Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “My boyfriend didn't take part in the parade,” she said, flatly. It was honest enough, to be sure. “I miss him.”

  “Just stay faithful to him,” Grandpa Frank advised. “It’s no service to a decent lad to trade him in when another one comes along.”

  Gudrun felt her cheeks heat. The idea of Grandpa Frank, of all people, giving her relationship advice was horrifically embarrassing. She honestly had no idea what he’d done in the war, but he’d had enough nightmares to make it clear that it had been something thoroughly unpleasant. Maybe he’d been in Stalingrad, during the brutal house-to-house fighting, or invaded Moscow towards the end of the war. He was certainly old enough...

  But mother won’t let us ask him any questions, she thought. And she slapped Johan when he tried.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. She stepped back from the older man, never taking her eyes off him. “I hope it’s good food.”

  Grandpa Frank ignored her as he took a long swig from the bottle and started to mutter to himself in a dialect Gudrun didn't recognise. Careful to breathe through her mouth, she looked around the room, picked up the used plates and cutlery and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother was waiting, hands resting impatiently on her hips. Gudrun rolled her eyes as her mother pointed to the sink, then emptied the plates into the bin, put the dishes in the water and washed them hastily. Grandpa Frank never seemed to finish a meal.

  Too busy drinking, Gudrun thought, as her mother started to hand out more tasks before she could make her escape. And trying to drown his sorrows.

  She looked at her mother, who was just taking a tray of sausages out of the oven. “Why do we keep Grandpa Frank here when we could send him to one of the veteran homes?”

  Her mother turned and gave her the look that generally preceded a hard slap. “When your father and I are old and grey,” she said coldly, “will you look after us or will you send us to a home?”

  Gudrun flinched. “Of course I’ll look after you...”

  “My father practically raised me since my mother died young,” Adelinde said. “Whatever his flaws, and he has many, he managed to raise a daughter despite never remarrying. I cannot put him into a home to die, young lady, and you’re being thoroughly unpleasant to suggest it.”

  “Yes, mother,” Gudrun said, feeling tiny under her mother’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “And we get an extra stipend from the government for taking care of a veteran,” a new voice said. Gudrun turned to see her father standing there, wearing his policeman’s uniform. “It isn't to be sniffed at, you know.”

  “Herman,” Adelinde said, tightly.

  Gudrun gave her father a hug. “How was work?”

  “Your daughter was out with a friend half the day and your eldest son has yet to return,” Adelinde said, before her father could say a word. “I expect you to speak to them both after dinner.”

  “Yes, dear,” Herman said, as he let go of Gudrun. “Gudrun, speak to me after dinner.”

  Gudrun nodded, hoping he couldn't see the amusement on her face. She'd been taught, in school, that a wife was to be obedient to her husband, cook his dinners, have his children and treat him like a king. Whoever had written the stupid textbooks she’d been forced to read, she was sure, was either a man with a female penname or a woman who’d never actually married anyone. Adelinde didn't even pretend to be obedient to her husband. The household was her realm and God help anyone who questioned her right to rule.

  “There was the usual run of pickpockets and other trouble-causers,” her father added, picking up a biscuit from the jar while his wife’s back was turned. “A group of children ran riot in the square, but someone very high up ordered that they were merely to be sent back to school rather than face punishment. It was quite strange.”

  “Poor kids,” Gudrun said. She’d been lucky to escape a full Victory Day parade while she’d been at school, but she’d had to stand for hours for smaller parades and, by the time they were finally dismissed, she'd been aching and sore. “Are they going to be all right?”

  “Probably,” her father said. “They...”

  “Gudrun, take the potatoes and put them on the table,” her mother interrupted. “Herman, if you’re going to stand around here, take the bottles of beer and put them by the plates.”

  “Yes, dear,” her father said. “Shall I give Johan the big mug?”

  “Probably not,” Adelinde said. She normally banned alcohol from the table, save for Grandpa Frank. But this was Victory Day. “I don’t want him drinking too much and winding up being sick over my nice clean carpet.”

  Gudrun winced inwardly as she carried the potatoes out. Johan and Siegfried were already sitting at the table, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. They might as well be twins, she’d often thought, although Johan was blonde while Siegfried was brown, taking more after their father. He was growing up quickly too, she noted; he was the baby of the family, at twelve, but he'd already lost his childlike appearance. Like everyone else at school, he’d been forced to exercise on the playing fields until he’d shed every last trace of fat from his body.

  “That looks good,” Johan said, eying the potatoes with interest. “You think mother cooked them in gravy?”

  “Go ask her,” Gudrun snapped. Johan needed to learn, the sooner the better, that she wasn't there to answer his every whim. It was a service to his future wife. “And seeing you’re just sitting there, why don’t you put out the knives and forks?”

  “Do it,” their father agreed, stepping into the room carrying a pair of bottles in one hand. “If you want to be lazy, you can go join the Luftwaffe and sit on your bottom all day.”

  “I like flying,” Johan protested. “I’m going to sign up for the Luftwaffe next year.”

  Gudrun smiled. “You might not learn how to fly,” she needled. She’d looked up the figures when one of her fellow students had started to date a pilot. “For everyone who gets accepted for pilot training, there’s three or four who get accepted for work on the ground. That’s not quite as impressive.”

  Johan’s face fell. “But I’m a natural pilot.”

  “The Luftwaffe needs more than just pilots,” their father said. He gave Gudrun a look that sent her scurrying back into the kitchen, just as Kurt arrived, still wearing his uniform. “And if you learn how to maintain a fighter jet, Johan, you will have something to build on when you return to civilian life.”

  “I’m going to become an astronaut,” Johan said. Gudrun could still hear him, even over the sound of sizzling sausages. “If I manage to do well as a pilot, I can put in for space training and go to the moon.”

  Gudrun smirked as she took the sausages and carried them back into the dining room, her mother following her with the vegetables. Johan was hardly alone in wanting to fly aircraft - a third of the boys she’d known in school had had the same ambition - but the odds were against him. And if he did manage to join the Luftwaffe without actually becoming a pilot, he’d be forever branded a REMF, rather than a fighter. His chances of winning the hearts and bodies of countless girls, as he had seen on television programs, would be sharply reduced.

  “This is Victory Day,” her father said, once the food had been served and the beer had been poured. “Let us remember, just for a moment, how we became the most powerful nation in the world.”

  Now tell me, Gudrun thought. Is that actually true?

  It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it had to be faced. The state had lied, at least once, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn't think of anything that disproved her theory that Konrad wasn't the only wounded soldier to be kept away from his family. And if the state had lied once, who knew what else it had lied about? How much of what she’d been taught had been a lie? She was pretty sure they couldn't have lied about basic maths - she could prove that two plus two equalled four - but it was a great deal easier to lie about the social subjects. Had there really been a great war?

  Grandpa Frank fought in the
war, she thought. He was hardly the only old man with a military background. She had several friends who had elderly relatives living with them or staying in veteran homes. So there must have been a war. But what really happened?

  She ate her food slowly, barely tasting the sausages and potatoes as she thought. What could she do? Konrad’s family might make a fuss, if she told them the truth, but it was equally possible they’d report her for sneaking into a hospital. She could keep it to herself, yet the part of her that loved Konrad wanted to do something about his case. But what? If she tried to protest herself, she’d wind up in an asylum, if she was lucky.

  “I need to speak to you,” her father said, once the dinner was over. Gudrun had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed that the meal was coming to an end. “You too, Kurt.”

  Kurt gave Gudrun a sharp look as their father rose to his feet. Gudrun shrugged; their father might know they’d slipped out of the house, but he didn't know where they’d been. As long as they stuck to the cover story, they’d be safe. Or so she hoped. If the nurse Kurt had been trying to flirt with reported their presence, after he stood her up, the SS might start looking for a pair of intruders. And if they got lucky, they might catch her before she could tell anyone what they’d seen.

  Two more days of parades, she thought, and then I can go back to university. And then...

  She sucked in her breath. Officially, the university was politically neutral. Unofficially, students talked all the time. They were, after all, among the smartest people in the Reich; many of them had worked hard to escape conscription by passing the exams and winning a place in the university. And almost all of the students would know at least one person in the military. How many students had seen a relative go to South Africa and not return?

  But it wasn't something she dared discuss with Kurt. Who knew which side he’d take?

  Talk to the students, she told herself, as she led the way into her father’s office. She had a feeling her father would just tell them both off, but there was no point in dawdling. And then decide what to do next.

  Chapter Five

  American Embassy, Berlin

  19 July 1985

  “Well,” Ambassador Samuel Turtledove said. “Thoughts?”

  Andrew allowed himself a smile. Ambassador Turtledove had no time for the persistent rivalry between the Office of Strategic Services, the Central Intelligence Agency and the Defence Intelligence Agency, to say nothing of the military itself. They were, after all, right in the heart of Berlin, in the first building that would fall if war ever broke out between the North Atlantic Alliance and the Third Reich. There was literally no time for inter-service rivalry or disagreements. Everyone in the room was cleared to hear everything up to TOP SECRET and beyond.

  “It was an impressive show,” he said, as he accepted a cup of coffee from the Ambassador’s aide. “I counted over thirty long-range heavy bombers in a single fly-past. They certainly look as though they can reach New York.”

  “Assuming they don’t get bounced halfway there,” General William Knox pointed out. The military attaché frowned down at the photographs the observers had taken during the parade and placed on the table. “We still have fighter bases up and down the east coast, despite the best efforts of Congress. The Brits have their fighters too.”

  “One would assume the Brits would have other things to worry about, if war broke out,” Andrew said, mildly. “But I tend to agree. The long-range bomber isn't a major threat unless they build them in far greater numbers.”

  “Which leads to the obvious question,” the Ambassador said. “Can they build them in far greater numbers?”

  Andrew looked at Penelope Jameson, who shrugged. “The German economy is a mess, Mr. Ambassador,” she said. The CIA had attached her to the Berlin Office as an expert in economics and charged her with gauging the strength of the German economy. It wasn't a task Andrew envied her. “I honestly think that most Germans are unaware of just how badly their economy is performing, certainly when compared to ours. Funding a few hundred long-range bombers would be very difficult right now.”

  “Particularly as they would be of limited value in South Africa,” Knox said.

  “Perhaps not,” Andrew said. “They can fly well above the Stinger-A’s range, can't they?”

  He smiled as Knox - and Robert Hamilton - grimaced in unison. The OSS had been pressing the President to send Stinger-B and Stinger-C missiles to the South Africans, even though there was a very real risk that one or more units would fall into German hands and be reverse-engineered. He understood their concerns, but there was a very real opportunity to bleed the Germans white using the missiles. Shooting down a handful of heavy bombers would hurt the Reich more than killing a few hundred soldiers on deployment.

  And if war does break out, he thought, there will be fewer bombers to make their way to New York.

  “They’re not exactly equipped for tactical support,” Knox said, after a moment. “Their smart weapons are considerably inferior to our own.”

  “We think,” Andrew reminded him. “The gauchos probably didn't know how to use their weapons to best advantage.”

  “They would have set up a display and shown off their merchandise if they could,” Penelope said, quietly. “Their economy took a hit when the Falklands War went so badly for the side using German weapons.”

  “Serve them right,” the Ambassador said. He cleared his throat. “Was there anything new in the parade, any potential game changers?”

  “Probably not,” Andrew said. “The latest tank design was a modified Panther VII, their main battle tank. I don't think we have to worry about a revolutionary new tank appearing on the battlefields in a few years.”

  “They also modified a handful of older Panzer XIs,” Hamilton added. “It’s hard to be sure, but it looks like they took off the main guns and added several machine guns to the vehicles.”

  “Probably for counter-insurgency work,” Knox grunted. He picked up one of the photographs and held it out. “We know they’ve been taking losses in South Africa, Mr. Ambassador. My best guess is that they’re adapting their weapons and armour to cope with the threat.”

  Which isn't likely to go away anytime soon, Andrew thought. The blacks know they have to fight and perhaps die, rather than doing nothing and certainly dying.

  He shuddered at the thought. The Reich’s population might be blissfully unaware of what had been done in their name, but everyone else knew all too well what Adolf Hitler had unleashed upon the world. He wouldn't have bet a rusty dollar that the blacks would survive for long, if the Nazis claimed the country. They’d be herded into concentration camps and brutally murdered. Indeed, there were factions in South Africa that would happily support such a final solution, heedless of the possibility that the Nazis would shove them into the gas chambers next.

  The Ambassador cleared his throat. “Do you feel it’s likely they will double down in South Africa?”

  Andrew hesitated. “They made a mistake getting involved,” he said. “We know that - and I suspect they know it too, now. But I think their leadership will be reluctant to retreat from their positions in South Africa. They’d see it as an admission of weakness.”

  He looked up at the map. The Reich bestrode the continent like a colossus, bright red ink soaking the land from Dunkirk to Kamchatka. And yet, their control over their vast domains was tenuous, in places. The settlements in Germany East were plagued by partisans, the Vichy French were restless and even their allies were looking for alternatives. Andrew was sure that Turkey, at least, would jump ship if there was a reasonable chance of getting away with it, while Italy and Spain wouldn't be far behind. Binding their economies to Germany had been a deadly mistake.

  “Economically, they must be reaching their limits,” Penelope said. “All my models suggest Germany will have to make major cutbacks within the next five years.”

  “Your models may not take reality into account,” Knox pointed out. He’d never liked
Penelope, although Andrew had never figured out why. “Surely they know how to fine-tune their own economy.”

  “An economy is not a military unit, sir,” Penelope said. “Nor is it a piece of balky machinery that can be fixed. Fine-tuning an economy is simply impossible and trying to control it leads to disaster. The communists discovered that in 1942.”

  She took a breath. “My models are, if anything, optimistic,” she added. “I gave the Germans every advantage I could think of, sir; I assumed a level of central understanding and control that, quite frankly, is beyond the realm of possibility. And yet, all of my models indicate a major collapse in less than five years unless something changes.”