The Baltic War(303)

Sweeping, indeed. Some of these areas the Swedish chancellor was now referring to were not actually under USE military control, and even in the ones that were, the control was still shaky. If for no other reason than that Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar still had a powerful army in the vicinity and Mike was more and more coming to think that Bernhard was not simply a mercenary working for the French. Which, if true, meant . . .



Interesting times just got a little more interesting.



"—imperial cities of Ulm and Augsburg. Count Ludwig Guenther has agreed to negotiate with Duke Anton of Oldenburg on the subject of merging Oldenburg into the province of Westphalia voluntarily. Regretfully, Ostfriesland is apparently petitioning for admission to the United Provinces instead of the United States of Europe, as is Bentheim, a subject which will require firm discussions with the various authorities in the Netherlands at such time—"



That was likely to get interesting, too. But right now, he had more immediate concerns. "When's the dinner break?" he muttered.



"Michael, be quiet or I will put you on a strict regimen of bread, water and abstinence."



He could live on bread and water. The third threat, though, was downright scary. Becky might even do it. Real political junkies were unpredictable, that way. Turn on you like wild beasts.



So, he shut up again.





Finally, though, came the dinner break. And it would be the break for the rest of the day, because a banquet was being prepared.



Mike rose and began moving through the crowd toward Admiral Simpson. Before he got there, a Danish subaltern intercepted him and gave him the news. Lieutenant Cantrell been moved and was being held in—the subaltern pointed—that room over there.



"Thank you," Mike murmured. Looking up, he saw that Simpson was coming his way, so he just waited in place.



"He's in there," Mike said, indicating the room.



Simpson nodded. "This shouldn't—"



A booming voice interrupted him. "How long, Admiral?"



Mike hadn't seen Gustav Adolf coming. The fact that he had done so was an indication by itself of how seriously the emperor took the matter. There was undoubtedly a comic-opera aspect to l'affaire Eddie, but . . .



Heads sometimes rolled in comic operas, too. There was a great deal at stake here, and the man who was simultaneously the king of Sweden, emperor of the United States of Europe, and the new ruler of the union       of Kalmar—they hadn't settled on a title yet, but "High King" seemed to be in the lead—wasn't about to see it start coming apart because a very junior American officer couldn't keep one organ of his body under control and, so far at least, had shown precious few signs that the organ between his ears was working at all.



Mike didn't blame him, not one bit. But that still wouldn't stop him from throwing his own monkey wrench into the works if push came to shove. Whatever disagreements he'd had with John Chandler Simpson in the past, he had none at all today. There were principles—and one of them was that you didn't let one of yours be hung out to dry just because a goddam king was having a royal snit. Piss on all the crowned heads of Europe, if that's what it came down to.



"I'd estimate about twenty minutes, Your Majesty," said Simpson smoothly. "My lieutenant's a good man. I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."



Gustav Adolf's ensuing harrumph was about what you'd expect from someone with all those titles. Majestic, it was.



A Danish official scurried up, with a document in his hand. "These are the formal charges, Admiral Simpson."



"Thank you. Well, then, I'll be off."





Chapter 69


Had he been asked a year earlier—even a few days earlier—Eddie Cantrell would have sworn that no human being could possibly stand at attention as rigidly as he was doing that very moment. As if, by imitating perfectly the absence of all life, those still alive in the vicinity might just possibly ignore him. Mistake him for a potted plant or a vase or something. Maybe a statue.



Alas, it didn't work.



"Let me get this straight, Lieutenant Cantrell," said Admiral Simpson, staring down at him from what seemed an impossibly imposing height, his hands clasped behind his back. "If I'm interpreting your incoherent mumbles correctly, the accusation leveled by the king of Denmark against one of my junior officers is indeed correct. Entirely correct, and in all its particulars."



"Well . . ."



"Please enlighten me as to any errors in detail."



"Ah . . . she's not actually a 'princess,' sir. Technically, she's just a 'king's daughter.' "



"Indeed." Simpson glanced back at the table in the small salon in Rosenborg Castle where he and Eddie were meeting privately. On the table lay the very formal looking document—parchment, royal seal now broken, the whole nine yards—containing the king of Denmark's charges.