Lost in time: Roman Threat/Third Reich Rises

By Anton Schulz

Deep in the past, Peter Bresovsky finds himself lost in time. Transported from the 20th century, he lands amidst the plots and intrigues of the expanding Roman Empire. He befriends a Greek merchant named Orneus and the Germanic warriors of the Quadi tribe. Together, they seek a way to ignite an open conflict with the Roman legions in an effort to halt their expansion.

While Peter is adrift in time, the Nazi fanatic Eduard Beck manipulates his trial to avoid prison, harboring scores to settle. Beck is aware of the existence of the Time Gate and is determined to find it. His goal is to travel back in time to join Hitler and establish a Third Reich-dominated world, destroying anyone or anything that stands in his way.

Peter is sent back to the future to stop Beck, who has discovered the Time Gate and created an alternate reality where Germany won the war, and the Third Reich governs a significant portion of the world. This gripping novel reaches its climax when Peter's arrival triggers a series of events that lead to a rebellion aimed at toppling the Third Reich.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anton Schulz
• Release date: Apr 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224307791

Book preview

Prologue

The trial was held behind closed doors, away from the public eye and the media. The courtroom exuded a stark aura. The presiding judge, a man in his fifties clad in a voluminous black robe, scrutinized the defendant with such intensity as if trying to peer into his very soul. Beck, although outwardly calm as per the strategy devised with his lawyer long ago, harbored a secret smile within. He knew precisely what was to come next. It had cost him a substantial amount of money and connections, but it was worth it. He had to play out this charade to the end.

His thoughts wandered back to the Bohemian Forest. They were so close to uncovering a passage through time, but then everything went awry. His plans were foiled when that annoying Commissioner Rosenbach and the so-called Prosecutor Siebert thwarted his schemes. His entire plot crumbled. Peter Brezovsky—the only person they knew for certain had traveled back in time and returned—was lost somewhere in the corridors of time, along with his former right-hand man, Bernard Kraft. That cowardly archaeologist Kühner also vanished without a trace. For now, he corrected himself. None of them would escape his vengeance. He was, after all, chosen by fate to alter the course of time and lead the new eternal Third Reich. He never doubted for a moment that this was merely a minor setback on his path. He had time. He forced his thoughts back to the courtroom.

Prosecutor Karl Siebert once again spoke fervently, reminding everyone present of all the crimes committed by Eduard Beck, as well as the previous atrocities of the war criminal Sturmbannführer Rudolf Schmidt. He presented evidence after evidence that Beck and Schmidt were one and the same person, recounting the incriminating materials found during the search of Beck und Beck's headquarters, along with the dramatic circumstances surrounding his arrest in the Bohemian Forest in the Czech Republic.

Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed court, he concluded, there is nothing more to add. It is clear as day that this man is a criminal of the worst kind. The evidence shows that he is not only a brutal war murderer but also currently guilty of murder, blackmail, and tax evasion. This individual poses a serious and ongoing threat to our society. With all my knowledge and conscience, in accordance with the laws of this state, I appeal to your moral responsibility and sense of justice. I demand an exceptional punishment for this man! Thank you.

He glanced around the room one last time and then sat down, satisfied with his performance. He had given his all for this case, as he always did, with work being his passion. This trial would significantly boost his personal prestige. Yes, this was exactly the trial he needed.

Meanwhile, Beck's defense attorney began his closing argument, challenging every fact and witness presented by the prosecution. Among other points, he highlighted Beck und Beck's role as a driving force in the German economy and one of the largest employers in the area. He mentioned records of generous financial support to youth organizations and sports. His ace was the cancer genetics research clinic led by Dr. Diebner, almost entirely funded by Beck und Beck. All the crimes took place, but without Mr. Beck's knowledge. Unfortunately, all roads led to a man he trusted—his security chief, Bernard Kraft. This despicable man had expertly concealed his criminal past and connections with neo-Nazi organizations. My client deeply regrets this. As for the tax discrepancies, they were likely due to errors by his accountants in such a vast array of business activities. Personnel changes have already been made in this area. The outstanding amount, along with penalties, will be paid immediately once his accounts are unfrozen, and further steps will be taken to prevent such situations in the future. The matter involving Sturmbannführer Rudolf Schmidt, a concentration camp commander at Auschwitz, is ludicrous. No credible link between the honorable citizen Eduard Beck and the war criminal Rudolf Schmidt has been established.

I declare that this man is a hero of German society. His honorable life is the proof. His only fault is that he trusted the wrong person. I request that he be acquitted of all charges. Let justice prevail. Thank you.

The judge stood up and spoke with dignity.

The court has heard all circumstances related to this case. We have examined all the presented evidence. We will now retire to deliberate. The verdict will be announced in two hours.

Rise, the court is entering! announced the court officer.

Everyone stood up, their faces filled with anticipation. The judge laid the folders on the table, opened them, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He scanned the room with a serious gaze, then put on his reading glasses and began to read.

After considering all the circumstances related to this case, the court has decided as follows. In the first matter, whether Rudolf Schmidt and Eduard Beck are the same person, the court has ruled that since the identity of Rudolf Schmidt was not credibly proven, but on the contrary, the identity of Eduard Beck was sufficiently established, the defendant is acquitted of this charge. In the second matter, whether the defendant knew of the murders committed by his assistant Bernard Kraft, or even ordered them, the court has ruled that he did not. He is acquitted in full. In the third matter, whether the defendant was involved in illegally supporting neo-Nazi organizations, the court found no credible evidence to that effect. He is acquitted in full. In the fourth matter, whether tax was evaded on the proceeds, the court found that it was. In the fifth matter, whether the defendant was involved in blackmail for his business activities, the court found that he was. However, as his prior lawful behavior, as well as efforts to support culture, sports, and charitable events, have been proven, and since he poses no danger to society but is rather a benefit to it, and has shown remorse for his actions and is determined to make amends for the harm caused. He is therefore sentenced to a cumulative ten years in prison in a minimum security facility. He may apply for early release after six years. The court is adjourned, the verdict will take effect in fifteen days. Appeals may be filed until then.

Beck shook hands with his lawyer, who warmly returned the gesture. Why wouldn't he? After all, he had just earned a hefty sum. His patron was more than satisfied. Instead of a life sentence, six years in a minimum security prison was practically a victory.

I'll appeal, I will appeal! Siebert shouted in vain.

Anger and impotence mixed and tore through him. But they were not done yet. Not yet!

Chapter 1.

Congratulations, Mr. Beck.

Werner, his new aide for special matters, rushed to shake his hand. Everything was unfolding according to plan.

Thank you, Werner, for your trust and dedication, Beck said with practiced warmth, but added in a quieter tone, Take care of Siebert, according to the original plan. It must be flawless, no trace, no connection to me!

Beck fixed his stern gaze on his man. Werner understood what was expected. Failure meant someone else would take care of Werner. Beck did not tolerate mistakes. Werner saw no issue; he was a professional, and this was his life. He nodded briefly and left. There was much work to be done.

State Prosecutor Karl Siebert sat at his computer in his office, diligently drafting an appeal against the verdict in the Beck case. He couldn't let this go. It was clear to him that Eduard Beck was the war criminal Sturmbannführer Rudolf Schmidt, as well as a murderer, blackmailer, and tax evader. The trial had dragged on for months, keeping him in the newspapers almost daily. His face often appeared on the front pages alongside Beck's. It was excellent publicity. He was planning to open his own law firm soon, having already scouted a location in the city center. He had set a win in the Beck-Schmidt case as a condition for himself. Although today's verdict was a victory in a sense, he wanted more. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The rough draft of the appeal was done. He needed to let it marinate in his mind. But for today, it was enough. He needed to unwind from the work and tension. He picked up the phone and dialed a local number.

Night club Timea, how may I assist you? a sultry voice answered.

This is Richter, he introduced himself using the alias he adopted for club visits, I'd like to book a room for tonight. The usual menu. And I'd like Rita, if she's available.

Of course, Mr. Richter. Everything for you. Have a pleasant rest of the day; we look forward to your visit.

He hung up. Everyone had a weakness. The weakness of the perfectionist, detail-oriented, incorruptible State Prosecutor Karl Siebert was easy women. He could own them, do whatever he pleased with them, even if just for the fleeting moments he paid for. He despised vulgar prostitutes loitering on the streets, offering their often neglected bodies. He appreciated professionalism in every aspect. He was introduced to this indulgence during his studies by his dorm mate. It completely consumed him. Even long after finishing law school, he couldn't give up his nocturnal ventures. Initially, he trembled, afraid of being exposed and ruining his reputation. He sought establishments far from his usual haunts, often arriving in disguise. The thrill of the forbidden fruit and the danger drew him even more. It was like a drug he could no longer and did not want to give up.

Werner, he said briefly into the phone.

Ulrike, Night Club Timea. Mr. Richter booked a room for tonight. Usual order, he chose Rita as the last time.

Thanks, darling, we'll settle as always.

He hung up and immediately dialed another number. The phone rang only twice. When a voice answered, he simply said, It's time to shop.

Understood, a crisp female voice responded.

He hung up the receiver. The operation had been set in motion long ago, practically as soon as the trial against Eduard Beck began. Today, they knew everything about Prosecutor Siebert. How much he earned, what he ate, his future plans, his clothing, his associations. And his weaknesses. This shopping meant nothing less and nothing more than that the world would be rid of one dirty, slippery snake. A snake that, moreover, hid behind the law. Everyone has their weaknesses.

At ten in the evening, a polished car stopped on the outskirts of the city in front of the well-known Night Club Timea. A stylishly dressed man in his mid-thirties got out. With a practiced move, he handed the car keys and a few marks to a young boy to park the car. Despite, or perhaps because of, its location far from the city center, the club maintained a high standard and was visited by many prominent guests from the business and political sectors. As he entered, he was enveloped by the familiar cozy, dim lighting tuned to shades of blue and pink and the exciting scent of expensive perfumes. He knew this place well, being a regular customer for over two years. He was intimately familiar with most of the girls here. The turnover was high, so there was no trouble choosing. He approached the reception and smiled pleasantly.

Good evening, Ulrike.

Good evening, Mr. Richter. Everything is prepared as you wished. However, I'm afraid there's a small inconvenience. Rita won't be able to attend to you.

What happened? he asked, surprised but determined not to be deterred. He wanted to relax to the fullest tonight.

Poor thing, she had a serious car accident today. The doctors couldn't do anything. But don't let that upset you. She leaned conspiratorially towards him and whispered almost into his ear, We have a new girl. Top class. She's still unspoiled, and perhaps even that. She goes by Tamara. Doesn't that sound exotic?

Hmm, he pondered. Why not? Alright, but I want to see her first.

Of course. Tamara, please come here, she called.

From the bar, a tall, slender blonde detached herself. Her hair was cut short, minimally made up. Although she was not as provocatively dressed as the others, something about her strongly attracted Siebert. As she approached, he felt an erection beginning. Something in his subconscious was unsettled. She emanated a strange coldness. He encountered something similar daily in the courtroom. Many serial killers emitted a similar aura of death. When she looked into his eyes, he felt a chilling cold and at the same time a burning excitement. He had to have her! At any cost.

I'll take her, he managed to say with a completely dry throat.

They sat at the bar. He ordered gin with tonic and lemon. For a moment, he thought he tasted a distant sweet flavor in the drink, but he quickly dismissed it from his mind.

He quickly stripped off his clothes. He had never felt such a strong erection. He wanted her, needed her. In the room, they each had another drink. Then, the erection began to be accompanied by pain. At first mild, then it escalated, encompassing the entire pelvic area. At the same time, it seemed to him that his heart was failing. He wanted to say something funny. Suddenly, he was overtaken by fear. His father had died quite young from heart failure. With effort, he inhaled and forced out through clenched teeth, Doctor.

She looked at him disinterestedly. As if waiting for what would follow. No emotions reflected in her eyes.

Please.

Tears welled in his eyes. He could hardly move anymore. His body convulsed.

Are you done? she asked coldly. 

Then he finally understood. He wouldn't leave here alive. It was all a trap.

You bitch, he gasped with his last ounce of strength before falling unconscious.

Walter Rosenbach, a retired police commissioner, sat in a dive bar, slowly sipping from a bottle of beer, pondering over his messed-up life. His relationship with colleague Helga didn't last long. Initially, he had planned that after catching Beck, he would retire and enjoy his free time with Helga, indulging in his hobbies and catching up on everything he hadn't had time for. However, the life of a policeman affected him more than he was willing to admit. He couldn't fit back into normal society. A few months into their life together, demons from within began to emerge. He was dissatisfied, missing the perpetual fight against crime he both hated and loved. He started to get irritable, even towards Helga. Eventually, she gave him an ultimatum: either sort himself out and his life, or she would leave. They parted ways, and he drowned his sorrows in alcohol. Ultimately, he found a job as a night guard at a factory complex. It wasn't about the money—he had a decent police pension. He wanted to feel useful again. He donned the uniform once more and holstered his gun. But he didn't give up alcohol. He mingled with others who had hit rock bottom just like him.

A former colleague from the homicide department joined him at the table.

Hello, Walter. Have you read today's newspaper?

And why would I? he asked, annoyed.

Isn't that the young prosecutor?

Show me then, he said nonchalantly.

When he saw the face of Prosecutor Karl Siebert on the front page, his attention sharpened, and he began to read carefully.

Death in a Brothel

The successful State Prosecutor Karl Siebert, known as a relentless fighter against crime and an advocate of justice, was found dead in the exclusive Night Club Timea. According to the staff of this establishment, he was quite a frequent guest. An unnamed source claims that the prosecutor indulged in unusual and condemnable sexual practices. It's shocking that a person who fervently pursued moral degeneration indulged in it himself. What else this man was hiding will probably never be known. According to the preliminary autopsy report, the cause of death was heart failure due to an overdose of potency enhancing drugs. In his apartment, which he received de facto from the taxpayers' pockets, a large number of erotic gadgets, porn magazines, and narcotics were found.

The article was accompanied by sensational photos of the dead man in bed with red bedding. Opposite, there was a smaller photo of Siebert in a decisive pose in court. This created an interesting contrast.

A much smaller article on the third page announced that Eduard Beck had been sentenced to ten years in prison with minimum security for tax evasion and could be released after six years. There were also reactions from people he had helped in times of need and disparaging comments about the prosecutor.

The dead don't speak, Rosenbach grumbled under his breath.

What an epitaph for the grave of a young lawyer. And that Nazi swine Schmidt will be out in six years. Clean before the law, serving his sentence diligently—that's for sure. And then he can happily continue with his dirty dealings. He had no doubt that even in prison, he wasn't treated like an ordinary criminal.

Although he was originally planning to leave, he ordered a double schnapps and then disappeared. On his way home, he bought a few cans of beer and a bottle of cheap alcohol at a small shop. Tonight, he would drown himself in self-pity again.

I really appreciate what you're doing for Germany and all of us, Mr. Beck, said the guard.

He was an older man waiting for retirement. His gray, closely cropped hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. It was warm here, and his slight overweight was beginning to bother him at work. He was only a year away from retirement. He looked forward to spending time with his grandchildren, fishing, and his hobbies. He was a passionate stamp collector.

Yes? Beck lifted his gaze from the financial statements of his company. He had only been here a few days, but the conditions seemed quite bearable. On the second day, he was allowed to read the daily press. He even had access to a phone and a fax machine. All thanks to bribes in the right places. Essentially, he could do whatever he wanted. Of course, he couldn't leave.

What's your name? he asked the guard amiably.

Herbert Krauss. But please, call me Herbert. I admire you as a great man. And after what they wrote about that scummy prosecutor in the newspapers, I believe you're completely innocent, he said sincerely.

Dear Herbert, no one is without guilt. It depends on the perspective. From this system's point of view, I'm guilty. But is this system right?

He looked him straight in the eye. He saw that the man opposite was listening attentively.

After all, you yourself. Soon you'll retire. For a lifetime of undoubtedly honest service to this system, you'll get a few marks, or if they continue with that filth called the European Union—a few euros. Germany will cease to be sovereign, becoming a servant to those Slavic beggars. Is that what you want? Is that what Germans want?

When Krauss shook his head, he continued: On the other hand, I can offer you more. I can offer more to every true German. Think about it!

They continued talking until the evening. Eventually, Krauss became a convinced follower. He would do anything for him, perhaps even kill. It was no coincidence that Krauss was assigned to him as a guard. He had long had everyone checked, and he chose him as malleable material, just in case. Although he planned to serve the necessary six years and continue his activities from prison, he left the option of escape as a backup.

Werner was just finishing instructing a group of four young thugs. Although they looked more like young hooligans in leather vests and with shaved heads, they had undergone quite rigorous training. They were trained in firearms and hand-to-hand combat. They were in a room used for such purposes. The room had no windows and was completely soundproofed.

Our boss wishes it to look like vandalism where the perpetrators are unexpectedly surprised by a guard. So, no firearms. But be careful, you should know he's a former cop. Exercise the utmost caution.

He looked each of them in the eye in turn. Their faces burned with eagerness.

Is that clear? he asked again.

Yes, they responded in unison.

Go, he commanded, and remember. I do not accept failure.

After they left, he quietly added to himself: Neither does Beck.

Walter Rosenbach listened to a small radio, bored. Empty beer cans piled up on his table. It seemed they might start falling off the cluttered table any moment. He would clean it in the morning, having long realized that no one checked on him. It seemed he didn't even need to be here. He was just for show. Or rather, for the insurance. It was totally dead at night here. Nothing even moved. The heavy night silence was only occasionally interrupted by the sporadic clicking of the steam pipes and the crackling of his radio in this room. In an hour, he would go on his regular patrol of the factory. Not that it was necessary, or even needed, but his subconscious revolted against absolute inactivity. The patrol took at most half an hour, and he usually spent the rest of his shift in this overheated office, dozing at the table, numbed by the alcohol he had drunk.

He carelessly strode through the dark, silent halls of the factory. The light from his powerful flashlight bounced off the motionless machines. The alcohol he had consumed dulled him, but only partially. It had long become a part of his life, like an old friend. He drank it automatically, hardly tasting it anymore. Or at least he liked to think so. Then his attention was caught by the open large doors of the central warehouse of products ready for dispatch.

Damn it, he cursed quietly.

Something was off. During his time here, nothing like this had ever happened. German love for order and meticulousness didn't allow for such mistakes. His head immediately cleared. He sharpened his hearing. Indeed, from behind the doors, he caught a faint clatter. He quietly unbuttoned the holster of his gun. He carried a Beretta caliber .65. He turned off the flashlight and waited for his eyes to adjust to the night's darkness. Then he cautiously approached the doors. He positioned himself to their right side, leaned against the frame, and peered inside. Three young men were prying open a container with finished products. Two adjacent ones were already opened and plundered. Several senselessly smashed boxes lay on the ground, electronic components scattered everywhere.

I wouldn't do that if I were you, monkeys, he warned the vandals.

They looked at him with disdain, not even bothering to stop. As if he wasn't there.

Enough! he yelled sharply. Stop!

This time he caught their attention. One of them, apparently the leader of the gang, stepped closer to him, smiling provocatively while twirling a short iron rod in his hand.

Come on, old man, you've had your nightly dose of beer, he jeered. Let's see how the old police dog barks.

Rosenbach was taken aback. Not that it insulted him, or it was anything important. Just such stupid, nagging words, but something here didn't add up. For it to be a coincidence, the punk was too specific, too accurate. His beer dose, old police dog! He reached for the light switch. The room was flooded with harsh light, making him squint.

Watch out, he's got a gun! yelled one of the thugs.

He panicked and tried to pull his own pistol from behind his waist. The old cop needed no more. Reflexively, he drew his own Beretta from the holster and fired twice in quick succession. The young man fell in mid-motion. His white shirt with a slogan immediately began staining red. The other two rushed at him with outstretched arms. He changed his firing angle and neutralized both. He detached his attention from the motionless bodies and began checking the rest of the room. Nothing. There were three of them. Good, he got them all. Now he would go up to the office and call the police. Still, thousands of thoughts raced through his head, tearing out. His police brain, accustomed to piecing things together, sent warning signals. Old police dog, old police dog, old police dog... Suddenly it dawned on him. This wasn't about a few broken boxes. It wasn't a coincidence that they came today, on his shift. This was directly about him. But who? And why? During his career, he had made enemies of dozens of criminals of all stripes. Some of them were already out of prison. This didn't fit any of them. They would have simply killed him without this theater.

From behind a container stepped a tall figure. Before he could react in any way, the iron rod of that bastard filled his entire horizon. A terrible blow to Rosenbach's head sent him immediately to the ground. More blows rained down on him with the intensity of hail. He knew he was at the end. It was all over.

Helga, Helga... That was his last thought before his brain shut down and his soul drifted to a place where he would finally find peace.

Werner waited impatiently in the basement of an old building. This had been rented by a subsidiary company in which Beck und Beck held a ninety percent stake. After soundproofing it, they used it not only as a meeting place but also as a training and shooting range. Eventually, Beck had several such places at his disposal. Even though he was currently in prison, his previous activities continued in full swing. Some even more so. Instead of the boss himself, they were managed by people he had chosen, such as Werner himself. He had been working in Beck's services for four years. Originally, Bernard Kraft had brought him to this enterprise. Oh, where had that man gone? He pulled out a cigarette and lit it nervously. Where were they? They were already fifteen minutes late according to the original plan. He didn't like that.

The door opened. An armed guard in black uniform entered, accompanied by one of the young thugs he had sent on the mission.

Man, where have you been? he growled at the young man. How did the action go?

Everything was according to plan. Until Curly pulled out a gun. Then everything went south, he explained shakily. That bastard got them all. He was unexpectedly quick. In the end, I took him down. He's dead.

Only then did Werner notice that the young thug was completely covered in blood. His eyes darted