Her death won’t change anything beyond giving us a martyr, he thought. And that means he needs to turn her against us.
The sound of shooting and shellfire grew louder as he reached the end of the side street and peered down the main road. One of the outriders was lying dead on the ground, his motorcycle long since gone. People were stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down, these days; Horst had no doubt that the bike would be sold shortly, if the thief hadn’t already managed a sale. Strip the police signs from the bike and it might as well be a civilian model, as long as no one looked too closely.
He checked the body – the outrider had broken bones as well as a cracked skull – and found his radio, but it was broken. Horst fiddled with it for a long moment, then gave it up as a bad job. There was no hope of repairing the radio without tools, spare parts and time, none of which he had. Instead, he hurried down the street, thinking hard. The quick-response team had failed to show, which meant that there was no hope of help. If the shooting really was coming from the Reichstag, and it certainly sounded that way, anyone who might have come to help had too many problems of their own.
They must have planned the timing perfectly, he thought. Hit Gudrun and snatch her, then attack the Reichstag and everywhere else, forcing us to react to them. And then send in the troops to finish us off while we’re distracted.
There was nothing he could do about that now, he knew, but he could head to the bar Gudrun’s father had identified for him. It was unlikely that the commandos would have taken Gudrun there, but the bartender was almost certainly an SS contact, if he wasn’t an outright operative. He might – he might – know where Gudrun had been taken. And if he refused to talk, Horst would make him talk. He knew precisely how to hurt someone to cause maximum pain, but little real injury. The man would talk, Horst promised himself, no matter what he had to do…
It wasn’t much, he knew all too well, but it was the only hope he had.
They’ll try to get her out of the city, particularly if the battle is lost, he told himself. He knew his own people all too well. And if that happens, I have lost everything.
The bunker was oddly aseptic, Volker had often thought. There was a battle raging above his head and another being fought on the edge of the city, but the bunker was calm and utterly composed. He sat in the heart of the war room, safe and secure, even though men were dying as the fighting raged on. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it.
“Power stations are out in Sections Five through Seven,” an operator said. “Emergency power is off-line; I say again, emergency power is off-line.”
“Seven aircraft have been shot down over the front lines,” another added. “No pilots have been reported alive.”
“Sniper active near the walk,” a third warned. “Police units have been dispatched.”
Volker shook his head, then looked at Voss. “Are we holding?”
“For the moment, barely,” Voss said. “They’re coming at us hard, hammering our lines with staggering force. A number of our guns have already run out of ammunition.”
“Then pass the word to the relief forces,” Volker ordered. Time had almost run out. “Tell them to come in, guns blazing.”
Voss nodded, shortly. “Jawohl, Herr Chancellor,” he said. “It shall be done.”
He strode away to issue orders, leaving Volker alone with his thoughts. Karl Holliston had to be out of his mind. A smart man would have backed off, realising that the Reich could be sundered in two – and see who came out ahead, in the months and years to come – but Holliston had sent uncounted thousands of his men to their deaths. And he’d committed atrocities that practically guaranteed that the SS would never be accepted in the west, not now. Too much hatred had been unleashed.
But you were in the SS, his thoughts reminded him. You knew how fanatical they could be.
It was a bitter thought. He’d been taught to fight, to take advantage of every fleeting opportunity, but he’d never really been taught to think. His masters wanted the ultimate soldier, one who would fight to the bitter end, yet never question orders. He’d fought in more battles than he cared to remember, before he’d finally resigned. And yet he’d never questioned orders.
He shuddered. And he hadn’t questioned his son’s silence either, had he? He’d never really understood what he’d served until Gudrun had rubbed his face in it. She would have made a fine daughter-in-law…
…And yet, marrying Konrad would have ruined her.
He sat back in his chair, knowing there was nothing else he could do. There was no point in issuing further orders, not now. His people on the ground knew what to do, even if they lost contact with the Reichstag. Berlin might fall, but the relief forces would trap and destroy the Waffen-SS. The die was cast…
…and what happened now would determine if the Reich lived or died.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Berlin, Germany Prime
25 October 1985
“Message from Berlin, Herr Generalmajor,” Hauptmann Franz Winckler reported. “We are to commence Operation Mausefalle at once.”
Generalmajor Gunter Gath nodded, curtly. He’d hoped for longer, but the orbital imagery he’d been sent had made it clear that time wasn’t on his side. His men had worked like demons, moving five panzer divisions and their supporting elements eastwards… it would just have to be enough. If it wasn’t…
One last roll of the dice, he thought. And pray the SS isn’t ready for us.
“Send the signal,” he ordered. “The aerial and commando attacks are to begin at once.”
“Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said.
“And the main body of the advance is to begin in twenty minutes, regardless of the reports from the ground,” Gunter added. “We cannot stop for anything.”
“Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said, again.
Gunter nodded, then turned his attention to the map. All had not been quiet on the western front. His panzers might have been held back, but his commandos and more experienced infantrymen had been skirmishing with the Waffen-SS for days. The bastards had been working to set up roadblocks, emplacing antitank weapons to delay his forces as they raced towards Berlin. They were doing precisely the same thing he’d done, back when the Waffen-SS rolled into Germany Prime. The irony was not lost on him.
We probably showed them how to do it better, he thought. A march that shouldn’t have lasted longer than a day was stretched out for nearly two weeks.
He scowled, remembering the reports from the scouts. Berlin was at the centre of the greatest autobahn network in the world, but the roads would have been mined or otherwise rigged to make using them difficult. And merely driving a few hundred panzers down the road would be enough to put them out of commission. His forces risked being drawn into urban combat, whether they liked it or not. But it couldn’t be helped. The chance to trap the Waffen-SS in a kessel – and save Berlin – could not be ignored. It would shorten the war.