Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (15 page)

“The war has begun,” Schulze said.  He rose and strode over towards them, just as one of the phones started to ring.  An operator picked it up and began speaking in a low voice, trying not to disturb the others.  “We’ve had reports of enemy panzers crossing the border, missiles and long-range artillery strikes and a number of ... incidents ... at various military bases.”

Gudrun met his eyes.  “Incidents?”

Schulze looked back at her.  She felt her cheeks heat as he studied her outfit, yet she refused to look away.  Maybe he
would
have been her father-in-law, if things had been different, but it no longer mattered.  Their lives had taken very different paths.

Horst leaned forward.  “Shootings, unless I miss my guess,” he said.  “Some of their observers will have been told to go on the attack.”

“Correct,” Schulze said.  He didn't seem angry with Horst, something that puzzled Gudrun until she realised that Schulze must have been aware of the possibility long before they’d told him about Horst’s past.  “We don’t have a full set of reports yet, but they’ve already hampered our ability to launch counterattacks.”

Gudrun paled.  “Are we going to lose the war?”

“Early days yet,” Schulze said.  He sounded as tired as she felt.  “There’s no real danger here, at least at the moment; I suggest you take a bedroom and get some rest.  We should have a better idea of what’s going on in a few hours.”

“I understand,” Gudrun said.

“Come on,” Horst said, gently.  “I’ll take you to bed.”

Gudrun blushed as Schulze cleared his throat, then turned and walked back towards the waiting operator.  Thank
God
that hadn't slipped out during a council meeting.  The old men would never have taken her seriously ... those of them that didn't already consider her too young, too female or too rebellious to be worth their time.  She took one last look at the display - there were more red icons to the east - and then allowed Horst to lead her out the door and through a maze of corridors.  If she hadn't already
known
they were in a bunker, she wouldn't have believed it.  She’d expected concrete walls and dank smells, but the interior was
designed
to look surprisingly pleasant.  The only downside were the complete lack of windows and the portraits of famous men lining the walls, ranging from Hitler himself to Himmler and Goering.

And Goering looks like a danger to shipping
, she thought.  The man had really been quite unpleasantly fat.  Even a paid artist hadn't been able to disguise his bulk. 
How did he even manage to walk around?

“Get some rest,” Horst ordered, once they reached her room.  It was just as luxurious as the rest of the complex.  “I’ll be waiting outside.”

Gudrun pulled him into the room before he could escape.  “Is there anything you can do here?”

“I doubt it,” Horst said.  “There’s certainly no hope of making contact with the stay-behind cell.”

“Yeah,” Gudrun agreed.  Horst had kept a sharp eye out for any more notes, but none had appeared.  She closed the door and grinned at him.  “You may as well come to bed with me.”

Horst blinked in shock.  “But what about ...?”

“Schulze knows,” Gudrun said, flatly.  She took his arms and pulled him, firmly, towards the bed.  “And right now I really find it hard to care about the others.”

“Ah, danger,” Horst said.  “That turns you on.”

Gudrun snorted.  “Horst?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

***

There had been no way
Hauptsturmfuehrer
Katharine Milch could have carried a radio with her, even though a handful of the refugees she’d joined as they made their trek westward had seemingly carried all of their possessions on their shoulders.  They’d had them all confiscated as soon as they’d arrived in Berlin, before they’d been shown into a set of transit barracks that had clearly been designed for
Untermenschen
.  Katherine had ignored the whining and moaning from her fellow inmates, concentrating instead on quietly picking up information from the guards and planning her escape.  It hadn't struck her as particularly difficult.  The transit camp
had
been designed as a prison, but the refugees weren't being treated
as
prisoners.

I got out of nastier prisons when I was a trainee
, Katharine thought, as she heard the first cruise missiles flying over Berlin.  Deep rumbling explosions followed moments later, telling her that it was time to kick off her blanket and leave the rest of the refugees behind. 
And now it's time to leave
.

She smiled, rather unpleasantly, as she headed for the door.  There were always a pair of policemen on guard, both of whom were young enough to talk more than they should to a pretty face and a very tight shirt.  Katherine didn't mind; the more they looked at her chest, the less they looked at her face.  She’d been taught a dozen simple ways to disguise herself - along with a whole series of skills that were rarely taught to eastern women, let alone western women - but the simplest tricks were always the best.  She pushed the door open and glanced towards the guardpost.  One of the policemen was clearly visible, while the other was out of sight.  She hoped that meant he’d started the long walk around the transit barracks.

“You shouldn't be out here,
Fraulein
,” the policeman said.  He was desperately worried, so desperately worried that he barely even
glanced
at her chest.  “The city is under attack.”

Katherine nodded.  Flames were rising up in the distance, casting unpleasant flickers of light over Berlin.  She’d been told that a number of cruise missiles would be launched, in the hopes of decapitating the provisional government, but there had been no way to be
certain
that they’d hit their targets.  But it was more than enough to tell her that it was time to go.

“I’m scared,” she said, slipping closer.  “I need comfort.”

The policeman hesitated, just for a second.  It was long enough for Katherine to draw her pencil from her pocket - they hadn't bothered to confiscate either her pencils or her notebooks - and ram it through his eye.  He stumbled backwards, dead before he hit the ground.  She took his pistol, glanced around for any sign of his partner, then hurried towards the open gate leading to the city.  By the time the body was found, she’d be well on her way towards the rendezvous point.

And their record keeping is shoddy
, she thought, as she walked onwards. 
They may not even know who they’re missing
.

Chapter Fourteen

Near Warsaw, Germany Prime

13 September 1985

“It's confirmed, sir.  Bridge Seven has definitely fallen; Bridges Eight and Nine have come under heavy attack.”

Generalmajor
Gunter Gath nodded, coolly.  He’d never expected the bridges to hold out for more than a few minutes, although he
had
hoped that the defenders would be able to drop them into the water before it was too late.  Trying to make a stand on the river bank would probably have cost him more than he cared to lose, in the opening hours of the war. 

“Order the gunners to start pounding the crossing points,” he ordered, flatly.

“Jawohl.”

He scowled as he turned his attention to the map, silently contemplating the developing situation.  The SS would start counter-battery fire at once, but if he was lucky his shellfire might slow the enemy down for a few additional hours.  He’d badly underestimated the SS’s ability to cause trouble behind the lines, as well as their understanding of how his command network worked.  They’d missed the command post, thankfully, but they’d sown enough chaos to make it harder for his forces to respond in a timely manner.

“The gunners have opened fire,
Herr Generalmajor
.”

“Very good,” Gunter said.  “And the remaining aircraft?”

“On their way,” his aide assured him.  “But their formations are a little ragged.”

Gunter nodded, irritated.  Pilots were easier to replace than planes; hell, the
Luftwaffe
had enough pilots held in reserve to crew the entire air force twice over.  But the reservists would still need to be mated with their planes before they could be thrown into battle.  He’d expected air superiority over the battlefield, if not air supremacy, but right now even
that
had been thrown into doubt.  The SS, by killing over a hundred pilots, had disrupted half of his contingency plans.

And their own aircraft will be on the prowl too
, he thought, grimly. 
They do not have anything like as many supersonic jet aircraft, but that’s not what they need right now
.

“Contact Berlin,” he ordered, tersely.  “Give them a status report.”

He cursed under his breath as he sat back in his command chair.  German officers - particularly middle-ranking officers - were meant to lead from the front, but there was no way he dared expose himself to enemy fire.  The resignations and desertions had torn hundreds of holes in his formation, leaving very few high-ranking officers in position.  He’d had to promote hundreds of junior officers to fill the gaps, officers who would have to learn on the job.  And who knew how many of them could be trusted?  A single officer working for the SS, in the right place at the right time, could do a hell of a lot of damage.  Hell, a handful of workers had
already
done a great deal of damage.

And I’d sell my soul for an American battlespace command management system
, he thought, morbidly.  He’d laughed when he’d heard about the concept - it was a sign that the American faith in technology as a panacea to all ills had yet to fade - but right now he felt cut off and isolated, dependent upon his subordinates to push reports up the chain.  His awareness of the battlefield - his fingertip awareness - was practically non-existent. 
Right now, I’d be happy with the prospect of micromanaging the men
.

He pushed the thought aside, bitterly.  There was no time for dwelling on pieces of equipment he’d probably never have, even if he truly wanted them.  All he could do now was wait ...

... And hope that the plan, thrown together in a flurry of desperate improvisation, would work.

***

Hauptmann
Felix Malguth kept a wary eye on his radar screen, watching for potential threats, as the HE-477 raced towards the river.  He knew he didn't dare let himself get bounced and shot out of the sky, certainly not when there were so few friendly aircraft in the air.  The SS would already be on the prowl, he knew, and while he felt the SS pilots couldn't come up to the
Luftwaffe’s
standards he had to admit they were pretty good.  And besides, there
were Luftwaffe
bases in the east.  Their pilots had probably joined the SS without even being
compelled
.

He shook his head in grim amusement as he pushed the aircraft forward.  He’d worked with the SS a time or two, back in South Africa, and he had to admit the
Waffen-SS
were good soldiers.  They never broke, they never ran ... and they were never unappreciative of their CAS aircraft, unlike countless others in the
Reich. 
Indeed, Felix had spent far too much time bloodying his fists while defending the honour of his HE-477 to
Luftwaffe
jet fighter pilots who thought their ME-346s were shinier and sexier than his workhorse.  Perhaps they were, he conceded ruefully, but it wasn't
them
who came to the aide of troops cut off and facing annihilation on the ground.  Their only role was defending the
Reich
from British and America intrusions ...

Felix
had
been tempted to resign, when the officer commanding the unit had explained that anyone who didn't want to fight their fellow Germans could go, with no hard feelings.  He wasn't quite sure why he’d stayed.  On one hand, this
was
an opportunity to test his skills in a far more deadly field of combat - every pilot in his unit dreaded flying into the teeth of multiple SAM batteries - but on the other, the CO was right.  They
would
be flying against their fellow Germans, even if they
were
easterners.  He’d heard some of the pilots joking and laughing about finally showing the easterners what westerners were made of, but Felix knew that such differences hadn't mattered in South Africa.  East or west, Germans were Germans, the
Volk
united against the world. 

And now that unity has been shattered
, he thought, as his radar bleeped a warning. 
And now we’re going to war.

He braced himself, his finger pressing lightly against the firing switch.  He was coming up on the bridge ... and a number of enemy radars, all far too close to the crossing.  If the SS followed doctrine - and he had no reason to assume they would do anything else - there would be at least one or two mobile missile launchers stationed at each side of the bridge, ready to engage any aircraft brave or foolish enough to fly into their sights.  They couldn't afford to lose the bridge, after all.  It would make it harder for them to deploy their forces into the west.  Maybe they could drive their panzers across the riverbed - some tanks were practically amphibious - but getting the men across in fighting trim would be a great deal harder.

His heart started to race as the bridge came into view.  It was a solid structure, built in the days when the
Reich
had thrust its network of
autobahns
further and further eastwards.  The bridge had probably been
designed
to take panzers, even though everyone knew that driving a panzer division down an
autobahn
would rapidly render the road unusable.  But the SS didn't seem to care.  An endless line of panzers were crossing the massive bridge, while field engineers worked like demons to extend a network of pontoon bridges across the water; Felix couldn't help noticing that five of the pontoon bridges were already crammed with troops, advancing westwards.  He hoped - prayed - that the men on the ground were ready for the nightmare coming their way.

He jammed his finger down on the trigger, firing a solid stream of cannon shells towards his targets.  It was hard to say what his shells would do to the bridge - it
was
a very solid structure - but he had the satisfaction of watching one of the panzers explode into a fireball as he closed in on his target. 
That
would delay them, at least as long as it took for one of the other panzers to push the wreckage over the side and into the water.  And he knew from bitter experience that even the slightest delays could have significant knock-on effects.

His threat receiver screamed a warning as a missile flew into the air, launched by one of the mobile SAM batteries.  Felix threw his aircraft to one side, hoping and praying that the launchers hadn't had time to lock onto his aircraft.  Luck was with him.  The missile flew past harmlessly and raced into the distance.  He sprayed cannon fire over the forces gathered at one end of the bridge - a SAM unit exploded with staggering force - and then altered course, flying away as soon as his cannon was empty.  Another missile rose up behind him, but fell back to the ground as he threw his aircraft through a series of evasive manoeuvres.  The
Reich’s
antiaircraft missiles had never been
quite
as good as the Stingers the Americans had produced and sent to South Africa.  Felix knew pilots who had been blown out of the sky by the damned American missiles.

We could do with a few of them now
, he thought. 
The Americans will probably sell them to us, if we offer our firstborn children in exchange
.

He gritted his teeth as he headed back to the airbase, keeping a wary eye on the sky behind him.  The SS would be sending jet fighters after him, now they knew there was at least one HE-477 in the sky. 
They
wouldn't underestimate the danger he posed, not when they’d turned CAS into an art form.  But intercepting a tiny - and slow - HE-477 with a jet aircraft was nowhere near as easy as it looked.  He could fly through a forest road, barely above the ground, while a jet pilot who tried would wind up dead. 

But there was no sign of enemy aircraft in the air, even when he approached the airbase and landed quickly.  The fires he’d seen when he took off - set by a pair of SS commandos who’d killed nearly twenty men before they’d been stopped - had been put out, while four more aircraft were taking off from the runway.  Felix allowed himself a moment of relief as the fuel and ammunition trucks raced towards his plane, then took advantage of the opportunity to relax.  There was no point in unhooking himself from the seat and leaving the plane, even to piss.  He'd wait until his plane was refuelled and rearmed, then he’d take off ...

... And then he’d do it all over again.

***

“Pawn to king four,” the radio squawked.  “I say again, pawn to king four.”

Major Jordan Beschnidt nodded once as he waited, trapped inside his panzer.  The SS was on the march - and heading right towards his position.  He hadn't been expecting to go to war, certainly not against the SS, but there was a part of him that relished the challenge.   The
Waffen-SS
bragged of being the best panzer drivers in the
Reich
and Jordan would enjoy the chance to show them that wasn't the case, even if it
did
come with the very real possibility of getting blown up, burned to death or being captured and thrown into a concentration camp.

“No reply,” he ordered.  “We wait.”

He felt sweat trickling down his back as the seconds slipped by, one by one.  It had been sheer luck that he and his men had been anywhere near the east, particularly as no one had expected to have to fight a civil war in the middle of the
Reich
.  If he hadn't been stationed at the
Panzer Lehr
training camp ... he smirked at the thought, then peered through his scope as the first SS panzer came into view.  They would think - and not without reason - that the defenders had no panzers closer than Occupied France.  And they were in for a terrible surprise.

“They’re advancing fast,” the driver muttered, as three more panzers appeared.  “And they’re alone.”

Jordan nodded in agreement.  There were no infantry, even though doctrine insisted that panzers should always be supported by infantry.  But then, he knew - all too well - just how easy it was for the panzers to outrun their escorts.  Getting through the defence line and into the rear had been part of German military doctrine for the last fifty years.  The SS wouldn't want to slow the advance long enough to give the westerners a chance to reshuffle their forces and block their thrust.

He picked up the telephone - using a radio so close to the enemy would pinpoint their position for any marauding aircraft - and muttered a command.  There were only four panzers under his command, all pulled from the training school ... normally, he would never have dared send instructors into combat.  They were good at their jobs, very good; replacing them would be a nightmare.   But there was a shortage of crew - and besides, they wanted to show the SS what they could do too.