Walter Keenan of Naval Intelligence, my sneaky-ass jailer down at the Everett Naval Base. He had been a Lieutenant back then, or pretended to be, now he was a Commander or better. Naval ranks are funny, I never can get them straight. Lots of gold, anyway. He had suckered two of the trickiest double-dealing women on this planet, and incidentally saved my saggy ass from big trouble. I wouldn’t forget somebody like that.
“To what do I owe the honor of, and how much is this going to cost? Coffee?”
“Miles,” Keenan said, “You look better than the last time I saw you. The bruises are nearly gone. Coffee would be wonderful.”
“Right this way. James, tea?”
Once they were settled and Hilda had joined us, James dropped the bombshell. “Walter is in a bit of a touchy spot here, or soon will be, and we need a little advance publicity. Priming the pump, if you will. This should be relatively painless, for all concerned.”
“Spit it out.”
“Well, it’s kind of a big deal. The Navy is going to mutiny.” Walter answered.
“Against who?” I wanted to know.
Walter sipped coffee before answering. “There’s the problem. There is no Federal Government, there is no President, and no Congress.”
“There is,” clarified Arbuthnot, “No United States of America. It has evaporated as of a few hours ago. There is the Confederacy, which is not even lines on paper yet, there is a pro-tem mayor of Washington City, and there are some state governments. There are some more or less illegal militias charging around at cross purposes. The legal problems alone are immense.”
“So we, the Navy, are sitting in Pearl Harbor, Dago, Treasure Island in the Bay, and we have no supply, no orders, and no chain of command. All we have is enemies. And we have plenty of those.”
I could see the problems right off. “Hawaii is just a Territory, like Alaska was, they can’t have much of a government in place, and San Diego is a long way from Sacramento. That’s the capitol, right?”
“State governments have no jurisdiction over the Navy.”
“Yeah. I got that. So, the only answer is that Hawaii has to join Pacifica, for self-preservation, if nothing else. Which means that we need San Francisco right the hell now.”
James looked as pleased as if his dog had learned a new trick on the first try. “And how do we accomplish that?”
Good doggie “Obviously, we have to talk to the Hawaiian people. If the Territorial old guard won’t play, then they will have to take a walk. It’s all up to the Navy, one way or another.”
“And who is the most respected Naval Officer in Pacifica?”
“You know as well as I do. Eppie. Admiral Edward Epstein.”
He sprung the trap I had seen coming a few words before. “So you would not mind talking to him for us?”
“He is smart enough to not need my word for anything. But sure. All you have to do I ask.”
“Shall we?” He stood, Walter and I followed suit. I waved at Hilda, grabbed my hat, and we were ready to go fucking change history, again. “It’s fifteen hours ahead in Shanghai, so it’s one here, it will be dawn tomorrow their time. Will that be too early?”
“I don’t honestly know when he ever sleeps. He naps whenever he needs to, and can go for days with no more than that. I guess he is not salvaging now, so your guess is as good as mine. Are we going to Crazy House?”
“We have our own facility that might prove a bit more secure. It’s not far.”
>>>>>>>>>
It was north, over the main bridge, past the shipyards and up into the hills just outside North Vancouver. There was a nondescript road, up a wooded valley, and up to something that might have been a fire warden’s tower a few years ago. Now it was the base for a tall antenna, with a fenced-in log building below. Everything was a bit stouter and more fortified than it might have been, and there were a few of those improvised armored cars casually parked nearby. It might have been a coincidence, except it wasn’t. My infantry-trained eye detected a few fire lanes cleared though the undergrowth, and perhaps a log bunker upslope fifty yards or so.
We went inside, there was a guard room, an office, and then a comfortable studio with sound-proofed walls and some serious microphones, a control room behind glass in the corner. Connections were made, switches thrown, operators talked to operators, we waited patiently, sucking down cups of very strong tea from an urn in the other corner.
Eventually, or a little later, a red light over the control room window lit up, “On The Air,” and the guy gestured for us to put on the headphones near each microphone. There was a lot of static, and an odd whistling sound, but we could plainly hear an operator say, “Dalny Free Port, ready. Ready.”
Up to me I guessed. “Eppi, you there? Can you hear me?”
“Miles, yes, I can hear you. What’s on your mind?”
“Thinning hair and not much of that. I have an officer, a US Navy officer, here who wants to talk to you. I don’t know much more than that, but here he is. Walter Keenan. A captain, I think. This is all pretty damn improvised.”
“Walt? Walt Keenan? We never met, I think you were a class or two ahead of me at Annapolis.”
“That is correct. An honor to speak with you. I do so hope this is a secure channel.”
“That’s what they tell me. The frequency is changed second by second, so all they will hear is hash. It’s hell to synchronize the cycles, but it is supposedly unbreakable.” A pause full of that whining sound. “So what’s the plan?”
“No plan, we need to make one. We have no chain of command. There is literally no United States Government anymore. We are trying to think up a peaceful way to… induce, shall we say, Hawaii to join Pacifica. It is the only path open to us, but completely unprecedented. We don’t know how to proceed. Any ideas?”
“Is there enough government in the Islands to negotiate with? Have you considered using logic and reason?”
“A novel concept. And that is a good question. There was a royal house, but the last queen died in 1917 without an heir. We could find a pretender, but that would open a can of worms, rattlesnakes, that we do not need to open. The Territorial Governor is Lawrence McCully Judd, he seems to be a decent sort, third generation of his family to live in Hawaii. Grandson of a missionary. He is devoted to the Leper Colony on the island of Molokaʻi. I think it would take more than pure reason to convince him. He is an honest man, but not terribly imaginative.”
“Flattery? Bribery? The stakes are too high for pussy-footing around. As you know, I am attempting to create a Navy, basically out of scrap metal and good intentions. You have four battleships in Pearl, and that base could serve nicely as an anchor for our whole fleet.”
“I understand. I think we need to be on the spot to work this out. I could be there in less than a week, in a destroyer, if I was convinced that the Imperial Navy would let me pass.”
“And I could be there sooner in our Zeppelin. Do you have a reliable contact man on shore?”
“I know a few trustworthy men, but I cannot communicate with them easily. I would have to go through Naval channels. This is not something to send over the radio for any flapping ears to overhear.”
“I understand your reservations. Twelve thousand miles in a zep is eight or nine days, if we have to come get you. Too long. Take your destroyer, fly the American flag, as you are entitled to fly, I will speak to the Imperial representative here, and see if I can get you an escort. We can communicate with simple code once you are underway. I’ll send the frequencies within the hour. Anything else?”
“Only a million things. But I will get underway as fast as I can. Consider it done.”
“Bring Miles, he is good at thinking on his feet, and perhaps he needs a vacation.”
“Yeah, from the frying pan into the fire. Actually, I need a honeymoon. I have a new wife.”
“What happened to the old one? Barbara, was it?”
“Correct. She is pregnant, the stress from bombing was too much for her, she
is on her way back to Dalny with a companion. A woman named Janis. If you could send word to Justine Lowell at the Bulletin, that might prove useful. Just between you, me, and the Pacifica Navy.”
“I catch your drift, Miles. I do remember Justine quite well. A word to the wise.”
“Okay. I’m sure we have more ducks to line up, but that will be sufficient for the moment.” I turned to Keenan. “The ball is in your court. How fast can you move?”
“The USS Ward, DD-139, a four stacker, is in Bellingham Harbor. She survived your hydrodomes, and is ready to sail. James, are you coming on this jaunt? We need an official from the civilian side of Pacifica, in any case.”
“I will do so with pleasure.” He took the microphone. “Admiral, we are on our way. See you in a week.”
“Done. Move fast. We need that port.”
>>>>>>>>
On the way back to town, Arbuthnot had the driver turn off before the bridge, and turn left, up the shore to a busy shipyard. “I must swear you to secrecy.”
“Not a problem,” I said, Keenan agreed also.
“You have seen the hydrodomes, they are quite effective, but have limited range, cannot handle seas above a certain height.”
“We saw that converted ferry, the Hydrodome Tender.”
“That was our starting point. We had, on our ways, a radically new design for a fishing trawler, one that could deploy and retrieve a quite a large net from a ramp in the stern. Her keel was laid down almost ten years ago, but with the war, she languished in the yards. One of our more inventive boffins came up with a new purpose for her. And here we are.” We pulled into a gate, words were exchanged with an armed guard, and we drove to the stern of a three-hundred-foot-long ship, almost as sleek as a destroyer, but with only two stacks, and only one turret on the bow. “We call her Matilda for no particular reason. You see her salient features from this vantage.”
There was a thirty-foot-wide square hole in her stern, with a steel ramp slanting up to the main deck. There were also hefty steel girders sticking out from her sides, with massive curved beams under the bottom of the ship, from side to side. I could see a similar structure forward. The propeller shafts and rudders seemed to be much longer than usual, for all I had picked up watching Eppi salvage wrecks. “Holy jumping fuck-buckets. Is that damn thing a giant hydrodome?”
“Ten points, Miles. Well done. A hydrofoil hydrodome tender. Not as fast as the HD-9s, of course, but still capable of forty knots for long distances. The old fish holds are now fuel tanks, she is fitted with the latest model turbines, and can show her heels to anything on the water.”
“How soon can we take her?”
“Three days. We can still make it in a week, with luck. Captain Keenan, you will follow the original plan, in the Ward, you and Miles, and we will catch up to you along the way. If we can’t, no harm done, and if we can, we will have concrete evidence of the benefits of joining Pacifica.”
“To say the least. I will be ready to sail in twelve hours, or there will be hell to pay. We best get a wiggle on, James.”
>>>>>>>
Then I had to talk the Hilda into going for it. She thought it was insane, a typical male sort of thing to do, but when I said I had to go, she reluctantly agreed. After not very long thought, I volunteered Tommy the Cork to run the paper while we were gone. He would be Editor, and Charles would be responsible for layout and office management. That was the best I could do, with Eng monitoring the radios. We heard that CKYZ was going full speed ahead with Lupo’s new Spanish broadcasts, the need was obvious, so, with Olga promising to give us transcripts of their broadcasts.
Then we had just time to pack a few things, grab a bite to eat, and Keenan was at the door in a blue USN Staff Car, a Lincoln. He was flanked by RCMP Pierce Arrows front and rear, to avoid unpleasantness. Both cars proudly bore copies of the new eight-star ensign. They didn’t quite match, obviously hand made, but close enough. There were plenty more homemade flags displayed on the way down, it looked like the people preferred to have the stars in a circle, rather than in the Big Dipper pattern. The voice of the people. Or at least the voice of the seamstress.
We made it to Bellingham in less than an hour, went right to the airport, there was a new pier, and a fast launch to take us out to the Ward, which was convenient, but diplomatically dubious, seeing as we were still legally at war with the USA.
We were shown to a stateroom, and decided that keeping out from underfoot was the most constructive thing we could possibly do for the cause. Keenan came by for a minute, he said, “I’m going to be in the Radio Shack most of the time, trying to run a revolution long distance is going to take all my attention. Captain Ensign is a good man, but not much on the social graces. Apologies, but times are fluid right now.” This was a four-stacker, a flush deck destroyer, and even though she was three hundred feet long, there was damn little room in her. A fighting ship, no frills at all.
>>>>>>>>
Sea travel is boring, except when you are panicking. No panic this time, we just caught up on our honeymoon and read a lot. I hadn’t brought enough books, but the destroyer had quite a decent library, more up to date than anything in Dalny or even Vancouver, for sure. Count your blessings, no matter how pathetic. Radio traffic was restricted, for obvious reasons, but there was a wardroom with Radio Home playing all the time, so we were allowed to slurp down horrible coffee and eat really good pastries, while keeping up with the world. They would not play Crazy Radio, too close to home, no pun intended, but there was an obvious need to monitor current events, and Radio Home was the obvious, and even the only viable choice.
Everything went smoothly for three days, a little more, Hilda and I got into the habit of having an evening improvised cocktail on the stern of the Ward, our “sundowner,” even though it was just afternoon.
She had some pretentions to class, even if I didn’t. We were sipping gin and lemonade, made from a mix, when an alarm went off, a horrible clanging bray from the loudspeakers, followed by; THIS IS NOT A DRILL, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, GENERAL QUARTERS, ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS!”
I looked at her, she looked at me, I said, “We are reporters, right?” She took my hand and scampered back to the bulkhead of the rear deckhouse, under the rear four-incher. The Ward didn’t have turrets; the four big guns were just behind little casement shields. We had no business being there, but we had nowhere else to be. “If you see them rotate the gun, do not be in front of the muzzle when they cut loose, or you will never hear another thing for the rest of your life.”
“Let’s get up there, under that lifeboat, they won’t shoot that way, will they?”
“Good thinking, and if shit goes bad, we will be right near the boat.” Black oil smoke was pouring from the four stacks, the ship got up on her bow wave, and we started making sweeping but erratic turns, designed to be in no predictable pattern. A few sailors ran by on errands, they paid us no attention at all. The ship kept zigzagging, we kept getting more and more on edge, then suddenly, a white trail appeared in the water, it looked sure to hit us, but the captain made the right guess and it passed close astern. “Torpedo. They must have seen a U-boat. A periscope or some…” We were almost knocked off our feet as the Ward turned into the torpedo track, more sailors ran full speed to the stern and began to unlash the hold-downs on a couple of racks of what looked like oil drums at the very stern of the destroyer.
“What are they doing?”
“Those are depth charges. They are full of explosives, the will drop them when they think they are right over the U-boat. Big boom. Hundreds of pounds of explosives. We might get wet.”
“As long as we don’t have to swim home…” Somehow a signal was sent, the sailors let the first two depth charges drop into the water, and the Ward swerved into a fast starboard turn, we did a little dance to keep our feet again, she had time to say, “We need some life jackets…” before the depth charges hit their triggering depth and detonated. The whole sea behind us decided it would rathe
r be in the sky, and boiled up in a huge dirty thrust of solid spume.
They call these ships flush-deckers because they are low in the water, they are very wet underway, and this one got a lot wetter in a big fucking hurry. We got good and drenched, tried to struggle to a hatch, but the damn thing was dogged shut, all part of General Quarters. Once I got the salt water out of my eyes, I saw a bin marked “Life Preservers.”
I ripped it open and we struggled into the unfamiliar devices. Once we got the belts tight, we felt a little better, just in time for the next deluge. This time the spume was darker and lumpy, full of chunks of something. We were a little farther away, we didn’t get clobbered, but one of the sailors on the depth charge racks was smashed to the deck by something heavy, probably badly wounded, from what we could tell. At least his buddies ran to him, dragged him farther from the stern, they got him up to where we were. One of them, the non-com, I guess, asked, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I tried to say something, but he cut me off, “Fuck it. See if you can help Bennie. First aid kit right there!” He pointed to a case bolted to the bulkhead and ran back to his duty station. Hilda went for it, I knelt down and took a look at Bennie. The technical term is “all fucked up.” He was only sort of conscious, had at least a concussion, maybe a fractured skull, had half his face laid open, covered in blood. Head wounds bleed a lot. I knew I couldn’t do much, and anything I tried might hurt him worse. I just held gauze pads to the biggest gash, and hoped that a medic was on the way. I looked up and saw a great grey shape broach up out of the water like a wounded whale. A U-boat. As soon as it was above the water, the 4-inch above us cut loose, with the one mid-ships just a second or two later. The muzzle-blast was a physical blow, we had no business being here, but Bennie needed us.
The U-boat might have been a hundred yards away, at that range the Navy does not miss. Both shots hit the conning tower, more shit flew everywhere, and Kraut swabbies boiled up out of a hatch and ran to the deck gun. They didn’t make it. Two more rounds from our guns hit while they were loading their first shot, one hit the base of the gun mount, and the other hit a few feet below, right into the pressure hull. Shit happened. I let go of Bennie, dove over him, tackled Hilda, bore her down to the deck. I made it just before the whole fucking U-Boat went up in a huge blast. The only thing that saved us, saved the Ward, was the fact that the magazine, whatever went up, was well below the waterline, and the blast went straight up. Mostly.
Brown Bear Blues Page 9