Джон Болл - The First Team

At the morning conference which he had called the admiral was, as always, brisk, efficient, and confident. “All right, gentlemen,” he began when everyone was present, “it’s time to compare notes. Stan, you first.”

Stanley Cumberland, the retired industrialist, wore an alleged sports jacket which had been conservatively cut to fit his narrow, six-foot-three frame. His lean, austere features suggested the Great Stone Face; there were those who had paid dearly for the privilege of learning that they were part of the equipment of one of the greatest poker players in recorded history. Not on visible display was a brilliant intelligence coupled with a profound knowledge of mechanics and ways of getting things done. Few people would have dared to call him Stan; the admiral did and Cumberland felt honored.

“Operation Low Blow is on schedule,” Cumberland reported. “They are watching the Magsaysay very closely but we are watching them.”

“Good,” the admiral said. “How about the supply problem?” “We’re working on that. The first job was to find a suitable vessel; we finally have one. She is a great big, lumbering old fishing craft designed to go to sea and to stay out there for long periods of time. I’m sure you know, sir, that the fishing industry is not being interfered with in any way — at least not until now. When the Nazis were in control of Europe they permitted fishing operations even out of the French ports opposite the channel for the sake of the food produced. I suspect that for the next six months, at least, fishing operations will be allowed to continue. After that we won’t be concerned.”

“How about getting the necessary quantities of supplies?” the Marine major asked. “It may be a little tough getting our hands on what well need without attracting attention.”

“That’s being attended to,” Cumberland answered him. “We were able to get hold of a very good man in the ship supply field. He has laid out a plan of action and will put it into operation as soon as we’re ready.”

The former high diver, whose muscular development was the envy of all present, was also carefully weighing the factors involved. “Where is our fishing vessel home ported?” he asked.

“At the moment San Pedro, but when we have completed taking her over she will be able to show up almost anywhere that there’s a fish market without any questions being raised. If we have to, we can shift the price structure a little to make San Francisco her obvious destination.”

The admiral smiled his approval of that. “A little manipulation of that kind may be right in order. Next, turning to the Magsaysay herself, let’s have a crew report.”

Major Theodore Pappas, USMC, responded. He opened a folder in front of him with his good hand and then spoke in a clear, decisive voice. “As of the present moment we have fourteen men aboard her under Chief Summers. They’ve been able to create enough feeling of personality conflicts to provide the atmosphere that we want.” He looked around the table for a moment. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that they are among the best that the Navy has got and that’s mighty damn good. None of them are tattooed and they have been given special indoctrination in avoiding Navy or sea-going language. When one of the top ratings hit his head on a hatch, he had the presence of mind to curse at the door.”

“Have you determined the exact number that should be on board when the operation begins?” General Gifford asked.

“Yes, sir, one hundred and two as things stand right now. That is subject to change if we lose anyone and don’t have time to position a replacement.”

“I think we should establish a deadline on that,” the admiral said. “Offhand I would put it at minus twenty days. After that if any personnel are lost we won’t replace them unless it’s in an area so vital that we must.”

“We have backups, sir, for every key slot, twenty-three all told.” The major paused and looked around the table once more. “I have to report one snag — a bad one. Our operational plans are pretty well worked out, but as they stand now we’ll have to sacrifice the crane operator. Maybe I’m not being tough enough, but I’d like to avoid that if I can. He’ll have to be a damn good man and we don’t have any to spare.”

“Have you any preliminary thinking on that at all?” the circus performer asked.

The major nodded. “Yes, Walt. If there isn’t any other way, I’m going to handle that part myself. That solves a lot of problems, including finding someone whom we can trust absolutely.”

Admiral Haymarket was silent for a moment. “I have a thought,” he said finally. “Let me develop it a little before we discuss it. Meanwhile I suggest that all of us apply ourselves to the screw problem, because at the moment that’s the crux of the whole thing. At least it’s a vital link.”

“Amen,” the major said. “If we can lick that one, we’ll be a helluva lot closer to home than we are now.”

“How about it, mama?” Moshe Glickman asked. “Do you think maybe we should tell him tonight already?”

Esther Glickman had been weighing the matter in her mind ever since the mail had been delivered. “I’m thinking that it would be a good idea,” she answered. “But for you, you shut up and let me do it. And on your face no expression either until we know what he says.” She turned to her other son. “And you, David, you’d better be there, but you’re saying nothing — nothing at all. Understand?” “Why not, mama? I can help.”

“Best you can help by keeping quiet. After papa comes home and we have dinner, then we’ll see.” She picked up the official notice and read it over once again although she could have recited it by heart. “So maybe this is the best thing that ever happened to us.” The last words stuck a little in her throat and she had difficulty giving them birth. She looked about her hurriedly, picked up a paper tissue, and wiped her eyes.

Moshe jumped up and went to her. “Don’t cry, mama. Like you said, maybe nothing so good happened to us before.”

David offered her a rumpled handkerchief. “Hell, mama, it’s no sweat,” he said. “If I can keep out of the damn Army we’ll be fine.”

Esther once more took command. “In the Army you’ll be going,” she retorted. “So here you followed that crazy man Orberg and when we needed you, where were you? In jail yet. Better you should have been in uniform; maybe there you could have helped.” “Mama, it’s too late for that now,” Moshe said. “When we get there, maybe we both join the Army; at least they’ll have kosher food.”

The door of the small Brooklyn apartment opened and Morris Glickman came in to greet his family. He kissed his wife and then asked almost casually, “Did it come today?”

Love welled up in Esther’s throat and for a moment she lost the power of speech.

“Yes, papa,” Moshe answered for her. “Today it came.”

A little awkwardly Morris embraced his wife. It was not an easy thing to do, at least it was not as it had once been when she had been dark-eyed, long-haired, and slender and he had married her. He reached far enough around her now ample girth to make his presence felt and patted her gently. “Now now, mama,” he said. “In a way the news is good. The waiting — the uncertainty, that’s all over. I was tired of teaching anyway. The kids, they’re worse every year. Now we can make plans.”

“So what can we plan?” Esther asked miserably.

Her husband was equal to the challenge. “You know they need teachers badly in Israel. Here I don’t think we have a future. Later, maybe, we can come back when things are better. Already I’ve talked to Mr. Farkas; when we can come back, my job will be waiting.”