1636: The Ottoman Onslaught Read online

  "Everything according to the regulations, then,” Moshe said. “Nothing worth mentioning."

  “Exactly so.”

  * * *

  In point of fact, Şemsi Ahmed had taken no risk at all. His action in sheltering the families of the Esztergom’s crew had been quietly ordered by the sultan himself. Murad IV had many qualities. Ruthlessness was one, certainly. But so was shrewdness.

  Freising, Bavaria

  “Does Suhl have a radio station yet?” Julie Mackay asked the young soldier who was currently staffing the Third Division’s radio center in Freising.

  “I’m pretty sure… Hold on, let me double-check.” He flipped through the pages of a notebook on his table. That didn’t take more than a few seconds, since it was a slim volume.

  “Yeah, there’s one. I’ve never sent a message to them, so I don’t know if someone will be there right now. It’s the middle of the day, you know.”

  Julie tried not to glare at him. “It’s only—what?—two hundred miles? Not even that!”

  The operator shrugged. “That’s still not line of sight. We’re in the Little Ice Age, you know. The Maunder Minimum’s just getting started. That means—”

  Julie bit off her immediate response, which would have been screw the damn Maunder Minimum. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said abruptly. “Radio doesn’t work that good in daytime. Fine. You got a pad I can use?”

  He pulled out a standard radio message pad and handed it to her, along with a pencil. She wrote her message in block letters.

  FROM: JULIE MACKAY

  TO: DELL BECKWORTH

  HAVE YOU GOT A LIGHT 50 FOR SALE? I NEED ONE ASAP.

  She placed the message in front of the operator. “Can you send that message in the evening window?”

  He looked down at it and nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how soon you’ll get an answer, though. That’ll depend on who’s running things up there. We man this radio round the clock, twenty-four seven, but… Civilians, you know.”

  Under other circumstances, Julie would have found that statement both amusing and, in some respects, significant. In the seventeenth century, soldiers were generally the people considered to have slack and lackadaisical habits. This soldier’s attitude—he was a down-timer, too; a Westphalian, judging from his accent—was a reflection of the Third Division’s morale.

  That took some of the edge off her anxiety, but only some. She was pretty sure her Wand of Womanly Wrath wasn’t going to cut it, if the Ottomans had armored their airships.

  Dammit, she needed an elephant gun!

  Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary

  At the crack of dawn—what she judged to be the crack of dawn, more precisely; she couldn’t see anything beyond what the light of the candle in Leopold’s hand provided—Minnie began the elaborate process of opening the door leading to the secret cellars in the palace.

  She moved slowly, so as not to make any noise. It took a while, but eventually she had the chain which held the door tight loosened and removed, and undid all the latches. Then, holding her breath, she pushed the door out.

  Not far, though—no more than half an inch. Then she waited, listening. After a minute or so, hearing nothing, she pushed the door out another half inch. Then, waited again.

  On the third push, she moved the door out a full inch. A very faint trace of light began to show.

  She waited, listening. She could now hear some sounds, but they seemed distant; their origin undiscernible.

  “Go ahead,” Leopold hissed. “I think it’s safe.”

  He was probably right, but Minnie wasn’t willing to risk opening the door all the way yet. She did move it a couple of inches, though. For the first time, a crack appeared that allowed her to peer through into the staircase beyond. She could hear much better, too.

  Again, she waited, ignoring the slight sounds coming from behind her that indicated the archduke’s growing impatience. But, after another minute had gone by and nothing was heard that suggested the nearby presence of anyone, she finally opened the door all the way.

  She had gauged the dawn correctly, as it turned out. The light was pale, but provided more than enough illumination for her and Leopold to climb the two flights that led to the small room in the tower that had windows. As they did so, Judy moved down to the floor below and kept watch. So far as they could determine, this outlying annex of the palace was unoccupied by anyone except themselves. That wasn’t really surprising, since this detached wing was no longer used for anything except storage.

  Once Minnie and Leopold got to the top of the tower, each of them—carefully, very carefully—brought an eye to one of the narrow window slits and looked out onto the city beyond.

  What struck Leopold was the devastation which the cursed Turks had visited on his beloved city.

  What struck Minnie, on the other hand, was how comparatively little devastation there was.

  Leopold had led a sheltered life, most of it in Vienna—a city which had, up until now, suffered no damage from the long years of war since the Bohemian crisis almost two decades earlier. Minnie had led a life which had not been sheltered at all, and had done so in areas of the Germanies which had been badly ravaged.

  “Horrible,” he whispered.

  “Not too bad,” was her contribution. “But we’ll have to wait a while. It still won’t be safe to venture out there.”

  Leopold looked away from his window to stare at her. “Why would we venture out at all?”

  “The radio. We need to get back in touch with our people. Denise will be worried sick about me and I couldn’t even begin to count the number of people who’ll be fretting over you.”

  Uncertainly, Leopold looked back out of the window. “Are you sure we need that antenna and the battery?”

  “Oh, yes. We might—not likely, but it’s possible—get by without the antenna. But without the battery, the radio is just so much junk.”

  He winced. Minnie smiled and moved away from her window slit. “Not your fault, Leopold. These things happen. Now, come. We’ve seen what we needed to see. Let’s get back into hiding.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, the door was shut and tightly sealed again.

  “How long do we need to wait?” she wondered.

  “At least a month,” said Judy.

  “Perhaps two weeks,” said the prince. “Murad will be leading most of his army out before long, I’m sure of it. He’ll want to take Linz and the rest of Austria. Once he’s gone, there’ll only be a garrison left. By then, people will have started moving around and one of us can blend in.”

  Minnie was inclined to agree with Leopold. Either way, though, they’d be spending a lot of time down in these cellars.

  With little in the way of lighting and still less in the way of anything to do. She’d already made up her mind, though, so she wasn’t too concerned about it.

  * * *

  Fifteen hours later, when everyone agreed it was time to go to bed, Minnie followed Leopold into his corner of the cellar and slid under his bedding.

  “What if you get pregnant?” he asked, very softly.

  That was certainly a possibility, if they stayed down here long enough. She’d brought some birth control supplies into the cellars that she’d hurriedly snatched from her room in the palace, but they wouldn’t last very long.

  Minnie was not given to pointless worrying, however. If it turned out they would be trapped here for the better part of a year, she figured they’d have a lot worse things to deal with than a squalling baby.

  “Hush,” she whispered, and began the proceedings.

  Chapter 46

  Breslau (Wroclaw), Lower Silesia

  Poland

  “Why does she want to come here?” Tata asked, looking over Gretchen’s shoulder to read the newly-arrived radio message.

  Gretchen shrugged. “She’s the new secretary of state. I assume she wants to advise us or scold us or both.”

  She gestured toward Eric Krenz, calling
him over. “We need an airfield built,” she said, handing him the message.

  “Why me?” he whined.

  “Just do it and don’t argue,” said Tata. “It’ll keep your men out of trouble, which they’re bound to get into otherwise, the way they’re getting soused at the Rathaus every night.”

  That was quite unfair, actually. Eric had been maintaining good discipline over his soldiers. There’d been more trouble from the Vogtland irregulars, who weren’t as accustomed to obeying orders as the army regulars that Krenz commanded.

  But not all that much trouble—certainly not by the standards of armies occupying cities in what the Americans called the Thirty Years War. The Vogtland commander, Georg Kresse, could impose his will on his men whenever he wanted to, and he had started to do so after a couple of incidents of looting shortly after the Saxon army seized Breslau.

  Or marched into Breslau, it might be better to say. The city council and inhabitants hadn’t tried to put up a fight, despite Breslau’s significant fortifications. Whatever misgivings they might have about letting the Saxon army come into the city, they were a lot more worried about Holk and his mercenaries.

  The worst incident had involved three of Lovrenc Bravnicar’s cavalrymen, who’d gotten drunk on the second day of the occupation and tried to rape the daughter of a tavern-keeper. The girl’s father had intervened and gotten a bad beating for his effort, but the effort had been enough to provide the time it took for Lukasz Opalinski—who’d been quietly drinking in an adjoining room in the same tavern—to get involved in the affair.

  A tavern-keeper was one thing; the big hussar, something else entirely. Lukasz broke the neck of one of the cavalrymen and beat the other two senseless. The next day, Gretchen ordered the two still-unbroken necks to join their departed fellow at the end of a rope.

  And, the same day, she’d ordered all of the Slovene officer’s cavalry to leave the city and start patrolling the countryside. Bravnicar hadn’t objected because, first, it was a good idea anyway; and, second, Gretchen was Gretchen. She Who Must Be Obeyed.

  Thereafter, there’d been very little trouble. That was probably assisted by Jozef Wojtowicz’s clever idea of displaying Gretchen’s armor in the main room of the Rathaus. The two quite noticeable dents in the armor served to remind the soldiers enjoying their beer that the woman who now ruled the city had recently killed half a dozen of Holk’s mercenaries herself, despite being shot and trampled in the process.

  She Who Must Be Obeyed. The joke was heard often, now. Gretchen still found the witticism irritating but she no longer tried to stifle it. There was no doubt it served a useful purpose.

  “She might cause trouble for us,” Tata said, after Eric left.

  “Rebecca?” Gretchen shook her head. “She’s more likely to be of help, I think. That is one very smart woman. And we’ve got a tangled mess on our hands.”

  Tata smiled. “Speaking of which, you’d better get ready for the big—what should I call it? meeting? brawl?—in the Rathaus two days from now.”

  Gretchen made a face. “I’m sure it won’t be so bad,” she said, not sounding confident at all.

  “Maybe you should put your armor on for it,” Tata suggested.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  Freising, Bavaria

  The Belle taxied to a stop and the pilot shut off the engine. Before the propeller had stopped turning, the airfield’s ground workers had already set the wheel chocks. The pilot climbed out of the cockpit, unhooked his leather aviator helmet, and stripped it off his head. Long brown hair spilled out across…

  Her shoulders.

  Rebecca was startled. She knew the USE Air Force had female pilots—several of them, in fact—but she hadn’t expected one of them to be assigned to be her pilot.

  She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be on the subject. Was the assignment of a female piloting a Belle something she should take as a subtle slight? Should she be angry about it? Nervous about it?

  Angry at herself for feeling any of these things? Not for the first time since the Ring of Fire, Rebecca felt simultaneously exhilarated and annoyed by the up-timers’ attitudes on the subject of what they called “women’s lib.”

  Exhilarated because of the many openings provided for women like herself. Annoyed because those openings were so often… Well, annoying. Life in the days before the Americans arrived had in so many ways been much simpler.

  As the pilot came over to her, Rebecca saw that she was a young woman. Somewhere in her mid-twenties, at a guess, even allowing for the excellent teeth possessed by so many middle-aged Americans.

  “Hi,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m First Lieutenant Laura Goss. Colonel Wood assigned me to be your pilot for what he calls ‘the duration.’ Near as I can tell, that means I’m at your disposal for as long as you need me.”

  Goss was short, by American standards—not more than five feet tall, Rebecca estimated—and on the stocky side. Her eyes were brown, very close to her hair in color. Her face was roundish, and while not ugly was not what anyone would call especially pretty, either.

  But then she grinned, which livened her appearance quite strikingly. Tentatively, Rebecca thought she’d like the woman.

  “Don’t take either me or the old Belle here”—she pointed over her shoulder with a thumb—“the wrong way. Colonel Wood’s not snubbing you. The Belle’s like me. Neither of us are glamorous but we’re both reliable and steady. In particular, since we’re likely to be going every whichaway, the Belle handles rough airfields better than either a Gustav or a Dauntless. And I’ve got what you might call a soft touch.”

  Her hand made a swooping motion, as if it were a porpoise bounding through the water. “Easy up, easy down. That’s me. Some of your hot-shot pilots—all men, natch—will rattle your teeth every time they land.”

  Rebecca smiled back. “I am certain you will be superb at the job. Are you familiar with the airstrip at Dresden?”

  Goss shook her head. “No. But I’m told it’s in good shape so I don’t foresee any problems. That’s where you want to go, I take it. How soon?”

  Rebecca turned her head and pointed to a valise next to the wall of the control tower. “Right now, if possible.”

  “Let me gas up first,” said Goss. “I’m not sure what the fuel supply situation is in Dresden these days.”

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, they were in the air and flying northeast.

  The takeoff had been very smooth, just as Goss had promised, not that Rebecca had all that much experience with airplanes. She knew her husband disliked flying, but she herself found it quite delightful. The turbulence they occasionally encountered was simply stimulating.

  “How soon will be there?” she asked after a short while.

  “Two hours or so, depending on the winds. It’s a little over two hundred miles. Of course, that’s assuming we don’t run into any bad weather or Turkish interceptors.”

  Rebecca glanced at her.

  “Just kidding,” said Goss, again with that splendid grin. “The weather’s not likely to change in the next couple of hours, and if the Turks have any fighter planes they’re keeping them well under wraps.”

  That last quip was not as amusing as Goss thought it to be, Rebecca reflected. The Ottomans had already shown themselves to be quite proficient at keeping new weapon systems a tightly-held secret.

  Still, she thought the likelihood they’d leapt so far ahead of the USE when it came to aircraft design was almost nil. The great strength of the Ottoman Empire when it came to such matters was its huge resources and well-organized government. Just as her husband had predicted, the Turks had produced weapons and weapon platforms that were less sophisticated than the best Europeans could produce—but they’d work, and there would be a lot of them.

  The rest of the voyage passed smoothly. They encountered neither bad weather nor enemy interceptors.

  The airfield at Dres
den was rather crude, compared to the ones Rebecca had experienced at Magdeburg and Grantville. But, again just as she had predicted, Goss landed the plane deftly and with no mishaps at all.

  There was a delegation to greet Rebecca, led by a startlingly ugly man by the name of Joachim Kappel. Rebecca knew who he was, although they’d never met. One of Gretchen Richter’s top lieutenants—but ranked no higher than fourth or possibly even fifth, as these things could be calculated.

  Which meant that Richter had taken both Agathe Donner—“Tata,” as she was called—and Eric Krenz into Silesia with her.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  Kappel looked startled for a moment, and then grinned. “Been a long time since anyone called me that,” he said. “Not since I was maybe two months old. Usually they call me ‘the troll.’”

  Rebecca was simultaneously embarrassed and amused. She hadn’t intended to say that loud enough for anyone to hear.

  While she’d been talking with the delegation led by Kappel, Laura Goss had been having her own quiet talk with someone whom Rebecca took to be in charge of the airfield. The lieutenant finished with the conversation and came over to her.

  “We can refuel here but it’ll take a day or so. I don’t recommend flying on to Breslau until we do. They might have their airfield ready by now—not likely, but they might—but I’d be astonished if they have any refueling capability as yet. I don’t want to leave here without being topped up.”

  Rebecca decided that was just as well. Taking two or three days to assess the situation in Dresden while Richter was absent was probably a good idea anyway.

  * * *

  As it turned out, however, assessing the situation in the city and the whole province took much less time than that. That was because when she arrived at the Residenzschloss she discovered that the acting chancellor of Saxony whom Gretchen had put in charge of the province while she was gone was none other than…

  The man she’d just decisively trounced in the recent election, Ernst Wettin, duke of Saxe-Weimar.

  “Yes, it’s a bit odd,” he said, smiling. “Gretchen trusts me, you see—within limits, of course, but I’m hardly likely to exceed those limits under these circumstances. My apologies, by the way, for not meeting you at the airfield. I had some matters I had to finish dealing with. Would you care for some refreshments?”