Several hours' work after Sharon Sue had left had resulted in a thin sheaf of papers, now in the briefcase beside him on the deck. Norris had countersigned it, and only Vickery's approval was needed before Change One to the Shiloh operation order would be issued. The times had all been moved up and the marine assault force had been increased. Several other details — the results of intense cerebration on his part — had at least had the effect of making the little general happy, to the point where he'd left Port Control for the first time in three days.
There were still annoyances, of course. His personal life, for one. He frowned down at the whitecapped sea, admitting he was getting too attached to the Negro woman. He told himself this sternly and then stood motionless for several minutes recalling in detail their last time together and then imagining the next.
He came back with a start and frowned again. And Turner was still holding out, after forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation, chemical therapy, and the other humane but necessary methods of modern interrogation. Sanchez was applying the pleasure technique now. He wondered for the hundredth time what secret the giant Negro retained with such stubbornness that in the end he might die before he talked.
In the midst of his thoughts the beat of the engines changed and the cruiser's nose moved slowly to the left. He squinted into the sun. There, on the horizon — were those specks ships? And beyond them, just visible over the glowing edge of the sea — something larger?
He stared, eyes watering in the glare. He'd read of it, seen it in films — but this was the first time he'd laid eyes on the Allied Western Atlantic Fleet.
Its outlying scouts, the destroyer squadrons and fast cruiser groups, had fallen over the horizon behind before the Line came into view. He gripped the rail as Shenandoah swung to fleet course and began its mooring approach. He could see for thirty miles or more, up and down the entire Line.
There were fifty of them, he couldn't see or count them all, but every schoolchild knew that. Fifty firstline dreadnoughts, Allied Joint Design heavy classes, the flags of the Empire, the Confederacy, France, Germany, and Brazil fluttering from the foretops. Spaced in perfect line ahead, the squat gray hulls barely rolled as they plowed through the quartering seas.
This was the Line. This, he knew — these hundred-thousand-ton battleships, with waffle-composite armor twenty feet thick, thirty-inch automatic guns that reached out eighty miles — these were the deterrents that had kept the peace for so long. A Union move into Canada or the South would elicit instant retaliation on New York, Philadelphia, Portland, and Boston. The new Union fleet built for the Japanese war was still in the Pacific, though some units were probably steaming back around the Horn (the Empire Canal was of course closed to Union warships). But no Northern fleet, or even a joint Russo-Union fleet, could stand against this tremendous instrument of combined Allied might.
He felt a swelling in his throat at the sight. There, below, he caught sight of the scarlet pride of the Stars and Bars passing below the zep at the masthead of Alabama, one of the Confederacy's own.
"Prepare for mooring," came over the airship's announcing system. "Line and tube crews to stations. Cargo, mail, passengers, stand by for debark."
That was him. He walked aft, wondering how he'd get down to Redoubtable, which was now visible just ahead. Sailors herded him into a line in front of a closed door. A bearded man waited calmly in front of him. He glanced nervously around, then tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, I haven't done this before. How do we get down?"
"Not to worry." The man removed a short pipe from his mouth and pointed forward. "Just wait about four seconds after I go, then step through."
"That's all?"
"And keep a good grip on that briefcase." He tucked the pipe in again just as a light went on over the door.
"Commence debark," said the announcing system.
The door slid open and the first man stepped through and disappeared. The line moved quickly. The bearded man stepped through and disappeared. Quidley counted to five, clutched the case to his chest — hell to pay if he lost that — and stepped forward boldly, into nothing. It was dark and he was falling and then something was squeezing him tightly, all around, something slithery and close —
He landed heels-first on a yielding surface. There was light, and hands pulling him out, into the open air. Then he was standing on a metal deck, the roar of the airship's engines drumming in his ears.
"This way," a sailor shouted, and he followed at a run. Glancing back, he saw how it had been done. A long, narrow tube of fluttering fabric, like a lady's stocking, had been lowered from the hovering airship's keel to Redoubtable's stern. Down it, as he watched, moved a bulge: a person. The fabric was elastic, and its friction slowed a fatal fall to a controlled descent.
"You're Major Quidley?" A Royal Navy ensign, very young. He saluted back and nodded. "Follow me please, sir. The admiral's waiting on the flag bridge."
He followed the boy through endless corridors bright with shined metal, lined with machinery of vague purpose, and crowded with sounds and smells utterly foreign to him. At one point they waited for an elevator. He was a little weary when the officer opened a last door for him and said, "Sir Leigh is the one—"
"Yes, I know him. Thank you."
"Nice to see you again, Major," said Vickery, extending his hand. "The trip out, pleasant, eh?"
"It was — quite an experience."
"Never been dropped before, eh? Can't say I'm fond of it myself. Still it gets you down quick. That the material?" He gestured at the briefcase.
"Yes, sir." He started to open it but the admiral waved it shut.
"Not just yet. In a moment we'll go back to my cabin." The old man squinted out at the sea. "Damned fine sight, aren't they, Major."
"Inspiring, sir." He searched for words. "Really thrilling. The glory of the Alliance, I'd say."
"Glory? Yes — and its greatest weapon," said Vickery. "A quarter of a million officer and other ranks — and an investment of something like twenty billions of pounds sterling." He stared out at the line of gray dreadnoughts. "To think," he said softly, "if this new weapon is as powerful as the Yankees say, it could annihilate a fleet like this in less time than it takes to draw a breath."
Quidley was silent, and after a moment the admiral shook his head and slid down out of the elevated chair.
The sea cabin was large, plush, finished in mahoganyhued metal. A single painting, an architectural study of a Viennese square, adorned the bulkhead. Vickery waved at a deep chair. "Drink?"
"It's rather early, sir."
"Nonsense. Rum?"
"If you insist."
Vickery poured it himself from a wickerwrapped pottery jug. Quidley tasted it cautiously. Royal Navy rum, liquid tradition. Sir Leigh sat heavily opposite him. "Very well, Major. You may report now."
"Yes, sir." He quickly outlined the progress of Norris's preparations for Shiloh, and explained about the CBI report of a leak. "Because of that, sir, here are our recommendations for changes to the operation order."
Vickery studied the papers for several minutes. Keen old eyes flickered in Quidley's direction. "This misleading message you mention—"
"Yes, sir." He dug into his briefcase again. The pink copy, still with a carbon leaf fluttering from it. "I'll summarize it, sir. It's a canard, of course. To the effect that the Fleet is moving east some five hundred miles."
Vickery's lips pursed. "For what purpose?"
"Well… to locate our traitor, sir."
Vickery stared at him. "Major, do you really understand what forces you're dealing with? Really?"