"Eric Flint & David Weber - 1634 - The Baltic War42" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)
"Good evening, Colonel."
Jesse stepped outside the newly constructed headquarters cum bachelor officers' quarters. Walking down
the ramp built for Cynthia's use, he glanced down the side of the building. Like all the other new
buildings at the field, it was a simple wooden design, having few windows, and without central heating—
the lack of which Jesse was feeling acutely, now that winter had arrived.
Due to a recent heat spell—using the term "heat" loosely—most of the snow that had covered the ground
the week before had melted. Jesse walked down the damp, unpaved surface of Richter Avenue, doing his
best to avoid the worst patches of mud. He then walked past the NCO quarters, the mess hall, the
married enlisted buildings, and the single enlisted barracks, their new wooden walls already grayed by
the elements. Opposite the buildings, children were playing in the parade ground, which was as yet
unused for its named purpose.
The snap of the flag at the top of the smooth wooden pole drew his eye and he felt suddenly better, less
tired.
You should see the old field now, Hans. All because of you.
Jesse hadn't meant to capitalize on Hans' death, of course. But, once the initial shock had worn off and
he'd been able to analyze the battle of Wismar, he had become angry. His anger wasn't directed at the
Grantville leadership—he understood military necessity—but at the enemies who threatened to destroy
all he knew and loved. The depth of his anger had surprised him. He had always been slow to anger and
his ire had nearly always passed swiftly. Certainly, he'd never felt any particular hatred towards the
enemies of the U.S. in the old time line. In reflection, he realized his anger was more than half fear—
fear that, should these enemies win, there would be no starting over, since there was nowhere to run in
- Chapter 1
this world. So, he had concentrated on the anger, had shaped it into a weapon. And in doing so, he had
changed himself. Before Wismar, he had been a pilot playing the role of commander. Afterward, though
he would never voice it, he became a commander, with a commander's view of things.
Within days, he had returned to Grantville, directing two pilots, Lieutenants Woodsill and Weissenbach,
to take the Las Vegas Belle II and rejoin the ground contingent at Richter Field in Wismar. Woody and
Ernst had been thrilled to be left with the only functioning aircraft—and within range of the enemy, at
that. Jesse felt he had taken the edge off a good deal of that enthusiasm, and he was sure the two young
pilots would follow his cautious operational instructions. They were to provide aerial reconnaissance for
Gustavus Adolphus in Luebeck, and that was all. Even so, he had taken care to not stifle their spirit. A
pilot's élan is as important as fuel.
Only in the past month, with the completion of two more Belles and Gustav production now running
smoothly, had he relaxed his restrictions on the Wismar detachment. He'd allowed them to try their hand
at rocket attacks on the enemy encampment, a duty the two young pilots had accepted with the eagerness
of unleashed tigers.
Jesse had channeled his own efforts into convincing Grantville to give him the resources to accelerate
aircraft production, to give him the tools to punish their enemies. While he talked practicalities with
President Stearns, Admiral Simpson, and Hal Smith, to all others he spoke in terms of duty, sacrifice,
and honor. As much as he hated public speaking, he gave speeches to citizen groups and retold the
Battle of Wismar and Captain Richter's heroism countless times.
The story was certainly gripping. The account of a valiant few fighting against long odds with makeshift
weapons—buying time, as Jesse put it, so their people could prepare for the inevitable onslaught—
caught the imagination of the public. In Magdeburg even more than in Grantville. Before long, most
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