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“God dammit!”
“What’s wrong?” Colonel Cossette asked.
“We’ve lost everything going south to Italy, sir.” He held the microphone to his lips. “Zugspitz, what’s the story with Coltano?”
Silence.
“Zugspitz, what the hell happened to Coltano?”
More silence.
“Zugspitz?”
O’Neill took a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Lieutenant Templeton, tell Colonel Morrison we’ve lost the forty-eight channels to the States through Italy. Tell them I’m going to redirect the eight circuits I already ran through Coltano onto the Landstuhl satellite.”
He’d been holding the old, second-generation satellite’s twelve channels as his final reserve. But now he had little choice. All he had left were those twelve and the sixty channels through Feldberg to Martlesham Heath to satisfy the needs of every command in Germany.
General Yovanovich’s noose was tightening.
“Donnersberg,” he said into the microphone, “Landstuhl, we’re going to take the following circuits and move them onto the satellite . . .”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, the bus from Ludwigsburg pulled up in front of the building. Fourteen of the agency’s personnel flashed their badges and entered. O’Neill looked up from the computer to see the faces of the five other people in the organization capable of doing what he was doing standing in the operations-center doorway.
It was 3:35 a.m. As Air Force Senior Master Sergeant Denny Doyle entered the operations center, O’Neill noticed that his coworker was carrying a suitcase.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Doyle said.
“You can say that again. Where the hell have you guys been?”
“Oh, you know, mostly playing tag with our bus and every parked car in Stuttgart. There’s not an undamaged fender between here and Ludwigsburg. What’s the situation here?”
O’Neill began briefing the five on what had happened and the actions he’d so far taken. In midsentence, O’Neill stopped. “Denny, what’s with the suitcase?”
“Man, you must’ve been busy. You and I are on our way out of here, remember?”
“Jesus, I forgot about that in all the excitement.”
Should war be declared, the plan called for European Command Headquarters to immediately dispatch a staff to England to set up a backup command location.
From everything O’Neill had been told in the past thirty months, Patch Barracks wouldn’t be around much longer. It was common knowledge they were sitting at one of the Russians’ first-strike targets. The belief was by this time tomorrow, few buildings at the American headquarters would be standing. Six members of the organization would accompany the EUCOM backup staff to England. They’d prepare to run all communication activities from the Hillingdon communication facility on the outskirts of London. Colonel Hoerner, Major Siebman, Senior Master Sergeant Doyle, Petty Officer First Class Gallagher, Technical Sergeant Becker, and Staff Sergeant O’Neill were to head to England at the first sign of trouble.
“You’d better turn things over to us, so you can get home and grab a suitcase,” Doyle said. “We’re leaving on the next plane to England, old buddy.”
“Oh my God! Kathy! Christopher! What about them?”
“They’ll get evacuated with all the other dependents, I guess,” Doyle said.
“But they’re not supposed to be here. They promised us we’d have at least two weeks’ notice of any Russian attack. They said there’d be plenty of time to get all the dependents out of harm’s way.”
“They also said the Russians would never be crazy enough to actually attack us. Looks like they were wrong on both counts.”
“Denny, I’m not going. I won’t leave my wife and baby here by themselves.”
“You really don’t have a choice, George. You know we’re going to need you in England. Now, if you want to spend a little time with that beautiful wife of yours before we leave, you’d better get your butt in gear.”
• • •
George O’Neill raced out of the operations center. His mind was spinning. He absentmindedly put on his gear and left the building. As he headed for his apartment, he wondered how he was going to break the news to Kathy.
Locked deep in thought, he didn’t notice that the snows had stopped. The storm was gone. The sky above held a beautiful moon and hundreds of shimmering stars. It was 4:00 a.m. In four hours there was going to be an incredible winter sunrise over Germany. But George O’Neill wouldn’t be there to see it.
In an hour, he’d have to somehow find the courage to leave his wife and child sitting in the middle of a war while he escaped to the safety of England.
CHAPTER 21
January 29—12:58 a.m.
1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 69th Armor, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Te
am, 3rd Infantry Division
Wurzburg
The first sergeant rushed down the ancient barracks’ second-floor hallway, throwing open doors and rousing his men. The final door on the left side of the cavernous structure Hitler had ordered built flew open. An arm reached in and flicked on the lights. The booming voice of the tank-company first sergeant filled the room, shattering the slumber of the soldiers inside.
“Warrick, Richardson, up and at ’em. Division’s called an alert. Form up in the company area in ten minutes.”
Seeing the soldiers stir, the first sergeant hurried to the other side of the hall to continue his distasteful task.
“God dammit,” Specialist Four Anthony Warrick said, “another stupid alert.”
He sat up and rubbed the crusty sleep from the corners of his eyes.
“What time is it?” Tim Richardson asked.
“Man, I don’t know . . .” Warrick looked across the room at the clock radio on his bureau. “Shit . . . it’s only one o’clock.”
The specialist and sergeant reluctantly left the warmth of their beds. Richardson used his forearm to rub away the moisture from the window next to his bunk. He peered through the glass.
“Christ. It’s still snowing like crazy out there.”
“Wonderful,” Warrick said. “Just what we needed. Standing outside in the freezing cold until some idiot up at division decides he’s had enough fun for one night.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Richardson said. “We just had a practice alert last week.”
Warrick shrugged his shoulders in response to his tank commander’s question. Each threw on his camouflage uniform. With minutes to spare, Richardson hurried down the hall. He pushed open the door to the foul-smelling latrine with its rusting pipes and dripping faucets. He stuck his head beneath the nearest one. The young sergeant ran cold water over his face until he could stand it no longer.
Richardson stared into the mirror while dragging a comb through his auburn hair. The twenty-three-year-old face looking back at him was boyish and pleasant. The eyes in the mirror were bright and blue. Although tonight they stared back at him with a bloodshot tinge at their edges, the result of too many liters of German beer consumed a few hours earlier.
