1633

"And what do you propose for Captain Richter?" He gestured toward the citation, which Mike had seen the night before. "Colonel Wood's already awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross. Most he can do. But I agree with him-it's not enough. Mortally wounded, Captain Hans Richter deliberately flew his plane into an enemy vessel. That calls for the Congressional Medal of Honor, Mr. President. Posthumous, as most of them are."

Anger was starting to seep into his voice now, coloring the ice. Mike was glad to see it come. The anger of a man like Simpson, he could reach. He could do nothing with a man of stone.

"In our old universe, I should say," Simpson half-snarled. "In this new one, who knows? I don't believe you even have a Congressional Medal of Honor. Forgot about it, naturally."

"Yes, I did," said Mike calmly. "My apologies. I'll see to correcting that immediately." He said nothing else; just waited.

Simpson's icy glare held for a few more seconds. Then, he closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and slowly let it out through half-open lips. By the time the exhalation was finished, the lips looked human again.

"Sorry, Mr. President. That was quite uncalled for on my part."

"No, it wasn't. It was a screw-up. Mine. I guess I never really thought-wanted-ah, hell." He took a deep breath of his own. "I'll see to it, John. Today, if possible. There won't be any problem, believe me."

Simpson's shoulders slumped. With the slump, went all trace of stone from the face. It was still a wooden face, true, but…

Such was the nature of John Chandler Simpson. Mike had his full measure now. He could live with wood.

Wearily, Simpson rubbed his face. "Ah, it's all crap anyway, Mike. Just the last parting shot of a man who hates to admit he was wrong about anything." When he removed the hand, to stare back out of the window, he was almost smiling. "You were right, weren't you? When all is said and done. I thought you were insane to think we could build another United States your way. Throw it open overnight to people who had none of our background, customs, traditions."

Mike's mouth twisted. "Well… it was a risky enterprise. And still is, John. Risky as hell. I could use your help, that's for sure."

"You'll get it." The words came as sure and certain as John Chandler Simpson could say any words. Which was sure and certain indeed. "I'd be betraying those dead boys if I didn't. The proof is in the pudding. The first Congressional Medal of Honor will go to a German boy-and rightly so. And the other two young heroes were among those who first took him in, and welcomed him with open arms. Which I sure as hell didn't."

He made a fist and rapped the desk with it. The gesture was not an angry one; simply… firm. The way, Mike imagined, Simpson had often in times past pronounced that something involving his business was settled and done.

"That's what it all came down to in the end, Mike," he said sadly. "Just the raw courage of four young men. Two Americans, a German and a Swede."

"Two lashes is enough, John." Mike's chuckle was dry; even harsh; but not caustic. "We country boys have lower standards, y'know, than you High Church types. There's no apology needed, and sure as hell no penance. You trained them, remember? You built this Navy, not me, not anyone else. Just like Jesse built the Air Force. Their sacrifice will give you-all of us-the tradition we need. The start of it, anyway. But it couldn't have happened without you either."

Simpson turned his face back to meet Mike. There was pain in those eyes. Not that there hadn't been before; but now, it was plainly visible.

"I like to think so, Mike," he said softly, almost whispering. "I'm not sure I could get through this otherwise."

"Yeah, I know. It's keeping me going too. But it won't happen without-"

An interruption came, in the form of a very worried-looking Dietrich Schwanhausser almost barging through the door.

"Excuse me, Admiral, but General Torstensson-"

Torstensson himself came through the door, shouldering the aide aside. He took two steps into the room, and planted his boots. Then gave Mike and Simpson a look that was part-glare, part-challenge, and… oddest of all, more than a trace of simple curiosity.

"So!" he exclaimed, in his thickly accented but quite good English. "Now we will see. The city is erupting beneath our feet, President and Admiral. What do you propose to do about it?"

Chapter 49

By the time Mike and Simpson neared the entrance to the naval yard, Mike was pretty sure he understood what was happening. The hurried words spoken by Nat Davis as he came up to meet them confirmed it.

"I don't know what's happening, Admiral," said Nat, his face creased with worry and confusion. "Almost nobody showed up to work today. Sergeant Kohler tells me a lot of the sailors didn't either."