Harry Turtledove - Drive to the East

“Ah.” Daniel MacArthur nodded. He took another cigarette from his pack, stuck it in the holder, and lit it. With his prominent nose and his jowls wattling an otherwise thin face, he reminded Dowling of a chain-smoking vulture. “That, I must tell you, I do not know. If the budding Alexanders at the War Department do, they have not seen fit to impart that information to me.”

Dowling snorted. He was little more fond of the functionaries at the War Department than MacArthur was. He realized he’d acquired his attitude from George Custer. That realization didn’t thrill him, but also didn’t change his mind. He said, “In case they do attack in the West, what’s the best thing we can do here?”

He could see he’d made MacArthur unhappy again. He needed a moment to figure out why. MacArthur didn’t want to be reduced to a sideshow. He wanted to be the main event. But even MacArthur could see he wouldn’t be the main event if major fighting erupted in the West once more. Reluctantly, he said, “Keep the enemy as busy as we can, I suppose. If you see a better choice, point it out to me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Dowling said. What was the world coming to when one of Daniel MacArthur’s proposals made sound military sense?

“Very well. I may call on your corps to try to break through the Confederate defenses and threaten Richmond,” MacArthur said now.

I failed at one end of my line, so I’ll try the other. That was what it amounted to. Dowling gave a mental shrug. MacArthur had the right to ask that of him-and the busier the Confederates were in Virginia, the smaller their chance to send even more men west. With a little luck, they might even have to bring some back. Dowling said what needed saying: “Of course I’m at your service, sir. Whatever you require of me, I’ll do.”

Nothing made Daniel MacArthur happier than unhesitating obedience. He looked quite humanly pleased as he answered, “Thank you, General. That was very handsomely said.”

For once, Dowling made his farewells without getting the impression of breaking off an artillery duel. As he headed for his green-gray motorcar, another one-a bright blue civilian Olds-pulled up alongside it. A woman not far from his own age got out. Her hair was the pinkish white peculiar to aging redheads. She moved with a brisk spryness that belied her years.

“Hello, Colonel Dowling. No, excuse me-hello, General Dowling. I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. “Got a cigarette?”

A broad smile spread over Dowling’s face. “Hello yourself, Miss Clemens. I sure do. Here you are.” He pulled the pack from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” Ophelia Clemens lit one and sucked in smoke. Then she stuck out her hand. When Dowling took it, she gave his a firm pump and let it go. The formalities satisfied, she nodded toward MacArthur’s headquarters and asked, “So how’s the Great Stone Face?”

One of the reasons Dowling had always liked her, as a reporter and as a person, was that she said what was on her mind. He, of course, did not enjoy the privilege of being outside the chain of command. He answered, “General MacArthur seems well.”

“Oh, yeah?” she said. “Then how come he’s dumb enough to keep feeding troops into a meat grinder like Fredericksburg?”

“I’m afraid I’m not the one to answer that, since he is my superior and since my corps is stationed at the other end of our line.” Having said what any loyal subordinate ought to say, Dowling couldn’t resist adding, “If you need to know his views, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ophelia Clemens said, and Dowling wanted to hug himself with glee. Unlike a lot of correspondents, she had no patience with bloated egos or double talk. She had cut through Custer’s pompous bluster like a regiment of barrels going through Sioux Indians. He didn’t think she’d have any trouble doing the same with MacArthur. Then she surprised him by asking, “And how have you been?”

“Oh, tolerable. Yes, tolerable’s about right.” Dowling batted his eyelashes at her. “I didn’t know you cared.”

She was taking a drag, and choked on it. She went alarmingly red. Dowling had to pound her on the back. When she could talk again, she wheezed, “God damn you, General-you caught me by surprise.”

“Sorry, Miss Clemens.” Dowling more or less meant it.

“A likely story,” she said, sounding more like her herself. “You’re just trying to get rid of me so you don’t have to answer questions about how things got screwed up this time.”

“I thought you already had all the answers,” he teased.

She shook her head. “Not yet. But I aim to get ’em.” With determined stride, she advanced on Daniel MacArthur.

The Townsend slid over the improbably blue waters of the tropical Pacific as smoothly as if Japanese airplanes had never bombed her. As George Enos, Jr., swabbed her deck, he looked over the side every now and again to see if he could spot the feathery wake of a periscope.

When he did it once too often to suit a petty officer, that worthy barked, “Enos, you’re goldbricking. You think your eyeballs are gonna spot something our hydrophones miss?”

“Probably not.” George knew better than to make a challenge too blatant. “But you never can tell, can you?”

“I can tell when you’re goofing off,” the petty officer said. After the one growl, though, he went off to harass somebody else. George’s answer held enough truth to let him wiggle off the hook.

He swabbed conscientiously for a while, in case the petty officer came sneaking back and caught him doing too close to nothing. He wasn’t terrified of the man, the way some ordinary seamen were. For one thing, he was in his thirties himself; the other man didn’t put him in mind of an angry father. For another, he’d been yelled at by experts on the Sweet Sue. What was one more fellow with a big voice? Getting along was easier, but one more bawling-out wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Fighters buzzed overhead. These days, American ships didn’t sail out of range of land-based aircraft from the Sandwich Islands. Somebody in Honolulu, or perhaps somebody back in Philadelphia, had finally had a rush of brains to the head. George wished that would have happened sooner. The Townsend would have been better off for it.

Or maybe it wasn’t such a rush of brains. About fifteen minutes later, the destroyer’s klaxons hooted for general quarters. George threw the mop into the bucket and ran for his antiaircraft gun. He didn’t know whether the skipper had spotted an enemy submarine or aircraft or just had a case of the galloping jimjams. That wasn’t his worry. Being ready to do his little bit to keep the ship safe was.

He got to the twin-40mm mount just ahead of Fremont Dalby. If you were ahead of your gun chief, you were doing all right. “You know what’s going on?” Dalby panted.

“Nope. All I know is, I run like hell when I hear the siren,” George answered.

Dalby chuckled. “Long as you do know that, what you don’t know doesn’t matter anywhere near as much.”

The rest of the sailors who served the gun took their places within another minute or so. The Townsend ’s intercom crackled to life: “Now hear this. We have detected aircraft approaching from the northwest. Y-ranging gear says we have about fifteen minutes. Assistance from more land-based airplanes is promised. That is all.” A pause. “Do your duty and all will be well.”

George laughed a sour laugh. “ ‘All will be well.’ Yeah-unless we get blown to kingdom come, anyway.”

“I’d like to see those Army assholes get more fighters out here in fifteen minutes, too,” Dalby added. “Matter of fact, I would like to see it, but I’m not gonna bet the damn farm.”