The morning sun was just rising, a blazing-red flame torching the bay horizon as Dan rounded the seawall and started his jog back. He was taking it slower now. A lightning-sharp jab from his knee half a mile ago, when he’d essayed a wind sprint, had reminded him he wasn’t twenty anymore.
Today’s schedule was full. Event after event, capped by the last formal parade of the year, with the most prestigious guests.
Summer at last, after a harrowing year. This was Commissioning Week, with the Ring Dance, concerts, and receptions. The Herndon climb, when plebes became youngsters. Awards ceremonies and tours of the guest ship … which he was jogging past now, the gray hull of a Wartime Improved destroyer looming above the seawall. USS Cobie Kasson, a decorated veteran of the Pacific War. Even this early, mids and their families were queuing to go aboard.
May Week would end with graduation, when the first class received commissions as ensigns, US Navy, or second lieutenants, US Marine Corps.
An unforgettable week for everyone, from supe to the youngest mid in the Yard.
The knee administered another jab. “Ow. Shit!” he hissed, barely catching himself before he went down. Crap, that had really hurt.
He slowed to a walk as he approached the boat basin. Sighing, he looked after a yawl as it put-putted out into the river, decks crowded with mids and dates. He’d placed an order for a new boat, but it wouldn’t be delivered for months.
And Blair had made an offer on the house across the river. It looked out on a sheltered inlet, so he’d have deep water and a pier.
He still couldn’t quite believe he’d be retiring. The Navy had been his life. How would he fill the remaining years? Living with Blair twenty-four seven, once she left the Pentagon … That would take some getting used to, as well.
He lifted his gaze to a blue sky streaked with only the faintest tint of rose. Seagulls whirled screaming as another yawl cast off. He closed his lids, enjoying the sun on his face, the blood-scarlet brightness.
It looked like the weather would be perfect today.
Zero eight hundred. In fresh high-collared whites he stood with Leslie Stocker on the Bancroft steps. The companies fell in on the worn golden bricks. Swords flashed. The clear, assertive shouts echoed around T-Court.
As muster proceeded the ’dant brought him up to date, muttering out of the side of her mouth. “Like I figured, once I put the word out so many minority and queer mids joined their little club it changed everything.” She squinted into the sun, hands locked behind her. “Might even have changed some minds, once they hashed things out. And the social media bullshit … that’s dying down too. When we didn’t even give them a ‘no comment.’”
Dan nodded. Yeah, that was good news. “But don’t let your guard down.”
“Roger, sir. The battle never ends.”
The ranks of men and women, starched whites glowing so brightly in the sun he had to squint too, snapped to parade rest. The brigade commander halted before the steps. Came to attention. The bright steel of her blade flashed in the air, and from the roped-off area where the parents and tourists stood came oohs and aahs as if someone had executed a perfect gymnastic routine. “Ma’am, sir! The Brigade of Midshipmen, present and accounted for.”
Solemnly, they returned the salute.
Back in Dan’s office, Mrs. Marsh reminded him there was a signing at the Mid Store that morning. “Mr. Naylor. He wrote the book about—”
“Yeah. I remember.” Naylor’s latest volume was about the prospects for a postwar peace. “I’m gonna skip it, I think. If I go, it might look like an endorsement. Have you seen Nan yet? She was supposed to be here this morning.”
“I called. Your daughter’s delayed on the road, but she’ll be here for the reception.”
Dr. Nan Lenson certainly seemed to be spending a lot of time away from the Yard, considering she was supposed to be living here. Acting as his cohost, when Blair couldn’t. “Thanks. What else we got?”
“Zero nine hundred, meeting with a possible donor. Torgild Schrade. He mentioned ten million, to go toward rebuilding.”
More glad-handing, and he’d never liked the guy, but he forced a smile. “Look forward to it. Then?”
“Ten hundred, staff conference room. Master Chief Wenck’s retiring; thought you might want to say something.”
“Absolutely. Anything back on his DSM yet?” Dan had put him in for the Distinguished Service Medal, quite a few notches up from the usual decoration for a retiring senior enlisted. But Donnie had earned it, both in peace and war.
“I’ll call again. Make sure they understand we’re running out of time … then the Brigade change of command. T-Court, noon.”
Yeah, no breathing room today. He smiled at her, went to sit down, but his knee jabbed again. “Ow. And could you maybe … locate a couple of Aleves?”
The meeting with Schrade went well. Ten million would help, and there didn’t seem to be any strings attached. The conference went smoothly too. He spoke without notes, and Wenck kept shaking his head and looking embarrassed. Another change of uniform, and Dan headed back to T-Court for the change of command.
Not his own; not yet. Once again, he stood beside Stocker between the age-greened cannons of Bancroft Hall. Once again, swords flashed.
He tensed as a howl grew in the distance. Then relaxed as thunder filled the sunlit Yard. The Blue Angels, arriving for the graduation flyover. Welded wingtip to wingtip, they drew a wide circle over the river, the town, the Bay. Then arrowed in for a final pass just above the Chapel. The scream of turbines was past deafening.
“Sir, ma’am, I stand relieved,” Midshipman Commander Oshry shouted as the Angels faded in the distance.
“I have the watch,” the newly appointed striper reported.
Once again, Dan and the ’dant returned the salute.
That afternoon he strolled out into the garden behind his house, LeCato trailing him, the aide looking harried. Dan suppressed a wince, trying not to limp. All those years of running had to be paid for, it seemed. But his house staff had the party catered, flowers set out on tables. The buffet tables were crowded solid with hors d’oeuvres and finger foods, Maryland crab cakes, steamed shrimp, penne pasta salad, chicken with pineapple and red peppers, lemonade, iced tea. A uniformed and sunglassed trio from the band were playing light airs. The azaleas were in full bloom.
His daughter, in a long pale-jade green dress, joined him in the receiving line. Her hair was styled differently, long enough now for a pageboy cut. She looked healthier, with even a hint of tan. A new tattoo on one bare shoulder.
With a start, Dan registered a guy beside her in slacks and an open-necked shirt. Glasses. A studious look. Sparse brown hair, already in retreat, and some kind of stubbly almost-beard like detectives wore on television. “Great, you made it,” he told her, eyeing the guy sideways. “And I really like that dress.”
“Thanks, uh, Dad.” She rubbed her mouth. The same way he did when puzzled or nervous.
“Valerie said you hit traffic.”
“That was one reason I was late.” She took the hand of the man beside her. “This is Owen Brockmeier. He teaches at American U.”
They shook hands, Dan glancing toward the receiving line. They should be over there now. He almost said, This isn’t the guy you were dating last year. But bit his tongue. “Good to meet you, uh, Owen. Are you—would you be why my daughter’s spending so much time in DC?”
“Actually,” she said quietly, holding out her left hand, “he’s striking for a promotion. As you’d say.”
It took him a moment to register the ring. Not an immense stone, but a diamond nonetheless.
“The sunlight, um, really makes it sparkle?” she said. Tentatively, as if he was going to disagree.
This was news. “Hm,” he said, checking the guy out again. He carried himself well. The handshake was firm enough. But they were engaged, and she hadn’t even brought him home for inspection? “Uh, this is a, um, surprise. But … hell, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” He shook the guy’s hand again, forcing a smile.
“Actually, Admiral, we have something else to tell you too,” Brockmeier said.
“Call me Dan. Yeah? I look forward to talking some more. Right now, you’ll have to excuse us. The greeting line. Help yourself, have some lemonade.”
He and Nan welcomed the first guests, two women accompanying a female first class. He asked how far they’d come, about their daughter’s career plans. Handed them off to Burke-Bowden and turned to the next folks in line.
In a long line. Nan stood beside him, chatting brightly with each parent or alum about the weather and the gardens, then inviting them to the buffet as the trio swung into a jazz tune.
“I’d have liked to have met this guy before you were engaged,” he asided between guests. “But if he’s nice to you—then, fine. This other news—?”
“Oh, that. How would you feel about being a grandfather?” She patted her midriff, smiling.
He stared, forgetting to breathe. Then forced a welcoming smile for the next couple. “Dan Lenson. Great to see y’all. So glad you could make it.”
Was she afraid of his reaction, that she was telling him at a public event? He wasn’t that hard-ass of a dad.
Was he?
A grandfather. He’d thought of it now and then, as a theoretical possibility, but not imminent. Now, apparently, the keel had been laid. When the line dwindled, he got to talk to Brockmeier a bit. He taught economics. Assistant prof. He seemed … all right. Not nearly good enough for Nan, of course. But maybe she could have done worse.
This would take some getting used to. He considered cautioning his prospective son-in-law about all the radiation Nan had gotten in the bombed-out Midwest. But … that was her story, not his. She’d tell him, if she hadn’t already. And have all the risks and percentages at her fingertips.
“Lemonade, Admiral?” His aide held out a beaded glass jangling with ice.
Dan took a long sip of the sweet tartness. Lifted his face to the sun again. And smiled.
He was sitting it out under the arbor, Nan beside him. Along with everything else, she had an offer from a biotech startup in Baltimore. “The headhunter counteroffered and got me an extra thirty thousand base. Plus options. And my own parking spot. I’d come in as VP of Research.”
“That’s fantastic,” he was saying, when his phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Lenson,” he said tentatively.
“Admiral? Hold for Senator Peache, please.”
The congressman from Maryland. Good news, or bad? He said, still on hold, “So. Got wedding plans yet? Where do the two of you plan to live?”
She looked at her lap. “Well … Owen’s apartment’s too small for two. Much less three. I was wondering, since you and Blair won’t be using the house in Arlington … at least for a while, to start with? We’d pay rent, of course. And we’d keep a bedroom ready for you.”
He nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll talk to Blair.”
A voice came on the line. The same honeyed-smooth tones as at the committee hearing. “Admiral? Hollister Peache here.”
Dan turned away, cupping the phone to his ear to mute the music and chatter around them. LeCato stepped between him and the crowd. “Yes, sir, Senator! Good to hear from you.”
“Just thought you should hear this first from me. USNA 2100 looks to be a go.”
He swallowed, waving away an aggressive bumblebee. Wondering if he’d heard that right. “You’re saying…?”
“It’s in the budget, and the leadership assures me it’ll pass.”
“So … we’re keeping the Academy here?” It felt too good to believe.
“In Maryland, at Annapolis, yes. Though we didn’t get the funding we asked for, for your reconstruction—what I call the Lenson Academy.” A chuckle; Dan started to object, but Peache was still talking. “That is, we didn’t get it in the defense budget. Which your wife’s still determined to cut.”
“We didn’t? Sorry, I don’t follow, Senator.”
“Not in the defense budget. We shoehorned it into the infrastructure stimulus. We have the votes. Both sides of the aisle. Start planning when to start construction … I might suggest some bidders to consider, later in the process.”
Dan mumbled something, thanked him for his efforts. He’d been so prepared for failure he wasn’t sure how to respond to success.
Peache signed off, and Dan lowered the phone. Blinking up at the Chapel dome as the clatter of conversation around him continued. He’d have to tell Bonar. Finalize a schedule and milestones. Start the process for delisting a few of the oldest buildings from the National Register, though some would probably have to be moved rather than demolished.
It would take years, of course. But he could get things rolling before he left.
The bee came back, hovering near his chest, obviously attracted to the bright colors of his ribbons. The aide moved in to wave it away, but Dan shook his head. Stepped back, slowly, into the arbor, until the scents of the flowers distracted it, redirected its simple senses, and it buzzed up and away, losing interest in him.
Burke-Bowden came over, carrying an iced tea, looking self-important as usual. “Good news, Admiral?”
Jeez, word traveled fast. Or maybe his deputy had his own sources. Dan nodded, letting a smile break. “I think so. Yeah.”
A victory. Not for himself, but for the Academy. It would sail on, for the rest of the century.
Which was all anyone could ask for, after all.
He let his gaze return to his daughter. Slim. Radiant. She looked happy. Laughing, smiling up at the young man she’d chosen to share her life with. A new beginning after so much darkness.
He steeled himself against the old feeling creeping back. That he didn’t deserve any of this. But like a determined insect, it kept returning.
He’d just have to keep dodging its sting.
He’d kept the visit close to his chest, not released beyond his personal staff. And his house staff, of course; they had to be told why the Secret Service was casing the place, inspecting the basement, scanning for bugs. He doubled the guard at the gate too.
When the armored limo eased to a halt in front of the Supe’s House, he was out front to welcome the vice president. Justin Yangerhans moved in a scrum, an aide beside him, six Secret Service agents boxing them in. Five paces back a lieutenant commander in whites swung a worn-looking black satchel, a backup of the “football” that followed the president herself. Dan remembered when he’d carried that fatal briefcase himself, years before.
Dan’s former commander in the Pacific was grayer than during the war. Towering, bent, he still resembled Lincoln. The first thing he said was, “Tell me there’s a head here, Dan.”
Dan showed him to a small bathroom in a converted closet. “Not very big, Mr. Vice President, but it’s historic. Franklin Roosevelt stayed here now and then before he headed to Cairo and Yalta. He wanted a toilet on the ground floor.”
Yangerhans nodded, looking exhausted. “Neat,” he said, and closed the door. A Secret Service agent stepped in front, facing out.
Blair led Dan a few paces away. “Ready for some good news?”
Apparently this was his lucky day. Could she too be … no, unlikely. “You bet.”
She told him about the appropriation. He smiled and nodded, making sure to look surprised. He didn’t mention Peache’s call. Maybe it wasn’t in the defense budget, but since Blair was Yangerhans’s former campaign manager, Dan was sure she’d had more to do with the appropriation than even the senator from Maryland knew. “That’s great,” he said. “I’ve got news too. It’s about Nan. She’s engaged—”
“And expecting. She told me already.”
He shook his head. As usual, behind the curve. “Oh. Well … now, if I could just get a little kiss from the SecDef—”
She looked stern, but gave him a peck on the lips. The Secret Service looked on stone-faced. Yeah, they’d probably seen a lot worse. Like he’d witnessed himself in the West Wing.
When the veep came out, Dan introduced him to Nan, and the three of them led him through the house. Yangerhans admired the original oils and the girandole mirrors that had belonged to Commodore James Lawrence. He caressed the glossy varnish of the captain’s table from USS Constitution and sat for a moment at the Reid desk, where the US flag had been designed.
Seeing how tired the man looked, Dan cut the tour short. A bar was set up in the sunroom. Sunlight glowed off polished wood and antique brass. Overhead fans stirred the warm air. The Secret Service dispersed to the windows, staring out at the Chapel, down at the garden. One raised a hand, murmuring into a mic. A sniper waved back from the roof of Dahlgren Hall.
Yangerhans asked for a tall tonic, lime. “Too friggin’ hot for alcohol,” he sighed, gradually folding himself down onto a wicker settee. Blair and Nan settled on either side; Dan took a chair facing their guest. The military aide waited at the door, the satchel between his white bucks. “We’ve got to stand out there for how long?” the veep added, wiping his forehead.
Dan grinned. “Only as long as you want to, Mr. Vice President. You’re the boss.”
Yangerhans nodded. He looked like he had a lot on his mind. “So, how’s it going here?”
Dan spread his hands. “Some challenges. But I think we’ve got ’em snubbed off. For now, at least.”
“You’re here how much longer?”
“It’s a three-year tour, Mr. Vice President.”
“Jeez, Dan. It was ‘Jim’ during the war. Plans, after that?”
“I’m timing out, sir. Jim. The US Code says I have to retire after this tour.”
“You look like there’s still a few years left in you.” He turned to hand the drained glass to one of Dan’s house staff. “Refill, please?—Y’know, retired senior officers sometimes get called back. For special duties.”
Dan shot a glance at Blair. No signal came back. “Well … we’re buying a house here … and I was hoping to get some serious sailing in. Maybe even do an around-the-world.”
His wife snorted. “Over my dead body,” she said, at the same time his daughter murmured, “Oh, Dad.”
Yangerhans nodded sagely, not appearing totally invested in the conversation. His lids drifted downward. Then his head began to nod.
Dan said, “You know, Jim, we don’t have to be out on the field for two hours yet. If you wanted to grab a few minutes, there’s a spare bedroom upstairs. I could send a sandwich up too.”
Yangerhans stirred. He glanced at the aide, then at one of the security people. He heaved himself up. “You know, I’m gonna take you up on that. This job … anyway. Lead me to it.”
Dan showed him up the curving stairs, preceded by two agents, and followed by the aide with the ever-present satchel.
The Color Parade was the last full-dress march-past before the graduating class walked. The lines of blue and gold and white snaked onto the field. With Blair, Burke-Bowden, and Stocker, Dan took his position on the green. Back straight. Head up. Squinting in the blinding afternoon sun. Sweat trickled under his choker whites. A sailboat floated motionless as a photo in a recruiting brochure. The parents, tourists, alums, invitees fanned themselves under the tents. The awnings offered shade, but no relief from the heat.
The band played four ruffles and flourishes, then “Hail, Columbia” as Yangerhans made his entrance, striding out to take his place beside Dan. He stood relaxed and gangly, looking peppier after his nap.
The National Anthem. A man and woman took a knee, to scowls from the Old Grads. The Rowdy Twins, seeking the limelight as usual. The alums around them stared and muttered. Finally, surreptitiously, while they were kneeling, they abstracted their chairs, so they’d have to stand for the rest of the afternoon.
Yangerhans made his remarks, complimenting the Brigade, then awarding decorations. Master Chief Wenck’s had come through just in time. The color honoree—no longer a “color girl”—in traditional white dress, sun hat, and pearls, presented the award pennant to the winning company. The cannons’ flat-sounding reports thudded back from the granite of Alumni Hall and the concrete of the ugly new parking garage and the Edwardian façades of the senior officers’ mansions, with muted echoes from Cemetery Hill.
Hands behind him at parade rest, Dan muttered, “Is there some way to shorten this next year? Like, as the heat index rises?”
Burke-Bowden, shocked: “We’ve been doing it this way since 1867, Admiral.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for a change.”
Shorten them, sure, but he understood now what they accomplished. The way he understood now what a lot of what he’d once considered mindless rote was for.
The loud, clear voice of the brigade commander rang out. “Pass … in … review.”
The band struck up, and the blue-and-gold guidons rose.
The slightest zephyr cooled his face, bringing with it the salt-scent of the river, the Bay, the sea. The color company reached the turn point, and he could call from memory column left, harch, through the blare of the trumpets, the beat of the drums, as they headed toward him down the field.
Dan came to attention between the vice president and the secretary of defense as the band struck up “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Burke-Bowden stepped to the mic. He announced the lead company, then the name, home city, and state of its commander. A sword glittered in the sunlight, then snapped down. “Eyes … right.”
Dan lifted his arm, aligning his fingers in the bent-wristed Navy salute, as the so-familiar smells of bruised grass and acrid cannon smoke arrived on the wind. They plucked obscure neurons and glia, calling forth the mystery of memory, more durable, more ageless, somehow, than always-fleeting reality.
Suddenly he was twenty again. The glaring heat. The sun slanting through the choking dust. The tightness of the leather-stiffened choker collar. The gleaming blade of the dolphin-decorated saber tight against his shoulder.
Then another column left, into the homestretch, as you matched cadence and dress and cover. A line of white gloves, swinging as one, and suddenly and inevitably the band would hit those slow, deep, brassy notes that made the hair prickle on the back of your neck. And eyes right and you snapped your head around to meet the calm, level gaze of the dignified old man who’d stood ramrod straight, so many years before, returning your salute.
Now he held that salute himself, meeting the gazes of young men and women as they in turn marched past. Their shining unlined faces seemed to glow with an inner light. An ideal, preserved against all odds in an age when faiths and beliefs had gone west with the fey.
Of duty. Of country. Of being true to oneself.
That was the final secret the Academy guarded, in its deepest and most sacred heart.
Was it illusion? Fantasy? Even forty years later he couldn’t say for sure.
He stifled a sneeze as the wind gusted, as the pollen-laden dust blew over them.
Unbidden, more memories rose.…
Boarding his first ship. Pushing through a curtain of steam into a life that would present challenges beyond anything he’d foreseen.
Hauling down the flag, and sailing as a pirate on the high seas.
Cradling a newborn in his arms in a leaking skiff in a hurricane.
Boarding a North Korean submarine, to confront the enemy face-to-face.
Trapped in a wrecked, sinking helicopter.
Staggering through the howling white of an Arctic blizzard.
Screaming as a Mukhabarat torturer turned up the electricity.
Holding an invasion force to the flaming wheel of combat, when every voice urged retreat.
After it all, why was he still uncertain? Still wondering, at the sheer mystery of existence?
But I got what I wanted, he thought. Seen the world. Served my country.
And even learned a few things.
What glory was: a snare, an illusion masking the brutal reality of war.
What duty was: accomplishing the mission, without thought for yourself.
What integrity was: telling the truth, and keeping your word.
What honor was: acting so you could live with what you’d done. No matter what others said.
What the truest compass for a life was: the one you calibrated for yourself, from your own experience.
And who he was, himself: A man, a sailor, a leader who’d tried his best to meet what life had thrown at him. And done not too badly, he hoped, in the end.
“Eyes … front,” came a high, youthful shout, and a saber whipped down.
Yangerhans lowered his hand from his heart, and Dan dropped his own salute. Burke-Bowden droned on, announcing the next company. Nevada. Michigan. California. Puerto Rico. North Carolina. Texas.
They came from all over. The best the country could muster. To be welded into one. United. Indivisible. Just like the pledge.
He thanked whatever gods might be, that he’d been part of it all.
The drumbeats faded. The last company left the field, trailed by the band. The air shivered empty. The dust blew past, sparkling in the scarlet sunlight. The reviewing party relaxed, mopping foreheads, easing backs, retiring for iced tea in the shade of the VIP tent.
Dan started to follow, then turned back. To stand for a moment yet on a field echoing with ghosts.
His gaze lifted again, to trace the graceful arc of a shaken-out spinnaker. The heart-stopping curve of a hull as it heeled, sending a widening ripple out over the cat’s-paws of a freshening breeze.
Departing the bounds of land, and aimed forever outward, to the open sea.