Storm Front

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.

And I am, she thought. Together, we can do anything.

Herman winced as a line of black vans appeared, driving down the road towards the barricades. The military policemen stopped just outside the roadblocks and scrambled out, brandishing their clubs and shields as they formed up into lines. A trio of armoured vehicles followed them, bristling with water cannons. He hoped desperately that the set of tubes on top of the vehicles were designed to launch gas canisters, rather than mortars. The crowds within the sealed zone were seemingly unarmed.

“Open the barricades,” their CO ordered. He was a grim-faced man who looked ready to do anything to restore order. “And stand ready to receive prisoners.”

Herman nodded and hurried to obey. It was hard to see their faces, under the black helmets they wore, but it didn’t look as though the military policemen were worried about what they were going to do. They looked … enthusiastic. It struck him, suddenly, that they would normally handle captured POWs and their families. German civilians would be a great deal safer than prisoners who knew they were going to the camps.

“This is going to be messy,” Caius predicted, as the military policemen marched through the barricade and down towards the factories. “Very messy.”

“I know,” Herman said. He had no sympathy for the strikers, but there were hundreds of innocents caught in the sealed zone. “God help them.”

Gudrun came to an embarrassed halt as the jukebox simply died, followed by the factory lights. She stared at her partner in shock for a long moment, then realised – as murmurs ran through the crowd – that someone must have turned off the electricity. She’d heard her father moaning about the cost of power often enough to know that the mains could be cut off in a power station, rather than at home, but she hadn’t realised it could happen to a factory too…

And then she heard a rattling sound echoing from the police barricades.

“Get into the gates,” someone shouted. “Get into the gates!”

It was too late. The striking workers were already closing the gates, readying themselves – she saw now – for an assault. She turned, realising in horror that the sense of freedom had vanished as the crowd started to scatter. The sound of armoured vehicles – and the steady rattling – was growing louder, bearing down on them from all directions. She heard a popping sound in the distance, followed by screams… what the hell were they doing? They weren’t shooting, she was sure… or were they? Maybe the government had just decided to gun down the strikers rather than try to negotiate.

She gritted her teeth, then turned and ran, pushing her way through the crowd towards the brick walls. She’d be safer there, she thought, but the sound was growing louder. The crowd recoiled around her; she saw, as she broke free, a line of black-clad men advancing towards them, banging their clubs against riot shields. They’d been paying attention in the Hitler Youth, her mind frantically noted; they might have been walking towards a panicking mob of civilians, but they were banging their shields in perfect unison. White mist surrounded them, blowing towards the crowd. Her eyes started to water as the mist surrounded her.

The policemen stopped, still banging their shields. She stared, just for a moment, then blinked in surprise as she saw an armoured vehicle advancing slowly behind the policemen, who opened ranks to allow it to crawl forward. Gudrun wondered, in shock, if they were about to be mown down with machine guns, just before the water cannons started to spew water towards the crowd. She had no time to duck before ice cold water slammed into her, sending her falling to the ground. Her clothes were so drenched that it was hard to move; she found herself shivering helplessly as the policemen resumed their advance. She tried to crawl backwards, although she was sure the police were advancing from all directions, but it was too late. Strong hands grabbed her, shoved her down to the tarmac and yanked her hands behind her back. There was no time to object before she was cuffed and helpless.

“Stay there,” a voice growled. She felt a hand hastily frisking her, then giving her bottom a hard squeeze. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Gudrun tensed, expecting to feel hands slipping into her bra or panties – or worse – but instead her captor just walked away. The cuffs were tight, so tight her wrists were rapidly beginning to ache; she strained against them for a long moment before realising that it was hopeless, that there was no way human muscle could break free. Instead, she turned and saw hundreds of people – strikers, students – lying on the ground, being steadily rounded up and cuffed. The factory gates were still shut, but it was no consolation. It wouldn’t be long before the policemen smashed them down and arrested the rest of the strikers.

She shivered as a cold wind blew over Berlin. They’d talked about what would happen if they were caught, but she’d never really believed they would be caught. And now she had been caught, as a protester rather than one of the Valkyries…

…And her luck had finally run out.