Alone in a black sky, over a battlefield, Tadeusz Wojcik decided it was time to head for home. What had started out as a turkey shoot had all too quickly turned into a fight for his own personal survival. He didn’t like being ambushed. It was time for a change in tactics. Even his own two kills couldn’t balance the guilt he felt for losing his inexperienced wingman.
Huddled for their second emergency session in two days, the men and women who served on America’s National Security Council still looked stunned to Ross Huntington. He shared their dismay. Despite all of EurCon’s threats and menacing troop movements, none of them had really expected an armed invasion of Hungary.
General Reid Galloway put down the phone he’d been using and looked straight at the President. “That was Tom Foss, sir. Our liaison with the Polish Air Force. He confirms those early reports. Polish aircraft flying from Czech and Slovak bases have engaged EurCon planes over Hungary.”
“My God.” Harris Thurman turned pale. “Do we have airmen stationed at those bases?”
“No, Mr. Secretary.” Galloway shrugged. “But we do have training groups at some of the Polish airfields being used as staging and repair areas for the squadrons they’re sending south.”
Openly appalled, the Secretary of State faced the President. “We have to get our air force people out of there! Right away!”
“Why?” the President asked quietly. Of all those in the room, he seemed the least surprised by recent events.
Thurman stared back at him, trying to calm down. “Isn’t it obvious? If they stay, the French and Germans can accuse us of playing a part in this war.”
“A war they started,” Huntington felt compelled to point out. The pompous Secretary of State never failed to irritate him.
The other man ignored him, focusing instead on the man he wanted to sway. “Mr. President, there is only one prudent course. We must immediately and publicly withdraw all U.S. military personnel from Poland and the Czech 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 façade. 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, Général de Corps d’Armée 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.