They were also trained as dragoons, so they would make the trip on horseback. On the crude roads ahead of them, especially with the unwieldy trucks setting the pace, they would have no trouble at all keeping up. The ten members of First Squad, along with their carefully packed 21 st -century weapons and ammunition, were now loading into a pair of pickup trucks at the end of the procession. These trucks, unlike most of the ones in service, still ran on gasoline rather than natural gas. The one big drawback to natural gas engines for military operations, even leaving aside the danger inherent in the more flammable fuel, was that gasoline engines had more range for the same weight and bulk of fuel.
Frank nodded to Stan Wilson, their sergeant.
"Ready to go, Stan?" he asked, through the rumble of waiting engines.
"Ready as we're going to be, anyway, I reckon," Stan drawled back.
"Well, then," Frank said, reaching in through the truck window to pat him on the shoulder. "You watch your ass-all of you! I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd remember we don't want any dead heroes around here."
"Oh, I think you can count on us to remember that," Stan assured him with a slow smile.
"Bet your ass," Frank agreed, and slapped him on the shoulder again. Then he stepped back and twirled one hand over his head in a "wind-them-up" gesture. Stan's pickup truck honked its horn in response, and the lead tractor-trailer moved forward in a grumbling snort of diesel exhaust. The snort had a vaguely derisive sound to it, as if Frank Yost was still miffed that Frank-friggin' coal miner, what does he know?-had had the presumption and gall to double-check his expert tie-down.
Frank Jackson stood there, watching them head off down the dirt roads of southern Thuringia until their tail lights vanished into the blackness.
When he returned to the executive branch building in downtown Grantville, Frank found Mike sitting at the desk in his office. He'd expected to find him there, since he'd known Mike would wait to hear his report.
What he hadn't expected to see was the cheerful smile on his face.
"What are you so happy about?"
"This," said Mike, pointing at a piece of paper lying on his desk. "Quentin Underwood just handed it to me an hour ago. It's his resignation from the cabinet."
Slowly, Frank lowered himself into his seat. "Resigned, huh?" He thought about it, then shrugged. "Well, that'll hurt us politically, of course. But at least it might keep James Nichols from killing him at the next cabinet meeting. For a moment there, I thought he was going to do it today."
Mike made a face. The cabinet meeting that day had ended in the worst brawl his Cabinet had ever had-and, with its strong-willed personalities, it had never been a cabinet characterized by mild manners. It had begun badly, with Quentin-as usual-insisting on bringing up again his disagreements over the issues thrashed out and settled the day before.
Mike had squelched that quickly-it's settled; that's it; forget it-because he needed to leave as much time as possible for the cabinet to consider his next proposal. That was, of course, the decision to leave Becky and the U.S. delegation in Amsterdam with a Spanish siege about to close in.
Underwood had kept his mouth shut while Mike explained the political and diplomatic aspects of the question. In fact, Mike suspected he really wasn't paying much attention at all, since he was brooding over his defeat over yesterday's issues. But when Mike had finally gotten to the "kicker," Underwood had exploded.
"Are you out of your mind?" he'd roared, rising from his chair and planting his hands on the table. "You want us to send off our whole supply of antibiotics-every drop of chlora-chlora-whazzit and most of the sulfa drugs we've slowly accumulated? Sending some of it to Gustav in Luebeck is one thing-but to the fucking Dutch?"
Slammed his fist on the table. "No, dammit! Let the Dutch handle their own mess! The whole problem with you, Stearns, is that you've forgotten that you were elected to be the President of the United States-not the 'President of Europe.' That stuff should be kept here for-"
And that was as far as he'd gotten. For the first time since anyone in Grantville had met the doctor, arriving in town the day before the Ring of Fire to accompany his daughter Sharon to Rita's wedding, James Nichols lost his temper.
He shot to his feet, spilling his chair. The sound of his fist slamming the table was like a gunshot.
"You insufferable jackass! You stupid, ignorant, self-satisfied moron!"
Nichols came stalking around the table toward Quentin. For all that James Nichols was a smaller man than Underwood-he stood only five feet eight inches tall and was not especially heavily built-the advance radiated sheer menace. For a few seconds, the well-educated and urbane doctor in his late fifties vanished, and everyone caught a glimpse of the ghetto hooligan who, as a teenager, had been given the choice by a judge between the Marines and a stay in prison. Mike started to rise, thinking he would have to physically restrain James from beating Quentin into a pulp. And that he could pummel the larger and younger man into a pulp, Mike had no doubt at all.
Neither, from the shocked pallor on his face, did Underwood himself-and Quentin was by no means a timid or cowardly man.
But, by the time Nichols reached Underwood, he'd brought himself under control.
More or less.
"Sit… down," he commanded, pointing a rigid finger at Quentin's chair. "Now!"
As Quentin fumbled to comply, James spoke through teeth which were not quite clenched, but closely enough that the words came as a hiss.
"Let me explain something to you, Underwood. Maybe this time you'll finally get it. There is no such thing as a 'Dutch disease.' There is no such thing as a 'United States immune system.' The bacteria and viruses which carry epidemics don't give a flying fuck about your precious borders and your fine political distinctions. They could care less, fathead. Do you think a germ stops when it gets to your nose and says: 'Oh, no! Mustn't infect this man. He's a fine and respectable Murikun, 'e is. I'll just have to find me a scruffy no-good Dutchman or Kraut or Frog or Dago. Huh? Do you?"
Underwood stared up at him, wide-eyed.
"Do you?" James demanded. His hand reached out, as if he were tempted to grab Underwood by his jacket and shake him. But he drew it back. Mike was relieved to see that Nichols had his temper back under control, even if he was still steaming mad.
"Let me explain to you, Underwood," James grated, "what's going to happen to you-or your wife, or your sons-if you get infected with Yersinia pestis. That's the germ that carries bubonic plague. I'll start with the less fatal form. Then I'll move on to describe what often happens in cold weather-shut the fuck up, Underwood! I am sick to death of you!"
Quentin's attempt to interrupt James was cut off by that angry shout. James drove on relentlessly. "You will listen. This once, you will finally listen to me."
In the time which followed, carefully and slowly, Nichols explained-in the truly graphic and gruesome detail which a doctor can-exactly what would happen to a human body infected with bubonic plague. Even Mike, who knew far more about the subject than Quentin had ever bothered to learn, found himself getting a little sick to his stomach. Most of the people sitting frozen around the table seemed to share his reactions.