Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Berlin, Germany

  12 August 1985

  “They’re clearing the streets,” Joachim said.

  “Looks that way,” Volker agreed.

  He cursed under his breath. The policemen - they looked like military policemen to him, although it was hard to be sure - had handled everyone trapped on the wrong side of the gates with brutal efficiency. Now that the gas was fading away, they were rounding up the protesters and marching them towards a line of black prisoner transports. God alone knew what would happen to them, but he doubted it would be anything pleasant. And, once the impromptu street party had been smashed, the policemen would turn their attention to the strikers.

  “The generator is up and running,” Joachim offered. “But they’ve definitely cut the telephone and computer landlines.”

  “And now we’re isolated,” Volker said. Twelve factories had joined the strike, but now, with the policemen blocking the roads, each factory was on its own. “This could get messy.”

  “Yeah,” Joachim agreed. “But I don’t regret anything. Do you?”

  Volker shrugged. The policemen hadn't yet tried to batter down the gates or come over the walls. They had to know the strikers had very few weapons; giving Volker’s people time to improvise a few nasty surprises would be a dangerous mistake. Very few people realised just how easy it was to produce weapons, given the right tools and materials... and the strikers had plenty of both. But they wouldn't be enough to keep the policemen out forever.

  “Make sure we keep the food strictly rationed,” he ordered. If the policemen didn't intend to storm the gates, it could only be because they thought starvation would do the job. And they were probably right. There was a vast stockpile of food in the building, but it wouldn't last for more than a few days, even if the cooks stretched it as much as possible. “We’ll see if they’re more willing to talk after a few days of no production.”

  He smiled, rather wanly. Losing even a day’s work would cause knock-on effects further down the line. The longer the strike lasted, even if it was broken and the workers put back to work once it came to an end, the more damage it would cause the Reich. And if half the workers were killed or arrested, it would be impossible to restore the production lines. In their place, he would have tried to negotiate some sort of compromise.

  But the SS isn't known for compromise, he thought. He ought to know. He’d been an SS officer. They may be plotting to strike without realising that they’re striking at the heart of the Reich.

  ***

  “Get on your feet,” a policeman snapped. “Now!”

  Gudrun could barely move. She was almost grateful when a policeman caught hold of her arm and half-dragged her to her feet. Her wrists ached; her face hurt where she’d hit the roadside when she’d been knocked down by the water cannons; her drenched clothes clung to her skin, revealing every one of her curves. Gritting her teeth, reminding herself that it was likely to get a good deal worse, she looked around in horror as the policemen pushed her into a long line of prisoners. The street looked like a nightmare. A handful of dead bodies - including four children - lay on the ground, while hundreds of men and women were being pushed towards the transport vans.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” one of the policemen snapped, when a young man tried to ask a question. The speaker recoiled, too late to avoid a punishing blow from a truncheon. “Say nothing unless you are spoken to.”

  The policemen seemed to be organised, Gudrun admitted ruefully, as she was finally prodded into a prisoner transport van. It smelled bad, worse than Grandpa Frank’s room after a particularly bad night; she heard a number of her fellow prisoners gagging as they were shoved roughly into the van and told to sit on the hard metal floor. Gudrun was almost relieved it was dark inside, save for a handful of air slits too high to reach even if she hadn't been cuffed by the police. The doors were banged shut once the van was full - there were so many people in the vehicle that she couldn't help feeling claustrophobic - and the engines roared to life. She tried to guess where they were going, but rapidly found it impossible. The RSHA itself? A camp outside the city? A makeshift detention centre? Or would they simply be dumped on the far side of Berlin and told to make their own way home? She clung to the final thought, even though she knew it was unlikely. The government would hardly be content with drenching her and the others...

  But they don’t know anything, she thought. As far as she knew, she was the only one of the Valkyries who had gone to the factories. Horst knew she’d gone, of course, but no one else did. They might never know what had happened to her... and yet they’d worry that she’d tell her captors everything. She knew the names and faces of everyone who’d joined the original Valkyries. What happens if they make me talk?

  The thought chilled her to the bone as the vehicle lurched. Someone was crying softly - it sounded like a young girl - but what did she have to worry about? She was innocent of everything apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gudrun, on the other hand... if someone connected her to Konrad - and perhaps Konrad’s father - they might start wondering just what else she was connected to. They’d check her records, identify her as a student and then wonder if she was involved with the Valkyries. It wouldn't take them long, if Horst was right, to break her. Unless, of course, they didn’t believe their luck.

  She flinched as someone spoke into the darkness. “What are they going to do to us?”

  “Kill us,” someone else said. “Or put us in the camps.”

  Gudrun shuddered. There had always been dark rumours, even before she’d started the Valkyries; there had always been suggestions of what happened to those who failed to fit into the Reich. And, after what Grandpa Frank had said... they might be driven to a camp, forced into a gas shower and exterminated. She thought - she still thought - that the Reich wouldn’t dare harm so many Berliners, in plain view of the entire city, but it was hard not to fear the worst. Her family might never know what had happened to her.

  Tears welled at the corner of her eyes as the vehicle lurched one final time, then came to a halt. She would have given anything to see her parents one last time, to make her apologies in person, to ask them if they were proud of her... hell, she would have given up her university career. And yet, Konrad and the hundreds of others like him had never had that option. Surrendering now would mean that they’d died - and been wounded - for nothing, that the government had got away with its crimes. She flicked her head, forcing the tears away as she heard the door slowly being unlocked. There would be a chance to escape, she told herself, and if she saw it, she would take it.

  “Climb out of the vehicle and walk straight through the door in front of you unless you are drawn aside,” a voice ordered. Gudrun flinched away from the light pouring in through the open door. “Sit down on the floor, then wait. Do not speak to your fellows.”

  Gudrun looked around as she was helped out of the van, then pushed towards the door. They were in a garage, she thought; a chamber large enough to house several giant prisoner transports. A policeman was standing by the door, eying her with cold blue eyes; she forced herself to keep her head up straight as he held up a hand to stop her, then frisked her with brutal efficiency. She was tempted to point out that she’d already been frisked once, but she suspected there was no point. Inside, there was another large chamber, totally bare save for a large portrait of the Fuhrer, looking unrea
listically stern. The painter had done something to the image, she realised as she sat down on the hard floor; the eyes looked as though they were following her around the room. It should have been funny, but it was actually alarmingly intimidating.

  No men, she realised, as she looked around carefully. The only prisoners in the room were female. They must have been sent to a different room.

  She forced herself to try to remember what her father had said, back when he’d been trying to interest Johan in joining the police force rather than volunteering for the military. The policemen on the streets handed prisoners over to the policemen in the station, who processed them and determined their fate. It all seemed rather slapdash to her, but if her father was to be believed, prisoners were rarely innocent. The only real question was if they would be sent to jail or transported east to help make Germany East safe for German citizens. She shuddered bitterly, remembering what Horst had said, then forced herself to relax as best as she could. The long wait, in handcuffs and freezing cold clothes, was probably just another attempt to wear her down before the interrogation began.