Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “The Oberstgruppenfuehrer appears to be willing to cooperate,” Forster said, sitting down in one of the hard chairs. “I feel he can be trusted, at least for the moment.”

  Kurt looked doubtful. “Did he supply any useful information?”

  “Enough,” Forster said. He gritted his teeth. “We may be stuck with the original plan.”

  Horst scowled. He’d hoped they could get enough papers to get an assault force into the Reichstag itself, but his uncle had pointed out that there were too many security departments charged with protecting Germanica for them all to be subverted. Karl Holliston’s paranoia would cause all sorts of problems, if Germanica came under conventional attack, yet ... for the moment, it seemed to be working out for him. Any attempt to move more than a handful of men into Germanica would trigger an alarm ...

  ... And getting the papers to actually get into the Reichstag was impossible.

  “Then we have to make it work,” he said. “Do you have a solid lead on the transmitter?”

  “There’s two,” Forster said. “One in the Reichstag itself - that can be taken out fairly easily - and another, located in a hidden base near the city. We might be better off cutting the cable rather than trying to take out the base itself.”

  “If we can cut the cable,” Horst pointed out. “It will be underground.”

  “Getting down to it may pose a problem,” Forster agreed. “But if we attack the base itself ...”

  He allowed his voice to trail off, suggestively. Horst understood. Any attack plan that depended on everything going right - particularly when there were more than two or three moving parts - was a recipe for disaster. Attacking the base ahead of time would alert Holliston; leaving it intact, when the Reichstag itself came under attack, would run the risk of Holliston managing to send the launch commands before it was too late. But there was no choice. They were running short of time.

  And if the reports from the Reichstag are accurate, he thought, Holliston might be jumping right off the slippery slope.

  It was impossible to tell how many of the reports were accurate or simply nothing more than rumours - or wishful thinking - but it was clear that Holliston was losing his grip. His rages had already become the stuff of legends, while his long speeches on the subject of his inevitable victory were worrying his subordinates. And he’d had a private discussion with Gudrun without witnesses, something that bothered Horst more than he cared to admit. If Holliston had taken his frustrations out on Horst’s wife ...

  I’m coming, he promised Gudrun, silently. His imagination offered too many possibilities for what could have been done to her. And if you’ve been hurt, I’ll make sure he’s hurt worse.

  “I know the risks,” he said, out loud. “And, once we know more about what’s going on, we can probably mitigate them.”

  “Let us hope so,” his uncle said. “Too much is at stake for any mistakes.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Front Lines, Germany Prime

  12 November 1985

  The ground felt like solid rock.

  Hennecke Schwerk cursed inwardly as he lifted the shovel and brought it down, trying to push it into the soil deep enough to start digging a hole. The ground resisted him, forcing him to push harder and harder just to make a hole large enough to bury a grenade. His strength seemed to fail a moment later, leaving him leaning helplessly on the shovel as he fought for breath. Whatever had happened to him - and the doctors had been no help whatsoever - clearly wasn't over yet.

  And to think I’m one of the lucky ones, he thought, bitterly. It was hard, so hard, to care enough to keep going. Others went to sleep and never woke up.

  He gritted his teeth as he forced the shovel back into the ground. He’d been ordered to dig a trench large enough to bury the next set of dead soldiers, but alone ... he doubted he could actually do it. His skin hurt, his head was pounding like a drum ... he had the nasty feeling that he’d dig the grave, then become its first victim. It was all he could do, at times, to remain standing. Walking was almost completely beyond him.

  Pointless, he told himself. Just ... pointless.

  He glanced up as he heard the sound of an aircraft flying overhead. A rebel aircraft, no doubt, the pilot looking down and sneering at the stormtroopers as they struggled to survive the cold. Part of him hoped that bombs would fall, putting him out of his misery, but nothing happened. He ran his hand through his hair - cursing as he saw more strands start to come loose and drift to the ground - then turned back to his work. The officers - damn their black souls - had made it clear that he wouldn't be fed if he didn't work. They were determined to get as much work as they could out of the injured before it was too late.

  An impossible task, he thought. They really hate me.

  It felt like hours before the trench was deep enough to qualify as a grave. He sat down, wishing for a cigarette or a drink or something to keep him going. His entire body felt hot and sweaty, despite the cold. He wasn't sure what it meant if he was sweating in cold weather, but he doubted it was anything good. And the surges of fever that threatened to overcome him couldn't be a good sign.

  He was tempted just to stay sitting down, staring into the grave until one of the officers - or the cold - put him out of his misery. His world had shrunk to nothing more than a constant struggle to remain alive and breathing, despite the throbbing headaches and bouts of sweaty fever. He no longer cared about the Reich, or about his remaining comrades, or about teaching the rebels a lesson. All that mattered was remaining alive one more day ...

  ... And even that was starting to pall.

  Somehow, feeling as if he was watching his own body from a far distance, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled back towards the camp. It was really nothing more than a mass of tents for the wounded, surrounded by a handful of heavily-armed stormtroopers. He’d been told that there were other defensive lines further east, but he had no idea if it was actually true. He hoped, for the sake of what little family he had left, that it was true. The idea of his camp being able to offer more than token resistance when the enemy launched a second offensive was laughable.

  The guard wrinkled his nose as Hennecke staggered past. There had been a time when Hennecke would have taken it personally, demanding satisfaction with his fists if nothing else, but now he hardly cared. His makeshift uniform was stained and soiled, a disgrace to the Waffen-SS, yet he was hardly the only soldier who looked as if he had been swimming in a septic tank. Even the guards were no longer their dapper selves. Hennecke couldn't help wondering if they had been sentenced to death too.

  He scowled at a pair of nurses as he walked up to the tent. Neither of them seemed to recognise him, but they both flinched back anyway. God alone knew what they were doing in the camp - it was no place for young women - yet it was clear they couldn't leave. They’d probably volunteered to tend the wounded, he thought with a bitter snigger; they’d found themselves trapped near the front lines, far too close to whatever radioactive contamination lingered in the air.

  And if they don’t catch radiation poisoning, he thought, they might catch something else instead.

  Sanitation - battlefield sanitation - had been hammered into his head from the day he’d joined the Hitler Youth. His superiors hadn't hesitated to hand out savage beatings to any men foolish enough to soil their own nest. Even prisoners in concentration camps had been ordered to remain clean, on pain of death. And yet, the tent’s interior was so foul that he was glad of the semi-darkness. He didn't want to see what was causing the smell.

  He sat down hard on his bed - really, just a pile of blankets - and tried to gather his thoughts before he was put back to work. But it was hard, so hard, to keep focused. He kept rubbing at his hands, trying to get rid of the sunburned feeling he knew wouldn't fade until he died; his head, pounding savagely, only seemed to grow worse as he struggled to breathe. The air was so foul that he didn't know if he could breathe. Were the other men in the tent dead?

  The shock yanked h
im awake, pulling him back into the world of moaning men waiting to die. He’d been asleep and dreaming and he hadn't even realised it. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, trying not to peer at any of the other men. But it was impossible to avoid seeing that a man, someone he vaguely recognised, had died sometime in the last hour or so. There was no one to carry out the body ...

  They’ll probably burn the entire tent, he thought, as he staggered out into the open air. It was still bitterly cold, but the skies had cleared enough to allow the sun to pour its rays onto the camp. Hennecke would have been grateful if he hadn't already had a nasty burning sensation covering his body. And then they’ll burn the entire camp.

  Another nurse - one who looked vaguely familiar - was serving food outside a mobile canteen that looked to have seen better days. Hennecke stumbled up to her - she looked alarmed to see him, fear clearly visible in her eyes - and took a plate of stew. It tasted like it had passed through the digestive system of a cow - he didn't want to think about where the meat might have come from - but he was too far gone to care. He wolfed it down and managed to get his hands on a second serving before the trumpets blew, summoning every able-bodied man to the command tent. Licking his fingers to make sure he ate every last scrap, Hennecke made his way slowly to the tent. The only thing marking it out from the other tents was a large flag, hanging limply in the wind in front of the flap.

  Not the only limp thing around here, Hennecke thought, sourly. He started to giggle, helplessly. The thought just wouldn't go away. The commander ...

  Someone smacked the side of his head, hard. “Pay attention,” a Scharfuehrer snarled, angrily. “The commander is talking.”

  Kuhn, Hennecke thought.

  But Kuhn was dead, wasn't he? It was growing increasingly difficult to be certain of anything. Had he seen Kuhn die or was it merely a dream, a happy fantasy he’d used to keep himself warm? He felt the pistol concealed within his belt and allowed himself a tight smile. He might be on penal duty, where he wasn’t supposed to have any weapons without special permission, but he was still armed.

  The commander was new, he noted, as the man perched himself on a bucket so he could be seen by the entire group. He wondered, absently, what had happened to the last one, then decided he didn't want to know. He’d been so out of it that there could have been a dozen changes of command in the last couple of days and he probably wouldn't have noticed. He felt a sudden flare of anger as he saw the commander’s pristine uniform for the first time. It was perfect, even in the midst of utter hell. He looked down at his sodden trousers and shuddered.

  “The war goes on,” the commander said. “And we have not forsaken our duty.”

  Maybe he’d introduced himself. Hennecke hadn't heard. There was no point in caring, anyway. He’d lost quite a few commanders during the brief, but savage war. God alone knew what had happened to the men under his command, before he’d been stripped of his rank and sent to a penal unit. He certainly didn't want to know.

  The group shuffled restlessly. They should have given a rousing cheer, Hennecke knew, but they were too ill, too tired or simply too bitter to care. Heil Holliston? He had no doubt that the entire camp would go over to the rebels if they thought there was a genuine chance they would be treated like human beings, instead of monsters. Even the promise of a good meal before they were shot would probably win them over.

  “The Reich is wounded,” the commander continued, “but the Fatherland is not yet broken!”

  Hah, Hennecke thought. Judging from the faint snickers that ran through the group, he wasn't the only one who thought that way. The Reich might be alive, but what about us?

  The commander turned an interesting shade of purple, but seemed perplexed. Men who thought they were doomed to die whatever they did - rightly or wrongly - couldn't be threatened with the camps. What sort of punishment could be worse than their current condition? And a beating, no matter how carefully controlled, would probably push some of the men over the edge and into death.

  “We have orders,” the commander said. He looked nervous. Hennecke didn't fail to take note. Showing weakness in front of junior officers and enlisted men could be fatal. “We will be raiding the outer edge of the enemy’s defences!”

  A low ripple of anger ran through the group. Raiding the enemy lines was standard doctrine, particularly when the SS didn't have the manpower to launch a full offensive, but there wasn't a single man in the camp healthy enough to carry out the mission. Hitting the enemy, even with the advantage of surprise, would be a suicide mission. The commander was trying to get them all killed, no doubt with an eye to saving bullets.

  “We can take the enemy lines and hurt them,” the commander snapped. “I ...”

  “Nein,” someone said. “We want to go home!”

  “Home,” someone else shouted. “Home!”

  “This is mutiny,” the commander said. Hennecke could hear the hint of panic in his voice and knew that others would hear it too. What good was discipline applied to men who knew they were on the verge of death? “This is ...”

  The chant grew louder. “Home, home, home ...”

  “Damn it,” the commander shouted. Hennecke saw him unbuckling his holster. “You ...”

  Hennecke drew his pistol and shot the commander neatly through the eyes. He toppled backwards as Hennecke moved the pistol to his next target, shooting the stormtrooper before he could fire more than a single burst into the air. The crowd roared and threw itself forward on the remaining two stormtroopers, knocking them down, stamping them into the ground, kicking the very life out of them. Hennecke looked around for more targets, then started to laugh helplessly as he saw the remaining guards high-tailing it out of the camp.

  Cowards, he thought. Given everything he’d gone through since the war began, he found it hard to have any sympathy for the well-dressed stormtroopers. And if that idiot - he glanced towards the commander’s body as it was stripped of weapons - had kept his fat mouth shut, he could have just let the shouting burn itself out.

  He staggered, then led the way towards the storage tents. There were several boxes of rations inside, as well as a crate of fancy wine someone had liberated. He took a bottle for himself, then started to pass the rations out to the men. There was barely enough to feed everyone in the camp for two days, he saw, but it was hard to care about the long-term. Besides, they’d just mutinied against their legitimate commanders. The shitheads in Germanica would shit themselves so badly - the SS was renowned for its loyalty - that they’d probably drop a nuclear warhead on the camp.

  They won’t let us get away with this, he thought. Weapons were already being handed round, but a few dozen assault rifles and ammunition wouldn't stop the panzers when they came to crush the mutiny. Of course they won’t let us get away with this.

  He laughed at the thought. Whatever comforting lies the nurses had tried to sell him, he'd known he’d been sentenced to death the moment he realised he had radiation poisoning. They’d use him as long as they could make him work, but they had no intention of curing him. They couldn't cure him. He would have been killed the moment he got too weak to work. And the nurses ...

  A thought struck him. Taking a long drink from his bottle, he turned and strode towards the cabin - the sole true building in the campsite - that had been assigned to the nurses. A handful of men were already outside, eying the locked building with the look of lean and hungry wolves. Hennecke would have thought the nurses would flee, but evidently they hadn't realised what was happening until it was too late. No one, but no one, harassed a nurse in the military. But discipline was a joke.

  “Break the door down,” he ordered.

  He laughed as four men threw themselves against the door, smashing it down. The nurses should have learned a lesson from what he’d done, a few days ago. Or had it all been a dream? No one had come to teach him a lesson for frightening one of the bitches, even though it was what would have happened in a normal camp. A soldier who harassed a nurse would
be beaten senseless by his own comrades. But now ...

  Laughing and joking, they ran into the building. He heard screams as the nurses were captured and dragged out, beaten bloody when they tried to resist. Their clothes were torn from their bodies, leaving them exposed and shivering in the cold. Once, he would have felt shame and pity for putting German girls through such an ordeal; now, he only felt anger, hatred and a surge of lust so powerful that it overwhelmed him. The nurses started to scream as the men closed in, unbuttoning their pants as they surrounding the girls. Hennecke caught one - a little dark-haired woman, barely younger than himself - and forced his lips down on hers. His hands caught hold of her breasts and squeezed, hard.

  She bit him, desperately. He yelped, then slapped her so hard she fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Hennecke laughed as he landed on top of her, rolling her over and holding her down as he forced his way into her. Her screams grew louder, but he ignored them. He no longer cared about anything, save for himself.