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.