“EurCon evidently views the Poles and the rest as militarily weak, and thus susceptible to military pressure. In turn, they know that much of their equipment is outdated. To make up for that, they’ve had to bring their armed forces to higher and higher states of alert. When you’re outgunned and outnumbered, you must make sure every available tank, plane, and soldier is ready for battle.”
Lucier looked over his thick, horn-rimmed glasses at the Secretary of State. “Perceived weakness is exacerbating this crisis, Harris. Not strength. So we can accomplish two very important aims by increasing our military aid now. First, we put EurCon’s leaders on notice that we’re calling their bluff. And second, we’ll build Polish and Czech confidence. The more certain they are that they can withstand a sudden EurCon attack, the more likely they are to pull their forces back from the border and ratchet down their alert state.”
In the momentary silence that followed, the President sat frowning, evidently still somewhat unsure of which course to follow. He scanned the assembled group. “If I okay this extra military aid, what’s the likely EurCon reaction?”
“Paris and Berlin will be furious.” Thurman sounded unhappy. “They regard all of Eastern Europe as their own backyard, so they’re bound to regard further arms shipments as a deliberate provocation.”
The President nodded slowly, still frowning. “But how far will they go, Harris?” He glanced around the table. “Take the worst case. Would EurCon risk a military confrontation over this issue?”
“Unlikely, sir.” Galloway shook his head. “They’re trying to intimidate the Poles and the rest — not start an open war with us.”
“EurCon won’t roll over, though,” Huntington warned. “The French and Germans want Poland and the others inside their orbit too badly to give up so easily. We can expect heated protests.” He paused. “Probably coupled with additional covert attacks against us or against our allies.”
The President and the rest of the NSC nodded. Though they didn’t have enough proof to go public with their suspicions, everybody in the room knew EurCon agents were responsible for the destruction of the LNG tanker and for the murder of an American intelligence officer. Nobody would be particularly surprised by more EurCon sabotage attempts. He looked down the table at the head of the CIA. “What about it, Walt? Can your antiterrorism people handle the threat?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Quinn said confidently. “I know there’s no such thing as a leakproof defense, but now that we know what we’re up against, we’ve got a much better chance to thwart any covert operations aimed our way.”
Galloway backed Quinn up. “Besides the warships we send as escorts, we can put special teams from Delta Force and SEAL Team Six on every freighter and tanker going into the Baltic.” The general’s eyes flashed fire. “And with those guys in place, I’ll guarantee any son-of-a-bitch who tries to plant another limpet mine a short ride to hell.”
Huntington watched his old friend sit silently, weighing his options. Putting more U.S.-flagged ships, citizens, and soldiers at risk wasn’t an appealing prospect, but the alternatives — accidental war as border tensions rose, or Franco-German control over the whole European continent — seemed far worse.
The President straightened up. “All right, we’ll send the equipment, and back it up if need be.” He glanced around the table. “Any other objections or comments?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Apparently Thurman wasn’t quite ready to surrender completely. “Before we send more war materiel to Poland, we should at least make sure the other European states understand our intentions. Substantial arms shipments without full notification could provoke a dreadful misunderstanding. Surely that’s a risk we don’t want to run.”
“Agreed. What do you have in mind?”
“Well…” The Secretary of State fiddled with his pipe, obviously at something of a loss. “A public statement would be helpful. Or perhaps you could talk to the French ambassador. He represents EurCon interests here.”
“No.” The President’s eyes narrowed. “I will not meet with any representative of a government that has murdered American citizens and destroyed American property.”
Other NSC members growled their agreement.
“Then perhaps I could call the ambassador in to…”
The President shook his head again. “I don’t want any official, high-level contacts, Harris. Not while these people are essentially waging a covert war against us.”
“Then how are we supposed to communicate with EurCon, Mr. President?”
“Unofficially. Unofficially and through the back door, Mr. Secretary.”
The irritated look on Thurman’s face confirmed what Huntington had half suspected all along. The State Department’s patrician chief often cared more about his own prestige inside the cabinet and the Beltway than he did about effective policy. But if the President didn’t want to use the diplomats to convey his message, that left only one other route and one other messenger.
Huntington sat up straighter as the President turned toward him, hoping he could mask his fatigue.
“How about it, Ross?”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded firmly. “I can make another trip.”
Major General Jerzy Novachik stood still facing east, watching the western edge of a small patch of forest near the German border. He shaded his eyes with an open hand, squinting against the rising sun. He resisted the temptation to check his watch again. Predawn maneuvers were always tough to coordinate. Showing his impatience would only make his staff nervous without achieving anything useful.
Startled by a sudden noise from deeper inside the woods, birds exploded into the air in a mass of black, fluttering wings. Now.
Fourteen M1 Abrams tanks howled out of the forest, moving in line abreast at high speed. Mud sprayed out behind them, thrown high by their clattering tracks. Novachik could see helmets silhouetted in open hatches on top of each tank’s low, squat turret.
Good, he thought. The company’s tank commanders were on the ball, risking shell fragments and sniper bullets while they scanned the terrain around them for signs of the enemy. The temptation to sit snug and secure inside a buttoned-up armored vehicle was always strong. It was also almost always dangerous.
With the hatches closed, tank crews were almost blind and deaf — especially when moving through woods. And what they didn’t see could very often kill them.
As the M1s cleared the treeline, Novachik heard one of his staff officers snap out an order. “Activate!”
Five hundred meters north of the charging tanks, several rows of cardboard targets popped up off the ground. Some bore Leopard 2 silhouettes. Others showed Marder APCs. Like other officers in Poland’s army, the general didn’t believe in screwing around with generic labels. He knew his likely enemies.
Almost before the last target flipped up, the M1s were reacting. Turrets whined right, slewing around to bring their 120mm guns to bear. The whole line wheeled north — still moving at close to sixty kilometers an hour.
An M1 fired — disappearing for just an instant as it thundered through the smoke from its own gun. As it reappeared, more tanks opened up, pumping shell after shell into the mass of pop-up targets.
They stopped shooting almost before the sounds of the first volley finished echoing across the open field. The M1s changed front again, sliding back into a line headed west.
Novachik raised his binoculars, zeroing in on the target area. Fantastic. The silhouettes were gone — every one knocked back down onto the torn, shell-churned ground.
“Exercise complete, sir.”
He smiled genially at the young officer who had organized this display. “So I see, Henryk. Very impressive.” He meant it. The M1’s ability to fire accurately while on the move put it light-years ahead of the T-72s and T-55s that equipped the rest of his division. Unfortunately the 5th Mechanized still only had enough of the American armored vehicles to outfit one of its five reorganized tank battalions. There were reports that more U.S. equipment was on the way, but the Polish general knew he couldn’t count on getting it. If war came, whether deliberately or accidentally, he would have to fight his battles with a mix of disparate weapons and tactics.
Novachik turned to the short, black-haired American officer standing next to him. “And what did you think, Major?”
After nearly six months in Poland, Major Bill Takei was picking up the language fast. “A solid performance, sir. Your troops are learning how to use their new equipment almost faster than I can teach them.”
