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

by Christopher Nuttall

  ... And a number of enemy soldiers were slipping forward, trying to launch a counterattack.

  “Not this time,” he muttered, as he motioned for his men to get into position. “You’re not going to stop us now.”

  ***

  “What happened?”

  “A whole string of attacks, Mein Herr,” the operator said. He didn't seem to know how to respond to a policeman - particularly one with powerful relatives - but at least he was trying to do his job. “One of them was on Councillor Wieland’s car ...”

  Herman blanched. He knew the plan - he knew what was intended to happen - and it wasn’t an attack on Gudrun’s car. Horst had told his handlers that Gudrun would be vulnerable in the afternoon, not midday ... something had gone badly wrong. Had Horst betrayed Gudrun, his wife of a week? He doubted it - he was fairly good at reading people - but if he hadn’t, someone else had to have betrayed Horst. His handlers might have suspected his loyalty all along. And if that was the case ...

  He looked down at the map as report after report came in; bombings and shootings from inside the city, airstrikes and shellfire from outside the city. The quick-response team that had been on alert had already been deployed, racing to a commando assault on one of Berlin’s power distribution stations. Most military and government bases had their own generators, he knew, but losing power all over the rest of the city would cause panic ...

  “See if you can find any patrolmen free,” he ordered, finally. He doubted it would be possible. The thousands of men who made up the Ordnungspolizei - the men who had continued to serve after the uprising - would be scattered over the city, facing their own nightmares. “If you can, divert them towards the scene of the ambush.”

  He groaned, inwardly, as the operators went to work. The whole plan might have been Gudrun’s idea, but he should never have agreed to it. He should have beaten sense into Gudrun and Horst when they actually tried to make the plan work, rather than risk his daughter’s life. And now he was trapped in the Reichstag, the building already under attack, unable to do anything to help either his daughter or his new son-in-law. All he could do was wait, watch and pray.

  ***

  Horst slumped down next to the driver’s body, feeling oddly unable to move as he battled complete despair. He’d lost everything in less than a second, a feeling so profound that he was barely able to move. And yet, somehow, he managed to force himself to gather his thoughts. The commandos had escaped, taking Gudrun with them - he had to believe they’d taken Gudrun with them. They’d risked far too much to kill her when they could have ordered him to end her life.

  Unless they doubted my loyalty even then, he thought, as he forced himself to stand. They might have feared to alert me too soon.

  He picked up Gudrun’s pistol and stuck it into his belt, then hastily searched the driver’s body for anything useful. The man had been carrying a pistol himself, which Horst took, and an ID card, but very little else. Horst pocketed everything anyway and then stared into the remains of the car. There was no hint that anyone had died, as far as he could tell. He didn't think the heat was hot enough to reduce a body to nothing but ash, but the SS had a habit of using incendiary grenades to burn down insurgent hovels in Germany East.

  They will want her alive, he told himself, again and again. They will want her alive.

  He shuddered at the implications. Gudrun had been a symbol of hope - the hope of a life without fear - from the moment she’d gone public and told the regime that she, a mere university student, had no fear of them. Merely killing her would never be enough, not if her body was never recovered. Karl Holliston would want to crush her beneath his heel, he would want to make it very clear that he had captured and smashed the symbol of hope, he would want to use her death to boost his cause. And yet, the cause had grown far beyond her ...

  Her death won’t change anything beyond giving us a martyr, he thought. And that means he needs to turn her against us.

  The sound of shooting and shellfire grew louder as he reached the end of the side street and peered down the main road. One of the outriders was lying dead on the ground, his motorcycle long since gone. People were stealing everything that wasn't nailed down, these days; Horst had no doubt that the bike would be sold shortly, if the thief hadn't already managed a sale. Strip the police signs from the bike and it might as well be a civilian model, as long as no one looked too closely.

  He checked the body - the outrider had broken bones as well as a cracked skull - and found his radio, but it was broken. Horst fiddled with it for a long moment, then gave it up as a bad job. There was no hope of repairing the radio without tools, spare parts and time, none of which he had. Instead, he hurried down the street, thinking hard. The quick-response team had failed to show, which meant that there was no hope of help. If the shooting really was coming from the Reichstag, and it certainly sounded that way, anyone who might have come to help had too many problems of their own.

  They must have planned the timing perfectly, he thought. Hit Gudrun and snatch her, then attack the Reichstag and everywhere else, forcing us to react to them. And then send in the troops to finish us off while we’re distracted.

  There was nothing he could do about that now, he knew, but he could head to the bar Gudrun’s father had identified for him. It was unlikely that the commandos would have taken Gudrun there, but the bartender was almost certainly an SS contact, if he wasn't an outright operative. He might - he might - know where Gudrun had been taken. And if he refused to talk, Horst would make him talk. He knew precisely how to hurt someone to cause maximum pain, but little real injury. The man would talk, Horst promised himself, no matter what he had to do ...

  It wasn't much, he knew all too well, but it was the only hope he had.

  They’ll try to get her out of the city, particularly if the battle is lost, he told himself. He knew his own people all too well. And if that happens, I have lost everything.

  ***

  The bunker was oddly aseptic, Volker had often thought. There was a battle raging above his head and another being fought on the edge of the city, but the bunker was calm and utterly composed. He sat in the heart of the war room, safe and secure, even though men were dying as the fighting raged on. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Power stations are out in Sections Five through Seven,” an operator said. “Emergency power is off-line; I say again, emergency power is off-line.”

  “Seven aircraft have been shot down over the front lines,” another added. “No pilots have been reported alive.”

  “Sniper active near the walk,” a third warned. “Police units have been dispatched.”

  Volker shook his head, then looked at Voss. “Are we holding?”

  “For the moment, barely,” Voss said. “They’re coming at us hard, hammering our lines with staggering force. A number of our guns have already run out of ammunition.”

  “Then pass the word to the relief forces,” Volker ordered. Time had almost run out. “Tell them to come in, guns blazing.”

  Voss nodded, shortly. “Jawohl, Herr Chancellor,” he said. “It shall be done.”

  He strode away to issue orders, leaving Volker alone with his thoughts. Karl Holliston had to be out of his mind. A smart man would have backed off, realising that the Reich could be sundered in two - and see who came out ahead, in the months and years to come - but Holliston had sent uncounted thousands of his men to their deaths. And he’d committed atrocities that practically guaranteed that the SS would never be accepted in the west, not now. Too much hatred had been unleashed.

  But you were in the SS, his thoughts reminded him. You knew how fanatical they could be.

  It was a bitter thought. He’d been taught to fight, to take advantage of every fleeting opportunity, but he’d never really been taught to think. His masters wanted the ultimate soldier, one who would fight to the bitter end, yet never question orders. He’d fought in more battles than he cared to remember, before he’d finally resigned.
And yet he’d never questioned orders.

  He shuddered. And he hadn't questioned his son’s silence either, had he? He’d never really understood what he’d served until Gudrun had rubbed his face in it. She would have made a fine daughter-in-law ...

  ... And yet, marrying Konrad would have ruined her.

  He sat back in his chair, knowing there was nothing else he could do. There was no point in issuing further orders, not now. His people on the ground knew what to do, even if they lost contact with the Reichstag. Berlin might fall, but the relief forces would trap and destroy the Waffen-SS. The die was cast ...

  ... and what happened now would determine if the Reich lived or died.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  25 October 1985

  “Message from Berlin, Herr Generalmajor,” Hauptmann Franz Winckler reported. “We are to commence Operation Mausefalle at once.”

  Generalmajor Gunter Gath nodded, curtly. He’d hoped for longer, but the orbital imagery he’d been sent had made it clear that time wasn't on his side. His men had worked like demons, moving five panzer divisions and their supporting elements eastwards ... it would just have to be enough. If it wasn't ...

  One last roll of the dice, he thought. And pray the SS isn't ready for us.

  “Send the signal,” he ordered. “The aerial and commando attacks are to begin at once.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said.

  “And the main body of the advance is to begin in twenty minutes, regardless of the reports from the ground,” Gunter added. “We cannot stop for anything.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said, again.

  Gunter nodded, then turned his attention to the map. All had not been quiet on the western front. His panzers might have been held back, but his commandos and more experienced infantrymen had been skirmishing with the Waffen-SS for days. The bastards had been working to set up roadblocks, emplacing antitank weapons to delay his forces as they raced towards Berlin. They were doing precisely the same thing he’d done, back when the Waffen-SS rolled into Germany Prime. The irony was not lost on him.

  We probably showed them how to do it better, he thought. A march that shouldn't have lasted longer than a day was stretched out for nearly two weeks.

  He scowled, remembering the reports from the scouts. Berlin was at the centre of the greatest autobahn network in the world, but the roads would have been mined or otherwise rigged to make using them difficult. And merely driving a few hundred panzers down the road would be enough to put them out of commission. His forces risked being drawn into urban combat, whether they liked it or not. But it couldn't be helped. The chance to trap the Waffen-SS in a kessel - and save Berlin - could not be ignored. It would shorten the war.

  And even if they retreat, we will have given them their first true battlefield defeat, he thought, darkly. That will teach them that they’re not invincible after all.

  “The commandos have begun their assault, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler reported. “And our aircraft are on the way.”

  Gunter nodded. He’d held back every aircraft he could, conserving his strength as much as possible while the SS controlled the skies over Berlin. Now, his men would clear the SS out of the skies - winning air supremacy - or die trying. And even if they failed, the SS would no longer be able to call on its flying artillery. Their pilots would have to fight to defend themselves, rather than support the stormtroopers on the ground.

  “Inform me when the main offensive encounters opposition,” he ordered. “And keep a close eye on our logistics. We don’t want to run out of ammunition midway through the battle.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said.

  ***

  Hauptmann Felix Malguth braced himself as the HE-477 roared eastwards, skimming the ground as he hunted for targets. Anything military outside Berlin, he'd been told, was fair game, even though the Heer was on the move for the first time in decades. The prospect of accidently strafing or bombing his own men nagged at him, even though he was fairly sure he’d outraced the panzers long ago. As long as he was careful not to cross the lines into Berlin, he could be reasonably sure he was attacking the right side.

  And if I fly over Berlin, I might well be shot down, he thought, remembering the warning the pilots had been given, over and over again. Berlin’s air defences were good, but they had no way to tell the difference between friendly and unfriendly aircraft. I’ll be shot down by my own side.

  He gritted his teeth as the city came into view, obscured by a growing haze of smoke. The battle was still underway, the SS fighting desperately to break into the city even though they had to know that relief forces were on the way. Felix had no idea why they thought they could still win the battle, but none of the SS stormtroopers he’d encountered had been the sort of people who just gave up. And yet, getting hundreds of thousands of soldiers - and civilians - killed for nothing was pointless. Surely they would be wiser to set up defence lines to the east?

  Don't go feeling sorry for the bastards, he told himself, sharply. You know what they’ve done to the Reich.

  Cold hatred blazed through him as he caught sight of a convoy, a handful of armoured vehicles and trucks moving westwards. There was no way to know just what they had in mind - blocking the counterattack or escaping before the jaws slammed closed - but it hardly mattered. He twisted towards them, spraying cannon fire over the vehicles as he passed overhead. Five of the trucks exploded in quick succession, followed by two of the armoured cars. The remainder scattered hastily, a handful of soldiers drawing their sidearms and firing after him. It was futile, but he found it hard to care. The more bullets expended uselessly, the fewer there would be to shoot at the men on the ground.

  He cursed under his breath as he stumbled across an air defence position, then yanked the HE-477 to the side, avoiding a missile that passed far too close to his aircraft. The SS gunners had to have been equally surprised, he noted; they’d have set the missile for proximity detonation if they'd had longer to prepare before opening fire. But they’d be on the alert now ... if they hadn't been on the alert already. The fast-jets had raced ahead of him, trying to sweep the SS fighters from the air. He would have been surprised if the SS stormtroopers on the ground didn't know that they were under attack, even before he’d arrived.

  You should be running now, he thought, as he caught sight of a line of soldiers scrambling for cover. You’re as naked as the day you were born.

  He resisted the urge to spray cannon fire over their position - it was poor tactics - as he headed east. A helicopter - clearly marked as SS - flashed in front of him, settling down somewhere below. He blew the craft apart with a burst of fire, then caught sight of a line of panzers moving west. They had to be trying to take up position before it was too late, hoping to block the oncoming storm. He expended his handful of air-to-ground missiles on them, following up with a hail of cannon fire. The panzers exploded into fireballs, one by one.

  Armour is useless when it doesn’t have air cover, he thought, as his cannon ran dry. And there’s nowhere to run.

  Turning, he headed west, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction as he retreated from the battlefield. The makeshift airfield was just behind the lines, the ground crews already preparing ammunition and fuel for the planes as they returned home. He would land and take a quick piss while the crew hastily reloaded his aircraft. And then he would go back east and do it all over again.

  Better make sure I know where the lines are, he reminded himself, as he overflew a pair of panzers heading east. There was no way to tell which side they were on. Or there will be accidents all along the lines.

  ***

  “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said. “The enemy is attacking to the west!”

  “I have eyes,” Alfred snarled. He could see the map as it was hastily updated by the staff, red arrows slotted into place to represent the enemy advances. And even if he coul
dn't he would have known what was going on. The sudden arrival of hundreds of enemy aircraft was more than enough warning that a major offensive was underway. “They’re trying to entrap us.”

  “They’re hitting the blocking forces hard,” Weineck reported. “Commando and airstrikes have already weakened them badly.”

  Alfred nodded, grimly. The traitors had had ample time to turn every last town and village to the east into a strongpoint, but his men had had only a few days before the storm broke over their positions. They would fight, he knew, and they would bleed the traitors, but it wouldn't be enough to stop them. Despite everything, the traitors had succeeded in transferring a sizable force from west to east.

  And while my men are tired, theirs are fresh, he thought. He had no idea who was in command of the enemy counteroffensive, but he had to admire his nerve. Instead of feeding the reinforcements into the battle piecemeal, he’d held them back - along with his aircraft - until committing them at the best possible moment. And while my men are running short of ammunition, theirs have access to the largest stockpiles in the Reich.