Chosen of the Valkyries

(Twilight Of The Gods II)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover by Brad Fraunfelter

www.BFillustration.com

All Comments and Reviews Welcome!

Cover Blurb COTV

Germany, 1985.

The Reich Council has fallen and the Reich is sundered in two, but the uneasy peace will not last long.  To the east, Karl Holliston - now styling himself the Fuhrer of the Greater German Reich - is planning the conquest of Berlin and the destruction of the rebels, while to the west Germany’s former satellites are planning a bid for independence and the North Atlantic Alliance is uneasily considering just what will happen to the Reich’s vast arsenal of nuclear weapons.

As the civil war begins, as the Panzers begin their advance on Berlin, the rebels are forced to fight to save their revolution ...

... Or watch helplessly as a jackboot stamps down on Germany, forever.

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.

CGN

Prologue

Near Cottbus, Germany, 1960

Sturmann Jordan Haizmann allowed himself a sigh of relief as the train pulled into the station - with nary a welcoming committee in sight.  He’d been granted a week’s leave two days ago, but the Mayor of Cottbus had welcomed him and his fellow graduates from Wewelsburg Castle with a parade and a whole series of endless speeches.  Attendance was technically voluntary, yet Jordan had been in the SS long enough to know that it was actually mandatory and their absence would be counted against them.  By the time he’d finally been allowed to board the train to his hometown, he couldn't help feeling as though he’d been cheated of some of his hard-earned leave.

He rose to his feet, picked up his bag and made his way to the door, silently enjoying the way the other passengers made way for him and his uniform.  The SS was as much feared as loved, he knew; their duty, to defend the Reich from internal as well as external enemies, made them few friends.  But Jordan refused to allow himself to take it personally.  The good citizens of Cottbus and the surrounding towns could sleep easily in their beds, knowing that Jordan and his comrades stood between them and the barbarians at the gates.  This time, the Reich would endure a thousand years.  Adolf Hitler had promised no less.

The two policemen on duty at the barrier glanced at his uniform and nodded him through, even as one of their comrades berated a Slavic Untermensch for daring to ride in a carriage, rather than one of the cattle cars attached to the rear of the train.  Jordan paid no heed, even when the policemen started to beat the Slav with their truncheons.  Serve the Untermensch right for daring to think he could sully a German train with his filthy presence!  He’d be in the camps by nightfall, if the policemen didn't beat him to death.  No one would care, either way.  He was just an Untermensch.

Jordan glanced around, looking for his driver.  He’d been told that ... someone ... would be there to meet him, although his uncle hadn't been very specific about who  It was odd - Uncle Rudolf was a Town Clerk, with the breed’s passion for being as specific as possible - but perhaps his uncle merely wanted to surprise him.  Maybe he’d even come himself, leaving the office in early afternoon.  His superiors wouldn't object too strongly if he wanted to welcome his adopted son home.

“Jordan!”

He turned as he heard the voice - and stared.  A young woman was hurrying towards him, her arms outstretched.  For a moment, he didn't recognise her.  The ugly uniform concealed almost everything, save for her pale face and bright green eyes.  And then it struck him.

“Kathie!”

Kathie blushed.  “I’m glad you remember,” she said, as they hugged.  “Your father thought you’d like to see me again.”

Jordan blushed too as she took his hand and led him towards the gates.  They’d courted, on and off, over the last two years before he’d gone off to Wewelsburg Castle, then exchanged letters infrequently.  Her parents had not raised any objection to their courtship, but Uncle Rudolf had insisted that Jordan complete his training before he formally approached her parents for a betrothal.  It had made their relationship more awkward than it had any right to be.  Kathie was eighteen.  Most of her friends from school were already married, with children on the way.  It was what was expected of a young girl in the Reich.

He found himself staring at her as they walked towards his uncle’s car.  Kathie had changed in the last two years.  The skinny girl he recalled from childhood was gone, replaced by a stunningly attractive young woman.  Her uniform concealed her curves, but it couldn’t hide her face - or the sparkle of light in her eyes when she smiled.  He wondered, feeling a pang of bitter pain, if anyone else had tried to court her while he was gone.  They might have had an ... understanding, but he found it hard to imagine the young men leaving her alone indefinitely.  But he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“My father isn't too keen on me driving,” Kathie said, as she opened the passenger door for him.  “But your uncle thought it would be good for me.”

Jordan shrugged.  “And is it?”

“It has its moments,” Kathie said.  “Your uncle keeps me busy.”

Jordan nodded as the car rumbled to life.  Uncle Rudolf was the Town Clerk - and that made him a very powerful man, easily one of the biggest fishes in a very small pond.  He might not have the fame of the mayor - who’d been decorated for bravery during the war - but very few people would willingly get on his bad side.  Certainly, no one had objected to Uncle Rudolf adopting Jordan after his parents had been killed.  Jordan would never have known that Uncle Rudolf and Aunt Mary weren't his real parents, if they hadn’t told him so.  They’d been nothing but loving to him.

Kathie chatted happily as they drove through the streets, heading down to Uncle Rudolf’s house.  Jordan listened, torn between the desire to get home as quickly as possible and a mad impulse to suggest she drive out into the countryside.  He resisted the temptation, somehow, even though he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.  He’d completed his training, now.  He could ask Uncle Rudolf to approach her parents this evening, if he wished, and be married in the office tomorrow.  But he wasn't sure if she’d want a formal ceremony ...

“It’s been a while,” Kathie said, as she parked the car.  For a moment, she sounded utterly unsure of herself.  “Did you ... did you find someone else while you were gone?”

Jordan shook his head, hastily.  Recruits weren't allowed to leave the castle until they graduated, unless they quit or were so badly injured that they were given a medical discharge and granted a pension for the rest of their lives.  The old sweats had talked about sneaking out of the grounds and going to a nearby brothel, but anyone who tried had been in for a nightmare of punishment.  It had been safer to stay in the castle and concentrate on preparing themselves to go to war.

“There were no women at the castle,” he said.  It was true.  There were rumours of female soldiers, true, but most of them sounded more than a little absurd.  Women were just too delicate to fight, even if they weren't required to bear children for the Reich.  “All I had was your letters.”

Kathie smiled, then turned to face him, leaning forward very slightly.  Jordan leaned forward himself and kissed her, as gently as he could.  They’d kissed before, when he’d taken her to dances and formal events, but this was different.  His heartbeat was suddenly pounding so loudly that he wondered if she could hear it.  It was all he could do to pull back from her, knowing they were in the middle of a public street.  His uncle would be severely displeased if the police pulled Jordan and Kathie from the car.

“Later,” Kathie promised.

Jordan blinked.  “You’re not coming inside?”

“I have to park the car,” Kathie said.  She gave him a smile that melted his heart.  “Go see your aunt and uncle.”

Jordan kissed her again, then opened the door and stepped out onto the street.  His uncle’s house loomed up in front of him, easily two or three times larger than they needed.  But then, Rudolf and Mary had hoped for more children, even after they’d adopted Jordan.  They’d just never had them.  

He waved to Kathie - who started the engine and drove away - and pushed the doorbell, hearing it echoing inside the house.  Perhaps he could talk his uncle into going to Kathie’s family tonight ... but he knew it was unlikely.  Uncle Rudolf would want to talk about his training, while Aunt Mary would want to discuss how Jordan could support a wife on his salary.  Kathie wouldn't be permitted to work, once she was married.  Her family would never allow it, even if she was working for her father-in-law.

The door opened.  “Jordan,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “Welcome home.”

Jordan hugged the old man, then stepped backwards to take a good look at him as he led the way into the house.  Uncle Rudolf was old, easily old enough to have fought - and been wounded - in the war.  Jordan didn't know much about his military service, but the small cluster of medals his uncle wore for Victory Day parades told their own story.  Maybe he wasn't Waffen-SS - his training officers had told him that the Waffen-SS was the best of the best - yet even the Wehrmacht didn't give out medals like candy.  Uncle Rudolf had been in some of the most intensive fighting of the war.

“Kathie’s just parking the car,” he said, suddenly awkward.  He was no longer a child, but not quite a man either.  “Uncle ...”

“We have to talk,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “Mary will take care of Kathie.”

Jordan felt a sudden lump of ice forming in his chest as Uncle Rudolf led the way into his study.  It was a large room, crammed with books and bookshelves; Jordan, as a young man, had been absolutely forbidden to enter the chamber.  Uncle Rudolf had always made sure to keep the door locked.  But now, it just felt cramped and uncomfortable as Jordan took one of the hard wooden seats and sat down.  His uncle had never been one for comfort while he was working.

Uncle Rudolf closed the door and took a seat himself, his blue eyes studying Jordan narrowly.  “There's something I have to tell you,” he said.  “Something I wasn't sure if you should be told - or not - at all.”

Jordan frowned.  His imagination supplied too many possibilities.  “Is it about Kathie?”

Uncle Rudolf blinked.  “No,” he said.  “It’s about you - and your parents.”

“My parents?”  Jordan repeated.  “You never told me anything about my parents!”

He swallowed, hard.  His uncle was a calm and dignified man, rarely raising his voice ... but he’d been furious when Jordan had started to ask questions about his parents.  Jordan had been just over nine, yet old enough to get the impression that some questions were better not asked.  He had no idea why.  Hadn't they been taught, at school, to honour their ancestors?

“No, we didn't,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “What you didn't know, Jordan, you couldn't tell.”

Jordan stared.

“You ... you were six months old when your parents were uncovered,” Uncle Rudolf said, curtly.  “Mary and I were already starting to realise that we would never have children of our own.  She knew your mother, Jordan.  When it became clear that there was no hope of escape, she insisted on taking and adopting you.  I altered the records to create a false record, then took you far from your natural parents.”

“Uncovered?”  Jordan repeated.  “Uncle ...”

“My elder brother was killed in the wars,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “Even before then ... we were not close.  We certainly never lived together.  It was easy enough to convince people that you were his son.”

He took a breath.  “Jordan ... your parents were Jews.”

Jordan felt his mouth drop open in shock.  Jews?  It was a joke.  It had to be a joke!  He’d been told, time and time again, that Jews were subhuman monsters.  The pictures he’d been shown in school were of shambling cripples, twisted parodies of the human form.  But he was no cripple, no monster!  He’d showered beside hundreds of other recruits at the castle and noticed no difference.  Jews ...

“There weren't many left at the time,” Uncle Rudolf said, remorselessly.  “The smart ones fled to Britain or America before the war.  Your parents were isolated, their names changed; they thought they could hide forever.  But they were wrong.”

Jordan swallowed desperately to keep from throwing up.  He wasn't a Jew.  He couldn’t be a Jew.  And yet, his uncle wouldn't have played such a ghastly practical joke on his adopted son.  Jordan still remembered just how furious his uncle had been after Jordan and a handful of friends had played a nasty prank on the nearby shopkeeper.  Uncle Rudolf had no sense of humour at all.

“I can't be a Jew,” he said.  The doorbell rang.  Kathie would be standing outside, blissfully unaware of Jordan’s true nature.  She wouldn't want to marry him after she learned the truth ... she’d never be able to marry, once word got out that she had kissed a Jew.  “Uncle ...”

“I am sorry,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “But we told your parents that we would tell you once you were a man.”

Jordan wanted to scream.  His world was spinning around him.  Uncle Rudolf ... Kathie ... his real parents ... and his comrades!  What would they say if they knew they had welcomed a Jew into their ranks?  And what would happen if the truth came out?  A Waffen-SS Stormtrooper might pass unnoticed, but anyone who wanted to be promoted to high rank had to have Germanic ancestry that stretched back at least four generations.  Uncle Rudolf was the Town Clerk, in a perfect position to alter the records to hide someone’s true origins, yet what would happen if the investigators discovered the truth?  Even not being able to prove one’s roots would bar any future promotion.  And the truth ...

He shuddered, helplessly.  It would come out eventually, he was sure.  Kathie might be fine - her family roots were solid - but he would be killed ... and so would his children, if they had any.  If Kathie could bear the thought of touching him after he told her ... and he couldn't keep it from her, could he?

“Go to your room and think,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “We’ll discuss possible options in the morning.”

“Damn you,” Jordan snarled.  “You could have said nothing ...”

“You needed to know,” Uncle Rudolf said.  “I did try to keep you from joining the SS.”

Jordan bit off a curse as he headed for the door and walked up the stairs to his room.  It was true.  Uncle Rudolf had tried to forbid him from joining the SS, but Jordan had been determined.  Everyone knew the SS was the finest fighting force in the world, always ready to protect the Reich against those who would tear it down.  He’d wanted to be part of it, desperately.  And he’d made it through training when so many others had not ...

He closed the door and sat down on the bed, trying to gather his thoughts.  But it was impossible.  He was a Jew.  Everyone knew Jews were inferior, yet he’d passed one of the hardest training courses in the world.  And everyone knew Jews were monsters, but he was no monster.  If he’d been lied to about that, what other lies had he been told?  And Kathie ... how could he marry her now?  How could he live with the possibility of discovery hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles?  There was no way he could live!

Quite calmly, he drew his pistol from his belt, placed it to his temple and pulled the trigger.  

Chapter One

Berlin, Germany
1 September 1985

Berlin felt ... different.

Leutnant der Polizei Herman Wieland strode down the street, feeling oddly exposed for the first time in his long career.  Nothing was the same any longer.  People who had once eyed him with respect, or fear, were now meeting his gaze challengingly, while political agitators walked through the streets openly, surrounded by hordes of admiring supporters.  Anyone could speak now, without fear of arrest.  It seemed as if everyone in Berlin had something to say.

He sighed inwardly as he turned a corner and saw yet another speaker, a middle-aged man standing on a box, telling the crowd what needed to be done to save the revolution from itself.  Apparently, all of the former servants of the state were to be herded into the concentration camps and exterminated, even though the Reich couldn't survive without the bureaucrats and former regime officers who ran the state.  There were quite a few Herman would cheerfully have watched die - he wouldn't have crossed the road to piss on them if they were on fire - but it was hard to separate the truly dangerous ones from the bureaucrats who were necessary.  And yet, the crowd was murmuring in approval.

Nothing is the same any longer, he told himself, glumly.  Too many people have too many grudges to pay off.

He forced himself to look back, evenly, as some of the crowd eyed him in a distantly hostile manner.  No one would have dared to look at him like that, even a year ago, but things had changed.  These days, the police had strict orders to use as little force as possible, even when dealing with riots.  Herman was all too aware that a number of police officers had been waylaid and killed, their bodies brutally mutilated by their murderers.  There were just too many possible suspects for the police to track down even one of the killers.  The police had few friends on the streets of Berlin and they knew it.

The crowd scowled at him, but made no move to attack.  Herman kept his relief off his face as he strolled past, forcing himself to walk normally.  He had a pistol, of course, but he couldn't have hoped to kill more than a handful of rioters before they tore him apart.  The old fear was gone, leaving a civilian population that was growing increasingly aware of its strength.  And they definitely had far too many grudges to pay off.

His companion elbowed him.  “So tell me,” Leutnant der Polizei Hendrik Kuls said.  “What’s it like to have powerful relatives?”

Herman groaned, inwardly.  Nepotism was epidemic in the Reich - he didn't expect that to change anytime soon - but his case was unique.  His daughter was a Reich Councillor, under Chancellor Volker Schulze.  His teenage daughter.  Herman honestly wasn't sure what to make of the whole affair - Gudrun had defied him to his face, not something any self-respecting German father could tolerate - but she had avenged her boyfriend and forced the Reich to change.  He was torn between pride and a sense of bitter horror.  The youngsters might believe they’d won, yet Herman knew better.  It wouldn't be long before the SS mounted a counterattack from Germany East.

“It has its moments,” he said, finally.  Gudrun hadn't done anything for his career, as far as he knew.  Certainly, his superiors hadn’t moved him to a safer post in one of the police stations, rather than allowing him to patrol the increasingly dangerous streets.  “And your relatives are doing what for you?”

“Getting out of the city,” Kuls said.  “They’re convinced that Berlin is going to tip into anarchy at any moment.”

“They might well be right,” Herman commented.

He frowned.  Berlin was on a knife-edge these days, torn between hope and fear.  The provisional government had doubled military and police patrols through the city, but it would take a far larger army to keep the entire city under control.  Berlin was the largest city in the world; miles upon miles of sprawling government buildings, apartment blocks, factories and Gastarbeiter slave camps.  A riot in one place might easily do some real damage before it could be crushed, now the fear was gone.

And with a quarter of the police force gone, he thought, we don’t have the manpower to keep running regular patrols through a third of the city.

“I think so,” Kuls agreed.  “What happens when we run out of food?”

“We starve,” Herman said, flatly.

He pushed the thought aside as they walked down the long road, striding past a row of apartment blocks.  They were new, designed more for young unmarried professionals rather than men with wives and families; now, their windows were decorated with political slogans and demands for change.  Herman wondered, absently, just what would happen when the young professionals realised that change wouldn't come as easily as they hoped, then shrugged.  They’d just have to learn to cope, same as everyone else.

Some of them will have military experience, he thought.  They’ll be able to join the defence force, if nothing else.

He jumped as a door banged open, a middle-aged woman running out onto the street and waved desperately to them.  Herman tensed, wondering if it was a trap of some kind, then walked over to her, keeping one hand on his pistol.  Up close, the woman was at least a decade older than his wife, although time seemed to have been kind to her.  Her hair was going grey, but otherwise she seemed to be in good health.

“I need help,” she gasped.  “One of my tenants is wounded.  There’s blood under the door!”

Herman blinked.  “Blood?”

“Blood,” the landlady said.  “It’s coming out from under the door!”

Herman exchanged a glance with Kuls, then allowed the woman to lead the way into the apartment block.  Inside, it was dark and cold, the only illumination coming from a single flickering light bulb mounted on the wall.  A shiver ran down his spine as he carefully unbuttoned his holster, glancing from side to side as his eyes struggled to adapt to the dim light.  It grew brighter as they walked up two flights of stairs and stopped outside a single wooden door.  Blood was dribbling from under the door ...

“Call it in,” Herman snapped.  

“Jawohl,” Kuls said.

Herman tested the wooden door, then pulled a skeleton key from his belt and inserted it into the lock.  Legally, locks had to be designed so a policeman could open them with his key, but it wasn't uncommon to find a door that had been designed before 1945 or one put together by a crafty locksmith.  He allowed himself a moment of relief as the door opened without a fuss, then swore out loud as he pushed it open.  A body - horrifically mutilated - lay on the carpeted floor.  Behind him, he heard a thump as the landlady fainted.

“Take care of her,” he ordered.  “Did you get any reply?”

“Not as yet,” Kuls said.  “The dispatcher merely logged the call.”

“Tell them we have a body,” Herman said.  He frowned as he peered at the corpse, careful not to touch the remains.  “And one that doesn’t look to be long dead.”

He felt his frown deepen as he silently listed the wounds.  The murderer - or murderers - had been savage.  They’d cut their victim’s throat, stabbed him several times in the chest and castrated him, probably after force-feeding him some kind of anticoagulant.  The blood should have started to clot by now, but it was still liquid.  He’d been bled like a pig.  Herman shuddered - he hadn't seen anything like this outside a brief tour in Germany East - and then glanced around, looking for clues.  But there was nothing to be found.

“His penis is missing,” he said, out loud.  “They must have taken it.”

Kuls looked pale as he peered through the door.  “An Untermensch, perhaps?”

“It’s possible,” Herman agreed.  An Untermensch would have nothing to lose, if he attacked a German.  Why not mutilate the body?  It wasn't as if he could be killed twice.  Hell, Untermenschen were routinely executed for the crime of looking at good Germans.  “But where would an Untermensch get the drugs?”

He sighed as he heard the landlady starting to stir.  “See what you can get out of her,” he said, as he rose.  “Did you get anything from dispatch?”

“Still nothing,” Kuls said.  “They may have no one they can spare.”

Herman nodded, shortly.  “Get the landlady to her apartment, then see what you can pour into her,” he ordered.  “I’ll search this place.”

He closed the door, then turned and took one final look at the body.  It was impossible to be sure, but it looked as though the attack had been deeply personal.  The murdered man might well have known his killer; the murderer could not have inflicted so much damage without some degree of feeling being involved.  Indeed, judging by the body’s position and the way the blood had splattered, it was quite possible he’d been trying to run when the fatal blow had been struck.  But there was no way to know.

Nothing appeared to be missing, he decided, as he peered into the kitchen.  It looked surprisingly bare, compared to the kitchen at home, but an unmarried man would probably have eaten at work, rather than cook for himself.  A bottle of milk and two cartons of juice sat in the fridge; otherwise, the fridge was empty.  Herman checked the drawers and found almost nothing, save for a small selection of imported - hence rare and expensive - British teas and coffees.  No doubt the murder victim hadn't liked drinking the cheap coffee served all over the Reich.  

I can hardly blame him for that, Herman thought.  I don’t like drinking it either.

He smiled to himself as he walked into the bedroom, then frowned.  The bed was easily large enough for two people - it was larger than the bed he shared with his wife, at home - but there was no trace of a feminine presence.  He opened the drawers, feeling his frown deepen as he noted the complete lack of female clothes and products.  A homosexual?  The man had been in his late forties, if Herman was any judge.  It was staggeringly rare for a man of that age to be unmarried, although it was possible that he’d been married and then lost his wife to an accident.  But homosexuality carried a death sentence in the Reich.  Even the mere suspicion of homosexuality could be enough to destroy someone’s life.

Herman shook his head slowly as he checked the bathroom.  There was nothing, apart from a simple shampoo and a toilet that didn't look to have been cleaned regularly.  No, there was no woman in the apartment: no wife, girlfriend or mistress.  Indeed, if there hadn’t been so many male clothes in the drawers, he would have wondered if the apartment wasn't being used as a covert rendezvous.  The upper-class prostitutes - too expensive for the average soldier - often used them for their clients, once their pimps paid out bribes to all and sundry.  But it was clear that someone had lived in the apartment ...

He turned his attention to the photographs hanging from the walls and scowled, darkly, as he recognised the murder victim.  He was wearing an SS uniform - a Standartenfuehrer - in one picture, shaking hands with a man Herman vaguely recognised from a party propaganda broadcast.  It took him a moment to recognise the Deputy Führer, a non-entity who had only been given the job because it provided a convenient place to dump him.  But he’d clearly been younger then, maybe not even a politician.  There was no date on any of the photographs.

He looked up as he heard the door opening.  Kuls stepped into the apartment.

“The landlady says her tenant was a schoolmaster,” he said, shortly.  He eyed the body darkly, then stepped around it.  “Apparently, he taught at the school just down the road.”

“Oh,” Herman said.

He looked back at the body.  A schoolmaster?  Maybe it was just his flawed memory - he hadn't been a schoolboy for nearly forty years - but the man didn't look anything like intimidating enough to be a schoolmaster.  They were all kicked out of the SS for extreme violence - or so the schoolboys had joked, as they lined up each day, rain or shine, to enter the building and begin their lessons.  He’d believed it too, back then.  School might have toughened him up, but he remembered it with little fondness.

“She said he was normally out of the door at the crack of dawn,” Kuls added, darkly.  “He was rarely home until late at night, at least until the government fell.  Since then, he merely stayed in his room and never left.”

Herman snorted.  “Did she happen to know when he had visitors?”

“Apparently, one of the boys would occasionally come and clean the apartment for him,” Kuls said.  “But he never had any other visitors.”

“I see,” Herman said.  A landlady in Berlin could be relied upon to know everything about her tenants, from where they worked to how often they slept together.  They were often the best sources a policeman could hope for.  “Did anyone come today?”

“Not as far as she knows,” Kuls said.  “But that proves nothing.”

“No,” Herman agreed.  

He contemplated the possibilities, one after the other.  An SS officer - a Standartenfuehrer - would have been very useful, if he’d reported to the provisional government.  It wasn't as if there weren't other SS officers helping to rebuild the Reich.  But he’d stayed where he was, hiding.  A spy?  A coward?  No, that was unlikely.  He’d disliked the SS long before it had arrested his daughter, but he had to admit that SS officers were rarely cowards.  They often led their men from the front.  And yet, this one had become a schoolmaster.  Jokes aside, schools weren’t actually war zones ...

But he would probably have impressed the brats, Herman thought, grimly.  A man who has marched into the teeth of enemy fire isn't going to be scared of a naughty teenage boy.

Herman shook his head.  The victim had known his killer, he was sure; he’d let him directly into the apartment.  Or killers, if there had been more than one.  And yet ...

He sighed.  Normally, a team of experts would tear the dead man’s life apart, looking for the person who’d killed him.  A murderer could not be allowed to get away with killing a Standartenfuehrer, even if the Standartenfuehrer had retired.  It set a bad example.  And yet, with the police force in such disarray, it was unlikely there would be a solid attempt to find the killer.  Herman doubted they’d even take the time to dust for fingerprints before dumping the body into a mass grave and handing the apartment back to the landlady.

Unless we find something that leads us straight to the killer, he thought.  But what?

“We search the apartment, thoroughly,” he said.  “And if we find nothing, we’ll just have to make arrangements to dispose of the body.”

“Of course,” Kuls said.

Herman shot him a sharp look as they walked back into the kitchen and began to search with practiced efficiency.  The landlady would be furious, when she discovered all her drawers dumped on the floor, but there was no help for it.  Herman’s instructors - when he’d joined the police - had shown him just how easy it was to conceal something, particularly something small, within a kitchen or bedroom.  Taking the whole edifice apart was time-consuming, but it was the only way to be sure there was nothing hiding there.  

“My wife would have a heart attack,” Kuls said, when they’d finished the kitchen.  “No tools at all.”

“Mine too,” Herman said.

He smirked at the thought as they walked into the bedroom and started dismantling the wardrobe, piece by piece.  It was an older design, practically fixed to the wall.  And yet, there was enough space behind the panel for something to be hidden ... he grinned in sudden delight as he felt a concealed envelope.  It refused to budge until he tugged the panelling back completely, then pulled.  The envelope came free and fell into his hand.

“He was hiding something,” Kuls observed.

“Looks that way,” Herman agreed.

He led the way back into the living room and opened the envelope.  A handful of photographs fell out and landed on the floor.  He sighed, picked the first one up ... and froze in horror as he saw the picture.  It was ... it was unthinkable.

“Shit,” he breathed.  He’d seen horror, from burned homesteads and raped women in Germany East, but this ... this was far worse.  He had to swallow hard to keep his gorge from rising.  “No wonder someone wanted him dead!”

“He must have taken the photographs himself,” Kuls observed.  “Trying to buy this sort of shit ... it would get him killed.”

Herman looked back at the body, fighting down the urge to kick it as hard as he could.  A schoolmaster with connections to the SS ... even if someone had suspected something, they would never have dared take their concerns to higher authority.  The boys - his victims - would have been compromised for life.  They would have known they were doomed, when he tired of them ...

... Until now.  Until the SS’s power had been broken.  Until they’d found the nerve to brutally murder their tormentor.  Until ...

That could have been my son, he thought, numbly.  Few would have dared to pick on a policeman’s child, but an SS officer - even a retired one - might have had other ideas.  It could have been any of them.

He glanced at his partner.  “You know what?  I don’t want to find the killers.”

Kuls nodded.  “I don’t think I want to find them either,” he agreed.  He kicked the body savagely.  “Looks like an ironclad case of suicide to me.”

Chapter Two

RAF Fairford, United Kingdom
1 September 1985

“We’ve picked up a pair of escorts, sir,” the pilot said.  “Air Traffic Control is redirecting us around London.”

Andrew Barton nodded as he peered out of the window.  A pair of RAF Tornados were flying near the small jet, the air-to-air missiles clearly visible under their wings.  There would be others too, he knew; RAF Tornados and USAF F-15 Eagles, patrolling the English Channel and the North Sea for signs of trouble from the Reich.  It wasn't likely that the Germans would cause trouble - both sides in the brewing civil war had too many other problems - but it was quite possible that a rogue officer might consider sparking a global war in hopes of using it to reunite the Reich.  He would have to be out of his mind, if he thought that would actually work ...

“As long as we get there,” he said, glancing at the radar screen.  “Has there been any update from the Joint Command Network?”

“Nothing,” the pilot said.  “Skies are clear.”

Andrew leaned back into his seat.  He’d never been a comfortable flyer, even in the jet permanently assigned to the Berlin Embassy.  Indeed, he would have preferred to take the train to Dunkirk and board one of the ferries to Dover, but time was pressing.  He’d been summoned to Britain and knew he couldn't disobey.  Besides, the sooner he was finished in Britain, the sooner he could return to Berlin.  There were too many interesting things happening in Berlin for him to want to be elsewhere.

The RAF Tornados peeled off as RAF Fairford came into view.  It was a smaller airfield than the fast-jet fighter bases to the east, serving the British Government as a private airport and conference chamber - although he was fairly sure the British would have plans to turn it into a fighter base if the long-feared war between the North Atlantic Alliance and the Third Reich finally became a reality.  The pilot spoke briefly to the ground, then steered the plane towards the runway.  Andrew had a flash of a blue and white plane parked at the far end of the airfield before the aircraft shook, violently, as it touched the ground.  He closed his eyes and kept them closed until the plane finally rumbled to a halt near a small cluster of buildings.

“I’ll be refuelling the plane while you’re gone,” the pilot said.  “Do you know if we’re going to be heading straight back?”

Andrew shrugged.  He’d had the impression that he wouldn't be kept for long, but Washington - and London - operated on their own timescale.  He might be expected to remain overnight, if there was a need for further debriefing, or he might just be ordered back to Berlin within the hour.  But there was no way to be sure.

“Get a nap, if you can,” he advised.  “I have no idea when we’ll be leaving.”

He rose to his feet and headed for the hatch.  The ground crew, working with commendable speed, had already pushed a mobile staircase against the plane, allowing him to descend to the ground.  He couldn't help noticing that security had been doubled or tripled; armed soldiers patrolled the fence, backed up by armoured cars, while Rapier missile launchers had been scattered around the airfield.  It had been years since Britain had faced a terrorist threat, since the last remnants of the IRA had been crushed or convinced to lay down their arms, but it was evident that no one was taking chances.  A strike at RAF Fairford could decapitate two governments at once.

“This way, sir,” a young man said.  He wore a black suit and tie, rather than a uniform, but he couldn't hide his military training.  “We have to get you through security.”

Andrew nodded, unsurprised, as he was led into the nearest building.  The guards were polite, but firm; they searched him thoroughly, examined everything in his pocket with cynical eyes and finally waved him through.  Andrew was tempted to make a crack about one of them buying him dinner afterwards, but thought better of it before he could open his mouth.  The guards probably wouldn't find it very funny.

“This is your badge,” his escort said, once Andrew was passed through the gate.  “You are scheduled to enter the main room in thirty minutes.  Do you want to take a shower and freshen up before then?”

“Yes, please,” Andrew said.  He felt grimy, even though the flight hadn't taken more than three hours.  “And is there coffee?”

“There are gallons of coffee,” his escort assured him.  “I’ll have some brought into the room for you.”

Thirty minutes later, feeling much better, Andrew was escorted into a comfortable conference room.  He stiffened, automatically, as President John Anderson rose to his feet, hastily snapping out a salute.  Beside the President, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher nodded politely as Andrew was shown to a chair.  There was no one else in the room, but Andrew would have been surprised if the meeting wasn't being recorded.  The government - both governments - would want a solid record of just what had been said, even if the recordings never saw the light of day.

“Mr. Barton,” Anderson said.  “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Andrew said.

He took a moment to study them both as an aide brought two cups of coffee and one of tea, placing them on the table.  They made an odd pair.  President Anderson looked more like a schoolteacher than a President, while Prime Minister Thatcher reminded him of one of the fearsome old biddies who’d dominated his hometown.  The Reich’s propaganda machine had turned her into a monster, even to the point of insisting she was really a man in drag.  They’d had some problems coming to terms with female politicians, Andrew recalled; they’d never really seen women as anything more than mothers, daughters and wives.  

And now a young girl started a movement that sundered the Reich, Andrew thought, will they change their attitudes?

“This is not a formal debriefing,” Anderson said, once the aide had retreated.  “We would merely like your impression of the current situation.”

Andrew took a breath.  “At last report” - he wasn't going to go into specifics, not when the recording wouldn't be kept in the US - “the provisional government has a reasonably firm grip on Germany Prime, but very limited control outside it.  Germany North and Germany South seem to be waiting to see who comes out on top, while Germany Arabia has effectively declared for Germany East.  That gives the rump government in Germany East  the ability to pressure the Turks into allowing shipments of troops and supplies through their territory.  I don’t expect the Turks to refuse.”

“I imagine the prospect of being devastated from one end of the country to the other will concentrate a few minds,” Thatcher said, dryly.

Andrew nodded.  The Reich’s allies knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that resistance to the Reich would be utterly futile.  Vichy France, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Italy, Finland ... the slightest hint of resistance, of disagreement, would be enough to start the Panzers rolling in their direction.  They were utterly prostrate before the Reich.  And yet, with the Reich itself torn in two, who knew which way the former allies would jump?

But they’d have to be sure of themselves first, he thought.  Whoever comes out on top will certainly seek revenge, if they feel that they were betrayed.

“It is hard to be sure just where the military balance actually stands,” Andrew continued, after a moment.  “The rump has a more deployable military force at its disposal, but the provisional government should be able to generate a larger force, given time.  I believe they will certainly try to recall troops from South Africa, yet there’s no way to know which way those forces will jump.  It might be better to keep them in the south until after the civil war is settled, one way or the other.”

President Anderson leaned forward.  “What do you think is going to happen?”

“The rump will attack,” Andrew said.  “I’m sure you’ve seen the orbital imagery of forces being moved westwards and positioned in place for a full-scale advance.  Launching an offensive and pushing it forward with maximum force has been part of German military doctrine for well over a century.  There’s no way they will allow a bunch of rebels - and that is how they will see the provisional government - to take and hold Berlin.”

He paused.  “In the long-term, it’s quite likely the remainder of the Reich’s economy will collapse,” he added.  “But I don’t know if that will happen in time to prevent the civil war from devastating the country.  The Reich stockpiled vast qualities of military supplies over the past forty years.”

“Which leads to the obvious question,” Anderson said.  “What about the nukes?”

Andrew took a long breath.  “Officially, the Reich’s stockpile of nuclear weapons can only be launched with command codes held within the Berlin Bunker,” he said.  His source within the provisional government had told him as much, although he wasn't high enough to be absolutely sure that was true.  “The missile silos in Siberia should be unable to launch without those codes, while the bombs assigned to the Luftwaffe cannot be detonated.  In theory, the rump should be unable to deploy nuclear weapons.

“In practice, Mr. President, I believe they may well be able to detonate tactical nukes.”

The President scowled.  “How?”

“I’m not a nuclear weapons expert, but I discussed the matter thoroughly with an officer at the embassy,” Andrew said, carefully.  “The problem with any sort of security system is it needs to strike a balance between two competing imperatives; the need to keep the weapon from detonating at the wrong time and the need to ensure that the weapon actually detonates at the right time.  It’s quite possible that a designer could accidentally ensure that the weapons cannot be detonated through making the security system too good.”

“Too good,” the President repeated.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Andrew said.  “If the wrong code is inputted, the security system will fry the detonator and render the weapon useless.”

He paused.  “We do not know the specifics of the Reich’s version of our Permissive Action Links,” he added.  “However, my expert believes that someone with a good knowledge of tactical nuclear weapons might well be able to remove the PAL and replace it with a makeshift detonator.  Indeed, given that a lucky strike on Berlin might destroy the command codes, it’s quite possible that the Reich was very careful not to make their PALs too good.  In the absence of a working model to examine, there’s no way to know for sure.”

“So the rump may have access to tactical nukes,” Thatcher commented.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Andrew said.  “They may also be able to fire the ICBMs from Siberia, given time.”

“It sounds careless of them,” Thatcher observed.

“They need to strike a balance, Prime Minister,” Andrew said.  “I don’t think they envisaged civil war when they were planning how best to secure their nuclear arsenal.”

“Probably not,” Anderson said.  “Do you think the rump will deploy nukes?”

Andrew hesitated.  “I think they would be reluctant to take the risk,” he said.  “The provisional government could certainly retaliate in kind.  However ...”

He took a breath.  “Germany East has always been the most fanatical part of the Reich,” he added, after a moment.  “The SS isn’t just tolerated there, it’s actually popular.  Neither their leadership nor their population are likely to view the provisional government as anything more than a bunch of filthy traitors.  Indeed, they may even have a point.  By overthrowing the former government, the rebels have actually weakened the Reich.  I don’t expect them to be reluctant to deploy nukes if they think they need them.”

“Wonderful,” Anderson said, sourly.

Thatcher nodded in agreement.  “Are they likely to try to pick a fight with us?”

“I don’t know, Prime Minister,” Andrew said.  “They would have to be insane to try, in hopes of convincing the Reich to reunite, but I don’t believe Karl Holliston is quite sane.”

He didn't blame Thatcher for worrying.  America was protected, first by vast oceans and then by the FIELD GREEN ABM network, but Britain was bare moments from German-occupied France.  There would be barely any warning before the first missile reached its target.  A nuclear war would turn Britain into a radioactive slagheap and both sides knew it; hell, with thousands of German jet fighters sitting on airfields in France and Germany, even a conventional war would give the British a very hard time.

“That’s not reassuring,” Anderson said.

Andrew nodded.  He’d met Reichsführer-SS Karl Holliston once, two years ago.  The man was a fanatic, as reactionary as they came.  Calculating, ruthless ... and utterly dedicated to the ideas of the Third Reich.  Andrew had no difficulty in believing that Holliston would deliberately set out to kill as many protesters as possible, then expend a dedicated Special Forces assault team in trying to kill the provisional government.  A man like Holliston would do anything for his cause.

“There's nothing reassuring here, Mr. President,” Andrew said.  “I believe there was some talk of accepting a permanent split between the two sides, leaving us with two German states, but I don’t think that either government would willingly accept it.  Their dispute will have to be settled by war.”

Anderson nodded, glancing carefully at Thatcher.  “And that leads to a very different point,” he said.  “Should we be trying to intervene?”

Andrew winced, inwardly.  He’d expected that question from the moment he, instead of Ambassador Turtledove, was summoned to RAF Fairford.  The Ambassador was there to be diplomatic, while Andrew worked for OSS, trying to develop new sources and covert networks within the Reich.  If there was a determined attempt to support the provisional government, he would be running it ...

But he wouldn't have the final say.  There would be factions in Washington - and London too, he suspected - that would be arguing for intervention, after reading a handful of carefully-slanted reports.  Other factions, having read different reports, would be arguing for staying firmly out of the growing conflict.  And neither faction would have a real feel for what was going on in Germany.  Their leadership certainly wouldn't be stationed in the Reich.

Andrew took a moment to compose his thoughts.  This - this - was a chance to influence policy on a truly global scale.  His words would shape the thinking of the most powerful man and woman in the world, a terrifying thought.  He was no stranger to danger - he knew he ran the risk of being arrested, tortured and disappeared every time he made contact with one of his sources within the Reich - but this was different.  Lives hung on his words.  His mouth was suddenly very dry.

“There are a number of factors that should be considered, Mr. President,” he said, carefully.  “First, perhaps most importantly, the provisional government is strongly nationalistic.  They will not be pleased at an open suggestion of military support.  Even if they were, the presence of American and British troops fighting alongside their men will hand their rivals a major propaganda coup.  Entire generations of Germans have been raised to consider us the enemy.  It may well undermine their position.”

He paused.  “And they will suspect us of wanting to weaken the Reich,” he added, after a moment.  “Will we demand German withdrawal from France, for example, as the price of our support?”

Anderson frowned.  “I thought they wanted freedom.”

Thatcher smiled.  “So did George Washington and his fellows,” she pointed out.  “That didn't stop them keeping black slaves in bondage.”

“Touché,” Anderson said.  He met Andrew’s eyes.  “But should we not use this as a chance to remove the threat permanently?”

“If we back the rump into a corner, they will use nukes,” Andrew said, flatly.  “And we could not guarantee that they wouldn't be able to fire the missiles at us.”

He sighed.  “Ambassador Turtledove has been trying to forge links with the provisional government, but - frankly - the government has too many other problems at the moment.  If they lose the coming war ... well, our opinion isn't going to matter.”

Thatcher nodded, curtly.  “What would you advise?”

“I would suggest providing limited intelligence support and nothing else,” Andrew said.  He understood the urge to do something, but they were playing with nukes!  “We can let them know, quietly, that we may not be averse to providing further help.  But really, getting involved in their civil war would be a major commitment.”

“Particularly with the troubles in South Africa,” Anderson observed.  “There are demands for intervention there too.”

“Another political headache,” Thatcher agreed.  Her lips quirked into a smile.  “Although, really, one that doesn't involve nukes.”

Andrew nodded.  South Africa had tried but failed to produce nuclear weapons.  Or so he’d been told.  South Africa’s nuclear program had taken a body-blow when South Africa had been expelled from the NAA, while the Reich wasn't in the habit of providing nuclear weapons or nuclear technology to anyone.  But even if South Africa did have nukes, what could they do with them?  Blow up their own cities?

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Barton,” Anderson said.  “I’m afraid there are quite a few others waiting to debrief you, but hopefully we should have an idea how to proceed before you return to Germany.”

He paused.  “Do you anticipate any problems in returning?”

“No, Mr. President,” Andrew said.  He rose.  “The provisional government has seen fit to honour the treaties we made with their predecessors.”

“Let’s just hope it stays that way,” Anderson said.  “This could spin out of control very quickly.”

“I would say that was a given, Mr. President,” Andrew said.  “Both sides have enough military power to ensure that the coming war is far from short.”

Chapter Three

Reichstag, Berlin
1 September 1985

Volker Schulze, Chancellor of the Greater German Reich - he’d refused to take Führer as a title - stood at the window and peered out over the city as the sun started to sink towards the distant horizon, feeling a gnawing concern within his gut.  Berlin looked surprisingly calm, from his viewpoint, but he knew it was nothing more than an illusion.  Gudrun and the Valkyries had unleashed forces he doubted they knew how to control, even if control was possible.  The government’s absolute control over its population was gone, once and for all ...

We were held in a cage, Volker thought, grimly.  And now the bars are gone, some of us are leaving the cage.

He cursed the former Reich Council under his breath, wishing with all his heart that he’d been able to get his hands on the truly guilty men.  Reichsführer-SS Karl Holliston had made his escape, while several of the other former councillors had fled to Germany East, rather than face the wrath of their fellow countrymen.  Volker would have given a great deal for the chance to get his hands around Holliston’s neck and squeeze, even though he’d been an SS officer himself.  The bastard had not only gotten Volker’s son mortally wounded; he’d had the gall to lie about it to the people.  Volker wouldn't have known anything about his son’s injury - and death - if Gudrun hadn't sneaked into the hospital.  It had been enough for Volker to switch sides and start a - highly-illegal - union.  And now he was the head of the provisional government.

The thought made him smile, sourly, as he turned to face the table.  His councillors - the new Reich Council - were slowly filling up the seats, looking as grim as he felt.  Volker had no idea just how far any of them could be trusted, even though they were all under sentence of death if they were captured by the SS.  Finance Minister Hans Krueger, at least, could be relied upon to try to mend the increasingly broken economy, but Volker had no illusions about some of the others.  Two of them, at least, were ambitious enough to unseat him if they thought they could get away with it.  

He surveyed the room, half-wishing that Gudrun was there.  The mere presence of a woman - and a teenage girl, at that - was enough to agitate many of the older and more reactionary councillors.  Volker hated to admit it, but he took a perverse pleasure in watching them being forced to take a woman seriously.  Gudrun didn't hold a portfolio - there had been no way to justify giving her a ministry - yet she was the single most popular councillor in Germany.  It gave her a power her older counterparts could neither deny nor subvert.

She would have made one hell of a daughter-in-law, Volker thought, as the doors were firmly closed.  And Gerde would have had real problems trying to bully her.

He smiled at the thought as he strolled over to the table, nodding to the guards positioned against the walls.  The Reichstag was guarded by heavily-armed soldiers these days, men drawn from the toughest regiments in the Heer.  After the SS had dropped an assault force into the building and done their best to destroy the provisional government before it had formed, he wasn't inclined to take chances.  Some of the councillors had insisted that the men posed a security risk, but they hadn't dared say it very loudly.  They knew, all too well, that most of them would be dead if the Berlin Guard hadn't switched sides.

“Let us begin,” he said, sitting down and resting his elbows on the table.  He had no time for elaborate formalities.  “Field Marshal.  What is our current state of readiness?”

Field Marshal Gunter Voss leaned forward.  He’d taken up the post of Head of OKW - the uniformed head of the military - after Field Marshal Justus Stoffregen had resigned, citing a refusal to fight his fellow Germans.  Volker had no idea if Stoffregen genuinely felt that way - or if the SS had somehow brought pressure to bear on him - but some of his advisors insisted that losing Stoffregen wasn't a bad thing.  Voss was almost certainly high on the list of individuals the SS intended to purge, if they ever recovered Berlin.  He’d opposed Holliston far too often.

“Better than I’d feared, but worse than I’d hoped,” Voss said, bluntly.  “Much of our heavy armour was placed near the beaches, for fear of a British invasion.  We’re starting to ship it back to the east now, but it’s going to take time before we have the divisions formed up and ready to go to war.  The resignations and defections haven’t helped either.  Right now, we barely have two scratch divisions digging in along the border with Germany East and two more held in reserve.”

He smiled, rather tightly.  “We are recruiting as fast as we can, sir, and most of our recruits have some military experience, but it will still take weeks - if not months - before they’re ready for deployment.  Until then, we will be committed to a mobile defence of the eastern border, slowing the SS down until we are ready to drive them back.”

Volker nodded.  “And the men in South Africa?”

“Getting them back is going to be a nightmare, even if we trusted them,” Voss said.  “Much of our heavy-lift capability was deployed to the south, which made them easy targets for American-designed missiles.  And the South Africans aren't particularly keen to see them go.”

“Too bad,” Volker said, tiredly.  

He shook his head.  His son had been wounded in South Africa.  He certainly had no love for the country.  But even without that, he knew there was no way the Reich should have supported South Africa.  Fighting to preserve white civilisation was one thing, but South Africa was right on the end of a very long logistics chain.  Better to ship the South Africans to Germany East and invite them to blend in with the population.  It wasn't as if Germany East was short of territory.

“Most commanding officers in South Africa have secured their bases, but there’s little else they can do,” Voss added.  “A handful of officers have refused to answer my calls.  I think we have to assume they’re on the other side.”

“Understood,” Volker said.  The Wehrmacht was not used to civil wars.  Soldiers fought for the Reich, not for factions within Germany.  Now, with the country torn in two, everyone in uniform had to ask themselves where their loyalties lay.  And not everyone was willing to fight for the provisional government.  “Start making preparations to get the others home.”

“Of course, sir,” Voss said.

And hope to hell the French don’t decide to play games, Volker thought, privately.  Vichy France had been restless for decades, before the Reich Council had collapsed.  Now, the French might try to take advantage of the Reich’s troubles to reclaim their independence and recover the territory they’d lost.  If they decide to shut down the airfields between South Africa and the Reich, getting those troops home will be impossible.

He shook his head - Gudrun had been dispatched on a diplomatic mission to France, in hopes of preventing the French from trying to take advantage of the chaos - and met Voss’s eyes.  “How are our chances?”

“Mixed, sir,” Voss said.  “The Waffen-SS has the armour and supporting elements they need to punch through our defence lines, even if they don’t have covert supporters within our ranks.  I believe we will see a major offensive within two weeks, perhaps less.  They have to know that matters will become a great deal harder if they give us time to mobilise.  On the other hand, we can lure them into fighting grounds where their advantages are strongly reduced - urban conflict in Berlin, in particular.”

Volker winced.  He was no stranger to combat.  Military operations in built-up terrain - street-to-street fighting - were always nightmarish.  But he knew Voss was right.  The SS - and Holliston in particular - would want to recover Berlin as quickly as possible.  Letting them overextend themselves, while gathering the forces necessary to cut their supply lines and crushing their advance elements ... Holliston was many things, but he was no Adolf Hitler.  The first and greatest Führer would never have made such a deadly mistake.

“Very well,” he said.  “Luther?  How are they placed for an attack on Berlin?”

Luther Stresemann, Head of the Economic Intelligence Service, frowned.  “Holliston has reshaped his ... cabinet, sir,” he said, “so many of our original sources within the SS have been reshuffled out of power.  I don’t believe that was intentional - they still appear to be alive - but it makes it harder for us to get a window into their deliberations.  However, many of our lower-level sources are still in play.”

He paused.  “All their reports indicate that Holliston has called up both Category A and Category B reservists, both Heer and SS,” he continued.  “As you know, the reservists in Germany East have often been called up at the drop of a hat, so we don’t anticipate it taking very long for them to brush up on their tactics and return to their units.  However ... they will have problems securing many of the settlements if they call away their defenders.  We believe that Untermenschen attacks on German settlements will increase rapidly, as the Untermenschen realise that there are fewer defenders in place.”

Volker frowned.  “Is that likely to cause Holliston problems?”

“Not immediately,” Stresemann said.  “In the long run, the reservists are unlikely to be pleased at marching away from their homes, with the Untermenschen ready to attack, but right now Holliston has all the tools he needs to render their opinions immaterial.”

“That was what the old council thought,” Voss pointed out, dryly.

“The old council was also worried about the knock-on effects of heavy repression,” Finance Minister Hans Krueger countered.  “I doubt Holliston gives much of a damn about the side effects.”

Volker tapped the table before Krueger and Voss could start bickering.  “How long can Germany East survive, economically?”

“It depends on what you mean by survive, sir,” Krueger said, bluntly.  “My staff have run the figures but too much depends on factors that are unfortunately unpredictable.  Germany East is perfectly capable of feeding itself, and of supplying its own wants in small-arms ammunition, but it doesn't have many factories capable of producing tanks, railway locomotives and heavy machinery.  However, they do have massive stockpiles of everything they need for war.  It may take years before they drain their stocks dry.”

“Maybe less than that,” Voss commented.  “Ammunitions expenditures are always far - far - higher than predicted.  I imagine that their logistics problems would turn into nightmares soon enough.”

Krueger nodded.  “The problem, sir,” he added, looking directly at Volker, “is that we’re in a mess too.”

He went on before anyone could say a word.  “Our industries were pushing the limits long before the ... the uprising,” he continued.  “Machinery was becoming outdated, workers were working longer hours for less pay.  We were robbing Peter to pay Paul right across the Reich, sir, and the real value of our currency was declining sharply.  The push for unionising the workforce only made matters worse, as it added another factor to our considerations.”

“I believe I am aware of that,” Volker said, lightly.

“Then you have to face up to the implications,” Krueger said, bluntly.  “There are just too many problems, deeply rooted within our industrial base, for a quick fix to work.  We need to replace vast quantities of machinery and train up hundreds of thousands of new workers very - very - quickly, which will come at a staggering cost.  Frankly, sir, we may have to concede that we have lost the arms race with the Americans.”

“Then the Americans will crush us,” Voss snapped.

“The Americans are hardly our problem at the moment,” Volker pointed out.

“Not now, no,” Krueger agreed.  “Our best estimate is that it will cost upwards of a hundred billion Reichmarks to rebuild our economic base - and we don’t have a hundred billion Reichmarks.  We'll have to start on a smaller scale ...”

“... During a war,” Voss reminded him.  

“Exactly,” Krueger said.  “We have a colossal shortage of money.”

Volker swallowed.  A hundred billion Reichmarks?  He couldn’t even begin to imagine such a vast sum of money.  There was no way he’d ever be a millionaire on his salary, let alone a billionaire.  And getting the money was only the start of the problem.  The unions would resist, strongly, training up more than a handful of new workers.  They’d see it as an attempt to undermine their power and they’d be right.  Hell, Volker himself would have opposed it when he’d been a Union Chief.

And how can we do all that, he asked himself, when there is a war underway?

“Loot it from the French,” Voss suggested.  “Or the Italians.  They bend over to give us anything we want.”

“They don’t have the money or machinery we need,” Krueger snapped.  “Their currencies are pegged to ours, so the real value of their money is declining too.  The best we can hope for, from either of them, is more poorly-trained workers and food supplies.  And looting them would mean drawing forces away from the eastern border!”

Volker held up his hand.  “Can we supply the demands of the war?”

“Perhaps,” Krueger said.  “But right now, even our ammunition plants are in trouble.”

“And without ammunition, we can't fight,” Voss said.  He sounded tired and harassed.  “Stop producing ladies underwear and start turning out more shells!”

“It isn’t that easy and you know it,” Krueger snapped.  He sounded tired too.  “A plant designed for producing one thing cannot easily be modified to produce something else!”

Volker took a long moment to think as the bickering began in earnest.  On one hand, Krueger was right.  The economy was in a mess.  He had no real dislike for the Americans - both sides had supported rebels, insurgents and terrorists - but he had to worry about the long-term effects of an economic collapse.  And yet, on the other hand, there was a war on.  The economic issues were secondary to preserving the provisional government.  

He tapped the table, again.  “Hans,” he said.  “How long can you paper over the cracks?”

“I’ve been doing that for the last five years,” Krueger said.  He rubbed his eyes.  “There are just too many variables, sir.  I can do my best to freeze prices, but unless we manage to stop our money declining in value ... well, all we’d do is shift sales into the black market.  I don’t think it will be easy to force farmers to sell at a loss.”

“Then confiscate their stocks,” Voss said.

“That would ensure we wouldn't get any harvests next year,” Krueger said.  “The Russians learned - too late - that collectivism reduced yields.  We don’t want to make the same mistake ourselves.”

He looked at Volker.  “I think we might just be able to stretch matters out for another year, but a single major disaster will almost certainly set off a chain reaction that will bring our economies down,” he added.  “As it is, we may have to go back to rationing food very quickly.  We’re just not getting any additional supplies from Germany East - or the French.”

Gudrun will have to discuss that too, Volker thought.  And hope to hell the French don’t demand too much in return.

“See to it,” he ordered.  It wasn’t going to go down well with the population - it seemed as though everyone had a political opinion these days and was willing to share it - but there wasn't any choice.  “I’ll announce it once you’ve got the groundwork in place and explain the problem.  Maybe there won’t be too many objections.”

“Hah,” Voss commented.

Volker suspected he was right.  The German population knew better than to believe what someone said on the radio, particularly now.  They might be told that things were getting better - or they had been, before the uprising - but they could see that costs were steadily rising higher, when products were available at all.  It was ironic, he had to admit, that people conditioned to disbelieve whatever they were told by the previous government wouldn't believe him either, yet it would just have to be endured.  There was nothing that could be done to make the population trust him, save for carefully building up a reputation for telling the truth.  But that would take years.

“I think a basic supply of food each week would be reassuring to most people,” Krueger said, bluntly.  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“And we’re moving people from the east,” Voss added.  “We’re going to have to feed them too.”

“I know,” Krueger said.  It was yet another headache.  “And people here aren't going to welcome them either.”

Volker sighed, inwardly.  The refugees were unlikely to be welcomed, not by people who barely had enough to eat and drink themselves.  But they had to be moved from their homes, if only to keep them safe.  The SS was unlikely to be pleasant to anyone who hadn't already declared themselves for Germany East.  Indeed, it was quite likely that any civilians they encountered would pay a steep price.

He sighed, again.  He needed his sleep; he needed to lie beside his wife and pretend, if only for a few hours, that he was nothing more than a simple factory worker.  But there were too many things they needed to discuss - and hash out - before he could seek his bed.  A mistake now might come back to haunt them when the SS finally started its advance.

At least Holliston has his own problems, he thought, dryly.  But does he have so many bickering subordinates? 

Chapter Four

Germanica (Moscow), Germany East
1 September 1985

Karl Holliston had always loved Germanica.

He stood on the balcony and gazed out over the city.  Moscow - old Moscow - was gone, save for a handful of buildings that had once been the beating heart of the long-dead Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  Schoolchildren were taken there every year, where they were told about how Stalin had been trying to flee Moscow when he’d been killed and just how much the Reich had done for the country.  Russia was now the breadbasket of the Reich, the source of true Aryan greatness.  The fact that the Russians themselves were a threatened minority in their own country was neither here nor there, as far as Holliston and his fellows were concerned.  They were, after all, Untermenschen.

Adolf Hitler had wanted to be an architect, Karl recalled, and Albert Speer had been more than happy to make his dreams reality.  Germanica was larger-than-life, dominated by towering gothic buildings and monuments to the great victories won by the Third Reich over its many enemies.  There was something about the sheer grandeur of the buildings that made Untermenschen feel small and puny, Karl knew, even though he felt the buildings suited him and his dreams.  Here, there were no limitations on the Volk.  No accountants to quibble over the cost, no bleeding-heart westerners moaning and whining about ‘human rights;’ nothing to stand in their way as they built the Thousand Year Reich.  And not a single Untermensch in sight!

He leaned forward, enjoying the view.  Blond young men, wearing a multitude of uniforms, strolling beside blonde-haired young women who were clearly readying themselves for a happy life of Kinder, Küche, Kirche.  They would birth and raise the next generation of Germans - true Germans, Germans who would not let anything stand in their way between them and true greatness.  It was with them, Karl was sure, that he would take the entire world and remake it, as Hitler himself had dreamed.  And now the time was at hand.

Smiling, he took one last look, then turned and strolled back into the office.  It was large, a duplicate of the giant room Hitler had occupied before he’d died in 1950.  Two SS flags hung from the walls, surrounding a giant map of the world.  Germany East was immense, stretching from what had once been Poland to Kamchatka, but he knew better.  It would be the work of generations before Germany East was tamed.  Until then, it would continue to breed strong and hardy Germans willing to do whatever it took to keep themselves alive.

“Mien Führer,” Maria said.  His assistant was standing by the door, seemingly unwilling to walk over to the desk.  It had been decades since the Reich had a true Führer and no one was quite sure how to react.  “Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler is here, as you requested; he’s currently waiting in the antechamber.  Your ... other guest is currently passing through security.”

Karl smiled.  He hadn't missed the hint of disapproval in her voice.  Maria was, in very many ways, a strict conservative.  Quite how she squared that with actually working outside the home was beyond him, but it hardly mattered.  Maria couldn't hope to wield power on her own, not in the remorselessly masculine SS.  She was loyal because none of Karl’s rivals would trust her any further than they could throw her.

“Have her wait in the antechamber, once she arrives,” he ordered.  “And show the Oberstgruppenfuehrer in.”

He sat down at the desk and smiled to himself as Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler entered the room.  Ruengeler had been working a desk for the last four years, but he was still a tall powerfully-built man with short blond hair and a badly-scarred face.  Karl knew that he took every opportunity he could to get out of the office and tour the settlements personally, despite the risk of assassination.  Ruengeler had just never been very comfortable serving behind a desk.  Indeed, he’d even requested a transfer to South Africa, even though it would have meant an effective demotion.

A fighter, Karl thought, as Maria brought them both coffee.  The SS blend, not the weak slop served in Berlin.  And I need fighters.

“Mein Führer,” Ruengeler said.  “I have the report you requested.”

Karl leaned forward, eagerly.  “Can you complete the mission?”

“I believe so, Mein Führer,” Ruengeler said.  “Our tactics were designed for a rapid advance against stiff enemy opposition.  Here, we are intimately familiar with much of the terrain involved, an advantage we had no good reason to expect during training.  A combined-arms thrust involving both armour and elite forces should be more than sufficient to open the route to Berlin.”

He paused.  “The true danger is the enemy withdrawing into Berlin.”

Karl snorted.  “They’ll never be able to hold the city.”

Ruengeler looked doubtful.  “The Slavic Untermenschen held Leningrad for three years, even though they were grossly inferior to us,” he said.  “They were eating one another when the defences finally fell.  I would expect better from the Berliners.  If we fail to take Berlin quickly, we will have real problems imposing our will on the remainder of the Reich.”

“Then we will thrust as hard as we can,” Karl said, firmly.  “Do we have any major problems?”

“Our air support arm is going to have problems,” Ruengeler said, flatly.  “Much of the forces at our disposal were designed for close-air support, not air supremacy.  We have a number of jet fighters at our disposal, but the traitors have more.  They also have all five aircraft carriers into the bargain.”

“We are already taking steps to handle their advantages,” Karl said.  It was wasteful, but he would sooner lose half the Luftwaffe than the Reich.  Soldiers, sailors and airmen were meant to be expended, if necessary.  “And the Kriegsmarine is unlikely to take a major role in events.”

“They do have marines, Mein Führer,” Ruengeler reminded him.  “And their ship-mounted cruise missiles may be a major problem.”

Karl shrugged.  “They will not be a problem,” he said, firmly.

“As you say, Mein Führer,” Ruengeler said.

He cleared his throat.  “The offensive should be ready to launch in two weeks, perhaps less,” he said.  “By then, all the forces will be in place and our logistics support network will be well underway ...”

“I believe it should be possible to launch the offensive earlier,” Karl said.  “Is that true?”

“We would be launching the offensive with what we have on hand,” Ruengeler said.  “I believe that waiting at least ten days would allow us to throw a much harder punch into their defences.  We need reserves to handle any unanticipated little ... problems.”

Bloody noses, Karl translated, mentally.  Or outright defeats.

He studied the map for a long moment.  It was just over three hundred miles from the front lines to Berlin, assuming nothing slowed the assault force down as it mounted the first true Blitzkrieg in forty years.  The forces that had stormed into Russia, back when the Reich had been embarking on its grand plan of conquest and transformation, had done as well, yet they’d faced Untermenschen.  His forces faced Germans.  Degraded Germans, perhaps, but still Germans.  A delay - a setback - might prove fatal.  His only consolation was that the enemy couldn't really afford to trade space for time.

They can't surrender Berlin, any more than we can refuse to try to take it, he thought, stroking his chin grimly.  Giving up the capital will doom their cause.

He looked up at Ruengeler.  “And that is your considered military opinion?”

“Yes, Mein Führer,” Ruengeler said.  He was strong, too strong to wilt easily before a Fuhrer.  “Too much can happen when an offensive finally begins.  I would prefer to have forces on hand to ... deal with the problems before they get out of hand.”

Karl sighed.  “You do realise that you’ll be giving them an extra two weeks too?”

“I understand the factors involved,” Ruengeler insisted, calmly.  “But give us two weeks and we will be ready to deal with any countermoves they make.”

“I hope you’re right,” Karl said.  

He ground his teeth in frustration.  He wanted to order his forces to attack instantly, but he knew better.  Expending an entire team of crack commandos was one thing - his forces weren't significantly weakened by their absence - but thousands of tanks and hundreds of thousands of infantry?  Losing a Waffen-SS division would be costly, very costly.  It would certainly encourage his enemies to consider overthrowing him.  Karl Holliston, after all, was no Adolf Hitler.

“I’ll be flying to Warsaw tomorrow morning,” Ruengeler added.  “I should have more than enough time to get everything organised before the offensive starts in earnest.  Ideally, Mein Fuhrer, we should have enough time to make our gains before winter sets in.”

Karl nodded, tightly.  Winters in Eastern Europe weren't quite as nasty as winters in Germany East, but the coming winter would still impose limitations on military operations.  His troops were trained and experienced in arctic warfare - the insurgents didn't let up just because it was cold enough to kill a grown man - yet they’d be needed back home.  God knew the insurgents would take advantage of the chaos to launch additional attacks against German settlements.

“Very good,” he said.  “Make sure you send anyone on the purge list back to Germanica for trial and punishment.”

“Of course, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said, as he rose.  “It will be done.”

He sounded faintly displeased at the thought of having his Waffen-SS troopers mistaken for Einsatzgruppen extermination squads, but Karl had no doubt he’d do his job.  The purge list included thousands of Germans who had come under suspicion for one reason or another, as well as everyone closely related to them.  All traces of heresy had to be exterminated, even if it meant catching a few innocents along with the guilty.  They had to die so that the Reich could live.

“Good luck,” Karl said.

He held up his hand in salute.  Ruengeler returned it, then about-faced and marched out of the giant office.  Karl watched him go, wondering just how long it would be until he had to dispose of the older man.  Ruengeler was extremely competent, but he asked too many questions - and, besides, he was just a little too squeamish for the task ahead.  Purging the first set of names was one thing, yet that would only be the beginning.  Germany had to be purified before she could rise from the ashes.

Maria stepped into the office.  “Should I show your other guest into the room?”

“Yes, please,” Karl said.  Maria’s disapproval was almost amusing.  One would think he’d called a prostitute from the gutter.  “And then hold all my calls.”

He rose as Maria left the office, only to return a moment later with a tall woman wearing a black SS uniform.  The thought of a woman wearing such a uniform had seemed absurd, he recalled, until he’d first met Hauptsturmfuehrer Katharine Milch.  She was impressive, he had to admit; tall, blonde, her curves clearly visible through her uniform.  And yet, her file made it very clear that she was one of the most ruthless people - male or female - in the Reich.  The string of successes to her name warned him that Katharine Milch was not a woman to take lightly.  Her cold blue eyes silently challenged him to do just that.

“Mein Fuhrer,” she said.  Her voice was a warm contralto, but there was a hint of sharpness in it that made his hindbrain sit up and pay attention.  “I understand that you have a special task for me?”

“I do,” Karl confirmed.  There was something about her that flustered him, more than he cared to admit.  “Please, take a seat.”

He sat down facing her, studying her carefully.  She was beautiful, in the ice-maiden fashion that was so popular in the Reich.  Her face looked to have been carved out of flawless marble, her hair was tied up in long braid that fell over her shoulders and her uniform drew attention to the size of her chest.  And yet, the more Karl looked at her, the more he became aware that she moved like a professional ... that she was a professional.  She didn't show him a single wasted movement.

This woman is dangerous, he thought, as he leaned back in his chair.  Part of him wanted to take her to bed, but the remainder knew it would be a dangerous mistake.  She might even have a realistic shot at the top job.

“In two weeks, perhaps less, we will be launching a military operation to recover Berlin and eliminate the rebels,” he said, flatly.  Katharine could be trusted - and besides, the rebels weren't fools.  They’d know an offensive was coming.  “You and your unit have been held back for a reason.  I have a specific task for you.”

He met her eyes, levelly.  “Can you get into Berlin?”

Katharine showed no visible response to the question.  “I believe it shouldn't be too difficult,” she said, after a moment.  But then, he knew she wouldn't have shown any traces of doubt, whatever her real feelings.  She wouldn't show any weakness in front of a man.  “We would not have travel papers, of course, but the system for producing and tracking paperwork seems to have collapsed.  If necessary, we would pose as refugees making our way westwards until we reached Berlin.  Unfortunately, they have gained control of the air defence network to the west.”

Karl nodded.  They’d slipped one assault team to Berlin via helicopter, but that trick wouldn't work twice.  He’d be astonished if they even managed to get a helicopter over the front lines without it being intercepted and shot down.  Any assault teams would have to make their way over the border on foot, just to make sure they avoided detection.  Katharine would have to do the same herself.

“Very good,” he said.  “Once you’re in Berlin, you are to make contact with underground elements that have remained in place and plan the capture or assassination of the so-called provisional government.  This is to be done when they are coping with our offensive, so they have no time to put replacements forward to take command.  Ideally, I want them held in place until they can be forced to issue an order to surrender; if necessary, you are to kill them and smuggle their heads out as proof.”

“They would be fools,” Katharine observed tonelessly, “if they all stayed in one place.”

“Capture or take out as many as you can,” Karl said.  He shrugged.  “Taking them alive would be nice, but killing them is acceptable.”

He reached into his desk drawer and produced a file.  “Except for this one,” he said, holding the file out to Katharine.  “I want her alive.”

“Gudrun Wieland,” Katharine read.  She skimmed through the file with ease, her brow furrowing slightly.  “The one who started all this.”

“So they say,” Karl said.  He wasn't sure it was true.  Katharine might be a professional killer, but very few women could match her.  Gudrun Wieland’s file made it clear she was nothing more than a university student.  Maybe they claimed she’d started the chain of events that led to the uprising, but Karl rather doubted it.  There was a man hiding behind her, he was sure, someone who remained unidentified.  “I want her alive.”

Katharine quirked her eyebrows.  “May I ask why?”

“They have turned her into a symbol of their cause,” Karl said, bluntly.  “A true flower of German womanhood, the lover of a wounded boy, the heroine who avenged him ... such a symbol cannot be merely killed.  She must be forced to recant before she is patted on the backside and told to go back to the kitchen.”

He felt a sudden hot flash of anger that disturbed him.  It was impossible to believe that Gudrun was the true leader of the uprising, the person who’d started the first pebble rolling down the hillside.  Her background - father a policeman, brother a soldier, boyfriend an SS stormtrooper before he was badly wounded - told against it.  And yet ... if she was guilty, Gudrun had fooled a great many people.   She’d even been arrested, only to be released for lack of evidence.  It was far more likely that someone had talked her into posing as the founder, after she’d been arrested.

And if she is guilty, he thought, she will pay for it.

There were ... techniques ... used for breaking women, women and their male relatives.  He wouldn't hesitate to order them used, just to make it absolutely clear that Gudrun Wieland would not be able to hide behind her sex.  If she was guilty, she’d be tortured to death ... it went against the grain to inflict such horrendous punishment on a German girl, but it had to be done.  And then her entire family would be killed too ...

Serves them right for letting her get out of hand, he thought, nastily.  Her father should have beaten any trace of rebelliousness out of her before she grew into a young woman.

“I will certainly do my upmost to ensure she is brought here,” Katharine said coolly, breaking into his thoughts.  “But you do realise that smuggling one prisoner, let alone a dozen, out of Berlin will not be easy?”

“You may have to keep them under wraps in the city until it falls,” Karl said.  Berlin was vast, easily large enough for an experienced team to hide for weeks if necessary.  The normal surveillance systems were completely offline.  “I know it won’t be easy, but it has to be done.”

“I understand, Mein Führer,” Katharine said.  She rose, a movement that drew his attention to her chest.  “And we will do our very best to deliver the traitors to you in chains.”

Chapter Five

Near Vichy, France
2 September 1985

“Wake up,” Horst said, poking her shoulder lightly.  “We’re almost there.”

Gudrun opened her eyes, then stretched.  Sunlight was pouring in through the windows, revealing that they were driving up a mountainside road towards a large French building half-hidden in the foliage.  Guards could be seen everywhere, manning the gates and patrolling the grounds, wearing desert tan uniforms and flat caps that reminded her of something she’d seen back in school.  The Foreign Legion, she recalled, as the driver took them through the gates and parked outside the chateau.  Foreigners who’d travelled to France to fight for her - and leave their pasts behind.

Horst scowled.  “They’re not supposed to be here,” he said, grimly.  “By treaty, the Foreign Legion isn't meant to return to Mainland France.”

“They’re probably making a statement,” Gudrun said.  “Trying to tell us they won’t be pushed around any longer.”

She rolled her eyes in irritation.  Being a councillor - even one without portfolio - had been an education in more ways than one.  She’d known there was something deeply wrong about the Reich ever since she’d discovered just what had happened to her former boyfriend, but she’d never truly grasped the full extent of its evil.  The Vichy French had been Germany’s unwilling allies since 1940, trapped within the Reich’s network of satellite states, unable to move to partnership or escape Germany’s grasp.  The slightest hint of nationalist sentiment would have been enough to get the panzers moving, back before the coup.  

And the French were lucky, compared to some of the others, she thought, numbly.  At least there’s still a nation that calls itself France.

“Here we are,” Horst said, as a man in a light brown suit opened the car door.  “Just remember not to give away more than we have to give away.”

Gudrun shot him a dark look as she stepped out into the warm air.  France was warmer than Germany, she’d been told, particularly as the world inched remorselessly towards winter.   A number of her teachers had even made fun of the French, insisting that they were weak because they’d grown up in such a pleasant climate.  Gudrun wasn't sure if that was true - she’d been told thousands of lies at school - but she put the thought firmly out of her mind anyway.  This was a bad time for a three-sided war.

“We cannot afford major trouble on our western borders,” Volker Schulze had said, before she’d departed Berlin.  “If we have to make concessions to keep the French quiet, we will make concessions.”

Horst stayed behind her as she was escorted through a pair of doors and into a sitting room that was, quite evidently, a place for holding clandestine discussions.  She’d half-expected to travel to Compiègne Forest, where Hitler had laid down the terms for France’s surrender and submission to the Reich, but the French had offered the Chateau Picard instead.  In some ways, it was a relief.  Her predecessors might have enjoyed rubbing France’s collective nose in just how helpless it was before Germany, but she had to admit it would make it harder to hold talks now.  They needed the French in a reasonably cooperative mood.

“Fraulein Wieland,” the French Premier said, in excellent German.  “Welcome to Chateau Picard.”

Gudrun took his hand and shook it, firmly.  Premier Jean-Baptiste Jacquinot was an old man, easily in his seventies.  Vichy France didn't bother to hold elections.  Jacquinot had been deemed suitable by the Reich and any attempt to undermine him would have drawn the wrath of the Reich Council, as long as Jacquinot served them faithfully.  His position now was somewhat ambiguous, according to Horst.  Vichy might not overthrow him, for fear of what the Reich would do, but his real power was declining by the day.  

The younger man beside him underlined it.  Bruno Ouvrard was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes.  It was hard to be sure - the files hadn't been clear - but Gudrun suspected he was only five or six years older than her.  Old enough to be experienced, young enough to gaze upon her with interest.  His mere presence was a sign of just how badly events in Vichy were slipping out of control, she knew.  It said a great deal about the situation that the official government and the growing independence movement knew perfectly well how to talk to one another - and had probably done so for some time.

They should have locked him up, she thought.  They could have locked him up.

She sighed, inwardly.  The files had made it clear that Vichy had promised to do its upmost to keep the growing movement from disrupting food supplies to the Reich - and failed, miserably.  France had been on the verge of starvation for years now, as German demands grew harsher and harsher.  It was hard to blame the French for wanting to fight - or simply downing tools and refusing to serve the Germans at the expense of their own population.  But they didn't realise they might face a far worse threat in the near future.

“Thank you, Premier,” she said.  “Shall we get down to business?”

“Of course,” Jacquinot said.  He nodded towards the comfortable chairs.  “Please, take a seat.”

Gudrun sat, schooling her face into the impassive mask that every German schoolchild learned to master before reaching their second decade.  Showing what one was really thinking in school could mean a beating or worse.  She still shivered when she remembered one of her friends being expelled for questioning their teacher over a relatively minor point, even though her family were good Germans.  Gudrun had no idea what had happened to her after that, but she doubted it had been anything pleasant.  The SS hadn't tolerated any open dissent.

“I am curious,” Ouvrard said.  “Why have they sent you, Fraulein?”

He made Fraulein sound like an insult, Gudrun noted with some amusement.  Perhaps it was, to him.  Fraulein was hardly used to address French girls, let alone Untermenschen servants and slaves.  The Racial Purity Laws insisted that good Germans could not marry French women, let alone have children with them.  Gudrun could marry a Norwegian or a Dane, if she couldn't find a pure-blooded German, but a Frenchman would be right out.  They were forever isolated from the Reich, trapped between the Volk and the Untermenschen.

“I started the movement that brought down the Reich Council,” she said, simply.  “Chancellor Schulze felt you would listen to me.”

“We would listen to anyone, Fraulein,” Jacquinot assured her.  He didn't make it sound like an insult.  “But doing what you want is quite another matter.”

“I would expect as much,” Gudrun said.  She cursed under her breath.  She knew how to haggle in the market - her mother had taught her - but not how to hold a sensitive diplomatic discussion with a foreign power.  “May I be blunt?”

“Of course, Fraulein,” Jacquinot said.

Gudrun leaned forward.  “Right now, the SS is readying its offensive against us,” she said, curtly.  There was no point in trying to hide it.  The BBC and Radio Free Europe had been broadcasting the truth for the last week.  Normally, the Reich would have tried to jam the outside broadcasts, but right now the jamming stations were offline.  “If they successfully retake Berlin, the most you can expect is a return to your previous status - servitude to Germany.”

“Unacceptable,” Ouvrard said.

“You do not have the firepower to keep them from pushing into Vichy France and putting your people to the sword,” Gudrun said, bluntly.  “And you have already compromised yourselves, in the eyes of the SS.”

“Just by being born French,” Ouvrard sneered.

Gudrun nodded.  “If we win the war, however, we will be in a position to make a number of concessions,” she added.  “And we have no inclination to keep France permanently subjected to Germany.”

“A pretty speech,” Ouvrard said.  “Why don’t I believe you?”

He met her eyes.  “Why should we not ally with the SS to regain our independence?”

Gudrun stared at him in genuine astonishment.  The French ally with the SS?  Were they out of their minds?  It was so absurd that she refused to believe it was anything more than a negotiating gambit, yet it was worthless.  The SS had tormented France ever since 1940, conscripting slave labourers and purging the French of anyone they deemed anti-German.  No Frenchman in his right mind would ally with the SS.

“That’s what the Arabs said,” Horst said, into the silence.  “And remind me - what happened to the Arabs after they were no longer useful.”

“They were slaughtered,” Jacquinot said, flatly.

“Quite,” Gudrun said.  She regained her balance and pushed forward.  “If we have to fight you, now, it may well cost us the war.  Therefore, we would prefer to avoid fighting you ...”

“So would we, Fraulein,” Jacquinot said.

“But we also need food supplies from you,” Gudrun continued.  “Our stockpiles are already dangerously low.”

“So we have leverage,” Ouvrard said.

“Not as much as you might think,” Gudrun countered.  “We might simply take what we want, devastating France in the process ... or we might lose, leaving you exposed to a vengeful SS that intends to use you as the enemy to reunify the Reich.”

“You make a convincing case, Fraulein,” Jacquinot observed.

Ouvrard leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his lap.  “There are terms, of course.”

“Of course,” Gudrun echoed.

She looked from one Frenchman to the other, wondering precisely what the balance of power actually was.  Jacquinot controlled the government, in theory, but Gudrun knew from bitter experience that the government was hardly a solid monolith.  Who knew which way the different departments would jump, if their loyalty was tested?  The French generals had to know they were badly outmatched, if push came to shove, but the French soldiers might want to fight.  And, while the French were constantly mocked as military weaklings, they did have a hard core of tough professional soldiers, men who had served multiple terms defending French North Africa from insurgents.  Overrunning France would be a distraction the Reich could not afford.  

“First, we want political and economic independence,” Ouvrard said.  “Once the war is over, we want complete freedom to make whatever political alliances we like and trade with whoever we like, on even terms.  You will no longer be allowed to dominate us.”

Gudrun nodded.  Volker Schulze and Hans Krueger had expected as much, when they’d discussed the different possibilities with her.  The French economy was in a mess, at least in part, because they were forced to sell their wares to Germany at ruinously cheap prices.  They wouldn't want to remain under the Reich’s economic thumb.  She was just surprised they hadn't demanded military independence too.

But that would worry us, she thought.  She’d taken the time to study the true history of German-French relations and they hadn’t proved encouraging.  France and Germany had been at loggerheads from the very first day of the Second Reich.  A France armed with modern weapons - and perhaps even nukes - would be a lethal threat.

“Those terms are acceptable, with one caveat,” Gudrun said.  “You may not join any outside military alliance or allow outside forces to station troops, aircraft, ships or anything else within your territory.”

The two Frenchmen exchanged glances, but neither of them looked particularly surprised by her response.  Only the Americans or the British could have moved forces into France - and they had to realise that the Reich would not tolerate such a move.  France would become the first battleground of the final war.

“Understood,” Ouvrard said.  “Second, we demand the return of our stolen territories.”

Gudrun reminded herself, savagely, to keep her face impassive.  Alsace-Lorraine was historically German, she’d been taught in school, even though it had changed hands several times in the last century.  Every German schoolchild was told about French atrocities against the Germanic population ... atrocities that were far outmatched by the horrors the SS had committed against almost everyone, even the Germans themselves.  She could not simply abandon German territory to the French ...

... And if she did, she knew Volker Schulze would renounce it as soon as she returned home.

Because the SS will turn it into a propaganda ploy, she thought, numbly.  They’ll tell the Volk that the government is planning to surrender German territory ... and they will be right.

It wasn't just Alsace-Lorraine either, she knew.  There was a swath of French territory - the entire western coastline - that had been annexed by the Reich.  It was now dominated by hundreds of military bases and fortifications, preparations to meet an Anglo-American invasion that had never come.  Much of the native population had been moved out too, when they hadn’t been quietly ‘encouraged’ to leave, and replaced by Germans.  The French settlers in French North Africa had been uprooted from their homes and bitterly resented it, but they couldn't return.  There was no way she could make any territorial concessions.

“Let me be blunt,” she said.  “Occupied France - and Alsace-Lorraine - have been thoroughly Germanized.  The people living there are Germans.  Forcing them to move will only spark off another major confrontation at the worst possible time.”

She scowled, inwardly.  The vast majority of the troops in Occupied France, certainly the reservists, had homes and families there.  They would not be keen to force their own people to leave, nor would they sit there quietly while outsiders did the dirty work.  And the SS would be delighted to offer support to any insurrection.  A major crisis in the rear would be at least as bad - perhaps worse - as going to war with France.  

And the loyalty of our own military could not be taken for granted, she thought, grimly.  Our entire government could disintegrate, allowing the SS to come back and take over.

“Those territories are ours,” Ouvrard insisted.  “They cannot be surrendered!”

“You did surrender them,” Horst said, amused.

Gudrun gave him a sharp look as Ouvrard purpled.  Horst was no more a diplomat than she was.  The SS had never been about diplomacy.  It rarely even bothered trying to be polite.

“That was when we lay prostrate before you,” Ouvrard said.  “Now ... you need us.”

Horst leaned forward.  “There’s such a thing as overplaying your hand,” he said.  “I concede that we need your help, but we don’t need it so badly that we’re ready to deal with the consequences of giving you what you want.  If you push this too far, you may wind up with the SS on the border instead of us.”

Jacquinot smiled.  “So you’re saying we should quit while we’re ahead?”

“Yes,” Horst said.  “You can get some concessions from us now - and we will honour them - but you can't get everything.”

“True,” Jacquinot said.  “Fraulein, with your permission, we will write up the terms of the agreement and make them public, once they are signed.  Our public needs to know that we are making progress.”

Gudrun nodded.  The French economy had been hit by multiple strikes, but - unlike in the Reich - the strikers hadn't gained any real concessions.  They were growing tired of waiting for change, she’d been told.  It wouldn't be long before Jacquinot and Ouvrard found themselves on opposing sides, if they failed to put the brakes on now.  A civil war in France might keep the French from causing trouble, but it would definitely interfere with the shipment of supplies to the Reich.

“That would be acceptable,” she said.

“There is one other condition,” Ouvrard said, softly.  “We want the conscripted labourers returned from the Reich.”

Gudrun wasn't entirely sure if that was a good idea or not - for France.  Hans Krueger had pointed out that hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen were in Germany, Frenchmen who would have problems finding employment when they got home.  Dumping so many workers onto the French economy would probably cause all sorts of headaches for the French Government, which might be why Ouvrard wanted it.  But it wasn't as if anyone in Germany wanted to keep the Gastarbeiters.

“They will be returned home,” she said, bluntly.  She had no idea what would be done - if anything could be done - about the Gastarbeiters from Germany East, but that wasn't her problem.  “Do you have any other demands?”

Ouvrard smiled.  “Not at all, Fraulein.”

“We thank you for coming, Fraulein,” Jacquinot said.  “And we will have the terms of the provisional agreement written up now.”

“Of course,” Gudrun said.

She watched the two Frenchmen leave, then sat back and waited - doing her best to keep her face impassive - until Jacquinot returned with the provisional agreement.  It was nothing more than a list of points, but it covered everything they’d discussed.  She signed both copies, then passed one back to Jacquinot.  The provisional government would have to hold a formal signing ceremony later, once the agreement was approved.  

And there’s no reason why they won’t approve it, she thought.  It gives us what we want.

As soon as both copies were signed, she rose and followed the escort out of the room, back to the car.  Horst walked beside her, looking pensive.  He hadn't liked the idea of negotiating with the French at all, Gudrun knew, even though he’d seen no alternative.  But then, as far as everyone was concerned, he was nothing more than her bodyguard.  His objections had been strictly private.

“Well,” Horst said, as the car passed through the gates and back onto the road leading to the private airfield.  “That could have gone worse, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Gudrun said.  

She wanted to hug him - they’d been lovers ever since the Reich Council had fallen - but she didn't know if she could trust the driver.  He might well be keeping an eye on her for his superiors.  God alone knew what having a premarital affair would do to her reputation, now everything was up in the air.  Once, it would have been harmless, as long as she’d intended to get married.  Now ...

“They didn't offer us troops,” Horst added.  “Did you notice?”

“We were going to refuse, if they offered,” Gudrun reminded him.  “I don’t know how well they’d fight, but the SS would turn them into a propaganda weapon.”

“True,” Horst said.  “But they didn't even make the offer, when they know as well as we do that an SS victory means their destruction.  I find that rather odd.”

He leaned back into his seat, staring out at the French countryside.  “We’ll get the latest reports when we return to Berlin,” he added.  “And we’ll see what the council has to say about it.”

Chapter Six

Near Warsaw, Germany Prime
2 September 1985

The town wasn't much, Leutnant Kurt Wieland thought, as they drove into the town square and parked the lorries under a giant statue of a soldier he didn't recognise.  A few dozen homes, a handful of shops, set a couple of miles from the autobahn ... it was the kind of place his parents had talked about going to live when they retired and their children had flown the nest.  He suspected that he would have found it rather boring, if he’d had to live there, but he was still in his twenties.  His parents might have a different attitude.

He jumped down to the ground and barked orders to the soldiers, who scrambled out of the lorries and hurried to take up position near the Town Hall.  The entire town was due to be evacuated and turned into a strongpoint, hopefully one that would slow up the SS for a few hours before they continued advancing towards Berlin.  Kurt had no illusions about just how weak the defence line actually was, even though his actual experience of combat was practically non-existent.  Between the resignations, the deaths and a number of desertions, the forces facing the SS were badly disorganised.  It would take longer than they had, he feared, to get the army into proper shape.  

“The population should have left already,” Oberfeldwebel Helmut Loeb commented.  “But some of them won’t have left.”

Kurt nodded.  The young men and military veterans would have already been called up, although it was anyone’s guess just how many of them would bother to report to the training camps.  They’d signed up to fight the enemies of the Reich, not their fellow Germans.  Quite a few veterans had already been caught trying to slip across the border to the east, or merely hiding in the countryside and hoping not to be found.  They found it impossible, they’d claimed when they were caught, to choose a side.  

And I would find it difficult too, if I hadn't been in Berlin, Kurt thought, as the town was rapidly searched and a handful of stragglers pushed into the square.  I saw the SS mowing down innocent Germans as if they were Slavs.

He glanced down at his hands, wondering if he should feel guilty.  He’d broken his oaths when he’d opened fire on the SS, triggering off the Battle of Berlin.  It wasn't something he should feel guilty for, he told himself, but he knew he’d feel responsible for everyone who died in the coming war.  There could be no doubting it would come, either.  Everyone knew the SS was moving troops up to the borderline and preparing their offensive.  It was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan.

“This is an outrage,” a loud female voice declaimed.  “We paid for our house!”

Kurt tried hard to suppress a flicker of tired - and utterly inappropriate - amusement.  The speaker was an older woman, easily twenty years older than his mother if she was a day, standing next to a skinny older man who looked thoroughly henpecked.  Kurt wouldn't have cared to try to impose his will on that woman, no matter what the law said about German womenfolk obeying their husbands.  She was swinging her fists around like a navvy as she argued with the soldiers.  Kurt wouldn't have been surprised to hear she’d been a boxer in her youth, even though women were technically forbidden to take part in blood sports.

Which would have merely driven them underground, he thought, as he strolled over to rescue his men.  His first trip outside the wire, during basic training, had been an eye-opener in more ways than one.  There were all sorts of forbidden pleasures available in the Reich, if one knew where to look.  And now ... who knows what will happen?

“Gute Frau,” he said, dismissing his men with a nod.  “This town is about to become a battleground.”

The woman glared at him.  “We have lived here for thirty years and ...”

“And it is no longer safe,” Kurt snapped.  The nasty part of him was tempted to leave the woman for the SS, but her mouth would probably get her and her husband shot down.  If the rumours from the front lines were true, the SS was purging Germany East of anyone whose political loyalties were even slightly suspect.  “The SS is coming!”

“The SS?”  The woman repeated.  “Why would they come here?”

Kurt swallowed his first angry reaction.  It had been nearly two weeks since the Battle of Berlin.  The news had been on the radio ... although, he had to admit, he had a habit of not believing what the radio said either.  But surely she must have heard rumours of the change in government, if nothing else.  He doubted she was the kind of woman who disdained rumours and gossip as beneath her.  

“A civil war is about to begin,” he said, instead.  “You and your husband will be shipped to a refugee camp to the west, where you will be held until the war is over.  At that point, you will be allowed to return home.”

If your home is still there, he added, silently.  When they hit this town, they’ll advance with all the force they can muster.  

He kept his face impassive.  He’d seen footage of the SS pacification troops in action, burning down entire Russian towns and villages in response to a handful of shots aimed at them from a distance.  There was no way to know - even - if they were getting the right village, but the SS didn't care.  Spreading terror was more important to them than capturing or killing specific individuals.  And yet, their terror tactics hadn't put an end to the South African War.  It had only burned brighter than ever.

The woman’s expression tightened.  “And if we choose not to go?”

“Then you will also be shipped west, but not to a refugee camp,” Kurt said, allowing his voice to harden.  Too many people were already in the detention camps, simply because they couldn't be trusted ... he had no desire to add two more.  “We do not have time to debate the issue.  Pack yourselves a bag and prepare for the journey.”

He glanced at the woman’s husband, wondering if he could be relied upon to say something to his wife.  But it didn't look like it.  Kurt couldn't understand how any self-respecting husband could allow themselves to be so dominated in public - he couldn't imagine his father allowing his mother such freedom - but it wasn't his problem.  All that mattered was getting them out of the town so it could be turned into a strongpoint.

The woman turned and marched back towards her home, muttering angrily to herself.  Her husband shot Kurt an apologetic look, then followed; Kurt watched them go, shaking his head at their antics.  But as long as they were happy, he supposed it was none of his business what they did in private.  Turning to the other refugees, he was relieved to discover that none of them looked willing to question him.  Most of them were older men and women, the former too old for military service, but there were a handful of younger girls and children amongst them.  The town’s teenage boys would already have been conscripted.

“A few of those girls are quite pretty, Herr Leutnant, ” Loeb muttered warningly, as they wanted towards the edge of the town.   “Better keep an eye on the men.”

“Do so,” Kurt ordered.  Loeb was right.  Two of the girls were pretty enough to turn heads anywhere, he had to admit, which could cause problems until they were shipped west to a foster family.    The remainder might not be so pretty, but soldiers who hadn't had leave for far too long developed new standards of beauty.  “We don’t want any incidents.”

He surveyed the edge of the town, peering into the distance towards Germany East.  It was ideal panzer country; rolling fields, very little in the way of natural obstacles and a reasonably well-maintained road heading east.  There were a handful of hedges and ditches, but he doubted they would cause any problems to a modern tank.  A Panther would crush the hedges beneath its treads and roll over the ditches as if they weren't there.  Hell, they could just charge into the town and keep going.  It was unlikely any of the buildings were tough enough to stop a tank.

“We’ll need to be ready to fall back,” he said.  A fluid defence was their only hope, according to Field Marshal Voss.  He hadn't bothered to ask Kurt’s opinion, naturally, but Kurt couldn't disagree with his ultimate superior.  “Get off a couple of shots, then fall back before they get the range and start pounding us.”

“I’ll have antitank missiles placed in the nearest houses,” Loeb stated.  He paused.  “And we’ll mine the fields leading up to the town.  It should give them a few nasty moments.”

“One would hope so,” Kurt agreed.

He had his doubts.  The insurgents who menaced Germany East couldn't stand up to the SS in pitched battles, if they were foolish enough to try.  Instead, they fought from the shadows; they sniped at isolated Germans, hurled the occasional mortar shell into German settlements and mined roads the Germans needed to move supplies from place to place.  None of their attacks were particularly significant, individually, but collectively they represented a major drain on Germany’s manpower.  And God help any German soldier unlucky enough to be captured by the insurgents.  Kurt had heard enough horror stories to know that he never wanted to go there.

And the SS knows precisely how to deal with minefields, he thought, darkly.  The only real question is just how far they’re prepared to go to intimidate good Germans.

It was a bitter thought.  He’d been raised to believe that the SS existed to protect Germans - and indeed, many of the SS Stormtroopers he’d met had been good guys.  Konrad had certainly been a very good guy, even though - as Gudrun’s boyfriend - Kurt had been obliged to detest him on sight.  He certainly hadn't deserved his fate, let alone being abandoned by his own superiors and left to rot.  But his superiors?  How far were they prepared to go to keep their power?  They’d already slaughtered countless Untermenschen, he knew, but were they prepared to slaughter vast numbers of Germans?

Probably, he thought, as they worked their way through the town.  They think that we’re traitors.

“Just gives us reason to fight,” he muttered.

Loeb glanced at him.  “Herr Leutnant?”

“It doesn't matter,” Kurt said.  He heard the buses entering the town and allowed himself a moment of relief.  “Let’s go.”

He sucked in his breath as he walked back to the square and saw the older woman - the same older woman - arguing with one of the drivers.  She had four large bags beside her, the smallest easily five times as large as the knapsack Kurt had been issued when he’d reported for basic training.  He found it hard to understand how she’d packed them so quickly, let alone carried them to the square.  Her husband didn't look strong enough to have carried them for her ...

“I need all of these clothes,” the woman was saying.  “I need ...”

“No, you don’t,” Kurt snapped.  Gudrun liked clothes, but she was much more practical than this silly cow.  “You need only the bare minimum.”

He allowed his temper to show as the woman rounded on him.  “I don’t have time to deal with this any longer,” he snarled, feeling his patience snap completely.  “Take one bag and leave the rest here!”

“I need them,” the woman repeated.  “I can't just leave them here!”

“Yes, you can,” Kurt said.  He made a show of unsnapping his holster and placing his hand on his pistol.  Her eyes widened with shock.  “Take one bag and get into the bus, now.  Or I’ll shut you up permanently.”

The woman glared at him for a long moment, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze.  She’d been told, of course, that the entire region was under martial law.  Kurt could shoot her down in front of a dozen witnesses and it was unlikely he’d get in any real trouble for it.  Those witnesses would argue that she had impeded the evacuation and defence preparations, if nothing else.  He braced himself, unsure what she’d do, then breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up one of her bags and marched onto the bus.  Either the bag was lighter than it seemed or she was stronger, he noted.  She didn't seem to need much effort to carry it.

“What an idiot,” someone muttered from behind him.

Kurt ignored the comment and watched as the remaining evacuees were hustled onto the buses.  He couldn’t help noticing that some of the girls waved cheerfully at the soldiers, blowing kisses as the bus roared to life.  No doubt there had been some flirting going on, even though the soldiers were meant to be helping convert the town into a strongpoint.  Who knew?  It might even lead to marriage.  Soldiers were encouraged to marry young, just to sire the next generation of Germans before they were killed in one of the Reich’s wars.

Or it might lead to nothing, he thought, as he made his way towards the makeshift command post.  The radio antenna had been positioned some distance from the CP, just to ensure the SS didn't take out the CP as well as the radio when they tracked it down.  The flirters may never see one another again.

“Message from HQ,” the radio operator said.  “Generalmajor Gath is on his way to inspect the defence lines.”

Kurt swore, inwardly.  They’d barely started ... had the main offensive begun already?  He peered through the window, looking eastwards for some signs of trouble, but all seemed safe and tranquil.  Maybe Generalmajor Gunter Gath - the CO of the Eastern Defence Line - merely wanted to get a feel for the terrain before the shooting actually began.  Or maybe he thought that Kurt - who was handling responsibilities well above his pay grade - should be supervised.

Or maybe he wants to kiss my ass, he thought, darkly.  He’d never met Gath in person.  I have a sister on the Reich Council, after all.

“Acknowledge the message,” he said.   Generalmajor Gath was already on his way.  There was no point in trying to deter him, not now.  “And then request additional landmines and AT weapons from stores.”

He sucked in his breath as he walked back outside.  His men were already hard at work, digging trenches, fortifying a number of houses and emplacing antitank weapons in the most advantageous positions.  Kurt had no idea precisely how the SS intended to advance, but the town was right in the middle of the shortest route to Berlin, controlling one road and far too close to the autobahn.  They practically had to secure the town to keep their flanks unmolested.  But he had no illusions about how long his men could stand off a determined offensive.

“We should have time to run through two of the drills before nightfall,” Loeb said, as he joined Kurt outside the CP.  “Once we know what we’re doing, it should be easier to fall back to the next set of defences.”

He leaned forward.  “Morale is high, Herr Leutnant,” he added.  “But there’s plenty of concern about the SS.”

Kurt nodded.  The men had reason to be concerned.  Apart from the old hands, like Loeb, they had very little actual experience.  Sure, their training had been savage - it wasn't uncommon for a handful of recruits to die in training accidents - but no amount of training could compensate for actual experience.  The Berlin Guard had been earmarked for deployment to South Africa, yet the uprising had taken place before they’d been redeployed ...

... But the SS had no shortage of experience.

It was a sobering thought.  The men in black, the men on the far side of the border, were combat veterans.  They would have been in almost continuous combat against insurgents in Germany East, when they hadn't been deployed to South Africa.  They’d know tricks his men had never had a chance to master; they'd know what worked and what didn't work.  And they would feel it in their bones.  They wouldn't be dependent on textbooks to tell them what to do.

“They have to be stopped,” he said.  “We did beat off an attack on the Reichstag.”

“True,” Loeb agreed.  “But that was pretty much a gamble on their part.  Victory would have brought them everything; defeat ... didn't really harm them, one way or the other.  Here ... they will be bringing to bear everything they can against us.”

“I know,” Kurt said.  “And we will defeat them.”

He frowned as he heard the helicopters clattering through the sky, a single transport escorted by a trio of armed attack helicopters.   Generalmajor Gath wasn't taking any chances, Kurt saw; the SS wouldn't hesitate to try to assassinate him if it could.  There were too many holes in the command network for Generalmajor Gath to be replaced quickly, if something happened to him.  No doubt Gath was right on top of the list of officers to be killed ...

Right below Gudrun and her allies, Kurt thought.  He still found it hard to believe that his sister - his sister - had managed to crack the Reich in two, but it was undeniable.  And what happens to her if we lose?

“I hope you’re right,” Loeb said.  He shook his head.  “Too many men are about to die either way.”

“I know,” Kurt said.  The lead helicopter settled to the ground, its escorts swinging around the town as they watched for trouble.  “But defeat means the end of the world.”

Chapter Seven

Berlin, Germany
3 September 1985

“I trust you had a pleasant flight?”

“It was smooth,” Gudrun said.  She’d never flown before the uprising, but she’d discovered she enjoyed it.  “If there hadn't been so many delays, we would have made it back to Berlin before nightfall.”

“I dare say it doesn't matter,” Volker Schulze said.  “What did the French have to say?”

Gudrun hesitated.  She wasn't sure how to react to Schulze, these days.  He would have been her father-in-law if she’d married Konrad, a glowering presence at family meals ... she thought she could have endured it. Some of her friends hated their in-laws, but Schulze wasn't a bad man.  But now ... he was Chancellor of Germany, ruler of the western half of the Third Reich and it had been Gudrun who’d started the chain of events that had put him in the big chair.  She wondered, sometimes, if he blamed her for Konrad’s death ... or if he still thought of her as a little girl.  He’d known her since she was in diapers.

“They’re willing to keep sending supplies as long as we grant them political and economic independence,” she said, flatly.  “They also want the occupied territories back, but I did my best to dissuade them.”

“I doubt they will accept it indefinitely,” Schulze said, gravely.  He turned his chair, slightly, so he could peer out of the window into the distance.  “No requests for military or technological support?”

“No,” Gudrun said.  “All they want is the Gastarbeiters back.”

“That may cause some problems, in the short term,” Schulze mused.  “But we will have to learn how to handle it.”

He turned back to look at her.  “How long do you think Jacquinot can hang on to power?”

“I’m not sure,” Gudrun said.  She looked up at Horst.  “Do you have an opinion?”

“It depends,” Horst said.  “If the SS retakes power, I imagine Jacquinot will get down on his knees for them and stay there until he dies.  Ouvrard and his friends will be quietly removed, along with every other nationalist they can find.  There will be no hope of resistance.”

He shrugged.  “But if we win, or if the civil war bogs down, it will become a great deal harder to make predictions,” he added, after a moment.  “They may offer troops to us in exchange for more concessions.”

“Or make use of the time to build up their own armies,” Schulze said.

“I imagine they are already working on expanding their forces,” Horst said.  “But they’ll be very careful about picking a fight with us.”

“So they probably won’t try to go for Alsace-Lorraine,” Schulze said.

“I don’t think so,” Horst agreed.  “We wouldn't let that pass - and they know it.”

“So they know we are weakened, but not too weakened,” Schulze mused.  “As long as they stay quiet for the moment ... we’ll honour our side of the bargain.”

Gudrun nodded.  “Has there been any news from the east?”

“The flood of refugees has been slowing down sharply,” Schulze said.  “I don’t know if that means they’re clamping down on population movements or if everyone who wanted to flee the SS has managed to leave already.  We may never know for sure.”

“True,” Horst agreed.  “The SS has always been pretty popular in the east.”

“So you keep saying,” Gudrun said.  Hardly anyone knew that Horst had once been an SS agent, a spy who’d switched sides.  “I think I got the message.”

“You have to remember it,” Horst warned.  “You may think that Holliston is a lunatic and his followers madmen, but there are plenty of people in the east who will see him as the second coming of Adolf Hitler.  I don’t think they’ll crack under the economic crisis any time soon.”

“Of course not,” Schulze agreed.  “The east can feed itself.”

He took a breath.  “Right now, all we can do is muster our forces and prepare to fight - to the bitter end, if necessary,” he added.  “I’d like you to visit the recruit training camps just outside the city, if you don't mind.  Let them see what they’re fighting for.”

“Of course,” Gudrun said.  She rather suspected that Schulze didn't quite know where to put her, but she understood.  “Has there been any word from the Americans?”

“They’re making approaches to us, but it’s very quiet,” Schulze said.  “It would not do for anyone to get wind of them.”

Gudrun nodded in agreement.  Every last schoolchild in the Third Reich was told, time and time again, that the United States was a capitalist nightmare, a melange of interracial and incestuous breeding, a place where women led men and children ran riot in the streets.  She was sure that was a lie - discovering that Jews weren't misshapen monsters had shocked her to the core - but far too many Germans believed it without question.  The mere suggestion that the Americans were backing the provisional government would cripple the government’s legitimacy.  And it wasn't as if it had much legitimacy.

“And they will certainly be considering their own interests,” Horst warned.  “They will probably not be displeased if the Reich split into two pieces.”

“Or more,” Schulze agreed.  “Germany North is tightly tied to us, but Germany South and Germany Arabia might manage to go their own way.  I doubt either we or Germany East have the ability to force them back into line.”

“And they would become far more powerful, relatively speaking,” Gudrun said.  International politics, she’d discovered, had a great deal in common with playground skirmishing.  “They would prefer us broken and weakened.”

“Yeah,” Schulze said.  “They may help us, but they’ll look to their own interests first.”

Gudrun nodded and rose.  “I’ll see you at the meeting tonight?”

Schulze, thankfully, didn't look surprised to hear she was intending to attend the Reich Council meeting.  Gudrun was fairly sure that some of the councillors - particularly Arthur Morgenstern - thought she should be playing with dolls or looking for a suitable man, rather than involving herself in politics.  It was infuriating, given that none of them would hold the positions they did if it wasn't for her.  But then, Morgenstern had an excuse, of sorts.  His daughter was no older than Gudrun and she had a tendency to be silly.

So does her mother, Gudrun thought.  But no one can deny she’s effective.

“It starts at seven,” Schulze said.  “Be seeing you.”

Gudrun glanced at Horst as they walked out of the office, passing the pair of armed guards and heading down the corridor.  No one was taking chances, these days; everyone believed that the SS could drop a second commando team onto the roof at any time.  Gudrun had been told that the SS would have to get very lucky to sneak an aircraft through the growing network of air defence radars covering the Reich, but the SS had planned and carried out far more daring dangerous operations in the past.  The guards - and clerical workers - were all armed, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.  She couldn't help wondering if that meant they would accidentally wind up firing on each other if there actually was an attack.

“He seems distracted,” she mused, as soon as they were out of earshot.  “Is that normal?”

“He was a factory worker only a few months ago,” Horst reminded her.  “Now he’s lost his son, seen his government overthrown and found himself forced to fill a pair of very big shoes.”

Gudrun nodded, feeling a stab of guilt.  It had been her fault, after all.  She knew she was being stupid - she knew the Reich would have had problems with or without her - but she couldn't help feeling guilty.  Hundreds of people had already died - perhaps thousands, in Germany East - and it was all her fault.  She’d started the ball rolling.  

“You need a bigger portfolio,” Horst added, as they walked down the stairs.  “I imagine everyone else on the council is already jockeying for position.”

“I know,” Gudrun said.  It was a minor frustration - and, she suspected, a bigger one for Schulze.  He had a very mixed cabinet and almost all of them were trying to build power bases of their own.  “But apart from representing the students ... what can I do?”

“Probably aim for the interior ministry,” Horst said, after a moment.  “You don’t have much experience, but the people underneath you would know what to do.  You’d only have to set policy.  And you wouldn’t be warped and twisted by years spent climbing up the ladder.”

Gudrun shook her head.  “It might be better to run for a seat on the Reichstag, when we finally hold elections,” she said.  “I’d have a reasonable chance of winning.”

“A reasonable chance,” Horst repeated.  “I’d say very few people would dare to stand against you.”

“Hah,” Gudrun said.  

She shook her head in irritation.  She was famous, true.  But a sizable percentage of the population refused to believe that a young girl - a girl - could possibly start an underground political movement.  As far as they were concerned, Gudrun was nothing more than a latter-day Irma Grese; a woman, true, but not one who did anything for herself.  There were quite a few people who claimed that the true originator of the movement had been killed by the SS - or had simply been too cowardly to reveal himself.  They certainly didn't give any credit to Gudrun!

“I’m serious,” Horst said.  “But tell me.  How long will it take for the various power blocks to outmanoeuvre the Reichstag?”

Gudrun scowled.  She hadn't known much about the inner workings of the Reich a year ago, but she’d always been a fast learner.  The Reichstag had been nothing more than a rubber stamp for years, ever since Adolf Hitler had claimed supreme power for himself.  Its members barely even met, save to engage in pointless ratification of laws and budgets hashed out by the Reich Council.  Most of them had surrendered their posts without a fight almost as soon as it became clear the provisional government wasn't going to collapse overnight.  

And the Reichstag has no independent means to pressure the government bureaucracies, she thought, sourly.  Their approval or disapproval is largely irrelevant.

“Not long,” she said, finally.

“Exactly,” Horst said.  They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the garage, walking across to the nearest government car.  “The Reichstag doesn't control anything, ergo the Reichstag is powerless.  You need to fix that problem or our government will eventually collapse - or explode into chaos.”

Gudrun sighed, inwardly, as she climbed into the car.  Horst was right, she told herself, as the engine roared to life.  But she didn't want to take a post she didn't understand.  It would be easy for her subordinates to outmanoeuvre her too, just as easily as the ministries could outmanoeuvre the Reichstag.  The only way she could think of to give the Reichstag some clout was to put it in charge of distributing taxes, but the Finance Ministry wouldn't give that up in a hurry.  Hans Krueger might have been the closest thing to a moderate on the old Reich Council - he’d switched sides in a hurry - yet that didn't make him a pushover.  

It would mean giving up some of his power, she thought, rubbing her eyes.  

She shook her head in irritation, mainly directed at herself.  She’d dared hope that they’d bring lasting change - and they had - but she’d never thought she might have to keep working afterwards.  And yet, what was she?  A young woman who would become nothing more than a wife, a mother and a grandmother, while leaving the politics to the men?  Or did she want to wield power and influence policy in her own right?

“I can be an idiot at times,” she muttered.

“Everyone can be an idiot at times,” Horst pointed out.  “The only real question is just how well you cope with it when you realise your mistake.”

Gudrun nodded, then held his hand as she peered out of the window.  It felt odd to be driving around the city in a government car, staring out of the tinted windows and knowing that the people couldn't see her.  She knew, all too well, that much of the city hated the government cars, hated how they could push everyone else off the road as they roared to their destinations.  Now, she’d even heard reports of stones being tossed at government cars as they passed, even though the old government had fallen.  Far too many repressed hatreds had started to come out ...

“We have to win the war,” she said, as the car turned into a parking lot and stopped.  “After that, we can worry about the politics.”

“Everyone else will be thinking differently,” Horst warned.  “But if we don’t win the war, we’ll all wind up dead anyway.”

Gudrun nodded as Horst opened the door and helped her out of the car.  She had no illusions about her fate if the SS captured her for a second time, particularly as they knew - now - that she’d been deeply involved in the movement, even if they didn't believe she’d been the founder.  She’d be tortured, then probably raped to death.  The SS loved handing out gruesome punishments to traitors and terrorists.  And her death would probably be displayed in cinemas all over the Reich, just to make it clear what fate any future rebels could expect.

Sickening, she thought.

She felt an odd twist in her belly as she walked towards the sports field.  She’d had too much experience with them as a young girl, when the BDM matrons had forced her to run and play games until she’d been on the verge of collapse.  She might have enjoyed some of the games, she admitted privately, if the matrons hadn't taken them so seriously.  The winning teams were always feted, but the losers were punished ... as if they’d meant to lose.

And a great many matrons have been killed or forced to flee, she thought, nastily.  No one was interested in protecting the bitches, not now.  If only one in ten of their former victims had both the desire and nerve to take revenge, none of them would be safe.  Serve the monsters right!

“They’re just warming up,” Horst said.  “But at least they have enthusiasm.”

Gudrun nodded.  The sports field was dominated by men, ranging from sixteen to twenty-five, who were being put through their paces by a handful of military veterans.  Most of them, at least, would have a fairly good grounding, thanks to the Hitler Youth; a handful, she couldn't help noticing, seemed to have let themselves get overweight since leaving school and entering the workforce.  The veterans seemed to be working hard to separate out the ones with true promise from everyone else, she noted; the former would be amongst the first to be given guns and put on the walls.

If the SS reaches Berlin, she thought.  If ...

“Councillor Wieland,” a middle-aged man said.  He reminded Gudrun of her father, although he didn't have the iron sternness she’d come to associate with the man who’d sired and raised her.  “Welcome to the madhouse.”

Gudrun smiled and shook his hand.  “Thank you,” she said.  He didn't seem anything like as formal as her father either.  “And you are?”

“Oberfeldwebel August Sattler,” the man said.  “Recently called back into service after five years out of the Heer.”

“Thank you for your service,” Gudrun said, and meant it.  “How are they shaping up?”

Sattler smiled as he turned to indicate the groups of men.  “The ones with real military training - anything past the Hitler Youth - have already been forwarded to more advanced training cadres,” he said.  “Everyone else ... well, we’re getting there.  Half of them are at the shooting range, learning how to put a bullet within a couple of metres of the target; the other half are doing PT here.  There’s a handful that need more focused training, but realistically we don’t have the time to give them the care and attention they need.”

Gudrun frowned.  “How bad is it?”

“Oh, there’s a handful of idiotic malingers in every batch of recruits,” Sattler said, dispassionately.  “Little princes, mostly, who learned the wrong lessons in the Hitler Youth and never bothered to master discipline.  Normally, we’d just send them for shit duty if they refuse to grow up; here, it’s a little harder to deal with them.”

“Send them to help build defences,” Horst suggested.

“It might come down to that,” Sattler said.  “But realistically I wouldn't trust them to dig a trench, let alone do anything more complex than carrying junk here and there.”

He shrugged.  “Basic training normally takes at least three months, Councillor,” he added, bluntly.  “I’ve been told that we may expect an invasion at any moment, so we’re cramming as much as we can into a single training period.  They’re not going to be up to normal levels, no matter how hard we push them, but hopefully we can get some advantages that will balance those problems out.”

Gudrun frowned.  “Like what?”

“Fighting in a city gives the defenders a great many advantages,”  Sattler said, bluntly.  “We can wear the enemy down, although at a very high cost.”

“Very high,” Horst said.

Gudrun nodded.  She’d have to discuss it with him afterwards.  “I understand,” she said, slowly.  “What are the odds?”

“Impossible to calculate,” Sattler said.  “Our contingency plans for defending Berlin, I have been told, are years out of date.  Nothing is what it was back in 1960.  We’re having to improvise defences and ready ourselves for a major offensive.”

“I know,” Gudrun said.  She’d been told the same, by Voss and his comrades, but it was nice to have independent verification.  The Wehrmacht was a power bloc in its own right.  “Can you introduce me to some of your trainees?”

“Of course,” Sattler said.  “If you’ll follow me ...?”

Chapter Eight

Berlin, Germany
3 September 1985

Horst kept his opinion to himself as Oberfeldwebel August Sattler introduced Gudrun to a dozen trainees, reassuring her - in a manner Horst found quite irritating - that the new recruits would keep the Reich safe.  Privately, Horst was much less impressed.  The recruits might have been in the Hitler Youth, but it was alarmingly clear that their tutors hadn't prepared them for the rigours of war.  The training forced upon children born in the east - who knew they were in a war zone from the moment they were old enough to walk - was rarely given to their western counterparts.  To them, the Hitler Youth was just another imposition from their ultimate superiors.  It was an attitude that could not be tolerated in the east.

Gudrun had grown better at politics, he thought, as he followed her around the training field and listened as she chatted briefly to some of the trainees.  Most of them eyed her with open awe, although a handful appeared doubtful that she’d managed to play a leading role in overthrowing the previous government.  That was an attitude that wouldn't have lasted long in the east, either.  Women on farms could be just as tough as their male counterparts and often had to drop tools and pick up weapons to fight for their lives.  They might be barred from front-line combat units, but that didn't keep them from having to fight.  Horst’s own mother had had to fight to defend herself several times.

But it’s a great deal safer here, Horst thought, ruefully.  The Westerners have forgotten that their stability comes with a price.

He kept his face expressionless as Gudrun finally finished speaking to the recruits, then went on a walking tour of the growing defence lines.  Berlin was huge, easily the largest city on Earth; Horst wouldn't have cared to be the general who had to capture it against even minimal opposition.  But at the same time, the population was so vast that starving the citizens out was a very real possibility.  The SS might not have the time to wait for Berlin to surrender, yet if they did Horst doubted they would try an offensive at all.  Why expend thousands - perhaps tens of thousands - of lives if they could get the city for minimal expense?

They can't leave us alone indefinitely, he reminded himself.  We’re a direct challenge to their view of the universe.

He had no illusions about just how ruthless the SS was prepared to be.  He’d worked for them, after all.  Starving out the population - forcing them to bend the knee - would work wonders, particularly given the growing contempt for the soft westerners among the easterners.  Horst had heard, more than once, mutterings that the westerners should be brought to heel, a long time before the uprising had begun.  The easterners could not allow themselves to go soft, knowing it would mean their destruction.  But the westerners had forgotten that the world was red in tooth and claw.  Those who had the strength and the will made the rules, while those who lacked one or both were doomed.

Gudrun nodded to him as the walking tour finally came to an end.  “Shall we go back home?”

“If you wish,” Horst said, pensively.  Most of the recruits were enthusiastic, he had to admit, but Sattler had been right.  It would take months, months they didn't have, to smooth out their rough edges and turn them into soldiers.  He couldn't help wondering just how many of them were going to die in the next month.  “Your meeting is tonight, right?”

Gudrun nodded as they walked back to the car, the driver starting the engine at once and taking them back onto the roads.  Horst eyed the traffic in grim disapproval, unable to keep from wondering just how many of the drivers truly needed to drive.  They were wasting fuel, he knew, fuel that needed to be stockpiled for the military.  And yet, the provisional government’s ability to coerce the population was very limited.  They’d set the precedent for defying and overthrowing the government themselves.  Horst knew Gudrun had been right - the previous government had been dragging the Reich into an early grave - but he couldn't help fearing for the future.  A government that was weak was just as bad, in many ways, as a government that was too strong.

“You're very quiet,” Gudrun observed.  “What are you thinking?”

“Far too many people are about to die,” Horst said.  

He shook his head, grimly.  He had no illusions about the Waffen-SS either.  They drew most of their recruiting base from the easterners.  There was no way they’d be gentle as they sliced into the defence lines, even when dealing with unarmed civilians.  Anyone who didn't take up arms against the provisional government, as soon as it was announced, would be a traitor as far as the stormtroopers were concerned.  The Waffen-SS would unleash a nightmare of blood, rape and slaughter on Germany Prime.  Holliston might seek to prevent atrocities - although Horst doubted that very much - but he would probably find it impossible.  His servants wouldn't see any profit in covering the iron fist with the velvet glove.

And they’ll be worried about their settlements too, he thought, as the car parked below the Reichstag and they walked up to their bedrooms.  That will only make them more determined to smash us into a pulp.

“I wish we had more time,” Gudrun said, once they were in her room.  “But ...”

Horst nodded, ruefully. Sex was definitely one of the best ways to keep from thinking about the future, but they didn't have time.  Gudrun needed to shower and change before she went to the meeting or the old goats would refuse to take her seriously.  Horst would have cheerfully strangled any of the bastards who insulted her to her face, but there was nothing he could do about hidden or not-so-hidden contempt.  He gave her a kiss on the lips, then hurried out of the room before his passion could overwhelm him.  They’d shared so much together that he knew there was nothing that could drive them apart.

He sighed to himself as he entered his room, shaking his head at how some of the social mores had remained firmly in place.  Gudrun was a Councillor, yet she could not be seen to share her bedroom with a young man.  Horst would have been surprised if the staff didn’t know, but so far most of the Councillors appeared to be unaware.  And Gudrun’s father didn't know either - or did he?  He was a policeman, after all.  Gudrun had once admitted that neither she nor any of her siblings had ever been able to lie to their father.  

And he probably doesn't know how to handle her any longer, Horst thought, closing the door firmly behind him.  Getting pregnant is one thing, but living in sin ...

He stopped, dead, as he saw the note on his bed.   He’d made it clear to the staff - very clear - that they were not to enter his rooms.  The small collection of weaponry he’d stockpiled under the bed, along with a handful of very useful tools, would only have upset them.  And some of the other pieces of equipment would have raised questions he would have preferred not to answer.  But the note had definitely not been there when he’d left the bedroom in the morning ...

Cursing under his breath, he donned a glove and picked up the note.  The SS had been known to use contact poisons, some of which had no known cure.  He might have had to slice off his own hand, if he’d touched the paper with his bare skin .... if, of course, he realised he’d been poisoned before it was too late.  His instructors had admitted, after discussing several interesting ways to booby-trap a desk drawer, that poisons spread very rapidly through the body.  And the most dangerous of them had no antidote.

There was nothing on the paper, save for a handful of code phrases.  Horst recognised them instantly; they looked innocuous, but only a handful of people could have written them, let alone known to send the note to him.  His blood ran cold as he realised the implications.  An SS stay-behind unit was operating in Berlin ... and at least one of the people in the Reichstag was a traitor.   Probably a servant, he thought numbly, as his heart began to race.  No one would have questioned a servant coming in or out of a bedroom suite.  It wasn't as if the important people would be expected to do their own housework.

He smiled, rather wanly, at the thought, then sat down to have a think.  The note specified a time and a place, a bare thirty minutes away.  Had that been deliberate?  Or was it merely a coincidence?  There was certainly no time to contact Gudrun and tell her where he was going ... if he went at all.  He'd pretended to have been duped, the last time he'd been questioned by his former superiors, but that excuse would probably no longer hold water.  There was no disputing - now - that Gudrun was deeply involved in the provisional government.  And that the SS had had her in its claws, only to let her go.

And that was my fault, he thought.  If I go to this meeting, I may walk right into a trap.

Gritting his teeth, he ran through the possibilities as he donned his greatcoat and checked his holstered pistol.  There was no denying that there was a stay-behind cell in place, a cell that could do a great deal of damage if allowed to operate unmolested.  He could not let the chance to locate the cell pass, whatever the risk.  And if they wanted to kill him ... he added a handful of other weapons, burying them within the greatcoat, then scribbled out a quick note for Gudrun he could put in her room.  She, at least, would know that something had happened to him.

Horst walked out of the building, passing the guards at the gates without trouble, then removed and folded the greatcoat as soon as he was in the nearest alleyway.  It was pathetic, compared to some of the disguises he’d used during his training, but it was amazing how many people missed the obvious.  He looked like another trainee, heading home after a hard day prancing around the sports field, rather than an SS officer or a policeman.  No one would pay much, if any, attention to him.

He kept a wary eye on his surroundings as he walked further into the residential part of the city.  The apartment blocks were massive, intended to house young men and women who had travelled to Berlin in hopes of a better life.  Some of them looked like nice places to live, others looked like homes he would have preferred not to visit without armed backup.  A handful of older men were sitting by the roadside, drowning their sorrows in cheap booze and shouting obscenities at passing cars.  They’d have been arrested by now, a year ago, but the provisional government had other problems than the growing number of homeless on the streets.  There just wasn't the manpower to deal with it.

The landlords started kicking them out, Horst thought.  There had been laws, once upon a time, about kicking veterans out of their homes, regardless of who actually owned the building.  Landlords had hated the laws because it left them stuck with tenants who could neither pay nor be evicted, tenants who lowered the tone so much it made it impossible for them to attract tenants who could pay.  And no one gives enough of a damn to take them in.

He couldn't help feeling a flicker of sympathy as he reached the safehouse and paused outside the door.  Gudrun’s grandfather had been a disgusting old drunkard, but his family had never given in to the temptation to dump him onto the streets.  But not everyone was so patient, not everyone was willing to give their parents a home.  It was depressing, really, to think that he might end up like that, had things gone differently.  And yet, if he treated his family like servants, how could he really blame them?

The door opened.  A hand beckoned him inside.

Horst braced himself, keeping his hand in position to draw his pistol if necessary and stepped through the door into the darkened building.  Someone had taken the advice offered by the provisional government literally and covered the windows in newspapers and tape to keep even a chink of light from shining out into the darkness.  And yet, the only source of light in the building was an open door at the end of the corridor.  He kept his face expressionless as he walked into the room, only to be caught by strong hands that frisked him expertly and removed the weapons before letting him go.

“He’s clean,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“Good,” a very familiar voice said.  “Horst, my boy, perhaps you have an explanation?”

Horst kept his face under tight control as Standartenfuehrer Erdmann Schwarzkopf stepped into the light.  He’d lost track of Schwarzkopf after the uprising had begun, although a handful of Schwarzkopf’s spies - his laughably ill-prepared spies - had been brutally beaten to death.  Horst had hoped that Schwarzkopf had gone the same way, but the damned Standartenfuehrer had clearly managed to go underground before his first safehouse could be torn apart by the mob.  Schwarzkopf had always been good at covering his ass.

“At last,” Horst said.  He pushed as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could.  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Schwarzkopf lifted his eyebrows.  “You have?”

“Of course,” Horst told him.  “I put myself close to the traitors and waited.”

“You have been very close to one of the traitors,” Schwarzkopf said.  “I hear you have been in bed with her.”

His voice hardened.  “A traitor you told us was not a traitor.”

“I do not believe she was, at the time of her arrest,” Horst said, carefully.  If they realised he’d lied to them, back before the uprising, he’d never leave the building alive.  “She was pushed into treason by the way she was handled, after her arrest.”

“She is hardly the first person to have been arrested and then released,” Schwarzkopf observed.

“That is correct,” Horst said.  “She was merely the right person at the right time.”

He paused, then went on.  “When I realised she had become entangled with the traitors, it was far too late to do anything about it,” he added.  “Therefore, I attached myself to her and waited for you to make contact.  I knew you would have someone within the Reichstag.”

“You could have used one of the dead-drops to make contact,” Schwarzkopf pointed out, darkly.  “Why didn't you?”

“A number of files were captured by the traitors,” Horst said.  “I knew they were watching for signs of treason.  There was no way I dared trust any of the dead-drops.”

He held himself immobile, meeting Schwarzkopf’s eyes without flinching.  If Schwarzkopf bought it ... he knew the man well enough to know that telling him what he wanted to hear was never a waste of time.  And yet, Schwarzkopf had probably had a truckload of shit dumped on him by his superiors after Gudrun had become the public face of the student movement.  It wouldn’t be out of character for him to suspect that Horst was either an idiot or a traitor himself.  God knew he had good reason to be furious.

“And you spent your time having your knob sucked,” Schwarzkopf said.  “I do trust you enjoyed it?”

Horst had to fight to keep his face expressionless.  No true German youth would allow such a sally to go unpunished, not if he had genuine feelings for the girl.  Insulting a girlfriend was the easiest way to start a fight, even better than a suggestion that a young man's mother might have been an Untermensch.  And yet, he knew Schwarzkopf was probing.  If he suspected that Horst did have feelings for Gudrun ...

And he has someone watching us, he thought, grimly.  They’d thought they were being discreet, but someone who kept their head down and merely watched might have a very good idea of what they did together.  How much does he know?

“I know my duty, Herr Standartenfuehrer,” he said, stiffly.  He couldn't allow himself to get angry, not now.  “It is my job to do whatever is necessary to insert myself into their innermost councils.”

“I’m sure you hated every last minute of it,” Schwarzkopf said.  His face twisted into an ugly smile.  “How long can you remain here?”

Horst checked his watch, wondering just what sort of answer he could give.  Schwarzkopf had a source within the Reichstag.  Horst wouldn't have bet a single forged Reichmark that he didn't have a good idea of Horst’s schedule already.  Getting caught in a lie would be very dangerous.

“At least an hour, perhaps two,” he said, finally.  He forced himself to leer.  “I normally seduce her after the council meetings, so we can discuss matters in a pleasant haze.  She might be suspicious if I am not available as soon as she leaves the council chambers.”

“An hour,” Schwarzkopf mused.

He cleared his throat.  “I have a number of questions for you, then we will set up contact procedures,” he said.  “You will be expected to play your part in the triumphant restoration of the Third Reich.  If you serve well, your previous mistakes will be forgiven; if you blunder again, you will be executed.  Heil Holliston!”

“Heil Holliston,” Horst echoed.  He would have to be very careful when he answered, but he had no choice.  “I will not fail you.”

“Very good,” Schwarzkopf said.  “And now we begin.”

Chapter Nine

Berlin, Germany
3 September 1985

Gudrun had wondered, from time to time, why her father hadn't actively sought promotion in the police.  Given his career - he’d been a military officer - and some of his connections, he should have been kicked up a level or two long before the uprising.  But when she’d asked, as a younger girl, he’d told her that he hated being trapped behind a desk, having to deal with bureaucratic meetings.  She’d thought he was just making excuses, but now - after three hours of largely pointless blether - she was starting to see his point.

She sighed, inwardly, as she walked slowly back to her bedroom.  Volker Schulze was eminently practical, thankfully, but both Finance Minister Hans Krueger and Admiral Wilhelm Riess were experienced bureaucratic infighters who seemed to be prepared to argue for hours rather than concede anything to their rivals.  She'd hoped for better from Arthur Morgenstern - Hilde’s father - but he seemed unwilling to do anything apart from sit in his chair and drink coffee.  Gudrun had only met him a couple of times, before the uprising, yet she’d never realised just how much of a milksop he was.  Promoting him to the Reich Council might have been a mistake.

A pair of serving girls jumped to one side as she passed, their eyes going wide.  Gudrun smiled at them both, unable to keep from feeling sorry for them.  She’d talked to a few, back when she’d moved into her bedroom, only to discover that they’d been treated badly by the old council.  They’d even been expected to provide sexual services to the councillors!  And to think they were good German girls.

She pushed the thought aside and stepped into her bedroom.  Horst was sitting on the bed, as she’d expected, but his face was grim rather than welcoming.  Gudrun felt a chill running down her spine as she closed and locked the door, then swore inwardly as she saw the device in Horst’s hand.  Portable bug detectors were vanishingly rare in the Reich, almost unknown outside the intelligence services.  And if Horst had been searching the room for bugs ...

“We have to talk,” Horst said.  He rose from the bed and sat down in the comfortable chair, a sign that he wasn't interested in making love.  The world had to be coming to an end.  “There have been ... developments.”

Gudrun sat down on the bed, feeling cold.  “What happened?”

“My old ... associates contacted me,” Horst said.  He ran through a brief explanation, then leaned forward.  “They managed to get a message into my bedroom.”

It took Gudrun a moment to realise the implications.  “They have a spy in the Reichstag?”

“Perhaps more than one,” Horst warned.  “If they can get access to my bedroom, then nowhere is safe.

He rubbed his forehead.  “If they have two spies, neither one will know about the other.  The SS was quite fond of placing observers in the government and military, reporting back to their superiors.”

“Observers like you,” Gudrun said.

She still shivered in horror when she remembered Horst telling her, rather apologetically, that he was an SS officer.  He could have betrayed her at any moment, if he’d remained true to his oaths.  She'd never suspected, even with the benefit of hindsight.  And she’d invited him to the very first meeting!  They could have been quietly arrested and dispatched to a concentration camp at any moment, along with their families.  Horst ... she knew, all too well, that she owed him her very life.  

“Yes,” Horst said.  “I doubt they will be easy to catch.”

“We have the files,” Gudrun said.  “Don’t we?”

“I would be surprised if the files we recovered from the Reichssicherheitshauptamt include anyone who works in such a role,” Horst said.  “There were no files relating to me or any of the others I knew.  As far as the Reichssicherheitshauptamt was concerned, I was just another student with a pure-perfect record.”

Gudrun nodded, shortly.  The university had prided itself on selecting the best and brightest young Germans to be its students, but none of them would have been allowed to pass through the doors if their families and bloodlines hadn't been pure.  Horst had been qualified, as well as an SS officer; he’d certainly blended in perfectly.  The same couldn't be said for the other spies.  They’d been so obvious that Gudrun doubted that anyone had been fooled.

“So the files will say they were just ... ordinary people,” she mused.  “How do we catch them?”

“I don’t think we can,” Horst said, after a moment.  “A full-scale hunt for a spy will tip them off, I think.  And that will prove to the bastards that I can't be trusted.”

Gudrun swallowed.  If Horst hadn't spoken up for her, she doubted she would have been allowed to return to Berlin.  Her father had been furious, but she would sooner endure her father’s anger than a concentration camp.  The files had made it very clear - all too clear - just what the camp inmates had had to endure, before they died.

“I see,” she said.  She took a long breath, calming herself.  “What do they want from you?”

“Right now, they just want me to keep an eye on you and the rest of the councillors,” Horst said.  “But I expect that will change in short order.”

“They’ll want you to kill us,” Gudrun said, flatly.

“Probably,” Horst agreed.  “The defences around the Reichstag are good, even if they are a little crude.  Inside help will make it easier for them to get a second kill-team into the building.”

“We’re not going to be staying here for long, anyway,” Gudrun reminded him.

“No,” Horst agreed.  “And the confusion caused by the move, I think, will make it much easier for them to accomplish their goals.”

Gudrun swallowed, hard.  “Can we track down the stay-behind team?”

“I don’t think it will be easy,” Horst said.  “Standard procedure is to hold meetings with untrustworthy assets well away from the base of operations.  Even if we capture my contact, he’s unlikely to break in time to allow us to capture the remaining commandos.  They’ll have procedures in place to deal with a sudden upset.”

Gudrun cursed.  “So all we can do is wait to be hit?”

“We make some very quiet precautions,” Horst said.  “But otherwise ... we have to wait for them to move first.”

He paused.  “And they know about us.”

Gudrun coloured.  “Everything?”

“I think so,” Horst said.  He looked embarrassed.  “We could get married, you know.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Gudrun said, automatically.  She did love Horst, but she wanted to be something more than a wife.  If she was married, everyone would assume that Horst was pulling her strings.  “And wouldn't that be a little too revealing to your superiors?”

Horst smirked.  “There was a spy in America who was married to an American girl and, as far as anyone could tell, he was the perfect American,” he said.  “It didn't stop him from stealing a bunch of secrets one day and fleeing back to the Reich, leaving the poor girl and his family behind.”

Gudrun shuddered.  Americans, she’d been told, regarded marriage as something that could be made or broken in an instant, but Germans took a more conservative view.  For a husband to betray his wife in such a manner ... it was unthinkable.  Even having an affair could make a husband a pariah in his community, while a wife could face criminal charges for defiling her marriage.  But then, in America, women had rights.  Certainly, they had more rights than any German woman would have, once she entered a marriage ...

She pushed the thought aside.  “I think you should tell the Chancellor,” she said.  “He has to know the truth.”

Horst frowned.  “Won’t that cause problems for you?”

“Probably,” Gudrun said.  If things had been different, she would have been Volker Schulze’s daughter-in-law.  But if things had been different, she would never have become Sigrún and he would never have become Chancellor.  “I think we have worse things to worry about right now.”

“I know,” Horst said.  He shook his head, slowly.  “It goes against the grain to have so many people know.”

Gudrun nodded, although she thought he was wrong.  Schulze - and his son - had both been in the Waffen-SS.  There were some people who would question Horst’s loyalties, after hearing that he’d been in the SS too, but she doubted Volker Schulze would be one of them.  Besides, Horst had had ample opportunity to nip the uprising in the bud if he’d wanted to, a point that was firmly in his favour.  

“I think he will keep it to himself,” Gudrun said, as she rose.  “Are there likely to be agents in the Wehrmacht too?”

“Everywhere,” Horst said.  “Disloyalty can come from anywhere and anyone, as my former instructors put it.”

“Including the SS itself,” Gudrun said.

Horst shrugged, then rose and gave her a tight hug.  Gudrun was tempted, just for a long moment, to pull him onto the bed, but there was no time.  Instead, she kissed him once and led the way towards the door, careful to keep a distance between them.  It was probably futile - there was no hope of keeping their relationship a secret now - but she wanted to keep it from her parents as long as possible.  Her father would go through the roof when he discovered she was practically living with someone before marriage.

Volker Schulze, she knew from past experience, worked late.  His wife and daughter - his sole remaining child - often nagged him to come home early, but Gudrun had heard that Schulze often worked until midnight.  There was just so much for him to master, before the war began, so much he needed to learn to keep more experienced political movers and shakers from outmanoeuvring him.  And yet, Gudrun couldn't help wondering what sort of strain it put on his married life.  Her mother hadn't been too happy when her father had started to come home late at night, after being given unpaid overtime by his superiors.

“Councillor,” Schulze’s secretary said.  He was a middle-aged man, easily old enough to be Gudrun’s father, someone who’d worked in one of the factories before Schulze had asked him to work for him personally.  “The Chancellor has asked not to be disturbed.”

“Please tell him that this is urgent,” Gudrun said.  She wondered, suddenly, if Schulze was taking advantage of the servants, then dismissed the thought.  It was unthinkable.  “We need to speak with him.”

The secretary nodded curtly, rose and hurried through the door.  Gudrun rather suspected he didn't like the idea of taking orders from a young girl - his daughter was only a year or two younger - but his dislike was the least of her concerns.  She waited, as patiently as she could, until the man returned.  He didn't look pleased.

“You may enter,” he said.

Gudrun thanked him and stepped through the door, into the Reich Chancellor’s office.  It was striking, she had to admit, even though Schulze had removed some of the more ornate decorations that had lined the walls.  Some of the paintings on the lower levels had been stolen from France, Gudrun had been told, even though the official line stated that the French had nothing worth stealing.  She wondered, absently, just what the provisional government should do with them.  Return them to the French ... or hide them away?  

“Gudrun,” Schulze said.  He stood from behind his desk, looking tired.  It was a bitter reminder that he was actually seven or eight years older than her father.  His eyes flickered across Horst for a long moment, then locked on her.  “What can I do for you?”

“We have a problem,” Gudrun said.  She glanced at Horst.  “Tell him.”

***
Volker Schulze kept his expression blank - with an effort - as Horst Albrecht outlined his story.  He hadn't paid too much attention to the younger man, seeing him as nothing more than one of Gudrun’s fellow students.  Indeed, their closeness could easily be explained by shared struggles against the world, rather than a romantic relationship that might predate Konrad’s death.  But to hear that Horst Albrecht was actually an SS observer ... it was maddening.  It was enough to make him wonder what else had escaped his notice over the last two weeks.  

He wasn't inclined to condemn Horst merely for being an SS officer.  It would be hypocritical.  Volker had been a paratrooper himself before his retirement; he’d certainly seen nothing wrong with encouraging his son to follow in his footsteps.  A tour or two as a stormtrooper would leave Konrad perfectly positioned to become a paratrooper or a commando himself, if he hadn't been critically wounded on his very first tour.  How could he condemn Horst for serving the SS?

But he could - and perhaps he would - condemn the younger man for being a spy.

“So they made contact with you,” he said, when Horst had finished.  “Do they not doubt your loyalties?”

“I tried to convince them I was fooled,” Horst said, bluntly.  “They have little reason to doubt me.”

Volker scowled.  He hadn't had much to do with the observers, back when he’d been a paratrooper, but he had the distant feeling that Horst’s superiors would be watching him with a very jaundiced eye.  They had to wonder just how much Horst had known - or suspected - before the uprising took place.  At the very least, they would be questioning his competence and wondering just how far he could be trusted.  And, at worst, they would be stringing him along while preparing their own surprise.  If they had other sources within the Reichstag, why would they need Horst at all?

He rubbed his forehead.  If they had no sources, they might try to bluff Horst into thinking they had ... but if they did have sources, they could try to manipulate Horst into doing something stupid ... he felt his head start to pound, reminding him that he had been surviving on caffeine since six o’clock in the morning.  He just couldn't think clearly now.

“You made sure Gudrun wasn't kept in prison,” Volker said, flatly.  “They are certainly going to be doubting your competence.”

“Better that than my loyalties,” Horst said.

Volker wasn't so sure.  If the SS believed that Gudrun and Horst were lovers - and their body language betrayed them - they would wonder just who had seduced who.  Would they think Horst had seduced Gudrun to remain close to the provisional government ... or would they believe that Gudrun had seduced Horst to distract him from his duty.  Volker was no innocent.  He knew just how often sex was used to bribe or corrupt government officials, from bureaucrats handing out ration cards to policemen who caught unescorted women on the streets after dark.  The SS would know it too.

“They wouldn't have contacted you if they hadn't felt they needed you,” he mused.  He cleared his throat.  “I expect to know about it the moment they make contact, again.”

“Understood, Herr Chancellor,” Horst said.

“And we clearly need to reshuffle everything when we move to the underground bunker,” Volker continued, after a moment.  “Their spies can be reassigned elsewhere.”

“As long as it looks natural,” Horst said.  He didn't sound enthusiastic.  If there were any major changes before the war actually began, his superiors might start thinking he’d tipped off the provisional government.  “I’ll keep you informed.”

“And I’ll decide what you can give to them,” Volker added.  “I don’t want any surprises.”

He rubbed his forehead, again.  “Wait outside,” he said, addressing Horst.  “I want a word with Gudrun in private.”

“Jawohl, Herr Chancellor,” Horst said.

Volker watched him go, then looked at Gudrun.  He couldn't help thinking that she looked alarmingly like a schoolgirl who had been unjustly sent to the headmaster, torn between the urge to protest and the certain knowledge that protests would be worse than useless.  He shook his head, tiredly.  Gudrun really was too young for any of this.  She was still idealistic, in a world where the idealistic were always betrayed and abandoned.  It wasn’t fair ...

... But it was the way of the world.

“You should have told me about him,” he said, flatly.  It was hard, very hard, not to snap at her.  “I understand why you didn’t, but you should have done.”

Gudrun nodded, not meeting his eyes.  “I ...”

Volker cut her off.  “I expect you to make sure that the only things his superiors hear are things we have already decided they should hear,” he added.  He’d have to discuss the matter with Luther Stresemann and hope to hell that the Head of the Economic Intelligence Service was trustworthy.  The Abwehr had more experience, but the Abwehr had worked too closely with the SS.  “We don’t need more leaks.”

“No, sir,” Gudrun said, quietly.

“Good,” Volker said.  

He studied her for a long moment.  Her arrest - and near-death - hadn't left any scars on her face, although her eyes were harder than he remembered.  Gudrun had lost some of her innocence, back when she’d learned just what had happened to Konrad.  She wasn't the girl he’d met, not any longer.  He couldn't help wondering, deep inside, just what would have happened to her if Konrad had survived.  The Reich could not have kept itself going indefinitely.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered, quietly.  “And we'll discuss the matter further in the morning.”

“I understand,” Gudrun said.  “And thank you.”

Volker lifted his eyebrows.  “For what?”

“For trusting him,” Gudrun said.  “It means a lot to me.”

“Does it?”  Volker said.  He didn't trust Horst that far, even though the young man had come clean as soon as he’d returned to the Reichstag.  “You can’t trust anyone completely, Gudrun; you can't even trust yourself.  All you can do is hope, when the betrayal comes, that it won’t be fatal.”

“That’s a grim attitude,” Gudrun said, bluntly.

“It’s life,” Volker said.  “Everyone has a price.”