When the all-clear sounded, Sam let out a sigh of relief. Maybe the seas were too high to let the limeys launch torpedoes or to allow for accurate gunnery, but he didn't want to have to see by experiment.
As he left his station, he laughed at himself. For one thing, as he'd thought before, the United States were at peace with Britain, even if the two countries were a long way from friendly with each other. For another, he didn't know for a fact that there were any Royal Navy ships within a hundred miles of the Remembrance. Along with everybody else in the damage-control party, he'd been building castles in the air.
Sailors coming from other stations were also buzzing about the limeys. If they were wrong, they were all wrong the same way. Carsten shrugged. If he'd had a dollar for every time he'd seen unanimous rumor prove mistaken, he could have quit the Navy and lived ashore in style.
He headed for the officers' mess, both to grab a sandwich and some coffee and to find out what was going on from some people who might actually know. When he got there, he discovered that most of the other officers were as much in the dark as he was.
Before too long, though, Commander Cressy came into the mess. Every head swung toward the executive officer. Sam was far too junior to ask the question about which he was so curious, but that didn't matter, because a lieutenant commander from engineering did it for him: 'Did we really bump into the limeys, sir?'
The exec paused to time the ship's roll and put cream in his coffee with the least likelihood of spilling it all over the deck. That done, he nodded. 'We sure as hell did. Oh, not literally, but in dirty weather like this we have to worry about that, too: can't spot anything till it's right on top of you.'
'They're patrolling farther west than they have for a while,' another officer said.
'I know.' Commander Cressy nodded again, not very happily. 'We have no agreement with them that says they can't, but they haven't up till now. They still have a long reach, damn them.'
'Think they could link up with the Confederates, sir?' Sam asked.
'Now isn't that an interesting question?' Cressy said. 'You have a way of asking interesting questions, Carsten.' Almost shyly, Sam dipped his head at the praise-if that was what it was. The exec went on, 'The short answer is, I don't know. For that matter, the long answer is I don't know, too. We haven't spotted the Confederates doing a whole lot to build up their surface fleet- some destroyers and cruisers, but no new battleships, no carriers. They would have a devil of a time building those without our noticing. Submersibles… Submersibles are a different story, I'm afraid.'
The officer who'd first asked about the Royal Navy was a flame-haired Irishman named George Toohey. He said, 'They started building those fuckers- pardon my French, sir-years before that Featherston bastard grabbed the reins. You can bet they haven't stopped since.'
'We should have made 'em say uncle the second we caught 'em at it,' another lieutenant commander said. 'It would have saved us a lot of grief. Their boats gave us fits in the last war. They're liable to do worse than that if we ever have to tangle with them again.'
Nobody said he was wrong. Nobody in the Navy-nobody Sam Carsten had ever heard, anyhow-would have said he was wrong. But Commander Cressy only shrugged. 'No use crying over spilt milk,' he said crisply. 'We're stuck with the world we've got, not the one that might have been. For better or worse, the political will to clamp down tight wasn't there. If we ever do have another war, God forbid, I think we'll see Royal Navy subs-and French ones, too-refitting in Confederate harbors, and C.S. boats doing the same thing on the other side of the Atlantic.' His smile bared sharp white teeth. 'Makes our job a little more interesting, doesn't it, gentlemen?'
'They won't be using Bermuda or the Bahamas or Canada as bases against us, anyway,' Lieutenant Commander Toohey said. 'Not this time around, they won't.'
'Or Newfoundland, either.' Commander Cressy was relentlessly precise.
'If the Confederate States have a lot of submarines, holding on to the Bahamas could get expensive,' Sam remarked. 'Long haul down from Philadelphia and New York City, and every mile of it right past their coast.'
A very young ensign said, 'Baltimore's closer.'
Cressy withered him with a glance. 'A look at the map would remind you that Baltimore also lies within Chesapeake Bay. One assumes the mouth of the bay will be thoroughly mined. One also assumes the Confederates in Norfolk will not sleep through the commencement of hostilities.' The ensign turned pink. He left the mess in a hurry. The exec was imperturbable. 'Shall we go on discussing reasonable possibilities?'
'Even if the Confederates don't have carriers, how many land-based bombers have they got?' a lieutenant asked.
That struck Sam as a possibility altogether too reasonable. He said, 'I was aboard the Dakota in 1917, when British bombers attacked her from the Argentine mainland. That wasn't much fun-and the airplanes now are a lot better than they used to be.'
Commander Cressy nodded. 'One reason we have carriers is to keep land-based aircraft off our fleets. Even so, though, the days of operating battleships in coastal waters may be gone for good.'
The lieutenant who'd asked about land-based bombers said, 'In that case, sir, why do we keep building them?'
'I am not the right person to whom to direct that particular question, Mr. Hutton,' the exec replied. 'I suggest you ask your Congressman, your Senators, and the Secretary of the Navy. You may be sure, I have done so.' His smile was cynical. 'You may also be sure, my letters have done just as much good as you would expect.'
Carsten had been in the Navy his entire adult life. He understood how the top brass thought. 'We got some use out of battleships in the last war,' he said, 'so of course we'll need them in the next one.'
'Yes. Of course.' But that wasn't agreement from the executive officer. It was raw sarcasm. 'By that way of thinking, it's a miracle we have any carriers at all these days.' Another of those frightening smiles. 'But of course we know everything is exactly the way it should be in this best of all possible worlds. Don't we, gentlemen?'
No one in the officers' mess quite knew how to answer that. Sam hoped somebody in the Navy Department did.
XIV
If it had been up to Armstrong Grimes, he would have dropped out of high school as soon as he could and gone to work. He wanted everything work could give him: money, money, and, well, money. He didn't think his mother would have minded. She and Aunt Clara were keeping Granny's coffeehouse going to bring in extra cash.
Armstrong snickered and cursed at the same time. He'd never liked his aunt, and it was mutual. They were only a couple of years apart, but these days the gap seemed wide as the Grand Canyon. Clara had escaped from school, while Armstrong was still stuck in it.
Not matter what he thought, his old man was bound and determined that he get his high-school diploma. Armstrong quarreled with his father, but he'd never had the nerve to take things too far. Merle Grimes walked with a permanent limp, yes, but that was no sign of weakness. It as much as said, Don't mess with me, punk. The Confederates shot me and I kept going, so why the devil should I be afraid of you?
And so Armstrong had to endure another six months of Theodore Roosevelt High School before he could escape into the real world. He said as much one night, resentfully, over supper.
His father laughed. 'Once you do graduate, you'll probably be conscripted. Two years in the Army will show you what's real, all right.'
'They don't conscript everybody in a whole year-class, the way they did in your day,' Armstrong said. 'I've got a pretty good chance of just being able to get on with my life.'
'Your country is part of your life,' Merle Grimes said. 'If you don't help it, why should it help you?'
'I would if we go to war or something,' Armstrong said. 'But now…?' He spread his hands, as if that would tell his father what he wanted instead of a green-gray uniform. Heading the list were his own apartment, his own auto, and a good-looking girlfriend the first two items would impress.
'The peacetime Army is a steady place,' his father said. 'The way things are these days, that counts for a lot. Who knows what'll be out there? If your grades were better…' He gave his son a dirty look.
'So I'm no greasy grind,' Armstrong said, returning it with interest. 'I do good enough to get by.'
'Good enough to get by isn't good enough,' his father insisted. As far as Armstrong was concerned, he might
