Chosen of the Valkyries

Epilogue

Germanica, Germany East

28 October 1985

Karl Holliston sat in his office, reading the latest reports. The enemy trap had slammed closed, catching a number of units he could ill afford to spare, but the most powerful and capable of his divisions had managed to escape. He honestly didn’t know if he should give Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler a promotion – in hindsight, it was clear that he’d made a mistake – or execute him for disobeying orders. Discipline had to be maintained, true, but he’d placed Ruengeler in an impossible position.

He put the report down and leaned back in his chair, thinking hard. Berlin remained in enemy hands, while the enemy had enough firepower in place to deter another stab westwards. That much was beyond dispute, even if the Americans continued to remain out of the fighting. They’d intervened covertly already – and that had been costly – but open interference would be outright disastrous. He could hope that the Reich’s population would recoil in horror at any dealings with the Americans, yet he had to admit it wasn’t certain. He had few qualms about slaughtering any number of traitors – and anyone who refused to join him was a traitor by definition – but it hadn’t played well on the international stage.

And if the traitors think they’re going to be slaughtered, he thought, they won’t surrender.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought. He’d hoped to win the war quickly, before the first snowfall began, but he’d failed. The traitors were still firmly in control of Germany Prime, while his own forces had been badly weakened in the fighting. Replacing the men he’d lost would take years, years he didn’t have. Even the news from the commando team – that Gudrun Wieland had been captured and was on her way to Germanica – wasn’t enough to make him feel better.

I can make her suffer, he thought. And I will. But it won’t be enough to stop them from launching a counterattack.

He snorted at the thought. Generations of experience with insurgencies had taught the Reich that allowing the insurgents to try to use Germans as human shields would only encourage such behaviour. He had no doubt that threatening Gudrun’s life wouldn’t be enough to stop the traitors from launching their invasion, when the time came. Her family might take it badly, but they weren’t calling the shots. His spy in Berlin had made it clear that the provisional government intended to continue the war. In spring, when the winter had finally departed, the panzers would head east.

The odds weren’t on his side, he admitted, although it was something he would never admit in public. His forces had taken a beating, losing far too many panzers and support aircraft for his peace of mind, while the traitors had vast numbers of untouched weapons under their command. They’d probably have control of the skies too, thanks to their American allies; they’d certainly be able to deny the skies to his aircraft. And they had absolute control of the seas. It didn’t look good.

And yet – and yet – the war was far from over.

He smiled darkly as he opened the secure drawer in his desk and pulled out a simple black folder. The wording of the report was blunt and very clear, even to someone who felt as though he spent half of his life writing or reading reports. There had been no success – yet – in preparing the ballistic missiles for launch, but a handful of tactical nukes were ready for detonation. They could be deployed at his command.

They’ll come into Germany East, seeking to destroy us, he promised himself. But they will find nothing, but fire and death.

Karl Holliston returned the folder to the drawer, then poured himself a glass of brandy.

The war was very far from over.