Grantville Gazette, Volume IX

by Eric Flint

  The area around the bodies and outside the corded area was muddled with footprints. I blamed our good friends from the city watch. Our agents, MPs and MAAs are trained to walk the same patches and not add confusion to crime scenes. The watchmen didn't have the benefits of future forensics knowledge and most didn't care to learn. We'd offered them training but they had been unwilling to accept lessons from people that they still considered thieves, thugs and prostitutes.

  It was fifteen long minutes before one of the teams found a trail. Hafner and Bischel's bodies had been carried to the waiting ambulance and were now on the way back to the infirmary at the yard. Dorrman and all the male corpsmen had stayed behind and were now checking their personal weapons. Although navy, Fleet Marine Force corpsmen tend to reflect the same aggressive outlook of their usual companions.

  The lucky team's bird call signaled their success. Immediately, Hoffman and the rest converged on them, examined the signs, and proceeded to follow the trail. I held everyone else back to give them space to maneuver until they were ahead of us by at least five hundred meters, then we followed. There was no thought of involving the city watch; for what we needed to do, they were practically worthless. We needed live perpetrators, not more dead bodies. Besides, it was a matter of naval honor.

  We moved as silently as possible with frequent stops and starts for over half an hour before one of the scouts appeared at my side. Brunhilde, surprised, had to strangle a cry. I followed the scout back to where Hoffman waited. Our quarry seemed to be holed up in a dilapidated shack on the outskirts of Magdeburg.

  "Herr Director, the trail ends there and we think that they are all inside. How do you want to do this?" he murmured in my ear. I looked at the house and then at the horizon, where the faint light of dawn had started to appear. If we delayed too long, darkness and the element of surprise would disappear. I decided that the rules of hot pursuit applied here and returned, trailed by Hoffman, to where the main group waited. I quickly sketched my plan on the ground and explained it to everyone, my voice pitched low.

  The second wagon had brought weapons and Marine-issue breastplates and helmets. The scout-snipers quickly suited up. They were trained in ship-boarding maneuvers and that made them suitable to act as an improvised up-time-style special weapons and tactics team. Maybe it was overkill for a group of killers that had not shown too much enterprise in covering their tracks, but I was not in the mood to play fair. I donned a spare breastplate and helmet, intending to be part of the takedown, until I saw Brunhilde doing the same. I was momentarily flabbergasted but held my tongue. She looked directly into my eyes, and I was able to easily read her determination. I could have ordered her to stay behind, and my instincts screamed at me to do so, but I could not do it. She has earned her place here. So, I shrugged my shoulders instead and made sure that my NCIS gold badge was pinned firmly to the front of my breastplate. Brunhilde did the same. At my signal, everyone moved into place. The military police and masters-at-arms, reinforced by Dorrman and his corpsmen, surrounded the house at a distance. I had Leiss and Schuhmacher keep a discreet eye on Dorrman; he was still extremely pissed off and I didn't want it to interfere with the matter at hand. I wanted the bastards alive.

  The scout-sniper squad split in two; half went towards the back where they would attempt a rear entry. Brunhilde and I joined the group led by Hoffman with our handguns drawn. I made sure that Brunhilde was behind me, where they would have to go through me to get to her. We tiptoed toward the front entrance, using cover as much as possible, until we got to the door. The house seemed eerily quiet. I waited until Hoffman gave me the agreed "all ready" sign. I counted to three and then, with all the force in my lungs, shouted clearly for all to hear.

  "IMPERIAL AGENTS. OPEN UP."

  Legalities served, Hoffman and the rear entry team leader used almost simultaneous shotgun blasts to force open both doors. I followed my group into the house but by the time I entered it was all over except for the paperwork. Our suspects were being tied up even as they were waking up. If the thought of putting up a fight had crossed their minds, it had quickly died in the presence of the many armored and expressionless scout-snipers. They surrendered peacefully while still claiming their innocence. Well, not all of them. One was found dead on his bed. The notorious cousin and the rest of his accomplices were worse for wear, too. Our young couple had sold their lives dearly. We found their naval issue daggers on top of one of the tables.

  Even without a confession, the circumstantial evidence against them looked strong. In a clear voice that dripped with contempt, Brunhilde read them their rights as we frog marched the cousin out of the shack. Although I once considered such things to be quaint up-time customs, both the admiral and Chief Frost had convinced me that we needed to set a higher standard than was commonplace—standards that hopefully one day would set the example for a whole nation—even the Magdeburg city watch. Besides, we were naval law enforcement professionals now, and we wouldn't take a second place to anyone.

  Disappointed that no one had tried to escape custody, Dorrman had to be satisfied with providing our captives with medical care. I wanted to ensure that they would stay healthy long enough to make their almost-certain appointment with the executioner. However, first they were bound to have a long interview session with me. The results would be presented to the city prosecutor and magistrates. Confession was good for the soul.

  I was so looking forward to that.

  * * *

  The slow cadence of a muffled drum set the pace of the funeral procession, the sound echoing along the packed streets of Magdeburg where its citizens stood respectfully. I had unconsciously fallen into step as we followed the two caissons that, side by side, were taking the flag-draped coffins of Corporal Hafner and Petty Officer Bischel—both promoted posthumously—to their final resting place. The pallbearers taking them there were a mixture of Marine and navy personnel extracted from the ranks of corpsmen, sniper-scouts, MPs, MAAs, and members of Hafner's platoon under the direction of Senior Chief Dorrman and Gunnery Sergeant Hoffman. Bravo Company, in dress blues and with fixed bayonets provided the escort.

  Brunhilde and I walked behind the kids' grieving families. Admiral Simpson and the Marine commandant were at the head of the NCIS delegation, practically all of our agents who were off duty. Our gold badges had a thin black band across them, providing a shiny contrast against our subdued mourning clothes and set us apart from the rest. Behind us, military dependants, civilian clerks, shipyard workers and their families, off duty navy and marine ranks and any others that could lay claim to membership in our close-knit service family, followed. Still, the funeral was considered an unofficial activity and I was glad that Brunhilde's hand was firmly grasped in mine. She was here today as my wife and not as a fellow agent—another working couple in this strange naval community of ours, just like the two youngsters in the coffins would never be. I thought that, on a day like today, we needed each other's support in our mutual grief for two lovers who could have easily been us.

  But I was also grimly satisfied; their killers would have their own appointments with death, in the form of the hangman's noose, in a week. They had confessed to setting the ambush with the purpose of roughing up Hafner on her cousin's instigation. Of course, they failed to take into account the mettle of the individuals who volunteered to join the naval service and the situation had escalated beyond their control. Now, they'd had their day in court, and the case was closed.

  On a more personal and happier note, this morning Brunhilde had given me the news that we had hoped to hear for so long. On a day of mourning over young lives lost, it was nice to know that another young life was just beginning, although the determined mother insisted on remaining on the job. Reluctantly—very reluctantly, I might add—I agreed. Me and mine would stand guard over them to protect and serve as we do with the rest of the naval community.

  After all, we are the Naval Criminal Investigative Service—that's both our mission and our great hono
r.

  Those Daring Not So Young Men

  by Rick Boatright

  "Thank you for coming."

  "Of course we came, lass."

  "At least it's over now."

  "Over? What's over?"

  "This steam nonsense."

  "Tisn't nonsense, lass. Your grandfather died because he got the last bit working."

  "It's still nonsense, Mr Iverson." She pointed at the "monster" in the work-yard. "What does it do that the mill doesn't do now?"

  "It works when the water is frozen. It works when there is no breeze. It works when, and as hard, as we ask it to. And it eats coal or wood, not hay or grain.

  "Your grandfather was right, and it's up to the rest of us to make it the success he knew it would be. Bradford Steam Works is ready to start offering stationary engines to mills and others, now, with your grandfather's invention of the automated condensing sprayer."

  "Invention? What invention? You're just playing at being up-timers. There's nothing under the sun they didn't already try."

  "Be that as it may, Victoria. Your grandfather's sprayer lets the steam condense fast enough that we don't have to have such a perfect fit in the piston. The leather seals are good enough to still generate the vacuum we need." Mr Iverson paused. "It's really too bad he bumped the valve while he was tightening the tie rod and was crushed like that. But thanks to your grandfather, lass, we get a good fast vacuum. If it didn't work so well, of course, he wouldn't have been killed, but thanks to your grandfather, when the steam goes away, the engine really sucks."

  A Matter Of Taste

  by Kerryn Offord

  The dining hall of a military leased house, Magdeburg, 1634

  Cory Joe Lang looked down at his empty place mat. He had a bad feeling about the group's latest action. There had been mutterings about the food before, but this time they'd sent it back untouched. Even he hadn't been prepared to try Chef Magnus' latest offering, and with Velma Hardesty for a mother, he'd grown used to eating just about anything that was put on the table. Usually, anything had to be better than whatever his mother had cooked, but he hadn't been able to get past the smell of the stuff, whatever it was.

  He looked around the dining room. Aaron Tyler, the guy responsible for initiating the food revolt, was busy telling his friends Vern Bellamy, Clint Acton and Daly Threlkeld about how this would teach the cook not to keep serving up that kind of junk. Cameron Hinshaw looked as guilty as Cory felt, while Casey Vanorman still hadn't recovered from having his meal snatched away before he finished eating it.

  There was a rattle of the door and suddenly a Viking berserker burst into the dining room. Cory slid lower in his chair as Chef Olaus Magnus stormed up to the table, his eyes flashing and a giant meat cleaver in his right hand. "You sent back my lutfisk!" Chef Magnus emphasized the statement by swinging the meat cleaver, burying it into the table. Then he placed his big, meaty hands on the table and glared at the men seated around it. "What is wrong with my lutfisk?"

  The fire in Chef Magnus' eyes scared Cory more than the still vibrating meat cleaver. He and the rest of the guys sat mute.

  "Well? Answer me. What is it with you people? You eat my stew. You eat the bread and dripping. But when I dig into the measly allowance the army provides to pay for your food to give you my greatest creation, you send it back. You didn't even try it! Was there something wrong with it?"

  Cory tried to sooth the savage beast. "There was nothing wrong with it, sir. It's just that it's not what we're used to."

  Chef Magnus seemed to be about to accept Cory's peace offering. Until that fool Tyler started playing with fire. "I'm not eating no more stinking, weird . . . foreign stuff. I demand you make us some real American food."

  Oh, God. That's going too far. Tyler is so dead. Cory shut his eyes to spare himself the sight of Aaron getting his just desserts.

  After a couple of minutes without hearing the sound of a meat cleaver striking flesh, Cory opened his eyes. Aaron was still alive, for now. But Chef Magnus was towering over the cringing Aaron with that meat cleaver in his hand.

  "My lutfisk is not 'stinking, weird, foreign stuff.' It is the ultimate in fine Swedish cuisine and deserves to be treated with respect." Chef Magnus drew himself up to his full five foot six and glared at Aaron . "What, may I ask, is this 'real American food' you demand I prepare for you?"

  "Hamburgers, pizza, hot dogs, chili dogs . . ." Aaron 's voice trailed off in the face of Chef Magnus' unblinking stare.

  Chef Magnus seemed to be a little appeased by Aaron 's answer. He stood in thought for a moment. "Dog." He smiled. "I do a very good roast dog."

  There were choking sounds from around the table. A couple of the men giggled. Aaron laughed. Chef Magnus' took a firm grip on his meat cleaver. "I have said something funny?"

  Even Aaron , Cory was happy to notice, realized Chef Magnus wasn't happy with the laughter, and kept his mouth shut. "Er, sir. Aaron didn't mean he wants you to serve dog."

  Chef Magnus glared at Cory before using the meat cleaver to point to Aaron. "He said he wanted dog. I heard him."

  "No. Yes." Cory swallowed. The way that meat cleaver was flashing around made it difficult to think. "We didn't eat dog back up-time, sir. Those are just names for the . . ." He paused, searching for the right word. ". . . meals. Up-time meals. Something we call 'fast food.'"

  Chef Magnus brushed back his chef's cap with his left hand and wrinkled his brow. "Fast food? You mean something you eat before Lent?"

  "No." Corey shook his head. "Fast food is usually stuff that's quick to cook that you can pick up and eat on the run."

  "Fast food that is not food before a fast. Dog, but without the dog." Chef Magnus gave Cory a frustrated look. "Do you know how to make any of these fast foods'?"

  Cory hesitated. Back up-time he'd worked after school at the local McDonalds. "I've made hamburgers. They're just grilled ground meat in a steamed bun with lettuce and other vegetables, sometimes with a slice of cheese, and maybe a fried egg added."

  "Steamed bun? Why would you want to steam a bun? And what kind of cheese?" Chef Magnus was obviously waiting for Cory to say something, but all Cory could do was indicate his ignorance by shrugging.

  Chef Magnus buried his head in his hands. "Why me, Lord? Why me?" He lowered his hands to look at the anxious faces around the table. "If you wish to eat 'real American foods,' then I must know how to prepare them. Do you have recipes?" The men shook their heads. "Do you know anybody who has recipes?" Most of the men nodded. "Good. When I have some recipes, then maybe you will get what you want."

  Chef Magnus pushed himself away from the table, straightened his cap, took his cleaver in hand and said, "I am glad we have had this little discussion." Then he turned and made his way to the dining room door. He'd just grasped the door handle when Clint Acton called out, "But what about dinner? What do we eat tonight?"

  He turned and smiled. "I have some lovely lutfisk."

  Several of the men turned a shade of green. Others suddenly had difficulty swallowing. Cory admitted defeat for them all. "That would be nice, sir."

  The kitchen of the same military leased house

  Olaus gathered his assistants around. "Oskar, Petter. First thing tomorrow, I want you to go around to the American mission and start asking about recipes. Find out everything you can." He smiled at his assistants. "We will surprise these idiots with some of their fast food."

  "Herr Magnus, one of them has eaten some of his meal."

  Olaus jerked around at the interruption. "What? Someone gave my lutfisk the respect it deserved? Show me."

  The servant pointed at the returned meals. There, amongst half a dozen untouched plates, was one that was at least a third eaten. Olaus reached out a hand. There was little heat radiating from the food. He turned to his assistants, an evil grin on his face. "Oskar, replace this plate with hot food. Then take it back to the dining room with the rest. Ask who ate their lutfisk. Give him the plate of hot food. The rest of them can settle
for eating the food they so rudely sent back."

  Oskar grinned back. "Immediately, Olaus." He loaded a plate with a fresh serving, placed a cover over it, and carried that towards the dining room. A team of servers followed with the remaining meals.

  Petter, Olaus, and even the apprentices followed. None of them wanted to miss whatever happened.

  The dining hall

  Oskar stood at the door, the covered plate held chest high in front of him. "One of you started on their meal. Who are you please?"

  Casey Vanorman gingerly put his hand up. Oskar walked round to serve him.

  "You ate that stuff?" Aaron was scathing.

  "It doesn't taste that bad, Aaron. Not with the side dishes. You're just letting the smell get in the way of the taste."

  "How could you get past the smell?" Aaron looked at the meal being placed in front of Casey. "I know it can't taste good just from looking at it. The smell just confirms that. Mom would never expect me to eat anything that smelled that bad."