by Larry Bond
“Oh, shit.” The soft, shocked exclamation came from several officers at the same moment.
Ward spun back to the display. Two of the aircraft symbols, one for a Polish MiG, the other for a French Mirage, had just merged — colliding at four hundred knots. Now both were tumbling toward the sea below.
The voices on the radio circuit took on a new urgency. Some were in Polish. Others, emanating from the E-3, were in English.
“Green Two, this is Sierra Foxtrot! Eject! Eject! Get the hell out!”
Both of the stricken aircraft disappeared off Leyte Gulf’s radar.
“Green flight, this is Sierra Foxtrot.” The airborne controller’s voice sounded shaken. “Can anyone see Green Two?”
An angry, accented voice answered. “Negative, Foxtrot. He hit the water. No parachute.”
“What about the Mirage?”
“It’s down, too. No chute, either.”
Ward felt cold. EurCon’s “mock” attacks had just turned deadly.
A new voice came on the radio circuit, furiously demanding something.
Ward saw the Polish liaison officer turn pale. “What the hell’s going on, Major?”
The younger man swallowed hard before replying. “Green Leader is asking for permission to fire!”
“Jesus Christ.” Ward grabbed the antiair coordinator. “Get Sierra Foxtrot on the horn! Tell them to pull the MiGs back! Now!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
No midair collision was worth a full-scale conflict.
The Mirages and Tornados were changing course, turning back toward Germany. His EurCon counterpart must have come to the same conclusion.
Four hours later, Task Group 22.1 crossed into Polish territorial waters.
Standing on Leyte Gulf’s bridge wing and leaning wearily on the railing, Jack Ward thought that the rust-streaked cranes and shipyards of Gdansk were one of the most beautiful sights in the world. He had accomplished his mission without having to shoot anyone. This time.
CHAPTER 15
Death Warrant
MAY 1 — PUBLIC BROADCASTING SERVICE NEWSHOUR
After the usual, quick-paced recitation of the day’s major events, NewsHour cut to its Washington-based co-anchor. “Now we turn to our top story for this Friday: First Flowers of a Budapest Spring. Paul Hamilton of Britain’s Independent Television News narrates this report smuggled out past Hungarian censors.”
The camera view shifted — moving in the blink of an eye from the program’s Washington, D.C., studio to scenes videotaped in Budapest much earlier that same day. The images were a far cry from earlier amateur videos hurriedly shipped across the Czech border and beamed by satellite around the world. These pictures were steady, focused, and professionally edited. Hungary’s blossoming opposition movement clearly had allies in the state-run television network.
Against a dramatic backdrop formed by the soaring, neo-Gothic spires, arches, and the great dome of the Parliament building, thousands of people packed a vast cobblestoned square. Hundreds of red, white, and green Hungarian flags fluttered above the crowd. Deep-voiced, angry chants rippled through the square, echoing back and forth and growing ever louder.
“Hungary’s political opposition emerged from hiding today — taking to the capital city’s streets in numbers not seen since the elections in 1990 swept the old communist regime from power. In a move that clearly took the military government by surprise, more than twenty thousand demonstrators converged on Kossuth Lajos Square for a Labor Day rally demanding an end to martial law and a return to democratic rule.”
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the thin, white-haired man speaking from the Parliament building’s broad stone steps. Commandeered police sound trucks amplified his voice.
“In a stirring, twenty-minute-long address, Vladimir Kusin, leader of the outlawed Democratic Forum, called for the immediate restoration of civil rights, free and fair elections, and for an end to Hungary’s membership in the French- and German-dominated European Confederation.” The camera panned outward again, sweeping across a sea of shouting, cheering faces.
Another crowd shot — this time profoundly moving — showed thousands of men and women swaying from side to side as they sang their nation’s proud, melodic anthem.
“Although the entire hour-long rally took place in defiance of martial law regulations, the government’s security forces remained strangely passive. No officers tried to make any arrests.” The camera cut to small groups of policemen stationed at intervals around the growing crowd. Most looked uneasy or frightened. A few even seemed ashamed of their own uniforms. “Some went further than that.” The pictures showed many police officers joining the crowd in singing the anthem — some with tears streaming down their cheeks.
“Where Hungary’s rejuvenated political opposition goes from here is uncertain. But one thing does seem certain: its campaign to bring democracy back to this country is just beginning…”
MAY 6 — BUDAPEST
They were meeting in Kusin’s third new apartment in three weeks. This one was small and cramped and smelled as though its tenants were often forced to dine on rotting fish.
Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky missed their previous host — an industrialist run out of business by a German chemicals firm. The man had actually had a separate conference room and a well-equipped office in his house.
Now they were back in a working-class flat in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. A single bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a small, sparsely furnished sitting room made up the whole place. The bathroom — shared by all tenants on the same floor — was down the hall. With living and working space at a premium, the couple that had loaned Kusin the apartment were away, staying with friends and family members.
Despite the inconvenience, the frequent moves were necessary. Staying mobile and staying inconspicuous were the opposition’s best defenses against Rehling’s EurCon agents and the Hungarian officials they’d corrupted.
Hradetsky stared at the shut bedroom door in unconcealed impatience. It was nearly dark outside. He’d arrived at the flat nearly an hour ago, only to find Kusin closeted with unnamed men he didn’t know. His police identity card would get him past any curfew checkpoints on the way back home, but he didn’t like the idea of making his movements so easy to trace. “So just how much longer is this ‘vital meeting’ going to take?”
Oskar Kiraly, Kusin’s security chief, smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It will last however long it lasts, Colonel. Kusin has his reasons.”
He didn’t volunteer any more information about the men meeting in the bedroom. Nor did Hradetsky really expect more. Rebels and outlaws who wanted to survive soon learned the value of compartmentalization. What he didn’t know couldn’t be torn out of him if Rehling or General Dozsa got their hands on him.
Kiraly offered him some coffee, strong and bitter, and they sat together at the kitchen table with two other members of the opposition’s inner circle. Kusin’s secretary perched on a nearby chair, tapping away on a humming laptop computer.
It was a familiar scene to Hradetsky, almost comforting. Certainly the comradeship he’d found with these men and women was something he’d missed since his abrupt demotion and transfer to Budapest. Since losing his command at Sopron, he’d also missed having a sense of purpose — something he now possessed in abundance.
He found the work invigorating. The chance to influence events on a national level acted like a tonic on him, washing away all the fatigue and frustration he’d felt piling up over the winter. He had always had a policeman’s contempt for politicians, but he was beginning to admit that this was a time when the only thing that really mattered was politics.
Kiraly looked at him over the edge of his coffee cup. “You know, Colonel, you’re still making problems for us.” He said it with mock seriousness.
“How so?”
“We’ve got twice as many new recruits as we can handle. And more are approaching us all the time.”
Hradetsky nodded. The first major rally he’d helped organize had been remarkably successful. More so than he had ever dared hope. The news of their defiance of the government’s edicts had spread like wildfire, passed by word of mouth, underground papers, and broadcasts over clandestine radio and TV networks based in the Polish, Czech, and Slovak republics. Since then spontaneous, unplanned protests had flared in Gyor, Debrecen, Pecs, and half a dozen other cities and towns. And in almost every case, the local police authorities had carefully looked the other way. The generals must know that their hold on power was shakier than it had ever been.
The bedroom door opened. Finally.
Hradetsky and the others rose to their feet as Kusin ushered his anonymous guests out. There were four of them. All of them were middle-aged, and all were trim and physically fit. The colonel’s eyes narrowed. Whoever these men were, they looked as uncomfortable and out of place in civilian clothes as he did. He suspected that when they walked they had a tendency to fall into step. They had to be soldiers.
After they were gone, Kusin returned to the kitchen. His eyes flashed with excitement, and years seemed to have dropped from his lined face. “My friends, the time has come for us to act, and to act decisively!”
Kiraly and Hradetsky exchanged puzzled glances. The security chief spoke for them all. “Sir?”
“The momentum lies with us. We must make use of it!” Kusin straightened to his full height. “The winter was a time of despair — a time when the generals had the edge. Our people were hungry. They were cold. They were afraid. They wanted food and security — whatever the price. But now it is spring. And in the spring our countrymen’s thoughts turn toward freedom!”
He looked at their stunned faces and smiled. “Don’t worry, my friends. I haven’t lost my mind. There is method in my madness.” His manner changed as he became businesslike, transforming himself from prophet to practical politician. “We must march again, in even larger numbers this time. In numbers that no one can ignore. And I want this city paralyzed by a general strike before we begin. This must be a march of those who have work as well as those who have none.”
Hradetsky shook his head. “We were lucky the last time. But organizing a mass strike and an even larger demonstration? It can’t be done.” He frowned. “Not covertly.”
“Exactly!” Kusin smiled at him. “Our plans should be public. The time. The place. Everything. I want maximum coverage by our friends in the world press.”
Kiraly nodded sagely, then added grimly, “Easy enough to arrange. But it will also be easy for EurCon and government security forces to provide their own form of full coverage.”
“Yes. This will be a test of strength,” Kusin agreed. “A gauntlet thrown down before the generals and their French and German masters.”
Hradetsky felt his fingers flex as though they were curling around the hilt of a saber. He fought to keep a cool head. The images conjured up by Kusin’s confident words were pleasing, but were they realistic? “Are we ready to throw down such a gauntlet?”
“I believe we are.” Kusin sounded certain. “The people are with us. The press is with us. And this government is weaker than we first imagined.” He smiled grimly. “Perhaps even weaker than it knows.”
MAY 8 — PALAIS ROYAL, PARIS
“You’re sure about this?” Nicolas Desaix tapped the red-tagged Most Secret report in front of him. “This isn’t just a case of panic brought on by the sight of a few bearded fools with painted signs?”
“No, Minister.” Although Jacques Morin now headed both the French DGSE and the Confederation’s Interior Secretariat, he never forgot his place or his patron. “I believe the information is accurate.”
Desaix grimaced. The rising tide of Hungarian resistance to their own military government and to French and German influence there had taken him by surprise. His attention had been focused almost exclusively on the growing dispute with Poland, the Czech and Slovak republics, Britain, and the United States. A few petty protests in one small country had seemed utterly insignificant when compared to the larger, more serious game being played out in the North Sea and along Germany’s eastern border. He was starting to regret not paying heed to Hungary sooner. The trouble there should have been nipped in the bud — not allowed to spread virtually unchecked.
Of course, he thought, this is all part of the same struggle. The Poles and their neighbors are stirring up trouble for us in Hungary to hit back for the energy embargo. It was something like a flea trying to bite an elephant, but even a fleabite could be annoying if left untended.
Like this. Desaix paged through the report, glancing briefly at its headings and conclusions. Hungary’s police force was falling apart. Although no police units had yet openly sided with the opposition, illegal demonstrations were allowed to go untamed. And raids launched against reported “safe houses” or outlawed printing presses netted little. Opposition sympathizers inside the force saw to that.
Even worse, there were persistent rumors of growing dissatisfaction in the army — especially among junior officers and in the ranks. Hungary’s rulers were becoming increasingly nervy. He frowned as one particular piece of information caught his eye. Some of the generals were moving their money out of Budapest banks and into Swiss safe havens. The cowards! And the fools! If he could find that out, so could the rebels. Knowing that some of the junta were already preparing for possible flight would only make this Kusin and his fellows that much bolder.
Desaix flipped the report shut and pushed it away. “So now these hotheaded scum are planning an even bigger demonstration?”
Morin nodded. Worry lines furrowed his high pale forehead. “Kusin and their other leaders have called for a general strike, a protest march through Budapest, and another mass rally — all starting on the sixteenth.”
“A shrewd maneuver,” Desaix conceded. By openly declaring its intentions, the opposition was challenging the military regime to a fight the generals could easily lose. Allowing the threatened strike and rally to go ahead would only encourage more trouble. But using unreliable Hungarian police units in an attempt to crush the protest might be disastrous — especially if it failed.
He swiveled his chair to look out across Paris. Army helicopters clattered low over rooftops and monuments, flying slowly over the city on patrol. Despite months of relative calm, the capital was still under limited martial law.
French troops guarded every major intersection, and a dusk-to-dawn curfew kept all but essential people off the streets. The City of Lights was a dark, frightening place at night. In the daytime sullen groups of unemployed, some French and some foreign, clashed, or demonstrated, or raided some luckless shop owner for food. Most citizens had enough to eat, barely, and a job, but unemployment was far too high and growing. More and more angry people were being added to the near-explosive idle population.
What the economy needed could not be provided. Tariffs and other restrictions had crippled the trade and commerce Europe depended on for prosperity. The French and German economies, the strongest in Europe, had shrunk last year, and would shrink even faster this year. And now the Eastern Europeans and their U.S. and British backers were thwarting the French- and German-led effort to build a unified, self-sufficient continental market.
Desaix scowled. He and his colleagues on the French Republic’s Emergency Committee still found it easier to govern their unruly countrymen with the aid of the army’s “big stick.” Seeing the patrolling helicopters was an unwelcome reminder of just how tenuous all his recent achievements really were.
France held the dominant position in this new European Confederation, but the Confederation itself was still a relatively weak and fragile instrument. For all their governments’ promises that joining EurCon would bring them peace and prosperity, few people in the smaller member states were reconciled to their loss of sovereignty. If Hungary’s pro-Confederation regime collapsed, it could easily drag other friendly governments down with it.
Desaix shoo
k his head angrily. He would not risk that. He spun away from the window. “Very well, Morin, listen closely. If the Hungarians cannot put an end to this nonsense on their own, then we must help them. Clear?”
“Yes, Minister.” Morin nodded again. “Do you want Special Commissioner Rehling to handle the matter?”
“No.” Desaix slapped his hand down on the desk. “Not the Germans. They’re too soft. Too prissy about following proper procedure. Rehling has had his chance and he’s muffed it.”
He rapped the desktop. “I want someone tougher — more ruthless. Someone willing to take risks to get results. Somebody who won’t shirk from a little ‘wet’ work, if that proves necessary. You understand?”
“Perhaps Major Duroc…?”
Desaix smiled slowly and unpleasantly. “Yes. Paul Duroc. He would be the perfect choice.”
MAY 12 — MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR, BUDAPEST
The door to Bela Silvanus’ office was half-open when Hradetsky knocked on it. The short, pudgy bureaucrat looked up irritably from his work, then smiled wearily when he recognized his caller. He motioned the colonel inside.
Hradetsky shut the door behind him. “I got your note. What’s up?”
“Nothing good.” Silvanus lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
Curious, Hradetsky sat down. Although the other man had never asked him where all the documents he’d been feeding him were going, Silvanus had to know he had contacts in the resistance. Discretion had always been one of the administrator’s most prized traits.
Silvanus spoke quietly, earnestly. “There’s trouble brewing, my friend. Trouble I think you need to know about.”
