“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.