the experience of combat. Right now, he faced the same question as the rawest private: How will I do once the shooting starts?
Caught by minor turbulence, the C-141 rattled and shook briefly. Reynolds rode it out standing upright in the aisle. He felt better on his feet. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but it had been a long flight, straight from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to Poland — over ten hours in the air. The only break in the monotony had come during the in-flight refueling, west of the British Isles, but there hadn’t been much to see. A few of the troops had glimpsed some escorting fighters, which had started a low-grade panic until the Starlifter’s pilot confirmed the planes were friendly.
He smiled, remembering the mildly sarcastic remark from one of his sergeants. “If those
His men were crammed into canvas-backed metal seats fastened to the cargo bay floor. Dressed in full field gear, most of them had sat for the entire flight with their rucksacks and personal weapons in their laps. Where space allowed, soldiers had piled their personal equipment to one side or in odd corners, but those spaces were few and far between.
Knowing that it might be their last chance for quite some time, they’d all slept as much as possible. Reynolds, exhausted by the frantic preparations needed to ready his unit for an overseas move, had fallen asleep almost as soon as the plane started moving. He’d started awake after a few hours, stiff and restless. From then on he’d read, talked, eaten a box lunch, finally slept just a little more, and wished a hundred times for the interminable flight to end. He knew his body could use the rest, but his active mind wouldn’t slow down.
Now, as the Starlifter approached its destination, there was a last-minute bustle as troops collected and double-checked their gear. He moved down the rows of seats yet again, finishing his inspection. He knew many of them well: Corporal Cook, curled up with a paperback horror novel, Private Khim, asleep until the last minute, and third in the row, Sergeant Ford.
First Sergeant Andy Ford was a combat veteran, and one of the key men Reynolds depended on to make Alpha Company work. He was the senior enlisted man in the unit, and his only job was to help Reynolds make things happen. His nickname was “Steady,” a compliment to his temperament. Now he met the captain’s gaze with his own. Ford smiled and nodded at the captain. Some of his confidence seemed to rub off.
Reynolds needed it. The closer they got to Poland, the more worried he was when he contemplated combat against EurCon’s tanks and armored personnel carriers. The “One-Oh-One” was strategically mobile, designed for rapid deployment to world trouble spots. But portability had a price. The division’s combat battalions didn’t have any M1 tanks or Bradley Fighting Vehicles of their own. They relied on antitank missiles and helicopter gunships, potent in themselves, but not always enough when matched against fully armored units. Without “tracks” — armored vehicles — they were not terribly mobile on the battlefield, either. The division’s organic helicopter brigade couldn’t lift everyone at once, and they needed air superiority for the vulnerable helicopters to operate safely.
The plane pitched forward sharply, losing altitude fast. The loadmaster came over the sound system again. “We’re on final approach, gentlemen.”
Reynolds staggered back to his seat. Rank had granted him a window, and now he used it view to the city below. Old and crowded and darkened by industry, Gdansk had been darkened further by war. Through a broken layer of white clouds, the city seemed almost black beneath him.
Gdansk was a long way from Texas, where he’d been born and raised, or Fort Campbell, home of the 101st. The army had moved him around a lot in his six years since he’d earned his commission. That was one of the reasons he liked the service. As a youngster, even a trip into town had seemed like a big deal.
He could see the Baltic to the north, steel-gray but shimmering in the patches where the sun hit it. The harbor was crowded with ships. Somewhat incongruously, the countryside outside Gdansk looked peaceful — a softly rolling landscape of lakes and forests. The fighting was still well clear of the city, about two hundred kilometers out, but the word was that the enemy might be coming on strong again at any time.
Most of 3rd Brigade was already on the ground, with the balance arriving today. The 3/187th would spend the rest of the day gathering and unpacking its heavy equipment. Current plans called for them to move out that same night for an assembly area closer to the front lines. In a few days, they could be in battle.
Reynolds forced a confident grin onto his face. His soldiers were looking to him. Any doubts he had were for himself alone.
With a sharp jolt, the Starlifter’s big wheels touched down and Alpha Company entered the war zone.
CHAPTER 25
Shadow War
Outside the windows of Nicolas Desaix’s office, Paris was aglow. Streetlamps, neon signs, and lighted residences burned away the darkness, turning the night sky a soft orange. Low-light sensors and infrared targeting systems rendered blackouts ineffective. Given that, the French government had decided to avoid unnecessarily alarming its citizens.
But the capital’s broad avenues, restaurants, and theaters were all deserted. The city was still under martial law curfew.
Three men sat in armchairs grouped around a low coffee table. A silver tray on the table held wineglasses for Desaix and for Jacques Morin, the head of the DGSE. Michel Guichy sipped Calvados — the dry apple brandy made in Normandy, his home region. Together, Desaix, Morin, and Guichy formed the triumvirate that ruled France and, through the Confederation secretariats, much of Europe. They were meeting to review progress in the war they had helped ignite.
Or perhaps the lack of progress would be a better description, Desaix thought bitterly. “So both the Americans and British have troops in Poland now?”
Guichy nodded. “Around Gdansk.” The dark circles and heavy bags under the man’s eyes testified to the long hours he spent in the Defense Ministry’s situation room and in traveling back and forth between Paris and the armed forces’ war headquarters on the German border. “Only lightly armed airborne units and Marine Commandos so far, but their heavier units cannot be very far behind. Days at best.”
Desaix scowled. Far from frightening the so-called Combined Forces away, Admiral Gibierge’s ill-conceived nuclear gamble seemed only to have spurred them on. He shifted minutely in his chair to face his other companion. “And the Poles?”
“They’re transferring their forces west at a rapid pace.” Morin was atypically blunt. Usually the intelligence director preferred to hedge his assessments. “When we attacked, four of the eight Polish divisions were in the east — watching the Russians. One of those same divisions mauled our 5th Armored two days ago. The Germans say another is already moving toward the battle area, and I see no reason to doubt them.”
Desaix received the news in silence. Though not formally trained as a military strategist, he knew how to “count rifles.” Once those new soldiers arrived, the allies would have eight and a half divisions on the line — six Polish, two American, and one British brigade. Even committing their invasion army’s reserve, the V Corps, would leave France and Germany with just eleven divisions to match against their enemies.
He supposed they could scrape together additional forces from France, Germany, and the Czech-Hungarian front, but not without grave risk. With casualties mounting, French and German civilians, already restive under prolonged martial law, were growing increasingly disillusioned. The latest troop call-ups had proved disappointing. Large numbers of reservists urgently needed to guard lines of communication and key installations had failed to report to their units.
To cover his growing dismay, Desaix took a sip of wine and rolled it around his mouth, automatically savoring the complex flavors before swallowing. Then, almost as though the wine itself had unlocked his mind, he saw the answer, a way to completely transform the bleak strategic situation they faced. He set his glass down and smiled.
“Do you see something amusing in all of this, Nicolas?” Guichy asked irritably.
“Not at all, my friend.” Desaix looked from one man to the other. “But I do see that we’ve been guilty of tunnel vision. These Polish troop moves are not a disaster for us. Far from it! If we move quickly enough, they offer
