Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  No one gives a damn about us, he thought, morbidly. We’re just here to work until we die.

  He drank his water rapidly, wishing he had the time to savour every last drop. But he’d seen, on his first day, just how easy it was for some of the men to steal water and food from their weaker comrades. Kuhn and his Scharfuehrers didn't seem to care, even though it meant losing manpower to thirst and dehydration. Bastards. Even he had been more careful of his men during the advance on Berlin ...

  The thought chilled him. He knew what he'd done, back when they’d crashed into the village; he’d heard rumours, whispered down the line, about far worse atrocities committed by other units. Perhaps he was being punished for what he’d done, even though his victims had been rebels who could - who should - have sided with the legitimate government. He tried to tell himself that he hadn't done wrong, but somehow it felt hard to believe ...

  We’re not meant to survive long enough to go back to our units, he thought, as he watched two men get into a fistfight. He had no idea what they were fighting over, but he didn't particularly care. We’re just meant to work until we die.

  He shook his head, slowly. He’d been promised a month ...

  ... But even if they’d been telling the truth, how was he meant to survive so long?

  ***

  SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig jumped out of the helicopter as soon as it came to a halt, bare inches above the ground, and ran towards the camouflaged building as through his life depended on it. Behind him, he heard the helicopter rev up its engines and claw its way back into the sky, flying eastwards as low as the pilot dared. He knew, all too well, that the Luftwaffe was on the prowl. A lone helicopter would seem an easy target.

  “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said. “Welcome back.”

  Felix nodded, curtly. Weineck had been Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler’s aide before he'd been recalled to Germanica, a weak-chinned young man who might easily have been charged with keeping a covert eye on his boss. And yet, Ruengeler had apparently not only survived the retreat from Berlin, he’d been promoted and put in overall command of the defence of Germany East, leaving Felix himself in command of the front lines. Felix honestly had no idea what to make of it.

  “Thank you,” he said, as they walked into the map room. The building had once been a farmhouse, but now it was his HQ. He had no idea - he didn’t want to know - what had happened to the original owners. “Has there been any update from the pickets?”

  “The enemy has been sniping and shelling at us along the front lines, but there has been no major offensive, nor are there any signs that one is imminent,” Weineck reported. “A number of our patrols have reported taking fire as they rounded up stragglers and dispatched them eastwards.”

  Felix nodded in irritation. It had been nearly six days since the SS had fallen back from Berlin, but the divisions had been shattered so badly that stragglers and survivors were still making their way back to the lines. Entire units had been obliterated, their handful of survivors hastily reassigned to other units ... it would take weeks, perhaps months, to sort the problem out, under normal circumstances. But the times were very far from normal. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, that the rebels intended to mount a major offensive as soon as possible.

  “At least they’re still making it back to our lines,” he said. “Do we have an updated casualty count yet?”

  “Nothing precise, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck confessed. “We’re looking at around seven thousand men unaccounted for, as of now, but ...”

  “Anything could have happened to them,” Felix said. He undid his jacket and dumped it on a chair, then strode over to the map table. “They could have been killed, or captured, or they could have deserted ...”

  “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

  Felix looked down at the map for a long moment. It looked like an endless series of trenches, running north to south along the border between Germany Prime and Germany East, but he knew it was an illusion. The trench warfare of the first Great War - a war his father and grandfather had both recalled with horror - was an impossibility in the age of modern war, certainly when the territory that had to be covered was truly immense. Mobile warfare had come of age, during Operation Barbarossa; now, he couldn't help feeling as though he was about to learn how the Russians had felt, back when the Germans had crossed the border and thrust deep into their territory.

  They’ll probe our lines until they find a weak place, then ram their panzers through it, he thought, grimly. And they will find a weak place.

  He looked up. “Have the panzer divisions reorganised themselves?”

  “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “We have two divisions positioned here and here” - he tapped two locations on the map - “and a third still working up, but held in reserve here.”

  “Good,” Felix said. “They’ll know we’re there, of course.”

  “We have them camouflaged,” Weineck protested, shocked.

  Felix snorted. He’d seen the sort of orbital imagery the Reich’s space program had produced - and it was probably fair to say the Americans could do better. No matter how hard the panzer divisions had tried to remain unseen, he had no doubt they’d already been localised by the Americans. And the Americans would have quietly tipped off the rebels ...

  “But they still have to take Warsaw before pushing further into Germany East,” he mused, ignoring the protest. “They don’t have a choice. Warsaw is the linchpin of the Polish Gau.”

  “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

  “Which means they need to drive at the city, which will force us to defend it,” Felix mused. “And yet, if we pull back, they will have to storm the city themselves ...”

  He shook his head. Storming Berlin - trying to storm Berlin - hadn’t accomplished anything, beyond breaking a number of irreplaceable divisions. He’d met Field Marshal Voss - he knew how the older man thought. There was no way he would risk his divisions storming Warsaw. He'd seen precisely what had happened to the SS.

  “Check with the Warsaw CO,” he ordered. “Has the city been readied for a siege?”

  “The last report said it was ready,” Weineck reported. “But that was before ... before Berlin.”

  Felix nodded, sourly. Warsaw had never been fortified as extensively as Germanica. No one had envisaged the city coming under attack, not when the Americans would have to fight their way through Germany Prime and the Chinese through Germany East if they wanted to reach Warsaw. But even so, taking a city was no easy task. A determined defence could tie up a hostile force for weeks, perhaps months. Stalingrad had been a nightmare; Leningrad had literally starved to death before surrendering.

  “They’ll want to chew up our forces instead of taking the city,” he said. “Or, at least, they’ll want to take the city after they crush our forces.”

  He nodded to himself. Ruengeler had said as much, during their last conversation; Felix saw nothing wrong with his superior’s logic. The target wasn’t Warsaw - Warsaw itself was worthless, even if it didn't bleed the rebels white trying to take it. No, they’d want to crush the SS divisions before they could get reinforcements ...

  “Inform the unit commanders that we will be going with Option Seven,” he said, after a long moment. It had been Ruengeler who had drawn up the operational plan, but Felix saw no reason to change it. “We do not want to give them a chance to pocket our units.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

  “Very good,” Felix said. “Now, about logistics ...?”

  “We’ve emptied a number of supply dumps in the Gau,” Weineck informed him. “However, we have started shipping supplies west from Germany East. Our logistical situation is poor, but should improve rapidly.”

  Which is what we get, Felix thought bitterly, for drawing up a plan counting on victory in a single decisive battle.

  It had been a mistake. It had bee
n a terrible mistake. Hitler wouldn't have made such a mistake, Felix was sure; Himmler, colder and more calculating, would have avoided it altogether. But Holliston had gambled the entire Reich on one throw of the dice and lost badly. Deep inside, Felix knew they were going to pay a terrible price for his mistake.

  But he knew his duty. The Reich had to be preserved, whatever the cost.

  Or everything they’d built over the last forty years would be swept away in fire.

  Chapter Eleven

  Germanica (Moscow), Germany East

  1 November 1985

  Gudrun felt sick.

  She struggled out of a morass of tiredness, dimly aware - on one level - that something was badly wrong. Her entire body felt wretched, as if she’d drunk herself senseless and then just kept drinking until she plunged into darkness. She coughed and retched, her stomach twisting painfully as she tried to throw up. Her eyes opened, only to snap closed again as brilliant white light sent daggers lancing into her mind. And her body felt filthy ...

  Her gorge rose. She twisted, remembering - somehow - that she was on a bed, only to lose her balance and fall down to the floor. The sudden shock of pain sent her head spinning, again; she retched again and again, dry-heaving violently until her throat and mouth hurt as much as her stomach. But there was nothing in her stomach to expel. She swallowed, hard, despite the bad taste in her mouth. Her entire body felt weak and frail, as if she had a head cold mixed with savage drunkenness.

  I’ve been drinking, she thought, numbly.

  She hadn't felt so ... so unpleasant since the night she’d drunk a stein of beer at a friend’s house two years ago. Her father had laughed at her, she recalled. He’d pointed out, rather sarcastically, that it was better she learn the lessons of drunkenness now, rather when she was older and raising children of her own. It was one of the few times she recalled her father being less angry than her mother about anything. Young women weren't supposed to drink, her mother had said. It was a masculine art. Gudrun would have argued the point if her head hadn't felt like a fragile eggshell ...

  Clarity returned with a shock. She was in a prison cell, in Germanica. And she’d been drugged.

  She forced her eyes to open, despite the bright light. The cell was just as she remembered: small, cramped and very secure. No one seemed to be standing on the other side of the bars, watching her, but she knew it was just an illusion. There were, no doubt, hundreds of people watching her through the cameras. She would have been horrified at the thought of so many people watching her while she was naked, if she hadn't felt so rotten. It was hard to care about anything when part of her just wanted to curl up and die.

  Her body felt weak, but she forced herself to sit up anyway, despite the throbbing pain in her forehead. Perhaps she’d banged it when she fell ... she honestly wasn't sure. What had they given her? Horst had talked about drugs, but he hadn't gone into any real detail. He’d seemed to believe that being captured was the end of the world - it would have been, if she’d been identified last time she’d been taken prisoner. Now ... her head swam and she grabbed hold of the bed, using the hard metal framework to steady herself. She was damned if she was going to let them break her, not like this ...

  They can keep feeding you drugs, a little voice whispered at the back of her mind. You can’t eat without taking drugs.

  She shuddered, swallowing hard to fight down the urge to be sick again. They could have jabbed her with a needle at any point, but instead they’d drugged her food. Why? To make it clear that she was helpless? It wasn't as if they couldn't hold her down and inject her with whatever they pleased. Or did they want to avoid damaging her? Or ...

  It was hard, so hard, to think clearly. The world blurred around her for a long moment, everything going so dim that she wasn't sure if she’d fallen back into the darkness or merely hovered - for a long chilling moment - on the edge of oblivion. She tried to stand, she tried to clamber back onto the bed, but her body refused to cooperate. It crossed her mind, as she struggled, that she must be giving the unseen watchers one hell of a view. But she was too tired to care.

  Damn them, she thought.

  She heard the outer door opening behind her, but her head refused to turn as the inner door jangled open. Gudrun tensed as ... someone ... stepped into the cell, then cringed as strong hands pushed her against the bed. It was a man, she was sure. She could hear deep masculine breathing. And she was helpless, in an utterly undignified position ... she had to fight to twist her head enough to see him. A man, wearing a white coat and a mask that obscured his face, was pressing a needle against her upper arm. She tried to fight, but it was pointless. The man took a blood sample, then casually turned and walked out of the cell, closing the inner door behind him. Gudrun slumped against the side of the bed, fighting back tears. It was all she could do not to fall back to the floor.

  They can do that to me any time they like, she thought. A sense of helplessness and despair threatened to overwhelm her, mocking her. She'd started the movement that had overthrown an entire government, but now she was utterly helpless. Her jailers could do anything to her and there was nothing she could do to stop them. And to think I thought the worst thing that could happen to me was being exiled to Germany East.

  She almost giggled at the thought. Karl Holliston and his cronies had to be having fits, after losing everything to a slip of a girl! They’d never seen her as a real threat - they’d never seen any woman as being fit for anything other than bearing children and raising them. Now ... they had to come to terms with what she’d done to them. They might kill her - if they could bring themselves to sentence her to death - but it wouldn't change the facts on the ground ...

  Her throat cracked. She tried to swallow again, but her mouth was too dry. Her entire body felt dehydrated. How long had she been asleep? She could generally get by on four or five hours of sleep per day, but now? How long had it been since she’d been captured? It felt as if she hadn't had anything to eat or drink for days, yet there was no way to know for sure any longer. Konrad had been fed through a tube. She saw no reason why they couldn't feed her while she was drugged out of her mind.

  A thought struck her, sending shivers down her spine. What had she told them while she’d been drugged? Horst had told her that the SS could get anything out of anyone, once they started using the right drugs. Could she have been interrogated? She didn't recall anything past the moment she’d eaten the drugged food, but what did that mean? Could she have been interrogated without any memory of it? And if so, what could she have told them?

  But I don't know anything, she thought, numbly.

  It was true, she thought. She knew who was on the Provisional Government, but that was no secret. The SS had still had agents within the Reichstag, even after the uprising; they’d know who had taken a seat at the table, who had resigned, who had headed east to join the remainder of the former government. She knew who’d been part of the original protest movement, but the SS would know that too. And she didn’t know anything about the Provisional Government’s future plans.

  We were concentrating on staying alive, she reminded herself. We didn't have any real plans for what we’d do after we broke the siege.

  The door opened, again. This time, she managed to turn her head in time to see two more masked men enter the cell, one carrying a tray of food. His companion took her by the arms and hauled her up to the bed, pushing her bare back against the cold stone wall. She shivered, helplessly, unable to avoid a flicker of bitter gratitude as they held a cup of water to her lips and forced her to drink. It tasted normal, as far as she could tell, but that proved nothing. She was sure there were plenty of drugs that had no taste at all.

  She couldn't help feeling like an invalid - or a baby - as they fed her, placing the soft food on a spoon and pressing it into her mouth. She’d always feared that she would have to feed Grandpa Frank like that, one day; now, she couldn't help feeling an odd sense of guilt for how badly she’d disliked him, before the uprising.
But then, Grandpa Frank had had his own reasons for feeling guilty too. The memory made her look up at the two masked men. What did they have to feel guilty about? What had they done to countless helpless victims?

  The men finished feeding her and withdrew, as silently as they’d come. Gudrun watched them go, feeling stronger as the food worked its way through her body. It didn't feel as if she’d been drugged again, although she had no way to be sure. All she could do was hope and pray that she hadn't been drugged. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand up and stride from one end of the cell to the other, then back again. Her legs still felt wobbly, as if they were made of spaghetti, but she pushed them forward anyway. Horst had warned her that she would need to do something - anything - to keep her mind together. And yet, the thought of him almost brought her to her knees. Would she ever see him again?