Ragnarok Sample

(Twilight Of The Gods III)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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Cover by Brad Fraunfelter

www.BFillustration.com

All Comments and Reviews Welcome!

Cover Blurb

The Nazi Civil War rages on ...

The Provisional Government has scored a significant victory, driving the Waffen-SS back from Berlin and winning itself time to plot a counteroffensive.  But Karl Holliston - the self-declared Fuhrer of the Greater German Reich - isn't about to give up so easily.  As mighty armies prepare for the final campaign, winter sweeps down from the east and both side prepare their ultimate weapons, the fate of the world hangs in the balance ...

... And if the Reich burns, the rest of the world may burn too.

Author’s Note

I’m not particularly fond of books, even alternate history books, that attempt to reproduce foreign accents or make excessive use of foreign terms.  Unfortunately, writing a book set in Nazi Germany makes it impossible to avoid the use of some German words, including a number specific to Nazi Germany and the SS.  I’ve done my best to keep this to a bare minimum and, just in case the meaning of the word cannot be deduced from context, I’ve placed a glossary at the rear of the book.

Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s a word I’ve missed during the editing.

And if you liked this book, please leave a review.

CGN

Prologue

Berlin, Germany, 1950

It was very quiet in the Reichstag bunker, deep under Berlin.

Karl Holliston kept his face impassive - and his mouth closed - as the uniformed flunky displayed photograph after photograph on the big screen.  Four cities, all in blackened ruins; the charred remains of hundreds of thousands of bodies clearly visible towards the edge of the blast zone.  The dead were the lucky ones, Karl told himself; the survivors, if they somehow managed to escape the Einsatzgruppen waiting outside the cities, were doomed to die lingering deaths as the radiation worked its dark magic on their bodies.  No medical treatment could save their lives, even if the Reich cared to try.

And we wouldn't, Karl thought.  They’re Untermenschen.

But no one would have cared about his opinion, if he’d given voice to it.  He was just Heinrich Himmler’s aide.

“Four cities,” Field Marshal Albert Kesselring said.

Himmler showed no emotion as he leaned forward.  “Four cities that rose up against us,” he said, his voice utterly dispassionate.  “I saw no reason to waste the lives of our soldiers in teaching them a lesson.”

“The Americans have already announced that they will cancel the trade deals,” Speer said, flatly.  The civilian licked his lips, nervously.  “They’re calling it mass murder.”

“Tell them to tell it to the Indians,” Himmler said.  His face twisted into a sneer.  “Or to the Japanese.”

Kesselring slapped the table, hard.  “It was decided that nukes would not be used ...”

“... Unless the Reich itself was at risk,” Himmler said.  “I determined that the Reich was at risk.”

Speer looked incredulous.  “You plan to argue that a bunch of religious fanatics in the desert could somehow threaten the Reich?”

Himmler gazed back at him, evenly.

“Untermenschen cannot be allowed to revolt,” he said.  “It would give other Untermenschen ideas.”

He nodded towards the map.  “Or do you believe that we can continue to hold the Lebensraum in Russia if the Russians think we can be beaten?  That they can drive us out of the lands we won by the sword?  Or that we can keep our access to oil if the Untermenschen tribes revolt against us?  We needed to take strong action and I took that action.”

“You used nuclear weapons on four defenceless cities,” Speer said.

“I destroyed four cities that would have been destroyed anyway, in the fullness of time,” Himmler countered.  “Were we going to leave the useless Untermenschen alive?”

No, Karl thought.

He smiled to himself.  The Arabs had been foolish to side with the Reich.  They might have chafed under British rule - they might have feared and hated the Jews as much as the Reich itself - but the Reich intended to enslave or exterminate all Untermenschen.  And the Arabs were definitely Untermenschen.  They had gleefully assisted the Reich in driving out the British and slaughtering the Jews, only to discover that the Reich intended to slaughter them next.

“I did what I had to do,” Himmler said.  “The Fuehrer’s death made us look weak.  If I hadn't taken action, who knows how far the revolt would have spread?”

Karl nodded in agreement.  Adolf Hitler might have been declining in his later years - he flinched away from the thought hurriedly, knowing that expressing it meant death - but no one had doubted he ruled the Reich.  And there had been no designated successor.  The three men at the table - Himmler, Kesselring, and Speer - were collectively the most powerful figures in the Reich, yet none of them had a strong claim to Hitler’s title.  Who would take the throne?

Himmler should, Karl thought.  But the other two fear him.

“Never again,” Speer said.  “The decision to deploy nuclear weapons will not be left in your hands.”

“Oh?”  Himmler asked.  “And you intend to enforce it ... how?”

“There will be a new division of the military specifically charged with handling nuclear weapons,” Kesselring said.  “They will take their orders directly from the Reich Council, no one else.  There will be no nuclear release without authority from the very highest levels.”

That’s not an answer, Karl thought.

He weighed up the odds in his head.  There were a dozen crack SS units deployed near Berlin, but there were also a number of Wehrmacht infantry divisions ... all on high alert since Adolf Hitler had died.  If the power struggle over who should succeed Hitler turned violent, there was no way to know who would win.  Karl had every faith in the Waffen-SS, but would Himmler order them to attack the Wehrmacht?  Or to slaughter the other members of the Reich Council and present the Wehrmacht with a fait accompli?

“The revolution begun by the Fuhrer must be completed,” Himmler said.  “If we have to deploy nuclear weapons to reach our goals, we will deploy them.”

Speer looked even paler than usual.  “Even at the risk of war with America?”

Himmler snorted, rudely.  “Do you really think the Americans would sacrifice New York or Washington for the sake of Untermenschen?  Or the British?  We could turn Britain into a radioactive slagheap and they know it.”

He cleared his throat.  “The Americans will moan and whine because that is what Americans do,” he said.  “They won’t risk war with us.”

“They crushed the Japanese,” Speer said.

“Little yellow men,” Himmler countered, dismissively.  “We rule, directly or indirectly, a third of the world.  We have millions of men under arms, hundreds of thousands of panzers, aircraft and U-boats; we are far stronger, far more formidable, than Imperial Japan.  And we have nuclear weapons.  We can destroy them.”

“They can destroy us,” Speer said.

“They will not risk their existence by waging war against us,” Himmler said.

Kesselring tapped the table, sharply.  “We have a compromise in mind,” he said.  “You - the SS - will be given Russia as your private domain.  You’ll have complete freedom to reshape society any way you choose.  In exchange for this, you will accept the position of the Reich Council and surrender the SS’s claim to nuclear weapons.”

Karl looked at Himmler, wondering how his ultimate superior would react.  The SS already ruled much of Occupied Russia, enslaving or slaughtering the Russians while slowly establishing massive settlements on the soil.  Himmler was being offered something he already had.  And yet, the SS didn't have an entirely free hand.  They still had to contend with the Wehrmacht and Speer’s civilian bureaucracy.  To be rid of that, to create a land where the Volk could live free and hold up its head with pride ...

And we would grow strong, he thought, as our success attracted more and more Aryans into the Reich.

It wasn't ideal, he knew.  Germany itself would not be transformed so radically.  The civilian bureaucrats were already objecting to some of the more important transformations - and their influence would only grow stronger if the SS concentrated on Russia.  But the Reich Council’s control would not last.  It would grow weaker and weaker until the true masters took their place at the head of society.

Himmler took a long moment to compose his reply.  “You believe this will appease the Americans?”

“This is not about the Americans,” Kesselring said.  “This is about preventing a civil war.”

Karl had to fight to keep his face impassive.  He’d known what was at stake - everyone knew what was at stake - but he’d never heard it expressed so bluntly.  There were just too many competing factions within the Reich, all held in check by Hitler.  If the Reich Council couldn’t put together a compromise to stabilise the Reich, the entire edifice would go down into civil war.  And that would utterly destroy the Reich.

“The Americans are not our greatest threat right now,” Speer added.  “Our greatest threat is ourselves.”

Himmler barely moved for a long cold moment.  “Very well,” he said, finally.  “You’ll have your control over nuclear weapons.”

“You will still have a seat on the council,” Speer said.

Karl nodded, inwardly.  Speer was the weakest member of the triumvirate.  What was control over the economy, over the factories and farms, compared to control over the soldiers, sailors and airmen who fought to expand the Reich?  Speer needed Himmler to keep Kesselring in line, just as much as he needed Kesselring to keep Himmler in line.  No doubt Speer expected to slowly extend his influence eastwards, no matter what agreements were made.  He’d assume the SS couldn't handle its own economy.

He allowed himself to relax, just barely, as the three men discussed the practicalities of their agreement.  It wasn't what he wanted - what he knew Himmler wanted - but it was enough to keep the triumvirate happy.  And, in the long run, the SS would reshape Russia into a paradise, a good example to the rest of the Reich.  It might take decades - or more - but eventually the entire Reich would follow in their footsteps.

And as long as we never lose sight of our goals, he thought, we will prevail.

Chapter One

East Germany
28 October 1985

The village was a blackened ruin.

Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk barely noticed as he stumbled through the ruined streets, heading east.  He’d lost contact with his unit - all that remained of his unit - two days ago, during the chaotic retreat from Berlin.  Now, the handful of men surrounding him were the remnants of a dozen units that had been hammered so badly that they’d shattered, only a handful of troopers surviving long enough to escape the caldron and make their escape to the east.  He walked over a body - male or female, it was impossible to say - barely registering its existence.  There was no way to know if the dead person had been a loyalist, a traitor, or merely a poor innocent civilian caught up in the maelstrom washing over the Reich ...

He shook his head, feeling a sudden surge of anger.  There was no such thing as an innocent civilian, not now.  The world was divided into loyalists, men and women who would give their all to preserve the Reich, and traitors, men and women who would tear it down and spit in the face of everything the Reich had achieved since Adolf Hitler had taken power in 1933 and reshaped the world.  And the traitorous civilians had turned on the Waffen-SS and driven them from Berlin, driven them east ...

They will pay, he promised himself.  They will pay.

He shivered as a cold wind blew from the east.  They’d been meant to take their winter clothing with them - the Waffen-SS had plenty of experience fighting in colder climes - but the offensive had been organised in such a tearing hurry that they’d ended up outrunning their logistics network.  East Germany was nowhere near as cold as the Urals - or even the garrison towns near Germanica itself - but it was still cold now.  He wrapped his arms around himself as he kept walking, somehow.  They’d make it back to friendly lines and then ...

The Waffen-SS was not supposed to lose.  It had never lost, not until now.  Hennecke had grown up on stories of the black-clad stormtroopers fighting the French, the British, the Russians and a dizzying series of subhuman opponents who couldn't hope to stand up to the Reich.  The Waffen-SS had always taken the lead in fighting, from the coldest realms of Germany East to the darkest depths of Africa.  And it had never been bested, not until now.  

At least we lost to fellow Germans, Hennecke thought.

The thought wasn't reassuring.  He’d been told, time and time again, that none of their opponents could hope to match them, man for man.  Even the vaunted British SAS or the American Marines were no match for the SS.  But they’d faced their fellow Germans - the softies of the west - in combat ... and lost.  Berlin had been held so strongly that thousands of blackshirts had died, even before the panzers had come to the traitor’s aid.  Hennecke knew how close he had come to death, more than once.  What sadistic god had deemed that he would survive long enough to flee Berlin and join the retreat?

I am strong, he told himself.  I survived because I am strong.

He shivered, helplessly, as he heard a dull roar in the distance.  An engine, he thought; he couldn't tell if it was a panzer or a truck.  Watching the panzers come at him had been a nightmare, leaving him with an odd flicker of sympathy for the bandit Untermenschen who’d faced the armoured vehicles on the steppes.  For once, the panzers hadn't been on his side ... he didn't want to look behind him, but there was no choice.  And yet, there was nothing, save for plumes of smoke rising in the distance.

Perhaps they’ve given up the pursuit, he thought, numbly.  Perhaps ...

It was wishful thinking, he knew.  German soldiers - the Wehrmacht as well as the Waffen-SS - were taught to take the offensive and keep taking the offensive.  And if their opponents were in retreat, their formations scattered and their command networks a joke, the soldiers were taught to take advantage of it.  How many Frenchmen had gone into the camps, back during the war, because they’d been caught in the open and captured?  How many Russians had been mown down by the advancing panzers because their leadership refused to even consider the virtues of retreat?  He’d thrilled to such tales, back in the past ...

... They didn't seem so exciting now.

He glanced up, sharply, as he saw something flicker at the corner of his eye.  The overcast skies were clear - thankfully, the enemy wouldn't be able to peer down on them from orbit - but that could change in a hurry.  He hadn't seen a friendly plane ever since the Wehrmacht had broken the lines around Berlin.  The Luftwaffe was full of traitors.  Almost all of their surviving pilots had sided with the rebels, bombing and strafing the loyalists as they retreated eastwards.  Perhaps a handful of soldiers, some wounded, wouldn't be a tempting target, but he knew they couldn't take it for granted.  The hatred he’d seen unleashed over the past few months was terrifying.

“Don’t get caught by the traitors,” his superiors had warned.  “They’re not taking prisoners.”

They kept moving, driven onwards by the grim knowledge that the only way to survive was to reach friendly lines.  But where were the friendly lines?  Hennecke thought they were moving east - he’d lost his personal compass somewhere in the retreat - but what if he was wrong?  They could be moving north or south ...  And yet, the devastation surrounding him - the destroyed villages, the shattered roads - suggested that they were on the right track.

But he hadn't seen anyone outside his group for days.

Another farming village loomed up in front of him.  Common sense suggested they should walk around it, but he was too tired to care.  The village had been wrecked as thoroughly as the previous village, save for the church.  It stood alone, surrounded by ruined buildings and piles of blackened debris; outside, a dozen men and women dangled from ropes, their decomposing bodies suggesting they’d been hanged weeks ago.  He shuddered, even though he’d seen worse horrors during the advance westwards.  Who knew why the villagers had been hanged?  And who knew who’d done it?

He didn't bother to issue orders.  In truth, he was unsure if any of his companions would follow them.  Instead, he walked straight into the church and looked around.  It felt oddly peaceful, despite the horrors outside; he had to fight the urge to just slump down in one of the pews and collapse.  There were few churches in Germany East - he’d certainly never been in one - but, just for a moment, he could understand why the religious took comfort in them.  And then he started to search the building, looking for food or drink or something they could use to survive.

“Nothing,” he said, twenty minutes later.  “Nothing at all.”

He shook his head, bitterly, as they made their way back into the cold afternoon.  Perhaps it was just his imagination, but the air felt colder, as if winter was coming early. German citizens were meant to keep emergency supplies somewhere within reach at all times - it was something the Nazi Party taught in schools - yet the church had been bare.  But then, the coddled folk of Germany Prime felt safe.  They had no reason to believe that they might have to fight for their lives at any moment, that they might be attacked ... let alone that the entire country might be attacked.  The risk of nuclear war had declined, hadn't it?

And so they stopped building shelters and worrying about life after the blast, he thought, bitterly.  And so they turned on the guardians of the Reich.

He swallowed, hard, as he heard an aircraft high overhead, but when he looked up he saw nothing.  A friendly aircraft, perhaps?  Hiding within the looming clouds?  Or an enemy aircraft hunting for panzers to plink from the sky?  He’d heard whispers about entire SS panzer divisions wiped out by enemy aircraft, whispers he’d studiously ignored.  But now, all of a sudden, those whispers seemed all too plausible.

Gritting his teeth, he peered into one of the ruined buildings.  Someone had already been through it, he realised; they’d torn through a shattered wardrobe, taking clothes and whatever else they could find in a desperate bid for survival.  The only remaining clothes were clearly designed for a teenage girl.  Normally, he would have been reluctant to wrap them around his body - there was no hope of actually putting them on - but now there was no choice.  The laws against cross-dressing - cross-dressers were automatically sent to the camps - were no longer important.  All that mattered was staying alive long enough to reach friendly lines.

“Bitch,” one of his companions muttered.

He held up a pair of blue jeans, clearly intended for someone a great deal slimmer than the average stormtrooper.  Hennecke felt his lips thin in cold disapproval.  There was no shortage of clothes from the textile combines in Germany East, but whoever had owned the jeans had preferred to buy American-made clothes off the black market.  The single pair in the house - he pretended not to see his companion stuff the jeans into a bag - had probably cost more than everything else in the wardrobe put together.  He knew precisely what his father would have  said - and done - if he’d caught Hennecke or any of his siblings with American clothes, but their family lived in Germany East.  They knew, all too well, just how cruel and uncaring the world could be.

And besides, buying American clothes helps them to fund wars against the Reich, he thought.

He took one last look at the remaining clothes, then led the way outside.  There was no way to know what had happened to the original owner.  She might have been evacuated by the rebels, she might have hidden somewhere in the countryside ... or she might have been rounded up and shipped to the camps by the loyalists.  Or she might have been raped and murdered by prowling stormtroopers.  Rape was officially forbidden, but discipline had been breaking down even before the retreat from Berlin.  The Waffen-SS hadn't known what to do with a rebellion and a civil war, rather than yet another pacification campaign.

Let us hope she made it out safely, he thought.

He was too tired to be angry with her, really.  No one had really expected a civil war, not when the Reich had held together since 1933.  Everyone knew the Reich would last a thousand years.  But now, old certainties were falling everywhere.   No one knew their place any longer.  Soldiers were turning on their officers, workers were turning on their managers, women were turning on their husbands, collaborator governments were starting to savour the taste of freedom ... nothing was the same any longer.  And, no matter who won the civil war, it was hard to imagine things going back to the way they were before the rebellion.  The old certainties were gone.

Darkness was falling when they finally walked into friendly lines.  A handful of stormtroopers, looking reassuringly competent rather than refugees; a couple of armoured vehicles, hiding under camouflage netting; an officer, looking as though he was definitely in command.  Hennecke was relieved, even though he rather doubted the officer had experienced the maelstrom of Berlin.  He had the supercilious air of a man who hadn't had his confidence knocked out of him.

“Heil Holliston,” Hennecke managed.  “Herr Sturmbannfuehrer.”

The Sturmbannfuehrer looked him up and down for a long moment.  Hennecke realised, in a flash of sudden horror, just how awful he must look.  He was a Hauptsturmfuehrer, yet he couldn't be said to have taken command or done anything, really, apart from lead a handful of men to safety.  But he’d lost touch with his unit during the retreat ...

“Heil Holliston,” the Sturmbannfuehrer returned.  His gaze moved to the other men.  “Go to the tent, report to the officer there.  You’ll be fed, watered and assigned to new units.”

Hennecke felt cold.  The Sturmbannfuehrer spoke of stormtroopers as if they were animals ...

He watched his men go, suddenly wishing he’d never been promoted.  It had been a battlefield promotion, the kind of promotion he’d dreamed of before he’d discovered what it entailed.  He’d led men into battle; he’d watched them die, even as he’d been spared himself ... going back to the ranks would be a demotion, but he would almost welcome it.  The war hadn't been what he’d been promised.  It had never been what he’d been promised.

“You should have taken command,” the Sturmbannfuehrer said, coldly.

Hennecke said nothing.  He knew the Sturmbannfuehrer was correct.  He’d outranked everyone else in the little group.  He could have issued orders, he could have done ... done what?  There had been nothing he could have done, save for continuing the retreat until they reached friendly lines.  But they’d shuffled into the lines like Untermenschen slaves doing their best to avoid a full day’s work.  His men had looked pathetic ...

... And so did he.

A pair of stormtroopers seemed to materialise out of nowhere.  Hennecke had been so absorbed in himself that he hadn't seen them coming.  The two men looked absolutely perfect; their uniforms clean and tidy, their boots and buttons shined until they almost glowed, their faces utterly impassive.  It was clear that they had never seen combat.

“Take this swinehund to the pen and hold him there,” the Sturmbannfuehrer ordered.

Hennecke had no time to protest before the two stormtroopers frisked him - removing his pistol, his knife and a handful of tools - and then frog-marched him through the concealed camp.  It was larger than he realised, he saw; a dozen tents, all carefully hidden under netting and guarded by SS stormtroopers.  One tent was clearly set aside for the wounded; he glanced inside, ignoring the grunt of complaint from his escorts, and winced as he saw thirty men lying on the hard ground.  A pair of medics were doing what they could, assisted by five young women, but it was clear that they were badly overworked ...

He stared in horror until his escorts yanked him forward.  He was no stranger to blood and gore, but the sight before him was horrific.  Men had lost arms and legs, their bodies hideously mutilated ... even if they were somehow rushed to better medical facilities, their chances of ever living a normal life again were slim.  It made him realise just how many men might have been killed by their own side - a mercy kill - or left to bleed out and die during the retreat.  The medics had strict orders - standing orders - to concentrate on the soldiers who could be saved.  There wouldn't be anything, not even morphine, for the ones who had no hope of survival.

And some of the ones left to die could have lived, with proper treatment, he thought.

His escorts kept dragging him forward until they reached the pen, a small region fenced off and guarded by armed stormtroopers.  It didn't look very secure - Hennecke was sure he could escape, easily - but he knew better than to try.  The stormtroopers guarding the fence wouldn't hesitate to shoot him down if they caught him trying to escape - and no one, least of all their superiors, would give a damn.  Hennecke was an embarrassment.  It was quite possible that he’d be taken out and shot within the next hour.  Or perhaps they’d just slit his throat.

There’s probably a shortage of bullets, he thought, morbidly.

He glanced at his fellow prisoners as his escorts thrust him into the pen, then marched off to torment someone else.  A number of soldiers - he was still the highest-ranking, he noticed - a trio of older men in civilian clothes and a pair of young women.  He wondered, as he found a space on the ground, why they were being detained.  If they were insurgents - or whatever one called treacherous rebels - they would have been shot already.  Maybe they were just hostages for someone’s good behaviour.  Neither of them seemed inclined to talk to him or anyone else.  

There was nothing to do inside the pen, so he lay down on the hard ground and closed his eyes.  He’d long-since mastered the art of sleeping whenever he had a spare moment, even though the ground was uncomfortable and there was a very real prospect of being shot by his own side.  But it still felt as if he hadn't slept at all when he was woken by the guards, who escorted him and the other soldier prisoners out of the pen and down to where a grim-faced Brigadefuehrer was standing.  He honestly wasn't sure how long he’d slept.

“You cowards fled,” the Brigadefuehrer snapped.  His gaze raked over the prisoners, cold and hard and utterly devoid of mercy.  “You could have fought.  You could have organised yourselves.  You could have given the rebels a bloody nose.  Instead, you fled.”

Hennecke resisted the urge to say something in his own defence.  There was nothing he could say.  The SS was looking for scapegoats.  And if they’d chosen him ...

“You should be dispatched to the camps,” the Brigadefuehrer added.  “But we have need of you here.  You’ll be assigned to a penal unit instead.  If you survive ...”

Hennecke barely heard the rest of the speech.  He’d heard horror stories about penal units.  A soldier who was assigned to one would be allowed to return to his unit - his record wiped - if he survived a month in the penal unit ...

... But the odds of survival were very low.

It might not matter, he told himself.  In the distance, he heard thunder - or shellfire.  The odds of any of us surviving are very low.

Chapter Two

Germanica (Moscow), Germany East
29 October 1985

They had lost.

To lose was unthinkable, but they had lost.

No, Karl Holliston told himself, firmly.  We have not lost.  We have merely suffered a setback.

He sat in his office and studied the map on the wall.  It was updated every hour on the hour by his staff, but he didn’t need the updates to know it told a tale of disaster.  The Waffen-SS, the most powerful fighting force on the planet, was retreating from Berlin, pursued by the panzers of the treacherous Heer.  A handful of units, he’d been told, were fighting a rearguard action, but there was no point in trying to make a stand until the SS was well away from Berlin.  Entire formations had been shattered, first by the meatgrinder of Berlin and then by the enemy counterattack.  Putting the Waffen-SS back together would take weeks, perhaps months.  Karl was all too aware that he didn't have months.

Winter is coming, he thought, grimly.  That will buy us some time, at least.

He glared down at his hands.  He’d been a child during the great conquests, back when the panzers had captured Moscow and pushed the borders of the Reich all the way to the Urals, but he’d heard stories.  His time as Himmler’s aide had given him a chance to hear stories his boss had never heard.  Men freezing in their uniforms, panzers and their supporting units breaking down because of the cold, even personal weapons failing because it was just too damn cold.  The Waffen-SS had learned a great many lessons about fighting in the extreme cold over the last forty years.  But far too many Heer units knew them too.

The office was massive, easily large enough for a hundred men.  But he was alone.  He knew, all too well, that his position had been badly weakened.  No one gave a damn what the ordinary citizen thought - and the average citizen of Germany East was solidly behind the Waffen-SS - but his military and political subordinates posed a very different problem.  Karl had declared himself the Fuhrer, the first true warlord since Adolf Hitler himself; as long as he succeeded, as long as he met no significant setbacks, his position was completely unchallengeable.  No one would dare to question him ...

But now he had suffered a massive setback.  

He was honest enough to admit it, at least to himself.  The planned reconquest of Berlin had failed, miserably.  There was no way, now, to destroy the rebel government.  And of thousands of stormtroopers had been killed in the fighting.  It was enough to weaken the resolve of a lesser man.  Karl knew, all too well, that quite a few of his subordinates were lesser men.  They’d sell out to the rebels in a heartbeat if they thought they could maintain their power and position.  But he could do nothing.  Purging every senior officer who might pose a threat would not only weaken his command structure, it would almost certainly prompt a coup.  There were too many officers, even among the loyalists, who would assume that they too were going to be purged.

His hands touched a thin folder on his desk.  Karl picked it up and opened it, reading - again - the nuclear codes for his stockpile of tactical nuclear warheads.  His engineers hadn't managed to unlock the launch codes for the missile fields in Siberia, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit, but he had some nukes.  And yet, using them might also prompt a coup.  

He shook his head in frustration.  It had been a mistake, he acknowledged now, to allow the stormtroopers so much freedom during the march to Berlin.  No one gave a damn about how Untermenschen were treated, but the citizens of Germany Prime were Germans.  The censors had slapped down hard on any whispers of atrocities, yet all they’d managed to accomplish was to give the darker rumours credence.  A wave of mass slaughter, of rape and looting ... there was no way to deny it, no way to convince the population that he hadn't ordered the SS to punish Germany Prime.  Victory would have blown those rumours away.  Instead, they’d grown in the telling.

And if you added all the death reports together, he thought sourly, we would have slaughtered the entire population several times over.

His phone rang.  “Mein Fuhrer,” Maria said.  His ruthlessly efficient secretary was still guarding his door.  “The cabinet has arrived.  Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler is being escorted from the airport and will arrive momentarily.”

“Understood,” Karl said.  He forced himself to sit upright, checking his appearance in a small mirror.  Hitler had never had to worry about how he presented himself to his subordinates.  “Have them escorted in when Ruengeler arrives.”

Making them wait was petty, he acknowledged, but he didn't dare do anything that suggested he was losing his grip on power.  And he wasn't, he told himself firmly.  He still controlled a formidable force, he still ruled Germany East ... he still had the nukes.  There had been setbacks - there was no disguising the fact that there had been setbacks - but he hadn't lost.

And I still have my source in the enemy camp, he thought.  His private staff had received two more messages from his spy, telling him that the enemy were still trying to consolidate their gains after the Battle of Berlin.  We have not lost.

He leaned back in his chair as his cabinet started to file into the giant office, Ruengeler bringing up the rear.  The man looked torn between defiance and a grim acceptance that he was probably about to die.  Karl didn't blame him.  He needed a scapegoat for the retreat from Berlin and Ruengeler, the man who had been in command of the operation, was the most likely choice.

Pity I can't put the blame on someone who wasn't there, Karl thought, darkly.  It would be a great excuse to purge some of the unreliable swinehunds.

His gaze swept their ranks as they took up position in front of him.  Territories Minister Philipp Kuhnert and Industries Minister Friedrich Leopoldsberger, two men who had served on the Reich Council before the civil war.  Both reliable, if only because they knew they wouldn't survive an enemy victory.  Gauleiter Emil Forster, a stanchly conservative official who could be relied upon to do whatever it took to serve the Reich; Gauleiter Hugo Jury, a fanatical loyalist; Gauleiter Staff Innsbruck, a wavering weakling who should never have been promoted above his level of competence.  Karl would have liked to dispose of the man - he was simply unreliable - but Innsbruck had too much support from the lower orders.  His position would need to be undermined thoroughly before he could be purged.

And he wasn't in command when we lost the battle, Karl thought, sourly.  It was hard to believe that anyone would consider Innsbruck a strong candidate for anything more important than street-sweeper, but Innsbruck hadn't lost a major battle.  A pity he can't be used as a scapegoat.

“Heil Holliston,” they said, in unison.

Karl allowed himself a flicker of amusement, although it didn't show on his face.  Some of them - Jury in particular - sounded enthusiastic, but others seemed rather more dubious.  The Reich hadn't had a real Fuhrer since Adolf Hitler had died, the Reich Council choosing to establish a figurehead ruler rather than fight over who should take the throne.  To them, his claim to supreme authority was a deadly threat.  The power Hitler had wielded had been utterly unconstrained.  Karl doubted that any of them were foolish enough to believe that he wouldn't use the power, once he held it.  Purging Germany East of those who doubted him would be a good first step.

But it wasn't important, not now.

“Gentlemen,” he said.  There was no more time for brooding.  “Let us begin.”

***
Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler held himself ramrod straight, even though he rather suspected that he was about to be arrested and marched straight to his own execution.  The Fuhrer needed a scapegoat for the defeat and there was no better candidate, particularly as Alfred had defied the older man’s commands in ordering the retreat from Berlin.  There had been no choice - the Waffen-SS had been on the verge of breaking - but he knew Holliston wouldn't see it that way.  The man had been growing increasingly unstable as disaster followed disaster, a tidal wave of chaos breaking over the Reich.

He studied Holliston through impassive eyes.  The Fuhrer wore a simple infantryman’s uniform with a single Iron Cross - Adolf Hitler had worn the same outfit - and he’d cut his hair to resemble the former Fuhrer in his prime.  And yet, it was easy to see that Holliston was deeply worried.  The Fuhrer was good at hiding his emotions, but there were enough signs for Alfred to be sure he was worried.  Holliston would definitely need a scapegoat ...

... But my subordinates will be safe, Alfred thought.  He certainly hoped that would be the case.  The Reich had lost too many good men to go around executing people merely because they’d been too close to the designated scapegoat.  And we are already pulling the formations back together.

He sighed, inwardly.  Tactical defeats were one thing - and the Waffen-SS had suffered tactical defeats, no matter what the Ministry of Information said - but the Reich had never suffered such a catastrophic setback in its entire history.  Even the first Battle of Moscow hadn't been so shocking.  He’d had to look as far back as 1918 to see a comparable defeat - and that had resulted in the end of the Second Reich.

“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Holliston said.  His voice was very cold.  “Is it true that you ordered the retreat from Berlin.”

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said.  There was no point in trying to lie.  He knew the rules.  His guilt had to be firmly established to make it clear that he was more than just a scapegoat for his superior.  And if he played his role, his family would be safe.  “I saw no choice.”

“Indeed,” Holliston said.

There was a long chilling pause.  “You did the right thing, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Holliston added.  “The Reich owes you a great debt.”

Alfred felt his expression crack, just for a second.  He wasn't going to be turned into a scapegoat?  Holliston approved of his decision?  And yet ... cold ice ran down his spine as he realised it wasn't anything of the sort.  The Waffen-SS wasn't led by incompetent fools.  It wouldn't be hard for one of Alfred’s former subordinates to put two and two together and realise that the real blame lay with Holliston.  The rivalry between the Waffen-SS and the rest of the SS would only make it worse.  And who knew what would happen then?

“You will continue to hold your position, charged with organising the defence of Germany East in the short term and the reconquest of Germany Prime in the coming year,” Holliston continued.  “In your opinion, what is the current situation?”

Alfred had to fight the urge to giggle.  Reconquer Germany Prime?  Right now, he honestly wasn't sure they could defend Germany East.    Four entire divisions had been shattered in the Battle of Berlin, their panzers destroyed, their supplies expended ... Germany East had vast stockpiles of war material, but it didn't produce much for itself.  Replacing everything that had been lost in the fighting would take years.  Hell, merely reorganising the survivors into new units would take far too long.

He took a moment to organise his thoughts.  “The last set of updates I saw, Mein Fuhrer, had lines being formed west of Warsaw,” he said.  “Stragglers are being rounded up and funnelled into makeshift units” - thankfully, the Waffen-SS had a great deal of experience in throwing together scratch battlegroups at a moment’s notice - “while we are massing the remainder of our panzers and aircraft well behind the front lines.  Small teams of dedicated commandos have been assigned to impede the enemy, directly and indirectly.  As you are aware, experienced teams can cause considerable delay.”

As the enemy showed us during the march to Berlin, he thought, grimly.  And blowing up bridges will make it harder for us to take the offensive too.

“Very good,” Holliston said.  “And our chances of defending Germany East?”

Alfred knew the right answer.  “Very good, Mein Fuhrer.”

Gauleiter Staff Innsbruck cleared his throat, loudly.  “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” he said, carefully.  “Is it not true that we have lost vast quantities of materiel as well as men?”

“It is,” Alfred confirmed.  He’d met Innsbruck before; indeed, he was mildly surprised Innsbruck had survived Holliston’s assumption of power.  The man didn't owe his success to the new Fuhrer.  “However, there are several factors working in our favour.”

Innsbruck lifted his eyebrows.  “Indeed?”

“Yes, Herr Gauleiter,” Alfred said.

He ticked off points on his fingers as he spoke.  “First, the enemy is likely just as disorganised as ourselves,” he said.  “Their thrusts eastwards are already weakening as they outrun their logistics.  They will need time to reorganise before taking the offensive.

“Second, the distance between Berlin and Germanica is quite considerable,” he added.  “If they wish to crush us, they will have to thrust eastwards ... and do it at a time when winter is coming and the roads swiftly become impassable.  Our contingency plans for the defence of Germany East will only make matters worse, for them.  By the time they muster the force to launch an invasion of their own, perhaps in spring, we will have our forces solidly in place and ready to stop them.”

“But that would require a massive commitment,” Innsbruck said.  “We would need to conscript more and more young men from the farms.”

Alfred nodded, unsure where Innsbruck was going.

Innsbruck turned back to Holliston.  “Mein Fuhrer, we must discuss peace.”

Holliston’s face darkened.  “Peace?  There can be no compromise with traitors!”

“Two-thirds of the young men in my district have already been called up,” Innsbruck said, sharply.  “Garrison levels have already fallen dangerously low in some places - and winter is coming, winter ... when bandit attacks are typically on the rise.  My people have already faced a number of raids that came far too close to success.  How long can we sustain this commitment without losing Germany East completely?”

Alfred winced.  Forty years of occupation hadn't been enough to exterminate the bandits, not the ones stubborn enough to hold on and fight back whenever they saw an opportunity.  Most towns and villages in Germany East were practically garrisons, military bases in a sea of Untermenschen insurgents and bandits.  And he had no doubt that the Untermenschen slaves would revolt, if given the opportunity.  They were worked to death by their owners.  The only thing keeping them under control was the certain knowledge that resistance was futile.  

And it might not be futile now, he thought.  We don’t have the manpower to keep them in check any longer.

Holliston made a visible effort to control his anger.  “The traitors believe they won the war,” he said, sharply.  “Do you think they would agree to any terms we might accept?”

And if they did, Alfred asked himself, how long would it be before they crushed us anyway.

He sighed, inwardly.  Germany Prime had nearly seventy percent of the Reich’s industrial base, even though it had been decaying for years.  Given a couple of years of peace, the traitors could simply out-produce the loyalists and resume the war when it suited them.  And ideas from the west would be slipping east all the time ... the ideals of the Reich would come under threat.  

Because they seem easier, he thought.  And very tempting.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.  Germany East was built on an ideal, the ideal of transforming a barren country into living space.  It had built hard men and women, people who truly understood the harsh world around them.  But Germany Prime ... they’d had it easier for decades.  They didn’t realise the truth, that one could either bend the world to one’s will ... or be bent in turn.

“There is no prospect for peace,” Holliston said.  “Do you wish to see your lands returned to the Untermenschen?”

He tapped the table sharply.  “Does anyone wish to surrender?”

No, Alfred thought.  He doubted that any of the senior officers would like the thought of giving up their power, even if it didn't lead to their execution.  But do they think the war can be won?

“As long as we have the power to preserve the ethos of Germany East,” Gauleiter Emil Forster said, “we must not surrender.”

Alfred frowned to himself.  Gauleiter Emil Forster was an older man, one known to be stanchly conservative.  He would have expected Forster to consider coming to terms with the rebels, if it was possible.  Continuing the war might lead to defeat - or total annihilation.  But then, who knew how long Germany East would survive if it still had contact with Germany Prime?  Would the Easterners be seduced from their ideals?

“We will not surrender,” Holliston said.  He looked at Alfred.  “You will take command of the defence.  You will ready the troops to resist the coming offensive.  And you will hold the line.”

“Jawohl, Mein Führer,” Alfred said.  He found himself torn between relief and fear.  Relief that he hadn't been executed; fear that he’d been given an impossible job.  But what else could he say?  Defeatism was punishable by death.  “Given enough time, we can make Germany East impregnable.”

“And you will have something very special to help you,” Holliston added.  He smiled, unpleasantly.  “But for now ... I believe we have other business.”

And there was something in the way he said it that chilled Alfred to the bone.

Chapter Three

Berlin, Germany Prime
29 October 1985

“That’s the latest set of reports, Herr Chancellor,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss said, as he tapped the updated map.  “The SS lines are definitely beginning to solidify.”

Volker Schulze, Chancellor of the Greater German Reich - or at least the part of it that accepted the authority of the Berlin Government - nodded in irritation.  He'd hoped, against experience, that the SS stormtroopers would have broken completely, but they were trained to rebound from defeat faster than any other military unit in the Reich.  It had been years since he’d served alongside them, yet he still recalled how little difference losing the CO - or even the NCOs - had made.  The SS, whatever its flaws, had been a meritocracy.  A skilled stormtrooper - assuming he had good Aryan blood - had every prospect of rising in the ranks.

“I see,” he said, finally.  Life had been a great deal less complicated last year, when he’d been nothing more than a factory foreman.  “Can you keep thrusting forward?”

“Not until we get our logistics network up and running,” Voss said.  “Herr Chancellor, we simply don’t have the logistics to push them further back.”

“Work on it,” Volker ordered.   He knew Voss was right.  No one had ever seriously contemplated having to fight a civil war, of all things.  The Reich had countless contingency plans - everything from an invasion of Britain to a defence of Occupied France - but none of them had ever been put into practice.  “I assume we are continuing to harass them?”

“Of course,” Voss said.  “But we’re reaching the point of diminishing returns.  Even our air supremacy is under threat.”

Volker scowled as he contemplated the map.  The Luftwaffe had largely joined the provisional government, once the Reich Council had lost its grip on power, but the air force had paid a high price for its decision.  A number of bases and aircraft had been destroyed, either by sleeper agents or cruise missiles, while the remaining pilots were exhausted and running out of supplies.  They had planned for an intensive operational tempo, he’d been assured, but - once again - the Reich’s planning had not matched reality.  He had a nasty feeling that he would have to order the air force to reduce its operations soon, before exhaustion and poor maintenance took an even greater toll on its pilots.  

A shame we can't send the navy, he thought.  The Kriegsmarine had been solidly behind the rebels from the start, save for a handful of warships that had fled harbour and escaped to the east.  They’ve done very little so far.

He shook his head in annoyance.  It was a foolish thought, unworthy of him.  The navy couldn't come to grips with the SS, not when the SS was largely landlocked.  Maintaining a blockade of the handful of ports in Germany East was largely pointless.  The Americans weren't going to sell supplies to the SS.  And if the Chinese decided to pour fuel on the fire by shipping weapons to Germany East, there was nothing the Kriegsmarine - or anyone else - could do about it.

“Order the Luftwaffe to do whatever it sees fit,” he said, finally.  “If they feel they have to reduce their operational tempo, they can reduce their operational tempo.”

Voss didn't argue.  That worried Volker more than he cared to admit.  He’d been a stormtrooper, but he’d never reached high command.  Voss, on the other hand, was a Field Marshal.  He’d never hesitated to point out the limits of Volker’s experience before ...

... And if he wasn't arguing, it meant the situation was truly dire.

Volker looked down at the map, silently translating the pencil-drawn symbols into something understandable.  Berlin was safe now, ringed by panzer divisions and infantrymen who’d force-marched from the coastal defences of France to the heart of the Reich.  But the SS had utterly devastated the land between Berlin and Warsaw.  The reports pulled no punches, none at all.  Every last bridge had been destroyed, every last village and town had been devastated ... improvised mines had been scattered everywhere, covered by a handful of commando teams who’d fired a couple of shots at the advancing soldiers, then scattered into the undergrowth and vanished.

And the enemy defence lines are forming, Volker thought, coldly.  They’ll be ready for us soon.

He sighed, then looked up at Voss.  “If we leave them alone for six months,” he said, “they’ll be ready for us.”

“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said.

Volker rubbed his eyes.  He’d often considered emigrating to Germany East; he’d planned to emigrate, once he reached retirement age and his children were married off.  And he’d visited, during his career.  He knew just how tough the easterners were.  Given time to raise and deploy a new army, they could make the cost of winning the war intolerable.  If it had been possible, he would have accepted sundering the Reich in two.  But he knew, all too well, that Karl Holliston wouldn’t accept anything less than the reconquest of the entire Reich.

There can be no peace, he thought, morbidly.

“Field Marshal,” he said.  “Could we win before the first snowfall?”

Voss looked unsurprised by the question.  Volker rather suspected he’d been considering the issue himself.

“Perhaps,” he said, finally.  “We don't know when the snow is going to fall.”

“But we could still chew them to ribbons,” Volker mused.  “They’d either have to abandon vast tracts of land or fight us.”

He scowled at the thought.  The SS - and the Heer - was good at slotting newcomers into units and relying on the old hands to teach them the ropes.  There was no such thing as a unit completely composed of soldiers - or stormtroopers - fresh out of basic training.  But if the SS’s combat veterans were killed, the SS would have fewer experienced soldiers to teach the newcomers how to fight.  It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one that had to be faced.  A campaign - even a limited thrust eastwards - would make it harder for the enemy to regenerate their forces.

“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said.  “But if we waited six months, we would also be far stronger.”

Volker had his doubts.  Germany Prime might possess most of the Reich’s industry, but Hans Krueger had made it clear that their industrial base was on its last legs.  The demands of the war hadn't helped, either.  They needed to give the machinery a rest; instead, they’d upped the demands to support the military.  Pushing the industry any harder might result in a general collapse.  And even if they didn't have a wave of large-scale failures, they’d still pay a terrifying price for occupying Germany East.

And they might get their nukes up and running, he thought.  It was anyone’s guess just how long it would be before the SS unlocked their nukes.  A trained engineer, he’d been warned, might just be able to remove the PAL system and improvise a replacement detonator of his own.  What will they do if they have working nukes?

He cursed under his breath.  The Siberian missile fields probably couldn't be turned on Germany Prime, but they could be pointed at America.  And Karl Holliston was insane.  Who knew what he’d do if he thought he was losing the war?  Taking the United States down too might make perfect sense to him.  Or perhaps he'd reason that the Americans would retaliate against Germany Prime, giving Germany East a chance to rebuild.  Stopping him from using the nukes was worth almost any price.

“We have to move now,” he said, softly.  “If we give them too much time, they will use it against us.”

“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said.  “But I should caution you that we need more manpower.”

Volker sighed.  Almost every male German in the Reich had some military skills - thanks to the Hitler Youth - but not all of them had gone into the military.  They’d started training volunteers even before the siege of Berlin had begun, yet it would take months before the new recruits were ready for the demands of modern war.  There was an entire army in South Africa, but getting it back to the mainland in time for the big offensive was impossible.  Even disengaging from the South African War was proving tricky.

“See what you can drag up,” he said, finally.

“My staff did have an idea,” Voss said.  “We could approach the French or the Italians for manpower.”

Volker looked up at him, sharply.  “Are they mad?”

“Italy and France both have good reason to want to keep Holliston out of power,” Voss pointed out, dryly.  “Fighting beside us would be better than fighting Holliston on his own, later.”

“Hah,” Volker said.

In truth, he wasn't sure how to react.  The French could fight well, he’d been told, but they’d lost so badly in 1940 that they’d never recovered.  Their infantry had a great deal of experience fighting in North Africa, yet could they stand up to combat in Germany East without panzers and jet fighters of their own?  And the Italians were laughable.  They’d been jokes back in 1940 and they were still jokes.  Their empire would have fallen apart long ago if they hadn't been backed up by the Reich.

And they weren't interested in crushing the life out of their territories, he acknowledged, ruefully.  They might have lost their empires if their subjects hadn't realised that they were better masters than us.

“If you can convince them to send troops, do so,” he said, finally.  “But see what they want in exchange.”

He shook his head in frustration.  The Reich simply didn't have many diplomats.  A year ago, the subject nations had known to obey - or else - while the North Atlantic Alliance had known better than to lower its guard, no matter what honeyed words came out of Berlin and the Reich.  Now ... he didn't know quite how to talk to the French.  Barking orders was no longer possible, but he didn't want to let the French walk all over him either ...

“They’ll want political freedom,” Voss predicted.  “And the return of Alsace-Lorraine.”

Volker nodded.  The French had made that demand before, back when Gudrun had tried to come to terms with them.  And it was politically impossible.  There wasn't a single ethnic Frenchman living in Alsace-Lorraine, not now.  They’d all been driven out in 1950, when the Reich had been reshaping Western Europe after the war.  The French hadn't even had the worst of it.  Countries such as Belgium and the Netherlands had completely disappeared from the map.  The lucky ones - the ones who couldn't pass for German - had been shipped into French North Africa.  

And the unlucky ones were exterminated, he thought, grimly.

He’d been in the SS.  He knew how Untermenschen were treated.  And yet it had been a shock to realise just how many Untermenschen had been slaughtered.  The dispassionate remarks in school textbooks utterly failed to convey the sheer horror of what the Reich had done.  Volker wouldn't shed any tears for Untermenschen who had opposed the Reich, but how many of the Reich’s victims had been enemies?  How many of the dead had been Germans who had been wounded in combat or born with defects?

“See what they say,” he said.  “But we can't give them Alsace-Lorraine.”

It was going to be a nightmare, he predicted.  The Reich knew how to handle subject states - they supported the Reich and did as they were told, in exchange for what scraps the Reich offered them - but independent states?  What would happen when the French started to build up their armoured divisions?  Or produce their own jet fighters?  Or even develop their own nuclear weapons?  Would they want revenge for forty years of oppression?

“They may be satisfied merely to know that the SS beast has been slain,” Voss offered.  He didn't sound confident.  “We will see.”

Volker sighed.  “Begin drawing up the plans to take the offensive as soon as possible,” he said.  “Even if we don’t have the French and Italians in support, we need to move anyway.”

Which will weaken us if they decide to take matters into their own hands, he thought.  The French had a long way to go before they could stand up to the Reich, let alone match it, but what would happen if the German population was thoroughly sick of war?  And they will know it.

He sighed as Voss saluted and left the room.  If he’d known what Gudrun would unleash, when she'd started asking pointed questions, he would have gone to her father and ... and done what?  Konrad would still have been left in the hospital, trapped between life and death; his parents, his sister, his girlfriend utterly unaware of his condition.  It wasn't fair to blame Gudrun, he told himself sharply, for everything that had happened.  The underlying weakness of the Reich, the steady collapse of the entire structure, had been underway long before she’d been born, let alone reached adulthood.  

Her father might have told her not to meddle in politics, he thought.  She might have been pulled out of the university and married to someone he chose, but would it have made a difference?  Or would we have fallen harder because no one was prepared to stand up and point out that the Kaiser had no clothes?

He looked down at the map for a long moment.  He’d approved of Gudrun as a possible wife for his son, back when the world had made sense.  And then his feelings had grown mixed when she’d made it impossible for him to hide from the truth any longer.  Part of him had been angry at her, even though he’d known it wasn't her fault.  And now she was a prisoner, taken by the SS.  Volker knew, all too well, just what the SS would do with her, after everything she’d done to them.  He'd hoped Gudrun - or her body - would turn up somewhere in Berlin, but there had been no sign of her.  

She’s been taken to Germanica, he thought.  And all we can do is hope they give her a quick death.

There was a tap on his door.  He looked up to see his aide, looking grim.

“Herr Chancellor,” he said.  “Minister Krueger is here to see you.”

“Show him in,” Volker ordered.  “And then bring us both coffee.”

He schooled his face into impassivity as Hans Krueger was shown into his office.  Krueger was a smart man, but he wasn't a likeable man.  He’d been on the former Reich Council and had switched sides, a little too quickly, after the uprising.  Volker had no reason to distrust him - Holliston wouldn't give Krueger a quick death if Krueger were captured - but there was something about Krueger that annoyed him.  The man was more concerned with his figures than the real world.

And those figures can change the real world, Volker thought.  There had been something oddly effeminate about the accountants in the factory, the men who could decide - seemingly on a whim - who was worth keeping and who could be fired.  And Krueger had something of the same air about him.  He was not a manly man.  He cannot be trusted completely.

“Herr Chancellor,” Krueger said.  He was carrying a leather folder under one arm.  “Do you have a moment?”

“Too many of them,” Volker admitted.  He wanted to be out there, doing something.  “Is this important?”

“I’ve been running the latest set of figures,” Krueger said, quietly.  He took a seat and opened the folder.  “We’re looking at a total economic crash within three months.”

Volker sucked in his breath.  “Are you sure?”

“That’s the best-case,” Krueger said.  “Frankly, we’ve been pushing everything too hard over the last decade.  We simply didn't give our industrial base any chance to breathe.”

“I didn't make those decisions,” Volker snarled.

“I know,” Krueger said.  “But we still have to deal with the consequences.”

He looked grim.  “It gets worse,” he added.  “Food supplies are starting to run out.”

“Then grow more,” Volker said.

“We can't, not immediately,” Krueger said.  “Quite a few farmers were drafted into the army, Herr Chancellor.  That had an impact on productivity.  But we also drew most of our food from Germany East.  Germany Prime - alone - cannot feed itself forever.  We have already started expanding our farming capabilities, but it will be several years before they make an impact.”

He sighed.  “And if we have an industrial collapse at the same time,” he added, “we will be staring at outright chaos.”

“Take food from the French,” Volker said, after a moment.  “Or buy it from the Americans.”

“The French don’t produce enough food to meet our demands - even if they were willing to meet our demands,” Krueger warned.  “They never pushed production - they knew we’d steal it.  And the Americans will expect us to pay.”

“And we don't have any cash,” Volker said.  The Reich’s stockpiles of foreign cash had always been very limited.  “There’s nothing we can use to pay the Americans.”

“If indeed they have the food on hand,” Krueger added.  “They might not be able to meet our demands either.”

Volker cursed under his breath.  The Americans had been helpful, but he couldn't help thinking that the United States would welcome a German collapse.  Whoever won the war would need to spend years rebuilding, years the Americans could use to make themselves invincible, utterly untouchable.  They were already too far ahead of the Reich ...

... And they weren't even his real problem.

He gritted his teeth.  “And if the entire population starts to starve ...”

“We lose,” Krueger said, bluntly.  “We need to take action, quickly.”

“And that means we need this war to end, quickly,” Volker agreed.  “And if we don’t win soon, we’ll lose.”

Chapter Four

Germanica (Moscow), Germany East
29 October 1985

They were scared of her.

Gudrun clung to the thought, even though she felt utterly naked and utterly helpless.  The SS was scared of her.  They had stripped her down to her underwear, searched her so thoroughly that she doubted there was even a millimetre of her body that hadn't been inspected, then chained her up so carefully that she could barely move.  And if that hadn’t been enough, they’d repeated the search at regular intervals.  Did they think she’d somehow managed to conceal a weapon even as they carried her into the very heart of their territory?

She knew it was insane - she knew they weren't scared of her - but it was all that gave her hope.  They’d driven her east, then transferred her to a plane.  She wouldn’t even have known they were flying her to Germanica if one of her guards hadn't said it out loud, clearly unaware she was listening.  Or perhaps it had been deliberate.  They’d wanted her to fear ...

“They will try to break down your resistance,” Horst had told her.  It felt like years since they’d been students together, plotting how best to bring down the Reich.  “They will want to make you feel helpless, as if you have lost all control over yourself.  And if you let them convince you that you are hopeless, you’re doomed.”

But it was hard, so hard, to keep from feeling helpless.  Gudrun had been arrested before, but the SS hadn't known who or what she was.  They’d seen her as just another troublemaker, a student in the wrong place at the wrong time ... and the experience had nearly proved too much for her.  Now ... they knew who she was; they knew what she’d done.  She had no reason to expert mercy.

And the only reason they went to so much trouble to take me alive, she thought, was because they want me for something.

She shivered, helplessly.  The temperature had been dropping for hours now, ever since she’d been taken from the airport and dumped into a prison cell, but none of the guards had offered her anything more substantial to wear.  Her bra and panties, already torn by the repeated strip searches, provided no protection at all.  She couldn't help wondering if she would catch her death of cold before the SS started torturing her, then decided the cold was probably part of the torture.  Horst had warned her that they would do everything in their power to break her will, but his words hadn't been anything like enough to convoy the sheer sense of helplessness and futility pervading her body and soul.  Her life was definitely no longer her own.

The cell itself was completely empty, save for a bed and a bucket she was too chained up to use.  She suspected it was yet another humiliation, although they hadn't fed her anything like enough for it to be a real problem.  And they hadn't made any attempt to hide the cameras either, hanging four of them from the ceiling and wrapping them in steel mesh.  Absurdly, the sight almost made her giggle.  She was chained - and even if she hadn't been, she was too short to reach them, even if she stood on the bed.  

But they might have taller prisoners, she thought,  Horst was a head taller than her - and she knew the SS prized height.  For all she knew, Horst was a dwarf compared to some of his former comrades.  Besides, the Slavs she'd seen had all been short and ugly, but was that true of all Slavs?  And they clearly don’t want to take any risks.

She forced herself to relax, even though it was futile.  Her wrists and ankles ached; the metal belt they’d wrapped around her hips dug into her flesh and she was hungry, terrifyingly hungry.  She’d never really gone hungry in her life, even though some of the food she’d had to choke down at school was barely a step or two above the slop fed to prisoners and Gastarbeiters.  Now, she couldn't help feeling as though she didn't have the energy for anything.  It wouldn't be long, she suspected, before she died ...

... And the hell of it was that a quick death would probably be a relief.

The cell door opened.  Two burly male guards stepped through, glaring suspiciously at her as if they expected her to have vanished somewhere in the last hour.  Gudrun resisted the urge to rattle her chains at them; instead, she just waited - reluctantly - as they glanced around the cell, then yanked her to her feet and shoved her through the door.  They didn't speak to her, they never did.  Only one of her captors had spoken to her since she’d been taken prisoner and Gudrun hadn't seen her for days.

She forced herself to stand still as they ran their hands over her body, telling herself - desperately - that it was Horst who was touching her.  But it was hard to believe it - truly believe it - when their rough fingers were pinching at her flesh and tugging down her panties to check that she hadn't managed to conceal something between her legs.  And this time, they were worse.  Their hands were rubbing at her clit as if they expected her to enjoy it, their breathing growing deeper and deeper with anticipation as they pushed her over to the table and bent her over.  She realised, feeling a surge of fear, that she was about to be raped ...

“That will do,” a cool voice said.

The guards started, then let go of her.  Gudrun twisted her head and saw Hauptsturmfuehrer Katharine Milch standing there, looking grim.  The older woman - the first woman she'd seen wearing a uniform - looked hellishly intimidating.  If she had a right to wear that uniform, Gudrun thought, she wouldn't just be as good as a man, she’d be better.  And she’d saved Gudrun from a fate worse than death ...

... Or had she?

Did they really plan to rape me, Gudrun asked herself, or was she always meant to save me from them?

It was impossible to tell.  She knew just what horrors awaited prisoners, but she found it hard to believe that the SS guards in Germanica were so undisciplined that they would rape a prisoner without permission.  And yet ... she couldn't help feeling relief, clinging to Katharine like a drowning man would cling to a lifejacket.  But had the whole incident been set up to make her cling to Katharine?  She had no way to know.

She cursed under her breath as Katharine pulled her panties back into position, then helped Gudrun to walk slowly towards the door.  It was hard, so hard, to walk with a chain wrapped around her ankles.  If Katharine hadn't been holding her, she would have fallen over several times.  And yet ... what was Katharine doing?  Where were they going?

It was a relief to be out of the cell, but the interior of the building wasn’t particularly reassuring.  She couldn't help remembering the interior of the first prison she’d visited - and her old school, which had probably been designed by the same person.  Grey walls, solid metal doors ... no signs on the walls, let alone paintings or anything else that would give the building personality.  It was completely soulless ... she shivered, again, as they reached an elevator and stepped inside.  The air was, if anything, growing colder.  It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.

She hadn't wanted to talk to Katharine, but she couldn't help herself.  “Where are we going?”

The older woman gave her a cold look.  “Someone wants to see you.”

Gudrun winced as the elevator came to a halt.  She had a nasty feeling she knew precisely who they were going to see.  The doors hissed open, revealing a carpeted hallway leading down to a pair of heavy wooden doors.  She stepped gingerly out of the elevator, silently relieved to walk on something other than cold stone; Katharine helped her down the corridor, snarling at her whenever she looked left or right.  And yet, Gudrun couldn't help herself.  The walls were decorated in portraits of the honoured dead, all looking too handsome and muscular to be real.  She caught sight of a man who looked like Horst, drawn against a burning panzer and wondered, suddenly if he was a relative.  Horst had never said much about his father, merely that he’d died in the wars ...

Two SS stormtroopers stood guard outside the doors, their eyes barely flickering over Gudrun as she approached.  They didn't even seem to be aware that she was practically naked!  She felt a sudden flicker of anger as Katharine spoke to the guards, realising that she’d been right all along.  The guards who had dragged her out of her cell had been acting, giving Katharine an opportunity to play the hero ... she pushed the thought aside, sharply, as the doors opened to reveal the largest office she’d ever seen.  A single wooden desk was positioned at the far end, a man she recognised from his photographs sitting behind it.  And seventeen men were standing against the wall, staring at her.

Gudrun had to fight to keep from cringing.  She’d been brought here - chained up, almost nude - to humiliate her in front of the men.  Karl Holliston, sitting behind the desk, had planned the whole thing.  He didn't think of women as fit for anything, save for being mothers, daughters and housewives.  Exposing her was merely the first step towards undermining everything she’d done.  It would be hard for any of the men to respect her after they’d seen her in such a fallen state ...

She shivered.  Two years ago, a girl she’d known - vaguely - had been expelled after allowing her boyfriend to take nude photographs of her.  Gudrun and her girlfriends had been horrified.  How could she have allowed her boyfriend to take photographs that might - easily - fall into the wrong hands?  No one had ever looked at her the same way again.  In the end, she’d emigrated to Germany South, where all that mattered was the right bloodline and the ability to bear children.  Gudrun had no idea what had happened to the poor girl after that.

Katharine pushed her forward, gently.  Gudrun braced herself, stood as firmly as the chains would allow and began to walk towards the desk.  The watching men made no sound, no catcalls nor expressions of pity; they just watched as she stepped forward.  Holliston’s face twisted oddly as he studied her, his expression dark and cold.  Gudrun shivered, despite herself.  Holliston wasn't interested in anything, but power.  He’d do anything to keep it.

She came to a halt and stared at him, forcing herself to meet his eyes.  She’d met enough powerful men - her father had always seemed all-powerful to her - to know that open defiance was rarely welcomed.  Neither her father nor her male teachers had been pleased when she'd talked back to them, although - in all honesty - her mother and her female teachers had been pretty much the same.  Hell, it had been harder to predict what would set her mother off ...

“Gudrun,” Holliston said.  His voice was very cold.  “Battle-maiden.”

Gudrun felt a hot flash of anger.  Only Konrad had ever called her that, back when they’d been getting to know one another.  He’d said it to tease her ...

“You could have borne the Reich many strong sons,” Holliston continued.  “Instead, you chose to bring it down.”

It was hard to keep the smirk off her face, despite the danger.  Holliston and his ilk had never considered that a mere woman could be dangerous.  Hell, Gudrun had been eighteen when Konrad had been wounded.  Old enough to marry, old enough to bear children, but not old enough to be considered a responsible adult.  She’d practically been a minor child, as far as the law was concerned; she’d certainly enjoyed no greater rights at eighteen than at eight.  But then, Holliston probably needed a woman to be a grandmother before he started taking her seriously ...

She threw caution to the winds.  “The man I was going to marry was wounded in one of your wars,” she said.  There was no point in trying to hide it.  She’d told the story often enough that it had probably reached Germanica by now.  “And you didn't even have the decency to tell us what had happened to him.”

Holliston showed no visible reaction to her words.  “Your boyfriend gave his life in defence of civilisation,” he said.  “You betrayed him.”

Gudrun felt another surge of anger.  That comment stung.  Konrad would not have approved of her standing up to the Reich.  He’d been a loyal SS stormtrooper.  And she’d married Horst ...

“He didn't die,” she said.  “You kept him alive, unable to heal him and unable to just let him go.  You betrayed him.”

She forced her voice to harden.  “You betrayed everyone.”

“And you betrayed the Reich,” Holliston countered.  “Or have you forgotten the oath you swore every day at school?  And when you joined the BDM?”

“I forgot nothing,” Gudrun said.  He had a point, she had to admit.  She’d been swearing loyalty long before she’d actually known what the words meant.  “But the Reich betrayed its citizens first.”

She leaned forward, almost overbalancing and falling over.  “Konrad was your ideal,” she said.  “Brave and bold, blonde and strong; I could have been happy as his wife, bearing his children and bringing them up while he fought to defend the Reich.  But instead he was killed in an unwinnable war and you didn't even have the decency to admit what happened to him.

“And if that is what you will do to Konrad,” she added, “what will you do to everyone who does not come up to scratch?  Your stormtroopers killed young men in Germany Prime, they raped and abused young women.  How can you claim to be fighting for the Volk when you abuse it?”

She looked at the other men in the room.  “What will happen to your sons?  Or to your daughters?”

“Be silent,” Holliston said.

Gudrun ignored him.  She’d been silent for too long.  Eighteen years of her life had been spent accepting that her place in the world would always be subordinate to a man, even though she’d managed to win a place at university.  She’d loved Konrad - she admitted it to herself - but she knew now she would never have been happy as a housewife, doing nothing more than cooking his food and bearing his children.   And perhaps she would have been left alone if Konrad had gone back to the war and died there.

“You and yours ruled the Reich for forty years,” she said, turning back to him.  If these were going to be her last words, they were going to be good ones.  “And yet you’re scared to let the people breathe.  You ran the entire country into the ground!  Do you really think I could have gotten anywhere if the people hadn't had a cause?  You made your own enemies.”

She allowed her voice to harden.  “You did this to us,” she added.  “Your entire claim to power is based on a lie.”

“I do not expect you to understand,” Holliston said.  His voice dripped contempt.  “You’re only a girl.”

Gudrun bit down on her reaction, hard.  He wanted her to scream at him; he wanted her to explode in feminine rage, to prove to his allies that Gudrun was just an emotional girl - a child - whose opinion was too emotional to be valid.  But she’d sat on the cabinet, back in Berlin.  She’d learned more, she suspected, than he’d ever realised.  And keeping her temper under control was only part of it.

“I don’t think that anyone has any doubt that I am a young woman,” she said, shrugging as through her near-nakedness didn't bother her.  “But does that make me wrong?”

She looked up, her eyes moving from face to face.  “Does that make me wrong?”

Holliston made no attempt to answer the question.  Part of her considered that to be a good thing, a tacit confession that he had no answer.  But the rest of her knew it wasn’t ideal.  She could be right - or wrong - and yet it didn't matter.  She was still a prisoner, trapped hundreds of miles from her friends and comrades.  And even if they knew where she was, getting to her would be almost impossible.  She was doomed.

“You will be interrogated until we have drained every last scrap of information from you,” Holliston informed her, instead.  “And then you will be put on trial for crimes against the Reich.”

Gudrun almost smiled.  A trial?  The Reich rarely bothered with trials.  A criminal was guilty - if he wasn't guilty, he wouldn't be in jail.  But she knew exactly what he had in mind.  He could order her shot at any moment, but that would just make her a martyr.  She’d be more dangerous to him in death than she’d ever been in life.  He needed to break her - to discredit her - before he killed her.  By then, death would probably be a relief.

“Take her back to her cell,” he ordered.  “And make sure she’s held securely.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Katharine said.

Gudrun gritted her teeth as Katharine swung her around, then forced herself to walk towards the door.  She was damned if she was showing weakness now, despite the humiliation.  If she was a prisoner, she'd be a tough prisoner ...

And maybe I can work on Katherine too, she thought, as she made her way out of the door and back down the corridor.  She might have ideas of her own now.

It wasn't much, she acknowledged.  But it was all she had.

Chapter Five

Berlin, Germany Prime
29 October 1985

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

Horst Albrecht shook his head, crossly.  Kurt Wieland seemed to veer constantly between a determination to leave as quickly as possible and an understandable fear that they wouldn't be able to get past the first set of checkpoints.  Horst didn't really blame him for being conflicted - he was an officer in the Heer, not someone who should be assigned to a stealth mission - but it was annoying.  It was quite hard to see how Gudrun and Kurt were actually related.

“There is no way to guarantee this will work,” Horst said.  He glanced down at the forged papers, checking them again and again for any mistakes.  It wasn't the first time he’d been an infiltrator, but the consequences for getting caught this time would be far worse.  “If you want to go back to the infantry, go now.”

He ignored Kurt’s flash of anger as he checked the final pair of ID cards.  They weren’t precisely forgeries - they’d been produced at the SS office in Berlin - but they wouldn't match the records in Germanica.  The SS had a mania for good records keeping - just about every German had a file, buried somewhere in the government bureaucracy - and a particularly alert officer might wonder why there wasn't a copy within reach.  Horst would have been surprised if the SS-run government hadn't started changing everything it could, just to prevent the provisional government from sending spies and commandos into its territory.

But changing all of the ID cards in Germany East would be a long and time-consuming process, he told himself.  The ID cards had been changed once, years ago; it had taken months before every last set of old papers had been collected and replacements issued by the bureaucracy.  And that had been in peacetime.  There will be so much disruption in Germany East that changing the ID cards will be the least of their problems.

“They should suffice,” he said, finally.  “Are you coming?”

“Of course,” Kurt snapped.

Horst sighed, inwardly.  Kurt had admitted, reluctantly, that he blamed himself for the whole mess.  If he hadn't helped Gudrun break into the hospital, Gudrun would never have kick-started the whole chain of events that had led down to civil war.  But Horst suspected Kurt was wrong.  Gudrun, his wife and lover, was simply too determined to be deterred for long, even by her family’s disapproval.  She would have found another way into the hospital.

“Very good,” Horst said.  He would have preferred to go alone, even though he knew that having a second pair of hands along might be helpful.  He’d been steeped in SS culture and tradition almost as soon as he could walk; Kurt, for all of his undoubted bravery, lacked the background he needed to pass unremarked.  “Read the papers and memorise them.”

Kurt gave him a sharp look as he picked up the first folder.  “Do you expect this to be necessary?”

“It depends,” Horst said.  He smirked, suddenly.  “Are you circumcised?”

Kurt glared.  “No!”

“Good,” Horst said.  “It’s very rare for anyone to be circumcised in Germany East.  If you had been, we would have had to alter the file to reflect that.”

He picked up his own folder and read it through again, reminding himself of the details.  It was a careful balance between truth and lies, classing him as a resident of Germany East on one hand and an SS Hauptsturmfuehrer with special orders to report to Germanica on the other.  He knew enough about the various special operations divisions to pass for a commando, as long as he didn't run into an actual commando.  It was all too possible that the person they encountered would know everyone in his unit by name or reputation.

And I won’t know all the private jokes and traditions, he thought.  I could be tripped up quite easily.

“There’s a surprising amount of truth here,” Kurt said, finally.  “Is it wise for me to be a native of Berlin?”

“Your accent marks you out as a Berliner,” Horst said.  Kurt would have lost the accent, if he’d been trained in Germany East.  “There’s no point in trying to pass you off as an Easterner.”

He scowled.  Kurt’s accent was a problem, even though they’d done their best to compensate for it.  There were plenty of SS officers who had been born and trained in Germany Prime, but in these days ... they’d just have to hope they didn't run into someone who would be automatically suspicious of a Westerner.  It shouldn’t be that much of a danger.  Karl Holliston had been born in Berlin, after all.

“Never mind that,” he added.  “Do you know the songs?”

“Most of them,” Kurt said.  He didn't sound pleased.  “We learned them in the Hitler Youth.”

“There’ll be some verses you weren't taught,” Horst said.  He couldn't imagine parents being very pleased if their children had been taught the more bloodcurdling verses.  “We’ll go over that later, just in case we are invited to sing with the men.”

Kurt gave him a sidelong look.  “Is that likely?”

“The SS prides itself on being one big happy family,” Horst said.  “There’s a great deal of rivalry, of course, but it’s never brutal.”

“Really,” Kurt said, sarcastically.

Horst nodded.  It was rare - almost unknown - for officers in the Heer to socialise with their men, but SS officers were expected to spend a great deal of time with their men.  And local units would often fraternise with other units.  It was supposed to help, when the units were mashed together into improvised battlegroups.  The men already knew and respected their new comrades.

“The SS is not the Heer,” he said, finally.  “Don’t make the mistake of assuming they’re the same, just because they use the same weapons.  There’s a lot of little differences between them.”

“And I might slip up because of them,” Kurt said.  “Perhaps I’ll just let you do the talking.”

“That would be a good idea,” Horst said, dryly.

He put the folder down and opened up the latest set of reports from the front.  The SS lines were firming up, unsurprisingly.  Horst knew the Waffen-SS.  They would have taken a beating, the defeat would have given them a terrible shock, but they were trained to recover from anything.  He could imagine the officers moving from unit to unit, collecting stragglers and slotting them into the front lines; filling holes in some units, disbanding others until after the war.  And probably doing whatever they could to slow down the advancing panzers as much as possible.  

They’ll need time to boost morale, Horst told himself.  Stopping a panzer or two won’t be enough.

Kurt looked up.  “Do you have a plan?”

“Slip through the lines,” Horst said.  He tapped the papers.  “We shouldn't have any trouble getting our hands on a jeep, once we show them our ID.  And then we just head east to Germanica.”

“That could take a while,” Kurt observed.

Horst nodded.  There were just over a thousand miles between Berlin and Germanica.  Even if they took the autobahns, even if nothing got in their way, it would take at least five or six days to reach Germanica.  And he knew there would be problems.  There were plenty of checkpoints on the autobahns.  

And even if there weren't, he thought, they’ll be using them to rush supplies and men to the front.

“So we reach Germanica,” Kurt added.  “What then?”

“We play it by ear,” Horst said.  In truth, there was no way to come up with a proper plan until they knew the situation on the ground.  “I have some ... contacts ... I might be able to convince to help us.  If they refuse - or if we can't meet them - we will have to think of something else.”

He scowled.  He’d seen the Reichstag in Germanica before, back when he’d gone to the city for a Victory Day parade.  It was a towering nightmare of stone and steel, protected by some of the finest stormtroopers in the Reich.  And now, it was playing host to the self-promoted Fuhrer of the Greater German Reich.  He would be surprised if the building wasn't ringed with defences, from antiaircraft guns to antitank weapons.  It wouldn't be strange for Germany East.  

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 as 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 nukes 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 nukes.  It is impossible to say just what will happen when the Heer goes east.

“Practically speaking, I’d give them a reasonably good chance of establishing a solid foothold in Germany East before winter intervenes,” he added.  “I find it hard to imagine that the SS held back many panzers and aircraft from their great offensive.  But I don’t know if they can make it all the way to Germanica before winter.  There’s plenty of space to trade for time, plenty of strongpoints and fortresses that would need to be reduced ... their logistics are going to be a major pain.”

“1941 all over again,” Andrew commented.

He’d studied Operation Barbarossa during his training and he still didn't understand how someone with even minimal military knowledge could have signed off on it without a few qualms.  The Germans had faced France on roughly equal terms - the French had even had a few advantages of their own - but they’d won through bringing vastly superior force to bear at the decisive point.  The Russians ... Russia was immense, with plenty of space to trade for time, while the Red Army was staggeringly powerful.  And the Germans had come far too close to losing.  

And if they hadn't declared war on Japan, he thought, we might have helped the Russians kick them out of Russia.

“It’s possible,” Knox agreed.  “We simply do not know.”

Turtledove nodded.  “And your recommendation, General?”

Knox considered it for a long moment.  “It should be noted,” he said, “that the longer the war rages on, the weaker the Germans will become.  And while that does raise the spectre of a nuclear release, it also offers the prospect of the Reich collapsing and the end of a global threat.  Whoever won the war would need to spend years rebuilding, if they could rebuild.”

He paused, thoughtfully.  “But we can probably do business with the Provisional Government,” he added.  “That is not true of the SS.”

Andrew nodded.  “In this case, the devil we don’t know is better than the one we do,” he said, flatly.  “The SS is a devil we know too well.”

He sighed.  “You've already heard stories of atrocities,” he added.  “What sort of nightmare will be unleashed if the SS wins the war?”

“That isn't our concern,” Knox said.  “Our sole concern is protecting America.”

“And a friendly regime in control of the Reich will be better for America than a regime that hates us,” Andrew pointed out.  “We can dicker with the Provisional Government.”

“Perhaps,” Turtledove said.  He smiled, rather sourly.  “Washington may overrule our recommendations anyway.”

“Of course,” Knox grunted.  “The people in Washington aren't the people on the spot.”

Andrew winced.  He hadn't been back to the United States since before the crisis had begun, but he had been hearing things through the grapevine.  Everyone wanted to have their say, from Poles and Frenchmen who wanted their countries to be independent to groups that wanted to isolate America from the world or even support the Nazis.  And everyone was likely to be disappointed.  Poland no longer existed - the Poles who had escaped were the only true Poles left in existence - and France was a shadow of its former self.  Andrew suspected it would take generations for the French to recover, even if the Germans pulled out tomorrow ...

And while the Provisional Government is better than the SS, he added silently, they’ll still put German interests first.

Knox was right, he knew.  Distance - and wishful thinking - had played a large role in several foreign policy disasters; now, with a nuclear power wracked by civil war, the disaster could be a great deal worse.  But the President would have to balance a number of competing factions if he wanted to steer America through the growing crisis ... and that might be impossible.  There were midterm elections coming up.

“I shall discuss the matter with Washington,” Turtledove said.  “Andrew, do you wish to return to the front lines?”

“As long as they will have me,” Andrew said.  “The chance to watch the war is not one to be dismissed.”

“As long as it doesn't kill you,” Knox said, dryly.

Andrew shrugged.  He was an OSS operative, not an ambassador.  The prospect of being scooped up by the SS had always loomed over him, even though - technically - he had diplomatic immunity.  It wouldn't be the first time someone had ‘vanished’ in Berlin, or suffered what looked like a random mugging; he’d known the risks, he’d accepted the risks, when he'd taken the job.  The prospect of being killed in battle, even as an observer, seemed cleaner, somehow.

“I know the risks,” he said.

Turtledove nodded.  “Get a good night’s sleep first,” he said.  “And make sure you eat a good meal before you go back to the front.”

Yes, mother, Andrew thought.

He couldn't blame Turtledove for worrying.  The Germans would feed him as long as he remained within their ranks, but their rations weren't very good, certainly not by American standards.  And he’d been hearing dire rumours about the food situation, rumours that hadn't been quashed by the sudden influx of supplies.  It made him wonder, deep inside, if the Reich was on the verge of starvation as well as everything else.  But there was no way to be sure.

At least until it happens, he thought, coldly.

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, rising.  “I’ll make sure of it.”

***
There were times, Volker had to admit, when he thought he understood Karl Holliston’s desire for power perfectly.

He was Chancellor, but he wasn't omnipotent; he could make some decisions, but others had to be decided by consensus.  And this decision, perhaps the most important of all, was one that had to be unanimous.  There was no way he could push it forward on his own authority.

“We are currently bringing up additional panzer divisions, along with supporting elements and aircraft,” Voss said.  His finger traced lines on the map as he spoke.  “If everything goes according to plan, we will be ready to launch a major offensive in two weeks.”

He paused.  “We will be thrusting towards Warsaw, but our principle objective will be to envelop and destroy the remaining SS forces in the region,” he continued.  “Once those forces have been crushed, we will reform our divisions and continue eastwards.  Our goal will be to capture Germanica before the first snowfall.”

There was a long pause.  “I acknowledge that there are risks involved,” he concluded.  “But I believe this offers the best chance for a speedy victory.”

Volker kept his expression under tight control, his face betraying none of his concerns.  The plan was daring, he had to admit.  Perhaps it was too daring.  Defeat would cripple them as surely as victory would cripple the enemy.  And yet ... and yet ... Voss was right.  It offered the best chance for a speedy victory.  

“Chancy,” Admiral Wilhelm Riess said, finally.  The Head of the Abwehr didn't sound impressed.  “If this plan fails, we will have nothing left.”

“We are already raising new units and bringing back others from South Africa,” Voss said, tartly.  “Defeat will weaken us badly, Admiral, but it will also weaken our enemies.”

“And we have to win the war quickly,” Foreign Minister Engelhard Rubarth said.  “We are already growing weak, Admiral.  It will not be long before our puppet states start thinking they can make decisions for themselves.”

If they’re not already contemplating the possibilities, Volker thought.  Even a relatively minor challenge to our power could prove disastrous.

“The South Africans are already turning unfriendly,” he said.  “And if they are turning unfriendly, how long will it be before others follow suit?”

“They have friends and allies in Germany East,” Riess pointed out.  “Of course they hate us.”

Volker nodded.  The SS had been the loudest supporter of the South African War, demanding - time and time again - that vast numbers of German soldiers were sent to prop up an increasingly unpopular government.  And then they’d lied about the war ... he fought down the sudden surge of hatred, forcing himself to think clearly.  If South Africa turned hostile, they could cause real trouble ...

“All the more reason to win quickly,” he said.  If they won the war in the next three months, they might be able to hold the Reich together.  “Can anyone think of a better option?”

There was no answer.  Volker wasn't surprised.  There was no compromise - no reasonable compromise - that Karl Holliston would accept.  Even a negotiated surrender would probably be rejected, unless it was complete, total and utterly unconditional.  Holliston didn't just want power, he wanted revenge.  And there wasn't a single person, sitting at the table, who would be safe if Holliston won the war.  They’d all be lucky if they were merely executed.

“So we proceed,” he said.  “Any dissent?”

“We can shift our goals, if the offensive fails,” Riess said.  “Can’t we?”

“We have contingency plans,” Voss assured him.  “Merely chewing up the remains of their divisions will make it easier for us to launch another offensive in the spring.”

“We will have to be stern with the Easterners,” Luther Stresemann said.  The Head of the Economic Intelligence Service looked grim.  “Far too many of them are behind the SS.”

Volker winced.  The SS’s propaganda offensive was crude, but it was effective.  The Easterners knew they lived on the edge of civilisation.  They wouldn't forsake the SS unless they believed their interests would be protected.

“We treat them firmly, but with compassion,” he said, bluntly.  “Unless they turn on us.”

“They will,” Voss said.  He sounded very sure of himself.  “We have to be ready to take strong action.”

“But no atrocities,” Volker said.  There were fire-eaters who wanted to retaliate for everything the SS had done, but he knew it couldn't be permitted.  “I don’t want a single incident they can use against us.”

But he knew, even as he said it, that it was nothing more than wishful thinking.

Chapter Seven

Germanica (Moscow), Germany East
29 October 1985

Karl Holliston rarely liked to admit his mistakes.  It was, he’d learned as a child, a form of weakness.  And yet, he conceded, dragging Gudrun into his office - in chains - had been a mistake.  He’d expected a cringing girl, but he’d underestimated her.  The questions she’d asked - the questions he’d dismissed - had struck a nerve.  Far too many of his subordinates would have asked those questions themselves, if it had been safe to do so.

He scowled as he walked into the Map Room.  It would be easy to have Gudrun shot - or tortured - but that would serve no purpose.  He needed to break her.  And he needed to use her to break her friends and allies in the treacherous Provisional Government.  But that would take time, time he suspected he didn't have.

“I have received word from one of my agents in Berlin,” he said, once the door was firmly closed.  It wasn't something he would have said out loud, not normally, but he needed to remind his officers that he had access to sources they didn't have.  The Waffen-SS had good reason to be annoyed with him.  “The enemy is planning an early offensive.”

Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler frowned.  “How early?”

“As in the next two weeks,” Karl said, flatly.  “They’re planning to pocket our forces and destroy them.”

Ruengeler turned his attention to the map.  “They’ll find it hard to get enough forces into position to pocket ours,” he said.  “We blew all the bridges and mined most of the roads ...”

His voice trailed off.  “They’d have to erect pontoon bridges as they went along,” he mused, slowly.  “But if they were determined ... and they had enough air cover.”

Karl nodded, impatiently.  The Waffen-SS had concentrated on close support aircraft for the troops, not jet fighters.  Normally, the Luftwaffe would have provided top cover, but now the remainder of the Luftwaffe was on the wrong side.  And losses during the Battle of Berlin had been staggering.  His few remaining aircraft had been pulled back from the front lines to airbases where they would be held in reserve, implicitly conceding the skies to the rebels ...

And if they bring in help from the Americans, he thought, we will never regain air superiority.

“We will have to pull back our forces,” Ruengeler said.  “If we lose the remaining divisions, Mein Fuhrer, we will lose the war along with them.”

“No,” Karl said.  “We cannot let the enemy gain a foothold in Germany East.”

Ruengeler looked unconvinced.  “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, “if they destroy those divisions, they will gain that foothold anyway.”

“It isn't that simple,” Karl said.

He scowled at the map.  Ruengeler was a military man.  He didn’t understand the political issue - or the looming disaster threatening the entire Reich.  If the rebels gained control of a substantial section of Germany East, they could use it to undermine his support and encourage his subordinates to overthrow him.  The collective loyalty of the senior Gauleiters couldn't have filled a thimble.  If they saw their power under threat, they would try to find ways to come to terms with the rebels.

And while they will probably fail, he thought savagely, they will probably bring me down with them.

The thought made him clench his fists in rage.  If he’d assumed supreme power earlier ... but he hadn't.  There were too many high-ranking officers and party leaders who owed nothing to him, who feared that he would promote his favourites above their heads.  Karl couldn't risk alienating them, not yet.  But by keeping them around, he was giving them a chance to stick a knife in his back ...

The entire edifice is unstable, he reminded himself.  We haven't had a proper Fuhrer for far too long.

Ruengeler coughed.  “Mein Fuhrer?”

Karl almost jumped.  Ruengeler had been speaking and he hadn't been listening.  But he didn't dare ask what the younger man had said.  He couldn't show weakness, not now.

“We cannot abandon Warsaw,” he said, instead.  “The rebels would be able to use it to funnel their troops further east.”

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.  “But we cannot defend Warsaw either.”

Karl looked up at him.  “We have nukes,” he said.  “Perhaps it’s time we used them.”

Ruengeler hesitated.  “Mein Fuhrer,” he said slowly, “they have nukes too.”

“Yes, they do,” Karl agreed.  “But will they be willing to use them on their fellow Germans?”

He pointed a finger at the map.  “If they push forward and fight a conventional battle,” he said, “they will have a good chance of crushing us.  Correct?”

“Correct, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.  

“And if we retreat eastwards, we concede too much territory to them,” Karl added.  “We need a third option.”

He studied the map for a long moment.  “We let them thrust their spearheads forward, then hit them with nukes,” he said.  “That will send them stumbling back in disarray.”

“I would need to study the issue,” Ruengeler said, slowly.  “We have never deployed nukes on the battlefield.”

“Then do so, quickly,” Ruengeler ordered.  “We have to make it clear that we will not be crushed and broken!”

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said.

Karl nodded, then turned and headed for the door.  He’d be back later, but right now there was too much else to do.  His subordinates needed to be watched, carefully, as they carried out his orders.  He needed to nip any problems in the bud before they brought him down ...

... Or before someone decided to take advantage of the planned enemy offensive for themselves.

It was an open secret that many of the direct links between Germany Prime and Germany East were still usable.  The telephone network had been designed to survive an American attack.  He’d closed off some of the exchanges, of course, but many of his powerful subordinates would have little trouble using the network to make contact with friends and allies on the other side of the line.  Karl had no trouble imagining a particularly ambitious official planning an assassination, even as the Heer marched eastwards.  Someone who took the rebels Karl’s head would be assured of a warm welcome.

But he won’t be able to take it easily, he thought, darkly.  And that’s all that matters.

***
How the hell, Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler asked himself in the privacy of his own mind, did it come to this?

He knew better than to say it out loud.  The Reichstag was not a friendly place.  There were eyes and ears everywhere, just watching and waiting for someone to slip up so that they could be reported.  The merest hint of treachery would be enough to land someone in the camps, if they opened their mouth at the wrong time.  There was no one Alfred could talk to, even if he’d trusted anyone with his concerns.  His closest friends might betray him if they thought their lives - and those of their families - were at risk.

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 nukes?  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.  Nukes 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 nukes, 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 said.  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.

They picked the wrong side, he told himself.

But it wasn't convincing.  No one had expected a civil war, not even Gudrun.  Very few soldiers had voted with their feet, even when military bases had turned into battlegrounds; they’d stayed with their comrades rather than following their own inclination.  And most of the Waffen-SS would be fanatically loyal.  They knew what sort of chaos would be unleashed by the revolution.  The Untermenschen would rise up in revolt all over the Reich.

He sucked in his breath as he saw a tall man, wearing a Standartenfuehrer uniform, standing in front of one of the tents.  A Standartenfuehrer would not be so easily bullied, Horst knew; he’d want to make it clear that he was in charge, despite the wide-ranging authority granted to the Inspectorate.

“Heil Holliston,” the Standartenfuehrer said.

“Heil Holliston,” Horst returned.  He held out his papers.  “We require immediate transport back to Germanica.”

The Standartenfuehrer looked back at him evenly, then carefully went through Horst’s papers, one by one.  They should pass muster, Horst knew, but if the Standartenfuehrer insisted on checking with Germanica ... they’d be caught, before the mission had even fairly begun.  And then ... they’d be lucky if they were only marched out of the camp and shot.  It was quite possible that Holliston had marked Horst - and any member of Gudrun’s family - down for special attention.

“Very well, Herr Inspector,” the Standartenfuehrer said.  “We are sending a convoy of the wounded up to Warsaw in the morning.  You may accompany them.”

“We need a vehicle that can take us all the way to Germanica,” Horst said, firmly.  It would be perfectly in character for an Inspector to demand the very best, regardless of the practicalities.  “Herr Standartenfuehrer ...”

“We don’t have anything that can be spared,” the Standartenfuehrer said.  He sounded too tired to care that he had just interrupted an Inspector.  “You’ll have to go with the convoy.”

“Very well,” Horst said, trying to sound irritated.  “We’ll inspect the camp while we’re waiting.”

The Standartenfuehrer gave him a ghastly smile.  “Make sure you tell Germanica that we need more supplies out here, Herr Inspector,” he said.  “This camp is not going to hold against a determined offensive.”

“Of course,” Horst said.

He saluted the Standartenfuehrer, then led Kurt out of the tent.  Dawn was just beginning to glimmer in the distance, a wavering line of light heralding the approach of the day.  He resisted the urge to yawn as he nodded to the sentries, then strode over to the medical tent and glanced inside.  There were hundreds of wounded, including dozens who were too badly injured to be saved.  The others ... he shuddered as he recalled some of the horrors they’d uncovered in the files.  He had never known - never even considered - that the Nazi Regime would kill its own wounded soldiers ...

But they did, he thought.  

He looked away, unwilling to meet the eyes of men he knew would probably be killed if they didn't die soon.  The files had made it clear, written in glowing tones by people who didn't even have the decency to be ashamed of what they’d done.  Hundreds of thousands of Germans - good Germans, men with the proper bloodlines - had simply been exterminated, murdered by their own government.  And that had been the least of it.  Children born with birth defects - even minor birth defects - had been murdered too ...

And we never knew, he told himself.  None of us ever realised what had happened.

It made him wonder - again - what had happened to his father.  Uncle Emil had told Horst that his father had been killed in one of the wars - and Uncle Emil should have known - but he hadn't gone into detail.  Did he know what had happened?  Or had something been covered up?  There was no way to independently verify anything they'd been told.  For all Horst knew, his father had been so badly wounded that he’d been murdered by his own government.  

And I might never know, he thought.

He wandered through the camp, doing his best to memorise the details.  He’d probably be called upon to give a report when they reached Warsaw, even if they were given a vehicle and told to make their own way to Germanica.  And there might be a chance to slip a report back to Berlin, even though he knew it was unlikely ...

Two hours later, they were called over to join a small collection of trucks heading east.  The wounded didn't look very comfortable - the trucks had clearly been designed to transport goods, rather than people - but none of them were in any fit state to complain.  Horst bit down the urge to make sarcastic remarks - he couldn't help noticing that none of the badly-wounded men were being shipped to Warsaw - as he clambered into the front seat.  Kurt followed him as the lorry roared to life.  Thankfully, the enlisted man in the driver’s seat didn't seem inclined to make conversation.

“Get some sleep,” he urged Kurt.  “It’s a long drive to Warsaw.”

He kept a wary eye on the sky as the convoy lurched down the road to the autobahn.  It was unlikely that the Luftwaffe would deliberately target wounded men, but any prowling pilot wouldn't know what the trucks were carrying until it was far too late.  Besides, wrecking the SS’s logistics network would suit the Provisional Government perfectly.  But there seemed to be no aircraft in the sky.

They’re digging in, he thought, as they passed a line of stormtroopers working on a trench network.  And getting ready to make us bleed.

He scowled, inwardly, as they passed more and more signs of enemy activity.  Trenches, weapons positions, a handful of panzers dug into the undergrowth so they’d be almost completely invisible, except at very short range.  A number of trenches were being dug by men and women in civilian clothes, people he assumed had been conscripted by the SS during the march towards Berlin.   He couldn't help noticing that most of the civilians were middle-aged, with no children, teenagers or elderly.  It struck him as an ominous sign.

They could have shipped the children east, if they weren't already evacuated, he told himself, slowly.  He wanted to believe it.  Hell, if there had been teenage boys in the towns and villages, they would probably have been conscripted into the army.  If the children were still there ...

He shook his head, sourly.  There were just too many secrets buried in the Reich’s past.  A few hundred children, torn from their parents and raised as Germans in Germany East, would hardly be the worst of them.  He glanced at Kurt, then closed his eyes himself.  They’d need to be alert when they reached Warsaw.

It felt like he hadn't slept at all when the truck finally lurched to a stop.  Horst elbowed Kurt - he’d managed to sleep through the entire drive - then clambered out of the vehicle, just in time to see a small army of medics carting the wounded into the city.  A number had died in transit; their bodies were dumped to the side, waiting to be placed in a mass grave.  It wasn't common for bodies to be returned to their families, not in Germany East.  Horst ... had simply never wondered just how sinister the procedure was until now.

Makes it easier to hide something, he thought.

“Herr Inspector,” an Obersturmbannfuehrer said.  “We have readied a car for you to drive east.”

Horst allowed himself a moment of relief.  He’d feared they would have to take the railway, which would have gotten them there quicker ... but forced them to pass through a whole series of checkpoints.  Transit within Germany East was heavily restricted.  He thanked the officer coldly - as if it was the very least he could do - and then allowed himself to be led outside.  The car - a Volkswagen painted black - was already waiting for them.  A small flag fluttered from the radio aerial on the roof, identifying the vehicle as an official car; a packet of maps lay on the front seat, just to make it easy for them to find their way to Germanica.

“Try not to drive at night, Herr Inspector,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer warned.  “I suggest you stop at settlements along the way.”

Kurt frowned.  “Might I ask why, Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer?”

“There have been a number of reported attacks along the roadside,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer told him.  “It’s safer to sleep in a settlement.”

Horst nodded, slowly.  He’d thought the bandits had been cleared out of the western sections of Germany East, but it was clear they were having a resurgence.  And why not?  Most of the defenders had been marched west to fight the civil war.  Germany East was huge.  Forty years of occupation hadn't been enough to exterminate every last trace of Slavic resistance.

“We will find a place to sleep in the settlements,” he said, frankly.  It would be another risk - the settlements might also check their credentials - but it had to be done.  “I thank you.”

“Just make sure they know we need reinforcements, Herr Inspector,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer said.  “We stripped the city bare to support the offensive ...”

He stopped talking, suddenly.  His words were far too close to defeatist.  And defeatism was punishable by death.

Horst winced at the thought.  What wasn’t?

“I’ll make sure they know,” Horst assured him.  “We have orders to give our report to the Fuhrer in person.”

He climbed into the car and checked it, carefully.  It wasn't that different from the cars he'd learned to drive when he was younger; indeed, the only real difference was a military radio installed beside the steering wheel.  Civilians weren't allowed radio transmitters without a special licence.  Who knew what they might put on the airwaves?

But we will need to summon help if we run into trouble, Horst thought.  If an Obersturmbannfuehrer was prepared to admit the existence of bandits to a pair of inspectors, the situation had to be worse than it seemed.  And if we do, we might attract far too much attention.

He turned the key.  The engine roared to life,

“Let’s go,” he said.  They’d stop, once they were well outside the city, to inspect the car for hidden surprises.  “We’ll get as far as we can before it gets dark.”

Chapter Nine

Berlin, Germany Prime
30 October 1985

“I wish you weren't going,” Adelinde Wieland said.  “Herman, you have absolutely nothing to prove.”

“I’m an experienced soldier as well as a policeman,” Herman said.  “They need me.”

“The war will not be won or lost because a slightly-overweight policeman picked up a rifle or not,” Adelinde said, curtly.  “I may be a mere woman, but even I know that!”

Herman winced, inwardly.  Nothing was the same any more.  His daughter had turned the Reich upside down, his wife had turned into a politician ... he honestly didn't know where to stand.  A year ago, he could have forbidden Adelinde - or Gudrun - from leaving the house, secure in the knowledge the law would back him up.  Now ... Adelinde would laugh at him if he tried.  And he had never raised a hand to her before ...

He took a sip of his coffee instead, wincing at the taste.  They might be living in the Reichstag now, but they still couldn't get good coffee.  And breakfast had been nothing more than bacon, cheese and bread.

“I have to go,” he said, finally.  “There’s no place for me here.”

“Foolish man,” Adelinde said.  He would have snapped at her, perhaps broken his private rule about never striking her, if he hadn't seen the tears in her eyes.  “I don’t want to lose you just because you think you have something to prove.”

Herman sighed, heavily.  “Where else can I go?”

He met her eyes.  “I won’t be a policeman much longer, even with our ... connections,” he said.  He’d never taken advantage of his daughter’s position before and he was damned if he was starting now.  “The provisional government will disband most of us after the fighting is over - if we survive long enough to be disbanded.  And what can I do then?  Stay in bed like Frank?”

“My father died to save our lives,” Adelinde pointed out, stiffly.

“He died to save Gudrun’s life,” Herman said.  It was irritating.  He’d cordially disliked his father-in-law almost from the very moment Frank had moved in with them, but Frank had died a hero.  “And I don’t want to be useless.”

Adelinde shook her head.  “Please,” she said.  “Don’t go.”

“I’ve already given them my word,” Herman said.  “And you’ll find it easier to ... to work if I’m not around.”

He sighed heavily, feeling an odd surge of bitter hopelessness.  Nothing was the same any longer.  And he was really too old to learn new tricks.  He’d thought everything was predictable, a year ago; his sons would serve in the military, marry good women and sire children, while his daughter would become a housewife, bearing and raising the children of a good man.  But now his daughter was a revolutionary, the country was gripped by civil war, and his wife wanted a career outside the home.  And his entire family had been marked for death.

If I’d stopped Gudrun from going to university, he thought, would she be free now?

It was a bitter thought.  He’d known how much the university meant to her, even though she couldn't really do anything with a degree.  What sort of man would be comfortable taking orders from a woman?  Or hiring one, when there were plenty of male candidates for any given job?  He’d honestly thought she was wasting her time.  Hell, she could have gotten married at seventeen and had two or three children by now.  No one would have thought any worse of her if she’d dropped out of school to marry and have kids.  But instead ...

“I can't stay here and worry,” he admitted.  “I have to keep myself occupied.”

Adelinde lowered her eyes.  “Then take care of yourself,” she said.  She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears.  “And come back to me.”

Herman gave her a tight hug.  He loved his wife.  He’d loved her ever since he’d married her; he’d loved her, even when money had gotten tight and they’d had arguments that could probably be heard down the street.  They’d lived together for twenty-five years; they’d raised their children together.  And even now, even when he didn't feel as though he understood the world any longer, he still loved her.

“I’ll come back,” he promised.

He kissed her once, tenderly, then picked up his jacket and walked out the door, heading down to the gates.  The soldiers on duty saluted him as he passed; he saluted them back, then kept walking.  He’d never really felt comfortable being feted, particularly as he hadn’t earned it in his own right.  It was why he’d stayed a policeman after Gudrun had become a politician, even though he could have traded on her connections to rise in the ranks.  He wouldn't have felt comfortable boosting his own position.

And I don’t know what’s happened to her, he thought, numbly.  Where is she?

He pushed the thought aside, somehow, as he made his way through the streets.  Berlin felt different these days, now the siege was at an end.  The massive street parties had faded, replaced by deserted houses as the older members of the city’s population were evacuated west and the younger members were pushed into the army.  Even the young women had been given jobs, helping to clear the streets of rubble and keeping the city running.  Herman couldn't help wondering just what would happen in the future, now that Gudrun had shown that it was possible for a woman - a woman who was practically still a girl - to overthrow the government.  Women wouldn't remain subservient any longer.

The camp had been erected on the far side of the city, one of many providing refresher training to young men who had either left the military or had never served past the Hitler Youth.  Herman joined the line of younger and middle-aged men and waited patiently until the guard checked his papers, then followed the pointing finger into the nearest set of barracks.  A doctor gave him a quick check-up - he couldn't help noticing that he was assisted by a pair of BDM maidens, something that would have been unthinkable in his day - before ordering him into the next room.  Herman stepped through the door and joined another line of prospective soldiers, almost all of whom seemed to be middle-aged.  He recognised a couple from the police and walked over to join them.  The others seemed to be workers from all over the city.

They’ll have gotten their release from their employers, he thought, as a trio of NCOs ordered the men through another set of doors and onto the training field.  They wouldn't have been allowed to sign up without it.

He pushed the thought aside as the NCOs started to bark orders, putting the men through their paces.  It was ... kinder than he recalled, back when he’d been a paratrooper; he wondered, absently, if it was a subtle blessing or an unsubtle insult.  He wasn't the young man he’d been in those days, he knew; he was more mature, more controlled, but also less fit.  He dreaded to think what the Hitler Youth would have done, if he’d turned up in such a state.  Public humiliation would have been the least of it.

The memory made him shiver.  There had been a boy in his class, a smart boy who’d been unfortunate enough to be a little pudgy.  The Hitler Youth had put him through hell, mocking his weight, forcing him to humiliate himself time and time again ... in the end, the boy had committed suicide and the instructors had just laughed, pointing to him as a prime example of a weak failure of a man.  His parents had done nothing ... Herman had no idea if they’d tried and failed, or if they’d hoped the Hitler Youth would make a man of their son.  And now ...

He could have kicked his past self for laughing.  They’d laughed and joked about taking everything that was dumped on them, from endless exercises and forced marches to savage - often sadistic - corporal punishment.  His own father had told him that pain was weakness leaving the body.  But Herman had never been singled out, never been mocked in front of the entire class.  Who knew what would have become of him if he had?

The Hitler Youth will not survive the coming years, he told himself, as the exercise routine finally came to an end.  And the BDM has already been disbanded.  Gudrun saw to it personally.

“Those of you who survived are being assigned to a rifle company,” the lead NCO bellowed, his voice shaking the parade ground.  Herman looked around and discovered, to his shock, that a third of the volunteers had dropped out.  He hoped, grimly, that it meant they’d merely discovered they couldn't continue.  “You’ll be issued weapons, then marched to the shooting range.”

And hope to hell we have enough bullets to sight our rifles properly, Herman thought, as they were marched to the next set of barracks.  If we are short of ammunition, we may be in some trouble.

He gritted his teeth, feeling his body ache as he marched.  Once, he’d marched over forty miles in a single day; now, he felt old and drained from a handful of exercises.  Being a policeman in Berlin had seemed hard, but he should have known it was far - far - easier than being a soldier.  Old age had crept up on him without him ever realising it.  He winced as they walked past a group of younger men, the youngest barely old enough to shave.  They looked far more energetic than the older men.

But we have to do what we can, Herman told himself, firmly.  There’s nothing else we can do.

***
“You don’t look American,” a voice said, as Andrew stepped into the office.  “That’s probably a good thing.”

“Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant,” Andrew said.  “Can I pass for a Heer officer?”

Oberleutnant Sebastian Riemer looked Andrew up and down thoughtfully.  “Probably not,” he said, after a moment.  “Your German is perfect, but your pose is subtly wrong - you’d probably alarm anyone if you tried to take command.”

Andrew nodded, shortly.  Riemer was unusual for a German soldier, in that he had close family connections in America.  It was probably why he’d been detailed to escort Andrew, even though he was a potential security risk.  He’d actually been in America, unlike almost every other officer Andrew had met.  And, compared to the humourless SS officers who’d escorted him around before the civil war, he was a decent man.

Which doesn't mean he won’t be loyal to the Reich, Andrew reminded himself firmly.  The younger man was blond enough to have stepped off a recruiting poster, his eyes so blue as to be almost unreal.  You cannot take the risk of trying to recruit him as a source.

“We’ve prepared papers for you,” Riemer added, picking up a wallet from the table and holding it out.  “Make sure you stick to the cover story if you get caught.”

“Understood,” Andrew said.  Posing as a German officer was risky, but being identified as American after being taken prisoner by the SS would be worse.  Karl Holliston was unlikely to give much of a damn about American opinion after the United States had already intervened in the conflict.  “I take it I don’t have any actual authority?”

Riemer shot him a wry smile.  “What do you think?”

Andrew smiled back as Riemer escorted him through the door and down to the underground car park.  A small vehicle - it looked so much like a jeep that Andrew was sure someone had stolen the plans from America - was waiting for them, a young soldier in the front seat.  He climbed into the back and forced himself to relax as the jeep headed up the ramp and out onto the streets.  Berlin seemed almost deserted.

Shortages of fuel, Andrew thought, grimly.  Everything they have has been earmarked for the military.

He considered it for a long moment.  The Reich had access to the vast oil fields of the Middle East, but the SS was in a good position to block all shipments to Germany Prime.  That left the oil fields in Ploesti, yet they were supposed to be on the verge of running dry.  It made him wonder just how bad the shortages were, in Germany Prime.  The Reich was supposed to have put together a strategic oil reserve that made America’s look small, but he had no idea what had happened to it.  By now, the demands of war might be making it run dry.

“You’ll be attached to a forward command post,” Riemer informed him, as they drove past the barricades surrounding Berlin and out into the countryside.  “If you want to go further into the field, you may do so - but we cannot guarantee your safety.”

Andrew nodded.  He’d seen too much of the fighting before the Waffen-SS had been driven away from the city, but he’d never realised just how much of the outskirts had been reduced to bloody rubble.  Men and women - a surprising number of women - were poking their way through the debris, dragging out bodies and dumping them in the nearest mass grave; military engineers were working over the burned-out panzers, looking for pieces that could be salvaged and put back into service.  It looked as though hundreds of panzers had been destroyed in the fighting, although Andrew had no way to know for sure.

A dull explosion echoed in the distance.  Andrew glanced east and saw a plume of smoke rising into the air.  A pair of aircraft headed eastward at terrifying speed, but evidently saw nothing worth attacking.  Riemer didn't even bother to look.

“They’ve been scattering mines and improvised bombs around as they make their way eastward,” he commented.  “We’ve got teams out there scouring for booby traps, but they’re very good at hiding them.”

“They probably learned from the insurgents,” Andrew commented.  American troops had had problems with IEDs too, in Mexico.  “Don't you have any locals who can help find them?”

Riemer gave him a sharp look.  “Most of the locals were evacuated,” he said, crossly.  “I wouldn't give two rusty Reichmarks for the fate of the remainder.”

Andrew frowned.  The Provisional Government had been filling the airwaves with tales of SS atrocities, although he had a feeling that most of their claims were being taken with a pinch of salt.  German civilians were so used to being lied to - so used to being told lies that made it clear that their lords and masters didn't have any respect for their intelligence - that they rarely believed anything they heard on the radio.  But Andrew had heard enough - from his contacts and sources - to know that there had been atrocities.  The Easterners had forgotten that the Westerners were also German.

He kept his thoughts to himself as they passed a line of men, wearing military uniforms and marching east.  Andrew couldn't help thinking that they looked surprisingly old for soldiers, although he knew there were some very long-serving soldiers in the National Guard back home.  But then, the Reich was short on experienced manpower.  They’d probably started press-ganging men who were too old to be front-line soldiers, but could teach the younger men what they needed to know before they went back to the war.

“They’ve been exchanging bursts of shellfire every so often,” Riemer said, as the sound of falling shells echoed in the air.  “They just seem to be firing at random.”

Andrew scowled.  German shooting wasn't as accurate as he’d been led to believe - or so his observations suggested - but he had to admit that the SS could disrupt the Provisional Government’s preparations for war simply by firing shells at random.  They might not hit anything important - it was unlikely they would hit anything important - yet they would cause confusion and damage morale.  And they might consider anything that slowed down the coming offensive to be worth doing.

If winter comes before the Provisional Government can make it to Moscow, Andrew thought, the front line will literally freeze for five months.

He gritted his teeth as the jeep pulled into a military camp.  Ambassador Turtledove had gone over the problem, again and again, with Washington.  There was something to be said for prolonging the war - the Reich would be badly weakened - but it still heightened the risk of a nuclear release.  Or something else that would upset the balance of power.  There were plenty of rumours about other secret weapons ...

But most of those rumours are nonsense, he thought.  And they certainly haven't shown any workable hardware.

He smiled at the thought as he clambered out of the car and submitted to a pat-down from the guards.  There were plenty of stories about flying wings - and flying saucers - but the Reich had never managed to put them into practice.  They’d certainly never managed to duplicate the B2 stealth bomber, even though they’d known it was designed to sneak through the vast air defences of the Atlantic Wall ...

The irony chilled Andrew more than he cared to admit.  It had taken decades - literally - for the panic over German super-science to die down.  And why not?  Germany had been first to launch a missile, first to put a man in orbit, first to put a man on the moon ...

... But they’d never been able to match the United States.  Countless billions of dollars had been spent, first in catching up with the Germans and then getting ahead of them ...

And now the Germans are tearing themselves apart, Andrew told himself, as he walked into the tent.  And we may have won the cold war without firing a shot.