"So where is this going?"
"Unless I am wrong, it is going to Ottawa." Smith shook off his grim tone, and his voice sounded more energetic. "Remo, stand by. I must inform the President of these developments."
"He's going to be one unhappy camper," Remo warned.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States wasn't a happy camper at all. "Is this war?" he gulped.
"It is a kind of war. And as things are going, it will be unclear who the aggressor is."
"They are."
"We sunk their sub first. The Pacific action is a retaliation."
"What about the North Atlantic stuff?"
"The Canadians know we possess military superiority. They are attempting to stymie a U.S. response by opening up a second front."
"Second front?"
"Mr. President, this is now a two-ocean war."
"I don't want a war!"
"You have one now. And where it goes will depend upon the U.S. response."
"Maybe we should warn Louisbourg. Show good faith."
"It is a thought."
"I need deniability in this. Either that or get a battle group into the area."
"Naval action would be seen as a provocation, if not escalation of the conflict."
"I can't fight the entire Canadian navy with the Coast Guard."
"Actually you can. The U.S. Coast Guard constitutes the world's twelfth largest navy. We outnumber their coastal defense and Coast Guard handily. Not that I am suggesting engaging the Canadians militarily."
"What do you suggest, Smith?"
"Open up a third front."
"Where?"
"On the diplomatic front."
"Sounds relatively safe," the President said slowly.
"There is an old saying, Mr. President, to the effect that war is the pursuit of diplomatic affairs unresolvable by less drastic means."
The presidential voice brightened. "That's good. I may use that as my first salvo."
"Feel free," said Harold Smith, who didn't bother to say goodbye before hanging up.
SMITH HAD NO SOONER replaced the red receiver than the blue contact phone rang once more. He snapped it up.
"What is it, Remo?"
"More trouble. That armada we just passed? It's opened up on someone."
"What is your position, Remo?"
"Search me. Hey, Sandy!"
"That's 'Lieutenant' to you," Sandy Heckman's salty voice rang out.
"Stow the attitude. My boss needs our position."
"Tell him we're thirty nautical miles due southeast of Halifax."
"You got that, Smitty?" Remo asked.
"I am on it."
"On what?"
"If we are fortunate," said Smith, "I may be able to access a real-time satellite overview of what is going on."
Smith's thin fingers depressed keys, which flared with each touch, functioning silently.
In a moment he had acquired a feed from an orbiting National Reconnaissance Office surveillance satellite.
The view was clear. Boats on the water in two giant V's, moving on one another, trailing dozens of wakes that in turn created a gigantic super-wake. Smith could see the puffs of gray smoke from the lead vessels. Small puffs from what he assumed was the U.S. fishing fleet. Larger puffs from other fleet. It was smaller, but the boats were all a uniform white.
"Canadian patrol boats," he breathed.
A puff from a cutter showed distinctly, and one of the ragtag fishing vessels actually flung off debris. A second later an orange glow flared from her superstructure.
Smith hugged the phone to his head. "Remo, I have Canadian Coast Guard vessels engaging the U.S. fishing fleet."
"You don't sound very happy about it."
"I am not," Smith said bitterly. "While we want to avoid the repercussions of U.S. commercial vessels attacking Louisbourg, we cannot allow the Canadians to attack U.S. ships."
"What can we do about this?"
"Remo, I am about to order our Coast Guard to counterattack. In the meantime the Cayuga will move to support the U.S. forces."
"Forces? We're not at war."
"We are now," said Harold Smith. "And U.S. prestige is on the line."
"It's your call," said Remo, "but I don't want to be the one to break this to Sandy."
"Break what to me? And for the last time, it's 'Lieutenant,"' Sandy's raw voice called out.
"I will handle this," said Smith. "Remain available for my calls."
Smith hung up. His long thin fingers spun the rotary dial of the blue contact phone, and after only two transfers, he had the commanders of the nearest U.S. Coast Guard station to Halifax in a conference call.
Once Smith had filled them in, they were only too pleased to render assistance. For one thing Harold Smith outranked them both.
Or as one put it, "Those goddamn Canucks have been throwing their weight around since that phony Turbot War. It's time to show them who rules the North Atlantic."
Chapter 27
Lieutenant Sandy Heckman had one eye trained on the north horizon where the relentless cannonading of small-arms fire was emanating and one ear tuned to Remo, whose last name she had completely forgotten.
"Our boss says we go to the ships' rescue," Remo was saying.
"Gladly. But I don't work for the National Marine Fisheries Service."
"Neither do we. We're really Naval Intelligence."
"He is naval. I am the intelligent one," Chiun said.
Sandy dragged her glasses down off her eyes and turned as her face assumed an assortment of expressions ranging from humor to stunned astonishment. She settled on an incredulous twist of her mouth.
"You don't expect me to believe that bilge, do you?"
"It's true. We've been investigating Canadian-"
"Subterfuge," said Chiun.
"The real reason the fish are missing," added Remo.
"Everyone knows why the area's fished out. It's not red tide, or algae blooms or the greenhouse effect or any of that fancy nonsense. It's fishermen. They scooped up all the prey fish. Now the predator fish that lived off them are dying off. All that's left are the scup and cusk and turbot."
"There's more to it than that," said Remo. "But it's-"
"I know. Classified." And presenting her back to them, she said, "Classify my sweet ass."
"Very well," squeaked Chiun. "It is fat."
Sandy whirled and gave Chiun a particularly bilious eye. "You can walk the plank for all I care."
And Sandy resumed her scanning of the horizon. "When I hear from my commander, we go into action. Not before."
"Wait for it," said Remo.
It wasn't long. Sparks came flying down from the bridge waving a yellow flimsy. "Orders," he huffed.
"Why are they written?" Sandy asked, snatching the flimsy.
Then she saw why. It was a sea-gram:
USGC Cayuga is hereby ordered into the seas off Halifax to succor U.S. fishing vessels under attack by Canadian Coast Guard cutters. Reinforcements steaming your way. Good luck and Godspeed.
Crumpling up the flimsy, Sandy Heckmen took in a deep, cold lungful of air and hollered, "Battle stations! Helmsman, hard about and full steam ahead. We're going into action!"
"Told you so," said Remo.
"Fine. Meanwhile you two landlubbers are confined to quarters. It's going to get too hot for you to be on deck."
"Make us," invited Chiun.
Under Sandy's direction a pair of seamen attempted just that. They were helped into the drink by the Master of Sinanju, and the Cayuga had to double back to pick them up. Another attempt led to a seaman climbing the radar mast to avoid the old Korean's needlelike fingernails. After that the crew of the Cayuga pointedly pretended that Remo and Chiun were simply not there. It made for smoother sailing that way.
At full speed, the Cayuga came around the edge of the battle, which was in full swing, and found a Canadian cutter whose port flank was exposed and undefended.
Sandy got on the UHF radio. "Attention Canadian Coast Cuard cutters Angus Reid and Stan and Garnett Rogers. This is the USCG Cayuga. Repeat, this is the United States Coast Guard cutter Cayuga ordering you to break off your attack or be fired upon."