Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Practically speaking, I’d give them a reasonably good chance of establishing a solid foothold in Germany East before winter intervenes,” he added. “I find it hard to imagine that the SS held back many panzers and aircraft from their great offensive. But I don’t know if they can make it all the way to Germanica before winter. There’s plenty of space to trade for time, plenty of strongpoints and fortresses that would need to be reduced ... their logistics are going to be a major pain.”

  “1941 all over again,” Andrew commented.

  He’d studied Operation Barbarossa during his training and he still didn't understand how someone with even minimal military knowledge could have signed off on it without a few qualms. The Germans had faced France on roughly equal terms - the French had even had a few advantages of their own - but they’d won through bringing vastly superior force to bear at the decisive point. The Russians ... Russia was immense, with plenty of space to trade for time, while the Red Army was staggeringly powerful. And the Germans had come far too close to losing.

  And if they hadn't declared war on Japan, he thought, we might have helped the Russians kick them out of Russia.

  “It’s possible,” Knox agreed. “We simply do not know.”

  Turtledove nodded. “And your recommendation, General?”

  Knox considered it for a long moment. “It should be noted,” he said, “that the longer the war rages on, the weaker the Germans will become. And while that does raise the spectre of a nuclear release, it also offers the prospect of the Reich collapsing and the end of a global threat. Whoever won the war would need to spend years rebuilding, if they could rebuild.”

  He paused, thoughtfully. “But we can probably do business with the Provisional Government,” he added. “That is not true of the SS.”

  Andrew nodded. “In this case, the devil we don’t know is better than the one we do,” he said, flatly. “The SS is a devil we know too well.”

  He sighed. “You've already heard stories of atrocities,” he added. “What sort of nightmare will be unleashed if the SS wins the war?”

  “That isn't our concern,” Knox said. “Our sole concern is protecting America.”

  “And a friendly regime in control of the Reich will be better for America than a regime that hates us,” Andrew pointed out. “We can dicker with the Provisional Government.”

  “Perhaps,” Turtledove said. He smiled, rather sourly. “Washington may overrule our recommendations anyway.”

  “Of course,” Knox grunted. “The people in Washington aren't the people on the spot.”

  Andrew winced. He hadn't been back to the United States since before the crisis had begun, but he had been hearing things through the grapevine. Everyone wanted to have their say, from Poles and Frenchmen who wanted their countries to be independent to groups that wanted to isolate America from the world or even support the Nazis. And everyone was likely to be disappointed. Poland no longer existed - the Poles who had escaped were the only true Poles left in existence - and France was a shadow of its former self. Andrew suspected it would take generations for the French to recover, even if the Germans pulled out tomorrow ...

  And while the Provisional Government is better than the SS, he added silently, they’ll still put German interests first.

  Knox was right, he knew. Distance - and wishful thinking - had played a large role in several foreign policy disasters; now, with a nuclear power wracked by civil war, the disaster could be a great deal worse. But the President would have to balance a number of competing factions if he wanted to steer America through the growing crisis ... and that might be impossible. There were midterm elections coming up.

  “I shall discuss the matter with Washington,” Turtledove said. “Andrew, do you wish to return to the front lines?”

  “As long as they will have me,” Andrew said. “The chance to watch the war is not one to be dismissed.”

  “As long as it doesn't kill you,” Knox said, dryly.

  Andrew shrugged. He was an OSS operative, not an ambassador. The prospect of being scooped up by the SS had always loomed over him, even though - technically - he had diplomatic immunity. It wouldn't be the first time someone had ‘vanished’ in Berlin, or suffered what looked like a random mugging; he’d known the risks, he’d accepted the risks, when he'd taken the job. The prospect of being killed in battle, even as an observer, seemed cleaner, somehow.

  “I know the risks,” he said.

  Turtledove nodded. “Get a good night’s sleep first,” he said. “And make sure you eat a good meal before you go back to the front.”

  Yes, mother, Andrew thought.

  He couldn't blame Turtledove for worrying. The Germans would feed him as long as he remained within their ranks, but their rations weren't very good, certainly not by American standards. And he’d been hearing dire rumours about the food situation, rumours that hadn't been quashed by the sudden influx of supplies. It made him wonder, deep inside, if the Reich was on the verge of starvation as well as everything else. But there was no way to be sure.

  At least until it happens, he thought, coldly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, rising. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  ***

  There were times, Volker had to admit, when he thought he understood Karl Holliston’s desire for power perfectly.

  He was Chancellor, but he wasn't omnipotent; he could make some decisions, but others had to be decided by consensus. And this decision, perhaps the most important of all, was one that had to be unanimous. There was no way he could push it forward on his own authority.

  “We are currently bringing up additional panzer divisions, along with supporting elements and aircraft,” Voss said. His finger traced lines on the map as he spoke. “If everything goes according to plan, we will be ready to launch a major offensive in two weeks.”

  He paused. “We will be thrusting towards Warsaw, but our principle objective will be to envelop and destroy the remaining SS forces in the region,” he continued. “Once those forces have been crushed, we will reform our divisions and continue eastwards. Our goal will be to capture Germanica before the first snowfall.”

  There was a long pause. “I acknowledge that there are risks involved,” he concluded. “But I believe this offers the best chance for a speedy victory.”

  Volker kept his expression under tight control, his face betraying none of his concerns. The plan was daring, he had to admit. Perhaps it was too daring. Defeat would cripple them as surely as victory would cripple the enemy. And yet ... and yet ... Voss was right. It offered the best chance for a speedy victory.

  “Chancy,” Admiral Wilhelm Riess said, finally. The Head of the Abwehr didn't sound impressed. “If this plan fails, we will have nothing left.”

  “We are already raising new units and bringing back others from South Africa,” Voss said, tartly. “Defeat will weaken us badly, Admiral, but it will also weaken our enemies.”

  “And we have to win the war quickly,” Foreign Minister Engelhard Rubarth said. “We are already growing weak, Admiral. It will not be long before our puppet states start thinking they can make decisions for themselves.”

  If they’re not already contemplating the possibilities, Volker thought. Even a relatively minor challenge to our power could prove disastrous.

  “The South Africans are already turning unfriendly,” he said. “And if they are turning unfriendly, how long will it be before others follow suit?”

  “They have friends and allies in Germany East,” Riess pointed out. “Of course they hate us.”

  Volker nodded. The SS had been the loudest supporter of the South African War, demanding - time and time again - that vast numbers of German soldiers were sent to prop up an increasingly unpopular government. And then they’d lied about the war ... he fought down the sudden surge of hatred, forcing himself to think clearly. If South Africa turned hostile, they could cause real trouble ...

  “All the more reason to win quickly,” he said.
If they won the war in the next three months, they might be able to hold the Reich together. “Can anyone think of a better option?”

  There was no answer. Volker wasn't surprised. There was no compromise - no reasonable compromise - that Karl Holliston would accept. Even a negotiated surrender would probably be rejected, unless it was complete, total and utterly unconditional. Holliston didn't just want power, he wanted revenge. And there wasn't a single person, sitting at the table, who would be safe if Holliston won the war. They’d all be lucky if they were merely executed.

  “So we proceed,” he said. “Any dissent?”

  “We can shift our goals, if the offensive fails,” Riess said. “Can’t we?”

  “We have contingency plans,” Voss assured him. “Merely chewing up the remains of their divisions will make it easier for us to launch another offensive in the spring.”

  “We will have to be stern with the Easterners,” Luther Stresemann said. The Head of the Economic Intelligence Service looked grim. “Far too many of them are behind the SS.”

  Volker winced. The SS’s propaganda offensive was crude, but it was effective. The Easterners knew they lived on the edge of civilisation. They wouldn't forsake the SS unless they believed their interests would be protected.

  “We treat them firmly, but with compassion,” he said, bluntly. “Unless they turn on us.”

  “They will,” Voss said. He sounded very sure of himself. “We have to be ready to take strong action.”

  “But no atrocities,” Volker said. There were fire-eaters who wanted to retaliate for everything the SS had done, but he knew it couldn't be permitted. “I don’t want a single incident they can use against us.”

  But he knew, even as he said it, that it was nothing more than wishful thinking.

  Chapter Seven

  Germanica (Moscow), Germany East

  29 October 1985

  Karl Holliston rarely liked to admit his mistakes. It was, he’d learned as a child, a form of weakness. And yet, he conceded, dragging Gudrun into his office - in chains - had been a mistake. He’d expected a cringing girl, but he’d underestimated her. The questions she’d asked - the questions he’d dismissed - had struck a nerve. Far too many of his subordinates would have asked those questions themselves, if it had been safe to do so.

  He scowled as he walked into the Map Room. It would be easy to have Gudrun shot - or tortured - but that would serve no purpose. He needed to break her. And he needed to use her to break her friends and allies in the treacherous Provisional Government. But that would take time, time he suspected he didn't have.

  “I have received word from one of my agents in Berlin,” he said, once the door was firmly closed. It wasn't something he would have said out loud, not normally, but he needed to remind his officers that he had access to sources they didn't have. The Waffen-SS had good reason to be annoyed with him. “The enemy is planning an early offensive.”

  Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler frowned. “How early?”

  “As in the next two weeks,” Karl said, flatly. “They’re planning to pocket our forces and destroy them.”

  Ruengeler turned his attention to the map. “They’ll find it hard to get enough forces into position to pocket ours,” he said. “We blew all the bridges and mined most of the roads ...”

  His voice trailed off. “They’d have to erect pontoon bridges as they went along,” he mused, slowly. “But if they were determined ... and they had enough air cover.”

  Karl nodded, impatiently. The Waffen-SS had concentrated on close support aircraft for the troops, not jet fighters. Normally, the Luftwaffe would have provided top cover, but now the remainder of the Luftwaffe was on the wrong side. And losses during the Battle of Berlin had been staggering. His few remaining aircraft had been pulled back from the front lines to airbases where they would be held in reserve, implicitly conceding the skies to the rebels ...

  And if they bring in help from the Americans, he thought, we will never regain air superiority.

  “We will have to pull back our forces,” Ruengeler said. “If we lose the remaining divisions, Mein Fuhrer, we will lose the war along with them.”

  “No,” Karl said. “We cannot let the enemy gain a foothold in Germany East.”

  Ruengeler looked unconvinced. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, “if they destroy those divisions, they will gain that foothold anyway.”

  “It isn't that simple,” Karl said.

  He scowled at the map. Ruengeler was a military man. He didn’t understand the political issue - or the looming disaster threatening the entire Reich. If the rebels gained control of a substantial section of Germany East, they could use it to undermine his support and encourage his subordinates to overthrow him. The collective loyalty of the senior Gauleiters couldn't have filled a thimble. If they saw their power under threat, they would try to find ways to come to terms with the rebels.

  And while they will probably fail, he thought savagely, they will probably bring me down with them.

  The thought made him clench his fists in rage. If he’d assumed supreme power earlier ... but he hadn't. There were too many high-ranking officers and party leaders who owed nothing to him, who feared that he would promote his favourites above their heads. Karl couldn't risk alienating them, not yet. But by keeping them around, he was giving them a chance to stick a knife in his back ...

  The entire edifice is unstable, he reminded himself. We haven't had a proper Fuhrer for far too long.

  Ruengeler coughed. “Mein Fuhrer?”

  Karl almost jumped. Ruengeler had been speaking and he hadn't been listening. But he didn't dare ask what the younger man had said. He couldn't show weakness, not now.

  “We cannot abandon Warsaw,” he said, instead. “The rebels would be able to use it to funnel their troops further east.”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said. “But we cannot defend Warsaw either.”

  Karl looked up at him. “We have deployable nuclear bombs,” he said. “Perhaps it’s time we used them.”

  Ruengeler hesitated. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said slowly, “they have warheads too.”

  “Yes, they do,” Karl agreed. “But will they be willing to use them on their fellow Germans?”

  He pointed a finger at the map. “If they push forward and fight a conventional battle,” he said, “they will have a good chance of crushing us. Correct?”

  “Correct, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

  “And if we retreat eastwards, we concede too much territory to them,” Karl added. “We need a third option.”

  He studied the map for a long moment. “We let them thrust their spearheads forward, then hit them with the nuclear weapons,” he said. “That will send them stumbling back in disarray.”

  “I would need to study the issue,” Ruengeler said, slowly. “We have never deployed nuclear weapons on the battlefield.”

  “Then do so, quickly,” Ruengeler ordered. “We have to make it clear that we will not be crushed and broken!”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

  Karl nodded, then turned and headed for the door. He’d be back later, but right now there was too much else to do. His subordinates needed to be watched, carefully, as they carried out his orders. He needed to nip any problems in the bud before they brought him down ...

  ... Or before someone decided to take advantage of the planned enemy offensive for themselves.

  It was an open secret that many of the direct links between Germany Prime and Germany East were still usable. The telephone network had been designed to survive an American attack. He’d closed off some of the exchanges, of course, but many of his powerful subordinates would have little trouble using the network to make contact with friends and allies on the other side of the line. Karl had no trouble imagining a particularly ambitious official planning an assassination, even as the Heer marched eastwards. Someone who took the rebels Karl’s head would be assured of a warm welcome.

  But he won’t be able to
take it easily, he thought, darkly. And that’s all that matters.

  ***

  How the hell, Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler asked himself in the privacy of his own mind, did it come to this?

  He knew better than to say it out loud. The Reichstag was not a friendly place. There were eyes and ears everywhere, just watching and waiting for someone to slip up so that they could be reported. The merest hint of treachery would be enough to land someone in the camps, if they opened their mouth at the wrong time. There was no one Alfred could talk to, even if he’d trusted anyone with his concerns. His closest friends might betray him if they thought their lives - and those of their families - were at risk.