command.
“A long fight in the city will give the rebels time they do not deserve. When we enter Budapest, it should be as conquerors, not combatants. Now, do I have your word as an officer that you will obey my orders?”
Kemeny swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get on with it. No more delays, Colonel. You will open fire in one hour.”
“Sir.”
Lakos glared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied that he had quenched the colonel’s momentary spark of mutiny. He turned away and left the dugout, heading for the communications tent to report back to Bruk and the others waiting in Paris.
Behind him Kemeny shook his head in disbelief. He gazed toward the city’s graceful skyline and then down at the fire plot he still held in his hands. With more than one hundred artillery pieces under his command, the day-long pounding Lakos envisioned would leave much of Budapest in burning ruins. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of innocents would be killed. Their deaths would be on his conscience, their blood on his hands. He shivered.
The colonel looked up and found the forward observer and his assistants staring back at him. Something in their carefully blank faces unnerved him. “Listen carefully, Captain. You will not call for any fire without a direct order from me.
“Yes, Colonel.”
Kemeny folded the artillery fire plan and slid it into his pocket. He had a few critical and dangerous visits to make in the next hour.
Lieutenant General Emil Lakos sat in his tent, meticulously scrutinizing details of the assault plan before presenting them in a final briefing to his tank and motor rifle commanders.
He was still working when he heard diesel engines rumbling in the distance. The sound was familiar, armored vehicles repositioning most likely, but the noise grew louder and louder.
It finally intruded on his consciousness. There were too many engines running out there — enough for an entire company of tanks. He looked up from the city map, concerned. There shouldn’t be any troop movements in daylight, not this close to the enemy, and especially not this close to his headquarters. Somebody would have to catch hell for breaking his standing orders.
Lakos grabbed his steel helmet, opened the tent flap, and stood blinking in the bright afternoon sunshine. He was surprised to see men jumping out the rear of wheeled troop carriers. They were fanning out through the compound, with their weapons at the ready. What the devil? He hadn’t ordered the deployment of any additional security troops. Whose ridiculous idea was this? He called for his chief of staff. “Colonel Fenrec!”
He spotted one group of officers, striding quickly toward his tent. Fenrec was among them, plainly distressed. Kemeny was also in the group, carrying an AKM assault rifle in one hand. The others were also from his command, each of them a brigade or battalion leader — almost twenty in all.
He strode out to meet them, fighting the urge to run and shout questions. As they drew close, the group stopped at a respectful distance and saluted. But one of them held a pistol with its muzzle digging into Fenrec’s ribs.
Treason! Despite the cool breeze, Lakos could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He swayed, suddenly dizzy.
The most senior officer, one of his brigade commanders, spoke. “General Lakos, I am relieving you of command. I’m afraid that you are out of touch. Unlike you, we will not murder our fellow Hungarians for the simple crime of longing to be free. Those on your staff who wish to join us, may. Those that do not” — he made a face — ”will be removed to a place of safety.”
Lakos looked around him. Most of his staff officers were already gathered together out in the open. A few sat dejectedly with their hands on their heads, under guard. Most, though, appeared friendly to the new rebels. As if to reinforce the point, a pair of helicopters, their gun barrels tracking, made a low, slow pass overhead.
“The National Salvation Government is finished, General. And so are you.”
Lakos sputtered, and fixed his gaze on Kemeny. “You gave your word. You swore loyalty to me and to the government!”
Kemeny smiled thinly. “I lied.”
Hungary’s armed forces were making their choice.
“Attention!”
Boots crashed on the concrete floor as the officers and enlisted men occupying the hastily converted warehouse leapt to their feet and stood at rigid attention. In the sudden silence, the soft humming made by their desktop computers seemed very loud.
General de Corps d’Armee Claude Fabvier swept into the room, trailed by an array of French and German military aides. All of them were armed and wore battle dress.
Fabvier was a short, lean man turned brown by long service in Chad and the Middle East. He waved the startled staff officers back into their seats and smiled. “At ease, gentlemen. At ease. You have a lot of work to do, if I’m not much mistaken.”
That earned him a quick, nervous laugh.
Still smiling indulgently, the general turned to the German colonel commanding the movement control post. “Well, Joachim? Any problems?”
“None, Herr General.” The German led him over to a series of detailed topographical maps pinned to freestanding temporary partitions. Each showed a portion of the Austro-Hungarian border near Sopron — approximately forty kilometers south of Vienna. “All divisional, brigade, and battalion quartering parties have selected and marked assembly areas for their formations.” Using a red grease pencil, he circled them one by one.
Fabvier studied them for a short time. At first glance, at least, the sites were good — offering adequate concealment from prying Hungarian eyes, protection from ground or air attack, and good routes forward to the border itself. “And the movement schedule itself?”
“Nearly complete.” The colonel nodded toward a thick stack of printouts on his own desk. Coordinating the rail movement of three divisions, thousands of pieces of heavy equipment, and tens of thousands of tons of supplies from several different locations in France and Germany was an enormously complicated process, especially on such short notice. “The first trains roll later today.”
Fabvier squinted down at the first page of the printouts. Codes and abbreviations made it virtually indecipherable to anyone but a staff specialist. He looked up. “And the whole corps will be in position by the twenty-seventh?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“Excellent. Splendid work, Colonel.” Fabvier believed in being generous with his praise, when praise was due.
Spurred on by Nicolas Desaix, the European Confederation was massing a powerful force on the Hungarian border. Dozens of combat aircraft and forty thousand heavily armed troops were converging on Austria. Their looming presence should make Hungary’s rebels less eager to renege on solemn treaties and economic commitments.
Lightning flashed outside the Oval Office windows, streaking down out of a coal-black sky. The low, booming rumble of thunder echoed eerily across Washington’s city streets and public buildings. Torrential rains followed close behind, sheets of solid water that pummeled the White House gardens, ripping blossoms off trees and petals off flowers.
The President stared moodily out into the gray-green half-light. “Was I right to recognize this new Budapest regime, Ross? Or just so eager to hit back at the French that I’ve put us in a box?”
Ross Huntington shrugged. “I don’t see that you had any choice. You’ve seen the reports. This revolution’s about as genuine and democratic as they come.” He winced when he tried to breathe, glad the President’s back was turned. The tightness in his chest was getting worse and harder to conceal. “Besides, it’s the first crack in EurCon. Something to encourage, I’d say.”
“Yeah.” The President turned from the window. “Easier to kill a cub than a full-grown wolf, I guess.”
