“Arlen, come to the position of attention.”
“What?”
“You heard me, soldier: I’m the damn squad leader and I said come to the position of attention.”
Arlen shrugged, then stiffened.
Macintosh hit him dead on the chin, sending rifle and soldier sprawling.
“Arlen, don’t you ever even think about disobeying an order again. Next time I’ll hurt you.”
His buddy had brought his squad up without being noticed.
“Yo, Macintosh.”
“Oh, hello Baldwin.”
“I see you have a problem.”
“Not any longer. Are you all right? Did you have any problems?”
One of Baldwin’s soldiers walked by, rifle at the ready, but with an obviously brand-new black eye.
“I’m okay. I had a problem, but I fixed it.” Baldwin rubbed his hand.
“Oh.”
Mark Griffin pushed himself off the top of the Marder and waved Stern’s Bradley in next to Guterman’s vehicle. Both tracks flew white flags or — rather — grimy white T-shirts, from their antennas.
The ramp dropped and Stern stepped out, looking first ahead of, then behind him. An odd feeling, thought Stern, standing squarely in the middle of two opposing forces, right in the middle of the guns. One too-nervous trigger finger and the Bradley and the Marder would be full of holes. And so would he.
Joel Guterman walked up and saluted. He’s aged since the Mojave, thought Stern. So have I. Stern returned the salute.
“Herr Stern, my pleasure to see you again. Much time has passed since you served as my teacher in your California desert.”
He was always the gentleman, thought Stern, then and now. “Colonel Guterman, you flatter me. You were always the most competent, and the most professional, of soldiers. I hope I was as professional then as you are now. And I hope two professional soldiers can speak freely.” Stern pulled out his pipe and lit it, giving Guterman time to think. And speak.
“Colonel Stern, I find my situation most difficult. My government has betrayed me, yet it is still my government. Mark, Colonel Griffin rather, has told me what he knows of my government’s plans. We were allies once, I wish to be allies again.”
“Colonel Guterman, the question is not one of governments, but of legitimate governments.” He paused to let “legitimate” sink in. “The forces of the coup against your legitimate government — the government that for so many years stood against the enemy across the border, the government that for so many years was so close to mine— those forces are attempting to seize United States property and, more important, the nuclear and chemical munitions at Kriegspiel. They may have already done so.”
“I know, Colonel Stern. I know only too well.”
“My unit must stop that attempt. Any force that prevents us must either abandon its mission or be neutralized.”
Guterman thought the worst. “I cannot, and I will not, surrender.” Griffin put himself between the two. This is a new role for me, thought Griffin: peacemaker.
“Nobody is asking anybody to surrender, are they, Alex? What you both want is an ally, right?”
“Of course,” said Guterman.
“Exactly,” replied Stern. “We can’t do what we need to do alone.” “Then I suggest the three of us sit down and plan this thing out. It should be simple: All we have to do is secure, or maybe retake, the Kriegspiel depot; protect, or maybe retake, Baumflecken Kaseme; and restore the legitimate government.”
Stern rolled his eyes. “That’s all?”
“What else did you want?”
The three turned to watch as two HMMWVs pulled alongside the armored fighting vehicles. Stern smiled as the soldiers, under the direction of a lanky major, unloaded folding tables, briefcases, maps, a coffeepot, and two laptop computers.
“What is that?” asked a mystified Guterman.
“That, Colonel,” replied Stern, “is our secret weapon.”
The secret weapon strode up and saluted.
“Gentlemen. Major Cooper reports. I thought you might have some planning to do, and since we have to go in several directions at once, I thought I could be of some assistance.” He turned to Guterman. “I have taken the liberty, Sir, of contacting your staff. They should arrive shortly. Then we can begin. I think we should hurry, though; by my calculations we don’t have much time left.”
Griffin nodded. “Neither does the garrison at Kriegspiel.”
TWELVE
In the distance, a column of armored vehicles approached. Although they were quite far away, the guards in the towers at the Kriegspiel main gate were certain that the lead tanks were Leopards, not American Mis. The guards called Goebbels, believing that the colonel would want to be the first to hear the good news. Goebbels was, indeed, elated.
At 10:25 Goebbels called Blacksturm, who first expressed relief; then ranted at Goebbels to get on with the job of securing the depot, now that there were more forces; and to arrest that fool Shror, who had sent him no information since last night. It was 10:40 before Goebbels could pry himself loose from Blacksturm’s tirade. After preening himself to impress the arriving commander, Goebbels left the office, whose former occupant was now two stories below ground. Then he walked to the front gate.
Yes, thought Goebbels as he stared down the road, they are most certainly ours.
“Herr Colonel!” called a voice from the tower.
“What is it?” Fool, bothering me just before my moment of triumph.
“There are Americans in the column!”
Goebbels’s heart sank to his stomach. The big German tanks pulled right and left off the road, halting just a few meters short of the exclusion line. Out of their dust rolled two American tanks, riding side by side and driving hell-bent for leather straight toward him. He stood rooted to the spot, held by some unseen fear as the machines bore down on him. His guards fired from above him. Goebbels looked up and saw both towers disappear in a hail of coaxial machine-gun bursts.
No, his mind screamed, it cannot be, it cannot be! All the years of planning, of waiting. All the precise calculations. No, he begged, pulling out his pistol and taking aim at the tanks, no!
“Occupy by force,” the boss had said. Okay, Lawson thought, here we go. Lawson didn’t bother to take aim, he just kept the tank rolling straight ahead. The wire gates disintegrated and the figure behind them disappeared under his tracks.
“Tango, this is Tango Zero-One. Slow down, but press on in; we have to leave enough room for the grunts to spread out behind us. Take up assigned positions. Report when set. Zero-One out.” He popped his hatch and looked behind the tank. Platoon after platoon of Bradleys rolled through the gate, swerving down access roads and disgorging their loads of infantry.
He stood in the cupola and took in what he could see, his eyes surveying riddled walls, shattered and burnt and still-smouldering hulks of buildings. A track came through the gate behind him, pulled over, and stopped. A single figure hopped out, gave two soldiers hell for not moving fast enough, spent a minute directing traffic, then dug into his pocket and pulled out — What is that? thought Lawson.
A pipe. Lawson grinned.
Hello, boss. Welcome to Kriegspiel.
Panzerbrigade 11 took up hasty defensive positions on the outskirts of the Kriegspiel depot. Except for the tanks used in the initial deception, Guterman and Stern agreed that clearing the depot must be a strictly American operation. There was no lack of trust between the two, rather a tacit understanding that putting Guterman’s infantry into Kriegspiel — and the confusion that would inevitably result — was a recipe for disaster.