Berlin, Germany, 6 June 2007
"Herr Bundeskanzler," Mühlenkampf bowed his head slightly while clicking his heels. "You wished to see me?"
"I have another mission for you, Herr General."
"How can that be," Mühlenkampf asked duplicitously, "beyond preparing my Korps for the next onslaught?" The general was very sure indeed as to what mission the leader of Germany had in mind.
The Kanzler rarely enjoyed games. Especially did he not now, now that his people's future hung in the balance. He said as much, adding, "Germany has enemies, enemies she has nurtured at her own breast. They cannot be allowed to sabotage us any longer.
"No, damn them!" fumed the Kanzler. "Nor will they until about five percent of them are removed from office!"
"Well, Herr Kanzler, surely your precious democratic constitution has provisions . . ."
"Not for this, General. Not for what must be done now."
"Ohhh, I see. You want my Korps to break the law, do you?"
The chancellor glared. "Desperate times, General . . ."
Mühlenkampf smiled broadly and happily. "There will be a price for this, Herr Kanzler."
The chancellor had been prepared for this. He opened a drawer, causing the general to stiffen momentarily. From the drawer he withdrew a small rectangle of black cloth, embroidered with silver thread. "I have had two hundred thousand of these made. The Treasury will pay for as many more as you need. Is this a fair enough price?"
Mühlenkampf's smile disappeared for a moment, his face growing as serious as the snows of Russia, as the falling naval gun shells of Normandy. "To give my people back their pride and their dignity, Herr Kanzler? To let them be publicly proud of what they once were, soldiers, and among the best? Yes, sir. The price is fair."
Berlin, Germany, 12 July 2007
Under a different torchlight from that under which the Posleen had feasted upon French cuisine, under a moving river of fire, gleamed eyes bright and clear. New uniforms, black and forbidding though graced here and there with silver, paraded under the torchlight. No swastikas were to be seen. But other symbols, once forbidden, were there in plenty.
I wish that I had had the foresight to have Leni Rieffenstahl rejuvenated before she passed away in 2003. What a propaganda scene she could have made from this,
The Kanzler's eyes could not make out the black uniforms through the glowing haze. Never mind, he knew they were there. He had placed them there.
I knew . . . way back when I saw the ruin of that American city, I knew that this day must come. It was so obvious . . . desperate times call for desperate measures and no one has ever seen more desperate times.
Now I have my corps d'elite. Grateful they are too, especially their leaders, for being given back their little symbols. And now, with them, I do what I hate to do . . . but must.
"Desperate times . . ."
Günter was livid, absolutely livid. These SS bastards must pay, there must be an expiation! It was nothing less than criminal for them to be singled out for praise, to be given back their symbols. He said as much, forcefully, to the Bundeskanzler.
"Fine," answered the Kanzler, calmly, from behind his desk. His fingers rapped out their impatience as he asked, "Why don't you go arrest them? Strip the Sigrunen from their collars with your own hands."
Günter sputtered with outrage. "Don't take that line with me, old man. The Greens who put me on you as a watchdog made you and they can unmake you as well." Günter never mentioned his close connections to the Darhel, of course—those were secret.
"No," answered the Kanzler. "No. That was once true, but no longer. I used to need your Green Korps. But now? Now I have the Black Korps, my green-hued friend."
The Kanzler touched a button on his desk. Instantly his door sprang open and two uniformed men entered, accompanied by one other man in the usual BND trench coat. With wide-eyed horror, Günter saw that the uniforms were midnight black . . . and that they were adorned with certain silver insignia long since forbidden.
"Herr Greiber," the Kanzler enquired of the trench-coated man, "do you have a report to make on my former 'assistant'?"
With an East Prussian heel click the BND agent answered, "Indeed I do, Herr Bundeskanzler. Indeed I do. Treason most foul."
At the Kanzler's hand gesture, the agent proceeded to lay out Günter's many crimes, his many collaborations with the Darhel that had redounded to Germany's detriment. The case was clear and the evidence overwhelming. When the agent was finished the Kanzler asked, "Günter, have you anything to say for yourself?"
Still not quite believing this unfortunate twist of fate, the Kanzler's former aide shook his head. "You planned this," he accused. "From the beginning you planned it. You wanted to resurrect the SS, the whole Nazi apparatus. Admit it!"
"The 'whole Nazi apparatus'? No. I admit only that I wanted to save our people . . . that, and that I would accept no limits on what was permissible to ensure this."
"But don't you see? Can't you see?" Günter insisted, his eyes shining with all the self-righteousness of the true believer. "There were too many of us . . . and we were too greedy. We have a chance, once the Posleen have finished culling us and commenced to fighting among themselves, to build an Ideal Germany. Under the guidance of those who understand we could have saved our planet, eventually, and with fewer humans—and those less greedy and wasteful—we could have maintained our holy mother Earth inviolate forever."
The Kanzler picked up on a few key concepts in Günter's diatribe. "And you, my friend? You would have been one of those knowing guides, would you not? How were you to live while our people served as feedlots? An off-planet trip? Along with your wife and children? Yes, I am sure that was part of your holy vision too, was it not? Because you were special and the rest of the Volk were not?"
Günter began to defend himself, to object. Then he recalled that the chancellor was half right. He had demanded that his own family be moved to safety. He thought that maybe, just maybe, deep down inside he had expected to join them.
He could not defend himself on that charge. He attacked from a different angle. "You were returning Germany to the Nazis!" he accused.
The chancellor did not answer directly. Instead, he asked one of the black-uniformed men, "What is your name, son?
"Schüler, Herr Kanzler," the young one answered instantly, springing to a stiffer attention.
"Schüler, are you a Nazi?"
"No, mein Herr. I am just a soldier, like other soldiers."
"Do you know any Nazis in the 47th Korps?"
"One, mein Herr," Schüler answered, simply and directly. "He is a bad man and we all hate him. He is, however, a very good tank driver so we put up even with him, for the Fatherland."
Turning back to Günter and snorting with derision, the Kanzler said, "Never mind. It matters not. You will believe what you will believe." Turning to the other black-uniformed man he asked, "Has General Mühlenkampf reported on progress?"
The shorter but more senior of the two answered, "The general reports that most suspect members of the Federal Legislature are under arrest, along with the A list of suspects within the Bundeswehr higher command echelons. In addition, leaders of the more radically antihuman of the political parties are almost entirely in the bag . . . Though some have already been executed . . . er, shot while escaping. Several dozen appear to have disappeared from Germany entirely, along with their families. The Darhel are not to be found either. Still, isolation of whatever Darhel may remain moves forward apace."
"Good, very good," answered the Kanzler, though inside he felt utterly dirtied. His old gray head nodded in Günter's direction. "Please add this one to the bag."
Ouvrage du Hackenberg, Thierville, France, 14 July 2007
And so now I finally understand what it means to languish in a prison.
It was Bastille Day in France, rather, in that tiny portion of France still in human hands. It had always been a big holiday for Isabelle, more for its progressive, revolutionary character than for its patriotic. This Bastille Day, however, she felt little urge to celebrate, this despite the double ration of the French staff of life, wine, ordered by the fortress commander.
The wine was bitter and poor, a modern day version of the Vinogel, concentrated wine, France had at some times in the past issued to her soldiers. Reconstituted with water, this modern Vinogel had little to commend it beyond that it tasted faintly of having something like grape in its ancestry . . . that, and that it had mind and sense-numbing alcohol.
And Isabelle wanted her senses numbed, wanted desperately for some escape from this new horror that jokingly went by the name, "life."
She had heard there were cities abuilding underground, cities safe and warm where a human might hope to live something like a real life. Hackenberg, despite the season, was anything but warm. Indeed, the walls of this underground prison exuded a steady flow of cold wet moisture and sucked away whatever warmth one's body might produce. No single person, nor all the fifty thousand packed in like sardines with Isabelle and her sons, could warm the place by so much as half a degree.
And though the place was, literally, a fortress, Isabelle knew that this did not add to the safety of herself and hers, but rather detracted from it. A fortress was also a target, thus so were she and her boys.
The boys' father too, had been a target, so she had to assume. For there had been no word, not since the brief phone call that had announced the invasion, the destruction of her country, and the impending slaughter of its people.
That knowledge, that her beloved husband had almost certainly fallen to the invaders, was like a knife twisted into her innards. That pain made Isabelle pour, more than drink, the wretched reconstituted wine down her throat.
Even as dissidents and derelicts poured into holding pens, so too did information, vital information, flow to every nook and cranny of Germany's multifaceted war effort.
Did information flow? It was as nothing compared to the flow of refugees. Did refugees flow? Then so too did power, as Germany acquired, unintentionally, a stranglehold over everything needed by the refugees, and by the remnants of their armed forces. Most of these forces were absorbed by the Bundeswehr. Still, Mühlenkampf and his men had done good service and deserved reward. The Kanzler therefore decreed the expansion of 47th Panzer Korps into what was called "Army Group Reserve." In addition to acquiring another two panzer and four good motorized infantry Korps, as well as the penal division composed of the remnants of the more than decimated 33rd Korps, Mühlenkampf also assumed control of a large number of newly created foreign formations. Division Charlemagne marched again, in lock step with divisions and brigades of Latvians, Estonians, Poles, Spaniards and others.
Of these, Division Charlemagne was an oddity. For it was the only Francophone formation under German control. Unlike the other, overrun, states of Europe, the French resolutely refused to subordinate their interests to anyone else's command. Their army guarding the much reoriented Maginot line, the four or five million remaining French men, women and children huddled either in camps between the Line and the Rhein, or shivered in dank misery in the bowels of the line itself.
(Magnanimously, the French had offered to integrate their forces, but only if a French commander was named, certain key French interests put in first place. Inexplicably, the Germans had failed to see the advantages to this approach.)
Charlemagne came to be recreated when the commanding general of a French armored division had simply mutinied against what he called the "institutionalized stupidities" of the French High Command, then gathered up his soldiers and their dependants, and reported to the German border seeking employment. Supplemented by numerous individual volunteers, some of those being veterans of the original division who had come to Germany to volunteer anew, Charlemagne was a large division even by the inflated standards of the Posleen War.
Losses, of course, had been staggering. By the time Germany was cleared of Posleen infestations, many divisions that had once boasted strengths as high as twenty-four thousand now contained barely half that. Yet there was a new ruthlessness in Germany, a ruthlessness that cared little for the "rights" of individuals, much for the survival of the Volk.
Student deferments? Gone. Alternative service? Gone. Refusal to serve? Conscientious Objector status claimed? The Penal Formation once known as the 33rd Korps grew to meet and then exceed its former strength. And the hangmen were often kept quite busy.
Nice, safe and comfortable billets in the rear? "No more, my son. You are going to the front. Women can do your job well enough."
Only workers vital to the war effort were spared the sweep of conscription. Many of these were agricultural. Many others were industrial. Some were scientific and industrial both.
Kraus-Maffei-Wegmann Plant, Munich, Germany,
15 July 2007
"I could wish our antilander munitions had been even slightly less powerful," sighed Mueller.
Karl Prael raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Simplicity," answered Mueller. "If we hadn't blasted all of the Posleen's C- and B-Decs to flinders, there might have been enough of their anti-shipping railguns to retrofit every Tiger in the inventory and the ones that will be rolling off the assembly floor in the near future, and to provide a great number of more or less fixed defense batteries. As it is, we have a few score serviceable guns, no more. Sixty or seventy where we might have had six or seven hundred . . . maybe even several thousand."
"You understate things," Prael observed. "We have recovered sixty or seventy so far, but we have hardly begun to scrap even half of the alien wrecks littering the countryside. It is almost certain that there will be enough railguns for the complete run of Tiger III, Ausführung B. Pessimist," he finished with a smile.
"Maybe," conceded Mueller. "Maybe . . . if we can scrap the wrecks while doing no further damage. If we can modify the railguns to fit our existing carriages . . . or our carriages to fit the guns. And if we can even get them here for modification and mounting."
"And if we have time," muttered Prael, head sinking. "When do you think, really think, we'll have the B model in hand?"
Mueller bit his lower lip, shaking his head, "We won't have a prototype for as much as four or five months. I think we have been too ambitious."
Prael understood, even agreed. The B model Tiger was a leap ahead of the original, mounting not just a railgun capable of striking the enemy even in space, but also nuclear propulsion, much thickened and enhanced armor, a new AI suite. And these were only the major differences. There were numerous minor ones as well.
"It is time," announced Prael, looking at his watch. Nodding, Mueller agreed and the two walked to a room containing the other members of the core design team.
It was supposed to be a party, a farewell party. The world had seen more joyful occasions. Most funerals were at least equally festive.
Certainly Schlüssel's face showed unhappiness. Equally so Henschel, the bearded Nielsen, and the usually ebullient Breitenbach wore long faces.
"Must you go, David? Really? Must you?" asked Breitenbach.
Benjamin quietly nodded his head. He had been this way—dour and quiet—ever since the news had come the previous December of the fall of Jerusalem; wife gone, family gone, friends gone. A few hundred thousand Jews had been evacuated, most of them being given shelter by Germany and the United Kingdom. Certainly anti-Semitic France's strong and vocal Muslim minority had put up vigorous protests towards the notion of sheltering the religious and cultural enemy.
But Germany, long-guilty Germany—ever seeking forgiveness, had opened up. Her strong merchant fleet along with the Kriegsmarine and the Royal Navy had braved a gauntlet of Posleen fire (much of it only generally aimed, as the Posleen understood wet water vessels but poorly) to bring out the Jews.
Two hundred thousand of them came, mostly the very young. Yet there had been enough young men, and women, six or seven thousand, of an age to fight. And fight they most certainly wanted to. Yet how? With whom? There was only one group in the German military used to assimilating foreigners . . . yet that group?
Mühlenkampf had offered, promising them their own unit. He had asked quite humbly for this chance to make up, in however small part, for a sordid . . . nay, horrid . . . past. He had even sent Hans Brasche, the history of whom he knew, to talk to the refugees and to Benjamin.
"Yes, I must go," answered the Israeli. "My job is done here . . . but there is more I can do."
Understanding at his core, Breitenbach stepped back, looking Benjamin over from top to bottom. A small silver star of David graced the Israeli's right collar, the four pips of a major his left. Silver buttons held the tunic closed. A silver embroidered armband encircled his left sleeve, at the cuff.
The armband proclaimed, in silver letters, Hebrew and Roman, one above the other, "Judas Maccabeus."
The uniform was midnight black.
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve, Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 25 July 2007
The group headquarters had taken possession of an ancient castle as its headquarters. Inauspiciously, the castle had once served as the headquarters of the Prussian Army before its disastrous defeat by Napoleon in the twin battle of Jena-Auerstadt in 1806. Cool and damp it was, made worse by its surrounding moat. It was not convenient, and one had to go outside to use the latrine. Yet it is, for the nonce, home, thought Mühlenkampf. And it is centrally located.
"Time, gentlemen. It is of the very essence. Whether Germany lives or dies depends on time more than anything. And we think we have less than six months until the next wave lands on our heads."
"General?" asked Brasche of Mühlenkampf. "Do we have reason to believe they will come right down on us like last time?"
Mühlenkampf's eyes swept the room. Not one man lower than a lieutenant general . . . except for Hans, recently promoted to full colonel. And yet Hans, not the others, asked the good questions. "Ordinarily, Hansi, I would say they are stupid enough to use the same trick twice. This time I expect it because they just may be smart enough to do so."
"Why, sir?"
"Because it is unlikely we will be able to handle it. Within six months the numbers of the enemy to our east and west may have grown to as many a one billion each—yes, they mature that fast! That is the equivalent of perhaps ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE THOUSAND infantry divisions on each front! Though they can move faster and with less train than any infantry division ever known, of course."
Mühlenkampf continued, "There is actually a fair chance we could defend against each of those assaults. With foreign troops, recent expansions, and the culling of the slackers, Germany actually can place three hundred or so divisions along the Rhein, about as many facing the Vistula, and a like number dispersed throughout the center of the country. And we are digging in and pouring concrete like mad. All that while still leaving a significant reserve in the center, mostly ourselves.
"North and south our flanks are secure, of course, against any ground assault. And our Tigers," he said, with an appreciative nod towards Brasche, "appear capable of dealing with many times their number."
Brasche answered truthfully, "We can if we get enough of them. The system has not brought me up even to my old, preattack, strength. I have no strong hope that they'll fill me to my new strength of forty-one Tigers." He paused briefly. "I am training the new recruits on the seven Tigers I currently have operational. And new and rebuilt Tigers are coming at a rate of about one every six days or so."
Free to recruit for themselves, the 47th Korps had set to that task with a will. Posters, radio, television and internet carried the message of the now black-clad, Sigrune-bearing "asphalt soldiers." Even the ranks of the Bundeswehr helped here, in two ways. More than a few men of the Bundeswehr opted to transfer. And from others came the message to younger brothers—and even to sons—that the 47th Korps, openly called "the SS Korps" now, was an altogether worthy group, vital to the Fatherland's defense.
That the girls seemed more interested in the men of the more glamorous and dashing "Schwarze Korps" only helped matters.
Recruits, high-quality recruits, were plentiful. The ranks swelled and over swelled. The 501st, recently redubbed the 501st Schwere Panzer Brigade (Michael Wittmann), drew enough to expand its three skeletonized line companies into full battalions, and its headquarters and support company into three more such plus another battalion for brigade headquarters and general support. The addition of a large artillery regiment—seventy-two guns and twenty-four multiple rocket launchers, engineer demibattalion, air defense demibattalion, plus a reinforced battalion each of panzer grenadiers and reconnaissance troops completed the package. In all, Hans would command close to forty-six hundred troops.
The cadre for these men and the formations they comprised was obtained from diverse sources. First of course were the survivors of the original 501st. This mix was somewhat enhanced by intensive training courses for those deemed most worthy. Additionally, Bad Tolz had been identifying potential junior officers and noncoms all along. These, leadership training once completed, helped fill up both the 501st and the 47th Korps. Some cadre was obtained also from the regular Bundeswehr, from those who wished to escape any residual trace of the, admittedly dying, political correctness that had infected that force, sending many a young soldier to premature death and leaving many a town, like Giessen, ripe for the slaughter.
Lambs to the slaughter, mused Krueger, lambs to the slaughter.
As had Dieter Schultz and his peers once stood in shivering fear before the terror inspiring Krueger, now the new men likewise quaked. The cold of the Bavarian Alps had added to Dieter's shivering. Now, in the mild Thuringian summer, Krueger needed nothing more than the black uniform with the silver insignia; that and his icy cold blue eyes and frosty mien.
The SS man stopped to slap the face of a new recruit whose face showed just a little too much fear. The boy was knocked to the ground by the blow, then kicked while he lay stunned by a high, polished jackboot. "An SS man recovers from any blow immediately," announced Krueger, adding another, fairly mild, kick for punctuation. "Up, boy!" Then, loud enough to carry, "You'll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp's steel.
"Why," he added, a trace of utter loathing in his voice, "you'll even become more resilient than the Jews, and they put Krupp's product to shame."
Krueger shivered himself at the thought of the new formation, this "Judas Maccabeus" brigade. Fucking untermensch. It is a disgrace, it is.
Walking, no strutting, down the ranks of the new men, Krueger reminded Brasche of nothing so much as a fighting game cock, proud and aggressive. Of course I loathe the son of a bitch, mused Brasche, loathe him for so many reasons. Nazi bastard!
Brasche stood too far off to hear what Krueger said to the new men. He had a good enough idea; he had seen and heard it all before, seen it in some rather strange places, too.
The Israelis hadn't wanted him at first; they'd made that painfully clear. They believed him when he'd said that he had never taken part in any crime against Jews. They believed he wanted to make amends. They knew he had skills they needed desperately and lacked almost totally. But ex-SS . . . ?
Hans had countered with the irrefutable argument, "You want me dead, most of you. I cannot blame you for that. So send me where I can die."
The Israelis were not that generous, and so he found himself not leading—the Israelis had been very clear he was never to lead Jews in battle—but training the scraps of diverse and wretched humanity passing through a small camp for a brief course in battle before being shipped off for butchery somewhere along the frontier.
So too he found himself teaching by pointing, slowly and painfully learning Hebrew, eating Kosher food—unaccustomedly bland. He had never felt more alone. Uncomfortable, too, for while others could strip to the waist in the fierce Middle Eastern heat, he could never remove his T-shirt, the covering for the tattoo that marked him for what he had been. Even to shower Hans had to wait until all else were done, that, or arise at an obscene hour.
There were a couple of bright spots. One was Sol, an ex-Camp KAPO, one of the imprisoned Jews who actually had done, had been forced to do, most of the hands-on dirty work in the concentration camps. Sol, a Bavarian from Munich, spoke native German of course—despite that distressing south German accent. Better, he had his own sins in plenty and was disinclined to judge. They could speak sometimes, share a beer, remember better days . . . even hope for better days. They never talked about the war or the camps; each sensed in the other a horror not to be raised or erased.
The other bright spot was Anna, a dark blond Berliner girl who even spoke in a somewhat more upper crust version of Hans' own native dialect. Hans didn't know much of Anna's history, only that she had been in the camps at some time during the war.
Of her history he knew little; and he was loathe to conjecture about more. But in the here and now he also knew she was beautiful—breathtaking, really, with sculpted features and body coupled to bright and kind shining green eyes. Her mien and manner showed a spirit even the camps could not crush. Though most of the Israeli girls scorned makeup, Hans noted that Anna seemed to actively despise it. No matter, she was more than beautiful enough without artificial adornment.
Lastly he knew he was unworthy . . . so that whenever Anna made to get closer he withdrew. Withdrew? Rather it was more like he fled in barely concealed terror whenever the girl approached on any but professional matters. Hans could not bring himself, ever, to look into those green eyes. He avoided the north side of the camp, the women's area, like the very plague.
"You are a fool, Hans," said Sol one day as the two sat on barracks steps over an evening's friendly beer.
At Hans' quizzical look the Israeli laughed. "The girl follows you like a puppy. Why do you always run the other way?"
Heaving a deep sigh was Hans' only answer.
"Don't lie to me, old son," said Sol, taking a quick sip of warm and insipid beer, "not even by refusing to answer. I see your face when you look in her direction. I can practically hear your heart race when she walks by upwind."
"I know," Hans whispered, softly. "But I just can't."
"In the name of God, why not?"
"Because I am unworthy," Hans answered, simply.
"You little shits think you are worthy to become SS?" demanded Krueger, still strutting. "I've ass-fucked quivering little Yid whores at Ravensbrück who were more worthy than you, you filth.
"They, at least, had staying power. It remains to be seen if you turds do."
At which, much self-satisfied, statement Krueger commanded, "Right, face . . . Forward, march . . . Double-time . . ."
Ro'moloristen hesitated, doubting whether it was his place to criticize his lord of that lord's own hesitation. With all eyes upon him, feeling his own weak position in the fiber of his being, he summoned his courage and said, "My lord, we might be losing the race."
"Race? What race, puppy?" Athenalras demanded, crest rising.
"The race to finish the conquest of this peninsula, this Europe."
"How so? We sit on everything useful to us except the central area, Deutschland it is called, yes? . . . that, and the mountains to the south of it. They will fall soon enough . . . except perhaps for the mountains."
"I am thinking of orna'adar, my lord, and our clan's position when this world finally descends into it. The longer we take here, now, the worse our position then. Also . . ." The young God King hesitated.
"Also, what?"
"My lord, the gray thresh are preparing for us with everything they have. We had advantages earlier that are fast disappearing. Information made available to us through the Net, dissension and confusion in the gray thresh's ruling bodies, unwillingness or inability to really marshal their strength, lack of fortification . . . all these are no longer true, no longer there to work for us.
"Their forces are expanding radically. New fortifications are being built and old ones restored. Every fiber of their society is being twisted and knitted for the needs of defense it seems. Perhaps worst of all, my lord, they have scrapped hundreds upon hundreds of landers for their on-board weapons. My lord . . . it is no longer safe to travel over this 'Germany' except in orbit so far out as to be useless."
Athenalras allowed his crest to go flaccid as he contemplated. "You think then the original plan must be scrapped, that those of our clan coming in the next wave should not be landed directly into the central area, that we should attack overland?"
Ro'moloristen shook his head in negation. "No lord, we must continue to follow the original plan . . . but the cost makes me shudder."