Cryptonomicon

Waterhouse has had plenty of time to familiarize himself with Brisbane and its environs. He's been here for four weeks, and he's been given nothing to do. When he was in Britain, they couldn't shuffle him around fast enough. Whatever his job was at the moment, he did it feverishly--until he received top-secret, highest-priority orders to rush, by any available means of transportation, to his next assignment.

Then they brought him here. The Navy flew him across the Pacific, hopping from one island base to the next in an assortment of flying boats and transports. He crossed the equator and the international date line on the same day. But when he reached the boundary between Nimitz's Pacific Theater and The General's Southwest Pacific Theater, it was like he'd glided into a stone wall. It was all he could do to talk himself onboard a troop transport to New Zealand, and then to Fremantle. The transports were almost unbelievably hellish: steel ovens packed with men, baked by the sun, no one allowed to go abovedecks for fear they'd be sighted, and marked for slaughter, by a Nip submarine. Even at night they couldn't get a breeze through there, because all openings had to be covered with blackout curtains. Waterhouse couldn't really complain; some of the men had traveled this way all the way from the East Coast of the United States.

The important thing was that he made it to Brisbane, as per his orders, and reported to the right officer, who told him to await further orders. Which he's been doing until this morning, when he was told to show up at this office upstairs of the tobacconist. It is a room full of enlisted men typing up forms, trundling them around in wire baskets, and filing them. In Waterhouse's experience with the military, he has found that it's not a good sign when one is ordered to report to a place like this.

Finally he is allowed into the presence of an Army major who has several other conversations, and various pieces of important paperwork going on at the same time. That is okay; Waterhouse doesn't need to be a cryptanalyst to get the message loud and clear, which is that he is not wanted here.

"Marshall sent you here because he thinks that The General is sloppy with Ultra," the major says.

Waterhouse flinches to hear this word spoken aloud, in an office where enlisted men and women volunteers are coming and going. It's almost as if the major wishes to make it clear that The General is, in fact, quite sloppy with Ultra, and rather likes it that way, thank you very much.

"Marshall's afraid that the Nips will get wise to us and change their codes. It's all because of Churchill." The major refers to General George C. Marshall and Sir Winston Churchill as if they were bullpen staff for a farm league baseball team. He pauses to light a cigarette. "Ultra is Churchill's baby. Oh yeah, Winnie just luuuuuves his Ultra. He thinks we're going to blow his secret and ruin it for him because he thinks we're idiots." The major takes a very deep lungful of smoke, sits back in his chair, and carefully puffs out a couple of smoke rings. It is a convincing display of insouciance. "So he's always nagging Marshall to tighten up security, and Marshall throws him a bone every so often, just to keep the Alliance on an even keel." For the first time, the major looks Waterhouse in the eye. "You happen to be the latest bone. That's all."

There is a long silence, as if Waterhouse is expected to say something.

He clears his throat. No one ever got court-martialed for following his orders. "My orders state that--"

"Fuck your orders, Captain Waterhouse," the major says.

There is a long silence. The major tends to one or two other distracting duties. Then he stares out the window for a few moments, trying to compose his thoughts. Finally he says, "Get this through your head. We are not idiots. The General is not an idiot. The General appreciates Ultra as much as Sir Winston Churchill. The General uses Ultra as well as any commander in this war."

"Ultra's no good if the Japanese learn about it."

"As you can appreciate, the General does not have time to meet with you personally. Neither does his staff. So you will not have an opportunity to instruct him on how to keep Ultra a secret," says the major. He glances down a couple of times at a sheet of paper on his blotter, and indeed he is now speaking like a man who is reading a prepared statement. "From time to time, since we learned that you were being sent to us, your existence has been brought to the General's attention. During the brief periods of time when he is not occupied with more pressing matters, he has occasionally voiced some pithy thoughts about you, your mission, and the masterminds who sent you here."

"No doubt," Waterhouse says.