“Never you fear. I’ll stir ’em up, Prime Minister.” Bryce wore an enigmatic expression. “But you know that bringing American soldiers back onto British soil, even temporarily, will bloody well drive the Labor Party’s radicals stark raving mad.”
“Yes.” The Prime Minister showed his teeth. “It would almost be worth approving on those grounds alone.”
The three men shared a quick, brittle laugh at that, eager to find something, anything, funny during a time of growing tension.
Angry and alone, Nicolas Desaix paced around the ornate chamber now used for meetings of the cabinet’s all-powerful Emergency Committee. Empty coffeepots, dirty china cups, and full ashtrays were the only signs of a meeting that had droned on for four hours without deciding much of anything.
Few of his colleagues understood his irritation and impatience. From a purely mechanical standpoint, the republic’s martial law regime was running smoothly. Loyal troops, police, and officials controlled every major French city and administrative region. Government-appointed censors manned the editors’ desks at every television studio, newspaper, and magazine. Several hundred political opponents and union bosses who had resisted martial law were under arrest. A few, regrettably, were dead. And without leadership, publicity, or legality, the threatened general strike had collapsed in its infancy. Even better, recent polls showed a majority of native-born French citizens backing the government’s efforts to restore order and discipline. Nobody bothered asking Arab or African immigrants what they thought.
But Desaix wasn’t satisfied.
For the moment the Emergency Committee held absolute power throughout the republic — power tempered only by the need for consensus among its members. In his view, such power should be used for dramatic action, not merely frittered away in a temporary holding action. Martial law freed them from the twin straitjackets of the constitution and politics. Why not use that freedom to reshape both the state and the continent? To redirect Europe’s energies and resources in a way that would guarantee French prosperity and power?
The need for that was clear. France could not prosper in a Europe torn between rival trading blocs. Nor could it tolerate the so-called free trade babbled about by so many bubble-headed economists. A nation that allowed its fate to be determined by unrestrained competition between private companies was a nation of fools. France had always had a strong partnership between its industry and government and had used its industry as a tool of statecraft on many occasions.
Failure to protect and manage its vital industries would inevitably mean surrendering French prosperity and sovereignty to larger, stronger, richer countries — the United States, Japan, and Germany. And that was intolerable.
Absolutely intolerable. Desaix scowled. Even the thought that his country might find itself in such a state of affairs was repulsive.
There was only one real way to avoid such ignominious crawling. France must build a European alliance strong enough to fend off outside economic competition and political pressure. A league of nations where France could use its status as a nuclear power and U.N. Security Council member to manage its weaker neighbors and keep German interests closely tied to French interests.
But his colleagues were almost entirely uninterested in the larger issues confronting their nation. Instead, they were wrapped up in purely parochial concerns — each seemingly more interested in securing his own power than in the longer-term safety of the state. Desaix found their sluggish indifference infuriating.
A clock chimed the hour. Time and opportunity were both slipping through his fingers.
He shook his head angrily. If the Emergency Committee could not or would not act, he would have to take the necessary first steps toward a new continental alliance on his own. And if that meant presenting his laggard confederates with a virtual fait accompli, so be it.
Desaix spun on his heel and left the chamber. His aides clustered anxiously in the hallway outside, waiting for new instructions and demands. He would not disappoint them.
“Girault! Initiate a thorough economic and military analysis of Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics! I want to know their weaknesses. The points where we can exert pressure if necessary!” The three countries were resisting French and German influence — breeding bad examples in the other Eastern European nations. That would have to stop. He turned to another assistant without waiting for a reply. “Radet! Arrange a private meeting with the German Chancellor. For next week. In Berlin.”
Desaix stalked down the hallway, still trailed by his aides. Their feet rang on marble tiles as he rattled out more orders. “Bisson! Invite the Russian ambassador to my apartment for dinner, tomorrow evening. And bring me the secret file on him this afternoon! Lassere! I need to know how much money we have available in the discretionary accounts. Prepare a report…”
Nicolas Desaix controlled the Foreign Ministry and the intelligence services. That was enough for now. He would use his power and influence to begin bending Europe’s quarreling nation-states to his will — to the will of France.
CHAPTER 8
Assignments
Four F-15 Eagles flew straight and level ten thousand feet over the rugged Arizona desert. Camouflaged in shades of light gray, they seemed to loaf through the air effortlessly, all the time hurtling along at 500 knots — more than 570 miles an hour.
The letters “LA” on each plane’s twin tails revealed they were from the 405th Tactical Training Wing, at Luke Air Force Base, near Phoenix, Arizona. Standard air force markings included the Star and Bars on the wings and tails in a muted gray color, serial numbers, the words “U.S. Air Force,” and so on. These appeared to be standard F-15 Eagles except for two things. The first was a painted crest — a white eagle on a red shield that adorned the air intakes on each jet’s side. The second was that anyone listening to the radio circuit would hear fluent Polish, not English.
The four pilots were Polish Air Force officers, full of anticipation. Soon three months of hard training would be behind them. For three of them, they would be leaving the USA and its abundance, but they would be going home. The fourth would be leaving the land of his birth.
It had been a successful training sortie, an air-to-ground mission. Nobody had been hit by the phony air defenses, and they had all scored well on the bombing runs. Pawel Blazynski, the number two pilot in the flight, had done particularly well. Everyone could hear the thin, blond, outgoing young man’s excitement and pride. “Did you see that? Did you? With each bomb I took out a Russian armored company.”
Nobody commented on the irony of his simulated enemy’s nationality. All of the older pilots had received their first training from the Russians.
Stefan Michalak, not as good a pilot, but a bigger braggart, was quick to top him. “You get much better results with cluster weapons, Pawel. Give me a load of Rockeyes and I will take out a Russian tank division — one bomblet per tank.” He was flying in the number four position. “What about you, Tad?”
First Lieutenant Tadeusz Wojcik flew in the number three spot. As second element leader, he was the second-most capable pilot in the flight, after Major Sokolowicz.
Wojcik didn’t reply immediately, and Pawel answered for him. “Tad only bombs Germans,” he joked. “He combines business with pleasure.” Laughter filled the circuit.
Silently Tad agreed.