by Larry Bond
“Accordingly, we have agreed to the following nonnegotiable demands — demands that apply to the corporations and governments of both our great nations.” He pulled a pair of wire-frame glasses from his pocket, flipped them open, and slipped them onto his nose. Then he cleared his throat and began reading from a document handed to him by an aide. “First, we call for an immediate end to the shipments of foreign workers to French- and German-owned factories in central and eastern Europe. All available positions in these facilities must be reserved for true French and German laborers, not for Turks or Algerians!”
The German labor leader scowled. “Second, there must be an immediate and across-the-board moratorium on all layoffs and firings during this time of economic crisis. And finally we call on the politicians in Paris and Berlin to fund massive new public works programs to put our fellow workers back to work. Profits, earnings, and budgets must bow to more important human needs!”
He stopped reading and stared directly into the cameras. “We have no illusions that the politicians and the fat-cat businessmen will agree to do these things simply because they are the right things to do. We are not that naïve. Not at all. If necessary, we are prepared to compel them to meet these just and reasonable demands.”
Kaltenbrunner paused again, letting the tension build. “The bureaucrats and plutocrats have until October 7. That gives them five days to accept our terms — without condition and without compromise. If they fail, we will take our people, all our people, off the job and into the streets.”
The assembled journalists and camera crews stirred in astonishment. The five trade unionists in front of them represented a sizable fraction of the Franco-German labor force. Any job action involving all of them would have almost unimaginable economic consequences.
Kaltenbrunner nodded. “That is right. This is an ultimatum. The governments and corporations must either meet our demands or face a general strike!” He held his right hand up with all five fingers extended. “If our warnings are ignored, in five days’ time no trains will run. No planes will fly. No trucks will bring food to the markets. No factories will operate. And no ships will sail with goods bound for foreign shores!”
No one listening to him could doubt that Markus Kaltenbrunner and his colleagues were in deadly earnest.
OCTOBER 3 — PALAIS DE L’ÉLYSÉE, PARIS
The eight men meeting in the presidential palace’s Cabinet Room were dwarfed by the chamber’s high ceiling and massive furniture. Each of the eight ran one of the republic’s most powerful ministries. They represented a self-selected inner circle, and for all practical purposes they controlled the French government. The chair reserved for France’s ailing President was empty.
“A general strike? Now? Can they be serious?” Henri Navarre, the Minister of the Interior, seemed stunned.
Other faces around the table mirrored his bewilderment. For more than a decade, support from the trade unions had helped keep their political party in power. The votes the labor confederations controlled were the margin of victory in any close election. And every recent election had been close.
“They are quite serious.” Jacques Morin, the new director of the DGSE, said it plainly, without emotion. “All reports from our informers point in the same direction. The preparations for a general strike are well under way. Our German allies are seeing the same signs. Isn’t that right, Foreign Minister?”
France’s new Foreign Minister, Nicolas Desaix, nodded in agreement and approval. He’d secured the appointment of his former deputy to head the intelligence service. It was an arrangement that guaranteed him de facto control over the DGSE and its associated security agencies.
He leaned forward, eyeing each of his cabinet colleagues in turn. “What Morin says is true. I do not think there is anything to be gained by hiding our heads in the sand. These radicals are not making idle threats.”
“Perhaps we should negotiate with them… come to some arrangement…” Navarre’s voice trailed off as Desaix frowned. The small, stoop-shouldered Interior Minister’s prestige had fallen precipitously in the past several weeks — a product of his growing inability to control the police and special riot troops.
“Negotiate? Impossible!” Desaix shook his head in contempt. “Their demands are absurd — an insult. Meeting even the least costly of them would bankrupt our largest and most profitable companies. Nor do I see any merit in surrendering effective control of this government to a band of mechanics and shop stewards!”
“Then what, precisely, do you propose, Nicolas?” Barrel-chested Michel Guichy, the Minister of Defense, tapped the table for emphasis. “If the gendarmes and the CRS can’t keep order now, how can we depend on them during such a strike? My God, most of the bastards are in the unions themselves!”
Others around the room echoed Guichy’s sharp-edged question. Even at the best of times cabinet meetings could be contentious. Now they were all on edge, worn down by the last month’s steady stream of strikes, riots, and worsening economic indicators, and they were frightened by what was coming. France simply could not afford either the threatened nationwide walkout or the exorbitant demands being made by her trade unions. Her heavily subsidized industries were already on the edge of bankruptcy.
Desaix kept his face still, careful not to show his irritation. He’d worked too hard for too long to build his influence with these men to risk losing his temper now. Besides, he scented opportunity in this crisis — even in a crisis partly of his own making.
He shrugged mentally. It was becoming all too apparent that he’d miscalculated the effects of the foreign worker relocations. He’d anticipated widespread anger in Eastern Europe — not this rage at home.
Still, there were positive aspects to the situation. This confrontation with organized labor had been building for years. So had public hatred for the immigrant population. His first attempt to solve those twin problems, the Sopron covert action, had partially backfired. Perhaps it was time to bring both disputes to a head. To kill two birds with one presidential decree. Especially if it could be done in a way that would advance his vision of a more powerful, more united France.
Desaix fixed his gaze on the Minister of Defense. Guichy’s support for his plan would be critical. “What I propose, my friend, are measures equal to the dangers we face.” He narrowed his eyes. “Drastic measures.”
Then, speaking with utter conviction and iron determination, he outlined the steps he believed would save France from ruin.
The argument he sparked lasted half the night.
OCTOBER 4 — LE BOURGET AIRPORT, PARIS
Regular army soldiers in full combat gear ringed the small executive jet parked just off Le Bourget’s main runway. They were the innermost element of an airtight security cordon surrounding the airport. The authorities were taking every possible precaution against trouble. Nothing could be allowed to delay this plane’s scheduled departure.
“Attention!”
The soldiers snapped rigidly upright, presenting arms as a sleek Citroën limousine swung off an access road and purred up to the waiting aircraft. Tricolor flags fluttered from the Citroën’s black hood.
The limousine’s rear doors popped open, and a tall, hawk-nosed man emerged, carrying a leather briefcase. A single aide climbed out the other side, clutching a suit bag and a rolled-up umbrella. Clouds pushed west by a new high-pressure system rolling out of Russia carried the threat of rain over the next several days.
As the captain commanding the guard detachment saluted, both men hurried up a folding staircase and disappeared into the plane’s dimly lit but plush interior. Its twin turbofan engines whined into action, howling louder and louder as they spun up toward full power.
Five minutes later, its navigation lights blinking against a pitch-black sky, the jet carrying Nicolas Desaix roared off the tarmac and climbed at a steep angle. The ranking member of the still-secret Emergency Committee for the Preservation of the Republic was flying east — toward Germany.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER 5
Peacekeepers
OCTOBER 6 — HEADQUARTERS, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, AHLEN, GERMANY
Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm “Willi” von Seelow glanced out a headquarters building window at the brigade Kaserne.
The area was alive with men and vehicles. Detachments of soldiers in gray-green field uniforms milled around open armory doors collecting weapons and ammunition. Other parties stood in line, waiting their turn. All wore the dark green beret and silver crossed-rifles badge of Germany’s mechanized infantry, the panzergrenadiers.
The afternoon light, dimming as the sun set, was made grayer by a solid overcast sky. It fell on but did not illuminate the steel sides of tracked Marder APCs and the crumbling concrete walls of the brigade’s barracks and garages. The outside lights were already on, but it was still too early for them to do much to brighten a scene of military confusion.
The chaos outside was matched inside the brigade’s crowded operations room. Every phone was in use, and he could hear more than one officer demanding instant action in a strident tone, as if shouting made things work better. Von Seelow noticed one young captain who seemed to be doing most of the yelling. At least he could put a stop to that.
He called the man over, spoke softly and sharply to him, and then sent him on an errand out of the building. A little trip into the cold afternoon air should cool him off. More important, it would send a signal to the rest of the staff. Good soldiers stayed calm, even in the midst of crisis.
His reprimand had the desired effect. In the resulting quiet, von Seelow turned to his own work, trying hard to organize both his thoughts and the brigade. There was a lot to be done in an unreasonably short time.
They’d been galvanized into action by a sudden, hurry-up order from 7th Panzer Division’s headquarters in Munster: Mobilize the entire brigade immediately for civil peacekeeping duties. Von Seelow had taken the call himself once the duty officer convinced him it wasn’t a joke.
He frowned at the memory. Major Feist, at division headquarters, had managed to sound arrogant and worried at the same time. He’d also peremptorily brushed aside every one of Willi’s objections.
“No, Herr Oberstleutnant, I do mean the entire brigade. Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant, we are aware of your fuel situation. Yes, we know you are short of gear and men. I’m sorry, Herr Oberstleutnant, but we can’t spare you any troops ourselves. We’ve problems here as well. We need your brigade on the road to Dortmund by midnight. The situation is very bad. The anarchists are holed up in several vacant buildings.” Willi knew the ones he meant. Unemployed youths had taken them over several months ago, turning them into graffiti-sprayed fortresses. “They’re using them as bases for looting and burning much of the surrounding area, as well as fighting with rival gangs. The police are doing their best, but they’re outclassed.”
On that encouraging note, Feist had wished him luck and hung up.
Von Seelow knew the situation in Germany’s towns and cities was grim, but he hadn’t thought it was bad enough to warrant calling up regular army units.
A small chill ran down his back. Years ago, he’d served with Germany’s U.N. peacekeeping forces in Yugoslavia and had watched with horror as civil strife wrecked a nation. Separating the warring factions had cost the U.N. force hundreds of lives and billions of marks. It had been a months-long nightmare of frustrating patrolling, sudden, bloody ambushes, and the horrid experience of being hated and shot at by both sides. Now he was being told his own country might stand on the brink of a similar nightmare.
His combat experience had been useful to him, though. In any peacetime army, promotions were rare. He’d moved up from major to lieutenant colonel because he’d shown himself cool and utterly reliable under fire. And von Seelow knew that he couldn’t have gained promotion in any other way. His experience and training in the East German Army before the unification more than qualified him for his current rank, but “ossies,” those born in the East, were not popular in the unified Bundeswehr, the Federal German Army. Most of Willi’s former colleagues were back in civilian clothes or stuck in dead-end posts. The odds were that he’d join them in a few years. The “wessies” didn’t want too many tainted soldiers from the East in their army’s upper echelons.
Still, that might not be so bad. Soldiering wasn’t the honorable career it had once seemed. With the Russian bear apparently declawed, peacekeeping was turning into the Bundeswehr’s main job. At least half their training was devoted to “civil affairs,” and tactics learned the hard way in Zagreb and Sarajevo were spreading fast through the entire army. This emergency deployment to Dortmund was probably only a taste of things to come.
Riots and clashes with police were now almost routine in every city in Germany. Unemployment hovered near the twenty percent mark, climbing steadily as the economy wound down. The figures were even higher among the young. But unemployment wasn’t the only problem. Racial tensions were also rising rapidly as more and more Eastern European refugees evaded the border patrols — all fleeing economies that were in even worse shape.
Von Seelow shook his head. It was difficult to imagine anything that could be worse. Germany’s urban centers were the scene of daily pitched battles as a dangerous mix of right-wing fanatics, left-wing anarchists, and unemployed workers fought with each other, with police, and with shopkeepers. They wanted work and food, and both were scarce.
And he knew that food and work were bound to grow even more impossible to find if the nation’s trade unions carried out their insane threat to call a general strike. Even his country’s recent problems would pale in comparison during a wholesale work stoppage.
That seemed hard to believe. On his few excursions into Hamm, the nearest city, or to the Essen-Dortmund area, he had been shocked by the sight of ragged civilians wandering aimlessly or begging for small change or employment. Idle men and boarded-up shops lined the streets. Police barricades were commonplace, and the normal bustle of city life seemed weaker, more sullen. Certainly the government’s strict gasoline rationing program had something to do with that, but the real reason was the continent-wide recession.
Von Seelow had never seen it this bad back in Leipzig — even before the Wall fell. East Germany’s communist masters had known how to control things, he thought wryly. They’d kept the cost of bread low and made sure there’d been plenty to drink. Bread and circuses, Russian style. He pulled himself up short. Thinking about the past was a waste of time. Especially when East Germany’s “peace” had been purchased at such a high price. The newly unified federal republic might be wild and unruly, but at least it was still a democracy, still a nation one could be proud to serve.
He looked out the window again. It was darker, and a cold, swirling wind rattled the window glass. Temperatures were below average, with rain and wind that chilled the spirit as well as the body. Everyone predicted a cold winter. Willi knew it was going to be a hard one.
With difficulty, he turned his attention from his nation’s larger problems to more immediate concerns. He had less than six hours to turn a formation of 3,500 men and three hundred combat vehicles into a police force that could control a population instead of destroying it. The brigade had enough riot gear for only one of its two active-duty panzer-grenadier battalions. Now division wanted the entire brigade on the line — including its armored battalion and antitank company. How in God’s name are we supposed to arm them for police work? he thought. And what orders should they be given?
A sudden flurry at the door caught his eye, and von Seelow jumped to attention as Colonel Georg Bremer strode in. He had been called away from dinner at a friend’s house, twenty kilometers outside Ahlen.
Bremer, the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade’s commanding officer, looked like a tanker. His dark hair belied his fifty-six years. Short, thick, solidly built, he moved quickly, and his officers had discovered that if you didn’t move just as fast, he rolled right over you.
The physical contrast between the colonel and von
Seelow couldn’t have been any sharper. Willi was tall, almost too tall to serve in armored vehicles. His lean body was matched by a lean, square-jawed face. High cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and short blond hair just starting to go gray made him a living reminder of an aristocratic past that Germany had tried to leave behind.
Bremer headed straight for von Seelow, nodding to the rest of his staff. “Seats, gentlemen.”
Von Seelow remained standing. As the 19th’s operations officer, he was responsible for the brigade’s readiness. It was now being put to a sore test.
“Any word on Oberstleutnant Greif?” Greif was the brigade’s executive officer, and normally would run things in Bremer’s absence. Tonight, though, he was on leave, moving his family out of Essen to the countryside.
“We think he’s on the road, sir. We’ve asked the police to watch for him, but he isn’t supposed to even check in until tomorrow morning.”
The colonel sighed and said, “All right, that makes you acting executive officer.” Bremer looked him squarely in the eye. “Where do we stand, Willi?”
Von Seelow knew each battalion’s status by heart. “The 191st will be ready to move by midnight, but it’s only at fifty percent strength. The 192nd is about the same. We are having some problems with the 194th’s fuel supply, but we’re getting that sorted out. The tanks should be ready to roll in time. The 195th Artillery has been co-opted by Division in Munster. Apparently their own military police units have already been committed to police duties and they need men to provide security for the headquarters.”
Bremer listened closely and then nodded, a quick movement. “That’s unfortunate, but we shouldn’t need the guns tonight. What are you doing about our missing men?”
