1636： The Saxon Uprising ARC - By Eric Flint Page 0,130

was almost over.

They’d learned of the coming storm from radio messages sent by the military weather stations along the Baltic coast. The air force’s stance of official neutrality was now threadbare. Colonel Wood was careful to maintain the needed reconnaissance patrols for Torstensson’s two divisions besieging Poznań, and he scrupulously refrained from using any sort of weapons against either Oxenstierna’s own forces or the various reactionary paramilitary outfits that had sprung up in many places to counter the CoCs’ armed contingents. But he provided Mike with all the reconnaissance he needed and responded to every such request from the Swedish chancellor with silence.

Simpson and the navy were being more scrupulous, still. But Jesse had told Mike that Simpson was moving the two ironclads he had under his control out of Luebeck. For the duration of the crisis he’d keep the SSIM Constitution and the SSIM United States stationed in Rostock. From that port, he could interdict the Baltic and prevent Oxenstierna from bringing any more troops over from Sweden.

He’d do it, too, Jesse had assured Mike.

“Hey, look, you know John. He’s a tight-ass, sure, but you can’t actually sharpen pencils in his butt. If Oxenstierna pushes it too far, the admiral will take off the gloves.”

How and by what arithmetic Simpson had decided to draw the line that defined “too far” as a major Swedish troop movement across the Baltic wasn’t clear to Mike. There weren’t all that many soldiers left in Sweden to begin with. Once you subtracted the bare minimum needed to maintain order, Mike doubted if there were more than five or six thousand available to reinforce the twenty thousand soldiers Oxenstierna already had in Berlin.

But he’d take what he could get, with no complaining. He was already heavily outnumbered, after all. Even if you subtracted ten thousand men from the armies Oxenstierna and Banér had due to illness and desertion, the Swedes still had twenty-five thousand men against his ten thousand. Then, add the ten thousand Saxon troops on the Swedish payroll under von Arnim’s command in Leipzig. All told, Mike was looking at odds no better than three-to-one and probably closer to four-to-one against him.

That was the bleakest way to look at the matter, though. On the positive side were at least three major factors:

First, every indication was that von Arnim was desperately trying to keep himself out of the fight.

Second, Oxenstierna had the strongest of the three armies—and he was in Berlin, a hundred miles to the north. That was one hundred miles as the crow flies. Swedish mercenaries not being crows, they’d have to travel at least half again that distance in order to bring themselves into play. An army that size would be doing well if they could march an average of fifteen miles a day—in summertime.

And that was the third factor, of course. General Winter. Mike was counting on that most of all. His was the only army of the lot which was really equipped to fight a winter campaign. If he could keep von Arnim penned in Leipzig while he dealt with Banér, he’d then have some time to deal with whatever Oxenstierna threw at him.

The technical expression was “defeat the enemy in detail.”

In theory, it sounded great. It remained to be seen how well Mike could carry it out in practice.

There were other factors, too. One of them was standing in front of him this very moment, in the chamber in Schloss Sonnenstein that Mike had set aside for his headquarters.

Georg Kresse himself, along with his chief assistant Wilhelm Kuefer and a young Slovene cavalry officer by the name of Lovrenc Bravnicar. Somehow or other, Kresse’s army of irregulars had managed to acquire the services of a troop of professional cavalrymen.

The Vogtlander leader was giving Mike an odd sort of look. Odd, but one that Mike recognized. There was a certain type of German revolutionary who thought that Americans were all a bunch of weak sisters. Too delicate, too squeamish. Nice enough people, but not ones you could count on in the crunch.

Probably best to start there.

“Are you worried that I won’t come through?” he asked Kresse. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You think I marched ten thousand men all the way from southern Bohemia in order to make rude noises at the Swedes and then turn around and march back?”

“Ah…”

Mike grinned. It was that savage grin that came naturally to him and which he’d perfected in his days as a prizefighter. He’d found it was a