“In Europe,” the newscaster went on, “German wireless reports that the Kaiser’s armored units have driven British forces over the Dutch border. For the first time since the outbreak of war, Germany is free of invaders. British Prime Minister Churchill denies the German claim and insists that strong British counterattacks are imminent.”
How can he do both at once? Flora wondered. But Churchill was formidable, no doubt about it. He’d overshadowed Mosley in the British government, and Britain was overshadowing France in the anti-German alliance, though Action Francaise had held power longer.
“Russia claims the German assault column aimed at Petrograd has been turned back with heavy losses,” the broadcaster continued. “More weight would attach to this claim if the Tsar’s government hadn’t made it repeatedly over the past few weeks, each time without its being true. The situation in the Ukraine, however, remains as confused and chaotic as it has been since the beginning of the war.
“Serbian terrorists have taken credit for the people bomb that exploded in Budapest day before yesterday and killed several prominent Hungarian military officials. The Austro-Hungarian Empire has vowed reprisals.”
Flora sighed as she put salt on her eggs. The cycle of revenge and reprisal was lurching forward another couple of cogs. She saw no end to it. Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, Albanians, Macedonians, Bulgarians…Austria-Hungary had security worries that made the USA’s seem simple by comparison.
“In sports…” Flora got up and poured herself another cup of mostly ersatz coffee. She didn’t care about the football scores. Joshua would have, and no doubt still did. But he was off doing his basic training. The apartment seemed empty without him.
Somewhere out in Washington State, scientists were trying to build a bomb that might make soldiers obsolete. With Joshua in uniform, Flora had one more reason to hope they succeeded soon.
And somewhere down in the CSA, other scientists were trying just as hard to build the same damn thing. Flora didn’t think the Confederates could win the war as a slugging match, not any more. But if they got that bomb ahead of the USA…Roosevelt thought the enemy was running behind. Was he right?
The Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War couldn’t hold hearings to find out. As far as Flora knew, she was the only committee member who’d ever heard of uranium bombs or understood the difference between U-235 and U-238. There, though, she didn’t know how far she knew. Robert Taft might share the secret. So might any other member. The only way to find out was to ask, and asking meant breaching security. She kept quiet. So did any other members who knew. Maybe it would all come out after the war.
She went downstairs and flagged a cab. They were easy to get on this block, where so many Congressmen and Senators lived. “Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked. In most of Philadelphia, Flora would have been lady, the same as in New York City. This fellow remembered where he was, and took no chances.
“Congressional Hall,” Flora said.
“Yes, ma’am.” He probably thought she was a secretary, but politeness could still be good for his tip.
He had to detour from the shortest route a couple of times. Sawhorses and ropes blocked the street. Signs said, BOMB DAMAGE. “Do you know what’s going on?” Flora asked. “I didn’t hear any bombers overhead last night.”
“Neither did I, ma’am,” the cabby agreed. “But I heard one of ’em was an auto bomb and the other one was a people bomb.”
“Oy!” Flora said. “Has anyone claimed responsibility? Confederates? Mormons who don’t want to give up? Canadians?”
“God only knows,” he said. “You can walk along minding your own…darn business, and out of the blue-kaboom!”
“Out of the blue makes it worse,” Flora said, and the driver nodded. When someone said he’d planted an auto bomb, when a group proclaimed that one of its members hated you enough to blow himself to red mist to hurt you, at least you knew why you’d been injured. When the question hung in the air…When the question hung in the air, what could you do but stay afraid all the time? Flora didn’t think the cabby had several hundred pounds of TNT in the trunk of his beat-up Packard or under the floorboards, but she couldn’t prove he didn’t. And he couldn’t know she hadn’t strapped an explosive belt around her waist. Scary times, all the way around.
As if to prove as much, concrete barricades kept motorcars from getting too close to Congressional Hall. Flora paid the driver. The Packard wheezed away. She approached the building. Despite her status, despite her Congressional ID, security guards went through her handbag and attache case. A hard-faced policewoman patted her down. She’d got complaints that some of the women who frisked other women enjoyed themselves as much as men would have. She didn’t know what anyone could do about that. This one seemed all business. “You can go on,” she said when she finished.
“Thank you so much,” Flora said. The sarcasm rolled off the policewoman like rain off a tin roof.
Her secretary was in the office before Flora got there. “Good morning, Congresswoman,” she said. “Coffee’s just about ready.”
“Thanks, Bertha. It smells good,” Flora said. “Isn’t it terrible about the bombs this morning?”
“I should say so,” Bertha answered. “I hear the people bomb was one of those horrible Mormons.”
“Was it? How do they know?” Flora asked.
“I don’t know, but I’d believe anything about those people,” her secretary said. “They caused us so much trouble, so much misery-why wouldn’t they go on doing it even now?”
That wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t anything even close to evidence. Flora knew as much, even if Bertha didn’t. The cease-fire in Utah was holding…mostly. But there were Mormons who weren’t ready to give up the fight against the government that had spent a lifetime abusing them. Some didn’t care if they lived or died. The United States were painfully learning that men or women who didn’t value their own lives were the hardest kind of foes to stop.
“What are my appointments this morning?” Flora already knew most of them, but Bertha couldn’t go on ranting about Mormons if she had to check.
“Senator Taft called a few minutes ago and said he’d like to come by,” she answered. “I told him it was all right. I hope that wasn’t wrong?” She didn’t like making mistakes, which made her a good secretary. Flora had known some who just didn’t give a damn one way or the other.
She nodded now. “I’m always glad to see Senator Taft,” she said. They disagreed politically more often than not-they disagreed on almost everything, in fact, except that Jake Featherston needed suppressing. But they had an odd, acrid friendship, each knowing the other was sincere and honest. Flora went on, “Did he say what it was about?”
“Not to me, he didn’t.” Bertha sniffed. “Like a secretary should know what was going on? Noooo.” She stretched the word out into a long sound of complaint.
“All right. I’ll find out when he gets here.” Flora carefully didn’t smile.
Robert Taft came in about twenty minutes later. “Good morning, Flora,” he said. He was only half the man his father had been-literally. He was lean and spare, where William Howard Taft had been wide as a football field. William Howard Taft had been deceptively clever, a good mind darting out from that vast bulk. There was nothing deceptive about Robert Taft’s cool, dry, piercing intelligence.
“Good morning.” Flora brought him a cup of coffee-he would have done the same for her in his office. “What can I do for you today?” She was sure he wanted her to do something; he didn’t waste time on social calls. His father, who’d lived up to the cliches about fat men, had been far more outgoing.
Sure enough, Robert Taft went straight to business: “I want your support for the measure readmitting Kentucky and Tennessee to the United States.”
“Do you really think the time is ripe?” Flora asked. “We don’t hold all of either one-we don’t hold most of Tennessee. I know some white people in Kentucky really are pro-USA. But in Tennessee, we’d only have Negroes to work with, and how many has Jake Featherston left alive?”