One Thousand Years (20 page)

His
thoughts wandered. He was very tired, and yet not sleepy at all.

“Rechner,”
he called. “Wake me up at seven thirty.” He needed to
go, he decided, reminding himself that he was an American soldier. A
tired American soldier who couldn't sleep.

McHenry was tired. He felt almost drunk.
He kept thinking about Adolf Hitler, the man who began World War II, and
then ended it with such a grand gesture. Dale had accused him of
cultural prejudice, and he had to admit some of it was true. The
Nazis were his enemy. Now they wanted to be his friends. It might
have worked if they promised to rescue his friend, but they didn't.
Even so, he'd have accepted this if he wasn't so certain there was
something they were holding back. Hitler's grand gesture meant
little to him now.

It had taken a few seconds to remember Parker's name.
He wondered why, but was too tired to think.
He grew more tired and even less able to sleep.

The
door chime sounded.

“One
second!” he shouted, jumping clumsily off the bed, and turning
it back into a chair. The doors were soundproof, but he also knew
the material would sometimes let his voice carry. Such were the
properties of its construction, and that ubiquitous rechner's control
over them.

McHenry
felt the blood drain from his head, but he did his best to stand
straight and make himself presentable. “Come in,” he
said. It was the doctor.

“You
should sit down, Herr McHenry,” Dr. Evers said, waving a
medical wand over McHenry's head.

“Is
something wrong?” McHenry asked. He was glad to have any
reason to get off his feet, but stressed over the doctor's sudden
visit.

A
scan of McHenry's brain appeared on the window panel. The doctor
studied it for a moment before speaking. “No,” he said.
“There is nothing wrong. You have been spending much time on
the Tigers, have you not?”

“Yes,”
he replied, watching the colors deepen on the image as he formed the
words. “I practice flying there, using the simulator mode.”

“And
you have been drinking coffee on them, haven't you? A lot of
coffee?”

“Of
course,” he said. “I ate food there too. I thought we
could eat anything we wanted.”

“Yes,”
the doctor said, nodding. “That would be okay for everyone
else. You are different. Your body is still acclimating to its new
potential. It needs to be monitored. The rechner knows what you
consume on
Göring
, but not on the Tigers.”

McHenry
tried to force himself to become more alert. He turned away from the
display of his mental faculties in action. The feedback made him
uncomfortable. “Is that why I can't sleep?”

“No.
You cannot sleep because your brain no longer requires it every
day.”

“Then
why am I not completely awake?”

The
doctor looked at his eyes and then turned back to the display. “I
do not think you would understand, Herr McHenry. It would be better
if you became alert first. Stare at the panel.”

McHenry
warily complied. The panel showed a different image this time. It
was a pattern of intersecting lines.

“
Blitz!
” the doctor commanded,
and a flash lit the room.

It
was a bright flash. The image stayed in his eyes for a while as they
adjusted back to the regular brightness of the room. McHenry was
still momentarily confused. It was as though he was just waking up.

“Does
this mean I won't ever need to sleep again?”

*

“Not
only fortune, but also reputation is always shifting during a war
between great men and nations. It is therefore difficult, perhaps
even impossible, to determine the political and military importance
of individual events in the midst of war. What yesterday seemed a
brilliant move can within several weeks or months prove a major
mistake, and that which seemed short-sighted and mistaken can later
become a decision of deep wisdom.”
—
Joseph Goebbels, Speech on Hitler's 55th Birthday, (April 20, 1944)

Not needing sleep for another two days, McHenry returned to the hatchway
with the disabled Tiger. The pilots were gone. He spent the rest of
the early morning watching the airframes crew removing, rebuilding,
reinstalling and testing. He stayed out of their way when necessary,
asked questions when he had them, and assisted when possible.

He
had breakfast at the pilots' mess, discussed the day's activities,
and then returned to his quarters to prepare for the event.

The
machine's main dispensing drawer slid open when McHenry returned to
his room. It was his new suit, as Dale had ordered the previous day.

There
were no surprises, which was interesting in its own way. The suit
went on just like the Luftwaffe-styled one he had been wearing,
pulling the shirt over his head. It tightened by itself. The boots
were dark blue. They matched a pattern on his shirt but were
otherwise unremarkable.

“Rechner,”
he ordered. “Display a mirror for me.”

He had never worn a tuxedo before,
or the mess dress Army uniform for evening wear,
and imagined this to be the future Reich's version.
The suit had a mildly gaudy flair, but it
was something he could live with. He was glad the yellow trim was
understated. But how would he look beside all the uniformed men and
women at the event? And what did they really want him there for? He
could not help but feel he was a trophy. He did not want to be a
symbol of the Reich's power.

An image flared into his mind: He was a black man from a nation still
repressing even the finest men of his race. The Reich had evolved
past its racism, and they were clearly proud of that. Could it be
that he was to be a symbol of their evolution? Or could he be a
symbol of their
goodness
?
To McHenry's mind, that would be even worse. He was still at war,
no matter what the Reich thought, and now he might be used as an
instrument of propaganda.

He looked down at the Luftwaffe boots lying on the floor beside the new
boots on his feet. Clearly, their machine could create anything.

“Rechner,”
he ordered. “I want a U.S. Army dress uniform. Add rank,
medals and wings in accordance with my service record.” He
pulled off his boots quickly. He didn't want to be late.

*

He
could hear singing in the distance as soon as the elevator doors
opened. It sounded like the entire SS regiment. Their song was
familiar. It was a Nazi song from the era.
He had picked up enough German by now to understand a few of the words.

The corridors were empty here.
A Luftwaffe man had seen him on the other floor,
and his reaction to the dark blue Army dress uniform was a pleasant one.
He wasn't wearing a hat. That was a deliberate decision.
No one else would be wearing one,
and he wouldn't be reflexively tempted to salute.

The large door was open when he arrived,
and two SS guards had been ceremoniously posted.
The huge main watch room itself was no longer functioning as a watch room.
The equipment was gone. The dome was now a blue sky.
It was practically a parade ground full of men and women organized
in platoons, each facing the raised platform in a circle,
and all of them wearing black and silver dress uniforms.
McHenry made a quick guess that the hall must have held five hundred.

The two guards were the only ones not singing.
Dale had been waiting beside them, resplendent in her SS uniform,
pitch black with a shiny black leathery stripe across the front,
and a silver swastika on one arm.
She stopped singing when she gazed at his American uniform.
Her proud smile refused to fade but it looked false and without sincerity.
She nodded her head as though approving.

It
seemed like she was about to speak but the song ended and the great
hall became eerily silent. He looked to the platform in the center
where Mtubo stood glaring back at him, with a huge picture of his
Führer
, the august face of Katrina Renard, in the distance
behind him. He didn't see a picture of Hitler until he turned to see
it behind him.

“I see that our Americaner has decided to
dress up for the occasion,” Mtubo announced.
He then turned to Stern, who was standing on the platform with him,
and the two exchanged whispers.

Dale
nodded at McHenry and moved formally toward a formation of SS men and
women near the center, some of whom he recognized. Her steps were
formal, like marching but not quite goose-stepping. He followed,
adopting the same pace and keeping in step, acutely aware that he was
being watched. Everyone was so much larger than he, and he was
conspicuous in every way. Yet, he was determined to make America
proud, now and in the future, even after his country exists only in
his heart.

They
had reached their position in the formation, with Dale and McHenry at
the far right corner, when a man shouted, “
Achtung!
”
And the entire regiment clicked to attention. He recalled his
promise to Dale and followed suit, remembering, too, that the
Geneva Convention required adherence to military protocol.

Although the speeches were in German, McHenry was able to catch a few words.
Stern began the presentation, speaking of their love for science,
their love for history, their love for the Reich, their love for
Adolf Hitler, and their love for
Führer
Renard. McHenry
wondered whether those thoughts might have been influenced by their
meeting the night before.

Then
Stern spoke of the mission's importance to the Reich, at which point
he stepped to the side for Mtubo to continue the rally. And a rally
it was. Mtubo went on at length about the perpetual struggle to
maintain order within the greatly expanding Reich. The Reich had
expanded to many planets, and the SS always acted as the arm of the
Führer
. Stern stood beside him, applauding Mtubo's remarks, and
laughing at his jokes — most of which were lost on McHenry.

Then
he spoke about the first
Führer
, Adolf Hitler, wistfully
recalling the stories they had all learned about the great struggle
to unify Germany, leaving an example for the next Führers as
they each worked to unify the world.

McHenry
turned his head slightly to study the chamber. It seemed even larger
than it did the first time he entered. The screens were gone and the
dome was black, with the exception of the
Führer's
picture
behind Mtubo. He turned slightly to the right, and that's when he
saw the picture of Hitler directly opposite that of Renard. For much
of the speech, Mtubo had apparently been speaking to it.

Mtubo
then raised his arm in a crisp Nazi salute and shouted in a deep and
loud voice, “
SIEG!
”
— the German word for
victory
.
On this cue, the regiment raised their arms and voices in unison,
“
HEIL!
”
It was a thunderous cry that evoked the raw power of the men and
women of the Reich.

Only
one man kept quiet, refusing to raise his arm. McHenry felt proudly
conspicuous in the huge chamber. It was like in the newsreels.
Perhaps they were reenacting a scene from their history, or perhaps
Nazis still did this. McHenry couldn't guess.

“
SIEG!
”

“
HEIL!
”

“
SIEG!
”

“
HEIL!
”

Mtubo
took a small step forward after the tumult and, speaking softly in
English, said, “I see that our Americaner does not realize that
our victory will be his victory, too.” Then he smiled thinly
at McHenry. “With time, you will understand.”

McHenry
stood, motionless, resisting the impulse to say anything. He
wondered what he was doing here.

The
African Nazi didn't focus on McHenry for long. Speaking in German
again, the topic returned to Adolf Hitler, his birthday, the Reich
and the future.

McHenry then remembered what Dale told him:
The Third Reich will stand for an eternity.
He considered the predictive abilities of their social science,
and their time travel, and he knew that her confidence was justified.
The Reich can last for an eternity. Only he can stop them. Whatever
the cost, whatever the harm, he must escape.

*

“Waiting. That one
word describes Wall Street's attitude, inaction. Commonly, stock
market folks, especially professional operators, anticipate events —
‘discount’
them is the market's word for it. But on the eve of the most
momentous happening in history, numbness prevails. Stock speculation
is dormant. Recessions and recoveries see-saw within narrow range.
Indecisiveness is generally expected to rule while uncertainty
reigns, meaning until all-out invasion of Europe is launched.”
—
B. C. Forbes, financial journalist, (April 23, 1944)

After trying different U.S. Army uniform types,
McHenry settled on the dark green service uniform suitable for office wear.
He added the waist-high field jacket that was currently being tested by General Eisenhower himself.
He never resumed wearing the plain Luftwaffe outfit he'd been given before.
He was still a lieutenant in the United States Army Air Force.
He was determined to look like one.

He also liked having the extra pockets of the jacket.
The opportunity to grab something never came around, but McHenry would be prepared.
That American uniform would be an ever-present reminder that he was still at war.

With
greater intervals between sleep periods, McHenry spent a lot of time
in the disabled Tiger. He'd play with the simulation mode when it
was working, and when nobody was about. He also made himself aware
of any changes to the projected completion date. The moment the ship
was flyable, he wanted to be on it. When crewmen were back at
repairs, he'd continue to watch and to help out. He was determined
to learn everything he could.