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

by Christopher Nuttall

  Cold logic told him it wasn't likely. He’d had plenty of experience with intelligence work over the years. The more complex an operation, the greater the chance of failure. Surely, the Americans couldn't have planned the entire situation out from the beginning. And yet, they were moving to take advantage of the chaos. They had to be very sure the civil war wouldn't turn into a complete disaster.

  “MANPADS,” he said, out loud.

  He snorted, rudely. American MANPADS were good. Stinger missiles alone had turned what should have been a relatively easy operation - to support the South Africans as they retook control of their country - into a bloodbath. CAS aircraft were uniquely vulnerable to American Stingers, which stripped the troops of their air cover when they needed it desperately. The blacks had used them, ruthlessly, to push the envelope and start attacking German troops, rather than the other way around. Introducing American-designed MANPADS into the German Civil War would only prolong the bloodshed.

  Which is probably what the Americans want, he thought, darkly. If we keep fighting each other, we will be in no position to resist when the Americans take advantage of the chaos.

  “Yes, Mein Führer,” Wermter said. “They have promised over two thousand single-use missiles to the traitors.”

  Karl thought fast. The Americans had pretended that they hadn't been supplying the South Africans, but no one believed them. There was literally no other country on Earth, even Britain, capable of producing Stingers. Stripping all US markings off the missiles and their launchers was just pointless. And yet, the troops defending the traitors wouldn't know that, would they? They’d think the Stingers came from a German factory. The traitors wouldn't be keen to acknowledge that they’d received help from the archenemy.

  “We have to find a way to use this against them,” he thought. “Is our spy undetected?”

  “I believe they do not suspect his presence,” Wermter said. “However, they would be foolish to trust him completely.”

  “They’d be foolish to trust anyone completely,” Karl mused. It was the old problem with revolutionary movements. The different factions tended to have different ideas about which way the movement should go. Even Hitler had needed to move against his former comrades, once the Nazi Party was in power. “But as long as he remains undetected ...”

  He frowned. He’d hoped the traitors would fragment into multiple factions, each one weakening the whole, but the growing pressure from the east probably ensured that any disputes would be put aside until the end of the war. The traitors knew they had to hang together or they would all be hanging together. He smirked at the pun, then turned his attention back to his subordinate. Wermter was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  “The Americans will not be giving them anything for free,” he said. “What do they get in exchange?”

  “A withdrawal from South Africa and free trade,” Wermter said.

  Karl swore, savagely. The withdrawal wasn't a problem - no doubt the traitors were already congratulating themselves on convincing the Americans to pay for something they’d been planning to do already - but free trade? It would be disastrous! He had no illusions about just how easily the United States could flood the Reich with civilian products, products that would be both cheaper and better than anything the Reich could produce for itself. And who knew what would come with it? Germans who should be doing their duty for the Reich would be asking questions, instead. They’d be demanding to know why Germany couldn't produce blue jeans and cheap televisions. And none of the answers they’d get would satisfy them.

  And it would destroy our economy completely, he thought. Who would buy one of our products when they could have an American product?

  “We have to stop this,” he said. He glared at Wermter. “Get back to your other sources; find out what else they’re planning to do. And then tell the advance teams I want them ready to move in on the Reichstag at a moment’s notice.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Wermter said.

  Karl dismissed him, then keyed the intercom. “Maria, inform Oberstgruppenfuehrer Ruengeler that I wish to speak with him over the secure phone,” he ordered. It would take time - Ruengeler had been spending far too much time at the front, getting a personal feel for the situation, rather than staying in the CP - but it would just have to be endured. “Inform me the moment he’s on the line.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Maria said.

  Rising to his feet, Karl paced over to the window and stared out over his city. It was a towering monument to the dreams of the Volk, to what could be achieved if the Volk was bound together by a single movement. The gothic structures surrounding him were larger-than-life, the reflection of a pitiless will to dominate and reshape the world. It was magnificent; it was always magnificent. And yet, everything they’d built could be lost, if the war was lost. The traitors were playing games with the Volk itself.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, cursing the bastards under his breath. Didn't they realise what was at stake? The world was savage, red in tooth and claw. Their dominance had come at a price. Countless Germans had fought and died to build the Reich, from the men who had marched into Poland in 1939 to the men and women who fought insurgents in Germany East and South Africa. To give the Untermenschen a chance to harm the Reich wasn't just treason, it was ... it was worse, yet he could think of no word for it. Karl understood the ebb and flow of politics, the complex series of moves and countermoves that sometimes left a knife buried in a comrade’s back, but this was gambling with the future of the Reich itself. Karl would have sooner disbanded the SS than see the Reich collapse into rubble.

  We had the will to dominate the world, he told himself. But do we still have it?

  The secure telephone rang. He strode back to the table and picked it up. “Holliston.”

  “Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

  “You need to push the advance forward.” Karl said, bluntly. “Take whatever risks are necessary to reach Berlin.”

  There was a long pause. “Mein Fuhrer, the advance is already moving as quickly as possible,” Ruengeler said. “I don’t believe it can be pushed any faster.”

  Karl swore, inwardly, as he turned to stare at the map. The advance was grinding forward slowly, too slowly. He’d hoped for a swift strike towards Berlin, but the traitors were stalling his men and slowing them down. It was frustrating. Worse, perhaps, it was costly. If some of the reports were to be believed, replacing every lost aircraft, every lost panzer, would be a nightmare. He might win the war and purge all of his enemies, but the Reich would be so gravely weakened that the Americans would roll over them with ease.

  “It has to be done,” he growled. He didn't dare discuss everything over the telephone line. It was meant to be secure, but the Americans were very good at intercepting messages. He’d even read reports claiming that the Americans had actually found a way to hack into the telephone network without a physical connection. “I need you to have Berlin cut off, at the very least, within the week.”

  He forced himself to take a breath. “What is the current situation?”

  “We’re advancing, slowly but surely,” Ruengeler said. “Unfortunately, they’re holding back their airpower.”

  Karl frowned. “I was told that we were grinding their aircraft out of existence.”

  “They’re holding them back, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said. “And that worries me.”

  “That makes no sense,” Karl told him, flatly. “If they had the airpower to take control of the skies, they would have used it.”

  “We haven't shot down anything like enough aircraft to weaken them, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

  “And yet they are allowing us to strike at Berlin,” Karl sneered. Bombing the capital gave him no pleasure, but at least it made it clear to the citizens that the traitors had brought war to their city. “Why would they do that unless they were running out of aircraft?”

  “They’re conserving their strength,” Ruengeler said. “I suspect they are preparing
a counteroffensive of their own.”

  Karl snorted. “Take Berlin and it won’t matter what they’re planning,” he snapped. “We can win the war and put an end to the traitors, then save the Reich from the Americans.”

  He went on before Ruengeler could say a word. “Push the offensive forward,” he added, sharply. “And don’t hesitate to relieve any officers who are insufficiently aggressive.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

  Karl put the phone down, hard. Ruengeler was starting to annoy him, even though he was one of the most experienced officers in the Reich. Couldn't he see that there was more at stake than simple military victory? A long drawn-out war would be disastrous, no matter which side actually won. They’d inherit a broken state. The satellites would be making a bid for freedom, the Untermenschen would be rising up against the SS. Everything the Reich had built over the past fifty years would be in doubt.

  And I will not allow the Reich to collapse, he thought, as he tapped the intercom. Whatever the cost, I will not allow the Reich to collapse.

  “Maria,” he said. “I want to see Frank at once.”

  It was nearly five minutes before Standartenfuehrer Frank entered the chamber and saluted, smartly. He was a man who could easily have stepped off a recruiting poster: tall, blond, handsome and very muscular. Karl had wondered, back when he'd first met Frank, why he had never joined the Waffen-SS, but a glance in his file provided the answer. Frank’s father had been a researcher who’d worked on nuclear weapons and his son, while lacking his father’s intellectual gifts, had done his best to follow in his footsteps. Karl could hardly disapprove. His own father had been among the very first men to join the SS.

  “Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said.

  “I need a progress update,” Karl said. “Have you managed to unlock the nuclear warheads?”

  “Not as yet,” Frank said. His face was carefully impassive. “The Permissive Action Links have proved unpleasantly resilient to tampering.”

  Karl scowled. “And the missiles cannot be fired?”

  “The missiles can be fired at their preset targets, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank told him. “However, they cannot be detonated. The warheads cannot be detonated without the correct command codes. Even selecting new targets will be very difficult.”

  Karl scowled. “And the missile crews cannot help?”

  “They were never trained to work on warheads, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said. “Their only task was launching the missiles, should the command ever come. Any maintenance work was handled by engineers who would be flown in from Berlin.”

  “And so the Americans have us over a barrel,” Karl breathed.

  “I don't believe so, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said. “If the Americans did fire on us, I’m sure we’d be able to get the arming codes from Berlin.”

  Karl snorted, rudely. The early-warning network was in shambles. If the Americans decided to gamble and launched a massive first strike, it was quite possible that their missiles wouldn't be detected until the nukes actually started to detonate. And by then it would be far too late. The Reich would have been utterly shattered. Hell, if they were lucky, the Americans would destroy the Reich’s missiles on the ground.

  And the traitors are already in bed with the Americans, he thought, darkly. They might refuse to send us the arming codes.

  “We should never have placed so much faith in our system,” he growled. “It never occurred to us that we would lose control of Berlin.”

  “The government didn't want anyone using nukes without their approval, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank pointed out.

  “I know,” Karl growled. “They didn't trust us.”

  He shook his head. Deploying tactical nukes in 1950 might have been the only way to end the Arab Uprisings quickly - the Reich had been reeling after Hitler’s death and really didn't need more problems - but it had come at a cost. The Americans, who had been going back to sleep, had started pouring money into defence, while the Reich Council had worked hard to ensure that no one could detonate a nuke without their blessing. No one at the time had realised that the Reich would be sundered in two. They’d known that unity was the only thing that kept the Reich from being ripped apart by its enemies.

  “If you had a tactical nuke,” he said flatly, “could you detonate it?”

  “Perhaps, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said. “We are working on readying a number of tactical warheads now. However, the PAL system is designed to be extremely tamper-resistant, to the point of destroying the warhead if it isn't handled very carefully. It may be impossible to guarantee that the nukes will detonate.”

  Karl sighed. “And if we start building our own nukes?”

  “It would take years, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said. “We may have a number of breeder reactors under our control, but assembly has always been done in Germany Prime. I think we would be starting from scratch. Building the machines to make the machines, if you will pardon the expression, will be costly - if we can do it at all.”

  “Another mistake,” Karl said. Germany East’s industry was limited. In hindsight, that had been a mistake too. “We can’t get the tools without winning the war.”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Frank said. “Producing them for ourselves will take too long.”

  “Do a study, see if there’s any way to speed up the process,” Karl ordered. He didn't hold out much hope, but at least they could try. “Dismissed.”

  He watched Frank leave, then turned his attention to the map. His forces were advancing forward slowly, too slowly. Their gains would be worthless if they couldn't consolidate them by capturing Berlin, destroying the traitorous government. And yet, if they couldn't take Berlin ...

  I’ll make the world burn before I surrender, he told himself, savagely. And the traitors will pay for their crimes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  18 September 1985

  Horst wrapped his greatcoat around his body as he walked slowly down the darkened street, wishing he could wear a hood. A chilly breeze was coming from the east, sending shivers down his spine, but he needed to be recognised. The cell had picked an excellent spot for their meeting, he had to admit. A watcher lurking near one of the warehouses would be able to recognise Horst - and ensure he was on his own - long before Horst saw him. He’d worked through a dozen possible ways to have a police observer nearby - Gudrun’s father had had quite a few good ideas - but none of them had been workable. The merest hint that he wasn't alone would be enough to get him killed.

  He glanced up as he heard the sound of aircraft engines buzzing over the city, wondering if they were friendly or very hostile. Berlin had been bombed several times, the bombers dropping their bombs seemingly at random. Horst had never served in South Africa - or on any campaign, if he were forced to tell the truth - but some of his friends had insisted that the Waffen-SS’s pilots could drop their bombs with startling precision. If that were true, the bombers had definitely been bombing at random, more to frighten the civilians than for any actual military value. They hadn't struck any targets within half a mile of the Reichstag.

  And they might even hit their own people, he thought, feeling a flicker of grim amusement. I doubt the pilots know there’s an SS cell beneath them.

  He waited, ready to seek cover, but no bombs fell. The sound of aircraft engines slowly faded into the darkness. Horst allowed himself a moment of relief, then kept walking slowly towards his destination. The warehouses had long-since been stripped of anything useful, the guards and workers relocated elsewhere. There were quite a few homeless Berliners squatting in them, according to the police, but no one really cared. They weren't causing trouble - and, in any case, there was nowhere else to put them. He kept a sharp eye out for trouble as he kept moving, knowing that the crime rate had also skyrocketed in the less-pleasant parts of Berlin. The omnipresent fear of the police and the SS was gone.

  And now people know they can change the world, he thought, as he reached the location and checked
his watch. He was two minutes early. Who knows what will happen the next time the government becomes unpopular?

  He pushed the thought aside as he leaned against the building and waited, feeling unseen eyes watching him from the shadows. Covertly, he checked around, but saw nothing. It didn't really surprise him. An experienced SS observer wouldn't let himself be seen, in any case, nor would they bother with any games. If they suspected his loyalties, he would probably have been picked off by a sniper as he walked down the road. Unless, of course, they thought he could be manipulated.

  My life was much simpler before the uprising, he thought. Back then, I thought I knew how the world worked.

  “Horst,” a quiet voice said.

  Horst tensed, then turned to see Schwarzkopf emerging from the shadows. The SS handler looked like a homeless man, smoking a homemade cigarette and wearing a tattered outfit that was too large for him. If Horst’s experience was any guide, he’d be wearing something else underneath, something that would pass without comment anywhere in Berlin. Dump the clothes, lose the cigarette and comb his hair ... he’d look very different. It wasn't a very clever disguise, but it didn't have to be. All it had to do was work.