The Baltic War(198)

Eddie looked back out the window. "Should be any day now, I figure. Unless you were lying last week when you told me he'd gotten out of the Elbe. Or unless there was a huge storm in the North Sea I haven't heard about."



Norddahl chuckled. "You wouldn't have to 'hear about it.' You'd know, believe me, if there had been a big storm. What's to stop it from striking Copenhagen? The towering mountains of Denmark? The highest spot in the whole country is Yding Skovhøj, and that's maybe six hundred feet tall. If that."



"And I didn't lie to you," Ulrik added. "One of the timberclads was apparently left behind, due to some problem or another. I didn't tell you that, simply because we only found out ourselves three days ago." He got a tight look on his face. "The stinking French pass as little information to us as possible. We found out from one of our own couriers."



Sighing, he began rolling up the sketch. "So once Gustav Adolf knows that Simpson has passed through the Great Belt—that's the route I'm assuming he'll take, anyway—he will be able to notify Torstensson by radio. And since he must have set up a radio link to Stockholm, he'll also be able to notify Oxenstierna and Admiral Gyllenhjelm."



He cocked an eye at Eddie. "Yes?"



Eddie hesitated, but . . . it really didn't matter, any more. And, who knows? Maybe King Christian might decide to sue for peace. The truth was, Eddie wasn't real happy himself at the thought of Simpson leveling Copenhagen. And wouldn't have been, even if he weren't perched in the Blue Tower, which was the most visible part of Copenhagen from the waterfront and almost sure to be a prime target for those ten-inch guns.



"No, you're right. You can tell your father—"



"I'm not telling the king anything," Ulrik said bluntly. "You think he'd listen? Don't be stupid, Eddie. We're long past that point, if it ever existed at all, which I doubt. He's a wonderful father, in many ways, believe it or not. But his pride is involved, and he's just not given to being sensible on such matters. Maybe after . . ."



The prince shrugged. "We'll see. Or you'll see, at least. I may very well not."



Eddie squinted at him. "What does that mean?"



"Never mind. Just accept that there are times a prince must act like a prince, or he'll be able to do nothing thereafter. Leave it at that."



He tucked the rolled-up sketch under his arm and scanned the room. "No place here," he muttered. Then, after sticking his head into the alcove that passed as a toilet, he shook his head. "And not here, obviously."



He came back into the center of the room. "The original plan, then. Baldur, have you seen to it?"



The Norwegian nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. They've been very well paid. And the carriage will be ready, when the time comes."



Ulrik nodded, and turned to his half-sister. "Any last hesitations?"



She shook her head, looking far more solemn than a fifteen-year-old really should.



"What are you all talking about?" Eddie asked.



Ulrik turned to face him. "Amazing, really. What did they teach you in those famous up-time schools, beyond mechanical matters?"



"What are you talking about?" Eddie repeated. Feeling, not for the first time since he'd fallen into captivity, like a dunce.



"I read a charming story about those schools," Baldur said. "The really dumb and inattentive ones, they'd make sit in a corner. With a tall pointed hat on his head that said 'dunce.' "



All of them laughed. To rub salt into the wounds, none more loudly than Anne Cathrine.





The North Sea


White water curled back on either side of SSIM Constitution's blunt bows as the ironclad butted her way through the North Sea waves. Sea conditions were actually quite good, Simpson thought, standing on Constitution's bridge wing while the chilly wind hummed around his ears. Wave height was only about three and a half or four feet, which was practically millpond-smooth compared to typical Atlantic conditions. Not that any of his ships had been designed for typical Atlantic conditions, of course.



Fortunately, he thought, turning to look astern to where President followed along in Constitution's wake, he'd at least had coastal operations in mind when he designed the ironclads. Flooded down, they drew almost ten feet, and he'd built them around what was effectively a double hull. Each of the propulsive pumps—and the tunnel in which it worked—occupied its own individual "pod," separated from the rest of the hull (and from one another) in order to prevent them from being disabled by a single hit or hull breach. It was almost a catamaran effect, and he'd used the flood tanks to further subdivide the portion of both pods which was submerged at maximum draft, giving himself as many of the advantages of watertight compartmentalization as he could. The fuel tanks were nested inside the flood tanks, and the magazines and powerplant were, in turn, nested inside them.