P Deutermann - Darkside

Like today. Some plebe offed himself. Now that was news all right. No Gouge today on the LAN. Everybody with verbal E-diarrhea, sending shitloads of E-mail, bogging down the system. And the officers: oh, yeah. The officers were all stone-faced. Big trouble on the Dark Side. Made me smile, watching them today. Made me show my big teeth. And there are rumors. Man, are there some interesting rumors. Serious scuttlebutt moving down the wires. But you probably know all about that by now.

So here’s the drill! I jog around until I see the headlights, then step over to stand next to a light standard, right on the seawall. Gray on black. Invisible when the security truck comes around Rickover Hall and goes down Holloway Road. Drive right on by without a pause. Gotta improve that situational awareness, guys, A-rabs in the bushes, get you killed someday if you don’t. Every Marine knows that. Anyway, once the truck goes by, I hop the seawall. Last night, I had a nice high tide, which is cool-we sharks like deep water. I untied the rope from around my waist, hooked it up, and then climbed down onto that grating that covers the big storm drain. Which you’ve probably never seen, because it’s usually underwater. The seawall stones are slippery and smell of dead fish and crabs. Yuk-os. If all those Save the Bay tree-huggers are doing such a great job, how come the bay always smells of dead fish?

Do you know the drain I’m talking about? No, of course you don’t. It’s made of concrete, and it’s, like, five feet in diameter. I have to stoop over to make it. There’s always a little bit of water running down the center. Condensation from all those steam tunnels up ahead-you know, the ones that crisscross under the Yard. I do my usual knee-capping running drill. It’s fifteen hundred feet, almost exactly. I know the tunnels, you see. Really know them. You’d be amazed at what’s down there. The graffiti, for instance. Guys have been going down there for a long time. Playing games. Wonderful games, some of them.

Last night, my objective was what I call “Broadway,” that big tunnel that runs under Stribling. The storm drain’s dark, but Broadway has lights. You get a nice burn in your thighs, bent over like that, high-stepping up a slope that goes three football fields. But, hell, I’m, like, tough as nails; I could run that particular tunnel all night. It takes 210 steps before you hit the flap doors. You have to count-it’s pitch-black until you open the flap doors.

Everything’s different when you’re underground, you know. Well, you’re a norm. Semi-norm? Maybe you don’t. But I do. For one thing, the air doesn’t move much. It’s always warmer than you expect, especially around the steam lines. A peculiar smell, steam. Actually, it’s all the old lagging that smells. Steam’s just hot water. You get a hint of it in the storm drain, but once you get into Broadway, it’s really strong.

Broadway is the main drag of the tunnel system. Ten feet square. Overhead lights in those little metal cages. Filled with steam pipes, telephone lines, electric power cable bundles, compressed-air lines, and even the sewer and water mains servicing Bancroft Hall. They have these underground concrete chambers that branch off of Broadway all along its route, where they have these huge chillers for air conditioning. Cross passageways that branch out to all the main academic buildings, the administration building next to the chapel, and the chapel itself. A whole world down there. My world.

Did you know I’ve been running those tunnels since the middle of youngster year? I have. A teammate on the swim team-guy was a serious sex hound-showed me something that not too many people know about: Ever since the Academy moved the power plant out of the Yard, every one of those utility lines eventually runs out into dear old Crabtown. Now, of course, as a firstie, I get town libs, but, hell, that’s no fun. And besides, my time is the deep night-time. Begins at midnight, because that’s when my little vampires come alive over in town. What a guy won’t do for true love, huh? Goth love. Now that’s a game to die for, right? So to speak.

There was a phone message from Liz DeWinter waiting when Ev got back to his office from his Tuesday-morning seminar. He’d left the kitchen the previous night to give Julie some privacy when she had talked to Liz, so he’d been expecting this call. He answered a couple of questions for a waiting firstie, then closed the door to return Liz’s call. From out in the Yard came the boom of the saluting cannon, signaling the arrival of a visiting foreign admiral. He reached a secretary, who put him through to Liz.

“Morning, Ev,” she said. “I talked to Julie last night. Any further developments?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” he said.

“Good. Oh, I need to fax you a client-representation form.”

“Why don’t I come out into town to get it, if that’s okay? I don’t want to use the office fax for that.”

“Of course. Walk up Maryland Avenue to State Circle, turn left, go down Beale Street and look for number one oh seven. Two-story Georgian with black iron railings. I’ve got to get over to court right now, so I’ll just leave the paperwork with Mary Angeles, our legal secretary.”

He hesitated before asking her a question but then decided to go ahead. “Did she-I mean, did you get the impression that there was something going on? Like between her and that plebe?”

When she didn’t answer right away, he wondered if he’d suddenly strayed into attorney-client privilege territory. “No,” Liz replied, “I got zero indication of any personal relationship. She sounded mostly baffled by all the attention. Except of course for that bizarre underwear business.”

“Yeah, that’s weird, isn’t it? Julie’s such a straight-arrow girl. Wearing academic stars, top swimmer, popular without working at it, and, as best I can tell, accepted by her classmates as one of them and not some damn complaining girl.”

“Good for her,” Liz said. “But of course, you’re a parent.”

“You mean she could have taken a walk on the wild side and I’d be clueless?”

“Clueless, yes. Synonymous with parent among the college-parent set.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess that’s always possible. Ever since my wife died, I’ve probably been looking at Julie through rose-colored glasses.”

“Julie’s your only child?”

As in, she’s all you’ve got left of your family. His voice failed him for a moment. She seemed to sense she’d intruded. “Look,” she said briskly, “I still just want to see what develops, if anything. I told her not to mention that I was in the picture unless someone really started to hassle her. That you would drop that shoe when you thought it necessary.”

“Good. I told her the same thing.”

“For what it’s worth, it just sounds to me like a standard investigation,” she said.

“Thanks, Liz. I’ll be by in about a half hour to do those papers. Oh, and should I bring a check?”

“’Fraid so,” she said, and named her retainer figure. He gulped mentally, thanked her, and hung up. He had time to go into town during his lunch break, but first had to call his bank.

Jim Hall watched sympathetically as the Public Affairs staff scrambled to prepare the admiral’s morning briefing. The executive staff was gathered in the superintendent’s conference room on the second floor of the administration building, waiting for the supe, Admiral McDonald. Captain Robbins was meeting privately with the supe, but most of the department heads were present: Operations, Administrative, Public Works, Supply, Management, and the staff JAG. Technically, Jim worked for Operations, but because of the NCIS involvement, he had been asked to sit in. The mood in the conference room was grim; this was not going to be a routine meeting. The Public Affairs officer, a harried-looking aviator commander named, interestingly enough, Berry Springer, was continuously running his hand through his nonexistent hair as he turned sideways in his seat, listening intently to two assistants as they briefed him in stereo.