"It is a kind of war. And as things are going, it will be unclear who the aggressor is."
"They are."
"We sunk their sub first. The Pacific action is a retaliation."
"What about the North Atlantic stuff?"
"The Canadians know we possess military superiority. They are attempting to stymie a U.S. response by opening up a second front."
"Second front?"
"Mr. President, this is now a two-ocean war."
"I don't want a war!"
"You have one now. And where it goes will depend upon the U.S. response."
"Maybe we should warn Louisbourg. Show good faith."
"It is a thought."
"I need deniability in this. Either that or get a battle group into the area."
"Naval action would be seen as a provocation, if not escalation of the conflict."
"I can't fight the entire Canadian navy with the Coast Guard."
"Actually you can. The U.S. Coast Guard constitutes the world's twelfth largest navy. We outnumber their coastal defense and Coast Guard handily. Not that I am suggesting engaging the Canadians militarily."
"What do you suggest, Smith?"
"Open up a third front."
"Where?"
"On the diplomatic front."
"Sounds relatively safe," the President said slowly.
"There is an old saying, Mr. President, to the effect that war is the pursuit of diplomatic affairs unresolvable by less drastic means."
The presidential voice brightened. "That's good. I may use that as my first salvo."
"Feel free," said Harold Smith, who didn't bother to say goodbye before hanging up.
SMITH HAD NO SOONER replaced the red receiver than the blue contact phone rang once more. He snapped it up.
"What is it, Remo?"
"More trouble. That armada we just passed? It's opened up on someone."
"What is your position, Remo?"
"Search me. Hey, Sandy!"
"That's 'Lieutenant' to you," Sandy Heckman's salty voice rang out.
"Stow the attitude. My boss needs our position."
"Tell him we're thirty nautical miles due southeast of Halifax."
"You got that, Smitty?" Remo asked.
"I am on it."
"On what?"
"If we are fortunate," said Smith, "I may be able to access a real-time satellite overview of what is going on."
Smith's thin fingers depressed keys, which flared with each touch, functioning silently.
In a moment he had acquired a feed from an orbiting National Reconnaissance Office surveillance satellite.
The view was clear. Boats on the water in two giant V's, moving on one another, trailing dozens of wakes that in turn created a gigantic super-wake. Smith could see the puffs of gray smoke from the lead vessels. Small puffs from what he assumed was the U.S. fishing fleet. Larger puffs from other fleet. It was smaller, but the boats were all a uniform white.
"Canadian patrol boats," he breathed.
A puff from a cutter showed distinctly, and one of the ragtag fishing vessels actually flung off debris. A second later an orange glow flared from her superstructure.
Smith hugged the phone to his head. "Remo, I have Canadian Coast Guard vessels engaging the U.S. fishing fleet."
"You don't sound very happy about it."
"I am not," Smith said bitterly. "While we want to avoid the repercussions of U.S. commercial vessels attacking Louisbourg, we cannot allow the Canadians to attack U.S. ships."
"What can we do about this?"
"Remo, I am about to order our Coast Guard to counterattack. In the meantime the Cayuga will move to support the U.S. forces."
"Forces? We're not at war."
"We are now," said Harold Smith. "And U.S. prestige is on the line."
"It's your call," said Remo, "but I don't want to be the one to break this to Sandy."
"Break what to me? And for the last time, it's 'Lieutenant,"' Sandy's raw voice called out.
"I will handle this," said Smith. "Remain available for my calls."
Smith hung up. His long thin fingers spun the rotary dial of the blue contact phone, and after only two transfers, he had the commanders of the nearest U.S. Coast Guard station to Halifax in a conference call.
Once Smith had filled them in, they were only too pleased to render assistance. For one thing Harold Smith outranked them both.
Or as one put it, "Those goddamn Canucks have been throwing their weight around since that phony Turbot War. It's time to show them who rules the North Atlantic."
Chapter 27
Lieutenant Sandy Heckman had one eye trained on the north horizon where the relentless cannonading of small-arms fire was emanating and one ear tuned to Remo, whose last name she had completely forgotten.
"Our boss says we go to the ships' rescue," Remo was saying.
"Gladly. But I don't work for the National Marine Fisheries Service."
"Neither do we. We're really Naval Intelligence."
"He is naval. I am the intelligent one," Chiun said.
Sandy dragged her glasses down off her eyes and turned as her face assumed an assortment of expressions ranging from humor to stunned astonishment. She settled on an incredulous twist of her mouth.
"You don't expect me to believe that bilge, do you?"
"It's true. We've been investigating Canadian-"
"Subterfuge," said Chiun.
"The real reason the fish are missing," added Remo.
"Everyone knows why the area's fished out. It's not red tide, or algae blooms or the greenhouse effect or any of that fancy nonsense. It's fishermen. They scooped up all the prey fish. Now the predator fish that lived off them are dying off. All that's left are the scup and cusk and turbot."
"There's more to it than that," said Remo. "But it's-"
"I know. Classified." And presenting her back to them, she said, "Classify my sweet ass."
"Very well," squeaked Chiun. "It is fat."
Sandy whirled and gave Chiun a particularly bilious eye. "You can walk the plank for all I care."
And Sandy resumed her scanning of the horizon. "When I hear from my commander, we go into action. Not before."
"Wait for it," said Remo.
It wasn't long. Sparks came flying down from the bridge waving a yellow flimsy. "Orders," he huffed.
"Why are they written?" Sandy asked, snatching the flimsy.
Then she saw why. It was a sea-gram:
USGC Cayuga is hereby ordered into the seas off Halifax to succor U.S. fishing vessels under attack by Canadian Coast Guard cutters. Reinforcements steaming your way. Good luck and Godspeed.
Crumpling up the flimsy, Sandy Heckmen took in a deep, cold lungful of air and hollered, "Battle stations! Helmsman, hard about and full steam ahead. We're going into action!"
"Told you so," said Remo.
"Fine. Meanwhile you two landlubbers are confined to quarters. It's going to get too hot for you to be on deck."
"Make us," invited Chiun.
Under Sandy's direction a pair of seamen attempted just that. They were helped into the drink by the Master of Sinanju, and the Cayuga had to double back to pick them up. Another attempt led to a seaman climbing the radar mast to avoid the old Korean's needlelike fingernails. After that the crew of the Cayuga pointedly pretended that Remo and Chiun were simply not there. It made for smoother sailing that way.
At full speed, the Cayuga came around the edge of the battle, which was in full swing, and found a Canadian cutter whose port flank was exposed and undefended.
Sandy got on the UHF radio. "Attention Canadian Coast Cuard cutters Angus Reid and Stan and Garnett Rogers. This is the USCG Cayuga. Repeat, this is the United States Coast Guard cutter Cayuga ordering you to break off your attack or be fired upon."
The Canadian Coast Guard cutter captain was exceedingly polite when he came on the air. "This is Captain Fothergill of the Stan Rogers. Bugger off, please."
"That sin
ks it," Sandy roared. "Open fire!"
Seamen were spread out along the rails bearing M-16 rifles. They lined up on the cutter and let loose. The Canadians returned fire.
The rattle and crack of automatic weapons grew more strident. Bullet holes began dotting the Cayuga's complicated superstructure. The vicious ripsqueak of bullets chewing trim and combing became a near-constant sound.
Standing calmly in the heaving bow, Remo and Chiun watched.
Bullets whizzed around them. From time to time they bobbed their heads or ducked or simply stepped aside as casually as kids dodging spitballs. To them the flying lead was not much more than that.
"You two heroes lend a hand," Sandy howled at them over the din.
Remo shook his head. "We don't do guns."
"And we do not belong to your Navy," added Chiun.
"You're U.S. citizens. We're defending American lives."
"Insults will get you nowhere," Chiun retorted.
As the bullets flew, Chiun called out encouragement. "Smite the godless Canadians in the name of your emperor!"
"Maybe we should pitch in," said Remo, stepping back and twisting out of the way of a short burst of 9 mm bullets.
Chiun made a disapproving face. "The godless ones are losing."
"How can you tell?"
"They are outnumbered," Chiun sniffed.
"But the Canadians have bigger weapons."
"And they are fighting men who eat fish in prodigious quantities. They are outbrained."
"Good point. But maybe we should get in the water and sink a few cutters for Old Glory."
"You may if you wish."
"I don't wish."
"Then do not."
Remo frowned. "Could be I have a better idea."
Finding Sandy exhorting her crew between bursts, Remo said, "Get us close to one of those cutters. We can board them."
"We'd get our white sterns shot off." She had a Glock in hand and laid its sights on a Canadian seaman who was swinging his rifle around for a clean shot. Taking her tongue between her teeth, she squeezed the trigger.
The seaman with the rifle threw it up into the air and grabbed at his side. The rifle made two complete turns, and the heavy butt slammed him on the head. He fell over and into the water, where he sank from sight.
"Nice shooting," said Remo conversationally.
"For practice I pop the heads off gulls and Mother Carey's chickens," Sandy said, reloading.
"Why don't you just fire to sink?"
"No fun in that."
"Guess not," said Remo, who decided that he'd probably have to go into the water after all.
That was when the first Coast Guard Falcon jet came barreling down out of the gunpowder gray sky.
"They armed?" Remo asked Sandy.
Sandy looked up from winging a Canadian chief petty officer and said, "No. But the Canucks don't know that."
The jets screeched down low and made a single pass. The Canadian cutters took instant notice. A fusillade of fire was aimed at the fast-moving planes. It was pure reflex. By the time the bullets left their barrels, the jets had screamed by and were a distant, fading thunder.
As things turned out, it was enough of a distraction to turn the tide.
Their attention on the cold, gray skies, fearful of a second pass, the Canadians were sitting ducks to the rifles of the ragtag fishing armada.
"Slay the fishmongers!" Chiun exhorted, shaking a raging fist in the air.
U.S. seamen scrambled up their masts and fired down from crow's nests. That gave them the high ground, and Canadian seamen began succumbing to the withering fire. Others leaped up from belowdecks to take up their fallen weapons, but they, too, were easily picked off.
"We're winning! We're winning!" Sandy crowed.
"You mean they're winning," Remo corrected.
"Us. Them. We're all Americans, aren't we?"
In the end the Canadian cutter captains were forced to raise the white flag.
Seeing this, Chiun cried, "Now. Finish off the murderous fishmongers!"
"That's the white flag of surrender," Remo corrected.
Chiun shook his grim head slowly, "No. That is the pale flag of death. For he who surrenders deserves death."
Sandy was on the horn saying, "Attention! All vessels within the sound of my voice. This is the USCG Cayuga. I am instructing the Canadian Coast Guard vessels to lay down their arms and prepare to be boarded. All you others, hold your fire and stand back. This is a Coast Guard operation."
A gravelly voice called back. "This is Captain Sirio Testaverde of the Sicilian Vengeance. I say who does what. And I say these damn Canucks are my prisoners."
"Then you are all Coast Guard prisoners," Sandy countered.
Silence filled the air.
"I tell you what. You may have these spineless ones. We will sail north to avenge Tomasso."
"Who's Tomasso?" Remo wanted to know.
Sandy shrugged. "I forbid you to further penetrate Canadian territorial waters," Sandy yelled loudly enough that the Master of Sinanju covered his delicate ears with his hands.
"Forbid your mother. We are going."
And with that the fishing fleet dispersed in all directions. They moved away from the center of battle, leaving the Canadian cutters sitting exposed. One cutter tried to slip away with the fleet, but a shot fired across its bows from three directions cooled the ardor for flight.
Sandy scanned the surrounding seas. "Damn! Where are our reinforcements?"
At that moment the Falcons made another noisy, impotent pass.
"Don't look now, but I think that's them," Remo said glumly.
THE CAYUGA CIRCLED the three Canadian cutters for nearly an hour until the U.S. cutters Presque Isle and Miskatonic put in an appearance.
With the opposing forces at parity, the Canadian vessels were boarded, and the prisoners were clapped in irons. Technically there weren't enough irons to go around, so they improvised with spring lines and other types of cord.
The Master of Sinanju used his fingernails to inflict a temporary spinal paralysis upon the remaining unfettered Canadian seamen.
When the operation was over, the Cayuga had the pleasure of leading the flotilla of cutters, both captors and captured.
Sandy Heckman stood on the bow, the wind in her hair, her hand on her holstered side arm.
"This," she said, "is why I first set out to sea."
"To shoot up other boats?" asked Remo.
"No, to get my blood racing."
In a while they put in at the Coast Guard station at Machias. The commander was there to greet them. He shook Lieutenant Heckman's hand as she came off the gangplank. "Great work, Lieutenant!"
"We helped," Remo said laconically.
The commander bestowed upon Remo and Chiun a very fishy eye. "Who are these two?"
"They claim to be out of Naval Intelligence," Sandy said quickly.
"We rescued her from the vicious Canadians," Remo said dryly.
"You two?"
"Before that," Sandy added, "they said they were with the National Marine Fisheries Service, looking into the fishing crisis."
The commander walked up to Remo and assumed a skeptical demeanor.
"What would be the Navy's interest be in the fishing crisis?"
"That's classified."
"They say that a lot," Sandy remarked dryly. She had her hands on her wide hips and a look in her eye that said that she thought she had the upper hand.
"Out with it," the commander demanded.
"Do not pry further under pain of extreme death," Chiun said thinly.
The commander half suppressed a grin. "Extreme death. What's that?"
The Master of Sinanju floated up to the Coast Guard commander. The commander loomed over the aged Korean. Chiun looked up into his face. The commander looked down.
"Chiun," Remo warned, "he's on our side."
Without taking his eyes off the Coast Guard officer, Chiun said, "He has requested wisdom."
Turning white, the commander suddenly crossed his hands in front of his crotch and hopped back like a frightened frog.
"We need a private minute to talk to our boss," Remo said, sensing the trend of the confrontation going their way.
"Done," said the commander, stepping hastily aside.
Remo led Chiun to a secluded spot and called Smith from the cell phone.
Harold Smith's lemony voice was harried when it answered. "Remo, I am aware of your situation."
"Good. What's going on?"
"There is a gigantic naval engagement going on off Halifax, Nova Scotia."
"Who's winning?"
"It is impossible to say. All fishing vessels look alike from the air."
"Huh?"
"The U.S. flotilla has run smack into fishing boats out of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. They are in pitched battle."
"Over what?"
"Over the right to take cod from whatever waters suit them."
"But the cod is practically extinct around here."
"Which is exactly why it is so deadly important to both sides," Harold Smith said earnestly.
"So we've got three Canadian cutters here. Are we at war?"
"If not at war, very close to it. The President is attempting to work through the diplomatic channels. But the Canadian government is stonewalling him."
"If the Canadians won't listen to him, then who will they listen to?"
"That is an excellent question," said Harold Smith in a hopeless voice.
Chapter 28
The President of the United States had put in a call to the prime minister of Canada.
The call was not returned.
He tried the premier of Quebec.
The premier returned the call but insisted on speaking French. Since the President's command of French was limited to three words, two of them curse words, he found the conversation short and unhelpful.
In desperation he put in a call to the Secretary-General of the United Nations.
"Mr. President," purred Anwar Anwar-Sadat, "I am very distressed by the friction between your nation and the Canadians."
"I could use your help."
"It is a consequence I think of the extension of the two-hundred-mile limits and the fierce quest for diminishing fish. As the leader of the former free world, I must ask you to reconsider your two-hundred-mile limit."
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