The Jaeger were crack shots, using rifled muskets instead of the normal smoothbores-and they were perfectly prepared to be ruthless. Even large bandit gangs generally stayed away from them.
At the same time . . .
Anse couldn't help but wince. At the same time, the Jaeger were not rootless mercenaries, like the men who filled most of Europe's armies, including the Swedish army. They almost always had close ties to their local communities. In that sense, they were more like the mountain guides of left-behind modern Europe—or their equivalent, along with bush pilots, in uptime Alaska. Which meant that if they were willing to work for Blumroder, the man—and his activities—had the tacit support of the inhabitants of the area.
In short, a delicate situation just got a lot more delicate—and potentially even more explosive. If the N.U.S. really pissed off the Jaeger, the Thuringenwald would become impassable for any but large military units.
"Shoot, and I like the man," Anse muttered. "So does Pat."
"That's not all, Anse," said Rau gloomily. "It gets worse. Tell him, Jorg."
What brashness had been in the young man earlier was gone now. Hennel took a deep breath and almost blurted out: "Some of the other CoC members—well, all of them, except me—have been talking to your officer, that Horton Scheissk—ah, uptimer fellow. And just last night, they and Horton met with the German officer you brought with you. Captain von Dantz. I think the commander of the Swedish garrison was there, too. I am not sure about that, though." He shrugged. "I was not invited. Things have been strained between me and the rest of the CoC the past few weeks."
Anse had a bad feeling he could guess what the meeting had been about.
"These other CoC members . . . They are, ah . . ."
"What you call `hotheads,'" Hennel replied, scowling. "Or—what I think—simply lazy. They do not have the stomach for patient work. For . . . I forget the English word."
"Organizing?"
"Yes, that one. Always they think of what they like to call `the bold move.'"
Bold move. Anse was pretty sure the difference between that, in these circumstances, and terrorism . . . was just about nil. But it was the sort of notion that would appeal to impatient, inexperienced and angry youngsters. All the more so with someone like Horton to give it the blessing of "uptimer approval" and an arrogant ass like von Dantz to egg them on.
For that matter, von Dantz might do more than simply egg them on. If he'd gotten the ear of the garrison commander . . .
"Christ," Anse muttered. "This is way over my pay grade."
He took a deep breath. "Well, I guess it's time to find out if Mike Stearns is right."
Hennel cocked his head quizzically. Rau just said: "Eh?"
Anse turned and started back into the shop, gesturing with his head for the others to follow. "Never mind. It's too complicated to explain, and you'll see for yourselves anyway."
* * *
Noelle Murphy was in her room, thankfully. She listened carefully to everything Anse had to tell her, with Rau and Hennel standing against a nearby wall. Throughout, her expression was simply attentive, and her slim hands were folded neatly in her lap.
When Anse was finished, through, an expression came to her face. And she uttered a number of phrases that didn't fit well—not at all, in fact—with her reported ambitions to become a nun.
Admittedly, she did not take the name of the Lord in vain. Didn't mention Him at all, even if there was no act involving procreation or the elimination of bodily wastes that was overlooked.
". . . Wrong with those fucking morons?" she concluded. Eventually.
She brought her angry gaze to bear on Anse. "Wha—exactly—is your authority here, Warrant Officer Hatfield?"
Anse shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. But it doesn't extend as far as handling this."
Noelle rose abruptly to her feet and stalked over to her handbag, perched on a shelf under the window. "Stalked" was the word for it, too. For those few moments, she bore no resemblance at all to a slender young woman. Anse was reminded of an eagle, shifting its talons on a limb to get a better perch for swooping.
She hauled out a fancy looking envelope and handed it to Anse.
"Read that, please."
It had a fancy seal and everything—except this one was embossed by the insignia of the President, not the secretary of state. And when Anse opened it up, he recognized the handwriting. No assistant had drafted this. Mike Stearns' handwriting was pretty unmistakable. Large, looping letters. Not the world's best penmanship, by a country mile—but it was legible, and the handwriting was about as forceful as the contents.