Christopher Nuttall - Ragnarok

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?