OVER THE SOUTH CHINA SEA
by Russell Secord
Three thousand feet above the South China Sea, surrounded by the hum of Her Majesty's Australian airship Inverness, Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Mayfair thought about the end of the world.
She looked at the headline again: China Still A Threat!! The Sydney Morning Herald sold papers with headlines like this one, even if the stories and the reality didn't support them. The Inverness and her sister ships patrolled the waters between southern China and Indonesia, but Mayfair had never seen a Chinese fighting ship or fired a live shell. In fact, she'd never had a more dangerous mission than to drop onto a fishing boat and help fix their engine. In the midst of the greatest conflict in human history, she had very little to do.
Not that she wanted to see combat. She had aspirations beyond becoming a footnote in a casualty report: Inverness Lost At Sea With All Hands!! She'd done well in student government. She wanted her own headline: PM Mayfair Signs Peace Treaty!! Her mother couldn't get her a deferment, though, so into the draft she went.
Nobody called it “World War Two” any more, mostly just “the war.” Some called it “the Dark War.” Australia itself had avoided the worst of the fighting, but too many men had gone to their deaths in faraway places. Her own father had died in some trackless pasture in western Russia. What had the world already lost, in skills, in memories, in the simple humanity of talking and feeling and touching? How much more could the world stand to lose?
Women had taken over the fighting, and they'd have to handle the rebuilding as well. Around the world, cities and peoples lay in ruins, some beyond recovery. Plenty of opportunity awaited someone with a good nose for advancement and a little luck. Someone like Elizabeth Mayfair.
Until then she felt like a sailor in the doldrums, far from port and unable to move. One good breeze and she could get her life going again. The direction didn't matter.
She looked around the bridge, her “office.” Every sharp corner had a cushion, in case of turbulence. The aluminium girders looked like cobwebs. To save weight, every metal surface had gaps and holes built into it, leaving it structurally sound, but only barely.
She shook her head, tucked a stray blonde curl under her cap, and made her regular scan of the instruments. Radar: only a few clouds. Airspeed indicator: twenty-five knots. Compass: heading south-southwest. Fuel consumption: forty gallons per hour. Chronometer: 0945 hours. Danger on an airship could come quickly, but it could also come slowly, so slowly that you might never notice it. Stray off your heading by a hair's breadth and you could end up in the midst of a storm... or in the midst of an enemy fleet. At best you had to take a crosswind leg to reach your destination.
A faint pressure on her eardrums told her the door to the bridge had opened. She turned, recognized her captain, and shot to her feet with a salute.
“At ease, Liza,” said Captain Stephanie Williams. She wore the same red lethyrene uniform as the rest of the crew, with slacks, jacket, and cap. Try as they might, the crew had never found anything that left a stain or a wrinkle in lethyrene.
“All readings normal,” Mayfair reported. “Turnaround made without incident at 0620 hours. We're on course–”
“Fine, fine, is the radio ready?”
Mayfair looked at the chronometer. “Ten minutes to go, ma'am.” She lifted the lid of the radio. All the tubes glowed orange. “Radio is ready.”
Before she could close the lid, the radio hummed with a carrier wave. Mayfair eased the lid back down. She picked up a pad and pencil.
The hum went on for much longer than normal, cut out, and came back. “Hanoi calling... Hanoi calling... ” The voice seemed to come from an impossible distance. “Hanoi calling the Australian airship Inverness... ” Static cut off the next few words. “Come in, Queen Elizabeth... come in, queen of Indochina... we need you....” The carrier wave faded.
Mayfair reached for the microphone. Williams caught her wrist and whispered, “We're under radio silence.”
They heard a different voice, almost entirely swallowed by static. “ ... under... early... sun... meet... air.... ”
“What in...” said Williams.
“Wait, here it comes again.”
“... wind... blow... pilot... hail....” The voice and the hum stopped abruptly.
“Sounds like a weather report,” said Williams.
The radio sputtered back to life. This new voice seemed to come from much closer. “Admiral Williams, please report... the fleet is waiting... admiral... Admiral Williams... your report is overdue... tam biêt....” The signal faded away.
Williams went to the front window and looked forward.
Mayfair said, “Did you–”
“I heard what they said.”
A fourth voice, more distinct, said, “... calling Inverness... calling Inverness... urgent message... please respond... ” This one faded out as well.
Williams turned, looked at Mayfair, and said, “No one will ever believe this.”
“Agreed,” Mayfair said. “Still. Wouldn't you like to be admiral? They called you 'admiral.'”
“And they called you 'queen.' Ridiculous.”
A tentative knock came at the door. Williams opened it. A few of the crew had gathered in the forward corridor. The captain waved them inside. They arranged themselves around the radio and sat on the floor.
According to regulation, the crew couldn't use the ship's radio for personal reasons. At 1000 hours every Friday morning, the regulations went out the window. Mayfair turned the dials to pick up another frequency. Music and static floated from the speaker, faded away, and returned with one final flourish.
“From Hollywood USA, on the Red White and Blue Network, it's Lucy Liberty, with music by Glenn Miller and his orchestra.” For the next hour they listened to the latest adventure of America's greatest counterespionage agent. Lucy tracked down a ring of labor union thugs who planned to blow up the Boeing airplane factories in Everett.
“The Russkies flattened those factories a couple of months ago in an air raid,” said Donna Cross, one of the women sitting on the floor. “The Americans couldn't have rebuilt them so quickly.”
“True,” said Williams, “but they'd like you to think so.”
In the end, of course, Lucy caught the saboteurs. To finish the show, the star put on her huskiest voice. “Here's a special message for the men and women fighting in the Sierra Madres. The Southern Bloc has deserted you. Put down your weapons. Surrender to the Americans. You will be well treated.
“This is Lucille Ball, signing off. Be here next week for another episode of Lucy Liberty!”
Mayfair gave Williams a significant look before she reset the frequency. The crew members filed out. Williams stayed behind. Mayfair said, “About those radio messages...”
“Someone playing a joke on us. Or some kind of trap. The Japanese love to set traps. That's all it was. Put it out of your mind. I already have,” said Williams. She went to the window.
Mayfair checked the instruments and made a note in the log.
Without turning around, Williams said, “Ever think about what you'll do when the fighting's over?”
She asked that question, or one like it, when she wanted to talk about going back to Brisbane to help run her mother's grocery. With her dull brown hair and round face, she even looked the part. She could go on for an hour about sausage.
Mayfair said, “Has it ever occurred to you that there might not be anything to do when it's over?”
That made Williams turn, but only halfway. “What are you on about?”
“I don't know how to work in a grocer's or a chemist's or a bank or a shop. I know how to tie off a tourniquet, but I can't tie a bow in my hair. I know how to make a bomb but not how to bake a cake. If we ever do go back to peacetime, there'll be a whole generation–my generation–that won't know how to live.”
“There'll be a period of transition, of course....”
The radio hummed. Almost immediately, a crisp voice said, “HMAS Kent calling HMAS Inverness... urgent message... permission to break radio silence... code word spongecake... HMAS Kent calling HMAS Inverness...”
Williams nodded. Mayfair picked up the microphone and pressed the Send button. “Inverness here. We read you, Kent.”
“We've been trying to raise you for some time,” the voice lied. Everyone in the Air Force listened to Lucy Liberty, and every Friday they tried to outdo each other with their excuses.
“We've had some strange interference,” said Mayfair. It sounded flat, despite being the absolute truth. “And we've been speaking with the queen of Indochina,” she added.
After a brief pause, presumably for laughter, the voice said, “And how is the queen?”
“As well as can be expected.” Mayfair reached for the pad and pencil.
Another pause. “The Cheshire Cat will be paying you a visit. Her plane will dock with you at 1520 hours. I repeat, 1520 hours. Rendezvous point is–” The voice gave a series of letters. Mayfair wrote them down and read them back for verification. “She'll be flying a Zephyr. Make the necessary adjustments.”
“Thank you, Kent. Over and out.”
Cheshire Cat meant Admiral Garrett, head of the fleet. “Wonder what the old battle-axe wants?” said Williams. “Well, see you at lunch.” Mayfair rose and saluted. Williams left the bridge.
Mayfair decoded the latitude and longitude of the rendezvous point, consulted the map, and made a minor course correction. In about four hours they would find out what the old battle-axe wanted.
***
After lunch Mayfair helped Dennis Potts, the cook, clear the tables in the mess hall. The only man on the ship, Potts had certain responsibilities beyond feeding the crew. Australia needed more soldiers to replace the fallen. He had a patriotic duty to help refill the ranks of the military.
“It's my night tonight,” Mayfair said. “I get you all to myself.” She pushed him playfully against the wall of the kitchen. It didn't hurt that he had curly blond hair and blue eyes.
“I haven't forgotten,” he said and ran a hand down her arm.
“I've got something to tell you. There was a message for me on the radio this morning.” She rubbed his chin between her thumb and index finger.
“Really? What kind of message?” He caught her earlobe between his lips.
“I'll tell you ... tonight ....” She took a deep breath to prepare for his first kiss.
A voice came from the mess hall outside. “Hello?”
Potts turned towards the door. Mayfair stopped him. She straightened the sleeves of her jacket and went out.
Lieutenant Sandra Morris, the flight officer, waited among the tables. She saluted. “I checked your cabin. Then I remembered it was your day with Dennis, so I came here. Hi, Dennis.” Morris waved.
“What can I do for you, lieutenant?”
“Ah, with the admiral coming this afternoon, I was hoping you could help me check the landing platform. You're the only one who's had training on all the equipment.”
Mayfair couldn't argue with that. She told Potts, “I've got to go. See you later, midshipman.” They took the aft corridor to the rear of the ship.
For the next two hours they tested every part of the platform, the hangar, the controls, and the emergency systems. They had already adjusted the platform for the admiral's plane, a type larger than they normally saw.
A buzzer sounded in the landing control room. The plane had come into transponder range and would follow their beam straight into the stern of the ship.
“Any idea why she's here?” Morris asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mayfair said.
The admiral's Zephyr appeared, a small dot against the water. Morris pressed a button. The landing platform swung out from the hanger above them and locked into position. With the platform deployed, the ship slowed from the extra drag.
Morris pressed a button to unlock the nacelles, two large nylon scoops on the sides of the ship. She pressed another button. Small motors would turn the nacelles outward and let the wind fill them. The small end of each nacelle narrowed down to a vent, now blocked by a louver. When the louvers opened, they directed the backwash across the landing platform.
Morris raised a long lever on the wall, which opened the louvers. The gentle whisper of wind turned into a scream on its way through the narrow slots, then into a whistle, then back into a whisper. She locked the lever in the open position by releasing the handle and spoke into a microphone. “Cheshire Cat, you are clear for landing.”
“Roger,” said the pilot.
The plane made the final approach with an upward lunge. It shuddered slightly when it made the transition from the outer air to the ship's backwash.
Morris grasped the louver lever again. She slowly lowered it to throttle down the backwash. The pilot had to keep her speed matched to the backwash–too slow and it would stall out before it reached the platform, too fast and it would crash into the ship.
The Zephyr floated gracefully across the edge of the platform. While Morris watched the plane, Mayfair watched the pilot, who wore a leather helmet and goggles. Mayfair couldn't read her expression but saw tension in the thinness of her mouth and the set of her jaw.
Once the plane got entirely above the platform, Morris locked the lever. The plane lined itself up between the bright yellow wheel clamps. With tiny adjustments, the pilot brought it forward and downward until it almost touched the platform.
Morris unlocked the lever and closed the louver. The plane bounced slightly and came to rest. The airship rocked slightly under the extra weight.
Morris pressed another button to close the wheel clamps. The Zephyr had landed.
Morris closed the nacelles. She said, “Didja see that? I wanna meet that pilot.” She latched the nacelles and spoke into the microphone. “You may now deplane. Welcome to the HMAS Inverness. Nice landing.”
“Thank you, Inverness. We could show those aircraft carriers a thing or two, couldn't we?”
It took a few moments for the passengers to shut down their engines, unstrap themselves, gather their belongings, and open the hatch. Morris raised the rear half of the platform to shield them from the wind. Two people climbed down from the hatch and walked stiffly to the control room.
Morris opened the door. The pilot came in, peeled off her helmet, and shook out her hair. Morris grabbed her hand and shook it. Williams came into the control room from the corridor and saluted. “Permission to come aboard,” said the pilot.
“Permission granted, admiral,” said Williams.
Admiral Violet Garrett removed her flight jacket and handed it to Williams. The ensign behind her handed her a red dossier and went back outside to see to the stowing of their plane. The captain and the admiral went out into the corridor.
Morris said, “Wow! Marching orders! Secret papers! We're going to see some action! We're going to rain some death on those dirty Japanese!”
Mayfair said, “You've been watching too many movies.”
***
Nobody saw the admiral or the captain until dinner. The crew, abuzz with rumors, assembled in the mess hall. The admiral and the captain entered last. They sat, which gave the signal for everyone else to follow suit.
Morris fidgeted on the bench next to Mayfair. “Where do you think we'll hit 'em? Shanghai? Hong Kong?” Mayfair shrugged. The admiral didn't look like someone excited about a major offensive.
The meal went by quietly. The admiral stood up. Everyone stopped what they were doing and fell silent.
“The Royal Australian Air Force,” said Admiral Garrett, “believes in keeping our airwomen informed. The men too.” She looked at Potts, who lounged in the kitchen doorway. The crew laughed politely. “Keep in mind there are certain things I can't divulge, for reasons of security. But I will try to answer any questions you have.”
Several hands shot up. Garrett pointed at one, who said, “When will we go into battle?”
“The War Council makes that sort of decision, I'm afraid. Even if I knew about an upcoming operation, I wouldn't be able to tell you about it until the orders came down.” Several hands went back down. “Yes, you.” Garrett pointed at Morris.
“If we did go into battle, where would we hit them?”
“Again, that's a question I can't answer. Even speculation could make its way to the enemy. I would advise you to keep quiet about possible targets and strategies. 'Loose lips down ships,' you know.” More hands went down. Garrett pointed to a third person.
“What can you tell us about China?”
“Japan hasn't been able to establish enough control to use the Chinese people effectively. Threats didn't work. Carrying out threats didn't work. Kill enough people, and you lose the very thing you were trying to get.
“Now, different parts of China are pulling in different directions. In the north, they've exhausted themselves against the Russians. In the south, they won't obey the Japanese, but they can't throw off the yoke either. In the center they have millions of people they could use as soldiers, but those people are busy growing food for all the others. China doesn't have the materièl to attack us, and we don't have the numbers to attack China.” She fell silent.
“What do we do, then?” someone said.
“I don't know,” said Garrett. “I honestly don't know.”
Mayfair raised her hand. “What can you tell us about Indochina?” She ignored Williams's hard stare.
Garrett seemed glad to have another topic. “Indochina? It's a sweaty pimple on the backside of China. Nobody will ever care about it.... Any more questions? No? I'm off to bed then. Three more ships to visit tomorrow.” The admiral left the room, which began to buzz with more rumors.
***
After the others had left, Mayfair went into the kitchen. Potts had put the pots and pans into a sink. She sat on a stool, laid her chin on her fist, and watched him. “Hello, lover,” she said.
“Hullo yourself. How've you been?”
“Dreaming of you.”
“Let me just clean up this mess.”
“I'll gather the dishes.” Within one hour they had cleaned everything. Within another hour they had made love in his cabin, and she lay in his arms.
“Say it,” she prompted.
“You're the best. You're my one true love.”
“Yes, I am.” She kissed him and nestled closer.
“You had a message?”
“That's right.” She told him about the voices on the radio.
“You caught bits and pieces of a radio show,” he said. “Signals can bounce off the ionosphere from anywhere.”
“Even from the future? They called us by name. 'Queen Elizabeth of Indochina.' And 'Admiral Williams.' That can't be pure coincidence.”
“You've been thinking about this a good bit, haven't you?”
“The admiral's on board tonight. Another coincidence? Everything is lining up, like points on a chart, and they lead to Hanoi. I can't just jump ship and become queen overnight,” she said. “I'd have to give them something. An airship, say.”
“You think big. I like that.”
“If something happened to the admiral, Williams could take her place. And I'd be captain of the Inverness.”
“Aye, then what?”
“'Then what'? That's not enough?” She poked him in the ribs.
“As long as you're moving along this course, add another leg. Once Williams is admiral, you could take her place.”
“Why–then I'd have a whole fleet to take to Indochina. They'd have to make me queen.” The impossible suddenly looked possible. Rather than become breathless with the audacity of the plan, she became delighted with its simplicity. Only two women stood between her and a crown. “Can you do it, Dennis? Would you? For me? For us?”
His muscles stiffened. “You mean ... do it? For real?”
“Did you think I was joking?”
“I–no, of course not. It's–well, rather sudden, is all.”
“Good.” She kissed him on the cheek, turned over, and fell asleep.
A soft knock woke her. Potts turned on the light, called, “Half a moment,” and reached for his robe.
He opened the door. “Evening, ensign. What can I do for you?”
The admiral's assistant said, “The admiral would like to avail herself of your services.”
Potts didn't ask