Thin Air (2 page)

"Not the way you think," she was saying. "He's been very good to me...but he's got this problem...and I'm at my wit's end trying to cope with it....So is he."

Hammond felt something tighten across his, chest. He had a sudden desire not to hear any more. He didn't even want to imagine Harold's problem and he felt certain she was going to tell him over the phone.

He drained his black coffee. For a moment, all he could think about was the objective reality: old girl friend calls up because her marriage is rocky. If he had ever wanted revenge, this was perfect, although distasteful.

"Jan, I'd like to help you, but I don't know what you're getting at."

"Nicky, please. I can't take much more. He gets depressed and irritable—he even cries. Last week was the worst yet. And he's convinced it's real, that these things happened to him—"

"What things?"

She stopped, recovering her reticence. "Nick...it's taken me months just to get him to agree to approach the Navy. He's so scared of what he's going to find. It's got to be someone he can trusts—"

"Wait a minute. What has this got to do with the Navy?"

She was silent a moment then said quietly, "He has nightmares. He dreams about some sort of awful experiment they're putting him through..."

"What experiment?"

This time her silence was so long he thought he'd been cut off. "He's on a ship..." she began. "He's on a ship....It disappears...and people...people disintegrate....I don't understand any of it, I'm sorry."

She paused again, finding it hard to relate this. "You're the only one I know in a position to help," she went on. "Harold doesn't know anybody: he's forgotten the men he served with. Please—you've got to talk to him!"

Hammond sat back for a long moment, frowning to himself. He was growing angry with her for dragging him into this domestic quagmire. And one question was plaguing him: "What have you told him about us?"

"Just that we...dated."

"I hope so, because if he believes it was anything more than that, this unstable husband of yours, I might not survive lunch. When do you want me?"

They made an appointment for noon at the Watergate Terrace. Relieved, Jan opened up and started to tell him about Harold's good qualities: his job as a vice-president of the Tri-State Insurance Company, with offices in New York, Washington, and Los Angeles; their California ranch home in Brentwood; their sedate life together. Hammond got the impression Jan had just what she'd always wanted, and what he'd never offered: a loving husband and a happy, uncomplicated, if somewhat dull, existence.

Except for Harold's "problem," which was taking on a magnitude in his mind that it probably didn't deserve. He was both curious and repelled.
 

But as he thought about it more, paying scant attention to her chatter, he was relieved in a sense. She wasn't after him at all. The hell with his ego. He'd always preferred his women playful and deceptive, with flaws you could count on two hands. He liked the games they played, the lies....He enjoyed feeling superior. And safe.

As long as he didn't have to become the Fletchers' bosom buddy, a lunch wouldn't do any harm.

She was being grateful when he stopped her and said he had work to do. She thanked him warmly but reminded him not to forget the lunch. He promised to be there and hung up.

He was just reaching for the brown coffee when Admiral Gault strode in flashing a taut smile. Hammond rose. Gault was in a grouchy mood.

"I've got Wharton breathing down my neck about everything. He's not content to be Commander of Naval Intelligence. Wants to be Traffic Commissioner of Washington, D.C., as well. Gets himself a parking ticket going to some third-rate massage parlor, so now he wants NIS. to investigate the meter maids. If I were him, I'd keep my mouth shut."

Hammond grinned as Gault dropped his tall frame into the other chair. Rear Admiral Robert Henry Gault, Director of the Naval Investigative Service, was in his early fifties, handsome and brisk, and new to flag rank. He had been a rear admiral for a mere twenty-nine days and was having trouble losing his familiarity with old buddies and cohorts, Hammond prime among them. They were tennis partners, and they used to spend every Sunday on the Naval Rec courts until Gault's work began to interfere. Now there was no such thing as spare time. Gault had a twenty-four-hour job and was starting to show the strain.

He opened his briefcase and drew out some papers. "All admirals are entitled to aides, but mine is so busy they should make him an admiral too. Okay, here we are."

He tossed a pile of papers at Hammond, who pulled the clip and glanced through them.

"First this business," said Gault. "Large scale pilferage at Pearl Harbor. CINCPAC is royally pissed and wants it cleared up right away. Can you dispatch one of your boys to help the regional office?"

"Don't want to step on toes, sir."

"Step away. They're snails out there."

"I've got one bloodhound in Tahiti..."

"Send him."

"He's on leave."

"Revoke it. Give him another ten days when he's finished."
      

"Yes, sir."

"Now, here we've got something on a black-market ring at the Yokosuka Naval Base in Japan," Gault mumbled, shuffling a few papers aside.

"Drugs?" asked Hammond?

"Meat. The price of meat in Japan is off the wall. Some of our boys are pushing fresh meat liberated from the mess supply. The base C.O. wants us to come down hard."

"Hard it is."

"Finally, Okinawa. Someone sabotaged the propulsion system on a missile cruiser. Someone on our side."

Hammond whistled.

"Mundane, huh?" snickered Gault.

"Not as mundane as something I just heard."

Gault glanced up, still shuffling through papers.

"You remember Jan Hoyle?"

"Sure. Nice girl."

"She's married to some guy now. And he's got
a problem"
He put sarcastic emphasis on the words and looked at Gault for reaction.

"What's she looking for—a pinch hitter?"

"No." Hammond paused, carefully choosing his words. "Have you ever heard about a Naval experiment to make a ship disappear?"

Gault stared at him suspiciously, expecting a punch line.

"Her husband has bad dreams about it."

"You're serious."

"She is. I'm meeting them both for lunch—a threesome."

"When?"

"Today."

Gault nodded and threw the papers back into his briefcase. "Okinawa is urgent, Hammond. Make it a short lunch—and no matinee."

Once he got used to the dark, Hammond was impressed with the Watergate Terrace. He glanced around the room. Nicely done up in brick, wrought-iron grillwork, and dark paneling, with carriage-house lanterns set into the walls, it was warm and cozy.

He followed the maitre d' past a wine barrel at the entrance to a small bar, past a fountain in the middle of the room to a row of canopied booths, separated from each other by glassed-in sides.

Then he saw Jan.

Her hair was cut shorter than he remembered, softly framing her face. She must have seen him at the same time because she took a healthy swallow from her drink before she smiled at him.

"Nice to see you, Jan," Hammond heard himself say. He was shocked at the slight puffiness of her face and the red-tinged eyes that looked up at him. Lack of sleep or crying, he figured. The man sitting next to her struggled to his feet.

"Thanks for coming, Nicky," she said. "I want you to meet my husband, Harold Fletcher."

Hammond extended a hand. "How do you do?"

Fletcher nodded curtly. "Commander."

Hammond slid into the booth and studied him. Fletcher's face was flushed, the color extending to his balding head. Large eyes, slightly protruding, gazed back at him with the barest hint of hostility. His blue suit was well-cut, but Hammond could see a bulge in the mid-section, the beginnings of a pot.

"Join us for a drink?" Fletcher asked.

"No, thanks," Hammond said, watching Fletcher grind out a cigarette.

"S'matter—don't they let you drink on duty?"

"Depends on my work load," said Hammond, ignoring the dig.

"Very commendable." He flagged a waiter. "Two more martinis—gin with a twist—and bring me another pack of cigarettes."

They lapsed into a strained silence. Fletcher drained the rest of his drink and fixed Hammond with a measured scowl. "Is that your real rank?" he asked.

Hammond was taken by surprise. "Yes. Why?"

Fletcher smiled thinly. "Jan told me you're with Naval Intelligence. I thought you people always wore civvies. You know, not so conspicuous."

Hammond wasn't sure whether it was the liquor talking or Fletcher just going out of his way to be nasty. "I can use any rank I choose," he replied. "Any rank, any insignia, any uniform. But then, uniforms aren't conspicuous in Washington, or haven't you noticed?"

Fletcher indicated Hammond's wings. "You really a pilot?"

Hammond forced a smile. "Yeah. Really."

The drinks arrived. Jan pushed hers to one side and watched with dismay as Fletcher started to work on his. Jan turned away, then glanced at Hammond.

"You're looking well, Nicky," she said. "Are they keeping you busy?"

"Very," Hammond answered, aware she was trying to change the course of conversation. Pointedly, he added, "I've got enough to keep me going the rest of next year."

"Is that good or bad?" She was looking right at him, silently pleading with him to be patient.

"Good," said Hammond lightly. "It keeps my mind occupied."

Fletcher fumbled a cigarette out of his fresh pack and worked his lighter several times before he got it lit. "Jan tells me you don't live far from here. Near the canal, isn't it?"

Hammond picked up the undertone of bitterness and stiffened. If this clown wanted to get into a what-were-you-doing-with-my-wife-before-I-met-her routine, it was going to be a very short lunch.

"That's right," he answered evenly. "Do you know Georgetown?"

Jan jumped in before Fletcher could answer. "Darling," she said smoothly, "Commander Hammond just told us how busy he is. Why don't you put down your drink...and we can talk..."

"I told you I didn't want to go into this with anybody," Fletcher said sharply. "All I want are my records. If he can help me get them, fine." He looked right at Hammond. "I don't want to waste his time...or mine."

Hammond rose, his anger barely in check. "The only reason I'm here is out of friendship for your wife. If you've got nothing else to say, I'll be going."

Jan reached over suddenly and touched his hand. "Please, Nick," she begged. "Harold and I both need your help. I don't know how much more I can stand." She swung her head sharply at Fletcher. "Stop acting like a child. Nick
can
help you."

Fletcher's face tightened for a second, then relaxed. He lit another cigarette, ignoring the one still burning in the ashtray. "I'm sorry."

Hammond eased back into his seat.

"She's right, you know," Fletcher mumbled. "This thing has got us both crazy,"

Hammond's emotions subsided. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" he said. "Let's see if we can sort this out."

Fletcher pushed his martini aside and fixed Hammond with a steady gaze. "I might as well tell you up front—I've been seeing a psychiatrist for over twenty years." He paused. "A Navy psychiatrist."

Hammond betrayed nothing. "Did you have some sort of breakdown while you were in service?"

"No. After I was discharged. But don't get the idea I'm a nut case. To quote Dr. McCarthy, it's always been just a matter of keeping things under control."

"McCarthy is your Navy psychiatrist?"

Fletcher nodded and took a long pull on his cigarette. He made an impatient face at the waiter who came back to take their lunch order.

Strange, Hammond reflected, the Navy never provided psychiatric care unless it was service-related, and up to twenty years after service? Hardly.

After the waiter left, Fletcher had difficulty starting again. He couldn't seem to put the words together. Jan reached out and twined her fingers in his for reassurance. Her small hands were covered by his large, carefully manicured fingers. Hammond watched quietly. He had the feeling Fletcher's hands didn't go with the rest of him. Big and blunt, they looked like they belonged to a laborer or a mechanic—not to the vice-president of an insurance company.

Fletcher finally composed himself. He pulled his hand away from Jan's and took an envelope from his inside coat pocket. "Look at this," he said.

Hammond opened the envelope and removed a set of neatly folded forms. Fletcher's discharge papers. He glanced over them, then looked up and saw tension on both their faces.

"I enlisted in '51," said Fletcher. "It says there I was stationed the whole time, four years, at Newport News."

Hammond checked the papers. Fletcher's rating had been Machinist's Mate First Class. Hammond felt a twinge of satisfaction: Fletcher
had
worked with his hands at one time.