Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They turned the corner and walked towards the ward. A pair of SS troopers were on guard, but neither of them looked particularly alert. Gudrun walked forward, keeping her face utterly expressionless as she led Kurt past the guards and into the wards. The troopers gave her an appreciative look, but made no move to stop her. This far inside the building, they probably assumed that anyone they saw had the right to be there. She fought down a smile, knowing that they’d just crossed the Rubicon, and started to look for a specific bed. They didn’t dare loiter where the troopers could see them.

  Kurt poked her arm. “There,” he said, pointing to the wall. A chart was mounted on it, showing a list of names and beds. “See if you can find him there.”

  Gudrun nodded and peered up at the chart. There were over two dozen names on the list, all completely unfamiliar, bar one. Unterscharfuehrer Konrad Schulze, her boyfriend; Unterscharfuehrer Konrad Schulze, who had asked her to marry him when he returned from South Africa; Unterscharfuehrer Konrad Schulze, who had returned from South Africa and vanished into Josef Mengele Hospital. She felt an odd twist in her heart as she stared at the name, realising that Konrad hadn't left her; his family, she’d discovered, were as much in the dark as herself. Their son had gone to war and then...

  She gritted her teeth as she looked for the right bed. It had been sheer dumb luck she’d heard anything. A friend of hers, the same girl who’d loaned her the nurse’s uniform, had seen Konrad’s name and SS number on a list of patients in the hospital. Gudrun hadn't believed her at first - his family hadn't been told he’d been wounded and sent home, let alone allowed to see him - but as weeks went by without a single letter from a normally attentive boyfriend, she’d started to have suspicions. And then it had taken two weeks of scheming to plan an unauthorised visit to the hospital. If Kurt hadn't agreed to accompany her, it would have been impossible.

  And no one had heard anything from the bureaucracy.

  Gudrun scowled in bitter memory. She'd thought Konrad’s family liked her, for all that she was a university-educated student rather than a proper little housewife; they’d certainly never sought to discourage their son from courting her. Hell, it had been her friends who’d raised eyebrows at the thought of dating an SS trooper. The university students had never got along with the SS, who would happily close the university down in an instant if they thought they could get away with it. But Konrad had been different. He’d been sweet and funny and never tried to press himself on her. The thought of his kisses made her lips tingle...

  ... And, if they knew something had happened to him, they would have told her.

  She paused, just outside the curtains enshrouding his bed. All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she wanted to take the final step, to brush aside the curtains and see her lover. What if she was wrong? What if it wasn't him? Or... what if something had happened...?

  “Go,” Kurt urged, quietly. “We may not have long.”

  Gudrun reminded herself, firmly, that she came from a brave family and pushed the curtain aside, then froze in horror at the sight that greeted her eyes. Her boyfriend was lying on his side, hooked up to a machine that bleeped worryingly every five seconds. The lower half of his body was completely gone; she had only taken basic medicine at school - it was another skill girls were required to learn - but she honestly wasn't sure how he’d survived. His face was bruised and broken; indeed, for a long moment, she was honestly convinced that they’d made a dreadful mistake and opened the wrong set of curtains. But he had the scar on his chest she recalled from one of their love-making sessions and his SS tattoo, on the underside of his right arm, matched the one she’d memorised.

  “They tattoo our ID number and blood group so we can be treated in a hurry,” Konrad had told her, once. She felt sick as she recalled the handsome young man she’d courted, the man who’d gone to war. “And it’s a badge of honour...”

  “Jesus,” Kurt said, peering past her. “How the hell is he going to give mama grandchildren?”

  “Shut up,” Gudrun hissed. She couldn’t help peeking at where Konrad’s genitals should have been, but they were gone. Whatever had happened to him, it had taken everything below his hips. She honestly had no idea how he was still alive. “Do you think we can wake him?”

  Kurt grabbed her arm. “Don’t even think about it!”

  Gudrun winced in pain, but she had to admit he was right. She didn’t have the slightest idea how to wake Konrad, if it were possible. Removing him from the machine might kill him outright. It would almost certainly set off alarms, bringing real doctors and nurses running to the bed. They’d be smoked out, caught and arrested. And after that... Gudrun wasn't sure, but sending them back to their father would be far too lenient for the SS. They’d probably be exiled to Germany East. If half of the rumours were true, no one ever came back alive.

  I should have married him, she thought, looking down at Konrad. It was far from illegal to get pregnant out of wedlock - the state would happily pay expectant mothers a small stipend for carrying another young German to term - but her mother would have been furious if Gudrun had allowed herself to get pregnant. If I had...

  She swallowed, hard. Konrad wouldn't be making love to her anytime soon, let alone returning to the war. Doctors could perform miracles these days, but she doubted they could rebuild his legs, let alone his genitals. She’d heard stories about how sperm could be mined from a male body and then inserted into a female body, impregnating the woman, yet... she shuddered at the thought. It sounded terrifyingly unnatural. Konrad would probably die in a hospital bed, if he couldn't live without life support, or spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair like Grandpa Frank, drinking heavily and nursing his sorrows. She winced at the thought - she didn't like Grandpa Frank, even if he was her maternal grandfather - and then stepped away from the bed. Part of her wanted to stay with him, but she knew what would happen if she tried. The SS would take her away and...

  They wanted to cover this up, she thought. Konrad was from an SS family - his father had been a trooper before retiring - and yet they’d been lied to by the state. They wanted to conceal his wounds...

  It didn't make sense, she told herself. Konrad wasn't anyone important. His family didn't have ties to the Reichstag. But, instead of reporting his wounds to his family, the SS had tried to hide them. She tossed it over and over in her head, remembering what her father had said about his work as a policeman. If someone was trying to hide something, he'd said, it meant they had something to hide that justified the effort of hiding it. And yet, Konrad wasn't anyone important. There was no reason to hide his wounds.

  Take Konrad out of the equation, she told herself. There was nothing important about Konrad, therefore no one would waste the effort solely for him. And you get...

  She looked up. There had been more than two dozen names on the list - and, in the ward, there were two dozen beds, each one hidden behind a set of curtains. If each of them held a wounded soldier, and it looked as though they did, what did it mean? The news kept claiming that German troops, bringing fraternal aid to their brothers in South Africa, were winning the war. But if someone was concealing the sheer number of wounded troops... what did that say about the progress of the war? And how many troops had wound up dead in South Africa?

  They’re lying, she thought. She had always been dimly aware that the news services were run by the government, that nothing was ever broadcast without government approval, but she’d never fully understood what that meant. They’re lying about the war.

  She jumped as she heard someone clearing her throat. “What are you two doing in here?”

  Gudrun turned. A young nurse - a senior nurse, judging from the gaudy rank badges on her uniform - was standing behind them, hands on hips. She looked as stern as their mother when she’d caught them in the biscuit box, back when they’d been children. Gudrun couldn't help thinking that she would have been pretty if she’d let her hair down and, perhaps, worn something a little more fitting. The uniform was just plai
n ugly.

  “I convinced Nurse Gudrun to let me see my friend Konrad, after my own examination,” Kurt lied, smoothly. It wasn’t as if Gudrun was an uncommon name. There had been three other girls with the same name in junior school. “We served together in South Africa, don’t you know? He saved my life twice.”

  He leaned forward. “If you’re charged with his care, perhaps you can tell me how he is? I’d be most grateful...”

  The nurse frowned. “You shouldn't have brought him in here without permission,” she said, addressing Gudrun. “Visitors have to be cleared through security...”

  “It’s my fault, beautiful,” Kurt said. He cocked his head. “Can I take you for a drink later?”

  “Perhaps,” the nurse said. She looked downcast for a long moment. “Your friend is unlikely to survive without the life support machine, sir. The brain damage was quite severe and the medical care he received in the theatre was quite poor. We dug quite a few pieces of shrapnel out of his flesh, but by then it was really too late. His body is still alive, if barely; his brain is dead.”

  Gudrun swallowed the question she wanted to ask. She didn't dare draw the nurse’s attention back to her, even as Kurt flirted and the nurse - insanely - seemed inclined to respond. Perhaps, being a nurse, she didn't have many chances for romance... or, more likely, she thought a soldier would understand long hours and short tempers. Her father had once told her that policemen preferred to marry nurses...

  “You escort him to the doors, then report to the security office,” the nurse said, finally. “I have work to do here.”

  “Of course,” Gudrun said. She had no intention of doing anything but walking out the doors with Kurt, removing the uniform as soon as possible and never returning. “I’m sorry...”

  “Go,” the nurse ordered.

  “That was a close one,” Kurt muttered, once they were past the guards. “But at least I got her number.”

  Gudrun gave him a disbelieving look. “You do realise you can’t possibly call her?”

  “That’s not the point,” Kurt said. “The point is that I got her number.”

  He didn't say anything else until they walked through the doors and escaped into the streets, heading towards a flat belonging to a friend. Their father would have asked far too many questions if Gudrun had returned home wearing a nurse’s uniform - and, being a cop, was far too practiced at sniffing out lies. He would demand the whole story, then explode with fury at the risk they’d taken.

  “You need to keep this to yourself,” he warned. “If someone is trying to keep this a secret...”

  “I know the dangers,” Gudrun said. She had a vague plan forming in her mind, but nothing solid, not yet. And she couldn't share her thoughts with her brother. “And I know the risks.”

  Chapter Three

  Reichstag, Berlin

  17 July 1985 (Victory Day)

  There were times, Hans Krueger thought as he walked into the meeting room, that it would probably be easier to handle decisions if the Big Three met in private, hammered out a set of compromises and then presented it to the rest of the Reich Council as a fait accompli. It would certainly take less time, with less outraged shouting. But it was impossible. The different branches of the military would certainly want their say, the different government ministries would have their own opinions about matters and even the SS, for all it tried to present a monolithic face to the world, had its dissidents. There was no way to accommodate them all, save for inviting all the principles to the meetings.

  And that tends to mean that nothing gets done, he reminded himself sourly. The only consolation was that formal protocol was practically non-existent. By the time we’re finished arguing, it’s time for dinner and then we resume arguing after dinner.

  He sighed, inwardly, as he sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from the attendants. The remainder of the seats were filling up fast; the uniformed heads of the military, the ministers wearing fancy suits and the SS, clumped together at one end of the table. Hitler might have been a great man - Hans knew better than to think otherwise, even in the privacy of his own mind - but he’d never established a formal governmental structure to handle the vastly expanding Reich. Instead of an organised system, where power and responsibility were roughly equal, he’d presided over a hundred different fiefdoms, keeping them at loggerheads so his rule remained unchallenged. And when Hitler died, the wheels had threatened to come off the whole ramshackle structure.

  And it was sheer luck that Himmler was convinced not to try to seize power for himself, Hans thought, glancing down towards Karl Holliston. The Reichsführer-SS would happily seize supreme power, if he thought he could get away with it. Then, the military would have opposed the SS, purely out of instinct. Now... who knows which way everyone will jump.

  The attendants finished pouring coffee and withdrew, closing the doors behind them with a loud thump. Hans allowed himself a grim smile. They were in the most secure room in the Reich - the security team protecting the complex was the most capable in Germany - and yet, the true threat lay within. Just how many of the men at the table would make a bid for power if they thought they could succeed? Hans wouldn't - he knew how hard it would be to rule the Reich alone - but he had a feeling he was the only one. Everyone else? The lure of supreme power was very alluring.

  He kept his face impassive as the Fuhrer rose to his feet. “This meeting is now called to order,” Adolf Bormann said, turning to face the giant portrait hanging from the wall. Hans had to admit Bormann could give pretty speeches, but little else. “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” Hans echoed.

  And everywhere else, it would be Heil Bormann, he thought, as Bormann sat back down. But not here, not where we can't risk allowing his head to swell.

  “I move we address the war in South Africa,” Holliston said, quickly. “Victory Day has, as always, given us a boost. We must take advantage of it before it is gone.”

  Hans exchanged glances with Field Marshal Justus Stoffregen, Head of OKW, who nodded once. The military, therefore, wanted to discuss the war too. Hans had a whole folder of economic issues that had to be addressed, but there was no point fighting an unwinnable battle against both the military and the SS. Besides, it would give him an opportunity to let Holliston make his points and then undermine the bastard. The SS man simply didn't understand the cold economic realities that were steadily undermining the Reich.

  Holliston leaned forward. “The South African War is approaching a climax,” he said, as if he hadn't said the same thing at the last four meetings of the Reich Council. “We have taken losses, but we are pressing the rebel insurgents hard and persistently weakening their grip on their fellow blacks. They are steadily being worn down.”

  He paused, waiting to see if anyone would object. Hans, who had quite a few private agents reporting to him from South Africa, could have disputed that rosy picture, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Better to let the SS man store up trouble for himself. Besides, he knew all too well what lurked behind the cold figures. Men and women killed, children rounded up and herded into concentration camps, towns and villages burned to the ground for daring to hide insurgents... no wonder the blacks were fighting desperately. They were caught between freedom and total extermination.

  And thousands of our own men are dead, he thought, coldly. The general public doesn't have the slightest idea just how many soldiers have been killed - or wounded - in South Africa.

  It wasn't a pleasant thought, he reflected. The Reich had no elections, no way for the civilians to express their feelings about the war. No one had quite realised just how badly public opinion, such as it was, would be shocked about the Balkan War. The public hadn’t given a damn about slaughtered Jews or Muslims, of course, but telling them just how many Germans had been killed in the fighting had been a mistake. It wasn't one the SS intended to repeat.

  “However, we have a major problem,” Holliston continued. “Pretoria is not as enthusiastic about the war as we
would prefer.”

  “Unsurprising,” Hans commented, dryly. “We are, after all, fighting a savage war of peace on their territory.”

  Holliston gave him a sharp look. “We have gathered evidence that suggests the South Africans are on the verge of betraying us,” he snapped. “Pretoria has been in private communications with Oliver Tambo and, apparently, attempting to come to some sort of agreement. Furthermore, Tambo and his bunch of terrorists would not have escaped if Pretoria had acted swiftly to reinforce the parachutists who attacked the bastard’s territory. I believe they hesitated in the hopes that Tambo would escape.”

  “And succeeded, if that were the case,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss commented.

  “They would presumably not have wished to restart negotiations with a new leader,” Hans mused. “Tambo is hardly the worst they could have had to deal with.”