I got on the horn at once to the ship. “Tomo, tell our ASW boys to put everything they have into the areas along the coast due west from Portland. I’m betting they’ll find a Chinese sub. If they do, let me know, but don’t attack it.” The Japs would be embarrassed if a Chinese submarine had gotten through to the coast undetected, but I knew subs were real good at that. If I were right, we had to grab the local gods before they got on board. The last thing I wanted was another incident with China, so we couldn’t attack the sub. If the Paleopitus did make their escape, the Chinese would have a government in exile they could work to put back in as soon as we were gone. That Chinese task force with amphibs suddenly took on a new meaning.
Meanwhile, we were in a tail chase with no aviation thanks to the weather. And we were infantry with no vehicles. It didn’t look good.
The Resistance forces set to work scrounging some trucks and fuel from what the Paleopitus had abandoned, and by late in the day we had a column ready to go. I didn’t have much hope of success, but I figured I’d head out with it anyway. Just after 17:00 hours, as I was getting ready to roll, Tomo came up on the radio. I figured they’d found the sub.
They had, and it was where it should to be to pick up the Paleopitus. But that wasn’t why he was calling. “I have an urgent message for you from Governor Kraft,” Tomo said. “At approximately six this morning, a Chinese ICBM hit the center of Portland Harbor. The missile carried no warhead, but it was followed by a Chinese ultimatum demanding compensation for the loss of their aircraft and the withdrawal of all Northern Confederation forces, ground, naval, and air, from Cascadia within 24 hours. Failure to comply will bring ‘full retaliation on the Northern Confederation with all the means at the disposal of the people of China.’ Request advice.”
No wonder Sherman said war is hell, I thought. But this time the Chinese hadn’t taken me by surprise. Now it was my turn.
“OK, Tomo, get this back to Governor Kraft immediately. ‘Response to Chinese ultimatum: You will have our answer in Shanghai.’”
“OK, I’ve got that,” Tomo said.
“Now, I've got a second task for you. You remember the yakuza I met with near the ryokan?”
“Yes.”
“Call him. You still have his number?”
“Yes.”
“Give him this message: ‘Illuminate the Great Wall.’ Got it?”
“Yes, ‘Illuminate the Great Wall.’ But what does it mean?”
“Just do what I say, Tomo. Please. I don’t have time to explain. Can you get that message to him immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m heading out with a truck-borne Cascadian Resistance force in chase of the Palaeopitus. Keep an eye on that sub. You’ll have continuous comm with me.”
Unlike American military radios, I knew Japanese military radios always worked.
A few days after I joined our fleet, a small freighter flying the Malaysian flag had steamed up the Whangpoo river into Shanghai’s outer harbor. In the world’s busiest port, it had gone unnoticed. A few hours after my talk with Tomo, its crew went ashore and melted away in the fleshpots of the Bund. At approximately six AM Shanghai time, the 300 tons of explosives on board blew up with a roar audible for fifty miles around. The ship was anchored far enough out that there was no damage to port facilities, just as there had been no damage in Portland.
The Chinese government knew the Northern Confederation had nuclear weapons. They had doubted our ability to deliver them on Chinese soil. I hoped we had now resolved those doubts. Where megatons are concerned, a fishing boat is as elegant a delivery system as any rocket.
The Chinese had wisely kept their ultimatum private, so they could ignore it without publicly humiliating themselves. But we still needed to wrap up the NC’s involvement in Cascadia fast. It was evening by the time our column got out of the Portland suburbs, and a slow tail-chase by night was almost hopeless. But we pressed on nonetheless, crawling along the barely discernible remains of old Highway 26 at an average speed of less than 10 miles per hour.
About an hour before daylight, I got a call from the SIGINT officer on the Adams, Commander Yahashi. They had picked up a rapid exchange of messages between a shore party and the sub, in a different Chinese code. He suspected it was from a Chinese military liaison party accompanying the fleeing Palaeopitus. After the final message from the shore party, the sub had turned away from the coast and was maintaining a course due west. Yahashi's Direction Finder put the on-shore source of the signals about ten miles east of Tillamook.
The night had remained wet and fog-shrouded, and we’d lost the remains of the road more than once. We had to turn south toward Tillamook and we missed the junction three times, hunting back and forth across it like dogs on a weak scent. Of the surrounding countryside we could see nothing.
A clammy dawn snuck in around 05:00, and it revealed a vision like nothing I’d ever seen, except maybe in pictures of the areas around Verdun or the Somme in World War I. The landscape was a bare, blasted ruin of mud and tree stumps and skidder trails. Through it on both our flanks marched columns of infantry: animals, dozens of them, coyotes, wolves, mountain lions, bears, emancipated household dogs and cats, emaciated, staring but keeping a safe distance of about 50 yards.
Deep Green, in its dual worship of nature and power, had stripped the landscape bare but strictly forbidden the killing of animals. Deprived of habitat, the animals had turned into quadruped Hell’s Angels, forming vast packs of mixed species, that moved from one government feeding site to another. Animal welfare working much like human welfare, they continued to breed until their numbers outstripped Cascadia’s ability to feed them, and then they kept breeding anyway. Sometimes they ate each other, but mostly they roamed, slowly starving.
Deep down in the ancestral dungeon of the human mind lies a powerful fear of being eaten. We fingered our triggers and wondered how soon we would run out of bullets. But the animals didn’t attack. They kept their distance, following us as we marched along.
A little after ten o’clock in the morning, heading south-southeast, our human convoy and its animal escort crested a rise. The motorcycle outrider on point held up his hand to halt us. I jumped down from the lead truck and walked forward. Just over the rise lay our objective, the gods of the Palaeopitus, along with their last-ditch Deep Green bodyguard and the Chinese liaison team whose calls to the submarine Yahashi had intercepted.
Their gnawed bones, stripped nearly clean of flesh, lay scattered in a circle about a hundred yards across. Crows flapped their wings and picked at the remains. Around the bones was a wall of dead animals, shot down in a charge that even modern firepower could not stop. Beyond the quadruped dead was another circle, of more predators of every kind, male and female, facing inward, standing at rest or sitting on their haunches. They turned their heads to watch us, but not a one moved.
Two armies faced each other, one human, one animal. I wondered what we would do if they attacked. All our firepower could do was build another wall of furry bodies before we too went down before their numbers.
But it seemed they had fed well enough that day. Inhuman eyes stared at us as we cautiously retreated, leaving the battlefield to its victors.
Our column retraced its steps toward Portland, mission accomplished, thanks to our unexpected allies. The weather lifted shortly after noon and a helo from the ship soon found us. I took my leave of the Cascadian Resistance, reminding them of our promise to put it all back the way it had been before Deep Green, and flew back to the Adams.
Yahashi met me at the aircraft door as soon as we set down. “We’ve managed to break that Chinese military code, most of it anyway. The last message from the liaison group reported they were being overrun. We don’t seem to have the whole code, since our translation says they were ‘being eaten.’
“You got the whole code,” I replied. Yahashi looked at me quizzically.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The Palaeopitus is dead. That’s
the important thing. Now, the Chinese have no exile government they can scheme to restore. They’ve got nothing but empty hands and an empty submarine, and an ultimatum that they’ll find it convenient to forget about. The game’s over.”
Right behind Yahashi was Tomo. “You have an urgent message from the Resistance Council in Idaho. They say Portland is now secure and you promised you’d send an airplane for them. They are very anxious to come and set up a new government.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet they are,” I replied. “Well, I’ve got two promises to keep.” I'd promised Idaho an airplane, but I’d also promised our four-footed allies that we’d make things right. The Idaho bunch were still Greens, and I knew where their agenda led. I also had an idea of how I’d keep both promises.
“Tell the air boss on the John Kelly to get a transport ready along with four dive bombers as escorts.” The Kelly carried our ground support air wing, which the Japs called Jaeger Air, using the old German word that meant both “hunter” and “light infantry.” It included two squadrons of Val II prop-driven dive bombers. They were slow but deadly accurate, and unlike fancy PGMs you could stock a lot of 2,000 pound bombs because they were cheap.
I grabbed a quick meal and shower on the Adams while the Kelly got my flight ready. Over a bowl of fish and rice, I told Tomo, “Let the Resistance Council in Boise know our ETA and tell them to assemble everyone in the old air terminal building.” Idaho wasn’t important enough to have any regular air service, but the field was still operable for occasional flights and the terminal building was open.
We’d take off around 5 PM, and there would still be a little daylight when we got over Boise around 7. I transferred by helo to the Kelly, where my flight was being prepped. In the ready room I met with the ship’s air boss and my flight crew and briefed them on the mission. My plan brought a few initial hisses, but after I explained the political situation in Cascadia they turned to grins.
We took off just after 17:00 hours, as planned. The Vals each carried their usual armament of one 2,000-pound bomb. I rode up front in the co-pilot’s seat of the transport to direct the show, if any direction was needed.
Once we were over the Cascades, we found clear skies and plenty of sun. The evening light gave shadows that made it easy to pick out features on the ground. Just after seven we came over the Boise airfield. The Vals stayed high while I did a low pass over the airfield, then confirmed by radio that the Resistance Council was duly assembled in the terminal building. I could see their faces pressed up against the glass of the main waiting room.
Over the radio, I told the Vals, “Good to go.” With that, they dived in succession, planting their eggs in a perfect rectangle on each corner of the air terminal building. With the final flash from the last 2000 pound bomb, the remains of the roof pancaked onto the remains of the floor, entombing the mortal remains of the last of Cascadia’s Greens.
So I kept both pledges. I’d only promised the Resistance Council one airplane, and I gave them four.
We got back to the ship just before ten, and I slept away the rest of my last night as Lord High Admiral of the Ocean Sea. The next morning, after a short ceremony, the Northern Confederation ensign came down from the ships, the Rising Sun with streaming rays went back up the masts, and the Northern Confederation’s Pacific fleet was no more. Alongside the Zuikaku, a long-range flying boat waited to take me home, this time flying straight across the old United States.
Tomo went with me in the launch to the flying boat. We’d become friends, and we parted with genuine wishes we could get together again some time.
“John, there is one ceremony we never performed, and I would be remiss if we did not do it now. We never exchanged meishi.” Tomo handed me his card, on which he had given me a rare honor: his home address and phone number, written on the back.
I took out my simple card, turned it over and wrote on the back. As I stepped through the door of the Kawanishi, I handed to Tomo. He turned it over and read it.
I watched a butterfly
Soar unconcerned
Above a chain of ants.
Chapter Forty-One
Like most flying boats, the big Kawanishi was slow. By the time we reached Buffalo, the Northern Confederation’s westernmost city, the sun was long gone from the sky. The Japanese pilot switched on the powerful landing lights, made a pass over the harbor to find a clear stretch of water, then set her down. We’d radioed ahead that the Chief of the General Staff was on board, so the local militia had sent a sergeant to meet me at the dock.
“Welcome home,” the sergeant said, offering me his hand and a grin. “Understand you were having some fun with the loonies out west.”
“Some,” I replied.
“All’s well that ends well, eh?”
“Ayuh.” The sergeant’s “eh” told me he was a former Canadian who’d come across. The ones we took were solid stock, plain folk and hard working, with the friendliness that had characterized English Canada. We didn’t let in the French Canadians.
“How’s the hockey 'round heah?” I asked. Hockey had allowed Canada to export its two great surpluses: Canadians and ice.
“Good. Plenty of us Canucks to teach you boys how to play it.”
“I’d like to head on to Maine tonight,” I said. “What time does the Night Mail leave?”
“She leaves at midnight,” the sergeant answered. Trains were always “she,” which was odd since they were supposed to be on time. “But we couldn’t get you a Pullman berth or even a seat. All filled up. Folks are traveling again, mostly on business.”
“That’s OK, I’ll ride the RPO.” The Railway Post Office car was another old idea we had revived. The mail was sorted en route. You could put a letter in the RPO's slot in Buffalo Tuesday evening and it would be delivered in Albany Wednesday morning.
I glanced at my watch and saw it was ten minutes past eleven, local time. “Can we get to the station by twelve?”
“No sweat,” the sergeant replied. “The streetcars still run pretty often even this late.” Thanks to Niagara Falls, this part of the N.C. had plentiful electricity, and streetcars had made a fast comeback. They were another good idea we had forgotten about in the Motor Age.
We walked down to the main road that connected the docks, and in a few minutes a big yellow Peter Witt trolley car stopped in front of us. With a growl of traction motors and clanking of Brill Maximum Traction trucks, we were off through the night.
Despite a change of streetcar in the town center, we made it to the station with seven minutes to spare. There waited the Night Mail, at her head a gleaming black Niagara fresh out of the Alco works. Like all steam engines, she was a thing alive, talking to herself in a monologue of hisses, roars and thump-thumps-thumps as she gathered her strength for the run to Albany. We’d be doing 80 within minutes of leaving the station, and she’d keep the Night Mail's twenty cars at track speed steady through the night on the old Water Level Route.
The sliding side door of the RPO stood open as last-minute sacks of mail were thrown aboard. I thanked the sergeant for meeting me and swung myself up on the grabirons. “No room at the inn, gentlemen,” I said to the postal clerks. “So I’m afraid you’ve got a passenger tonight.”
I was in uniform, which meant I was welcome anywhere. “I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer in the way of billeting, captain,” said the head clerk. “You’re welcome to a pile of mail bags to sit on, but that’s all we've got.”
“I’ve sat on worse,” I replied. “Just wake me up when you need to sort my seat.”
The RPO exploded with an immense WHUMPF as steam entered the Niagara’s cylinders and the 80-inch drivers grabbed at the rail. I looked at my old Hamilton watch: right on twelve midnight. In the Northern Confederation, the trains ran on time. Soon the engine was belting out the steady TCH-tch-tch-tch TCH-tch-tch-tch that meant steam at speed. It proved an effective sleeping potion.
By the time I woke up it was daylight and we were in the Berkshires on the o
ld B&A. I’d slept right through the division of the train and engine change at Albany. Up front now was an ancient ten-wheeler, a relic retrieved from some museum, and she was working hard to hit 50. No matter; the RPO door was open on a crisp fall day and the deep forests in orange and gold helped banish the grim Cascadian landscape from my mind. I’d be in Boston by noon and Portland in time for supper.
“We’ll take those mail bags now that you’re up, skipper,” said the clerk.
“I told you to get me up when you needed ‘em,” I replied. “I don’t want to hold up the mails.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t,” he said. “We just put those off for last. We know our soldiers need their sleep. If you’d like some breakfast, we’ve got a thermos of coffee and a cheese sandwich we picked up for you at Albany.”
“Thanks. How’d you get coffee?”
“We Buffalo boys do a bit of trading across the river. Got some Cuban cigars too if you’d like one.”
“Hell, yes. That’s the best homecoming present anyone could give me.” I sat on a sack of sorted mail in the open door, enjoying a mix of Havana and coal smoke, listening to the stack talk from our little engine and watching the world go by. Life’s real pleasures turn up where you least expect them.
We made Boston on time, and after changing to North Station I got the afternoon train for home. This time I got a seat, in a new Maine-built wooden car. Maine craftsmanship showed in its inlays and arched windows. Now that we were poor, we made things right again.
I’d wired ahead that I’d be in on the six o’clock train. If any hot items were waiting my attention at headquarters, someone could bring them down from Augusta. If they did, I’d have to take another look at my staff, since they had full powers to act in my absence. I scanned the platform as we pulled in but didn’t see any of my boys.