Col. Robert O’Connell was on a secure line to Washington, listening grimly as his regimental commander, Col. Paul Gener, threw ten days’ worth of mission planning into the shit can The fact that it was a phone call he’d been half expecting since the news of Pretoria’s nuclear strike was no consolation. A stray beam of pale, watery sunshine briefly brightened his office without brightening his mood. Just once, he wished that he could get a telephone call from the Pentagon containing good news. It seemed likely to be a wish that would never come true. “No, sir, I understand. Yes, sir. This is one helluva way to run a railroad. We’ll see you here tomorrow. Goodbye. ” He bit back the urge to say more-a lot more. Instead, he replaced the red secure phone on its cradle and sat staring out the window. “Trouble?” O’Connell turned slightly and looked across his desk at the lean, tanned face of Maj.
