Pacific Standoff (Periscope #1). Richard Deming
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out there. There would be a lot more of them if your service wasn’t so stuck on avoiding publicity. You don’t find carrier admirals acting so reticent about their victories.”
Jack made some vague response, his attention concentrated on the question of how Wilkinson had known his rank. He had not had time to put shoulderboards on his overcoat, and his dress coat was completely hidden. He glanced down at the cap in his lap and found a possible answer. The visor was bare of the gold “scrambled eggs” worn by full commanders and up, and it was almost unheard of (though Jack had done it) for a mere lieutenant to command a submarine. So Wilkinson could have deduced that he was a lieutenant commander, but only if he was both very sharp and very knowledgeable. Jack doubled his resolve to watch his tongue around him.
The strict rationing of tires and gasoline had thinned out the notorious Washington traffic, and they reached their destination much sooner than Jack had expected. When Wilkinson offered either to wait or to lend them the car, Jack declined politely but firmly; under the circumstances, they could not tell how long they might be staying at the hospital. He shrugged cheerfully, gave Helen another hug, and drove off waving.
“Well!” Helen faced Jack on the sidewalk, hands on her hips and eyes flashing. “You certainly weren’t very nice to poor Bunny, were you? Did it slip your mind that he was doing us a big favor, or are you still determined to insult any man I happen to like? I’m not fifteen anymore, you know!”
“Really?” His voice was cold. “I’d never guess from the way you act sometimes. As for your friend Bunny, it bothers me that a perfectly healthy young man has nothing better to do than drive around in a fancy roadster when there’s a war on. It’s bad for morale. And I don’t like you talking so freely about my work, either. I don’t want to throw the past in your face, but didn’t it occur to you that your friend Bunny knows an awful lot and was acting awfully mysterious about it? For all you know, he may be a spy.”
“Of course he’s a spy,” Helen retorted impatiently. “I told you that before, at the station.”
“What? You did not! Helen, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Bunny. He’s with one of those hush-hush outfits. This mustn’t go beyond us, but he just got back from Vichy, France. His father is a big wine importer, so he knows a lot of people over there.” A blush suffused her cheeks, but she continued doggedly. “The reason I knew he was in Washington is that he was one of the people who wanted to talk to me about that business with that skunk Nielson. And I don’t think it was very nice of you to bring that up again!” A hint of tears appeared in her eyes.
Jack put his arm around her. “Awe, come on, Sis, I’m sorry.” What a time for him to pick a fight with her! Still, she hadn’t told him about Bunny, whatever she thought, and he had been quite right to think there was something questionable about him. The fact that he was an American agent rather than an Axis agent didn’t alter that. Like many fighting men, Jack was slightly contemptuous toward what he thought of as cloak-and-dagger stuff, regarding it as childish, sneaky, and not quite honorable. A real man didn’t creep around back alleys, he stood up to his enemies and gave them blow for blow. “Let’s forget it,” he continued, “okay? We’ve got Dad to think about.”
The nurse who escorted them to their father’s room looked grave but told them nothing. The reason was clear the moment they walked through the door. Admiral McCrary was dying. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks had fallen in to the point that his face resembled a skull. He fought noisily for every breath, producing a dry rattle that sounded to Jack like someone dragging a bag of bones down a flight of steps. As they reached the side of the bed, his eyes opened. After a moment’s confusion he recognized them and smiled groggily. Jack shook his hand and Helen leaned over to kiss his cheek, then they started the sort of cheerful, trivial conversation they might have had with a neighbor met on the street. After a few minutes the old man’s eyes closed. Jack and Helen stopped talking and looked at each other, asking with their eyes what they should do now. Jack motioned with his head toward the door, but before they could move, the admiral opened his eyes.
“Pumpkin,” he said to Helen, “would you mind if I talked to Jack for a few minutes? They tell me there’s a lounge down the hall.” Helen blinked a couple of times, kissed him again, and left. Jack waited at attention by the bed. “Sit down, son,” he continued. “It’s hard for me to shout. I don’t have to tell you I’m going West this time.”
“Don’t be silly, sir,” Jack protested. “They’ll have you up and around in no time.”
“Crap. I’ve bought the farm, and we both know it. I don’t have time to horse around. The first thing I want to say is, when this is over and you return to your ship, I want you to take your grandfather’s sword with you. It’s past time it saw battle again.” The gold-ornamented dress sword had always hung in a place of honor when Jack was a boy, and sometimes, on very special occasions, his father would take it down and allow him to hold it, and tell him that this was the sword his own father had worn at the Battle of Manila Bay. Later, during a bout of adolescent skepticism, it occurred to Jack that officers on dreadnoughts during the Spanish-American War did not wear swords into battle. Still, it was his grandfather’s sword, and he had fought at Manila Bay, so the heart of the legend was true. Jack’s eyes smarted.
“It’s damned funny, isn’t it,” his father went on. “Forty years in the service man and boy, through one great war and into another, and I have never heard a shot fired in earnest. I think I would have measured up, but how is a man to know until the test comes?” His eyes moved to the ribbon of the Navy Cross on Jack’s breast. “You’ve met the test, son, and met it well. I never doubted that you would.”
“Dad—”
“No, let me talk. We don’t have a lot of time. I want to say something about your brother.” Jack started; his father had never mentioned Edward after the court of enquiry on the Sebago disaster. “I know you blame yourself for his death, but you’ve got to put it out of your mind. If anyone was at fault, it was I. I pushed the boy too hard. I was so determined to have my two sons holding commissions that I refused to see that he wasn’t cut out for the Navy. He wanted to resign from the Academy after his first term, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I held you up to him as an example, which wasn’t kind to either of you. And after my pressure led him to disgrace himself, I washed my hands of him. My own son, and I wouldn’t allow him in my presence! If I had been more of a father to him, he never would have enlisted like that. He would still be alive today.”
“Sir, it’s over and done. What happened to Eddie was no more your fault than if he had been hit by a train. And if he could be here, he would say the same, I know he would.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. What’s done is done.” He moved restlessly. “What’s to come is another matter, though. I want you to give some serious thought to your future.”
“Sir?” Jack’s voice was full of surprise.
“I know, the hazards of battle. But if you survive, as I pray you will, you should consider whether to retain your commission afterwards. I know,” he continued, weakly raising a hand to block Jack’s objection, “I know you chose a service career, and I know how much I had to do with that choice, too. But maybe I pushed you too hard, just as I did Edward. The Navy is changing. It’s being taken over by the slide-rule johnnies and paper-pushers. There’s less and less room for individual initiative, and you’ve always been a lone wolf at heart. You’d die of boredom in a staff post. Once we’ve beaten the socks off the Japs and Germans, you may find that your strong points are more valued outside the service, in politics for instance. And I don’t suppose being a dashing ex-submarine captain would hurt you, either. You will give it some thought, won’t you?”
“Sure, Dad.” Nothing was more unlikely, but Jack was responding to the pleading in his father’s eyes, not to his words.
“There’s something else.” His gnarled hands pleated the top sheet nervously. “You’ll be head of the family now. I expect you to look after your sisters. I blame myself there; I never had the time for them that they