The Eastern Front(127)

"So how'd you finally find out?" asked Jeff.

Engler looked a bit embarrassed. He nodded at Linn, who had taken a seat at an adjoining table. "It was his idea."

Jason grinned. "He was having the radio guys send queries every other day. Waste of time, of course, because he was sending them as ‘Thorsten Engler.' " Linn jeered. "Who the hell is that? Sounds like a peasant."

Jeff laughed. "So you finally sent one as the imperial count of Narnia. Don't tell me. I bet you got a response the next day."

Thorsten finally smiled. "The same day, actually. I sent it early this morning."

Higgins took a seat next to Linn and folded his big hands on the table. "I'm lucky that way. The radio operators I deal with are CoC on the other end. You think you got problems, Engler? Where do you think my wife is?"

He didn't wait for their guesses. "Dresden. Guess how she got there?"

He didn't wait for their guesses. "Plane crash. Never a dull moment, being married to Gretchen."


Berlin, capital of Brandenburg Province

"So what's the verdict, James?" Mike handed Dr. Nichols a short glass filled halfway with some sort of clear liquid. Liquor, from the smell.

"It's what passes for Korn in Brandenburg," Mike explained. "The wine's marginally better, but I figured you'd want something stronger."

"You got that right." Nichols drank half of it in one gulp, then made a little face. "The stuff in Thuringia is way better. And it's not very good."

Mike smiled thinly. "Welcome to Brandenburg. And I repeat: what's the verdict?"

"Can I sit down first?"

"Oh, sorry. Sure." Mike waved to one of the chairs in his suite. That was one advantage to being billeted in a palace. There was usually plenty of room.

Nichols sagged into the chair. He looked pretty exhausted. He'd been at the king of Sweden's bedside all day, since early in the morning.

Some of the doctor's weariness, though, was probably still due to the rigors of his journey here. That had ended two days ago, but Nichols was about sixty.

The weather had made any sort of plane travel impossible to Berlin. Impossible, at least, for any aircraft with standard landing gear. There had been some days when the weather would have permitted flying, but there was nowhere to land.

The elector of Brandenburg, George William, had refused let an airstrip be built anywhere in Brandenburg. He claimed that was to protect his subjects from aircraft falling on top of them, but the real reason was simply that he resented all of the side effects of the Ring of Fire. If he couldn't make the cursed Americans vanish, at least he didn't have to let them foul his sky with their cursed machines.

As bad as the weather had been—and still was, half the time—there'd been no way to construct an airfield in time. And as it turned out, they couldn't use one of the planes with air-cushioned landing gear. There was only one ACLG plane in regular operation yet, because of a shortage of suitable engines, and it was undergoing major maintenance. Even if the airline had raced to put it back together, Mike would have gotten Gustav Adolf to Berlin by then.

There'd also been a hovercraft used to ferry people and supplies on the Saale that might have managed the job, that Mike had forgotten about. But it wasn't available either. A few months ago, a minerals exploration company had chartered it for use somewhere in the far north.

So, a horse-litter it had been, at a forced pace across rough terrain and with new rainstorms coming every second or third day. Mike had been exhausted when they finally reached Berlin. James' trip hadn't been as rough, but it had been rough enough for a man his age.

The doctor stared moodily into his glass. "It's the head trauma that's really got me worried, Mike."

Mike's eyes widened. "That's . . . saying something, given how deadly peritonitis can be."

"Yeah, but I can help that—some, anyway—with surgery. And the antibiotics we've got should help a lot too. Whereas the head trauma . . ."

Nichols shook his head. "Honestly? There's probably nothing at all I can do. Or anybody can do. We'll just have to wait and hope for the best."

"He's not in a coma, though." That was a statement, not a question. Mike had been with the king throughout the journey from Zbąszyń, and there had been times Gustav Adolf had been . . .

Well. Not in a coma. You could hardly say "conscious," though. He'd seemed very delirious.

"No, he's not in a coma. But there are lots of ways the brain can be badly affected that don't manifest themselves in a coma, Mike. He's suffered a serious traumatic brain injury from being clubbed half to death, essentially. The skull wasn't broken, but parts of the brain where he was struck were certainly damaged. Possibly other parts, too."