Neither senior officer answered. “Then we’ll be looking at a protracted war,” Rongstad said at last.
They all contemplated that for a few quiet seconds as the thunderclouds rolled outside, and lightning flashed, far off, over the alabaster needle of the Washington Monument. Then Niles wished him well on the murder board; and Rongstad swept his papers back into his briefcase; and Dan realized he’d been dismissed.
4
Wednesday morning it was still raining. His head was stuffy, and as usual before any kind of trial or hearing, he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He and Blair seemed to be getting along better, though. Dinner at a Thai restaurant in Georgetown the night before had helped. They’d talked about fallbacks. Hers, if her run for Congress didn’t pan out. His, if the hearing went badly. They’d agreed to sell the house in town and move to Maryland. She’d go back to work until something opened up in the next administration, then try to get a position for him, too. Meanwhile, they could build up the exchequer a little.
But right now his head felt like it was going to explode. His neck and upper spine hurt from the old injuries. He dry-bolted three Aleves. Shaved. Got his uniform together. Checked the clock again. Still early.
Suddenly he remembered: if it was seven here, it was noon back in the east Med. He’d meant to call for the last two days, but kept missing the window.
Sitting on the commode in the bathroom, he hit the number. Rather to his surprise, Cheryl Staurulakis answered on the second ring. “Hey, Exec,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if calling a mistress. “It’s me.”
“Captain. That you? Where are you? Sound pretty faint.”
“Long as you can hear me. I’m in DC. Where are you guys?”
“Lucky you caught me, I’m out on the bridge wing. We just got under way.”
He could hear the wind blowing, the whine of the turbines. Under way, without him… He cleared his throat. “All the repairs done?”
“Repairs and rearm complete, Tiger Team offloaded, and everybody got one night’s Cinderella liberty. And get this, everybody’s back aboard.”
“Even the Troll? And Rit Carpenter?”
“Even Carpenter. Yes sir.” She chuckled, about the first time he’d ever heard her laugh aloud. “I had him escorted. Buddy system.”
“Probably wise. Um, how’s everything going with the interim guy?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say “CO” or “skipper.”
“Captain Racker? He’s great. A real charmer. Seems to have a lot of pull with the logisticians. We got every part we needed, and Hermelinda ordered a truckload. Building up depth, in case we get caught short again.”
Dan grimaced. He’d wanted to hear they were all right, but not that his replacement was hot stuff. “Uh-huh. So, where we headed now?”
Staurulakis’s voice became guarded, official. “We’re on a cell, Captain. I can’t pass operational details.”
He thought of asking for a hint, but dismissed that. “Uh, all right, I understand.”
A tap at the door. Blair’s voice. “Who’re you talking to in there?”
“Just on the phone. Sorry,” he called.
Staurulakis asked, all but overlaid by the blustering wind: “Are you coming back to us, Captain? Will they let you return?”
“Um, I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he murmured, and shortly thereafter, ended the call.
“WANT me to drive?” Blair was examining herself in a full-length mirror. She’d come out of the bedroom in a gray belted jacket and a skirt with pleats and black heels. Hair brushed back, and already made up. He’d never understood how she could do full makeup in less time than it took him to shave. In the morning light he noted crow’s-feet starting around her eyes, the faint, sad signs of passing time. Her hair was swept to one side, to cover the withered, reddened bud of her reconstructed ear.
“Yeah, that’d be nice. Uh — thanks for appearing with me.”
She came up close and fiddled with his ribbons. Flicked something off his lapel. “I’m not with you. That wouldn’t be smart for either of us, Dan. We’ll go in separately. I’ll be third row back in the audience.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and an air hug. “But I’ll be rooting for you. Good luck. I mean that. What we were talking about last night?”
“Yeah?”
“That was worst case. I hope they give you your cruiser back. I really do. But after that, we’ve got to have that serious talk you keep promising me.”
As she drove him in along Lee Highway he paged through the briefing cards from the murder board the day before. The general and his assistant, both retired marines, had set up the scene at the hearing, led him through the opening formalities, and helped him prepare a brief statement. Then they’d cross-examined him like not one but two bad cops. He’d come out sopping with sweat, but with these points memorized:
1. Don’t say anything unless they ask you.
2. Don’t argue back if they start pontificating for the cameras.
3. Don’t show off.
4. Don’t make news.
5. Don’t advocate anything different from what the Navy’s currently doing.
6. Don’t act as if you know how the hearing will turn out.
“But above all, once you’ve answered the question, shut up,” the general had said. “Just answer what they ask, in the simplest terms possible. Demonstrate knowledge of the issues, act happy to explain so they understand too, but don’t get lost down in the weeds. Especially, beware of yes-or-no questions. They’re usually setups, to make you look like an idiot. How does a fish get caught?”
“Um… what’s that?” Dan had asked with a frown.
“He opens his mouth. Old Russian proverb. The longer yours stays open, the better the chance you’ll come out with something asinine. Especially, Nick says, in your case. And he apparently has plans, or he wouldn’t be going to the trouble of asking me to prep you. So write that on your hand if you have to. Let’s hear it again.”
“How does a fish get caught?” hissed the major.
“He opens his mouth,” Dan muttered. Clenching his teeth, he visualized them laced shut with stainless wire.
The Intelligence, Emerging Threats and Capabilities Subcommittee met in the Sam Rayburn House Office Building. He’d been in this marble mausoleum before, during a hearing on Tomahawk appropriations. But it didn’t feel welcoming. More than one military officer had torn his bottom out on these reefs. There wasn’t really any visitor parking, but Blair had called in a favor from someone on the Armed Services staff, and they had a space for the day in the parking garage.
But first the car had to be searched. Standing there watching the cops wand its trunk, Dan wondered how many millions of man-hours the 9/11 terrorists had cost the taxpayer. He marveled at how thoroughly a few fanatics had transformed an America that had prided itself on its openness, its trust.
Blair pulled through and found the space, in a corner. They were headed for the elevator when a Hungarian-accented voice echoed. “Mr. Lenson.”
Dan turned. Three civilians were strolling toward them between the concrete pillars. “Dr. Szerenci,” he said.
His old professor was in a gray suit and a pale blue tie, with the American flag pin in the lapel that had become de rigueur for every right-thinking official, as if to dispel any doubts. His hair had platinumed at the temples; aside from that, he looked as he had in Defense Analysis class at George Washington. Hawklike. Intent. And short. He also wore glasses now — retro, intellectual-looking horn-rims. The men with him stopped several steps back, gazes roving the garage. Szerenci inclined his head to Blair. “Ms. Titus. Good to see you again. Understand you’re running this fall? You’re here in support of your husband?”