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 Bocler. “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.”
Bocler 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 Bocler. 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.”
Bocler 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?”