As if to emphasize this latest report, there was a massive explosion to the north in the direction of Bremke, where 24th Tanks had its main fuel and ordnance dump. Suddenly aircraft began to appear low on the horizon. The mobile command post was in woods overlooking the small town of Hunzen. The town was largely deserted, and the unit's radio transmitters were there. NATO aircraft had so far shown a reluctance to damage civilian buildings unless they had to
Not today. Four tactical fighters leveled the center of the town, where the transmitters were, with high-explosive bombs.
"Get Alternate One going immediately," Alekseyev ordered.
More aircraft swept overhead, heading southwest toward Highway 240, where Alekseyev's A units were moving toward R?hle. The General found a working radio and called CINC-West at Stand.
"We have a major enemy attack coming southeast from Springe. I would estimate at least two-division strength."
"Impossible, Pasha-they don't have two reserve divisions!"
"I have reports of enemy ground units at Bremke, Salzhemmendorf, and Dunsen. It is my opinion that my right flank is in jeopardy, and I must reorient my forces to meet it. I request permission to suspend the attack at R?hle to meet this threat."
"Request denied."
"Comrade General, I am the commander at the scene. The situation can be managed if I have authority to handle it properly."
"General Alekseyev, your objective is the Ruhr. If you are not able to achieve that objective, I will find a commander who is."
Alekseyev looked at the radiotelephone receiver in disbelief. He had worked for this man-two years. They were friends. He's always trusted my judgment.
"You order me to continue the attack regardless of enemy action?"
"Pasha, they make another spoiling attack-nothing more serious than that. Get those four divisions across the Weser," the man said more gently. "Out."
"Major Sergetov!" Alekseyev called. The young officer appeared a moment later. "Get yourself a vehicle and head for Dunsen. I want your personal observations on what you find. Be careful, Ivan Mikhailovich. I want you back here in less than two hours. Move."
"You will do nothing else?" the intelligence officer asked.
Pasha watched Sergetov board a light truck. He could not face his officer. "I have my orders. The operation to cross the Weser continues. We have an antitank battalion at Holle. Tell them to move north and be alert for enemy forces on the road from Bremke. General Beregovoy knows what he's supposed to do."
If I warn him, he'll change his dispositions. Then Beregovoy will be blamed for violating orders. That's a safe move. I prudently pass on a warning, and-no! If I can't violate orders, I cannot co-opt someone else into doing so.
What if they're right? This could be another spoiling attack The Ruhr is a strategic objective of vast importance.
Alekseyev looked up. "The battle orders stand."
"Yes, Comrade General."
"The report of enemy tanks at Bremke was incorrect." A junior officer came over. "The observer saw our tanks coming south and misidentified them!"
"And this is good news?" Alekseyev demanded.
"Of course, Comrade General," the captain answered lamely.
"Did it occur to you to inquire why our tanks were heading south? Goddamn it, must I do all the thinking here?" He couldn't scream at the right person. He had to scream at somebody. The captain wilted before his eyes. Part of Alekseyev was ashamed, but another part needed the release.
They had the job because they had more battle experience than anyone else. It had never occurred to anyone that they had no experience at all in this sort of operation. They were advancing. Except for local counterattacks, no NATO unit had done very much of that, but Lieutenant-he still thought like a sergeant-Mackall knew that they were best suited to it. The M-1 tank had an engine governor that limited its speed to about forty-three miles per hour. It was always the first thing the crews removed.
His M-1 was going south at fifty-seven miles per hour.
The ride was enough to rattle the brain loose inside his skull, but he'd never known such exhilaration. His life was balanced on the knife-edge of boldness and lunacy. Armed helicopters flew ahead of his company, scouting the route, and pronounced it clear all the way to Alfeld. The Russians weren't using this route for anything. It wasn't a road at all, but the right-of-way for an underground pipeline, a grassy strip one hundred feet wide that took a straight line through the forests. The tank's wide treads threw off dirt like the roostertail from a speedboat as the vehicle raced south.
The driver slowed for a sweeping turn while Mackall squinted ahead, trying to see whatever enemy vehicle the helicopters missed. It didn't have to be a vehicle. It just could be three guys with a missile launcher, and Mrs. Mackall would get The Telegram, regretting to inform her that her son...
