Taking a seat in a side chamber in the Dirksen Senate Office Building off Room SD-G50, Dan was struck by a dizzying sense of déjà vu. He’d cooled his heels in rooms like this before over the decades. At the Academy, before an honor board hearing. Here on the Hill, with then–Rear Admiral Barry Niles, about cost overruns and test failures of the prototype Tomahawk.
He couldn’t help smiling. The aviators had fought it tooth and nail. But for a long time now, no air strike had launched until those same missiles had hammered down the opposition.
“What goes around, comes around,” he muttered.
Seated next to him, Blair lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t look up from her tablet. With them sat Jerry Bonar, the Yard engineer, and Leslie Stocker, who’d just pinned on her first star. (He’d left Burke-Bowden in charge back at the ranch.) The public works director looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie. The newly minted general was in Marine greens, with an impressive display of combat decorations. Dan wore blues; his own ribbon rack was topped by the blue and white of the Medal of Honor. The witnesses from the other academies waited opposite, accompanied by their staff.
Outside it was nearly spring, though cold rain had spattered the windshield on the way up from Annapolis. The Yard had lain spookily empty, the Brigade still out for Easter leave. He corrected himself: spring leave. The lawns were still soaked, the once-glorious plantings masses of churned, stinking mire. Like rescue crews in a shelled city, contractors toiled on the basements and first floors, running dehumidifiers, rewiring, patching plaster.
He blew out, jiggling his foot. According to the study Blair had sent him, this hearing could be an inflection point.
Or even the end of the Academy.
Beside him Bonar cleared his throat. “We set up for this, Jerry?” Dan asked him.
“I think so, sir.”
“I hope your tech managed to get those last—”
A very young page in a blue skirt suit stood in the doorway. “Miz Titus? Our other witnesses? You may go in now.”
Blair snapped her tablet closed, stowed it in her briefcase, and stood. Dan stood too, straightening his tie. Flashing back, again, to previous hearings on the Hill.
He’d sat behind the principals then. Handed up notes, or dug out a paper if they needed it. Part of the supporting cast.
This time, he’d be the star.
Or rather, the quarry.
High ceilings, wine-colored carpets, and a lot of pale green marble and walnut paneling and bronze sconces. The witnesses filed into chairs facing a semicircular dais. The Great Seal hung on the wall above. A large video screen loomed behind the senators, but at the moment it was dark. He was briefly grateful this room, this building, this whole city even still existed. During the war, it could easily have been vaporized.
Instead of still hosting the rumbustious hot mess Americans fondly called democracy. Shrill, flawed, and unanimously damned as dysfunctional. Yet somehow it still seemed to creak along. More or less.
His heart fell as he noted one face among the dozen occupying the red leather senators’ chairs. He’d known she was on the committee, of course. But he hadn’t anticipated seeing Sandra Treherne, junior senator from Tennessee, wielding the gavel. In a bright scarlet blazer, she tracked him with a frown as they took seats at the witness table.
“Uh-oh,” he muttered to Blair.
“I’m surprised too. But I heard Bill Mulholland’s ailing,” his wife murmured. “This could make it interesting.”
No lie, Dan thought. He’d known Sandra Treherne—back then, Sandy Cottrell—at George Washington U years before. With her flushed cheeks—she tended to perspire even in winter—her over-the-edge manner, and her spacey laugh, he’d always suspected she was on something stronger than the hand-rolled Douwe Egberts shags she chain-smoked. Also, she wasn’t above sleeping with professors for an A.
He’d put her in danger, and she’d neither forgotten nor forgiven.
Elected to the House, she’d married up, inheriting Senator Reverdy Treherne’s seat when he died. These days she looked smooth, lustrous, as if sealed over with clear plastic. Her far-out press conferences, outrageous posts, and spectacularly public political feuds made her a perennial on news feeds. For vehemence, weirdness, and caustic divisiveness, the latest podcast of Treherne for Truthism was de rigueur for thousands of followers.
To her left and right the other members arranged papers, settling in. Blair was up at the dais, chatting in low tones with a white-mustached, lordly looking gentleman in a crested blazer. Hollister Peache, from Maryland. One vote, at least; she’d said he was on their side. Behind the witnesses, the seats for the public were largely empty. Since the pandemic and Antiwa riots, the Hill had been closed to visitors. A few members of the credentialed press sat in back, where a pilot light glowed on what he guessed was the C-SPAN feed.
Treherne tapped her gavel and the room quieted. “Next, a hearing on future plans for the military service academies,” she announced. “We’re running a little late today, since all the patriotic members of the House and Senate assembled for a picture. I see staff and support still coming in. Take your seats at once.
“This meeting will come to order. I am Sandra Treherne. I will chair this subcommittee on military personnel. I welcome our witnesses and members of the audience.”
She greeted Blair and “the superintendents and senior staff of our national service academies.” Then smoothed back a coiffure so lacquered it barely moved. “I must preface our proceedings by confessing I was disturbed to read the briefing materials submitted by today’s witnesses. They neglected important shortcomings at their various institutions. Apparently they plan for business as usual while asking for ever larger appropriations.
“That approach won’t satisfy this committee, or the public who pays for these out-of-date, hidebound institutions. They’ve learned nothing and forgotten nothing from the conflict just concluded.
“Also, my good friend Senator Lisabeta Maldonado-Ortega”—she nodded to a young woman in a mauve headscarf, who looked startled at being addressed—“is concerned about the dismaying incidence of sexual assault at these institutions, and the inadequate response to her repeated statements of concern.
“With that, I’ll ask for opening statements from our … distinguished witnesses.”
Dan read his opener second, after Faulcon, from West Point. He kept it short, skipping several paragraphs he figured would do as well on the printed record. He ended, “As the members are aware, Navy suffered major wind and flooding damage from recent hurricanes. The appropriations required to restore grounds, buildings, and facilities are itemized in my report. We request that line item be included in the next National Defense Authorization Act, in addition to the normal operating expenses. This includes—”
Treherne had limited herself to sighing and looking skeptical, but now interrupted. “Does that conclude your remarks, Admiral?”
It didn’t, but he got the point. “I can stop there, Senator,” he said. “If you prefer.”
Treherne lifted her chin, glaring down. “You were responsible for our near disaster in Hainan. Three times more than anyone expected in killed, wounded, and missing. A bloody failure that many say was your direct responsibility.”
Yeah, she was on the warpath. He said, as evenly as he could, “The enemy had a say in that battle, Senator. And with all due respect, it wasn’t a failure. We prevailed, and ended the war.”
“At a huge cost.” She cut off his attempt to respond. “I’m very concerned about what I hear about your institution. Many people say it actively advances a radical woke agenda.”
Whoa. The first time he’d ever heard USNA described as “radical.” “Not true,” Dan said. “Senator.”
“We’ll see. You also submitted to trial in the International Criminal Court. In defiance of national policy.”
One of the other senators murmured an inaudible objection. Treherne half turned. “Yes, I know. But in my opinion, it is germane to institutional leadership.—So, Admiral. Can you be so good as to explain your rationale for disobeying orders, and subjecting the United States to an alien judiciary?”
Dan leaned into the mic. Delicately, he reminded himself. Respectfully. “Ma’am, if you think it’s germane, it’s germane. I will object, though, in that I was never ordered not to go. Only advised that I need not attend. Which is different.”
She opened her mouth to interrupt again, but he plowed on. “As to why I went, I felt I had to clear my name and the reputation of my country. How could I advise the leaders of the future about integrity, if I took the easy way out and evaded judgment? It was a question of honor. If I can use that word here.”
Beside him, Blair hissed an intake of breath. The disbelieving stares, the thunderous frowns from the senators warned him he’d made a misstep. “Um, sorry, that’s not to imply that the Senate isn’t—”
“Oh, your meaning was quite clear, Admiral,” said one senator frostily. A craggy-faced, shaven-headed Black man. “My own service was in Afghanistan.” He held up a prosthetic hand. “So you don’t need to lecture us on honor.”
Shit, Lenson, you’re really stepping on your crank here. Dan rubbed his mouth as another member bent to his mic. “The point being, you violated national sovereignty by appearing before an unrecognized court. Our country must stand alone.”
Dan bobbed his head. “With respect, sir, ma’am. A country with worldwide interests can’t stand without allies. And my appearance led to the rendering up of notorious war criminals by the new Beijing government.”
Treherne glanced at the others, but no one else seemed to have anything to say.
The kerchiefed woman pressed some invisible button. Treherne smiled at her. “Senator Maldonado-Ortega.”
She cleared her throat and began reading what apparently was a prepared question. Dan tried to look attentive as she attacked the Naval Academy as being secretive and elitist. “I’ve visited the place, and was not made welcome,” she said scathingly, eyeing him. “I was stopped at the gate and interrogated. Once inside, I found myself in some kind of right-wing theme park. Everyone was obedient, everyone was patriotic, everyone looked the same. The taxpayer doesn’t need these pampered robots I saw parading around like windup dolls. We need thinking leaders. If we need a military at all.”
Okay, he got it now. Treherne was firing from his right flank, Maldonado-Ortega from the left. Fixing him in the kill zone. Dan started to respond, but the senator went on. “That scrubbed, everything-is-wonderful face you present to the tourists hides moral decay and leadership neglect. Over the past two years, the records show four separate cheating scandals and too many reports of sexual assault to tabulate. Assault and battery. Breaking and entering. Numerous drug charges, including eight fentanyl-related overdoses. Shall I continue?”
Dan leaned to the microphone again. He said as deferentially as he could, “I apologize that you were not immediately admitted to the Yard, Senator. A call to my office ahead of time would have secured you instant access and an attentive escort.
“As to the statistics: We do not and never have had a spotless record. In the cases you cite, the miscreants were identified, punished, and often separated from the service. Wouldn’t it be more concerning if such crimes were never reported? I think it speaks both to our transparency and our rigorous enforcement of the relevant laws and regulations.”
He sat back, and at last got a respite as Treherne called for statements from the other superintendents. But he didn’t like the way she kept eyeing him. With that little smile that meant You are on my shit list, you self-important prick bastard. And you’re going to pay for what you did to me.
The next attack came from the handless vet. “This is for Admiral Lenson. I’d like to follow up on the senator from New York’s point about elitism. I was enlisted, myself. How do you answer charges that your graduates are overwhelmingly white and overwhelmingly from the upper middle class?”
Dan nodded to the commandant, beside him. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll ask General Stocker to field that. She has the latest numbers.” As well, of course, as being living refutation of the charge.
Stocker came in on cue. “Only nine percent of young Americans are interested in serving in the military. Even fewer meet our stringent eligibility requirements. This is the pool we have to recruit from. Our accession figures show increased diversity—more female, minority, and economically disadvantaged accessions—year over year. True, they don’t perfectly reflect the general population. But I’d suggest that isn’t the goal. We want young men and women we can form into the defenders of our nation.”
She paused, ramrod-straight, the very picture of a tough Marine. “Also, true, we extend preference to children of former prisoners of war, those missing in action, and holders of the Medal of Honor. If you think that’s unfair, sir, please tell us how you’d restructure it.”
She got a muttered thank-you, barely loud enough to hear. Dan jotted DIRECT HIT on his tablet and tilted it so she could see. He got the tiniest half wink back.
Treherne tapped her gavel. “General Stocker mentioned producing defenders of our nation. If that’s our goal, why are we teaching critical race theory, gender studies, pardon my French, horseshit like that at a military institution? If we really need professors of queer theory in the Navy, can’t we get them somewhere else a lot cheaper?”
A titter rose behind them; phones were being held up. Yeah, that would be all over the Web this afternoon. Sandy was a media genius. Dan smiled, gave it a beat, then said, “We don’t graduate ‘professors’ in any subject, Senator. We’re not a postgraduate institution.
“As to why we have those studies: naval officers have always needed to know more than how to lay a gun or fly a plane. We teach history, economics, and foreign languages and cultures because they’re crucial to understanding our allies and fighting our enemies. We also need to understand what it means to be gay, bisexual, asexual, agender, or transgender, because those who identify as such will be among the sailors and troops our graduates will lead.
“I personally have served with personnel of all ethnicities and preferences, and learned one very important truth: courage and dedication are not the exclusive preserve of straight white males.”
A disbelieving grin from the woman seated above him. “‘Not the preserve of straight white males.’ I see. But they do still have some value, do they not?”
What was she driving at? He frowned. “Of course they do, Senator.”
“Then answer us this, Admiral. Of your six battalion commanders, your brigade commander, and her deputy, two are Black, two are female, one Korean, a gay Ukrainian, and two are Latinos. Do you deny this is a conscious, deliberate, and sustained program of replacement?”
He sat still for a moment, reviewing the billets. Crap, she was right. But … “Those positions are filled by a well-defined selection process, Senator. The fact none happen to be, um, straight white males at the moment is purely a coincidence.”
“Purely a coincidence,” Treherne repeated sardonically. The words hung in the air.
Belatedly Dan remembered both regimental commanders were white males. But he wasn’t going to play that game. “If I may extend?” he added.
The senator from Maryland waved him on. “Go ahead, Admiral. You have the floor.”
“Yes, sir. Ma’am. As I said, we have a process, but we don’t select by quotas. The sole criterion is demonstrated and potential leadership.
“I believe no ethnicity, or race, or gender, or religion, is inherently superior to any other. The Navy, and our other armed services, need to welcome all who want and are able to serve our country. Into the highest ranks.”
Peache was frowning; shaking his head slightly. Dan took that as a signal he’d said enough. He closed, “That has been my opinion throughout my career, and that is how I am running the United States Naval Academy.”
Treherne scowled, obviously trying to figure a way to flay him some more, but finally lifted a folder. “Let’s go on. I have here a report from the Congressional Budget Office, in coordination with the SecDef’s office. It’s interesting reading.
“One of its options calls for shutting Annapolis down. All Navy officers would then come from the hundred-and-seventy-some civilian colleges and universities that currently host reserve officer programs. Given the cost of rebuilding large portions of your physical plant, that would seem a better … husbanding … of taxpayer dollars.” She grinned down, obviously relishing her pun. And just as obviously, hoping to see him squirm.
He tensed. The report had come through Blair’s office? “If I may, Senator. That’s an old idea, broached many times in the past hundred years. Each time, Congress opted to retain the academies. It’s also been said that after a few months of active duty, the source of one’s commission doesn’t matter. And yes, the reserve programs significantly broaden our talent pool.
“But when you look at retention over the course of a career, the numbers change. At the Academy, mids internalize leadership, integrity, self-discipline, and academic rigor twenty-four seven. That immersion has to have an effect.
“Our grads constitute only thirty percent of all entering ensigns. But a recent survey shows they comprise over forty percent of all Navy captain and Marine colonel grades, over sixty percent of all two-star selects, eighty percent of vice admirals, and upwards of eighty-five percent of four-star-level full admirals.
“I’m not putting down our other sources. Many outstanding officers hail from those colleges. But I think we’re doing something right when we provide the majority of our most senior leaders.”
Treherne was clutching her gavel, giving him the time to shut up now glare, so he hurried to finish. “It’s often said one strength of the American armed forces is our cadre of professional noncommissioned officers. I think another is our senior leadership. They’re often criticized, sometimes rightly so. But they’re the ones—I have to point out—who led our country, and our alliance, to victory against China, Iran, Pakistan, and the other Opposed Powers.”
A graying older senator, who hadn’t participated thus far, twirled half-moon glasses, flourishing a document in his other hand. “You may have a point, Admiral. However, it’s by no means clear how we’re going to fund even the current budget. The cost of rebuilding you cite—it’s just too high.”
Maldonado-Ortega lifted a hand. “Madame Chair? May I call on Dr. Rinaldi, of the Congressional Research Service.”
Treherne waved permission. “Have at it.”
Rinaldi introduced herself, a nervous-looking young woman. Sending graphics via her phone, she presented what she called “the optimal solution, where the objective function reaches peak value”: a single joint undergraduate military college.
Dan massaged his chin as she added, “Modern campaigns are joint operations. Doesn’t it make sense to train cadets to think joint from the start, instead of forcing them to learn Air Force or Space Force or Navy-speak much later in their careers?
“As they specialize, the logical place for Space Force and Air Force pre-commissioning programs is at Colorado Springs, and for the Navy and Army at West Point. Both are on high ground, with much larger acreages than Annapolis and dormitory and educational facilities already in place. Making additional appropriations unnecessary.” She halted, looking both exhausted and triumphant.
“Admiral. Your thoughts?” Treherne smirked down.
This was the study Blair had sent him an early draft of. Dan shuffled paper and located the response he’d drafted. “I respect Dr. Rinaldi’s analysis. Her numbers seem solid. I can’t speak to Colorado Springs. However, courses of study at West Point and Annapolis, and thus to a large extent the facilities required to host them, are simply not the same. Classrooms, athletic and drill fields—okay. Model test tanks, small-arms ranges, artillery ranges, cyber operations facilities, sailing and power craft training, a nuclear power plant to train submarine officers—quite different.”
He cleared his throat. “I understand the budgetary stress. However, if any installations have to be … closed, or abandoned, the most rational course might be to merge the Naval, Coast Guard, and Merchant Marine academies into a new United States Maritime Services Academy.”
Peache, the senator from Maryland, piped up again. “Where would that be located, Admiral?”
He hated to weasel, but … “Uh, I’d decline to register an opinion without further study. So I’m not advocating that. Only pointing out another option.”
Treherne looked to Dan’s left. “We’ve yet to hear from the secretary of defense. The Honorable Blair Titus. Ma’am?”
Dan sat back, trying to feign disinterest as Blair read her statement. But it wasn’t easy. She had to cut costs, with the country desperate to rebuild in so many other ways. Contaminated cropland to be remediated. Transport infrastructure rebuilt. Hundreds of thousands of demobilized veterans to reeducate, care for, and find jobs for.
But the world was still a dangerous place.
Blair took her time, arranging materials in front of her. Adjusting glasses she really didn’t need, but they made her look more credible. At last she looked up. “Gentlemen, ladies, Ms. Chair, thank you for the opportunity to testify. Are we accessing and training our military leaders in the best possible way, at the least possible cost? Let’s review the statistics.”
She traced accession rates, retention rates, and referred again to Dan’s point about senior officers. The senators listened, but the kerchiefed woman fidgeted impatiently. Finally she burst in. “This background’s interesting, Madam Secretary. But what are your recommendations going forward?”
Blair laid her binder aside. Removed her glasses. “I’ll leave the remainder of my prepared remarks for the printed record. As you wish, Senator, I’ll proceed to my recommendations.
“DoD, and the country, have a considerable amount of sunk costs in these facilities over the decades. In some cases, such as Quarters 100 at West Point, over two hundred years. Not an investment to be lightly discarded.
“Still less to be lightly set aside, though, are the immeasurables. The traditions our academies transmit from our past into our future. In peace and war, these expectations of service, honor, and courage are the reason we’ve never had a traitor or spy in the ranks of our senior armed services. We take this for granted. But it would be hard to find such a record in the ranks of our global competitors.”
The veteran tossed his head. “You’re whitewashing a lotta history there, Madam Secretary. We had traitors, all right. At the highest levels.”
She nodded. “The Confederacy. Granted, Senator. But since then, I’ll place our record against any other country’s.”
“You credit the academies for this?” Maldonado-Ortega raised an eyebrow.
“I do, ma’am. They set a standard the others strive to emulate. And I believe they’re making a good faith effort to erase prejudice of all kinds in their ranks.
“That battle may never end, since we recruit from a society that’s not always perfect, either. But our military’s the most inclusive institution in America. When it falls short, that calls for more effort. Not abandoning the battlefield.” She smiled. “My recommendation: we stay the course with all four academies and seek savings elsewhere. You’ll find that position in our budget submission.
“Thank you for your attention.”
A scowling, red-faced Treherne announced a recess. She retreated through a door behind the dais, followed by most of the other members. Peache stayed, chatting with Blair again. Dan sat reviewing his numbers.
The recess ended. A comptroller reviewed current appropriations for building and maintenance at each academy. Dan pretended to study his handout as the bean counter droned on.
When he yielded the floor at last, Treherne tapped her gavel. “Time for a vote. I move that this subcommittee cut to the chase, and recommend the disestablishment of at least one of these expensive, obsolete institutions. Whichever would require the largest expenditure to continue operations. If someone will second?”
The disabled vet said “second” at the same time Maldonado-Ortega did.
“Moved and seconded,” Treherne said. “Any discussion?”
She meant, obviously, by the committee members, but Dan lifted his hand. “Before the vote, may I make a further statement? With a short video presentation.”
“We’ve given you more than enough time, Admiral,” Treherne snapped. “You and your … spouse. Who’s obviously in cahoots with you.”
The senator from Maryland cleared his throat. “Madam Chair? I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“So would I,” drawled the twirler of glasses.
Dan could see his time would be brief. He nodded to Bonar, who’d been busy to the side with one of the room’s supporting technicians.
“First of all,” Dan said, “I’ll speak to the central purpose the national academies, as well as other military colleges, including VMI and the Citadel, were meant to serve.
“The founders realized the real security of our country lay in the hands of its citizens. Our major wars have been fought with mass armies, mostly volunteers and draftees.
“But they also realized a mass levy would not suffice on its own. A stiffening cadre was essential. A nucleus around which to rally, and that could hold the line until reserves and volunteers mustered and trained. A steel core of professionalism.
“Annapolis serves that purpose. Our graduates have carried the Navy to perseverance and ultimate victory through the darkest hours of American history.
“But to continue to succeed, our institutions must adapt to a rapidly changing society, while still providing leaders in case of war.
“Some say we have to harden our graduates against adversity. That’s true. Others say they need broad views, to anticipate the future. They’re right as well. But above all, we have to emphasize integrity. Without that, we won’t produce graduates our citizens will trust.
“To continue that mission, let me present a model.”
He nodded to Bonar, and a three-dimensional planform leapt to existence on the big screen. Several senators twisted to look up before realizing they had the same display on the monitors before them.
Dan said, “Our engineering faculty developed this model. Instead of relocating or merging, we’ll move some operations to higher ground, demolishing or relocating aging officer housing along Porter Road.” They vanished from the screen. “Replacing them with modern homes across the river.”
The image evolved. A blue tide rose, first probing, then infiltrating among the remaining buildings. “Meanwhile, instead of fighting the rising sea, we welcome it in. Retaining Bancroft and most of our current plant by removing the failing fill between Stribling and other roads, and using that material to elevate the walks.” The lowest areas vanished, replaced by a rippling blue-green. “The result will resemble Venice, with canals and short bridges. Floating structures may also prove useful. In fact, the Academy once had what were called station ships—Constitution, Santee, Reina Mercedes. Mooring a retired destroyer or frigate in the river adds the opportunity for hands-on instruction on shipboard systems.”
He took a millisecond to sweep the faces on the dais. They seemed to be following, but who knew if they agreed. He plunged on. “Most buildings in the Lower Yard are set on deep pilings. They’ll be fine as the water rises, if we reconfigure the lower floors.
“At the same time, we’d convert the entire installation to a zero carbon emission facility, erecting solar panels between buildings and above athletic fields. Those will do double duty by providing shade during summer training.”
They winked into existence on the screen, a glittering array between buildings and covering the roofs.
Dan pressed on. “This plan, Naval Academy 2100, will be cheaper than relocating and building anew. It will keep us at our historic location, and let us survive predicted storm tides and sea level rise up to the end of this century.”
There, that should do it. Congress loved to kick the can down the road? Put off major decisions as long as they could? He’d done his damnedest to give them the opportunity.
He glanced along the row of what felt like fellow defendants. The other superintendents. He got back cautious nods, but no offers to back up his testimony. The senators’ expressions yielded no clues. Save for Peache, who shot him a covert thumbs-up, they seemed bemused.
Had he just sealed the Academy’s fate?
“Perhaps we don’t need our witnesses for the vote,” Treherne said icily. She smiled down. “Thank you all for your service. And for your very imaginative testimony.”
Bonar shut down his projection. The witnesses and experts rose. And departed, as a heated discussion erupted behind them.
He was standing on the steps outside, checking his emails on his phone, when one caught his eye. You might want to see this. From: Jason Schultz.
He puzzled for a moment before he remembered. The cyber prof. Schultz had mentored the mid who’d nearly crashed Kazakhstan’s electrical grid. He opened the email.
One of our Cyber majors scraped this off a post, Schultz had written. While we were researching the Future Academy project for Jerry Bonar. We had to work on it a bit, but this is what we found.
Dan clicked on the video.
It rocked crazily, obviously shot on a speeding boat. He recognized Annapolis harbor. Audio cut in. A rowdy bunch of teens, high schoolers, the guys in trunks and the girls in bikinis. They were passing beers around, laughing, careening through the anchorage, pumping air rifles and shooting them pop, pop at other boats as they passed.
“What is it?” Blair asked him.
“Just a minute.” Dan moved aside, to let others pass on the steps, and held the phone closer to his eyes. A tinny voice tinkled above the snarl of three hulking Suzuki outboards.
“Hey, how ’bout that asshole.” A pointed finger followed a figure leaping rock to rock along the seawall.
The video halted. Used AI image enhancer here, Schultz wrote in a tag. Cleared and recovered detail on four sequential frames.
The first wide angle showed three of the teens aiming their rifles. Then the picture zoomed in on the upper left corner.
The next frame, blown up, caught the runner in midair. The next showed the figure stumbling. The last frame showed him down, rolling, tumbling toward the water with arms flung out as the shooters’ heads swung away, not even seeing what they’d done.
He lowered the phone, horrified, but at the same time … relieved.
That’s what had happened to Evans. Where the curious sting marks had come from.
No deep state plot. No antiwhite conspiracy. Just a bunch of drunken, thoughtless young civilians, shooting air rifles. They’d hit the brigade commander in his leap from one boulder to the next. The sudden unexpected lashing stings had startled him, made him miss his footing, strike his head, fall to his death.
Dan stood contemplating it. Then forwarded the clip and email to St. Audrey Larkin, mayor of Annapolis, to send on to her chief of police.