back in ten minutes.
He dropped the envelope in a mailbox on the plaza near the entrance to his building, then retraced his steps back to the office.
29
Vice Admiral Henry’s funeral was on Wednesday in Arlington National Cemetery, held outdoors on the grass at the request of his eldest daughter. Everyone who was anyone in the Department of Defense was on hand, so Jake Graf- ton ended up seated among the rank and file. The politicians who ruled the armed forces sat on the right-hand side of the aisle, while on the left were the admirals and generals, who had been carefully seated in order of seniority as protocol demanded. A band played funeral airs and Royce Caplinger, George Ludlow, and CNO deliv- ered short eutogies.
From where he sat Jake could see the backs of the heads of some of the heavyweights. Off to his left were the rows and rows of white monuments, marching across the green rolling terrain with fault- less precision.
To his right was the low bulk of the Pentagon, only the top of it visible between the heads of the people and the uniformed ushers at parade rest.
Tyler Henry had spent his adult life in uniform, and Jake had no doubt that interment at this cemetery, with all those who had also served, would have met with Henry’s approval. After all. Henry had died in combat, fighting for something he believed in.
Half listening to the speeches, Jake Grafton once again consid- ered all he knew about X affair. It was precious little, yet it seemed to him he could see the underlying structure. Per- haps, he mused, even that was an illusion.
The funeral was real enough. Henry was truly dead. The people involved were real, the information passed to the Soviets was real, Smoke Judy’s attempt to steal the Athena file was real. And yet …
When he got back to the office, he made another trip to the copy machine for paper. This time he wrote: “I KNOW YOU ARE THE MINOTAUR.”
He addressed the envelope as before and deposited it in the plaza mailbox when he went down to catch the shuttle to the Pentagon for another round of meetings.
On Thursday the announcement was made that the various com- mittees of congress had authorized the navy to purchase the TRX plane as the A-12. Although the buy schedule was lower than planned, which would raise the cost of each plane by five million dollars, a general celebration was in order. That afternoon Jake and Admiral Dunedin treated everyone in the office to a beer bash at Gus’s Place, a beanery on the lower floor of Jefferson Plaza 1.
“If you had any class, Grafton,” Rob Knight told him, “you’d have taken us to Amelia’s in the Underground.”
“No class. You got that right.”
‘Two more hearings to go,” Rob said. “Without an appropria- tion of money, all we have is a piece of paper to frame.”
Dunedin was in a cheerful mood. He laughed and joked with the troops, seemingly glad to once again, if only for a little while, be just one of the guys. He never could be, of course. The officers he had spent his career with were all retired, except for those precious few who were also vice admirals. All the others were playing golf in Phoenix and Oriando, selling insurance in Virginia Beach or boats in San Diego, or were working for defense contractors.
At one point Dunedin ended up at Jake’s table. When they were temporarily alone, he said, “Really a shame about Tyler Henry. He was going to retire in three months, you know.”
No, Jake didn’t know.
“Had a little cottage up in Maine, right near the beach. Owned it for years. Was going to spend the rest of his life there, he told me, and if he never heard the sound of freedom again he thought he could live with that.” “The sound of freedom” was a public rela- tions euphemism for jet noise.
“I guess you burn out after a while,” Jake said.
“I guess. You win some, lose some, hope for the best. Even the politicians, they try to do that.”
Jake remembered that comment the following week after he watched Royce Caplinger sweat in front of a Senate Appropria- tions subcommittee. They kept him going over numbers for most of the day. Although he was subpoenaed, Jake never took the stand. He was delighted.
Caplinger stayed afterwards for private conversations with the senators. Jake left with Toad Tarkington, who had accompanied him. As they were leaving, Caplinger and Senator Duquesne were shaking hands. It was then that Jake remembered Dunedin’s com- ment
A week later the House Appropriations Committee held their closed-door hearing. Caplinger spent three hours on the stand, Ludlow two hours. After lunch came Jake’s turn on the hot seat. Three hours later Congresswoman Samantha Strader cleared her throat.
Strader was in her early fifties, her hair penned, her eyes screwed up in a characteristic squint. One of only two Democrats in her state’s congressional delegation, she represented a district carved from the core of her state’s capital city, the only area of the state with a significant minority population. She had one of the safest Democratic seats in the country and had been elected pro forma a dozen times, yet until the last election she bad been almost unknown outside her state. Prior to that election she had publicly entertained the idea of entering the presidential primaries as the only woman in the field. Her short-lived quest came to grief on the shoals of political and financial reality, but not before her name and face had been splashed coast to coast by the media. She had jabbed and pricked the real contenders during her moment in the spotlight, had a delightful time, and squinted all the while.
Sam Strader’s avowed passion was the military. Every officer in the Pentagon knew what that meant. She hated them. With an excellent mind, a quick wit, and a tongue to match, she was a formidable opponent.
Today, at this closed hearing of the black projects subcommittee of the House Appropriations Committee, she adjusted the micro- phone in front of her and gazed at Jake Grafton as though looking through a dense smoke screen. “Captain, please justify, if you can, the acquisition of another very expensive major weapons system by the U.S. Navy when Chairman Gorbachev is cutting the Soviet military budget drastically, reducing manpower levels by ten per- cent, slashing new ship construction, cutting navy steaming tune.”
“Congresswoman,” Jake said, trying to digest the question. “I don’t think I’m qualified to address that. I’m here to testify about the merits of the prototypes evaluated by the Advanced Tactical Aircraft program for production as the A-12.”
“Didn’t Secretary Ludlow send you over here to testify?”
“Yes, ma’am. He did. And this panel questioned him for two hours this morning.”
“Now it’s your turn. Answer the question, if you can.”
“As I’ve already said, we need the A-12 because the A-6 is wearing out. The A-6 has an airframe designed in the 1950s and is already past the end of its service life. The carriers must have a viable all-weather attack capability or they are obsolete and—“
“But what about the Soviet initiative?”
“Congresswoman, he’s trying to answer your question.” The chairman of the House Appropriations Committee was a Texas Democrat. Just now he looked bored. No doubt he was faking. Rumor had it he had underestimated Sam Strader once too often in the past. That was a mistake Jake Grafton had no intention of making. He was sitting at attention, listening carefully.
Strader ignored the chairman. “Captain Grafton, I want to know when the navy is going to realize that the Soviet threat is diminishing and accordingly lower its requests for funds from this Congress.”
“The navy doesn’t make budget requests of Congress. The ad- ministration does. Be that as it may, you assume the Soviet threat is diminishing significantly. I disagree. And the Soviets are only one of our possible adversaries. They still have four million men under arms. They have a formidable, capable navy. We are buying the A-12 to provide an all-weather attack capability for our aircraft carriers for the next thirty years. We must provide a strong Sunday punch for our fleet regardless of the twists and turns of Soviet policy or the ups and downs of this or
