Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II Book 3)

by James Young

  “Which wedding?” David asked, getting a playful slap from his wife.

  “Which wedding?” Myla asked.

  “Civil and church ceremony,” Sam said.

  “I found him to be quite the charming dancer,” Beverly said, standing up. “If he hurries up with that record player, I might be sober enough to avoid making him catch me.”

  Sam looked at the four empty bottles of wine sitting on the dining room table.

  Sadie didn’t have any, I have had maybe a couple of glasses, and David’s been being very careful how much he drinks so he can drive home, Sam mused. No wonder Myla, Major Haynes, and apparently Beverly, are all three sheets to the wind.

  “That’s not hurrying,” Myla said quietly.

  Sam smiled in response, then went to go get the appliance.

  I better just shut up and embrace what the universe is throwing at me, I guess.

  Honolulu Public Library

  1400 Local (1900 Eastern)

  Honolulu

  29 July

  “Well, you look like you’re ready to stab a few people in the throat,” Josephine “Jo” Morton said as she stood up from the bench in front of the local library. “I sincerely hope it has more to do with the reason you’re a couple hours late rather than anything I’ve done.”

  Jo almost ducked back behind the bench as Patricia glowered at her.

  “I may kill that man,” Patricia spat.

  “To think a few weeks ago I would have had to ask you which man you meant in particular,” Jo replied. “Your fiancée, one of your brothers, the two sailors who keep looking at your ass like we’re not standing in front of a reflective glass.”

  The two men in question jumped at Jo’s barked tone, both blushing. Jo continued to glare at the duo, her olive complexion preventing her face from coloring so she could have maximized the angry effect.

  Bad enough you guys sat there for the last thirty minutes without even giving the woman in green a second glance. But the minute Miss Alabama here walks up in a yellow number and suddenly you’re unable to tear your eyes away? Jo clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring as she continued giving both men an intense glare.

  “Sorry,” one of them muttered as they both hurried into the library. Jo usually worked at the far smaller Pearl City Public Library, but had agreed to cover a friend’s shift due to the little matter of childbirth.

  Sue Ellen doesn’t need any more on her plate, Jo thought. Not with her husband, like seemingly everyone else who was at this place a few months ago, somewhere in the Pacific.

  “VICE ADMIRAL FLETCHER’S FLEET ON RAMPAGE!” a newsboy cried, holding up the latest copy of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin. “ITALIANS FLEE CARRIERS!”

  Or perhaps elsewhere. Her brow furrowed, thoughts turning to where Italians could be possibly running from Fletcher before Patricia interrupted.

  “You know, I’m not going to spend my half day off listening to you poke fun at me,” Patricia snapped, then caught herself and drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Okay, I’m sorry, I should not be taking my anger out on you.”

  “Your new boss is an asshole,” Jo replied. “It doesn’t help he’s got you working insane hours with an odd schedule.”

  “Well, apparently that stopped today, and I got a half-day off as well," Patricia noted. “I don’t know who complained or if it was just a case of someone in payroll noticing the odd times, but he got quite the ass- chewing.”

  Jo kept a poker face as she looked at her friend.

  It’s funny that the daughter of a lawyer who has watched me pull several tricks out of the proverbial hat has no inkling just how her overbearing boss got set up It’s almost like I don’t know anyone in the Navy besides her brothers.

  “Have you heard from Eric?” Patricia asked as they stopped before crossing a street.

  “No,” Jo said, exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Patricia, you think I wouldn’t have mentioned hearing from him? Especially since he's on the same ship as one Ensign Read, the man you've been raging against for not writing?”

  Patricia shook her head, laughing.

  “You’re right, that was idiotic,” she said. “I swear, I feel like we’re just tossing letters into the void.”

  “I did hear from Dad though,” Jo continued brightly.

  “Finally!” Patricia said. The two of them stepped into The Flying Pineapple, their planned lunch destination. Both women stopped as they entered the bustling room, shocked at how busy it was. Jo felt several sets of eyes pass over them, but studiously ignored the gazes, stares, and outright leers as she got the waitress’ attention.

  “Just the two of you?” the woman asked, looking at Jo and Patricia with a familiar smile.

  You’d think we ate here quite a bit when Patricia still worked at the library.

  “Yes,” Jo said, smiling back.

  “Miss, you can come sit by us,” a British accented voice stated. Jo looked over at the table and saw that there were four “tars” sitting at it, their dark uniforms contrasting with the USN whites and khakis that were all around the bar.

  “No thank you, we’ll wait,” Jo said politely. She was turning back to the waitress when a New Jersey-accented voice piped up.

  “What’s the matter, you too good to just sit down with some sailors?”

  Jo ignored the comment, making sure the waitress had heard them.

  “Hey lady, I’m talking to you!” the voice said again, this time touched with a bit of anger.

  “And if you speak to her like that again, you’ll be seeing the inside of your ship for the remainder of your stay!” a voice cracked across the room. There was dead silence as the captain who had spoken stood up from his table. Jo did not recognize the man, which was a rarity within the Pacific Fleet.

  “Actually, sir, I think whomever said that and anyone sitting at his table are done eating lunch right now,” a second voice cracked, this one belonging to a senior petty officer who was also coming to his feet. There was a parting of the Red Sea moment as everyone near the wise-cracking sailor quickly moved away.

  Might as well have an arrow over his head, Jo thought.

  Patricia giggled beside her, a delicate hand covering her mouth. The sailor, a dark-haired man with acne-ridden facial features and beady dark eyes briefly looked towards her, angry at being laughed at. It was a bad mistake, as the chief strode over to him.

  “What ship are you off of?” the chief snapped. The sailor slowly rose to his feet, trying to work his face into impassiveness. After a moment, he realized he should be at a position of parade rest when addressed by an NCO.

  “The San Francisco,” he replied sullenly.

  “Oh, the old Frisco Maru,” the petty officer said, drawing some hard looks from the men with the mouthy sailor. “Funny, I might know a couple of chiefs on her. How about you and I take a walk back?”

  The man’s tone made it clear he wasn’t asking a polite question. Suddenly, the sailors glaring at the man, and the two other petty officers who had joined him from their own lunches, almost tripped over themselves leaving.

  “I think you might need some help with having this sailor find his liberty boat,” one of the chiefs said. “Right after he apologizes to these two young women.”

  Oh he’s fit to be tied.

  “I’m sorry, Miss,” the man said, his voice cool.

  “Why, he sounds almost completely contrite,” one of the other chiefs said. “Why, he’s so sorry, I think he wants to buy her lunch.”

  Oh no, that’s a bit excessive. She was about to speak when the young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill.

  “I think this will cover it,” he said, slapping the money down on the table. “Enjoy your meal, ladies.

  “Thank you,” Jo said, meeting the young man’s eyes. She had never seen someone say fuck you with their gaze before, but there was clearly a first time for everything.

  “Let’s go, sailor,” the chief said.

  “Thank you, chief,” the c
aptain said. Jo realized the man had three of his officers with him, all lieutenants and lieutenant commanders. “I’ll almost forgive you insulting my future vessel.”

  The chief, to his credit, didn’t even flinch.

  “I think it was the sailor’s mistreatment of these fine young women talking, sir.”

  “Certainly,” the captain replied. “Mistreatment I’ll be happy to deal with it in the morning after taking over from Captain Callaghan. Maybe when I’m consulting with this man’s division chief.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the petty officer replied. He turned back to the now-pale sailor.

  “Looks like your timing and ability to place both feet in your mouth are impeccable,” the petty officer said. “Start walking.”

  Jo watched as the two men left. The captain watched them go, then strode over.

  “I apologize for that man, Miss..?”

  “Morton,” Jo said. “Josephine Morton, Captain.”

  The man did a double take, then laughed.

  “Jacob Morton’s daughter,” he said. “I can see your mother in you now that I hear the name!”

  “Thank you,” Jo replied, feeling her cheeks warm.

  “I’m Captain Fischer,” the man continued. “Mel Fischer. Your father was the gunnery officer on the Augusta when I was the executive officer.”

  “Oh!” Jo said, her memory jogged. She noticed Patricia talking to one of the man’s accompanying commanders.

  “Where is he now?” Fischer asked.

  “He’s captain of the Houston,” Jo replied, sort of surprised that Fischer was not aware of what had been going on.

  “Captain?!” Fischer said. “Well I’ll be dam—“

  Jo smiled as the man caught himself.

  “He’s been very fortunate,” she said quietly. “Lucky to be alive, really.”

  Fischer nodded at her comment.

  “I’ve heard the East Indies was a very difficult time for everyone involved,” he said. “Augusta was the vessel the Houston replaced, so it could have just as easily been us as her if the war had started a couple years earlier.”

  Maybe if it had started a couple of years earlier my father would have been safely in charge of his own destroyer rather than getting injured on someone else’s cruiser, Jo thought. Oh well, worked out for him in the end.

  “Sir, we have a four o’clock appointment with Vice Admiral Halsey,” one of the other officers, apparently Fischer’s XO, said quietly. Fischer looked at his watch then smiled apologetically.

  “Until next time, Jo,” he said.

  “It was great catching up,” she replied, then felt kind of silly. She watched as the man and his group of officers walked out of the diner. Whether spurred by her incident or the normal ebb and flow of a work day in Honolulu, The Flying Pineapple had mostly emptied out.

  I feel sorry those British sailors had to see that, Jo thought, mildly ashamed at her countrymen. The hostess took them to one of the table that had been wiped down, offering them both menus.

  “I’ll have the ham and bacon sandwich,” Patricia said even before she slid into one side of the booth.

  “I’ll have the BLT,” Jo added, the hostess writing both down before she walked off.

  “Sailors are getting out of control,” Patricia observed angrily. “It’s getting so I don’t even want to go out anymore.”

  To think that this is with the whorehouses staying open. I can't imagine what it'd be like if Vice Admiral Halsey and General Short had actually listened to some of those Stateside moralists.

  “Too many sailors, not enough women,” Jo replied aloud. “If we were Stateside we wouldn’t even be noticed.”

  Patricia made a haughty sound.

  “Fine, some of us wouldn’t even be noticed,” Jo amended with an eye roll. To her credit, Patricia had the decency to look mildly embarrassed at her vanity.

  “Still, you’re right,” Jo said. “The librarians walk everywhere in pairs or more now when they’re out. A couple of them even make sure to take taxis rather than just walk a few blocks at night or catch the bus if it’s particularly late.”

  “Too many men doing nothing,” Patricia said. “My mother used to always say that a bored man would sooner set a field on fire than do anything useful.”

  “That’s a little extreme,” Jo said, then got to thinking. “Although you’re right, it’s not far off from ‘idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’”

  “There’s a reason the boys learned to never say, ‘I’m bored’ when Mom was in ear shot,” Patricia said. “That’d usually lead to everyone getting some chore assigned to them.”

  “I still say your mother should be sainted,” Jo said. “I love your brothers, but I can’t imagine growing up in a houseful of their younger selves.”

  “There were advantages,” Patricia said. “I miss having someone to walk me back from the Navy Yard or go to the beach with. Not that I’ve had time to do any swimming lately.”

  Jo looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then back at Patricia.

  “I heard there’s a new admiral on his way out here,” she said. “New guy, was in the elephant graveyard for the last five years.”

  “Elephant graveyard?” Patricia asked, mystified.

  “Where they send old admirals on the retired list,” Jo said. Seeing Patricia still looking confused if not slightly terrified, she continued. “It’s not a literal graveyard, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s just a list of admirals that the President can call upon if he needs to replace someone on the active list.”

  “What difference will bringing in some retiree make?” Patricia asked. “Isn’t that an insult to Vice Admiral Halsey?”

  Jo shrugged.

  “I don’t make the rules,” she said. Their conversation was interrupted by the waitress coming back out with their order. The brown-haired woman sat it down, along with a bottle of soda apiece, then sat down next to Jo and Patricia on an empty chair.

  Rebecca, Jo thought. Her name is Rebecca.

  “I’ll be so glad when this shift is over,” Rebecca sighed.

  “I imagine you’re making some amazing tips, though,” Jo observed.

  “Here’s the kind of tips I’ve been making: Sailors can pinch your rear end without even moving their arms or their buddies seeing who did it,” the woman said grimly. “I think they’re lucky my husband is working triple shifts, or he’d probably come to lunch to kill the first man he saw place their hands on me as an example to others.”

  “They can’t keep him repairing ships forever,” Jo said.

  “You’d think not,” Rebecca said, lighting up a cigarette. “But I swear to God half the Navy got beat up by the Japanese back in the spring.”

  “Odd how quiet it’s been since then,” Patricia said. She was about to say something else when a man came running into the diner.

  “King’s dead!” he shouted, twisting his hat in his hands. “Admiral King is dead!”

  The Nightmare Slips Its Moorings

  Whoever commands the sea, commands the trade; whosoever commands the trade of the world commands the riches of the world, and consequently the world itself.

  Walter Raleigh

  Hedglin Residence

  0530 Local (0900 Eastern)

  Bremerton, Washington

  30 July

  “I think I may have had too much to drink last night,” Beverly said, her breath rustling the hair on Sam’s chest.

  Oh shit, Sam thought. Here comes the regret. To his shock, Beverly slid up, grabbed his face in both of her small hands, then kissed him. Getting over his initial surprise, he responded in kind, running his hands down her back.

  “Because I don’t remember a whole lot other than Norah shoving us both in a taxi with a key to this apartment,” she said after a moment. “However, you being an impeccable gentleman, I think I literally had to take my dress off for you to get the hint.”

  “I do not think,” Sam said, kissing her on the forehead, “that is called
a hint anymore at that point.”

  “Well, after about the third slow dance with you poking something into my stomach, I figured you were interested,” she said. “I’d been interested since the third glass of wine.”

  “So you’re saying it’s the fruit of the vine that has led you down this treacherous path to sin?” Sam asked.

  “No, I’d say it’s my husband getting himself killed, three months of coming home every night alone sobbing myself to sleep, then the meddling of my neighbor,” Beverly said, sighing as she nuzzled Sam’s neck. “Then, yes, the wine.”

  There was the sound of a flushing toilet from somewhere upstairs.

  This place isn’t quite a dive, but it’s certainly not a top of the line building. I hope we don’t get Norah in trouble.

  “Sounds like someone else is up,” Beverly said. “By the way, where is Myla?”

  “David and Sadie took her home,” Sam replied, causing Beverly to shake her head ruefully.

  “That poor woman does not need to listen to those two rutting like crazy,” Beverly observed guiltily. “I am such a bad friend.”

  “I think Myla is utterly fine with what you did,” Sam said, drawing a poke from Beverly.

  “What I did?” she asked.

  “Fine, what we did,” Sam replied sheepishly.

  “Why Sam Cobb, are you ashamed of me?” Beverly asked. Her tone was joking, but Sam could sense the genuine concern underneath the question.

  “I would never be ashamed of you, Beverly,” Sam said.

  I hope she can tell I mean every word of that.

  Beverly searched his face, her eyes narrowing in the pre-dawn gloom.

  “I am, however, ashamed of my brother and his inability to realize how far low sounds carry,” Sam said. Beverly raised her eyebrows at that, then realized what Sam was alluding to.

  “Yeah, there are things I could have gone to my grave without hearing him say when Sadie and he were courting,” Sam said. “I can only imagine it’s ten times worse now that they’re married.”

  Beverly looked wistful for a moment, then changed her expression.