Abrams had to take quick steps to keep up with Conover’s long strides.
“What’s the damned hurry?” the WSO asked.
“I thought you were thirsty”
“I am.”
“Well, I just want to find an air conditioner.”
The recreation center was a single-storied frame building centered among the four dormitories. Behind it was the dining hall. The sign above the double-doored entrance identified it as the “Recreation Center,” but the residents called it “Heaven on Earth”, or more simply, “Heaven.”
There wasn’t much else to do at Wet Country, except go down to the beach and swim with the sharks.
Inside was a movie theater, a lounge, several television rooms able to pick up the world’s programming, a snack shop, and a large room full of pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, card tables, and electronic games. It was blessedly cool.
Conover and Abrams bought four bottles of San Miguel at the bar and carried them into the rec room. At midday, there were only a half-dozen men and women with free time, and they didn’t have to wait for a Ping-Pong table.
“You sure you want to do this, Jack?”
“Damn right. I got me a system now.”
“Never happen.”
“You wait.” Abrams took a pair of glasses from the pocket of his flight suit and donned them.
They had big clear lenses, with orange gunsights imprinted on them.
He won the first six points because Conover couldn’t stop laughing.
Gen. Felix Eisenach, a resident of Berlin for most of his life, was in his mid-fifties, a bit pompous, and a bit broad. His hair was pure white, and the eyes in his beefy face were a strange silver/green, quite penetrating, he thought. Once, the hair had been blond and the figure much leaner, more closely resembling the photographs of his male Prussian forebears. Like Baron Otto von Eisenach, his aging father, he was accustomed to command.
His command had been a long time coming, however, as had his promotion to his current rank. Eisenach’s advancement had been suppressed at the recommendation of various NATO advisors from British, French, and American services. He had been required to cool his heels in ineffective staff positions: supply, logistics, intelligence, military advisor to the Bundestag — the lower legislative house of the republic — for twenty-five years. Every promotion had come late, at the top end of his seniority on the promotion list.
Just when his frustration had achieved its upper limits, his world shook itself like a wet hound, and everything changed. NATO forces — and his oppressors — withdrew from the fatherland, and the German military resurrected itself. And then his assignments baby-sitting legislators and bureaucrats paid off. He had gained powerful and influential friends.
The hierarchy of the military — air force, navy, and army — was rapidly juggled. Those who had toadied to the occupation forces were summarily retired, and the professional soldiers — like Eisenach — were promoted to deserving ranks and assigned to appropriate commands. Eisenach’s expertise in logistics had gained him the VORMUND PROJEKT.
The seat of government for the new Germany remained in Bonn, but Eisenach’s program was located at Templehof Air Force Base in Berlin. He could not have been happier.
The GUARDIAN PROJECT was a unified command. Eisenach had air force, army, and navy units assigned to him. The units were deployed all over the country, and when he had first taken over, his headquarters had been composed of two offices at Templehof. In four years, however, he had successfully expanded the headquarters to include three office buildings, two hangars, several barracks buildings, and a number of other facilities. In microcosm, it represented similar expansions made throughout the German military.
Eisenach’s driver picked him up at his home on Tiergartenstrasse. Overlooking the manicured and sprawling grounds of the massive Tiergarten, the three-story town house had been in his family for 200 years, the urban residence of a succession of barons. Now, the eighty-five-year-old Baron Frederick Otto von Eisenach was tended by a nurse on the third floor, and General und Frau Eisenach entertained on the first two floors.
As his black Mercedes 500 SEL weaved its way through heavy traffic along Tempelhofer Damm, Eisenach sat in the back and studied the parks and shops and office buildings. He was immensely pleased with the progress taking place. The remnants of the Wall — several miles behind him — were all but gone. Berlin was returning to its former grandeur, as was the entire fatherland.
And best of all, he would live to see it. He had once despaired of that goal.
The sedan passed through the gates of Templehof, took two turns and approached his headquarters. It was a red brick, two-story building surrounded by well-kept green grass. The white sign with black letters in front read:
16th Logistics Command
F. Felix Eisenach, General
Commanding
Eisenach spoke to his driver, “We will go on to the Personnel Division.”
“Yes, sir.”
A block farther down the street, the driver pulled the Mercedes to the curb and leaped out to open Eisenach’s door for him. He got out and strode up the walk toward an oberleutnant who stepped outside to hold the front door. He returned the officer’s salute, entered the building, and headed directly for the conference room.
General Eisenach was a conscientious commander. He felt it imperative that he be aware of each of the 7,000 men in his command, and once a month, without fail, he and his adjutant, Oberst Maximillian Oberlin, met with personnel officers to go over the records of the men assigned to him.
Oberlin and the major in charge of personnel were waiting for him. Eisenach returned the salutes, and all of them settled into chairs at the table. A stack of records folders was centered on the table.
“Well, Max, what have we today?”
“The noncommissioned officers of the 232nd Engineering Company, General.”
They were now reviewing the unteroffiziers of each company. The review of officers had come first, naturally, and had been completed two years before.
“Very well. Let us get started.”
Major Adler began with the first folder. Opening it, he read the name and the pertinent facts, then passed the folder to the general so he could look at the picture stapled inside. Many were quickly scanned, and the folders restacked at the end of the table.
On the fifth, Eisenach noted that the picture was that of a black man. A feldwebel.
“Where is this man from?”
Adler leaned over to read from the file. “Johannesburg, South Africa, General. The sergeant has been in the army for seven years, and with the 232nd for eighteen months. He has expertise in mining operations.”
Eisenach mused, studying the file, then said, “I believe that a man with this background would be more beneficial to the republic with one of the civilian mining companies. Why don’t we see to his discharge from the service? With a letter of recommendation to, say, the Federal Geologic Company.”
Oberlin made the note. “Of course, General.”
Bundesgeologisch Gesellschaft, of course, would not be interested in the man. Perhaps he would return to South Africa. The eleventh record was also of interest.
“Sergeant Alexander Dubowski?”
“From Gdansk originally, General.”
And Jewish.
“His specialty?”
“Rotary-bit maintenance,” Adler said.
“Do we not have an oversupply in that military occupational specialty?”
“We do, General.”
“We should reduce the number of personnel in over-supplied MOSs, so as to free up slots in specialties where we have need,” Eisenach noted.
“As you wish, General,” Adler said, “however… ”
“Yes?”
“Dubowski has almost nineteen years of service. Another year and he could retire with a pension.”
“Major, our concerns must lie with the fatherland, and not with individuals.”
“Yes, of course, General. That is so.”