“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.”