“The Americans are protected by their ocean,” Rubarth countered. That too was part of the argument. “They wouldn't stand a chance if we could cross the waters.”
Hans shrugged. Very few in the Reich would admit it, but the Americans were more advanced than the Reich. Maybe they did pour fewer resources into their militaries than the Reich, yet their advanced weapons more than evened the balance. What was the point of investing in thousands of ICBMs if the Americans could stop more than half of the missiles before they reached their targets? The cost of trying to keep up with the United States was draining the Reich dry.
And their educational system is better than ours too, he thought, as he watched his aide quietly explaining the facts of life to the teacher. They actually teach their children to think.
He pushed the thought aside as another flight of aircraft roared over the city. There would be time enough for the endless argument tomorrow. Today... was a special day.
***
Weakling, Reichsführer-SS Karl Holliston thought, as he watched the interplay between Hans Krueger’s aide and the teacher. In Germany East, such behaviour would never be tolerated for a moment.
He sighed, briefly considering sending an aide of his own to the school. A formal complaint from the SS would be enough to get the teacher sacked and the children severely punished, but it would be nothing more than spite. The Berliners hadn't faced war for forty years, since the last time the British had bombed the city before coming to an uneasy peace with the Reich. Even a handful of bombs planted by particularly foolish Gastarbeiters hadn't disturbed the peace of the city. The Berliners simply didn't know the true danger of living on a frontier.
The little brats should all be sent to spend a year in Germany East, he thought, darkly. It would seem an adventure, at first, until they realised that a terrorist sniper could strike at any moment. They don’t have the mindset to survive.
He gritted his teeth in outrage. He’d grown up in Germany East; his father an SS trooper who’d been granted a farm in the settlements at the conclusion of his service, his mother a stout German woman who’d already buried a husband who’d been killed by the insurgents and brought two children to her second marriage. Not that Karl’s father had cared; he’d been happy to bring up an additional son and daughter. Repopulating the steppes with good Germans was more important than his personal feelings, after all. Karl had grown up knowing he might have to fight for his life at any moment, learning to shoot almost as soon as he could walk. And, by the time he’d left school and volunteered for the SS, he’d been shot at several times by the insurgents. How many of the bratty schoolchildren below could say the same?
None of them, Karl told himself. They grew up in safety.
He pushed the thought aside as the first row of SS troopers marched into the square. They were a magnificent sight; hundreds of black-clad men, their insignia glittering under the light, marching in perfect unison. It was men like them, Karl told himself, who were the true defenders of the Reich. The army, as powerful as it was, didn't have the same determination to do whatever it took to protect the country. Hadn't Rommel proved that when he’d captured Jerusalem? The treacherous Field Marshal had even allowed the Jewish defenders to withdraw, with their weapons, and escape to Iraq! Rommel simply hadn’t the stomach to do what needed to be done.
“Heil Bormann,” the troopers bellowed, saluting. “Heil Bormann!”
Karl kept his face expressionless with an effort. Adolf Bormann was an idiot, plain and simple, and the Deputy Fuhrer was even worse; they should both have been put out to pasture long ago. Giving the title of Fuhrer, the title that had been practically defined by Adolf Hitler himself, to an idiot was an insult. But it couldn't be helped. No one really wanted a true Fuhrer, one with the power of life and death over the entire Reich, save perhaps for Karl. And he only wanted to be the Fuhrer himself.
If they let me claim that power, he thought, his eyes seeking Krueger. The fat man was watching the SS troopers with wary eyes. I will be opposed by the rest of the trio.
Karl ground his teeth in silent frustration. The Finance Minister fought tooth and nail over every funding request, doling out money as carefully as a farmwife who distrusted the local tradesmen. Krueger wouldn't let Karl become a real Fuhrer without a fight - and he’d be supported by the military, who wouldn't be pleased at the thought of an SS Fuhrer. The Heer, Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe only agreed on a handful of things, but disapproval of the SS was one of them. Karl knew, without false modesty, that he could split the different military commanders on smaller issues - the Heer, Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe heads fought each other with more determination than they fought the rebels in South Africa - yet they’d unite against the SS. Krueger, damn him, wouldn't need to call in any favours or strike bargains to block Karl from claiming the topmost position in the Reich.
He leaned forward as row upon row of SS stormtroopers passed through the square, silently gauging the crowd’s reactions. The younger children were still cheering loudly, but there was something forced about the cheers from the older civilians. Karl had no illusions about the popularity of the SS, yet it still bothered him. The vast majority of recruits came from Germany East, where the SS was genuinely popular, but it wasn't enough. He simply didn't have enough recruits to meet the state’s manpower needs in peacetime, let alone with a war on in South Africa.
And the war has to be won, he told himself, grimly. The Dark Continent was an untapped treasure trove of raw materials and he had no intention of leaving it to black communists and American capitalists. No matter the cost, the war has to be won.
But it was a problem. There had always been questions raised about the racial purity of Germany South. The settlers there didn't give a damn about someone’s ancestry, as long as he looked white, and they resisted any attempt by the SS to hunt down rogue Jews, let alone someone who might be French or Italian pretending to be of good German stock. And South Africa wasn't much better. They’d been happy to accept the Reich’s offer of military assistance, but they’d flatly refused to hand over their Jews to the SS. Indeed, Karl was sure that senior figures in the South African government had been encouraging the Jews to flee before it was too late.
Maybe we should just decapitate the local government and take over, he thought. There was a contingency plan to do just that, one he’d been putting together as a last resort. That, at least, would make it easier for us to fight the war.
***
“The Nasties do put on a good show, don’t they?”
Andrew Barton, Office of Strategic Services, nodded in agreement. It was an impressive parade, all the more so for being something he would never have seen in America. The Nazis wanted to show their might off to the world, displaying their power for all to see. It just didn't happen in Washington.
“Take careful note of the number of aircraft you see at any one time,” he said, dryly. A decade ago, a team of American observers had been fooled into believing that the Reich had over a hundred intercontinental bombers when the Germans had flown the aircraft over Berlin and then circled around, out of sight, to fly over the city for a second time. “We don’t want to be fooled again.”
He looked down at the crowds from the balcony, wondering absently just how many of them truly wanted to be there. The kids in the front rows might have thought it was going to be fun, but he doubted they were enjoying themselves after waiting in line for hours; behind them, the lines of watching civilians seemed slightly disorderly, as if the crowd was already bored and resentful. That too wasn't something he’d have seen in Washington. If there had been a parade, attendance sure as hell wouldn't be compulsory. The crowd would have been composed of men and women who wanted to be there, waving flags and cheering loudly.
“Ah,” Robert Hamilton said. The CIA operative leaned forward. “The meat of the matter.”
Andrew leaned forward too as the first of the heavy mobile missile launchers made its way onto the square. It was a truly impressive
sight, he had to admit; the giant vehicle, the missile mounted on its back, inching forward as the crowd went wild. The Nazis had claimed, in their boastful speeches, that the mobile missile could be fired from anywhere within the Reich and hit the United States, although Andrew was fairly sure that was nothing more than empty bragging. Unless the Germans had made a radical breakthrough, the rocket simply didn't have the fuel to fly further than 1500km. Not that that kept it from being a major headache, he had to admit. England was easily within range and the Germans had enough nukes to turn the United Kingdom into a radioactive slagheap. The ABM shield simply couldn't guarantee it would stop even half of the salvo from reaching its target.
“I was thinking,” Hamilton said. “Do you think they’ve left the nuke in the rocket?”
Andrew shrugged. The Germans would have to be insane to take the risk, no matter how many safeguards they’d worked into the warhead, but the Germans were the only people to ever use a nuke in combat. On the other hand, nukes didn't go off if you hit them with a hammer. It was quite possible that the warhead was completely safe, no matter what happened. But they’d still have to be insane to mess around with a nuke.
He turned his attention towards the podium at the other side of the square. The Fuhrer was there, exchanging salutes with the missile crew; the Reichsführer-SS, one of the most evil men Andrew had ever met, was sitting just two seats down from him. If something happened in the parade, the Reich would be deprived of both its titular head and one of its most powerful men. It was hard to be sure just how powerful the other casualties were - in the Reich, power and title didn't always go together - but a disaster would throw the entire state into confusion.
If nothing else, the SS will be holding competitions to see who is evil enough to become the next Reichsführer-SS, Andrew thought, darkly. The winner must be a treacherous unprincipled bastard, with a goatee he can stroke at particularly evil moments...
He shook his head, annoyed at himself. He could make fun of the Reichsführer-SS - God knew there were hundreds of old WW2 cartoons still running around the internet that made fun of Hitler, Himmler and Fatso Goring - but none of the people below dared say a word against the Fuhrer and his cronies. The military might marching through the square was one thing, yet the true horror lay in the hundreds of thousands of listening ears, ready to report a single word against the state. Wives could turn on husbands, children on parents... Nazi Germany was a nightmare few ever escaped.
And I will go back to America, when my stint is up, and wash the stench of Nazi Germany from my clothes, he added, silently. The people below me are trapped.
“They’ll be running more soldiers and machines through the square tomorrow,” Hamilton observed, as the final set of tanks rumbled past. “Hopefully, they’ll get themselves some more watchers too.”
“We have to be back,” Andrew said, feeling another stab of pity for the children. He checked his notebook, where he’d scribbled down a brief report of what he’d seen. He’d write out a full report once they returned to the embassy. “You want to go get a beer?”
“I’d sooner go find out what’s under those uniforms,” Hamilton said. Andrew followed his gaze and saw a handful of blonde-haired women wearing strikingly ugly and shapeless clothes. They were army nurses, he thought. “German girls are hotter than hell.”
“And you’ll be in hell if the ambassador catches you in one of them,” Andrew pointed out. It wouldn't be the first honey trap the Nazis had tried, either. “Let’s go get a beer instead.”
Chapter Two
Josef Mengele Hospital, Berlin
17 July 1985 (Victory Day)
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Gudrun Wieland took a long breath. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure her older brother could hear the sound. She wanted to do it, needed to do it, but she knew they could easily get in deep trouble. Their father’s belt would be the least of their concerns.
“I’m sure,” she said.
She braced herself. It would be easy to back out, to walk away; they could be back home within twenty minutes if they walked fast. But she’d gone to a great deal of trouble to borrow a nurse’s uniform from a friend, just so she could wear it while walking into the hospital. No one would question her if she wore a uniform, she’d been told; no one, not even the senior doctors, would know every nurse in the building. There were over a thousand young women and, with the current fashion for blonde hair, it was a reasonable bet that three-quarters of them would be blonde too. She’d scrubbed her face clean of make-up, tied up her hair and removed anything that might identify her. As long as they weren't caught in the building, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to track them down afterwards. But Kurt...
“Are you sure?” She asked. “I can go alone, if necessary...”
“I can’t let you go alone,” Kurt Wieland said. Her brother ran a hand through his short blonde hair, cut very close to the scalp. “I’m not expected back at the barracks until tomorrow morning.”
Gudrun gave him a grateful smile. She'd known, when she’d asked him, that he could have simply refused, or reported her to their father. Herman Wieland wasn't a bad man - she knew friends who had worse fathers, mainly drunkards like Grandpa Frank - but he would have exploded with rage if Kurt had told him what his eldest daughter had in mind. Instead, Kurt had insisted on coming with her and providing support. He’d even helped her sort out what to do when she walked into the building.
“Thank you,” she said, quietly.
“Then let’s go,” Kurt said. He caught her arm as they started to walk towards the hospital. “Remember, you’re meant to be escorting me, not the other way around.”
Gudrun allowed herself a nervous smile. Kurt was wearing his uniform, marking him out as a soldier in the Berlin Guard. It was unlikely that anyone would question his presence, not when the uniform practically screamed his legitimacy to the skies. The cover story they’d devised had her escorting him to see a friend in the hospital, which wasn't too far from the truth. And if someone thought they were lovers... well, as embarrassing as it was, it would be better than the alternative. Being caught would get them both in very hot water.
She gritted her teeth as they walked down towards the hospital and through the gates. It was a colossal building, constructed during the 1950s and staffed with the finest doctors and nurses in Germany. Her friend had told her that there were hundreds of departments; the original building was practically buried in outbuildings that were half-hidden behind other outbuildings themselves. The country had a fetish for efficiency - or so she’d been taught at school - but there was nothing efficient about Josef Mengele Hospital. It was far too obvious that the designers hadn't anticipated just how many doctors and patients would need to use the facilities.
The guards paid no attention to them as they walked through the door and into the lobby, heading straight towards the locked doors. Gudrun allowed herself a sigh of relief as they joined a dozen nurses heading though the doors, the leaders holding the doors open for the others. If they had had to wait for someone to open the doors it would have been far too revealing, she knew. Her friend had flatly refused to hand over an ID card that would open the doors.
Inside, it was surprisingly cool. Gudrun sniffed the air, the scent of antiseptic bringing back memories of the last time she’d visited a hospital, then looked around for the wall-mounted map of the giant complex. There were hundreds of wards; some identified in medical terminology she couldn't even begin to interpret, others merely identified by a number. She scanned the display quickly, hunting for the number she’d been given. Somehow, she wasn't entirely surprised to discover it was on the far side of the building, well away from the entrance. Cold ice ran down her spine as she looked up at her brother. He was frowning.
“They’ve got something to hide,” he murmured. “That ward is pretty well concealed.”
Gudrun nodded in agreement, then checked the map, memorising the route. Map-reading wasn't o
ne of the skills she’d learned in the Hitler Youth - young women were expected to learn how to cook, clean and have babies - but she didn't dare risk asking for directions as they walked deeper into the facility. Anyone with a legitimate reason to be there would know their way around the building - or, if they were just visiting for a day, would be assigned an escort. She glanced back at her brother, then led the way down the corridor. The hundreds of doctors and nurses, some of the latter somehow managing to make their ugly blue uniforms look fashionable, ignored them.
Kurt was right, she thought, ruefully. Just how long had she spent scrabbling with her older brother as a young girl? It had taken her far too long to realise that Kurt had grown into an adult. As long as we look as though we fit in, no one will pay any attention to us.
She concentrated on finding her way through the corridors as Kurt followed her, no doubt keeping track of their route himself. He’d have learned to read a map in the Hitler Youth; he wouldn't have been promoted so quickly, she was sure, if he hadn't mastered the basics at a very early age. But then, young men were taught military skills in the Hitler Youth. She’d always envied the boys when they’d gone camping, leaving school for a week of mountain-climbing, mock exercises and other exciting sports. They’d even been allowed to play with real weapons. Gudrun and the other girls had never even been allowed to see a gun in school.
Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) Page 2
