by John Ringo
The smile broadened. Mühlenkampf laughed aloud. “Very well, Herr Kanzler. Whatever you have done to make me young you must have had a reason. What do you want of me? What mission have you for me?”
The chancellor returned the beam. “We have some problems,” he admitted. “How far gone were you in that nursing home?”
Mühlenkampf thought briefly, then answered, “I think I was gone back to about 1921. Speaking of which, what year is it? How am I here? How am I young? How is it I have my mind back?”
“Ach, where to begin? The year is 2004.” Seeing the former officer’s surprise, the chancellor continued, “Yes, General Mühlenkampf, you are a sprightly one hundred and four years old. As to how you have the body and mind of a twenty-year-old? That is an interesting tale.”
The Kanzler had long since decided to be direct; Mühlenkampf was known to have been a direct man. “We are about to be invaded, General.”
“Germany?” bristled the new-old man. “The Fatherland is in danger?”
“Everyone is in danger,” answered the chancellor. “The planet Earth is about to be attacked… actually has already been… by alien beings, creatures from space. As I said they have already begun to land, in the United States and — ”
“Bah! Ami trash. And aliens? From space? Herr Kanzler, please? I was born at night but it was not last night.”
“Not so trashlike, Mühlenkampf. Restrain your prejudices; the last war is long over. And the Ami’s, at least, utterly defeated the first invasion to hit them. Not everyone can say that. Though it cost the Americans frightfully. As for when you were born… well, you were reborn about thirty minutes ago. Contemplate, why don’t you, the implications of that?”
“Ah,” agreed Mühlenkampf, contemplatively.
“But, in any case,” continued the chancellor, “those first landings were small-scale affairs, comparatively speaking. What we are facing, commencing in as little as eight months, are five more invasions, each of them ten to fifteen times more massive. You will be briefed in much greater detail on the nature and numbers of the enemy after we are finished here.”
Mühlenkampf shrugged. He could wait for the details.
The chancellor interlaced his hands in front of his face. “We have a problem though. It is not too much detail for now to tell you that these five coming invasions will come with weapons superior to ours or that they are mostly… infantry of a sort. They will have complete command of the air and space. Each will muster from ninety million to as many as two hundred million combatants.”
“That does sound dire, Herr Kanzler. Five or ten thousand infantry divisions.”
The chancellor had done his time. He knew Mühlenkampf was miscalculating based on human norms for combat forces. The chancellor sighed. “No. They have no support forces to consider. One million of these beings — they are called ‘Posleen,’ by the way — means one million combatants. So no, not thirty or forty or even fifty infantry divisions per million. We are talking about the equivalent of about one hundred thousand infantry divisions, but infantry divisions from a warped scientist’s nightmares, dropping on our heads, all of our heads of course, over the next five years. And we have reason to believe, based on the way these beings act, that Europe’s share will be greater than that of any similarly sized area of the globe — say twenty percent, with the possible exception of what may hit the United States’”
Mühlenkampf considered, then objected, “But that is impossible, Herr Kanzler. No military force can organize like that. How would they feed themselves?”
The chancellor shuddered, remembering piles of small and gnawed bones in the snow. He shuddered and then found the impulse to enjoy giving the shock. “Why Mühlenkampf, they eat us, of course.”
Even the hardened SS general was taken aback by that grim news. “You are joking. You cannot possibly be serious. One hundred thousand infantry divisions, advanced over anything we have? Maybe twenty thousand of them against us? With complete dominance of air and space? And they will eat us, eat everyone, if we lose?”
“Not ‘if we lose,’ Mühlenkampf. When.”
Günter, so far quietly sitting at the chancellor’s side, began to raise an objection, before being hushed by the chancellor. “ ‘When,’ I said, Günter, and ‘when’ is what I meant. Nothing but that kind of desperation would make me put General Mühlenkampf back in uniform. Though I concede there are degrees of losing, some better than others.”
Turning back to the veteran, the chancellor continued, “We let ourselves go, Mühlenkampf. You knew the Communists had fallen?”
“I remember thinking, Kanzler, back when I still had some faculties for it, that although the Communists may have gone under I could no longer tell the difference between a Red Russian and a Green German.”
Günter, a committed Green and a Social Democrat bridled at that.
The chancellor’s party drew much of its support from the Greens. Even so, he had to admit, and would admit it only to himself, that there had once been little difference between the two, at least at the extremes of both movements. And yet…
“General, we Germans are packed into this country like rats. Do you want someone pissing in your drinking water? Well, every piss every German takes ends up there, you know. Do you want our children born deformed and retarded by the things industry dumps in our rivers, or would if we let them? Do you not think we need trees to make oxygen for us to breathe? And if you like to hunt, General, or to hike to enjoy the natural beauty of our country, do you not think those very animals and woodland scenes need a little protection?”
Mühlenkampf shrugged his indifference. “A political fanatic is dangerous no matter if he wants to hang capitalists or to gas Jews or to make economic life impossible, Herr Kanzler.”
“I am no fanatic, SS man,” bridled Günter.
“Neither am I, bureaucrat,” answered Mühlenkampf, coolly. “I am a soldier and I rather doubt the chancellor brought me here to discuss politics. But to my mind a Red fanatic and a Green fanatic are indistinguishable. And Germany has had more than enough of both.”
Ah, well, I didn’t resurrect this man for his modern sensibilities, thought the chancellor. He continued, “Yes… well, be that as it may, after the Cold War ended we, all of us really, chopped our military forces to the bone. Let most of the rest be politicized, demoralized and castrated, too. Why, did you know, Mühlenkampf, that there is a law here now forbidding our soldiers from wearing their dress uniforms in public lest it upset certain types of Gästarbeitern.[4]” The chancellor sighed with personal regret. Currying favor with the left at the time he, himself, had voted for that law.
“All of Germany, before this came up, could field, at most, seven mediocre divisions. Of these, one was almost entirely destroyed on another planet. Filling up that division’s losses, and expanding the remaining six upwards to about six hundred divisions, has proven impossible. We have the weapons; that or we soon will. We have the manpower… available at least. We do not have the trained cadre. We have called up and rejuvenated every combat veteran of the last war we could find except for you and people like you. And now…”
“And now,” Mühlenkampf continued, sensing the truth, “now you need us.”
“Yes. Your country needs you. Your people need you. Your species needs you.”
“What will I have to work with?” asked the former SS man.
“We will fill you up with bodies, good ones, from among the young men we have. For your cadre there are enough, just enough, rejuvenated SS men to make a decent group for a large Korps, about five divisions plus support.”
Mühlenkampf thought immediately of a problem. “You wish to give us regular division numbers? The 413th ‘Volksgrenadiers’ or something on that order? Regular Bundeswehr uniforms?” The general shook his head, “Herr Kanzler, that won’t work.”
“Why not?”
Mühlenkampf shrugged. “It is hard to explain, perhaps. But take me, for example. I was like Paul Hauser… or F
elix Steiner,[5] for that matter. I was a regular first and joined the SS not out of any political convictions, but simply to be in an elite combat organization. And to fight, of course. I think few of the other ranks had very strong National Socialist political convictions, though some did. But one thing we all shared was a pride in the symbols for what they said about us as battle soldiers.”
Mühlenkampf sighed. “And then, of course, we lost the war. Rather badly, as a matter of fact. We went from the top of the heap to the despised of Germany, of the world. Our symbols became shit. People turned their faces away. Our wounded veterans were denied the pensions and care given to other branches of the Wehrmacht not one whit less guilty — whatever guilt means in such contexts as the Russian Front — than we were.
“We lost our pride.” The veteran finished, “And soldiers cannot fight without pride.”
This time Günter was not to be silenced. “Your Hakenkreutzer?[6] Your Sigrunen?”[7] he shouted. “Your Death’s Heads? Those symbols you will never be allowed to show.”
Mühlenkampf buffed fingernails nonchalantly against his left breast for some long moments. All the time he fixed the aide with a deadly stare. “Little man, do not try me. The SS told Himmler and Hitler — and they had the power to have us shot out of hand — to go fuck themselves so often, so many times, I have lost count. We fought the Russian hordes to a standstill across half a continent. We charged into American and British airpower and naval gunfire without demur… even without hope. When all was lost we were still fighting, because that is what we did. Never think, little man, not for an instant, that we can be intimidated by such as you,” he ended, sneering.
“Peace, gentlemen,” calmed the chancellor. “Mühlenkampf, Günter is right to a degree. While, I assure you, there are some people, especially down in Bavaria,” — the chancellor rolled his eyes heavenward — “who would welcome the return of the SS with cheers, most of our people would turn away. Moreover, my own political support might well melt away. I cannot let you have all your symbols. Is there something else?”
Mühlenkampf considered. “Our medals? Reissue them, perhaps in a slightly different design?”
The chancellor wriggled his fingers dismissively and said, “We already are, after a fashion.” Then he thought of the casualty lists from the planet Diess, transferred his wriggling fingers to tap his lips and added, “Mostly posthumously, I’m afraid. Yes, we can do this.”
“And division names,” bargained Mühlenkampf. “Give us any numbers you want. But let us go by our old division names.”
“What?” snorted Günter. “LSSAH? Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler?”
“We had other divisions,” answered the general, coolly. “Wiking? No crimes to speak of to their name. Götz von Berlichingen? A clean record there, too. You said five divisions, Herr Kanzler? Okay… Wiking, G von B… Not Hitler Jugend but just Jugend? Hohenstauffen? Frundsberg? Yes, those five. No crimes there except one attributed to Jugend but as likely to have been committed by 21st, be it noted, Wehrmacht, Panzer Division. And maybe use some of the others as independent brigades within the Korps.”
“Yes, Herr Kanzler. The medals, the names… uniforms a bit different than the norm. Maybe even the Sigrunen after we have shown what we can do? It is not much to ask for and I can build, rebuild rather, some pride with them.”
Mühlenkampf’s face lit with a sudden smile. “There is one other thing, Herr Kanzler. The SS was perhaps the most cosmopolitan armed force in history, certainly the most cosmopolitan force of its size. We had battalions, regiments, brigades and divisions of Dutch, Belgians, French, Danes, Swedes, Latvians, Estonians… damned near every nationality in Europe. We even had control for a while, though they were not part of us, of one Spanish Division, the Spanish Azul, or Blue, Division. Moslems? Lots. I have no doubt but that, had we won the war and some of the Reichsheini’s[8] wilder schemes for a Jewish Homeland come to pass that there would eventually have been a brigade of the Waffen SS that would have sported armbands reading, ‘Judas Maccabeus.’ Yes, I am serious,” the former SS general concluded.
“Your point?” queried the chancellor.
“Just this. Put out the word. Rather, let me put out the word, and we might have a few more former SS men for cadre than you think. And perhaps some new volunteers as well.”
“What do you get out of this, Herr General?” asked Günter querulously.
“Something you would never understand, bureaucrat.”
Berlin, Germany, 22 November 2004
Not even the view of the stunning, busty and leggy blonde gracing the Tir’s[9] reception room could lift Günter’s spirits. Appalled beyond measure and beyond endurance by the chancellor’s decision to resurrect — even in muted form — the hated Waffen SS, the bureaucrat had decided to do the unthinkable, to give his support to the nominally allied but, he was sure, secretly hostile, Darhel.
Still, the SS? It was intolerable. And that the chancellor had ignored him? Insulting.
Worse, Günter was certain, the chancellor would not stop with the SS. With the SS in hand, owing their allegiance to the Chancellor, the bureaucrat could foresee another dark age for Germany. To date, the Kanzler had depended upon a loose coalition of moderate and left political streams. With the reborn SS in hand, might he not cast aside that dependence? Günter desperately feared it might prove so.
Remilitarization was not the least of it. How Günter had fought to keep the conscription laws somewhat ineffective. Surely no threat could justify dragging unwilling and enlightened young boys from their homes and subjecting them to the brainwashing that, he had no doubt, was the military’s stock in trade. How else but through brainwashing could the military convince sensible young men to do something so plainly not in their personal interest?
Günter, himself, had done his “social year”[10] in something useful to society, assisting in a drug rehabilitation program. He had not wasted that year in some atavistic pandering to a spirit long obsolete.
The future seemed dark, dark.
Günter’s reveries were interrupted by the blond receptionist. “The Tir will see you now, mein Herr.”
Upon entering the Tir’s office Günter was surprised to see several political allies also present, along with one soldier. Their chairs were gathered in a semicircle in front of the Darhel’s massive desk.
The Tir’s German was grammatically excellent, though tinged with a lisp caused by air passing between his sharklike teeth. Even with the lisp, Günter had no difficulty understanding the alien when he said, “Please, Herr Stössel, do sit. I am somewhat surprised to see you after you refused our last offer.”
Taking the chair indicated by the alien’s pointing finger, Günter sat silently for a long moment. When, finally, he spoke he said, “When I refused your offer it was before the chancellor decided to turn Germany into a Fascist state again. Better we should be destroyed than release that horror again upon the world.”
In a voice so tinged with vehemence and hate that he was nearly spitting, one of the other humans interjected, “Germany has always been a Fascist state.”
Günter ignored the speaker. He was himself a Green and while, yes, there was a strong leftist trend within the Green movement, the speaker, Andreas Dunkel, on the other hand, was an outright Red. Every time Günter thought upon the ten trillion marks so far spent on trying to undo the ecological damage the Communists had done to the east of the country, he bristled. Even that enormous sum was inadequate; only time could heal the wounds inflicted on Mother Earth by the Communists.
He bristled now too but, suppressing it, turned his full attention back to the Tir.
“Your species is dangerous,” the Tir said, “and among your species your people are perhaps the most dangerous of all. While the Federation needs you now, in the long run you are as much a danger to civilization as are the Posleen.”
The Tir judged his audience well. Indeed, he had a very complete file on Günter Stössel downloaded into his AID, the Artif
icial Intelligence Devices only the Darhel produced. Much of Günter’s wait in the reception area had been the result of the time the Tir had needed to study the file.
“The Galactic Federation is a peaceful place, or was before this invasion,” said the Tir, honestly. “Moreover, it is a place where resources are carefully guarded. We produce few goods but of high quality; this is how we keep our ecologies pure.” This last was true enough, but the truth concealed a greater falsehood. Galactic civilization kept resource expenditure low by more or less literally starving the Indowy who made up the bulk of its population, produced the bulk of its admittedly excellent products, and had the least share of its power.
At this point, truth fled for… greener pastures. “We care for our planets,” the Tir lied. “Our projections show that, were humans to be let loose onto the galactic scene, ecological disaster would follow quickly. We cannot allow this. And yet we need your people to defend our civilization. It is a difficult problem.”
“What can I do to help?” Günter asked.
* * *
Had the Tir had the slightest clue he was being overheard, no doubt his lies would have been even more carefully couched. So thought Deputy Assistant Clan Coordinator, and Bane Sidhe[11] operative, Rinteel.
Listening to the conversation between the Tir, Günter, and the others in the Tir’s office, Rinteel’s mind kept revolving around one word. Agendas. The Darhel have one. The humans have another. We have still a third. But ours at least leaves the humans free and frees us. Surely they will be difficult to deal with, so violent, so aggressive, so selfish as they are. And yet, so long as the Posleen exist and are a threat, they will need us… to produce their machines of war, to maintain them. They will dominate us, no doubt. Yet my people can have a future in every way brighter under human dominance than ever we have under the overlordship of the Elves. The humans, at least, have some sense of fairness. The Elves have none.