'People forget there's a bottom under this water. You hit it hard enough and you break things.' He paused. 'You might want to put some more clothes on.'
Pam giggled and went below. Kelly increased speed carefully to about four knots before starting the turn south. He'd done this all before, and grumbled that if he did it one more time he'd have special stationery printed up for the bills.
Kelly brought Springer alongside very slowly, mindful of the boat he was towing. He scurried off the bridge to drop his fenders, then jumped ashore to tie off a pair of spring lines before heading towards the Hatteras. The owner already had his mooring lines set up, and tossed them to Kelly on the quay while he set his fenders. Hauling the boat in a few feet was a good chance to show his muscles to Pam. It only took five minutes to get her snugged in, after which Kelly did the same with Springer.
'This is yours?'
'Sure enough,' Kelly replied. 'Welcome to my sandbar.'
'Sam Rosen,' the man said, holding his hand out. He'd pulled a shirt on, and while he had a strong grip, Kelly noted that his hands were so soft as to be dainty.
'John Kelly.'
'My wife, Sarah.'
Kelly laughed. 'You must be the navigator.'
Sarah was short, overweight, and her brown eyes wavered between amusement and embarrassment. 'Somebody needs to thank you for your help,' she observed in a New York accent.
'A law of the sea, ma'am. What went wrong?'
'The chart shows six feet where we struck. This boat only takes four! And low tide was five hours ago!' the lady snapped. She wasn't angry at Kelly, but he was the closest target, and her husband had already heard what she thought.
'Sandbar, it's been building there from the storms we had last winter, but my charts show less than that. Besides, it's a soft bottom.'
Pam came up just then, wearing clothing that was nearly respectable, and Kelly realized he didn't know her last name.
'Hi, I'm Pam.'
'Y'all want to freshen up? We have all day to look at the problem.' There was general agreement on that point, and Kelly led them off to his home.
'What the hell is that?' Sam Rosen asked. 'That' was one of the bunkers that had been built in 1943, two thousand square feet, with a roof fully three feet thick. The entire structure was reinforced concrete and was almost as sturdy as it looked. A second, smaller bunker lay beside it.
'This place used to belong to the Navy,' Kelly explained, 'but I lease it now.'
'Nice dock they built for you,' Rosen noted.
'Not bad at all,' Kelly agreed. 'Mind if I ask what you do?'
'Surgeon,' Rosen replied.
'Oh, yeah?' That explained the hands.
'Professor of surgery,' Sarah corrected. 'But he can't drive a boat worth a damn!'
'The goddamned charts were off!' the professor grumbled as Kelly led them inside. 'Didn't you hear?'
'People, that's history now, and lunch and a beer will allow us to consider it in comfort.' Kelly surprised himself with his words. Just then his ears caught a sharp crack coming across the water from somewhere to the south. It was funny how sound carried across the water.
'What was that?' Sam Rosen had sharp ears, too.
'Probably some kid taking a muskrat with his.22,' Kelly judged. 'It's a pretty quiet neighborhood, except for that. In the fall it can get a little noisy around dawn - ducks and geese.'
'I can see the blinds. You hunt?'
'Not anymore,' Kelly replied.
Rosen looked at him with understanding, and Kelly decided to reevaluate him for a second time.
'How long?'
'Long enough. How'd you know?'
'Right after I finished residency, I made it to Iwo and Okinawa. Hospital ship.'
'Hmm, kamikaze time?'
Rosen nodded. 'Yeah, lots of fun. What were you on?'
'Usually my belly,' Kelly answered with a grin.
'UDT? You look like a frogman,' Rosen said. 'I had to fix a few of those.'
'Pretty much the same thing, but dumber.' Kelly dialed the combination lock and pulled the heavy steel door open.
The inside of the bunker surprised the visitors. When Kelly had taken possession of the place, it had been divided into three large, bare rooms by stout concrete walls, but now it looked almost like a house, with painted drywall and rugs. Even the ceiling was covered. The narrow viewslits were the only reminder of what it had once been. The furniture and rugs showed the influence of Patricia, but the current state of semiarray was evidence that only a man lived here now. Everything was neatly arranged, but not as a woman would do things. The Rosens also noted that it was the man of the house who led them to the 'galley' and got things out of the old-fashioned refrigerator box while Pam wandered around a little wide-eyed.
'Nice and cool,' Sarah observed. 'Damp in the winter, I bet.' -
'Not as bad as you think.' Kelly pointed to the radiators around the perimeter of the room. 'Steam heat. This place was built to government specifications. Everything works and everything cost too much.'
'How do you get a place like this?' Sam asked.
'A friend helped me get the lease. Surplus government property.'
'He must be some friend,' Sarah said, admiring the built-in refrigerator.
'Yes, he is.'
Vice Admiral Winslow Holland Maxwell, USN, had his office on the E-Ring of the Pentagon. It was an outside office, allowing him a fine view of Washington - and the demonstrators, he noted angrily to himself. Baby Killers! one placard read. There was even a North Vietnamese flag. The chanting, this Saturday morning, was distorted by the thick window glass. He could hear the cadence but not the words, and the former fighter pilot couldn't decide which was more enraging.
'That isn't good for you, Dutch.'
'Don't I know it!' Maxwell grumbled.
'The freedom to do that is one of the things we defend,' Rear Admiral Casimir Podulski pointed out, not quite making that leap of faith despite his words. It was just a little too much. His son had died over Haiphong in an A-4 strike-fighter. The event had made the papers because of the young aviator's parentage, and fully eleven anonymous telephone calls had come in the following week, some just laughing, some asking his tormented wife where the blotter was supposed to be shipped. 'All those nice, peaceful, sensitive young people.'
'So why are you in such a great mood, Cas?'
'This one goes in the wall safe, Dutch.' Podulski handed over a heavy folder. Its edges were bordered in red- and-white striped tape, and it bore the coded designator boxwood green.
'They're going to let us play with it?' That was a surprise.
'It took me till oh-three-thirty, but yes. Just a few of us, though. We have authorization for a complete feasibility study.' Admiral Podulski settled into a deep leather chair and lit up a cigarette. His face was thinner since the death of his son, but the crystal-blue eyes burned as bright as ever.
'They're going to let us go ahead and do the planning?' Maxwell and Podulski had worked towards that end for several months, never in any real expectation that they'd be allowed to pursue it.
'Who'd ever suspect us?' the Polish-born Admiral asked with an ironic look. 'They want us to keep it off the books.'
'Jim Greer, too?' Dutch asked.
'Best intel guy I know, unless you're hiding one somewhere.'
'?? just started at CIA, I heard last week,' Maxwell warned.
'Good. We need a good spy, and his suit's still blue, last time I checked.'
