“Welcome, General Mansfeld,” Wessel said. “Won’t you sit down, please?”
It took a moment for Mansfeld to readjust to normality. The bodyguards wouldn’t grope him like perverts now. Instead, he had reentered the land of civilized behavior. It was like leaving a highly dangerously pressurized land where breathing was a chore and now finding he could draw air down to his lungs by the simple expedient of opening his mouth.
Mansfeld inclined his head toward Wessel, and he asked, “Was there a reason why I wasn’t allowed to bring an aide?”
“All in good time, sir,” Wessel said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” The old man indicated a chair at the end of the table. “Take a seat, please.”
This is just like Berlin all over again. Mansfeld shrugged. He had envisioned this taking place over a two-way screen, with Kleist faraway in Europe. If anything surprised him, it was Kleist’s presence in the New World. Along with assassination, the Chancellor dreaded traveling over large bodies of water like an ocean. While the man had many positive character traits, physical courage wasn’t among them.
Mr. Death drew back the specified chair for Mansfeld. As the general sat, the blond giant helped push the chair in.
“Are you hungry?” Wessel asked.
“Thank you, but no,” Mansfeld said. “A cup of coffee—”
Mr. Death snapped his fingers. One of the bodyguards by the purple curtains picked a pot of coffee off a silver tray. He strode near, poured into a cup and brought the cup and saucer to Mansfeld.
“Thank you,” the general said, accepting the drink.
The bodyguard never even looked at him, but backed away.
As Mansfeld set the cup and saucer on the table, large oaken doors opened. Chancellor Kleist strode in. The man might have gained a few pounds since Mansfeld had seen him last in Berlin. Kleist had certainly tanned since then.
“His Excellency, Chancellor Kleist,” a majordomo said, a tall fellow with silver hair and wearing special livery.
Mansfeld along with everyone else in the room stood to attention.
Kleist grinned as his gaze darted around the chamber. Mansfeld felt a shock as he looked into Kleist’s eyes. He sensed unease, maybe even a touch of worry in the Chancellor. This didn’t seem like the same confident man who had controlled the meeting in Berlin. What had changed him?
“Sit, please, gentlemen,” Kleist said. “We have much to discuss and time races away with us.”
Mansfeld sat down, frowning thoughtfully. With all its complexities, dangers and rewards, he had become engrossed in the summer campaign. What had happened in the outer world that could openly cause Kleist to worry?
They sat. The Chancellor sat, spoke pleasantries for a time and finally, he asked Field Marshal Wessel to outline the operational situation.
The white-haired chief of staff rose ponderously. An aide gave him a pointer and the man stepped to a large screen slid into position for him. Wessel gave a lucid rundown of the campaign, spending too much time perhaps on Southwestern Ontario as Holk’s army group bogged down on the approach to the American border and the old motor town of Detroit.
“You’re saying Americans outnumber us two to one here?” Kleist asked.
“Begging your pardon, Excellency,” Wessel said. “The Americans and Canadians outnumber us closer to three to one in Southwestern Ontario.”
“I see,” Kleist said, giving Mansfeld a pointed glance.
Wessel also directed his gaze at Mansfeld. For such an old, white-haired man, he had perfectly tailored eyebrows. “Perhaps you’ll say Holk has a greater weight of metal, of offensive machinery, there.”
“He did,” Mansfeld said, “but not anymore.”
Wessel nodded like an old bull. “Correct. The weight of metal and firepower now inexorably grows against us. The Americans have moved a greater number of artillery pieces into position here. I believe they are denuding the Chinese Front in order to mass against us.”
“I agree,” Mansfeld said.
Wessel hesitated, looking confused and glancing at the Chancellor.
“You agree?” Kleist asked Mansfeld.
“The facts speak for themselves, Your Excellency,” Mansfeld said.
Kleist made a notation on a yellow pad.
“There is another problem, Excellency,” Wessel said. “Whereas before our generals relied upon drone vehicles to offset the enemy’s numerical advantages, now the Americans have mastered…uh…”
“The Heidegger Principle,” a colonel sitting at the table said.
“The Heidegger Principle,” Wessel said. “This allows the Americans to successfully jam our control signals and frequencies, rending our drones useless.”
“Allow me, please, to amend your last statement,” Mansfeld said. “While it is true the Americans have discovered our secret, it has not rendered the drones inoperative. We have had to adjust, certainly, and reconfigure our tactical mix, going back to the combined arms approach.”
“Why have we not practiced combined arms the entire time?” Kleist asked.
“The previous lack of Allied jamming allowed us a great advantage,” Mansfeld said. “Entire drone battalions, entire drone divisions, have given us a tremendous operational tool. Repeatedly, we could mount otherwise suicidal assaults, fixing the enemy in place, outmaneuvering him and then annihilating his formations. Granted, the loss of this advantage has hurt our efficiency. But we knew it could never last. No technological advantage in war ever does. I would like to point out that the Americans still lack overall jamming capability, and we have begun to target their special Heidegger jamming companies.”
“You’ve made your point,” Kleist said. “I would like to return to the first observation. The Americans have massed against us in Southwestern Ontario. Their weight of metal and machines now overpowers us there.”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” Mansfeld said. “Overpower is too strong a word. They have an advantage over us in antiquated equipment. That merely means—”
Kleist waved him to silence. “I admit that I am not the strategic wizard such as many proclaim you to be. Yet correct me if I’m wrong: but we cannot continue the assault there. In fact, we are in danger of losing ground.”
“Any ground we lose—”
“I am not finished speaking,” Kleist said.
Mansfeld dipped his chin.
“Field Marshal,” Kleist said, “show me how much coastline we’ve secured along Lake Erie.”
“The US Fifth Army anchors the northern stretch of Lake Erie, Excellency,” Wessel said. “The portion of Lake Erie coast we secured to the north of London has now come under considerable attack.”
“We cannot launch an amphibious assault across Lake Erie at this time,” Kleist said. “Is that correct?”
“Not in sufficient strength, Excellency,” Wessel said.
Kleist turned to Mansfeld. “We cannot land in Northern Pennsylvania from Lake Ontario. We cannot land south of Buffalo and cut off the American forces there. Isn’t that correct, General?”
Mansfeld remained silent.
The Chancellor folded his hands, resting them on the table. “I am reminded of a historical parallel. In the First World War, the German armies swept the Allied forces ahead of them. Kaiser Germany made impressive military gains in those opening weeks. Yet the armies were supposed to swing behind Paris in their scythe through Northern France. Instead, the armies did not swing wide enough, but swept before Paris instead of behind it, leaving the capital intact and thereby saving France. That single mistake led to four years of horrendous warfare and the downfall of Imperial Germany. I fear that here in America our great blow will not strike deeply or far enough. I fear that you will fail to garner sufficient victory for this vast outlay of GD expenditure and blood.”