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But this was no time for idle thoughts. "Next thing. I need you to pull out the loudspeaker system you set up in the plant. Have some electricians bring everything to the palace. While you're organizing Disneyland, I've got to organize as fine a filibuster as any politician ever pulled off. I've got to talk to that crowd-and my own voice just isn't loud enough or strong enough. Not for a whole day. Won't surprise me if it turns into a two-day stint. Maybe three. That crowd is pissed."

"Done." Simpson started to issue orders to yet another petty officer, but, again, the man was already racing off. By now, the little knot of confused noncoms and junior officers gathered around Mike and Simpson and Torstensson was neither little nor confused. The air of sure command and authority had returned, and if it was centered on their President rather than their admiral, all the better. The confidence of those men was pouring back in like a flood.

Quickly, Mike pictured in his mind the layout of the city in the vicinity of the imperial palace. Fortunately, the palace opened directly onto a large square, into which three broad avenues emptied. Mike was certain that Gustav Adolf had ordered that layout with cannons firing grapeshot in mind. But a square large enough to commit mass slaughter was also large enough to bring order to the masses before slaughter became necessary. There was room there for a large enough part of the crowd to assemble, and for him to transform an inchoate burst of fury into a political rally.

True, the crowd would be baring its teeth. A "petition for redress of grievances" with real fangs. All the better. Let Germany's princes cower for a change. So long as Mike could keep the blood from flowing, he could turn a potential disaster into another nail-a very, very big nail; a spike, in fact-driven into the coffin of Europe's aristocracy.

He glanced at Torstensson. Easier said than done, of course. Since I'll need a Swedish nobleman general to hold the spike while a Swedish king swings the hammer. Oh, Mike. Mama done told you not to walk on tightropes. And look at you now!

It was a cheerful thought, though. Mike Stearns, for the first time in months, felt as if all his blood was flowing. He would need that confidence, he knew, just as any master craftsman needs it when he faces one of the top challenges in his trade. But, also like a master craftsmen facing such a challenge, he could not deny the sheer exuberance involved. That, too, was necessary.

"The next thing we'll need, John, is for you to provide General Torstensson with secure radio communications with Gustav Adolf in Luebeck. That means secure from us, too. Unless I miss my guess, the emperor and I are going to be trading a lot of horses over the next day or three. But he can't do that unless he's sure he can talk privately to his own man on the spot, without me eavesdropping." His eyes flicked back and forth between the American admiral and the Swedish general. "Do we have a Swedish soldier who can use the radio well enough?"

"Yes." The word came simultaneously from both men. Torstensson nodded to Simpson, allowing him to answer.

"We've got two, in fact." Simpson's eyes ranged the small crowd, coming almost immediately to rest on a short and thickset man. "That's one of them. They've been training for weeks with us. By now, they should know how to handle all of it."

Torstensson cocked his head, looking at the man Simpson was pointing to. The gesture was inquisitive. The Swedish radio operator was fluent in English, of course, given his assignment, so he'd been able to follow the conversation.

The man nodded firmly. "Good," said Torstensson. "That will help. A great deal."

He gave Mike a smile that was still grim, but also a bit amused. "I must warn you, however, that while it is most disrespectful to suggest that His Majesty would stoop to something as low and common as horse-trading, he is actually very good at it."

"You're telling me," chuckled Mike. "I've swapped horses with him before, you know. It's still a painful memory."

But not all that painful. Sure as hell not compared to a civil war, if it can be avoided. Some can't, but this one can.

"Anything else?" asked Simpson.

"Send an immediate radio message to Wismar. I want Jesse back here ASAP, with the plane. And tell that stubborn apolitical character that if he doesn't overfly the palace at least three times before he lands, I'll have his liver for dinner. Gas is cheap; blood isn't. But, most of all, I want Sharon here. Desperately. She'll be worth her weight in gold."

"Done. Anything else?"

Mike thought a moment.

"Yes. Please send a runner to your wife. I'll want-very much want-Mary and Veronica to be standing on the palace steps next to me."

Again, Simpson was caught off-balance. "Mary? Why? Sharon and Veronica I can understand, sure-Hans Richter's betrothed and grandmother. But Mary-"