by Eric Flint
August 1636
Ludmila came in, looking a little bemused.
“What is it, dear?” Sofia asked.
“I received a letter from a woman in Nizhny Novgorod. It’s very chatty, but I don’t know anyone that it’s chatting about. Do you know a Polina Ivanova Vershinin?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Well, she knows you. Or at least claims to.” Ludmila handed over the letter, pointing at the section that referred to Sofia.
Sofia read. And smiled. “Ludmila, of course you know her. Don’t you recall? She is a dear friend of our friend Natasha.”
“Natasha who…” Ludmila started the phrase looking blank, but by the time she stopped a look of comprehension had come over her face. “Your Natasha,” she said, and Sofia nodded.
And thus a link from Goritsky Monastery to the new capital in Ufa was established. It was a tenuous link that involved letters put on steamboats and coded radio messages stepping from radiotelegraph station to radiotelegraph station. And it was an expensive link. Telegraph messages were expensive to begin with and when you added in the smuggling of the letters in the middle of the chain, it was very expensive. But it meant that the women of the monastery had access to the news from Ufa and Ufa, in turn, had access to the analysis of the dozens of women who had lived their lives in the highest halls of the Russian government.
The nuns were not the only people at the monastery. There were servants and, by now, workers. The monastery had sewing machines. They were not Higgins sewing machines. They were Russian-made copies of Higgins sewing machines, made in a factory in old Novgorod. The monastery also had typewriters, Russian-modified copies of typewriters made in the USE. They had adding machines, Russian-made copies of USE-made adding machines. They had already had extensive gardening and minor industries such as pottery and small partnerships with local craftsmen, wood and leather workers. The radio station had added batteries and mica-based capacitors, plus a knowledge of electronics. Using these machines, the nuns of Goritsky made their living sewing, typing, keeping accounts, as well as with gardening and managing several small businesses.
That wasn’t unique to the convent. It wasn’t even unusual. Over the past few years, with the paper money and especially the radio network, trade and manufacturing had been booming in Russia. Little centers of industry had popped up all over the place, like pimples on a teenager. The radios allowed ordering of goods and the safe and secure transfer of funds from buyer to seller.
The use of the radios for all these things meant that the radio network had thousands of messages on it, going from here to there, and there to the other place, and back again. Far, far too many radio messages for anyone to keep track of.
So the addition of one more business at Goritsky Monastery, the business of political analysis, went essentially unnoticed by the powers that were. Most of them, anyway.
Grantville Section, Embassy Bureau, Moscow
Boris Petrov filled out the requisition for additional funds. Being quite vague. The money was to provide greater intelligence on the Polish-USE conflict. And, in part, that was what it was going to do. But it would be analysis, not data-gathering, and the ladies at what he was code-naming Bletchley Park would be analyzing more than just the events on the Polish-USE border. It was a good code name because no one but an expert in up-timer history would recognize the reference. And even if someone did, it wouldn’t point them to the women at Goritsky.
CHAPTER 8
Fortifying the Volga
Kazan Kremlin
August 1636
“The first thing we have to do is take Kruglaya Mountain,” Ivan told Tim. They were in the Kazan kremlin, a fortress of pale sandstone. The room was large, with a square table and benches along one wall. It was occupied by the commander of the Kazan Streltzi, Mikhail Petrovich Kolumb, who was Russian Orthodox, as were most of his men and all of his officers. He wasn’t smiling. The Kazan kremlin had been taken without a shot, by virtue of the dirigible Czarina Evdokia and the presence of Mikhail the czar. But between being placed under the command of General Tim and Czar Mikhail’s pronouncements about religious toleration, the officers were regretting at leisure the decision made in haste.
“That is easier said than done,” Colonel Kolumb told them. “I doubt Metropolitan Matthew will give over all that easily.”
“You may be right, Colonel,” Tim said. “But so is Ivan. That’s where Ivan the Terrible staged his conquest of Kazan from and it would be just as useful for Sheremetev. On the other hand, if we hold it, we can block the Volga far enough upriver so as to seriously hamper any attack on Kazan.”
“What makes you think that he will object, Colonel?” Ivan asked, “Is he disloyal?”
“The Metropolitan has a duty to the faith,” Colonel Kolumb insisted.
“General,” Ivan said, “should we consider an airborne assault?”
Tim blinked, then saw Ivan’s eyes shift to the colonel.
Then Ivan was continuing. “I know it was something that we were holding in reserve, but if we drop a small army in on top of Kruglaya Mountain in the middle of the night…”
“I’ll consider it, Captain,” Tim said repressively, finally catching on to Ivan’s ploy. “But not until we’ve given the Metropolitan a chance to be reasonable. Besides, at the moment Czar Mikhail is using the dirigible to make a goodwill tour down the Volga to the Caspian.” It was an important use of the dirigible. Having Czar Mikhail fly in on his dirigible and assure you that his government in exile was the real government and that he held the Volga all the way to Kazan was really useful in getting food and supplies needed by the new industries in Ufa—and the factories in Kazan, for that matter.
“What’s an airborne assault?” asked Colonel Kolumb.
“It’s an ability that they used extensively in the twentieth century,” Ivan started explaining enthusiastically.
Tim cleared his throat, and Ivan subsided.
Colonel Kolumb looked over at Tim resentfully. “Am I not trusted, General?” It was clear to Tim that Kolumb had to force the title of rank out. And the truth was that Tim didn’t trust the forty-year-old, two-hundred-twenty-pound man as far as he could throw him.
“That’s not it at all, Colonel. However, the facilities at Bor are still there and the dirigible they have there is three-quarters finished.”
“Why on earth didn’t you destroy that place?” Colonel Kolumb complained.
“It was a political decision made by Czar Mikhail, and as much as I dislike some of its consequences, as a political statement it was effective,” Tim said. “It pointed up the fact that Czar Mikhail is more interested in the long-term welfare of Russia than short-term military advantage. At the same time, it drew a sharp contrast between the way Czar Mikhail and Director-General Sheremetev will treat the skilled artisans and experts that build and maintain our technological base.”
Colonel Kolumb’s snort was derisive. “Marvelous. While Mikhail makes his noble political statements, Director-General Sheremetev will be dropping bombs on us from the sky…and apparently troops as well.”
“That is Czar Mikhail, Colonel.” Tim said coldly. Tim, on the inside, didn’t know how he sounded when he said it, but suddenly the room got awfully quiet. He held the colonel’s gaze, and the colonel looked away. It was a tactical victory, but with strategic costs. The colonel, who had been resentful, was now likely an enemy. They went on with the meeting.
“You want to tell me what that crap about airborne assaults was?” Tim asked quietly, once he and Ivan were in Tim’s suite in the Kazan kremlin. It was a nice suite, and until their arrival had been used by Colonel Kolumb. Just another reason for the man to hate Tim. But Czar Mikhail had insisted, and Natasha had backed him up. “There are what—three parachutes—in Russia?”
“There are twenty-eight parachutes in Russia, and Valeriya Zakharovna has actually used one. We also did several tests using weights and dummies. By now we know how to pack a parachute and—most of
the time—have it deploy. But I will grant that we don’t have anything like a force that can be deployed that way.”
“So why?”
“Because that colonel is going to tell Metropolitan Matthew that we can drop a battalion of troops on him in the night. Which will probably make him easier to negotiate with. Then he’s going to tell someone who will tell Sheremetev, and Sheremetev will spend the next six months or a year trying to produce a battalion of paratroopers because he is convinced we already have one.”
“Possible, I guess. But you know Kolumb is now an enemy?”
“Now or tomorrow or next week,” Ivan said. “Kolumb was going to hate you sooner or later, even if you rolled over and showed him your belly. Except then he would have hated you and despised you.”
Tim considered that. Ivan was probably right. “So who do we get to talk to Metropolitan Matthew?”
“Father Kiril,” Ivan said. “And probably by steamboat. The dirigible would be better but it’s busy on the good will tour. And, frankly even if it wasn’t, I would rather keep the Czarina in her hidden valley, except when we really need her.”
Ivan was referring to the news they had received two days before, while talking with Nick Slavenitsky. While Czar Mikhail and the big diplomats were making nice to the citizens of Kazan, Ivan had gotten a chance to talk to Nick and learn about the search for, and finding of, a valley that had little wind. The Czarina was mostly safe as long as it stayed in Hidden Valley and they had a crew out there building a hangar to keep it even safer—and potentially build more dirigibles in a couple of years. “Fine, then. A steamboat and Father Kiril. How accurate do you think Colonel Kolumb’s estimate of the Metropolitan’s response is?”
“I think that the colonel was giving his own motives to Metropolitan Matthew, but the monasteries under his authority have land under Sheremetev control.”
“A fair chunk of the diocese’s lands are in territory that Czar Mikhail controls,” Tim said, then snorted at Ivan’s look. The truth was that two months after the escape, Czar Mikhail controlled perhaps as much as twenty miles around Ufa, one small valley in the Ural mountains, and whatever piece of ground that Tim’s army happened to be standing on at the moment. Which was in Kazan right now, but how long they could hold Kazan was very uncertain.
“Anyway, put out a flag and send the Dolgorukov to Ufa after Father Kiril.”
Ivan nodded and left. Steamboats could steam right past towns in a way that was difficult for the riverboats that were pulled by burlaks and sailed. To get them to stop at a town you needed an indicator. Ivan would go to the docks and raise the Romanov flag and the Dolgorukov flag, and that would tell the steamboat that it should stop here on Czar Mikhail’s business.
Two days later
Father Kiril arrived in Kazan, and proceeded directly to the Kazan kremlin to talk with Tim and Ivan. After a short conversation, he reboarded the Dolgorukov and headed for Sviyazhsk and Holy Dormition monastery atop the Kruglaya Mountain.
Metropolitan Matthew welcomed Father Kiril with all due ceremony, then led the priest into his private offices and waved him to a seat. “How is Czar Mikhail?”
“Very well, actually. But he would still rather be something else. Czarina Evdokia seems to be blooming under the new circumstances, though.”
“I’m a bit surprised by that. She always seemed such a self-effacing woman.”
“I think it was more circumstances than character, Metropolitan,” Father Kiril said. “Still, I am not here to chat about the imperial family. This fort is crucial to our control of the lower Volga.”
“Yes, I understand that. At the same time, Mikhail’s recent pronouncement of religious freedom in Kazan is, I feel, ill advised.”
“I wasn’t thrilled by it myself, Metropolitan. But, under the circumstances, he had to give the people of Kazan some reason to support him.”
Metropolitan Matthew stood and walked over to the stove. It was cold and unlit, but finely made of ceramic tiles with icons of the saints painted on the tiles. “I am concerned that the Muslims will attempt to use this to turn back the clock and force a return to Sharia law. Or at least to coerce the converts to Christianity to revert to their previous faith.” He turned to face Kiril. “I like Mikhail and I had the greatest respect for Patriarch Filaret’s abilities. But I have to be concerned with the spiritual, as well as the practical, realities. You know I have used a light hand in regard to the Muslims and outright pagans in my diocese, focusing on encouraging the converts to be comfortable in their new faith.”
“I know, Metropolitan. Even so, a lot of the converts were happy enough to switch back as soon as the threat of exile was removed.”
“So I heard.”
“Another point is the fact of the Ring of Fire,” Father Kiril said. “I’ve known Bernie for years, since he first came to Russia. He is a good man, even if he isn’t of the Russian Orthodox Church. But the fact of the Ring of Fire seems to me to indicate that the particular way you pray may be less important to the Lord God than we had assumed.”
“Even to Muslims and pagans?”
“Bernie is not a Christian. He was an agnostic, if not an outright atheist, before the Ring of Fire. In the aftermath of the Ring of Fire, he was very angry with God for putting him here, where the medicines that kept his mother alive were no longer available. Over the years, he has mellowed, even acknowledged that he is of greater use here than he would have been up-time. But he isn’t a member of the church. And that doesn’t prevent him from being of great use to Russia and all her people.”
“Yes, the Ring of Fire. We all must deal with its blessings and confusions.”
They talked more about the specifics of the situation, and finally Kiril said, “You know, if you were patriarch of Russia, you could have much greater influence.”
“Czar Mikhail appointed Joseph Kurtsevich, the former archbishop of Suzdal as patriarch last year,” Metropolitan Matthew said, sounding disgusted.
“No. Actually, Sheremetev appointed Kurtsevich. Czar Mikhail wasn’t consulted on the matter.”
“And you’re offering to buy me with the patriarch’s crown?”
“No. But neither is he going to give that crown to someone who will abuse it.” As Sheremetev did hung in the air between them.
“I’ll consider it,” Metropolitan Matthew said.
That pretty much ended the meeting. Father Kiril said his goodbyes and walked back down to the river where he boarded the riverboat back to Kazan.
It took a few more days, but Metropolitan Matthew declared for Czar Mikhail and influenced the garrison at Sviyazhsk to accept Czar Mikhail as the true and legitimate czar. This was helped by the fact that there was a picture of Mikhail on the money. It was hard to declare him a false Mikhail, because there were pictures of him on each paper bill in Russia and they had been in circulation for years now. Sheremetev could declare him “under influence” but he couldn’t make the notion that Mikhail wasn’t the real czar stick.
Moscow
August 1636
Prince Daniil Ivanovich Dolgorukov sat in the duma and listened to Sheremetev make plans. It had been a harrowing two months. Four members of the duma had been executed for treason, and eight forcibly tonsured since Mikhail had escaped. For a body that only had twenty-eight members, that was a massive amount. The executed and tonsured had fallen into two categories: those most personally loyal to Czar Mikhail, and those with the closest ties to the Gorchakov Dacha. Czar Mikhail’s uncle, Ivan Nikitich Romanov, had sided with Sheremetev.
Which, Daniil thought, made quite a bit of sense. Ivan Nikitich hadn’t received a single post since Mikhail had been elected. Now he was in charge of the embassy bureau, which had control of the Dacha and the Grantville section. The army was finally assembled. It had taken a month of purges and another of reorganization, but a cavalry force of twenty thousand was assembled outside of Moscow, with a contingent of Streltzi almost as strong, and twenty of the new breech-loading rifled cannon.
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br /> Prince Semen Vasilievich Prozorovskii raised a hand. “I’m concerned about the Poles. I know that they are busy with the Swedes, but the opportunity we offer them by taking so many of our soldiers east…”
Director-General Sheremetev waved for attention. “I have an arrangement with the magnates of Lithuania and the Sjem will not vote to go to war with us.”
“What did you have to give them to get that assurance?” Prince Ivan Ivanovich Odoevskii asked angrily. Which, Daniil thought, was quite brave and rather foolish. Director-General Sheremetev didn’t go out of his way to encourage free and open debate.
“Not much,” Sheremetev said coldly. “They are busy enough dealing with the Swede.” Then, apparently relenting a little, he added, “Mostly simply a promise not to invest Smolensk or attack Poland. That will free up their forces to face the Swede to the west and the Cossacks to the south.”
Daniil considered. It might work, or it might not. Mostly because the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth wasn’t one nation, or even two. It was a loose alliance between a dozen or so magnates who were each effectively independent monarchs of their territory. So the director-general’s plan would probably work fine for the PLC as a whole. But any magnate he had failed to adequately bribe might decide to take the opportunity to bite off a chunk of Russia…and there weren’t that many chunks between Smolensk and Moscow. Daniil found himself wondering if perhaps he should have wrangled a post in the army, just to get away.
Army camp, outside Moscow
Ivan Vasilevich Birkin was wondering the same thing, from the other end. He had been at Rzhev. In fact, he had been part of the cavalry that got slaughtered by the damn Poles at Rzhev. He had been lucky enough to have his horse shot out from under him and had ended up in command of what was left of the cavalry after they got decimated. He had a healthy respect for the effects of technology on warfare and was much less confident in the belief that cavalry was king than he once had been. Yet, here he was. In command of an army that was better than fifty percent cavalry. They had riverboats, even steamboats, but just in support to ferry supplies. The army would be marching across Russia. Eight hundred miles from Moscow to Ufa…He would be lucky if he got there before November, and if he didn’t he would have to stop and wait for the rivers to freeze. That would delay any attack till January. It would also mean that his army would be in the field in the worst time of the year. That worst time wasn’t winter. Russians knew how to deal with winter. The deadly times were the quagmire seasons, the rasputitsa in spring and autumn, when the world was made of mud.
