Robert Conroy

North Reich

Prologue

Adolf Hitler laughed sardonically as he read the latest communication from the Japanese Prime Minister, Hideki Tojo. It had been sent to Germany's Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop and forwarded to him. Several other high ranking Nazis gathered around Hitler in his mountaintop retreat, the Berchtesgaden, and joined in the merriment. Hitler laid the letter on a table and stepped out through the glass door and into the cold. The view of the surrounding snow-covered mountains was breathtaking, especially since Hitler was now at the top of the world he surveyed.

With unintended irony, the Japanese letter was dated December 7, 1943, precisely two years after Japan's overwhelmingly victorious attack on the United States fleet at Pearl Harbor. It was now evident that the nation of little yellow-skinned and racially inferior people was in serious trouble. Hitler and all good Nazis despised Japan. Their current “alliance” was merely a marriage of convenience.

Japan’s problems proved the wisdom of Hitler's refusal to declare war on the United States two years earlier. The mutual defense pact pledged Germany to come to the aid of Japan if she was attacked, but did not require Germany to do anything if Japan was the aggressor, which was clearly the case on December 7, 1941. Ironically, a change in the treaty that would have required Germany’s participation had been drafted, but not yet signed when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor

Thus, Germany had stood back and declined to declare war. The Japanese had stiffly contended that they needed no man's help to defeat the U.S., especially white men, and at first it seemed like they were right as they racked up victory after victory in the Pacific. But without having to fight Germany, the U.S. was able to totally focus her immense material resources on Japan, a nation that Hitler considered a third rate power at best. The once mighty Japanese fleet was being destroyed by America’s overwhelming naval power and the Japanese army was being isolated, bypassed and rendered impotent. Bombs were falling on Japanese cities causing immense fires and great loss of life.

Hitler gestured for Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel and Heinrich Himmler to step outside with him. It amused him to see their reaction to the cold. Keitel, as head of the OKW, was commander of Germany’s armed forces, while Himmler headed up the SS and the Gestapo.

He glared at the two men who were shivering. “Japan wants direct help fighting the United States. How can we do that without involving ourselves in another war?”

Keitel stiffened and blinked as he always did when he had bad news for his Fuhrer. “I don’t believe we can,” he said and Himmler nodded agreement.

Hitler concurred, but didn’t say so. Instead, he almost spat out a response. “The Japanese thought they were better than Aryans and are now begging for help from us. They have been defeated in the Solomon Islands, and our intelligence says that the Americans will soon be attempting to liberate the Philippines. I am tempted to ignore this letter and leave them to their fate.”

Hitler and his coterie had contempt for the American fighting man and the Wall Street Jews who controlled him. This opinion was reinforced by the enormous amount of time that it was taking the United States to defeat what they felt was a third rate Asian horde.

“The American soldier is nothing,” Keitel said. “It will be America's superior industrial power that will overwhelm the Japanese, not the American soldier. With few exceptions, Japanese weaponry is inferior to America’s and cannot be produced in any real quantity. Without German help, my Fuhrer, Japan is doomed.”

Himmler also concurred but added, “However, the sooner we take on the U.S., the sooner we defeat them and then eliminate the Jewish presence in North America. Let the U.S. fight a two front war before Japan collapses and we will win.” Was it finally time to act on Japan’s behalf and in such a manner that it would benefit Germany, Hitler mused. As a result of Germany's not declaring war on the United States, American assistance to England and Russia had dried up. Russia had been defeated and Great Britain, confronted with mass starvation, was forced to ask for a truce that resulted in a strong German presence in Canada. Despite half-hearted protests from the United States about violations of the Monroe Doctrine, Germany had quickly occupied key places in Ontario and Nova Scotia. What perplexed and stymied the U.S. was that Great Britain had agreed to the German occupation in order to let food convoys continue to the British Isles. Since it was Britain’s will, it was difficult to argue or take action against.

Winston Churchill had resigned in disgrace and fled to the U.S. where he'd been granted asylum. Unfortunately for Hitler's plans, many of the Royal Navy's remaining ships had also fled to the United States where they and their crews were interned. Hitler wanted control over that fleet, but would accept its neutrality.

Nazi Germany also maintained an extremely strong force in a shattered and fragmented Russia which had been pushed almost to the Urals. In Hitler’s opinion, Stalin’s Soviet Union was a pathetic rump state that a spring offensive commanded by Field Marshal von Paulus would utterly destroy. Hitler was well aware that other of his generals, primarily Heinz Guderian, disagreed with him. Guderian felt that the Red Army was capable of resurrecting itself. Nonsense, Hitler thought.

In another year at the most, Hitler thought that Japan would collapse and sue for peace, leaving the U.S. free to focus on Germany’s unwelcome presence in Canada. A state of near war already existed between Germany and the U.S., as it had since 1940. Both countries had withdrawn their ambassadors, a sure sign of pending belligerency. Shots had been fired between American and German warships, and an American destroyer had been sunk by a U-boat. There was fighting, but no war.

Hitler pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand. “At some point, the United States and Germany must fight each other. Would now be the time, with America so focused on the Pacific? Coming to Japan's aid would make Tokyo eternally grateful — or as eternally grateful as the treacherous yellow bastards could be. And yes, it would also make the U.S. fight a two-front war which would put them at a great disadvantage. Catching the U.S. with its focus on Japan would give us the opportunity to defeat her by quickly destroying her ability to make war.”

The plan to cripple the Americans had been drawn up in great detail and worked on for a year. Hitler had ignored those, like Guderian, who said it would never work.

Hitler laughed. “Even before getting this whiny letter from Prime Minister Tojo, steps to implement war with the United States have been taken and military assets put into place. It will be a simple matter to further strengthen those forces and fine tune the plans.”

Keitel nodded docile agreement. Hitler knew that many considered the general a spineless toady. Hitler thought he was invaluable.

“With the combined U.S. and British fleets potentially at her disposal, America rules the seas,” Keitel said. “But she does not rule the waters beneath them — the U-boat fleet does, and the U-boat is the weapon of the future, not the aircraft carrier, and certainly not the battleship.”

“Nor does the U.S. even remotely control the enormously long border between herself and Canada,” Himmler added as a spray of windblown snow hit his cheek, causing him to wince. “There is continuous cross-border traffic that the Americans seem unwilling or unable to halt. When the time comes, we will take advantage of that lapse.”

Von Ribbentrop had said that other countries in the western hemisphere no longer thought that the United States was invincible, no matter how much Roosevelt prattled on about the Monroe Doctrine and defending democracies. Instead, some of those western hemisphere nations were making extremely friendly overtures to the Reich.

In the next room, the rest of Germany's brain trust stared though the glass and awaited Adolf Hitler's decision. He stared back at their eager faces. He had made it. Now it was time to inform them of their duties to expand and strengthen the German-occupied land in Canada now referred to as the North Reich and by implementing the operation called North Storm.

Some of his generals, Heinz Guderian in particular, would not like it and would protest both noisily and vehemently. They would say that Russia was only defeated, not destroyed, and that the mongrel state was doubtless rebuilding a massive army east of the Urals. No matter, the Red Army would be destroyed this summer and that war with the Soviet Union finished for good.

They would also say that England was milking the time needed to make a true peace with Germany with the hope that the U.S. would jump in on Britain’s side. So what if they did, Hitler thought. The American army was nothing, and would be defeated by German forces. Both America’s and Great Britain’s navies would be sent to the bottom by the scores of U-boats currently patrolling in international waters off North America.

With America defeated, Great Britain would finally cave in and sign a treaty favorable to Germany. The swastika would fly from Buckingham Palace. Perhaps Oswald Mosely, founder of the British Union of Fascists, would become Prime Minister.

Hitler stared in rare appreciation of the remarkable view. In their dramatic grandeur, the mountains reminded him of the works of Wagner, his favorite composer. Germany should not be afraid of its destiny, he thought. No, Germany should seize it.

Chapter One

Tom Grant abandoned the now useless Chevrolet after driving it into the bushes. Steam was pouring from under the hood and one of the tires was shredded flat. He hoped the car was out of sight, at least long enough for him to escape his pursuers. He ran the several hundred yards through the woods and tall grasses to the quickly flowing water that separated the United States and Canada. By the time he reached the narrow sandy beach, he was exhausted. He promised to exercise and take better care of himself, assuming, of course, that he survived this unholy night.

Behind him, he heard car doors slam and the sound of angry, anxious voices. He'd hoped that he'd lost them while driving the twisting and turning dirt roads, but obviously he hadn't. The water looked cold, dark, and deep, and the safety of the far shore looked like it was miles away. It wasn't, but he had never been that good a swimmer and the thought of making it that far was terrifying. At least the ice hadn’t formed on the river.

The voices were closer and he made up his mind. He had three choices: surrender and likely disappear forever, try to swim the river and either drown or freeze to death, or swim to possible safety. A desperate and almost impossible swim was better than getting shot or, at best, imprisoned and interrogated by the merciless Gestapo and their local thugs, the Canadian Legion’s Black Shirts. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and stepped into the water, gasping at the cold. It was late fall and the river, never really warm, had cooled down considerably for winter. At least it wasn’t frozen, he thought again. He gritted his teeth and dived in, nearly screaming when the frigid water grabbed his testicles. He could hear the sound of the roaring Niagara waterfall and was glad he was downstream from it and wouldn't have to fight the possibility of being swept over it to certain death. On the other hand, the current was very strong and he might be swept out into Lake Ontario where he would surely drown if he didn’t first die of exposure. He looked across and realized that it didn't matter. The current would place him where it wished.

He began to swim, using an economical pace that he hoped would conserve the strength and body heat he would need to fight the current, the distance, and the cold that was sucking the life out of him. Maybe, just maybe, his pursuers wouldn't see him until he was far enough out.

Again, no such luck. Shouts pointed him out and he heard the sound of guns being fired. He wasn't hit and nothing splashed near him, so the bastards weren't the great shots they always bragged they were. Of course, hitting a bobbing head in the night at a good distance with pistols would be a good trick under any circumstances.

As he plowed through the water, he wondered if his bad left arm would hold up. It'd been a while since the injury, but the wound sometimes kicked in and his arm cramped up. Not today, please.

He heard a faint creaking sound and realized to his dismay that the men chasing him had gotten their hands on a rowboat. At least it didn't have an outboard motor, which was a blessing, but they would still be able to row their boat much faster than he could swim, and they wouldn’t be weakened by nearly freezing to death.

More gunshots and this time something did splash near him. He threw caution to the wind and tried to pick up his pace as his breath came quicker and quicker. It was make it or die. He swallowed water and gagged. He couldn't keep this up much longer. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he knew he was slowing. He was losing feeling in his limbs. He couldn’t last much longer. Something touched him and he realized to his horror that it was a chunk of ice. He heard them yelling. They were closer and gaining rapidly. The shouting stopped and he sensed that they were dropping back. He risked looking behind and saw that the rowboat, with four men in it, was pulling away and leaving him. He turned to his front. He was only a few yards off shore and two policemen were standing there with their guns drawn.

Tom staggered and fell to his knees as his bare feet found the muddy ground. One of the cops snickered as he took unsteady steps towards them. "Kinda gives new meaning to calling someone a wetback, now don't it?"

His partner chuckled but kept the gun leveled at Tom. "He's so cold even his pecker's shrunk and blue. Poor little thing."

Tom tried to adjust himself so he wasn't exposed and promptly vomited some of the water he'd unwillingly swallowed. He took great care not to puke on the cops' shoes.

The first cop took the lead. "Who are you and what are you doing here, and why you didn't cross in from Canada on a bridge like most people do? And don't tell me you went for a moonlight swim and got lost. In your spare time you can tell us why those guys in the boat were trying to kill you."

It was difficult for him to talk and he began to shiver violently. "My name is Thomas Grant and I'm a colonel in the United States Army," he managed to gasp and wandered if his words were intelligible. He was actually a major but decided he'd sound more important with the higher rank.

"Yeah, and I'm the king of England," the first cop chortled. "Hold out your hands."

Tom did as he was told and was quickly handcuffed. "You really claiming to be an American?" the first cop asked. They both seemed blithely unconcerned that Tom might be dying. Tom nodded and again tried to speak. He felt consciousness slipping away. "I'm an American citizen and an officer in the United States Army."

His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left. He was shivering from the shock of nearly being killed and the cold that was invading his exhausted body. He staggered and nearly collapsed.

The cops' attitude softened slightly as they realized that their catch might just die on them. "We'll see," said the first cop. They half carried and half dragged him to their squad car that was parked on a dirt road behind them. They dumped him in the back seat and covered him with a couple of blankets while they turned the car’s heater on high.

"Let's get your ass warmed up and we'll get this all sorted out. Who knows, maybe you’re even telling the truth."

The police station was a small cement block building located at an intersection a few miles inland from Lake Ontario, and near the village of Youngstown. If the place had a name, Tom never did find out and he really didn't care. He was just too cold and miserable. He thought he was in Niagara County in upper New York, but even that was irrelevant. Nor was he particularly concerned by the stares he received by the two other cops and one middle-aged woman dispatcher as he walked across their office to a holding cell that was blessedly warm and dry. They gave him more blankets and a couple of towels. He was beginning to think he would live.

The dispatcher's name was Sadie and she made him a cup of broth while the chief, a burly middle-aged man named Charley Canfield, made some phone calls. There were no army installations nearby, so Canfield satisfied himself with calls to U.S. Customs and the State Police. He quickly determined that nobody was looking for a six-foot white male in his early thirties, in excellent condition, with short brown hair and brown eyes, along with significant scarring on his left shoulder.

Canfield declined to call the Pentagon with a number that Tom provided on the grounds that his budget was for shit and he couldn't call long distance because he didn't have the money. When Tom said he could call collect, Canfield said he would try, but not until morning when it was more likely that people were awake. Tom reluctantly agreed.

Sadie brought him some baggy sweat pants and a sweat shirt both of which clearly belonged to somebody very large. Despite his exhaustion, it began to occur to Tom that the local cops weren't anywhere near as hostile as they had first been.

When Tom was dry and reasonably warm, Canfield entered the cell and sat on the bunk across from his. "Who were the clowns who were shooting at you?"

"They were Black Shirt thugs from the Canadian Legion. For some reason they thought I didn't belong in Occupied Canada."

Canfield was at least five years older than Tom, probably in his early forties, and Tom's first impression was that Canfield appeared very competent for a small town cop. He was a couple of inches taller than Tom and looked like he could easily handle himself in a fight with a couple of town drunks.

"Next question, Mr. Grant, and don't be pissed if I hold off calling you colonel for the time being, what were you doing in Canada that so thoroughly annoyed the junior Nazis?"

"I'd just as soon not discuss that."

Canfield smiled knowingly. "Okay, so you were doing some spying. Did you find anything interesting?"

"Other than the occupying Nazis don't like people snooping around, no. Tell me, chief; were you in the last war?"

"I spent a few months of my misguided youth in a trench filled with mud, rats, and rotting body parts, so the answer is yes. I'm still in the military. I'm a major in the New York National Guard. Now, how did you hurt your arm and get those nasty scars?"

Tom thought about not answering, but the scars on his body were hard to ignore. "Nothing heroic, chief. It was an automobile accident a year ago at Fort Benning, in Georgia. Some idiot second lieutenant forgot to post road guards while a tank was crossing and my car was squashed by an M-3. Thirty tons of armor will always win out over a jeep. My driver was killed, burned to death. I had a dislocated shoulder and got burned trying to pull him out."

Tom suppressed a shudder. He could still hear the kid screaming while he died in the flames. He explained that the lieutenant in charge of the crossing had been court-martialed for neglect and dishonorably discharged. The army had wanted to give Tom a medical discharge, but there was a war on and it was felt that his skills could still be used. Even mediocre Academy grads were needed, and he'd then been posted to an intelligence section in the Pentagon.

"I got a medal for trying to save the kid, but it wasn't worth it."

"They never are,” Canfield said sympathetically. “I got a Purple Heart and was put in for the Silver Star in the last one. For some reason, I never got it, but what the hell. Maybe I'll get a chance this time."

"Well you might just. Don't be surprised, Chief Canfield, if your unit is activated fairly soon."

The next morning, a call to the Pentagon did confirm that Tom was who he said he was. The officer at the Pentagon said that he was to report in as soon as possible and seemed surprised that he was without clothes, money, and in a far corner of New York state that was so isolated that it didn't have a telegraph office. Tom was informed that if he could make it to Buffalo, money would be wired to him.

Chief Canfield thought the situation was hilarious — serious yes, also but downright funny. "Tell you what I'm going to do, Colonel Tom. You and I are going to my place and I'm going to give you some old clothes I was going to give to the local church. Then I'm going to front you twenty bucks of the county’s money so you can hire one of the locals to drive you to Buffalo. Niagara Falls would have been a little closer, but maybe you army people can't read maps. I would also like the twenty back. I wasn’t joking when I said we were short of money."

Tom assured Canfield he would get his money back if he had to use his own funds. Shortly after lunch, Tom found himself in a pickup truck with a taciturn farmer who had clearly taken a vow of silence, which was fine by Tom. He wanted to collect his thoughts. Two hours later, he was dropped off in Buffalo in front of the Western Union office, across the street from the Greyhound Bus Station. Working with Western Union proved a little difficult since he had no identification and they were understandably loath to give a hundred dollars of the government’s money to a stranger who looked like a derelict. A quick telegram to the Pentagon solved that. Tom got himself a bus ticket to New York City and, on checking the schedule, saw that he had enough time to buy himself some better clothes. He also gave the farmer twenty to pay back Canfield.

After an eternity on a bus that made far too many stops, he made it to New York and the airport that was known as either the New York Municipal Airport or LaGuardia after the current mayor who'd had it built. From there he took a flight on a DC-3 to the new Washington National Airport.

It took him two full days to get from upper New York to Washington, D.C. So much for modern, high speed travel, he thought. Worse, he had used up almost all the money he'd been fronted and barely had enough for cab fare to his apartment. He had the miserable idea that the hundred dollars had been an advance on his pay, rather than a gift from Uncle Sam.

Tom's apartment was outside Fort Meade and close to his offices in the Pentagon. As he walked up the two flights of stairs, his legs began to ache and he realized just how tired he was. A note was pinned to his door. He was ordered to report as soon as possible. Obviously, none of the brass gave a shit about how tired he was. He realized he didn't have a key to his apartment and swore. He was about to head to the manager's office, hoping that the lush of a superintendent was sober enough to remember Tom to let him in, when he realized that the door was slightly ajar. He was about to push it open when something hit him in the back of the head. He fought unconsciousness for a moment, but a second blow finished him.

"Good morning, major. The nurse said you were awake."

Tom blinked. His head hurt like someone was digging in it with a shovel. Worse was the throbbing between his eyes that was nauseating him. The doctor understood and quickly gave him a bucket. Tom emptied the contents of his stomach and then some additional stuff. Finally, he got control and gratefully took a glass of water from the doctor. He didn't have any military rank on him, so Tom presumed the man was a civilian. The world started to spin, so he sagged back on his bed.

"Jesus, what happened to me?"

"My name is Crain, not Jesus, and you got mugged in the hallway of your apartment. You were found by one of your neighbors who called the police and, when they realized you were military, brought you here. They guy who attacked you apparently ran off."

"And where is here?"

"The base clinic at Fort Meade. There are a number of very good hospitals in the area, but it was decided to keep you here where you'd be out of sight and in the warm bosom of the army, at least until someone figures out what happened to you. Apparently a number of people don't think the attack was a simple attempted robbery. Your injuries are painful, but you're an army officer so you have an extremely thick noggin. X-rays did confirm that you don't have a fractured skull and the bruise on the side of your face will clear up in a matter of years."

"Doctor Crain, when was the last time you were told to go screw yourself?"

Crain smiled. "I believe it was my last patient. And a very nice little old nun she was. Now, I want you to eat something, take a few aspirins, and get some sleep. Somebody from General Marshall's staff will take charge of you in a while, but not until I release you."

Tom did as told and woke up a few hours later significantly refreshed. He got up, found his clothes, and a nurse brought him some toast and eggs which he devoured.

He was wiping the grease from his chin when a man wearing civilian clothes came in and identified himself as Captain Art Baldwin of the Fort Meade Provost Marshal's office.

"When you're up to it, major, we'll take you to your apartment so you can check it out, tell us what's missing, and pick up your stuff. General Truscott is now on Marshall's staff and wants you residing here at Meade until we can figure out what happened. And no, we don't think it was just a robbery gone bad."

"Doctor Crain said that already. By the way, I had no idea Truscott was anywhere around," Grant said. He was pleased. Truscott was one of his favorite senior officers.

Major General Lucian Truscott was about fifty years old, a career soldier, and was considered one of those in whom Chief of Staff George C. Marshall had great confidence. The gravelly voiced Texan was noted for training his men beyond hard. A lot of people hated that, but most admitted they'd rather go to war prepared and trained by someone like Truscott. Well trained troops had a much better chance of surviving than those who weren’t. That he was now on General Marshall's staff was intriguing.

An hour later, they were at Tom's apartment. As suspected, the door was broken and Tom's possessions, such as they were, had been strewn about the floor. Furniture had been smashed and even the mattress had been ripped open. Pictures on the wall had been ripped apart. Someone was clearly looking for something and robbery was not a factor.

Baldwin shook his head. "Apparently they thought you were rich and spent a lot of time looking for valuables. Whoever it was didn't know what the army pays."

Grant smiled and thanked the gods for his foresight in not bringing his notes back from Canada with him. Of course, how could he have since he'd swum across damn near naked?

He found a duffel bag and filled it with his clothing, both civilian and military, along with underwear and important things like that. He wasn't coming back. Being assaulted and robbed was a good reason for telling his grouchy landlord to shove it. Baldwin got some paper bags and the two men filled them with more personal possessions, which made Tom realize that he really didn't have much in the way of an existence. He was thirty-five and been married to the army since being admitted to West Point at the age of eighteen. To the surprise of almost everyone, he'd found that he could handle the academics, graduating in the middle of his class, and the physical part of the training had come easily.

After graduation, he'd bounced around a number of boring peace-time garrisons. He'd contemplated resigning, but there was a Great Depression devouring the country, and the army at least provided him with a job. “Three hots and a cot” was the phrase and that worked for officers as well as enlisted men without clear futures in the civilian world. That was followed by the nation's decision to re-institute the draft as war clouds loomed. He'd been promoted to major shortly after Pearl Harbor was attacked. Once, he'd thought it more likely that pigs would fly than that he would achieve field grade rank, but it had happened. Of course, the expansion meant tons more majors, colonels and generals than you could shake a stick at, so he wasn't unique and promotions weren't necessarily based on merit.

His orders were to report to Truscott, so he did as soon as he was able to change into a reasonably un-mussed uniform. As usual, Truscott was blunt.

"Grant, what flaming jackass sent you into Canada on such a fool's errand?"

"Sir, it was General Marshall."

Truscott blinked in momentary confusion. "And a wise choice it was," he finally said with a disarming grin. "But tell me, why you?"

Truscott gestured him to take a seat and Grant relaxed. "There were several reasons, sir. First, watching over Canada is my job here. I review newspapers, radio programs, look at papers sent by diplomats, and anything else that will help us find out what the Nazis are up to. Since we were and still are having trouble getting good info, I decided to nominate myself to take the trip. I do speak a passable version of German, and, second, I have relatives in the Toronto area. That and the fact that I was present when the decision was made kind of tipped things in my favor."

"How did you get around, major?"

"Easily, sir. I got some Canadian money, crossed into Canada at Sarnia, Ontario, bought a used car and just started driving. Getting gas wasn’t a problem. Like here, there are shortages and the prices are high, but there is no rationing. I even used my own name and driver's license. I went from Sarnia to Windsor and east through a number of Canadian cities until I finally got to Toronto, which I made my base. I made a bunch of short trips and looked for a major German presence, which I found, along with evidence of SS or Gestapo activity, which I also found. I also found a strange group called the Canadian Legion. They are a bunch of pro-Nazi thugs who wear black shirts and act like they run the place.

"I tried to stay out of sight, but obviously didn't do a good enough job, which is why I had to swim the river. Those goons would have killed me. I actually saw some of them beat up a guy in broad daylight because he laughed at them and nobody came to the poor guy's help, not even the cops. It's bad, sir, and it's going to get worse."

Truscott leaned back in his swivel chair. "So you spent two months or so traveling around Canada looking for evidence of German military buildup or odd behavior because we really don't know what's happening with our neighbor to the north. God, it’s hell being blind."

Truscott was referring to the fact that the British once had excellent intelligence facilities centered at a place in England called Bletchley Park. When the collapse became imminent, the British, with the help of the U.S., shut down whatever was going on at Bletchley. Equipment and personnel quickly disappeared and resurfaced in a newly constructed camp a few miles south of Washington.

"I think I found a lot of interesting stuff, sir, and I made copious notes."

"Which, I assume, are at the bottom of Lake Ontario. Either that or the Nazis have them."

Now it was Grant's turn to smile, "Hardly, sir. When I realized the goons from the Canadian Legion were on to me, I went to the American consulate in Toronto with a package and gave instructions that the package was to be sent to General Marshall via diplomatic pouch. I don't think even the Nazis are ready to violate something as sacred as mail between diplomats."

"At least not yet," Truscott said with a touch of admiration. "Good thinking. And how's your head? It looks like you're wearing a green and purple golf ball."

"It feels like it, too. For some reason, the blow barely broke the skin and whatever pain I originally felt is receding quickly thanks to a heavy dose of aspirins. I'm ready for duty."

"Good. The package, however, hasn't shown up. It's probably in transit between us and the State Department, but I'm sure it will arrive. In the meantime, what did you find out?"

"Easy answer is that they are up to something and I think it's going to be big. One term I picked up on was North Reich, another was North Storm."

Truscott was puzzled. "I thought the first referred to their occupation of Ontario. The other one I never heard of."

"Neither did I, but now I think they both mean a whole lot more."

Captain Franz Koenig hated wearing civilian clothes. He was a German soldier and proud of that fact. He was part of an elite and magnificent force that had invaded France and devastated the Soviet Union. He would have been part of the army that invaded England but for the annoying fact that the English had, for all intents and purposes, surrendered. It didn't hurt at all that the uniform of a German officer was very dramatic and, under the right circumstances, had often induced young lovely young frauliens to toss off their clothes and joyously climb into bed with him.

But now he wore a cheap and poorly fitting civilian suit and sat in a basement office in the German Embassy in Washington, D. C. It was located in an enormous Victorian building at 1435-41 Massachusetts Avenue NW. The building contained seventy rooms and thirteen bathrooms, along with a number of radios and other apparatus necessary to set up spy operations against the Americans. It had been the German embassy since 1893, the days of Kaiser Wilhelm II.

A German uniform in Washington was as unpopular in America's capital as it had proven to be in parts of Canada where Koenig was an aide to General Hans-Jurgen von Arnim, the commanding officer of all German forces in Canada. It belatedly occurred to him that he should have insisted on meeting at a restaurant, or even a hotel room, since the FBI was sure to be watching the comings and goings at the embassy. Also, much of the espionage work done by the Reich was through apartments and offices rented by dummy corporations in the Washington area and elsewhere in the United States. There was no need to have come to the embassy.

"What happened, Heinie? Who fucked up?"

Captain Heinrich Stahl was a 'cultural attache' in the German Embassy in Washington, and was, as he liked to joke, about as cultural as a fart in church.

"Blame me if you want, but I'm like you, a soldier and not a thief in the night. I broke into this Major Grant's apartment when the idiots in Canada figured out that he might have mailed his notes to himself. They weren't there, of course and, on leaving, I saw the major himself arriving. I sneaked up on him and hit him with the flat of the pistol I'm not supposed to carry here in Washington. I was going to search him when I heard someone yelling and ran off. I don't think he had anything on him anyhow."

Koenig agreed. "If such a package existed, he probably mailed to somebody else, which is what I would have done. Any package is either sitting on a desk in the Pentagon or is at the bottom of the Niagara River. Christ, those Black Shirt fools in the Canadian Legion make rocks look smart. They almost had Grant several times while he was wandering around Ontario, but almost isn't good enough."

"Want me to try again?"

"No. Whatever he knew he has already told several times over. We don't need to verify his allegations by either hurting him or killing him."

"Fine by me," said Stahl, standing. "I don't like killing people without good reason, unless, of course, they are Russians or Jews." He was a big man, tall and burly. "So, what do we do now, and does anybody really know what the hell is going on? What is North Storm, for instance, and why is it worth trying to kill someone over?"

"I don't know either. Maybe General von Arnim does, but I even have my doubts about that. I suppose they'll tell us when it's time for us to put our lives on the line, just like they’ve always done."

Koenig stood. He was tall himself at just over six feet, but Stahl had him by a couple of inches and a number of pounds. "Tomorrow I return to that paradise up north. Tonight, you and I are going to have a few beers and talk about old times."

Chapter Two

"Good to see you back and I hope you and the general got along," commented Colonel Mark Downing, Tom's immediate superior. Downing was in his early fifties, gray haired, and carried a paunch as testimony to his love of good food and drink. He looked like a grandfatherly type, and had a reputation for being stern but fair. He was also known to be a vicious predator when necessary.

"Good to be back, colonel. My health can't take too much more of this chasing around crap."

"Your package, by the way, has arrived. A youthful twit from the State Department delivered it and handed it to me since he could not get in to see General Marshall. Secretaries are re-typing it so it can be mimeographed and distributed to selected personages."

"Are they cleaning up my grammar and spelling?"

"I don't know if they have that much time," Downing said as he pulled himself out of his chair with effort. "I have a meeting, so look things over and familiarize yourself with what the status of the world happens to be after you disappeared for two months. I’m sure you’ve been reading newspapers and listening to the radio, but this’ll help fill in the blanks."

Downing left and Tom began poring over reports and checking on updated maps. In the Pacific, it was evident that the Japs were over-matched and retreating everywhere. They had been defeated in the Solomons and New Guinea, and the U.S. army was preparing to invade and liberate the Philippines in early 1944. This was much sooner than if the U.S. had had to fight a two front war. The poor Japs, Tom thought, had no idea what was going to hit them after they attacked Pearl Harbor. Tough shit, he thought. They deserved it after Pearl Harbor and Bataan.

The flip side of the coin was that, without the American help that had been sustaining them, both the Soviet Union and Great Britain had collapsed by late 1942. He understood that many of the people at the top, like FDR and Marshall, considered the Nazis to be the main enemy and the war against Japan a distraction that had to be endured before the real war could commence. Sometimes Tom agreed with that assessment, but, more often, was glad that such decisions were well above his pay grade.

If only England and Russia had managed to hang on, he continued to think, the map of world wouldn't look so damn strange.

What had once been the Soviet Union was now the truncated country of Russia, or more precisely, Siberia. The Russo-German lines ran up the Volga, passed a Stalingrad that had been taken by the Germans after incredibly bloody and brutal fighting, and to where it turned towards the Urals. From there on it ran northward along the roughly defined border between Germany and Russia that was the Ural Mountains. The Reds held the passes, so they were relatively safe, and the Germans seemed content to stay on their side of the Volga. The Russian capital was now at Sverdlovsk, which had previously been called Ekaterinberg and was the site of the massacre of the Czar and his family by the Bolsheviks. Grant wondered if the current communist regime saw the irony. He doubted it. Every Russian he'd met had had no sense of humor whatsoever.

After Stalin's death during a bombing raid, and an internal Communist Party bloodbath, the Red Army had taken control of what was left and Marshal Semyon Timoshenko ran the rump of the country. Rumors that Stalin had been murdered by Lavrenti Beria were flatly denied but not fully believed. Beria had been killed in another "bombing raid," which meant there would be typical Russian silence on the matter. For the time being, the Red Army was running the remnants of the Soviet Union.

On a map, Great Britain and the Commonwealth looked unchanged. However, a very timid government was now in charge in London with an extremely reluctant Lord Halifax running the show and trying to maintain Great Britain’s existence. Flags stuck in the map indicated the continued presence of very small German garrisons at Belfast, Portsmouth and Liverpool. Their job was to ensure that the British did not rearm and that the negotiations for a permanent peace continued. It appeared that the Germans were treading carefully in England, while England tried to hold the Nazi monster at bay. Still, the status quo could not last forever. Either Great Britain would sign a humiliating treaty or the war would renew. Popular opinion in the Pentagon said that this would happen if Russia collapsed; thus permitting Hitler to focus solely on the British Isles.

Of all the Commonwealth nations, only Canada had been seriously affected by what amounted to a major British defeat. The Nazis had insisted on the right to install an occupying force in Ontario, along with the coastal provinces of Labrador, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick. German ships landed at the port of Halifax and supplies and men went by train through Quebec and on to points west. There were no German troops stationed in Quebec. The Quebecois' hatred of Germany was almost boundless and the provincial government was hard pressed to keep locals from blowing up trains and committing other acts of sabotage that were sure to bring savage reprisals down on their part of Canada. For their part, the Nazis kept their troops far away from Quebec.

The U.S. had protested this breach of the Monroe Doctrine, but to little effect. The war with Japan was on center stage. German transgressions would be ignored for the time being. Perhaps forever, Tom thought sadly.

To partly offset this and just prior to England’s collapse, American army and air force personnel had established a base at Gander, Newfoundland, taking over from the British.

Other Commonwealth countries had been spared any direct contact with the Nazis, although there were rumors that some disaffected white South Africans might look positively to working more closely with the Reich, and that the Germans wanted a base in Jamaica. The world looked bleak and strange and there was a madman astride it.

The only positive notes were that the enlarged and strengthened American bases at Iceland and Greenland were still in existence, and the German outrage at America's sudden takeover of Britain’s strategic citadel of Gibraltar had not resulted in military action. Both Spain and Germany had been as stunned by the last minute sale of Gibraltar to the United States by Great Britain as the U.S. had been with Germany's partial occupation of Canada. Spain's pro-German dictator, Francisco Franco, had professed his outrage, but decided not to take on the American army and navy at this time. Hitler too had been angered but decided not to upset the fragile truce between the Third Reich and the United States.

Portugal, also fearing an ambitious fascist Spain, had signed a treaty permitting American warships to be based at Lisbon, which was within striking distance of Gibraltar if the Spaniards attacked, and north at the city of Oporto.

Downing returned and closed the door. "Like what you see?"

"Not really."

"While you were traipsing around Canada, did you get a feel for how the people were taking it?"

"They were sick, stunned, and saddened. Perhaps only a few have decided to become Nazis, but the Germans have given those who have a lot of power and they are nasty. Based on anecdotes and impressions, I'd say that twenty per cent of the Canadian population is more or less in bed with the Nazis, while the rest are still in a state of shock."

"Are the Canadians ready to rebel?"

"Maybe if they had weapons, but they don't. Except for hunting rifles and shotguns, most Canadians don’t have access to real weapons. Hell, the krauts haven't even returned the Canadian Army. The Nazis are holding close to thirty thousand Canadian soldiers hostage, either interned in England or as actual prisoners of war in Germany."

"And how does that compare with the number of German soldiers in Canada?"

"I saw elements of six divisions with more arriving all the time, but they are largely keeping out of sight. There appears to be a massive group of bases north of Toronto. All roads are blocked off and either goons from the Canadian Legion or actual German soldiers are restricting access. I didn't even try to get past their roadblocks."

Downing pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from a bottom desk drawer along with two glasses. He poured generous portions into each and handed one to Tom.

"Glad to have you back, Tom."

"Glad to be back, colonel, but you know I prefer scotch."

"Go to hell, Tom."

What had once been a lush green field was covered by what might appear to be a fleet of wooden barracks and Quonset huts when viewed from the air. Several thousand people, many of them British refugees, now worked and lived in the giant compound. The site had once been a large and prosperous farm that had gone to ruin during the Depression and picked up by the U.S. government for a song. The hard part had been replacing the large number of people who either didn't come to the U.S. from England, or who wished to emigrate to another part of the Commonwealth. Care had been taken by both the U.S. and British governments to ensure that the really key people who'd worked at Bletchley Park had either come to Virginia or had quietly disappeared for the duration. Fortunately, most of the top and best people had come to the U.S. Some realized that if they hadn't they'd have been shot, either by the Germans or their own government.

The massive encampment was surrounded by barbed wire and there were watchtowers every hundred yards or so. A casual observer would have thought it was a prison camp. Someone more observant would have noticed that the machine guns on the towers faced outward. They were to protect the inhabitants, not imprison them.

Even though she'd worked at Camp Washington for several months, twenty-six year old Alicia Cutter had only a vague idea what was going on. Now a first lieutenant in the Women's Army Corps, it seemed only yesterday that she'd been teaching music and art at a private high school for the daughters of wealthy families outside of Philadelphia. A recruiter for the government said that people with musical skills and knowledge were needed. Only later did she realize that some musicians had an affinity to do well at code-breaking.

Alicia, unfortunately, did not. Thus, she was assigned duties as a courier where she supervised a small group of messengers, drivers and guards.

As always, she checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was combed flat, her uniform was baggy, hiding her slender figure, and she wore very little makeup. Good. She had learned to her sorrow that being very attractive, which she was, carried its own curse. Any success she achieved, either in school or as a musician, was attributed to her being pretty, rather than to her brain or her skills with the violin. That she'd slept her way to relative success was one of the kinder things she heard. She'd also been groped and pawed by classmates in high school and college along with professors who assumed she'd be willing to trade the proverbial lay for an A.

Having had enough of that nonsense, she'd made a point of dressing down and worked hard to look plain. She’d even gone so far as to try to gain weight and took to wearing horn rim glasses without any prescription. Her strategy had worked only tolerably well. Some of the military types, both at the camp and in the Pentagon, were unbelievably horny and, in the words of her roommate, would have screwed a female goat if they could find one. She considered the assessment both accurate and funny. Finally, she gave up, threw away the glasses, and went back to her normal weight. She’d felt bloated and the glasses gave her headaches.

She waved at the gate guards as her car exited the camp with the leather pouch carrying the day’s dispatches. She understood the problems the camp's staff was encountering. First, they had not yet broken any major German codes, despite the large number of Brits who had been working on the same thing for several years. Second, much of what they did was based on intercepted radio communications which were degraded because Virginia was so much farther away from continental Europe than England.

Alicia was accompanied by her driver, Corporal Wilkins, and her guard, Corporal Henry. It was Henry's first trip to Washington and he was looking out the front passenger window like a little kid, or even a dog. She wondered if he opened the window, would he stick his head out and let his tongue hang out?

"Henry, is this really your first time here?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Alicia checked her watch. She was stretched out as far as she could in the relative comfort of the back seat with the pouch on the seat beside her. "Wilkins, are you in any great hurry to get back to the excitement of Camp Washington?"

Wilkins laughed. "Not really, lieutenant."

"Great. Let's take the scenic route and let the nice young man see where all his tax dollars are going. I think the war can wait a half hour or so."

They unnecessarily crossed the Potomac and drove slowly around the sights of their nation's capital. Henry openly gawked and exclaimed and Alicia, who'd been there a number of times, admitted that the sight of the White House, Capitol, and so many other buildings of legend never ceased to thrill her. They did think it sad that there were so many guards around key places and that sandbag embankments and anti-aircraft guns intruded so jarringly on what had once been beautiful views. Another jarring sight was the pair of buildings that housed the navy. Named the Munitions Building and the Main Navy Building, they were ugly structures that had been built near the end of the World War I and intruded onto the elegance of the Mall.

There were a few dozen protesters walking around the park across from the White House and they were watched by D.C. police. They bore signs protesting the Nazis treatment of the Jews. Alicia couldn't help but wonder if all the horrors she'd heard were true. She didn't think they could be. Not even the Nazis could be that inhuman to their fellow man. Not even Hitler. He was a madman, but no one could be that murderous. It just wasn't possible. At least she hoped it wasn't, she thought with a shudder.

Finally, they drove back across the Potomac to the Pentagon. Corporal Henry hadn't seen that either. "Jesus ma'am, that is one huge building."

"That doesn't begin to describe it," Alicia said. Henry was from Nebraska and had admitted that the largest thing he'd ever seen before being drafted was a corn silo.

Dedicated earlier that year, the Pentagon was only four stories above ground, with an additional two under, but sprawled over an immense plot of ground next to Arlington National Cemetery. Close to thirty thousand military and civilian personnel worked in the five-ringed building that was so big that she'd seen a display where the Empire State Building could lie on top of its six and a half million square feet of space. Rumor had it that FDR thought it was hideous and couldn't wait for the war to be over so he could tear it down. Alicia didn’t think that would happen. The military had found a home.

Finally, and only a little behind schedule, they pulled into a Pentagon parking lot. They passed the guards and Alicia went towards her destination, while the two corporals headed off to find something to eat. As she walked the corridors, she felt small and unimportant. Admirals and generals walked by and didn't even look at her, except for one or two who assessed her femininity.

This was only her fourth trip to the Holy of Holies and she wondered what was in the locked pouch she carried. Was it all that important? If it was, wouldn't all those generals who were ignoring her be shocked that such documents were being hauled around by a lowly first lieutenant and a woman to boot.

"Jesus, chief, that thing looks fucking deadly."

"Marty, we are on duty this weekend. Would you please remember to call me Major?"

Staff sergeant and deputy sheriff Marty Dubinski shrugged. "Sorry, chief, I mean major, but look at that damn thing."

Canfield explained to his sergeant that the damn thing was a German E-Boat. A little bit larger than an American PT boat, the low-slung craft was capable of scooting along at more than forty miles an hour, had a crew of about twenty-five, and was armed to its deadly teeth with a 37mm cannon, and several 20mm guns along with a bunch of machine guns that the German crew had added. There was one torpedo tube on each side of its hull.

"Wasn't there a law prohibiting major warships on the Great Lakes?" Dubinski asked.

Canfield focused his binoculars. The German E-boat was a half mile offshore and moving sedately at about twenty knots, easily chopping through the foot high waves. It was already moving faster than most craft on Lake Ontario. It was also many miles inside what were considered American waters. Under other circumstances, the view would be both dramatic and pretty. This day it looked ugly and menacing.

Canfield put down the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. "I read someplace that the krauts don't consider E-boats to be major warships. They say they are just like our Coast Guard cutters or PT boats."

Dubinski snorted. "That is just so much bullshit, major. Look at them torpedo tubes. Those things can sink any ship in the world and that makes them E-boats major warships in my book. I think I should write Roosevelt."

"Do that," Canfield said resignedly. Marty was always writing letters to the editor, to his congressman, and anybody else who pissed him off, which was a whole lot of people. He also thought FDR was a commie.

"So why are they out there, chief?

At that moment, one of the E-boat's 20mm guns opened up, the strident sawing-sounding noise caused the two men to drop to the ground. A few seconds later they realized that the German wasn't shooting at them and they sheepishly got to their feet. They now had a nice view of the German's stern as it turned north towards Canada.

"Okay, major, let me rephrase the question. What are they doing out there and what the hell were they shooting at?"

Canfield shook the dirt from his fatigues. "I think they were out there so close to our shore just to aggravate us. As to their shooting, I think it was also to annoy us and maybe they were getting in a little target practice. There might have been some driftwood or something that some dumb kraut thought would be good to shoot at. I just hope they didn't kill someone in the water, like some poor refugee."

There had been a significant increase in the number of people leaving Canada in the last few weeks, although only a few had left by boat. The border was open so they just packed up and crossed by car or bus. A high percentage of them were Jews who knew what was going on in Europe and who wanted to escape that awful fate. Canfield had been mildly surprised. He had no idea there were so many Jews actually in Canada, or that they were so frightened. So far, the Nazis had been letting anyone who wanted to leave go in peace, but how long would that continue? If the Germans would shoot at someone like that Grant fellow, they must have something to hide. He decided it wouldn't be long before the border was closed, and then they'd all have their hands full with refugees in boats and Germans trying to kill them.

Damn it, he thought. Life was so much simpler when all he had to worry about was the Depression and people smuggling whiskey into the U.S. before prohibition was repealed. Maybe the next time they drew duty, they'd make sure they had something more lethal than M1 rifles and.30 caliber machine guns to defend the State of New York from German warships.

"How's your arm, colonel?"

Grant winced and shifted his arm in its sling. "Actually, sergeant major, it hurts a hell of a lot more now since I let the medical staff fix it."

Sergeant Major Mort Farnum laughed. He was a short barrel of a man who'd been in the army for more than twenty years. Nobody, either enlisted or officer, wanted to get on his bad side. So far, Tom had done nothing to annoy the sergeant major.

"I'll bet they even said it was minor surgery." Farnum said.

Tom's arm and shoulder had continued to pain him and he finally relented and gone to a doctor. In a twist of fate, he'd gotten the same Doctor Crain who'd examined his skull after the mugging. Crain diagnosed a sprain and some torn muscles that were aggravated by scar tissue from the car crash and fire. He'd recommended having the shoulder surgically repaired and Tom had gone along. Another doctor had done the work and happily pronounced that all was well. So why did his arm hurt like hell? Because it was healing, Crain said, and quit being a baby.

A young PFC came in carrying a pouch. "This just got delivered from Camp Washington, sir," he said and gave it to Tom who signed for it. He noted that it had been delivered to the Pentagon by a WAC officer, which meant that the pouch's contents couldn't be all that important. He would pass it on to General Truscott, who probably would say nothing about it, which further told Tom that whatever it was wasn't very important.

The Pentagon might be the nerve center of the American military, but it was also one dull place. Worse, there were very few women around. He'd been told that the WAC who delivered the pouch was pleasant but plain and a little flat-chested, which meant that half the men in the Pentagon were in love with her. Whoever said that women greatly outnumbered men in Washington must have been drinking heavily.

"How's the arm?" Colonel Downing asked, startling Tom.

"Getting better, sir.” It wouldn't help to complain. Nobody cared. “I am curious, though, what is going on in Camp Washington that they send us these pouches?"

Downing shrugged. "Beats me too. The camp was recently declared operational and there are a couple of thousand intelligence types inside. I understand they are trying to read the Nazi's minds, assuming that the Germans have minds to read. Seriously, I understand they are monitoring radio transmissions within the Third Reich and even on their ships. I guess they're hoping to pull pearls from the garbage."

"But aren't German messages coded?"

"The important ones are, but a lot of ordinary stuff isn't and sometimes you can figure out a lot from the trivial. If some supply officer in an armored division asks for ten thousand pair of long johns, you can pretty much assume that the division is heading someplace cold."

"Except that in our army it might mean they were heading to warm climes, because either somebody screwed up, or they want to keep anybody who's listening, guessing."

Downing shook his head sadly. "You're thinking too much, Tom. The army doesn't like that in an officer."

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, three times President of the United States, was sixty-one years old and looked much older. The thirty-second president was pale and gaunt, and a bout of polio many years earlier had left him confined to a wheelchair. Everyone knew he walked with difficulty, but most didn't know it was all a charade. FDR couldn't walk at all. When he appeared to move through a crowd, it was because loyal aides and Secret Service agents literally picked him up by his elbows so that he sailed through the throng. He appeared to be walking, but his useless feet never touched the ground.

The stress of the job, coupled with his failing health, were a great concern to everyone. This day, however, the president was angry. Normally, he was a little intimidated by General George C. Marshall and Admiral Ernest King, but not this morning.

FDR squinted through his reading glasses. "First of all, let me genuinely commend this Major Grant on his escapade and on his safe return. You will see to it that Grant gets a gold star on his forehead for his efforts. However, I have to consider that the whole enterprise was ill-conceived. We will never again send a field grade officer on such a mission during peacetime."

Marshall responded. "While I did not specifically authorize the trip, I support it in hindsight. We need intelligence regarding what is happening in Canada and we simply aren't getting it."

"But what if he had been arrested or even shot? What then? His trip was a clear provocation and we are not ready for that. Whether I like it or not, and I don’t, Congress has decreed that we have but one war to fight and that is against the Japanese. At some time in the not too distant future, it is likely that we will be fighting Hitler, but when it happens it must be clear that Herr Adolf is the aggressor. If Grant had been killed or caught, we would have had to apologize and promise to be good little boys and girls and never do it again. My enemies in congress, who are also your enemies, would have had a field day."

Neither man needed to be reminded that congress had rebuffed FDR’s attempts to declare war on Germany after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. One war at a time was the answer, and many reminded him of his campaign pledge to not send American boys off to fight foreign wars. If Germany had declared war on the U.S., that would have been different, but Hitler had not cooperated. For much the same reason, congress refused to allow Roosevelt to use force to expel the German army from Ontario. Later, was the collective response from a majority of the members of Congress.

Marshall would not be put off. "We need to know what is going on, sir. The Germans have a sizeable and growing military force in Canada, one that is far larger than what is needed to keep Ontario in check."

Roosevelt glanced at the report before him. "Your Grant identified six German army divisions in Canada. Three divisions are regular infantry and one SS, along with two armored divisions, one regular and one SS. Assuming that the units are at full strength, the total German force would be no more than a hundred and fifty thousand men and that includes support staff. Your man also identified several Luftwaffe units that could easily total several hundred planes."

"As you said, sir," Marshall continued, "that is far more than they need to keep Ontario under their thumbs.”

Roosevelt sighed. "Perhaps, just perhaps, they view things differently. Perhaps they are concerned that we will attack and try to knock them out of North America, which is all the more reason that there should be no provocations."

King disagreed. "I would think that shooting at Grant would be provocative on their part, but worse is the fact that their warships are cruising very close to our Lake Ontario shores. I'm certain that they will shortly have armed ships in the other great lakes. The Welland Canal can handle anything up to a light cruiser in size, and we wouldn't be able to respond since the Canal is in Canadian territory."

"If that happens we will construct our own fleet," FDR said and suddenly laughed. "Didn't we do that in the war of 1812, and didn't that turn out all right?"

"I wouldn't want to chance that again," King replied grimly, not seeing the humor in the comment. "Still, the Nazis control it and their Kriegsmarine could send destroyers, subs, and even small cruisers up the Canal and into the other Great Lakes, which would be a potential disaster. And it would be a provocation in my opinion and a violation of our treaty with Canada. They have no need for warships on the Great Lakes if we are not at war with each other."

Roosevelt rubbed his eyes. "Sometimes I wish it wasn't so complicated. We are at war with Japan who is at war with us and Great Britain. Britain is at war with Japan, but there is an armistice between England and Germany that may or may not become a real and unwanted treaty. Thus, Germany is technically still at war with England and the Soviet Union, but there is a tacit armistice between them. Germany and Japan are still allies, but Germany has not declared war on us, while we are at war with Japan. It's Byzantine. It reminds me of Abbott and Costello's who's on first routine. If it wasn't tragic, it would be laughable."

"And let's not forget the prisoners the Germans still hold," Marshall added somberly.

Large numbers of British and Commonwealth soldiers had fallen into German hands when the British collapsed. Many thousands were interned in England and would not be released to return home until a treaty was signed. If England did not go along with Germany’s wishes, hostilities would resume and England was helpless. Renewed submarine warfare could result in starvation, particularly since the American navy was focused on the Pacific.

A number of other prisoners, such as those captured in North Africa, had been shipped to Germany. The Germans had declined to release them since they would likely be sent to help England fight the Japanese, their erstwhile ally.

"What do you wish?" asked FDR.

"Information," Marshall said quickly. "The people at Camp Washington are ready to pick up where the British left off, but we must have more and we must have it now. We know the Nazis are up to something, but what?"

"I cannot turn the FBI loose in Canada," the president said vehemently. "If their agents were caught, we would be exposed. Besides, and despite what Hoover says, they are not up to that type of enterprise. FBI agents are pathologically unable to disguise themselves or hide in a crowd. What do you think of using the OSS instead?"

Marshall looked askance, while King rolled his eyes. Neither man had any confidence in the newly formed Office of Strategic Services led by William J., "Wild Bill," Donovan, an old friend of Roosevelt's. It had been formed shortly after Pearl Harbor with the hope that they would penetrate behind enemy lines and provide intelligence as well as performing acts of sabotage. For a number of reasons including a dearth of targets in the Pacific and a total lack of agents who could pass as Japanese, the enterprise never really got started. It was clear that the OSS was waiting for a war with Germany. It was also evident that the American military had little confidence in the OSS’s abilities.

FDR was clearly enjoying his guests' discomfiture. "Yes, I know that many of them are amateurs, socialites, and dilettantes, but they are all patriots and volunteers. More important, though, they can all be identified as civilians and that means they can wander about in Canada relative safety while we deny their existence. I think it's marvelous. After all, aren't the Germans doing the same thing right now?"

King and Marshall had to agree, albeit reluctantly. They'd both seen FBI reports indicating that numbers of German "tourists" and "students" had crossed into the United States and were wondering around with impunity. So far the FBI had been unable to find anything more sinister than tourist-like photographs and innocuous journals when they broke into their hotel rooms. Yes, the U.S. needed information and who the devil cared how it was acquired?

Marshall decided to shift the subject. "Sir, you say you are concerned about a provocation. What about the Germans provoking us? What can our response be?"

"I don't want war with Germany unless they are clearly the aggressor," Roosevelt said uncomfortably. He knew where the conversation was going.

Admiral King did not let him down. "We cannot wait until we've had another Pearl Harbor, Mr. President. Hypothetically, while an armed man is not much of an immediate threat to me, he becomes more so when he draws his weapon and, in my opinion becomes a grave threat that requires a response when he points that gun at my very valuable person. I sincerely hope that we do not have to wait until that armed man actually shoots before responding. If so, it could be too late."

Roosevelt's response was almost a whisper. He was so tired. Why the devil had he agreed to a third term and why was he even thinking of a fourth? Had he been insane? Why, yes, he answered himself. If Wendell Willkie would run against him in 1944 instead of New York's Republican governor Tom Dewey being the likely candidate, maybe he'd just concede and go home. What a wonderful thought. Nor could he think of a Democrat who could replace him. His vice president, Henry Wallace, was a mistake who was hated by both liberals and conservatives.

"Gentlemen, find me the provocation and I will give you the response."

Oskar Neumann understood that the Gestapo was greatly overrated as a police force. That was not its job. Its real task was not to enforce the law, but to enforce the ideology of the Reich. What was not underrated was that it depended on terror to be effective. People across Europe lived in deathly fear of the claws of the Gestapo, and Neumann was confident that it would soon be the case in Canada where fear of the Gestapo was growing almost daily.

The Gestapo was a totally German organization that wasn't that large in numbers, perhaps sixty thousand agents in all the Reich and its conquered territories. The Gestapo relied on fear, terror, and large numbers of informers to be effective. Its presence in Canada was cumbersome if for no other reason than that few members of the Gestapo were fluent in English and most of those who were had been sent to England. Neumann, who considered himself fluent in English, was sent the dregs. Good agents, yes, but not able to communicate well in Canada. Some of his so-called English speaking agents couldn't read a newspaper or order food in a restaurant, which had the effect of making them look stupid, even laughable when they made mistakes. That too would soon change as a very effective propaganda effort directed from Berlin was bearing fruit. It blamed the United States for England's defeat and Canada's current humiliation.

Relations between the U.S. and Canada had frequently been strained and many Canadians felt betrayed by their large neighbor to the south who had done nothing to help them when the Nazis rolled through Europe. In what Neumann conceded was a brilliant ploy, little was being directly said about the evil of the Jews. Not yet, he admitted. Soon, however, all that would soon change. The average Canadian might not yet believe in Judaism's inherent evil and the need for it to be rooted out, violently if necessary. Articles planted in newspapers did point out that Jews controlled the U.S. banking and entertainment industries, but did not yet call for violence against Canada's small Jewish population.

Neumann held the rank equivalent to a colonel in the army and the SS, and had all of metropolitan Toronto to control and only fifty agents with which to do it. Thanks to the war, almost seven hundred thousand now people lived in Toronto and many thousands more in the suburbs and nearby cities, such as Hamilton, with its one hundred and sixty thousand. Worse, the population of Toronto was a mongrel one. Immigrants from Italy, Portugal, and even Asia made Toronto a racially offensive place.

There were more than eleven million people in Canada and fully a third of them lived in Ontario and most of those were in the south of the province. Ottawa, Canada’s capital city, was small in comparison.

The Canadian authorities were passively uncooperative with Neumann and the Gestapo and he could do little about it. At least not yet, which infuriated him. He was making progress, but not enough to satisfy his goals and ambitions. Someday soon all of the damned Canadians would realize that they'd lost the war and were going to lose a lot more if they didn't start enforcing the policies of the Reich, especially those regarding Jews. There weren't all that many Jews in Canada, and he was confident that there would be a lot fewer very soon. Whether they fled to the United States or were interned in camps, or even shipped to their deaths in Poland didn't matter. The Jewish cancer would be obliterated.

Neumann had set up a group of young and disaffected thugs into what he called the Canadian Legion, and outfitted them with uniforms that featured black shirts, which had become their unofficial name. It was based on a similar fascist organization in England. But there were only a couple of hundred of them and most of them knew little about Nazism. Their desire was to bully and lord it over those other Canadians who considered them scum and trash at best, which, in Neumann's opinion, they were.

One plays the cards one is dealt, Neumann thought and then laughed bitterly. He'd been dealt a bunch of jokers. The Munro brothers, Wally, Jed, and Paul, were the best of a bad lot and he thought that the total combined intellects of the three of them were about equal to one normal human. They seemed to live for the opportunity to abuse and assault other people, and robbery was like taking candy to them. There were rumors of their involvement in rapes, which did not surprise Neumann.

The Toronto based Gestapo had offices in the city's downtown, but the hub of their activities was an isolated farm ten miles to the north of the city. Neumann envisioned it as a place where people could be brought, imprisoned, and interrogated without neighbors complaining about the screams. So far, he'd only had the opportunity to use it a few times and with mixed results. He had hoped to be able to use locals for rough interrogations, but people like the Munro brothers were far more concerned with beating people than with extracting information. Neumann thought that torture for its own sake was not effective, although he admitted it could be satisfying. Torturing women was something he and the Munros found especially pleasant.

Neumann decided to discuss details of the task at hand only with Wally Munro, the best of a bad lot.

"Mr. Munro, do you understand why you are being sent south to do this?"

"Sure. You don't want to get caught."

Arrogant little shit, Neumann thought. "Close enough. If something should happen, it would be far better if the someone caught is not a German. Diplomatic immunity can only carry so far. Now, what are you to do?"

Wally Munro was short, stocky, and in his early twenties. He was irked by the question. "We've been over this, Mr. Neumann."

"Humor me."

"Simple. We are to intercept the car, shoot the people, and then make it look like a robbery by taking everything of value. But most of all, we are to take that pouch."

Good, Neumann thought. By taking wallets and money along with the pouch, it might make the Washington police, along with the American military, think that it had been just a particularly violent robbery. While he was not totally confident that the charade would provide cover for very long, it might last long enough. And if one of the Munros should get caught, or better, killed, there would be nothing to link them back to him.

"And if one of you is caught?"

"We are to sit tight in jail until someone bails us out and then we disappear. Our phony ID says we're from Virginia, so they won't worry too much about us flying back to Canada."

"And if one of you is killed?"

"Then we take as many of the fuckers with us as we can. Oh yeah, if we can find out who was responsible, we'll make them wish they'd never been born."

Neumann thought Munro had contradicted himself, but chose to keep quiet. The Munro's were expendable, but if they could provide information as to what was going on at that new facility near Washington, they could prove priceless.

Chapter Three

Alicia Cutter groaned and grasped her abdomen. It was her time of the month and the cramps seemed especially painful. Each month seemed more painful than the last. Maybe growing old wasn't such a curse. A couple of her friends laughingly suggested she get pregnant and solve the problem, at least for a while. Of course she’d create a new problem for maybe twenty years along with her periods when they resumed.

She signed for the pouch from the WAC captain who understood Alicia's unpleasant situation. "At least it's a nice day for a ride," she said.

Alicia managed a smile and admitted that it was. In a couple of weeks it would be Christmas, and the day was cold and bright. There were rumors that it might even snow, which would be a small miracle in Virginia. It snowed, but not that often and rarely around Christmas. When she got back to her quarters, she'd find some brandy, medicinal of course, take to her bed and feel sorry for herself. Maybe she'd get lost in her violin. She hadn't played it in several days and was worried that she'd lose what skills she had. Someday the war with Japan would be over, and she could go back to teaching, unless, of course, America was also at war with Germany, which seemed increasingly likely.

Wilkins and Henry picked up on her lousy mood and left her alone, quietly talking about football while she sat in the back seat with the pouch and sulked. She did like football, but her University of Virginia wasn't playing, so her interest was limited. She recalled that Wilkins had a couple of sisters, so maybe he understood her problem. She put her head against the window and thought about taking a nap. At least this morning she didn't have to go to any effort to make herself look plain. Her period and the attendant bloating took care of that. She would have to apologize to the two corporals for being such a grumpy bitch.

The road from Camp Washington to the Pentagon was two lanes and paved for most of the way. It was lined with trees and bushes where there weren't stately homes and quaint villages. It was really beautiful rolling hill country. There wasn't much traffic, so they were making good time.

She was just wondering how much a house in the area would cost when a truck suddenly entered the road in front of them and stopped. Wilkins swore and slammed on the brakes, hurling Alicia and Henry forward. Henry's head hit the dashboard with a terrible thud and Alicia slammed into the seat in front of her. Pain knifed through from her nose. Dazed, she was dimly aware of men getting out of the truck and wondering why they wore masks while her world spun. They tried to yank the doors open, but they were locked. What was going on? Her mind began to clear and she realized that this was all terribly wrong.

One of the men took a pistol from his belt and smashed the driver's side window with the butt. He reached in, opened the door, and yanked an inert Wilkins out and onto the ground. A second man smashed the rear side window and opened that door. He grabbed Alicia's arm and threw her down beside Wilkins. She screamed and tried to get up, but he punched her to the ground and kicked her in the face, increasing her agony. She tasted blood in her mouth and rolled over on her back with the pouch underneath her.

"Look at this, guys," the man yelled to his companions. "Pussy." Through her pain she was outraged. Her skirt was well up her thighs and this strange man was mocking her.

He stuck the gun back in his belt and ripped open her jacket and began pawing her breasts.

"Goddammit, Paul, get the fucking pouch!" hollered another masked man. "We don't have time for this shit."

Paul straightened and was about to respond when a gunshot barked out. He grabbed his gut and looked stunned. Second and third shots were fired and one bullet blew out the side of Paul's head, spraying Alicia with blood and brains. Alicia turned and saw a bloodied Corporal Henry on his knees, his pistol in his hands. The two other men ran up to Henry and shot him repeatedly. He fell over and lay still.

Sickened, Alicia lurched to her feet, grabbed the pouch, and ran into the bushes. She spun the pouch around and hurled it as far as she could throw it. The effort disoriented her and she felt her world turning and growing dark. In the fading distance, she heard sirens and the two men shouting that they had to go right away and that they had to leave Paul.

Alicia awoke to the realization that she was in a hospital and that her body throbbed with pain. Her period had become the least of her problems. She checked her head and found that she it was swathed in bandages. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth and felt a couple of loose teeth. Would she lose them? God, she hoped not. The area around her nose and mouth was bandaged as well. What had happened?

A nurse appeared and smiled. "Welcome home. If you're up to it, there are some people to see you."

"Will I live?" she said and realized that her swollen mouth made her slur her words.

The nurse laughed. "Oh yes. You've got a broken nose, a split lip, a ton of bruises and you are terribly discolored, but that will all go away in a few days."

"Really?"

"Actually, more like a few weeks, but I'm supposed to say days to cheer you up. On the positive side, you don't have any broken bones, except for your nose and that should heal like new. Everything else will heal and that includes your loose teeth, and yes we checked while you were unconscious. Just don't eat anything other than mush for a couple of days until they settle back in. At any rate, a couple of army officers would like to see you."

No sense waiting, Alicia thought and told the nurse to admit them. A moment later, two men entered. One was a balding colonel and the second a younger major with his arm in a sling. The major also had bruises on his head and Alicia wondered if he'd been attacked as well.

"Lieutenant Cutter, I'm Colonel Mark Downing and this is Major Tom Grant. We're both on General Truscott's staff and we need to talk with you. If you're up to it, that is."

"Yes, sir. I only hope you can understand me. First, though, what happened to the two men who were with me?"

Downing winced. "Wilkins is in the hospital with a fractured skull. He's still unconscious, but they say he will pull through. Corporal Henry, I'm sorry to say, didn't make it."

Alicia tried to fight back tears. She couldn't. "I'm not surprised. I saw them shoot him so many times. He was a hero. He saved my life."

"He'll get a medal," Grant said softly, "not that it'll mean a whole lot to his family. He managed to save you and possibly Wilkins, but we need any help you can provide so we can hopefully recover the pouch that they stole. They might have been common thieves, at least that's what we've told the papers, but we really think they were after the pouch."

"Is it that important?" Alicia asked. Maybe she had done something right after all and maybe Henry's distracting the attackers had actually accomplished something.

"I'd say it was," Downing responded.

Alicia managed half a smile. "Then they didn't get it, or at least I don't think they did. When they began killing Henry for shooting somebody named Paul, I ran into the bushes and threw the pouch as far as I could. They started yelling at each other that they didn't have any more time and I think that's when they took off. I passed out so I'm not totally certain, but I don't think they looked very hard for the pouch if they looked at all. I heard sirens and they weren't going to stick around."

Both men grinned like little kids who'd gotten an unexpected present. "Can you travel?" asked Grant. "It'd be a big help if you could show us exactly where you were when you tossed the pouch."

She tried to sit up and winced. "Get someone to repair my uniform and help me get dressed, and we can leave in a little while. By the way, there's one other thing you might find helpful. They weren't common thieves, at least not local ones. The three men who attacked us were Canadians."

It took longer than planned to get organized and out to the attack site. First, the damage done to Alicia's uniform was more extensive than they thought. Along with being torn, it was spattered with gore; some of which was Alicia's and the rest was her attacker's. She informed them that there was no way on earth she would wear it in that condition. Downing's wife Missy, a civilian volunteer at the hospital, chose that moment to arrive and she completely supported Alicia. Thus, there was a delay until some men's fatigues were found that would decently fit her. Tom thought she looked like a lost child in the baggy uniform that was still too large for her. Downing said that Tom could find the pouch as well as anyone else and let the two of them go off by themselves.

Since neither was in any shape to drive, Downing got them a staff car and one of his clerks as a driver. Tom and Alicia sat uncomfortably in the back seat. Behind them, two trucks were filled with a squad MPs to help with the search and act as bodyguards.

"Are you in as much pain as I am?" she asked.

"Probably not, but I am a big baby."

She laughed and then grimaced. It hurt to smile. At least she had gotten a nurse to remove some of the bandages so she didn't look like she was wearing a turban. Her nose was swollen at least twice its size, she had shiners under each eye, and there were stitches in her upper lip. At least now she didn't have to worry about looking too attractive. Maybe she was being a fool about the whole thing. The major was kind of cute even though he was banged up. Perhaps the next time she'd dress up a little better.

"How did you know those guys were Canadian?" Tom asked.

"One of my college roommates was from Canada, Hamilton, which is near Toronto. She had a strange little what we called an 'ok-sent' which annoyed her when we pointed it out. I vacationed with her and her family and they all spoke that way."

Tom thought about the Canadian accents he’d heard during his travels around Ontario. "That was a good catch. It pretty well eliminates any idea of this being just a robbery. By the way, the cops found the truck they used."

"Let me guess. It was stolen."

"Yes, and it gets worse. They murdered the owner."

She put her head back on the seat. "You're right; this just gets worse and worse, major."

Tom winced inwardly. He didn't like being reminded of the difference in their ranks. Alicia Cutter was reasonably attractive and he thought she would be much better than that when she got rid of all those bandages and the swellings went down. It might help if she wore some makeup and did her hair. She reminded him of a girl he knew in high school who went out of her way to look plain, and then wound up joining a convent. The light brown haired Alicia Cutter looked studious but not the convent type. Despite the baggy clothes, he thought she had a nice, slender figure. Hopefully, she had great legs. He liked legs. Damn it all, he'd better get back to reality.

"How did you hurt your shoulder, major?"

"Several years ago in an accident, and then I aggravated it trying to swim the Niagara River a little while ago."

Her eyes widened. "My God, sir, was that you who swam it while being shot at? Everybody says it was wonderfully heroic."

"Guilty, and it wasn't heroism. I didn't have much of a choice." He was genuinely surprised and pleased to know that his exploit was so widely known.

Finding the attack spot was easy since a squad car was parked on the side of the road with a bored officer inside, trying to stay warm. They parked and got out. The cop stared as the squad of MPs took up station. He clearly wondered what was going on but was smart enough to keep quiet.

Tom watched as Alicia walked around, her eyes down. She was clearly looking for something. She looked up. Her face was pale.

"Here is where they shot Henry." She pointed at the ground. "See the bloodstains? Those are Henry's and those over there belong to that guy named Paul." She moved off towards the bushes and in a few yards. She was quickly invisible, so Tom followed her. "I was woozy, but I think this is about where I threw the pouch."

"Sounds good to me,” he said. He called for the MPs and had them begin a search. Their orders were to find the pouch, but not touch it.

Locating it didn't take long at all. After only about ten minutes, one of the MPs called out that he'd found it. The pouch was resting on a bush of some kind, but had been torn open. Some papers were lying loose on the ground.

Tom glared at the MP. "You didn't touch it, did you?"

The MP was totally unperturbed by the implication that he had. "No sir. That's exactly the way I found it."

Of course it was, Tom quickly realized. Even if the soldier had been nosy, he hadn't had time to do anything about it. "How did it get torn?" Alicia asked.

"Probably animals, ma'am," the MP answered. "It’s leather which the animals like, and if there was blood and some of it got on the pouch, the critters in the area would find it impossible to resist."

Again Tom agreed, although Alicia turned pale again. He picked up the pouch and began rummaging through the papers. Some of them did look like they'd been literally pawed over.

"I have a sort of manifest," Alicia said. "There are supposed to be fifty-three separate reports and they are all numbered."

They checked and counted forty-seven. The MPs were sent on another sweep that lasted a couple of hours. They found four of the missing reports, but two were still missing and likely to remain so. There wasn't much of a breeze, but what did it take to make a sail out of a page and take it off to Oz? It was getting dark as well as cold. Their searching time was just about over. A light, cold rain was beginning to fall. Any missing papers would soon be turned to mush.

Tom turned to the MP who'd made the earlier comment about animals. "Do you suppose some squirrel is lining his nest with a top secret document?" he asked with a grin.

"I'd put money on it, major. Whatever it was, we'll never see it again."

This particular B24 bomber was an older one with a lot of wear and tear on its hull. The new planes were being sent to the Pacific where the action was. Rumor had it that this one had flown anti-sub missions for the RAF before working its way back to the U.S. Air Force. Regardless, the Liberator now belonged to First Lieutenant, Terry Romano, U.S. Army Air Force, age 23. Counting himself, he had a crew of ten. They had all been together for only a couple of weeks before they’d commenced patrolling and were still getting to know each other and the plane. Romano was happy. So far it was a good crew and a good plane.

The B24 was not as glamorous or as well-publicized as the B17 Flying Fortress, but the Liberator was a solid workhorse and warrior, and this one had been modified to suit her new purpose as a potential sub-killer. She’d been built at the Willow Run, Michigan assembly plant of the Ford Motor Company. The huge factory had been converted to bomber production and thousands had rolled off the assembly line.

She was equipped with S-band radar for detecting ships on the surface at night, and a powerful Leigh light for illuminating the target. Both devices had been developed by the British. Once identified as hostile, the target ship would be swept by gunfire, or depth charges would be dropped, or both. The workhorse bomber had a range of more than two thousand miles and could stay airborne for an entire night of spotting and observing.

Other modifications had been made. Instead of machine guns, the bomber was equipped with 37mm cannon in the front and rear. These had been cannibalized from P39 Airacobras and could fire up to 150 specially modified armor piercing shells a minute in five round clips, and it was presumed that they could chew their way through the hull of a U-boat with ease. Romano had heard that some B17s had been converted to carry 75mm cannon, but he found that hard to believe.

At least that was the theory. So far, they hadn't found anything and, even if they had, their orders were not to fire. They would circle in the darkness, identify their prey, and then leave the little bastard alone, which irked both Romano and his new crew. The Nazis had fired on American ships in the past, even sinking a destroyer, the Reuben James, in 1941, and with great loss of life. Many wondered why we hadn't declared war on Germany for that atrocity even though it had occurred months before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

It was also galling that U-boats were operating just off the coast of the United States. In this case they were just outside the mouth of the Chesapeake and dangerously close to Washington, D.C.

Even though they were far enough off the coast for the subs to be in international waters, it was clear that the Germans were doing their own spying and preparing for a possible future war.

The U-boats were deadly but vulnerable. Their Achilles Heel was that they had to surface to charge their batteries, which made them sitting ducks during the day. Thus, they did their charging at night when they hoped they were invisible. Apparently they did understand the concept of plane-borne radar, but had no other choice. If they surfaced during the day just off the mouth of the Chesapeake, their pictures would have been taken and their presence exposed. Of course, in wartime they would have been shot to pieces.

Romano yawned. He was from Philadelphia and his parents were immigrants from Italy. His grandfather had lost a leg in World War I fighting along the Isonzo River near the Austrian border, and his family had no love for anything German, even if it had been the Austrians his grandfather had been fighting. German or Austrian, it was all the same thing to Tony and his family, especially since Austria became part of Herr Hitler's fucking Reich.

"Anything, Joey?" he asked his radar operator.

"Nope."

Another couple of hours and dawn would start for home. They'd named the bomber the Vampire because she operated at night. Other bombers in the squadron were named Bat, or Dracula, or other stuff like that. Romano's crew thought Vampire was the best name available. It still seemed weird that they were cooperating with the navy, but they were not about to question orders. Maybe the two rival services had decided there was a war on.

"Got something," Joey said loudly. The excitement was clear in his voice. "Might just be a sub."

Joey gave directions and they flew near but not over the target. "Skipper, please let's turn on the light. I bet it would blind them and scare the shit out of them."

Romano grinned. He could visualize the sub's crew listening intently to the distant sound of the B24 and wondering whether it meant danger. "Sounds like a great idea to me, only thing is, we ain't gonna do it and you know it, so quit trying to tempt me."

Joey laughed and then started. "Wait, skip, there's another one. Oh Christ, there's three of those little Nazi ducks all in a row. What in the hell are they up to?"

"Beats the hell out of me, which makes it all the more important that they don't know we can see so well in the dark. We'll log it in and let the wizards at the Pentagon tell us what it means. Besides, it's just about time for dinner — I mean breakfast."

Captain Franz Koenig sat at ease in the overstuffed chair in General von Arnim's office. The general was excited and there was a near feral glint in his eyes.

"We have further orders, captain. In a few months at most we will implement Operation North Storm. In the meantime, I want you to coordinate with Herr Neumann and his Gestapo to ensure that no hint of it gets out. In particular, I want you to impress on him that there should be no ridiculous attempts to gain information like that abortive attempt to steal a courier's package. His reports insist that the Americans are treating it as an attempted robbery, something like what Bonnie and Clyde would do, but I am not so certain."

Koenig made a mental note to find out just who Bonnie and Clyde were. There were still so many things he didn't know about American or Canadian culture and history.

"I will make every effort to get him to cooperate."

And cooperate was the operative word. The Gestapo did not report to the army, considering themselves superior to it, which often led to complications. Neumann's independence clearly annoyed von Arnim, although he would never mention it. There might only be a relative handful of Gestapo agents in Canada, but they carried with them the power of life and death. They could arrest anyone, including Koenig and von Arnim, for any reason whatsoever, and hold them and interrogate them at their pleasure. Koenig shuddered at the thought of being interrogated by the Gestapo. Their tortures were rumored to be hideously effective. Even those who were released were changed forever, and not just physically.

"I'm sure you will, captain. In the meantime, you might want to stay in contact with our Wehrmacht friends at our embassy in Washington and also try to find out what Neumann's plans are for supporting us during North Storm. Also, what the devil does he have in mind for those fool Black Shirts in his Canadian Legion. We wouldn't want to be tripping over each other, now would we?"

Certainly not, Koenig thought. The normal fog of battle problems were bad enough, but add to it the sometimes clumsy efforts of the Gestapo and it could be disastrous.

Von Arnim continued. "Fortunately, close coordination with the Kriegsmarine will not be necessary. Admiral Rader's submarines will have their own targets and they will not be affected by anything we do." He chuckled. "At least, I hope not."

"Will more of Rader’s E-boats enter the St. Lawrence or Lake Ontario? And what about his submarines getting into the lakes, sir?"

The general pondered for a moment. The Americans were furious at the presence of German warships in Canadian waters, no matter how small the German Admirals seemed to think they were. The Americans were barely tolerant of German troops in Canada and, had they not been involved in their war with Japan, might have pushed hard, even violently, to get them out. America might have suspended her precious Monroe Doctrine due to exigent circumstances, but it was not forgotten. It was also fortunate that their Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, was old and said to be in poor health.

Von Arnim smiled. "You have raised some very important issues. However, I am certain that these have all been anticipated."

With that, Koenig was dismissed. As he left von Arnim’s office, he stifled a grin. He was confident that the touchy and vain general would not admit that a mere captain had possibly thought of something that no one else had.

Downing called the senior members of his small staff together. Along with Tom Grant, this included Major Fred Bryce, U.S. Army Air Force, and Army Major Al Neumann. Both were slightly senior to Tom. A number of captains and lieutenants, along with a score of clerks, also worked with the group, but were not invited to attend.

Downing smiled and waved a piece of paper. "Our Canadian friends came through for us. Either they didn't get the memo that they weren't supposed to cooperate, or the RCMP didn't give a crap. At any rate, they identified the clown who killed Corporal Henry and injured Lieutenant Cutter and Corporal Wilkins as a Toronto resident and petty thief named Paul Munro. My contact also and very unofficially said that Munro was a member of the Canadian Legion and that he had two brothers. We can safely assume that they were the other two men involved and that we will never see them again."

The men smiled. They'd had the D.C. police send a photo of the corpse up north as if nothing other than a simple robbery involving a possible Canadian citizen had occurred. It had taken a couple of days, but the very efficient Royal Canadian Mounted Police had responded professionally as usual.

Tom was pleased, too. Alicia's observation that their accents were Canadian had borne fruit. It further meant that the Germans were indeed very likely behind the attack. The only question was what did it mean? Obviously, the Nazis were very interested in what was going on at Camp Washington, which was clearly an intelligence gathering operation.

"I think it was a dumb thing for them to do," Downing added. "Almost as foolish as Tom here swimming the Great Lakes."

Tom grinned. "That hurt, sir, almost as much as my shoulder does."

Downing ignored him. "It does mean that couriers from Camp Washington will be very heavily armed and protected. From here on in we will not be using women as messengers."

Ouch, Tom thought. That meant he wouldn't be seeing Alicia Cutter anytime soon. Too bad. With her injuries healing, he was finding her more and more attractive. He hadn't done anything about that discovery, however, since the significant difference in their ranks might make any kind of social activity awkward at best. If he asked her out, she might feel that he was putting pressure on her. She might feel compelled to go out with him if only to keep him from pestering her, and he didn't want that.

He snapped back to reality. Downing had begun speaking again. "At the orders of Generals Eisenhower and Truscott, we are to begin what he calls brainstorming sessions. Nothing new in that, but they are to include reps from the navy.

Bryce snickered. "That means we'll have to use very small words and speak slowly, colonel."

Downing shook his head. Fred Bryce was a former fighter pilot and had a reputation as a joker. "Somehow, I think they feel the very same way about us. Regardless, we'll be among a number of such groups who will be trying to figure out just what the hell the krauts are up to."

Yeah, Tom thought, and I'd like to know what Alicia Cutter is up to.

"When we are done," Downing continued, “we will put our thoughts on paper and submit them to General Truscott."

Bryce laughed. "The writer of the winning essay gets a big hug from General Marshall. Second place is two big hugs."

Downing sighed and continued. "When we sit down to do this, remember that there are no such things as bad ideas. Even the most unlikely thought should be talked out. Don't feel constrained by anything. Obviously, Bryce isn't."

"Of course we will cooperate, captain," Neumann said with a tight smile. Koenig was not impressed. The Gestapo officer's eyes were cold as ice.

"We in the Gestapo always cooperate with the Wehrmacht, and I know that the army is on our side as well. Sometimes, however, I'm concerned that some army officers do not think the Jewish menace is as big a problem as others do. I'm speaking, of course, of the emphasis on ridding the world of Jews that both the Fuhrer and Heinrich Himmler think is appropriate and imperative."

Koenig was about to respond when Neumann shushed him with a wave of his hand. They were in Neumann's office at the place outside Toronto that was referred to as The Farm. It was ringed with barbed wire and there were guards, and sentries patrolling and protecting it. Whatever was going on, Koenig thought, Neumann clearly thought it was important.

Neumann continued. "I will cheerfully admit that the attack on the courier was ill-advised and will not be repeated. However, it was requested by the assistant military attache in Washington, your friend Captain Stahl.”

Koenig suppressed a shudder. How the hell did Neumann know that Stahl was his friend? Shit.

"Come, Captain Koenig, let me show you what our real work involves."

Neumann led Koenig down a hallway to a locker room where he instructed him to put on a shapeless smock and a hood. "When we interrogate people, it helps so much if they can't see us or recognize us later. Now, you will doubtless see some things that will shock you or even disgust you; however, there is a method behind the apparent cruelty. Whatever happens, you will remain utterly silent. Others will be with us, but only I will speak. Understand?"

Koenig stiffened as they entered an adjacent room. A plain and plump young woman was strapped to the arms and legs of an awkward looking chair. Her arms and legs were spread apart. She was naked and shivering. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw hooded men entering and staring at her. She had urinated on the floor.

Neumann spoke. "We will do this as quickly as possible and then you can go home. Understand?"

The girl nodded. "Speak!" Neumann commanded.

Neumann’s tone demanded a response as if she was a dog, and she managed a weak yes.

"Good. Your name is Mary Bradford, is it not, and you work for the American consulate in Toronto, true?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, you have an older sister who is twenty-four and a younger one who is eleven, correct?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Now, you are a mail clerk in the consulate which means you see what comes and goes. We require your cooperation. We will give you a list of things to look out for while you are sorting and delivering mail. It may be necessary for some items to be delayed while either you or one of my men looks at them."

"But that would be a crime, sir," Mary stammered.

Neumann sighed behind his mask. "Stand her up."

Two guards released her and pulled her to her feet. One punched her hard in the stomach and, as she doubled over, the second grabbed her hair and violently yanked it back. She tried to scream and retch at the same time. She was pushed back on to the chair and strapped in.

"Can you imagine this happening to your sisters? What happens to you will happen to them as well.” He held up a long handled pair of pliers for her to see. "These will be for your teeth. One at a time will be pulled and there will not be an anesthetic, of course."

One of the hooded men opened her mouth and Neumann pushed the pliers inside where he skillfully held a tooth in its grasp. "Smaller pliers, pincers, will remove your fingernails and toenails, again one at a time and at scheduled periods so you can sit and wait for the agony to begin anew. You cannot imagine the pain you will have to endure if you do not obey me, and remember that the same agonies will be inflicted on your family."

He removed the pliers from her mouth and had her guards stand her up again. The two guards began to stroke her breasts and buttocks. She screamed and writhed.

"Are you a virgin, Mary Bradford?" She whimpered that she was and Neumann laughed. "Now, Mary Bradford, do you understand what will happen to your family if you don't cooperate. Along with what I just described, you'll be sitting there watching them be raped. Your sister might handle it, but an eleven year old girl? I wonder. A few good hard German cocks might just tear her apart. Of course your turn will come afterwards while they watch. Do you have a boyfriend?" Mary nodded that she did. "Wonderful. Maybe we'll invite him in to watch the show as well. So you will cooperate, won't you?"

She nodded and murmured a yes.

"You may be the last virgin in Canada, and you will remain that way. However, you will give these men," he pointed to his thugs, "something to seal the bargain. You will suck their dicks. Understand?" Mary moaned and again nodded her head. “And if you do anything to hurt them, your pain will be beyond belief.”

Koenig watched in disgust as, in anguish, she was released from the chair and performed on the two hooded men. When done, she slumped down to the floor and sobbed hysterically. Neumann instructed his men to give her back her clothes and possessions and told her to take a shower. After which, she would be driven back to the apartment from which she'd been snatched the evening before. She was told to go to work on Monday as if nothing happened.

As if she could, Koenig thought. He’d committed his share of what many would define as atrocities, but they were against Slavs and Jews, people Hitler defined as less than human, which meant they didn’t count. In Koenig’s opinion, Canadians were too close to Aryan for what had happened to the girl to be comfortable.

Neumann wanted to talk some more, so they returned to the Gestapo commander's office. Neumann prattled on about the greatness of Hitler and the inevitability of the Reich's triumph against the decadent west because it was filled with Negroes and Jews. Koenig agreed that there were numbers of Jews who were in charge of banking and the movie industry, and that this had to change. Indeed, it would change.

"No such mongrel race has ever succeeded," Neumann said. "By the way, were you impressed by our technique with the girl? We took her on a Friday night, so she wasn't missed. Even her boyfriend was out of town. Nor did we really hurt her, at least not physically. There will be no major bruises and she'll have no one to complain to. We broke her mentally and she will obey completely since she fully understands the consequences of failure or disobedience. The German Army may conquer nations, but the Gestapo conquers people."

Koenig was about to leave when one of Neumann's guards barged in. "Sir, the girl has killed herself."

They ran down the hallway and found her lying on the floor of a shower stall. Her eyes were open but the life had gone out of them. Her wrist had been sliced open with a small pocket knife that had likely been hidden in her purse, and what remained of her blood was flowing down the drain. Koenig saw more blood on her thighs. The goons had indeed raped her. He wondered if Neumann cared and decided probably not.

"Damn it," snarled Neumann. "She was so promising. Now I'll have to find someone else."

Chapter Four

Grant submitted his so-called brainstorming report and promptly forgot about it. He and the other officers in the group had collaborated on a document that ran a mere five pages, while other groups had written extensive treatises. Tom had the feeling that anyone reading it would not want something the size of "Gone with the Wind," so he kept it short and terse.

He was mildly surprised when, after a couple of days, he and Downing were summoned to Truscott's office. Another major general was there as well, Dwight Eisenhower. He commanded what used to be the army's War Plans Division and was now the Operations Division. His friends called him Ike, which Tom wouldn't think of doing. Tom and Eisenhower had met briefly on a couple of occasions and the general greeted him amiably, shaking hands.

"Glad to see you're healing, major," Ike said with a disarming grin. "Now let's have a seat, some coffee, and discuss your analysis of the situation. Colonel Downing says that you were the driving force behind the report and that the fundamental ideas were yours, so don't be modest."

Grant felt himself flushing. "I guess I had a lot to say, general."

"That and the fact that you'd been in Canada made it even more important that we talk with you. Now, you state that the Germans will not invade us, why?"

"Sir, they will most certainly attack if they see a major advantage, but they will not risk a full-fledged invasion, which would be a permanent thing. When I was in Canada, I identified a number of their Wehrmacht divisions, and I understand at least two more have arrived since then. Assuming they're at close to full strength, that would give them at least two hundred thousand men. That's a lot, but not enough to conquer the United States or even make a permanent claim to part of it. They would never use all their soldiers in an attack since they still have to maintain control over a huge portion of Canada. The Canadians are docile, but they might take advantage of an opportunity to try to kick the Germans out. Therefore, I believe they will raid, but not invade."

"And where will those raids take place," Eisenhower said softly. He continued to smile, but his eyes were cold.

"Sir, there are only a handful of places where we are vulnerable, and they are obvious since geography will dictate German operations. First, is the Buffalo area and the second is Detroit and vicinity. Detroit would be particularly attractive since there are so many major factories producing planes, tanks, and trucks. Pittsburg is close enough to be hit by the Luftwaffe, and they do have a number of fighter and bomber squadrons stationed near Toronto."

Truscott leaned backward in his chair. "And you don't think they will be tempted to try and keep what they raid?"

Tom grinned. "Oh, I think they'll be tempted. In fact, I believe that a number of their officers, and maybe some of ours, would be delighted if they tried to hang on. We'd outnumber them in a couple of days and simply roll over them. No sir, after hitting us as hard as they can, they'll return to Canada, blow the bridges and tunnels and wait for Uncle Adolf to come and rescue them."

"And what will Uncle Adolf be doing?" Eisenhower asked.

"He'll have greatly increased his submarine strength, which I understand is already occurring. He can't take on our surface navy, so he'll hit our inter-coastal shipping along with our ports and harbors as hard as he can. If he can cut our navy down to size, he can send an additional force to Canada. If he can't, this General von Arnim is screwed."

"Anything else? Your report mentioned deep raids, even assassinations," said Ike.

"Right now, the border with Canada is pretty much wide open. The Germans are beginning to restrict people coming in, but they don't seem to care about people leaving Canada — present company excepted, of course — and we are letting in anybody who shows up. We might want to consider some restrictions."

Truscott laughed, "Particularly to anybody with a German accent."

Ike agreed. "What actions will indicate that they are getting ready?"

Tom was surprised. He thought the answer would have been obvious. It was also in his report. "Sir, right now they do have what I would define as small holding forces across the rivers near Detroit and Buffalo, and any move to enlarge those forces with better combat troops would be indicative of a planned attack. So too would be shifting Luftwaffe units from Toronto to Windsor, which is across the river from Detroit."

Ike grinned again. "I know where Windsor is, major."

Oops, Tom thought, "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry, Tom," said Truscott. "Never assume, even when talking to generals. While you were marching through Ontario, did you happen to see any of their armor?"

"Yes, sir, I saw a handful of Mark IIIs, and a couple of their Mark IV tanks, but of their new and powerful Panthers, nothing. Perhaps they don’t even have Panthers. Of course, I wasn't in a position to see very much."

"But the bulk of their forces aren't anywhere near the border, are they?" asked Ike.

"No, sir, but they wouldn't have to be. In my opinion, any raids will be fairly small, perhaps battalion sized, and they already have those near Detroit and Buffalo. Nor would they have to wait for good weather. There are enough tunnels and bridges that could be used if they took them intact."

"Interesting," said Ike. "We were thinking that the Germans would need consistent weather to support their operations."

"General, they would for air action, but, even though Detroit has snowy and icy winters and Buffalo can get actual blizzards from the lake, the krauts wouldn't need to wait for sunshine. Like I said, the bridges and tunnels would still work just fine. They might also use bad weather to sneak a number of U-boats and other warships through the Welland Canal. At least that's what our navy liaison officer thought."

A few more comments were made and pleasantries exchanged. Tom and Downing were dismissed. Truscott and Ike were alone.

"Well?" Truscott said.

"Absolutely perfect," Ike responded. "He'll give us complete deniability. All on his own he came up with almost exactly what we think the Germans are going to do thanks to Ultra intercepts. When the time comes, we'll give him credit and a commendation and maybe promote him, and we can do it all without anyone knowing that we've got Camp Washington up and running and decoding Germany's secrets."

Truscott wasn't so certain. "Ike, remember that he helped find that lost package. How do we know he didn't read some of it, like the really important parts?"

"We don't," Ike answered. "But even if he did, we can spin the fiction out for years. If he knows anything and is half as smart as we think he is, Grant will keep quiet."

Back at his desk, Tom pretended to read a report on the new German tank, the Mark V, also known as the Panther and how it stacked up against the powerful Russian T34. In the opinion of the analyst, a captain who worked down the hall, the Germans were building them to confront a potentially resurgent Russia and would not send them to Canada to fight inferior American tanks. Tom agreed. Not only would they not be of much use against the United States, but losing some would give America insights into their new wonder-weapon. Tom endorsed the report and placed it in his out box.

He sat back in his chair and wondered just how much Ike and Truscott suspected that he knew. While picking up papers ripped from the pouch he had seen one that was a one-page summary of German plans. He'd read it quickly and realized its significance. The observations were astute because the caption on the report said they were summaries of decoded German messages. Decoded? We were reading their mail and now he knew it. He wondered if Alicia Cutter knew, or was she really just a messenger.

Tom got up and walked down the hallway. He needed to go outside and get some fresh air and who cared how cold it was. By implication he had just lied to his commanders. Should he tell them? He had another thought. What if they knew? Damn it, was he just a pawn? He laughed. Of course he was. Wasn't everyone?

Mike Bradford already had already downed a couple of drinks before his good buddy and fellow detective on the Toronto Police came in and sat down beside him. They were in a bar a couple of blocks away from the main police station. He and the younger Sam Lambert had been partners once, many years earlier. Their jobs had changed but they were still friends.

"So what did you find?" Mike asked.

"Aren't you even going to say hello?"

"Fuck you," Mike snarled. "I want to know how my daughter died."

They waited while the bartender brought Sam a drink and Mike paid. "You saw the coroner's report," Sam said. "Your daughter was run over by a truck. What more do you need to know?"

"The truth, damn it. They only let me see part of her body, her head, and even that was pretty well bashed in. They said the rest of her was real bad and that I should remember her how she was when she was alive, and not like she looked when she died. Dummy me, I let them convince me and now she's been buried."

"Mike, why do you have doubts now?"

"Because the actual report was somehow delayed and I didn't get it until after the funeral and my ex-wife wouldn't think of letting me have her body dug up. Apparently, Mary and two unknown guys were crossing the road really late at night when she stumbled and fell in front of a big truck. The two assholes, who never were found, ran off and left her, and the poor goddamn trucker ran her over. The report insinuated that she was drunk. Well guess what, Mary didn't drink. And she didn't go out late at night with strange men, especially since she had a boyfriend and she was saving herself for him."

Bradford took a swallow of his Canadian Club and soda. "Also, I found out about a call into a precinct about some guys pushing a girl who might have been my daughter into a car a couple of days before. It happened near her apartment, but wasn't pursued because of a lack of info. That's why I wanted you to talk to the coroner. After all he's your buddy."

"Mike, the coroner's Jewish and he's a little nervous about things right now. Even our beloved chief of police has made some comments that make it sound like he's not totally against the current regime, either the one in Ottawa or the one in Berlin. The coroner is not going to make any official waves."

He didn't have to add that a lot of people felt that way. It was beginning to look like the Germans were in Canada to stay. Hitler had proclaimed a Thousand Year Reich and no one was arguing the point. The ugly truth was that people were going to make accommodations in order to survive.

"I don't give a shit," Bradford snapped and ordered another drink. "Did you talk to him, and what did he say?"

Lambert was drinking beer, Labatt's, and was clearly uncomfortable. "What if I said that Mary committed suicide?"

"I'd say it’s fucking bullshit. She was healthy and happy. She had a new job at the American Consulate and she had just met a guy. He was short and chubby and quiet, just like her, and they were very happy. No, she didn't commit suicide."

"Mike, what will you do with what I tell you?"

Bradford trembled and a tear spilled over. Sam turned away while his friend got control of his emotions. The bartender glanced over and also turned away. A lot of cops drank there and he was used to seeing raw emotion displayed on the part of Toronto's finest.

"Sam, they say the truth will set you free. Well, I want to know the truth. What will I do with it? I don't know. I suppose it depends on what the truth is, doesn't it?"

Lambert took a deep breath and looked around. Nobody was close enough to hear. "Mike, she might have committed suicide. There was a terrible gash on her wrist that might have been self-inflicted. She could easily have bled to death from it."

"God damn," Mike sobbed.

"It gets worse. She'd been dead several hours before the truck hit her. The two guys with her threw her down and let the truck run her over. There was some evidence of earlier bruising and the coroner said she'd probably been raped. I think whoever did it thinks we're totally stupid provincial cops who'd never figure it out."

Mike Bradford's voice was an agonized rasp. "Why?"

"Think about it. She just got a job at the U.S. Consulate. Now, just who do you think might be interested in the comings and goings on of the United States government?"

"Aw, Christ. Germany, of course, and we've got Gestapo walking around, along with the fucking Canadian Legion. What's being done about this?"

"Nothing, Mike, at least not right now. Our limp dick government up in Ottawa is worried about pissing off the Nazis. After all, they've got a lot of troops here, and a lot of our boys are either in their prison camps or stuck in England. Besides, we've got suspicions, not proof."

"What if I get proof? What if I break into that fucking Gestapo headquarters they have outside of town. The krauts are meticulous bastards; I'll bet they have really good records."

"I will concede that point, but you're not breaking into anything. You're too old and fat and, oh yeah, out of fucking shape. However, I do know a guy who is real good at things like that and, of course, he owes me a number of favors. But if you find out that the Germans did kill Mary, what are you going to do about it?"

Mike Bradford rose and paid what the bill. "Then I'm going to raise hell and people might just get hurt."

Tinker Skillings was a small thin man in his late thirties who'd been in and out of jail on a number of occasions. After the last time, he'd had an epiphany. Jail, he realized wasn't good for him. After a number of beatings and sexual assaults, he'd decided to go straight. Well, almost. He now hired himself out to various people who desired information on others, and that included several police agencies who wanted to get around some stifling rules. Since he never stole anything, and made sure that his unauthorized presence wasn't noticed, nobody complained. People had suspicions, but nothing that could be proven with certainty. Even more important, he found that he made a lot more money procuring information than he ever did as a criminal. He also owed Toronto Detective Sam Lambert a number of favors, so he was more than willing to do this little job at a bargain rate.

Tinker's great skill was breaking and entering without the occupants being aware that they'd been violated. The key to his success was meticulous preparation. The location of the German’s farm was well known; however, it was in the country and surrounded by what Tinker thought was a lot of nothing, which meant sneaking up on it would be difficult. Tinker relished the challenge.

Tinker spent two full days on his belly in the dirt observing the farm with his high powered binoculars. They were German, of course. He observed from a number of spots around the place, checked the barbed wire fencing, the guards who patrolled, and looked out for dogs or the possibility that the fence was electrified. He saw no dogs and determined that the fence was clean by throwing dead birds against it and not getting any reaction. Watchtowers were still under construction which meant they were useless.

The security personnel were Black Shirts from the Canadian Legion, which meant they weren't very smart and were very confident, a deadly combination. It apparently never occurred to the Germans and their friends that anyone might want to get into what was clearly a prison, rather than get out.

At two AM of the third night, Tinker slithered to the fence and crawled inside the compound. He was dressed in dark clothing and dirt was smeared on his face and hands. As his entry point, he used a depression in the ground he'd improved on the night before. It was well away from the gate house so the guards there didn't notice him, and he timed his entrance so that the roving guard was at the other end of his patrol. Tinker thought the guy was a little drunk anyhow.

Tinker crouched and ducked to the side door of the farm house that he'd easily concluded was their headquarters. Two barns housed either equipment or prisoners or both. He shuddered. He did not want to get caught. He'd heard rumors that people who went into the farm didn't come out. He had a gun, again courtesy of Lambert, and would use it if he had to despite being told how important secrecy was.

The side door to the farmhouse was in the shadows and he was able to pick the lock by feel. Once inside, he moved silently, hoping that the floors didn't creak. They did, but not enough to wake up the people sleeping and snoring upstairs. He'd watched the day crew drink themselves silly after being relieved, and he didn't think anything short of an explosion would awaken the small group of men lying upstairs.

Finding the office was easy. It was the only room that was locked. Again, he picked it, entered, and looked around. A three drawer file cabinet was against the wall. He smiled and covered the single window with dark paper he’d brought. The office door was solid with no window, so no problem there. Another lock was picked and he cautiously pulled out the top drawer. He put the tiny flashlight in his mouth and began to rummage through. The labels were in German but were clearly not names, so he pulled out the second.

Bingo.

There were about thirty file folders and Mary Bradford's was the third one in and contained a dozen sheets of paper, some of which were in German while others were in English.

He scanned one of them and became furious and sickened. It told of Mary's rape and torture and did so in exquisite detail. Tinker swore and took the tiny camera, also German, and began to take pictures. Every flash made him wince, but he knew he was invisible. When he was done, he replaced the folder, although he did take pictures of the folder labels on all three drawers. Maybe they'd be useful. Maybe he'd be coming back.

He took down the paper from the window and exited the office. Reassuring snores still emanated from above. He had an idea. He found the stairs to the basement and quickly located what he believed was the room in which Mary had been tortured. There were no windows so he took more pictures, paying particular attention to the strange chair bolted to the floor and what looked like blood stains beneath it.

Tinker went back upstairs and to the outside door where he saw the guard walking away. He dropped to his knees and crawled smoothly towards the fence, under it, and out into the bushes next to the farm.

Driving back to Toronto, he was happy that he'd told Lambert to meet him at a bar. He definitely needed a drink. What the hell was his world coming to?

He also decided he wouldn't charge Lambert for this night’s work.

The B24 named the Vampire sped along at less than a hundred feet above the ground, racing towards its unsuspecting target. Terry Romano lined up the sub in his sights, paused and opened fire just as the searchlight went on. A stream of 37mm shells streaked towards the sub and ripped through the conning tower.

"One dead kraut," yelled his co-pilot who was actually flying the plane.

Terry was the gunner. Trial and error had shown that he was the best shooter in the crew and he reveled in the opportunity to shoot while his co-pilot flew the plane.

Seconds later, the bombardier dropped the depth charges and they bracketed the crippled German sub. More cheers. It was a hell of a good run.

Unfortunately, it was all practice. The submarine was a wooden mock-up situated in the middle of a field in Maryland and the depth charges were barrels of water. The 37mm ammo, however, had been real. Still, it was better than nothing. The radar had spotted the "sub" and the searchlight had illuminated it just seconds before the Vampire had swept down on it. Had it been a real sub and a real attack, Tony was confident that he'd have killed it. Nobody talked about the fact that German subs had anti-aircraft guns and might just fight back.

That the training was getting more extensive and deadly serious underscored the fact that the United States and Germany were more and more likely to get into war. At least this time we'll be ready, Tony thought. Not like Pearl Harbor. No, nothing would ever again be like Pearl Harbor. Still, there was the nagging feeling that the Germans would attack first and that American blood would be spilled. Wouldn't it be nice, he thought, if we could be the ones who fired first? Nah, that would be un-American. It would also be smart and save a lot of guys’ lives, but no, we had to be the ones who get hit first. Then we get up from the canvas and kick the other guy's ass.

General Marshall noticed that FDR's hand quivered and he had a hard time picking up the stamp with his tweezers. No surprise. The president's physical condition was getting worse as the strain of fighting a war against the Japanese and preparing his unwilling nation for a war with Germany took its toll. Working with his beloved stamp collection was supposed to relax him, but now it looked like it was frustrating him.

Finally, he gave up and put down the tweezers. He would play with his stamp collection some other time. He looked at Marshall and smiled. "So, our good neighbors in Berlin are getting nervous. Wonderful, couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of monsters. I'm also glad to see that the army and the navy are cooperating so nicely."

"The presence of Nazi soldiers on our border does help to clear the mind, sir. We don't need any more sudden shocks like that."

Only a few weeks after the collapse of England, a flotilla of German transports had appeared at Halifax where they'd unloaded several thousand German soldiers. A second group appeared the next day and steamed up to Toronto where they disembarked more Nazis. It was all done without warning and without the knowledge of the United States since the intelligence provided by the English at Bletchley Park had been shut down. There had been minimal resistance from what remained of the Canadian military, but that soon ceased as a result of orders from London and Ottawa. Fighting would only endanger the Allied soldiers being held either as prisoners or as hostages by the Nazis. Their men would be used as leverage. The Germans entered Canada and stayed.

Roosevelt had seethed in anger. His only alternative, however, was to use force to expel them and that would have meant declaring war with Hitler. FDR wanted that war, but an attack on the German forces while the U.S. was still fighting the Japanese would have labeled the Americans the aggressor and earned the anger of many in Congress who felt that Japan was the primary enemy. The president had discussed this with congressional leaders and was certain that congress would not approve any aggressive action against the Germans. There were too many Americans of German and Italian descent, along with Americans who hated England, for this congress to act, at least not yet and not without extreme provocation.

Above all, Americans wanted Japan paid back for Pearl Harbor. Great Britain had lost the war with Germany, and so what if they wanted to hand a degree of control over part of Canada to Germany? It was their country, wasn’t it? The presence of a few thousand German soldiers did not represent a threat to the United States. As to the Jewish question, many people believed that the stories of vast killings and systematic massacres were the strident cries of Zionist extremists trying to get the United States to fight for them. Many felt that the Zionists were so desperate to get their homeland that they’d lie to achieve it.

Now, however, there were upwards of two hundred thousand German soldiers in Canada and the number was growing each day. The Germans had a formidable force in Canada, one that would be hard to expel without a major effort and much bloodshed. However, it might just come to that.

British code-breaking efforts had moved from Bletchley Park in England to Camp Washington and were again beginning to bear fruit. It was clear that the Germans were planning aggressive action against the United States and in the very near future. The only questions were why and precisely when?

FDR had a devious mind and he felt he understood his enemy. Code breaking transcripts called “Ultra” helped shape his thoughts as well.

"The Germans don't want the Japs to fail,” he said, “at least not yet. They want time to consolidate their conquests. They have millions of men stationed all over Europe from France to the heart of Russia and the Balkans. If they show weakness, they are afraid that the conquered peoples will explode. Our ambassador to the Soviets says that the Red Army is re-forming itself and might be ready for offensive action by this coming summer."

Marshall did not agree. "It'll be longer than that, perhaps much longer. The Russians are having a very difficult time feeding themselves, much less building up their army. They moved a large part of their population and much of their industrial capacity to a desolate region of their country that cannot support their basic needs. What they have accomplished was a marvel of hard work and ingenuity, but they need a lot of help."

FDR smiled, "Which they might just get if, when, Japan falls. If we wish we will then be able to reinstate Lend-Lease using the Siberian port of Vladivostok, as well as routes through Iran as back door ports of entry. We would only ship humanitarian supplies, such as food and medicine, of course." He chuckled, "At least at first. Germany wants us unable to support Russia, so she is willing to chance a war with us and utterly defeat the Red Army and conquer the rest of Russia before we can enter the fray on behalf of the Red Army. If that happens we would be even more isolated than we are now. Besides, general, isn’t our source of information about Russia coming from Nazi code intercepts? How do we know that the German’s information is accurate? The Reds could have a monstrous army at their disposal."

Marshall's face showed his displeasure at being doubted. "I concede the point, sir, and I hope the Russians are ready to take on the Nazis, but I still doubt it. I further believe it would be utterly impossible to ship enough supplies via those lengthy and convoluted routes to make even a dent in Russia's needs. It doesn't make sense."

"Hitler doesn't make sense either, does he? He's like the dog who chases the car and, when he catches it, doesn't quite know what to do with it. He has conquered virtually all of Europe and now sees shadows. He has utter contempt for America, so he isn't concerned about us being able to expel his army in Canada before he can send in massive reinforcements."

Marshall concurred. "And he is under tremendous pressure to release some of his enormous army and get Germany back to peacetime prosperity. None of this can happen while he perceives threats from us or Russia."

"Or Britain's Commonwealth nations," FDR added. "Herr Hitler wants a final peace with England and the British are doing a marvelous job of stalling. To prove his point, Hitler has taken a part of Canada and is holding it hostage. What will be next? Ah yes, South Africa and then perhaps India. Germany would have allowed the Japs to take Australia and New Zealand, but we’ve stopped them so that isn’t going to happen. We must have war with Germany, but, general, whatever happens regarding Canada, the Nazis must be the aggressor."

"I understand, sir. But my people, along with Admiral King's, will be ready to retaliate as immediately as is humanly possible. With knowledge of their plans, we will be hitting them back much sooner than they expect and with much greater force."

FDR nodded approval. "It would help so much if we knew a precise date."

"Perhaps they don't know it either," the general mused. "Perhaps they are waiting for their forces to be stronger or perhaps they are waiting for pieces of the puzzle to fall into position."

"Which means, general, that we don't know all that we wish, doesn't it?"

"Correct, Mr. President. We simply don't know what additional surprises Herr Hitler might have up his sleeve."

Chapter Five

Missy Downing decided that it was time for everyone to have a little fun. War or no war, Christmas and New Years had come and gone with minimal celebrations. A few pathetic little Christmas trees had dotted the Pentagon and Missy, a plump, happy little woman with graying hair, felt there should be a break.

Thus, she proclaimed a party and invited a number of her and her husband’s friends and co-workers to their house at Fort Meade. Fortunately, it was a good-sized four bedroom colonial. The only requirement was that there would be no uniforms. She wanted none of what she told her husband was that "rank bullshit" interfering with people having a good time. He concurred and all complied although some, like Sergeant Major Farnum looked like fish out of water in civilian clothes.

The army had what she considered a ridiculous rule against enlisted men and officers drinking together, so she informed everyone that enlisted men and officers would drink separately. If they happened to be in the same room and talking to each other while they were doing it, well, so what? Besides, it was her house, her booze, and her rules. There were no complaints.

The weather outside was cold and damp, but inside it was warm, congenial, and loud. Someone was playing Andrews Sisters songs on the record player and that added to the din. Tom was nursing his second beer when he did a double take. If it wasn't for the bandage on her nose and the discolorations on her face, he wouldn't have recognized her. She still had stitches visible on her mouth, but they too seemed to be less raw. Better, she had fixed her hair and was wearing a long pre-war dress that hugged her figure, confirming that she had great legs without actually putting them on view. She was with a couple of other women and her face lit up, or so he thought, when she saw him.

"You're looking great," he said.

"Thank you. Even the memories are fading."

"I didn't know you knew the Downings that well."

"Missy called me a couple of times to ask me how I was doing. We hit it off. Even went to lunch. She's impossible to dislike and virtually insisted that I come to her party."

There was a pause. "You know," Tom said. "I don't know quite how to do this. I'd like to talk to you some more, maybe buy you a free drink, and get to know you, but?” He shrugged.

She laughed and interrupted him. "You're worried about the rank thing? Aren't we supposed to drop rank for this evening?"

"Yes, but let's face it, it's almost impossible. Can you imagine Sergeant Farnum calling me Tom and me calling him Dick? And the colonel, of course, will always be the colonel."

"You're right. Look, I'm still relatively new to this woman's army and I really don't know how things work even though I am an officer. Also I'm not going to make it a career, so it won't matter so much if I make a faux pas. After what happened, it wouldn't break my heart if they discharged me and I went back to teaching spoiled adolescents. So what if we quietly agree to use our first names for this evening and see where it goes."

Tom was delighted and she continued. "By the way, I've been told that I may be put in for a Purple Heart, although it may have to wait until we actually start fighting the Germans. Certainly the two men who were with me deserve it."

Tom thought he saw the conundrum. If the army gave her the medal for being wounded in action, they would be admitting that they knew the assault was by Germany, which would inform the Nazis that the U.S. was on to their game. Deferring the medal wasn't fair, but it would have to do. As the old saying went, life isn’t fair. The way things with Germany were deteriorating, he didn't think she'd have all that long to wait before she got it.

They grabbed another drink and went outside. The veranda was cold but relatively private with only a handful of people getting either fresh air or privacy. Missy had also declared no smoking in her house as it was so crowded, so clouds of cigarette smoke wafted upwards. He rarely smoked and she said she never did, and that was fine by him.

"Alicia, do I sense that you are disappointed with your role in the army? If so, there are several million other men and women who feel the same way."

She laughed and he liked the sound. "I think that frustrated is the better word. I was a musician and a music and art teacher and was told that my skill as a musician might enable me to be good at codes. Turns out that didn't work, so I was promoted and became a glorified messenger. Look, Tom, I don't expect to be sent to combat or command men, but we women are definitely second class members of the army, and I don't just mean pay and benefits. I don't think I'm being overly sensitive when senior officers call me 'girl,' or an enlisted man salutes me extremely sloppily while mentally undressing me. I think I have a good mind and would like to use it."

"I can't walk in your shoes and I have to admit I never gave your situation much thought at all. Before I hurt myself by saying anything more, may I change the subject? You said you were a musician, what do you play?"

"The violin. My dream was to be the lead violinist with some major symphony, like playing for the NBC Symphony and Toscanini, and doing it at Rockefeller or Carnegie, or be recorded by RCA Victor. That dream isn't coming true either. I'm very good but not good enough. When this is over I'm pretty certain I'll be able to play for a smaller symphony and maybe teach at college instead of the small girls’ high school I used to. I went to the University of Virginia and graduated with good grades, and that ought to count for something. I even played soccer and lacrosse for a local club so I’m not exactly a sissy."

Tom thought that she was good enough for him, but now was not the time to say it. "Alicia, I know you think that all army officers are barbarians who've cut their hair short and just learned to shave as well as walking upright, and this may come as a shock — but I like classical music."

"Good lord," she said with a laugh, only stopping when her wide smile stretched the stitches on her face.

"Will you play for me someday?"

She took his arm and steered him back inside. Nobody had asked her to play for them in a very long time. She would have to practice.

"Yes," she answered with another try at a smile, "but not tonight and not here."

Sounds rumbled in the distance and lights flashed in the night. It wasn't lightning and thunder. Something nasty was happening out on Lake Ontario. Canfield cursed the fact that even the best binoculars couldn't penetrate the dark. Worse, snow flurries were obscuring what visibility there was.

"Fucking Nazis are shooting at something," Dubinski said. "Correction, they're shooting at someone, not something. That ain't target practice."

True enough, thought Canfield as he shifted his bulk. It was cold and wet lying on the ground, and there was a foot of snow penetrating what the army insisted was winter gear. He could handle it, though. He didn’t regret volunteering to stand watch. If the troops could handle it, so could he. In another hour they'd be relieved and could go get warm and dry while whatever was happening out on Lake Ontario continued.

"Sir, they're getting closer," said one of his men and damned if he wasn't right. The brawl was getting very close to American property and what had to be German ships were well within American waters.

Canfield told his radio operator to inform the colonel and ask for instructions. As he waited, the situation and the view became clearer. The damned E-boat was back and it was shooting at a number of shapes on the water, and there were small flashes of light from a few of the shapes which meant they were firing back. What the hell?

The radio operator gave the headphones to Canfield who was instructed to fire a warning shot, but to make sure to miss the E-boat. "And what if he fires back?"

"Use your judgment" the colonel said from the safety of a headquarters several miles inland. "If he's shooting for real, you can do likewise; just don't go starting World War II in Canada."

Canfield grinned. Even though he was going to fire a shot across the enemy's bows, he had a weapon that would make the kraut think twice. He'd borrowed a 75mm cannon and its crew and despite the fact that it was an 1897 model, he was certain it would put the fear of God into the Nazis. The metal shield that would have provided some protection for the gun crew from return fire had been removed by its owners, and that concerned him.

The E-boat was now a defined shape. The 75mm gun captain had his orders and fired. The shock of the cannon was followed a few seconds later by a splash landing a hundred yards away from the German.

The E-boat turned and fired her 20mm and 37mm cannon in the direction of the American gun's flash. Shells impacted, throwing up clouds of dirt and debris, and someone screamed.

"Son of a bitch," yelled Canfield. He ran over to the gun. One man was dead and another wounded. The lieutenant in charge looked shocked. "Can you still fire this thing?" Canfield yelled. The young officer shook himself back to reality and said he could. "Then sink that God-damned kraut."

The seventy-five was a relatively quick firing weapon. Shell after shell poured out from her in a coolly measured cadence. Canfield grinned. The young lieutenant clearly knew what he was doing. The German captain saw what was happening and returned fire, but quickly decided he was outgunned. The E-boat turned to the open lake, her three Daimler Benz engines roaring. Canfield was going to order a cease-fire when one of the shells struck the German boat on the stern. Explosions and fire followed and the Americans cheered. The E-boat slowed but continued on out towards Canada and safety.

This time the cease fire held. The Americans waited by the icy shore while a small number of civilian motor boats approached. They were jammed with terrified people and some had been badly shot up.

While some of Canfield's men kept an eye out for the Germans, the rest of them helped several dozen men, women, and children onto safe ground. A number of the men had shotguns and pistols. Several people were wounded and a couple of them were clearly dead.

"What the hell is going on?" Canfield asked.

A dignified and bearded man in his fifties looked at him gratefully. "We are Jews, major. It is beginning."

Adolf Hitler had made one of his infrequent trips to Berlin, a city he despised. To him it represented the depravity and corruption of the Weimar Republic. The citizens of Berlin had reciprocated by giving only nominal support for the Nazi Party and its subsequent wars. Their concerns had been reduced as victory after victory occurred, but the populace was still only lukewarm towards him and desperately wanted peace. They also wanted the return of their sons and brothers, many of whom were still freezing in trenches confronting the Red Army in the gateway to Siberia.

Colonel General Heinz Guderian walked outside the Chancellery, angrily puffing an American cigarette, a Chesterfield. He was accompanied by Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, father of the German U-boat fleet. Guderian was outspoken, even in front of Hitler, and many assumed that was why he hadn't been promoted to field marshal as so many others of lesser ability had.

"Tell me the truth, admiral, can your ships defeat the American navy, especially if it is reinforced by the battleships and carriers of the Royal Navy?"

Raeder smiled and turned away to hide the expression on his face. "When the time comes, we will overwhelm them with our U-boats and send both their navies to the bottom of the Atlantic. We will not have to worry about sinking tankers and freighters, although we will do that of course. Enemy warships will be our target and we will have more than two hundred U-boats on hand at all times to send them to the sink them. We will even have our aircraft carrier, the Graf Zeppelin, ready to assist along with our capital ships."

It was Guderian's turn to smile. "As I understand it, admiral, the carrier is a small one when compared with the American fleet carriers and, besides, it is our only one. Her sister ship, the Peter Strasser, was scrapped, which does not imply that there is a great deal of confidence in our aircraft carriers. Also, our remaining capital ships are few. The remnants cannot stand up to either enemy alone, much less if they are joined."

The admiral flushed at the truth. "They will suffice."

"How will you keep the U-boats supplied? Our army in Russia is suffering because of the vast distances between our factories and the front lines along the Volga.” He didn’t bother to add that Russian partisans were tying down more than a half million German and allied soldiers. “The distance between our French bases and North America is almost as great."

"Don't worry, my dear general, we will have a number of supply ships shuttling back and forth with food, torpedoes, and anything else our brave captains require. There are even plans for a couple of floating brothels. Since you have concerns about the Kriegsmarine's ability to succeed, what about von Arnim's small army that is about to take on the entire United States military? What chance does it have of success?"

Guderian paused. He had just come from a discussion with the Fuhrer which had deteriorated into a screaming argument. A couple of staffers had led the general out of the conference room before he and Hitler came to blows. It was only Guderian's reputation and history as a victorious general that kept him from being discharged or worse. As it was, he was currently a general without a command.

"My dear admiral, the Fuhrer still believes that the American fighting man is a poorly trained and poorly led coward, and that the American generals are all fools dominated by Wall Street Jews. He looks at the war in the Pacific and sees a United States Army that cannot immediately squash the yellow-skinned savages from Japan. He says that the Japs ran from the Red Army in the Manchurian campaign of a few years ago, and that they were defeated by the Slavic rabble that is the Red Army. Therefore, the Fuhrer’s logic says that the Americans must be lesser men than the Soviets and the Japs. He does not realize that the Japs are fanatic fighters who, while they don't have good weapons, are very well disciplined and willing to give their lives for Japan. The Japanese are insane. The Americans will ultimately win, overwhelming them with the large numbers of planes and tanks that their factories are churning out. I am not confident that von Arnim will be able to hold out until reinforcements arrive. I am also not confident that they will arrive at all."

Raeder glared. He did not like having his judgment doubted even though Guderian had raised points that made him uncomfortable when he thought about them. If his submarines could not destroy the American and British navies, what then?

Guderian ground out his cigarette and lit another one. It occurred to him that war with the United States would mean his supply of American cigarettes would be cut off. He made a mental note to begin to stockpile those and other things that made life pleasant. He’d rather die than smoke the paper wrapped dog shit that Germany called domestic cigarettes.

"Admiral, von Arnim's success depends totally on your Kriegsmarine achieving a level of dominance in the Atlantic so that our forces in Canada can be massively reinforced. I will also admit that I do not like the idea of a two-front war. We went to great lengths to avoid war with the Yanks in 1941. Why are we throwing away that advantage now? We still haven't fully conquered the Russians and the British must be up to something while they stall us. We have almost two million men along the Eastern Front, and another half million fighting partisans in Poland and Russia. Almost every train or truck convoy we send is attacked by the savage Slavs who still control more than three quarters of their own vast land."

The admiral chuckled. "But that land is Siberia and the Russians are starving."

"The Russians are used to starving, and they have moved much of their industrial base to the Urals where they are, yes, starving, but building up to attack us again. Their army is larger than ours and their armor is both better and more numerous. Also, their pilots started out as incompetent dunces in miserable planes who we slaughtered in huge numbers, but that has changed as well. The war has paused, but is not over. The Reds are improving at every level."

"You have a point," Raeder admitted.

"We would attack and destroy the rest of the Soviet Forces if we could only build up enough of our own supplies, but we can't because our sources of supply are too far away from the front. Our supply forces use up most of what they are bringing in order to get at least a little to the front. And even if we did attack the Red Army, our advance would peter out in the Urals and, even if we did force the Ural passes, we would be confronting the vastness of Siberia. We are fighting a war that may never end."

"Are you saying we should negotiate with the Russians and then take on the Americans?" Raeder asked.

"Yes, and that is exactly what I said to the Fuhrer."

Raeder laughed. "That comment almost got you thrown in jail, or stripped to the rank of private and sent to fight the Red Army by yourself."

Guderian sighed. "I will apologize to the Fuhrer, of course. My intemperate comments will then blow over like they always have. But I do believe we have the cart before the horse. The Fuhrer believes that defeating the United States will make the British and the Soviets negotiate a real peace. I would agree if I was confident in a German victory over the Americans. Unfortunately, I am not at all confident. We will hurt the Americans, but will we defeat them? Will we drive them to the peace table? I don't think so. What do you think will happen in our conquered countries if we are defeated, or just stalemated, and the French and British and Russians see that we are not invincible? They will take heart and rise up even more than they are now, and we will have another full war to fight. How long do you think the German people will stand for that?"

Raeder took a step away. It was as if the general had just announced that he had something contagious. "You are very close to speaking treason, general. Be careful. Be very careful. One day you might just say something that cannot be fixed with an apology."

Hiding in plain sight is always the best way, Detective Sam Lambert had always thought. Seeking safety and privacy in crowds always worked, and what better place than Eaton's Department Store on Yonge and Queen Streets in central Toronto? The massive, multi-storied red brick building covered an entire city block and had a number of entrances. It would be a nightmare for anyone tailing him.

He and Mike Bradford had arranged to meet for a cup of coffee. Even if anyone did notice them, there would be nothing unusual about two old friends having a conversation over a cup of coffee.

"I saw the two sons of bitches," Mike said. "They were standing around outside that piece of shit shack they call their Canadian Legion headquarters and they were laughing their asses off about something. I showed restraint, Sam, just like I said I would and I still will, but someday I will kill them."

"And I'll be there to steady your aim and buy you a drink when it’s done. But just wait. If you do something now, somebody smart will want to know just how you got the information about the Munro brothers, and it might just come back to you and me. If that happens, it could kill — bad choice of words — all of our plans."

Bradford took a deep breath. "I know."

The report copied by Tinker was not only graphic in the manner in which Mary had been tortured, likely driven mad, and subsequently killed herself, but also named names. Wally and Jed Munro were the ones who had forced her to give them oral sex and then raped her. Both detectives wondered if they hadn't actually held the knife and slashed her wrist so she couldn't tell the Gestapo chief, Neumann, that they'd disobeyed him. If so, they'd overreacted. Neumann simply didn't care that much.

Lambert had decided that Bradford was too emotional to plan and think clearly and dispassionately, so he was told to sit tight.

Lambert was a good solid cop who knew how to develop a case, and he used those skills to contact others who felt as he did about the Germans, the Canadian Legion, and the Munro brothers. He'd even found a RCMP officer who told him that a third Munro brother had been killed in a shootout with American soldiers while trying to steal something from a military courier.

Lambert had enlisted a cadre of twenty current and retired cops who felt that the Legion had to be destroyed and the Germans expelled. Although their numbers were very small, he felt that they might just be able to make a significant difference when the time was ripe. That assumed, of course, that he could keep Mike Bradford from going to pieces and doing something violent and irrational.

He too would like to eliminate the local Nazis, but how to do it without bringing down the wrath of the government in Ottawa? Before the war, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King had visited Hitler in Germany, and had only reluctantly agreed that Canada should fight the Nazis when the war with Great Britain started. When disaster befell England, he attributed it to American cowardice. He then determined that it would be best to deal with Hitler, and that fighting the inevitable defeat would be bloody, disastrous, and futile.

Perhaps there was a way the Munro boys could be eliminated without exposing them and their plans. He would have to get Mike Bradford to give up his dream of putting bullets into their skulls, however personally satisfying that might be.

Wet snow lightly covered much of the ground with tufts of brown grass peeping through. From a weather standpoint, it wasn't the best of days to walk through the sacred grounds of Arlington Cemetery, but the damp cold meant that Tom and Alicia had the place almost to themselves this gray and cloudy Sunday afternoon in January.

It had been a week since the party thrown by Missy Downing and it was generally considered to have been a big success. Morale was higher, and a few social barriers had been broken. Nobody had made a fool out of themselves with the exception of one very new second lieutenant who wound up vomiting off the veranda before passing out and being taken home by some of his friends. He was embarrassed for a couple of days after, but got over it.

Alicia smiled and looked around at the gently rolling hills and the rows of white tombstones. "This is one of my favorite places. It is so serene and noble. I think it's sad that so many Americans don't come here and recognize the price that others paid so that we could have our country. God, I hope that doesn't sound too pompous, but that's how I feel."

Tom told her he agreed completely. He mentioned that there were many other cemeteries where thousands of other American dead were buried.

"I've seen a few of them and would like to see others." Maybe someday you can take me, she thought.

Per their agreement, they both wore civilian clothes to disguise their differences in rank. He wondered if it mattered any more since they were becoming so comfortable together. He wore a jacket, dark slacks, and a sweater, which she laughingly said looked almost like a uniform. She wore the roughly the same ensemble, but slacks were plaid and, of course, were tighter where it counted, and reinforced his opinion that she had a lovely figure. The bruises and scars on her face were continuing to fade and were now barely noticeable. She thought she would have a hairline scar above her lip where the stitches had begun. A badge of honor, she'd said.

Tom was curious about her hair. Many women died their hair, but a lot did so to look blond, which meant they had to contend with dark roots. Alicia, on the other hand, had blond roots intruding on her darker hair. When she caught him looking, she said she'd tell him the story some time, but not now. He was smart enough to keep still.

"Along with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier," she said, "this is a part of the cemetery that enthralls me."

They were beside the strange and stark structure that had been the mast of the U.S.S. Maine, the battleship that had blown up in Havana harbor and caused the United States to go to war with Spain in 1898.

"Do you wonder how it happened?" he asked. "I have. In fact I wrote an essay on it back at West Pointe."

"What was your conclusion?"

"That the cause was unknown and likely to stay that way. There are two major theories, of course. One is that the ship was hit by a mine and the second is an internal coal fire explosion. Both theories are a stretch. Along with getting a mine to make contact, the Spanish would have been either careless with their mines, or stupid to attack the ship. As to the fire, the Maine's captain and her crew knew full well the dangers of coal fires and would have been on the lookout for something smoldering and the heat that would have been given off. Their lives literally depended on it."

"So what does that leave?"

"Something else, maybe. Perhaps it was a rogue bunch of Spanish officers acting on their own, or a crewman on the Maine doing something incredibly careless or stupid."

"What did you get on the essay?"

"I got a 'B'. The instructor said I had a great imagination."

She laughed and then turned grim. She tucked her arm in his as they walked around the graves. "I taught American history a couple of semesters and the Spanish American War was part of it,” she said. “One of the crewmen killed was an officer named Friend Jenkins. I thought it strange that someone named Friend would be killed in an event that started a war. I went looking for his grave here in Arlington, but found that he was buried somewhere around Pittsburg. There are a hundred and sixty or so crewmen buried here and nobody really knows why they died. That's one of the reasons I feel compelled to come here. It's also in honor of the men who died at Pearl Harbor and who are either unknown or entombed in the Arizona and the Oklahoma. I think everybody who dies should have an honorable burial and everyone should know just why a man dies."

"I have no idea how to respond to that."

"Then don't try. Someday I think I'd like to come out here and serenade the dead with my violin."

"I'll come with you when you do."

She squeezed his arm. "I'll have to practice some more. Right now, even the dead wouldn't like the way I'm playing. They might get up and leave. In the meantime, why don't you take me to lunch? Someplace away from Washington would be nice and not just because nobody would recognize us. To paraphrase Rhett Butler, I frankly don't give a damn."

Tom grinned. Neither did he.

Secretary of State Cordell Hull was seventy-four years old and had served in that position for eleven years. Prior to that, he'd been in the House of Representatives and then in the U.S. Senate. At one time he'd had aspirations of becoming president, but those had faded as reality set in.

Hull was in ill health and had been contemplating retirement when the war began. He felt that he should stay on to ensure that American interests were best served. He had no illusions. He knew he wasn't irreplaceable. No one is. He had a reputation for bluntness and his illness was making him irascible as well.

Hans Thomsen, the German Charge d'Affairs sat across from him in Hull's office in the Main State Building on C Street NW in the Foggy Bottom area of Washington. There had been no German ambassador in Washington for a few years, just as there was no American ambassador in Berlin. Hull sometimes thought that was a mistake. However, one plays the cards one is dealt. Thomsen was in his early fifties and rumor had it that he was not a fervent disciple of Hitler.

It didn't matter to Hull. As Hitler's representative, Thomsen was due for a scolding.

"My dear Mr. Thomsen, please tell me, do you want war with us or not?"

Thomsen smiled at Hull's bluntness. It was expected. "I would hope not and I would never want war. Our two countries should never clash over matters that are so trivial."

Hull glared at him. "Trivial? What is trivial about German warships on the Great Lakes and what is trivial about them shooting at American soldiers who were simply doing their duty? And why was that damned E-boat in American waters in the first place? And what was it doing shooting up small craft that might have been American boats containing American citizens who were simply out fishing or some other legitimate enterprise? It seems damned rash to me."

Thomsen was prepared and responded quickly. "The shooting of your soldiers by our boat was regrettable. The captain thought he had been taken under fire and retaliated. The death of an American soldier is more than offset by the two dead and five wounded on the E-boat. And the E-boat is scarcely more than an armed patrol craft, and not a warship."

"Then get rid of those torpedoes. A patrol craft in the Great Lakes does not need torpedoes. Torpedoes are intended to sink major warships and that makes the E-boat a major warship herself."

"I will take that point under advisement. As to the fact of the E-boat firing on small craft, it was in hot pursuit of what was believed to be a number of smugglers and simply didn't realize they were so close to shore in the night."

Smugglers my ass, Hull thought. "You know as well as I do that they were refugees and not smugglers. And you also know that the E-boat's skipper knew precisely where he was."

"Regardless, the resulting mistake was tragic."

"There have been too many tragic mistakes lately," Hull snarled. "And, yes, that includes the botched attack by the Canadian Legion on an army courier in Washington itself."

Thomsen wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I think we can safely say that a number of young men in the Canadian Legion were far more enthusiastic in support of the Reich than they should have been. As in so many new situations, the matter is fluid and the men uncertain."

Hull sat back in his swivel chair. He felt so tired. "So, we have another mistake and another apology. Frankly, sir, I am getting damn sick and tired of them."

"As am I, Mr. Secretary. May I remind you that the Reich has repeatedly complained that you have given sanctuary to the major portion of the Royal Navy and the ships’ crews? I would also remind you that the Reich has complained about the existence of so-called governments in exile that fled from England to here. I mean, of course, the shadow and illegal governments of Norway, Holland, Denmark, and Belgium. We would also like Mr. Churchill returned so he can be tried as a war criminal in accordance with the rules established by the League of Nations."

"The League is defunct and Germany quit it in 1933, around the same time that Japan quit, while the United States never joined. Therefore neither of us is bound by the League's unenforceable rules."

Both men recognized the irony that, with the Soviet Union's expulsion from the League in 1939, it meant that none of the world's major powers were members of the organization that was supposed to prevent wars by the time World War II broke out.

Hull smiled coldly. "Good. Now let's set some things straight. There will be no more incidents. You will keep the few E-boats you have, but there will be no additions. Nor will any other Nazi warships enter either the St. Lawrence or the Great Lakes. I hear rumors that a squadron of submarines is going to traverse to Erie and beyond. That, sir, will not be permitted to happen."

"I am not aware of any such plans,” Thomsen said truthfully. Berlin had kept him in the dark about many things, the German thought ruefully. Of course, what he didn't know he couldn't give away.

"Then send word back to Doenitz and Raeder and, hell, von Ribbentrop and Hitler themselves, that any such efforts will result in our sinking those ships the moment they enter the St. Lawrence."

"Sir, that would be an act of war," Thomsen gasped.

Hull smiled a wicked smile. "That, sir, would be for Germany to decide."

Chapter Six

Downing looked through his magnifying glass at the photo on his desk. Making the picture larger didn't change what he saw.

"Son of a bitch," he growled.

Tom Grant looked over Downing's shoulder. The photos had come courtesy of the OSS. One of their agents had taken them. Tom hoped the man was still safe. He then wondered if it might have been a woman.

The 8x11 black and white photos in question were of a German Type IX U-boat. It was sitting in a cove that the caption said was on Prince Edward Island. A freighter was alongside and men were swarming over the sub. Where there's one, there's likely others, Tom thought.

Lieutenant Commander Sid Wolverton, USN and their naval liaison, agreed. "The Type IX is their long range U-boat," Wolverton said. "Its range is in excess of twenty thousand miles, which means it can stay off our coast for a very long time, especially if it can be re-fueled and the crew can get food."

"What are they doing to the sub?" Downing asked.

"It looks like their trying to camouflage it, colonel," Wolverton answered. "If they disguise it well enough, they could slip it up the St. Lawrence."

Tom remembered his trek through Canada. "I'll just bet it can go through the Welland and on to Lake Erie and points north."

Wolverton grinned. He was about Tom's age and a graduate of Annapolis. "That's right. Depending on which variant of the Type IX it is, they go about two hundred and fifty feet in length and have a beam of about twenty-one feet. Beam is width to you landlubbers."

"Screw you," said Tom with a smile.

Unperturbed, Wolverton continued. "She draws less than sixteen feet, so that's not a problem although with a conning tower she's over thirty feet tall. She can do almost twenty knots on the surface and seven submerged. She has six torpedo tubes, four in the bow and two in the stern. That's the rear for you, Tom."

"Up your stern, Sid. Any more good news?"

"Yeah, they carry a four inch deck gun and any number and caliber of anti-aircraft guns. They have a crew of at least fifty. We think the krauts have a couple hundred of them and most of them are now off our coast."

Downing answered. "What do you think they will do with her when they’re done working on her?"

Wolverton rubbed his chin. "Colonel, my guess is that they are prepping her for going up the river and through the lakes. I think there are probably others being disguised as well. They might go up under their own power, or they might be made to look like a barge and towed. Either way, it looks like the Nazis intend to have U-boats in the Great Lakes."

"When?" asked Downing.

Wolverton smiled. "They may have to wait a while. The lakes and rivers are still pretty well frozen and something like a sub cannot work as an icebreaker. They may have strong hulls in order to stand underwater pressure, but they are not built to bull their way through thick ice. Hell, if they're not careful, they could easily get jammed in for the winter."

"That would be an utter shame," Grant said. “But couldn’t they go submerged once the river begins to clear?”

Wolverton conceded the point. "Yes, but I'd say they couldn’t make their dash until mid-March at the earliest. Right now, I'd also say they'd have a hell of a time getting any subs up the St. Lawrence and to Toronto, much less through the Welland and beyond. No, they are going to be there for a while. After they have been disguised, I think they'll be moved to Halifax and then up the river."

Tom shook his head. The delay was at least a bit of good news. Still, they had nothing to stop them within the Great Lakes. If they could make it through to Lake Huron, U-boats could hide in Canadian waters among the multitude of islands in Georgian Bay and attack the ore carrying freighters that brought iron ore to America's factories. If they went beyond the Straits of Mackinaw to Milwaukee, Green Bay and Chicago, they could devastate those areas as well. Even if they were stopped in Lake Erie, they could still hit ships off Cleveland and elsewhere. A handful of enemy subs could seriously hinder America's ability to build the materials of war.

Tom looked at Downing. "What are we going to do, colonel?"

"Perhaps arrange to kill them. I'm thinking you might just be going to Canada again, Tom."

General Heinz Guderian smiled affably at his host, General Hans-Jurgen von Arnim. They were at von Arnim's headquarters north of Toronto. Several inches of snow lay on the ground and both men were thankful that there had been sufficient time to build warm and comfortable quarters for the soldiers. Guderian approved that von Arnim lived in a house that, while pleasant, was not ostentatious. He was not one of those “chateau generals” who lorded over the common troops.

"I hope your trip was pleasant," von Arnim said and then laughed.

"You know damn well it wasn't. For two weeks I was stuffed in a cruiser, the Prinz Eugen, and then it took another week to get from Halifax to here. I still don't know why I couldn't take a plane from Halifax, instead of an armored train through Quebec."

Guderian laughed. "Actually, the trip on the Prinz Eugen was quite pleasant, and the captain set a marvelous table. And the train trip was equally enlightening. Even though I had a cabin, I was able to mingle a bit with the troops also making the journey. Good men. Still, I would rather have flown."

Von Arnim simply smiled. It had been explained to Guderian that, should his plane have to make an emergency landing in Quebec, it was entirely likely that he would be killed by Quebecois and his body never found. Von Arnim had considered having Guderian travel to Toronto by ship, but the river was iced up and that route was also dangerous.

“When I first arrived in the new world,” von Arnim said, “I disembarked at New York. A consular staffer drove me around the town and then I took the train to Washington. I was in civilian clothes, of course, and I had that consular guide for the simple reason that my command of English is execrable.”

“As is mine,” Guderian admitted.

“After seeing that Washington was pleasant and that New York was huge, my embassy guides chartered a plane and I flew to Chicago, Detroit, and Pittsburg. I learned a lot. Their industrial might could easily overpower us.”

Guderian looked out a window, choosing not to comment. "For God's sake, where are we, the end of the world?"

Von Arnim poured cognac into ornate Waterford snifters and handed one to Guderian. It was a Remy Martin and quite old. "Quite possibly. I don't think anyone in Berlin has any idea of the vastness of North America any more than we did the enormous size of Russia. At least that bear is caged."

Guderian growled. "Don't count on it. Part of the reason I'm here is because I offended the Fuhrer by telling him the truth, which, of course, he doesn't want to hear. All intelligence estimates indicate that the Soviets are rearming and come spring will attempt to liberate at least some of what we've taken from them. Their Marshal Zhukov wants to fight a war of attrition which we cannot win, and I'm afraid Hitler will accommodate him by once again refusing even the slightest of tactical retreats. I shudder at the thought of German units being overrun by hordes of Red Army soldiers and crushed or blown up by T34 tanks. Even their once pathetic air force has improved enormously. No, von Arnim, I firmly believe that the bloodletting in Russia is far from over, which is why I believe an attack on the United States at this time would be utter folly."

Von Arnim shrugged. "But we have our orders. Yours are to observe my preparations and compile a report that no one will read. Mine are to prepare to launch a multi-pronged attack on a number of American facilities and then hang on until the American navy is swept from the seas by the Kriegsmarine and a relief army can come and rescue us."

Guderian sipped his brandy and smiled sadly. "And that is about as likely as Christmas coming in August. The Fuhrer believes that Doenitz's U-boats will destroy the combined British and American fleets so that large convoys of men and material can sail from Europe, escorted by what remains of the Admiral Doenitz’s surface fleet. I don't think the Fuhrer or the men around him have any idea of the size and power of the American navy, especially if it will be reinforced by ships of the Royal Navy who will doubtless fight as allies of the Yanks once the shooting starts."

Von Arnim smiled confidently. "But the American navy is split between the Atlantic and the Pacific with the larger share in the Pacific actually fighting against the Japanese."

"True, but the Japanese are on the proverbial ropes and the Americans can afford to send ships to reinforce what they already have in the Atlantic if they so desire. If they get even a whiff of our plans, that will happen very quickly. They could have a very large fleet off the St. Lawrence a month after our attack."

"You paint a dismal picture."

"But a truthful one," Guderian said, "and look at what it got me, a chance to discuss matters with you over some excellent brandy in the middle of the Canadian steppes. I also tried to tell them that your Luftwaffe contingent will be swept from the skies, but again they wouldn't listen. They look to the time it has taken the Americans to put down the Japanese, forgetting that Japan began the war with a splendid fighter plane in the Zero and a number of extremely skilled pilots. The Zero is now obsolete because the Americans caught on to it and built better planes, and the elite Japanese pilots are almost all dead. The Americans are using their best pilots to train hundreds, thousands, of new pilots while the Japanese are permitting their best to keep fighting and die without sharing their knowledge and experience with replacements who are little more than cannon fodder when they go up to fight the Americans. No, I firmly believe that the Americans will not only greatly outnumber your planes, but that their pilots will be at least as good."

"And what did Fat Hermann say to that?" von Arnim asked.

Von Arnim had close to a thousand planes of all types at his disposal. Once it had seemed an enormous air fleet. But now?

Guderian laughed. "Reichsmarshal Goering was too drugged up to notice. He simply smiled and drooled. Field Marshal Keitel thought I was again being too pessimistic and potentially unpatriotic. He felt that German pilots would sweep the skies of Jewish-led American swine and Hitler concurred. Once again I demurred and here I am."

Guderian rose and looked out the window at the blowing snow whipping across the brown grass. It did remind him of the steppes of Russia. He’d been told that the weather in this part of Ontario was considered quite temperate, and that the real steppes lay far to the west. He did not like the idea of having to fight across such terrain to reach the Pacific and hoped it would never prove necessary.

Guderian finished the last of this drink. "At least the German soldier is better than the American. The men of the Wehrmacht are better trained, better armed, and, God help me for the conceit, better led."

Von Arnim added to their cognacs. "At least here you are safe, and, to tell you the truth, I am pleased to have someone of your experience around when the fighting starts. Perhaps we can combine our talents and confound the naysayers and that," he laughed, “includes you.”

This time Tom Grant crossed into Canada without any attempt at subterfuge. Although in civilian clothes, he had identification saying he was a commercial attache to the American consulate in Toronto. He was also using his own name, which further simplified matters. If he was stopped, or even arrested, he could claim diplomatic immunity and would quickly be released. He hoped.

Sergeant Major Farnum had volunteered to be his driver and the two men crossed the border at the Peace Bridge connecting Buffalo in New York and Fort Erie in Canada. They had no trouble. The bored looking Canadian customs man on duty scarcely glanced at them and did not even ask for ID. There were a few people entering Canada but a larger number leaving, and some looked distraught.

Before entering Canada, Tom gave some thought to attempting to locate the man who'd rescued him, Sheriff Canfield, but decided he didn’t have the time. From Fort Erie they drove to the city of St. Catharines and then along the coast to Toronto. At the consulate, they were met by an elderly, white-haired staffer named Stanford Dylan who was clearly not pleased to see them.

"Let me be blunt," Dylan said. "The last thing we need is a bunch of military types blundering around and disturbing what is a very delicate balancing act between the United States, Canada, and Germany. In particular, major, we don't need you here after your escapade of last fall. Your diplomatic immunity will only carry you so far and I would not be in the least bit surprised if the police picked you up and I had to file a protest to get you out of jail. Of course," he sniffed, "it would doubtless take me a few days to accomplish that trick during which time you might be subject to the mercies of the Gestapo."

Before an angry Grant could respond, Farnum smiled wickedly, stuck his face close to Dylan’s, and spoke for him. "If either the major or I have any problems that aren't immediately solved by you, I will personally come and kick all your teeth down your throat and out your asshole, asshole." He pulled out a switchblade, opened it, and held the long shining blade under Dylan's nose. Dylan had gone pale. "And when I'm done with that, I'll cut off your balls and mail them to Secretary of State Hull. Understand?"

"Yes," Dylan squeaked.

Tom rose and solemnly shook Dylan’s limp and sweating hand. "I'm glad we had this little talk and I'm so confident we can count on your support, Mr. Dylan."

They left the consulate and drove to the Royal York Hotel where they had reservations. With more than a thousand guest rooms, the hotel's sheer size ensured that they could come and go with a fighting chance of not being observed.

Tom had come to Canada for several reasons, one of which was to make contact with someone with the rather unoriginal code-name of Maple. Initially, Maple had made contact through the American military attache in Ottawa. Tom had no idea what Maple wanted, although it was hoped that the person could provide real insights into what the Nazis were up to. Rumors of the persecution of Jews were beginning to surface and there were hints that some Canadians might be willing to rise up and fight their oppressors, if only they could get their hands on some weapons.

Tom was still dressed and not surprised when there was a quick but firm knock on the hotel door a little after midnight. He opened it and a man in his forties flashed a badge and directed Tom to come with him. Tom was concerned that he was being arrested and was about to awaken Farnum when the man whispered the magic word — Maple.

They drove in an unmarked car that Tom thought might have been Maple's personal vehicle, finally stopping a block away from a large building that was clearly a church. It took Tom a moment to realize that it was a synagogue.

"First," Tom said, "do I get to know your real name, and, second, why are we here?"

"I'll tell you my real name later if I decide I can trust you. As to the rest, just sit tight and watch."

Promptly at two AM, a pair of trucks pulled up in front of the main doors to the synagogue. A dozen men in black shirts tumbled out. Some of them were having trouble walking in the icy street and were clearly drunk. Most carried clubs, but a few had what looked like pistols.

Without any regard for silence, they attached chains and ropes to the synagogue’s doors and to the trucks. The trucks pulled out, ripping the doors off with a loud screech. The black shirted men whooped and ran into the building. The sounds of glass breaking and wood shattering quickly followed.

Tom was aghast. "You're a cop. Do something."

"Not yet. We have orders to stand down."

Tom could not hide his dismay, "From whom and why?"

"Look, Grant, there are maybe two hundred thousand Jews in Canada and a lot of them are here in the Toronto area, and Jews are no more popular here than anywhere else, despite the fact that they've been in Canada since about the first days of exploration. Personally, I don't care for them very much at all, but I don't like the idea of these Black Shirts having so much power. I even have it on good authority that some of them are off-duty cops."

"Christ."

"The synagogue is empty and the Torahs and anything else of value’s been removed. It's pretty much the same all over the area. The Jews are lying low. They worship in homes now, and not in synagogues." Maple handed Tom a couple of typewritten pages of paper and a small flashlight. "Here, read this."

Tom ducked down so the light couldn’t be seen. He sagged as he quickly read what happened to Mary Bradford. "You related to her?"

"I'm a friend of her father's and I've known Mary since she was an infant and I’ve just decided to trust you. My name is Sam Lambert and I'm a detective on the Toronto police force. I asked for your army to send someone down here to show them what is happening in the shadows and why we need help. There are a number of us who, regardless of what we feel about Jews, are beginning to get very scared about the Canadian Legion’s Black Shirts, the Gestapo, the SS, and the whole German problem. Word is, they're going to take over the police forces and all government agencies."

Police sirens began to sound in the distance. The men in the synagogue ran out and climbed into their trucks, driving away without a care in the world. From inside the synagogue, lights flickered. They had set the place on fire.

Tom had a horrible thought. "Did you set this up for my benefit?"

"I didn't have to. The Black Shirts do something like this every few days. Ransacking a synagogue is something they don't do very often, however. It shows they're getting bolder and that is scary."

"But you knew about it?"

"Yes. Of course we have informers in their little club along with some of their members having big mouths. We were also told to let it happen but not let it go too far. The idiots were given ten minutes to have their fun breaking things and now the police will arrive, find nothing, and the fire trucks will be right behind and put out the little fire that was set."

There was no more to be seen. Police and fire arrived almost as if they'd been waiting a few blocks away. Firemen rushed in and extinguished the fire in a few minutes. Cops looked around for witnesses, but no one noted the two of them sitting in a car in plain sight.

Lambert drove away and back towards the Royal York. "Our numbers are small but growing. There are about fifty of us and we're organized into squads, or cells, if you prefer. We all believe that it's just a matter of time before the U.S. and Germany go to war and then we can start taking on the Black Shirts and maybe even the Gestapo."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Get us some weapons. Pretty much all we have is our service revolvers and that won't cut it. We want rifles and automatic weapons. Grenades and some other stuff that will help us blow things up would be nice as well."

They drove past a large building with a bold sign that said it housed the German mission. Lambert explained that it was the nerve center for German operations in Ontario and housed the Gestapo along with other German agencies. Tom stared hard at a man in civilian clothes who was leaving with another, smaller man. Finally, it dawned on Tom.

"My God, Lambert, that's Heinz Guderian."

"Yep, and the little shit beside him is Oskar Neumann, the man in charge of the Gestapo in Toronto as well as the Black Shirts. He's responsible for tonight's synagogue attack and for the death of Mary Bradford. I understand he also planned to steal some secret material by attacking a courier outside Washington. It was a shame when one of his precious Black Shirts got his ass killed, although I understand an American soldier was killed as well."

"What are they doing here at two in the morning?"

Lambert chuckled, "Probably inside drinking human blood."

Tom stared at Neumann, trying to memorize his face. Even though it was far more important to get news of Guderian's presence to Washington, he could not take his eyes off the Gestapo chief. Neumann was the man who had orchestrated the attack on Alicia, and he felt a strong urge to strike back at the man. What impressed him the most about Neumann’s appearance was that the man looked so ordinary, perhaps even less than ordinary. How could such a little man be the face of evil?

"Lambert, I will do everything I can to get you your weapons."

To her surprise, Alicia found herself back as a courier, again running pouches between Camp Washington and the Pentagon. Now, however, her sedan was bracketed by two others and each contained at least three MPs. Her driver and the soldier who rode shotgun were constantly changed and, even though the new guys were nice enough, she missed the camaraderie of her earlier rides with Wilkins and Henry. She had managed to attend a memorial service for Henry before his body had been sent out west where his family lived and mourned.

Wilkins was a different case. All external wounds had healed but when she'd visited him he told her he still had trouble remembering things and bright lights caused excruciating headaches. He said that he'd be medically discharged and probably given a pension. He'd told her that he'd rather have his mind back than a discharge. Alicia sadly concurred.

Also gone were little joyrides around Washington before dropping off the pouch. Everyone was just too grim and again she concurred. Even though they weren't quite at war with Germany, the U.S. was almost at war with them.

She'd gotten word confirming that she would get a Purple Heart for the injuries she'd suffered, and would receive it in a quiet ceremony in the very near future. The army had toyed with the idea of letting her wear the Combat Infantry Badge, but a careful look at the rules of eligibility showed she didn't qualify, and she'd whole-heartedly concurred.

At least Tom was back in the states. She hadn't had a chance to see him since his return from Canada. He'd been closeted with a number of high ranking generals and a few civilians, who, she was informed, were with the OSS.

She smiled to herself as she walked down the familiar corridors of the Pentagon. Her blond hair had grown back and she was keeping it an inch or so longer than regulations, but nobody seemed to care and she no longer minded the attention.

Alicia passed a newspaper stand. Headlines shouted that the liberation of the Philippines was well under way and that Manila would soon fall to MacArthur. Good, she thought. There were thousands of prisoners of war and interned civilians who needed to be freed. It was a blessing for them that America was not at war with Germany as well as Japan. It might have delayed the defeat of Japan.

She asked Sergeant Major Farnum if he'd enjoyed his trip to Canada and the burly noncom smiled and said he had and that Tom had asked him to deliver a message. He hoped she'd stick around so they could go to dinner. No problem she thought. It was already late and she could authorize the MPs to stay overnight in D.C., which, she was confident, they wouldn't mind for one minute.

The Willard Hotel was only a block from the White House and, over time, had been the home for many famous and infamous guests. The four story structure of Civil War fame had followed the original hotel that had opened in 1816, and had given way to the current twelve story edifice that opened in 1901. The present Willard retained the grace and elegance of the Victorian age and Alicia thought she could visualize Teddy Roosevelt striding confidently across the room and grinning hugely. Alicia wondered just how Tom managed to get reservations for dinner, but didn't ask

They dined on clams and scallops and each had a glass of the house’s white wine. Tom jokingly told her he'd tried to get them a room, but the hotel was full. She laughed and told him it was just as well since she had no plans to go to bed with him at this time. Damn, he thought.

They were just about finished when the waiter brought them another two glasses of wine. "Courtesy of the gentleman who is leaving, sir."

They turned to the doorway where they saw a grinning General Eisenhower and his wife Mamie on their way out. Ike waved and they returned the informal salute.

"Wow," said Tom, "I had no idea he remembered me."

"Well, you are unforgettable, you know."

Later, they walked outside. She hooked her arm in his and they walked down l4th Street, turned right and strolled past the White House. There was a cold mist in the air, but they didn't mind. Tom thought they'd have to get a cab pretty soon or they'd catch pneumonia. Again, who cared?

"Alicia, when I was in Canada I saw evil and I'm afraid it's going to come this way unless we do something about it."

He took a deep breath and laughed at himself. What he'd just said was just too dramatic. He told her about the vandalism of the synagogue and the terrible death of Mary Bradford. He added that he'd seen the man who'd set those three men on her and her two companions.

"Neumann looked so ordinary. He could have been a teacher, or an accountant, or a shoe salesman, but not a murderer, and that's what makes the Nazis so terrible. Normal looking people have been subverted into monsters. Even the Black Shirts were just thugs in dress-up. If they didn't have the power of the Reich behind them, they'd all be day laborers spending their time in and out of jail. Now, if the Nazis have their way, those goons are the face of the future."

She rested her head on his shoulder. The White House was barely visible in the mist. Lights were on. Somewhere inside, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was doubtless pondering the future of the country.

"Are you saying that war with Germany is inevitable?"

"Only if we want to have a country,” he said. “We're almost isolated now. Yes, we're going to whip the Japs, but then what? Germany is getting stronger and stronger and other countries in our hemisphere are wondering which side's going to emerge on top. And, yes, it should be sooner rather than later."

She buried her head in his shoulder and took a deep breath. Maybe she should have let him get that hotel room. It didn't have to be the Willard. No, she thought, not yet. She stood tall and kissed him on the lips. He grinned and held her tightly. They kissed again and didn't care if it was still raining.

FDR expertly wheeled his chair around the map room located on the ground floor in the White House. The walls were covered with maps of all types, including a few that clearly came from National Geographic magazines. Notes and arrows had been pinned or taped to indicate the latest that was known about the military situation throughout the world. Manila had just fallen to MacArthur and several thousand prisoners of war and internees had been freed, although several hundred more had been butchered by the retreating Japanese. Tens of thousands of civilians had been murdered by vengeful Japanese. They would pay, Roosevelt thought grimly.

One vast area was conspicuous by its lack of data and that was what remained of the Soviet Union. Of course, FDR thought grimly, the Russians never had shared anything with their allies. He would try to get more information from their ambassador, Andrei Gromyko. He wondered if Gromyko’s masters in Siberia let him in on any of their secrets. Probably not, he realized.

The second area of concern was the eastern half of Canada. Significant German units of division size were indicated in a number of places in Ontario, with an infantry brigade stationed at Halifax to protect the port. Altogether, they represented more than a quarter of a million German soldiers.

Roosevelt lit his cigarette and smiled at his four guests — General George C. Marshal, Admiral Ernest King, OSS Director William Donavan and Clyde Tolson, the Associate Director of the FBI. At other times they would be rivals. Now, however, they would have to cooperate whether they wanted to or not. The danger confronting the United States was just too imminent and the enemy too close. However, it was annoying that the Director of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, didn't think a presidential summons was sufficient reason for him to show up in person. Arrogant prick, thought Roosevelt. He would tolerate the man because he didn't want rumors of his own transgressions leaking out to the public. In particular, he didn't want his mistress, Lucy Mercer, hurt. He would tolerate Hoover. Perhaps someday he could verify the rumors about Hoover's personal sexual preferences and even things out by exposing the obnoxious bastard as a faggot.

Roosevelt forced a smile. "We have a date, gentlemen. On Sunday, April second, the Germans will launch a multi-pronged attack on the United States."

"How reliable is the information?" asked Tolson. The others looked away. Obviously, Tolson had not been informed about America's code-breaking abilities.

"Extremely," said Roosevelt. "Now all we have to do is decide how to handle this prize. As I see it, we have several options. The first is obvious, we inform the Nazis that we know of their plans and that will leave them with several options of their own. First, they can cancel the attacks altogether."

"Fat chance," snapped Donovan. As an old friend of the president he was given latitude to be blunt. "They might delay, but they will not cancel altogether."

"Agreed," said Marshall and King concurred. Tolson sat impassively.

"Could they accelerate their timetable?" asked Tolson, earning looks of mild respect from the others with his prescient question. Perhaps he was more than just Hoover's flunky.

Marshall answered. "We're about two months away from the target date of what has to be an extremely complex operation. A number of widely separated and disparate pieces must all come together and at the same time in an extremely complicated dance. They might be able to shave a few days off their schedule, but nothing more."

Again, there was agreement. Marshall had first earned his reputation in World War I by organizing a massive shift of the American armies in the face of the Kaiser’s armies that others thought was impossible. Logistics ruled the battlefield and Marshall was a master of logistics.

Roosevelt took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Gentlemen, do we want war with Germany?"

King answered. "Only a fool wants war, but if war is inevitable, and I think it is, it should be on our terms. Since they could and might just change their plans, I suggest we prepare as fully as we possibly can."

Donovan looked somber. "What about a pre-emptive strike, say a couple of days before the scheduled attack?"

FDR winced and shook his head. "Lovely as it may sound, it would still brand us as the aggressor, which is something that would be very difficult to swallow. I have hinted at such a possibility with the Speaker of the House, the very grumpy Sam Rayburn of Texas, and he says our political opposition would crucify us, as would many in our own party. One war at a time is more than enough. I might even be impeached. No, the Germans must fire the first shot."

"Then we will prepare for war," said Marshall. "My staff and I have made some command decisions and will quietly implement them."

"As will the navy," said King.

"For our part," Tolson said proudly, "the FBI has identified about a hundred German aliens who might be possible saboteurs or even assassins. When the time comes we will take them in."

Donovan laughed harshly, startling them, "A hundred? Is that all? How many haven't you identified? For Christ sake, my OSS has sent far more than that into Canada to gather info and cause trouble when the time comes. You say you know about a hundred, but what about the ones you don't know about? Are you watching the border crossings?"

Tolson bristled, "Of course. I assure you we have the situation well in hand."

"I hope so," Donovan continued. "If I was Canaris, I would send my people in at a number of places along the whole continental border and not just at Buffalo or Detroit, which is what we've done to get our people across. Then I'd have them rent rooms a hundred miles away from their targets and wait for orders. I'm quite certain the FBI wouldn't find them until they emerged from their lairs and struck."

Tolson had begun to sweat. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was the head of the Abwehr, Germany’s intelligence gathering apparatus, and was likely in charge of sabotage as well. What Donovan was saying had the ring of truth. How many could they have missed? Hoover would not want to hear this. Tolson forced a smile. "I repeat, we have the situation under control."

FDR smiled benignly. "I'm sure you do. It would be a shame for such a marvelous organization as the FBI to have its reputation tarnished."

Roosevelt's mind was racing. He had handed Hoover a weapon to use in the future by ordering the U.S. to prepare for war but to do nothing to halt it. That people would die because of his inaction was a given. The conspiracy theorists who already blamed him for the disastrous Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor would have a field day if they found out.

On the other hand, with his assertion that the agency had everything under control, Tolson had just doomed the FBI to failure. The FBI could not possibly have everything under its control. It had the makings of a nice quid pro quo.

Roosevelt smiled for an instant and then turned grim. "Then let us all prepare for war on April second. And let us all pray that the German attacks do not cause too many American casualties."

Chapter Seven

It occurred to Tinker that he was lately spending a lot of his time crawling on the ground and watching Germans. It was better than being in jail and he was helping to hurt the Germans which he thought was a good idea.

During these snowy damp days, he had been observing a lot of civilian workers and contractors building what looked like a good-sized military facility located north of Toronto and between the towns of Barrie and Newmarket. Barracks for several thousand soldiers had been constructed and the large compound was protected from intruders by several barb wire fences. Watchtowers were beginning to go up.

Tinker was proud of the fact that he'd managed to get inside on a couple of occasions by hiring on as a day laborer. That had given him the opportunity to look around and he'd discovered some things that were disturbing. First, the barracks were very poorly made, with gaping holes in the walls and floors that would permit the winter wind to blow through without interruption. The same held true for the roofs which, his co-workers laughed, would leak on a sunny day. He'd never been in the army, but he felt sorry for the poor buggers who would have to live in such miserably constructed places.

When Tinker mentioned it, his foreman had shrugged. "It's what the Germans want and it's what they're paying for. They don't want to pay for quality, so we're not going to give it to them."

Another concern was the lack of sanitation. The toilets were little more than the crudest latrines and it seemed like there were too few of them. The same held with kitchen facilities. It looked like the troops would be expected to either eat outdoors or take their mess kits back to their miserable barracks and eat there.

"Penny for your thoughts," said Sandman, the OSS agent who was with him. Sandman wasn't his real name, of course, and he'd given his own name as Felon, which was close enough to the truth. They were on a knoll a couple of hundred yards away and covered with a tarp which was itself covered with foliage.

"I don't get it," Tinker had said the day before. "Nothing makes any sense. Why would they build more barracks when they have perfectly good ones, better ones, a few miles to the north?"

Sandman took a look through his own binoculars. "You can't see the forest for the trees, can you?"

Tinker had bristled. "And you can?"

Sandman was in his early twenties and looked like he should still be in college. Tinker generally didn’t like know-it-all college boys, but Sandman was an exception. He was willing to take personal risks and seemed willing to learn. "Yes. You're making the assumption that those buildings are barracks. Maybe they're for something else."

Tinker had been about to say what, when it occurred to him. The thought was like a punch in the stomach. The buildings weren't poorly constructed barracks, they were meant to be a large prison camp. Jesus, he realized, not a small prison like the Gestapo camp outside Toronto, but a fucking concentration camp.

Later that night the first trucks arrived. Dozens and then hundreds of confused and dazed men, women, and children were pushed off and left to fend for themselves. The pattern continued during the day. It began to snow heavily so the two men crawled closer to the wire. The watchtowers weren't completed, but armed guards, Black Shirts, prowled the perimeter.

"Hey! What the fuck are you guys doing?"

Fuck, Tinker thought. They'd been so engrossed in what they were looking at that they forgot to check their rear. Three Black Shirts were racing towards them. One got close enough to grab Tinker before he could pull his revolver. They tumbled to the ground and rolled over. Tinker was small but he was tough and well-schooled in street fighting and the Black Shirt wasn't. Tinker grabbed the guy's balls and squeezed with all his might while the Black Shirt howled maniacally. The Black Shirt let go and Tinker got up, pulling his pistol. Two Black Shirts were fighting Sandman and several others were coming on fast.

"Run!" yelled Sandman.

Tinker didn't want to leave the American, but he knew he had to. The man he'd hurt chose that moment to grab Tinker's leg. Tinker put the pistol to his head and fired. Blood and brains sprayed out and the others were stunned, but only momentarily. One of them pulled out his gun and fired wildly.

Still more Black Shirts were coming. Sandman was doomed. Tinker fired two more times at the oncoming enemy, causing them to duck. When they did, he ran like he was on fire.

He reached a dirt road that had been plowed. Good. He wouldn't be leaving tracks in the snow for the Black Shirts to follow. He knew he would escape because he knew the area and had planned for such a disaster. It had begun to snow heavily and the night was getting darker. He would make it, but Sandman was doomed. Damn it to hell. Thank God he'd used an alias. A lot of people knew Tinker, but nobody knew Felon.

Oskar Neumann was fairly pleased with the day's news and events. First, he'd gotten official word that April second was the day the despised Jewish-dominated Americans would begin to pay for all the insults inflicted on the Reich. He could continue to destroy the Jewish culture that permeated both Canada and the United States.

Second, another detachment of Gestapo agents had arrived, bringing his suddenly burgeoning force to over two hundred. Along with his Black Shirts and SS volunteers, he would be able to raise hell with the Canadians. It didn't matter that only a few of them spoke more than a smattering of English. Their presence would be enough to cow the Canadians.

He was less than thrilled with the presence of General Heinz Guderian. The general was not one of Neumann's favorite people due to his annoying habit of arguing with the Fuhrer. That was unheard of. Neumann did not believe in God, but if he did, he was certain the deity would look a lot like Adolf Hitler. Besides, who was in charge of the army in Ontario — Guderian or von Arnim? Guderian said it was von Arnim and nobody disputed that fact. Yet. Perhaps Guderian would take over when the army became large enough, which might be very soon. Additional German soldiers were arriving every day.

Jed Munro knocked on his door and entered. He was sweaty and his shirt was open. There was blood on his chest. "We're done, sir."

Neumann stood, straightened his uniform, and followed his loyal Black Shirt down the stairways to the basement and the room in which so many had been "interrogated," beginning with Mary Bradford. Not much had changed since then, except for the addition of drains in the floor to carry away the blood.

The naked man strapped to the chair had been beaten to a pulp. His body was covered with cuts, welts, and burns, and his fingertips and toes were bloody stumps where the nails had been pulled out. He was breathing but likely barely conscious. The other Munro brother, stripped to the waist and covered with sweat and the prisoner's blood, stood behind the prisoner. Jed pulled the man's head back. His mouth opened, exposing gaps where teeth had been pulled out.

"How long did it take?" Neumann asked. He wondered if his Canadian protege had learned anything about the art of interrogation.

Jed grinned. "He started out brave enough, even laughing when we hit him like he was going to be some kind of hero when he got home. Maybe he thought he’d even get a medal. He stopped, though, when we squeezed his testicles between a couple of bricks. Then he began to howl like a cat on fire. Right then he began telling us everything he knew, including his mother's name, which is Agatha, by the way."

"Excellent, and what did you find out?"

"He's with the OSS and his code name is Sandman. He was with a Canadian whose code-name is Felon and they were observing the camp. They figured out that it's going to be a concentration camp for fucking Jews. Felon escaped and he had a car, which means he's far away by now. This guy, his real name is Arthur Brewer by the way, doesn't know anything more about Felon, only described him as a little shrimp. A second Canadian, Maple, had them meet. He thinks Maple is a cop, but isn't certain. Arthur is from Baltimore if you're interested."

Neumann wasn't but nodded politely. You could never tell when such tidbits of information might become useful. "Did you keep on working him after he told you everything?"

Jed puffed up proudly and Wally grinned. "Yes, sir, just like you told us. He might have thought we'd go easy after he squealed, but, like you said, who's to know what else he might have in his brain."

Neumann picked up a pair of tongs and cruelly pinched the flesh on Sandman's ribs. He screamed and tried to move away. "This creature isn't Jewish, is he?" Neumann asked. He had tried to ascertain, but the man's scrotum and penis were so swollen and purple from internal bleeding that he could barely see whether he'd been circumcised, although it looked like he had been.

"No sir. He said he was Lutheran."

Neumann was inclined to believe it. Even in Germany, many non-Jews had been circumcised, and the custom in Canada and the U.S. was even more widespread.

"What do you want us to do with him?" asked Jed.

Neumann thought for only a moment. Sandman had no further use. "Go ahead," he said to a grinning Jed who pulled a revolver and fired once into the back of Sandman's head.

He went back upstairs to his office, leaving the Munro boys with the task of disposing of the body — it would be buried in an adjacent field — and hosing down the mess in the interrogation room.

Neumann sat at his desk and lit a cigarette. The Americans in general and the OSS in particular were annoying to him. If the war started as planned on April 2, he would be temporarily cut off from the Reich. As it was, ships were arriving daily with men and supplies and leaving empty unless they carried foodstuffs to an ever hungry Reich. Perhaps now was the time to start getting rid of the garbage — Jewish garbage of course.

April second was coming up far too quickly. When the war started in earnest, it would be very difficult for him to ship his Jews to their final destination. He would have to act quickly.

Terry Romano thought his B24 was getting loaded down with too many weapons. Each one meant additional weight and that could cause problems with stability and fuel consumption. Now someone had thought to add five-inch rockets with modified anti-aircraft warheads to the plane's already impressive arsenal. Two of these were slung under each wing and much time had been spent learning how to use the weapons that had originally been intended as tank killers on fighter planes. Terry and his crew were confident that the rockets would easily pierce the hull of a U-boat and raise holy hell inside, probably sinking it.

However, hitting the target was the problem. If the approach was made from the side of the target, it was very easy to shoot either over or under the slender target. If approached from the bow or stern, the narrow shape of the hull meant similar difficulties. After much trial and error and a lot of practice with dummy warheads, Terry and the crew of the Vampire were confident that they might just hit a German submarine if the situation was right.

At least they'd gotten off the graveyard shift. Someone on high had the bright idea that enemy subs might just be active during the day; thus, the crew of the Vampire was flying sedately out the Chesapeake Bay. Another time and place and the view would have been beautiful, even though it was still freezing cold and the men wore every piece of warm clothing they could. The brass didn't care about their creature comforts. Today, their task was to look for ships and identify friend or foe.

They left the Bay and flew farther out into the Atlantic until they were well past the invisible line that the U.S. claimed as its territory. A number of ships were visible below, and a surprising number were American warships. No carriers, of course, they were either in the Pacific or safely in a harbor. No sense tempting some Nazi sub commander with a target he couldn't refuse, even if it meant starting a war.

Phil Watson, his co-pilot, jabbed him on the shoulder. "Look down there."

Tony didn't see it at first and then he did. It was just visible as a short thin line in the water with a flickering white tail. Jesus, he thought, it was a sub. But was it one of ours or a U-boat? Even though this was still peace time, nobody wanted to make a mistake that might cause American deaths. All the pilots and crews had spent a lot of time in ship recognition courses so he flew low and got a better look. Yep, it was a type IX U-boat but it looked different from the pictures and silhouettes he'd seen. The sub spotted them and one of his men took pictures before the kraut could dive.

"What was that on its conning tower?" Tony asked as the sub disappeared under the waves. He thought he knew the answer but wanted confirmation. A tall thick pipe extended far higher than the sub's conning tower.

"Looks like a snorkel to me," said his co-pilot, giving the German word schnorkel the American pronunciation.

"Damn it, just what we needed," Tony said.

Intelligence said that the snorkel enabled the German subs to stay under forever because they could change their air and keep running on their diesels while submerged without suffocating the crew. They would only have to use their batteries when running deep and it was thought they could re-charge them while using the snorkel.

Without a snorkel, subs spent most of their time on the surface. Their batteries were so limited they couldn't stay submerged very long, and they couldn't run their diesels while submerged because the crew would suffocate. The crew would suffocate anyhow if the air wasn't changed. The snorkel solved these problems by sucking air into the sub, and raised new problems for the United States.

The snorkel was very imperfect, mainly because the air it delivered was still foul, but breathable and sometimes heavy seas caused water to come down the pipe. Despite all its flaws and shortcomings, it would give the Germans a tremendous advantage if the rumors were only half true.

Tony checked his fuel status. Time to head back. He'd reported the U-boat's position but nothing would come of it. It would be long gone before any ships showed up. Besides, what would they do besides annoy the sub. It wasn't as if the U.S. was at war with Germany. At least they'd be back on shore while restaurants were open and wouldn't have to eat at the mess hall.

He flipped on the intercom. "Hey, any of you guys ever have a pizza pie?"

"A what?" they responded. Someone else said he'd heard of apple and cherry, but not pizza pie.

Tony laughed. "I said a pizza pie. It's an Italian food that you usually only find in Italian communities. It's made of baked flat bread and covered with tomato sauce, melted cheese, and sometimes sausages and onions, and it's delicious. Be thankful that your loyal skipper did find a place that just opened up and it's only a short drive from the base."

"Are you buying?" came from several voices.

What the hell, Tony thought, "Yeah."

Grant read the latest report sent over from the OSS and compared it with data gotten by other sources. They corroborated, which was not a surprise. According to the sources, the Germans were quietly disbursing their forces in the only two directions an American counter-attack could come. These were the area around Niagara Falls, Ontario, and the stretch between Sarnia and Windsor, Ontario. A few officers with scant knowledge of the area along the St. Lawrence River had suggested that either army could cross into Quebec along the border with Maine. When they were reminded that the land was thickly forested and had few roads, they were silenced. It was admitted, however, that small German units could and probably were crossing the border.

In one meeting, Ike had grumbled that the roads to the Buffalo-Niagara area were totally inadequate for the movement of large units, especially armor. "Someday," he'd said, "America will have real highways like the German Autobahn to move troops and supplies. The country roads we have now are ridiculously inadequate."

He gave the info to Downing who read it and left the room. He returned in a few minutes and signaled Tom to follow. They went down the hallway to General Truscott's office and entered. To Tom's surprise, Eisenhower was seated alongside Truscott's desk. The two generals told him to take a seat.

"Once again, good thinking," said Truscott, "even though this tells us nothing we didn't already know, it does confirm things."

Unsaid was the fact that the OSS had risen in everyone's estimation. Not only was the information they were providing proving correct, but the agency had lost a number of agents to the Germans. At least a dozen men and a couple of women had either been killed or captured. Tom shuddered at the thought of what would happen to them in the clutches of either the Gestapo or their local first cousins, the Black Shirts. Both groups had well-deserved reputations for sadism. All one had to do was think of what happened to young Mary Bradford and she had been an innocent Canadian, not an American spy.

"The Canadians are getting very antsy," Ike said with a smile. "It's finally occurring to their government in Ottawa that they could have a war right on their doorstep. Hell, it would be inside their doorstep. They're afraid that what happened to Poland could happen to them, and I don't blame them. If shooting starts on April 2, then we are going to have to go in and root out the Germans. It might just be as bad as it is happening against the Japanese."

Word was coming from the Philippines that the defeated Japanese would not surrender and had begun fighting to the last man; thus inflicting serious casualties on MacArthur's army. Even worse was the fact that Japanese planes had begun making suicide attacks on American warships and had even sunk a couple of small carriers and damaged a number of others. Tom wondered just how the hell do you stop a man in a plane who's hell bent on killing himself? And what would happen when the American fleet got within range of Japanese planes currently based on their home islands?

"I genuinely feel sorry for the Canadians," Truscott said, "but it's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better."

Truscott signaled that the discussion was over. As he and Downing walked back to their office, Tom wondered what Toronto would look like after heavy fighting. Probably like the ruins of Stalingrad? Everyone had seen pictures of that place after the Germans had finally taken it. It was a wasteland.

Leighton Goldie McCarthy had once been a handsome man. When younger, he'd had a firm jaw and a steel gaze that intimidated his subordinates and competitors in the insurance field. Now, as Canada's first ambassador to the United States, he appeared to FDR to be a tired old man who felt more than his seventy-four years. That he was the first ambassador from Canada was due to a technicality involving the minutiae of international protocol. He and others had previously been called Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. Roosevelt thought the title issue was a bunch of bullshit.

McCarthy had been to the White House on a number of occasions and was greeted warmly by FDR in the Oval Office. It had been scheduled as a social visit although no one believed that fable. However, it did enable the two men to meet with a degree of privacy.

FDR made drinks. As always, he forced his guest to drink the president's own version of a dry martini. The Canadian, as always, was polite. He couldn't stand martinis, especially Roosevelt's concoctions. There was far too much vermouth and the inclusion of olive brine made him shudder.

The president smiled warmly. "So, to what do I owe this singular honor?"

McCarthy tried to smile but it didn't work. "Sir, let me cut to the chase. My country is terrified. Not only have the Germans begun rounding up certain of our citizens, Jews of course, but we hear rumors that the provinces in the west are going to secede and form their own country. And worse, we hear that the Germans are going to attack the United States which would put us in the middle of a war. Any or all possibilities would be disastrous to Canada. May we discuss them?"

The president no longer smiled. His eyes became cold, "Of course, but there might not be much to discuss. Yes, we have heard rumors of secession by your western provinces and, should it occur, it is very likely that we will look favorably on it. We would be especially pleased to have a nation to our north that was not occupied by Nazi Germany. Should such a new country be created, and let's pretend that it will be called the Republic of West Canada, we would be more than eager to sign mutual defense and trade agreements with it. Who knows, this hypothetical West Canada might even allow us to station troops at strategic points to ensure the integrity of the new republic as well as protect the western United States from fascist aggressors.

McCarthy sagged. The president had all but told him that the western provinces were indeed going to secede and that he approved. Worse, there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it.

Roosevelt continued. "As long as you continue to tolerate the existence of the Nazi swine in your country, you will pay for your actions."

"But we fear for our soldiers."

FDR laughed harshly. "And well you should, but you will continue to fear for all eternity. What on earth behooves you to believe that the Nazis will even think of releasing your boys from hostage while there is any further advantage to Hitler? They will squeeze everything out of you. I don't believe you will see your boys again in this century."

"We are also horrified at the thought of civilian casualties. What can you do to minimize them?"

Roosevelt sighed. This was the ugly part of reality. "The only thing I can suggest is that you evacuate your cities. A simple look at a map will show that Toronto, Hamilton, St. Catharines, Windsor, Sarnia, and others in southern Ontario will likely bear the brunt of the fighting. Once the Germans are pushed out of those places, they will likely starve unless they are reinforced and re-supplied from Germany. It is also possible that they will not let your people evacuate, thus making hostages of millions of Canadians."

McCarthy wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He was sweating profusely. "Sir, I can only hope that you will talk to your generals and ask them to do what they can."

An easy and empty promise, Roosevelt thought. "I will."

The Canadian ambassador pulled a sheet of note paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the president. "Perhaps you can do something with this information."

"What is it?"

"It’s a shipping schedule."

Roosevelt looked at it and paled, quickly realizing its significance. If he acted on the information, it could mean a premature war with Germany and with the United States as the aggressor. If ignored, a large number of people would be condemned to a horrible captivity resulting in agonizing death. Ignoring the information would ultimately condemn him as being complicit in murder. He and the men around him no longer had any doubts as to what was going on in Auschwitz, Sobibor, and other so-called death camps.

He took the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said with a forced smile.

McCarthy rose. “I know you will do what you can.”

Missy Downing finished her second glass of wine at almost the same time that Alicia did hers. It was the middle of the afternoon and both were beginning to feel the effects of the below-average but well chilled white table wine from the Finger Lakes region of New York. Use enough ice cubes, Missy said, and any bad wine tastes okay. There was a war on so French wines were rare and too pricey. They weren’t concerned about shocking anyone since they were in Missy’s house and Alicia planned to stay the night. The colonel was in Baltimore meeting with someone about something, and so was Tom. It was girl’s night out, or in, as Missy said laughing.

“So you think all men are pricks,” Missy asked with a smile.

“It’s been my experience, yes. Ever since I reached puberty and young boys discovered that I was a little bit attractive, I’ve had them all over me, sometimes literally. I’ve been pawed by classmates and chased by instructors. Someone told me that guys liked to take out girls who weren’t too pretty. They hoped the plain little girl would be so grateful for a date that she’d go to bed with them to thank them.”

“I hope your realize it’s a fate many women would relish.”

“Really? In high school swimming class I was cornered in the pool by a bunch of kids who stuffed me under water until my lungs ached and I thought I would drown. Then, when they let me up, I found that they’d pulled my swimsuit down to my knees and then they grabbed and pawed me all over, both the boys and the girls. Later, when I went to tell the dean of students, she pretty much said it was my fault and that I should let her console me. I let her take me to lunch and I was shocked when she put her hand on my leg and started moving up. Later, I found out she was a lesbian. Back then, I didn’t even know what a lesbian was. I’m still not totally certain how they have sex, although I suppose it’s orally and I didn’t know what that meant at the time.”

“I’m not totally certain either,” Missy laughed and poured them each another glass. “But you didn’t come here to tell me about that, did you? You already knew that men had two brains, one in their skulls and a larger and dominant one in their cocks.”

Alicia giggled and got serious. “Oh, yes. I wanted to talk to you about one of my girls who has a problem. You knew that I had administrative control over about twenty WACs and I recently found that one of them is pregnant.”

“Imagine that,” Missy said drily.

“Her name is Aggie Fanelli. She’s nineteen, short, slender, very pretty, and intelligent, and she says she was raped.”

Missy stiffened. “You’re kidding?”

“She made a foolish mistake. She was flattered by the attention she was getting from an older Englishman, one of the math wizards. His name is Langford Morris and he’s a Ph.D. from Oxford so she was totally impressed. She went to lunch at his place, he got her drunk, and the next thing she remembers is waking up naked in his bed. There was a note and twenty dollars on the dresser. In effect, he paid her like a whore.”

“What did she do?”

“First, she took a shower to scrub what she called the stink of him off her body. Then she tore his apartment to shreds and went back to her barracks. Later, when she found out she was pregnant, she came to me.”

“Has she spoken to him?”

“Yes, and he insists it not his. She insists he’s the only one she’s ever had sex with. I believe her, by the way.”

“Is she considering an abortion?”

“She’s Catholic, which also rules out keeping the baby. Her parents are immigrants and very strict, and she’s convinced that they would throw her out of the house. And don’t forget that abortions are illegal. Even so, I do know a doctor who would arrange for one.”

She decided not to tell Missy that Doctor Crain, the physician who had treated her after the shooting had said that he knew how to get one done, quietly and safely.

“What about an adoption?”

“Yes, if we can arrange a long term leave of absence or temporary duty at one of those mysterious places that takes care of unwed mothers. I think a couple of the girls I know have gone there.”

“Will the Brit pay for her bills?”

“I called him, more or less identified myself and asked him. He was vehemently, violently against anything that might acknowledge him as the father. No taking a blood test either, even though that would only rule him out as the father, not prove it was him. Turns out the bastard’s married.”

“What a shock!” Missy exclaimed sarcastically as she almost spilled her wine. “However, I do have friends and I’m sure we can arrange a leave or something and I know people who like to help young women in trouble. She’ll have her baby quietly and hopefully the child will be adopted.”

“Missy, there’s another issue. When I spoke to the Brit he told me not to tell anyone else or he’d go to the Germans and switch sides. He said he knows a lot of secrets that would change the course of the war. Of course, he was doubtless bragging, but one can’t be a hundred percent sure. I know a lot of things that are going on in Camp Washington, but I also know that there’s a lot I don’t know and that worries me about him. He has money problems and wants to get back to England. He regrets deciding to come to America. He pretty much told me that he now believes that the Nazis are going to be the ultimate winners.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Apparently he’s considered a sort of joke. He complains, bitches, and moans about how unfair life is. He’s even made some statements that support what Hitler is doing to the Jews. Administration at the camp thinks he’s a harmless nut, but I’m not so certain.”

Missy opened a fresh bottle. The last one tasted a little vinegary and she hoped this one would be better. She was going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow, but who cared? She would talk to her husband about this Morris bastard and his possible treason.

Canfield drove his own jeep with Dubinski riding shotgun. By rights an enlisted man should have been driving, but Canfield had always liked piloting his own wheels as a cop and wasn’t about to stop now.

They drove past yet another tall structure built of girders. It was a radar site and there were a number of small buildings around its base. A few civilians and a couple of soldiers were visible and a couple of them waved at them. It looked like the place was well secured by a barbed wire fence and armed guards. Canfield hoped so. The radar was the only thing that would give the U.S. any advanced warning if the Germans should attack. His unit’s task was to protect the towers that faced towards Ontario and the Nazi threat. The United States had learned its lesson from the German fighter and bomber attacks on England. Radar had paid dividends, providing enough advance warning for the RAF to get its Hurricanes and Spitfires airborne in time to intercept the Luftwaffe.

Just too damn bad the British had lost the war, Canfield thought.

Parts of the dirt road connecting the sites had been constructed only recently and must show as raw slashes in the earth to anyone looking down from an airplane. Nor could the towers themselves be hidden or camouflaged. They were just too large.

“Elephants in a living room,” Canfield muttered. Dubinski understood and nodded.

When the fighting started, the radar towers were sure to be among the first targets the Germans would hit, but how? Bombers would be logical, but so too would be attacks by saboteurs. Thus, the boring patrols along the road. Canfield had protested that the enemy could be hiding only a few feet away in the woods, but had been informed that they didn’t have the manpower to send men searching all over the place. When Canfield had suggested that it was a lousy way to run an army, he was coldly overruled.

They reached the end of their route and turned around. They were scheduled to return to civilian life beginning tomorrow. For the next couple of weeks some other guys would have the job of protecting the towers and the people who worked there.

They heard the approaching planes at the same time. “They sound strange,” Canfield said.

Their view of the sky was obscured by tree limbs just beginning to sprout leaves. Canfield drove out into a clearing and looked around. Dubinski grabbed his arm and pointed. “Check those out, chief.”

Three planes passed overhead at a height of only a few thousand feet. Their distinctive shapes were clearly visible.

“Germans,” Canfield gasped. “ME109s. Damn them.”

The German fighters flew above and along the line of the dirt road. They spotted the jeep, swooped low, and the two men could see the pilots. They could also see that the planes carried no bombs.

“Just looking us over,” Dubinski said softly, “and probably taking photos, so smile. That or give them the finger.

The Germans made an abrupt turn to the north and flew over Lake Erie. A couple of moments later, a pair of American P47 fighters flew over the two men and out in the same direction taken by the Germans. In a short while, they returned. There would be no war this afternoon.

“And I’ll bet the Germans are checking out how long it takes for us to respond,” Canfield added. “I just hope someone was smart enough to delay those fighters so that the krauts think we’re slow.”

“Cat and mouse games,” said Dubinski. “Someday, though, someone will take it too far and there’ll be hell to pay.”

Canfield laughed. “But not on our watch — at least not this time.”

He wondered if it would be for real the next time they were up. Rumors were thick that something was going to happen around the end of March. In one way it would be great to have all the waiting over, but who the hell needed a war?

As directed, Captain Franz Koenig wore civilian clothes to the meeting with Neumann at the Gestapo headquarters in Toronto. At least it wasn’t at their interrogation headquarters at the farm or at the newly built and nearly empty concentration camp farther north.

He accepted the fact that there was a need to stamp out the enemies of the Reich, but he deplored the means utilized by the Gestapo and the need to utilize such cold animals as Neumann. He was also beginning to wonder just how much of a threat a bunch of unarmed civilians was to the Reich, even if they were Jewish.

Koenig wore two hats, sometimes more when he considered his nearly overwhelming workload. Not only was he on the staff of General von Arnim, but he had also been assigned as an aide and liaison to General Guderian. It was hectic but interesting and almost certainly guaranteed a promotion if he didn’t mess things up too badly.

Today, he had a delicate message to deliver. While agreeing with the need to control Canada’s Jews, the military disagreed with what the Gestapo planned and it was up to Koenig to deliver that message.

Neumann greeted Koenig with what passed for cordiality for the Gestapo chief. He even rose and shook hands before seating himself at his desk. “Let me guess, captain, your leaders would like me to cease my actions in ridding the world of Jews.”

Koenig smiled, he hoped amiably. It was hard to appear friendly to a man who, if he heard or misheard a wrong word, could send him to a concentration camp. Or worse, Koenig could wind up with a bullet in the back of his head.

“You are correct, of course. The generals are concerned that you will cause an incident that will disrupt their carefully planned schedule.”

Neumann leaned back in his swivel chair. “Your generals sometimes forget that I too have a job to do and that it is at least as important as theirs. I must help do my part in ridding the earth of the Jewish pestilence. I am well aware of the military’s precious schedule and I am also well aware that, once fighting starts, I will no longer be able to do my job properly.”

Koenig inhaled sharply. He was now well aware that many Jews had been murdered, particularly in Poland and Russia. Jews disgusted him and he thought the world be a better place without them. Still he wondered at the wisdom of the mass murders, but acknowledged that he could do nothing about it without seeming to be less than enthusiastic about the policies of the Nazi party.

“Let me be blunt, captain. You and your generals have your orders and I have mine. I report directly to Heinrich Himmler and he has gotten his orders from the Fuhrer himself. The Jews are to be eliminated, exterminated. If the coming war strands any sizeable number of Jews here, then it will be a sad event. Small numbers, of course will doubtless escape our net, but they must be few indeed. In the meantime, I will do what I have to in order to comply with my orders and my duty. Is that clear? Will you make it just as clear to von Arnim and Guderian? Or perhaps they would like to discuss it with Himmler in Germany?”

Koenig swallowed. “I will tell them what you said.”

“Although I am well aware that you are the messenger and not the message, I do feel that you have delivered the message with just a little bit too much enthusiasm. Be careful, Koenig, or you might find yourself back in Germany and a guest in Dachau. Von Arnim and Guderian might be too lofty for me to catch, but you are not. Now please deliver my response to their message.”

Chapter Eight

The Beaufort was a ten thousand ton freighter that usually steamed between Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, and, occasionally across the Atlantic to France with whatever cargo she could find. She was old and there was significant rust on her hull, but her bones were solid, as was her engine. She could do fifteen knots and that was fine for an old lady like the Beaufort. The ship had survived convoy duty and submarine attacks before the end of hostilities between England and Germany. Now, with peace more or less broken out, she stayed on the Canadian side of the Atlantic.

Jean Charest was her owner and was as sturdy as his ship. Fifty years old, he was weathered and looked much older. He was proud of his French heritage, even though he knew that the people of France looked down on the people of Quebec. They were not quite French, he’d been told — second class Frenchmen, not even provincials. Well, he’d frequently thought, at least my country isn’t ruled by the damned Nazis. Of course, he’d had to change his tune when the Germans suddenly showed up on Canadian soil.

Charest had been devastated by the German conquest of what he considered his beloved Gallic homeland, and stunned by the presence of German soldiers in Canada. An intelligent man, he understood that nowhere was safe from the likes of Hitler. He also saw no reason to believe that the world would change anytime soon. The Nazis were here to stay, so it was best to come to some kind of an accommodation with them. Of course, it would have to be one that let him maintain both his pride and his beloved ship. A single man, the Beaufort was Charest’s life.

When the Gestapo in Toronto offered to hire his ship to transport a cargo to France, he was both reluctant and suspicious. His reluctance disappeared when he was informed by a German named Neumann that he’d be shot if he didn’t cooperate. His suspicions did not diminish. If anything, he was even more worried.

Then, when his cargo was loaded at night a few miles east of Toronto, he was horrified and sickened. He was told to be ready to sail immediately. After a few discreet inquiries, a man named Lambert met him at a Toronto bar. Lambert was appalled and said he’d see what he could do.

The Gestapo might have wanted the Beaufort to depart immediately, but a sudden and fierce storm blanketed the area and delayed her departure. Instead, there was concern that there was enough ice in the St. Lawrence to be a hazard to shipping, so an icebreaker had to be brought down, which further delayed matters. Neumann seethed, but there was nothing he could do. Nor was he convinced that the ice situation was as dangerous to shipping as Charest and the others insisted. Yes, shipping was delayed, but vessels got through.

Finally, she departed. The Beaufort was the last of six ships following the icebreaker as she slowly plowed through the ice and moved towards the ocean. Many eyes followed the ad hoc convoy and most of them were not German. Neumann had sent the ship on its way and he thought he was well rid of her and her grumpy bastard French skipper. He was also glad to be rid of her bastard cargo.

Alicia’s golden hair flowed long and lovely down her back. The violin was tucked under her chin and she played with exquisite skill and enormous passion. Grant recognized it as something by Tchaikovsky, but couldn’t name the exact piece. There was a glow of sweat on her face as she poured her soul into the music.

Alicia was naked. Her proud breasts swayed to the music and her flat belly contracted with the effort. He was fascinated by the tuft of light colored hair at the base of her abdomen and her legs were as lithe and athletic as he’d dreamed.

He wanted to walk behind her, press her to him, and cup her breasts in his hands, but that would spoil the spell, ending the music.

Something was wrong. The vision was fading. Someone shook his shoulder. “Major, you’re wanted on the bridge.”

Shit. He blinked his eyes and looked around. He was on a bunk in a small cabin on the USS Boston, a Baltimore class heavy cruiser that had recently returned from duty in the Pacific. He’d also been dreaming and he checked himself to see that nothing worse than an erection had occurred. To his immense relief, it hadn’t. Somewhere on the Boston, an unknown sailor was probably laughing his ass off telling his buddies about a dumb army major sleeping with a hard-on. At least he hadn’t gotten seasick — at least not yet.

Someday he might get Alicia to play for him in the nude, but, so far, nothing even remotely close had occurred. He did wonder how accurate his dreamy imaginings of her body were. Maybe someday he’d find out.

He and Commander Westover had flown by seaplane to the Boston two days earlier and were looking for a Canadian freighter, the Beaufort. Planes in the air and eyes on the ground had tracked her as she made her way with agonizing slowness towards the open sea. The Beaufort’s crew had aided by sending out a number of messages inquiring about the weather and other factors.

Grant was gasping by the time he made it up to the bridge, a reminder that desk duty was getting him out of shape. He’d never be able to swim any river in his current condition, much less the St. Lawrence.

Captain C. H. Carson skippered the Boston and had been in command since she was commissioned in June, 1943. He was perplexed that his ship had been brought back from the Pacific where she had been pounding the Japanese to well-deserved oblivion. He understood that war with Germany was very possible and that his warship needed to be well prepared for both the German surface fleet as well as their damned U-boats. He was, however, further perplexed at his current assignment which seemed like an enormous case of overkill. The sleek and deadly Boston displaced more than thirteen thousand tons, had a crew of over eleven-hundred, and carried nine-eight inch guns and a dozen five-inch guns, along with a host of anti-aircraft weapons. The Boston could do an almost incredible thirty-three knots, which meant that her target was not going to outrun her.

Nor was the Boston alone. Three new twenty-five hundred ton Fletcher Class destroyers that were even faster than the Boston accompanied her as an ad hoc task force. Over the horizon was the light carrier Cowpens, also recently returned from the Pacific and carrying forty plus planes.

Westover informed Tom that a scout plane from the carrier had positively identified the freighter and that they were steaming directly towards her.

Radar soon picked up the Beaufort, and shortly after, she appeared as a speck on the horizon that grew and took on shape. A platoon of heavily armed marines had been brought on board to augment the Boston’s own marine detachment. Launches were ready and the marines would be loaded and on their way once the order was given.

On the Beaufort, Charest watched as the American force closed on them.

“What the hell are they doing?” demanded young SS Lieutenant Emil Stolper. The lieutenant was young, blond-haired, and full of himself. A perfect little Nazi and an equally perfect little shit, Charest thought.

Charest fervently hoped that the little bastard got seasick and puked his guts out for the entire voyage. At least he spoke English. Charest spoke some German but flatly refused to acknowledge that fact.

Charest sighed. “Since they did not inform me of their intentions, I have absolutely no idea what they are doing. More than likely, they are practicing their maneuvers and have decided to make us part of their little games.”

“I don’t suppose we can tell them to stop?”

“They will do what they wish,” Charest said as he masked a quiet smile.

Soon, the Beaufort was bracketed by the four American ships. A giant warship with enormous guns was close along her bow while the other ships took up station to her front, side, and rear. They slowed, causing the Beaufort to slow, and moved in dangerously close.

“Heave to,” came an amplified voice from the ship. They could see her name on her hull, the Boston, and Charest knew it was a heavy cruiser.

“Ignore it,” snapped Stolper.

Charest shrugged and did as he was told. A moment later the order was repeated and ignored. Another moment, and an anti-aircraft gun fired a stream of shells into the water just yards in front of the Beaufort.

“What do we do now?” asked the lieutenant, clearly shaken by the American response.

“We stop,” said Charest as he gave the orders, “unless, of course, you want this ship and yourself riddled with shells larger than a house.”

Stolper paled, “Of course not.”

Charest signaled that he would comply and the Beaufort slowed to where she barely maintained control. The American cruiser ordered Charest to lower cargo netting over the side. Again, he complied and was impressed by swift efficiency of the launches moving toward his ship. Equally impressive was the fact that they were filled with heavily armed soldiers.

Again Stolper was upset, almost shaking with impotent fury. “They outnumber my small force.”

“I have been stopped by the Americans before,” Charest said. “In order to avoid any accident, I would strongly suggest that you have your men lined up on the deck and unarmed.”

“Agreed,” Stolper said angrily, “but not all of them. We need to guard our cargo.”

Grant was stuffed into a motorized launch with a squad of marines led by a hard faced sergeant. Westover was in another. Altogether, they had forty men headed to the Beaufort with more to come. Grant was nervous, but tried to conceal it. He clutched his M2 carbine, a brand new model that would fire full automatic, much like the venerable Thompson sub-machine gun. Sergeant Farnum had told him it was more accurate and had less of a kick than the Tommy gun. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

The sailor driving the launch through the gently rolling sea skillfully brought her alongside the Beaufort. Grant’s was the second launch. Westover’s was first since he was the ranking naval officer and this was a navy operation.

The first squad was well up the side of the ship when Grant began his climb. Once again his shoulder roared with pain, but he willed himself to go up and over the railing. If he fell into the frigid water, he would likely drown before anyone could get to him. Finally, chest heaving, he stood on the deck and was confronted by a handful of German soldiers in bulky winter jackets who glared angrily at him and the marines. With the exception of an NCO and a young lieutenant who had pistols in holsters, the Germans were unarmed. Grant decided not to take chances and shifted his weapon to a more comfortable and accessible position.

“This is an outrage,” the German officer yelled at Westover and Grant, his face red with anger. “This ship has been chartered by the German government and has diplomatic immunity. You will get off this ship immediately.”

Westover shrugged. “That’s all news to me, young Adolf. We’ve gotten word that this tub is carrying contraband and we are going to search her, whether you like it or not. If everything is on the up and up, you will be permitted to proceed. If there is contraband, we will do what we have to, and that includes arresting or interning everyone and everything. My men and I are now going to inspect the cargo.”

“The hell you are,” screamed the German lieutenant. He pulled out his luger and fired point blank into Westover’s chest. Westover screamed and fell backwards. Grant quickly raised his weapon and fired several shots into the German who tumbled into a bloody heap. A couple of German soldiers reached for pistols they’d hidden in their jackets and began shooting wildly. Grant turned on them and continued to shoot. It was bloody chaos as marines and Germans fired at point blank range. There were screams of fear and pain as bullets ricocheted off metal walls and decks, while some found flesh.

In a few seconds, it was over. A couple of shocked and stunned Germans stood with their hands in the air, while the others lay on the deck, either dead or wounded. Grant checked and found that two marines were dead and two more wounded. Westover was alive, but barely, and a medic was working on him with quiet efficiency. Other marines climbed over the rail from their launches and quickly took up station, their faces contorted with rage at the ambush of their buddies. They were ready to kill.

Suddenly, gunfire emanated from below decks. Now what? Tom thought. “The Jews are escaping,” Charest said.

Grant slapped a fresh clip into his carbine, grabbed a few marines, and headed below, trying not to slip on the pools of blood that were congealing on the deck and running in rivulets down the stairs. He was greeted by the sight of a couple of dead Germans and three others who were unharmed, but being covered by several civilians with pistols.

“Who are you?” asked one of the civilians.

“U.S. Navy and Marines,” Tom said. He noticed that the man stank of body waste and was almost wild with fear. “Now put down those guns before more people get hurt.”

The man laughed harshly. “We’re Jews. They were going to take us to Germany to be murdered. What do we care if a few of them get hurt?”

Tom conceded the point. He did, however, get the Jews to put their weapons away. He had the hatches and other access points to the hold opened so the Beaufort’s human cargo could get some air. They were bedraggled, scared, hungry, and filthy. Little or no provision had been made for food, water, or sanitation. It was apparent that many of them would have died before they reached France.

Marine medics were taking good care of the wounded, and the Jewish leaders were doing the same for their own people, some of whom had been hit by stray bullets. More hatches were opened, and food and water was provided. Captain Carson arrived from the Boston and was appalled by the carnage as well as the condition of the Jews who’d been stuffed into the hold.

Carson checked over the casualties as they were being shipped back to the cruiser and her excellent medical facilities. The marine wounded might make it, but there was doubt about Westover. He’d taken two bullets in the chest. Fortunately, his life jacket had absorbed some of the blow, but he was still grievously hurt.

Tom checked over the men he’d shot. Both the SS officer and an enlisted man were dead. No one had bothered to cover their graying faces and they gazed blankly at the sky. Tom fought the urge to shake. In all the years he’d been in the army, he’d never fired a weapon in anger, never hurt anyone. Now, in the space of a few seconds, he’d killed two men. He’d snuffed out two lives and he felt miserable. So what if they’d been trying to kill him — he’d killed them. Of course, a second’s difference and he might be the one lying on the deck. He took a deep breath and got a hold of himself. With Westover down, people needed his leadership.

Grant found Charest sitting on a chair in his cabin. There was a blood-soaked bandage on his cheek where he’d been hit by a piece of flying metal. None of his crew suffered more than cuts and bruises.

“Well, American, am I your prisoner, too?”

“I hardly think so. We know what happened. We’re well aware that you gave all that information to the OSS and Canadian resistance so we could find you and stop this atrocity. By the way, where did the Jews get their guns?”

“A man from the Canadian underground gave them to me and I put them in the hold. If the rescue didn’t work, the Jews and my crew would try to take over the ship some night when most of the Nazis were asleep. I thought I’d even get the nasty pricks drunk to help out.”

Charest lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring. “What happens now to my ship, my men, and me, of course?

“It’s my understanding that your ship will be escorted to either Boston or New York. The Jews will be granted permission to stay in the U.S., and you and your ship will be permitted to do whatever you wish. After all, you were victims, too.”

Charest blew another smoke ring. “My crew can do whatever they wish as well. They can return to Canada or stay with me. Most have families, so I suppose they will go home. I will not go back to Canada. I think too many evil people will correctly surmise that I had something to do with this and take revenge on me. If permitted, I would like to continue shipping goods for a living, only this time I’ll be using the United States as a base.”

The band at the large but stark hall that had been rented for the party was doing a decent imitation of a Benny Goodman type orchestra. There was no real reason for the party, just that people wanted a break and chipped in to make it happen. The result was a couple of hundred people seated at card tables and thoroughly enjoying themselves with decent music, mediocre food and cheap booze. As at the Downing’s, everyone was in civvies in an inadequate attempt to mask the fact that almost all were in the military.

Tom had slow danced a few times with Alicia and had enjoyed holding her slender body close to him, but the idea of jitter-bugging was a little too much. He could dance it a little, but he was whipped after flying in from New York early that morning, and giving verbal reports to a lot of generals and admirals. He’d even reported to Admiral Ernie King, and he’d assured the admiral that Westover would likely make it, although wouldn’t be back to duty for a long while.

As much as he loved dancing with Alicia and holding her tight, he didn’t at all mind watching her as she and her friend, WAC Lieutenant Rosemary Poole, jitterbugged. Rosemary was short and chunky, and all eyes, at least his, were on Alicia. She wore a fashionably short full skirt that flared and showed her magnificent legs to well above her knee. Only a short slip kept him from seeing much more. She danced with a rhythm and abandon that surprised him. So much for the reserved nature of a school teacher and a classical musician, he thought happily.

Finally, she sat down and took a quick swallow of her beer. “Wow. That last one almost got me.”

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Twelve years of dancing lessons as a kid should count for something. Yes, I had dreams of becoming a ballerina, but then I grew to adulthood and the male dancers complained that I was too heavy to lift.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, most of the male dancers were tee-tiny things themselves. I think anybody over five feet tall and weighing more than eighty pounds scared them. Between dancing and violin lessons, my parents hoped I really didn’t have much time to get into trouble. They were right, of course.”

“Maybe that was the idea. Do you have any other skills I should know about?”

“You already know I speak fluent German and passable French and Spanish. And you?”

“I can get by in German, but that’s it. Now, when am I going to hear you play your violin?”

“Pretty soon. Is there anything you’d particularly like?”

He thought of his erotic dream. “A little Tchaikovsky would be great.”

Her eyes widened and she laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re civilized. Tchaikovsky isn’t the easiest, but I’ll do it. Is there anything else you’d like? Do you want me to wear something special?”

Sweet Jesus, he thought, again recalling his dream. “Anything you choose will be wonderful.”

On its own, his hand began to shake as recent memories flooded in. She reached over and grasped it firmly, calming him. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

He’d told her of the fighting on the Beaufort and that he’d shot down two Germans. The fact that he’d killed the two men and wounded at least one more and nearly been killed himself was getting to him. He’d discovered that the distance between life and death was often just the width of a hair, maybe even less.

Westover’s situation was just such a case in point. The newspaper headlines and the radio reporters were calling Westover and Charest heroes, the Beaufort a slave ship or a death ship. The sailors and marines were praised to the skies for rescuing the Jews who’d been packed into the Beaufort’s hold. There’d been no mention of the one lonely army major who’d also taken part, and that he’d killed a couple of Nazis. Officially, it had been a navy-marine show. Whatever anti-Semitic feelings that had prevented previous boatloads of Jews from emigrating to the U.S. were quickly dissolving. Those who still harbored such thoughts were keeping discretely quiet.

Unofficially, Tom had gotten a commendation and it looked like he might be promoted to lieutenant colonel fairly soon.

Alicia squeezed his hand even tighter and stared into his eyes. It looked like tears were about to spill down her cheeks. “You had to do it and I’m glad you did. They would have killed you if you hadn’t. I just found you and I’m not ready to lose you. Do you understand me, Major Grant?”

He managed to laugh. Her intensity was contagious. “Yes, teacher. Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep, and no, I’m not suggesting we call it a night. I don't want to lose you either. I want to be right here with you for a very long time.”

She smiled warmly at him. There was a wicked glint in her eyes. “I’ve an idea what to wear when I play for you. I was originally thinking of a lovely and elegant basic black dress, but perhaps I will wear something else.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Secretary of State Cordell Hull tried not to feel sorry for the tense and nervous German diplomat who sat before him. Charge d’Affaires Hans Thomsen was clearly uncomfortable with the role his masters in Berlin were forcing him to play. Too damn bad, thought Hull. You play with fire and sometimes you get burned.

“Let me assure you, Mr. Thomsen, your protests are for naught. The American people are outraged by the atrocity your Nazi masters almost perpetrated on more than a thousand innocent people.”

Thomsen ignored the comment. He had a script to follow. “Mr. Secretary, your men had no right to forcibly take the Beaufort. My government requires a formal apology, compensation for the damages incurred, which included the deaths of several German soldiers, and Berlin wants the, ah, cargo returned. According to German law, the Jews are criminals and were being taken back to Germany for legal and lawful punishment.”

Hull snorted. “You mean they were being sent to be murdered, don’t you? Do you really think we don’t know what’s going on in your death camps?”

“Those terrible rumors are without merit, sir. Frankly, I’m surprised you even mention them. I must also point out that the Beaufort had diplomatic immunity since she was chartered by the German government.”

Hull shook his head sadly. Did the man really not believe in the existence of Auschwitz and other death camps? Why not, he thought. FDR and the military didn’t tell him everything, either.

“Please, Mr. Thomsen, do not insult my intelligence. The Beaufort is a Canadian flagged ship and her home port is Montreal. All the German government did was contract with her owner to ship a cargo to France. And in this case, it was a boatload of half-dead Jews who were being shipped across the Atlantic to be murdered. There is no immunity involved and there will be neither an apology nor compensation. In fact, I believe the United States is due both an apology and compensation.”

“Why?”

“Because approximately fifty of those Jews you so cruelly treated were American citizens.”

Thomsen was genuinely shocked, “Sir, that cannot be. I’ve been informed that all of them were confirmed to be Canadian citizens.”

“And indeed they all were,” Hull said, “but only up to a point. Your murderous masters neglected to check that some might have dual citizenship. Thus, there were American citizens on that ship and at least two of them are dead, either from maltreatment or in the gunfight that began when your Fuhrer’s SS Storm Troopers began firing into the packed hold.”

Thomsen shook his head. “I was informed that it was the Jews who shot first, right after your marines opened fire on the German soldiers who were guarding and protecting them.”

Guarding and protecting them my ass, thought Hull. He sat back in his chair and smiled benignly. “Well, it looks like we have two different versions of the same story. What a surprise. However, one thing is absolutely certain — we have the ship and crew, the human cargo, and a number of German soldiers in our possession. We will retain all but the soldiers who will be free to either return to German control or remain interned in the United States. Of course the Jews from the Beaufort will be free to do whatever they wish, but I cannot see any of them returning to Canada in the foreseeable future.”

Thomsen stood. The meeting was over. “Mr. Secretary, you are aware that each incident like this brings us closer and closer to war, aren’t you?” he asked sadly.

Just as each day brings us closer and closer to April second, Hull thought. He wondered if Thomsen was aware of what was going to happen on that date.

Barring a miracle, war with Germany would commence in only a couple of weeks. Hull wondered if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. Certainly oppressed and brutalized peoples in Canada and Europe would rejoice and pray for their liberation, while other nations, ostensibly neutral, would wait to see how this new war played out. Would the United States prevail, or would the Thousand Year Reich become a terrible reality. And how long would it take and how much American blood would be spilled to bring down the Third Reich?

Hull wondered what the Soviets would do when the spring thaws arrived. Again, there were rumors that either the Germans or the Russians would commence their own war again once the snows melted and the mud dried. Perhaps it was time for another conversation with Andrei Gromyko, the very young ambassador from what remained of the Soviet Union.

There was no question regarding the British. They were totally dependent on others for their food, which meant that the British Isles, already on short rations, could be starved if Hitler decided to impose a blockade. The British would do what they did in the previous decade — they would try to appease the Nazi monster.

B24 pilot Terry Romano was bored to tears, and so was his crew. How many times could they pretend to bomb a make believe enemy ship? They had honed their skills to perfection. Men, plane and weapons all functioned as one.

Neither Terry nor his men were stupid. They knew that it was one thing to drop bombs and fire weapons at a defenseless target and quite another to shoot at one that might just fire back, perhaps wounding or killing crewmen or even shooting down the Vampire. They’d even taken their bomber out over the Chesapeake and pretended to shoot up U.S. submarines that maneuvered and dived to stay away from them as part of their own training.

In briefings, they’d been told that the German’s Achilles Heel was a supply line that extended from France to wherever their subs lay in waiting. Even unopposed, it was a long and dangerous journey for the U-boats from the coast of the United States back to their bases in France along the Bay of Biscay. Thus, only about a third of the U-boats’ total strength could be mustered at any one time. One third would always be in transit to and from France, and the other third would be re-fitting and their crews getting needed rest.

He’d been told that the Kriegsmarine had gathered a number of transports that would be used as supply ships and even had a number of specially designed transport submarines called ‘milch cows.’ The German crews could take their recreation in Halifax, which, while not France, was peaceful enough. A thoughtful German military hierarchy had even imported a number of French prostitutes to service their brave lads. Terry doubted the U.S. navy would ever go along with something like that, although both he and his crew thought the idea had merit. Hell, the American navy didn’t even allow alcohol on its ships, something Terry thought was absurd.

Along with sinking German U-boats, the bombers’ assignments would include killing those supply ships.

Strong rumors had the war beginning shortly. Terry was as nervous and scared as the next guy, but he was confident he would do his duty. He owed it to himself, his crew, and, oh yeah, the nice little girl named Nancy O’Connor he’d met in Baltimore. They’d dated a few times and, even though she wouldn’t let him do more than kiss her, he found himself more and more wanting to be with her.

Nancy wasn’t Italian, but she was Catholic. He thought his family would like her.

Chapter Nine

General George C. Marshall was his usual expressionless self as he sat across from President Roosevelt. For his part, the president was, as always, uncomfortable in the presence of his senior army commander. Marshall was a man who intimidated almost everyone.

“Mr. President, I would like you to reconsider my request.”

How many times had the man asked and how many times have I turned him down, FDR wondered. The denial was Marshall’s own fault for doing such a splendid job in Washington as the army’s chief of staff.

“No, general, I cannot spare you. I don’t think I would sleep well if you weren’t here to guide me. I understand fully just how much you want a field command, but I need you here. We are still at war with the Japanese and we need you to coordinate and control those efforts as well as the likely coming war with Germany. You nominated Eisenhower to command the forces arrayed against the Nazis and we are both confident that he will do a fine job.”

Marshall knew he was whipped. His dream of leading an army in battle would not be fulfilled. He’d held a staff position in France during the first war, and performed brilliantly, but he’d never held a combat command and it ate at him.

Marshall, of course, totally agreed with Roosevelt’s assessment of Eisenhower. Ike might not be a great strategist, but his skills as an administrator and facilitator would prove invaluable. Not only would he have to deal with his own subordinates, but he would have to mollify the Canadians while their country was destroyed by a war that was none of their choosing. When the fighting began, it was more than likely that the British would also come into the fray. In particular, the Royal Navy ships now in the Chesapeake and elsewhere were commanded by the dashing and charismatic Admiral Sir Philip Vian, a man who also craved action. Vian was a fighting admiral and Marshall thought that would mean a lot with King. Marshall’s own sources told him that the Brits were chomping at the bit to storm out of their sanctuaries and take on the German U-boats.

Ironically, his own secretary of state disagreed. He felt that the potential food situation would keep the Brits on the sidelines until they felt it was safe. We shall see, the president thought.

The two men reviewed the command structure. Along the St. Clair and Detroit Rivers, Lieutenant General George S. Patton commanded the U.S. Third army which consisted of two corps of two divisions each. They were located inland from the city of Detroit and both the St. Clair and Detroit rivers and would not move into position until and if the Germans attacked. Both FDR and Marshall knew they might be excoriated by future historians for not moving preemptively. But an early move would tip off the Germans who would likely cancel their operations and wait for another and more propitious day. Such would result in even more American casualties. No, it was better to bite the bullet and wait for April 2.

A similar situation waited on the Buffalo-Niagara line. There the American Fifth Army, consisting of three corps of two divisions each, was commanded by Lieutenant General Lloyd Fredendall. Marshall was a strong supporter of Fredendall and was confident that he would do splendidly in battle with the Nazis. Marshall admitted that had heard the rumors that Fredendall was a swaggering braggart, but so was Patton. Even if one of his chosen commanders failed, there were others waiting in the wings, and those included people like Omar Bradley and Lucian Truscott.

FDR looked thoughtful. “Ten divisions will not be enough to conquer Canada, will it?”

Marshall stifled a grimace. How many times had they been over this point? The president had been very forgetful lately. The stress of his office must be getting to him. He hoped it wasn’t some other health-related problem. The nation needed FDR’s calming strength even though he sometimes drove Marshall crazy.

“No sir, but it should be more than enough to stifle a large German raid. We will need at least one more army group to properly invade and conquer Canada when the time comes. Those troops will begin to arrive as soon as war is declared.”

This point did not make the president happy. He’d gone to congress after the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor and rallied a nation. But would he be able to do it a second time? Wouldn’t the public wonder just how he could have been hoodwinked again? Yes, he’d get his war declared, but his reputation might just wind up in tatters if it was found out that he knew that the Germans would attack on April second and did nothing to head it off.

The expansion of the army in the American northeast would have one pleasant side effect. Dwight Eisenhower would soon be in command of the largest American army in the nation’s history, far eclipsing that commanded in the Pacific by the very annoying Douglas MacArthur. He wondered if MacArthur might want to return stateside and take over Ike’s forces. FDR decided that he would not allow that to happen. MacArthur was wrapping up the liberation of the Philippines. He’d declared victory even though more than fifty thousand Japanese soldiers were still active in the islands. No, he did not want MacArthur taking over and proclaiming he’d won with a German army still on North American soil.

Captain Heinrich Stahl waited nervously and wished he was back in the German embassy. The park bench was cold and damp, and he was uncomfortable with the White House in view across the street. It was a reminder that the United States was an undeclared enemy of Germany and he might soon be interned as a prisoner for a very long while. He thought that people were watching him and that police and Secret Service would soon run out and arrest him. They wouldn’t, of course. It was just his imagination running wild. And, even if he was questioned, he still had diplomatic immunity.

That it was raining lightly didn’t improve his mood. At least he hadn’t had to sit there all day to ensure that this particular bench was available for this rendezvous. He’d given that dubious honor to a very junior staffer who was now in the embassy trying to warm up with some Schnapps. Stahl was almost certain the meeting would be a waste of time, but almost certain was not absolutely certain.

He shivered and wondered how many FBI agents were watching him. He turned as a well-dressed and educated looking middle-aged man carrying a bag lunch approached cautiously. “May I sit here?” he said. “It’s a wonderful view of the White House.”

“Of course, it’s as pretty as a postcard.”

The banal dialog identified each to the other. “As I stated in my letter, I have a proposition for you,” the older man said after he settled himself and looked around.

They all do, Stahl thought. “First, who are you and why should I listen to you?”

The poor fool looked surprised and Stahl couldn’t help but be amazed at the man’s naivete. Didn’t he expect to be interrogated? Of course he already knew who the man was, but Stahl would never let on.

“Sir, I am a scientist working for an intelligence gathering operation outside Washington in a place called Camp Washington. We have many secrets and I would like to trade a very important one for a way out of the United States.”

Stahl decided to be firm. Despite an arrogant and calm facade, the man’s hands were shaking. He was so frightened that he might be bullied into giving away more information than he’d planned.

“Why?”

“I am in trouble, woman trouble. A young lady, an Italian no less, is going to claim that I am the father of her bastard child and that will destroy my reputation as a scientist at Camp Washington, as well as gravely angering my wife. She can be very vile at times. My life here will have no purpose or meaning; therefore, I would like to return to Europe.”

Stahl had a hard time not laughing. The sanctimonious old fart had used his cock instead of his brain. “Are you the child’s father?”

“I don’t believe that’s important,” the man said stiffly, confirming the fact that he was.

“Then what’s your name?”

“Langford Morris, Ph.D., and I’ve been working on breaking Germany’s codes.”

Another one, Stahl thought. Perhaps he’ll also claim to have invented an anti-gravity machine. “I presume you’re going to tell me that German codes have been compromised, broken, and that the Americans know all our secrets.”

“I am. I will even tell you that the Americans know that you will attack on April second.”

“First of all, Dr. Langford, far too many people suspect that April second will be the day of the attack, which means that it isn’t that much of a secret. It is entirely likely that the Americans have already gotten the information and are trying to decide if it is true. Since they appear to have done nothing about it, there is little likelihood that they believe their good fortune, if indeed it is true.”

Stahl stood and laughed harshly. “And as to your laughable assertion that the Americans have broken our codes, let me assure you that they have not. Our codes have so many millions of variables that they cannot be deciphered by our enemies, as you doubtless know, although I am also certain that they are trying very hard to do so. Let them. They will accomplish nothing other than to waste their time.”

Langford looked at Stahl in disbelief. “I assure you I am telling the truth.”

“Doctor, you are a liar and a fraud. I am not going to go to any effort to get you out of the United States so you can escape your responsibilities. Good day, sir.”

Stahl walked briskly back to his car and the short drive to the embassy. It was a shame he had to suffer fools, but it was part of the job. With Langford put in his place, Stahl was content that he could spend the rest of his time preparing for war.

Across the park and sitting cozily on another bench across from Stahl and Langford, Captain Art Baldwin of the Pentagon Provost Marshal’s office sat with Alicia Cutter. Even though she’d only seen him a couple of times, her job was to positively identify Langford. Although she didn’t think Langford would have recognized her, she covered her blond hair with a dark wig and covered it all with a scarf. Never take a chance, Baldwin had said and she agreed. His arm was around her shoulders and her head rested on his. To the world they were just another pair of lovers finding a private moment.

Instead, they were listening to the conversation between Stahl and Langford that was being broadcast from a microphone under the bench the two men occupied. Their conversation was being transcribed on a wire recorder, and a couple of stenographers were taking down the dialog.

“I think we can get up now,” Alicia said. Baldwin was married but it seemed that he was enjoying the situation a little more than was necessary. He was cute, but not as cute as Tom Grant.

“Darn,” Baldwin said with an unrepentant grin.

“Now tell me again why we didn’t involve the FBI.”

“Because it’s an army problem and there will be an army solution. Also, what was being discussed is top secret and the FBI has a tendency to leak things to the press, especially if it makes the bureau look good. The last thing we need is for some cheesy columnist like Walter Winchell telling the world that we’re trying to break Germany’s sacred codes.”

“So, have we broken their codes or not?”

“How would I know — you’re the one who works there. So what is happening at Camp Washington?”

“Well, I’m not important enough to know secrets, although I think it’s highly unlikely we’ve broken any major codes. I do know that we are working hard on it, but what that German said about millions of variables is correct. Even if we should somehow manage to translate a coded message it might be months after the fact and be totally useless by that time. Langford was trying to feather his nest. What is going to happen to him?”

They’d walked to a staff car. Baldwin opened the doors and they both got in. “I think he’ll be warned and watched. His career is effectively over, although he won’t be arrested or charged with anything. Nobody will want any possible publicity. When we play the recording for him, he’ll probably crap.”

Alicia smiled warmly. “I’d love to be there to see that. Please make sure that he acknowledges his paternity and pays Aggie’s bills. She’s now in a home for unwed mothers and, when the baby is delivered, she’ll be discharged from the army. It won’t be honorable, which doesn’t seem fair, but maybe it’s the best thing.”

“Nothing’s ever fair, lieutenant, especially in the army. You did do the right thing with this Langford creep. Now you can go back to your major and tell him what a great day you had.”

“Thanks. What will happen to Stahl?”

“Probably nothing, although I’d like to see him sent home. I think he’s up to no good. However, he did refuse Langford’s proposal and he does have diplomatic immunity. Yeah, we could send him back to Germany and then they’d send one of ours back here in a diplomatic tit for tat. Nah, this Stahl guy will get to stay, at least for the time being.

Admiral Sir Philip Vian stood on the bridge of his flagship, the battleship King George V. It was the second ship named after Britain’s beloved king. Unlike American ships where the bridge was enclosed, Royal Navy warships were open to the wind and Vian liked that. At least he liked it most of the time, he thought with a smile as he recalled some frigid days in the North Atlantic.

The battleship, Vian reluctantly admitted, was as obsolescent as the British Empire. The Americans had bigger and mightier battleships, as did what remained of the Royal Navy after being bled by the German navy, the Kriegsmarine.

The fifty-nine year old Vian had chosen the King George V because he liked the ship and her history. She had been instrumental in the sinking of the German super battleship, the Bismarck, in May of 1941. Even though she displaced forty-two thousand tons, the King George V was slightly under-gunned with only ten fourteen-inch cannon. Most modern battleships carried sixteen-inch guns and many of the older ones carried fifteen-inchers. Vian wasn’t concerned since it was highly unlikely that she’d be fighting other battleships. Germany’s fleet of capital ships consisted entirely of the admittedly mighty Tirpitz and two much smaller battleships, the Scharnhorst and the Gneisnau. No, the battleship was now the escort to the carrier, not the other way around.

He was sadly confident that no battleship would be named after King George VI, the current monarch, no matter how beloved he was. Vian was certain that the Royal Navy would build no more of the giant battlewagons.

Vian wanted to fight and the long months of waiting in the Chesapeake for war between the U.S. and Germany to break out had been hell on his nerves. He understood the American position and appreciated the fact that the Yanks had provided shelter and succor for his ships and their crews. He further understood that it would have been awkward at best for the United States to have permitted the Royal Navy ships to steam to the Pacific to fight the Japanese, even though both nations were at war with them. At one time, the Royal Navy’s presence would have been welcome, but the Americans appeared to have the Japanese navy well in hand. Of course, his handful of aircraft carriers would have acquitted themselves well against Japanese suicide planes because of their armored decks. That armor, however, weighted down the carriers, which meant they carried fewer planes than the American ships.

When war came, if it ever came he thought angrily, the carriers, escorted by battleships and cruisers would seek out and destroy the growing horde of German U-boats.

However, the situation was changing. Tonight’s dinner on Vian’s flagship would be a very significant signal of that. Admiral Ernest King, Chief of Naval Operations, would be his guest at dinner tonight. Tall, lean, abrasive, hard-drinking, womanizing, and rude, King appreciated the danger Germany presented. Despite the rage King felt by the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, he’d come to see Hitler as the ultimate enemy. Japan would be defeated soon, although the Japanese seemed to be hell bent on committing national suicide before they did and dragging the United States into a monumental bloodbath.

Dinner with King was intended to present Vian’s wishes and hopes that, when war started, America would support the Royal Navy’s sorties out into the Atlantic. It galled Vian to admit it, but the Royal Navy was totally dependent on American good will for food, fuel, and even ammunition.

He was also concerned that the still-functioning government in London would order him to stay put so as not to upset the Germans and cause them to retaliate.

Vian was reasonably confident that he could win over the crusty Anglophobic admiral. He had a secret weapon with which to charm the irascible King — liquor. It was served on Royal Navy ships.

Now all he had to do was convince London to turn him loose when the time came.

Deputy sheriff Wally Curran hated squatters. Since the Depression, they’d been a bloody damn nuisance. He sympathized with the fact that many of them had lost homes and jobs, but that didn’t mean they could go around taking over other people’s property. It was stealing, no matter how you sugar-coated it. Thus, when the report of a bunch of strangers hunkered down at a hunting cabin came in he decided to check it out.

The county’s five year old Chevy patrol car creaked and banged down the rutted dirt road like something important was going to fall off, making Curran realize that he might have made a mistake. He was just too old for this kind of shit. He’d been retired for several years when he was asked to fill in for one of the younger guys who’d been called to active duty in the army. Curran was as patriotic as the next man, so how could he refuse? He was too old to serve in the army, but he could take the place of a man who could. Hell, if his old boss, Sheriff Charley Canfield could serve, so could he, although in a different manner.

The phoned-in report said that a small group of men had taken over a hunting cabin about ten miles from where he was when he got the report. Since it wasn’t hunting season for anything, it meant that they could be poachers. Under any circumstances, it was highly unlikely that the men had a right to be in that cabin. There was a slight possibility that the owners, a family who lived in New Jersey, had loaned out the cabin to some men for a week of drinking and card-playing away from work and wives, but he thought that was unlikely. However, if the guys were indeed legit, he’d tell them to enjoy themselves and drive on.

Curran had given thought to asking for backup, but the department was short-staffed and, what the hell, if he couldn’t scare a handful of drifters into leaving someone else’s premises, he didn’t deserve a badge. His real concern was that the squad car would break down leaving him in the woods until he could be rescued by other deputies who would laugh their asses off at his predicament. Well, his radio worked and headquarters knew where he was. It would be embarrassing, but not a disaster.

At least the roads had been plowed, he thought. The latest round of snow blown in from Lake Erie had been pushed to the sides of the roads. He turned off the main road and drove up a gravel driveway to the small white wooden cabin. A battered pickup truck was parked a few yards away from the building. A couple of men got up and looked at him. They didn’t seem too concerned, which surprised Curran. Now, where were the others? The report said there were at least four men.

Curran got out awkwardly. His hip was killing him. “Okay, boys, who are you and what’re you doing here?”

The two men looked at each other and said nothing. Curran began to get angry. He did not like smartasses giving him the silent treatment. “Enough. Now answer my question.”

Two other men, each carrying military style rifles that Curran recognized as Mausers entered from the woods to his left. The first two men seemed relieved, while Curran began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Damn it, maybe he should have radioed in for backup and just sat tight until it arrived.

Curran stared at one man who was being deferred to by the others while shifting his hand towards the holstered revolver at his side. “Who gave you authority to be here?” he asked.

“I gave it to myself,” the man said in accented English as he swung his rifle and fired. The bullet hit Curran in the chest, knocking him on his back. The pain was intense and he couldn’t breathe. His vision began to fade.

“I’m sorry,” the shooter said coldly. “You are brave but very foolish. This will make it faster.” The shooter stood over him and fired again, this time into Curran’s skull.

The leader of the group calmly lowered his rifle and spoke in German to his men. “Drag him far into the woods. Then drive that car into the woods as well. It’s time to pack up and leave. He will be missed and other policemen will be here before long. Now move.”

“A thought, captain,” said the oldest of the three other men.

Captain Albers smiled tolerantly. He and Sergeant Gorbach went back a long ways, even to the frozen suburbs of Moscow where Albers had lost a couple of toes to frostbite. “I have never been able to stop you from speaking your thoughts, sergeant.”

“Then may I suggest stripping the policeman’s body and dumping the corpse in the woods a few miles from here. I would also suggest putting the uniform and the car someplace where we can find them. Who knows, both might come in handy.”

Albers nodded agreement. A local police car and a uniformed driver might just prove useful.

“As always, an excellent idea, sergeant. I think it might be at least a couple of hours before the local police either miss this man or can even come out here.”

Albers gave quick orders to disassemble their priceless radio and load everything else, uniforms and weapons, into the truck. His men were all veterans and they moved with swift efficiency. Within minutes they were driving down the road with the squad car following. The half-naked body of the unfortunate Deputy Curran was in the trunk. Gorbach had even shoveled dirt and snow over where the policeman had bled onto the ground. With a little luck, other policemen might think that their comrade hadn’t even been the cabin. That would buy them some time and they didn’t need all that much to disappear into the woods.

Albers had four other teams in the area awaiting final orders, and he would join with one of them and await the day they were turned loose on the Americans.

General Heinz Guderian eagerly accepted the invitation to meet with von Arnim for dinner at his headquarters. He’d been out in the field inspecting troops and trying to stay out of von Arnim’s way while he prepared for the coming battles. It wasn’t easy. Guderian had a large number of suggestions he hoped he’d be able to make. He had to admit, however, that von Arnim had done a solid, professional job of preparing his growing army for the monumental task ahead.

Von Arnim greeted him cordially and, after an excellent dinner featuring the quality of steak long since unavailable in Germany, the two men sat across from each other on large leather chairs. A fire burned in a fireplace as they enjoyed their brandies.

Von Arnim spoke first. “Tell me, in your opinion approximately how many people know the attack will take place on April second?”

“Of necessity, dozens, perhaps more. The closer we get to the target date the number will grow and grow. It has to. Our men have to be prepared.”

“Yes, and that number will begin to include junior officers and enlisted men until practically the whole army will know the secret. And if they know it, the Americans will surely find out if they haven’t done so already.”

“But will they know or merely suspect?” Guderian asked. “Apparently the Americans had some warning of the attack on Pearl Harbor and chose to ignore the possibility. Stalin had some foreknowledge of our attack on the Soviet Union in 1941, but he too ignored it. Both countries chose to adhere to their preconceived notions and the results were disastrous. Will the Americans act on their suspicions and attack preemptively? I certainly would. However, they will not.”

Von Arnim laughed. “As would any reasonable man. The Americans are not always reasonable, however. Their military and political focus is on the destruction of Japan. Based on intelligence from our embassy in Washington, the American government wishes that any German problem will go away. I agree that they will not move preemptively. It goes against their absurd sense of morality.”

“Even so, you are not comfortable, are you?”

“No, I am not. Do you recall when I said that the time for the attacks could not be changed? Well, I didn’t quite tell the truth. The Fuhrer gave me some latitude in the matter. While I could not attack any later than April second if I wished to retain my rank and my head, I could accelerate the timetable. Today is Tuesday, the twenty-first of March. We will attack on Saturday, the twenty-fifth, only four more days from now.”

Guderian lifted his glass in salute. “Excellent. Now, how many of your men know of the new date?”

Von Arnim grinned in satisfaction. “Counting you, less than a score and all of them are sworn to secrecy. All commands have been ready in all aspects for several days and all have been told to commence hostilities at or after midnight on hearing the code word. The word, by the way, is Grendel, the name of the monster from Beowulf.” He sighed happily, “I always liked that tale.”

“As do I,” said Guderian. He was pleased. The April second date had been bandied around just a little too much for his comfort. The Americans had a phrase — Loose Lips Sink Ships — and he felt that loose lips also destroyed tanks and killed soldiers.

“Of course, not everyone will get the word,” added von Arnim. “In particular, I doubt if the men we’ve planted deep in the United States will all get the message of the change. They will begin their war on April second or any time after the twenty-fifth of March when they realize it has commenced. Who knows, staggering our efforts might just be more effective.”

“What about Neumann, the Gestapo, and the Black Shirts?”

“The Gestapo will recover. Neumann will be angry for a while, but my orders come directly from Adolf Hitler. He will not question them. As to his Black Shirt Brigade, they can all rot in hell for all I care.”

Wally and Jed Munro let their men stretch and get ready. There was a full squad of Black Shirts with them, and they were excited at finally being let off the leash. For too long they felt they hadn’t been permitted to hurt either the enemies of the Reich or those Canadians who hated the Black Shirts. The racially mongrel population of Toronto had begun to make fun of them because of their inactivity, and that was intolerable. They’d even lost a few of the brawls that had taken place. The Munro’s were beginning to lose both heart and manpower as several of the Black Shirts simply quit.

Now they were looking forward to both revenge and fun. They had parked down the dirt road and behind some trees so they could not be seen from the two story Victorian house located in a rural area just outside the city boundaries of Toronto. The house was the home of Steve and Sherry Piper, brother and sister, and they were suspected of printing and disseminating anti-Nazi propaganda. Neumann wanted them shut down, but he didn’t want the Gestapo directly involved, not after the uproar surrounding the ship taking the Jews to Germany. The Munros still didn’t understand all the concern about a bunch of kikes on a boat.

Jed nudged Wally and grinned wickedly. “Brother and sister? Hell, I’ll bet they’re doing each other.”

Several of the others heard and laughed. Yes, it would be good to kick the Jew lovers until they squealed. They knew little about the Pipers except that she was thirty and he was in his mid-twenties and that they were both single. If Neumann wanted them punished, that was fine with the Black Shirts. Hell, maybe they actually were doing each other.

Neither of the Munro brothers was a stranger to incest and molestation. Their father had abused them until they were old enough to strike back at him and make it stick. They didn’t mourn when he fell into a sewage pond on the Don River that was so filthy that no one wanted to go in and rescue him. When somebody finally did pull him out, he was dead. No big loss, they thought.

Wally gave a signal and the dozen men charged the house. A sledgehammer crumpled the front door and they surged in, yelling and brandishing baseball bats and clubs. Only the two Munros carried guns. Neumann wanted no killing unless it couldn’t be avoided.

The Pipers were in their kitchen and, sure enough, there was a small printing press and a stack of paper. “What the hell’s going on here,” snapped Steve Piper in a show of bravado that was cut short by a punch to the gut. It doubled him over and he puked his guts all over the floor. The sister screamed and another stomach punch shut her up as well.

While the Pipers lay on the floor and writhed in pain, Wally saw to it that their hands and feet were bound tightly. The other men carried the press outside and systematically smashed it.

“She’s not that pretty,” said Jed. “But it is pussy.”

Wally disagreed. Even though scared, she was attractive enough and had a decent figure. He wondered if she really was fucking her brother.

Wally began to beat the brother while his sister moaned and begged him to stop. Neumann had taught him well, so his blows were designed to cause agony rather than break bones or cripple. Tomorrow, Wally thought happily, Steve Piper would be a wreck who’d be bleeding and pissing blood for weeks, and whose face would be so swollen not even his mother would recognize him. But he would be alive and the message would be delivered — fuck with the Black Shirts and this is what happens.

“Enough,” Wally said. He grabbed Sherry Piper and dragged her into a first floor bedroom. He threw her on the bed and, while Jed held her down, cut off her clothes with his razor-sharp hunting knife. She screamed in anger and pain when he raped her and then it was Jed’s turn.

When the brothers were through, they let the others in their crew have their turns, “Only once each,” Jed admonished them with a smirk, “we don’t want her dead.” Only a couple of the Shirts took them up on the offer. The woman was too bloody.

They finished their evening by breaking everything in the house. They untied both Pipers and left them to console each other. The Black Shirts, satisfied and sated, went back to their trucks. Wally and Jed looked forward to a pleasant evening of beer and discussions of what they’d accomplished.

Wally was just getting in the passenger side of his truck when a shot rang out. One of his men howled and fell to the ground, grabbing his thigh where blood began to gush out. A second shot and a bullet ricochet off the truck. “Down,” Wally yelled and no one needed urging. Where the hell had the shots come from?

Shit. A line of men could be seen in the moonlight crossing the field towards them and it looked they all had rifles. A couple of them knelt and fired. Another Black Shirt fell — a bullet had ripped through his skull. Damn it, Wally thought, why hadn’t Neumann let them carry more weapons? He pulled out his pistol and fired a couple of shots in the general direction of his attackers. They paused and it was enough. The Munros got their ragged and bloodied caravan on the road and headed back towards the safety of Toronto. Both brothers were mad. Instead of teaching the Pipers and others like them a lesson, it looked like the Black Shirts had been the ones whipped. Sure they had beaten and fucked the Pipers, but one of Wally’s men was dead and another was likely going to die since they couldn’t stop the bleeding from his leg.

FDR looked in dismay at the brief one page report from Camp Washington. “When did we get this?”

“It arrived at Camp Washington a couple of days ago,” General Marshall admitted. “It didn’t seem too important at first, just a change in a schedule, so it wasn’t pushed to the front of the line until someone recognized its significance. Still, we have plenty of time to do something if that’s what you desire.”

“But what do we desire?” Roosevelt said slowly.

It was difficult for him to speak at times like this and he was feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The stress of an unprecedented three presidential terms and the thought of a fourth one were preying on his mind. Worse, were the decisions he would have to make. The message on his desk seemed to stare back at him, daring him to do something.

“Can you confirm it?”

“As well as we can confirm anything,” Marshall said. “The message is from Keitel and is directed only to von Arnim.”

Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel was head of the OKW, Germany’s supreme military command. It was understood that he was a puppet for Hitler and that anything coming from Keitel came from the Fuhrer.

Roosevelt wheeled his chair so he could look out the window of the Oval Office. The trees were beginning to come to life. Another day and it would have been beautiful.

“So the bastards are going to attack a week early, damn them. Yet you still recommend we do nothing about it, general?”

Marshall looked at the president. His features were iron. The president was trying to shift responsibility and he didn’t blame him. Still, they both knew that the ultimate decision would be Roosevelt’s.

“I do. If we do anything now to prepare for an earlier attack, the Germans might find out and then they’ll know that we have broken their codes and are reading their messages. If that happens, they will change them and we will be in the dark for God knows how long. We must keep our secret no matter how painful it might be. Just remember Coventry, sir.”

More than five hundred English civilians had been killed in Coventry during a German bombing raid in November, 1940. The English had foreknowledge of the raid yet had let it take place. They could not run the risk of divulging the fact that they had broken Germany’s codes, the same codes that Americans and British were reading at Camp Washington. Hundreds had died in Coventry, but how many thousands had survived and how many more would survive because the secret was kept?

The devil, Roosevelt thought. Did it matter very much if the attack took place on April 2 or March 25? The commitment had already been made. The United States had to be seen as being attacked and absorbing the first blow. He hoped to God that his terrible secret wouldn’t come out, until, at least, after the fall elections. He didn’t want a fourth term, but who else could lead the nation? Henry Wallace? Dear God no. His vice president was a complete ass.

He wadded the piece of paper and threw it in the trash. “I never received any such message, general. And God help us all.”

Major Charley Canfield laughed, itself a rarity in these stressful days. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. I must admit you look a hell of a lot better than you did the first time I laid eyes on you, what with your pecker all frozen and blue.”

“As the saying goes, I clean up well.”

He and Tom shook hands and the two men sat down. The each took a cup of the viscous tar that passed for army coffee. They were in a tent that served as Canfield’s office.

“So what is a spy from the Pentagon doing up here?” Canfield asked, just a little cautiously.

“Spying,” Tom responded facetiously. “Seriously, several of us are up here just trying to get a feel for the situation. Even General Truscott is having a sit down with your man Fredendall.”

Canfield rolled his eyes. “I wish Truscott well.”

“Really?” Tom and others had heard a lot of rumors about the general.

“Fredendall is, well, a truly unique individual. He’s digging in and waiting for a massive German assault. He’s turned his headquarters into a citadel defended by a whole battalion.”

Tom was surprised. “Didn’t he get the word that we consider it very unlikely that the Nazis will do anything but launch raids?”

“Let’s just say he talks a good fight but it looks like he’s actually very cautious. If the Germans do attack in any strength, we’ll have a hell of a time getting to them because of the way he’s got the army dug in. Mine is just about the only unit with any mobility and that’s because we’ve got all those radar units to protect and that ain’t going too well either.”

“Why is that?”

“Because our orders are to keep patrolling the roads and stay out of the woods. Even though I lost one of my civilian cops to possible Nazis doesn’t get those orders changed. We don’t have enough men to search the woods, or that’s what I was told. Bullshit if you ask me.”

Canfield went on to explain how a replacement deputy went missing and how his body was subsequently found when somebody noticed a flock of crows congregating a little ways off the road and got curious.

“Deputy Curran’s body was a mess. He’d been shot twice and the birds and animals had been feeding on him for a while. Back at the place he’d gone to check, one of my brighter cops brought a dog that sniffed out what might be blood that had been covered by dirt. He sent a bag of the dirt to the local high school so that one of the science teachers could examine it and see if it actually was blood. It was and it was even Curran’s blood type. Curran’s uniform and squad car are missing, too. Curran was an old fart who’d retired and came back to serve. I want to kill the bastards who killed him.”

“Christ,” said Tom. “Even a blind man could see where either would be hugely useful to any saboteurs.”

“Now it’s my turn. Just how good are the rumors that April second is the day?”

“As good as anything. In Washington, there are more rumors than there are people, but April the second seems to be the consensus. Endeavors like starting a war take a lot of time and planning and coordination, and that involves letting people in on the secret. And that, of course means people talk.”

Canfield shook his head in disbelief. “So they talk and we listen? Great. Any chance of us good guys launching a first strike to knock them on their fucking keesters?”

“The chances of that are zero. If we hit first, then we’re the bad guys, just like the Japs were at Pearl Harbor.”

“Not even if it saves lives? American lives? Jesus wept, what a way to run a war.”

Tom shrugged. “I’m just the messenger, not the message. These things are always decided way above my pay grade.”

“Could it be because somebody wants to run for a fourth term?”

“Nothing would surprise me. I know a nice young lady who likes me. She used to be a schoolteacher before she became a WAC officer and, even though some Canadian Nazis tried to kill her, she thinks it would be terrible to strike first. Oh yeah, she also feels that FDR would be making a big mistake to run again.”

Canfield had heard the story of the attack and was impressed. He’d also read a report saying that Grant had been involved in the freeing of the Jews from the Beaufort. Grant and his girlfriend, he thought, seemed to get around. “She’s probably right on both counts. She’s also probably too good for you.”

“I just hope she never finds out.”

Tom checked his watch and stood. A C47 would be taking off from Buffalo for Washington in an hour. Truscott would be on board and, if the general was on time, the plane would not wait for any lowly major who wasn’t there. Tom had made one trip from Buffalo where he’d had to scramble and didn’t want a second. He told Canfield to use the remainder of the coffee to repair the local roads. It was time to go and he would be on the plane before Truscott showed up.

As he drove off, Tom could not help but wonder if everything was being done. Why weren’t American soldiers being used to chase down what were probably Nazis instead of digging in against an attack that wasn’t going to come? It didn’t make sense. Was Fredendall going to sit back and be a punching bag when he could be out scouring the woods for the bad guys?

On a happier note, he had more than a week to grab some time with Alicia.

The rivalry between army intelligence and the OSS was intense, almost as intense as that between the army and the navy, and despite what the president had done to calm the troubled waters. General Marshall hated the necessity of speaking with OSS head Wild Bill Donovan, but he buried his pride. Nothing less than American blood was at stake.

The two men met in a small room at the venerable Hay Adams Hotel where each had ostensibly gone for lunch with others. As neutral sites went, it was a good one and nothing the media or other rumor mongers would notice.

At first, Donovan was shocked, then hurt, that his friend Roosevelt would cut him out of the loop regarding the change of the date for the German attack. However, he calmed quickly.

“Obviously, you want something from me,” he said to Marshall.

“I want an excuse to alert my troops at the last minute in order to save lives while still keeping the secret of Ultra. Is there anything your people have discovered that would help? Have there been any significant troop movements, anything? I cannot abide the thought of our troops being attacked without at least having a chance to get to their weapons. I don’t want anything like Pearl Harbor. Even an excuse that would give us a few minutes and not give away our secrets would save countless lives. And, by the way, I know I am speaking for Admiral King as well.”

Marshall laughed harshly and continued. “I’ve even gone so far as to issue another War Warning, but that was several weeks ago. Human nature being what it is I’m sure that many are beginning to think that any threat is fading and that life will go back to normal. Of course, I did make sure every unit got it and hammered home the fact that it applied to everyone, no matter how far they might be from the Canadian border. To the best of my ability, there will be none of that it can’t happen to me mentality.”

“I rather think that attitude disappeared after Pearl Harbor. However, I’ll do what I can,” Donovan said softly. He shared Marshall’s anguish at the thought of defenseless Americans being slaughtered. “We have people monitoring airfields and army emplacements. Right now, we see nothing; however, that could change in a heartbeat. Do you agree that any initial attack will come from the air?”

“I do, although I also believe that follow-up attacks will come from ground forces and saboteurs. German submarines will, of course, do their own evil work.”

“Good. We will focus on watching the Luftwaffe. Right now, major German army and tank units are still well away from the border, but emplacements to hold them have been built just inside Canada. Right now, they are empty, but they could be filled with soldiers and tanks in very short order.”

“Give me anything that would legitimize an alert.”

“You’ll have it as soon as I do. We will agree on a code word. Why don’t we use the word ‘Lexington’ in honor of the Revolutionary War battle?”

“Excellent.”

Donovan smiled. “Now, would you like to know what we think the Russians are up to?”

Chapter Ten

Alicia hadn’t wanted to go to the ladies room with her friend Rosemary Poole any more than she’d wanted to have dinner with her and her date. But they had run into each other while waiting for a table at the crowded restaurant and she had little choice.

Now, instead of a quiet and intimate dinner for two, she and Tom were stuck in an unwelcome foursome. At least it got them a table earlier than other couples who were stuck waiting in line. Rosemary also was a WAC lieutenant who supervised clerks at Camp Washington, and her boyfriend was an overweight and self-important quartermaster captain named Stan. “The army runs on its belly,” he’d said, “and we aim to keep that belly full.” Tom rolled his eyes at that conceit while Alicia stifled a giggle.

Alicia wondered where it was written that women had to be accompanied to the john in the first place. Two guys never went together. They’d get arrested and probably beaten up if they did.

The two women sat alone in front of the mirrors and Rosemary added more lipstick than was necessary. Alicia thought it would soon be smeared all over Rosemary’s and Stan’s faces if not other parts of their bodies. It was a reminder that she should keep her own to a minimum unless they wanted to look like clowns by the end of the evening.

She and Tom had signaled each other that it was time to leave. This evening they would have a modicum of privacy. They would be dog-sitting at Colonel Downing’s place while they went to some retirement function for an over-the-hill major at Fort Meade. The colonel and Missy wouldn’t be home until about midnight. They could stay all night if they wished, although Missy insisted that they would have to be in separate rooms. Alicia wondered how firm that rule was.

Rosemary sighed as she placed her lipstick in her purse. “Is Tom as sex-crazed as Stan?”

The blunt question surprised and amused her. “I don’t know. Just how crazed is Stan?”

“We’ve got to do it every time we go out. If we don’t screw, he wants me to interesting things with my mouth. Ever do that? No, I guess you quiet types never have. As the old saying goes, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. At least no one ever got pregnant from doing it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alicia said. At least she knew that the proper term was fellatio.

“Seriously, Alicia, don’t go prudish on me. I know I’m not the best looking girl in the world. I’m not anywhere near you in the looks department, so I can’t be choosy. If Stan wants it, he’s going to get it. Besides, we could all be dead in a very short time and that especially means all these great guys could be in a grave somewhere. I do not want to become an old woman without having experienced life and love and, yeah, I complain about him, but I do love Stanley. And since I do love him, I don’t mind doing whatever he wants.” She giggled, “Actually, I’ve kinda grown to like it.”

Alicia wondered if Aggie Fanelli had ever thought of that. Probably not, she decided. After all, Alicia hadn’t been certain what fellatio was until she went to college, and that was not the term her friends used. She’d told her roommates that she would never ever do such a thing. They’d asked what if she truly loved the guy, and she did admit to wondering. She laughed to herself thinking how proud her parents would be of the truly liberal education she was getting both in college and as an officer in the army.

So far she and Tom hadn’t gone any farther than some high school type petting. Although very pleasurable, it was frustrating for both of them. Privacy was the problem. They’d even gone to a place where a lot of young couples made out in cars, but they’d been chased off by unsympathetic city cops. What really hurt was when one cop told them they were too old for that crap. Enough, they would go to the Downings’ and dog sit.

An hour later, she and Tom were seated on a couch in the Downing’s finished basement. The old Labrador they were ostensibly sitting was asleep in the colonel’s bedroom, snoring and farting. Alicia lay across his chest and his arms were around her. They’d kissed several times, each with increasing passion, and Alicia called a halt to catch her breath and maybe her control.

Tom kissed her ear. “Do you think we should get married?”

The question did not surprise her. Things happened quickly in wartime when there was no time to spare. She’d been giving a lot of thought to the possibility of spending four or five decades with Tom and liked the idea. She also realized they could be together for a much shorter period of time because of the war. Did she want to be a war widow? No. Did she want to spend the rest of her life wondering at what might have been? No.

“I don’t want to be a war widow,” she said sadly.

“All joking aside, I don’t want that either. But I’d at least like there to be some time for us together, rather than nothing at all. Nothing’s certain in this life. If we waited until the war was over, we might be very old, and then get hit by lightning, and that would be a terrible waste.”

She shifted so they could kiss more comfortably, which they did. She sighed as he unbuttoned the demure collar of her dress and gently slipped his hand down and inside her bra. She’d only recently begun letting him do this, and it was as far as she’d ever gone with a man. She loved the way he caressed her breasts and nipples. She wanted him to go farther, but should they?

Tom slipped his other hand under her dress and above her knee. With girdle, garters, stockings, and panties, she thought he was going to be challenged by a terrible obstacle course, but she decided she’d let him do whatever he wished. Correction, whatever she wished, and right now she wanted him to go a lot farther.

A flash of light played across the basement window. The Downings were home. Shit, she thought as they got up, straightened their clothing and went upstairs. She hoped Tom’s erection would recede before somebody else noticed.

“You’d both be better off staying here tonight,” the colonel said as he threw his cap on the kitchen table. “They closed down the party and MPs are all over the place, checking IDs and generally making a nuisance of themselves. I don’t know if this is some kind of drill or something has happened to stir them up, but it took me an hour to get here. Tomorrow’s Saturday and, Tom, I will want you at the Pentagon first thing in the morning. Alicia, you’ll be better off waiting here as well. Missy can provide you with something to sleep in.”

They both agreed and Missy gave them separate rooms at the end of the hallway. Tom couldn’t help but notice that the colonel and his wife slept at the other end. He wondered what would happen if he made the short trip to Alicia’s bedroom? Would she have the door locked? Damn, that would be disappointing. But would she unlock it for him? He stripped down to his skivvies and slipped under the covers. He didn’t know what to do. Maybe he’d come up with a brilliant idea after thinking about it for a while. More likely he wouldn’t. This was not the type of tactical maneuver they discussed in the army’s advanced training courses for officers.

He caught the slightest hint of sound and motion. The doorknob was turning. He held his breath as the door opened and Alicia slipped in. She was wearing a nightgown that barely came to mid-thigh and was probably Missy’s. The cloth was very thin and he could see the outline of her nipples and pubic hair against it. She smiled tentatively.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” he managed to whisper.

She slid in beside him and they kissed passionately, then ferociously. In an instant both his skivvies and her nightgown were on the floor and their arms and legs were entwined.

“I think we’ve both waited too long for this,” she said, “and you’re right, we could all be dead tomorrow.”

“Or we could be married next week,” he said as his hands caressed the moist softness between her thighs. She giggled softly and returned the favor, stroking him.

When he entered her, she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out and awakening the Downings. It wouldn’t have mattered. Both the colonel and Missy were awake and laughing softly. Missy had checked and seen that Alicia’s door was open.

“How many times do you think they’ll do it tonight?” Missy asked. There had been no MPs checking IDs and there was no real reason for Tom to go to the office in the morning. The retirement party had been a complete bore and they’d decided on this strategy while driving home.

“I’d say eight or ten. Just like our first night.”

“Dreamer,” she said as her hand slid down his belly. “Do you think you could manage once tonight before you go off to war in the morning?”

The stinging blow landed on Koenig’s face with startling suddenness. He recoiled and instinctively began to react to defend himself. Then he got hold of his senses just as the second slap snapped his head around.

“Bastard,” screamed Neumann. His eyes were wide with rage and spittle ran down from his mouth. “You fucking bastard.”

Koenig stepped far enough away so that he was out of range of another swing of Neumann’s arm. He would say nothing. He would endure whatever the Gestapo commander decided was punishment for Koenig’s delivering unwelcome news. Neumann still had the power of life and death over him and even the unwelcome news Koenig had delivered hadn’t changed that.

“Whose idea was it and who decided to keep everything a secret from me? Was it von Arnim or was it Guderian? Damn it, it was probably both of them, wasn’t it, Koenig?”

Koenig said nothing. He hoped that Neumann’s rage would play itself out fairly soon. He could endure the pain with ease, but the shame of being slapped like a child by a cretin like Neumann was something he could only take for so long. He had been one of the few privy to the change and that was only because he now worked so closely with General Guderian. And, despite the physical punishment, he quietly enjoyed Neumann being put in his place. The military would run the war, not the damned Gestapo.

Neumann sat behind his desk and breathed deeply. “You just told me that the war would begin in a few hours, not another week as was planned. Did your generals give any thought as to how I am to contact my people? While some might be ready to move, most are probably enjoying a last Saturday night by getting drunk.”

Koenig agreed but said nothing like that. “I would like to leave now. Do you have a response to the message?”

Neumann smiled wickedly. “Tell them that if this operation fails, they will be in Dachau or some other lovely place for the rest of their lives if they are lucky. As for you, I can see that my discomfiture pleases you. If you are lucky you will be hanged by your neck with piano wire around your throat and with your toes barely grazing the ground so that death is both agonizing and extended. Now get the hell out of here.”

Colonel Downing had been wrong. Instead of a quiet Saturday afternoon and evening, the various staffs had been quietly assembled in the Pentagon. Something called Operation Lexington was about to commence. Everyone was puzzled since nobody had ever heard of Operation Lexington. It was nearly midnight when a white-faced General Truscott assembled them in a conference room.

“Gentlemen,” we now have serious reason to believe that the Germans will attack tonight and not next week. OSS observers and others have seen the Luftwaffe preparing large numbers of planes for what looks like an assault. They’ve never done that before and it can only mean that they are serious. The Germans are also moving battalion sized units towards the Detroit area and larger units have begun moving towards the Buffalo-Niagara area.”

There was murmuring and swearing before Truscott silenced them. “I know there is the very slight possibility that this is either some ill-conceived maneuver or even a test to see how we respond, but we don’t think do. I’ve sent out an alert and I hope everyone’s notified in time to make a difference. Of course, it’s Saturday night which means it’ll take some time to get everyone assembled.”

“You may have a little more time than you think, colonel,” said Air Force Major Fred Bryce, suddenly serious. It was no times for jokes or banter. “The Germans would be utter fools to attack before dawn.”

“Why?” asked Truscott.

Bryce laughed sardonically. “Sir, one of the air force’s dirty little secrets is that most pilots can’t find their asses in the dark without a flashlight, and the Krauts would be flying blind over totally unfamiliar territory. We know that some German pilots couldn’t find London at night, and that a number of British pilots couldn’t find Berlin. Ergo, sir, they are simply not going to find a target without solid visual recognition. They might have spies setting up radio beacons that will lead them to a city but they would still be a long ways from a specific target within that city. Like the Japs did at Pearl Harbor, they will wait for first light.”

“Pilots will have to wait,” Grant said, “but not necessarily saboteurs. They could be starting out right now.”

Private Louie Marks was cold and annoyed. Only a month out of basic training, he was even more disillusioned with the army than he had been when he’d been drafted and sent to work with a bunch of idiots. Worse, being so low on the military pecking order meant he had to pull guard duty on a Saturday night when all the other guys were in Buffalo having a good time. His only consolation was that there weren’t all that many places in Buffalo where a guy could have a good time.

There was only a skeleton crew at the radar site, although they were alert and nervous. Some message had come through saying they should be doubly careful. Sure, Louie thought. As if Germans were going to come running through the woods. Still, it would be nice if there were more than a handful of men left to guard the radar site.

He and that handful of men were led — if that was the word, he snickered — by a very young second lieutenant named Norton. Like Marks, Norton was alleged to be a radar expert and could read the squiggles on a screen that maybe meant something. Louie was still trying to figure those things out.

Oh hark, he thought sarcastically, lights were coming down yonder road. He signaled to the lieutenant and took his rifle off his shoulder. Hey, he realized, the lead vehicle was a cop car and that made him feel a whole lot better. Somebody was using his head and sending in reinforcements. As it approached the gate that Louie was allegedly guarding, the cop car turned on its revolving red light just before stopping by the gate.

A police officer got out. “Open this gate, son,” the cop said. He seemed to have an accent. “This is important.”

Lieutenant Norton showed up in time to hear the cop’s demand. A couple of trucks were behind the cop car and they were filled with men in uniform, probably more cops, Louis thought. Norton gave the order to unlock and open the gate and the three vehicles swept in. Men tumbled out of the trucks and Louie noticed that those weren’t cop uniforms. Christ, they were Germans.

He tried to swing his rifle but was too slow. The cop had a revolver in his hand and fired it twice, hitting Louie in the head. Lieutenant Norton started to say something but he was cut down as well, but he didn’t die as quickly. He moaned and screamed.

The German soldiers fanned out, entering the control building as well as the barracks and little mess hall. Automatic weapons fire rang out as the small number of soldiers and technicians was cut down. Hand grenades were tossed through windows and explosions and screams followed. In another couple of minutes, all wires to the outside world had been cut and demolition charges were set around the base of the vital towers. Moments later, the girders were shattered by dynamite and the towers fell on their sides with a crash that made the Germans cheer.

Albers grinned. The attack had been a complete success. Better, he had improved on the idea of using a police car as a decoy. It had been child’s plan to steal several more vehicles and dress them up as police cars. Now they were attacking the other towers with what Albers presumed would also be complete success. In a few moments they would be checking in to confirm the fact. The Americans along the Niagara front were blind. The Luftwaffe would pour through the gap and attack with impunity.

Dick Morowski knew he wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but he did understand the irony. For the past several years, the massive Ford Motor Company facility at River Rouge, Michigan, had been working day and night filling the orders for the military. Tens of thousands of workers were making more than he was, but he didn’t resent it. During the pits of the Depression he’d had a job with what everyone referred to as “Fords” while those tens of thousands stood in lines waiting for a handout, or maybe they sold apples on street corners.

What goes around comes around, he thought. He did think it was especially ironic that the American military was hinting that they had more than enough of the vehicles that Ford was making and were going to cut back on orders. That meant that the smug workers and even smugger management would have their hours cut down, maybe even have their jobs eliminated. Some of the workers were already grousing that they should have a union, but they all knew that Henry Ford would kill to keep the UAW away. While the UAW had pledged no strikes while the country was at war, Ford’s chief goon, Harry Bennett, wasn’t taking chances.

There was another rumor and in this one the car companies would be allowed to start making civilian vehicles, and that hadn’t happened since shortly after Pearl Harbor.

Hence, Dick Morowski not only had a job, but carried a gun. He was not in charge of all security at River Rouge, but he did have a crew of thirty and many of them also carried guns. Dick had spent several years as a Detroit cop before being let go for being too hard on some of the scum he dealt with. Luckily, he’d found a home with Bennett’s private army. Soon he would retire with a pension from Ford and some money from Social Security. It wouldn’t be much, but it would cover beer and cigarettes.

The phone rang, jarring him back to alertness. He was alone in the guard room. “What is it?” he asked harshly. He quickly re-thought his rough answer. His troops knew better than to trouble him over something trivial.

“Chief, a whole shitload of small boats is coming up the river and they’re full of people with guns.”

Morowski thought quickly. They were either pricks from the UAW or Germans from Windsor. His first thought was the UAW, but coming up the Rouge River wasn’t something they normally did. The union wanted publicity. Hey, maybe they wanted to seize the plant. Good luck, he thought, it was as large as some cities.

“I’ll be right there,” he said and slammed down the phone. He got in one of the last Fords made for civilian use and drove to the Rouge River. Yep, there were a number of boats and men were pouring out of them and running around the factory compound. Worse, they were armed. These weren’t union fucks, he realized, these were fucking Germans.

Two other guards joined him. “What do we do?” one asked.

Morowski was about to admit he didn’t know when one of the Germans took a shot at him. The German missed, but the bullet smacked into a metal pipe behind him. He thought briefly about pulling his revolver and firing back, but quickly changed his mind. He was an overage and overweight ex-cop, not a soldier.

“What we do now is run,” he said. They got into the car and drove back to the guard shack where he called the Dearborn Police along with making a call to Henry Ford’s stark gray stone mansion at Fair Lane where he left another message. As he did this, he heard explosions and realized what the Germans were up to. They were going to blow up the River Rouge complex.

Christ, he thought, there were people working in the complex. Not many this Saturday night, just a few hundred, but they needed to be warned. He hit the switch that activated the fire alarm and sirens began to wail. Workers poured out of the buildings, looked around and saw smoke coming from the river. Morowski got in his car and drove around, yelling at the men to get the hell out of the Rouge complex. In short order, they got the message and streamed out. Despite that, he heard the sounds of gunfire and wondered just who had decided to be a hero? Then he realized that in sounding the fire alarm he might have sent men back to fight a fire and caused them to confront the German army.

Shit.

Edward Jeffries was the forty-five year old mayor of the prosperous, dynamic, and growing city of Detroit. He felt that he had a future that would propel him to higher office. He had just attended a quiet and private dinner followed by lengthy card games, cigars, and good booze with political friends in a suite at the elegant twenty-two story Leland Hotel. It was located on Bagley Street in downtown Detroit. He had decided that his very long night should come to a close when his attention was drawn to the sounds of sirens and what might have been gunfire.

The mayor raced outside in time to see a column of strange vehicles roaring up Woodward Avenue towards the north. He grabbed a bewildered cop by the arm, belatedly realizing that the cop had drawn his pistol. “What the hell’s going on?”

The cop looked confused. “I’m not certain. Somebody said that Germans have come through the tunnel and others over the bridge. I guess that means we’re at war.”

The mayor ran the few blocks to where he could see the road that led to the tunnel entrance. Several cars were on fire and there were bodies on the sidewalk. One of the bodies was smoldering. He felt horrified and sickened.

Several more vehicles emerged from the tunnel entrance and Jeffries stepped out into the street to get a better look. A machine gun mounted on top of one fired and a dozen bullets ripped through his body, nearly cutting him in half. As life faded, he wondered just how his beloved city was ever going to recover from the beating it was taking.

“Canfield, when was the last time you heard from the radar stations?”

Canfield winced. Even though the radio reception made the colonel’s voice sound tinny, the anger and frustration came though clearly. The colonel knew damn well that the stations were supposed to check in with brigade and not Canfield’s battalion and were to do so every hour.

“I haven’t talked to anyone in a couple of hours, and I’m assuming you haven’t either.”

“You’re right. I sent a plane up and they can’t even find the towers in the dark and the snow, although they did spot a couple of fires burning.”

“Colonel, I think that means that the krauts have struck.”

“Agreed, Charley, now get your ass down the road and find out for certain.”

With that the colonel abruptly signed off. Canfield gathered his officers and called for a company of infantry in jeeps and trucks to be ready in five minutes. Since it was the middle of the night and so many men were off post, it took more like half an hour to get the caravan moving.

Canfield’s ad hoc column consisted of twelve trucks stuffed with bewildered and confused GIs carrying their Garand rifles, and followed by a handful jeeps. Other than some.30 caliber machine guns mounted on the jeeps, he had nothing resembling heavy weapons. If the Germans were out in force, his company strength unit would be cut to pieces.

Normally, he would have moved slowly and sent out patrols, but his orders had been succinct. He was to find out what had happened to the radar stations and speed was essential. If the column got shot up, the survivors were to press on.

Canfield decided his best bet was to leapfrog. One platoon would turn into the first radar station area while the rest of the company continued down the dirt road to the other sites. He would take the first one.

Leading two jeeps and three trucks, they turned down the access road, stopping just short of the gate to the radar station compound, or at least where it once had been. The gate was open and off its hinges. A couple of bodies lay nearby. One young soldier was clearly dead, but a lieutenant was breathing but unconscious. It was nearing dawn and they could see fairly clearly. The place looked destroyed and abandoned. The control building was a smoldering wreck and the radar towers lay on their sides like dead animals. The worst part was the sick-sweet stench of burned flesh. He’d smelled it first at house fires when he’d been working as a cop. Canfield had a sergeant radio in a brief report confirming their worst suspicions.

“I’ll bet you they’ve all cleared out,” Dubinski said as he looked around nervously. “You want I should take some men around the back of the place?”

“Do it.” Dubinski nodded and took a squad on a patrol around the back of the compound. Canfield ordered those men not involved in the probably hopeless but necessary task of checking the burned buildings for survivors to stand down and be careful not to shoot their own side.

A short while later, Dubinski returned with four men in tow. Two of them were wounded but all were conscious and angry. Their senior man was a buck sergeant with a bandage around his head.

“Fuckers jumped us. We were on the lookout when they rode up to the gate, bold as brass, and led by a cop car. Hell, we thought it was more help, maybe even relief, so we relaxed. But then they shot the lieutenant and the kid at the gate and roared in, shooting everything in sight. Me, I got lucky. I had just gone off duty and gone out back for a smoke when the shit hit the fan.”

Canfield had no doubt what his other units would find — just more of the same. Still, they would confirm the obvious. He would leave a squad to protect the survivors and would call in for medical assistance. His men could stop looking for survivors in the burned ruins. He mentally kicked himself for not having brought ambulances with him, but he didn’t have any immediately available and his orders precluded waiting.

Now it was really getting light out. “I think the Germans have long since cleared out,” Canfield said. “They probably had small boats stashed along the shore and are halfway to Toronto by now.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Dubinski said. “Be downright dumb to hang around and wait for us to show up, and I don’t think the Nazis are dumb.”

No they are not, Canfield thought. He froze as he heard the sound of airplane engines. A few moments later, a long, ribbon of what they quickly identified as German aircraft began flying over them, all heading south. Intuitively, he knew that several other streams of enemy planes were also crossing over the U.S. border and heading to their targets.

“Bastards,” Dubinski screamed, “you fucking bastards!”

Chapter Eleven

Confusion reigned at the Pentagon, even more so than normally, thought Tom Grant. Everybody and his brother was screaming for information and nobody had any. There were rumors galore, but very little in the way of facts. Something big and bad was unfolding along the border with Ontario and nobody was quite sure what. Had the Germans actually attacked a week early? If so, an American enemy had again caught the United States with its pants at least half down.

Truscott burst into the room, followed by Eisenhower. This very early morning there was no engaging grin on Ike’s face. He looked like he wanted to kill.

“Gather around and let’s summarize,” Truscott said. Grant noticed that Ike stayed in the background. “To the best of anyone’s knowledge, what is happening in Detroit?”

Major Schuman responded. “Sir, it’s becoming clear that good sized raiding parties crossed the river at several locations and have commenced blowing up industrial facilities. We know that the Ford Rouge plant is burning at a number of places, along with the Willow Run plant that makes B24 bombers. We believe that a trainload of German soldiers came out of the railroad tunnel under the Detroit River and simply raced up the tracks to the factory that produces tanks and are blowing it up. From what we’re getting from telephone calls and short wave radio, the raids are ongoing and the Nazis haven’t pulled out. It’s likely that other factories will be destroyed as well.”

Ike finally spoke. “Then they’re stupid. They can’t destroy those facilities. They can only damage them, and we can repair them fairly quickly. They may be down for a couple of weeks, even some months, but destroy them? Hell, no!”

“And Patton’s on his way,” Truscott added with a smile. Patton had been ordered to keep his divisions at least fifty miles away from Detroit and the river, but apparently had permitted some good sized elements to “patrol and maneuver” much closer to the city. They were on their way, mad as hell and armed to the teeth. Patton had a history of twisting some orders and disobeying others.

“What about Fredendall?” asked Colonel Downing. “Is he moving men towards the river?”

Truscott glared at him. “Apparently he’s digging in.” Truscott’s expression made it clear what he thought of Fredendall’s decision.

Fredendall was Marshall’s fair haired boy and was supposed to be a real fire breather. This night, however, he hadn’t moved. Tom and Downing shared a glance. Had the almost infallible General Marshall made a mistake? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone with a solid peacetime record failed when the guns began firing. He recalled that Fredendall had never led troops in combat and wondered if he was freezing under the reality. If you didn’t count the incident on the Canadian freighter, Tom hadn’t led men in combat either, but he wasn’t in charge of an army.

Truscott changed the topic. “Grant, what about the radar sites?”

“General, I can confirm that there’s been no response from them, either by phone or radio. The 27th regiment has patrols out, but it looks more and more like they were all blown up by saboteurs, just like what’s happening in Detroit.

Tom wondered if Major Canfield was involved in checking the radar sites. Probably, he thought. The man knew the area.

Ike stood and paced. A cigarette dangled from his mouth and it occurred to Tom that neither general had gotten much sleep this night. Why, he wondered? Was it possible that they suspected, even knew, that the German assault would come this Saturday and not the next? He would have to ask Alicia if she’d heard anything from Camp Washington and then wondered if she’d tell him even if she knew.

Tom wasn’t done with the bad news. “We are being further hampered by the fact that electricity is out in a number of places in upper New York State and in Michigan.”

“So we’re blind,” Ike said. “Well, let’s do what we can. First, the men we do have along the border just became human spotters. Get them along that radar gap with radios and telescopes. We might not stop the first attack, but we sure as hell can stop the next ones. At least we’ll get a little warning.”

“Are we going to get planes in the air?” asked Downing.

Truscott laughed harshly. “And send them where? The German HE111 has a range of more than fourteen hundred miles, which means it can fly from Toronto to Washington and back with no problem. Yeah, we’ll go on alert and have planes up to protect those areas. We may be wasting our time, but we have to do something.”

Truscott looked at Grant who had turned aside. “You don’t agree with that, major?”

Grant sucked in his breath. It never paid for a mere major to argue with a two star general. “Sir, I think there may be a pattern in their attacks. Yes, I don’t think we can rule out a bombing raid on either New York or Washington, but it seems to me that they are going after industrial targets. If I’m right, I really think they’ll make a big push to hit steel producing facilities at Pittsburgh, and maybe just nuisance raids on New York or Washington.”

“Why just nuisance raids?” asked Truscott.

Grant answered. “General, they just don’t have that many planes and the ones they have can’t do the job. We estimate there’s somewhere around a thousand German planes now in Canada and only a couple of hundred of them are their HE111 bombers. Worse, the German bombers only carry a couple of tons of bombs each. They might get off one raid on Washington, like Doolittle did to Tokyo, but it won’t change things in the long run.

“Makes sense,” said Truscott.

Ike thought for a moment and made the decision. “I agree that the krauts won’t send many of their bombers down here without fighter protection. If I recall, their bombers are very vulnerable, and the ME109 would barely make it to Washington, even with drop tanks. New York, however, would be within range. That said, we will concentrate on protecting our industry and hope that the bases around D.C. and New York are alert and ready. I’m sure the Germans will attack Washington if only to show that they can.”

“So when do we go on the offensive?” asked Downing.

Ike appeared to wince before he answered. “Not until the president says so. He’s waffling. He’s awake and being informed as quickly as we find out ourselves. General Marshall and Admiral King are with him. For a man who wanted the Germans to throw the first stone, he now wants to make sure this is the real thing and not something the krauts can apologize for and then move on, like they did with that destroyer they sank. He wants to make sure they’ve actually started a war and not just created a bloody incident. Apparently, he’s still afraid that the politicians who are in favor of totally supporting the war against Japan and, not surprisingly, supporting those thieves in China, will rise up against him. If he was to ask for a declaration of war and congress turns it down, it would be humiliating.”

Grant was incredulous. “Sir, that’s preposterous. If the reports are correct, Germans have killed hundreds of our people and their bombers may be on their way to our cities as we speak. Sir, we’ve got to strike back just as soon as we can.”

Ike’s face turned red and Tom thought his military career had just come to a screeching halt. Ike took a deep breath and smiled tightly. “Major, I will tell you I agree with everything you’ve said if you will forget I just said that. Understood?”

Tom sheepishly said he did. A corporal rushed in, looked around in shock at all the brass staring at him, and handed a sheet of paper to Ike who read it and smiled. “Waiting may be over, gentlemen. This is from Ernie King and he’s saying that Kraut subs have begun attacking our shipping. On his own, he’s ordered his ships and planes to attack and kill U-boats.”

Terry Romano and the men of the Vampire had just begun the turn back to base when they received the message that jarred them and which they would remember for the rest of their lives. They were to commence unrestricted attacks on German U-boats immediately.

The first thing Terry did was ask for confirmation, and an angry voice complied. Then he asked what American subs were in the area and was assured that none were within a couple of hundred miles of his location.

“How much fuel we got,” he asked and was told enough for a couple of hours, maybe more if they were careful.

Terry ordered them back over the ocean and got a raucous cheer from his crew. Finally, they were going to be doing something. Well, maybe. First they would have to find a German. They’d done it before, but the Germans hadn’t been at war with the U.S. and might have been letting the Americans score some phantom points just to see what the bombers could do.

They’d been back on the graveyard shift for several weeks and it would be light enough to see in a while. After flying back over the ocean for half an hour, they were beginning to wonder if their efforts were wasted when the co-pilot, Phil Watson, spotted the flames. A ship was on fire. They flew low and confirmed that it was an oil tanker that had become a raging inferno. The Germans had drawn first blood and that enraged them.

They called in the ship’s location and were informed that the Coast Guard was already on the way. They could see a couple of lifeboats standing away from the dying tanker.

“I wonder how many made it out of that inferno?” Watson asked quietly. It was all too likely that men had either been burned to death or drowned. This was their first experience of war and, while they would not admit it out loud, they didn’t like it at all.

Another half an hour and they were beginning to have serious fuel concerns. The sun was rising which made things a little easier. The sea below was relatively calm and they looked hard for the tell-tale sign of a periscope or a snorkel making waves that shouldn’t be there.

“Got something,” said the radar operator. “It’s not much, but I think we should give it a look-see.”

Romano agreed and turned in the direction of the sighting. He also had them drop to a much lower altitude, thinking that the sub would be submerged and using its snorkel and unable to see the Vampire.

And there it was, looking like a pipe sticking out of the water and moving slowly towards land.

“What do we do now?” asked Watson.

“First, we re-re-reconfirm that there aren’t any of our boats around. Then we attack. The bastard may be underwater, but he can’t possibly be that deep if we can see his periscope. We’ll go in with guns blazing and maybe we’ll hurt him.”

The response from shore came quickly — attack! Terry flew the Vampire low over the waves and so slow he almost stalled. He lined the B24 on what he assumed was the sub’s stern and, with heart pounding, began his approach. He had his anti-tank gun, rockets, and a couple of five hundred pound bombs. They would fire and drop everything.

The snorkel grew steadily larger. “Now,” he yelled and 37mm shells stitched their way across the waves to the sub. Tony held the stream steady, inundating the snorkel which appeared to snap off. The rockets fired and he felt the plane lurch as the bombs were dropped. They exploded behind him in giant plumes of water as the bomber swept over the sub’s location and they felt the plane shudder from the shock wave. What the hell must it be like under the water, he wondered?

The Vampire banked upward and Tony planned for a second run. Unfortunately, there was no trace of the sub. They circled for a few more minutes, wondering if they’d ever know if they’d hit it.

“Skipper, is that debris?”

Tony again held the plane at near stall speed and took a look. Yes, it was debris. But what did it mean? The Germans had been known to empty trash through their torpedo tubes to make their enemies think that the sub had been killed. Was this such a case? Damn.

Watson grabbed Tony’s arm. “Jesus, she’s surfacing.”

Sure enough, the sub was doing an emergency surface. She emerged suddenly from the sea and splashed down.

“We go in one more time,” Tony exulted.

“Sir, I think they’re abandoning her,” said the tail gunner.

The sub was down by the stern and sinking. Men were pouring out of her and throwing life rafts into the sea. The sub rolled on its side and slowly disappeared while black smoke billowed out from the hatches. The men of the Vampire whooped and yelled. The radio operator said he’d taken some great photos.

Tony joined in the yelling until he recalled something somebody else had said about the sinking ship. “How many got out?” he asked.

“No more than thirty,” Watson answered. He realized where Tony was going.

“And how many in a sub’s crew?” Tony prodded.

“I guess maybe fifty or sixty.”

“Then don’t cheer, the poor bastards are dying,” said Tony. He couldn’t quite recall who’d first used that phrase, maybe somebody from the Spanish-American War. Regardless, it was appropriate. They’d made a kill but that meant that people were well and truly dead and they had caused those deaths.

They confirmed that a destroyer was on its way to pick up the Germans and then checked their fuel. They would make it back to base, but not by much. They would have to report a fuel emergency, but nobody back home would mind. They’d killed a Nazi sub. So why didn’t they feel happy?

Something big was happening and the only thing Alicia could think of was war. What had the Germans done? It was clear that a crises was brewing, but that had happened before. Oh God, she wondered, was this finally the real thing?

She’d been awakened in the middle of the night and told to take a package of messages to the Pentagon immediately. She dressed, gathered her guards and was on her way. Her guards logically assumed that she knew what was happening and were put out when she said she didn’t. Clearly they did not believe her.

She arrived at the Pentagon at daybreak. The level of security had been increased. Large numbers of MPs had the place cordoned off and it took several minutes for her to be passed through. One young MP Lieutenant wanted to examine the contents of her pouch and was furious when she refused. He didn’t believe that a woman would be carrying secret documents and told her so. Finally, a bird colonel straightened things out and Alicia made her way inside and delivered the package. She wondered if Tom was behind one of those doors and fought the urge to try and find out.

There was near chaos in the building as people moved quickly down the hallways. She saw Eisenhower almost running down the hallway. Something major was clearly happening. It was also quite obvious that she was not going to see Tom this morning. There had been no repetition of the wonderful evening at the Downing’s. There hadn’t been a moment’s privacy since then.

She left the Pentagon with a radiant smile for the lieutenant who’d tried to take the pouch. He glared at her and turned away. The hell with him, she thought and laughed. It was just something else about her life, values, and attitudes that had changed and she felt better for it.

She got her guards and they decided to drive around the Mall that led to the Capitol Building just to see what was happening. Along the Mall, trucks and busses were unloading more guards and more barbed wire was being laid to surround the building that housed the Congress. Additional anti-aircraft guns had been placed around the old building.

Alicia was just about to say that it was time to get back to Camp Washington when air raid sirens began to howl. Soldiers told them to get out of their car and lie down on the ground.

“Aren’t there any shelters around here?” she yelled.

“Probably,” answered a sergeant, “but I don’t know where they might be, and I can’t let you inside the Capitol itself.”

She heard the crump-crump of anti-aircraft guns and looked skyward to see a number of planes high up in the sky. Things were falling from the planes, and she realized that she was watching bombs falling from their bellies. Frantically, she tried to dig into the soft dirt. Seconds later, explosions rocked the area. One near miss sent dirt over her.

“Look at that,” hollered one of her guards. “We got ourselves one of the bastards.”

Alicia rolled onto her back and looked up. One of the bombers was burning and beginning to cartwheel. “How large a crew?” she asked.

“Four, I think.”

Two bodies fell out of the bomber. One parachute opened while the second man fell to his death. She closed her eyes but she still heard the thud as he impacted. The bomber continued its death spiral, crashing and exploding behind some buildings, while Americans on the ground cheered.

The raid was over. The only planes in the sky were American fighters, whirling and buzzing like angry bees.

What about the Capitol Building? She looked at the building that had served since about 1800, if she correctly recalled her history. One bomb had struck the senate side and a fire was trying to take hold. It wouldn’t get much of a chance. Fire engines were already on the scene and firemen were rolling out their hoses. She did wonder if there were any casualties inside.

“Hey, lieutenant, maybe we got ourselves a German.”

The German whose parachute had opened was landing on the Mall about a hundred yards in front of them. In an instant, he was surrounded by angry soldiers. He tried to hold his hands up and disengage from the parachute, but it was difficult. When he finally did free himself, soldiers jumped him and started stomping him.

“No,” Alicia said and ran to the melee. “Leave it, stop hitting him,” she yelled.

“Fuck you, lady,” one soldier said before he saw she was an officer.

“Get out of here before you get sent to the stockade,” Alicia snarled and the soldier ran off.

Alicia continued to grab and pull soldiers until the German was free. He knelt on the ground and stared vacantly at his tormenters. Blood poured from his mouth and she thought she saw a couple of teeth in the grass. His holster was empty and she assumed that one American soldier had a luger as a souvenir.

“Why are you protecting him, lieutenant?” asked an angry private.

She glared at him. “Try and recall that murdering prisoners is a crime that can send you to Leavenworth for a very long time. Also, try and think that our people might want to interrogate him in case he knows something.”

The man nodded and walked away. The German had made it to his feet. It looked like one arm was badly hurt and he had indeed lost a number of teeth. Still, he was grateful to be alive. He looked at her and managed a smile. In fluent German she told him to stop grinning and put his hands on his head. Stunned, he complied immediately. It struck her that he was a small man, nothing like the Nordic blond stereotype the Nazis liked to say was typical. Instead, she thought he was kind of scrawny.

An army captain came over. “You want me to take him off your hands?”

She had a wild idea. “No thanks, sir, I can handle it.”

“You sure?” he asked, glowering at her.

Alicia smiled brightly. “Sir, I just came from the Pentagon where I saw General Eisenhower. I think people there would like to see this little superman.”

Mentioning Eisenhower’s name worked wonders. The captain nodded and her guards got the German into the back seat. One guard sat in the front and the other in the back with a pistol to the German’s head. Alicia smiled as she settled into the front beside the driver. Well, she had come from the Pentagon and she had seen Eisenhower, hadn’t she?

There were sublevels to the Pentagon and everyone went to them when the sirens went off. Thousands of men and a surprising number of women jammed into the basement rooms that would have to serve as air raid shelters. There was concern but no panic as the building’s occupants poured down the stairs. There was even some denial that anything was happening. This was just another drill wasn’t it?

“Where the hell did all these people come from?” Truscott muttered once they were more or less settled along a wall.

Grant thought it was a good question, but a better one might be whether the building could stand up to German bombs. He thought it had been constructed of reinforced concrete but wasn’t totally sure. Besides, had anyone tested it against explosives?

They could hear the sound of guns firing and, seconds later, bombs began to explode, growing ever closer with each blast. The building shuddered after an explosion, and then others sent dust down on to the men and women in the basement. It was frightening, but the building seemed solid and safe.

Grant had a second horrible thought. What if a German plane was shot down and crashed onto the Pentagon? While the building would likely survive the impact of bombs, what about flaming gasoline pouring down stairwells and vents, either cremating or suffocating anyone in its path. Jesus, most of the army’s top brass was huddled below ground and presented one great big and juicy target.

Somebody whimpered. Grant understood their fear and wondered if this was what it had been like in London during the Blitz. He’d seen pictures and heard reports of the subways filled with people and he’d marveled at their apparent stoicism. He hoped he could be brave. He also realized that the overwhelming majority of people had never seen or heard combat close up. His running from the Black Shirts and killing the two Germans on the freighter were almost inconsequential to what might be happening upstairs and outside. Some in the basement hallway were clearly looking to him for leadership and he was scared shitless. As bad as the confined quarters was, the smell was worse. Scared people sweat and he thought he caught the odor of urine. Just don’t let it be mine, he begged.

In a surprisingly short length of time, the all clear sounded and they filed back upstairs to their offices to find that nothing had happened to their part of the world. Windows had been shattered in other areas, and there was the smell of smoke, but the damage seemed under control. It was time to try and forget their feelings of terror. They quickly got reports that bomb damage was minimal. One small bomb apparently struck the Capitol Building but had caused only a little damage. Most of the bombs hit nothing at all, although one landed in a small park across from the White House. Early reports said that at least fifty German planes had been shot down.

“You can cut that number down by at least two thirds,” said Downing and Truscott agreed. With large numbers of guns firing at the same targets and likely resulting in multiple hits, distortions and exaggerations were bound to occur.

The attack also meant that any questions regarding German intentions had just been dispelled. This was no minimal event that the two sides could walk away from. The German attack on the nation’s capital could only mean one thing, war. FDR would easily get his declaration and, even before that, the military could begin striking back. Too bad there weren’t any targets, Tom commented.

A confused looking MP entered their area. He spotted Downing and went to him. “Sir, we got some people bringing in a German prisoner and they insist on taking him to you.”

“Do it,” said Downing, looking puzzled.

A few minutes later, a disheveled but beaming Alicia and two male soldiers escorted a thoroughly confused German airman into their presence. He started to give the Nazi salute on seeing all the ranking officers, but prudently stopped and gave a more traditional salute.

Downing shook his head. “Tom, I know you speak German but I want some professional interrogators to talk to this clown. You take the lieutenant someplace where she can get cleaned up and you find out from her just what the hell happened. Take your time and do it right.”

Downing winked and flipped Tom the keys to his car and house.

A German transport plane had taken Koenig to an airfield outside Windsor, Ontario, a small city of less than twenty thousand just across the river from Detroit. Once on the ground, he’d commandeered a civilian Piper Cub and gotten airborne. As a youth he’d learned how to fly a number of small planes and once had thoughts of joining the Luftwaffe. That was no longer going to happen, but it was a very useful skill to possess.

Hoping that American anti-aircraft gunners would find his small plane harmless and innocuous, he flew low over the river and over the United States. Once across, he sent the plane up to eight thousand feet and began scouting the major roads that led into the city. As suspected, the American general, Patton, already had his men on the move although most of the long dusty columns of tanks and trucks were several hours away. Good, he thought. There would be plenty of time for the next German strike, even though he thought it was a poor idea.

He then flew over the still burning Rouge plant. Fire hoses were still pouring water onto smoldering buildings. Although it looked like the larger fires were under control, pillars of smoke still reached for the sky. The smell of burning rubber and other materials was thick in the air, although, mercifully, not the sick-sweet stench of burning flesh.

American anti-aircraft guns declined to fire at him. Either they’d been destroyed in the commando raid, or they didn’t think he was a worthy target.

In his opinion, the Rouge complex had been damaged, but not seriously. It would be functioning in a month or two at the most, and that included what other efforts the German military was about to attempt.

Koenig landed the plane and took a car to commandeered house across the Detroit River from Rouge plant. It amused him that many small frame houses in the area had once belonged to American slaves who’d crossed the river to freedom before the American Civil War. Now, a German officer was watching from the second floor of one.

Koenig had been sent to assess what had happened to America’s vital factories. From what he had seen and despite the sabotage and the fires, the giant industrial area was largely intact, which was discouraging. His conclusion was simple — it would take a tremendous effort to put the Americans out of business, even for a short while. He wondered if the Reich forces in Canada were up to the task, especially since the Americans would now be ready and angry. While the columns of army vehicles approaching Detroit would not be able to cross the river into Canada at this time, the Americans would soon enough be in a position to strike back.

Nor did he think that what was about to occur next was a good idea and had said as much to the artillery major who commanded the battery of six captured former Red Army 122mm guns. In Koenig’s opinion, there was a serious likelihood that they would be lost in the coming fight.

The major had laughed and said, “Don’t worry, captain. We have many more like this. The Red Army is one of our major suppliers.”

Koenig had no doubt that the weapons could cause farther damage. They had a range of nearly thirteen miles, which meant they could hit almost any target in the Detroit area, perhaps including the tank factory to the north. So why waste them on pounding the Ford plant when smaller caliber artillery could be just as effective? Why, too, have them fire during the day when they could be spotted and attacked from the air? The commando attack had worked splendidly, but it too had been during the night and the soldiers had withdrawn in good order and with only a handful of casualties. Plant guards and local police had fired on them and paid dearly for their effrontery.

It had taken all night to get the big guns into place, the major said, and he was going to fire them as soon as he could. The Americans were Jewish cowards, he added, and slow to react. His guns would be safely away before the Americans Koenig had spotted could do anything.

From his location, Koenig caught the signal to commence firing, opened his mouth and covered his ears in an attempt to reduce damage to his hearing. The cannon roared and sent shells into the smoldering plant. Explosions sent smoke and debris skyward and, after a moment, he could see men fleeing the complex. Workers had been sent in by the Americans to put out the fires and assess damage, but the shelling would keep the workers terrified and unable to make repairs, and that was good.

For the next half hour, the big guns pounded the enormous complex. They then lifted their range and fired far into the distance. Koenig wondered if they had really caused damage or simply rearranged the rubble. He further wondered if the distant targets, the tank factory to the north or the B24 airplane factory at Willow Run, had been within range, and had any spotters been able to direct fire. He feared the shells had simply dug holes in farmers’ fields or knocked down some houses.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of airplanes screaming down. He ducked and covered his head as American fighter bombers strafed and blasted the area, causing the house to shake and shudder. He thanked the God he didn’t quite believe in that he was far enough away from the American planes target, the six big guns.

The guns were not naked. They had anti-aircraft protection and these smaller guns sent their shells into the sky. An American P47 was hit and blew apart, but others dropped their bombs around the Russian guns and made strafing runs after their bombs were gone. Koenig ran down to the basement and hid in a corner. He was not a coward. Had there been an enemy he could hit, he would have fought back, but this fighting was going on in the skies far above him.

When the American planes had gone, he jumped up and ran across a field to the captured Russian guns. They and their crews had been destroyed. The cannon were lying on their sides and their carriages had been broken into pieces. Dozens of smoldering patches of clothing and flesh were all that remained of the gun crews.

Well, not all, he realized as he saw the major staggering toward him. “Someone help me. I can’t see.”

Of course you can’t, Koenig thought, you have no eyes, no face. The man’s head was a mass of bloody flesh. The major slumped to his knees and then fell forward onto his ruined face. Koenig checked him quickly. The foolish man was dead.

An artillery shell exploded a couple of hundred yards away from him. He turned and saw a column of American tanks across the river. They were the preposterous looking M3 with its high silhouette and 75mm gun located to its side. The foolish thing didn’t even have a turret and the design belonged to the previous war. Still, it could kill.

Koenig ran to where a sergeant was directing the withdrawal of a pair of 88mm anti-aircraft guns. He knew from experience that the guns were superb tank killers. They could fire rapidly and accurately, and their shells could pierce most armor, and most certainly that of the American M3 medium tank. He idly wondered why the Yanks had a light tank also designated the M3. Strange, but not important.

“Sergeant, you have targets on the other side of the river. I suggest you kill them if you wish to leave here without them killing you.”

The sergeant saw the tanks, gasped, and set about unlimbering and aiming his guns. There were now a half dozen tanks and several trucks in plain view across the river. Koenig gave no instructions to the gun crews. They clearly knew what they were doing and did not need his help.

The first eighty-eight barked and the shell landed a score of yards in front of the lead tank. The second struck closer, while the third blew the American tank to flaming pieces. The German guns then turned on the second and third tanks in the column. One more was hit and turned into a torch before the remaining Americans turned and raced away.

The sergeant and his crews grinned in satisfaction. They had taken a measure of revenge on the Americans for the deaths of their comrades.

“Well done, sergeant.”

The sergeant wiped his brow with a dirty rag. “They arrived quicker than we thought, captain.”

“And they left quicker than they thought,” Koenig said with a laugh. “The American commanding general in this area is a man named Patton. He moves quickly, they say, and it looks like they may be right.”

“No matter,” said the sergeant. “We’ll be ready for him.”

Chapter Twelve

FDR was shocked when he saw the damage to the Capitol and other places where bombs had exploded. Even though it was slight, it was a grievous insult to the United States. The craters in the parks and fields around the Capitol and the White House had left scars that were more emotional than logical. The Pentagon had been hit as well, but he would not be crossing the Potomac to see that damage. The Secret Service was nervous enough about this foray. The president was riding in an armored limousine and was bracketed by soldiers in trucks and police on motorcycles.

Roosevelt pounded the seat in front of him in anger. The United States had again been hit by a sneak attack, this time by the arrogant and murderous Germans. Already a previously reluctant Congress was clamoring for war. Gone totally was the reluctance to fight a two front war. The attack by Germany was perceived as being in the same league as Pearl Harbor had been, perhaps even more so since the American mainland had been struck. Hawaii, after all, was just a territory and not one of the forty-eight states or even the District of Columbia. This attack, therefore, was different. The president hoped that his limited foreknowledge of the German plans would not become known until long after he was dead.

General Marshall and Admiral King were squeezed into the limo with the president. Marshall glared at the black scar on the Capitol building. “We estimate fifty bombers dropped a total of a hundred tons of bombs. As far as bombing raids go, it is trivial. The damage was minimal and only a half dozen people were killed and another score or so injured.”

“Much ado about nothing,” FDR said, “unless, of course you were one of the casualties, and that the attack started a war.”

He could not bring himself to say that it was a war he desperately wanted if the Nazi scourge was ever going to be halted before it took over the world. Just yesterday, representatives of a Jewish group informed him that almost all the Jews in Europe had been murdered. They said that the largest concentration of Jews in the world was in the United States. It reinforced the fact that the Nazis were bloody monsters that had to be destroyed.

Marshall continued. “We confirmed that fourteen of the bombers were shot down along with a dozen of their escorts who turned back well before Washington. Obviously they didn’t have enough fuel. We’ve even taken a handful of prisoners who appear to be cooperating and giving us a lot of useful information.”

Roosevelt was surprised that they would cooperate. Marshall actually smiled. “A couple of them were glad to be free of Hitler and the war, while some of the others wanted to brag about what they knew and how superior the Reich was. One of my officers helped matters by convincing them that if they didn’t talk, they would be taken to a camp run by Jewish guards. He added that the first thing that would happen to them would be their forced circumcision.”

Roosevelt laughed softly. It felt good. “And you’re certain no German forces remain on our side of the border?”

“There are no major German forces in the United States,” said Marshall, carefully choosing his words. “The FBI is rounding up every German national or domestic Nazi they can find. We will doubtless pick up the innocent with the guilty, but we can straighten that out later.”

“What about their embassy?” the president asked.

“Cordoned off by troops, along with Italy’s,” Marshall answered. Mussolini had followed Hitler’s lead and declared war on the U.S. “We assume they’ve already done the same with our people in Berlin and Rome. We will arrange to exchange them as soon as it is feasible. What we don’t know, however, is how many embassy personnel escaped and how many other potential German saboteurs are still out there. J. Edgar Hoover can say all he wants about the FBI rounding up hundreds of Germans, but the truth is that we won’t know who we might have missed until and if they strike.”

All three men remembered the declaration by the FBI’s Clyde Tolson that every German would be rounded up. It had seemed to be absurd bragging at the time, and nothing had happened to change their minds.

“The navy’s not been inactive either,” King added proudly. “We have four confirmed U-boat sinkings and the possibility of three more. We are planning a task force that will interdict shipping between Europe and Canada. We will blockade the port of Halifax and, after eliminating the U-boats off our coast, work our way towards the east and Europe.

Roosevelt smiled. “Excellent. And I know how much it means to both of you to be able to finally hit the bastards. Has Admiral Vian asked to take his warships out?”

“Yes. He is a combative man. I admire him even though he is a Brit.”

FDR nodded appreciatively. “Let him prepare, but don’t let him go off half-cocked. Hold him on a short leash for the time being. Tomorrow, the secretary of state and I will be commencing a number of interesting conversations with countries like Brazil and Argentina and others in our hemisphere who have been smiling at Hitler. We shall inform them that their best interests lie with the United States and not with Germany. If they prove reluctant, they will pay with the lives of their sailors and the crews of their merchant ships. All gloves are off, gentlemen.”

They drove past a crowd of soldiers and civilian onlookers who cheered and applauded.

Across the street, Heinrich Stahl watched in stunned disbelief as the President of the United States and his chief admiral and general drove slowly by him and no more than fifty feet away. If he’d had a gun or, better, a hand grenade, he could have changed the course of history like Gavrilo Princep had done in 1914 when the Archduke of Austria’s car had suddenly appeared before him in Sarajevo. Princep had murdered the archduke and set the world on the road to two bloody world wars.

Stahl, however, had left the embassy without any weapons. If he’d been stopped, the fact that he was unarmed would likely mean nothing more than his forced return to the embassy or wherever the personnel were interned. Carrying a weapon, however, might make the police more curious and he didn’t want that at this time. Stahl had decided to use his network of operatives to help him disappear. He could not help the Reich while behind bars.

He listened to people talking and tried to gauge their anger. Curiously, they seemed more outraged by this minor attack on Washington than by the more major one at Pearl Harbor. He determined that it did not bode well for Germany if the Americans could sustain their fury. Therefore, he and the men who remained free from the FBI’s clutches had a job to do.

Sam Lambert and Mike Bradford watched as uniformed Toronto police cordoned off the German headquarters in Toronto. They nodded amiably to those officers they recognized and some they didn’t. Even though they were in plain clothes, they knew they stood out like a pair of sore thumbs.

“Why are we protecting the pricks?” Bradford snarled. “We should be killing them and the fucking Black Shirts.”

“Can’t argue, but nothing’s going to happen until Ottawa decides whether or not we’re at war with Germany, America, or nobody. Let’s face it. Canada’s going to be a pawn in whatever happens, and we’re going to be front and center in the fighting. At some point, U.S. troops are going to pour across the border and there will be killing right where we’re standing.”

Bradford didn’t argue with that assessment. If the Yanks were serious about fighting Germany — and how could they not be? — it would entail a serious effort to expel the Germans, and that could leave Canadian cities in smoking ruins.

“Have you heard anything from our friends down south?”

Lambert shook his head. There had been no contact with the OSS since the death of the agent called Sandman. He thought that American operatives were working in the area, but they had not made contact either with him or the little thief, Tinker. Maybe that would change with the United States officially at war with Hitler.

Several trucks pulled up and dozens of Black Shirts jumped out. Lambert was mildly surprised to see that they were armed with guns. Who the hell authorized that, he wondered. Ottawa, probably. Mackenzie King had made no pronouncement regarding Canada’s official role in the developing conflict except to say that all Canada hoped the fighting would end and that peace would prevail. Fat, fucking chance, Lambert thought. We’re in it up to our asses.

More Black Shirts arrived and passed through the police lines, forming their own cordon. It was clear that German property would be protected by those Canadians who actively supported Germany.

“I wonder how our brothers feel now?” Bradford asked.

He was referring to those cops who either hated Jews or thought the Nazis had the right idea about how to run a country. He was confident that few had given thought to the possibility of fighting the U.S. Army in the streets of Toronto or American paratroopers in the fields outside the city. Even the Black Shirts usually cocky grins seemed a little stressed and brittle. Had they signed on for a war, or had they just wanted to bully people, drink, and get laid? Neither cop thought the Black Shirts were brave enough to fight.

Alicia hummed happily to herself as she was driven back to Camp Washington. If the two soldiers up front had any idea why she was purring, they prudently kept it to themselves. After driving to the Downing’s house and letting the dog out, she and Tom had cleaned the mud off her uniform. Of course, that entailed her taking it off along with everything else she’d been wearing and he’d happily reciprocated. Fortunately, the only real damage to her clothing was tears in her cotton stockings and she always carried a spare in her purse.

For three wonderful hours the two of them had gamboled about the house, enjoying and exploring each other’s bodies. Her only regret was that she hadn’t brought her violin and been able to serenade Tom. Next time, she assured herself. She had already decided to keep a change of clothes at the Downing’s and one violin wouldn’t take up much space. Besides, if she found herself with time on her hands and Tom wasn’t free, she could practice without annoying the other women who shared her quarters. Missy had already told her it was all right, and the colonel did what he was told.

Alicia’s only question was whether she should tell her friend Rosemary about her adventures. She decided not to. Rosie was a friend, but Alicia could not take the chance that she was a gossip. Still, she longed to tell someone other than Tom just how wonderful sex was with someone you love, and that included using ones lips and tongue on various parts of each other’s bodies that were usually off limits. My, my, how far she had come. Or fallen, she thought with another soft giggle.

She looked out the car window. Crowds of the curious were still about, checking out the damage. There had been fires in civilian sections of the city, but these, Tom had told her, doubtless resulted in shots being fired in the air, missing as most of them did, and falling down wherever they wished. Miraculously, nobody had been killed and only a handful injured.

Colonel Downing thought it likely that she would receive a commendation for both saving and capturing the German airman. While lying in bed, Tom said he was getting jealous of her military career. She reminded him that she hadn’t tried to swim Lake Erie. They’d laughed and she’d rolled on top of him and guided him inside her.

She stiffened. Who was that? Traffic was heavy and the car was moving slowly. She knew that man, but from where? He was on the sidewalk only a few feet away. She remembered. It was the German from the embassy she’d seen talking to the erstwhile traitor, Professor Morris, but what was he doing walking the streets of Washington? Weren’t they all supposed to be interned, virtual prisoners?

She told her driver to stop, which he did, ignoring the horns blaring behind them. She got out and looked for the German who had vanished. Now she had doubts. Was it really the German or just somebody who looked like him? Either the colonel or Tom would check it out, although she was not going to break into another Pentagon meeting with her suspicions. No, she would leave a message.

She curled up again and began remembering anew their carnal adventures. Yes, they would get married and damn soon.

The men and crew of the Walker Simpson, an American transport, were thrilled to have made it through the icy St. Lawrence River and the Welland Canal before the fighting had started. If they’d still been in the Welland, which ran though Canada, it was likely they’d been stopped even though their cargo was a miscellany of items from England and France. The cargo even included several hundred cases of Scotch whisky and French wines. These might just become worth their weight in gold if North America was cut off from Europe.

Even though they’d gotten safely to Lake Erie, the skipper was nervous. He’d heard rumors that there might be German submarines on Lake Erie. Certainly, there were subs on Lake Ontario which ran directly to the ocean.

The captain ordered extra lookouts, although he had no idea what he’d do if they spotted a sub besides radio for help and pray. He’d run the crew through several emergency drills and they all understood that the danger was real. They might be drills today, but they could be the real thing in an instant.

Even with additional eyes, no one spotted the white trail in the water in the fading light. The torpedo hit the middle of the Walker Simpson, just below the bridge, blowing the instantly dead and dismembered captain into the sky. The Simpson’s back was broken and she split into two almost equal halves. The stern sank quickly while the bow stayed afloat, giving the men on that half enough time to get rafts and a lifeboat into the cold waters. Of the crew of thirty, eight survived, although three were injured.

As they climbed or were pulled into the lifeboat, several of them saw the silhouette of the German sub outlined against the sky. One of the men had been in the navy during the first war, and understood that U-boats liked to attack their prey while on the surface and at night.

The senior surviving officer was the first mate. It was he who decided that all survivors should go in the lifeboat and huddle for warmth, and that the dead that bobbed about them would be put in the rafts. Even though they weren’t on the trackless ocean, Lake Erie was still very large and no one could see the shore. How long, they wondered, before they were rescued. Even though it was coming on spring, the weather was still cold and the water was deadly frigid.

The first mate said they should stay close by the floating portion of the ruin. If it sank, they would begin to row their way towards Ohio. In the meantime, they hoped that the wreck was far easier to spot than a lifeboat. All of them wondered if the radio operator, among the dead in the stern half, had managed to get off any kind of SOS.

They were not spotted until the dawn and by a PBY operating out of Cleveland. The radio operator had indeed gotten off a quick SOS before dying. It didn’t say what ship or where but it was enough to start a search.

News that at least one U-boat was operating in the western Great Lakes stunned the American planners in Washington, along with the crews and owners of the ships that plied the Great Lakes. Nothing was safe.

Three days after the assault on the radar line, Colonel Charley Canfield and his battalion found themselves dug in along the coast to the east of the now shattered line at the point where the Niagara River entered into Lake Ontario. They were far from alone. Other units were converging on the area, and scores of anti-aircraft guns poked at the empty sky. The radar towers were being repaired and replacement crews had been assigned. To Canfield it seemed apparent that the advantage held by the Nazis would be short lived.

The only thing that bothered him was why they were bothering to dig in as deeply as they were. Dubinski had the same thought. “What the hell are we doing making a fortress here? It ain’t as if the krauts are going to invade. They’re going to have a hard enough time hanging onto what they have in Canada once we get our act together. This is too much like that Maginot line in France for my taste.”

“No argument,” muttered Canfield. The work they were doing was resulting in bunkers made of sandbags and steel beams. Machine guns, anti-tank guns, and rifle pits pointed in all directions. Their position would be enormously strong and easy to defend, but from what? Yes, they were at war with Germany and yes there were Germans across the river, but it was common knowledge that the Nazis didn’t have the landing craft needed to cross the river and didn’t have the manpower to hold any land they seized.

Canfield shrugged. “The orders come from General Fredendall and I don’t like arguing with generals.”

Like all of his men he’d much rather be at home and not on the front lines, no matter how safe the bunker might make him. The construction was so obvious the bunkers might also be targets for the Luftwaffe. No, Canfield would much rather be at home with his wife who would probably tell him that joining the National Guard had been a bad idea. At his age, he could have avoided the war altogether.

Air raid sirens began to scream. Men swore, grabbed their helmets and ran for cover. Canfield and Dubinski had been outside and away from the bunker. They quickly decided it was too far away, so cover in this case meant hiding in a slit trench. Anti-aircraft guns began to fire and he looked up. A flight of German HE111 bombers moved with deceptive slowness across the sky. These were the same type of craft the Germans had used to bomb Washington. Smaller planes, fighters, flew with them.

“They’re bombing us,” Dubinski said in disbelief.

The two men hugged the bottom of their trench as the bombs struck around them, making the earth quiver and deafening them. Only faintly did Canfield hear the sound of cheering. He pulled his face from the dirt and looked up at the sky. The precise German formation was breaking up as other small planes darted in and out of the bomber stream.

“Just look at that, chief, I mean colonel. Those are our planes.”

Canfield’s hearing was slowly returning. Yes, American fighters were ripping the Germans. As he watched, a Heinkel blew apart, sending pieces of plane and crew towards the ground.

The brawl in the sky didn’t last long. Burning and damaged planes tumbled while others tried to disengage. More and more American fighters arrived, and the German forces turned back towards Canada with a swarm of American fighters on their tail.

Dubinski and Canfield got out of the trench, shook the dirt off their uniforms, and headed back to their bunker. There was just one problem — it wasn’t there anymore. A bomb had struck the top, penetrated, and exploded, leaving a smoking crater where their so-called safe bunker had been. He called for the two men he’d left behind and they sheepishly emerged from another trench. They’d apparently taken his absence as an opportunity to go outside and get some fresh air. He wouldn’t yell at them. He’d done the same thing.

“Damn,” said Dubinski. “We need better quality control with our bunker-building. That could have been us real easy.”

“In which case, Mrs. Canfield would start dating again. Damn it to hell.”

Captain William Landry, twenty-five, loved the army and really loved being a U. S. Army Ranger. He was an aggressive young man even though he was only five foot-six and whip thin, and he always strived for excellence. He’d pushed himself through both airborne and ranger schools and graduated from both with very high marks.

What he didn’t like was hanging on to a raft and half swimming in a wide, cold river while dragging a bag of equipment that he would need when he reached the other side. If he’d wanted to swim at night in water so cold his nuts were screaming, he’d have joined the navy.

Worse was the fact that he would be killed if he or any of the dozen men with him were spotted. Worse than that, the damn river had a strong current that was sweeping him well south of his planned landing site. He would land on the German side of the St. Clair River, but nowhere near his destination. Shit-fuck, he thought. Leave it to the army to forget about the strength of river currents. He would not fight the current. That was a sure way to exhaustion and death. He let it take him south and hoped his men understood. The river was less than a mile wide, nothing for a strong swimmer and they were all strong swimmers, but the cold and the current were magnifying the distance and sapping their strength.

Finally his feet touched the muddy bottom and he slowly moved towards the land. If the Germans had outposts along the riverbank, he was dead. Intelligence said they didn’t but these were the same people who hadn’t told them about the current.

He crawled forward onto dry land. He was aware of others coming along behind him. There was no sign of life in front of him. Luck was with them. There were no Germans along this stretch of the river, although there was a full German infantry brigade quartered in the area.

“One man missing,” whispered Sergeant Glover. “Laughton.”

Landry nodded sadly. He could not dwell on it. Maybe Laughton would get lucky and hit land somewhere else, or maybe he’d be swept downriver and die of exposure. It was out of his hands. He had a job to do.

They opened their bags and slipped into what they hoped would pass for German uniform tunics in the bad light. The same held true for the M3.45 caliber submachine guns they carried that were commonly referred to as ‘grease guns.’ In the dark they had a passing resemblance to German weapons.

They would not skulk or hide. That was another sure way to attract attention. With bravado he didn’t feel, Landry led his men through the streets of Sarnia and onto the approaches of the Blue Water Bridge, passing several tent cities where Wehrmacht units slept soundly. Landry shook his head. Didn’t they know there was a war on? He wondered how many Canadians were looking at his squad and were totally unaware that their lives were about to change dramatically.

The Blue Water Bridge had been built in 1938 and had two lanes of traffic along with sidewalks for the brave who wanted to walk across. It carried heavy truck and car traffic to and from the U.S. and Canada.

It was also wired for demolition.

Landry and his men marched boldly up to what he’d been told was the German engineers’ headquarters on the bridge. Intelligence, this time probably through the OSS, said that the engineers in charge of blowing up the bridge waited with their hands on the plunger that would send the cantilever truss bride into the deep, cold St. Clair River. Similar situations awaited Americans if they tried to cross over the Ambassador Bridge or through the tunnels further downriver at Detroit. The Blue Water Bridge had been chosen for assault because it was roughly sixty miles from the Detroit crossings and it was hoped that the enemy troops there might not be as attentive.

As they approached the German’s building, Landry signaled and two pairs of his men peeled off and ducked under the bridge. Their job was to look for wires and cut them.

A guard finally noticed them. He’d been looking in the wrong direction. He turned and, seeing an officer, snapped to attention. Landry’s sergeant went right up to the man and jammed a knife into his throat. The rangers ran to the building, kicked the door open and stabbed the three men inside. Landry grabbed the detonator that would have destroyed the bridge and ripped out the wires.

Jesus, he thought, have we actually gone and done it?

He gave an order and a flare raced into the sky. Now the German troops near the bridge were alert. Landry heard shouting and then gunfire. His men returned fire and continued to rip out detonator cord and toss dynamite into sticks into the river

“I sure as hell hope the cavalry’s coming,” muttered Sergeant Foley as the shooting intensified.

A ranger screamed and fell, clutching his belly. Blood and intestines tumbled out. A second ranger fell and Sergeant Foley took a bullet in the face, ripping off his jaw. He screamed and fell backwards. Landry and the others tore off their fake German uniforms. If they were caught in enemy uniforms, they’d be shot. This way they might just be kept as prisoners. If not, they would die as Americans.

Heavy machine gun fire pierced the air and cannon boomed. Landry grinned as the first American tank rumbled by. It was quickly followed by a score of others with infantry desperately running along the sidewalks that led into Canada. More 75mm tank guns fired into where the Germans were bivouacked. Men could be seen running in panic from the sudden assault. Landry wondered just what the good people of Sarnia were thinking. The United States hadn’t invaded Canada since the War of 1812, and back then it was to fight the British. Now it was to fight the Germans. Poor Canadians were always in the middle.

However, we did it, thought Landry as he looked on the bodies of his companions and the ruined face of Sergeant Foley. Hell of a price, though.

FDR was livid. “Just who the hell gave this Patton fellow orders to invade Canada?”

General Marshall returned his glare. “May I remind you, sir, that we are at war and a good commander doesn’t need orders to attack the enemy when the opportunity arises. Or did you think that the Germans would simply up and leave Ontario without our doing anything? And by the way, you should recall that Patton is one of our best and most aggressive generals. I think the American public is going to be thrilled at his actions.”

Roosevelt recoiled from Marshall’s anger. “Of course,” he managed. “I would just like to be kept informed.”

“So would I, sir,” said Marshall with a wan smile. “General Patton seems to feel it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard that before,” Roosevelt said, acknowledging that whatever rift between them had just been healed.

They were in the White House Map Room. “May I assume that Patton will sweep down the river and clear out the Germans?”

“Indirectly, yes. Apparently he has decided to try and cut off the Germans and is heading towards Chatham, or even a place farther east along the Lake Erie shore.”

FDR looked at the map of Canada and saw a possible choke point near Chatham. “That would be wonderful indeed. Especially since Herr Hitler is as angry about the attack on Sarnia as I once was. Ultra says that he has ordered von Arnim to hold Windsor at all costs. Fortress Windsor, he calls it. If he insists on that, we stand a chance of bagging a large number of Germans.”

Marshall shook his head. “That won’t happen, sir. We believe the Germans are already withdrawing from the river line. We believe they will form a defensive line around London, Ontario, after reinforcing the divisions pulling back from Windsor.”

“Hitler will be furious,” said Roosevelt, “but he will soon have other things to occupy him.”

Marshall nodded and almost smiled. Ultra intercepts had also informed them that the Nazis spring offensive against the reduced Soviet Union would begin in a matter of days. Should they warn the Russians? Of course not. That would give the Soviets knowledge of Ultra. Besides, he rationalized, the Reds probably knew about it already.

FDR sighed. “I suppose I will have to talk to their hideous Ambassador Gromyko, though. I will let him know that we are allies once again and that Lend Lease will begin flowing just as soon as possible.”

Marshall was silent. Didn’t the president know that there were no good routes into what remained of the Soviet Union? The Russians had retreated so far east that there were no ports that could handle a good sized freighter and, besides, it was all subject to attack from German air and naval units. No, the only way to the Soviet Union was by land through Iran and then north. It would take months to set up the route and it would take weeks for each truck to make it to a destination.

Perhaps when Japan surrendered they could send supplies by rail from Vladivostok. Unfortunately, that Russian port lay right in the Sea of Japan and was threatened by Japanese forces in Manchuria; some were only a few miles away.

For all intents, Lend-Lease shipments were not a viable option. Still, Gromyko would want results yesterday and would blame delays on America’s capitalist distrust, even hate, of the Soviet Union. Marshall quietly wondered if his German counterparts had similar problems.

Chapter Thirteen

Sergeant Major Farnum was his usual grim self. “Sir, I have information, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Try me,” said Grant.

He had sent Farnum to the State Department to check on the status of the detained German diplomats and other embassy personnel. After discussing what Alicia had thought she’d seen, he had sent Farnum instead of someone more senior so that nobody would be overly intrigued by the army’s concerns. The sergeant had been asked to get a list of all detainees so it could be checked against known German military personnel. It seemed reasonable and unthreatening, and it worked out that way.

“Sir, the kraut diplomats are being kept in a hotel in Virginia and it’s much nicer than they deserve. When I asked for a list, the State Department said they didn’t have one so I drove out to the hotel. At first both the State Department guys guarding the hotel and the krauts said they didn’t have a list, but one of the guards was a retired NCO I knew and he really cooperated. He even lined up the krauts so I could inspect them, which really pissed them off, but I figured tough shit. I told them the guards just wanted an excuse to beat the crap out of them and that made them decide to cooperate. I compared their IDs to a list of personnel State Department had suddenly discovered and found that three of the pricks were missing.”

“Was Stahl one of them?”

“Yes sir, so Alicia, I mean lieutenant Cutter, could easily have seen him. One of their people managed to whisper to me that he’d left during the bombing attack and hadn’t been seen since. The two other missing guys are low-level clerks and that same guy thinks they were in New York on some vacation and will probably show up. He also said the he thought the two guys were queer. My source seemed afraid of Stahl. Said he was dangerous.”

Dangerous and missing, thought Grant. What an unbeatable combination. He and Downing would dump the information upward to Truscott and the general would probably inform the FBI. Tom wondered if Stahl had specific instructions, or would he simply take on targets of opportunity. God only knew there were enough of them around.

General Heinz Guderian had to admire the way that von Arnim had distributed his forces and hid them from prying eyes, especially those looking down from the sky. He had done the same with his limited and dwindling Luftwaffe units. They were in bad shape after attempting to bomb American targets. At least twenty per cent of all German planes had been either shot down or had been damaged and were being repaired.

He also admired the way von Arnim had stood up to Hitler’s crony, Field Marshal Keitel. Keitel, as always, was Hitler’s mouthpiece. The order to hold the town of Windsor had been absurd and, if obeyed, would have meant that nearly forty thousand men would have been trapped and out of the war. It was about five hundred miles from Windsor to Toronto. The German army could trade for time and space and preserve lives until the relief force arrived from Europe.

What relief force, Guderian snorted. He really doubted that there would ever be a fucking relief force and he was reasonably confident that von Arnim knew that. Their job would be to delay and bleed the Americans as they advanced into Canada. But for how long could they do that? In order to relieve them, Germany would have to launch a number of protected convoys and send them to Halifax. Yet what would they protect the convoys with? The Kriegsmarine was a speck compared to the combined might of the U.S. Navy and the Royal Navy. Only in the area of submarines did the Reich have any advantage and he wondered just how long that would last. Messages from Germany to Halifax admitted to the loss of ten U-boats. If that’s what they admitted to, he thought wryly, what the hell were the real numbers?

Sirens went off, interrupting his thoughts. He did not think either he or anyone around this innocuous building was in any real danger. If bombers were indeed coming they would be heading for the army camps north of the city. Even those, however, were emptying as von Arnim moved troops, at night of course, south towards their fortified positions along the Niagara Line and west towards the city of London. How ironic, he thought. Germany controlled this small city of London in Ontario while the great one in England still held out. He wondered how much longer before one of Britain’s major food sources, Canada, was cut off. Or would von Arnim allow shipments to continue?

Someone yelled and pointed skyward. Yes, there they were. Guderian counted more than a hundred bombers in this flight and they were escorted by scores of fighters. He saw a young lieutenant with binoculars.

“What the devil are they?”

The lieutenant offered the binoculars to Guderian who declined. The younger man’s eyes were doubtless sharper than his.

“General, the bombers are their B17s and the fighters are P47s and a handful of P51s.”

Guderian thanked him and walked away. The American attack force was a relatively small one. Soon, their response would become massive and overwhelming. Von Arnim would be forced to use his planes to defend his position and they would be destroyed, leaving the army helpless. The B17 was a long range heavy bomber and the Luftwaffe had no equivalent. German bombers were defined as mediums at best. The so-called Flying Fortress could carry up to four tons of bombs on short runs, and everything in and around Toronto was close to the border. The American fighters were the equal of their German counterparts and the Germans would be outnumbered by thousands.

The North American Luftwaffe was doomed.

He laughed harshly. So too was the entire Wehrmacht in North America unless something miraculous happened. Hitler wanted to end the war once and for all this year of 1944. Soon, massive German armies would cross the Volga and destroy what remained of the Red Army. At least that was the plan.

Guderian had vehemently argued against continuing the war against the Soviets, but had been shouted down by Hitler and banished to Canada for his sins. He wondered if von Arnim shared his doubts, or was he afraid of that Gestapo shit, Neumann? He thought it likely that von Arnim shared his dismay at Hitler’s decisions and disgust with the coterie of asses who surrounded him.

In the distance, he heard he crump-crump of explosions. The Americans had found a target. He thought he would have to get used to both the fact and the sound.

A motorcycle with an empty sidecar roared up to him. The driver looked hard at him. “General Guderian?”

“Yes.” Who the hell else could it be, you ass, he thought.

“The driver swallowed. “Sir, General von Arnim requests your presence immediately. It’s urgent.”

Guderian climbed awkwardly into the side car. What the hell else had gone wrong?

Captain Tommy Jenks was in a roaring good mood and why not. He was leading a dozen American tanks in pursuit of an enemy they’d handily defeated in and around Sarnia. The Nazis were in full retreat and his orders were to keep them that way. He was to chase them, catch them, and kill them. Patton wanted tanks in the rear of the Germans and he wanted them there yesterday. Patton was his kind of general, and, even though he’d never met the man, he liked his fire.

Jenks and his men had been working hard since their Indiana National Guard unit had been activated several months before. They no longer considered themselves weekend warriors, a term they’d always considered an insult and cause for a fight in a bar down in Bloomington, Indiana. They were well trained and loaded for bear and their M3 Grant tank, in their opinion, was the best tank in the world. It had a crew of six and a big 75mm gun as its main weapon.

They’d all heard the rumors that the 30-ton beast was already obsolete but dismissed them. They were confident that they could take on and smash any armor the Germans threw at them. Jenks considered the reports that the Germans made better tanks and guns to be so much bullshit. Thanks to GM, Ford, Chrysler, Packard, Studebaker and others, the U.S. made the best vehicles in the world. He’d heard that the Russians hadn’t wanted American tanks and thought that was dumb and probably why the krauts had kicked the crap out of them. Someone even said that the fact that the hull was riveted made it dangerous. If hit, the rivets would break loose and become lethal projectiles in the hull. Jenks had an answer for that — don’t get hit! Newer versions of the Grant were welded, not riveted, but that concerned him not at all.

Even though the tank was fairly spacious, the presence of six good sized men sweating and farting made for a need to open the hatches and air the thing out.

There was a small turret and a high velocity 37mm gun on top of the hull and that’s where Jenks liked to be. High up and with the hatch open, he could see for a very long ways. Some said that the tanks height was a disadvantage, but he didn’t see how. After all, he could see so much more from up there.

The big 75mm was mounted in what was called a sponson which meant it couldn’t traverse all the way like a turret could and Jenks did admit to that being a drawback. A new tank, the M4 Sherman, was supposed to replace the M3s and he considered that a shame. He liked the Grant.

Jenks opened the hatch and took a deep breath of good fresh air. He looked around and saw upwards of forty American tanks rumbling across the Canadian landscape at ten plus miles an hour. Even though the ground was relatively flat, the tanks lurched and wallowed like drunken sailors and Jenks had to hang on to keep from getting hurt. They were outdistancing their infantry support that was trying to follow along in trucks, but trucks didn’t travel cross-country very well. Well, he thought, tough shit. If they ran into Germans, they’d either kill them or hold them until the infantry arrived.

Neither Jenks nor the majority of his men had ever been to Canada and it had proven a surprising and pleasant experience. The houses and farms were sturdy and neat and could have been anywhere in a prosperous agricultural section of the U.S. Of course, a couple of idiots in his unit professed surprise that the Canadians spoke English. He hoped they were kidding, but, considering the sources, decided they probably weren’t.

Jenks was about to comment on a particular farmhouse when the tank next to him exploded, sending a column of flaming gas and debris into the air.

“Ambush!” Jenks yelled and tried to see where the shot had come from. Or maybe they’d run over a mine? No, he saw a flash of light in the distance and a second tank shuddered to a halt with black smoke pouring from it. He turned the tank in the direction of the flash, now wishing he’d had a turret instead of having to move the whole damn tank.

The Grant’s big gun fired and the shell hit well short of where Jenks thought the shot had come from. A third tank was hit and started to burn, and then a fourth. Up and down the line, tanks were burning. Machine gun fire ripped through the American column. Behind him, a truck full of infantry was hit and rolled over, spilling men onto the ground. His tank’s 37mm gun shot in the general direction of the Germans who were now firing heavily and rapidly. Worse, their fire was accurate and lethal. The American armored column was being cut to pieces.

“Pull back,” he ordered to his driver who relayed the order to the surviving tanks.

Jenks was neither a coward nor a fool. He knew he should be inside the tank with the hatch down, but he couldn’t see if he did that. Some son of a bitch was killing his men and he needed to find him.

Black dots emerged from where they’d been hiding to his front. They were German tanks, and they began shooting.

“We’re fucked,” Jenks yelled just as a shell slammed into his tank, hurling him from the turret and down to the ground, but not before smashing his legs. As he lay there in agony so fierce he couldn’t scream, he could hear the rivets popping inside the hull and his men howling as they were torn to pieces by the red hot flying metal. The tank continued to move of its own volition for a few feet before lurching to a halt. Smoke and flames poured from the hull, but nobody else came out.

Jenks was numb with pain and anger. He smelled something burning and realized that his broken legs were on fire.

Tinker and Lambert watched from the bushes as still more trucks moved inside the barbed wire fence. The concentration camp that had once held Jews was filling up again. This time the prison population consisted of anyone who had voiced opposition to the presence of German troops in Canada. Few were Jews. Most of them had long since departed south to the U.S. or west to the brand new Federation of West Canada. There had been no attempts on the part of the Germans to delay their exodus. The Gestapo had seemed to encourage it.

Lambert had to give the Germans their due. It made no sense whatsoever to keep malcontents and potential leaders of an underground force around to cause mischief. He just hoped that there would be no mass executions since deportation to Germany was no longer viable.

He laughed and wondered if his name was on the Nazi’s shit list. A lot of people had heard him criticize the Germans and Hitler.

“What’s so funny?” asked Tinker.

“Just wondering how long before we’re in that camp or at that farm the Gestapo uses for interrogation.”

“Interrogation? Is that what you call it? Christ, you know bloody fucking well that the farm is used to torture and kill people. Or have you forgotten what happened to that girl?”

“Nobody will ever forget what happened to Mary Bradford,” he said softly.

“Then what are we going to do about the people in the camp and the farm? We just can’t leave them there.”

No we can’t, Lambert thought. But what the hell else could they do? The Americans weren’t anywhere near and, if German propaganda was true, the Yanks had just been given a bloody nose outside Windsor. So, if they liberated the camp and farm, what would they do with the prisoners? The krauts would hunt them down and kill them. No, he decided reluctantly, the poor souls behind the wire were safer where they were.

Maybe, however, they could do something about the farm.

Lieutenant General George Patton was near tears as he reported to Eisenhower and Marshall at his headquarters in Detroit. He could close his eyes and still see the burning American tanks and smell the stench of brutal death. Worse were the looks on the faces of the wounded. The wounded and the dead were heroes, but he felt that his lack of experience in command of an army had caused many of the casualties. He also felt he’d been let down by others as well.

Patton put down his coffee cup. It contained a couple of inches of brandy. It was starting to calm him, but he still felt rage and guilt.

“Ike, General Marshall, they killed us. I sent my men straight into an ambush and we lost almost a thousand casualties, and that includes several hundred missing. I hope some of them show up, but I’m afraid that a lot of them are going to wind up in German prison camps and we’ll be seeing them in the newsreels when we go to the movies.”

Eisenhower and Marshall kept silent. They would let Patton get the anger and frustration out of his system. The commander of the Third Army had first won a brilliant victory by sneaking men across the St. Clair River and forcing the Germans from Sarnia and, very soon after, Windsor. The guns that had been pounding American factories had been pulled back out of range and were no longer a factor. The industrial complex could now be rebuilt and work was already commencing. But neither Ike, Marshall nor Patton had thought the Germans would recover so quickly and decimate an American armored division that had been probing its way east.

“Enough feeling sorry for yourself, George,” Ike finally said. “What can we learn from this?”

Patton took another sip, looked at the cup and swallowed the remainder. The situation was awkward. Once, Patton had been Ike’s superior in rank and Ike had even requested to serve under him. Now it was reversed and Eisenhower was in charge. Marshall had nixed the idea of Ike serving under Patton because he had plans for Ike, and these had become obvious. Dwight David Eisenhower would command the American armies and not Patton.

“Here’s what I’ve learned, Ike. First, we can win this goddamned thing, but we’ve got to understand how to fight. Our armor is for shit in comparison with the Germans and we’ve got to even that out. I don’t want to send anymore boys out to fight in those M3 Grant coffins. We must wait until we’ve got enough Shermans to do the job.”

Ike nodded. He’d already requested Marshall to send large numbers of the M4 Shermans allocated to the Pacific to the Canadian front. Marshall had concurred and the newer, better tanks were being shipped back from California.

Patton stood and began to pace. “Our men may be well trained but they lack experience. That will come in time, but it will be at a bloody price. Hell, we’re fighting Germans who took on the French, the Russians, and even the British and kicked their asses down the street. We’ve also got to get rid of commanders who don’t know how to command men in battle. We need fighters, not administrators. Right now the German army has better trained and more experienced soldiers than we do.”

Marshall quietly acknowledged that reality. Peacetime soldiers sometimes couldn’t make the leap to being in combat and, good men or not, had to be dumped.

Patton wasn’t finished. “We have got to control the skies. We surely have more than enough planes to wipe out the Luftwaffe many times over. The glory boy pilots have got to change their attitudes. Fighters have got to support the infantry and not go chasing all over for Messerschmitts to shoot down so they can paint nice little swastikas on their planes, showing what great warriors they are. No, I want our planes down low and supporting our boys in the mud.”

“Agreed,” said Eisenhower, even though he knew that the USAAF would fight him on that. Too many in the air force saw their job as taking on the enemy planes or bombing strategic targets, not supporting the doughboys. Well, that would have to change. It might involve a compromise, but that’s one reason he’d been put in command. Again, Marshall gave his silent approval.

“Once we get the planes, we must be able to communicate,” said Ike. “Radios have to be coordinated and plugged in to the planes above, and this will all take time since we don’t have either the radios or the personnel to operate them. People are going to be frustrated that we can’t strike back more quickly, but you’re right, we can’t send boys out to be slaughtered. We have to wait until we get the tanks and planes.”

Marshall stood. He was clearly unhappy at the turn of events, but had to confront reality. He would fly back to Washington where he would have to explain matters to Roosevelt.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we also have to realize there are more Germans than we thought there were, and they also have a lot more tanks and planes than we thought. The good news is that they can’t replace their losses, but the bad is that they will still be able to inflict a lot of pain on us.”

Tony Romano’s B24 now had three U-boat outlines painted on her hull and he and his crew thought they had gotten a fourth one. They might find out after the war, but that might just be in another lifetime. Regardless, two more and he’d be an ace. Or at least an ace as the sub-killing B24 crews defined it. Some of the fighter pilots might object, but screw them, he thought.

He wasn’t a general or, in this case, an admiral, but it seemed to Tony that the German U-boat fleet was getting the crap kicked out of it. He wondered what Hitler was thinking about that turn of events. Apparently he’d thought his subs could destroy the US and Royal Navies and this simply wasn’t turning out to be the case. Tony was having to go farther out in the ocean to find any hunting and today was no exception. The sun would rise in an hour and all good U-boats would tuck themselves under the waves and hide until the next night. Intelligence said they were beginning to realize that the US planes could see in the dark and the subs were now taking more and more advantage of their snorkels to stay hidden. No matter. American radar was getting better and better and a skilled operator could pick out something as small as a snorkel, or even a periscope, poking its nose above the water

“Got something, skipper, and it looks like the fool is running on the surface.”

Tony laughed. “Must be a new kid in school. Let’s go initiate him.”

They’d made and practiced this type of attack so many times they could do it in their sleep. They came in low and towards what radar said was the sub’s stern. Tony made ready to flip on the searchlight and commence firing from his nose gun.

“Skipper, he’s turning. We’re going to hit him broadside.”

Oh shit, thought Tony. One reason for attacking the sub’s stern was that their deck gun and some of their machine guns couldn’t bear. He thought rapidly and realized he didn’t have a choice. It was too late to turn around. They were screwed.

The bomber’s searchlights illuminated the sub and yes it was broadside to him. Worse, it had two deck guns instead of the normal one. What the hell. Were the Germans suddenly becoming creative? The Vampire’s nose gun began firing immediately and shells chewed up the sub’s hull and conning tower, piercing metal and hurling men into the sea.

Both deck guns turned on him and opened fire, as did several machine guns. Tony watched in horrified fascination as tracers sought out his plane. Obviously, they could see it in the improving light, and the flashes his guns were making were a dead giveaway.

The plane shuddered as something struck it. Jesus, was it a shell from a deck gun? Someone was screaming behind him and Tony was terribly aware that a lot of fresh air was flowing through the Vampire. As they passed over the sub, her machine guns raked the B24’s belly. Tony realized that he had very little control over the plane and that one of his engines was on fire. He was losing altitude and he hadn’t had all that much to begin with.

“I’m going to set her down,” he yelled over the intercom, hoping that he was heard and that his crew could take steps to save themselves.

As he struggled and reached for the waves, he was dimly aware that he was turning back towards the sub. The bomber hit tail first and then the front part of the plane slammed into the sea. Tony’s head hit something and he blacked out. The shock broke the Vampire in half also causing the bombs she carried to explode. Anyone in the tail section was dead.

Tony found himself in the water where the cold sea against his head revived him. A life raft had been thrown clear. Carlson had inflated it and was already in it. He grabbed at Tony and Watson and, somehow, they made it onto the raft just seconds before the front half of the bomber sank.

An hour later, the three men lay in the raft, shocked and exhausted. Tony’s head had cleared but his left eye was swollen shut. Another raft, this one containing a handful of Germans moved slowly towards them. A young officer stood up.

“Are you going to shoot at us?” the German asked in accented English.

“With what?” Tony answered and realized he shouldn’t have told the enemy he was unarmed.

“Same here,” said the German. The two rafts touched and a German sailor tied them together. “I think there is either safety or survival in numbers. Where’s the rest of your crew?”

“Dead,” Tony said and the sudden grief threatened to overwhelm him. Counting himself, there had been ten men on the plane, now only three lived.

“And where are your men?” Tony asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Dead also,” the German replied solemnly. “Or still falling to the bottom of the ocean and wishing they were dead instead of beginning to die from lack of air. These men and I were on the deck where I was commanding one of the guns when you attacked and sank my boat. At any rate, since it is much more likely that an American ship will find us than a German one, I surrender my crew and myself. You did manage to tell your authorities where to find us, didn’t you?”

Tony turned to Carlson who nodded. “It was a quick, short message, but I think I got an acknowledgment.” The base did know their flight plan, rough though it was.

The German introduced himself as Hans Ulbrecht and Tony returned the favor. It seemed incongruous but necessary.

“Why didn’t you dive?” Tony asked.

“My late captain might have wondered the same thing in his last few moments. He’d had additional guns put on our boat with the idea that he could destroy an attacking plane before it killed us. Obviously, it didn’t work out as planned. As a very junior officer, I was not in a position to discuss strategy. I believe that he also got such a directive from our beloved Fuhrer who, of course, can do no wrong.”

Tony couldn’t keep from smiling. Intelligence had said that many in the German navy, the Kriegsmarine, were not fond of Hitler.

A faint buzzing caught their attention. They looked and saw a navy PBY Catalina flying boat heading towards them. It circled and settled in the water a hundred yards or so from the two rafts. They retrieved paddles from the rafts and began to move towards the PBY. The side hatch was open and two men with submachine guns watched them warily.

When they were close enough, Tony stood up and held his hands out. “I am First Lieutenant Tony Romano, pilot and skipper of the bomber. These men in the other raft are Germans, the surviving crewmen of the sub we just sunk. They are unarmed and have surrendered.”

One of the sailors with a submachine gun glared at him. “Why don’t you just get the fuck out of the way so we can send their asses to Valhalla.”

Tony glared back. “Don’t even think of that unless you plan on killing us, too. They surrendered and I think they have some interesting shit to tell us, shit that might save American lives, maybe even your own.”

The sailor’s expression softened slightly. “Americans get in first and Germans second.”

“Other way around,” said Tony, “and I give the orders, not you. That way, we can help you cover them.” And make sure you don’t do anything stupid, he didn’t add.

A few moments later, they were airborne and headed towards Norfolk. The Germans had been tied up but didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Ulbrecht smiled. “You should envy me, lieutenant.”

“Why?”

“Because my war is over, while yours is just beginning. Once your people are through interrogating me, I’ll be sent to some pleasant camp in Kansas or someplace where I’ll be fed and sheltered. Perhaps I’ll be granted parole and allowed out of the camp where I can meet people, perhaps even lovely young American girls who might find a cultured and handsome German fascinating. And what will you be doing besides getting another plane and preparing to put your life at risk once more?”

“Prick,” Tony said and the German laughed.

“So we're going to settle into another Sitzkrieg?” asked Grant. He was referring to the protracted period between the declaration of war between France and England on one side, and Germany and Italy on the other. They had spent long months in what was also known as the “Phony War,” staring at each other until the Germans launched their deadly assault on France, Belgium, and the Netherlands.

“Can’t be helped,” Downing answered. They were in the kitchen of Downing’s house and the colonel was making cocktails. Missy and Alicia were in the other room. “We aren’t ready to launch a real invasion of Ontario and won’t be for a couple of months. The newspapers and radio commentators like Walter Winchell are going crazy, so I hope nobody gets stampeded into doing something rash.”

“Rashness costs lives,” said Alicia, as she came in for her drink. The men were clearly taking too long making them.

“Are we being rash?” Tom asked. “With our marriage, that is.”

He still couldn’t believe that Alicia had agreed to marry him, and that the ceremony would take place the next Saturday. Her parents were on their way in and, while hurried and lacking some of the traditional elements, it would be a real wedding. She’d even found a woman to make a basic but lovely white dress. General Truscott had used some pull and gotten use of a cottage overlooking the Chesapeake for a week. He’d assured both of them that the war would go on despite their absence.

“Not rash, dear,” she answered. “In this chaotic little world we live in, it would be rash to not take advantage of every opportunity for a life together.”

“However short?”

“That’s right,” said Missy. “Make hay while the sun shines or something like that.” She was just a little drunk. “Never look back, never have regrets. Mark and I never have.”

Her husband mockingly glared at her. “I prefer you call me colonel in the presence of others, madam.”

Missy smiled sweetly. “Screw you, beloved colonel. Oh dear, my vile tongue has gone and betrayed the fact that I’ve lived on army posts for twenty-odd years.”

Tom and Alicia stepped outside. The night was crisp, which was a wonderful excuse for holding each other tightly. “Do you think it will be warm enough for us to swim in the Bay?” she asked.

“I wasn’t planning on going outside,” he said as he slipped his hand onto her breast.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Guderian quickly realized that he had not been invited to a normal conference with his fellow general. Instead, something was terribly wrong. He kept his face impassive as the motorcycle was driven down a dirt path to a tent that was clearly marked with a Red Cross on the top. He thought about asking the driver about von Arnim’s condition, but decided that the young man probably didn’t know much at all.

When it stopped, he eased himself out of the sidecar. He ached from the cramped space, but tried to keep it from showing. Guderian was relieved to see a familiar face emerge from the tent, an anxious looking Koenig.

“How is he?” asked Guderian.

“Very bad, general. His vehicle was bombed and he was thrown from it. From what we can figure out, he hit his head on a tree.”

Guderian nodded and pushed his way inside the tent. He was met by a man in a doctor’s smock who introduced himself as Doctor Rinaldi, and that he was part of the Italian detachment sent by Mussolini to show his support for the Reich. The doctor spoke passable German.

“Your general is unconscious. We took x-rays and concluded that he has a depressed fracture of the skull, along with some cracked ribs and a broken leg. I can show you the x-rays if you’d like.”

Guderian did not wish to see them. “Will he live?” Guderian asked softly.

Rinaldi shrugged. “If we can give him nourishment, yes, but the proper questions should be when will he recover and how well will he recover. The answers to those are simple — we don’t know. He is not responsive and we believe he is in a coma. Some people come out of them and some don’t, living forever like a vegetable. Some others come out perfectly normal and others recover as little children who have to learn everything all over again. His recovery is in God’s hands.”

If there is a God, Guderian thought as he entered the screened off area where von Arnim lay motionless on a bed. His leg was in a cast, which was bad enough, but his skull was heavily wrapped in bandages. Only the lower part of his face was visible. Guderian wanted to ask how they were sure it was von Arnim, but held his comment.

“Koenig, how many know about this?”

“Just a handful, I hope, and they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Realistically, I can’t be certain that there aren’t others who know, or that those who do know won’t talk.”

Guderian agreed with the realistic assessment. “And as the days go on, more will certainly find out. This cannot be kept a secret forever.”

He especially wondered how long before the Italian army doctor informed his fellow doctors, or how long before he needed their input to care for his patient. Mussolini had sent a division of infantry to help hold Canada and they had been an utter disgrace. Arriving a month before the start of the war, fully a third had deserted in the first few days and simply crossed the border. The joke went — if you seek the Italian army, check Manhattan. They were followed by even more of their compatriots to the point where only a couple of thousand were left and von Arnim had sent them to Ottawa, which was much farther away from the tempting American border.

Guderian wondered how resentful Rinaldi was that he was in a war in Canada and not home in Italy. He would arrange for a German doctor to take over caring for von Arnim.

“We cannot keep a secret,” Guderian said. “Koenig, draft an announcement to the army and I will prepare one to send to Hitler and the OKW in Berlin. The messages will simply state the truth — General von Arnim has been seriously wounded and it will be a while before he recovers. In the meantime, I will assume command over all German forces in Canada.”

Koenig nodded and started to leave. “However,” Guderian continued with a wry smile, “if those in Berlin think one of von Arnim’s subordinates is more qualified, I will step aside. Or, if they wish to send someone from Germany, like that arrogant jackass Rommel, they are welcome to try to run the blockade the Americans are setting up as we speak.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sam Lambert was exhausted by the time he finally arrived home. He lived in a small frame house a couple of miles north of downtown Toronto. It wasn’t a very nice house and it wasn’t in the best part of town, but it was what he could afford on a cop’s salary. He’d been saving up for a better place, but now wondered if that day would ever come.

He was distressed that his city was on the verge of chaos. Thousands of people had already fled Toronto on what they felt was the logical assumption that it would be a target for American bombers. Lambert wasn’t quite so certain. He thought the Yanks would be after military targets, rather than civilian ones.

Toronto was one of Canada’s largest manufacturing centers, if not the largest, but most of those businesses made goods for the civilian sector. Of course, he thought, they could be converted to military use in short order should the Germans demand it. They couldn’t make tanks, but they could make small weapons and ammunition.

The absence of so many people had led to a degree of anarchy among those who remained. Many of them didn’t have the resources to flee and had nowhere to go anyhow. There had been cases of looting and Lambert was sure that looting would only increase. The Black Shirts were having their own little party, robbing businesses and homes and breaking heads. Some of the fools were actually resentful when police intervened. They believed that the war rendered them immune from prosecution. He hoped they weren’t right.

Damn it, he thought as he took a bottle of Molson’s from the fridge. He would rest, try to unwind, and then go to bed. He had a feeling tomorrow would be as bad as today.

The knock on the door startled him. He got up and walked over warily, first making sure that his service revolver was tucked in his belt.

“Who’s there?”

“Sherry, now open up.”

Sherry? Who the hell was Sherry? Somewhat confident since it was a woman’s voice, he opened the door a crack. A short blonde woman about thirty stood before him.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Sorry, but I don’t. Should I?”

“I guess I’m not surprised. My name is Sherry Piper and the last time you saw me I had been beaten and raped, and was lying naked and bloody on a stretcher. My brother was even more terribly beaten as well. Now please let me in.”

Sam opened the door enough for her to enter, closing it quickly once she was in. Now he did recognize her, sort of. She had lost a lot of weight and had died her hair a gaudy blond that did nothing for her. There was a vivid white scar on her cheek, a reminder of the beating and worse she’d endured.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why?”

He took a deep breath. That night had upset him terribly. “That we couldn’t get there in time. Our source in the Black Shirts couldn’t get us the info until the attack was about to happen. As it was, I could only get six guys together and only four of us had weapons.”

“But you did manage to kill two of them. Now I’d like to kill some more. First, however, get me one of those things in your hand.”

Lambert grinned. He’d picked up his beer when he closed the door. He got her a Molson and opened it for her. She declined a glass.

“Don’t tell me I’m looking well,” she said. “I can’t stand being patronized.”

“How’s your brother?”

Her expression changed to one of deep sadness. “He’s dead. He killed himself. He was filled with irrational shame that he was the cause of what happened to us, to me in particular. He kept telling me that he visualized me spread-eagled on the bed and being forced to watch while those bastards raped me. He felt it was his fault for getting involved with the printing operation, totally forgetting that I was the one who urged him to do it. Maybe the beating unhinged him. I just don’t know. He ate a whole bottle of aspirins one night and never woke up.”

“Can I say I’m sorry?”

“Sorry for what? You tried to help and you did help. Now you can help some more.”

Lambert was intrigued. He also realized that Sherry Piper was a very attractive woman, or would be if she did something about her hair. “How can I help?”

“Afterwards, we went to the states where we got medical help. I left Steve in a hospital outside Washington, which is where he got his hands on the aspirins, and went to look for the OSS. It was surprisingly easy to find and, after my brother’s funeral, I volunteered to come back here and feed them information about the Germans and the Black Shirts.”

“How will you do that?”

“You will help get me a job near the German headquarters. I brought a small radio with limited range, but good enough to reach the American side of Lake Ontario. Being a cop, you will be able to retrieve it for me and bring it here.”

“Here?”

Sherry smiled, this time with amusement and a degree of warmth. “Of course. I have to have someplace to stay and this is it. You don’t mind, do you? Besides, so far it is not illegal to have a short wave radio.”

Sam Lambert shook his head. No, he did not mind at all.

Admiral Vian was almost in tears as he sat across from Admiral Ernest King. “I am sorry, but I have my orders. Prime Minister Lord Halifax has ordered the Royal Navy to stand aside in this war between the United States and Germany.”

King nodded. “I understand his reasoning and almost agree with it. The issue is food.”

When the truce between Germany and Great Britain was informally agreed to, one of the conditions was that food shipments from Canada and elsewhere to the British Isles would be unimpeded. Without them, the people of England and Scotland would starve. As it was, they would be on short rations and were growing food on every available patch of land. The food issue was a Sword of Damocles hanging over the British Isles. Food rationing was already tight and any cut in imports could be disastrous.

Vian continued. “It will always be food, and even Churchill concurs. Until and if there are assurances that the U.S. Navy will protect food convoys to England, I cannot run the risk of cutting off Britain’s food supply by participating in this war.”

King understood, but didn’t like it. He wasn’t at all fond of the British, but that did not extend to starvation. The navy was about to begin blockading the port of Halifax when FDR had informed him that ships exiting Canada could be searched and seized only if they contained war materials and food was not on that list. Nor did it matter that much of the food might make its way to the Reich. His hands were tied, as were Vian’s. Nor could the Royal Navy move to the Pacific and aid in the war against Japan. Too risky, was the assessment, and, besides, it would be a logistical nightmare. For the time being, the Royal Navy was out of this war and this meant that additional warships needed to fight the Germans would have to come from the Pacific, thus weakening the American effort against the Japanese.

Damn it, King thought. The Brits couldn’t do anything right. They couldn’t even lose a war without screwing it up.

After a shaken and despondent Vian left, King was left to confront another problem — how to clear Lakes Ontario and probably Lake Erie of German presence so that an invasion of Nazi-held Canada could commence. There were no American warships on the Great Lakes and hadn’t been since the war of 1812. Even then those had been wooden ships built on the lakes, a total impossibility given the needs of modern shipbuilding, which included guns and armor plate.

It seemed so simple to armchair strategists, and that included Roosevelt. All the navy had to do, they thought, was steam up the St. Lawrence and insert American warships where there were none. The President had to be reminded that it was almost eight hundred miles from Halifax to Toronto and warships would have to make their way up a narrow river with a hostile enemy on both shores.

Some bright mind had suggested arming smaller ships, even yachts, with depth charges and deck guns along with anti-aircraft guns and this was being done. But how long would it take for them to clear out the damned German E-boats and submarines, and how many enemy ships were there in the first place? Besides, wasn’t this more of an army operation? King smiled as he recalled that a number of B24 bombers had been assigned to the Tenth Fleet to hunt Nazi submarines, and had been fairly successful.

Perhaps, Marshall thought, they would do just as well on the Great Lakes.

Canfield and his men were ready this time. Bunkers had been built and now would withstand anything other than a direct hit by a very large bomb. Given the state of bombing accuracy, the targeted bunker was likely a very safe place. Radar systems were up and operating, and a recent attack by German planes had been met by a horde of American fighters that had chased them back across the lake. Several German planes had been shot down while the men on the ground cheered. A couple of chutes had opened but the enemy pilots had drowned before anyone could get to them.

Still, the area wasn’t safe. The Germans liked to send their high speed E-boats across during the night, just like the Japanese had done to American marines on Guadalcanal. The Germans, however, kept their motors muzzled and ran slowly until the very last minute, then they would open up with their small but deadly cannon and machine guns. It didn’t take much of a raid to keep a thousand men from sleeping. Just a few hundred machine gun rounds and a dozen or so rapid fire cannon shells would keep everyone’s nerves frazzled.

“Why the hell don’t we have radar that can pick out ships?” Canfield muttered.

Dubinski laughed softly in the night. “If the army thought we should have good radar, they would have issued it, just like they don’t issue brains. In the army you don’t need brains.”

“Up yours, sergeant.”

Canfield didn’t like the bunkers they’d been ordered to build. Despite their strength, he thought they were traps. Along with being traps the bunkers were poorly hidden, which meant they could be seen from both the sky and the lake.

Canfield was further annoyed by the passive stance taken by the army. Armies should be on the move, seeking out the enemy and bringing an end to this strange new war. All he wanted to do was go home to his wife and his job as sheriff. In his opinion, digging in and waiting was what got France whipped in 1940 when they found that their vaunted Maginot Line wasn’t worth squat. At least this General Patton seemed to have the right idea. Too bad his army appeared to be stalled out west.

Canfield was beginning to have serious doubts about their own Corp Commander, Lloyd Fredendall. At least their new regimental commander was aggressive and had given his implicit blessing to this latest brainchild of Canfield’s. The colonel was regular army and had replaced their original colonel who had suffered a nervous breakdown. The colonel liked what he’d heard about the skirmish between Canfield’s men and the E-boat a while back and gave the okay to give it another shot.

Another shot, Canfield thought and laughed. He assumed that the krauts were pretty well aware that the American forces were building up a supply of landing craft that could have only one purpose — the invasion of Ontario. Canfield had a dozen dummy boats built of plywood and had camouflaged them in what he called an intentionally very half-assed manner. The Germans would be sure to notice them and would try to do something about it. At least that’s what he hoped.

Canfield yawned and checked his watch. It was almost three in the morning. If the krauts were going to come, it would have to be soon. He’d been up the last few nights and didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this pace. If the Germans didn’t come in the next couple of nights, he was going to give up and dismantle the decoys and get some sleep.

It was hell getting old, he thought. Maybe he should have some more coffee and take another walk around the guns that had been sited to surprise his unwelcome guests.

“I hear something,” said Dubinski, “How about you?”

“Maybe I could if you’d quit talking.” Canfield grumped.

Both men were silent, straining to hear. There. It was a distant humming. They recognized the throbbing of an E-boat’s engines, maybe two of them. Once again, they’d been heavily and skillfully muffled. Canfield suddenly realized they might be a lot closer than he first thought. There was mist on the water and the enemy boats could be hiding in it.

“Should we turn on our lights?” Dubinski asked.

“No, not yet. Let them go first.”

Seconds later, two offshore searchlights flared on and lit up the shore, quickly finding the “landing craft.” Almost immediately, machine gun and anti-aircraft shells began ripping through the fragile dummies. Gasoline from five gallon cans placed in the boats exploded, adding to the realism.

“Now,” Canfield ordered and his own searchlights reached out and found the two German E-boats. They were only a couple of hundred yards from the shore.

Tracers from American machine guns lit the way to the Germans and quickly found the range, ripping into their hulls. Canfield could see chaos on the two boats.

“Where the hell are my tanks?” he yelled.

The M3 might be obsolescent, but it packed a 75mm gun and he had two of them. Their cannon barked and kicked up splashes just a few yards away from the boats that were now turning and frantically trying to get away from the hornet’s nest they’d disturbed.

A 75mm shell struck one of the German boats, rocking it and sending men and debris into the water. Canfield was about to say something when the E-boat exploded with a roar and a shock wave that they could feel.

“I think we just set off a torpedo,” Dubinski commented. “Ain’t that tough shit?”

One German torpedo boat was sinking rapidly and the other had high-tailed it out of range. The battle was over and it was suddenly, shockingly, quiet. Canfield waved for rescue parties in their own small boats to go out and rescue German survivors, if there were any.

It didn’t take long for the motorboats to reach the debris and begin pulling people in. The second German boat was barely visible and staying just out of range, watching the Americans work.

“What the hell are they doing?” asked Dubinski.

“They’re looking to see what we do with their comrades,” Canfield answered. “If it looked like we were going to kill survivors, I think they would have attacked our rescue boats. As it is, I think they’ll leave them alone.”

Apparently satisfied, the surviving German powered up and raced away towards Canada. Moments later, the life boats returned with a dozen surviving German sailors. They looked stunned at the sudden and deadly turn of events. Well, fuck’em, Canfield thought. They started it.

The FBI had finally shown a little interest in the missing personnel from the German embassy. Just how much interest was shown by the fact that they sent only one very young agent to the Pentagon to discuss matters with Grant.

Special Agent Travis Dunn was about five-ten, lean, and looked about twenty-five and, if he was intimidated by the military brass, he didn’t let it show. Like all agents, he wore a dark suit and a white shirt that was as much a uniform as the khaki worn by the army.

Dunn looked at his notes and put them away. “Major Grant, first of all, I would like to know why you didn’t bring in the FBI in the first place.”

“Let me assure you that I had no voice in that decision. It was made way above my puny rank. Our concern was simply professional. We wanted to know how many had not been swept up when the German embassy was surrounded. We all knew that a number of them were military personnel regardless of their cover title and that had us somewhat concerned.”

“So you sent your monster, Sergeant Farnum, to get the information from the State Department. Apparently he absolutely terrified some of the twinkle-toes there.”

“Don’t let Farnum hear you call him a monster or he’ll rip your arms off and make you eat them.”

Dunn turned to where Farnum was seated a couple of desks away and pretending to be deaf. “Good point,” Dunn said.

“At any rate, we found, just as you did, that there were three people missing, and one was likely military. I don’t know about the other two.”

Dunn actually laughed. “The other two we found in a hotel in the Bronx. They’re a couple of queers who didn’t know the war had started and were deliriously butt-fucking their little hearts out when we crashed their party.”

“That would’ve been an interesting sight,” Grant said. He was beginning to think that Special Agent Dunn might be okay.

“It gets better,” Dunn said. “We threatened to tell their chums at the embassy about their tryst if they didn’t cooperate and tell us everything they knew. They asked for asylum and it was declined. We felt that the krauts would retain a couple of our people if these two stayed behind. So, in return for our silence about their sexual preferences, they sang and sang, and what they told us was that your friend Stahl is a very bad man. I guess they didn’t want to go to a concentration camp and wear a pink badge telling the world that they were fags.”

“But what about Stahl?” Grant asked. “Where is he?”

Tom had been briefed on the attempted treason by Professor Morris. He’d been shocked to find that Alicia had played a part in it.

Dunn continued. “We believe that Stahl has set up a number of safe havens in the area and is probably holed up in one of them. We also believe he has a small number of associates available to help him.”

“I understood that your FBI had rounded up all enemy aliens and sympathizers.”

Dunn rolled his eyes and looked around, concerned that someone might be listening. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Hoover’s going crazy at the possibility that some have been missed, a fact that he will never admit happened. His man Tolson told everybody that we had it totally under control and that’s the way it’s going to be, at least publicly.”

“But that doesn’t tell us what Stahl and any of his comrades will actually attempt. Until they come out of their holes, we’re blind, aren’t we?”

Dunn grimaced. “As blind as bats.”

Heinrich Stahl looked out the living room window of the small two bedroom bungalow he’d rented several months earlier. It was several miles away from the center of Washington. The landlady, an old woman who lived several blocks away, thought Stahl was a Swedish refugee. Nobody had challenged him yet, but he did have the proper passport and other documentation and, even more fortunately, had spent several summers in Sweden and even spoke it passably.

He lit a cigarette and poured a couple of inches of bourbon into a reasonably clean glass. From a strictly military sense, he should be alert and watching everything like a hawk. As a practical matter, he was no superman and was exhausted, both physically and emotionally from the unexpected early start to the war. He needed some sleep. If the FBI was surrounding his house right now, there really wasn’t much he could do about it. He would surrender and try to bluff his way out of the predicament by claiming he thought he’d be killed if he turned himself in. The Americans were so naive they’d probably believe it.

He’d contacted two of the four cells that remained to him after the surprisingly effective FBI sweep. They were the only two with their own telephones and their response to his coded message indicated that they’d been undetected. He would get in touch with the others by meeting with them in a public park, and then in Lansburgh’s Department Store, a very large building on the curiously named Eighth Street. He’d checked out their residences and concluded that they weren’t being watched.

Stahl took a swallow of the bourbon and wished the Americans made better whiskey. He had enough cash to live on for quite some time, especially if he didn’t have to share it with as many operatives as he’d originally planned. Thank God for small favors, he thought ruefully and took another swallow. Christ, it was vile.

Of course he paid cash for everything. Just about everyone did. Checking accounts were very rare and only for the elite; ergo, his financial transactions couldn’t be traced. He would take public transportation, again just like most people, and hide in the crowds. He thought he might buy a car, used of course as there were no new ones. It would give him freedom of movement and, as long as gasoline remained available, it was something to consider. He smiled as he thought of him committing an attack on the United States and then having to wait for a damned bus.

A rented warehouse outside of town contained his weapons. He’d been dealt a setback by the unexpected start to the war, but he would persevere. He chuckled and took another swallow. He always persevered. The United States was rich with targets and the Washington area was the richest by far. The Americans had a decent idea how to protect things but not people, and even then the guards were usually old and lazy. A handful of men with guns and dynamite could wreak havoc on them.

He smiled and raised his glass high. “For the Reich. For the Fuhrer.”

The wedding went off without a hitch. Tom’s and Alicia’s relatives got along reasonably well together, although each side was very curious about the other. Missy Downing compared it to two packs of dogs sniffing each other’s asses. Tom didn’t think he was supposed to have heard the comment, but agreed nonetheless. Not everyone’s relatives could make the service which took place in a Methodist church in Alexandria. That neither of them was Methodist didn’t bother the minister or the families. The cleric was an army chaplain, a good guy, and, most important, was available. Civilian travel had a low priority and there was talk about the government finally rationing gas. Colonel and Missy Downing were the best man and matron of honor.

After the ceremony and a brief reception, the bride and groom got into a car that Master Sergeant Farnum had borrowed from the local police who had confiscated it from a criminal, and drove down to their cottage. It was located roughly where the Potomac met the Chesapeake and was on the Maryland side. The view of the river and the bay was breathtaking.

Too bad they didn’t notice it. They had one week and they spent almost all of it indoors, either making love or getting ready to make love. Alicia did manage to take a couple of snapshots of them, dressed of course, with her Kodak Retina I, a gift from her father. A couple passing by was easily talked into taking their picture together in front of the cottage, after which they raced inside and got undressed.

On the last night of their honeymoon, she played for him. It was like he’d dreamed and she’d promised; only this time they both were naked.

Thus it was with immense sadness that they returned to their uniforms and duty the next week. Alicia knew that Tom would be treated to cheers and jeers while she would have to endure the winks and knowing smiles from other women. She would smile bravely and endure it. Like she had a choice, she thought. Missy told her to tell the girls that she had totally worn the poor boy out. Alicia assured her that would not happen.

She was at her desk at Camp Washington, going over some redundant reports, when she heard the piercing scream. She jumped up and ran down the hallway, nearly knocking over a Western Union delivery boy whose shocked expression told her everything. Oh God, she thought.

Mrs. Kosnik, everybody called her Mrs. K, was seated at her desk but slumped over in her swivel chair. She’d fainted and two other women were trying to revive her and hold her up. Mrs. K was a retired math teacher with two sons in the navy. Without being told, Alicia knew that now she had only one.

The telegram was on Mrs. K’s desk. It was short and terse. The navy deeply regretted that her son, Stanley, had been killed in action. There was no word as to when or where. She vaguely recalled that Stanley had been on a destroyer. Alicia wondered if the destroyer had been sunk, in which case the casualties might have been heavy, or if he had just been one of a smaller number because of Jap kamikaze attack. Did it matter? There was no mention of burial, so that meant he’d likely been lost at sea or buried at sea. Poor Mrs. K wouldn’t even have a grave to visit.

Mrs. K had revived a little and was looking around wildly. She caught sight of the dreaded telegram and moaned like her heart was breaking, which it surely was. Her two friends continued to hold her upright. Alicia tried not to sob, but it was helpless. Was this going to happen to her? For how much longer could Major Tom Grant avoid going into combat? How would she handle getting such an awful telegram?

Alicia’s stomach churned. She turned and ran into the women’s room and vomited into a toilet.

Captain Franz Koenig had been ordered to report to Guderian’s underground and hidden headquarters and wait for the general to return. As everybody else seemed to have something to do, Koenig went to the map room and studied a map of Canada, looking for updates and changes, and finding very few. Still, it was fascinating to see the forces arrayed against each other and wonder just how much of the information was accurate and how much of it was speculation when it came to the enemy’s forces.

The map of the Soviet Union on another wall was particularly vague. A massive German army had crossed the Volga near Stalingrad and was advancing towards the Urals. Curiously and despite the fact that the Reds were being pushed into a corner, there was little indication of any major Russian forces threatening the German Army. He found that difficult to believe. Were the Reds planning an ambush? They’d tried that before and had almost pulled it off at Stalingrad.

Koenig had read reports saying that the only enemy von Paulus’s army was confronting was mud. Russia in the spring was an ocean of mud. Better them than me, he chuckled. Koenig had heard Guderian and, before he’d been hurt, von Arnim, talking about the Russian campaign. Both had idly wondered if Paulus was up to the task of wiping out what remained of the Red Army. Von Paulus had been a good staff officer, but had not held a field command until Stalingrad where he’d almost lost the battle. Like most Germans, Koenig assumed that the Fuhrer knew what he was doing. He shuddered. At least he hoped the Fuhrer knew what he was doing.

“Like what you see, captain?”

Koenig snapped to attention. He was gratified to see that Guderian looked amused. “Sir, would I be impertinent if I said I don’t understand much of the rationale behind the distribution of our forces?”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing,” Guderian said, and idly waving for the captain to relax. “If you don’t understand what we’re up to, then the Americans might not either.”

The German forces in Ontario had been divided into two unequal halves. The smaller one, West Front, faced Patton’s army on the Windsor to Sarnia line. Despite the fact that a very large American army had crossed and confronted the German army, there had been little movement by either side. Intelligence intercepts said that the Yanks, stunned by their defeat east of Windsor, were waiting to get newer Sherman tanks to replace their pathetic M3’s. This could not be done overnight and it wasn’t just a case of swapping one tank for another. Crews and mechanics had to be changed and trained. What actually seemed to be happening was that American armored units with Shermans were replacing units with the M3s and all of that took time.

The larger portion of the German army was arrayed just east and south of Toronto, and along the line of the Niagara River. Many units were well back of the river, and that puzzled Koenig.

Guderian caught Koenig’s puzzled expression. “We have too much land and border to defend. Remember the saying that he who defends everything defends nothing? Well, that is the situation here, although we are in reasonably good shape. For the time being, the Americans cannot or will not either cross the Niagara River or launch amphibious operations against our flanks. Have you figured out why?”

“I would surmise that they are concerned about our submarines.”

“In part, yes. We have six U-boats in Lake Ontario and three in Lake Erie. The Yanks have no idea that the number is so small, and are looking hard for them. They are concerned about the possibility — no, the likelihood — of an LST jammed with soldiers being hit and sunk with a thousand or more dead. They are appalled at the thought of hundreds of bodies washing up on American shores. No, they will not cross either lake until it is safe.”

Guderian jabbed at Buffalo on the map. “Nor will they cross the river. For one thing, we have fortified it, especially the part east of the falls where we might be vulnerable. The part west of the falls is treacherous because of the possibility that men and boats could be swept downstream and over them.”

“A most pleasant thought, sir,” said Koenig and immediately wondered if he was being presumptuous. Too late now, he realized.

Guderian chose to ignore the comment. “An even more important deterrent is the presence of large cities in the area. We would probably wind up fighting in Niagara Falls, Ontario, along with other Canadian cities like Hamilton, St. Catharines and any number of smaller places like Niagara-on-the Lake. Street by street fighting would occur and, again, the attackers would suffer immense casualties. Also those places would be destroyed in a battle and, after all, Canada is an ally of the U.S., and one does not go around destroying allied cities if it can be helped.”

Koenig smiled. “And we would return the favor by bombing and shelling Buffalo and the New York version of Niagara Falls, among other American cities. This would horrify the American people who believe, foolishly, that they are still safe from war. I would presume that the only place left to cross would be around the Youngstown area where the river enters Lake Erie.”

“Yes, captain, you may presume that and you may also presume that we are fortifying that area as well. You doubtless further noticed that most of our best units are being held well away from either border, and that is so that we can react quickly once an attack actually does arise. Personally, I feel that they will ultimately attempt a series of amphibious landings both east and west of Buffalo while Patton puts pressure on us from the west. Now, captain, what are our weaknesses?”

Koenig was pleased to be asked. “Along with the immense size of Ontario, it is the fact that every tank of ours destroyed, every bullet fired, and every man killed or wounded cannot be replaced. They can simply wear us down.”

“Correct. We have more than a quarter of a million men, thirteen hundred tanks, and a thousand planes, and not a one of them can be replaced. Halifax is being blockaded and only food shipments are being allowed out. In a while, we shall be praying for the relief convoys to arrive from Germany, and their arrival is problematic at best. For all intents and purposes, we are under siege.”

Siege? Koenig had read about sieges. Terrible, horrible things, they were. People wound up eating rats to avoid starvation, perhaps even cannibalism occurred. There had been rumors of that during the siege of Leningrad.

“Thank you for sharing your thoughts, general.”

“Sometimes, Koenig, it is good to simply put things into perspective. You’re a good listener and you don’t argue with me like my fellow generals do. However, what if all that we’ve done is wrong?”

“Sir?”

“What if the Americans establish supremacy in the air, which is extremely likely. In that case, we might not be able to move our forces close enough to the battle line to engage them. Indeed, it is possible that reinforcements will be decimated by their planes before they even get close to the battle. And what if the Yanks are able to send major warships, or even a number of minor ones, into the lakes? Then they would be able to destroy our submarines and then launch any number of amphibious assaults. They could flank the cities and we would have to abandon them.”

Guderian laughed and ceased his lecture. He gave Koenig an assignment. He was to talk to Neumann about the treatment of American prisoners of war since the Red Cross wanted to inspect the conditions in the prison camp.

Chapter Fifteen

In the White House map room, FDR was feeling the frustrations that were angering the entire nation. The American people felt that Germany had to be punished for her insolent and brutal attack on the U.S. mainland, so why wasn’t it happening?

He turned his wheelchair so he could confront Admiral King and General Marshall. “Gentlemen, I am catching grief and hell from my friends as well as my enemies in congress. I am being crucified in newspapers, magazines and on the radio for what they feel is our dilatory response to Hitler’s aggression. Everyone wants to know the same thing — when are we going to drive the Nazis out of Canada?”

Neither man was fazed by the outburst. Marshall spoke first. “I’m sure you don’t want me to remind you of all the times we were rebuffed when we wanted to do something about Germany and her intentions.”

FDR jammed a fresh cigarette in his holder. “Of course, not,” he replied sullenly. “I am well aware of the limitations imposed on me by a fickle congress and by the fact that I didn’t push them hard enough. History will judge me harshly for that. That said, what the devil can we do about the damned krauts?”

It was King’s turn. “We are already blockading Halifax and the only ships coming in are empty ones that will return to England with food as per our informal agreement. We are planning to attack and take Halifax itself, but that will not occur for a while, if at all. Simply put, we don’t need to take the place, only isolate it.”

“Well then, admiral, what about their so-called relief force?” the president asked.

“Intelligence says it’s beginning to form. We detect no great enthusiasm for it from either the German, French, or Italian navies. Even without help from the Royal Navy, I am confident that we can handle them.”

Roosevelt nodded. “And what are you going to do about Germans on the Great Lakes?”

King continued. “Mr. President, we are reluctant to send warships up the St. Lawrence because they would have to run a gauntlet several hundred miles long and would be subject to artillery and bombing in a narrow confine that would restrict maneuver. However we are sending anti-submarine bombers over the lakes and we are also arming smaller civilian craft. With enough of each, we will overwhelm and kill all the German ships. It’s only a matter of time.”

FDR snorted. “Time, gentlemen, is something nobody is giving me. General Marshall, what is the army going to do, and I do mean Patton? Hasn’t he been sitting there outside Windsor long enough?”

Marshall kept his face impassive. “Patton will move against the first line of German defenses in a few days, a week at the most. He now has one armored division that is fully equipped with two hundred and fifty Sherman tanks. Attacking on a narrow front, supported by planes and artillery, and along with two infantry divisions, they should bloody the Germans and push them back.”

“But not bloody far enough,” FDR muttered. “Hitler is broadcasting that he has super-weapons that he will use against us. Does he?”

“Nothing we don’t know about and nothing that can do great damage,” Marshall said. “Their basic super-weapon will be their Vengeance rockets that can be launched from Ontario and reach New York. Assuming, that is, that they have any in the first place. They might cause terror, but they won’t win the war. Nor will new tanks or new airplanes. They just won’t have enough of them to tip the scales.”

“The same holds true for their new or upgraded U-boats,” said King, “But what about our own super-weapons?”

Roosevelt quickly thought about the latest report from New Mexico and the monster bomb that was under development. “It will be at least a year,” he said with a sigh. “We will have to fight this and future battles with the weapons and brave men at our disposal.”

Heinrich Stahl had bought a 1938 two-door Chevrolet. With gas rationing on the horizon, the owner had been glad to sell it and he had gotten it for a song. Now he had transportation that was not shackled to the bus service, but could also use it for surveillance. If rationing came, he would have to do something creative, like stealing ration coupons or siphoning gas. He wasn’t worried. His time fighting the Russians had made him a skilled forager. His plan was to do as much damage as possible and then make it back to Canada and the security of the North Reich. The car was innocuous and, if he drove it around carefully and didn’t do something to make others suspicious of him, he could again hide in plain sight.

He had just come from an evening of talking with two of his lieutenants. They had met at a fairly crowded restaurant that had served execrable food that, combined with poor service, would have made him angry if it wasn’t for the fact that plans were coming along.

The waitress had been a sullen and sweaty Negress and he was certain that the restaurant’s owners were Jews. America truly was a mongrel country. Not even in France, which he considered an ethnic sewer, had he seen so many diverse races and nationalities. People who had been in America for generations had no memory of their forebears. Nor were they concerned. They had lost their heritage and that included a number of people with German last names.

Like a fool, he’d once had sex with a Negro woman in hopes that it would be exciting and savage and evocative of Africa. Only after did he find that she was from Philadelphia and didn’t even know where Africa was. Worse, she’d been a wretched fuck.

Many of the ethnic minorities he’d seen in America had fled from their homelands and in fear of the SS. They hoped they’d found safety and sanctuary in the United States. Too bad they were going to be bitterly disappointed when the Reich’s ultimate victory over the U.S. occurred. They would provide more fuel for the furnaces, he thought happily.

As always, he drove carefully and slowly past his house to see if anything was obviously amiss. He had put pieces of paper in the two doorways and looked to see if they had been disturbed.

Shit. The one to the side door was missing. Well, what did that mean? Had someone gone snooping in his house or had the damned thing simply fallen out?

After checking for a surveillance vehicle and not finding one, he parked the car halfway down the street and walked to the house next door to his. An older couple lived there and they went to sleep early and slept soundly. They didn’t have a dog whose yipping might attract attention from inside.

Stahl entered his neighbor’s back yard, moved with the caution and skill that had kept him alive in Russia. He paused at the chicken wire fence that separated the two yards. He crouched and waited and saw a light flickering inside. It was either a match or a small flashlight. When the light moved to the front of the house, he jumped the fence and scurried to the side door. It had been jimmied and was slightly ajar.

He already knew that it didn’t squeak, so he pushed it open and crawled inside. He already regretted not having a gun on him, but that would have been disastrous if he’d been stopped or questioned for anything.

As quietly as possible, Stahl opened a kitchen drawer and took out a long-bladed knife he’d used the night before to cut up a cut of roast beef. He could hear the intruder making small noises in his bedroom and that angered him. He was now reasonably certain that it was a simple burglary and there was no one from the FBI to fear. As he got closer to his bedroom doorway, he could hear a man’s voice humming. It sounded like a black man and that further infuriated him. That someone from an inferior race was rummaging through his personal possessions with his dirty black hands made him red with anger.

“Nigger!” he shouted and lunged at the small black man who jumped up, a look of shock and horror on his face.

Stahl plunged the knife into the burglar’s throat, jammed it and twisted it. The black man tried to grab at the blade, but Stahl kept jabbing and sawing. Blood gushed out, covering both men. The burglar sagged to the floor and lay still. Shaking violently, Stahl checked for a pulse and found none. He took a number of deep breaths and steadied himself.

Now what? Call the police? No, absolutely not. They might stumble onto something incriminating. Or they might recognize him as someone missing from the embassy roster. There hadn’t been time to disguise himself by growing a mustache or gaining weight or even dying his hair. No, it was time to go.

First he went to the bathroom and cleaned the blood off his hands. Then he emptied his closet of all his clothes and personal possessions. There weren’t that many.

Next, he dragged the corpse into the closet. He guessed the burglar’s age at about sixteen. Too bad for him, he thought. It was also too bad that the boy likely had a family who would miss him, and maybe he had friends who’d known what he was going to do this night and were waiting for him to bring loot that they could turn into cash.

Stahl showered quickly and changed into fresh clothes. He packed everything he had into a suitcase. This time he did stick his favorite Luger in his belt in case the boy’s friends showed up. He took a wet towel and wiped fingerprints off everything he could think of. Too bad there was nothing he could do about what looked like gallons of blood congealing darkly on the floor.

He took his possessions and put them in the trunk of the car. He would leave quietly. With only a little luck, it might be days before the body was discovered and that would likely only be because of the stench. He’d closed the windows which might further delay discovery, although whoever finally came in would be in for an awful surprise.

He laughed harshly. Who knew that niggers had so much blood?

“Out kind of late, aren’t you?”

Stahl wheeled at the sound of the voice. It was a cop. Without thinking, he pulled his pistol and fired twice. Both bullets struck the man in the chest, killing him before his expression had a chance to register shock.

Stahl swore. Despite all his training and combat experience, he had panicked. Perhaps he could have talked or joked his way out. After all, he lived there, didn’t he? Damn it. The shots had sounded like a cannon and lights were going on in the neighborhood. He jumped into his car and drove away. This time he kept himself under control. He kept the lights off and drove slowly. He had shot a burglar and killed a cop. The FBI would be involved very shortly and his picture would be all over the place. He would have to find another place and it would have to be with his men where he could hide and not be recognized.

He pounded the steering wheel. Damn it to hell, he raged.

Terry Romano had been given a new bomber and a new crew. He’d also been sent to a totally new location, Buffalo, New York. His primary job was to seek out and destroy German submarines known to be hunting in the Great Lakes. A second chore was to destroy the nasty German E-boats that also prowled the waters of Lakes Erie and Ontario and threatened any invasion of Ontario by American forces. He still wanted that fifth sub kill so he could call himself an ace, although the people he now worked with were impressed that he’d gotten four of the Hun bastards. If he couldn’t get a sub, however, he’d be perfectly content with an E-boat.

After being shot down and rescued, he’d spent a couple of days in the hospital convincing the doctors that a crack on the skull was nothing to worry about. While they agreed that Italians had exceptionally thick skulls, they still made him wait. This was followed by reports, discussions, and the seemingly endless filling of forms. The worst part of his life was the writing of letters to the relatives of his dead crewmen. He’d gone over the incident a hundred times and could find nothing that he’d done wrong. Of course he could have done better, but that was hindsight. How was he supposed to know that the Nazis were adding more guns to their subs? Still, he had to fight the urge to say, sorry, but your son or brother or husband is dead because I fucked up. Since he’d grown up Catholic, he’d gone and talked to a priest who’d told him that he had indeed done his best and that war was the end of innocence. The padre hadn’t said anything Tony hadn’t heard or thought before, but it had proved surprisingly comforting.

He’d written several letters to Nancy O’Connor back in Baltimore and she’d written back. He’d told her of his sadness and she’d seemed to know just the right thing to say. He found himself thinking more and more of her freckles and her red hair and the feel of her body against his.

“Shouldn’t we turn back?”

It was his new co-pilot, complaining again that they were too close to the German side of Lake Ontario. Didn’t the silly goose understand that you had to look for Nazis in their evil lairs? If the men of the Vampire II didn’t do that, they might as well be flying as tourists on a TWA DC-3.

But the kid had a point. The Canadian coast was coming up quickly and it really was time to head back. Before he could give the order, the B24 shuddered and convulsed. Again there were screams as bullets ripped through the fuselage. A dark shadow passed by and then another one. They’d been jumped by a pair of ME109s. Tony had been so fixated on looking down that he and his inexperienced crew had forgotten to look up.

A quick count told him that all of his men were alive, although a couple of them were hurt. More important, two of his four engines were out and one was burning. He cut the fuel and solved that problem. Steering was worse than mushy and he was now over Ontario with little chance of getting back to Buffalo.

“They’re coming back,” his bombardier said.

“No shit,” Tony said angrily. Damn it to hell, he was just about to lose another plane.

“Bail out,” he ordered. “Abandon ship.”

“What are you going to do?” his co-pilot asked.

“Try and distract them. I don’t know if they shoot guys in parachutes or not, but let me try and pull them away from you.”

He got no argument from his men who quickly jumped out. Tony couldn’t see the chutes open but he thought everyone made it. A few moments later, the German fighters attacked again, their bullets tearing through the dying but largely empty plane. Tony felt he was going to lose what little control he still had. Enough, he thought.

He staggered to the open hatch, looked down at the ground thousands of feet below and had the sickening realization that he could be dead in a couple of minutes if his chute didn’t open, or if he slammed into the plane’s fuselage, or if the kraut shot him. He hoped his death would be painless. He jumped into the ferocious wind, counted to ten and pulled the cord. It opened and he whimpered a thank you to a God he’d been beginning to doubt. The German fighters weren’t interested in him. They followed the bomber as it began a spiral and then crashed into the ground.

As he neared the earth, he saw vehicles coming down a nearby dirt road. They looked military. He took out his pistol and dropped it. He was not even going to try and fight his way out of this mess.

Tony landed and heard his ankle snap. Waves of red-hot pain roared up his leg and he blacked out. When he came to, he was on a cot in a tent. A German officer looked down on him dispassionately and informed him that he was a prisoner of war and would be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention.

“Where are you going to take me?” he managed to ask, even though he was losing control of his tongue. He’d been given some morphine and he was slipping off to sleepy-land.

The German laughed harshly. “There’s a prison camp outside Toronto. Even though it’s run by the SS and the Gestapo, I’m sure they’ll treat you with the respect you deserve.”

SS? Gestapo? Oh shit, he thought as the drug finally took over.

Grant and others from Truscott’s staff were in trenches about twenty miles east of Detroit. The Germans were two miles away and their defense line ran from a few miles east of Sarnia on the St. Clair River and Lake Huron and down to Chatham just north of the Lake Erie coast. The Germans had dug deeply in and it was understood that other defensive lines were being built a few miles beyond that. It was clearly understood that piercing this line would be the first of many, a fact that totally infuriated General Patton who wanted a war of maneuver, not a series of set piece battles that consisted of attacks on fortified positions.

The night before, Patton had angrily informed Ike and Truscott that bloody, set-piece battles of attrition would ultimately wear down the Nazis, but that the price in American dead and wounded would be enormous.

“That kind of fighting is what cost the British control of North Africa,” he raged. “We have to pry the krauts loose and get them on the run. We can’t do it with airborne troops, not just yet, but we can do it with bombers.”

Tom had been in the far corner of the room and understood the problem with using paratroops. The two airborne divisions the army had didn’t have armor or heavy artillery. When the time came, their job would be to upset and destroy enemy communications and logistics, holding on until the American heavy forces arrived. Trouble was, nobody could guarantee if and when relief would show up. Therefore, the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions would have to sit and wait. They were not happy either.

Tom also thought Patton was too disparaging of British tactics. From what he’d read, the battle of attrition they’d lost had been pushed on them and was not what they’d wanted. Regardless, the swastika now flew over the cities of Alexandria and Cairo, and the Suez Canal was German.

Patton would attack with one armored division and one infantry. These would be followed up by two more infantry divisions who would exploit the breach made by the initial assault. Patton had wanted at least one more armored division, but the transition from the M3 tanks to the M4 was taking longer than anybody expected.

Patton had grinned at his small congregation. “We’ll make do with what we have. We’ve been hitting them with artillery for days now, and we are now going to pound the crap out of them with bombers. I’ve laid on two hundred B17s and another two hundred P47s to escort them and paste whoever’s left standing.”

Truscott hadn’t been so certain. “You’re counting heavily on two things: first that the bombers can hit the target effectively and, second, that the Germans will even be where you expect. If we were so easily able to spot their trench line, maybe it’s because they wanted us to see it and hit the wrong spot.”

That had sobered Patton, but only for a moment. “Lucian, you know as well as I do that nothing’s certain in this world, but I am confident that we can hit them and hurt them and push them back. Will we open them up? Probably not, and maybe not the next time or the time after that, but, sooner or later, they will have to crack and then break. They don’t have a choice. Ultimately the Nazi bastards will be overwhelmed. And if they should happen to collapse today, we’ll be ready to chase them all the way to Toronto.”

On cue the bombers appeared overhead, the roar of their engines interrupting their conversation. They’d been staged from the Wayne County Airport that was near the Michigan city of Romulus and the Willow Run facility. The men looked up eagerly as the planes continued on from the west and towards the German lines. Colored smoke flares had been ignited to show the air force just where the American lines ended.

Grant stared through his binoculars and saw the bomb bay doors open and strings of bombs start tumbling down. In short order, they impacted around the German fortifications, sending up huge debris clouds and making the ground shake.

Another wave of bombers followed the first and Tom had the feeling that the bombs were falling closer to where they were watching. When the third wave hit, he and the others were certain of it. The bombers were unloading early and the attack was creeping back to where they were watching.

“Down,” Patton screamed. Everyone hugged the earth as the explosions drew closer.

“Call off the fucking bombers,” Truscott yelled. Tom heard someone trying desperately to get through to the air force.

Bombs exploded all around them. The concussions lifted them off the ground and slammed them back down. The explosions were deafening. Tom heard screams and realized it was his voice. I don’t want to die, he kept thinking.

The bombing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Tom staggered to his feet. Patton had a cut on his cheek and his right arm hung limply. Truscott appeared dazed but unhurt. Tom checked himself. He had a bloody nose and there was a ringing in his ears.

A young lieutenant rushed up to Patton and said, “Let me get you to a hospital.”

Patton shook his head angrily. “No goddamn hospital. Get the attack going right now and just like we planned.”

Truscott grabbed Patton’s arm. “George, we just bombed our own men. Some of our boys must have been killed or wounded.”

“Don’t you think I know that? All the more reason to attack. We can’t let them die in vain. The first bombs must have damaged the kraut lines. The German shits who survived are doubtless laughing their asses off at us and won’t be expecting the rest of the army to come charging right at them.”

Grant’s head was still buzzing as he turned his binoculars to the scores of Sherman tanks heading towards the Germans. Overhead, P47s streaked in strafing and dropping their own bombs, this time accurately since they were flying lower. Patton let out a whoop and jumped into his jeep. He waited for the combat vehicles and fighters to clear the area and ordered his driver forward.

Truscott and one of his key aides found another jeep, while Tom and Bryce found another. “Why the hell did they drop short?” Tom snapped at the air force major.

Bryce grimaced. “It’s the way they’re trained. The lead bomber drops on target and the rest unload when they seem him do it. Inevitably, the bombs creep back. Since the target would be obscured by the first bombs, nobody knows a much better way of doing it and don’t suggest bombing north-south instead of east-west because that would make the bombers fly over a lot of enemy turf full of people who’d be shooting at them, and then try to hit a thin ribbon of fortifications from high altitude. Any way you look at it, most bombs are going to miss. We just should have had our troops and us farther back.”

And, Grant thought, I almost got killed because Patton and Truscott wanted to be close to the action. Worse, American troops poised to jump off and attack what they hoped would be dazed and confused Germans were now hurt and confused themselves.

They had to drive more slowly the closer they got to the German lines. It was quickly apparent that a goodly number of Germans had survived the bombing, which was another lesson. Machine gun and anti-tank fire sliced through American infantry and a number of American tanks went up in flames. Tom stopped and they jumped into a bomb crater.

“Please don’t tell me we’re going to retreat,” Bryce said. “That would be a sin after all our boys went through. And where the hell are the generals?”

A quick look confirmed that Patton and Truscott were a little in front of them and a hundred yards to their left. Another tank exploded and someone yelled that the place was mined. Grant and Bryce looked around their crater and wondered if they were lying on a mine.

They slithered up and carefully crawled back to their jeep. They slowly drove forward, conscious that mines could be just under the earth. They passed several broken Sherman tanks that were burning furiously. The stench coming from them told them that not all the crew had made it outside. More bodies lay on the ground, and most were American.

Finally, they were through the German line. In the distance, they could see other enemy vehicles pulling back, while anti-tank and machine guns covered them. This German defensive position had been taken, but at what cost? How many GIs had been killed or wounded by their own planes, and how many others had fallen while taking a thin line of bunkers and machine gun nests? Worse, when the Germans had pulled back, they had taken most of their equipment with them for use at the next site.

As if to taunt them, well-hidden German artillery opened fire, again driving them to the ground. “How far is it from Detroit to Toronto?” Bryce asked.

“A little more than five hundred miles,” Tom answered.

“Christ, Tom, this is going to be a long damned war.”

Canfield looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and glared at Sergeant Dubinski. “Why the hell didn’t you just shoot the little bastard and throw his ass in the lake?”

With that, the scrawny young man in handcuffs standing beside Dubinski started to cry. The sergeant slapped him on the ear, “Shut up you little fucking coward.” Canfield was not going to shoot the foolish boy, nor was Dubinski really going to hurt him. What they really wanted to do was get through to the young soldier and make him realize just how close he’d been to getting hanged for desertion.

Canfield glared at the private. “Tell me, Private Hipple, just how the hell did you think you could get away with deserting? You didn’t even get twenty miles before the MPs picked you up, did you?”

Hipple gulped. “No sir.”

“That’s right,” Canfield continued, “and I’ll bet they were real nice and polite while they kicked the crap out of you weren’t they, which means you have no complaints about the way you were treated, do you?”

Hipple’s face was bruised and both his eyes were blackened, and his ribs were bruised which made breathing difficult. “No sir,” he managed.

“So why the hell did you do it?”

“I wanted to get home, sir.”

“Where’s home son?” Canfield already knew the answer. He had Hipple’s personnel file on his desk.

“Texas, sir. We live on a farm in Hudspeth County and that’s in way west Texas, sir.”

Dubinski snickered. “Ain’t anything much farther west than Hudspeth County. And I’ll be there ain’t nothing in Hudspeth County worth coming home to, is there Hipple, unless, of course, you’re partial to rattlesnakes and lizards?”

Hipple glared back but quickly looked at the floor. “It’s my home and it’s a place where people talk like me and don’t tease me because they think I talk funny. Back home they don’t make fun of me because I don’t know much ‘cause they don’t know nothing either. They also don’t have all this goddamn snow.”

The boy was lonely, Canfield had long ago realized, and homesick to boot. Hipple was twenty years old and had been drafted out of Texas and then sent to upper New York as a filler for the regiment that was trying to get to full strength. Since most of the men were from upper New York, he’d been the odd duck from the first day. He’d arrived several months prior and had been doing what they’d all been doing, train, train, and train some more.

“I was going to come back, sir. I just wanted to see my people. I ain’t heard from them in a long while.”

“Why didn’t you write them a letter or maybe even phone?”

Hipple turned away. “We don’t got no phone anywhere near and none of my people can write.”

Canfield looked at Dubinski who shrugged. The kid was likely telling the truth. “It’s your lucky day, Hipple, I am not going to hang your ass. I cannot bust you to private because you already are one. However, I can see to it that it’ll be an eternity before you get promoted and you will be performing every shit detail we have until we get into combat, at which point you will be allowed to redeem yourself. You will also be watched like a hawk and if you should make a move to get off base, I will make sure that everyone on guard duty knows they have my permission to shoot your worthless ass back to Hudspeth County in far west asshole Texas. You understand?”

Hipple gulped, “Yes sir.”

“Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

Hipple ran like he was on fire. Canfield waved Dubinski to a chair. “Why the hell didn’t the army keep him in Texas?”

“Beats me, chief. Don’t forget, there’s the right way, the wrong way, and the army way.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hipple can read and write, sort of, but otherwise he’s a social illiterate. Hell, he never saw indoor plumbing until he got drafted. He figured out what toilets and urinals were for, but never realized you had to flush the things to get rid of the piss and shit. Maybe he thought the tooth fairy did it. His so-called buddies rode him hard because of that piece of ignorance along with other stuff.”

“Does he have any useful skills?”

“I hear he’s real good with horses and mules.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s bragged that he’s a dead shot and can hit anything he can see.”

Canfield was intrigued. “Kindly check that out. If he’s as good as he thinks he is, maybe we’ve got ourselves a designated shooter when the time comes.”

Canfield stood and walked outside. Dubinski followed. Canfield waved at the sea of tents surrounding them. “Look at all this. We’ve got an entire army sitting around and doing nothing more than get into trouble.”

“Maybe we should start a war, chief.”

“Maybe we should start fighting one, and haven’t I told you to stop calling me chief? We have an entire army that’s bored to tears and getting into trouble. Abraham Lincoln once had a general, McClelland, who spent all his time training the Union Army and not fighting, so Abe asked him since he wasn’t using his army might he borrow it. I understand McClelland got real angry. Well, I’m angry. I know it isn’t entirely General Fredendall’s fault, but we could do something other than digging ditches and planning to repel a German attack that isn’t going to happen.”

Dubinski shook his head. “I don’t know, colonel, at least nobody’s getting killed digging ditches.”

Chapter Sixteen

Once again the view of the mountains from his mountaintop retreat at Berchtesgaden was breathtaking. Adolf Hitler, however, did not even notice it. He was too angry. His military leaders were failing him. First, the campaign to destroy the Soviet Union for once and for all was bogging down badly in the mud of southern Russia. Field Marshal von Paulus was complaining about the lack of resources he possessed as well as the unexpected tenacity of the Red Army. Hitler was beginning to have doubts about von Paulus’ suitability for high command. The Russians were inferior people and should have been crushed. Yes, it was a very long way from Berlin to where the battles were raging, but von Paulus had an army of more than a million men with several hundred thousand others buttressing his flanks. There was yet another army protecting his lines of supply from hordes of partisans who were causing incredible damage.

Hitler ignored the two men standing behind him. Their turn would come. In the meantime, he would have someone draft a memo to von Paulus that would light a fire under him. The Russians would collapse if they were pressed, he was certain of that. Yes, the terrain was awful and going to get worse the farther east they went, but it was bad for both sides. The route of attack had been chosen because it largely bypassed the Ural Mountains to the north. Once around the southern flank of the mountain range, von Paulus was to split his army and send one half north to destroy the Red’s new production facilities, while the southern half continued eastward, conquering as it went. The Soviets might think that their land went on forever, but they were wrong. They would have to capitulate soon.

First, however, he had to convince his generals that this could be done. He also had to deal with his admirals, two of whom were standing behind him, looking like school children who’ve been caught doing something bad. Well, he thought, they had.

“Admiral Raeder, when will the relief convoy sail for the Americas?”

The commander of the Kriegsmarine, Germany’s navy, winced but did not look intimidated.

“My Fuhrer, there will be no convoy. We do not have the transport ships to send and we do not have enough of a navy to protect the ships even if we did have them.”

“Explain yourself, admiral,” Hitler said, his voice dripping acid.

“As you well know,” Raeder said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “we would require several hundred merchant ships to send a relief army of sufficient size to Canada and it would require that fleet to make several trips and it would have to be well protected. We simply do not have the warships to convoy that fleet. Please recall that we said that we would not be prepared to fight either the U.S. or Great Britain on the high seas for several years. I believe our victory over England and Russia caused us to believe that a large German navy was no longer necessary. Instead, iron and steel that could have been used to build surface warships went instead to build the tanks and planes von Paulus is using to defeat the Soviets.”

Hitler seethed. “I gave you three hundred U-boats, which is what you asked for. With them, you said you could sweep the seas of enemy ships. When I suggested that a picket line of submarines be employed to protect relief convoys, I do not recall hearing any objections from you.”

Raeder shook his head sadly. “And that is because we underestimated the problems our submarines would have. The Americans have proven to be extremely skillful opponents. As of this date, at least thirty of our subs have been killed with a likelihood of many more. All sub captains are expected to check in by radio each day and at least twenty have not been heard from in several days. We are afraid they have been lost as well.”

Hitler was aghast. Fifty subs destroyed? The Reich no longer had the resources to replace them. Raeder was correct. With England neutralized and the United States run by Jews and cowards, Germany had focused on developing the weapons necessary to destroy the remnants of the Soviet Union, a job that von Paulus appeared to be botching.

“What about our surface fleet? We can send the Tirpitz along with our other warships, can’t we?”

“When the Tirpitz was first launched,” said Raeder, “she was one of the largest and most modern battleships in the world. She and her sister, the Bismarck, were almost unconquerable. Now, the Bismarck is sunk and the Tirpitz just one among many equivalent battleships. The Americans have a number of massive new battleships with more under construction. In addition to the Tirpitz, we only have two smaller battleships, the Scharnhorst and the Gneisnau, and a handful of heavy cruisers that could form a battle line, and that includes our remaining pocket battleships.”

“And what about our beloved allies?” Hitler asked. “What can they contribute?”

“The Italians have a few capital ships remaining,” Raeder answered, “but they are locked in the Mediterranean because the Americans control Gibraltar. That and the fact that Mussolini is afraid they will be sunk and he will be disgraced. Both are likely, by the way. His warships sacrificed armor for speed and cannot slug it out with the Americans or even the British if they finally show up. The French have but one battleship and one out of commission aircraft carrier.”

“Speaking of which,” Doenitz injected, “the Americans have a number of aircraft carriers now operating in the Atlantic, along with unsinkable air bases at Gibraltar, Lisbon, Oporto, Iceland, and they even now have a small base at Greenland that they are enlarging. They also still have a base at Gander, Newfoundland.”

“Which is doubtless part of the reason the Americans are so able to seek out and destroy our U-boats,” Raeder added. “Sometimes it seems like they actually know where they are or are going to be. We have badly underestimated their technology.”

“More Jewish science,” Hitler muttered angrily.

The Fuhrer paced the balcony. A strong cold wind had begun to blow, but he ignored it. “Here is what will happen. Despite von Paulus’s whining he will press on and destroy the Soviets, no matter what the cost. Once Russia has been crushed and capitulates, the United States will find that she stands alone. She will then negotiate with us and we will be in a position of strength despite the failings of the Kriegsmarine.”

Raeder stiffened. Hitler had been responsible for starting the war before the German navy was ready and Hitler was the one who’d starved it of ships and men in order to feed the insatiable needs of the army. Dictators have short memories, he concluded ruefully.

“Then what of our army in Canada, my Fuhrer?” Raeder asked.

Hitler laughed and clapped his hands. “Why it is all Guderian’s responsibility. He has so often told me what a great general he is, now he will have a chance to prove it. I will promote him to field marshal, which is what the arrogant man has always wanted, and order him to never surrender. Canada must be defended to the last. They must hang on until von Paulus’s inevitable victory changes things. I will have Himmler instruct whoever is in charge of the Gestapo in Toronto that many hostages must be taken and used. They will be executed if the Americans appear like they will win. The Americans are cowards. They will never permit those deaths to happen.”

The New York Stock Exchange had been founded in 1792 and first operations took place in a room at 40 Wall Street. The exchange had grown into world prominence and finally moved to its present location in 1903.

All of this meant nothing to Reinhard Krenz and his three companions. Dressed in dark business suits, white shirts and conservative ties, they attracted no attention. Nor did anybody think that the very large briefcases they carried were anything unusual. Accountants and lawyers often needed to carry large volumes of paper.

Despite recently announced gas rationing, traffic was heavy. Cabs and buses moved slowly along with a dwindling number of civilian cars and trucks, while messengers on bicycles darted between vehicles, taunting danger.

The four men entered the building. They were scarcely noticed by the security guards or the police out front who were keeping traffic moving. Krenz and the others were barred from entering the trading floor but easily made it up to the gallery where they looked down at the teaming throng of traders buying and selling stocks. At first they were surprised and stunned by the sheer volume of sound coming from the trading floor. It was as if every one of the several hundred men below them was hell bent on out-screaming the others.

A very tense Krenz whispered to a comrade, “If this is how the Jews make their money, it’s no wonder they are so corrupt and incompetent.”

They broke up into two pairs and separated themselves by several yards. They laid the suitcases on the floor and unsnapped them. A couple of spectators seemed curious, but did nothing. Krenz touched his hand to his nose. It was the signal for hell to begin.

Two men pulled out submachine guns and began to shoot others in the gallery, while the other two began throwing grenades onto the trading floor below. Within seconds, the gallery was cleared of all but the dead and wounded, while scores lay in bloody heaps below. Now the screams were even louder than before, which pleased the assassins. Let the Jews die, Krenz thought.

It took only a few seconds to empty their satchels of grenades. Taking their submachine guns and extra clips, they shot their way out onto the street. A security guard shot and wounded one of the Germans and was killed for his efforts. New York Police officers raced towards the building, their revolvers drawn as thousands of terrified people streamed down Wall Street, impeding their progress.

Krenz noted with pleasure that a number of New Yorkers had been trampled in the rush. Another of his men went down under a hail of police bullets. Out of ammunition, Krenz dumped his weapon in a trash can and joined the throngs of people running in panic. A couple of cops saw him, but he was quickly lost in the great numbers of people. A few blocks later, the entrance to a subway beckoned. He ran down along with a horde of others and got on the next train. He didn’t know where it was going and he didn’t care. He had struck and the center of Jewish control and was proud. Better, he wasn’t in any danger of being captured which meant that the cyanide capsule he had in his pocket could stay there. He would report back to Stahl for his next assignment.

Only a few days after arriving at Lambert’s house, Sherry Piper and he became lovers. They hadn’t planned on it, but it seemed so logical and comfortable. They were united in their hatred of the Nazis, she for her brother and he for Mary Bradford. For the first couple of nights, he had chivalrously slept on the couch while she had the bed. He informed the neighbors that Sherry was his cousin from Windsor who had fled the fighting. He didn’t think they all believed it, but neither cared.

On the third night, he had just settled down under a blanket on the lumpy and uncomfortable couch when she simply walked out of the bedroom in her nightgown and grabbed his hand. “Enough,” she said as she pulled him to his feet and they went into the bedroom.

After that, they decided to work as a team. She would get a job close to the German headquarters in Toronto while he continued to use police resources to keep tabs on the Nazis.

Like everyone in Toronto, they were terrified of what the war would bring. American planes flew overhead and they could frequently hear the bombs exploding on German bases or other military targets. Sometimes they could see smoke where a target was hit, and, on rare occasions, a secondary explosion would follow. Sometimes, too, Lambert’s job would take him to where civilians had been killed or wounded. The American planes probed constantly for evidence of German men and equipment. There were no more planes of any kind at close by Malton Airport in Toronto. It was just too easy a target for American planes.

Like many people he regretted the civilian cost, but recognized that such casualties could not be avoided. He could only hope that there weren’t too many of them and that the battle for Ontario didn’t last too much longer.

With funds supplied by the OSS, Sherry started a catering company and quickly got contracts to provide food for the German’s cafeteria.

“A little poison would solve a lot of problems, Sam said one night while they lay in bed. If you don’t want to kill them, why not something that’ll give them flaming diarrhea for a couple of months?”

“It is so tempting, but you know we’re not going to do it. Our controllers want information. Killing will have to wait.”

“Just not too long, I hope.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “And now my little catering company will be feeding the American prisoners.”

His eyes widened and he smiled, “How many prisoners are there?”

“In the camp north of here, maybe three hundred, and that doesn’t count the civilians the Nazis are rounding up. They will have to be fed as well. Why, are you thinking of helping them escape?”

“Selectively, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think the OSS or anybody else could handle a large number of escapees. Seriously, where the devil would they go? To the south you have the battle lines, while to the north you have many thousands of German troops in hiding. It’d be nice to think we could bus them all to Moose Jaw in Saskatchewan, but it ain’t likely. No, the vast majority of prisoners might just be better off right here than wandering around and maybe getting shot.”

“Of course you could change your mind, couldn’t you?” she said as she tucked her head on his shoulder.

Easily, he thought as he wondered just how to work this knowledge to his advantage. Maybe poor Mary Bradford would be avenged someday soon.

The military flight from Washington to New York was solemn. The slaughter on Wall Street had stunned everyone. So far, censorship had kept knowledge of the total number of dead and wounded from the public. The world only knew that a pair of madmen had shot up the New York Stock Exchange and a number of people had become casualties. The facts would dribble out after the shock of the assault had waned.

On board the almost empty converted DC3 were Grant, Captain Art Baldwin of the Provost Marshal’s office, and Alicia. FBI agent Richard Dunn had taken an earlier and faster plane, courtesy of the feds. There were serious concerns that the escaped German agent, Heinrich Stahl, had been the brains behind the attack. It was believed that Stahl had killed a cop in DC along with a young burglar. Alicia and Baldwin had actually seen Stahl and it was hoped they could provide information.

There had been some discussion about including the now disgraced Dr. Morris Langford in the group since he’d had a direct conversation with Stahl, but the decision from higher up was to exclude him. It was feared that involving him might lead him to believe that the government was taking his claims about breaking German codes seriously. Tom was convinced that the U.S. had broken German codes and Alicia was leaning that direction as well.

With sirens screaming, NYC police vehicles took them directly to the police gymnasium that had been converted to a morgue. The first person they met was New York Police Commissioner Lew Valentine. He had a well-deserved reputation for integrity and was credited with cleaning up the corruption that had been rampant before his appointment.

“Mayor LaGuardia would be here to great you himself,” Valentine said, “but he doesn’t want to draw attention to you or what’s in this building. Anywhere he goes, the press is on his tail. Normally, he loves it, but not right now. If this is the work of Nazi madmen, then we don’t want panic to ensue. We have told the press that any army personnel they see are experts in ballistics. Obviously, we want any German connections kept secret.”

This was easily agreed to. Their first task, and it was a repugnant one, was to examine the corpses of any dead men to see if they recognized Stahl. They didn’t think they would, but it had to be done in case he had managed to get himself shot. Seventy-four men, along with twenty-nine women, had been killed, either by grenades or by gunfire. They were wrapped in tarpaulins and laid out in neat rows on the floor. Some of the bodies were badly mutilated, and the stench from torn flesh and ripped bowels was almost overwhelming. Everyone wore masks across their mouths and noses, but it only helped a little. Stahl was not among the dead.

FBI Agent Dunn was nauseated, but kept control. “Almost all of these people had some identification on them, but we were concerned that it might be phony. Therefore, we had to have you check. Now we can release them to their families. Quietly, of course.”

Tom laughed, “Quietly? Don’t you think somebody’s going to notice a parade of bodies being taken out in hearses and a host of obituaries in the papers?”

Dunn grimaced. “Not my decision. Nor was it my idea to say that we had all the Nazis already bagged. Off the record, the Director is raising holy hell with anyone who thought we were safe. I’m just thankful I wasn’t involved. Much too junior, you know.”

They had three more bodies to view. The dead Germans had been isolated from the others. Again, none of them was Stahl. All had been shot multiple times.

“I understand one of them lived for a while,” Alicia inquired. Her complexion was a little green, but she was holding on.

“Yes,” Dunn answered, “but he didn’t answer any questions. Not surprisingly, his last words were Heil Hitler.”

“And there definitely was a fourth man,” said Tom.

“Absolutely,” said Dunn. “He was seen shooting and he was even briefly chased down Wall Street until he got lost in the crowd that was running away. We think he ran down a subway. Some tourists had taken pictures and we’ve had them developed. Unfortunately, they don’t show anything useful.”

“Any chance the fourth kraut got shot and is dead somewhere, like in an alley?” Tom asked.

“One can only hope,” Dunn said.

Alicia looked distastefully at the three dead Germans, their bodies now covered by sheets. She was astonished at how well she had gotten through the ordeal of seeing so many mangled dead bodies. But then, she thought, the Americans were innocents and the dead Germans were monsters who had slaughtered them. She had no pity for them.

“Did the dead Nazis give you anything useful?” she asked.

“A little,” Dunn said with a small smile. “These guys had some receipts on them for dry cleaning and such and we were able to identify where they lived by showing people in that neighborhood their photos that we sent by Associated Press Wire Photo. Obviously, we’ve been sending a lot of planes back and forth. Regardless, we found that four men had been living in a rooming house and at least three weren’t coming back. We’re checking for anything useful, but I doubt that we’ll find much. The Germans weren’t that important and it’s becoming clear that Stahl wasn’t staying with them.”

Baldwin had been quiet up to now. “For a variety of reasons, I’d like to be able to check on that apartment and its contents.”

“The Director might not like that,” Dunn said grimly, “so let’s not tell him.”

Tony Romano’s ankle had healed quickly. Either it hadn’t been broken or not broken that badly. Still, he thought it was a good idea to keep using the crutches he’d been issued. The more helpless he appeared to the Black Shirt guards, the better were his chances of escaping.

He’d concluded that the Black Shirts were a confused bunch. Some of them wanted to brutalize the prisoners, but others said not to. It was clear that they were worried about the direction the war was taking. Some of the guards openly grumbled about the possibility of Germany losing and admitted that a number of their group had folded up their shirts and gone home.

In the evening the guards changed and some of the few Italian soldiers who remained in Toronto took over. Since Tony spoke the language, he and the Italian guards had a number of pleasant conversations. It was clear that many of them, including some officers were trying to figure a way to get out of the army and on to the United States. Desertion was not a moral problem for them. They felt that Mussolini was a buffoon who had betrayed them by sending them all the way to Canada. They did admit, however, that they were much better off than some of their comrades who were supporting the German invasion of Russia. They just didn’t want to get killed in what they saw as a hopeless war fighting for Germany against the overwhelming might of the United States. It occurred to many of them that they could soon be trying to kill some of their own relatives who’d emigrated years earlier.

They understood that it might be a very long time before they saw Italy again. It was another reason to hate Mussolini and Hitler and try for a new life in the United States.

Life in the camp wasn’t unpleasant, just boring and frustrating. The food was decent, brought in by an independent caterer, and they’d made the barracks livable. Better, they were beginning to get and send mail. Tony’s been able to inform his family that he was okay. He didn’t bother to burden them with news about his ankle. He’d been delighted when they’d responded and been even more delighted when his girlfriend, Nancy O’Connor, wrote and said she would wait for him and, yes, an Irish Catholic girl and an Italian Catholic boy might be a good match.

The rest of his crew were in the camp as well, but they seemed to resent the fact that they’d been shot down and blamed him for it. They were right, of course.

Another reason that the POWs were treated well was the presence of the Red Cross who watched the camp like hawks. The German military who were in charge of the camp were routinely informed of problems which they tried to solve. The German soldiers might have behaved like barbarians in Poland and Russia, but not in Canada. The camp where civilians were interned was run by the Gestapo and life was not as pleasant. Food was enough to sustain them, but it was nowhere near as plentiful as the American POWs had, and the same held with the living conditions. Tony had found that the Gestapo was led by some swine named Neumann and it was widely believed that he was responsible for both the martyrdom of some Canadian girl as well as the attempt to ship Jews to Germany.

“Penny for your thoughts, Tony.”

It was Major Bryant, the second highest ranking officer in the camp. He was also the head of the escape committee. “I was thinking you had some good news for me, sir.”

“Tony, there’s no doubt that your escape plan is solid, but there are concerns that there might be reprisals against us if you made it out.”

“Understood, sir, but what about reprisals against me if they find out that I sank four of their precious submarines?”

It was becoming common knowledge that the German navy was suffering very high losses to their submarine fleet. If they got their hands on someone who’d sunk four of them, they would likely interrogate him until he divulged just how they were able to find and kill so many. To the best of his knowledge, he was the only sub-killer who’d been captured, and he was certain that interrogation would rapidly become torture. He’d heard of people standing up to savage torture, but had also been told that everyone broke sooner or later. This might present a problem since he really didn’t know all that much. In the U.S. he was considered a hero. He didn’t want the SS to know about his exploits, even though they’d been somewhat offset by having two planes shot out from under him.

Bryant picked up a small rock and tossed it a few feet. To anyone in a guard tower, they were just two guys talking. “You know there’s no way we can get you back to the States even if you do escape. You’d have to hook up with some local guerillas and work with them. Any idea how you’d do that?”

Tony grinned. “I was kind of hoping you’d know, sir.”

Koenig snapped to attention and smiled as Guderian entered his spartan office in the well-hidden underground bunker.

“Congratulations Field Marshal.”

The newly promoted Guderian flipped his cap onto a hook and snorted. “It’ll look marvelous on my tombstone, don’t you think?”

Koenig didn’t know quite what to say, so remained tactfully silent. Rumors that the general would be promoted had been rampant, but it had just become official. Heinz Guderian finally had his field marshal’s baton.

Guderian continued, “So now I am joining such as von Runstedt, Rommel, and von Manstein.”

“They are all great generals, sir.”

“Indeed, although I have my doubts about Rommel. Also on the list of marshals is that drunken drug-addict Hermann Goering; Keitel, the ass-kissing toady; and von Paulus, the clerk who managed to win at Stalingrad because the Soviets collapsed. I will not say it is an empty honor because it is something I always wanted and felt that I deserved. However, the quality of marshal’s in the Reich has been diluted greatly.”

Koenig was stunned to hear Guderian talk like that. Now that he worked directly for the general as a personal aide and occasional driver, he and Guderian had gotten close, or at least as close as a high ranking general and a captain ever could be. Guderian had started using Koenig as a means of sounding off about his problems, but there had been nothing like this.

“Of course you never heard me say anything of the sort, did you, captain?”

“I heard nothing, sir, and I know even less.”

“Excellent, now what are the latest reports on the war with the Soviets?”

“According to Berlin, our troops are advancing steadily against determined last ditch efforts by remnants of Red Army forces.”

Guderian rubbed his eyes and sighed, “Which means that von Paulus is getting the shit kicked out of him. Soon, von Paulus will request permission to make a tactical withdrawal in order to reorganize his forces. The Fuhrer will deny it and the heavily augmented Sixth Army will be surrounded and then be overrun by the Red Army, which will be a catastrophe of the first order for the Reich. Indeed, it might even threaten the existence of the Reich. When threatened with the extinction of his army, Von Paulus will ask permission to surrender, which will also be denied. It will then be strongly implied that von Paulus should kill himself because German field marshals don’t surrender. And that, young captain, is why I said my new rank will look good on my tombstone.”

Koenig was shocked. “You would kill yourself, sir?”

“When I joined the army, I fully understood the risks and dangers involved. Death is part of our profession, although it is far better to inflict it than to endure it. While suicide might be preferable to spending a lifetime in the mines of Siberia, or even being hanged as a war criminal, killing myself is not on my agenda. Being killed in battle is acceptable but regrettable.”

He laughed. “That too would look good on my tombstone. Now, how is von Arnim?”

“I visited him this morning and there does seem to be some improvement. He may be conscious and he may be trying to speak. The doctors aren’t certain.”

“Which means he will not resume command in a hundred lifetimes. A shame. He is, or was, a decent general. And what of the air war? Is it safe to step outside?”

Koenig laughed. “Perfectly safe, at least for the moment. American planes have made several visits, but have caused no serious damage.”

“Good. Remind me to again pay my compliments to those in charge for the excellent job they did hiding our army. When Patton moves eastward again, as he must, we will be more than ready for him. We bloodied his nose the last time, even though we were forced back a few miles. This next time will be different, very different.”

Chapter Seventeen

Major General Lucian Truscott looked over Tom’s shoulder at the photographs he was analyzing. The eight-by-ten black and white glossies had been taken by specially equipped P47s and showed the ground below in exquisite detail. Tom had been attempting to enhance that detail by using high a powered magnifying glass.

“Anything exciting, colonel?”

Tom couldn’t stifle a grin. His promotion to lieutenant colonel had just come through. He and Alicia had celebrated the night before and, along with truly marvelous sex, they’d shared a couple of bottles of wine and Tom was now nursing the last of a headache.

“Nothing really, sir. The Germans are damned good at hiding things. That and the fact that they move around almost entirely at night makes it difficult to locate their tanks and ammo. I wish we had some of that infra-red technology that enables people to see in the dark.”

Downing moved to Truscott’s side. “If the army wanted you to see in the dark, they would have issued you bat’s eyes.”

It was common knowledge that the military was working on devices that would indeed enable the users to see in the dark. Not as well as bright sunshine, but enough, perhaps, to locate an enemy tank. Right now, however, all they had were the eyes they’d been issued at birth, along with high-powered magnifying glasses. The other magic devices were for the future.

Tom put down the glass and rubbed his eyes. The strain of looking for things that weren’t there was giving his headache a new lease on life.

“We’ve been able to ascertain that we still haven’t done much to degrade German capabilities,” he said. “Worse, it looks like they were able to upgrade many of their weapons before they attacked and we cut off their supply. What tanks we’ve been able to spot appear to have the new long barreled guns and those can play hell with our Shermans.”

Truscott nodded grimly. He’d been in high level meetings with Eisenhower, Fredendall, and Marshall. As a result he’d been out of touch with recent intelligence discoveries and the fact that the German armor had been improved was not good news.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve found that they have Panthers?” Truscott inquired.

“Can’t lie, sir. It does look like they have a number of them and that’s bad news. If they are as good as advertised, we don’t have a thing to stand up to them. It looks like the krauts did a tremendous job of improving their weapons just before they attacked us. Of course, they would have known that date and we were unable to do anything about their shipping before then. The krauts are really much stronger than we realized, even in our worst case scenarios.”

“Then we can only hope that our planes and artillery can kill them before our boys get slaughtered.”

The Sherman was America’s best tank, but the Panther weighted in at forty-five tons and had a high velocity 75mm cannon. It had a lower silhouette than the Sherman which made it harder to find and its armor was sloped so that shells might ricochet off. The Sherman also had a 75mm gun, but it was considered medium velocity and inferior to what the German tanks possessed. With all its faults, however, the Sherman was a vast improvement over its predecessors and was being churned out in large quantities. If nothing else, the Germans might be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of American numbers. Every American tank destroyed would be replaced, while every German tank killed could not.

The same grim math applied to manpower as well. It now appeared that Patton significantly outnumbered the Germans confronting him and that his constant nibbling at German positions was beginning to bear fruit. Patton was building up for a massive strike against the Germans. The only question was when.

Truscott glanced about and saw Westover at his desk. “Glad to see you make it back to us, commander, and don’t try to stand. How are you doing?”

Westover clutched his chest dramatically and winced. “It still hurts when I exert myself, sir, but it’s getting better every day.”

Truscott shook his head. “You belong back in the hospital, commander.”

“I spent enough time in a hospital. I was going crazy as the officer in charge of distributing bedpans. You are aware, I hope, that we think we got the U-boat that was operating in Lake Erie.”

“I was.”

“Well, we just got a news flash from the OSS that the German navy is going to try and send some others through the Welland. That would raise hell with any attempts to land troops on either the Erie or Lake Ontario shores. It would really be nice if we had some real warships on at least one of those lakes, instead of the small ships we now have.”

“Commander, based on the conversations I’ve been having, it looks like we are going to take steps to get navy ships into Lake Ontario, but Lake Erie is out of the question since the Germans still control the Welland. A couple of coast guard cutters and an ice-breaker are all we have right now, along with a couple of dozen converted yachts and such that we’ve loaded down with machine guns and small cannon. All of which makes it imperative that we stop those U-boats from getting through before we launch any attack along the Niagara front.”

With that, a thoroughly perturbed Truscott stalked out of the room with Downing trailing him. “Well,” said Tom, “that got a rise out of him. Just wonder what the navy’s going to do about getting their ships down the St. Lawrence gauntlet.”

Patrol Torpedo boats, commonly referred to as PT boats, were small, made of wood, agile, and quick. Depending on their manufacturer, they were about eighty feet long and, depending on their armament, generally carried fewer than twenty men. They were designed as ship killers and their principal weaponry was a pair of torpedoes. In that, they were like the slightly larger German E-boats. While there had been discussions about introducing them to the Great Lakes, it had not been attempted since it was considered that the route down the St. Lawrence was both too long and too dangerous for the fragile but lethal craft.

At this point, someone had an idea. Why not send them by train on specially designed flatcars and introduce them to Lakes Erie and Ontario? There was some resistance from Navy brass because of potential damage to the boats until Admiral King stepped in and decreed that it should happen. Any damage, he added, would simply be repaired. At that point, opposition prudently ceased. A dozen boats were stripped down and sent north under tarpaulins and false superstructure to Rochester, New York. At night and in secrecy, they met up with their crews who had enjoyed Pullman accommodations en route along with their train’s well stocked bars. They agreed it was a great way to run a war.

To the crews’ surprise, their boats no longer had torpedo tubes. Instead, the craft had been converted to what were referred to in the Pacific as PT gunboats. Additional machine guns and 40mm cannon had been added. The 40mm shells would not penetrate the armor of larger warships, but there weren’t any large enemy ships on the lakes and the 40mm shells would penetrate the hull of a U-boat.

Their job was to seek out and destroy any German ships on Lake Ontario. It was understood that another flotilla of PTs would disembark at Cleveland and attempt the same on Lake Erie.

The crews spent several days orienting themselves to their new ships and the additional weaponry. They then cruised at night to areas just east of where the Niagara River empties into Lake Ontario.

Canfield found the three boats assigned to his area well camouflaged and with their crews ready for bear. There was real concern that American planes might mistake them for German ships, so a big white star had been painted on the top of each boat. Hopefully it would suffice.

While he was glad to have the boats near, he found the crews, and especially the skippers, to be just a little arrogant and overconfident. None had seen war. Most of the tiny flotilla’s officers seemed to all be rich kids with experience handling yachts and such. It was clear that they looked down on the infantry, especially National Guard troops they considered little more than farmers in uniform. No matter that Canfield and his men had already dueled with the Germans and damaged an E-boat. The PTs were here to win the war.

The most self-important of the group was Lieutenant Randy Lionel, who bragged that he spent most of his youth sailing yachts in the Atlantic and felt that the lake was nothing more than a pond. Canfield fought a strong urge to spank him.

A few nights later and radar showed a suspicious craft a few miles offshore. Within minutes, two of the PT boats were racing away, while the third, to the crew’s dismay had to stay behind, denied their quest for glory because of engine problems.

A short while later, and the night sky was lit up by tracers and the sharp sounds of multiple explosions. Canfield tried to listen in on the PT boats’ radio frequency, but there was too much screaming and yelling to figure out what was happening. It was clear, however, that the young crews were in the fight of their lives. A large explosion lit up the horizon, and it was soon followed by a second.

“Jesus,” said Dubinski, “no way those little boats could survive that.”

Canfield sadly agreed. Either both American boats had been sunk or severely damaged, or maybe it was one American and one German. Either way, he prepared his men to receive wounded and ordered his artillery to prepare to cover their return.

After an eternity that lasted maybe an hour, shore based radar showed one blip heading slowly towards them. “Get medics out,” Canfield yelled and then realized they were already alert.

One PT limped in. It was Lionel’s. As it drew closer, they could see burn marks and bullet holes. The boat was listing to port and taking water. With almost its last gasp, it made it to shore where whoever was driving it beached it.

Canfield’s men ran out to help rescue the crew. Wounded were handed down and gently placed on stretchers. One of them was Lionel. He’d lost both legs and was mercifully unconscious. Canfield jumped on board and was shocked by the damage and the bloody carnage. He almost slipped on the gore.

Finally, he grabbed a young petty officer. “What the hell happened out there?”

The sailor laughed bitterly. “Our skipper was senior to the other captain so he assumed control. He had us charge right up to the German with our guns blazing, just like it was some fucking western movie. Lieutenant Lionel was one of the first ones hit. Between us, we think we got the E-boat, but half our guys are killed or wounded and I don’t think anybody got out of our other boat. It just flat exploded and disappeared.”

The sailor turned away. Canfield could see that the boy was near tears and who could blame him? The only good news was that the U.S. Navy could replace its losses while the damned Kriegsmarine couldn’t. At first light, which was only a couple of hours away, they would send out small boats to look for survivors. He doubted there would be any, but it had to be done.

Canfield decided he needed a beer.

Tony was shocked when four strong Italian soldiers grabbed him and hustled him outside the prison compound. They laughed as they threw him in the back of the truck, hurting his ankle and causing a wave of pain to run up his leg. It went away after a minute, so he guessed it wasn’t broken again.

Tony’s Italian was good and he even recognized two of the guards, guys who’d seemed like good ones who wanted to chat all the time about the United States. They’d even discussed families and wondered if they were somehow related. Both of them had wanted to go to the states, New York City in particular.

So what the hell had he done to deserve the rough treatment? Now, none of them would talk to him. He thought he heard one of them mumble something about sub-killer and Gestapo as they departed the camp and his spirits sank. Being turned over to the Gestapo was beyond frightening.

They drove around for about half an hour until they drove the truck through the wide doors of a large warehouse. The four men pulled Tony to the ground and stood there laughing at him.

Finally, one of the ones he’s thought of as friendly said, “Goodbye Tony. It’s been great.”

With that they threw him a bag and disappeared through a door that led to the rest of the warehouse. Puzzled, Tony opened the bag. It contained clothing and a handwritten note that said, “Change into these.”

Tony did as he was told, even though he felt foolish standing there buck naked for a moment. He couldn’t help but wonder if anyone was watching. Then he decided he didn’t give a shit. The bag even included underwear, which meant he could ditch everything he had on that identified him as U.S. military. The clothing even fit fairly well.

For a few minutes, he stood by the truck. The same door the Italian soldiers had taken opened and an attractive woman a few years older than he walked up to him.

“Enjoying your freedom, sub killer?” she said with a smile.

Tony restrained his surprise. “Not yet. What the hell’s going on?”

“You’re out of the camp. Does anything else matter?”

“Yeah, I’m an American pilot and I want to get back to my unit. And by the way, what’s happening to the four guys who sprung me?”

“Don’t worry. Their reward for helping us get you out is a free trip to the United States. We’ll get them across the St. Lawrence somewhere around Maine and they’ll be met by other people who will see to their safety. It’ll take a few weeks to get them across, but they’re safe.”

“Great, when’s my turn to go home?”

She touched his arm and steered him through the building and out the door where an old Ford was waiting. “It’ll be a little while. Can you drive this?”

“Of course. You Canadians do drive on the left side of the road, don’t you?”

When she looked surprised it was his turn to laugh. “Gotcha. Yeah, I can drive anything with wheels or wings.”

She shook her head and smiled back. “Good one. Now, can you fly a Piper Cub?”

“I’ve done it a couple of times” he said as he settled behind the wheel. It felt good to be able to drive. “Let’s face it, if you can fly a big bad B24, you can fly pretty much anything. Can I ask why?”

“Yes, but first, did you really sink four U-boats?”

“Me and my crew, yeah, and it’s a damn shame so many of them are dead because of me. One more and we would’ve been an ace, the first guy whose plane sank five Nazi subs.”

She smiled broadly; pleased that he knew he hadn’t operated alone. “Well, that’s why we sprung you. You’re going to have that opportunity.”

“Wonderful. Now, can I ask you your name?”

“Sure thing. It’s Sherry.”

Jed and Wally Munro had had it up to their asses, as they liked to say, with the restraints put on them by Neumann. With the war getting hotter each day, the Black Shirts of the Canadian Legion had been told to behave themselves and it was frustrating. Their numbers were diminishing as the rats, as Neumann called them, deserted the ship. People had begun openly mocking them and even pushing them on the streets. It had to stop.

The two brothers called a meeting of other Black Shirts and it was decided that they would raise a little hell and who cared what Neumann thought. Canada was their country, not his. They revered Hitler but were coming around to the thought that Neumann was a pompous little prick.

Their target was a good-sized restaurant near downtown Toronto that specialized in family fare, which meant it wouldn’t be filled with tough construction workers and other types that might be a problem. It was early Saturday night and more than a hundred diners sat at tables, with another group of twenty or so waiting in line.

The Shirts arrived in a caravan consisting of four cars and two trucks. The Munro brothers had gathered more than thirty men for their attack. They wanted it to be overwhelming and sudden.

While they gathered down the street from the restaurant, a number of passersby prudently decided to leave the area. A couple of them took the opportunity to find a pay phone and call the police, telling them that trouble was brewing.

The cops were busy that night with crimes in progress and didn’t have the manpower to check on potential ones, but they did manage to send one car to check on the problem. Detective Mike Bradford was the only cop in the car and it was simply coincidence that he was in the area. Since his daughter’s murder, he’d only wanted to be left alone, so driving to a potential problem all by himself was fine by him. He’d been neglecting himself, not eating right and drinking far too much. He’d lost a lot of weight, but it made him look slack, not lean. Even though it was still early, he’d already knocked back several shots of good Canadian Club whiskey, hoping that the alcohol would lessen the pain. It didn’t; it never did. It only made his anger burn more furiously.

Inside the restaurant it was noisy and the crowd was good-natured. The Munros had selected it because it looked easy and they’d been told that Jews were among its clientele. There would be no German military personnel. It had been made abundantly clear to them that they weren’t welcome. Any Germans in uniform were treated to exceedingly slow and rude service, along with cold and poorly cooked meals. It was another good reason to choose it. The same held true with young men with German accents. It was presumed that they were from the Wehrmacht.

As the group marched in loose order to the door, several patrons exiting the restaurant actually ran away, while the waiting line disbursed. At Jed’s signal, they poured into the main dining room, baseball bats and other clubs flailing. Screams filled the room. Men and women were knocked bloody and senseless to the ground along with children who got in the way. There was a mass race to the rear of the restaurant, which resulted in people getting trampled.

The Black Shirts further amused themselves by ripping the clothing off the women so that several dozen were nearly naked in a matter of seconds. There wouldn’t be time to rape them, so this would have to do. They’d thought about taking some of the younger and better looking women back with them, but that would mean killing them when they were through. This was just supposed to be a reminder of the Shirt’s power, not a massacre. If a couple of people didn’t recover from their beatings, so fucking what, they’d laughed.

Enough, Jed thought as he surveyed the scene. It was time to get the hell out before the police finally showed up. He knew they’d be delayed a few minutes, but not much longer. He blew a referee’s whistle several times to get his gang’s attention and signaled that it was time to go. A couple of the men fondling terrified women were slow to let go of their treasures, but a few quick punches and kicks by the brothers got them going.

Jed was the last one out. He turned and yelled, “Fuck all you Jews.” Whether there were Jews inside or not just seemed like the right thing to say, he thought exultantly.

Outside and across the street, Mike Bradford watched as the scene unfolded. His eyes were drawn to the Munro brothers who’d stood outside, laughing. He’d looked at their photos every day and swore that he’d kill them if he ever got the chance. Now they were in his sight and committing a major crime. He’d already phoned in for reinforcements and backup would be along in a few minutes.

As the thugs left the restaurant he saw to his dismay that they would be in their trucks and cars and a long ways away before the police arrived. Once again he wondered if some of his comrades at headquarters were intentionally delaying the response. Finally, he saw Jed and Wally leave the restaurant. They were laughing. He couldn’t take it anymore. Blind with rage, he lurched out of the car, pulled his pistol and walked up to them. Wally was the closest and he turned in shock to see an armed man coming at him.

“Police,” yelled Bradford, “you’re under arrest.”

With that formality out of the way, Bradford started shooting at point blank range. Bullets hit Wally, spinning him like a top before he fell to the ground. By then the other brother had his own gun out and was firing. Something punched Mike Bradford in the chest and then, before he could fall, another bullet blew the top of his head off. His last thought was of Mary and she was smiling at him.

This time Colonel Downing was being very formal. Their conclusions would be kicked up to Eisenhower and maybe all the way to Marshall.

“Then it is your opinion, Colonel Grant, that Guderian will attack Patton and not the other way around?”

“Correct, sir.”

“And the others in the group concur?”

“Yes sir. We’re getting too much corroborating information from too many sources.”

If anything, they’d been overwhelmed with information. First, the photos from planes that flew with impunity over southern Ontario either took pictures or made observations. The Germans had done a masterful job of hiding their tanks, planes, and infantry from prying eyes, but their efforts were a long ways from perfect.

Eyes on the ground, consisting of Canadians who wanted the Germans defeated, along with the OSS, reported the movement of large numbers of tanks and manpower westward. Since that German line was holding its own against Patton’s pressure and didn’t need reinforcing, the only conclusion to be drawn was that a German spoiling attack was imminent.

These same eyes also reported that many of the tanks and other vehicles destroyed by airpower had been dummies. The vast majority of German armored strength had not been touched.

This idea had met with resistance from a number of sources. After all, didn’t Patton greatly outnumber the Germans he was confronting and wasn’t he gradually whittling them down? Breakthrough and victory weren’t right around the corner, but they did appear inevitable.

And as to the airpower being ineffective, that was absolute heresy to the air force brass who seethed at the thought. Yes pilots exaggerated, but film cameras did not, and they showed that between a third and half of German armor had been destroyed.

General Henry, “Hap,” Arnold commanded the Army Air Force and he was a firmly believed that airpower would play the decisive role in the Ontario campaign. He had been livid at the thought that the bombings had been so ineffective and flatly denied the accuracy of the intelligence reports.

The air force also refused to accept the idea that many of the “tanks” and other installations bombing had destroyed might have been dummies.

Downing was glum. “I don’t know whether we’re right or wrong, but I can’t imagine that Guderian, one of the leaders in blitzkrieg warfare, would simply sit by and let us punch his army to pieces without doing anything about it. It’s just not his style.”

“Nor can I, sir,” said Tom.

“Relax Tom, interrogation is over. I believe what you’re saying and we’re all on the same page. Von Arnim might let that happen, but that man got his skull crushed and it’s Guderian who’s in charge and Guderian believes in attacking.

Grant took a seat. “What do you think Patton will do with the info?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. I think the higher brass will argue the idea to death and give Patton a lukewarm and watered down warning. Ergo, you are going to Patton’s headquarters to give the great man a personal review of the situation. With a little luck, you might be there when the hammer falls. It’ll be great experience for you. Just try not to get shot.”

Alicia was dismayed at the thought of Tom again leaving Washington. Even though she’d been shot at by Canadian Nazis and bombed by the Luftwaffe, she still thought it was much safer in Washington than in Patton’s headquarters where the war was being fought on a daily basis.

Her work as a courier from the intelligence experts at Camp Washington hadn’t changed. Now, however, she and Tom had found a small, cramped, two room second floor flat in a house run by Mrs. Kosnik, the woman who had lost her son. She’d been living on the first floor and had been keeping the upper floor vacant for when her son came home. Obviously this was not going to happen so she decided to rent it to Alicia, a woman she considered a friend.

She had gone to visit relatives in Ohio and, even though grieving, was thrilled to have someone look after her house. Alicia and Tom were equally thrilled to have a place they could live in privacy in a town that was exploding with new arrivals and where housing was at an expensive premium. Nor could Tom pull rank. Downing had laughingly said that there were a quarter of a million lieutenant colonels within a three block area of the Pentagon.

The fact that they were within a couple of miles of the Pentagon was a further blessing. Rationing of many items was in full swing and it was getting more and more difficult for the average person to get gasoline, and almost impossible to get tires as production of both cars and rubber for civilian purposes was severely curtailed. As military personnel, they could gas up military vehicles and they did get more gas for their civilian cars. Alicia hadn’t owned a car, while Tom’s was a 1938 Buick, which he cheerfully admitted was a tank. She thought it was large enough that they could have lived in it if they hadn’t found Mrs. K’s flat. As an additional bonus, Mrs. K’s place had a garage and most of the time the car was locked away. Like most people, they either took the bus or walked.

Now there were long lines outside grocery stores. This was nothing new. The Depression was too recent a memory. Long lines of people waiting for food handouts had been normal only a few years earlier. Nobody was going hungry, but there were limits, especially regarding beef. Again as military personnel, their food allowance was larger than others and they always had the option of eating at the Pentagon or Fort Meade. Sometimes she felt guilty about that, but it quickly passed. She and Tom were serving their country, both had been shot at and injured, and both were working for military pay while some civilians were making obscene amounts of money. Her father had told her of factory workers making more than ten thousand dollars a year.

She laughed. Between the two of them they weren’t making anywhere near ten grand a year. Ain’t civilian life grand, she thought?

The federal minimum wage was thirty cents an hour and a prudent person could live on that if he or she didn’t live in an expensive area. Inflation was beginning to run about ten percent, which might just end that idea.

Alicia and Tom were privy to enough information to understand the horrors people were enduring in other parts of the world; thus, neither had any patience for whiners and complainers.

She had gotten out of work early so she could cook a special dinner for the two of them. He would be leaving Washington tomorrow. As she walked up the path to the house, she saw that a light was on in the upstairs living room. Tom was home first.

She opened the door and trotted upstairs, pleased that they’d have more time together.

“Hey,” yelled Tom, “I think dinner’s going to be late.”

“Why?” she asked as she entered the bedroom. “Oh.”

Tom stood at the side of the bed. He was naked and he had a bottle of wine in each hand.

“Who needs dinner,” she said happily as she began to undress.

Tinker smiled affably at the surly German guard. After a cursory look at his identification, Tinker was admitted to the headquarters of the German military establishment in Toronto. He entered through the back door, of course. He was a janitor.

He went to the cleaning closet where he got a broom, bucket and mop, and put them all in his push cart. He had the entire third floor to clean. With the tools of his trade, he was almost invisible. Nobody noticed cleaning people, waiters, or servants unless they did something to attract attention, and the Germans were no exception.

He entered the office next to Neumann’s and closed the door. It belonged to a Gestapo officer who was out inspecting the prison camps north of the city. Tinker knew that because he’d read the man’s schedule. There was shouting going on in Neumann’s office. If he was very still and listened intently, he could make out the words. Neumann was talking, no yelling, at the head of the Black Shirts, Jed Munro. The fact of their raid on the restaurant and the subsequent gunfight that cost the life of Wally Munro was all over Toronto. The civilian population was outraged at both the Black Shirts and their bed partners, the Gestapo.

Tinker smiled as he heard Munro called a fucking idiot. Jed must have been a little drunk because he yelled back. What he said didn’t make much sense, but the gist of it was that Neumann wasn’t Jed’s father. No, thought Tinker, Jed’s father was a swine.

Jed was clearly not at all upset at the uproar and anger he had caused. He yelled that Neumann should have let them do much more, that they couldn’t enforce the laws of the Reich without breaking heads and spilling blood. Jed raged that he’d lost two brothers to the cause and that gave him privileges. Neumann vehemently disagreed, causing Munro to storm out. Tinker continued cleaning the office. When he left, all was quiet and well.

When his shift was finished, he left the building and went to a bar a couple of blocks away. He drank a beer, a Molson’s, and went out the back door. A few buildings down the alley he went into a warehouse, where Detective Sam Lambert waited.

“Well?”

“I may have found a new career,” Tinker said. “When this war is over I’m going to become a private detective who doubles as a janitor.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ll clean up.”

Tinker laughed, “Wouldn’t think of it.”

He proceeded to give Lambert all he knew and focused on the argument between Munro and Neumann.

“The fight was ugly and I think it’ll be a long time before they talk nice to each other. I think it’s nice that our two enemies aren’t talking.”

Lambert agreed, but not entirely. While it was pleasant to think of their enemies dividing among themselves, there was also the fact that Neumann and his Gestapo actually functioned as a kind of restraining influence on the Black Shirts. If they wouldn’t obey Neumann, what would they do now?”

Chapter Eighteen

Tom ducked as another German artillery round landed uncomfortably close to his position. It shook the ground and sent dirt clattering down on his helmet. In Tom’s opinion, Patton had again gotten far too close to the front. The general had not agreed. He felt it was his duty to show his troops that their commander was not afraid. Their small convoy of jeeps had headed out towards the front lines when all hell had broken loose as German artillery pounded the American lines.

Tom tried to make his body smaller still as more shells hit around him. There was no doubting Patton’s personal courage. He had proven that several times in the First World War. His litany of medals included the Distinguished Service Cross with one Oak Leaf Cluster, the Distinguished Service Medal with two Oak Leaf Clusters, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star and, of course, the Purple Heart. It was proof that you don’t pick up that many medals without getting hurt.

Tom wondered if the men really were inspired by Patton’s being close to the front, or if they felt that he was drawing attention and enemy fire on them.

Tom had arrived at Patton’s Ontario headquarters by plane the preceding afternoon. He’d had an immediate conference with Patton who’d accepted the report with a laugh.

“Tell me, colonel, did anyone in their right mind think that Guderian wouldn’t attack me? Hell, he hasn’t any choice. If he just sits there and allows my army to get stronger, which is happening every day, we’ll attack him ourselves and run right over his Nazi ass. No, he has no choice but to try his luck by hitting us first. You can go back to Lucian and say thanks, but we are ready for anything the Germans can throw at us.”

Tom had decided to stay the night and now regretted that decision. The Germans had launched a massive attack on a twenty mile front just north of Lake Erie. Even though Patton had planned a defense in depth, it was clear that there had been a number of penetrations, and some were several miles deep. It was also rumored that German infiltrators were operating behind American lines. There were other rumors that some Germans or Canadian Black Shirts were wearing American uniforms. It was scary enough that Tom wondered if he could pick up a Canadian accent if he heard one.

What worried Tom even more was that he’d lost contact with Patton’s vehicles when the bombardment began. He had no idea whether the general was safe and sound or had been blown to pieces by an enemy shell. It then occurred to him that he might not make it back to the relative safety of American lines. He might be killed or even taken prisoner.

“Tank,” someone yelled.

Tom peered over the lip of the depression in the ground where he and a score of others had taken shelter several hours earlier. Jesus, he thought. Not only was there one tank, but he could see the dim shapes of at least five more. He got a clearer view when a shell burst and momentarily illuminated the area. He identified them as Panzer III tanks. Although not as good as the Panzer IV tanks, they weighed in at twenty five tons and had an upgraded 50mm main gun, along with three machine guns. This was a lot more than he had to fight with, which was absolutely nothing.

Someone in the lead tank must have spotted motion in the ditch. Its machine guns opened fire, spraying the top of their hole. The German wasn’t going to bother to use his main gun. It wouldn’t be necessary. They’d been trapped without any weapons heavier than their rifles and some grenades and the.45 Tom carried.

“What do we do, colonel?” asked a terrified buck sergeant. The young man was the next ranking soldier in their hideaway.

How the hell do I know, Tom thought. “We hope he passes us by as unimportant,” he said, trying to sound confident.

The sound of the tank got louder as it clanked its way closer. A moment later the green metal monster was perched on the edge of the depression. Tom didn’t think the driver or commander could see them very well, but that didn’t matter. The tank lurched down into the depression and began to spray the men in it with machine gun fire as they screamed and tried to run away. Tom watched in horror as a GI was shot in the leg and then run over by the tank and squashed like a bug. I’m going to die, he thought as he tried to fight off panic.

“Give me a grenade,” Tom yelled and the sergeant flipped him one and he clipped it on his belt.

The tank stopped only a few feet away from him. Its turret moved slowly as it searched for more prey. Tom crawled behind the hull, and clambered up. How the hell do I get the turret hatch open, he wondered desperately?

The problem was solved for him as the hatch opened a few inches. The commander wanted to see more clearly. With his left hand, Tom grabbed the hatch and yanked it all the way open. An astonished German soldier stared at him. Tom shot him in the head with his pistol. He dropped it and then yanked the grenade from his belt, He pulled the pin, nearly losing his balance as he did so. He recovered and dropped it down the hatch. He immediately threw himself off the tank, landing on something hard and sharp on the ground. He screamed in pain as the grenade exploded in the tank. He visualized metal fragments chewing through the German crew and shuddered at the thought.

“I got you, colonel,” said the sergeant. “You just saved all our lives.”

The sergeant and a couple of others they dragged him away from the burning and exploding tank. The pain in his chest was intense and he was certain he’d broken a couple of ribs as he’d fallen to the ground.

They heard more tank engines nearby, but these were different sounds. Tom managed a smile. “Those are Shermans, boys, the cavalry just arrived.”

They counted heads. Of the men in the depression, only three were unhurt. Four others, counting Tom, were wounded and five were dead. Others must have run off. He didn’t blame them and could only hope they were safe.

Tom and the sergeant looked over the edge and saw several Sherman tanks firing at the Germans with their stubby 75mm main guns. A couple of the Panzers were burning and the rest were withdrawing. The Sherman could indeed stand up to the Panzer III. The Panzer IV wouldn’t be that easy and who knew what would happen if and when American tanks ran into the large and deadly Panther. At least it wouldn’t happen today, he thought.

Several hours later, Tom’s chest had been swathed in bandages and he’d taken some aspirin to take the edge off the pain. He’d been offered morphine but declined. His chest hurt like the devil and he had a number of cuts and bruises, and it was difficult to breathe. He limped into Patton’s headquarters tent and found that the general had made it back to safety with only a cut on his forehead.

Patton slapped him on the shoulder, causing Tom to wince, “Great job, colonel. I heard what you did to that kraut tank. That’s going to get you a medal along with an ass-chewing for being so close to the front.”

The last comment was said with a smile. Patton had been much closer and just as lucky to have gotten away with his life.

“I want you to fly back to Washington and tell everyone in the Pentagon that Guderian just got his ass kicked from here to Sunday. He made his great spoiling attack and it failed. I’m sure he’s going to try again and I’m just as certain that the results will be the same. He’s now missing maybe a hundred and fifty tanks and a couple of thousand men, and many of them are now our prisoners. Our flyboys shot down a bunch of their MEs as well. If you believe the pilots, they killed a thousand, but it’s likely a hundred. Regardless, none of the tanks or planes they lost can be recovered and repaired and now they have some serious holes that can’t be filled.”

“What about our casualties?” Tom asked.

An aide responded. “About the same and that includes men taken prisoner in the initial attack.”

Tom took a deep breath and found that he could control the pain. “Can I tell them you’re going to counter-attack?”

Patton’s laugh was a high-pitched snort. “Hell, Guderian was the one who counter-attacked. Now I’m going to launch a full attack and kick his ass all the way back to Toronto.”

A courier entered and looked around, puzzled. “Where’s General Patton?” he asked and a couple of men pointed him to where the general had turned his back on them.

Something resonated in Tom’s brain. “Grab him,” he yelled.

Nothing happened for a desperate second as Patton and his staff looked confused. “He’s a German,” Tom screamed.

Tom hurled himself at the man who’d pulled a revolver from beneath his fatigue jacket. A shot rang out as a host of U.S. soldiers buried the man. Seconds later, the bruised soldier was hauled to his feet. The bullet had gone harmlessly through the canvas top of the tent.

“What the hell is going on?” Patton asked. “He doesn’t sound German.”

“He isn’t,” Tom answered, wincing with pain. He’d hurt his ribs again. “He’s Canadian. Probably one of their Black Shirts and I’ll bet he was sent here to kill you. I yelled that he was German because if I said he was Canadian you’d wonder what the problem was.”

“Damn it,” Patton said, his face red with fury. “These boys are starting to play rough. Well, we can play that game too.”

FDR looked confused as well as exhausted. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. His doctors admitted that there was something wrong with his heart, what he referred to as his “ticker,” and they said that rest was what he needed. However, there was a war on and Roosevelt felt that he was the best man to lead America through it, which was why he was running for an unprecedented fourth term. Of course, his third term had been unprecedented too. Every president before him had stopped at two terms, honoring a tradition begun by George Washington.

“Would someone please tell me why Argentina, Brazil, and Chile just declared war on Great Britain?”

They were in the Map Room and a large map of South American was attached to the wall. Secretary of State Cordell Hull answered in a weak voice, another reminder to the president that the sickly Hull had to be replaced, even though FDR generally ignored the man and preferred to be his own secretary of state. According to current law, the secretary of state was behind only the vice president in the line of succession should the president die. The president had decided that Harry Truman would be his next vice president instead of keeping that annoying socialist, Henry Wallace. Like it or not, he would have to strengthen the line of succession. He hoped Truman would prove to be a good choice and Ed Stettinius, a career businessman, would be tapped to replace Hull after he was eased out of the office he’d held for twelve exhausting years.

“Sir, the Argentines just went through a fascist coup led by a Colonel Juan Peron, and they want the Falkland Islands back from Great Britain, which is a very sore point with them. They call them the Malvinas and have claimed them for some time. The islands are, you will recall, just off of Argentina and might as well be Argentine save for the fact that they have been owned by the British for more than a century, and are totally inhabited by Englishmen who don’t want to be part of Argentina. The British also have a small military station there. It has no real military value, but it is of great emotional value to the Argentines. Taking the Falklands will doubtless take the average Argentinian’s mind off of the coup and other issues.”

FDR glowered, “And what about the others? Silly me, I knew that Chile was fascist, but I thought Brazil was leaning towards us?” “Obviously the Germans must have made extravagant promises to them,” Hull said. “Support of their possession of the Falklands must have been one for Argentina, while Brazil might be attempting to grab the Guianas, or perhaps Jamaica, from Great Britain. As to Chile, I have no idea. Indeed, we assumed that Chile and Argentina were practically enemies.”

Roosevelt lit a cigarette and puffed angrily. The others in the map room noticed that his hands shook even worse than before. “In practical matters, what does this mean? They are at war with Great Britain, our ally, but not with us? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed,” Hull said. “But it doesn’t have to make sense, at least not to us.” He nodded towards Admiral King. “I spoke with Admiral King and he feels that this South American alliance would be free to attack the food convoys to England that come from South Africa, as well as Canada. Obviously, this would help Germany. According to the rules we’ve established with Germany, the food convoys must be unescorted by warships. We’ve complied and the British have as well. The South Africans don’t have a navy to speak of, so the task of defending the convoys, if it becomes necessary and we choose to do so, will fall on us.”

“Clever bastards,” said Roosevelt. “That would put us at war with those three nations and make us the enemy of many others in South and Latin America.”

“But what else can we do?” Hull asked.

FDR smiled hugely. “Why we’ll sic the Royal Navy on them, that’s what. Admiral Vian has been chomping at the bit and I can’t think of anything more just than letting him take on Britain’s newest enemies.”

King, who had been sitting quietly, shook his head in disagreement. “The British might be chomping at the bit, but they are in no shape to do much more than reinforce Jamaica, and perhaps Georgetown in Guiana. They only have two working aircraft carriers to protect their battleships from enemy planes and subs. Fortunately, Argentina has no carriers and only two old battleships and the Brits would likely destroy them with ease, while neither Chile nor Brazil has a navy worth mentioning. Along with attacks from land based planes, the Royal Navy’s real enemies will be the vast distances involved and the need to develop a fleet supply train like we have in the Pacific. They simply don’t have the transports and tankers to operate independently. They’ll also need their warships to protect the convoys from what ships the Argentines and Brazilians do have.”

“Can’t we help them?” Roosevelt asked, almost plaintively.

“Not without curtailing our own operations,” King responded. “We barely have enough tankers and transports to take care of our own needs.”

“Still, we must do something. We cannot permit the British to starve and that’s exactly what will happen if the food ceases to flow. Therefore,” Roosevelt continued, “we must aid England even if it means sending our warships to escort the food convoys.”

“Would that mean war with Argentina?” Hull asked.

“If they attack our ships, then our ships will defend and retaliate. In the meantime, admiral, I suggest that you get that Admiral Vian fellow to get some ships down to Jamaica and perhaps to that port in Guiana, Georgetown. When he gets enough fuel, perhaps Vian’s battleships can bombard Rio de Janeiro. I would hate to see that striking statue of Jesus blown off that mountain top, but that certainly would get Brazil’s attention. We cannot have other nations intruding in our war for survival with their own petty causes.”

“And what shall be done with Argentina?” Hull asked. “It is my understanding that if Argentine soldiers haven’t already landed on the Falklands they very shortly will, and will doubtless overwhelm what defenses the British might have.”

King shrugged, “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do at this time. Until and if we get a base closer to either the Falklands or Buenos Aires, we suffer from the same time and distance problems as the British.”

The plane was a Piper Cub, an old two seater that had been through a lot. Maybe World War I as well as World War II, thought Tony Romano as he gazed at the patched up wreck.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” said Farrell, his new OSS coordinator.

If Farrell had a first name, he never said it. Nor did Tony know the names of the four other men who’d been working on the small plane. After Sherry had freed him, he’d been hidden in a truck and driven to a small farm near St. Catharines, Ontario. He was just a few miles away from the border between Canada and the U.S. and he could almost taste freedom and home.

Of course, a few miles might as well have been the distance from earth to the moon. The area was crawling with Germans as they prepared to resist an invasion from the U.S., and they’d had to be careful. As it was, they’d been stopped a couple of times, but their phony papers had been good enough to get them through.

“Well, can you fly the damn thing?” Farrell asked.

Tony had checked it over. Aside from the obvious wear and tear, it looked like a sturdy little beast. “Will I get an opportunity to try it out?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope, you get one chance and one chance only. With all the krauts in the area, we can’t afford to let them see you flying around, especially with what looks like a bomb strapped to it.”

Tony had been told that the plane would be fitted with a 55 gallon drum filled with gasoline and fitted with a crude trigger that was supposed to ignite it on impact. His target would be the first of a small column of German U-boats that would be transiting the Welland Canal on its way to Lake Erie. If all went well, saboteurs would also have damaged the locks, preventing the subs from moving through them.

Farrell laughed. “If this works, you might just get your fifth sub, ace.”

“Or get the words nice try engraved on my tombstone.”

“We’re planning on you doing a night attack.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Tony said. “It’ll be tricky enough to locate and hit it during the day. At night I’d be lucky to find Toronto. I’ll fly in from the north right after dawn and maybe they won’t notice me until the last minute. Maybe all their guns will be pointed south.”

Farrell concurred, not that it mattered. Tony would be flying the plane, not him.

And maybe pigs will fly and maybe Hitler wears women’s panties, Tony thought. But he had to do it. He couldn’t let these other people take all the risks after getting him out of the camp. But how would his family or Nancy O’Connor find out what was happening to him?

“And one other thing,” Tony added, “I’ll be flying real low, hopefully well under a hundred feet.”

Fortunately, he wouldn’t be going too fast. On a good day, the little plane could do eighty miles an hour, which meant he should be able to dodge anything really tall. He laughed bitterly. He’d already lost two planes. Would this little Piper Cub be the third? And how many damn crashes could he survive?

Kommodore Reinhard Hardegan commanded a small squadron of three Type IX U-boats. He was a combat veteran who’d been awarded the Iron Cross among other medals. He was considered a fair, honest, and even honorable commander. At forty-one he was thought to be a rising star in the U-boat command. When the war with the United States started, he had launched attacks against American merchant ships and had sunk several. He’d even penetrated Chesapeake Bay and given serious thought to doing the same with New York Harbor. Cooler heads among his crew talked him out if it. Still, he thought with a quiet smile, it would have been a good feeling to have sunk a merchant ship in the shadow of the Empire State Building.

At this moment, however, he felt impotent and foolish. His sub, the U-123, was the first of the three to try and transit from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie via the Welland Canal. His boat had been skillfully disguised by the addition of fake wooden walls that had been painted to make the U-123 look like a small tramp steamer. The same had been done to the other two boats that waited patiently behind him in other locks. Like the U-123, they were all moored to the side of the lock, which meant they couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. They had no place to go.

There were no longer any German ships in Lake Erie. There had been at least one sub and there had been no reports from it. Thus it was imperative that the three German subs make it into Lake Erie to forestall the possibility of an American amphibious assault behind German lines. However, to get to Lake Erie he had to get through a lock on the Welland Canal that apparently had been sabotaged. At least it hadn’t been blown up, he thought ruefully. Had that occurred, the rush of water downstream to the lower Lake Ontario might have crushed the hull of U-123. He didn’t think the damage to the lock was all that serious, but nobody could find the men who worked on the canal and could fix it. Damn Canadians, he thought. Are they allies or enemies?

The sun was rising which presented another problem. He had the nagging thought that the damage to the locks presaged an attack by American planes at first light. Hardegen had decided that if his ship was a sitting duck, his crew need not be. He had ordered all but those necessary to man the 20mm anti-aircraft guns to go ashore. At first the others had protested, but they saw the logic. Since they were unable to move, they might as well have a form of shore leave even though the men were only a hundred yards or so away. He could see them sprawled out on the grass and enjoying themselves. He would rotate them to minimize any threat. His men appreciated that and he appreciated them.

Enough of the fake walls had been removed to give his gunners a clear field of fire. Any attack by the Americans had to come from the south. As he peered through his binoculars for the first sign of danger, he heard in the background the sound of a small plane, either a Storch or one of the local Piper Cubs. Regardless, it wasn’t a fighter or a bomber. Perhaps, he thought, it was someone from Guderian’s headquarters wondering what the hell the problem was.

The sound of the small plane drew closer and it seemed like it was headed directly towards the U-123.

Hardegan turned to the north. Shit. The small Piper was headed straight towards him and there was something slung below it. He screamed and the gunners turned their weapons around to face the new threat. The enemy plane was coming in very low and was very close. Tracers from the guns streaked through the air, but the plane was too close to stop. It appeared to stagger as some shells struck it, but the bomb had already been released.

Hardegan watched in horror as it struck the wall of the lock and bounced into the air where it exploded. A wave of burning gasoline poured over the sub, setting the fake walls on fire and sending flaming gas down the stern hatch that had been open to help air the boat out.

Burning gas drenched Hardegen. As his clothes and skin began to singe, he jumped into the water. His crewmen on the wall of the lock grabbed him and dragged him ashore. His hands and face were burned, but the wounds didn’t look serious. They began to hurt and he stifled a scream. What was happening to his beloved U-123?

Black smoke and flames began to pour from the deck hatches and the conning tower. The sub was loaded with torpedoes, diesel fuel, and ammunition for the deck gun and the anti-aircraft guns. They could all start exploding at any time. The sub was doomed. Any possible fire-fighters were on the grass and staring in stunned disbelief.

“Abandon ship,” Hardegen yelled to the few who’d remained on the sub. They needed no prompting. The rest of his crew arrived to help him and the others onto higher ground.

He sent a runner to the other subs telling them to immediately withdraw back to Lake Ontario if they could. He and his crew would try to make it overland to Toronto. The Yanks clearly knew they were there and the next assaults would be by bombers and not Piper Cubs. He turned to the south and saw that the Piper was a dot disappearing in the general direction of upper New York. It seemed to be smoking and Hardegan wondered just how long the brave bastard of a pilot could keep it aloft.

As he thought that, he saw the plane dipping lower and lower. “I hope you can swim,” Hardegan said to no one in particular.

Heinrich Stahl had intended to plan his next operation with his customary efficiency only to find that it really wasn’t necessary. American security was so lax that all he really needed was to plan was his escape.

He’d been disappointed that the attack on the New York Stock Exchange had caused so little excitement. He’d hoped for panic in the streets of New York and that had not happened. It hadn’t even shut down the Exchange. The Jewish capitalists had simply moved their operations to a different location a few blocks away while the old one was cleansed and repaired. The exchange had been closed for only a couple of days. Of course, there would now be heavy security. The horse was out of the barn so now it was time to make sure the door was locked was how he thought an old saying went.

The Jewish controlled American press had even lied about the casualties. He knew for certain from Krenz’s report that there had to be more than eight dead and ten injured and he absolutely knew that the gunmen had not been two lunatics who’d escaped from a nearby asylum. He gave the Americans grudging credit for concocting such a story. Goebels could not have done better.

Reinhard Krenz, the leader of the assault had escaped and was living in a Baltimore hotel under yet another assumed name and false identification. Krenz had showed himself to be resourceful and brave. He would be of great use when the time came for their next attack. Stahl had circled an article in the Baltimore Sun. It said that the intended target would be speaking to a group at the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington. Even though it would be very close to the White House, he did not think there would be too much in the way of security. Americans were such foolish asses in that regard. Well, perhaps they would pay a price for that.

Chapter Nineteen

Lying naked on a bed with Alicia would normally be an erotic experience with an exciting and passionate conclusion. This day, however, the pain from his broken ribs was almost more than Tom could bear. It didn’t help that Alicia wasn’t quite naked; she was in her bra and panties, and she was trying to re-wrap the bandage around his chest, which hurt like a bandit. It also didn’t help that their little flat was stiflingly hot in the heat of a Washington summer. Both were sweating profusely.

“Does this hurt?” she asked with a smile. Of course it hurt he thought as she continued. “I broke a rib once as a kid when I fell off a horse. I will never forget how much pain it caused and how helpless anyone was to do anything about it.”

“Did anyone shoot the horse?”

“Of course not and, besides, it wasn’t mine. No, I just had to grin and bear it, although I didn’t do much grinning for a couple of weeks.”

Tom groaned. Doctor Crain had re-evaluated Tom’s injuries and pronounced them debilitating but not life-threatening. He’d been given a week off to feel sorry for himself and Crain had taught Alicia how to wrap his chest. Other than that, he’d said, there wasn’t anything that could be done. Crain added that Tom should avoid all contact sports, such as football and hockey, and should also try to stay out of wars.

Alicia had seconded that opinion. She was sick and tired of him getting hurt, and had even broached the idea of him either leaving the army or getting out of a potential combat arm. When he reminded her that there was a war on and that millions of young men didn’t have any choice as to their fate and future, she’d turned away and cried softly, which hadn’t helped matters at all.

“I don’t care if you get another medal or even get promoted to generalissimo. I just want you safe and sound.”

“Which is exactly what I want, but there are so many things that are beyond our control. I don’t like to think we’re just pawns, but I sometimes feel that’s exactly what we are. And so are people like Roosevelt and Marshall. They’re just pawns with bigger offices.”

She got off the bed, took off her bra and stepped out of her panties. Her lithe body shined with sweat. “Crain didn’t specifically say not to do this, but he did say I should watch out for any unusual swellings,” she said as she began to caress him. “Oh, look, there’s one now.”

“Is this going to hurt?” he said, gasping as she aroused him despite his injuries. Lord, she had learned quickly.

“It might, but you’ll never admit it.”

Henry Wallace was fifty-six years old and the thirty-third Vice President of the United States. He had held a number of government positions before being tapped by FDR to be his running mate in the 1940 election. He’d replaced John Nance Garner, who had managed to mightily annoy FDR.

Prior to that, Wallace had served as Secretary of Agriculture. He had, however, offended many who found his views on the Soviet Union to be naive and utopian. Even though the USSR was an American ally, many felt that they and Stalin could not be trusted. Further rumors had developed alleging that he’d dabbled in strange religions in his younger days. As a result, the handwriting had been written large and clear on the wall. Henry A. Wallace would not be FDR’s running mate in the fall of 1944. That dubious honor belonged to Harry Truman, the obscure senator from Missouri. There were real fears that Roosevelt would not live until the next election in 1948 and that Henry Wallace was much too radical to be president should something happen to FDR.

Wallace’s term in office had been boring. His predecessor, John Nance Garner, had compared being vice president to a bucket of warm piss. Wallace would not argue. FDR clearly felt he didn’t need anyone but himself to run the nation. In Wallace’s opinion, the president was both devious and a liar, often pitting people against each other to keep them off balance. Even his most trusted advisors often had no clear idea just what he wanted. Nobody knew that much about Truman either, except that he was not controversial.

Well, he thought, come January twentieth of the New Year he would be free to pursue private activities like the one he’d just attended. He’d been asked to speak to a group of farmers about the future of American corn in the rebuilding of Europe once it was liberated. Of course, that was a long ways down the road. First, the U.S. had to liberate Ontario and that, from all that he could see, was not even beginning.

There was a knock on his hotel room door. Normally, his wife would answer it, but she’d stayed at home. Since the dinner and speech making were scheduled to go well into the night, he’d gotten a room for himself.

He padded across in his socks. He didn’t like the idea of anyone seeing him dressed so casually, but wasn’t about to get dressed again for what was likely a hotel employee.

“Who’s there?” he asked through the closed door.

“U.S. Army,” was the muffled response.

What now, he wondered as he opened the door. Two army officers stood before him. Before he could say anything he saw the two pistols they had pointed at him. They pushed their way in and shoved him onto a chair.

“Don’t say a word,” one of them said.

They stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth and quickly bound him with ropes. They pushed a couple of pillows against the side of his head and fired twice. The pillows muffled the sound, but did not stop the bullets from blasting Wallace’s brains all over the carpet.

Stahl and Krenz nodded. It was a job well done. They put the weapons back in their attache cases, and, after lifting Wallace’s wallet and watch, left the room and walked down the hallway to the stairwell. Wallace’s suite had been on the eighth floor. They walked down to the fifth and took the elevator to the ground floor from there.

Once out on Sixteenth Street, they felt free to stop and catch their breath. Neither could believe that it had been so easy. The only security for the vice president had been the middle-aged and overweight hotel guard who was currently lounging in front of the check-in area.

“They might not find him before morning,” Krenz said and laughed.

“At which time I’ll be back in my apartment and you’ll be asleep in Baltimore.”

“And what shall we do for our next assault, Herr Stahl?”

“I’m thinking something higher,” he answered.

“Wonderful,” said Krenz. “The only person higher than Wallace would be Roosevelt himself. With him out of the way, the next president would be the Secretary of State, the sick and senile Cordell Hull. Hitler will rejoice if we can pull that off.”

Stahl was not at all certain that Hull was senile, but did not correct Krenz. Decapitating the leadership of the United States could certainly have a favorable impact on Germany’s war against the Jews and the communists.

The two men had worn American army uniforms they’d bought at a surplus store, and they had made them almost invisible. In Stahl’s opinion, it had been a stroke of genius.

The idea of taking Wallace’s wallet and watch would make the Americans hesitate as to the motive. Was it a simple robbery or an assassination? They would not be certain, which would leave the door open just a crack so they could use the same technique again.

It was imperative to him that the Fuhrer know that it had been the two of them who had killed Wallace. He would have to contact Neumann in Toronto. Using a short wave radio would be risky but worth it, far better than attempting to use a telephone. Lines to Canada were still open, but who knew who might be eavesdropping. The Reich had to know the blow he and Krenz had struck. Heil Hitler, he thought exultantly.

Tom and the others who’d gone to New York after the Wall Street massacre did not go to the hotel room where the vice president’s body had been found. FBI agent Richard Dunn had said he’d allow it if they insisted, but that there was nothing to be seen besides bloody furniture and a body missing much of its skull. They’d quickly concurred. They were not cops and would add nothing to any criminal investigation. Instead, they met in a small, dingy conference room at the FBI’s headquarters in the Department of Justice Building. The FBI wanted its own headquarters building and it was easy to see why.

Dunn looked at the small group. “Okay, let’s have a show of hands. How many think this was a robbery?” Not a hand went up. “Great. That makes it unanimous since nobody in this building does either. This was almost like a mob hit, except it wasn’t. Just to clear up that point, the Mafia and others had no reason to shoot Wallace, which is confirmed by the few people we have as snitches in their organizations. We’ve even received phone calls from mob leaders professing their ignorance and innocence.”

Incredible, thought Tom. “So I suppose the press release that it was a burglary emanated from your office?”

“Of course and it’ll hold up. There is a war on and the press will cooperate. Maybe a few decades from now some muckraker will find out something, but nobody’ll care. One way or another, the war will have been over and a dead vice president won’t matter.”

It was Alicia’s turn. “So who did it, Agent Dunn, Stahl?”

“We firmly think so. Several people at the hotel vaguely recall two army officers in the hotel around midnight. We showed them pictures of Stahl, and the hotel detective thinks he might have seen him enter the building. He didn’t think they were carrying weapons, although they clearly were, and he didn’t recognize any unit designations on their uniforms. Showing up in plain sight is a great disguise.”

“So what’s their next shot, no pun intended,” asked Downing. “With the success they’ve been having, I can’t see them running back to Berlin anytime soon.”

Dunn nodded solemnly. “We’ve given it a lot of thought, and the only idea that keeps popping up is that they’ll go for a bigger target. They’ve already upset the line of succession and now the Secretary of State is the acting vice president and next in line.”

Jesus, thought Tom. He grimaced from the pain his ribs were causing. “Back at the Pentagon, we thought the Nazis would go after either Marshall or King, but killing FDR would make a very ill Cordell Hull the President. God only knows what kind of trouble that sick old man might get us into before the next election.”

“Agreed,” Alicia said. “So we can assume that Roosevelt will be guarded more heavily than ever?”

Dunn laughed. “Believe it. And further believe that no one, including anyone in uniform, is going to get even close to him. Can we assume that the military will cooperate in the fiction?”

“Of course,” said Downing, slightly annoyed at the question. “We will be busy, you know, with the coming invasion of Ontario.”

“And just when will that happy event be?” asked Dunn.

“Sooner than many people realize,” was the answer he got.

FDR was well aware of his own mortality and the shaky line of succession. Like most normal people, he dismissed his own physical problems as trivial, but was concerned that Cordell Hull was now the de facto number two man in the nation. He was confident he could handle his own problems with his heart, but not Hull’s increasing weaknesses.

He found it annoying that there was no provision in the constitution to replace a dead vice president. That would have to be corrected, he thought. Instead, the succession fell to the Secretary of State, and that man was the failing Hull. Hull would have to be replaced, but by whom? Damn it to hell, he thought as he twirled and then sipped his special martini. He knew that a lot of his guests didn’t care for the concoction, but he did and that was all that mattered.

So if Hull goes, then who? He had originally thought to replace him with Ed Stettinius, but affable Ed was too much of a back-slapping lightweight.

Jim Byrnes had wanted the spot, but the ambitious Byrnes had also wanted to be vice president, replacing the deceased Wallace. He’d been bitterly disappointed when Roosevelt had chosen Harry Truman instead. Byrnes might just refuse outright and that would be embarrassing for his administration. He’d also thought of General Marshall but that man was too important for the war effort, especially with the invasion of Ontario just on the horizon.

What truly galled him was the fact that the Secretary of State was almost a figurehead in his administration. FDR very much liked being his own secretary and that would not be acceptable to strong men like Marshall, although a glad-hander like Stettinius might like it.

“Shit,” said the president.

“Sir?”

Major General Edwin, “Pa,” Watson, his senior military aide and confidante was seated across from the president.

“I’m thinking and swearing out loud. I need someone to replace Hull at State until the inauguration in January when Harry Truman becomes the new vice president. That assumes,” he said with a loud laugh, “that I defeat Tom Dewey in November.”

“Of course you will, sir.”

Roosevelt did not respond to the obvious flattery. Watson was a war hero who’d been awarded the Silver Star in World War I, but that was a long, long time ago. Now the nickname “Pa,” which he’d picked up at West Point seemed very appropriate. Watson had become careless. He’d been accused of leaving highly sensitive information lying about which had resulted in both him and Roosevelt being kept ignorant of important matters until the matter had been cleared up. Being kept out of the intelligence loop had infuriated Roosevelt when he finally found out about it, but he recognized that Watson had become slipshod. Perhaps he too should be replaced? No, he decided. He needed a confidante in his office.

Suddenly, it occurred to him. “Truman!”

“What?”

FDR laughed hugely. “Yes. I will make Harry Truman my new Secretary of State. That way he will be a viable number two until our election and inauguration at which time he can resign the post and I can appoint Stettinius without hurting anything. Isn’t that marvelously devious? Not only that, Truman has a reputation for being a blunt chap, so I will use him as a messenger to read the riot act to Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. He will tell them in no uncertain terms that they are not to interfere in any way with the food convoys.”

Watson smiled appreciatively. FDR loved being devious. “Does this mean that Truman will be more involved in decision making and other major matters?”

Roosevelt looked puzzled. “Why?”

The rumbling of artillery was a reminder that their days of inaction were running out. Literally thousands of pieces of artillery had opened up on the German defenses running the length of the Niagara River from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario.

The United States was finally going to invade, even though Canfield thought it was a slapdash operation. It was dogma that any attack on a hostile shore required naval support and heavy bombardment to succeed. Even though the gunfire along the river was enormous, the shells were landing nowhere near where the attack would commence. The shelling of Canada along the river was a diversion. Canfield hoped to Jesus that the Germans would fall for it. He also hoped that not too many Canadians were dying as a result of it, but were there any other options? The enormity of the operation meant that it was impossible to keep a secret. German spotter planes routinely flew overhead, radioing in their information and taking pictures. Some were shot down but there were always enough brave souls to take up any slack.

Canfield rode in the cab of a truck leading a long column of vehicles, all headed towards Lake Erie. There he had the first of a number of surprises. Hundreds of landing craft of all types and sizes were arrayed on the beaches to the west of Buffalo and on the lake. Some could carry a platoon of infantry, while others a tank. Long columns of soldiers snaked towards them while other soldiers functioned as traffic cops and guided them to their proper craft.

Dubinski looked around in disbelief. “If this works, it’ll be a first. There’s just too many people for this to all go right.” He looked at his watch. “Hell, we’re already half a day late.”

Canfield totally agreed, but kept silence. He would not let anyone know his doubts. They were supposed to have arrived just before dawn, but now it was after noon. They were supposed to have mounted up and gotten across the short portion of lake to their goal, the tiny Canadian village of Port Maitland. Two divisions of infantry, all under the command of Lloyd Fredendall were to land and move inland with a third in reserve. It would land in a day or two. This would put more than fifty thousand men in the rear of the two German armies. The Germans would either have to withdraw from their strongpoints along the Niagara River, or weaken their defensive forces and attack Fredendall’s corps. Germans to the west facing Patton would also be threatened by the enemy in their rear. If all went well, they could strike a decisive blow in the liberation of Canada.

Of course, Canfield thought, when did things go well?

Many of the landing craft did not have the range to get to the site and back. They would be towed by larger ships, many of which had artillery parked on their decks, making them look a lot like old men of war from the days of fighting sail. Nobody cared. Just as long as they worked and kept the Germans’ heads down.

When the landing occurred, the artillery would be loaded onto the smaller boats and taken ashore. Additional infantry were stuffed in the holds of the transports.

After several more hours, they got on their landing craft and the boats moved out in long lines, all pulled by a civilian transport ships. Some of the troops commented that it looked like a mother duck and her ducklings, while others changed the pronunciation of duck to something more appropriate.

Fortunately, the lake was calm with waves of only a foot or so. Despite that, many men jammed in Canfield’s Higgins Boat got seasick. Most were able to vomit into the lake, but a few didn’t make it which sickened the rest. As befitting his rank, Canfield stayed close to a good spot and managed to hurl his meal into the water and not onto his troops.

He was concerned that the tiny craft was practically unarmed, with only a pair of.30 caliber machine guns for protection, along with whatever weapons their leading transport carried. American warplanes flew overhead, but there was always the possibility that a kraut plane could sneak through and strafe the helpless column, turning boatloads of men into bloody pulp.

Targets on land were in range of the converted gunboats and their artillery opened up on the dimly visible shore. Flashes of light and smoke showed where the shells hit and, seconds later, the sounds washed over them.

“It’s gonna be dark soon,” Dubinski said with a mastery of the obvious. “What the hell we gonna do then, chief?”

Canfield gasped and spat over the side. He’d been reduced to dry heaves. “When the general wants me to know, he’ll tell me.”

To himself he wondered which would be worse — floundering around all night in the middle of Lake Erie or trying to find their landing site in the dark and maybe winding up miles from their target. Nor did he feel envy for the men in the holds of the transports.

The answer came soon enough. There would be no nighttime landing. The landing craft lashed themselves together to provide some stability while their mother ship dropped anchor. The men were cursing and Canfield joined them. They would spend all night bobbing up and down and puking. They would be in fine shape to fight the Germans tomorrow. Worse, this would provide the Germans with another twelve hours in which to react. Damn it to hell.

This had been First Lieutenant Ted Landry’s second attack from the sea, which is what he facetiously called Lake Erie, and, for a paratrooper, was at least two too many. He’d been taught to jump out of airplanes, not slither through sand and mud, although, as a Ranger, he was trained to do both.

All of his men had made it ashore, a far cry from the terrible feeling he’d felt just before the attack on the Blue Water Bridge at Sarnia when he realized that one of his men was missing. He could barely remember the guy’s name. Oh yeah, Laughton. The poor man’s body had never been found, not that there was much of an opportunity to look very hard.

His small company of seventy men was about ten miles inland. They’d landed stealthily and without incident, using rubber boats powered by outboard motors that had been towed by PTs. He’d been able to report back that the area around Port Maitland was, as expected, largely undefended. He also reported that there were no large enemy concentrations inland either. Apparently the Germans were focused on the Niagara River line, which meant that a quick thrust by the invading GIs could put an entire army in their rear. But it would not happen this night, he concluded sadly. The bombardment had begun too late, although he wondered just what were they bombarding since there were no German defenses for several miles to either side of the target area.

It occurred to him that maybe the Germans thought the coming attack was a feint. He hoped it wasn’t. He and his men were primed and ready. Landry also felt that Port Maitland, just a speck of a town, wasn’t a bad place to land as it was connected to civilization by a network of well-maintained dirt roads. One led towards the Welland Canal and Buffalo, while another twisted north to Hamilton. A quick and strong move towards Hamilton might just cut off the entire German army at Niagara. Other roads led west towards the Nazi’s lines, but the Germans were too far away to be an immediate concern.

Landry’s company was arrayed in the fields on both sides of the road leading to Hamilton, which was somewhat larger than a speck at ten thousand souls. He doubted that more than a couple of hundred people lived in Port Maitland.

As darkness fell, he felt that an opportunity to dash into the German army’s rear had been wasted. He just hoped that his men’s lives weren’t going to be wasted.

“Company’s coming,” yelled one of his lookouts. His men scrambled to their positions. They were dug in and well concealed by growing crops of wheat and corn.

A short column of five vehicles moved down the road. The first vehicle was a four passenger Kubelwagen, the German equivalent of a jeep. The other vehicles were General Motors trucks that had clearly been commandeered by the Germans and painted with Wehrmacht markings.

Landry’s men were on either side of the road and arrayed in a shallow V. He used his walky-talky to communicate his plans to his second in command on the other side of the road.

The Germans drew closer, driving slowly, but without apparent concern. Their headlights were out in deference to American planes which further slowed them.

When the Germans were about a hundred yards away, Landry ordered his men to open fire. Rifle and machine gun bullets from both sides of the road ripped through the Kubelwagen and the soft cloth sides of the trucks. He could hear the Germans scream as they died. Some tumbled out of their vehicles and fired wildly before they were cut down, while others, smarter, fled into the fields. He thought a couple of them might have gotten away, but it didn’t matter. The German command would know about this soon enough. He did a count and he’d suffered no casualties. Other than those who might have escaped, there were no German survivors. The couple of Nazi wounded they’d captured died of their wounds within a few minutes.

The German dead were searched and weapons were taken. The krauts had good machine guns and now Landry owned a couple of them, along with a supply of ammunition. Two of the trucks actually still ran and he had those driven off and hidden. They might become useful and Rangers were supposed to be resourceful. Maybe they could drive the damned things right into Toronto? The German dead were dumped into the other trucks and were pushed out of sight, while the debris was picked up before they set up the ambush again. He felt like a spider repairing its web after snaring a fly, a big fat Nazi fly.

Damn, it felt good to hit the pricks.

Eisenhower was livid. “What do you mean we’re not going in, Brad? What the hell is going on out there?”

Lieutenant General Omar Bradley commanded three army corps, one of which was Fredendall’s. It consisted of three division infantry divisions, and he too had just been informed that the attack had been canceled, called on account of darkness.

“An amphibious assault is not a baseball game,” snarled Ike. "It doesn’t get called on account of darkness.”

“Ike, I’m as shocked as you are. Of course nothing ever goes totally right, so I’m not surprised that the invasion got off to a late start, but I don’t get the order to stand down and have the troops sit all night in the middle of Lake Erie.”

“Have you spoken to him? Is he on the coast or still at Fort Fredendall?”

Bradley winced. The men in Fredendall’s command had taken to calling his overly fortified headquarters by that disparaging name. “As near as I can tell, he’s en route from Niagara to someplace south and west of Buffalo.”

Ike angrily lit a cigarette and glowered. “All of which means he’s out of touch and probably doesn’t really know what the hell is going on. Did you tell him that he should take the chance and land at night? If there are no Germans in the area, it should be safe and any confusion caused by the darkness can be fixed rather quickly.”

“I did and he reminded me that he was the commander on the ground and that he had a better sense of things than I did. He added that there have already been skirmishes between his Rangers and Germans headed to the landing site and he feels that major forces are coming right on their tail. I didn’t like the lecture, but it’s something I would normally agree with. Right now, though, we may be missing an opportunity.”

“What does General Truscott think?”

Bradley suppressed a smile. Along with being a highly regarded war planner, Truscott had been instrumental in forming the Army Ranger units currently in the field, both in Ontario and in the Pacific.

“Off the record, Lucian managed to contact one of his boys, a Lieutenant Landry, and he was told that nothing was happening. No major German forces were moving towards Port Maitland. He said that if we strike hard and fast, we can be ashore and well inland before the krauts know we’ve come knocking.”

“So it’s up to Fredendall to get his men ashore and moving inland as quickly as possible. Brad, do you think he will do it?”

“I honestly don’t know. This is his first major command and, like all of us, he’s never had so much responsibility. Even though he’s a favorite of Marshall’s and a legendary fire-breather, I really don’t know what he’s capable of when the chips are down.”

Ike nodded. This had proven to be a dilemma for all the armed services. Men who’d performed brilliantly in peacetime weren’t necessarily good war leaders. Trouble was, nobody knew until the fighting started. Careers had already been destroyed. Admiral Kimmel had been sacked because of his performance at Pearl Harbor along with General Short, and Admiral Ghormley had been relieved for lack of leadership in the fighting for the Solomon Islands. Would Fredendall be the next?

Nobody wanted to point out that the swaggering Fredendall had never led men in combat because so many other generals, Ike included, hadn’t either.

“All right,” Ike said softly, “we keep a close watch on Fredendall and be ready to move if we have to. He may be Marshall’s first mistake. Correction, I may have been his first. Tell Lucian Truscott to be packed and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

False dawn arrived and the landing craft were cut loose as soon as the shore could be seen. Even though they were heading into the unknown, the men were relieved that they were no longer sitting like children’s toys in a very large tub. Those whose stomachs would let them ate c-rations, while others just tried to act calm.

Canfield and Dubinski looked around at the clearing sky. “We should have been halfway to Toronto,” Dubinski said. “I should have been on my way to some really good Canadian beer.”

Canfield agreed but only grunted a response. He kept his eyes on the sky and on the boats carrying the men of his battalion as they moved towards the shore with agonizing slowness. We are so vulnerable, he thought.

Just then, anti-aircraft guns on the transports opened up, sending tracers towards targets low on the horizon. Canfield saw them, a wave of German fighters skimming the lake not more than twenty feet above the water.

Armed with machine guns, rockets, 20mm cannon, and bombs, they opened fire as soon as they were within range. Canfield watched in hopeless horror as the tiny landing craft were strafed. He ducked as shells struck his boat. Men screamed both from terror and pain. He raised his head in time to see one plane’s rockets slam into a transport. He moaned as he recalled how many men were jammed inside.

“Medic!”

The cry snapped him back to reality. He checked the men. Two were dead and three others were wounded. One had his leg ripped off by a bullet and another had been gutted. His intestines lay like an obscene snake on the bottom of the boat.

Canfield sensed that the craft was wallowing. Leaving the wounded to be cared for by medics, he went to where the young sailor driving the boat sat. He was transfixed by the bloody carnage. Bodies were in the water around them and men were swimming, waving for help. A bomb had hit a transport and it was sinking. Heavily laden soldiers were trying to jump into the lake.

“Where the hell are you taking us?” Canfield snarled.

The sailor was wide eyed with terror. “Out of here. Anyplace.”

Canfield grabbed him and slapped him across the face. “You take us to land, you understand? Then you come back and pick up anybody you can.”

The sailor blinked, as if waking up from a terrible dream. “Got it, sir. Sorry.”

Minutes later, they spilled ashore. The German planes had disappeared, chased by American fighters. The Germans had lost planes, but they had savaged at least a portion of the invasion force.

Canfield ordered them off the beach. Like it or not they had to go inland. Additional Americans would be landing very shortly and congestion on the beachhead had to be limited. He’d gotten reports and the casualties weren’t as bad as he had feared. Only seven dead and fifteen wounded out of his battalion of more than eight hundred plus. Only, he thought ruefully. What would it be like when they made serious contact with the enemy?

A company of Sherman tanks rumbled by, kicking up dust. Now they were beginning to look like a real army. His radioman called him over. He took the phone from the backpack. It was the division commander.

“Exactly where are you and what’s your status?” Canfield was asked. He gave the answer to the best of his knowledge. They were two to three miles inland and facing no opposition. They had crossed a cratered moonscape created by the shelling. The shelling had accomplished absolutely nothing since there had been nothing to destroy.

“Fantastic. Now colonel, do you know what a laager is?”

“A type of beer?” he responded, dreading the explanation he knew was coming.

The general laughed bitterly, “No, you asshole. A laager is when a military force circles the wagons and that’s exactly what you are to do. Pull in your battalion, circle the wagons and prepare to defend against a major German attack that HQ feels is imminent and that could come from any direction.”

“With respects, general, that’s ridiculous. I just came down from a second floor roof of a farmhouse and saw nothing. I have men up in trees trying to spot Nazis and they’ve seen nothing either. Sir, I’m convinced we can advance for quite some time before running into any Germans, and isn’t that the point? Aren’t we supposed to get in their rear and cut them off?”

Canfield could hear the general’s sigh. “That was the plan, but plans change. III Corps is fearful that we will be cut to pieces by a sudden German attack, just like we were by their planes this morning.”

Canfield caught the word fearful. Was the general saying that the higher command was afraid, a pack of cowards? “How much latitude do I have?”

“Not much at all unless you want to lose touch with the units on your flanks. Find some decent ground, and yes I know the land is flat, dig in and call it a day.”

The general hung up. Dubinski stood beside Canfield. “We’re fucked again, aren’t we, chief?”

Chapter Twenty

The Canadian cities closest to Buffalo-Niagara had already been pretty well evacuated and had become virtual ghost towns. Niagara Falls and Niagara-On-The-Lake were deserted, while cities a little farther up the lake like St. Catharines and Hamilton were emptying rapidly, along with a score or more of smaller towns and villages. So too was Toronto as the war, which had seemed like a dark fantasy, was erupting in fury and would soon draw closer. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were on the march, headed east and north, away from where they felt the war was going to be.

Jed Munro still grieved for his brothers, Wally and Paul. Even though the two men’s killers had themselves died, he felt the pain of their dying. The manner of his brothers’ deaths had further complicated his life as well as those remaining members of the Black Shirts. What had been a force of several hundred now counted only about fifty and that was a floating and declining figure. The soldier they’d killed in the U.S. was no longer anything to worry about, but Jed’s shooting of the Toronto cop was a different matter. The Toronto police wanted to talk with him and the others who’d participated in the restaurant attack, and neither Jed nor the others wanted to be interrogated by the cops.

Thus, Neumann had strongly suggested that they take up residence at the Gestapo farm north of the city. Munro was uneasy with that. It was the place where he had raped and tormented the Bradford girl and that death was the cause of his brother Wally’s being killed by her cop father.

They were all safe inside the compound — bored, but safe. The cops wouldn’t touch them. The police wanted to kill them, but they were not about to take on the Gestapo detachment along with any German regulars that might be sent to reinforce them. No, the police had their hands full with the refugees who were clogging the roads and sleeping in the streets and parks. Some of them were even committing petty crimes in order to get food and shelter.

Even though Jed considered these to be dark days, he was still confident that Germany would prevail and that he and his men would wind up on top. And if Germany was defeated, hell, he would head west, change his name, and get lost. There would be more than enough chaos to hide him. He’d even gotten some phony ID from a local forger.

“We’ve got to do something,” he announced to his new best friend, Bruce. Bruce was tall, lean and dark haired. He wasn’t very bright, but he didn’t have to be. He let others do his thinking and his job was to be the enforcer. Like Jed, he too was bored.

“So what do you have in mind?”

Jed laughed, “There are a hell of a lot of so-called refugees clogging the roads. I’ll bet you we can find a bunch and work them over, and that includes giving their women a big fat treat.”

“Great, but will Neumann let us leave here?”

“We’re guests, not prisoners, Bruce. There are no hooks in our asses. We can go anytime we wish.”

That night Jed gathered a score of men into trucks and drove off the compound. This time they were all armed. If they ran into resistance they would shoot their way out. They did not wear their black shirts.

They didn’t have to go far before they began to see clusters of people gathered around the roads. Some of the groups were quite large, with Red Cross and church groups helping out. Smaller groups were often too close to other groups and would likely assist each other if trouble broke out. All of these were off-limits.

He was beginning to get discouraged, but they finally spotted a group of thirty or so with, he exulted, a number of women. He didn’t care about their ages, he just wanted a fuck.

Foolishly, this group had separated itself from the main body. They were in a church parking lot a couple of hundred yards off the road. Jed didn’t think the separation had been intentional, just one of those things. They drove past and parked along the road, just out of sight of the group. Nobody seemed to notice. Most of the group looked like they were asleep. A few people were gathered around a dying campfire. They got to within a few yards before anyone noticed and, even then, nobody sounded any alarm.

“Police,” Jed announced. The refugees stirred and were puzzled. “Everybody, kneel down and hands on top of your heads.”

Like confused children, they did as told. Jed’s men moved quickly through them, tying them and sticking cloths in their mouths. By now, the refugees realized that the intruders weren’t cops, but it was far too late.

First, they looted the wallets and purses and then went through luggage for valuables. They gathered a significant amount of cash and jewelry. The refugees had taken all their wealth that they could carry.

“Fun time,” Jed announced. As leader, he had first choice and he selected a young brunette who looked like she was maybe twenty. His men selected others in order of their seniority with the Shirts. A couple of junior Shirts had to wait their turn since there just weren’t enough women to go around.

Jed ripped the woman’s clothes off and punched her in the face when she tried to resist. She had a nice slender figure, although her breasts were on the small side, and she was probably younger than he thought. Tough, he thought and punched her again when she tried to wrestle away. She went limp and let him do what he wished. The entire mass rape took less than half an hour. A couple of the guys wanted seconds, but he said no. Sooner or later someone would come down that road and spread the alarm.

They piled into the trucks and drove back to the farm. The refugees would soon get free and someone would run for help. Police might ask if anyone had gotten a license number, but these had been obscured by tape. The cops might suspect them, but they had no proof and bigger things to worry about, like a war.

They made it back to the farm without incident. It was time to drink beer and discuss their success. They knew it probably wouldn’t happen again and might have been the last hurrah of the Black Shirts.

Heil Hitler.

Heinz Guderian had known that an American attack was inevitable. Even a complete fool understood that. The only question was when and where. Ontario was larger than many European countries, but the strategic area was focused around Toronto. Still, even that was too large an area to defend.

He had divided his army into three groups and grandly designated them as Army Fronts. Army Front West was commanded by General Erhard Raus and had originally run along the Detroit and St. Clair Rivers. His task was to delay the approach of the Americans led by Patton and he’d been doing a marvelous job of it. The Americans were advancing steadily, but paying a steep blood price for it.

Army Front South was commanded by General Felix Steiner. Even though he was an SS general and a favorite of Hitler’s, Guderian didn’t hold that against him. He was a tough and capable general who had built a defense in depth along the Niagara River. Those defenses were being battered by American artillery and all indications were that the U.S. would launch an attempt to establish a bridgehead and follow up with pontoon bridges.

Guderian had not dismissed the possibility of an amphibious assault. He just hadn’t had the resources to defend the entire lengthy lake frontage.

He concluded that the American attack at Port Maitland had been made at a good spot. The Americans could strike inland and then either hit north at Toronto or south towards the Niagara River. Either would make him shift major portions of his forces, perhaps even causing him to lose the Niagara Front.

But he had not considered inaction by the Americans. By now he was used to the steady clawing of Patton’s army, which was gradually wearing down Raus’s forces. But the Americans, after landing what were at least two divisions, had dug in and appeared to be waiting for something to happen. Well, he laughed, he would oblige them. Three divisions from his meager third group, his reserves, were en route to this Port Maitland area. He would form them into a classic spear point and smash into the Americans. He would split the American army into two and drive to the lake. They would cause panic and, with only a little luck, the Americans would withdraw, licking their wounds.

His patrols had located divisional boundaries and he knew they were the enemy’s weakest points. If he could wedge his men between the American divisions, he could drive on to Lake Erie and, just perhaps, roll up the Americans. He might not destroy them, but he could and would give them a terribly bloody nose. The idea of marching several thousand American prisoners through the streets of Toronto was intoxicating. The Fuhrer would love it if he could only get the pictures out. Perhaps the Fuhrer would finally realize that Heinz Guderian was among the best generals the Reich had, if not the best.

Certainly, he was better than that ass von Paulus who was just about to throw away all of Germany’s victories in Russia.

He turned to his staff. “Steiner will be informed that he is to focus on the American armies to his front and ignore the American beachhead to his rear. We will attack the American beachhead and I will command that attack.”

He turned to Koenig who had been listening intently. “Captain, you will fly me to St Catharines where I will set up my headquarters and we will proceed from there.”

Koenig grinned with pleasure. It was good to have a commander who was decisive and skillful. The Americans were going to pay. Maybe he would finally get promoted.

Landry watched with dismay as the columns of German tanks and trucks rumbled through the night and past his position. They were clearly en route to the American beachhead. Fortunately, his men were hidden and the Germans had bigger game on their minds than looking for his small detachment.

At least we can warn the beachhead that bad things are coming quickly, he thought. He had that sad fact radioed to III Corps and was told to stand fast and keep track of things. Since that was what he’d already planned, he concurred. They were well behind German lines, which severely limited his options. He thought they could make it back to American lines fairly easily, but what would that accomplish? Word was that the beachhead was jammed asshole to asshole with GIs, so what would that accomplish? Besides, Rangers were not trained to fight like front line soldiers, although they could if they had to. No, they’d been designed to be sneaky bastards who gave the enemy fits all disproportionate to their numbers.

He called his lieutenants and platoon sergeants around him and told them his rough plans. He also said that anyone who wanted to go to the beach was free to leave. He wanted volunteers. Landry was not surprised when he had one hundred per cent volunteers.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Sergeant Devin. Devin was in his late thirties and had been in the army forever. Thus, he was not impressed by a mere lieutenant even though he admitted that Landry had done a helluva job so far.

“Ever been in a car full of people when a wasp gets loose inside? Even though each person in it is ten thousand times larger than the wasp, they all panic and start swatting at it. Sometimes they get so excited by the silly beast that they get all carried away and the car crashes and everybody’s killed. Of course, the wasp flies away wondering just what the hell all the fuss was about, while the cops and the mourning families wonder what caused the tragic accident.”

Lieutenant Jordan, the senior of the two lieutenants, laughed. “Let me guess, we’re gonna be wasps.”

“Correct. Now all we’ve got to do is figure a way to get close to Toronto and to contact the OSS or the underground. Then we’ll see about driving that German car off the road and flying away safely. Just so we all understand each other, this ain’t no suicide mission. I plan to get everybody back alive and in one piece.”

Which just ain’t too likely, he thought sadly.

The slender young woman with long reddish brown hair walked up to the nurses’ station. She’d made the same journey each day for the last week and gotten the same answer — no change. The patient appeared to be responding to stimuli, but that was about it. She might have been pretty except for the stress and strain etched in her face. Despite that, her trim young figure turned the heads of a number of young male doctors and orderlies.

The senior nurse, a captain and a woman in her forties, took a deep breath. How would this play out, she wondered. Would it be triumph or tragedy?

The nurse took the woman’s arm and led her to a chair in the corner of the room where they would have some privacy. When they were both seated, she said, “He woke up for good last night.”

“Oh God,” the woman gasped. “How is he? How is his mind?”

The nurse smiled. It was a good question. The boy had been out for some time, although sometimes more semi-conscious and incoherent than actually unconscious. Even so, some people never truly came out of it.

“Can I see him or do I have to clear it through the doctors since I’m not family?”

The nurse smiled sweetly and patted her on the arm. “Fuck the doctors.”

The young man was in a private room befitting his status as a war hero. That happy situation wouldn’t last as casualties from the fighting just a few score miles north would soon begin to trickle down.

“You have company,” the nurse said and quietly departed. The young man in the bed was facing away.

The young woman reached down and touched his arm. “Tony?”

He started as if jabbed. “Go away.”

Nancy O’Connor pulled over a chair and sat down facing him. His face was bruised and a bandage had been wrapped around his head.

“No way in hell, flyboy. I didn’t take busses and trains all the way from Baltimore to Albany to be told to go away. And, oh yeah, I’ve been sitting here for a week waiting for you to get around to waking up. If I go it’ll be because I want to and not because any snotty pilot told me to.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this!”

“What? In bed? I thought you always wanted me to see you in bed.”

Tony smiled slightly. “Yeah, but not like this. Or haven’t you noticed that I don’t take up the whole thing anymore.”

“When the time comes, that’ll leave more room for me.”

“I lost my leg just above the knee.”

“I know.” Nancy didn’t add that the nurses had let her see the raw wound so she wouldn’t be shocked later one.

“They’re gonna fit me for an artificial one, but my flying days are over. Hell, I won’t even be able to drive a car because I won’t be able to work the clutch. I never could shift gears and drive with one foot like some guys could.”

“My uncle’s an engineer with General Motors and he told me they’re working on some kind of automatic transmission that won’t require shifting. He also said he could modify a car so you could drive it. In the meantime, I’ll drive you.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

Nancy laughed. “Not quite, but I’m working on it. The big thing is to get you out of bed and on your feet and to quit feeling sorry for yourself. Look, you’re a hero. When the time comes they’re going to fly you to Washington for some kind of presentation. You sank five U-boats and are responsible for the destruction of at least two more, and so what if you lost three planes in the process. One was a Piper Cub, for Christ sake.”

“I lost some good men, Nancy.”

His last memory of his final flight was of him screaming as the plane skimmed across the waves and breaking into little pieces. He dimly recalled being pulled into a boat, but then he’d passed out from the pain from his mangled leg and the result of his head hitting something hard in the plane.

“And you think your men would want you to lie here and whimper like a whipped puppy?”

Tony finally smiled a genuine smile. “I guess not. I just don’t want you to run away when you finally see me naked. You were so shy when we were dating.”

“I am shy, but not that shy. I just didn’t want a dazzling young pilot thinking he could get me in bed just by smiling. When the time comes, we’ll have a good life together. Besides, I saw your leg. The nurse showed me when you were unconscious. Nasty, but we’ll both deal with it.”

“You certain?”

She slid her hand under the covers and down his belly. He gasped as she held his manhood and stroked it until it became hard. “I’m certain.”

She let go and stood up. “Now hold that thought until I come back.”

He groaned. “You are so cruel.”

“I know; a real bitch. But I love you and you love me, and we’re gonna work this out.”

She left the room and walked past the nurse. “Well?”

Nancy grinned broadly. “He’ll live.”

Ike could not hide his distress. The landings had more than stalled. Fredendall had just informed Bradley that he was pulling his more advanced units back into a compact mass that would, in his words, result in a more straitened and more easily defended perimeter. He had also raised the specter of abandoning the site and withdrawing back to Ohio. He momentarily expected a German assault in overwhelming strength.

“I thought we had a tiger in command, but it looks like we’ve got a pussycat,” Ike said.

“That’s not quite fair,” said Bradley. “The timing of the landings was all screwed up. We lost an entire day in which we could have landed more men, tanks, and guns and yes, moved farther inland. We all agreed that the krauts would counter-attack and that we should be prepared. If we hadn’t lost that day, we would be in much better shape.”

“Agreed,” Ike admitted, “But Fredendall still should have landed his troops that first day and now he’s got us jammed into such a small perimeter that there’s no room for maneuver. All we can do is sit there and take it on the chin when the Germans attack. We’ve given him orders to expand, but he’s rejected them, saying that the situation doesn’t permit it and that he’s the man on the ground.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bradley asked sadly, already knowing the answer. A good man’s career was about to be flushed down the toilet. He and Ike bore responsibility for appointing Fredendall in the first place, regardless of whether or not he was a favorite of Marshall’s.

Ike stiffened. “I’m in overall command and I will make the decision. Why don’t you have Truscott come here immediately?”

Truscott took the news calmly. He had been half expecting it, half hoping for it. He would immediately relieve Fredendall and take command of the three divisions now trying to dig in around Port Maitland. Finally he would be able to get out of the damned office in the damned Pentagon and lead an army in battle.

Truscott decided to take a handful of people with him. Among them were Downing and Grant, while others stayed behind in various states of anger and relief. Truscott’s job was to take over III Corps and clean up the appalling mess in Canada.

Grant had been an unwilling witness to Fredendall receiving the orders confirming his relief. The general had been angry, disappointed, bitter, and, in Tom’s opinion, just a little bit relieved.

“Lucian, I’ve done nothing wrong and you know it. History will show that I saved this army from destruction by my actions. I didn’t cause the problem that made us a day late and a dollar short with this invasion, but I’m being made the scapegoat, aren’t I?”

Tom made a move to slide out the door, but Truscott froze him with a hand signal. He clearly wanted a witness. They weren’t at what was derided as Fort Fredendall. Instead, they were in a tent about a mile inland, but still in Ohio. It was far from being a fort, but a number of soldiers were busy digging trenches and shelters. Tom thought the general did need some protection from enemy bombers and infiltrators, but felt that enough digging had been done.

Truscott put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Lloyd, you’ve done a great job under very bad conditions. You’re going to get a third star out of your efforts.”

“Which means I’m being God-damned fucked over by being kicked upstairs. Damn it to hell, it ain’t fair.”

Truscott held back. He’d been critical of Fredendall in the past and saw no reason to make any comment on Fredendall’s performance.

Fredendall sulked and swore and finally left the building. Rumor had it that he was already half packed, having expected the change.

Truscott waved the others into the room until about a dozen men were present. Most of them were Fredendall’s choices and Tom wondered how they would mesh with the newcomers from the Pentagon. Truscott was not going to give them a chance.

“Gentlemen, you can piss, moan, or resign some other time. Right now, there’s a German army getting ready to attack and, as I look at our unit dispositions, our people are scattered all over a very small place. I know they got orders to dig in where they were, but we’re going to have to get some maneuvering room and more firepower out there.”

He turned to a captain, one of his predecessor's staffers. “Has the general actually ever gone to the beachhead?”

The captain flushed. “No sir.”

“Well, I am. You get me a float plane that can land right by the shore. I’m going there to see how things are and maybe kick some ass. Colonel Downing, you will stay here and prepare to move this organization to someplace more efficient. If we can’t set up shop in the perimeter, I want to be right off shore in a ship. Steal it if you have to, but get cracking. I can’t stand to be this far away from the action.”

Canfield got the news that Truscott was now in command and smiled. Like most of his men, he had developed zero confidence in Fredendall and he believed that the rest of the men felt the same way. There was a clear feeling of relief among the officers and men. The Germans were coming, but now maybe the American Army had a fighting chance of beating them. Now maybe they would fight instead of hiding.

He quickly realized he was being unfair. There had been no fighting yet, only preparing for a fight. He and his men had been on the so-called front lines, but had barely skirmished with the Germans. They had trained, but he didn’t think they were very well prepared. He’d been told to have his men dig in where they were when they got the order to halt and that left some big gaps in their lines. Maybe Truscott would kick some butt and get things cleaned up. As it was, the only reason Canfield knew who was to his left was that he’d sent out some patrols. He was looking down a road that led to the interior and it would be a prime highway for the Germans.

Canfield heard some rustling and whispering behind him. He turned and saw Truscott climbing into his trench. “Don’t even think of saluting.”

Canfield chuckled. He had earlier given orders that there would be no saluting which would identify the recipient as someone important and, thus, a sniper’s target.

“Welcome to the front lines, general.”

The gravelly-voiced forty-nine year old Texan merely grunted. He was wearing his trademark leather jacket and didn’t need someone’s salute in order to be noticed.

“How far away are the Germans?”

“Hard to say. My orders were to stand down any patrols. I’ve sneaked some boys out but they haven’t seen anything much. They’ve probably got snipers looking at us so please don’t expose yourself.”

“Consider those patrol orders rescinded. Send out scouts and patrols. I believe they will attack tonight.”

Canfield was surprised. “Really? If they’re coming, they haven’t had a chance to get themselves organized.”

Truscott was not perturbed that a lower ranking officer had just questioned his opinion. “First off, colonel, we’ve been hitting them hard from the air, so they will want to hit us before they run out of an army. Second, the weather forecast is for a major wind and rain storm coming from the west, and that’ll keep our planes on the ground. They’ll attack us just before first light because they don’t have any choice. It’ll be now or never.”

“What are my orders, general?”

“Hit them, hurt them, and try to hold them for as long as you can. You’re going to lose men, maybe a lot of them, but that can’t be helped. In the meantime, we’ll be setting up a second line of defense.”

Canfield looked over Truscott’s shoulder and saw Grant who nodded. “General, I see you brought over that poor fish my men dragged out of the river just a few months ago.”

Truscott laughed. “So that was you? Hell, you should have left him there. He’s been nothing but trouble since then. All he does is shoot Germans and try to catch spies and his wife is just as bad. Grant, you can catch up with me in a few minutes.”

When Truscott departed, the two men left Canfield’s bunker, staying carefully in the rear and out of sight of any snipers. At least they hoped they were.

“They’re going to come straight down this dinky road, aren’t they?” Canfield asked.

“Unfortunately, it makes sense. As does their coming tonight. I don’t envy you.”

Canfield laughed harshly. “And where the hell will you be?”

“I have no shame. I’ll be as far away as I can.”

Field Marshal Heinz Guderian wanted information and not just what he referred to as the sanitized crap that sometimes filtered its way up the chain of command. He wanted someone on the ground who could talk directly to him and give him a sense of what was happening. He anointed Koenig to keep him informed.

After getting his general safely back to his headquarters, Koenig drove to the start point for the armored attack. He had planned to be in a Panzer IV but could find no tanker willing to take him. If he’d been in command of a unit he could have forced the issue, but as a mere captain, he had no such influence despite being on the field marshal’s staff. Thus and incongruously, he found himself and a driver in a 1938 Packard sedan. It seemed as strong and as heavy as a tank and even came with a rumble seat. At least it had been re-painted and had German military markings, so that he didn’t look like some doctor out on a house call.

It was raining heavily, turning the fields into mud. The tankers were confident they could make it, but trucks and Packards, they laughed, would have to stick to the roads. At least they would not have to put up with attacks from American planes. The Americans had savaged their columns when the sky was clear, and the dwindling number of Luftwaffe planes had been unable to defend against them.

The artillery bombardment began at three in the morning. Again, the absence of American planes meant that the barrage rained down on American positions without interference. Koenig was surprised that there was little in the way of counter-fire from American guns. Guderian had surmised that the Yanks hadn’t had the time to land their big guns and, without a naval presence, there was no danger from battleship and cruiser guns.

The tanks rumbled forward, aided by armored cars and the German version of troop-carrying half-tracks.

Finally, the American guns opened up. They had drawn the Germans in close so their smaller 105mm howitzers and the medium velocity 75mm guns on their Sherman tanks would be effective.

Koenig abandoned the Packard and moved forward on foot, aided only by a soldier with a radio. He was at the point of attack, the spot where two American divisions joined.

American resistance was fierce and tank after tank from the German force was disabled, some spectacularly, blowing up after hits from American guns. The Americans were also using bazookas, and brave Yanks would position themselves so that they were able to fire them against the less heavily armored flanks of the German tanks. Frequently they were cut down by accompanying infantry, but many Panzers were damaged or destroyed. It was particularly galling to Koenig to see so many of the precious Panzer IVs burning. He wondered when Guderian would release his small supply of Panthers and concluded that it would not be this day.

The sun was trying to rise and clear away the haze and the smoke of battle. Koenig choked on the smoke, realizing that part of the scent was human flesh cooking. The battle was moving forward and in front of them. They walked carefully around the ruined tanks and the dead and dying soldiers.

His radioman jabbed him on the arm. “Sir, I just heard a report that we’ve broken through to the lake.”

Canfield had decided that his spot was at the front. In part this was because the rear area was so constricted, but mostly because he felt he belonged at the point of danger.

Like everyone, he’d hunkered down when the shells began to fall. The trenches and foxholes had been well designed and only a direct hit was likely to kill. Still, there were numerous casualties from near misses, and from men running in panic from the relative safety of their holes and into a land where flying metal could skewer them.

He heard the tanks well before anyone could see them. His battalion’s position had been reinforced by four Shermans, a pair of 105mm howitzers, and a pair of 57mm anti-tank guns. These were all courtesy of General Truscott and had arrived only minutes before the German barrage started, which meant they were not all well placed.

Someone yelled that he could see the tanks and, sure enough, they were emerging from the fog and mist. American guns opened up. A howitzer firing over open sights managed a direct hit that blew the turret off a Panzer, while an anti-tank gun disabled another. Canfield watched with awe as two soldiers with a bazooka attacked the flank of another. They killed it but were cut to pieces by German machine gun fire.

The Panzers opened fire at close range. Shells and machine gun fire killed wantonly. Canfield felt something hit his arm and he saw that he was bleeding. A medic slapped a bandage around his arm and said it was a flesh wound. “Flesh wound, my ass,” he snapped and the medic grinned.

German infantry washed around what remained of his position. Their goal was the lake. Canfield’s advanced position had been neutralized and could be wiped out at a later time. Canfield watched in impotent fury as tank after tank rumbled by him.

A German appeared in front of them and hollered, asking them in badly accented English if they wanted to surrender. “Fuck you,” said Dubinski and shot him. The German grabbed his leg and staggered back. A fusillade of gunfire swept over the trenches and someone screamed.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” muttered Dubinski. “I just didn’t like being asked to surrender.”

Grant’s feet were in the water. Small waves lapped at his ankles. In front of him, he could see shadows in the mist. They began to take shape and become enemy tanks. He took a couple of steps forward so he could lie at least part ways on the ground along with a few score soldiers who were ready to fight. Clouds of smoke blew through them and the sounds of battle were becoming deafening. It occurred to him that the perimeter was not even ten feet deep at this point. He shifted in the wet sand so he could fire his carbine before he retreated into Lake Erie. He had no idea what he would do then.

Hundreds of American soldiers, perhaps more, milled around on the water’s edge. Only a few were, like Grant, preparing to fight. Too many were rear echelon troops who should have been farther back, but the narrowness of the beachhead had trapped them. German artillery shells landed in their midst, adding to their confusion, terror, and panic. With the German tanks bearing down on them, they ran to either side, some actually screaming in fright. A number of them splashed into the water, wading and swimming. They were going to try to make it to the transports, dimly seen a mile or so off shore. They wouldn’t make it. Grant and others yelled at them to come back. Some did, but others continued out. He watched in horror as bobbing heads disappeared.

Truscott plopped down beside Grant. “Think we can swim to Buffalo?” he asked with a satanic grin.

“Are we going to have to, general?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said as he gestured to another aide who then picked up a radio and gave orders. Seconds later, artillery fire from the transport ships anchored offshore erupted and began to land among the approaching Panzers, killing still more of them. It occurred to Grant that the Germans were paying too high a price to reach the lake. It was also apparent that American artillery was hitting many American soldiers who were trying to hide. A terrible price would be paid if the Germans were to be stopped.

A German tank appeared only fifty feet in front of him. Shells from the transports landed around it. They were almost on top of him and Truscott. The concussions rocked them and showered them with dirt and debris.

The tank fired and the shell seemed to scream only feet above Grant. There was a lull and Grant peered carefully over a low mound that had been sheltering him. The German tank was burning and a crewman lay on the ground beside it. His clothes and skin were smoldering. He thought he could see other Germans heading inland and away.

Truscott staggered to his knees. “I think this is as far as the Germans get. Their high water mark, so to speak.”

“What do you see?” asked Guderian. His voice was distorted and tinny over the radio. Koenig could hear the anxiety in his voice.

“We have been stalled by the guns on the ships. Our tanks are now shooting up the transports and a couple of them are already burning. The Americans are fighting far more tenaciously than I thought, and our attacks are slowing down. Send some more tanks, sir, and we can still pull it off.”

There was a pause and Koenig heard Guderian sigh. “Thank you, but that will not happen. I’m ordering a retreat before I lose the rest of the army?”

“But why, sir? We’re so close.”

“But not close enough, captain, and don’t question me,” Guderian snapped. “We are paying too high a price and the Americans have begun crossing the Niagara River to our south. I’m afraid the Yanks have won this round.”

Koenig gave the radio back to his aide. He looked to his rear and began to plot his retreat. As a German soldier, he’d never had to retreat. The Wehrmacht had only known victory. Oh yes, there had been some minor reversals that had entailed strategic pullbacks, but Guderian was implying that Germany had lost this battle. If the Americans were truly crossing the river, this withdrawal would likely be just the beginning.

He looked down and saw his shadow. The sky was beginning to clear and that meant that the American planes would be on them like blood attracts sharks.

Chapter Twenty-one

Canfield lay low and hugged the mud at the bottom of his trench as the German armor again drove past. One part of him said he should be shooting at them, while another part said that would be inviting retaliation and disaster. This time there were fewer of the enemy and they were headed in the other direction. The infantry among them were slumped over and in no way resembled Nazi supermen. Wounded Germans were stretched out on tank hulls. He wanted to exult, but he had lost too many men in the fighting. A rough count said fifty dead and two hundred wounded out of a battalion of eight hundred.

Dubinski rose up. His face was contorted in anger. He had his rifle and he was looking for a target. Canfield grabbed his arm and winced. His so-called flesh wound hurt like the devil.

“Let them go,” he said. “Don’t give them an excuse to attack and kill the rest of us.” Dubinski nodded glumly and knelt back down in the trench. “Stay hidden,” Canfield added. “We’ll get the bastards the next time.”

Less than an hour later and after a number of American tanks and infantry had followed the Germans, Truscott showed up. He stared silently at the torn bodies and the ruined vehicles. Medics had taken away the wounded, but the burned and mangled dead from both sides remained. Graves Registration would collect them and give them a decent burial, probably in a nearby farm field. Notification would be sent to their next of kin. There would be a lot of grieving families in the U.S. as a result of the last couple of days. Canfield wondered if the Germans would be buried in mass graves or individual ones and decided he didn’t much care.

“I hate this part,” Truscott said softly.

“Tell me about it, general,” Canfield whispered.

Grant looked about and shook his head sadly. “It’s even worse the farther back you go. We were packed in so closely in the rear it was almost impossible for German shells to miss hitting something.”

Truscott looked away and Grant said nothing more. His comment was an implicit criticism of their previous commander. In his consuming fear of a German counter assault, he had left them utterly unprepared for one when it occurred. Nothing more, however, would be said about the past. Truscott’s plans were for the future.

“How soon can your men begin moving out and attacking the krauts?” he asked Canfield who showed no surprise at the request.

“Anytime you want, general. It would be nice if we got some food, ammunition, and some replacements. I can do without the replacements but we are almost out of ammo and an army does move on its stomach.”

Truscott smiled. He had been getting the same response from all his front line commanders. The army was pissed off and wanted to strike back. The battle had started poorly, but they had prevailed over the Germans and it felt good.

“You’ll get your supplies in the next couple of hours and you can move out then. Slowly, of course, we don’t want anyone stepping into an ambush and, oh yeah, look out for mines. The pricks have a million of them, or so we’ve heard. We’ll start sending you replacements right off so you can start filtering them in.”

Grant looked away. The new guys would have a hard time fitting in with a unit that had been intact for so long and had just been savaged. Nobody would want to make friends with someone who might be dead in an instant. Another face of war, he thought. The Germans had to have been hit just as badly. However, they didn’t have a deep well of reinforcements and replacements from which to draw, which was just too fucking bad, he thought.

“Can we contain them?” Guderian asked.

He was referring to the attempts by the U.S. Army to cross the Niagara to their south.

“So far, yes,” replied General Steiner, commander of the South Front. He looked exhausted, as did Guderian. “They have crossed at two points and are trying to build pontoon bridges. As soon as one gets partly built, either our guns or our planes knock it down. This cannot last forever. They are wearing us down with their greater numbers of men, guns, and planes. That and when their beachhead expands will force us to give up the defensive line along the Niagara River and retreat northward. I would strongly recommend making plans to begin that phase of the battle as soon as possible.”

Guderian rubbed his eyes. He would not have referred to a retreat as a ‘phase of the battle.’ They were planning to retreat, not only from the river, but from General Raus’s West Front as well. Patton’s continuous pressure on German defenses was slowly destroying them. Raus needed to pull his men back to shorter and more defensible positions.

Of course, the Fuhrer had expressly forbidden that. His orders were that Fortress North Reich would remain intact and be defended to the last. At least Berlin had stopped insulting him with promises of great numbers of reinforcements coming after the Kriegsmarine swept the seas of American and British ships. The German navy would never defeat the Allies; that much was abundantly clear.

Guderian took a sip of schnapps that someone on his staff had liberated from a liquor outlet in St. Catharines. He winced. It was inexpensive and probably locally made, nothing like what he’d enjoyed back in Germany. He wondered if he would ever get to enjoy anything back in Germany.

He sensed someone in front of him and looked up. “Koenig, you look like hell.”

“I feel that way, sir. My car was strafed on the way back and my driver was killed. He was also my radioman and that meant I couldn’t keep in touch.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Cuts and bruises, sir. Nothing that a few months leave in Berlin or the south of France wouldn’t cure.”

Guderian laughed softly. He would give a year’s pay to be back in Germany with his wife Margarete and their two sons, both of whom were in the army. He hoped they were not fighting in that snake pit called Russia.

But seeing his family was not going to happen. He was not going home anytime in the foreseeable future. He had the North Reich to defend, and now had very little to defend it with.

General George C. Marshall dreaded his next appointment. If he could, he would have palmed the man off on one of his staffers, but one does not insult the Secretary of the Treasury.

Henry Morgenthau was a Jew, which was unusual as few Jews rose to positions of prominence in the federal government. He’d been born in the U.S. and succeeded in the world of business. He was also a friend and upper New York neighbor of FDR and that was another reason to see the man, even though the meeting was doubtless going to be fruitless and frustrating. Morgenthau wanted that which did not and could not exist — safety and freedom for his fellow Jews in Europe.

From all that Marshall could ascertain, Morgenthau had worn the mantle of Jewishness lightly for almost all of his life. Apparently he rarely, if ever, observed the Sabbath or went to a synagogue. He’d been what some people referred to as an assimilated Jew, if, Marshall thought, any Jew could be assimilated in a mainly Protestant American environment. He’d gone to excellent schools, and if his faith denied him entrance into certain clubs and neighborhoods, and even a number of restaurants, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the slights. It was a small price to pay to participate in the American dream.

All of this changed when Morgenthau realized the full fury of the horror that was occurring in the Third Reich. Like anyone with knowledge of the barbarism, he’d been sickened and stunned by the systematic slaughter of Jews under Hitler and Himmler. It had changed him and he was now a rabid Zionist, and a man compelled to try and save what remained of the Jews of Europe.

Unfortunately, Morgenthau’s was a hopeless quest.

The two men shook hands and took seats. No one else was present in the general’s office. “I assume you know why I am here,” Morgenthau began without preamble.

“Of course. You want me to somehow come up with a military solution to save the Jews of Europe. My question has to be why haven’t you discussed this with the president?”

Morgenthau laughed bitterly. “Because the president won’t speak of it. He defers, delays, and obfuscates. He will not give me an answer.”

Marshall fully understood. He too had been the beneficiary of FDRs maddening habit of never giving a straight answer. “Mr. Secretary, I will be blunt. There is no military solution at this time, nor is there likely to be one for quite some time. We know that the main death camp is called Birkenau and it is outside the city of Auschwitz. Auschwitz itself is about fifty miles west of Krakow and very close to the old German border. As you are doubtless aware, it used to be the Polish town of Oswiecim until it was annexed by Germany and re-named. It is deep in the middle of Europe and untouchable.”

“You could bomb it,” Morgenthau said with a hint of desperation that made Marshall uncomfortable.

“Auschwitz is eight hundred and fifty miles from London and, yes, a B17 could fly there and back. However, we have no forces in England. Even if we did, the bombers would have to fly much of the way without shorter range escorts and they would be slaughtered by the Luftwaffe. Despite the propaganda, the so-called Flying Fortress is far from invulnerable. And, if the bombers actually did make it to Auschwitz, they would have a devil of a time finding either the city or the camp as Polish maps are worse than primitive and aircraft navigation is still a rough science. Are you aware that our planes flying from New York State sometimes can’t find Toronto and that some German planes flying from Europe couldn’t find London?”

“I was not,” Morgenthau said softly.

Marshall continued. “And even if they did find the death camp, what would they bomb? If they hit the camp itself, they’d be killing the inmates. Despite what you might have heard about certain technological achievements like the Norden bomb sight, our bombing is still highly inaccurate. Nor could they accurately hit the railroads leading to the camp and, even if they did, the Germans would repair them overnight.”

“What about the Russians? Can they do something?”

“The Red Army is about to re-conquer Stalingrad after climactic battles near the Urals. Unfortunately, Stalingrad is about twelve hundred miles from Auschwitz and both sides will need to catch their breath and re-supply after the enormous blood-letting that is taking place. As the Reds advance, they will inherit the logistical problems the Germans are now facing. Even under the best of circumstances, it could easily be a couple of years before the Red Army reaches the death camps.

“Are you saying the cause of the Jewish people is hopeless?”

“For those in Poland and Russia, yes. I’m sorry, but they are doomed. Nor would it surprise me in the least if an exhausted Germany and an equally exhausted Russia signed a peace accord that would seal the doom of any surviving Jews. Nor can I conceive of the United States invading continental Europe, at least not without major allies, and that won’t happen if Russia and Germany sign another peace treaty.”

“What about Great Britain?”

“She is a mere shell of herself.”

“You paint a dismal picture, general.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to lie. If I were you, I would concentrate on some way of getting the Jewish people out of those nations where the exterminations haven’t begun, such as Italy and France. Perhaps the Nazis will release Jews if they had someplace to send them.”

“Well, they won’t come to the United States,” Morgenthau said wryly. “They’ve been refused entry before.”

“Perhaps times have changed. If the world is aware of the realities in Europe, perhaps deals can be brokered. In the meantime, I am as helpless and frustrated as you are.”

“General, I want Germany destroyed, dismembered, so she cannot wage war again. The monster that we call Germany is less than a hundred years old. It must be broken up and heavy industry prohibited,” Morgenthau said stridently.

Morgenthau’s wish to radically transform Germany was another reason why FDR wouldn’t talk to him. Such possibilities were so far down the road that they weren’t worth mentioning.

Disappointed but not surprised, Morgenthau left the Pentagon and returned to the Treasury Building at 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue. He was proud of his position as Secretary of the Treasury and, as an American, proud that parts of the Treasury Building pre-dated the Civil War. His driver left him off at a side entrance on 15st. It enabled him to enter without being noticed. He was too depressed to feel like talking to anyone, although Marshall had planted the germ of an idea.

Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the two District of Columbia policemen walking towards him until they were only a few feet away.

“Can I help you?” he inquired.

“Are you Morgenthau?” one, the older, asked sternly.

The impertinence of the question surprised him. “I am.”

The policeman pulled out his revolver and fired twice into Morgenthau’s chest. “Jew,” he spat out.

As consciousness faded, Morgenthau heard screams and other shots.

Patrolman Dennis Murphy had been a D.C. cop for more than ten years. Working in the nation’s capital gave him an interesting perspective on his world, along with a spreading gut that his wife said he should work off. He learned early on to recognize the rich and powerful, the better to keep himself out of trouble. As his fellow cops would say, careers could be ruined by inadvertently insulting some raghead sultan from the Middle East. Thus, when he heard the gunfire and saw a man grabbing his chest in pain and horror, he immediately recognized the victim as the Secretary of the Treasury. What totally perplexed him was that he was being shot by fellow cops.

Seeking to either help or straighten out what was obviously a mess or a mistake; he drew his own revolver and raced towards the three men. He was close enough to hear one of the men call Morgenthau a Jew, which puzzled him. Of course Morgenthau was a Jew. Everybody knew that.

“Police,” Murphy yelled to alert the two other cops.

Instead of acknowledging him, the two men turned and began shooting at him. Murphy dropped to his knees. He was totally confused. Why were his fellow officers shooting at him? Something hard slammed into his chest, staggering him. Morgenthau was flat on the ground, blood gathering in puddles around him. They were killing him, which meant they weren’t real cops. For the first time in his career, he began shooting, foolishly emptying his revolver at one target. The man he was shooting at turned and crumpled, while the second shot again, hitting Murphy in the eye. He was dead before he hit the ground.

With both Tom and Colonel Downing up north along with Truscott, Alicia found herself in the uncomfortable position of being the army’s temporary liaison in the investigation of the attack on Henry Morgenthau. Once again she found herself looking down on to the pale features of a corpse. At least this one hadn’t been terribly mangled. Her stomach couldn’t handle that. A second corpse lay on another slab, but that one belonged to an innocent cop who apparently stumbled on to the assassination attempt and died for his efforts. He’d get a posthumous medal and a great funeral, but that wouldn’t help his wife and two kids.

She couldn’t help but notice that more jurisdictions were involved. The Treasury Department headed up the Secret Service, and, since the attack had occurred on a city street by men using phony uniforms, the District of Columbia police were also interested. Both groups seemed to resent the presence of a woman, even one wearing an army officer’s uniform. They seemed only slightly mollified by the Purple Heart she’d thought to pin on. Fortunately, FBI Agent Dunn had used J. Edgar Hoover’s name and gotten others to back off. The FBI would be running things.

“How is the secretary?” Alicia asked.

“As well as any old man with two bullets in him could be,” Dunn said. “The docs think he’ll pull through, but it will be a long time before he returns to work.”

Alicia turned her attention back to the dead man. He’d been shot several times in the back and chest by the dead D.C. cop who’d been a little ways away and had run to the attack. It had taken the real cop a few seconds to comprehend that something was terribly wrong and, when he’d announced himself, witnesses said that the two phony cops had turned from trying to murder Morgenthau and shot at him. They’d killed him, but not before the cop had killed the man lying before her. The second gunman had run off and a manhunt was underway.

“He’s not Stahl, is he?” Dunn asked.

“No and you knew that,” she answered.

Dunn shrugged, “Just had to make sure. We’re checking his fingerprints, but that’s going to be long, tedious, and ultimately fruitless. I don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that he’s on record anywhere. My guess is that he’s a German who sneaked in a while back and set up house without anyone noticing. Based on rough descriptions, we think he might be the one who led the attack on the New York Stock Exchange. There we might have better luck with fingerprints.”

“Was the other man Stahl?” she asked.

Dunn pulled the sheet back over the dead man’s face. “We think so. The bastard got lucky again and got away, although he didn’t kill Morgenthau. Stahl may just be all alone now, and that might just make him desperate.”

“Where did they get the police uniforms?”

“Easy as pie. They bought them at a shop that sells them to cops. Nobody even asked to see their ID. The badges they made out of cardboard covered with tinfoil and the guns they either already had or they stole."

“So where is Stahl now?”

Dunn grimaced. “I wish to hell I knew. He plans ahead, so he probably has changed out of his uniform and into something else, so I don’t think the manhunt is going to net us anything. This Stahl guy has to be stopped. He’s come too close to really damaging this country.”

Detective Sam Lambert walked down the street with Sherry Piper on his arm. He hoped they looked like two lovers out for a stroll, which, in a way, they were. Their relationship had ripened and they were starting to use words like love and even discuss long range plans. Neither of them was quite ready to use the marriage word, but that was likely inevitable.

First there was a war to win and a nation to be freed from the clutches of Nazi Germany.

They stopped and joined the crowd watching a long line of trucks and ambulances bringing German wounded back from the fighting at Niagara and the Port Maitland beachhead. Even though sedated, many wounded still moaned and cried out in pain.

“They really aren’t supermen, are they?” Sherry said. “Some of them look like lost little boys.”

“Don’t even think of feeling sorry for them until after they’ve surrendered. Some of the ones crying the loudest might be guilty of some of the worst crimes.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a cop,” she said, squeezing his arm. “And sometimes I almost succeed in forgetting what the Germans did to my brother and me. But I really don’t want to lose track of the fact that I am a human being and not an animal like the Nazis.”

“That’ll never happen,” he said gently. It warranted another arm squeeze along with the pleasant feel of her breast against him.

“So what do we do next to help destroy the Nazis?”

“I’m to meet with some people, probably OSS types, and we’re going to talk. There’s a bunch of cops like me who’d like to hit the Germans, but we’re primarily concerned with freeing the people they’ve taken prisoner so they can’t be used as hostages.”

“And that includes American POWs?”

“Of course. After what the Gestapo tried to do with shipping Jews to Germany, the krauts are capable of anything, so we’re going to have to act quickly.”

Downing was scheduled to go back to the Pentagon, which did not disappoint him in the slightest. Grant, on the other hand, was surprised and dismayed by his orders.

“I thought I’d seen the last of German occupied Canada. The next time I went, I thought it would be with Alicia and as a tourist.”

“I can’t blame you, but the army works in mysterious ways. Actually, it isn’t very strange at all. You know the area around Toronto and you’ve actually met with some interesting local types who are very sympathetic to us.”

“Am I going in as a civilian so they can hang me if I’m caught, or can I wear my uniform and maybe stay alive?”

“Don’t be such a pessimist. You can wear your uniform or civilian clothes or even pajamas as you think appropriate. You’ll be parachuted in where you will meet up with a small Ranger detachment that’s managed to place itself north of Toronto. Once you link up with them, you are to make contact with local talent and make plans to do whatever damage is possible, and that includes freeing prisoners before the krauts can kill them.”

“Colonel, you used the word parachute. I’ve never jumped in my life.”

“Then try to do it right the first time. Look, I wish we had time to send you to Benning for airborne training, but we don’t. I understand it’s as easy as falling off a log, only it’s a very high log.”

“Colonel, sir?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“Say hello to Alicia and Missy for me and would you very much mind if I invited you to go screw yourself?”

Neumann was depressed by the news from several fronts. Given their enormous numerical advantage, the defeats inflicted by the Americans were not totally unexpected. Worse was the news coming from Europe. The German army was being badly mauled by the resurgent Red Army and was in retreat. Von Paulus had crossed the Ural River on his way to the mountains and had then been attacked by the Reds. It was almost a given that Stalingrad would either be re-taken or surrounded with the German army under siege. Von Paulus had been given a stand or die order by Hitler. Neumann hoped the field marshal had enough balls to die for the Reich, but doubted it. Paulus was a clerk, not a fighter.

More important, the Soviet attacks meant that whatever flickering hopes he might have had that German forces in the North Reich would be rescued had just been extinguished. Hitler had also declared Canada a fortress and forbidden surrender, but Neumann had few hopes that Guderian would do the right thing and die fighting. No, he was a coward who would try to save himself by surrendering his army. He would fight a few more battles to show that he was serious, but he was already withdrawing his troops. The men facing Patton in the west were in the process of pulling back a good twenty miles to their next defensive position. Soon they would run out of Canadian real estate. Therefore, it was up to him to see to it that Guderian and the army did fight on to the last man.

Neumann felt that he had few trump cards to play, and he would indeed play them. The first thing to do, he decided, is to fill the prison camps with Canadian civilians, and it didn’t matter at all whether or not they were Jewish. At the same time, his Gestapo units would be directed to converge on Toronto and most especially the farm and the prison camps. The Gestapo could be trusted to carry out their assignments no matter how bloody and brutal they might be. He was not so certain of the remnants of the Black Shirts. Those rats were abandoning the sinking ship. Munro now had a hard core cadre of perhaps fifty men and Neumann wondered how long that number would hold. There were close to a thousand American soldiers and airmen who’d been captured and they too would have value when the time came to negotiate a safe trip back to the Reich. He knew that the Americans would not permit their people and innocent civilians to be slaughtered.

Downing threw Grant a bone and Tom grabbed it. Master Sergeant Farnum would be coming with him. Farnum had once been a paratrooper and took it on himself to give Tom a primer on how to jump out of an airplane and survive.

“Anybody can jump,” he’d said without a hint of sarcasm, “it’s the landing that creates problems.”

“Sergeant, I’d already figured that out.”

Farnum had laughed and then gotten on with training. He had Tom jump from stacked chairs and taught him to land properly by collapsing and rolling over. They did this a couple of score times in a few hours until Tom actually thought he understood what was expected of him.

They flew in a C47 and were escorted by a pair of P51s. They didn’t think that the Germans would waste their diminishing number of planes on a lone transport, but nothing was certain.

They flew from Buffalo, looped over the lake and on to an area west and south of Toronto. It was night and both men hoped the very young pilot could find his way in the dark. The pilot wasn’t worried. He put his faith in radar and his co-pilot’s skill at finding the fires that were supposed to be set as signals.

Sooner than expected, they received the order to get up and get ready. They checked their own gear and then checked each other’s. A crewman opened the C47’s door and they were hit by a rush of cold air.

“Just remember, sir, you don’t have to count to ten or yell Geronimo anything dumb like that,” said Farnum. “The chute will open automatically. If it doesn’t then you just yank on the reserve chute and pray that it opens.”

“And I’m screwed if it doesn’t, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely, sir, but you won’t have much time to worry about it since we’ll be jumping from a fairly low altitude.”

“Now!” the pilot yelled over the intercom and before Tom could react, Farnum pushed him out of the plane.

The wind was like a punch and he was hit a second time as the chute opened a few seconds later. He grabbed the risers and held on for dear life as he dropped towards the ground. It was coming up with terrifying speed. He quickly looked around but couldn’t see Farnum. Of course not; their chutes were dark and hopefully invisible to enemy eyes. Nor could he see the fires that were supposed to have been set as a target for the drop. They were not supposed to actually hit inside the fires, just be close enough so that their hosts could find them.

He braced himself when he felt the ground was near. He hit and rolled over like he was told. Seconds later he realized that he’d survived. He gathered chute and got out of the harness.

“I’ll take it, sir,” said Farnum who’d materialized out of nowhere.

The sergeant hid the two parachutes and they walked west. According to their maps a dirt road should be nearby. It was and they crossed it quickly, eyes out for a German patrol that might have seen them land. There were haystacks in the field and their instructions had been to find one on the northern edge of the field and stay there. Their new friends would find them, not the other way around. Tom understood. If they’d been spotted, let the Germans take them rather than blowing the whole operation and getting locals or whoever was going to help them caught as well.

They picked a haystack and sat down with their backs to it. Tom tried to let the tension drain from his body, but with scant success.

Farnum checked his watch — the dial glowed in the dark. He squinted and looked around. Tom did as well, but there was nothing to see. “I think it’ll be at least an hour before anyone contacts us, sir.”

Tom was about to reply when he felt something cold and hard against his neck. It felt suspiciously like a gun. “Apple,” a voice said in little more than a whisper.

“Core,” Tom responded.

Landry lowered his weapon and sat down beside them. “Just who the hell thinks of these stupid passwords?”

Chapter Twenty-two

They drove by truck to a rundown warehouse with a number of vehicles parked outside. The sign said “Uncle Sammy’s Used Cars and Trucks.” Tom shook his head in disbelief.

“Now who’s using bad codes?”

Landry grinned unapologetically. “It was suggested by our OSS contact.” He went on to explain that, after telling top brass that he was staying behind after being cut off by the German attack, he was directed to head towards Toronto and that they would be contacted by people from the OSS.

This had occurred and they had traveled by trucks and busses that had been acquired by the OSS. Landry said he had no idea whether these were abandoned, bought, or stolen, and that he didn’t care.

“My men refused to wear German uniforms, even though some did before when we took the Blue Water Bridge, so people are trying to get us civilian clothes or police uniforms. I favor the latter since my men all have military haircuts and would otherwise stand out.”

“I wouldn’t want to wear a German uniform either,” Tom said, “so try to find something else in my size. Do you have a radio?”

“Yes, sir, and we keep moving it so they can’t triangulate on us. We think the German army has other things on its mind, but that leaves their Gestapo and the shits from the Black Shirts.”

“Any fresh messages?”

“One that’s really unsettling, colonel. It may be that the Gestapo is planning to do something awful to our POWs and the Canadians currently held by them."

A few score miles away, Field Marshal Heinz Guderian glared intensely at Neumann. “I don’t believe things are that desperate. I would never consider killing prisoners; nor do I believe that circumstances could ever become so dire as to necessitate it.”

“Then you have not been reading your own casualty reports. You’ve lost a third of your armor and planes and about the same amount of you manpower. The Americans now outnumber you by at least three to one and are exerting pressure on all fronts. Patton’s army may be the farthest away, but General Raus’s command could collapse at any time. Then the race to Toronto would be on. You need a strategy that does not require a new army and I am confident that I can stop the American advance in its tracks. All I need is to show them a few bloody American and Canadian corpses stiffening on the ground and they will halt. The Jews who run America would be horrified that Gentiles are dying at our hands and on their behalf. They would do anything to prevent the blood of Christians from making the American people realize that it is the Jews who are responsible for their deaths.”

“How and when will you announce this?” Guderian said coldly.

Neumann smiled. “At first, quietly. We already have a conduit to the U.S. Not all their embassy and other diplomatic personnel were repatriated when the war started. A number of them remained for a variety of reasons and at least a couple of them are deeply sympathetic to the fascist cause.”

“And the rest are spies, I’ll wager.”

“Doubtless, but they are all are being carefully watched.”

Neumann left. Guderian waited a couple of moments, deep in thought. He pushed a buzzer on his desk and Koenig entered.

“Did you hear?”

“Yes, field marshal.”

“He is capable of doing it. I read his dossier. He once led a unit into a Polish village near where partisans were active. There was no evidence that anyone in that village was in any way involved, but that didn’t matter. He had roughly five hundred men, women and children gathered up. The women and children were raped repeatedly in front of each other and the men. When they were done, all of them were stuffed into a large barn and the barn was set on fire. When burning people tried to escape, his men gunned them down. In a way, that was a mercy. So, yes, he is capable of killing all those people. He would have had that ship full of Jews scuttled if he had thought ahead and realized there was a chance that the Americans would stop it.”

“Sir, what is my assignment?”

“Quite simple, captain. You are to follow him, find out what he specifically plans to do.”

“Am I to try to stop him?”

“I will let you know what, if anything, to do at the proper time.”

“But sir, isn’t he doing what the Fuhrer wants?”

“Is that what you wish, Koenig? And what do you think the Americans will do when they take you prisoner and find out that you aided and abetted that monster?”

Canfield’s battalion moved out cautiously. The beachhead perimeter had been expanded by about three miles in all directions and more troops had landed and were filling the beachhead. This time, however, they were organized and ready.

They were still confronted by large numbers of German soldiers and the Germans had been fighting desperately. Nor had the beachheads on the German side of the Niagara River been significantly expanded. German artillery still had the range of the pontoon bridges, which meant that comparatively few tanks had crossed.

There was a sharp explosion and everyone fell to the ground. A scream followed along with cries for a medic. One of his men had stepped on a mine. The German anti-personnel mines were terrible things. Once stepped on, a spring of some kind launched them into the air and the exploded at approximately waist height. GIs were fearful of being castrated by these things that they called ‘bouncing betties.’ The advance would halt until the mines could be cleared.

The screaming stopped. He and Dubinski looked at each other. The guy had probably died and that was a fate worse than castration. Since the German attack, the battalion had gotten fed, been given fresh equipment, and supplied with a ton of ammo. They’d also gotten fifty fresh replacements who looked scared and innocent. Canfield thought they looked just like the others had when the fighting had first started. Everyone looked scared, but the veterans were no longer innocent. They had a haunted, desperate look in their eyes.

Rumor had it that the krauts were pulling back and abandoning the Niagara River line, which meant that they had to pass in front of the men in Truscott’s beachhead. This also meant that the Germans would fight desperately to keep the route to the north and rear open. They were all aware of the geographic anomaly. The German escape route to the north actually led to the west because of the way the land between lakes Erie and Ontario curved. No matter. When the time came they would all head north and east to Toronto.

German machine guns opened up with their insane chattering. They actually had a different sound than American guns and were, just about everyone thought, much better weapons. A German anti-tank gun fired and it was followed by the whump of an explosion. Another American Sherman tank had died because the Germans had better anti-tank guns as well.

“All we can do is try to overwhelm them,” Canfield thought aloud. Dubinski and he others understood that he wasn’t talking to them and kept quiet. They also understood that overwhelming the Germans meant that a large number of them would die or be maimed.

His radioman signaled for him to come over. “What’s up, corporal?”

“Sir, Lieutenant Kosinski says he can see water.”

Canfield crouched and trotted the couple of hundred yards to where Kosinski’s men waited. That a lieutenant commanded a company was a result of the heavy casualties they’d suffered. Their captain had been killed the day before.

He found Kosinski in a stand of trees. “Where’s the water?” he asked.

“If you climb up a tree, colonel, you can see it. It’s definitely Lake Erie and that means we’ve cut the bastards off.”

“Either that or they’ve all escaped,” Canfield said. “And I will pass on climbing a tree. I assume your men are pushing forward?”

“Most definitely, sir.”

Canfield moved out with the lieutenant and was shortly looking at both the lake and the road that led to Hamilton. There were ships on the lake and he presumed they were American. The road, however, was empty. The krauts had escaped. Well, he thought grimly, what had he expected?

Ike and Bradley were ecstatic. With the collapse of the German river defenses, it meant that they could get a proper army across the Niagara and commence pushing north. It also meant that they could send warships through the Welland Canal and on to Lake Erie.

Only a few days earlier the first American warships since the war of 1812 had appeared in Lake Ontario. It was a flotilla consisting of two heavy cruisers, four light cruisers, and eight destroyers. Additional support vessels were arriving almost every hour. The original flotilla had been sent up the St. Lawrence under the cover of scores of land-based planes and had arrived without significant incident. A few shots had been fired, but guns and planes had put a stop to it.

Nor did it go unnoticed that the guns of fourteen warships could savage German formations trying to escape via the road along the coast to Hamilton and then on to Toronto. The two generals now agreed that they should have had the navy attempt to run the gauntlet earlier. Their only regret was that the Germans had gotten away to fight another day.

“We almost had them,” Bradley said.

“They fooled us,” said Eisenhower. “They moved their men and equipment out quietly and at night. Some of our commanders suspected, but couldn’t do anything against a rear guard that fought like the devil.”

“Well, Ike, at least we now have the Canal.”

Ike lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of an old one. “You’re assuming that they haven’t sabotaged it too badly. Between the Germans and Canadian partisans, it might be a long while before our ships can go through it.”

“Yeah, but I’m confident our engineers can get the thing working in short order. They might have damaged, even destroyed, the locks, but the ditch will still be there. Right now I’ve got men assessing the damage and we’ll start working and do what has to be done. One of the questions I’ve already gotten asked is what should be done about the carcasses of three U-boats in the canal.”

Ike grinned. The raids had sealed the fate of the Kriegsmarine on Lake Erie. It reminded him that he had to find time to pin a medal on the young pilot who’d lost a leg in the endeavor.

Most important, control of Erie meant that Americans could land anywhere they wanted along the coast. The Germans fighting Patton would have to pull back or find themselves trapped. Only this time, they might not be so lucky.

“Blow the damn things up,” Ike said genially.

Heinrich Stahl swore as he saw the police barricades keeping him several blocks away from his destination, a nondescript rooming house where four of his men lived. To the best of his knowledge, they were the last Germans still alive and active.

The very large number of cops surrounding it were heavily armed and appeared to be very nervous. Why not, he thought angrily. They had found his last source of German manpower in the city.

He wasn’t worried about being recognized. Not only were all eyes on the shabby boarding house he could barely see in the distance, but he had taken pains to change his appearance. His head had been partly shaved to simulate baldness and what hair remained had been died white. He had cotton stuffed in his cheeks and padding in his clothing gave him a fine middle-aged gut. Using a cane added to the effect and nobody cared if he had an accent. His papers said he was a Dane.

What did concern him was losing four good men, especially when there were no others. It also meant he could not go back to his current residence in a cheap hotel. He didn’t think that there was anything about him in the apartment shared by the four Germans, but he couldn’t be certain. He swore at the injustice of it all. How could he continue to serve the Reich?

Stahl prided himself on his memory, which some said was photographic. Thus, he stared at the very pretty young woman in a WAC uniform who was with another army officer. Where the hell had he seen them before? He searched his memory and found the answer. While he’d been questioning the fool scientist from that place called Camp Washington, the two of them had been sitting on a bench not too far away and pretending to be lovers. He’d thought it strange at the time that they’d been sitting together in the cold wet weather, but had put it down to idiots being in love. Now he knew better. Those two had been instrumental in unraveling his intelligence network along with the FBI and the Washington police.

He thought about using the pistol in his pocket and blowing their brains out, but thought better of it. He might get away in the confusion, but possibly not. At any rate, he’d be on the run with pursuit too close for comfort.

Gunfire ripped through the air and people around him screamed and threw themselves onto the ground. Stahl did likewise. It would be foolish and possibly fatal to remain standing. It would also be awful if he was wounded and sent to a hospital where they would quickly realize that he wasn’t what he appeared to be.

The firing had come from the rooming house and the cops replied with an enormous volley that ripped wood from the side of the building. Bullets pierced the walls and Stahl wondered how many were striking flesh. He recalled a time when he and his men fired into a farmhouse in Poland, shredding it, and later seeing only the pulped bodies of the family that lived there. Too bad, he thought.

The Germans inside fired again and a cop fell to the ground, his leg smashed. Someone yelled Heil Hitler and four armed men came out screaming and firing. Stahl watched in admiration. They would rather die fighting instead of by hanging or the electric chair. They were heroes.

The police were frozen for a moment, but then began shooting. Bullets from scores of pistols and shotguns hit the Germans. They danced and jumped as they were struck until they fell to the ground where they were shot some more.

Someone called for the firing to stop and the silence was stunning. In a moment the police gingerly moved forward. Along with others, Stahl got to his feet. It was time to leave. He saw the WAC and she seemed shocked by the carnage. Good, he thought, and then had an idea. He had to hide someplace and that idiot scientist might just finally make himself useful to the Reich.

“Why am I not surprised?” said Grant as he shook hands with Detective Sam Lambert. “Are you Maple today or do I use your real name?”

“Hey, you can call me Maple and you can call her Leaf,” he said and nodded to an attractive woman who stood very close to Lambert.

“My name is Sherry,” she said and held out her hand. She smiled but Tom could see sadness in her eyes. “I don’t like trite code names, and I especially don’t like Uncle Sammy’s Used Cars,” she added.

Landry had been listening and he was totally unapologetic. The building now housed his two platoons plus enough transportation to carry them. Thanks to Lambert, they now had enough police uniforms for maybe half of them. He’d been giving considerable thought as to how to free the prisoners at both camps and had suggested that his “police” escort additional “prisoners” into either or both sites and then attack the real guards. Lambert had liked the idea and, after talking with Grant, he too had thought it workable.

Sherry announced that she would be willing to do whatever was necessary. Perhaps as a woman, she might be able to distract the guards or even get in to see someone important. She particularly wanted a chance to get at Neumann. Grant saw how close she was sitting to Lambert and the cold anger in her eyes. To his surprise, Lambert supported her desires. He didn’t appear to like it, but he was not going to argue with her. Tom wondered if he would have given in to Alicia’s going to see the enemy. He realized that his new wife would likely do as she damned well pleased.

They had sandwiches and a chilled bottle of Molson for a quick meal. It was decided that Tom would be given a quick tour of the possible targets — the farm, the two prison camps, and the Gestapo headquarters in Toronto. “We’ll move you at night, of course,” said Landry. “Since everyone does that to avoid being strafed or bombed, it won’t attract any attention. Of course, sir, you realize that freeing those people will only be the first part of our problems. Actually, freeing them might be the easy part.”

Grant saw where the lieutenant was going. “Yeah. What the hell do we do with them afterwards? We’ve got to find a place to stash them until the army arrives.”

“And that might just wind up being a while,” said Sherry.

Lambert started laughing. “Look, you free them and I’ll find a place to hide them.”

Stahl thought the little frame house on a side street in Washington was far less than an outstanding scientist or academic should have. Along with being small, the paint was peeling and the grass on the lawn was a distant memory. Apparently, professors were not as honored in the U.S. as they were in Germany. Of course, Doctor Langford Morris might not be held in such high esteem anymore. If the Americans had indeed been watching their conversation in the rainy park, then Langford might be in the proverbial dog house. However, if the Americans suspected the professor of treason, why was he free? Stahl had checked and there was no sign that the professor was under observation. The only sign of life was an old lady on a rocking chair on the porch of a house across the street.

He knocked on the door and waited several minutes. Lights were on, so Langford was probably at home. Perhaps he was napping?

Finally, he heard scuffling footsteps and the door opened. “Yes,” said Langford, puzzled and unrecognizing. His breath reeked of alcohol.

Stahl gently but forcefully pushed him aside. “We need to talk.”

Recognition dawned. “Oh my lord, what are you doing here?”

Stahl sat on a living room chair. “One might ask what are you doing living in this quaint little ruin?”

Langford flushed. “Since the incident with that little Italian slut, my wife has filed for divorce and all but left me. Whenever I can, I spend a little time here where I don’t have to listen to her or endure the laughter of my so-called colleagues.”

“But you are still working at a secret location and you are still privy to its secrets?”

“Of course, and it’s a shame you didn’t listen to me. I could now be an honored man in Europe and you would have medals galore given you by that Austrian corporal.”

Stahl didn’t like the Fuhrer being scorned as an Austrian corporal, but kept silent. Later, he told himself.

“Would you like a summary of how much we know?” Langford asked.

“But of course.”

“Good, because I’d like to tell you if only to rub it in. To begin with, in the Pacific the American navy has surrounded the Home Islands of Japan and the Japanese people are starving by the millions while their cities are bombed and shelled to ashes. The fools in Tokyo are too stubborn to surrender even though their cities are being incinerated and their children are dying of hunger.”

“That is not news, Langford. It’s in all the papers.”

“Then how about the fact that Stalingrad has been retaken by the Soviets and that Paulus is surrounded? He has asked permission to surrender what’s left of his Sixth Army but has been told to fight to the last man. More than a million German soldiers have been killed, wounded, or taken prisoner with a lot more to follow. If the Reds are able to follow up, they will have very little in the way of German troops to stop them.”

“That cannot be true,” Stahl said angrily. Deep down, however, he knew that the attack towards the Urals might have been just too far and that the Reich might have overreached itself.

“Ah, but it is. It is also true that the Kriegsmarine has lost more than a third of its submarine force and is no longer operating off the American coast in any strength. No more wolfpacks, just solo U-boats. American submarines are operating out of Portugal and Iceland and are making life hell for the German navy. Thanks to America’s hold on Gibraltar, they are now sinking German and Italian ships in the Mediterranean as well. There is now very little that Germany can do to prevent the food convoys from reaching Great Britain. Oh yes, Britain’s Royal Navy did get their hand on some oil tankers from so-called neutral nations and have destroyed the Argentine and Brazilian navies. Brazil has asked for a cease fire and Argentina will shortly do so as well since the Royal Navy is making a nuisance of itself by bombarding their cities. As a part of any cease fire, Hitler has suggested, urged, that the Argentines abandon the Falklands. The Argentines, of course, feel betrayed.”

Stahl’s mind whirled. The loss of Argentina and Brazil meant nothing, but so many U-boats destroyed? It could not be. Success on the seas was critical to the success of Operation North Storm and the existence of the North Reich.

“It gets worse, Herr Stahl. Guderian has informed Hitler that he cannot hold Canada. He has lost too much in the way of men, planes, and tanks, and does not feel he can hold off a vastly larger American force very much longer. After some initial defeats, the Americans are turning out to be fast learners. I give the Germans a few weeks at best. Too many defeats and the Reich might just find herself all alone in the world. Or perhaps Germany will have a new leader once the seriousness of the defeats comes out?”

Stahl could scarcely contain his anger. Replace Hitler? Never. How do you replace a god?

Langford picked up a half-filled glass of what looked like whiskey and took a long swallow. “And do you know what’s even more ironic?”

“I have no idea, Professor Langford.”

“The fucking Italian bitch miscarried. All I had to do was wait and there would have been no pregnancy. I’ve heard that she’s coming back to work and that her absence will be blamed on a stomach condition. Of course, all you had to do was believe me and you might still have your precious submarines since we were picking up all their transmissions. Admiral Doenitz requires them to call mommy every day and the Americans just listen and locate and then kill.”

This cannot be happening, Stahl thought. Could it really be that the Yanks were indeed reading Germany’s prized codes? He could not be certain, but Germany had to be informed of the possibility. But how to let the Reich know?

There was a more immediate problem, however. “Professor, does this squalid palace have a basement, a cellar?”

“Yes, but it has a dirt floor. Why?” he laughed rudely, “Were you thinking of living down there?”

“Show me.”

Walking unsteadily, Langford led him down to the dark and dank cellar. The ceiling was barely five feet high. There were no windows. Stahl smiled. “How much longer is your leave?”

“I just started. Two weeks.”

“Excellent,” Stahl said. He pulled out his pistol and smashed the butt into Langford’s nose.

The professor grabbed his bloody face and collapsed, gasping and bleeding profusely. Stahl hit him several times more. He crumpled on the floor and lay still. Stahl checked for a pulse and there was none. Langford was dead and he deserved to be.

Stahl looked around for something to dig with. He smiled as he saw a shovel leaning against the wall. A grave would be so much better than leaving him to rot like he’d had to do with the skinny nigger who’d tried to rob him. Now he had a place to live, at least for a short while. If any neighbors cared, he was a friend from Camp Washington where he knew they had a lot of foreigners. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to inform Germany that their codes might be compromised and, oh yes, find a way to get to safety.

Alicia had decided that she’d had enough of gunfights and seeing bodies laid out on slabs. She’d been spared the ordeal of telling the police and FBI that none of the dead Germans was Stahl as none of them even remotely resembled him. Agent Dunn had handled that part.

“Just what happened to the naive young school teacher I used to be?”

Missy Downing handed her another glass of cheap wine. They’d come to the conclusion that cheap was all that was available in Washington.

“As we’ve discussed before, it’s called growing up and growing up in wartime is more intense than at any other time. Look at yourself. You showed up a shy little almost virgin and now you’re a combat vet with a Purple Heart and married to boot. When this is over, I don’t see you being satisfied with teaching art and music to adolescent girls.”

“I don’t either and I wasn’t an almost virgin, I was a virgin. But, if I am going to work, what options are open to women? Right now, maybe millions of women are working in factories replacing men who are in the military. When the war ends, the men will return and want their jobs back and I won’t blame them. It’d be a rotten thing to tell a returning GI thanks for saving our country and maybe for getting wounded and maimed as well, but now you’re unemployed because a woman took your place.”

“Life ain’t fair,” Missy said.

Her voice was slightly slurred. They had been drinking for a while. After the shooting, Alicia had been ordered to take a few days off. A couple of days earlier she’d managed to get a phone call through to Tom who joked about her being in more combat than he, but his worries came through loud and clear. He wanted her safe. Well, she wanted him safe as well. She knew there had been heavy fighting and she also knew he’d likely be more involved in the future.

She didn’t want him fighting anyone, not even the Germans. No, she wanted him at home and in bed with her. She wanted her legs wrapped around him and his manhood deep inside her. Sometimes she broke out in a sweat when she thought too much of the times they had and, hopefully, would have in the future. She understood that millions of wives and girlfriends were thinking exactly the same desperate and carnal thoughts and it didn’t matter whether they were American or German.

“Damn war,” she said and held out her empty glass.

Wade Dylan, late of the U.S. State Department in Toronto was getting worried. When he’d volunteered to stay behind in Toronto and work out of the Swiss Consulate, he had no idea that there would actually be a war or that it would be getting so close. He vaguely recalled some military thugs he’d had to chastise for trying to cause trouble in Canada. He wondered if they’d had a hand in starting the war. He thought it was a distinct and unpleasant possibility.

So far, his diplomatic immunity had kept him out of any difficulties with the authorities, although some Germans had looked askance at his American credentials. Fortunately, a friend at the Swiss consulate had solved that problem by issuing him a Swiss diplomatic passport.

He knocked and entered Gestapo chief Oscar Neumann’s office. As usual, Dylan was greeted warmly and offered some cognac which he happily accepted. Neumann, he thought, was quite a gentleman. After a few pleasantries, Neumann came to the point.

“And what can I do for you Mr. Dylan?”

“As you are well aware, my government knows that I remained behind as an unofficial liaison between our two governments.”

“Of course,” Neumann responded with a hint of impatience that went right over Dylan’s head. Damn diplomats, he thought. Must everything be a lengthy and tightly choreographed ballet?

“My people in Washington are concerned about the safety of American civilians and prisoners of war as the fighting gets nearer to Toronto. My government would hope that nothing occurs to harm them.”

“They do realize we are at war, don’t they?” he said acidly. “Bombs are falling and planes are strafing anything that moves. It is more than conceivable that prisoners could be hurt, especially if we decide to move them.”

“Will they be moved?”

Neumann shrugged. “In large part, that depends of Guderian and Eisenhower. Even though I am very confident that your Americans will be stopped in short order and well before reaching Toronto, we cannot rule out that possibility.”

“The American forces will be stopped? Everything I’ve heard is that they are advancing steadily.”

“Of course,” Neumann answered. He wondered just which side this Dylan creature was on. “Guderian has many assets he hasn’t used, along with marvelous and deadly weapons that are quite secret. My real concern is that Americans will infiltrate and try to force the prisoners’ freedom. If that happens, there will be fighting and your American prisoners will be in the middle. It cannot be helped.”

Neumann smiled and leaned over. “Of course, anything you can do to help stop such rash actions would be greatly appreciated.”

Dylan stood and the two men shook hands. Neumann did not give the Nazi salute. That would be pushing it a little too much.

“I will endeavor to keep you informed if I hear anything,” Dylan said and departed.

Shithead, Neumann thought.

Chapter Twenty-three

Tinker slowly and quietly crawled along on his belly. It had occurred to him that he’d been doing a lot of crawling lately, and especially on nights like this. He didn’t mind. If he could do something to hurt the Germans and help his friend Lambert, and his new friend Sergeant Farnum, it was fine by him. If either man thought that a friendship between a petty thief and a career NCO was unusual, they were too polite to mention it.

He and Farnum slid through a gap in a fence that marked the end of a farmer’s field and moved silently through what remained of the crops. It amazed Tinker just how quietly a big man like Farnum could move. It was like he was just a whisper in the night. Whispers, however, weren’t so heavily armed.

“We getting there, Tinker?”

“Soon, sergeant, real soon.”

A short while later, Tinker put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Now tell me what you see.”

Farnum snorted. It came out as part laugh and part snarl. “It looks like a German tank trying to disguise itself as a haystack.”

“That’s right and there are dozens of them like that, all scattered around and hidden. If you were a pilot flying overhead you’d only see a blob of hay, and anyone one the ground is being kept away.”

“Really? I didn’t see any sentries or guards.”

“It’s the middle of the night and they’re getting tired and sloppy. Contrary to what they’ve been told, they ain’t supermen and they need their beauty sleep.”

Farnum silently agreed. If what they’d been told was true, the German army was being whittled down and the men left were under great strain. American planes could be dropping death on them at any time. This reminded Farnum of something.

“Tinker, do our people know about this place?”

“I don’t think so. I just found it yesterday. Why, are you worried you might get bombed?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, sergeant. I don’t think the info’s gotten through to your pilots, and I haven’t seen a nighttime attack by your boys yet. Now we’ve got to get closer to that tank. There’s something else you should see.”

When they reached the tank, they carefully stood up in the shadow cast by the moon. The tank was immense and made larger because it was literally wrapped in hay that enhanced its bulk.

“It’s huge, sergeant.”

“That it is,” Farnum said quietly. There was something different about this tank. Not only was it larger, a monster, but the silhouette was different. It dawned on him.

“Tinker, are all the tanks you found shaped like this?”

“A lot of them, yeah, but not all of them. Why?”

“Because this is trouble, big trouble. This is one of their God-damned Panthers, and they are perhaps the best tank in the world. Killing these things has got to be a priority.”

The Panther weighed more than forty tons, had sloped armor, and its main weapon was a high velocity 75mm gun. The U.S. simply didn’t have anything that could stand up to it. Of course, there hadn’t been any fights between Panthers and Shermans, but it looked to him like that time might be right around the corner.

“We could open up the fuel cap and drop in some dirt and rocks. That’s stop them.”

“That’d only slow them down, Tinker. Somehow I think they’ve got mechanics who would fix them, and an inventory of spare parts. No, these babies have got to be bombed.”

Farnum smiled. He liked the idea of sabotaging at least one of them. As a kid he’d done it to a neighbor’s car. He’d hated the neighbor for kicking his dog and nobody had ever found out.

They found the cap, opened it and quietly dropped in several handfuls of debris. The sergeant wondered if the tank had any kind of filter that would stop trash from getting through to the engine.

They heard voices. A barn at the other end of the field showed light as a side door opened. A couple of German soldiers walked out. They were unsteady; they’d been drinking. He thought about killing them but decided against it. It would be easy, but then the Nazis would know that they’d been discovered.

No, they would get the word up the chain to someone who could send a few dozen bombers to saturate the field with bombs. That would be by far the better way to do it. Get them all, not just one or two.

“Halt!”

“Shit,” muttered Tinker. Someone had seen motion from across the field. The sentry who’d spotted them yelled again and then called for help. He had a whistle which he blew frantically, the shrieks piercing the night.

Tinker and Farnum forced themselves to move slowly and deliberately. Maybe the might would still protect them. It would take some minutes for the guard to get reinforcements and get to where they were.

They found the gap in the fence and slithered through. In a short while they were protected by trees and bushes. Behind them, they could hear Germans yelling to each other and arguing. The two men continued on to where they’d parked Tinker’s car. They got in and drove away. They started laughing.

Farnum slapped Tinker on the shoulder. “Let’s go call in some bombs. Then what say we get ourselves a couple of beers and watch from a safe distance.”

Private Hipple no longer felt like deserting and returning to west-by-God Texas. His comrades now respected him, perhaps even feared him. Even Colonel Canfield had become aware of his actions and this time in a positive manner.

Like many men who lived in the still primitive west, he could shoot and shoot extremely well. In his opinion, most of the northern city boys in his unit were miserable shots and, when the fighting began, had either fired wildly or frozen and not fired at all. A lot of them simply shot in the general direction of Europe instead of at the enemy. Not Hipple. He’d killed his first German when they’d attacked the beachhead. It hadn’t been a difficult shot at all. The German had only been a hundred yards or so away and he’d dropped him with one bullet square in the middle of his chest. The kraut had stopped, flailed his arms, and then dropped backwards.

“Great job,” his sergeant had said. Hipple said that it was an easy shot. Killing a running rabbit at two hundred yards was a good shot, he’d added. A quarter of a mile made it a great shot. The sergeant had nothing to say.

He killed his second and third Germans in short order and during the same fight — again nothing difficult, just efficient. His fourth kill was a tank commander who’d foolishly opened his hatch so he could look around. Dumb ass move, he’d commented later. One bullet at four hundred yards had blown the top of the German’s head off. The idiot hadn’t even been wearing a helmet. Even better, whoever was driving the tank put the thing in reverse and disappeared into the smoke, smashing anything that got in his way.

His buddies had cheered him and it felt good. Killer Hipple they’d called him. The lieutenant said he reminded him of Sergeant York, whoever the hell he was.

So now he was officially a sniper. He was supposed to have a spotter, but he’d declined. He said that all the other boys in his company were city types whose idea of stalking meant not yelling too loud. Even the lieutenant, a snotty kid from Harvard, thought that comment was funny and the city boys seemed relieved that they didn’t have to go with him out into no man’s land.

The krauts had an outpost in front of the American lines. It consisted of a couple of soldiers looking for American activity, which was steadily, painfully, creeping up towards Toronto. The Germans were fighting every inch of the way and if he could kill some of them it might save the lives of his new buddies. Thus, he was stalking the outpost. Maybe they even had a sniper with them. The Germans had some boys who were really good shots and he thought it would be real nice to nail one of them.

Hipple had positioned himself during the night. He thought he was a few hundred yards from the Germans. When dawn came, he saw that his estimate had been right. He could see the slight scar in the earth where they had dug in. He caught motion and studied the area before concluding that there were no more than three Germans hidden there.

He waited patiently and didn’t move. It wasn’t difficult. He’d spent lots of time stalking prey and waiting for the prey to come into range was part of the game. He smiled as a German looked over the lip of the small trench. A second German was now visible to that man’s left and Hipple decided that the second man was the sniper.

Hipple grinned and aimed his new rifle, a modified 1903 Springfield. He’d fired it a couple of hundred times and knew it its idiosyncrasies intimately. Ah, a head peered over a sandbag. He shifted slowly so he could aim. He squeezed the trigger and, a second later, the target jumped and fell backward. Hipple was confident the man was dead.

He reloaded quickly; hoping for what he thought would be a normal reaction from the Germans. There, one of the dead man’s comrades had moved to help, thereby exposing his own body. Hipple fired again and the second German collapsed. He was reasonably certain that a third man now cowered in the bottom of the shelter and was probably pissing himself. The German wasn’t going to expose himself or help anyone unless he panicked and tried to run.

He didn’t and Hipple resigned himself to waiting for darkness so he could make his way back to the American lines while the one remaining German did the same thing. He now had two more notches on his rifle, although he didn’t actually carve notches. They would spoil the beauty of the Springfield.

He would report to Colonel Canfield in person. The colonel was very interested in his successes and there had been no further mention of his trying to desert what seemed like an eternity ago. Life was good. He was even beginning to like shit on a shingle.

It was hell having to be afraid of your own planes, but it was better to be safe than sorry. From ten thousand feet, no pilot could tell friend from foe if he was traveling hundreds of miles an hour. Thus, Tom and the others stayed safely in the warehouse and went out only at night and then in small groups.

But he had to move if he was going to do his job. It wasn’t necessary for him to confirm what Tinker and Farnum had discovered. All he had to do was send the information upstream so the air force could bomb the hell out of the field. He just hoped they did it soon before the Germans got smart and moved the tanks since Tinker and Farnum had been discovered.

He was extremely concerned since the tanks were the dreaded Panthers. Although many Americans thought that the Sherman was the best tank in the world, it had never fought the Panther. Intelligence said that the Panther had done very well against the new Russian tank, the T34, and only the fact that the Panther hadn’t been produced in large numbers had kept it from defeating the Soviet’s best armor.

But that was not his immediate concern. He, Lambert, and Landry had all donned Toronto police uniforms and were driving around the outskirts of the city. Their headlights were dimmed against possible discovery and strafing by American planes.

As they drove past the two prison compounds, grim-faced Germans and equally tough-looking Canadian Black Shirts glared at their vehicle. It was as if they held the local police in mild contempt and why not, he thought. The Germans and their cohorts held the upper hand and the cops were largely impotent.

Grant seethed with impotent fury as they drove past and saw the prisoners through the barbed wire. The American soldiers and airmen looked sullen and angry, but otherwise okay. There were no apparent signs of mistreatment and, while thin, they did not look like they’d been starved.

“Why aren’t they in their barracks?” he asked Lambert.

The detective chuckled. “They like to stay out at night. It aggravates the hell out of the krauts who think they’re up to something.”

“I like that,” Tom said and Landry concurred.

The civilians, however, looked cowed and terrified. “Rumor has it,” Lambert said, “that the Black Shirts like to come in and indiscriminately beat the shit out of the men along with molesting and raping the women. The Red Cross has disappeared, so nobody’s watching the bastards. It’s almost as if they know their time is limited so they are going to raise hell while they can.”

“Pricks,” said Landry. “I hope they hang.”

“Thank God we Canadians still hang murderers and, I presume, traitors,” Lambert said grimly.

Later, Tom lay on the floor of the warehouse and tried to get to sleep. He kept seeing the faces behind the wire. He was reasonably confident that they could free the prisoners, but then what? The Germans were retreating, which was good, but it also meant that their lines were compressing and there were now more Germans per square inch than before. Slipping them through German lines was not an option. He would have to be creative and he would also need from help.

Stahl heard car doors slam as he was half dozing in a chair. He got up and went to the front window. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. An army staff car was parked in front and coming up the walk was that damned blond bitch WAC and the same male officer from before. What the hell? How had they found him? Then he realized they hadn’t. If they’d known he was inside there’d be more of them and they’d be heavily armed. These two looked bored, like they were running an errand.

He moved quickly, first unlocking the front door and then moving into the kitchen and closing the door connecting it to the living room. He moved through the kitchen and into the dining room.

The man knocked on the door. Stahl remained silent until he knocked again, this time a little impatiently.

“It’s not locked,” Stahl said. “Come right in.”

The man came in first. Stahl sensed he was looking around and focused on the closed kitchen door. Good. He moved quietly until he was only a few feet behind them. The man hadn’t even taken out his pistol, while Stahl had his in his hand.

He lunged and brought the pistol butt hard against the man’s skull. It landed with a sickening crack. He crumpled and without even checking on his condition, Stahl turned and had the gun pointed at a stunned Alicia’s face.

“Don’t move unless I tell you and don’t scream or even talk if you want you and your friend to live through this. Understand?”

She nodded and he ordered her to lie face down on the floor with her hands on her head. He quickly patted her down, enjoying the feel of her body, and confirmed that she had no weapon. Nor was there one in her purse. Stahl checked the male officer and saw that he was breathing, although irregularly. He wondered if he’d fractured the man’s skull. Too bad if he had, he decided.

He unplugged a couple of lamps and yanked out the cords. These he used to tie Alicia’s hands behind her back and her ankles together.

He found some more cords and tied up the still unconscious officer.

Stahl sat down on the couch and looked through their ID cards. “Now, Lieutenant Cutter, just what are you doing here? Who sent you?”

She had managed to roll over and sit up. Alicia wanted to tell him that her name was now Grant and not Cutter, and that she hadn’t changed her ID, but decided the distinction was ridiculous under the circumstances.

“We were sent here to check on Dr. Morris. He’s wanted to attend a meeting and there’s no phone here. Who are you and what are you doing here, and where’s Langford?”

“Please don’t insult me, Lieutenant Cutter. I recall you and this man sitting on a bench near the White House while I met with the good doctor. You know very well that I am Heinrich Stahl and that I am the man responsible for the massacre in Wall Street as well as the killing of Vice President Wallace.”

Stahl laughed. “As to Langford, he’s buried in the basement and won’t be attending any meetings.”

Alicia was sickened but thought it sounded like Stahl was bragging. “Will you let me check out Captain Baldwin? He could die if he doesn’t get help.”

“You will leave him alone and I don’t care if he dies. He’s a soldier. You, on the other hand, are a woman regardless of the ridiculous uniform you’re wearing.”

“Does that mean you won’t kill me?”

“Not unless I find it necessary, but if I have to, I will kill you instantly and without compunction. I’ve killed women before, although they were either Jews or Slavs and they don’t matter because they aren’t really human. It would be a shame to have to shoot anyone as lovely as you, but I will do it, believe me. On the other hand, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman.”

With that he reached down and cupped her breast. When she tried to pull away, he pushed her down and straddled her. He slid his hand inside her blouse and bra and caressed her nipple. Then he twisted and ran his hands up her thighs past her cotton stockings and fondled her with his finger.

He laughed and stood up, “Enough for now, although there might just be time for more fun later. You look almost Aryan so you should enjoy getting fucked by a German. If you promise to cooperate, I’ll let you check out Captain Baldwin. Tell me, is he your lover?”

“He is not,” she said, fighting back her anger. “I’m married. But I do promise to cooperate if you’ll let me help him.”

Stahl loosened her hands but not her feet, and let her crawl over to Baldwin. He had a pulse and his eyelids were flittering. “He’s alive and he might just make it if he can get to a hospital.”

The Nazi smiled as he re-tightened her bonds. “You and I are going to drive away from here in the car you so kindly brought. You will drive and I will be in the back seat with a gun pointed at your head. When we reach a safe point, I will fuck you and then release you and you can call and get help for your friend.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Of course, although you don’t have much choice.”

No I don’t, she thought. Nor did she believe him. Baldwin would be left to die while she would be raped and murdered. Dear God, she thought, what had her life become? What would happen to Tom?

Stahl made her lie down on the floor while he packed a suitcase. She said she had to use the bathroom, so he untied her and watched her as she urinated. She wondered if it excited him.

They walked outside and to the car. His gun was covered by a jacket over his arm. “You will get in the driver’s side, Lieutenant, and I will get in behind you as if I was a high ranking guest. You will drive exactly as I say or I will blow your brains out. Keep your hands away from the ignition so don’t even think of trying to drive off without me.”

Alicia wanted to cry but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He was about to get in when there was a sudden bang and Stahl jerked and stiffened. A second shot rang out and he fell into the car. Alicia opened her door and jumped out. Men were running from the house across the street.

One grabbed her arm and pulled her away while others dragged Stahl’s limp and bloody body from the car. “You okay, lieutenant?” It was FBI agent Dunn.

“I’m fine,” she stammered, “but Captain Baldwin’s badly hurt.”

Dunn signaled and men ran into the house. “How long have you been out here?” she asked.

“We’ve been watching Langford every time he leaves the camp. Director Hoover had the feeling that he might just lead us to Stahl and he was right. One of us spent a lot of time on the front porch of the house across the street all dressed up as an old lady. Stahl never suspected.”

In the distance she could hear the sound of an ambulance approaching and several neighbors had come out of their houses, stunned by the sudden violence.

Dunn grinned. “I am really going to look good when this is all reported.”

Koenig looked at the ruins of what had been an armored battalion. American bombers had come over at first light and, guided by smoke pots lit by spies and saboteurs, had carpet bombed several fields where German tanks had been hidden. This particular field had contained most of their precious Panther tanks. Only two had survived the onslaught while the others had been thrown about like broken toys. Bombs had ripped turrets off and flipped them onto the ground, and hulls had been split apart. Treads lay across the ground like obscene insects. The only consolation was that human casualties had been light with only about fifty killed or wounded.

Other fields had been bombed as well, and the destruction of Panther IVs had been just as bad. The armored reserve that Guderian had been hoarding for a final battle had just been badly mauled.

Koenig walked over to where a sergeant sat on the ground, smoking his pipe. “Forgive me for not getting up and saluting, captain, but my knee is not responding well today. I twisted it running from the damned bombs.”

The sergeant was a good fifteen years older than he and appeared to be supervising a handful of soldiers who were nervously searching the field for useful parts to scavenge. They were aware that the bombers could return at any time. Koenig sat down beside the man and offered him a cigarette, which was quickly taken.

“Sergeant, right now a bunch of officers is trying to figure out how to write a report on this that will save their asses. I don’t need that. In your own words, tell me what the fuck happened.”

The sergeant grinned. He was missing a couple of teeth and the wound looked fresh. “It’ll cost you the rest of the pack.”

“Done,” Koenig said and handed over the bribe.

“Sir, are you aware that we had spies and saboteurs in the field the other night? Well, one of our men went outside to take a piss and saw motion by a tank. He sounded the alarm and we all spilled out of our barracks. The spies got away, of course. When we checked the tanks, we found that one had been tampered with and dirt had been poured into the gas tank.”

Koenig seethed. He’d been told nothing about the incident. Heads would roll, that is, if the incompetent fools were still alive.

The sergeant continued. “This was all reported at least to my captain who, I assume, passed it upward. It was obvious to all that the Yanks now knew about the Panthers in the field and would attack as soon as possible. I woke my men up early and even though they pissed and moaned, got them the hell away before the bombers came. That’s why they’re working. They’re alive and grateful that I showed initiative.”

“The tanks should have been moved,” said Koenig.

“I think that was planned, but dawn came too early.”

Koenig stood and dusted himself off. The sergeant was a good man who’d done his best. The officers had failed. The tanks should have been moved at night, if only a little ways away from the damned field that was now a well plowed junk yard. Even moving them a short distance might have saved them to fight another day. Now they were charred and shattered hulks. He nodded to the sergeant and walked away, keeping an eye on the sky above for the return of American planes. He saw a small scout plane, but that was it. Nor was the Luftwaffe going to come and chase it and anti-aircraft guns had been either bombed or pulled away to protect something else.

Damn it to hell, he thought. Were the American Jews going to win this battle?

Patton had flown to Ike’s headquarters which was now situated just outside Buffalo. Omar Bradley was there as well. Coffee and sandwiches were served. It had been noted many times that there was an abundance of food for the American military. Bradley had commented that it was one advantage of fighting in one’s own country — the people liked you.

Patton let out a deep breath. He was stuffed. “Ike, I think it’s time we stopped pussyfooting around and hit the bastards with everything we have. We’re ready. My boys have moved east and are now past Stratford and London. Hell,” he laughed, “it sounds like I’ve invaded England and not Canada.”

He didn’t add that both towns had been destroyed by the fighting. Bombs and artillery had smashed almost every building and what bombs and guns hadn’t, the Germans had demolished. It didn’t escape the men that London was on a river named the Thames and the portion of the Thames that ran through Stratford was called the Avon. In Patton’s opinion, neither would be called much of anything for many years to come.

“I think I agree with George,” Bradley said. His army had been slowly moving up through the more formidable defenses above the Niagara River, and now was approaching the city of Hamilton, on Lake Ontario. “We now outnumber them in all areas. If they weren’t such good and tenacious fighters, we would have crushed them a long time ago. As it is, George now has room to maneuver and should do it.”

Ike nodded. Patton did have room to maneuver. Bradley was still more or less constrained by the lake to his right, which left a relatively narrow front. He thought he knew what his generals were planning.

Ike smiled and lit a cigarette from the one that was down to a glowing ash. “Let me guess, George, you want Brad to exert all the pressure he can against the krauts fronting him while you do the same with yours. Then you’ll launch an attack on their right flank and try to get in their rear.”

Patton grinned. “Right, and then then they’ll turn their flank and extend their lines to cover us, weakening them badly. Maybe they’ll even have to take units from in front of Brad to keep from falling apart. Either way, we win. When they’re stretched thin enough, we’ll attack in overwhelming force and they’ll collapse. It’s worked before. If I remember my history, Grant did it to Lee outside of Petersburg and Richmond. Just like Lee, the Germans will reach a point where they’ll be too weak to defend everything.”

“And it ended the Civil War,” Bradley added just a little gratuitously. Ike didn’t need the history lesson.

“When can you launch your end run?” he asked. Bradley was already exerting all the pressure he could, so the possible final move would be up to Patton.

“Tomorrow,” he responded. “I’ve been positioning my boys for a couple of weeks now.”

Ike grinned. “Bastard.”

The meeting broke up. Patton and Bradley left to fly to their respective commands. Ike got on the radio to Marshall who was very pleased. Roosevelt, he said, had been taking all kinds of grief from the Canadian government in Ottawa to stop destroying Ontario. The Canadians were wondering if it was necessary to destroy Canada in order to save it. While efforts had been made to limit bombing to military targets, too many of those were located in civilian areas. Also, when the Germans took a stand in or near a town, that town was invariably obliterated. The Canadian people were utterly shocked by the devastation that was being wreaked upon their land. Some were blaming the US, arguing that the response to the German attacks on the US should not have been so massive.

Neumann could read maps as well as the next man, and it was apparent to him that the Americans were going to continue their attacks until the over-extended German lines collapsed. Thus, it was time to play his trump card, his prisoners.

Altogether he had a little more than three thousand of them, both civilian and military. Moving them would take hundreds of trucks and he didn’t have more than a few score. He’d broached the topic to Guderian and been told that the military had priority over any vehicles, and that he could solve his own problem if he wanted to move the prisoners. Neumann had argued the point to no avail. Even invoking Hitler’s name had changed nothing. Hitler was a world away in Berlin, while Guderian was surrounded by Americans in North America.

Guderian had ordered Neumann to not harm the prisoners. Neumann had agreed, but his promise was a lie. He reported to a higher authority, Himmler and Hitler, and would not be ordered around by a mere field marshal. The survival of the Reich in North America was at stake.

He looked out his office window. It was almost dawn and he was in Toronto. He had a terrible headache that was like a hammer pounding between his eyes. He’d planned on being at either the camps or the farm but instead he’d gone to a party thrown by that Nazi sympathizer from the U.S. State Department, Dylan Wade. The idea had been to bolster the morale of those pro-Germans in Toronto and the party had included influential Canadian civilians who needed to be convinced that the Americans would ultimately fail.

He’d intended to leave early, but he’d been smitten like a school child by a lovely young lady named Sherry. They’d had far too much to drink and, when he’d suggested that they go back to his office for some privacy and some more champagne, she’d agreed.

His office was actually a suite with a cot in a separate room and a private bath. He recalled having some more champagne and kissing her passionately. He also recalled sliding her dress down to her waist and kissing her exquisite breasts while she exposed and fondled his manhood. After that his recollections were dim at best.

Had he fucked her or not, he wondered while his headache continued to pound. Well, he could call her up and ask her if he could only remember her last name. Hell, had she even told him? He’d awakened on the couch in his office and the place had been a mess. He’d first attributed it to their wrestling around on the desk and elsewhere, but now he had a nagging feeling that all was not right.

He called the commandant of the civilian prison and informed him that the prisoners were to be on the road and heading north on foot as soon as possible with the military prisoners right behind them.

“Sir, that’s already been done,” he was told. “A large number of trucks and busses arrived during the night and took them all away.”

“By whose orders?” Neuumann almost screamed.

The commandant was puzzled and stammered his reply. “Your orders, sir. It was on your stationery and had your signature. We were ordered to hurry and we did. They were escorted by Canadian civilians and police. The last of them left a couple of hours ago.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Sherry Piper hugged Sam Lambert with a ferocious intensity. Behind them, the last of the trucks and buses carrying the prisoners from the two camps drove by.

“Tell me it was worth it,” she sobbed.

“We got the prisoners and we got a ton of information from that snake’s office, Sherry. Yeah, it was worth it.”

At least he hoped it was. He’d gotten from Sherry the fact that the bastard had passed out before he could consummate the deed, but he knew that she’d been pawed and undressed by the man who was responsible for both her rape and her brother’s death.

“I could have killed him, but I just couldn’t do it. He killed my brother and so many others, but I couldn’t bring myself to take his life.”

“Just as well,” Sam said gently. “It would have haunted you forever.”

She’d been through enough. He didn’t think she was the type who could savor bloody vengeance. She had been brave beyond words, but there was a point beyond which she couldn’t handle things, and killing a sleeping Neumann was one. Neumann would get to live for a while longer.

She thought she had put enough knock-out drops in his drink to kill a horse, but obviously she was wrong. When he finally passed out, she just stood above him for a few moments, half naked and in shock. She’d finally gathered her wits, straightened her clothes, and gotten Tinker into the room to steal anything that looked important. While he did that, Sherry found Neumann’s stationery and typed out an order sending the prisoners on their way. She had no idea what Neumann’s signature looked like, but figured that the prison guards didn’t either.

A few yards away from them and out of earshot, Grant watched as the last vehicle passed by. The military prisoners had cheered, while the civilians showed a range of emotions. Basically, they were still scared.

“What now?” asked Landry.

Damn good question, Tom thought. He’d always wanted an independent command, and now he had one. But what the hell had he inherited? He had Landry’s small company of Rangers as a core, but the next best unit was Lambert’s detachment of police from Toronto and other local communities. He had several hundred Canadian volunteers from the reserve units in the area and he felt that they might give a good account of themselves when the Germans who had to be chasing the prisoners showed up. Many of them had served in the First World War, which was both a benefit and a curse. They had combat experience, but now, more than twenty years later, many were long in the tooth and out of shape.

What he also didn’t have was weapons and ammunition. The Rangers had what they’d brought, which wasn’t much, maybe six or eight clips per man. The police had revolvers and shotguns and very little extra ammo. The same with the volunteers. They’d broken into several armories and armed themselves with old Enfield rifles and any ammunition they could find. Altogether, they had enough for one quick skirmish and then they’d be out. Nor did they have any artillery and they only had a handful of machine guns. More than one volunteer had nothing more than a shotgun or a hunting rifle.

Landry’s radio operators had been in contact with Truscott’s headquarters, but his men were fighting desperate German units south of Toronto and needed everything they had in the way of air assets for themselves. Yes, they would try to help, but they didn’t know how much they could provide.

Damn it, he thought, he had to delay the Nazis long enough for the caravan of former prisoners to get far enough away to be safe. Oh yeah, Tom thought. It would be nice for him and his men to save their own butts as well.

Field Marshal Guderian was livid. That shithead Neumann had lost his prisoners and now wanted help finding them. He was of a mind to tell Neumann to go fuck himself, but one did not do that to a Gestapo commandant. No, he would provide help for the Gestapo chief even though it was the worst of times — both his military fronts were crumbling.

To the west, Patton’s flanking movement had succeeded in dislodging General Raus’s army which was on the verge of disintegrating. The German retreat towards Toronto was in danger of becoming a rout. North of the Niagara, Steiner’s front was fighting a ferocious battle against Bradley’s army which was steadily pushing him back and causing heavy casualties. Most of the German armor had been committed and almost all of what remained of the Luftwaffe had been destroyed. He had hated to use his remaining tanks as part of a defensive line instead of having them attack and destroy the enemy, but American control of the air prohibited that.

However, he did have an SS regiment that had been mauled in battle and was being re-equipped near Toronto. It was perfect. He gave the order to send them north to help Neumann, but not before stripping them of any artillery and armor they might still possess. He doubted they’d need either against a mob of prisoners and those who’d freed them. He would have it both ways. He’d keep the guts of the regiment in reserve while sending two battalions of infantry to do whatever Neumann wanted.

Well, he thought, almost anything. “Koenig, come here.”

Koenig snapped a salute. Guderian smiled grimly and handed him a piece of paper. “These are your orders. You are to go with Neumann as he recaptures the prisoners. Your job will be so see to it that they are not massacred. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir,” Koenig responded.

Yes, Guderian thought, Koenig understood fully. The German armies in Canada were being destroyed and surrender might just be the next option. There would be enough to answer for and no one wanted to be accused of war crimes resulting from the massacre of American and Canadian prisoners. Whether he liked it or not, Koenig would indeed try to protect the prisoners. Guderian’s only question was how would he do that when surrounded by the Gestapo, the Black Shirts and two battalions of SS?

Canfield was too close to the front lines which made Dubinski and others nervous, but that was where he felt a good commander should be. He was not going to build a fortress and try to control events from behind thick walls like Fredendall had.

He had to admit that the krauts were fighting hard and skillfully and making the Americans pay for every foot, every inch that they wrested from them. Many Germans had crossed the line between fighting hard and into fanaticism. What kind of mad loyalty had Hitler inspired, he wondered? Canfield answered his own question. Hitler had turned an entire civilized nation to madness.

But the Germans were crumbling. Finally. Enemy troops were surrendering more frequently now. This bunch now approaching was typical. Canfield counted seventeen of them led by a German sergeant and guarded by a handful of GIs. The Germans looked beaten. Being bombed and shelled all day and night will do that to a man, Dubinski had said. The Germans were gaunt and dirty. Their uniforms were in tatters and some appeared to be dazed, although a couple looked at their captors with undisguised hatred.

Many of the Germans had the leaflets that had been raining down on them for several days. They were promised food, shelter, and clothing if they quit. They were told they’d be sent to work on farms in places like Kansas, which had led some to approach American lines while gripping the leaflets and yelling out “Kansas,” which amused the GIs.

He and Dubinski and a couple of others were standing on one side of a road while the prisoners walked slowly down the others. Neither prisoners nor guards were in any great hurry to reach their destination. One waved a leaflet and grinned.

He’d seen enough. Dubinski and the others were right. If he could almost brush sleeves with enemy soldiers, even if they were surrendering, he was too damn close to the action. He needed to be where he could command.

“Grenade!”

Canfield had only a quick glimpse of a German potato masher grenade rolling towards him. A shadow passed in front and it was followed by an explosion that threw him to the ground. For an instant he thought he was dead; but then realized that he’d survived. He lurched to his feet and stared down in horror. Dubinski had taken the brunt of the explosion and his shattered and bloody body had been torn to shreds. His eyes were still open and he still seemed to see. Canfield knelt down beside his friend.

“You saved me,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Dubinski tried to respond but the only sound he made was a gurgle. The light then left his eyes.

“Sons of bitches,” someone yelled and gunfire followed. Canfield was unable to stop the guards and other Americans from pouring fire into the Germans who screamed and fell as they were shot. In just a few seconds it was over and the column of German prisoners had been reduced to a bloody heap.

Part of Canfield’s mind said it hadn’t been necessary to kill all of the Germans since it was likely that only one had carried the grenade. But which one, he wondered, and how many of the others knew the soldier had carried it and was planning to use it?

Another thought intruded as he fought for control of his emotions. He was almost shaking from the shock of such close by death. There was blood all over his uniform and it was all Dubinski’s. Had his old friend from what seemed an eternity ago jumped on the grenade to save his and other’s lives, or had he simply stumbled and fallen on it while trying to get away?

“He was a hero,” a young lieutenant said. Canfield took a second before remembering that the man’s name was Clark. “I saw it, sir. He jumped right on that grenade and saved all of us.”

Canfield decided that’s what he recalled as well. With Dubinski dead, no one could question his intentions. He smiled grimly. He would put Dubinski in for a medal, maybe even the big one, and, yeah, he would fight like hell to see that he got it.

Clark had men checking the dead Germans and they reported finding a couple of Lugers and three more grenades. Whoever had searched them earlier had fucked up royally, Clark said.

Just like I fucked up, Canfield thought sadly. If he hadn’t been so hell bent on being close to the front, none of this might have happened.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

The German column approached slowly. The front portion consisted of maybe a hundred trucks and light armored vehicles with a larger force about a mile behind. There were no tanks, Grant noted with relief. The most deadly vehicles were those trailing anti-aircraft guns or had machine guns mounted on them. He noted that many were local vehicles painted and configured to serve the German Army. Grant was still outclassed and outgunned by the Germans.

To the other side of the road and beyond the Germans lay Lake Ontario. It was shrouded in mist. Overhead, a few small planes flew. Clearly they were spotters, but what were they spotting? That they weren’t Germans was evident by the fact that German guns were trying to shoot them down, but without success. The tiny planes were too nimble and kept confounding their attackers with their erratic flying.

Landry slipped alongside Grant. “Damn good job of hiding everyone, sir.”

“Well, we’ve only got one chance to do this right,” Tom said.

His plan was simple. While it was thought that the escaped prisoners had enough of a head start to get away, he wasn’t certain. He also had no idea how long the Germans would chase them before giving up. Maybe they would never give up. Attacking and stalling the Germans, if only for a little while, might provide the necessary cushion. It could also get them all killed, he thought grimly. Thus, they would hit and scoot. Their ammunition would be used up in only a few minutes and then it would be time for them to disappear. But if they could delay the Nazis for even a half an hour it would enable the escapees to get that much farther away. The Canadian prisoners had already begun to disappear within the throngs of civilians, while the military personnel would continue to head in the general direction of Quebec.

At least that was what he hoped. Some of his civilian soldiers suddenly opened fire. They were too soon and ineffective. The German column stopped abruptly. Soldiers tumbled out of their vehicles and machine guns and cannon opened up on the American position. Grant gave the order and Landry’s men began firing with accuracy. Germans fell, but not enough of them and the rest of the column was hurrying to their rescue. Damn it, he thought. It was just too much to expect amateurs to maintain discipline. Sadly, they would pay for that lack.

Grant was just about to order his men to fall back when a volcano erupted just offshore. No, he realized, it wasn’t a volcano, it was the explosion of a massive shell. A second shell landed and this one was almost on top of the German column which was now in great disorder. A third and fourth shell exploded and these tossed some German vehicles into the air while the rest tried to scatter. More shells pounded the thoroughly confused Germans who were trying to flee back towards Toronto. Still more shells ripped through the column and worked their way back to the main force which was desperately trying to change course.

Landry grabbed Tom’s arm and pointed. “Would you look at that?”

Tom looked out towards the lake. The mist was clearing and a line of dark shapes could be seen a few miles offshore. They were warships and they were massive.

One of the Canadian volunteers came up and he was grinning hugely. “That’s the Royal Navy, colonel. It’s about damn time they showed up. The big ones are the battleships King George V and Iron Duke. I served on the King George. The smaller ones are cruisers and I ain’t sure which ones, but it sure as hell don’t matter.”

No, it didn’t matter, Tom thought. He stood and dusted himself off. He would not be involved in any more fighting today if he could help it. He got a casualty report. Thirty of his men were dead and more than a hundred wounded. Most of the casualties had come from the poorly armed and undisciplined volunteers. The result of his first attempt at an independent command had been a very mixed bag. If it hadn’t been for the navy, his men would have been slaughtered.

“I have a thought, sir,” said Landry. “Why don’t we take a flying column and see if we can do some damage in Toronto? My men and a bunch of cops could really raise some hell.”

Neumann had been well in the rear of the SS column when the British ships had destroyed it. Like the others, he turned his vehicle back towards Toronto. First, he stopped off at the Farm where he had housed and interrogated prisoners, including the almost forgotten Mary Bradford.

While there, he picked up Jed Munro and a handful of other Black Shirts. They were all that was left of what Neumann had hoped would be a sizable Canadian Nazi force. The rest had all fled and it was time for him to do so as well. The only way of escaping capture would be long and arduous and entailed heading north and then west until he reached a point where he could head south and then into Mexico. It would take him months if it worked at all.

First, however, he would need the money and phony identification he’d hidden in the German headquarters in Toronto. It was, he thought ironically, the same office where the unknown woman named Sherry had drugged him. Of that he was now certain.

His group could now be carried in only a few cars, which further dismayed him. They drove slowly, keeping an eye out for American planes. Finally, they pulled behind the headquarters building and entered, noting that the doors were open and papers were strewn about. He pulled his Luger and told the others to prepare for anything.

Neumann’s offices were in total disarray. It was even worse than when he’d left earlier.

“You have money, don’t you,” said Jed. “I think you’re gonna share it. We need to escape too.”

“Of course. First, I have to get it out of my wall safe.”

The safe was hidden behind a bad painting of some mountain scene out west. He pulled the painting off the wall and worked the combination of the safe.

“Jed, there’s more than enough for the two of us, but not if we have to share it with the others.”

Munro grinned wolfishly. “I understand,” he said. He left the room and ordered the men in the hallway to go out front and look for enemy soldiers. While he did that, Neumann opened the safe and brought out bundles of money which he piled on the desk. When Munro returned, his eyes immediately went to the cash. He didn’t see the pistol in Neumann’s hand. Neumann fired three times, killing Munro.

“Idiot,” said Neumann. He dumped the cash into a satchel along with several changes of identity. If the Black Shirt louts out front heard anything, they hadn’t reacted. He raced out the back and grabbed a staff car. It was time to drive west.

Guderian looked down on the bloody and shattered remains of Koenig. The young man had shown promise and, best of all, loyalty. His late aide lay with a number of other German soldiers who’d been pulverized by the unexpected barrage from Royal Navy battleships.

Battleships? Who the devil would expect battleships on Lake Ontario? The presence of the Royal Navy further convinced him that the German cause in North America was well and truly doomed. This year of 1944 was working out to be a disaster for the Reich. Stalingrad had been recaptured and von Paulus’ army destroyed. The field marshal had been captured. At least, Guderian thought bitterly, I won’t be the first. Hitler was going to shit and threaten him with death. Guderian didn’t give a damn. Worse, the Red Army continued to advance against a weakened German Army while Hitler gave futile orders to stand and die.

Hitler’s secret weapons hadn’t worked either. Von Arnim had fewer than a hundred V-1 rockets, and these had all been fired on the first day of the war and to little effect. The Americans hadn’t even reported their existence.

Nor was the situation any better on the high seas. The once mighty U-boat fleet was being systematically destroyed by Americans who seemed to know exactly where they were going to pop up. The Reich was afraid that a massive invasion fleet would sail from the American ports and invade anywhere they wished. Hitler’s so-called allies were wavering and would soon decide that they’d made a terrible mistake by backing the Reich.

And as to his orders to help out Japan by attacking the U.S., the Japanese were beyond help. They were being bombarded day and night by American planes and ships and were helpless to protect themselves. Their people were starving and, for the first time in their existence, there appeared to be those harboring thoughts of revolution. He wondered if anyone in Germany was thinking similar thoughts. He doubted it. Hitler had created a nation of slavish cowards.

Damn Hitler, he thought. This was going to be worse than after the First World War.

It was time to end it. He called for an aide and instructed him to make radio contact with the American command. He would surrender.

He had a thought. After surrendering, he would inform the Americans that he would be willing to renounce Hitler and Nazism and help form a democratic German government in exile. He and it would work to overthrow Hitler. It would mean betraying his Fuhrer, but the man had betrayed Germany. He had to be stopped before Germany was destroyed by the Red Hordes who were surely gathering.

The Black Shirts saw the Americans and the Toronto police advancing and shot wildly before running away. A couple of them were cut down by police and army gunfire before they could go far, but a handful disappeared down the streets. Grant, Landry, and Lambert looked at each other.

“That was close,” Landry said. “That was just about all the ammunition we had.”

They went inside. Lambert led the way. He knew where Neumann’s office was located. They went in and saw the open safe and found Jed Munro lying on the floor. He’d been shot twice in the chest and once in the face.

“Damn,” said Lambert. “Someone beat me to it.”

“Well, there’s still the kraut,” said Tom, “although, on second thought maybe I wouldn’t count on it. The bastard’s doubtless gone to ground. My guess is that that empty safe contained all he needed to hide for years — little things like a lot of cash and false IDs. He could hide for a decade and come out a free and rich man.”

“Ain’t no justice,” said Lambert. “Of course, there rarely is.”

The men decided to keep their combined forces in the former German headquarters. They would sit tight until relieved by other American units who were heading towards the area. Landry had already made contact with units approaching the city and had gotten the word that the Germans were surrendering. It made no sense to go out and risk getting shot by either a trigger-happy American or a fanatic Nazi. No, their war was going to end with a whimper and not a bang. At least for a while and maybe for a long while, Tom thought.

The war would be moving across the ocean, but he would try to get stationed at the Pentagon where he could be close to Alicia. She hadn’t quite told him as much, but he was pretty certain she was pregnant and only waiting for him to get back safely before she broke the news. She didn’t want to burden him, but she’d told Missy who’d told her husband who, of course, let it slip.

He was contemplating this when Sergeant Farnum, his arm in a sling, dragged in a very disheveled former State Department rep Wade Dylan.

“Look what I found, colonel, and yes, he was hiding.”

Dylan looked like hell. His clothes were torn and his face was bruised. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

“No sir, he was that kind of a mess when I found him.”

“Neumann did it,” Dylan said. He straightened up and fussed with his clothing. “For some reason, he thought I had betrayed him.”

“Had you?” Tom asked.

To their surprise, Dylan smiled. “Of course I had. That was my purpose in staying behind in the first place. Did you really think I was such a horse’s ass when you first talked to me? I had a role to play and I think I played it quite well.”

“Bullshit,” said Farnum. Tom noticed that Lambert was very quiet.

“Not so,” said Dylan, "and Detective Lambert can confirm it. When I was first left behind, my contacts were with the State Department. When the OSS came into being, Detective Lambert, aka Maple, was my connection. He will confirm that my code name was Stanley, as in the Stanley Cup.”

“Curiouser and Curiouser,” said Tom. Now more than ever he wanted to get back to Washington.

“What do we do now?” Farnum asked.

Tom stood. “First, we get everyone the hell out of this building in case somebody remembers that it is the German headquarters and decides to bomb or shell it. When we find another place to hole up, we wait for the cavalry to arrive. Landry can radio our situation and Lambert, since the phones are working, why don’t you call Sherry and let her know you’ll be home for dinner.”

Neumann had again changed his mind. Trying to make it west and then south to Mexico was absurd. The only safe course was the most obvious. He would surrender to the Americans along with the rest of Guderian’s army. To do that, he had killed a German soldier and taken his uniform. He then buried the cash he’d taken from the safe. It was all either American or Canadian and would prove useful when he was released. As a prisoner of war he would need no money and having any large amount would be suspicious. He kept a hundred dollars Canadian for incidental expenses.

Months earlier he’d had his SS blood type tattoo removed from his arm, and now he was proud of his foresight. When captured, the Americans would be unable to identify him as an SS officer. He would be able to get lost in the crowd. There was the remote possibility that someone would recognize him, but that was a chance he would have to take. He would let the Yanks intern him and then wait for the opportunity to escape if he wasn’t released first. At the rate things were going so badly for the Reich, it wouldn’t be long before there was an armistice. After all, who would want to punish a poor simple German soldier who’d been deluded by Hitler?

He staggered. There was a sudden sharp pain in his chest and he couldn’t catch his breath. He grabbed his chest and felt something sticky. Blood. What the devil, he thought as he slumped to the ground.

Almost three hundred yards away, Hipple grinned and lowered his rifle. “Got him,” he said.

Canfield, who had been only a short distance away, had mixed emotions. “Great shot, but we’re trying to encourage them to surrender.”

“Sorry, sir, but he had a rifle and didn’t much look like he was surrendering. I won’t do it again.”

Canfield had nothing to say to Hipple who was clearly un-contrite. It was one more dead German in partial payment for all the friends he had lost. He just wanted this to end so he could go home.

Epilogue

As head of the Irish Republic, Eamon De Valera had many conundrums to resolve and this was one of the worst. The old saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, had been Ireland’s mantra since Germany and Great Britain first went to war in 1914 and then in 1939. Hitler might be a monster, but he was fighting the country that had oppressed and brutalized Ireland for far too many centuries. For many living in Ireland, the thought of hated England being pounded into rubble by anyone, even Nazi Germany, pleased them. The rumors of what the Germans were doing to the Jews were dismissed. The idea of mass murder on the scale reported had to be untrue and besides, who liked the Jews?

Thus, Ireland had declared itself neutral, although taking limited actions that favored Nazi Germany, and these included providing sanctuary for U-boats in Irish rivers.

The Irish people were not without mercy and thought it appropriate that they sell food to the English. It pleased them that Irish potatoes and other foodstuffs were helping to keep England from starvation.

All of this came to a halt when Germany invaded the United States. The U.S. had been the land of hope and opportunity for the people of Ireland for a century. Hundreds of thousands had immigrated to America and now, it was said, there were more Irishmen in the U.S. then there were in Ireland. It went without saying that many tens of thousands were now serving in the American military and fighting the Germans who were at war with the hated English.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, de Valera thought, but who the devil was now my enemy and who was my friend?

His secretary opened the door to his private office and de Valera nodded. Two men entered. Both wore the uniform of the United States army, although considerably rumpled. They had arrived by submarine and had been able to freshen up slightly at the American Embassy before rushing to see de Valera. The matter was that urgent, they’d said.

De Valera greeted them graciously, shook their hands, and told them to sit. They were introduced as Major General Lucien Truscott and Colonel Thomas Grant. They declined an offer of refreshments. There wasn’t time, the more senior American said. “Mr. President, we have news for you that might be quite upsetting and, if handled improperly, could result in loss of life.”

De Valera sighed. He had a good idea what was coming. “I assume you are here to tell me that you are going to violate Ireland’s neutrality.”

“Only if you force us to, sir. Let me be blunt. A massive American fleet is en route to Ireland and it is escorting a large number of troop ships. Until England is stabilized, America has no base to use to bring the war to Hitler. Thus, we must have such a base in Ireland.”

“And our neutrality means nothing?”

“Not if it costs American lives,” Truscott answered coldly. “We had hoped to give you at least a little more time, but we were delayed by bad weather and mechanical problems. The American fleet is now approaching your shores. Two divisions of American soldiers will be landing at first light at several locations. It is up to you to either order your armed forces to stand down or to fight and be slaughtered by forty thousand well-armed and experienced soldiers.”

De Valera stood and the others did as well. The Irish prime minister had no choice. Not only would his small army be cut to pieces if it resisted the Americans, but it was likely that many would refuse to fight against the United States. The U.S. could do what it wished. Germany was in decline. Not only had she lost badly in both North America and Russia, but, as a result, her satellites and allies were getting restive. There were rumors of a negotiated peace floating around, and peace would be a very good thing. Regardless what he thought about becoming a de facto ally of Great Britain, it was clear that doing so was inevitable and would put Ireland on the winning side. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

It was two o’clock in the morning. If he was going to communicate a message of non-resistance to his army, he had to do it now. His secretary had been listening, his face pale.

“It would be idiocy for us to resist you,” de Valera said grimly. “The orders will go out immediately.” He nodded and the secretary skittered out to draft a short message. “You’ve gotten what you wished. You may leave now.”

On the Dublin street outside de Valera’s private quarters, Truscott and Grant breathed in the cool morning air. It was still dark and few were about. The car from the embassy awaited them.

Truscott smiled. His mission had been a success. The thought of Americans killing Irish was almost too awful to contemplate. In a short while he and Grant would be flying back to Washington via Iceland and Gander. With American forces in Ireland, Hitler would be further isolated. He had made only one commitment to de Valera and it was almost funny.

No British soldiers would be permitted to land in Ireland.

Content

Robert Conroy
North Reich

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Epilogue