Grey Dawn
Brian Shannon would later reflect that no dawn in his life ever came quite as slowly and as dimly as the morning of September 20th. Once the shooting stopped, every member of Texas' crew mustered forward and kept the fires from getting aboard their ship. In the meantime, the rest of Norfolk Naval Base had finally awakened and was manning their battle stations. Shannon himself was out on the starboard bridge wing, standing in the steadily thinning drizzle, watching the tugs and pontoons and anything else the US Navy could think of being strapped to the side of his ship to keep it from sinking to the shallow floor of Hampton Roads.
His ship.
Sinking.
Something in the back of his brain kept trying to remind him that none of this had been his fault, per se. Nobody could fault anything he'd done, or how he'd done it. No - repeat, NO US Navy skipper had ever been court-martialed for losing his ship in combat and even most of those who'd lost one in peacetime had walked away with their honor intact. Fortunately, Shannon had some high-powered witnesses aboard, but all that guaranteed was that if the worst happened, he'd be let down easy. Okay, then. Put it in the back of your mind now, and concentrate on the ship. His ship.
The Texas was motionless right now, her bow still embedded in Poseidon's flank. For the first time, Shannon took a really good look at the gun barrel poking through the bridge plating on the other ship. Man, if anybody had been on the other side of that thing when it went off…well, if there had been, there sure as hell wasn't now. Shannon shook his head then looked back at the sudden sound of a pump roaring to life. And behind the thick black pipes pulling water out of Texas' innards, a long row of bulky canvas bags lined up along the starboard side, just where the lost of the Bismarck had been laid out last May. It catches up with you, Shannon thought.
Correction: it caught up with them, not with you.
“Funniest damn thing, actually,” Shannon said as he slowly twirled his cup of coffee. “Harbor Control kept saying, 'We're coming to get you, hold on,' and then the skipper of the Mississippi told me that they'd have steam up in an hour and he'd be over to, and I quote, 'take charge'.” That got laughs from Cochran and Kozlowski that were quickly stilled by Shannon's glare. “Don't laugh, children. I was the junior battleship skipper in the Fleet, remember. By the book one of those sleepyheads could have just wandered in and taken over. Fortunately, as they say, 'other forces were at work'…"
Shannon poked his head in the conning tower, past the two marines who were at port arms outside the hatch and looked in at even more Marines, who were surrounding the President, Churchill, Donovan, and Marie, who was laid out on a stretcher with various medics and doctors patching her up. It had looked a whole lot worse than it actually was - the docs had quickly pulled a small handful of fragments out of Marie's shoulder and arm, and the worst case would be a few minor scars. But in the meantime, she was the only woman on board, she was hurt and therefore she was being treated like a queen. For her part, Marie was enjoying every minute of it, but found time to favor Shannon with a single, glowing smile. There wasn't a man alive who wouldn't feel like he'd just won the lottery after seeing that, and it helped. Behind them, like Cerberus, was Willie Robinson, two .45s strapped to his hips. “Brian!”, Roosevelt called with a grin, “is this how you treat guests on your ship?” Shannon smiled back and cracked, “You know, that's the second time tonight someone's asked me that. But frankly, Mister President, until we make sure there aren't any other surprises and we get some transportation for you and the Prime Minister, you two are staying right here. I suppose I could rustle up some breakfast though.”
Before anyone could answer, Shannon heard “Captain!” and turned toward the bridge.
“Yeah!”
“Radio call for you, sir!” Shannon expected he was going to be a very popular guy for few days, but hadn't expected it to start quite so soon. Stepping over to the handset by his chair, he picked it up, expecting it to be the skipper of the Mississippi again this time telling him that they wouldn't be over until after their breakfast.
"I later wished,” Shannon said, “that I had been so lucky.”
The voice on the other end of the radio - a cross between a wolverine's snarl and an air raid siren, filtered through six layers of gravel - was unmistakable.
“Shannon.”
Oh, hell, Shannon thought. Admiral King. “Yes, sir.”
“For God's sake, Shannon, tell me what in the hell is going on down there! Are your…visitors all right?”
Shannon said the first thing that popped into his head. “Yes, sir, they are. Just offered them breakfast.” The silence on the other end spoke more volumes than any tirade could have. Finally, with a pop and crackle of static, King spoke again. “Shannon, you are an idiot. Unfortunately, you're the senior idiot in charge right now. I'm giving Mississippi orders to take your guests up the bay to the mouth of the Potomac. Once they've gotten off, get Texas into drydock.”
"My very intention, Admiral.”
More silence, followed by, “Christ on a crutch….how I EVER let Roosevelt talk me into promoting you-"
The voice from the conning tower got his attention. “Brian, my boy, is that Ernie King? Let me speak to that old reprobate!”
King said, “Was that the President?”
“Yes, Mister President, it's Admiral King.”
King's voice cracked out of the handset. “Shannon, I do NOT want to talk to him right now...”
“Brian, my boy, let me talk to him...”
“Shannon, keep him away from that...”
Roosevelt smiled like a wolf spotting lunch. “Now, Brian.”
Shannon shrugged and said, “President Roosevelt for you, sir.”
“I'll get you for this, Shannon.”
“Understood, sir.” With that, Shannon handed the radio handset to Roosevelt, who put on his best back-slapping-and-baby-kissing grin. “Ernie, my boy...”
A series of squawks came from the handset.
“Now, Ernie, I understand that, but I think...”
More squawks.
“Ernie, surely...”
One very long, loud squawk.
With that, Roosevelt's eyes narrowed and his voice went down an octave or two. Shannon had seen that exactly once when he was a young naval attaché, and he'd hoped he'd never have to see it again. Oh well - another hope dashed.
“Admiral King…why don't you get over to Anacostia and get a plane down here. That way you can report to me directly…aboard the Texas.”
One short, quiet squawk.
The President's voice went back to campaign mode. “Glad you see it my way, Ernie. See you here in a few hours.” Roosevelt looked at Shannon and smiled, then very deliberately hit the KILL switch on the handset. “Just need to know how to talk to admirals, m'boy.”
Shannon's response was cut off by Courbet limping onto the bridge. “Mon Capitaine, da Engineers want a word wit' choo.” A beefy lieutenant commander came through the doors wearing soaked, oil-stained overalls and rubber boots, saluted Shannon, then froze solid when he saw who else was on the bridge. Shannon rubbed his eyes for a moment, reflecting that this was going to be a problem all day. “Commander,” Shannon said wearily, “what you're seeing is a mirage. There's nobody there, and that's an order, got it?”
The engineer nodded, but still couldn't quite tear his eyes away as he reported. “Cap'n Shannon, I'm Commander Dombrowski from the Navy Yard. I can give you a preliminary report on your ship.”
Okay, here it comes. You're the first captain to lose a US ship of the line since…cripes, the Civil goddamned War, and not that far from here at that. Oh well. Maybe they'll find a desk job for you somewhere. “Go ahead.”
Dombrowski nodded. “Sir, the good news is that the flooding wasn't as bad as we thought, but you're still down about two feet aft. Yer not on the bottom, but it's close - I don't think we're gonna be able to get you into drydock before tomorrow at best, though. We got the pumps going tho so we'll be able to get at it and put a temporary patch on there as soon as we can. The real problem is that we're finding all kinda seams that got popped, all the way up and back down to the port side. We're gonna have to keep the pumps going all the way into the dock, just to be on the safe side. As far as the shafts are concerned, starboard outboard is completely off the bearings, starboard inboard is warped so it's shot. The starboard steering motor is gone too - looks like when it locked up everything got jammed into place. We'd have to cut it apart just to get it outta there. Forward is much better - that bow was designed to run into things, so all you got there is mostly scorching and some buckled plates. Oh, and I'm thinkin' that one barrel in Number 2 is pretty much shot.”
Shannon nodded, making mental notes on all of it. “Okay, then, “ Shannon finally replied. “How long in the dock, then?”
Dombrowski looked at Shannon in momentary confusion, and then understood what Shannon meant. Gently, like a doctor giving a patient bad news, Dombrowski quietly said, “Cap'n Shannon, Texas probably won't come back. It's not that we couldn't fix her, but it'll take at least six months, maybe more…and we just don't have the resources to do that much work on a thirty year old ship. It's like the New York,” Dombrowski said with a tilt of his head towards the Navy Yard. “Sure, she's fixable, but we've got to decide what can and can't be done. We'll get her in drydock and get a permanent patch on the hull, but after that sir, I'm gonna recommend that we tie her up alongside New York and survey her.”
Brian Shannon blinked for a moment, not quite willing to comprehend what he'd just been told, not wanting to comprehend it. Part of him - the cool, rational naval officer - understood everything Dombrowski had just told him. Texas was - what? A generation, two generations out of step with the warships and weapons that were out there now. They'd been lucky against Bismarck - that ship had been crippled and facing two enemies. But the parsimony and foolish dreams of the last twenty years had come home to roost, and when it did, it had done so with a vengeance. Vengeance in the form of dozens of destroyers, cruisers, and a battleship.
Well, screw that. Not his ship, not now, not ever. Shannon looked Dombrowski in the eye coldly enough to make even the tough engineer step back a little, and said, “Commander, you stay right there.” Shannon stepped back into the conning tower and knelt down next to the President.
“Brian, my boy, what can I do for you?”
Shannon thought for a moment and said, “Mister President, do you remember when I moved on from the White House that you owed me any favor I could ask?”
Roosevelt smiled, but his eyes narrowed like those of any politician who'd just been reminded of a promise. “I do indeed, Brian…what do you have in mind?”
Shannon never blinked. “Mister President, there's a very good chance that the Navy's going to decommission the Texas. I'd like you to tell them otherwise.”
Roosevelt pondered this for a moment. “Brian, can she be repaired?”
“Yes, sir. It'll take a while, but there's no reason she can't go back into the line - and you're going to need every big gun you can get for a long time to come.” A shadow fell over Shannon and Roosevelt, and they looked up to see Churchill's bulk looming over them. “Mister President,” Churchill said softly, “Normally I would never interject myself into purely tactical matters, but in this case…let me simply say that I cannot imagine the United States Navy without a Texas.”
Roosevelt grinned and replied, “And I do have more and newer battleships coming on line that I can rename.”
Churchill nodded and pointed out, “As easily as you could rename, perhaps, Mount Rushmore - or New York City?” Shannon winced at that, but Roosevelt just smiled and said, “Point taken, Winston, point taken. All right Brian, consider it done - Texas will stay in the line as long as I'm afloat. I'll let Ernie King know, but I suspect he won't be happy.”
Shannon chuckled and said, “Mister President, I suspect Admiral King wouldn't be happy about anything.” With that, Shannon stepped back onto the bridge to have a word with Commander Dombrowski.
TIPOTS: Case Vulkan
-
MKSheppard
- Posts: 293
- Joined: Mon Nov 21, 2022 1:41 am
Re: TIPOTS: Case Vulkan
The Broad With The Silver Star and Other Loose Ends
Fort Monroe
21 September 1941
Brian Shannon stood outside the small hospital room with a slightly crumpled bouquet of roses clutched in one hand, a stiff blue uniform making him even more uncomfortable than he already was. Every nurse and doctor who walked past had given him a knowing grin of one sort or another, and no matter how hard he tried, it was hard to avoid feeling like a sixteen year old on his first date. All he wanted to do was thank Major Blair for her help, and simple common courtesy dictated that you didn't visit a lady in the hospital without flowers.
“Brian! What brings you here, old man?” Ian Fleming's cheerful accent made Shannon wince as he turned around. “Nothing much, Ian, just here to pay my respects to Major Blair. I'm a little surprised you're still here.” Fleming, once again in an impeccably tailored uniform, grinned in reply. “Heading back with, the, ah…visitors tonight. Matter of fact, that's why I'm here - their nibs are requesting your presence.”
Shannon looked Fleming dead in the eye, and said, “No.”
Fleming in his turn blinked and tilted his head forward as if to share a very special confidence. “No, Brian?”
Shannon's face was deadpan. “No, Ian. It is a word that means a negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal, as in response to a question or request, as in, 'No, Ian, I am not going to go see them right now. I'm here to thank a fellow officer for helping save my ship and its guests. I have seen enough of mystery guests - and you - for the rest of the war, thank you very much.”
Fleming peered around Shannon's shoulder at the bouquet and sniffed, “You certainly didn't bring me any flowers.”
“Of course not. She's prettier, and I like her.” At that, the door to the room opened and a nurse poked her head out. “Captain Shannon? Please come in.” With that, Shannon shot a grin at Fleming, who watched him stride into the room before turning slowly away, ambling down the corridor and muttering to himself about thoroughly impolite Colonial officers.
Shannon poked his head in the door to see Marie propped up by a pile of pillows, and surrounded by enough foliage and greenery to discourage Tarzan from going any farther. Nonplussed, he wasn't sure what to say until he heard Marie laugh and say, “Captain Shannon! Please, come on in - or if you want, wait until the native bearers get there!"
Shannon stepped cautiously forward and said, “Hi, Major….um…well,…here,” and he tentatively thrust forward the handful of blossoms wrapped in green tissue. Marie gave him a smile that lit up the room as she took them and delicately held them to her nose. “Captain, they're lovely.” Then, with a shy smile, she said, “Prettiest ones yet.”
Shannon gave a crooked smile, not really too sure what to say next. “Well…I, ah…just wanted to say thank you for helping save the ship.”
“It seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time, Captain. After all, I was hoping to stay alive too.”
Shannon nodded, smiling slightly nervously. “Well, I can, um…see where you're coming from.” Marie smiled once more and said, “Captain, are you all right?”
Shannon nodded and said, “Major, I'm fine…I just kind of keep to myself…and when I run across a lady who can handle herself the way you did, well…"
“It's a surprise.”
Shannon thought about that for a second, and finally managed to stammer, “Well, actually…that's, ah…that's not far off.”
Marie smiled again, only this time with all the humor of a she-wolf who'd cornered her prey. “Why Captain Shannon…you're just a bit intimidated by me, aren't you?”
Shannon stood up straight, a look of disbelief on his face. “Major, that isn't true and you know it.”
“Prove it.”
Fifty-nine years later, Brian Shannon smiled truly, genuinely smiled - for the first time that night and looked up at the picture of him and Marie at the Texas' christening. “You know,” he said to Kozlowski and Cochran, “I walked right into it.”
Shannon looked at Marie and snapped, “Have dinner with me next week!”
Marie snapped back, “You're on!”
Admiral Shannon put down his coffee cup and looked back up at the picture again for a long moment while Kozlowski and Cochran busied themselves with their mugs. “You know,” Shannon mused to himself, “I really do need to get some pictures of her back out here. But in any event, we spent the next twenty minutes or so talking before we got interrupted.”
There was an abrupt knock at the door, and it opened followed by Gunny Brophy and three of his Marines. Brophy was in freshly pressed khakis (where had those come from, Shannon thought) and he fairly crackled as he saluted and said, “Beggin' the Cap'n's pardon, but we've been instructed to ask you to accompany us.”
Shannon raised a quizzical eyebrow. “By whom to where?”
“By the fine gentlemen who were with us the other night, and down to the hospital auditorium.”
Marie smiled and batted her eyes as best she could and said in a honey-and-magnolia southern accent, “But Sergeant, ah'm slightly…indisposed.” Brophy bowed slightly and replied, “Major, another gentleman there anticipated that. These fine lads with me...” Brophy motioned to the Marines behind him “...have been instructed to carry the Major if necessary.”
Marie looked up to Shannon and cracked, “They've got us, Tex.” Shannon nodded in reply and said in a mock Western drawl, “I guess we'd better go peaceable, then, Pardner.”
The auditorium was barely deserving of the name, being not much more than a slightly longer and wider room with a small stage at one end. On said stage were the President, Churchill, Donovan, Fleming, Beau, and, looking for all the world like an annoyed undertaker, was Admiral Ernest J. King, not just glaring at Shannon but indeed, through him. Amazing, Shannon thought. All the power and authority in this room and one guy makes you feel like a plebe again. Shannon started to salute King, but instead King simply growled, “Come to attention - the both of you.” Shannon and Marie both snapped to, but Shannon had to admit that no one ever looked quite so good at attention than Marie did. Of course, the nightgown helped.
Beau stepped over and took a place on Shannon's left and out of the corner of his mouth muttered, “Looks a damn' sight better than you do, Mon Capitaine.” All Shannon could do was roll his eyes heavenward before King strode forward and stood in front of Courbet. An aide stepped forward from behind a narrow curtain on the stage and stood beside King, reading in a stentorian voice:
"This is to certify that the United States Navy Cross is awarded to Commander Beauregard Pierre Courbet, United States Navy, for service while Executive Officer, United States Ship Texas, on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941…"
Damn, Shannon thought, suppressing a smile. I didn't even have time to write a citation. Helps to have the President of the United States around when you become a hero.
King and the aide strode past Shannon and snapped to in front of Marie, who never even blinked when King snarled, “This wasn't my idea.”
"This is to certify that the Silver Star is awarded to Major Marie Catherine Blair, United States Army, for service aboard United States Ship Texas, on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941…"
Shannon just blinked at that one, and caught Roosevelt, Churchill, and Donovan grinning like fiends. When the aide finished, King reached up with the medal to pin it on Marie and paused for a moment, looking her over with an expression that indicated extreme displeasure before looking at the aide and snapping, “Where the hell do you pin a medal on a nightgown?” Marie was trying to stifle a grin by the time King simply grabbed her hand and pushed the medal into it. “Goddamned ridiculous,” King muttered, “giving the Silver Star to a broad…" With that, King stepped to his right, and the President rumbled down off the stage with his grin at full wattage and cigarette holder at full mast, rolling to a stop in front of Shannon. At that, even Churchill and Donovan came to attention as the aide began to read:
"The President of the United States takes pleasure in awarding the Congressional Medal of Honor to Captain Brian James Shannon, United States Navy, for bravery above and beyond the call of duty while in command of United States Ship Texas on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941….”
Admiral Shannon sipped his coffee and thought back about that bright September morning so long ago. “You know,” he said, “to this day, I still have to look at the damned citation to find out what it was I did. Never really heard a word after the 'Medal of Honor' part. The next thing I knew I was wearing that thing around my neck and everybody was shaking my hand and slapping me on the back. Except Marie, of course, she was hugging me.”
When it was all done, everyone had said their goodbyes and the important visitors were led discreetly out one door, except for Ernest King, who looked at Shannon and beckoned him into one corner. “Shannon,” he rumbled, “I don't know what you pulled as far as the Texas goes, but be aware that I am not happy with it. So since you can't command her, I'm putting you -"
Shannon interrupted, “Can't command -?”
King simply looked at him and said, “Shannon, do I need to remind you that you are now a Rear Admiral? A promotion kind of comes along with that,” and King motioned towards the Medal. “In any event - I'm putting you where I can keep an eye on you. As of tomorrow, you're on Halsey's ops staff. He's a pain in the ass too; you two ought to get along great together.” With that, King pulled his hat on and fairly stomped out.
Shannon, Marie, and Beau stood quietly for a second before Beau looked at Shannon and asked, “Mon Capitaine - pardon moi, Mon Amiral - did he just say that I'm in command on Texas?”
Shannon nodded. “Kinda looks that way, Beau. You might want to take your time getting back to Norfolk, though - it'll take the Navy a while to get used to the idea of you commanding a battleship.”
Beau grinned and shot back, “Sounds good to me, Mon amiral. I could use some chow anyways.”
"Good to see you have your priorities straight, Beau. I'll be over for my gear as soon as I can.”
"No problem, Mon amiral. Till then - “ Beau shot him the sharpest salute he'd ever seen, then bowed slightly to Marie and kissed her hand. “Major or not, the ma'mselle is still more than deserving of it.” With a smile and a wave, Beau trotted outside.
After a moment of quiet, Marie looked up to Shannon and said, “So - an admiral, eh?”
"Kinda looks like it,” Shannon replied quietly, carefully taking the Medal from around his neck and looking at it for a moment before turning back to Marie. “I just have one question, though.”
"What's that?”
Shannon thought for a moment, and then asked, “What in the hell do I do now?”
Marie pondered this for a moment before hooking her arm through his. “You can escort me back to my room, Admiral.” Her smile was as sweet and mischievous as he could ever ask for as he said, “Naturellement, Ma'mselle Commandant.” Marie looked at him in puzzlement, but Shannon only shrugged and smiled. “That's what happens when you hang around Beau all that time.”
Fort Monroe
21 September 1941
Brian Shannon stood outside the small hospital room with a slightly crumpled bouquet of roses clutched in one hand, a stiff blue uniform making him even more uncomfortable than he already was. Every nurse and doctor who walked past had given him a knowing grin of one sort or another, and no matter how hard he tried, it was hard to avoid feeling like a sixteen year old on his first date. All he wanted to do was thank Major Blair for her help, and simple common courtesy dictated that you didn't visit a lady in the hospital without flowers.
“Brian! What brings you here, old man?” Ian Fleming's cheerful accent made Shannon wince as he turned around. “Nothing much, Ian, just here to pay my respects to Major Blair. I'm a little surprised you're still here.” Fleming, once again in an impeccably tailored uniform, grinned in reply. “Heading back with, the, ah…visitors tonight. Matter of fact, that's why I'm here - their nibs are requesting your presence.”
Shannon looked Fleming dead in the eye, and said, “No.”
Fleming in his turn blinked and tilted his head forward as if to share a very special confidence. “No, Brian?”
Shannon's face was deadpan. “No, Ian. It is a word that means a negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal, as in response to a question or request, as in, 'No, Ian, I am not going to go see them right now. I'm here to thank a fellow officer for helping save my ship and its guests. I have seen enough of mystery guests - and you - for the rest of the war, thank you very much.”
Fleming peered around Shannon's shoulder at the bouquet and sniffed, “You certainly didn't bring me any flowers.”
“Of course not. She's prettier, and I like her.” At that, the door to the room opened and a nurse poked her head out. “Captain Shannon? Please come in.” With that, Shannon shot a grin at Fleming, who watched him stride into the room before turning slowly away, ambling down the corridor and muttering to himself about thoroughly impolite Colonial officers.
Shannon poked his head in the door to see Marie propped up by a pile of pillows, and surrounded by enough foliage and greenery to discourage Tarzan from going any farther. Nonplussed, he wasn't sure what to say until he heard Marie laugh and say, “Captain Shannon! Please, come on in - or if you want, wait until the native bearers get there!"
Shannon stepped cautiously forward and said, “Hi, Major….um…well,…here,” and he tentatively thrust forward the handful of blossoms wrapped in green tissue. Marie gave him a smile that lit up the room as she took them and delicately held them to her nose. “Captain, they're lovely.” Then, with a shy smile, she said, “Prettiest ones yet.”
Shannon gave a crooked smile, not really too sure what to say next. “Well…I, ah…just wanted to say thank you for helping save the ship.”
“It seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time, Captain. After all, I was hoping to stay alive too.”
Shannon nodded, smiling slightly nervously. “Well, I can, um…see where you're coming from.” Marie smiled once more and said, “Captain, are you all right?”
Shannon nodded and said, “Major, I'm fine…I just kind of keep to myself…and when I run across a lady who can handle herself the way you did, well…"
“It's a surprise.”
Shannon thought about that for a second, and finally managed to stammer, “Well, actually…that's, ah…that's not far off.”
Marie smiled again, only this time with all the humor of a she-wolf who'd cornered her prey. “Why Captain Shannon…you're just a bit intimidated by me, aren't you?”
Shannon stood up straight, a look of disbelief on his face. “Major, that isn't true and you know it.”
“Prove it.”
Fifty-nine years later, Brian Shannon smiled truly, genuinely smiled - for the first time that night and looked up at the picture of him and Marie at the Texas' christening. “You know,” he said to Kozlowski and Cochran, “I walked right into it.”
Shannon looked at Marie and snapped, “Have dinner with me next week!”
Marie snapped back, “You're on!”
Admiral Shannon put down his coffee cup and looked back up at the picture again for a long moment while Kozlowski and Cochran busied themselves with their mugs. “You know,” Shannon mused to himself, “I really do need to get some pictures of her back out here. But in any event, we spent the next twenty minutes or so talking before we got interrupted.”
There was an abrupt knock at the door, and it opened followed by Gunny Brophy and three of his Marines. Brophy was in freshly pressed khakis (where had those come from, Shannon thought) and he fairly crackled as he saluted and said, “Beggin' the Cap'n's pardon, but we've been instructed to ask you to accompany us.”
Shannon raised a quizzical eyebrow. “By whom to where?”
“By the fine gentlemen who were with us the other night, and down to the hospital auditorium.”
Marie smiled and batted her eyes as best she could and said in a honey-and-magnolia southern accent, “But Sergeant, ah'm slightly…indisposed.” Brophy bowed slightly and replied, “Major, another gentleman there anticipated that. These fine lads with me...” Brophy motioned to the Marines behind him “...have been instructed to carry the Major if necessary.”
Marie looked up to Shannon and cracked, “They've got us, Tex.” Shannon nodded in reply and said in a mock Western drawl, “I guess we'd better go peaceable, then, Pardner.”
The auditorium was barely deserving of the name, being not much more than a slightly longer and wider room with a small stage at one end. On said stage were the President, Churchill, Donovan, Fleming, Beau, and, looking for all the world like an annoyed undertaker, was Admiral Ernest J. King, not just glaring at Shannon but indeed, through him. Amazing, Shannon thought. All the power and authority in this room and one guy makes you feel like a plebe again. Shannon started to salute King, but instead King simply growled, “Come to attention - the both of you.” Shannon and Marie both snapped to, but Shannon had to admit that no one ever looked quite so good at attention than Marie did. Of course, the nightgown helped.
Beau stepped over and took a place on Shannon's left and out of the corner of his mouth muttered, “Looks a damn' sight better than you do, Mon Capitaine.” All Shannon could do was roll his eyes heavenward before King strode forward and stood in front of Courbet. An aide stepped forward from behind a narrow curtain on the stage and stood beside King, reading in a stentorian voice:
"This is to certify that the United States Navy Cross is awarded to Commander Beauregard Pierre Courbet, United States Navy, for service while Executive Officer, United States Ship Texas, on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941…"
Damn, Shannon thought, suppressing a smile. I didn't even have time to write a citation. Helps to have the President of the United States around when you become a hero.
King and the aide strode past Shannon and snapped to in front of Marie, who never even blinked when King snarled, “This wasn't my idea.”
"This is to certify that the Silver Star is awarded to Major Marie Catherine Blair, United States Army, for service aboard United States Ship Texas, on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941…"
Shannon just blinked at that one, and caught Roosevelt, Churchill, and Donovan grinning like fiends. When the aide finished, King reached up with the medal to pin it on Marie and paused for a moment, looking her over with an expression that indicated extreme displeasure before looking at the aide and snapping, “Where the hell do you pin a medal on a nightgown?” Marie was trying to stifle a grin by the time King simply grabbed her hand and pushed the medal into it. “Goddamned ridiculous,” King muttered, “giving the Silver Star to a broad…" With that, King stepped to his right, and the President rumbled down off the stage with his grin at full wattage and cigarette holder at full mast, rolling to a stop in front of Shannon. At that, even Churchill and Donovan came to attention as the aide began to read:
"The President of the United States takes pleasure in awarding the Congressional Medal of Honor to Captain Brian James Shannon, United States Navy, for bravery above and beyond the call of duty while in command of United States Ship Texas on the 19th and 20th of September, 1941….”
Admiral Shannon sipped his coffee and thought back about that bright September morning so long ago. “You know,” he said, “to this day, I still have to look at the damned citation to find out what it was I did. Never really heard a word after the 'Medal of Honor' part. The next thing I knew I was wearing that thing around my neck and everybody was shaking my hand and slapping me on the back. Except Marie, of course, she was hugging me.”
When it was all done, everyone had said their goodbyes and the important visitors were led discreetly out one door, except for Ernest King, who looked at Shannon and beckoned him into one corner. “Shannon,” he rumbled, “I don't know what you pulled as far as the Texas goes, but be aware that I am not happy with it. So since you can't command her, I'm putting you -"
Shannon interrupted, “Can't command -?”
King simply looked at him and said, “Shannon, do I need to remind you that you are now a Rear Admiral? A promotion kind of comes along with that,” and King motioned towards the Medal. “In any event - I'm putting you where I can keep an eye on you. As of tomorrow, you're on Halsey's ops staff. He's a pain in the ass too; you two ought to get along great together.” With that, King pulled his hat on and fairly stomped out.
Shannon, Marie, and Beau stood quietly for a second before Beau looked at Shannon and asked, “Mon Capitaine - pardon moi, Mon Amiral - did he just say that I'm in command on Texas?”
Shannon nodded. “Kinda looks that way, Beau. You might want to take your time getting back to Norfolk, though - it'll take the Navy a while to get used to the idea of you commanding a battleship.”
Beau grinned and shot back, “Sounds good to me, Mon amiral. I could use some chow anyways.”
"Good to see you have your priorities straight, Beau. I'll be over for my gear as soon as I can.”
"No problem, Mon amiral. Till then - “ Beau shot him the sharpest salute he'd ever seen, then bowed slightly to Marie and kissed her hand. “Major or not, the ma'mselle is still more than deserving of it.” With a smile and a wave, Beau trotted outside.
After a moment of quiet, Marie looked up to Shannon and said, “So - an admiral, eh?”
"Kinda looks like it,” Shannon replied quietly, carefully taking the Medal from around his neck and looking at it for a moment before turning back to Marie. “I just have one question, though.”
"What's that?”
Shannon thought for a moment, and then asked, “What in the hell do I do now?”
Marie pondered this for a moment before hooking her arm through his. “You can escort me back to my room, Admiral.” Her smile was as sweet and mischievous as he could ever ask for as he said, “Naturellement, Ma'mselle Commandant.” Marie looked at him in puzzlement, but Shannon only shrugged and smiled. “That's what happens when you hang around Beau all that time.”
-
MKSheppard
- Posts: 293
- Joined: Mon Nov 21, 2022 1:41 am
Re: TIPOTS: Case Vulkan
L'Envoi
I: The Reichhaupstadt
21 September 1941
Der Führer was most unhappy, and Heinrich Himmler knew it.
The raid on Hampton Roads had been his idea - well, not precisely his, but more that of his deputy Reinhard Heydrich, who knew full well that Himmler would take full credit for the idea. It was a win/win for Heydrich, a man who made snakes look upright and moral. If the raid could even by the remotest chance be called a success, then Heydrich could bask in Himmler's reflected glory. If it could not, then Heydrich was in the clear and could have a shot at climbing a little higher in the maniacal world of the Nazi hierarchy. The two men were most respectful and polite to one another in person but Heydrich cordially loathed Himmler, and his boss - far dimmer than History has given him credit for, but every bit as amoral and insensitive - hadn't a clue as to Heydrich's machinations and was mildly afraid of him to boot. In any event, all he knew was that he was going to have to explain things to the Führer is a few minutes, and he had no idea how.
Well, why should it be a problem? He'd been alongside the Fuhrer since the earliest days of the struggle, a trusted comrade. His loyalty had never been in question. An error in judgment, that's all. The Führer wasn't a monster, a 'one-mistake' man. Himmler stood and straightened his tunic, then proceeded down the long hallway to the Führer's office.
Outside, it was a fairly bright, sunny day in the Chancellery courtyard as Reinhard Heydrich stood awaiting a black Mercedes staff car that was rolling to a stop in front of him. An aide fairly burst out of one door to open the passenger door as a squat, powerfully built man in the uniform of an SS Gruppenführer strode out absently returning the aide's salute. Josef Dietrich - known to a handful of friends and the Führer as 'Sepp', and the commander of 1 SS.Panzerkorps - had never been much for military trappings. He'd been a simple sergeant in the old Imperial Army, but he'd joined Hitler early and been rewarded for it with high command in the SS. Unlike most of Hitler's old friends who had risen to prominence, he took his duties seriously - he might not have had a General Staff education and training, but Dietrich had through study and attention to his troops come to be known as a solid, competent commander. He'd proved that in Poland and France, and when his men got to England, he intended to teach the British a lesson.
Dietrich saluted Heydrich smartly and reported, “Herr Obergruppenfuhrer! Gruppenfuhrer Dietrich reporting as ordered.” Heydrich returned the salute with a smile and shook Dietrich's hand. “Sepp,” Heydrich said pleasantly, while Dietrich winced at the use of that nickname, “How good to see you again! How are things in France?”
Heydrich began walking towards the Chancellery and Dietrich fell in beside him. “Quiet, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer, but I'm keeping the men busy. When the Führer orders the invasion, we'll be ready.”
"Good, good,” Heydrich nodded. “On the subject of the invasion…you will have a position of somewhat more authority when it occurs.” Dietrich raised one eyebrow but restrained his curiosity. “Herr Obergruppenführer, with respect - and gratitude - I'm perfectly happy at 1 SS.Panzerkorps. We're going to be the spearheads when we go ashore, and I want nothing more than to finish what der Eisener made us stop in France.”
Heydrich nodded in understanding as their footsteps echoed off the granite walls. “Oh, Sepp, I fully understand your feeling on the matter. You're a man of action, and you've become a success in the field. But the Führer believes you have another destiny.”
That got Dietrich's attention; he looked at Heydrich and said, “I've known the Führer long enough to know that when he gets an idea in his head, that's it. What's he got in mind - some staff position here with the Reichsführer?”
"Oh, considerably more than that, Sepp, considerably more.” Heydrich stopped and turned to face Dietrich. “Sepp…the Führer has decided on a…reorganization of certain offices. The RSHA will become a separate agency under my command and answerable directly and only to the Führer.” Dietrich took that in stride. “Seems reasonable enough. Always thought that having it under the SS never did anything besides make things complicated.”
Heydrich nodded. “The SS, of course will retain its independence…with you at its head.” Dietrich stood there with his mouth open, trying to frame a response, but wasn't able to before Heydrich pumped his hand and said, “Congratulations, Herr Reichsführer-SS! Come, the Führer wants you to have dinner with him tonight so you can celebrate!"
Even someone as solidly grounded as Sepp Dietrich was a little taken aback by sudden news like this, but one doesn't say no when your Führer gives you command of your nation's most elite force. All he could do for a moment was continue to shake hands before he got his wits enough around him to say, “Heydrich…thank you, thank you very much! My God, I have so much to do…"
"Fear not, Sepp. We'll get you plenty of time and help. Now, come - I think for once, the Fuhrer's hungry!" They started off, and suddenly Dietrich stopped and tugged at Heydrich's sleeve. “Heydrich,” he said, “One thing, though - what about Himmler?”
The courtyard and galleries suddenly echoed with the ragged sound of gunfire, the boiling snarl of a submachine gun and rounds caroming off granite and marble. Dietrich's hand snapped by reflex down to his Luger, which within a heartbeat was out and ready. But all the new Reichsführer-SS saw was Heydrich, smiling wickedly. “Calm yourself, Sepp,” Heydrich said. “That was just the Führer accepting Himmler's resignation for ill health.”
II: Washington, DC
27 September 1941
It was one of those beautiful Indian summer days that made living in the District worth it, and the tall, slim man was enjoying every second of it - the sun warm on his face, the breeze just cool enough to be comfortable, and children flying kites near the Washington Monument. So different from back home, he thought. This time of year most days were already turning cold and bleak, and within a month the first snow squalls would start.
One bright red kite executed a tight, perfect loop and the man smiled as the children controlling it rippled with laughter and squeals. He envied children. Their cares were so different than those their parents had to contend with. Right now, all they wanted was a lovely day for kite flying. God alone knew what their parents - some of whom were in uniform - had to fear. There were times when he sometimes regretted the regimentation children were given back home. Oh, without question it was necessary, a requirement to mold them into the kind of citizens they'd need in the future, but every now and then he thought it would be nice just to let them fly kites for a day. Taking another glance down the neatly manicured path, he saw a man trudging up the hill, doing his best to look stately but red-faced from the exertion nevertheless. Bad sign, the first man thought. Needs more exercise than he gets.
The man plopped down on the wooden bench beside him, puffing slightly and mopping his brow. “You could have picked a cooler place.”
The first man kept watching the children and their kites and simply said, “You could do with a bit of exercise. Take a walk, get some fresh air.”
"Screw you,” the second man snarled. “You said meet you immediately, I met you immediately.”
"And I am touched by your solicitude. But - down to business. Senator, my superiors are very concerned. They find it difficult to understand why we are not seeing stories in the news about the United States leaving the war.” There was a long and thoroughly unpleasant pause before the second man spat out, “Because it's not going to happen.”
Another pause as the second man watched a kite execute wide, slow circles as it sank to the ground. “That is….unfortunate, Senator. You assured me - and I , in turn, my superiors - that President Roosevelt would be unable to sustain support for the war. You told me that a trial - what do you call it -"
"Impeachment.”
"Ah, yes. In any event, you assured me it was inevitable. That President Roosevelt would be faced with the choice of losing office or withdrawing from the war. Instead, I see news reports and editorials that say support for the war has never been higher, and that the war will go on. I am not happy, Senator. My superiors are, shall we say…displeased.”
The Senator ran the handkerchief over his forehead again. “You think I am? You think any of us is? If your soldiers hadn't made such a mess of things, the people would have marched on the White House and thrown that old cripple out ...”
The first man cut the Senator off with a look that would have frozen a commando dead in his tracks. “Senator, please be careful. I have no doubt the men who attacked Norfolk did their utmost. You still have not explained to me why the impeachment proceedings have not started.”
"Because the attacks had just the opposite effect that they were supposed to have! Instead of putting the fear of God into the morons who are supporting the war, it convinced them that if this was the worst you could do, we could beat you! How in the hell were we supposed to indict Roosevelt after that?”
The man was silent, reflecting on the Senator's words, and then replied, “That was not the problem of the troops or the planners. You should have been able to use your influence - and the press - to do it anyways.”
The Senator shook his head as if explaining something to a particularly dim student. “Listen to me, you idiot. We - and the press - have to consider public opinion! We can't make them do something they don't want to do, especially when they're convinced they can beat you!”
The man considered this for a moment, then rose and straightened his jacket. “Senator,” he said quietly, “I strongly suggest you find a way to make them. It would be unfortunate if the press that you needed to bring down Roosevelt brings you down instead.” With that, he began to walk away until the Senator, quivering with rage, snarled, “Don't you threaten me, you Nazi kraut bastard!"
The man turned and looked the Senator squarely in the eye. “Senator,” he said in a gentle voice, “I am neither German, nor a Nazi…and I most certainly do not work for Germany. You should be very careful about making assumptions. Good day to you, sir.” The man politely touched the brim of his hat and strode purposefully away. The Senator, for his part, suddenly realized that the day had gotten quite cold.
III: Jamaica
June 6, 1952
Frankly, Sir Ian Fleming was in trouble. Wasn't the first time, of course, but this case was just a touch different. His writing hadn't been doing well - was making the bills, naturally, but not much more than that. Which was something of a problem insofar as his impending marriage was going to cost him considerably more than he was making right now. Anne was a wonderful woman, which went without saying. But she was of that breed that expected…. well, a certain recompense for her status. As the Americans would say, he'd been working the problem - in his own unique fashion, of course. The editors over at Jonathan Cape had made the suggestion first - Fleming had had more than his share of adventures during the war; why not write about them?
On the face of it, the idea was brilliant. After all, there had been some splendid moments: the fight aboard the Texas, the Gunpowder Plot, Operation Goldeneye, and the Red Indians. “Enough to keep the cliffhangers coming for years,” they'd laughed, and finally one had offered a contract for, quite frankly, more money than he'd ever seen at one place at one time in his life. And therein lay the rub.
The fine gentlemen at Jonathan Cape expected a book. As soon as he turned one over, he'd get the funds as promised. However, getting things started had been far more difficult than he'd imagined. For the first time in his professional life, London wasn't being very conducive to writing, not one little bit. The editors were to the point of making discreet but pointed enquiries as to the status of Sir Ian's efforts when a little bit of luck had solved that problem: his old friend Professor Bond had offered the use of his home in Jamaica while he and his wife were observing yellow-crowned night herons in the Turks and Caicos. Once he'd gotten there, it was like a dam breaking - he'd needed only a few days to outline the plot, and then all he needed was his hero. Mind you, he had one in mind, and had already decided to name him in honor of Professor Bond. He'd taken the rough outline of the action from one particular mission in Monaco just after the liberation, and then based the lead female character on poor, dear Christine Granville - who, quite frankly, had enough aliases that Anne was never likely to tumble on to her.
But then he'd run into a genuine problem. For some reason, he couldn't start writing until he'd had a solid picture in his mind of his hero. Professor Bond's name was quite suitable, but the poor man looked like a slightly seedy assistant fitter in a men's store. It had been his editor who had hit on the idea of having an artist draw a picture based on Fleming's description. A capital idea, and the picture had just come in today's mail.
Fleming carefully opened the heavy manila envelope with its firm cardboard backing, and carefully slid out the pen-and-ink drawing with its vellum protective cover. Holding it at arm's length, he studied it carefully for a moment, turning it from one angle to another, letting it collect the light and illuminate every line, every shadowed crevice of ink:
Perfect, Fleming thought with a grin, absolutely perfect. Looked just like Brian. And with that thought, the words suddenly boiled up into Fleming's mind, as they hadn't in months. He'd been a writer long enough to know what that feeling meant, and he raced for the little black Royal typewriter in the library, next to the window that overlooked the green lawn that rolled like luxurious velvet to the blue Caribbean. Sitting down, he fairly pushed the paper into the rollers and set it with a metallic rasp. Smiling from ear to ear, Fleming paused for just a moment, and then his fingers danced across the keys:
“The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning….”
Fleming stopped for a second, looking over at the portrait. Perhaps he should have asked Brian first.
Oh, well…
This is the end of
CASE VULKAN
but
TIPOTS will return in
NIGHTWATCH
Thanks to all of my Family here at the Board, and especially to Bob, who never missed an opportunity to beat me over the head to finish the damned thing - it was worth it. The portrait of James Bond really was commissioned by Fleming just after Casino Royale was finished, and is used here by permission of Wikipedia.
I: The Reichhaupstadt
21 September 1941
Der Führer was most unhappy, and Heinrich Himmler knew it.
The raid on Hampton Roads had been his idea - well, not precisely his, but more that of his deputy Reinhard Heydrich, who knew full well that Himmler would take full credit for the idea. It was a win/win for Heydrich, a man who made snakes look upright and moral. If the raid could even by the remotest chance be called a success, then Heydrich could bask in Himmler's reflected glory. If it could not, then Heydrich was in the clear and could have a shot at climbing a little higher in the maniacal world of the Nazi hierarchy. The two men were most respectful and polite to one another in person but Heydrich cordially loathed Himmler, and his boss - far dimmer than History has given him credit for, but every bit as amoral and insensitive - hadn't a clue as to Heydrich's machinations and was mildly afraid of him to boot. In any event, all he knew was that he was going to have to explain things to the Führer is a few minutes, and he had no idea how.
Well, why should it be a problem? He'd been alongside the Fuhrer since the earliest days of the struggle, a trusted comrade. His loyalty had never been in question. An error in judgment, that's all. The Führer wasn't a monster, a 'one-mistake' man. Himmler stood and straightened his tunic, then proceeded down the long hallway to the Führer's office.
Outside, it was a fairly bright, sunny day in the Chancellery courtyard as Reinhard Heydrich stood awaiting a black Mercedes staff car that was rolling to a stop in front of him. An aide fairly burst out of one door to open the passenger door as a squat, powerfully built man in the uniform of an SS Gruppenführer strode out absently returning the aide's salute. Josef Dietrich - known to a handful of friends and the Führer as 'Sepp', and the commander of 1 SS.Panzerkorps - had never been much for military trappings. He'd been a simple sergeant in the old Imperial Army, but he'd joined Hitler early and been rewarded for it with high command in the SS. Unlike most of Hitler's old friends who had risen to prominence, he took his duties seriously - he might not have had a General Staff education and training, but Dietrich had through study and attention to his troops come to be known as a solid, competent commander. He'd proved that in Poland and France, and when his men got to England, he intended to teach the British a lesson.
Dietrich saluted Heydrich smartly and reported, “Herr Obergruppenfuhrer! Gruppenfuhrer Dietrich reporting as ordered.” Heydrich returned the salute with a smile and shook Dietrich's hand. “Sepp,” Heydrich said pleasantly, while Dietrich winced at the use of that nickname, “How good to see you again! How are things in France?”
Heydrich began walking towards the Chancellery and Dietrich fell in beside him. “Quiet, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer, but I'm keeping the men busy. When the Führer orders the invasion, we'll be ready.”
"Good, good,” Heydrich nodded. “On the subject of the invasion…you will have a position of somewhat more authority when it occurs.” Dietrich raised one eyebrow but restrained his curiosity. “Herr Obergruppenführer, with respect - and gratitude - I'm perfectly happy at 1 SS.Panzerkorps. We're going to be the spearheads when we go ashore, and I want nothing more than to finish what der Eisener made us stop in France.”
Heydrich nodded in understanding as their footsteps echoed off the granite walls. “Oh, Sepp, I fully understand your feeling on the matter. You're a man of action, and you've become a success in the field. But the Führer believes you have another destiny.”
That got Dietrich's attention; he looked at Heydrich and said, “I've known the Führer long enough to know that when he gets an idea in his head, that's it. What's he got in mind - some staff position here with the Reichsführer?”
"Oh, considerably more than that, Sepp, considerably more.” Heydrich stopped and turned to face Dietrich. “Sepp…the Führer has decided on a…reorganization of certain offices. The RSHA will become a separate agency under my command and answerable directly and only to the Führer.” Dietrich took that in stride. “Seems reasonable enough. Always thought that having it under the SS never did anything besides make things complicated.”
Heydrich nodded. “The SS, of course will retain its independence…with you at its head.” Dietrich stood there with his mouth open, trying to frame a response, but wasn't able to before Heydrich pumped his hand and said, “Congratulations, Herr Reichsführer-SS! Come, the Führer wants you to have dinner with him tonight so you can celebrate!"
Even someone as solidly grounded as Sepp Dietrich was a little taken aback by sudden news like this, but one doesn't say no when your Führer gives you command of your nation's most elite force. All he could do for a moment was continue to shake hands before he got his wits enough around him to say, “Heydrich…thank you, thank you very much! My God, I have so much to do…"
"Fear not, Sepp. We'll get you plenty of time and help. Now, come - I think for once, the Fuhrer's hungry!" They started off, and suddenly Dietrich stopped and tugged at Heydrich's sleeve. “Heydrich,” he said, “One thing, though - what about Himmler?”
The courtyard and galleries suddenly echoed with the ragged sound of gunfire, the boiling snarl of a submachine gun and rounds caroming off granite and marble. Dietrich's hand snapped by reflex down to his Luger, which within a heartbeat was out and ready. But all the new Reichsführer-SS saw was Heydrich, smiling wickedly. “Calm yourself, Sepp,” Heydrich said. “That was just the Führer accepting Himmler's resignation for ill health.”
II: Washington, DC
27 September 1941
It was one of those beautiful Indian summer days that made living in the District worth it, and the tall, slim man was enjoying every second of it - the sun warm on his face, the breeze just cool enough to be comfortable, and children flying kites near the Washington Monument. So different from back home, he thought. This time of year most days were already turning cold and bleak, and within a month the first snow squalls would start.
One bright red kite executed a tight, perfect loop and the man smiled as the children controlling it rippled with laughter and squeals. He envied children. Their cares were so different than those their parents had to contend with. Right now, all they wanted was a lovely day for kite flying. God alone knew what their parents - some of whom were in uniform - had to fear. There were times when he sometimes regretted the regimentation children were given back home. Oh, without question it was necessary, a requirement to mold them into the kind of citizens they'd need in the future, but every now and then he thought it would be nice just to let them fly kites for a day. Taking another glance down the neatly manicured path, he saw a man trudging up the hill, doing his best to look stately but red-faced from the exertion nevertheless. Bad sign, the first man thought. Needs more exercise than he gets.
The man plopped down on the wooden bench beside him, puffing slightly and mopping his brow. “You could have picked a cooler place.”
The first man kept watching the children and their kites and simply said, “You could do with a bit of exercise. Take a walk, get some fresh air.”
"Screw you,” the second man snarled. “You said meet you immediately, I met you immediately.”
"And I am touched by your solicitude. But - down to business. Senator, my superiors are very concerned. They find it difficult to understand why we are not seeing stories in the news about the United States leaving the war.” There was a long and thoroughly unpleasant pause before the second man spat out, “Because it's not going to happen.”
Another pause as the second man watched a kite execute wide, slow circles as it sank to the ground. “That is….unfortunate, Senator. You assured me - and I , in turn, my superiors - that President Roosevelt would be unable to sustain support for the war. You told me that a trial - what do you call it -"
"Impeachment.”
"Ah, yes. In any event, you assured me it was inevitable. That President Roosevelt would be faced with the choice of losing office or withdrawing from the war. Instead, I see news reports and editorials that say support for the war has never been higher, and that the war will go on. I am not happy, Senator. My superiors are, shall we say…displeased.”
The Senator ran the handkerchief over his forehead again. “You think I am? You think any of us is? If your soldiers hadn't made such a mess of things, the people would have marched on the White House and thrown that old cripple out ...”
The first man cut the Senator off with a look that would have frozen a commando dead in his tracks. “Senator, please be careful. I have no doubt the men who attacked Norfolk did their utmost. You still have not explained to me why the impeachment proceedings have not started.”
"Because the attacks had just the opposite effect that they were supposed to have! Instead of putting the fear of God into the morons who are supporting the war, it convinced them that if this was the worst you could do, we could beat you! How in the hell were we supposed to indict Roosevelt after that?”
The man was silent, reflecting on the Senator's words, and then replied, “That was not the problem of the troops or the planners. You should have been able to use your influence - and the press - to do it anyways.”
The Senator shook his head as if explaining something to a particularly dim student. “Listen to me, you idiot. We - and the press - have to consider public opinion! We can't make them do something they don't want to do, especially when they're convinced they can beat you!”
The man considered this for a moment, then rose and straightened his jacket. “Senator,” he said quietly, “I strongly suggest you find a way to make them. It would be unfortunate if the press that you needed to bring down Roosevelt brings you down instead.” With that, he began to walk away until the Senator, quivering with rage, snarled, “Don't you threaten me, you Nazi kraut bastard!"
The man turned and looked the Senator squarely in the eye. “Senator,” he said in a gentle voice, “I am neither German, nor a Nazi…and I most certainly do not work for Germany. You should be very careful about making assumptions. Good day to you, sir.” The man politely touched the brim of his hat and strode purposefully away. The Senator, for his part, suddenly realized that the day had gotten quite cold.
III: Jamaica
June 6, 1952
Frankly, Sir Ian Fleming was in trouble. Wasn't the first time, of course, but this case was just a touch different. His writing hadn't been doing well - was making the bills, naturally, but not much more than that. Which was something of a problem insofar as his impending marriage was going to cost him considerably more than he was making right now. Anne was a wonderful woman, which went without saying. But she was of that breed that expected…. well, a certain recompense for her status. As the Americans would say, he'd been working the problem - in his own unique fashion, of course. The editors over at Jonathan Cape had made the suggestion first - Fleming had had more than his share of adventures during the war; why not write about them?
On the face of it, the idea was brilliant. After all, there had been some splendid moments: the fight aboard the Texas, the Gunpowder Plot, Operation Goldeneye, and the Red Indians. “Enough to keep the cliffhangers coming for years,” they'd laughed, and finally one had offered a contract for, quite frankly, more money than he'd ever seen at one place at one time in his life. And therein lay the rub.
The fine gentlemen at Jonathan Cape expected a book. As soon as he turned one over, he'd get the funds as promised. However, getting things started had been far more difficult than he'd imagined. For the first time in his professional life, London wasn't being very conducive to writing, not one little bit. The editors were to the point of making discreet but pointed enquiries as to the status of Sir Ian's efforts when a little bit of luck had solved that problem: his old friend Professor Bond had offered the use of his home in Jamaica while he and his wife were observing yellow-crowned night herons in the Turks and Caicos. Once he'd gotten there, it was like a dam breaking - he'd needed only a few days to outline the plot, and then all he needed was his hero. Mind you, he had one in mind, and had already decided to name him in honor of Professor Bond. He'd taken the rough outline of the action from one particular mission in Monaco just after the liberation, and then based the lead female character on poor, dear Christine Granville - who, quite frankly, had enough aliases that Anne was never likely to tumble on to her.
But then he'd run into a genuine problem. For some reason, he couldn't start writing until he'd had a solid picture in his mind of his hero. Professor Bond's name was quite suitable, but the poor man looked like a slightly seedy assistant fitter in a men's store. It had been his editor who had hit on the idea of having an artist draw a picture based on Fleming's description. A capital idea, and the picture had just come in today's mail.
Fleming carefully opened the heavy manila envelope with its firm cardboard backing, and carefully slid out the pen-and-ink drawing with its vellum protective cover. Holding it at arm's length, he studied it carefully for a moment, turning it from one angle to another, letting it collect the light and illuminate every line, every shadowed crevice of ink:
Perfect, Fleming thought with a grin, absolutely perfect. Looked just like Brian. And with that thought, the words suddenly boiled up into Fleming's mind, as they hadn't in months. He'd been a writer long enough to know what that feeling meant, and he raced for the little black Royal typewriter in the library, next to the window that overlooked the green lawn that rolled like luxurious velvet to the blue Caribbean. Sitting down, he fairly pushed the paper into the rollers and set it with a metallic rasp. Smiling from ear to ear, Fleming paused for just a moment, and then his fingers danced across the keys:
“The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning….”
Fleming stopped for a second, looking over at the portrait. Perhaps he should have asked Brian first.
Oh, well…
This is the end of
CASE VULKAN
but
TIPOTS will return in
NIGHTWATCH
Thanks to all of my Family here at the Board, and especially to Bob, who never missed an opportunity to beat me over the head to finish the damned thing - it was worth it. The portrait of James Bond really was commissioned by Fleming just after Casino Royale was finished, and is used here by permission of Wikipedia.
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Re: TIPOTS: Case Vulkan
The New York-class battleships only had two shafts, period; one to starboard and the other to port with the rudder aft of them amidships.
“For a brick, he flew pretty good!” Sgt. Major A.J. Johnson, Halo 2
To err is human; to forgive is not SAC policy.
“This is Raven 2-5. This is my sandbox. You will not drop, acknowledge.” David Flanagan, former Raven FAC
To err is human; to forgive is not SAC policy.
“This is Raven 2-5. This is my sandbox. You will not drop, acknowledge.” David Flanagan, former Raven FAC
Re: TIPOTS: Case Vulkan
Such a fun action story, thank you for posting it.