by Larry Bond
Soloviev stared back at her for what seemed a very long time. Then he nodded slowly. “Perhaps… though it will be difficult.”
“When?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Slipping anything in writing or on tape past security will take thorough planning… and a great deal of luck. The planning I can guarantee, the luck I cannot.”
“It is important, Colonel. Vitally important.”
Soloviev nodded. “I understand.” He checked his watch and stood up. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough.”
Erin looked up at him. “How can I contact you again?”
He shook his head decisively. “You can’t. The FIS is growing stronger all the time. By now they must be monitoring all incoming and outgoing Defense Ministry calls.”
Erin made a decision. Banich had reluctantly given her a secure telephone number she could pass on to Soloviev if the Russian proved trustworthy. “Okay, Colonel. Then you call me to arrange another meeting — if you can find an untapped phone. Use this number only: two, fifty-three, twenty-four, sixty-two.”
He repeated the numbers back to her once, perfectly. Then he smiled, a brief sunburst across a somber face. “For a simple commercial attaché, Miss McKenna, you are astonishingly resourceful.”
Despite her best efforts at self-control, she blushed.
“Until our next meeting, then.” He took her hand, kissed it gallantly, and swung away.
“Colonel!”
Soloviev turned back.
“One more question.” Erin got up and walked toward him. “Why are you doing this?”
“I am a patriot, Miss McKenna.” He donned a sardonic grin. “‘My loyalties to Mother Russia supersede those to any individual.’ Or so Marshal Kaminov told my President when he took power and began this madness. If his own reasons now turn against him as dogs against their master, so much the better.”
JUNE 27 — ON THE BREST-SMOLENSK HIGHWAY, NEAR STOLBTSY, BELARUS
The main highway linking the Russian city of Smolensk with the Belarussian border city of Brest passed right through the upper reaches of the wide Niemen River valley. Quiet, shadowed woods and green meadows stretched peacefully to the north. To the south, a wall of thick, yellowish dust shrouded the countryside, kicked up by the military traffic clogging the highway.
Militiamen and military police squads stood guard at intersections along the route, turning civilian cars and trucks off onto smaller, unpaved side roads. To save road space and time, the three divisions moving west were using both sides of the highway. Giant tank transporters carrying canvas-shrouded T-80s and BMP-2s mingled with trucks and wheeled BTR-80 APCs carrying troops and supplies. All told, two thousand vehicles and sixty thousand men were heading for the Polish frontier in a march column that stretched for more than seventy kilometers. Freight trains crammed with fuel and ammunition paralleled the column.
While his subordinates haggled with the French, Marshal Yuri Kaminov was massing his forces.
PARIS
Nicolas Desaix eyed the man and woman sitting in front of him with a mixture of scorn and irritation. The two Belgians were a thoroughly unimpressive pair. How could anyone take a female defense minister seriously? Especially one who looked more like a plump, white-haired housewife than a senior government official. Nor did the thick waist and heavy jowls of the Belgian Army’s chief of staff inspire much confidence. The only point in their favor was that they at least had the wit to know who really wielded power inside the Confederation.
He shook his head. “I cannot agree to this request for special treatment, Madame Defense Minister. Being asked to commit a mere two brigades of mechanized troops for noncombat duties hardly strikes me as particularly taxing.”
“But those brigades represent half of our regular army, monsieur!” the Defense Minister protested. “Worse, deploying them would violate my government’s solemn pledge to the voters that our conscripts won’t be asked to serve outside our own national boundaries!”
Desaix glowered back at her. It had been his idea to requisition Belgian troops in the first place. Reports from Moscow made it painfully clear that it would take longer than he had hoped to bribe the Russians into the war. In the meantime, the French and German forces in Poland urgently needed more men and more tanks to revive their stalled offensive. Using Belgian soldiers to guard the Confederation’s lines of communication was one way to free up units for frontline duty. He was not prepared to see those plans undone by pigheaded Belgian politicians.
“Your government’s solemn pledges to the Confederation outweigh trivial domestic considerations, madam. If you have any doubts of that, I suggest you reread the relevant treaties.” Desaix didn’t see any point in mincing his words. These people represented a small and vulnerable nation flanked by both France and Germany. They should remember that. Besides, by showing a firm hand now, he could stop their reluctance from sliding into outright resistance.
He leaned forward. “The orders from the Defense Secretariat are final and we expect full and prompt compliance. I suggest you both begin issuing the necessary instructions to your commanders.”
With that, he looked away, ignoring the stunned, strained look of disbelief on their faces. By the time his aides ushered the two appalled Belgian officials out of his office, Nicolas Desaix’s mind was already busy grappling with other, far more important matters.
CHAPTER 28
Bridgehead
JUNE 27 — HEADQUARTERS, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, SOUTH OF BYDGOSZCZ, POLAND
Signs of war littered Poland’s roads and fields. Two burned-out T-72s stood off to one side of Highway 5. They had been destroyed while trying to delay the advancing EurCon army. Blackened grass and melted steel and rubber surrounded the wrecks, and the faint, sickening stench of smoke, burned diesel, and burned flesh lingered in the air — a disturbing contrast to the ordinary Polish countryside smells of sunbaked earth, horses, and cattle.
Lieutenant Colonel Willi von Seelow waited by the other side of the road, watching the long column of his brigade’s Marder APCs and Leopard 2 tanks grind past on their way north. Thousands of fighting vehicles and guns were on the move, their passage marked by drifting clouds of dust. After five days spent in reserve, resting and absorbing replacements, the EurCon II Corps was going into battle again — led as usual by the 7th Panzer Division.
Clumps of silent, morose-looking infantrymen rode atop the Marders. Most had scarves pulled up over their mouths and noses to ward off the thick, gritty dust churned up by speeding tracks. Oil and diesel fumes and the scorching heat trapped by their armor made staying inside the APCs’ crowded troop compartments unbearable.
Some of the soldiers crowded atop the APCs were familiar faces. Far too many were men he didn’t know. Although some of the brigade’s losses had been made good by lightly wounded troops returning to duty, most of their replacements were Territorial Army soldiers hastily drafted into regular service.
The rough equivalent of the U.S. National Guard, Germany’s territorial forces were supposed to be used for home defense, not aggressive war, but unexpectedly heavy casualties had forced a change in official policy. Nobody was happy about that. Not the commanders who were being asked to make do with troops who were older, less physically fit, and less prepared for combat. Certainly not the Territorials themselves. Most were businessmen, shopkeepers, and factory workers who had only signed up to defend their own homes against a Soviet invasion. Angry at being ordered into battle on foreign soil, many had refused to report for duty. Others had come prepared with convenient medical reports that excused them from active service. All told, barely half of those called up had joined the German divisions fighting inside Poland.
Willi watched the glum, depressed faces sliding by and sighed. Though on paper his brigade was back to almost full strength, it was still a far cry from the polished, powerful combat formation that had crossed the Neisse twenty-two days before.
A Marder turned out of the column and pulled up
beside von Seelow’s own command vehicle. Numbers and letters chalked on the APC’s armored flanks identified it as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Klaus von Olden, the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion’s commanding officer. He noted with some amusement that the brightly painted heraldic crest that had once served the same function was gone. Apparently common sense and a fine nose for battlefield survival had overridden the man’s pride in his noble Prussian ancestors. Von Olden, a middling-tall, grim-faced officer, climbed out of the APC and dropped lightly onto the grass.
Willi strode forward to meet him, trying hard to keep a neutral expression on his face. Arrogant, obnoxious, and ambitious, the 192nd’s CO had been a thorn in his side ever since he’d joined the brigade. Von Olden despised “ossies,” East Germans, like von Seelow — especially ossies who were ahead of him on the promotion ladder. But, like it or not, Willi knew, he had to work with this man.
If anything, his jump to brigade commander had intensified their mutual dislike. Von Olden made no secret of the fact that he considered himself far more competent and deserving than “a jumped-up East German refugee.” Willi suspected that several members of the 7th Panzer and II Corps staffs harbored the same sentiments.
Willi shrugged inwardly. He’d assumed command under the most difficult circumstances imaginable and performed well. At least this war had forced the army’s internal politics to one side in favor of basic competence.
Von Olden stood in front of him with his hands on his hips and his chin jutting out. “You wanted to see me?”
Everything about the battalion commander, from his sarcastic tone and sour expression to the rakish tilt of his dark green beret, seemed designed to show contempt.
Von Seelow waited coldly, saying nothing. Insolence and insubordination were both grounds for disciplinary charges — even against senior officers. If the 192nd’s troublesome CO wanted to push matters that far, he would be happy to oblige him.
Gradually the man’s self-assurance wilted in the face of his continued silence. Still scowling, von Olden straightened to a semblance of attention and asked again, “You wanted to see me, sir?” The last word slipped out through clenched teeth.
Von Seelow nodded calmly. “We’ve been given a new objective, and I’m assigning it to you and your troops.”
He turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the M577 command vehicle where Major Thiessen was waiting to brief them. Von Olden didn’t have any choice but to tag along behind.
Surprised by the Polish counterattack that had checked II Corps south of Poznan, the EurCon high command had been forced to send its jealously guarded reserves into action. For two days, the V Corps’ two fresh panzer divisions had ground forward against the battered Poles — locked in a bloody slugging match to clear the city’s eastern and western approaches. At last, faced with flanking maneuvers that threatened to isolate Poznan entirely, the Poles evacuated and resumed their delaying fight — trading space for time while waiting for reinforcements from the east and from the Combined Forces.
Two of the six Polish divisions on line withdrew toward Warsaw, screening the roads to the Polish capital in case the French and Germans turned that way. The rest were falling back on Gdansk. Every kilometer they retreated brought them closer to better defensive terrain and to the port facilities where the American and British troops already at sea would have to land.
EurCon’s invasion armies had turned north in pursuit. Now they had a new strategic objective, their third in a little over three weeks: Seize Gdansk and shut off the flow of enemy reinforcements and war supplies. Then, with the Poles isolated and reeling, Paris and Berlin could make new peace overtures from a strong battlefield position.
Von Seelow studied the map thoughtfully. Gdansk should have been their objective right from the start. The first Franco-German attacks toward Wroclaw and Poznan had gained ground and nothing else. Taking the Polish port city offered real hope that this idiotic war could be won — or at least brought to a close on honorable terms.
Unfortunately, capturing Gdansk before the Americans could land their heavy armor and mechanized units would take some doing. During the three days of nonstop pursuit since Poznan fell, EurCon’s forces had advanced more than eighty kilometers. Now they were closing in on the sprawling industrial city of Bydgoszcz. But the port was still another 150 kilometers beyond that, and Bydgoszcz itself could prove a tough nut to crack.
Anyone trying to advance through or around the city first had to cross the Notec River and then penetrate a fairly thick band of forest. Swinging wide to the west would be difficult at best, impossible at worst. The Pomeranian Lakelands began there — a vast marshland of more than a thousand lakes and tree-lined, winding waterways. Moving east was also impractical. The broad Vistula River looped north there, blocking easy flanking moves.
Willi frowned. Terrain and the road net were both combining to funnel EurCon’s advancing army into a frontal attack against Bydgoszcz. If their enemies were looking for a good place to turn and fight, this was it.
The Notec River, though not as wide as the Vistula, was still a formidable tactical barrier. Given enough time, the Poles could dig in solidly behind the river line — barring the main road to Gdansk.
II Corps headquarters wanted the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade to seize a bridgehead across the Notec, and soon. But where?
Major Thiessen answered his question by leaning across the map and pointing to a village several kilometers up the road from their present position. “There, Herr Oberstleutnant. The highway bridge at Rynarzewo.”
Willi nodded, feeling cold inside. II Corps wanted them to attack straight up the middle. If the Poles were still retreating, they’d only blow the bridge right in his face. If they were deploying to hold the river line in strength, the 192nd’s assault could easily run headfirst into a ready-made killing ground.
From the troubled look on Klaus von Olden’s face he had come to the same conclusion. The corners of his thin-lipped mouth turned down. “What kind of support can I count on, Major?”
Thiessen looked apologetic. “Very little, I’m afraid, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Von Olden stabbed a finger down on the woods shown just north of the bridge. It offered perfect concealment for any Polish tanks and infantry lurking in ambush. “What about an air strike here? Using napalm or cluster munitions, if possible.”
The major shook his head. “No air support is available, sir.”
Not particularly surprising, Willi thought numbly. The focus of the air war had shifted west, into France and Germany. The small numbers of exhausted fighter and fighter-bomber squadrons left to both sides were being used solely for air defense or for raids on vital installations. Neither side could claim any measure of air superiority over the battlefield.
Von Olden rocked back on his heels. “And my artillery support? What guns will I have on call?”
“Our brigade guns and mortars only, Herr Oberstleutnant. Apparently all corps and divisional artillery is being committed to other operations,” Thiessen replied.
Willi’s suspicions hardened into near certainty. General Montagne, the II Corps commander, had something else up his sleeve. Nobody could seriously expect a single brigade to capture the bridge at Rynarzewo without more support. Clearly he and his men were being asked to fight and die as part of a feint. While the Poles concentrated their forces to butcher the 19th Panzergrenadier, Montagne must be hoping that other units would be able to cross the river elsewhere against lighter opposition.
Anger gripped him. It was bad enough to be sacrificed so callously. The French general’s apparent willingness to keep them in the dark was worse. Did Montagne think his German troops wouldn’t fight hard enough if they knew the truth?
For an instant von Seelow considered refusing the attack order. Then reality flooded back in. In the abstract, his defiance would be a fine thing. In practical terms, it would achieve nothing. Montagne and General Leibnitz would only replace him with von Olden or someone similar.
He peered down at the map, aware that both Thiessen and von Olden were watching him carefully, waiting for their instructions. For a moment, his mind stayed obstinately blank. Then, suddenly, the beginnings of an idea tugged at his consciousness. If you couldn’t bypass a strong enemy position or spend the time needed to pulverize it with superior firepower, there was just one real option left. Speed was life, the fighter pilots said. Well, the same often applied to land warfare. Rapid maneuver was the key to seizing the initiative and disrupting enemy plans. It also lay at the heart of German tactical doctrine.
Willi looked up at the 192nd’s commander. “When can you attack, Colonel?”
“An hour? Perhaps two?” Von Olden shrugged. “Once we’ve closed up on the river, I’ll need time to deploy my companies, scout the ground, and brief my officers. I’ll want tank support from the 194th, too.”
“No.” Von Seelow shook his head. He nodded toward the northern horizon. “The more time we use up now, the more time we give those Poles to finish digging in.”
He turned back to von Olden. “So don’t mess about, Colonel! Hit them as hard and as fast as you can before they’ve got time to get set! Swing right out of your march column into the attack! I’ll feed the other battalions into the fight as fast as they arrive. Clear?”
The 192nd’s aristocratic commander nodded reluctantly, clearly unenthusiastic about the whole idea. For all his aggressive posturing, Klaus von Olden was a cautious man at heart.
Willi ignored his subordinate’s uncertainty. He glanced at Thiessen. “Get on the radio to Captain Brandt. Tell him I want the approaches to that damned village cleared as quickly as he can!”
The major nodded and hurried away. Gunther Brandt commanded the brigade’s advance guard — a battle group made up of the captain’s Luchs scout cars and a Leopard company attached from the 194th Panzer for added striking power. Brandt and his men had been skirmishing with retreating Polish armor and infantry units all morning, engaging at long range and maneuvering off the highway to outflank the Poles whenever they turned to fight. It was the kind of fighting designed to minimize casualties while still gaining ground, but it was time-consuming. Von Seelow’s new orders would change that.