Kurt cocked his head. “You think we can do it?”
“I think we have to try,” Horst said.
He cursed under his breath. Gudrun had trusted him to protect her ... and he’d failed. He’d been so wrapped up in his scheming - their scheming - that he’d missed the spy right under his nose. And now Gudrun was a captive. She’d be on her way to Germany East, if she wasn't there already. There was no way he could just let her go. She was his wife, his lover, his friend. He couldn’t abandon her.
But he knew what would happen if he was caught. The SS might have some difficulty comprehending that Gudrun was more than just a puppet, but they would have no such difficulty with him. Horst was a traitor in their eyes, a young man who had betrayed everything he’d been taught to respect; he could expect no mercy if his former masters got their hands on him. He’d be lucky if he was merely tortured to death.
He looked back at Kurt. There was a resemblance between him and his sister, Horst admitted, although it was more physical than mental. Kurt’s face was a masculine version of Gudrun’s face, his blond hair cropped short to fit a helmet. And he’d fought well in the war, no one doubted his courage. But it took a different kind of courage to stand up against the entire Reich ...
“This is your last chance to stay here,” he said, slowly. “Do you want to remain?”
“No,” Kurt said. “I’m coming with you.”
Horst nodded as he picked up the papers. “Where were you born?”
Kurt blinked, then realised what he meant. “Berlin, Braun Hospital,” he said. “My parents were Herman and ...”
“Don’t volunteer information,” Horst said. It was something he’d been taught during basic training. Nervous people, people with something to hide, volunteered information. “They’ll think they’re being manipulated.”
He bounced question after question off Kurt, silently relieved that Kurt managed to keep his story relatively straight. It helped that much of the background information was actually true, but there were still risks. Whoever they encountered might know enough to poke holes in the narrative, then rip it apart. There was no way to be sure.
Kurt held up his hand. “Will they ask all of these questions?”
“I don’t know,” Horst said. “There’s a war on. They might not have time for a full interrogation. It depends ...”
He shook his head. “If they wanted to give you a security clearance, they’d send officers to your home, your school, your training camp ... they’d go through your life in minute detail before deciding if they could trust you or not. Some very good people have been denied clearances for reasons beyond their control. But here ... if they have reason to be suspicious, they might just toss questions at you to see if you slip up.”
Kurt snorted. “What are the odds of us encountering someone who went to the same school as me?”
“Poor,” Horst said. “But don’t dismiss them entirely.”
He picked up the next set of papers. “We’re leaving this evening,” he added. “Getting through the lines is not going to be fun.”
“No,” Kurt agreed. “Getting shot by our own side would be embarrassing.”
Horst nodded. The Waffen-SS’s lines had been shattered, but they were already being pulled back together. It was plausible - quite plausible - that a couple of officers would get lost now, yet that wouldn't last. The longer they waited, the greater the chance of being asked awkward questions that would lead to certain death. Horst would have liked to go earlier, but without the papers getting through the lines would be impossible. He could only hope the SS hadn't shot Gudrun out of hand.
They won’t, he told himself, firmly. It was something to cling to. They’ll want to break her first.
He gritted his teeth at the thought. Gudrun wasn't a common soldier. She certainly wasn’t a common politician. She was an inspiration to hundreds of thousands of people who had been denied the chance to breathe free, denied the chance to speak their minds to their lords and masters. The SS wouldn't want to kill her; they’d want to turn her against her supporters ...
And she might wind up wishing she was dead, he thought. He knew what they’d do to her, just to wear down her resistance before the real pain began. She might even try to kill herself.
He looked at Kurt. Kurt was an infantryman in the Berlin Guard. He hadn't even seen fighting until the civil war, let alone the true horrors of an insurgency. Kurt had no conception of just what his sister might be going through, no real understanding of what the SS did to those it considered irredeemable enemies ...
And if Gudrun is dead when we arrive, Horst promised himself, Karl Holliston will join her shortly afterwards.
“Father,” Kurt said, as the door opened. “Have you come to see us off?”
Horst winced. Herman Wieland looked to have aged twenty years in the last few days, although it was clear that he was holding himself under tight control. He had to be worried, Horst knew; he’d been a policeman, a man of power, yet he hadn't been able to protect his daughter. His world had shifted on its axis even before Gudrun had been taken prisoner; now, he was clearly unstable, unsure of his place in the world. Horst didn't really blame him for his doubts. Old certainties were fading everywhere.
“I’m going to the front,” Herman said, quietly. “I just came to say goodbye.”
Kurt stared. “Father!”
“I’m not as old as Grandpa Frank,” Herman said. “I can pull my weight.”
Horst frowned. “Berlin still needs policemen ...”
“Berlin needs better policemen,” Herman said, softly. “And I need to do something.”
“You are a good policeman,” Kurt said. “Father, I ...”
Horst looked at Herman and felt a sudden wave of sympathy. Herman had been a good policeman, in the eyes of his family, but much of the city would probably disagree. The Ordnungspolizei had been the face of the regime, the iron fist in the iron glove ... in many ways, they were more detested than the SS. Herman might not have taken advantage of his position, but far too many other policemen had milked it for all they could get. And now that the regime had fallen, the police were coming under attack.
And there’s a war on, he thought, sourly. The enemy wasn't that far from the gates. Berlin was practically under martial law. We don’t have time to worry about the police.
“Good luck,” he said. Kurt shot him a betrayed look. “We’ll bring her back.”
Herman gave him a ghost of a smile. “Have many children,” he said. “And name one after me.”
“Father,” Kurt protested.
“And you find a wife too,” Herman added. “Someone ... someone more suited to the modern world.”
Horst kept his expression under control. Generations of German men - and women - had been raised to believe that a woman’s place was in the home, that the husband and father was the head of the household and his word was law. But Herman’s daughter had triggered a revolution and his wife had started to organise political meetings of her own. He couldn't blame Herman for being confused, for wanting something else. The world had moved on, leaving him behind.
He still loves his family, Horst thought. But he doesn't know how to relate to them any longer.
“Yes, father,” Kurt said. “If I make it home, I will find a wife.”
Herman nodded. He looked at Horst for a long moment, then turned and strode out of the chamber. Horst understood, all too well. Herman blamed him. Gudrun wouldn't have been kidnapped if she hadn't been with him ...
There’s enough blame to go around, he told himself. And none of it is very helpful.
“Get some rest,” he ordered. He glanced at his watch, meaningfully. “It starts getting dark around 1800. We have to get through the lines before then.”
“I understand,” Kurt said. He sounded distracted. “Is he out of his mind?”
Horst bit down a whole string of unhelpful answers. “He was a soldier - an experienced soldier,” he said, finally. It was true. “And we need a
s many of them as we can get.”
He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. Herman was fit for his age, but he was no match for an SS stormtrooper. There was no way he’d be able to keep up with the young men for long, although his experience might give him an advantage. But the provisional government was very short of experienced manpower. Herman might be needed, if only to teach lessons to the younger soldiers. They were going to war against one of the most formidable military forces in existence.
And he doesn't want to come home, Horst thought. The modern world has no place for him.
He shook his head. It smacked of defeatism to him. Giving up was, perhaps, the only true sin. He’d certainly been taught never to give up during basic training. And yet, he understood the impulse all too well. Did he fit into the brave new world any better than his father-in-law?
“Go get some rest,” he repeated. There would be time to worry about the future after Gudrun was rescued and the war was over. “I want to be on our way at 1700.”
“Jawohl,” Kurt said.
Chapter Six
Berlin, Germany Prime
29 October 1985
“Drink your coffee,” Ambassador Samuel Turtledove said. “There are people down there” - he jabbed a finger towards the window - “who would kill for that cup.”
Andrew Barton nodded in agreement. Berlin was no longer on the verge of starvation, thanks to vast quantities of food being trucked in from the west, but supplies of everything from coffee to baby clothes were running short. The American embassy was about the only place in Berlin, save for a handful of government offices and military bases, where real coffee was freely available. It wasn't very good coffee, he had to admit, but it was better than the powdered grit Berliners were being served these days.
“I’ve had worse,” he said. “The ... slop ... I had to drink on the front lines ... no wonder the German soldier is so feared.”
Turtledove smiled, then leaned forward. “Washington has been breathing down my neck for a full report,” he said. “What do you make of the war?”
Andrew took a moment to gather his thoughts, sipping his coffee slowly. “I think in some ways we were overestimating the fighting power of the German military,” he said. “And in others, we were underestimating it.”
General William Knox lifted his eyebrows. “You think we were wrong?”
“The Germans haven’t fought a peer power since the final push against Russia, forty years ago,” Andrew said. “We had to use a lot of guesswork when we calculated how the average German division would stack up against its American or British counterpart. And a lot of those guesses might have been wrong.”
He placed the cup on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Their panzer divisions didn't strike me as anything like as fearsome as their reputation suggests,” he said. “They move fast over open terrain, but even relatively small opposition slows them down remarkably. Their designers insist on having a radio in each panzer, a development they pioneered, but I had the impression that their technology is primitive and easy to disrupt. And their armour has not advanced at the same speed as their antitank weapons.”
Knox frowned. “You think their panzers are inferior to our tanks?”
“I think so,” Andrew said. “I'm no expert, sir, but I believe our armour is better - our antitank weapons are better too.
“The same seems to be true for their aircraft,” he continued, after a moment. “Their air force was badly shaken by the uprising, then by the war, but it doesn't seem to have the same flexibility as ours. Their ground-based air defence units are grossly inferior to ours; their flak guns are of very little value unless the aircraft fly low, their rockets have a nasty tendency to lose their locks and fly off in random directions. The best system they have, as far as I can tell, is an oversized warhead designed to explode close to an aircraft.”
He took a breath. “Technology-wise, we are at least ten years ahead of them,” he concluded. “And I think their military would have taken a pasting if we had ever wound up fighting a shooting war.”
Knox frowned. “That’s not what we were told to expect.”
“No,” Andrew agreed. “And there is a reason for that, sir.
“They are tough, very tough. Their junior officers have less flexibility than I was told, but they are still good at spotting opportunities and thrusting through chinks in the enemy’s defences. Their NCOs are very good at training up young men under fire, sir; I think they’re actually tougher than ours, even if their tech is inferior. And they understand the tech at their disposal. The average panzer can be repaired, more or less on the go, by its crew.”
“That’s true of our tanks too,” Knox objected.
“Not for everything,” Andrew countered. “There are things that have to be sent back to the shop - or merely discarded.”
He shook his head. “Overall, sir, their toughness may be enough to make up for their technological inferiority.”
“There’s another point, Mr. Ambassador,” Knox said. “The Germans may never have envisaged a civil war. We certainly haven't planned, let alone exercised, a full-scale invasion of Texas or Montana. The Germans might have proved far more lethal if they’d launched an invasion of Britain or defended the Atlantic Wall against us.”
Andrew nodded in agreement. He had no doubt that the Germans had thousands of contingency plans - everything from civil unrest to nuclear war - but those plans would have been shot to hell by the civil war. Units they’d thought they could rely on had turned on their leaders; others had been shattered by internal fighting, priceless weapons and equipment destroyed in the crossfire. The steady collapse of federal authority across the United States, just prior to the civil war, was one thing. This was far worse.
They had to put the invasion - and defence - of Germany Prime together from scratch, he thought. And they did a damn good job.
“Very true,” Turtledove said.
He rested his hands on his desk as he spoke. “Washington has also been asking for recommendations,” he added. “Do we continue the program of covert support? Do we go more overt? Or do we pull back, now that Berlin is safe?”
“There is no way that the SS does not know that we are assisting the Berlin Government,” Andrew said, flatly. “They would have lost all doubt, Mr. Ambassador, the moment a Stinger blew one of their aircraft out of the sky. And we should brace ourselves for some kind of drastic reaction.”
The Ambassador frowned. “They’d have to be insane to pick a fight with us.”
“They would see it as us picking a fight with them,” Andrew said.
“Kicking them while they were down,” Knox agreed.
The Ambassador sighed. “So ... what do you recommend?”
Andrew frowned. “My contacts tell me that the Provisional Government intends to take the offensive as soon as possible,” he said. “They may intend to invade Germany East before winter, before it becomes impossible to continue the offensive. This is probably their best hope of winning the war quickly - and frankly, sir, we should help them as much as possible.”
“But continuing the war will weaken them,” Knox pointed out. “The longer they fight each other, the easier it will be for their allies to desert them.”
“There’s also the prospect of nuclear weapons being used,” Andrew warned. “The longer the war, the greater the chance that someone will pop a nuke.”
“Or fire on us,” the Ambassador said.
“We would have to give the ABM system its first real test,” Andrew agreed.
He scowled. No one, not even the President, knew how well the ABM system would handle a real missile attack. It had been tested, of course, but only on one or two ballistic missiles at a time. Who knew what would happen when - if - the Nazis launched over a hundred ballistic missiles at America? Even if two-thirds of them were intercepted, the remainder would be enough to destroy the United States.
And the President will burn the Reich in response, he thought. And millions of
innocent people will die.
“My very strong recommendation is that we assist the Provisional Government as much as possible,” he said, flatly. “The war needs to be ended as quickly as possible.”
“If it can be ended,” Turtledove mused. “General ... if they launch an offensive, what are the odds of success?”
“Incalculable,” Knox admitted. “We simply lack enough information to make a proper judgement. We have no idea how many panzers remain in Germany East, we have no idea how many aircraft are at their disposal, we have no idea how long the SS edifice will remain intact under the pressures of war. And, as Andrew says, we have a great many question marks over the nuclear bombs. It is impossible to say just what will happen when the Heer goes east.
Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3) Page 6
