Their evening started on a down note. In her E ring office, Blair sat him down. “Some things we have to get out of the way first.” She pursed her lips, looking out the window. “Daniel … I have to say, your institution is being called into question. From numerous quarters.”
He nodded. “I see the stuff on social media.”
“The accusations of murder, and some kind of antiwhite conspiracy? That’s ugly, yes. You can assure me there’s nothing to it?”
“The brigade commander slipped and fell. That’s what the autopsy concluded.”
“Then that’s the story we stick with.”
“I could issue a statement, but my PAO said not—”
“They’re right. No comments, no rebuttals, no press conferences. Anything you put out there, they’ll use to trigger another round of coverage. Ignoring it’s hard. But it’s the best thing to do.” She fingered her misshapen ear. He’d never thought it looked that bad, but she seemed to obsess about it. “But that’s not all. The Russians noticed the intrusion. In the power grid controls.”
Uh-oh. He studied the carpet. On which, apparently, he was being called. “Did they … trace it to us?”
“‘Us’ being your little computer club? No. Very fortunately. I don’t pretend to understand the technicalities, but our people at Cyber Command scrambled their top team and managed to rewrite the—um, software—to mask the entry, so they couldn’t trace it back.” She eyed him sternly. “You did the right thing, calling them in. They just barely got our scent off it before the Russians ran the trail. But we, I mean DoD, got a really stern warning from both State and Homeland Security. Your errant cadet—I trust an appropriate level of discipline was exercised?”
Dan nodded. “I counseled him personally. Got the message across that if the word got out, he wouldn’t be commissioned. He’s off the access list, and we pulled his clearance, at least until he goes to his first duty station.”
She looked away. “I’m afraid that won’t be enough.”
Uh-oh. “What do you mean?”
“Homeland wants him discharged. And so do I.” Her lips whitened. Not a good sign.
He gave it a moment. “You want him expelled?”
“Believe me, there were those who wanted a court-martial and prison too.”
He tried a grin. A coaxing tone. “I’m not sure that’s … Look, Blair. His intentions were good. And when it went south, he let us know right away.”
“That doesn’t cut it, Dan.” She swung back to face him. “This went all the way up to the Oval Office. I had to explain it to the president! If M’Elizabeth asks about it again, I’ve got to be able to show we cracked down.”
“I have cracked down,” Dan insisted. “Losing his clearance, that’s a huge issue for somebody who wants to go into cyber. But anybody with that much talent, we need him inside the tent pissing out, not outside pissing in. Franklin could have held the Kazakhstanis to ransom, or crashed the whole Russian grid on his own. We fire him, ten to one he becomes some kind of disgruntled black-hat hacker. A cybercriminal, with a grudge against us. A thorn in our side from now on.”
She swiveled back and forth, swinging one high-heeled foot. Obviously trying to gauge whether Homeland, the White House, the president would agree. “And what exactly did you do to make sure this never happens again?”
“No mid goes on the system now without a faculty member sitting in. No after-hours access. More stringent security checks. I’m satisfied that’ll prevent another incident. No matter how smart someone is.” He halted there, giving her time to think. Hoping he’d argued her out of it.
She glanced at her watch and sighed. “All right, let’s leave it at that.” She rose with all the grace of the teenaged ballerina she’d once been. He got a brief, conspiratorial smile. “Now, I think, we’ve got a movie to go to, Admiral.”
The moment she ushered him into the lobby of the mall complex he sensed something in the air. The other theatergoers looked their way, whispering and taking photos with their phones. He stepped off the escalator and took her arm. “What the hell is this, anyway? What’ve you got set up this time?”
She grinned mischievously. “All in good time, my pretty. We’re in theater eight. But you have to buy me popcorn first. With extra movie butter, yum!”
When they walked in, his hands full with Diet Cokes and an extra large popcorn, the audience rose as one, applauding. He blinked, astonished at familiar faces, friends from the past, from former commands. Wenck was there, and Monty Henricksen, from TAG. Cheryl Staurulakis was wearing the iconic olive-and-black shemagh, now very faded, he’d bought for the crew in Dubai. The subdued guy beside her must be her husband, who’d spent most of the war as a POW. Amarpeet Singhe, in a dress cut heart-stoppingly low … Blair greeted her coolly, obviously still nursing suspicions. Ollie Uskavitch and “Red” Slaughenhaupt. A scattering of his classmates: Dick Enders, Andy Mangum, even Tim Simko, who apparently was no longer holding a grudge. Aisha Ar-Rahim, swathed in a flowered daishiki. She looked happy; a husky man beside her held a child’s hand. Jenn Roald, his old Situation Room supervisor, accompanied by a slim brunette whose smile beamed like the sun. And others … Dan’s daughter was there too, accompanied by a bland-looking guy she introduced as Harry, or maybe she’d said Larry; he wasn’t sure, he’d caught it in the hubbub.
And many more. He was glad to see the ones still in uniform, as they stepped up to shake his hand, had advanced in rank with time and the war. They wore many more ribbons than when he’d served with them.
He tried not to think about those who weren’t there. Lost in fires, in battle, in accidents. They’d written their nation a blank check, and honored that signature.
He asided to Blair, “What the hell is this? It’s not my birthday. I’m not being retired early, am I?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” She smirked, as the house lights went down.
The film was titled Pacific Victory. A credit line read Based on the book Task Force 91 by Linwood Naylor. Dan remembered him, a reserve historian attached to his staff for Operation Rupture Plus. The guy had been Mr. Invisible then, but obviously had taken notes.
He couldn’t dodge this bullet any longer. He settled into his seat, wishing he had a shell, like a turtle, to pull his head down into.
The film opened with the thermonuclear attack on the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt strike group. It was rendered in apocalyptic CGI so intimidating the audience gasped. Most had seen war firsthand. They identified with the burned, blasted crews of the ships bursting into flame, exploding, capsizing, going down. He had to slow his breathing, gripping the arms of his seat.
Blair laid a steadying hand atop his. “It’s only a movie,” she whispered.
Cut to Savo Island, guarding the Bashi Channel. And on her bridge, a tall, iron-jawed actor Dan realized, with a sinking heart, was supposed to be himself. But shorn of any doubt or nuance. Lacking the second-guessing, the self-questioning that had always dogged him. Maybe it showed the man he’d always tried to project. The stoic, all-knowing commander who never suffered fear or uncertainty.
But it wasn’t the Dan Lenson he lived with.
On the screen, torpedoes slammed into a tanker. Castaways waved imploringly from an oil-slicked sea. Shadow Dan rushed to throw them a life ring.
When what he’d actually done was steer away, and leave them to the mercy of a fiery sea.
Faces turned to regard him in the darkened theater. He steeled himself for snorts of derision. Mutters of astonishment. None came, as far as he could tell.
The next scene: action in the Central Pacific, against a massive wolf pack of enemy submarines. Single-handedly, Dan shattered the blockade. The Fleet charged westward. Marines raised a flag on a tropical beach. Again, no mention of his mistakes, or his agonizing over how many lives to trade for those victories.
In the film, Justin Yangerhans clipped glittering stars to actor Dan’s collar, who returned a jut-jawed salute … even though they were indoors. The audience tittered; Dan closed his eyes in disgust as the commander in chief, Pacific, gave him a suicide mission.
But as Blair said … it was only a movie.
It made him wonder. Was all history as simplified, as one-sided, as this? Stainless heroes, or blackhearted villains? He clenched his fists, nauseated by the oily stench of fake butter.
Then, the invasion of Hainan. Troops stormed ashore, all in US uniforms, though actually most of the landing force had been Indonesian. Chinese jets spun smoking from the sky as ships’ crews cheered. The intrepid admiral, snapping orders on the bridge of his flagship, shamed fearful staffers counseling retreat. No mention of the tactical AI that had also recommended aborting. Dan hadn’t been on the bridge, either, but down in CIC, skull clamped in the heavy, stinking, helmet-mounted display. But obviously that wouldn’t make a very dramatic visual.
The moon rose. A multicolored glow like burning rainbows glimmered and flashed above blasted, burning ships.
And an idealized, film-star Dan Lenson grimly issued the order Naylor recorded in his book, that was now apparently Navy lore. “Victory or death, gentlemen. Victory or death.”
“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered, sliding down in the padded seat, covering his eyes. Torn between sardonic laughter and tears. It would be ridiculous, if it weren’t so tragic. It would be tragic, if it weren’t so ridiculous.
But beside him a rapt spouse covered his hand with her own, fingers greasy with coconut-oil spread. And when the final credits rolled, the audience rose as one, applauding and cheering. He forced a smile and a tepid wave, steeling himself not to howl aloud, or bark a harsh, bitter laugh that once begun, might be impossible to halt.
The next morning, he went to the Pentagon, accompanied by LeCato. The sky was overcast. He checked his weather app again before leaving, just for reassurance. Hurricane Olaf was following the predicted track, bowling along off South Carolina. Though it was still a Category Five and nothing to be dismissive of, NOAA predicted it would keep curving east, like most tropical storms in the Northern Hemisphere. It would weaken on the way, to make landfall in Boston or Cape Cod as a Cat Three.
The stand-up breakfast was informal, a get-acquainted mingling of the superintendents and senior staff of the five service academies: Annapolis, West Point, Colorado Springs, the Coast Guard academy at New London.
And, often forgotten, the Merchant Marine Academy at Kings Point. Dan chatted with its leader, a pleasant woman of Native American descent from Wyoming. During the war, the Merchant Marine had manned the makeshift “jeep carriers,” converted from container ships by roofing them with flight decks and mounting National Guard self-defense missiles. They discussed integrating tactical training, and Dan promised to push for two more Navy instructor positions on her faculty.
The business of the day was “The Way Forward for the Service Academies,” chaired by the undersecretary for training and readiness. The superintendents occupied the sole conference table; aides and deputies, as usual, ranged the walls.
The first agenda item was standing up the new Space Force Academy. The Air Force Academy supe argued that Colorado Springs was the natural location. The undersecretary brightened when he said that would save money. Yeah, Dan could see where this was going.
“Shared faculties makes sense.” The undersecretary made a note. “I like that approach. As long as we’re thinking about merging air and space, what if we applied that to the other facilities? West Point and Annapolis, for example. The first two or three years of joint training at one location, then specialization to land and sea, space and cyber in the senior year. Responses?”
Dan knew the man in Army greens. Major General Randall Faulcon’s prominent cheekbones were almost fleshless, his already-thin hair had receded even farther, and he looked only slightly less tired than he had as Dan’s senior as deputy Pacific commander. Both Dan and the superintendent of West Point started to speak at the same time. They exchanged looks, then each gestured for the other to proceed.
Just then Blair let herself in, and all stood. “Madam Secretary,” the undersecretary said respectfully. “I believe you know everyone here.”
She smiled at Dan. “I would say, some better than others.”
A low chuckle and whispers. Apparently not everyone had known they were married.
“Please, continue.” Blair accepted a seat and waved them on.
Dan mustered his thoughts again. He defended the separate academies first, basing his justification solely on the needs of each service. When the undersecretary’s knitted brows signaled he wasn’t getting through, he went to his fallback position. “It would make more sense, if we’re being forced to cut costs, to merge New London and Annapolis. Or New London, Annapolis, and Kings Point. The three sea services have far more in common than the Military Academy and the Naval Academy.”
A few nods around the table. “But above all, let’s not take precipitate action. There are a lot of stakeholders who need to be heard from.” He looked toward Faulcon. “General?”
The rival superintendent smiled coolly. “I think that’s everything that needs to be said at this point, Admiral. Especially about the … outside stakeholders.”
Blair tapped the table. “Mr. Undersecretary. If I may?”
“You have the floor, ma’am.”
She leveled a glance at Dan, and her tone turned less accommodating. “Annapolis is the most threatened location of all our training facilities. Considering sea level rise and that installation’s limited room for relocation. Why maintain five separate faculties, parade grounds, athletic facilities? Especially when most of our accessions come from university reserve programs? Really, it’s something we here in the Building struggle to justify to our masters on the Hill.”
Dan felt torn. She was the woman he slept with. But she was his civilian boss too. “Yes, Madam Secretary, I hear you. And it’s clear times are hard, as we all struggle to bring the country back.”
He took a breath. “Closure, consolidation … those options have been debated since the academies were established. Generation after generation, Congress and the public chose to keep them. The most pressing reasons, I think, are less quantifiable. Things like esprit de corps. Specialized education.”
“You may use the T-word, Admiral,” Blair said. “If that’s where you’re headed with this argument.”
Dan forced a tight smile. “Tradition has its place, sure. But it’s no reason to stand in the way of progress.”
“Yet it’s always the default appeal. For those who want things to stay the way they are. Sometimes, for not very admirable reasons.”
“Well, I’m not one of them.” Dan gave her the same direct stare he would have given any superior. “Excellence. That’s what I’m defending.”
A moment’s suspended pause; then Blair nodded. “You may want to polish your defense on that issue, Admiral.”
She seemed about to say more, but rose instead, and left.
He stood out in the parking lot, disturbed. Blair had gone back to the E ring, without inviting him along. Of course, that would have looked like favoritism. Though she hadn’t shown any when she’d cross-examined him.
“That was rough,” LeCato muttered, tentatively, as if feeling he needed to break the silence.
Dan glanced at a sky that now looked even darker, more ominous, than earlier that morning. A chilly mist was falling, not quite rain, not quite fog. “Well, that’s her job, Vince.”
“Yessir. Still, she really came after you.”
Couldn’t he leave it alone? Dan snarled, “There are bigger issues at stake than us here, Lieutenant. The Fed’s broke. The Midwest and Seattle have to be rebuilt. All we’ve got is the little keyhole picture.”
The aide looked stricken. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you,” Dan muttered. When you screwed up, best to apologize at once. Waiting only made it harder.
But Blair was right. He did need to sharpen his arguments.… “Where’s our car?” he murmured as the rain began in earnest. LeCato pulled out his phone.
They were retreating toward overhead cover when a vibration trilled in his pocket. From Burke-Bowden. Olaf speeding up and backing west. Estimated landfall Norfolk. ETA Annapolis 0300 tomorrow.
Dan tapped the NOAA app and stared horrified. Four to eight inches of rain. Winds of up to a 150 miles an hour.
Worst of all, the system had indeed swerved. Instead of tracking up the coast twenty to thirty miles offshore, as per earlier predictions, it would head smack up the middle of the Chesapeake.
The biggest storm to hit the area in decades, with the most powerful winds. But it wasn’t really the winds he was worried about. They’d wreak damage, but the Yard would be battened down. Wind-whipped seas would threaten, but the massive granite boulders of the seawalls would shatter their green hearts into sprays of harmless foam.
No, the greatest threat was storm surge. Driven by hurricane-force winds, it would stack on top of existing tides and flooding from massive amounts of rain. Driving water levels, if the timing was right, to heights that would overwhelm their safeguards.
A new text pinged on his phone: Jerry Bonar. Prepping for major high tide, flooding, winds. Dan texted back When is high tide but got no response. Probably the public works supervisor had his hands full.
Burke-Bowden again. Implementing emergency flooding power and high winds bill. Suggest u return ASAP.
The rain picked up, pelting harder, colder, carrying an ominous tang of high-altitude ozone. Head bent against the rising wind, Dan texted back On my way.