Weapons of choice

Himmler propped the pad up against a framed picture of his mistress. It threatened to fall under its own weight. He carefully picked up his tea and sipped as a series of movies played over Steckel's voice.

It was both amazing and infuriating. He felt certain there was a great deal he wasn't being told. The color movies, which were astoundingly sophisticated, detailed weapons systems and technology that boggled the mind: missiles that could fly into space and spit dozens of insanely powerful warheads onto different cities, killing millions of people and destroying whole nations in the blink of an eye. Infantry uniforms with padded armor that could stop a round from a Mauser. Machines in the sky that could listen in on every telephone conversation or radio broadcast in the world, and sort them into the relevant and immaterial. Oh, what the Gestapo could do with that!

But nowhere in this litany of magic tricks was there an explanation of how an inferior race, from a country no one had ever heard of, could possibly develop such things. How could a mud race such as these Javanese peasants prosper in the very first century of the thousand-year Reich? Where did the fuhrer appear in this fairy tale? This astounding contraption and Steckel's tales of Untermensch from the future raised the obvious question.

What was the future for the Fatherland?

Even with such thoughts swirling in his mind, Himmler gave no outward indication of reacting at all. When the movie finished, he sat and thought for a few minutes before pulling half a dozen sheets of parchment from his desk drawer and inking a fountain pen.

In all of the Reich there were only two men the fuhrer trusted completely. Heinrich Himmler and Otto Skorzeny.

It was time to send Skorzeny to the East.

But first, Himmler would need to talk to the Japanese ambassador.

Three hours later, Reichsfuhrer Himmler and Lieutenant General Oshima Hiroshi met in the grand compound at the spiritual heart of the Waffen-SS. Lichterfelde had once been a school for military cadets, but the old butcher Sepp Dietrich had convinced Hitler that his personal army should have a headquarters befitting their elite status as supermen and praetorian guard to the fuhrer himself.

Himmler, who was unusual among the higher-caste Nazis in having no taste for extravagance, could nevertheless appreciate Dietrich's achievement as his Mercedes swept in through the front gates guarded by two giant, iconic statues of German soldiers in modern battle dress. Gravel crunched under the limousine's wheels as it motored quietly toward the four grand stone barracks buildings designated "Adolf Hitler," "Horst Wessel," "Hermann Goring," and "Hindenburg."

Squads of tall, blond Nordic warriors jogged to and fro with machinelike precision. The crunch of their hobnailed boots spoke of perfect regimentation. A magnificent black stallion from the barracks stables, the finest in Europe, clopped past, led by an old farrier, a veteran of the fuhrer's own unit from the Great War. A comrade who had proven himself at the fuhrer's side in single combat, he smiled and nodded as Himmler emerged from the car. Himmler indulged the man's familiarity. He suffered from mild shell shock and was a favorite of Hitler's. The fuhrer had asked Himmler to find him a suitable sinecure, and there could be no more prestigious and comfortable surroundings in all of Germany for the old soldier to see out his remaining days.

Hitler had been pleased, which meant that Himmler was even more so.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Meyer. A beautiful day for a ride, ja?" said Himmler.

"It would be," said Meyer. His voice was a harsh whisper, the result of a French shell fragment that tore into his throat in 1917. "But my friend here needs new shoes first."

Horse and man turned and ambled away to the stables.

Himmler took a moment to enjoy the bucolic scene under a warm summer sky before heading to the barracks' reception area. He did not smile once.

Inside the great hall, huge oil paintings of the fuhrer hung from the stone walls. Candles and burning torches threw back the gloom, which was considerable after the brightness of the day outside. Nordic runes, inlaid in silver, ran around the room, which was magnificently furnished with carved oaken benches and tables. A receptionist glanced up from her desk and blanched at the sight of Himmler in his black uniform.

"Reichsfuhrer," she stammered. "We were not expecting you until after lunch."

"I am early," he announced. "Has General Hiroshi arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. He is in the guest house. I shall take you right to him."

"Don't bother," he said. "I know the way."