Strangely, there was no pain.
"Turner. Who is this man? What were you and he doing?"
A bubbling sound answered him.
"Sanchez — his mouth—"
"Madre de Dios — let me at him, sir. Sergeant, get a medical officer, quick. On the double."
"What's happening? He's bleeding all over—"
"It's his mouth, Major." Sanchez probed, then glanced up. He looked sick. "He's bitten halfway through his tongue."
Quidley slumped against the wall of the elevator, fighting nausea. He was alone; his back hurt, his head ached, he felt unutterably weary and disgusted with the scene he'd just witnessed. No, not witnessed. Caused.
The poor bastard. Probably his great secret was something completely harmless. A crap game. A homosexual liaison with this 'Lee.' A big man like that would hold out sometimes for the most picayune reasons. For a moment, passing Norris's floor, he wondered if there could be a connection with the Shiloh leaks. No, that was ridiculous. A common waterfront Negro?
The traitor had to be one of the circle that had met right here in Port Control. Them — or someone close to them, to Norris, Sawyer, Vickery, Channing, the four or five others who'd been there. They were the only ones in Norfolk who'd even heard about the Project.
So… how could he find out who it was?
Still no answer surfaced, and he glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. Well, he couldn't stand around thinking, he had more than enough to do today. He pulled a black CSA-issue notebook from his pocket and consulted it. He had to check on the arrangements for pickup of the shell sometime today. He overrode the elevator's descent and sent it back to the ground floor. Roberts was there, asleep in a chair. Quidley kicked him awake and sent him to bring the car around.
The Bentley purred west through a perfect July day. Blue, unsullied sky, the mimosa and pine on either side of Shore Drive whipping by, swamp glinting between the trunks. An occasional glimpse of one of the moving dunes the Cape had been famous for long before Secession, and once in a while a waving grinning colored boy, tending the traps that still yielded muskrat and fox. The purr of the engine, the gay snap of the Stars and Bars put him in a more cheerful mood. He leaned back against the cushions and thought.
It was a beautiful scene; but he knew it covered a national malaise.
The Confederacy had done well at first, after the War of Secession. The new industries built under forced draft in 1860-64 had made Northern goods and heavy industry superfluous. After 1863, too, the British had supplied iron, powder, arms, woven cloth, engines, technical advice, and investment.
At the same time, President Lee's wise Conditional Emancipation had defused the slavery issue while assuring a continuation of white dominance.
After the century's turn, and during the Depression, Confederate society had evolved, under the influence of such English thinkers as Bernard Shaw and Beatrice Webb, into Dixie Socialism; voluntary, largely, for the whites; government direction and employment, for the CEs. It had worked well. Up to now.
The trouble, he thought, was the Yankees' making. They'd never recovered from the trauma of Secession. Only Confederate-Empire military readiness had kept them from invading during the Western War, and again, in 1895, during the Cuban Acquisition. Since the World War the Entente had deterred Yankee adventurism; even with the czar and his Russian masses behind them, the North was reluctant to tangle with the British and French Empires.
Now, apparently, it was to be different. With this weapon, and a little more time, the Union could face the Allies. He didn't think they could win. But the carnage would be awesome, and the South, once again, would be the battleground.
He set his jaw. Shiloh had to succeed. Once the Allies too had the secret of the atomic shell it would be a standoff. There would be no war. Not, he thought, that he was personally averse to war; at least, not to a gentlemanly kind of war, preferably fought mounted on a good horse, though there'd not been much use for cavalry in Flanders in 1916. A war with pennants and medals and glory and not too many casualties. But mass destruction… that made no sense at all. Not to a Southerner. To the Yankees, with their fascination for machines at the expense of all human values, well, perhaps it did.
His thoughts were interrupted as Roberts slowed the car at the gate of the Marine base at Little Creek. The sentry saluted crisply and waved them through. He leaned forward. "Stop here, sergeant. I'll walk on down to the piers."
"Yes, sir, Major."
Roberts? Impossible, he thought, walking toward the basin where gray masts and upper works showed. The man knew none of the details. Too, he'd been thoroughly investigated long before getting his stripes. He was getting paranoid. Next he'd be suspecting himself. He paused at the head of Pier Two and looked down at the boat.
High-speed, shallow-draft; an adaptation, he recalled from the operation order, of the boats that had run guns and mercenaries in and out of the Yucatan before annexation in '27. It was about sixty feet long and lay low in the oilrainbowed water of the basin. A Navy ensign dangled lifelessly from a pole at the stern. No one was in sight. A gangway led down from the pier. After walking the length of the boat, he strolled down it. A face appeared in a hatch amidships as his steps sounded on the deck.
"Army, eh? Help you, Lieutenant?"
"Major." Quidley looked around. The sailor, a very young man with the sallow look of an engineer, hauled himself out of the hatch and stood, wiping his hands on a rag.
"You don't salute?" Quidley asked him coldly.
"Navy don't salute without they got a cap on, Lieutenant."
"Major."
"Right-oh. Whatcha need?"
"Is your, your captain aboard?"
"Chief Haile's over't the club. I've got the duty."
"I see. I'd like to look over your ship."
"Boat, sir. What for?"
"What?" He'd taken enough. The lack of respect, the obvious sloppiness —
"Sir, we're on special assignment in a couple of days. We got special gear. So I can't let just anybody look around."
"I know about your assignment." He pulled the op order from his briefcase and flashed the cover before the man's eyes. "I'm part of it. General Norris sent me to check your boat out. Now let's get going; I haven't got all morning."
"Okay, okay. Follow me."
Quidley tried to reflect on the rugged individuality of the Confederate enlisted man, but failed. The sailor wasted no time giving him a quick once-over of FPB122. Most of his lecture was devoted to the engines, which interested him not at all, provided they ran. Finally he interrupted the seaman, who was explaining some arcane pump: "Where do you put your cargo?"
"Cargo? Oh, I know what you mean. We'll put it amidships, in a set of torpedo chocks."
"How fast can you go?"
"Forty knots, with a tailwind."
"What's that in miles an hour?"
"Fuck if I know, Lieutenant."
Quidley controlled himself. If he got angry with this dolt it would come down to another Army-Navy pissing contest, the last thing he needed. "I'm leaving now. Please have your commanding officer call me at 4-4108."
"Sure thing, Lieutenant."
"Ah—"
"Just go on up, sir. Supposed to salute the ensign when you leave, but seeing as how you're Army—"
When he got back to the car he cursed Roberts out roundly for leaving the engine running.
The rest of the day went better. Around one, eating a sandwich Jeannie brought him at his desk, he suddenly had the idea he'd been waiting for all day.
There had been a military secret. It had been leaked. All right; he'd make up a secret of his own, release it to a few selected people, and see if it came back from the CBI's unknown informant. If it did, then the channel was one of the people who had the fake data. If it didn't, he could make up another and give it to those who hadn't had the first. At the very least he could claim it as a smoke screen, a confusion factor. And it would get him off the hook with Norris. He thought for a few minutes, scribbled on a sheet of paper, and he had it.