“What do you want?”
“When someone stops you on the street, Herr Sergeant, perhaps you should not be so, how do you say, abrasive? I can assure you that tonight was an accident. My apologies.”
“What do you mean, ‘an accident’? Who the hell are you? How did you know I was a sergeant?”
“You must learn not to ask questions to which you really do not want to know the answers. Enough, it is time for you and your lovely acquaintance to depart. Gute nacht, Herr Sergeant. Let us hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances.” He backed away and slipped into the shadows.
“Rosy?” Liza mumbled groggily. “Rosy, what’s happening?”
“Nothing, baby, nothing at all.” He shook his head to clear it as he got in the car. She fell asleep in an instant.
He made it from stoplight to stoplight to her apartment, his head pounding. “No,” Rosy thought, “too damn much is happening.”
As the conference of the Bundeswehr General Staff and brigade commanders broke up, Gen. Karl Blacksturm picked Joel Guterman out of the crowd of milling officers.
“Congratulations, Colonel Guterman,” said Blacksturm, extending his hand. “The army needs good brigade commanders. I’m happy you’ve been selected.”
“Thank you, Herr General,” Guterman said, returning the handshake formally.
“When do you take command?”
“I’m due to report to Panzerbrigade 11 headquarters day after tomorrow. I still have some aide business to finish up, and General Ulderthane wished me here for this meeting.”
“I am sure your family is also excited.”
Guterman nodded. “We have found a small house only a few moments from the base. Platzdorf is not as exciting as the big city of Frankencitz, but it is considerably less expensive. It will be a quiet place to go home to, even with my son climbing all over the trees.”
“‘A quiet place to go home to?’ Being the aide-de-camp to the commanding general of the Bundeswehr hasn’t accustomed you to a desk, has it, Herr Colonel?” Blacksturm grinned.
“I have always been a field soldier, Herr General. But if the rumors are true, soon there may no longer be any soldiers left to take to the field.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about rumors if I were you. The members of Parliament can only do so much before someone stops them.”
“Sir, Colonel Stern reports.”
Brigadier General Mentorson looked up from the folder on his desk.
“Alex, you look like hell.”
“Sorry, Sir. I haven’t been feeling well lately.”
Mentorson snorted. “That’s bullshit, Alex. You know you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Add up all the tours you’ve served with me and what do you get?”
“About nine years, Sir.”
“Closer to ten, and it’s been the same thing over and over again. Veronica, right?”
Stern said nothing, but his eyes fell to the carpet.
“I know you’ve been married a long time, and I’m no marriage counselor, but dammit, it’s obvious to me that it isn’t working. I knew it wasn’t working when you commanded two companies for me, I knew it wasn’t working when you were my project officer for Bradley fielding, and it’s not working now. I’ve kept you around, Alex, because you’re one of the most decisive officers I’ve known. I can’t count the number of times you’ve demonstrated initiative and pulled off the impossible. But this business with your wife…” Mentorson shook his head. “When are you going to act on what you know and do something?”
Stern’s eyes went back to the floor.
Mentorson sighed. “Yeah, it’s tough.” Turning to business, the general flipped open the folder in front of him. “Three days ago in Germany two American officers were killed in what appears to be another in a string of terrorist attacks.”
“Yes, Sir. I saw the newscast. Something behind it?”
“The Intel boys in Washington can’t find anything, and German Special Security maintains it was a random attack, although there have been an awful lot of these ‘random’ attacks lately. The victims just happened to get in the way.”
“Lousy luck, Sir.”
“One of the victims was the 195th’s deputy commander; the other, the brigade’s S3. What do you know about the 195th?”
“Separate brigade, two Bradley battalions, two tank battalions, armored cavalry troop, engineer company, artillery battalion. It’s due for redeployment stateside within three months and probably understrength from the draw down.”
Mentorson nodded. “Alex, I’ve arranged for you to go on temporary duty to Germany. You’ll be the 195th’s deputy and see them home.”
Stern frowned.
“Why you and not someone already there? First, because Lou Hagan, despite that star on his shoulder, couldn’t command his way out of a Ziploc bag. How he got that brigade I’ll never understand. The 195th’s going to need an Alexander Stern mechanized miracle to redeploy with any sense of order. Second, because I made some phone calls and pulled some strings.” Mentorson grinned. “When you run this place and see every heavy unit in the army rotate through, you collect a lot of chips. I called in a couple. You need this on your record. And finally, Alex, it’ll do you good, give you some time away from your ‘problem’ so you can think things through.”
“How much time do I have to decide?”
Mentorson handed him a stack of papers. “Here are your orders. I decided for you.”
“But, Sir…”
“No buts about it. You know how to follow orders?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Any questions?”
Alex Stern thought for a moment. “Sir, who’s going to be my S3?” “There’s a Lieutenant Colonel Griffin marking time in the Pentagon’s Special Ops Section who’s on orders to the SF group in Bad Tolz. He’s supposed to be a high-speed operator; got some medals in Panama and Grenada. The Puzzle Palace’s personnel people are diverting him to the 195th.”
“A Special Forces guy? How much does he know about mech?” “Probably nothing — not that he’ll need to with the 195th redeploying.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Better go get your affairs in order, Alex. You need to be on a plane by Monday morning.”
Alex Stern saluted and left Mentorson's office, wondering all the while how he would tell his wife.
Maj. Margaret O’Hara rolled over, flicked on the bedside light, then adjusted the sheets so her breasts were covered.
“Mark, are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“You haven’t been asleep, have you?”
“Despite that workout you gave me, no.”
She grinned for a second, then grew serious once more.
“The nightmares again? I didn’t hear you call their names.”
“Not this time.”
“I could tell something’s been eating you all evening. You don’t need to let it spoil what sleep we might get before we get on the plane. Tell me.”
Her mixture of tenderness and command voice got to Lt. Col. Mark Gerald Griffin, U.S. Army Special Forces.
“They’re sending me to the 195th, like I told you Friday. I can’t stand it. I’ve spent almost twenty years dodging those road-bound grease monkeys, and now I’ll have to spend almost three months with that pack of treadheads.” He shook his head. “God, I hate that mech stuff with a passion.”