Silence followed, while Julie gauged the elevation. The shot was at the outermost limit of the rifle's range. It would require her utmost skill and concentration. She blocked everything out of her mind—the sound of the APCs smashing through the lower fortifications, the fiery flares of napalm clearing the side trenches—everything except the devil in the distance.
As always, squeezing the trigger, her shot came as a bit of a surprise.
"Four feet off!" cried Karen. "Nine o'clock! That's wind! Elevation's dead on!"
Julie had seen it herself. One of the officers standing to Wallenstein's right had been struck down by a bullet in the chest. Wallenstein himself, his mouth open, was staring at the man's body.
Julie adjusted for the wind. Wallenstein's head came back around, staring directly at her. His mouth was still open.
The sniper's triangle. You're dead, motherfucker.
The only thing that saved Wallenstein's life was the extreme range. The shot was perfect. But, traveling that distance, the bullet slowed enough to go transonic. It began to tumble, and missed by inches. Wallenstein's jaw was shattered, instead of his throat.
The imperial general's head spun, spraying teeth and blood on his subordinates. He staggered into General Gallas' arms.
"Damn," growled Julie. She jacked another round into the chamber. Fired again.
That shot splintered Wallenstein's shoulder. Gurgling with pain and fear, Wallenstein tried to shout orders to Gallas: Put me down, you idiot! But he could not get the words through his mangled mouth, and Gallas was too confused to understand what was happening. Wallenstein's frantic attempt to force Gallas to the ground brought the general's own head into the path of the next bullet. Now finally in the safety below the battlements, Wallenstein stared at the pieces of Gallas' brains scattered over the stones.
Good riddance was his last thought, before pain and shock dragged him into unconsciousness.
A thousand yards away, sighing regretfully, Julie lowered her head and muttered a few curses. The Captain General knelt by her side and consoled her with a heavy hand on the shoulder. Due to the sports spectacles which Julie had presented him as her own gift, Gustav's eyesight was good enough to have followed the action.
"No matter," he said. "He will not be there to rally his men. All that matters."
The Captain General raised his head and studied the battle. The U.S. armored column had now broken through the outer fortifications on the lower slope of the Burgstall. The M-60 in the lead APC was shattering the counterattack coming down from the Alte Veste. Thousands of Swedish cuirassiers and Finnish light cavalry were pouring into the breach. For a mile on either side of the armored thrust, Swedish pikemen and arquebusiers were launching a massive charge. The Captain General smiled, seeing the U.S. infantrymen at the fore of that charge. Even from the distance, he could hear their incredible rate of fire.
"No matter," he repeated. "Wallenstein's army will break—and very soon. We are on the verge of an even greater victory than Breitenfeld. Trust me, girl. I am experienced in these things."
Julie raised her head and glared at him. "And I suppose you're going to lead another idiot cavalry charge?"
Gustav II Adolf, King of Sweden and the Baltic Territories, newly crowned Emperor of the Confederated Principalities of Europe, and Captain General of the United States, shook his head.
"Please! Do I look like a madman?" When Mike returned from the Alte Veste that evening, the Captain General ordered him to return home. He would brook no argument.
"I command the armies of the United States in the field!" he roared, driving over Mike's protest. "That was the agreement!"
He settled down, a bit. "Besides," he gruffed, "there is no further need for you here. The battle is won—decisively. And you have a situation at home. We just got word over the radio."
Mike's face paled. The Captain General chuckled. "Relax, man! It happens. A bit early, in this case, but that is not so unusual in a first—" The rest of the words went unheard. Mike was already racing out of the command tent, looking for his vehicle and official driver.
Hans got him back to Grantville in record time, even on those roads. The pickup, of course, needed extensive body work afterward. But they were still late. The baby had been born many hours earlier.
"Relax, fer Chrissake," said James, as he trotted alongside Mike down the corridor of the town's new hospital, trying to keep up with the frantic new father. It was a long corridor. The hospital had only been completed two months earlier, and its builders had planned for the future. Halfway down, Mike almost trampled Jeff as he emerged from one of the wards, his arm in a sling. Gretchen, coming right behind her husband, called out a greeting. But Mike only responded with a vague wave of the hand.