1635: The Eastern Front (10 page)

"In short, he proposes to divide his forces in order to fight two enemies simultaneously. A military error so basic and egregious—even a neophyte like me knows that much—that it is inconceivable that a general as demonstrably superb as Gustav Adolf would commit it—"

Brunswick-Lüneburg started to say something but Mike drove over it. "—
unless
he had what a suspicious soul would call ‘ulterior motives.' "

This time Torstensson tried to interrupt but Mike drove over him too. "And the only such motive a suspicious soul like me can discern is that Gustav Adolf is bound and determined to defeat Saxony and Brandenburg quickly enough to leave most of the campaigning season available for some other purpose. Such purpose, of course, being an invasion of Poland."

He paused, finally.

After a moment, Torstensson said: "Well. Yes. That is his plan." A bit hastily he added, "We have it on good authority that the Poles will be sending a contingent to join the Saxons. So you might say they will begin the hostilities themselves."

Mike chuckled, quite humorlessly. "Exactly how big a contingent are we talking about, Lennart?"

"Not . . . big."

The duke's chuckle, on the other hand, had some real humor in it. "To be precise, one small unit of hussars. But the commander is an Opalinski."

"In other words, a pretext." Mike gave Torstensson a level gaze. "I don't suppose there's any point in expressing my conviction that launching a major war against Poland is folly."

Torstensson shook his head. "No, Michael, there is not. You've made your opinion on this subject clear enough in the past. On several occasions, to the emperor himself. Very bluntly, too."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Torstensson said: "You may resign your commission, of course."

Mike shook his head. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Gustav Adolf is the head of state of the United States of Europe. Yes, he's also the king of Sweden and so on and so forth, but that doesn't matter here. He's the commander in chief, according to the agreement we made. So whatever I think of the wisdom of his decisions, I'm duty bound to obey them."

"That agreement does not oblige you to serve personally, Michael," George pointed out. "I've studied your up-time history, you know. So, yes, your President Truman fired your general McDonald's—no, was it McCarthy?—but no one including him felt that McWhateverhisname was obliged to continue serving in the army."

"Technically speaking, you're right. But there are political issues involved here. Given the history of the USE—which is less than two years old, remember—and my position in that history, it would be risky for me to resign my commission over an issue like this one."

"A battlefield is likely to be far more risky," said Knyphausen, "especially one where you're directed to behave recklessly."

"I wasn't referring to the personal danger to me. I was referring to the danger to the nation."

There was silence, for a moment. Then the Frisian professional soldier nodded his head. "Well spoken, Michael," he said softly.

"Say better, well done," chimed in George. He gave Mike another of those cheerful smiles that seemed to come readily to the man. "Maybe there's something to this ‘Prince of Germany' business after all."

Torstensson made a derisive sound. Close to a snort, but not quite. "Don't say that in front of the emperor," he muttered. The Swedish general pointed to one of the several side tables against the walls of the room, this one covered with maps instead of bottles of wine. "If you would, Dodo."

Knyphausen rose and went over, then came back with one of the maps and spread it across the low table in the center. As soon as he'd done so, Torstensson leaned over and pointed to a place on the map. After a few seconds to orient himself, Mike realized that the Swedish general was pointing at Leipzig. Near it, rather.

"In this area, gentlemen," said Torstensson. "I think the battle will happen here. It's good, flat terrain that will favor the Saxon cavalry."

"Favor our APCs too," grunted Knyphausen.

Mike cocked an inquisitive eye at Torstensson. "We're going to use the APCs against the Saxons? For God's sake, why?"

Before Torstensson could answer, Mike waved his hand. "Never mind. Same reason."

Torstensson nodded. Mike leaned back in his chair, and couldn't help issuing a sigh. "Well, I say it's stupid—and I don't care if Gustav Adolf is a certified military genius and I'm just a grunt. It's still stupid. Saxony is not one of the great military powers of Europe, and those so-called ‘APCs' are just armored coal trucks—which we can't replace. Not for years, at any rate. So why use them in
this
war? Not to mention that the things are fuel hogs. USE oil production has recovered from Turenne's raid during the Baltic War, true enough, but it was never very large to begin with. The Wietze oil fields just aren't that big. No European oil fields are very big, leaving aside North Sea fields we haven't got the technology to exploit and the Rumanian fields under Ottoman control. We're already lagging further and further behind civilian demand. Until—if—we can get some oil production from the expeditions to North America, we've got a perennial fuel shortage. So why make it worse using the APCs?"

Torstensson had a pained expression on his face. "Michael . . ."

"Never mind," said Mike, waving his head. "I know it's pointless to pursue the matter. I just want my opinion on the record."

The decision to use the APCs was just another indication of how determined Gustav Adolf was to start a war with the Poles as soon as possible. He was willing to use the APCs now rather than hold them back, even though Poland was a much stronger military power than Saxony—or Saxony and Brandenburg combined, for that matter.

But Mike's objection would just be overruled, and Mike would be stuck in the same bind he was stuck in now. The USE was simply too new and too unstable for him to risk precipitating a political crisis over this issue. Especially since he had mixed feelings on the subject, anyway. On the one hand, he thought the Polish situation did not lend itself well to military solutions. On the other hand . . .

Who could say for sure? The old saying "you can't export a revolution with bayonets" certainly had some truth. But a lot of it was just wishful thinking, too. Mike had read a great deal of history since the Ring of Fire, and one of the things he couldn't help notice was how often history was shaped by the outcome of wars. Napoleon was often denounced as a tyrant, but the fact remained that many of the revolutionary changes he made were not overturned after his defeat—not even by those he'd defeated and forced to accept those changes.

So . . . There was no way of knowing the outcome of a war between the USE and Poland. If was possible, in the event of a clearcut USE victory, that serfdom in eastern Europe would be destroyed. Not by Gustav Adolf and his armies, maybe. But one thing you could be sure of was that Gretchen Richter and her Committees of Correspondence would be coming into Poland on the heels of those armies. And they hated serfdom with a passion.

In fact, they were already there. Mike knew from his correspondence with Morris Roth in Prague that Red Sybolt and his radical cohorts were active in Poland. Possibly even in the Ukraine by now.

On balance, he thought a military approach to eradicating serfdom in eastern Europe had far more risks than benefits. Still, it was tempting. Military solutions had the great advantage of being clear and definite.

Appearing to be, at any rate. Often, though, that was just a mirage. Mike's friend Frank Jackson was a Vietnam veteran, and could expound for hours on the stupidity of politicians who thought a map was the territory.

He looked back down at the map in front of him and wondered if he was looking at another such mirage.

"Near Lützen, then," said George. "Hopefully, this time there will be a better outcome."

In the universe Mike had come from, the Swedes had won the battle of Lützen in 1632—but Gustav Adolf had also been killed there. So, a tactical victory had become a strategic defeat.

"I will not be leading a reckless cavalry charge," said Torstensson firmly.

But that didn't really matter, thought Mike. There were a thousand ways that tactical victories could turn into strategic defeats.

Part Two

July 1635

The round ocean and the living air

Chapter 8

Magdeburg

Had Gretchen seen the expression on Rebecca's face a month earlier, when Rebecca first inspected her new home in the capital, she would have recognized it. She was wearing much the same expression, after having completed an inspection of her own new home in the city.

Not quite, though. Gretchen had the same uncertain, dubious, apprehensive, wary, and skittish attitude. But, unlike Rebecca, she was making no attempt to avoid covetousness. The last few weeks of having to take care of a small horde of children again—she'd forgotten what it was like, during her long absence in France and Holland—made the prospect of settling them into a large apartment building very attractive.

In her days as a camp follower in a mercenary army, she wouldn't have thought of such things. Lack of privacy had been the least of her worries. But she was not immune to the common tendency of people to have their expectations and aspirations expand along with their blessings. The more you had, it sometimes seemed, the more you wanted. If you weren't careful, that could lead into a bottomless pit.

"And down you'll plunge," she muttered.

* * *

Jeff had lagged behind his wife, more interested than she was in the interior design of the building. He came into the vestibule just in time to hear her last remark.

"What was that, hon?" he asked.

Gretchen shook her head. "I was just contemplating the dangers of excessive greed."

Jeff looked around, smiling nostalgically. The structure had been designed by a down-time architect. Where an up-time apartment building was essentially a collection of individual homes all squished together, this "apartment building" reminded Jeff of a hotel more than anything else. Not a newfangled motel, either, but the sort of oldstyle hotels you often found in the downtown areas of small cities.

He'd had a great-aunt in Winchester who'd owned such a hotel. He'd spent a week there, once, when he was eight years old. His great-aunt's hotel had only a few transient customers. Most of the inhabitants of its many rooms had been elderly residents of the town, usually but not always male. There was a common kitchen, and his great-aunt always provided three meals a day in the hotel's dining room.

That was what this apartment building in Magdeburg reminded him of—except this building even came with a resident cook. Two of them, in fact. A middle-aged man and his wife; both, of course, members of the city's Committee of Correspondence.

"So much for those piker Joneses!" He said that with a melodramatic sneer, twirling a mustachio in the bargain. The seventeenth century had its drawbacks, but it also had its advantages. One of the greatest of those, in Jeff's opinion, was the ubiquitous facial hair sported by men. Jeff ran toward fat, and had been sensitive about it since childhood. He still was, even though he'd replaced of lot of fat with muscle since the Ring of Fire, and even though Gretchen insisted she didn't care. Nothing, in Jeff's opinion, improved a plump lip and jowls like a beard and mustache.

"Who are the Jones?" asked Gretchen.

"They're the next door neighbors that people are always trying to surpass in wealth and ostentatious displays."

"Ah." She nodded wisely. "Bait, dangled by the devil."

This was one of the seventeenth century's drawbacks, on the other hand—the tendency of its inhabitants to inflate all manner of human frailties. There was no peccadillo that someone wouldn't call a sin; no venal sin that couldn't be made into a mortal one; and no mortal sin where a dozen could be described in detail. Even a person as normally levelheaded as Gretchen was prone to the habit.

"Fortunately, we are not guilty," she continued. "I have decided that Gunther is right. We can use this otherwise-far-too-large building for good purposes. The basement, for instance, is perfect for an armory."

And another drawback. This one, the tendency of down-timers to look at everything bloody-mindedly. As his friend Eddie Cantrell had once put it: "These guys make the Hatfields and McCoys look like Phil Donahue and Oprah."

Of course, given the nature of the seventeenth century, it was hard to blame them. The Hatfields and McCoys would have been right at home here.

Veronica and Annalise came into the vestibule. "It will suit you, I think," said Gretchen's grandmother.

Jeff figured the "I think" part of the sentence was what the British philosopher Bertrand Russell had called a meaningless noise in a collection of essays he'd read once. Gretchen was devoted to her grandmother. Jeff would allow that the old biddy was tough as nails, and some of the time he even liked her. But he often found her view of the universe annoying. Veronica, so far as Jeff could tell, recognized no distinction between an hypothesis, a theorem, and a fact—not, at least, if she was the one expounding the certainty.

Being fair, Jeff himself thought the house would suit them. There was plenty of room for all the kids, even when you factored into the equation the small army of "security experts" that Gunther was determined to foist upon them.

Gunther Achterhof. A kindred spirit of Gretchen's grandmother, if you set aside politics. Achterhof was as radical as they came and Veronica was about as conservative as you could get and still (grudgingly) support Stearns' regime. So what? They both knew what they knew and if you didn't like it, so much the worse for you.

"Security experts." Yeah, sure. Back up-time, Jeff would have labeled them thugs without even thinking about it.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, he
wasn't
up-time any longer. And as many enemies as Gretchen piled up, it was probably just as well that they'd be sharing the apartment building with guys who'd scare motorcycle gangs if there were any such gangs in the here and now. Which there weren't, of course, unless you wanted to count Denise Beasley and Minnie Hugelmair as a two-girl motorcycle gang.