It was not even 7:30 am, and she already felt the warmth of the sun on her face. That’s what you get out here, even in early December, thought Amelia, as she swung her Plymouth convertible out onto the flight line, past a long line of olive green P-40s, parked wingtip - to - wingtip. Stupid really: those planes were sitting ducks that could be blown to bits by a monkey throwing a stick of dynamite from a balloon.
The sun shone in a brilliant blue sky, as SS Obergruppenfuehrer Karl Dietz stepped smartly up the broad white marble steps that led to SS High Command. He smiled as he looked at the red and silver banners that hung from the lampposts on either side of him. They marked the 100th anniversary of the final triumph over the plutocratic Western Allies and their traitorous Japanese lackeys. He stopped at one swastika-and-eagle tipped lamppost, where a foreign guest worker—a South Slav by the cast of his brow—struggled to hang one of the banners.