Page 8 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
War Secretary Baker leaned forward in his chair. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Roosevelt’s suggestion. I read what Bell did aboard theMayflower. He shot down an airplane that was bombing the yacht with a Hotchkiss gun. That’s combat experience in my book. Also, if we send a retiree over as our eyes and ears, he won’t have any experience with this type of warfare, either. The days of cavalry charges ended in the fall of 1914 when they started digging trenches from the Alps to the North Sea.”
“Colonel House,” Roosevelt said respectfully, “Isaac Bell really is an ideal candidate for this mission. He’s already only a few hours from the front. But more importantly, he’s a trained observer who will sense if his escorts are hiding any truths from him. He’ll give the President the accurate assessment he’s looking for. I’m sure of it.”
“Joe, what do you think?” House asked.
“Franklin is the youngest person to ever hold his position and it’s no coincidence that his cousin Teddy once held the same role, so you can imagine his ambition.” Roosevelt remained stone-faced, though it was little secret that he had White House aspirations. “That means he holds himself to the highest standards of any man I know. He’s been my right hand for four years now and he’s never steered me wrong.”
“Do you think he would go if we asked?” House asked Roosevelt.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Isaac isn’t already talking his way into a visit to the front. But yes. If we do ask on the President’s behalf, he would go without hesitation. Especially if he knows that he’s helping better prepare our soldiers if we do end up in the war. He’s a patriot, Colonel House, who has gone over and above for his nation on many occasions.”
House remained quiet for many long seconds, weighing the pros and cons of Roosevelt’s suggestion. He finally came to a decision. “President Wilson made it very clear to me that time is of the essence for this mission. That being the case, I authorize you to reach out to Mr. Bell and relay the President’s requirements.” He slid a set of papers across the table to Roosevelt and an identical one all the way across to Newton Baker. “I drafted this following my meeting with the President this morning. These are the types of things he wants to know. If you or anyone on your staff has anything to add to it, do so today, because I want Bell in France no later than Thursday. We can’t get caught flat-footed if Germany takes out one of our freighters or, heaven forbid, an ocean liner.”
When Roosevelt and his boss cleared the White House front dooron their way back to the adjacent and overly ornamental State, War, and Navy Building, the former New York State senator said, “Thank you for the vote of confidence in there, sir.”
“I wasn’t just blowing smoke, Franklin,” Secretary Daniels replied. “You’ve done a hell of a job for me, and I know you wouldn’t stick your neck out if you thought it might get chopped. If you think Isaac Bell can get the President the intelligence he feels he needs, I have no reason to doubt you.”
“It’s still reassuring to know I maintain your confidence. Butting heads with Colonel House like I did wasn’t the smartest move, but I couldn’t let that dig about my age slide.”
“I knew you wouldn’t. House has been around long enough to know not to let something like that get in the way of the job. That said, I’d avoid him for a while if you can.”
“Good advice, sir. Thank you.”
“Do you have a way of contacting Bell in England?”
“Van Dorn has an office in London. I’ll send a cable to schedule a transatlantic call with him once I familiarize myself with House’s briefing packet. If we’re lucky, Bell could be headed to France by Wednesday. We are going to need a liaison with the British military. I confess to not having any real contacts in England.”
“Don’t worry about that. Although the Brits have gone through a handful of Admiralty Lords recently, I’ve got just the man in mind.”
5
Peggy O’Shaughnessy waited outside theconfessionals in her neighborhood church in Brooklyn. In the more than ten years since she and other Irish immigrants were forced out of the Vinegar Hill area when the Manhattan Bridge was built, Peggy wasn’t yet comfortable with the little Catholic church nor its French-Canadian priest. She still missed old Father Donner. He was a man who knew how to pour on the guilt and make confession a real soul-cleansing torture, and the acts of penance he meted out could take days if the mood struck him.
The Frenchman, Father Rivard, was too easy on them for their sins in Peggy’s opinion. She hadn’t had to ice her knees from praying on a hard stone floor since moving here with her sister and husband and their eight children, all but two grown and gone, and making this her parish.
She was by her very nature a judgmental person. She wore her morality on her sleeve, and woe to anyone who didn’t adhere to herstandards. For that reason her days were filled with unkind thoughts about nearly everyone she met. Just yesterday she admonished a young teen because her ankles were showing. It turned out that the girl was ashamed that she was outgrowing her hand-me-down skirt and that her older sister was now shorter than her.
Peggy vowed she would double whatever penance Father Rivard asked of her for that one.
There was no one else in the church, so it was dead silent, and the light coming through the stained glass windows was weak, which gave the stone chapel a cold, eerie feeling. The glow of candles on the altar looked as distant as the nighttime stars.
She was thinking about other sins she had to confess when she heard a strangled gasp from the priest’s side of the confessional. She’d never heard anything in all her years except faint whispers. This was the Catholic confessional, the sacred and secret rite between parishioner and priest. Such a show of emotion from Father Rivard just wouldn’t do.
But…
Peggy O’Shaughnessy inched forward a couple of steps, knowing if someone opened the church’s main doors she’d have time to jump back before anyone saw her. She was fifty-eight and her hearing wasn’t what it once was. She heard a man’s voice, as sibilant as a snake’s hiss, but not individual words. She took another step.
“…knife…belly…blood…”
Father Rivard gave another little gasp and Peggy stepped back quickly. She turned to look down the length of the church. The doors were still firmly closed. The overcast sky and threat of rain were keeping others away from the confessional this Wednesday evening. Despite herself, or maybe because of it, Peggy O’Shaughnessy crept even closer to the mahogany confessional cabinet to eavesdrop again.
“…screamed…too late…remain unborn.”
Peggy and her priest both gasped. Knowing she’d gone too far, she rushed back to the pews, sat and bowed her head as if she’d been at prayer since vespers the night before. The confessional door swung open. Peggy kept her head down, her fingers working her rosary like a pianist practicing Rachmaninoff. The stranger paused at the confessional door. She could feel his eyes on her, feel some sort of primal heat washing off him.
She prayed in earnest.
He closed the door and began striding down the aisle, his shoes loud on the flagstone floor. Peggy dared give him just a small glimpse as he passed and then cast her eyes downward again. The church’s outer doors creaked open and slammed shut with an echoing finality.
