by Eric Flint
De Ventron was impressed. It was obvious that Mantoue understood her subject well but she waited, wanting to see how Mantoue handled the questions.
Mantoue recognized a tall blonde boy in the back row that de Ventron would bet had come straight from the farm. "Anne, why were we not issued those instead of the SRG flintlocks? Even the French Cardinals seems to be better." This was a "hot button" issue, one being thoroughly debated throughout the Corps since the discovery of the French rifle in '34.
"Fuck if I know, that's obviously above my pay grade," Mantoue said and waited for the round of laughter to subside. "However, remember what Staff Sergeant Wilson told us. We only had around fifty '03's in the whole inventory, so we had to go to the SRG for general issue even though in comparison to the Cardinale it's a piece of crap. I suppose that we could make a good copy of the '03 but then we will face the real bottleneck, ammunition. I suppose that someone out there is working on the mass production issues but no one had told this lowly maggot yet, Hans."
De Ventron shook her head suppressing a grin. The girl had nailed the whole thing, demonstrating that she was not just another empty-headed recruit. It was impressive that she was able to do so without sounding condescending. De Ventron suspected, though, that His Grace, Mantoue's father, would not approve of her new expertise in Marine lingo.
"Any other questions, my friends?" Mantoue asked. When there were no takers, she turned to the black-haired boy sitting in the front row. "What, Schneider, no funny cracks?"
"Who me? Heck no, Mantoue. I'm ready to admit that you know your stuff front and back. But that only makes the fact that, unlike yours truly, you can't hit the broad side of a barn standing in front of it, a lot… sadder."
Uh, oh, de Ventron thought and prepared to intervene but Mantoue just smiled as a slight girl with an English accent beside the farm boy spoke.
"Heinrich, I think that Anne just lacks proper motivation. Show of hands, guys. Who wants to see Schneider put against the barn and shot for target practice?"
De Ventron grinned when the whole unit raised their hands. Wilson studied his boots, holding his forehead and shaking his head slowly. Schlosser tried to cover, unsuccessfully, a "cough" that finally brought the groups attention to them.
"Attention on deck," the farm boy shouted.
After a momentary hesitation and with a few barked orders, Wilson cleared the room, holding Mantoue back and, bidding her to approach, made the introductions.
"Recruit Mantoue, these officers are here to see you. This is Director Gunther Schlosser of NCIS." The girl went white as a ghost, looking up at Schlosser with alarm. De Ventron could hardly blame her; NCIS and their notorious director was the stuff that DIs used to frighten boots into walking the path of the straight and narrow and Schlosser looked the part. He was as tall as any up-timer, with a burly build to boot, and a face that had been in one too many fistfights.
"Calm down, Private. I'm not here to put anyone under arrest," Schlosser said.
"No, he's not, Mantoue. This is the regimental adjutant, Captain Annette de Ventron," Wilson said.
Mantoue went even whiter.
De Ventron addressed the girl in French. "Private Mantoue. Or should I say: Your Grace, Anne de Gonzague de Nevers de Majorque de Mayenne de Mantoue."
Initially the young recruit was startled, but then, with a sigh, she seemed resigned. "I was not sure that you would recognize me, Madame de Ventron. I tried hard to steer away from your path. How much trouble am I in?"
"As far as the Corps is concerned, you seem to be in the clear. Our problem, if there is one, is more a political one. But I think that you are smart enough to understand that. We just have one question. Why are you doing this?"
Mantoue stared straight ahead before replying back in English. "Ma'am, this recruit respectfully declines to answer that, ma'am."
Regardless of the implied threat in Schlosser's presence, that was as much information as de Ventron could get out of her.
***
Mantoue's platoon was informed that because of her superior performance, she was being reassigned to de Ventron's office effective immediately. It spoke volumes about her when the lie was readily accepted by all. De Ventron had to keep her emotions under tight control as each and every one of Mantoue's fellow recruits, including a curiously crestfallen Schneider, stopped by with words of congratulations, good luck and, the occasionally tearful, quick hug. It was obvious that the girl had found friends here. It made de Ventron think fondly of her own friends who were now spread throughout the USE, and beyond, in the performance of their Corps duties.
Von Brockenholz had approved her suggestion that the safest place to stash the young duchess was at the house that she co-owned with her friend Master Gunnery Sergeant Margaret "Lulu" O'Keefe, another up-timer. Their neighbors were not only accustomed to the unusual female owners but also to the goings-on of its military inhabitants at all times of the day and night. One more uniformed woman could certainly be expected to get lost in the crowd.
Schlosser escorted them there from the barracks. On the way, they both explained the in and outs of her new protective custody status and other defensive measures. It was probably overkill on their part but, after the Rainaldi case, no one wanted to take any shortcuts. Mantoue listened politely, but kept her answers to mostly monosyllabic responses, and grew more morose with each step away from the navy yard. That made de Ventron feel like she had kidnapped the still relatively young girl from the bosom of her loving family. Which, in a way, it could be argued, was exactly what she had done. The thought did not exactly assuage her conscience.
"Ladies, hide the silver. Gunther is here!" de Ventron heard O'Keefe's booming voice proclaim as soon as she saw her and her two companions enter the room.
"Hah-hah, Lulu, you're so funny. But tell me, how's tricks?" Schlosser shot back with a mocking leer as he took off his coat.
"Slow. The fleet is out, you know," Lulu replied in kind.
O'Keefe was not alone. Sharing the common living room area with her were two officers, two dependents and one bulldog. As was her custom in the Nunnery at this time of the evening, O'Keefe lounged on a couch with an open book in her lap. At a table nearby, First Lieutenant Marja Braun and their newest housemate, Second Lieutenant Sara Colfax, were playing cards with Heidi and Minna Hudson. The girls were the adopted daughters of Duke Hudson and his wife Claire, and were frequent visitors to the residence. De Ventron also spied the wagging tail of the Corps' mascot, Puddles, under the table, happily beating the ground in greeting. By the size of the chip pile in front of them, the girls seemed ahead in the game-somewhat surprising, given that Heidi was only eight and her sister, Minna, ten.
"Anyway, Gunther, as always I'm glad to see you. Please pass my regards to Brunei and kiss that cute moppet of yours for me. So, Annette, who's your companion?" Lulu asked.
The girl snapped to attention and barked, "This recruit's name is Private Anne Mantoue, Master Gunnery Sergeant." She then returned to a sharp parade rest position, despite the sea bag strapped to her back, and continued to stare straight ahead. Minna and Heidi giggled and the two lieutenants grinned. De Ventron exchanged an amused look with Schlosser. During her short observation at the barracks, de Ventron had discovered that she was full of the gung-ho spirit and zeal of the new convert, was eager to please and cute as a puppy, despite her relatively large nose.
So, despite-or because of-her over-exuberant personality, de Ventron found herself liking Mantoue and was happy that she seemed to be adapting to her new circumstances. Still, she wondered what had made the girl leave a life of leisure in sunny Italy for the decidedly spartan military lifestyle of the USMC. So far, Mantoue had refused-politely, of course-to explain her motivations. Noah Wilson's discreet inquiries had shown that no one else in her platoon suspected her rather unusual upbringing either. Mantoue had taken her share of the shitty jobs thrown her way without complaint and with enthusiasm and diligence. Wilson confirmed that he had been planning to rec
ommend her for consideration for an OCS slot and the basic school.
De Ventron added all this to the mental profile that she was making of the girl and liked what she saw. Still, there was the mystery of why such an obviously talented young woman had ended in Magdeburg and that intrigued her greatly. De Ventron hoped that living under the same roof would encourage Mantoue to loosen up, allowing her to get to the bottom of it.
Ursula Hoffman, one of their day maids, poked her head out of the kitchen to check on the commotion, which clarified de Ventron's next set of actions.
Ursula was the sixteen-year-old eldest child of the director of the Scout Sniping section of the new Marine Amphibious Reconnaissance School, created shortly after the Bornholm Island debacle. At her mother's bidding, she had entered domestic service, marking the time until she was old enough and had enough of a dowry to consider marriage. At least, that was what her parents planned. De Ventron suspected that Ursula was going to throw a big monkey wrench on said plans by marching straight into the recruiter's office and following her father's footsteps into the Corps. De Ventron was not looking forward to those particular fireworks.
"Ah… Ursula, good afternoon. Will you take Private Mantoue to our guest room and draw a hot bath for her? Thanks." Ursula smiled and threw a quick curtsy in her direction, then frowned curiously at their unexpected guest, who was still at parade rest. De Ventron realized that this girl and Mantoue had lots in common-Ursula dreamed of her first set of blues, too-and were close enough in age that maybe she could use her as a means to break through the young noblewoman's reserves.. Something to keep in mind, she decided.
"At ease, your-err, Private-Anne, go with her. After your bath, you can join us for dinner. Wear something comfortable, we are informal here at the Nunnery," De Ventron told her and was puzzled immediately by the double take and the frightened look that momentarily flashed across her face at the residence's nickname, although she quickly recovered and tried to hide it.
De Ventron then got to watch, with amusement, Mantoue's internal struggle to remain in her tough gung ho persona. But even if the girl was this century's version of Chesty Puller and Manila John Basilone rolled into one and given a female form, there was enough desire to feel pampered. Especially after three months of grueling boot camp.
Finally, giving in with a sigh, Mantoue took a more relaxed stance and turned to follow the maid. Suddenly she stopped and turned with a quizzical frown. She hesitated for a moment before shyly asking, "The Nunnery, ma'am?"
O'Keefe answered for her. "Our fearless captain here almost became a holy sister, so, when we bought this house together, we decided that except for the occasional visitor and guests, no men were allowed in the premises. A certain lieutenant who will remain nameless- Marja -was heard to comment at the time that it would be like living in a nunnery. The name stuck." She concluded amid the giggles of the Hudson girls and the wide grins of Schlosser and the other women present-except for Braun, who discovered a new interest in her cards and turned a deep red. Mantoue nodded, looking relieved and turned to follow Hoffman up the stairs.
"Sara, would you mind taking the girls to the kitchen and see if Frau Weir has a snack for them? I'll talk to you later," De Ventron asked the up-time-born officer.
"Sure thing, ma'am," Colfax said. "Come on, kids. I think Mrs. Weir has some pastries left."
Grinning, de Ventron watched the girls dash to the kitchen ahead of the lieutenant, pursued by Puddles, who momentarily stopped by her side to collect a pat on her head.
O'Keefe sat upright as Braun turned her seat toward her, and Schlosser took Colfax's empty chair. De Ventron addressed her attentive audience. "Like you Americans say, here's the deal. We have another Rainaldi on our hands."
"Is she related to another churchman, Annette?" O'Keefe asked quietly.
"No, thank God-at least, not in the way that you are thinking-but it's worse from our standpoint, Lu. Her father is His Grace, Charles, Duke of Mantua, a duchy in northern Italy. Her sister is… or was supposed to, marry two of the heirs of the King of Poland. No, not at the same time, Gunther," she said, forestalling the obvious joke in the lawman's twisty mind.
"Darn," he exclaimed, disappointed.
"Shit, Annette. Not another runaway bride-not with the CoC ready to start a civil war here. Marja, where's Britt? She's the Yard Provost Marshal, and ought to be hearing this first hand," O'Keefe said, shaking her head.
"She's at the airfield, Lu. I'll brief her later. Woody Woodsill brought some documents for the Prime Minister and she went there to arrange for security," Schlosser answered.
"You mean more 'bootleg' flight instruction. Luckily, I think that Woody is sweet on her," Braun said with a grin.
Schlosser snorted. "Yeah, that too, Marja, and the poor kid could use a break from all the bombing practice lately. Anyway, Lu, with that bet of yours, I think you created a monster."
"Hey, don't blame me, Gunther. When I made the damn bet with Britt, I was expecting her to puke her brains out after the first few minutes in the air. How I was going to know that beneath those red curls of hers lived Amelia-freaking-Earhart?" she replied, defensively. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand-Annette?"
"Well, thank you for that non sequitur, Lu. Bottom line, mes amis , she is going to stay with us until a decision is made about what to do with her. The admiral is in Hamburg at the moment, so it will be at least next week before we can present her case to him in person. Friedrich ordered me to gather as much information as possible. Tomorrow, I'm speaking with Don Francisco Nasi to see what his organization has on her and her father.
"And in the meantime?" O'Keefe asked, frowning.
"My agents will be maintaining an unobtrusive watch over her around the clock, at least off naval premises, until the matter is resolved. The good news is that as far as we know, no one is going to send an assassin looking for her, like in Rainaldi's case," Schlosser said.
"Well, thank God for small favors. And I presume that the extra guards could be explained by the classified material that we occasionally bring here?" Braun said.
" Oui… that's exactly what I thought; officially she is being assigned to my office as a reward for her outstanding performance," de Ventron added.
"Is that part true or is it the cover story?" O'Keefe asked, curiously.
"If I hadn't discovered her this morning, she would have likely ended up as her platoon's honor graduate with a slot in OCS for sure. She's the real deal, and we were lucky to discover her before it got any further. Like Marja said, thank God for small favors."
"She looks like a very motivated young Marine. I doubt that she is going to see it that way," O'Keefe said thoughtfully. De Ventron nodded in agreement.
Chapter Three
Adjutant's Office, First Marines
Marine Barracks, Magdeburg Navy Yard
1600 Hours local
Four days later, de Ventron looked up from the last piece of paperwork requiring her signature and took the opportunity to stretch her back. She gazed out the window in an attempt to calculate the hour but, gave it up due to the overcast sky and pulled out her new pocket watch instead. Almost quittingtime.
From the outer office she could hear the relentless clickety-clack of typewriters producing the endless reams of orders and reports that kept a rapidly-expanding service on an even keel. During her studies at the basic school, she had read about a military man of the future who had commented that an army marched on his stomach. As the battalion and regimental adjutant, de Ventron felt qualified to debate that. From her standpoint, the Corps sailed happily on a sea of paper, most of which required her signature or initials. She had always thought that all bureaucrats were obsessed with record keeping and, God knows, during her marriage she had done enough administrative chores on her husband's behalf to have seen her fair share. However, that was nothing in comparison to what an expanding military machine generated.
De Ventron stood up to take a break and check on her people in the outer offi
ce. From her door she observed her busy clerks hard at work.
Seated at one of the desks, Mantoue worked laboriously at one of the typewriters under the patient supervision of her administrative NCOIC, Staff Sergeant Kimberly Chaffin. The girl seemed to be up to two-finger typing now, and to de Ventron's amusement looked like the poster picture of total concentration as she hunted for the keys, her tongue protruding slightly between her lips. She expected Chaffin to transition her to two-hand typing as soon as she mastered the basics. Overall, she seemed to be doing better with the machine than even de Ventron herself could and had integrated into the section operations seamlessly.
"She's a fast learner." Startled, de Ventron looked to her left to see Duke Hudson standing there offering her a fresh coffee mug. How does he dothat, she wondered, not for the first time envying his ability to pop up from nowhere. She hoped to be able to imitate him one of these days. She accepted the offered mug with muttered thanks and sipped it slowly, enjoying its aroma and warmth.
A hot brew on a chilly day was always much appreciated and she sighed contentedly. " Merci, Sergeant Major, as usual you are a lifesaver. But how did you know?" she asked, curiously.
"Trade secret, ma'am. A good NCO knows when his officer needs a break to help her keep her edge," he answered, smiling. In companionable silence, they continued to watch Mantoue's introduction to office equipment.
"Has she been more forthcoming, Captain?" he finally asked.
"I'm sorry to say no, Duke, despite all my attempts to entice her to talk. On the other hand, as you can see, she seems very keen on staying and pulling her weight. I couldn't get any additional information from the Nasi organization either, although I got to see their dossier on her father, including what future historians will say about him. Nothing rang a bell: he's a military man with a happy family, although his wife died in 1618 and most of his sons died young. Not too much there about Mantoue herself: it seems that she was destined for the convent life, always a handy place to stash spare daughters."
