medicine.”
“There’s nothing defensive about sabotaging a nerve gas factory. You could send a cloud of death rolling right through the heart of Germany. You might as well call your mission a nerve gas attack.”
“That’s all the more reason for you to take part in the mission, Doctor. Having your expertise on the ground might prevent just such a disaster.”
“Frankly, Brigadier, I don’t believe you would perceive such an event as a disaster.”
Smith started to reply, but McConnell held up his hand. “This discussion is pointless,” he said. “I’ll do everything in my power to develop a defense against this new gas, but that’s all. I’m sorry, Mr. Stern. The brigadier could have saved you the drive from London. He knows my position on this.”
“And a damned infuriating one it is, too!” Smith said with surprising force. “You call yourself a bloody pacifist, yet you’ve been in this war longer than practically any other American!”
“I refuse to have this argument again,” McConnell said evenly. “There must be other scientists who could take this on.”
“None who is fluent in German.”
McConnell’s eyes widened. “You consider me a fluent German speaker?”
“Three years of German in high school, three more in college.”
“That hardly qualifies me as a spy.”
“I’ve seen men with half your linguistic skills go into situations twice as dangerous as the one I’m asking you to take on.”
“Did they come back?”
“Some did.”
McConnell shook his head in amazement.
“Ten words of German could get you past a border post, Doctor, and you’re better than that. There’s no degree in espionage, you know. Every moment in the field is part of your final examination. Besides, Stern here is a native German. He can polish your delivery while the preparatory work is being done.”
McConnell took a step toward Smith. “I’m not going, Brigadier. And you can’t order me to. I’m an American civilian and a registered conscientious objector.”
“You think I don’t know that? Have you forgotten who ensured that you were granted that classification? It’s bloody odd when you think about it. You call yourself a conscientious objector, but you’re not hiding back in the States with the Quakers and Mennonites. You’re nothing like the other pacifists I’ve seen. No, Doctor, to me” — Smith hesitated — “to me you look more like a man who’s afraid of getting killed.”
McConnell laughed outright. “I
“You’re damn right it isn’t, laddie! If Jerry hits us with Soman, we’ve got to be ready to hit back twice as hard!”
McConnell smiled icily. “Why don’t you spray the countryside with anthrax? That would render the whole of Germany uninhabitable for fifty years. Maybe even a hundred.”
“We can’t risk that, and you know it. They could do the same to us. It’s tit-for-tat, and the enemy always has the prerogative to strike first. That’s the hell of being a democracy.”
“Our unwillingness to use such weapons is what separates us from the Nazis, Brigadier.”
“Bring out the bloody violins,” Smith growled.
Jonas Stern was the first to hear the footsteps in the corridor. He touched Smith, who moved quickly to the door and opened it a crack. McConnell watched him step outside, heard the hum of low voices. Then Smith walked slowly back into the room, followed by a young captain wearing the dark blouse and pinks of an 8th Air Force officer. The captain had an envelope in his hand.
“Doctor,” the brigadier said in a soft voice, “this chap needs a word with you.”
Mark felt a strange tingling in his fingertips. “What is it? Has something happened to David?”
The captain glanced at Brigadier Smith. “I’m not supposed to say anything until you’ve opened the letter. But . . . Doctor, your brother was shot down last night. I’m sorry, sir.”
The captain extended the envelope. McConnell took it and tore open the seal. Inside was a sheet of paper, the words on it typewritten in the manner of a telegram.
REGRET TO INFORM CAPTAIN DAVID MCCONNELL KILLED IN ACTION 19 JANUARY STOP CAPTAIN MCCONNELL’S ACTIONS ALWAYS REFLECTED THE HIGHEST HONOR UPON HIMSELF THE USAAF AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA STOP I EXTEND MY PERSONAL CONDOLENCES STOP
COLONEL WILLIAM T. HARRIGILL
401ST BOMB GROUP, 94TH COMBAT WING
U.S. 8TH AIR FORCE. DEENETHORPE, ENGLAND
“Doctor?” Brigadier Smith said softly. “Mac?”
McConnell held up his hand. “Please don’t say anything, Brigadier.” He had imagined this moment many times. Daylight bomber crews suffered horrifying rates of attrition. And yet something about this seemed wrong. It was the timing, he realized. Two minutes after refusing Brigadier Smith’s biggest sales pitch ever, a messenger shows up to tell him his brother has been killed by the Germans? McConnell looked up from the paper and into the Scotsman’s pale blue eyes.
“Brigadier?” His voice was barely a whisper. “Is this your doing?”
Smith looked at McConnell in astonishment. “I beg your pardon, Doctor?”
McConnell took a step toward him. “It
The Scotsman straightened his back and raised his chin. It was the British equivalent of a cobra puffing out its hood. “Doctor, as much as I resent your insinuation, I am going to ignore it. I realize that in moments like this the mind grasps for any straw, however thin. But you are absolutely wrong.”
McConnell felt his face growing hot. The captain was staring at him as if he were a dangerous mental patient. He looked down at the telegram.
“Can you tell me any more than this, Captain?”
The young officer pulled at the tails of his dress jacket. “The colonel said you had a top secret clearance, and that I could tell you what we knew. David’s plane sustained catastrophic damage returning from a raid over Regensburg. It was hit by flak, probably fighter cannon as well. Nobody saw the aircraft hit the ground, but no chutes were sighted.”
McConnell’s eyes and throat were stinging. “Did — did you know my brother, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. Hell of a pilot. Always a joke for the ground crew. He even made the colonel crack a smile a few times. The colonel would have come himself, but we had — well, he was busy.”
Mark blinked away tears. “Does our mother know yet?”
“No, sir. That’s a draft of her telegram there.”
“Jesus. Ask the colonel not to send this, please. I’d like to be the one to tell her.”
“No problem, sir. It’ll eventually have to be sent, but I think the colonel can hold off a few days.”
McConnell looked from the brigadier’s ruddy face to Jonas Stern’s dark one, then at the captain. The messenger shifted uncertainly. “Sorry again, Doc,” he said. He saluted Brigadier Smith and backed out of the lab.
Mark put his hand over his mouth and tried to swallow. All he could see was David, not as he had seen him four days ago, but as a little boy in a muddy Georgia pond, trying to learn to hold his breath.
“I’m sorry, Brigadier,” he said softly. “I apologize.”
The Scotsman held up his hand. “There’s no need, man. I know this is difficult. I lost a brother myself. At
