Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (4 page)

It didn't make sense, she told herself.  Konrad wasn't anyone important.  His family didn't have ties to the
Reichstag
.  But, instead of reporting his wounds to his family, the SS had tried to hide them.  She tossed it over and over in her head, remembering what her father had said about his work as a policeman.  If someone was trying to hide something, he'd said, it meant they had something to hide that
justified
the effort of hiding it.  And yet, Konrad wasn't anyone important.  There was no reason to hide his wounds.

Take Konrad out of the equation
, she told herself.  There was nothing important about Konrad, therefore no one would waste the effort
solely
for him. 
And you get...

She looked up.  There had been more than two dozen names on the list - and, in the ward, there were two dozen beds, each one hidden behind a set of curtains.  If each of them held a wounded soldier, and it looked as though they did, what did it mean?  The news kept claiming that German troops, bringing fraternal aid to their brothers in South Africa, were winning the war.  But if someone was concealing the sheer number of wounded troops... what did that say about the progress of the war?  And how many troops had wound up dead in South Africa?

They’re lying
, she thought.  She had always been dimly aware that the news services were run by the government, that nothing was ever broadcast without government approval, but she’d never fully understood what that meant. 
They’re lying about the war
.

She jumped as she heard someone clearing her throat.  “What are you two doing in here?”

Gudrun turned.  A young nurse - a
senior
nurse, judging from the gaudy rank badges on her uniform - was standing behind them, hands on hips.  She looked as stern as their mother when she’d caught them in the biscuit box, back when they’d been children.  Gudrun couldn't help thinking that she would have been pretty if she’d let her hair down and, perhaps, worn something a little more fitting.  The uniform was just plain ugly.

“I convinced Nurse Gudrun to let me see my friend Konrad, after my own examination,” Kurt lied, smoothly.  It wasn’t as if
Gudrun
was an uncommon name.  There had been three other girls with the same name in junior school.  “We served together in South Africa, don’t you know?  He saved my life twice.”

He leaned forward.  “If you’re charged with his care, perhaps you can tell me how he is?  I’d be most grateful...”

The nurse frowned.  “You shouldn't have brought him in here without permission,” she said, addressing Gudrun.  “Visitors have to be cleared through security...”

“It’s my fault, beautiful,” Kurt said.  He cocked his head.  “Can I take you for a drink later?”

“Perhaps,” the nurse said.  She looked downcast for a long moment.  “Your friend is unlikely to survive without the life support machine, sir.  The brain damage was quite severe and the medical care he received in the theatre was
quite
poor.  We dug quite a few pieces of shrapnel out of his flesh, but by then it was really too late.  His body is still alive, if barely; his brain is dead.”

Gudrun swallowed the question she wanted to ask.  She didn't dare draw the nurse’s attention back to her, even as Kurt flirted and the nurse - insanely - seemed inclined to respond.  Perhaps, being a nurse, she didn't have many chances for romance... or, more likely, she thought a soldier would understand long hours and short tempers.  Her father had once told her that policemen preferred to marry nurses...

“You escort him to the doors, then report to the security office,” the nurse said, finally.  “I have work to do here.”

“Of course,” Gudrun said.  She had no intention of doing anything but walking out the doors with Kurt, removing the uniform as soon as possible and never returning.  “I’m sorry...”

“Go,” the nurse ordered.

“That was a close one,” Kurt muttered, once they were past the guards.  “But at least I got her number.”

Gudrun gave him a disbelieving look.  “You do realise you can’t possibly call her?”

“That’s not the point,” Kurt said.  “The point is that I got her number.”

He didn't say anything else until they walked through the doors and escaped into the streets, heading towards a flat belonging to a friend.  Their father would have asked far too many questions if Gudrun had returned home wearing a nurse’s uniform - and, being a cop, was far too practiced at sniffing out lies.  He would demand the whole story, then explode with fury at the risk they’d taken.

“You need to keep this to yourself,” he warned.  “If someone is trying to keep this a secret...”

“I know the dangers,” Gudrun said.  She had a vague plan forming in her mind, but nothing solid, not yet.  And she couldn't share her thoughts with her brother.  “And I know the risks.”

Chapter Three

Reichstag,
Berlin

17 July 1985 (Victory Day)

There were times, Hans Krueger thought as he walked into the meeting room, that it would probably be easier to handle decisions if the Big Three met in private, hammered out a set of compromises and then presented it to the rest of the
Reich
Council as a
fait accompli
.   It would certainly take less time, with less outraged shouting.  But it was impossible.  The different branches of the military would certainly want their say, the different government ministries would have their own opinions about matters and even the SS, for all it tried to present a monolithic face to the world, had its dissidents.  There was no way to accommodate them all, save for inviting all the principles to the meetings.

And that tends to mean that nothing gets done
, he reminded himself sourly.  The only consolation was that formal protocol was practically non-existent. 
By the time we’re finished arguing, it’s time for dinner and then we resume arguing after dinner
.

He sighed, inwardly, as he sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from the attendants.  The remainder of the seats were filling up fast; the uniformed heads of the military, the ministers wearing fancy suits and the SS, clumped together at one end of the table.  Hitler might have been a great man - Hans knew better than to think otherwise, even in the privacy of his own mind - but he’d never established a formal governmental structure to handle the vastly expanding
Reich
.  Instead of an organised system, where power and responsibility were roughly equal, he’d presided over a hundred different fiefdoms, keeping them at loggerheads so his rule remained unchallenged.  And when Hitler died, the wheels had threatened to come off the whole ramshackle structure. 

And it was sheer luck that Himmler was convinced not to try to seize power for himself
, Hans thought, glancing down towards Karl Holliston.  The
Reichsführer-SS
would happily seize supreme power, if he thought he could get away with it. 
Then, the military would have opposed the SS, purely out of instinct.  Now... who knows which way everyone will jump
.

The attendants finished pouring coffee and withdrew, closing the doors behind them with a loud
thump
.  Hans allowed himself a grim smile.  They were in the most secure room in the
Reich
- the security team protecting the complex was the most capable in Germany - and yet, the true threat lay within.  Just how many of the men at the table would make a bid for power if they thought they could succeed?  Hans wouldn't - he knew how hard it would be to rule the
Reich
alone - but he had a feeling he was the only one.  Everyone else?  The lure of supreme power was
very
alluring.

He kept his face impassive as the
Fuhrer
rose to his feet.  “This meeting is now called to order,” Adolf Bormann said, turning to face the giant portrait hanging from the wall.  Hans had to admit Bormann could give pretty speeches, but little else.  “
Heil Hitler
!”

“
Heil Hitler
,” Hans echoed. 

And everywhere else, it would be Heil Bormann
, he thought, as Bormann sat back down. 
But not here, not where we can't risk allowing his head to swell
.

“I move we address the war in South Africa,” Holliston said, quickly.  “Victory Day has, as always, given us a boost.  We must take advantage of it before it is gone.”

Hans exchanged glances with Field Marshal Justus Stoffregen, Head of OKW, who nodded once.  The military, therefore, wanted to discuss the war too.  Hans had a whole folder of economic issues that had to be addressed, but there was no point fighting an unwinnable battle against both the military and the SS.  Besides, it would give him an opportunity to let Holliston make his points and then undermine the bastard.  The SS man simply didn't understand the cold economic realities that were steadily undermining the
Reich
.

Holliston leaned forward.  “The South African War is approaching a climax,” he said, as if he hadn't said the same thing at the last four meetings of the
Reich
Council.  “We have taken losses, but we are pressing the rebel insurgents hard and persistently weakening their grip on their fellow blacks.  They are steadily being worn down.”

He paused, waiting to see if anyone would object.  Hans, who had quite a few private agents reporting to him from South Africa, could have disputed that rosy picture, but he kept his thoughts to himself.  Better to let the SS man store up trouble for himself.  Besides, he knew all too well what lurked behind the cold figures.  Men and women killed, children rounded up and herded into concentration camps, towns and villages burned to the ground for daring to hide insurgents... no wonder the blacks were fighting desperately.  They were caught between freedom and total extermination. 

And thousands of our own men are dead
, he thought, coldly. 
The general public doesn't have the slightest idea just how many soldiers have been killed - or wounded - in South Africa
.

It wasn't a pleasant thought, he reflected.  The
Reich
had no elections, no way for the civilians to express their feelings about the war.  No one had quite realised just how badly public opinion, such as it was, would be shocked about the Balkan War.  The public hadn’t given a damn about slaughtered Jews or Muslims, of course, but telling them just how many Germans had been killed in the fighting had been a mistake.  It wasn't one the SS intended to repeat.

“However, we have a major problem,” Holliston continued.  “Pretoria is not as enthusiastic about the war as we would prefer.”

“Unsurprising,” Hans commented, dryly.  “We are, after all, fighting a savage war of peace on their territory.”

Holliston gave him a sharp look.  “We have gathered evidence that suggests the South Africans are on the verge of betraying us,” he snapped.  “Pretoria has been in private communications with Oliver Tambo and, apparently, attempting to come to some sort of agreement.  Furthermore, Tambo and his bunch of terrorists would not have escaped if Pretoria had acted swiftly to reinforce the parachutists who attacked the bastard’s territory.  I believe they hesitated in the hopes that Tambo would escape.”

“And succeeded, if that were the case,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss commented.

“They would presumably not have wished to restart negotiations with a new leader,” Hans mused.  “Tambo is hardly the worst they could have had to deal with.”

He scowled, inwardly.  Pretoria’s apartheid system had a great deal in common with the Third Reich, but the white population of South Africa made up only a tenth of the population, even though Pretoria had been working hard to lure immigrants from Spain, Italy, France and even Greece.  The whites were, quite simply, badly outnumbered and every year they failed to crush the rebels, every little rebel success that helped to bleed Pretoria white, worsened their position.  It was hard to blame Pretoria for looking for a way out of the war that allowed them to salvage
something
.

But Holliston, of course, didn't see it that way.

“I have two proposals,” he said.  “First, we double the number of German troops fighting in South Africa.  We can easily spare 200,000 troops for as long as it takes to crush the blacks and bring peace to the country.  Second, that we strike first and eliminate the government in Pretoria.”

Hans blinked in surprise.  He’d expected the proposal to double the number of troops in South Africa; it had, after all, been made before.  But eliminating the South African Government?  It was insane!  Which planner in Wewelsburg Castle had come up with the whole idea?

Holliston pressed the idea as hard as he could.  “There are factions in Pretoria who will be happy to support us, if we eliminate the current leadership,” he said.  “These are the factions who have been pressing for a more pro-active solution to the problem...”

Hans gritted his teeth.  Holliston alone couldn't commit the
Reich
to a desperate gamble, but if he dragged the military along with him... it would be hard, perhaps impossible, to head the madcap scheme off at the pass.  And it
was
madness, of that Hans was sure.  The
meaning
of the facts and figures might be disputed, but the facts themselves could never be.

“The last time I checked,” he said, allowing his voice to drip with sarcasm, “we sent our soldiers into South Africa to support the local government.  Did something change while I was sleeping?”

“Of course not,” Holliston said.

“Then perhaps you can explain to me,” Hans pressed, “why
supporting
the local government requires executing its members and installing a set of puppets?”

“The current government is unable to fight the war effectively,” Holliston snapped.  “I...”

Hans took a long breath.  “Whatever we may think of the government of South Africa, the fact remains that it holds legitimacy in the eyes of the South Africans themselves,” he said, coldly.  “They will not take calmly to
us
stepping in and removing their government.  I dare say, given that they are of good racial stock, that they will not accept whatever government we install in its place.  We will be forced to occupy South Africa ourselves, to disarm the local military and fight a multi-sided war against
two
sets of insurgents.

“Furthermore, our logistics are already problematic,” he added.  “Our supply lines from the
Reich
to Germany South are poor and road and rail links between Germany South and South Africa are worse, even without the insurgents taking pot-shots at our convoys...”

“We could drive the attackers away from the roads if we didn't have to humour the local government,” Holliston hissed. 

“And we would find it hard to make use of the local logistics network,” Hans added, relentlessly.  The South Africans, damn them, had chosen to licence American or British weapons rather than German, a decision that had come back to haunt them when the war began in earnest.  “Indeed, the white flight from South Africa will only get worse as the war spreads into formerly safe areas.  Or have you not realised just how dependent South Africa
is
on black labour?”

He allowed his voice to rise.  “They use black labour everywhere, even in the military,” he reminded the table.  “What happens if - when - those blacks become convinced that they’re ultimately doomed to go into the gas chambers anyway?”

“They’re of inferior stock,” Holliston snapped.

“And if they’re so inferior,” Hans said, “why do you need an extra 200,000 troops to fight the war?”

He kept the smirk that threatened to appear off his face with an effort.  He’d argued against becoming involved in South Africa, only to be overruled by the military and the SS.  Now, the SS looked grossly incompetent, grasping at straws rather than swallowing their pride and admitting they’d made a mistake, while the military were concerned about ever-increasing casualty figures.  Doubling the troops in South Africa, if they could be supported,
might
end the war, but it was equally possible that it would only increase the number of dead or wounded soldiers.  And who knew what would happen when
that
little fact got out?

Holliston glared at him.  “And you would propose ending the war?”

“I would propose that we find a way to avoid wasting blood and treasure on a petty pointless war,” Hans said.  “It will not be long before the chaos starts making its way up into Germany South or French North Africa.”

“The frogs can take care of themselves,” Holliston growled.

“They might have some problems,” Hans observed.  “We place some pretty strict limits on their military, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Voss said, flatly.  “The last thing we want is a modern tank force within striking distance of Germany.”

Hans nodded in agreement.  The terrain between Vichy France and Berlin was not conductive to deep strikes, but giving Vichy the power to stand up for itself would have dangerous implications.  France had been in the economic doldrums for decades, despite a slow and steady advance into North Africa.  The French Government might be more than willing to bend over and take whatever Berlin chose to dish out, but the French population loathed the Germans with a fiery passion.  If the
Reich
ran into problems elsewhere, who knew which way the French would jump?  And, to be fair, Spain and Italy didn't like the Germans much either.