Cryptonomicon (86 page)

“I sent e-mail from
Glory,
” Amy says.

“To whom?”

“The Shaftoe mailing list.”

“God!” Randy says, slapping himself in the face. “What did this e-mail say?”

“Can’t remember,” Amy says. “That I was headed for California. I might have made some kind of backhanded remark about a young man I wanted to talk to. I was kinda upset at the time and I can’t remember exactly what I have said.”

“I think you said something like ‘I am going to California where Randall Lawrence Waterhouse, who has AIDS, is going to forcibly sodomize me upon arrival.’ ”

“No, it was nothing of the kind.”

“Well, I think that someone read it between the lines. So, anyway, Ma or Auntie Em or someone emerges from the side door, shaking flour out of her gingham apron—I’m imagining this.”

“I can tell.”

“And she says, ‘Boys, your umpteenth cousin thrice removed America Shaftoe has sent us e-mail from Uncle Doug’s boat in the South China Sea stating that she is having some kind of dispute with a young man and it’s not out of the question that she might need someone around to lend her a hand. In California. Would you swing by and look in on her?’ And they put away their basketball and say, ‘Yes ma’am, what city and address?’ and she says, ‘Never you mind, just get on Interstate 40 and drive west not failing to maintain an average speed of between one hundred and a hundred and twenty percent of the legal speed limit and call me collect from a Texaco somewhere and I will supply you with specific target coordinates later,’ and they say, ‘Yes ma’am’ and thirty seconds later they are laying a patch in the driveway as they pull five gees backing out of the garage and thirty hours subsequently they are in my front yard, shining their twenty-five-D-cell flashlights into my eyes and asking me a lot of pointed questions. Do you have any idea how far the drive is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, according to M.A.’s Rand McNally Road Atlas, it is an even twenty-one hundred miles.”

“So?”

“So that means that they maintained an average speed of seventy miles an hour for a day and a half.”

“A day and a quarter,” Amy says.

“Do you have any idea how difficult that is to do?”

“Randy, you push on the gas pedal and keep it between the lines. How hard is that?”

“I’m not saying it’s an intellectual challenge. I’m saying that this willingness to, e.g., urinate into empty McDonald’s cups rather than stop the car, suggests a kind of urgency. Passion, even. And being a guy, and having had the experience of being a guy of the age of M.A. and Robin, I can tell you that one of the few things that gets your blood boiling to that extent is this notion of some female you love being done wrong by a strange male.”

“Well, what if they did?” Amy says. “Now they think you’re okay.”

“They do? Really?”

“Yeah. The financial disaster aspect makes you more human. More approachable. And it excuses a lot.”

“Do I need an excuse for something?”

“Not in my book.”

“But to the extent they thought I was a rapist, it kind of palliates my image problems.”

A brief lull in the conversation ensues. Then Amy pipes up.

“So tell me about your family, Randy.”

“In the next couple of days, you’re going to learn a great deal more than I would like you to about my family. And so am I. So let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay. Let’s talk about business.”

“Okay. You go first.”

“We got a German television producer coming out next week to have a look at the U-boat. They might do a documentary about it. We have already hosted several German print journalists.”

“You have?”

“It has caused a sensation in Germany.”

“Why?”

“Because no one can figure out how it got there. Now, your turn.”

“We are going to launch our own currency.” By saying this, Randy is divulging proprietary information to someone not authorized to hear it. But he does it anyway, because opening himself up to Amy in this way, making himself vulnerable to her, gives him a hard-on.

“How do you go about that? Don’t you have to be a government?”

“No. You have to be a bank. Why do you think they’re called banknotes?” Randy is fully aware of the insanity of divulging secret business information to a woman solely for purposes of sexual self-titillation but it is in the nature of things, right now, that he doesn’t especially care.

“Okay but still, usually it’s done by
government
banks, right?”

“Only because people tend to
respect
the government banks. But government banks in Southeast Asia have a huge image problem right now. That image problem translates directly into crashing exchange rates.”

“So, how do you do it?”

“Get a big pile of gold. Issue certificates saying ‘this certificate can be redeemed for such-and-such an amount of gold.’ That’s all there is to it.”

“What’s wrong with dollars and yen and stuff?”

“The certificates—the banknotes—are printed on paper. We’re going to issue electronic banknotes.”

“No paper at all?”

“No paper at all.”

“So you can only spend it on the Net.”

“Correct.”

“What if you want to buy a sack of bananas?”

“Find a banana merchant on the Net.”

“Seems like paper money’d be just as good.”

“Paper money is traceable and perishable and has other drawbacks. Electronic banknotes are fast and anonymous.”

“What’s an electronic banknote look like, Randy?”

“Like any other digital thing: a bunch of bits.”

“Doesn’t that make it kind of easy to counterfeit?”

“Not if you have good crypto,” Randy says. “Which we do.”

“How did you get it?”

“By hanging out with maniacs.”

“What kind of maniacs?”

“Maniacs who think that having good crypto is of near-apocalyptic importance.”

“How’d they get around to thinking any such thing?”

“By reading about people like Yamamoto who died because they had bad crypto, and then projecting that kind of thing into the future.”

“Do you agree with them?” Amy asks. It might be one of those pivotal-moment-in-the-relationship questions.

“At two in the morning, when I’m lying awake in bed, I do,” Randy says. “In the light of day, it all seems like paranoia.” He glances over at Amy, who’s looking at him appraisingly, because he hasn’t actually answered the question yet. He’s got to pick one thing or the other. “Better safe than sorry, I guess. Having good crypto can’t hurt, and it might help.”

“And it might make you a lot of money along the way,” Amy reminds him.

Randy laughs. “At this point, it’s not even about trying to make money,” he says. “I just don’t want to be totally humiliated.”

Amy smiles cryptically.

“What?” Randy demands.

“You sounded just like a Shaftoe when you said that,” Amy says.

Randy drives the car in silence for about half an hour after that. He was right, he suspects: it
was
a pivotal moment in the relationship. All he can do now is totally screw it up. So he shuts up and drives.

F
OR TWO MONTHS HE SLEEPS ON A BEACH ON
N
EW
Caledonia, stretched out under a mosquito net, dreaming of worse places, polishing his line.

In Stockholm, someone from the British Embassy got him to a certain cafe. A gentleman he met in the cafe got him to a car. The car got him to a lake where a floatplane just happened to be sitting with its motors running and its lights off. The Special Air Service got him to London. Naval Intelligence got him back to D.C., drained his brain, and turned him over to the Marines with a big stamp on his papers saying that he must never again be sent into combat; he Knew Too Much to be taken prisoner. The Marines found that he Knew Too Little to serve as a Rear-Echelon Motherfucker, and gave him a choice: a one-way ticket home, or higher education. He opted for the ticket home, then talked a green officer into believing that his family had moved, and home was now San Francisco.

You could practically cross San Francisco Bay by jumping from one Navy ship to the next. The waterfront was lined with the Navy’s piers, depots, hospitals, and prisons. All of them were guarded by Shaftoe’s military brothers. Shaftoe’s tattoos were obscured by civilian clothes and his haircut grown out. But he only had to look a Marine in the eye from a stone’s throw, and that Marine would recognize
him for a brother in need and open any gate for him, break any regulation, probably even lay down his life. Shaftoe stowed away on a ship bound for Hawaii so fast he didn’t even have time to get drunk. From Pearl, it took him four days to get on a ship to Kwajalein. There, he was a legendary hero. His money was no good on Kwaj; he smoked, drank and ate for a week without being allowed to spend a dime, and finally his brothers got him on a plane that took him a couple of thousand miles due south to Noumea, in New Caledonia.

They did so with great reluctance. They would willingly have hit a beach with him, but this was different: they were sending him perilously close to SOWESPAC, the Southwest Pacific Theater, the domain of The General. Even now, a couple of years after The General had sent them into action, poorly armed and poorly supported, on Guadalcanal, Marines still spent approximately fifty percent of their waking hours talking about what a bad guy he was. He secretly owned half of Intramuros. He had become a billionaire from Spanish gold that his father had dug up when he’d been governor of the Philippines. Quezon had secretly named him postwar dictator of the archipelago. The General was running for president, and in order to win he was going to start throwing battles just to make F.D.R. look bad, and blaming it all on the Marines. And if that didn’t work he’d come back to the States and stage a coup d’etat. Which would be beaten back, against enormous odds, by the United States Marine Corps. Semper Fi!

Anyway, his brothers got him to New Caledonia. Noumea’s a neat French city of wide streets and tin-roofed buildings, fronting on a big harbor lined with mountainous dumps of nickel and chromium ore from gigantic mines up-island. The place is about one-third Free French (there’s pictures of de Gaulle all over the place), one-third American servicemen, and one-third cannibals. Word on the street is that the cannibals have not eaten any white people in twenty-seven years, so Bobby Shaftoe, sleeping out on that beach, feels almost as safe as he did in Sweden.

But when he reached Noumea he slammed into a barrier more impervious than any brick wall: the imaginary
line between the Pacific theater (Nimitz’s turf) and SOWESPAC. Brisbane, The General’s headquarters, is just a short (by Pacific standards) hop almost due west. If he can just get there and deliver his line, everything’s going to be fine.

During his first couple of weeks on the beach, he’s stupidly optimistic. Then he’s depressed for about a month, thinking he’ll never get off this place. Finally he starts to come around, starts to display adaptability again. He’s had no luck getting on board a ship. But the amount of air traffic is incredible. Seems that The General likes airplanes. Shaftoe starts tailing flyboys. The MPs won’t give him the time of day, he can’t get into an Army NCOs’ Club to save his life.

But an NCOs’ Club offers strictly limited entertainments. Customers in search of more profound satisfactions must leave the perimeter defined by hardassed MPs and enter the civilian economy. And when horny, well-paid American flyboys are dropped into a culture defined half by cannibals and half by Frenchmen, you get a hell of a civilian economy. Shaftoe finds a vantage point outside an airbase gate, plants himself there, his pockets loaded with cigarette packs (the Marines on Kwaj left him with a lifetime supply) and waits. Flyboys come out in twos and threes. Shaftoe picks out the sergeants, follows them to bars and whorehouses, sits down in their line of sight, begins to chain-smoke. Before long they’ve come over and started to bum cigarettes off him. This leads to conversations.

Once he gets this routine figured out, he learns a lot about the Fifth Air Force in a big hurry, makes a lot of friends. In a few weeks, he strikes the jackpot. He goes over the airfield fence at 1:00
A.M
. of a moonless night, belly-crawls for about a mile along the shoulder of a runway, and just barely makes a rendezvous with the crew of the Tipsy Tootsie, a B-24 Liberator bound for Brisbane. In fairly short order, he finds himself stuffed into the glass sphere at the tail of the plane: the rear ball turret. Its purpose, of course, is to shoot down Zeroes, which tend to attack from behind. But Tipsy Tootsie’s crew seems to think that they are about as likely to find Zeroes around here as they would be over central Missouri.

They warned him to wear something warm, but he didn’t have anything of that nature. Tipsy Tootsie has barely left the runway when he begins to understand his mistake: the temperature drops like a five-hundred-pound bomb. It is physically impossible for him to get out of the turret. Even if he could, it would just lead to his getting arrested; he has been smuggled on board without the knowledge of the officers who are actually flying the plane. Calmly he decides to add prolonged hypothermia to his already extensive knowledge of suffering. After a couple of hours, he either loses consciousness or falls asleep, and this helps.

He is awakened by pink light that comes from every direction at once. The plane has lost altitude, the temperature has risen, his body has thawed out enough to bring him awareness. After a few minutes he’s able to move his arms. He reaches into the pink glow and rubs condensation off the inside of the ball turret. He takes out a hanky, wipes the whole thing clean, and now he’s looking straight down the throat of a Pacific dawn.

The sky is streaked and mottled by black clouds, like jets of squid ink in a Caribbean cove. For a while, it’s as if he is under water with Bischoff.

Puckered scars mar the Pacific in loops and lines, and he is reminded of his own naked flesh. But the hard jagged pieces work their way out of the scar tissue like old shrapnel: coral reefs emerging from a shallowing sea. Warmer and warmer. He begins to shiver again.

Someone has dumped brown dust into the Pacific, made a great pile of it. On the edge of the pile is a city. The city swings around them, comes closer. Warmer and warmer. It’s Brisbane. A runway streaks up and he thinks it’s going to take his ass off, like the world’s biggest belt sander. The plane stops. He smells gasoline.

The pilot discovers him, loses his temper, and makes ready to call the MPs. “I’m here to work for The General,” Shaftoe mumbles through blue lips. It just makes the pilot want to slug him. But after Shaftoe has uttered these words, everything is different, the angry officers stand a pace or two farther away from him, tone down their language,
knock off the threats. Shaftoe knows, from this, that The General does things differently.

He spends a day recovering in a flophouse, then rises, shaves, drinks a cup of coffee, and strikes out in search of brass.

To his extreme chagrin, he learns that The General has relocated his headquarters to Hollandia, in New Guinea. But his wife and son, and a bunch of his staff, are still staying at Lennon’s Hotel. Shaftoe goes there and analyzes the traffic pattern: to pull into the hotel’s horseshoe drive, the cars have to come around a particular corner, just up the street. Shaftoe finds a good loitering-place near that corner, and waits. Looking through the windows of the approaching cars, he can see the epaulets, count the stars and eagles.

Seeing two stars, he decides to make his move. Jogging down the block, he reaches the awning of the hotel just as this general’s door is being hauled open by his driver.

“ ’Scuse me, General, Bobby Shaftoe reporting for duty, sir!” he blurts, snapping out the perfectest salute in military history.

“And who the hell might you be, Bobby Shaftoe?” says this general, hardly batting an eye. He talks like Bischoff! This guy actually has a German accent!

“I’ve killed more Nips than seismic activity. I’m trained to jump out of airplanes. I speak a little Nip. I can survive in the jungle. I know Manila like the back of my hand. My wife and child are there. And I’m kinda at loose ends. Sir!”

In London, in D.C., he’d never have gotten this close, and if he had he’d have been shot or arrested.

But this is SOWESPAC, and so the next morning at dawn he’s on a B-17 bound for Hollandia, wearing Army green, no rank.

New Guinea is a nasty-looking piece of work: a gangrenous dragon with a wicked, rocky spine, covered with ice. Just looking at it makes Shaftoe shiver from a queasy combination of hypothermia and incipient malaria. The whole thing belongs to The General now. Shaftoe can plainly see that such a country could only be conquered by a man who was completely fucking out of his mind. A month in Stalingrad would be preferable to twenty-four hours down there.

Hollandia is on the north shore of this beast, facing, naturally, towards the Philippines. It is well known throughout Marinedom that The General has caused a palace to be built for himself there. Some credulous fools actually believe the rumor that it is merely a complete 200%-scale replica of the Taj Mahal, built by enslaved Marines, but savvy jarheads know that it is actually a much vaster compound built out of construction materials stolen from Navy hospital ships, dotted with pleasure domes and fuck houses for his string of Asiatic concubines, with a soaring cupola so high that The General can go up there and see what the Nips are doing to his extensive real estate holdings in Manila, 1,500 miles to the northwest.

Bobby Shaftoe sees no such thing out the windows of the B-17. He glimpses one large and nice-looking house up on a mountain above the sea. He supposes that it is a mere sentry post, marking the benighted perimeter of The General’s domain. But almost immediately the B-17 bounces down on a runway. The cabin is invaded by an equatorial miasma. It’s like breathing Cream O’ Wheat direct from a blurping vat. Shaftoe feels his bowels loosening up already. Of course there are many Marines who feel that Army uniform trousers look best when feces-stained. Shaftoe must put such thoughts out of his head.

All the passengers (mostly colonels and better) move as to avoid working up a sweat, even though they are already drenched. Shaftoe wants to kick their fat, waffled butts downstairs—he’s in a hurry to get to Manila.

Pretty soon he is hitching a ride on the rear bumper of a jeep full of brass. The airfield is still ringed with ack-ack guns, and shows signs of having been bombed and strafed not too long ago. Some of these signs are obvious physical evidence like shell holes, but Shaftoe gets most of his information from watching the men: their posture, their facial expressions as they stare into the sky, tell him exactly what the threat level is.

No wonder, he thinks, remembering the sight of that big white house up on the mountain. You can probably see that thing by moonlight, for crissakes! It must be visible from Tokyo! It’s just begging to be strafed.

Then, as the jeep begins to trundle up the mountain in first gear, he figures it out: that thing’s just a decoy. The General’s real command post must be a network of deep tunnels hidden beneath the jungle floor, and
that
is where you would have to look for your Asiatic concubines, etc.

The trip up the mountain takes an eon. Shaftoe jumps off and soon outpaces the whining jeep, and the one in front of it. Then he’s on his own, walking through the jungle. He’ll just follow the tracks until they lead him straight to the cleverly camouflaged mineshaft that leads down to The General’s HQ.

The walk gives him plenty of time to have a couple of smokes and savor the unrelieved nightmarishness of the New Guinea jungle, compared to which Guadalcanal, which he thought was the worst place on earth, seems like a dewy meadow strewn with bunnies and butterflies. Nothing is more satisfying than to consider that the Nips and the United States Army spent a couple of years beating the crap out of each other here. Pity the Aussies had to get mixed up in it, though.

The tracks take him straight to that big white clay pigeon of a house up on the mountainside. They’ve gone way overboard in trying to make the house look like someone’s actually living there. Shaftoe can see furniture and everything. The walls are crisscrossed by bullet trails. They have even set up a mannequin on the balcony, in a
pink silk dressing gown,
corncob pipe, and aviator sunglasses, scanning the bay through binoculars! As reluctant as he is to approve of anything done by the Army, Shaftoe cannot keep himself from laughing out loud at this witticism. Military humor at its finest. He can’t believe they got away with it. A couple of press photographers are standing down below, taking pictures of the scene.

Standing in the middle of the house’s mud parking lot, he plants his feet wide and thrusts his middle finger up at that mannequin. Hey, asshole, this one’s from the Marines on Kwajalein! Damn, this feels good.