Jeff Shaara plunges his readers into the minds of the commanders who gave the orders, and the soldiers who carried them out with the rifle and bayonet.

Omar Bradley, the stoic and thoughtful American general, is responsible for the lives of every American soldier in the extraordinary operation. George Patton, the war's most outspoken and controversial figure, chafed noisily in England, impatiently waiting while others did the fighting. He served first as a simple decoy with a phantom army at his command, a brilliant deception to convince the Germans that Patton will in fact lead an invasion elsewhere. Once the Allied foothold is secure, Patton is finally turned loose, and energizes the historic breakout that drives the Germans in a chaotic retreat across France. Above it all is Dwight Eisenhower, "Ike", whose overall strategies and command decisions unite the American and British forces into an unstoppable fighting machine.

On the mainland, the German defenses along Hitler's Atlantic Wall are commanded by a familiar adversary, Erwin Rommel, one of the 20th century's finest combat soldiers, and the primary German voice from Shaara's previous volume THE RISING TIDE. Faced with the task of tossing the Allied invaders back into the sea, Rommel must confront not only the enemy on the beaches, but the enemies in his own high command, including the increasingly deranged rantings of Adolf Hitler.

Familiar names emerge too, each with a distinctive voice: Churchill, Marshall, Montgomery, Hitler, and more. From GI to general, this centerpiece of Jeff Shaara's saga on the Second World War carries the reader through the events of the most crucial weeks of the Second World War—events that altered the flow of the war, and ultimately, changed history.

1. THE COMMANDO

At Sea, Bay of the Seine January 25, 1944

The air underwater was foul and wet, five men pulling against the thinning oxygen. He sat erect, his back painfully pressed against a coil of wire, part of the electrical system of the craft. She was an X-5 class midget submarine, designed to deliver a magnetic mine or similar explosive device, something to be attached to the bottom of an enemy ship. They were stealthy, of course, no blip on anyone's radar screen, so the British navy had used them on raids all along the coastline, from Norway to the Mediterranean, usually with enormous risk to both the subs and their small crews. But tonight the sub was not armed, and where explosives had once been stored she now carried three passengers and their equipment.

He tried to stretch his back--no room--and twisted his shoulders instead, working out the kinks. The air was growing worse, thin and acrid, bitter smells of oil and wet cloth. There were no dry places in the small sub, every surface had a slick coating of oily grease or water, mostly condensation. The engine made a low hum, deadened by the steel of the bulkhead, the sub lurching slowly from side to side, held now by long low waves that rolled silently toward the beaches.

"Suit up, lads."

The voice was low, a croak from the lieutenant. He knew the order was coming, yanked hard at his small duffel bag, and retrieved it from the tight gap beneath his feet. Inside were all the tools he would need for the mission. The first priority was unrolling the tight spool of the rubber suit, a single piece, zipped open down the front. There was little room to stand, and he fought to slide the thin rubber over his legs, working his feet downward, pushing. He slid the suit beneath his bottom, pushed his arms into the narrow sleeves, freed his fingers, gave one loud grunt, and pulled the suit up over his shoulders. The others were grunting as he was, straining in the tight space, backs and arms bent low, each man forcing himself into his taut suit. He tried to relax, leaning back against the bulkhead, and took a breath, sour air filling his mouth, took another, felt his chest heave in a futile gasp. He was sweating, worse inside the suit, and the air was growing fouler still. No matter how the air cleaners strained, they were not designed to handle the nervous breathing of five men.

He leaned forward again, pulled the zipper tight against his neck, then tugged at the headpiece, sliding it over his ears, snug, only his face revealed. He reached again into the bag, found a small tube of grease, black and oily, squeezed a thick stream onto his fingers, and rubbed it on his face, coating any part that would reflect moonlight. The duffel was nearly empty now, but he found his knife, his only weapon, and strapped it to his leg, tight and secure, then went into the bag again for a small bundle, a cloth pouch attached to a thin belt, and slid it around his waist. The man beside him gave him a nudge with his elbow.

"All set here. You all right, Dundee?"

"Yep. You tight in? Ready?"

The man slapped his hands on Dundee's leg. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Dundee leaned forward, looked past, and said to the third man, "Lieutenant? You set, then?"

The lieutenant scanned both men. Dundee could see his face sweating, a dull wet mask, lit by the yellow glow from the sub's instrument panel. Then the officer began to smear his face with the black grease.

"Don't concern yourselves with me. My job is to worry about you. And right now I'm ready to get this little show moving."

From the main control seat, the sub's commander turned around toward them.

"We'll be...