1636: The Ottoman Onslaught Read online

  Minnie had come over with him, a candle in hand. She held the light over the equipment he’d brought, inspecting it. Judging from the knowing expression on her face, she understood a lot more about radios than he did—which wasn’t saying much, of course.

  “Very nice,” she said. “But you forgot to bring an antenna. And there’s no battery.”

  Leopold had heard of “antenna” and “battery.” But he couldn’t remember what they did or even what they looked like.

  Minnie must have seen the helpless look on his face, because she smiled and patted him on the cheek.

  “Never mind, you did good,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”

  The pat on the cheek was quite outrageous, for someone in her position to administer to an archduke of Austria. The hand placed firmly on the back of his neck and the long kiss that followed were even more outrageous.

  But Leopold didn’t mind, under the circumstances. At all.

  Eventually, to his regret, the kiss ended. Minnie patted him on the cheek again and began walking toward the entrance to the cellars. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to get that door sealed so no one knows we’re down here.”

  He followed after her. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “We withstood Suleiman for weeks—and would have done the same—did do the same—whatever—when the Turks came again fifty years from now. Then. Whenever.”

  They reached the stairs and started up, moving slowly with just the one candle to light the way.

  “And now,” he continued, trying not to wail, “we’ve lost the city after such a short siege!”

  Minnie stopped abruptly and turned to look back down at him.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “The siege of Vienna has just begun.”

  Chapter 41

  Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

  When Rebecca entered the small audience chamber in the palace, she found Gustav Adolf half-slumped in a chair. The expression on the emperor’s face was complex: chagrin mixed with belligerence, overlaid by a sort of stolid resignation.

  “Your husband was right and I was wrong. You may gloat for half a minute,” he said. “No more than that, however, or I will become—what’s that up-time expression? ‘Testy,’ I think. Which doesn’t make any sense, when you think about it. How is aggravation a test? But I often find American expressions to be absurd.”

  “As do I, Your Majesty,” said Rebecca, keeping her expression bland. “For instance, what could possibly be the meaning of ‘cut the mustard’?”

  “I forgot,” he said. “You never gloat, do you?” He indicated a nearby chair with a meaty hand. “Please, have a seat. Piazza is right. You will make a superb secretary of state. Which is good, because your first assignment begins immediately.”

  As she lowered herself into the chair, Rebecca allowed a little frown of concern to crease her face. “The results of the election are not actually final, Your Majesty. Until then—”

  “Be damned to all that!” It was a testimony to the emperor’s short temper that he skirted blasphemy. “No one doubts that the Fourth of July Party won a clear majority—and I haven’t time for petty republican foolishness. If Wettin objects, I’ll toss him into the palace prison.”

  He pointed a thick finger at the floor. “It’s down there, don’t think it isn’t! I made sure of that when I approved the architect’s plans for the palace. It’s even got a toilet. That’s for the guards, of course. The prisoners can make do with chamber pots!”

  Rebecca had to fight down the urge to smile. She knew about the small dungeon that Gustav Adolf had incorporated into the palace when it was constructed. She also knew that the only use the emperor had ever made of it was to lock up one of his mastiffs when the beast got unruly. But he’d let the dog out after only two hours.

  No one in the world took Gustav II Adolf lightly. The man could be ferocious, at times. But he really didn’t have the makings of a true autocrat—certainly not one along the lines of Ivan the Terrible or Caligula.

  “You do not actually have the authority to do that, Your Majesty,” Rebecca said mildly.

  His savage frown was replaced by an equally savage grin. “Says who? I remind you, Frau Abrabanel, that although that we have a constitution the specific powers and limits upon them of the monarch are stated only vaguely and subject to wide interpretation.” He slapped his hand on the armrest of his chair. “I make sure of that, hah! Which means that any major dispute will need to be settled in the courts.”

  The frown reappeared. “Courts which your scheming husband did his best to pack with republican malcontents and quibblers when he was prime minister, I grant you that. But all judges have one characteristic in common, revolutionary rascals or not.”

  The grin reappeared. “They deliberate very, very slowly. So by the time the courts finally rule that I exceeded my authority as emperor when I tossed Wilhelm Wettin into my dungeon and I have to let the wretch out, you will already—no, long since—have made a settlement of the Bavarian issue.”

  He fluttered his hands in a shooing motion. “So be off and about it, Rebecca. I will settle for that bastard Maximilian going into exile—anywhere he wants as long as it’s outside the USE and not on its borders—and replaced as duke by his brother Albrecht. But make sure Albrecht understands that Bavaria will henceforth be a protectorate of the United States of Europe. That includes stationing a small USE garrison—fine, fine, it can be an expanded ambassadorial guard—in Munich.”

  Rebecca opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, after a brief hesitation, nodded her head.

  Put that way…

  “What about Regensburg?” she asked.

  Gustav Adolf glowered fiercely at… nothing in particular. “It remains—now and forevermore—within the jurisdiction of the Oberpfalz. If the Bavarians object, tell them that’s the price of starting and losing a war. No, no! Add that they can be thankful I don’t seize all of northern Bavaria down to the line of the Amper River—which—”

  He wagged a thick admonishing finger. “You can tell the Bavarian swine I’m sorely tempted to do anyway.”

  Again, he made the shooing motion with his hands. “And now, again—be off!”

  * * *

  As soon as Rebecca left the emperor’s presence, she went straight to the palace’s radio room. She made no attempt to disguise her movements nor did she use any code in her transmissions other than the approved imperial code. Neither subterfuge would have had any point. Gustav Adolf would certainly find out where she’d gone—he’d expect it, actually—and while she could use a code he couldn’t decipher, that would cause more trouble than it would be worth. Not to mention the nuisance of having to transmit a coded message via a radio operator who had no understanding of what he was saying and was almost sure to garble the message.

  The first message was to Michael:

  Gustav Adolf agrees to Bavarian settlement. Maximilian to go into exile outside the USE and not on its borders. Albrecht to replace him. Bavaria to become USE protectorate.

  She saw no point in further elaboration. Her husband was quite capable of reading between the lines and taking the needed military measures.

  She sent the exact same message to Noelle in Prague. Noelle would relay it to Janos Drugeth, Duke Albrecht and Wallenstein.

  The message she sent to Vienna was more diplomatic:

  Emperor Gustav II Adolf has decided to reach a settlement with Maximilian, if possible. The duke to go into exile and be replaced by his brother Albrecht.

  She saw no need to rub the Austrian emperor’s face in the fact that Bavaria would henceforth be a satellite of the USE. Ferdinand was smart enough to figure that out for himself—and quite smart enough to understand that protesting the fact would be pointless.

  That immediate task done, she contemplated her next course of action. And, almost immediately, realized that there was a problem she had completely overlooked in the just-passed discussion with the emperor. So,
she had the radio operator send yet another message to her husband:

  Will need airfield ready for operation ASAP in Freising.

  Then, back she went to the audience chamber. Fortunately, while Gustav Adolf had already left he had only done so to attend to what were euphemistically referred to as “personal toiletries.” No matter how august the imperial personage might be, some tasks simply couldn’t be relegated to a servant.

  He returned a short time after she was ushered into the chamber.

  “Did you forget something?” he asked, lowering himself into his seat. Rebecca, for her part, had decided to remain standing. She told herself, firmly, that was not for the sake of being able to flee the imperial presence in great haste—even though she was sure Gustav Adolf was not going to react well to her next…

  What to call it? Proposal was not strong enough, certainly, but command was preposterous. One did not “command” Gustav II Adolf, Lion of the North, King of Sweden, Emperor of the United States of Europe, High King of the Union of Kalmar—you could now toss Lord Protector of Bavaria into the title salad—to do anything.

  She settled for elucidation of stern necessity to the royal understanding. In her own mind only, of course.

  Sure enough, after she explained her reason for returning, the emperor glared up at her fiercely.

  “Your husband put you up to this!” he accused.

  “No, he did not, Your Majesty. I simply—”

  It was time for a change in their relationship, she realized. As the secretary of state of what was, after all, Gustav Adolf’s government, she could neither afford nor tolerate maintaining the same formalities she had always adhered to prior to this moment.

  So, she threw up her hands with exasperation, plopped herself into a chair facing the emperor, and exclaimed: “Gustav, it is long past time you gave up this pointless stubbornness on the subject! Those warplanes serve no purpose buzzing around in northwestern Poland. Fine—keep one of them—no, two, in case one requires maintenance—to alert Lennart in the unlikely event that Grand Hetman Stanislaw Koniecpolski goes mad and attempts a sortie from Poznań. But that’s all Torstensson needs up there!”

  The glare on Gustav Adolf’s was replaced by look of concentration. “No, Lennart needs at least three. One—as you say—as a reserve in case maintenance is needed. When maintenance is needed, rather, since it always is with those complex machines. One to maintain a patrol around Poznań—that’s as much to fray the Poles’ nerves as anything else. Another to patrol farther afield, in case that bastard Wladyslaw tears himself away from his whores in Warsaw long enough to organize an army to march to the relief of Poznań.”

  He grunted softly, a sound that suggested mollification. “I admit I could probably now spare the rest of the planes. Both Belles, certainly, and at least one of the two Dauntlesses.”

  “One of the Belles,” Rebecca countered. “They’re not much use for anything except reconnaissance. Michael will need real warplanes to fight those Ottoman airships.”

  “Nonsense!” bellowed Gustav Adolf. “The truth is that none of our so-called warplanes will be of any use against airships—or other warplanes, if the Turks ever manage to build any—and you know it as well as I do!”

  He was… right about that. Nonetheless, Rebecca wanted the best planes she could get for her husband and the forces he’d soon be leading against the Ottomans.

  “Still, the Gustavs and Dauntlesses might be of use against the armored wagons the Turks are reported to have. The Belles…” She shrugged. “They are simply too small, too light.”

  “Nonsense!” he bellowed again. “Must I remind you that it was a Belle that destroyed a Danish warship at Wismar?”

  She shook her head. “Only because Hans Richter rammed the plane into the ship after he was wounded. If he had simply used the Belle’s missiles instead of turning the plane itself into a missile, he would have done no more than superficial damage.”

  The emperor really did have a magnificent glare. His heavy brow loomed over his icy blue eyes like a cliff; the eyes themselves peered down that big heavy nose like the eyes of a raptor—and somehow he even managed to impart a sense of fury into those glacier-colored irises. Rebecca was quite impressed.

  She was also certain that it was mostly for show. Always hard to tell with Gustav II Adolf, of course. But she was willing to take the risk.

  “Let Michael have one of the Gustavs and both Dauntlesses,” she proposed, “along with one Belle. That will leave Lennart with the other Belle and two Gustavs—enough for his purposes.”

  The glare lasted for perhaps another three seconds. Then it was replaced by a look of calculation. A look of cunning, you might also say.

  “I will agree—on one condition. Go talk to those two pestiferous airplane designers in Grantville. They will listen to you. Tell them they must—must, you hear?—stop their petty squabbling and combine their resources. We need warplanes that can attack airships—and other planes, soon enough. Someone will build them; the French, if not the Turks.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “But… why me? I know nothing about airplanes.”

  “You know how to get people to do things.” He grinned, suddenly. “As you have just demonstrated once again.”

  He made that same two-handed shooing gesture. “Now, go. Go. I will tell Lennart to send a Belle and the two Dauntlesses to the Third Division as soon as an airfield is ready to receive them in Freising. You did tell your husband to build one immediately, I assume?”

  “Ah… Yes, I did.”

  “Such an efficient woman. Now, off you go.”

  * * *

  Once in the corridor outside the audience chamber, Rebecca started muttering to herself. “So which one of us, exactly, just got done maneuvering the other?”

  With Gustav II Adolf, that was always hard to tell.

  Freising, Bavaria

  Mike Stearns handed the deciphered radio message to Christopher Long. “See to it, Christopher. And do it quickly.”

  His adjutant stared down at the message. “Ah…”

  Mike chuckled. “Get Jeff Higgins to advise you.”

  “He knows how to build an airfield?”

  “Probably not. But he’s a geek so he’ll figure it out.”

  * * *

  Jeff shook his head. “Geek, is it? Figure it out. That’s an insult to geekdom.”

  Long’s frown seemed to be permanently affixed to his face by now. “What is a ‘geek,’ anyway?”

  “You wouldn’t understand if I explained. It’s a geek thing.” Jeff pursed his lips. “The reason it’s an insult to geekdom is because geeks like stuff that’s complicated and building an airfield is about as simple as it gets. There are only…”

  He paused for a moment, adding them up.

  “Three things involved. First, find a flat piece of land that’s at least four hundred yards long—five hundred would be better—and between twenty and thirty yards wide. Second, it needs to be manicured. That means carefully swept for any sort of obstructions and those need to be removed. Any rock bigger than a piece of gravel; any and all tree stumps; any logs or even big sticks—anything that a plane’s landing gear could stumble over. Third and last, do whatever you can to make the surface as hard as possible.”

  Long’s frown hadn’t budged. “And that is done… how?”

  “In a perfect world, we’d macadamize the surface. That means covering it with crushed stones. Well, basically. Some kind of binder helps, too. But we haven’t got time for that. I’d recommend you start by finding some heavy wagons and driving them back and forth across the surface until you’ve compacted it. Then…”

  He got an evil-looking smile on his face. “It won’t kill the guys to get in some marching practice. We can start with my regiment. After you’re done with the wagons, we’ll march the regiment up and down the field for a while. Then, while they rest, have another regiment takes the Hangman’s place. Keep doing that until the surface looks as compacted as it
’s going to get. Then give the airstrip another manicure and finish by raking everything as flat as you can get it.”

  Long nodded slowly. “All right. I think I grasp the basic principle. You’re right—it isn’t really all that complicated.”

  Jeff’s heavy upper lip curled into a sneer. “Damn insult to geekdom, what it is.”

  Prague, capital of Bohemia

  Janos Drugeth’s expression was almost haunted. “I can’t believe…” He shook his head. “Never mind that. The immediate problem is that we don’t have enough planes for our purposes. We only have Nasi’s. We need another.”

  “We’ll just have to make do with what we have, until another plane becomes available,” said Noelle. “The most pressing thing is to get you down to Linz. That airfield will be ready soon, yes?”

  “Ferdinand says so.” Janos managed a smile of sorts. “Of course, whether or not an emperor of Austria is an expert on airfields is a proposition that could easily be debated. But I’m sure he has experts advising him.”

  Noelle refrained from pointing out that the courtiers of a seventeenth century monarch probably had as little expertise on the subject of airfields, construction and proper maintenance thereof, as the monarch himself. They’d just have to make do what with they had.

  “Eddie can fly you down when the airfield’s ready. In the meantime, he can get me…”

  She began faltering at that point. Janos chuckled, humorlessly.

  “Get you and Albrecht and his two children—he’ll want that Jesuit tutor of theirs, too—into a plane that can’t hold than many people,” he concluded.

  She ran fingers through her hair. “We’ll just have to do it in stages. I’ll fly to Amberg and pick up the kids. The tutor will have to wait—or he can get his own butt down to Freising from Amberg on horseback. It’s not that far. Once I drop the kids off—”

  “Into whose care?”

  She waved her hand. “Details, details. I’ll figure that out later. Then I can have Eddie fly me back to Prague to pick up Albrecht.”