He himself was working to wreck the Nazi war machine.

Brasch hadn't told anybody, of course. Not even his wife. He knew that he could trust Willie with his life, but he also knew that the SS regarded him with reserve at best. Now that he was away from Demidenko, he didn't have Gelder shadowing his every move, but the specter of the SS was a constant. His son's disorder-easily fixed in the future-would be more than enough to see the boy fed into the camps under the Nazis' T-4 program, to ensure the purity of the race.

No, Colonel Paul Brasch understood the nature of the regime he served. Like most of his countrymen, he had always understood it. Unlike most of them, he had witnessed the evidence firsthand, and he had decided to resist.

The irony of his current position was that he hadn't been snatched up in the post-Emergence sweeps of "future and prospective traitors" that had gutted the Reich, and yet he was probably one of most dangerous men in Germany. Fate had thrust him into the center of events as they spun out of control. His character determined that he would not allow himself simply to coast along in the wake of that turbulence.

As his train lurched into motion again, and began to pick up speed for the long run home, he worked on the 262 file-multitasking, as the phrase had it, a series of files on automatic assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, and prototype helicopters for the newly formed SS Special Forces. He was the very model of a loyal and tireless worker laboring in the service of his fuhrer. In a small, very private part of his mind, however, Brasch, turned over the problem of how best to strike a fatal blow against the Nazis.

The Special Air Service began life as a deception. It had very little to do with airborne raids. It was a small, somewhat irregular unit of the British Army in the North African campaign, established in late 1941 by a mere Lieutenant, David Stirling. He put together a group of irredeemably unusual soldiers-specialists, loners, virtual pirates of the desert. He threw them in with the New Zealanders of the Long Range Desert Group and set them loose behind Rommel's lines, attacking fuel and ammo dumps, destroying aircraft on the ground, and generally spreading mayhem and confusion.

Breaking things and hurting people, thought Harry as he marched across the gravel. A cracking fuckin' way for a bloke to earn a quid. Better than being chased around by those paparazzi cunts, at any rate.

He clamped down on the surge of rage that always threatened to get the better of him when he thought of the misery those vultures had made of his life. Killed his mother. Ruined his father. And wrecked any chance he had of getting a bit of innocent leg-over without having to explain himself to the whole fucking world. He'd only worn that stupid swastika armband because the silly twit he was dating got all lathered up when she saw it. And how was he to know that Paris bloody Hilton wasn't wearing any knickers when he took her to Royal Ascot? That's not the sort of thing a bloke would find out until after cocktail hour. In many ways, he was happier here. Fewer twits and no tabloids. Now all he had to do was stop the Nazis from taking over the place. He forced his thoughts back onto the task at hand.

The SAS in this period had become such a thorn in the side of the Afrika Korps that they were partly responsible for Hitler's infamous "Kommandobefehl" order, stating that all captured Allied commandos were to be summarily executed. That order would have been issued on October 18, 1942. After the Transition-or "Emergence," as it became known in the Axis states-Hitler issued the Kommandobefehl in the first week of October. British Signals Intelligence picked up the order as it was transmitted quite openly around the Reich, without the use of quantum encryption, and passed news of it on to the relevant parties: the Commando Regiment; the Special Operations Executive; the American Office of Strategic Services; and the SAS, both in Africa and at Kinlochmoidart House, the new Regimental HQ in Scotland, an hour outside of Fort William.

Prince Harry, with freshly minted major's pips still gleaming on his shoulders, called the regiment to parade on the lawn in front of the manor to tell them the good news. Kinlochmoidart was a baronial mansion set within two thousand acres of private gardens and woodland, which had been given over to the Special Air Service for the duration of the war. Having an heir to the throne make the request had smoothed the process considerably. The secluded location was perfect, with easy access to Loch Shiel and Loch Sunart for the boat troop, and to the highlands and the Grampians for the mountain troop. Parachute training could be done out of Fort William, where Harry's celebrated ancestor General Lord Lovett of the commandos was ready to provide every assistance. The forests of the estate were also well suited to honing the field craft of the trainees.

And there was a really excellent pub, just a four-mile run down the road.

The Palace had Harry placed on the Civil List as soon as it became known that he had arrived with Kolhammer, providing him with a handsome income. This he used to open a personal account at the Glenuig Inn so that any man who was able to run the four miles to the pub in full kit in twenty-four minutes could drink his fill on the royal tick-as long as he could make the return run in thirty.

"Harry's Little Marathon," as it became known, wasn't officially listed as a prerequisite for graduating from the selection course, but no one who failed to make the run was ever seen wearing the sandy beret of the regiment.

It was a cold, autumn afternoon when he called the men together. One hundred and twenty of them jogged onto the makeshift parade ground in woodland camouflage battle dress, having come in from an orienteering exercise in the hills around the manor. They were supervised by fourteen of his own, members of the sixteen-man troop that had come through the Transition. One of his officers-Lieutenant Peter Hamilton-was on assignment God only knew where.

The prince was dressed like the others, in a twenty-first-century British camouflage pattern. He climbed on top of a wooden ammo crate to address the men. They were the first training cohort to come through, but they already looked very different from the general run of squaddies and conscripts found in the contemporary British Army.

For starters, they were all combat veterans who had served at least four years in the Regular Army before applying to attempt the six-week selection course. Having completed that course only a fortnight ago, they were now looking forward to twelve months of training that would turn them into "basic" SAS troopers. Or they would be, Harry thought darkly, except they'd probably be thrown into action very soon, when the Germans invade.

There had been no break between the end of the brutal selection course and the start of their "basic" training, but Harry was about to give them one.

A towering "Jamaican" with a thick East End accent, Sergeant Major Vivian Richards St. Clair, roared at the men, instructing them to stand at ease.

Harry held aloft a piece of paper, which he let everyone see, flapping in the breeze. "I have here an order from Adolf Hitler," he called out.

The men were too disciplined to react overtly, but he did note a ripple of surprise as it passed through the ranks.

"I wasn't expecting it for a little while longer, actually, but it's come in a bit early," he continued, raising his voice to project over a blustery nor'easter that had sprung up. "Shall I read it?"

Some wag couldn't help himself. "If it's from Adolf, you could wipe your arse with it, sir!"