As Stern and Griffin exchanged guarded glances, Alex realized he needed to get his hands on those messages. His eyes darted around Hagan’s office, searching for where the general might have stashed them. No luck.
“Gentlemen,” Hagan continued, “I was right. The staff’s gotten you off track. You need to get back on track, and on track quickly. My victory banquet, my victory march, and your efficiency reports are at stake. Do I make myself clear?”
Stern saw his chance and took it. “Yes, Sir, very clear. I’ll task the S3 to ensure A Company, 1-89th, has protected training time before they move to Kriegspiel to supplement the ordnance company there.” “Colonel, after what I just said, how can you think I want these people to do anything other than spit-shine this place?”
Stern shrugged in mock resignation. “Yes, Sir. I just thought you wouldn’t want to risk being embarrassed.”
Both Hagan and Griffin stared; Stern knew he’d found a nerve. “Yes, Sir. The brigade is bound to have some visitors prior to the banquet, maybe your friend from Congress will show up for a couple of days, even if he can’t be here for the banquet. You’ll of course want to show him how our training plan works. It would be difficult to answer questions about training if we weren’t doing any. But if the general desires…”
“No, no, Colonel. You’re quite right. Just as I said, training is top priority, always has been. S3, you make that training plan work — and you get this Kaserne in shape.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And get Emilia Dean on the stick about those place settings!” “Yes, Sir,” Stern said as he and Griffin saluted and backed out of Hagan’s office.
Prime Minister Aaron Felderman shoved the report onto his desk and eyed his defense minister carefully. “You are quite sure of your sources’ reliability?”
“I only wish I was not confident,” he replied. “Every indicator points toward a small group assuming power by violent means within three to ten days. My sources say this group will use some act or acts of terrorism, allegedly perpetrated by Zionist radicals, as their justification. Such acts will be designed to neutralize forces that might counteract this group’s assumption of power, to galvanize world opinion in its favor and to give them a pretext for seizing the Americans’ chemical and nuclear weapons stockpile.” He paused. “Your niece is in the American army at their Germany depot, isn’t she?”
The prime minister nodded solemnly.
“The only forces capable of military action are American,” Felderman said. “What have you told them?”
“We have provided them with only the information that our treaties specify,” the defense minister answered. “We must protect our sources.” Felderman began to speak, but the defense minister raised his hand to stop him. “I speak frequently with my American counterpart, just as you speak with your brother, the senator.” The defense minister smiled. “While neither of us would think of revealing state secrets — which would be a violation of law — I believe I am correct in saying that if my counterpart passes what he knows to the lowest level, the Americans will protect themselves.”
Felderman nodded. “Let us hope so.”
TWO
“ ’Scuse me, Suh, but dey’s no smokin’ in de motor pool. Colonel’s orders.”
Stern stared at the ground as he made his way to the brigade’s vehicle park. He was only vaguely aware as he passed through the personnel entrance gate and into the rows of parked tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, but the voice snapped him back to reality. Stern craned his neck back to look Lawson in the face. The huge black man held a stiff, perfect salute as he waited for some response.
Stern awkwardly took his pipe from his mouth and returned the salute.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Lawson dropped his hand smartly and started to continue on his way.
“Sergeant Lawson,” Stern called after him.
Lawson turned and faced him again. “Suh?”
“What’s your unit?”
Lawson responded with his unit motto: “Firepower Forward, Sir. Dynamite Delta Company, 4-23d Armor.” As if anticipating Stern’s next question, Lawson continued, “I’m Sfc. Roosevelt Lawson, 3d Platoon leader.”
That’s odd, thought Stern, the SI told me both tank battalions were full up on lieutenants. “You don’t have a commissioned officer in the platoon?”
Lawson smiled. “I got one on the books, Colonel, but he’s up at headquarters working some special duty for the general. Has been for three months, so they made me the platoon leader.”
Stern shook his head sadly. I came down here to get away from all the party bullshit, he thought, and it follows me. Instead of learning how to lead soldiers, some young officer is running errands for Hagan’s damn shindig. He looked back up at Lawson.
“Where are your platoon’s vehicles, Sergeant?”
“They’re a ways over here, Sir.” Lawson answered, motioning. Damn, he thought, I bet he’s going to want to see them. I got better things to do than a show-and-tell for this colonel.
“Let’s go.”
It figures, thought Lawson. As Lawson walked, Stern fell in beside him.
Stern’s practiced eyes quickly but carefully inspected each combat vehicle as the pair passed. The vehicles looked good, freshly painted and lined up dress-right-dress. But underneath a tank Stern noticed a growing oil puddle, evidence of neglected maintenance. On another, grime oozed from between two grease fittings. A small patch of rust slowly ate away at a Bradley fighting vehicle’s 25mm cannon barrel.
Stern mentally noted the faults as he walked, embedding the administrative numbers, the “bumper numbers,” of the offenders in his mind. When the general walks through, he notices the paint jobs, thought Stern. I don’t give a shit about paint — except that the old man does; I give a shit about being able to move, shoot, and communicate.
The word communicate rang in his head as they passed the brigade communications section’s vehicles. Inside their own wire enclosure were four rows of communications vans — giant square shoe boxes mounted piggyback on the beds of army trucks. Stern was particularly concerned with the brigade’s two TACSAT vans, which housed the equipment that could bounce coded bursts of data off a satellite. Lawson waited as Stern made his way to the fence and peered through.
The first truck sat on three flat tires and its antenna dish was missing. A confusing variety of black boxes — obviously pulled from inside — lay beside the vehicle, exposed to the elements. The second had no flat tires; in fact, it had no tires at all — it was up on blocks. A light breeze blew through the motor pool, catching the back door of the van and sending it banging against the back wall as it blew open. Stern crouched to see under the truck. Water dripped from someplace inside, running down a dozen dangling wires to form a large, greasy pool beneath the vehicle. He fought back the rage, took several deep breaths, then stood and rejoined Lawson.
They threaded their way through the rows of parked tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles, finally coming to Lawson’s tank platoon. The four big tanks sat with their engine access panels open, and Stern could see the partially obscured figures of Lawson’s men as they tightened this and tested and adjusted that. The tanks seemed to take all the poking and prodding patiently enough, just as an attack dog tolerates a baby’s touch.
Slowly Lawson’s men realized they were being watched. They began to climb out of the tanks. Stern turned to Lawson.