Alternative 3 Read online

  KEN MITCHELL

  ALTERNATIVE

  3

  For Finn

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  PerfectBound Special Feature: Website links to the

  conspiracy theories in Alternative 3

  Credits

  Copyright Page

  About PerfectBound

  PROLOGUE

  Berlin, April 1945

  The Russian soldiers aren’t taking any risks. Their progress into the heart of Berlin’s central district is slow, deliberate and cautious. The final assault on Berlin is into its fourth long day, despite some of the heaviest air attacks of the war. The street combat has been savage as remnants of the Wehrmacht and SS fight for their very survival against an unstoppable Red tide.

  To the few Berliners remaining in the beleaguered capital, their city is now largely unrecognisable from the one that had unleashed an iron empire stretching from North Africa to the Baltic. But the bombing has finally brought the reality of the war home to even the most complacent Berliner. The city is pounded relentlessly around the clock — even in broad daylight — such is the feeble resistance of the once mighty Luftwaffe. Almost every building has been shelled or burned out in the raging firestorms created by the incendiary bombing.

  The city’s infrastructure — from newspapers to public transport — has long since collapsed, and looting is widespread. Electricity, gas and sanitation have broken down, and food, a precious scarcity during the final few weeks, is now almost unobtainable. Broken hydrants are the only source of water but, as the Soviet grasp on the city tightens, it is no longer safe to venture even briefly onto the exposed, desolate streets.

  Berlin’s frightened civilian inhabitants have taken to their cellars — their sense of time distorted by the death and destruction around them. Glimpses of anxious faces at cellar windows are the only sign that inside, a family is clinging to the small hope that they will survive the Russian onslaught long enough to surrender to the Allies. But for most, those hopes are in vain, as the Russian juggernaut crushes all before it, unleashing with savage intensity the years of pent-up rage for the hell inflicted on them at Moscow, Leningrad and Stalingrad.

  Two Russian armies of more than 2.5 million men and machines have Berlin circled in a vice-like grip. The Führer himself takes charge of the city’s defences, and in a final radio broadcast to the few still listening, announces in a display of bravado that he will stay on in his capital to the last. Too late, he orders his beleaguered armies, retreating with alarming speed before the Western allies, to come to the rescue of his beloved city. But Russian troops have already shaken hands with the Americans for photographers at the river Elbe, and the race has begun to be the first to march triumphantly into the very heart of the Nazi empire. Hastily thrown together divisions of defenders are rushed into position. But equipment and ammunition are scarce, and commanding officers are forced to use the civilian telephone network to arrange each line of defence, following numerous reports of Russian breakthroughs. Despite being outnumbered, outmanoeuvred and outgunned, the German commanders are ordered to ‘set a shining example of devotion to duty unto death’.

  The Russians have the Berlin garrison confined to a narrow east–west corridor less than 5 kilometres wide and 16 kilometres long. But soon it is penetrated in two places, leaving three small pockets of resistance. One of the pockets is to become the symbol of last-ditch resistance of the final days of the Nazi regime. At its centre stands the Reichstag building, the former home of Germany’s National Assembly. For the Soviets it has special meaning — conquering it will symbolise total victory over Nazi Germany.

  The assault on the Reichstag begins early. Artillery and howling ‘Katyusha’ rockets blast the huge grey monolith in the darkness, which lifts to reveal an overcast morning thick with smoke and the choking grit of battle. The Russian soldiers leading the assault are hardened combat veterans. But even they are unprepared for the fanaticism they face from the cornered Nazis, desperate to hold out until they can surrender to the Western Allies and avoid the terrible Soviet wrath. Every doorway and window must be cleared of snipers and anti-tank gunners before they can safely advance. It is slow, painstaking and dangerous work. Behind them a 4000-strong armada of Soviet tanks rolls into the heart of the city. Smoke and fumes already wreath the Brandenburg Gate. Once the scene of Germany’s great military parades, it now stands as a silent monument to a dying city.

  Up ahead of the advancing Russian infantry, the hulking grey outline of the Reichstag emerges from the smoke. Even with the end so near the Russian soldiers remain cautious, despite the urgent demands of their superiors to beat the Allies to the prize. They work in teams to clear side streets and bombed-out buildings of small pockets of brave but futile resistance. The defenders are mostly old men of the Volksturm — the German Home Guard — and boys of the Hitler Youth conscripted in the final few weeks of the war. Their equipment is limited and their training rudimentary. As they huddle in lonely doorways and foxholes, the ground beneath their feet vibrates as columns of Russian tanks inch towards them. The narrow streets amplify the growling of the monstrous engines and squealing metal tracks, as they lumber forward, spitting death at any sign of movement ahead.

  The large square in front of the Reichstag is a ghastly battle zone strewn with rubble and debris from the intensive bombing. Abandoned 88-mm guns hastily set up by the defenders in the last few days stand silent, surrounded by bodies in bloody grey uniforms. Thick black smoke belches from gaping holes in the domed roof of the Reichstag, as inside, the defenders try to prevent the inevitable Russian assault. The lower storey windows, reinforced with steel and concrete, have turned the once grand building into a fortress. Small firing slits bristle with the barrels of weapons, forcing the Russians to take whatever cover they can find on the vast square below.

  Eventually the Russian tanks take position and begin shelling the Reichstag with relentless precision. The ornate brickwork is blown apart, and one by one the concreted-up windows blown in. The small-arms fire from the building becomes sporadic. Through the lingering smoke, waves of hunched-over Soviets dive forward under cover as they advance steadily on the building. The long journey from Moscow is almost at an end.

  Beneath the feet of the advancing Russians, a man stands alone in front of a cracked mirror. The faint light of a single bulb reveals a face swathed in bandages. Through the bandages two black, piercing eyes stare at their own dim reflection. The sounds of the battle above faintly penetrate the small concrete-lined bunker, each shell-burst showering the room with a fine layer of dust. The man’s reverie is broken by a tentative knock on the door. He draws a long, deep breath, holding his gaze in the mirror. His hand moves to the Luger strapped to his waist, then abruptly jerks shut the zip on his black jumpsuit. It holds no insignia — no clue to the man’s identity.

  ‘Kom.’ He turns from the mirror to a young oberleutnant standing at the door. There is desperation in the officer’s bloodshot and black-ringed eyes, yet he is polite — almost reverent — towards the man in the bandages.

  ‘It is time.’

  The man with the bandaged face rests his hands on the officer’s shoulders, squeezing them firmly, looking squarely into his eyes. The oberleutnant’s heart races with the heavy burde
n of expectation. He nods that he is ready. The bandaged man begins stuffing a worn leather satchel with papers. Despite his exhaustion, the oberleutnant shuffles nervously, noticing that the papers include diagrams unlike anything he’s ever seen before — circular designs annotated with complicated physics equations. He looks away as the bandaged man straps up the satchel, pretending he hasn’t seen them.

  Together they emerge from the room into a long concrete corridor bustling with soldiers, wireless operators and intelligence officers — some with their sleeves rolled up, shouting commands to men carrying piles of papers. The string of low-watt lightbulbs running along the arched ceiling begins to fade erratically as the bunker’s generator sucks thirstily at the last precious drops of fuel. They fight their way up the corridor past a large room where filing cabinets are being ripped apart and their contents thrown into piles on the floor. Smoke is already starting to drift along the corridor ceiling, adding to the confusion being played out beneath the advancing Russians’ feet.

  The oberleutnant follows the bandaged man into another small room. It is dark, and at first the oberleutnant can only just make out the vague shape of a man sitting on a low cot, back straight, his hands placed on his knees. But as he rises to face the bandaged man, the face that moves out of the shadows is instantly recognisable. Before him in full uniform stands the Führer, the Third Reich’s supreme leader. The two men silently examine one another. The oberleutnant, discretely moving back into the shadows, notices that the bandaged man is almost exactly the same height and build as the Führer. But the men appear oblivious to him, and to the sounds of the battle above. Time in the small room seems to stand still. Finally the bandaged man lifts his right arm in a tired Nazi salute, just as the oberleutnant raises his gun to the back of the Führer’s head.

  The sound of the pistol shot in the confined space is deafening, but even before it has died away the oberleutnant is gently lowering the lifeless body to the floor, placing his pistol into the Führer’s own hand. For a moment he stands over the body, a thick pool of blood oozing across the concrete floor. His soft whisper is only just audible.

  ‘Heil Hitler.’

  But the bandaged man is impatient and the oberleutnant barely has time to give hurried orders to two dishevelled SS stormtroopers who have appeared at the door, before rushing back up the corridor after him. Fighting his way through the melee, he glances back to see the stormtroopers carry the blanket-draped body out of the room, and disappear into the dark smoky haze.

  The bandaged man is no longer in the corridor, but the oberleutnant stops outside a door deep within the bowels of the cramped, underground complex. It is slightly ajar, and stealing a glance inside he sees the bandaged man standing over a woman sprawled across a small army cot against the wall. He is running his hand through the blonde hair spilling over her face, her eyes fixed in a glazed, faraway stare. On the dresser an empty bottle of whiskey — Yankee whiskey he notices — stands beside a few small black pills. The oberleutnant recognises the cyanide capsules with which he has also been issued, accompanied by orders to keep them on his person at all times, such is the fear of the Russians and the lack of information on their progress. He looks away, embarrassed to be witnessing this private moment, but his eyes are drawn back to the scene playing out in the tiny bedroom. The woman’s head moves slightly at the bandaged man’s touch. A pistol appears in the bandaged man’s hand, and the oberleutnant closes the door as quietly as he can.

  The sound of the shot from the room merges with a violent explosion directly overhead. Even as the smoke is clearing from the blast, the Russians are diving, running, ducking. But always advancing. Behind them a steel monster emerges over a pile of rubble with a furious growl of its engines. The massive Soviet T34 tank is now directly over the bunker, its forward machine gun hosing bullets into the black holes blasted into the side of the Reichstag. One of the Russian soldiers shielding behind it stops for an instant, his gaze held by a cleverly camouflaged pipe rising from the rubble. A few short sharp commands are shouted, and the rest of the soldiers fan out, eyes scanning the ground for any clues to the entrance of the underground bunker.

  Just metres away in the relative shelter of the Reichstag garden, an SS officer is overseeing two stormtroopers emptying cans of gasoline over two crumpled figures wrapped in thick grey blankets. The soldiers are in a desperate hurry, wildly throwing the gasoline at the grisly pile, but the officer orders them to finish the job properly, to make sure the bodies are well doused. As soon as the cans are empty the soldiers pick up their weapons and run back to the door of the bunker, as the officer flicks a lighter and throws it onto the wet pile. The gasoline ignites instantly with a loud whoosh, and even though the officer feels the heat singeing his eyebrows, he waits to make sure the flames have taken hold. Finally, he too retrieves his machine gun and after taking one last look at the shelled remains of the Reichstag, retreats to the safety of the bunker, which is closed and locked.

  At the far end of the underground complex, the bandaged man waits patiently as the oberleutnant struggles to slide a cabinet out from the wall. The room is used for storage only, since it is furthermost from the entrance and the last to receive air from the ducting system. The oberleutnant’s brow drips with dirty sweat as he drags the solid Bavarian oak cabinet towards the centre of the room, revealing a cavity in the concrete wall behind it. It is a small gap, barely big enough for two men to squeeze into . . .

  The defenders inside the bunker doors tense visibly in the darkness, as they hear frenzied shouts in Russian from just outside. The thick steel doors have been discovered. Now it is only a matter of time. They sit silently with their backs against the cold concrete walls, grasping their weapons tightly, as they listen to the sound of a tank manoeuvring into position. Some finger their small black capsules, but no one speaks. There is nothing left to say.

  Inside the storeroom at the end of the bunker, the oberleutnant joins the bandaged man in the shallow cavity, kicking a steel pedal protruding from the wall at his feet. Immediately the room is filled with the heavy grating of concrete sliding on concrete, as the ceiling begins a slow descent towards the floor. They stiffen their backs against the wall, the bandaged man clutching his satchel tightly against his chest. The ceiling reaches the level of the large cabinet, which creaks for an instant before exploding in a spray of splinters. Still it descends, just inches from the faces of the two men. Their breathing comes hard as the thick concrete block appears to seal them into the cavity, but they remain silent and resolute.

  Eventually the top of the ceiling block appears, and as soon as it comes to a stop the two men clamber awkwardly out of the cavity up on to it. It is pitch-black, and it takes the oberleutnant a few moments of fumbling about on his knees to locate the steel ladder lying on the ground. He struggles to lift it — it is hinged at one end to the floor, but with a loud ringing thud it soon stands erected, providing a stairway up into the darkness. At the top of the ladder the oberleutnant feels for a manhole in the wall, a smell of thick, wet decay emerging from the nothingness. As soon as the bandaged man has joined him inside the hole, he kicks the ladder back down to the floor, just as a huge explosion rocks the bunker . . .

  The moment the thick iron door is blown apart by a single well-aimed blast from the Soviet tank, the Russians rush the bunker in numbers. There is little resistance — the explosion within the tight concrete confines of the bunker rips through the corridor with devastating effect, instantly killing the German defenders, forcing the Russians to climb over their bodies to get inside. Each room off the central corridor is efficiently dealt with by a grenade and a wild spray of machine-gun bullets. The few surviving Germans, blood flowing freely from their shattered ear drums, deaf to the sound of their own voices mouthing ‘Ich ergebe mich!’, are executed summarily. The Russian progress through the maze of tunnels is surprisingly fast. Only one room thwarts all attempts to open it — a thick steel door at the very end of the complex. Holes blown in the d
oor reveal a solid concrete wall behind it, impervious to the Russian onslaught. But the choking smoke in the bunker rapidly becomes unbearable, so the soldiers decide to look elsewhere in their search for any possible escape routes . . .

  The muffled explosions from the bunker gradually recede as the oberleutnant and the bandaged man moved down a narrow, wet tunnel. The men cling to a waist-high handrail as the tunnel undulates in the dark. The only sounds they can hear are their boots on the wet concrete floor, and the scurrying of rats at their feet.

  Finally they arrive at the end of the tunnel, and in the dark the oberleutnant feels along the wall, soon finding what he is looking for. His fingers hit a hard steel rung, and after hauling himself up, he climbs a narrow shaft. A steel trapdoor seals the shaft from outside — identical to the watertight doors on German U-boats. An iron bar hangs from the top-most rung. The oberleutnant grasps the bar and thrusts it sharply upwards against the thick steel door, the noise echoing down the tunnel behind him. He can hear the steady breathing of the bandaged man below him as he waits anxiously for a reply. Finally he hears a single, faint knock. He swings the bar again — two sharp knocks on the door. This time the response follows immediately. Two knocks. The pilot.

  He grunts in the darkness as he manhandles the wheel. At first it won’t budge, but with a supreme effort it begins to turn. Soon the wheel is spinning freely until coming to a sudden stop, unlocked. As the door is slowly lifted open, a thin light filters down the shaft. There is a moment of recognition between the oberleutnant and the pilot, before he clambers out to join him inside a huge airship hangar. As they wait for the bandaged man to emerge, the oberleutnant anxiously scans the vast shadowy space, visibly relaxing when he realises that he has reached Templehof aerodrome — the Führer’s own private military airport — ahead of the Russians.

  ‘We must hurry.’ The pilot is impatient.