“They will not risk their existence by waging war against us,” Himmler said.
Kesselring tapped the table, sharply. “We have a compromise in mind,” he said. “You — the SS — will be given Russia as your private domain. You’ll have complete freedom to reshape society any way you choose. In exchange for this, you will accept the position of the Reich Council and surrender the SS’s claim to nuclear weapons.”
Karl looked at Himmler, wondering how his ultimate superior would react. The SS already ruled much of Occupied Russia, enslaving or slaughtering the Russians while slowly establishing massive settlements on the soil. Himmler was being offered something he already had. And yet, the SS didn’t have an entirely free hand. They still had to contend with the Wehrmacht and Speer’s civilian bureaucracy. To be rid of that, to create a land where the Volk could live free and hold up its head with pride…
And we would grow strong, he thought, as our success attracted more and more Aryans into the Reich.
It wasn’t ideal, he knew. Germany itself would not be transformed so radically. The civilian bureaucrats were already objecting to some of the more important transformations — and their influence would only grow stronger if the SS concentrated on Russia. But the Reich Council’s control would not last. It would grow weaker and weaker until the true masters took their place at the head of society.
Himmler took a long moment to compose his reply. “You believe this will appease the Americans?”
“This is not about the Americans,” Kesselring said. “This is about preventing a civil war.”
Karl had to fight to keep his face impassive. He’d known what was at stake — everyone knew what was at stake — but he’d never heard it expressed so bluntly. There were just too many competing factions within the Reich, all held in check by Hitler. If the Reich Council couldn’t put together a compromise to stabilise the Reich, the entire edifice would go down into civil war. And that would utterly destroy the Reich.
“The Americans are not our greatest threat right now,” Speer added. “Our greatest threat is ourselves.”
Himmler barely moved for a long cold moment. “Very well,” he said, finally. “You’ll have your control over nuclear weapons.”
“You will still have a seat on the council,” Speer said.
Karl nodded, inwardly. Speer was the weakest member of the triumvirate. What was control over the economy, over the factories and farms, compared to control over the soldiers, sailors and airmen who fought to expand the Reich? Speer needed Himmler to keep Kesselring in line, just as much as he needed Kesselring to keep Himmler in line. No doubt Speer expected to slowly extend his influence eastwards, no matter what agreements were made. He’d assume the SS couldn’t handle its own economy.
He allowed himself to relax, just barely, as the three men discussed the practicalities of their agreement. It wasn’t what he wanted — what he knew Himmler wanted — but it was enough to keep the triumvirate happy. And, in the long run, the SS would reshape Russia into a paradise, a good example to the rest of the Reich. It might take decades — or more — but eventually the entire Reich would follow in their footsteps.
And as long as we never lose sight of our goals, he thought, we will prevail.
Chapter One
East Germany
28 October 1985
The village was a blackened ruin.
Hauptsturmführer Hennecke Schwerk barely noticed as he stumbled through the ruined streets, heading east. He’d lost contact with his unit — all that remained of his unit — two days ago, during the chaotic retreat from Berlin. Now, the handful of men surrounding him were the remnants of a dozen units that had been hammered so badly that they’d shattered, only a handful of troopers surviving long enough to escape the caldron and make their escape to the east. He walked over a body — male or female, it was impossible to say — barely registering its existence. There was no way to know if the dead person had been a loyalist, a traitor, or merely a poor innocent civilian caught up in the maelstrom washing over the Reich…
He shook his head, feeling a sudden surge of anger. There was no such thing as an innocent civilian, not now. The world was divided into loyalists, men and women who would give their all to preserve the Reich, and traitors, men and women who would tear it down and spit in the face of everything the Reich had achieved since Adolf Hitler had taken power in 1933 and reshaped the world. And the traitorous civilians had turned on the Waffen-SS and driven them from Berlin, driven them east…
They will pay, he promised himself. They will pay.
He shivered as a cold wind blew from the east. They’d been meant to take their winter clothing with them — the Waffen-SS had plenty of experience fighting in colder climes — but the offensive had been organised in such a tearing hurry that they’d ended up outrunning their logistics network. East Germany was nowhere near as cold as the Urals — or even the garrison towns near Germanica itself — but it was still cold now. He wrapped his arms around himself as he kept walking, somehow. They’d make it back to friendly lines and then…
The Waffen-SS was not supposed to lose. It had never lost, not until now. Hennecke had grown up on stories of the black-clad stormtroopers fighting the French, the British, the Russians and a dizzying series of subhuman opponents who couldn’t hope to stand up to the Reich. The Waffen-SS had always taken the lead in fighting, from the coldest realms of Germany East to the darkest depths of Africa. And it had never been bested, not until now.
At least we lost to fellow Germans, Hennecke thought.
The thought wasn’t reassuring. He’d been told, time and time again, that none of their opponents could hope to match them, man for man. Even the vaunted British SAS or the American Marines were no match for the SS. But they’d faced their fellow Germans — the softies of the west — in combat… and lost. Berlin had been held so strongly that thousands of blackshirts had died, even before the panzers had come to the traitor’s aid. Hennecke knew how close he had come to death, more than once. What sadistic god had deemed that he would survive long enough to flee Berlin and join the retreat?
I am strong, he told himself. I survived because I am strong.
He shivered, helplessly, as he heard a dull roar in the distance. An engine, he thought; he couldn’t tell if it was a panzer or a truck. Watching the panzers come at him had been a nightmare, leaving him with an odd flicker of sympathy for the bandit Untermenschen who’d faced the armoured vehicles on the steppes. For once, the panzers hadn’t been on his side… he didn’t want to look behind him, but there was no choice. And yet, there was nothing, save for plumes of smoke rising in the distance.
Perhaps they’ve given up the pursuit, he thought, numbly. Perhaps…
It was wishful thinking, he knew. German soldiers — the Wehrmacht as well as the Waffen-SS — were taught to take the offensive and keep taking the offensive. And if their opponents were in retreat, their formations scattered and their command networks a joke, the soldiers were taught to take advantage of it. How many Frenchmen had gone into the camps, back during the war, because they’d been caught in the open and captured? How many Russians had been mown down by the advancing panzers because their leadership refused to even consider the virtues of retreat? He’d thrilled to such tales, back in the past…