Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  He looked up at the trim, white-coated doctor standing close by, reviewing the EKG trace with pursed lips. “Well?”

  Francis Pardolesi, the President’s personal physician, frowned down at the long, thin strip of paper. “Your readings are normal now. But that’s not unusual in angina. And your other symptoms and past medical history are indicative of the possibility.” He shook his head somberly. “Diaphoresis. Shortness of breath. Crushing substernal pain. Those are not good signs, Mr. Huntington.”

  “Cut to the chase, Doctor. Did I just have another heart attack?”

  “Probably not,” the younger man admitted almost reluctantly. “But in my best medical judgment, such a result is all but inevitable — especially if you keep pushing yourself so hard.”

  Huntington started to object, but the doctor interrupted him. “There are a few tests I’d like to have run — just to be sure of my diagnosis. A couple of days in Walter Reed certainly won’t do you any harm.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Huntington, you’re not behaving sensibly. You have got to get some R&R.”

  “I don’t have time to rest, Doctor. We’re at war, and I have a lot of work to do.” Huntington stood up, looking around for his shirt.

  Pardolesi sighed. “If you say so, but I think you’re making a mistake. A big one.” Then he shrugged and turned away, rummaging in a filing cabinet. “Before you go, I’ll need you to sign this AMA form.”

  Huntington raised an eyebrow. “AMA? American Medical Association?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Against Medical Advice. It affirms that you’re willfully rejecting my considered opinion.”

  “So if I drop dead, my family can’t sue?”

  “Something like that.”

  The President poked his head around the examining room door. “How’s it going in here, Frank?”

  “Mr. Huntington seems determined to run himself into the ground, sir.” Pardolesi threw up his hands. “He’s refused hospitalization.”

  “Well, that’s his right.” The President came all the way into the room and turned to Huntington. “Feeling better, Ross?”

  “Much better.” Huntington tried for a sheepish smile. “I’m only sorry about all the fuss earlier. Probably just a touch of indigestion.”

  “Uh-huh.” The President exchanged a glance with his physician. “Look, Ross, I don’t let my friends commit suicide. So I want you to take it easy for a while. Just rest and get your strength back, okay?”

  Huntington felt oddly like a small child caught picking up the pieces of a broken lamp — guilty but determined to brazen it out. He shook his head stubbornly. “With all due respect, I will not spend my time flat on my back in the hospital.”

  “Not in the hospital. Here.” The President pointed toward the ceiling. The White House living quarters were above them. “I’ll have the staff fit out one of the guest rooms for you. That way the good doctor here can pop up and check in on you from time to time. That’ll make him feel better anyway. Right, Frank?”

  Pardolesi nodded.

  “What about my project?” Huntington played his strongest card. Finding some way to fracture EurCon was a top priority.

  The President looked at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Are those analysts at the NSA incompetent?”

  “No. But…”

  “Tell me, Ross, when you ran your own company, did you stand behind your assembly-line guys every single minute?”

  “No.” Huntington saw his point and acknowledged it with a ruthful grin.

  “Then for God’s sake, apply the same common sense to this situation,” the President argued in exasperation. “Let the NSA sort the wheat from the chaff. I’ll have a federal courier hand-deliver anything interesting to you at your bedside, poolside, or wherever. Fair enough?”

  Huntington nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable. Then he looked up. “What happened after I… left the room? About the troop convoys and the French nuclear threat, I mean?”

  The President’s face took on a new expression — one that was grim and utterly determined. He glanced quickly toward Pardolesi. “Let’s just say that I made certain critical decisions. It’ll take time to pull everything together, but those ships will sail on time.”

  MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE, WARSAW

  General Wieslaw Staron studied the situation map in silence, ignoring the anxious officers who hovered nearby, ready to run errands or answer questions for him. He sighed softly.

  Despite his best efforts and his soldiers’ valor, Poland’s military fortunes were still on the wane. French and German troops held Wroclaw solidly, and they were closing in on Poznan from the south. Though both sides were taking heavy casualties, the three Polish divisions trying to stem the EurCon tide were badly depleted. They were surviving only by giving ground whenever the enemy pressed them too closely.

  The situation was slightly better in the air. More than two weeks of combat against long odds had cost the Polish Air Force many of its best planes and best pilots. EurCon’s losses had been even higher. And now America’s victory over the North Sea meant those losses could no longer be easily replaced by squadrons held in reserve in Germany and France.

  Staron shrugged. The good news wasn’t good enough. Even without assured air superiority, Poland’s enemies had a manpower and firepower edge they could use to batter his bloodied army down before American or British reinforcements reached the battlefield. Somehow, from somewhere, he had to pull together enough troops to change that equation — to throw EurCon’s invasion force off balance and buy more time.

  His dark brown eyes slid east while he fumbled a cigarette out of a crumpled pack stuck in his jacket pocket. An aide stepped forward with a lit match. The Defense Minister bent his head down, puffed the cigarette into life, and then nodded his thanks — all without taking his gaze off the map in front of him.

  The smoke he inhaled and blew out smelled more like a hellish concoction of burning leaves and cardboard than tobacco. As a young officer, Staron’s salary wouldn’t stretch far enough to buy American or even French cigarettes. He’d learned to make do with Russian dregs then. Now that he could afford to buy better, anything else seemed tasteless — too smooth to be real.

  Russia. He had four divisions stuck on Poland’s eastern border, warily watching Belarus, Ukraine, and their bigger brother behind them. Half his nation’s armed strength was pinned down hundreds of kilometers from the real war — as useless as though they were on the far side of the moon. But there wasn’t any evidence that the Russians were doing anything beyond taking normal defensive precautions against a war so close to their border. Certainly the American satellites weren’t picking up any Russian military movements out of the ordinary.

  Staron considered that. Satellite intelligence wasn’t perfect. Their orbits were too predictable and their sensors could be spoofed by a clever opponent. He would have felt a lot more comfortable with political intelligence from inside the Kremlin itself. Then he shrugged. He’d like to be able to read his opponents’ minds, too, for that matter. Making decisions and taking risks on the basis of incomplete information came with the office and with the silver stars and braid on his shoulder boards.

  He turned to the officer in charge of communications between Warsaw and the army’s various field headquarters. “Get me the commander of the 8th Mechanized Division.”

  JUNE 17 — ASSEMBLY AREA, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, LESZNO

  Parked Leopard 2 tanks and Marder APCs filled Leszno’s town square and the surrounding streets. Their scarred turrets and mud-streaked tracks and side skirts looked out of place beside the brightly painted Baroque buildings around them. Dull-eyed German soldiers sat slumped on the cobblestones or sprawled on top of their vehicles. But each man kept his helmet and rifle close to hand.

  The 7th Panzer’s officers and men had been in combat almost continuously for twelve days and they were exhausted. Many of their vehicles were broken down or badly in need of rep
air. Between mechanical breakdowns and battle losses, some battalions were barely above half strength. The whole division urgently needed time to rest and regroup.

  Tracks clattered and squealed across the pavement as LeClerc tanks and AMX-10 troop carriers crowded past on their way to the front. The French 5th Armored Division was moving up from reserve to take over the lead.

  Willi von Seelow scratched his chin, frowning at the feel of the blond stubble under his fingers. He hadn’t had time to shave for two days and now he itched and stank. Baths had consisted of splashing water from his canteen over his hands and face in occasional, usually futile efforts to clear away caked-on dust or mud.

  He dropped his hand and stood still, watching the French column lumbering forward.

  “Pretty bunch of sluggards, aren’t they?” Lieutenant Colonel Otto Yorck muttered. “Do you suppose our glorious allies are finally ready to get their brand-new tanks dented in combat?”

  Willi shrugged. “Maybe.” He eyed the long parade of passing vehicles angrily. “I was beginning to think General Montagne was saving them for the victory celebration.”

  “A duty the damned French would undoubtedly perform to perfection,” Yorck growled.

  Willi nodded. His friend had every reason to be bitter. This relief was long overdue. Some officers openly wondered whether Montagne had secret orders from Paris to hold down French casualties in what was rapidly becoming a prolonged and unpopular war.

  Now, with French armor finally out in front, II Corps, 7th Panzer’s parent formation, was turning northeast against stiff opposition. They were driving hard to cross the Warta River below Poznan at a little town called Srem. Once across the river, the corps would swing northward again, advancing down the Warta’s east bank toward the city. Montagne, Leibnitz, and the other generals hoped the move would outflank the Polish Army’s best defensive positions.

  They were supposed to link up with the III Corps’ three divisions on the far side of Poznan.

  And then what were they supposed to do? As far as von Seelow was concerned, the belief that capturing or isolating Poznan would somehow force the Poles to the bargaining table was a fantasy of the worst kind. The Americans were busy flattening Germany’s naval and air installations along the Baltic. Once they were done, the Baltic would lie open to U.S. and British freighters and troop transports. Why should Poland surrender now when time was on its side?

  Von Seelow spun abruptly on his heel and strode toward the building he’d commandeered for the staff operations center. He couldn’t shake the growing feeling that he and his fellow soldiers were mired to the knees in a deadly bog and sinking fast.

  JUNE 20 — GROUP MALANOWSKI, SOUTH OF THE WARTA RIVER

  Artillery grumbled to the north, like distant thunder on a gray, overcast day. The dirty, ragtag band of forty Polish soldiers concealed in the band of birchwoods stiffened and then relaxed. The shelling was too far away to menace them. They settled back to their work, stripping and cleaning an oddly varied assortment of personal weapons — some Polish, some German, and some French. A few were busy performing routine maintenance on a small collection of equally varied vehicles. Two civilian cars, a Polish GAZ jeep, an American-made Humvee, and a canvas-sided German truck were parked beneath the trees.

  Major Marek Malanowski squatted easily on his haunches in a small clearing near the center of the woods, listening respectfully to the elderly, weather-beaten farmer who had come in that morning bearing glad tidings. He waited until the man finished speaking and then asked, “Why are you so sure that this camp is a headquarters of some kind? Couldn’t it be a field hospital or a supply dump?”

  The farmer snorted. “I served my time as a conscript, Major. Where else but a headquarters do you see enough saluting to wear arms out — not to mention enough radio antennas for a whole village? And when did you ever see doctors saluting each other?”

  Malanowski grinned. “True enough.” He rocked back on his heels and stared down at his locked hands, considering the presence of an enemy command post within striking distance. Then he looked up. “What about their security?”

  The old man hawked and spat to one side. “Pathetic. A few foot soldiers, a machine-gun nest or two, and a few trucks.”

  “Any signs that they’re planning to move?”

  “No.” The farmer shook his grizzled head confidently. “If they move out today, they’ll be leaving a lot of vehicles behind. I saw mechanics overhauling engines all over the place.”

  Malanowski stood up, straightening to his full height. His calf muscles ached, sore from constant overuse and too little rest. He ignored the pain. “All right, my friend, I’ll come see this headquarters of yours for myself.”

  He glanced around the clearing at his men and smiled coldly. “Then we may all pay these Germans a social call later on tonight. Right, boys?”

  Grim, silent nods answered him.

  Malanowski was satisfied by that. His soldiers were hungry for revenge. Some were survivors from his battalion. Others were stragglers he’d picked up on the long, dangerous journey eastward from the Neisse River. They’d kept busy on the way — dodging EurCon patrols and ambushing couriers and supply trucks. But now the major was ready to hunt bigger game.

  COMMAND POST, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, NOCHOWO

  The 19th Panzergrenadier’s main command post occupied an orchard just off the road connecting Leszno and the Warta River crossings at Srem. Five hundred meters of open fields separated the orchard from Nochowo, the closest hamlet.

  Von Seelow came out of his M577 TOC and waited, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. The sun had set two hours before and the moon wouldn’t be up for a little while longer. In the meantime, the headquarters unit had to make do with a few shielded electric lamps.

  Repeated flashes rippled along the northeastern horizon, backed up by a rhythmic, muted thumping. He frowned. Although II Corps HQ had passed very little information down the chain, it was clear that the Poles were hitting the French in strength. But what magic hat had they tapped to find the troops for a counterattack? Where had they made themselves weak to be strong here?

  Von Seelow looked away and walked toward the cluster of officers huddled around a dimly lit map table. Aware that they might be called out of reserve soon to retrieve a deteriorating tactical situation across the Warta, Colonel Bremer had summoned his battalion and company commanders to the brigade CP for a quick brief.

  The map taped to the table showed the broad extent of the Confederation’s advance into Poland. Our vaunted invasion looks just like a ridiculously big fishhook, he realized, with the bend beginning at Wroclaw. Well, von Seelow thought wryly, maybe we’re confusing the Poles almost as much as we’re confusing ourselves.

  A stocky shape tugged at his sleeve. “Herr Oberstleutnant!”

  He recognized Private Neumann’s hoarse voice. The signalman must have followed him out of the TOC. “What is it?”

  “Division is on the line again, sir. They say it’s urgent.”

  Von Seelow stifled the urge to swear. He’d spoken with the 7th Panzer’s operations officer only a few minutes before. What could possibly have changed in such a short span of time? He caught Bremer’s eye and inclined his head toward the TOC, indicating he’d been called back.

  The colonel nodded briefly and kept talking, filling his officers in on what he knew about the battle raging ahead of them.

  Von Seelow headed back to his bulky, blacked-out armored vehicle. On the way he noticed again how few troops were guarding the command post. He made a mental note to raise his concerns with Lieutenant Preussner, the junior officer currently responsible for headquarters security. The men usually charged with the task, soldiers from 7th Panzer’s jaeger and security battalions, were spread across southwest Poland, guarding bridges and supply convoys. To replace them, Bremer had detailed Preussner to command a scratch force of men volunteered by each of the brigade’s battalions.

  Willi was beginning to believe that the colo
nel had made a mistake there. Naturally enough, most of the battalion COs had taken the opportunity to rid themselves of a few feckless incompetents and disciplinary hard cases. Given enough time, a tough, experienced leader might have been able to whip them into shape, but not Preussner. The thin, bookish lieutenant ordinarily ran the 19th’s cryptographic cell. He was a good staff officer. He was also the last person von Seelow would have put in charge of line troops — at least under ideal circumstances. Of course, the circumstances were anything but ideal. Preussner had been chosen because two weeks of war had left the brigade with a distinct shortage of junior officers. Matching assignments and personalities was a peacetime luxury.

  Von Seelow strode up his M577’s rear ramp and ducked his head as he brushed through the blackout curtain into its crowded compartment. One of his subordinates handed him a headset. Preussner’s troubles would have to wait. II Corps was undoubtedly about to dump a whole new load on the 19th Panzergrenadier’s shoulders.

  At the sandbagged guard post two hundred meters down the road to Nochowo, a match flared suddenly.

  “For God’s sake, Vogler!” Lieutenant Paul Preussner snapped. “Put that damned cigarette out! You’re on sentry duty here, not waiting for the bloody bus to Berlin!”

  “Yes, sir,” the private answered sullenly. A red glow flipped through the air and landed close to his foot.

  Preussner stared down for a second at the still-smoldering cigarette and then ground it out. He felt like tearing his hair out. These idiots were hopeless! He felt a moment’s intense longing for the quiet competence of the enlisted men who staffed his cryptographic van.

  The throbbing sound of a heavy diesel engine approaching brought him out of his reverie. A vehicle had turned off the main road and was rattling up the dirt side track that led to the orchard. His head came up. “Report, Vogler.”