Sherman pushed the useless radar display unit out of the way and tried to think. They would drift away from the ambush area even without engines because of the ebb. The compass showed he was pointed east, which was roughly down river. But it was still pitch-black, and he wanted to be out in the’middle and not about to bump up against one of the banks.
What about the SEAL? Kelly had wanted to know. Obviously, the enemy had known they were out there. And known they were drifting. Which meant they probably knew there was a pickup going down. Which might mean the SEAL had been discovered, and perhaps made to tell them. when the boat was coming back. Or maybe they just knew the pattern. Have to mention that in the debrief He turned the wheel to take them across the river, watching the depth gauge as he did so. He snaked the boat back and forth across the river until he found the deepest part, then pointed her back east on the compass. From where they had started, they should run aground on the sandbar at the dogleg sometime in the next hour, by which time another boat should be coming in to assist. What about the SEAL?
Well, the SEAL was probably dog meat by now. Sherman concentrated on the flickering red light of the Fathometer and saving his boat.
Too bad about the SEAL, but another boat would go back again tomorrow night and try again. That was the deal. You didn’t just leave a guy out there in the weeds.
THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C., MONDAY, 10 APRIL 1995.
Rear Adm. Thomas V. Carpenter, Judge Advocate General of the U.S. Navy, was perplexed as he stared up at his aide over his half-lens reading glasses.
“A cop? A Fairfax County homicide cop? Wants to see me?”
His aide nodded. “Yes, sir. He just showed up here, with an escort from the security office. Says he needs to talk to you. Won’t say what about, Admiral.”
Carpenter leaned back in his chair. “Well, hell’s bells.
Send him in. But first get Captain Mccarty. I want-“
“The executive assistant is on his way, Admiral.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good. Soon-as he’s here, bring ‘em in.”
The aide left the office. Frowning, Carpenter swiveled around in his chair to look out the windows. His office was a large square room, paneled and carpeted, with shelves of legal books lining two walls, a conference table with leathertrimmed armchairs, an ancient leather couch, and three upholstered chairs arranged to face his desk. Behind his desk, a steel flag stand displayed the American flag and his personal two-star flag denoting a rear admiral of the staff corps.
Carpenter was one star short of having an office out on the prestigious E-ring.
There was a knock on the heavy mahogany door, and Capt. Dan Mccarty, his Pentagon executive assistant, came through the door. Mccarty, with twenty-nine years of service, was tall and thin, and he wore square horned-rimmed glasses that made him look bookish.
“A Fairfax County homicide detective, Admiral? You finally shoot one of those budgeteers?”
“That’s a thought,” Carpenter growled. “There’s some who desperately need it. But to answer your question, I haven’t the foggiest. Let’s get him in here. I have to see the Secretary in thirty minutes.”
The executive assistant opened the door and beckoned to the aide, who escorted the detective into the office. Carpenter was struck by how well dressed he was: expensivelooking three-piece suit, polished shoes, a flash of cuff links.
Mid-thirties, and in good physical shape. His stereotype of the scruffy’-looking, coffee-stained, potbellied, cigarette smoking TV homicide detective took a serious hit. This guy looked like a real pro.
The policeman introduced himself as Detective Mcnair of the . Fairfax County Homicide Section, sat down on the couch, and took out his notebook.
“Admiral,” Mcnair began. “You are the Judge Advocate General of the Navy, is that correct?”
“That’s right. I’m the JAG. I work for the Secretary of the Navy. I run the Navy’s legal corps, and provide military law counsel to the Navy.”
“Yes, sir.” Mcnair nodded. “I’ve come to see you at the recommendation of the Defense Investigative Service.
We’re working a’ situation, and frankly, we’re not sure what to do with it. It involves a Navy admiral. Sort of, I mean.”
Carpenter leaned forward. ““Sort of,’ Detective?”
Mcnair closed his notebook. “I guess I’m not being very clear. Last Friday night, a woman had a fatal accident in a town house out in Reston. At least it looks like an accident at this stage of our investigation. She apparently fell down a flight of stairs-from the main floor going down to the basement. She broke her neck in the fall. A neighbor found her Saturday morning. Her name was Elizabeth Walsh.”
“Sorry to hear it. But you said ‘apparently’?” Carpenter was still in the dark.
“Well, sir, she. definitely broke her neck. What we’re not too sure about is the genesis of the fall.”
“So this is a possible homicide? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Remote possibility, Admiral,” Mcnair replied.
“There’s some, ah, disagreement in the Homicide Section as to what we really have here.”
“Disagreement,” Carpenter said, looking over at his executive assistant.
“And why, specifically, should the Navy care, Detective?” asked Mccarty, getting right to it.
“Yes, sir. I was coming to that,” Mcnair replied. “As I said, we’re not sure that this is anything but an accident.
But on the possibility that it was not an accident, one of the things we checked for was a possible motive. If she was killed, say, pushed down the stairs, and I’ll admit that we have no direct evidence of, that, but if she was, then we have to ask why?”
“Cui bono’?” Mccarty said. “Who benefits from her death?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly. And someone does. Her lawyer told us there was an insurance policy-a big one. Two hundred fifty thousand, to be precise.
The beneficiary was one-“
He consulted his notebook. “One Rear Admiral W. T. Sherman. The Defense Department phone book says he’s assigned here at the Pentagon, on the staff of the Chief of Naval Operations.”
Carpenter drew a blank on the name. He looked over at his executive assistant again, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“He’s fresh-caught, Admiral,” Mccarty explained. “Last year’s selection list. He runs the Surface Warfare Requirements Division in OP-03. I think he’s been on board for about a year as a flag officer. Before that, he was the executive assistant to the Chief of Naval Personnel.”
“Oh, right,” Carpenter said. “Got it. I remember him.
Now, this insurance-policy business. This makes Admiral Sherman a suspect of some sort?”
“No, sir. There’s no crime, at least not so far. Like I said, there is no evidence of a homicide. There are some, um, forensic ambiguities.
Which is why I’m here talking to you instead of going directly to interview Admiral Sherman. Basically, I’m hereto ask a favor. Would you arrange a meeting between Admiral Sherman and us? An entirely informal meeting?”
Carpenter was starting to get the picture. “You mean as opposed to a formal police interview? Something we could call a conversation, say? So that we don’t have it getting out that the Fairfax County Police Department is interviewing a Navy admiral in connection with a possible homicide, when all you have are-what was it-‘forensic ambiguities’?”
“Yes, sir.” Mcnair nodded.
Carpenter sat back in his chair. “Let me speculate further,” he said.