Ring of Fire III (70 page)

The second day was a carbon copy of the first, for all intents and purposes. Two small armies kept moving slowly down the Danube. They were of approximately equal size, fifteen hundred people in each. But two-thirds of the leading army consisted of civilians, where the entire pursuing force was made up of infantrymen.

For whatever reason, however, the following army was moving no faster than the one it was pursuing. Hour after hour, now two days in a row, it remained about a mile behind. Close enough to make the fact of a pursuit obvious, but not so close—not once—as to make it necessary for Tom to break off the march and arrange his men into a defensive formation.

That was odd, on the face of it. Very odd, in fact. No large body of people could move quickly under these conditions, that was a given. Still, the pursuing force was made up of men in fit condition—well, mostly—and carrying nothing more than muskets and backpacks, with a supply train bringing up the rear. In contrast, a very large percentage of the fifteen hundred people ahead of them were composed of elderly people, children, the ill—there were two very visibly pregnant women in the mix, even. Not to mention carts and wagons of all sorts including field guns and caissons. You’d think they’d have been able to move at least a
little
bit faster.

By the evening of the second day, when they made camp for the night again, Tom was pretty sure he knew what was happening. And he’d had all day to decide what to do in response.

So, he assembled a war council of his top officers, to which he also summoned the leaders of his (very unofficial) air force.

The suspicion privately entertained by some that he’d done so in order to see his wife again was actually quite unfair—as was proven by the fact that, once the meeting was over, Rita got back into the
Pelican
and flew off.

Stefano Franchetti’s uncle Filippo attended the council as well. The
Albatross
had successfully spirited away the two young Bavarian heirs from Amberg the day before. Actually, they’d done it in plain sight at the airfield and in broad daylight because the Bavarian cavalry was still a good two days away. At Ed Piazza’s request, once Filippo
brought the boys to Bamberg, Estuban Miro had agreed to send the
Albatross
down to the Danube to provide whatever assistance it could to Major Simpson and its sister airship.

When Tom finished explaining his plan, the reaction of his officers was stalwart and supportive. The reaction of the two Franchettis was enthusiastic. That of Rita, uncertain. That of Heinz Böcler, dubious. That of Bonnie Weaver, agitated.

The officers were stalwart and supportive because they were soldiers and, besides, the plan didn’t require them to do anything.

The Franchettis were enthusiastic because they foresaw their future fame. Their sure and certain place in the history, since they would fall into the blessed category of “The Men Who First...”

Rita was uncertain because she didn’t know enough about the issues involved.

The provincial secretary was dubious because he was a dubious man by nature.

Bonnie was agitated because she’d not only taken some chemistry courses but, in her days hanging around with Larry Wild and his friends, had picked up a fair amount of knowledge on the subject. And because Tom wanted to put
her
in charge of the technical side of the project.

“You need to add styrofoam to the gasoline to make decent napalm,” she protested. “Where are we going to find that much styrofoam? I doubt if there’s even much left in Grantville, these days.”

“You can substitute soap or sugar, can’t you?”

Bonnie frowned. “Well...I remember Larry and the guys talking about it. They wanted to try, naturally—boys! But they never got around to it. Besides, I don’t know what kind of soap and I think it’s supposed to be powdered sugar and that’s a lot trickier than it sounds. There’s probably enough sugar in Regensburg, now that they’re making it from sorghum around Freyburg, but very little of it will be powdered. And it’s pretty expensive, no matter how it comes. Who’s going to pay for it?”

That last question was silly, and Bonnie knew it. She had a tendency to starting jabbering when she got uneasy. Talk first, think later. In time of war—this happened up-time, too—governments got very heavy-handed in the way they handled critical war supplies. And they got to define the term “critical war supplies” in the first place. If King Louis XIV could proclaim himself the state, any state could certainly claim the status of a dictionary.

Tom waited patiently until the little flood of protest ebbed. “Bonnie, nobody’s expecting military-grade napalm. Napalm is basically just thickened, jellied gasoline. The sugar, even if it isn’t powdered, is bound to help in that direction. Soap is probably even better, if you liquefy it first. I’d suggest mixing in some fine sawdust, too. The worst that happens is that we get functional firebombs that aren’t any better than big Molotov cocktails. For what I want, I think that’d be enough right there.”

He turned back to Rita. He’d begun the council by asking her and Stefano a number of questions about the Bavarian cavalry dispositions.

“I’m a lot more concerned about getting the target right. You’re sure about that village?”

His wife shrugged. “No, of course I’m not ‘sure.’ But that’s where the largest bunch of cavalry spent last night, and whenever we’ve flown by there today it looks as if there are plenty of them hanging around. They’re obviously planning to spend tonight there also. I think that’s where they set up their headquarters. But who knows? They might pack up and leave tomorrow.”

The Bavarian cavalry had taken over a village about a mile from the river. It had been a big village, with a sizeable inn and stables. All the inhabitants had already fled, so Tom didn’t have to worry about civilian casualties.

Tom stuck a finger under the collar of his shirt and scratched an itch, thinking about Rita’s cautions. She was certainly right that nothing was certain, but it was just human nature for people to get attached to creature comforts. It was the middle of January—in the Little Ice Age, no less, as Americans always insisted on reminding everyone. Any soldier, even those in highly disciplined elite units, would prefer being billeted in a village house or tavern room than sleeping on the ground wrapped in nothing better than a blanket.

And everything he’d seen about these cavalrymen indicated they were very far from being highly disciplined elite troops. He was now all but certain that the cavalrymen had been deliberately shirking their duties—and the infantry units had delayed their own pursuit out of sheer anger. Were they supposed to bear all the casualties? Which were likely to be steep if they attacked artillery without cavalry support.

That’s what the commander of those infantrymen had apparently been asking himself. And the answer he’d come up with was “no,” at least so far. Whether that was because he was a mercenary and those troops were his working capital that he didn’t want to waste, or because he genuinely cared for the well-being of his men, or simply because he was peevish, Tom had no idea.

Nor did it matter. All that mattered, for the next two days, was making sure the Bavarian cavalry stayed out of the picture. Two days from now, they’d have reached Regensburg and could thumb their noses at anyone pursuing them.

That Bavarian cavalry wasn’t much good to begin with, the way it looked to Tom. So let’s see how they’d stand up to this world’s first-ever aerial incendiary carpet bombing. Even allowing for the fact that the terms “incendiary” and “carpet” were gross exaggerations, Tom didn’t think they’d stand up well. Not well at all.

“We’ll do it,” he announced, his mind finally made up. “Bonnie, are you willing to give it a try?”

She spread her hands. “Yeah, sure.”

He nodded and turned to Böcler. “Heinrich, I want you to go with her.”

The secretary started to protest. “But the refugees—”

Tom held up his hand. “They’re fine. You’ve already got things well enough organized there. They can manage on their own for the next two days. The real danger to them now is that we won’t reach Regensburg at all.”

Böcler frowned. “But why do you want to send me to Regensburg?”

“Because you’re a top-notch organizer. Bonnie isn’t—no offense, Bonnie, but you’re not—and besides, she’s got to concentrate on the technical side of making the bombs.” A charming analogy came to him, and he couldn’t help but smile. “She’s Oppenheimer, you’re General Groves.”

“Excuse me?” That came from Böcler. Bonnie Weaver was staring at Tom as if he’d just grown horns.

“Never mind,” Tom said. “Up-time analogy. Something called the Manhattan Project. Bonnie, explain it to him—”

“Oppenheimer?”
Bonnie demanded. “I’ve got a high school diploma! With a B-minus grade point average!”

Rita started laughing.

“—when the two of you have a spare moment. The thing is, Heinrich, you’re only going to have a few hours to put together a lot of bombs. You’ll have to organize people to get it done. Find suitable bomb cases—I figure by now Regensburg has got to have started producing small barrels that can hold gasoline. Big glass jars would work too, if they’ve got decent lids, but that’s probably asking for pie in the sky.”

Glassmakers in the seventeenth century could do phenomenal work, but they weren’t really set up yet to mass produce things like Mason jars. Such containers in the here and now were mostly pottery. Speaking of which...

“See if you can find big clay pots and something to plug them with. That should work too. But probably the trickiest part of the work will be coming up with suitable fuses.”

He stuck a big finger almost under the secretary’s nose and waggled it in a warning gesture. Then, for good measure, waggled it under Bonnie’s nose.

“But don’t get too fancy! I don’t want to risk having one of these things going off in the gondolas. If the best you can come up with is just a fuse you light at the last minute, when you’re shoving the bomb over the side, that’ll do.”

Böcler was frowning again, but the expression this time was simply that of a man pondering a challenge. “How many bombs do you want?”

“I’m not sure.” He turned to Filippo Franchetti. “How many do you figure you can handle in a couple of airships? Figure each bomb will be about this size”—his hands sketched out in midair a roughly spherical object about the size of a two-gallon jug—“and will weigh somewhere around twenty pounds.”

“It will be three airships,” Franchetti said, almost idly, scratching his chin as he contemplated the problem. “We just got word from Bamberg before we landed. The
Petrel
has returned from Amsterdam. Don Estuban is sending it down to join us tomorrow morning. He told me to tell you the ship is at your disposal for the duration of the crisis, as are the
Pelican
and the
Albatross
.”

Apparently, Miro had decided to use the crisis as an opportunity to rack up lots and lots of brownie points with the SoTF’s administration. He was certainly racking them up with Tom himself, even though he’d never met the man.

“The problem is not the weight,” Franchetti said. “It’s the space needed—as well as the need to handle them safely. Two men to fly the ship, two men to handle the bombs, one man to choose the times and the places to drop the bombs.”

Stefano cleared his throat. “Some of those tasks do not require men, uncle.” He held up his hands in a vigorous gesture, as a man might protest any suggestion of heretical leanings. “Yes, yes, certainly to manage the bombs themselves! But Dina Merrifield and Mary Barancek have already helped fly the
Pelican.
”

He now bestowed a solemn nod at Rita. “And I am quite sure that Mrs. Simpson would make a splendid...ah...what is the term I want?”

“Bombardier,” Tom suggested.

“Fucking moron,” was his wife’s countersuggestion. “What else can you call someone who tosses lit firebombs from a flimsy hot air balloon?”

“Dirigible,” said the Franchettis, sternly and simultaneously.

Rita shook her head. “Well, at least one historical question is now answered. Fucking geeks can be found in any time and place.”

Tom had learned long ago that when his wife started using Appalachian patois in every other sentence it was time to wrap up the discussion. Before the patois began appearing in every sentence. Then, every clause.

He clapped his hands. “All right, it’s settled. Mr. Franchetti”—that was directed at Filippo—“I figure your airship should lead the bombing run. So it’s probably best that Rita transfer now from the
Pelican
to the
Albatross.
She’s the best person to guide the run and serve as the lead bombardier. Bonnie and Heinrich can transfer into your ship also, since it’s your turn to make the refueling run to Regensburg. You can drop them off in the city.”

He turned to the young nephew, striving mightily to keep a straight face. “Stefano, that’ll leave you with Mary Barancek as your bombardier. I know she’s awfully young, but I think she can handle the job.”

Stefano beamed. “Oh, certainly!”

Tom was no slouch himself, when it came to racking up brownie points. He turned now to Bonnie and Böcler. “Any further questions?”

They looked at each other. After a moment, Bonnie shrugged. “Probably a thousand. But we’ll manage. We work pretty well together.”

* * *

She thought about that, most of the way to Regensburg.

It was quite true, actually. They
did
work together well. Got along well, too.

The rest of the way into Regensburg, she spent contemplating the fact that for the first time since Larry Wild died, she found herself interested in a man who didn’t remind her of Larry in the least, teeniest, itsiest, littlest bit.

That was probably mentally healthy, she figured, although she wasn’t sure.

She giggled, then. Böcler, who’d been standing next to her in the gondola throughout the trip, raised his eyebrows. “What has amused you?”

She put her hand over her mouth, to cover the grin. “Oh, nothing,” she mumbled. “Just a stray thought.”