Joe Steele Read online

  Churchill looked at him. “And you have not, in yours?”

  For a bad moment, Charlie thought Joe Steele would walk out of the officers’ mess, off the Royal Navy destroyer, and away from anything resembling friendship with England. No one in the United States talked to Joe Steele that way. No one talked about him that way, not any more, not where the Jeebies might get wind of it.

  The President looked stonily back at the Prime Minister. That look said nothing here would be forgotten—or forgiven. But Joe Steele’s reply sounded mild enough: “The ones who go into my encampments deserve it. That’s the difference between me and Trotsky.”

  “Well, you may be right.” By the way Churchill said it, he didn’t believe it, not even slightly. But he went on, “And I assure you I am right about aid to Trotsky and Russia. Hitler may win that fight anyhow. But anything you can do to keep him from winning it, you should do. No, you must.”

  “You are not well positioned to tell me what I must do,” Joe Steele said.

  “Because your country is bigger and richer than mine, do you mean?” Churchill contrived to make that seem of no account. “If you want to stay that way, you could do worse than to listen to me. America’s knowledge of the international arena is sadly limited by your good fortune in having broad oceans—and the Royal Navy—to shield your shores. Britain, now, has been in the arena, of the arena, for centuries. My country and I have more experience than you and yours. What I tell you now springs from the depth of that experience.”

  He spoke to Joe Steele as a man speaks to a boy. No one in the United States did that, either. The President’s glower said he didn’t fancy it. But he didn’t tell the Prime Minister where to head in. He said, “Have supper with me aboard my ship. We can talk more about it then.”

  “As long as I may take over certain liquid refreshments,” Winston Churchill said. “I know of your Navy’s abstemious habits, you see.”

  “You can do that, yes.” Now Joe Steele seemed amused. “You can even try some apricot brandy from California, if you care to.”

  Churchill smiled. “I look forward to it. As commander-in-chief, you not only make the rules, you may break them as you please.” And maybe he was still talking about bringing apricot brandy aboard a U.S. Navy ship, and maybe he wasn’t.

  Back aboard the American destroyer, Joe Steele commandeered the officers’ mess for himself and his followers. “He still feels England is the greatest country in the world,” the President growled. “Maybe not here, but here.” He tapped first his forehead, then the center of his chest.

  “Arrogant bastard,” Vince Scriabin said.

  “He is, yes. You don’t go far in politics without that,” Joe Steele said. “Arrogant or not, is he right? Is Nazi Germany dangerous enough for the United States to help keep Russia in the game?”

  “Trotsky made his bed. Then he pulled Hitler into it with him,” Stas Mikoian said. “He deserves whatever happens to him.”

  “I agree.” Scriabin nodded.

  Lazar Kagan kept quiet. Trotsky and a swarm of the Reds who ran Russia under him were Jews. Joe Steele would know that, considering how the Nazis persecuted them, anything Kagan said wouldn’t be objective.

  Speak now or forever hold your peace, Charlie thought. But it wasn’t peace. It was a war even bigger than the one they’d hopefully called the War to End War. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I think we ought to give Russia a hand. If Germany takes Russia out, she’ll flatten England after that. And if she does, the ocean isn’t wide enough to keep her away from us.”

  Joe Steele puffed his pipe. Scriabin sent Charlie the kind of look the President had given the Prime Minister. Scriabin was good at not forgetting, too.

  That evening, Churchill remarked on how neat and tidy and clean and new everything aboard the American destroyer was. It was one more way of saying We’re fighting and you aren’t. He praised the roast beef in the same style, which didn’t keep him from eating three helpings of it. Whiskey and the President’s brandy improved the meal.

  Smoke from pipe, cigar, and cigarettes filled the mess. Joe Steele said nothing about Russia. He did his best to make his demeanor a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Churchill also was a man who didn’t show all he was thinking, but his advisors began to fidget. So did Charlie. He hoped no one noticed.

  At last, Churchill took the bull by the horns and asked, “Have you made up your mind about Trotsky?”

  “I made up my mind about Trotsky more than twenty years ago, and nothing you’ve said has done one damn thing to make me change it,” Joe Steele answered. He waited till Churchill began to slump in his seat before continuing, “But I’ll send him toys to shoot Germans with. You talked me into that, you and one of my men.” He nodded toward Charlie.

  That nod won Charlie Winston Churchill’s grave regard. “Jolly good,” the Prime Minister said. “You have men of sense in your service.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Joe Steele said. Charlie knew what that meant. If helping the Russians went well, the President would take the credit for it. He’d deserve credit, too; he was the man responsible for the choice. But if it went badly, the blame would fall on Charlie’s head.

  If, for instance, Hitler declared war on the USA because of this, Charlie figured he would find out more than he ever wanted to know about cutting down trees or digging ditches or turning big ones into little ones. Or maybe they’d strap him to a bomb and drop him on Germany. He hoped to go out with a bang one of these years, but not like that.

  * * *

  Joe Steele didn’t say anything about his change of policy toward Russia. He just quietly started shipping Trotsky planes and guns and trucks and telephone cable and high-octane fuel and anything else the Red Czar’s little heart desired. The Russians still had no embassy in Washington. They had one in Ottawa, though, and huddled with the Americans there.

  Joe Steele’s try for secrecy didn’t last long. Trotsky didn’t mind not mentioning the goodies he would get. As long as he got them, keeping quiet about them was a small price to pay. But Winston Churchill trumpeted the news like a town crier. He wanted the rest of the world to know the United States disliked the Nazis even more than the Reds. He wanted the rest of the world to know he’d helped start the aid, too.

  Hitler, predictably, screamed bloody murder. He screeched that the USA wasn’t neutral, never had been neutral, and never would be neutral. He shrieked that Jews and subhumans were running the United States. He promised to do unto Jewish capitalism in America as he was doing unto Jewish Bolshevism in Russia.

  He didn’t declare war, though, to Charlie’s relief. German U-boats did fire torpedoes at American freighters in the Atlantic and sank a few, but they’d been doing that for a while now. War? Only unofficially. It stayed unofficial even when an American destroyer sank a Nazi sub, and when another U-boat blew the stern off an American light cruiser and killed two dozen sailors.

  Charlie wondered whether the U.S. help for Russia would prove too little, too late. German armies laid siege to Leningrad in the north and Sevastopol in the south. They captured Kiev. And they captured Smolensk, which Charlie had never heard of till it showed up in the war news but which was apparently the main strongpoint protecting Moscow itself.

  Summer passed into fall. Esther had morning sickness with the new baby, the same way she had carrying Sarah. Sarah started learning the alphabet. She had wooden blocks for all the letters and numbers, and played with them all the time.

  Fall in Russia meant rain. Outside the big cities, Russian roads were only dirt tracks. When the rain fell, they turned to mud. German tanks and motorcycles and foot soldiers bogged down. Neat, orderly Germans were used to neat, orderly paved roads. They didn’t do so well without them.

  If there were fall rains in the Far East, they didn’t bother Japan. The Japs went on pounding China. They finished occupying French Indochina. That made Winston Ch
urchill fuss, because it brought their bombers within range of the British colonies farther south and west.

  Joe Steele called Japan almost as many names as Hitler was calling the USA. The Japs paid hardly more attention than America did. As winter neared, General Tojo finally sent Foreign Minister Kurusu to Washington to see if the two countries could work something out.

  Kurusu knew what he wanted. He wanted Japanese assets in America unfrozen. And he wanted the United States to start selling his country raw materials again. Joe Steele asked him whether Japan would clear out of China if the USA did that.

  Unlike the talks with Churchill, Charlie didn’t get invited to these. He wasn’t broken-hearted. He had nothing to say about Japan or to the Japanese. He heard about what was going on from Vince Scriabin.

  “That slant-eye flat-out said they wouldn’t pull back,” Scriabin reported. “He said America held an empire and Russia had one and England had one, and now it was Japan’s turn to take one if she was strong enough—and she was. He thinks he’s as good as a white man, is what he thinks.” By the way Scriabin rolled his eyes, that was an opinion he didn’t share.

  “Yeah, Japan’s strong enough, as long as they get our scrap metal and our oil,” Charlie said. “But what happens when they run out of oil?”

  “Everything they’ve got with a motor in it grinds to a stop, that’s what.” Scriabin sounded as if he was looking forward to it. “From what the War Department brass says, they’ll have trouble lasting a year on their own.”

  Charlie had heard the same thing. He didn’t let on; the dumber you acted, the more interesting things other people said to you and around you. “How long has it been now since the President slapped that embargo on them?” he asked. Again, he knew the answer, but this way the Hammer could feel superior for a little while.

  “Just about five months,” Scriabin said. “So they’ve got to be feeling the pinch already. That stupid Kurusu will be singing a different tune the next time he comes here, I promise you.”

  “He sure will.” Charlie had about as much trouble taking Orientals seriously as Scriabin did. He liked Chinese food, though he’d never found a place in Washington he enjoyed as much as Hop Sing’s back in the Village. That was as far as it went. He no more thought Asians deserved to put themselves on an equal footing with whites than the Hammer did. The idea seemed too silly for words. So did a lot of Orientals, come to that.

  * * *

  One chilly Sunday morning, Charlie and Esther and Sarah went out to breakfast at a waffle place not far from their apartment. Esther had the waffles, and cut up some for Sarah. Charlie got pancakes and a side of bacon. One slice went to his daughter. Sarah made it disappear.

  After they got home, he read the papers and goofed around and eventually turned on the Redskins–Eagles game on the radio. If the Redskins won, they’d finish third in the Eastern Division with a 6-5 mark. If they lost, they’d finish third at 5-6. The Eagles, the team behind them, had only two wins all year. Charlie figured their chance of breaking .500 was pretty good.

  In spite of their crappy record, the Eagles took the early lead. The Redskins had the ball when the signal cut out for a moment. Before Charlie could do more than start to turn his head toward the radio, it came back. “We interrupt this broadcast for a special news flash!” said a different announcer, one who had to be back at the radio station’s headquarters. “The White House reports that Japanese planes have bombed the American naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, in an unprovoked attack. Casualties are believed to be heavy. That is all that is known at this time. We now return you to our regularly scheduled program.” The football game came back on.

  “Oh, God!” Esther exclaimed.

  “Couldn’t put it better myself,” Charlie said. The Redskins had picked up another first down while the bulletin ran, but he didn’t care any more. He wondered how long it would be before he could care again about something as silly as a game of football or baseball. He grabbed his shoes and put them on. “I better get over to the White House right now.”

  The telephone rang. Esther picked it up. “Hello?” she said, and then, “Yes, he’s here.” She thrust the phone at Charlie, mouthing Mikoian.

  He nodded. “Hello, Stas,” he said.

  “You need to come over right now,” Mikoian said without preamble.

  “I was already on my way. I just heard the news flash,” Charlie said. “All hell must be breaking loose.”

  Stas Mikoian’s chuckle was perfect gallows. “It’s nowhere near that quiet. We haven’t announced it yet, but the Japs have attacked in the Philippines, too. Doesn’t look good there, either.”

  “Happy day!” Charlie exclaimed.

  “Now that you mention it,” Mikoian said, “no.”

  “Right,” Charlie said. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.” He hung up. Then he called for a taxi. He didn’t want to waste forty-five minutes standing on the corner waiting for a bus. They didn’t run as often as usual on Sundays. He kissed Esther and Sarah—who, luckily, couldn’t have cared less about Pearl Harbor—and hurried down to the street.

  “The Japs’ve gone crazy,” was what the cabby greeted him with.

  “I’ve heard,” Charlie said. “Take me to the White House. Step on it.” He hadn’t wasted time putting on a tie. His brown checked jacket didn’t go with his gray pants. It was the one he’d pulled out of the closet, that was all.

  But his voice must have carried the snap of authority, because the driver said, “You got it, Mister.” He touched the patent-leather bill of his cap in an almost-salute as the Chevy shot away from the curb.

  Charlie gave him a buck and didn’t wait for change, though the fare was only sixty cents. Reporters stood on the White House lawn, waiting and hoping for more news. When they spotted Charlie, they converged on him like ants going after a forgotten picnic sandwich. He fended them off with both hands. “I don’t know any more than you guys do,” he said. “I was listening to the football game with my wife and little girl. I had Sunday off, or I thought I did. Soon as I heard the bulletin, I figured I’d better come in.”

  Some of them wrote that down. White House speechwriter Charlie Sullivan was somebody who made news, not somebody who reported it. Charlie knew that was true, but it still struck him as crazy.

  He got through the crowd and into the White House. Vince Scriabin said, “We have a Cabinet meeting set for half past eight. Some Senators and Congressmen will join in at nine.”

  “Okay,” Charlie answered. His guess was that most of the decisions would get made before the meeting convened. Except perhaps for Andy Wyszynski, Joe Steele’s Cabinet members were there to tell the lesser folk under them what to do, not to shape policy. Joe Steele figured that shaping policy was his bailiwick, no one else’s.

  “We’ll declare war on Japan, of course,” Scriabin said. “The boss will need to make a speech in front of Congress before they ratify the declaration. You may want to start thinking about that.”

  “Gotcha,” Charlie said. In fact, he’d already started thinking about that. But showing up Scriabin in any way, small or large, was one of the dumber things anybody in the White House could do. Like him or not, the unpleasant little man was Joe Steele’s right hand and a couple of fingers of the left. Charlie asked, “Do we know any more than we’ve told the radio and the papers?”

  “Not much,” Scriabin answered. “It’s bad in Hawaii, and it’s not good in the Philippines. Oh, and I just now heard that the Japs have started bombing the English in Malaya, and Japanese troops have crossed the Malayan border from Siam. They’re going all out.”

  “Misery loves company,” Charlie said. Scriabin’s mouth twisted, though his mustache made the motion hard to see. It came closer to a smile than Charlie had expected.

  Joe Steele met with his unofficial aides (the Pain Trust, people sometimes called them, though not where the GBI could hear) before t
he Cabinet meeting. He was not a happy man. “We got caught with our pants down around our ankles in Hawaii,” he growled. “I will want the admiral and the general who were in charge there recalled for interrogation. They should have had more on the ball.”

  “I’ll take care of that, boss,” Lazar Kagan said. Charlie wondered whether anyone else would see those officers after Joe Steele’s interrogators got through with them. He wouldn’t have wanted to be in their shoes.

  “Well, we’re in the war at last,” the President said. “We didn’t start it, but we’ll finish it. By the time we get through with the Japs, there won’t be one brick left on top of another on those islands.”

  The Cabinet meeting was the same thing on a larger scale. Charlie sat off to one side, listening. When he heard a phrase he liked, he noted it to toss into the draft he’d give the President. Kagan talked to the Secretary of War and the Secretary of the Navy in a low voice. Neither man looked thrilled at what Joe Steele’s aide told them, but they both nodded.

  Charlie was up late, finishing the draft for the speech Joe Steele would give when he asked a joint session of Congress for the formal declaration of war against Japan. Millions of people across the country would hear that speech when the President gave it. They might not love Joe Steele—he was one of the least lovable men Charlie had ever known. But when foreign enemies attacked the country he led, who wouldn’t rally behind him?

  With Senators crowding in along with Representatives, the House chamber was packed for the joint session. Charlie counted himself lucky to get a seat in the visitors’ gallery. You didn’t watch and listen to history being made every day.

  The ferocious roar with which the members of both houses greeted Joe Steele and the way they sprang to their feet to applaud him even before the Speaker of the House could introduce him told Charlie there’d be no trouble over the declaration of war. He hadn’t expected any, but finding out you were right always felt good.