by Eric Flint
“Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions.”
He needed to speak louder. The wind rushing by was almost deafening.
“Shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings.”
He could not remember a time the sky had been so blue.
“Make known to him—”
Chapter 40
Ottoman siege lines southeast of Linz
About three miles from the confluence of the Danube and Traun rivers
“Order them back,” Murad commanded. He hadn’t needed to use his eyeglass to follow the course of the battle. When huge airships are engulfed in flames and fall out of the sky, they could be seen by anyone within line of sight.
He tightened his jaws. Later, when he was alone in his quarters, he could afford to express his true feelings—rage, disappointment. Even some worry. But not here; not now.
“All of them, My Sultan?” asked one of his adjutants. A spike of fury passed down Murad’s spine. Almost, he turned and struck the man down with his fist. Who was he to question—
But again, he restrained himself. The man’s question was reasonable. Murad had considered himself the option of continuing the aerial assault, at least with the airships equipped to drop bombs on Linz. They could drop their bombs before the peculiar new kâfir aircraft returned, judging from the length of time it had taken it to return previously. And—there was still a great deal of uncertainty—perhaps they could get away before the fire-spitting aircraft returned. The enemy had withdrawn the first time after damaging only one airship. The second time, it had withdrawn after destroying two and possibly—no report had come in yet—damaging a third. Clearly there was some factor that was preventing it from remaining in combat for very long. Either they ran out of fuel quickly or—this was Murad’s own guess—their bizarre rapid-firing rifle ran out of ammunition quickly.
Yes, it was tempting to give the order. Very tempting. But in the end, what would be the point? The airships needed to do extensive damage in order to clear the way for the assaulting troops. That required the fleet to spend time over the target, because each airship couldn’t carry very many bombs. He would have to maintain a continuous bombardment for at least three hours, by his estimate. That would mean alternating the lines of airships. Two lines bombing—possibly not even that many—while the rest returned to refuel and reload.
Unless they managed to destroy the new kâfir aircraft, the Gureba-i hava would suffer horrendous casualties. And how were they to destroy the thing? Shoot at it with rifles on airship gondolas? That was feasible against other airships because they all moved slowly. This new winged aircraft…
No. He had better uses for his airships than sending them into a slaughterhouse. They would make excellent reconnaissance platforms, especially for his navy.
“Bring them all back,” he repeated. “Tell all my aghas and chorbaji I want them to assemble in the headquarters tomorrow morning. We need to plan for a siege.”
He had hoped to avoid that. Taking Linz by traditional siegecraft would be a slow process and would tie up most of his army, probably until well into next year. He had hoped he could repeat the same assault by overwhelming force that had enabled him to capture Vienna without a siege.
So be it. God’s will was not always clear. It remained His will.
He headed for the staircase that led down to the ground, but stopped when he remembered something. He beckoned another of his officers.
“See to it that the families of the men killed today are taken care of—and do not stint the care. If I discover any officers are skimming the funds provided, they will die—and not quickly.”
“Yes, My Sultan.”
Observation platform atop the royal castle
Linz, provisional capital of Austria-Hungary
“I just want to make sure I understand exactly what happened, Your Majesty.” Melissa pointed to the west, in the direction of the airfield. “The pilot and gunner who brought the plane—the Vasa type, it’s called, right?—”
She didn’t wait for an answer to that. “The two men who brought the plane here and did the first attack run—is that the term for it? Never mind, we know what I’m talking about—were both injured and couldn’t continue. Do I have it right so far?”
As was usually the case, Gustav Adolf found dealing with Melissa Mailey to be simultaneously aggravating and amusing. But he was willing to make allowances, partly because she was an American but mostly because she had done such a superb job of negotiating the treaty with France that ended the Ostend War. He was quite sure that Cardinal Richelieu had found the woman infuriating and never once been amused by her.
“Yes, that is correct. And before you ask, what the radio operator says”—he pointed down to the castle roof supporting the platform—“he’s right there, you know, and my aides bring his messages immediately. What he says is that acting on their own initiative, the secretary of state’s pilot and Baroness Julie Mackay commandeered the aircraft and carried out the mission—I believe that’s the term the Air Force prefers—which destroyed two of the Ottoman airships and repelled the assault.” He gazed at her quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“Just want to make sure that if anybody asks me what happened, I don’t misrepresent anything. And now, Your Majesty. I should really return to the hospital.”
She turned to Queen Mariana. “Do you wish to come also, or would you prefer to remain here?”
“Oh, I think I will come with you. I don’t see where there’s anything further we can do here.”
Off they went.
* * *
On their way down the staircase, Melissa started vocalizing a tune, in the soft manner of someone singing to herself.
“I am not familiar with that melody,” said Mariana. “Is it an American one?”
Melissa hadn’t realized she was singing out loud. “Um…yes, it is. It’s by a woman back up-time named Helen Reddy. The song is called ‘I Am Woman.’ It was very popular in its day.”
Among women, anyway. Men, not so much.
“Since the deed was done by women,” Melissa said, “I think it would be most suitable if the decoration were named after you.”
“Me? What decoration?”
Melissa pursed her lips for a moment. This was not a subject she was very familiar with.
“It would be what we Americans would call a ‘medal.’ It’s for meritorious deeds in combat. We had ones called the Bronze Star, the Silver Star…” She tried to remember others. “The Congressional Medal of Honor, of course, but that would be a little over the top here. Most people who got it died in the doing. Let’s see…the Navy had the Navy Cross. What else…?”
A fact elbowed its way into her memory. “Ah, yes! One of Austria’s future empresses—well, the future I came from—established a medal named after her. It was called the Military Order of Maria Theresa. So, there it is! The ‘Military Order of Mariana.’”
She saw no reason to burden the queen with the inconsequential details. If she remembered correctly, the Military Order of Maria Theresa was reserved for military officers. That would rule Julie right out.
Mariana was looking doubtful. “I’m not sure Ferdinand will approve.”
“I’m sure he will.” Especially after I get a bunch of wounded soldiers and nurses to start hollering for it.
She muttered something, again without realizing it.
“What did you say?”
“Ah…nothing.”
Oh, world of the Ring of Fire, you are soooooooooooooooo never going to hear the end of this.
“I’m thinking a statue would be nice, too,” she said.
Radio operators’ room, the royal castle
Linz, provisional capital of Austria-Hungary
Rebecca frowned at the radio message the operator had just handed to her. Michael had returned to Magdeburg after his brief visit, to make arrangements for the children. Gustav Adolf wanted him back in Linz as soon as possible to resume command of the Third Divi
sion, now that the Ottomans had returned to their siege lines.
DEAR BECKY STOP SORRY THERE IS A GLITCH IN MY TRANSPORT PLANS STOP WILL NOT ARRIVE LINZ UNTIL TOMORROW STOP OR NEXT DAY STOP CHILDREN ARE FINE STOP
By now, she would have thought her English vocabulary was complete. But it could be such an elusive language.
“What is a ‘glitch’?” she asked nobody in particular.
Magdeburg airfield
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
“You sure you won’t reconsider?” Mike asked Eddie Junker. “I’m sure you could get me down to Linz in plenty of time to get up to Poznań soon enough for whatever Torstensson wants you there for.”
Eddie shook his head. “You’re thinking in terms of flight time only, General Stearns. In that respect, yes. You’re right. The distance from Magdeburg to Linz is a little over three hundred miles. We could be there in less than three hours. The distance from Linz to Poznań is about the same, which would add another four hours or so.”
Eddie glanced at the sun, which was now well above the horizon. “We are not too far past the spring equinox, so daylight is perhaps eleven and a half hours—but I estimate we have already lost three of those hours. That gives me almost no margin of error.”
“The weather is supposed to be—”
“Good. Yes, I know. But the weather predictions are by no means perfectly reliable. If someone can figure out a way to put one of your up-time satellites in the sky, no doubt they would improve. But right now, they are nowhere nearly good enough for me to be willing to risk my life on them.”
He held up his hand. “But that doesn’t begin to plumb the depths of the problems involved.”
Mike didn’t actually clench his teeth, but he came close. He knew when a refusal was looming. “Go on,” he said.
“General Stearns—”
“Will you can the formalities, Eddie? You’re not in the military and we’re in private. ‘Mike’ will do fine.”
Eddie smiled. “All right, Mike. The really big, intractable issue is fuel. This plane”—he nodded toward the Steady Girl, a few yards away on the tarmac—“can get about four hundred miles when it’s fully fueled. But I don’t ever fly it more than two hundred and fifty miles before refueling, because lots of things can vary that range and problems can always come up. Just to name a simple one, I have to navigate by eyesight and if we get bad enough visibility—fog, even low cloud cover—I’m wandering around lost, with my fuel running out while I’m trying to figure out where I am. There is no way I am going to be willing to fly even one three-hundred-mile leg in a day, much less two. Which means we’re going to have to refuel three times before I can get to Poznań, which is where I’m supposed to be by the end of the day. That’s according to Lieutenant General Torstensson.”
Mike didn’t miss the emphasis on “Lieutenant.”
“I am well aware that Lennart outranks me, Eddie. So what? You’re not under his command.”
“True, but I try to get along with the fellow. A stance, by the way, which I was instructed to take by Francisco Nasi, who is my employer.”
Eddie started counting off his fingers. “So. First we fly to Grantville and refuel there. That’s a busy and efficient airport so it should take no more than an hour to refuel. We have now used up perhaps three and a half hours—but it would be safer to assume four. Then”—he tugged his middle finger—“we fly to Linz, where you disembark, leaving me to the chaos that will be rampant in that airport—say better, glorified airfield—because in his wisdom the emperor ordered all but one of the functioning airplanes in the Air Force to come there. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the fuel has been used up and I have to wait for resupply to arrive. At the very best I will have used up all of today. Perhaps—but more likely not—I can get an early start on my flight to Poznań tomorrow morning.”
Now he tugged his ring finger. “Except that when I arrive in Breslau to refuel, who knows what I will encounter? As I’m sure you know by now, the Lady Protector has taken all her forces and seized Kraków. I was told she plans to construct an airfield in Kraków as soon as possible, which means she probably cannibalized some of the equipment and fuel in Breslau.”
“All right, all right. I understand your point. So what do you propose instead? You’re the only plane available for the next several days. Maybe a week.”
“You fly with me to Poznań today. Right now. It’s only a two-and-a half-hour flight and Torstensson has the best equipped and efficient airfield in the world. You oversee the refueling while I find out why Torstensson summoned me there.”
“And then…?”
Eddie shrugged. “And then we proceed however best we can. I can’t answer that until I find out why Torstensson wanted me there by this evening. But it’s the only option you have, Mike, unless you want to wait here in Magdeburg until I return. Whenever that might be.”
“Screw that,” Mike said. “I’ve been to too many labor conventions not to know the basic rule about overcrowded elevators. Just get on it, no matter if it’s headed up or down. You wait for an elevator going the right way that isn’t already jammed full, you could starve to death. So, Poznań it is.”
USE Army airfield
Just outside the main army base at Wartheburg
Poznań siege lines
Eddie got back from his meeting with General Torstensson less than two hours after they’d landed. By then, the Steady Girl had been refueled and was ready to go.
When Eddie came up to Mike, he had a strange expression on his face. Mike wasn’t sure whether to call it strained or dumbfounded.
His stomach started sinking.
“You’re not going to like this, Mike,” said Eddie. “I mean, you’re really not going to like this.”
Chapter 41
Poznań
Poznań Voivodeship
Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth
“You were right,” said Mike. His hands were clenched so tightly on the plane seat’s armrests that his knuckles were white. He was speaking through clenched teeth, too. “I don’t like this. Not one damn bit.”
Eddie Junker got a long suffering look on his face. More precisely, he got that sort of faux long-suffering look that was a kissing cousin to schadenfreude, the German expression for “pleasure in the misery of others.”
“Stop smirking at me,” Mike growled. “I’m scared to fly, okay? My sister’s terrified of spiders. I know it’s irrational.”
“If it’ll make you feel any better, this time around there might actually be some risk involved. Not a lot. But I’ll probably wind up flying closer to the ground than is called for in the Official Safe Flying Instruction Compendium. ‘Osfic,’ we call it.”
“You made that up.”
“Well, yes, I did.” Eddie gave Mike a glance that was now a bit exasperated as well as amused. “Mike, nobody made you come along on this mission, as I pointed out to you before we took off. Torstensson made that clear as well.”
“Screw that. I told you—it’s the elevator principle. I need to get to Linz as soon as possible and because of the emperor’s order bringing all planes except one observation Belle down to Linz, you’re the only ride available.”
He hissed, for an instant, in response to a spot of turbulence. “And you have no idea where you’re going to wind up before the day is over—much less tomorrow. Am I right?”
“Well…yes. My orders are to provide reconnaissance and—I love this part—‘whatever else may be needed’—to the party about to flee Poznań. Torstensson refused to tell me who the party is or how he knows all this, but I’m guessing it’s Jozef and Christin. I have no idea where we’ll wind up and when. What I’m mostly worried about—will worry about—is where to get refueled. The only realistic options are Poznań, Breslau and”—here he grimaced—“whatever there is in Kraków. Which is probably a cow pasture to land on and a two-gallon can of fuel.”
“What I figured. I’ll stick with the elevator.�
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Eddie pointed to the radio. “In that case, General, I’d appreciate it if you’d handle the radio. I believe the mysterious party we’re to provide reconnaissance for will be contacting us soon. I’ve already got the frequency set.”
Mike frowned. “How do you know they have a radio?”
“General Torstensson told me they would. He’s also the one who gave me the frequency to use.”
“Fer Crissake, why the James Bond need-to-know run-around? Who else besides Jozef and Christin would have a radio in Poznań?”
“Presumably, the people who sent the message to Breslau that they suspected Koniecpolski had been assassinated.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Who are obviously connected to Jozef or why else would they have sent him the message?”
Eddie shrugged. “You’re probably right. We’ll find out soon en—”
The radio squawked. “Anybody there? Anybody there? Over.”
Mike brought the speaker to his mouth. “We’re here. Who is this? Over?”
“Jozef Wojtowicz, of course. Who else would it be on this frequency?”
Mike rolled his eyes again. “What I said,” he muttered. Into the speaker, he said: “Just checking. What do you want us to do? Over.”
“How close are you to Poznań? Over.”
Eddie held up three fingers.
“About three miles away. Straight to the east. Over.”
“Good. In five minutes, fly straight across the city, north to south. As low as possible. Then check back. Over and out.”
Mike replaced the speaker on its mount. “Why does he want that, do you think?”
“At a guess, he wants to draw everyone’s attention to the south. The Air Force overflies the city regularly, but they usually stay at least half a mile high. There’s not much chance the Poles have any effective antiaircraft guns yet, but why take the chance?”
