pick up the bodies of those who fell. pe put the glass on the floor and rolled over on his side. Maybe he — was depressed — that soul doctor, . Yes, depression, that was probably…
When he awoke it was two in the morning and the lights were off. Callie had covered him with a blanket. He went upstairs, un- dressed, and crawled into bed with her.
The wind whipped the occasional raindrops at a steep angle and drove the gray clouds at a furious pace as Jake and Callie strolled on the beach. They were out for their usual morning walk, which they took rain or shine, fair weather or foul. Both wore shorts and were barefoot; they carried the flip-flops they had worn to traverse the crushed-seashell mix that covered the street in front of their house that led to the beach. Both were wearing old sweatshirts over sweaters. Callie’s hair whipped in the wind.
Jake critically examined the contours of sand around the piles that supported a huge house some ignorant optimist had con- structed on the dune facing the beach. The first hurricane, Jake suspected, would have the owner tearing his hair. The sand looked firm now. Shades obscured all the windows. The house was empty. Only three or four other people were visible on the beach.
Birds scurried along the sand, racing after retreating waves and probing furiously for their breakfast. Gulls rode the air currents with their noses pointed out to sea. He watched the gulls and tried to decide if the Gentle Lady could soar with them. The moving air had to have some kind of an upward vector over the sand. Perhaps if he kept the plane above the dune. The dune was low, though. He would see.
Callie’s hand found his and he gave it a squeeze. He led her down into the surf, where the ice-cold water swirled about their feet. “Toad Tarkington said to say hi.”
“He called?”
“Stopped by yesterday afternoon. He’s going to the Pentagon too.”
“Oh.”
“If you teach summer school, we’ll see more of each other this summer,” he said. “We’ll be together every evening at the apart- ment in Washington as well as every weekend here.”
Her hand gripped his fiercely and she turned to face him.
He grinned. “Monday morning, off I go, wearing my uniform, vacation over—“
She hugged him and her lips made it impossible to continue to speak. Her hair played across his cheeks as the ebbing surf tugged at the sand under him.
3
At was almost 9 A.M. when the subway train — the Metro — ground to a halt at the Pentagon sta- tion. Jake Grafton joined the civilian and military personnel exit- ing and followed the thin crowd along the platform. Rush hour for about 23.000 people who worked in this sprawling five-story building was long over. The little handful that Jake accompanied seemed to be made up of stragglers and visiting civilians.
Just ahead of Jake a man and a woman in casual clothes led two small children. When they came to the long escalator, the kids squealed joyfully and started to run up the moving stair. Each parent grabbed a small arm, then a hand.
The sloping staircase was poorly lighted. As he looked at the dim lights, Jake noticed the plaster on the ceiling was peeling away in spots.
At the head of the escalator two corridors led in, one from either side, and more people joined the procession, which trudged ever upward on a long, wide staircase toward the lights above.
At the head of the stair was a large hall, and the stream of people broke up, some heading for the mam eotrance, some mov- ing cautiously toward the visitors’ tour area. The couple that Jake had followed led their progeny in that direction with an admoni- tion to behave. Jake approached the two Department of Defense policemen scrutinizing passes at the security booth. “I have an appointment with Vice Admiral Henry.”
“Do you have a building pass, sir?”
“No.”
“Use those phones right over there”—he pointed at telephones by the tour windows—“and someone will come down to escort you.”
‘Thanks.” Jake called and a yeoman answered. Five minutes, the yeoman said.
Jake stood and watched the people. Men and women wearing the uniforms of all four services came and went, most walking quickly, carrying briefcases, folders, gym bags and small brown paper bags that must have contained their lunches. People leaving the interior of the building walked by the security desk without a glance from the two armed DOD policemen.
“Captain Grafton?”
A small black woman in civilian clothes stood at his elbow. “Yes?” he said.
“I’m your escort.” She smiled and flashed her pass at the guards and motioned Jake toward the metal detector that stood to the left of the security booth. He walked through it. nothing beeped, and the woman led him through the open doors into another huge hallway, this one lined with shops. Directly across from the en- trance was a large gedunk — a store selling snacks, magazines and other sundries.
“I was expecting a yeoman.”
“The phone started ringing and he sent me down.”
As she led him along the corridor, he asked, “How long did it take you to learn your way around in here?”
“Oh, I’m still learning-I’ve only been here five years. It’s confus- ing at times.”
They went up a long ramp that opened onto the A-Ring, the central corridor that overlooked the five-acre interior courtyard. As they proceeded around the ring, Jake glanced through the win- dows at the grass and huge trees and the snack bar in the center.
“Have you ever been here before?” she asked.
“Nope,” said Jake Grafton. “I’ve always managed to avoid it.”
After she had gone what seemed like a hundred yards or so, she turned right and ascended a staircase with a ninety-degree bend in it and at the top turned right. They were atill on the A-Ring, but on the fourth level. After another fifty feet she veered left down a corridor, then right onto another corridor that zagged away at an angle. “Now we’re walking back toward the outside of the build- ing,” she said. “There are five concentric rings in the Pentagon. The inner is the A-Ring, and next is B, and so forth, with the outer being E. They are connected by ten radial corridors like the spokes of a wagon wheel. It’s supposed to be efficient but it does confuse newcomers.” She grinned.
This corridor had little to commend it. It was lit by fluorescent lights, and over half the tubes were dark. The walls were bare. Not a picture or a poster. Dusty, tied-down furniture was stacked along one wall. It looked as if it had been there since the Elsenhower administration. Catching Jake’s glance, the guide said, “It’s been there for three months. Some of the offices got new furniture. This is the old stuff.” The piles were composed of sofas and chairs and scarred and battered gumnetal-gray desks. “These places on the ceiling where the plywood is?” Jake looked. The plaster was fall- ing off from water seepage from the roof and asbestos was being released.
At the end of the corridor stood a magnificent large painting of Admiral Dewey’s flagship, Olympia, entering Manila Bay. Spots illuminated it The guide turned right and Jake followed. The over- head blue mantel proclaimed: “Naval Aviation.” Here the hallway was well lit, painted a yellowish pastel and decorated with pictures of past and present naval and marine aircraft. This straight stretch was long, a third as long as the outside, of the building. Almost at the end, his guide turned left into a large office. The sign over the door said: “Assistant, Chief of Naval Operations, Air Warfare.” Beside the door was a blue sign that read: “OP-05.” This was the office of the senior U.S. Naval Aviator, Mr. Naval Aviation.
The room was large and contained numerous windows facing south across the huge parking lot toward Arlington. Wooden desks, blue drapes, wainscoting on the walls.
A commander greeted Jake. “I’m a little early,” Jake said, glanc- ing at his watch.
“I’ll see if the admiral’s free.” He was. Jake was escorted in through a swinging double saloon door.
Vice Admiral Tyler Henry rose from his chair and came around his desk wearing a warm smile to greet Jake.
