by Eric Flint
He leaned over the map and placed his forefinger on the city of Beirut. He had to lean over quite a bit because Beirut was at the center of the map, and it was a big map which showed all of the eastern Mediterranean and the Near East from the coast to Baghdad.
“Assuming you can hold Beirut—”
“We’d actually be holding most of what we called Lebanon up-time,” interjected Mike. He leaned over and pointed with his finger as well, although he kept the fingertip several inches above the map so it wouldn’t crowd Ulrik’s. “Everything between the sea and Mount Lebanon—including, of course, Mount Lebanon itself. Which is actually a range of mountains, not a single one.”
Ulrik then moved his finger to Egypt. “And you think that will trigger a revolt in Egypt?”
Rebecca fluttered her hands by way of caution. “I would say ‘hope’ rather than ‘think.’ There are too many factors involved in Egypt’s relationship to the Ottomans for us to be certain of any outcome. Officially, it is simply one of the empire’s provinces. An eyalet, as they call them. But although the Ottomans seized Egypt from the Mamluks more than a century ago, the Mamluks are still a powerful and influential force there. The truth is that, under the surface, Egypt remains semiautonomous. If the Egyptians can be persuaded that our stronghold in Beirut shields them—even if only partially—from Ottoman power, they might well decide to revolt.”
Ulrik then pointed with his chin toward the side of the map in front of Rebecca and Mike. “But you say the main target is the Safavids.”
“That’s the gold ring,” said Mike, nodding. “If the Persians see that we’re tying up Murad’s forces in Lebanon as well as Austria, we’re hoping they’ll decide to resume their war with the Ottomans.” He planted his finger on the spot marked Baghdad. “They’ve got to be holding a grudge over Murad’s seizure of Mesopotamia from them, which happened less than a year ago.”
Ulrik made a cautioning motion with his own hand. “Yes, they might. But it’s also possible Shah Safi will view the Ottoman entanglements as an opening for him to finally settle accounts with the Uzbeks instead.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” Mike admitted. “If Shah Abbas were still on the throne…”
Gustav Adolf chuckled. “If Abbas had still been alive, I don’t think the Ottomans would have been able to take Baghdad in the first place.”
He was probably right about that, thought Mike. There hadn’t been much information in Grantville’s libraries or computer records concerning the Safavid dynasty that ruled the Persian empire in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But one thing that seemed clear was that the greatest ruler produced by that dynasty had been Shah Abbas I, whose reign had lasted from 1588 to 1629. His death had come just two years before the Ring of Fire.
The man who had succeeded him, his grandson Shah Safi, did not appear to have the same ability. On the other hand, by all reports that came to Europe the man recently appointed as the Persian empire’s grand vizier, Saru Taqi, was quite competent.
If Mike succeeded in his plan to open a second front against the Ottomans in the Levant, the Safavids might go any one of three ways. They might simply sit tight. They might renew the war with the Ottomans. Or they might use the preoccupation of the Ottomans to attack the Uzbeks in central Asia. The great strategic problem faced by the Safavids was that they were caught between two powerful foes, the Ottomans to the west and the Uzbeks to the east.
Mike and Rebecca were hoping for the second outcome. But there was no way to read the future. The same was true with their hopes that the Egyptians might revolt. There were a lot of factors working in favor of that, if the USE established a strong position in Beirut and the surrounding region. But those same factors made for a complex situation. There was no way to know in advance what might result.
The one thing Mike was confident about was his ability to hold Lebanon against the Ottomans, as long as two conditions were met. The first was that Gustav Adolf, the commander of the allied military forces, gave him permission to use his Third Division for the purpose. The second was that he and Rebecca could forge an alliance with the Druze who dominated Mount Lebanon and the Jabal al-Druze (Mountain of the Druze) area in southern Syria.
Forging an alliance with the Druze meant coming to an agreement with the leader of the Druze, Fakhr-al-Din, the emir of Mount Lebanon. And that meant going to Italy. Fakhr-al-Din had recently fallen out of favor with the Ottomans and had been forced to go into exile. Fortunately for him, the duke of Tuscany, Ferdinando II de’ Medici, who had once before provided Fakhr-al-Din with sanctuary, was willing to do it again.
“You will need to go to Florence, of course,” said Ulrik. “What about the Maronite Christians? Is there a chance they might be brought into the alliance?”
Mike looked at Rebecca, who shook her head. It was an indication of uncertainty, though, not negation.
“Very hard to tell,” she said. “On the one hand, by all accounts we’ve received the Maronites chafe under Ottoman rule. On the other hand, insofar as they look to Europe for assistance, they look to France. And France…”
She shrugged. “Who can say what the newly crowned—and many believe to be a usurper—King Gaston will do? The man is…capricious.”
She looked back down at the map. “We will certainly try to bring them in, of course. Working in our favor is the fact that the Maronites are on cordial terms with the Druze, currently. We will just have to see.”
Ulrik went back to studying the map. “I am no expert on military history,” he said, “but I hope you do not expect your proposed expedition to the Levant to be another—what do you call it?—‘D-Day,’ I think. That coastal invasion during your second world war that enabled you to drive the Germans out of France.”
Mike laughed. “Oh, certainly not! We’re just talking about the Third Division, not the whole USE Army. There’s no chance that we could do more than establish what amounts to a beachhead on steroids in Lebanon.”
Ulrik frowned. “What are steroids?”
“Sorry. American slang. It means something larger or more powerful than usual.”
Gustav Adolf chimed in. “The historic parallel Michael is thinking of happened during the Napoleonic Wars. When the English duke of Wellington turned the area around Lisbon into a bastion against Napoleon. The ‘Lines of Torres Vedras,’ the fortifications were called. The French never did succeed in taking Lisbon.”
Mike wasn’t surprised by the emperor’s detailed knowledge of future military history—more precisely, the history of a future that would now never happen in this universe. In the years since the Ring of Fire, Gustav Adolf had spent a great deal of time studying that history. And, for a wonder, not making the common mistake of so many rulers in the here-and-now of thinking that history could be duplicated.
Gustav Adolf stroked his short, blond beard. It was an unusual gesture for him, and one that Mike had only seen him use when he was seriously pondering something. After a minute or so, the emperor lowered his hand and nodded.
“We will do it,” he announced. “Even if nothing else comes of it, seizing a portion of Murad’s empire will boost morale.” He gave Mike a look from under lowered brows that came close to a scowl. “Assuming that the sometimes reckless—perhaps that’s too strong; let us rather say excessively bold—commander of the Third Division can keep Beirut and Mount Lebanon once he seizes them.”
Mike smiled, as seraphically as he could manage, although he was pretty sure the effort was pathetic. He’d never heard anyone, not even his wife—especially not his wife—describe him as angelic. “I’m sure I can do that, whatever else,” he said stoutly.
Gustav Adolf’s near-scowl didn’t fade at all. “Even without the Hangman Regiment?”
Mike frowned. “Why wouldn’t I have the Hangman?”
“Because I want to send them to Silesia.” Now, the emperor made a stab at assuming a seraphic smile. The result was even more pathetic than Mike’s had been. “Come, Michael! It will take you mon
ths to arrange the prerequisites for your expedition to the Levant. Leave aside whatever obstacles you may face persuading Fakhr-al-Din to form an alliance. The only way you could move your Third Division to Beirut would be by sea, and you can’t risk that without having Admiral Simpson bring his Baltic fleet into the eastern Mediterranean. And how long will that take?”
Mike had already given that matter a lot of thought. “Not till next spring, at the earliest. Probably not until summer. There’s a good chance the Spanish will try to block him, for one thing.”
Gustav Adolf shook his head. “I doubt they will, actually. They must realize by now that they can’t stand up to Simpson in a naval battle—not if he brings his entire fleet into the Med. And they have enough trouble as it is, with that maniac Cardinal Borja stirring everything up in Italy.”
“I think the emperor is right, Michael,” said Rebecca. Now it was her turn to lean over the map and plant a forefinger on it. In her case, on the western coast of North Africa, which Europeans called the Barbary Coast. “The Spanish might, however, try to bribe the corsairs to do it. So might the Ottomans, since the corsairs are officially their subjects.”
Officially was the right term, Mike knew. Though most of North Africa was formally under Ottoman control, of necessity the empire’s pashas ruled with a light hand. They had no effective way of controlling the powerful corsair fleets except by persuasion—and bribery, of course.
“Even if Simpson can get into the Med without a fight,” Mike said, “he still can’t provide us with naval protection in the Adriatic until late spring or early summer. Let’s say”—he did a quick calculation—“seven to nine months from now.”
“I agree,” said Gustav Adolf. “Which is why I want to send the Hangman Regiment to Silesia.”
He held up his hand, forestalling Mike’s protest—which, in point of fact, Mike wasn’t inclined to make anyway. It hadn’t taken him long to grasp the logic of Gustav Adolf’s intentions. The Third Division was overstrength to begin with—the only division of the USE’s army of which that was true—and the troops were now settled in for a long siege. Mike didn’t really need all his regiments for that purpose, especially over the winter when Murad was bound to withdraw his forces back to Vienna.
“You do not need all your regiments, Michael,” said Gustav Adolf. “You have too many regiments, anyway! Ten, when you are supposed to have no more than nine.”
He made an attempt to scowl again, but this was a feeble one. The emperor was hardly displeased that one of his divisions was unusually adept at recruiting soldiers. “And the Lady Protector of Silesia just sent me a request to provide her with some troops.”
Mike had to fight down a grin. The “Lady Protector of Silesia” was more commonly known—throughout Europe, not just in the USE—as Gretchen Richter, probably the continent’s most notorious radical agitator and organizer. And just by coincidence, she was married to Jeff Higgins, the commander of the Hangman Regiment.
“Did she specify the Hangman?” asked Rebecca, who was making no attempt to hide her own amusement.
Gustav Adolf waggled his hand. “Not in so many words. But I’m sure that’s the one she most wants.” More seriously, he said to Mike: “I will defer to your judgment in the matter, however, since you know the man better than I do. Higgins is very young to be in command of a regiment, and this will be in many respects an independent command for him, if we send him off to Silesia. Is he ready for such a challenge?”
Mike had already been thinking about that, and it hadn’t taken him long to reach a conclusion. “It’d be good for Jeff, actually. But…”
He glanced at the Danish prince. “I think I now understand why you wanted Ulrik to be present at this meeting.” Mike had wondered about that. Ulrik was exceptionally shrewd, but most of his experience had been political, not military. True, he had a naval exploit under his belt, having badly damaged a USE ironclad during the Baltic War. But he was hardly an expert on such questions as fleet maneuvers, much less commanding large land forces. Why involve him in this discussion, then?
Judging from the expression on Ulrik’s face, he was puzzled as well. Mike had to fight down another grin. It would be interesting to see how loudly Ulrik squawked once the emperor explained his intentions.
“If I’m right,” Mike said, “you plan to put Ulrik in overall command of all Silesian forces. Which means Colonel Higgins has to be able to provide Ulrik with effective advice, as well as commanding his own regiment.”
To his credit, Ulrik didn’t actually squawk. He didn’t even sputter. His eyes grew wide, though. Very wide.
“Me?” he said. “But I—” He seemed to brace himself. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I think your proposal—”
“It’s not a proposal, Ulrik,” said Gustav Adolf. “It’s actually a command.”
Ulrik’s mouth clamped shut. If he’d been a lawyer, he might be inclined to argue the matter, since Gustav Adolf’s military authority over him was rather dubious. However, since he was a prince rather than a lawyer he declined to pursue what would be, politically speaking, a monumentally stupid course.
Rebecca came to his rescue, in a manner of speaking. “I am sure the emperor does not expect you to be the one to develop battlefield tactics, and such. If I am not mistaken, he is thinking in political terms, not military ones.”
Ulrik looked at her, frowning. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Oh, but it is obvious!” exclaimed Rebecca. Thereby demonstrating again what Mike considered her only major personal flaw. Rebecca was so intelligent—she was smarter than he was, for sure—that her thoughts often raced ahead of others, and she could get a bit impatient over the sluggards’ failure to keep up.
But he’d lived with the flaw for years, now. Quite cheerfully, in fact. And in this instance, his thoughts had caught up very quickly.
“One of these days, Ulrik, you will be effectively the emperor of the USE,” Mike said.
“That’s preposterous!” said Ulrik. “I will be Kristina’s consort.” He made his own hand-waggling motion. “Co-monarch, if you insist.”
“Don’t play the fool,” said the emperor. His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was the suggestion it could become so very quickly. “You know perfectly well that Kristina has neither the inclination, the talent—and certainly not the desire—to be a ruling empress. She will be delighted to leave those chores to you while she races about engaged in whatever whim or folly has engrossed her lately.”
He waved a big, meaty hand. “Whatever. Horse racing is a given. And just the other day I caught her looking through an American magazine—an article on something called ‘white water rafting.’” He gave Mike a glare. “It’s your fault. You Americans. You should keep such things away from children. Under lock and key!”
Mike spread his hands. “There’s no way to stop it, Your Majesty. You know Kristina will insist on learning how to fly. From there it’s just a short step to the ambition of becoming the first woman—no, first person—to fly around the world. She might even insist on doing it solo.”
“I’m sure I can keep her from doing anything so foolhardy,” said Ulrik. “Well. Quite so foolhardy.”
He looked back at Gustav Adolf. “Assume that I accept your premise, for the moment. I still don’t see where that leads to me being in command of an army.”
“I said, don’t play the fool,” growled the emperor. “You know perfectly well that nothing bolsters a monarch’s prestige so much as being perceived as a capable military commander in his own right.” He thumped his chest with a fist. It was a big chest and a big fist and Gustav Adolf was not holding back. It sounded like a drum. “The ‘Golden King,’ they call me! ‘The Lion of the North!’ You think anyone would call me those things if I hadn’t commanded armies on a battlefield? And won most of my battles!”
“He’s right, Ulrik,” said Mike. “Nobody doubts your courage—not after you led a flotilla of cockleshells against ironclads and almost sank one o
f them. But that’s not the same thing as being the commander of an army. For that, you need to do what the emperor proposes.”
Ulrik made one last attempt to scuttle the idea. “But everyone will know perfectly well that I am simply following the advice of my advisers who do know what they’re doing. Colonel Higgins, first and foremost.”
“And what do you think I did, when I started this new trade of mine?” demanded Mike. He made a little gesture indicating the uniform he wore. “I didn’t brush my teeth without checking with my aides first.”
There was a brief silence while everyone else in the room gave Mike a very skeptical look. Especially his wife. But no one said anything.
Ulrik sighed. “Fine. When do I leave for Silesia?”
“Weren’t you listening?” said Mike, displaying that famous grin of his. Inimitable, it was, if he said so himself.
“Go see Colonel Higgins. After you explain to him his new assignment, he will tell you when you leave for Silesia. When, where and how.”
“And what to wear,” added Gustav Adolf. “And while I think about it, isn’t it time we promoted Higgins to a real colonel?” He gave Mike a glower, although it didn’t have much heat in it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that little trick you pulled with giving him the rank of ‘Lieutenant Colonel’ which doesn’t exist in the USE Army.”
“Well, it should,” Mike replied. He’d learned long since that when dealing with Gustav Adolf, you had to stand your ground. Happily, while the emperor had a very dominant personality he didn’t object to subordinates challenging him as long as they were respectful about it. In fact, he encouraged it—though not publicly, of course.
“Yes, I agree. I’ve instructed the army to add the rank to its—what did you make me call it?—table of operations, something like that.”
“Table of organization,” Mike supplied. “And nobody ‘forced’ you do it, Your Majesty. You thought it was a good idea.”
“Why, yes. So I did.”
