Reich Chancellery, Berlin
Greater German Reich
April 19th, 1940
‘
Heil Hitler!’
Sturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny performed a textbook Nazi salute before his Führer, Adolf Hitler, who answered it still sitting behind his enormous desk with his characteristic sloppy flip of the underarm.
‘At ease, Sturmbannführer. I’m very happy to see you again, alive and in one piece. Are you and your men fully recovered from your ordeal in the Dreamland?’
Skorzeny’s lower jaw tightened as he remembered the long march through the abysmal vaults of Zin, fighting off constant attacks by ravenous Ghasts and colossal Gugs, the helplessness as the many wounded began to succumb to infection and exhaustion, the anguish in trying to protect the bodies of their fallen comrades from the nauseating swarms of Ghouls that hovered around the retreating
Kampfabteilung Traumland… it had been a nightmare march to make the retreat of Napoleon’s Grand Armee from Russia look like a wholesome winter promenade.
‘My Führer, the third of my men that made it back alive AND with their minds and bodies still in one piece are in reasonably good shape and ready for action. Another third, the ones badly injured or driven mad, might never recover fully. The final third will most certainly never recover – their bodies, or the remains of them, litter The Dreamland from Sarkomand to the fringes of the Ghoul Realm.’
Hitler looked shaken. ‘Bad business this, very bad. Please accept my most sincere sympathies for you, your brave soldiers and their families. There will be an Iron Cross for every man, dead or alive in your unit and Swords for your Knight’s Cross, in recognition of your gallant leadership during the retreat. Your men have been screaming to heaven for it and I have nothing but respect for officers loved by their men.’
‘Thank you my Führer. And what of Sturmbannführer Duhrn?’ Skorzeny asked dryly. ‘Will he also be rewarded?’
Hitler shook his head. ‘He’ll get his Iron Cross 1st class, like any other soldier in your unit who already had the 2nd class, but this… this debacle was his idea, his project, his failure. I fear Obersturmbannführer Professor Scheel and my “Treuer Heinrich” are mightily put off with him. I’m sorry, I know you’re friends.’
‘That would be stretching the definition a bit, my Führer. The Sturmbannführer and me have a working relationship, you could say.’
‘Indeed. Well, we need to put this behind us and return to more mundane matters, Sturmbannführer. As you’re no doubt aware, the preparations for operation Barbarossa are in the final stages. Your
Abteilung will be used as the cadre for forming a full
Standarte as my
Leibstandarte is expanded into a Motorised Division. Troop training, however, is not for you – I have another mission more suited to your unique skills.’
‘You have but to command, my Führer!’
Hitler beamed. ‘If only more of our men were like you, my own Knight Errant! This then is what I require – as you are certainly aware, the Pan-Asians used a new kind of super bomb against the Americans as a prelude to their landing, a secret weapon.’
‘A thermobaric bomb, the newspapers call it.’ Skorzeny said, nodding.
‘Exactly’, Hitler agreed. ‘Our explosives boffins say they have a good understanding about the underlying principles of the weapon, but it would save us much time in designing a working bomb if we had a model. SS-Sturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny, I hereby order you to steal a thermobaric bomb and bring it back to Germany for study. Can you do that for me?’
‘Yes, my Führer!’ Skorzeny promised without thinking. ‘Can I pick my team freely?’
‘Of course!’ the dictator agreed. ‘Here, I have had prepared and signed a letter giving you extraordinary powers to requisition anything or the help of anyone in the Reich. You’ll answer only to me in this matter. Will that be satisfactory?’
‘Yes my Führer, I believe it will,’ Skorzeny answered, smiling in anticipation.
****
Wewelsburg SS-order Castle
Westfalen, Greater German Reich
April 19th, 1940
Obersturmbannführer Professor Dieter Scheel paced the floor in front of Duhrn’s desk, while his host and subordinate stood, even paler than usual, behind it.
‘Damn it, Günther!’ the occultist academic turned SS-officer shouted, never stopping except to remove his round steel-rimmed spectacles and wave them about. ‘Damn it to hell, you had Xaltotun – XALTOTUN – no less, the greatest sorcerer since the fall of Atlantis, and what do you have to show for it? Almost nothing! And what’s much, much, worse: you’ve disappointed the Führer with your wild scheme of attacking Fu Manchu through the Dreamland! Do you have any idea what kind of a dressing down I had to put up with from the chicken-farmer!? Me?! Do you?’
Duhrn said nothing – there was nothing to say. Success has many parents, but failure is an orphan goes the proverb, and now he experienced for himself the truth of it. Suddenly, it seemed he alone had been responsible for an operation that had involved, in some way or another, every major branch of the SS.
He wouldn’t be sacked, or executed or imprisoned, of that he was sure because there was no one able to replace him; but he had lost face and influence, while Skorzeny had won nothing but praise and accolades, and that was intolerable. Something drastic would have to be done to redeem his standing, and already he had a good idea of what his next great coup would be. There would be no more fooling around with minor magic. Emboldened by what little he had had time to learn from Xaltotun, Duhrn decided there and then to bet all his remaining chips in this game.
He would need a few things first, of course; the Heart of Ahriman, to compensate with that power-boosting gem for his own insufficient knowledge in the black arts. And of course, a version of the book more true to the original than the rat-gnawed 17th century copy of Wormius’s latin translation that held a place of honour in Duhrn’s black steel bookcase. Maybe a copy of the Greek first translation, unseen since the Salem witch hunts, would be found in the archives of the Soviet Union after Barbarossa opened them up - after all, many noble refugees from the Byzantine Empire had fled the Turk to Russia after the fall of Constantinople, in all probability bringing their litterary collections with them. But if not, he intended to go straight to the source, to Arabia, to experience for himself what the author Abdul Alhazred had only dreamt of – The Nameless City. There, no doubt, he’d find the incantations he need to show them, all of them, the true power of Günther Duhrn!