North Reich (34 page)

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.