“Sir? You okay?”
“Fine, fine,” Stern mumbled as he wavered toward the flimsy field table reserved for him. He fell more than sat into his chair and reached for the three-inch-deep pile of papers covering the table’s surface.
“No way, boss.” Middletown laid a hand on Stern’s shoulder. “You’re combat ineffective. You need some rest. It’ll take forty-five minutes to prepare the order and assemble the commanders. You will go outside and crash on my cot. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
“I’m okay. You people get some rest,” Stern said weakly.
“Sergeant!” Middletown called over his shoulder. A shift NCO appeared.
“You will take the commander to my cot and put him on it. You will throw a blanket over him. He is not to move for a minimum of one hour. If necessary, you will post a guard to ensure it. Any questions?”
“You comfortable, Sir?”
“I’ll be okay, Sergeant. Tell the S3 I’ll be back in a few minutes, as soon as I rest my eyes.”
“Right, Sir. I’ll tell him, Sir. Take off your helmet, Sir.”
“Oh yeah, right, right. Helmet.”
“How’s the boss?” Middletown asked the sergeant when he entered the TOC.
“Snoring loud enough to drown out the generators. With his helmet on.”
Middletown smiled.
EIGHT
Two black-uniformed Special Security guards eyed him up and down, scowling as the weary major stumbled into the Panzerbrigade 11 command post. Groggy from hours on the road, massaging his neck as he pulled off his helmet, Guterman’s operations officer bumped one of the guards.
“Watch yourself, oaf!” the guard spat out.
The major turned on him, furious at such disrespect. “You dare to insult an officer? You’ll answer for this; I’ll have you on charges!” “Charges? Fool, Special Security answers to none but ourselves. Go your way, Herr Major,” Shror’s goon sneered. “And watch yourself. We will.”
The officer tossed his helmet down, ready to teach the insolent thug a lesson. The guards fingered the triggers on their submachine guns.
“Heinz, Heinz!”
The major turned toward his brigade commander’s voice.
“You owe me a report, Herr Major. What delays you?”
The operations officer muttered under his breath, stooped to pick up his helmet, and reported to Guterman.
“What is the status now, Heinz?”
The officer threw a glance over his shoulder and quietly swore.
“Forget them. What is the status of the brigade?”
The major tried to rub some of the red from his eyes. “Much better, Herr Colonel, much better. A few hours of chasing down our lost sheep has paid off, and what a difference the daylight makes! We found one lost tank battalion sitting at the railhead only thirty kilometers back— they should close in about thirty minutes. The other stopped no more than ten minutes’ drive behind us, but when they pulled into the forest for the night they were invisible.” He grinned sheepishly as he ran his hand over the stubble covering his face. “Only when I took a wrong turn and drove into the middle of their perimeter did I figure out who they were.”
Guterman nodded. “The artillery officer told me he located the missing batteries, and two additional infantry battalions both finally found their way in. With your report all are accounted for.”
From behind them came Shror’s acid voice. “The most powerful force in Germany is at your disposal, Herr Colonel. When do you intend to use it?” Neither had heard Shror slink up.
“While you have been sleeping so soundly, Herr Colonel,” Guterman responded flatly, “the staff has been hard at work consolidating these units so that we may employ them once the air assets you promised me have done their job.”
“Harumph. You shall have your airplanes in one hour.”
“I should also like my helicopters.”
“Then you wish to see them destroyed. General Blacksturm himself has prohibited helicopter movement. Even I will not fly in the face of his wishes.”
Guterman sighed. “Only a few commanders remain without instructions. I anticipate, Herr Colonel, that you should be able to report our advance to the high command thirty minutes after the fighter-bombers strike.”
“That, Herr Guterman, will be a long-delayed pleasure. You will excuse me; I go to authorize your air support.” Shror strode off, his guards coming stiffly to attention as he passed.
The operations officer sank into a chair beside Guterman. Careful to keep his voice low, he gritted his teeth. “I have been a professional soldier for a decade and a half,” he muttered, “and never have I been subjected to mobsters like this. Will we ever be free of them?”
“Let us do our duty first. We will face a powerful enemy in all too short a time. We can concern ourselves with politics later.”
The major rose to leave. “Of course, Sir. Our duty. The enemy.” He stared at the guards, then back to Guterman. “I only wonder, Herr Colonel, if we are fighting the right enemy.” He picked up his helmet and went to his maps.
“What do you know about this, S3?” Stern demanded.
Middletown read the note three times. “Beats the hell out of me, Sir. You know those SF types: loners, kinda weird. I certainly don’t know what he’s up to.”
Stern took three deep breaths, unclenched his fists, and reached for his pipe. He’d skewer Griffin later; right now he had to figure out what to do. He stared at his operations officer. “We move out in less than an hour; Griffin should be coordinating the battle from the TOC. I need you forward with me, S3, so who in Sam Hill is supposed to synchronize things from back here?”
Cooper coughed. He’d slid up to them unnoticed, and the two officers slowly turned their heads to look in disbelief at the intelligence officer.
“Gentlemen, three items. First, I have revised my estimate of enemy intentions based on the most recent intelligence. I believe they will initiate offensive action, most likely a movement to contact such as we are conducting, within the next one to three hours. I recommend no change to our current course of action.”
“We don’t seem to have any other options,” said Stern. “We have to move. What else?”
“Second, it would be most helpful, Sir, if you gathered the other officers in the TOC and personally announced that I was in charge of coordinating the battle. It would cement my role as acting deputy commander.”
“What on earth makes you think that you should…”
“I’m the only logical choice, Sir. You need someone who’s paid to anticipate; who knows both enemy and friendly capabilities and limitations; who can integrate information, coordinate systems, assess options, and provide timely recommendations; and, potentially, kick butt. To coin a phrase, ‘nobody does it better.’ ”
“He needs somebody with some rank,” countered Middletown. “You’re one of the most junior captains around here. Just saying you’re in charge won’t do it.”
Stern’s head reeled. Everything in his training spoke against Cooper’s claim to the position — it was so unconventional. He slowly loaded the pipe with tobacco to give himself time to think. Cooper is right, dead right, exactly right, thought Stern. But so is Middletown.
“Too bad we can’t promote you, Captain Cooper.”