Ragnarok

Chapter Two

Germanica (Moscow), Germany East

29 October 1985

They had lost.

To lose was unthinkable, but they had lost.

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

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

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

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

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

But now he had suffered a massive setback.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heil Holliston,” they said, in unison.

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

But it wasn’t important, not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed,” Holliston said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Innsbruck lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

“Yes, Herr Gauleiter,” Alfred said.

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

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

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

Alfred nodded, unsure where Innsbruck was going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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