were the Poles and Americans ready to exact their revenge? He rolled out of his cot, grabbed the MP5 next to it, and stumbled out into the predawn gray. General Leibnitz and Schisser were awake, too, with the same worried expressions on their faces.
They ran toward the shouts, and were relieved to see a muddy and tired German lieutenant climbing off a civilian motorcycle.
When he spotted the men coming toward him, all fatigue left the young officer. Bracing and saluting, he reported, “Oberleutnant Meyer, Headquarters, 2nd Panzergrenadier, sir.”
Willi’s ears pricked up at that. The 2nd Panzergrenadier was their sister division in the II Corps. Within hours of the raid on the division’s headquarters, the French had begun jamming all their radio channels, blocking any communications with their fellow German units. And none of the couriers they’d sent out in all directions with the real story had returned yet.
Leibnitz returned the salute carefully. “At ease, Lieutenant.”
Meyer relaxed slightly, but remained at attention. “Sir, General Berg sends his greetings and a message,” he recited.
“Continue,” prompted Leibnitz. Every ear in range listened closely. If the man carried the message in oral form, that meant it was too sensitive to commit to paper.
“We’ve heard about the French attack on your headquarters, and your casualties,” the lieutenant recited. “We are with you, and the last Frenchman we saw was given an extremely hot reception. I am passing word of this crime to every other German unit I can reach.” Meyer stopped, drew a breath, and relaxed a little more. “That’s all, sir. I can take a reply back right now, or act as a runner if you want me to stay.” Someone handed him a cup of coffee, and he took a grateful sip.
“Stay, then,” Leibnitz ordered. “Have you had any word from Berlin?”
“No, sir, our command nets are being jammed now, too, the landlines as well. The only message we received said to stand by.”
Leibnitz nodded somberly. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Willi and the other officers muttered their agreement. Just sitting did serious damage to the EurCon cause.
Admiral Jack Ward sat in
Left hanging out in the open by their allies, the incoming French aircraft had met a fire-tipped wall of F-14s and F-18s from the two carriers supporting the landing, F-15 and Tornado interceptors from England, and gratifyingly, Dutch and Belgian F-16s. It hadn’t been a “fair fight,” but then a well-planned battle never was.
To the north, the tanks, trucks, and guns of the 4th Infantry were coming ashore at Rotterdam and Amsterdam. Flown in from Britain by air, its forward elements were already probing toward the German frontier. Here in Belgium, the 5th Marine Expeditionary Brigade was now completely ashore and moving west. And the U.S. 1st Cavalry Division would be unloaded by noon, and on the road shortly thereafter, a sword at France’s throat.
“Jack.” Ward turned around to see Ross Huntington towering over him, accompanied by another much shorter, much younger civilian. “Can you spare a few minutes? I think I’ve got something you’d like to see.”
Huntington and the other man followed Ward out of CIC, down a ladder, and through a short passageway to his stateroom. “Admiral’s Country” was a well-appointed, if not luxurious, combination of bedroom, office, and meeting room. As they settled themselves, Ward studied the contrast between the Huntington of last night and the one sitting in front of him now.
Refreshed, almost eager, the President’s close friend and advisor no longer seemed frail or tired, but full of energy. You couldn’t get that from eight hours’ sleep, especially when half of it was in a bridge chair, he thought. Ward always got a crick in his neck the next day.
A mess steward served coffee and laid out a silver tray with fresh-baked sweet rolls, then quickly disappeared.
Huntington introduced the stranger as an analyst from the National Security Agency. Even that mention of the shadowy agency seemed to make the young man uncomfortable. Ward knew that Huntington received regular intelligence updates by special courier. He’d never shared any of the information in them, until now.
Motioning to the courier, Huntington remarked, “Paul here has spent the early morning hours in the backseat of an F-14, from Washington to London to
“This stuff is new, less than six hours old in some cases.” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “And it’s hot. It looks like about half the German Army is on strike. Attacks on the Polish front have virtually stopped, and in a very uncoordinated manner. Despite some heavy-duty jamming, we’ve also picked up plain-language radio transmissions that talk about the French as if they were the adversary, not us or the Poles.”
Ward whistled. No wonder the Luftwaffe hadn’t shown itself anywhere near Belgian or Dutch airspace. “What do we do about it?”
Huntington smiled. “If you can show me to your radio room, I’ve got a few ideas to put in front of the President.”
Alpha Company had almost recovered from its last battle, at least as recovered as any outfit could be with nearly half its soldiers dead or wounded. Still, Mike Reynolds counted himself lucky. The rest of the battalion had taken the brunt of the German offensive. Some squads had disappeared altogether, and some platoons could barely scrape together a fire team. Total casualties throughout the division were said to be more than a thousand men. He shook his head. One or two more battles like that and they wouldn’t have a division left — not as an effective fighting force anyway.
Now, though, the Germans were not attacking at all. Even their recon units had stopped probing. And Division and Corps had used the time to strengthen their defensive positions and to build up desperately needed supplies and reinforcements. Better still, more battalions from the 1st Armored and the 24th Mech were arriving from Gdansk — feeding into a powerful mobile reserve held right behind the battle line.
Reynolds couldn’t understand why the Germans had stopped. Exhaustion? Some brilliant tactical maneuver? Whatever the reason, when EurCon tried to attack again, they’d find a very different enemy.
Alpha Company had taken over part of 2nd Battalion’s position, just east of Swiecie. He remembered his men as they had moved forward. The company had been proud of their fight, bragging about it to each other. They’d stopped bragging when they saw the shattered remnants of the town.
Adams trotted up. “Officer’s call, sir. Platoon and company leaders. In the hotel.”
The Piast Hotel was little more than a shell, with its upper floors collapsed, and the stone walls scorched by fire. It was a recognizable landmark, though, and still partially intact. Colby had chosen to remain there. Habitable buildings were in short supply.
Colby almost matched his headquarters. He’d been caught on the edge of the bomb blast that had shattered the hotel, and he’d been lucky to escape with some first-degree burns, singed hair, and a lot of lacerations. He looked like hell.
He was still upbeat, though, almost cheerful with the front quiet. “New orders, sports fans, new ROEs.”
The officers and noncoms looked at him expectantly, more than a little puzzled. They were already in a full- fledged shooting war. Why would the brass issue new rules of engagement now?
Colby went on. “Unless the Germans shoot at us, we don’t shoot at them.”
He waved down the startled chorus of questions and protests The 3/187th was a disciplined group, but this was different. Was the war over? What the hell was Division thinking about?
“This didn’t come from Division,” Colby countered. “This is diplomatic stuff, all the way up to the C-in-C level.”
Reynolds stepped out of the group. With his men’s lives on the line, he wanted the orders he would have to fight under crystal-clear. “What do we do if they come at us?”
“Report to me. If they’re close enough to shoot, shoot first and we’ll sort it out later. But if you just spot ‘em,
