by John Bromley
All of the men were overjoyed at this revelation, but Jim was concerned about one thing.
“The question is, why were you wrong, Dirk?” he wondered aloud. He turned his attention to Chambers.
“General, you gave the orders to move the Fourth Battalion up here, right?”
“Yes, Colonel, it was me.”
“You gave the orders to Buck, correct? Using your office telephone?”
“Yes, I spoke directly to Captain Keller from the telephone on my desk.”
“And you said… what, exactly?”
“I told the Captain that the Fourth was to come up here, participate in war games, that you would be in command for the exercise… and that was all.”
Jim thought a moment. “Yet you told me about the threat of ‘foreign soldiers’, sir, and that this battalion was coming up here under the cover of war games.”
“True.”
“We never discussed this over the phone, did we?”
“No. The only time we spoke of this ‘invasion’ was in my office, face to face.”
“So, if they’re after me, and knew I was coming up here with the Fourth, they probably learned that from tapping your office phone.”
“Not out of the realm of possibility,” Chambers concurred.
“On the other hand,” Parker continued, “if the only information they have about this unit’s mission came from that phone tap, they’ll think we’re here for war games…”
“…and that we’re carrying nothing but blanks,” Buck finished the thought.
“That does seem to be the case,” Dirk added. “When I was talking to that ‘commander’ of theirs, I got the distinct impression that he felt we were no match for them, due to our lack of real firepower.”
“This is a good thing,” Jim said. “If they think we’re out-gunned, they might make a mistake.”
After ordering that the armament be loaded into the tanks and guns, Jim had one more question for Chambers.
“So, if no one knew about the true nature of this mission except you and me, General, who did you get to supervise the disbursement of arms to this battalion?”
“I didn’t ‘get’ anyone,” Chambers replied. “I oversaw the process myself.”
“I have got to remember to stop underestimating you, sir,” Jim said. “You have an excellent military mind.”
“Well, I’ll admit, I never heard of ‘Plan Delta’,” the general actually laughed, “but, what do you think—I got where I am on my looks?”
On Jim’s instructions, they got the rounds out to the tanks and mortars as quickly as they could. The captured Secret Service execution squad was pressed into service to help transport the munitions. Buck oversaw the operation, and between giving directions to his troops, he studied the enemy encampment through his binoculars, looking for a weakness in their deployment. He didn’t find one.
When the artillery was ready, Jim surprised a few of the officers by ordering his men not to return fire, despite the continued bombardment from the SS.
“If we display weakness, they’ll come to us,” Jim explained to Buck, “and then… we got ‘em.”
Indeed, about ten minutes later, Buck and Jim, who were both scouting the enemy position, noticed that their tanks were on the move.
“’Ask, and ye shall receive’,” Buck quoted.
Jim studied the field separating his unit from the enemy garrison. He knew the range at which his weaponry would be at its optimal accuracy. An imaginary line marked that spot, and he was just waiting for the Secret Service tanks to cross it…
This was a dangerous ploy, though, and he knew that, too. He couldn’t wait forever—as the tanks got nearer, their aim also improved. If they got much closer, they would start causing serious and deadly damage.
He watched, tension making his muscles ache. They were almost there…
A mortar round struck a tree beside the command center, knocking it to the ground, forcing a machine gunner to move quickly. Almost there…
Sweat from his brow was beginning to fog up the lenses on his binoculars. Almost…
“Fire!”
Two tanks, situated at opposite ends of the field as Dirk had instructed, let loose a salvo. One round struck an enemy tank, causing an explosion in its engine compartment and setting off a fire, while another crashed into the field directly in front of the enemy armor. The advance immediately halted.
The battle, however, did not. The remaining SS tanks, along with mortars and machine guns, resumed firing on the Army encampment. The men of the Fourth returned fire, giving as good as they got. It was clear to the Army officers that at least one person in the SS camp understood military tactics, and Dirk was willing to bet it was not the obnoxious young man he had dealt with.
Despite the risk of having his perch blown out from under him, Dirk had climbed a little way up another tree for a better look at the enemy position, and something caught his attention. He gestured to Buck on the ground, who aimed his binoculars in the indicated direction, and saw the same thing. Buck signaled for Dirk to descend from the tree, and then went over to Jim’s position. The colonel was huddled with the general, frantically trying to coordinate their weapons and manpower.
“Colonel, we noticed—”
“I’m a little busy right now, Buck,” Jim said, continuing to draw out battle plans.
“But, Colonel, there’s—”
“Not now, Buck,” Parker snapped at his XO. “Whatever it is, you handle it.”
Rather than feel snubbed by this treatment, Buck actually seemed pleased. One of the reasons the men liked Colonel Parker so much was that he gave orders which were not always “black and white,” but could be interpreted in a wide variety of ways. Like this one, for instance—there was a “situation,” and he had been instructed to “handle it.” How that was to be done was left up to him.
Buck walked away from the colonel’s table, pointing to Dirk as he did so.
“Tedeschi, you’re with me.”
“What’s up, sir?” Dirk asked, as the two men hurried off toward the north end of camp.
“Got us a little reconnoitering to do.”
CHAPTER 34
Sam and Mike were following the same road Jim and his troops had taken some time earlier, driving as fast as Sam dared. He also noticed the lack of Secret Service pursuit and, like Jim, found the implications of this non-action disturbing.
Mike, meanwhile, was frantically trying to combine his knowledge of Army security protocols with his newly acquired, but not yet perfected, computer-virus skills to come up with something that would aid Jim and his fellow soldiers against whatever they were facing.
When they arrived at the Fourth Battalion’s campsite, Sam tried to find a place to park his rig that was near enough to see what was going on, yet far enough away to avoid immediate detection by the enemy. When he found such a place, Mike immediately left the truck and found a tree to climb. The added height made the situation appear even worse than it did from the ground.
Mike could see that fire was being exchanged from both sides, but the enemy, whoever they were, seemed to enjoy a slight numerical advantage, and was using that to advance on the Army position. Jim was trying to hold his own, but Mike could see that that effort was doomed to failure. He needed some help—now.
Trouble was indeed brewing, no matter where Jim looked on the field. His unexpected retaliation with real artillery had momentarily surprised the SS, but they recovered quickly. The commanders ordered their forces to deploy where they were. One machine gun nest, in particular, had set up closer to the Army camp than the rest of the enemy forces. Within ten minutes of having been activated, this gun had already cost Jim the lives of six of his men.
“We need to get rid of that nest—now,” he told the officers and men around him. He was hoping for some ideas as to the best way to accomplish that objective, but he ended up with something better—a volunteer.
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” said Peter, wh
o had been itching for a chance to use the very real automatic weapon the colonel had given him. Without waiting for permission, he dashed away from the group of men and headed off into the field, but, because he was out of shape, he didn’t “dash” very fast. Jim’s first impulse was to call him back, but he ultimately decided against it. He did not like to stifle creativity, unless it was suicidal, and Peter’s charge was bordering on that. Nevertheless, he could see that Peter had obviously pre-selected a destination, just in case an “opportunity” like this should arise. He was making for a mound of earth kicked up earlier by a grenade. It wasn’t much, but it was the best cover available.
The sergeant in charge of the platoon nearest to Peter could see this, too. “Covering fire for that man!” he called out, and his men let loose with a barrage of gunfire, keeping the soldiers manning the machine gun busy while Peter completed his run. This time, unlike his first attempt in the Ghetto, he made it to his target.
“Sam,” Mike called out, using the walkie-talkie feature of his cell phone, “how are you coming with those radio frequencies?”
Sam was in the back of his truck, manning another piece of equipment he “just happened” to have, which detected the frequencies of electronic signals given off by various devices like, in this case, the computers on board the tanks in the vicinity.
“Think I got something,” Sam answered. “Get down here and try this one.”
Mike was back on solid ground in a flash, and ran back to the truck. He picked up his laptop, where he had his newly-created virus ready to go.
“Activate your transmitter at a hundred ninety-five hertz,” Sam instructed him.
“I don’t have a radio transmitter on this thing,” Mike responded.
“Yes, you do,” Sam said. Mike gave him a quizzical look, but Sam waved it off. “I’ll explain later,” he said, showing Mike how to activate this hidden piece of software.
“Now,” Sam said when it was running, “send out the virus, and let’s see what happens.”
Mike pressed “Enter,” and Sam climbed to the roof of the truck cab to see the results of their efforts.
Peter was out of breath when he stopped behind the earth mound, but he knew that he had no time to waste lying around. The machine gun nest had to be taken out, he reminded himself, and the Colonel had said “now.” He tried to line up a shot, but the soldiers manning the weapon were themselves quite well hidden between bushes and a personnel carrier. He had no binoculars, but suddenly he was joined by a soldier who did.
Peter looked up from his prone position. “Hello… Lieutenant,” he guessed at the man’s rank.
“Actually, it’s Sergeant. Greg Hendricks.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the ever-polite Peter, offering his hand. Sgt. Hendricks wasted a precious second shaking it. Then, since it was nearly impossible to get a clear shot at the gunners themselves, he instructed Peter to aim for a particular location on the personnel carrier and try to get the bullet to ricochet into the gun nest. Peter nodded and fired. Much to the sergeant’s surprise, he actually hit the desired spot on the armored vehicle but, because the steel had more of a curve to it than the sergeant expected, the “ricochet effect” didn’t happen, and the round sailed harmlessly away.
Noticing Hendricks’ weapon belt, Peter himself suddenly had an idea.
“Throw a grenade at the machine gun,” he suggested to the sergeant.
“I don’t think I can hit them from this range,” Hendricks countered.
“Try it anyway,” Peter said, rising to his feet.
Hendricks shrugged, pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it as high and as far as he could. As it began to descend, he could see that it had not gone far enough to reach the enemy gun. Then he noticed that Peter was also visually tracking the grenade through his rifle sight, as though he were shooting skeet, and the grenade was the clay pigeon. He fired, and to the sergeant’s utter amazement, the bullet struck the grenade a glancing blow rather than head on, and in so doing imparted just enough of an extra “kick” to it that it fell exactly where they had wanted it to fall. It exploded, and blew parts of the machine gun, and the gunners, in all directions.
Peter turned and looked around sheepishly as a cheer went up from the platoon behind him. He even saw Colonel Parker, who had watched the whole thing, pump his fist in satisfaction.
“Way to go!” said Hendricks, clapping Peter on the shoulder and shaking his hand enthusiastically. Peter’s face turned red with embarrassment, as it always did when he felt himself to be the center of anyone’s attention. The two men ran back to the vicinity of the command tent, where Peter shyly but graciously accepted congratulations from Parker himself.
Winning that man’s approval was quickly becoming the “be-all and end-all” of his existence, Peter realized in an unusual moment of introspection. Even more to his surprise, he found that he liked it that way.
“So, how long you been shooting skeet, son?” General Chambers interrupted Peter’s self-analysis to shake his hand, causing his face to turn an even deeper shade of red. Never before had he shaken hands with a real, live general.
“I… don’t know what that is, Mr. General, sir,” Peter stammered.
Parker and Chambers exchanged surprised glances at this news.
“Sniper training,” Chambers said.
“I agree, absolutely,” Parker replied, smiling at Peter, whose face once again lit up with that “kid-on-Christmas-morning” look.
While Peter was displaying marksmanship skills unknown to everyone including himself, Captain “Buck” Keller and Lieutenant “Dirk” Tedeschi were making their way across the north flank of the field under cover of trees, trying to get as close as they could to the enemy encampment without being seen. So far, so good.
They were within fifty yards of the enemy’s base when Buck signaled a halt. He heard a voice talking, but no one was responding.
Creeping closer, he looked out from behind a tree, and found the source of the noise. A man outfitted in the uniform of the Secret Service was standing a little way ahead, and he was talking on a cell phone.
Buck couldn’t hear everything that was said, but he did catch a reference to a “television crew,” and that “victory was almost achieved.” He then announced that he had to return to his duties, and ended the conversation by saying, “Good afternoon, Father.”
At this point, the man turned so that both Buck and Dirk could finally see his face, and both Army men gasped. Dirk recognized the man as the little weasel of a commander he had dealt with in this camp, and who had demanded the surrender of Colonel Parker. Buck saw something else.
“Do you know who that is?” he asked. There was an almost feral excitement in his voice which Dirk had never heard before.
“Yeah, that’s the asshole I talked to—”
“That ‘asshole’ is named Jared, and he just got off the phone with his father,” Buck told him.
Dirk’s expression was blank. “Who the hell is Jared?”
Buck continued, rubbing his hands together in response to the thoughts swirling around in his head. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the old man—he’s generally called ‘William the Third’.”
Now Dirk’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “William…”
“…Thompson,” Buck finished for him, not taking his eyes off the Secret Service officer. “The President. That ‘asshole’ is Jared Thompson.”
Once the surprise factor was gone, Dirk was not impressed. “You mean to tell me that that little… punk… is our next President?”
Buck’s face took on a grim set. “Not if I can help it,” he said, striding forward toward the First Son.
Though Jared himself was a Secret Service officer, or at least “playing at” being one, he did have his own Secret Service protection nearby, and at the sight of Buck, that man gave a cry. Two other agents converged to help keep the young presidential heir safe, but the three of them were no match for the two Army officers, and were eliminate
d quickly.
Buck resumed his advance and came up behind the young Thompson. He stuck a pistol in the man’s back but, to his surprise, Jared turned around calmly, as though he were bored.
He regarded the pistol briefly and looked up at Buck. “What do you want?” he asked insolently, like the spoiled little brat that he undoubtedly was.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, dipshit, this is a battle, and now you’re my prisoner,” Buck informed the petulant youth. He took him by the arm. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” the commander said defiantly.
Buck seized his arm roughly and pulled him forward. Jared did not cooperate by moving his feet, but Buck was considerably larger and stronger than the other man, so the net result was that Buck dragged him along on his knees. The whole scene was reminiscent of a young child stubbornly trying to avoid being taken to, say, the doctor. The only difference was that Jared was not crying—yet.
“If you won’t walk, Jared, then I’m going to carry you,” Buck told the man, surprising him by calling him by name.
“You know who I am, yet you dare to lay a hand on me?” Jared asked the beefy captain in his annoyingly superior tone of voice. “Try that again, and I’ll—”
Buck did try it again. He grabbed the young man’s belt in one hand, and took hold of his shirt collar in the other. He lifted him, face down, as though he truly were a sack of shit, and then tossed him about six feet. The young Thompson landed face down in the field.
Dirk, who was about the same size as Buck, decided that he didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. He also felt that this boy “had it coming,” for threatening his life earlier (and, of course, for “stealing” his weaponry).
“Let me try that,” he said, and Buck graciously stepped aside to allow the lieutenant a turn. Dirk grabbed the SS commander the same way Buck had and heaved him further up the field.
