So be it. Jesse wiped his brow and grasped the radio mike.
"Lead, Two. Good show, gentlemen. Well done. I suggest you revisit that spot in a day or two. That secondary was no caisson. It was probably a hidden magazine. Keep hitting the tree line all around their camp. They're sure to have more such stores around the perimeter. Oh, one more thing. Should we ever do that again, I suggest that a thirty second spacing between aircraft might be more suitable."
Woody replied crisply, "Yes, sir. That might be more comfortable."
Jesse felt almost calm, now. "Excellent work, Woody. By the way, you are now a captain and Ernst is now a first lieutenant. Now let's complete this mission and the two of you can go home and wet down your promotions. I'll be sending you some help before very long."
The rest of the flight went smoothly enough. While Woody and Ernst distracted the French pickets by overflying their positions, Jesse slipped in behind, flying slow and low. Lined up on the grassy sward just outside the city wall, Jesse carefully picked his aim point and flew his approach only a few knots above stall speed. Power up and nose abnormally high, he firmly dropped the Belle onto the turf, rolling to a stop in only a short distance. He actually had to add power to taxi toward the outlying bastion where Swedish soldiers waited to aid them. After Jesse had shut down, the soldiers pushed the aircraft into dead space next to the bastion and surrounded the machine with fascines readied for the purpose. It would be well guarded for their overnight stay.
Chapter 8
Mike found Gustav Adolf waiting for him in one of the many rooms of Luebeck's Rathaus, which he'd turned into his central headquarters for the siege. He had only one aide with him, Colonel Nils Ekstrom. He and his brother Siguard were among the small circle of Swedish officers that Gustav used for the most delicate matters. That was a signal, in itself, that the emperor wanted to be able to speak freely-which, with Gustav, usually meant bluntly. If he'd had his usual coterie of officers, he'd be quite a bit more discreet. But Ekstrom was his closest adviser in Luebeck, and Mike knew the emperor had complete faith in him.
Mike had to struggle a little to keep his expression solemn. There was something about the bearing of the emperor and the colonel-perhaps they were breathing a bit too heavily, it was hard to know exactly-that made it clear to Mike that they'd just gotten here themselves. Having walked there very quickly, so they wouldn't have to admit to Mike that they'd actually been standing on the city walls watching his plane land, just as if they were one of the city's bumpkins, instead of awaiting his presence in royal serenity.
As was his way, Gustav went right past the usual formalities.
"So!" he half-bellowed. "Deny it if you will! It was you who gave the order to pass our medical secrets to the damned Spaniards outside Amsterdam." The sneer that followed was as royal as you could ask for. "Or will you try to claim-I believe you scheming up-timers call it 'plausible deniability'-that the fault was entirely that of the nurse. Anne-Anne-"
He cocked an eye at Ekstrom.
"Anne Jefferson," the colonel supplied. "Although it might be Anne Olearius, now. She was to be married to that Holstein diplomat, I'm told, and she may insist on that peculiar American custom of women changing their last names to their husbands'."
"It's actually an English custom in its origins, I believe," Mike said mildly. "They're not married yet, anyway. As for the other, Your Majesty, the answer is yes. Of course I'm the one who gave the order. Leaving aside the fact that she's no more careless than any good nurse, why would Anne have been carrying the formula with her in the first place-when she was simply posing for Rubens?"
"Ha! You admit it, then!"
That was…
About a three-quarter bellow. Between the volume, the tone, and various subtleties in the emperor's expression lurking under the bull walrus ferocity on the surface, Mike decided Gustav Adolf was in negotiating mode. He did have a temper, and he was perfectly capable of throwing a genuine royal tantrum at whatever subordinate had roused his ire. But he was very shrewd, too, and knew that his famous temper could also serve as a useful bargaining ploy.
It was all old hat, for Mike. In times past, when he'd been the president of his mine workers local having a confrontation with management, Quentin Underwood had used exactly the same tactic. Granted, Gustav was much better at it-not to mention having the status of an emperor instead of a mere mine manager, to give weight to the thing. But a bargaining tactic is a tactic, no matter how different the circumstances of the negotiation.
So, he responded with his usual riposte. Calm, forebearing reason. Not quite suggesting that the emperor was a five-year-old having a childish fit, but bordering on it.
" 'Admit' is hardly the correct term, Your Majesty. The ploy was obviously to our benefit and could not possibly do us any harm."
"Do us no harm! You may well have saved the lives of thousands of enemy soldiers-the same ones baying at our allies in Amsterdam like a great pack of wolves."
"Oh, hardly that, Your Majesty. To begin with, chloramphenicol is so hard to make in any quantities-even for us, much less the Spaniards-that providing them with the formula was almost entirely a symbolic gesture. I doubt if more than a dozen Spanish soldiers will benefit from it, over the next year-and they will be entirely top officers, not the men who would be storming the ramparts. As for the rest-"
He shrugged. "My wife tells me that after the first week, the Spanish have not been pressing the siege. And pressed it even less, after we passed them the formula. They're behaving like watch dogs, not wolves. Which makes perfect sense, since the cardinal-infante is really aiming at a settlement, and would far rather keep Amsterdam and its productive population intact than see it all destroyed in a sack."
Gustav glowered at him, for a moment. "Still. Michael, you are trying to maneuver me. Do not deny it!"
Mike decided it was time to show a little of the bull walrus himself. So he almost sneered. Not quite. "Oh, for the love of-"
Now, a sigh, almost histrionic. Not quite.
"Gustav II Adolf, you've been a king for over twenty years-and a smart one, to boot. You know perfectly well that every adviser you have is trying to 'maneuver' you-if you insist on that term-practically every time they talk to you."
"Not me," said Ekstrom mildly.
Mike glanced at the colonel, and gave him an acknowledging nod. "No, Nils, not you. Not directly, at least. But-don't deny it, since we seem to be demanding that all cards be placed up on the table-your whole stance toward the emperor is a maneuver, in one sense. Yes, I know you simply try to help him determine what his own wishes really are. That's part of what a monarch needs."
Mike smiled. "Let's say that the emperor is using you as a tool to maneuver himself, if you prefer."
Ekstrom smiled back. "Yes, I would prefer it. And it's not a bad description of my duties"-he glanced apologetically at the emperor-"if Your Majesty will allow me the liberty of saying so."
Gustav puffed out his thick blond mustache. "And why not? Since my prime minister takes far greater liberties."
He began pacing a little, half-stomping in the heavy cavalry boots he favored. That was a familiar sign to Mike-to Nils also, judging from the slight look of relief on the colonel's face. It meant the sumo wrestler preliminaries were over, for the most part, and the serious negotiations were about to begin.
"And you think we should do everything in our power to move that along," the emperor said. Almost growling the words, but not quite.
"Yes, Your Majesty, I do."
"Why? Michael, I am quite certain that when I launch our counteroffensive in the spring that I will crush the Danes and beat the French bloody. That stinking traitor Bernhard also, if he lets his arrogance rule him instead of his brain, and gets in my way. The Spaniards too, if they come out into the field."