Page 62 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Churchill considered the words for a moment. “Just about exactly what I would recommend if I were in your shoes. Let me ask you, why?”
“Simple. A peace deal needs to be negotiated that doesn’t see Europe back at war in another generation, which seems to be the cycle the continent has been on since the Middle Ages.”
Churchill grunted. “And before, I assure you.”
“I believe having the United States at the bargaining table is the best way to make that happen. We aren’t saddled with all the past grievances that would sour an armistice. We could be the voice of reason in an otherwise highly charged negotiation, one that absolutely must succeed. I shudder to think of the carnage of the next war if Europe doesn’t agree to a sensible and lasting peace.”
“Again, you and I are in agreement,” Churchill told him.
Bell looked to Marion. “This means I have to cut our reunion short.”
She gave him a little pout, but nodded in understanding.
Churchill went to his study to set things in motion. He was no longer the Lord of the Admiralty, but still carried considerable sway, though not with the fleet’s current commander, John Jellicoe. He made no mention of anarchists when he secured Bell an escort, buttold of a spy learning that the Germans wanted to recoup their battleship from its current purgatory. He didn’t need to explain the significance of such an occurrence. The main German fleet was bottled up by a blockade maintained by the Royal Navy that only their U-boats could slip past. They were menace enough. The very thought of a single battleship let loose in the Atlantic would be as devastating to civilian shipping as a whole armada of submarines. Such a ship could literally change the outcome of the war.
He explained away Bell’s need to travel aboard the destroyer as an extension of his fact-finding tour on behalf of Woodrow Wilson.
Bell wasted, in his estimation, a good chunk of his limited time with Marion composing telegrams for Archie Abbott at Van Dorn’s New York office as well as his contact in the Navy, Franklin Roosevelt. He wrote a third to Woodrow Wilson with his official endorsement of the United States entering the war, his reasons for it, and his confession that he’d told a ranking member of the British government. He felt Wilson should know about that sooner rather than later if for no other reason than Bell hadn’t liked being forced to divulge it to Churchill.
He put down his pen and turned from the writing desk to where Marion was propped up against a wall of pillows on the guest room’s four-poster bed. He said, “There, finished.”
She held out a hand, her eyes hooded. “Oh, Mr. Bell, you’re not finished until I say you are.”
32
Aday later, Bell thanked theyoung escort who’d driven him from the gate of the Royal Navy’s side of Southampton harbor to the gangway of his ship. There, an ensign was waiting, and it looked like he was fighting the urge to salute even though Bell was just a civilian.
“Welcome to the HMSMastiff, Mr. Bell,” the ensign said with a hand halfway to his forehead before he caught himself.
Bell held out his hand for a shake to make it less awkward. “Glad to hitch a ride with you boys.”
Tied to the quay behind the sailor was a greyhound-lean Thornycroft M-class destroyer. The warship was two hundred sixty-five feet long, but less than thirty feet at her widest. She carried three four-inch Mark IV cannons in open turrets, one fore, one aft, and another on a platform between the last two of her three circular funnels. She also sported a complement of antiaircraft guns as well as a suite of torpedo tubes. Down in her engine room lurked three steamboilers and a pair of Brown-Curtis turbines that could drive her up to thirty-four knots or nearly forty miles per hour.
She was fast, capable, and deadly.
“Captain’s compliments, sir. He’s on the bridge and would like you to join him when we cast off. He said to get you situated first.” The man made to take his bag, but Bell held on to it. “Follow me, please.”
They entered the ship through a doorway just under her bridge and descended a flight of stairs. The interior of the ship was painted white, but there were few lights, meaning much of it was cloaked in shadow. The ship had a complement of only seventy-six sailors and officers, but it seemed they were all bustling through the corridors in preparation for departure. Bell and his guide had to keep pressing themselves against the cold steel walls to let others pass by.
“Sorry, we don’t have a proper visitor’s cabin,” the young sailor said, looking over his shoulder. “Thing is, we don’t have many guests.”
“It’s fine.”
The sailor opened a plain door and stepped aside. Bell entered the room. It was the ship’s infirmary. There was a single narrow bunk, a desk, and cabinets he presumed were full of medical supplies. Through an open door at the rear of the room, Bell saw he had a phone booth–sized head with a sink basin that folded down from the wall.
“We don’t rate a proper doctor, of course, but our third officer has had some formal training. He can stitch up a wound, has this great salve for burns, and once set a broken wrist.”
Bell tossed his hat onto the mattress and slid his bag under the bed. He also shrugged out of his overcoat and found a peg attached to the door to hang it up.
“All set, sir?” the sailor asked.
“Lead the way.”
A minute later, Bell and his escort entered the bridge from a door at the back of the pilothouse. There were a number of sailors present as well as two officers. Bell recognized the stripes on the elder of the two’s sleeve and presented himself with his hand outstretched.
“Captain, I am Isaac Bell, and I want to thank you for assisting me on my mission.”
“Ah, yes,” the man said with an amused spark in his dark eyes. He had a hatchet face and prominent Adam’s apple, but had a competent and calm air about him. “Old Winnie might be out of the Navy, but the man’s owed favors from Surrey to Siam.” He shook Bell’s hand. “Reginald Finch. Welcome aboard the HMSMastiff. Got him settled in, Seaman Cairns?”
