Ring of Fire II

by Eric Flint

  "I'm just passing on the message, sir," said the radio operator apologetically. "How should I respond?"

  Kreisler took a deep breath, controlling his temper. He reminded himself that whatever the legal formalities might be, a message from any figure of authority in Grantville—even a miserable be-damned police chief—had to be handled diplomatically.

  "Tell them we received the message." With an effort: "No, thank them for sending us the warning. Assure them we will do everything possible. Emphasize 'possible.' "

  After the radio operator left, Kreisler went over to the window of his office and looked down on the Danube passing almost directly below.

  They might be using a barge or other rivercraft.

  "Oh, marvelous," he muttered, between teeth that were almost clenched. Just at a glance, he could see five such vessels on the river. Four of them were piled high with goods, and two of those were carrying a number of passengers as well. Did the cretins think that merchants and farmers and I-need-to-see-my-poor-uncle-before-he-dies suspended their activity because of a war?

  Still, he should do something, just for the record. "Lieutenant Müller!" he bellowed.

  His orderly appeared almost instantly.

  "Send word to whatever squads are monitoring the river traffic—no, one squad should be enough; and make sure it's a squad right inside the city—I do not want the men watching the river up and down stream to be in the least bit distracted—to keep an eye out for a large party of American traitors—accompanied by a Hungarian officer; probably two or three other soldiers—who might attempt to pass through Regensburg on their way to Austria."

  Lieutenant Müller was a little cross-eyed. "Yes, sir. Ah . . ."

  "How should I know what 'American traitors' look like?" the colonel said testily. "Try to spot excellent teeth combined with a shifty expression. But if I were you, I'd concentrate on the Hungarian officer. You know what those look like, don't you?"

  Müller practically sighed with relief. "Yes, sir. Of course."

  "All right, boys, you heard him," said Corporal Brenner. "Keep an eye out for one of those Hungarian dandies. Can't be hard, since they're even more vain than Austrian noblemen."

  As usual, Private Sandler looked confused. Sighing, the sergeant planted a large forefinger on the top of his helmet. "Just look for the plume, Jochen."

  Kelly Aviation Facility

  Near Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

  "Please, Bob. It's the only chance that's left."

  Noelle felt like an idiot. Princess Leia, in a movie. Please, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're our only hope.

  Bob Kelly shook his head. "But . . . the authorities . . ."

  "There are no authorities. Not in town that I can reach in time who have the clout to get anything done. But if I get there myself . . ."

  Bob looked from her to one of the planes in the hangar. The one that looked as if they'd been working on it round the clock. Noelle had figured they might be, with Kay up in Magdeburg doing the full court lobbyist's press.

  "Well . . . The Dauntless II is ready to fly, sure enough. But we haven't got it fitted with the bomb attachments yet. The best you could do would be to toss a grenade out the window."

  Noelle set her teeth. "Bob, I am not planning to bomb anybody."

  He peered at her nearsightedly, over the half-moon glasses he favored. He looked for all the world like a chubby middle-aged elf. Not one of the Tolkien-type heroic and dramatic elves, either. One of the Santa's-helpers elves. Exactly what Noelle was afraid she'd look like at that age if she let her figure go and didn't pay attention to her solemn vows to eliminate all elflike mannerisms.

  "Then how do you plan to accomplish anything once you do get there?" he asked.

  Good question. But Noelle was not to be thwarted.

  "I'll simply summon the garrison to its duty. With an official from Grantville on the scene who's directly involved in the matter, I'm sure that'll be sufficient."

  Which was a laugh, from Noelle's past experience with military commanders. They swore by Chain of Command the way other people swore by the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

  But she'd deal with that when she got there. First, she had to get there. By nightfall—and it was already two o'clock in the afternoon, in late November. They just had enough time.

  Fortunately, Lannie piped up. "They do have a landing strip in Regensburg now, boss. Been operational for a month."

  Kelly rubbed his jaw. "Kay'll have a fit, when she hears about it."

  "Why?" Noelle tried to look as self-assured as she possibly could. She was pretty good at that, actually. "It'll just be another test of the capabilities of the Dauntless line."

  She even said "Dauntless" without a waver.

  "Well . . ."

  But it was enough, she could tell. Bob Kelly had been smarting for years over the constant jokes about his unfinished planes.

  "Yeah, sure. What the hell. The weather's clear and Regensburg's only a hundred and fifty miles away. Be there before sundown, easy. Lannie, take her there. Keenan, you go with them."

  Unfortunately, Noelle didn't think to ask about the condition of the radio until they were half an hour into the flight.

  "Well," said Lannie.

  From the rear seat, Keenan's hand appeared over her shoulder, clutching a map. "I remembered to bring this, though."

  Naturally, it was the wrong map.

  "Never mind," she said, after checking to make sure—you just never knew with these guys—that the plane did have a functioning compass. "Just head south until we reach the Danube. Then follow it."

  "Which way?"

  Not. To. Be. Thwarted.

  "I'll figure it out when the time comes."

  She did, too. It wasn't even hard, since Noelle had a good knowledge of geography and she knew Regensburg was at the crest of a large northerly bend in the Danube. Between that and the compass, she could figure out where they were.

  A bit too far to the east, as it happened. Here, the river was coursing southeast.

  She pointed upstream. "Thataway."

  Regensburg

  The Upper Palatinate, under USE imperial administration

  Sure enough, the airfield was in good shape. Lannie brought the plane down as smoothly as you could ask for.

  The soldiers guarding the field, of course, were practically jumping up and down with fury.

  No one had informed them! They should have been notified of the flight plan by the radio!

  But at least they weren't suspicious. Everyone knew that practically every country in Europe had started aircraft projects. But except for a handful of commercial craft operating out of the USE or the Netherlands, all the airplanes in existence were still in the USE's air force.

  Besides, she'd brought a magic wand.

  Documents. Official Documents. Testifying that she was indeed an official for the State of Thuringia-Franconia and never mind exactly what her powers were and where her jurisdiction began and ended.

  They even let her take one of the unit's horses to ride into town and summon the garrison to its duty.

  "I am afraid that Colonel Kreisler has gone out of the city, checking some new reconnaissance reports. He is not expected to return until tomorrow at the earliest."

  Lieutenant Müller clasped his hands behind his back. Allowing for variations, it was the well-known and detestable gesture. As were the capital letters.

  "I Am Afraid There Is Nothing I Can Do."

  Down at the river, on the great bridge that spanned the Danube, she considered whether she might prevail on one of the squads of soldiers below . . .

  What a laugh.

  Besides, now that she was here and could see it herself, she really couldn't blame the soldiers for their attitude. The Bavarians were in the area, after all, with sizeable forces. The USE's troops were concentrating on protecting the bridge and spotting any attempt to ferry large numbers of soldiers across the river.

  True, there was already a small
fleet of boats on the river—six of them that she could see, just on this side of the bridge looking upstream—but they weren't clustered the way landing craft would be. Just some of the many commercial craft that plied one of Europe's major waterways day in and day out, and had been doing so for centuries.

  She glanced at a small barge just passing below the bridge. This one, for instance, looked to be carrying mostly—

  "You son-of-a-bitch!" she screeched.

  She raced over to the downstream side of the bridge, clawing at the flap of her holster. By the time she got the pistol out and steadied her nerves enough to check that the clip was in and the safety was off, the barge had reappeared.

  Janos was standing at the very stern, looking up at her. Wide-eyed, as if in fear or astonishment.

  Well, no. Not fear. Wide-eyed with astonishment.

  Not for long, though. Suddenly he broke into a smile—a genuine grin; the first she'd ever seen on his face—and doffed his battered-looking cap. The sort any boatman might wear, although the flourishing bow that followed had obviously been learned in palaces.

  She pointed the gun right at him, remembering to use the two-handed grip that was her only chance of hitting anything. He replaced the cap on his head, but otherwise just kept standing there, looking at her. His face had no expression, now.

  He was maybe twenty yards away. Well, thirty or forty, allowing for the height of the bridge.

  She'd probably miss. Worse, she might miss him and accidentally hit somebody else. There were kids playing on the river bank. Way off to the side, sure, but she'd heard all the Annie Oakley jokes people made about her. It wasn't likely, but she might hit one of the kids. Or hit a piece of metal on the barge that caused a ricochet that hit one of the kids.

  She wondered if Janos had heard the jokes. He might very well have, in fact, as smoothly as he could finagle information from people.

  That was probably why he wasn't making any attempt to take cover.

  Well, no. She knew as surely as she knew anything that even if she'd been as good a shot as the real Annie Oakley, Janos Drugeth would have done exactly what he was doing.

  She even knew why. A Hungarian nobleman's valor was only part of it. Two days after the encounter in the church, she'd told him about the torturer in Franconia. And the hours she spent in prayer because of it. They understood each other quite well, in some ways.

  There was no way she was going to pull the trigger, and she knew it, and he knew it, and he knew she knew he knew it, and . . .

  "You are the most exasperating man!"

  She leaned way over the rail of the bridge, clasped the gun tightly in both hands, pointed the barrel straight below her, and emptied the entire clip. She even had enough presence of mind to make sure another barge wasn't passing through before she did it.

  And she didn't miss the water, either. Not once. Hit the Danube every time, dead nuts.

  She felt a lot better, then. She even used the gun to give Janos a little salute as the barge made its way down toward Austria. She didn't stop looking at him until it passed out of sight. And he didn't stop looking at her.

  Then she giggled. "I guess Denise was right. Maybe I should get a tattoo."

  When the others finally emerged from the shelter they'd taken behind the goods piled on the barge, Allen O'Connor came up to Janos, still standing in the stern.

  "You got balls, I'll give you that. I told you the woman was crazy."

  Janos said nothing. If a man couldn't recognize a sign from God, right in front of his face, what was the point of explaining it to him?

  O'Connor shook his head. "No telling what she'll do. You ought to warn the emperor about her."

  "Oh, yes. I most certainly shall."

  Chapter 15. The Motto

  High Street Mansion, Seat of Government for the State of Thuringia-Franconia

  President's Office

  Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

  December 1634

  "As long as the Regensburg authorities drop the serious charges," said Ed Piazza, "we won't contest the rest. We don't actually want to let people get the notion that officials of the SoTF can fire a gun anytime and anywhere they please."

  Josua Mai, one of the down-timers who served the SoTF as legal advisers, seemed hesitant. "Ah . . . Mr. President. I'm afraid that the charge of fishing without license and with equipment not approved by the fisherman's guild is a serious charge, in Regensburg. The fine is quite heavy."

  "Is there any jail time, too?"

  "Not if the fine is paid. Otherwise . . ." He grimaced.

  Ed nodded. "So we'll pay the fine. It's not as if we're actually broke. Not even close, in fact."

  The lawyer looked as if he might argue the matter. Despite his good humor, Ed was not in the mood for legal quibbling. "We'll pay it," he said firmly. "Noelle's gone way past her pay grade plenty of times, what she's been willing to tackle. The least we can do is return the favor. End of discussion."

  He sat up straight, just to emphasize the point. "Any spin-off problems I need to deal with?"

  Mai looked at his notes. "Well, Grantville will need a new garrison commander, but that's not something you need to deal with, Mr. President."

  "I thought it was decided not to fire Knefler. Not that I'd mind it if he quit. Sure, he screwed up, but you can't fire officers just for making one mistake."

  "Ah . . . the problem is of a different nature. It seems that shortly after he returned to Grantville he assaulted Denise Beasley with a quirt. Tried to, at least. According to the report I received from Chief Richards, the girl was actually doing a fair job of defending herself with—ah—" He rummaged in the notes and drew forth another sheet. "Seemingly, every loose object you might find in a roadside tavern, short of a full-size table."

  Ed chuckled. "Boy, can I picture that. Girl's got a hell of an arm. Star pitcher for the girl's baseball team until she lost interest." Then, he scowled ferociously. "But what I want to know is why we didn't fire Knefler for that."

  The lawyer was still examining the report. "He will be discharged for it, Mr. President. After he gets out of the hospital. His injuries were quite severe. A number of bruises and a split lip inflicted by the girl—Chief Richards says she gave as good as she got—and then . . ." He cleared his throat. "Well. The father arrived. And was apparently in a very foul temper even before Knefler drew his sword. Tried to draw his sword, rather."

  Both Ed and Carol winced. "Oh, Lord," she said.

  After the lawyer left, Carol Unruh shook her head. "What was Noelle thinking? She's usually such a responsible person."

  Ed leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. After the news came of Noelle's arrest, he'd finally taken the time to visit Denise Beasley and get her version of the whole Noelle vs. Captain Drugeth Affair.

  The full, complete, unabridged—nay, annotated and footnoted—Denise Beasley version.

  "Domestic violence can be a terrible thing," he intoned solemnly.

  Carol frowned at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I don't know, actually. But it'll sure be interesting to find out."

  The day after she got back to Grantville, Noelle did get a tattoo. She'd always secretly harbored a desire for one, she just hadn't seen any way she could pull it off. But she figured three days in the squalid jail Regensburg maintained for women—God only knew what the men's jail was like—gave her the needed credentials.

  Denise guided her to the tattoo parlor. Offered tons of advice, too, but Noelle ignored almost all of it.

  The design was entirely her own. A death's head—much more refined than Denise's, of course; ladylike, topped by a jaunty little feathered cap—with crossed pistols below and the logo above: I Shot The Danube.

  The one and only piece of advice she took from Denise concerned the placement of the tattoo.

  "Me, I put it on my shoulder, where all the pimply twits in high school could see it. You, on the other hand, got a lot more focused target. So put it
way down on your hip, over toward the ass, where nobody will ever see it—"

  The grin was as an impudent as ever. "Except."