Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (14 page)

She ran through the door and onto the tarmac.  It was dark - the sun wouldn't be peeking above the horizon for at least another hour - but it was light enough for her to see the line of aircraft waiting for pilots.  The ground crewmen turned to stare at her as she ran out, then ducked for cover as she opened fire, hurling the last of her grenades into the nearest cockpit before it could detonate.  She’d hoped for a chain reaction - she’d imagined the line of planes exploding into fireballs, one by one - but only one plane caught fire.  Someone was shouting behind her ...

A hammer struck her shoulder, sending the assault rifle flying as she fell forward and slammed face-first into the tarmac.  The impact dazed her; it took several seconds for her to realise that she’d been shot.  She heard the sound of running footsteps as she tried to struggle to her feet, discovering to her horror that her body was no longer working.  Blood - her blood - was pouring out of her wound.

“Damn bitch,” someone growled.  She gasped in pain as he kicked her in the side, hard, then turned her over.  The pain was so agonising that she almost passed out.  “Damn you ...”

Marlene looked up into the face of one of the guards, a young man she recalled helping to write a letter to his girlfriend after their relationship had hit a nasty bump in the road.  It had been easy to slip into the role of mother-substitute, to keep him from thinking of her as a potential threat.  And it had worked.  He wouldn't be staring at her with so much hatred if he hadn't been completely fooled.

She felt blood welling up in her mouth and choked.  He made no move to help her, instead just staring down and drinking in the sight as she died.  She wasn't too surprised, she thought, as a dreadful numbness settled over her body.  She’d betrayed them all, after all; she’d killed at least thirty men in her brief rampage and sowed the seeds of a distrust that would kill hundreds more. 

Heil Holliston
, she thought, as she fell into the darkness. 
And ...

***

The observation post was hidden near the bridge, close enough to keep an eye on what crossed the river, far enough to pass unnoticed if - when - someone decided to search for watching eyes.  Both of the soldiers assigned to the post were experienced woodsmen, capable of making sure that neither of them were detected, let alone caught.  It wasn't a job they enjoyed, but it was necessary.  The defenders, after all, had known the bridges would be overwhelmed very quickly.

“There wasn't even a fight,” Ott Wild muttered, as he watched the endless line of panzers crossing the bridge.  “They overwhelmed the guards easily.”

“It's been done before,” Einhart Pusch reminded him.  He picked up the phone, knowing it would set off an alarm at the command post.  “The guards weren't expecting an attack from the west.”

Someone picked up the phone.  “Report!”

“Bridge Seven has been overwhelmed,” Pusch said.   They hadn't been told who they were calling, let alone where he was.  No matter how good they were, they had to admit that capture and interrogation was a realistic possibility.  “The bridge remains intact.  I say again, the bridge remains intact.  The panzers are crossing now.”

“Understood,” the voice said.  “How many?”

“At least fifty, so far,” Wild muttered.

“At least fifty, so far,” Pusch repeated.  “I imagine it won’t be long before the regular troops start crossing too.”

“Remain in place,” the voice ordered, finally.  “Continue to send reports as the situation develops.”

Pusch nodded, coldly, as the connection broke.  He hadn't expected anything else.  If they were lucky, there would be some artillery pieces within range to shell the bridge, giving the SS a hot reception.  But most of the heavy artillery was in Occupied France.  Only a handful of weapons had been moved east before the war finally begun.  They’d have to depend on the
Luftwaffe
.

“They’re sending troop transports across too now,” Wild commented.  “And I can see engineers on the far bank. I think there’s some mobile SAM units too.”

“They’ll have pontoons thrown up very quickly,” Pusch agreed.  The SS were bastards, but he had to admit they were good engineers.  “And then they can double or triple the number of men advancing towards us.”

“And then we’re in trouble,” Wild finished.  They’d served together long enough not to need formality.  “Let’s hope the artillery or the air force gets up here before it’s too late.”

Chapter Thirteen

Berlin, Germany Prime

13 September 1985

“Sir, wake up,” a voice snapped.  “It’s an air raid!”

Andrew snapped awake, one hand grabbing for the pistol he kept at his bedside before his mind quite caught up with what he’d been told.  An air raid?  It seemed absurd to think that
anyone
could strike at Berlin - he knew, all too well, just how tough ODIN’S EYE - the German Air Defence Network - was ... but that had been before the uprising.  Now, according to NORAD, ODIN’S EYE was in ruins.  Half of the radar stations were in enemy hands and several more had been badly damaged by SS loyalists just after the provisional government took control.

“Crap,” he muttered, silently relieved he’d worn pyjamas.  “What do we know?”

The marine - he didn't look old enough to enter Camp Pendleton, let alone graduate - grabbed Andrew’s arm and hurried him down the corridor.  “We received a FLASH warning from NORAD, sir,” he said.  “Multiple missile launches were detected from Germany East.  The preliminary analysis classed them as cruise missiles aimed at Berlin.”

Andrew sucked in his breath.  The Germans
claimed
that their latest cruise missiles were hypersonic, designed to smash American carrier battlegroups, but he didn't know anyone outside the
Reich
who actually believed them.  Certainly, as far as he knew, neither American nor British intelligence had picked up any actual
proof
that the missiles were an order of magnitude faster than anything in America’s arsenal.  But ‘merely’ supersonic cruise missiles would be entering Berlin airspace within a matter of minutes, even if they were fired from Germanica itself.

He cursed as they hurried down the stairs, joined rapidly by the handful of remaining embassy staffers and marines.  It was unlikely the SS would
deliberately
target the American Embassy, but accidents happened.  German cruise missiles were blunt weapons, designed more for terror than actual precision.  A missile aimed at the
Reichstag
might well hit the American Embassy instead.  Even American weapons, far better designed than anything Germany was
supposed
to have, weren't completely reliable.

Ambassador Turtledove was sitting in the bunker, looking uncomfortable.  He’d have been sent down the tube, Andrew reminded himself, instead of being forced to run down the stairs and into the bunker.  He nodded to the ambassador, then calmed himself as the marines slammed the doors closed.  In theory, the embassy bunker could stand off everything from a direct cruise missile strike to a nuclear blast, but in practice no one was entirely sure.  It wasn't comforting to realise, deep inside, that even if they
did
survive a nuclear strike, no one was likely to come help dig them out.  The Germans above them would have too many other problems.

“Direct uplink established to NORAD,” a computer operator said.  “They’ve updated the warning, sir; fifteen missiles will strike Berlin in seven minutes.”

Ambassador Turtledove met Andrew’s eyes.  “They’re not nukes, are they?”

“I don't think so,” Andrew said.  Intercepting a cruise missile was difficult, even for the most advanced American systems.  And they were expensive.  The SS wouldn't have wasted
fifteen
nuclear-tipped missiles on Berlin, not when one or two would be enough to inflict colossal damage on the city.  “I think they’re probably conventional warheads.”

He kept the rest of the thought to himself.  The Germans had a
very
well known chemical and biological weapons program.  It was quite possible that one of those warheads had a chemical warhead, perhaps loaded with something nasty enough to kill half of Berlin.  The SS would find such a solution appealing, he thought.  They’d avoid the propaganda damage of destroying Berlin and, at the same time, exterminate thousands of rebels.  They
did
have MOPP suits among the supplies in the bunker, he reminded himself, but some of the German weapons were supposed to be able to slip through protective garments.  It struck him as unlikely, yet there was no way to know for sure ...

“I ordered a warning to be flashed to the provisional government,” Ambassador Turtledove said, quietly.  “I just hope they take it seriously.”

“So do I, Mr. Ambassador,” Andrew said.  “So do I.”

***

Gudrun had never quite got used to sharing a bed, even though she’d known she would be expected to do just that after she finally tied the knot with
someone
.  Having sex with Horst was one thing - and she’d grown used to
that
once she’d pulled him into her bed - but sleeping next to him was quite another.  It left her torn between holding him at night and feeling as though she wasn't able to relax and sleep properly as long as he was there.  She had never shared her bed before, not even with her siblings.

The alarms went off.  Gudrun started, jerking upwards as Horst practically
threw
himself out of bed, one hand scooping up his pistol and swinging it round to cover the door.  She could hear shouting outside; she hastily covered her breasts as she rolled off the other side of the bed, keeping low as Horst had told her.  Someone might come crashing into the room at any moment ...

“That’s the air raid alarm,” Horst snapped.  He grabbed her dressing gown and threw it at her, then pulled his own on with terrifying speed.  “We have to get down to the shelter.”

Gudrun stared at him, her head spinning.  “An air raid?”

“Yes,” Horst shouted.  He caught hold of her arm and pulled her to her feet, then yanked her towards the door.  “Put your gown on and hurry!”

The alarms were getting louder.  Gudrun had to fight to pull the gown on, uneasily convinced that Horst would pull her out of the room in a moment or two no matter how little she was wearing.  She was a properly brought up young lady; she’d been taught never to be naked in front of a man unless he was her husband. There was no way she could run outside in the nude ... Horst pulled her towards the door as soon as she was covered, holding his pistol in one hand as he opened the door.  Dozens of men and women were running down the stairs, heading into the bunker as though the hounds of hell were in hot pursuit.  Gudrun found herself pulled forward and into the crowd, leaving the door ajar behind them.

Someone could sneak into the room while everyone is panicking
, she thought, as they ran down seven flights of stairs.  Someone tripped, further down, only to be trodden on by a dozen others before she could crawl out of the way. 
And someone might notice that we left the same room ...

She pushed the thought aside as they reached the bottom, Horst yanking her down the right-hand corridor as everyone else hurried down the left.  She was too stunned to argue as they passed a pair of armed guards, then raced down a second stairwell she hadn't known existed.  The bunker at the bottom was surprisingly luxurious, reminding her of Hilde’s mansion in the heart of Berlin.  It was where the
Reich
Council had intended to wait out the apocalypse, if nuclear war had broken out.  She wouldn't be surprised to discover that it had cost more than an entire Panzer Division.

The door banged closed behind them, making her jump.  Horst held her hand gently as she calmed herself, his blue eyes concerned.  Gudrun couldn't help feeling touched, even though they might be in serious danger.  He
did
have feelings for her!  She told herself, a moment later, that she was being silly.  This was no time to worry about their relationship.

“We’re probably meant to be in the next room,” Horst said, quietly.  “Are you ready?”

Gudrun took a breath, then looked at herself in the mirror.  Her hair was a mess, her dressing gown was barely decent and she’d left her slippers in the bedroom.  She knew precisely what her mother or father would have said, once upon a time, if she’d walked around in such a state.  She’d have been ordered to go back to her bedroom and changed before she was allowed out of the house, if she wasn't grounded for life ...

The thought almost made her giggle helplessly.  She
would
have giggled, too, if she hadn't been so tired.

“I think so,” she said.  “Let’s go.”

She followed him through a metal door - it reminded her of the aircraft carrier she’d toured, shortly after the uprising - and into a command and control chamber.  Volker Schulze was sitting in a comfortable chair, watching a team of operators as they constantly updated a large wall-mounted display.  Red icons moved around the display, blinking in and out of existence as new information flowed into the chamber.  She was no expert, but she couldn't help noticing that there was a massive concentration of red marks along the border.  Some of them were even heading to Berlin.

“It’s like a giant television,” Horst breathed.  “I had no idea it was so advanced.”

Gudrun nodded.  Televisions were rare in the
Reich
, even though radios were so common that even the poorer households had two or three.  She made a mental note to look up why that was actually so, then pushed the thought aside.  No doubt someone had decided that kids should be doing something more useful - like joining the Hitler Youth - than watching television.  Or perhaps the
Reich
simply couldn't
afford
to produce them.  Who knew?

“Impact in thirty seconds,” a voice said.  One of the operators looked at Schulze, his face pale.  “Trajectory places the impact point roughly in the centre of Berlin.”

Gudrun squeezed Horst’s hand as the countdown began.  The bunker was supposed to be a secret, but the SS would probably know
precisely
where it was.  Hell, it wasn't
too
hard to guess that there would be a bunker below the
Reichstag
.  Nuclear war could begin at any minute, if propaganda was to be believed.  A missile launched from Britain could reach its target within bare minutes, far too quickly for the council to move to a safer location.

“It should be fine,” Horst muttered.  She had to resist the urge to take him in her arms and hold him tightly.  “I don’t think they’ll target this building.”

“Zero,” the operator said.

Gudrun braced herself, closing her eyes ... but felt nothing.  She’d expected everything from a dull rumble to the roof caving in on their heads, yet ... there had been nothing.  More red icons flared up over Berlin, warning her that several missiles had landed within the city limits, but she felt nothing.  It was almost as if the missiles hadn't exploded at all.
 

“Target report,” Schulze ordered.

“Two missiles came down on the Ministry of Economics,
Herr Chancellor
,” the operator reported.  “An additional missile struck the Schindler Barracks.  Five more came down, seemingly at random; the remainder crashed outside the city.  Their targeting was not particularly accurate.”

“So it would seem,” Schulze mused.  “Damage reports?”

“None as yet,” the operator said.  “I have a report from one of the rooftop observers, who states that there are now several fires burning across the city, but nothing else.”

“Make sure emergency teams are prepped for chemical weapons,” Schulze ordered.  “Do you have a direct link to the front?”

Gudrun looked at Horst.  “I felt nothing.”

“This is the safest place in the
Reich
,” Horst muttered back.  “I read through the specifications while you were taking your place on the council.  A nuke couldn't scratch the protective layers over our head, let alone harm us.  And they’re unlikely to strike at the
Reichstag
in any case.”

He smiled, rather dryly.  “And if we get
trapped
in here, we have tunnels that connect us to the underground, giving us a dozen options for escaping,” he added.  “The
Reich
Council was determined to make sure it could remain in control, even during a nuclear war.”

“Oh,” Gudrun said.  She looked at one of the operators.  “What’s happening?”

“Let them work,” Horst told her, quietly.