Clicking the half-full cup back onto its saucer, Mansfeld sat down and put his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes, and he visualized what had happened four months ago. His recall was incredibly sharp, better than anyone else’s that he knew about. His near-photographic retention was one of his secrets.
Kleist was his enemy. The reason was clear. Chancellor Kleist feared a man with such abilities as his. History supplied the reasons. No one else could outthink and outmaneuver the Chancellor except for him. Therefore, to keep himself secure as the ruler of United Europe, Kleist would believe he needed to eliminate the threat of the only other superior thinker in his midst.
With his eyes closed, Mansfeld smiled. This was a game of wits, of titans among pygmies. It would seem that Kleist held all the cards. Clearly, the Chancellor had the superior position of power.
“So it would seem,” Mansfeld whispered.
Yet it had also been that way four months ago. Kleist had summoned him back from Quebec to order him before a firing squad or lock him in with torturers. No one else had quite known that, although Mansfeld had known it with certainty. He’d faced Kleist and the GD General Staff alone in the den of lions. The Chancellor had planned to pin on him the fruits of his own—Kleist’s—mistake. The Chancellor had planned to shovel the blame and rid himself of his only true opponent. But the move had been so obvious that it had surprised Mansfeld that the Chancellor hadn’t recognized what the countermove would be.
With his hands behind his head, and with his eyes closed, General Mansfeld frowned. Kleist possessed a superior mind. Therefore—
Mansfeld opened his eyes and sat up. Did I miscalculate four months ago?
The idea galled him at first. Then he shook his head. Another of his powers was the ability to admit a mistake. It was conceivable that he had made an error at the meeting four months ago.
Mansfeld peered up at the ceiling. The tiles there had thousands of indentations that almost looked like holes. He closed his eyes and once more, he put his hands behind his head. He let himself relax.
He needed to use his memory. He needed to replay the meeting and see if Kleist had outfoxed him. The Chancellor could be incredibly subtle.
You must not let yourself become arrogant, Mansfeld reminded himself. That is the great trap for a genius like you. Repeat after me: I am not invincible.
“I am not invincible,” General Mansfeld whispered while in his chair.
He concentrated, and he thought back to the meeting four months ago in Berlin.
BERLIN, PRUSSIA—Four Months Ago
“General Mansfeld,” the Chancellor said in a dangerously silky voice, “tell us about that, won’t you?”
They met in the Defense Ministry, a midmorning meeting. Outside, cold rain pelted against the windows. At times, hail hit, sounding like pebbles as they struck.
Hostile eyes turned toward General Walther Mansfeld. He sat alone at the end of a long conference table. Along the walls, the Chancellor’s security detail watched Mansfeld with reptilian eyes. They were big men in black suits who could draw their weapons with startling speed. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. Neither would they hesitate to drag him to the Chancellor’s “doctors.” There, Mansfeld knew, he would take many months dying as the specialists inflicted ever more ingenious pains. They would turn him into a mewling thing begging for death.
The thought might have weakened another man, but not Mansfeld. He played for the highest stakes in the most deadly occupation possible: political power. He was also the superior of every man he’d ever met in his life.
“Can it be you lack words, General?” Kleist asked, with a hint of his infamous gloating tingeing his speech.
The Chancellor had a strong voice and he was the same height as Mansfeld. They were two short men among physical giants—even if the others were mental pygmies compared to them. But where Mansfeld was trim like a rapier, Kleist was fat like a knotty oaken club. That was a key to understanding the man. Despite the Chancellor’s intellect, to Mansfeld Kleist seemed like a gutter-born thug. Despite his outer gloss of sophistication, Kleist was a brutal man with the instincts of an alpha wolf. All his life, the Chancellor had struck first and struck hard.
Kleist wore a brown suit and expensive Italian shoes. His chin was strong, his hands thick but small and he wore a silver wedding ring with a large diamond that seemed strangely out of place among these military men.
The General Staff members sitting along the sides of the table were large men with stiff, military postures. Each was well fed and each wore a crisp uniform, with the red General Staff stripes running down the legs of their trousers. Mansfeld wanted to sneer at them. To him, they were like Great Danes secretly quivering in fear of their master. They were also afraid of what he—Mansfeld—might say and that Kleist would hold the words against them.
It’s clear that none of them can understand my calm. None of them realizes how valuable I am to Kleist. What is sad is that Kleist doesn’t realize it yet either. Otherwise, he would not have called me back from Quebec to initiate this farce.
Kleist stared across the conference table at him, and the gloating had reached the Chancellor’s eyes. Yes, Kleist believed himself in control of the situation.
How can he not see that I am his only hope?
Finally, Mansfeld saw a hint of doubt cross the Chancellor’s face. It was a subtle thing. By now, Kleist had to be wondering why his general refused to let this spectacle cow him.
Because I know my worth, Mansfeld told himself. And I know that you will be wise enough to see it…as soon as I explain it to you.
“Are you tongue-tied?” Kleist asked.
“No, Excellency,” Mansfeld said in a ringing voice.
A few of the General Staff members looked at him with new eyes. It seemed their dull minds finally realized that none of this frightened him. A few frowned in puzzlement. It was clear they couldn’t fathom the source of his courage. Chancellor Kleist needed a scapegoat and the man had chosen the commanding officer of the German Expeditionary Force in Quebec, General Mansfeld.
“Well…?” Kleist asked. “What do you have to say for yourself? Come now, speak while you are able.”
“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, having waited for the moment to ripen. “My prediction concerning the Sino-American War proved incorrect in one particular only. Everything that went wrong afterward hinged upon that one fact.”
Kleist frowned, which meant the gloating had disappeared. When the man was winning at something, he became jovial. When he was losing, his bad temper was legendary. It must finally be dawning on the Chancellor that he had made a miscalculation, and he didn’t realize yet what that mistake was. It obviously troubled Kleist.
In an expert’s hands, the rapier always defeats the club. Despite his knowledge of that truth, Mansfeld did not smile. That would have been an error. I am not so stupid.
“You are free to speak, General,” Kleist said. “Please, enlighten us, if you would.”
The exquisite nature of the moment produced a churning feeling in Mansfeld’s gut. Some people referred it to as “the butterflies,” and they hated the sensation. It was otherwise with him. The churning told him he was alive, on the very knife-edge of existence.
I’m actually enjoying this. “The failure was political, Excellency,” Mansfeld said.
The statement electrified the chamber. The bovine faces of the General Staff members showed a mixture of fear and disbelief. Political mistakes weren’t the province of the military but of the Chancellor’s office, which was to say the Chancellor himself.
The words produced a reaction upon Kleist. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks.
“Would you care to elaborate?” the Chancellor asked.
He chooses this route, does he? Very well, let it begin.
“If you will recall, Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “your political analysts made a clear prediction some months ago. A few of us questioned their findings, me in particular. Then you r
eprimanded the General Staff and the Planning Committee. If you recall, you told us that politics was outside our scope. You said that we understood military matters, but economics and politics were things best left to the experts.”
The wolf in Kleist showed in his eyes. It meant the man was ready to kill.
Mansfeld knew he would either rise higher than ever because of what he was about to say or he would leave this room dead. For him there were no other choices now. Since he had already weighed the odds and the outcome, he boldly proceeded with his plan.
“Excellency,” Mansfeld said, “the political analysts of the Home Office predicted a clear outcome. Last year, you offered the Americans our neutrality on the condition they cede us Quebec. The Home Office analysts were quite clear on the outcome of that. If the U.S. forced the Canadians to give us Quebec, the Canadians would effectively pull out of their alliance with America.”
“Yes,” Kleist said. “I remember.”
“We all remember,” Mansfeld said. “I accepted your office’s prediction as a truth because you said I must. Then I took into account what we knew concerning American recruitment, training and industry. Given all the facts, I calculated that the Americans would stop the Chinese-Brazilian advance in Wyoming-South Dakota-Iowa. I predicted the Americans would achieve the Aggressor stoppage at great cost in men and materiel to both the U.S. and Chinese-Brazilian forces.”
“It was because of your prediction that I agreed to neutrality,” Kleist said. He tugged as his right suit sleeve, fingering one of the buttons there. “You put yourself on the line and failed us all.”
“Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “My prediction would have proven true if the Canadians had acted as the Home Office said they would. Instead of acting how you predicted, Excellency, the Canadians wisely swallowed the insult to their sovereignty. They gave up Quebec and then acted in their ultimate best interest. They came to America’s aid and sent their army south. In other words, the Canadian military tipped the scales against the Chinese at the most critical moment. You must remember that the winter campaign was a close-fought affair.”
“What?” Chief of Staff Wessel asked, with his voice climbing an octave. He was a giant with snowy-white hair and he was the only Field Marshal present. “You call it close fought?” For such a large man, he had a surprisingly high voice when excited.
“I choose my words with care, sir,” Mansfeld said. “Yes, it was a close-fought thing.”
“No!” Wessel said. “It was not close fought. The Americans pulled a ‘miracle on the Marne’ against the Chinese.”
“It was not a miracle,” Mansfeld said. “It was well applied principles of war, used with some finesse, I might add. I find their result impressive, even worthy of study. Someone over there knows how to think.”
Wessel shook his ponderous head. “Your supposed intellect has driven you mad, General. How can you call the winter fighting close fought? The Americans broke through enemy lines and surrounded the Chinese Third Front, pinning them against the Rocky Mountains. After devastating battles, the Americans marched nearly a million Chinese soldiers into captivity. It was a catastrophe both for the Chinese and for us. It has allowed the Americans to solidify their defenses and makes our offensive this year impossible.”
“Yes, yes, yes, no, yes and no,” Mansfeld said.
“What?” Wessel asked.
Mansfeld noticed how Kleist watched him, searching for a sign of weakness. He would answer the Chief of Staff, but the words were really for the Chancellor.
“Yes,” Mansfeld said, “the Americans surrounded the majority of the Chinese Third Front, not its entirety. That’s an important distinction. Yes, the Americans captured one million Pan-Asian soldiers this winter. Yes, it was a catastrophe for the Chinese, but no, it wasn’t one for us. Yes, the American and Canadian defenses have stiffened. No, we are still quite able to mount an effective offensive this year out of Quebec.”
“What?” Wessel asked. “That’s preposterous. In fact, your words are meaningless. Your miscalculation will cost the Dominion dearly. It is too bad the Chancellor trusted you. You have betrayed his faith in your military acumen.”
Mansfeld allowed himself a brief smile. He let Kleist see that the smile came at Wessel’s expense. He did so for a purpose, not because he thought Field Marshal Wessel was a buffoon. The Chief of Staff was a buffoon, but that wasn’t the reason for the smile. This was the turning maneuver: to show Kleist where he needed to let the hammer fall. Because the Chancellor had summoned Mansfeld back to Berlin, Kleist needed to axe someone. That had been clear to Mansfeld from the moment he’d read the summons in Montreal three days ago.
Like a trapped bull being readied for castration, Wessel must have sensed danger. It was impossible the Chief of Staff understood the exact reason for the danger, but he must have smelled wolf in his nostrils and it likely terrified him.
Wessel pointed a big finger down the table at Mansfeld. “Have you conveniently forgotten? You predicted the Chinese and Americans would be locked in a wrestler’s embrace during the 2040 spring and summer. You said each would have bled themselves white against the other. Instead, the two have disengaged. They are not entwined in a wrestler’s hold. Each has built strong defensive lines. Such is the strength of the American line that they can pull troops from it and send large numbers elsewhere on the continent. Some of those excess numbers even now circle Quebec.”
“Correct,” Mansfeld said.
Wessel banged a fist against the table. “The Chinese have been bled white, but the Americans are stronger than ever.”
“No,” Mansfeld said. “That is incorrect.”
“You predicted that the situation would be ripe for us to exploit this year.”
“Correct,” Mansfeld said, “given that the Canadians did nothing, or at the very least refrained from helping the Americans. As I’ve said, the Canadian formations came to the rescue. They tipped the scales. The failure wasn’t mine…but that of the Home Office.”
“Tipped the scales?” Wessel asked in amazement. “The Americans won a strategic victory. That means the Canadians more than tipped the scales. The very extent of the victory means that what the Canadians did had no real bearing on the outcome of the battle. You grossly miscalculated. Because of our trust, you have harmed the Dominion.”
Mansfeld allowed himself to laugh aloud.
“You find our situation amusing?” Wessel asked. “We bartered with the North Americans to improve our strategic situation. Instead—”
“If you had studied the winter battle more intently, sir, you would realize how closely fought it truly was.” Mansfeld glanced at the others. Must he teach them the rudiments of war? The General Staff members didn’t even have second-rate minds. Third-rate would be more accurate.
“In every battle,” Mansfeld said, “there is a critical phase or moment. Upon that moment, everything hinges. I tell you that it was at that point the Canadians gave the Americans the needed edge.”
“You are wrong,” Wessel said.
“If you would pull your foot out of your mouth for a moment,” Mansfeld said, “maybe you could learn something.”
The words shocked Field Marshal Wessel, even as his face turned red. The red crept down his neck and disappeared under his tight collar.
“I refer to the time when the Americans and Canadians barely had enough military power to keep the encircled PAA Third Front trapped,” Mansfeld said. “That was the critical phase. With the Canadians’ help, the Americans had enough to keep the Chinese bagged. The gigantic encirclement is what cost the Chinese so dearly, the one million lost soldiers. Due to the loss, the Chinese and Brazilians wisely pulled back to New Mexico and Oklahoma.”
Field Marshal Wessel worked his mouth several times. Maybe in desperation, he finally turned to the Chancellor.
“Interesting,” Kleist said in a suave voice. “Perhaps there is merit to your opinion. I refer to the idea that it was closely fought at the critical phase. The i
mportant point lies elsewhere. The Chinese and Brazilians will now need time to gather their strength for a renewed offensive. The Americans surely realize this: that they have little to fear concerning a 2040 Chinese offensive. That means the Americans will be able to safely siphon large numbers of troops from their Midwestern defensive line and place them against us.”
“Perhaps,” Mansfeld said, “although I doubt it.”
“General,” Kleist said, “you are not here to sit in judgment of my words. I am here to sit in judgment of yours.”
“Yes, Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Then perhaps it is time for me to give you a clearer reading of the situation.”
The chamber seemed to drop to freezing as the military men sat motionlessly, as the security detail along the walls held their breaths and as the color brightened on Kleist’s cheeks.
Mansfeld saw his death in the Chancellor’s eyes. Yet he also saw the curiosity there. He could have spoken with meekness a moment ago. Mansfeld did not do so in order to teach Kleist a lesson the Chancellor would remember. He needed Kleist to understand that only one man could give him what he desired in North America—and that man one was General Walther Mansfeld. There was going to come a time this summer when Mansfeld would need Kleist to keep his nerve. That’s why he spoke as he did to the Chancellor. For others, this might have been a mad gamble. For the supreme strategist and tactician on Earth, this was a precise move calculated to perfection.
Wessel turned his head as if the neck had rusted into place. “Excellency,” Wessel said in a choking voice. “Let me—”
“Silence,” Kleist said.
Wessel blinked several times until the man dipped his chin.
“You have courage,” Kleist told Mansfeld. “And some acclaim you as the most gifted strategist since Erich von Manstein. Very well, tell me how you see the situation.”
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