Thin Air (5 page)

"No." He stared at Fletcher's file a moment and then asked, "You wouldn't remember seeing another flag like that on someone else's file recently, would you?"

The chief closed his eyes tolerantly, then asked, "Do you know how many files we've got in this place, sir?"

"Yes. Umpteen-zillion." Hammond paused. "Just answer the question."

"Yes...and no. I've seen flags, yes, but on whose file, sorry."

"Red flags?"

"Sure. There was one last week—"

Hammond's eyes flashed and brought the chief up short. "Those other papers I filled out," said Hammond. "You keep them here?"

"One set."

"Well?"
      

The chief grunted angrily and led him back to the reception room. He yanked open one of his own files and started thumbing through papers. Hammond waited patiently. The chief pulled out a form copy and held it up.

"Yup. This's the one. I remember the name. Yablonski."

Hammond took the form and read it quickly. "This was three weeks ago. Your memory's better than you think, Chief. C.L. Yablonski, Seaman First Class, USN, Retired. Requested to see his records on twenty-seven September."

"He was worried about something," added the chief. "That's how come I remember him so well."

Hammond eyed him dryly. "I want to see his file."

They went back to the
Y's
and the chief found it without any trouble. He popped it open and inside was a four-by-five red card: a flag. Hammond drew it out and looked at the lines typed on one side:

9805CGN-166

YABLONSKI, C.L.

2194557

Yablonski's name and serial number. The top line Hammond couldn't figure out. That had to be the routing code. "Any idea what these numbers are?" he asked the chief.

"No, sir. But that was on the other guy's card, too. Now that I think about it, the same stuff appears on a lot of those red flags."

"Why did Mr. Yablonski want to see his file?"

The chief shrugged. "Don't have to give a reason. Any man who wants to see his own records just has to ask."

Hammond nodded and looked through Yablonski's file. Immediately, he noticed a similarity to Fletcher's. Entry into service in 1951, separation in 1955. The actual dates were different but close enough. Yablonski's four years were spent piloting heavy cruisers out of the Boston Naval Base. According to these records, he had never been at Philadelphia either. Hammond wondered what had prompted Yablonski to check into his service record at this time.

Was it possible there were two men running around suffering from Naval nightmares? And how had Yablonski reacted on seeing the entry under Remarks on his Page-5 document: "Transferred to Inactive Reserve 11 May 1955"?

"I want copies of all this." Hammond returned the folder along with the form Yablonski had filled out to examine it. The chief never saw Hammond remove the red flag and pocket it.

"Where do I find this computer we've been talking about?" Hammond asked. "The one that gets all the flags."
      

"Fourth floor. This wing. Room B-418. Central Personnel Assistance."

"Thanks, Chief. You've been a peach. I'll send over a purple heart."

The chief grunted, past caring.

Hammond took the elevator up to four and located Room B-418. He was passed through a lobby into a temperature-controlled computer complex, a long room with rows of programming decks and memory retrieval banks. The guard delivered him to a young lieutenant. Hammond showed him the confiscated red flag.

"Lieutenant, if this came through the pneumatic chute—"

"The Hoover, sir." The lieutenant grinned helpfully.

Hammond smiled back. "Where would it come out? Who would get it?"

"Ensign Cokeland, sir, right over there." He pointed to a flatbed programming desk. Sitting in front of it was a little brunette given to a degree of plumpness, all of it pleasing. She smiled as Hammond introduced himself and became terribly bright and alert when he produced the red card.

"Oh, yes, sir. We get a few of those now and then. I feed the information right into this computer."

"What information?"

"Everything that's on the red card and some items from the white card that has to accompany it." Hammond nodded. He produced a blank white card, which he had liberated from the chiefs supply, and filled it out for her, using Yablonski's name as the subject of his inquiry and his own as the inquirer.

"Now, show me exactly what you do with all this."

She examined the two cards, poised herself over the computer teletype, then asked, "You don't want me to send it through, do you?"

"No. Just write it out exactly the way it would go in."

She copied down names and numbers and, when she was through, showed him a card:

9805CGN-166

YABLONSKI, C.L. 2194557 USNR

HAMMOND, N. 573-58-6641 USN NIS

"The first line is the routing," she said. "The second is the subject, and the third is the person making the inquiry."
      

"Where does the information go?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I just don't know."

"Oh, come on." He smiled. He tried charm, but she really had no idea who was on the other end of that routing.

"The computer does it all," she said. "All I ever get is an acknowledgment of the message."

"Look, would you demonstrate for me? But let's use another name." He gave her Harold Fletcher's data and she punched through:

9805CGN-166

FLETCHER, HB. 2193209 USNR

HAMMOND, N. 573-58-6641 USN NIS

He waited patiently with her until a few moments later the screen jxinted out:

9805CGN
 

STANDBY

"Looks like we touched a nerve," he said.

Ensign Cokeland was perplexed. "Usually it comes back with just that number and the word 'received,' then signs off. I think there's going to be someone up here in a minute."

She sat back and stared at her machine, two fingers pursing her lips.

"Look," said Hammond, "I'm going over there to talk to someone else. Let me get a look at whoever's coming in before you point the finger. Okay?"

She looked at him as if he were about to leave her to the wolves. Bravely, she nodded. Hammond strode over to another computer and struck up a conversation with another operator. Two minutes later, the doors opened and a female lieutenant came in and went straight to Ensign Cokeland.

Hammond watched the supervisor give the ensign the business. Cokeland put up a front of ignorance until she saw Hammond coming over.

He looked at the lieutenant's nameplate and smiled pleasantly. "Lieutenant Frankel, my name is Hammond. I'm from NIS, doing a little research, and I think you can help."

Lieutenant Frankel eyed him suspiciously. "In what way?"

"Well, it appears my request set off a little burglar alarm. Would you care to fill me in?"

She hesitated, then spoke defiantly. "There must have been something
irregular..."

"Irregular to whom?"

"The people receiving your request called for a spot check."

"Who called?"

"The computer."

Hammond blinked. "No telephone?"

"The computer," she repeated, enunciating firmly. "They wish to remain anonymous."

"Then who do you report back to?"

"The computer."

Hammond almost laughed out loud. "Let me get this straight," he said. "Details of my inquiry go through your computer to notify someone unknown to you. And if the party doesn't like what he gets, he buzzes you and asks for a check. And you go through a whole security rigmarole without ever knowing who you're doing it for?"

Lieutenant Frankel sighed with annoyance. "That's it, yes."

"What the hell is this?" Hammond barked. "You're like Pavlov's dog! They ring a bell and you salivate on cue!"

She got defensive. "That's the procedure," she said, then went into a lengthy explanation of how the Navy computers have routings that crisscross the country, how computerization has become the most secure method of setting up notification procedures. Hammond ignored her: he was trying to figure out what had happened. He had sent through the same request on Fletcher as before, only "this time, the second time, it hadn't gone through smoothly.

Maybe because it
was
the second time.

He interrupted Lieutenant Frankel, thanked her for the information, thanked Ensign Cokeland, and left. Stepping into the elevator, he was conscious of the most obvious fact of all:

Somebody
had to have programmed the damned thing.

Hammond was back in his office before 0930, checking with Ensign Just-Ducky to see if the admiral had been through yet. "No, sir," she said, "but he wants to meet with you and your special team at lunch today."

A
voice sang out from the aisles, "Okinawa is calling me-hee-hee-hee! I hear Okinawa calling meeeee!"

Lee Miller posed in Hammond's doorway. "Never been there, Nicky. Is it anything like Fire Island?"

"I don't remember requesting you," growled Hammond.

"Good Lord, you mean I don't have to go?" Miller dropped his pose and looked relieved.

"Well, we shouldn't let your enthusiasm go to waste—"

"Let it! Let it, my boy. I would rather push my pencil."

"Where are the other guys?"

"Waiting for you to call a meeting."

"Tell them lunch with the admiral. And listen, Miller—I would appreciate it if you would take over filing the usual papers with NAVINTCOM."

"Sure—"

"And Hold mine aside. Write them up, but don't send them through."

"You're not going?"

"I'm not sure." Hammond picked up the phone and gave him a steady look. Miller took the hint and left. Hammond called Admiral Gault and waited patiently until the secretary got him to the phone.

"Hullo, Nick. Got your boys together?"

"Yes, sir, but I have a problem."

"Don't we all. Make it swift."

"Sir, do you recall I spoke to you about a man who was having a problem with his service records—?"

"Jan" Hoyle's husband."

"Yes, sir. Well, I met with them and he gave me a wild story about some nightmare he's been having for twenty years in which he—well, some of the details are a bit much—but it's led him to believe there are discrepancies in his Naval records. So I did some checking and I've uncovered a few irregularities." Gault was silent, so Hammond continued: "He believes he was discharged in 1955, but the record shows he's still on inactive reserve. The forms he's carrying differ from the forms on file. I think there's been some altering. And in the file I came across this flag...a red card bearing a code of some sort. Maybe you'll recognize it, sir. Nine-eight-zero-five- C-G-N-dash-one-six-six."

"No. Means nothing to me."

"Yes, sir. Well, I thought maybe it was just a single isolated incident, but then I stumbled over another file with the same card in it—"

"All right, Hammond—"

"And the second man has a
similar
military record. Same years of service, and he's also carried on inactive reserve."

Gault made some inarticulate remark, then was silent a long moment. "Well, it does sound strange. A lot of cloak-and-dagger shit. The Navy doesn't usually operate that way. But, Nicky, why are you spending NIS time on this? It's not really our business."

Hammond was taken aback. "I think it has far-reaching implications."
      
      
      

"Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't. So far, it involves two men who have been out of the Navy for more than twenty years. If they're in the Reserves and don't know it, I think there's little chance they'll ever be called up. To get the Correction Board involved would only release a steamroller that could bury these guys."

Hammond wilted. The admiral was right. Sticking his nose into this was a mistake. It would be better to close the book and forget it, Jan's feelings notwithstanding. He was tempted.
      

"Excuse me, Nicky, for getting personal, but this whole thing is kind of funny."

"How so, sir?"

"Your ex-girl friend's husband—and you're going out of your way to help him? That's what I call
chivalry."

"Would you mind, sir, if I spend some time on it?"

"And what am I supposed to do with Okinawa? Certainly not!"

"Spare time, sir."
      

"You have spare time?" Gault chuckled in his throat.

"I'll give up going to the can." Hammond hated having to resort to jokes, but Gault wouldn't take this seriously.