O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [117]
Zach had picked up the correct vibration.
“You stood, Zach, and pointed to Narrangansett Bay and you said, ‘What do you see, Ben?’ and I said, ‘It looks like Narragansett Bay,’ and you said, ‘Hell, no, it’s the Pacific Ocean and right down the middle at the international date line is the place of our future troubles.’”
“Are you really going to try to sell this?”
“Yep.”
The bell tolled 0300.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Write up some notes regarding that conversation. Two, three, four clean, terse pages. Have it ready by reveille. I’m on the nine o’clock train for Providence.”
Well, there it was, a battlefield decision, now. It could be a career buster for the major. But damned, the prophecy was going to be true!
“They’ll be ready,” Zach said.
“Thank you, Zach.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Zach said strangely. “I feel privileged. At least we’ll go down fighting.”
Ben got to his feet, wobbly.
“Major, I lied to you.”
“Really? Concerning what?”
“Amanda did not send me packing. We love each other. After my tantrum at the casino, I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me to see ‘Random Sixteen’ through. Moreover, I knew I’d be restricted to quarters, and if her father knew too early, I wouldn’t be able to protect her, so we made up the story that we broke up in anger.”
“Amanda came to see me three days ago and told me.”
“What can I say?”
“You’ve said it, Zachary. You’ve stuck to your guns here and ‘Random Sixteen’ will be completed. Now don’t get excited, but Daisy Kerr called me earlier today. Amanda confronted her father and has left Tobermory. She will let you know where she is waiting for you through Willow Fancy. As for Horace Kerr, Daisy believes he will make no move against her.”
Zach shook out loud and gasped and sank down on his cot trembling.
“Now get your ass in gear, son, and do this little job. We’ve only got a few hours.”
• 37 •
J
December 7, 1891—Headquarters—the United States Navy
Admiral-in-Chief Porter Langenfeld’s conference room held a half-moon-shaped table with nine seats, himself in the center.
Facing the conference table, a straight table where advisers came and went. The wall behind them held a huge world map.
The staff table was a step higher, giving the effect of a star chamber during the Inquisition. Fanning out were the mighty: two vice-admirals, Rear Admiral Richard X. Maple, Commodore Chester Harkleroad in command of the building program, and four captains of the highest standing.
It was a shipshape room of a shipshape boss who was adept in negotiating the political jungle. Captain Fitz Donovan, his personal aide of eight years, sat alongside and somewhat chaired the meeting, shuffling papers and whispering into the admiral’s ear.
Before them sat Lieutenant Colonel Commandant Tom Ballard and Major Benjamin Boone of the Marine Corps.
“Ben,” Porter Langenfeld said in a notably cavalier manner, “who the hell let you in the room?”
“It was raining outside. I wanted to come in out of the rain.”
“We can all do your routines by heart,” the admiral continued. “I am up to snuff on your random study. I’ve read the first of the paper’s conclusions. It is a fairly commendable work. I will put together a committee to take up a number of your ideas for further study.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Admiral.”
The table snapped out of its daze.
Fitz Donovan leaned over to Langenfeld. “There’s nothing on our agenda concerning ‘Random Sixteen.’”
“What have you got there, Ben?” the admiral said pointedly.
“Nothing of an official nature.”
“Then what?”
“Thoughts that have been deliberately kept silent. They need to be heard and said aloud because the words carry great clarity.”
Porter Langenfeld scratched on his muttonchop and considered that he was being baited by a master.
“What the hell is it?” the admiral demanded.
“A discourse between myself and the lieutenant who worked on ‘Random Sixteen.’ I decided to leave it off as an addendum to ‘Random Sixteen,