“Sergeant,” Stern roared, “it’s not my goddamned party!”
“Yes, Sir! I mean, no, Sir. I mean…”
“Never mind. Is your truck operational?”
“Yes, Sir. It only leaks a little.”
“How much is a little?”
Mark Griffin turned the corner and covered the twelve steps down in two seconds. “It doesn’t goddamned matter how much a little is,” he barked. “Sergeant, your truck needs to be with the convoy.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Colonel Griffin, you’re quite right. Captain Tuttle needs to have the entire convoy under his control.” Stern said, his voice so patronizing that Griffin had to check himself from making a snide remark right there. “But a vehicle that breaks down from an oil leak is worthless.”
“Sir,” Griffin spat out, “those machine guns need to leave tonight!”
He’d already yielded to Griffin once that day; a second time was out of the question.
“Sergeant,” Stern said evenly, “I will see your battalion commander tonight. Your vehicle departs not later than 0600 tomorrow with an escort from your battalion. I will be here personally to see that you go. Do what’s necessary, get whoever is necessary back in to make it happen, or else answer to me. Understand?” Stern’s words were aimed as much at Griffin as they were at the sergeant.
“Yes, Sir! Anything else, Sir?”
“Negative. Dismissed.” The sergeant was out the door in a flash.
“Goddammit, Colonel…”
“Can it, S3.” Stern was holding back at least as much rage as Griffin, and Griffin knew it. “That truck is broken. Until it’s fixed it’s no good to Tuttle or anyone.”
“He said it only leaked a little!”
“You still don’t understand machines, Colonel.” He wanted to lecture Griffin, to make him understand. But Alex Stern was tired, and he and Griffin needed to be at the victory banquet soon. “Never mind. The truck leaves when I said.”
They stared hard at each other for a very long moment before Griffin opened the door to the 195th’s headquarters, then slammed it behind him.
After the reception line and the obligatory handshakes and small talk among cliques, Alex Stern and Mark Griffin retired to opposite ends of the bar, where each proceeded to run up both their club bills and their liquor-intensified dislike for each other.
General Blacksturm’s orderly handed him the message. After reading it, the general nodded his approval. The message had reported that monitoring crews were tapped into the phone exchanges that served the American bases through an intricate system of below-ground, redundant, hard-wired lines. It had been a relatively easy matter to identify the critical nodes of the system. And, since at the highest level the Bundeswehr had access to the codebooks of its allies, the crews had no difficulty decoding U.S. communications. Intercepting communication was not Blacksturm’s primary goal, however. His plan was to fake it. The soon-to-be-leaderless American headquarters and subordinate units will talk along their underground lines, mused Black-sturm, but they will be talking to me. All they will hear from those they think are their new commanders and subordinates will be the same message: Remain in place; do nothing.
Stopping communication along the civilian Bundesphone lines would be only slightly more difficult. Blacksturm’s crews would employ a device that was merely a more complicated version of the Americans’ “Caller Identification” system. The system would show call origination and destination. Any voice transmission would activate a recorder and alert a crew member, who would break the connection before the Americans could pass information. They thrive on information, reasoned Blacksturm. They will be in the dark, without leaders and without orders.
Tonight we cut off the head, mused Blacksturm. Soon the body will die.
Dinner was a disaster. Stern and Griffin were at each other’s throats from salad to dessert, trying to outdrink and outinsult each other. They both sat near Hagan, and only his well-timed coughs and his wife’s feeble attempts to change the subject kept them from degenerating into name-calling — or worse. His two subordinates were embarrassing him, and above all things General Hagan would not be embarrassed.
Inspector Lentz checked both ends of the roadblock to ensure that his men understood his orders. All traffic was forbidden to enter until the American convoy pulled into the parkplatz. Then his men would put up signs to keep others out. He and his officers were not allowed in either. They were to keep other traffic out until the police were told otherwise. He watched as two sedans — his policeman’s eye noticed the shoddy bodywork on the first’s front fender — and two vans, each with license plate numbers that betrayed them as Special Security forces, drove into the rest stop. Dirty business, Lentz thought. But perhaps it is best not to ask questions.
“I’ve had more than enough out of both of you tonight. You two are a disgrace to the uniform.” Although General Hagan was livid, he held his voice to a level where it could just be heard above the music in the background. “This is a formal dinner, an official function. My function. Your conduct has been totally unbecoming. I’ve tried to caution both of you, but you’ve been more interested in trying to exhaust the bar stock and in goading each other. I’ll have no more of it. You two will have to trade insults someplace else. Both of you get out of here. Now. Report to my office first thing tomorrow.”
The commanding general walked out of the side bar where he had led them. Griffin and Stern stood side by side, staring after him. Hagan stopped and turned around, looking back at them. “I mean what I said, gentlemen. And I use that term loosely. You two miserable excuses for army officers will leave now, or I will have the MPs escort you.” He turned away and headed back to the dining room.
Stern and Griffin stood silently for a moment, trying to think through the fuzz from too many, too fast cocktails. Then they began to get angry— again.
“You goddamned sonofabitch,” Stern snapped.
“You asshole, Sir. If you hadn’t started this…” Griffin spat back.
“Me? Why you lying…” Stern was cut off in midsentence by a stage cough from near the doorway. A tall military police sergeant stood holding both their hats.
“Excuse me, Colonels, but General Hagan instructed me to bring these to you — and to see that, when he returns to this room in two minutes, it is empty. He said that, if the Colonels are unfamiliar with the layout of this club, I should assist and accompany you both to the exit.” He paused. “I think, Sirs, it would be best if we leave now. General Hagan was quite specific.”
Griffin was about to tell the sergeant what he could do with his specific instructions when Stern spoke.
“You’re quite right, Sergeant. Colonel Griffin and I were already on our way out. Weren’t we, Colonel?”
He’s got more savvy than he lets on, thought Griffin. “Absolutely, Colonel Stern. We certainly should depart now. Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll be right along.”