Early, before dawn. A morning like so many others, yet different. Streamers of fog eddied above the sluggish dimpled platinum of the river. A closely mowed expanse of grass stretched like a tightly fitted green sheet between a wooded hill, only barely visible through the mist, and a concrete seawall.
The runner was still lean, though his hair was graying. No longer speedy, but still persevering, he rounded the far end of the field and headed back. He could only see a few yards ahead. The layers of early fog twisted above the grass, like spirits uncertain of their proper tenancy.
A sail drifted noiselessly past, propelled by the faintest breath of air. A haze-gray Yard Patrol craft lay motionless, welded to the river surface.
Under Daniel V. Lenson’s running shoes the soft soil, still wet from heavy rain the night before, squished treacherously. He stumbled, nearly turning an ankle. But recovered, and plowed on.
Not many other runners were out this early. Just a few much younger figures in USNA athletic gear.
July, after a conflict that wrecked two continents. The nuclear exchange had cost both China and the United States cities and cropland. Both still struggled with disease, famine, and revolt.
The Allies had declared victory. But neither side had truly won.
Rear Admiral, Upper Half, Dan Lenson ambled to a halt at the wooden footbridge arching over College Creek. He bent, panting, hands on knees, recalling bitterly how effortlessly he’d sprinted across these same fields as a teen.
Maybe he was pushing too hard. He was still exhausted from five years at sea. Captaining a cruiser at the war’s outbreak, he’d rocketed in rank as America rebuilt its fleet, smashed a submarine blockade, and island-hopped back across the Pacific. Still battling radiation exposure, too, from a cross-country hunt for his daughter. Thank God, she’d surfaced again. Nearly starved, but alive.
“You okay, sir?”
A thin-faced blonde, incredibly young. She seemed to float, defying gravity, as she jogged in place. “Y’okay?” she said again, a mountain twang to her voice.
“Fine … just trying to catch my breath.”
She glanced over a shoulder. “Should I call somebody?”
“No. Thanks. Just … needed a break.” He straightened, fists to his back, trying to get a full breath past the scar tissue in his throat.
She looked him up and down. Taking in, no doubt, the nonreg running gear, the black leggings and nonreg tee. “Do you, um, work here, sir?”
He couldn’t help chuckling. “Yeah, starting today. Actually, I used to run this circuit. Around the Wall. When I was a mid.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re the new Supe.”
When he nodded she glanced around. “At least we got one of our own this time.”
Dan frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Um … nothing, sir.” She edged away. “I just meant, um, welcome aboard, sir.”
He nodded again, still puzzled, but she’d already turned away, accelerated, climbing the arched footbridge with a grace and unstudied power that left him feeling twice as tired.
Forcing reluctant legs into motion once again, he jogged up onto the same scuffed weatherworn planks he’d sprinted so lightly over before … when he was young.
The grounds of the United States Naval Academy were divided into Upper and Lower. The cemetery and some of the playing fields lay to the north, across College Creek from the original footprint of old Fort Severn. They constituted the “Upper Yard.”
As he clattered off the footbridge, leaving the river fog behind, the Lower Yard came into view. To his left loomed the granite-and-glass bulwark of Nimitz Library. Beyond it rose Hopper Hall, computer science and cybersecurity. To his right, the massive gray slab of Alumni Hall.
Cutting a right, he jogged past the Vietnam Memorial to Decatur Road. He took a knee to catch his breath again beside Worden Field, the Academy’s drill ground. He remembered hot sweating days in ranks, laced into the pigeon-breasted coatee and leggings as his knees buckled and the sweat ran down his face and the suspended rifle gathered the weight of the planet. Across the field stood Captain’s Row, decorous brick homes built early in the previous century. Senior staff lived there.
The captains and commanders who’d work for him, starting today.
Beyond them rose a gray brick wall. And past that, Historic Annapolis, capital of Maryland, a city tiger-fiercely protective of its traditions, history, and its tourist-dependent economy.
Hoisting himself again, he forced reluctant joints back into motion. Past the beaux arts mansarded granite of the main academic buildings. To his right, the Museum, with such obscure attractions as an admiral with four eyes and Chester Nimitz’s saddle.
Stribling Walk. He circled the level, meticulously groomed red brick paths that wound between monuments to fallen midshipmen and stone and bronze figureheads from long-gone ships. Past colorful beds of lilies and tulips and green-patina’d cannon. Past the massive, copper-domed Chapel. Below it, in a hushed crypt, lay a rebel Scotsman, American captain, and Russian admiral: John Paul Jones.
Ahead loomed the sprawling octopus of Bancroft Hall. Mother Bancroft’s eight wings and five stories of French Revival granite had housed the Brigade of Midshipmen since Teddy Roosevelt’s time. In the early morning light it seemed to levitate, ephemeral, illusory, like some castle of dream.
He’d come of age here. Passed from frightened plebe to blasé firstie, from youth to adult. He couldn’t help glancing up to check the window of his old room. And then, to another window, where … yeah, that memory still hurt.
He trotted past the green-painted flanks of captured torpedoes and down through an underpass. Near the eighth wing he angled right again, past the armory, recalling tea dances, racks of rifles, furtive kisses in a coat-filled nook. Athletic buildings, then the verdant expanse of more playing fields, flat as the tarnished gleam of the Chesapeake Bay beyond.
Fatigue dragged at his bones. He slowed to a walk, looking longingly at the tumbled boulders of the seawall. Back then he’d taken them at a sprint, vaulting from block to block, exulting in his body’s quickness, its sure invulnerability.
He frowned. The waves lapped only a few feet below the rocks. Had they lowered the seawall, since he’d been here?
Jogging again, though, he was getting winded. Toward the white-painted foremast of USS Maine, salvaged from Havana Harbor and reerected here. Past a memorial to the submarines and men lost in World War Two. Then north again, past the hulls and masts of the boat basin.
The Yard was wrapped, embraced, surrounded by salt water and the intangible arms of tradition. The river. The bay. The sea. It was beginning to stir now, as cars filled the parking lots, streetlights winked off, as the whole great machine and institution woke to the day.
The day when he would take its helm.
Not that a new superintendent simply showed up and took charge. He wore the hats of a base commander, a university president, and the boss of a major university athletic department. Dan had requested the billet as his twilight tour. The courtesy was granted now and then to senior officers ending their careers. The possibility had hung fire for months. Then, suddenly, in an all-too-familiar routine, he was behind schedule and had to hustle to catch up.
He’d paid his first official calls while being vetted by congressional staff. He’d phoned two previous supes to ask what their biggest challenges had been and how they’d met them. The nomination itself had happened in the dead of night, the last item of business before the Senate adjourned. He suspected his wife had greased the shipways. Once approved, he’d paid more calls: the CNO, for steering guidance; the chairman, Senate Armed Services; the commandant of the Marine Corps; the secretary of the Navy.
Then on to Annapolis, and the transient quarters above the Officer’s Club. Over the previous week the outgoing supe, Admiral Arminius Cree, had briefed him in. Showed him through the massive official residence where he’d live and entertain. Then, over three days, introduced Dan to the major players. What he called the “cost center heads”: the commandant of midshipmen, the academic dean, the athletic director, along with Financial and Legal, the command master chief, and the second-tier department heads.
Unfortunately, Cree had warned, USNA was on a collision course with several icebergs. Dan would have to deal with falling application numbers. Pressure to reduce expenditures. And reports of sexual assault, harassment, and intimidation were at a new high. “Seems like, the more open we are to accusations, the more we get,” Cree had sighed. “Young men and young women…”
He hadn’t finished the sentence, but Dan got the idea.
As a war hero, and holder of the Medal of Honor, he’d be expected to rebuild the Academy’s image.
Back at the Q. A quick shower, and the first of several changes of uniform he’d go through today.
But there was another formality before he could take charge.
He stood in the parqueted quiet of Memorial Hall, looking up at the flag.
DON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP, it read, crudely stitched on a blue background. The selfsame banner Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry had flown on Lake Erie, when he’d defeated the Royal Navy and drawn a line between empires.
Below it lay a bronze tablet with hundreds of names. They’d died in flaming gun turrets, in sinking, flooding ships and submarines, in the sky, in muddy trenches and steaming jungles. The Honor Roll immortalized those graduates who’d given everything in the line of duty.
He wished Blair could be here, or his mom. But his mother had passed, and as the first female secretary of defense, his wife had her hands full at the Pentagon. He’d invited a few classmates, though most were retired now.
A cameraman was setting up. Looking into a speckled antique mirror, Dan checked the hooks of his choker whites. Tucked his cap under one arm. Acceptable … but he had to try not to look tired.
“Attention on deck,” someone called, and even the civilians straightened.
A captain stepped to the lectern. “Welcome to the promotion ceremony for Rear Admiral Daniel V. Lenson. For reappointment to the rank of vice admiral and assignment as the superintendent, United States Naval Academy. His most recent billet assignment was with the staff of the chief of naval operations in Washington, DC. He’ll be sworn in by Vice Admiral Shaynelle Hlavna, chief of naval operations.”
Hlavna came striding in trailed by four staffers. She centered herself beneath the flag and nodded. “Stand at ease.”
Dan had asked for a streamlined ceremony, without official honors or the national anthem. Hlavna went briskly through a welcome, and regrets that Dan’s spouse and daughter could not attend, then paused.
“The Academy occupies a special place in the Navy’s heart. Not all our officers, or even our best, graduate from this institution. But it preserves our traditions of heroism and duty. It produces leaders dedicated to a career of naval service, with the potential to someday assume the highest responsibilities of command, citizenship, and government.
“Daniel V. Lenson assumed those responsibilities, in missions behind enemy lines, commanding warships and task forces, and planning and directing significant operations both in peacetime and in war. He holds a variety of decorations in addition to the Medal of Honor. They include the Navy Cross, Silver Star, the Legion of Merit, Defense Superior Service, several Armed Forces and Navy Expeditionary Medals, the Purple Heart, the POW Medal, and various service medals and unit commendations. He also holds significant foreign awards, including the Israeli Medal of Courage, the Korean Order of Military Merit, and the French Legion of Honor.
“One noteworthy absence is the lack of commendation and achievement awards other officers typically receive. But then, true warriors often neither receive nor require those routine attaboys.
“For true warriors are sometimes called to step over the line. And now and then, Dan Lenson has been so bold as to do so.
“Such actions usually end military careers. And for good reason; regulations and orders are lessons learned from centuries of experience. But now and then, individual initiative, that pride of the naval service, proves wiser than the regulations. The mature officer owes the country more. We expect him, or her, to know when to choose a different path.
“But Dan’s not just a hero. In the deepest sense, he’s a servant. He cares, not just for his own people, but for all those affected by his decisions and operations.
“For all these reasons, I believe he’s the right person, at the right time, to lead the Academy into the future.”
She looked his way. “Front and center.”
He had his head down, abashed by the praise. He’d never felt he had much choice in those decisions. They’d always simply seemed the right thing to do.
Though, to be honest, often it had been a close call.…
The chief of staff stepped up. “Attention to orders. ‘Headquarters, Department of the Navy. The president of the United States has reposed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of Daniel Valentine Lenson. In view of these qualities and his demonstrated potential for increased responsibilities, and in accordance with the authority vested in the chief of naval operations, he is hereby authorized to assume the title and wear the uniform of vice admiral, United States Navy.’”
Hlavna nodded to an aide, who handed her a small box. Reaching up rather awkwardly—Dan bowed to help out—she replaced his epaulettes with the solid gold, silver anchor, and three silver stars of a vice admiral of the line.
She stepped back to applause from the audience. It echoed eerily from the high ceiling, from the paintings of long-ago battles.
Hlavna said, “Please raise your right hand.”
He repeated the oath; that he would support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that he would bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that he took the obligation freely, and would well and faithfully discharge his duties.
Then it was his turn to speak.
He stepped to the lectern, and paused. He had no lofty sentiments to deliver. No prepared remarks. “CNO, thank you for coming today,” he began. “It’s an unexpected pleasure. Members of the staff, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. We all have a number of other duties today, so I’ll be brief. But I do want to say just two things.
“First, how humbling this moment is. I hope I can live up to this trust.
“Second, that no one achieves high rank on his or her abilities alone. A couple of people I want to recognize are here with us today.” He nodded at them. “Master Chief Donnie Wenck and Commander Amarpeet Singhe. I’m glad they’ve been able to accompany me here. But far more are absent; on duty, retired, more than a few on eternal patrol. Without them, I wouldn’t be alive, much less be standing here.
“But with the help and advice of everyone here, I’ll give it everything I have.”
He shook hands and accepted congratulations. He was chatting with the head of the alumni association when the CNO’s aide cleared his throat beside him. “Sir? Admiral Hlavna has to get back. A word before she leaves?”
Dan joined her at the great bronze doors. She crossed her arms. “Dan, again, congratulations. I think this is the right fit.”
“Thanks.”
“Please maintain contact. Your official chain runs through the N7 but you need to keep me and the SecNav in the loop.”
“Will do, ma’am. Weekly updates.”
“Good. New issue: Remember Linwood Naylor?”
“The historian. On my staff for the invasion of Hainan.”
“His book will be a movie soon. It makes you look like a cross between Patton and Halsey. We’re getting calls, invites to talk shows. Interested?”
“Um, we discussed this before, ma’am. I’d rather not.”
“How about going to LA for the premiere? The studio’s invited you. CHINFO will set up travel.”
He wavered for a moment; Blair would love it. “Uh, well, I’m really sorry. But thanks.”
He watched as she descended the marble steps, crossed the black-and-white-tesserated floor of the Rotunda, as she passed through a second, larger set of bronze doors. The sunlight outlined her. Then she was gone.
He sat down to lunch with Cree and his wife, a petite Black woman with mousy hair, in the rose garden behind the Supe’s House. The scent of jasmine hit him suddenly, and he remembered, out of nowhere, how sweet it had smelled outside the mess hall that first evening of Plebe Summer. He had to blink and winch his attention back to what Mrs. Cree was saying.
“I’m so sorry your spouse couldn’t attend, Dan. But she’s so very important, you probably won’t see much of her here. At all.”
Dan smiled, ill at ease. He’d never mastered small talk. And this woman seemed to have some kind of axe to grind about Blair. Politics? Or just resentful that Dan’s wife was secretary of defense, while as far as he’d seen, Eleanor Cree confined her interests to the Red Cross and the Annapolis Junior League.
“We’ve had such a marvelous time here. Arminius manages to get in eighteen holes nearly every weekend. Do you play, Admiral?”
“Uh, not so much. I sail, though. Thinking about breaking my boat off the hard, sailing it up here from Norfolk.”
“What sort of craft, Dan?” Cree put in.
“A thirty-two-foot sloop. Just big enough to go offshore.”
“The Labor Day regatta’s in September. The Shields Trophy, Hammond Cup, the Offshore Championship—”
“Sounds great,” Dan said, “but I’ll probably be running pretty hard, trying to take over from you.”
“Oh, this billet’s a piece of cake.” Cree leaned back so far the garden chair creaked. “Almost on autopilot. Ellie and I, I have to say, I couldn’t do it without her.
“See, ninety percent of this job is social. We entertained twenty thousand people last year. Second only to the White House. The alumni dinners, the Army-Navy gala, class reunions, visiting congressmen—we’re the only service academy so close to DC.” Cree waved away a questing hornet. “To be honest, Dan, the supe has very little direct control over what actually happens around here. The commandant runs the Brigade. I leave the other details to Burkie and the Dean. By the time issues reach our level, the answer’s either obvious, or there’s nothing we can do anyway.”
Dan nodded, but wondered where this philosophy had come from. In his experience, the easy decisions got made far below flag officer level. Only the toughest problems rose to where a general or admiral had to get involved. In fact, Cree’s casual demurral made him suspect there might be some sores that so far had not seen the light of day.
He glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t we be getting—?”
“Relax, Dan.” Cree chuckled. “They can’t very well start without us. Can they?”
The change of command was in what he remembered as Tecumseh Court, though it had a different name now, a yellow brick expanse in front of Bancroft. Only a hundred yards distant, so when Cree got up at last Dan rose too, and their aides fell in behind them, and together they strolled unhurriedly out and down what he remembered as Buchanan Road, though it, too, had been renamed. Ancient oaks towered to his left. A faint, exquisitely welcome breeze breathed off the river, cooling the sweat on his brow.
Commands echoed ahead. Shouted cadences reverberated on the heating air. The summer Brigade, over a thousand new plebes and their upperclass trainers, were forming up. Mrs. Cree chattered nonstop as they walked. The outgoing supe himself was silent, apparently sunk in thought.
They stood in the shadow of the second wing as the companies wheeled into position. The plebes were in white works. Dan remembered their aroma, a pang of memory whenever he ripped open the plastic on new clothes. Dixie-cup sailor hats with blue bands. White jumpers, shiny black shoes, sailor-style neckerchiefs tied in square knots. Their marching was pretty ragged. Well, hell, they’d been civilians a month ago.
He remembered the shock and awe of those first hours. Your personal identity was ground off along with your hair and clothes. The blur of inoculations, gear issue, rifle issue, paperwork. The peremptory shouts of the cadre, intimidating, incredibly buff young studs in impeccable trop whites.
“They’ve only been here for three weeks,” Mrs. Cree said, beside him.
He forced a smile. “I was just thinking that. Remembering what it was like.”
“Arminius says the memories get sharper, the older he gets.”
High youthful voices rose in the sunlight. Swords flashed. The summer stripers reported to the summer commander, who at last turned to the commandant, executed a graceful, if rather too flamboyant sword salute, and snapped his sword tip to the bricks. “Brigade present and accounted for,” he shouted.
Colonel Leslie Danelle Stocker, USMC, a short woman in Marine greens, returned the salute, then placed everyone at parade rest. Taking the mic, she reminded the mids of Cree’s record, his stewardship, and wished him and Eleanor fair winds and following seas.
Cree took the lectern. He, too, was brief: honor, inclusivity, duty, pride. Then he introduced Dan, and outlined his combat career, awards, and decorations.
Dan stood with hands locked behind him, feeling two thousand eyes searching him. He knew what they were wondering. What kind of leader would he be? What changes would he demand? Or maybe they were just zoned out. He remembered nothing of what his own supe had said, years before. Back then, even your company officer was a remote presence. What mattered was what your firstie thought, how your classmates ranked you, and whether you’d make it through the semester. Or not.
“Present arms,” Stocker barked. The cadres’ swords lifted, then dropped; they executed precise about-faces and shouted in fifteen voices, “Present … arms.”
A thousand right arms lofted wood and steel, a thousand left hands slapped the stocks in a rippling applause that echoed between the enclosing walls. A thousand right hands snapped the rifles vertical, floating their stacking swivels in front of a thousand noses.
Dan faced Cree in the cloudless flooding sunlight, in the bright wind off the Chesapeake, so like the day he’d stood here himself for the first time, and saluted. “I relieve you, sir.”
Cree returned the salute, then extended a hand. “I stand relieved.”
The band blared out. Dan trailed Cree and the rest of the official party out onto Stribling Walk again. Behind them the ranks shouldered arms, swung into columns, and stepped out for the next event in a packed day of drill and exercise and indoctrination.
Dan smelled jasmine again, cut grass, the briny wind off the Bay. The massive and warlike figurehead of USS Delaware scowled down at them. The grim chieftain was no longer called Tecumseh, but he’d always think of it by the old name.
Cree, a few steps ahead, was patting his wife’s arm, his step sprightlier than it had been minutes before. The former supe glanced back, and their gazes locked.
It’s your problem now, his wink seemed to say.
The wind shifted then, and from the massed marching ranks more scents reached him, smells that lit again recondite and long-slumbering neurons. Cotton and soap and sweat, gun oil, hot bricks, the stink of exertion and stress, too-hasty showers and the grim eye-gritty weariness of never enough sleep.
And for just that moment, the years between fell away.…