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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Order the blocking forces to engage as best as they can,” he ordered, thinking hard. “Is there any update from Berlin?”

  “They’re gaining ground,” Weineck said. “We can still win!”

  Alfred swallowed the sarcastic response that came to mind. The plan had failed. Indeed, perhaps it had been doomed to fail from the start. Even if they did take Berlin - and it was clear that the defenders were fighting like mad bastards, bleeding his men heavily and counterattacking whenever they had a chance - it would be pointless. The jaws of the trap were rapidly closing around him ... his men would, at best, wind up fighting to defend Berlin themselves. And at worst, they’d be trapped between three fires and doomed to destruction.

  “Order the blocking forces to hold as long as they can,” he said. “I have to call the Fuhrer.”

  “Jawohl,” Weineck said.

  It was quiet in the secure room, Alfred noted, even though he could still hear the distant rumble from the battlefield. He sat down heavily, then braced himself as he picked up the red phone. It would connect, automatically, to the Fuhrer’s office in Germanica. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Karl Holliston would be sitting behind his desk, waiting for the news that his forces had won the battle. Alfred swallowed, hard, as he heard the Fuhrer pick up the phone. There was no way Holliston was going to take the truth lightly.

  “Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “The enemy have launched their counterattack.”

  Holliston snorted. “Block it.”

  Alfred felt a flicker of anger. Holliston had worked his way up through the intelligence and counter-intelligence side of the SS, not the Waffen-SS. The Fuhrer was far from stupid, but he had no real idea of the military realities. Block a major panzer thrust? It was easier said than done.

  “We can’t block the attacking forces while storming Berlin,” he said, carefully. “Mein Fuhrer, I request permission to abandon the siege and pull back to our defence lines.”

  “Abandon the siege?” Holliston demanded. “That’s a cowardly ...”

  “We do not have the mobile firepower to continue the offensive while guarding our flanks,” Alfred snapped. “Mein Fuhrer, we must pull back now or they will pocket four divisions within the kessel. And that will be the end!”

  He cursed under his breath, then went on. “There’s no shame in pulling back and allowing the enemy to expend themselves uselessly,” he added. “It’s a tactical withdrawal, not a surrender ...”

  “We can’t let them win,” Holliston insisted. “Everyone who’s currently sitting on the damned fence will join them! They cannot be allowed a victory!”

  “They will have their victory, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said, throwing caution to the winds. “I cannot stop them. The only thing I can do is give them a pointless petty victory - driving us away from Berlin - instead of crushing four divisions! If we lose those men ...”

  He ground his teeth in range. The hell of it was that Holliston had a point. If the traitors and their provisional government scored a victory, everyone who had chosen to sit on the fence rather than join one side or the other would be forced to re-evaluate their position. The spy in the provisional government might change sides - again - while military officers and bureaucrats who had resigned might beg to be allowed back, while they still had something to bargain with. No, the traitors could not be allowed a victory ...

  ... But they were going to get one anyway.

  He took a long breath. “I can get the men out of the trap, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. He knew he was pleading, but he no longer cared. “And then we can launch a counterattack, once the enemy has exhausted itself ...”

  “Berlin is to be taken,” Holliston snapped. “Do not give the enemy a victory.”

  There was a click as the Fuhrer put down the phone. Alfred stared at his handset for a long moment, then slowly put it down on the table. The Fuhrer was mad. He had to be mad - or too ignorant to be aware of his own ignorance. There was no way Alfred could take Berlin and, simultaneously, save his men from being pocketed and destroyed. After the atrocities, he had no reason to expect the traitors to show mercy. Why should they?

  Do not give the enemy a victory, he thought, as he rose. And that is one order I can try to carry out.

  He strode back into the main room and glanced at the map. The situation was growing worse by the minute, the enemy smashing their way through the blocking forces with almost contemptuous ease. They were paying for their haste, but it wouldn't be enough to slow them down. And if he didn't react now, he and his men were doomed.

  Weineck looked at him. “Orders, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”

  I could be shot for this, Alfred thought. Disobeying orders in the face of the enemy was a court martial offence, if anyone actually bothered with the court martial. The legendary Erwin Rommel had once summarily shot an SS officer who was trying to interfere with his command, during the final drive across the Suez and into Palestine. And my family could be killed too.

  He kept his face impassive with an effort. His family’s lives were at stake, but so were those of tens of thousands of stormtroopers. Losing those men would make defending Germany East impossible, ensuring the end of the war. And he liked Germany East. The westerners were too soft to do what needed to be done to preserve the Reich. Life was far too easy ...

  And I have to save my men, he told himself. Everything else is secondary.

  His family might be killed by the Fuhrer, he told himself, but they’d also be killed if the traitors won the war. Everyone with any connection to the SS would be purged. There would be no mercy ...

  “Orders from Germanica,” he lied smoothly. “We are to begin a withdrawal back to the Warsaw Line.”

  He turned to look at the map. “Pull the assault forces back from Berlin, then order the gunners to slow up the inevitable counterattacks as much as possible,” he added. “Deploy the Category B units to slow down the enemy counterattack, then move the Category A units to the rear.”

  Weineck frowned, doubtfully. Alfred didn't blame him. The Category B units were unlikely to be able to do more than slow the enemy, but the Category A units had to be saved to fight again. Without them, integrating the steady flow of reservists into the ranks would be impossible. There was no choice.

  “Do it,” he snarled. “And then prepare for departure. This place is to be purged as soon as we leave.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

  Alfred nodded and turned his attention back to the map, covertly glancing around the room and wondering which one of them was the spy. If someone thought to check with Germanica ... all hell would break loose. He’d twisted Karl Holliston’s final order into a tangled mess - and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Fuhrer would not find it amusing. But there was no choice. A retreat under fire was one of the most dangerous manoeuvres a military force could attempt, but it was better than being caught in a trap and destroyed.

  And if I can get the men out, he thought, I will die happy.

  ***

  “We’re to do what?”

  “Fall back,” the messenger said. “Orders from HQ.”

  Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk stared in disbelief. They were winning! The enemy line was crumbling in front of them! He could feel it. The enemy’s counterattacks were weakening and they’d practically stopped dropping mortar shells on the advancing stormtroopers. It was clear, to him at least, that the enemy was running short on everything from men to ammunition. One final push and they’d be in Berlin!

  But he knew better than to disobey orders.

  “Sound the retreat,” he ordered, as a new wave of shellfire crashed down on the enemy positions. Hopefully, the enemy would keep their heads down long enough to keep them from realising that their opponents were falling back. “Deploy two sections to act as a rearguard; we'll leapfrog back to our lines.”

  He took one last bitter glance towards Berlin, wondering just why they were pulling back now. They’d come so close! The
thousands of dead stormtroopers would not have died in vain, if Berlin had been stormed, but instead their rotting bodies were being left for the enemy. Victory had been in their grasp, only to be snatched away by ... by what? An order to retreat? What was going on?

  His thoughts mocked him. Was it all pointless? Did all those men die for nothing?

  Turning, keeping his expression under tight control, he led his men away from Berlin.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  25 October 1985

  “It’s confirmed,” Voss said, quietly. “The enemy is falling back all along the line.”

  Volker nodded in relief. The SS didn't know it - he assumed they didn't know it - but they had come terrifyingly close to victory. Berlin’s defenders had been on the verge of running out of rifle and pistol ammunition, let alone mortar rounds, antiaircraft weapons and everything else they needed to hold the line. Mounting a push from the city, in hopes of overrunning the retreating stormtroopers before they could set up new defence lines of their own, was impossible. It would take weeks, at best, before the defenders could be rearmed ...

  “Gath is altering his deployments slightly in hopes of enveloping the enemy before they make it out of the bag,” Voss added. “But they really reacted too quickly for us to catch most of them.”

  “True,” Volker said. “Someone on the other side must have decided to cut his losses.”

  “It is the smart choice,” Voss agreed. He paused. “We still have a security situation in Berlin itself, though.”

  “Deploy troops to hunt down the remaining commandos once we are sure we can hold the line,” Volker ordered. The attack on the Reichstag itself had been beaten off, thankfully, but the commandos had hit a number of other targets and gunfire was still being reported across the city. “And keep warning the population to stay indoors.”

  He rubbed his eyes, tiredly. Berlin would never be the same, that was sure. The city had been devastated, large parts shelled into rubble ... he had no idea if they could even afford to rebuild, once the fighting came to an end. And the destroyed factories, power plants and even a hospital would cost millions of Reichmarks to replace. The Reich might survive the war, only to collapse under its own weight shortly afterwards.

  And untold thousands of men, women and children were dead.

  “We won,” Voss said, quietly.

  “I know,” Volker said. “But why does it feel like a defeat?”

  ***

  “She doesn't look like much,” Hans said.

  Katherine snorted as she finished binding Gudrun’s hands and legs together. Gudrun was in good health, she’d noted during the brief examination, but hardly stronger than the average schoolgirl. She might be the very picture of Germanic perfection - blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin - yet she was no soldier. But then, a girl so pretty would have no trouble finding men to fight for her. If she’d seduced a trained SS observer - and Katherine was sure that she had - she could seduce anyone.

  Cow, she thought, nastily.

  “We’ll keep her drugged for the moment,” she said. She didn't bother to respond to Hans’s remark. The Fuhrer and his interrogators could take Gudrun apart at leisure, digging everything she knew out of her mind before hanging whatever was left for treason on an utterly unprecedented scale. “We don’t want her waking up too soon.”

  “If she wakes up at all,” Hans warned. “That bump on the head was nasty.”

  Katherine shrugged. The original plan had been to hole up in the apartment and wait for the fighting to come to an end, but it was clear - now - that the stormtroopers had failed to break into the city. She had no doubt that the traitors would search the city thoroughly, once they were sure they’d won the war. They didn't dare stay in Berlin. Someone would have seen something suspicious, she was sure, something that would lead the police straight to them.

  “We’ll just have to hope,” she said, tartly. Hans was right - the sedatives sometimes had unfortunate effects - but the last thing they needed was Gudrun waking up before they were safely out of the city. “Get into your uniform.”

  She smiled to herself, grimly, as she donned her own uniform, then smirked rudely at the sleeping prisoner. Gudrun would never know the freedom of wearing male clothes, would never know how easy it could be to pass for a man. But then, her breasts were too large to be easily concealed by a uniform, while Katherine’s were thankfully small. She could pass for a uniformed man with ease.

  And everyone in the Reich is conditioned not to question men in uniform, she thought, as she checked her appearance in the mirror. And no one will question us either.

  She looked faintly effeminate, she decided, but most soldiers who looked at her would dismiss her as a staff officer. They were expected to be effeminate, she’d been told. Real soldiers knew that staff officers were the ones who couldn't hack it, using their connections to be assigned to the rear. They wouldn't see anything other than a young man who confirmed their preconceptions. And by the time they realised the truth, it would be far too late.

  “Get the box,” she ordered, as Hans returned. “Hurry.”

  “We’ll have to head to the west,” Hans said. They carefully lowered Gudrun into the box, then locked it securely. “Too many people moving to the east, I think.”

  Katherine nodded, crossly. A dozen cells had been expended in the battle for Berlin, but it seemed that their sacrifice had been wasted. She’d sent her remaining team members off to cause havoc across the city, yet in hindsight that might have been a mistake. No, it had been a mistake. They could do a great deal of damage before they were hunted down - they would do a great deal of damage before they were hunted down - but they would die for nothing.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Do you have the papers?”

  “Here,” Hans said. “And if they’re not enough ...?”

  “We fight,” Katherine said.

  She scowled. The attack had failed, which could only mean that the traitors had launched their own counterattack. And that meant that the roads around Berlin were likely to be consumed by savage fighting. Getting out of the city was one thing, but sneaking eastwards was going to be harder. About the only advantage they had was that there would be so much confusion that it would be hard for the traitors to throw out a search cordon ...

  “Come on,” she said. A new hail of gunfire echoed over the city as she opened the door for the final time. “Let’s move.”

  ***

  Horst wasn't too surprised to discover, as the bar came into view, that it managed to live down to expectations. There were strict public health rules across the Reich, but the bartender had clearly decided to ignore them. Even when closed, he could smell alcohol and too many unwashed men in close proximity as he walked towards the building. He was surprised that the bar was closed, even though the provisional government’s emergency broadcasts had ordered all businesses to close. The bartender must have had other things to do with his time than serve alcohol.

  He hesitated, torn between desperation and training. His training had always encouraged him to scout the ground thoroughly before charging into battle, but desperation pushed him onwards. He hadn't seen a single policeman or soldier on his run to the bar, nor had he been able to make contact with anyone else. The public telephones had all been deactivated, he’d discovered. He hoped, desperately, that they’d been shut down deliberately, instead of being sabotaged. If the telephone network had been wrecked, coordinating operations across Berlin was going to become a great deal harder.

  Bracing himself, he walked up to the door and threw himself at the wood. It splintered under the impact, crashing into the darkened building. Horst moved forward, drawing his pistol and holding it at the ready. He darted into the shadows, keeping himself hidden, but there was no sound that suggested someone - anyone - was within the building. Even the sound of distant gunfire was growing quieter. He crept forward and rounded the counter, then swore inwardly as he saw a body lying on the ground. It w
as clearly a young girl ... cold ice trickled down the back of his spine before he realised it definitely wasn't Gudrun. The dead girl’s hair was brown, her exposed legs scarred badly. Horst puzzled over the wounds for a long moment, then checked the body carefully. Her neck had been casually broken.

  A barmaid, he thought, as he pulled back. The girl’s uniform was easy to place: a blouse and a skirt just barely on the right side of the decency laws. Just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He tensed as he heard something - a rustling noise - from the rear of the bar. Lifting his pistol, he slipped forward, listening carefully as he peered through the door into the backroom. Another body was sitting on a chair in the rear of the room, head resting on the table as if he were crying into his drink. Horst slipped forward ...

  ... And then jumped forward as he sensed someone hiding behind the door, spinning around to see Schwarzkopf hurling a punch at him. Horst twisted, but it was too late to avoid a glancing blow that sent his pistol flying off into the darkness. Schwarzkopf cursed savagely, then hurled himself forward, slamming them both to the ground. Horst barely managed to land well, trying to push the older man away. He knew how to kill Schwarzkopf, but he needed to get answers first; he slammed a punch into Schwarzkopf’s chest, then hurled him over, slamming him to the floor. Schwarzkopf grunted in pain, his eyes darting from side to side, then stilled as Horst drew his dagger and held it to his eye. Threatening to blind him would probably be as effective as anything else.