In the hallway the major slid the folder back into his briefcase and lit a cigarette. A nasty taste, he thought, perhaps more from what I have done than this cheap tobacco. But Blacksturm had been right; Guterman had believed the report to be genuine.
Now he was all theirs.
FOUR
The trucks and HMMWVs of A Company, 1-89th Infantry, stood lined up just inside the kaserne’s front gate. Hands on his hips, Capt. Tim Tuttle strutted self-consciously up and down the line of vehicles, trying to appear in charge. Soldiers dozed inside the trucks, catching a few minutes rest before what would be a long, monotonous road march. Tuttle looked nervously at his watch, then down the street leading to his company area, then back at his watch. Why, he thought, why did I let that truck go back to get more oil? Two minutes before we have to hit the gate, and it’s still not back. We’ll have to go without it. But I can’t go without the machine guns — I’m supposed to have them. If I miss the start time, brigade will have my butt.
Two HMMWVs pulled up next to him, interrupting his indecision. Tuttle’s face fell as both the brigade S3 and the brigade deputy commander climbed out of their respective vehicles. He’d hoped that they, like his battalion commander and all the other brass, would be getting ready for that night’s party.
Stern was first. “Well, Captain Tuttle?”
Now he knew he had to say something. “Sir, the convoy is 90 percent prepared to move.” That might work, thought Tuttle. It sounded pretty positive, and the brass always liked to hear statistics.
Griffin snorted. “You mean the ten soldiers I talked to who didn’t know where they were going, what they were supposed to do when they got there, or what to do if something happened along the way were the 10 percent who didn’t get the word?”
Tuttle said nothing.
“You got any security for all these weapons, Captain?” Griffin asked, remembering Tuttle’s lackluster performance in training.
“Yes, Sir,” Tuttle answered, shifting his feet. “There are two men with ten-round magazines for their rifles on the truck with the machine guns, and the sergeant on the ammo truck has five rounds for his pistol.” Tuttle pointed to the fifth vehicle.
“That’s it? Why didn’t you issue ammunition to the soldiers?”
“Sir, I thought it safer not to. I didn’t want them to accidentally shoot each other.”
Griffin started to take Tuttle apart, but Stern stepped in. “Captain Tuttle, that’s why we have squad leaders, to check and control their people.” Ordinarily Tuttle would have been right, thought Stern. Hagan would go crazy if he knew that individual soldiers had bullets, but Stern thought it prudent, for reasons he felt more than knew, to issue ammunition. “How long will it take you to issue out one magazine’s worth per man?”
“Uh, about, about thirty minutes, Sir.” He was guessing, and guessing high. Tuttle hoped he might even be able to get the truck with the machine guns there in time.
“No way, Tuttle,” Griffin snapped. “I won’t have this convoy miss its movement time. When the aircraft is over the drop zone, it’s time to go.” He looked at his watch. “One minute, Tuttle. You’ve got just one minute to move.”
Griffin hasn’t had his way lately, thought Stern. I’ll let him have it now.
“So I go with what I have the way I have it, Sir?” Tuttle was elated. If the truck doesn’t show, he thought, it’s the S3’s fault; he told me to go without it.
“That’s right, Tuttle,” Griffin replied. “That’s the first decisive thing I’ve heard you say.”
“Yes, Sir. Time to go now, Sir.” Tuttle saluted and quickly turned toward his HMMWV. He was ecstatic as he waved his hand in the “move out” signal — he was off the hook. A few seconds later a dozen diesel engines cleared their throats and the convoy lurched toward the kaseme gate.
Alex Stern and Mark Griffin watched the trucks and HMMWVs pass by, neither man feeling particularly optimistic about the mission but neither talking to the other about it.
“…and we release the story about Colonel Guterman’s family to the press when?” asked Karl Blacksturm.
“Tonight, Herr General.”
“Very good, Colonel Goebbels, you have done well.”
The accident with Guterman’s family was unfortunate, Blacksturm thought, but he had turned it to his great advantage, both by recruiting Guterman to the cause and as additional evidence of a terrorist plot. It would bring that much more justification to his moves. Still, Karl Blacksturm was uneasy. His forces would conduct two widely separated operations that night, another the next day. But the reports were good; evidently the Americans suspected nothing.
“I want no witnesses on the autobahn, Herr Colonel.”
“Ja, Herr General, I understand.”
“And the Baumflecken mission must accurately portray…”
“It has been well rehearsed, Herr General. Have no fear. We know the gate guards’ schedule and we know how lax they become when it is late. To eliminate them so the main force can execute its mission is a simple matter.”
“But the third phase is the most important of them all, Colonel Goebbels. It is most critical that…”
The colonel cut him off. “Herr General, there is little, I think, that a brood of women can do to interfere with our plan — although it might be interesting for them to try.” He winked lewdly at his superior, “I shall personally see to it that they do not.”
That satisfied Karl Blacksturm. He nodded, then stood behind his desk and thrust his arm in front of him at an angle, a salute from another era.
Goebbels returned it in silence and left.
Mark Griffin swore to himself as he walked down the stairway from his second-floor office in the 195th’s headquarters building. Behind schedule to change for a formal dinner he dreaded attending, frustrated at every turn in trying to train the 195th, the last thing he needed was to run into the man he tried to avoid whenever he could. But Alex Stern stood blocking his exit. Griffin heard Stern’s voice before he turned the stairway corner. He stopped, out of sight, listening.
“Tell me again, Sergeant. Why is your truck in front of brigade headquarters in the first place?” That’s Stern, thought Griffin. He’s trying to stay cool, but he’s not doing too good a job of it. Whatever it is, I hope it makes him miserable.
“Sir, brigade policy is very clear. Captain Tuttle briefed us all. Vehicles traveling alone must have clearance from the duty officer. The convoy moved out without us. I came here to get it so we can move out first thing in the morning and catch up.”
“Why didn’t you make the movement?”
“Sir, my truck’s leaking oil and the mechanics are all off after working all day — they’ve been out preparing for this big party of yours — and when I went back there was no one there. I got some oil, but the company had left a couple of hours ahead of us. I figured I’d get the clearance taken care of today, then get a mechanic to check the truck out tomorrow, when everyone’s back. I can get these machine guns linked back up with the company then.”
Alone on the stairway, Griffin shook his head in disbelief and anger. So that’s what the little worm meant when he said they were “90 percent ready.” The only armed guards and the bulk of the company’s firepower are on that truck. If I ever get my hands on Tuttle, I’ll kill him.