Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Afterwards, he walked away, heedless of her bitter sobs. Other men were already lining up for their own go at her, discipline utterly forgotten in the wake of the mutiny. Hennecke knew, at some level, that they’d gone too far, but it simply didn’t matter. They were dead men walking. If they weren’t killed by their own leaders, or by the rebels, or by the surviving nurses if they managed to get their hands on some weapons ... the radiation poisoning would kill them. Survival simply wasn't in the cards.

  He sat down, feeling the pistol’s comforting presence in his hands. They'd come for him, of course, and he’d fight. He’d try to take down one or two of the bastards before the remainder overwhelmed him. And then ...

  Death, of course. He doubted he’d be allowed to survive long enough to stand trial - if, of course, the SS bothered with a trial. It wasn't as if there would be any doubt of their crimes, not after the stormtroopers had fled. And then ... who knew?

  He'd never been a particularly religious man. Religion - Christianity, at least - had never been encouraged in Germany East, although all the attempts to reintroduce the Old Gods had sunk without trace. And yet, the thought of an afterlife called to him, even though he knew he was probably destined for Hell. But, really, what did he deserve? His crimes stretched back months. Mutiny, murdering senior officers, gang-raping nurses ... they were merely the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps they’d been right, after all, when they’d condemned him to the penal unit. He’d failed the men placed under his command.

  And that had been the worst crime of all.

  He shook his head, ignoring the screams as they echoed behind him. His head was starting to pound again, mocking him. All he could do now was wait ...

  ... And see what tomorrow would bring.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Germanica, Germany East

  12 November 1985

  There had been a time, Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler had thought, when giving bad news to Karl Holliston had been a relatively safe occupation. Clearly, that wasn't true any longer.

  “There’s been a mutiny?”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” the unlucky reporter said. “And it’s spreading.”

  Alfred took a breath as Holliston’s face purpled. A mutiny among the Waffen-SS? It was unprecedented. The SS did not mutiny. Ever. But it had ...

  “The SS cannot have mutinied,” Holliston snarled. “It cannot.”

  The reporter took a very visible breath. “Mein Fuhrer, a number of forward bases have mutinied,” he said. “Senior officers have been shot or forced to flee; junior and enlisted men are in control. Stores have been looted, prisoners have been killed out of hand ... there are even reports of entire units just breaking up and heading west. The entire front line may be on the verge of breaking up.”

  “Get out,” Holliston snarled.

  The messenger turned and retreated as fast as he could without actually running. Alfred took a moment to think. The reports from Holliston’s spy - still sitting comfortably within the rebel government - had made it clear that the rebels had no intention of taking the offensive until spring. But a mutiny - one that threatened to weaken or destroy the front lines - might cause them to change their minds. Launching an offensive into the driving snow would be nightmarish, but it might just pay off for them. Even if it didn’t ...

  He shuddered. The Waffen-SS had been through hell over the last few months. They were trained and conditioned to fight Untermenschen, not their fellow Germans. He’d already been keeping track of a series of disturbing incidents - suicides, in particular - that had suggested that discipline was breaking down, but now ...? A mutiny was unprecedented, yet the seeds had been sown over the last few weeks. The retreat from Berlin, the breakdown in supplies, the nuclear contamination ... yes, he could see soldiers turning on their officers and shooting them down. It had happened before, during the final days of Stalin’s Russia.

  And back at the end of the Second Reich, he thought, numbly. Are we doomed to be defeated again?

  “It cannot have happened,” Holliston said. He sounded shaken, so badly shaken that Alfred almost felt sorry for him. “The SS cannot mutiny.”

  “The report would not have been passed up the chain to Germanica if it hadn't been verified,” Alfred said. He doubted anyone would be keen to report a mutiny. The officers on the ground, if they hadn't already been killed, would be sent to the camps after the mutiny was crushed. If, of course, the mutiny was crushed. “Mein Fuhrer, we need to take action.”

  Holliston didn't seem to hear him. “They swore to be always faithful,” he said. “They cannot have turned on me.”

  He looked up, sharply. “How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. He hated confessing to ignorance at the best of times; now, with Holliston clearly losing his grip, he had the feeling it might prove fatal. “I will attempt to garner more information, if you wish.”

  He sighed, inwardly. The command and control network was already in tatters, thanks to the chaos caused by the civil war. Radio links to the forward bases were unreliable, if the bases hadn't already been overrun by the mutineers. He found it hard to imagine the entire front line disintegrating into mutiny, but if the command network went down completely it would be hard to restore any kind of control. Each unit would be cut off from its fellows, so completely isolated that it could mutiny - or be overwhelmed by the rebels - and no one would be any the wiser.

  We never planned for civil war, he thought. The possibility was never considered.

  “Do it,” Holliston ordered. “And then prepare to move troops from Germanica to crush the rebels.”

  Alfred blinked. Holliston wanted him to move troops away from Germanica? Now, more than ever before, the troops protecting the city were the only ones Holliston could rely on. But perhaps that was the point. The other units - particularly the Volkssturm - might not be reliable when it came to crushing mutineers. They might side with the mutineers and turn their guns on their officers instead.

  And weakening the defences of Germanica can only help us, he told himself.

  “I shall see to it at once, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “At least we know the rebels are not planning an offensive.”

  Holliston gave him a ghost of a smile. “They are too scared of our nuclear weapons to risk taking advantage of the mutiny,” he said. “Perhaps we should use them to destroy the mutineers.”

  Alfred hesitated. “Let me see how bad the situation is, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. Bathing the mutineers in radioactive fire might satisfy Holliston, but it might also force the rebels in Berlin to take action. “Perhaps it can be handled relatively quickly.”

  But it wouldn't be, he knew, as he saluted and left the giant office. The mutiny - whatever had actually happened - was too good an opportunity to let pass. He’d do as he’d promised, he’d send troops to the west, then he’d make sure Forster knew that he’d have a window of opportunity. But he wasn't sure if there was time to get anything organised. There were simply too many loyalists in Germanica.

  And too many others who have nowhere else to go, he thought, grimly. They’ll be doomed if the entire government shatters.

  He swallowed, hard. The Reich had never known defeat. Sure, there had been setbacks, but no real defeats. They had grown used to a reputation for invincibility, even though they’d won their victories against inferior foes. The French, the Russians ... the British would have been crushed, too, if they hadn’t been able to retreat behind the English Channel. Every time they’d matched their army against the Reich they’d lost - and lost badly, even when the odds had been in their favour. Rommel had practically driven them all the way to India by the time Britain and Germany finally made peace.

  But now there had been a defeat, a shattering defeat. And it had come hard on the heels of the chilling realisation that the Reich was not united behind the Fuhrer.

  He composed himself as he strode into the war room. The staff were already hard at work, trying to track the progress of the
mutiny. A glance at the map told him that the situation wasn't as bad as he had feared. Several forward bases had been lost completely, but most of them were either reserved for the walking dead - men suffering from radiation poisoning - or penal units. There had been incidents further east, but none of them had turned into full-fledged mutinies.

  Yet, he told himself. A number of bases were definitely out of contact. Bad weather ... or mutiny? The situation is still developing.

  “The Fuhrer has ordered us to move reinforcements from Germanica to the front,” he said, as his staff assembled. “I want orders to be sent within the next hour.”

  He kept his face impassive as he started to thumb through the list of available units. The Fuhrer would probably smell a rat if all of the loyalist units were dispatched, but a number could be shipped west without arousing suspicions. And, with a little effort, they could be kept out of touch even if the Fuhrer changed his mind. And then ...

  We may be about to find out, he thought, grimly. And if Forster can't mobilise his forces, we’re all about to die.

  ***

  Karl Holliston sat in his office and brooded.

  He had been raised on stories of loyalty. He’d been told there was no one more faithful to the Reich than the SS, in any of its incarnations. And he’d thought it was true. SS stormtroopers threw themselves into battle, time and time again, to defend the Reich; SS Einsatzgruppen purged entire camps of Untermenschen, dissidents and other enemies of the state, just to make sure that they could not rise from the ashes and threaten the Reich anew. Himmler had crafted a force - the most formidable fighting force on the planet - that was pledged to defend the Reich.

  And he’d trusted them. He’d trusted them even after the uprising, even after much of the Heer, Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe had switched sides and joined the rebels. The Waffen-SS had obeyed his orders to march west to Berlin, terrorising the rebels as they marched; the Waffen-SS had held the line at Warsaw, fighting to lure the rebels into the nuclear trap. But now that loyalty seemed a joke. Old certainties were falling everywhere. Was the loyalty of the SS just another certainty that was about to break?

  He couldn't understand it. The Waffen-SS had fought countless battles for the Reich. They’d dominated the Russian steppes, crushed the Greek resistance, slaughtered hundreds of thousands of rebels in Arabia and Germany South ... they’d purged countless thousands of Germans who had family ties to rebels, traitors, dissidents and people who’d been in Holliston’s way. Surely, they would not betray him now ...

  ... But they had.

  He reached for the nuclear briefcase, positioned by his chair. The launch codes were calling to him, urging him to burn mutineers off the face of the planet. He could, he knew. The nuclear formations were the most intensely conditioned soldiers in the Reich. They’d obey orders, if he issued them, to fire nuclear-tipped shells towards the mutinying camps.

  Or would they? Could they be trusted? Could anyone be trusted? He felt the pistol at his belt, wondering if his closest friends and allies would turn on him now. Germany East was already unstable. One good push would be more than enough to bring the entire edifice crashing down. It couldn't end like this, he told himself. Adolf Hitler’s dream of a reborn Volk dominating the world couldn't end with a whimper. But it could ...

  He rose, picking up the briefcase as he strode through the door, into the outer office. Maria took one look at his face and clearly thought better of what she was about to say. Probably another appointment with some political aristocrat who needed his hand held or his head patted. It wasn't important, not now. The mutineers would probably hang all of the aristocratic fatheads he’d been lumbered with, when he'd taken power. He couldn't help smiling at the thought as he stepped into the corridor. His bodyguard fell in around him as he headed straight to the lift.

  Could they be trusted? He found himself glancing at them, out of the corner of his eye, as they walked into the lift and headed down into the bunker. They were the best of the best, survivors of some of the most intensive training programs - and combat - the Reich could offer. Once, he’d had no doubt that they would put their bodies between him and a bullet, if necessary. Now ... now he couldn't help wondering where their loyalties actually lay. Might they be leading him straight into a trap?

  Hauptsturmfuehrer Katharine Milch rose as Karl stepped into the security room, hastily snapping out a salute. Karl had no doubt of her loyalty, if only because she’d faced a far harder set of challenges than almost everyone else in the SS. Women could be spies, women could be secretaries ... but commandos? Katherine was one of the handful of women who’d made it, passing one of the hardest training programs in Germany East. She would have given up years ago if she’d had the slightest doubt of her vocation.

  “Mein Fuhrer,” Katherine said.

  “I need to see your prisoner,” Karl said. “Open the cell door, then turn off the bugs.”

  Katherine looked unsure. “Mein Fuhrer, she isn't cuffed or shackled ...”

  “She’s still behind bars, isn't she?” Karl asked. “I’m sure I will be safe.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Katherine said.

  Karl motioned to his bodyguards to stay behind as he stepped through the metal door and into the cell. It was larger than he recalled from his time as an interrogator, the room utterly devoid of fittings, save for a single bed firmly locked to the wall. Gudrun lay on the bed, staring up at the featureless ceiling. The nasty part of his mind noted that she was still completely naked. But it didn't seem to bother her any longer.

  He stepped up to the bars as Gudrun sat upright. She was beautiful, he had to admit; long blonde hair splashing down to brush against her breasts, muscular arms - a legacy of the BDM - covered in flawless pale skin. Konrad Schulze had been a lucky man, Karl noted, or perhaps he’d had a lucky escape. A woman who could bring down an entire government - who had brought down an entire government - was unlikely to be cowed by her husband’s fists. And anyone who did try to beat her into submission would be very unwise to fall asleep beside her afterwards.

  And she betrayed her entire country, he reminded himself, sharply. He stared at her for a long moment, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. Opposition from outsiders - Americans, British, Russians, Chinese - he understood, but not Gudrun. She had been born into a world that had given her every advantage and asked for very little in return. Sending her east is too good for her.

  “Mein Fuhrer,” Gudrun said. He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not. “What can I do for you?”

  Karl met her eyes. “Why did you do it?”

  “I think I already answered that question,” Gudrun said, coolly. She didn't seem bothered by his presence - or his stare. She certainly made no move to cover her nakedness. “Why are you here?”

  “Your ... influence has spread,” Karl said. Perhaps it was unwise to talk to her, but who else could he talk to? “An SS unit has mutinied.”

  Gudrun smiled, just for a second. “Perhaps you pushed them too far.”

  Karl reminded himself, sharply, that Gudrun had been in the cell for nearly a month. She couldn't have done anything to influence the mutineers, one way or the other. And she couldn't have added to the discontent spreading through Germany East either. Displaying her naked might have been a mistake, but it hadn't been her mistake. She was more important as a symbol than as a living, breathing person.

  “They knew the job was dangerous when they took it,” Karl said, dismissively. “Your boyfriend knew the same.”

  Gudrun nodded, once. Her father had been in the military, Karl recalled; her brother was still in the military, unless he’d been killed in the fighting. And the remainder of her siblings would be called up too, in time. She knew that death could come to a soldier ...

  “He didn't expect to be betrayed,” she said, quietly. “And neither did his family ...”

  “It doesn't matter,” Karl snapped. “Soldiers exist to serve the Reich; nothing more, nothing less. It is their job to fight and d
ie in defence of the fatherland ...”

  “They’re people,” Gudrun said. “They have thoughts and feelings, lives and loves ... you had to earn and keep their loyalty, not treat them as disposable pieces of shit.”

  “The Reich demands sacrifices,” Karl said. He fought to keep his tone even. “Surely even you understand that!”

  Gudrun met his eyes. There was no hint of fear, as far as he could tell. Gudrun hadn't broken during her imprisonment, she’d hardened. Karl would have been impressed if she hadn't been on the other side. As it was, the sooner she was shipped east the better.

  “I understand,” she said. “Do you?”

  Karl glared. “What do you mean?”

  “I read your file,” Gudrun said. “You have never been in combat. You have never even been in real danger. Your entire career was spent in internal security. You never joined the Waffen-SS, you never even served alongside its fighting men. You have no wife, no children ...”