1636： The Saxon Uprising ARC - By Eric Flint Page 0,109
itself.
At last, a war against the true infidels. A chance for glory unparalleled in his lifetime. It seemed clear now that Sultan Murad was being lead by Allah. First the success of this campaign, more complex than anything since Suleiman’s day. Now a march—at long last—against the Christians.
From this day forth, Uzun Hussein would never think of the sultan as anything other than Murad Gazi. Perhaps he would live to see the young sultan lead them to Rome itself.
PART IV
February 1636
Among these barren crags
Chapter 31
Dresden, capital of Saxony
The take-off was even worse than Eddie had feared it would be. Partly that was because the headwind wasn’t what he’d wanted. He hadn’t felt he had any choice but to take off, though. The weather had been bad for a week and, this time of year, was likely to be bad again very soon. Today, the sky was clear and almost cloudless not only here in Dresden but also in Magdeburg and whatever his final destination was. So he was told over the radio, anyway. He still had no idea of the nature of his mission, other than it was apparently of supreme importance.
Whatever that final goal was, he had to get to Magdeburg first—and he almost didn’t make it out of Dresden. At the very end of the impromptu runway created by the feverish demolition work of the past week, the wingtips cleared the rooftops while most of the fuselage was still inside the street once the widened part ended. If there’d been a chimney there, on either side, he’d have gone down with a wing torn off—and any unexpected gust would have done the same.
Had there been anyone sitting in the cockpit next to him, they’d have been struck by the young pilot’s icy demeanor. Inside his brain, monkeys were gibbering with terror—he could hear the damn things—but there was no expression at all on his face. Nor were his hands sweaty, nor was he shivering anywhere. Eddie Junker was one of those people who somehow managed to stay completely calm in the face of danger. Noelle had once told him the French called it sang-froid, which she said was the only French term she knew except ones not fit for mixed company—which were the ones he’d have been interested in, but she’d refused to tell him.
He could only, at the end, as the wingtips emerged out of the street-canyon, thank God for giving him the courage and the tenacity and the fortitude and the pluck and the resolution and the perseverance and the valor to tell Denise no! and make it stick after a battle that cast any mere trifle involving huge armies into the shade.
“It’s a good thing your boyfriend had big enough balls to make you stay behind,” said Minnie Hugelmair, as she and Denise watched the plane fly out of Dresden, “or you’d both be dead.”
“Well…”
“Admit it. He was right and you were wrong.”
“Well…”
“Crash, boom, a burst of flame, they’d have to identify your body by the teeth or something.”
“Well…”
“Maybe not, since he’s barely got enough gas to make it to Magdeburg. Still, pieces of you would be scattered all over the place. Little bitty pieces.”
“Well…”
“The rats would declare it a holiday. St. Denise’s Day. Well, no, just St. Crispy’s Day. It’s not like they know your name. Or would care anyway.”
“Well…”
The sight of the plane flying over his lines put General Johan Banér in a fouler mood than usual. And he was usually in a foul mood, these days. Who would have thought CoC riffraff could have held Dresden against him for an entire month? He’d been sure he’d break his way into the city within two or three days.
Noelle Stull hadn’t watched the takeoff. She was half-sure Eddie was going to die in the attempt, and just couldn’t bear the idea of watching it happen. She and Eddie were very close friends and had been through a lot together.
When the triumphant roar went up from the crowd in the square, though, she knew her fears had been groundless. Well, not groundless, exactly. There’d been good reason to be worried, even after Eddie stripped every spare ounce of weight out of the plane. That so-called “runway” was a travesty, even after it was lengthened by demolishing part of the street that served as the final stretch.
Almost every spare ounce, rather. He had agreed to carry out her latest letter to Janos Drugeth.
“That’s silly,” she’d said. “I don’t even have it addressed.”