Dan stood on the deck of his sloop in the mooring basin, hosing down the topsides. She hadn’t done well in storage. A smell of decomposition in the forward cabin had led him to a leaking hatch. The zincs were gone, signaling possible corrosion in the shaft and bronze through-hulls. On the plus side, the surveyor had okayed his standing rigging, and the sails were safe in their sealed bags.
After a haulout at Pretty Lake, new bottom paint, and a sole replacement, he’d wanted to run her up to Annapolis himself. But his schedule made that impossible. A hired captain had brought her in the day before. Now he was looking forward to day-sailing the upper Bay, maybe taking a cruise down the Eastern Shore.
And once he retired, the ocean would be open to him.
The weather had turned cool. The Brigade was back from its far-flung summer deployments: cruises, sub school, Pensacola, marine training. Apparently one of the travelers had brought bedbugs to the sixth wing. Mattresses were being replaced and insecticide sprayed. Stocker and the medical team assured him the infestation was contained. Dan had gotten through Parents Weekend, with help from his daughter.
“I might have to take off at short notice, if they need me in Basel,” Nan had told him when he’d called. “The Global Virome Project the CDC set me up for. But I can break my lease and come down, until they’re ready for me.”
Dan had felt guilty. It felt like an imposition, and he couldn’t pay her, except out of his own pocket. Which he was happy to do. But then again … she’d spent most of her growing-up years with his ex-wife, while he’d been at sea and then at war. It would be great to spend some actual time with her. “Sure, okay,” he’d said at last. “It’ll be great to have you here. If you really don’t mind.”
He was in his office at 0800, going over sewage treatment with the rep from town, when Mrs. Marsh poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but the commandant’s on the line.” She smiled at the rep. “Maybe you could return tomorrow?”
Dan excused himself, intuiting from her tone it was bad news. Once alone he picked up. “Lenson.”
“Stocker here, sir. Figured you’d better hear this from me first. Midshipman Evans was found dead, out on Farragut Field.”
“What? Oh, no. The brigade commander?” That tall, graceful, self-assured young midshipman. A moment later he remembered: who’d also founded the Anglo-Saxon studies club.
“Yes, sir. A promising young officer.”
Farragut Field was the stretch of level green fronting the open Bay. “What was he doing there? And what’s Medical say?”
“One of the groundkeepers found him. In running gear. Bruises, but no definite cause of death so far. Maybe an aneurysm? It might take a formal postmortem.”
The first death in the Brigade during his tour. Though in a student body of over four thousand, accidents and medical issues weren’t unknown. During PT, athletics, even fit young human beings sometimes simply … gave out. He asked what the procedure was. Stocker said, “We can request a consultation from the armed forces medical examiners. They’d send someone from Baltimore. But we need your chop for that.” Stocker didn’t sound upset, but then again, she’d fought in Syria and Taiwan.
“Have you called the parents?”
“Not yet, sir. I’ll do so now.”
“No, that’s my job. LAN me contact info, and a summary of his record.”
“I’ll write a statement for the PAO to release,” Marsh said.
“Verbal, or signed?” Dan asked Stocker.
“Sir?”
“The request for coroner assistance. Verbal, or signed?”
“It’ll be a digital signature, Admiral. I’ll send it to Valerie ASAP.” A pause, then Stocker added, in a lower tone, “There are also several rifles missing.”
Dan tensed. Each mid was issued an Army-surplus M-14, kept in their rooms. They served for drill and parade better than modern weapons, which were less tolerant of abuse than walnut and steel. “Uh, those aren’t fireable, correct?”
“No, sir. Barrel torch-cut, welded bolt face, no firing pin. But still—”
“Right, we have to account for them. ASAP. Should I come over?”
Stocker said that was up to him.
He phoned Evans’s parents—a difficult conversation, but one he owed them—then hiked over to Bancroft. Dark clouds threatened, but rain didn’t seem imminent. A steady flow of mids streamed past, and each one had to salute him. By the time he got to Bancroft his arm was sore.
Sick bay was how he remembered it. Sterile blue tile walls, waxed decks, the mingled astringencies of wintergreen and Betadine. The medical officer led him down a row of cubicles. A marine stood before one. He drew the curtain aside for Dan as Stocker came in, accompanied by a short, possibly pregnant blonde Dan recognized after a moment as the Academy’s public affairs officer, Commander Madison Burnbright, USNR.
Evans lay nude save for blue-and-gold running shorts. He looked unchanged except for chin stubble. Eyes closed, he could have been asleep. On one pale arm, the blue tracing of some kind of runic tattoo. Tattoos were regulation now, as long as uniform sleeves covered them.
Dan nodded to the doctor. “What about this bruise on the side of his head?”
The doc, in green scrubs, crossed her arms. “Best guess, he was running the seawall. Missed his footing, went down, struck his temple. Fell into the water and drowned.”
Dan nodded thoughtfully. Tragic, but he could see that happening.
“That’s mainly based on where we found him.” Stocker looked both grim and not that upset. As if she was used to it. Dan had seen corpses before too, but few so young and godlike. Usually they’d been ripped apart by high explosive or charred by flame.
“I heard aneurysm,” he said.
“We really can’t say just yet.” The doctor bent. “One thing I noticed, here.” She turned the boy’s head to the left, revealing a small raised pink spot on the neck. Moved down to the torso and pointed to another.
“What are those?”
“I don’t know. I doubt they’re responsible for his death. But there are other possibilities. Than simply slipping and falling.”
“Such as?”
“Well … usually, when someone this age dies, this fit, it’s some form of congenital anomaly. Myocarditis. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Also … drugs could be involved. Or even too many energy drinks, if there’s an underlying condition. But I’d need permission to investigate.”
She didn’t mean parental permission. Mids were emancipated as soon as they took the oath. But he had a tough time believing the brigade commander had been into cocaine or meth. Finally he said, “I’ll request assistance from the military, uh, investigators. Coroners. Have the specialists handle this. Any problem with that?”
“No, sir. We installed a chill locker during the pandemic.”
“Good.” Dan nodded to Stocker. “Do we have eyes on the seawall? See if we have camera coverage. Maybe that’ll give us a better idea what happened. Also … we have a deputy brigade commander, right? To take over his responsibilities?”
“Yessir. Midshipman First Class Juliane Oshry. From New York. Supe’s List, NCAA champion gymnast, a born leader since her Plebe Summer. She won’t miss a beat stepping up.”
Dan halted as a suspicion flared. “Wait a minute. Uh, what company was he in? Evans?”
“Eighth, Admiral,” the doctor said.
“I was addressing the commandant, Doctor. Colonel, the missing … equipment. What company?”
Stocker murmured, gaze averted, “Eighth.”
He frowned. “I’d have considered that significant, if you’d mentioned it, Colonel. Why didn’t you?”
“I just found out before coming down here, sir.”
“Get the company officer on deck. The company commander. The rest of the firsties in Eighth. Cross-reference them with the membership of this white studies group. Then I’ll—”
Burnbright, the public affairs officer, put a hand on his arm, then removed it. “Admiral? If I can put in a word? I’d advise you not to talk to them. At least, not yet.” She hesitated, as if gauging his anger, then went on. “There’ll be media interest. Especially with the stolen weapons.”
“Weapons?” said the doctor.
“We don’t know they’re stolen, yet,” the commandant said. “My suspicion is they’re still in Bancroft somewhere. Let me deal with this, Admiral. It’s a ’dant responsibility.”
“I agree,” Burnbright said. “It’s better to put distance between them and you. So you can be seen as objective. Whatever action you decide to take, when the situation clarifies.”
Dan looked from one to the next, the doctor, the PAO, the colonel. “All right,” he said at last. “Commence your search. I want a report by 1200. Tear this fucking place apart, Colonel.”
“I plan to do exactly that, sir,” Stocker said.
He headed back to Larson. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving a mess in the hands of others, but Burnbright was probably right. Maintain distance. Let his subordinates work. The conventional guidance for flag officers and CEOs: Do only what only you can do.
If the death really was questionable. Athletes did die unexpectedly, from undiagnosed conditions, or even just from a blow to the chest in just the right place. He’d run those massive rocks himself. He could see it. Evans slips, falls, hits his head. Blacks out. Rolls into the Bay and drowns.
The fly in the ointment was those rifles, missing from the same company. And that Evans had been starting what might be seen as the rootstock of a white supremacist cell.
But if Stocker came up with the rifles fast, and if the death really was an accident, the problem could resolve itself. He might even be able to keep it out of the media.
Out in the Yard, the walks were thronged with mids hurrying to class. He ducked out the gate and circled around behind the Chapel, avoiding most of them, but still having to return salute after salute. Great, he had visibility, but his shoulder was really starting to hurt.
He shook his head, wondering at himself. Was he hoping for a cover-up? Funny how where you stood really did depend on where you sat. He glanced at his watch and hurried his steps. Today would be his first “Way Ahead” meeting. He’d asked the department heads to look at a 5 percent cut, just to be prepared for the next federal budget.
And also, to take a serious look at another question.
They were all there when he arrived. Burke-Bowden, Mynbury, Abimbola, Gupta, and the chief financial officer. Chairs against the wall held the second-tier folks: legal, strategy, information services. And Chief Wenck, whom he really hadn’t seen much of since they both came aboard. He nodded as everyone stood, said, “Be seated, please,” and took his chair at the head of the conference table. Valerie had set his tablet there; he opened it with a tap and cleared his throat. “The ’dant won’t be joining us right away. Maybe later. So, two big issues today. Planning for cuts, number one. You submitted them to the deputy—”
“Sir, on that.” Gupta raised his hand. “We haven’t submitted, since a cut’s not possible. I outlined why in my email.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Virjay. You and I discussed where to make reductions.”
“Sir, firing line coaches is not a way to keep our win percentage up.”
“Win percentage is important. But it isn’t the only metric that counts, Virjay. Let’s discuss that later, off-line.” Dan said, making it plain with his tone that though he didn’t want to dress him down publicly, Gupta’s feet would be held to the fire. “Everyone else: the CFO, myself, and Captain Burke-Bowden will review your inputs and craft a plan. Again, not set in stone. But it’s better to be ready if the axe falls.
“Next.” He glanced at his tablet. They were all watching him. No doubt gauging his preferences, to adjust their own. Which wasn’t really what he wanted. “Our approach to borderline students.
“Here are my thoughts. Clearly, plebes and third class who’ll clearly never meet our standards should be separated. The Navy doesn’t owe them anything. An early disenrollment’s better for everyone.
“The senior marginals, anchormen, outliers—whatever you want to call them—they’re a tougher call. Yeah, we could shitcan them. But looking over our history, a lot of our most famous grads were marginal performers while they were here, or didn’t fit the mold in one way or another. It seems to me that often it’s our ‘misfits’ who become stellar leaders later in life.”
He paused, surveying the room. Blank faces. He forged on. “But you could also argue that’s anecdotal evidence, those were the exceptions, and in different times. That a bad fit here will also be a nonperformer out in the Fleet, or in the Corps.
“We have two choices on the close calls. Either help and heal them, or separate them too. Treat ’em like broken parts, and save ourselves the trouble.”
“The bottom five percent give us eighty percent of our problems,” Burke-Bowden said.
Dan nodded. “The ’dant gave me the same readout, Jack.”
Mynbury lifted a finger. “If I may.”
“Professor,” Dan said reluctantly, hoping the dean wasn’t going to pontificate.
Mynbury tented his hands, gazing at the ceiling. “Today’s students, Admiral, are quite unlike those we accessed in the past. They’re much more technologically savvy. Plugged into social media. Smarter. And less motivated by what I might call old-fashioned patriotism. I’m not saying it’s good, or bad, just that even for those who want a military career, we’re being outcompeted. Why should they, um, suffer through Colonel Stocker’s draconian regime, when they can receive as good an education, and a reserve scholarship, at a civilian college? Where they can live more freely, and date their classmates? That’s important in the late teens, early twenties.”
“We should allow them to date each other?” Dan said, interested. At least someone was thinking creatively, even if it would outrage the alums.
The dean shrugged and spread his hands. “That would be a Navy decision, Admiral. To be kicked upstairs, probably. I’m just pointing out a disincentive.”
“So, in terms of separation versus help, you’re saying…?”
“We’ve already moved with the times. Minority, women, gay, trans. If we furnish a wider tent, and they meet academic standards, your ‘separate or heal’ dichotomy becomes moot.”
Dan was almost glad Stocker wasn’t there, though he was also getting anxious about her absence. Did it mean they couldn’t find the missing rifles? He could guess how she’d react to Mynbury’s cool dismissal of any standards, period. Other than grades, of course.
He sighed and looked along the table. “Who else agrees with the dean? That we basically keep anyone, I guess, who can maintain a two point five average?”
“And hasn’t been convicted of a felony,” the JAG officer put in.
“Two point oh,” Mynbury corrected Dan. “It hasn’t been two point five for a long time, Admiral.”
A lieutenant commander in the outer row of chairs lifted a tentative hand. Receding chin, rimless glasses. Dan smiled inwardly; sometimes the best suggestions came from lower down in the chop chain. “You’re info tech, right? Go ahead.”
“Sir, there’s another possibility, though I’m not sure everyone will like it.”
“It’s rare everyone likes anything. Let’s hear it.”
The officer hesitated, licking his lips. “Well, sir, it’s based on technology developed during the war. Mainly by the Chinese, but I understand we worked on it too. In animals, mammals, there’s like a go–no go circuit that allows them to overcome operant conditioning. The Chinese used focused ultrasound to ablate those areas of the brain. Bejing called it ‘normalization.’”
Dan stared, astonished. “Are you suggesting we fry parts of our people’s brains?”
“No, sir, no, I’m just suggesting we might look into something along those lines rather than separation. Once we invest a million dollars in a mid, isn’t it worth investigating if we can make him, or her, more suitable for the job? More disciplined, a better fit all around? They’d probably be happier too. It doesn’t impact reasoning ability—”
“No, just turns them into robots!” Dan was about to unload on him, but restrained himself. He’d asked for suggestions. He couldn’t blast the first junior officer who made one. He compromised on, “Let’s let somebody else try that first, okay? I, uh, do appreciate your input, though.”
Burke-Bowden said, “Sir, all this about separation versus remediation isn’t a new issue. Admiral Cree and I had this discussion many times. I copy your wanting another look, but maybe it needs further study? A smaller group, maybe headed by Strategic?”
Dan sat back in his chair. “Well … okay. But we’re not going to sit on our hands. I need concrete suggestions. A draft policy. By our next meeting.”
A moment of silence, then he went on. To the next issue on the agenda, and the next. As slowly, slowly, the bars of sunlight from the windows micometered across the papers and screens.
He tried Stocker’s phone when the meeting ended, but it went to voice mail. He debated going back to Bancroft, see what was shaking out, but resisted. Instead he drove over to the Upper Yard.
Halligan Hall was a rambling, terra-cotta-tile–roofed, much-rebuilt pile not far past the baseball field. Dan found the public works director in the basement, contemplating a tabletop model perhaps ten feet long by eight wide. He recognized the Chapel first, at the highest point, with the town inland of that. Below it lay the Lower Yard, the buildings, the athletic fields. Outboard of that, the river and bay. Missing were the library, the alumni auditorium, and the new cyber center.
Bonar, a lanky, ugly man with a jaw that could have cut glass, rose, dusting his hands. “Admiral.”
“Jerry.”
Bonar waved at the model like God at the freshly risen land. “They built this back in seventy-one, when we first started to think about subsidence. Used to run a hose in here and fill up the Bay, see what flooded first.”
“Used to?”
“We do digital now. Faster, more flexible, easier to reconfigure.”
He led the way upstairs, and rotated the big screen on his desk so Dan could see. This model included the newer buildings.
He went over what Dan already sort of knew, but in more detail. The Academy’s history was generally divided into four eras. The first “naval cadets” had been billeted in old Fort Severn. But only a sixth of the land the current Academy occupied had existed in 1845. The first expansion, in the 1850s, had filled in the shoals that bounded the property and bulkheaded the new land with stone.
After the Army trashed the grounds during the Civil War, the sixth superintendent, David Dixon Porter, had bought the old Government House and four acres from the state, then ten more acres on College Creek from St. John’s College. He also bought Strawberry Hill, now the Academy Cemetery. He built the New Cadets’ Quarters, and physics, steam, seamanship, and instructor residences.
These had in their turn been obliterated in the massive reconstruction circa 1904–13. The “Flagg Academy” included Bancroft, MacDonough, Dahlgren, Mahan, the Officers’ Club, the Chapel, and the hall that housed Dan’s office.
Bonar darted arrows around the screen. “That was when we did the biggest landfills. The southeastern shoreline along Spa Creek got pushed out into the harbor. Filled areas circled Dewey Basin, where the sailing fleet is now. They built more playing fields to the west with sand and muck from the bottom of the Bay.”
He called up a photo dated 1908. “MacDonough Hall was actually built as a shiphouse. That huge arched entry was so boats could sail inside. Unfortunately, at high tide their upper rigging got tangled in the steel roof supports. Ernie Flagg was not happy.”
After Flagg, little had changed until 1941, when acreage to the south was bought from private owners who’d filled it for a lumberyard. To the north, another shoal was landfilled outboard of Hospital Point, and more “made land” pumped on the north side of the Severn. After World War Two, Dewey and Ingram Fields were filled and bulkheaded, and a new area of reclaimed spoil jutted two hundred yards farther into Spa Creek.
Bonar said, “That gave us room for two new wings to Bancroft and three new academic buildings. But during the final fills, in the nineteen sixties and seventies, poor-quality water-saturated clay started to migrate back into the river. We had to hang a bridging structure from the library’s foundation out to pilings.” He called up a more detailed plat. “That made room for Alumni Hall, the library, and the nuclear and cyber buildings. But we can’t push out any farther into the river. And, environmentally, we can’t dredge and fill anymore.”
He turned from the screen. “To put this in perspective, Admiral, look at the other academies. We have about four hundred acres total. West Point has fifteen thousand. Colorado Springs has over eighteen thousand. We’re pinched in by the Bay and the town. There’s nowhere else to go.”
The engineer went on. “Now, remember, all this made land was hydraulic fill. Pumped up from the bottom of the river. Soft clay, silt, shell, and muck.”
“Yet we built on it,” Dan said.
“Not exactly. Our major buildings—Rickover, Nimitz, Chauvenet, Michelson, Bancroft—were built on wooden pilings.”
Dan was getting a sinking feeling, no pun intended. Remembering the rot on his boat. “Wood?”
“Oh, as long as it’s below the water table, it’ll last. Venice was built on pilings. But what they’re driven into is not only soft, it’s permeated. Dig down four feet, you hit water.” Bonar sighed. “And all this soft, wet material’s still consolidating. Settling. So far, almost eighteen inches since it was put in place.
“Add to that the general subsidence of the whole Chesapeake Bay area. That’s about two millimeters a year. Then sea level rise. NOAA calls that at four millimeters annually.
“Put it all together, triple whammy, and this is what you get.”
Bonar called up the model of the Lower Yard again. He keyboarded, and a year callout began scrolling. As the future unfolded the fields sank, the sea rose, the Bay crept in. Dan bit his lip as the lower floors of Michelson, Chauvenet, and Nimitz vanished beneath a blue tide. When Bonar stopped the clock at year 2100, fully half the Yard was underwater.
He said, “This is what things’ll look like at least a hundred days a year, by then.”
Dan bent closer. Stribling Walk, gone. Only the obelisk of the Midshipmen’s Monument emerged. The classrooms, flooded. The athletic facilities, under several feet of water. He straightened. “I didn’t realize it would be this bad, that soon.”
“I presented to the Board of Visitors. Half of them called it a hoax. Admiral Cree had a plan, increase drainage, but then the war came—”
“Yeah, that derailed a lot of plans.” Dan rubbed his chin, contemplating the screen. They would be flooded by De Nile. Ha ha. But not really funny. Annapolis was going the way of Atlantis. Apparently every supe had studied the issue, but done little more than raise the seawall a little. “Your big drainage project. Won’t that help?”
“Temporarily, but not long term. Our storm drains dump into the river. When the Bay rises, it backs up through them. Basically, you can’t stop water. If it’s not coming over the seawall, or back through those drains, it’ll percolate up through the ground.”
Dan felt sick. “Okay, I’m convinced. What are our options?”
Bonar looked serious. “There aren’t any easy ones. Tell you that up front.”
Dan nodded. “Give me the choices, Jerry. And I’ll try like hell to do whatever’s needed, to rescue this place.”
Back in his study at the Supe’s House, he drooped like a wet rag in an armchair. Bonar’s presentation had been depressing. Frightening.
The problem wasn’t just the Academy’s, of course. Every Navy installation on the coast would have to relocate, rebuild, or be abandoned. Humans had looked away from the problems they’d caused for too long. Now the bill was coming due.
Stocker had reported in. None of the missing rifles had been found. Tomorrow, Dan would have to call the CNO and the secretary of the Navy, then release the news to the media. Which he wasn’t looking forward to.
A tap at the door. “Yeah,” he called.
Nan stepped in, tucking a phone back into a pocket. “You okay up here, Dad?”
He forced a smile, submitting to a hug. His daughter was still thin, but she looked a lot better than she had after being kidnapped by Covenanter rebels. Nearly starved then, and with typhus from contaminated water. Now she was filling out. Her hair was growing back too. No longer a shining sable cascade, but brown stubble was better than the alternative.
He was lucky to still have her. He patted her hand. “What did you do today? Anything new from Switzerland?”
She dropped into a chair and slung a leg over its arm. “They’re still waiting on a UN grant for my position.”
He said tentatively, “But it still looks good?”
“I guess. But I’ve been calling around, looking at alternatives.”
“Biochem?”
“Drugs. After LJL 4789 I seem to be a hot property. There’s a launch in Baltimore that’s setting up a lab.”
LJL 4789 was the chain terminator antiviral, developed by the team of Lukajs, Jhingan, and Lenson, that had halted the spread of the Central Flower virus. He nodded. “Sounds promising. Heard from your mom?”
“Not lately. Birthdays and Christmas mostly. Remember, she has the younger kids … how was your day?”
“Ha. Don’t ask.”
“That bad? Sorry. What did you want to do for dinner? I could heat up something, if you want.”
Dan roused himself. “Let’s go to Cantler’s.”
She pulled a mock frown. “It’s good, but … again?”
The restaurant was one of his favorites, a homely, ramshackle establishment whose vast screened porch overlooked a tidal creek. The real attraction, though, was flounder, clams, and other seafood that had slept the night before in Chesapeake Bay, as the saying went. He was trying to think of another choice when his phone went off. He looked at it. “It’s Blair.”
“I’ll be downstairs. Say hi for me.” She unslung her leg, stood, and sauntered out.
He picked up. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Pentagon fighting the bit?”
A tired chuckle. “No surprise there. But that’s not why I’m calling. Dr. Corris has been trying to get hold of you.”
Dan closed his eyes. Mukhtar Corris was the Swiss attorney Blair had found for him. He specialized in defense before the International Criminal Court. He remembered Corris’s warning: The Hague moves very deliberately. But once you are indicted, the trial date set, suddenly it will seem all too fast.
The accusation dated from early in the war, when Dan had ordered his task force to stand clear of a torpedoed tanker. Rendering assistance, with the attacker still at large, would just have meant losing another ship.
Unfortunately, Berlin hadn’t seen it that way. “Uh, he hasn’t called here. Is there a new development?”
“Afraid so. They’ve issued the indictment. Your court date’s next month.”
He couldn’t stop a shocked intake of breath. “Uh, the previous administration, their policy was that no US citizen would be extradited for war crimes. That’s changed? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Not exactly. There are folks pushing for that, yes. But since the next person they’d go after would be our vice president, I doubt that’s going to happen. But Corris needs to talk to you. Failing to appear doesn’t mean the process won’t go forward. You just get tried in absentia. He can defend you, but staying away won’t help your case.
“Really, Dan, you need to talk to him, not me. You have his number, right?”
“I’ll call first thing in the morning. Europe, he’ll be out of the office now.”
“Okay, but don’t put it off. This is serious.”
They talked for a few more minutes, before she had to sign off. “Another late meeting,” she said. “Appropriations. Given the political reality, we’re going to take significant cuts … anyway. I’ll try to visit next week, okay? Take care of yourself. And best to Nan.”
He sat alone again in the darkened room, pondering his choices. Fight the charge? Go to Holland, defend his actions?
And run the risk of prison?
Or: Ignore it? Most likely, the administration would stonewall any extradition orders.
If he didn’t respond, though, he’d be confined to the United States. If he went to a country that honored the warrant, he’d be detained and turned over to the court. Imprisoned, if found guilty in absentia.
He sat there still as darkness seeped in the windows. Until at last he grunted, got up, and went to join his daughter downstairs.