“It’s Ronnie’s car, all right,” Oscar said.
“What’s that on the crown of the hat there?” Frank said.
“Huh? Where do you... oh.”
Both men stared at the hat.
“It’s blood,” Oscar said.
“Yeah,” Frank answered.
“There’s the keys, right there in the dash,” Oscar said.
“Mmm.”
Frank took the keys out of the ignition slot. He held them on the palm of his hand for a moment, looking down at them silently. Then he said, “I reckon we’d better take a look in the trunk.”
They’re not figuring on annihilation, Marvin thought. That’s not in their plan at all. They may have to sacrifice the handful of men who are taking the ship down to Cuba, yes, but not because they expect America to be wiped out. On the contrary. They’re hoping there will be swift and sudden reprisal from us, a counterattack that will destroy Cuba’s potential in this hemisphere. They are gambling that Russia will not step into this thing at all — why should she? Cuba will be labeled the aggressor, the nation that sank a ship answering an SOS. Why should Russia risk adverse world opinion by keeping her promise to a small country that has already been successfully invaded?
Your plan sounds good, Marvin thought. I like it, Jason, I’m almost tempted. You are going to sacrifice a small Coast Guard ship that doesn’t even belong to you, plus two or three dozen men, but you’re going to get Cuba in return. That sounds like a good deal, a bargain for fanatics. The trouble with fanatics, of course, is that they never realize there are other fanatics in the world. What you’re perfectly willing to assume, Jason, is that we will not risk nuclear warfare, but will instead fight a limited war with conventional arms. You are ready to assume — because it fits your plans — that Russia will stay out of it. But suppose she doesn’t? Suppose she decides to push the retaliation button, what then, Jason?
You almost had me.
I can be had, you know.
If you’d only held out a realistic war to me, if you’d only extended a uniform glittering with brass, and a rifle I could shoot with impunity; if you’d offered me French girls with their eager pouting mouths or subjugated Russian peasant women obediently opening strong meaty thighs, or slender starving Chinese girls in slit skirts begging mercy from the American conqueror; if you’d offered me the spoils of war and the glamour of war, and the thrill of legal murder, rape and pillage; if you’d offered me all these things, Jason Trench, I would have walked across this room and shaken hands with your henchmen there, and joined your cause. I would have, I swear it. I would have kicked Selma in the ass and gone off to pick up glory like foreign coins at my feet. I would have done that.
But you offer possible ashes in my mouth; you offer possible blinding demolition and extinction, not escape. War is old-fashioned now, I guess. The killers have no place to go any more, except into the streets. Or, perhaps, on suicidal missions to Cuba to trigger what could become a holocaust.
If it’s fire you wish, Jason Trench, I can accommodate you.
The radioman’s name was Evan Peters, and he had relieved the Miami watch at 1545, and was now filing messages from the watch before. Big Chief Osama, who had stayed on to have a cup of coffee with the relieving watch section, was sitting at the desk alongside Peters, who was sorting and collating the sheaf of messages preparatory to putting them in their proper cabinets.
“I’m supposed to see this girl tonight,” Osama said, sipping his coffee. “She says she’s a Russian countess. You believe it?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s got red hair. You think there’s such a thing as a redheaded Russian?”
“Sure, there must be plenty of them,” Peters said.
“Why would a Russian countess want to go out with an Indian?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I did.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said we were both in the same fix. She lost everything when her parents got killed in the revolution, and I lost everything when the United States stuck my tribe on a reservation. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know,” Peters said. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s full of crap.”
“Maybe she’s a spy,” Peters said.
“What do you mean?”
“A secret agent. She knows you work here in Search and Rescue, and she’s trying to get information out of you.”
“Yeah, I’ll give her some information, all right,” Osama said, and burst out laughing. He lifted his coffee cup, drained it, put it down on the desktop again, and rose. He stretched his arms toward the ceiling, laughed again, and said, “I’ll give her some fine information, all right.” Laughing, he took his hat from where it was resting on one of the cabinets, winked at Peters, said, “Take it easy, kid,” and walked out of the message center. Outside, Peters could hear him telling Mr. Bordigian that he had a date with a Russian spy, would Mr. Bordigian recommend him for a commission if he promised not to give her any secrets? Mr. Bordigian laughed, and the Chief laughed with him and even Peters, sorting his messages, was forced to smile a little.
The smile dropped from his mouth when he saw the word ZUG on the message from the Mercury.
He separated the message from the others in the pile, and read it over carefully:
Peters had no prior knowledge of anything that had happened during the noon watch, but the message in his hands told him a great deal. It had been sent from the Mercury at 1845 ZULU, which was 1845 Greenwich Mean Time or 1345 Eastern Standard Time. It had been sent to the commander of Coast Guard District Seven, with a copy of the message going to the Miami Air Station for information. The Merc had either intercepted or gone to the assistance of a cabin cruiser called The Golden Fleece and the boat was now in tow, with her passengers aboard the cutter. One of the passengers was a pregnant woman who was in need of
But why the ZUG?
Peters read the message again. He knew that ZUG meant No or Negative, and he couldn’t understand how anyone could have made a mistake like that, preceding the entire text of a message with the word No. Unless, of course, it wasn’t a mistake, in which case the ZUG was a part of the message itself.
ZUG, Peters thought.
No.
Negative.
No what?
Negative what?
Negative everything following the ZUG?
Peters lighted a cigarette and debated bringing the message to the attention of Mr. Bordigian outside.
If the fire comes, Amos thought, we’ll all be black. We’ll all get roasted in that two, three seconds it takes for the big bomb to do it, that’s it, man, zero. Black zero. We’ll all be laying there on the ground and anybody comes along to take a look at us, he won’t know if we colored or white because we’ll all be roasted the same. Governor Wallace up there, he’s gonna be laying right next to some big blackass nigger, and ain’t nobody gonna be able to tell them apart. Jason Trench, he gonna bring true democracy to America at last. After a hundred years of arguing, Jason Trench is finally gonna end all the discussion. He’s gonna take his boat down to Cuba and get it sunk, and then we’ll send up our rockets and they’ll send back they rockets, and black men and white men’ll lay on the ground together roasted like pigs. They’ll be American whitemen-blackmen, and Russian whitemen-blackmen, and even Chinese yellowmen-blackmen, the whole damn world’s gonna be black, all because of Jason Trench, he is certainly the savior of the poor colored folk, amen. Only thing is, Jason, I ain’t got a hankering to wake up dead in the morning, even if it means at long last I can wake up alongside some white American woman. Won’t do me any good if she’s laying there roasted, now, will it, since then she’d be just as black as I am? Everybody knows a nigger ain’t got nothing on his mind but banging some white woman, so what good is a white woman who’s black? And besides, what good is a colored man who’s dead?