1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [151]
But Anders Jönsson had arrived by then and he had no reservations at all about up-time pistols. Years ago, the Americans had given him one of the most expensive guns in their possession, an HK .40-caliber USP automatic. The king's bodyguard had never spent a waking moment without it since. He'd even had his armor modified so he could wear his shoulder holster into battle.
The hussar caught sight of the peculiar object in Jönsson's hand and might have been distracted for a split second before he raised his saber to defend himself. If there was a delay in his reaction, though, it didn't matter. He would have been killed anyway. Jönsson shot him three times, all of the bullets punching into his chest through the cuirass. Two of them penetrated his heart.
Another hussar was there. Gustav Adolf was reeling but was still in the saddle, his legs gripping the horse from long-ingrained reflex. The first hussar to arrive drove his lance at him, ignoring Jönsson. He knew this target was the key one.
Jönsson saved his king again. He shot the hussar twice—center mass, again—and knocked him from the saddle. Had he not done so, the lance would have pierced the king of Sweden in the center of his torso, rupturing his stomach and severing his abdominal aorta. He would have bled out in less than a minute.
As it was, the lance swung aside at the last moment. It passed through the king's body, but well to the side. The peritoneum was pierced, but no major organs were damaged.
Finally, Gustav Adolf began to fall from the saddle. A third hussar tried to lance him as he fell, but his aim was thrown off by the king's now-rapid slump. He drove his lance butt into the Swede's ribs as he passed, but the blow did little damage beyond bruises.
And that was it. Anders shot him out of the saddle, too. Three shots, two in the back of the cuirass and one in the head.
The last shot was an act of pointless anger. Pointless, because the Pole was already mortally wounded. Anger, at the hussar's cowardly strike at a defenseless man.
So Anders Jönsson thought, anyway. And since he was the man with the .40-caliber automatic in his hand, his was the opinion that mattered.
Justified or not, that last shot—the time it took, more than the round expended—left Jönsson vulnerable. The next hussar lance came at him, not the king, and almost slew him. All that saved his life was his armor; which, not surprisingly for the personal bodyguard of Europe's premier monarch, was the finest armor available.
The lance slid off and Jönsson shot the man dead as he passed. Two shots, both in the neck. The Pole stayed in the saddle, though. Again, the ingrained reflexes of an excellent horseman. He wouldn't come out of that saddle until his mount returned his body to his own lines, and it was removed by human hands. Gently, almost reverently.
The Scots arrived, forming a perimeter. Just in time, because the hussars were still coming. By now, many of them had deduced the king's identity. The ferocity with which Anders had defended Gustav Adolf was enough in itself, even if they didn't recognize his features.
Stanislaw Koniecpolski was not the only Polish soldier who thought the king of Sweden had outlived his welcome. It would have been hard to find one who differed, in fact.
They had their chance to kill him, here and now. They intended to do so.
Anders had used up eight rounds. That left five in this magazine. But he had three more magazines and enough time to swap them out.
He did so—just in time to shoot a Pole who'd gotten by the Scots and was aiming his lance at the king's body. Gustav Adolf was now sprawled on his side in the muddy soil. He was unconscious and bleeding, both from his head and the wound in his side. Not bleeding profusely enough to pose an immediate danger to his life, though, so Jönsson continued to concentrate on the hussars.
That last Pole had gotten close enough to his target that Anders had used four shots to put him down—and