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"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.