Conflagration (20 page)

Although Cordelia had no actual firsthand experience, she could only imagine that this was a perfect spring day in Southern England. All too often, in saga and storybook, the English territories of the Norse Union were pictured as a damp and overcast island, a place of fog and drizzle when it wasn’t actually raining, but on this day a blue-green sea was canopied by a blue sky garnished with fluffy white clouds, scudding from the southwest on a light breeze. As many of the
Ragnar
’s crew who could find an excuse were either on the deck or clinging to some part of the superstructure, and Cordelia had made sure she was among them. She had slept too late to stake out a vantage point but had used all of her charm and wiles to ease her way to the bow rail, at what she had taken to referring in innocent and disarmingly childlike terms as “the sharp end.” Obviously Cordelia knew the correct terminology for the basic parts of a warship, but a pose of airheaded naïveté was regrettably guaranteed to get her what she wanted. She tended to view such silliness as a kind of therapy after all that she had been forced confront and endure. She was well aware that all of the pomp, circumstance, and attention of their coming reception in England was not designed solely for her, but that wouldn’t stop her pretending that it was. She had played crucial roles in two major battles against the Mosul, and if the Norse in general and the English in particular wanted to greet her like a heroine she would totally permit them to do so. She smiled to herself as a phrase came into her head. “I am Major, the Lady Cordelia Blakeney, look on my charms and adore me.”

ARGO

Argo craned to stare up as five Norse biplanes roared overhead in a tight
V
formation with even more flamboyant and heraldic designs in their wings and fuselage than the ones that had bombed and strafed the Mosul at Newbury Vale. As the
Ragnar
steamed slowly up the Bristol Channel, passing under the intricate span of a towering suspension bridge, small boats, flying both the North Star flag of the NU, and the Crowned Bear of Albany, and packed with waving, cheering people, crowded the water ahead, behind, and on either side of them. He could see Cordelia, in her tightest dress uniform, had somehow managed to find herself a place at the rail, close to the destroyer’s bow, and she was actually waving back. Jack Kennedy’s arrival in the Norse Union was being treated with an enthusiastic anticipation that was close to hero worship, but Argo knew the hero was being carefully guarded. All the way up the Bristol Channel, the defensive gun emplacements were fully manned, and a number of small, fast gunboats had moved purposefully in among the boats of the floating spectators. He was also aware that not everyone in the Norse Union was as ecstatic at the arrival of Jack Kennedy or the coming visit of the King. Argo may have been drinking heavily in the time between training and when the army had moved out on the advance into Virginia and Newbury Vale, but that did not mean he had been completely inattentive at the various gatherings, functions, and whiskey-soaked nights in the officers mess, or oblivious to the gossip, rumor, and given intelligence that constantly circulated. He knew that some factions did not share the support for Albany of NU President Inga Sundquist and her Vice President Ingmar Ericksen for the Albany cause. Among them were the Latvian bankers, too heavily influenced by their need to deal with the Swiss, who, in turn, sat in their alpine national fortress with their money, their chocolate, and their cuckoo clocks, maintaining their own unsteady and always mutable neutrality by acting as unofficial economic mentors to Hassan and the Zhaithan. Then there were those who favored the Hindi Raj over Albany. In the Americas, few ever looked to the east of the Mosul Empire and considered the Hindi Raj, who also had the military weight of Hassan IX and his murderous hordes hard against their frontiers. To the Rajahs in Jaipur and Calcutta, the Mosul invasion of the Americas was seen as a much-needed second front, and, should the Mosul be driven out of the New World, the pressure of Hassan’s need for conquest would fall squarely on them.

A few nights before The Four had boarded the
Ragnar
for their ocean crossing, T’saya had served her famous gumbo to Argo and Raphael, the two girls being elsewhere on prior engagement, and while the three of them ate highly spiced shrimp and drank Baltimore beer, she had filled them in on the various groups who would cause trouble for Albany inside the Norse Union, lest they make the mistake of believing that all of the Norse unquestioningly loved them. She had told them of the political extremists in the far north of the NU, who had publicly called Ingmar Ericksen a traitor for having such a close relationship with Jack Kennedy; fringe groups of jackbooted absolutists like the Slaves of the Serpent, the Thulists, the Brownshirts, who, according to T’saya’s geopolitical view, “sat up there in Oslo and Helsinki dreaming masturbation dreams of Crom and the Old Gods, and growing wistful for what they imagine are the politics of the war axe.”

He recalled her words very clearly. “They’re nothing but emotionally stunted schoolboys at heart. They envy the Zhaithan for the treatment of women, but would run a mile from a real Viking saga. They’re petty but they’re still dangerous, and they’re almost as much our enemy as the Mosul. They, too, have their nasty, little-boy dreams of conquest, and power. That’s why they are so opposed to President Sundquist’s tacit alliance with Albany, and why they would happily shoot Ingmar Ericksen if they thought they could get away with it. As always, my Raphael and my Argo, mark me very careful, and take nothing at face value.”

He recalled T’saya’s words as the
Ragnar
’s Bristol pilot steered the destroyer close to the pier where they would dock and a military band struck up the Albany national anthem. The elaborate reception that awaited them made it hard to believe that Kennedy and all those with him were not universally adored. Flags and bunting decked the pier, and, in addition to the brass band, a company of Norse Marines, in full dress, blue tunics and white kepis, stood at rigid attention. A line of almost a dozen large black automobiles were waiting to take them to their next destination, and a reception committee of Norse leaders, dignitaries, and diplomats were grouped where the first gangplank would run out, ready to greet Kennedy and his party. Farther down the pier, a double line of police held back a crowd of sightseers and well-wishers who had brought more flags and banners of their own, creating a fluttering sea of red, white, gold, and pale blue. Less impressive, but also a vital part of the process, was the small throng of reporters and cameramen, with the notebooks and microphones, tripods and flash trays, all waiting to relay word and image of the Albany arrival to the rest of the country.

Once the gangway had been wheeled into place, and secured by a detail of sailors, the marine band struck up a reprise of “Hail Albany” and Kennedy started down it, closely followed by the ever-present and watchful Dawson. Bareheaded and waving, hat in hand, acknowledging the cheers from the other end of the pier, he posed for the big bulky cameras of the newsmen, looking a little dazzled by their exploding flash powder. At the bottom of the gangway, as protocol dictated, he was met by England’s Provincial Governor, Sir Richard Branson. Kennedy would have to wait until he reached Stockholm before his public audience with President Inga Sundquist. As the two men shook hands, the band segued into “Hammer of the North,” and the rest of the Kennedy party began to descend. The Four were among the last to go ashore, but the cheering had hardly diminished, and as they negotiated the gangway, Argo could not help feeling that he, too, was something special; in his own way a minor hero, if only by association. He also resolved to make every possible use of this notoriety and adoration.

Once he had both feet on dry land, Argo, hero or not, would willingly have just stood and stared, taking in all of the Norse military circumstance. The band, the honor guard, the reporters, and the crowds of well-managed spectators, the airships, even the endless Bristol Naval Yard, with its moored lines of huge and immaculate gray warships, all combined to overwhelm him. Argo had seen a lot since he had left his village in Virginia, but he suddenly felt like a child in an entirely new and wondrous land, and knew he would need to operate on a fresh scale of values and assumptions. He was suddenly aware how, in comparison to these old nations of Northern Europe, Albany was little more than a pioneer settlement, despite its castle, and its pretensions to tradition. Even Jack Kennedy, the focus of all this ceremony, was nothing more than the first-generation son of a backwoods moonshiner.

JESAMINE

“This way!”

“Jesamine! Major Jesamine!”

“Jesamine! Jesamine!”

“Look this way, Jesamine!”

“Major Jesamine!”

The reporters were actually shouting at her, and, even before she set foot on the dock she found herself half blinded by a blaze of exploding flash powder.

“Look this way.”

“Major Jesamine, can you tell us why Prime Minister Kennedy picked you to accompany him?”

She had been warned that Norse had their tabloid press, and some of those newspapers were infinitely rougher and more sensational than
The Albany Banner,
but she had expected nothing like the baying mob that confronted her. It was as though they knew about her already. And then she realized that, in all probability, they did. These reporters did their research and had informants all over. They had almost certainly checked the lists of who was in the Kennedy party, and it would have been no great stretch for them to find the exposé of “Slave Girl Jesamine” in
The Banner
. Horrified that her dubious history and reputation might have preceded her across the Northern Ocean, she managed to make her way down the gangway and onto the hard flagstones of the dock in her New York high heels, but after that she hesitated, dazed and totally unsure of what to do next, frightened that she was going to stumble, until a firm hand grasped her by the arm, and a calm voice spoke with an authoritative urgency. “Just say nothing. Ignore them. Once we get to London, we’ll do our best to keep them away from you, but for now just keep your head down and get in the car.”

“What?”

“Just come with me to your car, Major. As fast as you can.”

“Who are you?”

“Tennyson. Commander Jane Tennyson.” Commander Tennyson was a thinly officious blonde woman dressed in the stylishly tailored uniform of an officer in the Norse Navy.

Jesamine was bemused, but survival instinct and Tennyson’s official air stopped her from pulling away. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m your NU liaison for the duration of your visit, and I’m also responsible for your safety.”

“These reporters…”

“I’m afraid they rather go with the territory. But I would have thought you’d be accustomed to all the attention by now.”

Jesamine said nothing. So the story from
The Banner
had preceded her. Even her liaison officer knew about it, although, to know things had to be part of a liaison officer’s job. Tennyson gestured to a line of large, black, square-sided automobiles that waited with their engines running on the other side of the dock. “Shall we?…”

As Jesamine allowed herself to be propelled towards the cars. She saw that Cordelia, Raphael, and Argo were being likewise herded along by a male officer. As she and Tennyson took off at a semi-run, the men and women of the press started up again with their loud and idiotic questions. “Major Jesamine, how did it feel to cross the ocean with Prime Minister Kennedy? Is his reputation as a ladies’ man all it’s made out to be?”

At this, Jesamine again almost tripped. The English press might have read up on her past in back issues of
The Banner,
but how the hell could they know anything about her and Jack Kennedy? She could imagine a sailor or servant not being averse to picking up a few extra shillings by feeding tidbits to the newspapers, but no one on the
Ragnar
could have used the destroyer’s wireless communications to spread that kind of gossip. It was only then that she realized they actually knew nothing, and were just wildly adding two and two, not knowing that, by blind luck, they were actually making four. She only hoped Jack Kennedy would not blame her for all the cheap speculation, and have nothing more to do with her.

RAPHAEL

Clearly Jesamine had to be moved away from the howling mob of loud and uncouth reporters who seemed close to obsessive about her, doubtless as a result of all the nonsense printed about her in
The Albany Banner
. Raphael pushed to get to her and hustle her away, but, before he could reach her, a slim but determined naval officer took care of her. The line of cars was discreetly guarded by a squad of more Norse marines in camouflage battledress, armed with Bergman rapid-fire rifles. The fact was again not being overlooked that their enemies were only a relative stone’s throw away, across the narrow waters of the English Channel. These grim men in combat drab were infinitely closer to Raphael’s reality than the ceremonial honor guard, in their crisp blue and white and gold, shouldering their polished but extremely antique muskets. Kennedy and the English Provincial Governor were now heading for the first and most luxurious car in line, the one that flew pennants of the NU and Albany. The Four were being directed to the next to last in line, which seemed somehow apt. Jesamine’s commander pushed her into the car, and out of sight of the photographers, but then Cordelia, who, for reasons known only to herself, had taken on some frivolous, airhead persona, managed to thwart the smooth getaway by actually stopping and posing for the press, and then asking a totally fatuous question. “Why are we going by car? I thought we were taking a train to London.”

Commander Tennyson dragged Cordelia into the car, snapping tersely. “The cars are just to take us to Temple Meads railway station. From there we go on by special train.”

An entire platform had been closed off at Bristol’s Temple Meads station, and a red carpet laid. Raphael expected another crowd scene with reporters and milling onlookers, but mercifully the only welcoming committee was the station master and some official from what was called Amalgamated Western Railway, although more heavily armed soldiers in full battle dress stood guard. The Kennedy motorcade drove straight up to the most splendid train Raphael had ever seen. The gleaming steam locomotive was freshly painted, green livery with red trim, and four carriages the same, except in turquoise and gold. The sour note was the flatcar behind the guard’s van on which a rotating, twin-barreled light field gun was mounted for the protection of the train and its passengers. The moment the car came to a stop, Commander Tennyson indicated that The Four should sit tight. “Let the bigwigs and the brass shake hands with the station master, and then get aboard before we make our move. The security detail wants the least number of people on the platform at any one time.”