and Slovak republics. It’s the only way to make sure that we aren’t dragged into this thing.”
“And just how do you suppose EurCon would interpret a move like that, Harris?” the President asked flatly. “Not to mention the rest of our allies?” He answered his own question. “They’d believe we were abandoning the Poles. That we were cutting and running at the first sign of trouble.
“And I believe that would be the worst imaginable signal we could send.” The President shook his head decisively. “The best deterrent against even more EurCon aggression is a strong, visible American presence on the ground in Poland.” He turned to Galloway. “Tell Brigadier General Foss and the others to stay put.”
Huntington nodded slowly. The President’s decisions made sense. He just hoped the men in Paris and Berlin were still able to think rationally.
Two centuries before, the elegant, horseshoe-shaped Esterhazy Palace had been the summer home of Hungary’s princely family and their court composer, Joseph Haydn. Now, tracked and wheeled armored vehicles festooned with radio antennas crowded the cobblestoned courtyard and neatly landscaped gardens. Staff officers in French and German battle dress conferred in small groups against the backdrop of the building’s elaborate yellow and white Baroque facade. EurCon’s IV Corps, its invasion force, had established its forward headquarters at this chateau popularly known as the Hungarian Versailles.
Near the palace’s wrought-iron main gate, General de Corps d’Armee Claude Fabvier stood looking down an access road leading to the main highway. More armored vehicles were parked in the tall, uncut grass to either side — squat, powerful-looking LeClerc main battle tanks of the 2nd Dragoons and tracked AMX-10P APCs belonging to the 51st Infantry. Soldiers, stripped to the waist in the late spring heat, lounged in the shade provided by their vehicles and by the tall trees that lined the road. Both French regiments were resting after spearheading the EurCon drive across the border.
Fabvier’s new leading elements, German panzer and panzergrenadier battalions from the 10th Panzer Division, were fighting on the outskirts of the tiny village of Szarfold, twenty kilometers to the east. Smoke from burning houses and tanks stained the eastern horizon. The general could hear a steady, muffled thumping in the distance as his corps and divisional artillery softened up Hungarian positions along Highway 85.
He shook his head, irritated by the signs of continued heavy fighting. Two days after storming across the frontier, the four divisions under his command were already fifty kilometers inside Hungary. But even though his troops and tanks were advancing at a fair clip, this campaign was already proving far more difficult than he’d anticipated. The Hungarian Army’s antiquated T-55 tanks and PSZH-IV personnel carriers were no real match for his four hundred LeClercs and Leopard 2s — especially at long range. God only knew, there were enough smoldering wrecks strung out along the roadside from Sopron on to prove that. Still, the Hungarians were putting up fierce resistance wherever and whenever they could. Clearing their dismounted infantrymen out of the woodlots and small villages along the highway usually meant close-quarters combat. And that meant taking casualties.
From the moment they’d crossed the frontier, the French corps commander had watched a steady stream of ambulances heading west — carrying his dead and wounded. Maintenance units were swamped with salvage and repair work on damaged or destroyed tanks and APCs.
Fabvier gritted his teeth. Very little of this heavy fighting would have been necessary if the flyboys had achieved air supremacy over the battlefield — as they had promised. After dealing the first night’s death blow to the enemy air force, French and German warplanes were supposed to be ranging overhead on call, swooping in to smash the Hungarian tank and motor rifle battalions hurrying to block the IV Corps’ path. Other planes were supposed to be busy escorting French airmobile regiments on raiding missions deep into the enemy’s vulnerable rear areas.
Polish and Czech aerial intervention had put all those plans on hold.
Fearful of being bounced by marauding F-15s and MiGs, EurCon Air Force commanders were refusing to mount strike missions without heavy escort and thorough preparation. As a result, the air units stationed in Austria were flying fewer sorties and had slower reaction times when they were presented with fleeting targets of opportunity. Hungarian columns that should have been obliterated by cluster bombs and strafing cannon were reaching the front almost unscathed.
There were also worrying signs that Poland and its allies might be considering entering the conflict on the ground. Fabvier had seen signals intelligence intercepts that suggested at least two Czech tank divisions were massing near the Slovak capital, Bratislava — just north of the Hungarian border. His brow furrowed as he frowned. If the Czech Army moved south to face him, he would need substantial reinforcements to continue the attack. And even if their tanks and APCs stayed on the right side of the line, they could cause him significant problems. He’d be forced to keep one eye perpetually peeled over his left shoulder as he pushed closer to Budapest. The need to guard his northern flank against possible attack would force him to divert large numbers of badly needed troops from his spearheads.
“General!” Boots rang on the cobblestones behind him.
Fabvier turned. His aide, Major Castellane, hurried closer. “What is it, Major?”
“Rochonvillers wants us to move faster. They claim we’re already several hours behind schedule and falling further behind all the time. I tried to explain the situation, but they want to talk to you directly.” Castellane was apologetic. Rochonvillers, near Metz, was the site of the French Army’s underground war headquarters.
The IV Corps commander turned purple with rage. He loathed the rear-area slackers and civilian ninnies who infested the headquarters’ neon-lit corridors. Not one of them knew what real soldiering was all about. He stabbed a finger at his aide. “You tell Minister Guichy and the rest of his bootlickers that I’m busy fighting a war here. And tell them that we’ll be able to advance faster when
“Yes, sir.” The major saluted and headed for the command vehicle carrying their secure communications channels. Fabvier’s ill-tempered words were about to stir up more trouble than he’d imagined.
Eleven men sat around the large circular table that nearly filled the underground War Room. Aides occupied chairs behind them, ready to run errands or to translate. Six of the men at the table, the service chiefs of the French and German armed forces, wore uniforms. The rest were in civilian clothes. Although the ventilation system was running on high, a haze of cigarette smoke hung near the low ceiling. The high-ranking members of the European Confederation’s Defense Committee had been meeting in urgent session since early that morning.
“Clearly, gentlemen, we can no longer operate under the delusion that this action will be swift and painless.” Jurgen Lettow, Germany’s Defense Minister, sounded exhausted. “Perhaps we should consider the possibility of a negotiated end to this crisis — before it worsens. As I see it, the Swiss offer to mediate could yield…”
Nicolas Desaix listened with mounting irritation. With the Confederation already at war, it was far too late for any misgivings about the use of force to restore Hungary’s military government to power. Now that the shooting had actually started, the only thing that mattered was to win, and win quickly. Anything short of unmistakable victory would shatter the Confederation he had so painstakingly forged.
Several of the smaller countries, Austria included, were already increasingly reluctant to honor their treaty commitments. Austrian troops that should have been guarding IV Corps supply lines were being held inside their own country — ostensibly for “national security” reasons.
The French Foreign Minister shifted restlessly in his chair. He abhorred this necessity to wage war by committee. By their very nature, deliberation and compromise were the enemies of swift and decisive action. If it were possible to
In any event, Lettow was right about one thing. Their initial timetables and casualty estimates had been wildly optimistic. The invasion planners had believed the Hungarian government-in-exile’s claims that their soldiers wouldn’t fight hard for the new regime. Of course, the Hungarian generals had been wrong — and not for the first time. According to intelligence reports, nearly all of Hungary’s tank and motor rifle brigades were actively siding with the revolutionaries in Budapest.
But the appearance of Polish and Czech aircraft over the battlefield had been the biggest and most unpleasant surprise so far. Operating from sanctuaries inside their own territory, their fighters and fighter-bombers were proving a serious annoyance. More than that, in fact, if General Fabvier’s reports could be believed. Desaix had to admit that he had never imagined that the Eastern European “free trade” states would offer Hungary more than moral support, American and British backing must be making them bolder than prudence would otherwise
