“I shall discuss the matter with Washington,” Turtledove said. “Andrew, do you wish to return to the front lines?”
“As long as they will have me,” Andrew said. “The chance to watch the war is not one to be dismissed.”
“As long as it doesn’t kill you,” Knox said, dryly.
Andrew shrugged. He was an OSS operative, not an ambassador. The prospect of being scooped up by the SS had always loomed over him, even though — technically — he had diplomatic immunity. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had ‘vanished’ in Berlin, or suffered what looked like a random mugging; he’d known the risks, he’d accepted the risks, when he’d taken the job. The prospect of being killed in battle, even as an observer, seemed cleaner, somehow.
“I know the risks,” he said.
Turtledove nodded. “Get a good night’s sleep first,” he said. “And make sure you eat a good meal before you go back to the front.”
Yes, mother, Andrew thought.
He couldn’t blame Turtledove for worrying. The Germans would feed him as long as he remained within their ranks, but their rations weren’t very good, certainly not by American standards. And he’d been hearing dire rumours about the food situation, rumours that hadn’t been quashed by the sudden influx of supplies. It made him wonder, deep inside, if the Reich was on the verge of starvation as well as everything else. But there was no way to be sure.
At least until it happens, he thought, coldly.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, rising. “I’ll make sure of it.”
There were times, Volker had to admit, when he thought he understood Karl Holliston’s desire for power perfectly.
He was Chancellor, but he wasn’t omnipotent; he could make some decisions, but others had to be decided by consensus. And this decision, perhaps the most important of all, was one that had to be unanimous. There was no way he could push it forward on his own authority.
“We are currently bringing up additional panzer divisions, along with supporting elements and aircraft,” Voss said. His finger traced lines on the map as he spoke. “If everything goes according to plan, we will be ready to launch a major offensive in two weeks.”
He paused. “We will be thrusting towards Warsaw, but our principle objective will be to envelop and destroy the remaining SS forces in the region,” he continued. “Once those forces have been crushed, we will reform our divisions and continue eastwards. Our goal will be to capture Germanica before the first snowfall.”
There was a long pause. “I acknowledge that there are risks involved,” he concluded. “But I believe this offers the best chance for a speedy victory.”
Volker kept his expression under tight control, his face betraying none of his concerns. The plan was daring, he had to admit. Perhaps it was too daring. Defeat would cripple them as surely as victory would cripple the enemy. And yet… and yet… Voss was right. It offered the best chance for a speedy victory.
“Chancy,” Admiral Wilhelm Riess said, finally. The Head of the Abwehr didn’t sound impressed. “If this plan fails, we will have nothing left.”
“We are already raising new units and bringing back others from South Africa,” Voss said, tartly. “Defeat will weaken us badly, Admiral, but it will also weaken our enemies.”
“And we have to win the war quickly,” Foreign Minister Engelhard Rubarth said. “We are already growing weak, Admiral. It will not be long before our puppet states start thinking they can make decisions for themselves.”
If they’re not already contemplating the possibilities, Volker thought. Even a relatively minor challenge to our power could prove disastrous.
“The South Africans are already turning unfriendly,” he said. “And if they are turning unfriendly, how long will it be before others follow suit?”
“They have friends and allies in Germany East,” Riess pointed out. “Of course they hate us.”
Volker nodded. The SS had been the loudest supporter of the South African War, demanding — time and time again — that vast numbers of German soldiers were sent to prop up an increasingly unpopular government. And then they’d lied about the war… he fought down the sudden surge of hatred, forcing himself to think clearly. If South Africa turned hostile, they could cause real trouble…
“All the more reason to win quickly,” he said. If they won the war in the next three months, they might be able to hold the Reich together. “Can anyone think of a better option?”
There was no answer. Volker wasn’t surprised. There was no compromise — no reasonable compromise — that Karl Holliston would accept. Even a negotiated surrender would probably be rejected, unless it was complete, total and utterly unconditional. Holliston didn’t just want power, he wanted revenge. And there wasn’t a single person, sitting at the table, who would be safe if Holliston won the war. They’d all be lucky if they were merely executed.
“So we proceed,” he said. “Any dissent?”
“We can shift our goals, if the offensive fails,” Riess said. “Can’t we?”
“We have contingency plans,” Voss assured him. “Merely chewing up the remains of their divisions will make it easier for us to launch another offensive in the spring.”
“We will have to be stern with the Easterners,” Luther Stresemann said. The Head of the Economic Intelligence Service looked grim. “Far too many of them are behind the SS.”
Volker winced. The SS’s propaganda offensive was crude, but it was effective. The Easterners knew they lived on the edge of civilisation. They wouldn’t forsake the SS unless they believed their interests would be protected.
“We treat them firmly, but with compassion,” he said, bluntly. “Unless they turn on us.”
“They will,” Voss said. He sounded very sure of himself. “We have to be ready to take strong action.”
“But no atrocities,” Volker said. There were fire-eaters who wanted to retaliate for everything the SS had done, but he knew it couldn’t be permitted. “I don’t want a single incident they can use against us.”
But he knew, even as he said it, that it was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Chapter Seven
Germanica (Moscow), Germany East
29 October 1985
Karl Holliston rarely liked to admit his mistakes. It was, he’d learned as a child, a form of weakness. And yet, he conceded, dragging Gudrun into his office — in chains — had been a mistake. He’d expected a cringing girl, but he’d underestimated her. The questions she’d asked — the questions he’d dismissed — had struck a nerve. Far too many of his subordinates would have asked those questions themselves, if it had been safe to do so.
He scowled as he walked into the Map Room. It would be easy to have Gudrun shot — or tortured — but that would serve no purpose. He needed to break her. And he needed to use her to break her friends and allies in the treacherous Provisional Government. But that would take time, time he suspected he didn’t have.