Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (25 page)

“I’m due to go to the front tomorrow,” Knox added.  “They were quite keen on warning me about the dangers.”

Andrew nodded.  “You could be killed,” he pointed out.  “Or captured.”

Knox made a rude gesture with his hand.  “I didn't join the marines to sniff flowers,” he said, sarcastically.  “Or to count trees in Siberia.”

“If you get killed, there won’t be any official protests,” Andrew reminded him.  “And if you get captured ...”

He scowled, allowing his words to trail away.  A handful of covert intelligence operatives - and observers -
had
been captured by the
Reich
, only to vanish without trace.  God knew the United States had done the same, with German agents captured in Latin America, but it still pained him.  The US promised its defenders that none of them would be left behind, even to the point of threatening a major conflict with Mexico, yet pushing the
Reich
around was far more risky. If Knox were captured, there would be no demands for his return.  His widow would be given a sealed coffin and told her husband had died in the line of duty.

This is a shitty world
, he thought, grimly. 
Poor Marian doesn't deserve to lose her husband like that
.

“I know the risks,” Knox said.  “But when are we ever going to get a better chance to see our foes in action?”

Andrew nodded, curtly.  Orbital and high-altitude reconnaissance had told the United States a great deal about the
Reich
, ranging from flaws in the latest panzers to the limitations of German antiaircraft weapons, but they needed more.  Knox was right.  A US observer, embedded with the provisional government’s defenders, would be able to learn a great deal about how the
Reich
actually worked.  And such data would come in handy, Andrew knew, if the US ever had to go to war.  Just knowing that the armour on the panzers was weaker than they’d supposed was a titbit of information that was worth its weight in gold.

“Be careful,” he said. 

He would have gone himself, if he hadn't been ordered to stay in Berlin.  Given how much he knew about ongoing covert operations, his bosses didn't want to take the slightest chance of him falling into enemy hands.  Knox would probably get a noodle in the back of the head - SS slang for a bullet through the brain - but they’d take their time with Andrew, if they knew who he was.  They’d drain everything he knew, then dump whatever was left in a mass grave ...

The alarms began to howl.  Andrew glanced up sharply, then swore as he realised the aircraft was far from completely unloaded.  Knox grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the nearest shelter, the ground crews dropping whatever they were carrying and following the Americans as they ran.  Three tiny dots appeared, low in the sky; they hugged the ground as they raced towards the airfield.  A missile launcher swung around and opened fire, blasting one of the aircraft out of the sky, but the remaining two kept coming, their cannons spraying explosive shells into the grounded aircraft.  Andrew had barely a second to turn and watch helplessly as the American aircraft exploded into a colossal fireball, a wave of heat scorching his face as he dropped to the ground.  The easterner aircraft swooped around, dropping a pair of dumb bombs on the runways, then fled back towards the east.

Should have ringed the airfield with defences
, Andrew thought bitterly, as he picked himself up.  Four American aircrew were now dead, along with at least a dozen Germans. 
But they didn't want to draw attention to the airfield
.

“Damn,” Knox said.  “Now what?”

“They’ll just have to send more aircraft,” Andrew said.  “And we’ll have to lie about the pilots.”

He contemplated the problem, briefly.  Shipping the Stingers into the
Reich
would be far harder than flying them in.  The
Reich
rarely allowed British or American ships to dock, particularly in naval bases.  Someone would certainly start asking questions if that changed in a hurry.  But there might be no choice.  His superiors were unlikely to authorise more flights to Berlin ...

He ignored Knox’s angry stare as he looked at the flaming wreckage.  There was no help for it, not if they wanted the operation to remain covert.  The pilots would be recorded as having died in training accidents, with a carefully-manufactured paper trail to back it up - if anyone checked.  OSS would make sure the families received a hefty payout in exchange for their silence, even though they might never know what had happened to their husbands and sons.

It galled him, more than he cared to admit.  Intelligence - and covert operations - work called for secrecy, demanded secrecy.  He’d had to lie to girlfriends, in the past; he’d have to lie to his wife, if he ever married.  Knox’s scorn was quite understandable.  There was something inherently
honest
about the Marine Corps, while far too much intelligence work was dishonest by nature.  Manipulating someone into betraying his country was far too much like trying to seduce a married woman.  And the pilots, men who had only been in the fringes of the operation, would never be applauded for their work.  Their deaths would pass unremarked.  There would certainly be no threats of retaliation.

Perhaps the whole story will be declassified, one day
, he thought.  He knew too much of his own work would never see the light of day - he’d seduced too many foreigners into working for the United States - but the pilots weren’t true intelligence operatives. 
And then their families can be truly proud of them
.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Berlin, Germany Prime

27 September 1985

“Their advance spearheads are within five kilometres of the city limits,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss said, “and we have reports of recon units on both sides of the city.  It won’t be long before they have Berlin completely surrounded.”

Volker Schulze barely heard him.  They were standing on the roof of the
Reichstag
, staring into the darkness.  A handful of fires could be seen within the city - and a couple more in the distance, outside the city - but otherwise Berlin was as dark and silent as the grave.  The criminal element was slowly growing out of control, he knew; the police and security forces were badly overstretched.  They were lucky, very lucky, that starvation hadn’t begun to bite  - yet.  When it did, he feared, Berlin - and the provisional government - was finished.

“They’ll have complete air superiority over the city tomorrow,” Voss added.  “Even with the ... special weapons” - Volker concealed his amusement at how Voss couldn't quite admit, even in private, that the weapons came from America - “we’re going to have trouble enduring the bombardment.”

He paused.  “We could call back some of the other aircraft.”

Volker shook his head, without turning his gaze from the darkness surrounding his city.  The plan would work, he told himself firmly; it would work because it
had
to work.  Move forces eastwards, get them into position to launch a two-prong counterattack
after
the
Waffen-SS
had over-committed itself ... assuming, of course, that they could keep the SS from using its own airpower to knock out the advance.  He’d pulled back nearly all of the remaining fast-jet fighters,
Luftwaffe
and
Kriegsmarine
, to cover the gathering forces.

And, in doing so, I have left Berlin naked
, he thought, grimly. 
The air attacks we have faced so far will be a pinprick, compared to what’s coming
.

He turned to look at the Field Marshal.  “And the retreating forces?”

“Most of the infantry have fallen back into the outer defence lines,” Voss said.  “I’ve pulled a handful of the logistics units further back, just to support the main counter-offensive when it begins.  The SS is now in control of far too much territory outside the city.”

Volker nodded.  The American flights had been reduced - sharply - after one of their aircraft had been destroyed, then stopped altogether after the airfield had come under heavy shelling from the advancing forces.  Getting even a handful of people out of Berlin now would be difficult, even though a couple of roads were still open.  The SS had even started driving more and more refugees into the city, forcing him to choose between feeding them or leaving them outside the defence lines to starve.  All his plans to move the poor bastards further to the west had come to nothing.

“They’ll try to take the city,” he said, quietly.

“It depends,” Voss said.  “They may feel that starvation will do the job for them.”

Volker had his doubts.  Stalingrad had been a nightmare, according to his father.  The Russians had fought for every inch of ground and
kept
fighting, even when it had become clear that the battle was lost.  In the end, they’d bled the
Wehrmacht
badly, although nowhere near badly enough to keep it from taking Moscow the following year.  The SS’s generals would know the perils of fighting in a city ...

... And yet time was not on their side.  It was already growing colder, with reports of frost and snow further to the east, but that wasn't the
real
problem.  The longer the
Reich
remained sundered, the weaker it would become.  Karl Holliston might inherit a broken state - a
more
broken state - when he finally marched into the
Reichstag
and planted his ass in Volker’s chair.  No, the SS would launch an offensive into Berlin as soon as it felt it could actually win.  And then ... who knew what would happen?

He might win the battle
, Volker thought,
but he might lose the war
.

“I’ve relieved Gath and dispatched him to take command of the counteroffensive forces,” Voss said, into the silence.  “I’m not going to abandon Berlin as long as you’re here.”

Volker gave him a brief smile.  He’d never liked Voss - the Field Marshal was too much of a Junker for his tastes, heir to a tradition that had endured fifty years of Nazi rule - but he had to admit the man had nerve.  He could have taken command of one of the counteroffensive forces - either in person or from the field HQ - and no one would have said a word against him.  Staying in Berlin as the noose tightened was the mark of a good man. 

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

“You're not leaving either,” Voss pointed out.  “Have you made preparations for the future if ... if the worst happens?”

Volker nodded, although he hoped none of them would be necessary.  The provisional government couldn’t hope to survive for long if it lost Berlin.  Germany, already starting to fragment, would shatter.  The bonds holding the
Reich
together would come apart.  Towns and cities would start operating independently, while each and every military officer with substantial firepower under his command would become a warlord.  Holliston couldn't hope to hold the
Reich
together through anything, but force.  After what he’d done ...

No one trusts the SS any longer
, Volker thought. 
But then, no one in the west trusted them anyway
.

He sighed.  He’d made no attempt to conceal what the SS had done, either the handful of significant atrocities or the hundreds of tiny crimes, each one representing a blow at the German people.  The refugees shot down for being in the way, the men dragged out and executed for not being in the military, the women and young girls who had been brutally raped ...  And yet, making them public might have been a mistake.  It had fired up anger and hatred, true, but it had also made people fearful.  It was impossible to tell just how many of them would remain willing to fight, after Berlin fell.

“We will have to do our best to stop them here,” he said, sternly.  “I hope - I pray - that the soldiers are catching their breath.”

“They are,” Voss said.  “Do you wish to address them?”

Volker concealed his amusement with an effort.  He’d
been
a
Waffen-SS
paratrooper, after all, and he’d always
hated
it when a headquarters officer, someone who wore a clean uniform that had clearly never seen war, took time out to address the tired and grimy soldiers as they returned from their last operation.  They’d all wanted nothing more than a bite to eat and a place to rest, but the uniformed politicians had never seemed to realise it.  Volker was damned if he was making the same mistake.

“I’ll press the flesh once they’ve had a chance to recuperate,” he said, firmly.  “I trust you made sufficient preparations for their accommodations?”

“Yes,
Herr Chancellor
,” Voss said.  He paused.  “There’s also the issue of medals and awards for the soldiers.  And a handful of battlefield promotions that need to be confirmed.”

Volker sighed.  Medals came with financial rewards - or they had, before the economic crisis started to bite.  Give a man the Knight’s Cross and he’d expect a boosted pension, if he didn't take the money and spend it on drink and whores.  It had been one of the many - many - problems facing the
Reich
.

“Confirm the promotions, unless you feel there's something that should be looked at more carefully,” he ordered.  “But don’t grant any medals.  We’re going to have to make sure that there aren’t any additional costs involved.”

Voss looked disappointed.  “The men try to earn medals for the rewards,” he said.  “They need them.”

“And we don’t have the money,” Volker reminded him.  “Paying the troops is going to be a nightmare.”

***

“Kurt,” a voice called.  “
Herr Hauptman
!”

“I haven't had the promotion confirmed yet,” Kurt said, as he turned to face his old friend.  “And I see you’ve been promoted too.”

Hauptman
Bernhard Schrupp puffed out his chest.  “They finally had to give me a promotion,” he said, catching Kurt by the arm.  “My natural beauty eventually overcame them.”

“I think it was the scraping noise as you tried to get your head through the door,” Kurt said, deadpan.  “Who did you have to kill to get promoted?”

“They were asking for volunteers to block a couple of roads and I didn't jump backwards in time,” Schrupp said.  “And we did the job, so we were rewarded.”

He elbowed Kurt, non-too-gently.  “Did you get a day of leave?”

“Technically,” Kurt said.  He’d been given strict orders to stay within a kilometre of the makeshift barracks, which meant that going home to see his parents or siblings was out of the question.  “But only technically.”

“You mean you are tied to the barracks with a piece of string,” Schrupp said.  “Honestly!  You’d think we were dogs!”

“Of course not,” Kurt said.  “Dogs are fed better.”

“You got that right,” Schrupp said.  He caught Kurt’s arm and pulled him forward.  “Come with me.”

Kurt pulled back.  “Where are we going?”

“To a place we can now go,” Schrupp said, with a wink.  “You’ll love it.”

Kurt frowned, torn between curiosity and the urge to disagree.  Schrupp might have found something interesting - a bar perhaps - or it might be something he’d be forced to disapprove of on principle.  But he
was
technically on leave ... he glanced up at the dark sky, then followed Schrupp down the road and past a pair of armed guards, standing outside a mid-sized building that was completely blacked out.  The guards glanced at the rank insignias and let them through without comment.  Inside, a middle-aged woman wearing a long sleeveless dress smiled cheerfully at the two young men.

“Hah,” Schrupp said.  “Who’s available tonight?”

Kurt stopped, dead.  “Is this a brothel?”

“Better than that, Kurt,” Schrupp said.  “This is an
officers
brothel.  None of your two-mark tarts here!  The girls actually know how to do interesting things with their mouths.”

He elbowed Kurt, then tugged him towards the peepholes.  “We can't eat or drink, but at least we can be merry,” he added.  “For tomorrow we may die.”

Kurt felt his cheeks reddening as he peered through the peepholes.  A dozen girls were on the far side, wearing nothing more than their underwear.  The youngest looked to be a year or two younger than him, although it was hard to be sure. They had covered themselves with cosmetics to hide any imperfections.  He found himself staring at them, despite his embarrassment.  He’d known the brothels existed, but he’d never dared go.  The stories he'd heard had put him off.

“Choose a number,” the woman said, cheerfully.  “Or two numbers, if you wish.”

“Two in bed,” Schrupp hissed.  “Doesn't that sound fun?”

Kurt found himself unable to speak.  He'd always assumed that he wouldn't lose his virginity until he got serious with a girl, although his father had promised to beat him black and blue if he got someone pregnant before he married her.  Kurt had wondered, despite himself, if
his
parents had had to marry in a hurry, even though it was hardly unusual in the
Reich
.  But that wouldn't be a risk in a brothel.  The girls would have been treated to make it impossible.

“Pick one,” Schrupp urged.  “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

Kurt glared at him, then looked back through the peephole.  There were blonde girls, brown-haired girls, dark-haired girls ... all Germanic.  It made him wonder how they’d managed to wind up in the brothel, although he supposed the pay would actually be quite high.  The officers wouldn't want a
Gastarbeiter
woman who’d been thrown out by her masters and sold to a brothel.  And one of the dark-haired girls was quite pretty ...