up. They’d have to go their separate ways soon or become uncomfortably noticeable. Few Russians had the leisure time to sit companionably on park benches during the workweek. “Do you have any proof of all of this?”
Soloviev frowned. “No, Miss McKenna, I do not. As I said, these negotiations have been closely guarded and very discreet.”
She frowned back. Without concrete evidence to back up its claims, the United States could not go public with its knowledge of these secret Franco-Russian talks. Both countries would simply indignantly deny the story, Soloviev would disappear into a shallow grave or reopened gulag, and the talks would proceed on schedule. She looked up from her fingers. “Can you get proof?”
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
He repeated the numbers back to her once, perfectly. Then he smiled, a brief sunburst across a somber face. “For a simple commercial attache, 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.”
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.
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
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
