1634: The Baltic War (8 page)

Come on, come on,
Jesse thought.
Let's get going, Woody.

As if reading his mind, Woodsill called. "Two, Lead has you in sight, beginning run. We'll take a left climb out."

Jesse wracked the aircraft around and immediately spotted the other Belle, which, having circled well to the south, was now at no more than three hundred feet, hurtling at full power. The lower aircraft passed directly over the trees where the suspected enemy activity had been spotted. Just as he reached the edge of the trees, Woody turned energy into altitude, zoom climbing to the left. A group of soldiers sent a futile volley into the sky, far behind the climbing aircraft.

Keeping the lead aircraft in sight, Jesse put the stick over and pushed left rudder, putting his nose inside of Woodsill's turn. Performing a three dimensional aerial ballet, the two Belles continued turning, with Jesse sliding his aircraft "up the line" until the two were once again a rejoined flight.

The Richter Express once again flew over the enemy camp. People on the ground a thousand feet below hugged the dirt in their holes, fearing what might come. Woody reported what they had found.

"Two, target is a hidden gun park under trees. Tents, wagons, guns, and what appear to be unfinished bunkers. Lots of people down there. We might catch a loaded caisson or two."

Jesse's jaw tightened into a hunter's grin as Woodsill rapidly went on.

"We'll racetrack north and south, right-hand turns, ten second spacing. Aimpoint is just inside the tree line. Fire at six hundred feet, four rockets per pass, and watch for secondaries. Copy, Two?"

Jesse replied. "Roger. Two copies all. Right racetrack, ten seconds."

Woody gave the signal. "Lead's in the pitch . . . now!" His aircraft turned sharply right, rolling out just as sharply when aligned with the target. Jesse continued north, counting to ten, and then copied the other aircraft's steep turn and rolled out precisely behind it. Focusing entirely on lead, he waited, waited.

Suddenly, the aircraft ahead changed aspect, beginning a dive. Jesse again counted to ten and followed in a dive of his own. For the first time, he could focus on the target. From a slant range of no more than half a mile, Jesse could pick out shapes among the trees. Conforming to Woody's dive angle, he displaced slightly left of Woody's path and waited for him to fire.

Suddenly, smoke and fire burst from under Woody's wings, as four rockets came off their rails and streaked downward. Woody's aircraft pulled up into a climbing right turn and then it was Jesse's turn. He'd begun counting when Woody fired, but when he reached ten, he held fire for a couple more seconds. Woody's rockets had already impacted in the trees, four explosions throwing dirt, branches and smoke skyward. Just as Jesse fired his rockets, he saw a small figure running out of the woods, chased by a larger one in skirts. A woman following a child. He didn't have time to look longer, pulling hard and banking into his turn. He could hear his rockets explode in the trees beneath him as Stearns craned his neck, looking behind.

"Christ, Jesse, there are women and kids in there!" Stearns shouted.

Busy following the first aircraft, Jesse did not turn his head or answer immediately. As he reached a trail position behind Woody, he turned toward Stearns and asked, "Mike, did you see any secondary explosions?"

His face pale, Stearns replied, "Uh, no. Not that I could tell."

"Okay," Jesse said. "Maybe we'll get lucky next pass."

He didn't say anything further. With Stearns—in this respect, he was different from most politicians Jesse had known—you didn't have to waste time with stolid and antiseptic little speeches about the "unfortunate but inevitable side effects that come with war." Mike detested the phrase
collateral damage
as much as Jesse did himself, and he was perfectly aware that given the nature of seventeenth-century armies, almost all of them had lots of camp followers mixed in with the soldiery.

You simply
couldn't
fight against such an army without accidentally killing or wounding some women and children. Mike's protest had been the simple horror of the moment, that he'd just swallow and let go. Unlike—some very sour memories got stirred up here—any number of politicians Jesse could remember from back up-time. Men who had no hesitation ordering something done—nor any hesitation thereafter washing their hands of the consequences that had been guaranteed by those same orders.

The second pass was performed like the first, except that they now had smoke and dust as an aimpoint. Woody aimed to the right side of the smoke and Jesse slightly more left. Once again, Jesse and Mike watched as rockets hurled from Woody's aircraft. This time, as they impacted, there was a huge secondary as one of the rockets found something very explosive. Fire and smoke belched upward with a gigantic sound. Without thinking, Jesse fired his rockets and stomped left rudder, turning to avoid the still climbing smoke and debris. The blast's concussive force shoved them sideways. Stearns stared out the window on his side, peering intently downward until the turn took the scene from his view. As he regained control and rolled out, Jesse could see where his rockets had struck. He saw no secondaries, but there were several fires burning down there and he could see people prone on the ground. Where Woody's rockets had struck, there was nothing but a large smoke-filled gap, the trees blown flat, flames and smaller explosions hiding the ground itself.

The rockets had done better than they usually did. Quite a bit better, in fact. But that was part of war, also. You got good luck as well as bad. More of the former than the latter, if you were aggressive but kept just this side of recklessness.

Once the two aircraft had rejoined, Jesse could smell his own acrid sweat and tried not to consider what might have happened if he had flown directly behind Woody on that pass. He'd crossed that line some, he knew. This really had been too risky, after all, with Mike on board. There'd probably be hell to pay after Admiral Simpson found out.

So be it. Jesse wiped his brow and grasped the radio mike.

"Lead, Two. Good show, gentlemen. Well done. I suggest you revisit that spot in a day or two. That secondary was no caisson. It was probably a hidden magazine. Keep hitting the tree line all around their camp. They're sure to have more such stores around the perimeter. Oh, one more thing. Should we ever do that again, I suggest that a thirty second spacing between aircraft might be more suitable."

Woody replied crisply, "Yes, sir. That might be more comfortable."

Jesse felt almost calm, now. "Excellent work, Woody. By the way, you are now a captain and Ernst is now a first lieutenant. Now let's complete this mission and the two of you can go home and wet down your promotions. I'll be sending you some help before very long."

The rest of the flight went smoothly enough. While Woody and Ernst distracted the French pickets by overflying their positions, Jesse slipped in behind, flying slow and low. Lined up on the grassy sward just outside the city wall, Jesse carefully picked his aim point and flew his approach only a few knots above stall speed. Power up and nose abnormally high, he firmly dropped the Belle onto the turf, rolling to a stop in only a short distance. He actually had to add power to taxi toward the outlying bastion where Swedish soldiers waited to aid them. After Jesse had shut down, the soldiers pushed the aircraft into dead space next to the bastion and surrounded the machine with fascines readied for the purpose. It would be well guarded for their overnight stay.

Mike found Gustav Adolf waiting for him in one of the many rooms of Luebeck's Rathaus, which he'd turned into his central headquarters for the siege. He had only one aide with him, Colonel Nils Ekstrom. He and his brother Siguard were among the small circle of Swedish officers that Gustav used for the most delicate matters. That was a signal, in itself, that the emperor wanted to be able to speak freely—which, with Gustav, usually meant bluntly. If he'd had his usual coterie of officers, he'd be quite a bit more discreet. But Ekstrom was his closest adviser in Luebeck, and Mike knew the emperor had complete faith in him.

Mike had to struggle a little to keep his expression solemn. There was something about the bearing of the emperor and the colonel—perhaps they were breathing a bit too heavily, it was hard to know exactly—that made it clear to Mike that they'd just gotten here themselves. Having walked there very quickly, so they wouldn't have to admit to Mike that they'd actually been standing on the city walls watching his plane land, just as if they were one of the city's bumpkins, instead of awaiting his presence in royal serenity.

As was his way, Gustav went right past the usual formalities.

"So!" he half-bellowed. "Deny it if you will! It was
you
who gave the order to pass our medical secrets to the damned Spaniards outside Amsterdam." The sneer that followed was as royal as you could ask for. "Or will you try to claim—I believe you scheming up-timers call it 'plausible deniability'—that the fault was entirely that of the nurse. Anne—Anne—"

He cocked an eye at Ekstrom.

"Anne Jefferson," the colonel supplied. "Although it might be Anne Olearius, now. She was to be married to that Holstein diplomat, I'm told, and she may insist on that peculiar American custom of women changing their last names to their husbands'."

"It's actually an English custom in its origins, I believe," Mike said mildly. "They're not married yet, anyway. As for the other, Your Majesty, the answer is yes. Of course I'm the one who gave the order. Leaving aside the fact that she's no more careless than any good nurse, why would Anne have been carrying the formula with her in the first place—when she was simply posing for Rubens?"

"Ha! You admit it, then!"

That was . . .

About a three-quarter bellow. Between the volume, the tone, and various subtleties in the emperor's expression lurking under the bull walrus ferocity on the surface, Mike decided Gustav Adolf was in negotiating mode. He did have a temper, and he was perfectly capable of throwing a genuine royal tantrum at whatever subordinate had roused his ire. But he was very shrewd, too, and knew that his famous temper could also serve as a useful bargaining ploy.

It was all old hat, for Mike. In times past, when he'd been the president of his mine workers local having a confrontation with management, Quentin Underwood had used exactly the same tactic. Granted, Gustav was much better at it—not to mention having the status of an emperor instead of a mere mine manager, to give weight to the thing. But a bargaining tactic is a tactic, no matter how different the circumstances of the negotiation.

So, he responded with his usual riposte. Calm, forebearing reason. Not
quite
suggesting that the emperor was a five-year-old having a childish fit, but bordering on it.

" 'Admit' is hardly the correct term, Your Majesty. The ploy was obviously to our benefit and could not possibly do us any harm."

"Do us no harm! You may well have saved the lives of thousands of enemy soldiers—the same ones baying at our allies in Amsterdam like a great pack of wolves."

"Oh, hardly that, Your Majesty. To begin with, chloramphenicol is so hard to make in any quantities—even for us, much less the Spaniards—that providing them with the formula was almost entirely a symbolic gesture. I doubt if more than a dozen Spanish soldiers will benefit from it, over the next year—and they will be entirely top officers, not the men who would be storming the ramparts. As for the rest—"

He shrugged. "My wife tells me that after the first week, the Spanish have not been pressing the siege. And pressed it even less, after we passed them the formula. They're behaving like watch dogs, not wolves. Which makes perfect sense, since the cardinal-infante is really aiming at a settlement, and would far rather keep Amsterdam and its productive population intact than see it all destroyed in a sack."

Gustav glowered at him, for a moment. "Still. Michael, you are trying to
maneuver
me. Do not deny it!"

Mike decided it was time to show a little of the bull walrus himself. So he almost sneered. Not quite. "Oh, for the love of—"

Now, a sigh, almost histrionic. Not quite.

"Gustav II Adolf, you've been a king for over twenty years—and a smart one, to boot. You know perfectly well that
every
adviser you have is trying to 'maneuver' you—if you insist on that term—practically every time they talk to you."

"Not me," said Ekstrom mildly.

Mike glanced at the colonel, and gave him an acknowledging nod. "No, Nils, not you. Not directly, at least. But—don't deny it, since we seem to be demanding that all cards be placed up on the table—your whole stance toward the emperor is a maneuver, in one sense. Yes, I know you simply try to help him determine what his own wishes really are. That's part of what a monarch needs."

Mike smiled. "Let's say that the emperor is using you as a tool to maneuver himself, if you prefer."

Ekstrom smiled back. "Yes, I would prefer it. And it's not a bad description of my duties"—he glanced apologetically at the emperor—"if Your Majesty will allow me the liberty of saying so."

Gustav puffed out his thick blond mustache. "And why not? Since my prime minister takes far greater liberties."

He began pacing a little, half-stomping in the heavy cavalry boots he favored. That was a familiar sign to Mike—to Nils also, judging from the slight look of relief on the colonel's face. It meant the sumo wrestler preliminaries were over, for the most part, and the serious negotiations were about to begin.

"And you think we should do everything in our power to move that along," the emperor said. Almost growling the words, but not quite.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I do."

"Why? Michael, I am quite certain that when I launch our counteroffensive in the spring that I will crush the Danes and beat the French bloody. That stinking traitor Bernhard also, if he lets his arrogance rule him instead of his brain, and gets in my way. The Spaniards too, if they come out into the field."

"But they won't," said Mike firmly. "I don't care what they promised the French. The Spanish shed most of the blood in the naval war, and they are in no mood to do the same on land. Don Fernando has never sent more than a token force to the siege here. And when the fighting starts in the spring, he'll only move his main forces out just far enough to look like he's doing something—but will make sure he can get back behind his fortifications if your offensive succeeds."

He gauged that the time was right to adopt informality. "Gustav, on
that
subject we have—being blunt, the Committee of Correspondence in Amsterdam has—superb intelligence. Partly, by the way, as a side effect of the medical assistance we've been providing the army outside the walls of the city. Gretchen's made sure that at least half of those medical advisers are CoC members."

That roused the emperor's temper again, as Mike had known it would. But since it would happen in any event, best to get it out of the way now.

"That damned Richter! All we need in the mix is that she-devil in Amsterdam! And that was your doing, too! Deny it!"

"Well, in this instance, I will deny it," said Mike patiently. "None of us had any idea the NUS embassy to the Netherlands would wind up getting trapped in a siege in Amsterdam. Or"—he arched an eyebrow—"are you now suggesting I somehow manipulated Richelieu and Christian IV and Charles I and Philip IV into forming the League of Ostend and launching a sneak attack on the Dutch? If so, that makes me the devil himself."

Gustav waved a meaty hand impatiently. "Fine, fine. You did
not
plot and scheme to plant Richter in Amsterdam. She's still there, stirring up trouble."

Mike maintained the same patient tone. "By all accounts the city's population is not restive at all. Gretchen's people are actually helping to maintain morale and discipline. Becky tells me that Fredrik Hendrik has now had three meetings with her, all of which went quite cordially."

Gustav stopped his pacing and frowned. "Is that true?"

"Yes, it is. Even Gretchen is now willing to admit that a good settlement in the Low Countries would be preferable to a deepening of the conflict. So Becky tells me, anyway." Mike smiled. "Mind you, Gretchen's definition of a 'good settlement' is pretty astringent."

"Ha! I can imagine! Not only complete freedom of religion but sheer anarchy of expression and belief!" The emperor's mustache was practically quivering.

Mike responded a bit stiffly. "I simply think of it as freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and the freedom to assemble. We have the same principles encoded in the constitution of Thuringia, as you well know, and—as you well know, also—I am doing my level best to incorporate them in the new constitution of the USE. I probably won't be able to pull it off—yet—because I think Wilhelm will win the election. But those are my beliefs, and I will not waver from them."

The emperor got a distracted look on his face. "Speaking of which, when do you propose to hold the elections?" He gave Mike a look through those bright blue eyes that reminded Stearns that the emperor was a very shrewd man, beneath the sometimes blustery exterior. "You know—if you were a proper schemer and plotter—you would hold the elections right in the middle of the campaign. Most Germans would be more comfortable with Wilhelm Wettin as their prime minister, I think also. But . . . in time of war? I'm not so sure, Michael. You might get reelected."

Mike shrugged. "And so what? The war would be over, soon enough, and then I would face a reluctant electorate when it came time to implement the policies I want. Better, I think, to let things unfold at their own pace. Once Germany has the experience of Wettin in power, people may feel differently about things."

Ekstrom had been following the discussion closely, and by now had become an astute observer of the politics of the USE. "You think he will insist on restricting the franchise? That will be the explosive issue, you know, not the religious business. I wouldn't think Wilhelm would be that stubborn."

Gustav Adolf was now listening intently also, but not saying anything. There was more in his stance and expression of an interested and curious observer than that of a ruler who had to make a decision any time soon. Mike wasn't positive, but he didn't think Gustav had any definite opinion on the subject of who should—and should not—be a citizen of the United States of Europe.

There was no reason he needed to have one, after all. Not yet, at least. His title of Emperor of the USE might be abstractly more prestigious than his title of the King of Sweden, but Gustav's real power stemmed from the latter, not the former. In Sweden, he ruled as a monarch, with none of the constitutional restrictions he faced as emperor of the new German nation. And as thorny and potentially volcanic as the problem of defining citizenship was for Germans, it was simply not an issue in Sweden.

"Left to his own devices, Nils," Mike said, "I think Wilhelm would prefer to just let the controversy over citizenship die a natural death. He knows that my party will introduce a proposal for complete and universal adult suffrage, whether I'm still the prime minister or simply the leader of the opposition. And no matter what, I can't see any realistic outcome of any election held within the next year or two that didn't produce a legislature at least one-third of whose members belonged to my party. In the lower house, we might even wind up with a majority. So all Wilhelm would have to do is quietly see to it that enough of his supporters agreed to it. And since the prime minister has no say-so over measures adopted in a special constitutional convention, he couldn't even be blamed for not vetoing it."

"But . . ." The emperor cocked his head.

Mike shrugged again. "He owes too many favors, Gustav. Way too many. He made the mistake—this is my opinion, anyway—of going for a quick victory instead of taking the time to solidify his position. Those 'Crown Loyalists' of his are not really a political party so much as a coalition of several different parties, first of all. Second, they don't have anything you could properly call a program. What they have is basically just a pastiche." He grinned, rather sarcastically. " 'What we don't like about Mike Stearns,' is really all it amounts to—which is not the same thing as 'what we believe.' And finally—"

He started scratching his jaw, in an old mannerism, before remembering Francisco Nasi's insistence that it was a bad habit for a political leader. Before she left, Becky had told him the same thing.

"And finally"—he dropped his hand—"the only real cement that holds that ramshackle 'party' of his together is a complicated crosshatch of favors exchanged between Wettin and a large number of people, most of whom—almost all of whom, except for Quentin Underwood and a few other up-timers—are noblemen of one sort or another. There are a few of them, like the landgrave and landgravine of Hesse-Kassel, who are smart enough and secure enough that I think they'd just as soon see the citizenship issue buried. Ironically, I think Wilhelm's brother Ernst feels the same way about it."

That last sentence was as much of a question aimed at the emperor, as it was a statement. Ernst Wettin had decided to let his brother Albrecht assume the position of Duke of Saxe-Weimar after Wilhelm abdicated in order to run for office in the Commons. Instead, Ernst had accepted Gustav Adolf's offer to become the imperial administrator for the Upper Palatinate. Officially, he still retained his title as one of the dukes of Saxe-Weimar, but that no longer really meant very much.

Gustav nodded. "Yes, I think you are right. Judging from what I hear from General Banér, at least. Ernst is too fussy for Banér's taste—of course, almost anyone is too fussy for that man—but he never issues the sort of complaints about stupid petty aristocrats that he normally bestows on German noblemen."