"It's okay, Mrs. Mackellar. Yeah, it's me."
"Oh, dearie, I've been so worried. Mr. Ramsay said the Japanese had landed and were going to kill everyone and-"
Cherry's voice boomed out. "It's all right, Mrs. Mackellar. I'm Detective Cherry, from the Honolulu PD, and I can assure you that everything will be okay. Now you need to go back into your apartment, ma'am, and wait for help to come. Do you have enough food to last a few days?"
"Well, I… the delivery boy came this morning, just before the air raid and-oh, I hope he hasn't been hurt-"
"He'll be fine, ma'am," Cherry said, taking the stairs two at a time to get up to her. The oil lamp threw long, swaying shadows as he climbed. Rosanna saw him place a huge paw on the old woman's shoulder and steer her back into her home. "Fill your bath with cold water, Mrs. Mackellar. And your sinks and any pots or pans you have. In case the water gets cut off. And listen to your radio-"
"I can't, Detective. The Japanese broke it."
"What… Oh, right. Yeah, Lieutenant Curtis down there told me about that. They had some special bomb fried the electrics. Most of 'em, anyhow. Well, not to worry. A uniformed officer will come around, and tell you when it's safe again. For now, just do as I say. In fact, you might want to go around to the rest of the occupants and tell them the same thing. Can you do that for me, Mrs. Mackellar? Can I deputize that job to you?"
Rosanna found herself touched, and more than a little surprised by Cherry's ability to calm the old lady's nerves. Mrs. Mackellar promised him she would go right away, and instruct the rest of the building to do as he said.
"Well, get yourself a candle or a torch," he cautioned, "and be careful on the stairs in the dark. There isn't going to be any ambulance service for a while."
Cherry came back down and joined them on the lower landing.
"What are you fucking looking at?" he growled at Rosanna.
"You fucking asshole. You're just a pussycat," she said back. "Why can't you be nice like that all the time?"
"Because it hurts my head," he said. "This your place, Natoli? Can we get inside and get some grub now?"
She added the light of her flexipad to his oil lamp, to help find the keyhole.
"Is there a layer of lead or something in there that protected it from the pulse?" asked Curtis.
"Not lead, no," she answered as the key turned. "But most of my stuff is hardened for battlefield use. My watch isn't, though. Look."
She showed him her wristwatch. The alphanumeric display was dead.
"It used to light up," she said. "It had the prettiest blue face."
"Got any booze?" Cherry asked, pushing his way into the living room, where glass crunched underfoot.
"There's champagne in the icebox. That's it, but you're welcome to have some."
"Jesus Christ, lolly water," he muttered.
"Hey, for a guy who was spying on us until this morning, and doing a shit job of it, too, you're a bit of a lippy fucker, aren't you?"
"Calm down, sister," said Cherry. "It's been a long day. Where d'you keep your glasses?"
"Not under my pillow, like you. Try the cupboard over the sink."
Cherry crunched away.
"I'm sorry about your place," Curtis said. Every window seemed to be broken.
"It was always too dark for my tastes, anyhow," she said, shrugging. "You should see the joint I bought in New York, with Julia. Hey, speaking of which, I'd better file."
She set about slotting the flexipad into the drivebay of her personal server. It could run on batteries for three days, and had even better shielding against an EMP than her pad. A row of blinking lights, on a charcoal gray communications cone jacked into the rear of the box, told her that she still had a link to Fleetnet.
"Small fucking mercies," she said to herself.
The screen powered up with its familiar background of family photos. The computer linked automatically to a drone circling high over the island, and a message popped up.
"Hey, you guys had better come and see this," she called out.
Both of them appeared from the kitchen carrying bread and sandwich fillings.
"What's up?" asked Curtis.
"Your friends on their way?" said Cherry.
"Not really."
They leaned in to read the message.
Flash traffic, Fleetnet. All units and ancillary personnel. Japanese invasion of Hawaii imminent. No equipment or data is to be captured by the Japanese. Repeat, no equipment or data is to be captured by the Japanese. Destroy all relevant material. By order of Admiral Phillip Kolhammer.
Outside a lone air raid siren wailed in the night.
27
The Whitelaw Hotel on the corner of Thirteenth and T wasn't the finest establishment in Washington, but it was special in a way that a Waldorf-Astoria could never be.
Built in 1919 in the Italian Renaissance Revival style, the Whitelaw was the world's most famous African-American hotel. It was a temporary home in the national capital for entertainers like Duke Ellington, or the leaders of black organizations like the NAACP, none of whom could rent rooms in the city's segregated luxury hotels. So it was unusual-almost unprecedented-for a high-ranking white military man to stay there. Admiral Kolhammer's PA had standing instructions to book him into the Whitelaw whenever he traveled to Washington.
He checked in early, straight off the red-eye, before starting a long day of crisis meetings at the White House and the War Department.
"I need to get some breakfast, have a shower, and change," he told the front desk. "Then I'm out of here. In fact, if you could have a car waiting for me at a quarter of nine, my little part of the war effort would run a lot smoother."
The duty manager was only too happy to help. The Special Administrative Zone put a lot of business through the Whitelaw.
Agents Flint and Stirling hovered nearby, like golems in off-the-rack suits.
"Would you prefer to have breakfast in your room, sir?" the manager asked. "We have a suite ready for you."
"No. I'll just go through to the dining room now. One of my staff is meeting me there. A Commander Daniel Black. Please send him on through when he arrives. He shouldn't be too long."
He turned to his security detail. "We're going to be on the move all day. You guys ought to grab some chow while you can, too."
The agents nodded, and Stirling moved through to check out the room.
A bellhop was summoned to take Kolhammer's baggage, and the kid obviously recognized him. In fact, almost everyone in the large crowded lobby seemed to know who he was, courtesy of four months of blanket coverage in the black press. As he moved through the warm but cavernous space, with strangers pointing and smiling, or just whispering and trying not to look like they were gawking at him, Kolhammer was struck by the thought that this was probably how Spruance had felt when he'd first come aboard the Clinton back at Midway.
Well, it was his choice to stay here. In part, it was just petty politics, really. But sometimes that was important, too. He had a lot of officers serving under him who would not be welcome in any of the other, better hotels in Washington, simply because God had wrapped them up in the wrong skin color. And to Phillip Kolhammer's way of thinking, that sucked. Back in the twenty-first, a lot of assholes would have thought of his insistence on staying here at the Whitelaw as politically correct grandstanding. But they could go fuck themselves and the horse they rode in on.