1635: The Eastern Front (28 page)

"Are you blind?" she demanded. "Or do you think our own intelligence people are tricking us?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well," said Gretchen. "For days, the Crown Loyalist legislators and lobbyists have been leaving the city. They'd only be doing so for one of two reasons. Either Wilhelm Wettin is a mastermind and his political party even more disciplined than we are—"

That was good for a burst of laughter. Even Achterhof joined in.

"—and so they're dispersing to all parts of the nation to carry out their fiendish scheme."

"It's possible," said Achterhof, in a surly tone of voice. Gretchen rolled her eyes again. So did half of the other CoC leaders present.

"Or," she continued, "they're leaving because the pack of squabbling dogs finally got tired of trying to force their nominal leader to do as they wish, especially now that he's made clear he refuses to do anything of a major nature until the war situation is resolved. So, their innate selfishness taking over, they are all returning to their manors and mansions. Which is what Rebecca thinks is happening. And so do I."

She decided to try a less confrontational approach. As aggravating as he could sometimes be, Gunther Achterhof was a critical leader in their movement. If he was convinced of the wisdom of a plan and committed to it, then you could be sure the capital city of the nation would remain solid as a rock. In any crisis, that was worth a very great deal.

"Gunther, please. The only specific issue at stake here is whether or not I should move to Dresden. Eduard and Hubert's stupid joking aside"—here she bestowed a stern look of reproof upon the miscreants—"no one is proposing to relax any of our stances or precautions. So what is the harm?"

She saw a slight change in Achterhof's expression. From long experience dealing with the man, she recognized the signs. Gunther was shifting from Absolute Opposition to Resolute Disagreement.

Another half hour, she estimated.

Vienna

"It's in your own report!" the Austrian emperor exclaimed. Ferdinand jabbed an accusing—approving?—finger at the sheaf of papers in his hand. "You say it yourself. The Turks are invading Persia."

Janos Drugeth tried to keep his jaws from tightening. He could not, however, prevent his lips from doing so.

"No, unfortunately they are
not
attacking Persia. If they were, we could relax in the sure and certain knowledge that the Ottomans and the Safavids would be fighting for another decade, at least. They are simply seeking to retake Baghdad, which is in Mesopotamia. And if the results of this same war in that other universe hold true, they will succeed in doing so—and then make a lasting peace with the Safavids. The point being, that while the Turks pose no threat to us this year, they may very well be a threat in the following one."

Ferdinand waved his hand. "You're just guessing. And in the meantime, the Swedish bastard is marching into Poland.
After
taking Saxony and Brandenburg. It's obvious that once he conquers Poland we'll be the next meal on his plate."

Janos took a deep, slow breath. Calm, calm. Always essential, when you were arguing with an emperor.

"Ferdinand, ‘once he conquers Poland' is far easier said than done. And even if he succeeds, why would he come south? He'd have to break his alliance with Wallenstein to get to us. Far more likely he'd go after Muscovy."

"Yes, exactly!" The emperor leaned forward in his chair, which was not quite a throne but very close. "He'll keep the alliance with Wallenstein. They'll
both
attack."

Janos saw his chance. "In that case, Ferdinand, the logical thing to do is send all available forces to guard our border with Bohemia." He squared his shoulders, in the manner of man valiantly taking on a perilous task. "I offer to lead them myself."

Ferdinand stared at him suspiciously. The logic of the argument was impeccable, but . . .

The emperor was very far from being a dull-wit. He understood perfectly well that another effect of Drugeth's proposal would be to keep Austria from taking any irrevocable steps. Any nation had the right to protect its own borders, after all. Gustav Adolf could hardly use such a mobilization as a pretext for invasion. And it would keep Austria's army close to Prague—and close enough to the frontier with the Turks, should Drugeth's fears prove justified.

"I'll think about it," said Ferdinand, in a surly tone of voice.

Wismar, Germany, on the Baltic coast

The up-time radio operator frowned. "Say what?"

"Grain futures," Jozef Wojtowicz repeated.

The tow-headed young fellow's jaws moved, much like a cow chewing a cud. It was difficult to imagine that his people had once, in another world, put a man upon the moon. This particular American seemed about as bright as a sheepdog.

Eventually, Sergeant Trevor Morton confessed. "I don't exactly know what that is."

With a genial expression on his face, Jozef leaned forward across the table.

"It's not complicated. As you know"—which he certainly didn't—"Poland is the world's greatest exporter of wheat."

That might even be true. Close enough for these purposes.

"The grain is shipped through the Baltic. But the process is slow. Grain is bulky." Best to use short sentences. One syllable words as much as possible. "By the time it reaches the market, prices have often changed. Those who speculate"—no way to avoid that term—"in grain can lose a lot of money."

He paused, enabling the sergeant to absorb this mountain of knowledge.

"Yeah, okay, I get it," said that worthy eventually. His jaws were still moving back and forth. Jozef wondered what he could possibly be chewing? It couldn't be the bizarre material the up-timers called "chewing gum." That had vanished years ago. Jozef had never actually laid eyes on the stuff.

Perhaps Sergeant Morton, having gotten into the habit of chewing gum, had simply continued the process when the gum disappeared. Who could say?

"Well, then," Jozef continued. "Nothing has more effect on the travel time of Polish wheat down the rivers and across the sea than the weather."

That was probably true also, although Jozef was grossly overstating its importance to grain speculators. The real effect of the weather on grain prices was seasonal, not daily or weekly. But that wouldn't do for his purposes here.

"Yeah, okay, I can see that."

Jozef smiled. Mission accomplished?

Alas, no.

"But what's that got to do with me?" asked the American sergeant.

It was all Wojtowicz could do not to throw up his hands. Instead, in as gentle a tone of voice as he could manage, he continued the lesson in remedial bribery.

"The weather in northern Europe generally goes from west to east. As you know. Especially over the open waters of the Baltic. Where you are located, here in Wismar."

The reason the sergeant was located here was because of the USE air force base in Wismar. But the base was no longer used much for active air operations. It had become a sleepy garrison post. Hence the presence of sleep-walking soldiers like Morton. In earlier times, Jozef wouldn't have had to do all this, since the weather forecasts were broadcast openly. Lately, though, once it became clear that Gustav Adolf was going to invade Poland, the USE had decided that a knowledge of the upcoming weather might be a military asset, so they now kept the information as private as such information could be kept—which was not at all, as Jozef was now demonstrating. But then, no knowledgeable man expects a government to be any smarter than a cow.

Jozef had paused for a bit, allowing the man across the tavern table to digest that stew of complex data. Now, finally, the sergeant seemed to have done so.

"Yeah, okay, I get that."

"So. You give me a copy of the weather forecast every evening. We can meet in this tavern or anywhere else you'd prefer."

"Here's fine," said Morton. "I come here every day after work anyway. But what good's the forecast going to do you when you need it in Poland?"

A flicker of intelligence. Amazing. Best to stamp it out quickly, lest it spread.

"I'll have couriers ready, on the fastest horses."

Anyone with a knowledge of geography would have understood immediately that that was absurd. No string of horses could possibly get a weather forecast from Wismar to Poland before the weather itself arrived and made the whole exercise pointless. What Jozef was actually going to do was transmit the information on his own radio. The messages could be easily coded, since they'd be short. Even if a USE radio man should happen to stumble upon the frequency, they wouldn't know what was being transmitted.

But Jozef was certain that Morton wouldn't realize he was being duped. The man obviously had no idea where Poland was in the first place. Nor the name of its capital, the language its people spoke, or . . . anything. Jozef had once met a man more ignorant of the world than this sergeant. But he had the excuse of being an illiterate Lapp reindeer herder.

Finally, Morton's brain got around to the core of the matter. "How much you say you'll pay me?"

Poznań, Poland

The grand hetman of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth peered down at the object in the hand of his nephew's agent.

"Amazing," he said. "I thought they needed huge towers to work."

The agent shook his head. "That was a lie that the Americans spread at first. They call it ‘disinformation.' It's true that radios work better with big towers, especially transmissions, but they're not necessary." He hefted the receiver. "I can only use this effectively in the morning and evenings. What they call the windows. But I'll be able to get the boss's transmissions."

Stanislaw Koniecpolski nodded, and dismissed the agent with a motion of his hand. He then turned to face young Opalinski, who was seated in a chair in the small salon. Lukasz still had a haunted look on his face.

"It is no crime to be defeated, young man," the grand hetman said gently. "Especially not when you return with such useful information."

Opalinski made a face. "It may not be so useful as all that."

Koniecpolski shrugged. "Anything will help. Gustav Adolf will bring some fifty thousand men into Poland. I will have perhaps forty thousand with which to oppose him, ten thousand of whom are Brandenburgers." He scowled. "I'm not counting Holk's men, assuming the king ignores my advice and hires the swine. Making things still worse, half of the Swede's infantry will be armed with rifled muskets, where I have but a thousand of the French breechloaders."

Opalinski perked up a bit. "You got them, then?"

The grand hetman nodded. "Yes, and I think I'll have at least two thousand SRGs by the time we confront him. They've made enough of those by now to create a sizeable black market and for once"—the scowl came back—"the Sejm isn't being miserly."

He took a seat near Opalinski. "Finally, Gustav Adolf will have his airplanes and his APCs. The first, from what I can determine from the reports I've gotten, have a somewhat limited capability as weapons. On the other hand, they provide superb reconnaissance."

"In good weather," said Lukasz.

"As you say. In good weather. Much like the APCs, which you describe as being invincible war machines against men—"

Lukasz completed the thought. "But by no means invincible against terrain and weather. I warn you, though, I got that mostly from listening to Lubomir Adamczyk and some of the other hussars who survived the battle." His face tightened. "I did not see very much myself, after . . ."

"After you led an almost successful charge with only two hundred hussars against the same flying artillery that crushed the French cavalry at Ahrensbök. Stop flagellating yourself, young man. We're Catholics, not heathens." A smile removed the sting from the last words and turned them into a jest.

The grand hetman signaled a servant standing by a far wall. "Some wine," he said, when the man came over.

As the servant went about his task, Koniecpolski turned back to Lukasz. "Regardless of who made the observations, I think they're accurate. The only way I can at least partially nullify the Swede's many advantages is to refuse to meet him on terrain and under weather conditions that favor him. I will have to maneuver as long as necessary"—his expression became bleak—"and allow as much ravaging by the enemy as I must, in order to fight a battle under those conditions which favor me. Or, at least, counter some of the enemy's strengths."

The servant returned, with a bottle and two goblets. After he poured the wine and retreated, Koniecpolski raised his goblet.

"Once again, my precious nephew has done right by us. A toast! Here's to drenching rain and blinding fog and the Swedish bastard's downfall."

Chapter 23

Dresden

Dresden was chaos. The cavalrymen escorting the ambulance wagons to the army hospital were making no more headway than an old woman pushing a cart.

So it seemed to Eric Krenz, anyway. He stuck his head out of the rear flap of the covered wagon and tried to look forward. But that was impossible, between the stupid design of the wagon—what idiot thought it was a good idea to turn a nice open wagon into a heat trap?—and the relative immobility produced by his healing wound.

Disgusted, he flopped back onto the bench. "What we need are some Finns." He made chopping motions, as if wielding an ax. "
Haakaa päälle! Haakaa päälle!
That'd clear the way for us, see if it wouldn't."

"Shut up." A Pomeranian corporal whose name Eric couldn't remember said that through clenched teeth. "You're giving me a headache."

Judging from his condition, Eric didn't think the fellow would be suffering much longer. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking. The corporal had been groaning and moaning most of the way here, when he wasn't snarling at everyone else if they moaned and groaned.

Well, it should be over soon. A nice army hospital, friendly nurses, what could be better?