"H ere you are, George," Sylvia Enos said, setting a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her son. When his fishing boat was in port, she liked to stuff him. She was convinced the cook on the Whitecap was trying to starve him. Logic told her that was silly, especially since he'd grown into a strapping man, almost six feet tall and broad as a bull through the shoulders. Logic, sometimes, had nothing to do with anything.
"Thanks, Ma." He slathered on salt and pepper and started to eat. With his mouth full, he went on, "You know what? When I went out to the Banks, I took along a copy of I Sank Roger Kimball. That's a good book-that's a really good book. You and that writer fellow did a… heck of a job." The brief pause there surely meant he was changing what he might have said on the deck of the Whitecap. Sylvia smiled. She'd raised him right. He didn't cuss in front of her-well, not much, anyhow.
"Thank you," she said now. "You ought to thank Ernie, too. He did the real work. And he's a brick, too-if it hadn't been for him, we'd've lost our money when the bank went under. He didn't have to come back and warn me about that, but he did."
She turned away so her son wouldn't see the look on her face. She didn't know what her expression was, exactly, but she did know it wasn't one she wanted George, Jr., seeing. She would have gone to bed with Ernie. She'd wanted to go to bed with him. And a whole fat lot of good that did me, she thought. Just my damned luck, the first time I really want a man since George got killed, to fix on one who couldn't do me any good-or himself, either, poor fellow.
George, Jr., got up and poured himself more coffee-and Sylvia, too, when she pushed her cup toward him. He added cream and sugar, sipped, and said, "There's a lot of stuff in there I never knew before."
"I'm not surprised," Sylvia answered. "That was nine years ago now. You were still a boy then."
"When you put me and Mary Jane on the train to Connecticut, did you really think you'd never see us again?"
"Yes, I thought that. It was the hardest thing about what I did," Sylvia said. "But no one was going to make that man pay for what he did to the Ericsson at the end of the war, and he deserved to."
"But you would have paid, too."
"I didn't even think about what would happen to me. When I found out he was running around loose, I didn't think about much of anything."
"That must have been… very strange," George, Jr., said. "A couple of fellows on the boat were in the Army during the war-they got conscripted before they could join the Navy, or else they weren't sailors yet: I don't know which. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sometimes they tell stories. They talk about how they were going up against Confederate machine guns and they didn't think they'd come back alive. It must have been like that for you, too."
"Maybe." Sylvia wasn't so sure. If a man charged a machine gun, he had a chance of living-maybe not much of a chance, but a chance. Once she'd shot Roger Kimball, she was in the hands of the law, and she didn't think she had any chance of escape at all. She hadn't counted on having Confederate politics come to her rescue.
Her son said, "You have a book signing this morning?"
"That's right. Every time I sign one, that's fourteen and three-quarter cents in my pocket," Sylvia answered. She couldn't have figured that out herself from the murky language of the book contract she'd signed; Ernie had explained the way things worked.
"Call it fifteen cents." George, Jr.'s, face got a faraway look. He'd always been good in school. Sylvia wished he would have liked it more, would have got his high-school diploma instead of going to work on T Wharf. Years too late to worry about that, though. He went on, "If you sign twenty of them, then, that's three dollars. That's not a bad day's wage."
"I don't know if I'll sign that many of them," Sylvia said, "but they're buying the book-or I hope they are-from here to San Diego. We'll see what it does, that's all. The reviews have been pretty good." That was Ernie's doing, of course; the actual words on paper were his. But the story's mine, Sylvia reminded herself. He couldn't have written it if not for me. My name deserves to be on the cover, too.
"Might be just as well they took a while getting it into print," her son said. "With the Freedom Party coming up again in the CSA, people here are liable to be more interested in what happened to one of its bigwigs back then."
Sylvia blinked. That was true, and she hadn't thought of it herself. George, Jr., had a man's shrewdness. Well, fair enough-he was a man; he'd be old enough to vote in November. Has it really been more than twenty-one years since he was born? Sylvia didn't want to believe that, but couldn't very well help it.
The bookstore, Burke's, wasn't far from Faneuil Hall. No line stretched around the block waiting for her when she arrived. They did have a sign in the window saying she'd be there. That was good. She'd signed at two or three stores that hadn't let anyone know she'd be there. As a result, she hadn't signed much.
She took her place at a table near the door. The table held a dozen copies of I Sank Roger Kimball and a neat hand-lettered sign: MEET THE AUTHOR. A man in a suit that had seen better days came up to her and asked, "Excuse me, ma'am, but where's the bathroom?"
"I'm sorry. I don't work here," Sylvia said. She'd already seen people paid no attention to signs. The man muttered something and went away.
Another man came up. He took a book from the pile for her to sign. "I was in the Navy," he said. "You did everybody on the Ericsson a good turn."
"Thank you," Sylvia said.
A woman picked up a copy of the book. She said, "My brother would like this, and his birthday is coming up. Would you sign it 'To Pete,' please?"
" 'To Pete,' " Sylvia echoed, and wrote the man's name and hers on the title page. That was where Ernie had said the autograph was supposed to go. He knew such things, or Sylvia was willing to believe he did.
A plump woman in a flowered housedress approached. "Where are your cookbooks, dear?" she asked.
"I'm sorry. I don't work here," Sylvia said again. She held up a copy of I Sank Roger Kimball. "Would you like to buy my book? I'll be glad to sign it for you if you do." Of course I will. It makes me money.
The woman shook her head. "Not unless it's got good recipes for beans and cabbage in it." That, Sylvia couldn't claim. The other woman wandered off, in search of cookbooks.
Over the next two hours, four more people asked Sylvia questions whose answers only someone who worked at Burke's could have known. She sent them off to the clerk behind the cash register. She also did get another nine people to buy copies of the book, most by simply sitting there and having them come up, a couple by waving the book as they walked into the store. The first time she'd signed, she hadn't done that-she'd been too shy. But the manager of that bookstore gave her a tip she took to heart: "If you don't toot your own horn, lady, who's gonna do it for you?"
She was getting ready to go home when the bell over Burke's front door jangled again. In walked a lean Irishman with a lot of teeth. He tipped his fedora to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. Enos." Striding up to the table, he took a copy of her book and opened it to the title page. Most people, left to themselves, chose the half-title page or the blank sheet in front of it, but he knew the ropes. "If you'd be so kind…?"
"Of course, Mr. Kennedy." She wrote, For Joseph Kennedy-Best wishes, Sylvia Enos, and gave the book back to him. Another fourteen and three-quarter cents, she thought, but I didn't expect he'd want anything to do with me.
Kennedy took the book over to the clerk, paid for it, and then came back to Sylvia's table. "I hope this means you've come to your senses, politically speaking," he remarked, though the way he looked at her didn't seem political at all.
She said, "I've always been a Democrat." That wasn't strictly true. She'd favored the Socialists till she saw Upton Sinclair do no more than protest to the Confederate States when it came out that Roger Kimball had torpedoed the USS Ericsson after the Confederates were supposed to have stopped fighting. But she'd voted Democratic for as long as she'd had the suffrage.
"You sometimes picked odd ways to show it." No, Kennedy hadn't forgotten seeing her at a Socialist rally on the Boston Common.
Knowing he hadn't forgotten, she asked him, "What do you want with me?"
The way his eyes flashed told her one thing he wanted. He knew she knew he was married; his wife had watched her children when she spoke at a Democratic function. He didn't care if she knew. He wanted what he wanted. But he made himself remember he wanted something else, too: "I hear you're doing well with your book. I look forward to reading it."
"Thank you," Sylvia Enos said.
Kennedy hefted his copy of I Sank Roger Kimball. "This has put you in the public eye, you know. We have a campaign to run, Mrs. Enos. Would you help Governor Coolidge-help the Democratic Party-take Powel House back from the Socialists? They were lucky at first, but what's happened to the country in President Blackford's term shows their true colors."
That wasn't even close to fair, and Sylvia knew it. But she'd already seen that political campaigns weren't designed to be fair. They were designed to convince, by whatever means possible. She said, "I'd like to help, Mr. Kennedy, but I don't know if I can. Times are hard."
"Don't you worry about that," Joseph Kennedy said. "Don't you worry about that a bit. We'll take care of you." That glint showed again in his eyes. "How does a hundred dollars a month sound, from now till the election? Plus expenses, of course."
For a moment, it sounded too good to be true. But then Sylvia remembered Ernie talking about his dicker with their publisher, and about first offers' being meant to snag people who didn't have the nerve the stand up for what they were really worth. Her spine stiffened. She said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but I've got so many things planned, that isn't really enough to pull me away."
Joseph Kennedy eyed her again, this time in a very different way. Plainly, he'd expected her not just to say yes but to swoon with gratitude. After a long moment, he nodded, perhaps seeing her for the first time as a person and not just as a tool or a nicely shaped piece of meat. "More to you than meets the eye, isn't there?" he said, more to himself than to her. He grew brisk. "Well, business is business, and you'll do us some good. How does two hundred a month sound, then?"
Sylvia didn't gasp, but she came close. The way things were, that was a lot of money. "And expenses? And full pay for November, too?" she asked.
Kennedy bared his teeth. "You sure you're not a sheeny, Mrs. Enos?" he said. She didn't answer. She just waited. He gave her a sour nod. "And expenses. And full pay for November, too," he promised, and stuck out his hand. "Bargain?"
She was oddly reluctant to touch him. She didn't see how she could avoid it, though. When they shook on the deal, his hand felt like.. . a hand. Somehow, she hadn't expected his flesh to seem so ordinary. "Bargain," she said. The wolf wouldn't come round her door again till the end of the year-longer, if she salted some money away, as she planned to. That made it a fine bargain indeed, as far as she was concerned.
A eroplanes roared off the Remembrance 's flight deck, one after another. Even with a push from the catapult to speed them on their way, they almost dropped into the gray-green water of the northern Pacific till they gained altitude and buzzed away, some to the north, others to the south.
Sam Carsten scratched his nose. His fingertip came away white with zinc-oxide ointment. Even here, off the west coast of Canada, he needed shielding from the summer sun. But, though he might burn in these waters, he wouldn't scorch.
He turned to George Moerlein. Back when they were both petty officers, they'd bunked together. But Moerlein was even newer on the Remembrance than he was now, having rejoined her crew during a fueling stop in Seattle. Carsten said, "Feels good to see us in business again."
"Yeah-uh, yes, sir," Moerlein said. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't worry about it," Sam answered. His old bunkmate had forgotten for a moment he was an officer these days. He went on, "I'm just glad this ship isn't tied up at the Boston Navy Yard any more."
"Me, too, sir." Moerlein got it right this time. "That was what finally made me put in for a transfer-I wondered if she'd ever go to sea again. For a hell of a long time, sure didn't look like it." He pulled out a cigar, then sheepishly put it back in his pocket. The smoking lamp was out on the flight deck during takeoffs and landings, for excellent good reasons. The petty officer shook his head. "I've been away too damn long. I shouldn't even have started to do that."
"Well, you saved me the trouble of barking at you," Sam answered.
Moerlein gave him a wry grin, then said, "What the hell do we do if we catch the Japs with their finger in the cookie jar? They're in international waters, same as we are. What can we do?"
"Damned if I know," Carsten said. "But if they're sending people into Canada to try to get the Canucks to rise up against us, we can't let 'em get away with that, can we?"
"Beats me," Moerlein told him. "But if we do find 'em and we do clobber 'em, don't you figure it's about even money we're doing it on account of President Blackford needs votes and wants to look tough?"
Sam scowled. "I'd hate to think that." He drummed his fingers on his trouser leg. "Of course, just because I'd hate to think it doesn't mean it's wrong."
An hour later, another flight of aeroplanes took off from the Remembrance, while a flight that had gone out before landed on the deck. The carrier kept aeroplanes in the sky all the time. If the Japs really were trying to sneak something past her, they wouldn't have an easy time of it.
As far as Sam could prove, the Remembrance was just going through the motions. Her air patrols had spotted nothing out of the ordinary: fishing boats and merchantmen, none of them flying the Rising Sun. Whether they stumbled upon any actual Jap warships or not, though, the training the whole crew-and especially the pilots-got was priceless, as far as he was concerned. George Moerlein had it dead right: anything was better than sitting in the Navy Yard.
When klaxons started howling a couple of days later, Sam sprinted to his battle station figuring it was just another drill. He certainly hoped so; going to the bowels of the ship on antitorpedo duty wasn't, never had been, and never would be his favorite choice. By now, though, he'd spent more than twenty years in the Navy. He knew how things worked. The Navy did what it wanted, not what he wanted.
Commander van der Waal was down there ahead of him, at the head of a damage-control party. The other officer's face was thoroughly grim. "What's up, sir?" Sam panted. "They tell you anything?"
"Yes," van der Waal said. "Our aeroplanes spotted a high-powered motorboat pulling away from what looked like an ordinary freighter. Ordinary freighters don't carry speedboats, though."
"Son of a bitch," Sam said softly, and then, louder, "They sure don't. What flag is the freighter flying?"
"Argentine," van der Waal answered. "But the aeroplane buzzed her at smokestack height, and the sailors don't look like they're from Argentina. She doesn't respond to wireless signals, either."
The throb of the Remembrance 's engine grew louder and deeper as the great ship picked up speed. " Son of a bitch," Sam said again. "What are we going to do about it?"
"Freighter's only about sixty miles north of us," van der Waal said. "Seems like we're going up for a look-see of our own."
"What about that speedboat?" Carsten asked.
"It won't outrun an aeroplane-probably a swarm of aeroplanes by now," Commander van der Waal said. "But if we find that freighter's full of Japs sailing under cover of a false flag… Well, I don't know what we'll do then."
"Argentine flag's handy for them-Argentina doesn't love us, either," Sam said. During the Great War, Argentina had fought Chile and Paraguay, both of them U.S. allies, because she'd been making money hand over fist sending grain and meat to Britain and France. Sam's old ship had been part of the American-Chilean fleet that sailed round the Horn to try to cut off that trade: not altogether successfully, not till the Empire of Brazil finally entered the war on the side of the USA and Germany, forcing Argentine and British ships out of her territorial waters.
"We may be only a couple of hours from war, Ensign," van der Waal said.
"Yes, sir," Sam answered. "Well, if we are, I hope we kick the Japs around the block, but good."
In fact, he wondered how much damage the USA and Japan could do to each other. An awful lot of ocean separated the two countries. The United States-the American Empire, counting Canada-had more resources. Could they bring them all to bear, though, with a long frontier facing a Confederacy that hated them and might be tempted to throw in with the Japs? Of course, the Japanese had to worry about the Russians sitting over their holdings in Manchuria.
After a while, a sailor brought word from the wireless room: "We've ordered them to stop for inspection, and they say they don't have to, not in international waters. They sure as hell don't talk like Argentines."
Technically, whoever was aboard that freighter was right. Technically, a man who stepped out into the street with a traffic light was also right. If a truck ran the light and killed him, he ended up just as dead as if he'd been wrong. Another half an hour passed. Then one of the five-inch guns Sam knew so well bellowed.
"Shot across her bow," van der Waal said. Carsten nodded.
And then, quite suddenly, the Remembrance 's engines roared with emergency power. The great ship turned hard to port. Van der Waal and Carsten stared at each other. Sam said, "They must've-"
He got no further than that, because a torpedo slammed into the aeroplane carrier and knocked him off his feet. The lights flickered, but stayed on. "Starboard hit, felt like back toward the stern," van der Waal said. He was on his wallet. When he tried to get to his feet, he fell back with a groan and a curse. "I think the burst broke my ankle. I can't move on it. Are you sound, Carsten?"
Sam was already upright again. "Yes, sir."
"You're in charge of damage control, then," the other officer said, biting his lip against the pain. "I know it's not the job you wanted, but you've got to do it. We're taking on water, sure as hell."
"Yes, sir, I can feel it," Carsten agreed. Astonishing how small a list his sense of balance could detect. But this wasn't a time to marvel about such things, not if he wanted to have the chance to marvel later. He nodded to van der Waal. "I'll take care of it, sir, you bet. Come on, boys-let's get moving."
Even as he led the men of the damage-control party back toward the wound in the ship, he wondered if the next torpedo would slam into her amidships and flood the engine room. If she lost power, the lights and the pumps would fail, and then the Remembrance might well go down.
That damn Jap ship must've had a submersible tagging along, in case we found her, he thought unhappily. And we're out here all by our lonesome, without any destroyers along. The Navy Department didn't really believe we'd come up with anything, so they decided to do this on the cheap. Now it's liable to kill us all.
One of the sailors said, "Fuel storage for the aeroplanes is back here. We're lucky the gasoline didn't blow up and send us right to the moon."
"Gurk," Sam said. He hadn't thought of that.
All the watertight doors were closed. That was something. But how many doors, how many watertight compartments, had the blast shattered? That was what they had to find out. Whether the Remembrance lived or died would turn on the answer.
Water in the corridor told them they were nearing the hit. "Do we open that door, sir?" a sailor asked, pointing to the twisted portal, no longer tight, under which the seawater was leaking.
"You bet we do," Sam answered. "Likely men still alive on the other side. Now we fan out, too, cover as much ground as we can, start sealing off what we have to and getting out sailors. Let's go. This is what we've trained for, and it's what we've got to do." I sound just like Commander van der Waal, he thought. Damned if he wasn't right all along, even if I didn't feel like admitting it.
They found sailors closer to the damage who were already doing what they could to stem the tide of water pouring into the Remembrance : stuffing mattresses and whatever else they could find into sprung seams between doors and hatchways and such. Carsten took charge of them, too. He kicked aside a floating severed hand that still trailed blood.
Before long, he was sure the hit the aeroplane carrier had taken wouldn't sink her. Most of her compartments were holding against the flood. Both his sense of balance and a level he had with him insisted that her list had stabilized. Her pumps never faltered. Most important of all, the second torpedo, the one he'd dreaded so much, never came.
In spare moments, when he wasn't too busy sloshing through seawater eventually up past his waist, he wondered why the Japanese submersible hadn't put another fish, or two or three more, into the Remembrance. Word eventually trickled down from above. "Sir, we sank the fucker," a messenger said. "She launched two at us. One missed. The other one nailed us. We had some aeroplanes with bombs underneath 'em in the air by then, to help sink the Jap freighter and the speedboat. One of 'em spotted the submersible as she launched, and he put a bomb right on the bastard's conning tower. That sub sank, and it ain't coming up again."
"Bully!" Every once in a while, especially when he didn't think, Sam still used the slang he'd grown up with. The messenger was a fresh-faced kid who'd surely been pissing in his diapers when the Great War started, and looked at him as if at the Pyramids of Egypt or any other antiquity. He didn't care. If the kid wanted to say swell, that was fine. Most of the time, Sam said swell himself. But bully, even if it did smack of the days before the war, said what he wanted to say, too. The United States had found themselves a new fight. They'd need the Remembrance. And Sam, old-fashioned or not, was glad not to be among its first casualties.
H eadlines in the Rosenfeld Register shrieked of war: VICIOUS JAP ATTACK ON USS REMEMBRANCE! A subhead said, Ship badly damaged but stays afloat! Another headline warned, BEWARE THE YELLOW PERIL!
Mary McGregor had never seen a Japanese in her life. Except for pictures in books, she'd never seen a Negro, either. She imagined Japanese almost as yellow as sunflowers, with slit eyes set in their faces at a forty-five-degree angle. It wasn't a pretty picture. She didn't care. The Japs were fighting the United States. As far as she was concerned, nothing else mattered. If they were fighting the USA, she was all for them.
The Yellow Peril story in the Register warned anyone who spotted a Jap to report him at once to U.S. occupation authorities. She pointed that out to her mother. "Pretty funny, isn't it?" she said. "Can't you just see a Jap walking down the main street in Rosenfeld and stopping in at Gibbon's general store to buy a pickle and some thumbtacks?"
"That story must be going out all over Canada," her mother said. "Maybe there are places where you really might run into Japanese people-Vancouver, somewhere like that. I know they've got Chinamen in Vancouver. Why not Japs, too?"
"Maybe," Mary said. "That would make some sense-as much sense as the Yanks ever make, anyway. But why put that kind of notice in the Register? It's just stupid here, really, really stupid." She held up a hand before her mother could answer. "I know why. Some Yank in a swivel chair probably said, 'Stick this order in every paper in Canada, from British Columbia to Nova Scotia. And stick it in every paper in Newfoundland, too, while you're about it.' Who cares whether it makes sense if you're sitting in a swivel chair?"
Maude McGregor smiled. "You're probably right. The Americans do things like that. They like giving big orders, if you know what I mean. It's part of what makes them the kind of people they are."
Had Mary been a man among men and not a young woman talking with her mother, she would have expressed her detailed opinion about what sort of people Americans were. Her eyes must have sparked in a way that got her opinion across without words, for her mother's smile got wider. Then Maude McGregor said, "Next time you go to the cinema with Mort Pomeroy, make sure there aren't any Japs under the front seat in his motorcar."
"I'll do that," Mary said, laughing.
Her mother's smile changed. She said, "Your face just lit up. You think he's special, don't you?"
"Yes." Mary nodded without hesitation. "I've never felt like this about a boy before." She hadn't had much chance to feel anything special about boys up till now. Most of them stayed away from the McGregor house as if she had a dangerous disease. And, in occupied Canada, what disease could be more dangerous than not only descending from someone who'd fought the Yanks to his last breath but also being proud of it?
"I'm glad he makes you happy," her mother said. "I hope he keeps making you happy for years and years, if that's what you both end up wanting."
"I think maybe it is," Mary said slowly, a certain wonder in her voice. "He hasn't asked me or anything, but I think I'll say yes if he does. The only thing I don't know about yet is how he feels about the