” he said.  “The Reich Council is not going to be happy.”

Geller blanched.  “No, they’re not,” he said.  “We could take more human shields.”

“I don’t think they care about them anymore, if they ever did,” General Neumann said.  “We might have been misinformed.”  He paused.  “I think its time to go ahead with Operation Decapitate.”

Geller blinked.  “Herr General, that will require the permission of the Reich Council,” he said.  “They’ll have to be asked for permission.”

General Neumann wished that he had a display screen, rather than a paper map.  “We’re grinding our way through Turkey,” he said.  He scowled.  “Who would have thought that Italians could actually fight?”

“North Atlantic Treaty Organisation,” Geller said loyally, as disparagingly as he could.  “What an idea.”

“Then I think we’d better dissuade them,” General Neumann said.  “We still have the nuclear missiles, don’t we?”

“They never even came near the stockpile,” Geller said.  “We can launch as many as you like.”

“Thank you,” General Neumann said dryly.  “It’s a shame that the forces in Russia took a beating, but we can live without their support for this mission.  I want strategic strikes against Athens and Rome, both for daring to support efforts against us.”

Geller smiled.  “Jawohl, Herr General,” he said.  “Any other targets?”

General Neumann studied the map for a long moment.  “Check with the forward commander, but I think we can authorise two to three tactical strikes, to cow the Turks into surrendering.”

Geller nodded.  “Herr General, should we not use a strategic strike against America?”  He asked.  “They used them against us.  The Portals might have been in subhuman regions here, but they weren’t in our timeline.  They will have killed citizens, Germans; pure Aryans.”

General Neumann scowled.  “The Reich Council wants America intact,” he said.  “Still, with Austin hit…I dare say that it will be easy to launch a strike against another American city.  New York, perhaps; or even Washington itself.”

He paced around the room.  “For the moment, I want a tactical strike against their bomber base in the Indian Ocean,” he said.  “That should dissuade them from trying something that stupid again, I hope.”

Geller smiled.  “Jawohl, Herr General,” he said.  “How many weapons should we deploy?”

“We don’t want to run out of warheads,” General Neumann said.  “Just one, I think; that should be enough to destroy the base.”  He sighed.  “Where is the closest Portal?”

“In Goring…ah, Qatar here,” Geller said.  “That will need a helicopter to reach, Herr General.”

“Wonderful,” General Neumann muttered.  “I suppose I had better go face the music.  Have my helicopter prepared at once.”

Geller blinked.  “Herr General, it was destroyed,” he said.  “I can find you the closest aircraft…”

“Do that,” General Neumann snapped.  “This has to end!”

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

“You know,” the President said, “wasn’t there all that trouble with mob justice, back in the early years of this century?”

“That was the Minutemen and the other militia groups,” General Easterhouse said.  “With all the Hispanics in Texas trying to run for Mexico, we might have fewer immigration problems in future.”

The President glared at the screen.  A local reporter, one Julius Driver, had written a long article on mob justice within Texas, particularly the formerly occupied regions of Texas.  The locals had been busy; not only were Nazis being strung up, but also collaborators, whores, criminals, child molesters, illegal immigrants and people who looked at the wrong person funny.  Dozens of scores were being paid off…and the state was starting to slip towards anarchy.

“One hopes that that is an exaggeration,” he said.  “What is the punishment for treason?”

“Death, normally,” General Easterhouse said.  “Of course, in this situation, that leaves all kinds of complications.”

The President scowled.  “We’re going to have to come up with some legislation to cover this problem,” he said.  “Remind me to get Congress onto the matter.”  He scowled again.  “So, exactly what happened over the last week?”

“We made contact with the resistance, such as it is,” Rogers said.  He unfurled a map.  “As you can see, the Nazis have occupied New York and Quebec, and pretty much all of the land in between.  The Japanese have a minor presence in Alaska, but the rest is under the control of a puppet; the New Confederacy.  You remember all that excitement about Confederate Nazis?”

The President smiled.  It had been an exciting legal case, from five years ago; a confederate historian had sued an alternate history writer…for writing a series of books featuring Nazi Confederates, including a black holocaust and a Nazi Party in the White House.  The case had been thrown out of court.

“Well, the New Confederacy is pretty much like that,” Rogers said.  “They have black slaves doing most of the mundane work.  Everything is run by a handful of people, who control the army and pretty much all of the weapons.  It makes the Confederated States we had look like a paradise for everyone.  Anyway, the woodsmen are everywhere; they even have some support from people in the New Confederacy’s government.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “But they cannot do much because of the German space stations,” he said.  “There are too many of them, armed to the teeth, for a rebellion to succeed.”

“True,” Rogers agreed.  “The New Confederacy has an army that is loosely comparable to Iraq’s, or Iraq’s as it was before the War of 2003.  There’s a lot of men, but they have low morale and very limited tech; many of their tanks are of World War One vintage and are designed for crushing revolts, rather than a war.”

“I see,” the President said.  “What about tactical strikes against the rest of the Reich?”

General Easterhouse tapped the map.  “There are a number of places within the Reich that would make good targets in retaliation for the attack on Austin, or for that matter the damage to the rest of the world.”

Rogers smiled.  “We could help the Russians get their remaining boomers through a Portal and they could do the dirty work.”

The President nodded.  “See to it,” he said.  “I’ll talk to President Gorbanov today; he’s still alive, but trapped within a bunker.”

“I think we have to hammer them,” General Easterhouse said.  “Russians or our boats; it has to be done.  Even if we don’t strike at Berlin itself, there are other targets that need hit, from the occupied zones in France and Britain, to China and Africa.  Hell, if we could hit their bases in the Middle East, we could stop them sending so much into our world.

“But that presents more problems,” he continued.  “Their ABM systems are likely to be very good indeed; they will almost certainly be able to handle the missiles from the Russian SSBN boats.  However, a stealth cruise missile, armed with a nuclear warhead, should be able to really hurt them.”

“Have a ship prepared for the strike,” the President said.  “We hurt them, and we have to keep hurting them.  What about New Orleans?”

“We can have the troops in place for another attack in a week,” General Easterhouse said.  “The air force is bombing them constantly; I think we can force them to collapse without a major land battle this time.”

“I hope you’re right,” the President said.  “We’re always going to have to be on the defensive, aren’t we?”

Thande smiled.  It was the first time that the professor had come to the meetings; he’d invited himself.  “They do not act the way we do over science,” he said.  “If we can take their Cambridge, they will lose their top scientists.  It will also provide a chance to raid their computers for the information they have.”

The President smiled.  “You have been arguing against the secrecy regulations,” he said.  “I understand your viewpoint…”

“The Nazis share it,” Thande said.  He seemed energised.  “None of the people who came through the Portal, not even the gay twins, have any idea how a Portal works.  They don’t understand; they know nothing about how they work and why!  If we can deal with the Cambridge site, they will be forced back quite some way.”

“So you have said,” the President said.  “You want me to authorise an attack on Cambridge?”

“It’s a British site and I’m a British scientist,” Thande said.  “I would think that that was up to the Prime Minister, don’t you know?”

The President smiled; General Easterhouse did not.  “Professor, launching such an attack, while it would have massive benefits, would certainly reveal that we can create Portals.  A secret weapon must be secret.”

“Then how does it deter?”  Thande asked.  “General, I understand, but unless we find a way to prevent them from forming a Portal – or to remove their ability to create them – we will be awesomely vulnerable.”

“I understand that,” General Easterhouse said.  “It is still quite risky.”

“It also has to be undertaken,” the President said.  “I’ll discuss the matter with Bernard.”

“As you command,” General Easterhouse said.  “There are other matters, though; do we attempt to seek a peace or not?”

“I don’t think that we can negotiate with them at all,” the President said.  “We take off the gloves and we hit them hard.”

“Then there is another option,” General Easterhouse said.  “Professor, you said that you might be able to compensate for the effect of the absence of gravity in space when generating a portal…?”

Thande nodded.  “We can open a Portal in space,” he said.  “Their computers just aren’t fast enough to handle the math in time.”

“So they concluded that no one else could do it,” the President said.  “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“We understand orbital trajectories,” General Easterhouse said.  “Could we not open a Portal and launch stealth warheads though it, then detonate them in orbit?  We have weapons designed to generate EMP pulses; we could put some of them with the woodsmen; they could use them and hurt their space capabilities badly.”

“At the very least, they would be tied up for years, just to re-establish control,” Rogers said.  “The woodsmen have the motivation; they just don’t have the weapons.”

“And what will they do in between us hitting them in space and now?”  The President asked.  “General, what about the expanded ABM project?”

General Easterhouse opened a new document on the display.  “We managed to have the design finalised in 2008; we just never built them during the election year.  We can produce several hundred fairly quickly, particularly if we distribute the plans to every electronics company we can find and fund.  They won’t be much good against aircraft, but we can hit any missile directed at us.”

“Emergency priority,” the President said.  “Make sure it’s done as quickly as you can.”

“We could move a handful to the other timeline,” Rogers said.  “If the lasers are as powerful as you suggest, it could tip the balance.”

“We’re working on options,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President?”

“I need to talk to Bernard,” the President said.  “After that, I need to speak to President Gorbanov…and then, perhaps we should start thinking about doing something to assist the French in France.”

Thande hesitated.  “I have been working on the priority project,” he said.  The President lifted an eyebrow.  “So far, I have had limited success, but the math suggests that it should be possible.”

“Then push it forward as fast as you can,” the President said.  “I think that we’re running out of time.”

***
The first phone call the President made was to President Gorbanov, rather than to the British Prime Minister.  It took longer than he expected to make the connection, even though the updated Hot Line between America and Russia, but finally President Gorbanov came to the phone.

“President Gorbanov,” the President said.  “What’s it like there?”

“Bad,” President Gorbanov said.  “Moscow is gone; St Petersburg is gone, most of the cities are gone, my people are panicking…”

“I see,” the President said.  “I have a question; would you be willing to commit yourself to a counterattack at their own timeline?”

“Hell, yes,” President Gorbanov growled.  “Mr President; we fired missiles at their bases in the Middle East and none got through.  We managed some hits on the Ukraine, but they survived and they started to use tactical weapons on our own forces.  The lines are collapsing, Mr President; what can we do to hit them back?”

“We have a link back into their world,” the President said.  “What we need are some of your submarines, with orders to fire their missiles at targets on their side of the dimensional divide.  If we can hurt them, just a little…”

“Then we might make them sit up and take notice,” President Gorbanov agreed.  “Where do you want the boomers to go?”

The President blinked.  “You’re agreeing that quickly?”  He asked, in surprise.  “You don’t want the technology for yourself?”

“Afterwards, yes,” President Gorbanov said.  “I imagine that your establishment will share it” – the President winced at the reminder of various security flaws – “but for the moment, what else can we do with them?”

“Thank you,” the President said.  “You may have noticed that we have a force up near Ireland?”

“My spies reported that,” President Gorbanov said wryly.  “Yes, I knew about that.”

“Then please send all the boomers you can,” the President said.  “We’ll put them through the Portal and give them their firing orders.”

“I think we can spare fifteen,” President Gorbanov said.  “We’ll keep two, just for any unexpected incidents.”

The President nodded.  “Thank you,” he said.  “They will be returned as soon as we can.”

President Gorbanov snorted.  “You’re welcome,” he said.  “Just remember, when this is over, you’re paying to rebuild them.”

“If there is anything left of us, then we’ll see,” the President said.  He smiled; that would not prove a vote-grabber.  “Thank you for everything.”

The connection terminated and the President relaxed, before accessing a second number.  “Good afternoon, Bernard,” he said.  “What’s happening in Britain at the moment?”

Hamilton’s voice was bleary.  “We have some resistance to conscription and a great deal more enthusiasm for it,” he said.  “The French – or at least the Prime Minister – want us to launch more air attacks, which are running down our supplies of advanced weapons.  The Germans are up to something.  Italy just got nuked…what more do you want to know?”

The President checked his private computer quickly.  It did indeed report a strike on Italy.  “Would you be willing to launch an attack on the research centre in their Cambridge?”  He asked.  “Your Professor is arguing for it.”

“Is it not dreadful when academics argue for war?”  Hamilton asked.  “Yes, we can do it; it has to be done, so it will be done.  We’re working on our own Portal now; I assume that you have managed to walk into their universe?”

“Yes,” the President said.  “The data is on its way by courier.  There are also some details on when we want you to launch the attack.  It coincides with something I don’t want to talk about over a secure line.  Please don’t lose it.”

Hamilton yawned.  “Don’t worry, we won’t,” he said.  “Incidentally, we’re going to need a Portal non-development treaty.”

“I know,” the President said.  “With any luck, that will be as exciting as enforcing the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.”

Hamilton chuckled.  “Fun,” he said.  “On the other hand, a lot of the countries that threatened that treaty have been destroyed.”

“How true,” the President said.  “Damn it; we have to do more to help somehow.  I’m going to send an aircraft carrier over to help you out, and draw the one from Japan to engage the Middle East Nazis.  Bernard, we are running out of time.”

“I know,” Hamilton said.  “We have to end it quickly, before the world collapses.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Blame Thande

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

General Neumann knew, as well as anyone else within the Reich, how to read the ebb and flow of Berlin.  The city wasn’t joyful; even the Ministry of Information had been unable to conceal the disasters in the Middle East.  The Reich had clamped down hard on ‘rumour-mongering’ and ‘defeatism,’ both forbidden by the Fuhrer in 1945, but rumours were continuing to spread.

It would have been worse in the other timeline, he thought coldly.  Their Internet, a highly-developed version of the Reich’s computer network, would have made it impossible for them to hide the details of their defeat.  Except, of course, they hadn’t been defeated recently, had they?

There was another sign of the Reich Council’s deep displeasure as he entered the building; the servants were unsmiling as they took his coat, not even saluting his Iron Cross, first class.  They knew exactly how high anyone stood in the eyes of the council, and his standing was clearly very low indeed; their disrespect, under other circumstances, would be enough to have them executed.

“You may enter,” one of them said, without any respect at all.  General Neumann nodded once and stepped inside the council room, almost shivering at the wave of cold.  The faces of the council, as always, were shrouded from view, but he was nevertheless certain that they were staring at him, wondering what he would say.  

“You have failed us,” light-and-breathy said.  “Your incompetence has led to the destruction of the staging posts in Arabia and considerable civilian losses.”

General Neumann felt a flicker of anger.  “And who was supposed to find a way to counter their systems?”  He demanded.  “We never even thought of the concept of stealth aircraft – until we discovered that they existed – and by then it was too late!”

“They themselves have no counter,” General Horst said.  His voice remained neutral, betraying nothing of his feelings.  “What countermeasures they use themselves are useless to us.”

“Which is why we are losing this war,” General Neumann said, feeling as if he had nothing left to lose.  “What is the cost of defeat, my masters?”

Light-and-breathy spoke in a tone that sent shivers down General Neumann’s spine.  “There are already suggestions that the long-broken American resistance has started to pull itself back together,” he said.  “They have heard rumours…”

The council broke into a long discussion.  General Neumann listened, thinking as quickly as he could.  The American resistance was supposed to be controlled by the New Confederacy; if it had suddenly gained in power, then that suggested that senior elements within the New Confederacy were actively aiding the insurgents.  That wasn’t unsurprising – and in fact, did they have to be senior members?  Junior officers in the Confederate Army knew that they had three chances for advancement – fat, slim and none – and they had every reason to try to support the resistance.

“So, what do you suggest that we do?”  One of the councillors asked.  His voice was distorted somehow; an absurd precaution in the heart of the Reich.  General Neumann realised that the question was addressed to him.  “Do you advise that we retreat?”

“Of course not,” General Neumann said.  Sensible or no, such advice would lead to his death and disgrace.  “We need to adapt our strategy.”

“You have said that before,” light-and-breathy said.  “What, then, shall we do?  Should we launch an attack from New Orleans?”

“No,” General Neumann said, concealing his alarm.  He’d requested permission to pull the forces in New Orleans back through the Portal, but they’d refused, saying that the Reich should never give up any territory.  “New Orleans will fall soon.”

“You are being defeatist,” General Horst said.  “How can air power triumph without ground power?”

The question was a sharp one, particularly given the history of the Reich – and Goring’s near-fatal actions during 1940.  Hermann Goring had believed that his Luftwaffe, his powerful tactical force, but oh-so-weak as a strategic force, could bring Britain to her knees within weeks.  If the Fuhrer had not seen clearly from the start that a land invasion would be required….well, the other timeline showed what would have happened then.  To his astonishment, their history books showed that Operation Sealion would have been a failure…despite the many factors that fell in favour of the Germans.

“They have powerful weapons which are very precise,” General Neumann said.  “They can see anything and if they can see it, they can kill it.  At the moment, New Orleans is being worn away, bit by bit.  Once they have killed everything they can see, they will move in…and crush the remaining survivors.  We need counters to those and we need counters to their stealth technology.

“In short, we need time…

“And we have to get that time,” he said.  “There is only one way to ensure success; we must attack the centre of their government directly.”

There was a long pause, pregnant with…what?  Menace?  Anticipation?  Desperation?  “Explain,” General Horst said flatly, finally.  “Explain your meaning.”

He had their attention!  “Their main command and control node is at a place called Cheyenne Mountain,” he said.  “Thanks to the French, we know a great deal about it, more than they would find comfortable.  It’s in Colorado; surrounded, as far as we can tell, by several divisions, heavily dug in to the location.”

“Then an attack through a Portal will be futile,” light-and-breathy said.  “They were able to repel a Portal attack during the battle in Texas…”

General Neumann smiled.  He had their full attention.  He pulled his final card out of his pocket and displayed it for their attention.  “Not if we open the Portal inside the mountain,” he said.

There was a long pause.  “You cannot do that,” General Horst said.  “You can’t open a Portal within solid matter.”

“The mountain has massive complexes dug within it,” General Neumann said dryly.  “We have been digging under the mountain ourselves, remember?  What’s to stop us opening a Portal in our universe, our caves, to theirs?”

The pause returned.  This time, it brought friends.  “It will take several days to set up the equipment, but then…then we can break through and send in a Skorzeny force.  We can get to them!  We might even kill the President himself!”

“See to it,” light-and-breathy said.  “Lead it yourself.  And if this fails, you may as well not come back.”

General Neumann nodded.  “I will not fail,” he said.  “We raid the place, kill everyone within the complex, and retreat before they can react.”

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

Professor Thande was more than a little annoyed.  Having practically invented the Portals – or at least developed the math into a system that could be converted into a working system – he had been sidelined; American and British scientists had taken over the project, working to build more and larger Portals, up at Gayder Greenland.  He snorted; that had been one of the funnier moments of his life, but it wasn’t enough.

He scowled.  It wasn’t as if the President’s special project wasn’t challenging; he had to admit that it was proving harder than he had expected, even with the help of dedicated technicians from the Army.  The American Army had plenty of men who had considerable experience in fields that were not directly related to killing people – at least on the surface.  Thande, who knew more than most about the evils of the world, didn’t mind; if his current project could be used to end the war once and for all, it was fine with him.

And besides, the Nazis had blown up Cambridge, his students, his flat and his CD collection.  He owed the bastards for that.

“Let’s try it again,” he said, nodding at the female assistant, one Lieutenant Sally Woods.  She had been a wonder in the past few days; her insight into the nature of reality, at least as observed through a quantum scope, had pushed the project further forwards.  “Perhaps if we echo the beginnings of a Portal…”

He pushed the button, creating a tiny Portal, too small to be visible, let alone for something to travel through.  He was certain, given enough time, it would be possible to beam signals through the Portal, but so far none of his ideas had worked for more than an hour.  Waving a cable within the portal had worked for an hour, before the cable had shattered anyway.

“I think we have something,” Sally said.  “Look!”

Thande bent his head to examine the display and smiled; the Portal was indeed causing a disruption in reality.  The more the portal stabilised, the more disruption.  “Fascinating,” he said.  “If we view the Portal as distorting reality, perhaps it will be possible to force the reality back to…what the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” Sally said.  She sounded nervous; a wave of disruption, a non-localised signal, had passed across reality.  “The Portal couldn’t have generated that?”

“I very much doubt it,” Thande said, deactivating the Portal.  The distortion remained, flickering in and out of existence…and narrowing down towards one location.  “In fact…”

The realisation was so strong he almost fainted.  He hadn’t seen anything like it before, in the three days he had been working on his system, because whatever was causing it was outside TimeLine A!  And that meant…

“They’re trying to open a Portal in here,” he said, in absolute awe.  It didn’t take more than a few seconds to understand how; they must have hollowed out their own mountain and started to see where they could generate Portals of their own.  “It’s fantastic!”

“They’re going to attack us,” Sally said, her voice curiously flat.  “Don’t you think that you should sound the alarm?”

“In a moment,” Thande said, examining the readings.  “This is truly interesting…in fact, why not power up the distorter and see what it will do.”

Sally blinked.  “Professor…we’re about to be shot at!”

Thande snapped out of his trance.  “Then sound the alert,” he snapped, looking around for his telephone.  He picked it up and hit the emergency button.  “General, this base is about to be attacked through a Portal,” he snapped.  “General…”

The alarms went off; doors slammed into position, sealing them in.  “Now, back to our research,” he said, pleasantly.  “Let’s see…”

The display was flickering remarkably; Thande watched as the enemy Portal took shape and form.  It was still non-localised, still had no designated endpoint, but it had to be somewhere within the complex.  “I think we can disrupt it,” he said, activating his generator.  The display changed as his system flickered into life, trying to close the enemy Portal.  “I think…”

“There’s too much power feeding back,” Sally snapped.  Her voice was amazingly calm.  “It’s going to blow…”

“No its not,” Thande snapped.  “How dare it even think about blowing?”

He massaged the display, sending waves of energy into the enemy Portal.  The Portal was flickering in and out of reality, but the waves of power had nowhere to fade away, except…

“Uh-oh,” he said.

The generator exploded.  A wave of white light washed out towards Thande and…

***
The President glanced up as a series of alarms echoed through the complex, and then General Easterhouse’s voice spoke over the loudspeakers.  “All personnel, this base is about to be attacked,” he said.  “This is not a drill, I repeat; this base is about to be attacked!”

The door broke down under the feet of two Secret Service men.  “Mr President, we have to get you to a secure location, now,” Agent Kay said.  “Mr President…”

“I’m coming,” the President said.  A distant explosion echoed down the corridor.  “Where are we going?”

“Down towards the subbasement,” Kay said, as they ran.  “There’s a train there to get you out if you have to be moved further…”

The sound of shooting could be heard from the control room.  “Emergency lift,” Kay said, opening a door that looked like a broom closet and pushing the President in.  Seconds later, the President felt his stomach turn as the lift plummeted down towards the basement; he stumbled out feeling sick.

“It gets everyone that way,” the teenaged Marine said.  He was clearly guarding a small control room.  “Hey, Mr President!”

“Vote for me in 2012,” the President said, his tone rather dazed.  “What’s happening?”

“Come in,” the officer of the watch said.  “I’m Captain Hayden.  There are intruders on three levels.”

The President stared at him.  “How the hell did they get in?”

Hayden tapped one display monitor.  The shimmering white shape of a Portal could be seen, hovering in the middle of the control room.  “They came though that,” he said.  “If you will excuse me…”

***
The first that Lieutenant Adam Graves knew of the attack was General Easterhouse bellowing orders for everyone to grab their personal weapons and stand by to repel attack.  Even as Graves drew his service weapon, cursing his decision not to practice over the past few days, the shimmering shape of a Portal could be seen, materialising in the centre of the room.  Seconds later, the Marines opened fire…and the bullets bounced off the Portal.  Before anyone could react, three black-suited figures had jumped out of each side of the Portal, already firing with their weapons.

Graves threw himself to the ground, firing as he moved.  One of the figures fell, than another; the third threw a handful of grenades at the defenders.  The explosion killed a handful of the Marines; General Easterhouse bellowed for everyone to evacuate the room.

Graves crawled backwards, firing at the figures…until his gun clicked.  “I’m out,” he called, wondering who would react.  “I’m…”

One of the SS men saw him on the ground and fired once.  Graves departed from the world almost as much as he had entered it; born in pain and died in pain.

***
“We have intruders on three floors, all confined to three separate sections,” Captain Hayden reported.  “We have all of the doors sealed.”

General Easterhouse nodded.  “Deactivate all of those computers, my authority,” he said.  “Do you have visual?”

The radio buzzed for a moment.  “Only partial visibility,” Hayden reported.  “They shot up a lot of the obvious pick-ups out.”

“Keep watching,” General Easterhouse said.  “Have you got a Portal detection mechanism online?”

“Only the one outside,” Hayden said.  “It’s picking up only three Portals, all one-way.  There’s no trace of any more, sir.”

General Easterhouse smiled.  “Good, then they won’t be open for long,” he said.  He scowled; he knew that he should leave the command to a more junior officer, but it was his base that had been attacked.  He was going to defend it, even if it cost him his life.  

“Open the main doors,” he ordered.  “Tell Colonel Corrigan that I want several more platoons of Marines, armed for close-quarters combat, in position at once.”

“Yes, sir,” Hayden said.  His tone shifted.  “Sir, the President is with me.”

“Keep him safe,” General Easterhouse ordered.  The President had to survive; the last thing the United States needed was a succession crisis during a war.  “I have a battle to run.”  He scowled and put the radio down for a moment.  “They’ll try to break out, probably in three directions from each location at once,” he said.  He pointed to a plan on the walls, pointing at soldiers as he watched.  “Go cover these locations, at once,” he said.  “Hayden, what are they doing?”

“Guard Door Three,” Hayden said.  “They’re massing over there; I have heat traces from at least twenty people.  Those suits they have seem to lower their temperature or something…”

“Hide it from your sensors,” General Easterhouse snapped.  American combat suits did the same.  A radio report came in; one of the German attack points had burst out, causing heavy causalities on both sides.  “What are they doing now?”

“I can’t tell,” Hayden said.  “They’re not within the view of a camera…”

The main door, only a few meters from his position, burst open under the force of an explosion.  “Here they come,” he snapped, lifting his rifle.  “Kill them all!”

***
General Neumann examined the door with considerable concern.  It looked like wood and it almost certainly wasn’t; it didn’t feel like wood at all.  He would have preferred more time to study it, but there should be at least two more teams in the complex, all trying to break out and take as much of the complex as they could before the Portals closed…and the Americans wiped the survivors out.  He'd always known that it was a suicide mission.

“You and you, explosive charges,” he dictated.  “Against that door; bring it down, then we use grenades.”

“Jawohl,” the commando said.  They hadn’t been happy about General Neumann commanding the mission in person, but they’d been overruled by their commanding officer.  Detonation in ten seconds…”

General Neumann jumped backwards, just before the shaped charges exploded, shattering the door with considerable force…except it hadn’t been enough.  The door might have been broken beyond repair – in fact there was no doubt of that – but there was just enough of it to pose a problem.

“Grenades, now,” he snapped, as the Americans outside the door opened fire.  Two had clearly been hit and hurt; the others opened fire, pouring fire into the room that had suddenly become a death trap.  The grenades were tossed through the door, exploding outside.  The series of explosions lashed out at the Americans, slaughtering them in the fire…

“Forward,” he snapped, and the commandos moved, hoping to take their enemies at a run.  It didn’t work; the Marines were still alive…and more were running around the corner.  The fighting was savage and at point-blank range, Marines and SS Commandos fighting almost at knife-range.  Explosions shattered part of the room, then a larger blast threw General Neumann backwards, knocking his head against the wall.  He blacked out, only dimly aware of the Portal closing, too late for him to escape.

Not that he could have escaped anyway.  He closed his eyes and waited for death.  He'd always known that it was a suicide mission.

Chapter Forty: This Time Its Personal…

Cheyenne Mountain
Colorado, USA (TimeLine A)

“You can’t stay here any longer,” General Easterhouse said.  A heavy bandage ran over his shoulder; it had been grazed by a bullet during the fight for the control room.  “It’s not secure.”

The President nodded, surveying the damage to the control room, the very heart of NORAD.  All of its functions had been passed on automatically to the back-up control centre, halfway across the country; it’s war-torn appearance horrifyingly gruesome in the heart of the mountain.  Seven Marines surrounded the President, their weapons cocked and ready, watching for any threat.

“Is the news about Professor Thande true?”  The President asked.  “Is he…?”

His voice broke off slightly.  General Easterhouse nodded grimly.  “We found the results of the explosion in his quarters,” he said.  “The data download continued until the final moment; the system overloaded and exploded.  Thande and his assistant were too close to the blast and vaporised.  So far, they’ve found no trace of their bodies.”

He sighed.  “We never saw this coming,” he said.  “We always expected that they would open Portals outside the Mountain and try to batter their way inside.”

“We should have,” the President said.  “We knew – I knew – that Thande had opened small Portals within the Mountain.  That meant that there was a place for them to open on the other side.”

“No point in worrying about that now,” General Easterhouse said.  “It’s bad enough knowing that they managed to hurt us that badly.”

The President nodded.  Only one of the three Nazi attacks had managed to break out of their arrival areas, but it had been a determined attack, rampaging through the complex and firing madly in all directions, wrecking equipment as if it was nothing.  It had taken nearly two hours to hunt them all down, and then to search the entire complex from top to bottom, removing hundreds of unpleasant surprises that the Nazis had left behind.

He scowled.  More than a few Marines had been wounded by an amazing variety of mines and explosive devices, some of which spat acid at people instead of exploding.  Even though the attack had been beaten off, it had had a damaging effect on people’s morale; the Marines were clearly nervous.

“There should be good news somewhere,” the President said.  “Professor Darlington was examining the final read-outs from Thande’s machine; perhaps it worked to some extent.”

“We certainly had more warning than we had before,” General Easterhouse agreed.  “Not enough, though.”

“Enough to stop the attack before it became serious,” the President said.  He sighed.  “How many died?”

“On our side?  Four hundred dead, thirty-seven seriously wounded,” General Easterhouse said.  “Most of them were highly-paid experts, people we can ill afford to lose.  On their side, we found around a hundred and fifty bodies, we think.”  The President lifted an eyebrow.  “Some of them blew themselves up,” the General said.  He paused.  “We also have a survivor.”

The President stared at him.  “Why did this one survive?”

General Easterhouse quirked an eyebrow.  “You want him shot at once?”  He asked.  “Wait till you see his uniform.”

The President frowned.  “Who is he?”  He asked.  “One of their American allies?”

“No,” General Easterhouse said.  “Apparently, he’s one of their senior generals.”

***
General Neumann came back to awareness in one moment of sudden shock, expecting to see a complex controlled by his soldiers.  The doctor bending over his bed wore an American uniform, one that fitted her surprisingly well, which wasn’t a surprise, but his position on the bed was a surprise.  His hands had been firmly strapped to the bed, he realised, and there were three armed guards standing in the room.

“Hello?”  He asked in German.  The doctor – or perhaps she was a nurse – said nothing.  He tried again in English.  “Hello?”

“Welcome back to the world,” the doctor said.  Her voice held no warmth, no welcome.  “Who are you?”

I’m a prisoner, he realised.  That, too, did not come as a surprise.  The attack must have failed, which meant that…there was nothing left for him back home.  After Austin, he was mildly surprised that the Americans had bothered to take him prisoner; perhaps they intended to allow their President to shoot him personally.

“General Walter Neumann, Wehrmacht,” he said.  The Wehrmacht did not expect its people to share their serial numbers with anyone.  “Who are you?”

The doctor ignored the question.  “I have to inform you that you are a Prisoner of War, taken by American forces under the revised POW Convention, revised by Congress in 2009…which, by the way, was two weeks after you arrived.  Your choice is between cooperating or being forced to cooperate.”

There was a pause.  “Under the revised convention, you have no rights,” she said.  “If you attempt to escape, you will be shot.  If you try to lie to the interrogators, you will suffer…”

“I doubt that you could exceed the SS at torture,” General Neumann interrupted.  “Do you have any way of making me talk?”

“We have ways of making you talk,” the doctor said.  She smiled; General Neumann didn’t get the joke.  The telephone buzzed.  “Excuse me,” she said.

General Neumann watched her as she walked over to the door and picked up the telephone.  She certainly looked nicer from the rear than the male doctors in the Wehrmacht, but her voice!  It was cold as ice, devoid of any feeling, even hatred.  The Marines watched him; their professionalism would be almost admirable under other circumstances.  

“You seem to have a reprieve from the interrogation,” the doctor said.  She sounded almost…regretful.  “We’re to hold you here, for a while; apparently the President thinks he might have a use for you.”

General Neumann said nothing.  The doctor busied herself checking his bonds and his body.  For the first time, he realised that he was naked, apart from a single loincloth.  It hid nothing from her eyes and he almost blushed; by now, the Gestapo would have his wife and their children.  Failure was in the blood, after all…Jewish blood.  The SS really believed their own propaganda; it was what made them so dangerous.

The door opened.  General Neumann looked up as a Marine entered, weapon in hand.  Two more followed and there was a brief conversation between his guards and the newcomers, one too low for him to hear.  Two more men stepped in; one wearing a standard American uniform with three stars, the other wearing a simple black suit.

“The President, I assume,” General Neumann said.  The President was older than he would have expected, formerly dark hair shading to grey.  “What might you want with me?”

“Answer me a question,” the President said.  “Do you believe that your…nation, your dimension, can win this war?”

General Neumann stared at him.  “You intend to offer a peace agreement?”  He asked.  “Would your own people go for it?”

“I’ve learned a great deal about your people over the past month,” the President said.  “One fairly clear detail is that your system is having problems with the recent defeats.  We defeated you in Washington, we defeated you in Texas, New Orleans is on the verge of falling, we hit you with nuclear weapons in the Middle East and the British pulled off a successful air raid in France, which has then become a pounding that has prevented your forces there from advancing further.”

General Neumann stared at him.  “Does it matter?”  He asked.  “We have Portals…”

“So do we,” the President said.  “Funny that, we learnt the math before you, but we never took it as far as you did.  We have a way back into your world, General; we will attack your world quite heavily.”

General Neumann felt the breath go out of him.  A cold feeling of numb horror was rising within his chest.  For a long terrible moment, he thought that he was about to have a heart attack.  The President watched him, his gaze unreadable.  General Neumann wondered if he might be lying, but then it struck him that the President wasn’t lying; the rumblings that had appeared in America might have had another source…

“We are going to hurt you,” the President said.  “You have done far too much damage to this world for us to let you off with a spanking.  We’re not targeting Berlin itself, though; that would merely result in both of us destroying each other.”

“I suppose we could have a mutual suicide pact,” General Neumann said, trying to pull himself back together.  “President, I have no standing back home; why do you think they sent me to lead an attack in person?”

The President smiled.  “Yes, our Third Reich had the habit of punishing generals for failures, even ones that were understandable.  You must have friends back home; military men and even civilians, people who will listen to you, eh?”

He said the last word in a tone hinting at conspiracy.  General Neumann stared at him.  “Are you suggesting that I launch a coup?”

The President nodded.  “If you don’t, General, we will have to destroy your people to save ourselves,” he said.  “The damage that you have inflicted on our world makes that very certain indeed…very certain.  Imagine that; we can put weapons in your world, ones that can handle your space stations from the ground.  You – your people – might manage to recover control, but the cost would be awesome.”

“Everyone would rise up against us,” General Neumann said.  He took a breath.  “If you can send me back, then why haven’t you done it now?”

“Needed your agreement first,” the President said.  “We have to get every last bit in place, and then…we’ll see if we can help you launch a coup.”

***
“Is this wise?”  General Easterhouse asked, afterwards.  “What’s to stop that man, General Neumann, from trying to double-cross us?”

“We need time,” the President said.  “Even with us assisting, it’s not going to be as easy as I made it sound; there’ll be loyalists everywhere, trying to reassert control.”  He scowled.  “The Reich Council is the weakest point in the system, General; they clearly run everything, and yet hardly anyone knows who they are.”

“Orders from NORAD could come from you, or from some assistant secretary,” General Easterhouse pointed out.  “Yes, it’s believable.”

The President shrugged.  “Triggering off a civil war should take them out of the dimensional-conquering business for a while,” he said.  “Long enough for Professor Darlington to complete Professor Thande’s work.”

General Easterhouse frowned.  “Mr President, are you sure that the idea will work?”

The President smiled.  “We have to hope so,” he said.  “We have very little choice.”

They reached one of the main research laboratories.  Thande’s lab had been destroyed beyond repair, but the walls had contained most of the blast.  Professor Darlington had been trying to follow Thande’s work; they stepped through the main door to see a strange device sitting on the table.

“Hey, Mr President,” Professor Darlington called.  He was a short unwashed man who somehow seemed to be larger than he was.  There was more inside his body, the President thought, than it could reasonably contain.  “I thought you would be leaving?”

“I will, soon,” the President said.  He knew that he’d taken a risk, several risks, in remaining within the complex.  General Easterhouse, Agent Kay and the Marines had pointed that out, but he’d overruled them.  He had two final tasks to complete before he boarded Air Force One.  “Have you worked out what happened?”

“Oh, that Professor Thande, what a man,” Darlington said.  “I have indeed, Mr President, and you’ll never guess what happened…he succeeded!”

The President felt certain of victory for the first time.  “Exactly how far did he succeed?”  He asked.  “An explosion doesn’t count as a success, does it?”

“Oh, but it does, Mr President,” Darlington burbled.  “He was successful at blocking the Portal from forming, for a long moment, but then the power had to go somewhere…BANG!”

The President frowned.  “So we can suppress a Portal for a while?”

“Yes, Mr President,” Darlington said.  He dragged the President over to the device.  “Even better; we can break one up, through this laser-powered system that will cause the Portal to refuse to form properly.”  He leered cheerfully at the device.  “Of course, all of that power has to go somewhere…and you’ll never guess where it goes, eh?”

“I can’t guess,” the President said.  Darlington was clearly brilliant, but more than a little crazy.  “Where does it go?”

“Back into the laser,” Darlington said.  “That’s what got poor Thande, Mr President, but now we know that it exists…”

He waved a hand at a series of scribbled notes.  “If we place a laser generation platform in orbit, we can start broadcasting breaking energies as soon as we detect a Portal,” he said.  “It doesn’t matter that we won’t know where the Portal actually is, Mr President, we will disrupt it anyway.”

He tapped one of the diagrams meaningfully.  It was so confused that it was useless.  “The power from the Portal will shoot back up the laser, which is transmitting the blocking signal, where it will hit the generator.  In this case, the power will be channelled into another laser, which will…and this is the really brilliant bit…channel the energy out into space.  Or, for that matter, we could probably build a storage system to hold it, should we need more power in space.”

The President smiled hopefully, trying to hold back the desire to smack Darlington.  “How long will it take to build them?”  He asked.  “How will we get them into orbit?”

“Oh, a space shuttle can carry one,” Darlington said.  He sounded blithely unconcerned about the limited numbers of space shuttles, or NASA’s failings.  “It will take a lot of flights, but it can be done.”

The President smiled.  “Thank you, Professor,” he said.  He smiled at him, before turning to General Easterhouse.  “Come on, General.  Evil plots don’t just make themselves, you know.”

General Easterhouse smiled as they left.  “That man is mad,” he said, shaking his head with genuine astonishment.  “If it works…”

“We can prevent them from intruding into our world again,” the President said.  “If their civil war lasts more than a year or so, we should be safe.”  He smiled.  “Now, there’s one final matter to see to, and then…I’ll do as you want and leave this place.”

He smiled as the Marines relaxed slightly.  He opened his cell phone and made one single call.  “Alistair,” he said.  “I want you to arrange a three-power summit meeting on Iceland, us, the British…and you-know-who.”  He smiled at the response.  “It’s time, I think, to find out just what they want…and which side they’re on.”

10 Downing Street
London, United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

The Prime Minister stared out of the window, looking towards the sunset.  It looked different; ever since Cambridge, some dust had been flung into the atmosphere.  Maybe nuclear winter was overrated as a concept – Hamilton had seen so many disputed studies that he didn’t know what to believe – but he found it hard to believe that all of the nuclear detonations had had no effect.

General Shawcross stepped into the room behind him as the sound of jets echoed across the capital.  He’d opposed, bitterly, the stationing of a flight of RAF jets, even Tornados, on permanent Combat Air Patrol, even though he had understood that it was a political necessity.  The French were warning of rumblings in Occupied France…and the cruise missiles kept coming towards Britain.  Only a handful had actually survived to hit land, but the effects had been bad.

Hamilton scowled.  The average Londoner had never faced a serious attack; the bombings in the subway and the several repeat attacks during the war had been the worst, a viable threat, but one that could be defeated.  Cruise missiles, fired from occupied territory, were something else.  After each attack, Parliament had demanded more and more protection – ironic indeed, coming from a centre that had ruthlessly cut defence spending, even during the War on Terror.

He smiled suddenly.  The War on Terror had come to a screeching halt with the devastation in the Middle East.  Perhaps the Nazis had done them a favour, of sorts; the West would have time to prevent a resurgence…assuming that they defeated the Nazis themselves.

“Prime Minister?”  General Shawcross asked.  “Prime Minister?”

Hamilton turned, silhouetted against the light of the sunset.  The General sounded concerned.  “Have all of the preparations been made?”

“All of them,” Shawcross said.  “The American party arrived yesterday and insisted on inspecting the Portal generating systems.  They went through everything, from the power systems to the nuclear plant we attached to the system.”

Hamilton shrugged at the tone of annoyance in his voice.  “And what did they say?”

“The Portals, our systems, are fine,” Shawcross said.  “Professor Thande’s last gift to us; a working system.”

“The Americans do have more experience in actually building the things,” Hamilton said.  “It’s not that important, General.  What about the forces in place?”

Shawcross smiled.  “A thousand soldiers are ready,” he said.  His voice was proud of his efforts, of the soldiers he commanded.  “SAS, SBS, several units of regular soldiers.  We have nearly three thousand, including an armoured unit, nearby, just in case.  We have three Portals ready to put them through.”

His tone was concerned.  Hamilton looked up.  The General’s face was taut.  “You have a concern?”  He asked.  “Is it one that should be handled first?”

“There’s almost no reconnaissance information,” Shawcross said.  “We know nothing at all about the shape of the building, or on the people inside the enemy complex.  The men could be jumping into anything.”

“I know,” Hamilton said.  “Unfortunately, we dare not take the risk of sending probes through into the alternate world.  The American attack should provide some cover for the rest of us.”

“I know,” Shawcross said.  His tone darkened.  “Prime Minister, a lot of things could go very badly wrong.”

Chapter Forty-One: War of the Worlds

Atlantic Ocean
Europe (TimeLine C)

Somewhat to Admiral Robins surprise, the Russians had long had a programmed strike plan for dealing with an enemy who possessed complete control of space.  It was, he had to admit, rather clever, even if it exposed some of his boats to risk.  A massive two days of deployment, allowing the Russian and American nuclear boats – nineteen in all – into TimeLine C, had allowed the two allies to work out their strike plan.  The Russian experiments with laser weapons, combined with the American weapons, would be an unpleasant surprise for the Nazis.

One problem, at least part of one problem, was that they were hardly able to communicate over the long distances they required.  The Russians had suggested a solution to that problem; it was actually part of a combined war plan that might have been turned against the West someday.  For the Russian boats, and almost certainly for the American boats, it was a suicide mission, but they understood that.

“Good luck to us all,” Admiral Robins had said.  “I’m sorry…”

Admiral Petrovich had given him a sharp look.  “I’m part of…what you Americans would call a service dynasty,” he had said.  “Those of us who are in the military are all that is left of us; Moscow and Leningrad are gone.”

Admiral Robins blinked.  Was the Admiral a Communist?  Leningrad was no longer used as the name for St Petersburg.  He smiled; it hardly mattered now.  The Nazis were far worse than the worst of the communists had ever been.  Not even Stalin had been willing to use mass nuclear strikes to get rid of inconvenient humans with the wrong blood type or skin colour.

“We’re all that’s left, Admiral,” Petrovich had repeated.  “One of my relatives vanished with your George Washington and the Task Force, several more were killed in the fighting along the border.  All that’s left is to hurt the enemy as badly as we can.”

“I understand,” Admiral Robins had said.  “Good luck.”

Four days later, the USS Ohio was drawing closer and closer to the main centre of Nazi Germany, in Germany itself.  The Ohio – and its companion vessel USS Florida – had been modified to fire cruise missiles, including a stealth variant that would be undetectable to the Reich.  All twenty-two of the missiles had nuclear warheads, targeted on targets from Occupied Britain to the Outer Reich; colonised Russia and the Balkans.  Florida, on the other hand, would be concentrating on two targets within Occupied America…and the hated New Confederacy.  Florida also carried several experimental warheads; a surprise for the space stations high above the Earth.

Captain Collins coughed.  “Yes, Captain?”  Admiral Robins asked.  He had insisted on flying his flag on the Ohio; he wanted to be present when the missiles were launched.

“Admiral, why aren’t we hitting Berlin?”  Collins asked.  “They hit Washington?”

“We need someone to surrender to us,” Admiral Robins said, concealing his own concern.  The National Command Authority – which meant the President – had been very clear on that; no missiles to go within fifty kilometres of Berlin.  Admiral Robins didn’t agree with the instructions, but he knew to obey orders.  The Russians would be launching soon; they’d been given the honour of launching the first strike.

He looked up at the display.  The Russians would be launching standard ICBMs, all with nuclear warheads, and at a far wider range of targets.  The enemy anti-missile defences, on the space stations, might well get most of them, even though the confusion the first warheads were intended to cause.  It didn’t matter; the idea was to distract the enemy stations from noticing that some missiles had…vanished.

“The President ordered it,” he said, and ended the argument.  “He’s shown a lot of backbone lately…”

“Nuclear wave,” the sensor operator said.  “One flash; high attitude!”

“Commence launch procedures,” Admiral Robins said.  The Americans had taken the Russian idea – and one stolen from the Nazis - and improved upon it; several UAVs had been armed with nuclear warheads, ones configured to trigger a massive EMP wave.  The shock would cripple the enemy’s sensors, just long enough for the Russians to start their launch procedures.  It was a race now…

“I confirm targets,” Collins said.  “Mr Exec; confirm targets.”

“I confirm,” the exec said.  “On three?”

“On three,” Collins said.  “One…two…three!”

They twisted their keys together, firing the missiles.  All twenty-two rockets were launched in quick succession, almost certainly noticed from orbit.  The trick would be to lose the rocket heat before the enemy ABM systems noticed them, or before…

“Crash dive,” Collins snapped, as the last warhead launched.  They were underwater already, but they had to go deeper, much deeper.  “Get us out of here.”

Admiral Robins took a breath as time ticked by and the submarine moved, heading as far as it could from the launch site, when…a massive shockwave struck the ship.  The Ohio’s hull trembled, but it held; the blast was just far away enough to allow them to survive.

“I think that was a kinetic weapon,” the sonar officer said.  “If we’d been a little closer…”

“Time to go stealthy,” Collins said.  “I want to sneak us back to the Portal, as if the entire Royal Navy was on your tail.”

Admiral Robins scowled.  In this universe, whatever passed for the British Navy almost certainly would be on their tail.  “Good work,” he said.  “My compliments to the crew.”

“Thank you,” Collins said.  “Now all we have to do is get away with it.”

Defence Station Three
Earth Orbit (TimeLine C)

The space station had not originally been intended to be a permanent structure, but it had grown and grown until the Luftwaffe had converted it into a defence station, nearly half a mile of tanks and cylinders playing host to over a hundred Germans, mainly connected with the defence of the Reich.

“Report,” the commander demanded.  He pulled himself into the command centre as quickly as he could; floating to the centre of the room.  “What’s happened?”

“We have four major EMP detonations, over the Atlantic,” the technician snapped.  “Herr Captain; we have missiles!”

“Japanese missiles?”  Captain Mulenkamf demanded.  “Where the hell did they come from?”

“I don’t know,” the technician said.  “Herr Captain, we have crippled systems…”

“Signal the Reich Defence Force,” Mulenkamf ordered.  “Can we engage them?”

“Yes, some of them,” the technician said.  “Herr Captain, half of our weapons are offline, more than that of the computers…”

Mulenkamf would have hit him if that were possible in zero gravity.  They had time, he knew, but not enough of it.  “Can we coordinate with the other stations?”  he asked.  The centre of their station was shielded, but not all of the stations were shielded against EMP.  “Can we contact the ground?”

“Yes, we have limited communications,” the technician said.  “Herr Captain, the missiles are entering our engagement range.”

“Kill them,” Mulenkamf ordered.  “Take down as many as you can and give me a tactical plot.”

The technician activated the main screen.  Mulenkamf pulled himself over to examine it; missiles were rising from the Atlantic, targeting Africa, Germany, Norway and the colonised areas of Russia.  Some were even heading towards the Middle East, aimed at civilian populations…

“Bastards,” he snarled.  “Order the other stations to deploy the killer rocks against the submarines…”

“Done,” the technician said.  “Herr General Horst has already given that order.”

Mulenkamf smiled.  “Good for him,” he said, as the missiles began to die.  “Perhaps we can beat off this attack, wherever it came from.”

“There’s major damage to some of the weapons,” the technician repeated.  “We just lost a laser when we tried to fire it…”

“What the hell did that?”  Mulenkamf demanded, before the lights flickered.  “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” the technician said, as the computers started to fade.  “Sir, I think one of the missiles detonated before it could be hit.”

Mulenkamf felt his blood run cold.  An EMP at that range would cripple every satellite in orbit, at least on that side of the planet.  Millions of hours of man-effort, all lost within moments, leaving only space junk.  It would take years to replace them all, years that the Reich might not have.  

The lights flickered again and died.  This time, they stayed out.  “Complete systems failure,” the technician said, trying to reactive the system.  “Some vital components must have burned out…”

Mulenkamf shuddered.  “We never expected an attack of such violence,” he said.  “The Japanese started a war against us and…”

“How could it have been the Japanese?”  The technician asked.  “They don’t have that many boats?”

Mulenkamf stared at him.  “Then who else could it have been?”

Reich Defence Centre
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

General Horst found himself jumping out of bed as the alarms went off, cursing as he realised what the alarms actually were; the Reich was under attack!  Those alarms were never sounded, except in drills; they signified a ballistic missile attack, and the only people who could have done that were the Japanese…

He jumped into the lift, heading down towards the bunker at high speed.  As the commander of the forces within the Inner Reich, he was entitled to quarters within the bunker itself, a massive complex deep underground, deep enough to save them from multiple nuclear strikes.  He hoped that it was deep enough to survive whatever was coming, if it really was a Japanese attack.  Logic said that it had to be, except the Japanese weren’t crazy and they had too many problems of their own to pick a fight.

But who else could it be?

“Report,” he snapped, as soon as he entered the room.  The ten operators, all highly-trained, didn’t salute.  That wasn’t permitted during a life and death situation.  “What the hells happening?”

The officer of the watch nodded at him.  “There have been over seventy missile launches, all from the sea,” he said.  “All of them have been launched within the Atlantic and they have included EMP weapons, comparable to the ones we have used against the other timeline…”

General Horst understood in a sudden flash of understanding.  “They did manage to build their own Portals,” he snapped.  “What about the space stations?”

The officer waved a hand at the main display.  “Major EMP hits on the satellite network,” he said.  “We’ve been trying to shut some of them down, to keep them safe, but its failed; even if the attacks all fail, they have cost us considerable effort, just to rebuild everything.”

General Horst stared up at the display.  “Those bastards,” he breathed.  “What about the ABM systems?”

“We lost some of the missiles,” the officer said.  “They just vanished…”

“Missiles don’t vanish,” General Horst snarled.  A thought occurred to him.  “Get all of the radars switched to anti-stealth mode, now!”

The officer gaped at him.  “Herr General, a lot of the radars have been damaged…”

“Then get the ones that aren’t damaged up,” General Horst snapped.  “They’re using stealth missiles against us!  That’s where the missiles have gone, we just can’t see them!”

The officer grew even paler.  He dashed over to a console and started to bellow orders into the landline.  “Herr General, we have considerable damage to the space stations,” he said.  “I have an unconfirmed report of a nuclear detonation in…”

“Confirmed,” one of the technicians said.  “A warhead has detonated in Pretoria.  Another in William, Congo.  Heavy losses.”

“Open all of the systems,” General Horst snapped.  “I need everyone sharing data…”

“Nuclear impact, Bremen,” another technician said.  “None of the radars or Metalstorm units picked up on it.”  He glanced at his console.  “Second impact; Northern Control Centre.  Heavy losses in both places.”

“Two missiles picked up, heading for Berlin,” the officer snapped.  “Close-in defences downed both of them!”

“Finally,” General Horst said.  “Find the others!”

A technician gasped out a sob.  “Major impact, Dover,” he said.  “Mein Gott; my family lives there.”

“Concentrate on your job,” General Horst snapped.  “Move.”

“Four more missiles downed by Pebbles system,” a technician called out.  “Impacts estimated at being somewhere within Arabia.”

“Our civilian population will survive,” General Horst vowed.

“Impact, Wehrmacht training and deployment base, Bonn,” a technician said.  “Heavy losses, including dozens of new Panzers.”

“Impact, Space Centre, American Territories,” another said.  “Two more warheads destroyed; probably targets…Russia, Poland…perhaps Italy.”

“Should have let that one hit,” General Horst snarled.  Far too many of the other timeline’s Italians had proven themselves capable fighters.  Destroying their Rome had been a pleasure.  “Any more?”

“Major impact, Rhineland industrial centre,” someone said.  General Horst staggered; his brother lived there.  He pulled himself back to his feet by effort of will.  “Total fatalities, very high indeed.”

***
The strike on the Rhineland had proven to be the last strike, at least as far as they could tell.  It was possible, General Horst supposed, that one last missile was still out there, but as the time passed without another detonation, it became less and less likely.

“The Kriegsmarine has deployed,” Admiral Goring reported.  He was a descendent of the famous and infamous Goring, but without his ancestor’s indolence.  “That’s everything we have in the Atlantic.  We’ll catch the bastards and kill them.”

“Good,” General Horst said.  He rattled off orders, rapid fire.  “Deploy everything, from the carriers to the submarines.  Warn all of the civilian traffic out of the area so we don’t have any accidents.  Find them.  Kill them.”

“It shall be done,” Admiral Goring said, and he left.  General Horst glanced up, beckoning Standartenfuehrer Hess into the office.  He wasn’t related to the famous Rudolf Hess, which hadn’t stopped him claiming to be so related.  Horst smiled; the SS and their Gestapo allies rarely missed a trick.

“Yes, Herr Standartenfuehrer?”  He asked, concealing his annoyance.  The last thing he wanted was to know the preliminary results, but there was no choice.  “Do you have the figures?”

“Fifty-seven detonations on our soil alone,” Standartenfuehrer Hess said.  His normal arrogance had been knocked from him completely.  “They seem to have concentrated on targets with military significance; Bremen, Hamburg and Prague were the largest targets hit.  Each of them lost several million civilians and countless bond-servants.”

“Order the bond-servants to be reduced,” General Horst said.  “We don’t need useless mouths to feed, not now.”

Standartenfuehrer Hess smiled, trying to restore his arrogance.  “I’ve already ordered it done,” he said.  “Of course, there is something they could eat.”

General Horst glared at him.  “There isn’t time,” he snapped, in his full command voice.  “What about the other targets?”

Standartenfuehrer Hess flinched.  “The Rhineland lost several million experienced workers,” he said.  “The hits in the Congo cost us considerable amounts of bond-servants, mining for metals.  The hit on Pretoria cost us the government of South Africa, which was one of our more trustworthy allies.”

General Horst snorted.  None of the allies were ‘trustworthy’ in any real sense.  “They’re not a problem at the moment,” he said.  “What about the losses in America?”

“Several of our main garrisons within the Occupied Territories were destroyed,” Standartenfuehrer Hess reported.  “Several more weapons detonated within the New Confederacy, decapitating the government.  I have reports that there is already unrest within the country…”

“Three hours,” General Horst said, in wonderment.  “And Russia?”

“We only took one hit there and one in Arabia,” Standartenfuehrer Hess assured him.  “Neither was serious; one was aimed at the governing centre in Arabia and missed, destroying a military base instead.  One was aimed at a large city within Russia and destroyed it.”

General Horst sighed.  Now for the really bad news.  “What about space?”  He asked.  “What’s the likely outcome there?”

“We got hit badly,” Standartenfuehrer Hess admitted.  “Several of the weapons carried X-Ray lasers, all bomb-pumped.  Four stations were badly hit with those weapons alone.  They were all very crude, but…

“The EMP did worse,” he continued.  “We lost almost every advanced satellite in orbit, all crippled by the blasts, and to add insult to injury we lost a lot of vital components within the stations.  At least seven stations that weren’t hit by lasers are still going to be out of action for a long time; I am assured that it might be cheaper to melt them down for slag.”

“We have to get them back up as soon as possible,” General Horst snapped.  “The Council wants to know how soon it can be done.  How long?”

“Several months, at best,” Standartenfuehrer Hess admitted.  He scowled.  “We have to recover all of the men from the damaged stations, then survey them all to find out what’s working and what is not working, and then start planning out the repair.  We can move most of the suddenly surplus population back to Earth, or to the Moon, if we have to; we might not be able to hold them all on the remaining stations.”

General Horst cursed.  “It was definitely an attack from the other universe,” he said.  “The stealth weapons proved that, if nothing else.  So…”

Standartenfuehrer Hess smiled.  “We could always blame it on the Japanese,” he said.  “There were nearly strikes launched against their home islands, along with raids on their shipping, perhaps even a strike against Australia…”

“Are you mad?”  General Horst demanded.  “The last thing we need is more enemies!”

The telephone rang.  General Horst stared at it, as if it were a snake about to pounce, and then picked it up.  “Horst,” he said.

The message was clear and to the point.  Incredible as it seemed, and General Horst was prepared to believe almost anything, the nuclear strikes had been only part of the enemy plan.  The real focus of their attack had been elsewhere.

Chapter Forty-Two: Indistinct Shadows

Reich MOS Research Laboratory
Cambridge, Britain (TimeLine C)

The flickering light of the Portal vanished as Captain Dwynn, SAS, stepped through, weapon already raised.  He looked quickly for an attack, but saw nothing; only the woods in front of him.  The complex lay ahead, perhaps half a mile through woods that had been reduced to ash by the Cambridge Event in his timeline.

He stuck his head back through the Portal.  “It’s clear,” he said, and pulled his head back.  The woods were quiet in the dawn; not even birds were singing.  For some reason, that bothered him, then he became aware of a very faint buzzing noise, more of a feeling, in the air.

“Some kind of subsonic,” Sergeant Flynn muttered, as the SAS spread out.  “Is that the target?”

“I think so,” Dwynn said.  “It’s certainly in the right place.”

The force spread out through the woods, examining their target as they studied it.  It was nothing like the building in their world; it was built more like a manor house than anything else.  Guards couldn’t be seen and a check backwards revealed why; the entire complex was surrounded by a massive fence.

“We’re in the middle of their defences,” Flynn muttered.  “I think we’d better take very good care.”

“That subsonic must be driving away birds,” Dwynn muttered back.  “Thoughts on strategy?”

“I think we’ll have to hit all of the entrances simultaneously,” Flynn said.  There were four entrances to the complex; one set of main doors, two side doors, and one rear garage.  “Once the attack begins, we can use the best of our systems.”

“We’d better hit the defences as well,” Dwynn said.  “A shame we have no airpower.”  He paused.  “Have the portable SAM units brought up as well,” he said.  “We have no idea if they have helicopter support standing by.”

“Roger,” Flynn said.  “Think we should bring the others through?”

“See to it,” Dwynn said.  “The head sheds have to know that the attack is about to be started, with or without their permission.”

Flynn smiled.  “And when was the last time we did anything without their permission?”  He asked.  “I’ll get on with it at once.”

***
Standartenfuehrer Herman Roth awoke in the morning with an odd sense of disconnection, as if something wasn’t quite right.  He glanced at the blonde woman lying next to him in the bed, and then at the other woman…and realised what was wrong.  Mad – the duplicate of Professor Madeline Richter – was missing.  She must have gone to the toilet, he thought, unconcerned.  He examined Madeline’s body with a gentle amazement that she had been as aggressive in bed as she had been; his body was almost sore.

He smiled at the memory, of finally getting into bed with her, only to discover that she was sexually aggressive in a way few German women were.  She had ridden him with a passion he had been hard-pressed to counter, even as he understood it; most women were housewives only.  Those who weren’t – the handful of female scientists, mainly – often had to struggle to take on the male establishment to gain respect…and the price was often the lack of any male companion.

He reached down and stroked one firm breast.  It didn’t seem fair at all that she should have such a body and such a mind in one package.  He smiled; he knew that one SS officer had a wife who was a trained doctor, whose skill at extracting confessions was legend.  She was almost certainly responsible for her husband rising up the ranks; if Madeline and he were to marry, who would be supporting whom?

He grinned as she reacted to his touch.  With Madeline and Mad, almost one person, it was strange.  They seemed to merge into one mind in two bodies at sometimes; at other times it was as if they were different people.  Doctor Rommel had written a long and complicated paper – which Madeline had commended highly – discussing the potentials of unity behind similar minds, and trying to relate it to the ongoing research project into telepathy.  

He shrugged as he slipped his hand further down her body.  It didn’t matter to him; the math was well above his head anyway.  All that mattered was that he had two women who just happened to be the same person…and they were content to share his bed.  All that mattered was…

His radio buzzed, sounding an alert.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer,” the security officer said, “we have an alert from one of the sensors on the inner defence line.”

Roth shrugged as he pulled himself up.  “It can’t be that important,” he said, and then a distant flash lit the room.  “What the hell was that?”

“I have no idea,” the security officer said.  “What was what?”

Roth realised that the security officer, in his office, wouldn’t have seen the flash.  “A flash in the sky,” he said.  “Somewhere towards the southeast.”

“Nothing,” the security officer said.  “I have no readings…”

A shot rang out, followed by another and another.  “Sound the alert,” Roth said, pushing Madeline out of bed.  “We’re under attack.”

“What?”  Madeline asked, as she fell to the ground.  Her tone suggested that it would be a cold day in hell before Roth would be able to go inside her again unless she got a very good explanation.  “What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack,” Roth snapped.  “Someone is attacking this base?”

He heard the astonishment in his voice and smiled at himself.  “Johan, I want you to sound the alert,” he snapped.  “Call all of the guards and summon reinforcements from the nearest base.  I want air support and…”

“I’ve no landline connection,” Johan snapped.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer, the radio just went out.”

“Brilliant,” Roth snarled.  He cursed his nakedness, but who had expected an attack on the base.  A distant explosion echoed across the woods.  “They have to have heard that,” he said.  “Get the scientists into the bunker; that means you too, Madeline.”

Madeline stared at him.  “But…”

“Go,” he snapped.  He grabbed her robe and tossed it to her.  “Stay low, keep out of sight of the windows,” he snapped.  “They’ll be shooting at anyone they see.”

He watched as her naked body crawled out of the room and smiled in appreciation, before grabbing his own robe and service weapon.  “Johan, I’m coming down to meet you,” he said.  “We have to hold the inner section as long as we can…”

Another explosion echoed out in the distance.  “If we can,” Johan said.  “That was one of the guard posts, Herr Standartenfuehrer; I was talking to them when they died.”

Roth cursed.  “They have to hear the shooting in Cambridge,” he said.  “Move it, now!”

***
Captain Dwynn hated the Nazis, but he respected them; the fighting was savage and close-ranged.  The guards at the gates were trying to counterattack, apparently unaware of the Portals within the woods.  They seemed to be attacking inwards, towards the British force, and outwards at the same time.  

“Take out their comms,” he snapped.  An American SEAL unfurled a small device to jam signals.  “Do it!”

“Done,” the SEAL snapped.  “Take them!”

“Deploy Mortars,” Captain Dwynn ordered.  “Take out the guards.”

He waited until the thumping of the mortars began.  “A Troop, B Troop, C Troop; begin your attacks,” he ordered.  “Move!”

“Moving,” Flynn said.  He was in command of A Troop; Captain Dwynn was following behind them.  The mixed force of SAS and SBS ran onto the lawn, while their snipers systematically shot out the windows, hitting any enemy who tried to fire back.

“There’s a bloke at the fourth window,” an SBS man snapped into his radio.  “Sniper…”

The call cut out in a way that suggested that the man had been killed.  “Taken out,” Corporals Ahmed snapped.  “I got the bastard.”

“A Troop, stand ready to attack the door,” Captain Dwynn ordered, ignoring the by-play.  “Sergeant?”

“Charges ready,” Sergeant Flynn said.  “Ready to move.”

“Now,” Captain Dwynn snapped, firing a burst into a window.  A figure could be seen, falling away from the window in a death fall.  “Hit it!”

“Fire in the hole,” Sergeant Flynn said, and pulled the wire.  A massive explosion shattered the main doors.  “Knock knock…”

“Everyone in,” Captain Dwynn snapped.  “Don’t let them have a moment to breathe!”

***
The SAS, like their counterparts in the SS, would probably have preferred to have gone in through a window, but Roth had checked and there were no windows that could take a man moving quickly.  It wasn’t impossible, but it would have taken even a Skorzeny man time and effort to crawl through – plenty of time for the defenders to kill him.  

“They’ll come through the door,” he snapped.  “Get the guns into position and…”

The door exploded inwards.  Roth was blown backwards by the blast, his pistol slipping from his grasp.  A hail of grenades followed, blowing chunks out of the defenders, and Roth knew that the building couldn’t be held.  He grabbed for his pistol, catching it, and he fired two shots before running into the corridor.

“They’re in the main door,” he snapped into his radio, and then remembered that they were being jammed.  He ran faster, knowing that there was only one duty left now.

“Herr Standartenfuehrer?”  A guard asked.  “The scientists are in the secure room, except the double of the big-breasted blonde.”

Roth was never sure why he didn’t pistol whip the guard.  “Excellent,” he said.  “They’re going to be coming through that door,” he said.  “I want you to hold them for at least five minutes.”

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenfuehrer,” the guard said.  His companion, who had been looking appalled, whispered something to him.  “I’m sorry, Herr Standartenfuehrer…”

“Forget about it,” Roth snapped.  “Just hold that door!”

He ran, as fast as he could, to the stairs within the heart of the complex.  They were the only way down to the main research centre…and the fusion reactor at the basement level.  The main Portal generating equipment was there too, and a small tactical bomb.  It had been designed to be triggered by anyone with the codes…and Roth had them.

“Guard those stairs,” he snapped, as a new force of SS men appeared.  One of them had been wounded badly, probably by a sniper.  “Don’t let anyone past…”

An explosion echoed down the corridor.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer, they’re in the side entrance as well,” one said.  “It won’t be long.”

“No, not long,” Roth said.  “Hold the stairs as long as you can.”

He ran down the stairs, trying to move as fast as he could safely.  Falling and breaking his neck now would be a terrible ending – particularly with Johan’s death leaving him with the only detonation codes in the complex.  The door was ahead of him; it was within reach…and he plunged through, only to stop in astonishment.

“Mad,” he gasped.  “What the hell are you doing?”

She was naked, except for her panties, working on the nuclear weapon as if it were a simple toy.  As Roth stared in growing horror, it became clear that she’d dissembled all of the weapon, preventing it from detonating.  She smiled winningly at him; it took him a moment to realise that she didn’t look guilty, but pleased with herself.

“What have you done, damn you?”  He demanded.  He felt pure fury; he wanted nothing more than to force her down and punish her in the oldest way for her crime.  “What have you done?”

“I’m sorry,” Mad said.  Her breasts jutted out firmly as she turned to face him, keeping one hand behind her back.  “I think I’m just the smile on the face of the tiger.”

Roth lifted his weapon to shoot and then noticed that she was holding a weapon, drawn out from behind her back.  They fired together; Roth felt a glancing pain at the side of his head.  His shot missed her; suddenly his legs couldn’t support him and he fell to the ground.  Mad stepped over him delicately, placing her foot on his neck.

“We wouldn’t want them to fail, now, would we?”  She asked, and pushed down hard.  Roth’s throat was crushed under her weight.  The last thing he saw was her face dissolving into light…and then blackness.

***
“We found the scientists, and the staff,” Sergeant Hawking reported.  “Orders?”

“Secure them,” Captain Dwynn snapped.  “I’m rather busy just now.”

A bullet cracked past his head and he dropped to the ground.  He wasn’t sure how many Germans were surrounding the stairwell to the lower levels, but they were fighting like demons.  “Grenades, now,” he snapped.  “Use them!”

“Grenades away,” a Royal Marine snapped.  An explosion echoed ahead of them, blasting chunks of rock and dust in their direction.  “Kill them!”

Captain Dwynn smiled and moved forward, firing as he went.  One German was desperately trying to climb to his feet; he pulled his trigger once and blew his brains out.  Another was calling for his mother, a sad cry.  Captain Dwynn shot him as well.

“Down the stairs,” he snapped.  “Move it!”

He picked his way down, detailing men to secure each of the doors, before reaching the basement.  The door was open, but the room was empty.  A single body lay on the ground.  Puzzled, Captain Dwynn bent to examine it; the body had been killed by pressure to the windpipe.

“That’s odd,” he muttered, and then saw what lay on the table.  A small backpack nuke, partly dissembled.  “That’s very odd.”

He lifted his radio.  “Get a NBC specialised in here,” he snapped.  “I think we’d better make sure that this thing cannot detonate, whatever happens.”

***
The computer reminded John MacDonald of one of the computers the Russians had built, just before the end of the Cold War.  It was junk, more or less, a system too stupid to be allowed much independence.  His laptop, once connected into the system, could read it…cracking the passwords was simple.  

“I’m just doing a data dump,” he said.  “There are hardly any internet-standard lines from here to anywhere else, only a handful that remind me more of the first telephone lines.”

“Really,” Corporal Angelina Harper snapped.  One of a handful of female SAS soldiers, she excited him and terrified him at the same time.  “Can you hack it?”

MacDonald glanced up in disbelief.  “Do bears shit in the woods?”  He asked.  “Of course I can; the system architecture is so simple it’s astonishing that no one has confiscated it and put it down.”

He checked his system.  “It would be quicker if I could link directly into the core,” he said.  “There are only several hundred gigabytes of data here, less than I would have expected.”  He scratched his head; his reputation as Britain’s foremost hacker – for which he had been spending a long vacation at Her Majesty’s Pleasure – was about to be dented.  “It’s as if they had fewer computers than we have in one room.”

She glared at him.  “Look,” she said in what was clearly intended to be a reasonable tone, “I don’t want to be babysitting you.  Do it, if you can, and then you can go back to our world, back to sanity, and I can rejoin my platoon.”

“This laptop carried several hundred gigabytes worth of space,” MacDonald said.  He tapped the copy button, starting the vast task of copying the data into the laptop.  “It’s just going to take time.”

“How long?”  She demanded.  “How long until it’s done?”

MacDonald, used to far higher transmission speeds, frowned.  “Around ten minutes,” he said.  “I can get the other part of the mission done at the same time, though.”

“Get on with it before I give you a kick up the butt,” she snapped.

Permanent PMS, he thought, with a growing awe, before putting the laptop down on the table and unloading the second machine.  “I’m going to hack along their landline,” he said.  “If I’m lucky and very good – and I’m better than good – I should be able to use a program designed to hack right inside their system and get a map of how it functions.”

He scowled.  “Half of these systems are so primitive it’s unbelievable,” he said, with genuine awe.  “I honestly don’t know how they managed to run the calculations to create Portals in the first place.”  The computer bleeped.  “Ha, some of the nukes clearly did damage,” he said.  “Half of their system is in trouble and they’re activating…what we might call routers for want of a better term.”

His first laptop pinged.  “Ah, nearly complete download,” he said.  “Some files are rather resistant to being copied…in fact, I would say that they’re too dumb to be copied.”

He disconnected the first laptop and closed it down.  “Can you put that in a bag?”  He asked, passing it over to her.  “I’m going to try something clever.”  He picked up a third laptop and plugged that in.  “Do you know, a number of images and text files are copyrighted, so they write a code into the HTML that prevents them from being copied,” he said.  “It’s very clever, except that if you open a WebPage, it copies itself automatically into your computer.  That’s how you see it.”

He grinned up at her.  “That’s what I’m going to do here,” he said.  “If I can get something on this laptop to read the files, and seeing I don’t think they’re more complex than Notepad files, it should be easy.”

She glared at him.  “Move,” she snapped.  “Time is not your friend, nor mine.”

***
“We have helicopters,” Corporal Nark said.  “They’ll be here in five minutes, I think.”

“I think we’ve been rumbled,” Captain Dwynn snapped.  “They must have noticed the attack, or perhaps something else happened.”  He shrugged and lifted his radar.  “What about the computer files?”

“The geek did them all,” Corporal Angelina Harper reported.  “I’m taking him back towards the Portal now.”

Captain Dwynn nodded.  “If that’s all the prisoners through,” he said, “then we can go.”

“We found a lot of people from Cambridge as well,” Sergeant Flynn reported.  “Many were reported missing before the Cambridge Event.”

Captain Dwynn nodded.  “If everyone’s gone, then I think its time to leave,” he said.  “Deploy C Troop to cover the last Portal…and then its time to take our leave.”  He smiled.  “A total success,” he said.  “An almost textbook operation, don’t you think?”

Chapter Forty-Three: Decision Point

USS George Bush
Nr Iceland (TimeLine A)

As the helicopter from the German frigate headed in for final approach to the George Bush, one of America’s massive supercarriers, Chancellor Erwin Kroger couldn’t help, but wonder if the selection of the carrier had been deliberate.  The first President Bush hadn’t opposed Germany, but his son had clashed with Germany over Iraq; an irony that reflected the current state of NATO.

There were more surprises as the helicopter passed into its final approach.  One of the smaller British carriers, the Ark Royal, was part of the force, along with a significant section of the Royal Navy.  Seventeen American warships, along with some French and Canadian ships, floated in Icelandic waters…and Chancellor Erwin Kroger had had no idea that they were there.  No one had; the Americans had maintained very good communications security over the fleet.

“This does not bode well,” Kathe whispered.  The Americans – and the British, and the French – had demanded his presence, telling him only that he was to meet with a politician.  With all the troubles in Germany, with a Nazi invasion force in France, there was something truly…ominous about the request.  No, it hadn’t been a request, it had been a demand.  The polite phasing had only made it worse, somehow.

“I feel like a little kid about to go over my father’s knee,” he muttered.

“Too much information,” Kathe said firmly.  “I understand what you mean.  It is like being called in front of the principal, isn’t it?”

“Final landing, now,” the pilot said, and the helicopter hit the deck.  A force of Marines stood there, not quite in a honour guard formation.  The pilot opened the hatch and Kroger stepped out, followed by Kathe.  It was bitterly cold; the air was freezing even though their warm clothes.

“if you’ll follow me,” an officer said, leading the way towards the tower.  “They’re waiting for you inside.”

“They?”  Kathe asked.  The officer didn’t answer; he just opened a door in the carrier’s command tower and beckoned them in.  “Who’s waiting for us?”

The officer led them through the superstructure to a meeting room.  Two Marines stood outside, glaring at everyone who passed.  “In here,” the officer said, opening the door.  Concealing his nervousness, Kroger stepped inside…and realised that his surprise over the identity of the ‘politician’ wasn’t necessary.  In hindsight, it should have been obvious.

“Thank you for coming, Chancellor Kroger,” President Sam Woods said.  “I imagine that you know the others.”

Kroger nodded slowly.  Prime Minister Bernard Hamilton, of Britain, and Prime Minister Jean Caroche, of France.  They were alone; he was the only one who had an aide.  For some reason, that bothered him; that suggested that no one wanted witnesses to what happened inside the room.

“Please, take a seat,” the President said, waving them to chairs.  Kroger suddenly wondered if the three leaders were standing in judgement on Germany and the Germans; it was far too much like a trial.  “I apologise for the somewhat melodramatic way we summoned you, but we didn’t want press attention, and I’m fairly sure that you didn’t either.”

He smiled.  It didn’t quite touch his eyes.  “For the record, I am currently flying over Canada in Air Force One,” he said.  “Bernard is in consultation with Jean and President Duchamp, somewhere within London.  In effect, no one knows that we are here.”

“A simple politician,” Kroger said.  “What can I do for you?”

There was a long pause, pregnant with…penance?  Suspense?  “What is the nature of the agreement you have made with the Nazis from the other world?”  The President asked.  Kroger assumed that he was the designated spokesman for the small group.  “Exactly what have you promised them?”

Kroger gazed back evenly at them.  “A non-aggression pact, while we built up our forces,” he said, adding the second part almost as an afterthought.  “There was very little choice.”

“No,” the President agreed.

“And so you have allowed my country to be raped,” Caroche snapped.  “Paris is in the hands of the Nazi barbarians; daily we hear their plans to move south and exterminate Paris.”

If Caroche was the bad cop, did that mean that Hamilton was the good cop?  Kroger met Caroche’s gaze evenly.  “What would you have done if a version of Napoleon’s empire had come and invaded us?”  He asked.  “Do not presume to act so superior.”

The President held up a hand.  “We are discussing reality,” he said.  “Exactly how popular is your decision in Germany?”

Kroger exchanged a glance with Kathe.  It did feel like facing his father, damn it!  “Some parts of our population think that we should be doing more,” he said.  “Some parts are glad that we’re out of the fighting for now.  Some parts know that we have to bow to them, for they have nuclear weapons and we do not.  Some…just want the war to stay well away from us.”

The President’s lips twitched.  “Do you believe that your decision was the right one?”

“I saved Germany from invasion,” Kroger said.  “I saved Poland from invasion.  You know what they would have done to the Poles…”

“Of course,” Caroche said.  His tone was dry, acidic.  “After all, you did it once.  I’m sure that the Poles enjoy being part of your…designated territory.”

Kroger lifted an eyebrow.  “And what about the slaves on Haiti when you were lecturing us on freedom and equality and the brotherhood of all men?”  He asked.  “What about Indochina?  What about Algeria?  What about Iraq?”

“I doubt that any of us are without sin,” Hamilton said.  “Could we concentrate on the here-and-now?”

The President held up a hand.  “Bernard is right,” he said.  “Chancellor, what I am about to tell you is a secret beyond secrets.  It has to stay that way.”

Kroger glanced once at Kathe, and then nodded.  “Very well,” he said.  “What is the secret?”

“We have developed a way of striking into their world,” the President said.  “We have attacked it, two days ago, with nuclear missile submarines and a covert operation.  For the moment, we have kept that quiet; we wanted to see what they would do.  So far…nothing.”

Kroger stared at him.  “And what exactly do you hope to do with that?”  He asked.  “These are not people who read your handbooks on…what do you call it?  Proportional response?  They destroyed Israel, Mr President.  They slaughtered thousands of Arabs and Africans and Chinese.  God only knows what’s going on in China.  Do you know?”

“The Japanese are watching the situation carefully,” the President said.  “They’ve given their support to South Korea and Taiwan; a relief as we cannot spare much in the event of a Second Korean War.  For the moment, it looks as if the civil war has stalemated.”

“Long may it stay that way,” Caroche said.  “The world is taking a breath, waiting for someone to jump…but who?”

“For technical reasons, you can only open a Portal from this side to the corresponding place on the other side,” the President said.  “We have to end the war, now, and that means putting a friendly leadership – or at least one less hostile – in their Berlin.  Erwin, we have to open Portals in your Berlin, so we can attack their Berlin directly with Special Forces.”

Kroger stared at him, feeling his mouth dropping open.  “Are you aware of what they might do to us?”  He asked.  “We have no nuclear weapons, Mr President; they could up the level of violence significantly and we could not reply.  What happens if your little coup fails?  What will you do then?”

“We have the agreement of someone from their side,” the President said.  Kroger snorted; the President ignored him.  “Their government is highly concentrated in Berlin; take out their main centre of government, their Reich Council, and they can be defeated.  If nothing else, the ensuring civil war will give us time to find a more permanent solution.”

Kroger studied the President for a long moment.  “And the risk to my people?”  He asked.  “I have a large population, all of which will be very vulnerable to nuclear attack.  What is to stop them from launching missiles from France into Germany?”

“We would like you to assist with destroying that force,” the President said.

Caroche leaned forwards, eagerly.  “If you attack into their rear, and we attack from the front, with British and American airpower, the force could be smashed quickly.”

“That is not easy terrain,” Kroger said.  “They will know about attacking through the Ardennes.  They beat you that way in their timeline, did they not?”

The President spoke before Caroche could say anything unfortunate.  “Apart from New Orleans, which is falling now, they have the bases in France, Ukraine and Russia and the Middle East,” he said.  “We have to destroy them all.”

“They’re chewing their way through Turkey,” Kroger said.  “They struck both Italy and Greece for daring to help the Turks.  Can you guarantee the safety of my people?”

“Our tactical ABM systems have proven a success,” the President said.  “We can – and we will – transfer some of them to Germany.”

“They were hardly successful in defending Israel,” Kroger observed.

“Oh, grow up,” Hamilton said, his voice tired.  “Erwin, we have to defeat them.  What will they do to your people if they’re not good little Nazis?  They’ll want Berlin; it’s the symbol of German power.  Sooner or later, they are going to start pressing you for more fundamental help, more useful help; tanks, troops, aircraft…technology.

“Once you pay the blackmail, you never get rid of the blackmailer.  You made a choice to buy time, Erwin, but you’ve run out of time.  If we cannot get rid of the France invasion force by conventional means, we will have to go nuclear.”

Kroger felt his mouth fall open.  “You are talking about deploying nuclear weapons in France?”  He asked.  “Jean, do you really like that thought?”

Caroche looked up at him bitterly.  “They’re reinforcing and I cannot stop them,” he said.  “They’re massing their strength and I cannot stop them.  They’re slaughtering or evicting my people, and I cannot stop them.  They’re an infestation, Kroger, and I cannot remove them…except by burning the land clean.”

Kroger felt his head spin.  “That would spread radiation onto Germany,” he protested.

“Don’t you see?”  Hamilton asked.  “You’re already involved!”  He paused.  “We are planning the reconstruction of the entire planet here, and Germany, like it or not, is part of the planet.  Do you want to be tarred with the Nazi brush again, or do you want to play a significant role in defeating them?  Your economy is approaching collapse, despite your heroic efforts, because you are still part of the world.  If you join us, we can help you rebuild and you can help us, but if you don’t we won’t be able to help you!”

Bad cop now?  Kroger wondered, through his daze.

The President steepled his fingers.  “I don’t mean to rush you,” he said, “but we need a decision soon, one that we can act upon.  This is no longer a time for remaining uncommitted, Erwin; you have to choose.”

Kroger took a breath.  “I would like a moment to discuss it with my friend,” he said.  “I assume that there is an empty room on this ship?”

The President’s lip quirked.  “I imagine that we could find one,” he said, tapping the intercom.  “Please can you show Chancellor Kroger and his aide to a spare room?”

“Right this way,” a steward said, appearing through the door.  “Follow me.”

***
Caroche sighed as the German party left the room.  The Prime Minister and leader of the French National Front shook his head tiredly; the government was hard-pressed indeed.  So many of the small nations that France had patiently worked with, over the years, to gain influence had been destroyed…soon after a government that would have made real use of the influence had been – finally – elected into power.

“And to think that we worried too much about the Arabs,” he muttered.  “Now we have a real excuse to crack down on them hard.”

“And so you have,” Hamilton said.  “We had problems as well; so many people started to blame us for Mecca and Medina.”

“Be honest,” Caroche said wryly.  “Would we have done anything if we had known?”

“I like to think that I would have done,” the President said.  He smiled dryly at Caroche.  “We never had the chance, though; we never really understood the Nazis before it was too late.  We tried to warn their leaders, but Islam’s worst enemy has always been its own people – and their choice of leaders.”

Hamilton smiled.  “I have several pieces of information from the Cambridge raid,” he said, changing the subject.  “For one thing, they seem to have blundered their maths a bit; they think that it’s impossible to just shove a nuke on a timer though a Portal.”

The President blinked.  “Why?”

“I have no idea why they got the maths wrong,” Hamilton said.  “Apparently, their Professor Madeline Richter – one of our prisoners – calculated that doing that would limit the blast on our side, because it would be channelled back through the Portal.”

“Odd,” the President mused.  “I wonder why they blundered.  Thande suspected that there was something odd with their technology; it seems to have progressed in fits and starts.”

“So has ours,” Caroche said.  “The Incas never invented the wheel, after all.  The Nazi Germans clearly never invented advanced computers.”

The President shrugged.  “One way or the other, we have to end this before they work out that they got the maths wrong,” he said.  “I wonder what they’re saying to one another.”

Caroche smiled.  “You didn’t bug the room?”

The President shook his head.  “It would have had unfortunate effects for future relations,” he said.  “No, we have to wait and see.”

***
Kroger smiled as he saw the room they’d been shown into; it was a small cabin, with a bunk-bed and a chair.  He sat on the chair, waving for Kathe to take the bed, and smiled at her expression.  The humour didn’t last long; the horrible indecision returned, bringing with it friends.

“So,” he said, “what do we do?”

Kathe was in no doubt.  “It’s time to take a stand,” she said.  “Agree to the attack on Berlin, their Berlin.”

“And the attack on their forces in France?”  Kroger asked.  He shook his head.  “No, we have to get involved completely or not at all.  If we agree to one, we have to do the other, just in self-defence.  If they do send us tactical ABM systems, then do we have grounds to refuse?”

“Of course we do,” Kathe said.  “The point is; I think we’re at the point where we have to make a choice, one that will choose the course of German history.  We are going to need American help to rebuild…and seeing that we haven’t had a major war on our soil, we are poised to take over the leadership of Europe, if we are not tarred with the stain of Nazism.”

She smiled sadly at him.  “This is an opportunity,” she said.  “It’s also one that gives us some bargaining power.  Not just the ABM systems, but a chance to gain real influence on the world stage.”

Kroger sighed.  “I’m not so sure I want it,” he said.  “The President has a hard job.”

“So do you,” Kathe said.  “Make your choice, Erwin.  They voted you the authority; they trusted you.”

“They wanted to pass the buck,” he said.  “The far-right were pleased because it was a step towards creating a second Fuhrer; the far-left were horrified.”  He smiled.  “Which might have been one of the reasons why it passed.” 

Kathe smiled.  “Have you made your choice?”

“You’re right,” Kroger said.  “It’s time to take a stand.”

***
The President looked up as Kroger and his aide were shown back into the room.  The Germans looked…concerned.  Absently, the President wondered what that meant for everyone concerned; good news or bad.  Either one would work.

My mind is wandering, he thought, and sternly placed his thoughts back in place.  “Chancellor,” he said.  “Have you come to any decision?”

Kroger met his gaze.  “We have made a decision,” he said.  “We have conditions.”

The President lifted an eyebrow.  “Conditions?”

“Conditions,” Kroger confirmed.  “First, we want the ABM system, in place and active, before the attack begins.”

The President nodded.  “We expected so much,” he said.

“Second, we want a commitment to democracy in rebuilding the EU and the rest of the world,” Kroger said.  “No more propping up dictators; real democracy.  We also want you to share medical knowledge and technology that might have a real impact on the crisis in the third world.  Finally, we want to prevent a repeat of the debt crisis.”  He paused.  “In effect, we are looking for your total commitment; no backing out when a single life is lost.”

“You are hardly innocent in such matters,” Caroche said.  “Your bankers have been as active as ours.”

Kroger lowered his eyes.  “I know,” he admitted.  “It has to end.”

“That was part of the reconstruction plan,” the President said.  He smiled.  “We are capable of learning from experiences.”

Kroger smiled.  “There is one final condition,” he said.  “If we get involved, if we finish it, we want full access to the technology that you have recovered from the other timeline.  We want it, we want access to the interrogation transcripts; we want total access.”

The President smiled at the comment.  “We would want you to join a treaty governing the use of Portals,” he said.  “There might be nastier worlds out there than the Nazis.”

“True,” Kroger agreed.  “Tell me; are those conditions acceptable?”

The President met Hamilton’s eyes for a moment.  Hamilton nodded.  Caroche nodded too.  “Subject to you becoming a full and equal partner within the alliance, then we agree,” the President said.

He held out a hand.  “Welcome to the grand alliance, Chancellor Kroger,” he said.  “It’s time to finish it completely.”

Chapter Forty-Four: Napoleon’s Ghost

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

The Reich Council was supposed to be composed of the best and brightest of the senior leadership of the Reich.  From time to time, its membership fluctuated, but they remained awesomely powerful within their own bailiwicks.  From the supreme commander of the Wehrmacht, General Horst, to the head of the Industrial Council, they were the leaders in their fields, the expects, those who had been there and done that.

In actual fact, according to a banned book General Horst had read once, and since confirmed with his personal experience, the membership was composed of those who had struggled and fought to reach the top.  They had scratched and clawed and kissed ass to get to the top…and there was nowhere else to go.  They faced an unspoken truth, one that had seemed to have no solution; the Reich was built on expansion…and there was nowhere else to expand to.  Where could they go?

He shook his head as he donned the council outfit.  Himmler had had a serious influence; the Reichsführer-SS had grown even more eccentric before his death.  He wore a monkish robe, one that was completely black; it almost seemed to absorb light.  There were times that General Horst suspected that Himmler had designed the outfit to have a joke at the expense of his successors; certainly there was no real need for it.

The Reich had to expand…and there was nowhere to expand to.  The space program had borne fruit, but it hadn’t required much of the Reich’s full capabilities; a space program might be expensive, but it wasn’t as expensive…nor did it require a major armed effort.  Perhaps one day the Reich would encounter aliens, but even their space program failed to absorb the efforts of more than a tiny percentage of the Reich’s population.  What about the rest?

Japan?  Hardly worth the effort…and the risk of a nuclear holocaust.  Switzerland?  Expensive and worthless; hardly worth the forty divisions it would take to conquer the land.  South Africa?  An Aryan nation.  One of the South American states?  Already within the control of the Reich, though a series of puppets; it hadn’t been deemed worth the effort of converting them into real territories.  One day, General Horst suspected, the Reich would have taken them…and then what?

We would have had everything, he thought.  He shook his head.  No, we had everything.  We would have faced internal trouble when there were no more enemies threatening the Reich…no wonder we embraced the chance to lay claim to an endless series of timeline, alternate Earths…

He smiled suddenly.  The first one we bump into, it defeats us…there’s a moral in there somewhere…

The Reich Council, he realised, as he took his place, was scared.  The air of fear was overpowering; the council knew that it was staring at defeat…and it didn’t know what to do.  He would have smiled; how many solutions were left?  They had been Lords of Creation for so long that they had become convinced that the situation would continue; they’d forgotten the ruthlessness that had made the Reich the Reich – and the fact that that ruthlessness had been…devolved in a world with only a handful of weapons of mass destruction.

They can’t come to a decision, he thought.  We don’t stand a chance.

“We lost nearly five hundred billion Reichmarks worth of properly on the ground alone,” the Minister for Industry said.  His voice, normally thick and heavy, was stunned.  The Japanese might have had nuclear missiles, but everyone had thought that the ABM system would manage to handle them.  “The losses in space are beyond calculation.”

“To say nothing of the massive losses in civilians,” the Reich Minister said.  “We lost upwards of sixty million citizens and perhaps more bond servants.  There is panic; the Reichstag has begun to contemplate measures to end the war.”

There was a dreadful silence.  “That is not the problem,” the SS Minister said.  His light and breathy voice had always given General Horst the chills.  “There are rebellions in America.  There is chaos in Britain.  There are even rumblings from Italy.  And as for the Japanese…they’re demanding to know what is going on.”

“We can crush the rebellions,” General Horst said.  “We can even crush the Japanese, if we’re prepared to take the losses it will entail.”

He was interrupted by the Reich Minister.  “We have already taken losses,” he said.  “How many more must die?

The question did not fall on receptive ears.  “And what would you suggest?”  The Minister for Industry asked.  “A war was what we wanted, right?”

“This is no time for bickering,” General Horst said.  “We do not have the time.”

“The Japanese do not have the ability to threaten us,” the SS Minister said.  “If they launch their missiles at us…”

“Against an already degraded ABM network,” General Horst injected.

“We will burn their little islands from end to end,” the SS minister concluded.  “They cannot use their weapons to stop us.”

General Horst stared at him.  Was it wilful blindness or something else?   “They’re not the problems,” he snapped, thumping the table.  “The people you swore could not develop Portals have managed to come through the Portals and extract revenge for the damage we did to them.  Those were Russian missiles, at least the ones we recovered were…and how many more of them are there in our seas?”

“The Kriegsmarine caught two,” the Kriegsmarine protested.

“It’s been too long since we faced a real challenge,” General Horst said.  “Those successes of the Kriegsmarine cost three cruisers and several destroyers.  More of the submarines might have been destroyed by the orbital bombardment weapons, except we don’t know that and we cannot assume that they were, so we waste effort.  We will never be certain that we got them…and even if we do, what’s to stop them sending more into our world?”

He sighed, once, and then looked up.  “We have to end this,” he said.  “It won’t be long before we fall, either to them…or to a rebellion by the civilian population.”

“They cannot rebel against the Reich,” the SS Minister said.  “We have overwhelming power…”

“Which is in the hands of soldiers who are people,” General Horst said.  “Even some units of the Waffen-SS would refuse orders to crush the Reichstag.”

“There are other units,” the SS Minister said.  The calm way he said it sent chills down General Horst’s spine.  “They can be deployed instead.”

“No,” General Horst said.  “There would be a civil war; 1945 all over again, only it would not stop at a few isolated bloodbaths.”

“The Kriegsmarine stands by the Reich,” the Kriegsmarine representative said.  His face was troubled.  “But what is the Reich?”

General Horst spoke with a fury he barely kept in check.  “And during the civil war, the enemies on the other side of the Portals will have time to build new forces to attack us.”  He paused.  “We no longer have the capability to hammer them into the ground…”

“Then what are you suggesting?”  The SS Minister said.  “A surrender?”  He snorted.  “We do not surrender.”

“No,” General Horst said.  “We discuss a peace with them.  During the peace, say around five years, we will have time to duplicate their weapons and crush the rebellions, and then…and then, we can push the war back into their world.”

France
Europe (TimeLine A)

“Go,” Admiral Chapman said.

There were five carriers in the English Channel; two American, one British, one Spanish and one Italian.  Between them, they carried over six hundred aircraft alone; and the shore-based units added nearly a thousand more between them.  It had taken nearly two weeks to set everything up; if it hadn’t been for NATO exercises, it would have been impossible.

The noise of launching aircraft echoed over the seas as the George Bush launched its strike aircraft.  Targeting officers, in the planning rooms of London and Paris, as well as the two American officers, had collated a massive list of targets all across France, all of which were occupied by the Nazis.  Scouts and drones stood ready, ensuring that none of the thousands of weapons were about to be wasted; the Nazis would never know what had hit them.

Admiral Chapman smiled.  The France, Italians and Spanish were launching aircraft from the south.  The Nazis would have hardly any warning…hardly enough to deploy any aircraft of their own – not that it would matter if they did.  The British or the French aircraft would just brush them aside.

“This is for Austin, you bastards,” he said, half-wishing that the President was still onboard; half-glad that the President had gone to London before the battle began.  “We’re going to force you back through your Portals, and then we’re going to break back through ourselves.”

“The jamming has commenced, Admiral,” one of his officers said.  “We’re combining our jamming with the British and the French; the Nazi net should be down and out for the count.”

“That’s a horribly mixed metaphor,” Admiral Chapman said.  “Order all aircraft; fire at Wilhelm.”

***
“Herr General, the combat network has gone down,” the aide said.  General Weinberg nodded; there could only be one thing that the sudden lull in enemy bombing meant.  “Before it fell, the radar was reporting truly enormous waves of aircraft.”

General Weinberg rubbed his hands together.  “Excellent,” he said.  “Sound the air raid warning.”

“Jawohl,” the aide said.  “Herr General…?”

General Weinberg smiled.  “We may not be able to defeat the attack, but we can try to frustrate it.  Order all of the forward elements to attack at once, closest enemy targets.”

“Jawohl,” the aide said.  “Herr General…what about the special weapons?”

General Weinberg nodded.  “Have one of them prepared,” he said.  “The weapon is to be used as we discussed.”

***
“We’re to advance at once,” Captain Jagar snapped.  “Advance!”

The driver gunned the engine and the Panther glided forwards, leaving the useless air raid shelter – Jagar had seen enough of the tough buildings blown open to know that they were useless – behind.  The French countryside parted, revealing a motorway leading south.

“Won’t they see us from the air, Herr Captain?”  The gunner asked.  “This is more than a little exposed.”

“True, but I trust my commander,” Captain Jagar said.  he peered out of the turret.  “No sign of enemy…ah.”

Ahead of them, a major defence line had been constructed.  It was very clever, Captain Jagar realised; it was designed to make it difficult to go around.  Even as he considered it, a shell landed directly on one of their fellow panzers.

“Forward, now,” he snapped.  It was important to take action, just to avoid being a sitting duck.  “Move us.”

“Enemy panzer,” the driver snapped.  “Hit it?”

“Hit it,” Captain Jagar confirmed.  “Gunner; armour-piercing.”

“Firing,” the gunner said.  The Panther jumped as it unleashed a shell, firing directly into the French tank, which exploded violently.  “Hit it.”

“Good shooting,” Captain Jagar snapped.  “Now take down that barricade!”

The Panther jumped again, firing a shell into the barricade.  The barricade exploded as two more panzers added their fire to the barrage, destroying the mixture of concrete and old cars.  The shattering series of explosions threw dust and smoke into the air, visibility suddenly fell alarmingly.

“Forward,” Captain Jagar said.  “Take us through.”

The Panther bumped through the wreckage, knocking rubble aside, and drove out of the smoke, only to see a second defence line, with a large anti-tank gun sitting in the woods.  Captain Jagar opened his mouth to give an order…but it was too late.  A single shell blew the Panther into an exploding fireball.

***
“The attacks have bogged down in the French defences,” his aide said.  “Herr General, they’re hitting us hard…”

A massive explosion, far too close, underscored his words.  “I noticed,” General Weinberg said dryly.  “They have far too much air power and we have none.”

His aide nodded frantically.  The handful of Luftwaffe aircraft that had managed to take off had been blown out of the sky without even managing to fire a shot.  Without radars and radios, it was impossible to coordinate anything very well; some of the landlines themselves had been cut.

“Time to take that away from them,” he said.  “Launch the missile.”

His aide crawled over to the telephone and barked a single order into it.  The howl of jet engines returned and General Weinberg smiled.  “Come closer, you bastards,” he muttered.  “We have just what you need, right here.”

***
“NUCFLASH,” the CAG snapped.  “Admiral, we have a nuke attack.”

“I knew things were going too well,” Admiral Chapman muttered.  “Where?”

“Airburst, over their positions,” the CAG said.  His voice was puzzled, and then he understood.  “EMP,” he said.

Admiral Chapman swore.  The EMP alone would have damaged countless aircraft; the blast would have swatted dozens out of the sky like bugs.  “How many losses?”  He demanded.  “Exactly how bad was it?”

“It’s hard to tell,” the communications officer said.  He tapped what had been a massive display of aircraft moving over France, now blinking with dozens of warning messages.  “The British have lost an AWACS, at least its sensor dome is gone.  The French seem to have lost several aircraft that were at low level and probably plummeted into the ground before the pilots could recover.  Half a dozen F-18s are not answering their calls and…”

“How badly did we hit them before they detonated the nuke?”  Admiral Chapman demanded.  “Hard enough to hit them on the ground?”

“I don’t know,” the CAG admitted.  “PJHQ thinks so, in London; the French are more cautious.  General Von Seelow thinks it can be done; Genera; Blum wants more bombardment first.”

“I think we’ll trust the German,” Admiral Chapman said.  “Tell him that Operation Whitewash is a go.”

The communications officer worked his system.  “Done,” he said.  “The signal has been sent.”

***
General Von Seelow lifted his binoculars and peered into the distance, into France.  The German Army, or at least three Panzer Divisions, one armoured infantry divisions and one army airborne brigade had been sneaking forwards from their deployed positions on the border, protecting the Fatherland from the Nazis.  The irony of the situation had not escaped the Bundeswehr; built to be a no-Nazis force, they were not engaging the Nazis in combat.

Until now, General Von Seelow thought, as he examined the map.  If the Americans and the French and the British had done their work right, the Nazis would all be looking towards the French, rather than towards Germany.  If they had done their work right, the German force would hit the Nazis in the rear, and break through.  If they hadn’t done their work right, a lot of Germans were about to die.

“Panzer march,” he snapped into his radio.  The low-level signal should be beneath the Nazi capability to detect signals, but he knew better than to count on anything.  “Give them hell, for Germany.”

***
“Herr General,” his aide snapped.  General Weinberg turned at the tone in his aide’s voice, almost panic.  “We are under attack!”

General Weinberg blinked.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  “The French have been attacking us for the last ten minutes.”

“Not the French,” his aide said.  “We’re being attacked by the Germans here!”

General Weinberg stared down at the map, part of his mind appreciating how their counterparts must have performed the manoeuvre, the other part cursing their timing.  He’d had to send the reserves forwards, which meant…

“Are the Portals still intact?”  He asked.  “Can we go through them?”

His aide paled.  “Herr General, they’re all one-way,” he said.  “They kept trying to put missiles through the Portal.  We can’t get any word back to Berlin.”

General Weinberg shook his head in awe.  Clearly, Germans were masters of warfare wherever they were.  Their intervention meant…what?  If the Germans managed to break into their rear, then the invasion force was doomed…and the battle would be hopeless.  Their airpower, which was recovering after the nuclear blast, would prevent any attempt at attacking them from being a success.  His force was doomed; there were no clever tricks left, no attack that could fend off the crushing hammer than was about to be dropped on their heads.  

“Contact them,” he said.  It occurred to him that the Germans had broken their word and should be punished, but he had no nuclear weapons left.  “Contact the other Germans.  Tell them…tell them that we want to surrender.”

His aide stared at him.  “Herr General…”

“Do you have a better idea?”  General Weinberg demanded.  “We are doomed here, and there’s no point in trying to bleed them and I’m damned if I’m surrendering to the French.  Call them!”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” his aide said, lifting his radio.  “Herr General, you might want to leave the building.  They might just bomb the signal.”  He paused.  “The jamming is still ongoing.”

General Weinberg smiled.  “Then call their headquarters directly,” he said, waving a hand at the telephone.  “Then we can end all of this.”

***
It actually took several hours to end the fighting; some SS units refused to surrender and fought on, some units never got the surrender order, but finally the fighting came to an end.  General Weinberg had insisted on his men going into German custody and General Von Seelow hadn’t bothered to argue.  The French had; they’d argued hard for custody of the prisoners, but it had been one of the surrender terms.

“Thank you,” Admiral Chapman said, having been transported in by helicopter.  “There’s only one last thing to do now.”

General Von Seelow nodded.  “Attacking Berlin,” he said.  “It seems somehow like treason, you know.”

Admiral Chapman snorted.  “It has to be done,” he said.  “Once their Berlin falls, we can end the war and end all of this.”  He waved a hand at the carnage where a French division and a Nazi division had met…and both of them had refused to retreat.  “This has to be defeated before it can grow strong again.”

Chapter Forty-Five: Coup D’etat

Reich Council Building
Berlin, Germany (TimeLine C)

The centre of their Berlin was nowhere near as…ornate as the one in the heart of the Reich, Captain Dwynn realised, as the small scout team probed the centre of Nazi Germany.  There seemed to be some unrest on the streets – they’d passed thousands of SS guards looking for troublemakers – but they hadn’t been arrested.  The SS clearly had other things to worry about.

From the outside, the Reich Council Building made the White House or Buckingham Palace seem modest and unpretentious.  It was awesomely large and threatening; a gigantic stone eagle glared down at all passers-by, giving the entire building an intimidating look.  The SS were out in force around the building, surrounding it with heavier security than normal.  There were no Panzers, no APCs, but Dwynn didn’t think that they would be needed.

“It’s like a bloody bomb waiting to explode,” Sergeant Flynn muttered back.  “The city, I mean.  How the hell do we take that building?”

Dwynn had already thought about that.  The Reich Council Building existed within its own open space; all the better for the hidden guns he was certain were there to shoot protestors.  A small helipad lay behind the Reich Council Building, providing a possible means of egress.  There were no walls; he doubted that they would be needed.

“Know what this reminds me of?”  Flynn asked.  “The Royal Mile, in Edinburgh.  The Palace at one end, the Castle at the other, and a road between them.”

Dwynn nodded.  It made sense; down the other end of the road was the Reichstag, which higher authority, British and American, was confidant would declare for General Neumann once they knew he held the Reich Council Building.  He wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t think that it mattered.

“I think we’d better move quickly,” he said, as a flight of helicopters flew overhead.  “This city is about to blow.”

They walked quickly back through a series of alleys, finally reaching a warehouse that had belonged to General Neumann’s family.  They’d found no trace of his family; Dwynn suspected that the SS had taken them.  The advance party had set up shop within the warehouse, scouting out the defences before making their move.

“Success,” Dwynn reported, as they entered the warehouse.  The half-dozen guns pointed at them didn’t faze him a bit; they all had SAS men behind them.  He tapped the small map of the Reich Council Building, outlining the defences he'd seen.  “I think we can take the building.”

“We better had be able to take the building,” Sergeant Pollock said.  The American Ranger scowled.  “This is going to be complicated enough, as it is.”

Dwynn nodded.  “We move in ten minutes,” he said.  He’d hoped that General Neumann would join the first attack – he was still more than a little suspicious of the General – but higher authority had overruled him.  Nearly a thousand men were ready, behind the Portals carefully placed within their Berlin, and no one wanted an accident that left them without their sole German ally.

“I can live with that,” Pollock said.  “Do you want me to inform them on the other side?”

Dwynn smiled tiredly.  “The SAS will clear the defenders from the building,” he said.  “Rangers and other Special Forces come through the Portals and give them hell.”

Pollock nodded and slipped into the side room holding the Portal exit.  Dwynn tapped the map again.  “We strike from all directions at once,” he said.  “Dave, I want a mortar shot on the helipad as soon as the firing starts.  Don’t let them get any helicopters into the air.  Randy; I want you to cover us from any aircraft they might send in, while the other groups do their bits.”

Randy scowled.  “We don’t have their Metalstorm weapons, chief,” he pointed out.  He waved a hand at his Stinger launcher.  “Once we run out of missiles, we’re fucked up the butt.”

“Enough,” Dwynn said.  “Do the best you can.  If we’re lucky, the other forces will do the duty for us, attacking their bases around Berlin.  If we’re not lucky…then we have to earn the pay they try to avoid paying us.”

Pollack stepped back into the room.  “The attack is timed for ten minutes,” he said.  “They want you to trigger the attack from the first attack site; a radio pulse back here.”

“Balls,” Dwynn commented.  “Right, I get the picture; they don’t trust us to get the job done right.”  He smiled at Pollack’s expression.  “Come on, lads; time to earn our pay.”

***
The Reich Council Building was surrounded by SS soldiers, breaking the quasi-taboo on any non-guard soldiers within Berlin itself.  General Horst wasn’t pleased, even though a very close vote within the Council had voted in favour of the guards being stationed there.  It suggested that the Reich Council Building was unsafe…or that the Reich Council didn’t trust the people they were supposed to lead.

The arguments had gone on – literally – for three days.  Even the news of the attack into France hadn’t concentrated a few minds – even though the grenade hurled through a Portal by an alert Frenchman should have proved beyond doubt that the French Invasion Force had been destroyed.

Some of the Council wanted to seek a peace with the alternate Earth.  Others wanted to start a nuclear holocaust, or even to seek an alliance with Japan to continue the war.  Still others wanted to ignore the alternate world and suppress all the rebellions – the ones that might bring the Reich Council crashing down along with the Reich.  No decision had been made…and General Horst was grimly certain that time was running out.  

“There was a bomb attack in New York,” the SS Minister said.  New York had been renamed Hitler, but the name hadn’t taken.  “They killed dozens of soldiers.”

“Then we have to seek a peace,” General Horst said, for what felt like the millionth time and was probably around the hundredth time.  “We cannot fight two wars at once.  What happens when the rest of their world develops Portals?  What happens when Tibet rises up against us?”

The shudder of fear ran around the room.  Tibet had been incorporated into the Reich at the insistence of Himmler; the man had believed that the mystic mountains were filled with supernatural artefacts that the SS could use for their rites.  Sixty years later, nothing of any real power had been found…but Tibet was serious.  It wasn’t a place that could be stamped into the ground; it had enormous symbolic value for the SS.

Should at least have moved all of the monks out, he thought coldly, as the SS Minister started to bleat again.  “What are we going to do, kamradin?”  He spoke in a mocking tone.  “Rome burns and we fiddle with ourselves.”

“Perhaps we should vote,” the Minister of Colonisation said, ignoring the weak jibe.  It was voted down; no one felt confident enough to press for a formal vote.  “Perhaps we should just agree to a peace.”

General Horst counted heads as best as he could.  There were thirteen members in the room.  Five, including himself, were for peace.  Five, including the SS Minister, were for war.  Three…seemed to be undecided.  The Minister of Colonisation seemed to be least undecided…but he could quite easily change if he felt like it.

The Reich is about to die and I sit here fiddling, he thought, and then the alarms rang.  He glanced up sharply.  “What the hell is that?”  He demanded.  He picked up a telephone and hit the emergency button.  “What’s happening?”

“We are under attack,” the security chief said.  There was a long pause.  “They’re acting like an SS Regiment, General…”

There was immediate uproar.  The SS Minister jumped to his feet.  “We haven’t attacked anyone,” he protested.  “We are not launching a coup…”

“Perhaps one of your junior officers felt a little different,” General Horst said.  “I think we’d better go to the shelters…”

***
Captain Dwynn had wished for rain.  All Berlin’s sky would produce was a dull overcast, so reminiscent of London.  An atomic warhead had gone off not too far away…but the skies showed no trace of it.

He tapped his radio.  “Attack,” he said, and opened fire.  His machine gun scythed across the guards, mowing them down like ninepins.  He wasn’t that pleased; the guards were clearly meant to be a firewall, rather than anything else; their task was to take the first attack and sound the alert.  A dull warbling noise could be heard from within the Reich Council Building; the alarm had clearly been sounded.  An explosion echoed from the rear, where the helicopters had been hit.  Dwynn smiled at the cloud of fire rising into the air.

“Send in the troops,” he snapped into his radio, and fired at a guard who had been taking a bead on one of his men.  A shimmering light appeared in the air, disgorging a German Leopold panzer, its long gun already turning to face the main doors.  Scores of infantrymen, American, British, German, poured into the battlezone through the Portals, spreading out to take the city.

“Captain Dwynn?”  An American asked   He saluted sharply.  “Captain Wilkinson, 10th Mountain.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dwynn snapped.  There wasn’t time for pleasant chitchat.  “We have to attack that door there.”

“No problem,” Captain Wilkinson said.  He shouted orders towards the tank, which turned its gun on the doors and fired.  A shattering explosion blew a massive hole in the doors.

“10th Mountain, to me,” Captain Wilkinson bellowed, and he ran for the doors.  Dwynn turned to follow, hearing the noise of aircraft in the distance.  The sound of explosions could be heard all over the city, echoing from the bases near Berlin.

“Move, you lugs,” he snapped, and ran for the doors.  Two APCs appeared out of the Portal, their weapons moving to cover the streets that could be used to approach the Reich Council Building.  “Move!”

Inside, the Reich Council Building was gothic; massive halls and cold stone floors.  Gunshots and explosions echoed weirdly within the building, confusing attacker and defender alike.  Dwynn led part of the SAS force towards the centre of the building, trying to flush out the enemy.  Even with their new coordinating systems, it was a pain; the SS defenders clearly knew the building better than they did and developed a nasty habit of popping out of rooms that had been declared empty, attacking the SAS with a cold calculated violence that stunned many.

“Grenade,” he snapped, as they reached a room.  One of his men tossed an explosive charge into the room, detonating it seconds later.  The walls, made of pure stone, didn’t show any effect at all.  The SAS advanced carefully, searching every corner of the room, looking for hidden doorways and traps.

“Who the hell designed this building?”  Flynn asked.  Somehow, he was covering Dwynn’s back.  “Enid Blyton?”

***
General Horst realised that they’d made one serious error; they had no way out that didn’t involve the tunnels to the outskirts of Berlin – or trying to fight their way out.  The single report of fighting at the end of the escape tunnel proved that there was no way out, even for the Reich Council.  Once the shooting had stopped, then…the attacking force, whoever they really were, would come for them.

“I’ve been trying to raise the SS barracks outside the city,” the SS Minister said.  “So far, there’s been only confused reports of bomb attacks and sabotage across the city.”

General Horst sighed, listening to the communications channel as the SS guards attempted to rally.  If they had no support from outside, the attackers would almost certainly win.  “Damn it, General,” the SS Minister said.  “You’re the expert; you do something!”

“Like what?”  General Horst asked, keeping his voice calm by sheer force of effort.  The building shook violently.  “Your people are staging a coup; what do you have to worry about?”

“It’s not my people,” the SS minister protested.  “They’re from the other world!”

General Horst stared at him.  “How the hell do you know that?”  He demanded.  “How, when you never told us anything?”

“A report from one of the guards,” the SS Minister said, his tone no longer light.  “They’re moving vehicles out of a Portal!”

General Horst swore.  “There would be no need for that unless they couldn’t attack any other way,” he said.  He thought about an independent SS operation in the other timeline’s Germany and dismissed the thought; even the Waffen-SS would have found it hard to pull that off without support.  “They must be intending to use us as figureheads.”

The Minster of Industry stared at him.  He’d spoken louder than he should have done.  “So, what do we do?”  He asked.  “We can’t escape!”

“Of course not,” General Horst sneered.  “There’s only one thing left to do; ordering all of the remaining army units to restore order, whatever the cost.  Their puppet government won’t be able to withstand such an attack.”

He paused.  “And then, there’s one final thing we can do for the Reich.”

***
Captain Dwynn had seen the defences inside some of the British Government’s most secret centres.  The hidden interior of the Reich Council Building defeated all of them; they relied on brute force, rather than technical expertise.

“We’re going to have to get a tank in here,” Captain Wilkinson said.  “How the hell do we get through that door?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Flynn said.  He unfurled his backpack and pulled out an entire set of tools, working quickly on the door.  “Have this open in a jiffy.”

Captain Wilkinson stared at him.  “You cannot be thinking of picking this lock,” he protested.  “There’s nothing for you to get into.”

Flynn laughed.  “No, I’m going to pack some very high explosive in here,” he said, pointing to a crack, “and then I’m going to blow the door right open.”  He snorted.  “Typical American; no underhandedness at all.”

“Thanks, I think,” Captain Wilkinson said, as Flynn finished his job.  “Now what?”

“Stand back,” Flynn said.  “Fire in the hole!”

He pushed the button on his remote controller.  A shattering explosion echoed down the corridor…and then the door literally fell apart.  “Move,” Dwynn snapped.  “Take them all down!”

A group of fanatical SS men met them as they came in, firing madly from pre-prepared positions.  The SAS tossed in grenades, allowing the Rangers to clear the building with quick rapid shots.  The large door to the council chamber was right ahead of them; a single grenade blew it open, only for them to see…

“Fuck,” Captain Wilkinson breathed.

The men lay on the floor, some clearly dead at their own hands, others shot by a man in a dark cloak concealing a Wehrmacht uniform; a general, if Dwynn read it correctly.  He’d killed himself with a single bullet through the head.

“That one killed some of them,” Flynn observed dispassionately, waving at the body of General Horst.  “He clearly didn’t want any of them falling into our hands.  I think we’re in trouble.”

“Perhaps,” Dwynn said absently.  “Still, its not really our problem, is it?”  He smiled and tapped his radio.  “Is the building secure?”

“Yes, sir,” an SAS officer replied.  “We’ve finally managed to kill the last one we know about and we hold all of the important places.”

“They tried to hit us with helicopters,” Randy reported.  “We took two down and the others are hanging back.”

“Fuck,” Dwynn said.  “Portal control; get the General in here.”  He smiled for a long tired moment, hoping that the head sheds had gotten everything right for once.  “He has work to do.”

***
Three hundred men from the various battles had been recruited from the POW camps in America and Germany, enough to provide General Neumann with a small force.  He would have preferred a larger one, but he understood the logic of the President – if he’d been the one to come up with the plan.  Three hundred men would make no serious difference to the power balance between the Reich and the United States…and it avoided the charge that war criminals had been allowed to return home.

The operators of the bunker had surrendered at once when confronted by the SAS.  They had all understood the war situation – clearly better than the Reich Council ever had – and they were willing to help him.  He knew that they would have to be watched carefully, but without the Reich Council and General Horst in existence, they would probably follow him.  The Wehrmacht, at least, would know his reputation.

The trick now would be to convince the rest of the Reich to go along with him, which would be difficult.  Already, some units were in open revolt; lower-level SS officers had ordered them to suppress rioting and the men had mutinied against the orders.  The Reichstag had started to attempt to gain control for itself, much to the horror of senior officers in all of the services and the civil service, and there were open revolts everywhere.

And that, of course, was only what got through the damaged lines.  Who knew what else might have happened that they didn’t know about?  Had Japan attacked the Reich in China?  Had South Africa decided to try to help itself to the German Congo?  Had the collapse of the British Union of Fascists been averted or not?

“Open the radio channel,” he said.  He’d had a week to write his speech; attempting to convince everyone to join him without bloodshed.  “It’s time to see if we can save the Reich from itself.”

Chapter Forty-Six: Aftermath

London
United Kingdom (TimeLine A)

“You bastard,” General Neumann said.  “You planned it that way.”

The President didn’t respond.  It had been two weeks since the coup in the alternate Berlin…and the Nazi Civil War was about to start.  After the brutal exchange of fire in orbit, no side had a decisive advantage in space-based weapons, while the Reich itself had fragmented.  The Inner Reich, which had always enjoyed the right to elect representatives to the Reichstag, had declared for General Neumann.  The Outer Reich, the Russian colonies and German Arabia, had declared for…well, for Nazism.  With the Reich divided, the civil war would buy time for the United States – and the Grand Alliance – to prepare for another war.

“You have to help us,” General Neumann said.  “We might well lose the civil war, and then where would you be?”

The President frowned.  “I understand your concerns,” he said, “and we will provide what help we can.  However…”

“That will depend on us freeing the other nations,” General Neumann said.  “The Reichstag will not go for it.”

“There’s nothing worse than a jingoistic parliament,” Hamilton said wryly.  “Perhaps the nations will free themselves anyway.”

“Thanks, I think,” General Neumann said icily.  “We won’t threaten you again, so stay out of our world.”

He stalked out of the room.  “Anyone would think he wasn’t grateful,” Hamilton commented.

“He’s not,” the President said.  “He thinks we triggered the civil war.”

Hamilton smiled.  “We did,” he said.  “At least, we made certain that it would happen.”

The President shrugged.  Two weeks after the coup, after ending the savage fighting in France, the remaining Nazis had been rounded up, from their bases in Russia to the Middle East.  American Marines were securing the oil fields now; without a population present in the region to attack the Marines, the oil would flow freely.  It would have to be used to fund the reconstruction efforts – and the space program.  If nothing else had been learnt from the war, it was that someone more advanced than the Nazis – but with equally unpleasant motives – could pop out into orbit and drop weapons of doom on their heads.

“Thank you for serving as the coordinating centre,” he said, changing the subject.  “I trust that Cambridge has recovered from the Event?”

“It will get better,” Hamilton said seriously.  “We didn’t suffer that badly, not compared to Africa.”

The President nodded.  The Nazi weapons had been tactical nukes, almost clean weapons, and there had been very little radiation.  It hadn’t mattered; the hits on almost every city within Africa had slaughtered upwards of one billion people, either through the weapons themselves or the after-effects.  The total collapse of what had passed for civilisation, the breakdown of medical services, such as they had been…did it really matter which effect had been the worst?  There were survivors, but very few of them.

“Or the Middle East, or Israel,” the President agreed.  The short and brutal Nazi occupation had almost completely exterminated the population from the Suez to the Pakistani border.  There had been a handful of female survivors, mainly ones used as sex slaves.  There were new Jewish communities in Italy and Britain, creating a problem for the future.

“And so life returns to normal,” Hamilton said, passing over a newspaper.  It reported on an indictment of an MP for being involved with the British National Front when he was younger.  “You would think that they had learned a few lessons.”

The President smiled.  “People don’t learn,” he said.  “I managed to convince Congress to permit a massive development of space travel, now that we have their plans for space vehicles and fusion power.  Combining that with our work, we should have a major launch base within a few months, one capable of lifting the Portal Jammers.”

Hamilton nodded.  “Once that’s done, we can relax slightly,” he said.  “There won’t be another attack.”

“Not for a while, no,” the President said.  “If the SS wins the war in their timeline, they’ll want revenge.”

“And you intend to keep supplying the woodsmen,” Hamilton said.  “Do you think that we should fund the British resistance?”

The President smiled.  “You’d do it anyway,” he said.

“How well you know me,” Hamilton said.  “But seriously…did you read the bit about the Washington?”

“They didn’t take the ship,” the President said.  “Someone else did that.  We have another enemy out there.”

Hamilton nodded.  “Exactly,” he said.  “As we rebuild our world, we’re going to have to keep watching for other Portals, ones from other worlds.”

***
Sofia Nixon couldn’t believe that she was back in London.  The Nazis had told her that they had destroyed Cambridge, but then they’d lost interest in her.  She’d been trapped in their world for nearly two months, watched constantly…until the SAS had rescued her.  Two weeks after her rescue, she was still at a loose end.

“Miss Nixon?”  A voice asked, from behind her.  The refugee centre, holding people from Cambridge, was packed.  She’d thought that no one knew who she was.  “Do you have a moment to talk?”

She turned, to see a pretty blonde woman, a few years older than her.  “Joyce Patterson,” the woman said, extending a hand.  “I understand you spent some time in the hands of the Nazis, like me.”

Sofia lifted an eyebrow.  “Yes, I did,” she said.  “What happened to you?”

“Oh, I was in Washington when they attacked,” Joyce said.  “Have you any plans for the future?”

Sofia shook her head.  “My family thought I was dead,” she said.  “I had to call them and reassure them, and then reassure them of other little details, like…”

Her voice broke off.  “Like that you hadn’t been raped,” Joyce said, completing the unspoken sentence.  “A very important detail, I would have thought.”

Sofia stared at her.  “Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter,” Joyce said.  “Would you be interested in an interview?”

Sofia shook her head.  “My pain is a private thing,” she said, and then kicked herself for melodrama.  “I don’t want to share my story with everyone.”

Joyce shrugged.  “We have to keep telling people how evil the Nazis were,” she said.  “It’s a way of reminding them of that truth; the Nazis were evil.”

Sofia turned to go.  “Thank you for your offer,” she said.  “However…”

“What else might pop out of a Portal?”  Joyce asked.  “We have to keep warning people, or else we’ll go back to sleep and forget about them.”

Sofia closed her eyes, almost in pain.  “Very well,” she said finally.  “But you will keep my family and my name out of it.”

Joyce grinned in triumph.  “Of course,” she said.  “It will be done.”

***
“The Russians have signed on to the planetary reconstruction fund,” Wilson informed the President.  The Secretary of State sounded pleased with himself; he had handled most of the negotiations.  “They’ve also agreed to the Portal Treaty.”

“Good,” the President said, allowing himself a moment to look into the future.  “Perhaps, we can use them for peaceful work, rather than waiting to see what else might pop out of one.”

“That’s pretty much what President Gorbanov said,” Wilson said.  “The Chinese, now that they’ve managed to get over the worst of the unrest, are willing, provided we help them through the troubled times in the next six months.”

The President smiled to himself.  “We will,” he said.  “Thank you for your efforts.”

Wilson laughed.  “You’re welcome,” he said, and put down the phone.  The President chuckled, before turning to General Easterhouse.  “General?”

“We have repatriated most of the POWs,” General Easterhouse said.  “A large number wanted to stay here, and more are being charged with war crimes.”

The President nodded.  If found guilty, they would be executed on the spot.  “That’s good,” he said.  “And the supplies?”

“Being prepared now,” General Easterhouse said.  “Mr President, General Neumann warned us to stay out of their world.”

“That’s what lost us Afghanistan,” the President said.  “We abandoned our allies at the wrong time.  We won’t do that again.”  He smiled.  “And besides, a working USA on their world might just provide an ally if they do come for us again.”

***
General Neumann paced his room, waiting for the flight back to Germany, where he would be helped through the one remaining Portal to his world – or at least the only remaining Portal that he knew about.  It was clear that the Reich hadn’t really been as advanced as they’d thought, but perhaps, with a little effort, the technology gap could be closed.

He smiled to himself.  They’d concentrated on raiding information, including technical data and other information.  Once the civil war was over – and he was too much of a realist to hope that the war could be averted – they would have time to build up to a level of equality.

He shook his head.  He’d had enough of war, but perhaps; equality would lead to more benefits for the Reich.  And, if not, equality, combined with what the Reich already had, would make a future war…more even.  The outcome would not be certain, but it would be better than what they had at the moment.

***
They laid Professor Thande to rest in a single grave, isolated from other graves of the Great and the Good.  Few Monarchs had ever had such a turnout; world leaders from the surviving nations had come to witness the funeral.  The marriage of two scions of the Royal Family, one that had had the social whirl buzzing, was pushed right off the front pages by the funeral.  

The President had been invited, by Thande’s family, to say a few words.  He spoke calmly into the silence, watched by hundreds of shinning eyes.  For the first time in a long political career, he was almost nervous.

“Professor Thande was a great mind,” he said.  “Without him, the world would be a very different place.  One where the Nazis ruled, perhaps, or one where we had destroyed the world fighting over it with them.  He saved us from that, and we will always be grateful.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “He was a rare mind, a mind of a type that we need more of,” he said.  “His work will be continued, along with many other research projects, into making the world safe from further extra-dimensional threats.  The American Government, working with the other world governments, has created the Thande Institute, one that will research inter-dimensional travel for the benefit of all mankind.

“It will not be a political group, like the World Bank or the IMF,” he said.  “It will be a lean group, one that will concentrate only on exploring other timelines and analysing the dangers they present to our timeline.  From borrowing – read as stealing – from the Nazis, we are in a position to make great strides forward in our timeline; who knows what we might find from another timeline that might be of great benefit to us?”

He frowned slightly.  It had been the trade-off; transparency, at least to the other governments, in exchange for keeping everything in one place.  With Portals easy to detect from orbit, it would be simple to enforce the treaty; there would be no rogue states with Portals.

“There are dangers in Portal research,” he admitted.  “Many of them can be averted, with care; we can avoid the others.  It is the considered opinion of the world governments that research into Portals must be continued, merely for the benefits that they can bring.  The entire process will be transparent to all of the world; everyone will see and share in the results.”

He smiled.  “I like to think that Professor Thande would have approved.”

Epilogue

…And the wave of light reached out for him and let him go and Professor Thande saw the multiverse and all the possibilities within it and he didn’t know where to look first so he looked everywhere first and the multiverse looked back at him, observing him and smiling at him and glaring at him and showing him what he could have been if and…

“Breathe,” Sally said.

Thande opened his eyes, unaware that he’d clenched them shut, trying to shut out the overpowering vision of space and time and the forces in between and the powers that existed outside of human’s realm and the races that…

“Breathe,” Sally said.  She placed a hand on his shoulder, a comfortably human touch in the middle of the madness.  “Congratulations, Professor; you’ve just graduated.”

Thande took a breath, and another, slowly opening his eyes.  They were standing together in a grey room, surrounded by…possibilities.  As he watched, they faded into one and vanished.  The entire place felt strange, unreal; it was as if time didn’t pass at all.  His mind refused to grasp the concept; every attempt to recall what he’d seen as the generator exploded failed.

He looked up at her.  She changed as he watched, from a studious girl with glasses, to a buxom redhead, to a blonde model, to a naked prostitute, to a woman wearing an SS uniform, to a pregnant teenager with desperate eyes, to…his mind stared at her, trying to force all the possibilities into one.  

Sally smiled.  Suddenly, her form snapped back to the studious girl he’d met.  “Welcome to the Vale, Professor Thande,” she said.

Thande concentrated, wishing that the red fire in his head would vanish.  As if the thought was a magic spell, the headache vanished, leaving his head clear.  “What just happened?”

“Always the important question first?”  Sally asked.  “Why not start with the small questions and work your way up?”

She was teasing him.  He didn’t like it.  “What is this place?”

Sally hesitated.  “Think of it as a kind of starship,” she said finally.  “The ship travels the Vale, acting as a mobile base of operations.  It’s called the Harry Turtledove, Professor; I…”

Thande stared at her.  “What was the…effect I saw?”

“You came through the hard way,” Sally said.  “It’s rather a long story, Professor; do you want the short version?”

Thande glared at her.  “I have to get back,” he said.  “I have to complete the task of building a Portal blocker and…”

Sally waved her hand dismissively.  “Oh, Professor Darlington has completed that, or will complete it,” she said.  “I’m not sure how to put this, Professor…but you’re dead.”

Thande felt his chest.  “My heart’s not beating,” he said in astonishment.  “Hang on, are you about to claim to be God?”

“No,” Sally said.  “Professor, that blast would have killed you.  We snatched you out of the time stream using the distortion of the blast to shield the effect.  If we could have done it easier, asking you first, we would have done, but…as it happened, I had to insert myself into your personal timeline just to have a lock on you when the blast occurred.”

Thande glanced around, looking for a seat.  “Why?”  He asked.  Something clicked in his mind.  “You’re the people who stole the carrier,” he said.

Sally nodded.  “Why?”  Thande demanded.  “How many lives got ruined because of the crew being taken from their homes?”

“How many of your people lost their lives because of the Nazi invasion?”  Sally asked.  “The Enemy arranged the invasion in response to us shaping your timeline slightly, rather like smashing an artwork because you don’t like the artist.”  She paused.  “Look, perhaps I’d better start at the beginning.”

She waved a hand at two chairs that had appeared out of nowhere.  Thande sat on one of them; she leant on the other.  “Imagine a war between two races, one fought up and down the timelines,” she said.  “For reasons that you should be able to work out, direct interference is dangerous; it would attract attention.  So both sides work through agents, people who are – like you – dead in their original universe.”  She sighed.  “They saw us boost a world – your TimeLine B – forward by dropping some of the ships of your task force into that world, so they decided to cut your world up a bit.  Unfortunately, they might have won.

“They found a part of the timeline where there were lots of…possible changes, some of which might even branch into a second timeline, and they interfered.  A staff officer convinced Hitler in 1936 that some preparations for Sealion were required, and if they were made in time…and they were, then Sealion was possible.  That gave them some influence in the timeline as it developed, although they had to be careful, and they helped the Nazis to develop a social structure that would keep them well prepared for war against your timeline.  When the time was right, after the carrier was taken, they completed their work by introducing a quantum duplicate into the timeline.

“That duplicate managed to fine tune their work on Portals, pushing them past what you developed in your own timeline, and allowing them to actually hit genuine success…pointing them right into your timeline.  When your timeline – largely thanks to you – managed to strike back…that duplicate arranged for you to capture much of their records, which will actually limit your science.”

She paused for comment.  Thande picked a question at random from the growing stack.  “What’s a quantum duplicate?”

“A person who has been duplicated through a quantum effect, effectively a perfect duplicate,” Sally said.  “They duplicated Professor Madeline Richter and reprogrammed her duplicate – probably did it several times until they got it right – and that duplicate gave them the final part of the puzzle to build real Portals.”

Thande closed his eyes.  “Why is our timeline so important?”

Sally laughed.  “The war has been going on for ages,” she said.  “You’re just a minor skirmish.”

“I dare say my self-esteem will survive the fall,” Thande said.  “But if you have so much power, why can’t you just wipe the enemy out of existence?”

“We don’t know who they are,” Sally said.  “Any more or less than they know who our…employers are.  If we did, we could strike at their timeline and keep them out of the…real timelines, as far as such an expression can be used, for good.”

“You don’t know who you work for,” Thande said slowly.  “How can you be sure that they’re the good guys?”

“I’ve seen a future,” Sally said.  “Some five hundred light years from Earth, there’s a stellar empire, one that will attack Earth in two hundred years or so.  With either TimeLine B or, for that matter, TimeLine C, Earth is swiftly taken and added to their empire.  In your timeline, Earth may just be able to fend off the invasion before it arrives.  In short, my employers want a strong humanity; the Enemy does not.”

Thande frowned.  “Why can’t they just blow up Earth during the dinosaur period?”

“Why do you think the dinosaurs got wiped out?”  Sally asked.  “They tried; the problem is that something like that would almost certainly cause the timeline to split, which would defeat their purpose.”

“There’s a lot I can’t get my head around,” Thande admitted.  “So, what now?”

Sally smiled.  “Professor Thande, we want you to join us,” she said.  “We need more agents, Professor, and you’re one of the best candidates we’ve met.”

Thande had to admit that the suggestion was intriguing.  “One question,” he said.  “What are the pay and benefits like?”

Sally grinned.  “Lousy,” she said.  “On the other hand, you’ll be practically immortal, you’ll see so much more than most people, and you’ll be saving the world on a regular basis.”

“I think that sounds wonderful,” Thande said.  “So, what’s my first mission?”

Sally shrugged.  “There’s a reality-bender loose somewhere in TimeLine B,” she said.  “There’s a hint as to the nature of the Enemy that needs to be followed up upon quickly.  An alien invasion fleet has to be distracted before it gets a sniff of the wrong empire…”

She grinned openly.  “You’ll have to be trained first, of course, but that won’t take long,” she said.  “And as for what we will do afterwards?”  She twirled in delight.  “My dear Professor, the possibilities are infinite…”

The End

Afterword

The first Alternate History book I read concerned a successful Operation Sealion….

(All right, let’s start again.)

There is no subject in the Alternate History world more contentious than Operation Sealion – the planned Nazi invasion of England in 1940.  Opinion sharply divides; was it possible or not?  Flame wars, thread crashes and jihads have been fought over Sealion, comparing every little detail to see if a German victory can be pulled from the massive odds facing the invasion.

Certainly, the Germans would have faced considerable problems.  Their air force would have to face the Royal Navy – and it was in no way prepared for the task.  On land, the Wehrmacht was supreme, but it had to get to the land – and the Germans didn’t have enough shipping to guarantee success, particularly with the Royal Navy and RAF on the prowl.  The Germans did have some advantages, including the very weak defence forces on land, but it would have required considerable luck to succeed.

At best, I give it a 30% chance of success.

Part of the problem was that Hitler was very much a short-term planner.  He drew up a plan for taking Poland that would have turned any modern general’s hair white; even a couple of French divisions, attacking into Germany, would have swiftly smashed their way through the token forces Germany had on the border.  His gamble succeeded…and then he failed to plan for France’s total defeat.  If Sealion is to be a success, Hitler needs to start planning for it from 1936.  

As I note in the appendix, Britain’s fall almost certainly leads to German victory in the Second World War, which would be very different without Britain in the war.  Germany had advantages that the Soviet Union never had, and would be starting from a much more capable industrial base…and they might just be capable of taking over the world…

***
The Counterfactual War represents something of a challenge for me; Book Two in a series that was intended to be composed of stand-alone books.  Carrier Wars, Book One, remains separate from The Counterfactual War; some of its events are mentioned, but they are literally in different universes.

Hope you enjoyed reading it…the Multiverse War rages on…

Christopher Nuttall
Edinburgh, United Kingdom
16th May 2006

Appendix - The Third Reich

It is generally agreed by all historians working within the Third Reich that it was the genius of Adolf Hitler, ‘Fuhrer in Perpetuity’, who ensured that the Reich would indeed rise to a position of world dominance and total world control, at least of the important bits.  Although historians have argued over the exact details and the reasons for Hitler’s success – until his untimely death at the hands of the British assassin Ian Fleming – certain facts stand out.

Hitler’s capability for judging the minds of his opponents proved to be a weapon almost as powerful as the massed and deadly ranks of the Wehrmacht.  His correct calculations that the Allied Governments (Britain and France) would not risk war over the Rhineland (1936) and Czechoslovakia (1938) allowed the Wehrmacht time to build its strength, but it was clear to all that war was coming and indeed would be coming soon.  Hitler’s decision to begin a series of covert preparations to win the war as quickly as possible, started in 1935 under the guise of improving Germany’s economic position, made both the conquest of France and the conquest of Britain possible, and when war came the armies of Hitler were better prepared than any of their opponents.  France was invaded in 1940, following a lukewarm ‘phoney war’ after the fall of Poland, and swiftly defeated.  Hitler followed up that gamble with an even greater one – Operation Sealion.

By September 1940, Hitler was master of Europe.  The remains of the British Government had either fled to the Bahamas, along with the Royal Navy, or was attempting to make an accommodation with the Germans.  Against weak opposition, Italian forces advanced into Egypt, allowing Hitler to lay a claim to the vast oil wealth of Saudi Arabia, and to forge alliances with both Iran and Iraq, which had revolted against British quasi-control in the wake of the British fall.  The remains of the British position collapsed when the Japanese swiftly conquered the Dutch East Indies, Hong Kong, Singapore, and assorted smaller European-held islands.

As luck would have it, it was an election year in the United States, perhaps the last nation that could have saved the British Empire from extinction.  The Japanese strike worried many Americans, but they were unwilling to spend American blood and treasure to recover the British territories, no matter Churchill’s ranting from Bermuda.  The Japanese, having secured the resources they needed, were more than willing to treat with the Americans over China; Hitler reacted strongly against further entanglement with America.

The Fuhrer then made his final masterstroke.  Preparations to invade Russia were already in an advanced state by early 1941; he invited the Japanese to join the war.  When the invasion of the USSR was launched in June 1941, the Japanese attacked the Russian position in the Far East.  Although the Japanese got hammered badly – convincing them that picking a fight with America would be bad in the wake of massive losses – Moscow fell to General Rommel’s panzer army in October.  Rommel, the Fuhrer’s favourite, had launched a daring attack that had destroyed the Russian defenders.  Without reinforcements, the Russians could only fall back, which they did in very bad order.  Stalin disappeared somewhere in the retreat from Moscow and was never seen since.  

Following the campaigns of 1942, in which the remains of the Russian central authority were wiped out and the limits of formal control pushed through to Baku, linking up with Iran, the Fuhrer was able to declare the war at an end.  The Germans began a massive program to exploit the new territories, exterminate the partisans and expand their own influence.  Although it would not become important until later, the German links with Mexico and other Central American states were forged during this time.  

In a sense, a formal state of war remained between the British Empire and Germany.  In effect, it was impossible for Churchill’s government to continue the war, although British submarines did manage some successes against German trade with Mexico.  The decision by South Africa (1941) and Australia (1942) to concentrate on their own defence killed any possibility of the remains of the fleet being supported by them.  India’s collapse in 1943, after a long and prolonged struggle to hold it together, destroyed what remained of the Empire, which was reduced to a haunted series of islands in the Caribbean.  German protests over British ‘piracy’ in 1947 saw the remainder of the British fleet being sent to Australia.  The final gasp of the Churchill Government was to send Ian Fleming to kill Hitler, a mission that – ironically – averted Hitler’s planned war of 1951…with America.  In the ensuring power struggle, the invasion of America was postponed.  It would have disastrous effects.

The period between 1950 and 1960 saw Germany develop the world’s second atomic bomb (America detonated the first in 1947, but this remained a secret) and many other weapons of war.  Germany also repaired its links with Japan, sharing information that would make the Kriegsmarine far more powerful and capable – with the intention of landing a force on America.  This was not before time; increasing German involvement with Mexico was starting to worry America.  In 1945, the Mexican government had had to beg for American assistance – which was not forthcoming – to handle underground fighters and insurgents within several provinces.  In 1955, the German-trained army managed wonders against the insurgents, finally provoking a political crisis in America that would only be resolved with the impeachment of the President himself.

It was too late.  Even as the new President began building a new fleet, the Germans and the Japanese struck.  The Japanese forces launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbour, which – after taking very heavy casualties – successfully captured the harbour.  Anti-American rebels in Panama successfully captured the Panama Canal, removing the American ability to concentrate against one of the enemies, and the worst was yet to come.  In an atomic attack designed to cow the American government, a transatlantic bomber destroyed New York.  In retaliation, American aircraft dropped an atomic bomb on the Japanese landing zone in California, an act that encouraged American resistance, but failed to cow the Reich Council.

A major army of Mexican and German forces advanced north from Mexico, aided by landings in New Orleans and Biloxi.  Although the Biloxi attack was forced back into the seas, the attack into Texas proved decisive, following the defeat of the National Guard and the American regulars stationed nearby.  By the end of 1960, America was literally coming apart.  The American decision to sue for peace, following the atomic destruction of Detroit, ended the war of 1960.

The war had forced forward technological developments on both sides.  America launched the first ICBM in 1960, hitting Berlin from the east coast of the USA, but was unable to mount an atomic warhead on the rocket in time for it to matter.  Germany was able to develop the rockets, post-war, with the stated intention of placing a base on the moon, which was accomplished in 1970.  A long program of exploration into outer space, and orbital weapons, was begun, ending any final threat to German supremacy.  By 2009, the Germans were launching asteroid capture missions…and exploring some of the odder areas of physics.  No one expected what they found.

Women in the Reich

The Germans have dismissed the thought of women being anything other than housewives and mothers, in line with the precepts of Adolf Hitler.  Women have severely restricted lives within Germany, even those born Aryan.  An Aryan woman is expected to meet a man, marry him, and bear his children.  There are rewards offered for more than four children, particularly ‘perfect’ ones.  Contraception, for obvious reasons, is officially forbidden within the Reich.  About the only exception is women who prove particularly capable within the sciences; they tend to be treated as equals by their male colleagues.  

The SS offers what it calls a voluntary childbearing scheme, in which a woman rents out her womb to an SS officer, who will impregnate her.  Once the child is born, the child will be raised by the SS.  Naturally, the woman has no further contact with her son or daughter.

A woman who is not Aryan can expect to be treated as a whore, no matter what her business within the Reich.  Their roles range from farm labourers in the New Territories to brothel slaves.

The Reich: Political Geography

The Inner Reich - roughly the annexed sections of Britain and France, Benelux, Germany, Scandinavia (ex Finland) Poland and inner Russia (pretty much as far as Moscow). This may be compared roughly to Turkey; a powerful Military with a weak semi-democratic government, the Reichstag. Internal affairs are handled by the Reichstag; external affairs by the military, civil service, SS and big business. Living standards, on the whole, are around 1960s middle class UK/US; it’s not supremely oppressive as long as you don't make trouble.

The Outer Reich - roughly parts of North America (effectively British America of 1777), Latin America (except Mexico), the rest of Russia, Central Asia, Congo and small chunks of China.  German colonists are settling this area.  Living conditions are fair for Germans and ghastly for everyone else. Slavery and oppression, if not outright extermination, for everyone non-Aryan.  It's run by a special branch of the SS.

German Arabia - pretty much the entire Middle East from Egypt to Pakistan. The natives (Jews and Muslims) have been exterminated.  The entire region is in the process of becoming a breadbasket.

Space - Germans have major colonies on the Moon and major space stations.  All of them are ruled from the Reich.

The Puppets - Mosley Britain, Vichy France, the New Confederacy.  Fascist parties dominate all of these states.  They are effectively German satellites; they have some internal control in exchange for not making trouble.  Think Poland in the Warsaw Pact. 

The Allies - South Africa (up to Congo border), Italy and territories, Spain, Portugal, Mexico, Finland, Yugoslavia, Turkey.  All of these are semi-allies of Germany in theory; in practice when the Germans say 'jump' they normally jump.  The Germans regard them from respect (South Africa, Finland) to outright contempt (Italy).  They are forbidden nukes and Germany has a standing policy of launching nuclear strikes at the slightest whisper of nuclear development.

The Independents - Switzerland, Japan. Switzerland is generally regarded as not being worth the effort to conquer.  Japan...is rather like France in OTL; powerful enough to be a pain to conquer, not strong enough to pick a fight with the US. Japanese have nukes and some limited space-launch capability, but their economy has tanked for various reasons.  Japanese rule most of China, Indochina, Burma, all of the Pacific Islands, Australia and NZ.

The Life of Twins

Being the lives of two children, a brother and a sister, in Nazi Germany, post-1970.

***
Fritz and Gudrun are born together in one of the Reich’s maternity hospitals, their coming into the world attended by a Reich census officer, who performs the final checks of their heritage, confirms that neither of them has any obvious birth defect, and formally opens their files in the Reich Gestapo office.  Two weeks later, Mother Bruner is presented with the Mother’s Cross (first-class); these are her fifth and sixth children.

As they grow older, they are attended by their parents and their maid, Olga, from Russia.  Olga is a servant; she’s one of the lucky ones.  Their father doesn’t beat her much, although their mother canes her from time to time, normally for minor disobedience.  Olga is bound to the house and cannot leave it without one of the parents accompanying her.  If she leaves without them, the Gestapo will pick her up and take her to the jail.  If she’s lucky, she’ll only be raped a few times; if their parents don’t pick her up, she’ll be sent to the camps.

As they reach five years old, they are already learning German and English; the two languages most prevalent within the Reich.  Now starts their formal schooling; a process that will continue until they are both sixteen.  They attend school together, learning about the history of Germany, as well as being inducted into the Hitler Youth (for Fritz) and the Rhine Maidens (for Gudrun).  From seven to sixteen, Fritz will be part of a team…unaware that his teachers are evaluating him for possible leadership ability, tactical skill, etc…

Gudrun, in the meantime, will be learning what the Reich considers to be woman’s work, from cooking and cleaning to disciplining the Reich’s small army of bondservants.  Gudrun makes a comment about Olga, one that is innocent…Olga vanishes two days later, much to the annoyance of their mother.  Both children learn to keep their mouths shut.  All Olga did was tell them tales about Russia…

By twelve years old, both of them can repeat Hitler’s writings upon demand, learning about the world that the Reich controls.  The lessons are a curious mix of practicality and propaganda; the Reich wants to harness them and control them.  After the final exams, they are separated; boys and girls have separate schools as puberty begins.

As soon as he enters his school, Fritz is assigned to a class, which is an army regiment in all, but name.  By fourteen, he understands many of the basic combat skills and is, unbeknownst to him, marked for quick advancement.  Gudrun, having developed into a woman, is taught all that she will need to be a wife, from accounting to basic medicine.  Oddly, she is taught the basics of science, in the hopes that she will develop into a theoretical scientist.  The Reich believes that women are better at that than men, but Gudrun, perhaps fortunately, doesn’t show more than average ability.

At sixteen, Fritz is conscripted into the Wehrmacht, spending two years in a training battalion.  He shows ability and is swiftly offered a place in a regiment, then a division.  He accepts the offer of a post, transferring to the regular Wehrmacht.  It is around this time that he looses his virginity; he is taken to one of the brothels run by the SS.  The women there are sex slaves; Fritz could kill one and there would be no comebacks.  The enlisted men spend hours there, enjoying themselves.

Gudrun, in the meantime, has completed her schooling.  Her mother and her aunties start discussing her formal presentation to the eligible young men, but she is reluctant; she knows very little about men.  Fritz has changed; he’s more intent…and she’s a little scared of him.  Her older sisters haven’t gotten married, yet, so she has time…while attending their weddings to see what it’s like.  Eventually, at nineteen, she goes to a chaperoned dance and meets a young Günter.

Their wedding provides a chance for Fritz to meet Ingrid; his wife.  Their courtship is slow, but certain; their wedding is three months later.  After his promotion to Captain, as a very young man, Fritz is clearly destined for greater things.  He loves Ingrid, but he is still sleeping with the whores.

Fritz is sent to America on a simple garrisoning mission.  Gudrun and her family take Ingrid in for the five-month deployment; they exchange letters and telephone calls.  When Fritz gets leave, they spend it together.  Ingrid and Gudrun become pregnant…starting the entire circle all over again.

Fritz spends nearly thirty years in the Wehrmacht before being invited to take up a position in a training camp.  It’s a final posting, but he accepts it; his glory days are over.  He’s a granddad now; Ingrid’s life has been threatened by cancer, but the new cures give her extra life.  Neither of them think about the thousands of humans experimented on by Doctor Mengele and his successors, hunting for cures for Cancer and other deadly diseases.  At sixty, they take up a lease on a small farm in the Outer Reich; helping to develop the steppes of Russia.