The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much, Leftenant,’’ he said mysteriously. ‘‘It’s all rather behind closed shutters.’’

Canidy shrugged acceptance. He was not surprised that Donovan was up to something secret.

Before long, the reason for the dinner came out. Whittaker Construction was building maritime fuel transfer facilities in Nova Scotia. Canidy knew a little about this. And what he did not know, Colonel Donovan quickly made clear.

American petroleum products were to be shipped in American bottoms from the Gulf Coast. So long as they were in American waters, they would be safe from attack from German submarines. The British and Canadian navies would then provide protection for the tankers during the short voyage from the Canadian-American border to a port in Nova Scotia, where the petroleum would be pumped into English ships for the trip across the Atlantic. If the petroleum had been loaded into the English ships on the Gulf Coast, the ships would have been fair game for German submarines the moment they were fourteen miles at sea. Since the British had neither enough tankers to ship their fuel directly from Texas and Louisiana, nor enough naval vessels to protect them, other arrangements had to be made.

Sue-Ellen Chambers’s husband owned a shipyard in Mobile to which Whittaker Construction had subcontracted the manufacture of the fuel-handling barges and other equipment that would be used in Canada. This yard was not only building tankers, but was about to hand over fuel-handling equipment to the Canadians. Ol’ Magnolia Blossom’s husband was a subcontractor, making the equipment for Whittaker Construction, who had the prime contract.

From what Canidy had been taught about the rules of warfare, what the Americans were doing was undeniably a violation of the laws governing neutral countries during a war; but he was a lieutenant junior grade, Reserve, and no one had asked for his opinion.

Cynthia Chenowith, however, did not share Canidy’s reluctance to speak out. ‘‘What all this amounts to,’’ she said to Donovan, ‘‘is that America is going to be in the war on Britain’s side, only not officially. Neutrality doesn’t count anymore, then, does it?’’

‘‘I think, Miss Chenowith, that you’ve made a more or less reasonable interpretation,’’ Donovan said.

‘‘I don’t like it,’’ Cynthia said. ‘‘I don’t like going into war through the back door.’’

‘‘You realize, miss,’’ said Commander Fleming, ‘‘that America will be in this war officially—and sooner rather than later.’’

Cynthia paused a moment in order to take hold of that. Then, with a not quite nice smile, she said to Fleming, ‘‘Is this why you’ve come to Washington, Commander, to help make that happen sooner rather than later?’’

‘‘Something like that,’’ Fleming agreed, grinning, liking her directness.

‘‘Ian is very good at doing things through the back door,’’ Donovan said in a loud, stagy whisper.

‘‘What kind of things?’’ Canidy asked innocently.

Donovan took a long, thoughtful sip from his goblet, weighing what he could reveal. ‘‘Wars were fought, once upon a time,’’ he said after draining the goblet, ‘‘by tribes who came at one another with clubs and stones. Each tribe beat on the other until only one tribe was left standing. All wars, until recently, have been conducted pretty much the same way. . . . Oh, there’ve been a few changes. We have airplanes now, which, in effect, let us throw stones farther than our grandparents could. But otherwise, one side continues to bash at the othe

r until only one is left standing. What has changed from what our grandfathers did is that much of the battle now is fought—long before the armies, navies, and air fleets clash—in the minds of the opposing forces. That may even be the decisive part of the battle. . . . Which means that we need to know the mind of an enemy before he commits his forces—what he can do to us and what he intends to do to us—so that we can prevent the moves that could harm us or at least counter them. And we need to conceal from our enemy what we can do to him and what we intend to do to him. Of course, we want him to believe that we are extremely powerful. That, too, is part of the war of the mind.’’

He took another sip of water from his goblet, which a servant had refilled. Then he went on. ‘‘Unhappily, our nation has been woefully unprepared to wage this kind of warfare. Happily, Commander Fleming and some of his colleagues in England are very skilled at it, indeed, and have graciously agreed to help us put matters right.’’

Meanwhile, as this talk of spying was going on about the table, a truly clandestine action was starting to happen beneath it.

During the crab cocktail, Sue-Ellen Chambers, apparently mistaking Canidy’s foot for the table leg, stepped heavily on his instep. He waited until the opportunity presented itself, then moved his feet far out of her way.

During the entrée, leg of lamb with oven-roasted potatoes, her shoe again found his, and again he moved it. He looked up in some surprise, for his foot was some distance from where hers should have been. When his glance reached her face, she looked directly into his eyes again.

It was, he told himself, his overactive imagination that suggested she was anything different from what she claimed she was: a mother of two, who had come to Washington only because ‘‘the way things are’’ it was the only time she got to see her husband.

There was Brie and toasted crackers for dessert, along with a very nice burgundy. While Canidy was spreading a cracker, he felt a tug at his pants leg, and a moment later there was the unmistakable pressure of the ball of Sue-Ellen Chambers’s stockinged foot against his calf.

When he looked at her this time, she was smiling at him, and the tip of her tongue was peeping out from between her lips.

Jesus Christ! Was she drunk, or what?

There was to be bridge after dinner, but Mrs. Chambers asked to be excused. She had things to do in the morning, she said, and she really wasn’t used to the late hours everybody up north seemed to keep.

‘‘Dick will take you to your hotel, Sue-Ellen,’’ Chesty Whittaker said.

‘‘Oh, he can just see me to the car,’’ Sue-Ellen said.

A goddamned tease is what she is. She had no intention of delivering what she seemed to be offering. If I made a pass at her, she would act like a goosed nun.

‘‘I had to send the car to New Jersey,’’ Chesty said. ‘‘Dick will take you in the station wagon.’’

‘‘If you’ll just call me a cab,’’ she said.