"Breath?"
"Liquor."
"Screech," said Smith.
"Say again?"
"Screech. It is a kind of rotgut moonshine popular in that area. This ties the crew of the Proud to be Frogs to Newfoundland or Nova Scotia."
"So where is this going?"
"Unless I am wrong, it is going to Ottawa." Smith shook off his grim tone, and his voice sounded more energetic. "Remo, stand by. I must inform the President of these developments."
"He's going to be one unhappy camper," Remo warned.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States wasn't a happy camper at all. "Is this war?" he gulped.
"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.