Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (28 page)

“We have to go help them,” Hartwig said.  He rose.  “Come on!”

Gudrun hesitated.  The spy had already started to hurry towards the edge of the room, clearly planning to find a telephone and alert his superiors.  And not every student looked enthusiastic about leaving the campus and hurrying down to the factories before it was too late.  But Hartwig was drawing dozens of students in his wake, pointing out that the government would never dare harm young men and women.  Gudrun hoped, as she rose to follow him, that he was right. 

She jumped as a hand caught her arm.  “You shouldn't be going,” Horst muttered.  “Gudrun...”

Cold logic told her he was right.  She’d
started
the Valkyries; she’d started the rumours and proclamations that had probably helped spark off the strike.  If there was a riot, if she was arrested or killed, the entire movement might fall apart.  And yet, she couldn't let her fellow students - and the strikers - go into danger alone.  She owed it to her conscience to share the same risks.

“I have to go,” she muttered back, confident that the student babble would make it hard for any listening ears to overhear.  “Tell Sven to start sending out messages encouraging others to join the strike.”

Horst gave her a worried look.  “I can go with you...”

“Don’t,” Gudrun said.  She brushed off his arm and turned towards the door.  It was a risk, but it was one she had to take.  “We can’t
both
be caught.”

***

“There’s a
what
?”

“A strike,” Holliston said, with heavy satisfaction.  Hans couldn't help wondering what he was so pleased about, not when he would have bet good money that Holliston’s policy had started the strike in the first place.  “Twelve factories have gone on strike, so far, and rumours are spreading across the entire city.”

Hans swore under his breath as Holliston outlined the situation.  There was no time to check with his own sources, no time to do anything but rely on the
Reichsführer-SS’s
version of the tale.  He doubted Holliston would actually
lie
to the Reich Council - his career wouldn’t survive a deliberate lie - yet he would definitely paint the situation as darkly as possible.  A strike, right in the heart of Berlin...

“You tried to fire someone for forming a union,” he said, when Holliston had finished.  “And that led to an immediate strike.”

He groaned as the full implications struck him.  Attacking the striking workers would weaken the economy at the worst possible time, but conceding their demands would be even worse, as Holliston’s corporate allies had probably already pointed out.  The strikers would be emboldened; they’d demand more and more until they hit something the
Reich
literally could
not
give them.  And then...?  The
Reich
would not be in a good position to put a stop to the whole affair.

“We have to take action,” Holliston said, curtly.  “I have two battalions of military police on alert, ready to handle the strikers.”

“So you do,” Hans said.  “And then what?”

“We move in, arrest the strikers and then dictate terms from a position of strength,” Holliston insisted, firmly.  “They’re breaking the law by forming an independent union.”

“Yes, I know,” Hans said.  “And are you going to arrest
all
of them?”

“The ringleaders will be executed,” Holliston said.  He thumped the table with his fist.  “And the others will go back to work.”

Hans glared at him.  “And what if they don’t?”

“Then we’d hardly be in a worse position,” Holliston snapped.  He looked up, his gaze skimming around the table.  “I call for a vote.  Do we send in the police or try to ‘negotiate’ with law-breakers?  We cannot allow the strikes to spread.”

“They will,” Hans said.

He forced himself to keep his voice calm.  “There’s a saying I heard from my son, who went to work in China,” he said.  Helping the Chinese Nationalists build up their industrial base might have been a mistake, in hindsight; China might pose a threat to Germany East in the next few decades.  “There was a Chinese ruler who punished everything with death.  One day, a bunch of men discovered that they were late for work.  If they arrived, they would be executed.  But the punishment for revolting against the ruler was
also
death.  What did they have to lose?”

“We cannot let law-breakers get away with it,” Holliston said.  “I call for a vote.”

Hans sighed.  Put like that, the result was a foregone conclusion.  The strike would be brutally crushed and the strikers would be arrested.  And then...?

He kept his face impassive.  It might be time to start coming up with some contingency plans of his own.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Berlin, Germany

12 August 1985

Herman stared at the Captain.  “They want us to do what?”

“Seal off the factory district,” the Captain ordered.  “There’s a strike, apparently, and friends and family of the strikers are hurrying to their side.”

“A strike,” Herman repeated. 

He shook his head in disbelief.  There were no strikes in the
Reich. 
The French might strike at the drop of a hat - he’d heard stories about French workers downing tools because someone had said an unkind word - but the German worker was made of sterner stuff.  And besides, strikes were illegal.  The workers might wind up being dispatched to one of the less comfortable settlements in Germany East, if they were lucky.

The Captain ignored him.  “I want barricades set up here, here and here,” he said, tapping a number of road intersections.  “If anyone tries to get past you and into the sealed zone, turn them back; if they’re persistent, arrest them and we’ll process them later.  Anyone trying to get
out
of the sealed zone is to be arrested.  These are German citizens so use the minimum necessary force, consistent with your personal safety.”

“Shit,” Herman muttered.

Caius stuck up a hand.  “Sir?  Who’s going to assist the strikers?”

“Their friends and families,” the Captain said, in some irritation.  He hated repeating himself.  “And, apparently, some students from the university.  Turn them back; arrest them if they won’t go.”

Herman swallowed.  Students from the university?  Could
Gudrun
be going?  He hoped not - she wouldn't be sitting down for a week if he caught her trying to bring aid and comfort to the strikers - but she’d certainly have friends and fellow students heading to the sealed zone.  If he’d had time, he would have called the university and ordered Gudrun to go home at once, yet he knew the Captain would never allow it.  His superiors would be breathing down his neck, ordering the police to get into position before the situation got completely out of hand.

If it isn't already
, he thought, as he hastily donned riot gear and readied himself, as best as he could.  They were trained in handling criminals and
Untermensch
who rioted on the streets, but they’d had very little training in handling civilian rioters gently. 
If they’ve planned for a riot, they’ll be ready for the gas and water cannons...

He pushed the thought aside as he hurried down to the vans, following the rest of the policemen.  Caius held the door open for him, then slammed it closed and barked orders to the driver, who started the engine and drove the vehicle out of the parking lot.  Herman winced as the howl of the sirens echoed through the air, warning civilian traffic to get out of the way; he hoped - prayed - that the radio would be telling civilians to go home and stay there.  If they were lucky, perhaps the strikers would see sense when they saw the police setting up barricades...

They’re committed
, he thought, grimly.  He’d always hated trying to arrest criminals who
knew
there was no hope of escaping a life sentence to the camps - or death.  They simply had nothing to lose.  Why
not
try to kill a policeman so they’d have company in hell? 
They’re striking - and striking is illegal.

It was an unpleasant thought.  Konrad’s father - he rather liked the man, even though he’d gone straight into civilian life rather than serving as a policeman - was an experienced military officer, while many of the strikers would have at least
some
military experience.  They might even have weapons - retired soldiers and SS stormtroopers were often quietly allowed to keep their personal weapons - and they wouldn't back down at the slightest hint of trouble.  Indeed, some of them would be very well versed in ways to use the terrain - and improvised weapons - to their advantage.  Berlin might be turned into a battleground.

The driver clicked on the radio.  “... Is an emergency announcement,” a grim-sounding speaker said.  “All civilians are ordered to remain in their homes or workplaces until further notice; I say again, all civilians are ordered to remain in their homes or workplaces until further notice.  If you are on the roads, pull over and remain there until further notice; I say again...”

“Nice speech,” Fritz said, sarcastically.  “Do you think anyone will listen?”

Herman shrugged as the driver pulled up at their destination.  It had been a decade since the last nuclear attack drill, when the
Reich
-wide emergency broadcasting system had been tested.  Few civilians would know what to do if all hell broke loose, let alone a riot in Berlin or an American attack.  It was possible that most people would obey orders, but if even ten percent of the city’s population
failed
to obey orders...

He gritted his teeth and followed the rest of the policemen out of the van.  Civilians were scattering in all directions, some clearly trying to get out of the sealed zone and others trying to sneak in.  The policemen ignored the civilians until they had the barricades firmly in place, then started warning intruders to turn back.  Thankfully, most of the civilians trying to get
into
the sealed zone seemed willing to obey orders.  It was the ones trying to leave who caused the worse problems.  Half of them seemed convinced they were so important that, instead of trying to arrest them, the police should drive them immediately to the
Reichstag
.

And some of them probably are important
, Herman thought, as the number of handcuffed prisoners started to rise sharply. 
But we don’t know how to tell the difference
.

***

Reichsführer-SS
Karl Holliston was angry and he didn't care who knew it.  Report after report was coming into the RSHA, warning him that the government was on the verge of losing control of the industrial zone.  Thousands of civilians were even trying to support the strikers, despite increasingly harsh emergency broadcasts.  The treachery had sunk so deeply into the
Reich
that even the corporate managers, the men who’d been first in line to demand immediate action, were hesitating.

He glared down at the map, silently considering how best to proceed.  Attacking the factories themselves was dangerous as hell - Hans Krueger and his cronies would make a terrible fuss if pieces of expensive machinery were destroyed - but the marchers in the streets could be handled without risking serious trouble.  Who cared if a few hundred idiots got banged up by the military police?  And the prospect of teaching some of the students - he knew several dozen had managed to get into the industrial sector before the police had set up barricades - a sharp lesson was delightful.  Hans Krueger would have to work overtime to come up with excuses after the little bastards were caught in the act.

“
Herr Reichsführer
?”

Karl allowed himself a tight smile as he looked up.  “Clear the streets.”

***

“Andrew,” Clyde Marshall said.  “Are you sure we’re safe here?”

Andrew shrugged.  “I wouldn't count on it,” he said, after a moment.  “But I do think we’re
reasonably
safe here.”

He smiled at Marshall’s expression.  The
Reich
hadn't quite figured out that he was a reporter, rather than a press attaché - or that he’d happily accompany Andrew into the teeth of possible danger.  There hadn't been any real trouble in Berlin since the sixties, as far as anyone knew; the growing mass of workers, students and civilians was unprecedented within the
Reich
.  Thankfully, unlike some of the uglier riots in the US, it seemed to be reasonably peaceful.

“Keep taking and uploading photographs,” he ordered, instead of adding more empty reassurances.  “They’ll probably smash the camera if they arrest us.”

“That girl looks very photogenic,” Marshall agreed.  A young girl - she couldn't have been older than eighteen - was perched on top of a burly worker, waving her shirt in the air, her breasts wobbling dangerously in her bra.  “What keeps that bra on, do you think?”

“The eyes of every young man in the vicinity,” Andrew said.  “But she isn't the most important person here.”

He couldn't help feeling a flicker of sympathy for the girl.  It was unlikely she’d be molested, at least by the workers and her fellow students, but she might well be expelled from the university.  The
Reich
had yet to embrace topless protests.  Indeed, there were laws against revealing too much flesh in public.  Even men were expected to wear knee-length shorts during the hotter months. 

He frowned, inwardly, as they made their way down the street.  It had been sheer luck - and a tip-off from a contact within the Ministry of Industry - that had got them into the factory complex before the police arrived and started to seal the whole area off.  Andrew honestly wasn't sure what the authorities would do next, particularly if the strikers refused to back down... and he suspected they
couldn't
back down.  Strikes were illegal, after all; the workers were expected to accept whatever their corporate masters saw fit to hand out.  And then...

“Don’t start taking notes,” he warned, as he caught sight of Marshall reaching for his notebook.  “They’ll just be taken away if we get arrested.”

Marshall paled.  “I should have volunteered to go to South Africa instead,” he said.  “This place is shit.”

“Just be glad you don’t live here,” Andrew muttered.

And that the Reich hasn't yet realised the power of digital cameras
, he added, silently. 
They may arrest us, they may smash the camera, but the photographs will get out.  And then...?

***

Gudrun had never enjoyed marching in unison, not in school and not in the BDM.  It was so... rigid, so controlled; children were punished for stepping out of line, for speeding up, for slowing down, for doing anything other than obeying orders without question.  By the time she’d turned eighteen, she’d been so indoctrinated that it had taken her months to stop walking like a schoolgirl or jumping to attention whenever someone spoke to her in the voice of authority.  Individuality was not encouraged.

But the protest march outside the factory gates was different.  People - workers, students, civilians - milled around, chatting happily as they wandered backwards and forwards.  A handful of men were trying to make speeches and protesters were listening or not as they chose.  There was no compulsion, there was no threat of force... the crowd was brimming with a strange energy, a sense that they were free, that they could do anything.  Gudrun knew she should be trying to speak herself, even though it would be far too revealing, but instead all she wanted to do was enjoy the sensation of acting out as part of a crowd.  There were just too many of them to be arrested.

And if we’d all stood up to the matrons
, she thought,
perhaps the BDM would have been more fun
.

It was a galling thought.  She could see, with the advantage of hindsight, just how carefully they’d been indoctrinated into the organisation, which had been preparing them to be good little housewives and civilians.  Those who had been different - the fat, the questioners, the dissidents - had been separated from the herd, then publicly punished and shamed in front of their peers.  No one had wanted to stand up for them and take the risk of being punished too, even though the matrons would have had problems handling a mass rebellion. 

Or they would just have sent us home with notes
, she thought, sourly.  Her parents would have been furious - and afraid - if she’d stood up to the matrons.  Who knew
what
sort of attention it would muster? 
And our parents would have punished us for them
.

She smiled as someone produced a jukebox and plugged it into the factory’s power supply, producing an American jazz song that was technically banned.  The crowd looked shocked, then laughed; the sense of freedom was almost intoxicating.  A dozen students began to dance, some of the girls pulling the male workers onto the streets and into the dance.  Gudrun felt a flicker of bitter guilt - she’d only ever danced with Konrad, outside the stiffly formal dances they’d been forced to endure at school - and then pushed it away as a young worker held out a hand, inviting her to dance.  Grinning, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her into the swing.  It felt as though she was casting off a pair of invisible shackles.