by Eric Flint
The simplest way to get around the problem would be to demolish part of the square to expand the runway. The easiest way to do that would be to widen the street by removing the buildings alongside it. But you'd need to remove a minimum of a hundred yards of existing buildings-each and every one of which was inhabited by someone and most of which doubled as places of business. Eddie was dubious, to say the least, that any such project could be carried out.
The other possibility would be to create a ramp. That…could be done, especially if you combined the effort with the first option. That would shorten the length of demolition required, too. You could use the rubble from tearing down fifty yards or so or street-frontage buildings as the material for the ramp. With an additional fifty yards that ended in a shallow-incline ramp…
Eddie thought he'd have a good chance of getting the plane into the air safely. Quite a good chance, actually.
But then what? How would he land the bloody thing? Taking off on a ramp was one thing, landing safely on one was something else entirely. Eddie had chewed over the problem for hours, and seen no way to solve the problem.
No way within their means, at least. If they could have built a steam catapult like the sort he'd seen in movies launching planes from the deck of an aircraft carrier…adapt the rear wheel of the plane to serve as a hook catching an arresting cable when he landed…
Blithering nonsense. By the time such devices could be built and tested in Dresden, with the resources available, the siege would be over anyway.
"Let's face it," said Minnie Hugelmair. "What we ought to do is turn this hangar"-she gestured at the structure that had been erected in the square to shelter the plane while the repair work on it was done-"into the world's first aviation museum. Because that's all this fancy airplane is anymore, a museum exhibit."
Eddie was pretty sure she was right. At least, until the civil war was over.
It didn't occur to him that the term "civil war" was a misnomer. Everywhere else in the USE, people might be starting to make wisecracks about the "phony civil war." But not in Saxony. By now, Baner's army had savaged much of the province except in the vicinity of Leipzig where von Arnim's forces ruled the roost. Swedish cavalry patrols never ventured into the countryside any longer except in large numbers. Georg Kresse and his Vogtlanders had organized a large irregular army that operated on the Saxon plain as well as in the mountains. After the atrocities they'd committed, God help any Swedish mercenary who fell into their hands. Prague, capital of Bohemia "What an utterly charming idea," said Francisco Nasi. He spoke softly, barely more than a murmur, because he was talking to himself. There was no one else in his office at the moment.
He left the radio message he'd just gotten on the table and went to a window.
He'd established his headquarters in the Josefov, as Prague's Jewish district was coming to be known. That was perhaps the single most ridiculous side effect of the Ring of Fire that Francisco had yet encountered. In the history of Prague in the world the Americans had come from, the Jewish district had gotten that name in the course of the nineteenth century. The name was in honor of the Austrian emperor Joseph II, who'd emancipated the empire's Jews in the Toleration Edict of 1781. Somehow or other-probably through Judith Roth-that anecdote of a world that didn't exist and if it did was hundred and fifty years in the future had spread through the Jewish district. And now, more and more people were calling the district by that name.
The situation would simply be amusing, except that Francisco-and Morris Roth, he knew-were worried that Wallenstein might find out about it. The man sometimes had a volatile ego, and he might take offense that the Jews weren't naming the district after him. It was Wallenstein, after all, not some phantasmagorical Emperor Joseph, who had emancipated Bohemia's Jews in this universe.
Nasi had situated his headquarters in the Jewish district for several reasons. Those ranged from simple prudence-Wallenstein's edicts notwithstanding, no sensible Jew was yet prepared to assume that pogroms were entirely a thing of the past-to his decision that he needed to find a wife, a project that wouldn't be helped in the least if he distanced himself from the community in which he hoped to find the blessed woman. That said, he was very wealthy, so he'd obtained a building close to the river that gave him a good view of the Hradcany and the hills behind the Mala Strana. He found looking out over that very pleasant scenery helped concentrate his thoughts.
He wondered, for a moment, by what circuitous route that message had come to him. Through Rebecca Abrabanel, of course-the message itself had come directly from her. But how and from whom had she gotten it?
Given the content of the message itself, it had to have come from Luebeck. He couldn't think of any other plausible explanation.
He'd read the message enough times to have it memorized by now, and went over it again in his mind.
May soon need aircraft available for important passengers within two weeks. Military aircraft not suitable. No other civilian aircraft available in time. What are possibilities at your disposal?
He couldn't keep from grinning. "What an utterly charming idea!"
It would cost him a small fortune, though. Not even Richter would agree to demolishing entire city streets without recompensing those dislocated. There wouldn't be any immediate return, either, most likely. It would just have to be written off as a loss.
On the other hand…
Ultimately, when all was said and done, he was in the business of exchanging and facilitating favors. The actual collection of information-espionage, as such-was simply the first step in the process. Most spies and spymasters never went beyond that step, of course. That was not the least of the reasons that most spies died young and poor and most spymasters lived in garrets. The real profit was all in what you did with the information.
He was sure he knew what lay behind that message. So, what was it worth to have a very large favor owed to him by two people who might someday be the two most powerful people in the world? The two most influential people, at any rate, power being an increasingly elastic phenomenon.
Quite a lot, he decided. Easily worth a small fortune.
He went back to the desk and rang the little bell that sat there. A moment later, his secretary appeared.
Nasi was already writing the message. "I need to have this sent immediately by radio. Well, by nightfall, at any rate. It's going to Dresden so we may need to wait for the evening window."
He had his own radio in his headquarters. Quite a good one, too. But radio transmission and reception was what it was, and Dresden was on the other side of the Erzgebirge.
As it turned out, conditions were suitable for immediate transmission. So, to his surprise, Jozef Wojtowicz found himself summoned back to the Residenzschloss by late afternoon, no more than a few hours after he'd left it.
When he got back to Richter's headquarters, he found her there in the company of a stocky young German. He recognized the man immediately, although they'd never actually met. He was Eddie Junker, the pilot.
"New plans," said Richter. "Let me show you."
Again, he came to stand next to her. This time, though, she had a map of the city proper in front of her. Her finger was placed on the big square and then traced a route down the large street leading south.
"We need this entire street widened. For at least fifty yards, maybe a hundred. Remove enough of the buildings to make the street"-she cocked an inquisitive gaze on Junker.
"I want at least sixty feet. That'd give me twice the wingspan of the plane. Anything less gets too risky."
She nodded. "That means widening it about thirty feet. If we're lucky, we can do that by just removing the first row of buildings on one side of the street. But if we need to, we'll level them on both sides."
Removing the first row of buildings-
Level them on both sides, maybe-
"I'm assigning you and all your Poles to the project," Richter went on. "I'll give you as many more people as I can free up. This project takes prio
rity over everything else except defending the walls against a direct assault."
Back to hauling rocks. Did God have a grudge against Poles in general? Jozef wondered. Or was the Almighty specifically enraged at him for some reason?
Chapter 27
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe Rebecca Abrabanel tried to think of any other possibility she hadn't explored, when it came to available aircraft. The exercise was more in the way of a formality, though-the sort of final double-check a careful person will do just to remind themselves to be careful-than anything she expected to produce results. There simply weren't all that many aircraft in existence in January of 1636. Most of those were military, furthermore-and Jesse Wood had made clear that he wasn't lending any of the air force's planes to this purpose.
He'd told Rebecca that himself, when he came to pass along the message from Luebeck.
"Sorry, Becky, but I talked it over with the admiral and John's adamant on the subject. I think he's probably right, and it's not something I'm going to buck him on. We've kept the navy and the air force out of this ain't-quite-a-civil-war. Formally, anyway. It's true we've bent the rules into a pretzel, but we haven't broken any. But if we did this…"
She hadn't argued the point. She thought Admiral Simpson was right herself.
Of the civilian aircraft, the possibilities were very limited. She didn't trust most of them-not with the lives of these two people. Of the ones that had demonstrated they were reliable, almost all were ruled out either by mechanical, operational or political concerns. January was not a good time to be flying in the Germanies, so most of the planes were undergoing major maintenance.
The ones based in the Netherlands would need to have at least the tacit approval of the king-for something like this, anyway-and that was a can of worms Rebecca didn't want to open. At a minimum, Fernando would insist on concessions, and he was already being a pain in the neck. He'd been careful not to cross a line when it came to taking advantage of the internal turmoil in the USE, the line being anything that might provide a clear and obvious casus belli at a future date when his larger neighbor was stable again. But he'd come right up to that line, every time and place he could.
Besides, in order to get his approval, she'd have no choice but to explain the purpose of using one of the Netherlands' aircraft. And that she wanted to avoid. If this secret got out…
She shook her head. As it was, she was more than a little amazed that it hadn't. She'd only found out herself a few days ago, when Simpson finally confided in her using the intermediary of Jesse Wood. From what Jesse had told her, it was obvious that Simpson had known for some time that Luebeck was simply a staging point for Kristina and Ulrik. Not, as Rebecca and just about everyone else had assumed, merely a safe area that the prince and princess had settled on because they didn't want to be a pawn for anybody in the conflict.
Oxenstierna had certainly made that assumption. Rebecca had been in fairly regular touch with John Chandler Simpson, either through Jesse or through the admiral's wife Mary. She knew that the Swedish chancellor had initially bombarded Kristina with messages demanding that the headstrong girl obey her Uncle Axel; bombarded Ulrik with threats of dire consequences for Denmark if he didn't stop aiding and abetting the child's monstrous willfulness; and Simpson himself for not doing what was clearly his duty and expelling the two from Luebeck. From the naval base, at least. Simpson didn't actually have any formal control over what the city's officials did. Apparently Oxenstierna assumed he could bring enough pressure to bear on Luebeck to get them to do the same.
After that initial flurry of demands and threats, though, Oxenstierna had said nothing. Rebecca suspected he'd come to the conclusion that since he couldn't force the issue right now, he'd be wiser to just let sleeping dogs lie. The way things stood, if he forced Ulrik and Kristina out of Luebeck they'd most likely go to Copenhagen-which was even worse, from his standpoint.
So, for all practical purposes, the pair of royals had been ignored for the past weeks. But Rebecca was quite sure that if Oxenstierna found out what they were really planning to do-had been planning all along, in fact-he would do everything possible to prevent them from carrying the project through.
And he could do quite a bit. He had no control over Magdeburg, of course. So far, in fact, he'd not even made any threatening troop movements toward the city. He'd kept that large army he had under his direct control in Berlin. But if he needed to, he could get that army moving-and there was no force in the Germanies that would be able to stop it. He couldn't take Magdeburg without a siege, and that siege would last at least as long as the siege of Dresden was lasting. But he could interdict the territory between Luebeck and Magdeburg. Most of it, at least.
Even if Simpson was willing to bring the ironclads back out of the Baltic and move them up the Elbe, it wouldn't do any good. The warships were immensely powerful but they had vulnerabilities also. There were too many ways an ironclad could be ambushed on a river unless it had a powerful land force running interference for it-and there was no land force at Simpson's disposal that Oxenstierna's mercenaries couldn't disperse. For that matter, the Swedes wouldn't even have to lay an ambush. They could simply wreck some of the locks that made the river passable for the big ironclads.
No, once the secret was out, the only practical way to get Kristina and Ulrik to Magdeburg was to fly them in. Given, of course, the over-riding political imperatives involved. USE naval base Luebeck "No, no, no, no." Ulrik matched Kristina's glare with his own. "We've been over this already."
Driven into a corner, Kristina fought back the way any cornered child will do-with the truth instead of the folderol.
"But it'd be fun!"
Out of the side of his eye, Ulrik could see Baldur grinning.
"Not a word, Norddahl," he said through clenched teeth.
The Norwegian shrugged. "She's right, you know. We could have a dandy little adventure, disguising ourselves and dashing all about the land as we make our cunning way toward-"
"Shut up! You're not helping!"
Once the prince was sure that he'd silenced his servant-using the term "servant" so very, very loosely-he went back to the princess.
"Kristina, if we sneak into Magdeburg like thieves in the night, we undercut everything we're trying to accomplish. This is all about legitimacy. Everything! All of it! Why else have we stayed here in Luebeck for so long? Why didn't we go to Magdeburg immediately?"
Kristina wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Ulrik was relieved to see the gesture. The girl didn't have a runny nose, that was just a nervous reflex she had when she was beginning to back down from a tempestuous fight.
It was…unsettling, to think how well he'd gotten to know Kristina. And she'd gotten to know him, he didn't doubt. Over the centuries, royals separated by almost two decades in age had become betrothed any number of times. Nor had it been unusual if one of those royals was still a child when the betrothal was made. But normally, the formalities done-often by proxy, not even in person-the future married couple didn't see each other for years. When the time finally came to consummate the marriage, the husband and wife who climbed into the nuptial bed were almost complete strangers. Awkward, of course, in some ways. But one could still trust nature to take its course.
When the time finally came for him and Kristina, on the other hand…
It would either be hideous or very, very good. It wouldn't be anything in between, for a certainty.
He gave his head a little shake, to clear the stray thought. That problem was still a decade away. Well, eight or nine years. Seven, at the very least. Six, if you really stretched every…
He shook his head again. No little shake this time, either. "You haven't answered me."
He was careful-he was always careful-not to give her a direct command. A father could tell his daughter, "Answer me!" An older brother, even, could do the same. But he was not her father. He was her betrothed, forced to act in many ways as if he were her father or older
brother, but never forgetting that he wasn't.
With a different girl, that might not have mattered. A timid, uncertain, shy-just thinking about it was enough to make one laugh. Kristina would remember each and every transgression; squirrel it away like a rodent hoarding food-no, like a commander saving ammunition-and when the time came she would bring them all forth to exact retribution.
One had to be philosophical about these things, if you were a prince in line of succession. Ulrik could-and did, and would until the day he died-console himself with the knowledge that, whatever else, life with Kristina would never, ever, be dull.
She wiped her nose. "Because-this is what you said-we needed to give Uncle Axel time to look foolish."
She wiped her nose again. "Well, the admiral said it too."
Kristina had become quite attached to Simpson. In an odd sort of way, he and his wife Mary had become something like grandparents to her.
" 'Foolish' isn't exactly the right word," Ulrik said. "A ruler can seem foolish to his subjects and still have legitimacy, because he had it to begin with. But the day Chancellor Oxenstierna started breaking the laws-which he did when he unilaterally moved the capital to Berlin; when he summoned a convention that had no legal authority to act; most of all, when he arrested Prime Minister Wettin-then he placed himself in a position where he had to establish his legitimacy."