still wished he had another post besides damage control. He'd been stuck with it for years now, but that didn't mean he liked it. He wished he could see, could be part of, what the ship was doing against its enemies. Cleaning up the mess after the guns and aeroplanes had failed to stop trouble was a lot less appealing.
It was to him, anyhow. Some people wouldn't have done anything else. Some people fancied sauerkraut, too-no accounting for taste. Lieutenant Commander Pottinger found damage control fascinating. He probably liked sauerkraut, too, though Carsten had never asked him about that.
By now, Hiram Pottinger had had more than a year to learn the ropes around the Remembrance. He really led the damage-control party, which he hadn't when he first boarded the carrier. Part of Sam chafed at losing the responsibility that had been his. The rest insisted he'd never wanted that particular responsibility in the first place.
'Do you know anything, Carsten?' Pottinger asked. 'Have any idea why the captain called us to general quarters? You like to hang around on the flight deck.' By the way he said it, that was a faintly-or maybe more than faintly- reprehensible habit for a damage-control man to have. Sam told what he'd seen and heard. Pottinger frowned. 'Do you think it's the real McCoy?'
'Sir, I don't know for sure one way or the other,' Carsten answered. 'All I know is, it could be the McCoy.'
'Yes.' Pottinger nodded emphatically. 'Of course, that's the way we have to treat every general-quarters call-something to remember.'
He spoke now to the seamen and petty officers in the party, not to Sam. Their nods held varying degrees of impatience. They knew the truth of that better than he did. Most of them had served on the Remembrance when the war with Japan broke out. Pottinger hadn't. As far as Sam knew, he hadn't seen combat.
The damage-control party waited, down there in what they knew could easily become their tomb. A torpedo hit in the engine room, and the light bulbs that were the only illumination in this world of narrow steel corridors smelling of paint and oil and sweat would go out, trapping them in the darkness while, all too probably, the sea surged in around them.
Maybe my trouble is too much imagination, Sam thought unhappily. Damage control's no place for somebody who sees all the things that can go wrong before they do.
But that thought had hardly crossed his mind before the all-clear sounded. As always, sighs of relief accompanied it. If they seemed more heartfelt than usual this time… well, they did, that was all.
Reprehensible habit or not, Sam made a beeline for the flight deck as soon as he could leave his station. He soon found out the call to general quarters had been a drill, and hadn't sprung from sighting a submersible or anything else that could have been hostile. That was all to the good.
On steamed the Remembrance, into the Gulf of California. She was scrupulous about staying outside the territorial waters of both the Empire of Mexico and the Confederate States. Legally speaking, she was as much on the high seas as she would have been halfway out from San Francisco to the Sandwich Islands. Somehow, though, neither the Mexicans nor the Confederates seemed to feel that way.
A rusty gunboat flying the Mexican flag chugged out from La Paz to look her over. A Confederate coast- defense battleship, a much more serious threat, steamed into the Gulf from Guaymas. On the open sea, the Remembrance could easily have outrun her. Here in these narrow waters, the slow but heavily armored and armed ship had no trouble sticking close.
And, as they had in the Straits of Florida, aeroplanes flew over the Remembrance. Her own machines leaped into the air to warn off the intruders. The Confederacy was supposed to have no military aeroplanes, but… Carsten waited for another general-quarters call. In his time as a seaman and petty officer, he'd served the carrier's five- inch guns. These days, they fired at aeroplanes as well as aiming at targets on land and sea.
When the alarm didn't come, Sam drifted over to the wireless shack. He let out a snort when he found out the strange aeroplanes overhead were labeled confederate citrus company. 'What's so funny, sir?' asked a wireless operator, a youngster who hadn't been aboard on that earlier cruise.
'That's the same outfit that eyeballed us when we sailed between Florida and Cuba,' Carsten answered. 'Do the Confederates even grow citrus over by Guaymas?'
'Damned if I know, uh, sir,' the operator said. Sam didn't know, either. He did know the land there would have to be more fertile than the sorry, sunbaked soil of Baja California to give anybody even half a chance.
He didn't know the Confederate Citrus Company was a smoke screen to get around the military restrictions the armistice had imposed on the CSA. He didn't know, but he'd wondered even back in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. Here in the Gulf of California, he went from wondering to down-right suspicion.
The wireless operator said, 'Sir, shall we remind the skipper the name's the same now as it was then?'
'He's bound to remember,' Sam said, but then, 'Yes, go ahead and remind him. It can't hurt, and it might do some good.'
He went back out to the flight deck. The aeroplanes from the Confederate Citrus Company seemed about as swift and maneuverable as the ones that had sprung into the air from the Remembrance's flight deck. Why would an outfit that dealt with oranges and lemons and limes need machines like that? Carsten didn't know, but he got more suspicious.
About twenty minutes later, the aeroplanes that had flown out from the coast of Sonora suddenly went back the way they'd come. Rumor, which flew faster than any aeroplane, said Captain Stein had warned them he would have his pilots shoot them down if they lingered.
Sam didn't know if the rumor was true. If it was, he didn't know if it was connected to the reminder. But, when he got the news, he said only one word: 'Good.'
Through the coffeehouse's front window, Nellie Jacobs watched a tweedy man come out of the cobbler's shop across the street. The fellow's long, lean face bore an unhappy expression. She wasn't surprised; the shop had gone to the dogs in the more than three years since her husband, who'd had charge of it from not long after the turn of the century, passed away.
The tweedy man crossed the street, heading her way. He almost walked in front of an auto; the horn's angry bray pierced the plate glass. Nellie wasn't sure the man even realized the horn had been aimed at him. Once safe on the sidewalk again, he took a notebook out of a jacket pocket, consulted it, and then headed for her door.
She brightened. Business hadn't been brisk this morning. Business hadn't been brisk a lot of mornings lately, or afternoons, either. The man pulled at the door when he should have pushed. Realizing his mistake, he tried again. The bell over the door rang.
'What can I get you, sir?' Nellie asked from behind the counter.
'Oh.' By the surprise in his voice, he hadn't thought of ordering anything. Then he nodded to himself, deciding he would. 'A… a cup of coffee, please.' He set a dime in front of Nellie. Tiny and shiny in silver, Theodore Roosevelt's toothy grin stared up at her.
'Here you are.' She gave him the cup. 'Cream and sugar right there.' She didn't bother pointing them out to most people, but he might not have noticed without help.
'Thank you,' he said, and used them. After a sudden, pleased smile at the coffee, he asked, 'Excuse me, but were you acquainted with the gentleman who used to run the cobbler's shop across the street, Mr., uh'-he paused to check that little notebook again-'Harold Jacobs?'
'Was I acquainted with him?' Nellie echoed, scorn in her voice. 'I should hope I was! Aren't I the mother of his daughter?'
'Oh!' The tweedy man brightened. 'Is that why he wasn't there, then? Is he here? May I speak with him, please?'
She eyed him with even more scorn than she'd used while speaking. 'Good luck, pal. I wish I could. He died in 1933. Who the devil are you, anyway?'
'My name is Maynard G. Ferguson, Mrs. Jacobs.' Ferguson used the title with some hesitation, as if unsure she deserved it. She gave him a dirty look. He hurried on: 'I am a professor of history at the University of Pittsburgh. I'm studying the way the United States gathered intelligence in Confederate-occupied Washington. Would you know anything about that?'
'I hope I would,' Nellie answered. 'Haven't I got my own Order of Remembrance, First Class, put on me by Teddy Roosevelt his own self, for the help I gave Hal during the war? What do you need to know?'
'Order of Remembrance, First Class?' Out came the notebook again. After peering into it, Maynard Ferguson
