Tidal Rip

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.”

“Huh?”

“Campus politics get ugly. You’re in a very competitive business. You’re already attracting jealousy. Self- appointed enemies, at your level, and up.”

Jeffrey felt a shiver along his spine. This was something he hadn’t even thought about.

“Not everybody loves a winner, son. That bauble around your neck could turn into a lightning rod for resentment by the people who come in second or third.”

“Are you saying this for a reason, Dad?”

“Obviously you need better antennae. Didn’t you see those sidelong glances back at the hotel?”

“Frankly, no.”

“I’ll do what I can from where I sit,” Michael Fuller said. “I know what you aren’t good at, son.”

“That’s a rather odd way to offer a relative help.”

“You’ll get pigeonholed behind your back, if you aren’t careful. As a war fighter who’s reached his peak of competence, topped out at the single-unit operations level… Washington isn’t a family business, Jeffrey. But every connection helps. You’re my kin, my own flesh, even if we didn’t talk for so long… Maybe especially because we didn’t talk. I’d hate to lose you now, sunk in the ocean. But I’d hate almost as much to see you break your heart dead-ended on the beach, after going out there again and then coming home safe.”

Jeffrey hesitated. There’d been deep worry, poorly disguised, in his father’s tone of voice. “Dad, do you know something you’re not supposed to know?”

Michael Fuller shook his head. “Remember, I’ve got a security clearance too, and ‘up there’ contacts in the Pentagon. My work at homefront conservation, fuel allocations and lubricants and all that, depends a lot on knowing supply and demand, the total picture. I therefore cannot do my job without access to the needs and plans of the fleet. The very near-term plans.” He gave Jeffrey a meaningful look.

“I really can’t comment, Dad.”

“Then don’t. Just remember, son, for later, God willing, the games they play in this town, they play very rough.”

Jeffrey’s procession halted at a red light. Cross-traffic moved, using the opposing green. One big truck rolled into the middle of the intersection. It reminded Jeffrey of a traveling carnival ride, painted in moving, gaudy red and yellow triangles. Then he realized it was a cement mixer. Jeffrey’s traffic light turned green, but the cement mixer still sat there.

Spill-back. Washington rush-hour traffic jams are infamous. Still, you’d think that with carpooling, and gas rationing, in a residential neighborhood…

Jeffrey glanced behind him. He saw the town car with Wilson and Ilse, and the other police car, and craned his neck to see behind him more. Past the rear of their little motorcade, in the far intersection, was a fire engine — a long and heavy ladder truck. No sirens, but its flashers rotated as if it was returning from a run.

In front of Jeffrey’s car, the cement mixer hadn’t moved. The big hopper holding the wet cement continued to revolve. The red and yellow of the hopper, the bright red of the fire truck, and the flashing lights of the fire truck and the police cars gave the scene a strangely festive look. Jeffrey turned and watched as six firemen dismounted and opened equipment bays in the side of their truck.

Jeffrey’s heart leaped into his throat as his bodyguard shouted into a walkie-talkie. The firemen now held