"Will that be necessary?" said Channing. "If, after all, there will be no prisoners taken—"
"We have to face the possibility of failure. If the unforeseen occurs, the disguise may help us with the terrorist cover story."
"I see."
"Swift and decisive action wiU be essential," Norris resumed. "Surprise must be total. There must be no chance for organized resistance. Now, the Marines will handle this on the tactical level. But I have decided to include an Army officer, though this was not in the original plan. Major Quidley."
"Ah… me, sir?"
"You. I want someone brave, a 'follow-me' type of leader. Not necessarily a brilliant officer" — Norris's little eyes crinkled — "but the kind that has inspired and stiffened our glorious Army throughout its history. I consider the Major a prime example of this type of officer."
He understood. The general was being kind, in his way. He was offering him a way out. If the operation succeeded — or if he was killed gloriously in action — the affair of the message would be forgotten. If the attack failed… then Aubrey Lee Quidley IV need not bother coming back.
"Is there a specific assignment for me, sir?"
"Definitely. You've ordnance experience — you know as much as any of us about fuzing and arming. I want you to make for the shell as soon as you land. Let the grunts take the ship. Get to it, guard it till all is secure, inspect it — it could be a dummy, or our intelligence could be wrong. Prepare it for offload. Treat it like your own child, Major; get it into the boat, stay with it, guard it with your life all the way to Georgia. Plain enough?"
"Yes, General. Ah — thank you."
"Gentlemen, the plan otherwise goes as printed. I will issue nothing written concerning the aerial attack. There is time, right up till two A.M., for the Yankee ship to turn north, go to battle stations, and make the operation impossible. You must keep this secret.
"Now — any questions?"
As they filed out he felt Sawyer's hand on his shoulder. "Congrats, Aubrey. Norris really trusts you."
"Um."
"This could be a real coup for you, y'know. The President is very interested in this project; could mean a colonelcy for you. I envy you, you prissy son of a dog!"
He grinned reluctantly. Sawyer in good humor was beginning to amuse rather than annoy him.
"What about a little snort to celebrate? I've got some stuff in my desk that will—"
"Thanks, Earl, but I've got a lot to do to get ready for tonight. The airships leave at midnight, and my going along is news to me — I'm not prepared at all."
"Thought you looked a little surprised." Sawyer lowered his voice, though they were alone now. "Look — this here Lewis affair — you might could wipe that all out with Norris tomorrow. If he doesn't report it, you're off the hook. Just wanted you to know I won't mention it up at the Castle."
"I appreciate it, Earl," he said, though a court-martial seemed a remote danger compared to dropping from an airship in the dark onto a hostile deck. "Well, look — I'll see you after the operation."
"Sure, Aubrey. Good luck then."
He plunged into his preparations as soon as he reached his office. He had to review and study the op order, seeing it now from the point of view of a participant rather than a planner. He had to memorize the plans for three decks of the President class of U.S. Navy combat freighters. Had to review everything he could gather concerning a nuclear shell, how it might work, how it might be fuzed and armed. Had to locate a Geiger counter, flashlight, battle helmet, tools. And on top of that had to find time to make some personal arrangements.
In case he didn't come back.
Because this operation would be dangerous. It was one thing to drop to the deck of the Redoubtable, a friendly ship, in daylight; quite another to do it at night, over a small ship, possibly in heavy seas. And once aboard there'd be human enemies. Most of the President McClellan's crew had probably seen action in the Pacific; they'd know what guns were for. Blackface wouldn't fool them for more than second or two.
At ten he closed up shop. He was exhausted. The scene with Vyry, the race downtown, the long day… only driving home did he realize he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He parked and let himself in quietly and went upstairs.
There was no time left for sleeping, though. A half-hour's drive back to the airfield, plus the usual Army last-minute hurry-up-and-wait, would consume all his time. There were, though, a very few things that he had to do; and they had to be done at home.
First, the documents: his will, a letter for his mother and one for Sharon. He left them on his bed.
Second: a fresh uniform. He bathed and dressed himself carefully from the skin out. Fresh, new underclothes. A new standard-weight cadet gray dress uniform, highcollared, badges of rank worked in sparkling new gilt. It fit tightly, broke cleanly just above his glossy dress boots. The Sam Browne — old, but still presentable; Post issue, the belt and holster he'd worn at VMI on the day the Colors had been paraded before the graduating cadets and he'd been saluted for the first time as an officer of the Confederate Army. He slid the .455 into its holster, oiled and loaded with fresh cartridges.
His spurs? No, that was silly. Besides, they might tear the fabric tube. Dressed, he went softly downstairs to the great hallway.
There they were. The lights were soft above their portraits, but he knew them. He'd spent his childhood under the stern features of the men above him on the walls.
Claude Quidley. The family's founder, who had arrived in Raleigh penniless and died owning four hundred acres of land and eighty-two human beings.
Jason Quidley: the first Army man in the line. He'd grown to manhood before the War of Secession, establishing the family fortunes in cotton and tobacco. A fine, bearded face, still rough with the strength of a farmer.
Colonel Jarrett Quidley. Claude's grandson — and the fastest-rising young officer in the newly formed Confederate Army, until he was killed at Gettysburg by Union canister during the terrible last charge that broke the Union lines. A dark, brooding visage, heavy with doom.
Then the next portrait, larger than the rest: the family's great hero. The painter had sketched a pale, long face, with the gray eyes of a dreamer — or of a fanatic. General Aubrey Quidley had commanded the turning movement through the Painted Desert — horses and men dropping at every step from heat and inadequate supplies but kept moving by the fierce will of one man — that had staved off disaster in 1888 and kept Arizona and southern California for the Confederacy.
The second of the name had been his grandfather, the Senior. Shown upright in a tinted photograph, he'd commanded a regiment in the Great War. He remembered the day he'd died, of pneumonia brought on by the gas he'd inhaled twenty years before at Passchendaele. And then, the last portrait, his father. Aubrey Quidley III had died young, at forty-six. All his life he'd served country, Army, honor. His great sorrow had been (he remembered his father well, his pacing before the fireplace, his gentle regrets over brandy with guests) never to have served his country in war. It was a testimony, he used to say, to the power of the Allies. Yet still….
Aubrey Lee Quidley IV stood in the shadowed hallway and looked into the stern, lofty faces of those who had preceded him.
Country. Army. Honor.
There was one more thing he had to take with him, and it hung here, on the wall beneath the portrait of Jarrett Quidley. He reached up, careful to be silent, and brought it down reverently.
It was a sword. Crudely made by twentieth-century standards, but not without its own grace, it was heavy, long, and slightly curved; he had in his childhood admired the elaborate etchings on the blade, intertwined cotton and tobacco leaves, with a large "C. S." On the throat of the blade, scarred with use and worn with age, yet still visible, were the initials, "K.G.& K., Columbia, S.C."