1633

'Not a problem, then. See to it, Lieutenant. I agree with His Majesty. It's a good suggestion. Have a local printer run off… oh, make it two hundred copies to begin with. We'll pay for it out of the Navy's budget.'

He swiveled back, and the meeting continued. But Larry never did remember much of the rest of it. His shock had simply deepened at the realization that not only had the admiral slid him out of a jam but he was himself…

John Chandler Simpson? A freakin' science fiction fan?

After the meeting, on the way back to the shipyards, Larry had simultaneously tried to thank and apologize to the admiral. Simpson had cut him short.

'Two things I want you to learn from this, Lieutenant.' The admiral came to a stop and glared down at him. Simpson was a big man, even if not the semi-giant that his son Tom was. 'First. When I tell you to keep your mouth shut at a meeting, I mean shut. Is that understood?'

'Yessir.'

'Good. Second thing.'

A wintry smile came to Simpson's face. 'I imagine by now both you and Lieutenant Cantrell call me 'the bastard' more often than not. In private, that is. If I ever catch you doing it in public, I'll have your ass. But you might as well understand the other half of it. The Navy takes care of its own, son. Always. So if I'm a bastard, at least you can count on me to be your bastard.'

Larry jerked his mind out of reminiscence. He'd just noticed that four of those new rifles were being slid free of their saddle scabbards as he jogged toward the Tott's Regiment troopers. Their officer started to say something to them, but before he could, someone else spoke up sharply. The troopers looked over their shoulders at the huge blond shape of Anders Jцnsson and put their rifles back with the sort of hasty 'I-wasn't-doing-anything' air of small children caught out by an irate tutor. Jцnsson glowered at them for a moment; then said something else, gesturing at Larry's 21 st -century clothing, and shook his head.

Under other circumstances, Larry would have chuckled at the troopers' hang dog attitudes. Unlike the cavalrymen, Jцnsson was not armed with a flintlock rifle. In fact, he didn't carry a rifle at all, and he'd already discarded all of his wheel locks, as well. Instead, he wore a shoulder holster which contained a single HK.40-caliber USP automatic. It was one of the half-dozen or so most expensive handguns to have made the trip back from the 21 st -century, but no one in Grantville begrudged it or the four high-capacity magazines which had accompanied it when Mike Stearns presented the black, polymer-framed pistol to Jцnsson. Given that assassination was an acknowledged if officially frowned-upon way of dealing with problems in this day and age, anything which made it more difficult for someone to get past Gustavus Adolphus' personal bodyguard struck most Americans as a very good idea indeed.

Larry reached the side of the building slip just in time to hear the tag end of Jцnsson's caustic homily. It was in Swedish, which was still a foreign language-in every sense-for Larry, but he didn't need to be able to understand the words to grasp the meaning. He tried hard not to grin at the discomfited troopers. Actually, when he thought about it, he was in favor of paranoia on their part where the safety of their monarch was concerned. As long as that paranoia wasn't expressed by pointing rifles at his own personal body, at least.

'Can I help you, Lieutenant?' Jцnsson inquired, switching to heavily accented but clearly understandable English and nodding courteously as Larry trotted up to him. The bodyguard carried no official rank, but Larry had privately decided that his effective rank had to be somewhere around that of a colonel, so he paused to come to attention and salute in the fashion Simpson insisted upon. It still felt more than a little unnatural, but it no longer felt silly; and Gustavus' bodyguard returned the formal military courtesy with unsmiling dignity.

'I have an urgent message for the king,' Larry told him, puffing slightly for breath after his hurried trip.

Jцnsson regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He said something to the Tott officer in Swedish, then gestured politely for Larry to accompany him and led the way up a ladder to the deck of the incomplete warship. A couple of workmen glowered at them for getting in the way as they stepped onto the partially planked deck, but Jцnsson ignored them as he and Larry crossed to the powerfully built figure of the king of Sweden.

At the moment, that regal monarch was covered in sawdust from head to toe while he stood glaring down at the building draft spread out over a pair of sawhorses and waved his arms energetically. The man facing him across the sawhorses was much smaller and even more heavily coated in sawdust, and he did not appear to be greatly daunted by his king's vigor. He stood with his arms folded, frowning ferociously, then shook his head firmly. He stepped forward, tapping an index finger on the building plans, and spoke emphatically. Gustavus frowned back, even more ferociously, and tapped his own finger on the plans, but the other man was singularly unimpressed and only shook his head again. Gustavus glared at him, then threw both hands in the air, and turned to stomp away from him.

Jцnsson made a beeline toward the king, and Larry followed in his wake. Gustavus looked up, still frowning, as Jцnsson spoke to him in Swedish. Then the king's expression altered. The frown remained, but the emphasis was completely different.

'You have a message, Lieutenant?' he said. His accent was much heavier than Jцnsson's. In fact, it was more than a bit difficult for Larry to follow at times, but he knew Gustavus read English as readily as he did several other languages.

'I do, sir,' he replied, and unbuttoned his shirt pocket to extract the single sheet of paper upon which Adam Jeffreys-now officially Petty Officer 1/c Jeffreys-had copied the transmission from Grantville.

The king took it with a courteous nod, unfolded it, and began to read. The blue eyes moved rapidly across the neatly lettered text, then froze. They moved back to the beginning and then down the lines once again, reading slowly and carefully, and his lips compressed. That was absolutely all the change in expression he allowed himself, but it was enough for Larry to sense Jцnsson's entire body tightening in reaction.

Gustavus reached the end of the brief message, then refolded it with slow, meticulous care before he turned back to Larry.

'Thank you for delivering this so promptly,' he said. 'Now, you will take me to your… 'radio room,' it is, yes?'

'Of course, sir,' Larry replied.

'Good. I need to ask your President a number of questions.'

Chapter 29

Jesse and Hans were seated in the overstuffed chairs near the tower, reviewing the fourth in a series of instructor training flights. Jesse was determined to ensure that Hans could train other pilots as well as he could fly himself. Otherwise, the growth of the Air Force would be limited to the strength of Jesse's back. Which, he reflected, isn't any too strong, now that cooler weather is settling in.

On this flight, Jesse had played the part of a particularly dense student, unable to properly combine the use of rudder with ailerons. Hans was patiently explaining the theory and feel of coordinated flight when Woody, the tower duty officer, leaned over the rail and yelled down.

'Colonel Wood! Telephone!'

Jesse reflected that an extension phone on the ground floor would be handy, as he ran up the rickety stairs of the tower. He stepped inside and noted Woody standing at attention.

'At ease. Who is it?'

'The operator at Government House, sir,' the young officer replied. 'A message from the President, he said.'

Jesse picked up the phone. 'This is Colonel Wood.'

'Colonel Wood, this is Capitol,' came the immediate response. 'Be advised that President Stearns requires immediate transportation to Magdeburg.'

'Understood, Capitol. Transportation to Magdeburg. Anything else?'

'No, that's it. He's on his way now.'

Jesse nodded at the duty officer and burst out the door. Hans was standing below looking up at the tower.

'Lieutenant Richter!' he bellowed. 'The Belle II should be fully fueled. Go preflight her. The President is going flying.'

Fifteen minutes later, Jesse had told Kathy where he was going, grabbed his homemade aeronautical chart, and reached the Belle II. He noted gratefully that Hans had already started the engine, as concerned as his commander that the cold engine might balk with the President looking on. Jesse returned the thumbs-up Hans threw him and saw the President's pickup pull into the yard.

Mike Stearns was obviously in a hurry. He ran up to the aircraft.

'Hello, Jesse,' he said, shaking the pilot's hand. 'Are we ready to go? Simpson swears he's got the landing strip shipshape and ready for us.'

Jesse nodded. He and Hans had both made the Magdeburg trip twice-once together, once each solo. He didn't doubt that Simpson had the landing strip 'shipshape.' From what Jesse could tell, Simpson had a fetish about always having everything shipshape, and at all times.

The man probably has an exact routine for how he folds toilet paper. But Jesse let the thought drop, almost as quickly as it formed. Partly because a considerable part of him-certainly the part which was going to have to land a plane in Magdeburg before too long-actually approved of Simpson's precision. Mostly, though, because Jesse didn't like to think about toilet paper. Or, more precisely, its absence.

'Let me get in and then you take the right seat,' he told Mike. 'Mind the prop, okay?'

A minute later, Jesse began to taxi as the President struggled to strap himself in. The radio was already on Tower frequency.

'Grantville Tower, this is Belle II. Check that, Tower, this is Air Force One taxiing for takeoff.'

'Roger, uh, Air Force One. Cleared for immediate takeoff. Wind is three-four-oh at twelve knots.'

After takeoff, Jesse turned right and began to climb. Magnetic heading of 025 for now, he thought to himself.

Leveling off above scattered clouds at six thousand feet, he checked his chart. Yeah, 028 degrees to Halle, no wind. But not today. He peered at the scudding clouds and noted his cowling string inclined to the right. At least seven or eight degrees right drift.

He settled the aircraft heading on approximately 020 degrees by his whiskey compass and set 75-percent power for high cruise. The airspeed settled on a steady 95 knots. He noted they were abeam Weimar and hacked the clock. Only then did he look over at his passenger. He was puzzled to see Mike Stearns chuckling.

'Damn, this is a real aircraft, isn't it?' Mike said.

'Well, yeah. And I'm a real pilot and everything.' Jesse was suddenly irritated. 'What did you think it was?'

'No offense, Jesse. It's just that I haven't given much thought to the reality of what you and Hal have done. Sure, I get the reports, but there's nothing like the real thing. And Simpson doesn't think much of the Air Force. I can see he's mistaken.'

Jesse couldn't help himself. 'With all due respect to the admiral, Mr. President, he's a friggin' squid. His brain can't keep up with anything that travels faster than ten knots.'

Stearns was laughing now. 'Maybe it's a good thing you've missed what few meetings we've had of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Admiral Simpson would probably have challenged you to a duel by now.'

Slightly chagrined, Jesse tried to calm down. 'I guess Simpson knows what he's doing, most of the time. Sorry about the meetings, but I have one, repeat, one instructor pilot-me. That'll change soon, but I saw it as my primary duty that the Air Force has trained pilots. Given that Simpson insists he can't leave Magdeburg and it