The Red Line

“Hold on just a little more, Christopher,” she whispered to her sleeping child. “They’ll be here to get us real soon.”

• • •

Once again, mankind was rising to the occasion.

A spoiled sixteen-year-old girl who’d berated her parents a day earlier for some minor transgression worked around the clock with a fury born of understanding beyond her years.

A teenage boy who only cared about his video games and his music struggled against the fates with a steadfast determination that defied explanation.

A woman who felt deprived because the single American television channel had out-of-date programming battled the elements with unbelievable power.

All over the defeated base, small groups toiled against impossible odds to aid their fellow man.

The human spirit fought on.

CHAPTER 41

January 30—2:47 a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)

World News Network Studios

Boston

Bonnie Lloyd was handed a piece of paper from off camera. She glanced down and began reading.

“We’ve just received this breaking news from Berlin. The Russians have hanged Manfred Fromisch. I repeat, after a trial conducted by the Russian high command, Manfred Fromisch, leader of the German neo-Nazi party, has been hanged. For the latest on this story, we take you to Berlin and our correspondent Stewart Turner.”

The picture switched to the handsome face with which in the past twenty-four hours all of America had become quite familiar. Turner was standing in his usual broadcast position on the blustery roof of the Berlin Sheraton.

“Thank you, Bonnie. As you can see behind me, sunrise has taken hold here in Berlin. This historic city is awakening to its second morning under Russian rule. A half hour ago, an officer of the Russian Information Ministry came to my room here in the Sheraton. He handed me a note and the video our audience is about to see. I’d first like to warn our viewers that some of the scenes depicted in the video are rather graphic. They might wish to consider whether children should be allowed to view them. The note stated that what you’re about to see happened at approximately four o’clock this morning Berlin time. That would be a little less than five hours ago. Stan,” Turner said to his cameraman, “go ahead and roll it.”

An inferior-quality video clip started running. The voice of the narrator was accented, but not heavily so. The scene was some sort of dingy courtroom. A panel of three stern-looking judges in Russian military uniforms could be seen. The picture slowly panned the courtroom. It stopped to show the face of a badly beaten figure. Manfred Fromisch, stooped and handcuffed, stood in front of the judges. There was no mistaking the fear on Fromisch’s face.

“To the American and German people. In a trial before the Berlin Military Tribunal, the German provocateur, Manfred Fromisch, was tried for his crimes against humanity. In the same spirit as the Nuremberg trials held after World War II, the criminal was found guilty and sentenced to pay for his crimes by the immediate forfeiture of his life.”

The video switched to a predawn scene of the Brandenburg Gate. Two dozen powerful spotlights illuminated the German monument. A silent gathering of what appeared to be ordinary Germans stood at the foot of a newly constructed gallows. Many of those in the crowd had been part of the forced labor involved in its construction. It would have been far easier to hang Fromisch from the nearest lamppost at the moment of his capture, but Cheninko wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted a grand spectacle. He wanted the world to understand in no uncertain terms what would happen to those who dared to challenge him.

With great ceremony, Fromisch was led up the gallows’ unpainted steps. A Russian officer stood the neo-Nazi leader in front of the waiting noose. A black hood was placed over Fromisch’s head. The noose was positioned around his neck. The rope was tightened. The officer moved to the front of the platform and read a short statement in German and again in Russian.

A drumroll began. The officer grasped a wooden lever. He paused for dramatic effect. The lever was wrenched backward. A trapdoor beneath Fromisch’s feet flew open. For an instant, the neo-Nazi leader’s diminutive body jerked and twisted in the night air. Then he moved no more.

The crowd could be seen flinching and looking away. On cue, they gave a meager cheer. The picture remained focused on the grisly gallows as the voice returned.

“People of Germany and America. Manfred Fromisch is dead. This is the justice all tyrants will receive from the peace-loving peoples of the world. Soon, all who chose to follow his twisted path will receive their just rewards. There is no longer any reason to fear the reviled neo-Nazi spewers of hatred and poison. Germany is free! Stop the senseless slaughter of the German people. We beseech you to throw down your arms and send the Americans, oppressors of your country for over eighty years, home. Tell your leaders you will no longer tolerate the war and misery they and their imperialistic American and British conspirators have brought upon your homeland.”

The video ended. The screen went blank.

Lloyd’s face reappeared. Somberly she said, “We’ll be right back after these messages.”

The picture of the clashing American and Russian flags with the words THE BATTLE FOR GERMANY beneath them appeared on the screen. The theme music for the war blared.

The image on the screen changed to a woman wooing her love with the latest expensive perfume.

CHAPTER 42

January 30—10:02 a.m.

Sixth Floor, East Surgical Wing

Wurzburg Army Hospital

In a misty, dream-shrouded ballroom, Robert danced with Linda. He was in his dress blues. She wore a flowing white wedding gown with a lengthy train. From the edges of the dance floor, an indistinguishable group of family and friends looked on with approval. It was a traditional wedding waltz. But Robert Jensen had no idea how to perform the simple box steps of the ritual dance. So he moved his feet to the music, hoping not to be too obvious in his ineptitude. More than anything, he attempted to allow his lovely bride of thirty minutes her time in the spotlight. Linda had talked of little else during the three months of their engagement. While they danced, he looked into her loving eyes.

“Linda . . . Linda . . .”

“Sarge . . . Sarge . . . Sergeant Jensen,” Ramirez said. In the austere hospital bed next to his platoon sergeant’s, Ramirez propped himself up with his good arm. “Are you awake? Sarge? Lieutenant Morse! Lieutenant Morse, down here!”

A woman in floral scrubs came running down the gray hall.

“What? Who’s there? Where am I?” Jensen said. His voice was hoarse and distorted.

“Sarge, it’s me, Ramirez. We’re in the hospital in Wurzburg.”

“Why can’t I see?” He struggled to sit up and nearly tumbled over the hospital bed’s railing.

Elizabeth Morse reached out her hand and grasped his shoulder. She eased him back onto his pillow. “Easy there, Sergeant. You’re going to tear out your stitches and IV if you’re not careful.”

“Who are you?”

“First Lieutenant Elizabeth Morse. I’m the charge nurse for this wing.” Her throaty voice was full of power and sexuality.

“Why can’t I see?”

“Your eyes are covered with bandages from your operation.”

“Operation? What operation?”

“Try not to talk too much, Sergeant. Your condition’s quite serious. You were operated on a little over twenty-four hours ago for a bullet wound to the foot, another in the leg, and a severe head wound. I need you to lie there quietly for me. Will you do that?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” His confused mind wasn’t sure if any of this was real or just part of his dream.

“Is there anything more I can do for you, Sergeant?” There was true concern in her voice.

“My leg and foot really hurt.” That was unquestionably real.

“O

kay. I’ll find the doctor and have a stronger painkiller prescribed. If he has the time, I’ll try to get him to stop by and talk with you for a moment. Watch him for me, Ramirez.”

“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”

The enticing smell of a light, sweet perfume and a strong antiseptic disappeared.

“Ramirez, where’s everybody else?”

“Everybody else?”

“The rest of the guys.”

“I don’t know, Sarge. I guess they’re all dead.”

“The entire platoon?”

“I think so. But I really don’t know for sure. Except for you and me, though, I’m pretty certain everyone’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened? How can you not remember what happened? Don’t you remember the apple orchard?”

“The apple orchard?” Jensen said.

“Yeah, the apple orchard. The Russian tanks and all that snow. Don’t you remember?”

Oh, God, the apple orchard! Every moment of yesterday’s horror came flooding back to the bandaged man. Each haunting face of the defeated platoon leaped into his battered brain. The taunting images dangled before him in his sightless world.