1633

Mike nodded, glanced at Hans and Sharon himself. Then, like Jesse, looked away.

'What were the casualty rates for pilots in World War I?' he asked softly.

Jesse shrugged. 'I don't know, exactly. High. Real high, Mike. I saw the graveyard at Camp Talliaferro once, where British Royal Flying Corps instructors trained American pilots from 1917 to 1918. During the months British and Canadian troops were stationed in Fort Worth, there were something like forty officers and cadets killed during flight training. Eleven of them were buried there. And that was before they even went into combat. I do know that during the worst stretches, the life expectancy of a British pilot newly arrived in the combat zone was measured in days.'

Mike's expression was grim. Jesse tried to find words of reassurance.

'Mind you, it shouldn't be that bad for us. We're not going to be sending newbies up against the likes of Baron von Richthofen, after all. And during World War I they really rushed people through flight training. We can-'

He broke off. 'Well, I think we can, anyway. Just how much time do we have, Mike? And what exactly is happening?'

Mike ran fingers through his hair. 'I can't answer your second question all that precisely, Jesse. The truth is, we still don't know much. But I got a message from Becky last night-the first one that's come over the radio-and she's just about dead certain the war is blowing wide open again.'

He paused, his eyes moving back toward Hans and Sharon. Jesse followed his gaze. The two young people were kissing now. Despite the gravity of the moment, Jesse almost laughed. Sharon, clearly enough, was swept up in the passion of the moment. Hans, too, yes. But from the expression on his face, Jesse suspected he was mostly just astonished-and ecstatic-at the fierceness of the kiss.

Jesse wasn't positive, but he suspected that Hans and Sharon's relationship up till now had remained-technically, at least-short of what Americans called 'going all the way.' Hans was a proper German lad, for all the horrors he'd experienced in his two years as a mercenary. It wouldn't surprise Jesse a bit if he were still a virgin. Germans of the time were far from prudes, when it came to sex. But intercourse was still considered improper until a couple was officially betrothed. Then, typically enough, they wouldn't wait for the actual wedding. A good third of the German girls he'd seen getting married since the Ring of Fire had been visibly pregnant at the altar. As long as they'd been engaged, however, the families didn't seem to care. By their lights, according to traditional German law, a betrothal was legally binding-it couldn't be dissolved short of a court ruling, and dissolution of a betrothal required the same grounds as a divorce.

Jesse knew the whole issue was one of many which were causing the new courts established since the founding of the United States a passel of grief, since, obviously, American traditions on the matter were quite different. But, however the courts finally ruled, the customary attitudes remained-and Jesse had started noticing that more and more Americans were starting to look on 'engagement' as something a lot more solemn than simply buying a diamond ring.

He'll get laid tonight, I bet. Proper engagement or not, Sharon ain't gonna take 'no' for an answer.

The thought cheered him up. Quite a lot.

Mike, too, it seemed, judging from the little smile on his face as he watched the young couple.

'Screw it,' Jesse heard him murmur. 'It'll be good for James to have something else to worry about.'

Mike turned back to Jesse. When he spoke again, his voice was firm and harsh. 'But I can answer the first question. You've got as much time as you think it takes to train a pilot properly.' The broad shoulders shifted, and Jesse was reminded that in his youth Mike Stearns had been one hell of a boxer. 'I will be good goddamned if I'll send any half-trained kids up in a crate to go fight a war. Train 'em, Jesse. Train 'em till they're ready.'

***

When James Nichols returned from the hospital that night, he found his daughter and Hans Richter sitting together on the couch in the living room. Side by side, holding hands. It was obvious they'd been waiting for him. Hans' face looked very pale and apprehensive. Sharon's dark face, simply stubborn.

He hadn't taken more than two steps into the room when Sharon spoke.

'Hans and I got engaged this afternoon.' She lifted her hand, Hans' still clasped in it, to show him a ring.

'It belonged to my mother,' Hans said, his voice almost trembling with nervousness. 'I managed to save it, all these years since-since soldiers took her away when I was a boy. I kept it hidden.'

Nichols was paralyzed, for a moment. He knew the history of the Richter family. Staring at that pale, tightly drawn, twenty-year-old face, he was suddenly reminded that there were worse things in the world-much worse-than gaps in age and education and race.

'Hans is spending the night, Daddy,' continued Sharon. 'With me.' The tone of her voice now verged on sheer belligerence. 'Don't give me a hard time about it. It's a good German custom, once you're engaged. They even have a name for it.'

A bit wildly, Nichols' mind veered aside. He was familiar with the term, as it happened. Fenstering, the Germans called it-literally from the boy coming in through the window, but with the knowledge and consent of the girl's parents. Melissa had once explained the custom to him. Makes perfect sense, James. You know they don't usually get married until they're in their mid-late twenties, because it takes that long to put together the capital to form a household. So they get engaged way ahead of time and then… what the hell-

He remembered the impish smile she'd given him, and felt a sudden longing for her presence. An even deeper longing than usual. Melissa would have known how to handle this.

- it beats outright fornication, doesn't it?

Even more suddenly, the realization of what must have triggered this act of defiance on his daughter's part came crashing down upon him. 'Oh, Jesus,' he whispered. There was a chair nearby. He took a step, pulled it under him, and more or less collapsed onto it.

For a moment, he stared at the two youngsters on the couch. Then, not being able to find any words, simply nodded his head. It was not… quite a blessing. More in the way of a simple acknowledgment of reality. If nothing else, James was too damn old to be staying up every night watching the windows.

The beaming smile which came to his daughter's face warmed him. Even more so, oddly enough, did the look of relief which washed over her fiancй's. Whatever reservations James had about the relationship, he had none at all about Hans himself. Outside of his reckless way behind a wheel, at any rate. He was a sweet kid, truth to tell. And the boy had had enough grief in his short life, without James Nichols adding any further to it.

The doctor cleared his throat. 'I managed to get some eggs yesterday. May as well use 'em up for breakfast tomorrow. Sharon likes hers scrambled, Hans. How about you?'

***

After they'd gone up the stairs, James sighed and levered himself out of the chair. Feeling like an old man, he went over to the telephone and dialed a number.

'Mike? James here. Is it as bad as I think it is?'

Three minutes later, he hung up the phone and dialed another number.

'Stoner? James here. Look, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to break off on the chloramphenicol project. You've already got production started anyway, so you can leave the rest to Sally. You're just fine-tuning now, trying to improve the yields.'

He winced at the immediate eruption of protest and moved the phone an inch away from his ear. When the angry words died down, he spoke again.

'Yeah, I understand that it's our best bet against epidemics. But that's tomorrow, and today is today.' He drew in a deep breath. 'I'm going to need more sulfa drugs pretty soon, Tom. Lots of the stuff. We're going to have wounds to deal with before much longer.'

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the telephone. Then, simply: Shit.

'Shit is right,' concurred Dr. James Nichols. 'Sorry, Tom, but it doesn't look as if this century's going to be any kinder to hippies and flower children than the one we came from. Not even over-aged ones like you. Less, looks like. You're still the best pharmacist and-ah-' His lips quirked. '-drug chemist we've got.'

Shit.

'Hey, Stoner, look on the bright side. At least your main crop's legal in this day and age-and, by the way, I'm going to be needing plenty of that, too. It's still the best analgesic we've got, in any quantity.'

Chapter 16

When Richelieu was finished, he had to struggle mightily not to burst out into laughter. The young French officer standing in front of the cardinal's desk seemed paralyzed by shock. His jaw, sagging; his eyes, as wide open as human eyes could get.

After a moment, Richelieu did allow himself a single laugh.

'Oh, please! I like to think of this as confirmation of the principles of aristocracy. You do, after all, have as distinguished a military pedigree as any man alive. Grandson, through your mother Elizabeth, of William the Silent himself. Mauritz of Nassau and Frederik Hendrik-both renowned soldiers of the day-as uncles. So why should the king's decision come as such a surprise, Henri de la Tour d'Auvergne? Or, to use the new title which His Most Christian Majesty has chosen to bestow upon you, Vicomte de Turenne.'

The young man's eyes were still practically bulging. Richelieu decided to relent a bit. De la Tour d'Auvergne-no, Turenne-was a very young man, after all. Still short of his twenty-second birthday, and just now informed that he had been appointed to high military command as well as having been made a vicomte.

'I have never been harsh toward Protestants, you know,' the cardinal said softly, 'so long as they remain loyal to the king and France. Nor have I inquired-nor will I, young Henri-as to your own faith, despite the fact that your father the duc de Bouillon is a Huguenot and your mother a Dutch Protestant.'

Richelieu laid a long-fingered hand atop the stack of books and manuscripts on his desk. 'It is all here, young Henri. Not in the detail I would have preferred, of course-sadly, the Americans seem to have little interest in French history, judging from their libraries. But… there's enough. Certainly for this decision. History will record that Henri de la Tour d'Auvergne, later vicomte de Turenne, was one of the greatest generals ever produced by France. From his early career through his death in battle at the age of sixty-four, the record is clear. Brilliance, combined with unswerving loyalty. More than that, neither I nor any man can ask. And the king agrees. So why should we waste the next few years while you prove it? We may not have the luxury of those few years. France needs you now.'

The last sentence seemed, finally, to break through the young man's shock. Turenne closed his mouth, almost with a snap, and his eyes narrowed.