Page 6 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Despite the efforts of the crewman tasked with securing the platform to the ramp, passengers were rushing from the scene en masse.Those waiting on the ramp hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what had happened and waited like a flock of nervous sheep.
The wagon’s owner, a raw-boned farmer with just a monk’s tonsure of white hair, approached, hat in hand. He was clearly more concerned with his animals’ welfare than his own safety.
“I’m a private detective,” Bell stated, making flicking motions with his Browning’s barrel that told the thief to exit the cupola andjoin him on the main deck. “Those men stole cargo off a ship unloading a ways down the road.”
“American?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Never met one before.” He paused, considering something, and then asked, “Why aren’t you helping us with this war?”
To Bell it sounded more like an accusation than a question. “For the same reason we didn’t get involved the last time the French and Germans had at each other. This is a European problem.”
The thief approached, his hands still held aloft. Bell asked the farmer if he had any rope, which the man found after rummaging under the wagon’s bench seat. Bell had the thief sit and tied his hands to one of the cable anchors.
“You know this war’s different.”
Bell did know, but said nothing. The two men regarded each other for a few seconds and then the farmer turned away to lead his team and their load of potatoes off the transporter.
It took twenty minutes for some senior police detectives to arrive and another two hours of interrogations before they were satisfied they had all the details sorted out. The cops and government agents who’d been jumped at the docks had helped smooth the proceedings and had taken possession of the truck for its eventual transport down to London. By then the shotgun-wielding thief had been fished out of the river and the lone survivor had been carted off to a jail cell in Liverpool.
Marion finally joined him on the transporter’s first run after its continued operation had been authorized by the police. The few broken glass panes had been replaced with bits of canvas and the shards swept over the side. Buckets of water had sluiced any blood from lacerated passengers into the river.
She pressed herself hard against his body and kissed him long enough for some of the men milling about to turn away in embarrassment. “It’s a good thing I don’t watch you take foolish chances very often. My heart was pounding the whole time.”
“Mine, too,” he admitted. “And just so you know, that wasn’t a foolish chance, but rather a calculated risk.”
“Pish.” She dismissed him with a wave and a flash of her Caribbean-blue eyes.
“We’ve missed our train to London, I’m afraid,” he told her.
“No matter. We can spend the night here and head down tomorrow.” A sudden thought struck her and her excitement was infectious. “We can get a room at the Adelphi. We always sail out of Southampton, so we’ve never stayed here in Liverpool. Friends have said the Adelphi is lovely, and everyone is absolutely mad for their turtle soup.”
Bell considered the idea for a moment. “Turtle soup it is. I can telegraph the London office from the hotel and tell them we’ve been delayed a day, as well as notify the Savoy so we don’t lose our suite. The police offered me a ride back to the docks now that we’re done here and I’m sure the steamship line is holding our baggage.”
She threaded an arm through his and said with mock innocence, “If they don’t, I won’t have a single thing to wear to bed tonight.”
4
The meeting was held inthe White House, but President Wilson didn’t attend. He let one of his chief advisers, Colonel Edward House, handle the discussion. House was a Texan who’d made his money in railroads and banking and had transplanted to New York in 1911, where he soon became a close confidant of then New Jersey governor Woodrow Wilson. He was of average build, tending toward leanness with a tall forehead, prominent white mustache, and jug-handled ears.
He sat at the head of a conference table while the secretary of war, Newton Baker, sat at the other end. Between them sat the secretary of the Navy as well as all three men’s chief assistants. For Josephus Daniels, the Navy secretary, this was a young, patrician-looking New Yorker named Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He had a long face, stylish wire-framed glasses, and a quick and inquisitive mind.
There was some final rustling of papers and lighting of cigarettes before the meeting got underway.
“Gentlemen, as always, it’s good to see you,” Colonel House opened. “Thanks for coming across from the SWAN.” This was the nickname of the State, War, and Navy Building adjacent to the White House. “I had a meeting with the President last night, and quite frankly he is concerned. As we all know, he anchored his campaign last year on the fact that he kept us out of Europe’s war, even after the sinking of theLusitania. The Germans banned unrestricted submarine warfare following intense pressure from our administration, but they have now lifted that ban. I need not tell you that means any and all shipping in the North Atlantic is free game to their wolf packs.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they sink an American-flagged ship,” Newt Baker pointed out unnecessarily. The men seated around the table understood the stakes far more than most.
“When that does,” House drawled, “President Wilson is concerned that the American people will demand retribution in kind, and we start going after German U-boats.”
Navy Secretary Daniels put into words what House was really saying. “You’re talking a declaration of war against the Central Powers.”
“Yes.”
“And it wouldn’t just be the Navy hunting submarines?”
“No,” House said bluntly. “We’d send troops to fight in the front lines alongside the British and the French.”
