Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Surrender,” Kurt shouted. A handful of grenades would be more than sufficient to clear the way. “Give up now and you won’t be harmed.”

  There was a long pause, then someone shouted back. “What about the Reich Council?”

  “They will not be harmed either, provided they surrender,” Kurt said. He had no idea if he was authorised to make any such promises - it wasn't as if they had a command authority - but it would encourage them to surrender without further delay. “Tell them to give up and they will remain unharmed.”

  He muttered orders to his men as he waited for a reply. God alone knew what sort of equipment the Reich Council had on hand. They could be calling for help, even now, although the Berlin Guard itself was the closest military unit to the city. Unless, of course, the Waffen-SS had another division on hand. He didn't think there were any closer than Warsaw, but he hadn't thought the SS would bring a police unit from Germany East to Berlin either.

  “They want to negotiate,” the voice shouted, finally.

  Kurt shook his head. It sounded like a delaying tactic to him. “They can surrender now or we’ll force our way into the chamber,” he said. “You have five minutes to decide.”

  He braced himself, unsure just what to expect. The Reich Council didn't seem to have expected trouble, not if they were gathered in the Reichstag rather than observing events from a safe distance. Indeed, if the SS hadn't opened fire, there probably wouldn't have been any trouble. Everything he’d seen suggested that the Reich Council had been as surprised as the Berlin Guard... although there was the lingering question of just who’d been in that helicopter.

  “They would like to surrender, but they insist on talking to the dissident leaders,” the voice said, after four minutes. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Fine,” Kurt said. Volker could talk to them. He’d been in control of the unions, after all; he was probably the most powerful man in the dissident movement. “We’re coming up now, so put your weapons on the ground and step away from them.”

  He forced himself to walk up the stairs, unsure of what he’d see when he reached the top. A handful of soldiers wearing combat battledress - close-protection specialists, he guessed - and a couple of civilians, looking nervous. They were rapidly cuffed as Kurt led the way into the next room, where a dozen men waited for him. The Fuhrer and Field Marshal Voss were instantly recognisable - their portraits hung in the barracks - but the others were strangers.

  “This is an outrage, soldier,” the other Field Marshal said. “Stand down at once and...”

  “So is ordering troops to fire on innocent civilians,” Kurt snapped. He lifted his rifle and gestured threateningly. “If any of you are carrying any weapons, say so now.”

  He gave them a moment, then jerked his rifle barrel, indicating they were to rise. “You will be kept separately from the other prisoners until we have decided your final disposition,” he said. He had no idea what would be the best thing to do with the former Reich Council; that, too, was best left to Volker - and Gudrun. “Do not attempt to speak without permission or you will be shot.”

  And if they do regain power, he thought morbidly, as his men searched the uppermost level and marked offices as temporary cells, they’ll have problems deciding precisely which of my crimes to put on my execution warrant.

  ***

  It felt like hours before Gudrun could take a rest. Horst by her side, she had thrown herself into helping the wounded and preparing the dead for honourable burial. It had been a nightmare - the streets were slippery with blood - but there had been no choice. Someone had to take charge and deal with the chaos. By the time Kurt - wearing his combat uniform - came to find her, she was tired and cranky.

  “Gudrun,” Kurt said. He looked around, then back at her. “If I’d known this would happen when I helped you sneak into a hospital...”

  “She did the right thing,” Horst said. He somehow managed to sound fresh. “The government had to be beaten.”

  Kurt gave him a sharp look. “And how much of the country do we control?”

  “Good question,” Gudrun said. She rose and peered at her brother. “Who’s in charge right now?”

  “Konrad’s father,” Kurt said. “He wants to see you.”

  “I’m coming,” Gudrun said. “Horst?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Horst said. “If you’ll still have me.”

  Gudrun slipped her hand into his. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  She sobered as she followed her brother through the remains of the gates and into the building. She'd never been inside and part of her was quietly fascinated, a feeling that faded as she realised just how much of the country’s wealth had been lavished on the building while large parts of the population barely had enough to eat. Hundreds of prisoners, their hands cuffed, sat in the hallway, looking at the floor despondently. It was easy to tell that they expected to be shot out of hand.

  “They stole the artwork from all over the Reich,” Horst commented quietly, as they walked up the stairs. “Herman Goring used to collect pieces of irreplaceable art. When he died, his family passed it to the Reich Council.”

  Gudrun nodded. She wasn't surprised.

  “Gudrun,” Volker Schulze said. He was standing alone in a large war room, covered with maps of Germany and the Reich. “Did you know what you’d start?”

  “No,” Gudrun said. How much did he know? Kurt could have told him she’d known about Konrad long before anyone else - no, he merely thought she’d pushed him into using his contacts to check up on his son. “I didn’t.”

  “But you started this,” Volker Schulze said. He waved a hand at one of the maps. “You can now help me clean up the mess.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  SS Deployment Base/Reichstag, Germany

  21/22 August 1985

  It had not been a comfortable flight.

  Karl Holliston had hoped to fly directly to the Reich Command Bunker in East Germany, or perhaps loop round Berlin and head to Wewelsburg Castle, but the endless series of confused reports on the radio made it sound dangerous. There were outbreaks of fighting at military and SS bases, mutinies on the high seas and even clashes between jet fighters... if, of course, the radio could be believed. Karl was sure that most of the reports were badly exaggerated - he’d been taught there was always a period of confusion when something happened without warning - but it was hard to know for sure. The Heer might be divided, yet he had no doubt that the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe would side with the rebels. They’d been infected with rebel propaganda right from the start.

  He gritted his teeth as the helicopter, running on fumes, dropped towards the SS Deployment Base. SS Skorzeny had been preparing for its deployment to South Africa and - he cursed in frustration - most of its equipment had been boxed for transport. The unit, the only wholly reliable unit west of Poland, would need time, more time than he had, to prepare for a full-scale attack on Berlin. He grunted as the helicopter hit the pad, then staggered to his feet and hurried to the hatch. The ground crew were already moving in to secure the helicopter and refuel the craft. Behind them, a uniformed officer waited.

  “Herr Reichsführer,” SS-Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig said, as Karl clambered out of the helicopter. In the distance, the sun was setting over the mountains and darkness was falling over the land. “We have a briefing for you in the situation room.”

  “Good,” Karl said. Perhaps, just perhaps, the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed. “Have some coffee brought to the room too. We’re going to need it.”

  He allowed Kortig to lead him into the base, barely noticing the stormtroopers standing guard at the doors. The entire garrison had gone into lockdown, although - as far as they were from civilian towns or military bases - it was unlikely there was any immediate danger. But that would change, he reminded himself, as they passed through a pair of armoured doors and into the situation room. The deployment base was hardly a secret.

  “I have two companies on readin
ess,” Kortig informed him, “and a third picketing all the approaches. However, most of our equipment is already en route to South Africa...”

  “I know,” Karl said, cutting him off. He wasn't in the mood for excuses. “I need a situation briefing, right now.”

  He took a seat as an orderly entered, carrying a tray of coffee. Behind him, a young analyst stepped into the room, looking pale. He seemed too young to wear SS black, Karl noted; the young troopers seemed to get younger every year. Karl felt a sudden flicker of wistfulness for his younger days, when all that mattered was getting the job done, which he pushed aside savagely. He might have made mistakes - bad rolls of the dice were inevitable - but the contest for supremacy in the Reich was far from over.

  “Herr Reichsführer,” the analyst said. “Most of our communications network has been badly damaged. What reports we have are often imprecise or wildly exaggerated. However, we do have a picture of just what’s been happening over the last few hours.”

  Karl nodded impatiently, sipping his coffee.

  “The police and military bases in Berlin itself seem to have gone over to the rebels,” the analyst continued. “I was able to speak briefly to an officer in the RSHA, Herr Reichsführer: he confirmed that the building was surrounded and on the verge of being stormed. None of the other SS installations within Berlin responded to our calls. They may simply be isolated or they may have been overwhelmed.”

  He paused, waiting for Karl’s response. “Outside Berlin, the situation is confused. A number of military bases turned into war zones as our forces attempted to take control of the troops, provoking the soldiers to mutiny. At last report, Herr Reichsführer, most of the military bases in Germany Prime are probably in rebel hands. However, as it is clear the rebels didn't plan for an uprising, they may be as uncertain of what’s actually going on as ourselves. It will take them at least a week, I suspect, to re-establish a chain of command and decide what to do next.

  “Germany East remains solidly in our hands. The Heer units within Germany East are seemingly unaware of anything happening to the west, Herr Reichsführer. Germany North, Germany Arabia and Germany South are, so far, quiet, but Germany South may declare for the rebels when they finally work out what’s going on. We are not particularly popular there.”

  Karl sipped his coffee, thoughtfully. “And the forces in South Africa?”

  “No word,” the analyst said. “I don’t know which way they’ll jump.”

  “Keep monitoring the situation and inform me if there are any major changes,” Karl ordered, looking at the map. The deployment base was looking alarmingly exposed. How long would it take the rebels to deduce where he’d fled? Not long, he suspected, if some of the Reich Council joined the rebellion. “How many men can you send to Berlin?”

  Kortig frowned. “Right now, twenty-five at most,” he said. “We only have four assault helicopters fuelled up and ready to fly. The transport aircraft we were planning to use for Operation Headshot are already in Germany East. If we had a few days to make preparations...”

  “We don’t have a few days,” Karl said. Right now, the rebels controlled Berlin and Berlin alone. Given time, that would change rapidly. “We need to launch a strike as quickly as possible and kill the rebel leadership.”

  “That would be tricky,” Kortig observed. “Berlin is not exactly undefended.”

  “Right now, the defences are confused,” Karl argued. “We can slip four helicopters back into Berlin and attack the Reichstag.”

  “There isn't time to mount the operation under cover of darkness,” Kortig said. “By the time the helicopters reached Berlin, the sun would be rising. We’ll have to launch the attack tomorrow night.”

  He was right, Karl knew, even though it was bitterly frustrating. Twenty-five men, even Skorzeny commandos, would be hellishly exposed if they tried to launch an attack in broad daylight. The rebels would probably have already moved mobile antiaircraft missile launchers into Berlin, if they were expecting an immediate counterattack. It was what he would have done. Sending the troops in daylight was asking for disaster.

  And yet, he asked himself, just how badly can they damage the Reich in a day?

  “Start making the preparations,” he ordered. If the assault failed, if the rebel leadership survived, they’d have to prepare a far more elaborate response. “And make contact with our forces in Germany East. We have to prepare for war.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Kortig said.

  ***

  Under other circumstances, Hans would have savoured the thought of being locked up in one of his own offices. The rebels had searched it, removed anything that could be used as a weapon and then told him not to try to leave the chamber on pain of death. Hans hadn't tried to argue. Instead, he’d sat down as the door was closed and tried to get some sleep. There was no point in doing anything else. If he tried to escape, and succeeded, where would he go?

  He was half-asleep when someone opened the door, but the sound jerked him awake instantly. A pair of soldiers stood there, looking down at him. Hans braced himself, wondering if he was simply going to be taken outside and shot, then rose to his feet, ready to meet his death with dignity. The soldiers searched him - again - and then escorted him through the network of corridors into a small office. Volker Schulze - instantly recognisable from the files on union activists - was sitting behind a table, looking tired. A large mug of coffee was perched in front of him.

  “Herr Schulze,” Hans said. It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice - it had been hard enough trying to save the economy without the unions driving up costs and limiting production - but he had tried. “What can I do for you?”

  Schulze looked up at him. “Answer me a question,” he said. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

  “With the Reich,” Hans said, flatly. He had no objection to enriching himself at the same time as building the Reich’s economy, but there were limits. It was a constant headache - it had been a constant headache - that others didn’t seem to recognise those limits. “Where do yours lie?”

  “With the Reich,” Schulze said. “Your subordinates speak highly of you, Herr Krueger.”

  “Thank you,” Hans said. He’d played the political game long enough to have a very good idea of where the conversation was leading. “You want me to run the economy for you.”

  Schulze didn't bother to pretend to be surprised. “Most of the ministries haven’t had time to slip into disarray,” he said, instead. “Bureaucrats weren't murdered, save for a handful who were killed to pay off old grudges; files weren’t destroyed, even in the RSHA. We need those ministries in working order just to take control of the Reich.”

  Hans nodded. “And how much do you control right now?”

  “Not as much as we’d like,” Schulze admitted. He smiled, rather darkly. “I should tell you that the Reichsführer sentenced you to death. The police unit that fired on the protesters had orders to sweep the Reichstag afterwards, capturing or killing the Reich Council. You would simply have been killed out of hand.”

  “I wish I could say I was surprised,” Hans said. Holliston, damn the man, had clearly had his own plans for taking advantage of the chaos. Hans had thought Holliston respected the balance of power - the SS might not have come out ahead if the balance had shattered - but the protests had already crippled the Reich. “He always was a ruthless bastard.”

  Schulze nodded in agreement. “You have two choices, Herr Krueger,” he said. “You can join us and help us to build a new government. Or you can refuse, whereupon you will be moved to a detention facility until you can be tried, afterwards, for your role on the Reich Council.”

  “I thought I was doing the right thing,” Hans protested, without heat. “Legally...”

  “Legal is what the people in power say it is,” Schulze snapped. “You taught the entire Reich that lesson, Herr Krueger.”

  He paused. “I might add that the Reichsführer and the SS are unlikely to roll over and play dead for u
s,” he warned. “You may be taken from our detention centre and thrown into an SS detention centre, if we lose the war.”

  “I have no illusions about what they’ll do to me,” Hans said. Holliston had a whole string of grudges to pay off. “Or you, if you lose.”

  It wasn't a hard choice. The prospect of being put on trial chilled him to the bone. He understood the value of scapegoats - the Reich Council had turned quite a few people into scapegoats merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time - and the rebels, if they used him as a scapegoat for the Reich’s ills, could draw some political advantage out of his death. He’d done the best he could, he knew, but the population wouldn't see it that way. The unionists alone had good reasons to want him dead.