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
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 before 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
