Cauldron

CHAPTER 36 Pressure Points

Unwilling to believe what he’d just read, Nicolas Desaix stared down at the message form he held crumpled in his hand. He looked up at Michel Guichy. “Montagne is sure of this?”

“Yes, very sure,” the Defense Minister growled. “This man Leibnitz and his subordinates have refused all of II Corps’ orders to renew the attack. They’ve even abandoned all the ground gained this morning. They may be preparing to fall back further.”

“Boche bastards!” The coarse epithet felt so good rolling off Desaix’s tongue that he repeated it. He tossed the message form aside. “Does Berlin know anything about this situation yet?”

Guichy shrugged. “Who knows? II Corps controls all land-line communications access to the 7th Panzer, but the Germans do have radios.”

“Damn.” By rights, the German Chancellor and his cabinet ministers should be equally appalled by their panzer division’s refusal to obey EurCon orders. Unfortunately Desaix was no longer sure he could predict Heinz Schraeder’s reactions. Russia’s state television had begun broadcasting reports of Kaminov’s secret negotiations with France. Since then, Berlin’s willingness to accept French political and military advice had perceptibly diminished. And in recent telephone conversations, Schraeder’s tone had grown notably tepid, even cold.

Another troubling thought struck him. “What about Montagne’s own German staff officers? Who controls them?”

“Unimportant, Nicolas.” The Defense Minister shook his head. “Our people already have General Wismar and his subordinates in ‘precautionary custody.’”

Desaix relaxed minutely. Though somewhat high-handed, General Montagne’s prompt action had at least blocked one path by which the 7th Panzer’s mutiny might have spread. Once this “insurrection” was snuffed out, apologies, compensation, and perhaps even a judicious promotion or two should soothe any ruffled German feathers.

He pursed his lips. “Very well. What other measures have been taken to isolate this Leibnitz and his soldiers?”

Guichy rattled them off in quick succession. “Troops from General Belliard’s 5th Armored are posted on all roads leading into the 7th Panzer’s sector. And all supply deliveries have been halted.” He smiled grimly. “After all, if these German cowards won’t attack, they certainly don’t need any fuel or ammunition. Or food.”

Desaix nodded his approval. “Good. Good.” Then he frowned. Isolation alone would not solve this problem. Not in time. With more and more American and British troops pouring into Poland, EurCon could not afford to wait long enough to starve the 7th Panzer Division into submission. He said as much to Guichy.

The other man spread his hands. “Then what do you propose we do?”

What indeed? Desaix found himself wishing his enemies would end this mutiny for him. U.S. and British commandos and Polish guerrillas were already making life hell for other German and French outposts scattered across occupied Poland. So why couldn’t they hit Leibnitz and his rebels, too? An idea dawned. A bold scheme — one whose rewards might well be outweighed by its risks. Or so a more cautious man might say. But, with other, far more carefully laid schemes collapsing around his ears, Nicolas Desaix was in a mood to gamble.

He leaned forward and bluntly outlined his plan to bring the mutinous German troops to heel. Army units in any semblance of order were always rigidly hierarchical. The junior officers, the sergeants, and the common soldiers were all schooled in obedience. If Montagne could lop off the 7th Panzer’s upper echelons quickly enough, those who were left should fall in line.

Guichy heard him out in stunned silence. When he’d finished, the big Defense Minister breathed out, dismayed. “My God, Nicolas. If anything went wrong… or if anybody talked…” He shook his head. “The effects could be catastrophic.”

“Exactly.” Desaix hardened his voice. “That is precisely why we must not fail and why no one can be left in a position to talk. You understand?”

The Defense Minister nodded, still shaken.

“Then I suggest you transmit the appropriate orders to General Montagne. And that will be that.” Desaix tossed the message form into a wastebasket — the one his aides emptied into a shredder and then an incinerator at the end of each working day.

After Guichy left, he sat back, mulling over the rest of the war situation. His mouth turned downward. At every turn, his best efforts had been thwarted by bad luck or incompetent subordinates. First Duroc’s bumbled attempt to crush the Hungarian resistance. Then the overconfident generals who had promised complete victory in Poland in days — not weeks of futile warfare. Admiral Gibierge’s wasted nuclear strike. The destruction of his nation’s precious nuclear deterrent force. The catastrophe in Moscow. And now this failed attack on Gdansk.

Abruptly Desaix slammed his fist down. Idiots! Fools! He glared at the map laid out across one side of his desk. Seizing the Polish port was still the only way to end this war on a victorious note. He could see that, even if the military men could not.

His intelligence experts still insisted there were only two Combined Forces armored divisions in Poland. A new offensive, one backed by fresh EurCon troops, might still succeed in reaching the city. But where could he find those fresh troops?

Not from Germany. Schraeder’s government had only a few Territorial battalions and one panzergrenadier division left to guard its own borders and military installations. A month of war had bled the once-mighty German Army dry. A thin, humorless smile flitted across Desaix’s face. At least the fighting had brought one positive result.

France was in better shape. She still had her fifty-thousand-man-strong Force d’Action Rapide — the airmobile, marine, airborne, and light armored troops of her rapid deployment force. His smile faded. Those soldiers were needed to defend military posts against enemy commando raids. Unfortunately they were also needed to help hold down an increasingly restive French populace. As the fighting dragged on, there were more signs of trouble brewing in the big cities — Paris, Lyons, Lille, and the rest. And the gendarmes were again showing a reluctance to suppress civil disorder.

Desaix moodily contemplated the map. Perhaps they would have to abandon the territory won in Hungary in order to send part of General Fabvier’s IV Corps north. He scowled, detesting the thought of giving the Hungarian rebels a propaganda victory they would undoubtedly trumpet from the rooftops.

His eye fell on Belgium. Where the hell were those two combat brigades the Belgians had been ordered to provide? Those troops were desperately needed to free French soldiers for frontline service. Never mind the delays imposed by American air strikes on the German and French rail net, the damned Belgians could have walked to their new posts by now! He made a mental note to raise the issue with Belgium’s ineffectual ambassador and moved on.

The sultry July morning seemed to last forever. General Karl Leibnitz, Willi von Seelow, and the other two brigade commanders sat sweltering in the meager shade provided by a tree overlooking a cleared patch of grazing land. After two sleepless nights, they were hot and tired and dirty.

The lack of any breeze seemed symbolic, as well as uncomfortable. Nothing moved. Although they could have set up the division headquarters in the open, the trees were much safer. The unit was actually spread across one edge of a large clump of woods, tucked back inside about fifty meters or so.

The division’s four M577 headquarters trucks were parked back-to-back in a cross, with a camouflaged awning spread on poles between them. Around that were the other trucks and tents of the headquarters, all carefully concealed, and in turn surrounded by fighting positions and foxholes for the headquarters troops. A few Marder APCs were deployed around the perimeter for added firepower.

Willi glanced down at his watch again. Only a few minutes had passed since he’d last checked the time. The man they were waiting for was late. As usual.

During the twenty-four hours since they’d sent that French cretin Cambon packing, Leibnitz and the other officers of the 7th Panzer had already ignored one peremptory order to advance, and another directing them all to report to II Corps headquarters for an “urgent conference.”

II Corps’ latest message was more promising. It had requested a meeting, to resolve “difficulties in the command structure.” To do that, General Montagne himself would come to the 7th Panzer’s headquarters.

Now they waited for the French corps commander’s helicopter, due to arrive momentarily. They still had no idea what Montagne would say, but his willingness to talk at all was heartening. “First intelligent thing the French have done,” Leibnitz had muttered.

Willi nodded to himself. That was true enough. Certainly the other actions the French had taken were less reassuring. The supply cutoff had left the division with just enough gas and ammunition for one defensive battle. Now scouting parties were reporting heavy roadblocks across all major roads, and most of the secondary roads. In the circumstances, it seemed clear that any major German movement might trigger a new conflict, this time between erstwhile allies. In the field, in front of a hostile army, that would be worse than disastrous, and Willi’s military training rebelled at the idea.

He grimaced. This situation had to be resolved quickly. Food and fuel were incidentals compared to the strategic issues.

So far, the Americans had not counterattacked. Nobody knew how much of the “mutiny” was known on the other side, but both the French and German participants were doing their best to keep it quiet. Like family members with a grievance, they still argued in whispers, lest the neighbors overhear.

A shout from an enlisted man brought them to their feet. A gray-and-green-camouflaged Puma helicopter, moving low and slow, was in full view, coming in for a landing in the clearing in front of the headquarters.

Willi glanced left and right. Soldiers in nearby foxholes tracked the helicopter, an indication of just how far relations with their “allies” had deteriorated.

The Puma settled to the ground in a cloud of dust and dried grass, its rotors seeming to take forever to slow. Finally, as the blades spun down to a stop, the side hatch slid open.

Suddenly Willi heard the crash of an explosion behind him, and the rattle of small-arms fire from somewhere further back among the trees. He spun around, looking for the source. The shooting continued, doubling in intensity.

New rifles crackled, from closer now. The soldiers near him were firing at the grounded Puma. Instead of French generals, two squads of French troops in full combat gear were pouring out, shooting on the move. Rounds whined over his head and smacked into the trees close by.

Christ. He knelt down, unslinging the MP5 submachine gun he’d been carrying. Leibnitz and the other brigade commanders were already prone. They all kept weapons close to hand. Nobody wanted to follow Bremer’s fate.

Just beyond the clearing, a French Gazelle attack helicopter popped into view over the trees, followed closely by another. Hugging the ground, the two gunships swept toward the woods, searching for targets. A puff of smoke appeared under one machine, and a missile leapt away, flashing into the trees.

One of the Marders, parked a few dozen meters away, fireballed — hit broadside by a warhead designed to kill tanks. A powerful, ringing explosion blew the APC’s 25mm gun and turret high into the air.

But German Marders also carried portable Milan antitank missile launchers. Even as the French HOT missile struck, the rest of the APC’s crew avenged its destruction. A Milan streaked upward from a nearby foxhole toward the Gazelle. Flying too low and slow to evade, the helicopter took a direct hit — just under its rotor transmission. The blades and part of its engine broke clear, spinning out of sight, while the rest of the airframe, burning brightly, slammed into the ground.

In response, the other Gazelle gunned the treeline, almost casually lacing it with 20mm shells. Von Seelow could hear men screaming as the cannon rounds ripped through their foxholes.

Killing them took time, though — time enough for a second Marder, still concealed by camouflage netting, to slew its own 25mm turret around and fire. One long, clattering burst seemed to pin the French helicopter in place. Armor-piercing rounds tore off pieces of the Gazelle until what was left was no longer fit to fly. It dropped to the ground, a mass of burning metal.

The Marder fired again, this time aiming for the French Puma. More than a dozen explosive shells hit the helicopter hard enough to knock it over and set it ablaze. The commandos it had carried, now pinned down in the open, fired back, but they had lost surprise, as well as their supporting firepower. Several were already dead or badly wounded. The rest wouldn’t last much longer, Willi thought grimly.

Gunfire and grenade explosions still rattled and thumped in the woods behind him. The French were launching a two-pronged attack, he realized. One force had infiltrated through the trees to hit the headquarters from behind, while the Puma brought in this second unit to cut off any attempted retreat.

Leibnitz scrambled up. “Our men need help, gentlemen.” He jerked his head toward the sound of firing. “Come.”

Willi nodded and gripped his submachine gun tighter. Personal weapons out and ready, the four senior officers scuttled away from the clearing, moving deeper into the woods. They were only twenty meters short of their command trucks, when a long, searing burst of fire drove them to ground.

Jansen, commander of the 20th Panzer Brigade, screamed once and then fell silent. He’d been shot through the head.

Dead soldiers, both French and German, sprawled everywhere. Heart pounding now, Von Seelow lay still, scanning the surrounding area for signs of living enemies. Where had those shots come from?

They’d hit the dirt close to a burning truck, but the choking smoke and flames forced them to edge away from the cover it provided. The closest trees, spaced meters apart, were no help. They only made it more difficult to see. The sounds of firing still surrounded them, spasmodic, but almost constant overall, and the flames crackling noisily nearby further confused the picture.

Suddenly a pair of French soldiers burst into view, running hard toward some point off to Willi’s right. They spotted the prone Germans at almost the same instant and skidded to a stop, swinging their assault rifles around. They were too late.

Von Seelow pulled the trigger on his submachine gun, spraying the two Frenchmen with several short, deadly bursts. Hit repeatedly, both men went down in a tangled heap.

The firing had attracted attention, though. Out the corner of one eye, Willi caught a flicker of movement as a second pair of commandos appeared and then went prone, diving into some brush a short distance away. Desperately he swung the MP5 around, already knowing he was too late.

Two grenades sailed toward the German officers.

“Down!” he shouted, burying his face in the dirt.

One landed too far to the right and exploded harmlessly, but the other landed a bare two meters away.

Whummp.

A wall of hot air, almost a solid thing, buffeted Willi, threatening to lift him off the ground. He clung desperately, knowing that hundreds of steel fragments were embedded in that mass, sleeting out from a point only a man’s height away. The howling sound of their passage, though, was masked by the explosion itself, and by the time von Seelow wondered whether any would hit him, they were past, and he was still alive.

His training told him what must come next, and he fought with his body, trying to shake off the dizziness and to raise his weapon. It seemed to weigh a ton, and his arms would not point it in the right direction. He was half-blind, too, with the dust blown in his eyes and not enough time to wipe it out.

Finally, still prone, he levered the submachine gun over and fired a long burst toward the enemy. It was not a well-aimed burst, but it was fast, and it worked.

He didn’t hit anything, but the two French soldiers, rising to follow their grenades in on the heels of the blast, were caught by surprise. They dove back into cover.

Now, Leibnitz and Schisser, the 21st’s acting commander, both pumped short accurate bursts from their own submachine guns, one after another, into the brush. They were rewarded by screams and a low, gurgling moan that slowly died away.

When they stopped shooting, the woods were quiet, the stillness unnerving after the deafening din just moments before. With his ears still ringing, Willi kept swiveling his weapon from side to side. Did the trees hide more armed enemies, waiting for them to move? Or were the French defeated, his freedom proof of their failure? In the first case, lying still and waiting was the key to survival, in the other it just made him feel a little silly.

“Herr General!” It was Major Feist’s voice. Von Seelow started at the sound, suddenly realizing how tense he was. Leibnitz called back. The danger was over, only minutes after it appeared.

Willi stood slowly, shaking off the last of the grenade’s effects. He walked over to the little clump of brush where they had just poured so much fire.

Two bodies lay at odd angles.

He pushed one corpse with the toe of his boot, rolling the man over, studying his uniform. A badge with a silver wing and sword on the dead man’s red beret identified him as a member of the 13th Airmobile Dragoons, an elite outfit like Germany’s own Long-Range Scout Troops or the American Special Forces. And yet they had been beaten. Willi nodded grimly. Not bad for a bunch of headquarters troops. He had to give Leibnitz a lot of the credit, though. Like Willi himself, the 7th Panzer’s commander had learned a hard lesson from the Polish raid that had killed Georg Bremer. The older man had taken special pains to strengthen his division’s headquarters security.

He turned away from the dead men.

Feist, panting, had arrived and was almost frantically reporting to Leibnitz. “No, Herr General, there were no reports of any other attacks, either by the Poles or the French. I’ve counted at least twenty French bodies so far. We’re trying to see how they infiltrated in, but it must have taken them a long time, almost all night.”

Leibnitz growled, almost an animal sound. The French never meant to negotiate. Looking at the German wounded and dead lying all around, he said, “It appears we have another enemy.”

Willi, ignoring rank, countered, “No, only one.”

The immediacy of combat had prevented him from fully appreciating Montagne’s treachery, but he could feel the anger burning inside. Before, the French had been self-serving fools. Now they were criminals.

The general nodded. He turned back to Feist. “Pass the order to all units. Tell them to fire on any Frenchmen they see.” He paused. “Then get me a secure channel. I need to talk to Berlin.”

Inchon’s darkened bridge was not a good place to pace. Too many people and too much equipment filled the space, and the near-total darkness just increased the chance of a collision. Admiral Jack Ward still tried, though, like a nervous father in a 1930s comedy, burning off adrenaline as best he could while they waited and waited. Half an hour seemed like an eternity.

He picked up the glasses and stepped out onto the bridge wing again. The cool North Sea night air, stiffened by a fifteen-knot formation speed, made him glad for the khaki jacket.

The Belgian coast was a dark line, invisible except for the uneven horizon it gave the water. A few scattered lights marked small towns, while a larger smear of brightness showed where the port of Ostend lay. It was a dark, quiet scene, with only a thin sliver of moon and almost no wind to stir the sea.

The darkness could hide a lot, like the blacked-out Task Force or the amphibious craft moving toward the beach. The first wave of LCACs — high-speed, air-cushion landing craft — had been launched fifteen minutes ago.

The coast seemed distant, but he knew better than anyone that they had been standing into danger since midnight. They were out of artillery range, but coastal missile batteries were mobile and hard to find.

Ward and his captains had been lucky so far. Taking advantage of Combined Forces naval superiority, he’d risked a daylight move the day before, and a short nighttime run, to put the assault force in position for a night landing. Now the darkness was on their side, and with luck the first wave would be ashore and well established by dawn.

Still, he fretted. No detections and good weather had given them a good start, but the element of surprise could be lost to one fisherman with a radio or a beachcomber with sharp eyes. Stealth was everything in a landing like this.

Virtually every aircraft in the Combined Forces was overhead, providing air cover, knocking out nearby radars and communications stations, or hitting nearby shore bases. Raids on Dunkerque, Calais, and Lille should keep the French occupied until it was too late.

If they were caught this close to land, with boats and helicopters deployed, even the weakened EurCon air and naval forces would have a field day. They were all taking a terrible chance.

He glanced down at Inchon’s flight deck. A row of Ospreys sat waiting, with men seated in neat groups near each VTOL aircraft. Within minutes of the word, they would be airborne, along with similar contingents from the other ships in the force. Aircraft were the quickest way to get men ashore, but vulnerable. Seaborne troops would make the initial landing.

Ward walked over to the dark figure sitting in the admiral’s chair. Motionless, the man appeared asleep, and by rights should have been at this hour. Ward knew differently. “We’ll know soon, Ross.”

“How fast do those LCACs move, Admiral?” Huntington asked quietly.

“About forty knots, loaded like they are. It’ll take them about half an hour to make the run to the beach. During World War II, it used to take twice that long with the ships much closer in.”

“What could be longer than forever?” Huntington asked half-jokingly.

Braving the cold forty-knot wind and clinging tightly against the LCAC’s rough ride, Captain Charlie Gates, USMC, peered out over the bow ramp. “As if I could see anything,” he muttered. Even with his night-vision gear, they were still too far off the coast. The darkness could hide an army, he knew, and by the time he saw the flashes of hostile fire it would be too late for him, and for his men.

If he couldn’t see anything, anyone waiting on the beach couldn’t, either, unless they had night-vision gear, which these days was no trick. But they wouldn’t shoot now, he knew. They’d wait until the LCAC had beached itself and the ramp was down. Then they’d…

Cut that shit out, he thought to himself. He had his orders, and intelligence said there’d be no fire from the beach. Right.

Gates turned to check his men. In the dimness he could only make out forms, but they were all where he had last seen them, standing or sitting, waiting out the thirty-minute ride to the beach. Loaded down with weapons and equipment, there was no really comfortable way to rest, but his marines managed as best they could.

They were close now. He turned to the corner where his lieutenants were clustered and pumped a fist up and down. With a deceptive carelessness, he watched his officers find their sergeants, motion spreading through the company as his men took their places.

He knew what should be waiting. A nice, smooth, shallow grade led to a low seawall capped by a frontage road. The far side was lined by warehouses and light industry, perfect cover for enemy tanks or infantry — if they were there.

The roar of the LCAC’s turbines changed pitch as it slowed. They didn’t want to plow into the beach at forty knots, after all. Even at the lower note, the LCAC’s engines produced a deafening howl. He felt like it would have been quieter riding a steam calliope. If there were hostiles here, they didn’t need to see him. They must have been able to hear the marines coming for miles around.

“Captain Gates, I can see them.” The LCAC operator’s voice in his headphones almost made him jump. Gates looked over to the glassed-in cab where the craft’s “driver” sat. The petty officer was pointing, not that you needed his guidance to see the cluster of lights on the beach.

Dead ahead, he spotted a cluster of three lights: red, white, and blue. To the right, he saw another group of lights — right where they were supposed to be. No tracers, no other signs of life even through the night-vision goggles. All right. “It’s a go,” he answered in his microphone, and instantly the LCAC’s running lights flashed to life, almost blinding in the darkness.

The hovercraft lumbered up onto the beach, throwing spray and pebbles in all directions even as its giant fans wound down.

When the bow ramp dropped, Gates almost sprinted down it, anxious to get off the vulnerable landing craft. The rocky, pebble-covered beach didn’t provide the best footing, especially in the dark, but a little of the tension left him when he felt his boots slam down on solid ground again. The worst was over.

As planned, Charlie Company fanned out, providing security for the rest of the wave, only minutes behind him. He trotted toward the lights, followed by his radiotelephone operator and a squad from 1st Platoon.

A small party stood next to the metal framework holding the three spotlights. First silhouetted, then illuminated as Gates changed direction, were three men in camouflage battle dress, but wearing berets, not helmets.

The marine captain slowed to a fast walk, slinging his M16 and unconsciously straightening his gear. Two of the men stepped forward to meet him. In the darkness, the marine could see a tall, long-faced officer with a black, bristling mustache and another shorter, clean-shaven man, but their unfamiliar rank insignia baffled him. Given the situation, it was a silly thing to worry about, but old reflexes die hard.

The tall man saved him the trouble, saluting first and announcing in clipped English accent, “Major Vandendries, Belgian Army.” He nodded toward his shorter companion. “And this is Colonel Luiten of the Dutch Royal Army.” He smiled. “Welcome to Belgium.”

Gates quickly returned the salute, answering, “Captain Gates, United States Marines, and I’m damned glad to see you, sir.”

Turning to his radiotelephone operator, he ordered, “Send ‘Bayonet.’ “

“Message from the first wave, sir.” The intercom’s message stilled all other activity on Inchon’s bridge. “Bayonet!”

Ward exhaled and grinned, suddenly not caring if the Old Man looked like an idiot. He wanted to dance.

Inchon’s bridge crew was too professional to shout or cheer, but he saw the smiles matching his own.

“Bayonet” meant the marines had made peaceful contact with the Belgian armed forces. “Dagger” would have signaled a peaceful landing but no contact, and “Sword” had been the code word for a hostile reception — for utter and abject failure.

Ward realized that everyone on the bridge was looking to him, and that Captain March was standing nearby, waiting patiently. Harry was smiling, he noted, but was also impatient.

“Order the second wave in, and pass the word to all forces: we’re among friends.”

March turned and hurried away.

By the time the admiral had walked over to the bridge wing again, the Ospreys’ rotors were turning and the last of the marines were aboard. He wondered how they felt, suddenly finding out that there would be no shooting, no “opposed landing.” Instead of invading an enemy, they were reinforcing a friend.

Down below on the flight deck, rotors spun faster, the sound made by eight 6,000-horsepower engines growing to a roar. When the noise reached a peak, the four Ospreys lifted off, one after another, and smoothly curved toward the now-friendly shore. Their marines would be on the ground in minutes, and by dawn the battalion Inchon carried would be in place, along with the rest of the Marine Expeditionary Brigade loaded aboard the rest of the Amphibious Group.

Once it was light enough, the rest of the freighters — those carrying the armor, guns, and supplies belonging to the 1st Cavalry and 4th Infantry — would steam into Belgian and Dutch ports. They would debark their loads at harbor piers, instead of across a conquered beach. What might have cost lives, and almost as important, time, would now be an “administrative landing.”

Ward suddenly remembered Huntington, still sitting in his chair, and went over to congratulate him. As he approached the man, though, he turned away. He’d do it later, when the presidential advisor woke up.

Ignoring the clock, Desaix had worked into the early morning hours at his desk, trying to cope with the results of the army’s latest failure. Intelligence reports and other documents lay neatly piled on one corner, while the remains of a late supper covered a map. He’d given up studying the data. He knew the problems France faced, and no piece of paper could solve them for him.

Montagne’s commando raid against the mutinous leaders of the 7th Panzer had failed utterly. And now this General Leibnitz had gone from being merely intransigent to openly hostile.

Desaix grimaced. He already faced the unpleasant prospect of a mutinous German division and a stalled offensive. The potential was far worse.

Schraeder’s government, now informed of the 7th’s refusal to obey orders, appeared oddly reluctant to relieve Leibnitz of his command or issue its own orders for his arrest. With thousands of its own soldiers refusing lawful directives, Berlin seemed completely paralyzed.

Now, until the issue was resolved, he couldn’t depend on any German unit — whether in Poland or outside the invaded country. The whole EurCon offensive had come to a screeching halt. No one could expect the alliance’s French divisions to fight effectively — not when they had to watch their backs as well as their front. Worse, since the army’s supply lines ran through Germany on the way back to France, they were now horribly vulnerable. What if the railroad workers or German soldiers guarding those supply lines decided to follow the 7th Panzer’s bad example?

And what would happen when the Americans learned about this mutiny? How long would they wait before pouring into the gap that created EurCon lines? Desaix closed his eyes against the glare from his desk lamp, wishing the pain surging through his head would go away. He was rapidly running out of options.

“Minister.” One of his duty aides, Radet, stood in the doorway, tentatively addressing him and even more tentatively offering him a single sheet of paper. The younger man seemed pale.

He took the document, and before he could even ask what it was about, the unwilling messenger fled. Bad news, then, Desaix thought resignedly. What have the Germans done now?

It took a moment for his overtaxed mind to focus on the information, and he had to start reading again at the beginning before he understood that this wasn’t about Germany.

Belgium’s border was closed to all ground and air traffic. A communications blackout had thwarted all attempts to establish any reason for the closure. Phones and data lines were dead, and all television and radio stations were off the air. Even radio communications were affected, because of Combined Forces jamming in connection with heavy air raids now pounding northeastern France.

His subordinates at the Foreign Ministry could not reach their embassy in Brussels or any of the other French consulates.

Desaix felt cold as he read further. Whatever was happening involved more than just Belgium. DGSE monitoring stations reported that all television and radio stations inside the neutral Netherlands were interrupting their normal programming to order Dutch reservists to their wartime posts. And now the embassy in The Hague had signaled that it had been asked to stand by to receive an official message “of vital importance” from the Dutch government.

For a moment, he wondered if this was a hoax, some diabolical deception by the British and American spy services, but the scale of the action made that impossible. Questions whirled through his head. Is this tied in with the German crisis? But how?

Desaix scooped the phone off his desk and punched in the special code for Morin. He needed input from the head of the DGSE fast.

“Director’s office.” The voice on the other end sounded nervous.

“This is Desaix. Put me through to Morin immediately!”

There was an audible pause. “I’m very sorry, Minister, but I regret to inform you that the director is unavailable at the moment.”

Desaix saw red. “I don’t give a damn whether he’s in the bathroom, sleeping, or with his mistress! You find him and bring him to the phone! Understand?”

Strangely his anger seemed to stiffen the other man’s spine. “I’m afraid that is impossible, Minister. I will pass your message on and have him contact you as soon as he is free.”

The line went dead.

Nicolas Desaix stared down at the softly crackling phone in dismay. It appeared that the first rats were beginning to desert his sinking ship.

Willi von Seelow started from an uneasy sleep. Someone was shouting “Movement!” and men were running to their battle stations. A flash of panic filled him. Were the French attacking again, in real strength this time, or 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 Inchon’s flag plot, watching the inland air battle on radar. France had thrown every plane in its waning arsenal against his formations. It hadn’t been enough. The attacks had been piecemeal, almost hurried, and strangely enough, no German units had participated. The intelligence people were still trying to piece the story together, but they confirmed the basic fact. The Luftwaffe was not flying.

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 George Washington. And by helicopter to here.”

“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, don’t shoot. The idea is to leave them alone, so no patrolling, no harassing fire with artillery, no air strikes. We watch, and we wait.”

“What about the French?” Reynolds asked.

“If you can ID a target as French, give it everything you’ve got.”