Cauldron

CHAPTER 23 Shifting Fortunes

Ross Huntington sat in a chair and let the heated argument flow over and around him. This was one time he planned to let the NSC’s official membership handle things without the somewhat dubious benefit of his advice. The military ramifications of the abortive French nuclear attack on George Washington were beyond his scope. He was a political advisor, not a defense expert. In any case, he already had more than enough on his plate. He felt worn down and about fifteen years older than he really was.

Huntington spent most of his waking hours out at Fort Meade — watching over the team of NSA analysts assigned to monitor EurCon’s internal governmental and diplomatic communications. Although they’d been digging deep, looking for disagreements and disputes, his SIGINT gophers hadn’t come up with much hard data.

The pandemonium in official and unofficial Washington more than made up for the European hush. For the past two days, pundits and politicians had swarmed over the nation’s airwaves and newspaper op-ed columns — each with his or her own slant on what should be done, and done now.

Dovish liberals issued impassioned appeals for a cease-fire, a negotiated settlement, and above all for talks, talks, and more talks. Furious conservatives argued for unrestricted bombing across France and Germany. Some even urged the retaliatory use of U.S. tactical nuclear weapons against EurCon ground targets. Isolationists of both stripes contended that the incident showed the folly of American involvement in Europe’s “petty” quarrels.

The spectacle seemed absurd to Huntington whenever he surfaced from scanning decoded radio and microwave intercepts — another manifestation of the Beltway freak show in full swing. As always, it pissed him off to see journalists and news anchors paying respectful heed to “experts” who’d been wrong so many times in the past. Why give airtime to people who had once solemnly assured anyone watching that KAL 007 had been a CIA spy flight, that the Soviets would never use chemical weapons against civilians, or that economic sanctions alone would force Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait?

Still, he had to admit that the TV talking heads seemed to represent every imaginable segment of American public opinion.

Not surprisingly, the administration’s own inner circle split along somewhat the same lines. The cabinet officers who had first opposed energy aid to Eastern Europe saw the nuclear attack as further proof that Poland and the others weren’t worth the potential price in American lives and treasure. Lucier, Scofield, and Quinn were among those scornfully rejecting any idea of retreating under EurCon military pressure. Thurman wobbled between the two factions, trying to sit on both sides of the fence at the same time. As always, the military chiefs were among the most cautious when it came to the lives of the men and women they commanded. That didn’t mean they backed withdrawal, but it did mean they wanted assurances that the nation’s political leadership wouldn’t leave them high and dry if the conflict escalated.

For the moment, the President seemed content to keep his own counsel.

He turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What’s the latest word on our troop deployment, General? Are you still on schedule?”

“Yes, sir.” General Reid Galloway nodded. “We’re almost ready to start flying both the 101st and the 82nd to Gdansk. It’s going to take a lot of time and a lot of planes, but we’ll get there.”

Huntington had seen the figures. Moving just one brigade of the 101st Airborne and its associated aviation task force by air meant lifting 2,800 troops, over one hundred helicopters, and nearly five hundred other vehicles. During the Desert Shield buildup, more than a hundred giant C-5s and C-141s had taken thirteen days to accomplish a similar feat. Two things had helped them cut those times somewhat. First, two of the 101st’s brigades were already packed and ready for movement to the U.K. for summer exercises with the British Army when the war broke out. Second, Poland was closer than Saudi Arabia and that cut flight times and wear and tear on crews. But it was still an enormous task.

“And our first two heavy divisions?”

The chief of naval operations, a slender, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pronounced Boston accent, answered that one. “We’re still assembling the transports we need, Mr. President. Once that’s done, it’ll take several more days to load them. Right now, our best guess is the first convoys can sail in a week to ten days.”

Carefully seated beside the President, Thurman cleared his throat.

“Yes, Harris?”

The Secretary of State folded his hands together and adopted his most serious expression. “I believe we should hold those ships in port, sir. At least until we have a better handle on the situation.”

“Explain that.”

“Well, Mr. President, it seems foolish to put such a slow-moving, high-value target within reach of French nuclear weapons. Before we let this convoy sail, we need a firm commitment from Paris that they won’t use those weapons again. Until we have their solemn pledge in hand, we would only be tempting the French and unnecessarily exposing our ships and military equipment to destruction.”

Members of the NSC’s isolationist faction murmured their agreement with the Secretary of State.

“Unnecessarily?” Despite his best intentions, Huntington found he couldn’t let that pass unchallenged. His pulse accelerated, driven by anger and irritation. “You’ve seen the same battlefield reports I have, Mr. Secretary. Poland needs help as quick as we can send it! We should…” Pain tore through his chest. Oh, God. He shivered, feeling cold sweat trickling down his forehead and under his arms. Breathing was difficult. He stared down at the table, panting rapidly.

“Ross? Ross? Are you okay?”

Huntington made an effort and lifted his head. He saw the President staring down the long table at him in sudden concern.

“Jesus, Ross! You look like shit.”

“So I’ve been told, Mr.…” Huntington doubled over in his seat, fighting to pull air through lungs that felt like they were being squeezed by red-hot pincers. The room started to gray out.

Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the President snap, “Get a medical team to the Situation Room! Now, goddamn it!”

An hour later, Huntington sat upright on a chilly examination table in the White House infirmary, acutely uncomfortable in a thin, sterile paper gown. Raw, stinging patches on his chest showed where a nurse had yanked hairs off along with a set of taped-down EKG leads.

He looked up at the trim, white-coated doctor standing close by, reviewing the EKG trace with pursed lips. “Well?”

Francis Pardolesi, the President’s personal physician, frowned down at the long, thin strip of paper. “Your readings are normal now. But that’s not unusual in angina. And your other symptoms and past medical history are indicative of the possibility.” He shook his head somberly. “Diaphoresis. Shortness of breath. Crushing substernal pain. Those are not good signs, Mr. Huntington.”

“Cut to the chase, Doctor. Did I just have another heart attack?”

“Probably not,” the younger man admitted almost reluctantly. “But in my best medical judgment, such a result is all but inevitable — especially if you keep pushing yourself so hard.”

Huntington started to object, but the doctor interrupted him. “There are a few tests I’d like to have run — just to be sure of my diagnosis. A couple of days in Walter Reed certainly won’t do you any harm.”

“No.”

“Mr. Huntington, you’re not behaving sensibly. You have got to get some R&R.”

“I don’t have time to rest, Doctor. We’re at war, and I have a lot of work to do.” Huntington stood up, looking around for his shirt.

Pardolesi sighed. “If you say so, but I think you’re making a mistake. A big one.” Then he shrugged and turned away, rummaging in a filing cabinet. “Before you go, I’ll need you to sign this AMA form.”

Huntington raised an eyebrow. “AMA? American Medical Association?”

The doctor shook his head. “Against Medical Advice. It affirms that you’re willfully rejecting my considered opinion.”

“So if I drop dead, my family can’t sue?”

“Something like that.”

The President poked his head around the examining room door. “How’s it going in here, Frank?”

“Mr. Huntington seems determined to run himself into the ground, sir.” Pardolesi threw up his hands. “He’s refused hospitalization.”

“Well, that’s his right.” The President came all the way into the room and turned to Huntington. “Feeling better, Ross?”

“Much better.” Huntington tried for a sheepish smile. “I’m only sorry about all the fuss earlier. Probably just a touch of indigestion.”

“Uh-huh.” The President exchanged a glance with his physician. “Look, Ross, I don’t let my friends commit suicide. So I want you to take it easy for a while. Just rest and get your strength back, okay?”

Huntington felt oddly like a small child caught picking up the pieces of a broken lamp — guilty but determined to brazen it out. He shook his head stubbornly. “With all due respect, I will not spend my time flat on my back in the hospital.”

“Not in the hospital. Here.” The President pointed toward the ceiling. The White House living quarters were above them. “I’ll have the staff fit out one of the guest rooms for you. That way the good doctor here can pop up and check in on you from time to time. That’ll make him feel better anyway. Right, Frank?”

Pardolesi nodded.

“What about my project?” Huntington played his strongest card. Finding some way to fracture EurCon was a top priority.

The President looked at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Are those analysts at the NSA incompetent?”

“No. But…”

“Tell me, Ross, when you ran your own company, did you stand behind your assembly-line guys every single minute?”

“No.” Huntington saw his point and acknowledged it with a ruthful grin.

“Then for God’s sake, apply the same common sense to this situation,” the President argued in exasperation. “Let the NSA sort the wheat from the chaff. I’ll have a federal courier hand-deliver anything interesting to you at your bedside, poolside, or wherever. Fair enough?”

Huntington nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable. Then he looked up. “What happened after I… left the room? About the troop convoys and the French nuclear threat, I mean?”

The President’s face took on a new expression — one that was grim and utterly determined. He glanced quickly toward Pardolesi. “Let’s just say that I made certain critical decisions. It’ll take time to pull everything together, but those ships will sail on time.”

General Wieslaw Staron studied the situation map in silence, ignoring the anxious officers who hovered nearby, ready to run errands or answer questions for him. He sighed softly.

Despite his best efforts and his soldiers’ valor, Poland’s military fortunes were still on the wane. French and German troops held Wroclaw solidly, and they were closing in on Poznan from the south. Though both sides were taking heavy casualties, the three Polish divisions trying to stem the EurCon tide were badly depleted. They were surviving only by giving ground whenever the enemy pressed them too closely.

The situation was slightly better in the air. More than two weeks of combat against long odds had cost the Polish Air Force many of its best planes and best pilots. EurCon’s losses had been even higher. And now America’s victory over the North Sea meant those losses could no longer be easily replaced by squadrons held in reserve in Germany and France.

Staron shrugged. The good news wasn’t good enough. Even without assured air superiority, Poland’s enemies had a manpower and firepower edge they could use to batter his bloodied army down before American or British reinforcements reached the battlefield. Somehow, from somewhere, he had to pull together enough troops to change that equation — to throw EurCon’s invasion force off balance and buy more time.

His dark brown eyes slid east while he fumbled a cigarette out of a crumpled pack stuck in his jacket pocket. An aide stepped forward with a lit match. The Defense Minister bent his head down, puffed the cigarette into life, and then nodded his thanks — all without taking his gaze off the map in front of him.

The smoke he inhaled and blew out smelled more like a hellish concoction of burning leaves and cardboard than tobacco. As a young officer, Staron’s salary wouldn’t stretch far enough to buy American or even French cigarettes. He’d learned to make do with Russian dregs then. Now that he could afford to buy better, anything else seemed tasteless — too smooth to be real.

Russia. He had four divisions stuck on Poland’s eastern border, warily watching Belarus, Ukraine, and their bigger brother behind them. Half his nation’s armed strength was pinned down hundreds of kilometers from the real war — as useless as though they were on the far side of the moon. But there wasn’t any evidence that the Russians were doing anything beyond taking normal defensive precautions against a war so close to their border. Certainly the American satellites weren’t picking up any Russian military movements out of the ordinary.

Staron considered that. Satellite intelligence wasn’t perfect. Their orbits were too predictable and their sensors could be spoofed by a clever opponent. He would have felt a lot more comfortable with political intelligence from inside the Kremlin itself. Then he shrugged. He’d like to be able to read his opponents’ minds, too, for that matter. Making decisions and taking risks on the basis of incomplete information came with the office and with the silver stars and braid on his shoulder boards.

He turned to the officer in charge of communications between Warsaw and the army’s various field headquarters. “Get me the commander of the 8th Mechanized Division.”

Parked Leopard 2 tanks and Marder APCs filled Leszno’s town square and the surrounding streets. Their scarred turrets and mud-streaked tracks and side skirts looked out of place beside the brightly painted Baroque buildings around them. Dull-eyed German soldiers sat slumped on the cobblestones or sprawled on top of their vehicles. But each man kept his helmet and rifle close to hand.

The 7th Panzer’s officers and men had been in combat almost continuously for twelve days and they were exhausted. Many of their vehicles were broken down or badly in need of repair. Between mechanical breakdowns and battle losses, some battalions were barely above half strength. The whole division urgently needed time to rest and regroup.

Tracks clattered and squealed across the pavement as LeClerc tanks and AMX-10 troop carriers crowded past on their way to the front. The French 5th Armored Division was moving up from reserve to take over the lead.

Willi von Seelow scratched his chin, frowning at the feel of the blond stubble under his fingers. He hadn’t had time to shave for two days and now he itched and stank. Baths had consisted of splashing water from his canteen over his hands and face in occasional, usually futile efforts to clear away caked-on dust or mud.

He dropped his hand and stood still, watching the French column lumbering forward.

“Pretty bunch of sluggards, aren’t they?” Lieutenant Colonel Otto Yorck muttered. “Do you suppose our glorious allies are finally ready to get their brand-new tanks dented in combat?”

Willi shrugged. “Maybe.” He eyed the long parade of passing vehicles angrily. “I was beginning to think General Montagne was saving them for the victory celebration.”

“A duty the damned French would undoubtedly perform to perfection,” Yorck growled.

Willi nodded. His friend had every reason to be bitter. This relief was long overdue. Some officers openly wondered whether Montagne had secret orders from Paris to hold down French casualties in what was rapidly becoming a prolonged and unpopular war.

Now, with French armor finally out in front, II Corps, 7th Panzer’s parent formation, was turning northeast against stiff opposition. They were driving hard to cross the Warta River below Poznan at a little town called Srem. Once across the river, the corps would swing northward again, advancing down the Warta’s east bank toward the city. Montagne, Leibnitz, and the other generals hoped the move would outflank the Polish Army’s best defensive positions.

They were supposed to link up with the III Corps’ three divisions on the far side of Poznan.

And then what were they supposed to do? As far as von Seelow was concerned, the belief that capturing or isolating Poznan would somehow force the Poles to the bargaining table was a fantasy of the worst kind. The Americans were busy flattening Germany’s naval and air installations along the Baltic. Once they were done, the Baltic would lie open to U.S. and British freighters and troop transports. Why should Poland surrender now when time was on its side?

Von Seelow spun abruptly on his heel and strode toward the building he’d commandeered for the staff operations center. He couldn’t shake the growing feeling that he and his fellow soldiers were mired to the knees in a deadly bog and sinking fast.

Artillery grumbled to the north, like distant thunder on a gray, overcast day. The dirty, ragtag band of forty Polish soldiers concealed in the band of birchwoods stiffened and then relaxed. The shelling was too far away to menace them. They settled back to their work, stripping and cleaning an oddly varied assortment of personal weapons — some Polish, some German, and some French. A few were busy performing routine maintenance on a small collection of equally varied vehicles. Two civilian cars, a Polish GAZ jeep, an American-made Humvee, and a canvas-sided German truck were parked beneath the trees.

Major Marek Malanowski squatted easily on his haunches in a small clearing near the center of the woods, listening respectfully to the elderly, weather-beaten farmer who had come in that morning bearing glad tidings. He waited until the man finished speaking and then asked, “Why are you so sure that this camp is a headquarters of some kind? Couldn’t it be a field hospital or a supply dump?”

The farmer snorted. “I served my time as a conscript, Major. Where else but a headquarters do you see enough saluting to wear arms out — not to mention enough radio antennas for a whole village? And when did you ever see doctors saluting each other?”

Malanowski grinned. “True enough.” He rocked back on his heels and stared down at his locked hands, considering the presence of an enemy command post within striking distance. Then he looked up. “What about their security?”

The old man hawked and spat to one side. “Pathetic. A few foot soldiers, a machine-gun nest or two, and a few trucks.”

“Any signs that they’re planning to move?”

“No.” The farmer shook his grizzled head confidently. “If they move out today, they’ll be leaving a lot of vehicles behind. I saw mechanics overhauling engines all over the place.”

Malanowski stood up, straightening to his full height. His calf muscles ached, sore from constant overuse and too little rest. He ignored the pain. “All right, my friend, I’ll come see this headquarters of yours for myself.”

He glanced around the clearing at his men and smiled coldly. “Then we may all pay these Germans a social call later on tonight. Right, boys?”

Grim, silent nods answered him.

Malanowski was satisfied by that. His soldiers were hungry for revenge. Some were survivors from his battalion. Others were stragglers he’d picked up on the long, dangerous journey eastward from the Neisse River. They’d kept busy on the way — dodging EurCon patrols and ambushing couriers and supply trucks. But now the major was ready to hunt bigger game.

The 19th Panzergrenadier’s main command post occupied an orchard just off the road connecting Leszno and the Warta River crossings at Srem. Five hundred meters of open fields separated the orchard from Nochowo, the closest hamlet.

Von Seelow came out of his M577 TOC and waited, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. The sun had set two hours before and the moon wouldn’t be up for a little while longer. In the meantime, the headquarters unit had to make do with a few shielded electric lamps.

Repeated flashes rippled along the northeastern horizon, backed up by a rhythmic, muted thumping. He frowned. Although II Corps HQ had passed very little information down the chain, it was clear that the Poles were hitting the French in strength. But what magic hat had they tapped to find the troops for a counterattack? Where had they made themselves weak to be strong here?

Von Seelow looked away and walked toward the cluster of officers huddled around a dimly lit map table. Aware that they might be called out of reserve soon to retrieve a deteriorating tactical situation across the Warta, Colonel Bremer had summoned his battalion and company commanders to the brigade CP for a quick brief.

The map taped to the table showed the broad extent of the Confederation’s advance into Poland. Our vaunted invasion looks just like a ridiculously big fishhook, he realized, with the bend beginning at Wroclaw. Well, von Seelow thought wryly, maybe we’re confusing the Poles almost as much as we’re confusing ourselves.

A stocky shape tugged at his sleeve. “Herr Oberstleutnant!”

He recognized Private Neumann’s hoarse voice. The signalman must have followed him out of the TOC. “What is it?”

“Division is on the line again, sir. They say it’s urgent.”

Von Seelow stifled the urge to swear. He’d spoken with the 7th Panzer’s operations officer only a few minutes before. What could possibly have changed in such a short span of time? He caught Bremer’s eye and inclined his head toward the TOC, indicating he’d been called back.

The colonel nodded briefly and kept talking, filling his officers in on what he knew about the battle raging ahead of them.

Von Seelow headed back to his bulky, blacked-out armored vehicle. On the way he noticed again how few troops were guarding the command post. He made a mental note to raise his concerns with Lieutenant Preussner, the junior officer currently responsible for headquarters security. The men usually charged with the task, soldiers from 7th Panzer’s jaeger and security battalions, were spread across southwest Poland, guarding bridges and supply convoys. To replace them, Bremer had detailed Preussner to command a scratch force of men volunteered by each of the brigade’s battalions.

Willi was beginning to believe that the colonel had made a mistake there. Naturally enough, most of the battalion COs had taken the opportunity to rid themselves of a few feckless incompetents and disciplinary hard cases. Given enough time, a tough, experienced leader might have been able to whip them into shape, but not Preussner. The thin, bookish lieutenant ordinarily ran the 19th’s cryptographic cell. He was a good staff officer. He was also the last person von Seelow would have put in charge of line troops — at least under ideal circumstances. Of course, the circumstances were anything but ideal. Preussner had been chosen because two weeks of war had left the brigade with a distinct shortage of junior officers. Matching assignments and personalities was a peacetime luxury.

Von Seelow strode up his M577’s rear ramp and ducked his head as he brushed through the blackout curtain into its crowded compartment. One of his subordinates handed him a headset. Preussner’s troubles would have to wait. II Corps was undoubtedly about to dump a whole new load on the 19th Panzergrenadier’s shoulders.

At the sandbagged guard post two hundred meters down the road to Nochowo, a match flared suddenly.

“For God’s sake, Vogler!” Lieutenant Paul Preussner snapped. “Put that damned cigarette out! You’re on sentry duty here, not waiting for the bloody bus to Berlin!”

“Yes, sir,” the private answered sullenly. A red glow flipped through the air and landed close to his foot.

Preussner stared down for a second at the still-smoldering cigarette and then ground it out. He felt like tearing his hair out. These idiots were hopeless! He felt a moment’s intense longing for the quiet competence of the enlisted men who staffed his cryptographic van.

The throbbing sound of a heavy diesel engine approaching brought him out of his reverie. A vehicle had turned off the main road and was rattling up the dirt side track that led to the orchard. His head came up. “Report, Vogler.”

“It’s a truck, Herr Leutnant.”

Preussner fought off his first impulse to throttle the private and sighed. If he reacted to every insolent remark, he’d have half the headquarters guard detachment up on charges. “And?”

“One of ours, sir.”

The lieutenant closed his eyes in exasperation and said, with far more patience than he felt, “Why don’t you go and make sure of that, Private?”

Vogler muttered something Preussner chose to interpret as agreement. Still muttering, the sour-faced private slung his assault rifle over one shoulder and stepped out of the guard post into the road. He used a shielded flashlight to wave the canvas-sided track to a stop.

Preussner leaned against the guard post’s waist-high wall, waiting patiently for the private’s next screwup.

The truck driver’s door creaked open and a man clambered out from behind the wheel, dropping lightly to the ground in front of Vogler. Something about his uniform looked odd in the dim red glow from the private’s flashlight. Just what kind of camouflage pattern was that?

Vogler stiffened suddenly and whirled toward Preussner, eyes wide. “Sir, they’re Pol — ”

Something bright gleamed in the darkness and plunged into the private’s back. Vogler moaned once and crumpled to the ground.

Preussner felt his mouth fall open. He stood rooted in shock, staring from the private’s contorted body to the Polish soldiers already leaping out the back of the truck. Everything around him seemed to freeze.

Then the frozen moment passed and movement came back in a flash. The lieutenant’s hand was already fumbling for the pistol at his side when a dark shape flew through the air, smacked onto the sandbags in front of him, and rolled inside the guard post — right between his feet.

Paul Preussner had just enough time to recognize the Soviet-style fragmentation grenade before it went off.

Even as the muffled burst of light and sound faded, figures were already rising up out of the tall grass and standing crops in front of the shredded, smoking guard post.

Major Malanowski and his men had come to pay their respects.

“… French are falling back, Willi… need you to plug the gap by morning… critical…”

Willi von Seelow pressed the headphones tighter against his ears, trying to make sense out of the static-filled, scrambled transmission from division HQ. Polish radio jamming was getting better, and they hadn’t had time yet to lay wire communications. Two things were disastrously clear, though. First, the damned French had been beaten and were retreating fast. And second, Montagne and his underlings expected the 19th Panzergrenadier to save their bacon — again.

He clicked the transmit switch. “Understood, sir. But…”

Whummp. “

Wait one.” Von Seelow pulled the headphones off and glanced at the sergeant sitting beside him. “What the hell was that?”

Gunfire erupted outside the TOC — the chattering roar of machine guns and the higher-pitched crackling of assault rifles. Startled cries and screams rose above the noise. Realization broke past his surprise. They were under attack!

Von Seelow tossed the headset to the sergeant. “Get help fast!” Without waiting for a reply, he reared up off his chair, undogged the commander’s cupola, and poked his head through the opening.

Trucks parked around the command post perimeter were on fire, burning brightly as fuel fed the flames. Everywhere he looked men were toppling, cut down by the bullets scything through the camp. Others dove for cover behind vehicles or piles of equipment, clawing at their sidearms to return fire.

An RPG streaked through the night and exploded inside a Marder APC, gutting it. Razor-edged steel fragments blew outward, slicing two German officers who had been sheltering beside the Marder into red ruin.

Flashes stabbed out of the darkness along the perimeter. The Poles were still outside the camp, but he could see shadowy forms scrambling upright and moving forward. They were coming in to finish the job. Another grenade went off near the overturned map table.

Von Seelow grabbed the MG3 machine gun mounted beside the cupola and opened up, sending a long, withering burst along the line of advancing enemy soldiers. Several were hit and knocked off their feet. The other Poles dropped flat, seeking shelter wherever they could find it.

One man knelt, leveling a rocket launcher.

Willi sensed more than saw him and whipped the machine gun around with his finger still locked on the trigger. Four 7.62mm rounds moving at 2,700 feet per second tore the RPG gunner to pieces before he could fire.

Heartened by his example and with the Poles pinned down, more German crews made it to their own armored vehicles and started shooting back. Tracers lit the night, floating out over the open fields around the orchard.

As quickly as it had begun, the attack ended. The Polish soldiers faded back into the darkness, dragging their own dead and wounded with them. They left the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade’s headquarters in shambles behind them.

Half an hour later, von Seelow stared down at a familiar figure sprawled beside the splintered map table. A grim-faced medical officer kneeling by the body looked up and shook his head.

Colonel Georg Bremer was dead.

Willi swallowed hard and turned away. So many were dead, and so many others were badly wounded — Jurgen Greif, the brigade second-in-command, and his old friend Otto Yorck among them. The Polish commando raid had decimated the 19th’s command structure.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Neumann?”

The private still sounded shaken. He’d been standing close to the colonel when the attack began. “II Corps is calling again, Herr Oberstleutnant. They want to know when we can move up. They say things are going from bad to worse across the river.”

“And what do they think we’re doing here? Cleaning up after a damned picnic?” Von Seelow instantly regretted the outburst. The private was only doing his job. He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and felt him flinch. “Tell Captain Weber to inform Corps that we’ll have two battalions on the road within the hour. And tell them to make sure the bridges are cleared for our advance. Understand?”

Neumann nodded and hurried off.

Willi von Seelow sighed once. Then he moved into the tangle of burned-out and bullet-pocked vehicles, rounding up his surviving officers. With Bremer dead and Greif out of action, command of the brigade fell to him. Whether anyone higher up liked it or not.

Von Seelow squinted into the rising sun and scowled angrily. Despite all the promises made by II Corps, the three pontoon bridges across the Warta were packed with French troops and vehicles streaming back in disorder. Signs of barely contained panic were everywhere. LeClerc tanks showing clear signs of battle damage — scarred armor, jammed turrets, or smoking engines — mingled with others that seemed completely untouched. Dazed soldiers threaded their way through the slow-moving columns on foot. Trucks that stalled out in the growing heat were pushed off into the river instead of being towed to the opposite bank.

He grabbed the French military police captain who had been directing traffic and stabbed a finger toward the bridging site. “I’m not asking you, Captain, I’m telling you! I want at least one of those pontoon bridges clear for my brigade to cross! Not later! Now!”

The MP licked dry lips and shrugged nervously. “I’m afraid that is impossible, sir. General Belliard himself gave me my orders. All bridges are reserved for the 5th Armored.”

Von Seelow nodded. Belliard was the commander of the 5th French Armored Division.

He glanced up the road behind them. Leopard 2s and Marders were backing up, stalled in close formation while they waited to cross the Warta. They were sitting ducks while stuck like that. His men called the Leopard Der Schimpanse because it was so easy to drive that even a monkey could do it. But not even the Chimp could swim. Only God himself could help them if a Polish fighter-bomber broke through the air patrols overhead and the SAM defenses here below. Or if the Poles got forward observers in a position to call in artillery fire on the riverbank. “And where is General Belliard?”

Again the same nervous shrug. “I am not sure, sir. His command vehicle went by several hours ago.”

Shit. Willi’s anger flared to white-hot rage. The cowardly son-of-a-bitch was probably already back hiding behind General Etienne Montagne’s dress uniform trousers. Part of him wanted to sit back and simply accept the fact that getting across the Warta into combat again was impossible. But another part of him — older, more inflexible, and still bound by honor — summoned up reminders of the oaths he had sworn and of his duty as a soldier.

He spun the French MP around and pointed to the big 120mm main guns mounted on his Leopard 2s. “Do you see those guns, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Von Seelow leaned forward to stare directly into the other man’s frightened eyes. “Listen to me very carefully. Either you clear a path for my men and me immediately, or my tanks will blow every single one of those damned bridges into the Warta — with or without your men on them. Do I make myself clear?”

The Frenchman’s mouth dropped open and hung there while he stared back at von Seelow. Then he closed it hastily and nodded rapidly.

Von Seelow released him and walked away without looking back — striding back to his command vehicle. With Willi in the lead and in command, the 19th Panzergrenadier was heading back into battle.