Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 38

"Thanks." Morrell studied Senior Private Castillo. The prisoner from the Empire of Mexico was medium-sized, skinny, swarthy, with mournful black eyes and a big, bushy mustache like the ones a lot of Confederate soldiers had worn during the Great War. His mustard-yellow uniform would have given good camouflage in the deserts on Mexico's northern border. Here in western Pennsylvania, it stood out much more. Morrell said, "Ask him what unit he's in and what their orders were."

More Spanish. The POW didn't have to answer that. Did he know he didn't have to? Morrell wasn't about to tell him. And he answered willingly enough. "He says he's with the Veracruz Division, sir," the interpreter reported. "He says that's the best one Mexico has. Their orders are to take places the Confederates haven't been able to capture."

"Are they?" Morrell carefully didn't smile at that. He suspected any number of Confederate officers would have had apoplexy if they heard the Mexican prisoner. If the Veracruz Division was the best one Francisco Jose had, the Emperor of Mexico would have been well advised not to take on anything tougher than a belligerent chipmunk. The men all had rifles, but they were woefully short on machine guns, artillery, barrels, and motorized transport. The soldiers seemed brave enough, but sending them up against a modern army wouldn't have been far from murder-if that modern army hadn't been so busy in so many other places.

The prisoner spoke without being asked anything. He sounded anxious. He sounded, frankly, scared out of his wits. Morrell had a hard time blaming him. Surrender was a chancy enough business even when two sides used the same language, as U.S. and C.S. soldiers did. Would-be POWs sometimes turned into casualties when their captors either wanted revenge for something that had happened to them or just lacked the time to deal with prisoners. If a captive knew no English . . . He likely thinks we'll eat him for supper, He likely thinks we'll eat him for supper, Morrell thought, not without sympathy. Morrell thought, not without sympathy.

Sure enough, the interpreter said, "He wants to know what we're going to do with him, sir."

"Tell him n.o.body's going to hurt him," Morrell said. The interpreter did. Jose Castillo crossed himself and gabbled out what had to be thanks. Every once in a while, war made Morrell remember what a filthy business it was. That a man should be grateful for not getting killed out of hand . . . Roughly, Morrell went on, "Tell him he'll be taken away from the fighting. Tell him he'll be fed. If he needs a doctor, he'll get one. Tell him we follow Geneva Convention rules, if that means anything to him."

The prisoner seized his hand and kissed it. That horrified him. Getting captured had, in essence, turned a man into a dog. He gestured. The interpreter led Jose Castillo away. Morrell wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

"Don't blame you, sir," one of his guards said. "G.o.d only knows what kind of germs that d.a.m.n spic's got."

Germs were the last thing on Morrell's mind. He just wanted to wipe away the touch of the desperate man's lips. If he couldn't feel them anymore, maybe he could forget them. He needed to forget them if he was going to do his job. "He's out of the fighting now," he said. "He's luckier than a lot of people I can think of."

"Well, yeah, sir, since you put it that way," the guard said. "He's luckier'n me, for instance." He grinned to show Morrell not to take him too seriously, but Morrell knew he was kidding on the square. Only a few hard cases really liked liked war; most men endured it and tried to come through in one piece. war; most men endured it and tried to come through in one piece.

From everything Morrell had heard, Jake Featherston was part of the small minority who'd enjoyed himself in the field. Morrell couldn't have sworn that was so, but he wouldn't have been surprised. Who but a man who enjoyed war would have loosed another one on a country-two countries-that didn't?

That guard shifted his feet, trying to draw Morrell's attention. Morrell nodded to him. The soldier asked, "Sir, is it true that the Confederates are inside Pittsburgh?"

"I think so, Wally," Morrell answered. "That's what it sounds like from the situation reports I've been getting, anyhow."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Wally said.

"It isn't what we had in mind when this whole mess started," Morrell allowed. What the USA had had in mind was a victory parade through the ruined streets of Richmond, preferably with Jake Featherston's head on a platter carried along at the front. Richmond was close to the border, which didn't mean the United States had got there. They hadn't in the War of Secession or the Great War, either.

"So what are we gonna do?" Wally asked-a thoroughly reasonable question. "How come we don't just pitch into 'em?"

"Because if we do, we'd probably lose right now," Morrell said unhappily. "We don't have enough men or materiel yet. We're getting there, though." I hope. I hope.

As a matter of fact, things could have been worse. The Confederates had been planning to surround Pittsburgh instead of swarming into it, but U.S. counterattacks hadn't let them do that. Now they had to clear the Americans from a big city house by house and factory by factory. That wouldn't come easy or cheap. Again, Morrell hoped it wouldn't, anyhow.

He'd been screaming at every superior in Pennsylvania to let him concentrate before he counterattacked. He'd been screaming at Philadelphia to get him enough barrels so he'd have a legitimate chance of getting somewhere when he finally did. He was sure he'd made himself vastly unpopular. He couldn't have cared less. What could they do to him? Dismiss him from the Army? If they did, he would thank them, take off the uniform, and go back to Agnes and Mildred outside of Fort Leavenworth. Whatever happened to the country after that . . . happened. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be his fault.

Before long, he discovered they could do something worse than dismissing him. They could ignore him. They could, and they did. His requests for more barrels and more artillery fell on deaf ears. Since they wouldn't dismiss him, he sent a telegram of resignation to the War Department and waited to see what came of that.

He didn't want them to accept it. He thought he could hit the Confederates harder than anyone they could put in his slot. But if they thought otherwise, he wasn't going to beg them to let him stay. Maybe they would give his replacement the tools they were denying him. If someone else got the weapons he wasn't getting, that made him less indispensable than he thought himself now.

No answering telegram came back. Instead, less than twenty-four hours later, Colonel John Abell showed up on his doorstep. No, Brigadier General Abell: he had stars on his shoulder straps now. "Congratulations," Morrell told the General Staff officer, more or less sincerely.

"Thank you," Abell answered. "For some reason, I'm considered an expert on the care and feeding of one Irving Morrell. And so-here I am."

"Here you are," Morrell agreed in friendly tones. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

"As a matter of fact, it looks like rain," Abell said-and it did. He gave Morrell a severe look. It was like being haunted by the ghost of an overstrict schoolteacher. "See here, General-how dare you threaten to resign when the country is in crisis?"

"After all these years we've been banging heads, you still don't know how I work." Morrell wasn't friendly anymore. "How can you care for me and feed me if you don't know where I live or what I eat? I wasn't threatening anything or anybody. I've just had enough of being asked to do the impossible. If you put someone else here, maybe you'll support him the way you should."

"You are the recognized expert on barrel tactics-recognized by the Confederates as well as your own side." Abell spoke the words as if they tasted bad. To him, they probably did. He said them anyhow. He did have a certain chilly integrity.

"Confederate recognition I could do without," Morrell said. As if in sympathy, his shoulder twinged. The enemy wanted him dead-him personally. That was why he tolerated Wally and the other bodyguards he didn't want. He knew too well the Confederates might try again. Anger rising in his voice, he went on, "And if the War Department thinks I'm so G.o.dd.a.m.n wonderful and brilliant and all that, why do I have to send a letter of resignation to get it to remember I'm alive?"

"That is not the case, I a.s.sure you," John Abell said stiffly.

"Yeah, and then you wake up," Morrell jeered. "Now tell me another one, one I'll believe."

"We are trying to meet your needs, General." If Abell was angry, he didn't show it. He was very good at not showing what he thought. "Please remember, though, this is not the only area where we are having difficulties."

"Difficulties, my a.s.s. The Confederates are in Pittsburgh. They're going to tear h.e.l.l out of it whether they keep it or not. That's not a difficulty-that's a f.u.c.king calamity. Tell me I'm wrong. I dare you. I double-dare you." Morrell felt like an eight-year-old trying to pick a fight.

"If we destroy the Confederate Army causing the devastation in Pittsburgh, that devastation may become worthwhile," Abell said.

Morrell clapped a hand to his forehead. If he was going to be melodramatic, he'd do it in spades. "Christ on His cross, Abell, what do you think I'm trying to do?" he howled. "Why won't Philadelphia let me?"

"You will agree the cost of failure is high," Abell said.

"You make sure I fail if you don't support me," Morrell said. "Is that what you've got in mind?"

"No. Of course not. If we didn't want you here, we would have put someone else in this place," Abell said. "We had someone else in this place before you recovered from your wound, if you'll remember."

"Oh, yes. You sure did." Morrell rolled his eyes. "And my ill.u.s.trious predecessor scattered barrels all over the landscape, too. He aimed to support the infantry with them. Perfect War Department tactics from 1916."

John Abell turned red. In the last war, the War Department had thought of barrels as nothing more than infantry-support weapons. George Custer and Morrell had had to go behind Philadelphia's back to ma.s.s them. The War Department would have stripped Custer of his barrels if it found out what he was up to-till he proved his way worked much better than its.

"That's not fair," Abell said once his blush subsided. "We did put you here to set things right, and you can't say we didn't."

"All right. Fine." Morrell took a deep breath. "If that's what you want, I'll try to give it to you. Let me have the tools I need to do my job. Stand back and get out of my way and let me do it, too."

"And if you don't?" Now Abell's voice was silky with menace.

Morrell laughed at him. "That's obvious, isn't it? If I make a hash of it, you've got a scapegoat. 'Things went wrong because General Morrell f.u.c.ked up, that no-good, bungling son of a b.i.t.c.h.' Tell every paper in the country it's my fault. I won't say boo. If I have what I need here and I can't do what needs doing, I deserve it."

"You'll get what's coming to you," the General Staff officer said. "And if you don't deliver once you get it, you'll really really get what's coming to you. I'm glad you think it seems fair, because it will happen whether you think so or not." get what's coming to you. I'm glad you think it seems fair, because it will happen whether you think so or not."

"Deal." Morrell stuck out his hand. John Abell looked surprised, but he shook it.

The other sailor tossed five bucks into the pot. "Call," he said.

"Ten-high straight." George Enos, Jr., laid down his cards.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" The other sailor couldn't have sounded more disgusted if he tried for a week. George understood when he threw down his own hand: he held an eight-high straight.

"Got him by a c.u.n.t hair, George," Fremont Dalby said as George scooped up the cash. It was a nice chunk of change; they'd gone back and forth several times before the call. Losing would have hurt. It wouldn't have left George broke or anything-he had better sense than to gamble that hard-but it would have hurt. Dalby scooped up the cards and started to shuffle. "My deal, I think."

"Yeah." George wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The compartment where they played was hot and airless. A bare bulb in an iron cage overhead gave the only light. The door said STORES STORES on the outside, but the chamber was empty. The sailors sat on the gray-painted deck and redistributed the wealth. on the outside, but the chamber was empty. The sailors sat on the gray-painted deck and redistributed the wealth.

Fremont Dalby pa.s.sed George the cards. "Here. Cut." George took some cards from the middle of the deck and stuck them on the bottom. Dalby laughed. "Wh.o.r.ehouse cut, eh? All right, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I had my royal flush all stacked and ready to deal, and now you went and f.u.c.ked me. Some pal you are."

"Sorry," George said in tones suggesting he was anything but. As the CPO dealt, George asked, "Ever see a real royal flush in an honest game?"

"Nope, and I've been playing poker for a h.e.l.l of a long time," Dalby answered. "I saw a jack-high straight flush once. That was a humdinger of a hand, too, on account of it beat four queens. But I knew the people, and they weren't dealing off the bottom of the deck or anything."

n.o.body else in the game admitted to seeing a royal flush, either. George looked at his cards. None of them appeared to have been introduced to any of the others. This wasn't a jack-high straight flush; it was jack-high garbage. He almost threw it away, but he'd won the last hand, so he stayed in and asked for four cards.

That left him with a pair of jacks. When Dalby called for jacks or better to open, he put in a dollar. The hand got raised twice before it came back to him. He tossed it in with no regret except for the vanished dollar. Fremont Dalby ended up taking it with three kings.

George had just started to shuffle when the klaxons called men to battle stations. Everyone paused just long enough to scoop up the money in front of him. "To be continued," somebody said as the poker game broke up. And so, no doubt, it would be; it seemed as unending as any movie serial.

His feet clanged on the deck as he ran for the nearest stairway. Dalby was older and rounder, but stayed with him all the way. They got to their antiaircraft gun at the same time. Along with the Townsend, Townsend, three other destroyers surrounded the three other destroyers surrounded the Trenton. Trenton. The escort carrier's fighters buzzed high overhead. Kauai lay somewhere to the southeast. They were out tweaking the j.a.ps again, much as Francis Drake had singed the beard of the King of Spain. Like King Philip, the j.a.ps were liable to singe back. The escort carrier's fighters buzzed high overhead. Kauai lay somewhere to the southeast. They were out tweaking the j.a.ps again, much as Francis Drake had singed the beard of the King of Spain. Like King Philip, the j.a.ps were liable to singe back.

"Is this real or a drill, Enos?" Dalby said. "I got five bucks says it's a drill."

The odds favored him. They had many more drills than real alerts. Still, in these waters . . . "You're on," George said. They shook to seal the bet.

"Now hear this! Now hear this!" the intercom blared. "Aircraft from the Trenton Trenton are attacking a j.a.panese carrier. The j.a.ps are sure to try to return the favor if they can. Be ready. It is expected that the are attacking a j.a.panese carrier. The j.a.ps are sure to try to return the favor if they can. Be ready. It is expected that the Trenton Trenton will be their main target, but we want to remind them that we love them, too." will be their main target, but we want to remind them that we love them, too."

"There's a fin you owe me," George said happily. "That'll buy one of the boys some shoes."

"My a.s.s," Fremont Dalby said, his voice sour. "It'll buy you a couple of shots and a b.l.o.w.j.o.b from a Chinese wh.o.r.e on Hotel Street when we get back to Pearl."

Since he was probably right, George didn't argue with him. He just said, "Well, that's a d.a.m.n sight better than nothing, too." The gun crew laughed. Even the CPO's lips twitched.

They waited. Before too long, the executive officer said, "Y-ranging gear reports inbound aircraft. They aren't ours. We're going to have company in about fifteen minutes. Roll out the welcome mat for our guests, boys." Five minutes later, he came back on the loudspeakers: "Trenton's aircraft report that that j.a.p carrier is on fire and dead in the water. Score one for the good guys."

Cheers rang out up and down the Townsend Townsend's main deck, and probably everywhere else on the ship, too. The crew had faced savage air attacks more than once. Getting their own back felt wonderful.

"Those j.a.p pilots are liable to know they can't go home again," Dalby warned. "That means they'll give it everything they've got when they hit us. Knock 'em down as quick as you can so they don't crash into the ship or something."

Knocking down airplanes was hard enough without any extra pressure to do it fast. George just shrugged. Unless somebody got hurt, all he had to do was make sure the gun had enough ammo to keep shooting. What happened after that was Dalby's responsibility, not his.

The Y-range antenna swung round and round. George and everybody else up on deck peered northwest, the direction from which trouble had so often come before. The Townsend Townsend picked up speed. She would want to do as much dodging as she could. George glanced over toward the picked up speed. She would want to do as much dodging as she could. George glanced over toward the Trenton. Trenton. The carrier couldn't pick up a lot of speed. Her engines wouldn't let her. The carrier couldn't pick up a lot of speed. Her engines wouldn't let her.

"There they are!" somebody yelled.

George swore softly. Those were j.a.p airplanes, all right. Their silhouettes might have been more familiar to him than those of U.S. aircraft. The half dozen fighters in combat air patrol over the little U.S. fleet streaked toward the enemy. j.a.panese escort fighters were bound to outnumber them. Their pilots would want to take out as many enemy strike aircraft as they could before the enemy shot them down. A pilot's life wasn't always glamorous. George wouldn't have traded places with anybody up there.

An airplane tumbled out of the sky, leaving a comet's trail of fire and smoke all the way down to the Pacific. "That's a j.a.p!" someone shouted. George hoped he knew what he was talking about.

This wasn't like the last few times the Townsend Townsend had ventured out in the direction of Midway. The main attack wasn't aimed at the destroyer. The j.a.ps wanted the had ventured out in the direction of Midway. The main attack wasn't aimed at the destroyer. The j.a.ps wanted the Trenton. Trenton. A carrier was really dangerous to them, as aircraft from the converted freighter had just proved. Destroyers? Destroyers were nuisances, annoyances, worth noticing now only because they tried to keep enemy aircraft away from the A carrier was really dangerous to them, as aircraft from the converted freighter had just proved. Destroyers? Destroyers were nuisances, annoyances, worth noticing now only because they tried to keep enemy aircraft away from the Trenton. Trenton.

That made the 40mm crews' jobs easier. They were less rattled, less hurried, than they had been when enemy dive bombers singled the Townsend Townsend out for attention. George fed his gun sh.e.l.ls. Fritz Gustafson loaded them into the breeches. At Fremont Dalby's command, two other sailors shifted the antiaircraft gun in alt.i.tude and azimuth. Empty sh.e.l.l casings clattered down onto the deck by the gun crews' feet. Every so often, George or Gustafson would kick them out of the way so n.o.body tripped over them. out for attention. George fed his gun sh.e.l.ls. Fritz Gustafson loaded them into the breeches. At Fremont Dalby's command, two other sailors shifted the antiaircraft gun in alt.i.tude and azimuth. Empty sh.e.l.l casings clattered down onto the deck by the gun crews' feet. Every so often, George or Gustafson would kick them out of the way so n.o.body tripped over them.

The Townsend Townsend's five-inch guns blasted away at the j.a.ps. Their sh.e.l.ls could reach a lot farther and packed much more punch, but they couldn't fire nearly so fast. Their roar, on top of the thunder from all the smaller weapons, hammered the ears. George wondered whether he'd be able to hear at all by the time the war ended.

And the big guns' blast shook and jarred loose d.a.m.n near everything on the deck. The last time they'd cut loose, a sailor George knew ended up spitting a filling out into the palm of his hand. He'd been lucky, too, even if he didn't think so when the pharmacist's mate played dentist on him. Stray too close to a five-incher's muzzle when it went off and blast could kill, even if it didn't leave a mark on your body. George didn't aspire to be a corpse, unmarked or otherwise.

"Hit!" The whole gun crew shouted at the same time when a j.a.panese dive bomber they'd been shooting at suddenly wavered in the air and started trailing smoke. "We got got the son of a b.i.t.c.h!" George added exultantly. the son of a b.i.t.c.h!" George added exultantly.

That pilot must have known he had nowhere to go. With his own carrier in flames, he wouldn't have had anywhere to go even if his engine were running perfectly. Taking a hit must have rubbed his nose in it. He dove for the Trenton. Trenton. Instead of releasing his bomb and trying to pull up, he seemed intent on using his airplane as an extra weapon. Instead of releasing his bomb and trying to pull up, he seemed intent on using his airplane as an extra weapon.

A hail of antiaircraft fire from the escort carrier said its gunners realized the same thing. They scored more hits on the dive bomber, but didn't deflect it from its course. The ship swung to starboard-slowly, so slowly. A carrier built from the keel up as a warship would have had a much better chance of getting away.

But that turn, small as it was, saved the Trenton. Trenton. Maybe the enemy pilot was dead in the c.o.c.kpit, or maybe the heavy fire severed the cables to his rudder and ailerons so he couldn't swerve no matter how much he wanted to. He splashed into the Pacific a hundred yards to port of the carrier. His bomb went off then, sending up a great plume of white water. A near miss like that would damage the Maybe the enemy pilot was dead in the c.o.c.kpit, or maybe the heavy fire severed the cables to his rudder and ailerons so he couldn't swerve no matter how much he wanted to. He splashed into the Pacific a hundred yards to port of the carrier. His bomb went off then, sending up a great plume of white water. A near miss like that would damage the Trenton Trenton with fragments, and might make her leak from sprung seams. But it wouldn't turn her into a torch and send her to the bottom. with fragments, and might make her leak from sprung seams. But it wouldn't turn her into a torch and send her to the bottom.

"f.u.c.ker had b.a.l.l.s," Fritz Gustafson said with grudging respect. As grudgingly, George nodded. Trying to get in a last lick at your foe when you knew you were a goner took nerve.

Not so many j.a.panese airplanes were left in the sky now. U.S. fighters and ferocious AA had knocked down a lot of them. Then George watched something that chilled him to the bone. A j.a.p fighter pilot heeled his undamaged airplane into a dive and swooped on the Trenton Trenton like a hunting falcon. He didn't try to save himself-all he wanted to do was damage that carrier the only way he had left. That he would die if he succeeded couldn't have mattered to him. He wasn't going home anyway. like a hunting falcon. He didn't try to save himself-all he wanted to do was damage that carrier the only way he had left. That he would die if he succeeded couldn't have mattered to him. He wasn't going home anyway.

The Trenton Trenton shot him down. His fighter broke up and fell in flaming pieces into the sea. But he'd given the other j.a.ps an idea-or maybe he'd told them over the wireless what he aimed to do. One after another, they all dove on the American ships below them. Dead men themselves, they didn't want to die alone. shot him down. His fighter broke up and fell in flaming pieces into the sea. But he'd given the other j.a.ps an idea-or maybe he'd told them over the wireless what he aimed to do. One after another, they all dove on the American ships below them. Dead men themselves, they didn't want to die alone.

George's gun put as many rounds as it could into a fighter. The j.a.panese didn't make their aircraft as st.u.r.dy as Americans did-not that a U.S. fighter would have survived a pasting like that. But the j.a.p wasn't trying to survive, only to take Americans with him. He didn't quite make it. His burning airplane crashed into the ocean off the Townsend Townsend's starboard bow.

One fighter did crash on the Trenton Trenton's flight deck-and then skidded off into the sea, trailing flames. It sc.r.a.ped eight or ten sailors off the ship with it. Fires lingered on the flight deck after the j.a.p was gone. Damage-control parties beat them down with high-pressure seawater. By the time the escort carrier's strike aircraft got back, she was ready to land them. "By G.o.d, we did it," George said. In the waters off the Sandwich Islands, Americans hadn't said anything like that for a while, but they'd earned the right today. George said it again, with feeling.

XV.

Brigadier General Abner Dowling's guards now enforced a wider perimeter around the house he was using than they had before. He wondered if they joked that he had a wide perimeter, too. He wouldn't have been surprised. The perimeter around the place, though, was no laughing matter. It came by direct order from the War Department.

"People bombs," Dowling said as he showed his adjutant the order. "Not just auto bombs anymore, but people bombs, too. What on G.o.d's green earth are we coming to? That's all I want to know."

Captain Angelo Toricelli studied the order. "The Mormons have done this in the USA," he said. "Negroes have done it in the CSA. It doesn't say white Confederates have started doing it anywhere."

"If they haven't, it's only a matter of time till they do," Dowling said gloomily. "If you think the Freedom Party doesn't have people who'd martyr themselves for St. Featherston, you're out of your tree. Plenty of fanatics who'd thank him for the chance to blow up a d.a.m.nyankee or three. Go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. I dare you."

"I wish I could, sir." Toricelli sounded mournful, too. He went on, "I don't think the world is ever going to be the same. From now on, if you're in a big city or if you're in politics or the military, you won't be able to go down to the corner diner for a cup of coffee or a ham on rye without wondering whether the quiet fellow in the next booth is going to blow himself to h.e.l.l and gone-and you along with him."

"You're in a cheerful mood today, aren't you?" But Dowling feared the younger officer was right-dead right. "One thing consoles me, anyhow."

"What's that, sir?"

"Bound to be more people who want to blow up Jake Featherston than ones who want to see me dead bad enough to kill themselves to get me."

"Sir, I believe they call that a dubious distinction."

"And I believe you're right." Dowling laughed, but on a note not far from despair. "What is is the world coming to, Captain? Just before the war started, I listened to a fellow named Litvinoff going on and on about nerve agents-he wouldn't call them gases. He was happy as a clam in chowder, you know what I mean?" the world coming to, Captain? Just before the war started, I listened to a fellow named Litvinoff going on and on about nerve agents-he wouldn't call them gases. He was happy as a clam in chowder, you know what I mean?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Toricelli nodded. "I've met people like that. It's their toy, and they don't care what it does, as long as it does what it's supposed to."

"That's right. That's exactly right." Dowling nodded, too. "And now this. Is there anything anything we won't do to each other?" we won't do to each other?"

Toricelli considered that. "I don't know, sir. I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask," he said. "Don't you think you ought to talk to one of the Negroes in a Freedom Party camp instead? But ask fast, while there are still some left."