Chapter 18
Kassa (Košice)
Grand Army of the Sunrise headquarters
“How soon do you figure you’ll get there, Morris?” Jeff straightened up from the map spread over a table in Morris Roth’s headquarters. He resisted the temptation to take off his hat and wipe his brow with a sleeve of his tunic. That just didn’t suit the necessary dignity of a general officer.
He wished he could, though. It was a hot day in June, and the concept of “air-conditioning” in seventeenth-century central Europe—anywhere in the world, outside of Grantville—came down to “open a window.” Except they couldn’t, because Morris had set up his headquarters in a room that had only three small windows, none of which could be opened because the architect had apparently designed the structure several centuries earlier.
“Hard to say,” was the reply. Morris, showing a lack of respect for the dignity of office that was shocking in a man of his exalted rank, took off his own hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief he drew out of a back pocket.
Jeff bowed to reality. “Where’d you get the handkerchief?”
Morris smiled. “Judith gave me a bundle of them when I left Prague. Remind me after the meeting’s over and I’ll give you a few. ‘AC’ in this day and age is pronounced ‘are you kidding me?’ To get back to the point, it’s really hard to say. The straight-line distance from Kassa to Szatmár is about one hundred miles, as near as I can figure. But the route we’ll have to take to get there will be quite a bit longer than that. Von Mercy’s advance party should be able to get there within ten days or so, but the rest of the Sunrise… ”
He paused, his lips pursed. “Being honest, I don’t see where we’ll get there before the middle of July.”
Jeff grunted. “Which is about the same time as I can get there with the Hangman Regiment.”
Morris frowned. “I thought you’d disbanded that altogether, when you formed the Silesian Guard.”
“Officially, we did. But there are three regiments in the guard, which is roughly the size of a brigade. Hangman veterans are scattered across all three of them, but two-thirds or so wound up in the First Regiment. So, guess what they call it, and who cares what the official name is?”
Morris chuckled. “And I take it they’re your premier regiment.”
“By at least half a country mile. Mind you, the other two regiments are coming along nicely, but they just don’t have the same depth of experience. That’s why I’m bringing the First Regiment here by way of an advance unit. For them, ‘forced march’ means something.”
“How long will it take you to get the rest of the guard here? And who’s in command of that? Krenz?”
“Yes. As far as how long…Figure they’ll reach Kassa by the end of July at the earliest. But it’s more likely they won’t get here before the second week of August.”
Roth frowned. Jeff shook his head. “Be realistic, Morris. It’s more than three hundred miles from Krakow to Kassa.”
“Yes, I know. I figure it at three hundred and thirty.”
“We got no motorized transport, and it wouldn’t do us much good if we did because the roads in this part of Europe start with ‘they suck’ and go downhill from there. Plus, most of the guard is infantry. If we can go three hundred and thirty miles in less than two months, we’re doing okay.”
The commander of the Grand Army of the Sunrise glowered at the map. “So much for blitzkrieg.”
Jeff laughed. “Hell, that ‘blitzkrieg’ stuff was bullshit even in the Second World War. Most of the German army moved by foot or horseback, no different from the Roman army two thousand years earlier. They just never showed that in the movies.”
He leaned over the map again and tapped his finger on the spot marked “Satu Mare.” The map Morris was using was an up-time road map of Romania, and that was the modern name for the town. Almost all the names on the map were different from the ones being used in the year 1637. In the here and now, Hungarian place names still predominated. Košice was Kassa, Satu Mare was Szatmár, Baia Mare was Nagybánya, and the large provincial city of Cluj was Kolozsvár. The capital of Transylvania, which on the map bore the Latin name of Alba Iulia, still went by the name Gyulafehérvár—at least for people of Hungarian origin. For the Saxons, as Germans were called, the city was Weyssenburg; those of Ruthenian extraction called it Bilhorod; and there were still some folk who used the original Slavic name of Bălgrad.
“Is there a place for an airfield here?” he asked.
Morris nodded. “I would think so. The descriptions I’ve gotten say that is just on the edge of where elevations begin to ascend to the Transylvanian plateau. The town itself is on a lowland plain created by the Szamos, which is a pretty good-sized river.”
“So we should be okay—at least, as long as the ground isn’t too waterlogged.” Jeff straightened back up. “That would help. The one little piece of ‘blitzkrieg’ we can lay claim to is that we’ve got an air force.”
“Of sorts,” said Morris, sounding a bit grumpy.
Jeff smiled. “I grant you, the Dauntless I flew on to get here—much less a Dvorak—isn’t up to the dive-bombing standards of a Stuka. But it’s more than what the OpForce has. For them, ‘aviation’ means carrier pigeons.”
In a field outside Timișoara
The Chaldiran descended through low clouds and into a field where Usan Hussein’s Janissary orta awaited. The airship flew over the full length of the orta, and Hussein’s heart filled with pride as he surveyed the perfect rows of white, long-tailed bork hats atop the heads of a thousand men. Their bright red tunics fluttered in the breeze created by the airship rushing overhead. New muskets rested on their shoulders. Their cloth belts held their powder horns and yataghan swords. Many also possessed khanjar daggers. They were ready, and they were waiting for their corbaci.
Waiting for me…
Not so long ago, he had been saving night soil women from the privations of his own men. Now he was at the head of a Janissary orta, a regiment. What more could he have asked for from Sultan Murad? From Allah? He had been given a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
“Remember your orders, Usan,” Moshe Mizrahi said as the Chaldiran slowed and touched down on a small spot of barren field. “Your orta is to accompany the army into Wallachia and there, you are to serve Voivode Basarab as the hammer of his infantry corps. You are to serve as his liaison to the Sultan, as his—”
“I understand my duty to the Sultan, Moshe,” Hussein said as he put his left leg over the lip of the gondola and stepped out. “The Sultan wishes to keep eyes upon Voivode Basarab to ensure his fealty, his loyalty. Do not worry. It shall be done.”
Moshe gave a curt bow. “Then I bid you farewell and safe travels, Usan. Mordechai and I shall be off.”
“Wait!” Hussein said, adjusting his own uniform. “You are not coming with us?”
Moshe pointed to the horizon. “We’re moving on to Moldavia in haste. Voivode Lupu has specifically requested this airship. He is paying in full for our usage.”
Hussein knew exactly what usage that would be. “Then go with Allah,” he said, bidding them a final farewell. “My orta awaits.”
He walked slowly toward his men, trying to exude a confidence that he knew they expected from their commander. They were even more resplendent now that he was on the ground with them. Their ranks were deep and disappeared from his view as he grew closer. They were absolutely beautiful, and he adored them already.
But they were not frontline Janissaries, despite their new clothing. Moshe had reminded Hussein of that often on their trip, as if he were trying to insult him, as if Sultan Murad himself had wanted it hammered into his head. The men before him comprised a new orta. They were jemaat, frontier troops, eager and willing, but young. And Hussein would have to beat them into shape on the way.
As he approached, the field swelled with the rest of the force marching to Transylvania. Akinji and conscript infantry formed round the Janissary. Scores and scores of sipahi roared across the field, more cavalry in one place than Hussein had ever seen in his life. And far behind his ranks, he saw the billows of smoke and fire produced by the Sultan’s war wagons—“tanks,” they were calling them now. Sappers and katyusha rocket launchers, and a long, long line of supply. The field shook as the Sultan’s army coalesced around his men.
Am I to lead this entire army? A foolish notion for sure. How could he possibly even imagine that he would be given such an honor after being told repeatedly, by a kafir no less, that he was only worthy of leading conscripts? No. Usan Hussein was not the commander of the entire force. But he was corbaci, and it was clear that his men would, at least, lead the army out of this field.
He inspected the entire first rank, accepted each of their muskets in turn. Clean and in full working order. They were each well-equipped with a bag of Murad mini-balls, their powder horns full, swords and daggers sharp and ready. Within an hour of the march, their red uniforms would darken with sweat, he knew, and some would remove their borks for a bit of fresh air, loosen their tunics and perhaps even remove them. He would let them for now, until he had a better sense of who these men were and what they were capable of. But eventually, discipline would have to be administered, and harshly, if necessary. For Usan Hussein knew that somewhere beyond this field, beyond the hazy horizon, high hills, and dense forests, many of these men would see their last day. And on that day, he wanted them all to greet Allah wearing proudly their uniforms, a bloody sword in one hand, and the bleeding head of a heretic in the other.
Usan Hussein drew his sword, turned on his heels. He waited until the entire army was in place. Then he raised his sword to the powerful beating of drums, shouted, “Transilvanya’ya doğru!” and led his janissaries out of the field.
Kassa (Košice)
Grand Army of the Sunrise communications tent
New radios had been distributed to the cavalry and to two regiments of the Joshua Corps. Training had gone well, and yesterday’s test with the new frequencies had gone, what Ellie might call, “reasonably well.” Only three of the radio controllers in the field (and all from infantry units) had fucked up their frequency switches and acknowledgement protocols. But by the end of the third trial, everything was running smoothly. Ellie was feeling good.
Then her husband walked into the tent and ruined the whole damned day.
“What’s Morris want now?” she asked. “More radios smuggled out of Prague? Maybe he can get his budding air force to drop them by parachute into—”
“No, Ellie,” Len said, removing his coat and hat and placing them on a wooden chair they had sequestered from the burgomaster’s home. “We’re on to Transylvania.”
“I know,” she said, flicking off her radio to ensure no one could eavesdrop. It was unlikely, but better safe than sorry. Spooks in the wire, and all that. “We’ve known that all along.”
Len shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. We’re going…tonight.”
Ellie stood. “What are you talking about?”
“Morris is sending von Mercy in with an advance force right now.”
Len gave her all the details he knew, then finished with the bad news. “One of us must go in with them. Von Mercy needs a good radio op so that he can keep contact with Morris until such a time as the entire army can follow.”
Ellie felt her heart sink. “Only one of us? Who?”
Len shrugged and walked to her. He held out his hands. She took them. “We have to decide.”
“Why that sorry-ass, lousy son of a—”
“Ellie,” Len interrupted, “come on now. We’ve no time for that. We’ve got to decide right now. In three hours, they’re gone.”
Ellie pulled him close and stifled her tears. She hadn’t been apart from Len for more than a day since they had moved to Prague. And now, they were being asked to decide who would go into a completely foreign and unknown part of the world. Bohemia and Germany were like her backyard. She understood those countries well. But Transylvania? Skirted by a mountain range that, for lack of a better definition, scared the shit out of her. How effective would radio communication be in the rises and dips of all those Carpathian gaps and valleys? Just how far would they be able to transmit a signal? Not only that, but Transylvania was a land of vampires! Isn’t that what all the up-time stories said?
“I’ll go,” she said, pulling him closer and pushing her face into his sweaty shirt.
Len cleared his throat. “I was thinking we’d toss a coin to decide.”
She pulled back. “What?”
“Ellie, you can’t just say, ‘I’ll go,’ and that’s that. That puts all the burden on you. No. We need to share the risk. Fifty-fifty. We flip a coin, and let it decide.”
Len was willing to allow a thaler to decide their fate. What kind of fucking man is my husband?
“But you need to stay behind to keep Morris company,” she said, pulling away and wiping her face. “Play chess with him.”
“He didn’t bring a board. Neither did I.”
“What kind of goddamned man are you, who doesn’t bring his chess board?”
“Enough, Ellie, enough!” Len said, anger rising in his voice. “Stop busting my balls. I don’t like this anymore than you do, but we made a commitment to Morris and to…whatever it is he’s doing here. And let’s be perfectly honest: with the money he’s paying us, once all this is over, we can retire back to Prague or wherever we choose, and never work another day of our lives. Let’s make this decision now so that we have some time together before saying goodbye.”
Her heart said no; her mind knew better. She turned away to collect her emotions. She didn’t like this one bit, but at the end of the day, it was probably the best method. They were both equally qualified to serve von Mercy as his chief radio operator. One had to go; one had to stay behind.
She turned back to Len. “Okay, buster. Flip your damn coin.”
Len fished a thaler out of his pants pocket. He showed her one side. “Heads.” He showed her the other. “Tails. You call it.”
Ellie breathed deeply, held it, exhaled, and said, “Heads.”
Len flipped the coin. They both took a step back and let it turn and turn as Len had thrown it up farther than she had expected. It seemed to never stop turning and ascending. Then it peaked and began to fall. Another lifetime flashed before her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The coin hit the ground, and both of them moved to see the result.
They looked at each other at the same time and said the exact same thing.
“Fuck!”