The rest of Alpha Company’s soldiers were just as fast. They dove into foxholes and readied their weapons, all the while scanning the ground to their front for signs of the approaching enemy. Or was “enemy” still the right word? The scuttlebutt filtering up from the rear areas said that EurCon was breaking up.
Was the war really over? Reynolds wasn’t sure, but with the practical cynicism of a combat soldier, he’d decided he wouldn’t let down his guard until he had definite proof.
The CP was fifty meters back from the center of Alpha Company’s sector. Reynolds covered the distance in what seemed like three strides.
Sergeant Robbins reported as he slid into position, “We’ve got a single Marder cruising up the road, Captain. Nothing else.” He managed to shrug, even while tracking the vehicle on binoculars.
Reynolds lifted his own field glasses. The German APC was roughly five hundred meters away and still closing. “Tell the company to stand to. No chances.”
The Marder was just coming into Javelin range. Whatever the bastards inside wanted, if they made trouble, they’d have a short life and a violent death.
He studied the vehicle, as if its steel sides could tell him the intentions of the people inside. In a way, they could, because as the Marder drew near, he saw that its turret and 25mm cannon were reversed, “Pass the word to Battalion. I think they want to talk.” Now Reynolds was almost sure the Germans had peaceful intentions. Either that or they had a strong death wish.
The Marder stopped well short of their positions, about a hundred meters out. Two officers in German battle dress got out, carefully walking down the lowered rear ramp. One was tall and thin, but looked fit. He wore the green beret of armored infantry. The second German was shorter and older. His beret was black, indicating a tank unit. Although they appeared to be unarmed, both men were wearing standard-issue flak vests.
They strode forward confidently, heading straight for the 2nd Platoon’s positions. Fighting his instincts, but convinced he was right, Reynolds climbed out of the foxhole. Accompanied by Sergeant Robbins, he walked out to meet them. He kept his own M16 cradled casually under his arm. During Alpha Company’s two bloody encounters with the Germans there had been winners and there had been losers. He wanted to make sure they knew which was which, He stopped a few paces away and regarded the two Germans carefully. A few years back he would have been saluting these guys as senior officers in an allied army. A few days ago he might have shot them on sight.
The taller man spoke first, in hard-edged, accented English. “Good afternoon, Captain. I am Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm von Seelow, commanding officer of the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade. This is General Karl Leibnitz, commanding officer of the 7th Panzer Division. We would like to speak with your division commander. We are here to arrange a temporary cessation of hostilities while our respective governments negotiate a more permanent peace.”
Reynolds stared back, scarcely able to believe what he’d just heard. For once, the rumors were true.
On the edge of London’s Piccadilly Circus, CNN’s lead political correspondent stood against a backdrop of revelry. “Like a gigantic block party, the celebration in Piccadilly continues nonstop. As EurCon collapses like a house of cards, the news of each country’s defection provides new energy and new celebrants.”
The image changed to show an overhead view of the crowd.
They filled the square, with the statue of Eros rising like a maypole in their midst. A close-up showed exultant Londoners in every kind of dress, waving and cheering, dancing either to the music from nearby radios or to no music at all.
The picture switched back to the reporter. “Right now, the crowd is celebrating news of Austria’s decision to withdraw from EurCon. The Austrian move was expected last night, but apparently it required what a government spokesman termed ‘a change in internal political alignments.’ Others might call it a coup d’état.”
A map of Europe appeared with EurCon’s prewar member states colored red. “Starting with Belgium three days ago, nation after nation has withdrawn from the French-dominated European Confederation.
“Belgium’s decision to switch sides rocked the continent.” Belgium flashed from red to blue. “But then Germany dealt the Confederation a body blow.” It changed color as well, leaving only France and a scattering of small red blots across the map.
“Since then, all the smaller states, either yielding to internal pressures or free of EurCon restraints, have jumped on the Combined Forces bandwagon.” As he spoke, countries turned blue in sequence, until only France was left, alone.
Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky and Oskar Kiraly drove slowly up the designated road. It led through a forest just north of Tatabanya, a city roughly sixty kilometers west of Budapest. Presumably the area was crawling with French soldiers, but none were visible. Though neither said anything, that made them wary. Despite French assurances, weeks of war had made the two men suspicious and bitter. Even so, with EurCon destroyed, Hungary was on the brink of victory.
Obeying Berlin’s stringent orders, the remaining German troops inside Hungary were withdrawing peacefully — guaranteed safe conduct and assistance in leaving the country. Eager to see the last of them, Hungarian military police units were even providing traffic control for the 10th Panzer’s vehicles as they headed west.
The German retreat left the EurCon IV Corps’ two small French divisions alone and isolated. Austria’s defection left them unsupplied.
Hradetsky permitted himself a small smile. The French had their backs right against a cliff. Now it was time to push them off.
“Halt!” French soldiers emerged from the woods and waved them to a stop. They left their own vehicle in a clearing and rode the rest of the way in a jeep, accompanied by a grim-faced French lieutenant. More troops mounted in an AMX-10 APC pulled onto the road and followed the jeep.
Hradetsky suspected that this was all part of an attempt to intimidate them. Knowing what he knew, it didn’t work. He looked over at Kiraly. The broad-shouldered blond man was smiling, almost gleeful.
IV Corps headquarters was a textbook model of efficiency. Carved out of the forest, fully camouflaged, and heavily defended, it looked like an important and busy place. It impressed Hradetsky, and Kiraly, with his army background, nodded approvingly, but there was still the hint of a smile on his lips.
The jeep stopped, and they were escorted to a tent in the center of the compound.
General Claude Fabvier waited for them, seated at a folding table. The short, lean man’s camouflage battle dress was neatly creased. As he rose to greet them, Hradetsky saw the briefest of scowls pass over the Frenchman’s face, but that was quickly replaced by an expression of studied indifference.
Fabvier seemed a little impatient. “All right, gentlemen. As you can see, we are all here. Now, what is it that you wish to discuss?”
“Your surrender,” Hradetsky shot back. There was anger in his voice, more than he had intended to reveal. Fabvier had led the invasion of his country. Apart from Nicolas Desaix, this French general was the man most responsible for Hungary’s pain.
Fabvier flushed beneath his dark tan. He silently motioned the Hungarians to seats at the other side of the table.
As the three men sat, the Frenchman set his jaw. “It was my understanding that this meeting was to arrange my corps’s withdrawal from Hungary.” A little of his own anger crept into his voice.
Hradetsky shook his head. “Not quite, General. Our message requested a meeting to discuss ‘the peaceful departure of the troops remaining on Hungarian soil.’ That is not quite the same thing. Certainly you didn’t think you’d be allowed to leave so easily — not after invading our country.”