by Eric Flint
Gretchen nodded. “We’ve got some gasoline stockpiled, yes. Not much, but we can probably provide you with what you require.”
“Okay, then.” Denise clapped her hands, rubbed them together, and looked around the room again. “Who’s good with making stuff, here? So I can show them how to do it?”
“I thought you were going to make the bombs,” said Gretchen, frowning.
“Oh, no. You need me to be Eddie’s bombardier. Target spotter, rather.” In a very animated way, the girl started gesturing with her hands, as if making a three-dimensional model of the airplane.
“The way it works with a Dauntless is this,” she said. “Up front, you’ve got Eddie on the left in the pilot seat, flying the plane. He can’t do that while concentrating on the target at the same time. Back home—up-time, I mean—our guys could do that because they had these super-fancy Star Wars type helmets that let ‘em see everything and co-ordinate firing at the same time—I saw a documentary on it once—but there’s no way Eddie can do that with what he’s got.
“So”—her hands now shifted to the right—“there I am, sitting in the shotgun seat. I’m the spotter and the one who decides when to drop the bomb, on account of the guy who actually yanks the release trigger is stuffed into that narrow back seat where he can’t see much of anything.”
Now, she frowned. “Piss-poor design for a bomber, if you ask me. What Bob Kelly should have done is design a real bombardier’s sight for the girl up front, so she could do the release at just the right moment like they did back up-time during World War II.”
Lukasz didn’t know anything at all about aircraft design, but he was quite sure that if the Bob Kelly fellow were present he could explain in precise and elaborate detail why the girl’s criticism overlooked practical realities. Denise seemed rather charming but he suspected her know-it-all attitude could get tiresome. For his sake, he hoped her pilot paramour had a disposition that was as solid and steady as his body appeared to be.
Denise shrugged. “You work with what you got. But that’s why we need a three-person crew. The bombardier proper—that’s what I call the guy in the back, on account of he’s the one who actually drops the bomb—can be pretty much anybody who can follow orders and has good reflexes.”
For the first time since she and her daughter had been ushered into the room, the mother spoke. Her name was Christin George, if Lukasz remembered correctly. As a rule, married American women took their husband’s surnames, a peculiar English custom which was not observed on the continent. She had kept her own, though, it seemed—or perhaps she’d changed it back after she’d been widowed. Lukasz didn’t know any of the details, but he knew her husband had been killed during the Dreeson Incident.
“You’ve got one thing criss-crossed, honey,” she said, looking at her daughter.
“What’s that?”
“No way am I letting you fly into what amounts to a combat zone. Bad enough you’re making bombs, but that horse left the barn a long time ago. I remember the hissy-fit I threw the first time Buster taught you to weld.”
“Hey! I’m a good welder!”
“You are now, yeah. Your father had you starting at the age of six. You may have forgotten the way you yowled when you screwed up, but I haven’t.”
“Mom!”
“No. N.O. No. You stay right here in Breslau, on the ground. Somebody else can spot targets for Eddie. All that takes is good eyesight, a good sense of relative motions and directions, and the ability to holler ‘Now!’ in a clear and piercing tone of voice.”
“Mom!” Denise’s gaze swept around the room. “Everybody here is a down-timer. None of them have any experience with what flying’s like except Eddie and he’s got to fly the plane. It’ll take any of ‘em days—weeks—before they’d be any good at it.”
“Bullshit. I’ve flown in planes way more often that you have, young lady. My eyesight’s still 20-20 and after spending years riding on the back of a Harley driven by your father I’ve probably got a better feel for relative motion than anybody this side of the Ring of Fire. And with you for a daughter who mastered foot-dragging at the age of two, I’ve got ‘Now!’ down pat.”
And, indeed, Christin George’s Now! had been clear and piercing.
“Mom!”
“It’s settled.” Christin looked at Gretchen. “So all you need now is to appoint the guy who yanks the lever in the back seat.”
“I volunteer!” said Jozef, smiling widely and as innocently as he could manage.
Like a lamb being led to slaughter, thought Lukasz. The woman was almost a decade older than Jozef and she probably worked for the spymaster Francisco Nasi. Judging by the amused glint that had just come to her eye, she also had no doubt at all of the outcome of any flirtation between herself and the most reckless Pole alive.
Whatever she wanted it to be.
“You are an idiot,” he whispered to Jozef. But Wojtowicz kept that smile plastered on his face. Much like a death mask.
Vienna, former capital of Austria-Hungary, now occupied by the Ottoman Empire
Minnie finished her examination of the area of the city she could see through the narrow slit in the tower and stepped back a couple of paces. The sun still hadn’t come up, this early in the morning, so there wasn’t much chance anyone might spot her face in that opening. But there was no point in taking chances, however remote they might be.
“I think Murad’s gotten most of his army out of the city by now,” she said softly. The Ottomans had begun their march out of Vienna two mornings earlier, but getting that huge an army out of a conquered city and onto the road to Linz would have posed a challenge to the sultan and his officers. For one thing, plenty of his soldiers would have been drunk or recovering from drunkenness. Despite their religion’s prohibition against the use of alcohol, Muslim soldiers were no strangers to drink—and the prohibition didn’t apply at all to the many Jews and Christians in the Ottoman army.
“Are you sure?” asked Judy, in a whisper. The likelihood that anyone was close enough to hear a voice high in the tower was also remote; but, again, why take chances?
Minnie shrugged. “No, I’m not. But it’s very quiet out there, much more than it has been since the Turks took the city. We’ll know in a few days. If all that’s left is a garrison, then the Austrian civilians still in the city will start moving around and getting back to their businesses. We’ll be able to spot them from here.”
Judy grimaced. “If there are any civilians left alive,” she said, still whispering.
“Most of them will be,” said Leopold. Like Minnie, he was speaking very softly but not in the outright whisper being used by Judy. “Murad didn’t order a massacre when they took the city. If he had, we would have heard the screaming. In fact, he probably kept a tight rein on his troops because he’d want the city as intact and functional as possible. And he’d be able to do so because the fighting was fierce while it lasted but it was all over quickly. What usually makes soldiers run amok with fury when they sack a city is that they’ve suffered weeks of bloodshed.”
Cecilia Renata came up the stairs from the ground floor, where she’d been moving around carefully, seeing what was available by the carefully shielded light of a small lamp.
“There’s a cart down there that ought to suit your purpose, Minnie,” she said. “It’s a small one made to be hauled by a person, not a horse.”
Leopold looked from his sister to his lover. “What purpose?” he asked. “What is she talking about?”
Minnie hadn’t raised the subject with Leopold yet, because she knew he’d object to her proposal. “Let’s get back into the cellars,” she said. Leopold was likely to start raising his voice once she explained.
* * *
“That’s insane!” the archduke said—and, indeed, with a voice that was raised, although you couldn’t call it a shout.
“Be quiet!” hissed his sister.
Leopold waved his hand irritably. “Nobody can hear us down here, not wi
th these walls around us.”
Cecilia Renata curled her lip. “Then why aren’t we asking Minnie to sing for us to help pass the time?”
Her brother ignored that and went back to glaring at Minnie. “It’s insane,” he repeated, speaking more softly but still insistently.
“You’re just acting angry at me because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing the battery and the antenna,” said Minnie, “which I’ve already explained is silly because you had no way of knowing we needed them.”
That wasn’t entirely true. An alert royal scion would have made it a point to learn how the peculiar up-time signaling device worked. But in the nature of things, princes tended to be incurious because they already thought they knew everything. About the only exception to that rule Minnie could think of was Prince Ulrik of Denmark, judging from the tales about him.
Still, there was no point having Leopold any more upset than he already was.
“We have to get the radio working,” Minnie went on. “It’s the only way we can get back in touch with our people. We’ve already agreed on that, Leopold—including you.”
“Yes, yes, I know I agreed—but I didn’t expect you to come up with this mad plan.”
“How else can we do it?” she demanded. “Face facts. Neither you nor Cecilia Renata has any idea how to mimic Austrian commoners going about their business. And while Judy might be able to manage—maybe—she’s much too good-looking to be moving around a city occupied by foreign troops.”
“You’re good-looking too!” Leopold said stoutly.
Minnie smiled and patted his cheek. “That’s sweet. The difference is that I can disguise my appearance much better than Judy can. Just for starters, I can—I will, too, be sure of it—take out my glass eye. There are other things I can do, the most important of which involves that cart Cecilia Renata found.”
The young archduke frowned. “How is that important?”
Minnie explained.
“That’s disgusting!” said Leopold.
“Really gross,” agreed Judy.
“So that’s why you were so pleased when I found the bucket,” said Cecilia Renata.
Breslau (Wroclaw), Lower Silesia
Poland
“Ready for the trial run?” Christin George asked, after Jozef Wojtowicz opened the door to the apartment he shared with Lukasz Opalinski.
He smiled at her, very toothily. “Yes, indeed. I am looking forward to it. A pity your daughter doesn’t have any bombs ready yet.”
Christin shrugged. “Trust me, she will soon enough. But today we’re just doing a reconnaissance flight to see what’s out there and where there might be any suitable targets.”
To her surprise, the faces of two young children materialized, shyly looking at her from around Jozef’s hips. A boy and a girl.
The girl said something in Polish. Christin could recognize the sound of the language by now but didn’t know what any of the words meant.
Jozef said something in reply, caressing the girl’s head with his hand.
He looked back at Christin. “She’s worried that you’re coming to take them away.”
“Why would she think that?”
Still gently stroking the girl’s hair, Jozef made a face. “She worries a lot. Her few years on Earth have been hard ones, so far. Her name’s Tekla, by the way.” His other hand fell on the boy’s shoulder. “Her brother’s name is Pawel. I found them in a destroyed village and… well…”
“You took them in. Good for you.” She leaned over and gave the two children a toothy smile of her own. “Hello, Tekla and Pawel.”
They hid their faces.
So. Jozef Wojtowicz had more parts to him than she’d supposed. That was interesting.
Chapter 51
The confluence of the Danube and the Traun
A few miles southeast of Linz
“Here,” Gustav Adolf stated. “We will anchor our position here.”
They were standing on the promontory formed by the confluence of the Danube and the Traun. The spit of land was narrow, forming an acute angle projecting out into the flowing water of the two rivers.
“Position the two ten-inch naval rifles here, Major Simpson,” the emperor commanded. “They will make it impossible for the Turk to move any troops by boat near the confluence.”
He glanced at the big artillery officer and smiled. “The two guns you already have here in the city, by such good fortune.”
Neither Tom nor Mike Stearns, who was standing next to him, said anything. Both men tried their best to look as innocent as cherubs.
“When the other two arrive,” Gustav Adolf continued, pointing to the north, “we will position them by the bridge. Whatever else, we must hold that bridge. If worse comes to worst, we can burn it, since it’s a wooden bridge. But I would much rather keep it intact so we can sortie across the river—and, even more importantly, bring the Third Division and the Black Cuirassiers back across it if necessary.”
Mike frowned. “You don’t want to position them on the Pöstlinberg?” That was a hill more than fifteen hundred feet high that rose above the city of Linz on the left bank of the Danube.
Gustav Adolf shook his head. “It is tempting, I admit. But I am not at all sure that we will be able to hold Steyregg”—that was the small town just across the river from Linz where Mike’s Third Division was taking up positions—“and if we lose Steyregg then we are bound to lose the hills behind it. We will certainly position some of our guns atop the Pöstlinberg—some twelve-pounders, certainly; some twenty-four pounders also, if we can get them up there in time—but I don’t want to risk the ten-inch naval rifles. They are irreplaceable and so long as we have them we can interdict the rivers.”
Tom was doing his best not to look pleased. The emperor had just said it himself—Tom was going back to being an artillery officer. That wasn’t exactly his “first love”—football was—but it beat being a figure-it-out-as-we-go airship commander.
His pleasure lasted for all of five seconds.
“Major Simpson can set up the naval rifles, certainly,” said Mike, “but he needs to get back to commanding the Magdeburg as soon as possible. His aide, Captain von Eichelberg, is quite capable of handling the guns thereafter.”
Stabbed in the back by his own brother-in-law! Where was Early Modern Era nepotism when he needed it?
Gustav Adolf nodded. “Certainly. Speaking of the Magdeburg, how soon will she be ready for battle, Major Simpson?”
Tom was tempted to answer how the hell should I know—I’m a damn artillery officer, but… he didn’t. First, because it would be impolitic, to put it mildly. Secondly, because it would be dishonest. Despite his best efforts to fend them off, the Dutch engineers and Julie kept him informed of every step in their progress or lack thereof.
“We need another four days to get everything ready, Your Majesty. Three days would be manageable. We’d simply have the armor partially established, but with enough coverage to protect the shooters.”
“What if the pilots get killed?”
“It’s not likely all three members of the flight crew would be killed. If they do come under fire, they can crouch below the windows of the gondola. Unless the Ottomans have better rifles than we’re expecting them to have, they won’t penetrate the walls. Those had shielding built into them while the airship was still under construction at Hoorn.”
The emperor frowned. “I should think armoring the entire gondola would add too much weight.” Gustav Adolf enjoyed flying, although not to the extent his daughter Kristina did. But he enjoyed it enough that he’d made it a point to become fairly knowledgeable about the new flying machines.
Tom shook his head. “You’re thinking of steel armor, Your Majesty. They’re only using that to shield the shooters. The way the gondola proper is shielded is with what amounts to a gambeson covering the entire hull.”
“And that is enough to stop a bullet?”
“To be honest, no one really knows yet. Obvious
ly, a lot will depend on the muzzle energy of the gun and the range at which it is fired. The hope is that any bullet fired by a normal musket or even rifle won’t penetrate or, if it does, will have had most of its energy dissipated.”
The emperor looked skeptical—truth be told, Tom was a little skeptical himself—but he simply nodded. “And what if the Ottoman airships arrive sooner than that?” Gustav Adolf asked. “Granted, that is not likely. Between the aircraft we now have flying reconnaissance and that very speedy river boat, we have excellent knowledge of the disposition of Murad’s forces. He could order an airship assault two days from now—he could order it today, for that matter—but there would be no point since his ground forces couldn’t get in position to take advantage of any openings the bombing might create.”
That was the great imponderable. No one had much experience with the effect of airships used in a close air support role—and no experience at all with their effectiveness in a field battle. The few times they’d been used so far had been against fixed targets, either fortifications or the one time the airships supporting Tom’s retreat from Ingolstadt had carried out a night-time bombing raid against Bavarian cavalrymen bivouacked in a small town.
There were no lessons to be drawn from up-time experience, either. In that universe, airships had not been used in combat roles in a significant way until World War I, and then they’d only been used in two capacities: for reconnaissance and for strategic bombing. No one had used zeppelins on battlefields and so far as Tom had ever been able to ascertain there had never been a single instance of airship-to-airship aerial combat. At some point in the course of World War I, it was possible that men aboard one craft might have fired pistols or rifles at enemy airships. But, if so, Tom had not found any references to such actions.
As had so often been the case in this universe shaped by the Ring of Fire, the combination of up-time knowledge with down-time technological capability produced an uneven and mixed result. On the one hand, airships were much more advanced in their military potential—at the moment; this would change, and might change quite soon—than either airplanes or anti-aircraft gunnery were. No airplane yet built was capable of shooting down an airship, and unless the dirigibles flew extremely low they were almost impervious to ground fire as well.