Storm Front

Chapter Twenty-Six

Berlin, Germany

12 August 1985

“The manager wants to see you,” the secretary said curtly, as Volker Schulze entered the factory. “You’re to go straight to him. No detours along the way.”

Volker Schulze nodded. He’d expected to be hauled up in front of the factory’s manager sooner rather than later. Indeed, he was surprised it hadn’t already happened. There was always some ass-licking bastard willing to rat out his fellows for money or a chance at promotion. But, given the sheer number of workers in the new union and the rumours spreading through the grapevine, he suspected that management was passing the buck higher and higher up the chain. The manager of the factory couldn’t even muster the initiative to wipe his own ass without orders in triplicate from his superiors.

“I’ll be along in a moment,” he said. His eyes found Joachim as he entered the factory and gave him a significant look. They’d had a week to come up with contingency plans for when management finally decided to do something about the union and they were, he suspected, about to find out just how good they were. “I’ll have to leave my coat in the cloakroom…”

“Now,” the secretary said. Someone must have bawled him out for his role in helping to arrange the first union meeting, even though he hadn’t had the slightest idea what had actually been going on. Volker Schulze would have felt sorry for him if the secretary hadn’t been such a pissy little man. “The manager wants to see you at once.”

Volker Schulze mouthed orders at Joachim, then turned and allowed the secretary to lead him up the stairs to the management offices. He’d only entered them twice before, back when he’d been a loyal foreman; he’d had to defend two workers who had been on the verge of being fired for problems beyond their control. He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of doubt as he passed through a solid wooden door that was normally locked, even though he’d made his plans and discussed them with his wife. If he’d misjudged the situation – and he knew all too well just how ruthless the government could be – he was in deep trouble.

They can’t afford to punish all of us, he reassured himself. A week had given him time to spread the idea of independent unions far and wide. His was still the best-organised, but others were growing in size and power. They need us to man the factories and produce their guns and butter.

“Wait here,” the secretary said.

Volker Schulze snorted, rudely, as he leaned against the wall. It was intimidation, childish intimidation. It might work on a young boy who’d been kicked out of class and told to report to the headmaster, but not on a grown man with genuine combat experience. The secretary had none, as far as he knew; he’d been too cowardly to volunteer for military service and lucky enough to escape conscription. And he would be surprised if his managers had any experience themselves. He’d be more worried if he was getting called for an interview with his former CO.

He was midway through a silent recitation of SS Adolf Hitler’s battle honours when the secretary returned, looking as if someone had crammed a rod up his butt. Volker kept his face under control as the secretary motioned for him to step through the door, into the manager’s office. Not entirely to his surprise, he noticed as he entered, the factory manager was absent, his place taken by two men in fancy suits. He recognised one of them as a senior official within the factory’s parent corporation – there had been an article on him in the corporate newsletter – but the other was a complete stranger.

“Foreman Volker Schulze,” the official said. Volker had to think hard to recall the man’s name. Leonhard Crosse, if he recalled correctly. “You have formed a union, in defiance of both your contract with the corporation and Reich law. Do you have anything you wish to say in your defence?”

“Yes, sir,” Volker said. He adjusted his posture, trying hard to present a picture of a man who was both willing to compromise and yet determined to stand his ground. “The current working conditions are appalling and they’re only going to get worse. There have already been a number of deaths over the last two months, caused by increased demand for production combined with poor maintenance. We simply cannot go on like this.”

It was worse than that, he knew. Four men had died only two months ago, after the piece of machinery they were working on had exploded. That had been bad enough, but their families – unfortunate enough to live on corporate property – had been immediately evicted, on the grounds that their relatives no longer worked at the plant. In hindsight, Volker suspected, they should have taken that incident as an excuse to form an independent union. There had been so much anger on the factory floor that it would have been easy to start a strike.

“Your conduct is inexcusable,” Crosse said. If he’d heard a single word Volker had said, he didn’t give any sign of it. “You are accordingly dismissed from your job. Your appeal has already been reviewed by the labour commission and rejected. You will be escorted to the gates and evicted. As you have admitted to forming an unregulated union, you will not be paid your final paycheck.”

Volker kept his face expressionless. He hadn’t expected anything else. The ‘appeal’ – the appeal he hadn’t even made – was nothing more than a mere formality, a meaningless statement designed to suggest that there had been a form of due process. He could have put forward any excuse, he knew, and they would have rejected it. Forming a union, challenging the corporate managers directly… it was an unforgivable sin. But it was far too late for them to crush the union by firing its founder. The union was already out of control.

He glanced behind him as the door opened, just in time to see two burly men step into the chamber. Corporate security, he noted dispassionately; they carried themselves like thugs, not real soldiers. He offered no resistance as they grabbed his shoulders, spun him around and marched him through the door. The secretary, standing outside, sneered at Volker as he was pushed through the outer office and down the stairs. A number of workers were waiting at the bottom. Volker smiled to himself as the security guards hesitated, suddenly unsure of themselves. They were good at pushing individuals around, but they didn’t have the bravery to face an entire group.

“Strike,” Volker announced, loudly. “STRIKE!”

He yanked his hands free as the workers swarmed forwards. Joachim had already briefed them, he knew; the guards had no time to resist before they were grabbed, searched and shoved into an office to wait until they were released. They made no attempt to draw their pistols and fight back before it was too late. Volker took one of the pistols and checked it – he dreaded to think what his training officers would have said if they’d seen the weapon – and then started to bark orders. The unionists took up the cry of strike, sending advance parties running through the factory. Volker himself turned and led another team back up the stairs, into the outer office. The secretary, no longer sneering, had scooped up a telephone and was frantically dialling a number. Volker resisted the temptation to shoot the device out of his hand – he honestly wasn’t sure if the pistol would fire when he pulled the trigger – and instead motioned for the secretary to put the telephone down.

“Wimp,” Joachim commented, as Volker motioned for the secretary to stand up and move away from his desk. His trousers were stained with urine. “Honestly. He should try working on the shop floor.”

Volker wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d pissed himself too, the first time he’d gone into battle, but he’d been up against a serious enemy. They’d known what would happen if they were captured by the Arabs and every man in the unit had privately resolved to save one bullet for themselves, rather than fall into enemy hands. The secretary, as priggish as he was, had nothing to fear as long as he behaved himself. But then, he probably thought the workers on the factory floor were barbarians. He’d certainly never spent any time with them.

“Keep an eye on him,” he ordered, as he led the way into the inner office. “I… ah.”

He snorted in annoyance as his eyes swept the fancy office. He’d hoped to capture the managers, but their chamber was already deserted. They’d sneaked down the rear stairs to the loading bay and probably run into the streets. It might not be a bad thing – the government might feel less inclined to negotiate if there were hostages in the factory – but it was still annoying. He’d been looking forward to the chance to show Crosse just how it felt to be at another’s mercy.

“The factory is ours,” another worker reported, as they made their way back to the lower levels. “Most of the workers have joined us.”

“Tell anyone who wants to leave now that they can go,” Volker ordered. There was no point in trying to keep the secretary and the rest of the administrative staff. Besides, there was too great a chance of someone beating hell out of the bureaucrats and making it harder for the workers to come to a peaceful settlement. “And round up a handful of volunteers to deliver messages.”

Joachim gave him a sharp look. “We need to spark off other strikes, don’t we?”

Volker nodded. A single factory had a mere three thousand workers, most of whom had either joined the union when it was announced or would join now that the union had proven itself capable of effective action. But they really needed the other factories to go on strike too or the government would isolate them, seal off their lines of supply and wait for the strikers to starve. It didn’t seem to have occurred to them – yet – that mistreating trained and proud men might not be a wise idea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Put it out on the computer network, then start making telephone calls before they cut the lines. We need the strike to spread as widely as possible.”

And hope that Gerde and Liana get out of easy reach, he added, mentally. The strikers had planned as best as they could, but no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. If he was in the RSHA, he’d try to bring pressure to bear on the families of the strikers. If they don’t get into hiding in time, they may be arrested.

Gudrun had never really liked eating meals at school – every student was served the same meal and the teachers were quite happy to punish anyone who failed to eat every last bite – but she rather enjoyed eating in the university cafeteria. There was a wide selection of choices, tables and chairs were scattered everywhere instead of being placed in neat little rows, while students could sit anywhere they wanted rather than being tied to a specific chair for their entire year. Just being allowed to choose her own food, instead of choking down something that smelled suspiciously like manure, was enough to make her actually enjoy herself.

“They say university fees are going to rise,” Hartwig was saying, loudly. He was a year older than Gudrun, a blonde boy with a reputation for chasing women as well as scoring high marks in all of his classes. She would have liked him if he hadn’t been loud and boastful as well as intelligent. “We may have to start paying to attend.”

She smiled, inwardly, as she ate her meal. That was one of the rumours the Valkyries had started, a suggestion that the students would soon have to actually pay to attend the university. It was a terrifying thought. Of all the students she knew, only Hilde’s family was wealthy enough to afford the prospective fees. Three-quarters of the student body would have to leave if they found themselves being charged to attend.

“That’s outrageous,” Lin said. She was Hartwig’s current girlfriend, a girl as blonde as Hartwig or Gudrun herself. Gudrun sometimes wondered if she had paid someone to take her exams, because she seemed to lose half her IQ whenever Hartwig smiled at her. “I couldn’t afford to attend!”

Idiots, Gudrun thought. One of the spies wasn’t too far away, listening intently. Hartwig and Lin might find themselves in trouble, if the spies couldn’t find anyone more significant. Or was Hartwig’s family important enough to escape the consequences of their son having a big mouth and no brain cells? You’ll get yourselves in hot water.

She glanced up, sharply, as Tomas charged into the cafeteria. “There’s a strike,” he bellowed, as everyone turned to look at him. “The workers are going on strike!”

Gudrun listened, surprised, as he babbled out an explanation. Seven factories had gone on strike? How many workers had believed the rumours the Valkyries had started? And how many more would go on strike before the affair came to an end? And what would the government do?

“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.