Threads of Despair: The Parallel Nazi - 6 Read online

  Threads of Despair

  The Parallel Nazi – Book 6

  Ward Wagher

  Threads of Despair

  Parallel Nazi 6:

  Ward Wagher

  Copyright © 2020 Ward Wagher

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798574595213

  DEDICATION

  I would like to dedicate this book to my dad, who served in the United States Navy at the end of World War II. He did not see combat action, although he did experience his ship sinking underneath him during a typhoon in late 1945. He passed away before I started my writing career, but I hope he would have enjoyed my books.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks as usual to those who give feedback – to Ric, Bob, and Don. Thanks to Kellie, our Realtor, who found us a lovely home where I have a dedicated room for an office

  .

  CHAPTER ONE

  November 1, 1943; 9 AM

  Imperial Palace

  Tokyo, Japan

  Prime Minister Isoroku Yamamoto bowed low before the throne of Emperor Hirohito. The formal reception included members of the emperor’s entourage as well as senior members of the government. Most in the throne room recognized the tension singing like telephone wires in the air. Many also knew the reasons behind the unease. All were waiting for the emperor to bring his increasingly independent prime minister to heel.

  “Arise, Prime Minister,” Hirohito said in his customary soft voice, “we will now receive the report of your activities and plans for the upcoming new year.”

  “Your Majesty,” Yamamoto responded, “we have delivered the proposed budget for the next year. It awaits your approval. We have also completed a general planning session of the war committee and have proposed a plan of operations for the next year. We crave your approval and wish to proceed.”

  The short, slight man in the carefully crafted pinstripe suit leaned forward in the throne.

  “We are satisfied with the work you have done. It has been done well. We will study your recommendations and expect further discussions.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “To all of you in the room,” the emperor announced, pivoting his gaze to those in attendance, “please recognize that our prime minister has excelled in a difficult job. Not only must he speak for me, but he must also conduct a difficult war without destroying our economy. We have not historically supported our governments well. We wish to emphasize the importance of maintaining unity in the face of our enemies. We expect that we will do so.”

  With that, the current occupant of the Chrysanthemum Throne stood and walked from the room. Yamamoto watched in shock and surprise. The emperor was a master of oblique wordcraft and often left his subjects guessing what he had meant. In this case, his direct statements assaulted the room with blunt honesty, and most of the attendees wondered what was going to happen.

  Yamamoto had other concerns. He turned and caught the eye of Admiral Shigetarō Shimada and raised an eyebrow. The admiral nodded slightly. Yamamoto turned and left the room. As he exited, one of the emperor’s functionaries tapped him on the shoulder.

  “The Emperor will see you now, Prime Minister. If you will follow me.”

  “Of course.”

  So Yamamoto followed the functionary through the serpentine halls of the palace to the emperor’s private office. On his regular walks to visit the emperor, he often wondered about the palace designer. Was there a real reason to make the layout so complex when simple would do? Perhaps the unlikely paths of the corridors would confuse possible assailants in a country with an often-violent history.

  “Did you like my little speech?” Hirohito asked with a small smirk.

  “I liked the speech very much, Your Majesty. But I must confess to some confusion as to why you spoke in such a way.”

  “What happened to my guards?”

  So the emperor decides to fence with me, Yamamoto thought. That is a good sign.

  “I could not completely ensure your safety, Your Majesty, without guards that I knew, were one-hundred percent loyal.”

  “And so you replaced them with guards who were one-hundred percent loyal to you.”

  Yamamoto took the challenge and turned it over in his mind. He did not expect the emperor to be happy about the situation, but he hoped for acquiescence.

  “Majesty, I replaced the guard force with people who I knew were dedicated to your security. I have worried over some recent unrest.”

  “Would the man who single-handedly dispatched a group of assassins have anything to fear?”

  Word got around, the prime minister reasoned. A group of assassins had broken into Yamamoto’s house, targeting him as a way to preserve the status quo. He had dispatched them with his pistol. He did not feel exceptionally skilled, only lucky.

  “Meeting that group of assassins required no particular challenge on my part, Sir. My concern is that people like that have only to succeed once. I have to stop them every single time. That becomes vexing.”

  “And you secured your position by removing my guards. And you have shuffled my staff. I should think that represents some aggressive actions on your part, Prime Minister.”

  “Your Majesty, I desire to safeguard the kingdom and empire. Some people do not have your best interests or mine at the forefront of their thinking? I view this as a means to secure your life and legacy. And it will bring stability to the government.”

  Hirohito stared at his prime minister for a long while. Finally, he sighed.

  “Very well, my friend. I do not confess to being delighted with this turn of events. But, it appears you have secured your position, and I must support that.”

  Yamamoto bowed. “Your wisdom and insight have prospered Japan. You exude greatness.”

  The emperor’s wry smile showed he understood
things all too well. Yamamoto had reversed the roles. He was now in charge, and Hirohito was under his control.

  “Go then, Prime Minister. Because you have grasped all of the levers of power, you will also accept responsibility for your actions. I hope for all our sakes you know what you are doing.”

  Yamamoto bowed again and backed out of the emperor’s office. He was thoughtful as his guards swung around him and accompanied him back to his office. Within five minutes, Admiral Shimada eased in via a side door.

  “What was that all about this morning?”

  Yamamoto looked up with a sad smile. “That was our emperor accepting the change in the status quo that we engineered. He handed me the keys to the kingdom, even though we both knew that I could have taken them at any time.”

  “So he didn’t fight you in your private audience.”

  “That is correct. I think the emperor recognized the fait accompli. He was not holding a good hand this morning, but he played it with verve. What he has done is not only formally recognize we hold controlling the power in the land, but he dropped the responsibility for it upon us as well.”

  The admiral sighed. “Whatever you can say about the man, he is no fool.”

  “Oh, our glorious emperor is a long way from foolish. Since there was nothing he could do about our coup d’etat, he turned around and supported us.”

  “In other words, Isoroku, you got what you wanted.”

  “In other words, yes. God help us.”

  “What is next?”

  “We have a war to conclude without destroying the nation, the people, and the culture.”

  “I must ask you again. Is that even possible?”

  “Do we have a choice?” was the prime minister’s rejoinder.

  § § §

  November 1, 1943

  Red Army Headquarters, West

  Kunowice, Polish Territory

  General Ivan Smirnoff stared at his desk as his coffee cooled, and his tension heated. He expected the door to burst open at any moment with an invasion of NKVD agents who would arrest him for his failure.

  His staff had carefully arranged the plans for crossing the Oder River into Germany proper. Doing so would place the Red Armies within 80 kilometers of Berlin. While no one expected the war to end when he captured Berlin, it would undoubtedly change the face of the conflict.

  But those infernal Germans with their control of the air had attacked with a new weapon. Best described as liquid fire, it clung to whatever it touched and burned like gasoline. His intelligence people had declared that gasoline was a principal component of the jellied death. Whatever it was, it had stopped the operation cold. The few soldiers who made it across the Oder were quickly surrounded and captured by the Wehrmacht.

  Worse, the Germans also fitted the new bomb to their pilot-less aircraft. Previously, the aircraft's inaccuracy had made them not much more than a nuisance, even though one had managed to kill the previous army commander. Now the impact of one of the buzzing machines would send a sheet of liquid fire far outside of the blast radius and incinerate anything in its path.

  Smirnoff’s stomach tightened painfully at the knock on the door. In his more honest, reflective moments, he questioned the sanity of the nation he served, fearing the internal security people more than he did the enemy.

  “Come,” he shouted, sternly telling himself to be the man and face whatever came his way.

  Colonel Belyaev and Lieutenant Colonel Kuzmin walked into the office. They stopped in front of his desk and saluted.

  “What brings you two comrades to my lair?” Smirnoff asked, forcing himself to act with good humor.

  “Comrade, General,” Belyaev began, “one of the German propeller-less aircraft crashed ten kilometers to the north. We have captured it intact.”

  Smirnoff rocked forward in his chair. “Is that so! Did we capture the pilot as well?”

  “We did,” Kuzmin replied. “The pilot was unhurt and was caught as he tried to escape.”

  “This is good news, then,” Smirnoff said. “As you know, we have people in Moscow who badly want to have a look at that aircraft. And, we can use some good news for a change.”

  He reminded himself that the fortunes of war could swing around in moments, like a weather vane on the top of a barn. The trick was in taking advantage of a fair wind, which was something he badly needed at the moment.

  “We have already procured a truck and guards to take the aircraft to Moscow. We await your instructions, Comrade General.”

  “First of all, get a note drafted to the Politburo. This is good news, and they will want to hear about it. Arrange for the truck to leave after dark. You can be sure the Germans will move heaven and Earth to keep us from retaining the aircraft.”

  Kuzmin nodded. “Yes, Comrade. I had already laid out a route and begun briefing the drivers and guards.”

  “You have shown excellent initiative,” Smirnoff commented. “Only remember to be careful who sees that.”

  Kuzmin visibly gulped. While the government had eased up on the purges since the beginning of the war, the Russian people were adept at maintaining a low profile. The NKVD was still capricious in deciding who posed a threat to the revolution.

  “I would like to see this aircraft,” Smirnoff said as he stood. “I think I need to get out of the office for a while.”

  Traveling under skies owned by the German air forces was a risky endeavor for general officers but manageable. Smirnoff used a single staff car with a driver and two guards. The marauding Focke-Wulfs and Stukas tended to ignore lone vehicles. On the other hand, singletons were targets for partisans and irregular forces. Smirnoff had developed a tactic of sending several vehicles along the road, about one kilometer apart. Again, the Luftwaffe would not bother them, and the first vehicles or the last in the grouping were the ones who were more often attacked.

  Smirnoff arrived at the crash site without incident and walked immediately to the downed Me 262, looking curiously at the aircraft's sleek lines. Even immobilized on the ground, it had the lethal grace of a shark.

  A Red Army captain popped to attention as the general walked up.

  “Comrade General, it is a great day for the people. We have captured one of the German first-line aircraft and its pilot.”

  “So I see, Captain…”

  “Sugatov. Captain Ireno Sugatov, Comrade General.”

  “Very well, Captain Sugatov. Who was responsible for capturing the pilot?”

  “My team was the first on the scene, and we were able to capture the pilot.”

  The captain was very proud of himself. Well, Smirnoff thought, he had every right to be.

  “Those are the engines?” Smirnoff asked, pointing to the pods under the wings.

  “I think so, Sir. There are fan-like mechanisms in the front. But, to be honest, I have no idea what I am looking at.”

  Smirnoff bent over to peer inside the front of the jet engine. He walked around the wing and walked up the wing-root to look into the cockpit. The instrument panel looked conventional, anyway. Cannon barrels protruded from the nose of the aircraft. He stepped back so he could take in the whole machine at once.

  “An impressive aircraft,” he stated.

  “They are not invulnerable,” the captain replied, “but our pilots say that they are to be respected.”

  “I have heard that as well. But the Germans are capable of making mistakes. This pilot probably made one, to our benefit. Very well, Captain. You will be receiving orders to prepare the plane for transport to Moscow. Do I need to explain the importance of the task?”

  “No, Comrade General. I understand and will take all measures to secure the aircraft and pilot.”

  “Thank you, Comrade. Carry on.”

  Smirnoff turned and marched back to his staff car.

  CHAPTER TWO

  November 1, 1943; 9 AM

  Reichschancellor’s Office

  Reichchancellery

  Berlin, Germany

  Reich Ch
ancellor Heinrich Schloss was the unquestioned master of Germany and Western Europe. This was despite, or perhaps because of his former life as a history professor in 1982 Berlin. He had been cast back to June of 1941 into a very different Germany through a mysterious event. There he witnessed Hitler’s death in a plane crash and discovered that though he was still Heinrich Schloss, he was now the party leader or Partieleiter of the Nazi Party.

  Over the following six months, he struggled against Nazi insanity to avoid war with Russia and the United States. And at a personal level, he was embroiled in a contest of wills against the man who controlled the SS and Gestapo, Heinrich Himmler.

  Schloss’s success in the struggle resulted in his taking the leadership of the nation and then working assiduously to change course to avoid inevitable disaster. It seemed like every advance he made to strengthen the Reich's position resulted in setbacks, culminating in an existential war with the Soviet Union.

  Eventually, Schloss developed a rapprochement with the English and met with the queen to further build their two countries' relationship. But the two leaders aborted a summit meeting when a Russian commando team planted a bomb in the Frankfurt hotel. That killed forty-two people, including Schloss’s sister, Renate Schreiber, and the English Foreign Minister. And he was once again trying to reassemble the pieces of his life.

  The routine and suffocating pressure of administrative work were anodyne for the pain he felt. Even so, he wondered about why these losses should hurt so. He used his ever-present pencil to lightly check each paragraph as he read the turgid report from Ribbentrop’s commerce organization. Finally, he turned around to grab the Thermos jug of coffee.

  “Kirche,” he bawled, “more coffee!”

  “At once, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  Schloss swung back around and tried to pick up the report again. He decided his concentration had been interrupted by the need for coffee, so it was time to visit the toilet. Upon returning, he encountered his secretary, Willem Kirche, as he brought a fresh Thermos. And sitting in one of the chairs across from his desk was a striking red-haired woman.