“Not all of us believe in the doctrines preached by the SS,” Stoffregen said. “We want our soldiers to take advantage of fleeting opportunities, not wait for orders while the moment slips away.”
Hans held up a hand. Normally, he would have enjoyed watching the military and the SS at loggerheads, but they didn’t have time to continue the pointless argument. They’d played the only cards they could – firing unionists and clearing the streets – and both had failed. The strikers were still holding out, thousands of others had come onto the streets in support and Berlin, as day turned to night, had ground to a halt. Even if the strike ended at midnight and the city went back to normal, it would take months – if not years – to repair the damage.
“This argument is immaterial,” he said, flatly. “We have to admit, right now, that we are on the verge of losing control.”
He repeated the facts, once again. “There are rumblings of trouble right across the Reich,” he said, firmly. “I suspect we will see more strikes tomorrow – I believe that some corporations are already considering closing their plants for the duration of the crisis, which will only provoke their workers further. Our police have refused to disperse the women in the streets; our soldiers are unlikely to fire on the women if ordered to do so. We have pushed matters as far as we can, without causing serious damage, and we can go no further. The population no longer trusts us, the workers no longer expect us to defend them against their corporate masters, the Untermenschen see their chance for freedom and even the police and soldiers are restless. Our Reich rests on a knife-edge.”
“We can fight,” Holliston said.
“We can try,” Voss muttered, “but there won’t be much of a Reich left afterwards.”
Hans nodded in agreement. “The Americans are already moving ahead of us,” he reminded the council. “A long period of civil unrest in the Reich, even if we manage to keep a grip on power, will give them the chance to make their lead insurmountable. And then the legacy of the great Adolf Hitler will be lost forever!”
He willed them, desperately, to believe. The American ABM system was bad enough – if the Americans thought that they could stop ninety percent of the Reich’s missiles, they might decide that they could survive a nuclear war – but their steady advance into space was worse. The Economic Intelligence Service was already predicting the next generation of space-based weapons, concepts right out of American science-fantasy movies that, if turned into reality, would render most of the Reich’s armed forces obsolete. The Reich, already dangerously behind the United States, could not allow itself to lose any more ground. If they did…
If they did, we might as well call Washington and ask President Anderson for terms, he thought, sourly. We couldn’t possibly win if they deploy space-based weapons against us.
“I agree,” Stoffregen said. “It’s time to put an end to the matter.”
“And how,” Holliston asked icily, “do you intend to do that?”
“We concede most of their demands,” Hans said. “Let them have their unions, for the moment; let them have their freedom of speech and assembly. Let them even start offering independent candidates to the Reichstag.”
“Out of the question,” Holliston snapped.
“It makes no difference,” Voss said, amused. “The Reichstag is powerless.”
“Unless these… independent candidates start voting to block our proposed budgets,” Holliston pointed out. “What do we do then?”
It was, Hans had to admit, a good question. Technically, the Reichstag was responsible for approving laws and budget proposals. None of the proposals put forward by the Reich Council had ever failed to pass, of course; the Reichstag knew it had no power to do anything other than rubber-stamp the proposals. But if there were independents elected to the Reichstag… who knew what would happen then?
“We control the bureaucracy,” he said, finally. He tried to make his tone as reassuring as possible. “Let them make their speeches, if they wish. It will make no difference. The important detail is that we will be buying time.”
“We cannot end the war,” Holliston snapped.
Hans nodded, although he knew the war couldn’t be allowed to continue for long. But the military might not support him if he proposed otherwise, not when Holliston – damn the man – had been making private deals with the senior officers. The war would have to continue for a few months, at least. By then, he’d know just how badly the budget needed to be slashed to keep the Reich afloat.
“We can shift responsibility onto the South Africans,” Voss offered. “If we provide training and equipment – even a handful of units of French volunteers – we can slowly draw down our own commitment. Let the bastards fight for their own country.”
They are, Hans thought. The Italians hadn’t put up much of a fight when the Arabs revolted – and the French hadn’t done much better – but the South Africans were tough. They were just outnumbered so badly that only superior training and their foes disunity had kept them from losing the war within the first year. And maybe they will be glad of a few hundred thousand French volunteers.
“Then we offer to concede most of the demands,” Hans said. “And release the prisoners as a gesture of good faith.”
“They’re guilty of unauthorised political activity,” Holliston insisted. “They cannot simply be let free.”
“So is most of Berlin, now,” Hans countered. “Do you want to put the entire city in the extermination camps?”
“This isn’t Warsaw or Moscow,” Voss agreed.
“Germanica,” Holliston snapped.
Hans winced, inwardly. Moscow – Stalin’s capital – had been battered to rubble by savage street fighting as the Germans forced their way into the city. Half of the population had died at their posts; the remainder had been rounded up, marched into a concentration camp and starved to death. The city had been rebuilt shortly after the end of the war – it had been the hub of the USSR’s road and rail network – and renamed Germanica. These days, it was an SS stronghold, the core of Germany East.
“Let them go,” he said, gently. “It will help to buy us time.”
“Very well,” Holliston snapped. “Let it be done.”
“You’re late,” Standartenfuehrer Erdmann Schwarzkopf observed.
“I had problems convincing the police of my identity,” Horst said, shortly. He was sick of being told he was late. “They did not believe me at first.”
He scowled at the humiliation of admitting that he’d practically been arrested by his own side. If he’d had an SS card, getting past the policemen would have been simplicity itself, but the card would have been far too revealing if Gudrun or another student had seen it. As it happened, he’d had to let them take him to a processing station and speak to an SS officer there – and, by the time he’d been processed himself, several hours had passed.
Schwarzkopf shrugged. “These are not easy times.”
“No,” Horst agreed. He bit down the urge to lodge a complaint against Krabbe. “I never expected to see the streets of Berlin filled with whining women.”
“Me neither,” Schwarzkopf said. He sounded, for once, just a little unsure. “A number of students were arrested, mostly in front of the factories. I need you to review their files and mark any that require special attention.”