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

by Christopher Nuttall

Andrew leaned back into his seat. He’d never been a comfortable flyer, even in the jet permanently assigned to the Berlin Embassy. Indeed, he would have preferred to take the train to Dunkirk and board one of the ferries to Dover, but time was pressing. He’d been summoned to Britain and knew he couldn't disobey. Besides, the sooner he was finished in Britain, the sooner he could return to Berlin. There were too many interesting things happening in Berlin for him to want to be elsewhere.

  The RAF Tornados peeled off as RAF Fairford came into view. It was a smaller airfield than the fast-jet fighter bases to the east, serving the British Government as a private airport and conference chamber - although he was fairly sure the British would have plans to turn it into a fighter base if the long-feared war between the North Atlantic Alliance and the Third Reich finally became a reality. The pilot spoke briefly to the ground, then steered the plane towards the runway. Andrew had a flash of a blue and white plane parked at the far end of the airfield before the aircraft shook, violently, as it touched the ground. He closed his eyes and kept them closed until the plane finally rumbled to a halt near a small cluster of buildings.

  “I’ll be refuelling the plane while you’re gone,” the pilot said. “Do you know if we’re going to be heading straight back?”

  Andrew shrugged. He’d had the impression that he wouldn't be kept for long, but Washington - and London - operated on their own timescale. He might be expected to remain overnight, if there was a need for further debriefing, or he might just be ordered back to Berlin within the hour. But there was no way to be sure.

  “Get a nap, if you can,” he advised. “I have no idea when we’ll be leaving.”

  He rose to his feet and headed for the hatch. The ground crew, working with commendable speed, had already pushed a mobile staircase against the plane, allowing him to descend to the ground. He couldn't help noticing that security had been doubled or tripled; armed soldiers patrolled the fence, backed up by armoured cars, while Rapier missile launchers had been scattered around the airfield. It had been years since Britain had faced a terrorist threat, since the last remnants of the IRA had been crushed or convinced to lay down their arms, but it was evident that no one was taking chances. A strike at RAF Fairford could decapitate two governments at once.

  “This way, sir,” a young man said. He wore a black suit and tie, rather than a uniform, but he couldn't hide his military training. “We have to get you through security.”

  Andrew nodded, unsurprised, as he was led into the nearest building. The guards were polite, but firm; they searched him thoroughly, examined everything in his pocket with cynical eyes and finally waved him through. Andrew was tempted to make a crack about one of them buying him dinner afterwards, but thought better of it before he could open his mouth. The guards probably wouldn't find it very funny.

  “This is your badge,” his escort said, once Andrew was passed through the gate. “You are scheduled to enter the main room in thirty minutes. Do you want to take a shower and freshen up before then?”

  “Yes, please,” Andrew said. He felt grimy, even though the flight hadn't taken more than three hours. “And is there coffee?”

  “There are gallons of coffee,” his escort assured him. “I’ll have some brought into the room for you.”

  Thirty minutes later, feeling much better, Andrew was escorted into a comfortable conference room. He stiffened, automatically, as President John Anderson rose to his feet, hastily snapping out a salute. Beside the President, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher nodded politely as Andrew was shown to a chair. There was no one else in the room, but Andrew would have been surprised if the meeting wasn't being recorded. The government - both governments - would want a solid record of just what had been said, even if the recordings never saw the light of day.

  “Mr. Barton,” Anderson said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Andrew said.

  He took a moment to study them both as an aide brought two cups of coffee and one of tea, placing them on the table. They made an odd pair. President Anderson looked more like a schoolteacher than a President, while Prime Minister Thatcher reminded him of one of the fearsome old biddies who’d dominated his hometown. The Reich’s propaganda machine had turned her into a monster, even to the point of insisting she was really a man in drag. They’d had some problems coming to terms with female politicians, Andrew recalled; they’d never really seen women as anything more than mothers, daughters and wives.

  And now a young girl started a movement that sundered the Reich, Andrew thought, will they change their attitudes?

  “This is not a formal debriefing,” Anderson said, once the aide had retreated. “We would merely like your impression of the current situation.”

  Andrew took a breath. “At last report” - he wasn't going to go into specifics, not when the recording wouldn't be kept in the US - “the provisional government has a reasonably firm grip on Germany Prime, but very limited control outside it. Germany North and Germany South seem to be waiting to see who comes out on top, while Germany Arabia has effectively declared for Germany East. That gives the rump government in Germany East the ability to pressure the Turks into allowing shipments of troops and supplies through their territory. I don’t expect the Turks to refuse.”

  “I imagine the prospect of being devastated from one end of the country to the other will concentrate a few minds,” Thatcher said, dryly.

  Andrew nodded. The Reich’s allies knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that resistance to the Reich would be utterly futile. Vichy France, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Italy, Finland ... the slightest hint of resistance, of disagreement, would be enough to start the Panzers rolling in their direction. They were utterly prostrate before the Reich. And yet, with the Reich itself torn in two, who knew which way the former allies would jump?

  But they’d have to be sure of themselves first, he thought. Whoever comes out on top will certainly seek revenge, if they feel that they were betrayed.

  “It is hard to be sure just where the military balance actually stands,” Andrew continued, after a moment. “The rump has a more deployable military force at its disposal, but the provisional government should be able to generate a larger force, given time. I believe they will certainly try to recall troops from South Africa, yet there’s no way to know which way those forces will jump. It might be better to keep them in the south until after the civil war is settled, one way or the other.”

  President Anderson leaned forward. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “The rump will attack,” Andrew said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the orbital imagery of forces being moved westwards and positioned in place for a full-scale advance. Launching an offensive and pushing it forward with maximum force has been part of German military doctrine for well over a century. There’s no way they will allow a bunch of rebels - and that is how they will see the provisional government - to take and hold Berlin.”

  He paused. “In the long-term, it’s quite likely the remainder of the Reich’s economy will collapse,” he added. “But I don’t know if that will happen in time to prevent the civil war from devastating the country. The Reich stockpiled vast qualities of military supplies over the past forty years.”

  “Which leads to the obvious question,” Anderson said. “What about the nukes?”

  Andrew took a long breath. “Officially, the Reich’s stockpile of nuclear weapons can only be launched with command codes held within the Berlin Bunker,” he said. His source within the provisional government had told him as much, although he wasn't high enough to be absolutely sure that was true. “The missile silos in Siberia should be unable to launch without those codes, while the bombs assigned to the Luftwaffe cannot be detonated. In theory, the rump should be unable to deploy nuclear weapons.

  “In practice, Mr. President, I believe they may well be able to detonate tactical nukes.”

  The President scowled. “How?”

  “I’m not a nuclear weapons
expert, but I discussed the matter thoroughly with an officer at the embassy,” Andrew said, carefully. “The problem with any sort of security system is it needs to strike a balance between two competing imperatives; the need to keep the weapon from detonating at the wrong time and the need to ensure that the weapon actually detonates at the right time. It’s quite possible that a designer could accidentally ensure that the weapons cannot be detonated through making the security system too good.”

  “Too good,” the President repeated.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Andrew said. “If the wrong code is inputted, the security system will fry the detonator and render the weapon useless.”

  He paused. “We do not know the specifics of the Reich’s version of our Permissive Action Links,” he added. “However, my expert believes that someone with a good knowledge of tactical nuclear weapons might well be able to remove the PAL and replace it with a makeshift detonator. Indeed, given that a lucky strike on Berlin might destroy the command codes, it’s quite possible that the Reich was very careful not to make their PALs too good. In the absence of a working model to examine, there’s no way to know for sure.”

  “So the rump may have access to tactical nukes,” Thatcher commented.

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” Andrew said. “They may also be able to fire the ICBMs from Siberia, given time.”

  “It sounds careless of them,” Thatcher observed.

  “They need to strike a balance, Prime Minister,” Andrew said. “I don’t think they envisaged civil war when they were planning how best to secure their nuclear arsenal.”

  “Probably not,” Anderson said. “Do you think the rump will deploy nukes?”

  Andrew hesitated. “I think they would be reluctant to take the risk,” he said. “The provisional government could certainly retaliate in kind. However ...”

  He took a breath. “Germany East has always been the most fanatical part of the Reich,” he added, after a moment. “The SS isn’t just tolerated there, it’s actually popular. Neither their leadership nor their population are likely to view the provisional government as anything more than a bunch of filthy traitors. Indeed, they may even have a point. By overthrowing the former government, the rebels have actually weakened the Reich. I don’t expect them to be reluctant to deploy nukes if they think they need them.”

  “Wonderful,” Anderson said, sourly.

  Thatcher nodded in agreement. “Are they likely to try to pick a fight with us?”

  “I don’t know, Prime Minister,” Andrew said. “They would have to be insane to try, in hopes of convincing the Reich to reunite, but I don’t believe Karl Holliston is quite sane.”

  He didn't blame Thatcher for worrying. America was protected, first by vast oceans and then by the FIELD GREEN ABM network, but Britain was bare moments from German-occupied France. There would be barely any warning before the first missile reached its target. A nuclear war would turn Britain into a radioactive slagheap and both sides knew it; hell, with thousands of German jet fighters sitting on airfields in France and Germany, even a conventional war would give the British a very hard time.

  “That’s not reassuring,” Anderson said.

  Andrew nodded. He’d met Reichsführer-SS Karl Holliston once, two years ago. The man was a fanatic, as reactionary as they came. Calculating, ruthless ... and utterly dedicated to the ideas of the Third Reich. Andrew had no difficulty in believing that Holliston would deliberately set out to kill as many protesters as possible, then expend a dedicated Special Forces assault team in trying to kill the provisional government. A man like Holliston would do anything for his cause.

  “There's nothing reassuring here, Mr. President,” Andrew said. “I believe there was some talk of accepting a permanent split between the two sides, leaving us with two German states, but I don’t think that either government would willingly accept it. Their dispute will have to be settled by war.”

  Anderson nodded, glancing carefully at Thatcher. “And that leads to a very different point,” he said. “Should we be trying to intervene?”

  Andrew winced, inwardly. He’d expected that question from the moment he, instead of Ambassador Turtledove, was summoned to RAF Fairford. The Ambassador was there to be diplomatic, while Andrew worked for OSS, trying to develop new sources and covert networks within the Reich. If there was a determined attempt to support the provisional government, he would be running it ...

  But he wouldn't have the final say. There would be factions in Washington - and London too, he suspected - that would be arguing for intervention, after reading a handful of carefully-slanted reports. Other factions, having read different reports, would be arguing for staying firmly out of the growing conflict. And neither faction would have a real feel for what was going on in Germany. Their leadership certainly wouldn't be stationed in the Reich.

  Andrew took a moment to compose his thoughts. This - this - was a chance to influence policy on a truly global scale. His words would shape the thinking of the most powerful man and woman in the world, a terrifying thought. He was no stranger to danger - he knew he ran the risk of being arrested, tortured and disappeared every time he made contact with one of his sources within the Reich - but this was different. Lives hung on his words. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

  “There are a number of factors that should be considered, Mr. President,” he said, carefully. “First, perhaps most importantly, the provisional government is strongly nationalistic. They will not be pleased at an open suggestion of military support. Even if they were, the presence of American and British troops fighting alongside their men will hand their rivals a major propaganda coup. Entire generations of Germans have been raised to consider us the enemy. It may well undermine their position.”

  He paused. “And they will suspect us of wanting to weaken the Reich,” he added, after a moment. “Will we demand German withdrawal from France, for example, as the price of our support?”

  Anderson frowned. “I thought they wanted freedom.”

  Thatcher smiled. “So did George Washington and his fellows,” she pointed out. “That didn't stop them keeping black slaves in bondage.”

  “Touché,” Anderson said. He met Andrew’s eyes. “But should we not use this as a chance to remove the threat permanently?”

  “If we back the rump into a corner, they will use nukes,” Andrew said, flatly. “And we could not guarantee that they wouldn't be able to fire the missiles at us.”

  He sighed. “Ambassador Turtledove has been trying to forge links with the provisional government, but - frankly - the government has too many other problems at the moment. If they lose the coming war ... well, our opinion isn't going to matter.”

  Thatcher nodded, curtly. “What would you advise?”

  “I would suggest providing limited intelligence support and nothing else,” Andrew said. He understood the urge to do something, but they were playing with nukes! “We can let them know, quietly, that we may not be averse to providing further help. But really, getting involved in their civil war would be a major commitment.”

  “Particularly with the troubles in South Africa,” Anderson observed. “There are demands for intervention there too.”

  “Another political headache,” Thatcher agreed. Her lips quirked into a smile. “Although, really, one that doesn't involve nukes.”

  Andrew nodded. South Africa had tried but failed to produce nuclear weapons. Or so he’d been told. South Africa’s nuclear program had taken a body-blow when South Africa had been expelled from the NAA, while the Reich wasn't in the habit of providing nuclear weapons or nuclear technology to anyone. But even if South Africa did have nukes, what could they do with them? Blow up their own cities?

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Barton,” Anderson said. “I’m afraid there are quite a few others waiting to debrief you, but hopefully we should have an idea how to proceed before you return to Germany.”

  He paused. “Do you anticipate any problems in returning?”

  “No,
Mr. President,” Andrew said. He rose. “The provisional government has seen fit to honour the treaties we made with their predecessors.”

  “Let’s just hope it stays that way,” Anderson said. “This could spin out of control very quickly.”

  “I would say that was a given, Mr. President,” Andrew said. “Both sides have enough military power to ensure that the coming war is far from short.”

  Chapter Three

  Reichstag, Berlin

  1 September 1985

  Volker Schulze, Chancellor of the Greater German Reich - he’d refused to take Führer as a title - stood at the window and peered out over the city as the sun started to sink towards the distant horizon, feeling a gnawing concern within his gut. Berlin looked surprisingly calm, from his viewpoint, but he knew it was nothing more than an illusion. Gudrun and the Valkyries had unleashed forces he doubted they knew how to control, even if control was possible. The government’s absolute control over its population was gone, once and for all ...