Jeffrey finished washing his hands. As he walked to the ballroom, the crowd continued its murmur and hubbub, largely undisturbed by the NBC drill. Swallowing iodide tablets was part of most people’s daily health routine; nobody used unfiltered tap water. Survivalist books, and emergency supply stores, did a land-office business — Geiger counters and gas-mask filters were two top-selling items. The populace adapted as best they could.
Jeffrey suspected the actual purpose of this particular drill was to establish zone security as the president was escorted from the hotel. He guessed these Washington old-timers knew it too.
Sure enough, in moments the drill was lifted. Jeffrey’s trained submariner ear sensed the air circulation fans start up again, even as the reception’s din increased.
Jeffrey noticed Commodore Wilson standing in one conversation group. A full captain, Wilson was the commanding officer of Challenger’s parent squadron in New London/Groton. He was Jeffrey’s boss. Half a year ago, Jeffrey joined the ship as executive officer, while Wilson was Challenger’s captain. The two men, so far, were being promoted upward in lockstep. Though a loving husband and father to his wife and their three daughters, Wilson was a very tough and demanding guy to subordinates.
The commodore saw Jeffrey. “Where have you been?” he snapped. He didn’t wait for an answer. “We need to be going. Where’s Lieutenant Reebeck?”
Jeffrey, Wilson, and Ilse were standing with some Federal Protective Service bodyguards in the vestibule to a side entrance of the hotel.
Ilse came up close to Jeffrey. “I’ll be much too tired to have dinner with you later,” she said in a meaningful undertone.
“I’m occupied myself,” Jeffrey said evenly. He knew he’d be swamped getting Challenger and her crew ready for sea and for combat. Jeffrey ached for more combat, for a chance to tangle decisively with the von Scheer.
As they waited for their transportation to arrive, Jeffrey was troubled by his discussion with the commander in chief. The president, as a man, had distinct charisma, an infectious eagerness to get on with the job, no matter how trying and grim. Jeffrey could detect, even in that close-range private interaction, no trace of the self-aggrandizing narcissism that could turn a national leader into a demagogue. Yet all the open references to politics as a profession, and the unveiled hints of backdoor support in the corridors of power, left Jeffrey wondering what it might be like to work in Washington after the war. Helping direct a new reconstruction abroad. Occupation of the aggressors once subdued, and war crime trials. Foreign aid. New global alignments. Hoped-for return to a time of plenty at home. The possibilities were almost too big to contemplate. In comparison, commanding a warship in battle was a simple and straightforward task.
Blue water in my service record is what I want…. Besides, so much has to happen first. The war has to be won before anyone can realistically plan for the peace.
But Jeffrey knew he couldn’t have Challenger forever, even assuming the ship and he survived. The navy didn’t work that way. It was up or out, for officers. Commanding a fast-attack submarine — or any other vessel — was supposed to be just one rung on the ladder. Selection boards for rear admiral required solid performance in land assignments too. Someone bucking for his or her first star had to look well rounded indeed — fewer than one in a hundred full captains ever made the cut for flag rank. After all, Jeffrey’s own inner voice nagged, the Pentagon itself, with its spiderweb of connections with Congress and command links to the executive branch, sat on solid dry land, not out in blue water.
Jeffrey’s father and mother hurried over.
“On your way out?” Michael Fuller said, annoyed.
Jeffrey nodded sheepishly. He’d been too cowed by the insistent Wilson to ask for time to look for his folks. Jeffrey was glad his father found him before the transportation showed up.
“Let me stay here and chat with Jeffrey,” Michael said to his wife. “Use the car, dear. My driver can take you home so you can lie down.”
Jeffrey’s mother kissed her husband on the cheek. Then she turned to Jeffrey. “Good luck. Keep safe. Call us when you can.” Jeffrey hugged his mom good-bye. She walked away, accompanied by Michael Fuller’s government chauffeur: undersecretaries rated official automobiles. Jeffrey wondered when he would ever see his mother again. He might be killed on his next mission. His mother’s breast cancer might recur, in the chest wall this time, where there was nothing the doctors could do.
“Finally,” Commodore Wilson said. Two town cars pulled up.
“Let me go with you to the airport,” Michael Fuller said to Jeffrey. “We can spend a few more minutes talking. I’ll take the Metro home.” The Metro, the Washington subway, was very overcrowded because of wartime gasoline rationing coupled with a surge in local employment.
The bodyguards didn’t argue. Jeffrey’s father had pull.
Wilson and Ilse got into one of the town cars, Jeffrey and his father into the other. They sat in back, with Michael on Jeffrey’s left — it was navy etiquette for the senior person to enter first so he or she could exit last. In the front passenger seat, his eyes very alert and an Uzi submachine gun in his lap, sat a bodyguard. District of Columbia police cars, one in front and one behind, started their flashers. The motorcade moved out.
The group of autos weaved through side streets rather than heading directly to the airport. Jeffrey figured this was for extra security. Seeing all the precautions needed just to get to the airport made him glad he’d be taking navy transport to New London; commercial airline check-in was a nightmare.
Jeffrey’s father lowered the armrest between them, to relax. “So how did you make out? I lost track of you there for a while.”
Jeffrey turned to his father. As deadpan as he could, he said, “I spent half an hour alone with the president.”
“Of the Naval War College?”
“No. Of the United States.”
“You’re kidding.” Michael Fuller seemed impressed, even envious.
“I wish I was.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It’s secret.”
“Good,” Jeffrey’s father said at once. “Loose lips sink ships…. Like I already told you, this town’s gossip circuit is too leaky as it is.”
In the front seats, the driver and bodyguard ignored Jeffrey and his dad, intent on possible threats from outside the town car.
Jeffrey looked around. It was late afternoon, still light, with a gentle breeze and clear blue sky. A handful of people, mostly young or very old, strolled the spotless sidewalks. Some men and women between twenty and seventy walked more purposefully, with heavy and bulging briefcases, the beginning of evening rush hour for those who worked the early shift and then brought more work home. Some of them, Jeffrey thought, were probably heading to their jobs, if their assignments — civil service or private sector — helped the city and the national government keep running around the clock.
“A bit of advice?” Jeffrey’s father said.
Jeffrey hesitated. “I’m all ears, Pop.”
“You’ve got to maintain a rather difficult balance here, son. I know I just told you to mingle more, but part of you has to forget all this fancy publicity. Just do your job. Keep your head down with other officers.”