Chapter 13
Breslau (Wrocław)
Capital of Lower Silesia
Gretchen Richter hated to fly. But her reaction to having Denise Beasley as her pilot was quite different from Morris Roth’s. Denise had made Morris nervous. The effect she had on Gretchen was not to lower her anxiety—that was a given, and would have been if the pilot was Saint Peter—but to increase her political resolve.
Gretchen was not what up-timers meant by the term “feminist.” She thought a lot of the premises of that viewpoint were questionable and some were downright absurd. But she also believed very strongly that the world would be improved in direct proportion to the extent women wielded power and influence, since it was blindingly obvious that hers was the more sensible of the genders.
And thus, the more female pilots, the better. That would certainly reduce the chances of planes colliding in midair, for one thing. Granted, that chance was not very great to begin with, given the small number of planes in the skies of the current day. But however few there were, the more male pilots you had the greater the chance they’d do something stupid. Whereas the more women you had behind the controls, the greater would be the rationality.
“I’m about to start our descent!” Denise shouted over her shoulder.
Splendid. Gretchen approved of descents. Landings, even more.
✧ ✧ ✧
“That’s better than I expected,” Gretchen said, after she returned the financial ledgers to Tata.
Tata shrugged and used the motion to help place the heavy ledger into the big lower cabinet of her desk. “The economy of the province has been improving rapidly. A lot of the poverty of Lower Silesia was because of the political chaos. When people get nervous they hoard things—food, clothing, what little money they might have, anything—and that just makes things worse all around. Once they feel that conditions are more secure, all that hoarded wealth—such as it is—starts coming back out.”
Now sitting fully upright again, she gave Gretchen a squinty-eyed look. “You do understand that ‘more than I expected’ doesn’t begin to cover marching the whole Silesian Guard even as far as Krakow, much less however much farther Transylvania is from there.”
“At least four hundred miles,” said Gretchen. “Probably farther.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to use any of what little cash or income or loans Silesia might be able to come up with. No, I’ll squeeze the wealth out of the USE.”
“We’re now part of the USE, remember?”
Gretchen waved her hand dismissively. “Call it the USE proper, then. Where all the fat German burghers are.”
Tata laughed. “‘Fat German burghers,’ is it? I think your husband would scold you for being politically incorrect.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’s an American, true, but I’ve been educating him for years.”
“Is that what call you it?” Tata was smirking now. “I’ve heard some of your so-called education sessions when the walls were thin.”
Gretchen grinned. “Education is a very expansive term.”
Magdeburg Airport
Just outside Magdeburg
Capital of the United States of Europe
“I’m impressed!” Gretchen said, looking down at the airfield. Denise was circling the Dixie Chick back around on the orders of the control tower. It turned out there was a new runway set aside for small planes.
“Impressed by what?” Denise shouted back.
“The airport! They have enough traffic now to worry about the difference between small planes and big ones!”
“Guess so! I haven’t been here in a while myself!”
By then, Denise had the Dixie Chick on a new course. Gretchen had seen the little runway they were headed toward as they came around, but it was now hidden from her view by the nose of the aircraft.
As Denise began her descent and the nose came down, the runway came back into view. It seemed shorter now.
A lot shorter.
She told herself that that was just an optical illusion caused by their height, angle of descent. Whatever. But her knuckles got white again, as she gripped the armrests.
It didn’t help that Denise had started singing what she called her “flying tune.” About the last phrase Gretchen was in the mood to hear, given the circumstances, was her big mistakes.
The actual landing, though, came as both a relief and a surprise. This runway was in excellent condition and whatever reservations she might have about Denise’s high spirits, the teenager’s reflexes and hand-eye coordination were superb. Gretchen barely felt the impact at all. One moment they were in the air; the next they were rolling comfortably down the airstrip. It seemed to take no time at all before Denise took them off the runway and was taxiing toward the three hangars positioned just off to the side.
Gretchen was surprised again when she saw there was a delegation waiting to greet her. She’d assumed without really thinking about it that she’d have to make her own arrangements to get into the city.
Denise brought the plane to a stop, hopped out, and began setting the wheel chocks. Gretchen climbed out a few seconds later, after unbuckling herself and drawing her valise out of the small cargo compartment behind her seat.
The Dixie Chick really was a little plane. Gretchen had now flown in it twice and was starting to notice details. All she had to do to get out was unlatch her door, which was on the opposite side of the fuselage from Denise’s to give both of them enough room, swing her legs out and step down—straight onto the ground. When she stood erect, she was about a foot taller than the top of the wing that sat atop the fuselage—what Denise call a “high-wing” design.
She tried to decide if the size of the aircraft should worry her or comfort her. On the worry side was the fact that it was almost downright flimsy. On the comfort side, that same flimsy quality made it seem rather leaflike. She’d seen leaves fall to the ground. Very gently. Hopefully the plane might do the same in the event something went wrong.
Leaf, she told herself firmly. Think of a leaf.
✧ ✧ ✧
The delegation came up to her at that moment. It was a trio, with a young woman in the lead.
“Welcome, Lady Protector,” she said, extending her hand. Gretchen shook it, managing not to grind her teeth in the process. As much as she detested the title, she had agreed to it, after all.
“I am Johanna Fetzerin, and I’m on the staff of the prime minister. I am here to take you to the lodgings we’ve arranged for you and then, at your convenience, to meet with Herr Piazza.” She looked toward Denise, who had finished with the plane and was approaching with her own valise in hand. “Will your pilot need lodgings as well?”
“Yes, she will,” said Gretchen. “Where will we be staying?”
“At the Hans Richter Hotel.”
This time, it was her eyes that Gretchen had to control, lest they roll upward in exasperation. Was there anything in Magdeburg that the scheming politician Mike Stearns hadn’t named after her slain war-hero brother?
Fetzerin must have sensed her feelings, because she smiled slightly and said, “The hotel was built recently. It was named after the square it fronts on.”
Which Mike Stearns made sure was named for Hans. So, he was still responsible, as far as she was concerned. But there was no point getting irritated over it, this long afterward.
She felt a little pang of grief. It had been…how long, now, since Hans died in the Battle of Wismar? Three and a half years, already.
By then, a carriage had come up. It was more like a small bus, actually, although it was horse-drawn. Only two horses, though, which boded well for the condition of the roads. Magdeburg was one of the few cities in the USE that had good thoroughfares. Nothing up to the standards of Grantville, of course, but at least you didn’t need to worry about having your teeth chipped because of a jolting carriage.
Office of the Prime Minister
Government House
Magdeburg
“I haven’t got room in the budget to cover all the expenses of moving what amounts to a brigade of soldiers from Krakow to wherever you might wind up in Transylvania.” Ed Piazza cocked his head slightly and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Which is where, by the way? Do you even know yet?”
“I don’t,” said Gretchen, shaking her head. Then, as firmly as she could manage: “But I’m sure my husband and General Roth will have determined their final destination by now.”
Ed smiled at her. “No doubt. Do you know how long they plan to take to complete the troop movement?”
“No. I don’t. But Jeff did tell me it would take several weeks and quite possibly two to three months. It depends on the conditions of the roads in Transylvania, which… ”
“Are probably glorified cow paths,” Ed finished for her. “But at least he won’t be hauling heavy artillery.”
Again, he cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Will he?”
That question, Gretchen could answer with some confidence. “No. Jeff told me he was planning to rely mostly on mortars and volley guns. The most he’d bring in the way of artillery would be what he called ‘light field guns.’ Four-pounders, I think I remember him saying—and not more than eight of them.”
Piazza looked at one of his aides, sitting in a chair to the side. Gretchen had been introduced to him but couldn’t precisely remember his name. Anton something. Gottlieb or Gottschalk. He was a man who looked to be in his forties and had the bearing of someone with a military background.
Without needing any prompting, the aide said: “That sounds about right, Prime Minister. A four-pounder field gun will weigh less than a ton. Even with the added weight of the shot and powder, that’s well within the capabilities of a brigade. Even on bad roads, as long as they’re not trying to cross mountains.”
“And will they be?”
The aide shook his head. “Nothing I’d call ‘mountains,’ no. They’ll skirt the High Tatras, of course, moving from Krakow to Kassa. Once they reach Kassa, they’ll be on the northern boundary of the Great Hungarian Plain. Crossing the plain and most of Transylvania, coming from the north as they will, should pose no problems at all.” Here he made a face. “If they try to enter the Carpathians at the southern edge of Transylvania, though…That would be a different story altogether. But Brigadier Higgins is an experienced officer. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to do that.”
✧ ✧ ✧
By the end of the meeting, Gretchen had gotten a commitment from Piazza that the USE would finance the movement of the Silesian Guard as far as Kassa, and would provide enough support for the guard to remain in Kassa, if need be, through the winter. If the guard did continue moving into Transylvania, the USE would maintain the support until the funds ran out. However soon or later that might be.
That was the best she was going to get. She hadn’t really expected any more than that and wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d gotten less.
“Next, I have to see what I can squeeze out of Gustav Adolf. So, tomorrow morning—early—we fly to Linz,” she told Denise.
“Define ‘early.’”
“Up-timers.” Gretchen wasn’t quite scowling. “When the roosters are making enough racket that you can’t sleep anyway.”
Denise wasn’t quite scowling, either. “Down-timers. Who think it’s reasonable to keep chickens in cities.”
✧ ✧ ✧
That night, at the dinner table, Ed’s wife, Annabelle, said to him: “You seem distracted. What’s up?”
Ed leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m just…What did Proust call those books he wrote?”
“Remembrance of Things Past. Sometimes translated as In Search of Lost Time.”
“Yeah, those. I was just remembering things past. The days when I was a high school principal and Morris Roth was a small-town jeweler and Jeff Higgins was just a teenage kid. Now…Prime Minister. General. Brigadier. Something is just plain screwy with the universe.”