Eric Flint - The Grantville Gazette Vol 8

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Grantville Gazette-Volume

VIII

Table of Contents

Assistant Editor's Preface

FICTION:

Joseph Hanauer: Into the Very Pit of Hell

Not a Princess Bride

The Painter's Gambit

Dear Sir

The Sons of St. John

Prince and Abbot

A Question of Faith

I Got My Buck

Capacity For Harm

Flight 19 to Magdeburg

Rolling On

Three Innocuous Words

CONTINUING SERIALS:

The Doctor Gribbleflotz Chronicles, Part 3 - Doctor Phil's Distraction

The Essen Steel Chronicles, Part 2

Louis de Geer

Butterflies in the Kremlin: Part 1

A Russian Noble

NON-FICTION:

Refrigeration and the 1632 World: Opportunities and Challenges

New France in 1634 and the Fate of North America

Aluminum: Will O' the Wisp?

IMAGES

SUBMISSIONS TO THE MAGAZINE

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Contents

Capacity For Harm

by Richard Evans

Belfort, Franche Comté, 1633

"So, Herr Doctor Lebenenergie. You designed this yourself?"

"Not exactly, Commissioner Vaden." Tomas cursed himself for ever thinking that coming to Belfort

would be profitable. He knew that Franche Comté was rife with witch hunts again, but he just needed

some extra copper wire and plates for his second machine. Those could be made in Franche Comté.

"I met with some Americans a couple of years ago. I studied their books on electricity. While I was

there, I saw them use a device that made that power available to them with a press of a button. They

shocked a farmer back to life."

"Sorcery!"

"So I thought at first, sir. But it was nothing but a machine. I hied myself to this town they said they came

from and just walked into their library and asked about these machines. I spent two months there."

Tomas tried to sit up straighter but the bindings prevented it. "I watched their doctors use similar

machines and finally came up with the theory that applying this power in varying amounts to the proper

locations of the body, one could rebalance the ichors within and cure maladies. This was proved to me

when I saw a movie called 'Frankenstein.' They laughed and called it 'fiction' and said it was a moral

lesson about a man'shubris . The machines in that movie were well within what we could make right

now.

"So I did." Tomas knew now what that movie had been trying to teach him, but now it was too late. His

only recourse was to make himself useful to these witch hunters. Somehow. "I built myElektrischer

Generator from parts I found near Geneva and Upper Genoa. The lodestone was the most expensive

piece."

"Lodestone? Explain." Someone just out of sight asked. Tomas felt someone moving up behind him.

"Continue, Herr Eichemann." The other Vaden waved the questioner back.

"Certain stones, when hung from a string or wire, will always have one side point to the North."

"Yes, those I know of," the elder Vaden interjected. "They are how the compasses on the ships work,

gentlemen." He shook his head. "We know that is not sorcery. Nor are we here for that reason. I believe

this is much simpler. Continue." The elder Vaden's cold, dead eyes compelled Tomas to obey.

Tomas Eichemann took time to gather his thoughts. He wasn't sure exactly what the two witch

commissioners wanted with him. No one he knew of had accused him of being a warlock—that he knew

of. The two men had just ridden out to his camp and invited him to attend them back in town. Invited

him. With their guards present.

He should have left earlier in the day when he'd heard that there were people asking for the whereabouts

of the traveling doctor and his magical device, theElektrischer Generator . It was always safer to leave

when people started asking questions. Twice before he had managed to flee other towns just ahead of

the authorities. Small towns were the worst; nowhere to really hide. Especially to those who had good

clean clothing, their own wagon with many strange devices hanging from its side, too. Jealousy or

suspicion always resulted in the same thing. Someone had sold the information to someone else who

knew someone who was in a position of authority.

But the smith had promised him that the copper plates for his capacitor and the wires for his two

inductor coils would be ready that afternoon, no sooner.I should have gone to Geneva instead. No

one would have cared about one more traveling merchant there.

The smith had delivered them as promised. Tomas had just managed to get a couple miles out of town

and make camp when the two men with the wide-brimmed black hats and cloaks of official witch

commissioners had appeared out of the dark. They hadn't been alone. Twenty guards on horse were with

them. All were wearing the colors of the Bishop of Strassburg. They had called him by name. The

invitation hadn't been one he could have refused and lived. The four mercenaries he'd hired to see him

safely through the battle lines had laughed when he ordered them to protect him. Then the sorry bastards

had faded into the nearby woods. Their laughs mocked him even now.

"Continue, Tomas Eichemann. Yes, we know your real name." The elder Vaden sneered at him. "But we

will get back to why you have given yourself the new title and name, later. Tell us more about why you

needed a lodestone."

"The stones have a power inside them that can push something called electrons. Those are particles that

are too small to see. But when they are present in great numbers, we can see their results during a

summer storm."

"This box makes lightnings?" The younger Vaden's eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Of a sort. Water?" The heads shook from side to side. There would be no comforts until all their

questions were answered. Tomas licked his dry lips. "When spun inside a coil of copper wire covered in

lac, the lodestone—the magnet, as the Americans call it—pushes the particles in one direction. That

creates flow of power. It acts like a water wheel in reverse, pushing electrons through the copper as if it

were a channel. Or you could think of it as a pump pushing water through the pipe.

"When spun at the right speed it creates enough power in a small coil to make it magnetic, like the

lodestone. The coil pulls a metal cylinder bound to a small spring and makes a contact under the lid. Just

like a lodestone attracts metal filings or that nail that your brother has been playing with. This opens the

circuit to let power flow from the smaller generator to a larger coil deeper inside the box. If the device is

working, the two silver studs under that glass lid will throw small lightnings at each other. Then you throw

that small lac covered lever there next to it to close a second circuit.

"This lets the small power created by the hand crank form a larger, more powerful, magnet to spin off

the same gears, so you produce more energy for the same amount of work. This is because the second

coil has more magnets, many pumps, or many water wheels, working together. These iron core magnets

don't really spin this time though. This time it is the coils that spin." The older Vaden nodded his head and

then looked to his younger brother who was standing by the box.

"Close the box, Brother." He turned back to Tomas. "Continue if you would, please." The friendly smile

wasn't forced at all and that scared him deeply. Tomas suddenly recalled prayers that he'd hadn't spoken

in many a year.

"There are two taps, links to the coils, copper brushes that spin along the circular plates shown on the

drawing. That lets the power go towards charging two plates of copper that have sheets of glass between

them. They call that a capacitor. It stores the power until needed. To that is connected another coil, this

time heavier copper wire wrapped around another iron core. This is hooked up to the lac covered wires

that are attached to the proper locations of the body with clamps or leather cuffs with the contacts sewn

into them, so that power can be applied. How much is dependant on how fast you spin the gear handle

and how long you press the red button."

"I see. Like this?"

Tomas screamed. His body jerked against the leather straps binding him to the heavy wooden chair.

"Yes. Yes. But you shouldn't spin the handle so fast. Too much power will harm the patient." Tomas

gasped a bit. "Too much power can burn them from the inside. If the patient has a weak heart, it can kill

him. If the lightnings under the glass are large and constant, you can back off spinning it so fast." Tomas

felt his voice break from his adopted instructor and doctor's persona. He knew it sounded like the

desperate pleadings of a condemned man.

The two brothers looked at each other and smiled. "Indeed?"

Tomas grasped at a straw. "I have the body charts and shock tables in that map case. It's over by my

pack. On the table." Tomas tried to nod, but could only flick his eyes in the proper direction.

"Ah. We shall study it most thoroughly, Dr Lebenenergie. Most thoroughly, indeed." The Vaden

brothers had the most spine chilling smiles that Tomas had ever seen.

The older brother smiled again. He leaned forward and whispered into Tomas's ear. "Yes. I must thank

you. With such a device, I do believe we can process more voluntary confessions per day. And we won't

even leave a mark upon our charges. So the priests who feel that we are beating confessions out of the

accused will have no grounds at all." The smile chilled Tomas to the core. "No grounds at all."

"That was most efficient, Commissioner Vaden. Very well done." Tomas eyes darted over to see who

had spoken and locked his eyes on those of a local magistrate. "I told you, Antoine, these men are

efficient in their work The two best lawyers I've ever met."

"Truly," answered another magistrate. Tomas couldn't quite identify him in the dim lighting. "Though I am

more concerned that we got down all the pertinent details about the device. I believe that is the most

important thing here."

From behind him Tomas Eichemann heard another voice, this one higher pitched. "I've got the

information, sir."

Sweat began to roll down his forehead. What was really going on here? There were at least four other

silent figures in the room. Tomas gathered his breath and looked up at them. "Am I to be charged as a

warlock, then? Or am I free to go? I helped you as I said I would. I have done everything in my power

to show you how to build your ownElektrischer Generator . I'll even help you build your own. As many

as you need! But I don't see how a healing machine can help you in your Holy cause, commissioners. It is

a machine to shock the body back into working right. I have many affidavits, witnessed and sealed, of

patients who've been cured by my machine."

"Yes. That you have. And we thank you so much for the neat lists of names you gave us. Many of them

are very rich indeed. You sold them smaller versions for their own use, I see."

"Yes. But those won't last like this one. The magnetics will fail eventually, as will the soft metal gears.

They only make minor shocks that stimulate the muscles and circulation. They will need me for full

revitalizations, as they don't know how to do that. It is very good money. I could share it with you, make

you partners perhaps?" Bribing commissioners was risky, but commonly accepted as necessary. Many of

them were in the business more for the money than any real desire to do Holy work.

The younger Vaden turned to the small crowd behind him. "Gentlemen, he has voluntarily admitted that

he's sold devices to many unsuspecting clients. Devices designed to fail."

The older Vaden smiled. Grimly. "As for the donations . . . That won't be necessary, Tomas. Though we

do thank you for your donation . . ." Someone behind them coughed politely. ". . . offer."

The younger Vaden chuckled. "Yes, indeed. We can both use new boots. The roads here are simply

atrocious, wouldn't you say, Brother?" Someone else chuckled.

"Yes." The older Vaden leaned down over Tomas and smiled. "As for your release . . . not just yet. We

do need to see the full capacity of this machine, after all. As well . . ." He smiled. "We need to see which

is stronger. The guilty soul of a self proclaimed doctor and admitted charlatan or that of a machine." He

waved his hand to the hooded man who stood by the machine. The crank began to spin.

"I do believe you will find a comfortable place in Heaven, Tomas. Eventually."

The black gloved hand pressed the red button. And held it down.

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Framed

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Contents

Flight 19 to Magdeburg

by Jose J. Clavell

Prologue

Living Room

Captain and Frau McIntosh's quarters

Formerly 1SGT and Mrs. Hudson's residence

Grantville, SoTF, USE

Spring 1635, 0955 hours local

Britt Strausswirt was bored. A day after being released from the Leahy Medical Center, she rested her

badly sprained left ankle on the ottoman that her host's wife, Gertrude McIntosh, had thoughtfully

provided before departing for the market. Her husband, Captain Peter McIntosh, had gone to work and

Britt was glad. The executive officer for the Horse Marines was needed at his job on the headquarters of

the second battalion at the old Hudson farm and not babysitting a lame gyrene. Their three children were

at their schools, leaving her alone, bored and lonely for the first time since her release from the hospital.

Of course, Britt had tried to keep busy. So far this day she had written to her parents, sisters, brothers,

and each of her friends in the nunnery, but without any mention of her mishap. Partly that was because

Britt knew that they were already worried enough about her choice of careers, but mostly it was because

she was still trying to come to terms with the accident herself.Anything worse and it would have put a

serious bind on my plans to die quietly in bed from old age , she thought, darkly amused.

There was nothing to see on television, although she still found the uptime technology almost magical.

However, being city-born and bred, she could not get interested in the farming news and tips programs

that comprised the morning fare of the school TV station, although the one about hunting boars had been

disgustingly fascinating. It was still too early in the day for movies. Those were shown later at night when

families gathered after the day's work. She thought about doing some reading, but by this time, she had

practically memorized her manuals, could quote Marine history as well as Corporal Wilson, and had

perused the local paper cover to cover. Her eyes roamed the living room, looking for new material, and

fixed onto a small magazine hiding under today's paper. The garish cover caught her attention, so she

picked it up. The title,Astounding Time Travel Tales , made her smile. Robert, the McIntosh's oldest

son, had, like many down-timers, fallen in love with the up-time genre of science fiction.

A quick examination showed that the stories were not the usual reprints of up-timer stories. Apparently,

some of her contemporaries had decided to start writing their own. Britt smiled and shook her head at

the notion, and started reading the first one. Its title, "Flight 19 to Magdeburg," and its aviation theme

looked promising.

"Ouch!" Britt flinched. One look at the story and she had put her left foot down as she sat up in surprise.

The pain that shot up from her ankle managed to take her mind from the homicidal thoughts running

through it for a second. It didn't stop her from cussing, though. "Who the hell is this Jose J. Clavell and

where I can find him to wring his neck?"

It was a rather rhetorical question in an empty house, but she felt somewhat mollified. After taking some

pain medication, she leaned back and continued to read the story while trying not to grind her teeth, at

least not much. At its conclusion, Britt couldn't deny that it was well written and that she had actually

enjoyed it. She looked at the magazine again. "Oh, what the heck. But if I get my hands on this Clavell

fellow, whoever he is. . . . Who's he trying to fool? Admiral 'Smith' and Lieutenant 'Strauss.' Sure."

Lawrence Wild Naval Air Facility, US Navy Yard

Magdeburg, Thuringia, USE

Early summer, 1634

1035 hours

John Chandler Smith was not a happy camper this morning. He and his chief of naval operations had

been waiting by the side of the hard surfaced runway for the better part of half an hour. Colonel Jesse

Wind, the chief of staff of the USE's fledging Air Force, was flying from Grantville to attend the first

meeting of the combined chiefs of the armed forces. The meeting, long in the planning, was finally

scheduled for early this afternoon.

Smith, as a courtesy to a fellow service chief, had decided to meet him at the airstrip. In truth, he also

wanted an opportunity to talk to him in private before the meeting. That was a decision that he started to

regret as he looked down at his very expensive and now one-of-a-kind wristwatch, confirming that Wind

was already ten minutes late. At least the flash and thunder that had greeted his arrival to the strip was not

the prelude to the summer thunderstorm that he had feared—though he still wondered about it since he

couldn't see anything that could have caused it.

His aide-de-camp, Marine Second Lieutenant Brigitte Strauss, stood calmly by his side, a good

counterpoint for his impatience. After a two-month association, he now knew that her outward calm was

one of the intrinsic trademarks of her personality. That, and her bearing, which occasionally made him

forget that she was not a product of the US Naval Academy at Annapolis like him, but one of the

Marine's ninety-day wonders—albeit one of the better ones. Her calm and assurance also reminded him

of his former aides, Eddie Cantrell and Larry Wild, and their endearing awkwardness.

As usual, a brief moment of grief tightened his throat as he thought about the two young men. He wished

again that they could stand by his side once more. But, that was impossible. Larry had died at Wismar

together with his one-seaman crew and Air Force Captain Hans Richter in what everyone now

considered the first engagement in the new navy and air force history. It was an old-fashioned, great

pyrrhic victory for both services that still smarted. Eddie barely survived but was now a POW in the

Danish capitol. There, he was demonstrating a remarkable ingenuity by turning his situation around and

becoming a valuable source of information, even under his captor's noses. A noteworthy feat, considering

that he had lost his lower left leg during the battle.

As part of her duties as one of the Marine battalion's most junior officers, Brigitte served as the Airfield

Officer of the Day, in addition to being his aide. Of course, for Brigitte in particular, that was not a

problem. She was one of the most organized and capable officers that Smith had ever seen. And

truthfully, being the AOD was not as imposing a task as the title might imply. The strip saw an average of

one plane a week.

Smith suspected that she wouldn't have minded if there had been a hundred arrivals a day. Brigitte had

been bitten hard by the flying bug after watching her first Belle fly overhead last autumn. He suspected

that she probably had one or two hours of bootleg flying under her belt. Her interest had become one of

the items he wanted to discuss with Wind before the meeting. Smith believed it was high time to start

cycling a few selected naval personnel through the available flight training slots. Aviation support could be

as important to naval operations as it was to land operations. In fact, he already had in mind his first

candidate for training: Brigitte.

That last thought passed through his mind as Strauss received the report of the petty officer in charge of

the smoke signals. Smith had ordered them lit after he was informed that Wind had allowed one of his

fledging aviators to navigate their flight all the way from Grantville. Hopefully, it would help them find their

way. He found it commendable that the air force chief took any and every opportunity available for

training, but he had started to wonder how long the colonel planned to let his surely lost-by-now eaglet

wander around the countryside. So it was with great relief that he finally heard the sound of an engine in

the distance.

Smith watched the growing dot in the sky and looked at his wristwatch again.Only fifteen minutes late

this time, he thought. Wind's kids were improving every day and maybe someday in the far-distant future

they would make passable aviators. Something strange in the rumbling of the engine made him look up

again. The sound was strange, but achingly familiar. The sound wasn't like the lawnmower-engine buzz of

the Belles or the growl of the more powerful Gustav. A memory from childhood hit him like a hammer as

he finally recognized it. It was the sound of a radial engine and it was not alone. Stunned, he watched as

the lone dot in the sky become four. As the dots grew nearer, they sprouted wings.

"It looks like the air force is planning a show, sir," a clearly delighted Strauss observed.

Smith looked down at her. Yes, that certainly made a heck of a lot more sense than what he had been

thinking. "It looks like it, Lieutenant." He smiled before looking back at the approaching aircraft. "Funny

that no planes other than Wind and his wingman were mentioned. In fact, Wind . . . wait a minute." Smith

felt his jaw fall open as he saw the airplanes clearly for the first time. "THOSE ARE NOT OUR

PLANES!"

Smith immediately regretted his outburst and just as quickly forgot about it. He stood speechless as his

eyes took in a sight seemingly out of a World War II history book. His mind went automatically through

the aircraft recognition chart that he memorized as a child so long ago. The mid wing, barrel fuselage with

a large Wright radial, powered turret aft of the greenhouse canopy and large star-and-bars national

emblem: an Avenger Torpedo Bomber. It was the same type of aircraft that his late Uncle Larry learned

to fly in WWII, along with his best friend and wingman, Ensign George H. W. Bush.

The first Avenger turned onto final approach. The rest of the small formation followed closely on its tail

as it descended, landing gear, tail hook, and flaps fully deployed, carrier style.They must be running on

fumes , Smith thought as he watched them land with minimal intervals between planes.

How in the world is it possible that I have these airplanes landing on my airstrip?He began to put

the pieces together in his mind, and suddenly he realized that the solution to one of aviation's greatest

mysteries lay before his eyes.

Smith remembered a long-ago late-night conversation with his first-division CPO during his nugget cruise

in the Caribbean. They had been leaning on the fantail, laughing and shooting the breeze while watching

their destroyer's wake as they had done so many times before. After he made an idle inquiry about the

Bermuda Triangle, Chief Hawkins had grown serious and after a moment's pause started telling him

about the first of his many experiences in the area.

The Chief, then an eighteen-year-old Seaman Apprentice, had participated in the search for Flight 19 in

late 1945. The five-plane Avenger formation had disappeared during a training bombing mission after

reporting failure of their flight instruments and compasses. One of the aircraft participating in the search, a

PBM Mariner flying boat, had also disappeared without a trace—another unexplained loss in the long

history of disappearances that had made the whole area synonymous with mystery. At the time, Smith

thought that Hawkins had been bullshitting him with tall tales but took it with the grace befitting a junior

mariner learning at the feet of a master. After all, the Chief's lessons stood him well during his time in Viet

Nam and provided good guidance even after the loss of his lower leg forced him to change the path of his

naval career and move onto the corporate ladder.

Anyway, the point was, Hawkins had told him that in their final transmission before disappearing, those

ill-fated pilots had reported that they were low on fuel and preparing to ditch at sea. If these were the

very same Avenger pilots, that would explain why they were landing in such a hurry. Smith looked on

with admiration at their flying skills.Wind would kill to see his fledgling aviators exhibit a fraction of

these talents, he thought. As he continued to watch them go about the business of getting their aircraft

down fast and in one piece, an idea started to bubble in the back of his mind and a smile creased his lips.

The petty officer got his work detail into action and with hand signals provided directions to the parking

apron to the plane now leaving the active runway. Smith was glad that all their practice runs handling

plane mock-ups and the occasional Air Force flight now paid dividends as other sailors jumped in to

help. The availability of trained ground crews was one of the selling points that he had planned to use on

Wind to get him to assign dedicated aircraft to Magdeburg under his control—that and the lengthening of

the runway and other facilities.

However, his plans were for the much smaller Belles and Gustavs, not something as large as an Avenger.

For a moment, Smith feared that the available parking area was not going to be able to take all the

planes. But, as the lead aircraft approached the designated spot, the pilot must have seen the same

problem. The Avenger wings started to rotate and fold along its fuselage, reminding a startled Smith that

the plane was originally designed for the confined spaces of a carrier. The other pilots, imitating their

leader's example, folded their wings as they followed the directions of the ground handlers to the

remaining parking spots on the apron. Although the last one ended with his main port wheel too close to

the edge of the hard surface for comfort, the process went beautifully.

John Smith smiled as their propellers finally came to a stop. In the relative quiet that followed, he took a

second to ponder why he was not more surprised. He finally decided that after being whisked back in

time to seventeenth-century Germany with a town full of hicks and that darn Stubbs, it would take a lot

more to amaze him.

The Flight 19 men were now joining his lost-in-time crowd—misery does love company. Smith turned

towards the wide-eyed lieutenant beside him. "Brigitte, please give my compliments to the flight

commander, and would you ask him to join me here?"

As he expected, the young woman immediately recovered her usual aplomb. With a salute and a cheery

"Aye, aye, Admiral," she departed to do his bidding. Her eyes fixated on the Avengers, glowing with a

lust that would weaken young men's knees. Smiling, Smith figured she would find her way into a cockpit

within the next thirty minutes.

Smith caught the moment when the seventeenth century met head on with the twentieth: Lieutenant

Strauss snapping a salute to a taken-aback Marine aviator. The admiral shook his head at the sight and

turned away to hide his grin, trying to decide which element of the surrounding scene the poor man was

going to find the strangest: that the German, Swedish, and American soldiers, sailors, and yard workers

were in a mixture of clothing both modern and antique, seemingly out of a museum, or that the pretty

redhead in the camouflage utilities professed to be both a Marine officer and an admiral's aide.

He sobered up when he remembered their personal losses. Like all the citizens of Grantville and his son's

wedding guests, the aviators had just lost everything that was familiar and dear to them and he would

have to be the one to break the news. He sighed. That responsibility came with the job. Some things had

not changed since his Viet Nam days.

Smith put that matter aside for the moment and watched Strauss lead the Marine captain in his direction.

A navy lieutenant trailed a short distance behind. The aviator seemed pissed off with the whole situation

and walked towards the admiral with an almost visible chip on his shoulder, and probably a seabag full of

questions. However, he did a double take and slowed down as he saw the silver stars on Smith's collar.

Strauss made the introductions in unusually clear English, albeit with a slight German accent. "Admiral,

may I present to you Captain Powers and Lieutenant Taylor? The lieutenant was the instructor pilot but

the captain is the senior officer present."

Smith returned both men's salutes before shaking their hands. "Gentlemen, my name is John Smith.

Allow me to welcome you to Wild NAF— no, make that Wild NAS—in Magdeburg. I am certain that

you have tons of questions but before we start, I would like to know what happened to your fifth plane."

Obviously surprised at the question, Lieutenant Taylor replied, "Admiral, we were preparing to ditch at

sea when there was a big flash and thunder and we found ourselves over land. They only had enough fuel

left to belly-land in a field ten to fifteen minutes from here. We decided to keep going on, hoping to find

an airfield. When we left the area, they were standing beside their aircraft. They were apparently unhurt,

sir."

"I'm very glad to hear it, Lieutenant. We'll send a mounted rescue party out in the next thirty minutes and

if any of you can ride, you are welcome to join and show them the way. Meanwhile, we are expecting

some air support at any moment . . . and here they come." Smith pointed to the two growing dots on the

horizon. He felt petty, but he could hardly wait to see Wind's face when he found out about the new

'naval assets.'

Fact was, Smith had decided at that moment that these aircraft and their crews were now naval, well,

Marine property, and the idea in the back of his mind finally came to full fruition. He would not relinquish

any control to the 'Air Farce,' Stubbs or no Stubbs, until he obtained a good deal in return. He had been

planning to beg and cajole for aviation capabilities but now wondered how much more he would be able

to get out of Wind in trade for parts of the unexpected bonanza. But that could wait—there was urgent

business pending and some bad news to give.

"Gentlemen, I have an incredible tale to tell you but I would prefer if you gather all your men here first so

I don't have to repeat myself."

"Sure thing, sir. We'll be back in a second." Powers saluted, then he and Taylor walked back to where

the rest of their curious aircrews now waited.

"Admiral? Where did they come from if they are not part of our air force? What does all this mean, sir?"

a confused Strauss asked.

Smith took a second to reply, enjoying the show on the runway. Wind and his wingman had stopped

their aircraft in the middle of it and just stood there staring, unable to believe their eyes at the incredible

sights that had taken their parking spaces on the apron. Smith shook his head once again, amused, before

turning towards her. "What it means, Lieutenant, is that this is the beginning of Naval Aviation. How

would you like to learn to fly?"

Her answering grin was all the answer he needed.

Eric Flint - The Grantville Gazette Vol 8

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