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    But Len was no marksman. For all his courage, he was not an experienced gun handler. Half his shots missed.

 

    Five Croats went down, true, even if three of them were only wounded. But there were still more than enough to drive through the hail of pistol bullets. Less than a second after he fired the last shot in the magazine, the first saber cut Len Trout down. A head wound, bloody but not fatal. But the next saber slash almost removed his head entirely, hacking halfway through his neck.

 

    Trout’s killer died himself, then. He and all the men at his side. Jeff’s shotgun was reloaded and back in furious action. Rate of fire.
Clickety-boom
, over and again, coming so fast it sounded like thunder.

 

    And now the shotgun was empty, and it was over. Jeff still had a full magazine’s worth of ammunition left in his pockets, but he would never have the time to reload before the Croat sabers arrived.

 

    The first Croat charged up, saber held high. Jeff went to meet him. The Croat had time to be amazed at how quickly the big man in front of him moved, before the butt of the shotgun shattered his jaw.

 

    A saber cut into Jeff’s right shoulder, knocking him to the floor of the gym. Instantly, his entire arm and side were soaked with blood. The muscle was cut through to the bone. Only the tough leather jacket had kept that sword stroke from amputating his arm entirely.

 

    Half-dazed by the shock, Jeff stared up at the man who had slashed him down. Snarling, the Croat raised the saber again.

 

    Then, to Jeff’s amazement, the Croat’s head exploded. Cut in half, rather, by a saber which descended like the hammer of an ancient war god. The Croat was driven to his knees. A twist of the powerful wrist holding the saber broke the blade lose from the skull and cast the victim aside.

 

    Jeff found himself staring at a huge man, grinning down at him. Immense, he was. Tall, broad, heavy as an ox. His pale blue eyes, peering down over a powerful nose, were gleaming like glacier ice.

 

    Captain Gars led the charge into the gymnasium, still roaring his battle cry. Anders was at his side, roaring the same. Not half a step behind came dozens of the Västgöta and Finns. Walls which had once rung to the sound of cheerleaders’ slogans now shook with the fury of the Northmen.

 

    
Gott mit uns!

 

    The captain himself cut down the Croat who had been about to kill the young American on the floor. Then, standing over him like a protective idol, he bellowed commands to his soldiers. It was the work of less than fifteen seconds to drive the rest of the Croats to the rear wall of the gymnasium.

 

    Led by Anders, the Västgöta flooded the area in front of the tiered seats, protecting the students. At the captain’s command, his Finns moved forward against the enemy.

 

    At the end, the surviving imperial cavalrymen—perhaps twenty in all—tried to surrender. They received the traditional Finnish terms.

 

    
Haakaa päälle!

 

    Julie and Gretchen reached the broken doors of the gymnasium at exactly the same time. Dan Frost was a few steps behind.

 

    As soon as she saw Jeff, Gretchen raced to his side. By now, several of the students trained in first aid were clustered about him, removing his jacket and staunching the wound. Gretchen forced her way through, knelt, and cradled his head in her lap. Weeping as she had not wept in years.

 

    “S’okay,” her husband mumbled. He even managed a wan smile. “S’okay, sweetheart—honest. Nothing but a little flesh wound.” Then his eyes rolled up and he fainted.

 

    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 Jönsson’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 Jönsson and all the Västgöta 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 über 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.
    “So, chief,” he shouted. “You got another plan?”
    Mike grinned. “I think I do, as a matter of fact.” He turned and started climbing out of the truck. Before his feet touched the ground, a multitude of hands had picked him up and were carrying him around the intersection in gleeful triumph.
    Mike returned the applause with waving hands and a big grin.
A man could get to enjoy this
, he thought.
Like a snake, digesting its prey.
    He turned his head and stared to the east. The school was in that direction, not far away. He was burning with impatience to get there. To see his wife, of course. He knew that Rebecca was unharmed—she herself had been the one to make the last radio call—but he still wanted to hold her, and hold her, and hold her.
    Beyond that—
    
I’ve got to talk to a captain. And hope—and pray—that he’s every bit the madman that everyone says.

Chapter 60

    “You are insane,” growled Gustav Adolf. He waved his heavy hand in a circle. “Your mind is as jumbled as this room.”
    The library was still a scene of semiwreckage. The students had not finished rearranging the books when Mike had arrived at the school and immediately insisted on a private meeting with “Captain Gars.” There were now only three people in the room: Mike, Gustav and Rebecca. All of them were seated on armchairs arranged in a half circle.
    The king glared at the tall man sitting across from him. Blue eyes locked against blue eyes. “A
madman
!”
    Mike’s German was more than good enough to understand. He didn’t wait for Rebecca’s translation before matching the royal glare with one of his own.
    “Am I?” Snorting, almost sneering: “Or is the true madman a Swedish king who thinks he can establish a
Corpus Evangelicorum
in central Europe?
A
Protestant
confederation—when most of his Protestant allies are unwilling and his own conquered territory consists mainly of Catholics?”
    After Rebecca translated, Mike stretched out his hand and swept it south by west. The fact that his finger was actually pointing at bookcases in a library did not prevent the monarch from understanding the gesture.
    “What do you propose to do with Franconia?” he demanded. “Or the ’Priests’ Alley’?”
    The king was silent. Mike pressed on. “Or with the Palatinate—
both
the Upper and the Lower? Or with Swabia and Württemburg?”
    Gustav’s heavy jaws tightened. “There
must
be an established church.”
    Again, Mike didn’t need to wait for the translation. He shrugged his shoulders. “For a
Corpus Evangelicorum
, well and good. As long as it’s restricted to Lutheran north Germany. Pomerania and Mecklenburg you control directly. Brandenburg–Prussia and Saxony are
technically
your allies. If you can convince them to join, Lutheranism is not an issue.”
    Mike waited for Rebecca to translate. The king glowered at the use of the word “technically,” but issued no verbal protest. What was there to say?
    Mike continued. “But how do you propose to establish Lutheranism as the official church of
central
Germany? Most of which, except for Hesse-Kassel and Thuringia, is Catholic.”
    The king was now glaring fiercely. Mike matched the glare. “And
we
control Thuringia. And
we
will not accept an established church. The separation of church and state is one of our fundamental principles!”
    
Glare.
    
Glare.