The Eastern Front(21)

"Closer to eight, actually," said Torstensson. Again, he cleared his throat. "Michael . . ."

"The way I figure it, we'll have around fifty thousand men facing an army not much more than half that size. And that's not allowing for the difference in command. Myself excluded—and allowing for my experienced and capable staff—the quality of our commanding officers greatly exceeds that of the Saxons."

"Von Arnim's pretty good," said Knyphausen stoutly.

The plump duke sniffed. "He's not the Lion of the North. Nor is he Lennart, for that matter."

Torstensson had been holding his breath for the past few seconds. Now, he let it out in a rush. "Michael, enough! As you have obviously already deduced, the emperor will not be with us on the field. He and Wilhelm are marching instead into Brandenburg. The USE army will face the Saxons alone."

By now, Mike had figured out the truth. But he was tired of people dancing around it—starting with Gustav Adolf himself. He was damn well going to get someone to admit it out loud.

"In short, he proposes to divide his forces in order to fight two enemies simultaneously. A military error so basic and egregious—even a neophyte like me knows that much—that it is inconceivable that a general as demonstrably superb as Gustav Adolf would commit it—"

Brunswick-Lüneburg started to say something but Mike drove over it. "—unless he had what a suspicious soul would call ‘ulterior motives.' "

This time Torstensson tried to interrupt but Mike drove over him too. "And the only such motive a suspicious soul like me can discern is that Gustav Adolf is bound and determined to defeat Saxony and Brandenburg quickly enough to leave most of the campaigning season available for some other purpose. Such purpose, of course, being an invasion of Poland."

He paused, finally.

After a moment, Torstensson said: "Well. Yes. That is his plan." A bit hastily he added, "We have it on good authority that the Poles will be sending a contingent to join the Saxons. So you might say they will begin the hostilities themselves."

Mike chuckled, quite humorlessly. "Exactly how big a contingent are we talking about, Lennart?"

"Not . . . big."

The duke's chuckle, on the other hand, had some real humor in it. "To be precise, one small unit of hussars. But the commander is an Opalinski."

"In other words, a pretext." Mike gave Torstensson a level gaze. "I don't suppose there's any point in expressing my conviction that launching a major war against Poland is folly."

Torstensson shook his head. "No, Michael, there is not. You've made your opinion on this subject clear enough in the past. On several occasions, to the emperor himself. Very bluntly, too."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Torstensson said: "You may resign your commission, of course."

Mike shook his head. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Gustav Adolf is the head of state of the United States of Europe. Yes, he's also the king of Sweden and so on and so forth, but that doesn't matter here. He's the commander in chief, according to the agreement we made. So whatever I think of the wisdom of his decisions, I'm duty bound to obey them."

"That agreement does not oblige you to serve personally, Michael," George pointed out. "I've studied your up-time history, you know. So, yes, your President Truman fired your general McDonald's—no, was it McCarthy?—but no one including him felt that McWhateverhisname was obliged to continue serving in the army."

"Technically speaking, you're right. But there are political issues involved here. Given the history of the USE—which is less than two years old, remember—and my position in that history, it would be risky for me to resign my commission over an issue like this one."

"A battlefield is likely to be far more risky," said Knyphausen, "especially one where you're directed to behave recklessly."

"I wasn't referring to the personal danger to me. I was referring to the danger to the nation."

There was silence, for a moment. Then the Frisian professional soldier nodded his head. "Well spoken, Michael," he said softly.

"Say better, well done," chimed in George. He gave Mike another of those cheerful smiles that seemed to come readily to the man. "Maybe there's something to this ‘Prince of Germany' business after all."

Torstensson made a derisive sound. Close to a snort, but not quite. "Don't say that in front of the emperor," he muttered. The Swedish general pointed to one of the several side tables against the walls of the room, this one covered with maps instead of bottles of wine. "If you would, Dodo."