Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (9 page)

She shook her head in irritation, mainly directed at herself.  She’d dared hope that they’d bring lasting change - and they had - but she’d never thought she might have to keep working afterwards.  And yet, what
was
she?  A young woman who would become nothing more than a wife, a mother and a grandmother, while leaving the politics to the men?  Or did she want to wield power and influence policy in her own right?

“I can be an idiot at times,” she muttered.

“Everyone can be an idiot at times,” Horst pointed out.  “The only real question is just how well you cope with it when you realise your mistake.”

Gudrun nodded, then held his hand as she peered out of the window.  It felt odd to be driving around the city in a government car, staring out of the tinted windows and knowing that the people couldn't see her.  She knew, all too well, that much of the city
hated
the government cars, hated how they could push everyone else off the road as they roared to their destinations.  Now, she’d even heard reports of stones being tossed at government cars as they passed, even though the old government had fallen.  Far too many repressed hatreds had started to come out ...

“We have to win the war,” she said, as the car turned into a parking lot and stopped.  “After that, we can worry about the politics.”

“Everyone else will be thinking differently,” Horst warned.  “But if we don’t win the war, we’ll all wind up dead anyway.”

Gudrun nodded as Horst opened the door and helped her out of the car.  She had no illusions about her fate if the SS captured her for a second time, particularly as they knew - now - that she’d been deeply involved in the movement, even if they
didn't
believe she’d been the founder.  She’d be tortured, then probably raped to death.  The SS loved handing out gruesome punishments to traitors and terrorists.  And
her
death would probably be displayed in cinemas all over the
Reich
, just to make it clear what fate any future rebels could expect.

Sickening
,
she thought.

She felt an odd twist in her belly as she walked towards the sports field.  She’d had too much experience with them as a young girl, when the BDM matrons had forced her to run and play games until she’d been on the verge of collapse.  She might have enjoyed some of the games, she admitted privately, if the matrons hadn't taken them so seriously.  The winning teams were always feted, but the losers were punished ... as if they’d
meant
to lose.

And a great many matrons have been killed or forced to flee
, she thought, nastily.  No one was interested in protecting the bitches, not now.  If only one in ten of their former victims had both the desire and nerve to take revenge,
none
of them would be safe. 
Serve the monsters right
!

“They’re just warming up,” Horst said.  “But at least they have enthusiasm.”

Gudrun nodded.  The sports field was dominated by men, ranging from sixteen to twenty-five, who were being put through their paces by a handful of military veterans.  Most of them, at least, would have a fairly good grounding, thanks to the Hitler Youth; a handful, she couldn't help noticing, seemed to have let themselves get overweight since leaving school and entering the workforce.  The veterans seemed to be working hard to separate out the ones with true promise from everyone else, she noted; the former would be amongst the first to be given guns and put on the walls.

If the SS reaches Berlin
, she thought. 
If ...

“Councillor Wieland,” a middle-aged man said.  He reminded Gudrun of her father, although he didn't have the iron sternness she’d come to associate with the man who’d sired and raised her.  “Welcome to the madhouse.”

Gudrun smiled and shook his hand.  “Thank you,” she said.  He didn't seem anything like as formal as her father either.  “And you are?”

“
Oberfeldwebel
August Sattler,” the man said.  “Recently called back into service after five years out of the
Heer
.”

“Thank you for your service,” Gudrun said, and meant it.  “How are they shaping up?”

Sattler smiled as he turned to indicate the groups of men.  “The ones with real military training - anything past the Hitler Youth - have already been forwarded to more advanced training cadres,” he said.  “Everyone else ... well, we’re getting there.  Half of them are at the shooting range, learning how to put a bullet within a couple of metres of the target; the other half are doing PT here.  There’s a handful that need more focused training, but realistically we don’t have the time to give them the care and attention they need.”

Gudrun frowned.  “How bad is it?”

“Oh, there’s a handful of idiotic malingers in every batch of recruits,” Sattler said, dispassionately.  “Little princes, mostly, who learned the wrong lessons in the Hitler Youth and never bothered to master discipline.  Normally, we’d just send them for shit duty if they refuse to grow up; here, it’s a little harder to deal with them.”

“Send them to help build defences,” Horst suggested.

“It might come down to that,” Sattler said.  “But realistically I wouldn't trust them to dig a trench, let alone do anything more complex than carrying junk here and there.”

He shrugged.  “Basic training normally takes at least three months, Councillor,” he added, bluntly.  “I’ve been told that we may expect an invasion at any moment, so we’re cramming as much as we can into a single training period.  They’re not going to be up to normal levels, no matter how hard we push them, but hopefully we can get some advantages that will balance those problems out.”

Gudrun frowned.  “Like what?”

“Fighting in a city gives the defenders a great many advantages,”  Sattler said, bluntly.  “We can wear the enemy down, although at a very high cost.”

“Very high,” Horst said.

Gudrun nodded.  She’d have to discuss it with him afterwards.  “I understand,” she said, slowly.  “What are the odds?”

“Impossible to calculate,” Sattler said.  “Our contingency plans for defending Berlin, I have been told, are years out of date. 
Nothing
is what it was back in 1960.  We’re having to improvise defences and ready ourselves for a major offensive.”

“I know,” Gudrun said.  She’d been told the same, by Voss and his comrades, but it was nice to have independent verification.  The
Wehrmacht
was a power bloc in its own right.  “Can you introduce me to some of your trainees?”

“Of course,” Sattler said.  “If you’ll follow me ...?”

Chapter Eight

Berlin, Germany

3 September 1985

Horst kept his opinion to himself as
Oberfeldwebel
August Sattler introduced Gudrun to a dozen trainees, reassuring her - in a manner Horst found quite irritating - that the new recruits would keep the
Reich
safe.  Privately, Horst was much less impressed.  The recruits might have been in the Hitler Youth, but it was alarmingly clear that their tutors hadn't prepared them for the rigours of war.  The training forced upon children born in the east - who knew they were in a war zone from the moment they were old enough to walk - was rarely given to their western counterparts.  To them, the Hitler Youth was just another imposition from their ultimate superiors.  It was an attitude that could not be tolerated in the east.

Gudrun had grown better at politics, he thought, as he followed her around the training field and listened as she chatted briefly to some of the trainees.  Most of them eyed her with open awe, although a handful appeared doubtful that she’d managed to play a leading role in overthrowing the previous government. 
That
was an attitude that wouldn't have lasted long in the east, either.  Women on farms could be just as tough as their male counterparts and often had to drop tools and pick up weapons to fight for their lives.  They might be barred from front-line combat units, but that didn't keep them from having to fight.  Horst’s own mother had had to fight to defend herself several times.

But it’s a great deal safer here
, Horst thought, ruefully. 
The Westerners have forgotten that their stability comes with a price
.

He kept his face expressionless as Gudrun finally finished speaking to the recruits, then went on a walking tour of the growing defence lines.  Berlin was huge, easily the largest city on Earth; Horst wouldn't have cared to be the general who had to capture it against even minimal opposition.  But at the same time, the population was so vast that starving the citizens out was a very real possibility.  The SS might not have the
time
to wait for Berlin to surrender, yet if they did Horst doubted they would try an offensive at all.  Why expend thousands - perhaps tens of thousands - of lives if they could get the city for minimal expense?

They can't leave us alone indefinitely
, he reminded himself. 
We’re a direct challenge to their view of the universe
.

He had no illusions about just how ruthless the SS was prepared to be.  He’d worked for them, after all.  Starving out the population - forcing them to bend the knee - would work wonders, particularly given the growing contempt for the soft westerners among the easterners.  Horst had heard, more than once, mutterings that the westerners should be brought to heel, a long time before the uprising had begun.  The easterners could not allow themselves to go soft, knowing it would mean their destruction.  But the westerners had forgotten that the world was red in tooth and claw.  Those who had the strength and the will made the rules, while those who lacked one or both were doomed.

Gudrun nodded to him as the walking tour finally came to an end.  “Shall we go back home?”

“If you wish,” Horst said, pensively.  Most of the recruits were enthusiastic, he had to admit, but Sattler had been right.  It would take months, months they didn't have, to smooth out their rough edges and turn them into soldiers.  He couldn't help wondering just how many of them were going to die in the next month.  “Your meeting is tonight, right?”

Gudrun nodded as they walked back to the car, the driver starting the engine at once and taking them back onto the roads.  Horst eyed the traffic in grim disapproval, unable to keep from wondering just how many of the drivers truly
needed
to drive.  They were wasting fuel, he knew, fuel that needed to be stockpiled for the military.  And yet, the provisional government’s ability to coerce the population was very limited.  They’d set the precedent for defying and overthrowing the government themselves.  Horst knew Gudrun had been right - the previous government had been dragging the
Reich
into an early grave - but he couldn't help fearing for the future.  A government that was weak was just as bad, in many ways, as a government that was too strong.

“You're very quiet,” Gudrun observed.  “What are you thinking?”

“Far too many people are about to die,” Horst said. 

He shook his head, grimly.  He had no illusions about the
Waffen-SS
either.  They drew most of their recruiting base from the easterners.  There was no way they’d be
gentle
as they sliced into the defence lines, even when dealing with unarmed civilians.  Anyone who didn't take up arms against the provisional government, as soon as it was announced, would be a traitor as far as the stormtroopers were concerned.  The
Waffen-SS
would unleash a nightmare of blood, rape and slaughter on Germany Prime.  Holliston might seek to prevent atrocities - although Horst doubted that very much - but he would probably find it impossible.  His servants wouldn't see any profit in covering the iron fist with the velvet glove.

And they’ll be worried about their settlements too
, he thought, as the car parked below the
Reichstag
and they walked up to their bedrooms. 
That will only make them more determined to smash us into a pulp
.

“I wish we had more time,” Gudrun said, once they were in her room.  “But ...”

Horst nodded, ruefully. Sex was definitely one of the best ways to keep from thinking about the future, but they didn't have time.  Gudrun needed to shower and change before she went to the meeting or the old goats would refuse to take her seriously.  Horst would have cheerfully strangled any of the bastards who insulted her to her face, but there was nothing he could do about hidden or not-so-hidden contempt.  He gave her a kiss on the lips, then hurried out of the room before his passion could overwhelm him.  They’d shared so much together that he knew there was nothing that could drive them apart.

He sighed to himself as he entered his room, shaking his head at how some of the social
mores
had remained firmly in place.  Gudrun was a Councillor, yet she could not be seen to share her bedroom with a young man.  Horst would have been surprised if the staff
didn’t
know, but so far most of the Councillors appeared to be unaware.  And Gudrun’s father didn't know either - or did he?  He was a policeman, after all.  Gudrun had once admitted that neither she nor any of her siblings had ever been able to lie to their father. 

And he probably doesn't know how to handle her any longer
, Horst thought, closing the door firmly behind him. 
Getting pregnant is one thing, but living in sin ...

He stopped, dead, as he saw the note on his bed.   He’d made it clear to the staff - very clear - that they were not to enter his rooms.  The small collection of weaponry he’d stockpiled under the bed, along with a handful of very useful tools, would only have upset them.  And some of the other pieces of equipment would have raised questions he would have preferred not to answer.  But the note had definitely not been there when he’d left the bedroom in the morning ...

Cursing under his breath, he donned a glove and picked up the note.  The SS had been known to use contact poisons, some of which had no known cure.  He might have had to slice off his own hand, if he’d touched the paper with his bare skin .... if, of course, he realised he’d been poisoned before it was too late.  His instructors had admitted, after discussing several interesting ways to booby-trap a desk drawer, that poisons spread very rapidly through the body.  And the most dangerous of them had no antidote.

There was nothing on the paper, save for a handful of code phrases.  Horst recognised them instantly; they looked innocuous, but only a handful of people could have written them, let alone known to send the note to him.  His blood ran cold as he realised the implications.  An SS stay-behind unit was operating in Berlin ... and at least
one
of the people in the
Reichstag
was a traitor.   Probably a servant, he thought numbly, as his heart began to race.  No one would have questioned a servant coming in or out of a bedroom suite.  It wasn't as if the
important
people would be expected to do their own housework.

He smiled, rather wanly, at the thought, then sat down to have a think.  The note specified a time and a place, a bare thirty minutes away.  Had that been deliberate?  Or was it merely a coincidence?  There was certainly no time to contact Gudrun and tell her where he was going ... if he went at all.  He'd pretended to have been duped, the last time he'd been questioned by his former superiors, but that excuse would probably no longer hold water.  There was no disputing - now - that Gudrun was deeply involved in the provisional government. 
And
that the SS had had her in its claws, only to let her go.

And that was my fault
, he thought. 
If I go to this meeting, I may walk right into a trap
.

Gritting his teeth, he ran through the possibilities as he donned his greatcoat and checked his holstered pistol.  There was no denying that there
was
a stay-behind cell in place, a cell that could do a great deal of damage if allowed to operate unmolested.  He could
not
let the chance to locate the cell pass, whatever the risk.  And if they wanted to kill him ... he added a handful of other weapons, burying them within the greatcoat, then scribbled out a quick note for Gudrun he could put in her room.  She, at least, would know that
something
had happened to him.

Horst walked out of the building, passing the guards at the gates without trouble, then removed and folded the greatcoat as soon as he was in the nearest alleyway.  It was pathetic, compared to some of the disguises he’d used during his training, but it was amazing how many people missed the obvious.  He looked like another trainee, heading home after a hard day prancing around the sports field, rather than an SS officer or a policeman.  No one would pay much, if any, attention to him.

He kept a wary eye on his surroundings as he walked further into the residential part of the city.  The apartment blocks were massive, intended to house young men and women who had travelled to Berlin in hopes of a better life.  Some of them looked like nice places to live, others looked like homes he would have preferred not to visit without armed backup.  A handful of older men were sitting by the roadside, drowning their sorrows in cheap booze and shouting obscenities at passing cars.  They’d have been arrested by now, a year ago, but the provisional government had other problems than the growing number of homeless on the streets.  There just wasn't the manpower to deal with it.

The landlords started kicking them out
, Horst thought.  There had been laws, once upon a time, about kicking veterans out of their homes, regardless of who actually owned the building.  Landlords had
hated
the laws because it left them stuck with tenants who could neither pay nor be evicted, tenants who lowered the tone so much it made it impossible for them to attract tenants who
could
pay. 
And no one gives enough of a damn to take them in
.

He couldn't help feeling a flicker of sympathy as he reached the safehouse and paused outside the door.  Gudrun’s grandfather had been a disgusting old drunkard, but his family had never given in to the temptation to dump him onto the streets.  But not everyone was so patient, not everyone was willing to give their parents a home.  It was depressing, really, to think that
he
might end up like that, had things gone differently.  And yet, if he treated his family like servants, how could he really blame them?

The door opened.  A hand beckoned him inside.

Horst braced himself, keeping his hand in position to draw his pistol if necessary and stepped through the door into the darkened building.  Someone had taken the advice offered by the provisional government literally and covered the windows in newspapers and tape to keep even a
chink
of light from shining out into the darkness.  And yet, the only source of light in the building was an open door at the end of the corridor.  He kept his face expressionless as he walked into the room, only to be caught by strong hands that frisked him expertly and removed the weapons before letting him go.

“He’s clean,” an unfamiliar voice said.