by M. L. Maki
“No, sir. I was born in 1919.”
Leigh, “That’s fine, son. You have my blessing.”
READY ROOM, GRUMMAN FIELD, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
0745, 29 December, 1942
Over breakfast, Swede asks, “Spike, when do you want to turn over?”
“When the squadron is all here. The Army is scrambling, but it’s our mission for a few weeks. While we’re both here, I’ll keep the call sign Arthur 1, so you can keep yours. I’ll have Too Tall, or McRae fly on my wing.”
Lt. Colonel Louis ‘Shotgun’ Mossberg grins, “Yep, just like old times. Anyway, the Yorktown will be getting underway for flight certifications and qualifications in about a week. They’ll want my squadron back, so I’ll talk to Groovy about doing the training up here so we can back you up.”
Swede, “While they’re up here, can you talk him into letting the Knights requalify?”
Spike, “Are you two nuts? Training flights in the north Atlantic in January? Really?”
The two men look at each other, then back at Spike. Swede, “Good point. I wasn’t thinking about the weather.”
Spike, “God. Anyway, the John Wayne is only authorized for land based.”
Swede grimaces, “I’ve got to get my head back in the game.” He looks at Shotgun, “Not a good look for us.”
Shotgun grins, “Nope. Spike, are you sorting out the bull shit?”
Spike meets his gaze and smiles, “We can’t focus on that. It’s a distraction we don’t need. Swede, Shotgun, thank you for getting your units out here so fast. Look, we have our plan in place. We can do this.”
Shotgun, “Yes, we can. By the way, thank you for making me a superstar in Atlanta.”
Spike grins, “No problem. Hopefully, it will make what you want to do after the war easier.”
“You know?”
“It’s obvious. You have my support, Shotgun. It’s the right thing to do.”
SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, DC
1000, 29 December, 1942
Pettigrew knocks and walks into Senator Russell’s outer office. He asks the secretary, “Excuse me, is Mr. Diggs in?”
“He is. Just a moment. She picks up the phone and informs Diggs of Pettigrew’s presence. Diggs steps out of his office. He looks at Pettigrew who’s now in a civilian suit. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Could you speak to Brigadier General Lincoln, Mr. Diggs? I’ve lost my commission.”
Quincy Diggs contemplates Pettigrew, “I don’t believe I know you. What is your name, sir?”
“It’s me, Pettigrew. We spoke several times about Commander Hunt.”
“You are mistaken, sir. I’m quite sure we’ve never met.”
Pettigrew goes pale, shocked, “I see. Thank you for your time.” He turns and leaves.
CAMP BALCOMBE, AUSTRALIA
0630, 30 December, 1942 (1730, 29 December GMT)
Lieutenant John Hunt walks into the company headquarters. Captain Tomkins smiles, “You got mail. A letter from your mom, one from your daughter, and one from a Navy JG named Buford.”
“Thank you, sir.” He sits at his desk and opens Buford’s first. He reads it then looks up, “Captain, you should hear this.”
16 November, 1942
Lieutenant Hunt,
My name is Jeremiah Buford. I’m a SEAL officer in the U.S. Navy. I’m writing you about your daughter, Samantha. We met in England. The point is, I love her. She seriously outranks me, but I don’t care about that, and neither does she. Our first date was in London after the German surrender. We haven’t been together long, but the times we have seen each other, it’s been intense and meaningful. I love her, and she loves me. I’m seeking your blessing for her hand in marriage. I’ll be asking your father as soon as I can find a way to contact him.
I want very much to do this right. She deserves nothing less.
Sir, may I have your blessing?”
Sincerely,
Jeremiah Buford, Lt. JG USN
Tomkins, “Well, what are you going to say, Hunt?”
“It sounds like he’s known her longer than I’ve known Alysha. He also sounds like a standup guy. I’ll give him my blessing. But, may I say, this feels weird.”
“Good. And, you’re right. It’s beyond strange. What is a SEAL?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
ARTHUR 1 OVER RAF GREENWOOD, NOVA SCOTIA
1413, 29 December, 1942 (1813, 29 December GMT)
Spike flies parallel to the runway at three thousand feet. “I only see four or five hangers. No hard shelters. There are a dozen Mosquito fighter/bombers lined up on the apron. “Okay, I’m ready to land.” Chaos calls it in and they circle to land. The watch as a PBY Catalina takes off on submarine patrol. Spike touches her jet down and taxis to the tower. “Prepare to be cold.” She pops the canopy and the freezing December air hits them like a hammer. They unass and secure their bird. She looks at the Canadian and American military wandering up to look at her jet. She catches up to a man in coveralls “Sergeant?”
He salutes, “Ma’am?”
“Can you assign a detail to guard our jet. I won’t be long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A sedan pulls up and the driver gets out and opens the rear door for a Canadian RAF wing commander who’s missing part of his left arm. She and Chaos walk up and salute. She puts her hand out, “Samantha Hunt.”
He returns the salute and shakes her hand, “Well, yes, Commander. I’m Edgar Pope. Please join me. It’s but a short journey to my HQ.” He and Spike get into the back and Chaos gets into the front passenger seat. When they get inside the HQ building, he escorts them to his office, “Tea?”
Spike, “Please. Lavatory?”
Pope smiles and gives her directions. When she returns, Chaos and Pope are laughing. She smiles, “I’m sorry I missed it.”
Chaos turns to her, “So, American, Canadian, and Russian medical scientists gather at a meeting to discuss their recent achievements. The head Russian announces, ‘We of the Russian Federation have taken the head of a dead man, built a body around him, and now he works for the state.’ The Americans, not to be outdone, announce, ‘We took the body of a dead man, built a head for it, and now that man is looking for work.’ The Canadians just smile and announce, ‘Well, we took a Canadian asshole, built a government around him, and now everybody is looking for work.”
Spike joins in their laughter. They sit down and are served tea. She takes a sip, “Oh, that is good. So warm.” She smiles, “Wing Commander Pope, how many Tomcats can you support at this field?”
“We have two fuel tanks dedicated to jet fuel holding a half a million gallons. We recently completed a heated hanger for maintaining the Griffin. We’re supposed to get a dozen soon. That hanger should be sufficient for your maintenance needs. We have enough aprons available for one, maybe two squadrons. To fit two, I’d need to store our aircraft and secure training.”
“We have one squadron coming here. Do you have the room to absorb one hundred fifty people?”
He’s quiet, thinking, “That’ll be a challenge. Can we put your ground personnel up in town?”
“Do you have the logistics to get them back and forth?”
“That I can do.”
“That’s fine. The flight crews obviously need to be close to their aircraft.”
“Of course. That can be arranged.”
“De-icing?”
“We have two de-icing trucks.”
“That works. We need to keep two ready five aircraft de-iced at all times so they don’t have to wait for a truck to respond.”
“I have a solution for that. There’s an old barn near the end of runway 26. I believe two Tomcats will fit.”
“Okay…but the surface between the barn and the runway?”
“Packed snow.”
“We’ll need to tow the jets to the runway before we start the engines. The jet wash would tear the hell out of the snow.”
“That can be arra
nged.”
“Wow. That was easy. We really appreciate this. The Black Knights will be flying in tomorrow. And, thanks for the tea. It was needed.”
POOL, TENNESSEE WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY, ATHENS, TENNESSEE
1600, 29 December, 1942
Lieutenant Jeremiah Buford watches the boys of David’s football team as they do the swimming test. Their coach asks, “Sir, are they going to make it?”
“It looks like they all will pass the entrance exam. I doubt all of them will make it through BUDS.”
“BUDS?”
“Basic Underwater Demolition School. It’s the beginning of SEAL training. There are more schools after that. All of them need to shoot, too.”
“These are Tennessee boys. Most of them can bark a squirrel.”
“Well, we’ll see how they do. About a half to a third of the candidates drop out.”
“Sir, these boys will make it.”
“We’ll see. Have you heard about the Hunt’s house guests?”
“The Japanese family?”
“Man, word gets around fast, just like back home. They’re the family of Samantha Hunt’s RIO. He and his family are from 1990 when Japan was a close ally of the US.”
“Why did they come here?”
“Samantha said she thought her own community would honor her request to treat them with respect. They’ve had a hard time.” He looks out over the pool, “Sam trusts her RIO, Chris, with her life. We’re hoping all of you welcome them into the community and recognize they are not the enemy.”
“I see. I’ll make sure the word gets out. Who are you to Commander Hunt?”
Jere grins, “I’m her…I’m going to be her fiancé.”
“I heard you were injured.”
“Yeah. German machine gun. It’s healing.”
“How do you feel about your girl flying combat?”
“Proud. Coach, she’s the kind of woman to walk beside her man, not two steps behind. It’s one of the things I love about her.”
GRUMMAN FIELD, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
1515, 29 December, 1942
Snow falls onto Spike’s plane as it’s pushed into a hanger. When it’s undercover, she and Chaos climb out. Swede and Gandhi are waiting for her with a civilian who looks vaguely familiar. When her feet hit the concrete, she says, “Walk with me.” She walks rapidly to the head.
Swede, “Spike, this is Robert Heinlein.”
She stops abruptly and offers her hand, “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m sorry, I really need the head.” She takes off and he looks after her, bemused. When she walks out, she smiles, “Sorry about that. What can I do for you, Mr. Heinlein?”
“A pleasure to meet you as well. I’m here to help you. I brought a crew of technicians to troubleshoot the Phoenix missiles.”
Spike, “That’s right. You’re an engineer. So many of the early sci-fi writers were from the hard sciences.”
“Please, Bob. Did we ever meet?”
“Spike, or Sam. We never met, but I’m a huge fan.”
Heinlein smiles, “Well, then, it’s mutual. I’m amazed and thrilled at your success. It’s an indication that our culture finally develops beyond the prehistoric model we seem to embrace.”
Sam smiles, “Only just. I forget, are you already writing? I think most of your books come later.”
“Yes. I’ve met with some small success.”
“You’ll have even more success after the war. You’re somewhat of a nerd celebrity.”
Swede smiling at Sam’s enjoyment of the moment, says, “The missiles?”
Spike, “Sorry, Swede. Have we figured it out?”
Heinlein, “Two problems. One, an amphenol doesn’t seat properly. We sent four for a joy ride and found two had loose amphenols. Second, a metal object moving fast through the atmosphere generally generates a static charge. The missile design places an electronic card too close to the hull of the missile. We think that is an issue.”
Spike, “I see. How can we fix it?”
Heinlein, “A wrap of tape and better support bracket for the amphenol. A small piece of stiff paper, bent and clamped between the card and the hull, should be a sufficient insulator for the card.”
Spike, “Okay, what kind of paper?”
Gandhi, “A playing card.”
Spike laughs, “Oh, perfect. Implement the Heinlein card trick. We’ll test it once it’s done.”
BOBLINGEN CAMP, GERMANY
0615, 30 December, 1942
Moses and Nata, shivering in the bitter cold, trudge back to their hut. Moses, “Sixty left and thirty-seven came back. Twenty-two came back too soon to have bombed anything. That leaves thirteen. Less than a quarter of the bombers made it through.”
Nata, “What happened to the others?”
“We might find out.” He looks up as a sergeant of the guard walks up to them at speed. “You. American.” Moses stops, waiting. “You flew with the Drachendame, yes?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant butt strokes him in the gut, and Moses folds to the ground. The guard spits on Moses, “She killed out pilots.” He storms away.
Moses struggles to his feet, helped by Nata, “Now, we know.”
“You know her?”
“A bit. I served in her squadron for a while.”
“What kind of woman does that?”
“One in a billion. She’s wrestled with Clausewitz and won. I respect the shit out of her. I’d follow her anywhere.”
“She’s one person.”
“So was Napoleon.”
CHAPTER 38
TARMAC, RAF GREENWOOD, NOVA SCOTIA
0800, 30 December, 1942
Spike taxis her bird to its spot in line. “Okay, Chaos, back to work. Can you figure out where I’m stay…?” She sees Cooper shivering and waiting for her, “Never mind. Cooper has it. I need you to take care of the jet, okay?”
“Roger, Spike. I got it.”
She unasses the bird and walks up to her yeoman. He salutes, ‘Ma’am, berthing is sorted. Over a dozen families have taken in our ground crew. I chose the most senior for that. The junior personnel are in barracks here. I’ve got contractors sorting out the ready five barn, so it’s livable. We have two tractors for moving the ready five birds. Meeting with the base commander in twenty minutes and the mayor has invited you to dinner. I haven’t answered yet.”
Spike’s lips twitch, “Thank you, Radar. Please put together the turnover. We should be sending Swede on his way.”
“Ma’am, we have two Hawkeyes flying up and the Black Sheep are at Grumman. Again, the whole show is yours. I recommend you keep ‘Arthur’ and leave Swede here until this is done. Are we keeping Too Tall and McRae, too?”
Smiling, struggling for composure, she manages to say, “Yes. It gives us an even number of jets and an extra officer for the command center. Where’s my room, and when’s dinner?”
“Dinner is at 1730, and your room is in the tower. We’re setting up a communications center next to the Canadian one.”
“Can we share?”
“I suppose, but we’ll need to add our encrypted gear.”
“Keep the actual radios under lock and key. The microphones, etc., we can put in the joint command center.”
“Roger that.” He looks up as snow starts to fall, again.
“Thanks, Cooper. It’s good to have you on board.”
Cooper lights up, “Thanks, Spike.”
TRAIN STATION, CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE
0915, 30 December, 1942
Jeremiah Buford and Leigh Hunt wait on the platform for the westbound train to California. Leigh, “You take care of yourself. You’re family now.”
“I will, sir. I saw you’d cleared a section of ground beside the house.”
Leigh grins, “Our family is expanding, so we’re expanding the house to fit. We’re building Sam a set of rooms; bedroom, office, library.”
“When I see her, I’ll let her know.”
They can hear the train pullin
g in, “Any idea when that’ll be?”
“The Black Knights are stationed in San Diego, so hopefully, soon.”
Leigh pulls him into a hug, “Take care, son.”
“You, too, Grandpa.”
They watch the train come to a stop and passengers pile out. They wait out the pandemonium, then Leigh says, “Remember to hug her for me. I miss her.”
“Yes, sir. I will.” Leigh smiles as Jere picks up his bag and steps aboard the train.
CONTROL ROOM, RAF GREENWOOD, NOVA SCOTIA
1700, 30 December, 1942
Spike, wearing her flight suit and green flight jacket, talks to the RAF control room director, a squadron leader. “My people will communicate with my birds. I’ll keep an officer in here around the clock.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you” She walks out.
Cooper waits, “I have a car, Spike. Time to meet the local politician.”
BRIDGE, USS LONG BEACH, RICH PASSAGE, EAST OF BREMERTON, WASHINGTON
0810, 5 January, 1943
The Long Beach is one hundred ten feet longer than the Columbia, and five feet narrower. Even with the bilge keels, she’s more tender in the waves. Captain Tenzar sits in his chair observing the watch team taking them out. Hughes steps out on the starboard bridge wing with binoculars and studies the mine laying station. He steps back in, “The mines are hauled in. They’ve a green flag flying.” He steps back out.
The Officer of The Deck says, “Aye, sir.”
The Long Beach works her way through the sinuous passage and soon, Seattle comes into view. Hughes looks astern. Behind them is the Horne. Behind the Horne is his old ship, the Columbia. The Columbia got repaired and upgraded, too. Following the Columbia will be the Carl Vinson. He smiles, “I served on that one, too.” He walks back into the bridge and across to Captain Tenzar. “It’s nice to be back at sea, sir.”
Tenzar looks at his XO, “Yes. At sea our world simplifies to one unified mission. I’m sure most of our crew would adamantly disagree.”
Hughes studies the passage in front of them, “Yes, sir. Enlisted sailors are never happier than when they are home. It seems half the crew is newly married.”
“We’ve been in the yards for ten months. It was bound to happen.”
“But not you, sir?”
Tenzar grins, “Oh, I have a woman. Her name is Long Beach. How did it go with you and the Admiral’s daughter?”
