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Trial By Fire – Snippet 01

Trial By Fire – Snippet 01

Trial By Fire

Volume Two of the Tales of the Terran Republic

Charles E. Gannon

Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history.  .  .  . ​ The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation.

–Abraham Lincoln, December 1, 1862, message to Congress

BOOK ONE

CONFLICT

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.

–Sun Tzu

Part One

November 2119

Chapter One

Off-base sector, Barnard’s Star 2 C (“Barney Deucy”)

The maglev began decelerating. As it did, the light seeping in through the overhead plexiglass panel increased sharply: they were now beyond the safety of the base’s tightly patrolled subterranean perimeter. Caine Riordan, newly minted commander in the United States Space Force, glanced at the young ensign beside him. “Are you ready?”

Ensign Marilyn Brahen looked out the even narrower plexiglass panel beside the door, checked the area into which they were about to deploy. There was blurred, frenetic movement out there. “Were we expecting a lot of–company?” she asked.

“No, Ensign, but it was a possibility.” Caine rose. “So we improvise and overcome.” She stood beside him as the doors opened–

–and they were hit by torrent of loud, unruly shouts from a crowd beyond the maglev platform. The group swiftly became a tight-packed wall of charging humanity, their outcries building before them like a cacophonic bow-wave.

Ensign Brahen eyed the approaching mob, news people already elbowing their way into the front rank, and swallowed. “Sir, you think those crazies will stay outside the car?”

“Not a chance.” And given the automated two-minute station stop, they’ll have us pinned in here before we can leave.

“I gotta confess, sir,” she continued, “this wasn’t what I was expecting when they told me I was going on a field assignment with you.”

“Well,” mused Caine as the reporters closed the last ten meters, “we are off-base. And technically, the civilian sector is ‘the field.’” Caine smiled at her, at the charade which was to be his one and only “command,” and stepped out the door.

The moment his foot touched the maglev platform, an improbably shrill male shriek–”Blasphemer!”–erupted from the center of the approaching crowd, followed by a glass bottle, spinning lazily at Caine.

Behind him, he heard Ensign Brahen inhale sharply, no doubt preparatory to a warning shout–

But recent dojo-acquired reflexes now served Caine better than a warning. Without thinking, he sent the bottle angling off to smash loudly against the side of the passenger car behind him.

As Caine sensed Ensign Brahen moving up to cover his flank, he scanned the rear of the crowd for the presumably fleeing attacker. Instead, he discovered the assailant was standing his ground, right fist raised, left arm and index finger rigidly extended in accusation–

–and which disappeared behind the surge of newspersons that surrounded Caine as a wall of eager faces and outstretched comcorders. Somewhere, behind that palisade of journalists, the attacker shrieked again. “Blasphemer!” But his voice was receding, and then was finally drowned out by the mass of jostling reporters and protestors that threatened to shove Caine and Ensign Brahen back against the maglev car. Their inquiries were shrill, aggressive, and rapid.

“Mr. Riordan, is it true you’re the one who found the remains of an alien civilization on Delta Pavonis Three?”

“Caine! Caine, over here! Why wait two years to announce your discoveries?”

“Who decided that you’d announce your findings behind closed doors: the World Confederation, or you, Caine?”

A young man with a bad case of acne and a worse haircut–evidently the boldest jackal in the pack–stuck a palmcom right under Riordan’s nose. “Caine, have there been any other attacks like the one we just witnessed, by people who believe that your reports about exosapients are just lies intended to undermine the Bible?” Ironically, that was the moment when one of the protestors waved a placard showing a supposed alien: a long-armed gibbon with an ostrich neck, polygonal head, tendrils instead of fingers. Actually, it was a distressingly good likeness of the beings Caine had encountered on Dee Pee Three, prompting him to wonder, so who the hell is leaking that information?

The young reporter evidently did not like having to wait two seconds for an answer. “So Caine, exactly when did you decide to start undermining the Bible?”

Caine smiled. “I’ve never taken part in theological debates, and I have no plans to start doing so.”

A very short and immaculately groomed woman extended her palmcom like a rapier; Caine resisted the impulse to parry. “Mr. Riordan, the World Confederation Consuls have declined to confirm rumors that you personally reported the existence of the exosapients of Delta Pavonis Three at this April’s Parthenon Dialogues. However, CoDevCo Vice President R. J. Astor-Smath claims to have evidence that you were the key presenter on the last day of that meeting.”

Caine labored to keep the smile on his face. It would be just like Astor-Smath, or some other megacorporate factotum, to put the press back on my scent. But how the hell did they find me out here at Barnard’s Star? Caine prefaced his reply with a shrug. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with Mr. Astor-Smath’s comments, so–”

Another reporter pushed forward. “He made these remarks two months ago.” The reporter’s palmcom crackled as it projected Astor-Smath’s voice: composed, suave, faintly contemptuous. “I wish I could share more with you about the Parthenon Dialogues, but the late Admiral Nolan Corcoran prevented any megacorporation–including my own, the Colonial Development Combine–from attending. However, we do have reliable sources who place Mr. Riordan at the second day of the Parthenon Dialogues.”

Behind him, Caine heard a warning tone announce the imminent departure of the maglev passenger car. It would be ten minutes before the next would arrive, ten more minutes surrounded by harrying jackals. No thanks. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’ll have to excuse me.” So much for my “first command.” He started to turn back to the maglev car.

“One last question, Caine. Who’s your new girlfriend?”

Ensign Brahen started as if stuck by a pin. Caine turned back around, foregoing the escape via maglev. Instead, he searched for the source of the question, asking, “Besides being grossly unprofessional and misinformed, just why is that a relevant inquiry?”

“Well,” explained Mr. Bad-Skin Worse-Hair as he reemerged from the mass of faces and limbs, “we were expecting to see you with Captain Opal Patrone, your personal guard. And, some say, your personal geisha.”

Enough is enough. Caine planted his feet, kept his voice level, his diction clipped. “I feel compelled to point out that, in addition to raising a thoroughly inappropriate topic, you didn’t even manage to frame it as a question.” Caine looked out over the faces ringing him. “If there are any competent journalists here, I’m ready for their inquiries.”

The group quieted; the mood had changed. Their quarry had turned and bared teeth. Now, the hunt would be in earnest. The next jackal that jumped in tried to attack a different flank. “Mr. Riordan, is it true that you were present when Admiral Corcoran died after the Parthenon Dialogues?”

Caine pushed away the mixed emotions that Nolan’s name summoned. The ex-admiral-turned-clandestine-mastermind had arguably ruined Riordan’s life, but had also striven to make amends and forge an almost paternal bond. Caine heard himself reply, “No comment,” just as the maglev car rose, sighed away from the platform, and headed off with a down-dopplering hum.

“Mr. Riordan, do you have any insights into how Admiral Corcoran’s alleged ‘heart attack’ occurred?”

“Why do you call it an ‘alleged’ heart attack?”

“Well, it’s a rather strange coincidence, don’t you think? First, you were reportedly present for Admiral Corcoran’s heart attack in Greece, and then for the similarly fatal heart attack suffered by his Annapolis classmate and crony, Senator Arvid Tarasenko, less than forty-eight hours later in DC. Comment?”

“Firstly, I don’t recall any prior assertions that I was near Senator Tarasenko at the time of his death–”

“Well, an anonymous source puts you in his office just before–”

An anonymous source like Astor-Smath, I’ll bet. “Madam, until you have verifiable information from verifiable sources, I’m not disposed to comment on my whereabouts at that time. In the more general matter of the heart attacks of Misters Corcoran and Tarasenko, I cannot see any reasonable explanation except coincidence.” Which was superficially true; Caine had no other explanation for the heart attacks that had, within the span of two days, removed the two leaders of the shadowy organization which had sent him to Delta Pavonis Three: the Institute of Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Security, or IRIS. On the other hand, Caine remained convinced that the two deaths had been orchestrated. Somehow. “Timing aside, there’s not much surprising in either of these sad events. Admiral Corcoran never fully recovered from the coronary damage he suffered during the mission to intercept the doomsday rock twenty-six years ago. And Senator Tarasenko was not a thin man. His doctors’ warnings to watch his weight and cholesterol are a matter of public record.”

Tasting no blood, the jackals tried nipping at a different topic. “Mr. Riordan, our research shows that you spent most of the last fourteen years in cold sleep. And that your ‘friend’ Captain Opal Patrone was cryogenically suspended over fifty years ago. What prompted each of you to abandon the times in which you lived?”

As if choice had anything to do with it. “In the matter of the recently promoted Major Patrone, she’s the one you should ask her about her reasons.” Hard to do, since Opal’s on Earth by now. “But I can assure you that she did not ‘abandon’ her time period. She was severely wounded serving her country. In that era, her choice was between cryogenic suspension and death.”

“And your reason for sleeping into the future?”

“Is none of your business.” And is a non sequitur, since it wasn’t my choice. Caine had simply stumbled across IRIS’s secret activities, which had earned him an extended nap in a cold-cell. “Next question.”

“A follow-up on your long absence from society, sir. Some analysts have speculated that, as a person from another time, you were just the kind of untraceable operative needed for a covert survey and research mission to Dee Pee Three. What would you say in response to that speculation?”

Caine smiled, hoped it didn’t look as brittle as it felt. I’d say it’s too damned perceptive. Aloud: “I’d say they have excellent imaginations, and could probably have wonderful careers writing political thrillers.”

Bad-Skin Worse-Hair jumped back into the melee. “Stop evading the questions, Riordan. And stop playing the innocent. You knew that the Parthenon Dialogues were going to be biggest news-splash of the century. So did you also advise the World Confederation on how to shroud the Dialogues in enough secrecy to pump up the media-hype? Which in turn pumped up your consultancy fees?”

Caine stepped toward the young reporter, who hastily stepped back, apparently noticing for the first time that Caine’s rangy six-foot frame was two inches taller than his own and decidedly more fit. Riordan kept his voice low, calm. “It’s bad enough that you’re plying a trade for which you haven’t the aptitude or integrity, but you could at least check your conclusions against the facts. Without commenting one way or the other about my alleged involvement with the Parthenon Dialogues, it must be clear to anyone–even you–that the world leaders who attended were grappling with global issues of the utmost importance, and that the secrecy surrounding them was a policy decision, not a PR stunt. In short, whoever brought information to the Parthenon Dialogues may have delivered a sensational story, but not for sensational purposes.”

But if that admonishment curbed the jackals momentarily, Caine could already see signs that they would soon regroup and resume their hunt for an inconsistency into which they could sink their collective investigatory teeth. And there were still at least five minutes before the next passenger car arrived. Five minutes in which even these bumbling pseudo-sleuths might begin to realize that the real story was not to be found in the storm and fury of Parthenon itself, but rather, in the surreptitious actions that had been its silent and unnoticed prelude. They might begin asking how the mission to Delta Pavonis had come to be, and–in the necessary nebulousness of Caine’s responses–discern the concealed workings, and therefore existence, of some unseen agency. An agency that was unknown even to the world’s most extensive intelligence organizations–because its select membership dwelt amongst their very ranks. An agency, in short, like IRIS–

From behind Caine, the maglev rails hummed into life, braking and hushing the approach of a passenger car. Surprised by the early arrival of the train, Caine turned–and saw that this passenger car was a half-sized private model, furnished with tinted one-way windows. The pack of reporters fell silent as the doors hissed open–

–to reveal a shapely blonde woman, sitting at the precise center of the brushed chrome and black vinyl interior. She smiled. It was a familiar smile.

Caine grimaced.

Ensign Brahen looked from the woman to Caine. “Isn’t that Heather Kirkwood? Isn’t she a reporter? A real reporter? On Earth?”

Caine resisted the urge to close his eyes. “She is that. And worse.”

“Worse?”

“She’s my ex.”

“Your–?”

Heather cocked her head, showed a set of perfect teeth that were definitely more appealing–and far more ominous–than those possessed by the half-ring of jackals surrounding them. She crooked an index finger at Caine. “You coming? Or are you enjoying your impromptu press conference too much to leave?”

If possible, Ensign Brahen’s incredulous eyes opened even wider. “Do we go with her?”

Caine sighed. “Do we have a choice?” He led the way into the car.

   

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 28

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 28

PART III

July, 1635

What raging of the sea

Chapter 14

St. Kilda archipelago, North Atlantic

“Commander Cantrell, propellers are all-stop. Awaiting orders.”

Eddie Cantrell looked to his left. The ship’s nominal captain, Ove Gjedde, nodded faintly. It was his customary sign that his executive officer, Commander Cantrell, was free to give his orders autonomously. Eddie returned the nod, then aimed his voice back over his shoulder. “Secure propellers and prepare to lower the vent cover.”

“Securing propellers, aye. Ready to lower prop vent cover, aye.”

“And Mr. Svantner, send the word to cut steam. Let’s save that coal. “

“Aye, aye, sir. Cutting steam. Let free the reef bands, sir?”

Eddie looked at Gjedde again, who, by unspoken arrangement, reserved rigging and sail orders for himself. The sails had been reefed for the engine trials and with the engine no longer propelling the ship, it would soon begin to drift off course.

The weather-bitten Norwegian nodded once. Svantner saluted and went off briskly, shouting orders that were soon drowned out by the thundering rustle of the sails being freed and unfurled into the stiff wind blowing near the remote island of St. Kilda.

Well, technically speaking, they were just off the sheer and rocky north coast of the island of Hirta, largest and most populous islet of the St. Kilda archipelago. If you could call any landmass with less than two hundred people ‘populous.’ But even that small settlement was pretty impressive, given how far off St. Kilda was from — well, from everything. Over fifty miles from the northwesternmost island of the already-desolate Outer Hebrides, and almost 175 miles north of Ireland, Hirta and the rest of the islands of the group were, for all intents and purposes, as isolated as if they had been on the surface of another planet. And, since it was rumored that most of the inhabitants were still as influenced by druidic beliefs as by Christianity, it was not an exaggeration to say that, even though the natives of St. Kilda did dwell on the same planet, they certainly did inhabit a different world.

“Commander Cantrell, there you are! I’m sorry I’m late. I was detained below decks. Paying my respects to your lovely wife and her ladies.”

Eddie swiveled around on his false heel. Time at sea had taught him, even with his excellent prosthetic leg, not to lose contact with the deck. “And you are” — he tried to recall the face of the man, couldn’t, guessed from context — “Lieutenant Bjelke, I presume?”

The man approaching — tall, lithe, with a long nose and long hair that was several shades redder than Eddie’s own — offered a military bow, and tottered a bit as the ship rolled through a higher swell. “That is correct, sir. I tried to present myself to you immediately upon coming aboard, but I found myself embarrassingly, er, indisposed.”

Eddie smiled, noticed that Bjelke’s pallor was not just the result of pale Nordic skin, but a manful, ongoing struggle against sea-sickness. “Is that why you did not attempt transfer to this ship until today, Mr. Bjelke? Waiting for good weather?”

Bjelke, although only twenty, returned the smile with a courtier’s polish. Which was only logical: his father, Jens, had been the Norwegian Chancellor for more than twenty years and was certainly one of the nation’s wealthiest nobles. If one measured his stature in terms of influence rather than silver, he was arguably its most powerful lord, having been given the Hanseatic city of Bergen as his personal fief just last year. Henrik Bjelke had, therefore, grown up surrounded by wealth, influence, and ministers of etiquette.

Fortunately, his father was also a fair and industrious man, having studied widely abroad and now compiling the first dictionary of the Norwegian language. And Henrik, his second son, had apparently inherited his sire’s talents and tastes for scholarship. Originally bound for the University in Padova, the arrival of Grantville had caught both Henrik’s interest and imagination. Like many other adventurous sons (and no small number of daughters) of European noble houses, he had gone there to read in the up-time library, augmenting that education with classes and seminars at the nearby University of Jena. It was perhaps predictable that he was assigned as Eddie’s adjutant and staff officer, as much because of Christian’s keen interest in the young Norwegian as Bjelke’s own unfulfilled desires to pursue a military career. He had ultimately done so quite successfully in the up-time world of Eddie’s birth, also rising to become the head of the Danish Admiralty.

However, Bjelke’s familiarity with things nautical had been a later-life acquisition. For the moment, it was clearly a mighty struggle for him just to maintain the at-sea posture that was the down-time equivalent of ‘at ease’ in the presence of a superior officer with whom one had familiarity (and with whom the difference in rank was not too profound). Eddie discovered he was inordinately cheered by Rik’s unsteadiness. At last! someone with even less shipboard experience than me! He gestured to the rail.

Bjelke gratefully accompanied the young up-timer to the rail, but stared at it for a moment before putting his hand upon it. The ‘rail’ was actually comprised of two distinct parts, one of iron, one of wood. The iron part consisted of two chains that ran where the bulkhead should be, each given greater rigidity by passing tautly through separate eyelets in vertical iron stanchions. Those stanchion were form-cut to fit neatly into brass-cupped holes along the bulwark line, and thus could be removed at will.

However, mounted atop those stanchions, and stabilizing themselves by a single descending picket that snugged into a low wooden brace affixed to the deck, was a light wooden rail. Each section of the rail was affixed to its fore and aft neighbors by a sleeve that surrounded a tongue-in-groove mating of the two separate pieces, held tight by a brass pin that passed through them both at that juncture. Henrik tentatively leaned his weight upon it. It was quite firm. “Ingenious,” he murmured admiring the modular wooden rail sections and ignoring the chain-and-stanchion railing. “Your work, Commander?”

Eddie shrugged. “I had a hand in it.”

Bjelke smiled slowly. “Modesty is rare in young commanders, my elders tell me, but is a most promising sign. I am fortunate to have you as a mentor, Commander Cantrell.”

Eddie kept from raising an eyebrow. Well, Henrik Bjelke had certainly revealed more than a little about himself, and his role vis-a-vis Eddie, in those “innocent” comments. Firstly, the young Norwegian obviously knew the ship upon which this vessel had been heavily based — the USS Hartford of the American Civil War — since he was not surprised by the presence of what would otherwise have been the wholly novel chain-and-stanchion railing arrangement, which reduced dangers from gunwale splinters and, in the case of close targets, could be quickly removed to extend the lower range of the deck guns’ maximum arc of elevation. However, Bjelke had pointedly not been expecting the modular wooden rail inserts that Eddie had designed for greater deck safety when operating on the high seas. That bespoke a surprisingly detailed knowledge of the ship’s design origins, even for a clever young man who’d spent more than a year in the library at Grantville.

Secondly, Bjelke confidently identified the innovation as Eddie’s, which suggested that he’d been well-briefed about the technological gifts of the young American. Which went along with the implication that his elders considered Cantrell a most promising officer.

And that likely explained the third interesting bit of information: that Henrik Bjelke had not been encouraged to look at this assignment as merely a military posting, but as an apprenticeship of sorts.

And all those nuances, having a common emphasis on familiarization with up-timers and their knowledge, seemed to point in one direction: straight at His Royal Danish Majesty Christian IV.

Eddie had to hand it to his half-souse, half-genius regal father-in-law: USE emperor and Swedish sovereign Gustav Adolf might be running around physically conquering various tracts of Central Europe, but Christian had launched his own, highly successful campaign of collecting and captivating the hearts and minds of persons who were poised to become high-powered movers and shakers of the rising generation. His son Ulrik was betrothed to Gustav’s young daughter. His daughter Anne Cathrine was married to the most high-profile war-hero-techno wizard from now-legendary Grantville. And now, he had added sharp-witted Henrik Bjelke to the mix.

And that addition brought distinct value-added synergies to many of King Christian’s prior social machinations. Bjelke’s appointment no doubt bought the gratitude of various influential Norwegians, who had, so far, been the ‘forgotten poor cousin’ of the reconstituted Union of Kalmar between Sweden and Denmark. Bjelke’s appointment also provided Eddie with a gifted aide who was unusually familiar with up-time manners and technology, and who no doubt understood that this mentorship was an extraordinary opportunity to put himself on a political and military fast-track.

Of course, thus indebted to Christian, it was also to be expected that Henrik Bjelke, willing or not, would also serve as the Danish king’s — well, not spy, exactly, but certainly his dedicated observer. And lastly, the bold Bjelke might just be valiant enough to help save Eddie’s life at some point during the coming mission, thereby ensuring that Christian’s daughter did not become a widow and that the familial connection to the up-timers remained intact. Alternatively, Bjelke, learning up-time ways and now having first-hand access to up-time technology, might also make a reasonable replacement husband for a widowed Anne Cathrine. Yup, the old Danish souse-genius had sure gamed out all the angles on this appointment.

About which Eddie reasoned he had best learn everything he could. “So what do they call you at home, Lieutenant Bjelke?”

“At — at home, Commander?”

“Yes. You know, the place you live.” Although, Eddie realized a moment later, that the son of Jens Bjelke wouldn’t have just one home. More like one home for every month of the year…

But that didn’t impede the young Norwegian’s understanding of Eddie’s intent. “Ah, my familiar name! I’m Rik, sir. An amputated version of my proper name, so that I might not be confused with all the other Henriks in our family and social circles. Not very dignified, I’m afraid.”

Eddie smiled. “Well, I’m not very dignified myself, so that suits me just fine, Rik. You got attached to the flotilla pretty much at the last second, I seem to recall.”

Bjelke’s gaze wavered. “Yes, sir. There were impediments to overcome.”

“Impediments? Political?”

“Familial, I’m afraid. My father does not share in my enthusiasm for a military career.”

Hm. Given the scanty biographical sources from up-time, that might actually be the truth, rather than a clever way of explaining away what might have been a maneuver by Christian IV to get Bjelke added to the flotilla without Simpson or Eddie having enough time to conduct research on his possible ties to the Danish court. What Christian had either not planned upon, or simply couldn’t outflank, was the possibility that Simpson and Eddie had compiled dossiers on all possibly mission-relevant personnel without waiting for assignment rosters.

Which they had done. It had been time-consuming, but worth it. Although Eddie lacked any detailed information on many of the flotilla’s senior officers and leaders, he had a thumbnail sketch on most of them. In fact, Ove Gjedde was the only notable exception.

Eddie nodded understanding at Bjelke’s professed plight. “But your father finally listened to your appeals?”

Rik blushed profoundly, and Eddie could have hugged him: and he blushes faster and redder than I do, too! Damn, even if he is a spy, it’s almost worthwhile having him around so that another officer looks and acts even more like the boy next door than I do! But Eddie kept his expression somber as Bjelke explained. “My father remained deaf to my appeals for military experience — but not to King Christian’s.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 27

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 27

“Yes,” said Ruben, twirling his moustache, “we have heard the same thing. Largely, because we spread those rumors ourselves.”

Preston gaped. “You what?”

Maria Anna leaned forward; Preston tried to ignore the way it compressed her bosom. “Colonel, the privations of your people have never been intentional, but in the last two months, we discovered that they leant credence to the belief in Paris that our grasp upon your continued loyalty was weak, and that certain members of the Wild Geese were indeed finding it necessary to seek employment elsewhere. To be more specific, to seek employment with the French themselves.”

Preston felt heat rise in his face. “Your Highness, one of us did. The very best of us, some might say. Hugh Albert O’Donnell may have fed us, but he did it by agreeing to serve Turenne. Turenne! He’s Richelieu’s hand-picked military favorite. If the Earl of Tyrconnell will take service with the French, then why shouldn’t they think more of us will follow? And sixty of us did, the ones who went with O’Donnell.”

“And whose service there fed you,” Isabella observed from behind gnarled knuckles folded before her on the table.

“Yes, Your Grace, but at what cost? Where was Hugh when the Pope was threatened? Where does he tarry, now that he is the last earl of Ireland, the last hope of his people? Where has he been since late in April?”

“Evidently working for his employer,” Rubens observed smoothly.

“Yes, evidently. Abandoning us to work for the French. Which makes him, for all intents and purposes, a traitor!”

Isabella was on her feet in a single motion, cane brandished in one hand, the other pointing in quavering fury at Preston — or maybe at the word “traitor,” which seemed to hover invisible in the air. “You call Hugh Albert O’Donnell a traitor?” she cried.

Preston stood his ground. “Your Grace, if he serves your traditional enemy, that makes him — “

With a swiftness that belied her age, her infirmity, her arthritis and the grey habit of her order, she dashed her cane down upon the table: the heavy oak rod splintered with a crash. “A traitor?!” she shrieked, livid. “How dare you say — how dare you think — such a thing!”

The room was not merely silent, but frozen, all eyes on the trembling, imperial, terrible old woman who had risen up like a wrathful god from an elder age to silence them all with her fury and undiminished, magnificent passion.

Preston swallowed, but did not avert his eyes. “Your Grace, I mean no disrespect, but how are Lord O’Donnell’s actions not those of a traitor? Before Philip set Borja upon Rome, before the Pope was threatened and John O’Neill was slain, he turned back all his honors and Spanish titles and went to work for France. For France, Your Grace. Your enemy, Spain’s enemy — and now, his employer. How is that not traitorous?”

“Colonel Preston, do you truly not see any other way to interpret Lord O’Donnell’s actions?” When Preston shook his head, Isabella continued. “Hugh was the only one of you Wild Geese except Lord O’Neill who was made a naturalized Spanish citizen by the Crown, who became a knight, and a fellow of the court at Madrid. But then, when he saw that the same Crown never intended to make good its promises and debts to you and your countrymen, I understand that he came to your camp incognito, and explained his dilemma. Specifically, what response could he make if Philip had asked him, as an intimate of the court and loyal gentleman of Spain, to function as Madrid’s special factotum and commander here? Which, given the current situation, could mean leading either his, or Spanish, tercios against those loyal to me, if Philip’s displeasure with the Lowlands were to become so great. Was Lord O’Donnell to obey orders to attack me, or to attack you and his fellow countrymen, if that is how the loyalties of such a moment played out?”

Preston felt as though the chair he was seated in had been turned upside down. Or the world had. Or both.

“Think it through, Colonel. Lord O’Donnell had to step down from his post. And in doing so, it was incumbent upon him to return the beneficences he had received, and remove himself from Spanish territory. But not before he visited his men and yours, and enjoined you to think carefully to whom your allegiance would lie if faced with the eventualities that now seem to be hastening upon us. Philip is already attempting to compromise our non-Spanish tercios.”

“Your Grace, all this I see plainly. But — France? Why not some other power? Why our old foe?”

Isabella reseated herself slowly. It was an almost leonine action, despite her age. “Because, it is through our old foe that he will orchestrate a solution to both your problem and our problem: money. Enough money for the Lowlands to survive without recourse to Madrid’s coffers. Enough money for your families to eat, and your men to have ample coin in their pockets.”

Preston knew the room wasn’t spinning, but at the moment, it felt as though it was. “And how will Hugh’s service to France make possible this solution? And why has he not communicated this to us, as well as to you? My Grace, I mean no offense, but we are his countrymen: why has he not reassured us with the particulars of his plan?”

Isabella closed her eyes. “Because it is not his plan. It is ours. And I,” — she opened eyes suddenly bright and liquid, but from which she refused to let tears run down — “and I could not tell him of it.”

“But why? If he doesn’t know how serving the French will more profoundly serve us, then by what inducement has he left us to — ?”

Maria Anna silenced him with a small, sly smile. “My good Colonel Preston, I counsel you not to let these unexplained — and apparently inexplicable — events perturb you. You will note they do not perturb us. Indeed, our plans are well set. But it is often necessary that a cog spinning in one part of a complex machine has no knowledge of how its peers are turning elsewhere in the same device.”

Preston frowned at her words, heard two of Isabella’s sentences once again in his head: It is not his plan, it is ours. And I dare not tell him of it. Implying that the truly ignorant cog in Maria Anna’s machination was not Preston, but O’Donnell himself.

And he felt the oblique implication strike him so hard and so suddenly that the room seemed to tilt momentarily. Had O’Donnell’s apparent defection been planned? Had he been maneuvered into it so that he was then a properly situated, yet unknowing, piece of some larger stratagem?

He looked quickly at Isabella, who was looking intently at him. He did not see canniness; he saw —

Love. Maternal love. Intense, irrational, desperate. But why would she do such a thing to O’Donnell, unless it was — ?

To save him. Of course. Now it made sense. And suddenly Preston saw how, since the arrival of the up-timers and their library’s revelation of the duplicity of the Spanish in regard to their Irish servitors, that the grand dame of European statecraft had realized that in order for her cherished god-child to survive — and thrive — she would have to shift the game board so that he could weather the change in fortunes.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. It was clear enough that, in the days before the up-timers, she had, every step of the way, protected him, groomed him, got him a knighthood. Of course, then Father Florence Conry had almost ruined it all with his hare-brained proposal to invade Ireland. But whereas the priest had envisioned a force jointly led by the Earls O’Donnell and O’Neill and the predictable codominium that would arise in its wake, Madrid had embraced a different solution. Philip was no fool, and he had the benefit of the Count-Duke of Olivares’ advice, to boot. So Philip had summoned young O’Donnell, knighted him in an order more prestigious than O’Neill’s (which had been Isabella’s intent), but then chose him to lead the Irish expedition alone. It was a politically prudent choice, one which Isabella had not expected, probably due to the O’Donnell’s youth, and his clan’s less storied name. But the king and his counselor had seen the qualities, and restraint, in the younger man that would make him both a more capable general of armies and a more capable revolutionary orator than his mercurial peer, O’Neill.

But, since the invasion never came off (largely derailed by Isabella herself, as Preston recalled), the only lasting effect of all this maneuvering was that it ensured that the already difficult relation between O’Donnell and O’Neill became as bad and bitter as it could be. It hadn’t helped that, in addition to simply choosing the younger over the older, Philip and Olivares had made their assessment of Hugh’s superior qualities well known at court, and thereby, throughout Europe.

So Isabella had saved her godson from the disastrous invasion, just as she had taken pains to ensure that he was college-educated, naturalized, knighted, and furnished with a tremendously advantageous marriage. All done to both ensure his success, and ensure his survival. A target of English assassins since birth, the higher Hugh O’Donnell’s station became, the more pause it gave to those who sent murderers across the Channel: were they plotting the death of a renegade member of the Irish royalty, or an immigrated Spanish gentleman? The former was an affair of no account, but the latter could easily become an international incident, and was therefore best avoided.

And having thus protected and provided for her charge, Isabella of the up-time history had died in 1633, presumably satisfied that she had seen him safely married with a title and land. But within the year, those plans had come undone, here as there. His wife having died without producing surviving issue, he lost more than his love; he lost the land and titles that were to have been his. In that world, with his godmother dead, he had had little choice but to do what he might as the colonel of his own tercio. That he had recruited and commanded well there no less than here, that much was clear. But there, Fernando had evidently inherited Philip’s utilitarian attitudes toward the Irish, and had spent them like water. Which was sadly prudent, Preston had to admit. After all, as the opportunity to reclaim Ireland became an ever-thinner tissue of lies, the Spanish masters of the Wild Geese feared that they would be increasingly susceptible to subornation by other, rival powers. And so the last of them were sent to Spain, and then to their destruction in putting down the Catalan revolt that began in 1640.

But what about in this altered world, where Hugh had no future with Spain and none in the Lowlands either unless it officially broke with Madrid? What place for O’Donnell? Indeed, Preston realized with a sudden chill up his back, what place for the Wild Geese, for Ireland? And evidently, the old girl Isabella had hatched a scheme to correct some, maybe all, of these problems. But it was a scheme so deep, and probably so devious, that it had to be kept from one of its primary executors: Hugh Albert O’Donnell.

Isabella had obviously seen the understanding in Preston’s eyes. “So you see, now.”

The Irish colonel swallowed, nodded. “I believe I do, Your Grace. Just one question. Is there something my people, my Wild Geese, can do to help?”

“You already have.”

Preston started. “I have?”

“Specifically, four hundred of the men of Lord O’Donnell’s tercio have. They were not sent to garrison in Antwerp as you, and they, were originally told. They were sent there to board ships and have now joined a task force in order to fulfill their part in our plan.”

Preston was too stunned to feel stunned. “And if they succeed?”

Fernando leaned forward. “If they succeed, our futures are secure. Both yours and ours. For many, many years to come.”

“And if they fail?”

Isabella sat erect. “Colonel Preston, I am surprised at that question. Tell me, as the most senior officer of my Irish Wild Geese, how often have they ever failed me?”

“Only a very few times, Your Grace. But their determination in your service has a dark price, too.”

“Which is?”

“That, rather than retreat, they die trying.”

Isabella sat back heavily, looking every year of her age. She responded to Preston — “I know, Colonel, I know” — but her eyes were far away and seamed with worry.

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 26

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 26

Chapter 13

Brussels, The Spanish Lowlands

“So the Spanish tried to kill the Pope? And did kill John O’Neill in Rome?”

Thomas Preston, oldest officer among the Irish Wild Geese who served in the Lowlands, and Maestro-de-campo of the eponymous Preston Tercio, stared back at the group which had summoned him and delivered this shocking news. Seated at the center was Fernando, King in the Low Countries and brother of Philip IV of Spain. To his right was Maria Anna of the House of Hapsburg, Fernando’s wife and sister of Emperor Ferdinand of Austria. And sitting to one side, but in the largest, most magnificent chair of all of them, was the grand dame of European politics herself, the Archduchess Infanta Isabella, still an authority in the Lowlands and aunt of both Fernando and Philip. And therefore, Preston’s employer for the last twenty years. Oh, and then there was Rubens, the artist and intelligencer, sitting far to one side of the power-holding troika that ruled here in Brussels.

Maria Anna leaned forward slightly. “Colonel Preston, I assure you, my husband would not tell you such things unless they were true.”

“Your Highness, I apologize. I did not intend that response as a sign of doubt, but of disbelief. It is shocking news, to say the least.”

Fernando nodded. “To us, also, Colonel. And that is why we asked you to meet us alone. It may cause, er, unrest in the Irish tercios, if it comes to them as rumor. Coming from you, however, we might hope for a different reception.”

Thomas Preston shifted in his suddenly-uncomfortable seat. “Your Highness, the reception might be somewhat different — but not as different as if it came from one of the Old Irish colonels.”

Maria Anna’s eyebrows raised in curiosity. “‘Old’ Irish?”

“Yes, Your Highness. My family name, as you are probably aware, is not an Irish name at all, but English. That makes us Prestons ‘New’ Irish, associated with the old, pre-Reformation landlords who eventually married into the Irish families. We are often wealthier than our Old Irish neighbors — which makes us suspect to begin with, I fear — but no amount of money will ever equate to having ancient Gaelic roots, to being one of the families whose names are routinely associated with the High Kingship’s tanists –”

“The tanists?” Maria Anna echoed.

It was Isabella herself who answered. “The royal families of Ireland designate one of their number as chief among them. And it is usually from among these that, in elder times, the current king’s successor — the tanist — was chosen.”

“Ah,” breathed Rubens, “so this is why Hugh O’Neill the Elder was known as ‘The O’Neill’. He was the chieftain of that dynasty and all those subordinate to it.”

“That is my understanding, but I suspect that Colonel Preston would add details I have missed or misunderstood. Most pertinent to our concerns, though, is that there are — or were — only two scions of the royal houses remaining free, outside Ireland, who had clear entitlement to becoming tanists of the vacant throne: the recently deceased John O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, and Hugh O’Donnell, the Earl of Tyrconnell.”

“Attainted Earls, my grace,” added Rubens.

“Yes, yes,” she replied testily, “so the English have it. The same English who just happened to steal Ireland from its own people, and whose attainting of its few remaining nobles is merely the conclusive legalistic coda to their campaign of usurpation and rapine. It is not as if any legitimate monarch on the Continent, Catholic or Protestant, cares a whit for the juridical rationalizations of England’s theft of a whole nation. But let us return to Colonel Preston’s point. The Old Irish will, unfortunately, not hear this news as well from him as they would from one of the survivors of their royal families. But there is nothing to be done about that. The last O’Neill, who is not directly in the line of titular inheritance, is Owen Roe, and he now commands the Pope’s new bodyguard. The last O’Donnell is my godson, Hugh Albert, and he is — ” She paused, either catching her breath or mastering a quaver in her voice: Preston could not determine which. ” — is engaged in other matters and unable to return at present.”

Preston sat straighter. Whereas John O’Neill had been insufferable, and Owen Roe tolerable, Hugh O’Donnell had been a good fellow: clever, a shrewd soldier, well-educated, well-spoken, and without regal airs. So why the hell wasn’t he here? He’d disappeared in April, and now, when he was needed most —

“Colonel Preston,” Fernando articulated carefully, as if aware that he would have to reacquire the mercenary’s attention before continuing.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“I should add that news of the Earl of Tyrone’s death, and the attempt on the Pope’s life, are only precursors to the primary reason I asked you to join us today.”

“Precursors, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Firstly, I welcome you to share your opinion on how your men will receive the news. This is material to the next matter we must discuss.”

“Well, Your Majesty, I am not one to make predictions, especially not in regard to my own somewhat mercurial countrymen. But I feel sure of this: ever since news came that Urban had been forcibly removed — rather, ‘chased out’ — of the Holy See, and was being actively pursued by Borja’s own cardinal-killing Spaniards, every one of my senior officers has expressed their support for Urban. When they learn that Borja and his Spanish army tried to murder the Pope and killed John O’Neill while he was trying to rescue an up-timer and his pregnant wife . . . Well, let’s say my biggest concern will be to make sure that they don’t start picking fights with our ‘comrades’ in your own Spanish tercios.”

Fernando raised a finger. “You happen to have used an interesting turn of phrase, Colonel Preston. In fact, those Spanish tercios are not mine, they are my brother’s. They are on Spanish payroll, direct from Madrid.”

Preston heard Fernando’s tone shift, heard it move from the full-voiced, natural cadences of a frank conversation into one laced with slower, quieter insinuations. Careful, now, Thomas. When a well-manicured Spanish gentleman starts addressing his topics on the slant, you can be sure there’s a snake in the grass somewhere nearby. “Yes, Your Highness,” Preston agreed carefully, “the Spanish are paid directly from Spanish coffers. Unlike us.”

Fernando smiled. “Precisely. Unlike you.” And then he looked down the table at Rubens.

Which told Thomas Preston that now he was going to hear the real dirt, the snaky facts of real politick that Fernando could not afford to utter with his own lips. That way, if later asked to admit or deny having mentioned those facts, he could offer a technically truthful denial. Kings: even the best of them had a bit of viper’s blood running in their veins. Thomas supposed they’d be dead, if they didn’t.

Ruben moved his considerable bulk closer to the broad, gleaming table at which they all sat. “Colonel Preston, given recent events, we are concerned that this year, when the time comes for our hired troops to renew their oaths to Spain, that there may be, er, resistance in your ranks, particularly.”

Preston waved a dismissive hand. “Then let’s skip the renewal of the oath. After all, it has no explicit term limit. The renewal is symbolic.”

“Yes, and it is a most important symbol. So, in order to preserve that symbol and yet also preserve the genuine loyalty of the four tercios of Wild Geese that are the ever-stalwart backbone and defenders of this realm, we have come up with a reasonable expedient: to simply change the oath.”

“Change the oath?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“This year, when you take the oath, it will omit the reference to the Archduchess Isabella as being Philip’s vassal. You will take your oath to her as you have for twenty years, but without mentioning King Philip of Spain.” Rubens paused, his eyes sought Preston’s directly. “I presume you see the political practicality of this adjustment?”

Oh, I see it, painter. I see everything you hope I’ll see without your having to say it. On the surface, the change of oath was just to minimize any possibility of disaffection or departure arising from any mention of direct fealty to the increasingly unpopular King of Spain. But, there was an underlying subtlety which, Preston was quite sure, was the real intent of the change of oath. We’ll only be swearing fealty to Isabella. And, unless I’m much mistaken, to her nephew.

Rubens’ next words confirmed his suspicions. “However, as a precaution, we will not point out the fact — which could be easily misconstrued, of course — that, in agreeing to renew your oaths to Her Grace the Infanta, that your service is most likely to be commanded by her nephew, whom she has been pleased to confirm as the senior power in her lands. So, although you now also serve the King in the Low Countries, that additional, extrapolative detail will remain unadvertised. For the moment.”

Yes, for the moment. But Preston had been a pawn on the chessboard where kings played their games for many decades and could see where this political compass was pointing. With the oaths of the Wild Geese transferred directly to Fernando, their obedience and their fates were locked to him, not to Spain. Yes, technically Fernando was still a vassal of Spain, but how long that would continue was debatable. And so, when and if the Lowlands became fully and officially separate from the throne in Madrid, the Irish tercios would follow suit. And they would indeed comprise the loyal core of its army, since Philip’s tercios in the Lowlands would most assuredly not follow the same path. But, problematically, they would still be in the same country. Preston flinched at the thought of his tercio squaring off against their former Spanish counterparts. That would be a bloody, internecine business indeed —  

“Is this change in the oath acceptable to you and your men, Colonel Preston?” Rubens asked. His small eyes did not blink.

“I will have to put it to them. However, given recent events, I think it will not only be acceptable but preferable. However, they will ask a question I cannot answer: how will they be paid? Already, the reales from Spain are few and far between. If it wasn’t for the deal Hugh O’Donnell struck with the Frenchman Turenne, earlier this year, I don’t know what we would have done for food these past three months. But that supply is almost over — and truth be told, I was never comfortable with the arrangement.”

“And why is that?” Maria Anna asked.

“Because, your Highness, until France and Madrid cooperated at the Battle of Dunkirk, the French had been the enemies of this realm, ever threatening the southern borders of the Brabant. I should know; I spent many months in garrison there, over the years. And then suddenly we are at peace — but it’s a peace which is already fraying. So in taking bread from Turenne, we took bread from a past, and very possibly future, adversary of this court. I was not comfortable condoning it, but I was less comfortable seeing my men’s families starve. So when O’Donnell arranged it by serving Turenne along with sixty of the men of his tercio, I had little choice but to accept it. And, I must speak frankly, it brought trouble along with it.”

“Oh?” asked Rubens. “What kind of trouble?”

“French trouble, Your Grace. Their agents have been lurking around our camps, letting it be known that the king of France is hiring mercenaries, and can pay them in hard coin, not cabbages and watered beer.”

Rubens looked at the ruling troika. They just kept watching Preston. None of them blinked, but Maria Anna might have suppressed a small smile.

Rubens rotated one thumb around the other. “And have any of your men left our service for theirs?”

“No, but I worry that they may. I’ve heard rumors — rumors from this court — that some nobles here speak ill of us Wild Geese, say that we should be grateful for the scraps we’re given, and that some of us are already taking service with the French.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 25

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 25

“Yes, it does. It also assumes that Tromp’s stated intent to abandon Recife was not disinformation. But that seems very unlikely. Deceiving the Spanish on that point wouldn’t buy him any durable advantage. In a few months’ time, the Spanish would learn that he hadn’t left, would blockade Recife, and grind him down. With the Dutch fleet in tatters, there’s no relief force to be sent. And with the Spanish blockading every Dutch port worthy of the name, there’s no reliable way to send the colonies messages, either.”

“So let’s consider the three reasonable options. Curaçao is perilously close to the Spanish Main, just north of the path of the inbound treasure fleet. A great location from which to hunt the Spanish, but not a great location in which to hide from them. And the colony on Tobago is small. Too small: one hundred and fifty persons, at most.”

Eddie nodded. “So, St. Eustatia.”

Simpson nodded. “Exactly. St. Eustatia is in the middle of the Leeward Islands. So it’s out of the way and not much visited by the Spanish. Yet history shows that, in time, ‘Statia’s central location could make it a powerful trading hub, once the traffic in the Caribbean picks up in intensity. It’s also small enough to be defensible, but not so small as to be a rock from which there is no escape.”

Eddie nodded. “Yes, Admiral, it all makes sense, but I’m still worried that even our last word of the Caribbean — from the Dutch fluyt Koninck David — still didn’t include any mention of Tromp. Or much about St. Eustatia at all.”

Simpson shrugged. “As I remember the report, the Koninck David left the Straits of Florida for its return to Europe in August. They wouldn’t have been anywhere near ‘Statia for half a year before that, in all likelihood. And although they didn’t have any reassuring news for us, the American with them, young Phil Jenkins, also reported that the Spanish presence in the area was still pretty sparse. Which is historically consistent: until the Spanish were significantly challenged, they remained pretty close to their fortified ports and key colonies. With the abandoning of Recife, all the Dutch colonies are, practically speaking, off the beaten path. And St. Eustatia more than the other two.”

“I agree that’s where Admiral Tromp is likely to be, Admiral — if he’s anywhere at all.”

“What are you implying, Commander?”

Eddie produced one of the many history books he’d been poring over for the last several weeks. “I’m implying that in this period, the Spanish are realizing the need to establish the Armada de Barlovento, the squadron that enforces their territorial claim over the entirety of the Caribbean. If the ships that survived Dunkirk left Recife with even half of the ships that were already there, that’s still a major force in the Caribbean. Too major for the Spanish to ignore, if they detect it.”

“If they detect it — a very big if, commander. But your point is well-taken. Even though our history books show that the Armada de Barlovento is fairly anemic right now, events since our arrival may have already led the Spanish to resharpen its teeth in this timeline. If so — well, then heed the Department of Economic Resource’s exhortations, commander: remember that this is a recon mission only, and not to get embroiled in close range gun duels with the Spanish.”

“Or pirates.”

Simpson smiled. “Or them either.” He stood. “Commander, I think that concludes the day’s business. And unless I’m much mistaken, you have a lot of paperwork and correspondence ahead of you yet.” He raised a salute.

Eddie jumped up, snapped a crisp response. “Yes, sir. Looks like I’ll be burning the midnight oil. Again.” And with that, he pivoted about on his false foot and made for the door, deciding that tonight he’d definitely need to use his remaining coffee ration. Definitely.

*     *     *

Simpson’s eyes remained on the door as it closed behind Eddie Cantrell and then strayed to the folder on his desk marked “Reconnaissance Flotilla X-Ray (Cantrell)”. He resisted the urge to open it yet again and inspect its ever-changing roster of ships. Each new diplomatic, military, or resource wrinkle in the USE seemed to make themselves felt as revisions to the complement of hulls. And with every week that Flotilla X-Ray’s departure had been delayed, its size and composition shifted.

Its original composition had been sufficient for its originally simple mission. And likewise, Eddie had been the only possible candidate for the flotilla’s senior up-time officer. Indeed, he had as much naval combat experience as any other up-timer (with the exception of Simpson himself). However, that experience was paltry by comparison to the great majority of the flotilla’s down-time captains and commanders, who had spent most of their lives at sea. Many began as common sailors working “before the mast,” and during some parts of their careers just about all of them had traded broadsides with their sovereigns’ foes. Although the down-time naval officers who had been training for the mission clearly respected Eddie for his combat experience and storied daring, they also were very much aware that he was a relative newcomer to their profession, and was almost completely unfamiliar with the nuances of the sailing vessels upon which they themselves had grown to manhood and in which they were infinitely more at home than any place ashore.

What Eddie had in lieu of their profound nautical skill — as much from his up-time reading and gaming as from recent training — was an innate sense of the tempo and requirements of a flotilla operating under steam power. He was the only officer in Flotilla X-Ray who had that almost instinctual insight. Even those down-time crewmen who had been intensely trained in the technical branches, and who had long ago outstripped him in the expertise specific to any given subsystem of Simpson’s new navy, still lacked his totalized sense of how all those complex parts fit and flowed together, producing both incredible synergies of military power, but also incredible vulnerabilities to breakdowns in either machinery or logistics.

Simpson kept staring at the folder, kept resisting the impulse to open it and reassure himself that Eddie was being given an adequate force to complete his mission and to be able to overmaster or outrun any foes that might present themselves. After all, the admiral told himself, feeling sheepish as he echoed the Department of Economic Resources, it was a simple recon mission. There was nothing to worry about. So what if Reconnaissance Flotilla X-Ray was bound for the New World, beyond the limits of the USE’s power to help, or even readily communicate with it? The flotilla was still fundamentally a shake-down cruise for the first production models of Simpson’s first generation of steam-powered warships. They, usually with Eddie on-board, had been put through extensive sea-trials, and, except for a few quirks, had performed admirably — even superbly, if Simpson were to say so himself. They were good ships, and Eddie was a good, if young, officer.

Simpson studied the flaps of the folder, edges dirty with the wear of his worried fingers, of his impatient thumbs prying back the dull covers. Commander Cantrell and the rest of the flotilla would simply conduct the preparatory operations in the Gulf and the Caribbean and then, when the time was right, Admiral John Chandler Simpson would bring over his new navy of mature, second generation ships, as shiny and lethal a weapon as this world had yet seen.

The consequent “pacification” of rivals in the New World would ready his blue water fleet for the more serious and definitive battles that it would almost certainly have to fight against one or more of the armadas of the Old World. It was impossible to foresee which nation, or collection thereof, would ultimately find the rise of the USE so intolerable a phenomenon that it would feel compelled to correct that trend in the most decisive manner possible: a no-holds-barred confrontation of navies. But in the dynamics of the rise and fall of nations, the uncertainties regarding such conflicts had never been if they would occur, but rather with whom, and when, and where.

That thought, however, made Simpson’s eyes wander to the thinner folder lying alongside the one for Flotilla X-Ray. This one was marked with a white triangle: an intel synopsis, containing a review of pending threats that might require naval intervention, sooner or later. France, Spain, even the Ottomans, could conceivably stir up enough trouble to keep Simpson’s larger, finished fleet from a timely deployment to the New World. However, none of those powers appeared to be disposed or deployed to do so.

But then again, John Chandler Simpson knew that appearances could be deceiving and that the only thing certain about the future was that there was never, ever, anything certain about it.

He pushed the folders away, rested his chin on his hand, stared at the door through which Eddie Cantrell had exited, and succumbed to his now-habitual array of worries — half of which were common to all commanders of young men regardless of the time or place of the conflict, and half of which were the dark legacy of every father who had ever sent a son to fight a war in a distant land.

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 24

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 24

Eddie shrugged. “Sir, your gamble to wait and get us more goodies may not have panned out, but that’s in the nature of gambling, wouldn’t you agree? If you had been right, we’d be leaving here with more combat power, and a mission which would have represented a much more complete test of the ships and systems you’re planning to shift into standard production. And if the rotary drill had been ready, the cash back on the venture — and the need to rapidly expand our maritime capacity to capitalize on it — would have given you all the clout you needed for what you want. All the clout and more, I should say.”

Simpson looked at Eddie squarely. The younger man wondered if that calm gaze was what the admiral’s version of gratitude looked like. “You have a generous and forgiving spirit, Commander. I’m not sure I’d be so magnanimous, in your place. After all, it’s not just you who now has less combat power, less time before the heavy weather sets in, and more official requirements added on while your departure was delayed. Your wife is now subject to the same vulnerabilities, too.”

Eddie nodded. “And don’t I know it, sir.”

Simpson actually released a small smile. “You sound less than overjoyed to have your wife along for the ride, Commander. Not SOP for a newlywed.”

“Sir, with all due respect, none of this is SOP for a newlywed. Am I glad that I won’t spend a whole half year away from my beautiful wife? You bet. Does it make me crazy anxious that she, and her quasi-entourage, are heading into danger along with me? You bet. The latter kind of diminishes the, uh . . . hormonal happiness caused by the former.”

Simpson chuckled. “You are developing a true gift for words, Commander. If I could spare you from the field, I’d make you our chief diplomatic liaison.”

“Sir! It’s unbecoming a senior officer to threaten his subordinates. I’ll take cannon fire over cocktail parties any day!”

Simpson glanced down toward Eddie’s false foot. “And this from a man who should know better.”

“Sir! I do know better. I’ve experienced both, and I’ll take the cannons.”

“Why?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“Because, sir, battles are short and all business, and cocktail parties are long and all bullshit.”

Simpson seemed as surprised by his answering guffaw as Eddie was. “I take it, Commander, that you are not enamored of the, er, ‘social consequences’ of being accompanied by your wife?”

“Sir, I would be more enamored of taking a bath with a barracuda. Even though Anne Cathrine isn’t a genuine princess, Daddy is sure acting like she is. I now have my very own traveling rump court. Well, it’s not my court. I’m just a part of it. An increasingly lowly part of it.”

Simpson frowned. “Yes, and from what I understand, Christian IV has saddled you with another senior naval officer, which bumps you yet another place down the chain of command.”

“Oh, that’s not even the worst part.” Eddie tried to succumb to the urge to whine, which was attempting to scale the none-too-high walls of his Manly Reserve.

“Oh?” Simpson now seemed more amused that sympathetic.

“Admiral, you haven’t heard the latest roster of my fellow-travelers. Essentially, Anne Cathrine, not being a genuine princess, doesn’t warrant genuine ladies in waiting. So we get a collection of other problematic persons from, or associated with, the Danish court, plus naval wives who have been given land grants in the New World.”

One of Simpson’s eyebrows elevated slightly. “But Christian IV doesn’t have any New World land to grant.”

“Not yet.”

Simpson frowned. “I see. So I’m guessing that, along with the not-quite royal contingent, we have a just barely official entourage of courtesans, councilors, and huscarles? Some of whom enjoy special appointments by, and are probably assigned to carry out undisclosed missions for, His Royal Danish Majesty?”

“Yep, pretty much, sir.”

Simpson nodded. “Yes, leave it to him to sneak in something like this in exchange for the ships he’s committing to the expedition. Given the condition in which we received those hulls, I’m not so sure he isn’t getting the better end of the deal.” Simpson fixed Eddie with a suddenly intent stare. “Has he either intimated or overtly instructed you to take any orders directly from him?”

“No, sir. Why?”

Simpson rubbed his chin. “Well, because technically he could try to work that angle.”

“I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

Simpson steepled his fingers. “In recognition of your marriage and service, Gustav made you Imperial Count of Wismar. That made you imperial nobility of the USE. Technically. And that made it easy — well, easier — for Christian to get the nobles of his Riksradet to accept your creation as a Danish noble, too.”

Eddie blinked. “Sir, I’m not a Danish noble. Not really.”

“No? If I’m not mistaken, one of Christian’s wedding gifts to you was land, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Some miserable little island in the Faroes. I think it has a whopping population of ten. That includes the goats.”

Simpson did not smile. “And since your received the land as part of a royal patent, you were made a herremand, weren’t you?”

“Uh — yes, sir. Something like that. I didn’t pay too much attention.”

“Well, you should have, Commander. You became Danish nobility when you accepted that land. And therefore, a direct vassal of King Christian IV. Who, unless I’m much mistaken, has bigger things in mind for you. In the meantime, we’d better inform the task force’s captains that, in place of all that pipe they were going to be hauling, they’re going to be billeting more troops. A lot more troops.”

Eddie was relieved. The mission was no longer purely reconnaissance, although that was not common knowledge. Not even among all the members of the ER Department. “How many more sir, and where from?”

“Just under four hundred, Commander. And all from the Lowlands.”

“So they’re Dutch.”

Simpson shook his head. “No. They’re from the Brabant.”

Eddie stared. “From the Spanish Lowlands?”

Simpson simply nodded.

“Sir — we’re taking Spanish soldiers to fight for us in the Spanish-held New World?”

“Commander, here’s what I know currently. The troops are being provided by the Archduchess Infanta Isabella. As I understand it, these troops will have sworn loyalty to her nephew Fernando the King in the Low Countries, but not her older nephew, Philip the king of Spain.”

“But Fernando is Philip’s younger brother, his vassal — “

“Precisely. And that’s why we’re going to stop our speculations right there, Commander. The story behind Fernando sending troops with us to assist Dutch colonial interests in the New World is one that is well above your pay grade at this early point in the process. I know that because it’s above my pay grade. I am not yet on the political ‘need to know’ list. And I suspect the mystery will remain right up until the Infanta’s troops are being berthed aboard your flotilla. Which probably won’t happen until the very last possible day.”

Eddie shook his head. “Every day, this ‘little reconnaissance mission’ not only gets bigger and more complicated, it gets increasingly surreal.” Eddie glanced at the map of the Caribbean that Simpson had produced from his own folders. “Hell, we can’t even be sure that there are any remaining Dutch colonies for us to help. And vice versa.”

Simpson spread his hands on his desk. “Well, we know that once the Dutch West India Company got their hands on the histories in Grantville, they got a two-year head start on their colonization of St. Eustatia in the Leeward Islands. By their own report, they redirected some of their best administrators there last year. Notably, Jan van Walbeeck, whom history tells us was very effective in improving the situation down in Recife.”

Eddie shrugged. “And who returned to the Provinces from there just a week before Admiral Tromp arrived in Recife with the remains of the fleet that was shattered at the Battle of Dunkirk. Pity Tromp and Walbeeck couldn’t have overlapped even a few days in Recife. If they had, we’d know a lot more about how the situation in the New World may be changing.”

“Quite true. But at least we know that Tromp arrived in Recife, and was making plans to relocate, since the colonies in that part of South America were untenable after the destruction of the Dutch fleet at Dunkirk.”

“Yes, sir, but relocate to where? The two or three friendly ships that have come from the New World since the middle of last year can’t tell us. Even the jacht that Tromp himself sent last March only confirmed that he expected to commence relocating in April, but not where.”

Simpson scoffed. “And can you blame him for not being specific? Imagine if the Spanish had stumbled across that ship, seized it, interrogated the captain. Then they’d know where to find him. From an operational perspective, every day that Tromp can work without Spanish detection is a found treasure. He will have to ferry a sizable population — well, ‘contingent’ — from Recife to whatever new site he’s selected, house those people, find a reliable source of indigenous supplies, establish a patrol perimeter, fortifications. All without any help from back home. He has his work cut out for him, Commander.”

“Agreed, sir. But the flip side is that while we’re coming with the help he almost surely needs, we don’t know where to deliver it to him.”

“No, but we know the best places to look. Right now, there are three noteworthy Dutch colonies in the Caribbean and the northern littoral of South America. We know they’ve sent people and supplies to St. Eustatia. We know there’s a small settlement on Tobago, just northeast of Trinidad. And we know that they sent an expedition under Marten Thijssen last year to take Curaçao.”

“And that assumes Thijssen’s mission was a success.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 23

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 23

Chapter 12

Lübeck, United States of Europe

Nodding to the after-hours Marine guard, Eddie entered the antechamber outside John Simpson’s office. As he did, his stomach growled so loudly that he expected a Marine to enter behind him, sidearm drawn, scanning for whatever feral beast was making a noise akin to being simultaneously tortured and strangled.

And if being two hours overdue for supper wasn’t enough, he’d just received yet another letter from Anne Cathrine. It was alternately sweet, steamy, and sullen at having to spend her nights watching her father pickle his royal brain with excesses of wine. She made it emphatically — indeed, graphically clear — just how much, and in what ways, she’d rather be spending those nights with Eddie, indulging in excesses of –

Nope, don’t go there, Eddie. You have a job to do, which doesn’t include learning to walk with a stiff prosthetic leg and an equally stiff —

The door opened. “Lieutenant, there you are,” said Simpson.

Yes, here I very much am. A bit too much of me, in fact. Eddie cheated the folders he was carrying a few inches lower, shielding his groin from ready view. However, nothing slackened his line quite so quickly or profoundly as hearing the CO’s voice, so he was safe by the time he had entered the room and saluted.

As soon as Simpson had returned the salute and invited him to sit, Eddie produced one of the folders — rough, ragged cardboard stock of the down-time “economy” variety — with a black square on the upper right hand front flap. “News from the rotary drill project.”

“Not good?”

“Disastrous, sir. The rig literally blew apart. But it wasn’t a technical failure. One of the owners’ inexperienced factors decided to show up for a surprise inspection and start the morning by playing platform chief.”

“And how did that turn out?”

“Five dead, six severely wounded. The rig is a write-off. They’re still trying to fish all the drill pipe out of the hole.”

Simpson may have winced. “Well, so much for the overly-ambitious hope that they’d have that drill working by the time we left, and be boring holes by fall.”

“Yes, sir. But the Department of Economic Resources still wants to send the mainland prospecting team with our task force.”

Simpson shrugged. “Well, that only makes sense, assuming the test rig was reasonably promising. That way, by the time they get a working rig ready, they’ll know where to start drilling well holes.”

“That’s the ER Department’s thinking on the matter, sir. They’ve shifted all the actual drilling crew and operators over to the Trinidad cable rig team.”

“Which is just as well. That oil will be a lot easier to find.”

“Yes sir, although there’s a whole lot less of it.”

Simpson looked up from the paperwork. “Commander, let’s not go round on this again. Firstly, Trinidad’s oil will come to hand comparatively easily and it is sweet and light. Just what we need. And we’re not equipped to ship more oil than they can produce, won’t be for at least eighteen months. Secondly, and arguably more important, Trinidad has an additional strategic benefit of pulling our rivals’ attentions away from our other operations.”

Eddie knew it was time to offer his dutiful “Yes, sir” — which he did — and to move on. “All the regionally relevant maps, charts, graphs, and books that will comprise the mission’s reference assets have been copied and are en route from Grantville. We still have two researchers combing through unindexed material for other useful information on the Caribbean, but it’s been ten days since they found anything. And that was just some data on a species of flower.”

“Hmmph. I suspect the focus in the Leeward Islands will be on agriculture, not horticulture.”

“Yes, sir.” Which was typical Simpson: he was the one who had insisted on extracting every iota of up-time information available on the West Indies, Spanish Main, and environs. And now he was turning his nose up at the tid-bits he had insisted on pursuing. I suspect he’s going to be a very cranky old man. Well, crankier.

“Did you find any more of that data on native dialects in the Gulf region?”

Eddie shook his head. “No, sir.” All they had turned up were a few snippets of a local dialect alternately referred to as Atakapa or Ishak. And those snippets were so uncertain that would be better described as “second-hand linguistic rumors” than “data.”

“Provisioning and materiel almost ready?”

“Getting there, sir. Without the rotary drill equipment and pipe, we’ll have a lot more room than we thought. But we’re still taking on plenty of well casing for Trinidad. Each section is about the length, weight, and even girth of pine logs. So we got a lumber ship from the Danes to haul it.”

Simpson frowned. “‘Lumber ship?’ “

“Yes, sir. Their sterns are modified. In place of the great cabin, they have an aft-access cargo bay, so the logs can be loaded straight in through the transom. Sort of like stacking rolls of carpet in the back of your van.”

“Military stores?”

“Almost all are on site now, sir. We’re still waiting on the molds and casts for the two-caliber dual-use 8″ shells. Which are working well in both the carronades and the long guns. All our radios are tested and in place, as is the land-station equipment. And the special-order spyglasses came in two days ago and passed the QC inspection.”

“And the local binoculars?”

“There’s an update on that in this morning’s files, sir. The Dutch lens makers have demonstrated an acceptable working model to our acquisitions officer, but they haven’t worked out a production method inexpensive enough for us to afford multiple purchases for each ship. My guess is that they’ll have the bottlenecks licked by this time next year.”

Simpson made a noise that sounded startlingly similar to a guard-dog’s irritated growl. “Another key technology for which appropriations were not approved. Like the mitrailleuses.”

Eddie sat up straight, genuinely alarmed. “Sir? They’re not — not going to approve any mitrailleuses for the steamships? Why, that’s — “

“Insane? Well, as it turns out, the Department of Economic Resources is not completely insane. Only half insane. Which is, in some ways, worse.”

Eddie shook his head. “Sir, I don’t understand: half insane?”

“Speaking in strictly quantitative terms, yes: half insane. Instead of approving one mitrailleuse for each quarter of the ship, they’ve approved exactly half that amount.”

Eddie goggled. “A…a half a mitrailleuse for each quarter of the ship?” He tugged at his ginger-red forelock hair slightly, doing the math and coming up with a mental diagram. “So only two? One on the forward port quarter, the other on the starboard aft quarter?”

Simpson nodded. “That’s about the shape of what the wiser heads in Grantville have envisioned.” His voice was level and unemotional, but Eddie saw the sympathy in his eyes.

“But sir, how do you defend a ship against an all-point close assault with only two automatic weapons? If they come all around you in small boats — “

“Which they probably won’t. As the holders of the purse strings were pleased to point out, yours is only a reconnaissance mission. So to speak. And you have no business going in harm’s way, particularly at such close quarters. But if fate proves to take the unprecedented step of deciding to ignore all our reasonable expectations and plans” — Simpson’s bitter, ironic grin made Eddie’s stomach sink — “well, I just cut an order to Hockenjoss and Klott for a special anti-boarding weapon. Two per ship, to take the place of the two missing mitrailleuses.”

“Well, sir, I suppose that’s better than nothing,” Eddie allowed. And silently added, but not by much, I bet.

Simpson shrugged. “Certainly nothing very fancy or very complicated. Essentially I’ve asked them to build a pintel-mounted two-inch shotgun. Black powder breechloader. It’s already picked up a nickname: the Big Shot. It should help against boarders.” He must have read the dismay in Eddie’s face. “I know what you’re thinking, Commander. That such a weapon will be useless against the small boats themselves. That was my first reaction, which the committee has now heard repeatedly and, on a few occasions, profanely. I’ll keep fighting for the full mitrailleuse appropriation, but I think I’m going to have to spend all my clout just getting percussion locks standardized for the main guns.”

Eddie nodded. “Yes, sir. Which is of course where your clout belongs. Those tubes are carrying the primary weight of our mission.”

“Well said, Commander. And if you find yourself in a tight spot — well, to borrow a phrase from another service, improvise and overcome.”

Eddie tried to be jocular, but could hear how hollow it sounded when he replied, “Oo-rah, sir.”

Eddie’s failed attempt at gallows humor seemed to summon a spasm of guilt to the admiral’s face. It reminded Eddie of one of his father’s post-binge reflux episodes. The admiral’s tone was unusually self-recriminating. “It’s bad enough that we’re not getting all the resources we were promised, but having delayed your departure to wait for them was a bad decision. My bad decision. I should have insisted on keeping the mission lighter and going sooner. That would have given you more time in the Caribbean before hurricane season, less of a squadron to oversee — and fewer hangers-on, I might add.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 22

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 22

The time that followed was without a doubt the most gruesome experience in Ann’s life. The scale of the blunt force trauma inflicted on fragile human bodies by the disintegrating oil rig was genuinely incredible. It was as if the gods of the earth, awakened and risen in fury, had just torn people apart.

She couldn’t even find any flicker of vengeful satisfaction in Bauernfeld’s fate, although he’d been directly responsible for the disaster. The wound that had killed him was… horrible, a perfect illustration of the old saw I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

Eventually — thankfully — the immediate rescue work was over. Those who’d survived had been stabilized and had been taken away to receive real medical care. Repairing the property damage would take a lot longer, but there was no immediate urgency involved. So, tired and blood-spackled themselves, Ann and Ulrich and Dave Willcocks came back together to discuss the situation.

“I heard about Bauernfeld coming here,” said Willcocks. “Got the message from your runner, Ulrich, the same moment I heard the rig start. His doing, I take it?”

Ann looked out of the corner of her eye. Ulrich frowned at David’s Willcock’s question, looked away, clearly trying to fabricate a face-saving story for a man who was now dead. An incompetent, arrogant man whom Ulrich would probably now risk his own good reputation to protect.

Ann turned and looked Willcocks in the eye. “Yes, this was Bauernfeld’s doing. All so he could make a report to Gerhard Graves without any input or ‘interference’ from us.” She turned her eyes back to the smoking ruins. “I’d say his methods were ill-considered.”

Another car door opened and closed behind them. Footsteps rasped on the gravel, and then Dennis Grady, head of contractors for the State of Thuringia-Franconia’s Department of Economic Resources, their project’s other fiscal godfather, came to stand beside Ulrich.

Ann started. “Mr. Grady, what are you doing up here?”

He looked away from the devastation with a baleful expression. “Why, to check on your progress.”

Ann — broken-hearted but also quite suddenly aware that not only was she in love with Ulrich, but had been for almost three months now — felt conflicting emotions of joy and loss roil and bash into each other. They came out of her as a burst of laughter. “Our progress! Wow, did you pick the wrong day for a visit, or what?”

Grady shrugged. “Machines can be rebuilt, if they’re worth rebuilding.”

Grady’s serious, level tone was like a bucket of cold water in Ann’s face. So this isn’t the end of all our work, maybe? “And what determines if they’re worth rebuilding?”

“Well, how was the rig doing before this happened?”

“That is the irony of this disaster, Herr Grady,” Ulrich sighed. “Tomorrow, we were scheduled to get to four hundred feet. And the equipment had been working quite well. We had to be careful not to push the system too much. The mud flow cannot keep up with our top operating speeds.”

“Why?”

Ann thought Dave Willcocks might explain, but instead he nodded at her to continue, smiling like a proud uncle. She shrugged, answered, “The rate that we get fresh mud in the hole determines how much we can cool the system. It bathes the hot drill bit, removes extra friction by carrying away the cuttings. But the mud hose is the bottleneck. We can’t push the pressure in the hose over two hundred fifty psi without risking a rupture. That reduces how much we can cool the system, and how fast we can clear cuttings out of the hole. And that determines our upper operating limit.”

“But if you stay beneath that limit­ — ?”

“We were making good progress, and this design was holding up pretty well.”

“We still have challenges,” Willcocks put in. “We’ve got to have better weld joints between the separate sections of drill pipe. And I’m not sure that we’ve got enough horsepower from the current steam engine do really do the job when we get under six hundred feet.”

“But in principle, this design is functional?”

“Functional, yes. Ready to drill, no.”

Grady shook his head. “But I didn’t ask you about readiness.”

David frowned. “Two months ago you did.”

Grady shrugged. “That was two months ago. Things change.”

“Like what?”

“Like never you mind. Look, it was always a long-shot that you’d have a rotary drill ready for the New World survey expedition, anyhow. And as things are developing, we won’t need it until next year, probably. By which time, I expect it will be ready.” Grady glanced at the smoldering ruin, through which rescuers were picking their careful ways. “Well, this one won’t be ready, but you get what I mean.”

Ann almost smiled, but it felt wrong, somehow. “Thanks, Dennis. I wish I could be happier. But we’ve lost so much: so many people, so much hard work, and a chance to set foot in North America again.”

“Oh, now hold on,” said Grady. “Just because you won’t have a rotary drill, doesn’t mean you’re not still going along for the ride to the New World. We need your scientific and technical skills on site, and there are drills beside your rotary wonder, you know.”

Ann shrugged. “I ought to know. We were working cable rigs at Wietze for the better part of two years.”

“And you’ll be working them again, half a world away.”

Ulrich looked flustered, possibly heart-broken. “So then, if Ms. Koudsi is — is gone, who shall resume building the rotary drill?”

David kicked at the gravel. “I guess that would be me and the technical assistants that have been helping you out here. And I could bring up Glen Sterling from Grantville. And actually, we did learn something important about the drill design today: that the weak point is no longer at the juncture of the swivel and the mud hose, but at the juncture of the mud-hose and the standpipe.”

“So how much time do I have to help David with the improved model before I leave?” Ann asked Dennis, while looking at Ulrich.

“None, I’m afraid,” answered Grady. “We’ve got to get you up north for special training and equipment familiarization. Besides, there’s not going to be much breakthrough engineering going on for a few months. I figure it will take that long just to get all the drill pipe and casing out of the ground.” He looked at David for confirmation.

Willcocks nodded. “Gonna be a bitch of a job. But it will be our golden opportunity to own the next rig outright, without worrying about financiers.”

Grady frowned. “Oh? How’s that?”

“Herr Graves’ representative caused this failure. Every surviving witness will testify to that. And from what Herr Bauernfeld told me on the way down here, he had papers in his bags indicating that he has a ‘clear mandate from his employer’ to ensure that he saw the rig in operation without me or any of my supervisors around to meddle with it. I told him that wasn’t permissible. Sent a letter to his boss on the topic, too.

“But he disregarded multiple direct orders from the lawful site operators and majority owners, and went ahead with his ‘private test.’ So he and his employer are directly culpable for all this — the loss of life, the loss of the rig, and the expense of recovering all that pipe and casing, since it’s too rare and costly to leave sitting in the ground.” David’s grin was one of savage revenge, not mirth. “It’s going to cost that bastard Graves his stake in this whole operation to be able to walk away from this disaster without getting roasted alive by the courts.”

Grady nodded. “Yep. Sounds about right.” He turned to Ann. “Now, are you ready to pack your bags and head north to the Baltic?”

“I am,” answered Ann, “But on one condition.”

Grady raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“That I get to choose my crew chief.” She turned to Ulrich and smiled. “That would be Ulrich Rohrbach. If he doesn’t go, it’s no deal.”

Ulrich stared at Ann, smiling back, his mouth open a little, jaw working futilely to find words — but not very hard. He was too busy looking at her, Ann was delighted to see, like an infatuated puppy.

Grady cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Rohrbach, how about it? Are you also willing to go to the New World and drill for oil without a rotary rig?”

Ulrich did not look away from Ann or even blink. “Where do I sign up?” he said.

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 21

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 21

Ann nodded, was aware of Bauernfeld’s confused gape. He followed their eyes, but did not know what to look at. Which in this case was the swivel atop the spinning drill string. That had been the most problematic piece of machinery to make reliable and robust. Not the swivel itself — that was a fairly straightforward fabrication job — but where the flexible mud hose connected to it.

While the hose did not fully “spin” with the swivel, there was a lot of random and varying motion imparted to it as the drill string sped up, slowed down, encountered resistance, spun free. In short, the linkage between hose and swivel had to be both strong and flexible.

And that was a difficult requirement for 17th century materials. There was no rubber available, yet. That would involve tapping New World trees en masse or growing them elsewhere. And synthetics were a pipedream, an up-time reality that was now a distant fantasy. So they made do with leather. Layered with canvas. Stitched carefully. Reinforced by brass rivets and clamps, where feasible. And at the connecting collar, where the changes in pressure and torque were most intense, precious (which was to say ‘retooled up-time’) steel rings added extra reinforcement.

And so far, despite the rapid spin-up and overly-thick mud, the epicenter of their engineering headaches and operational worries was holding up. Ann felt a smile try to rise to her lips. Heh, progress at last —

But that impulse did not last longer than the eyeblink which refocused her on the very real dangers of continuing operations. So the mud hose’s linkage to the swivel was good: so what? The mud was too cold, meaning there were about a dozen other failure points that could be potentially —

The groan in the standpipe returned as a loud surging wail and the whole tube began shuddering, the oscillations racing up its gantry-ascending length.

Ann turned to the engine operator, prepared to talk him through the spin-down instructions —

But Bauernfeld had gone completely pale, discerning in the combination of her desperate motions and the quaking of the standpipe, that he was standing right next to an impending disaster. “Shut it off!” he screamed at the engine operator, “Turn the engine off! Stop the drill string!”

“NO!” Ann and Ulrich howled together. But it was too late.

The disaster was already unleashing itself when Bauernfeld shouted his crude, and therefore counterproductive, orders. The standpipe, shaking mightily, now put pressure on a connection which had never been a major point of design concern: that point where it joined to the mud-hose, which hung free between the gantry leg and the swivel atop the drill string. However, since that hose was more rigidly affixed to its point of connection with the standpipe, the excessive pressure in the system now made it shudder violently. At the very fringe of where it met the pipe’s connecting collar, a brass rivet popped, a seam opened —

“Run!” Ann shouted. “Clear the rig!” And then she felt a blow on her back. The air was driven out of her, and she was flying — but being carried, too. The momentary disorientation became realization: Ulrich had tackled her off the platform. And a powerful emotion rose up to meet that realization. I love him. I do! I know that now. But this is going to hurt. And we could still die. Very easily. And yet, her eyes never left the rig.

With a screaming pop of suddenly released pressure, the mud hose stripped itself off the top of the standpipe, flinging the attachment collar high into the air. Freed, the hose’s sudden wild writhings resembled the overdose-death throes of a mud-vomiting anaconda. One worker, among the youngest, staring open-mouthed at the sudden spectacle before him, did not move in time. The hose spasmed through a vicious twist and cut him open from chest to navel, viscera flying in all directions. Almost bisected, he was dead before he hit the ground.

The wild whipping and slashing caught two more persons. Bauernfeld himself managed to dodge the hose, but his left hip and groin were caught in the spray pattern of the mud. Although quickly losing pressure, that viscous jet was still spewing with a force well above one hundred PSI. Bauernfeld went down with a warbling shriek of pain and surprise, white bone showing through a wash of blood and shattered intestines — less than two seconds after he had shouted his final orders.

Those orders now went into full, monstrous effect. The partially-trained rig operator not only cut the engine, but, hearing Bauernfeld’s “stop” order, had thrown the long lever which engaged a large, counter-weighted arresting gear.

The effect on the drill-string was dramatic. With many tons of pipe already spinning in the three hundred foot hole, there was simply no way to, as Ann’s mother used to say, “stand on the brakes.” Instead, the arrestor groaned, its cable snapped, and the counterweights were launched sideways, one smashing down a nearby utility shed, the other tracing a ballistic arc into the side of the ravine.

But, even though it was brief, that sudden, strong resistance at the head of the drill pipe forced a rapid drop in rotational speed of its uppermost lengths. However, the much weightier part of the entire drill string assembly was still turning deep in the ground, its massive inertia being what had quickly shattered the braking mechanism, which had only been designed to gradually slow, not immediately stop, the string.

Now, the differences in inertia and resistance at the two ends of the drill string simply tore it apart. The threaded ends which joined the top pipe in the hole with length that was still free-spinning above it screeched and gave way in a shower of sparks. The lower length of pipe, grinding shrilly against the sides of the bore-hole, slowed quickly, but its single sweep smashed everything it is path. The upper length, no longer anchored on the bottom, swung wide and fast, ripping free of the kelly and swivel. It spun away like a side-slung baton, clipping the northernmost leg of the derrick, and swatting three workers aside like so many inconsequential — and now quite shattered — flies. The combined kelly-and-swivel assembly swung around like a misshapen bolo, cracked through two gantry struts and spent the rest of its energy by slamming full on into yet another of the derrick’s legs.

Showered by the mud spewing up from the shattered standpipe, Ann swung to her feet, blinking — when Ulrich retightened his arm around her waist and started running away —

– Away from the groaning, tilting, unraveling derrick which pushed slowly down through the curtain of mud as it toppled toward them.

Ann got her own feet under her somehow and, with Ulrich now pulling her by the hand, they sprinted away. This time, Ann did not look back.

She heard the smash, felt the ground shiver a moment before the slight concussive wave of the impact buffeted her back. Splinters, whining like darts, bit into her right thigh and buttock. She only ran harder.

Which was just as well. More debris, ejected upward, came down in a lethal torrent where she had been running just two seconds before.

A pulley, rolling on its edge, wheeled past her briskly, lagged when it reached the gravel perimeter of the site, wobbled lazily and fell over. As if that was a signal to Ann and Ulrich that the danger was indeed past, they turned, still holding hands.

The rig was gone. Except for four feet of the drill pipe which had sheared off while partially in the bore hole and two feet of savaged standpipe that had not gone over with the derrick, nothing was left standing upright on the platform. The steam engine had been ruined by debris, its boiler knocked over and the firebox already flaring dangerously. Mud oozed outward and downward in all directions. Smoke — black, brown, and grey — fanned upward into the sky. The workers that had cleared the rig in time were already being joined by members of the sickly “first crew,” who, wan and haggard, spread out through the wreckage with them, searching for survivors.

Behind them, brakes screeched, gravel spattered, and a car door opened. A moment later, Dave Willcocks, looking haggard and pale, was standing alongside them, staring at the ruin which had been their grand experiment. “Jesus Christ,” he swore. But he didn’t stare at the wreckage for more than a few seconds before heading toward the disaster to assist in the rescue work, just a few steps behind Ann and Ulrich.

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 20

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 20

Ulrich had reached the rig, seemed to dart around looking for something. Or someone, Ann corrected. He was clearly trying to find who was in charge, who had overridden today’s suspension of operations.

From far behind her private cabin, Ann heard another engine kick into life with a roar. That was an up-time sound, the engine on Dave Willcock’s pick-up truck. Good, so that meant he was on his way. Ann didn’t like that he was up and about, but right now, her strongest sensation was relief. No one back-talked Willcocks. His word was law on site, and that was what was needed to shut down the rig without a moment’s delay. Without Dave or Ulrich or her there to oversee the commencement of operations, there was no telling what errors might be made.

Ulrich sprinted up onto the platform upon which the derrick was built. Now only a hundred yards off — but with a wind-stitch suddenly clutching at her left side — Ann could see him engaged in a shouting match with someone up there. Someone very tall and very lean and very blonde, almost white blonde —

Oh shit, Ann thought, he’s arguing with Otto Bauernfeld. Bauernfeld was the senior overseer for Gerhard Graves, who was the nosiest and most intrusive of all the investors. Imperious and contemptuous both, the Graves family had tried double-crossing David Willcocks and his associates when they undertook their first joint drilling project, a simple cable rig. So this time, Willcocks, his team, and now the University, had unanimously wanted to reject Graves’ money — but they simply couldn’t afford to. The project would not have been possible without Gerhard Graves carrying twenty percent of the upfront costs. And Otto Bauernfeld, as Graves’ visiting factotum, had adopted an attitude to match his master’s: presumptuous, dictatorial, and arrogantly dismissively of the rank-and-file workers. “Shit,” Ann repeated. Aloud, this time.

She sprinted the last thirty yards to the gravel-ringed drill site, earning stares as she went. Pebbles churned underfoot, slowing her down, but she was able to catch the shouted exchange between Ulrich and Otto Bauernfeld as she traversed the last few yards of loose stone.

“You must shut the rig down, Herr Bauernfeld. Mr. Willcocks has ordered us not to drill today, not even to –”

Bauernfeld looked far down his very long nose at the medium-sized but very powerful Ulrich. “Who are you, and why should I care?”

“I am Ulrich Rohrbach, the site foreman and design consultant. I must ask you to –”

“I do not take orders from you, workman. Now, do not obstruct me any further.”

“Herr Bauernfeld, I must insist: on whose authority do you ignore and violate Project Director David Willcocks’ strict prohibition against drilling today?”

“I ignore it based on the only authority that truly matters on this site: that stemming from my patron’s heavy investment in this project. Which you should understand. I am here for one day — one day, and no more — and must see the progress you have made in developing this drill. My superior expects an impartial report, and he shall have it.”

“Herr Bauernfeld, with a little warning, I could have –”

“You are a worker. And an employee of Herr Willcocks. Who will be pleased to tell me whatever he thinks will please my employer. But Herr Graves wants the truth and I know how to get it for him.” Bauernfeld stuck this thumbs into his belt and leaned back, quite pleased with himself. “It was simply a matter of getting the crew to run the drill without your interference. Which they did readily enough, when I told them who my superior was, and the personal consequences they would face if they displeased him. So, now I shall see the operation as it truly is, and with my own eyes.”

“You are not seeing the operation,” Ann panted.

Bauernfeld halted as she gasped for breath, and then doubled over to ease the cramp in her gut. Still looking up, she could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the waver in his demeanor as he tried to decide where she fit into his complex constellation of class and professional relationships. A woman of no particular birth, but an up-timer: a person who actually worked alongside laborers, but also a person of considerable achievement and education. There were no ready social equations that defined her place in his social scheme of things.

But then his eyes strayed to her clothes: grimy, practical coveralls, grey like Ulrich’s. Something like a satisfied smile settled about Bauernfeld’s eyes. “Frau Koudsi, the rig’s motors are running and the drill-string has been lowered. And now — see? It is turning: the drilling has begun. So I am most certainly seeing the operations of your drill.”

“Proper operations involve more than turning on the machines.” Ulrich’s voice was so guttural that he sounded more animal than human.

Bauernfeld speared him with eyes that suggested he would have preferred to respond with the back of his hand instead of his tongue. “Your workers know the steps well enough, I perceive.”

“You perceive wrong, then, you ass.” Ann felt herself rising on her toes to make her rebuttal emphatic. “These aren’t our first crew. Almost all of them are second crew. Replacements who usually carry gear, clean the facility. They’re like apprentices at this stage.”

Bauernfeld became a bit pale. “And the — the journeymen, or ‘first crew,’ as you say?”

Ulrich waved an arm angrily back at the workers’ sheds. “Back there. In bed. Sick with the same flu that has Herr Willcocks in bed, and why we shut down operations today.”

Bauernfeld was now truly pale. “But…all seems to be in order. These men know their tasks.”

“Do they?” shrieked Ann over the motor and the drill, wondering how long they had to convince Bauernfeld to tell the class-cowed workers shut the rig down — or how long it would take for Dave Willcocks to drive down here, if he wouldn’t listen to reason. “Did you flush the mud hose? Did you check its flexibility? Did you check where it connects to the kelly for signs of wear or fraying? Did you turn the drill in the hole long enough to warm the mud already there before putting weight on the bit? And did you warm the new mud in the tanks before pumping it in?”

Bauernfeld scowled at the last. “And how could the temperature of mud possibly matter?”

Ann pointed behind her at the mud-tank. “That mud is being pumped down in that hole, Herr Bauernfeld. At extremely high pressure. Among other things, it scoops up the dross — the debris made by the drilling — and dumps it there, in the shaker tray, where the debris is removed and the mud is returned to the system.”

With uncertain eyes, Bauernfeld followed the progress of her pointing: from mud pit, to mud tube, to where it connected to the swivel atop the drill string, to where the return tube dumped the fouled mud into the shaker tray. “And to do this,” he said slowly, “the mud must be warm?”

Ulrich leaned in, face red, voice loud with both urgency and anger. “No, but it cannot be cold.”

“But why?”

Ann rolled her eyes. Can Bauernfeld really be so stupid? Well, he might be. “Look, you sit down to breakfast and get thin, hot porridge. How easy can you pour it into your bowl?”

Bauernfeld shrugged. “Easily enough.”

“Right. Now let it get cold. Try pouring it.”

Bauernfeld’s eyebrows lowered, but then rose quickly. “It is thicker. It will be harder to –”

“Exactly, and that’s why the mud can’t be too cold. But last night we had a hard frost, and the men running the drill haven’t dealt with this. They don’t know how the resistance builds, particularly with the shavings collecting because the thicker mud can’t clear them quickly enough. They have no idea what that could do to –”

Ann heard a faint groan in the mud-carrying standpipe where it ascended the nearest leg of the derrick. “Uh oh,” she breathed and looked up at the swivel.

Ulrich was already staring at it but with a surprised expression. “Looks like the swivel coupling is holding,” he breathed. Carefully.