appropriate means of…
“Oh, of course,” muttered Merlin, and he went to his television set. He turned it on and, plopping himself down in front of it, proceeded to channel surf to see if there was anything going on with Arthur in the world. It took him less than ten seconds to discover a news story that was being covered by every news program on every station. They went with different angles, different reporters, different interpretations of the day’s event, but essentially they all boiled down to the same thing:
A RTHUR PENN, FORMER president, had returned to the White House, accompanied by his wife, who had previously been as good as dead, except now she was hale and hearty. The reason he was giving for her miraculous turnaround was—according to a press conference held right in the White House—that he was truly the Arthur of Camelot fame. This was not the first time he had made such a statement. He had once claimed to be the legendary king during his run for mayor of New York after accused by a political rival of harboring such beliefs. At the time, it had been seen purely as a political strategy and been embraced as such by New York voters.
Now, though, he had taken it to new levels. Levels that were making it harder to overlook the claims or ascribe them to political gamesmanship. It was Arthur’s contention that Gwendolyne Penn had been cured through the magic of the Holy Grail…an assertion given stunning weight with not only the presence of Mrs. Penn, but also an impromptu demonstration of the alleged cup of Christ in resuscitating a stricken journalist.
Merlin moaned loudly and sagged back in his chair. Reactions were flooding in from all over the world, but none of them mattered to him. All that mattered was that he had never so wanted to throttle King Arthur as he did at that moment.
Y E O LDE I NTERLUDE
April 30, 1945
S TURMHAUPTFUHRER (CAPTAIN) WILHELM Wagner sprinted through the underground bunker, doing the best he could to ignore the explosions coming from the Allies inevitable, and infuriating, march upon the Reich Chancellery above them. There, in the center of Berlin, the forces of the Fuhrer were making their last stand. Wagner’s troops had been damned near wiped out by the advancing Soviet troops, and the captain would have far preferred to die with his men.
Instead fate had apparently spared him for something else entirely. He had pulled his men back to full retreat in the face of the Soviets, and Wagner himself had barely gotten out of there. His impulse was to go back and fight, but his orders had been very specific: Fall back to the Chancellery and report to the Fuhrerbunker where Field Marshal von Greim will meet you. The specifics of what he was supposed to do upon encountering von Greim had not been presented him. That was, of course, acceptable. His was not to question orders, but merely to follow them.
His uniform was filthy with the blood of his men along with the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Buildings had collapsed into rubble around him, and dust was everywhere, including having coated his lungs. Every so often he had to stop, lean against whatever he could find, and cough heavily and repeatedly in a desperate attempt to clear his breathing passages. He wondered if that alone was going to kill him.
Wagner had no idea how matters had come to such a pass. His belief in the Fuhrer’s vision for a Germany that could stand up tall and proud in the world, never to be pitied or conquered again, had never wavered. He had been absolutely certain that theirs was the Master Race. How in the world could it be that here, in the center of their own capital, they could be hunted, under attack, on their last legs.
There had to be a plan. That’s all there was to it. The Fuhrer had to have some sort of plan. Perhaps what he was planning to do was lure the Allies to some prearranged point in Berlin, then spring a trap on them. That would certainly be the sort of devious,
“Oh, of course,” muttered Merlin, and he went to his television set. He turned it on and, plopping himself down in front of it, proceeded to channel surf to see if there was anything going on with Arthur in the world. It took him less than ten seconds to discover a news story that was being covered by every news program on every station. They went with different angles, different reporters, different interpretations of the day’s event, but essentially they all boiled down to the same thing:
A RTHUR PENN, FORMER president, had returned to the White House, accompanied by his wife, who had previously been as good as dead, except now she was hale and hearty. The reason he was giving for her miraculous turnaround was—according to a press conference held right in the White House—that he was truly the Arthur of Camelot fame. This was not the first time he had made such a statement. He had once claimed to be the legendary king during his run for mayor of New York after accused by a political rival of harboring such beliefs. At the time, it had been seen purely as a political strategy and been embraced as such by New York voters.
Now, though, he had taken it to new levels. Levels that were making it harder to overlook the claims or ascribe them to political gamesmanship. It was Arthur’s contention that Gwendolyne Penn had been cured through the magic of the Holy Grail…an assertion given stunning weight with not only the presence of Mrs. Penn, but also an impromptu demonstration of the alleged cup of Christ in resuscitating a stricken journalist.
Merlin moaned loudly and sagged back in his chair. Reactions were flooding in from all over the world, but none of them mattered to him. All that mattered was that he had never so wanted to throttle King Arthur as he did at that moment.
Y E O LDE I NTERLUDE
April 30, 1945
S TURMHAUPTFUHRER (CAPTAIN) WILHELM Wagner sprinted through the underground bunker, doing the best he could to ignore the explosions coming from the Allies inevitable, and infuriating, march upon the Reich Chancellery above them. There, in the center of Berlin, the forces of the Fuhrer were making their last stand. Wagner’s troops had been damned near wiped out by the advancing Soviet troops, and the captain would have far preferred to die with his men.
Instead fate had apparently spared him for something else entirely. He had pulled his men back to full retreat in the face of the Soviets, and Wagner himself had barely gotten out of there. His impulse was to go back and fight, but his orders had been very specific: Fall back to the Chancellery and report to the Fuhrerbunker where Field Marshal von Greim will meet you. The specifics of what he was supposed to do upon encountering von Greim had not been presented him. That was, of course, acceptable. His was not to question orders, but merely to follow them.
His uniform was filthy with the blood of his men along with the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Buildings had collapsed into rubble around him, and dust was everywhere, including having coated his lungs. Every so often he had to stop, lean against whatever he could find, and cough heavily and repeatedly in a desperate attempt to clear his breathing passages. He wondered if that alone was going to kill him.
Wagner had no idea how matters had come to such a pass. His belief in the Fuhrer’s vision for a Germany that could stand up tall and proud in the world, never to be pitied or conquered again, had never wavered. He had been absolutely certain that theirs was the Master Race. How in the world could it be that here, in the center of their own capital, they could be hunted, under attack, on their last legs.
There had to be a plan. That’s all there was to it. The Fuhrer had to have some sort of plan. Perhaps what he was planning to do was lure the Allies to some prearranged point in Berlin, then spring a trap on them. That would certainly be the sort of devious,
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