Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (33 page)

Andrew nodded, looking past Voss to the map mounted on the wall.  A pair of operators, their ears permanently pressed to phones, were constantly updating it, adding red arrows as the
Waffen-SS
pushed further and further into Berlin.  Andrew was no expert, but General Knox had told him that the Battle of Berlin was turning into an absolute nightmare.  A building could be declared secure, only to become very insecure indeed as the defenders sneaked back into it and opened fire on the SS from the rear.  And, as the SS kept moving, they were smashing more and more buildings.  Andrew couldn't help wondering if they were doing their best to make sure that no one could survive in the wreckage.

We had to destroy the village in order to save it
, he thought.  An American officer had said  that, back during the Mexican War.  The communists had been too deeply entrenched, he'd argued, for the limited American forces on hand to clear the village.  And so he’d ordered it firebombed to ashes. 
And now the SS is doing the same to an entire city
.

He looked at Voss, sensing - for the first time - the growing concern beneath the facade.  The German was a Junker, heir to an established military tradition that long predated the United States of America, a tradition that even Hitler and Himmler hadn't been able to destroy completely.  And yet, the man was on the brink of despair.  He had more than enough firepower to halt the offensive, if only he had the time to bring it to bear on his foes ...

And he might not have the time
, Andrew thought. 
Whoever takes Berlin takes the Reich
.

“It’s bad,” he said, finally.  “But it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

Voss snorted, rudely.  “You Americans,” he said, as he turned to walk towards the door.  “So
sentimental
.”

***

Hauptsturmfuehrer
Katharine Milch kept her expression carefully blank as she listened to the dozy cows manning the soup kitchen, silently grateful for the intensive training she was forced to undertake before she was cleared for duty.  The SS might have a role for female agents, but it was no more inclined to take the average woman and turn her into an operative than the
Wehrmacht
.  A seductress was one thing, a woman willing and able to use her natural charms to seduce someone into saying something incriminating; an operative was quite another.  Katharine had had to work hard from the day she’d determined what she wanted to do with her life, while the women surrounding her had been given their freedom on a platter.

And not much of that
, she thought, as a woman in fine clothing started ladling out the pork and leek soup. 
They may be upper-class bitches, but their husbands are the ones with real power.  There’s no true freedom here and they know it
.

She watched the refugees carefully as they trudged in and out of the kitchen, each one taking a bowl of soup, a piece of bread and a glass of pure water.  They looked broken, perhaps pushed beyond endurance by having to leave their homes ... Katharine snorted at the sheer foolishness of believing that was the worst that could happen. 
She’d
endured worse, even before joining the SS.  The refugees still had their lives, they still had their beauty ... they could rebuild, if they wished.  But instead they were moaning about how unfair it was that they only got a small portion of food.

“I heard that the policemen and their families get more food,” she said, when an opportunity arose.  The silly women were twittering away, repeating and embellishing rumours as though they were facts.  Such foolishness would never be tolerated in Germany East.  Stupid women - or men - didn't last long out there.  “And that some of them are selling ration cards to their friends.”

“Of course not,” one of the older woman said, indignantly.  “My husband is a policeman and he would never do such a thing!”

Katharine concealed her amusement as two of the other woman started wittering, questioning the first woman closely.  They were fools, but such foolishness had its uses.  No matter how much the first woman might deny it, the seeds of doubt were planted and would grow rapidly into more and more rumours.  By the time they reached the ears of someone in authority, the entire city would have heard the rumours ...

... And a certain percentage would believe them.

She shrugged and returned to her work, content to allow the women to carry on the conversation alone.  She’d leave as planned, knowing that the rumours would spread - and, like all rumours, grow in the telling.  And no one would be able to trace them back to her.

It isn't quite the same as direct action
, she thought, as she finished up. 
But it may be just as effective in the long run
.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Berlin, Germany Prime

14 October 1985

Kurt leaned against the stone wall, feeling tired and worn.

The fighting had lasted for eleven days, he knew, but it felt as though it had been longer, much longer.  Endless attacks and counterattacks, losing and recapturing buildings, only to lose them again when the enemy launched yet another thrust against the weakening defences and punched through.  Berlin, the city of his birth, was being steadily destroyed and he could do nothing.  His unit had been so badly weakened that his superiors were slotting in troops from other units that had come off even worse.

He struggled to catch his breath, half-tempted just to put a gun to his temple and pull the trigger.  Several soldiers had already done just that, unable to endure the constant fighting combined with the near-complete lack of sleep.  Others had wounded themselves, either unaware or uncaring that there was no hope of medical evacuation.  The system that had prided itself on airlifting wounded soldiers to a field hospital had broken down, if it had ever worked at all, in the flames consuming Berlin.  None of the men could expect anything more than a mattress, if they were lucky.  Rumour had it that every last hospital in Berlin was running short of just about everything, to the point that the doctors had to use alcohol to disinfect wounds.  He honestly had no idea just how long the city could continue to hold out.

“
Hauptmann
Wieland,” a voice called.

Kurt looked up, suppressing a flicker of irritation when he saw the speaker.  The boy - Kurt would have been astonished if he was actually old enough to enlist, in a more rational age - looked as tired as Kurt felt, although it didn't look as though he was doing anything more dangerous than taking messages forwards and backwards across the battlefield.  But then, Kurt had to admit, that
could
be very dangerous.  The SS snipers were advancing forward, ready to put a bullet in anyone foolish enough to show themselves too openly.  He would have bet half his salary, if he thought he had a hope of collecting it, that a number of other messengers had died running through the lines.

He scowled, inwardly, as he waved the boy over.  Johan - Kurt’s younger brother - definitely looked older than the messenger.  Kurt had no idea where Johan was - he’d volunteered to join the military shortly after the uprising - but he hoped his brother was safe.  And yet, safety was increasingly an illusion in Berlin.  SS shellfire had knocked down hundreds of buildings, trying to disrupt the defenders as the stormtroopers pushed forward.

“
Herr Hauptmann
,” the boy said.  His eyes were alight with
something
.  It took Kurt a moment to recognise that it was hero-worship.  “I have a message for you.”

Kurt sighed, inwardly.  Hardly anyone used paper messages these days, not when a messenger’s body might be retrieved by the wrong side.  It was a shame that the field telephones were unreliable, too.  The damned SS had known
precisely
where to aim their guns to do maximum damage.  He met the young boy’s eyes and nodded impatiently, silently urging him to get on with it.  His body was just too tired to curse the youngster for not giving him the message at once.

“You are to report to the
Reichstag
,” the young boy said.  “Your CO has already approved the transfer.”

Kurt felt his eyes narrow.  There was nothing for him in the
Reichstag
, certainly not as far as he knew.  Gudrun wouldn't have called him out of the front lines, would she?  She certainly hadn't arranged his promotion when she’d had the political power to do almost anything, although he knew that abusing the power would have been a good way to lose it.  And yet, why would anyone else call him to the
Reichstag
.  He was a mere
Hauptmann
, not a Field Marshal!  Orders would normally pass through several higher ranks before they reached him.

“I understand,” he said, taking a look at his men.  Two-thirds of them were trying to catch some sleep, too used to the endless bombardment to allow it to keep them from resting; the remainder were trying, hard, to entertain themselves before they went back to the war.  “I’ll be on my way in two minutes.”

He sighed inwardly, then waved to Loeb.  If he was lucky, this - whatever it was - could be resolved quickly, allowing him to return to the front.  The men under his command were
his
men.  He shared their trials and tribulations and, in exchange, they respected him.  He’d worked
hard
to build up that rapport, damn it!  He didn't want to lose his connection to his men, simply because he’d been called to the
Reichstag
.  Unless he was in deep trouble, of course.

Not likely
, he thought. 
They’d have sent the MPs to arrest me if I was in trouble
.

“I’ve been called out of the line,” he said, bluntly.  Loeb nodded, his face showing no visible reaction.  “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“We’re due to rotate back into the front lines in two hours,
Herr Hauptmann,
” Loeb reminded him.  “Do you think you’ll be back by then?”

“If I’m not, take command yourself,” Kurt ordered.  Loeb had more experience than his entire graduating class put together.  He was damned if he was allowing a green officer to take command of his unit, not when they were fighting for their lives and freedom.  “Don’t let the bastards get any closer.”

Loeb nodded - they both knew it was a tall order - then saluted as Kurt turned and walked away, following the messenger towards the rear of the lines.  He kept his head down, trying to ignore the handful of bodies on the ground.  No one had yet had time to draw them to one of the mass graves, let alone give them a decent burial.  Standard procedures were to dispose of bodies as quickly as possible, just to keep disease from spreading, but procedures were steadily breaking down under the onslaught.  The bodies might have to wait until nightfall before they were finally recovered and buried.

He shuddered as they reached the edge of the lines and hurried into the city itself.  The streets were almost deserted, save for emergency vehicles; the windows were boarded up or covered over to minimise the danger of flying glass.  He saw a handful of civilians on the streets; he winced, inwardly, as he saw a pair of young girls, no older than Gudrun.  Once, he might have tried to strike up a conversation, but he didn't have the energy.  And they barely even noticed him as they staggered home.  They looked alarmingly thin for girls who should have had more than enough to eat before the uprising.

The fear on the streets was almost palpable.   Berlin had always been a city of fear - he didn't understand how Gudrun had found the nerve to challenge the government on its own territory - but this was different.  The fear of the police, of ever-listening ears, of schoolmasters who watched for the slightest hint of independent thought was gone, replaced by the fear of incoming shells and the coming holocaust when the SS finally breached the defences and stormed the city.  Hundreds of buildings were damaged, dozens more lay in ruins, struck by shells and collapsed into rubble.  He hated to think of just how many people had died in the fighting so far.  It was possible that no one would ever know for sure.

“The guards will see you though the checkpoints,” the messenger said, as they finally approached the
Reichstag
.  Kurt didn't know if he should be relieved or angry that most of the buildings around them were intact, save for one that had been struck by a cruise missile in the early days of the war.  “And they’ll tell you where to go.”

Kurt nodded, tartly, as he strode up to the first checkpoints.  He’d expected headquarters troops - wearing clean uniforms, shiny boots and unearned medals - but the troops guarding the building were very clearly experienced soldiers.  They wore urban combat outfits and carried their weapons at the ready, clearly unconcerned about threatening high-ranking visitors to the
Reichstag
.  Kurt kept his expression carefully blank as they checked his ID, then searched him so thoroughly he couldn't help wondering if they planned to strip him naked.  It was a surprise when, after passing through three separate checkpoints, they returned his service pistol to him.  The remainder of his weapons would be held in storage until he left the building.

“Kurt,” his father said, as he was shown into a room.  “Welcome back!”

Kurt blinked in surprise as his father enfolded him in a tight hug, then drew back long enough for Kurt to see that his mother and youngest brother were also in the room. 
That
was a surprise.  Kurt had known that his parents had rooms in the
Reichstag
- they couldn't remain in their old home, not after the uprising - but he’d never visited.  There just hadn't been time.

“You stink,” Siegfried said, with all the wit of a twelve-year-old.  “Really, you stink.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said, sarcastically.  Clobbering his youngest brother in front of their parents was probably not a good idea.  “It comes of not being able to shower for years.”

He turned back to his father before he could give in to the urge to tell his brother off, rather sharply, or smack him on the head.  Siegfried had always been a prat.  It came of being the youngest, Kurt supposed, but he found it hard to care.  Siegfried had always been spoiled, in
his
view.  Even Gudrun, the sole daughter, hadn't been allowed as much latitude as her younger brother.

“Father,” he said.  “Why am I here?”

“We couldn't tell the messenger,” his father said.  He smiled, a curious mixture of emotions crossing his face.  “Gudrun is getting married.”

Kurt blinked in surprise, then put the pieces together.  “Horst?”

“Horst,” his father confirmed.  “And if you have any good
reason
to object, say so now.”

“Gudrun would kill me,” Kurt said.  He’d occasionally thought that it was lucky for the
Reich
that Gudrun had been born female, rather than male.  A man with her drive and daring would have probably wound up running the state, instead of tearing it down.  “I wouldn't dare.”

“He’s a prat,” Siegfried said.  “Getting married ... ugh.”

Kurt reached out and tousled Siegfried’s hair.  He knew his younger brother hated being treated like a child, even though he
was
a child.

“Just you wait until you’re older,” he said.  “It will all make sense then.”

He glanced at his mother.  “When’s the wedding?”

“Tomorrow,” his mother said.  “But we will hold a more formal ceremony after the war.”

Kurt kept his expression carefully blank.  Getting married so quickly would have been unthinkable, once upon a time, unless Gudrun was pregnant.  But quite a few soldiers he knew had gotten married over the last few weeks, determined to share their lives with
someone
before they went out on the battlefield.  Maybe Horst and Gudrun felt the same way themselves.  Marriage might be for life, but their lives might last less than a month, if the SS broke into the city.  Kurt could only hope that Gudrun had the sense to kill herself before she fell into their hands.

And besides
, he told himself,
she will kill me if I dare object
.

“That’s good,” he managed finally.  “And I look forward to welcoming him into the family.”

***

“So,” Schwarzkopf said.  “I hear you are to wed.”

Horst tensed, despite himself.  Only a handful of people knew that Gudrun and he were getting married, but that included the entire council.  Gudrun’s family wouldn't have told the SS anything - they certainly didn't work for the SS - yet someone on the council might have leaked the information.  It was confirmation, of a sort, that there was indeed a traitor on the
Reich
Council.

Unless someone was careless at some point and blabbed
, Horst thought. 
And one of the staff overheard it
.

His mind raced.  If Schwarzkopf doubted his loyalty, he would have waited to see if
Horst
brought the matter up himself. 
Not
telling his handler that he was planning to marry Gudrun - that he was
going
to marry Gudrun - would have been more than enough proof that his loyalties no longer lay with his former masters.  Indeed, it was why he had carefully prepared an outline of what had happened that would uphold his claim to be merely manipulating Gudrun.  But it didn't seem necessary.