Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (16 page)

“Choose your targets,” he ordered.  Four
more
panzers were coming into view, bunching up as they made their way down the road.  He’d have clouted any student who did that on exercise, although he was fair-minded enough to admit that combat rarely took place under ideal conditions.  “And fire when we fire.”

“Weapons locked,” the gunner said.  “They’re closing ...”

Jordan nodded, bracing himself.  The closer the enemy came, the greater the chance of scoring two or more hits.  But, at the same time, the greater the chance of the enemy realising they had walked right into a trap.  The crews had camouflaged the panzers as best as they could, but the SS crews had plenty of experience in South Africa.  They'd know what to look for, as they watched for unpleasant surprises; they might just spot the panzers lying in wait before it was too late.  And if they did, they might just manage to slam a shell or two into
his
panzer before he realised he was under attack.  A quick-thinking enemy commander could turn the ambush into a disaster in a matter of seconds.

“Fire on my command,” he ordered.  The enemy were coming closer ... were their turrets starting to move?  “Fire!”

The panzer jerked as it fired a shell into the leading enemy tank.  At such close range, it was hard to miss; the shell punched through the heavy frontal armour and detonated inside the vehicle.  It exploded into a fireball, the turret rising into the air as it was blown off.  The crew, Jordan was sure, would have been killed instantly.  He hoped, grimly, that they
had
been killed instantly.  He'd seen enough men pulled from burning hulks, more dead than alive, to wish otherwise.  No one, not even the worst of the SS, deserved such a fate.

“Pick the next target,” he snapped.  “Fire!”

He took stock of the situation as the gunner engaged a second target.  Four enemy panzers had been destroyed; three more were rapidly targeted and blown apart while he watched.  But the enemy were returning fire, hurling shells at random into the foliage.  They hadn't got a solid lock on his panzers, he noted, but it hardly mattered.  They’d score a lucky hit if they kept hurling so many shells in his direction.

“Move us,” he ordered.

The panzer lurched to life, racing backwards.  Jordan hung on for dear life, watching as the gunner sighted the main gun on another advancing panzer and opened fire.  The shell struck the panzer’s treads, disabling it; the crew hastily evacuated, seconds before another shell blew the panzer into flaming debris.  The nasty part of Jordan’s mind was tempted to mow them down with the machine gun, just to make sure they couldn't go back to the war, but he suppressed it firmly.  Atrocities would only make the war more savage as both sides struggled to outdo the other in sheer beastliness.  He’d heard too many horror stories from South Africa to take it lightly.

Where captured men are lucky if they’re only castrated
, he thought, darkly.  It wasn't even the worst of the stories he’d heard.  Savage tribesmen took delight in inflicting unspeakable wounds on their prisoners. 
We don’t want those atrocities here
.

He cursed savagely as one of his escorting panzers was hit and ground to a halt, smoke pouring from its turret.  The crew bailed out hastily, running westwards without looking back.  They'd link up with the remainder of the unit at the RP, assuming anyone else survived.  Jordan muttered a command as the panzers kept moving back; the gunner put a shell into the disabled vehicle, ensuring that nothing could be salvaged from the wreck.  The
Heer
engineers were trained to break down a disabled vehicle, stripping everything useful from the remains; he dared not assume that the SS would be any less competent.  Killing one of his own panzers - and probably one that could be repaired - did not sit well with him, but there was no choice.

“They’ve given up pursuit,” the gunner said.  “We made it clear.”

Jordan shrugged.  He doubted it.  The SS had taken a bloody nose, which would slow them down for some time, but it wouldn't stop them indefinitely.  It was far more likely that they’d be calling for air support, demanding that a HE-477 plink his panzers from high overhead before they resumed the advance.  It was what
he
would have done.  Or maybe they’d be calling infantry and sending them on ahead to watch for a second ambush.

“Take us to the second firing position,” he ordered.  He was surprised they’d have a chance to use it.  Indeed, he doubted there was much prospect of them surviving the day, but they were still in place to deal out a second bloody nose.  The SS would have been slowed down and that was all that mattered.  “And keep a sharp eye out for enemy aircraft.”

“
Jawohl
,” the driver said.

Chapter Fifteen

Berlin, Germany Prime

13 September 1985

Herman shook his head in grim disbelief as he stood near what had once been the Ministry of Economics.  It had been a towering building, once upon a time, but now it was nothing more than a pile of rubble.  The police and firemen who’d approached the building and set up lines to keep the public back weren't trying to do anything to recover bodies, he noted, even as the sun was starting to rise.  They knew there was little hope of
anyone
surviving the holocaust.

“Quite a mess,” a voice said.  “Do you think it was deliberate spite?”

Herman turned, then straightened in alarm and snapped out a salute as he recognised Hans Krueger.  He’d never actually
met
the man, not even after the uprising, but every policeman in Germany knew the names and faces of the
Reich
Councillors.  A single word from one of them - even now, he assumed - would be enough to send a policeman to a very unpleasant duty station in Siberia or Germany South.  But Krueger didn't look angry, merely contemplative.

“I do not know,
Mein Herr
,” Herman said.  He wasn't sure if Krueger knew who he was.  It was unlike a
Reich
Councillor to confide in a mere policeman, even one with a
very
powerful relative.  “It might have been a lucky shot.”

“Holliston always hated economics,” Krueger said.  He sounded more as if he were speaking to himself, rather than to anyone else.  “I would keep telling him we couldn't afford his grand projects and he would keep arguing, as if we could just print some more money and solve all of our problems.”

Herman nodded.  “How many people were in the building?”

“We evacuated most of the bureaucrats last week,” Krueger said.  “There shouldn't have been more than a skeleton staff.”

“That’s a relief,” he said.  A large percentage of the
Reich’s
population would probably have cheered, if a few thousand bureaucrats were killed, but they
were
the ones who kept the
Reich
going.  “Did he know that?”

“I have no idea,” Krueger said.  “But he wouldn't want to hit the
Reichstag
itself.”

Herman frowned, inwardly, as Krueger strode off, a handful of armed bodyguards appearing from nowhere to escort him.  No, the SS
wouldn’t
want to target the
Reichstag
, but accidents happened.  It was easy - all too easy - to imagine a missile going astray and coming down on top of the building, killing his only daughter.  He hoped Gudrun would have had the sense to stay out of such an obvious target, but he hadn't heard anything from her since her return from France.  She hadn’t even found time to join the rest of the family for dinner.

He shook his head slowly as he turned his attention to the wreckage.  Kurt was in danger too, somewhere along the border line, but Kurt was a young
man
.  Kurt could handle himself.  Herman had made sure of it, teaching Kurt how to take a punch and come up fighting.  Gudrun, on the other hand, was a young woman, someone who needed protecting ... and he felt helpless to protect her.  He couldn't help wondering if he’d failed as a father.

“Get the buildings around the debris evacuated,” he ordered, tiredly.  He’d been on duty all night, but there was little hope of actually getting some sleep.  “And then see if we can organise teams to drag the bodies out of the wreckage.”

His radio buzzed.  “Wieland?”

“Here,” Herman said, lifting the radio to his mouth.  “Go ahead.”

“Take a car and go to the transit barracks,” the dispatcher ordered.  “There’s been a murder.”

Herman cursed under his breath as he passed command to one of the other policemen - the chain of command had been blown to hell by the uprising - and then summoned a driver to take him to the transit barracks.  It was a relief - an immense relief - that the streets were almost deserted.  Far too many young men and women had defied the curfew in the days following the uprising - and the police couldn't give them a good kicking any longer - but the bombardment had brought home the realities of war to Berlin.  There were no cars on the streets.  Most people, he hoped, would have the sense to stay inside.

He fiddled with the radio as the police car raced through the lightening streets, but heard nothing apart from patriotic music. 
That
might be a mistake, he told himself; the provisional government needed to make
some
kind of statement before the rumours started to get out of hand.  He made a mental note to discuss it with his superiors, then braced himself as the car came to a halt outside the transit barracks.  The gates were wide open, with five policemen standing guard.  None of them looked very happy to be there.  He climbed out of the car and strode towards him.  They stood to attention slowly, too slowly.  It wasn't hard to deduce that they were retired policemen who’d been called back to the uniform.

“Report,” he snapped.

“Karl was killed,” one of them said.  He sounded furious, yet scared.  “Someone rammed a pencil into his eye.”

Herman sucked in his breath as they led him towards the guardpost.  The ordinary inhabitants of the transit barracks were watched at all times, but they hadn't had the manpower to keep an eye on the refugees, even if they
hadn't
been good Germans.  And yet, if they’d murdered a policeman ... he glanced towards the closed and locked door, then cursed mentally.  The murderer was probably long gone.

“I assume you locked the door,” he said.  “Did you think to count the refugees?”

“There was never an accurate count,” the spokesman reminded him.  “We don’t know who’s missing.”

Herman scowled.  He’d
been
there when the refugees had been counted, but record-keeping hadn't been a priority.  There had been so much chaos that he wouldn't have been surprised if a handful of the refugees hadn't been registered at all.  And even if the murderer
had
been registered, he might well have given a false name.  In theory, every citizen of the
Reich
was supposed to have a dossier; in practice, the registry system had broken down during the uprising and never recovered.

He knelt down next to the body, examining it thoughtfully.  There was no reason to doubt the guard’s deduction, not when the pencil was clearly visible.  It had been driven through the poor bastard’s eyeball and thrust straight into his brain, causing instant death.  There was no sign of a struggle, suggesting that he had been caught by surprise.  And yet, what manner of policeman let a complete stranger approach him without going on guard.  The old fear was gone now.  A civilian on the verge of being arrested might just try to fight back.

A refugee left the barracks
, he thought. 
And he wouldn't have left unless he had business somewhere within the city
.

A thought struck him.  His frown deepened. 
He ... or she?

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it had to be considered.  Someone had caught an experienced policeman - and former soldier - by surprise.  It was unlikely that a hulking refugee - a
male
refugee - would have managed to do that, not when policemen knew and confronted all of the nasty tricks in the book.  But a woman?  A woman might be physically weaker than a man - Kurt was stronger than his father now, but Gudrun wasn’t - yet she might just be able to surprise her victim.  He’d told Gudrun to kick a man between the legs as hard as possible, if she felt threatened; there was no way she could trade blows with a man and survive the experience.  It wouldn't be a fair fight, but life was not fair.  Besides, only
idiots
liked the idea of a fair fight.

He sucked in his breath as he stood.  A refugee had escaped, perhaps more than one.  And, perhaps, a woman ... there was no way to be sure, but the theory fitted the facts.  And if the murderer
was
a woman, she
had
to be working for the SS.  There was no other reason to kill a guard and make an escape in the middle of chaos. 

“Keep the doors locked until we can get reinforcements,” he ordered, finally.  He would have to call his superiors and pass on his theory, assuming they didn't demote him for talking nonsense during a war.  “And then we can speak to the refugees and find out who’s missing.”

“There might be more than one,” the spokesman said.

Herman shrugged.  “We’ll find out,” he said, as he reached for his radio.  “And then we’ll find the murderer.”

***

Horst couldn't help feeling that the
Reich
Council - and he included Karl Holliston - had been  slipping towards degeneracy long before they’d started hiding the truth about the number of soldiers killed or wounded in South Africa.  Building a bunker network below Berlin was a sensible precaution - the British had bombed Berlin repeatedly during the last war - but there was no need to decorate it like some perverse version of Buckingham Palace.  His instructors had made him read about the Gates of Fire, back during his training, pointing out that the Spartans had survived on black broth while their Persian enemies had eaten countless fancy dishes at each meal.  And each Spartan had been worth a thousand Persians ...

And then the Spartans started eating like the Persians
, he thought, morbidly.  Their king had brought back a fashion for enemy cuisine, according to his instructors.  It had been the chink that led to Sparta’s inevitable fall. 
And here, we are living like the British monarch
.

He turned his head slightly to look at Gudrun, sleeping next to him.  Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, perfect little handfuls that made Horst want to reach out and hold them with his hands.  In her unguarded state, she was perfect, the epitome of Germanic beauty.  Her mere appearance made him want to hold her, to protect her, to safeguard her from all harm.  And yet, she didn’t really understand just how hard life could become.  The cruise missiles that had struck the city were merely the opening moves in a war that could last for years.

And you are being stupid
, he told himself, tartly. 
She wasn't born and raised in the east
.

It was an odd thought, one he perversely contemplated for a long moment.  Gudrun
was
strong, although not in the way he’d been raised to respect.  A weak woman who’d been arrested and held prisoner would have broken long before the strip search, just through not knowing what would happen to her.  And Gudrun had kept going, daring the world to do its worst.  Maybe she wasn't an eastern woman with one hand stirring the stew pot and the other near a loaded gun.  She was still strong and determined to do the best she could, even if she wasn't quite sure what that was now.

The phone rang.  He picked it up quickly, hoping it wouldn't disturb Gudrun.  “Albrecht.”

“
Herr
Albrecht,” a voice said.  Horst vaguely recognised it as belonging to one of the operating staff, one of the men he’d met when he was surveying the
Reichstag
.  “Councillor Wieland is expected in the briefing room, one hour from now.”

“Understood,” Horst said.

He was tempted to order breakfast, but he had a feeling the staff had far too many other things to do with their time.  Instead, he reached over and kissed Gudrun’s forehead, gently tapping her until her eyes opened.  She tensed automatically, then relaxed as she recognised him.  Horst didn't blame her for feeling unsure of herself, even though she’d slept well as far as he could tell.  She’d had quite a few nightmares over the last two weeks, after they’d started sleeping together.  Now she’d actually overthrown the government - or at least started the ball rolling - she was all too aware of everything that could have gone wrong.

“It’s time to get up,” he said, quietly.  “We have a meeting in an hour.”

Gudrun sat upright, holding her arms over her breasts.  Horst couldn't help finding it amusing - they were hardly strangers, after all the time they’d spent exploring each other’s body - but she’d been raised to be modest.  It wasn't as if girls in the east went around topless, he had to admit; they just knew there were worse things than being seen naked by a lover.  There were more important things to be worried about.