Julie stood in the doorway, staring at Captain Gars. Her eyes seemed as wide as saucers.
The captain was also having a wound tended to. Nothing major, to all outward appearance. But at Jцnsson's insistence, the captain had removed his buff coat and blouse. His upper body was bare and exposed. Very pale-skinned he was, with a carpet of blond hair on his chest. Thick muscle bulged under layers of fat.
"You see?" he grumbled. The captain pressed the heavy flesh aside, exposing the cut along his ribs. The gash was shallow, and perhaps three inches long. Plainly enough, it would soon be nothing but a minor blemish on a torso which was already heavily scarred. Captain Gars seemed utterly oblivious to the blood soaking his hip.
"It's nothing," he insisted. Anders sighed with exasperation and handed him a scarf. The captain pressed the cloth against the wound.
Motion caught his eye. Captain Gars turned his head and squinted at the person coming toward him. When the figure finally came into focus, he grinned.
Julie covered the last few steps in a rush. A moment later, equally oblivious to the blood, she was hugging the huge body of the captain fiercely. Much like a chipmunk might embrace a bear.
The captain seemed startled, at first. Then his fierce warrior's face softened. After a few seconds, he was returning the embrace. A bit gingerly, at first. Afraid, perhaps, that he might crush the girl in his arms. But then, as he felt the muscle beneath his hands and remembered the sheer force of her spirit, the embrace grew warm and tight.
"Iss all right," he murmured, in his thick and awkward English. "I not bad hurt."
Julie's head popped up from his chest. Craning her neck, she glared at the captain.
"You could have gotten killed!" she squealed. "What are you-crazy?"
"Yes," stated Anders gloomily. "The captain is a madman. It is well known."
When Rebecca came into the gymnasium a minute later, Julie was still hugging the captain. And still chastising him for his reckless folly; loudly, and in no uncertain terms. Captain Gars himself didn't seem to know how to handle the situation. Apparently he was a man unaccustomed to being scolded. But Anders Jцnsson and all the Vдstgцta were grinning from ear to ear.
Finally! Someone to call the madman to his senses!
Rebecca burst into soft laughter. Dan Frost, standing next to her, was frowning with puzzlement.
"I don't get it," he hissed. "Does Julie know that guy from somewhere? They say his name's Captain Gars."
Rebecca choked off the laughter. "Oh, yes. They've met before."
She stared at the immense man in the center of the room. Her own eyes softened.
"What a lunatic," she murmured. "He has not done this in many years. Not since he was a young man, according to the history books." Again, she laughed.
Dan was scowling fiercely. "I still don't-"
"Captain Gars," said Rebecca. "To the best of my knowledge, he is the only king in history who ever actually did it outside of fable. Travel in disguise, I mean, assuming the pose of a simple soldier. The books claim that he scouted half of western Europe in that fashion."
The police chief's eyes widened. His jaw sagged.
"Oh, yes," chuckled Rebecca. "Captain Gars. Gustavus Adolphus Rex Sueciae."
Part Seven
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Chapter 59
By the time they reached Grantville, Mike had reached his conclusion. He didn't much care for it, in many ways. But he knew it was-by far-the best alternative.
If nothing else, listening to Harry Lefferts' monologue during the drive from Eisenach had convinced him. Once they got word over the radio that the imperialist raid had been driven off, with light casualties, everyone in the relief column had been able to relax. Cheerfully, enthusiastically-even gaily-Harry had spent the last two hours explaining all the many ways in which the United States could be made safe from any future invasion or attack.
Barbed wire. Land mines. Fortresses along every approach bristling with Gatling guns-we can make 'em, Mike, I'm telling you!-and napalm catapults. Greg says we can make phosphorus bombs too-way better'n napalm! A much bigger army-universal draft, goddamit!-and a massive expansion of the military college which they had already decided to launch. Oh, and lots more. Observation balloons, and powered hang gliders for recon. Even poison gas, maybe.
Outside of the poison gas, Mike had no particular problem with any of Harry's specific ideas. But, taken as a whole, he understood the inexorable logic involved.
Festung Amerika! Fortress America, and everything that went with it.
When the relief column reached the center of Grantville, driving slowly through the cheering crowd, Harry stopped the APC. He turned to Mike, smiling broadly.
"So, chief-whaddaya think?"
Mike did not return the smile. "What I think, Harry, is that your proposal is just Simpson all over again. Only bigger."
Harry's smile vanished, replaced by a look of bewildered outrage. The young coal miner detested Simpson!
Mike couldn't help but chuckle. At that instant, Harry reminded him of a small boy, accused of liking girls.
"Think it through, Harry." Mike listened to the roar of the crowd, for a moment. Even through the steel plate armor, the sound penetrated easily. There was nothing about that sound that Mike disliked, in and of itself. It was just the roar of a triumphant nation, saluting its soldiers. Nothing to fear-as long as it ended soon enough.
But if it went on, and on, and on…
Festung Amerika. But there was not enough room for America in a fortress. Certainly not one as small as Thuringia. Not Mike's vision of America, at least. Soon enough, Fortress America would need to expand. The militarist logic would inevitably guide that expansion. Living space, to be seized from its neighbors. Everything else would follow, like a glacier moving to the sea. Drang nach Osten. Amerika ьber alles!
It was obvious that Harry still didn't understand. Mike began to sigh with exasperation, but forced himself to control his impatience. Like a schoolteacher, explaining things again. And again. And again-as long as it took.
That image brought a smile to his face. Yes!
He bestowed the smile on Harry. "Didn't you wonder? Why Wallenstein sent most of his Croats against the school-instead of the town?"
Harry frowned. "I dunno. He's a murderous bastard, from what everybody says."
Mike shook his head. "No. I've been reading about him, in the history books. He wasn't-isn't, I should say-a sadist, Harry. Not at all. He doesn't eat babies for breakfast. He's just utterly cold-blooded and, without a doubt, the smartest man on the other side. Smarter than Richelieu, even."
Someone started pounding on the door of the APC. Demanding that the soldiers emerge, so that the crowd could greet them properly.
Nothing to fear. As long as it ended soon enough.
Mike started unlocking the door. "Think about it, Harry. Think long and hard. The reason Wallenstein wanted to destroy the school more than anything else is because he understands us better, I think, than we often understand ourselves. He knows what's really dangerous."
Now unlocked, the door was swung open from the outside. A sea of cheering faces appeared, and the sound of applause became almost deafening.
Before he climbed out of the APC, Mike gave Harry a glance. The young miner still didn't understand. But, apparently, Harry didn't much care. Whether he understood or not, Harry Lefferts did know who he had confidence in.