The group oozing into the TOC behind the Marquis included most of the higher male officers of Fortress Auerstadt’s complement. Among them was Captain Wilcken, a twenty-year-old of excellent family and the titular commander of Battery 7.

Each of the men had a woman in train. The redhead on the Marquis’ arm was approximately a third of his age.

“You said you wanted to send out one of the tanks with a patrol,” Bradkopf said, his memory unfortunately quite accurate. “For communications.”

For stiffening, actually, but the lie was a harmless one. When he’d gotten down to serious planning, he realized that he didn’t dare saddle Frisians—his troops—with any of the National Army units in the fortress. The locals lacked noise discipline, fire discipline, and target identification skills. A Frisian combat car was the largest thing around and therefore the most likely target for the National troops who did manage to shoot.

Furthermore, the locals lacked guts.

“I said I’d think about it,” Bradkopf said, “and now I find you’ve stripped me of all my protection! Are you a traitor?”

“No sir,” Coke said, “I’m not a traitor. I—”

I screwed up badly, but Bradkopf wasn’t the man to admit that to. Coke had taken the chance that the Marquis wouldn’t notice the two combat cars—not tanks—normally parked near his quarters were missing. If Bradkopf hadn’t decided to shoot off flares for his party, Coke would have gotten away with it.

If.

Coke couldn’t quarrel with Bradkopf’s assumption that the commander of an 8,000-troop base was unprotected if two foreign combat vehicles left his presence. It was just that protecting this commander was in no sense a military priority for Coke.

“Six, this is Four-four,” Sergeant Dubose reported tensely through Coke’s commo helmet. “The troops are moving out of Three in civilian trucks and wagons. Over.”