Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (17 page)

“Joy,” Gudrun said.  She looked at him until he turned his back.  “What time is it?”

Horst glanced at the wall-mounted clock.  “Nine in the morning,” he said.  He was surprised they’d been allowed to sleep in so late, but circumstances were hardly normal.  His old instructors would have roared with laughter at the suggestion that the trainees should be allowed to stay in bed until six in the morning, then sent whoever dared to suggest it on punishment duty.  “Are you hungry?”

“Just feeling dirty,” Gudrun said.  She rose and headed for the shower; Horst turned, just in time to see her bare backside heading through the door.  Her voice echoed back a moment later.  “Can you order coffee?”

“Of course,” Horst said.  He picked up the phone and checked the number.  “Do you want anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Gudrun called.

Horst placed the order, then hunted for his pants and shirt while Gudrun showered herself thoroughly.  He was tempted to join her in the shower, but time was definitely not on their side.  He’d make sure to have a quick wash once Gudrun was finished, rather than escort Gudrun to the briefing smelling like a pig.  He doubted
that
would go down well with the other councillors.  There was a knock at the door five minutes later, which he opened to discover a young dark-haired woman carrying a tray of coffee.  He wasn't too surprised to discover that the bunker’s kitchens had sent a plate of pastries too.

They must think we acquired a taste for them in France
, he thought, as he took the tray and thanked the servant. 
It’s hard to get French pastries in the Reich without connections
.

He looked up as Gudrun stepped out of the shower, already wearing her bra and panties, then poured the coffee as she finished dressing.  Gudrun had had a set of trousers altered to fit her, making her look surprisingly masculine despite her hourglass figure.  Horst wasn't sure if it encouraged the other councillors to take her seriously or not - she hadn't sliced off her long hair - but he had to admit the outfit suited her.  She definitely looked like someone who
should
be taken seriously.

“This is good coffee,” Gudrun said, as she took a sip.  “Where does it come from?”

Horst shrugged.  “It tastes a bit thin to me,” he said.  The coffee he’d drunk in Germany East had been a great deal stronger, blacker than Karl Holliston’s soul.  “It probably comes from France.”

Gudrun blinked.  “The French grow coffee?”

“I have no idea,” Horst admitted. 

He contemplated the problem for a long moment.  The
Reich
grew coffee in Germany Arabia, if he recalled correctly, but the
real
coffee connoisseurs spent hundreds of
Reichmarks
on imported coffee from South America.  Argentina had even tried to flood the market after the country had been defeated in the Falklands War.  Maybe they’d sold it to the French who then skirted import/export restrictions by selling it onwards to Germany.  And somehow he wasn't too surprised that the bunker had good coffee, at least by Germany Prime’s standards.

There’s probably a wine cellar somewhere below us too
, he thought, darkly. 
And I’d bet good money that the staff don’t get to drink either the wine or the good coffee
.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, instead.  “All that matters is surviving the next few weeks.”

He rose, leaving her to eat the pastries as he showered.  They hadn’t had the time to bring spare clothes down into the bunker, but one of the wardrobes held a selection of basic clothing in various sizes.  It didn't take him long to find something suitable, even if it clearly
had
been designed for someone with a paunch.  He made a mental note to bring more clothes down into the bunker, if they stayed where they were, then headed back to Gudrun.  She’d wiped her hands and was now eying the clock nervously.

She glanced at him as they opened the door.  “Is it wrong of me to be nervous?”

“Only a complete fool
isn't
scared,” Horst said.  His instructors had taught him that everyone - almost everyone - felt fear.  It was how they coped with it, they’d warned, that determined what sort of man they were.  But then, after weeks of running through hazardous death traps pretending to be tactical exercises, it was hard to feel fear in actual combat.  “But you’re not on the front lines.”

Gudrun looked down, her face briefly stricken.  Horst felt a stab of guilt - Gudrun’s brother
was
on the front lines - and pushed it aside, savagely.  She was at a loose end; she needed to find a purpose, now that the war had begun.  And he had no intention of letting her fall back into bad old habits, after all she’d already done.

“There’s nothing you can do about the danger,” he added, after a moment.  He had no idea just how many cruise missiles had been stationed in Germany East, but Holliston had quite a few bombers at his disposal.  It wouldn't be long before they started hitting Berlin, unless the
Luftwaffe
kept them back.  “All you can do is carry on as best as possible.”

“Thanks,” Gudrun said, dryly.

Horst smiled.  “You’re welcome.”

Chapter Sixteen

Near Warsaw, Germany Prime

13 September 1985

“The enemy have managed a handful of successful air attacks,”
Sturmbannfuehrer
Friedemann Weineck reported.  “They didn't manage to take out any of the main bridges, but a number of pontoons have been smashed.”

“Then get them repaired,”
Oberstgruppenfuehrer
Alfred Ruengeler snarled.  “They’re
designed
to be repaired quickly.”

He scowled.  The commandos had done good work, but they hadn't taken out
every
aircraft and some of those pilots were good, damned good.  He was reluctant to admit it, yet it could not be denied that a couple of the HE-477 pilots were very definitely just as good as some of their SS CAS counterparts.  They’d taken losses, of course - four aircraft had been shot out of the sky, one managing to slam into a pontoon bridge as it crashed - but they’d definitely slowed up the advance. 

Not that I expected any differently
, he reminded himself. 
I planned on the assumption that there would be many more delays
.

The traitors were playing it smart, he had to admit.  They weren't trying to stand and fight, even when they seemed to hold a local advantage; they were slipping into range, landing a couple of blows and then darting backwards to escape retaliation.  It was costing him more time than anything else, but the more time he lost the longer it would be before he could reach Berlin.  By now, the traitor government
had
to know the war had begun.

We dropped cruise missiles into Berlin
, he thought, sardonically. 
They’d have to be very stupid not to know the war has begun
.

“The gunners are reporting that enemy fire is continuing, but only on a sporadic level,” Weineck stated.  “They’re trying hard to suppress enemy fire.”

“Good,” Alfred growled.  He eyed the red telephone darkly, expecting it to ring at any moment.  The
Fuhrer
would want an update soon, he was sure.  “And the forward units?”

“Moving forward carefully,” Weineck informed him.  “The coordinators are moving the second-line units forward now.”

“Remind them to move additional AA units to the bridges,” Alfred said.  He’d earmarked those units for supporting the advance - he knew, all too well, that the
Luftwaffe
had several tactical advantages - but he’d underestimated their ability to threaten the bridges.  “I don’t want a single aircraft to get through our fire.”

“
Jawohl
,” Weineck said.

Alfred sat back, trying to relax.  His junior officers knew what they were doing, he told himself firmly.  They were all experienced men, blooded in South Africa and the constant low-level war against the Slavs.  They’d see whatever opportunities existed and take advantage of them, he knew.  And yet, he wanted to watch through their eyes as they continued the advance.  He needed to know what they were seeing.

And they don’t need you looking over their shoulder
, he reminded himself.  Micromanaging would only make their task harder. 
They’ll do the job.  You can count on it
.

The red phone rang.  Alfred bit down a comment that would probably be reported, if he said it out loud, and reached for the phone.  It was time to give his report.  He just hoped the
Führer
was prepared to listen.

***

Obersturmfuehrer
Hennecke Schwerk was tense, very tense, as he led his platoon down the road.  The
Hauptsturmfuehrer
who had been in command had already been killed by a prowling aircraft, his vehicle targeted and blown into flaming ruins before he’d even known he was under attack.   Hennecke had assumed command at once, as his training had dictated, but he couldn't help feeling as though he was badly unprepared for the task.  This was not Germany East or South Africa.  This was Germany Prime ...

Hatred seethed in his gut as he prowled forward, listening carefully for the first
hint
of an enemy presence.  How
dare
the westerners turn on the
Reich? 
Didn’t they
know
the fate that awaited the
Volk
, if the
Volk
grew weak?  Hennecke had seen the aftermath of too many insurgent attacks - in both Germany East and South Africa - to have any delusions about what would happen if he fell into their hands.  It was the kind of madness that could never be allowed to run free.  Give an
Untermensch
a hint of freedom - as a handful of idiots had found out over the years - and he would stick a knife in your chest, castrate your sons and rape your daughters.  He knew it, as surely as he knew his own name.  The
Volk
could not allow itself to become weak or the
Volk
would be lost.

Sweat trickled down his back as he eyed the forest, wondering if the enemy were lurking within the shadows.  He could hear explosions and gunfire in the distance, but there was no sign of anything hostile nearby.  That proved nothing, he reminded himself, as they inched forwards.  The insurgents in Germany East were masters at using the endless forests and mountains for camouflage, knowing that a single mistake would attract a prowling aircraft or a commando team.  Those that weren't experts had been exterminated long ago.  He tensed, again, as he heard something fluttering within the darkness, then sighed in relief as he saw a bird flying through the trees.  But what had disturbed the bird ...

He hit the ground, instinctively, as a shot cracked out.  A soldier behind him wasn’t so lucky; he crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain.  Hennecke ignored him as he used hand-signals to deploy his men, ordering one section to lay down covering fire while a second section crawled off to the right, trying to outflank the enemy position.  He took command of the third section and led it towards the enemy personally, even though he knew he should probably stay in the rear.  The
Hauptsturmfuehrer
might have been able to lead from the rear, but Hennecke knew
he
didn't have that sort of authority. 

The sound of shooting grew louder as the first section opened fire, bullets snapping through the trees and sending branches crashing to the ground.  Hennecke would have been surprised if they actually hit anything - the enemy had had plenty of time to prepare their ambush - but it would certainly make it harder for the bastards to retreat.  Unless, of course, they’d prepared their fallback position too.  Hennecke disliked the idea of running from the enemy as much as the next
Waffen-SS
Stormtrooper, but there was nothing to be gained by sacrificing their lives for nothing.  Their enemies
had
to know they wouldn't slow down the advance with a handful of shots ...

He paused as he saw the enemy position come into view, a firing point that had clearly been prepared some time in advance.  But then, securing one of the roads that led off the
autobahn
was clearly a priority for
any
attacking force.  He paused long enough to signal his men, then unhooked a grenade from his belt and threw it towards the enemy.  The enemy turned, too late, as the grenade exploded.  Hennecke barked orders for the first section to stop firing as it detonated, then led the charge forward.  A man turned, trying to bring his rife up into firing position; Hennecke shot him in the chest and watched him crumple backwards, feeling nothing.  The traitor had gotten away lightly.  A second man hurled his rifle to the ground and held his hands in the air.  Hennecke kicked him down, searched him roughly and then kept a foot on his neck as the second section caught up with them. 

“Two prisoners,” he noted.  “And four dead men.”

He glared down at the prisoners, quietly accessing them.  Very few of the stormtroopers had any respect for the
Wehrmacht
, but even
they
doubted that the
Wehrmacht
was composed of overweight soldiers.  The basic training routines were largely identical, after all.  No, the men who had barred their way were reservists, men called back to the colours to fight after a long spell in civilian life.  He felt a sudden surge of hatred as he took in their condition.  The prisoners had been living the easy life in Germany Prime, while he and his comrades had been fighting and dying to cleanse Germany East of its
Untermenschen
infestation.  And now they had had the nerve to try to bar their way into Germany Prime ...

Orders made it clear; prisoners were to be taken, if possible.  But he would have to spare a couple of men to guard the prisoners, at least until an MP unit arrived to take them into custody and transport them to a detention camp on the other side of the river.  He couldn't spare the men, he told himself; he was damned if he was risking the offensive for the sake of two traitors.  Besides, he was sure no one would really care if the prisoners survived or not.  They would never be released, not after taking up arms against the
Waffen-SS
; they’d spend the rest of their life in a concentration camp.

He cocked his pistol and pointed it at the first prisoner’s head.  The man's eyes went wide with fear and shock, even though he’d
known
that stormtroopers were rarely in the habit of taking prisoners.  Hennecke smelt the tell-tale scent of urine as he took aim, then pulled the trigger.  The prisoner jerked; his comrade opened his mouth to scream, but Hennecke shot him before he could make a sound.  None of his men objected.  They all knew what happened to prisoners, particularly insurgents.  Indeed, Hennecke had given them an easier fate than they deserved.

Bastards
, Hennecke thought.

“Leave the bodies,” he ordered, as they scooped up the weapons.  “Let's move.”

***

“The advance is proceeding as well as can be expected,
Mein Fuhrer,
” Alfred said.  “We are advancing along the planned routes, slowly clearing out the enemy pockets as we encounter them.”

“Good,” Holliston said.  “And the air defence of the bridges?”

Alfred kept his voice steady with an effort. 
Someone
had clearly been telling tales to Germanica.  He wasn't really surprised to know there was an agent or two within his command staff - although he supposed it could have been an officer attached to the bridges - but it was still annoying.  Holliston was a born intriguer, with political skills that Alfred knew outmatched his own, yet he was no military officer.  He might well demand something his men couldn’t offer.

“The defences have been reinforced,” he said, fighting down the urge to point out that he’d been
assured
that most of the enemy aircraft would be put out of service.  “There will not be a second successful attack on the bridges.”

“Good,” Holliston said, after a long chilling pause.  “And the enemy pockets?”

“They’re behaving as we anticipated,” Alfred said.  If the traitors
had
managed to move hundreds of panzers from west to east, they might well have taken the risk of thrusting forwards and catching his forces as they tried to cross the river.  “They’re engaging us briefly, then falling back.  I believe they are very definitely conserving their resources.”

“Then continue the advance,” Holliston ordered.  “They are to have no time to prepare a tougher defence.”

Alfred scowled.  Holliston didn't see it, but the traitors
were
mounting a tough defence.  Instead of lining up to be destroyed - that sort of idiotic behaviour was only seen in bad movies about French soldiers  - they were slowing his panzers down, putting the offensive behind schedule while gathering their own forces.  He’d assumed, right from the start, that there
would
be slippage, that matters would not proceed as fast as Holliston hoped.  He had seen enough exercises to prove, to his own satisfaction, that timetables were nothing more than rough estimates. 

But the
Führer
might think differently.  It was less than two hundred miles from Warsaw to Berlin, as the crow flew.  And a panzer could cover that distance in a few hours, if nothing happened to get in its way ...