incomprehensible organizational charts multiplied like bacteria in a petri dish. Engineers with pocket calculators became soothsayers to the terrified.
All of this Jake Grafton knew, and knowing it, was powerless to change. And now he was one of them, one of the faceless savants charged with creating salvation on his desk and placing it in the out basket.
Over on the beach it was probably raining like this. The wind would be moaning around the house and leaking around the win- dowpanes. The surf would be pounding on the sand. It would be a great evening for a walk along the beach under a gray sky, by that gray sea. Suddenly he felt an overpowering longing to feel the wind in his hair and the salt air in his nostrils.
Oh, to be there and not here! Not here with the problems and the hassles and the responsibilities.
His eye fell upon the bag that the clerk had placed the F-I17 model in. He ripped out the staple and slid the box from the bag. The artist had painted the plane black. It had twin vertical stabiliz- ers, slanted in at the bottom, and flat sides all over the place, all of which he suspected were devilishly expensive to manufacture. The intakes were on top of the fuselage, behind the canopy. How would the engines get air when the pilot was pulling Gs, maneuvering? He stared at the picture. No doubt this plane was fly-by-wire with a flight control computer stabilizing the machine and automatically trimming. But what would it feel like to fly it? What would be the weight and performance penalty to get this thing aboard ship? How much were they going to cost? Could these machines ever be worth the astronomical sums the manufacturers would want to charge? The politicians would decide.
Jake drained his coffee and threw the cup in the trash can by the door. He pulled the bag up over the box and rolled the excess tightly, then pushed the door open and stepped out into the eve- ning.
“Hi, darling,” Callie said brightly when she came home and found Jake assembling the model on the kitchen table.
“Hey, beautiful.” Jake looked up and grinned at her, then re- sumed his chore of gluing the landing gear into the wheel wells.
“So how was the first day back at the office?”
Jake laid the plastic model on the diagram and leaned back. in his chair. He stretched. “Okay, I guess. They didn’t tie me to the wooden post where they shoot traitors, and nobody said anything about a court-martial, so I guess I’m still in the navy.” He winked at her. “It’s going to be all right. Don’t sweat it.”
She poured a cup of coffee and blew across it gently, then took an experimental sip. She stood looking at him over the rim of the cup. “Where will you be working?”
“It’s a little shop, some cubbyhole that belongs to NAVAIR. I’ll be working on the new Advanced Tactical Aircraft.”
“Oh, Jake.” She took the seat beside him. “That’s terrific.” For the first time in months, her voice carried genuine enthusiasm.
“That’s about all I can tell you. The project is classified up the wazoo. But it’s a real job and it needs doing, which is a lot more than you can say for a lot of the jobs they have over there.”
He shouldn’t have added that last phrase. The muscles around her eyes tightened as she caught the edge in his voice. “After all you’ve done for the navy, they owed you a good job.”
“Hey, Callie, it doesn’t work like that. You get paid twice a mouth and that’s all they owe you. But this is a navy job and Lord knows how it’ll all turn out.” Perhaps he could repair the damage. “I’d rather have a navy job than be president of a bank. You know me, Callie.”
Her lips twisted into a lopsided smile. “Yes, I guess I do.” She put her cup on the coffee table and stood.
Uh-oh! Here we go again! Jake took out his shirttail and used it to clean bis glasses as she walked into the kitchen. You’d better be cool now, he decided. Help her along. He called out, “What say we go get some dinner? I’m hungry. How about you?”
4
The ringing of the telephone woke Jake Grafton. As he groped for the receiver on the stand by the bed he blinked mightily to make out the luminous hands of the alarm dock: 5 A.M. “Grafton.”
“Good morning. Captain. Admiral Henry. I wanted to catch you before you got started this morning.”
“You did, sir.”
“How about meeting roe on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial about oh-seven-hundred in civilian clothes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Thanks.” The connection broke.
“Who was that?” Callie asked as Jake cradled the phone and closed his eyes. The alarm wouldn’t ring for half an hour.
“0ne of my many bosses.”
“Oh,” she mattered. In less than a minute he heard her breath- ing deepen with sleep. He wondered what Tyler Henry wanted to talk about that couldn’t be said at the office. After five minutes he gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. He tiptoed for the bathroom.
By the time the alarm went off he had showered and shaved and dressed. He had picked out dark gray slacks and a long-sleeved 3W shirt. Over this he had added a tie, an old sweater and a blazer.
38
“Good morning,” he said as he pushed the lever in on the back of the clock to silence it.
“Come hug me.” She smelled of warm woman and sleep. “It’s so nice having you here to give me my morning hug.” She pushed him back so she could see his face.
“I love you, woman.” He cradled her head in his hands. “You’re going to have to quit trying to analyze it and just accept it. It’s true.”
“Hmmm.” She flashed a smile and became all business as she moved away from him and got up. “Why the civilian clothes?”
“I’m playing hooky with the boss.”
“And it’s only your second day on the job. Lucky you,” she said as she headed for the bathroom. With the door closed she called, “How about turning on the coffeepot and toasting some English muffins?”
“Yeah.” He headed toward the kitchen, snapping on the lights as he went. “You’re a real lover, ace. One look at your sincere puss and they tighten up like an IRS agent offered a ten-dollar bribe.”
Vice Admiral Henry was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memo- rial when the taxi deposited Jake in front. He came down the steps as Jake approached and joined him on the wide sidewalk. “Morn- ing, sir.”
The admiral flashed a smile and strolled to the curb. As he reached it a gray Ford Fairmont sedan sporting navy numbers on the door pulled to a stop. Henry jerked open the rear door without fanfare and maneuvered his six-foot-three-inch frame in. Jake fol- lowed him. When the door closed the sailor at the wheel got the car in motion.
“Why the cloak and dagger?”
“I don’t know who all the players are,” the admiral said without humor.
Jake watched the occasional pedestrians braving the blustery wind under a raw sky until he became aware that the admiral’s attention was on the vehicles on the street behind them. Jake glanced over his shoulder once or twice, then decided to leave the spy stuff to Henry. He watched the sailor handle the car. The man was good. No wasted motion. The car glided gently through the traffic, changing lanes at the last moment and gliding around cor- ners without the application of the brake, all quite effortlessly. It was a show and Jake watched it in silence.
“Could have picked you up at your place,” Henry muttered, “but I wanted to visit the Wall.” The Wall was the Vietnam Memo- rial, Just across the street from the Lincoln Memorial. “It’s been too long and I never seem to have any time.”
“I understand.”
“Turn left here,” Henry said to the driver, who complied. The car headed east on Independence Avenue. Henry ordered another left turn on Fourteenth Street and directed the driver to go by the Jefferson Memorial. “I think we’re clean,” he muttered to Jake after yet another careful look through the rear window. At the Jefferson
