Luebeck, United States of Europe
At a nod from Simpson, the two Marine guards stood at ease, but remained flanking the man who had hired the skiff. The fellow did not look particularly anxious. Then again, he did not appear particularly comfortable, either.
Simpson took his seat; he glanced at the chair beside him, which Eddie quickly occupied, grateful to be off his one real leg.
Simpson scanned the few scant reports he had on the man and his activities. Scanned them long enough to have read them five times over, Eddie realized.
The man from the skiff cleared his throat. “Admiral, I wonder if I might—”
“Herr Kirstenfels—if that is your real name—I have not finished studying the information we have on you and your actions today. I will speak with you when I have concluded.”
“But Admiral, I only—”
It was quite clear what he wanted: a chair. But Simpson, who had kept this slightly pudgy man from sitting since he was taken into custody, simply waved him to silence.
Herr Kirstenfels shifted his feet but did not resume his request.
After another minute, Simpson put down the papers and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Herr Kirstenfels, I presume you are aware that you not only put your own life at risk, but also the owner of the skiff?”
“Yes, Herr Admiral, I know this now. May I please have a seat?”
Simpson frowned. “Herr Kirstenfels, you are hardly in a position to request anything, but I will allow you to be seated.” The admiral pointed out a chair to one of the Marine guards, who promptly fetched it and put it behind the detainee. Who sat on it and winced: it was as small, hard, and ugly a chair as humans could craft. Which, as Eddie knew from prior witness, Simpson kept on hand for exactly this purpose. “Now, I wonder if you know how much trouble you are in.”
“Perhaps I do not.”
Eddie suppressed a frown. Kirstenfels’ admission sounded humble enough, but it also sounded faintly coy. Not what one would associate with an appropriately cowed, even intimidated, civilian. The undertone in his voice did not suggest fear, but watchful maneuvering. Hmmm . . . did we catch this guy, or did he want to get caught?
What Simpson had heard, if anything, was not suggested in his response. “I shall provide a brief outline of the situation in which you find yourself, Herr Kirstenfels. You entered a test range during official operations. You did so with the admitted intent to observe our weapons trials. Since we did not announce the trials publicly, I must conclude that you bribed or extorted that information out of a representative of the USE’s armed forces or government. And that alone constitutes grounds for a full investigation by my staff.”
If Simpson had meant to frighten Kirstenfels, it apparently had not worked. The smallish man merely nodded, listening carefully to each of the specifications read against him. When the admiral had concluded, he reflected momentarily, and then asked, “But have I broken any laws?”
Simpson’s color changed slightly. “That remains to be seen.”
“Pardon me, Herr Admiral, I should have been more precise. Were any of the actions you cited just now legal violations?”
“Your presence on the test range certainly was. Your possession of information regarding the trials may be.”
“Well, Admiral Simpson, as to the latter, I did not suborn or solicit information illegally.”
Eddie noticed, and so did Simpson, judging from the slight stiffening of his neck, the carefully official language.
Kirstenfels expanded upon his claim. “I simply overheard the conversation between some of the land-based test crew talking about the gun with the sailors who were preparing to go out with it on today’s trial.”
—A convenient and utterly incontestable alibi, Eddie conceded silently.
“And as far as being on the range during the test is concerned, I do not know how that could be illegal, Admiral.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if the trial was supposed to be a secret, how could anyone know it was illegal? Since your men were speaking about the weapon tests in a public place, I rather assumed it was not secret. And I never did hear anything about that stretch of the Baltic being off-limits to the public.”
“That is because ‘the public’ does not often venture into those particular waters, and because we had distributed navigational restrictions to all the ship operators and owners currently in port.”
“Ah. But that is still not a declaration of illegality, Herr Admiral. Rather, it is an official attempt to make the area temporarily unreachable to the public. Those are two very different things. Wouldn’t you agree?”
John Simpson was motionless, but Eddie could read that as one of the clear signs of growing fury. Simpson had a particular sore spot when it came to the press. In his view of up-time events, they had been uncharitable to his country and his comrades in the way they depicted the Vietnam War, in which he had lost his own foot. The press had once again been opportunistic and accusatory when he was a captain of industry afterwards. And Eddie could see that Simpson would soon leave a crater where this hapless reporter was now sitting, if he gave voice to even a small measure of his rage. Which was not in the interests of the Navy—
But Simpson surprised Eddie by exhaling at a slow, controlled rate and then smiling, albeit without the faintest hint of genuine amity. “Well, Mr. Kirstenfels, it seems you wanted to get access to me for an exclusive interview. And now you have it, don’t you?”
Kirstenfels stammered for a moment, obviously surprised at being sniffed out so quickly. “Er . . . well, yes, I suppose that may have been part of my—”
“Come now, Mr. Kirstenfels, what else would be sufficient motivation to sail near a live-fire range? Certainly nothing having to do with our guns.”
“Well, in point of fact, your guns are a matter of keen interest to me.”
“So it seems. I have reports that, during the land-based proving trials, some of our perimeter guards escorted you back beyond the no-trespassing line.” Simpson’s restored smile was anything but genial. “You are an artillery enthusiast, perhaps?”
But Kirstenfels, despite his unprepossessing appearance, turned out to have more than his share of sand. “Perhaps, but not in the way you mean, Admiral Simpson.”
“Then why don’t you explicate?”
“Thank you, Herr Admiral, I will.”
And Eddie could tell from Simpson’s suddenly rigid jaw, that he had just given the reporter what he wanted: not merely an opening, but an invitation.
The reporter had produced a pad and one of the new, if crude, pencils that were starting to show up in a variety of forms. “You see, Admiral Simpson, I have been duly impressed by the tremendous range and accuracy of your new guns.”
“They are not really new,” Simpson corrected.
Kirstenfels nodded. “No, of course not. They are modeled on the ten-inch naval rifles you used in the Baltic War, except these are breechloaders rather than muzzle-loaders. But I was surprised to see the mounts for them being readied on the frigate-style ships you are building at your secure facility in Luebeck.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Well, for the very reason you demonstrated on the water earlier today. Guns such as those require a very stable ship in order to be accurate. The monitors you first put them on have exactly that kind of stability in the mostly calm waters where you employed them, but not the sea-going frigate-style hulls you are currently fitting with steam engines.”
Well, Eddie reflected, the steam-engine “secret” was going to come out at last. Which was just as well: it had always been pretty laughable as a “classified” project. After all, it was simply a logical progression to move from steam-powered monitors to steam-powered blue-water ships. In fact, all their projections had presumed that some external observers would have surmised, and then confirmed, that development long ago. Eddie and Simpson privately conceded that Richelieu had probably received definitive intelligence reports on that aspect of the ships’ construction no later than March.
But “investigative reporting” was a new phenomenon, and frequently, even the best down-time newspapermen missed telltale clues of what might be transpiring simply because they did not have nuanced enough knowledge of up-time technology to understand how small details were often indicative of whole stories. It was the old problem of the expert tracker who is tasked to find an animal he has never seen or heard of.
But in this case, Kirstenfels was a reporter who obviously understood the greater significance of the (literally) “smoking gun” he was investigating. “My reading in Grantville last month suggests that those long guns would be almost useless while riding up and down the swells of the Atlantic. But there are other bodies of water—strategically significant bodies of water—for which they might be far more suited.”
Eddie saw no hint of reaction in Simpson’s perfect poker face, but reasoned that his CO’s observations must be similar to his own. Kirstenfels evidently knew a lot about his topic, but probably did not understand the ignition variable: that with calmer seas and a percussion cap instead of a fuse, the rifles would be fairly accurate out to their medium ranges. But he certainly did understand the broader strategic implications of putting guns like those on ships that could travel on the ocean. Even if these ships were not being built for high seas battles, they might be intended to sail and steam into engagements on calmer, bounded bodies of water.
“I am speaking, of course, of their potential usefulness in the Mediterranean,” finished Kirstenfels.
Which was both a correct and an incorrect guess, Eddie allowed. Eventually, that was where the new class of ships would probably be needed and hopefully, be decisive. But before then—
Simpson raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Kirstenfels, that is, to put it lightly, a most improbable surmise. What could possibly possess the USE to become embroiled in a Mediterranean conflict?”
Kirstenfels actually hazarded a small smile. “I could think of several possibilities. Ottoman expansion. Any serious threat to Venice, where the USE—and Grantville in particular—is heavily invested. An increase in the Spanish adventurism on or near the Italian peninsula, possibly including an attempt to eliminate Savoy’s small but troublesome fleet.”
He settled back in the chair that had been built—unsuccessfully, evidently—to prevent such relaxed postures. “However, the specific nature of the conflict is hardly the key datum in my surmise, Herr Admiral. I have been studying the ships you are building. They are high weather designs. That is more than you need if you were just going to punt around the Baltic.”
Simpson’s chin came out defensively. “Perhaps you’ve overlooked how rough the weather gets up here. In all seasons.”
Kirstenfels nodded politely, but didn’t look away. “Yes, but by that reasoning, then your choice of smaller craft becomes even more puzzling. The smaller hulls you’ve been procuring for portage on the larger ones are invariably very shallow-draft. They are lateen or yawl-rigged, have low bows, are narrow in the waist. Not for the Baltic.” Kirstenfels glanced out the lead-mullioned windows at the choppy gray swells beyond the bay. “Five months out of the year, these waters would swamp such boats on a regular basis. They are, however, perfectly suited for the Mediterranean: river and inlet scouting, touching on shallow coastlines, and regular ship-to-ship and ship-to-shore exchanges.”
A slow, ironic smile had been growing on Simpson’s face as the reporter laid out his case. Kirstenfels’ answering frown deepened as the admiral’s grin widened. “This amuses you, Admiral?”
Simpson seemed to stifle a chuckle. “Oh, no, no. Please continue. I like stories. Particularly fanciful ones.”
For a moment, Eddie glimpsed Kirstenfels without his mask of bourgeois suavity and well-groomed calmness. Intent and beady eyes stared and calculated, unaware that he had just been taken in by his own gambit, that the ships’ ultimate goal was the Mediterranean—just not yet. But all hungry newsman Kirstenfels knew was that his finger had slipped off whatever sensitive spot had first irked Simpson, that the story which he had been building was about to slip away from him. He was annoyed, anxious, resentful at the easy unvoiced mockery with which his hard-gained evidence was being dismissed, and his conjectures along with them.
Kirstenfels’ eyes lost that brief feral glaze. He tried a new tack. “Well, since you enjoy fanciful tales, let’s try this one. That the fleet you’re building is not bound for the Mediterranean at all, but for waters with somewhat similar characteristics and sailing requirements. Specifically, the Caribbean.”
Simpson seemed to allow himself to smile. “Ah, now there’s a new one. Tell me more.”
Kirstenfels didn’t get rattled this time. “I’d be happy to, Herr Admiral. Beyond the indisputable fact that the flotilla you are currently building would be supremely well-suited for operations in those waters, some of you Americans are likely to be relatively familiar with those waters. And you have a special interest in projecting your power into the New World, since the Caribbean has something the Mediterranean doesn’t.”
“Oh? Like what?” Simpson seemed to be trying to hide a smile once again.
“Like Trinidad. Like Pitch Lake. Like easily reached oil.”
Simpson allowed the smile to resurface but it was faintly brittle, and Eddie knew what that meant: that surprised him. And now Kirstenfels has hit the nail right on its head. If I don’t do something, he’s going to see and figure out the meaning of the look on Simpson’s face and then the cat will truly be out of the bag—
Eddie grinned, covered his mouth hastily.
Kirstenfels looked over at him sharply. “I have said something amusing, Commander?”
Eddie put on a straight face, shook his head earnestly. “No, Mr. Kirstenfels. I’m just, well, surprised that you figured out our secret.”
“Your secret?”
“Yes, sir. About taking the flotilla to the Caribbean. It’s no good for us to deny it any longer, now that you’ve put all the facts together.”
Kirstenfels’ frown returned. And Eddie could see the wheels of presupposition turning behind his gray, uncharitable eyes: I know they will not tell me the truth, so my guess about the Caribbean must be incorrect. But they want me to believe it in order to throw me off the real scent. Of course, I should check to see if this, too, is just a ruse—
Kirstenfels looked at Simpson whose face was once again wooden. “So, Admiral, since we are free to talk about the Caribbean, then—”
With a sharp look at Eddie, he cut off the reporter, “I cannot comment on any operations we might, or might not, have planned for the Caribbean.” The faintest hint of the histrionic had crept into his voice, at which Eddie nearly smiled: very well played, Admiral.
And Kirstenfels had obviously taken the bait. The instant he heard that slightly theatrical tone in Simpson’s prohibition on further conversation about the Caribbean, a tiny smile crinkled his lips. Eddie could almost see the thought bubble over the newsman’s head: So, the admiral play-acts at upset and worry. The two of them hope to mislead me into thinking my guess about the Caribbean was accurate. All in order to divert me from my first, best hypothesis: that they really are preparing for action in the Mediterranean. A smug expression flitted across Kirstenfels’ features and was gone all in the same instant, but Eddie knew the look of vindication and triumphant certainty when he saw it.
Simpson had folded his arms. “Is there anything else, Mr. Kirstenfels?”
The newsman rose, cap in his hands. “No, thank you, Admiral Simpson. Am I free to go?”
Simpson looked as though he had swallowed a gill of spoiled vinegar. “Unfortunately, you are, Mr. Kirstenfels. But any subsequent incidents will have consequences. You have been directly and personally warned not to pursue any further investigation into the ships we are building here or their potential uses. If you disregard that warning, I will hand you over to a judge to determine just how profound your disloyalty is in the eyes of the government of the USE. The Marines will see you out.”
“And I presume I am not allowed to ask any questions of your men that might be construed to be an inquiry into their ultimate destination in the Mediterranean?”
“Or the Caribbean,” Simpson added peevishly. If Eddie hadn’t known better, he would have truly believed that the admiral was now irritated at having to play-act at such lame and obvious conceits as prohibiting Caribbean inquiries.
“Or the Caribbean,” Kirstenfels agreed, almost facetiously from the doorway. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Simpson stared at the door for five silent seconds before turning toward Eddie and matching his smile. “Thanks for the quick thinking, Commander. He had me on the ropes for that first second, when he hit on the Caribbean.”
“My pleasure, Admiral. You’re quite the poker player. Masterful last bluff, by the way.”
The older man’s smile became slightly predatory. “Do you play poker, Commander?”
“Not with you, sir.”
“Ah. Well, in this case, that caution might indeed be more helpful than a gamesman’s daring. At any rate, I’m sure we’ll be hearing about our Mediterranean flotilla any day now.”
“Yes, but Kirstenfels’ report will be so premature that it will actually be meaningless.”
“‘Premature,’ Commander?”
“Yes, sir. As you pointed out honestly enough, we have no reason to go down there. But you left out an important qualifying word: ‘Yet.’”
Simpson’s rare light-hearted mood extinguished as sharply as a candle in a cold breeze. “Situations can change very dramatically and very quickly, Commander. We could find ourselves wishing for a Mediterranean fleet much sooner than our own timelines of ‘international eventualities’ suggest. But enough: we’ve lost a lot of time misdirecting that ambulance chaser. What’s the latest status update on the New World mission, Commander?”