"And, finally, he's the one I had figuring out what our available resources are. That means he's completely informed on what we have in Grantville, as well. And that he's probably in the best position to make effective use of them, for that matter."
Mike stared at the admiral for several seconds, and a memory played itself mercilessly in the back of his brain. The memory of an argument with Melissa Mailey and Ed Piazza that first night when he'd beaten back Simpson's argument that the up-timers must turn Grantville into some sort of Fortress America and refuse to grant asylum to starving, terrified refugees from the madness of war lest they all be overwhelmed. He'd disagreed then-and still did-with Simpson's logic, but he hadn't been blind to the necessities of his own. That same night, Melissa had called him a "warmonger" for proposing that high school seniors be called upon for military service in defense of Grantville.
So now it's my turn, he thought. My turn to say "But he's just a kid!" And he is… by the standards of the 21st century. But even in our own world, plenty of teenagers died fighting our wars. Sure as hell, Eddie-and Larry, and Hans-aren't "kids" here. Simpson's right, here and now, just as I was back then.
"All right." He turned from Simpson and looked at Eddie. "You heard what Admiral Simpson said, Eddie. You understand how important this is?"
"Of course I do," Eddie replied. "And don't worry, Mike. Uh, Mr. President. Larry and I will kick their asses! Speedboats and rocket attacks, maybe throw a few limpet mines at them." He grinned with the ferocious enthusiasm of the very young. "We may not be able to lift the siege all by ourselves, but we'll sure as hell keep them from getting very much done!"
"You'll do what you can, Lieutenant," Simpson said coldly. Eddie looked at him, obviously surprised by his tone, and Simpson showed his teeth. "I know you think of me as an ancient and decrepit military bureaucrat," he said. "It may surprise you to know that that wasn't always the case. I spent my time in gunboats on another river, Lieutenant. The same one General Jackson spent some time wading in. And I saw a lot of people die-as often as not because they thought technology and 'advanced weapons' made them invulnerable. Well, they didn't. And they won't make you invulnerable, either. I expect you to use good judgment. To think, damn it!"
Mike heard Jesse grunt approvingly. Eddie's eyes widened for just a moment, and then he nodded sharply. It was obvious from his expression that he was considering coming to attention, as well, but he didn't. Perhaps, Mike thought, he was too stunned to do anything that active. The President wouldn't have been a bit surprised if that were the case, for he was a bit stunned himself. Just as Mike had expected Simpson's HQ to resemble the fabled ones of MacArthur, he'd expected Simpson to be prone to the same glorious posturing.
But this was no time for that. He turned to join Simpson in glaring at the young man. "I agree wholeheartedly," Mike said forcefully, "and I expect you to do exactly what Admiral Simpson just told you to. Is that clearly understood?"
"Yes, sir!" Eddie blurted, and this time he did snap to attention.
"Good!" Mike growled. He turned away to consider John Chandler Simpson, who was still giving Eddie his best admiral's glare. And, for the very first time since he'd met the man, realized he was feeling something surprisingly close to genuine respect, not simply cold-blooded assessment of his talents.
"Good," he repeated softly.
That night, Mike and Jesse settled into their rooms in the new building very close to the shipyards which was the official U.S. embassy in Magdeburg. As he tossed his little traveling bag onto the bed, Mike found himself smiling whimsically. The very title of the building-embassy-was somewhat amusing. Given the tortuous complexity of the political structure of the Confederated Principalities of Europe, which resembled one of the mythical creatures made up from the parts of different animals-a manticore, or a sphinx, or a winged horse-the United States was a part of the CPE as well as an independent realm in its own right.
But Mike found the situation only somewhat amusing. The advantage to the arrangement was that each realm-including his own U.S.-enjoyed a great deal of autonomy to manage its own affairs. The disadvantage, of course, was that when faced with a real external threat the resultant beast was as unlikely to fight effectively as…
Mike's smile widened, and grew more crooked.
Jesse entered the room. "What's so funny?"
"Just the man I wanted to see. I have a technical question for you, O great experienced pilot. What do you think would really happen if Pegasus took a flying leap off a cliff?"
Jesse snorted. "Are you kidding? Horsemeat for dinner, that's what. Mind you don't break your teeth on all the splintered bones and little rocks mixed into the mess."
"Yeah, that's about what I figured."
"Ready to eat?" asked Jesse. "The guard tells me there's a very nice new restaurant just opened down the street. Um. Using the term 'street' loosely, anyway."
Mike sighed regretfully. "No, you go ahead, Jesse. I'll scrounge up what I can here. Oh, and, by the way-figure we'll be here at least another day."
Jesse cocked an eyebrow. Mike's whimsical smile came back. "I'll be in the radio room most of the time, I imagine, whenever I'm not meeting some of the people who showed up here for the Chamber of Princes."
"Doing what?"
"Trading horses-before we all wind up a lot of mangled horsemeat."
Chapter 30
The prince of Orange looked older than a man still short of his fiftieth birthday. As he ushered her to a chair in his private chambers, Rebecca was struck by the haggardness in his face. His drawn expression contrasted sharply with what was obviously the man's normal appearance. Frederik Henrik had an almost archetypical "Dutch" face: rather handsome, if on the fleshy side; pale-complected; brown hair offset by a very gingery goatee and flaring set of mustachios. Only his eyes were a bit exotic. Instead of the normal blue or green or brown, they seemed some off-color combination of slate gray and hazel.
It was a face which, Rebecca suspected, was normally full of ruddy good cheer. But not now.
That was hardly surprising, of course. The double Spanish victories-first the naval triumph at the Battle of Dunkirk, followed by the lightning seizure of Haarlem-had driven his country to its knees in less than two weeks. Panic was sweeping everywhere, with refugees now pouring into Amsterdam. One after another of the frontier fortresses and towns were reportedly surrendering to advancing Spanish troops-and the Counter-Remonstrant towns no less readily than others, once assured that the Spanish would leave their churches alone and refrain from reprisals against the inhabitants.
According to all reports, the United Provinces were coming apart at the seams. The Spanish seizure of Haarlem had cut Holland itself in half. Then, the cardinal-infante-whether from his own acumen or because he was listening to Oquendo-had not made the mistake of the Spanish who had seized Haarlem after a long siege in 1572. On that occasion, the Spanish commander, Don Fadrique de Toledo-the duke of Alva's son, in spirit as well as flesh-had frittered away his strength by attacking northern Holland. The cardinal-infante would leave northern Holland for a later time. Leaving enough of a garrison to hold Haarlem, he was now driving south on Leiden, and everyone Rebecca had talked to seemed to think that city's fall was inevitable.
Most of Zeeland and Utrecht had already fallen, it seemed, as well as the southern half of Gelderland. And the northern provinces of Friesland, Groningen and Drenthe, still largely Catholic and long resentful of the heavy thumb of the Counter-Remonstrants, had erupted in full revolt. The United Provinces, born sixty years earlier in a rebellion against Spain, now found three of its provinces rebelling in favor of Spanish rule.