Alfred had been in the Waffen-SS for decades. His father had marched him down to the recruiting officer the day he’d turned sixteen, using his contacts to make sure his son didn't have to wait an extra year before being shipped off to the nearest training centre. He’d never considered himself anything other than a soldier; he’d certainly never embraced the attitudes of those charged with monitoring the Volk. And yet ...
He’d never seen the test sites in Siberia, where the first German atomic bombs had been detonated, but he’d seen photographs from the Middle East. Four cities had been destroyed, their survivors poisoned ... they’d been lucky, in a way, that they’d been shot down almost as soon as they’d been discovered. At least they’d been spared a lingering death. And yet, the thought of unleashing such horrors on German soil chilled him to the bone.
But what choice was there?
Alfred had fought for the Reich in a dozen different countries, climbing up the ranks as he gained more and more experience. And it had shaped his worldview more than he cared to admit. The Reich was not perfect - it had many flaws - but it was still stronger than America or Britain. Their enemies embraced a chaotic lifestyle that would eventually bring them down, he was sure.
And if that is true, a little voice whispered at the back of his head, how come their technology is so much better?
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. If the rebels and traitors won, the Reich would come apart at the seams. He had no illusions about what the Untermenschen would do, if they got a taste of freedom. The French would demand their freedom, then the return of territory taken during the last war ... it would be utter madness. What was Germany without discipline, without everyone knowing their place?
And the whole crisis was started, he told himself, by a girl who did not know her place.
And yet ... and yet ...
He hadn't looked into her story. He hadn't considered her very important when he’d been on the front lines and now, when he knew she was important, he didn't dare try to access the files. But there had been something in Holliston’s reaction that convinced him that she’d been telling the truth. And that meant ... what?
If our soldiers are being betrayed, he asked himself, what does that say about us?
He shook his head as he walked into the smaller office and peered down at the maps his subordinates had placed on the table. Warsaw was more than just a city; Warsaw was the communications and transport hub for the entire region. Of course the rebels would want it - and of course Holliston couldn’t just give it up. But to use nuclear weapons? There was very little protective gear in the district. None of the stormtroopers had any protective gear ...
... But what could he do about it?
Get them what I can, he told himself. And hope that it would be enough.
He could try to talk the Fuhrer out of it, he supposed, but what could he say that would be convincing? Nothing came to mind, because there wasn't anything. The planned thrust eastwards - if the Fuhrer’s source was accurate - would either destroy the remaining SS divisions, thus shortening the war, or take a large chunk of Germany East that could be used as a springboard for a spring offensive. Nuclear weapons might be the only way to slow the offensive long enough to rebuild the military ...
And there was nothing he could do.
He’d heard rumours, of course, as he’d handed his command over to his second and headed back to Germanica. He’d expected to be turned into a scapegoat for the failure and executed, just to save Karl Holliston from the consequences of his own mistakes. But instead ... he was trapped in hell. There was nothing he could do to keep the Fuhrer from using the weapons, nothing he could do to save himself and his family if he crossed Holliston. He was trapped ...
... And there was still nothing he could do.
***
“I’m going to unlock your chains,” Katherine said, as she pushed Gudrun into the cell. “If you do anything stupid, you will regret it.”
Gudrun nodded, feeling a twinge of relief mixed with fear. Horst had tried to teach her some moves, but Katherine was stronger and far faster than Gudrun could ever hope to be. Any resistance would be futile - no, worse than futile. Katherine would use it as an excuse to punish her, to rub her hopelessness in her face. All she could do was wait patiently, take the abuse as best as she could and pray for a chance to escape.
She glanced down at her hands as Katherine undid the cuffs. Nasty purple bruises had formed around her wrists, mocking her. She rubbed at them, cursing the dull ache under her breath. Katherine undid the chains around her feet, then carefully removed the cuffs before Gudrun could think of any way to use them as a weapon. She would have sold her soul for a pistol and a skeleton key.
But getting out of here would still be impossible, she thought, morbidly. Perhaps I should find a way to kill myself.
She looked up at Katherine. “Thank you,” she said. She didn't want to ask for anything else, but her stomach was rumbling unpleasantly. “Can I have something to eat?”
“Yes,” Katherine said. She sounded displeased about something. “Wait.”
Gudrun sat down on the bed as Katherine backed out of the cell. If she’d had the energy, she would have laughed. She was too tired and hungry - and aching - to risk attacking Katherine, even if she’d thought she could win the fight. But Katherine was treating her as if she was an incredibly dangerous prisoner ...
I can use that, she told herself. But how?
It felt like hours before a man stepped through the outer door, carrying a tray of food. He studied Gudrun coldly, his eyes flickering over her as if she wasn't really worthy of his attention, but she felt nothing. Karl Holliston had paraded her in front of his men, trying to humiliate her by displaying her nearly-naked body ... she was too far gone to care. The tray was pushed through the hatch in the wire, allowing her to pick it up and examine it. There was nothing apart from a bowl of slop and a plastic glass of water. The slop - she had no idea what was in it - smelt foul and tasted worse, but she ate it anyway. There was nothing else to eat. The water tasted ... odd, odd in a manner she couldn't describe. It dawned on her, too late, that the water might easily have been drugged ...
… But there was nothing she could do about it.
Her head started to swim a moment later. She forced herself - somehow - to sit back on the bed and lie down before darkness started to overcome her. There was a crashing sound as the remains of the tray hit the floor, but she was too tired and dizzy to care ...
... And then she fell straight into the darkness.
***
Karl Holliston cared very little for sex. Power, in his experience, was so much more rewarding; if nothing else, power could bring willing women to his bed. But he had to admit, as the doctors adjusted Gudrun’s position before beginning their examination, that she was a beautiful girl, practically the ideal of German womanhood. Blonde hair, flawless complexion, blue eyes, willowy figure ... she would have made a good wife, if she’d stayed in her place. A woman shouldn't be involved in politics. It was no place for her.
He scowled at the pale-faced doctor as he walked into the sideroom. The man was slime, even by the admittedly low standards of the SS. A sadist, a monster, a man with a complete lack of scruples ... the SS found him useful, even as much of them found him surprisingly disgusting. Practicing his talents on Untermenschen was one thing, practicing them on good Germans was quite another. But there was no denying he knew his job.
“Well?”
“She isn't a virgin, Mein Fuhrer,” the doctor said. He licked his lips, salaciously. “The rumours that she was married may be true.”
“Or she simply gave up her virginity to the first man who came along,” Karl snarled. It had been years since he’d worn the black uniform to impress the girls, but he still remembered how easy it had been to get them into bed. “Is she pregnant?”
“Not as far as we know, Mein Fuhrer,” the doctor said. “But if she was married only recently, a pregnancy might not show.
”
Karl considered it for a moment, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't as if he would have treated her any differently. Pregnant or not, Gudrun was too dangerous to be allowed to live unmolested. Normally, the female relatives of traitors would be shipped east and married off to men struggling to tame the frontier, but Gudrun was a traitor herself. Her mere existence was an offense against the natural order.
“Never mind,” he said. “How about her health?”
“Generally speaking, Mein Fuhrer, she’s in rude health,” the doctor said. “If there was any starvation in Berlin, she wasn't starving. The last few days, of course, won’t have been easy for her, but she’s not suffered any permanent damage.”
“Very good,” Karl said. Perhaps the titbit about Gudrun not starving - when the reports indicated that Berlin had been on the brink of starvation - could be used against her. “Can you break her?”
The doctor frowned. “It would depend on just what you wanted, Mein Fuhrer,” he said, carefully. “Anyone can be broken, but ...”
“I want her alive, able to answer questions, and ready to condemn her former allies,” Karl said, shortly. “She is not to be a quivering mass of jelly when we put her in front of the cameras.”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” the doctor said.
Karl fixed him with an icy look. The doctor had a proven track record for breaking his subjects, but not all of them had been useful afterwards. And Karl needed Gudrun to be useful.
“If she is useless to me afterwards,” he warned, “you too will be useless to me.”
The doctor swallowed. “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. He'd only survived so long, even in the SS, because of Karl’s patronage. If Karl dumped him, for whatever reason, he’d be lucky to live long enough to flee the city. “But breaking her so completely will take time.”
“We have time,” Karl assured him. “But I want her ready as soon as possible.”
Chapter Eight
Berlin, Germany Prime
29/30 October 1985
The night was bitterly cold.
Horst kept quiet, very quiet, as he led the way eastwards. They'd been shown through the lines surrounding Berlin an hour ago, then warned to keep their heads down as they walked towards the enemy lines. The possibilities of being shot by a roving patrol were higher than Horst cared to admit, particularly if the patrol captured them first. After the first atrocity reports, the defenders had lost all interest in taking prisoners.
Fools, he thought, grimly. The war will take longer if the enemy soldiers think they can't surrender.
Kurt was doing better than he’d expected, he had to admit, although that could be just his prejudice talking. Gudrun’s brother had been an infantryman, after all. He would have been trained to move silently from place to place. His actual experience was somewhat lacking, Horst knew, but there was no way to change that in a hurry. All they could do was keep moving and hope they didn't run into trouble until they crossed the lines.
The darkness seemed to press in around them like a living thing as they followed the road eastwards, keeping a wary eye out for vehicles or aircraft. A handful of shapes loomed up in the distance, slowly revealing themselves to be burned-out panzers or trucks; a number of buildings, destroyed in the fighting, bore mute testament to the savagery the SS had unleashed on Germany Prime. Horst knew - at a very primal level - just how ruthless the SS could be, but this was madness. He liked to think he would have switched sides, even without Gudrun, if he’d been forced to witness such a nightmare. But he knew it wouldn't have been easy.
He frowned as he saw a pair of bodies lying on the ground, stripped naked. They were both male, he noted; their SS tattoos clearly visible on their arms. In the darkness, it was hard to tell what had actually killed them - he certainly didn't want to touch the corpses - but the provisional government had been getting reports of other enemy bodies being stripped as the SS retreated. Their comrades would have a better chance at survival if they took everything they could from the honoured dead.
And they wouldn't turn on their own, he thought.
He brooded as they headed onwards, leaving the bodies behind. The SS stormtroopers were taught to be loyal to their units, first and foremost. It was unlikely that any of them would switch sides, unless they did it in a body. They’d be abandoning men who depended on them. Horst knew he wouldn't be comfortable just walking away, if he’d been assigned to the Waffen-SS. It was lucky - for Gudrun, for Germany, for everyone - that he’d largely been on his own in the university. Even his fellow infiltrators hadn't been his true comrades.
The bridges were in ruins, they discovered, as they approached a river. Horst had half-expected to have to swim - which would have delayed them badly - but thankfully there were enough chunks of debris sticking out of the water to allow them to scramble across. He couldn’t help thinking that the bridge would need several months of repair work - it would be quicker, perhaps, to start putting pontoon bridges together to rush the panzers eastwards. He tensed as they reached the far side, expecting to run into an enemy patrol, but there was nothing. The entire bridge had simply been abandoned.
They must be concentrating on setting up lines further to the east, Horst thought. And they may have lost more trained manpower than we thought.
He scowled at the thought. It had been a long time since the Waffen-SS had fought a conventional war, but they must have learned something from their advance to the west. The bridge would make an ideal place to give the advancing panzers a bloody nose. He’d certainly seen the tactic practiced often enough during basic training. But instead ... they’d just fallen back, abandoning the bridge. It suggested that morale was very low.
“We keep moving,” he hissed to Kurt. “We need to make contact with their lines before the sun rises.”
The night seemed to grow louder as they kept walking, engine noises and the occasional gunshot echoing out in the distance. Horst cursed under his breath - of course the stormtroopers would be jumpy - but kept walking anyway. The provisional government had command of the air. Logically, moving panzers and other armoured vehicles around would be done at night. Or so he told himself.
He looked up at the stars, silently checking their position. They were still moving east, if he was correct. It wouldn’t be long, surely, before they walked into an enemy position. They had to have patrols covering the road. There was no way they would just allow the panzers to charge up towards Warsaw, not when they needed to buy time to rebuild their armoured formations. The SS was good at regenerating its units, but even with the best will in the world it would take longer than they had to rebuild ...
“Halt,” a voice barked. “Hands in the air!”
“Do as they say,” Horst muttered, raising his hands. He scanned the terrain ahead of them, but there was nothing to see in the darkness. The enemy had to have dug into the side of the road. He raised his voice a moment later. “Don’t shoot! We’re friendly!”
A pair of black-clad stormtroopers materialised out of nowhere, one wearing a heavy pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead. Horst felt a flicker of sympathy - the bugs had never been worked out of the system - and then tensed as the stormtroopers glared at them. There was a very real possibility of being taken for deserters - or even men who had lost contact with their units in the chaos - despite the papers they carried. And if they were taken for deserters, they might be shot out of hand.
“Identify yourself,” the leader snarled.
“Johann Peltzer and Fritz Hanstein,” Horst said. “Our papers are in our jackets.”
He braced himself as the stormtroopers took the papers and inspected them carefully, using a flashlight to make out the words. Logically, the stormtroopers should send them onwards to Germanica as soon as possible, but nothing was the same any longer. They might wind up being ordered to serve in the SS divisions or ...
The stormtrooper saluted, smartly. “You have orders to return to Germanica, Herr Inspector?”
“Yes,” Horst sai
d. Posing as members of the SS Inspectorate was a risk, but very few stormtroopers would want to attract their attention. “We need transport back to the Reichstag.”
“I’ll have you escorted to the camp, Herr Inspector,” the stormtrooper said. “The Standartenfuehrer will arrange transport for you.”
“Thank you,” Horst said.
He kept his expression under tight control as they were escorted up the road and into an enemy camp. Dozens of tents, all concealed under camouflage netting; hundreds of stormtroopers, most desperately catching up on their sleep before they had to return to their duties. There weren't many vehicles in evidence, he noted, but that proved nothing. The Waffen-SS would probably have spread out their panzers, gambling that they would have time to concentrate their forces before the Heer began its advance. He glanced into a large tent as they passed and swore, under his breath, as he saw the wounded. The odds were good that none of them would survive the coming offensive.
Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3) Page 8
