by Eric Flint
"Well, that's that, I hope," said Shortie.
"I'm disappointed," said Scarface. "I was looking forward to smashing his face in."
"Shall we celebrate our defense of the Printed Word…"
"Thuringen Gardens is still open," one of the vigilantes volunteered.
Some minutes later, they were at a table. The waitress filled their mugs, and left behind the pitcher.
"Shall we have a toast?" asked Shortie. The others nodded. "To the Dewey System!" They clicked their mugs, and drank.
***
The Duchess is a Leatherneck
Written by Jose J. Clavell
Some people wonder all their lives if they've made a difference.
The Marines don't have that problem."
Ronald Reagan, President of the United States; 1985
Chapter One
The Parade Ground, Marine Barracks
Magdeburg Navy Yard, MagdeburgCity
United States of Europe
Early summer 1635, 0900 hours local
"Pla-TOON! Atten-SHUN! Pre-SENT ARMS!" The senior drill instructor had timed it perfectly, waiting until the last second for the adjutant to reach the prescribed distance before giving the command, performing an about face, and snapping a salute in one graceful motion. The process reinforced, in the minds of his startled recruits, the belief fostered throughout the training cycle that he had eyes in the back of his head.
Without breaking her stride the adjutant in question, Captain Annette de Ventron, USMC-never USEMC, as there had never been a USAMC-returned the textbook salute with a small smile and a sharp salute of her own. Personally acquainted with that particular trick-after all, she and the DI had been trained by the same man-it was a struggle for her to keep a straight face and not laugh aloud.
But keep a straight face she did, because it was her duty to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world and an ability to be expected from all Marine Staff NCOs. It helped maintain the recruits' mindset that the instructor's words and judgment were above reproach, and-as far they were concerned-something to be taken as gospel. From all the wide-eyed stares, the senior drill instructor had once more succeeded handsomely in that endeavor. That was why no leatherneck, officer or enlisted, ever forgot their first DI.
Her job done, she continued on her way to her office at First Battalion, First Marines Headquarters. Normally, she would have stayed to observe for a while and gauge the progress of the Corps's newest batch of recruits. But today had a chill in the air that easily penetrated the insulated liner of her field jacket, and she was very much looking forward to the first hot cup of coffee of her official day.
Besides, with only two more weeks remaining until graduation, this particular batch was almost done; another small step towards bringing the regiment to its full authorized strength. After completing their individual advanced training, the new Marines would take their places in the line and be ready, willing and able to serve "in every clime and place" as the hymn said-a far cry from what a certain Swedish chancellor had once described less than charitably as "thirty-four men, two women and one puppy, not exactly an invasion force." The Corps performance since that time had belied his description and, although it would never achieve the numbers that the army boasted or the same speed to build up, that was fine, too. Marines saw themselves as the precision instruments of the USE national policy, able to function to advantage on both land and at sea, not mass-produced "items" like soldiers.
Smiling at the almost poetic insight, de Ventron continued on her way but something started to nag at her from the back of her mind, something from her past before the Corps and even before life in the convent and marriage. Suddenly, the buried memory came back full force, making her stop in mid-stride as a chilling sensation ran down her spine. De Ventron turned around slowly, staring in disbelief at the hard-drilling platoon, one of four in the drill area. The object of her attention was a young woman who, because of her height, was marching in the rear of the first squad. De Ventron continued to watch for several minutes while she tried to match the memories of a young child's face by her mother's side, which she remembered from her only visit to the French court while just barely a teen herself, to the sweaty girl mechanically following the commands of her leather-lunged drill instructor.
"No way, Jose," she muttered finally, falling into one of the many colloquialisms learned from her up-time friends and housemates. She couldn't believe her eyes, and no matter how many times she blinked her eyes, the face remained the same. Shaking her head with a resigned sigh, she resumed her trip to headquarters at a slightly faster pace. Not running, of course-Marine officers, by training and tradition, do not run unless they are doing physical exercise or the situation is truly dire. Doing otherwise tends to destroy troop morale, a fact relentlessly hammered into them during the basic school. Barely acknowledging the greeting of friends and fellow Marines, de Ventron entered the building and, without stopping to drop her jacket or knocking on the door, marched into the office of her regimental and battalion commander to announce gravely, " Mon ami, we may have a problem."
Colonel-Commandant Friedrich von Brockenholz looked up in surprise. Von Brockenholz not only commanded the Corps' lone regiment and thus the Corps itself, but also the Magdeburg-based first battalion. They had once been classmates. He was now her superior, and had been reviewing training plans with his regimental and battalion Sergeant Major, Charles "Duke" Hudson. Hudson, who was a former up-time American Leatherneck, was the force behind the creation of the down-time USE Marine Corps and had once been the bane of her existence as her DI. He was also a man for whom de Ventron held immense respect.
Von Brockenholz stared at her with a frown and then signaled her to sit in her favorite chair in front of his desk. Hudson pulled a notebook and pen out of his utilities pocket and got ready to take notes. "Ok, Annette, talk. I'm all ears," he said.
"It's one of our recruits, mon colonel," de Ventron told him, sitting down after removing her cover and placing it primly on her lap. "I think I met her at court before I went into the convent. If I'm not mistaken, her name is, or was, Anne de Gonzague de Nevers de Majorque de Mayenne de Mantoue. Her father is Charles, Duke of Mantua, a small independent state in Northern Italy, sir."
"I know where Mantua is located, Annette," von Brockenholz said and stared at her for a moment before shaking his head in disgust. Hudson muttered unhappily, looking at his notebook, "Rats, not another one, not another Italian noblewoman."
De Ventron did not have the heart to tell him that the girl and her family were, like her own, mostly of French extraction, and she certainly did not wanted to tell him of her imperial connections either. That could wait a moment or two.
However, she understood his attitude, and, despite her own background, shared it. Italian, French or otherwise, after last summer's successful summer naval campaigns, there had been a flood of new recruits flocking to the ranks of the navy and Corps. Together with them came a relatively large contingent of aristocrats, all wanting to make their mark and seek adventure in the newest and most modern of the USE armed services after the air force. The strict meritocracy came as a surprise to many of them, and some left just as fast as they arrived. Some, however, had stayed and a few, to the consternation of many, even opted to remain in the enlisted ranks, content with just the title of US Marine or fleet sailor. Regardless, given the political situation of the new nation, each case was a potential political minefield.
The very few noblewomen that had also rallied to the colors in spite of what culture, society and their families expected them to do in their narrowly-defined roles-which did not include haring off to foreign lands, in many cases without parents or family approval, and enlisting in the military, were a tough problem. The most notorious case to date was that of Lance Corporal Angelina Rainaldi, a former Italian noblewoman now assigned as a law clerk in the navy JAG office. Although to be fair to her, Rainaldi's situation was particularly ugly: she had escaped from Italy afte
r being raped by her uncle and delivered a beautiful baby girl literally moments after being sworn into the Corps, and then married her dying husband. Who, luckily for her, didn't, after all, die. The resolution of her particular quandary had required the involvement of the Chief of Naval Operations and some decidedly illegal chicanery by naval law enforcement. No one wanted a repeat.
Von Brockenholz, also with a good idea of what lay behind the American's uncharacteristic outburst, looked at his Sergeant Major. "Right there with you, Duke, but before we get in a tizzy over potential consequences, let's look at her personnel file. With any luck, Annette may be wrong and the girl is someone else. Or perhaps she lied on her application and this can be dealt with without too much of a fuss." He then turned towards de Ventron and asked, "Annette, whose training platoon is she with?"
"Noah Wilson's third, mon colonel." Both von Brockenholz and Hudson nodded approvingly at her reply. The up-time-born Staff Sergeant Wilson was one of their best DIs and known for keeping meticulous records. If there was any opportunity for an administrative reprieve from the impending disaster, it would be thanks to his recordkeeping.
"I'll get the files, sir," Hudson announced on his way out of the office, leaving de Ventron and von Brockenholz alone in his wake. Von Brockenholz looked at her and his face broke into a huge grin.
"What now, Friedrich?" she asked testily, dropping their official formality.
"Oh, nothing, Annette. You do look like someone killed your puppy, but I'm just thinking about the heavy hand of irony here. The two of us being of noble birth ourselves, now trying like heck to keep others in the same fix out of the Corps."
She replied with an attempt at a frown, but couldn't keep it up and ended grinning, appreciating the absurdity and humor of the situation. There had always been an undercurrent of trust and affection in their relationship, since they'd met as officer candidates at the basic school, first class-a relationship that both knew could easily blossom into something else, if they weren't honor-bound to remain simply friends as long as both wore the uniform and remained under the same command.
"Of course, after seeing some of the fops that have tried to join, I'm confident that they're not really like us-certainly not like you," he explained, trying to soothe her. "Actually, we're lucky that you have the background to identify our newest potential headache before she becomes one." Somewhat mollified, de Ventron nodded, lost momentarily in her memories. The road that had brought her from a novice ready to take her final vows in the Abbey of Poussay to an officer of Marines had taken decidedly odd turns, including an unexpected arranged marriage, the discovery of a soul-mate in her new husband, and the joy of motherhood. It had also included the devastating loss of the two persons in the whole world that mattered most after the passing of her parents and sister: Her late husband Pierre, Vicomte de Cornimont, struck down by assassins in Cardinal Richelieu's pay, and Jeanne, their baby daughter, felled by a disease that probably would be easy to counter now with the new knowledge.
As usual, with the memories of her loss came the pain and her eyes briefly misted, forcing her to look away. The wound in her heart remained raw, and de Ventron suspected that it would remain so as long as she lived, despite the counseling that she had received at the government house. Without a word, von Brockenholz passed her his handkerchief, and then busied himself with the reports on his desk, ignoring her and allowing her time to compose herself. It had always been like that: he did not push but let her sort out her feelings on her own, respecting her boundaries but standing by in case he could be of help. Finally, with a sad smile and heartfelt " merci " for his kind action, silent understanding and quiet support, de Ventron returned the damp cloth.
"I've got the file here, Skipper." Hudson walked back into the office, preventing any further conversation. "But you're not going to like what I'm looking at, sir. I'm afraid that the captain was right." He passed the file to the colonel.
Von Brockenholz carefully examined the enlistment forms and scanned the DI progress reports, frowning and shaking his head. Sighing, he passed the file to de Ventron and tipped his chair back to stare heavenward.
De Ventron quickly scanned the file and immediately saw what left them so concerned. "She never lied. Everything is here if you know what you're looking at. Maybe a small omission, but her dad is certainly a landowner."
"You could say that he owns some land-a duchy worth of it, ma'am," Hudson replied. "Besides, she didn't mention anything about her lineage-to tell the truth, we haven't been asking such questions lately. So she's off the hook, at least in that respect. Perhaps we need to revise the enlistment papers to close that loophole, Skipper. But, frankly, if we start asking that particular question some might assume that we are moving from merit to the more traditional promotion system-or worse, that we are taking sides. That's another can of worms that we don't want to open, not now."
De Ventron shuddered at the mere thought of the USE political situation; von Brockenholz gravely nodded in agreement. The naval service, under Admiral Simpson's leadership, had striven to remain above all the infighting: it hadn't been easy, but the American, a man of strong convictions and moral character, continued to steer a course free of any entanglements.
Still, there were some humorous aspects in the current situation, de Ventron thought. "Besides, would it really be practical to ask all applicants whether the Empress Dowager of the Holy Roman Empire is their second cousin?" she mused aloud, and then giggled at her companions' stunned expressions. "Did I forget to mention that she is related to Empress Eleonora de Gonzague de Mantoue de Montferrat de Constantinople? Shucks, it must have slipped my mind."
Hudson stammered as von Brockenholz shook his head and covered his eyes. "You're kidding me, right, ma'am?" De Ventron only grinned in response as her colonel politely "coughed." Giving up, Hudson looked at von Brockenholz and after a moment both shrugged their shoulders, accepting a situation that was snowballing by the minute. The up-timer picked up the personnel file and examined it again. "On the other hand, Noah pegged her as a young woman with a lot of potential."
"I agree with his assessment, Sergeant Major. Like Rainaldi, on paper she is quite a catch, just like we want all our recruits to be. However, I doubt that her father, the duke, will look at it in the same way," von Brockenholz commented dryly, tipping his chair forward again. "That reminds me of something, Annette. Why didn't ONI give us a heads up on another runaway heir?"
De Ventron winced. Dual-hatted like all the Corps senior people, she was also the regimental intelligence officer in addition to liaison with the Office of Naval Intelligence. "I don't know, mon colonel. Perhaps because she is not a runaway, nor is she assigned to a ship-of-the-line. Mantua isn't close to any significant body of water, and, frankly, we lack the resources to look into non-naval matters. Perhaps the Nasi organization has something on her, I can check with them. In the meantime, what we are going to do with her?"
Von Brockenholz rubbed his forehead before replying. "She is two weeks from finishing boot camp. My first inclination is to cheerfully ignore your discovery and see what develops, but I ought it to take it to the admiral to keep him abreast of this situation. He may have some other ideas on the subject."
"Skipper, Admiral Simpson is inspecting the Hamburg naval base and the new shipyard, and won't return until next week," Hudson reminded him.
"Right, but we can radio him an initial report about the situation as a heads-up, and present our findings on his return. For now we need a place to stash Her Grace and post a guard who is not going to announce to the world that she is a person of interest," von Brockenholz said.
De Ventron nodded thoughtfully. " Mon colonel, I have an idea."
Chapter Two
The Nunnery
4 Navy Strassen
City of Magdeburg, USE
1730 hours local
Despite the brisk walk from the navy yard having warmed her up, de Ventron felt the crisp chill in the air, but that didn't distract her from h
er conversation with Gunther Schlosser. Schlosser was the director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service or NCIS, the American fondness for nomenclature and abbreviations spreading widely through the country. As such, he was the naval top law enforcement officer. Like many in the service, he had not started on that job by design, but had fallen into it as the right man, for the right job and at the right time. When she went to pick up Mantoue from the barracks, she brought Schlosser along in his official capacity.
But first they had to go through the gauntlet. Noah Wilson had been fierce in the defense of one of his prize recruits. So much so that de Ventron had to pull him aside to explain the situation, literally leaving him speechless. Quickly recovering, he doggedly resumed Mantoue's defense; reminding de Ventron that despite the many years that Wilson had been stranded in her century, he was very much an up-timer, lacking the awareness of the social realities that she had to deal with growing up. He also left her wishful about a world were people were judged more by their character and abilities than by whom they had as parents.
At her insistence-she stayed away from issuing a direct order-the young DI finally relented and agreed to take them to Mantoue. They found her on the platoon common area surrounded by fellow boots as she seemed to be conducting an impromptu class, complete with diagram and pointer. Wilson was ready to call the room to attention when she stopped him and indicated a quiet corner. De Ventron wanted an opportunity to watch the young woman. Schlosser followed her lead, found a comfortable spot, leaned against the wall and set up to watch with her.
"So in review, my dear maggots, magguettes… and Schneider, the Springfield Armory 1903 bolt-action rifle uses a caliber. 30 round and can be either loaded one round at a time or use the built-in five round magazine. Maximum effective range for this particular firearm is a thousand yards and adding the issue telescopic sight, like our sharpshooters and snipers do, allows an already superb weapon to obtain mastery of the battlefield. Are there any questions?"
