The Jericho Pact

by Rachel Lee

  Had there been a round in the breach, Neufel would have needed only to depress the trigger. The computerized fire control would have done the rest, turning what looked to be a bakery truck into a pile of smoking, twisted metal.

  But the truck exploded anyway.

  No, not the truck. The bridge beneath it.

  Moments later, the main highway bridge, as well as the railway bridge, began belching flame and smoke as charges rattled along their lengths. The concussive pop-pop-pops echoed across the valley and up to Neufel’s position, a sound like thick canvas being ripped apart. The bridges disappeared behind dense clouds of smoke.

  Stunned, Neufel continued to watch through his rangefinder, switching to infrared mode without conscious thought, allowing him to look through the smoke as the white hot pinpoints of melting steel and burning concrete twisted, then buckled, then dropped into the river below.

  Who had ordered the bridges destroyed?

  Had the war begun already?

  He looked across the Rhine at the French encampment. The distance was too great to make out individual faces, but Neufel still saw shock and surprise in the way the way men scrambled from latrines and mess tents, running for their vehicles.

  They had not been forewarned. It was obvious.

  Neufel keyed his radio. “Rot-Eins-Sechs, Rot-Eins-Zwei, Ende?” Red-one-six, red-one-two, over?

  Bräuburger’s voice on the radio crackled with tension. “Rot-Eins-Zwei, Rot-Eins-Sechs. Damn, what is going on down there, over?”

  “I don’t know,” Neufel said.

  “Get down there and find out. Now!” Bräuburger replied.

  “Ja, Herr Leutnant,” Neufel said. Later, he might be surprised that he hadn’t stopped to question the order. Instead, he switched to the intercom frequency. “Driver, forward!”

  His driver responded immediately, and the fifty-five ton Leopard II began to roll.

  Rome, Italy

  Television cameras recorded the event in painfully sharp detail. The picture bounced wildly as cameramen struggled to take in all that was happening. But in the very center, one thing was clear: Three bridges over the Kinzig River, two kilometers east of the Europabrücke, were burning. The metal twisted and flamed in a way that, to Miriam, suggested magnesium bombs or shaped charges, the only implements that could have melted metal so quickly.

  She stared at the television, her heart stopped in horror. No one in the room moved. The only sound issued from the phone pressed to her ear. “Miriam,” Grant Lawrence was saying. “Miriam, are you watching?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Now a tank moved down from the woods above Kehl, the cameras zooming in to capture the slow movement of the Leopard II, its turret tracking back and forth as if in search of prey. Another camera showed a French encampment that appeared to have been taken utterly by surprise.

  “The Germans started this?” she asked with astonishment.

  “It looks like it,” Grant said. “But Müller told the president that he wasn’t going to initiate anything. I’m guessing they had the bridges wired, intending to blow them if the French started their attack over the Rhine. Maybe it was an accidental detonation.”

  “What a time for a fucking accident,” Miriam said. “You’d almost think the Guy Upstairs is rooting for Soult.”

  “The President is trying to get through to Berlin now,” Grant said. “With Soult’s threat to go nuclear, there can’t be even the appearance of German provocation. And blowing bridges, even your own bridges, in the face of the enemy…that’s provocation. I don’t have to tell you what the comms are like now.”

  “And Müller has his hands full right now,” Miriam said. “He has to be as stunned as the rest of us.”

  “So let’s focus on what we can do,” Grant said. “You’re sure about Soult?”

  “You can’t take it to court yet,” Miriam said. “What’s more, right now he’s untouchable.”

  “Because of that pyramid device?” Grant asked.

  “That’s what I’m being told,” Miriam said, despite the skepticism she heard in his voice. “Look, Grant, I know it sounds nuts, but these are good people I’m working with. Solid people. One of them held this pyramid in his own hand. All the pieces fit, including how Vögel died, and that’s the first good explanation we’ve had for that. It explains how Soult survived that bomb in Strasbourg.”

  “So what’s your action plan?” Grant asked. “And what can we do to help? The President wants to move on this. We have a lot of people in Germany. We can’t look as if we’re abandoning them.”

  “Tell him to keep the military on standby,” she said. “Keep that as a last resort. How fast can you get a snatch team here on station?”

  “Hold on,” Grant said. She heard a muffled exchange. Apparently he was in the situation room. The Joint Chiefs were probably right there beside him. “Okay, special ops has a team with the Sixth Fleet, in the Med. Tell me where you want them. They can be there in three hours.”

  “Hang on,” Miriam said. She put a hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Jefe. “I can have a special ops team here in three hours.”

  “Do it,” Jefe said. “I have an operations group, but they’re all over hell and gone, and with my communications still screwed…”

  “Here in Rome,” Miriam said to Grant. “I’ll meet them at Gaeta. And, Grant, make sure they’re guys who don’t mind working with…an international group.”

  “Gaeta is a two-hour drive,” Reza said after Miriam had disconnected.

  “Do you have a car?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Of course. I will take you.”

  “While you’re gone, I’ll work up a target profile on this Hector Vasquez,” Jefe said, then briefly explained the Hitler-Röhm-Soult-Vasquez. “Renate’s right. He’ll be Soult’s weak link. If we can turn him, Soult’s house of lies will collapse.”

  “You know what they’ll need?” Miriam said.

  Jefe nodded. “The same thing my people would. I’ll get it together.”

  “Quickly, please,” Miriam said, looking at the television screen. “This is building fast.”

  The Bridge of Europe

  Monsignore Giuseppe Veltroni stared in horror as the explosions erupted. His cell phone was already ringing. When he picked it up, he could barely make out the voice of Hans Stoll—the priest from Mannheim—above the shouts of panic and confusion.

  “They’re blowing the Kinzig bridges!”

  “I see it on television,” Veltroni said. “Is everyone there okay?”

  “For the moment,” Stohl said. “But we are now cut off. Even if we tried to flee, we could get no farther than Kehl. And my country’s troops are all on the far side of the Kinzig. They had no intention of trying to hold the village.”

  “Why would the Germans blow the bridges?” Veltroni asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “They want the French held here,” Stoll said. “They will make of this place a killing ground.”

  “What do you mean?” Veltroni asked. “How do you know this?”

  “Let me give you to my friend, Rabbi Lev,” Stoll said. “He can explain it.”

  Veltroni heard a muttered exchange, and then the rabbi’s voice came over the phone. “In my youth in Russia, one could not avoid serving in the Red Army. I was always a gifted student. I was sent to our staff college, where we studied Western doctrine and tactics.”

  “And?” Veltroni asked.

  “And if you cannot stop a river crossing on the far bank, the best time to strike is when the enemy army is divided by the river,” Lev explained. “With these bridges destroyed, the French can get into Kehl but no farther. Not until they can force crossings on the Kinzig. And they cannot prepare those crossings until they are east of the Rhine. And the EU zone gives them no other choice but to cross here. This will present a window of opportunity.”

  “My God,” Veltroni said. “The German army would bomb its own territory?”

  “It makes sense, ye
s?” Lev said. “If the battle is fought east of the Rhine, Germany has not attacked France. In terms of world opinion, this is a very important point. Would you not sacrifice one small city to save a nation? Most of the residents of Kehl have already evacuated east of the Kinzig.”

  “I see,” Veltroni said, thinking through the options in his mind. “Yes, it makes sense. Soult would clearly have attacked Germany, but his forces would be stuck for some time on the east side of the Rhine. Easy targets for bombers. And Germany would not have attacked French soil.”

  Lev sighed. “We are at ground zero, Monsignore. The battle will happen here. And now we cannot escape it.”

  Not that they had intended to flee, Veltroni thought after disconnecting the call. They had intended to stage a Tiananmen Square protest. But unlike the Chinese students in that square, these protestors had nowhere to run.

  He looked back at the television and asked himself whether Germany had declared war. Lev’s analysis held a cruel but irrefutable logic. There was no way for Germany to put a strong enough blocking force at the Rhine itself without creating a propaganda opportunity for Soult, who would claim that Germany was massing to attack. But the terrain had yielded another option: defend at the Kinzig, destroy the enemy in Kehl.

  This meant Germany had blown the bridges. Not an overt act of aggression, for the bridges were on German soil, but an unmistakable signal that there would be no more talking. They were going to war.

  His heart sank into his belly.

  They had only hours left to act.

  Part IV:

  LO OD

  (Hebrew: Never Again)

  33

  Vatican City

  M onsignore Giuseppe Veltroni was a desperate man in a sea of desperate men. The cloud of war hung over Europe like the smoke that rose from the three bridges in Germany, three bridges whose names were unknown only an hour ago and were now on the lips of men all over the world. In every world capital, men and women were scrambling to organize a response on behalf of one side or the other, most of which would be only empty words. It was no different here in the Vatican, where well-meaning experts were huddled, waiting for their chance to brief the Holy Father.

  Empty words would not be enough this time. Twice in the past century the Vatican had been silent as Europe erupted into spasms of death. Whatever the reasons those Pontiffs may have had—and Veltroni had no doubt of their good intentions—tens of millions had bled and died from Madrid to Moscow, Narvik to North Africa.

  Veltroni had seen this coming and felt as if he ought to have been prepared for it. Yet it had still come with a suddenness that left him feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach. It had seemed as if there would be time to plan, time to organize, time to think through details and options. Now there was no time left.

  He had to see the Holy Father. And he had to see him immediately. Before those well-meaning advisors counseled him into empty words.

  But he never got that far. Once again he was blocked by Cardinal Estevan, keeper of the gate by way of his influence over the Stewards and his long friendship with the Holy Father.

  “Giuseppe,” Estevan said quietly, “you would meddle in things you don’t understand.”

  “I understand war. I understand racism. I understand that the seeds of genocide are being planted all over Europe. Will we stand aside as we did before?”

  Estevan shook his head and reached for a goblet of wine. His ruby ring sparkled in the lamplight, seeming to shoot an angry beam straight at Veltroni. Over the top of the goblet, he stared steadily at Veltroni for long silent seconds.

  “Monsignore,” he said finally, “for a man who has spent most of his priestly life in the Vatican, you are rather impatient.”

  “More people may die!”

  “Of course they may. It will be as God wills. But you are missing my point.”

  With difficulty, Veltroni maintained his silence.

  “Here within these walls, as you should well know by now, we have a longer view of history. We are aware, as few others are in the world, of the importance of any steps we take now, because they will affect the future of Mother Church for centuries to come. We and our flock live with mistakes for a long time, Giuseppe. The papers may forget them by next week, but God will not.”

  “God cannot possibly want to see a war break out.”

  Estevan shrugged. “My dear Monsignore, that is kindergarten logic. Only consider the times when God sent his chosen people into battle.”

  Veltroni wanted to scream. Instead, as calmly as he could, he said, “God does not wish such things.”

  “You would dispute the Bible? You would dispute the doom that the Lord laid on the cities when the Israelites triumphed, causing them to slaughter every man, woman and child?”

  “It is not God placing this doom, Eminence, it is man.” He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever known Estevan at all.

  Surprising Veltroni, the cardinal suddenly smiled. “You are a passionate, moral man, Giuseppe. Go to bed with an untroubled conscience, for the Church will do what is right.”

  He wished he could think of a way to question the cardinal further, but instead he suffered the man to press a goblet of fine Italian wine into his hand.

  “The Church is eternal,” Estevan said, striding slowly around his office, his cassock skirt swinging with every step. “The actions that the Church takes must be taken with an eye to eternity. God will restore our temporal power one of these days, Monsignore. You will see it, because it is God’s will.”

  “It is?” Veltroni wondered if Estevan were going round the bend.

  “Yes, it is.” Estevan paused and faced Veltroni, smiling. “You may not see it yet, Monsignore, but the pieces are moving into place. The things that are happening in Europe right now are creating a vacuum of moral and political power. You will see.”

  “And then?”

  Estevan shrugged and smiled, then drained his cup. “Pax Romana was a good thing in many ways. Too bad it’s gone.”

  Walking back to his chamber a short while later, Veltroni felt unease crawling up and down his spine. Then he forced himself to shrug it off. There was absolutely no way that anyone could restore the Holy Roman Empire, not even the Pope.

  Not even Cardinal Estevan.

  Neumühl, Germany

  “Driver, halt,” Hans Neufel said into the intercom.

  He climbed out of the turret of his tank, which had stopped on the eastern approach to the now-destroyed railway bridge. The air reeked of molten metal and dust. To his right, lying on its side in the fast-flowing Kinzig, was the shattered remains of the bakery truck, its driver hanging half out of the cab, limp and still.

  There was a certainty in that stillness. It would be pointless to dive into the river and try to save the driver, whose only crime had been to begin his day as he always did, delivering bread to local markets, crossing a bridge he had probably crossed a thousand times before. He was beyond salvation.

  The railway bridge had stood between the two highway bridges. It was the obvious place in which to position the pioneer platoon. Although Neufel could not yet see those positions, the absence of movement did not give him a feeling of confidence.

  Neufel shrugged into his field harness and climbed down from the tank. He pressed the transmit button on the shoulder microphone. “Red-one-six, red-one-two, over?”

  “Red-one-two, send your traffic.”

  “I am approaching the railroad bridge. I see no movement.”

  “Understood, red-one-two.”

  Neufel found the pioneers’ position among some small trees on the embankment. It was a six-man position, which should have been adequate to man the demolition switches and protect itself against infiltration. There was no concealed route of approach. Had they followed standard watch procedures, they should have seen anyone approaching them in plenty of time to respond and defend themselves.

  But Neufel knew how difficult it had been to get his own crew to maintain a twenty-fou
r-hour watch over these past days. There was nothing more draining than the ennui of standing watch when there was nothing to observe. Men wrote letters to girlfriends, smoked a cigarette, read a book or magazine, listened to an iPod or simply rested their heads on anything convenient and snatched a few minutes of precious sleep.

  As he pressed a finger to the cold throat of one of the men, he reasoned that whoever had been on watch in this position had done what men will do. Once the adrenaline high of moving into the position had given way to the daily routine of manning it, he had grown careless and inattentive.

  That carelessness had killed him, and his comrades.

  “Red-one-six, red-one-two. They are all dead, over.”

  The chatter on the frequency came to a complete stop, as if the air had been sucked from the lungs of every man listening.

  “Say again, red-one-two.”

  “Alle sind tot.” All are dead.

  “Understood.” Braüburger’s voice was leaden. “Secure the scene and wait for me.”

  “Understood, red-one-six. Red-one-two, out.”

  Neufel switched to his tank’s intercom. “You heard the lieutenant. We secure the scene. Schulingen, load smoke. Sanger, in my seat and sweep the area. Do not fire without my order.”

  “Ja, Herr Stuffz.”

  A smoke round, Neufel reasoned, could be used both to warn and to mark a target without actually opening hostile fire. He saw the Leopard II’s turret begin to slowly swing back and forth as Sanger, his gunner, scanned the area through the rangefinder’s optical and infrared sights, the gun barrel like an angry pointing finger.

  Feeling somewhat more protected as he waited for his platoon leader, Neufel turned to the task of examining the pioneers’ position. Only one of the six men had his rifle at hand. Its butt lay on his chest, its barrel near the toe of his boot. He had been the man on watch, probably resting his rifle barrel on his foot and his head on its stock. Probably asleep.

  While he had been hit first, the rest had been hit almost at the same moment, each dispatched with what looked like a three-round burst in the center of his chest, before he could even shrug off his field blanket.