12th of June 1941
U-boat Grey Wolf
Prien stood motionless.
His eyes were fixed on the portrait hanging on the wall of the officer’s cabin. The very sa Dönitz looked back at him from the fra, proud, full of authority, untouchable.
Slowly heraised his hand.
"Report." His voice was steady, almost formal. "U-47-Grey Wolf..."
He paused.
"Lost."
He lowered his hand.
The water was already at his shins.
With his cap tucked under his arm, Prien moved through the flooding corridors, his hand trailing along the walls. He looked left and right, taking in every detail with quiet, deliberate attention.
It was his ship. He had spent the last three months on her.
The small kitchen. The command room. The periscope still standing at its post.
Prien stopped. He placed his palm flat against the cold tal of the hull. The water had reached his knees now. Sowhere deep in the boat, a long, groaning creak traveled through the steel.
"You did good."
Then he climbed upward.
The fresh air hit him first. Then the silence. He stood on the deck and looked up.
The sky was dark with clouds.
"Herr Kaleun, self-scuttling successful."
Reicher saluted, his boots already unsteady on the tal beneath them as the deck tilted slowly.
Prien nodded. He stepped down into the dinghy, already brimd with n pressed shoulder to shoulder. It was too small for everyone. So had slipped into the water without a word, swimming in the cold water toward the shape of land on the horizon.
It was close. Close enough.
"The Spanish are our allies. Right?" a young engineer whispered from the back of the boat, his voice caught sowhere between a question and a prayer.
Nobody answered him.
The dinghy moved forward with each pull of the rudder, the Grey Wolf disappearing behind them degree by degree until the sea swallowed her completely.
Prien’s eyes drifted across the faces packed around him until they found another pair looking back. They were dark and deep, pulling him almost into a trance.
He held the gaze for a mont.
"Friedrich."
"Günter."
After about fifteen minutes of rowing, their boat finally reached the shore, the n quickly disembarking. The grey wolf had already vanished into the background.
"We will have to find military personnel, soldiers, or at least a village with a phone," Reicher said out loud.
Prien nodded, glancing at Werner, who had been handcuffed, a soldier standing beside him.
"Let us follow the coast. We should find a settlent quickly."
"Co on, n! You will be ho soon!"
Fifty n, all dressed in German Kriegsmarine uniforms, marched along the beach as the sun slowly rose. The first rays of sunshine touched the n’s pale faces. They had been inside for so long that they had nearly forgotten what that warmth felt like.
"I may just stay here," soone said.
"Don’t forget about your wife, idiot."
Prien smiled lightly before narrowing his eyes.
"There... a house. No... houses."
anwhile in Germany - Reichstag
The large wooden double doors stood motionless, a hundred glares fixed on the wood. Two guards flanked the entrance, rigid and unblinking.
The doors were pulled open.
"Minister of Foreign Affairs, Joachim von Ribbentrop, entering."
A man in a black suit walked through without acknowledging the room, his chin raised, his gaze already sowhere beyond the present mont. He descended the steps toward the front rows and took his seat.
"Minister of Economy and Finance, Hjalmar Schacht, entering."
One after another they ca. Neat suits, ice cold gazes, nas that now ant sothing different than they had two years ago. The plenum filled steadily, row by row, the air growing heavier with every arrival. Massive red flags hung motionless against the concrete walls.
"Minister of Interior and Head of the Gestapo, Reinhard Heydrich, entering."
Heydrich walked through the doors bearing the pride of a man who knew exactly where he stood in the order of things. Behind Paul and the Reichsmarshalls – but only just. He descended to his seat without hurry.
A shift moved through the room.
"Reichsmarshall von Manstein, entering."
The mbers straightened almost imperceptibly.
"Reichsmarshall Kesselring, entering."
Straighter still.
"Reichsmarshall Raeder, entering."
The room had beco sothing close to stone.
Then silence.
The doors did not move.
The announcer’s voice ca again, quieter than before, as though even he felt the weight of what he was about to say.
"The Führer and Supre Commander of the German Reich."
The doors opened.
Paul was wearing a black suit, adjusting his tie as he stepped through the door. The two guards saluted imdiately, as did the rest of the room.
He walked down the steps at a moderate pace, his eyes moving across the room. The Reichsmarshalls. The ministers. The party mbers in their rows. He read the room the way he always did. Old instincts.
He reached the podium.
For a mont he simply stood there, both hands resting lightly on the surface, looking out over the assembled faces of the most powerful apparatus Germany had ever produced. n who had fought for him, lied for him, killed for him. n who believed they understood him.
The silence in the room was total.
Paul straightened. His fingers left the podium. He rested his right hand behind his back.
"Two years ago. On this very day, two years ago, Adolf Hitler died."
"He died in agony, killed by those who hate us most. Our enemies."
"Enemies who have paid dearly for what they did. Enemies who remain only in the past now, their flags already lowered, their capitals already silent."
A murmur of quiet satisfaction moved through the rows.
"Our Wehrmacht has achieved victory after victory. And yet the fight continues." He paused, his gaze moving slowly across the room. "One enemy remains. One country that still stands between this world and the peace it deserves."
He looked at Ribbentrop.
"Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop has done his utmost to broker a lasting peace with this country. Every channel explored. Every diplomatic avenue pursued. He failed, repeatedly, through no fault of his own."
Another pause.
"Because they do not want it."
Silence.
"They do not want it," Paul repeated, quieter this ti, as though the thought genuinely saddened him.
"The United States of Arica does not want peace."
He let that stand alone.
"Every ultimatum we extended, they rejected. Every step we took toward them, they took one back. Every hand we offered, they refused."
His voice remained calm, almost sorrowful.
"We have been patient. We have been reasonable. History will record that."
He looked down at the podium for a mont, as though collecting himself.
"Victory."
That single word echoed through the chambers.
"We are close," Paul said quietly. "Closer than we have ever been. Closer, perhaps, than anyone in this room fully understands."
He let his gaze move slowly across the assembled faces. Ministers. Generals. n who had fought for him, lied for him, built the machinery of a new world.
"There is one final step. A small matter of geography..."
"The island of Iceland has been asked to grant Germany a logistical arrangent. A bridge, nothing more. A last bridge toward the peace that is already within reach."
He clasped both hands behind his back.
"They have been given ti to consider..."
A pause so brief it was almost imperceptible.
"The ti has passed."
He stepped back from the podium. His eyes swept the room one final ti, calm and absolute.
"Gentlen. We are at the end of sothing. And the beginning of everything that follows."
He turned and walked away from the microphone without another word.
The hall rose in thunderous applause, wave after wave of it, the sound filling every corner of the vast chamber. n who did not fully understand what they were applauding stood and clapped anyway.
Paul had already left the hall.
In his office
He sat behind his desk, hands flat on the surface. Before him lay a folder.
He simply looked at it.
The photograph of the island. A plane on top.
In bold capital letters:
ARIKABOMBER
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