The Madagaskar Plan Read Free Page B

of Northern Rhodesia, its copper mines serving the Reich, its cities and dusty plateaus cleansed of the negroid threat. His panzers had invaded the previous year and found British forces waiting for them. The swift victory he’d promised became a protracted retreat, the British eventually crossing the border and encircling Elisabethstadt, Kongo’s third city. A pendulum siege of attack and counterattack had lasted ever since. With Hochburg’s army engaged in the south, the remnants of the Belgian Force Publique took advantage of the situation and launched a full-scale guerrilla war in the north. The Belgians, the previous rulers of Kongo, had been fighting an insurgency since the swastika was raised over the colony a decade earlier; now they were emboldened.
    A female radio operator was beseeching her mouthpiece. Hochburg buried the black triangle in his pocket and placed his hand on her shoulder. Her hair was thick with dust, the right side of her face burned. “Any word on the helicopters, Fräulein?”
    “We lost the line to Kondolele, Oberstgruppenführer.”
    “Reinforcements?”
    “Stanleystadt reports that a new offensive started against the city an hour before dawn. They can’t spare any manpower.”
    “You must leave,” said Zelman.
    Hochburg scraped his palm over his bald scalp. “No.”
    “With respect, Oberstgruppenführer, if you’re captured, they’ll parade you in the streets of Lusaka—”
    “You think I care?”
    “Germania * might, especially when you stand before a Negro court.”
    Hochburg sighed. “You would be more convincing, Zelman, if you weren’t so desperate to save yourself.”
    “You can’t command a counteroffensive from here. Stanleystadt is your better hope.”
    “This place is my home.”
    “There are no helicopters, not enough men. It’s already lost.”
    The radio operator put up her hand to speak. “The Schädelplatz is more than the walls around us. It is an ideal. A beacon for our hearts.” She was too shy to look at Hochburg. “As long as you survive, Oberstgruppenführer, so will it.”
    “The girl’s right,” said Zelman. “We don’t have to die.”
    Hochburg considered her words, unwilling to admit the truth. He patted her gently. “There’s nothing more you can do. Come with us—you’ll be safer.”
    “I shall stay, Herr Oberstgruppenführer. I’ll keep trying to reach the helicopters.”
    “You see, Zelman. Give me a battalion of girls and this war would already be won.”
    He stormed from the room, his rifle held ready.
    “Where are you going?” Zelman called after him.
    Back in the passageways, the lights flickered above Hochburg. There were sporadic snorts of gunfire, and the shouts of Belgian guerrillas echoed along the walls. He was disappointed not to cross any as he made his way to his study.
    The Leibwachen—his personal bodyguard—was waiting outside. He had dismissed them earlier as, goaded by Zelman, they fretted over his every move. All were dressed in dark combat fatigues with BK44 assault rifles. One held Fenris—his Rhodesian ridgeback—on a leash. Hochburg cupped the dog’s face in his hands, inhaled his gamey breath.
    The French windows of the study had been blown inward, showering the floor with glass. A spectral smoke clung to the air. “Bring me some gasoline,” said Hochburg, casting his eyes over the walls of books. “Then get down into the square and secure the area. Somebody carry the dog.”
    He flopped down at his desk, unlocked a drawer, and took out a piece of tightly bound sacking. Inside was a knife. There was a blink of silver as he withdrew it. This was the blade Burton had wanted to drive into his heart.
    Burton Cole.
    He was to blame for the death of Hochburg’s great love: Eleanor. Burton’s mother. She had chosen her son over him and, in doing so, condemned herself to a savage death. Hochburg would never forgive Burton. All these years on, his grief for Eleanor remained as raw as his need for