War Plan Crimson

Prologue:

There are no accidents in politics. - Franklin D. Roosevelt

November 1934:

Smedley Darlington Butler was dead before he knew it.

It wasn’t as if he was unused to death. He knew it all too well: you didn't win the Congressional Medal of Honour twice and rise to the exalted rank of Major General in the United States Marine Corps without knowing a thing or two about the subject. As he walked through the opulent lobby of the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, a copy of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer tucked under his arm like a baton, he’d hoped at least that he’d made some measure of peace with death. Good Lord, I deserved as much.

Butler stiffened under his heavy black coat. He'd earned his medals in Mexico and Haiti: those weren’t real wars, just opportunities for Wall Street to pad their pockets. A racket if ever there was one. And he’d had enough of that. Butler had drawn his share of fire for his stance, but he didn't give a damn. And then there was France, where the mud in the trenches ran red. Although he didn't see combat in that one, he certainly saw its results. That was a whole different kind of war and it was something, although he was now retired, he'd be grateful if he'd never see it again in his life.

If he was lucky. Butler flipped once more to the Inquirer’s front page. The world seemed to be lurching towards madness again. There were unsettling reports that Hitler was building up his military in violation of the Versailles treaty, Mussolini was making more noises about Ethiopia and Japan was eyeing yet another chunk of China. But it wasn't bad enough that the fascists were on the march around the world; now he had the homegrown kind to worry about, drawing their strength from the very depths of the Depression.

Tomorrow would solve that. When he went down to Washington and sat down in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee to expose MacGuire and the other coup plotters, he would breathe easier. The whole country would breathe easier. He found it vaguely unreal that they would even think of asking him to help overthrow the government. Our very own homegrown putsch. He set his jaw firmly, rolled the paper back up again, and stuck it back under his arm. He'd roll up those bastards like he'd rolled up this paper. He stepped through the hotel's revolving door and walked down the front steps and into the rain. He nodded to the doorman, who wore a long coat and high peaked hat. Cab, please.

The doorman turned away.

Rude bastard. Butler flipped up his collar and stepped out onto Broad Street with its busy traffic, to try and flag a taxi down. Raising his hand and waving at the cab across the street, he didn't see the looming mass of the truck until it was upon him. He spun around, opened his mouth, a half-formed word on his lips. Oh, God.

He felt the impact of the truck’s metal radiator drive into his body like a bayonet and throw him back down to the ground. And then he felt nothing else.

####

It's done. Gerald MacGuire dropped the New York Times onto the long boardroom table. Open to the Obituaries page, it landed with an audible thud. He nodded to the picture of a stern-faced man in his high-collared Marine dress uniform. The caption read:

Major General Smedley Darlington Butler, USMC (1881 - 1934)

It's a pity that he didn't play along with us, said another man sitting at the table. The room was dark except for the round pools of light cast by the green banker’s lamps on the table. He took a long pull on his Havana and then stubbed it into an ashtray.

Butler and Roosevelt were old chums since their days in Haiti, said a third man at the table. Obviously we underestimated the man and his loyalties.

We did, and it almost cost our chance to remove that bastard Roosevelt from office, said MacGuire. We can't afford to make that kind of mistake again.

Roosevelt is ruining this country with his New Deal, harrumphed the man with the cigar. He reached into a vest pocket and pulled up another Havana. He struck a match that flared, briefly illuminating his fleshy face. He lit his cigar and began to puff.

Gentlemen, we're getting off the subject, said MacGuire. He looked at the other two at the table with him. There were others, but these were the two who mattered. If he could convince, them, he had them all. The first man, the one with the cigars, was a media baron; the second man was old New York money, one of the big investment houses. Both were well known and for obvious reasons did not want to be associated with the plot. We need to find ourselves a replacement for the late and lamented General Butler.

Yes, we do, said old New York money. Whom exactly do you suggest? Mr. Pelley? There was a hint of a sneer in the darkness. "Or Father Coughlin, perhaps?

No. He smiled tightly. No, but they will be of some use, along with their organizations. But if we are to get someone to assume the head of our veterans’ army when it marches on Washington, it must be someone who has the veterans' respect. He needs to be able to command the nation’s respect, gentlemen. There’s a lot of discontent boiling away out there; we just need someone to give it form.

Go on, said the man with the cigar. I feel you have someone in mind.

Oh, I do, MacGuire smiled. He slid a photograph across the table. To be sure, there was something about the man in the photo. His face was certainly stern-looking, with an aura of patrician nobility to it. Perhaps it was the piercing eyes, or the aquiline nose, or the high, almost angular cheekbones or the determined jaw. Or perhaps it was the wisp of white visible under his uniform cap that gave a sense of wisdom. Yes, there was something about the man. Brigadier General Randall Cray.

He looks the part. And I like how his name rolls off the tongue. The media baron puffed on his cigar pensively. Its tip glowed coal-red in the dark. You know, I really could make him a household name.

MacGuire's smile grew. That's what I'm counting on.

####

April 1935:

Franklin Delano Roosevelt looked out the bullet-shattered window of the Oval Office, out past the lawn and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair. He could just see the picket line of helmeted Marines with their fixed bayonets glittering in the sun. Although Roosevelt couldn't see much else, beyond the thin line of loyal Marines were the barricades of the Veterans Army, now restyled the Army of the New American Republic, which surrounded the White House. There was no mistaking the long fingers of black smoke curling up into the air that had announced their advance. The cease-fire, he knew, would not last forever.

Sir? An aide entered the room.

What is it?

We've lost the Atlantic Fleet, sir. They’ve sided with Cray.

Damn. Roosevelt sank further into his chair. Losing the Atlantic Fleet was a bitter, personal blow. He had been Assistant Secretary of the Navy under President Wilson and had always considered himself a Navy man. Then that's it.

But we still have the Marines here and at Quantico and most of the Army and the Air Corps, sir, said the Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, who had been standing silently by Roosevelt in the room. He glared outside with quiet intensity. We can still fight!

No. He shook his head. Roosevelt knew that the Marines from the Quantico Barracks had tried to break through rebel lines to raise the siege of the White House, but had failed. He looked at Hull bleakly. I want to avoid any more bloodshed. Enough Americans have died already. We've already had one civil war; I don't want another. With a sadness that made him look old beyond his years, Roosevelt turned to his aide. Jeremy, please let General Cray know I now wish to hear his terms.

One

May 1936:

The red-white-blue-and-silver banners proclaiming the first anniversary of the New American Republic still hung from many of the lampposts that lined the Mall. Somehow, even after all this time, thought Major John Adams, looking at the limp banners, it still seemed vaguely unreal.

FDR was gone now. He had stepped down, due to health reasons, it was said; although unofficially word was he was kept under virtual house arrest at Hyde Park. President John Nance Garner, FDR's former VP, was officially in charge, but everyone knew the orders came from the General. General Randall Cray, as well as holding the catch-all title of Secretary of General Affairs, had also assumed the vice president's seat, which would put him in clear line for the President's job after Garner stepped out of the way, leaving the way clear for Cray to run unopposed in the November election. Health reasons again, no doubt.

Adams sniffed involuntarily. He could smell traces of tear gas from the riots of the night before. In their shoes what would he do? What had started as a small protest against Cray’s cancellation of large parts of the New Deal had turned into a bloody riot when it ran into a party of Cray supporters just spoiling for a fight. He shook his head. The Special Police had done a particularly effective job of putting the protestors down. Even now, they still stood careful watch along the Mall, truncheons in hand. Even after a year or so, some things were still hard.

Halt. A Special Policeman in his midnight-blue uniform, peaked cap, and jackboots came up to him. With his gruff manner, in another time, another place, he would’ve been just a common thug. Let's see your papers.

Adams fished out his military ID. I'm with Army Intelligence, G-2.

The SP straightened up but didn't salute. Most Special Police were veterans like Adams; however, a large contingent of toughs from the pro-Nazi German-American Bund or the Silver Shirts had also somehow managed to fill out their ranks. This one looked the type. Vaguely unsettled, Adams watched the Special Policeman handed back his ID after giving it a perfunctory look. Go ahead, Major.

Adams nodded and kept walking until he hit Pennsylvania Avenue and the corner of 17th Street. Across the street from the White House and its ring of barbed wire barricades was the War Department, housed deep in the ornate Old Executive Office Building. Half the building had literally been opened up so that a new air-raid bunker complex could be built. Workmen on scaffolds were hurriedly putting masonry on the slightly altered walls of the building. Unless you really looked, you would hardly notice the difference. But for the fact for the past eight months, it had been the scene of furious round-the-clock construction with cranes moving above their heads and cement mixers pouring their contents into blocky forms. Ducking under the scaffolding, Adams walked up the front steps of the building. He flashed his ID again at the Marine sentry, who snapped him a quick salute as Adams entered.

He walked up the corridor, passing an elderly Negro cleaning woman pushing a mop and bucket, without any notice, turned and opened the frosted-glass door to his office. The morning's Washington Post had already been put on his desk. It, of course, was heavily censored, with little or no foreign news. America was turning inwards like never before. He flipped open a page. There was a big article featuring a speech by President Garner which trumpeted how, thanks to the New American Republic, we were strong again. And in the photo above it, looming over Garner's shoulder like a dark, distant mountain, stood the General. He looked like one of those busts of a Roman noble you could see in a museum. All that was missing was the laurel wreath.

Adams’ eyes then settled on another piece, about a column’s length, discussing ongoing military talks between The New American Republic and the Third Reich. Adams frowned. News to me. At the bottom of the page was a small article, tucked into the corner, where a nameless State Department source warned of Washington's growing displeasure with Canada over transit rights from Alaska to the lower forty-eight states. Odd. We never had any problems with the Canadians, as far as I knew. The Alaskan boundary was all settled a long time ago. He folded up the paper as the phone rang. Major Adams.

Major, it's Colonel Jackman. Could you come and see me, please? Jackman was the new head of G-4, the Army's War Plans Office. I have a couple of questions I need to ask you.

Yes sir, right away. Adams got up, left his office, walked down the hall, and took a flight of concrete stairs down to the basement where his old stomping grounds, the Office of War Plans was located. Since his transfer to G-2 Army Intelligence, Adams hadn’t paid the things they were doing in War Plans much mind. Perhaps I should’ve. He paused at the rippled glass door. The sound of deliberate one-finger typing came from the other side. Inhaling, Adams rapped sharply on the door and went through.

The sergeant at the desk in the outer office stood to attention at his typewriter as Adams walked in. Major Adams, sir, Colonel Jackman is expecting you. He nodded to a half-open door. Adams followed him over to it. A female civilian secretary, her blonde hair done up in a tight, professional bun, looked up from her filing as they walked past and smiled at him appreciatively. Maybe it was the uniform.

Enter, said a voice.

Adams opened the door. A lean, hawk-like man with a pencil-thin mustache and thinning hair, Colonel Arthur Jackman was on the phone. He waved Adams in with one hand. …I don’t care what you say, Lieutenant: if that goddamn colored cleaning woman came through here at all, she didn’t do a very good job! He slammed down the phone on its cradle.

Adams saluted.

At ease, Major, said Jackman, returning the salute. Have a seat. Jackman nodded at the chair in front of the desk. He surveyed Adams for a moment, and then looked down at an open manila file folder that sat in front of him on the green blotter of his desk. Adams belatedly realized the file was his personnel file. Jackman opened a pack of Chesterfields, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it. Major, you're a man of many talents. It says here that you were attached to this office under my predecessor and that he had thought extremely well of you.

Adams felt his cheeks flush. I only helped plan some war games, sir.

Spare me the modesty, Major. Before that, you were considered to be something of a specialist in armored warfare. You and Georgie Patton.

We served together in France at the battles for St. Mihiel and the Muese-Argonne. He was my C.O.

Jackman nodded. Said you were 'hell on wheels.' High praise indeed, coming from him. Once peace came, they disbanded the Tank Corps and just about everything else in this man's army and you were eventually posted to here in War Plans.

Might I ask a question, Colonel? He saw Jackman nod and continued, What's this all about?

Can't tell you just yet. But it's safe to say that we soon might be calling upon all of your background. Just one more question. He eyed Adams again. You have family in Canada, right?

Through my wife, Marie. She's from Vermont, but her aunt Lise lives across the border in Quebec. One of those strange little border towns where the dotted line goes through the town library. He smiled outwardly but frowned inwardly. That was an odd question.

Jackman didn't seem to think so. He nodded again. Thank you, Major. That will be all. Dismissed.

Getting off the trolley near his apartment in Georgetown that evening, Adams still kept going back to his conversation with Colonel Jackman. He could perhaps understand the interest in his war planning and Tank Corps experience, but where did his wife's Canadian relatives fit into all of this? Walking the block down the street to his apartment building, the gentle tingle in his left leg reminded him of the bullet he'd stopped during the last days of the Muese-Argonne offensive. Still a bit of shrapnel they couldn't get out; too close an artery, the doctors had said.

Spare some change?

Adams looked up. A scraggly-looking man with two days' growth of beard stood in front of him with his hand out. He wore a greatcoat that looked like it could've come from the Great War. I've been on the street for a long time. He looked at the ribbons on Adams' chest. Help out a fellow vet, please, sir.

Adams fished into his pocket and produced a quarter. He deposited it into the man's bony hand. Who were you with?

The Rainbow Division—the 42nd. Got gassed at Chateau-Thierry, sir. He coughed softly and looked at the quarter. For these days, it was generous. Thank you.

You're welcome. With another tinge, this one of guilt, he watched the man shamble off into the night. The New American Republic had certainly left him behind. He turned and kept walking, past a wooden fence that was plastered with posters proclaiming the new order and its stolid hero, General Randall Cray with a stylized eagle, wings, and claws outstretched, behind him. Beside it, another poster— a new one —with two hands reaching out to grasp each other, both labeled USA over a wide expanse labeled Canada. The poster’s headline proclaimed, Alaska is American! Adams continued walking until he reached the front steps of his apartment building. He climbed the steps and opened the front door. He entered the ground-floor apartment he shared with Marie. Immediately he inhaled the comforting smell of a roast in the oven. I'm home!

Marie Adams walked out of the kitchen, an apron around her waist. She was never what you would consider petite, but her supple body and curly black hair did nothing to hide her French-Canadian heritage, something that Adams always appreciated. She came up to him and kissed him softly. How did your day go?

Odd, he said, taking off his jacket and cap and hanging them in the closet. How about yours?

Frustrating. With the truckers still on strike, do you know how much I had to pay for that roast at the butchers' shop? She looked at him exasperatedly. I have to go make it count now. She went back to the stove.

Adams remembered what else he'd read in the paper this morning. The Teamsters had called a series of rotating sympathy strikes to protest the cancellation of the New Deal.

The General is warning he’s going to crack down on them soon.

"Well, bien, said Marie from the kitchen. The General knows what to do, doesn't he? Look what he did to those miners."

The General. Adams frowned, saying nothing. He’d shown the miners, all right. The Special Police had stomped all over them. He’d seen the pictures and the movies the SP had shot during their rampage through the Appalachians. Those never made it into the newspapers or the newsreels.

Wash up, sang Marie, supper’s almost ready.

Adams walked to the bathroom and caught himself in the mirror as he turned on the taps and soaped up his hands. He frowned again: the grey was definitely beginning to infiltrate his hairline. His jawline remained defiantly firm, but his face wore a few more lines and some crow’s-feet had settled in around his brown eyes since his time in the trenches. Marie said they added character. He smiled half-heartedly. My ass.

Walking back into the living room, Adams settled heavily into the couch, his hands folded in front of him, his mind drifting back into restlessness. Who knew Randall Cray before all of this? Sure he led a regiment during the Great War, but so did a lot of other officers. Adams had seen him in action. Not very inspiring a leader, then; he didn't come much to the front. Just one more Colonel, then. Afterward, he had served in the Philippines but hadn't really distinguished himself there. But now, here he was, a man on horseback, just like Hitler or Mussolini. When times got tough, we yelled like hell for one. And now we have him: Randall Cray.

What's wrong? Marie came back from the kitchen and sat beside him on the couch's armrest. She wrapped her arm around him and kissed him. You're upset about something, aren't you?

He looked at her. I'm not happy with the way things are going.

I know that, but I hope you're keeping your mouth shut at the office.

I'm not in Military Intelligence for nothing. He smiled and kissed her. But there's some strange things that have been happening lately that I can't put my finger on.

Such as?

He looked at her.

Ah, she smiled. Hush-hush.

Hush-hush. He shook his head and kept silent. But inside he was ticking off each incident in his head, like a giant list. Troop movements north. Not large-scale; just a few units at a time, almost so as not to draw attention, but it was a steady trickle. Hurried completion of two large airfields in upper Michigan and upstate New York. The small article in today's paper about Alaska. The negotiations with the Germans. And now today's conversation with Jackman.

But just what did that list add up to? Adams doubted he would like the answer.

Marie kissed him again and took him by the hand. Come on, supper's almost ready. And afterward, we can listen to Burns and Allen.

Really? Are they back on? He stood up with her.

She smiled. Yes. I thought to celebrate, we would have some wine with dinner.

Sounds very nice. He smiled back. And what about after Burns and Allen?

Dance music played softly from the radio in the living room as they held each other in bed. Adams smiled as he brushed Marie's hair and kissed her on the forehead.

Do you feel better now? She giggled like a newlywed.

Oh yes. Adams kissed her on the lips. She was soft and yielding. He lay back on the pillow beside her and, through the open window, listened to the rain falling. He brought his head down onto her right breast and listened to her slow, rhythmic breathing as she wrapped herself around his lanky frame.

So are we still going to the matinee tomorrow? she asked. It's Saturday.

Hmm. What's playing?

That new Gary Cooper one.                                                          

That would be good. He reached over and kissed her deeply on the lips, sliding his tongue gently into her mouth.

You're bad, she giggled.

I'm trying to be. He kissed her again. I —- The plaintive ringing of the phone cut him off. Wouldn't it be great if they had some kind of machine that would take automatically take your calls while you’re busy? Wrapping a housecoat around his naked body he walked over to it and picked up the receiver. Major Adams.

Major, it's Colonel Jackman. Adams blinked. It sounded like Jackman was still at his office, deep in the bowels of the War Department. Did the man ever sleep? Or have sex? I want you to come to a planning meeting tomorrow at thirteen hundred. I've already cleared it with your C.O. See you then. He rang off without a further word.

Adams frowned as he replaced the receiver and slowly padded back to bed.

No matinee, I guess? asked Marie, reading his face.

I've been called to a meeting. He took off his robe and crawled back into bed, snuggling beside her. Her warmth was contagious. Don't know what for. But it looks like we'll have to send our regrets to Mr. Cooper, for now.

She smiled and looked into his eyes. But we still have tonight.

###

Robert Alexander sat in the car parked across the street from the Old Executive Office building. Officially a mid-ranking trade official with the British Embassy, he was, in reality, anything but. These days, since the regime change here in Washington, Alexander's superiors at Whitehall had begun to take a deeper interest in the comings and goings in the new American government. The once-promising special relationship between the British Empire and the United States had soured completely, with both sides pointing fingers and trading accusations on an almost weekly basis. He looked down and appeared to read Saturday's Post, as one of the ever-present Special Policemen walked by and stuck his ruddy face in the driver's seat window of Alexander's Ford.

Still waiting for her, huh, Mac? the Special Policeman asked.

Alexander nodded. Taking her time.

Always do. They always do. The SP laughed. He kept laughing as he walked off, swinging his truncheon.

Alexander looked up to make sure that the Special Policeman was well and truly gone. He set the paper down, picked up his small Leica camera, and quickly snapped a couple of unobtrusive shots. A couple of Army officers were coming up the sidewalk and entering the building. He looked at his watch: 12:45. Should be the last of them. Meeting's about to begin. Well, hullo?

A long back Mercedes-Benz pulled smoothly up in front of the building, miniature Nazi flags snapping stiffly on its front fenders. A driver in German Army feldgrau jumped out of the front door and opened the passenger door. Idiot! Alexander cursed himself and began snapping more pictures of the tall German colonel and his aide who climbed out. Who do we have here? Need to get these to London in the next diplomatic pouch so they can tell me who and what I have. He watched as the driver jumped back in the Mercedes and roared off. The Germans entered the building.

His heart pounded as he tried to digest the implications. Careful, laddie, it's almost time. Best to leave now before my new friend with the club comes back. Alexander started his Ford, put it in gear, and drove around the corner. Sure enough, there she was, waiting for him. He smiled as she opened the door and got in the back seat. He hadn't been lying, after all. They kissed briefly, their lips touching. Did you see anything interesting?

Saw enough, she said as he drove into traffic. They still don't suspect me.

Let's hope it stays that way, shall we, girl? Now, what about the big meeting today?

I don't know. Something's up, but they practically locked the building down and kicked everyone out before the meeting began. And nobody said anything about those Germans, either.

Aye, they were a nasty surprise, weren't they?

I'll try to find out what they were doing there. I have my sources, too. I don't like what's been done to my country and I sure as hell don't like those Nazis being there.

"Neither do I." I wonder what Whitehall will make of it. He looked down at his Leica that rode on the front passenger seat. Those pictures could probably tell more than a thousand words, he silently bet.

####

Adams sat down with the others in a large conference room, deep in the new bunker complex. They had gathered around a flat table that took up most of the room. A big white sheet covered the table. Someone's got a sense of drama. He knew most of the other Army officers and some of the Navy and Marine brass present. There were a surprising number of civilians there, and, of course, the Germans, in their serious grey uniforms. They stood out like sore thumbs. Jackman sat with them, amiably chatting with the colonel through his aide, who seemed to be acting as the interpreter. He looked down at the big covered table in the center of the room. What all this is about, he'd know soon enough. The usual low rumble of pre-meeting chatter rolled around him.

Hey, Johnny, George S. Patton Jr. tapped Adams on the shoulder as he sat down beside him. He set his briefcase down at his feet. Did I miss anything?

No, the show hasn't started yet. Absently he looked over at his former C.O. and blinked at the single stars on his shoulders. "You've been promoted? Congratulations, General, sir! Adams pumped Patton's hand. They skipped you from Lieutenant Colonel?"

Kind of surprised me, too. Patton grinned. There was a touch of exactly the opposite in his voice. Any hint as to what's this all about?

Not a bit. They'd asked me about my war planning background as well as my Tank Force experience.

Patton nodded. I reckon that's why they asked me here too. He nodded at the taciturn-looking German colonel. He was tall, with an aristocratic bearing. Know who that is?

Should I?

You should. That, my son, is none other than Colonel Heinz Guderian, one of their top tank men. He's an armored division commander even only though he's only a colonel.

Adams whistled. "That has got to make someone jealous."

You can say that again. He's good, damn good. I've been doing a little reading. Here, this is for you. I've had mine translated, but here's yours in the original. You'll get a better feel for it. He flipped open his briefcase and pulled out a mimeographed manuscript bound with a large black clip. He handed it to Adams. Your German still good?

I keep up. Adams looked down at the title page: Achtung Panzer! After leafing through the first few pages, he looked back up at Guderian. Quite the author. Armored theory?

It's a first-draft manuscript. Got it through a friend of a friend. Should be required reading. Wish I'd written it.

Adams nodded as Jackman stood up and cleared his throat.

Showtime, said Patton.

Gentlemen, said Jackman. Thank you all for coming this afternoon. I want to extend my heartiest welcome to our honored German guests. He nodded at Guderian and his aide. Guderian acknowledged him with a regal if polite, smile. I have invited you all to participate in today what I stress is a purely theoretical war game. He turned to his aide. Sergeant, if you would, please.

The aide went over to the big table and slowly pulled off the sheet. A large map of the northern United States and southern Canada filled the table.

Adams raised an eyebrow. Of course. It made sense, of course, adding everything together from the past few days, but it seemed so impossible, so unlikely. An invasion of Canada? The last time we tried it was back in 1812. Maybe this is some kind of paper exercise. He looked at Patton. His former C.O. was scratching his chin thoughtfully. What do you think?

Patton shook his head. He took off his glasses. I don't know.

Jackman cleared his throat for attention. Gentlemen, as I said before, this is a strictly theoretical wargame, under the auspices of Joint War Plan Red. Adams knew that War Plan Red was one of a series of color-coded war plans, devised by the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff, with one color assigned for each potential opponent. War Plan Orange, for example, covered a potential conflict with Japan, Black, Germany, and Gold, France. War Plan Red, however, covered war with the British Empire, which would be a consideration in any plan to invade Canada, which was assigned its own color, Crimson.

Jackman walked over to the map table and continued. Recalling the growing Canadian intransigence over the Alaska issue, the purpose of this exercise is for the Blue team to invade and occupy certain strategic points in Crimson territory and hold them before Red reinforcements arrive.

Patton stood up. Colonel, how long is it expected it would take for the British -excuse me - Red reinforcements to arrive? Patton shot a side grin to Adams. He meant the slip, of course; it was just his way of cutting through the bullshit.

Jackman didn't seem to notice. Sir, we expect that sizable Red reinforcements will start to be landed no later than M Day plus fifteen on the order of 25,000 men and 13 squadrons of aircraft. By M plus thirty, those numbers rise to 50,000 men and some 30 squadrons. From there on in, we begin to lose our advantage.

An admiral - King, Adams thought his name was - stood up. Which makes it a gilt-edged priority that we seize and hold the major ports on both their coasts: Halifax and Vancouver. But what unnerves me is what we don't have on this map of yours, Colonel.

And what would that be, sir? By the tone of Jackman's voice, Adams could tell that he didn't like this line of questioning.

"Our whole West Coast is exposed, not to mention Hawaii, the Philippines, and Midway. If we get caught up in a slogging match here, King pointed to the map and seethed, we'll be vulnerable. Vulnerable to not only the goddamn British - who not only invented the aircraft carrier but may also still be able to teach us a thing or two - but to the Japs, as well. They both have pretty big fleets, need I remind you?"

There, thought Adams. King had summed up what everyone else had seemed to be thinking. There was a general murmur of agreement from around the room.

Jackman nodded and smiled tightly as King sat down. Yes, Admiral, we had taken all of those possibilities into account. However, because of growing Anglo-Japanese mistrust, the likelihood of any concerted action by those countries against us is diminishing. But we must always be on guard against opportunistic attacks from our little yellow brethren. That crack drew ragged laughter from the room.

What about the Royal Navy? What about those Limey bastards? snapped King, infamous for being no admirer of the British.

Who's to say perhaps the British wouldn't be tied down with matters far closer to home? Jackman nodded to the Germans. Guderian smiled like the Cheshire cat.

Adams swallowed softly. This exercise was beginning to sound a just little less than strictly theoretical. He looked at Patton. He seemed to sense it, too.

Now, said Jackman. If there aren't any further questions, I'd like to continue by handing out the assignments for the Blue and Crimson sides for today's exercise. Jackman's aide began to hand out manila envelopes to a few senior officers. Patton received his and opened it like a child unwrapping a present at Christmas.

Adams smiled. Well, how did you do?

Swell, replied Patton. I've got an armored command; the 7th Cavalry Brigade. He glanced through the papers. We've got to drive up the Ottawa valley from upstate New York and take Ottawa by M plus four.

See, Patton spread out a small map across their laps, we cross the Saint Lawrence west of Morrisburg at the Canadian side and we go right up Highway 16. Looks like a two-hour drive on a good day.

Might face some opposition around along here, especially at the river. Adams traced his finger along the route. That's where I'd place my artillery and my anti-tank stuff if I were them. I'd also mine all the bridges so I could blow them to hell and gone.

Good thinking. Patton eyed his old friend thoughtfully. That's why you'll be my number two. Interested, Johnny?

I'd be honored, sir.

Patton grinned. Who knows, if we play our cards right here, we might get the same jobs when the real thing happens. He looked at Adams. It’ll get you out from under that goddamn desk job and back into the field where you belong.

Adams nodded at Patton silently. Part of him wanted the promotion that would have to come with the new position; the other part of him hated what the new job would mean. You actually think so?

But before Patton could answer, Jackman spoke again. Now, gentlemen, if you are ready, could you please assume your positions around the table? Patton and Adams made their ways down to the table to join the others already there. On the table, Adams could see the small blue wooden blocks that made up the individual battalions of the 7th Cavalry Brigade at their start positions just south of the Canadian border. Across the border, he could see similar red blocks, but far fewer in number.

What do you think, Johnny? asked Patton.

The Canadians don't have a lot on the ground, but they will fight hard. He looked at Patton. We both saw that in the last war.

Patton nodded. A damn shame. Good people. A damn shame.

Gentlemen. Jackman cleared his throat. It is now M-day.

Adams watched as the 7th Calvary slashed across the border. They met some initial resistance at the bridgehead. As Adams had predicted, the Canadian player had tried to blow the bridge before Patton crossed it, but Patton put troops across the Saint Lawrence on assault boats and was able to outflank the defenders and take the bridge intact. Nonetheless, the game's umpire ruled that the Americans had taken heavy casualties from the Canadian defenders.

Take your units up Highway 16, said Patton, pointing at the map. Meanwhile, we'll have to cut the CPR rail line that runs between Toronto and Montreal here and do the same thing with Highway 2 that parallels the rail line.

We'll have to do that to block any counterattack, but it'll leave my flanks dangerously exposed, said Adams.

We'll have to take our chances, Patton said, picking up one of his units. He held it in his palm, looked at it, and then placed it back down the map.

Adams pushed up the highway. He ran into trouble late on the second day, as he attempted to forge the Rideau River. This time, the Canadian player had managed to destroy the bridge. Adams had to take the other side using his assault boats under cover of close air support. The umpire ruled the Canadian defenses north of the river knocked out even as Adams threw pontoon bridges across the river and continued his drive north.

Very good, Major, said Guderian, through his aide who also acted as his interpreter. The German Colonel and his aide stood over his shoulder. This is exactly what I would have done. What made you use the close air support?

Danke, Oberst. Aber ich spreche Deutsches, said Adams. Guderian raised an eyebrow and nodded as Adams continued in German. I couldn't wait for artillery. They'd slow me down, sir. And if I had waited, I could've been caught in a counter-attack. Had to keep moving forward. He nodded at the map. As it was, I lost time here.

Sehr gut, nodded Guderian, patting Adams on the shoulder. Nicht kleckern, sondern klotzen! He nodded politely, clicked his heels and walked off, aide in tow.

What the hell does that mean? Patton asked, coming up beside him.

Adams grinned stiffly. "Don't tickle them, slug them!" I am going to have to read his book.

Well, Johnny, said Patton. Seems like you've got a new best friend there.

Maybe. How's it going elsewhere?

I held off a counter-attack coming out of Kingston. And by the looks of it, we've got Halifax cut off, so it's all going pretty much to plan. You?

They looked at the board. Aside from one or two small Red units, the way to Ottawa was clear.

####

Jackman's footsteps echoed on the polished floor as he walked down the long columned hallway of one of Washington’s many nameless office blocks. At the end of the long hall was the real center of power of the New American Republic, the office of the Secretary of General Affairs and Vice President, General Randall Cray. As he came to the tall dark wooden doors that were flanked by Special Policemen he noticed the ornamental silver ashtray piled high with stubbed out cigars and cigarettes. Ah yes, the smoking thing. He stubbed out his Chesterfield in the ashtray. Jackman smiled inwardly. Cray thought that smoking could make you sick and allowed no one to smoke near him. Jackman also understood that Cray was some kind of vegetarian. He smiled; he wasn’t going that far for The Cause. The colonel palmed the folder he'd been carrying under his arm.

Seeing that Jackman was ready, the guard opened the door and let him into the inner sanctum. Jackman saluted as he came into the wood-paneled office. Results from the wargame, sir. Thought you'd like to see these.

At ease, Colonel. General Randall Cray sat behind a large oak desk. He looked up and surveyed Jackman with cool grey eyes.

Jackman suppressed the urge to shiver. There was something about Randall Cray’s eyes; sometimes he could almost tell what you were thinking with one glance, and other times he could dominate whole rooms. He had to admit it still made him uncomfortable. And Cray had the stature, the physical presence, too: with his patrician face and tall, lean, almost angular build, he looked like could’ve been chiseled out of stone like an ancient Roman statue.

Cray took the folder from Jackman and opened it and scanned the top page. The game went well, then?

Yes, sir. The Canadian team was forced to sue for peace on M plus seven. The British didn't even have time to enter into it.

And what did our German friends think about it?

I gather they came away impressed, sir. I think they will make a most favorable recommendation to Herr Hitler.

Excellent work, Colonel. Cray closed the folder and handed it back to Jackman. What about the troop movements and preparations; has anyone said anything?

No one seems to have noticed since we're doing it on a small scale, only a few units at a time. But we'll be ready when the time comes, sir. He smiled thinly. Now all we have to worry about are the coloreds and the Jews.

Their time will come, said Cray. Keep me informed on Crimson. You’ve done very well. And, Colonel?

Yes, sir?

Cray sniffed and focused his gaze on Jackman. I don't like my officers to smoke; I can smell it on you. Smoking is a sign of weakness. You're a good officer, so I'll forgive you this once. Remember, Colonel, I like you.

Jackman winced and saluted. Yes, sir.

Two

So we're finally here. Marie Adams wrapped herself around her husband's arm. Whatever your meeting was, it didn't take all that long. Just in time for the Saturday night movie. She pecked him on the cheek. Even if it was the late show.

Adams looked up at the theatre’s lit-up marquee: MR. DEEDS GOES TO TOWN with GARY COOPER and JEAN ARTHUR. Looks like a good one, was all he said. Even though he was physically with Marie, a large part of his mind was still at today's exercise. He churned over the details in his mind as they walked up to the box office.

Hey, said Marie, I should've left you at home. Are you going to enjoy the movie or not?

All right, I've been suitably admonished. He kissed her on the cheek and turned to the ticket girl. Two for the balcony, please. He forked over a dollar bill and took the tickets.

Marie smiled and winked. Why, are you trying to take advantage of me, sir?

Definitely. He held the door open for her. They walked up to the candy counter where they picked up a bag of salty popcorn big enough for two and made their way up the narrow stairway to the balcony. They took their seats in the back and held hands until the lights dimmed.

A projector clattered to life and The March of Time newsreel burst onto the screen in all its black and white glory. The first scene was of a large zeppelin with giant swastikas on its tail fins docking with a mooring mast. The announcer’s voice boomed out, "The giant zeppelin Hindenburg docks at her mooring mast at Lakehurst, New Jersey, after completing her first trans-Atlantic flight in record time. On hand to greet the intrepid airman and to launch a new era in air commerce is Vice President and Secretary of General Affairs, General Randall Cray." The scene cut to the General shaking the hands of the zeppelin’s crew members.

The music shifted to a more ominous note, with the next scene showing Benito Mussolini in his usual act of haranguing a wildly cheering crowd from the balcony. "The Duce of Italy this week announced the annexation of newly conquered Ethiopia to Italian East Africa. The next scene showed a dignified-looking man disembarking from a steamship. Meanwhile, the deposed Emperor of Ethiopia, Hailie Selassie, arrived with his family in England after fleeing his country."

That was never a fair fight, whispered Adams. It was bad from the get-go.

"Ssh!" A frumpy old woman from across the aisle shot daggers at them.

Adams looked up again and watched as the Ambassador of the Third Reich, Hans Diekoff, shook hands with President Garner and then the General. Against a backdrop of crossed Nazi and New American flags, they signed a document and shook hands again. A new trade treaty, one of a series of new diplomatic initiatives between the New American Republic and the Third Reich, further solidified the growing ties between our two great nations. Adams suppressed the urge to shiver and instead gripped Marie's hand tighter.

The music and scene changed once more. It was President Garner again, sitting at his desk in the White House with the General standing silently beside