1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Estuban Miro peered into the dark. By the light of the half moon, he could make out the fishing ketch that the embassy Marines had boarded only minutes earlier. According to the morse code message sent by their Aldis-rigged bull’s-eye lantern, the boat’s single enemy operative had surrendered without a struggle.

Miro sighed; it was unfortunate that they had been compelled to remove the observer that Borja’s local spymaster had sent to watch the island of San Francesco del Deserto. In intelligence operations, the only thing better than knowing oneself to be unobserved (a rare, and usually unprovable, circumstance) was to know where the enemy observers were. Such had been the case with this particular fisherman. Ever since Harry Lefferts’ rescue team had departed for Rome several weeks ago, this wiry fellow had been casting his nets in the vicinity of the island’s Franciscan monastery: sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west; sometimes closer, sometimes farther. But always close enough to keep an eye on any comings and goings. Which, since the rescue team’s last meeting there, had been entirely routine.

Miro’s response to this observer had been merely to observe in return. Using a well-concealed spyglass, the friars gladly complied with his request that they watch the ketch’s positions and maneuverings and keep meticulous record of them. Meanwhile, a few distant friends of the Cavrianis started taking intermittent strolls past the pier where the fisherman tied up and off-loaded his day-end catch; they discovered that he was pulling in scarcely enough to feed his own family, these days. However, he did not seem disposed to try fishing in a new spot, nor did he seem particularly worried about his presumably diminished income. Rather, in just the last two weeks, he had paid for a new stepsail and other useful bits of small-craft chandlery. Taken together, these indicators were almost all the proof Miro needed to confirm that the fisherman was indeed an enemy pawn. However, just to be sure, and in an attempt to detect if the fisherman himself was being watched by Borja’s Venetian spymaster, Miro had his own growing network of agents keep track of the seemingly trivial exchanges and activities of the fellow’s day. They observed where he got his breakfast loaf, who came to check his day-end catch, which boats (if any) he approached during the course of his profitless net castings. Ten days of constant, but distant, watching had produced no leads; if the fisherman was exchanging information with his handler, there was no obvious sign of it. Which presented Miro with two possibilities: either communication did not occur unless the fisherman had something to report, or that the communication was conducted more subtly than could be detected by the maximally discreet methods of observation employed by his agents.

Miro would now have the answer to that mystery within a few hours. From the look of him, the wiry Venetian was not going to be resolute enough to resist the sustained interrogation that he would experience in a safe-house near the embassy. Not that he would be hurt-he wouldn’t; Miro’s personal tastes and Tom’s explicit instructions eliminated the option of torture. But the fisherman didn’t know that and did not look to be particularly courageous. So few of us are, when we are well-caught and alone, Miro mused, remembering close calls with the Ottomans, back during his days as a merchant sailing the Mediterranean.

“Don Estuban,” said the master of the small, yawl-rigged scialuppa that had been provided by the Cavrianis for the night’s work, “shall we approach the mooring, now?”

Miro held up a hand and waited. After a few moments, he saw more dit-dah flashing in the darkness to the west: K-E-N-N-E-L. So: the chase was indeed over. That codeword signified that the chase boats and Marines were now ready to return to their berths and billets, respectively. It was also a shorthand indicator of the concluding situation report: “known enemy observers apprehended; no others detected.” Personally, Miro had been hoping for the code sign “RABBIT.” That would have indicated that the fisherman-FOX-had been caught, and additional, suspected observers were being pursued, possibly resulting in a clean sweep of the opposition’s monitoring assets.

But that tidy outcome had not occurred. On the one hand, Borja’s spymaster in Venice might not have enough resources to put more than one man on the job of watching the island. Even if he had two men, he would then have to choose between keeping the island under almost constant observation, or having the second man watch what happened to the first. So even if Miro’s adversary had a second man, where was he? At home, sleeping before his next, solo shift-or was he out here right now, somewhere in the dark, lying low in a rowboat, watching as the first watcher was scooped up by Miro’s agents?

Estuban sighed. Such are the uncertainties of this business. Annoying, but they kept the game interesting. “Paulo,” he said over his shoulder to the master of the small boat.

“Yes, Don Estuban?”

“Take us in to the monastery. Briskly.”

In retrospect, Miro wished he had told Paulo to tarry a bit, despite the fact that it gave any possible, unseen observers just that much more opportunity to spot their lightless, black-sailed boat. As it was, they arrived before the skiff that was inbound from the galliot that had retrieved what they now knew to be Harry’s unsuccessful rescue party.

But that was all anyone knew: they were returning without Frank and Giovanna. That much had been presumed when the team started missing their radio checks. There was brief fear that they had all been destroyed or captured, but about a week ago, one of Nasi’s Roman agents-formerly a resident of the Ghetto and now fleeing for his life-had delivered the news of the repulsed attack upon the Palazzi Mattei. Though the man had few details, it was quite clear that most of the rescue party had escaped.

Consequently, Miro was still hoping for the best when there was a knock on the door of the same conference room in which they had all met weeks before. Miro signaled for the two Marine guards to open the door and leave, and felt the old priest, Father Anthony Hickey, rise slowly beside him.

Miro instantly realized the operation had been not merely a failure, but a disaster, because the first face in the doorway-Harry’s-was utterly devoid of emotion or expression. It would have been a sobering expression to behold on any face, but on Harry’s habitually animated features, it was as though he was wearing a death mask. He gave Miro a shallow nod and seated himself at the far end of the table.

A step behind Harry was Owen Roe O’Neill, who bore a light bundle in his arms. His eyes met Hickey’s, and what looked like days of preparation for this difficult moment became rigid resolve: lips stiff, the Irish colonel held out the bundle to the old cleric.

Hickey did not need words to understand the message. He hobbled forward, palsied hands coming up to touch the tightly folded but bullet-rent cloak that Owen held before him. The Franciscan’s already-well-lined face collapsed, blinded by the great round tears that ran down his cheeks. He unsteadily patted John O’Neill’s patched tartan, family broach, and absent face with tentative hands that he finally raised to cover his red-rimmed eyes. He never made a sound.

From what Miro had heard, Hickey may have been the first person who came to accept that young John O’Neill was never going to grow up to be a statesman, or even a great captain. But, under other circumstances, the priest had hinted, he might have been a good enough man. Yes, he had been a wild wayward boy who did not like books or following rules, but even in his early twenties, John O’Neill had loved listening to stories, and if he had a big temper it was in part a measure of the size of his heart. And Hickey knew these things because it was he who had read the now deceased earl of Tyrone the stories, and had cherished that big heart, possibly above all others.

The monastery’s prior, standing nearby, took his brother by the elbow and gently guided him from the room. Owen Roe wandered toward a seat as Sherrilyn and Thomas North entered and did the same.

Miro looked round at the stiff, carefully controlled faces. “So, John O’Neill-?”

The pause was pregnant; Owen opened his mouth uncertainly-but Harry interrupted in a voice both hoarse and raw. “John didn’t make it. A lot of us didn’t.” He held out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s my after-action report. But I can bottom line it for you: I fucked up. And no, I’m not selling you any ‘my watch, my fault’ bullshit, Miro. Borja’s guy in Rome suckered me, and once we were in his trap, he cut us to pieces. The sorry-ass details-” Harry waved at the papers “-are all there. End of report.”

He glowered at Miro and leaned far back in his chair, arms folded, shoulders slouched.

Miro, for the first time in many years, had no idea of what to do or say next. He looked at Thomas North. “How many-?”

North looked cautiously down the table at hollow-eyed Harry’s hundred-yard stare and made an almost imperceptible negational gesture. “Our casualties are in the report, I believe. But there’s one thing that Harry refused to include.”

“And what is that?”

“That Captain Lefferts made no errors in planning or execution. He designed and executed the operation in a most capable manner.”

Miro saw the color rush into and then out of Harry’s face; for a moment he wondered if the up-timer was going to roar or vomit-but he did neither. Miro let his eyes slide over toward Owen Roe O’Neill. “Colonel, do you agree with Colonel North’s assessment?”

The veteran Irish commander-who had spent more years before the cannon than any of the rest of them had been alive-nodded firmly, but it was slightly less emphatic affirmation than North’s had been.

Miro, hating what he had to do in order to bring the horrible necessity of this inquiry to a swift and final end, forced himself to ask, “Colonel O’Neill, you seem to have some reservations in regard to Captain Lefferts’ plan or actions?”

“No, Don Estuban,” the Irishman’s voice was firm, even strident, “not at all.”

“Then-?”

O’Neill shrugged. “Harry-we-had no way of knowing that we were walking into a trap. Harry took every precaution, and more besides. But Borja’s man was good-damned good-and we were too spread out for a fast, orderly escape.”

Miro frowned. “What do you mean?”

O’Neill glanced an apology at Harry who might or might not have heard a word that had been spoken since delivering his damning self-report. “Don Estuban, I’ve taken towns and defended them for almost three decades now-more, if you count the years I served as a runner and an orderly. And here’s a nasty fact of fighting in cities, in castles, or in other tight quarters: you get separated too easily. You can’t blow a trumpet and sound a general retreat-particularly when you’re skulking around in handfuls here, and there. When disaster strikes-and sometimes it does, no matter what you do-it is often impossible to let all of your men know in time. And then-” Owen Roe’s eyes lost focus and Miro had the distinct impression that he was seeing smoking cityscapes from all around the Low Countries “-then your boys start disappearing. Sometimes you see what happens to them, but more often you don’t. Bad sight-lines, the tumult of the guns and voices, drifting smoke, blind corners: it’s utter chaos. You don’t know who you’ve lost until you regroup at the edge of the town, where you may find that every other man who charged in under your colors is gone, never to be found.”

Miro felt a chill run up his spine. “And this-this separation and confusion-was this the ill fortune that exacted such a heavy toll in Rome?”

Owen Roe looked up, eyes sharp. “Oh, there was no ill fortune about it, Don Estuban. It was all part of our enemy’s plan. We couldn’t approach him unless we came at him in small, separate groups; he made sure of that, and he used it against us.”

Miro heard a flat, heavy undertone of remorse. “And you foresaw this, Colonel O’Neill?”

For the first time since meeting him, Miro noticed Owen Roe’s gaze waver a bit. “No-no, it wasn’t anything I foresaw. I’m not sure anyone could have. It’s just-just a matter of learned instinct, y’might say. On battlefields, every plan is always trying to go wrong on you from the outset. It’s what Colonel North tells me the up-timers call ‘Murphy’s Law.’ Assaulting a tricky, twisty place like the insula Mattei just made us especially susceptible to failures or surprises-and the canny barstard we were facing built a gauntlet loaded with both.”

Miro nodded, having heard his indirect answer in Owen Roe’s equivocating response: Harry had probably been a little overly optimistic about the operation, and when things went wrong, he discovered that it was not due to chance, but enemy intent. Which made the consequences much worse than they would have been if the culprit had been chance. On the plus side, Harry had escaped with the great majority of the rescue party intact: no small feat, that. But on the negative side, the civilian losses were heavy-and were probably hanging about Lefferts’ neck and spirits like a millstone. Well, nothing to be done about that here. The only useful response was to move forward.

Miro straightened and gazed at all of them in turn. “So. This means that we have a new mission to consider, and I need all your energies and attention focused on putting together the best plan possible.”

Sherrilyn frowned. “A new mission?”

Miro shrugged. “Actually, no; it is the same mission-to rescue Frank and Giovanna-but it will be more difficult, now.”

Sherrilyn’s eyes were wide. “More difficult? Really? You think?”

Miro heard her tone growing arch, thought of interrupting the coming tirade, but realized that he shouldn’t. She needed to let it out. They’d all been fleeing alongside their troops for more than a week, unable to give voice to their own anger and frustration.

Sherrilyn grabbed the opportunity with uncommon ferocity. “Let me tell you just how much more difficult a rescue is going to be this time, Don Estuban Miro. We lost six combat effectives-and friends-in that fight, and most of the survivors are wounded. George is whipsawing between grief and a fugue state. The cadre of our Roman sympathizers has been gutted: Piero is on the run, and Giovanna’s brother Fabrizio was killed. Benito, the kid she and Frank all but adopted, was almost killed as well, although luckily we were able to get him out alive.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Best estimates tell us that another thirty lefferti were either killed or immobilized, and close to forty of the rioters were shot or trampled to death. So, yes, Don Estuban, I suspect we’re going to find it a little harder to mount another rescue attempt in Rome from now on.”

Sherrilyn finished leaning across the table, face white, eyes wide. It was Harry who reached out and touched her arm lightly for a moment. Sherrilyn leaned back, sighing. “I’m sorry, Estuban. But-”

He waved a hand that dismissed any concern. “I understand. And I sympathize. And I have another sad addition to your list.” All three looked at him. “One of Don Francisco Nasi’s agents-who was apparently instrumental in passing inside information along to the lefferti — fled Rome. That is how we knew you were coming back at all. But he had other news.”

Harry’s eyes were grim. “The Ghetto?”

Miro nodded. “Over a hundred killed outright or tortured to death. However, for now, we must look beyond the human costs. As Sherrilyn rightly pointed out, the losses sustained during this first rescue attempt-both in terms of personnel and infrastructure-compel us to completely reconceive our operations. And our first problems are not tactical, but logistical.”

Thomas sighed. “They always are.”

“So it seems. First, the most pressing logistical need we had in Italy-getting enough gasoline to Venice so that we can fly Pope Urban to safety-is no longer at the top of our list. Now, instead, we have to ship in more security for him.”

Owen seemed surprised, maybe a bit indignant. “And why is the pope not flying to safety immediately?”

“There are two equally good answers to that question. First, the repairs to the Monster will not be completed for another three weeks, so getting the gasoline here sooner than that does us no good. Consequently, it becomes more important to ship in further reinforcements for the papal protection detail; the more time Borja’s agents have, the more likely they are to locate Urban and attack.”

Sherrilyn frowned. “Jeez, Estuban, the roster I’ve seen for Urban’s security detail makes me think that he has more than enough guards already. There’s almost twenty in the Marine detachment assigned to the embassy, and two of the Wild Geese. And then there’s Ruy, who’s worth about ten more, all by himself.”

Miro nodded. “Yes, that is sufficient to maintain immediate, bodily security. But if those forces are to have any advance warning that Borja’s agents are surveying their facilities preparatory to attack, they will need pickets. The current security complement is not large enough to keep watch over a reasonable perimeter and provide terminal defense. And now it seems we may need to provide that defense for quite some time to come.”

They all heard his leading tone. “C’mon,” Sherrilyn said finally, “don’t be coy, Estuban. Just spit it out: what’s the new fly in the ointment?”

Miro sighed. “The pope is not willing to leave Italy. At least, not yet.”

“ What? ” Sherrilyn blurted. “Why the hell not?”

It was Owen who answered. “Miss Maddox, I am only guessing, but I suspect that Pope Urban is weighing the consequences of seeking asylum with the USE.”

“Oh, so we’re good enough to save his life when he’s on the run, without a friend to his name, but when it actually comes to voluntarily associating with us-”

“Miss Maddox, please. I suspect that Urban the man and Urban the pope are of very different minds on this matter. Urban the man is not insensible to gratitude; he has risked scandal in the Church by showing up-timers as much favor and trust as he has. When you come right down to it, your involvement in Galileo’s trial is probably what set Borja, at the head of the Spanish cardinals, on his current course of action.

“Which brings up the matter of Urban the pope. Can a pope seek sanctuary in a Protestant land?”

Harry frowned, then murmured, “The USE strictly-aggressively-enforces freedom of religion.”

Owen nodded. “True enough, and an amazement to us all. But the simple fact is that the USE still has Gustav Adolf at its head. He is not merely a Protestant, but the symbol of its successful wars against the Church. He’s left plenty of its sons strewn lifeless across the face of Europe-and their families aren’t likely to forget who killed them.” Owen held up a hand to still Thomas’ incipient retort. “I’m not arguing the right or wrong of the war or its combatants, Thomas; I’m simply stating facts as they’ll be seen by most Catholics, who have never met up-timers, visited your town, or served alongside you. We-they-are creatures of this world, and bear the stamp of this century’s religious warfare and persecutions. So Pope Urban must choose his next steps very carefully.”

Sherrilyn crossed her arms and frowned. “Okay,” she said. “I get that. But you’ve gotta admit that, pope or no pope, this is one royal pain in the ass.”

Owen cocked an eyebrow. “If you would change your terminology to ‘a divine pain in the ass,’ I would happily agree with you.”

The smile between them was quick but genuine: no hard feelings, and another issue set to rest-for now.

But Owen wasn’t done. “Don Estuban, I trust you will send word of my unit’s-losses-to Fernando’s court in the Low Countries?”

Miro nodded. “I shall. Although I am reluctant to do so; I worry that you might be ordered to commit the rest of your unit to the pope’s security detachment. Although I have no reason to hope or ask it, I would much rather you remain part of our rescue operations.”

“I have thought the same thing, Don Estuban. I see only one sure way to avoid receiving new orders to guard the pope: to be gone before they get here.”

Miro managed not to smile. Here’s a man after my own heart. “I quite concur, Colonel. And I am very grateful that you are still willing to be a part of our rescue operations. There is, of course, nothing to obligate you to do so.”

Before Owen could respond, Sherrilyn had slapped her hand down on the table. “In fact, there’s every reason not to try another rescue-with simple sanity heading the list of those reasons. Estuban, are you really serious? Do you really think we can, or should, try to spring Frank and Giovanna again? Hell, they’ll be waiting for us this time.”

“Sherrilyn, as you so eloquently point out, they were waiting for us this time. They were probably far more certain that we would try at least once than they are that we will try again.”

“And how does that do us any good? They kicked our asses around the block, Estuban; what makes you think they won’t do it again?”

“I can’t answer that until we see what the Spanish do next. But we can be sure of this: we need to stay close to Frank and Giovanna, if we’re going to be able to act effectively. We no longer have a radio operator in Rome, we no longer have an observation network via the lefferti or Nasi’s former agents, and we can no longer trust nor should we further impose upon the Jews of the Ghetto. In short, we have to gather our own information, now.”

“Which is simply another way of saying that we’re all alone, from here on,” Sherrilyn mumbled. “Damn, the odds just keep getting better and better, don’t they?”

Miro folded his hands and looked her straight in the eyes. “Until we get on site and see things with our own eyes, we really can’t assess what the odds of success are. For the second matter, we are talking about Tom Stone’s son and daughter-in-law. By electing to come on this mission, you implicitly promised him to get those children back; I explicitly promised him the same. Since you started as a volunteer, it is your business if you go with us on a second rescue mission. But I will. Alone if I must.”

“You will not go alone,” Owen announced.

Miro looked down the table, surprised. “Colonel, your continued commitment to the rescue mission is very welcome indeed. I suspect it will prove crucial. But this intensity of resolve-why? This is not your fight, after all.”

Owen Roe O’Neill ran a surprisingly fine-boned hand through silvering red hair. “I’m not about to give an answer that would allow a sassenach to accuse me of typical Irish romanticism.” He checked for, and saw, the friendly smile on Thomas’s face before he continued. “So let’s leave it at this: you’ve the right of this fight, plain and simple. Besides, that bastard red hat who’s dangling these two newlyweds like butterflies over a furnace needs to be shown that there are limits to what even a would-be pope may do. I’ve suffered through enough scenes of Spanish ‘justice’-legal and clerical-in my time. I’ll not stand by and watch more of it meted out to innocents. Enough is enough.”

Thomas was repressing a grin. “Owen, my partner Liam Donovan is a bog-hopper like you, so I’m quite accustomed to the way you Irish use your supposed romanticism to conceal shrewd underlying practicality. What else is driving you?”

Owen grinned sheepishly. “Caught as red-handed as only an O’Neill can be. Very well, here it is: you’re the future.” He looked around at their surprised glances. “Come now, I’ve told true, so you’ve no right to act as though you’re puzzled. You know exactly what I mean: up-time ideas and ways are remaking the world around us. Hugh O’Donnell-the earl of Tyrconnell over Sean Connal-visited your Grantville and saw it plain enough. He brought back new tactical training, the idea for the pepperbox revolver, and proof that Madrid was using the Wild Geese as a pawn in a greater game-a pawn they were ready to sacrifice, former promises of honor and repatriation notwithstanding. Hugh O’Donnell woke us up-those who were willing to listen.”

Owen sighed. “I wasn’t among that number, not at first. But you know the saying: the late-come convert is the most ardent believer. I’ve not only seen what you can do, but who you are, what you value. My oath is to Isabella of the Low Countries, but here and now, I’m casting my lot in with you. There: is that plain-spoken enough?”

Miro did not know what to say; he merely nodded.

Thomas was smiling, however. “It’s said that the support of honorable men is the greatest adornment of any cause. You have just become the diamond at the pinnacle of our cause’s tiara, Colonel O’Neill.”

Harry surprised them by speaking in a clear, firm voice. “I’m glad everyone is getting along so well, because we’ve got a hell of a task in front of us, now. And Estuban is right; we can’t let up and we can’t fail. Our promise to Tom is one factor. The pope’s personal and political attitude toward us is another. Remember, Urban married Frank and Gia. That probably makes them extra-valuable to Borja as prisoners; for him, toying with the two of them is like pissing in the pope’s own recently consecrated well. And no doubt Urban knows that and feels an additional responsibility to them. Either way, he’s going to judge us-our moral character, that is-partly upon our determination to do the right thing by Frank and Giovanna. If we walk away, he’ll have reason to wonder if we’re really as good as our word. But if we press on, no matter the difficulties-”

“-then he knows that when we talk the talk, we’ll walk the walk,” concluded Sherrilyn with a nod. “Okay; suicide mission or not, I’m in.”

Miro shook his head. “I do not believe in suicide missions. We have many hurdles before us, yes, but I refuse to see them as insurmountable.”

Thomas frowned. “Maybe they are not insurmountable, but some of them are unalterable. Time, for one. Unless I am much mistaken, we cannot wait for further reinforcements or specialty equipment via balloon from Grantville; that would mean a two week delay. Given the young Ms. Stone’s delicate condition, we cannot risk that. We must leave immediately.”

Miro nodded somberly. “That is regrettably true.”

Sherrilyn frowned. “That is regrettably our epitaph. As I count it, Owen has only six men left who aren’t already guarding the pope, and that includes the doctor. Thomas here has his four Hibernians. And the Crew is at half strength: there’s me, Harry, Donald, Matija, and Paul. George can’t be brought into the field, not yet. So, even though I was only a gym teacher, I’m still pretty sure that it all adds up to seventeen people. So tell me: how is taking seventeen persons to rescue Frank and Giovanna from a well-defended Spanish prison not suicide?”

Miro smiled. “The balloon arriving tomorrow will be bringing some answers to that question, Sherrilyn.”

“They’d better be great answers.”

“The first is that you can increase the size of our contingent by six: that’s how many additional Hibernians will be arriving.”

“Bloody good of you to let me know how you’ve decided to use more of my troops,” Thomas commented with one raised eyebrow.

“You’ll need to work that out with your partner, Liam Donovan-who negotiated a very good rate with Ed Piazza, I’m told. These six men were originally slated for the papal protection detail, but I think we have to divert them to this operation, now.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. We need the manpower. Particularly men who are familiar and equipped with lever actions rifles and revolvers. We’ll need that volume of fire to offset our small numbers.”

“Damned straight,” agreed Sherrilyn. “And what’s the other good news?”

“Well, although there weren’t any other combat personnel ready to travel, we did know that we would need the very best equipment for our modest forces-”

“You had them stop in Chur and pick up the rest of the Crew’s gear?” Sherrilyn leaned forward eagerly.

“That, and more. While we were sharing the long road from the Val Bregaglia to Padua last month, Colonel North was good enough to review the various categories and models of ‘ready equipment’ he knows to be in reserve at Grantville-since so much of it is the object of his professional lusts. I was surprised to note that there was one weapon system he coveted that was still readily available to us in considerable numbers, so I decided to request ten copies of it, on the notion that you would all consider it a useful addition to our resources.”

Sherrilyn frowned. “What are you waiting for, Estuban: a drum roll? What did you whistle up for us?”

“Ten SKS’s. And, according to the people in Grantville, enough magazines and 7.62 x 39 millimeter ammunition to, I quote them, ‘fight the Viet Nam war all over again.’”

Sherrilyn actually pumped her fist up and down in time with her very extended, “Yyy-Esssss!”

Thomas North smiled and nodded. “Well done, Estuban, very well done.”

Owen stared. “A little explanation might be helpful for the down-time bog-hopper,” he put in.

North grinned. “Sorry. The SKS is a semiautomatic carbine. It uses the same round as a famous Russian assault rifle, the AK-47, which was the SKS’s successor.”

“The SKS is a great weapon,” emphasized Harry, with more animation than he had evinced so far. “Reliable, handy, accurate out to one hundred and seventy yards, reasonably effective out to four hundred, and it fires a pretty damned lethal round. Best of all, you can fire ten times-as fast as you can squeeze the trigger-before you need to reload with a stripper clip. Or, in the case of the ‘M’ series, with a thirty-round magazine.”

North took up the paean of praise for the SKS. “I won mine in a poker game at the Thuringen Gardens just before I was incarcerated. A most excellent weapon. A man with an SKS is easily worth ten with muskets. Probably more. Now, Estuban, about my Hibernians: did you happen to-?”

Miro smiled. “The six who will arrive tomorrow were trained on the weapon the week before they left. From what I am told, they adapted to it rather quickly.”

Thomas smiled around the table. “You know, I am actually beginning to feel that this mission might not be suicide, after all. But now I’m a bit worried about the safety of the pope; by shifting these troops to our rescue mission, it means at least two weeks will pass before his security detail is reinforced.”

Miro spread his hands. “It can’t be helped. But the odds are in our favor, there. Borja’s agents would have to be very lucky to discover Urban’s hiding place within that short a period of time. And if the signals from Grantville are right, the new reinforcements should be there in only ten, maybe eleven, days.”

Sherrilyn frowned. “Wait a minute; how is that possible? I mean, if every day from now until then was perfect flying weather, you might get a round trip completed in that time, but-” Miro tried to keep the smile off his face, but she saw it. “Wait a minute-we have another balloon?”

“We do now. The second one constructed-and finished only two weeks ago-was just leased by Ed Piazza for ‘official emergency use.’ Franchetti’s nephew has been preparing it for service, familiarizing himself with its particulars.” He turned to Thomas. “It is picking up Lieutenant Hastings and a few more of your Hibernians at Chur, but, in order to keep the pope’s location a secret, they are debarking at Campofontana.”

“Where?” asked Harry, Sherrilyn, and Owen simultaneously.

Miro answered. “A small town, up in the foothills of the Lessenia Mountains.”

“That doesn’t help me much,” commented Sherrilyn.

It was Thomas who provided more information. “I believe Campofontana is just south of the Little Dolomites. It’s all Hemingway country, up there.”

“Huh?” said Sherrilyn.

“You know: A Farewell to Arms. The campaign in the Italian Alps. A bit slow reading for my tastes, but memorable.”

Miro nodded. “The terrain there is rather forbidding. Landing at Campofontana should keep the arrival of the reinforcements away from any of Borja’s observers, although it will mean a somewhat long walk to Urban’s safe house. However, they should get there long before any assassins do. The next cargo will be the gasoline for the Monster.”

“Fetched by the balloon that will arrive in Venice tomorrow?” asked Harry.

Miro smiled. “No. That balloon will soon be committed to other operations.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ours.”

Sherrilyn screwed up her face. “We’re taking the balloon with us to Rome? Who’s going to fly it?”

“Virgilio Franchetti has agreed to assist in the rescue, and he is an excellent pilot.”

“Yeah, but what if something happens to him? Then we’re stuck.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why?”

“Because I can also fly the balloon-more or less. You see, I’m coming with you.”