Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [233]
“Hell no. Chip, I made more money last year as an advisor to private industry than I ever made in uniform in a year. Seems I know a thing or two after all. I have been invited to sit on the board of two airlines to develop their freight services ... if I wanted to work that hard.”
“It’s good to see you like this.”
“It took a long long time to get here and it’s only for a short stay.”
The light failed and the breeze became stiffer. They walked toward the house. “I’ve got a boat at the cove about five miles down the highway. Let’s go fishing tomorrow.”
During dinner, Hansen continued to avoid the purpose of the visit. M.J. was suspicious and sent out a number of indirect questions.
After dinner, the two men settled in Crusty’s study. The room was filled with mementoes of the Hump and photographs and gifts of presidents and kings and grandchildren.
“Okay, Chip, let’s have it.”
“I brought some papers with me that I want you to study and give an opinion on.”
“About this Berlin situation?”
He nodded. “We are committing ourselves to supply Berlin by air.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough to take the pressure off negotiations. Forty-five days ... sixty. Talks are starting in Moscow next week and it could end sooner than that.”
“And if negotiations collapse?”
“We will have to supply the Western Sectors indefinitely.”
Crusty Stonebraker, who once insisted on air corridors to Berlin, showed no sign of emotion. The reports would reveal the situation accurately. “I’d better get started reading.”
Hansen could see from his bedroom across the patio to Crusty Stonebraker’s study. The light burned until very late and on several occasions Crusty paced the patio bundled up in an old flying jacket looking out to the sea as if hoping to find mystical answers coming in with the tide.
Breakfast the next morning was in silence. Crusty grunted through the meal and said, “Let’s go fishing.”
They drove in a jeep down the highway and turned off onto a eucalyptus-lined road that ran down to the ocean. The sun was trying to force its way through the morning fog as they parked at the foot of a long wooden pier.
The Betty-Lee, a rock-cod sportsfishing boat, was just pulling away filled with half-asleep anglers.
Crusty grabbed the tackle box and poles and they walked down the pier to the bait shop.
“Morning, General.”
“Morning, Bob. Where are they hitting?”
“You can jig or troll for bonita.”
“Got a freezerful waiting to be smoked.”
“Yesterday the half-day boat came in with a dozen good size halibut at Trancas and the bass were going crazy right in front of your place. I’ll run you out to your boat.”
They took the stairs that ran down the pilings to a floating platform dock and got into the skiff and putted out to where the M.J., a practical and stout twenty-six-foot cabin cruiser, was moored.
The dock hand helped pull the canvas cover back, held the skiff fast while the two men transferred, and pulled away calling, “I’ll wait for you at the bait receiver, General.”
Crusty went about the business of blowing out the bilge, checking the hose fittings and levels, starting, warming up, connecting the live-bait tank. The M.J. showed that its owner was obviously a man of great knowledge in the science of the proper use of space.
Hansen cast off the painter and Stonebraker pulled alongside the bait receiver, handling the boat with the sure touch of an old barnstorming pilot. They took on a scoop of anchovies and headed out of Paradise Cove.
Chip Hansen fixed the poles with halibut leaders as they turned Point Dume, ran up the coast awhile, and began a drift on the edge of the kelp beds.
They sat with their lines in the water for several moments. Crusty pulled in a calico bass, put it into the gunny sack, and studied the horizon. The water was warming up. Soon the albacore and yellow tail would be running near Catalina.
His wife had become quite a fisherwoman in the past three years. They had been looking forward all winter and spring to trips to Catalina and the Channel Islands.
“Well,” Chip broke the silence,