The Von Braun Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies had an even longer name in German, but everybody, from the Director to the janitor, simply called it the VB or "Vebbie".
     Despite it's academic sounding name, it didn't look much like a college campus.
     Situated on some featureless marshland on the Baltic Coast, it was little more than an austere collection of steel and concrete buildings. It may have been just a few hundred yards from the ocean, but nobody who lived there thought they were at a seaside resort...well, almost nobody.
     Beginning in late 1942, Hitler had ordered the construction of an out-of-the-way complex that would be the single repository of what he called the "non-traditional" sciences. As the construction continued, the State Security Apparatus scoured the continent for scientists who specialized in thermodynamics, molecular physics or quantum theory. They also picked up spiritualists, occultists and astrologers. Some were easier to find than others, having already been arrested and sitting in concentration camps. Compared to Dachau, being sent to Vebbie really was a day at the beach.
     With the fall of France in 1940, and the surrender of England three months later, Germany moved hugh numbers of troops east in an effort to keep Russian president Trotsky behind his Polish border. The United States, under the first President Wallace, remained locked in a "cold war" with the Japanese over oil and scrap iron. Washington couldn't care less that Hitler was running nearly all of  Europe, as long as he kept things relatively stable and kept Germany a regular consumer of American products and commodities.
     Eventually, there emerged a small group of scientists at Vebbie, who could test the most outrageous of theories with an unlimited budget.
     Werhner Von Braun himself had been killed in 1945, when he angrily kicked one of his rockets that had fallen over prior to launch. They still kept his name on the stationary, but the day to day operations fell under the command of a true military man.
     Walter Dorneberger felt it was up to him to bring back a little pragmatism to what he called a "well heeled bunch of charlatans and con artists".
     His first step was to give the historians and futurists better quarters. These were the people who, he believed, could put numbers to prognostication, in much the same way a hotel restaurant manager will ask the front desk manager to provide a "forecast" of future occupancy. Strange terms, such as "game theory" and "chaos theory" were soon being bandied about between the scientists and the theorists.
     Finally, in 1950, Dorneberger was able to tell an ailing Hitler that the people at Vebbie had taken the idea of time travel from theory to practice. The addled Führer thought it would be a great way for him to see his mother again, and increased the project's funding by over 2 billion Reichmarks..
     The first real breakthrough came in 1957, when a dog was sent forward, two weeks in time, to the same waiting group of scientists who would send it back later. All went well, until the same dog ran out to meet its future self. There was a loud "pop" and both dogs instantly vaporized without a trace.
     Two things quickly became standard policy; First, sending a human being into the future was too risky, and would not be permitted.  Only the past could be manipulated.  Secondly, anyone being sent into the past could not have been alive during the time they were being sent to.
     Eventually, the technology becamue routine, but there was still the occassional "mishap". One classified report stated that a maintenance technician named Franz Herbst literally exploded in a parking lot adjacent to Berlin's Unter Der Linden in 1962...but that could have been the result of another project altogether.
     Michael McGreevy had been born 35 years earlier, in 1966, so sending him back to 1931 should pose no problems for him...theoretically.
     Since the jump would be one of 70 years, the numbers people calculated he would have to allow an additional 90 days to hit his mark in time.
     It was an appointment McGreevy could not be late for.

Ernst Von Ruger was born in Dresden, but had studied at scientific institutes in Leipzig, London and at the United States, including two years reading philosophy at Cambridge and 5 years as a professor of physics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. There had been some brief controversy when Berlin appointed a scientist, rather than a diplomat, to the office in New York back in 1996. Yet, within a year or two, the urbane Von Ruger had become a friend of Mayor Gotti and a fixture at many of the city's major social events
     He gestured for McGreevy to take a chair in front of his desk, while handing him the thin blue folder tied with a red ribbon.. "Streng Gieheim!" was stamped in white on both sides. It wasn't the first time McGreevy had seen a "Most Secret" document; the Germans seemed to love them almost as much as they loved using rubber stamps. So far, everything was routine, as he knew the lecture would be as well.
     He had already heard it a half dozen times, before each mission, and he still didn't really grasp the whole concept of how he was able to do what he did. Perhaps a History Degree from Trinity College was no match for whatever it was they learned at MIT. Like most of the people he was at school with, he could have become a teacher...maybe even a professor, if he had been willing to play the academic game. He forced himself to stop daydreaming, and refocused on Von Ruger in mid-sentence.
     "...as always, the job we are sending you on is one you have already completed. We received your 'mission accomplished' signal just a few days ago...your other self will be returning tomorrow, so we will have to send you off tonight. Contemporary newspaper accounts all tell pretty much the same story; a well-known Englishman shot dead on the streets of New York by a non-descript Irishman...three shots...close range..."
     Von Ruger paused, as a look of concern flickered across his features, and asked "how do you suppose they knew you were Irish?"
     "Who knows?", said McGreevy, "maybe I was caught up in the moment and somebody heard me say something...some wild Fenian slogan, perhaps. Or maybe they just assumed it would have to be an Irishman who would shoot an Englishman."
     "By the way", he added, "when is this incident scheduled to take place?"
     "1931", said Von Ruger.
     McGreevy smiled. This was the part he could never wrap his mind around.
     "So, if I've already capped yer man", McGreevy said, making an offhand gesture at the blue folder, "Why do I have to go to all the trouble of doing it again?"
     "Once again ", Von Ruger said, letting out an audible sigh, "because you haven't actually done so in this particular time continuem. Our very way of life may well depend on what you do in December of 1931...the 13th of December, to be precise. Our men in the "futures" bureau have run the numbers, and are convinced this target would ultimately be deadly to the Reich if allowed to live past that year. The director tells me they have not been so sure of anything since the Dzhugashvili affair you completed in April."
     "That one I remember", said McGreevy, "did you know the bastard had studied for the Priesthood? OK, so it was the Russian Orthodox Priesthood, but even so...and Moscow was colder than a witch's..."
     "Yes, yes, so you said in your debriefing", Von Ruger interjected. "I am certain December in New York will be much more pleasant."
     "You really don't get out much, do you?", mumbled McGreevy.
     Without responding, Von Ruger picked up the folder, undid the ribbon and pulled a black and white photograph out of it. Handing the standard 8 by 10 to McGreevy, he asked curtly, "what do you know about him?"
     McGreevy looked at the photo intently for a couple of seconds. Shaking his head, he turned it over to read the brief biography he knew would be printed on the back.
      "Winston Spencer Churchill", he read out loud, "born in the Old British Empire in 1874... Admiralty...Parliament...hang on! I think me ol' Grand da' used to talk about this one...said he had something to do with the death of Mick Collins back in the 20's...Boar War...shot and killed in an apparent robbery attempt in 1931."
     Looking up from the photo, McGreevy said quietly, "and I guess that's where I come in...or rather, where I came in, isn't it?"
     "Exactly", said Von Ruger.
     "Jaysus, first I'm this crazy Irish rebel, then next I'm some strong arm hoodlum", said McGreevy, shaking his head slowly. "If this keeps up, my reputation in the community of professional assassins won't be for shite!"

     Later that day, McGreevy got the shave and haircut he expected. Without the beard he had been growing since Moscow, he hardly recognized himself.
     He was given two sets of clothing, what he referred to as his "period costume", toiletry items, a stack of money, two guns with ammunition and a soft-sided leather travel bag to put it all into.
     The most important piece was his wristwatch.
     It had a second button opposite the winding stem that, when pressed twice, would immediately send him back to this starting point...within a few feet, and a few hours. He normally never wore a watch, but would make an exception in this case. It was his ticket home.
If the mission allowed, McGreevy was supposed to portray a character as close to his own background as possible, so he was more than a little amused to be given a British passport with his own name and place of birth. He remembered his native Belfast had been part of His Majesty's Empire, until the Germans united the island nation by force back in '43. He glanced at the newly taken photo. "Not bad, for a man born in 1896", he said to himself.

     Shortly before 10 that night, he walked into a small fortified room...still on the 65th floor, but without a window. There was a flash of green light...

...and he was gone.

    The following story is fiction...to a point.

    Even though it is coming out of my own mind, an ocasional historic event or two will intrude. As they say, any similarity to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental...or, maybe not.