P Deutermann - Darkside

“You probably reminded her of what she’d lost,” Liz said.

“Probably,” he said. “And I wasn’t the best of company, as I just demonstrated. And now she’s about to graduate and leave. I think that’s what’s been getting me spooked these past few weeks. And poor Julie, trying so hard not to show how much she’s ready to go, as if that’s somehow disloyal to me.”

“I haven’t met all that many midshipmen,” she said. “But the seniors, the firsties? They all seem to have this look of desperation about making it all the way through and getting out of there. Is it that unpleasant?”

“It’s not so much unpleasant as it is long,” he said. “As we used to say, it’s a four-hundred-thousand-dollar education, shoved up your ass a penny at a time.”

She raised her eyebrows at that. “They all compete so hard to get in, I’m surprised they’d think that way.”

“It’s hard on purpose, and it gets harder throughout the four years. I’d say half the guys would be willing to drop it and go somewhere else, except that it becomes such a point of honor to beat the system and make it through. They make it a four-year challenge and they never let up. You end up feeling superior to your civilian college brethren, because you have the rigors of the academic program as well as all the military stuff.”

“That explains Julie’s attitude about this Dell case,” she said. “She’s angry more than anything else.”

“Exactly. Some plebe’s mistake might screw up her chances to finish, graduate, and get her commission.”

“A plebe who’s dead,” she reminded him.

“And she’s sorry about that, but it had nothing to do with her, and that’s why she wants to march into the front office and have it out with anyone who thinks it did.”

Liz was silent, and he wondered if he’d said something wrong. They’d agreed, after all, not to talk about the Dell case, and this was why. The good news was that he was over his waterworks. He sensed that it was time for him to leave.

“Thanks for inviting me out,” he said. “I needed it, even if I didn’t know it. You’ve been very patient.”

She gave him an amused look. “Nobody’s ever called me patient before,” she said. “But I’ll happily accept all those other nice things you said. On one condition.”

“Name it,” he said, hoping suddenly that he knew what she was going to say.

“That we do it again. Go out. Do something together. Soon.”

“Yes, please,” he said, suddenly happy that he’d anticipated her. They got up and walked to the front door.

“I meant that,” she said. “I like you. I like the fact that your wife’s memory can still unhinge you. It shows you’re human. I spend most of my time with lawyers. The occasional human is refreshing.” She stepped in close, stood up on tiptoes, and kissed him gently on the cheek. He didn’t know what to do, so he was grateful when she opened the door and said good night.

He walked back under the streetlights along College Avenue, past the Naval Academy’s Alumni House, and then turned left onto King George Street to get home. The blocky brick buildings of St. John’s College, almost as old as the town, were on his left. Across the street were the high brick walls of the Academy, and the backs of the captains’ and commanders’ quarters, which lined the Worden Field parade ground. He kept his mind in neutral, not wanting to dwell on his evening with Liz or the prospects of seeing her again. But he knew he would. He’d embarrassed himself tonight, but in a good way, he supposed, if that were possible. He recognized that tonight had been something of a turning point, because it was becoming perfectly clear that his breaking down like that was not about Joanne, but, just as the chaplain had suggested, all about him. And if this lovely woman wanted to help him climb out of the valley of self-pity, he’d be a fool to turn her down.

At the Thursday-morning staff conference, the commandant was in the admiral’s chair to take the morning briefing. Jim Hall was sitting in again, this time in place of his boss. The commandant had been complaining that the Dell incident could not have come at a worse time. The papers were reciting the usual litany of recent scandals, the football player rape case, the expulsion of four mids in 1999 and five others in 1998 for sexual misconduct, and the quarterback plebe case in 1997. All the familiar Academy haters were popping back out of their holes, and the alumni were once again viewing the situation with alarm. None of the staffers knew what to say about all that, so they prudently said nothing.

“Okay,” Robbins said. “Last item. Mr. Hall, you have an incident to report?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently, the tunnel runners are active again.”

The commandant shook his head in frustration. “I don’t understand that bullshit,” he said. “Why the hell would anyone want to go down there?”

“Because they’re not supposed to be down there, sir,” Jim replied. “It’s mostly a game. We chase ’em; they run. I think it’s the same guy or guys doing it, and of course they can get out into town through the tunnels. Running the tunnels has replaced going over the wall.”

“When I was here, no one wanted to get out into town that bad,” Robbins said.

Jim didn’t say what he and probably some others at the table were thinking: Speak for yourself, there, Dant. Jim had had two girlfriends during his last year at the academy, on two different sides of town, and he had always been interested in getting out into town.

Robbins reminded everyone that he was still focused on the emergency at hand-the death of Midshipman Fourth Class Dell. He emphasized the importance of information control through the Public Affairs office. Then he stood up, which was the signal that the morning conference was over. Everyone stood at their seats as the commandant left the room.

Jim hadn’t mentioned at the staff meeting that he was more than just a little familiar with the tunnels and the small band of “runners,” as they called themselves. After Jim had taken over as security officer, one of the little dears had shut the two main valves for the steam-heating line leading to Bancroft Hall. Jim had decided to take a personal interest. He’d obtained the underground as-built drawings from the Public Works Center, then made several daytime recons of the tunnel complex, compiling a detailed map of the entire underground system. After more than 150 years of operation, the tunnel system was much more extensive and elaborate than he had imagined, with some of the branches dating back to the Civil War.

He had discovered that there were no fewer than five routes out into the city of Annapolis, although three of these were somewhat dangerous as escape routes because of high-voltage cables and transformers. The other two, however, led to places where it would be easy for someone to get into town, especially late at night, without being seen, coming or going. He’d also discovered that there was at least one tagger loose down there, and he had taken some notes on the graffiti designs and signatures. Two months ago, he’d even sprayed over one of the more elaborate territorial markings with black paint, then laid down his own tag, a macabre cryptogram he’d bought from one of the local tattoo parlors, with the name Hall-Man-Chu embedded in it. Two weeks after that, he found that his tag had been defaced, the jaws of a silhouetted shark surrounding it. He’d taken it as a challenge.

After that, he had made some nocturnal excursions to see if he could catch the mysterious runner with the shark tag. Each time, he had notified his own police force and the Public Works duty officer that he was going to be going down into the system. Then the Academy’s police chief, Carlo Bustamente, mentioned in passing that the PWC people were listing his nocturnal inspections on their daily maintenance schedules. He changed his MO, telling only the chief when he was going to make a tunnel run of his own.