Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (12 page)

“I understand,” he said.  “What do you think he
might
agree to?”

“Very little,” Morgenstern said.  “He does not want to appear your patsy.”

He frowned as he peered out of the window.  “Hilde appears to be showing your escort our gardens.”

“It will keep them both out of trouble,” Andrew said.  He shrugged.  “Can you arrange a contact for me with the Chancellor?”

Morgenstern looked down at the floor for a long chilling moment.  “Direct contact between his office and your embassy will be used against him,” he said.  “But covertly ... a meeting could be arranged.”

“Then tell him that we can offer assistance, all under the table,” Andrew said.  “And there are no strings attached to it.”

“Indeed?”  Morgenstern asked.  “That will be a first.”

“My government would infinitively prefer to do business with you, rather than the SS,” Andrew said, truthfully.  He opened his briefcase and removed a folder, which he placed on the table.  “And even if you are unwilling to ask for direct help, there are quite a few things we can do to assist you.”

He smiled to himself as Morgenstern opened the folder and began to study the pages, one by one.  God, he
loved
playing at spies.  The risk of being arrested, interrogated and perhaps killed only added to the thrill.  He might be playing Morgenstern or Morgenstern might be playing him ... not knowing
precisely
where everyone stood was part of the fun.  Penelope didn't understand, he knew ... he wondered, inwardly, if Morgenstern did.  People became spies because they liked the game, when they didn't want to spy on their fellows.  He had a nasty feeling that far too many of the SS’s agents were really nothing more than voyeurs.

“I shall discuss it with him,” Morgenstern said, finally.  “And you are sure there is no price tag?”

“Just win the war,” Andrew said.  “Like I said, we would prefer to do business with you.”

***

Herman watched, dispassionately, as the buses drove through the growing defence line and straight into the courtyard.  They were
crammed
; older men, women and children, all pulled from the towns and villages along the defence line and dispatched straight to Berlin, where they would be allocated to trains and buses heading further west.  It would have made more sense, he was sure, just to send them directly to Hamburg, but no one - not even Gudrun - had asked his opinion. 

Maybe it does make a kind of sense
, he conceded, reluctantly.
They need to know how many they’re sending before they can decide where to send them
.

“All right,” someone shouted.  “Come out, collect your luggage, then move straight into the barracks!”

Herman braced himself - there had been a number of fights amongst the refugees - but this lot seemed surprisingly quiet.  The children looked nervous, picking up on the concern and fear on adult faces; their mothers - and a handful of fathers - looked worried.  Herman didn't really blame them, either.  They had been uprooted from their homes and dispatched westward, suddenly at the mercy of a bureaucratic system that was on the verge of breaking down completely.  The older children and teenagers - ranging from ten-year-old boys to twenty-year-old girls - didn't look any better.  For some of them, it was perhaps the first true awareness that their parents were not all-powerful.

We exist to keep these people safe
, Herman thought, as he saw a blonde-haired girl holding her mother’s hand as they walked towards the reception point.  She couldn't be any older than twelve; hell, she might still be in classes with the boys instead of being segregated when she entered the older school. 
They don’t deserve to have their lives torn apart
.

He shook his head, morbidly.  He’d still been a child when Britain signed an armistice, bringing the war to an end, but he still remembered the shortages and privations his family had endured.  They’d been nothing special, either. 
Everyone
had faced the same problems, ranging from minor but irritating shortages to having to move house after the British bombers scattered high explosives over various cities at random.  Having to share his house with several other families, all of whom were related to him in some way, had taught him more than a few lessons.  But he’d thought those days were long gone.

I’m sorry
, he thought. 
But they’re coming back
.

He sucked in his breath as he saw a teenage boy, almost certainly only a month or two away from adulthood, running away from a tired-looking woman who had to be his mother.  It was easy to read her story, just from her posture; her husband dead, a growing teenage lout without a strong male role model ... and probably no real hope of finding another husband either.  There was a
reason
, after all, that it was rare to have a female teacher tutoring male students after they entered their teenage years.  Boys
needed
a male role model.

They clearly missed this one
, Herman thought.  One of the policeman caught the boy and dragged him back over to his mother. 
And when he’s conscripted into the military, he’ll probably get himself beaten to death by his first sergeant
.

He looked away, then frowned as he saw a blonde woman stepping out of the bus.  There was something about her that puzzled him, something that nagged at the back of his mind.  What was she ...?

And then the teenage boy started to shout, distracting him.

“Get him cuffed up,” Herman snapped, leaving the odd woman behind.  “And give him a good kicking if he causes more trouble.”

He shook his head as the boy started to shout out words he shouldn't have known, not at his age.  It was going to be a very long day.

Chapter Eleven

Near Warsaw, Germany Prime

12 September 1985

Oberstgruppenfuehrer
Alfred Ruengeler allowed himself a moment of relief as the helicopter dropped to the ground, then grabbed his knapsack and ran, keeping his head down, towards the building he'd turned into a makeshift Command Post.  The CP wasn't much, compared to the installations he’d used in Germany East and South Africa, but it would have to do.  No one had seriously expected having to fight a civil war, not in the middle of Germany.  Behind him, the helicopter rose back into the darkening sky, heading away from the CP.  It would be refuelled at the nearest airbase, twenty miles east.

“
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,”
Sturmbannfuehrer
Friedemann Weineck said, as Alfred strode into the command room.  “I trust you had a pleasant tour?”

“Things are as well as can be expected,” Alfred said, bluntly.  “The Panzers are
finally
ready to march.”

He kept his face impassive as he gazed down at the map, ignoring the handful of operators in the chamber.  He trusted Weineck as far as he trusted anyone, which wasn't very far in the
Waffen-SS
.  True, the
Waffen-SS
wasn't the
Gestapo
or the
Einsatzgruppen
, but no one could be considered truly reliable these days.  The merest hint of disloyalty would have him hanging from a meat hook in the heart of Germanica, like countless others who had been purged in the aftermath of the uprising.  It bothered him - there was a difference between reasonable doubt and open disloyalty - but there was nothing he could do about it.

“I received a message from
SS-Viking
,” Weineck said.  “They’re finally ready to move.”

“Glad to hear it,” Alfred said.  There were four SS Panzer divisions on the border, but it had taken longer than he’d expected to whip them into shape.  None of the troops had seriously expected a full-scale deployment, certainly not one that had to be put together in less than a fortnight.   As it was, Alfred was surprised it hadn’t taken longer to get everything in place before the offensive began.  “I trust that the officer commanding has been read the riot act?”

“He has,
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Weineck said.  “I warned him that he would be relieved for cause if he didn't shape up in future.”

Alfred sighed.  There was always
someone
who had been promoted above their level of competence, either through political connections or sheer bad luck.  He’d been tempted to relieve
SS-Viking’s
commanding officer the moment his problems had first shown themselves, but he had no idea what would happen if the asshole made a fuss or complained to the
Führer
.  There was no way to know what Karl Holliston would do.

“Good,” he said.

He studied the map for a long moment.  A handful of commando teams had already crossed the border - there had been a number of shooting engagements between them and the defenders when they encountered armed patrols - but the remainder of the invasion force was hanging back, making the final preparations to advance.  Four Panzer divisions, backed up by thirty infantry divisions - ranging from light armoured units to footsoldiers and mountain troops - and well over two thousand aircraft.  The enemy might have an advantage in jet fighters, Alfred reluctantly conceded, but they didn't have anything like as many CAS aircraft as the
Waffen-SS
could bring to bear.  It would be a different story if they brought back the forces in South Africa, but the
Fuhrer
had been confident that those forces would remain out of play until the war was over, one way or the other.  Alfred hoped he was right.  There was no way to know which way those forces would jump either.

“The offensive is scheduled for 0600,” he mused.  “Have the security precautions been maintained?”

“Yes,
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Weineck assured him.  “Our men have been very careful.”

Alfred snorted, rudely.  He’d been one of the few officers allowed to review the vast collection of documents recovered from the Kremlin, after Moscow had fallen.  It had been clear that there had been
hundreds
of leaks, in the run-up to Operation Barbarossa, ranging from men deserting their units and crossing the border to spies in high places within the
Reich
.  If Stalin hadn't been so intent on refusing to believe that Hitler intended to attack, the invasion of Russia might just have ended badly.  No,
someone
would have leaked, whatever his officers said.

And even if they didn't, the traitors know we’re coming
, he thought. 
We’re running out of time to launch an offensive before winter
.

“Then contact Germanica,” he ordered.  “I want to speak to the
Fuhrer
.”

“
Jawohl
,” Weineck said.

Alfred watched him head to the secure telephone, then turned his attention back to the map.  There had been no time to carry out a detailed study of the invasion plan, no time to run the troops through a whole series of exercises designed to identify weaknesses and deal with them before the fighting actually started.  His men were a curious mixture of experienced - and tough - counterinsurgency fighters and reservists with varying levels of experience.  Very few of them, outside exercises, had ever fought on a modern battlefield.

And some of them will treat the civilians as the enemy
, he thought, morbidly.  He’d already reprimanded two of his senior subordinates for encouraging hatred and contempt for the westerners.  They'd been talking about giving the westerners a beating they would never forget, as if the westerners were nothing more than Slavic
Untermenschen.  And that will make it easier for the traitors to rally the rest of their population against us
.

He shook his head, bitterly.  Avoiding atrocities made good tactical sense, but very few units in the
Waffen-SS
gave a damn about civilian casualties.  Indeed, they’d been
trained
to machine gun
Untermensch
women and children, just to keep them from breeding the next generation of insurgents.  But what worked in the depths of Germany East would be a public relations disaster, if the outside media got hold of it.  No one in Germanica gave a damn about
American
public opinion - not about massacres in South Africa - but they had encouraged the Americans to flatly refuse to sell anything to either the South Africans or the
Reich
.  He couldn't help wondering just how badly American sanctions had hurt the
Reich
.

“
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Weineck said.  “The
Fuhrer
is on the line.”

Alfred nodded, strode over to the table and took the handset.  “
Mein Fuhrer
.”

“
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Karl Holliston said.  “Is everything in order?”

“Yes,
Mein Fuhrer
,” Alfred said.  “We are still working to integrate Category B and Category C reservists, but the main body of the invasion force is ready to go.”

“Excellent,” Holliston said.  “And the troops have been briefed?  They have a complete list of traitors to arrest?”

“Yes,
Mein Fuhrer
,” Alfred said. 

He kept his face expressionless.  Personally, he thought it would be better to win the war before starting the mass purge of traitors, but Holliston had had years to build up a very detailed enemies list.  The traitors, their families and their friends were already marked down for death, if they were caught.  Alfred rather suspected that most of them wouldn't be stupid enough to let themselves be taken alive.  They had nothing to look forward to, if they were caught, apart from humiliation, torture, public confession and death.  And then
their
bodies would be left hanging from meat hooks too, just to remind the
Volk
that public dissent would not be tolerated.

“Very good,” Holliston said.  “I shall expect your forces to be entering Berlin within the week.”

“We will proceed with as much speed as possible,” Alfred assured him.  “But we have to be prepared for the worst.”

He sighed, inwardly, at the explosion of irritation on the other end of the line.  There was no way it would be anything like as easy as Holliston seemed to believe.  The traitors had a number of good officers working for them, as well as much of the
Luftwaffe
and almost
all
of the
Kriegsmarine
.  Getting to Berlin within a week would be difficult, if the traitors played it smart.  They’d attended the same tactical schools, after all.  They
knew
what to expect; an armoured thrust, mechanized infantry bringing up the rear and consolidating the gains as the armour prepared itself for another thrust ...

And they have space to trade for time
, he thought. 
And the more time they have at their disposal, the more force they can bring to bear against us
.

“Very well,” Holliston said.  “I shall leave the conduct of the war to you.”

“Thank you,
Mein Führer
,” Alfred said.  He knew better than to take Holliston’s assurances at face value.  The man was a hopeless micromanager.  Indeed, he’d even volunteered to take command of the South African War personally.  “Do I have your permission to launch the offensive as planned?”

“You do,” Holliston said.

“
Heil Holliston
,” Alfred said.  He did his best to inject a note of confidence into the discussion.  “I will see you in Berlin.”

There was a click on the other end of the line.  Alfred returned the phone to its cradle, then looked at Weineck.  “Send the signal,” he ordered.  “We move as planned.”

“
Jawohl
,
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Weineck said.

Alfred nodded, then sat down at the table as the operators started to work, picking up their phones and issuing the orders that would set one of the most powerful military machines in the world into action.  The Panzers would start warming up their engines, the aircraft would start preparing for takeoff, additional supplies of live ammunition would be issued ... he hoped, desperately, that their logistics held out for the duration of the war.  Their contingency planning had been focused around relieving firebases and settlements within Germany East, not supplying a military advance towards Berlin.  He’d rounded up every truck within the region, ignoring all objections, but he had no idea if they would be enough.  No one had launched such a powerful offensive since 1947. 

“
Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer
,” Weineck said.  “The commandos are receiving their orders now.”

“Good,” Alfred said.

He cursed under his breath.  The steady barrage of patriotic music, interspersed with exhortations to join the legitimate heirs of Adolf Hitler rather than a rabble of traitors in Berlin, had been going out over the airwaves since it had become clear that the provisional government had survived the decapitation strike.  Alfred rather doubted that anyone was paying attention to it - none of the people who’d crossed from west to east had mentioned the broadcasts during their debriefings - but it served a useful purpose.  Now, specific songs would be played, informing the commandoes that the time had come to go to war.  There was no stopping the war now.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and headed for the door.  There was nothing for him to do now; nothing but wait for the first reports from the front.  He pushed the door open and stared into the darkness, looking up at the stars overhead.  The towns and settlements to the east had been ordered to go dark, for fear of attracting bombers.  There was almost no light pollution at all.  He leaned against the wall and removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up and puffing on it gratefully.  Far too many Germans were about to die.