Empire

Captain Coleman—Cole, to his friends—still wasn’t sure whether getting assigned to Major Malich was the opportunity of a lifetime or the dead end of his military career.

On the one hand, as soon as Cole got the Pentagon assignment, high-ranking people started dropping hints that Malich was regarded as more than merely promising—war hero in Special Ops, brilliant in strategic and tactical thinking, with the only real question being whether he would end up his career commanding in the field or from the Pentagon. “You just got your wagon hitched to the right horse, Cole,” said one general that dropped by his new office apparently just to tell him that.

On the other hand, he’d been in his new position for three days and he hadn’t met Malich and couldn’t find out from anybody where he was.

“He goes out, he comes back,” said the division secretary.

“Goes where, does what?”

“Goes away,’ ” she said with a tight smile, “and eventually returns.”

Are you not telling me because you don’t know, or because you don’t trust me yet?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t trust you yet,” she said. So what do I do while I wait for him to come back?” Is this your first time in the Pentagon?”

“Yes.”

“Go out and see the sights.”

“It’s not my first time in DC,” said Cole. “My parents took me to all the museums and I’ve already waited in line to see Congress and the Declaration of Independence and I’ve climbed the Washington Monument to the top.”

“Then go to Hain’s Point or Great Falls of the Potomac and say ooh and aah, and get on a bicycle and ride the W O trail from Leesburg to Mount Vernon. Or stay here and I’ll give you a whole box of pencils to sharpen.”

“What are you working on while he’s gone?”

“I’m the division secretary. I work for all the officers, including the Colonel. Once every two months, Major Malich gives me something to do. Other than that, I take messages for him and explain to his confused subordinates how they can kill time till he comes back so he can tell them nothing in person.”

“Tell them nothing—you mean even when he’s here he—”

“Why do you think you’re replacing a good man who only stayed for one month? Who replaced another good man who lasted three months because Major Malich gave him a huge pile of scutwork assignments without ever telling him what they were for and then thanked him and left him to sharpen pencils?”

“So you don’t expect me to stay.”

“I expect you to grow old and die on the job here.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” said the secretary, “that I’ve given up trying to understand Major Malich’s role in this building and I’ve also given up trying to help young officers who are assigned to him. What’s the point?”

So here he was, three days later, with his pencils sharpened, having seen the statue of the giant at Hain’s Point and the new World War II Memorial and the FDR Memorial and the Great Falls of the Potomac. Was it too soon to put in for a transfer? Shouldn’t he at least meet Malich before trying to get away from him?

Cole could imagine Major Malich’s arrival in the office.

“What have you been doing while you waited for me to get back,” Malich would say.

“Waiting for you, sir.”

“In other words, nothing. Don’t you have any initiative?”

“But I don’t even know what we’re working on! How can I—”

“You’re an idiot. Put in for a transfer. I’ll sign it and hope that next time they’ll send me somebody with a brain in his head and a spark of ambition.”

Oh, wait. That wasn’t Malich speaking. That was Cole’s father, Christopher Coleman, who believed in only two things: That people named Coleman should have really long first names (Cole’s was “Bartholomew”) and that nothing his son did could possibly measure up to his expectations.

Malich probably wouldn’t even notice Cole was there. Why should he? As long as Cole was doing nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was there or not.

So Cole left his office and crossed the hall to the secretary. “What am I supposed to call you?” he asked.

She pointed to her nameplate.

“So you really go by DeeNee Breen.”

She glared at him. “It’s the name my parents gave me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “That’s even worse than Bartholomew.”

She didn’t smile. This was going well.

“I need some information.”

“I won’t have it, but go ahead.”

“Is Major Malich married?”

“Yes.”

“See? You did know.”

“Her name is Cecily. They have five children. I don’t know the children’s names or ages, but one of them is young enough to have been crying one of the few times Mrs. Malich called here looking for her husband and there’s a family picture on his desk but I don’t know how old it is so that doesn’t help with the ages. The children are boy boy girl girl boy. Debriefing over, sir?”

Cole realized now that she did have a sense of humor—but it was so dry that it came across as hostility. So he made another try at winning her over with wit. “It’s improper for me to discuss debriefing you, DeeNee Breen,” said Cole.

She either didn’t get the joke or it was a Pentagon cliche or she thought it was hilarious but chose not to encourage him.

“Miz Breen, I need to know the address and telephone number of Mrs. Malich.”

“I don’t have that information,” she said.

“They don’t give Major Malich’s contact information to the division secretary? What if the Colonel wants him?”

“Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,” she said. “Major Malich does not consult with me. He does not give me assignments. I take his messages and when he comes in to the office, I give them to him. I have never needed to tell him his wife’s address and telephone number. No one else has wanted it either. Therefore I do not have that information.”

“But you do have a phone book,” said Cole. “And a telephone. And an imagination. And some of your time is supposed to be used in support of Major Malich’s work.”

“You don’t even know what Major Malich’s work is.”

“But with your valuable assistance, Miz Breen, I will find out.”

“From his wife?”

“Now you’ve connected the dots.”

She reached under her desk and pulled out a phone book. “I have real work to do,” she said. “Assignments that are urgently needed for the ongoing projects of officers who actually work here and know what they’re doing. However, if you find out that information, I would be happy to record the results of your research so that I can answer this question for the next person to hold your fascinating position.”

“You have a gift for sarcasm, Miz Breen.” He took the phone book from her desk. “Please feel free to practice it on me whenever you want.”

“It takes the fun out of it, if you give me permission,” she said.

It took ten minutes to find out that Reuben and Cecily Malich lived in a housing development off Algonkian Parkway in Potomac Falls, Virginia.

Cecily Malich sounded cheerful on the telephone when he introduced himself as Major Malich’s new subordinate. Or whatever his job description was supposed to be.

“He gets a captain again?” she said. “How interesting.”

“It might be,” he said, “if I knew anything at all. Such as when he’s expected back in the office.”