Free Fox On The Rhine by Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson Page A

deserved and overdue, that’s all there was to it.”
    “If you say so, General,” Wakefield said, taking the cigar out of his mouth.
    “I do say so, Henry,” Bradley said. “And I’ll look forward to having you cover my flanks in France.”
    “My pleasure,” Wakefield growled back, unable to keep the smile off his face. It looked like he’d get into the war after all.
     
    Karinhall, North of Berlin, Germany, 2110 hours GMT
     
    The telephone rang in Hauptmann Ernst Schmidt’s office shortly past ten o’clock. The Luftwaffe officer lifted the receiver without speaking.
    “Ein Gewitter nahert sich,” said the caller, his voice taut with suppressed tension. A second later the line went dead.
    The code phrase--”A thunderstorm approaches”--sent a surge of adrenaline through Schmidt’s veins. For a moment he feared that he would become physically sick, but he roughly forced down the emotion.
    Still, his hand trembled as he pulled the Walther P38 automatic from the shelf behind his desk. Smaller than the long-barreled Mauser 7.63 mm he usually carried, the hard-hitting 9 mm was the weapon Schmidt wanted for tonight’s task.
    Holstering the gun, he rose and stepped through the door of his office into the darkened corridor of Karinhall. The vast home, residence of Reich Minister--now Führer by the will of Adolf Hitler--Hermann Göring, sprawled dark and silent around him. Once these halls had echoed with parties, music, and laughter. The finest French champagne had been served, and the most elegant members of Berlin’s nouveau-riche society had admired the priceless artwork hanging on the long walls--pieces stolen for the most part from the wealthy Jews who had since utterly disappeared from German society.
    But it had been a long time since the great manor had hosted such a gala. Now most of the elegant guests were frightened to travel, with the ever-present threat of air attack. Others had been called by the war to different endeavors, and more than a few who had once laughed and drunk here were dead.
    These thoughts danced like ghosts through Schmidt’s mind as he passed through the darkened ballroom, toward the spot of light spilling from the office door that stood slightly ajar. Though he typically approached the minister a dozen times a night with information and requests, the captain unconsciously lightened his step--tonight, he didn’t want to be heard.
    He paused for a minute, disgust rising in his gorge as he looked at the bloated man fidgeting nervously at his massive desk. Göring swallowed the last gulp of whiskey from a tall tumbler. Most of the bottle on his desk was gone. He was sweating furiously, although the room was not hot.
    Slowly, with visible reluctance, the air marshal opened a drawer and looked longingly into the concealed space. Schmidt knew what was going through the man’s mind: he needed another injection, and he needed it soon. Göring stared longingly into a desk drawer, where he undoubtedly had a morphine-filled syringe ready to soothe his pain, his fear, his rage.
    Schmidt stepped forward, and the air marshal slammed the drawer shut with a guilty gesture. He looked up at the door as the hauptmann pushed it all the way open.
    “Mein Führer,” he began, but he was startled at the shock and guilt on the man’s face. It was as if Göring suddenly expected Hitler himself to walk through the door, alive. He’d been like that since he’d first heard of Hitler’s assassination--jumpy, ill at ease, unable to focus.
    ‘What--oh, yes,” Göring stammered back, realizing that he being addressed. For a moment, Schmidt saw the immense man straighten up, and inside the rolls of fat he could see, albeit dimly, the trim Luftwaffe leader who once had been an inspiration for Germany.
    And then Göring looked up and noticed the gun in Schmidt’s hand. His eyes widened in shock, but not in surprise. One Göring’s immense paws immediately moved beneath the desk, his huge body shifting