by Larry Bond
He strode forward and faced them squarely. “I won’t mince words, gentlemen. The strategic situation is bleak.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
“But it is not irretrievable.” Novachik let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “This division is being committed to battle in the south. Two regiments, the 51st and the 52nd, will leave immediately. The 53rd will stay behind until it can hand off the defense of this sector to the 20th Mechanized.”
Their eyes widened at that. Warsaw was taking an enormous risk. Pulling the 5th off the Oder line would leave only a single division and an odd assortment of poorly armed Home Guard companies behind.
“The division will proceed to Wroclaw by this route.” Novachik picked up the colonel’s pointer and swept it across the map, east to Poznan first and then south to Wroclaw. Their planned line of march swung wide around the EurCon forces pouring down Highway 12. “This will be a forced march, so speed is absolutely vital. Vehicles that break down will be left behind to follow along when they can. If necessary, we will eat and sleep on the move. This is a horse race, gentlemen, and the enemy is on the inside rail. And there are no prizes for second place.”
They nodded again, their faces solemn in the lamplight. The 5th Mechanized Division was about to enter a contest where the stakes were Poland’s continued existence as a free and independent nation.
U.S. EMBASSY, MOSCOW
Erin McKenna smiled happily when Alex Banich leaned in through the open door to her office. They were both so busy these days that she rarely saw him at all — especially not during working hours. The fighting spilling through Eastern Europe added a special urgency to their efforts to monitor Russia’s armed forces and defense industries.
Her smile faded. Behind the poker face most people saw, he looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid dinner’s off. Duty calls.”
“With a shrill and unpleasant voice?”
Banich nodded. “Very shrill and very unpleasant.” He came in and closed the door behind him. “I just had a chat with Kutner. He’s received a priority signal from Langley.”
Erin grimaced. “What do they want now? The phone number for Kaminov’s newest mistress?”
“Not exactly.” He carefully pushed a pile of printouts to one side and took his usual perch at one end of her desk. She sometimes wondered what he had against sitting in chairs.
“What, then?”
“They need to know whether or not the Russians plan to intervene against Poland.” Banich said it flatly, without evident emotion.
Erin stared at him. “And how are you supposed to find that out? Just waltz right up to the Kremlin and ask?”
Banich shrugged. “When the boys on the top floor want results, they really don’t care what I have to do to get them.”
“Seriously.”
He shrugged again. “Anything I can… up to and including twisting a few greedy little arms inside the Defense Ministry.”
Erin was aghast. “That’s crazy!” She pushed her keyboard away and turned to face him. “You know that whole building will be crawling with FIS agents by now.”
“Probably.”
“Just waiting for the first Western spy stupid enough to come barging in with cash and miniature camera in hand.”
Banich nodded. “Probably.” He grinned suddenly. “Hey, risk comes with the territory. If I’d wanted a safe, boring job, I’d have gone in for circus high-wire work like my grandma wanted me to.”
She forced a smile of her own. She’d worked with him long enough to realize that being flippant was the way he dealt with stress. He knew the risks. Harping on them wouldn’t help.
Banich studied her face intently, almost as though he were memorizing it. Then he checked his watch and stood up. “Gotta run. My alter ego, Ushenko, has a very important appointment at ten.” He looked down at her. “Wish me luck.”
“Always.” Erin kept her voice light. “But if you stand me up one more time, Alex Banich, I’ll sue you for trifling with my affections. Either that or ask my daddy to horsewhip you through the town streets.”
He laughed softly and ghosted out of the room and down the hall.
“Damn it!” Someone she was starting to care a lot about was putting himself in a lot of danger, and she couldn’t do a thing to help him. She swiveled back to her computer and jabbed viciously at the enter key. It beeped in protest.
Her usefulness in Moscow was just about at an end. With the FIS breathing down her neck, she couldn’t risk any personal contacts with potential sources. That left electronic espionage. But Russia’s computer security teams were steadily and methodically finding and sealing the nooks and crannies she’d been using to slip in and out of confidential data bases. Pretty soon, for all the good she’d be able to do here, she might as well be back in D.C. filling out and filing meaningless Commerce Department reports.
Erin McKenna stared emptily into her computer screen. With Europe in flames, she was trapped inside the Moscow embassy compound.
CHAPTER 20
Meeting Engagement
JUNE 7 — HEADQUARTERS, 7TH PANZER DIVISION, NEAR LEGNICA, POLAND
The small village of Legnickie Pole had a troubled history stretching back over many centuries. In 1241, Duke Henryk the Pious and his Polish and Silesian knights had been defeated there by Mongol horse archers pouring out of the eastern steppes. Benedictine monks built a monastery to honor the fallen duke but were driven out by German overlords during the Protestant Reformation. They returned centuries later and built a new abbey facing the old. Unfortunately for the monks, covetous secular hands were never far behind. For nearly a century, the abbey buildings housed a Prussian military academy. One of its graduates was Paul von Hindenburg, Germany’s last commander in chief during World War I and the man who named Adolf Hitler as Germany’s Chancellor.
Now Legnickie Pole served as a temporary headquarters for another invading force.
The cluster of jeeps, trucks, and armored vehicles constituting the 7th Panzer Division’s forward command post filled a small campground on the edge of the village. Infantrymen, Milan antitank missile teams, and air defense units stood guard around the perimeter. Polish stragglers cut off by the rapid Confederation advance were showing an irritating reluctance to accept defeat and surrender. Instead they seemed determined to fight on — attacking supply convoys, command posts, and even fighting units whenever possible. Constant vigilance was necessary — especially at night.
Lieutenant Colonel Willi von Seelow paused before following Colonel Bremer into the central headquarters tent. Since the war began he’d been spending eighteen to twenty hours a day inside the brigade’s cramped M577 headquarters vehicle — preparing and discarding or distributing new operations plans as the tactical situation changed. Now he relished this rare chance to stretch to his full height. It was also a chance to breathe fresh air only lightly tinged with diesel fumes, smoke, and sweat.
Flashes lit the night sky to the south, followed seconds later by the muffled drumbeat of heavy artillery. III Corps gunners were pounding stubborn Polish rear guards holding the road junction at Jawor. A flickering orange glow to the west marked a village set ablaze during the day’s fighting.
Von Seelow could also hear the steady rumble of heavy traffic crawling south and east along the highways outside the town. He frowned. With six divisions converging on a front only fifty kilometers or so wide, the roads were clogged. Vital supplies — tank and artillery ammunition, and diesel fuel — weren’t getting forward fast enough. Unless those rear-area logistical tangles could be sorted out, this offensive risked bogging down under its own weight.
He shook his head, pushing away strategic concerns beyond his scope, and went inside.
Bremer was up front, near a pair of cloth-covered map stands. The 19th Panzergrenadier’s short, dark-haired commander stood in the middle of a small circle of other senior officers, chatting amicably with the men who led the division’s two Panze
r brigades. Willi pushed through the crowded tent to join him. General Karl Leibnitz had evidently summoned all of his combat commanders and their top staff officers to this late night meeting.
That wasn’t surprising. With events knocking their prewar plans further and further out of whack, the 7th Panzer and the other Confederation units inside Poland urgently needed new instructions and new objectives.
“Achtung.”
The assembled officers came to attention as Leibnitz pushed past the tent’s blackout flap.
“At ease, gentlemen.” The general took his place at the front. “Let’s not waste time with formalities.”
He pulled the cover off the left-hand map. It showed the EurCon Army’s current positions and those held by the Poles. “Summer Lightning has failed to achieve its primary objective — the encirclement and annihilation of the Polish 4th and 11th mechanized divisions. The Poles have fallen back too far and too fast for us to get behind them.”
Von Seelow and the others nodded. Despite their best efforts, the 7th Panzer’s rapid advance through the forest had netted only a few laggard enemy units — none larger than company-sized groupings of antique T-55 tanks and wheeled troop carriers. Poland’s best troops had escaped the trap. The war plan’s vaunted “jaws of steel” had closed on empty air and deserted Polish farmland.
“As a result, we’ve been given new orders by II Corps.” The division commander turned to the map on the second stand. It showed a set of red arrows arcing north past Legnica before turning and coming south again.
“We turn northeast, pushing along these tertiary roads here and here.” Leibnitz traced them as he talked. “Our first objective is the bridge over the Cicha Woda at Kawice.” He tapped a tiny village near the junction of the Oder River and its small tributary.
“From there we advance southeast toward Sroda Slaska and Katy Wroclawskie, using the Oder to protect our left flank.” The general saw their understanding and nodded. “That’s correct, gentlemen. If we move fast — very fast — we can swing around the Polish lines and cut them off from Wroclaw before they have time to retreat again.”
What? Willi wondered which idiot on the corps staff had come up with this half-baked half-measure. Without stopping to consider the consequences, he shook his head and took a step closer to the map.
The movement and gesture caught Leibnitz’s attention. “Something about this plan troubles you, von Seelow?”
Suddenly feeling all the eyes in the crowded tent boring into his back, Willi nodded. “Yes, Herr General, it does.”
“Well?”
Willi swallowed the urge to retreat. His duty as an officer required him to speak up. “This turning movement is too shallow, Herr General. Once the Poles realize what we are up to, they’ll have little trouble shifting local reserves to slow us down or seal off our penetration entirely. And once that happens, we’ll only find ourselves locked into a bloody, head-to-head slugging match again.”
“And what do you suggest instead?” The general’s flat tone made it very clear that he had better damned well have an alternative in mind.
“That we advance north past Kawice and cross the Oder itself before turning east.” Von Seelow injected as much confidence in his voice as he could. “Then, with the river protecting our right flank, we can swing deep around Wroclaw itself. If III Corps does the same to the south, we can still pocket a sizable portion of the Poles in and around the city.”
Leibnitz pondered the map in a silence that dragged uncomfortably. Then he shook his head. “Our orders are clear, Colonel. They come straight from General Montagne himself. He has little patience and less time for perfect ’staff school’ solutions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Von Seelow groaned inwardly. Until now their French corps commander had seemed content to rely on his staff and his division commanders. The prospect of trying to carry out superficial plans hatched by Montagne himself sent chills down his spine.
“Good.” Leibnitz scanned his assembled officers. “We move out at first light. I suggest you all make sure your vehicles are topped off and restocked. Once we break into the enemy’s rear areas, it may be some time before we can be resupplied.”
His gaze fell on the commander of his reconnaissance battalion. “Major Lauer’s tanks and scout cars will lead the way. Your watchword, Max, is speed. Speed, speed, and still more speed!”
His ears still burning from the general’s implied rebuke, Willi von Seelow listened to the rest of the briefing in silence.
JUNE 8 — 7TH PANZER RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, NEAR KAWICE
Sixty Leopard 1 tanks, Luchs scout cars, and Fuchs infantry carriers raced east, thundering through fields of standing wheat and corn. Dust plumes marked their passage. Robbed of rain by several days of unseasonably clear weather, the roads and fields were dry.
Major Max Lauer spat to clear some of the dust from his mouth, and used one gloved hand to swipe at his goggles. He squinted down the dirt road ahead, trying to catch a first glimpse of the little farming village called Kawice.
It appeared as soon as his command tank crested a low rise rolling up out of the flat Polish countryside. A half-timbered church steeple rose above scattered roofs only a couple of kilometers away. Small stands of trees traced the meandering path of the narrow river that cut Kawice in half. The bridge linking the two halves was still out of sight. But at this speed, his battalion would be on top of it in minutes.
A voice crackled through his headphones. “Rover One, this is Rover Charlie One.” The commander of C Company — a mixed force of Leopards and Luchs scout cars — had something to report. “Spot report! Vehicles moving toward the town! Across the river.”
Lauer snapped his head in that direction and raised his binoculars. At first, he could only see the yellow-brown haze of dust churned up by speeding tracks and tires. Then he could make out individual vehicles — little more than brown and light green dots at this distance. They were moving up the road from Sroda Slaska at high speed.
New reports came through his headphones, pouring in from vehicle commanders ahead of him. “Vehicles are BRDMs, BMPs, and T-72s. Estimate enemy is in company strength at least.”
Damn it. They’d run right into a Polish recon outfit heading for Kawice on a converging course. And the Poles were closer to the town and its bridge than they were.
“This is Rover Charlie One. Enemy in range. Engaging!”
Lauer could see C Company’s tanks and Luchs scout cars veering away from the road, trying to take the speeding Polish column in the flank. He nodded to himself. If they could force the Poles to halt, to deploy for combat, his battalion might still win this race for Kawice.
He keyed his mike. “All Rover units, this is Rover One. Push for the town! No stopping!”
Tank cannon cracked in the distance. C Company’s Leopards were in action — pouring 105mm shells toward the enemy as the range wound down. Moments later, he heard a steady chattering roar. The scout cars had opened up with their 20mm rapid-fire cannon.
Smoke boiled up through the haze. His men were getting hits! One of the lead BRDMs vanished in a ball of flame. Another lay on its side, on fire. Riddled by 20mm rounds, a BMP ground to a halt with smoke pouring from its engine compartment. Burning men tumbled out the back and crumpled to the ground. A T-72 sat off to one side of the road with its turret blown off.
But most of the Poles were still charging toward Kawice, swerving around the wrecked and damaged vehicles in their path.
Lauer swore fiercely. Those bastards across the river were too brave.
Something flashed past the Leopard’s turret, trailing a shock wave of displaced air that slapped him in the face and tore at his black beret and headset. Startled, he ducked and then swore again. The Polish T-72s were firing back on the move. Luckily, their Soviet-made 125mm guns weren’t accurate beyond fifteen hundred meters!
He’d been so busy commanding his battalion that he’d almost forgotten he was also inside a fighting vehicle.<
br />
The German major dropped back into his seat and grabbed the gun override, traversing the massive turret to the right. He pressed his face against the sight extension, searching for the enemy tank that had fired at him. There! A low-slung, turreted shape came into view, bucketing up and down as it crossed a dirt lane and ditch separating one wheat field from another.
“Gunner! Tank at two o’clock!”
“Identified!” His gunner, seated below and in front of him, had the T-72 in sight. “Sabot!”
“Up!” The Leopard’s loader confirmed they had a tank-killing, discarding sabot round in the main gun, and that he was out of the way.
“Fire!”
The gun fired and recoiled, rocking the tank to the left. A tungsten-steel dart, surrounded by a metal shoe, or sabot, left the tank gun barrel. As it cleared the muzzle, the sabot fell away, transferring the punch of a large-bore round into a much smaller, superdense projectile.
A cloud of smoke and flame from the muzzle blast obscured their vision for a brief instant and then vanished — left behind by the Leopard’s forward motion.
The T-72 was still rolling. They’d missed!
Lauer grimaced. “Gunner! Reengage!”
Smoke and dust billowed up in front of the Polish tank as it fired again and missed a second time.
“Up!”
“Fire!”
Another flash and bang and another cloud of smoke and dust. But this time, Lauer’s sight revealed the enemy tank swerving off to one side, cloaked in flame as its ammunition and fuel detonated. He kicked the gunner’s shoulder lightly. “Good shooting, Sergeant. Engage other targets at will.”
The major popped his head and shoulders back through the open hatch. He’d lost the bigger picture while concentrating on the necessary task of killing that one T-72. Now he had to regain his grasp of the tactical situation, and fast.