Food was served at the hospital, and she had learned to eat without listening to the cries or smelling the stench of the wounded. She hadn’t grown immune to the sounds of agony, but she could block them out. And they kept telling her that this was only the beginning. Wait until the real battles began and then the casualties would pile up.
She heard noises, familiar noises, at the door to the apartment and she smiled. It had to be the dog and cat. She hadn’t named them yet. She didn’t even know if they’d stay or if she wanted them to. They’d attached themselves to her for the simple reason that she’d fed them some scraps and given them some water. They were an unlikely pair and must have lived together in past times. In a city emptying of humans, many animals had been left behind and could be heard howling pathetically. More casualties, she thought. If she and the two animals survived, she’d take them with her and give them proper names.
Finished bathing, Kirsten dried herself and put on a robe. Then, with a revolver in her hand, she checked the door. The two animals stared up at her as if she was God. She laughed and they trotted in happily and raced to their food dishes.
Damned British arrogance, thought Admiral von Trotha. Every few days, all or most of the British battleship squadron would emerge from Puget Sound and steam around for a day and then return. They did not stop and identify themselves, nor did they ask permission. Arrogance, he seethed. Still, they were in international waters and there was no war between Great Britain and Imperial Germany, at least not yet.
Like any German naval officer, he longed for the day when his capital ships could send the British battleships to the bottom of the Pacific. Like all German officers, he was concerned that the British were finding ways around the limitations imposed on them by the Peace of 1915. True, there had been no increase in the number of British battleships, but the treaty had large holes in it. For instance, there was no prohibition on submarines, a mistake which Trotha found appalling. He knew what damage German U-boats had done to British and French shipping in that short war. Intelligence said the Limeys were launching subs in large numbers.
It was further rumored that the British were experimenting with using ships as platforms for airplanes. Rumor said that a half-completed battlecruiser had been reworked with a landing deck so that planes could be launched and landed. Trotha didn’t think the impact would be large in the short run, since only small airplanes would be able to land on such a ship and small planes carried small bombs. Still, it was something to think about as planes got larger and more deadly. The warplanes of 1920 bore little resemblance to the tiny things of 1914.
Something else to think about was the three-battleship British squadron, with attendant destroyers and cruisers, that was steaming just over the horizon. His picket ships had identified the three British ships and he would not impede their progress, however much he would like to. He would ignore them with the same contempt the British showed him.
Trotha turned to Roth, his aide. “Another pleasure cruise. I wonder if the Limeys sell tickets.”
Roth smiled dutifully. At least the admiral wasn’t in his usually foul mood when the British exited the Sound. “One of these days, Admiral, I pray that the pleasure will be ours.”
Later that night, lookouts on the picket ships spotted the British returning. However, there was one disturbing problem. Instead of three battleships, only one was headed back to Puget Sound, with fewer escorts. Two light cruisers and a pair of destroyers also seemed to have disappeared.
Trotha received the information in silence. His stomach curdled and he tasted bile. Where the devil were the two other two British warships? Had they steamed west to Hong Kong or some other British possession? They could be on their way to India, for that matter, and he prayed to his Lutheran God that they were. But why would the British weaken their squadron in the face of the German one?
Or? His stomach erupted in acid. When he got control of himself he sent a radio message to a contact in what was, allegedly at least, neutral Canada. How many British warships remained in the Sound? How many Americans?
It took an eternity lasting only until midday for the response to come. All British warships, especially battleships, were present and accounted for. However, two American battleships, the Arizona and the Pennsylvania, were nowhere to be seen.
He sank heavily into his chair. His enemy had slipped the leash and were somewhere in the vastness of the Pacific.
If Crown Prince Wilhelm was surprised to see Foreign Minister Arthur Zimmerman, he was far too poised and imperial to show it. After a quick lunch, champagne and cigars were provided. Zimmerman relaxed slightly.
“Highness, I’m certain you’ve heard rumors that the Mexican alliance is going to hell.”
“Of course,” he snapped. Had Zimmerman come all this way to tell him that?
Zimmerman wiped his brow. He’d had a miserable trip. He’d been in Mexico City making a courtesy call on the Carranza government when the regime changed. He’d been there to try and bolster Mexico and ensure that she stayed the course as an ally of Germany. Now all that was ashes. Damned foolish Mexicans, he thought. They would pay for this betrayal.
As quickly as possible, he’d taken a train from Mexico City north and west, carefully avoiding possible fighting at Monterrey, and then on to San Diego, where he’d been driven north to the crown prince’s headquarters.
“I wanted you to know that it appears to be the worst possible outcome,” Zimmerman said. “With Carranza dead, it is only a matter of time before the Mexicans abandon us.”
The prince smiled tolerantly. Did Zimmerman think he was a fool? Of course he’d been aware of the possibility that Mexico would abandon Germany and that the thousands of Mexican soldiers in his command would either become prisoners or deserters. He did not think they had the guts to become his enemies. They would become prisoners.
In short, poor Zimmerman had wasted a trip. He should have exited Mexico via Vera Cruz and been on his way to the comforts of Berlin. Still, the foolish little man was his father’s envoy.
“More champagne?” he offered and Zimmerman nodded. The servants had been sent away, so Wilhelm filled their glasses himself.
“I’m glad you came, Minister, and you can be assured that your information is greatly appreciated. I think you will be pleased to know that we have had contingency plans ready to put into effect should the ungrateful Mexicans decide to so treacherously leave us.”
“I’m glad,” said Zimmerman, then yawning hugely. The effects of the long trip and the champagne were beginning to tell. Zimmerman was in his late sixties and the trip would have been exhausting for a younger man. His heavily-waxed handlebar mustache was beginning to droop, which Wilhelm found amusing.
“Everything will be under control thanks to your initiative,” Wilhelm said soothingly.
“Wonderful, sir. However there is one other thing. I received a cable from your esteemed father just before leaving. He is concerned that this campaign is taking too long in light of emerging problems in Russia and the apparent resurgence of England and France. He wishes California secured as soon as possible.”
Wilhelm nodded. He understood fully that his beloved but insecure father was vacillating once again. The kaiser was the one who had told him to move cautiously and carefully and chance nothing. Now he wanted California secured and that meant taking San Francisco as soon as possible.
Damn.
Admiral Hipper hid his anger over the incompetence of von Trotha and his captains. Complacency had reared its ugly head and there was nothing he could do about it. The two American battleships were gone and that was that. Would he be hearing from them? Of course.