Chapter 30- The Lion's Den
"Anchors aweigh, my boy, anchors aweigh," sang San Diego as she made her way along the dock.
For the first time in decades, the Port of San Diego was bustling. Tramp steamers rubbed elbows with passenger liners who had been pressed into service to haul goods. The air was thick with the smell of fuel and the sound of innumerable people trying to bring order to the chaos. Deftly, San Diego avoided a harried stevedore carrying an unwieldy crate as an anxious businessman followed him. The businessman was pleading for his cargo to be loaded. From what San Diego gathered in the brief moment of the exchange she heard, the cargo had been deemed non-essential and it seemed no amount of money would sway the grim-faced man carrying the crate.
Similar scenes would be playing out all along the West Coast- every major port and most minor ones were in an uproar, as the largest convoy ever assembled in human history was being loaded with the supplies East Asia needed to fight the Siren scourge. Many of the vessels were the new Liberty ships- mass-produced cargo ships that could be produced in a matter of weeks. The others were old veterans of the Siren War, ships that by their very survival had gained reputations as lucky ships. She could even see a few fishing trawlers, which was puzzling. Even if they could be made to have the range to reach Japan, she couldn't imagine they couldn't carry enough cargo to make it worthwhile. Quite a few of them, she noted, were testing barrage balloons.
A barrage balloon was simply a large, uncrewed balloon which was tethered to the ground. Aircraft that attacked low to the ground- such as in a strafing run- could run afoul of the tethers. They were rarely used anymore. Siren aircraft tended to attack from higher altitudes and strafing runs were relatively rare. Maybe they just had a bunch in stock and someone wanted to use them up.
She had no particular destination in mind. Yet another interminable briefing- this time regarding the signals the convoy would be using- had just ended. San Diego knew that these things were important- she was a warship, despite her air-headed ways- but that didn't make them any less tedious. So she had decided to get some fresh air by the docks and see if anything interesting was going on. The fresh air was a bust- with so much traffic from both sea and land transport, the air was anything but fresh- but there did seem to be quite a few sights to see.
A sailor did a double-take as he saw her and snapped to attention, saluting. She resisted her initial impulse to wave cheerfully and returned his salute. She wasn't sure how she felt about her commissioned status. On the one hand, it wasn't at all bad to have some spending money, even if the Commander was keeping a close eye on what she did with it. It seemed strange, though, to have sailors salute her on the street.
San Diego stopped and stepped absently to one side, avoiding a truck belching smoke as it crawled through the thick foot traffic. It wasn't as if she wasn't familiar with the concept of a salute. It was regulation that anyone boarding a warship salute the flag. Was that the same as saluting the ship, she wondered? Probably not- but it seemed close.
"Watch it, kid," said a voice behind her. She turned and jumped back to avoid having her feet run over by a wheelbarrow full of coal. It was a woman pushing it, which was becoming a less rare sight recently. Women were entering the workforce in increasing numbers, as the economy began to expand following the opening of the sea lanes made possible by the victories against the Sirens.
The woman stopped as she got a good look at San Diego. She looked her up and down and smiled in sudden recognition. "So you're one of the shipgirls? Golly, never thought I'd see one in person."
San Diego flashed her a smile and struck a pose. "USS San Diego, ma'am." She suddenly remembered her rank. "Er, Lieutenant San Diego, I mean. Pleased to meet you." She stuck out her hand.
The woman blinked at her outstretched hand. A bit bashfully, she rubbed some of the coal from her own hand and shook San Diego's. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I'm Clara."
San Diego looked her over. It wasn't immediately apparent due to her coal-streaked face and loose-fitting clothes, but she looked pretty young- maybe in her mid-twenties at most. Her muscles, though, were well-defined and she had been pushing the wheelbarrow with relative ease. "You're a dockworker?"
"Yes, ma'am. Came here a few months ago with my daddy and brothers. Everyone else was getting work so I decided to pitch in." She smiled with evident pride. "It's hard work, but it pays a lot better than starving to death on a dust farm in Kansas."
"Huh," said San Diego. "I've never been to Kansas."
"Um, no. No, I guess you wouldn't have," said Clara uncertainly.
"Are there any ports there? Maybe I've been there and just don't remember."
There was a long pause. "Right," said Clara. "Well, I've got to go. Straw boss will have my head if I don't get this load in soon. You take care, now."
San Diego waved as she left. She heard Clara muttering something about lowering standards in the Navy, but she didn't see how that might have applied to her so she ignored it.
Looking around for something else to do, she noticed a large crowd gathering at a nearby warehouse. Wondering if they had found something fun to do, she began making her way over.
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"No," said Marne into his office phone. He massaged his temples.
The voice on the other end of the line jabbered something Cleveland couldn't make out.
"Yes, from what I understand, raising two million dollars in war bonds allows you to propose a name for a Liberty ship. But-"
Another burst of jabbering, this time louder. Marne's face slowly turned red.
"Sir," he said coldly, cutting off the caller. "First, I have no authority to rename any ships. Not even remotely. Second, even if I had, I would not use the name you suggest. Not even for a cargo ship. I hope I have made myself clear." He hung up and glared at the phone as if at an ancient, formidable enemy.
Cleveland cleared her throat. He looked up. "Yes?"
"Everything okay?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," he said briskly, then paused. "How would you have felt about having a ship named the SS Coca-Cola in the convoy?"
Cleveland was bright, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. "Oh, that sounds pretty neat!"
Before his face could darken further, she thrust out the paperwork she had collected as a shield. "Summary of shipping manifests, sir!"
He took them and glanced at the forms. "Do I have to read these? There's hundreds of ships in the convoy!"
"I was told you don't have to read them..."
"Then why-"
"You just have to sign them."
He looked at her, then at the forms, then back at her. "If I don't have to read them, then why would I be signing them?"
"I think the signature indicates you had the chance to read them, if you wanted," offered Cleveland. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach, which was a particularly awful sensation for a ship.
"But if I don't read them, and there's something wrong, they can use the signature to hang me on it."
"Um..."
Marne sighed. "Never mind." He began signing the forms one by one. "With this many moving parts, they'd be able to find something wrong no matter what. If all I did was sign off on a screwy manifest, that'd be the least of my worries."
Shifting from one foot to another, Cleveland hesitated. The Commander was clearly not in a good mood, but she wasn't sure if she would have a chance to talk to him again.
Marne didn't even look up. "Just say it, Lieutenant."
"It's about Enterprise."
"Belay that. Don't say it."
"Sir, everyone knows how you too feel about each other-"
"Cleveland, I have broken a few regulations in my life." He finished the last form and handed the stack to her. She took it without thinking as he met her eyes. "In fact, any sailor has. Sometimes you have to for the good of the service. But getting...romantically involved with a ship under my command- I'd be breaking regulations we don't even have yet."
She brightened at that. "So it's not officially against regulations-"
"That was not an endorsement of the idea," said Marne. "And, for future reference, I suggest you avoid doing anything that makes someone write a new regulation. It's innovative, I'll grant you, but not in a career-enhancing way."
"Commander," she said, setting her feet. "You can't just brush this away. Enterprise is- she doesn't feel close to you anymore. And it's tearing her up inside. You can't just abandon your ship-"
Marne shot to his feet, his chair falling over backward. For the first time, she saw her easy-going Commander really, truly angry. Cleveland was brave even for the US Navy. But she took an involuntary step back anyway.
"I will never abandon my ship," said Marne, his voice rough with anger. "I will never abandon Enterprise."
Cleveland suddenly remembered how he had come to lose the ship Enterprise. He had refused to leave until he had been knocked unconscious and physically dragged from the mortally wounded carrier. She looked into his eyes and saw the anger, shame, sorrow, and fear that he had no doubt felt rushing back.
But she was a knight of the sea. She knew that she was right- that it was not just for Enterprise. Not even just for the Commander. She had to make him see.
"She isn't just your XO, Commander," said Cleveland. "I don't think you or the Navy really understands this. We aren't just girls. We're warships. It's not about fraternizing with your subordinates- we have to have a deep connection to you. If you don't recognize that- if you don't accept that- then we'll never be able to reach our full potential."
Marne looked away. "It's my job to lead you, not love you."
Cleveland felt a tear come to her eye and scrubbed it away quickly. "You can't do both?" Her voice was very small. Once again, she had spoken without thinking.
He looked up, too quickly for her to hide the look she knew she had in her eyes. His own eyes widened in realization. "Cleveland, I-"
The door to the office flew open, slamming against the wall. Nevada stood there, her face pale Marne glared at the interruption, but Nevada ignored his anger as she spoke.
"Commander, there is a mutiny at the docks."
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The man standing on the makeshift stage in the warehouse didn't look much like one of the stevedores, dockworkers, and merchant sailors crowded around him. His skin was a bit paler, a bit less rough with years and hard work. He was no parlor philosopher, though- his muscles bulged as he gesticulated, his beard as rough as the words that shot from his mouth.
"For years, the capitalists have lived the good life, taking every dime we earned and promising it would help fight the Sirens!" A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd, drowning out the few voices of dissent. "And what have they accomplished? To sink the fleet the proletariat worked so hard to build? To watch from their mansions while the worker starved in the street? Did they ever watch one of their children beg for food that they couldn't give them?"
A ragged chorus of "No!" rose from the gathering.
San Diego frowned. She had worked her way into the crowd, curious to see what the strange bearded man was doing with the stage he and several others had constructed. She'd thought there might have been some sort of performance, but instead all she'd heard was a confusing and, to her, boring speech.
"And now, with the shipgirls arrival, suddenly the capitalists see their chance at even more profit! And what do they do, I wonder?" The agitator paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd. San Diego, unsure of herself, ducked behind a burly worker to avoid being spotted.
"They man their own ships, right? They risk their own lives to get their precious profit?" The speaker made a show of looking over the crowd. "Do you see any Rockefellers hauling on lines? A Rothschild stoking the boilers?"
That drew some chuckles from the crowd.
"No? Then who will brave the thousands of miles to our imperialist 'allies', the Japanese? Who will be dying in the thousands, washed away to the nameless deep, simply to line the pockets of men who are already choking on their money?" Once again, he paused.
San Diego looked around, seeing thoughtful looks on the faces of the sailors around her. Though she didn't know what was going on, she could feel the atmosphere in the room becoming dangerous. She had to shove down her instinct to call up her rigging.
"No," said the man, his voice softer but still readily audible to the crowd. "No, I think that we've had quite enough of dying to make fat men even fatter. I think that if we are going to sail across the sea, a sea that has claimed the lives of tens of thousands of our fellow workers, then we will do it on our own terms."
He held a clinched fist in the air. "Workers of the world, unite! We have nothing to lose but our chains!"
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A young Marine lieutenant at the head of a group of men saluted Marne as he came out of the office building the Navy had appropriated for him near the docks. "Commies, sir," he said.
Marne returned the salute. "And commies to you as well, Marine. In fact, happy commies to everyone." He dropped the salute. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Sorry, sir. There are work stoppages at all the docks- scuttlebutt has it that they're seeing it all along the West Coast. It looks like a coordinated strike by Communist agitators."
Marne let out a string of oaths that seemed to impress even the Marine sergeant standing by the lieutenant's side. "What do they think they're doing?"
Cleveland and Nevada had naturally followed him. They exchanged glances. "Commander, could it be a Siren trick?" asked Cleveland.
"Doubtful," muttered Marne. "I haven't heard of any Communist cooperation with the Sirens, but-" He stopped. "Ah. Of course."
Nevada prompted him. "Of course, what?"
"The supplies are going to Japan. They're not exactly on the best of terms with Russia. I bet the Soviets are trying to stop the convoy." He shrugged. "Or it could be homegrown. God knows we have communists here, too."
"Orders, Captain?" asked the lieutenant, who was clearly uninterested in the political implications.
What to do? Any delay- even a relatively insignificant one- could throw off the delicate web of schedules and planning that allowed a convoy of this size to get through. If their goal was to stop the convoy, then negotiations would never work. But using force could be disastrous. Even a hint of resistance would throw a match on a powder keg. Entire cities had burned during the riots of
'29. If this went in that direction, not only would the convoy not sail- but the entire country could be at risk of unrest.
He had to focus on his role. He wasn't here to solve the problem of economic inequality and the plight of the common man. His job was to get the convoy safely to the Japanese.
"Call up the police, MP's, FBI, whoever you can. Start assembling them nearby but do not- I repeat- do not enter the docks." He looked around, realizing he had come out without his cap. Silently, Cleveland handed it to him, having snatched it as they left.
Marne put his cap on and adjusted it. "Get me my staff car, please."
"Aye-aye, sir!" The lieutenant hesitated. "Sir, where will you be going, exactly? I can arrange an escort-"
"I've got a battleship and a cruiser, lieutenant," said Marne. "And I'll be headed to the docks."
"I- I thought you said you didn't want to send anyone into the docks-"
"Ah, but you see, I am not just anyone. I am the Commander, and YOU WILL GET ME MY STAFF CAR RIGHT THE HELL NOW, LIEUTENANT!"
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It was, San Diego decided, not going to turn into an interesting show.
After the first speaker, a number of other men- less eloquent than the first- got up on the stage. For the most part, they just repeated the previous speakers. San Diego, who had barely gotten the idea of wages through her head recently, was utterly perplexed by the talk of unions, exploitation of the working class, and fair labor laws.
Bored, she had tried to find her way out, but the crowd had just kept growing. They spilled out of the warehouse now, filling the surrounding streets. Some were chanting, others holding up hastily scrawled banners, and it looked like they were organizing some sort of march. That perked her up a bit. She always liked parades.
To her annoyance, however, the first speaker- the one who had gone on and on about the imperialists, and the plutocrats (San Diego had seen several Disney cartoons recently, and assumed that it had something to do with Mickey's dog), and the proletariat- was up on the stage again. And he was finally talking about something that she understood.
"I am the first to acknowledge the accomplishments of the shipgirls," said the speaker. He paced the stage. "They have done wonders, saved many lives, fought hard against those who would destroy humanity. But we are talking about the largest convoy in human history! How can anyone, no matter how powerful, do anything to protect it? No doubt there will be 'acceptable losses', right? Who here thinks that they are an 'acceptable loss'? The shipgirls will do their best, no doubt, but they can't stop all the Sirens."
San Diego glared at him, though he didn't seem to notice her.
"The Navy will protect us!" shouted a merchant sailor near her. "If those girls can do it, so can we!" There were a few shouts of agreement, but overall the crowd seemed unconvinced.
"Thank you," said the speaker, nodding in the direction of the sailor. "It is important that every voice be heard. The shipgirls are the very embodiment of the people, the expression of our hopes, dreams, and hard work." There were nods of agreement in the crowd. "All the more reason for us to protect their lives as well as our own. I am not saying that we should allow them to risk their lives while we do nothing. I am saying that the spirits of the people belong to the people! And if sacrifices must be made, they must be made for the people!"
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Belloni was remembering how much he hated the water.
Having a ship sunk out from under you could do that to a man.
But Laffey had insisted he accompany her on her short patrol to make up for their altercation back at the baseball field, and Marne- half-buried under paperwork- had assented without looking up from his desk. So here he was, watching the dock intently as it came closer, imagining stepping onto nice, solid ground again.
The engine of the Laffey became slightly quieter as they slowed down toward the ship's berth. The ship-girl herself walked up to his side, her hands clasped behind her back in a near-perfect imitation of the Commander's stance when he was on the water.
"You see?" said Laffey, breaking the silence. "I'm not a child."
"No, Miss Laffey. I'm sorry."
On the patrol, she had made a special point of showing off. Zig-zagging through the water, firing off practice torpedoes and blank cannon shots, she had demonstrated very thoroughly that she was not a ship to be trifled with. Belloni was not going to make that mistake again.
"You can call me Laffey. Just Laffey."
"I-" it was far from the first time one of the shipgirls had made the suggestion. But-
She'd let him on her ship. She had practically dragged him around as she explained the various components of the destroyer. He'd seen her guns, heard her engine, and watched the spray as her bow shot through the water.
Seeing her like this, he finally understood her.
He smiled and nodded. "Okay, Laffey."
She beamed up at him. "Good Belli." Her attention was suddenly drawn to the dock. "What's going on?"
Belloni looked up and frowned as he saw the mobs.
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Tennessee pondered the situation.
When San Diego had disappeared after the briefing, she hadn't taken much notice. After all, a shipgirl was entitled to spend her free time as she fit.
Then California had pointed out that they weren't dealing with just any ship-girl; they were talking about San Diego.
Which was why the two battleships were walking along the streets adjacent to the docks, an impressively wide space forming around them as members of the crowd moved to avoid them.
It wasn't hostile, exactly, but it wasn't just respect, either. It was- uncertainty.
"They're not sure what side we're on," muttered Tennessee.
California shrugged. "We're on the Commander's side. How hard is that to figure out?" She frowned. "So whose side are they on?"
No one was working. A group of stevedores had tried to continue moving cargo, but some of the strikers had physically blocked their way and they had given up. It had looked like a fight had been brewing before the appearance of the two battleship-girls had caused them to disperse.
"I think we should just get Sandy and get out," said Tennessee. "I don't know exactly what's going on, but I don't like it. You can't reach her over the radio?"
California shook her head. "I don't know if it's because she's being irresponsible or there's some kind of interference."
"Hm." Tennessee stopped and put her hands on her hips, looking around. Everyone avoided her eyes, except for- "Excuse me. You, right there."
The woman she pointed too was sitting on a upended wheelbarrow, coal scattered on the sidewalk around her. She blinked. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I wasn't-"
"Have you seen a young-looking girl, about so high, with pinkish hair? Not very smart?"
"How did-?"
"You're the only one who met our eyes," said Tennessee. "You've seen her?"
The woman walked closer, dropping her voice a bit. "San Diego, right?"
California nodded eagerly. "Yes, that's right. Where is she?"
"Um. I think she went into-" The woman pointed to a warehouse.
A warehouse that seemed to be the focus of the strike.
Tennessee sighed. "Dammit, San Diego."
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"I just heard from Tennessee and California," announced Nevada. "They're at the docks."
"Of course they are," grumbled Marne. "They're not on strike too, are they?"
"They're looking for San Diego."
"That's worse."
Nevada ignored his comment. "They say that she was last seen in a warehouse that seems to be where all this started."
Marne, who was in the front passenger seat, twisted around to look back at her. "She what?"
Cleveland spoke up. "I don't think she started it, sir."
He said nothing, just turned to look at her.
"I mean, I'm pretty sure..."
Marne turned back around. "I guess we'll be headed into the lion's den."
"Daniel came back fine," said Nevada. "And you have something he didn't."
"What's that?"
She grinned. "Ten fourteen inch guns."
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When they arrived at the warehouse, Marne was glad that he had those big guns on his side.
He'd gotten out first, and it was only the surprise from the sight of a high-ranking Navy officer that had kept the crowd from immediately lynching him. When Nevada and Cleveland jumped out of the car, however, overt hostility seemed to evaporate. The shouts of anger quieted to a sort of low rumble of discontent.
Avoiding eye contact with anyone in the crowd, Marne adjusted his hat. "Do you see San Diego anywhere?" he asked Nevada out of the corner of his mouth.
"No, Commander. I'm trying to get a hold of her now." She frowned. "Still nothing."
Marne sighed. "All right. Are we going to be able to get out of here if it everything goes sour?"
"With or without destroying half the city?"
"Maybe we should focus on your secondary armament."
The crowd reluctantly parted as they went inside the large cargo doors leading into the warehouse.
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"-so we have to remember, we're not just doing this for our own lives, but the lives of those girls who would so valiantly protect us," shouted the speaker. "I know, I know in my soul, that if one of the shipgirls were here right now, she'd jump on this stage and say-"
It was all the cue she needed.
She bounced onto the stage, dumbfounding the speaker.
"Atlanta Class cruiser, San Diego, here! Let's get this party started!"
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Marne, Nevada, and Cleveland walked in just in time to see their missing light cruiser cut off a Communist agitator in mid-sentence of a speech to hundreds of angry dockworkers.
"Dammit, San Diego," they muttered in unison.
Chapter started to get a bit long, so I decided to split it. Good news is, I'll probably have the next one out quickly, likely tomorrow.