1636: The Ottoman Onslaught

by Eric Flint

  “Yeah. Ain’t life a bitch? I’m sure we’ll wind up having to import almost all of our labor force. But they have to have loggers around here, and”—he waved his hand, indicating their heavily forested surroundings—“we’ve obviously got no shortage of wood.”

  Tom’s expression became somber. “The really big problem lies elsewhere.”

  “Which is?”

  “How did an innocent and upstanding artillery officer get dragooned into being a miserable combat engineer?”

  Bleier grinned. “The same way you got dragooned into being an air force officer. The commanding general is your brother-in-law and he trusts you.” The captain shook his head, in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief at the folly of others. “The problem with you Americans is that you think nepotism just brings advantages. Which is nonsense. Just ask any innocent and upstanding Reichritter’s son”—here he slapped his chest—“who got dragooned into upholding the family’s honor by enlisting in the USE army. And then got assigned to the engineers because he’d made the mistake of being proficient at mathematics.”

  He, too, paused for a moment to admire the distant Alps. “Just as you say: Ain’t life a bitch?”

  Freising, Bavaria

  When she saw the man climbing out of the gondola of the Albatross, Julie Mackay was surprised. She hadn’t expected Dell Beckworth to bring the rifle himself. The guy had to be… what? Sixty, maybe? Like most people in their early twenties, Julie considered that age to be more-or-less synonymous with teetering-at-the-edge-of-the-grave.

  As she went over to greet him, she saw one of the Albatross’ crew hand a long and obviously heavy package down to Beckworth. She hurried her steps in order to lend him a hand.

  But before she could get there, Beckworth had the package resting on the ground next to him and had turned to greet her.

  “Hi, Julie.” He patted the side of the package. “Here it is. But like I warned you over the radio, the only one I had left was this prototype. It’s a heavy bastard—just about fifty pounds. I cut twenty pounds off that for the later models.”

  “The heavier, the better, Dell, from my point of view. It’ll cut down on the recoil. I only weigh about one hundred and thirty-five pounds. ”

  Beckworth grimaced. “You sure you don’t want me to shoot it? I’ll be going with you, y’know.”

  Julie stared at him. “Since when?”

  “Since my boss said it was okay—he’s a good patriot; anything for the war effort—and since your boss said it was okay.”

  She frowned. “I don’t have a boss.” Her voice started to rise a little. “And if you talked to Alex and either you or he thinks he’s my ‘boss’ just ‘cause he’s my husband, well, let me tell you—”

  Beckworth raised a placating hand. “Not him. I got Mike Stearns’ okay to come along.”

  That brought Julie up short. Of course, Stearns wasn’t her boss, either.

  Or was he? Technically, Julie was now a mercenary soldier, having been contracted by the Third Division—fine; what they called a handshake contract and so what? both she and Mike were West Virginians; good enough—to do some fancy shooting for them. If Julie understood the legal technicalities, that still didn’t make Stearns her “boss” but it did obviously give him some sayso in the matter.

  She squinted at Beckworth. “Don’t you think you’re a little old to be involved in combat?”

  “Too old! Young lady, I’m only fifty-five and I’m in good health. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be coming out of the trenches and charging across hundreds of yards of open ground. This is what they ‘aerial combat,’ which is a fancy way of saying you’re fighting while sitting on your butt.”

  She glanced over at the gondola. “I think we’ll be standing, actually, but… Okay, I take your point.”

  He gave her a friendly smile. “Julie, this here piece is what you call custom-made. It’s a one-off, not a mass produced rifle like the ones you’re used to. Even if you do all the shooting, I think you’ll still find me handy to have around. And you’ll need a spotter anyway.”

  He nodded toward the Albatross. “I got a suitcase in there with some clothes and a good pair of binoculars—and my eyesight’s still about 20-20.”

  “Well…”

  “And my toolbox.”

  That clinched it. Dell Beckworth was a top flight gunsmith, and he was right about the quirkiness you were likely to run into with handmade guns, especially ones that were on the outer edge of performance. The Beckworth Light 50 was the closest thing Julie could find in her new universe to the .50 caliber BMG that had been the gun of choice for long range snipers going back to the Vietnam War.

  Back up-time, they’d wanted the gun for its incredible range. She wanted it for its striking power. If the Ottomans had armored their airship gondolas, she was pretty sure her usual rifles weren’t going to be enough for the job.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “Want help carrying that?”

  “’Help,’ my ass. I’ve got my own luggage to deal with. You’re the shooter, you can damn well carry it yourself.” With an evil grin, he released his hold on the upright package and gently gave it a push. The package began toppling toward her.

  “Timmmmmmmber!” he called out.

  Linz, capital-in-exile of Austria-Hungary

  As the awkward silence continued, Mike Stearns got a wry smile on his face. Leave it to the coal miner to have to do the dirty work.

  He rose to his feet. That wasn’t necessary from an acoustic standpoint, since there were only half a dozen men in the room, and they were all sitting fairly close together. But he’d learned long ago that standing gave someone a certain edge in a situation like this.

  “Meaning no disrespect to His Majesty, but I do not believe the example of the first battle of Nördlingen—we’re speaking here of a battle fought in an entirely different universe under very different conditions than the ones we face—can provide us with much in the way of guidance.”

  That was the politest way Mike could figure out to say that the proposal just advanced to place Emperor Ferdinand III in direct overall command of the allied forces bordered on idiocy.

  And went well over the line when it came to toadying. The proposal had been advanced by Rudolf von Colloredo—Rudolf Hieronymus Eusebius von Colloredo-Waldsee, if you wanted to go all tails and black tie about it—who was not-so-subtly maneuvering to get himself promoted to the rank of field marshal.

  Von Colloredo was the highest-ranking officer in the Austrian army, of those who had survived the Ottoman seizure of Vienna. No one knew exactly what had happened to the previous Austrian commander, General Wolf Heinrich von Baudissin, when the Turks overran the garrison. He had presumably died in the fighting, although he might have been captured. Either way, he was no longer in position to exercise any sort of command.

  Which was probably just as well, in Mike’s opinion. Another of the men in the room was a young Italian officer by the name of Raimondo Montecuccoli, whom the emperor had just promoted from colonel to general. Montecuccoli had led the evacuation which had saved about half of the men in the Vienna garrison and an even larger percentage of the civilian population of the city.

  For which, upon his arrival at Linz, he had been rewarded by being arrested on the orders of General von Colloredo and charged with either treason or mutiny—von Colloredo didn’t seem to know which applied better to the circumstances. Fortunately for Montecuccoli, Emperor Ferdinand had placed his friend and adviser Janos Drugeth in charge of the investigation. Drugeth had interviewed a number of the surviving soldiers, three of whom had been present on the bastion and heard Archduke Leopold order Montecuccoli to organize the evacuation while the archduke remained to command the defenders.

  Mike had spoken privately to Janos on the matter and knew that the Hungarian nobleman’s opinion was that von Baudissin’s leadership at the critical moment in the assault had been disastrous, just as Montecuccoli had depicted. Still, no one could deny the man’s personal
courage. By several accounts of survivors, von Baudissin had joined the soldiers whom he’d ordered to stay on the walls and bastions when the Ottoman airships started bombing, and had most likely died with them.

  None of the men present in the room, in Mike’s opinion, were good candidates for being in overall command of the military forces. It was true that Ferdinand and his Habsburg cousin the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando had led the imperial forces which decisively defeated the Protestant allies at the battle of Nördlingen in 1634. Leaving aside the fact that had happened in a different universe, the situations weren’t at all analogous. Most of the imperial forces had been Spanish infantry, who could—in both universes—lay claim to being still the best in Europe. They’d mostly been led by the experienced commander Count Leganés. Furthermore, they’d outnumbered their opponent—which was certainly not going to be the case in the coming battle against the Ottoman army.

  Of the other Austrian officers present, none of them fit the bill. Von Colloredo was not only a sycophant, but Mike gauged him to be a plodder at his actual trade—at best. Montecuccoli seemed to have talent, but he was too junior an officer. Janos Drugeth was the best prospect, being a veteran soldier and obviously very capable. But he didn’t have any experience commanding really large bodies of men.

  The same was true of Mike himself. By now, he was quite confident of his ability to command a division-sized force. But that same experience had made clear to him that commanding an entire army, especially one made up disparate units from allied forces, was another kettle of fish entirely.

  That left Pappenheim, the commander of the Bohemian forces present. He’d brought about ten thousand men with him into Austria, the core of which force was his own famous cavalry unit, the Black Cuirassiers.

  Pappenheim had as much combat experience as probably any soldier in Europe, much of it in command of sizeable forces. But he’d never been in overall command of those armies and he didn’t really have the temperament for it. He was impetuous in battle, a trait which made him undoubtedly fearsome but was not really the most important characteristic for a top commander. For that you wanted judgment, which Mike didn’t think was Pappenheim’s strong suit.

  And, besides, why fiddle around when there was a man available who was the one most obviously suited to the job in the whole continent?

  “I propose instead,” Mike continued, “that we ask Gustavus Adolphus to take command of our allied army. We can have him flown down here within a day or two.”

  He sat down. A small hubbub erupted which be let run its course before saying anything further.

  Bluntly, Drugeth posed the critical question. “He is said to be incapacitated by seizures, General Stearns. Is this true?”

  “Yes and no. He does have seizures, yes. But they don’t come that often—perhaps once every month or two—and they don’t usually last very long.”

  “’Very long’ being…?”

  “Half an hour. Sometimes shorter, sometimes longer.” On one occasion, Gustav Adolf had been incapacitated for a day and half, but Mike didn’t see any reason to bring that up.

  The men present looked at each other, uncertainly.

  Ferdinand spoke up. “Could he bring his doctor with him? The famous Doctor Nichols, I mean?”

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” Mike replied. Seeing the lessening of doubtfulness in the faces around him, he pressed the matter. “There is no reason we can’t have someone with him who could assume command for the duration should Gustav Adolf suffer a seizure. Personally, I would recommend”—he nodded toward the Hungarian nobleman—“Janos here. True, he’s never commanded an army of this size. But by all accounts he’s very steady and he’s an experienced soldier. Surely he could maintain the situation until Gustav Adolf recovered.”

  Everyone—except Janos himself—now looked quite relaxed.

  “A splendid proposal,” said Emperor Ferdinand.

  Freising, Bavaria

  “This is the dining room,” Bonnie Weaver explained. She gestured toward the windows to the side, which slanted in toward the bottom, since they were flush with the underside of the huge dirigible. “You get a hell of a view once we’re in the air.”

  Julie Mackay looked around the big room in the hull of the Magdeburg. “Wow,” she said. “And I get my own private cabin, too?”

  “Yup.”

  “Double wow.”

  Chapter 48

  Munich, capital of Bavaria

  “It’s not fair!” Rita proclaimed, for the third time, as she re-read the radio message—also for the third time.

  Noelle was reading the same message over Rita’s shoulder. “Sure isn’t. I’m not ready for this.”

  Rita gave her a glance that was not in the least sympathetic. “A little late in the game for getting cold feet, isn’t it? You’ve been making cow eyes at that damn Hungarian for—what is it?—two years now?”

  “Year and a half.” Noelle shook her head. “I don’t have cold feet about marrying Janos. I’m just… Goddamit, Rita, you had a reasonable wedding in a local church in Grantville followed by a reasonable reception in the high school cafeteria. That, I could handle fine.”

  She jabbed an accusing forefinger at the slip of paper in Rita’s hand. “But you know good and well that’s not what this wedding’s going to be like.” Her tone of voice became more high-pitched. “I thought we wouldn’t be getting married until… I don’t know…”

  “The war was over?” Rita barked a laugh that had very little in the way of humor in it. “The way things are going, by then you’d be in your forties.”

  She sighed, laid the radio message on a side table and slumped into a chair in the small salon. Then, gave the room a sour examination that lasted for perhaps five seconds.

  “Typical seventeenth century so-called ‘palace,’” she grumbled. “Is there any decent plumbing? Be serious. Will it be well-heated in the winter? Be serious.”

  Noelle sat down in a chair not far from her. “At least you won’t be too crowded here. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be stuck in a palace—using the term very loosely—that’s packed to the rafters with people. And probably has even worse plumbing than the Munich Residenz.”

  Both of them understood the logic behind the message they’d just received.

  Rita had been appointed the new USE ambassador to Bavaria. Her qualifications? She was the sister of the guy who’d just been pounding down Munich’s walls with the most powerful cannons in the world and could always come back and finish the job if the new duke of Bavaria got out of line.

  Noelle had been told to go to Linz where it seemed everyone and their grandmother was planning to hold the biggest wedding of the season—in between making a desperate last stand against the Ottoman onslaught. The reasoning? If Linz could be held, then marrying a prominent up-timer whom Wallenstein planned to ennoble to an even more prominent Austro-Hungarian aristocrat would be a splendid way to help solidify the new Triple Alliance. (They were even starting to call it that.)

  “The seventeenth century sucks,” pronounced Rita.

  “Big time,” agreed Noelle.

  Chiemsee (Bavarian Sea)

  Bavaria

  “That thing is… big,” said Captain Bleier.

  As understatements went, thought Tom Simpson, that one was a dandy. He’d known the dimensions of the Magdeburg, of course, since he had to in order to design and build a hangar for it. But abstract knowledge was one thing; seeing the enormous airship up close was something else altogether.

  “At least we got the mast finished in time,” said Bleier.

  That had been their first priority, once they were able to start construction. Building a hangar for the Magdeburg was going to take at least six months—if everything went as planned. Tom wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it took twice as long, though. The six month estimate was based on the experience of the Dutch, but they’d had a much better infrastructure in place at Hoorn than he had on the shores of the Chiemsee.
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  Obviously, they had to have something ready long before then that could serve as a base for the Magdeburg. A hangar was really only necessary for major maintenance of the airship. They could moor the vessel to a mast in the meantime, although doing so would inevitably result in a faster deterioration of the envelope since it would be exposed to the elements.

  So, they’d thrown up a mast just tall enough to moor the Magdeburg while personnel and supplies were loaded directly from the ground. They’d work their way backward, so to speak: first, a mast, while they assembled the wherewithal to build the hangar; then, finally, the hangar itself. By the time they were done, the airship base at the lakeside village of Chieming would have become a respectably-sized town.

  “Lucky you,” said Bleier. “Getting to return to civilization while I remain here in the Bavarian wilderness.”

  Tom didn’t say anything. Truth be told, he had mixed feelings about his reassignment to Linz. On the one hand, he certainly wouldn’t miss the primitive facilities here on the Chiemsee. The area wasn’t quite a “wilderness” but it came awfully close. He also wouldn’t mind at all getting back to his more familiar duties as an artillery officer.

  On the other hand, he’d just found out that his wife had been appointed the ambassador to Bavaria. He’d been hoping to see her, but the Magdeburg had dropped her off in Freising at the same time it had picked up Julie Mackay. Which meant that Rita would be stuck in Munich while he went still farther to the east.

  * * *

  Once the Magdeburg was moored and held steady with lines, Tom climbed aboard the gondola using a rope ladder. Noelle Stull was there to greet him, along with Julie and Dell Beckworth.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked Beckworth. Then, waved a big hand in dismissal of his own query. “Never mind. Stupid question. I don’t suppose you brought anything more useful than an oversized gun? You know—things like a portable sawmill, maybe a couple of dozen master carpenters. Better yet, somebody who knows what he’s doing when it comes to managing construction.”