Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He let go of her, turning to stalk around the room. “I should never have agreed to let Krueger establish the university,” he snapped. He sounded as though he was talking to himself. “And it was a mistake to let women enter as students. Women ...

  “Krueger, the rat bastard, claimed we needed to make better use of female labour,” he added, darkly. “But what better use is there than turning out the next generation of Germans?”

  “A woman doesn't have to be nothing more than a mother,” Gudrun said. “She could be a mother and something else ...”

  “Be silent,” Holliston snarled.

  “You know nothing. You have been safe for so long that you are not even aware of the depths of your own ignorance. The nightmare you have unleashed on the Volk will consume hundreds of millions of lives ... just because you were feeling instead of thinking. Your boyfriend’s death was necessary ...”

  “You lied,” Gudrun said. “He was crippled, yet you lied to his family.”

  Holliston ignored her. “The Provisional Government is doomed,” he said. “Too many problems, too many people with their own agendas ... they’re doomed. We are strong, we are united, we will triumph.”

  He turned to face her, his eyes shining with an unholy glee. “I shall return to Berlin and take control, once again,” he said. “By the time I arrive, the battered population will greet me as a saviour. But you ... you will never see it.”

  Gudrun closed her eyes. This was it.

  “You’ll be sent east,” Holliston said. “There are settlements there in desperate need of young women, desperate enough to overlook a few ... irregularities in their pasts. I’m sure you’ll fit in quite nicely.”

  He laughed. “And if you cause trouble,” he added, “I’m sure they won’t hesitate to hobble you. Or something.”

  Gudrun felt her heart sink. “But ...”

  “But nothing,” Holliston said. “I’m sure this punishment will be worse than being executed.”

  And the hell of it, Gudrun realised as a silent Katherine marched her back to her cell, was that he was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Near Germanica, Germany East

  9 November 1985

  Horst started awake when he heard the truck grind to a halt.

  It hadn't been a pleasant trip. He’d hoped, despite himself, that their captors might have been concerned that they’d made a mistake, but the hope had faded as their treatment worsened over two days of captivity. They’d been half-starved, washed by hoses and generally kicked or beaten for even the most minor - or imagined - offences. It wasn't quite as bad as the dreaded SS counter-interrogation course - Horst had privately resolved to thank his instructors if he ever saw them again - but it was definitely taking a toll. They might be too weak to escape when the time came.

  If it ever does, he thought, as he heard voices shouting outside. We’re still chained up all the time.

  He stretched, as best as he could. His wrists and ankles hurt badly, reminding him that being cuffed up for several days might inflict permanent damage. One of his aunties had made a habit of chaining her Slavic maid up overnight, as if she were a dog who couldn't be trusted while her masters slept; the poor girl had wound up with permanent bruises on her neck and a broken voice. He couldn't recall what had happened to her, but he doubted it had been anything good. There was no such thing as a happy retirement for a slave girl in Germany East.

  The voices outside were getting louder. It sounded as though one of them was demanding that the driver open the rear compartment, while the driver was trying hard to argue that the compartment should be left unopened. Horst didn't blame him. Two days - perhaps more - had left the compartment smelly as hell. But if they’d run into another checkpoint ... he smiled, rather dryly at the thought, then tensed as he heard gunshots. Someone was shooting out there.

  Kurt looked up. “What?”

  Horst shrugged. They were chained to the rails. There was nothing they could do, but wait and see what happened. He heard a final gunshot, then someone rattling at the rear door and trying to get it open. Kurt started to say something, but stopped as the door crashed open, revealing two men in green uniforms. Horst stared in disbelief. Local Volkssturm?

  “Get them out,” a voice barked. “Hurry!”

  The men hurried forward, found the keys to release Horst and Kurt from the railings and then carried them out of the truck. It was cold outside, bitterly cold; Horst stared up at the grey sky, knowing that another snowstorm was on the way. Their new captors marched them towards an unmarked van; he glanced back, just in time to see the bodies of their previous set of captors hurled into the truck. And then a grenade was tossed into the vehicle, which went up in a colossal fireball.

  They’ll think we died in the fire, Horst thought, as they were shoved into the van. But is that actually a good thing?

  He shrugged. The van was clearly not designed to take prisoners. They were parked against the wall and told to stay still, rather than cuffed to railings or anything else that might have left them completely immobile. Horst exchanged a glance with Kurt, then shrugged. He had no idea who’d grabbed them - or why - but it had to be better than being shipped all the way to Germanica. He forced himself to relax as the van lurched to life. They’d find out where they were going soon enough.

  He’d always had a good sense of time and direction, but he found himself losing track of both as the vehicle turned time and time again, seemingly at random. The driver was clearly worried about pursuit, unsurprisingly. Whoever they were, whoever had issued the orders, they’d just attacked an SS convoy and recovered two prisoners. Karl Holliston was unlikely to be in a forgiving mood when he found out.

  They can't be bandits, he thought. Bandits would have killed us with the others.

  The vehicle came to a halt, hours later. Horst allowed himself a moment of relief as the doors opened, revealing that they’d parked in an underground garage. A pair of guards searched them gently, then pointed them through an armoured door. Inside, there was a small welcoming room ... and a man, standing at the far end, waiting for them.

  “Horst,” he said. His voice was rather amused. “I was most offended when you failed to invite me to your wedding.”

  Horst stared. “Uncle Emil?”

  “Ah, so you do remember me,” his uncle said. “I was starting to think I’d been forgotten.”

  “Never,” Horst said. Uncle Emil - Gauleiter Emil Forster - had been on the list of people he’d intended to contact, but he’d intended to do it on his own terms. A Gauleiter, even the one who had practically raised him after his father died, would always have his own agenda. “I would have contacted you once we arrived at Germanica.”

  Kurt coughed. “Horst ... who is this person?”

  “This is my uncle, Gauleiter Forster,” Horst said. He rattled his cuffs. “Are we still prisoners, uncle?”

  “No,” Forster said. He wrinkled his nose. “I’ll have the men free you, then you can have a shower and change into something clean. And then we can talk.”

  Forster was as good as his word. Horst had always liked being clean, yet after spending two days in the truck it felt utterly marvellous to just stand underneath the spigot and allow the water to flow down his body. Their uniforms had been taken away - probably for burning - but his uncle’s staff had provided replacements, albeit one without rank badges or any other sort of markings. And, most importantly of all, they’d been offered pistols and ammunition, a sign they were genuinely trusted. Horst checked the weapon and bullets, just in case, but found nothing wrong. His uncle was making a very definite statement.

  “He’s a Gauleiter,” Kurt whispered, carefully leaving the shower on to make it harder for anyone to spy on them. “Can he be trusted?”

  “He’s sane,” Horst said. “But he has his own agenda.”

  He took a deep breath as they were shown directly into his uncle’s study, remembering the times he’d been marched into the study to explain himself. His u
ncle had been strict, but fair; he’d never hated Horst - or any of the other children - purely for being children. And while he never relaxed enough to play with them, he’d never been distant from them either.

  “Please, take a seat,” Forster said. “I’ll have some food sent in for the three of us.”

  Kurt sat, gingerly. “How did you find us?”

  “I had a theory that the Berlin government would send someone into Germany East,” Forster said, after a moment. “When your papers - perfect and yet unrecorded - appeared, I knew I was looking at potential allies. And so I arranged for your transport to be ambushed.”

  “You took a hell of a risk,” Horst said. He rubbed his wrists meditatively. “What if you’d been wrong?”

  “I could have covered myself,” Forster assured him. “It being you was a stroke of luck, of course. I had hoped you’d make contact, but ...”

  “Contacting you would be a gamble,” Horst said. He felt the question welling up inside him, even though asking would reveal a potential weakness. “Where is my wife?”

  “Alive, for the moment,” Forster said. He smiled, lightly. “Although I should question the legality of a marriage that took place without your guardian’s consent.”

  Horst barely heard him. Gudrun was alive! He’d hoped - desperately - that Holliston would keep her alive, but he’d feared that she might simply have been shot out of hand. Gudrun was useless to him. It was possible, all too possible, that Holliston would simply have ordered her death. And he’d vowed that, if his wife was killed, he would make damn certain that Holliston died too.

  And if it cost me my life, he thought, I would be reunited with her at the end.

  “We are married,” he said, finally. “You can't separate us.”

  “I wouldn't dare to try,” his uncle said. He sounded amused. “She is a very formidable young lady.”

  Kurt blinked. “You’ve met her?”

  “We’ll discuss that later,” Forster said. “There are other matters to discuss.”

  “True,” Horst agreed. He leaned forward. “Are you switching sides, uncle?”

  Forster looked pained. “Direct as ever, my boy?”

  “Yes,” Horst said.

  The door opened before Forster could answer, revealing three maids carrying trays of food and steaming mugs of hot coffee. Horst and Kurt tucked in gratefully; Forster, seated behind his desk, nibbled at his platter. Horst would have liked to concentrate on the food, but he knew - deep inside - that they didn't have time. He needed to know what was going on.

  “Uncle,” he said, once the first hunger pangs had been quelled. “Are you switching sides?”

  Forster looked back at him, evenly. “There are ... some ... of us who believe that prolonging this war will only result in mutual destruction.”

  “They are correct,” Horst said. “If nukes are being used ...”

  “Three nukes,” Forster said. “The training base at Kursk - I believe you know it - was destroyed a few days ago.”

  Horst and Kurt exchanged glances. They’d heard nothing about it, neither on the radio nor at any of the settlements they’d passed through. The radio had chattered endlessly about how horrible the rebels were to use nuclear weapons, but it had seemed focused on the explosions near Warsaw. A third nuclear detonation?

  “To be precise, Holliston deployed two nuclear weapons near Warsaw,” Forster clarified, carefully. “Your government retaliated by destroying the training centre with a nuclear warhead.”

  “I see,” Horst said. “And you plan to switch sides?”

  “Let’s just say that ... we ... would like a negotiated solution,” Forster said. “We cannot bring you to heel and you cannot bring us to heel. Further conflict will merely weaken the Reich to the point that whoever wins will actually lose. We believe that a parting of the ways may be the best possible solution to the problem.”

  Kurt snorted. “And Holliston?”

  “Is insane,” Forster said. “He needs to be removed.”

  “Good,” Horst said.

  Forster held up a hand. “Is your government prepared to talk?”

  Horst hesitated. “We do have some authority to make promises,” he said. “But it would depend on what you were prepared to offer.”

  “And it would be contingent on Berlin’s approval,” Kurt added.

  “I do understand,” Forster assured him. “And seeing that I’m not a diplomat either, I shall be blunt.”

  He cleared his throat. “Germany East formally separates from Germany Prime,” he said, firmly. “There is a formal amnesty for anyone within Germany Prime - or the Reich as a whole - who served the Reich Council in any role. Anyone you find unbearable - or merely wants to stay with the Reich - gets to emigrate to Germany East, no questions asked. The same goes for the other parts of the Reich.”

  Horst lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t want to keep control of Germany Arabia? Or Germany South?”

  “I suspect the former will stay with you,” his uncle said. “And the latter is too far away to be ruled effectively.”

  “Yeah,” Horst agreed. “Plenty of people living there with impure pedigrees.”

  His uncle ignored the remark. “You will not interfere in the internal affairs of Germany East; we will not interfere in the affairs of Germany Prime. You can reshape the west to suit yourselves - who knows? You might come up with a new way to live.”

  “It would be more accurate to say that your way of life is killing us,” Kurt said, stiffly.

  “Your sister said much the same,” Forster said. “Although she did seem to put her former boyfriend on a pedestal.”

  Horst felt his cheeks heat. “She was engaged to him for months, uncle,” he said. “Even after she knew they would never be together, it still hurt her to leave.”

  His uncle lifted his eyebrows. “And that doesn't bother you?”

  “I grew up here, Uncle,” Horst said, sharply. “Women remarrying - or several women marrying the same man - is not uncommon here. I choose not to worry about it.”

  “Nor should you,” Forster said. “Do you find our terms acceptable?”

  “We would want to put the nukes under tight control,” Horst said. He doubted his uncle would agree to simply surrender the weapons. If nothing else, their mere presence would keep Berlin from resuming the war at a later date. “Can that be done?”

  His uncle frowned. “Holliston is the only person who has access to the launch codes,” he said. “Whatever we do will have to make sure he doesn't have a chance to send a command to the launchers.”

  Horst nodded. Whatever the state of the ICBMs, the SS would have no trouble shooting tactical nuclear warheads from long-range guns. The entire front line could be bathed in nuclear fire. Hell, smuggling nukes west into Berlin - and the other cities - would be relatively straightforward. If Holliston decided he wanted to take everyone else down with him, he had the tools at his disposal. Keeping the warheads from being detonated would be the first priority, superseding everything else.

  Really? A voice asked, at the back of his mind. Even Gudrun’s life?

  He pushed the voice out of his head. “I believe the Provisional Government would accept your terms,” he said, carefully. “If you can send them a message, I can give you the codes you need to have it accepted.”

  “Of course,” his uncle said. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Not yet,” Horst said. He considered the possibilities for a long moment. “I assume you don’t have any control over the forces in Germanica?”

  His uncle nodded. “They’re controlled directly from the Reichstag,” he said. “I don’t have any influence over them at all. A few of the officers are my clients, but I’m not sure which way they’d jump.”

  Horst nodded. He’d jumped too.

  But it would definitely make life tricky. Getting into Germanica had never been easy, even before the war. The city was encircled by a protective wall, the gates heavily-guarded; everything moving in and out of the city was
carefully inspected before it was allowed to proceed. Getting an entire army into the city would be impossible. He might be able to get a small strike team into the city, particularly if they had the right paperwork, but they’d be surrounded by thousands of stormtroopers.

  And Holliston will run into his bunker and hide if the shit hits the fan, he thought. He doesn't have the stomach to come out and fight.

  It was the bunker that would pose the real problem, he knew. If it was anything like the bunker in Berlin, there would be an escape tunnel - perhaps more than one - and a direct link to a high-power radio transmitter. Taking out that transmitter might be the only way to keep the missiles from flying, but where was it? And where was Gudrun?