“These wimps around here don’t know what to do without their twenty-ton steel security blankets. Before I got here they wouldn’t dismount to cross the street. I’m tough on them because they need it.”
“Your expertise at dismounted operations is not in question here,” Stern replied. “Tell me, S3, has it occurred to you that this is a mechanized brigade, and that this brigade has two tank battalions and two Bradley-equipped mechanized infantry battalions, not to mention a mechanized field artillery battalion, combat engineers, and an armored cavalry troop?” Stern drove the word “mechanized” home. “We’re supposed to be preparing to fight a twentieth-century modern war,” he added sarcastically. “This is Europe, not South America. Get with the program.” *
Although Stern’s words stung, Griffin tried not to let it show. I am weak at mechanized operations, he acknowledged to himself. Hell, I’ve been in Special Forces since I was a lieutenant; what do I know about tanks and Bradleys? But I know how to train soldiers, and I sure as hell don’t like what I see in this brigade. Besides, it’s been only three weeks since they drove back into the main gate from their last training exercise. They’ve forgotten every damn thing they learned. But I’ll fix that — despite Stern and Hagan.
The mere thought of Hagan caused Griffin to shift from the defense to the attack.
“Get with the program, huh, Colonel? If we had a program, I’d get with it.”
“You’re the one who’s responsible for the brigade’s training plan,” snorted Stern.
“Yeah,” said Griffin bitterly, “and the same guy who blessed it— Hagan, remember him? — came out to the training area this morning and changed it.”
“Changed it? How?”
“I thought you were supposed to keep him in his office.”
“Never mind that,” Stern said impatiently. “What did he do?” “While you were out fondling oil filters, the old man drove out to where I was trying to teach the commander of A Company, l-89th Infantry, something about being a leader. Hagan stopped the training.” Griffin was incensed, and it showed. “He stopped the dismounted maneuver, called up the Bradleys, and put all the soldiers in their vehicles. Then he had them drive around on the tank trails while he stood on a hill, like Caesar triumphant, and watched them practice road marching. All the soldiers inside the Bradleys got out of a long morning was a few minutes of sleep.” Griffin paused. “Fine job you did protecting training time.” He paused again, then added a sarcastic “Sir”
Alex Stern ran one hand through his short hair. The old man was making A Company practice a road march, Stern realized, the road march Hagan had planned for his great victory parade out of Baumflecken and across Germany into the Theater Equipment Marshalling Area.
Griffin had “I told you so” written all over his face. “So what are you going to do about it, exalted Two IC?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it, Mark,” Stern said, his tone softening. “I was in there for an hour again this morning. You’re lucky you had the time you had.”
Griffin stood up and stormed toward Stern’s desk. “Thankful?” His face strained with rage. “Goddammit, I have soldiers to train and you and that idiot Hagan have that as the last priority!”
“Colonel,” Stern said heatedly, then stopped himself. He was angry too: at Griffin for being at least partially right, at Hagan for being an ass, at his wife for not loving him, and at his world for not being anywhere near fair. “Colonel,” he repeated, more calmly this time, “your job is to make the training plan work and to be professional, something that you weren’t being yesterday and something you sure as hell aren’t being with me now. If the boss chooses to make changes in training, changing training is his prerogative. Life is tough; adapt.”
“Adapting is easy when you’re an incompetent, toadying bastard, Sir. I’m not.”
Stern rose, fists clenched. “Get out of my office, Griffin, before you say something we’re both going to regret.”
Mark Griffin was so mad he was ready to tear off his colonel’s rank and settle it man to man. He was saved only by the buzz of the intercom on Stern’s desk.
“Colonel Stern,” the secretary’s voice grated, “the general wishes to see you.” Stern looked at the intercom. Now what? he thought.
Griffin smirked, then walked to the door and began to leave. Halfway out he turned. “His master’s voice. We’ll take this up later, Sir.” He slammed the door on his way out.
Stern sighed. I’ll have to put that sonofabitch in his place, he thought grimly, and it won’t be pleasant. He too^ a deep breath, picked up his notebook, and headed for Hagan’s office. Griffin would have to wait. His duty to the brigade would have to wait. The letter he wanted to write to Veronica would have to wait. Only General Hagan wouldn’t wait.
As he closed his door, he heard the intercom buzz again and then his secretary’s singsong voice: “Colonel Stern, the general wants you now!”
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Veronica Stern eyed the speaker carefully. Settled at the bar for less than an hour, she’d already turned three men away. This one was tall and thin, but not skinny. He had a striking face. He dresses well, thought Veronica.
“No. Please.” She waved at the empty barstool.
He eased onto it and shifted it slightly closer to her. She glanced at him and smiled.
“Bartender,” he called.
“Sir?”
“Scotch and soda.”
Alex drinks his straight, thought Veronica. She started when he touched her lightly on the arm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but your glass is almost empty. Can I have the bartender get you another?”
“Another wallbanger will be fine.”
“What the lady said, bartend.” The man behind the bar nodded and went off to fix the drinks.
“Hmm, ‘the lady’ won’t do,” the man said. “I’m John, who are you?” He fumbled in his pocket, bringing out his cigarettes as he looked around for matches.
“Here, I have some.” She dug in her purse, knocking her wedding band out of the way to get to her lighter. She lit his cigarette.
“Call me Ronnie.”
THREE
For a military convoy, the drive from Baumflecken Kaserne to the Kriegspiel Munitions Depot takes two days, but for Mark Griffin, who’d managed to get a day off from the 195th, it was only three hours to the halfway point he and Maggie had agreed upon. Military convoys travel at about forty miles per hour and halt frequently. On the Autobahn, Griffin did more than three times that speed and stopped for nothing.
The one other person in Griffin’s life who mattered was coming from the opposite direction, and Maggie O’Hara was driving just as hard. It was slower going for Maggie, though. First she had to clear the mountainous Kriegspiel Heights, which surrounded the munitions depot. Maggie had made reservations at Platzdorf’s one inn, and she and Mark were to spend at least part of a day and an entire night together in the village. Although they had burned up the phone lines until late into the night, both agreed they needed some time together, even if that time was only a few hours.
Griffin pushed his foot to the floor and flashed his lights, giving the signal for the Saab ahead to move into the right lane. As the car pulled to the right and Griffin blew by, the Saab’s owner thought that Griffin must be doing at least a hundred mph.