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.”