by Larry Bond
Well, it looked like their mini-Phony War was finally coming to an end.
“Attention!”
Boots slammed onto the floor as the brisk command brought Reynolds and the others to their feet. Accompanied by a single aide, Colonel Iverson marched to the front of the room and stood facing them.
“Take your seats, gentlemen.” Iverson waved them down impatiently. “I’ll keep it short and sweet. This is no drill. We’re going into the line against EurCon.” He ignored the stir that caused and turned to his S-2, the brigade intelligence officer. “Start your dog-and-pony show, John. I want this outfit on the move before dark.”
Reynolds nodded to himself. There’d be no fancy speeches from this officer. Iverson had a reputation for being quick, to the point of brusqueness. If you weren’t ready to say something useful when you went in to see him, you didn’t bother going.
The S-2 moved to center stage. His presentation was what everyone had been waiting for. It touched on the real reason for their being there: the enemy’s latest moves.
He pointed to the largest easel-mounted map as he talked. EurCon’s first two pincer attacks against the Polish Army had failed. Now the French and Germans had turned north and were driving on Gdansk. And the most recent reports from the battle front said EurCon troops were across the Notec River. Their armored spearheads were already closing in on Bydgoszcz, an important road and rail junction just 150 kilometers south of Gdansk’s vital port facilities.
That might seem like a lot, but every American soldier on Polish soil had heard stories about just how quickly the EurCon Army, especially its German components, could move. The rear-area types, always nervous about their own skins, were convinced that French and German tanks might show up at the Renaissance High Gate any second, blasting their way into the city.
Reynolds and his men held a combat soldier’s contempt for anyone stationed safely outside artillery range, but the tales hit a nerve anyway. Light soldiers do not think of themselves as mobile, in spite of their helicopters. Tough, yes, but they still walked on the battlefield. In a mobile battle they could be quickly cut off and destroyed in detail, and this was a fast-moving war.
Now they would find that out at first hand. Worn down by three weeks of gallant resistance against superior numbers, the Polish Army was starting to crack. Positions that should have been held for days were falling in hours. And Russian threat or no Russian threat, the Combined Forces couldn’t let EurCon capture Gdansk.
“Attention!”
Iverson’s call startled the intelligence officer, intent on his task. Reynolds and the others leapt to their feet a second time as Maj. Gen. Robert J. “Butch” Thompson strode into the chamber. Thompson was the Big Dog from Hell, the top soldier in the whole 101st Airborne.
At a distance, the division commander looked like a man of average height. But nobody held on to that impression once they’d seen him up close or in company with other men. He actually stood half a head taller than Mike’s own six feet. The general wore his gray-streaked blond hair cut very close over a powerful, square-jawed face and ice-cold blue eyes. Thompson had led the 101st for over a year, and during that time he’d imparted his characteristic drive to the entire division.
The general took position in front of the S-2’s maps and charts. “First, I want to compliment this brigade on the job you’ve done getting over here and getting ready to fight.”
He glanced at the maps behind him, but returned his gaze to the assembled officers almost immediately. “I know everyone here wants to get in and mix it up with the bad guys. Some of you have fought before, but for many this is going to be your first time in combat. You may be worried about how you’ll do. That’s natural. All I ask is that you remember your training and that you remember your men. You have the best of both — the best in the world.
“Now, we’re not out to defeat EurCon all by ourselves. People have been calling us a fire brigade. That’s not quite right. We’re not here to put out the fire, just to keep it from spreading.
“My intention is to delay the enemy, slowing him by any means possible, while conserving our own strength. We all want to die in bed, but more important, this division will be the only significant help the Poles can expect for some time to come. So our mission is to wear EurCon down until our own heavy units can arrive in strength.”
Thompson paused, letting that sink in. “That won’t be easy. Make no mistake, we’re in for a hard fight, but I’ve got the hard fighters to do it. And by the time we’re through with ‘em, these EurCon bastards are gonna be mighty sorry they ever tangled with the Screaming Eagles.” He nodded to them. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and may God bless you all. Air Assault!”
After the division commander left, the rest of the 3rd Brigade’s staff officers finished filling them in on the hundreds of details they needed to move and fight in a foreign land. For Mike Reynolds, their rapid-fire dissertations on movement routes and maintenance, fueling, and rearming points passed in something of a blur — subordinated to a single, overwhelming reality. This briefing was in deadly earnest. All of his years at West Point and in the army since, all the years of learning, training, and preparing, were coming to fruition. He was going to lead his troops into battle.
When the staff finished, Colonel Iverson stepped forward for his own laconic version of the pep talk. “Send ’em to hell. Dismissed.”
CHAPTER 29
Inside Straight
JUNE 27 — THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Ross Huntington paced moodily back and forth, practically wearing a furrow in the carpet while paging through the latest batch of top-secret NSA signals intercepts delivered by special courier. When he’d first suggested to the President the idea of looking for weak points in the EurCon coalition, he’d been confident the research might actually lead somewhere. Now the job just seemed more like meaningless make-work than ever.
Physically he looked and felt better than he had in months. Nearly two weeks under the no-nonsense care provided by the President’s personal doctor had worked wonders. His chest pains, shortness of breath, and other danger signs had all faded or vanished entirely. After constant monitoring even his heart rate seemed relatively steady. But with every passing day, he grew more restless. Oh, the White House guest quarters he’d been assigned were comfortable, even luxurious, but he was tired of comfort and bored with bed rest. Although Dr. Pardolesi and the other medicos kept warning him that much of the improvement he sensed was illusory or fragile, Huntington felt fine — perfectly ready to go back to work.
After all, while he idled the hours away as a semi-invalid, events were passing him by. Twelve days were an eternity in a world on the edge of global war, and he desperately wanted to get back in synch before it was too late.
At least he wasn’t completely out of the loop. The President looked in on him from time to time for a quick chat and a rundown on major developments. And he still had access to the NSC’s classified daily intelligence summaries.
Huntington sighed. Taken together, those intelligence reports painted a grim picture of the military and political situation facing the United States and its allies. Despite recent victories in the air and at sea, they were still behind the power curve in Eastern Europe. In the north, EurCon’s armies were deep inside Poland — advancing against defenders who were rapidly running out of men, machines, and endurance. Several British and American “heavy” divisions were on their way, but even the closest convoys were still days away from Gdansk. To the south, half of Hungary lay under French and German occupation. In the center, the Czechs and Slovaks were hanging on by their fingernails — too hard-pressed themselves to send much aid elsewhere.
Even if Poland and the other countries could hold out long enough for aid to arrive, the Combined Forces faced the likely prospect of a prolonged and bloody ground campaign to roll EurCon back to its prewar borders. Tens of thousands were already dead on both sides, Huntington knew. How many more would have to die b
efore the madmen in Paris and Berlin came to their senses?
Against that backdrop, yesterday’s Flash message from the CIA’s Moscow Station took on an even bleaker aspect. News of the secret Franco-Russian military talks had hit the President and his closest advisors like a sledgehammer right between the eyes. With good reason, too. Russian intervention would irretrievably tip the scales against the Combined Forces in eastern and central Europe. Even in her weakened state, Russia could throw nearly half a million soldiers into the field. Her navy was still the second most powerful in the world, and her slimmed-down air force included large numbers of sophisticated, highly capable fighters and fighter-bombers. More ominously, Russia retained a sizable stockpile of tactical and strategic nuclear weapons. If she joined the fighting, the world would again face the specter of uncontrolled escalation to thermonuclear war.
Ever since the first closely guarded reports sent shock waves through official circles, both the NSC and the British War Cabinet had been meeting in almost continuous session, searching frantically for some way to break up the secret talks and keep Russia on the sidelines. So far, they’d had scant success. If the CIA’s initial reports were accurate, the French were offering Kaminov and his fellow marshals, military, economic, and political concessions that Washington and London could not possibly hope to match. Not without reawakening a monster that had prowled around the free world’s doors for nearly five decades, forever trying to claw and pry its way inside. Containing the old Soviet state’s imperial ambitions had cost the West many lives and trillions of dollars. Nobody in power now wanted to risk repeating the experience at the dawn of the twenty-first century.
Huntington’s watch beeped, reminding him it was time to take the next dose of the medication Pardolesi had prescribed. He stopped pacing long enough to down one of the orange-colored pills from the bottle he carried in his pants pocket. Even a short acquaintance with the President’s doctor had soon convinced him that strict compliance with any reasonable orders would be his quickest ticket out of this gilded cage.
He thrust the medicine bottle back into his pocket and made an effort to concentrate on the job at hand. In dealing with the Russians, the President could count on advice from hundreds of better-qualified experts. His job right now was to keep searching for ways to unravel the European Confederation from the inside.
He skimmed through the collection of signals intercepts in growing frustration.
After two weeks spent scanning hundreds of bits and pieces of intelligence, his whole grand notion seemed more like a dead end than a road to victory. It wasn’t that the smaller member states were happy with their de facto masters — far from it. The airwaves and land lines back and forth between Paris and their national capitals were full of complaints of French arrogance. But bellyaching, bitching, and moaning were a far cry from action, and Huntington hadn’t yet been able to find a single opening worth exploiting. Few of the European governments had many illusions left about their position inside the Confederation, but none wanted to risk French or German wrath by openly breaking their signed agreements — especially when this war’s outcome still hung in the balance. Most seemed hopeful they could just hunker down, stay uninvolved in any combat, and let the whole unpleasant business pass them by. With their hands full in Eastern Europe, EurCon’s ruling circles had seemed perfectly willing to accept that attitude.
Until now.
Huntington froze, staring down at the document he’d just read. If the National Security Agency’s analysts were right, he was looking at the transcript of a conversation between Belgium’s Prime Minister and Minister of Defense.
Every day, the dozens of NSA-managed satellites and listening posts scattered around the world routinely intercepted huge volumes of radio, radiotelephone, telephone, telex, and fax transmissions. Ironically, evaluating this enormous flow of information was far more difficult than collecting it in the first place. Messages or conversations in the clear were stored and sorted by supercomputers programmed to hunt for hundreds of key words or phrases. Transmissions that were scrambled or coded in some fashion were automatically bucked up to special teams equipped with their own code-breaking computers. Nevertheless, although automation helped eliminate much of the preliminary “grunt work,” the thousands of human intelligence experts behind the machines were always swamped. Their work was often tedious, but sometimes they struck gold.
Huntington read the transcript again, this time more carefully, testing his first impressions. His eyebrows rose as his imagination added inflections and hidden meanings to the plain, black-and-white typescript in front of him. His every instinct sensed an opportunity here.
COMINT INTERCEPT — NSOC EURCON WORKING GROUP
Intercept Station:
USAF Electronic Security Command Detachment, RAF Chicksands, England
Time:
121627 Jun
Transmission Method:
Microwave relay, scrambled
Belgian Minister of Defense (MOD):
I am afraid I have very bad news, Mr. Prime Minister. Desaix has completely refused to consider our concerns about the use of our troops. He…
Belgian Prime Minister (PM):
What? He dismissed our request? Out of hand?
MOD:
Yes, sir. Not only that, but he reiterated the Defense Secretariat’s warning order. We have just seventy-two hours to begin moving both the 1st and 4th mechanized brigades.
PM:
But not into combat, I hope?
MOD:
No, Prime Minister. At least not directly. I’ve been assured that our soldiers will only be used to man key logistics centers — one at Metz and the other in Germany, just outside Munich. They won’t be on the front lines.
PM:
But these supply depots are still targets for American bombs, true?
(Note: Pause timed at 6.5 seconds.)
MOD:
Yes, Prime Minister. That is true.
PM:
Very well, Madeleine. When do you return?
MOD:
Immediately, sir. General Leman and I see no point in staying here any longer.
(Note: Leman identified as Gen. Alexandre Leman, chief of staff of the Belgian armed forces.
PM:
I understand. In that case, I shall convene an emergency cabinet meeting as soon as you arrive.
MOD:
Of course, Prime Minister. Though I fear we have no choice but to comply with this directive.
PM:
Yes… you are undoubtedly correct. Still, I would prefer to go over
all
our options. I wish you a safe journey, Madeleine.
MOD:
Thank you, Gerard.
LINE DISCONNECT
Identification Confidence Factor:
High. Voice patterns for both participants match patterns already on file.
Huntington nodded to himself, convinced he was right. As the head of his own firm, he’d visited Belgium many times back when Brussels was the administrative center of the old EC. He knew many of the tiny country’s leading industrialists, financiers, and politicians personally. With a little pressure in the right places, this new display of French arrogance could be turned into one of the EurCon fault lines he’d been seeking. But could the United States and its allies move quickly enough to capitalize on it?
He laid the rest of the SIGINT data aside and picked up the phone. “This is Ross Huntington, I need to speak to the President… Yes, right away.”
THE OVAL OFFICE
An hour later, Ross Huntington sat in a chair facing the President’s imposing desk. Both General Reid Galloway and Walter Quinn flanked him, one on either side. After hearing his close friend and advisor’s plan through once by himself, the President had asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the CIA director to sit in while Huntington walked them through his supporting evidence, his deductions based on that evidence, and the high-stakes gamble he proposed. Harris Thurman hadn’t bee
n invited, and the ultracautious, fence-sitting Secretary of State was conspicuous by his absence.
“Well, gentlemen?” the President asked after Huntington had finished laying out his case. “What do you think?”
Galloway stirred, looking up from his big, capable hands. “From a military point of view, what Ross suggests is perfectly feasible. It’ll play merry hell with our bombing schedule for a couple of days, but we’ve definitely got the aircraft and weapons in-theater to do the job and to do it damn thoroughly.” His voice trailed off.
“But?” the President pressed him.
“Frankly, sir, it’s what comes next that worries me.” The general nodded toward Huntington. “Sending any civilian, especially someone as high up as Ross, so deep into enemy territory strikes me as taking one hell of a big chance. I’m not sure the game’s worth the candle.”
Huntington spoke up. “Technically we’re not at war with Belgium, General.” He held up a hand to forestall any protest. “Oh, I know the Belgians are part of EurCon, but we’ve never recognized EurCon — not as a legitimate government. And we’ve never received a declaration of war from Brussels. So, legally, I can travel wherever I want — with a valid passport and visa.”
Galloway snorted. “Yeah. But we already know the French don’t give a damn about legality. If they get wind of what you’re up to, you can bet the DGSE will close in hard and fast, visa or no visa.”