by Larry Bond
MAY 26 — PARIS
Paris by night was as lovely and elegant as ever, but Nicolas Desaix was in no mood for beauty or elegance. He kept his chair faced away from the windows in his private office. He scowled. “So they’ve refused our generous offer?”
“Yes, Minister.” The career diplomat he’d dispatched as a special envoy to Budapest shrank back in his own chair. He’d taken the full force of the brooding temper beneath the Foreign Minister’s surface charm once before. He had no desire to experience it again.
“Get out.”
“Yes, Minister.”
Desaix waited until the other man had scuttled out before swearing once, sharply and violently. Then he got up and began pacing across his office, walking off some of his irritation.
He’d agreed to offer Hungary’s new government a way out only at Germany’s urging. He had always suspected the Germans were gutless. Now he knew it.
Their so-called compromise had proved a useless and dangerous gesture. French and German control over their economy was the primary Hungarian grievance, but it was also the keystone of French and German foreign policy. Given those two realities, no real compromise was possible.
Desaix clasped his hands behind his back. Once the news spread, Hungary’s stubborn stand against the Confederation would only encourage others to do the same. It was inevitable.
He shook his head. There was only one real way to prevent that. Hungary still had a legitimate government — a government-in-exile. And France and Germany had three divisions moving into positions on the Austro-Hungarian border.
The Hungarian rebels had called the tune. Now they and their misguided followers would have to pay the piper.
MAY 27 — SCOUT PLATOON, 1ST HUNGARIAN TANK BRIGADE, NEAR SOPRON
Lieutenant Stefan Tereny lay propped up on his elbows, watching the enemy armor deploy though binoculars. Through a minor miracle, he’d managed to find the one dry spot in the still-muddy field, so he was relatively comfortable. The other members of his detail weren’t quite so fortunate. They squatted nearby, monotonously and softly cursing all officers, all sergeants, the French, the Germans, and the wet weather.
Tereny smiled slightly. He would only be worried if he didn’t hear his enlisted men grumbling.
He was within one kilometer of the border itself, just a line of a fence posts linked by some old wire. There hadn’t been any need for anything stronger, since Austria and Hungary were at peace. Now, though, Austria was part of the European Confederation and an accomplice to its plans.
Tereny was worried about those plans. Only a few kilometers away, he could see dark, square shapes moving off the highway, picking their way through unplowed fields and patches of woods.
French, all right. Frontline gear, too — LeClerc tanks and AMX-10 armored personnel carriers — and they weren’t being shy about it, either. Tereny was careful to stay concealed, but only out of professional pride. The French bastards over there obviously wanted to be seen.
Taking his time, he carefully counted thirteen tanks, then another group of thirteen, and then another — all neatly arrayed in line. Two more tanks and six jeeps brought up the rear — a command group. He was looking at a full French armored regiment — a battalion-equivalent in other armies — deployed right across the border on a very narrow front. Other units, tanks and mechanized infantry formations, were moving up beside them. He ordered his corporal to take some photos while he scouted the detachment’s next hide.
The move to another concealed position gave Tereny more time to think than he would have liked. Sopron, the nearest road junction and an obvious target if war broke out, was defended by little more than the 1st Tank Brigade itself. He thought of his own men — well motivated and, he liked to think, well led. But the Hungarian Army had no depth, no reserves of ammunition or equipment.
He loved his land, and he would fight if the French and Germans crossed the border. But he wasn’t sure of the outcome. Not at all.
MAY 28 — HEADQUARTERS, EURCON IV CORPS, NEAR GROSSHOFLEIN, AUSTRIA
Général de Corps d’Armée Claude Fabvier tilted his head, listening to the steady rain drumming on the welded aluminum deck of his armored command vehicle. The weather could certainly be better, he thought. Then he smiled wryly, amused by his own sudden fastidiousness. Wars were fought as often in the mud and rain as in bright sunshine and on firm, dry ground. Perhaps he had spent too much time as a young officer in Africa. His eyes fell again on the decoded message clipped to his map table.
WARNING ORDER
TO: Commander, IV Corps
FROM: Defense Secretariat
SUBJECT: Military Operations in Hungary
The Confederation Defense Committee has authorized military intervention to restore order and a legitimate government to Hungary. Accordingly, you will prepare for imminent military operations against the rebel forces inside Hungary. Your objective is Budapest.
CHAPTER 17
Offensive
MAY 29 — SCOUT PLATOON, 1ST HUNGARIAN TANK BRIGADE, NEAR SOPRON, HUNGARY
It was raining again, soaking the wooded hills near the Austrian border. Lieutenant Stefan Tereny huddled miserably under a plastic sheet, trying unsuccessfully to stay warm and dry in the shallow, muddy hole he and his crew had scraped out of a hillside overlooking the highway from Vienna. Local farmers might welcome this nighttime storm, but he didn’t. The rain and darkness reduced visibility to practically nil, right when he desperately needed to see as far as possible.
His platoon’s three BRDM-2 scout cars and twelve men were deployed in widely scattered and well-camouflaged positions along a two-kilometer stretch of the frontier. Other scout platoons flanked them. The 1st Brigade’s tank and motorized rifle battalions were deployed far to the rear — in Sopron’s outlying suburbs and along the forested Karoly Heights overlooking the city.
Tereny raised his starlight scope for another quick look, careful to keep the precious device dry. The green and black images were fuzzy, distorted by a myriad of small flecks — falling raindrops. He wished in vain for a portable infrared scope, a thermal imaging system like those used by their potential enemies. But even the most sophisticated night-vision gear couldn’t see far through a heavy spring downpour like this.
Damn. The word from headquarters was that EurCon’s forces might cross the border anytime. Like tonight. Now. And it was Tereny’s job to raise the alarm if they did.
Frustrated, the Hungarian lieutenant lowered his starlight scope. He could barely make out the main highway from here, let alone the frontier line. They would have to get closer. He glanced at the two men huddled under the tarpaulin with him — his gunner and radioman. The scout car’s driver waited a few meters further back, inside the four-wheeled vehicle. “Right. Grab your gear. We’re moving up.”
Suddenly his gunner, a corporal, grabbed his shoulder and whispered fiercely. “Lieutenant, wait! I hear something.”
Tereny froze, trying hard to listen but at first only hearing the patter of rain on leaves and his own racing heartbeat. Then he heard it — the low muffled sound of a diesel engine somewhere very close by.
He raised the scope again, scanning in what he thought was the right direction. The damned rain was interfering with sounds as well as sight. One thing was certain. Whoever was out there wasn’t friendly. There were no other Hungarian Army units this close to the border, and absolutely no civilian traffic allowed in this sector.
Now that he knew what to listen for, he heard the engine noises again. There were at least two enemy vehicles out there — feeling their way slowly through the rain-soaked woods. He nudged his radioman. “Contact Brigade HQ. Tell them we hear movement to our front.”
The engine noises were growing louder. Tereny stiffened. The enemy must be almost right on top of them. He cocked his Soviet made AKR, a carbine version of the AK-74 assault rifle. The radioman did the same while the gunner readied an RPG-16 antitank rocket launcher.
Then the three soldiers fl
attened themselves, burrowing deeper into the mud. Something clanked out to the front and the lieutenant swiveled his scope toward the sound. There! A six-wheeled, turreted shape loomed out of the darkness and falling rain. He could make out a gun as well, a big one. Another shape materialized off to the right, trundling in the same direction.
As the first vehicle turned, maneuvering between two trees, Tereny recognized its distinctive silhouette. It was a French AMX-10RC, a reconnaissance vehicle armed with a powerful 105mm cannon. EurCon had its own scouts out, probing for the first signs of Hungarian resistance.
The lieutenant put his mouth to the radioman’s ear and whispered. “Send ‘Two AMX-10s moving east! Am engaging.’” While the private relayed his message, he turned to his RPG-armed gunner. “We’re going to have to take these bastards here. We’re too close to bug out now. Right?”
The corporal nodded vigorously. Their briefing on the AMX-10 had included the unwelcome news that its fire control system was one of the most sophisticated ever installed in a light recon vehicle. Trying to run away from a gun system equipped with a laser range finder, ballistic computer, and low-light TV cameras would be suicide. Even in the rain they wouldn’t get fifty meters before being spotted, engaged, and destroyed.
“Good. Give me thirty seconds and then take the one on the right.”
The corporal acknowledged the order — ”Sir!” — through clenched teeth.
Tereny slithered out from under the tarpaulin and got to his feet, careful to keep a tree trunk between himself and the French vehicles. Then he scrambled uphill to their own camouflaged scout car. The little BRDM only mounted a single heavy machine gun, but at this range it might be able to penetrate the side armor on the French armored cars.
He clambered up onto the BRDM’s deck and lowered himself in through the open commander’s hatch. The wide-eyed, pale face of his driver turned toward him. “Christ, Lieutenant! What do we do now?”
“We fight,” Tereny said brusquely, worming his way into the scout car’s cramped turret. He settled in behind the grips of the 14.5mm machine gun and frantically cranked the gun turret around. Any second now…
A streak of fire tore through the night. The sudden burst of light illuminated the two French vehicles, both caught broadside. He had only a fleeting glance before the corporal’s RPG-16 rocket slammed into one of the AMX-10s, tore through the light armor at the base of its turret, and exploded.
The French armored car fireballed. Sheets of flame poured out through open hatches as its ammunition and fuel ignited. Shadows fled in all directions, eerily flickering in time with the crackling flames.
Without waiting Tereny centered his sights on the remaining AMX and fired. The heavy machine gun chattered, spraying glowing tracer rounds toward the enemy vehicle. Sparks flew as bullets slapped into its hull and turret, punching holes through aluminum armor designed to fend off shell fragments and lighter infantry weapons. The French armored car ground to a halt, lifeless.
Elated, the Hungarian lieutenant let go of the machine gun and clambered back into his commander’s seat. He stuck his head out the open roof hatch. “Corporal! Take Markos and check out those AMXs for prisoners!”
Obeying those orders, his gunner and radioman abandoned their hiding place and moved cautiously toward the wrecked vehicles. Both men held their weapons at the ready.
A shell screamed overhead and burst higher up the hill. The explosion took away his sense of victory. Now that they were detected, the French were abandoning stealth in favor of firepower.
More shells rained down along the slope, splintering trees and sending deadly fragments sleeting in all directions. Tereny had the sudden horrified feeling that he’d kicked open a hornet’s nest. It was time to get his platoon to safety. He grabbed the BRDM’s radio mike. “All Sierra units! This is Sierra Alpha! Withdraw to Phase Line Bravo! Repeat, withdraw to Phase Line Bravo!”
Hurried acknowledgements crackled over radio circuits flooded with other urgent sighting reports and calls for fire support. From what he could hear, French recon forces were advancing across the border at several widely separated points.
Tereny ducked beneath the hatch coaming as a shell slammed into the ground only fifty meters away. Splinters whined overhead and clanged off the BRDM’s side armor. He raised his head cautiously, looking for his gunner and radioman. Why the hell were they taking so long?
A parachute flare burst high overhead, lighting the tree covered hillside and valley below with its harsh white glare. As it drifted downward through sheets of falling rain, the lieutenant saw his two missing crewmen staggering up the muddy slope toward him. They were supporting a wounded Frenchman between them. He waved them on and leaned out of the hatch, ready to help hoist their prisoner aboard.
“My God.” Tereny froze again, staring into the valley. There were tanks and armored personnel carriers moving down there. Dozens of them. This wasn’t a skirmish. EurCon was invading in force.
He hauled the injured, bleeding man through the BRDM’s open hatch and then scrambled out of the way as his gunner and radioman tumbled inside. They slammed the hatch shut behind them and stared wild-eyed as Tereny leaned over the driver’s shoulder shouting, “Crank it up! Let’s get out of here!”
With the teeth-rattling roar of incoming artillery fire urging them on, the Hungarian scouts raced for the dubious safety of their own lines.
TOKOL MILITARY AIRFIELD, NEAR BUDAPEST
It had taken the EurCon warplanes just twenty minutes to hammer Tokol into oblivion. Protected by fighters, three separate waves of Mirages and Tornados loaded for ground attack had roamed across the Hungarian airfield, bombing and strafing practically at will. Only two antiquated MiG-21s had managed to get airborne before the raiding force arrived. Both had been bounced and blown out of the sky without ever seeing their attackers.
When the French and German jets turned for home, they left nothing but wreckage behind them. Every runway was cratered, torn apart by French-made Durandals. Laser-guided one-thousand-kilogram bombs had turned rows of heavily reinforced shelters into mounds of twisted steel and shattered concrete. Burned-out wrecks littering the scorched and bullet-pocked tarmac showed where aircraft had been caught out in the open. And dense columns of black smoke in a ring around the horizon marked destroyed SAM sites and radar installations.
Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky climbed out of his car and walked over to the tiny knot of grim-faced air force officers surveying the destruction. Four of Oskar Kiraly’s best bodyguards moved with him, each carefully watching in a different direction. Having already lost one of the democratic revolution’s top leaders, Kiraly had no intention of losing another.
The air force officers stiffened to attention as he approached. Although he held no place in the formal military hierarchy, his position as national security advisor to the provisional government commanded respect.
“Is this as bad as it looks?” Hradetsky saw no point in beating around the bush. The new government’s ministers had crucial decisions to make and they were waiting for his first hand report.
“It’s worse.” The brigadier general now commanding Hungary’s air force spoke bluntly and bitterly. “They hit every one of our active airfields within a single hour last night. Aided by picture-perfect intelligence, no doubt.”
Hradetsky understood the other man’s anger. Four of the nation’s top-ranking air force officers were among those who had fled to join the EurCon-supported “government-in-exile.” Their inside information on Hungary’s bases, radar and SAM systems, and tactics must have proved invaluable to the French and Germans. “What about our losses?”
“Crippling.” The air force commander nodded toward the devastation in front of them. “This field is typical. Our preliminary estimates show that we’ve lost well over half of our interceptor and ground attack aircraft. Plus thirty to forty percent of our attack and transport helicopters. Our ordnance stores were hit, as were our maintenance facilities. Those that fly won’t be abl
e to fight very well.”
Hradetsky whistled softly in dismay. In just sixty minutes, the French and Germans had destroyed at least eighty MiG-21s and MiG-23s, and maybe another fifteen Hind-A helicopter gunships. For all practical purposes the Hungarian Air Force had been destroyed before it could get off the ground. Now enemies controlled the skies over his native land.
With its embattled troops naked to EurCon air attack and in full retreat, Hungary would need every scrap of help its new friends to the north could provide, and soon.
MAY 30 — BLUE FLIGHT, OVER VESZPREM, HUNGARY
Four twin-tailed aircraft slid through the cold night air. Navigation lights that would have been left on in peacetime for flight safety were off now. Poland’s F-15 Eagles were going to war.
Inside the lead Eagle, First Lieutenant Tadeusz Wojcik kept wanting to shove his throttles forward, to hurry and catch the EurCon aircraft he was after before they could make their strike. But the geometry was all wrong.
The battered Hungarian air defense system hadn’t detected the incoming raid until it was halfway to its target — the helicopter base at Veszprem, a city nestled in the Bakony Mountains near Lake Balaton. More precious minutes were wasted while the information passed down the chain of command to where Tad and his three flightmates had been sitting in their cockpits for half the night. By the time they’d got the news and scrambled off the airfield and into the air, it was too late to catch the strike aircraft before they dropped their bombs. They’d have to settle for jumping the bastards on their way home.
Within hours of Poland’s decision to aid Hungary’s democratic government, Wojcik’s squadron had moved south — to the Czech air base at Brno. That put them only a hundred klicks north of Vienna and the EurCon airfields around the Austrian capital. Right now, the Polish and Czech planes were operating under strict, defensive rules of engagement. They could only attack French and German planes in Hungarian airspace and only conduct strike missions against EurCon ground forces inside Hungary itself. If those rules changed, though, they’d be perfectly placed to attack right down the enemy’s throat.