The President rubbed his chin. “That’s better than the scattering of battalions on the ground now. Still, twenty-four thousand soldiers, no matter how good, will not stop the mass of Twelfth Army for long, if at all.”
“I agree,” Alan said.
David scowled in a way that said—then what are we talking about anyway? “We need more troops,” he said. “But we don’t have any more, unless we wish to deplete the Oklahoma defenses and make ourselves vulnerable to the Chinese.”
“That’s not exactly the case, sir,” Alan said. “There is a supply of unused soldiers we can possibly tap.”
“Don’t hold me in suspense,” David shouted. “What’s your answer?”
“Right here, sir,” Alan said, tapping the Canadian province of Manitoba.
The President’s scowl worsened. “Don’t be oblique. Just tell it to me.”
“At the start of the campaign, the Germans smashed the Canadians on the Ontario-Quebec border,” Alan said. “In rough numbers, the GD killed or captured about a third of that force: two hundred thousand soldiers. A different third retreated toward Toronto and has been fighting in Southern Ontario with our soldiers for some time now. The last third retreated west. First, they headed to Sudbury, Ontario. From there—just as the British in WWII retreated from Burma to India—the Canadians moved away to Thunder Bay and toward Manitoba.”
“What does that mean for us?” the President asked.
“If we can get the Canadians to agree,” Alan said, “I suggest we entrain that army to New York State. They’ve been idle, well, recouping from their terrible ordeal against the GD. With those soldiers, we can keep Syracuse—if they get to the city fast enough and if our airmobile corps fights heroically.”
David sat back against the sofa. Finally, he said, “It’s brilliant.”
General Alan couldn’t hide his grin. “First, sir, you’ll have to get the Canadians to agree to the idea.”
“This may be a stupid question,” Anna said. “But if the Canadians all board the trains and leave, why won’t the Germans march into an unprotected Manitoba?”
“Because they lack the numbers to do so,” Alan said, crisply. “The Germans simply don’t have enough boots on the ground to do everything at once. Just like the British in Burma used distance to flee from the victorious Japanese, so the Canadians have used distance to get away from the Germans. At this point, the GD needs every soldier they have to take New York State.”
“Yes,” David said. “Your plan gives us hope.”
“That’s all it is right now, sir,” Alan said, “a hope. We have to move those Canadians as fast as we can, and we have to fight like hell with the airmobile corps to stop the rushing onslaught of the Germans.”
“What if the GD troops in Cuba are real?” Anna asked. “What happens then?”
David cast her a nervous glance.
“If that’s the case,” General Alan said. “We’re going to need those Canadians sooner than ever.” He looked at the map. “If the Germans are in Cuba, we have to do everything double time.”
“Maybe the Germans commanders are thinking the same thing,” Anna said.
Max looked as if he wanted to say something, but the director closed his mouth and remained silent.
Anna wondered what he’d wanted to say.
The President sat up and brushed his hair with his fingertips. “We have hard, dark days ahead of us. The Germans have stolen a march on our country. We have to work to the utmost now and hope we can outfight and outmarch them.”
We haven’t been able to do that so far, Anna thought. But she wasn’t going to say that. This was a plan, and they would have to implement it as quickly as possible. Just like last winter, much rested on the Canadians. Would they be willing to send those previously defeated soldiers to New York State? Would they be willing to leave Manitoba undefended for now, or defended solely by space? There were too many unanswered questions for comfort.
Without knocking to give warning, Mansfeld opened the door and stared at General Holk. The pudgy general sat at his desk, with his tie undone, his hat on the floor and his thin hair messy on his head as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“General Mansfeld,” Holk said, obviously startled. “This…this is a surprise.”
Mansfeld had received a strange communication this morning. It had come from a colonel on Holk’s staff. The man said General Holk had become increasingly listless and indecisive throughout the past few days. Mansfeld could hardly believe such a thing, as it was a tossup as to who was the better offensive generaclass="underline" Holk or Zeller. How could such an excellent commanding officer lose self-control at such a critical juncture? Still, it was best to check and see for himself, which was why he was here.
Mansfeld closed the door behind him, cutting off the keyboard noises of the situation room. He had much to do today and a thousand things to oversee. The offensive had reached one of its most decisive stages. At Rochester, Zeller had peeled off two corps from Twelfth Army, sending them toward Buffalo sixty-five miles away. Twelfth Army headed toward Syracuse, seventy-five miles away from Rochester. Everything now depended on speed, on surprise and aggression.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mansfeld asked. “I checked, but found that Fourth Army has failed to make any attack yet against US Fifth Army this morning. Were my orders unclear?”
Holk blinked at him, and almost appeared unable to answer.
“This is undignified,” Mansfeld said. “Put on your hat, sir, and straighten your tie.”
For a moment, Holk looked confused. Then he spied his hat on the floor. He reached, and his swivel chair creaked as he bent down and picked it up. First smoothing his hair, he put the hat on his head.
“Hurry,” Mansfeld said. “Tighten your tie. What’s the matter with you?”
Holk appeared to think about it before finally tightening his tie.
The slowness angered Mansfeld. “On your feet, sir!” he snapped. “Stand at attention when I’m speaking to you.”
Something seemed to spark in Holk’s eyes, a touch of belligerence perhaps.
Finally, Mansfeld thought. What’s wrong with you, man? Have you lost your nerve? Must I sack you and find a replacement? What a wretched encumbrance this is.
Holk stood slowly and then came to attention.
Mansfeld understood that he’d been pushing his generals hard, but he’d chosen Holk and Zeller for a reason. War demanded strong nerves. Sending men into battle where those soldiers died took a certain kind of officer. Holk had been making difficult decisions for many weeks now. His enemies had outnumbered him almost all along the line. Yet each time Holk had maneuvered and fought brilliantly. Had the man used up his inner reserves? Mansfeld had thought Holk made of sterner stuff. Was the general a weakling after all?
“Why hasn’t Fourth Army begun its attack?” Mansfeld repeated. “My orders were explicit on that account.”
“I understand, sir,” Holk said.
“If you understand, why hasn’t it happened?”
Holk just stood there.
“Is the pace of the campaign too fast for you?” Mansfeld asked.
Holk stiffened, and the fire in his eyes increased.
Mansfeld had to know whether Holk could continue to act decisively or if he needed to find a replacement for the general. Putting a scathing tone in his voice, Mansfeld said, “I come here and what do I find? You sit with your hat on the floor. You run your hands through your hair as if you’re bewildered by the pace of events.”
“You are wrong, General.”
“Then what’s the matter with you? Tell me.”
“Herr General,” Holk said. “With all due respect—”