Tomahawk (19 page)

Sometimes they seemed naïve. They didn't seem to believe there were people out there who weren't as well disposed toward their fellow man as they were. Sometimes they amused him; sometimes they irritated him; sometimes they appalled him with tales of injustice, oppression, things he hadn't realized were going on.

He slowly understood that this wasn't just a handful of people. It was a movement, diverse but loosely linked, and what they actually had in mind was not just to save people here and there. It was to change everything.

Meanwhile, he was with Kerry every day. They didn't spend all their time at the soup kitchen or at the house. When she wasn't meeting with lawyers to prepare for the trial, she cycled beside him when he went running. They went to foreign films with subtitles that made them laugh. She woke cranky, and he learned not to take anything personally till after she had coffee. He remembered how angry Susan had gotten with him for not helping out, and he resolved this time would be different. He did the laundry, made dinner twice a week, shopped on his way home from Crystal City.

It was the first time he'd lived with a woman since Susan left. Sometimes it was scary. And sometimes, just sitting together at the café table they'd bought secondhand in Alexandria, it was nice.

Sometimes it was really nice.

“This is Maryland Avenue,” he said, peering ahead as the Volvo shuddered over cobblestones. “This'll take us right in to the Academy.”

He'd been surprised to find she'd never been to Annapolis, and had suggested a weekend trip. Now he drove past the governor's mansion and the State House, into the Yard. The jimmylegs waved them through, glancing at the base pass on his fender. He parked by Mahan Hall, and she took his arm as they started down Stribling Walk. He started to detach it—public display of affection, fifteen demerits—then let it stay.

“This is it. Those guns were captured from the British in the War of 1812.”

‘The grounds are pretty.”

“You should see it in the spring; these snowy patches are all flowers then.”

They walked against a bitter wind. A few mids were out in reefers, chin straps down. They glanced at him incuriously. He knew that as soon as they saw he was in civvies, and they didn't need to salute, he vanished from their perceptual universe. Not long ago, he'd been one of them, toting his books off to class: leadership, statics and dynamics, calculus….

Kerry said, “I didn't know there were women.”

“Since 1976. One's Brigade Commander this year.”

“How did you end up here?”

‘They have exams for admission. I got lucky.”

“Is this where you wanted to go?”

“I didn't have a lot of choices. But yeah, I wanted to come here.”

“It's cheap?”

“Actually, they pay you. Course, you have to commit for five years after you graduate.”

“So it's a trap. In a way.”

“Oh, they explain it up front. You know what you're getting into.”

She said, “That's the dorm?”

He raised his eyes to the French Renaissance frontage of Bancroft Hall. Snow-devils scoured the brick expanse of Tecumseh Court. The windows looked blank and dark. He pointed out his Plebe Summer room, then, seeing her shivering, went on up the steps into the echoing solemnity of Memorial Hall.

They looked up at the murals of sailing-ship battles, at the flag Perry had flown at Lake Erie. In the hush, he recalled the awe he'd felt as a plebe, contemplating the roster of fallen heroes shrined under glass.

“You believe in this,” she murmured. “I can see it in your face.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“But you're not as sure as you were once. And you're trying to work it out in your mind. Is that right?”

“I guess so. Yeah.” He took a breath and paced the creaking parquet where he'd learned to dance. In a side alcove, a mid was playing the piano, and the slow notes echoed like time itself beneath the crystal chandeliers. “See, I knew some of the guys on that list. They didn't fight for the reasons your friends think they did—for money, or some kind of blood lust. They did it for their country, because they thought it stood for justice and freedom. And that means for the right of people like Haneghen to say what he thinks. America's not perfect, but at least we're trying. The things they teach you here— they
feel
right. Duty. Honor. Responsibility. They're hard to live up to. But that doesn't mean we can't try.”

“Have you ever wondered why they're'so hard to live up to?” she asked him.

“Sure. Because we're human.”

“Right. But also because, maybe, those noble ideals— are they dedicated to the right end? Nobody can argue with doing your duty and so forth. But when the goal of all that is doing violence, to serve a state based on injustice and evil—”

“That's not the
goal;
the goal is to avoid war by being ready for it. And if the state's based on injustice, we can change it. You make it sound like we're Nazis. If we were, Mr. Haneghen wouldn't be running around loose, that's for sure.”

“He may not be ‘running around' much longer. Don't forget, we're going to trial next month.”

“Shit. I forgot.”

“I might go to prison. Depending on whether that sabotage charge sticks. The prosecutor's filed a motion that he doesn't have to prove motive, only intent.”

“What's the difference? Isn't motive the same as intent?”

“Not according to him. It's called an
in limine
motion. If the judge grants it, we won't be allowed to present any evidence based on political or religious beliefs.” She shrugged. “Then it'll be open-and-shut. We can try to testify, but they can gag us.”

“I can't believe they'd do that.”

She looked up at him then, and he saw doubt—and
was it fear?—in her eyes. “Oh, it's been done before. They're portraying us as terrorists. And… I thought I was ready. But you're not the only one around here who's not sure what they're doing is right. And you're not the only one who has a decision to make.”

“What do you mean?”

“The prosecutor's offered me a deal.”

“What kind of deal? Like a plea bargain?”

“No. He's offering me immunity.”

“What do you have to do?”

“Plead guilty to a charge of property destruction. He promised I'd get off with community service. Something new, huh?” She laughed, but it didn't sound amused.

“That doesn't sound too bad.”

“And testify against the others.”

While he thought about that, she went to the French doors.

A bust studied them from a niche as they leaned on a granite bulwark. Snow whipped their faces. “That's the Bay,” he said, studying whitecapped gray beyond playing fields. “The Severn's to the left. Those antennas on Green-bury Point are for communication with submerged submarines.”

“Nuclear submarines?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that's one difference. When those heroes of yours were sailing their ships, war didn't mean everyone on earth could die.” She rubbed her cheeks, and he leaned behind her and put his gloves over her face. She said, muffled, “And you know, someday it's going to end.”

“What, war? It's a nice thought.”

“It's going to happen. I'm not saying your friends were evil. It's just that, sooner or later, we're going to outgrow it.”

“Someday the sharks out there are going to stop eating fish, too.”

“People aren't sharks.”

“I think we are. We've got an aggressive instinct that just won't stop. Unless they come up with some kind of medication or something. And make everybody on earth take it.”

“Or unless we change our hearts.”

He didn't think it was going to happen soon, but he saw her point, too: that it had to come one person at a time, and that all you were responsible for was your own actions. And he couldn't disagree with that.

“What do you think I ought to do? About the deal?”

“I've been thinking about it. I can't tell you what to do.”

“I know. I just wanted to know what you thought.”

“I'd like to have you with me. But… you really think that's what they have in mind? Prison?”

“Absolutely. Conspiracy, and destruction of national security materials? Actually when you put it together, it could be up to forty-five years. But six to seven is more likely, our lawyer thinks. That's the sentencing minimum on the sabotage charge.”

Dan looked out over the Bay. He said slowly, “I don't think you should bilge your friends.”

“Bilge?”

“I don't think you should testify against them. I want you with me, but I don't want you at the price of your convictions.”

“I'm coming to that conclusion, too,” she said. “But I'm afraid. I don't want to go to prison, especially now.”

He said quietly, “If you do, I'll be there when you come out.”

She blinked into the icy wind. “Thanks, but I'm not going to hold you to that. I'll be a different person then. You'll be different, too. Let's not make any promises we can't keep.”

When she began to shiver again, he kissed her hair. “We'd better go in. You need something warmer to wear—a sweater or something.”

“Did you say you wanted to see somebody?”

“Yeah, let's see if Charlie's in. Then we'll go out in town for lunch.”

The second batt officer was a classmate. He and Dan caught up, sitting in his office. Then he said, “You up for noon meal in the mess hall?”

“We were thinking about Middleton's, but—”

“Whatever,” she said, in response to his look.

So they ate with the Brigade. King Hall looked smaller now, the arched overhead dingy. The mids at their table looked young. Even the first class looked like kids. Could this really have been his world, not that many years ago? But even as he asked it, he knew it had; that he'd always measure himself and those around him against the calibrations the Academy had etched into his heart. Maybe he and they would always come up short. But without the ideal, the example, the benchmark to measure their lives against, they would all be well and truly lost.

After lunch, he took her to an Irish shop in Crabtown and insisted she pick out a sweater. She chose the plainest, cheapest they had, but it was thick and warm. “And don't give it away,” he told her. She smiled, sort of admitting he was right. They walked all over town in the cold and saw everything, and he told himself, holding her hand, swinging it like kids, This is what it feels like to be happy. But that night in McGarvey's, he got to drinking hot rums, one after the other. She watched him, the beer in front of her untouched. And later—how long, he couldn't tell—he found himself lying helpless on the bed while she cleaned his face. He rolled his head away, and after that, everything was black.

At breakfast, she said, “You drank a lot last night.”

“Yeah. Too much.”

“So much, you passed out. Do we have a problem with that? With drinking too much?”

He pondered it. He felt weak and sick and guilty. He couldn't understand why he'd done it. He hadn't meant to.

“I guess we do. Have a problem, I mean.”

“Then what are we going to do about it?”

“I need to cut down.”

“Do you think you can?”

“I'll try. I'll promise you one thing—you're not going to see a repeat of last night.”

She nodded, then changed the subject. He felt relieved and grateful. No more, he thought Cut out the hard stuff. Just wine from now on.

He drove her back to Main Street and parked. “I thought we were heading back to Arlington,” she said.

“Will you be okay in the car for a minute?”

“I guess so. Why?”

“I have some business.”

She got the message that he didn't want to tell her, and said she'd wait. He went around the corner, into Bailey, Banks and Biddle's. The clerk looked up expectantly.

He said, “I'd like to look at engagement rings, please.”

12

 

 

 

Monday morning, and another Primal Thunder pretest meeting. This one was internal to the project office, but most of the attendees were Air Force, including Manhurin, the major he'd met before. Another, thicker package was handed out this time. This time one had his name on it. Colonel Evans ran the meeting, and he spent most of it reviewing the time line and status of the AGM-86.

Dan started out not listening very closely, but he tuned in as he realized the Boeing missile had problems, too, including the engine, low-altitude maneuverability, and the navigational system.

Evans briefed without notes, smooth and professional. Dan thought he looked like a general already, calm and compact and very, very competent. “To date, terrain comparison navigation works best where it can establish uniqueness. Against the USSR, though, our flight path lies over the relatively flat northern steppes. So we'll concentrate on calibrating for flights over flat snow and ice-covered terrain, adjusting for the Coriolis effect, and testing the B-fifty-two/missile interface.”