Eric Flint: Ring of Fire III

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?”

“Bombardier,” Tom suggested.

“Fucking moron,” was his wife’s countersuggestion. “What else can you call someone who tosses lit firebombs from a flimsy hot air balloon?”

“Dirigible,” said the Franchettis, sternly and simultaneously.

Rita shook her head. “Well, at least one historical question is now answered. Fucking geeks can be found in any time and place.”

Tom had learned long ago that when his wife started using Appalachian patois in every other sentence it was time to wrap up the discussion. Before the patois began appearing in every sentence. Then, every clause.

He clapped his hands. “All right, it’s settled. Mr. Franchetti”-that was directed at Filippo-“I figure your airship should lead the bombing run. So it’s probably best that Rita transfer now from the Pelican to the Albatross. She’s the best person to guide the run and serve as the lead bombardier. Bonnie and Heinrich can transfer into your ship also, since it’s your turn to make the refueling run to Regensburg. You can drop them off in the city.”

He turned to the young nephew, striving mightily to keep a straight face. “Stefano, that’ll leave you with Mary Barancek as your bombardier. I know she’s awfully young, but I think she can handle the job.”

Stefano beamed. “Oh, certainly!”

Tom was no slouch himself, when it came to racking up brownie points. He turned now to Bonnie and Bocler. “Any further questions?”

They looked at each other. After a moment, Bonnie shrugged. “Probably a thousand. But we’ll manage. We work pretty well together.”

She thought about that, most of the way to Regensburg.

It was quite true, actually. They did work together well. Got along well, too.

The rest of the way into Regensburg, she spent contemplating the fact that for the first time since Larry Wild died, she found herself interested in a man who didn’t remind her of Larry in the least, teeniest, itsiest, littlest bit.

That was probably mentally healthy, she figured, although she wasn’t sure.

She giggled, then. Bocler, who’d been standing next to her in the gondola throughout the trip, raised his eyebrows. “What has amused you?”

She put her hand over her mouth, to cover the grin. “Oh, nothing,” she mumbled. “Just a stray thought.”

It was funny, but there were too many up-time referents for her to be able to explain the humor clearly to Heinz. Had anyone told her, back in her West Virginia days, that the time would come when she’d wonder where she could find a shrink, she’d have told them they were crazy.

But it was true, nonetheless. Up-timers now even had a saying about it. The Ring of Fire changed us all.

The third day went much like the first two. Two small armies moving slowly down the Danube, keeping the same steady distance. Hundreds of cavalrymen charging hither and yon across the landscape-everywhere except where the armies marched-plundering everything they could get their hands on.

Which wasn’t much. That landscape had been picked pretty clean. If a cavalry platoon caught a chicken, they deemed it a great prize and a cause for celebration. They would hold the celebration immediately, roasting the chicken on a spit while consuming a bottle of very bad wine they’d looted from a neighboring village. As ravening plunderers went, these fellows were definitely bottom feeders.

By then, although Colonel von Schnetter had said nothing openly to him, it was quite obvious to Captain von Haslang that the infantry commander had decided to let the Danube Regiment make its escape. He would follow them closely all the way to Regensburg, for the sake of appearances, but he would make no effort to bring the enemy to battle. He would not subject his own men to the casualties of a frontal assault on prepared artillery, with no cavalry support. If General von Lintelo broke into one of his tempers over the matter, let him place the blame where it rightly belonged-on the cavalry scoundrels and their own commander, Colonel von Troiberz.

Von Haslang had no objection. Neither to the substance of the issue, nor to the colonel’s tactical judgment. Insofar as the substance was concerned, he too saw no reason their own men should suffer because of a general’s carelessness and a cavalry officer’s dereliction.

As for the tactics…

If Colonel von Troiberz had been one of von Lintelo’s favorites, this would be a risky maneuver. The general would almost certainly then bring his wrath down on Colonel von Schnetter-and, the general being the sort of man he was, on von Schnetter’s staff as well. Happily, von Lintelo held Colonel von Troiberz in no high regard either. That was the reason he’d given him this assignment, almost as an afterthought, instead of including his unit in the more important mission to Amberg.

So, most likely, von Lintelo’s fury would come down on the cavalry, who richly deserved it. But it probably wouldn’t be that great a fury anyway, since it had also been obvious that von Lintelo didn’t view capturing the escaped fragments of the Danube Regiment as a particularly important matter.

He might come to regret that judgment. Captain von Haslang’s own assessment of the enemy commander had steadily grown over the past two and half days. Given that a siege of Regensburg now seemed inevitable, he’d be a lot happier if Major Simpson and his men weren’t part of the defending force.

But, like Colonel von Schnetter, he didn’t think it was worth the casualties to prevent that from happening. If a man sought perfection, he should find a different trade than that of a professional soldier.

To her great relief, Bonnie found that her new assignment was not as hard as she’d thought it would be. (For years thereafter, whenever confronted with a quandary, she would throw up her hands and exclaim “Oppenheimer!”) That was true for three reasons:

First, Heinz Bocler turned out to be far better in his General Groves persona than she was when she tried to imitate a world-class nuclear physicist like Oppenheimer. Within less than an hour after their arrival in Regensburg, he had the city’s officials and guild masters eating out of the palm of his plump little hand.