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The king also promised her a pair of skis. "You will need them," he assured her, "if you ever plan to visit the place. The hunting is excellent, incidentally. But I do not propose to provide you with a new rifle. Anyone else, but not you. Your rifle is already the best in the world."  A week later, Axel Oxenstierna arrived in Grantville. Just as Gustav II Adolf had foreseen, his chancellor was apoplectic when he heard the king's new political plans. Axel ranted and raged, desperately trying to convince his monarch that a Confederation of Europe with a republic planted at its center—don't think I'm fooled by this Captain General rigmarole! and you gave them Franconia also?—would assuredly be the death knell—sooner or later!—for the aristocracy of Europe.
But the king refused to budge. After two days, he took Oxenstierna to visit a place in Thuringia. A place called Buchenwald.
"In another universe, Axel, this will be a place of slaughter." Gustav's heavy jaws clenched. "And by no means the worst!" He pointed to the east. "The real killing will take place in Poland and Russia. At places called Auschwitz and Sobibor and Treblinka."
He glared at his chancellor. "In that universe, my new president's grandfather will be forced to fight his way into this place, that a handful might survive. And do you know why?"
Now, the king pointed to the northeast. "Because in that universe, chancellor of Sweden, I will die. Less than three months from now, at a battlefield called Lützen." His lips quirked. "Leading a perhaps reckless cavalry charge."
The brief moment of humor vanished. Gustav took a deep breath, resting his hands on the pommel of the saddle. His eyes scanned the entire landscape; unfocused, as if he were looking in his mind's eye at all of Europe. "My death will end any chance of rescuing Germany from the clutches of the princes. You will try, Axel—strive well, and mightily—to salvage what you can. But it will not be enough. Germany will be doomed to the centuries which came after, and the world will be doomed to that Germany."
He sat erect in the saddle. "Not now! No longer! Not in this universe!"
His next words ended any further argument. "I understand God's will, Oxenstierna. It was for this purpose, in His mercy, that He created the Ring of Fire. This, and no other. Only a blind man, or an impious one, could fail to understand that now. So I will hear no further words on this subject. Do you understand, chancellor of Sweden? I am Vasa!"
Axel bent his head. Accepting, if not the wisdom of his king, the will of that king's soul.  Accepting the will, of course, did not mean accepting all the fine points. So, in the weeks which followed, Axel Oxenstierna—Sweden's canniest diplomat—immersed himself in the final negotiations. And, by the end, found himself in much better spirits. True, he disapproved in principle of the entire scheme. But Oxenstierna was a practical man, also. And he had discovered, in the political shrewdness of such men as Ed Piazza—now recovering from his injuries—and Francisco Nasi and the Abrabanel brothers, as well as Michael Stearns and especially his wife, a new asset for the cause of his king.
So, although he remained dubious of the final outcome, Oxenstierna could still console himself with a certainty.
Tremble, lords of Germany. A new breed has come into the world.  A month after her wedding, Julie would use the best rifle in the world. As the armored column of the United States smashed its way through the imperial fortifications which Wallenstein had erected on the Burgstall, Julie took out Wallenstein himself.
The king of Sweden did not approve, of course. By the semifeudal military protocol of his day, deliberately targeting an enemy commander was considered low and foul. But the Captain General was already beginning to accept some of the attitudes of his U.S. soldiery. To whom it seemed far more sensible—not to mention moral—to shoot the commander of a vicious army like you would a rabid dog.
So, the Captain General made no protest while Julie and her spotter went to work.
"It's a good one thousand yards, girl," muttered Karen. "This Wallenstein character sure as hell don't believe in leading from the front."
Karen could make out the figure easily enough through the spotting scope, standing on the battlements of the Alte Veste.
"Are you sure it's him?" asked Julie.
"Yep. There's a portrait in one of the books in the school library. I musta studied it for an hour, memorizing his ugly face. That's him, all right."
Reassured, Julie studied the enemy commander through her scope. He was an ugly bastard. Reminded her of a cartoon version of the Devil. "Wind?" she asked.
"Hard to tell," muttered Karen. "Nothing here, but on top of that hill?" She shrugged. "Start by figuring no wind. I'll try to spot where the first bullet hits."