Chapter 25: War Games
Wrath swept up the stairs to the command tower overlooking the Eastern Division live fire exercise range, the black coat over his shoulders flowing like a cape, his entourage trailing behind. He had left his usual cadre of hapless junior officers back in Central, lest they balk at the unpleasant work that needed to be done here; today he was accompanied only by mid-level commanders whose loyalty was unquestioned. Below him on the ground, a dozen agents fanned out among the troops, searching for the instigators of the planned rebellion and clues to their next move. And in the hills just beyond the East City HQ, four well-armed platoons from Central Command waited on standby. As he entered the tower, he found it already occupied by a half dozen Eastern soldiers, including a slight graying figure hunched in a wheelchair.
"Well. What a surprise to see you here, Grumman," the homunculus snapped sarcastically as he returned the men's salutes.
"Not to worry, Führer President, sir. I'm only here in a ceremonial capacity." The lieutenant general smiled officiously and gestured at his useless legs. "I'm still on medical leave, after all."
Wrath narrowed his eyes. "Which is odd, since I distinctly remember signing your discharge papers. What was it, five months ago?"
"Oh?" The gray eyebrows shot up. "I don't remember seeing those. Maybe that aide of yours misplaced them."
"I had them couriered personally."
"Then they must have gotten lost somewhere along the way. You know the military." The old man wasn't even trying to hide his grin.
The homunculus flashed a humorless smirk, imagining how satisfying it would be to bury his sword in Grumman's neck. Satisfying, but regrettably impractical. Besides the fact that the old man would be under Mustang's protection (was there anyone he was allowed to punish?!), the action would no doubt bring the entire Eastern Division down on Wrath's head, if not the North as well. And he wasn't here to lay waste to entire armies, only as many instigators as it took to stop the revolt. He was under orders to preserve as many souls as possible for the eclipse.
That meant there was little for Wrath to do personally until his agents ferreted out the ringleaders. So for the moment he simply waited, his attention drifting down to the field below where the two armies stood in parade formation, just finishing the opening ceremony for the Joint Exercises. It was admittedly quite a sight. On the left-hand side of the field stood 5,000 Northern troops, their blue uniforms augmented with bright red armbands; facing them on the right was an equal number of their Eastern counterparts, accented in yellow.
Grumman chuckled beside him. "Look at them. All lined up like pieces on a chessboard. That takes you back, doesn't it?" Wrath ignored him.
"But then, you were always a surprisingly bad chess player, Mustang," the older man continued. "I never understood it. You had the strategy down, but you were never willing to sacrifice enough of your pieces to win."
Wrath glanced over at him sharply. Was this merely idle reminiscence, or was there some deeper meaning to the words? He offered an indulgent smirk, playing along. "Surrendering too many of them is a lazy way to play. I never feel I've won properly without keeping hold of my important pieces." He narrowed his gaze in Grumman's direction, and added meaningfully, "Especially my queen."
The older man paused for a moment, then nodded sagely. "The queen is important," he concurred, meeting Wrath's eye with a level gaze of his own. "But you can't always spare everyone. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good."
Wrath's glare bored into the older man, as he felt his breathing begin to quicken in anger. What exactly was he implying? Was he threatening Riza in some way? "I don't have time to play your game today, old man," he snarled. "I'm here to observe the Joint Exercises. And rest assured that I will be watching very closely." He turned on his heel and strode out, fists clenched in rage. It was extremely unlikely that Grumman would be willing to hurt his own granddaughter, but the mere suggestion had nearly led Wrath to throttle him on the spot. Best to keep his distance. Whatever the old man was plotting, his agents would find out.
He walked to the tower's parapet and leaned with his elbows propped on the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in the cool morning air. Once his anger had cooled, he opened his eyes and resumed watching the soldiers below. By now they had broken parade formation and were assembling for the first day's exercise, a controlled exchange of artillery barrages. He could clearly make out the call-and-response of the troops as they began to drag their cannons into place. Ah, he had missed this—he had always been exceedingly proud of his soldiers, and loved seeing them at work.
As Führer President, watching the annual demonstration of his nation's military might had been one of his favorite pastimes, and he was pleased to be able to see it one last time. Even if it was just play, a pretend war for toy soldiers. It was a shame that there would be no more real wars. He still held fond memories of the glory days of past battles he had led: Fortsett in the south, Pendleton to the west, and especially Ishval in the east. Ishval had been truly glorious, a symphony of military violence that had sustained itself for years, with a crescendo of pure annihilation that had lasted for months. And he had been its conductor, at the center of it all. He smiled warmly at the memory…
No, the memories. He remembered Ishval from two very different perspectives, since his human host had also been there as a State Alchemist. He felt his smile fade. Mustang had been one of the most powerful alchemists in the war, the pinnacle of destructive power on the battlefield, delivered with his own hands. Wrath should be able to bask in the pride and glory of those memories. And yet he felt…shame? How strange, and how irritating.
Steering his mind away from the thought, he turned his attention back to the armies below him. Yes, he was proud of his military. But this would be his last time seeing them in action, even in a pretend war. By the end of the day, all his toy soldiers would be dead, along with the entire nation of Amestris. That was, after all, the purpose for which they had been created: to be sacrificed for Father's perfection on the Promised Day.
After they were gone, Wrath would still be here. He would still be needed, since Father would never stop in his quest for power. There would be other nations to conquer, other wars to enjoy, other Promised Days. But there would never be another Amestris. The nation that he had built and ruled with his own hands as Führer President Bradley, the country that Mustang had vowed to protect with his life. By sundown it would be gone forever. And for one unguarded moment, that thought made Wrath very angry indeed.
By midmorning, Grumman had ceded the command tower to Wrath—being in the same room as that abomination made him nauseous—and retired to the officers' tent down in the field. The Spring day was growing rapidly warmer, and now he waved a small Xingese fan in one hand to cool himself, while his other hand absently smoothed the fabric of the gray military-issue blanket he kept draped over his legs despite the heat. He knew that behind his back, even his most loyal men whispered pityingly about his twisted and useless limbs, which no doubt grew more monstrous in their imaginations with each retelling. It had been difficult enough to resign himself to using a wheelchair. The men could gossip all they liked, but he was damned if he was going to let them gawk.
His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, although that was less from the weather or the blanket than from anxiety. No matter how well a thing was planned, there were always too many variables that could go wrong, and the stakes this time were astronomical. "I can't take this anymore," he grumbled to Major Miles, the white-haired Briggs commander who was sharing the tent with him. "Let's just aim all the cannons at the tower and be done with it, eh?" He was only half-joking.
"Please stop saying that, sir," muttered Miles. "That's not part of the plan. And he can probably outrun cannon fire anyway."
"True," Grumman sighed.
They were working to keep the homunculus isolated and contained for as long as possible. Before dawn, Grumman's men had severed the phone and telegraph trunk lines connecting East City to Central and South Cities, which meant that contact with the capitol could only be made via the North City communications relay held by their allies. The Führer would hear nothing from headquarters except what they wanted him to hear. At the same time, the North and East armies would string him along by continuing to pretend their "revolt" was imminent.
He'd had fun planning that part. Wrath's agents would find the troops engaging in an extensive round of illegal betting on the Joint Exercises. Bookmaking sheets with statistics for key officers —target shooting accuracy rates, numbers of simulated kills from past exercises, etc.—were circulating widely among the ranks, and to the suspicious mind, it would look like the perfect cover for passing coded messages. Indeed, when the agents looked more closely, they would find that one out of every twenty sheets contained just such a message, each an ambiguous phrase that suggested coordinates or directions for troop movements. The messages were nonsense, but they would look real enough to keep Wrath's people running in circles for hours. Grumman chortled silently to himself; he did love a good stratagem.
But the homunculus would eventually catch on that it was a ruse, and when he tried to leave, the next step in the plan was to detonate the railroad bridge over Lake Optain, trapping his train on the East City side. With the most direct route cut off, Wrath and his men would have to circle around the huge lake, adding some 70 miles to their journey back to Central City. Meanwhile, the North and East forces would mobilize across temporary bridges they'd deployed in secret, and beat them there.
It was their agreed-upon strategy: to delay Wrath as long as possible, but leave him alive. That had been Riza's doing. Any attempt to kill him through military means would almost certainly fail, she had insisted. Even if they were successful, killing Mustang would mean the waste of a valuable asset, since they would need every powerful alchemist they could get their hands on to have a chance of defeating Father. She had argued strenuously that letting Wrath return to Central, where Dr. Marcoh could deal with the homunculus without killing the man, was their best option. And somehow she'd managed to convince Major General Armstrong to go along with it. Grumman frowned at the memory; he had strongly disagreed, but he'd been outvoted.
Now he pushed the thought from his mind and shifted in his wheelchair. Something had caught his eye. Major General Hakuro, the Führer's top man in the East (and longtime pain in Grumman's ass), was making his way to the command tower, trailed by two of his subordinates. "Heads up, Major," Grumman told Miles sharply, pointing as Hakuro disappeared through the tower door. "This might be trouble."
As if on cue, the radio next to him crackled to life. "General Grumman, sir! Corporal Ferguson of the 7th Platoon here. We're coming under fire at the Evergreen Reservoir. Request instructions, sir!" Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background.
"Stand by, Corporal," Grumman answered tersely. His eyes met the major's. There were only a handful of troops at the reservoir, but it was a key staging area for deploying their temporary bridges.
"I'll send some men to assist," Miles declared, picking up his own radio.
Grumman shook his head emphatically, stopping him. "It's got to be Hakuro's men. And if they're attacking the reservoir, they've probably intercepted our communications. We need radio silence, Major."
Miles paused for a moment before nodding. "I'll see to it personally, sir," he answered briskly. He gave a quick salute and strode out of the tent, frowning.
Grumman stared after him thoughtfully. He doesn't completely trust me, he thought with a touch of indignation as he resumed waving his fan. He's smarter than I thought.
Lounging in the command tower, watching the noonday sun beat down over the soldiers and their cannon drills, Wrath's impatience was growing. His agents had found a large number of coded communications being passed among the troops, but had been unable to make any sense of them thus far. The point would likely be moot before long. If the traitors expected to march their armies on the capitol before the eclipse, they would need to mobilize soon. He still hoped to deal with the problem quietly before it got to that point; but either way, he was anxious to conclude matters here and return to Central Command.
At least some communications with Central City had finally been restored. The trunk lines to Central and South Cities were still down, but in the last half hour, General Radcliffe's men had seized back control of the North City communications relay, executing the rebellious Northern troops who were holding it. News from the capitol was expected at any moment.
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the tower's entrance. Major General Hakuro had appeared. "Your Excellency!" he saluted, excitement in his voice. "I've received critical intel on General Grumman's activities!"
Wrath narrowed his eyes; he had no love for Hakuro, a petty tyrant who had made life hell for both Grumman and Mustang back in the day. But the man was useful. "Proceed," the homunculus snapped.
"The Joint Exercises are just a diversion, Your Excellency. The true revolt is already underway in Central, even as we speak. The plan is for Major General Armstrong to lead part of it, and…" He paused and swallowed nervously. "…the First Lady is leading the other part, sir."
Wrath sat straight up in his chair and swore violently. He pointed at a random officer: "You—get on the comm to North City NOW and find out where my wife is!" Paling, the man saluted and ran from the tower.
Within two minutes, the officer returned looking even paler. "Sir, there are reports that the First Lady has gone missing. There are fears that she's been kidnapped—" But Wrath, white with fury, was already up and moving.
"Get the troops back on the train. We're leaving—now!" he yelled at his officers. "Hakuro, have your men detain General Grumman and Major Miles, and anyone else you see fit. Hold them and wait for further orders."
"With pleasure, sir!" Hakuro called after him with a smirk, saluting as the Führer disappeared through the door.
Wrath strode down the tower stairs, mentally calculating the most efficient way to get back to Central. The train would be slower than he liked, but the mountainous Eastern terrain would be tricky for him to navigate on foot at the speeds he travelled. He would ride with his men initially, he decided, then break away on his own once they reached the flatlands, a little ways past Lake Optain.
And then he would deal with his wife's rebellion, once and for all. Wait for me, Riza, he thought with a sinister smile. I'll be home soon.
Miles sped his military jeep as fast as it would go down the gravel road leading back to the exercise field. None of the soldiers within view were exhibiting unusual behavior, but he knew that something was very wrong.
He had hastily mobilized some of his own men to provide backup at the reservoir, but when they had arrived, there had had been no enemy in sight. Corporal Ferguson had calmly reported that his squad had run off the attackers. But there had been no evidence of a firefight: no wounded men, no physical damage to the surrounding rocks and trees, not even a single bullet to show that shots had been fired in the Eastern troops' direction. And they had seemed utterly unconcerned that whoever had attacked them might return in greater numbers. Certain now that the whole thing had been a ruse, Miles had rushed his men back to camp, fearing an ambush.
The ambush never came, but radio chatter from the Eastern HQ brought more worrisome news. Twenty minutes ago, the Führer and his support troops had abruptly boarded their train and headed back to the capitol. It was time—past time—to blow the bridge over Lake Optain, but there had been no explosion from that direction, no evidence that the plan was being carried out.
Miles squealed the jeep to a halt outside the command tent and leapt out with the engine still running, the cannons from the exercise field booming over his head. He kept one hand on his sidearm. Had Grumman been captured? Was he already dead? Heart pounding, he ran into the tent—
And found the old man still sitting peacefully in his wheelchair, fanning himself.
"Grumman!" Miles yelled, furious. "What the hell is going on? The Führer is on his way back to Central—why haven't you blown the bridge?!"
The lieutenant general held up his free hand toward Miles. "Just wait a moment, please, Major. It's almost time." He gestured toward the radio next to him, which crackled on an open channel.
"Approaching," reported a man's voice, as a long train whistle signaled in the background. After a moment he added, "The sheep are in position. Target is stopping."
Miles gaped at the old man as realization dawned. "You're not just going to blow the bridge," he said slowly, "you're going to blow the whole damned train!" A smile was spreading across the old man's lips. Miles exclaimed in horror, "General, that's not part of the pla—" But his words were drowned out by the sound of an explosion so loud that it rattled the radio speaker, while simultaneously echoing more quietly through the air beyond their camp.
The major ran outside of the tent, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand while he scanned the horizon in the direction of the lake. There it was, a column of black smoke rising in the distance. In the field beside him, cannons continued to boom, the troops operating them oblivious to Grumman's handiwork.
Miles stomped back into the tent. "What the hell was that, Grumman?" he demanded.
The old man was still smiling. "I apologize for the wild goose chase, Major. But I couldn't be sure how you would react to my change of plans." He continued fanning himself calmly. "Major Miles, sometimes soldiers, even exemplary ones, have personal feelings that keep them from doing what needs to be done. When that happens, it's the duty of the next solider to step in and do it for them." His smile faded. "Please understand, I took no joy in this. Colonel Mustang was like family to me. But Wrath was the enemy, and he needed to die."
The radio crackled. "Confirmation, sir. The lambs on the bridge have been led to slaughter. We're continuing on to the reservoir as planned."
Grumman nodded to himself with grim satisfaction. "Affirmative. Good work."
Miles swallowed. "I sincerely hope you made the right call, sir."
"So do I," Grumman admitted softly. Then he set aside his fan and pushed the blanket off of his legs, his cheerful smile returning. "Now let's get back to work, shall we?" And to Miles' astonishment, he stood up from the wheelchair and walked with no difficulty out of the tent.
"Your legs—" the major gasped after him.
"Oh yes," he called over his shoulder. "That Dr. Marcoh fellow came by and fixed me up a few months ago. Very pleasant chap. I couldn't let anyone know, of course." Grumman paused outside the tent to watch as Major General Hakuro was escorted away in handcuffs, struggling and cursing, by the same soldiers who had accompanied him to the tower. "I've had his subordinates on my payroll for awhile," he chortled to Miles. "Radcliffe's men in the North, too. They fed Hakuro what I wanted him to hear, and he played right into our hands." Once the major general was past, Grumman mounted the steps to the command tower.
"So what now?" demanded Miles in amazement, finding that he had to hurry to catch up with the older man's quick stride.
"I'll order some of my men to drag the river. I won't be able to relax until I see the corpse with my own eyes. And I'll keep a couple of platoons on patrol, just in case. The rest of the Eastern forces will be yours to command."
"Then you're not coming with us to Central as planned, General?" the major asked.
Grumman shook his head. "Just in case he's still out there. I'm not taking any chances." He paused, then let out a regretful sigh. "And if he is dead…between you and me, Major Miles, I'm not quite ready to face my granddaughter yet." He smiled sadly at the Briggs soldier. "If you see Lieutenant Hawkeye, please tell her that I'm very, very sorry."