Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 37

The guard looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. The man was young, brave, and good at what he did. He also had all the imagination of a cherrystone clam. Most of the time, the lack didn't affect the way he did his job even a dime's worth. Every once in a while . . . "Sir, you don't know what you're talking about." His voice couldn't have been any stiffer if he'd starched and ironed it.

"h.e.l.l I don't," Jake said. "Difference is, here I know where the enemy's at. I know what he can do, and I know what I can do about it." He pointed to the foxholes again. "In Richmond, any G.o.dd.a.m.n son of a b.i.t.c.h could be kitted out with explosives. If he's got the b.a.l.l.s to blow himself up along with me, how you gonna stop him?"

All his bodyguards looked very unhappy. Featherston didn't blame them. He was very unhappy about people bombs himself. A man willing-no, eager-to die so he could also kill made a very nasty foe. War and bodyguarding both a.s.sumed the enemy wanted to live just as much as you did. If he didn't give a d.a.m.n . . .

If he didn't give a d.a.m.n, then what would stop a rational soldier or a.s.sa.s.sin wouldn't matter a hill of beans to him. That seemed more obvious to the President of the CSA than it did to his guards. They didn't want to admit, even to themselves, that the rules had changed.

This one said, "Mr. President, there's no evidence anyone in the CSA has thought of doing anything like that."

Jake Featherston laughed in his face. "Evidence? First evidence'll be when somebody d.a.m.n well does blow himself up. It's coming. Sure as s.h.i.+t, it's coming. I wish like h.e.l.l we could stop it, but I don't see how. We can't jam all the U.S. wireless stations-too many of 'em. And they can't hardly talk about anything else. f.u.c.king Mormons." He shook his head in disgust.

"Good thing there aren't hardly any of them in our country," the bodyguard said, proving he'd missed the point.

If he were smarter, if he were able to think straighter, he probably wouldn't want to be a bodyguard. You couldn't get all hot and bothered because people weren't the way you wanted them to be. Oh, you could, but a whole fat lot of good it would do you. Taking them as they were worked better. Will this fellow see it if I spell it out in small, simple words? Will this fellow see it if I spell it out in small, simple words? Jake wondered. Jake wondered.

The decision got made for him. He knew what that rumbling, rus.h.i.+ng sound in the air was. "Incoming!" he shouted, and was proud his yell came only a split second after the first artilleryman's.

He sprang for the foxholes, and was down in one before the first sh.e.l.ls landed. The men who fought the 105s were just as fast, or even faster. Some of his bodyguards, though, remained above ground and upright when sh.e.l.ls burst not far away. They didn't know any better-they weren't combat troops. Here, ignorance was expensive.

"Get in a hole, G.o.ddammit!" he yelled. Some of the artillerymen were shouting the same thing. And the bodyguards who hadn't been hit did dive for cover, only a few seconds slower than they should have. But a barrage was a time when seconds mattered.

Till things let up, Jake couldn't do anything. If he came out of his foxhole, he was asking to get torn up himself. He wasn't afraid. He'd proved that beyond any possible doubt in the last war. But he knew too well the CSA needed him. That kept him where he was till the U.S. bombardment moved elsewhere.

That bombardment wasn't anything that warned of an attack. It was just hara.s.sing fire, to make the Confederates keep their heads down and to wound a few men. During the Great War, Jake had fired plenty of sh.e.l.ls with the same thing in mind.

If he wasn't the first one out of a foxhole when the sh.e.l.ling eased, he couldn't have been later than the third. "f.u.c.k," he said softly. You forgot what artillery could do to a man till you saw it with your own eyes. One of his guards lay there, gutted and beheaded-except the reality, which included smell, was a hundred times worse and only a tenth as neat as the words suggested.

Another bodyguard lay hunched over on his side, clutching his ankle with both hands. He had no foot; he was doing his best to keep from bleeding to death. Jake bent beside him. "Hang on, Beau," he said, far more gently than he usually spoke. "I'll make you a tourniquet." His boots-the same sort he'd worn in the field in the last war-had strong rawhide laces. He pulled one out, fast as he could. "Easy there. I got to move your hands so I can tie this son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Thank you, sir." Beau sounded preternaturally calm. Some wounded men didn't really feel it for a little while. He seemed to be one of the lucky ones, though he hissed when the President of the CSA tightened the tourniquet around his ragged stump. Jake used a stick to twist it so the stream of blood slowed to the tiniest trickle. He'd tended to battlefield wounds before; his hands still remembered how, as long as he didn't think about it too much.

"Morphine!" he yelled. "Somebody give this poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d a shot! And where the h.e.l.l are the medics?"

The men with Red Cross smocks were already there, taking charge of other injured guards. One of them knelt by Beau. The medic injected the bodyguard, then blinked to find himself face to face with Jake Featherston. "You did good, uh, sir," he said. "He ought to make it if everything heals up all right."

"Hear that, Beau?" Jake said. "He says you're gonna be fine." The medic hadn't quite said that, but Jake didn't care. He wanted to make the bodyguard as happy as he could.

"Fine," Beau said vaguely. Maybe that was shock, or maybe it was the morphine hitting him. The medics got him onto a stretcher and carried him away. Jake wondered what kind of job he could do that didn't require moving around. The President shrugged. Beau would be a while getting better, if he did.

The head of the bodyguard contingent came up with fire in his eye. He'd got his trousers muddy; Jake judged that accounted for at least part of his bad temper. When the man spoke, he did his best to stay restrained: "Sir, can we please move to a safer location? You see what almost happened to you here."

Jake shook his head. "Not to me, by G.o.d. I know what to do when sh.e.l.ls start coming down. I'm sorry as h.e.l.l some of your men didn't."

"And if a sh.e.l.l had landed in your hole, Mr. President?" the bodyguard asked.

"It didn't, dammit," Jake said. The guard chief just looked at him. Jake swore under his breath. The man was right, and he knew it. Admitting somebody else was right and he himself wrong was the hardest thing in the world for him. He didn't do it now, not in so many words. He just scowled at the bodyguard. "I reckon I've seen what I came to see."

"Thank you, sir." The man saluted. He called to the other guards who hadn't been hurt: "We can get him away now!"

They all showed as much relief as a drummer who finds out his latest lady friend isn't in a family way after all. And they hustled Jake back from the gun pit with Olympic speed. He thought it was funny. The guards thought it was anything but. One of them scolded him: "Sir, did you want want to get yourself killed?" to get yourself killed?"

If he'd asked whether Jake wanted to get the guards killed, the President would have gone up in smoke. But that wasn't what he'd wanted to know, and so Jake Featherston only sighed. "No. I wanted to watch the d.a.m.nyankees catch it."

"Well, you've done that, and now you've seen we can catch it, too," the bodyguard said. "Will you kindly leave well enough alone?"

"Sure," Featherston said, and all the bodyguards brightened. Then he added, "Till the next time it needs doing." Their shoulders slumped.

"We really shouldn't be anywhere close to the line," the guards' leader said. "d.a.m.nyankee airplanes are liable to drop bombs on our heads. Even less we can do about that than we can about artillery, dammit."

Jake laughed raucously. "Jesus H. Christ, don't the d.a.m.nyankees come over Richmond about every other night and drop everything but the f.u.c.king kitchen sink on our heads? b.a.s.t.a.r.ds'd drop that, too, if they reckoned it'd blow up."

Some of the bodyguards smiled. Their chief remained severe. "Sir, you've got a proper shelter there, not a, a-hole in the ground." He slapped at the knees of his trousers. Not much mud came away. He fumed. He didn't like to get dirty.

"h.e.l.l of a lot of good a proper shelter did Al Smith," Jake said. That made all the guards unhappy again. They didn't like remembering all the things that could go wrong. Jake didn't like remembering those things, either, but he would do it if he could score points off men who liked it even less.

The guard chief changed the subject, at least a little: "Sir, couldn't you just stay somewhere safe and follow the war with reports and things?"

"No way in h.e.l.l," Jake replied at once. "No place'd stay safe for long. Soon as the Yankees found out where I was at, they'd send bombers after me. I don't care if I went to Habana-they'd still send 'em. But that's beside the point. Point is, you can't trust reports all the G.o.dd.a.m.n time. Sometimes you've got to, yeah. You can't keep up with everything by your lonesome. But if you don't get your a.s.s out there and see for yourself every so often, people'll start lying to you. You won't know any better, either, 'cause you haven't been out to look. And then you're screwed. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," the bodyguard said mournfully. He knew what that meant. It meant he and his men would have to keep worrying, because Jake would go on sticking his nose where the d.a.m.nyankees could shoot it off.

Airplanes droned by overhead. Jake looked for the closest hole in the ground. So did most of the guards. They weren't combat troops, no, but a trip to the field taught lessons in a hurry. The airplanes flew from west to east. They had familiar silhouettes. Jake relaxed-they were on his side.

None of the bodyguards relaxed. They weren't supposed to, not while they were on duty. Their leader said, "Mr. President, can we please take you someplace where you're not in quite so much much danger?" danger?"

"Gonna fly me to the Empire of Brazil?" Jake quipped. A few guards gave him another round of dutiful smiles. Most stayed somber. He supposed that was just as well. Like sheep dogs, they had to be serious about protecting him. Trouble was, he made a p.i.s.s-poor sheep.

Sometimes Sam Carsten thought the Navy didn't know what to do with the Josephus Daniels. Josephus Daniels. Other times he was sure of it. After the destroyer escort had threaded its way out through the minefields in Delaware Bay once more, he turned to Pete Cooley and said, "I swear to G.o.d they're trying to sink us. I really do." Other times he was sure of it. After the destroyer escort had threaded its way out through the minefields in Delaware Bay once more, he turned to Pete Cooley and said, "I swear to G.o.d they're trying to sink us. I really do."

"I think we'll be all right, sir," the exec said. "We will as long as Confederate airplanes don't spot us, anyhow."

"Yeah," Sam said. "As long as." His s.h.i.+p was ordered to strike at the CSA. U.S. flying boats and other aircraft constantly patrolled the United States' coastal waters. If there was intelligence to say the Confederates didn't do the same thing, he hadn't seen it.

"Mission seems simple enough," Cooley said. "We start heading in as soon as night falls, land the raiders, pick 'em up, and get the h.e.l.l out of there." He sounded elaborately unconcerned.

Sam snorted. "One of these days, Pat, somebody needs to explain the difference between 'simple' and 'easy' to you."

"I know the difference," Cooley said with a grin. "An easy girl puts out right away. A simple girl's just dumb, so you've got to snow her before she puts out."

"All right, dammit." In spite of himself, Sam laughed. The exec wouldn't wouldn't take things seriously. Maybe that was as well, too. "Just so we don't get spotted. And our navigation better be spot-on, too." take things seriously. Maybe that was as well, too. "Just so we don't get spotted. And our navigation better be spot-on, too."

"I'll get us there, sir," Cooley promised.

As with s.h.i.+phandling, Sam was learning to use s.e.xtant and chronometer to know where the s.h.i.+p was and where it was going. He thought it was the hardest thing he'd ever tried to pick up. The Navy had tables that made it a lot easier than it was in the days of iron men and wooden s.h.i.+ps, but easier easier and and easy easy didn't mean the same thing, either. Sorrowfully, Sam said, "This is the first time in a million years I wish I'd paid more attention in school." didn't mean the same thing, either. Sorrowfully, Sam said, "This is the first time in a million years I wish I'd paid more attention in school."

"You're doing real well, sir, for a-" Two words too late, Pat Cooley broke off. He tried again: "You're doing real well."

For a mustang. He hadn't quite swallowed enough of that. Or maybe it had been He hadn't quite swallowed enough of that. Or maybe it had been for a dumb mustang. for a dumb mustang. Taking sun-sights and then trying to convert them to positions sure as h.e.l.l made Sam feel like a dumb mustang. He painfully remembered the time when he'd screwed up his longitude six ways from Sunday and put the Taking sun-sights and then trying to convert them to positions sure as h.e.l.l made Sam feel like a dumb mustang. He painfully remembered the time when he'd screwed up his longitude six ways from Sunday and put the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels halfway between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. halfway between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.

The only thing the exec said then was, "Well, the infantry could use the fire support." Sam thought that showed commendable restraint.

For now, he swung the destroyer escort well out into the North Atlantic before steaming south. He figured that was his best chance to get where he was going undetected. He didn't know that it was a good chance, but good good and and best best also weren't always synonyms. The ocean wasn't nearly so rough as it would be when winter clapped down, but it wasn't smooth, either. Sailors and Marine raiders spent a lot of time at the rail. also weren't always synonyms. The ocean wasn't nearly so rough as it would be when winter clapped down, but it wasn't smooth, either. Sailors and Marine raiders spent a lot of time at the rail.

Sam might not have been much of a navigator. He might not have been the s.h.i.+phandler he wished he were. He might-he would-burn if the sun looked at him sideways. But by G.o.d he had a sailor's stomach. Some of the youngsters in the officers' mess and some of the Marine officers who dined with them looked distinctly green. Sam tore into the roast beef with fine appet.i.te.

"Be thankful the chow's as good as it is," he said. "When we're on a long patrol or going around the Horn, it's all canned stuff and beans after a while."

"Excuse me, sir," Lieutenant Thad Walters said. The Y-range operator bolted from the mess with a hand clapped over his mouth. Carsten hoped the J.G. got to a head before he wasted the cooks' best efforts.

Lieutenant Cooley brought the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels about 125 miles off the North Carolina coast just as the sun was sinking in flames in the direction of the Confederacy. "We're as ready as we'll ever be, sir," the exec said. about 125 miles off the North Carolina coast just as the sun was sinking in flames in the direction of the Confederacy. "We're as ready as we'll ever be, sir," the exec said.

"Fair enough." Sam nodded. "All ahead full, then. Course 270."

"All ahead full. Course 270," Cooley echoed. "Aye aye, sir." He called the order for full power down to the engine room. The s.h.i.+p picked up speed till she was going flat out. Sam wished for the extra ten knots she could have put on if she were a real destroyer. Of course, they never would have dropped a mustang on his first command into a real destroyer. He knew d.a.m.n well he was lucky to get anything fancier than a garbage scow.

Lieutenant Walters seemed to have got rid of what ailed him. The Y-range operator was still a little pale, but kept close watch on his set. If the s.h.i.+p could spot an enemy airplane before the enemy spotted her, she would have a better chance of getting away. The darker it got, the happier Sam grew. He didn't think the Confederates had aircraft with Y-ranging gear. He sure hoped they didn't.

"Keep an eye peeled for any sign of torpedo boats, too," he warned. "A fish we're not expecting will screw us as bad as a bomb."

"Yes, sir," Walters said, and then, "Aye aye, sir." We're doing everything we know how to do, We're doing everything we know how to do, Sam thought. Sam thought. Now-is it enough? Now-is it enough?

The Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels ran on through the night. Listening to her engines pound, Sam felt she was yelling, ran on through the night. Listening to her engines pound, Sam felt she was yelling, Here I am! Here I am! to the world. If she was, the world stayed deaf and blind. Every so often, Lieutenant Walters looked over at him and shrugged or gave a thumbs-up. CPO Bevacqua on the hydrophone kept hearing nothing, too. to the world. If she was, the world stayed deaf and blind. Every so often, Lieutenant Walters looked over at him and shrugged or gave a thumbs-up. CPO Bevacqua on the hydrophone kept hearing nothing, too.

Shortly before 2300, the commander of the Marine detachment came onto the bridge. "About an hour away, eh, Captain?" he said.

"That's right, Major," Sam answered. Mike Murphy outranked him-except that n.o.body on a s.h.i.+p outranked her skipper. Murphy understood that, fortunately. He was a black Irishman with eyes as blue as a Siamese cat's-bluer than Sam's, which took doing. Carsten went on, "Your men are ready?"

"Ready as they'll ever be." Murphy pointed into the darkness. "They're by the boats, and they'll be in 'em in nothing flat." He snapped his fingers.

"Good enough," Sam said, and hoped it would be.

Not quite an hour later, the shape of the western horizon changed. It had been as smooth and flat there as in any other direction. No more. That deeper blackness was land: the coast of the Confederate States of America. "Here we are, sir," Pat Cooley said. "If that's not Ocrac.o.ke Island dead ahead, my career just hit a mine and sank."

So did mine, Sam thought. The Navy Department might blame an exec who'd been conning a s.h.i.+p for botched navigation. The Navy Department would without the tiniest fragment of doubt blame that s.h.i.+p's skipper. And so it should. The destroyer escort was Sam thought. The Navy Department might blame an exec who'd been conning a s.h.i.+p for botched navigation. The Navy Department would without the tiniest fragment of doubt blame that s.h.i.+p's skipper. And so it should. The destroyer escort was his his s.h.i.+p. This was s.h.i.+p. This was his his responsibility. Nothing on G.o.d's green earth this side of death or disabling injury could take it off his shoulders. responsibility. Nothing on G.o.d's green earth this side of death or disabling injury could take it off his shoulders.

"Send a petty officer forward with a lead and a sounding line," Sam said, an order more often heard in the riverboat Navy than on the Atlantic. But he didn't want the Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels running aground, and she drew a lot more water than any river monitor. She needed some water under her keel. Cooley nodded and obeyed. running aground, and she drew a lot more water than any river monitor. She needed some water under her keel. Cooley nodded and obeyed.

Feet thudded on the deck. "Sir, we've spotted a light about half a mile south of here!" a sailor exclaimed. "Looks like it's what we want!"

It wouldn't be the Ocrac.o.ke lighthouse at the southwestern tip of the island; that had gone dark at the beginning of the war. If you didn't already know where you were in these waters, the Confederates didn't want you here. Major Murphy quivered like a hunting hound. "I'd best join my men, I think," he said, and left the bridge.

"Very pretty navigation, Pat," Sam said. "Bring us in a little closer and we'll lower the boats and turn the Marines loose."

"Aye aye, sir," Cooley said, and then, to the engine room, "All ahead one third." The Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels crept southwest. crept southwest.

After a breathless little while, Sam said, "All stop." The executive officer relayed the order. The s.h.i.+p bobbed in the water. Sam sent a sailor to Major Murphy to let him know everything was ready. Murphy had no doubt figured that out for himself, but the forms needed to be observed.

Lines creaking in the davits, the boats went down to the ocean. For this raid, they'd been fitted with motors. One by one, they chugged toward the sh.o.r.e that was only a low, darker line in the night. North Carolina barrier islands were nothing but glorified sandbanks. Every time a hurricane tore through, it rearranged the landscape pretty drastically. Sometimes, after a hurricane tore through, not much landscape-or land-was left in its path.

"Confederates at that station are going to think a hurricane hit 'em," Sam murmured.

He didn't know he'd spoken aloud till Pat Cooley nodded and said, "h.e.l.l, yes-uh, sir."

Grinning, Sam set a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Pat. We're on the same page."

Gunfire crackled across the water. Sam tensed. If something had gone wrong, if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in b.u.t.ternut somehow knew the Marines were coming . . . In that case, the destroyer escort's guns would have to do some talking of their own. The wireless operator looked up. "Sir, Major Murphy says everything's under control."

Sure enough, the gunfire died away. Sam had nothing to do but wait. He drummed his fingers on the metalwork in front of him. Waiting was always a big part of military life. Right this minute, it was also a hard part.

"There we go!" Pat Cooley pointed. Fire rose from the station.

"Yeah, there we go, all right," Sam agreed. "Other question is, did the Confederates get off an alarm call before we finished overrunning the place?" He shrugged. "Well, we'll find out."

Not very much later, sailors peering over the starboard rail called, "Boats coming back!" Sam almost said something like, Stand by to repel boarders! Stand by to repel boarders! He wondered when the skipper of a s.h.i.+p this size last issued an order like that. But these boarders were on his side-or they'd d.a.m.ned well better be. He wondered when the skipper of a s.h.i.+p this size last issued an order like that. But these boarders were on his side-or they'd d.a.m.ned well better be.

Raising boats was harder than lowering them. He had nets out against the sides of the s.h.i.+p for the Marines and their prisoners-he hoped they'd have prisoners-to climb if the crew couldn't do it. But they managed. He went down to the deck and met Major Murphy there. "Everything go well?" he asked.

"Well enough, Captain," the Marine officer answered. "We lost one man dead, and we have several wounded we brought back." The groans on deck would have told Sam that if Murphy hadn't. The Marine went on, "But we destroyed that station, and we've brought back prisoners to question and samples of Confederate Y-ranging gear for the fellows with thick gla.s.ses and slide rules to look at. What they do with the stuff is up to them, but we got it. We did our job."

"Sounds good," Sam said. "Now my job is to make sure we deliver the goods. Is everybody back aboard s.h.i.+p?"

"I think so," Major Murphy said.

An indignant Confederate came up to them. "Are you the captain of this vessel?" he demanded of Sam. "I must protest this-this act of piracy!" He sounded like an angry rabbit.

"Go ahead and protest all you please, pal," Sam said genially. "And you can call me Long John Silver, too." Major Murphy and several nearby Marines spluttered. Sam went to the rail to make sure no boats or Marines were unaccounted for. Satisfied, he hurried back up to the bridge.

"Are we ready to leave town, sir?" Pat Cooley asked.

"And then some," Sam said. "Make our course 135. All ahead full."

"All ahead full," Cooley echoed, and pa.s.sed the order to the engine room. "Course is . . . 135." He sounded slightly questioning, to let Sam change his mind without losing face if he wanted to.

But Sam didn't want to. "Yes, 135, Pat," he said. "I really do want to head southeast, because that's the last direction the Confederates will look for us. Once we get away, we can swing wide and come back. But I figure most of the search'll be to the north, and I want to get away from land-based air the best way I know how. So-135."

Cooley nodded. "Aye aye, sir-135 it is." The Josephus Daniels Josephus Daniels steamed away from the North Carolina coast at her sedate top speed. steamed away from the North Carolina coast at her sedate top speed.

Brigadier General Irving Morrell did not like getting pushed around by the Confederates. They'd done it in Ohio, and now they were doing it in Pennsylvania. They had the machines they needed to go forward. He didn't have as many machines as he needed to stop them. It was as simple as that.

Men . . . Well, how much did men count in this new mechanized age? The United States had more of them than the Confederate States did. The question was, so what?

A nervous-looking POW stood in front of Morrell. In the other man's beat-up boots, Morrell would have been nervous, too. He said, "Name, rank, and pay number."

An interpreter turned the question into Spanish. A torrent of that language came back. The interpreter said, "His name is Jose Maria Castillo. He is a senior private-we would say a PFC. His pay number is 6492711."