by Larry Bond
He made them wait for nearly a minute before beginning. “I will be blunt, gentlemen. Many of my colleagues have argued that we should abandon you to your enemies. That we should seek accommodation with the rebels controlling Budapest.” He paused to let their translator catch up. Apparently few of them spoke French. Idiots!
Alarmed by his harsh tone and even harsher words, the military men turned instinctively to their leader, General Lazlo Bruk. Over the years, the tall, white-haired man had been a communist, a reforming democrat, the first among equals in a military dictatorship, and now a refugee. The one constant in his long career was opportunism. The general sat forward hastily. “Sir, I can assure you…”
“I don’t want your assurances, General. I want results.”
Bruk nodded stiffly. “Of course, Minister. I…”
“You’ve told my subordinates that most of your soldiers remain loyal. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Bruk glanced quickly at his fellow officers. None seemed willing to contradict him. At least not in front of an angry French official. “I’ve spoken with the commander of our I Corps. He is confident that he can crush this rebellion in a matter of days. A week at most.”
“Really?” Desaix arched an eyebrow in disbelief.
“Once Budapest falls, the other cities will submit themselves to lawful authority.” Bruk sounded very sure of that.
Desaix nodded. Budapest had always been modern Hungary’s nerve center — a focal point for the country’s industry, government, and culture. Recapturing the capital would undoubtedly break the back and spirit of the rebel movement.
He leaned forward. “Very well, gentlemen. You have one week to restore order on your own terms. One week. If you fail, my government will explore other, less pleasant alternatives. Do I make myself clear?”
He stared hard at Bruk until the Hungarian looked down. “Well?”
“Your terms are clear, Minister.”
“Good.” Desaix pressed a button on his desk. In answer to his summons, an aide entered and held the door open. “Then we have nothing further to discuss. For now. So I bid you good day, gentlemen.” He turned his attention to routine paperwork, ignoring the embarrassed soldiers filing out of his office.
When they were gone, he picked up the telephone. “Put me through to the Defense Secretariat. I want to speak with Guichy himself.”
Hungary’s ousted rulers had failed him once. A second failure would not surprise him at all.
MAY 19 — HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky watched the green-and-brown-painted helicopter gunships orbiting the city like prowling beasts. His eyes narrowed.
Three days after the rebellion broke out, Budapest had begun returning to normal. Most of the fires were out. Power and routine government operations — mail and telephone service, and the like — were all being restored at a rapid pace. Businesses, at least those owned by Hungarians, were reopening. After all the confusion and violence, the capital’s inhabitants were ready to get back to their lives.
The respite, however, was unlikely to last for very much longer.
The army was outside the city.
Armored vehicles blocked every road — deployed in platoon-sized outposts. Their parent units, three brigades of the I Combined Arms Corps, were dug in out of sight in the western hills above Budapest. So far, they’d rebuffed every peaceful overture and appeal made by the provisional government.
Hradetsky knew the forces arrayed outside the city could easily smash through their hastily organized defenses. Lightly armed policemen, troops from an artillery brigade that had defected earlier, and a surface-to-air missile battery from the capital’s air defense force were no match for tanks and trained infantry.
If the army had truly decided to move against its own citizens, Hungary’s new democratic experiment was doomed.
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, I COMBINED ARMS CORPS, OUTSIDE BUDAPEST
The command post followed the dictates of the army manual, right down to the height of the poles supporting its camouflage netting. It was dug into the military crest of a hill overlooking the city. The camouflage netting and cut foliage were there to conceal it from the air. Of course, with the air force still sitting on the fence, the rebels didn’t have any combat aircraft, but that was beside the point.
Lieutenant General Emil Lakos, commander of I Corps, had arrived by helicopter half an hour before dawn. He was a round-faced, black-haired man of average build — blessed or cursed with boundless energy and a martinet’s eye for detail. Since arriving he’d made his presence felt throughout the compound. At any moment he might materialize behind a staff officer or clerk, outwardly affable, but quick to spot any flaw. He was a stickler for correct procedure.
For what was supposed to be a forward position, the headquarters complex was elaborate. It included a radio command center, an artillery observer’s position, bunkers for the aircraft and special weapons coordinators, as well as quarters for all the staff and bombproofs in case of attack by “the enemy.”
The forward-most dugout served as the artillery observer’s position. With overhead cover for shade and concealment, Lakos found it a pleasant place from which to make war.
From it he could see the outskirts of the city, with the rest fading onto the haze beyond. The silver ribbon of the Danube River cut through the city from left to right.
He and his corps artillery commander occupied a considerable amount of space, cramping the forward observer and his two assistants, but Lakos wanted to review his bombardment plans here, with the city in full view.
His voice, even in the open-sided dugout, seemed to boom. “The rebel guns are their only force of any significance. I want them hammered and hammered hard before we send the assault force in. I also want that damned SAM battery suppressed so our gunships can operate freely.”
Lakos tapped several spots on a map of Budapest. “Since we know where their batteries are sited, I expect you to pour counterbattery fire onto their positions during the first phase. A mix of airburst and point-detonating rounds should do the job nicely.”
Colonel Kemeny, the corps artillery commander, was an experienced gunner. He was taller and darker than Lakos, and younger by ten years. He also did not share his superior’s carefree attitude toward throwing massive firepower into populated areas.
“General, the rebels have extremely limited combat power. Their ammo stocks are low, and without a fire direction net, even their guns will have to depend on untrained observers.” Lakos seemed unimpressed, and started to respond, but the colonel risked interrupting him to make one more point. “Their fields of fire will be extremely limited by buildings along the shells’ trajectory. We can plot the dead ground and use it for our attacks. And once our troops are inside the city, they’ll quickly be inside minimum range — ”
“Colonel.” Lakos cut him off abruptly. “I do not want any gun, even at reduced effectiveness, left intact to menace my men. I do not intend to commit troops to the attack until after the defenders are completely suppressed by artillery and gunships.”
Kemeny tried one more time. “Sir, the barrage you ask for will cause many civilian deaths. It will wreck the city. Think of the damage even one errant shell would inflict on St. Stephen’s or the Roman ruins. In my professional opinion, the police troops entrenched along the outskirts represent a bigger threat, but even they are no match for our forces. If we lay a mixture of smoke and — ”
Lakos’ face turned hard and remote, his words sharper. “Colonel! If you say one more word, I will have you relieved.” The general’s hand rested on his sidearm, and his chief of staff, hovering in the background with two enlisted escorts, took one step forward.
Kemeny stopped speaking, fighting to control himself.
Lakos pressed his point. “I understand your arguments, but I want these rebels obliterated and quickly. The government is depending on me to restore order here, and I cannot do it without absolute obedience from all in this command.
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“A long fight in the city will give the rebels time they do not deserve. When we enter Budapest, it should be as conquerors, not combatants. Now, do I have your word as an officer that you will obey my orders?”
Kemeny swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get on with it. No more delays, Colonel. You will open fire in one hour.”
“Sir.”
Lakos glared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied that he had quenched the colonel’s momentary spark of mutiny. He turned away and left the dugout, heading for the communications tent to report back to Bruk and the others waiting in Paris.
Behind him Kemeny shook his head in disbelief. He gazed toward the city’s graceful skyline and then down at the fire plot he still held in his hands. With more than one hundred artillery pieces under his command, the day-long pounding Lakos envisioned would leave much of Budapest in burning ruins. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of innocents would be killed. Their deaths would be on his conscience, their blood on his hands. He shivered.
The colonel looked up and found the forward observer and his assistants staring back at him. Something in their carefully blank faces unnerved him. “Listen carefully, Captain. You will not call for any fire without a direct order from me. Only from me, understand?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Kemeny folded the artillery fire plan and slid it into his pocket. He had a few critical and dangerous visits to make in the next hour.
Lieutenant General Emil Lakos sat in his tent, meticulously scrutinizing details of the assault plan before presenting them in a final briefing to his tank and motor rifle commanders.
He was still working when he heard diesel engines rumbling in the distance. The sound was familiar, armored vehicles repositioning most likely, but the noise grew louder and louder.
It finally intruded on his consciousness. There were too many engines running out there — enough for an entire company of tanks. He looked up from the city map, concerned. There shouldn’t be any troop movements in daylight, not this close to the enemy, and especially not this close to his headquarters. Somebody would have to catch hell for breaking his standing orders.
Lakos grabbed his steel helmet, opened the tent flap, and stood blinking in the bright afternoon sunshine. He was surprised to see men jumping out the rear of wheeled troop carriers. They were fanning out through the compound, with their weapons at the ready. What the devil? He hadn’t ordered the deployment of any additional security troops. Whose ridiculous idea was this? He called for his chief of staff. “Colonel Fenrec!”
He spotted one group of officers, striding quickly toward his tent. Fenrec was among them, plainly distressed. Kemeny was also in the group, carrying an AKM assault rifle in one hand. The others were also from his command, each of them a brigade or battalion leader — almost twenty in all.
He strode out to meet them, fighting the urge to run and shout questions. As they drew close, the group stopped at a respectful distance and saluted. But one of them held a pistol with its muzzle digging into Fenrec’s ribs.
Treason! Despite the cool breeze, Lakos could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He swayed, suddenly dizzy.
The most senior officer, one of his brigade commanders, spoke. “General Lakos, I am relieving you of command. I’m afraid that you are out of touch. Unlike you, we will not murder our fellow Hungarians for the simple crime of longing to be free. Those on your staff who wish to join us, may. Those that do not” — he made a face — ”will be removed to a place of safety.”
Lakos looked around him. Most of his staff officers were already gathered together out in the open. A few sat dejectedly with their hands on their heads, under guard. Most, though, appeared friendly to the new rebels. As if to reinforce the point, a pair of helicopters, their gun barrels tracking, made a low, slow pass overhead.
“The National Salvation Government is finished, General. And so are you.”
Lakos sputtered, and fixed his gaze on Kemeny. “You gave your word. You swore loyalty to me and to the government!”
Kemeny smiled thinly. “I lied.”
Hungary’s armed forces were making their choice.
MAY 21 — MOVEMENT CONTROL POST, EURCON IV CORPS, RAILROAD FREIGHT YARD, VIENNA, AUSTRIA
“Attention!”
Boots crashed on the concrete floor as the officers and enlisted men occupying the hastily converted warehouse leapt to their feet and stood at rigid attention. In the sudden silence, the soft humming made by their desktop computers seemed very loud.
Général de Corps d’Armée Claude Fabvier swept into the room, trailed by an array of French and German military aides. All of them were armed and wore battle dress.
Fabvier was a short, lean man turned brown by long service in Chad and the Middle East. He waved the startled staff officers back into their seats and smiled. “At ease, gentlemen. At ease. You have a lot of work to do, if I’m not much mistaken.”
That earned him a quick, nervous laugh.
Still smiling indulgently, the general turned to the German colonel commanding the movement control post. “Well, Joachim? Any problems?”
“None, Herr General.” The German led him over to a series of detailed topographical maps pinned to freestanding temporary partitions. Each showed a portion of the Austro-Hungarian border near Sopron — approximately forty kilometers south of Vienna. “All divisional, brigade, and battalion quartering parties have selected and marked assembly areas for their formations.” Using a red grease pencil, he circled them one by one.
Fabvier studied them for a short time. At first glance, at least, the sites were good — offering adequate concealment from prying Hungarian eyes, protection from ground or air attack, and good routes forward to the border itself. “And the movement schedule itself?”
“Nearly complete.” The colonel nodded toward a thick stack of printouts on his own desk. Coordinating the rail movement of three divisions, thousands of pieces of heavy equipment, and tens of thousands of tons of supplies from several different locations in France and Germany was an enormously complicated process, especially on such short notice. “The first trains roll later today.”
Fabvier squinted down at the first page of the printouts. Codes and abbreviations made it virtually indecipherable to anyone but a staff specialist. He looked up. “And the whole corps will be in position by the twenty-seventh?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“Excellent. Splendid work, Colonel.” Fabvier believed in being generous with his praise, when praise was due.
Spurred on by Nicolas Desaix, the European Confederation was massing a powerful force on the Hungarian border. Dozens of combat aircraft and forty thousand heavily armed troops were converging on Austria. Their looming presence should make Hungary’s rebels less eager to renege on solemn treaties and economic commitments.
MAY 25 — THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Lightning flashed outside the Oval Office windows, streaking down out of a coal-black sky. The low, booming rumble of thunder echoed eerily across Washington’s city streets and public buildings. Torrential rains followed close behind, sheets of solid water that pummeled the White House gardens, ripping blossoms off trees and petals off flowers.
The President stared moodily out into the gray-green half-light. “Was I right to recognize this new Budapest regime, Ross? Or just so eager to hit back at the French that I’ve put us in a box?”
Ross Huntington shrugged. “I don’t see that you had any choice. You’ve seen the reports. This revolution’s about as genuine and democratic as they come.” He winced when he tried to breathe, glad the President’s back was turned. The tightness in his chest was getting worse and harder to conceal. “Besides, it’s the first crack in EurCon. Something to encourage, I’d say.”
“Yeah.” The President turned from the window. “Easier to kill a cub than a full-grown wolf, I guess.”
Huntington nodded. “Not as sporting, but sure easier.�
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The President snorted. The ghost of a grin flickered across his face and vanished. “I’d feel a helluva lot better about all this, though, if the French and Germans didn’t have all those troops piling up across the Austrian border. Every satellite pass shows more and more troops.”
In Huntington’s view, the Franco-German saber-rattling was another good reason that American and British backing for Hungary’s new government made sense. Together with Polish, Czech, and Slovak offers of military assistance and free trade accords, it put France and Germany on notice that their bullying dare not cross over into active interference.
One of the phones on the desk rang. The President scooped it up in the one fluid motion. “Yes?” His voice faded as he listened to the man on the other end. When he hung up, his face was bleak. “That was Thurman. Our new ambassador to Hungary just reported in.”
Huntington was surprised. The envoy could only just have reached Budapest. Whatever was happening had to be pretty urgent.
“It seems the Hungarian government has just been handed a real hot potato. The French and Germans have offered their diplomatic recognition, but only under certain stringent conditions.”
“Impossible conditions?” Huntington guessed.
The President nodded. “On the nose, Ross. They get recognized as a legitimate regime if they remain inside EurCon, and if they agree to honor all treaty commitments made by the military government.” He frowned. “So all they have to do is act like the old government, kowtow like the old government, and the French and Germans will graciously treat them like the old government.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Various but unspecified ‘dire consequences.’”
“Shit.”
The President nodded unhappily. “My sentiments exactly.” He punched a button on his phone. “Maria? I need you to make a few calls for me. I want Thurman, John Lucier, Galloway, and Quinn here on the double.”
