"Good thing he didn't," the exec said. "But how are you supposed to fight a war if everybody's got bombs that can blow up a city or a flotilla all at once?"
"Nobody knows," Sam answered. "I mean nobody. The board that talked to me when we came in for refit right after the war ended asked if I had any bright ideas. Me!" He snorted at how strange that was. "I mean, if they're looking for help from a mustang with hairy ears, they're really up the creek."
"Maybe the Kaiser will be able to keep England from building any more and France from getting started. Japan and Russia, though? Good luck stopping 'em!" Menefee said.
"Uh-huh. That occurred to me, too. I don't like it any better than you do," Carsten said.
"It's going to be trouble, any which way," Menefee predicted.
"No kidding," Sam said. "Of course, you can say that any day of the year and be right about nine times out of ten. But just the same…Hell, if Germany and the USA were the only countries that could make superbombs, how could we stay friends? It'd be like we mopped the floor with everybody else, and we had to see who'd end up last man standing."
"Hard to get a superbomb across the ocean," Menefee said. "We don't have a bomber that can lift one off an airplane carrier, and the Kaiser doesn't have any carriers at all."
"We don't have a bomber that can do it now. Five years from now? It'll be different," Sam said. "They'll shrink the bombs and build better airplanes. Turbos, I guess. That's how those things always work. I remember the wood and wire and fabric two-decker we flew off the Dakota in 1914. We thought we were so modern!" He laughed at his younger self.
Lon Menefee nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right, skipper. But the Germans still don't have carriers."
"Maybe they'll build 'em. Maybe they'll decide they don't need 'em. Maybe they'll make extra-long-range bombers instead. If I were fighting the Russians, I'd sure want some of those. Or maybe they'll make rockets, the way the damn Confederates did. I bet we try that, too. How's anybody going to stop a rocket with a superbomb in its nose?"
The exec gave him a peculiar look. "You know what, skipper? I can see why the board asked you for ideas. You just naturally come up with things."
"Well, if I do, the pharmacist's mates have always been able to treat 'em," Sam answered. Praise-especially praise from a bright Annapolis grad-never failed to make him nervous.
He got a grin from Menefee, but the younger man persisted: "If you'd gone to college, you'd be an admiral now."
Sam had heard that before. He didn't believe it for a minute. "I didn't even finish high school. Didn't want to, either. All I wanted to do was get the hell off my old man's farm, and by God I did that. And if I was the kind of guy who went to college, chances are I wouldn't've been the kind of guy who wanted to join the Navy. Nope, I'm stuck with the school of hard knocks."
"Maybe. But it's still a shame," the exec said.
"Don't flabble about me, Lon. You're the one who'll make flag rank. I like where I'm at just fine." Sam wasn't kidding. Two and a half stripes! Lieutenant commander! Not bad for a man up through the hawse hole, not even a little bit. And his superiors still wanted him around. Maybe he could dream of making commander, at least when they finally retired him. He sure hadn't wasted any time sewing the thin gold stripe between the two thicker ones on each cuff.
He'd flustered Menefee in turn. "Flag rank? Talk about counting your chickens! I just want to see what I can do with a ship of my own."
"I understand that." Sam had waited a long, long time for the Josephus Daniels. But doors opened to young Annapolis grads that stayed closed for graying mustangs.
Menefee pointed across the water. "Supply boat's coming up."
Before Sam could say anything, the bosun's whistle shrilled. "Away boarding parties!" Sailors armed with tommy guns went down into a whaleboat at the archaic command. Others manned the destroyer escort's twin 40mms. After that bumboat attacked the Oregon, nobody took chances.
If the boat didn't stop as ordered, the guns would stop it. But it did. The boarding party checked every inch of the hull before letting it approach. Sam hadn't had to say a word. He smiled to himself. This was the way things worked when you had a good crew.
Sooner or later, conscripts would replace a lot of his veteran sailors. By now, he knew what he needed to know about whipping new men into shape. He didn't look forward to the job, but he could do it.
Meat and fresh vegetables started coming aboard the destroyer escort. The chow was better than it had been when she spent weeks at a time at sea. Sam had never been one to cling to routine for its own sake. If he never tasted another bean as long as he lived, he wouldn't be sorry.
"I'm going to my cabin for a spell, Lon," he said. "The paperwork gets worse and worse-and if something disappears now, we can't just write it off as lost in battle, the way we could before. Damn shame, if you ask me."
"Sure did make the ship's accounts easier," Menefee agreed. "Have fun, skipper."
"Fat chance," Sam said. "But it's got to be done."
Dealing with the complicated paperwork of command might have been the toughest job for a mustang who'd never been trained to do it. You could end up in hock for tens of thousands of dollars if you didn't keep track of what was what, or if you absentmindedly signed the wrong form. Because he'd had to start from scratch, Sam was extra scrupulous about double-checking everything before his name went on it.
He absently scratched the back of his left hand, which itched. Then he went back to making sure of his spare-parts inventory. Some of that stuff-the part that petty officers found useful-had a way of walking with Jesus.
A few minutes later, he noticed his hand was bleeding. He swore and grabbed for a tissue. He must have knocked off a scab or something. When he looked, he didn't see one. The blood seemed to be coming from a mole instead. After a while, it stopped. Sam went back to work.
Things on the Josephus Daniels were just about the way they were supposed to be. If he had to turn the ship over to a new CO tomorrow, he could without batting an eye. His accounts were up to date, and they were accurate-or, where they weren't, nobody could prove they weren't. People said there was a right way, a wrong way, and a Navy way. He'd used the Navy way to solve his problems about missing things.
Sam grinned. Of course he'd used the Navy way. What other way did he know? He'd given the Navy his whole life. He hadn't known he would do that when he signed up, but he wasn't disappointed. He'd sure done more and seen more of the world that he would have if he'd stayed on the farm.
The only way he'd leave now was if they threw him out or if he dropped dead on duty. He'd been scared they would turn him loose when the war ended, but what did they go and do? They promoted him instead.
"Nope, only way I'm going out now is feet first," he murmured. "And even then, the bastards'll have to drag me."
A U.S. warship under his command anchored in Mobile Bay? He'd never dreamt of that when he signed on the dotted line. He hadn't imagined he could become an officer, not then. And he hadn't imagined the USA would ever take the CSA right off the map. The way it looked to him then-the way it looked to everybody-both countries, and their rivalry, would stick around forever.
Well, nothing lasted forever. He'd found that out. You went on and did as well as you could for as long as you could. When you got right down to it, what else was there?
Miguel Rodriguez said…something. "What was that?" Jorge asked.
His brother tried again. "Water," he managed at last.
"I'll get you some." Jorge hurried to the sink and turned the tap. When he was a little boy, he would have had to go to the well. This was so much easier.