“I also taught one of the NCOs who remained at Baumflecken how to use it, and I left him a PC.”
“And?”
“And at 0723 hours this morning he posted a message — the Germans hit Baumflecken at 0645.”
Stern’s head swiveled. “How many? What’s the situation? Did any of the kids get hurt?”
Cooper looked at the floor. “I don’t know, Sir. The connection’s down. Not the connection with the bulletin board. The one in Baumflecken.”
The news shook all of them, even Guterman.
Stern stared at the desktop, then turned to Cooper and Griffin.
“I want a plan to rescue those people and secure the kaserne, and I want it in thirty minutes.”
Alex Stern lit his pipe as he considered the plan Griffin and Guterman had briefed.
“So we conduct a joint night air assault back into Baumflecken. You’re certain, Joel, that your helicopters will respond to your orders?”
Guterman nodded. *
“And you have enough to move an entire battalion?”
Another nod.
“It’s risky, but we have to move as soon as the depot is secure. Okay, I buy it. So where are you then, Mark?”
Griffin took a deep breath. “Joel and I will take a joint German-American team to Frankencitz, where we’ll release the legitimate officials and capture Blacksturm. We leave as soon as we get transportation.”
“Sounds like one hell of a long shot.”
“Almost as much of a long shot as one brigade taking on the entire German army.”
“Okay, you win. You know where they are?”
“Joel does.”
“Blacksturm has imprisoned them in the city detention center, or so Shror tells me.”
Stern shook his head. “You know there aren’t enough helicopters to conduct both missions, Colonel Guterman, and you’ve promised to dedicate your aviation assets to relieving Baumflecken.”
“I understand, Herr Stern. If we fly helicopters toward Frankencitz, the air forces will shoot them down anyway. No, I propose to enter Frankencitz the same way my battalion entered your desert.”
“How’s that?”
“The way no one will notice. By bus.”
The squad of American infantry halted at the entrance leading to the next level, unsure of what to do next. Although Macintosh couldn’t see behind him, his ears brought the message that the rest of the platoon was closing up. The wire line led down, and although the obvious solution was to follow it, after so many cautions from everyone in the chain of command, he wanted to be absolutely sure. Then, too, the sights as they cleared the tunnels — the bodies, the gloom — had taken their toll. Macintosh moved around as quietly as he could, checking that they remained alert. Then came the order: The first level is secure, move down, press forward to make contact with the enemy.
Macintosh sent two men forward, or rather downward. The pair crept to a corner, signaled for the rest of the squad to close up, then moved forward again. The way down was not a staircase, it was a ramp with three turns, and at each comer Macintosh felt the thump in his chest grow a little louder. Then they were through a doorway, the greater staleness of the air telling him they’d reached the second level.
The passageways are wider down here, thought Macintosh. Almost twenty feet across. He rearranged the squad into a “diced five” formation, a pair leading a few meters ahead, then himself, then two in trail. Three times they stopped to check side tunnels, traveling a few meters down them for security before pressing on. The trail company would break off platoons to check them out thoroughly. His job was to press forward.
Suddenly the stale air was alive with the sounds of exploding grenades and rifle fire. Macintosh and his squad flattened. The noise level rose and fell for several minutes. Macintosh tried to pinpoint the source, but the echoes off the tunnel walls made finding the precise location impossible. Only one way to do that, he thought, and as the din began again he signaled his squad forward.
With each step the gunfire grew louder. The wide corridor turned half left ahead of him, and Macintosh knew the enemy was just around the comer. He halted his men, sent'one back for Baldwin, then crawled forward to peek around the corner.
He saw a huge storage room stacked with crates. From six or eight positions, maybe more — the crates hid his view — somebody was sending a bunch of rounds downrange. If you can call the other end of a room downrange, Macintosh thought. From that side somebody else, fewer positions, slower firing, shot back. Even with the confusing echoes he could tell that some of the fire came from the heavier German rifles, some from the lighter American Ml6s, but it was mixed from both sides.
“Yes, Macintosh?” said Baldwin as he crawled up alongside him.
“One hell of a firefight going on in there.”
“Where are the bad guys?”
“Hard to say.”
Baldwin scooted to where he could see.
“Sure is.”
“How do we tell?”
“We go ask ’em. C’mon.”
Macintosh told the squad to cover them. The noise of battle covered their move as he and Baldwin dashed through the door toward a stack of crates. Someone, somewhere, saw the figures moving, however, and a burst of fire chased them until they dove for cover.
Naturally, they both dove for the same place. Baldwin got there first; Macintosh second.
“Goddammit, Macintosh, get off me.”
“What are you doing, Baldwin,” he said as he rolled away, “taking my spot?”
“I didn’t know this table was reserved.”
“I called ahead to the maitre d’.”
“What’s a mate-her dee?”
“Never mind. Follow me.”
“Hey, that’s catchy, that ‘Follow me’ shit. Maybe you could sell it to the Infantry School. They might use it for a motto or something.” “Fuck you, Baldwin. Just fuck you.”
They crawled around stacks of boxes until they could see two prone figures firing toward the far end. Macintosh and Baldwin took turns peering around the comer, trying to decide in the dim light if the position ahead belonged to the Germans or Americans.
“Looks like our guys.”
“No way. They’re ’rads.”
“One of ’em has an M16.”
“One of ’em has an HK.”
An impasse.
“So how do we know?”
“Like I said earlier, we ask. Go for it, I’ll cover you.”
“Like hell. You’re the one who wants to ask. Ill cover you.” Baldwin shrugged, stood up, then popped around the corner. “Hey, you shitheads ’rads or GIs?”
One of the figures turned. “Was? Was ist los?”
The Germans and Baldwin figured it out at the same time. He ducked back behind the crates as tracers dug into the wooden boxes, showering Macintosh and him with splinters.
“I guess we know.”
“Guess so. So now what do we do?”
Baldwin took out a grenade and straightened the pin, motioning for Macintosh to do the same.
“This. On three. Ready, one…”
“I didn’t know you could…”
“Count that high? You said that before. And like I said…
“Fuck you?”
“Yeah. Two, three!” Together their grenades sailed toward the Germans.
Inside the storage area all hell broke loose as Macintosh’s and Baldwin’s squads attacked into the room. In the half-light among the crates, it was impossible to tell friendly from enemy, so soldiers on both sides defaulted to the most basic response: They shot at anything, and everything, that moved. In the three-way firefight there was no such thing as friendly fire.
It went on for almost half an hour, the firing slowly shifting until it was all coming from Ml6s. Sergeant Parker bellowed for a cease fire, then ordered his squad leaders to rally their people.