"What Wismar did," Mike continued, "was finally crack their doubt. Not doubt in the princes-they've long ago given up any faith in princes-but doubt in their own ability to do anything about it."
He took a long, almost shuddering breath, fiercely controlling his own grief. "Hans Richter didn't simply destroy a Danish warship, John," he said softly. "He also broke the last chain the princes had on Germany. When all is said and done, he belongs to them. Not us. Or, at least, we only had a part of him. We can give whatever medals we want to that part. But Germany's people will lift his memory to the skies, and use it for their own standard. And that standard-don't doubt this for a moment-is a battle standard. The standard of people who, for the first time, think they can win. Understand for the first time, really, that 'winning' can even be a part of their world."
"True," pronounced Torstensson. "The first elements of the crowd moving toward the palace were chanting his name when I left the palace grounds. And, as you say, it was a battle cry." He smiled thinly. "I know the sound of such."
"But-" Simpson shook his head. "Who are they going to fight? Here, I mean?"
"Me, most likely," growled Torstensson. "Or the Saxon troops. John George has already summoned them into the city. To protect himself and the princes from mob violence. That is his excuse, at least, and-" Torstensson cast a quick glance toward the swelling murmur. "I cannot honestly say it's simply an excuse. Some of the crowd is already calling for his head. As well as the head of the elector of Brandenburg."
Now, Torstensson looked every inch the 17 th -century general. Still interested, perhaps; but also sure of his duty. His eyes were hard and narrow.
"Who, may I remind you-yes, George William is a swine; and so what?-has a son to whom Princess Kristina is unofficially betrothed. And since I am the commanding officer of Gustav's army in this city-where the Princess also lives now-I must put a stop to this. However brutal that may become."
Simpson's eyes widened. "My God, this could be a disaster!"
"Screw that," Mike snapped. "Yes, it could be a disaster. It can also be a triumph and a victory. And a big one, too. But that's up to us, gentlemen." He gave both Simpson and Torstensson a hard look of his own.
"Will you follow me?" he demanded. The question was addressed at both men.
Torstensson's answer came immediately. "Yes-to a point." He smiled somewhat grimly. "And do not ask me what that point may be. I do not know yet. But… this much I can promise you, Michael Stearns. So long as I retain confidence that you can control the situation, I will do as you say."
"Good enough. John?"
Simpson drew himself up stiffly. "Mr. President, the Navy is always under your-"
"John! Cut it out, goddamit. Now is not the time for this. I know you will obey orders. That's not what I asked. Will you-this time-follow me?"
Simpson hesitated and looked away. Then, his lips quirking a little, nodded his head. "Yes, Mike. This time I will. I just hope-"
He shook his head. "Never mind. If you don't know what you're doing in a situation like this, I'm damn sure nobody else is even going to come close. So. What do you want?"
Mike's thoughts had been racing ahead. "First. Did you ever get those fancy uniforms?"
Simpson snorted. "They're sitting at the tailor's, still. All made up and-no money to pay for them. You wouldn't approve the expense, you may recall."
Mike grinned. Now that he was sure he would be going into combat fully armed-his kind of combat, the kind he understood and knew he was genuinely superb at-he was full of cheer and confidence.
"We'll fix that, right now." He drew a small notebook from his shirt pocket, scribbled a few letters on it, signed it, tore the page off and gave it to Simpson. "Here. Have one of your men take that to Abrabanel Bank." The small building was nearby, since-no fools, they-the Abrabanels made sure they located in the radical district, and close to the U.S. military base. "They'll issue the funds immediately, with that code. As fast as possible, I want you and all your men in the fanciest dress uniforms you have."
Simpson passed the sheet over to one of the petty officers who had started gathering around. He didn't even have to give instructions. The noncom had been listening to the conversation and was already trotting toward the gate. Simpson nodded toward another man, this time one of the German-born commissioned officers.
"You heard, Lieutenant Kelleher. Go to the tailor and make sure the uniforms are ready when the money arrives." He turned back to Mike. "What next?"
Mike waved his arm, encompassing in the gesture the entire navy yard. "Now, I want you and Nat to turn this whole place into Disneyland. Today the U.S. Navy is going to throw an open house, with all the trimmings. Guided tours, let the kids play on the boats, the whole shot. For the first time, we're going to let Germany's people come and see their Navy. The one whose heroes fought alongside the great Hans Richter."
"Fuck yes!" exclaimed Nat Davis. "That's a great idea, Mike. For damn sure, all the missing sailors and workers will pour in. And they'll bring their families with them too, sure as shooting."
Mike was watching Simpson, expecting an outburst on the subject of security. But, instead, Simpson nodded. Mike had forgotten that Simpson had also run a major factory.
"Yes, I agree. Nothing pleases working men so much as showing off their place of work to their wives and kids. Every time we held an open house in the plant, the place was packed."
Mike was not surprised. Because it's the one place where, even in our old world, much less this one, a common man can really feel like a man. Here is where I spend much of my life, wife and children, doing what only real men can do. Here, I am a master of my trade. Screw the suits. They don't count.
But this was no time for idle thoughts. "Next thing. I need you to pull out the loudspeaker system you set up in the plant. Have some electricians bring everything to the palace. While you're organizing Disneyland, I've got to organize as fine a filibuster as any politician ever pulled off. I've got to talk to that crowd-and my own voice just isn't loud enough or strong enough. Not for a whole day. Won't surprise me if it turns into a two-day stint. Maybe three. That crowd is pissed."
"Done." Simpson started to issue orders to yet another petty officer, but, again, the man was already racing off. By now, the little knot of confused noncoms and junior officers gathered around Mike and Simpson and Torstensson was neither little nor confused. The air of sure command and authority had returned, and if it was centered on their President rather than their admiral, all the better. The confidence of those men was pouring back in like a flood.
Quickly, Mike pictured in his mind the layout of the city in the vicinity of the imperial palace. Fortunately, the palace opened directly onto a large square, into which three broad avenues emptied. Mike was certain that Gustav Adolf had ordered that layout with cannons firing grapeshot in mind. But a square large enough to commit mass slaughter was also large enough to bring order to the masses before slaughter became necessary. There was room there for a large enough part of the crowd to assemble, and for him to transform an inchoate burst of fury into a political rally.
True, the crowd would be baring its teeth. A "petition for redress of grievances" with real fangs. All the better. Let Germany's princes cower for a change. So long as Mike could keep the blood from flowing, he could turn a potential disaster into another nail-a very, very big nail; a spike, in fact-driven into the coffin of Europe's aristocracy.