Chapter 3

ADMIRAL TURNER, New York’s director of Naval Intelligence, sat at his desk holding a dice cup in his hand. The portable radio on the windowsill was tuned to the “All Lawrence Welk” station, and soothing popular favorites tinkled in the air like floating soap bubbles.

The old admiral slammed the cup down to roll the six poker dice again and stared at the results. “Oh, blast and damn!”

As he moved, his gold braid, campaign ribbons and polished medals jingled above his stiff uniform. His steel-gray hair poked up, close cropped and bristly; his skin had the worn, old-leather look of a man who had spent his life facing the salt air of the sea . . . or just from using too harsh a brand of after-shave.

After knocking briskly, Tom Smith marched in and stood at the side of the desk, waiting until his superior officer granted him a moment of attention. The Lawrence Welk music on the radio made Smith drowsy, but he shook his head, rehearsing what he meant to say.

Admiral Turner did not glance up at Smith. “I just can’t seem to beat myself today.” He stared at the dice scattered across the paper clips and telephone message slips on his desk. With a rattle, he swept the dice back into the cup and thrust it across the desk toward Smith, knocking a few TOP SECRET memos aside. “Here, boy, you try your hand.”

Smith looked at the cup, plucking out one of the dice critically. He understood what the dice were for, though he had never played, never tried to fathom the rules. Even if he had wanted to, though, he spotted no place to roll the dice on the cluttered desk. “But, sir, I’m afraid I —”

“Oh, I forgot,” the admiral said with a sigh. He snatched back the dice cup. “You don’t gamble, you don’t drink. In every other way, you’re a very promising officer — tops in your class. But you lack . . . I don’t know — vision or Navy spirit or . . . whatever. We’ve got to do something about you, Smith.” He opened his lower desk drawer and dropped the dice cup beside a silver whiskey flask, a stack of poker chips and two decks of playing cards. Then he folded his big-knuckled hands as he hunched across the desk. “Didn’t they teach you anything at the academy? The Navy is going to hell these days, ever since we banned all the hazing rituals. You’ve got to keep up the tradition, young man — the burden rests on your shoulders.”

Shaking his head, Admiral Turner heaved himself out of his creaking chair and walked over to the grime-streaked window. He looked past the pigeons to the bustling New York street. He clasped his hands behind his back as if he were on the bridge of a great sailing ship, gazing across the waves in search of an island.

Smith just stood there, a little crestfallen. The admiral often got into one of these moods.

“Sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to,” the old man continued in a soft voice, self-absorbed. He rapped his knuckles against the window, startling the pigeons, and turned to look at Smith, his hands on his hips. “I try to be a father figure to my junior officers. I care about each and every one. But, Smith, I’ve almost given up on you.”

He strode over to the clean-cut young lieutenant. “You just don’t seem to care about your image, about the Navy’s reputation. When you first came aboard, I had hope. I thought you were a man who was going to get on in the world, make his mark! Why, I was certain you’d even make admiral someday. But you’re so fastidious you don’t make a mark on anything.”

The old man slumped in disappointment. The Lawrence Welk station played a particularly maudlin song. Admiral Turner stood by the wall adorned with framed photographs of his former crewmates. Model ships of Navy destroyers, aircraft carriers and submarines sat on display atop his credenza, his bookshelves, his coffee maker.

Smith shuffled his feet in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, sir. I have tried my best.”

“Your best? When was the last time you went into a bar and knocked the stuffing out of a few Marines? In my day, I had a girl in every port! But I’m beginning to think you’ll die a virgin. What kind of sailor is that? You’re getting to be the joke of this whole office!” The admiral raised his voice, as if he were giving his pep talk to a new group of cadets.

He stood directly in front of Smith, who remained at attention, wishing he had not come into the office to make his request after all. From the faint sweet smell that clung to the admiral’s uniform, Smith thought the old man had been drinking more than coffee that morning.

“All I’m asking you to do is be a little human. Get drunk once in a while. Find some nice girl from a good family, someone who’ll make a good hostess.” The old man’s eyebrows shot up. “You know . . .” he said coyly, as if the idea had just occurred to him, “why not marry somebody like . . . like my daughter, Joan? She just wants to marry some nice fellow and settle down, have babies, work in the kitchen. Isn’t that what all women want? I’ve been reading those stories to Joan since she was a little girl. You could be that special fellow, Smith — if you’d just reform!”

Smith stammered, “But, but — I don’t know how, sir.”

The admiral’s expression became severe. “Go out and live a little, expand your horizons!”

“Well, sir,” Smith seized upon his opening at last, “that’s what I’m here about. Sort of. I mean, I’d like to request some time off.” He brushed down his uniform, fidgeting. “I just won a contest, sir.”

“You?” the admiral said, startled. “Why, that’s wonderful! Won a contest, eh?” He added hopefully, “Did you cheat?”

“Well, no, sir,” Smith admitted. “I don’t even remember entering. I just won, kind of.” He shrugged. “But I do need three days off.”

“To do what? Read some more books?”

“Oh, no, sir. I’ll need to travel. It’s an all-expense-paid stay in a luxury hotel. A vacation to some country called Colodor. I can’t find it on my charts, though.”

“Colodor? That little third-world hellhole? Ah yes, I’ve heard about their mapmakers’ strike. Terrible situation.” Then the admiral brightened, clapping a paternal hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Wonderful! It’ll do you a world of good, Smith. Oh, man, I can see you now! Dancing to soft lights and sexy music, climbing aboard a nice blonde and . . . relaxing! My boy, there’s hope for you yet!”

“Does that mean I can have the time off, sir? I’ll need to leave right away, if I’m to accept my prize. I’ve got tickets to fly into Santa Isabel—”

“Go! Go! By all means go!” The admiral practically shoved him toward the door, then jabbed a finger at him. “And try to get yourself in a little trouble for once, Smith. That’s an order!”

“I, uh — yes, sir,” he said, then fled into the hall.