A week later, Axel Oxenstierna arrived in Grantville. Just as Gustav II Adolf had foreseen, his chancellor was apoplectic when he heard the king’s new political plans. Axel ranted and raged, desperately trying to convince his monarch that a Confederation of Europe with a
republic
planted at its center—
don’t think I’m fooled by this Captain General rigmarole! and you gave them Franconia also?—
would assuredly be the death knell—
sooner or later!—
for the aristocracy of Europe.
But the king refused to budge. After two days, he took Oxenstierna to visit a place in Thuringia. A place called Buchenwald.
“In another universe, Axel, this will be a place of slaughter.” Gustav’s heavy jaws clenched. “And by no means the worst!” He pointed to the east. “The real killing will take place in Poland and Russia. At places called Auschwitz and Sobibor and Treblinka.”
He glared at his chancellor. “In
that
universe, my new president’s grandfather will be forced to fight his way into this place, that a handful might survive. And do you know why?”
Now, the king pointed to the northeast. “Because in
that
universe, chancellor of Sweden, I will die. Less than three months from now, at a battlefield called Lützen.” His lips quirked. “Leading a perhaps reckless cavalry charge.”
The brief moment of humor vanished. Gustav took a deep breath, resting his hands on the pommel of the saddle. His eyes scanned the entire landscape; unfocused, as if he were looking in his mind’s eye at all of Europe. “My death will end any chance of rescuing Germany from the clutches of the princes. You will try, Axel—strive well, and mightily—to salvage what you can. But it will not be enough. Germany will be doomed to the centuries which came after, and the world will be doomed to
that
Germany.”
He sat erect in the saddle. “Not now! No longer! Not in
this
universe!”
His next words ended any further argument. “I understand God’s will, Oxenstierna. It was for this purpose, in His mercy, that He created the Ring of Fire. This, and no other. Only a blind man, or an impious one, could fail to understand that
now.
So I will hear no further words on this subject. Do you understand, chancellor of Sweden? I am
Vasa
!”
Axel bent his head. Accepting, if not the wisdom of his king, the will of that king’s soul.
Accepting the will, of course, did not mean accepting all the fine points. So, in the weeks which followed, Axel Oxenstierna—Sweden’s canniest diplomat—immersed himself in the final negotiations. And, by the end, found himself in much better spirits. True, he disapproved in principle of the entire scheme. But Oxenstierna was a practical man, also. And he had discovered, in the political shrewdness of such men as Ed Piazza—now recovering from his injuries—and Francisco Nasi and the Abrabanel brothers, as well as Michael Stearns and
especially
his wife, a new asset for the cause of his king.
So, although he remained dubious of the final outcome, Oxenstierna could still console himself with a certainty.
Tremble, lords of Germany. A new breed has come into the world.
A month after her wedding, Julie would use the best rifle in the world. As the armored column of the United States smashed its way through the imperial fortifications which Wallenstein had erected on the Burgstall, Julie took out Wallenstein himself.
The king of Sweden did not approve, of course. By the semifeudal military protocol of his day, deliberately targeting an enemy commander was considered low and foul. But the Captain General was already beginning to accept some of the attitudes of his U.S. soldiery. To whom it seemed far more sensible—not to mention
moral—
to shoot the commander of a vicious army like you would a rabid dog.
So, the Captain General made no protest while Julie and her spotter went to work.
“It’s a good one thousand yards, girl,” muttered Karen. “This Wallenstein character sure as hell don’t believe in leading from the front.”
Karen could make out the figure easily enough through the spotting scope, standing on the battlements of the Alte Veste.
“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Julie.
“Yep. There’s a portrait in one of the books in the school library. I musta studied it for an hour, memorizing his ugly face. That’s him, all right.”
Reassured, Julie studied the enemy commander through her scope. He
was
an ugly bastard. Reminded her of a cartoon version of the Devil. “Wind?” she asked.
“Hard to tell,” muttered Karen. “Nothing here, but on top of that hill?” She shrugged. “Start by figuring no wind. I’ll try to spot where the first bullet hits.”
Silence followed, while Julie gauged the elevation. The shot was at the outermost limit of the rifle’s range. It would require her utmost skill and concentration. She blocked everything out of her mind—the sound of the APCs smashing through the lower fortifications, the fiery flares of napalm clearing the side trenches—everything except the devil in the distance.
As always, squeezing the trigger, her shot came as a bit of a surprise.
“Four feet off!” cried Karen. “Nine o’clock! That’s wind! Elevation’s dead on!”
Julie had seen it herself. One of the officers standing to Wallenstein’s right had been struck down by a bullet in the chest. Wallenstein himself, his mouth open, was staring at the man’s body.
Julie adjusted for the wind. Wallenstein’s head came back around, staring directly at her. His mouth was still open.
The sniper’s triangle.
You’re dead, motherfucker.
The only thing that saved Wallenstein’s life was the extreme range. The shot was perfect. But, traveling that distance, the bullet slowed enough to go transonic. It began to tumble, and missed by inches. Wallenstein’s jaw was shattered, instead of his throat.
The imperial general’s head spun, spraying teeth and blood on his subordinates. He staggered into General Gallas’ arms.
“Damn,” growled Julie. She jacked another round into the chamber. Fired again.
That shot splintered Wallenstein’s shoulder. Gurgling with pain and fear, Wallenstein tried to shout orders to Gallas:
Put me down, you idiot!
But he could not get the words through his mangled mouth, and Gallas was too confused to understand what was happening. Wallenstein’s frantic attempt to force Gallas to the ground brought the general’s own head into the path of the next bullet. Now finally in the safety below the battlements, Wallenstein stared at the pieces of Gallas’ brains scattered over the stones.
Good riddance
was his last thought, before pain and shock dragged him into unconsciousness.
A thousand yards away, sighing regretfully, Julie lowered her head and muttered a few curses. The Captain General knelt by her side and consoled her with a heavy hand on the shoulder. Due to the sports spectacles which Julie had presented him as her own gift, Gustav’s eyesight was good enough to have followed the action.
“No matter,” he said. “He will not be there to rally his men. All that matters.”
The Captain General raised his head and studied the battle. The U.S. armored column had now broken through the outer fortifications on the lower slope of the Burgstall. The M-60 in the lead APC was shattering the counterattack coming down from the Alte Veste. Thousands of Swedish cuirassiers and Finnish light cavalry were pouring into the breach. For a mile on either side of the armored thrust, Swedish pikemen and arquebusiers were launching a massive charge. The Captain General smiled, seeing the U.S. infantrymen at the fore of that charge. Even from the distance, he could hear their incredible rate of fire.
“No matter,” he repeated. “Wallenstein’s army will break—and very soon. We are on the verge of an even greater victory than Breitenfeld. Trust me, girl. I am experienced in these things.”
Julie raised her head and glared at him. “And I suppose you’re going to lead another idiot cavalry charge?”
Gustav II Adolf, King of Sweden and the Baltic Territories, newly crowned Emperor of the Confederated Principalities of Europe, and Captain General of the United States, shook his head.
“Please! Do I look like a madman?”
When Mike returned from the Alte Veste that evening, the Captain General ordered him to return home. He would brook no argument.
“I command the armies of the United States in the field!” he roared, driving over Mike’s protest. “That was the agreement!”
He settled down, a bit. “Besides,” he gruffed, “there is no further need for you here. The battle is won—decisively. And you have a situation at home. We just got word over the radio.”
Mike’s face paled. The Captain General chuckled. “Relax, man! It happens. A bit early, in this case, but that is not so unusual in a first—” The rest of the words went unheard. Mike was already racing out of the command tent, looking for his vehicle and official driver.
Hans got him back to Grantville in record time, even on those roads. The pickup, of course, needed extensive body work afterward. But they were still late. The baby had been born many hours earlier.
“Relax, fer Chrissake,” said James, as he trotted alongside Mike down the corridor of the town’s new hospital, trying to keep up with the frantic new father. It was a long corridor. The hospital had only been completed two months earlier, and its builders had planned for the future. Halfway down, Mike almost trampled Jeff as he emerged from one of the wards, his arm in a sling. Gretchen, coming right behind her husband, called out a greeting. But Mike only responded with a vague wave of the hand.
“She’s fine,” the doctor insisted. “No complications at all. So’s the baby.”
James gave up. “It’s a girl, by the way!” he shouted after Mike’s retreating back.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” whispered Rebecca, cradling the sleeping baby in her arms. “Kathleen,” she murmured.
That was the name they had agreed on, if the child was a girl. But Mike had been thinking about it during the endless drive back from Nürnberg with ferocious concentration, trying to keep his mind on future hope rather than today’s fear.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. Startled, Rebecca looked at him.
Mike smiled. “We can call our next girl Kathleen. But this one—” Gently, he stroked the tiny head. “This one I’d like to name after a promise kept. So let’s call her Sepharad.”
Rebecca’s eyes filmed with moisture. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “I think that would be wonderful.”
She reached up her free hand and drew Mike’s head down. But halfway through the kiss she started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“Sepharad!” she exclaimed. “It’s such a splendid name. But you know they’ll be calling her Sephie before she’s two months old.”
Laughing, laughing. “Hillbillies! You have no
respect.
”
Author’s Afterword
The town of Grantville and the characters who populate it are purely fictitious. But Grantville, along with the nearby consolidated high school, is inspired by the real town of Mannington, West Virginia, and its surroundings.
Many years ago, I lived in northern West Virginia (Morgantown, to be precise), and I revisited the area in preparation for this novel. I’d like to thank the many people there who provided me with their help. I’d especially like to single out Paul Donato and Dave James for the hours they gave me, both at the time of my visit and in many phone calls later.
Paul is the principal of North Marion High School, which is the model for the high school which figures so prominently in
1632.
He took the time, on a day when the school was closed due to a winter storm, to give me an extended tour of the high school and its facilities. Although I did not hesitate to make whatever changes were needed to fit the plot, the high school in the novel is true in essence to the one which really exists—down to the television station and the decor of the cafeteria. And yes, North Marion High
did
win the West Virginia AAA state football championships in 1980, 1981 and 1997—along with a number of other athletic and academic awards. The great trophy case which the imperial cavalrymen shatter in frustration toward the end of the book really exists, and it is just as large and impressive as depicted.
In a day when public high schools never seem to get any notice or attention until something goes wrong, let me take the time here to remind everyone that the vast majority of America’s high schools are alive and well. As a boy, I attended a consolidated rural high school—Sierra Joint Union, near Tollhouse, California—and it was much of a piece with North Marion in West Virginia. Public schools, and high schools in particular, remain the principal forges of America’s youth. Let others whine about their shortcomings and faults, I will not. You can have your damned playing fields of Eton, and all the other varieties of that exclusionary “vision.” I’ll stick with the democratic and plebeian methods which built the American republic, thank you.
Dave James is the chief of Mannington’s small police force, and he was very helpful to me in preparing the material for the novel. Beyond the specifics he provided me concerning the police department, he was also a fount of information concerning the town and its environs.
In addition, I’d like to thank Herb Thompson, the manager of the power plant near Grant Town, for his explanation of the workings of a modern power plant. Also: Billy Burke, the WV State Executive Director for the USDA’s Farm Service Agency; David Adams and Amy Harris, respectively the manager and a pharmacist at one of Mannington’s largest drug stores; and Mike Workman, a former coal miner and currently a professor at West Virginia University.
It’s a bit awkward for a writer to thank his publisher, without seeming like a sycophant. But simple honesty requires to me to thank Jim Baen. Jim gave close editorial attention to this novel from beginning to end, and his many suggestions and criticisms helped to improve it immensely. In particular, I owe him a debt of gratitude for restraining me when my emotions ran a tad too high. The historical villains of this story were every bit as vile as I depict them, and I sometimes found it difficult not to give them their just desserts in gory detail—down to a splendid scene involving a guillotine. But
1632
is a sunny book, when all is said and done, and Jim helped me to remember that.
Beyond that, the mentioning of specific names becomes difficult. There are just too many of them. But I need to thank, in general, all the many people who participate in Baen Books’ very active chat room (www.baen.com/bar/ — “Hang Out at Baen’s Bar”) and who responded to my request for input. And, in particular, I want to thank Pam (“Pogo”) Poggiani for reading the manuscript and helping me ferret out the factual or historical errors which are such a potential menace to writers of alternate history. Any errors which may remain are entirely my responsibility. There are at least a dozen which are gone, thanks to Pam’s eagle eye.
