1635 The Papal Stakes by Eric Flint, Charles E. Gannon Page B

to take the slow ride back like Ms. Mailey here.” Melissa Mailey was limping out of the wood line, supported on either side by members of North’s detachment.
    The former school teacher responded archly. “A nice, slow ride will suit me just fine, Harry.”
    Lefferts shrugged, caught the Crews’ collective eyes, and tilted his head back in the direction of the cart-track.
    As he took his first step in that direction, North asked, “Here now; where do you think you’re going?”
    Lefferts stopped. “Uh…there’s a lot of handy gear back there. Word is, its owners don’t have any further use for it, so—”
    North shook his head. “Not this time.”
    “Colonel North, last I checked, you were not acting commander of this operation. He is.” Harry pitched his chin in Miro’s direction. “And I don’t hear him making any noise—”
    “Harry Lefferts, you will not loot the dead.” Somehow, Melissa Mailey raised herself up to an imperious height, despite being propped up by North’s men. “Let’s ignore the odious habits of your trade for a moment. Removing gear from that many bodies will take time that we do not have. I doubt this sleepy valley is accustomed to ferocious nighttime firefights, so I’m going to propose the outrageous deduction that news of it will spread quickly. Back to Chiavenna and the Spanish. Who will come here swiftly. So, if we are to leave a false trail that encourages our enemies to conclude that, despite the local reports, this was a relatively mundane ambush—one conducted without the aid of an airship, for instance—then there’s no time for looting. Furthermore, those persons who are remaining behind to travel overland to Italy must start on their way immediately. That includes you, if I am not mistaken.”
    Harry smiled respectfully at his old history teacher’s remonstrations. When she was done, he shook his head and sighed. “This is twice, now, I’ve had to rescue you Ms. Mailey. And you always spoil the fun. C’mon folks”—he gestured to the Crew—“we need to police our own brass, at least.” He and the rest of the Crew left at a trot.
    North looked after them, then turned toward Miro. “I do not believe we’ve met, sir. Colonel Thomas North, Hibernian Mercenary Battalion. I believe it’s time to put our respective halves of the operational coin together. What are your further objectives?”
    Miro nodded and explained. “Well, as you heard, the dirigible will retrace its path back east to Vicosoprano, then a short hop north over Cassacia. From there, a rising buttonhook westward will put the blimp into the Val Maroz, then north over the Septimer pass and to a landing on the outskirts of Bivio.”
    “Will they need to take on extra fuel, there?”
    “I suspect so. Besides, Franchetti will not want to fly again before dawn. And I doubt there’s enough fuel on board for him to reinflate the balloon and make it the rest of the way to Chur.”
    “So tomorrow morning he’ll have to toddle down into Bivio and try to find—What do you burn in that thing, anyway? Spirits? Oils?”
    “Yes, and it uses a lot, very quickly. Luckily, they won’t need very much to get from Bivio to Chur. But then again, there probably won’t be much fuel to be had in a remote alpine lake town in May.”
    “I suppose not. Sounds like they’ll be lucky to get airborne again after a one day delay.”
    “I’m guessing two. But from Bivio, it’s not even two hours to Chur, more fuel and the route home.”
    “Which is—?”
    “Chur to Biberach, then Nuremburg, then Jena. Probably two or three days between each connection.”
    “The delay at each point is to be spent getting more fuel?”
    “No, we prepositioned enough. But weather and other factors could easily delay the airship that much. Besides, I find that overestimating obstacles is generally a better operational model than underestimating them.”
    “Agreed. And for those of us who remain behind?”
    Miro brought out a