Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “The Polish vote wants a free Poland,” Ambassador Turtledove said. “Jewish voters want some kind of apology and recompense for the Holocaust. Others want to ensure that the Reich surrenders political control over the subject nations ...”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Andrew said. “The Germans are a prideful people. They’re not going to bend the knee to us so easily.”

  “I understand that,” Ambassador Turtledove said. “But the average congressman does not.”

  Andrew nodded, crossly. Once again, domestic politics in America were interfering with foreign policy. He had no illusions about the Reich - nor about the Provisional Government - but they had to deal with the world they had, not the one they wanted. Pushing the Provisional Government too hard might cause it to tumble - or come to terms with Germanica, rather than surrender to the United States. And, in either case, the US would end up with a far worse problem on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “They see it as a chance to make speeches and look good,” Turtledove added. “It isn’t them who will bear the blame for any failures.”

  “There's no way we can re-establish the world of 1938,” Andrew said, quietly. “Poland is gone; Czechoslovakia is gone; Greece is gone; France, Italy, Hungary and Romania are shadows of their former selves ... nothing can restore the destroyed nations or bring the countless dead back to life. The President cannot sign some papers and reshape the world.”

  He shook his head. “All the mistakes Chamberlain and Roosevelt made cannot be undone,” he added. “The Reich is gravely weakened, but it isn’t dead. And while they may be grateful to us for our help, they won’t forget their own interests. Trying to push them may undo everything we’ve done over the last few months.”

  He’d studied history extensively. There had been plenty of opportunities, in hindsight, to stop the Reich long before it built a colossal empire, but most of those opportunities had been missed. What would have happened if Churchill had been Prime Minister in 1938? Or Truman President in 1941? Might the Reich have been stopped? The thought of a war on such a horrific scale was terrifying, but would it really have been worse than the Reich’s unchallenged dominance over Europe?

  Perhaps, he thought. They might have been able to produce enough nuclear bombs to make a difference.

  “I know,” the Ambassador said. “But try telling that to someone back home.”

  Andrew nodded. America was the most powerful nation on Earth, even if it hadn't truly believed it until recently. The Reich wasn't a paper tiger, but it wasn't the formidable force everyone had taken it for either. There was no way, he knew now, that the Reich could win a conventional war against America, with or without the NAA. But it had nukes and a proven willingness to use them. There were limits to how far America could push the Reich into making reforms.

  “I'm pushing for us to keep supporting the Provisional Government,” Ambassador Turtledove said. “But limited military action ... it doesn't seem so urgent.”

  “Washington is likely to regret it,” Andrew warned. “We have a unique opportunity to forge ties with the most powerful successor state. Missing it will cost us dearly.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Germanica, Germany East

  10 November 1985

  “So,” Gauleiter Emil Forster said. “Do they meet with your approval?”

  Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler bit down the response that came to mind as he watched the young men exercising on the drill field. They were painfully young, ranging from fourteen to sixteen ... even in Germany East, they would normally have been considered too young to join the military. They should have been working the fields, playing games with the Hitler Youth, making the first tentative steps towards relationships with the opposite sex ... not joining the military.

  But we are desperate for manpower, he told himself, sharply. And recruiting these young men early may be our only hope.

  “They look healthy,” he said, finally. “And the Hitler Youth has prepared them well.”

  He kept his expression blank with an effort as the young men - boys, really - were put through their paces by training officers. He hadn't wanted to visit a training base near Germanica, let alone play nice with the Gauleiters. He’d wanted to go west to inspect the new defence lines - and visit the wounded - but Holliston had said no. The entire front had been declared off-limits to just about everyone, something that hadn't kept nasty rumours from spreading through Germany East. Even Alfred, the commander of the Waffen-SS, wasn't allowed to go.

  “One would hope so,” Forster said. “They may be young, but some of them have seen the elephant.”

  “Not a real elephant,” Alfred said, tartly. “Being in the military isn't quite like being in the Hitler Youth.”

  He fought down a surge of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Didn't the Gauleiter understand? These young men were the hope of the future, yet they were going to be squandered in a hopeless war, their lives tossed away like paper. And yet, the bastard was proud. He wouldn't be laughing after the young men died in the fighting, never to return home. Or maybe they would, their bodies torn and broken ...

  No, he thought. They would never be allowed to return home in such a state.

  “I need a drink,” the Gauleiter said, suddenly. “Please, join me in a toast.”

  He turned and led the way towards a nearby building without bothering to wait for Alfred’s response. Alfred tried to think of an excuse - the last thing he wanted was to spend time with a particularly smug Gauleiter - but nothing came to mind. There was no way he could just refuse, not when a Gauleiter controlled enough land and resources to make even Karl Holliston nervous. He had to be polite ...

  Damn him, he thought. He took one last look at the young men, then turned and followed the Gauleiter. Damn all of them to hell.

  The building - or at least the room they entered - was clearly designed for senior officers and politicians. Luxury dripped from every wall, suggesting that more Reichmarks had been spent on the decorations alone than on training up the next generation of officers. Alfred hated it on sight, even though he had no idea who’d actually ordered it. He had no particular dislike of luxury, but it should very definitely be excluded from a military base. It ruined young officers for life.

  “I’m particularly fond of Scotch,” Forster said, as he removed a bottle from a fridge and poured them both a glass. “I had this sent to me before the war began.”

  “Quite,” Alfred agreed, stiffly. Scotch wasn't exactly banned - along with anything else from outside the Reich - but it was taxed so heavily that only the very wealthy or well-connected could hope to obtain it. “The Scots do make good whiskey, I suppose.”

  The Gauleiter smiled. “Would you have preferred something produced in an illicit still?”

  Alfred didn't bother to rise to the bait. Soldiers producing their own alcohol was technically against regulations, but smart officers turned a blind eye as long as the men didn't drink while on duty. Besides, battle-alcohol could be used as an antiseptic if there was nothing else available. But it was rare to taste something made in an illicit still that didn't threaten to ruin his teeth.

  “I have a question for you,” Forster said, as he waved Alfred into a comfortable armchair and sat down facing him. His eyes were suddenly very hard. “Do you believe the war can be won?”

  Alfred hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are the field commander of the Waffen-SS,” Forster said. If he knew how empty the title was, he showed no sign of it. “Your opinion is presumably very well informed.”

  “It is,” Alfred said, flatly. Was this some test of his loyalty? Karl Holliston’s paranoia seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds, particularly as he didn't have any real outlet for his feelings. The people he suspected of plotting against him were the people he couldn’t move against without risking another civil war. “Why do you ask?”

  Forster met his eyes. “Because Holliston is insane,” he said, flatly. “And beca
use this war needs to end.”

  Alfred tensed, bracing himself. If this was a test of loyalty, sharing his true opinion would probably lead rapidly and inevitably to his execution. But would Holliston take the risk? Would he even need to take the risk? Alfred knew, without false modesty, that he was far from irreplaceable. There was no shortage of officers who could be promoted into his shoes, if necessary.

  “Let me tell you how I see it,” Forster said, when Alfred said nothing. “The Waffen-SS has been gravely weakened, first by the ill-fated offensive against Berlin and then by the enemy’s counteroffensive, a problem made worse by our own nuclear weapons. We are desperately short of everything from panzers and assault rifles to training cadre, which is why we are calling up men who shouldn't be going into the army for at least another two years. Our air force has been effectively destroyed and we have no naval forces to speak of - and they wouldn't be particularly important anyway, if we did.

  “Our economy is a mess, our internal security system is falling apart and rumours are spreading like ... like water after it breaks through a dam. In short, we are on the verge of losing the war. The only thing we have that might deter the enemy from resuming the offensive in spring is a handful of nuclear weapons, which are controlled by a madman. Do you agree with my assessment?”

  Alfred took the plunge. “I do.”

  Oddly, he felt almost liberated. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps he’d just ensured that he’d end his days hanging from meathooks below the Reichstag. But he still felt liberated by saying the words out loud. And yet ...

  His mind raced. The Gauleiter wouldn't have dared to approach him, not like this, if the building wasn't secure ... and if he didn't have a way to deal with Alfred, if Alfred proved unreceptive to his advance. Chances were that the guards, hanging around outside the building, owed their loyalty to their Gauleiter rather than the Reich. And that meant that he was seriously considering doing something about Holliston.

  “I see,” Forster said. He studied Alfred for a long moment. “Is our position salvageable?”

  “I do not believe so,” Alfred admitted. “Quite apart from shortages in nearly every category, we have far too much territory to defend with far too small a force. I do not know how many tactical nukes are available, but I doubt they would make a difference. There’s just too much territory to defend.”

  He grimaced. “But the enemy is unlikely to just let us go,” he added. “They need us.”

  “They are willing to agree to a permanent split,” Forster said. “But they need us to remove Holliston.”

  Alfred frowned. He’d grown to loathe Holliston. It wouldn't bother him in the slightest if some kindly soul put a bullet through his head. But Holliston was perhaps the only person with a solid claim to rule Germany East and there was no clear successor. Who knew what would happen after he was dead? He had a feeling that the man in front of him had a very clear idea.

  He smiled, humourlessly. “And then ... what?”

  “The Reich Council will be re-established,” Forster said. “We can offer you a seat on it, if you desire.”

  Alfred felt his frown deepen. We ... who was this we? How many of the Gauleiters were involved in the plot? There were twenty-one Gauleiters in all - they couldn't all be involved, not when he knew at least two of them were fanatical Nazis. They’d support Holliston until the bitter end. But the offer was tempting, if it came with real power. He’d always suspected that the previous Fuhrer hadn't been the only figurehead on the Reich Council.

  “A very tempting offer,” he said, slowly. “Who else would be on this council?”

  “The Gauleiters,” Forster said. “And perhaps a few other military figures.”

  Alfred frowned. Rule by committee was notoriously inefficient. Some of the problems facing the Reich probably owed their origins to rule by committee. But it was better than piling unchecked authority and power on one man. No one, not even Hitler, had been able to grasp the full immensity of the Reich.

  “Very well,” he said. Knowing there were others out there who thought as he did was reassuring. They might still be caught - he had no illusions about the sheer number of spies within Germany East - but at least they weren't alone. “What do you want from me?”

  “Help in getting into the Reichstag,” Forster said. “We have to find and kill Holliston before he can trigger a nuclear war.”

  Alfred took a breath. “That won’t be easy,” he warned. “Even I don’t control everything.”

  “I know,” Forster said. “But you can help us get through the outer defences.”

  “Maybe not even that,” Alfred said. “You’d need to get your forces into the city itself.”

  “We have half a plan,” Forster said. “Let us see how it works out, shall we?”

  ***

  “Horst,” Kurt said. “Why didn't you tell Gudrun that your uncle is a Gauleiter?”

  Horst took a moment to consider his answer. He would have been astonished if Gudrun had told Kurt anything about their relationship, even though it was clear that Kurt was less stuffy - and controlling - than the average brother. He’d accompanied Gudrun to the hospital at considerable personal risk. But even so, Gudrun probably wouldn’t have told him much about their relationship. Kurt might have felt obliged to start a fight if he knew Gudrun and Horst had been sleeping together before their wedding night.

  But he hadn't told Gudrun about his uncle ...

  “I wanted to make a name for myself,” he said, finally. It was why he hadn't changed his name to Forster, even though he had been effectively adopted. “I didn't want to be promoted merely because of my relatives.”

  Kurt nodded, slowly. He’d probably faced the same temptation, although he’d been promoted rapidly anyway. No one had questioned it as far as Horst knew, probably because Kurt had done an extremely good job when the Reich was dangerously short on good officers. And besides, asking his sister for a promotion would be embarrassing as hell to the average German male. The whole affair seemed calculated to cause all sorts of problems.

  “But it could have helped us earlier,” Kurt pointed out. “If we’d known ...”

  “It would have only upset people,” Horst said. He knew he’d changed sides, when he’d found out the truth, but hardly anyone else would have accepted it without at least some suspicion. Even Gudrun would have had her concerns. Turning on the SS was one thing, turning on one’s family was a great deal harder. “And besides, it isn't as if I’m in line to inherit anything.”

  He scowled at the thought. Technically, Gauleiters were appointed by the Reichsführer-SS, but there was always a great deal of political manipulation behind the scenes. A person who rose to become a Gauleiter would be in a very good position to solidify his family’s position within the Reich, making sure that no one - not even the Reichsführer - could ignore them without consequences. And Emil Forster had been a past master at the art. He’d had enough connections to ensure that Horst had a chance to enter advanced training well ahead of schedule.

  And he might have seen me as a tool too, Horst thought. The higher I rose in the ranks, the more useful I was to him.

  “I suppose not,” Kurt said. “I don’t suppose Holliston is your father, is he?”

  Horst grimaced. “My father died when I was six,” he said, curtly. “I was told he died a hero, fighting in the wars. Now ... I wonder what really happened.”

  He shook his head. That, more than anything else, had been why he’d changed sides. If the Reich had been happy to lie about Konrad Schulze, a stormtrooper whose father had also been a stormtrooper, were they prepared to lie about a man who’d been closely linked to a Gauleiter? Had his father been killed in honest combat ...

  ... Or had he been wounded and left to die?

  Kurt shrugged. “Can we trust Ruengeler?”

  Horst shrugged back. Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler had a good reputation, but he'd never met the man in person. He might easily be one of Holliston’s supporters, playing along
with Forster until he was in position to have all of them arrested. And yet, Horst had watched the man, from a distance, as he was shown around the training ground. Ruengeler was distinctly unhappy, his expression suggesting he would rather be somewhere - anywhere - else. Perhaps he could be trusted ...

  And if he can't be trusted, his own thoughts mocked, we’re all about to die.

  His uncle had assured him that they should get word, if Ruengeler went straight to Holliston and betrayed the entire plan. He had a couple of his clients in the Reichstag and several more in the Waffen-SS. But Horst had his doubts. He’d switched sides, after all. His uncle’s clients might decide that Holliston, rather than Forster, was the better bet. Or they might just tell themselves they owed their allegiance to the Reich ...

  “It’s a gamble,” he said. He still shivered when he recalled just how close they’d come to complete disaster. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”

  He looked up as the door opened. His uncle stepped into the room, looking remarkably dapper in a Volkssturm uniform that had clearly been specially tailored for him. Horst felt a flicker of the old contempt for the Volkssturm, even though he knew his uncle had been a soldier before his father had called him home and put him to work. And he’d had a promising career too.