As planned, Charlie Company fanned out, providing security for the rest of the wave, only minutes behind him. He trotted toward the lights, followed by his radiotelephone operator and a squad from 1st Platoon.
A small party stood next to the metal framework holding the three spotlights. First silhouetted, then illuminated as Gates changed direction, were three men in camouflage battle dress, but wearing berets, not helmets.
The marine captain slowed to a fast walk, slinging his M16 and unconsciously straightening his gear. Two of the men stepped forward to meet him. In the darkness, the marine could see a tall, long-faced officer with a black, bristling mustache and another shorter, clean-shaven man, but their unfamiliar rank insignia baffled him. Given the situation, it was a silly thing to worry about, but old reflexes die hard.
The tall man saved him the trouble, saluting first and announcing in clipped English accent, “Major Vandendries, Belgian Army.” He nodded toward his shorter companion. “And this is Colonel Luiten of the Dutch Royal Army.” He smiled. “Welcome to Belgium.”
Gates quickly returned the salute, answering, “Captain Gates, United States Marines, and I’m damned glad to see you, sir.”
Turning to his radiotelephone operator, he ordered, “Send ‘Bayonet.’ “
“Message from the first wave, sir.” The intercom’s message stilled all other activity on
Ward exhaled and grinned, suddenly not caring if the Old Man looked like an idiot. He wanted to dance.
“Bayonet” meant the marines had made peaceful contact with the Belgian armed forces. “Dagger” would have signaled a peaceful landing but no contact, and “Sword” had been the code word for a hostile reception — for utter and abject failure.
Ward realized that everyone on the bridge was looking to him, and that Captain March was standing nearby, waiting patiently. Harry was smiling, he noted, but was also impatient.
“Order the second wave in, and pass the word to all forces: we’re among friends.”
March turned and hurried away.
By the time the admiral had walked over to the bridge wing again, the Ospreys’ rotors were turning and the last of the marines were aboard. He wondered how they felt, suddenly finding out that there would be no shooting, no “opposed landing.” Instead of invading an enemy, they were reinforcing a friend.
Down below on the flight deck, rotors spun faster, the sound made by eight 6,000-horsepower engines growing to a roar. When the noise reached a peak, the four Ospreys lifted off, one after another, and smoothly curved toward the now-friendly shore. Their marines would be on the ground in minutes, and by dawn the battalion
Once it was light enough, the rest of the freighters — those carrying the armor, guns, and supplies belonging to the 1st Cavalry and 4th Infantry — would steam into Belgian and Dutch ports. They would debark their loads at harbor piers, instead of across a conquered beach. What might have cost lives, and almost as important, time, would now be an “administrative landing.”
Ward suddenly remembered Huntington, still sitting in his chair, and went over to congratulate him. As he approached the man, though, he turned away. He’d do it later, when the presidential advisor woke up.
Ignoring the clock, Desaix had worked into the early morning hours at his desk, trying to cope with the results of the army’s latest failure. Intelligence reports and other documents lay neatly piled on one corner, while the remains of a late supper covered a map. He’d given up studying the data. He knew the problems France faced, and no piece of paper could solve them for him.
Montagne’s commando raid against the mutinous leaders of the 7th Panzer had failed utterly. And now this General Leibnitz had gone from being merely intransigent to openly hostile.
Desaix grimaced. He already faced the unpleasant prospect of a mutinous German division and a stalled offensive. The potential was far worse.
Schraeder’s government, now informed of the 7th’s refusal to obey orders, appeared oddly reluctant to relieve Leibnitz of his command or issue its own orders for his arrest. With thousands of its own soldiers refusing lawful directives, Berlin seemed completely paralyzed.
Now, until the issue was resolved, he couldn’t depend on any German unit — whether in Poland or outside the invaded country. The whole EurCon offensive had come to a screeching halt. No one could expect the alliance’s French divisions to fight effectively — not when they had to watch their backs as well as their front. Worse, since the army’s supply lines ran through Germany on the way back to France, they were now horribly vulnerable. What if the railroad workers or German soldiers guarding those supply lines decided to follow the 7th Panzer’s bad example?
And what would happen when the Americans learned about this mutiny? How long would they wait before pouring into the gap that created EurCon lines? Desaix closed his eyes against the glare from his desk lamp, wishing the pain surging through his head would go away. He was rapidly running out of options.
“Minister.” One of his duty aides, Radet, stood in the doorway, tentatively addressing him and even more tentatively offering him a single sheet of paper. The younger man seemed pale.
He took the document, and before he could even ask what it was about, the unwilling messenger fled. Bad news, then, Desaix thought resignedly. What have the Germans done now?
It took a moment for his overtaxed mind to focus on the information, and he had to start reading again at the beginning before he understood that this wasn’t about Germany.
Belgium’s border was closed to all ground and air traffic. A communications blackout had thwarted all attempts to establish any reason for the closure. Phones and data lines were dead, and all television and radio stations were off the air. Even radio communications were affected, because of Combined Forces jamming in connection with heavy air raids now pounding northeastern France.
His subordinates at the Foreign Ministry could not reach their embassy in Brussels or any of the other French consulates.
Desaix felt cold as he read further. Whatever was happening involved more than just Belgium. DGSE monitoring stations reported that all television and radio stations inside the neutral Netherlands were interrupting their normal programming to order Dutch reservists to their wartime posts. And now the embassy in The Hague had signaled that it had been asked to stand by to receive an official message “of vital importance” from the Dutch government.
For a moment, he wondered if this was a hoax, some diabolical deception by the British and American spy services, but the scale of the action made that impossible. Questions whirled through his head. Is this tied in with the German crisis? But how?
Desaix scooped the phone off his desk and punched in the special code for Morin. He needed input from the head of the DGSE fast.
“Director’s office.” The voice on the other end sounded nervous.
“This is Desaix. Put me through to Morin immediately!”
There was an audible pause. “I’m very sorry, Minister, but I regret to inform you that the director is unavailable at the moment.”
Desaix saw red. “I don’t give a damn whether he’s in the bathroom, sleeping, or with his mistress! You find him and bring him to the phone! Understand?”
Strangely his anger seemed to stiffen the other man’s spine. “I’m afraid that is impossible, Minister. I will pass your message on and have him contact you as soon as he is free.”
The line went dead.
Nicolas Desaix stared down at the softly crackling phone in dismay. It appeared that the first rats were beginning to desert his sinking ship.
Willi von Seelow started from an uneasy sleep. Someone was shouting “Movement!” and men were running to their battle stations. A flash of panic filled him. Were the French attacking again, in real strength this time, or
