“Valparaíso — that’s not a Jap name,” said Pembroke.
“Neither is ‘Rockefeller Center,’ ” said Winston.
“I don’t understand why private enterprise must redress this matter,” said Flume. “The United States of America boasts the largest navy in the world. Much larger than Sid’s and mine.”
“Yeah, but you can’t use the American Navy without Congressional approval,” said Barclay.
“The CIA?”
“Good people, but we’d never mobilize ’em in time,” said Oliver.
“This is clearly a job for concerned businessmen like ourselves,” said Winston. “Vigilante capitalism, eh?”
“I’m not a mystical sort of fella,” said Barclay, “but I feel it’s no accident your ship is named Enterprise.”
Oliver took a hearty swallow of beer. “So, what do you think?”
Pembroke shot his partner a pained glance. “What do we think, Alby?”
Flume flicked his cigarette ashes into a pewter tray shaped like Dumbo the Flying Elephant. “We think it sounds pretty fishy.”
“Fishy?” said Oliver, peeling the label off his Rheingold bottle.
“Fishy as the hold of a Portuguese trawler.”
“Oh?”
“We think this thing you want out of the way might be a Jap golem, and then again it might not be.” Flume took a drag, blew a smoke ring. “We also think this: money talks. You mentioned fifteen million. That’s a good start. A darn good start.”
“It’s more than a start,” grunted Oliver.
“Indeed. The thing is…”
“All right — sixteen.”
“The thing is, you’re not asking us to do a normal reenactment. In some ways, this is the real McCoy.” Flume blew two rings this time, one inside the other. “Wars have a way of going over budget.”
“A single strike might not be enough to remove the target,” Pembroke elaborated. “The planes might have to return to Enterprise and rearm.”
“Final offer,” said Oliver. “This is it. Tops. Ready? Seventeen million dollars. For that kind of money, you could stage a goddamn musical of my eighth-grade civics text on the back of the moon and keep it running for ten years.”
Had the impresarios been dogs, Oliver decided, their ears would have shot straight up and stayed there.
“Overlord,” said Flume in a hushed and reverent voice.
“What?” said Oliver.
“Operation Overlord. An old dream of ours.”
“You know — Normandy,” said an equally respectful Pembroke.
“D-Day,” said Flume. “I mean, if you’re serious about seventeen million dollars, really serious, no strings attached, then, with a certain amount of luck — like maybe the job turns out to be a cakewalk, you know, a one-strike affair — well, we’d probably have enough left over for a D-Day. All of it. The diversionary bombings, the amphibious landing, the sweep through France. A risky venture, sure, but I predict it’ll turn a profit, don’t you, Sid?”
“Enough to finance Stalingrad, I should imagine,” said Pembroke.
“Or Arnhem, eh?” said Flume. “Forty thousand Allied paratroopers dropping out of the sky like sleet.”
“Or maybe even Hiroshima,” said Pembroke.
“No,” said Flume firmly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Poor taste?”
“Execrable.”
“World War Two,” sighed Pembroke. “We’ll never see its like again.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” said Oliver. “You can’t just damage the golem — it’s got to vanish without a trace.”
“Korea was a crummy stalemate,” Pembroke persisted.
“We expect you to blast the tow chains apart,” said Oliver, “and send the sucker straight into the Mohns Trench.”
“Vietnam had potential,” said Flume, “but then the hippies got their hands on it.”
“Don’t even talk to us about Operation Desert Storm,” said Pembroke.
“A lousy video game,” said Flume.
“A goddamn mini-series,” said Pembroke.
“Do you understand me?” said Oliver. “The Valparaíso’s cargo must disappear.”
“No problem,” said Flume. “Only we follow U.S. Navy usage ’round here, okay? No ‘the’ before a ship’s name. It’s Valparaíso, not ‘the’ Valparaíso. Enterprise, not ‘the’ Enterprise. Got that?”
Hovering over the photo, Pembroke jabbed his index finger into the carcass’s chest. “Why’s it grinning like that?”
“If you were that big,” said Barclay, “you’d grin too.”
“Any reason to suspect we won’t get a clear shot at it?” asked Flume. “When Scout Bombing Six sank Akagi, Commander McClusky had to put up with all sorts of crap — fighter pianes, screening vessels, flak. Valparaíso isn’t carrying any Bofors guns, is she?”
“Of course not,” said Winston.
“No destroyer escort?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Oh,” said Pembroke, sounding vaguely disappointed. “I think we should use TBD-1 Devastator torpedo planes, don’t you, Alby?”
“They’d clearly be the most effective against a target of this sort,” said Flume, nodding. “On the other hand…” Gripped by a sudden reverie, the impresario closed his eyes.
“On the other hand… ?” said Winston.
“On the other hand, it was SBD-2 Dauntless dive bombers that actually blew Akagi out of the water.”
“So while the Devastators would work the best… ,” said Pembroke.
“The Dauntlesses would be more historically accurate,” said Flume.
“I’d vote for the Devastators,” said Oliver.
“A tough call either way. Shall we leave it to the admiral, Sid?”
“Good idea.”
Flume stubbed out his cigarette in the Dumbo tray. “Naturally this has to be a hit-and-run operation. I figure if Enterprise hunkers down, say, a hundred and fifty miles west of the target, the Nips’ll never know where the planes came from.”
“The last thing we want is for Japan to be pissed at Alby and me,” Pembroke explained. “We’re gonna need their full cooperation for Guadalcanal.”
“Swing by Shields, McLaughlin, Babcock, and Kaminsky on Wednesday, and they’ll give you a rough draft to shoot past your lawyers,” said Flume. “It’ll probably take a couple weeks to nail down all the details — payment schedules, representations and warranties, the indemnity picture…”
“You mean — we’ve got ourselves a deal?” said Winston eagerly.
“Seventeen million?” said Flume, raising his Ruppert.
“Seventeen million,” Oliver confirmed, lifting his Rheingold.
Two vintage beer bottles came together, clanking in the hot Manhattan air.
“You know what I think we should do right now?” said Pembroke. “I think we should bow our heads and pray.”
A silken breeze blew across the Valparaíso’s stem as Cassie climbed down the ladder and, like Juliet stepping onto her balcony, joined Able Seaman Ralph Mungo in the forward lookout post. The cool air caressed her flesh. Slowly the sweat evaporated from her face. By morning, thank God, they’d be across the thirty-third parallel, the wretched North African summer forever behind them.
Puffing on a Marlboro, Mungo stared out to sea. The waxing moon hung low, fixed in the starry sky like a luminous slice of cantaloupe. Cassie set her flip-top coffee Thermos on the rail, reached into her shorts pocket, and removed the encrypted fax Lianne had intercepted that afternoon up in the radio shack.