Stuart shook his head in amusement. Peggy Redman had saved him because she had what management experts call “institutional loyalty.” An untold number of trees had died providing the paper describing this phenomenon but, in short, it was nothing more than a blend of dedication and common sense. Peggy believed in what her office did and knew what it took to get the job done. It also helped that she liked Mike Stuart and hated Colonel Roger “Ramjet” Priestly with a pure and refined passion.
“Thanks, Peggy,” he said, vowing to send her a large bouquet of flowers. He was certain she had forwarded the report to the committee by simply misrouting it. He returned to the inventory he was working on because it grated on his nature to leave projects incomplete, no matter how trivial. He worked hard, but it was after 8:00 P.M. by the time he finished. He turned out the light in the admin office and hurried to catch the next Metro. For Stuart, as for so many who worked at the Pentagon, it was easier to take the subway than fight the traffic and parking. But at that late hour there were only three other passengers on the train.
As the crow flies, it was less than four miles from the Pentagon to Stuart’s basement flat in Capitol Hill, the multiracial residential area immediately east of the Capitol. The journey normally took about thirty minutes, depending on how quickly he transferred lines at the midway point, and it was a short walk from Eastern Market, the station where he got off, to his apartment just past Archibald Walk. During daylight it was a safe enough walk, but after dark he preferred to catch a cab, if one was available.
Stuart came out of the station and decided to wait a few minutes to see if a cab might drive by. He checked his watch. Come on, he thought.
Three African-American teenagers, all wearing the latest gear, ambled by and stopped at the entrance to the Metro station. They were full of life and trading good-natured insults as they discussed the merits of certain young females. It was all part of the life in his neighborhood and one of the reasons he liked living there. A fourth teenager joined them, and the insults grew loud as the words flew back and forth. Stuart got a good look at the newcomer when he stepped under a streetlight. He was much older than the three boys and definitely not a teenager.
Alarm bells went off in Stuart’s head, and he moved away. Again he checked his watch. No taxi tonight, he thought. He decided to walk just as a street-sweeper truck lumbered around the corner. Suddenly the words changed tone, now ugly and menacing. Stuart hurried past, moving toward the approaching sweeper as the four young men started to push and challenge.
Stuart saw a knife flash, and the latecomer broke away, running directly at him. Stuart froze. The man barreled into Stuart and knocked him into the path of the oncoming sweeper. The screech of brakes deafened Stuart as headlights blinded him. He knew he was dead.
Something snapped inside, filling him with rage.
He threw himself to the ground, centering up on the sweeper’s bumper, anything to get away from the big wheels. He flattened his right cheek and stomach against the asphalt as the truck rolled over him. He felt the back of his coat rip as it slammed to a stop.
Stuart lay under the sweeper, afraid to move. He could feel the weight of the truck on his back and his glasses smashed under his cheek. He saw feet run past and heard shouting. Then the cab door swung open, and he felt the driver getting off. The belly of an incredibly overweight man appeared as the driver knelt down beside the truck. Then his face emerged. “Am I hurt?” Stuart asked.
“You’re talking,” the driver said. “I’ll get a flashlight and call for help. Don’t move.”
“Don’t get back into the truck!” Stuart shouted. But his warning was too late, and the truck rocked on him. Stuart moaned. “He got back in.”
The next few minutes turned into an eternity as the police and then a fire truck arrived. Everyone kept telling Stuart not to move, and finally a paramedic, a slender woman, crawled under the truck. “Well,” she said, “good evening, sir.”
“Does your husband know we’re meeting like this?” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“He’s not the jealous kind.” She examined him and took his pulse. “I think you’re okay. We’re going to jack up the truck in a few minutes.”
He closed his eyes as the emergency crew shoved a hydraulic jack under the chassis and started to pump. Someone grabbed his ankles and gently pulled him free. He looked up into the smiling face of the paramedic. “You are one lucky man,” she announced.
It was after midnight when Stuart got home. He dropped his ruined uniform coat in a chair and headed for the shower. He stripped off his clothes and examined himself in the mirror. Other than a few minor scrapes and bruises, he was fine. He could feel the onset of stiffness the examining doctor had warned him about. The hot water felt good as it coursed over his body. He got out, toweled himself dry, and padded into the kitchen, ravenously hungry. The flashing light on his answering machine announced that he had two messages.
The first one was from his ex-wife. “Hi, honey. This is Jenny. Give me a call whenever.” He gave a little snort. The unspoken protocols of their divorce were well established, and she wanted money. If the call was about Eric, their twelve-year-old son, she would have said, “Mike, we have a problem.” But Eric was with Stuart’s parents, touring England. He decided to put Jenny’s call on a back burner until “whenever” felt right.
The second message was short and to the point. “This is Jane. Call me anytime.”
For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to talk to her. He dialed her number, and she answered on the third ring. “I know it’s late, but you said to call anytime.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re hard to contact.”
“A lot of pressing matters around here,” he replied. “How’s the shoulder doing?”
“Better. Question: What about Temptress?”
The empty feeling in his stomach was back, and it had nothing to do with the lack of food. The last time he had seen his boat was in a slip in Miami. It was gleaming in the early-morning sun, none the worse for wear after the hurricane and the sojourn to Cuba. “Sell her, I guess.”
“Good time to sell. Beginning of the season here. How much?”
“Whatever’s fair.”
A long pause. Then, softly, “I’d like to buy her. Can you carry the loan?”
The gentleness in Jane’s voice touched him. “Okay by me,” Stuart replied. “But I need some cash up front.”
“I’ll talk to a bank,” she said, breaking the connection.
Stuart smiled to himself as he hung up. That’s Jane, he told himself. A woman of few words.
2
The boy kept bouncing against his seat belt, not wanting to miss any part of the old English air base. “This is neat, Gramps,” he kept repeating.
Colonel William “Shanker” Stuart, United States Air Force (retired), smiled at his grandson’s unfeigned enthusiasm. He was glad he had brought Eric to RAF Cranthorpe for the air show and the dedication ceremonies. The old Royal Air Force Base had been restored to its glory days during the Battle of Britain and was being dedicated to those “so few” men who had accomplished so much. “Yeah, it is neat,” Shanker admitted. He inched their rental car into a parking space and got out.
A large group of men and women carrying signs and placards were gathering in the parking lane in front of them. Shanker estimated their number at over two hundred, and the signs they carried worried him. He watched in silence as they unfurled a large banner. The last thing Shanker wanted to see was a demonstration ruining the ceremonies. Too many volunteers had worked too hard to keep RAF Cranthorpe alive.