Mike leaned back in his chair and cocked his head at the older man. He gazed at him for several seconds.
“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to . . . John,” he said, deliberately putting his question on a non-official basis with the use of the other’s first name. “But I can’t help wondering. It’s obvious to me from some of the things you’ve said—and the way you talked to Eddie, before we sent him off—that you’d seen combat before we ever wound up here. A lot, I’d guess. Probably at least as much as Frank Jackson. But you never mentioned it until we needed you to build our navy. And to be honest, I’ve got the distinct impression you’d never mentioned it to Tom at all.”
Simpson looked at him steadily, and Mike gave a tiny shrug. “John, I really don’t think the fact that your son hasn’t answered the radio message I sent to him just before I left means anything. That storm front has scrambled all our communications with Becky—and God knows what it’s done to the relay between Amsterdam and London.”
Simpson nodded once, jerkily, but his face was still tight.
Mike sighed. “Oh, hell . . . I guess if I’m asking for confidences, I should spill one of my own. Even though Rita swore me to silence.”
Mention of Simpson’s daughter-in-law caused his eyes to widen a bit.
“When the Ring of Fire hit,” Mike asked, “what did you and your wife do? Right away, I mean. You didn’t have anything left except a rental car—and we nationalized all the gas within a week—and a couple of suitcases. Every credit card in the world, I’m sure, and a wallet full of cash and the world’s best wristwatch. Lot of good that was.”
Simpson stared at him. “Well . . . a family took us in. Very nice people. The—”
“I know who took you in, John. The reason I know is because Rita set it up. The Wendells’ son Jerry is an old friend of Rita’s. Boyfriend, to be precise, back in high school. But they stayed on good terms after they broke up.”
“Your sister . . .”
Mike snorted, half-angrily and half-wearily. “John, just because we West Virginia hillbillies like to brag about the fact that we won the Hatfield-McCoy feud doesn’t mean we really think old Devil Anse Hatfield was a role model. So relax about your son, will you? My kid sister’s got her faults, but spitefulness is not one of them.”
Simpson looked away. For a moment, the stiff wooden face seemed slightly embarrassed. And relieved.
“So, to go back to my question—why?” Mike asked again.
Simpson said nothing at all for several seconds. Then he drew a deep breath.
“I never really wanted to go into the ‘family business,’ ” he said. “I don’t imagine that that’s something you expected to hear, but it’s true. There were always two traditions in my family—business, and the Navy. There’s been a Simpson in the Navy in every generation since the War of 1812. Until Tom’s, of course.”
He looked away, and his tone was distant, as if he were speaking of someone else entirely.
“I loved the Navy. And I didn’t start off on an engineering track, either. Not me. I was headed for a major surface command of my own one day. Sea duty—that was what I wanted, and I volunteered for river duty in Vietnam right out of the Academy. And I got it, too. I got there about the time our riverine forces were reaching their maximum size, and I fitted right in. Within six months I was the squadron XO. Another six, and I was the ‘Old Man.’ At the grand and glorious age of twenty-four.”
He shook his head, his eyes sad.
“You may not believe this, but in some ways, those were the best months of my life. I didn’t like combat. Some people actually do, you know. I wasn’t one of them. But whether I liked it or not, I was good at it. I was . . . effective. And my people and I were . . . Well, ‘family,’ I guess.”