Polar Bear Blues by Stephen Wishnevsky

Author:Stephen Wishnevsky [Wishnevsky, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-07-16T04:00:00+00:00

“Listen to the radio, write down anything we need to know. Find out how the Mexican War is going.”

“Is Third Mexican War. You trust me?”

“Where are we?”

“Now? In Chino. China. Long way from home.” He grimaced.

“Yes we are, and if we, you and me, ever want to get home again…”

“Patton must be stopped.” He said, very quietly, but I heard him.

“Si. Correct-o. So?”

“I do what you say. Not write real good, though.”

“Then, Lieutenant Felix Lupo, you had better find us somebody who can write well. Typing would be a big help.”

“I know a woman. You hire women?”

“Look around you.” He just nodded and went to the radio. Good man.

All we got for the rest of that night was that England officially declared war on the USA, for all the good that would do them. The battle for Irkutsk was turning into a set piece, both sides rushing everything they had there, Lake Baikal proving a good defense to the north. We heard that Bradley was improvising gunboats out of anything that would float to deny the lake to the Germans, and tank battles were raging all up and down the valley that contained Angarsk Airfield.

And still, day and night, the convoys rumbled through Dalny, a constant noise that soon faded from your consciousness, like big city traffic.

>>>>>>

We lay in bed that night, not talking more than a word now and then, thinking on what needed to be done in the morning. One of the words said was “Aneko.”

Maeve replied. “Yes. First.” No telling if she was on anybody’s side but her own, but she was one of the keys to the complicated lock that was Central Asia. I could almost completely follow the line of thought that lead to her next word. “Peking.”

“Bradley has to know that too.”

“Yeah. I wish I had a drink.”

“Can do.” We had a few belts, a little affection, a little sleep, and then it was rise and shine time. Life was moving fast. But at least Intelligence was better than the Poor Bloody Infantry. And my bunkmate was a lot more congenial than another buck private with halitosis and trench foot.

First thing in the morning, I called HQ, tried to find Aneko. She had left, but had also left a message for me. Really? The message was a phone number. I called it, and got a non-committal older woman, who finally admitted that she was the right contact, and that somebody would be in touch with me. I was left with the feeling that we were dealing with real professionals. Glad somebody was. Which reminded me of that drunk William Doyle, the AEFS historian in Verkhneudinsk. Good chance he would like an office job in the rear. And he did seem to know his business. Make a note. Send to Ray Reynolds. Next?

The phone rang. “Speak of the devil, Ray. I was…”

“Look, Miles, we need some recon. And we need to know what you thought about Qinang-dao.”

“Who? Oh, the port. Not much to it. But it was dark.

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