1635: The Eastern Front

  Jeff had been there, that day. So had Mike's wife Rebecca.

  The only reason they were still alive was because of this man here, and the nearby king he'd served who was now very close to death himself. The two of them had led the charge that turned the tide in that battle. With his own sword, Gustav Adolf had struck down the Croat who'd been about to kill Jeff.

  "I have to remind myself, sometimes," Mike said softly. "Whenever Gustav Adolf really pisses me off. The world is just sometimes a gray place, and that's all there is to it."

  Part Six

  November 1635

  Green to the very door

  Chapter 40

  Dresden, capital of Saxony

  Eddie crashed the plane.

  The soil of the jury-rigged airfield outside of Dresden turned out to be soggier than Noelle or Denise had led him to believe. They'd underestimated the potential problem with landing on such doubtful ground. In Noelle's case, because she was too anxious to get back to Magdeburg; in Denise's, because she was looking forward to seeing Eddie and was by nature given to overconfidence.

  Insouciance, too. The girl could have taken the motto of Mad magazine's Alfred E. Newman for her own: "What, me worry?"

  The front landing gear dug in, the tail came up, the nose buried itself into the ground—so much for the propeller—and slowly, almost gracefully, the plane flipped over onto its back.

  When the little crowd on the airfield reached the plane, they found Eddie and Gretchen Richter hanging upside down in the cabin, still held in their seats by their harnesses. Neither was hurt at all. A bit shaken, but otherwise in excellent condition.

  Not so the aircraft itself, of course.

  Eddie's first words upon emerging were recriminatory in nature. Unusually, for him, he was in a high temper.

  "You told me the airfield was in good shape!"

  Noelle, with the wisdom of her advanced years of life—she'd just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday—was profusely apologetic. Denise, sadly, was still in her teenage years and thus ill-equipped for the task. Her own temperament didn't help, either.

  So, she started with the sort of mumbled, oatmealish, altogether unsatisfactory sort of phrases like "well" and "hey, look" that wouldn't mollify a saint. Then, under a continued barrage of heated comments from Eddie, retreated into her natural belligerence.

  "Hey, buddy, maybe you just fucked up the landing. Ever think of that, huh?"

  Peace was not restored for some minutes. Not until Minnie Hugelmair forced Denise to utter the needed words: "Okay, it was my fault. I'm sorry."

  Minnie didn't actually believe that herself. She thought the accident probably had been Eddie's fault. The soil wasn't that muddy. But unlike Denise, she understood that when the male mind was in formal and court-dress High Dudgeon there was nothing for it but that the woman had to take the blame or nobody would get anything to eat that day. Not in peace, anyway.

  Gretchen Richter's comments, upon exiting the upended aircraft, were more philosophical in nature.

  "That is the first time I have ever flown in an airplane. I believe it will be the last."

  Eventually, amity was restored. A workable semblance of it, at least.

  Eddie spent some time examining the wreckage, then, ruefully, scratched his head.

  "The propeller's scrap. We'll have to get a replacement from Grantville. No way to get one made here that I'd trust flying with."

  "What about the plane itself?" Noelle asked.

  "The engine seems okay. If we can get the plane into the city, we can probably fix the rest of it. But don't ask me how we're going to manage that."

  He, Noelle and everyone else present turned to gaze upon Dresden. The city was well-fortified; surrounded by walls, with a moat in front of those.

  Tata, Joachim Kappel and Eric Krenz were present also, having come out to the airfield with Noelle and her party. Tata and Joachim were there because they were the CoC delegation welcoming Gretchen to the city. Krenz was there because Tata was there and she was less and less inclined to order him away. She would always remember Eberhard fondly, but the duke had been dead for half a year now.

  "Not a problem," said Tata.

  Eddie looked at her. Then, at Kappel and Krenz.

  Kappel shrugged. "Can probably be done."

  Tata sniffed.

  "Not a problem," agreed Krenz. "Tata has a flair for getting her way."

  Tata sniffed again.

  Two days later, it was possible to estimate the expenses involved with reasonable confidence. Tata had indeed gotten her way again. The city had winches and cranes used for construction, did it not? Lots of manpower in the form of soldiers idling about claiming their injuries were much worse than they were, did it not? The plane was designed to be as light as possible, was it not?

  So, the plane came over the moat and the walls. Soon enough, it was sitting in a small city square with a shelter already being built around it. By now, the city's artisans had gotten intrigued in the project—assuming that pay would be forthcoming, of course—and the CoC had decided that having an airfield inside the city itself was a matter of civic pride.

  Eddie had no idea how they'd manage that, but he had more immediate concerns.

  "Don Francisco is going to fire me," he predicted gloomily. "Leaving aside the cost of repairing his aircraft, he has four of his employees doing him no good at all. We're supposed to be in Prague by now."

  Denise was more optimistic. "No, he won't. He's a pretty good guy, actually."

  Coming from her, that was high praise. But it turned out to be justified. Francisco Nasi's radio message surprised Junker. It surprised Noelle even more.

  NOT A PROBLEM. STOP. SPARE NO EXPENSE FIX PLANE. STOP. DRESDEN GOOD PLACE TO BE NOW. STOP. THINGS WILL GET INTERESTING. STOP.

  "That's a Chinese curse, isn't it?" mused Minnie. "I read it somewhere."

  Poznań

  "Torture me as much as you want," the American said, his shoulders squared, his expression resolute. "I said it before, I'll say it again. I won't tell you anything."

  Lukasz stared at him. Then, turned his head to stare at the two hussars and two Cossacks who were also gathered around the APC outside of Poznań's main gate. The city's walls were packed with people, eager to gaze upon the enormous war machine that Opalinski had captured.

  As soon as the grand hetman learned of Lukasz's exploit over the radio, he'd instructed the officers he'd left in charge of the soldiers still in Poznań to do whatever was necessary to bring the APC into the city itself. Or, should that prove impossible, to extend the city's walls to enclose the war machine.

  Either project would be massive, especially since the work had to be done before the worst of winter came. They still hadn't decided which one to adopt.

  But that wasn't Opalinski's concern. His instructions from the grand hetman had been to concentrate on the technical aspect of the problem. Could the APC be put in Polish service? If so, how soon? If not—better still, in addition—could the APC be used as the model for the construction of Polish war machines?

  Hence his interrogation of Mark Johnson Ellis, the only up-timer they'd found among the APC's crew when they captured it. All he'd told them initially was his name, his rank—that was well-nigh incomprehensible; what sort of preposterous rank was a "Speck"?—and what he called his "serial number." That was a string of digits that Lukasz had set aside for later study. Perhaps it was a code of some sort.

  Under further questioning by Lukasz as they made their slow oxen-hauled way to the east, the young American had become a bit more expansive, although not on military subjects. He claimed he was not a regular soldier but what he called a "reservist hauled back to duty for another stupid fucking war." He seemed quite aggrieved over the matter, perhaps because he'd recently been married.

  He also claimed—this might be subterfuge, of course—that he was what he called a "civil engineer," not a "grease monkey." He said the only reason he'd been assigned as the APC's "mechanic"
was because he was the only one in the crew who knew a "crescent wrench" from a "phillips screwdriver."

  He seemed aggrieved over that issue also.

  Still, despite Ellis' very apparent disgruntlement with the foreign policies of the USE's political leadership—"how many fucking times do we have to refight the Vietnam War in another fucking universe?"—he insisted he was a patriot and would therefore provide Lukasz with no information that might harm his nation.

  As he had just done again. Since they'd been speaking in German, the two Cossacks did not understand what the up-timer had said. Had they understood it, they would have burst into riotous laughter.

  As it was, the two hussars both grinned.

  Lukasz didn't doubt at all that the up-timer would start babbling profusely if he was subjected to torture. But information gotten from tortured men was always questionable. More importantly, Lukasz was almost sure the grand hetman wouldn't want to torture any Americans for political reasons. Poland had done quite well in the war so far, but any realist knew that in the long run the USE was the stronger party in the conflict. Sooner or later, they'd need to seek a political settlement.

  Despite their small numbers, the up-timers were very influential in the USE. From what Jozef had told him earlier, it seemed they were not enthusiastic about the war with Poland, which they saw as the product of Gustav Adolf's dynastic ambitions rather any national interest of the USE itself. Mark Ellis' statements certainly supported that interpretation.

  Would it be wise, then, to infuriate the Americans? Which they most likely would be, if they discovered that one of their own had been badly mistreated by his Polish captors.

  Finally, it might all be unnecessary anyway.

  He turned to the last member of the small party standing by the APC. This was a young Polish nobleman by the name of Walenty Tarnowski. He was in his mid-twenties, about the same age as Mark Ellis, and had been a student at the University of Krakow. He was now teaching at Lubrański Academy right here in Poznań. The reason he was teaching here was because he and a few other young scholars in the Commonwealth were trying to establish a new academic discipline they called "Advanced Mechanics." The University of Krakow was the oldest and most prestigious university in Poland; and, like most such institutions, very set in its ways. It had refused to accept Advanced Mechanics as a suitable subject for scholarly study.

  So, being just as stubborn as they were, Tarnowski had come to Poznań. The Lubrański Academy had been founded over a century ago but was still not recognized as a full university. The University of Krakow restricted that status jealously, and refused to allow Lubrański Academy the right to issue degrees. By accepting Tarnowski and allowing him to create a curriculum, the Poznań scholars were thumbing their noses at Krakow.

  Opalinski thought the University of Krakow was being very shortsighted. Be that as it may, for his purposes and those of the Poland's grand hetman it didn't matter what they thought. The man and the skills they needed were here in Poznań.

  "Can you do it alone?" he asked Tarnowski. Deliberately, he spoke in German, so the up-timer could follow the conversation.

  "The question is whether I can do it. Alone or not, doesn't really matter." He gave Ellis a dismissive glance. "He's a civil engineer, not someone knowledgeable in advanced mechanics."

  "The difference is . . . ?"

  "He designs and build roads. Canals. Dams. Sewers. That sort of thing. Basically, he knows how to assemble dirt and rocks and bricks together in various useful ways."

  "Hey!" protested the up-timer.

  Tarnowski ignored him. "As to your question itself . . . ​I believe so, yes. At least, so far as design is concerned. I doubt if we will have the technical skills and mechanical resources to actually make one of the things. We will have to ‘gear down,' as the Americans say. Use what we learn to create something much simpler and more crude, but which will serve Poland well enough on the battlefield."

  The American was now glaring at Tarnowski.

  "Look at it this way," Lukasz said. "Would you rather be tortured?"

  A horse-litter along the Elbe river, in Saxony

  A covered litter carried by horses was a better form of transport than a carriage, anywhere except on the very best roads. Still, it had gotten pretty miserable once they'd passed out of Magdeburg province and entered Saxony. The former elector's realm had never been part of the CPE or the later USE except as a political technicality. Even that, John George had discarded as soon as he could, to his eventual ruin. The roads here were so bad that the litter lurched and threw Jozef about almost as badly as he would have been in a carriage.

  Well, no. That was hyperbole brought on by exasperation. Wojtowicz hadn't gotten a single bruise. In a carriage, he'd probably have broken a bone by now.

  Still, despite the discomfort of the moment, Jozef was in excellent spirits. The solution had come to him before he'd even left Schwerin's city limits.

  Dresden, of course. What better place for a Polish spy to hide in the USE at the moment? It would the last place they'd ever think to look.

  It would be pleasant, too. He'd been to Dresden on three occasions and liked the city.

  More than anything, Jozef Wojtowicz dreaded tedium. At least the time he spent in Dresden would be interesting.

  Linz, Austria

  Janos Drugeth lounged on the river bank, gazing at the Danube. He always found the sight of moving water soothing, for some reason.

  He needed soothing, at the moment. He'd decided to take a break from his exhaustive and seemingly endless round of discussions with the officers in command of the Austrian forces stationed in Linz. He'd forgotten how set in their ways garrisons could be. You'd think that sort of rigid and routinized thinking wouldn't infect soldiers who would be the first to feel the blows if Wallenstein invaded. But it did.

  It was probably the pastries, Janos thought. They were certainly delicious. An officer who ate such pastries every morning and evening of every day of the year—which most of them did, judging by their waistlines—was probably bound to lapse into a sugary view of the world.

  Surely the Bohemians would share that outlook, and not invade. They had excellent pastries in Prague as well.

  Janos had brought a tablet and a pen with him. Sitting up straight, he brought them out and began composing a letter to Noelle. He was doing so simply because he felt like it. He wouldn't be able to post the letter for a while since he had no idea where she was at the moment. Possibly Magdeburg, possibly Prague, possibly Grantville.

  That she might be in Dresden never crossed his mind at all. Noelle was a sensible woman. Why would she choose to be in a city that was clearly on the edge of chaos and ruin?

  Chapter 41

  Zielona Góra

  "It happened weeks ago!" Thorsten Engler was a very even-tempered man, but he was feeling decidedly peevish at the moment. You could even say, angry.

  "Weeks," he repeated.

  The radio operator who'd handed him the message was looking simultaneously apprehensive and indignant, the way a man will when he can see he's about to get blamed for something that was no fault of his own.

  Jason Linn put a hand on Engler's shoulder. Not to restrain him, simply to remind him that there was an external world that had an objective reality outside of the swirling furies of his mind.

  "Captain, there's no sense in yelling at Corporal Schwab. He's just the one the message passed through."

  Schwab gave Linn a quick, thankful glance. For his part, Thorsten took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then let it out slowly. He'd first discovered that technique for controlling his temper at the age of six.

  "Indeed," he said stiffly. Just as stiffly, he gave the corporal a nod. "Thank you for bringing me this message, Schwab. You may go."

  After Schwab left, Thorsten lifted the message sheet above his head, as if to slam it down somewhere. But, again, he took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly. Then, quite gently, he se
t the message down on a table in the officers' mess. The table was one of several that had been brought into the large main room of a house very close to the city's center. It was called the "officers' mess," but it was open to what you might call established sergeants like Jason.

  Shaking his head, Thorsten pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "I can't believe they didn't tell me right away. That was weeks ago."

  Jeff Higgins came into the mess. "What was weeks ago?"

  "Caroline was there—in Stockholm. When the queen was assassinated and Kristina almost was."

  Higgins frowned. "I thought you knew that already."

  "Of course I knew. But I didn't know what had happened to her. She was often at Kristina's side. Was she hurt? Killed? There was no news! And with those people in Stockholm, I could hardly assume that no news was good news." The term those people could have been milked for venom.

  Jeff pursed his lips. "Um . . . ​Yeah, I see what you mean. They're still pretty traditional up there. That's a polite way of saying ‘medieval.' If you're not royalty, nobility or at the very least some sort of official, nobody will think to mention that ‘oh, yeah, and Joe the Butcher got killed too.' I take it she is okay? Caroline?"

  "Yes, she's fine. As it happens—thank God—she wasn't at the site of the crime when it happened. She was still in her room, packing."

  Like many down-timers who associated with Americans a lot, Thorsten was more relaxed about blasphemy than most. Eric Krenz had practically turned it into a art form.

  "So how'd you finally find out?" asked Jeff.

  Engler looked a bit embarrassed. He nodded at Linn, who had taken a seat at an adjoining table. "It was his idea."

  Jason grinned. "He was having the radio guys send queries every other day. Waste of time, of course, because he was sending them as ‘Thorsten Engler.' " Linn jeered. "Who the hell is that? Sounds like a peasant."