The Third Reich:Shadows of the Golden Eagle

Chapter 158: Three Travelers

Berlin, Germany

The Chancellery War Room

The tall windows of the office were streaked with rain, blurring the city outside into gray. Paul stood with his back to the room, his hands clasped behind him. He didn’t need to look at the maps anymore, the geography of the conquest was already etched into his mind.

The heavy oak doors creaked open. Heydrich stepped in, his boots clicking against the marble floor. He stopped a few paces behind Paul, holding a leather folder.

"The reports from the Channel are in," Heydrich said, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain.

Paul didn’t turn around. "Tell me."

Heydrich opened the folder, his eyes scanning the text. "Army Group A landed successfully. Although the resistance was harsh and lasted hours, they landed. The bridgeheads at Folkestone and Newhaven are holding."

Paul tilted his head slightly, watching a single raindrop trail down the glass. "Harsh," he repeated quietly. "The British are fighting for a ghost of a country. They still believe they have a chance."

"They fought like men with nothing left to lose," Heydrich noted, his tone devoid of admiration. "But the confusion in their high command was total. They were repositioning entire divisions toward the north, most likely all because of Plan Echo..."

Heydrich paused. He himself did not even know what Plan Echo was. He had only been told by Paul that it somehow tricked the British and Americans through false intelligence.

"By the time they realized the true landing zone, our Panzers were already off the ramps," he added.

Paul finally turned, a slight flicker in his eyes. His gaze moved downward toward an open drawer. Inside lay dozens of distant black envelopes, their design familiar...

For a fraction of a second, his expression changed.

With a nudge of his boot, the drawer closed. With it, its secrets...gone forever.

Paul stood motionless. Rain hammered the windows.

Finally, his voice cut through: "The Soviets?"

Heydrich nodded, a hint of eagerness breaking through his otherwise neutral demeanor.

"The Second Russian Civil War is in full swing. The Red Army has already secured vast rural territories across the Volga region."

Paul closed his eyes, taking a slow, measured breath.

The next few hours slipped by in a blur. Orders were given, reports received, decisions made.

Yet beneath it all, something lingered. Quiet and unresolved.

Until he finally felt himself surface again.

He stood in the rain.

It fell in heavy, relentless sheets, drumming against the cobblestones and soaking into the dark leather coats of the men gathered in the square.

He stood at the center of it all, isolated despite the guards around him. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face as he stared at the monument before him. It was the Memorial to the Unknown Soldier. A tribute to the forgotten, to the men who had bled out for a country that no longer whispered their names. Those who had made all of his plans possible. To those who had contributed everything: their body, their mind, their life...

or their conscience.

Washington, USA

Creak.

Creak.

The sound of the wheels echoed off the long stone walkways. The fire from the Oval Office reflected off the surface of the water, making the long, rectangular pool look like a river of liquid gold and blood. The Washington Monument loomed ahead, a giant white finger pointing toward a sky filled with smoke.

Sirens echoed in the distance.

Werner pressed the cold barrel against James’s head. He could feel the slight tremor of the man in the chair, not just from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion.

"So it has come to this," James whispered. His voice was hoarse, damp with the humidity of the night and the weight of his own defeat.

"You could’ve... done right," James whispered.

Werner’s grip didn’t falter.

"You have already died once, James. You were already dead. Yet you survived."

He looked out over the water, the wind picking up, whipping the smell of smoke all around them. The sirens became louder, closer.

"It just shows how twisted fate acts around us....travelers."He nearly spat the word out.

"From this moment on, this story will end. This fairy tale of three men having traveled back in time.

"It will end.

"With you."

Werner raised his head for a moment. His tired, bloodshot eyes scanned the dark sky, looking for a sign, a flicker, or perhaps just the retribution he had been searching for since the U-boat.

He found nothing but the dark sky.

James swallowed, his breath unsteady.

"It doesn’t have to end like this," he said quietly. "You can still stop. We can still stop. Do the right thing."

Werner didn’t respond.

"You think killing me will fix any of this?" James continued, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "You think it will change him? Change what we’ve did?"

Silence.

Finnaly Werner answered.

"Fix it? No."

"We are far past the stage of repair, James. We did not just change history, we turned time itself into a plaything. This phenomenon gave us the sight of gods, and in doing so, we robbed the world of the only mercy left to man: the unknown."

"I trusted you," James said suddenly. The words were small, but they carried the sharp edge of betrayal.

"Stop it."Werner whispered, tiredly.

A single tear fell from James’ his cheek. "You know... I really did."

Werner exhaled slowly. A self mocking, smile appearing on his lips.

"I don’t even trust myself anymore," he replied.

His finger tightened.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look away.

The muzzle flash lit up the stone of the Lincoln Memorial for a fraction of a second. James’s body slumped forward, the wheelchair jerking slightly from the force.

"Goodbye, James," Werner whispered into the silence that followed.

With a sudden, shove, Werner tipped the wheelchair over the edge. It tilted forward and James’ body splashed into the shallow, artificial water. There was no deep grave, no hidden mystery. He lay face down in the clear, lit pool, his blood clouding the water.

Werner tucked the pistol back into his waistband and stood over the edge for a long minute. The three were now two.

Slowly, he turned and walked away. He left behind only the lonely wheelchair, standing empty on the stone path. It was a symbol so unfitting for the once-proud and godlike James. A pathetic monument for the man Paul had proclaimed the strongest and most fearsome adversary. For the man they had turned him into. A broken man. One of many.

Werner looked back one last time at the shadow in the water.

"Perhaps you were a victim too, James."

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