Читать книгу Pacific Standoff (Periscope #1) - Richard Deming - Страница 6

Chapter 3

A messenger was waiting on the pier when they docked; Admiral Schick’s compliments, and would Captain McCrary please report to his office at once? Jack hurried up the road, wondering what he was in trouble for this time. The training had been going very well, all things considered, and as far as he knew, he hadn’t stepped on any more toes since that night of the fire, so it must be some sin from the past catching up with him. He started to review the possibilities, then gave up; he would find out soon enough.

The admiral’s face was grave. His first question threw Jack into confusion. “Are you satisfied with your exec, McCrary?”

“Lieutenant Hunt, sir? Yes, sir.”

“I know he served ably on staff,” Schick continued, “but sea duty is a different matter. Do you have enough confidence in him to place him in charge of training for a few days?”

What was this? “Admiral,” Jack said levelly, “if I didn’t have confidence that he could take command of Manta, should anything happen to me, I would ask for his transfer at once.”

“Good. I thought you’d say that.” The admiral looked down at his desk, suddenly ill at ease. “There’s no easy way to say this, McCrary,” he said at last. “I’ve had word from Washington. Your father is in Bethesda Hospital with a severe case of pneumonia. The doctors are not hopeful. I’m sorry.”

“I see.” Jack searched his mind for thoughts, emotions, memories, anything, but he was trapped in a flat calm. Nothing stirred, and it seemed to him that nothing would stir again, that it had all ended and he had not noticed. It was time to be practical; detail added to detail would rebuild a sort of world. “Do—” He cleared his throat and started again. “Do they say when…”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve told you as much as I know. My yeoman has secured a berth for you on the night express, leaving New London at 2240. I expect you will want to brief Lieutenant Hunt and pack.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jack stood up and hesitated. He wanted to say something else, but there was nothing else to say.

Like every train Jack had seen in his months Stateside, the Washington Express was jammed to overflowing. Servicemen on their way to new posts, war workers looking for a shipyard or aircraft plant more to their liking than the ones they had left, businessmen hoping for war contracts, wives and children off to stay with relatives for the duration—it seemed that every person in the country had some reason to go to some different section of the country than the one he found himself in. As a Navy brat Jack had moved around, or been moved around, a great deal as a child, and he felt none the worse for it. But he had always known that he was an oddity. Most Americans grew up, lived, worked, and raised their families in the place they were born. Now the war was giving people an excellent excuse to escape, and from the looks of this train, a great many of them were seizing it.

After wriggling through the packed aisles of four coaches and lurching precariously across the equally packed vestibules between them, Jack found his Pullman car. The berths were already made up. Coming from the crowded, noisy, and essentially cheerful coaches, he found almost spectral the long, empty aisle flanked narrowly by swaying green curtains and lit by dim antique ceiling fixtures. He was not a very imaginative man, but he would not have been terribly surprised to see a bloody dagger emerge from behind the curtains. The heavy air of secrecy created by the twin walls of baize cried out for melodrama.

The cry went unanswered. The porter showed Jack to his berth—a lower, thank goodness—and promised to wake him fifteen minutes before they arrived in Union Station. Pocketing Jack’s quarter, he added that he would bring a cup of coffee, or what they were calling coffee these days, and wished him a good night. Jack untied his shoes, buttoned the curtains closed, and changed to pajamas. Only a submariner would have thought the berth spacious, but the fact was, it was nearly as large as the captain’s stateroom on the Manta, and that had to hold a desk, cupboard, and safe as well as a bunk. Here he could really stretch out.

He propped up the pillows and raised the curtain over the window. As he watched the darkness rush by, he allowed himself, for the first time all evening, to remember the reason for this journey. His father was dying. The man who had once carried him on his shoulders, who had held him on his present course since he was in short pants, was quietly slipping away—perhaps was gone already. Jack was no stranger to death; he had seen shipmates and friends and even his own brother die, and his torpedoes had carried death to uncounted hundreds of the enemy. This was different, not the artificial hazards and chances of war, but something as basic as the revolutions of the earth or the restless to-and-fro of the tide. This—not his twenty-first birthday, or his first drink, or his first screw—was the real coming of age. He recalled buying a piece of apple pie in the Automat across from Grand Central Station, on his last trip to New York. As he opened the little glass door and removed the pie, the machinery hummed and another piece of pie, apparently identical, appeared in its place. Now Fate was taking away his father and moving him noiselessly into place. It was time he thought of having a son, to be waiting in the wings.

A jolt, and lights outside the window. He looked out. The train was in Penn Station, changing engines for the New York to Washington stage. He must have fallen asleep sitting up. He idly watched the passengers on the platform, dividing his attention impartially between men in Navy uniform and women in almost any costume. The women of the East, at least those who were likely to ride the night express to Washington, were managing to look quite elegant in spite of war-caused shortages. The girl over there, for example, saying good-bye to an Air Corps major: silk hose with carefully straight seams, a hip-length fur coat, a pert pillbox hat with jaunty veil atop recently waved shoulder-length hair. She obviously believed in giving the boys something worth fighting for; he would not mind fighting for a piece of that himself.

The girl turned to board the train, and the blood drained from his face, then rushed back. It was his sister Helen. She must be on her way to Dad’s side, too. Jack started to spring up, then stopped himself. He could not imagine pursuing her through a crowded train in his pajamas. He would catch her on the platform in the morning. Remembering the casual lust of his thoughts moments earlier, he flushed with an embarrassment that soon turned to anger. Why should he kid himself about Helen? By now he must be the only submariner around who had not had her. Still, he was convinced she was a good kid at heart, if she would just outgrow her wildness and find the right man. In any case they were past the age where he had to play big brother and lay down the law, getting nothing but defiance and resentment for his trouble. But where, he wondered as he drowsed off, had Helen got that fur coat?

The porter awakened him as promised, and he was one of the first passengers onto the platform when the train stopped moving. Even so, Helen got by him in the crowd and he had to rush after her. He caught up to her in the middle of the enormous barrel-vaulted concourse. “Helen,” he said insistently. “Helen!”

She turned, and her face lit with delight. “Jack! What on earth…” She sobered. “You’ve heard, then?”

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

He nodded grimly and took her arm. “Come along. With this mob we’ll be lucky to get a cab before lunch time.”

“That’s all right. Bunny said he’d meet me with his car. Bunny Wilkinson,” she added, noting his blank look. “I know him from Cambridge. He’s something with OWI or OPA or OSS, one of That Man’s alphabet-soup agencies.” Helen had picked up the habit of calling President Roosevelt “That Man” from some of her diehard Republican society friends. For Jack, who thought of the President (when he thought of him at all, which was not very often) as his commander-in-chief, it had a nasty jarring sound. He debated saying something about it, but decided not to; Helen already tended to think of him as a little stuffy and old-fashioned. Compared to her maybe he was.

“That’s very kind of him,” he said cautiously, “but we shouldn’t take advantage of him. He may need his gas coupons for more important purposes.”

Helen laughed. “Not Bunny! I don’t know how he did it, but he has an X card. He can get all the gasoline he wants. That’s one reason I thought of him. You can’t imagine what the war has done to this city; it’s just impossible. Come on.”

They made their way outside. A shouting crowd clustered around the taxi dispatcher, and there were long, dispirited lines at each of the streetcar stops. Jack buttoned his overcoat against the dawn chill and wished he were back on board his boat. He was willing to grant that the nation needed all these people to coordinate a war effort that stretched around the globe, but he was glad he wasn’t one of them. His own concept of war was more direct: to seek out and destroy the enemy. He should be doing that now, not standing outside Union Station waiting for a man named Bunny!

“There he is!” Helen waved wildly, and a dark-green Packard roadster pulled up and stopped beside them. The driver, a solidly built young man with hair that was too long and a tweed suit that looked out of place away from the golf course, got out and strode over, arms outstretched. “Helen! Darling!” he cried. “It’s been far too long!”

Jack’s sister accepted the embrace and replied with a cool peck on the cheek. “Hello, Bunny. This is awfully nice of you. Do you know my brother Jack?”

The two men sized each other up as they shook hands and exchanged conventional greetings. Jack could not help thinking that such an obviously fit specimen as Bunny should be in uniform, not gallivanting around Washington in a Packard. If Bunny was aware of his reaction, it didn’t seem to faze him; he ushered them into the car and pulled away from the curb just as a red-faced policeman came hurrying toward them.

“Where to?” he asked at a stoplight. “Do you want to go straight to the hospital, or stop by your house first? Did I tell you how sorry I am to hear about your father’s illness?”

Helen glanced at Jack’s face and said, “The hospital, I think. I hope we’re not keeping you from your work too long.”

“No, no, free as a bird! Really! I have to see a couple of people this afternoon, but I can leave you the keys to Hetty”—he patted the dashboard of the car—“and take the trolley. If you’re free, maybe we can link up at dinner. You can still get a decent meal in Washington—if you know where to go.”

The expensive car, the unlimited gas ration, and the freedom from regular hours suddenly added up: the fellow must be a black marketeer, one of those swine who was profiteering from wartime shortages! Jack made a noise of disgust and covered it with a cough. Controlling his voice, he said, “What is your work, Wilkinson? Helen was pretty vague. You’re with the government?”

Bunny kept his eyes on the road. “I’m arranging for the production of the front ends of horses,” he replied airily, “to be shipped to Washington for assembly. It’s very challenging. How about you, McCrary? What secrets lurk beneath that undecorated bridge coat of yours?”

“Jack’s a submariner,” Helen said, ignoring the elbow jabbed in her ribs. “He did all sorts of marvelous things in his last boat, and now he’s getting ready to sail to the Pacific.”

Bunny Wilkinson’s flippant reply to Jack’s question had caused his neck to redden in anger, and as he listened to his sister he was aghast. Hadn’t she ever heard of security? Had she never noticed the posters that said, “Loose Lips Sink Ships”? Why, for all she knew, this fellow might be an Axis agent! Jack had heard only the sketchiest account of Helen’s encounter with Nielson, the Nazi spy, in England, but whatever had really taken place, surely it should have taught her to be more discreet!

“Is that so?” Wilkinson was saying. “Well, my congratulations, Commander. Here on the East Coast we tend to keep our eyes fixed on the European Theater, but there are plenty of people who appreciate what you men are doing out there. There would be a lot more of them if your service wasn’t so stuck on avoiding publicity. You don’t find carrier admirals acting so reticent about their victories.”

Jack made some vague response, his attention concentrated on the question of how Wilkinson had known his rank. He had not had time to put shoulderboards on his overcoat, and his dress coat was completely hidden. He glanced down at the cap in his lap and found a possible answer. The visor was bare of the gold “scrambled eggs” worn by full commanders and up, and it was almost unheard of (though Jack had done it) for a mere lieutenant to command a submarine. So Wilkinson could have deduced that he was a lieutenant commander, but only if he was both very sharp and very knowledgeable. Jack doubled his resolve to watch his tongue around him.

The strict rationing of tires and gasoline had thinned out the notorious Washington traffic, and they reached their destination much sooner than Jack had expected. When Wilkinson offered either to wait or to lend them the car, Jack declined politely but firmly; under the circumstances, they could not tell how long they might be staying at the hospital. He shrugged cheerfully, gave Helen another hug, and drove off waving.

“Well!” Helen faced Jack on the sidewalk, hands on her hips and eyes flashing. “You certainly weren’t very nice to poor Bunny, were you? Did it slip your mind that he was doing us a big favor, or are you still determined to insult any man I happen to like? I’m not fifteen anymore, you know!”

“Really?” His voice was cold. “I’d never guess from the way you act sometimes. As for your friend Bunny, it bothers me that a perfectly healthy young man has nothing better to do than drive around in a fancy roadster when there’s a war on. It’s bad for morale. And I don’t like you talking so freely about my work, either. I don’t want to throw the past in your face, but didn’t it occur to you that your friend Bunny knows an awful lot and was acting awfully mysterious about it? For all you know, he may be a spy.”

“Of course he’s a spy,” Helen retorted impatiently. “I told you that before, at the station.”

“What? You did not! Helen, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Bunny. He’s with one of those hush-hush outfits. This mustn’t go beyond us, but he just got back from Vichy, France. His father is a big wine importer, so he knows a lot of people over there.” A blush suffused her cheeks, but she continued doggedly. “The reason I knew he was in Washington is that he was one of the people who wanted to talk to me about that business with that skunk Nielson. And I don’t think it was very nice of you to bring that up again!” A hint of tears appeared in her eyes.

Jack put his arm around her. “Awe, come on, Sis, I’m sorry.” What a time for him to pick a fight with her! Still, she hadn’t told him about Bunny, whatever she thought, and he had been quite right to think there was something questionable about him. The fact that he was an American agent rather than an Axis agent didn’t alter that. Like many fighting men, Jack was slightly contemptuous toward what he thought of as cloak-and-dagger stuff, regarding it as childish, sneaky, and not quite honorable. A real man didn’t creep around back alleys, he stood up to his enemies and gave them blow for blow. “Let’s forget it,” he continued, “okay? We’ve got Dad to think about.”

The nurse who escorted them to their father’s room looked grave but told them nothing. The reason was clear the moment they walked through the door. Admiral McCrary was dying. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks had fallen in to the point that his face resembled a skull. He fought noisily for every breath, producing a dry rattle that sounded to Jack like someone dragging a bag of bones down a flight of steps. As they reached the side of the bed, his eyes opened. After a moment’s confusion he recognized them and smiled groggily. Jack shook his hand and Helen leaned over to kiss his cheek, then they started the sort of cheerful, trivial conversation they might have had with a neighbor met on the street. After a few minutes the old man’s eyes closed. Jack and Helen stopped talking and looked at each other, asking with their eyes what they should do now. Jack motioned with his head toward the door, but before they could move, the admiral opened his eyes.

“Pumpkin,” he said to Helen, “would you mind if I talked to Jack for a few minutes? They tell me there’s a lounge down the hall.” Helen blinked a couple of times, kissed him again, and left. Jack waited at attention by the bed. “Sit down, son,” he continued. “It’s hard for me to shout. I don’t have to tell you I’m going West this time.”

“Don’t be silly, sir,” Jack protested. “They’ll have you up and around in no time.”

“Crap. I’ve bought the farm, and we both know it. I don’t have time to horse around. The first thing I want to say is, when this is over and you return to your ship, I want you to take your grandfather’s sword with you. It’s past time it saw battle again.” The gold-ornamented dress sword had always hung in a place of honor when Jack was a boy, and sometimes, on very special occasions, his father would take it down and allow him to hold it, and tell him that this was the sword his own father had worn at the Battle of Manila Bay. Later, during a bout of adolescent skepticism, it occurred to Jack that officers on dreadnoughts during the Spanish-American War did not wear swords into battle. Still, it was his grandfather’s sword, and he had fought at Manila Bay, so the heart of the legend was true. Jack’s eyes smarted.

“It’s damned funny, isn’t it,” his father went on. “Forty years in the service man and boy, through one great war and into another, and I have never heard a shot fired in earnest. I think I would have measured up, but how is a man to know until the test comes?” His eyes moved to the ribbon of the Navy Cross on Jack’s breast. “You’ve met the test, son, and met it well. I never doubted that you would.”

“Dad—”

“No, let me talk. We don’t have a lot of time. I want to say something about your brother.” Jack started; his father had never mentioned Edward after the court of enquiry on the Sebago disaster. “I know you blame yourself for his death, but you’ve got to put it out of your mind. If anyone was at fault, it was I. I pushed the boy too hard. I was so determined to have my two sons holding commissions that I refused to see that he wasn’t cut out for the Navy. He wanted to resign from the Academy after his first term, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I held you up to him as an example, which wasn’t kind to either of you. And after my pressure led him to disgrace himself, I washed my hands of him. My own son, and I wouldn’t allow him in my presence! If I had been more of a father to him, he never would have enlisted like that. He would still be alive today.”

“Sir, it’s over and done. What happened to Eddie was no more your fault than if he had been hit by a train. And if he could be here, he would say the same, I know he would.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. What’s done is done.” He moved restlessly. “What’s to come is another matter, though. I want you to give some serious thought to your future.”

“Sir?” Jack’s voice was full of surprise.

“I know, the hazards of battle. But if you survive, as I pray you will, you should consider whether to retain your commission afterwards. I know,” he continued, weakly raising a hand to block Jack’s objection, “I know you chose a service career, and I know how much I had to do with that choice, too. But maybe I pushed you too hard, just as I did Edward. The Navy is changing. It’s being taken over by the slide-rule johnnies and paper-pushers. There’s less and less room for individual initiative, and you’ve always been a lone wolf at heart. You’d die of boredom in a staff post. Once we’ve beaten the socks off the Japs and Germans, you may find that your strong points are more valued outside the service, in politics for instance. And I don’t suppose being a dashing ex-submarine captain would hurt you, either. You will give it some thought, won’t you?”

“Sure, Dad.” Nothing was more unlikely, but Jack was responding to the pleading in his father’s eyes, not to his words.

“There’s something else.” His gnarled hands pleated the top sheet nervously. “You’ll be head of the family now. I expect you to look after your sisters. I blame myself there; I never had the time for them that they needed, and I’m afraid your mother was not able to give them the right sort of guidance. Not that there’s an ounce of harm in either of them—I don’t think that for a moment—but the knowledge that someone who cares is keeping an eye on them may help put them on a better course. Helen may act very mature and modern, but I know she still looks up to you. Don’t let her manner stop you from doing your duty to her as your sister. She has a way of getting involved with some queer ducks, but your opinion is important to her. She wants your respect, and you can use that to keep her from getting herself into any more of these messes. I know I can count on you.”

“Of course, sir.” He tried to imagine himself laying down the law to Helen about her latest man—or men; she wasn’t always exclusive in her habits—and failed. He would sooner tangle with a Jap destroyer.

“There won’t be a lot of money,” his father continued. “I’ve always lived up to my income. I’ve asked Harley to handle all that. If it meets with your approval, he’ll rent out the house and invest what capital there is. Helen and Arabella will continue to receive their usual allowances. Since you haven’t approached me, I assume you’re managing on your salary. If you have any special needs, just tell Harley and he’ll take care of it.” His voice faded away and his eyes closed. After a few moments he opened them and said, “I think you should send Helen in now. I’ll see you later?”

“Of course, Dad. I’ll be right here.”