Brown Bear Blues

by Stephen Wishnevsky

  “I want to kill some of those Reich bastards. They cost me fifteen million bucks, and I want to take it out of their hides.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t… wouldn’t inherit until I turned twenty-one, November of next year. It’s all gone now. Somebody owes me blood.”

  “Where’s your plane?” Hilda wanted to know. The smart one of the family.

  “We landed in the Fraser, as soon as we hit water, there were speed boats all over us. I had to do some fast talking. Libbie did, I mean, and they impounded my ship and called us a taxi. The driver didn’t want to go all the way to Crazy House, so here we are.”

  “Flat broke, and wounded.”

  “Yeah. I hate to spell it out so cold, but… yeah. We’re fucked.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll make a few calls, write a note to General Earhart, that will get you in the Pacifica Air Service. Libbie, I guess you better go on up to Crazy House. You can sort all this shit out as soon as you get a little rest. You guys have an epic to tell.” I looked at the crew. “Who wants to take all this down?” Mary raised a hand. “Mary O’Brian, this is Smith and she’s Libbie. You guys want to drink? Something to eat?” They just shook their heads, let Mary lead them into a corner. A lot of the bullshit had been burned out of them. All to the good. We needed people like them.

  >>>>>>>>>>

  The doctor showed up a few minutes later, and set to work. Libbie’s arm looked like hell, she had more grit than I had credited her with. The doc took one look, and jabbed her with a needle without another word. The soldier’s joy, morphine.

  I turned back to work, the phone rang. “Mister Kapusta. We have press release from the Prime Minister’s office. A print copy is on the way; do you want the gist now?”

  “Shoot.”

  “In executive session, the surviving delegates to the Pacifica Constitutional Convention have named President of the Baikal Republic, Ivan Hodak to be Secretary for War of Pacifica, directly under President Roosevelt. The Executive Council has adopted the United States Constitution in toto, on a provisional basis, effective immediately. The Capitol of Pacifica is to be located in Honolulu, on the big island of Hawaii. The constituent states of Pacifica are Dalny, including Sakhalin Island, Baikal, Vancouver, Alaska and Yukon, Seattle, California North, and Hawaii. The Empire of Japan, Australia and the Philippines have recognized the new nation, with more notifications expected. The People’s Provisional Government of China, the PPGC, has sent a delegation, and word is expected from EUAC any minute.”

  “I am speechless. Fast work.”

  “There is a minor matter where you may be of some assistance?” Whoops. Here it comes. “An acquaintance of yours, the Editor of the Dalny Bulletin, was badly wounded in the attack, and needs a place to recuperate. We thought that a newspaper would be a congenial environment for her to keep her interest engaged. Her morale is not of the highest at the moment.”

  “Ahhh. Fuck.” I do recognize an order when I hear one. And it was true, we needed to work together in the future. Unity of the new nation and all that festering crap. “Sure. Send her on. You know…” Think fast. “You can recommend a nursing service? A supplier of like, a hospital bed and all that sort of thing?”

  “She is ambulatory. But, of course. Miss Lowell will arrive with an attendant. We express our thanks.”

  “One other minor matter? A pilot just showed up here, he needs to join your air force, but I just realized I don’t know how to get in touch with General Earhart. I guess your main base is down in Bellingham, but that’s just a guess.”

  “We will see to it that your Mister Reynolds receives proper guidance. His airplane will be stored and serviced, and a receipt sent to him.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Anything else, just say the word.” Of course they had chapter and verse.

  “Have no fear on that account.” How reassuring. Now for the hard part, explaining all this to Hilda.

  Much to my surprise, she took charge, selected a second-floor room, sent out for a maid service to give it a good scrubbing, and had to be physically restrained from buying new curtains for the window. More of that real women stuff, I guess.

  Justine showed up before the press release did, she was all fucked up. Ambulatory, meaning she could walk, but little more. She was badly beat up, left arm in a full-length cast, one eye bandaged or missing, hair shaved off around a scalp full of stitches, everything else battered black and blue and other painful colors. Her nurse was damn near my size, a Samoan or some other Pacific Islander, answered to the name Rita. Hilda took immediate charge, followed them up the stairs, asking lots of questions. Justine answered in mumbles, Rita had little more to say. Fine. Next problem.

  The press release was next, I handed that off to Tommy, the messenger had Smith’s marching orders, off they went on the motorcycle. The doc was finished with Libbie, I had Eng run her up to CKYZ in the Dodge, with my blessings. Too much monkey business for me. Let Frankie figure it out. And what the hell was up with Frankie, anyway?

  >>>>>>>>

  The press release had enough in it for an edition, that and the stuff we got from Smith. I typed up an editorial about the meaning of this and that, even though I knew that the shit had not even begun to hit the fan yet. I put in a blurb about Justine’s injuries, and was about to call it a day well spent when a taxi decanted young George Olsen, with ten rolls of film from the Los Angeles evacuation. A fucking mess, he said, which was enough information. He said the EUACs stayed up in the hills, and just let the Anglos beat themselves to death fighting for spots on the boats. He hadn’t been able to radio back his story, and we had been too crazy busy to even notice. Okay, kid, darkroom for you. He decided to go over to Demetri’s, all the young beauties over there having nothing to do with anything, of course. Good with me, that would be tomorrow’s edition. George did have his notes neatly typed out, so Phil took those to bash into a story.

  Could I relax and have a bite of lunch? Take no chances, grab something while you can. Chan was on the job, eggrolls and chowder, good enough. I had enough time to enjoy a cup of coffee before Greek called me over to the radio. “Listen to this shit.”

  It was Ed Murrow, his measured cadence showing a bit of strain. “The New Confederate Government in Richmond has invited the Anglo-German Navy into Portsmouth Naval Base, also in Virginia, to, and I quote, ‘Maintain the peace and salvage what can be saved from the Navy of the former state.’ An unaccredited broadcast purporting to be from the USN Atlantic Fleet in Being stated, ‘Live Free or Die. Never give up the ship’.” Reports of explosions in the Confederate capitol are being relayed from ham radio sources in nearby states. The conditions appear to be unsettled.”

  “In other news, the official radio of the United States of Central America, VEUAC, has claimed occupation of the cities of San Diego, Los Angeles, and El Paso in a noon broadcast. They state that they have no further territorial ambitions in California, and recognize the existence of the Pacifica state of California del Norte, in their terms. Exact borders to be settled by peaceful negotiation.”

  “Shit!” I said, with feeling. “The Atlantic Fleet has nailed the flag to the mast and is going down fighting.”

  “I thought Richmond was a long way from the Navy Base? I been there once. A girl in Norfolk.”

  “Yeah, I remember, Eppi said something about that once. But I think they had airplanes there. I know they had an aircraft carrier, but they sunk it.”

  “The krauts.” He said.

  “Fuck them.” Shit, this was the final blow, the USA was over for good. “The Navy in Hawaii is going to be pissed. Even more pissed.”

  “Not much they can do about it, is there?”

  “Not a fucking thing.” I could have said more, but fuck it. Write it down. Fucking Armageddon was child’s play compared to this shit.

  >>>>>>>>

  Eng got back in time to run get the Pacifica Organization edition from Billy Chung’s, at least the first run. We had this down to a routine by n
ow, and this was not as much of a bombshell as the last edition, so we could keep it down to a dull roar. I went on the first trip, to Maple Tree Square, they were not as somber as they had been last night, but there was no dancing in the streets either. This was going to be a long hard haul, that had dawned on anybody with a brain. The recruitment kiosks were still busy, a lot of people dressed in beach wear and yachting clothes, carrying little precious bundles of all they owned, refugees from LA, no doubt. They must have been the early birds, the most of them would have set into Frisco or Seattle probably. Somebody would have the job of finding slots for all these people, and damn fast. You didn’t want them sitting around blaming the Vancs for their troubles. I had played those games in Dalny in the old days, a whole fifteen months ago. Time sure flies when you are up to your ass in emergencies.

  George Olsen was back with the photos, some good stuff, if you like chaos on the brink of total disaster. So, that and the Richmond story, and the releases from EUAC would make an issue. That was hacked together by midnight, I rescued Hilda from sickroom duty, and off we went to bed.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>

  The crew must have handled that edition, we were damn near a daily all of a sudden, but we got to almost get caught up on our sleep. As if. Justine joined us at our breakfast table, she was groggy with pain and dope, but tried to be nice. She had been raised up right, occasionally she remembered. Hilda had been spreading the old oil, but I had not forgotten her snap judgement back at Eagle Mountain. That was all filed under “Least of my Worries,” and the drawer locked.

  Next problem. WRVA, the Voice of the Confederacy reported that the “situation” at Portsmouth “was under control, with minimal casualties,” which meant that they were all dead. The Kriegsmarine was moving into the port, but reading between the lines, there was not much left. The hams in the mountains, the hillbillies who had no love for any government, much less the Confederates, reported explosions so violent that they could see the flames more than a hundred miles away. I suspected they had set off all the magazines and arsenals as they went down fighting. They didn’t have much choice, did they? That would have not left much for the Germans, either. Not much to hang a story on, and not one I cared to write either. Then I had an idea, sent an overseas telegram to Dalny, asked Radio Home if they had been monitoring the US Navy channels, and wanted to share any background with us. It took a couple hours, but I had guessed right, there was a lot of defiance, some farewell messages, a list of captains and ships, names of some of the aviators who had bombed Richmond on suicide missions. Some smaller craft, torpedo boats and the like had fled, hugging the coast up to New York, and were still free for the time being, joining the resistance under Hoover and Curtis. A crooked game, but the only game in town.

  Maybe New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and the Lake States could be defensible, at least for a while, but nobody was saying nothing, a big fat quiet from the Northern Tier. Goering might not have wanted to waste men on cracking that nut, the rest of the continent was falling into his hands. It pretty much depended if he wanted to bust our balls first, or the Euacs, or the Yankees. A bloody mess either way. Empires require consolidation and administration, and he had all off Africa and Europe to get on a paying basis first. With the Japanese and the Persians allied, he had a vulnerable flank there, right near his oil supplies. That area seemed to be quiet, but who could tell? All we knew was what they told us, and all that might as well be horseshit. We would never know until it was too late.

  Pacifica had its own problems; we had to create a government, a navy, an army, an air force or two, create an arms industry, and mostly not manage to piss off the Japanese too badly. And in our spare time...

  Justine had one hand and one eye in working order, she volunteered to help out, “I can’t allow myself to just sit and mope. This morphine wants to drag me down, and I shall not allow that to happen. This war is bigger than any personal discomfort, we have a chance to make a nation where persons of all persuasions can live and work together. That is worth a little pain.”

  Fighting words, at least from Miss Blueblood. But I got an idea. I set her to work proofreading, and called up Frankie. “Hey, Frances, you remember Justine from the Bulletin?”

  “Not my favorite person, but sure. Why?”

  “She got beat up pretty bad at the Eagle Mountain bombing, the Vanc brass stuck me with her, but we are a pretty straight crowd down here. Hilda and Mary are the only women in the house. Once she gets to feeling better, she might get pissed at our rowdy ways, so I wondered…”

  “Are you playing matchmaker here?” You asshole, left unsaid.

  “Not at all. She has to go back to Dalny as soon as she can, she is the editor of the Bulletin, but she is in no shape to spend a couple weeks on a freighter full of sailors. She has a nurse with her, full time. I just thought she could go up there and hang out with some of her own kind of people. You remember how she was.”

  “A pain in the ass? Yeah, I get it. Her father fucked her up pretty good, the best I can figure. You have about half of a good idea. I’ll think about it.”

  “She seems to have had a lot of the starch knocked out of her, and she is a good writer. I have her proofreading now, she only has one eye and one arm is in a cast, but that’s kind of a waste of a decent professional. Whatever you can do, I will appreciate it. She does have a nice voice, and perfect diction. I think I remember she said she studied music or something. Swarthmore. Maybe she can find something to do on the radio.”

  “Close enough. I’ll run down and talk to her. Later today. I need a break anyway. I was going to do a little shopping. There is nothing to spend money on, up here in Coquitlam. If it isn’t made out of flannel or denim, the stores up here don’t stock it.” A great opportunity to give her some shit, but I bit my tongue.

  >>>>>>>>>>

  So, all we had to do was follow up on the Portsmouth story, we had a lot of details from Dalny, and wait for the next disaster or outrage. We got an off-the-record press release from Vanc Government that they were sending a relief column of armored trains to Calgary and Edmonton in Alberta. We though that the Reich had a Zeppelin base somewhere near Saskatoon, but that was just deduction. The Mississippi Thrust was based a thousand miles further east, in Ontario, around Lake Superior, but that was about all we did know. Canada was not as big as backland China, but it would do. The obvious Pacifica move was to put a big air base, air and armor, in Calgary, and dare the Germans to attack. That would keep the Rocky Mountain passes just that much safer, maybe pick up a few recruits from the Prairie states and provinces, and generally be a pain in the ass for the fucking krauts. Maybe our brass were trying to suck some dive bombers into our rocket clusters. No telling, until it happened, then it would have been obvious all along.

  Then I remembered the Teals and the Loons, those little mass-produced weapons for air and sea. Flivvers for war. I could just bet that factories all over the Pacific Rim were cranking those little bastards out by the mile. How long had it been since I had seen the prototypes? Only six days? A week? Too soon to hope for much on that front. Captain Annie was barely to Panama, if she had got that far. Of course, there was the possibility that Arbuthnot had not told me all he knew on that subject. Who could imagine? An intelligence officer being devious? Heavens forbid.

  There had been a comment Frankie had made on my way home from my time in the brig that the Japanese had been sending ferry-loads of armored trains over here as fast as they could send them. Something about Train Ferries? They were not here, they hadn’t gone south, there might have been north-south mainline tracks, but I hadn’t seen any signs of them. No other directions from here. East was the only way, which meant that this had been in the works for quite a while. Very interesting. No sense asking stupid questions, just make a note and wait and see.

  Come to think about it, armored trains aren’t really much good for anything. They make good mobile batteries, put out as much fire as anything this side of a battleship, but dive bombers
would eat them for breakfast. Be hell on defense though. Dig them in and armor would have a hell of a job digging them back out. What the hell. The only thing I was sure of was that the generals had thought a lot longer and harder about this shit than I ever could. Sometimes generals knew their business, especially if they were not French or British. I might be prejudiced, but I do know what I am talking about. I learned the hard way, in France in the AEF.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

  Meanwhile, I had a job to do. Frankie showed up, she was a sight never before seen by god or man. Slacks, army tailored blouse in light blue, diamond earrings, long hair tied back, and a lovely silken ginger beard, a couple shades redder than her hair. I didn’t say anything, mostly just to get her goat, but Hilda did. “I love your new look, Frances, very becoming.”

  “I’m just being me. I’m not sure what that is, but I do know who it is, and it’s me. All the way to the bone.”

  “Well, bless your heart. We all have to do that, one way or another, but you have a harder row to hoe than most.”

  “You calling me a whore?” She had us all flustered for a few seconds there, until she guffawed like a sergeant of the Horse Marines. Fucking Frankie. What a pisser. Everybody cracked up but Justine, and she smiled, as much as her stitches and the morphine would allow. “Look, Justine, I hate to jump into this, but I have a lot to do today. Do you think you will be more comfortable up at Crazy House? You have a great voice, you can be a news reader, an announcer, anything you want, until you heal up enough for the boat ride back to Dalny. Your call.”

  “Is Peaches up there? Is she still with you?”

  Frankie replied, right on cue. “She’s the boss of the station. She has to wear dresses, but she’s still the same old Peaches.”

  “She is quite strong. She was a pillar of strength in the ship on the way over. Of course, you know that. You were there too.”

  Frankie made a wry face. “I haven’t forgotten. That was no fun at all. You pulled your weight too. I had my doubts, you being a rich bitch and all, but I must admit, you did all you could for us.”