Джон Болл - The First Team

Admiral Haymarket, too, showed the strain that he was under. He motioned his visitors to chairs and personally drew three cups of coffee without asking first if they were wanted. When he had seated himself behind his desk once more, he could have been on the bridge of his flagship steaming at flank speed into the battle of Midway.

“Commander,” he began, “at the price of the added risk I wanted to bring you here so that we could talk face to face before this thing kicks off. When it does, you will probably be, without exaggeration, in one of the most vital command situations in the history of the United States Navy.”

“I’m well awara of that, sir,” the commander answered. “Completely aware.”

The admiral tried his coffee and then continued. “I’m not going to go into details as to how we decided on you for this mission and we assumed only one thing — that you would volunteer.”

The commander chose his words with great care. “Right now, sir, there are quite a few people, especially in light of recent events, who would question my right to call myself a hundred per cent American. I wonder, sir, if you can conceive what it means to me to have this chance to prove them wrong.”

The admiral tilted back in his chair for a moment, then sat upright again. “Commander, I think that I can. I know that I’m a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, but I’ve served with too many good men of other persuasions not to be aware.”

“Another thing, sir,” the commander continued, “I don’t know what guardian angel worked overtime to help get me picked for this assignment, but speaking purely as a man, it’s worth my entire life to me to have it. I’ll give you the very best that I’ve got to offer.”

The admiral tapped a folder on his desk. “Judging by your service record, commander, that’s all we’ll need. I chose you for this because you’re one of the very best that the Navy has, and you were available. All I can say is that I’m damn glad you weren’t at sea and tied up the way that so many of our people are now. God willing you will be at sea shortly; I’d give everything I have to go with you.”

“As of now, sir, with your permission your name will be posted on the crew list. You will be the only member on TAD elsewhere.”

“Commander, you do that. And just one more thing: if I don’t see you again before you leave here. The admiral stood up. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir. We try to make our own luck, along with our drinking water.”

“You will.” The admiral shook hands. “Go on to your briefings and use that brain of yours. If you see anything you don’t like, let us know immediately. We’ve got other submariners here, but none of us pretends to know it all.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When the commander had gone the admiral sat down again and stared at the wall in front of him. Then he turned to look at the small framed portrait of another naval officer that stood on his side table. For several seconds he studied the features of his son and then slowly shook his head. “You’re awfully damn good,” he said softly. “But I couldn’t risk it. I picked the best that we’ve got — now may God help him.”

The warden of the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth had known for some time that he would be replaced. He therefore had all of his records in order, all of his routine work fully current, and everything within the institution that he controlled in the best condition that the circumstances permitted. When he received a phone call which informed him somewhat bruskly that his successor would be there the following day to take over, he leaned back in his chair, considered the situation carefully, and decided that he was ready. He had been planning to retire for some time anyway.

His successor, who arrived alone, was shown into his office shortly after nine o’clock the next morning and afforded him a considerable surprise: he had not been expecting a woman. Because she was an enemy of his country, the warden made her welcome with formal courtesy, wondering as he did so how in the hell she proposed to head up an institution which contained several hundred of the most incorrigible male criminals that the nation had produced. However, that was now her problem.

The new warden sat down and stated her purpose in quite good, if accented, English. “I have arrived to become the head of this prison,” she announced.

The warden waved his arm through the air to suggest the whole of the installation. “Very well; if you have any official documents to establish that fact, I will then formally turn over control to you.”

“It is correct that you should ask that,” the woman answered. “I have such documents and I show them to you gladly if you can read my language.”

The warden shook his head. “I’ll have to take you on faith, then. I had been notified that someone was coming, but to be truthful I was not expecting a lady.”

His successor surprised him by smiling; as she did so she seemed to be, for that moment, a quite agreeable person.

“I understand; you were not told. Nevertheless, I am a penologist. I have been funning a women’s prison, but I was for this one selected because I have the English.”

“You certainly do. I will take as much time as you would like to show you around and acquaint you with all of our facilities.”

“You are very kind — I did not expect this. You may call me Marinka; it is much easier to say than my last name, which it is very difficult for you to pronounce.”

“As you wish, Marinka. My assistant, who is thoroughly acquainted with our entire operation, will be staying on, that is if you wish him to do so.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then perhaps you would like to begin by sitting here.” Marinka raised her hand. “Please no, I am comfortable here. I have read of your prison and I know already most of the major facts. One question I must ask: do you have any inmates now who are special problems or troublesome?”

The warden considered that for a moment. “No, not really. All of our inmates, or the great majority of them certainly, are hard cases, but we have them well controlled. We have Wattles here, as I expect you know. He has been one of our problems, but I presume you will be releasing him shortly.”

“His term — it is almost up?”

“No, but you know who Wattles is, don’t you?”

“Please to help me.”

“He is, or was, our most aggressive black militant. He is due in for quite a while yet, but you might recall that he has been one of the prime forces in supporting — your cause.”

“What was his offense?” Marinka asked.

“Almost everything in the book, actually. He has done several murders — also arson, sexual offenses, armed robbery, and a number of instances of inciting to riot, desecrating the flag — which is a rather serious offense over here, by the way — and quite a few lesser violations. He is in for mayhem; his victim was a federal judge.”

“I am instructed,” Marinka said slowly, “to operate this prison as I myself best see fit. This includes the privilege of granting parole which I know that you do not have. But I see no reason to turn loose such a man as that.”

It was hard for the warden, because he did not want to like her and he was doing so in spite of himself. “Your people at home may want him out,” he suggested. “He was quite effective in helping to tear down the power of our government for a while.”

Marinka fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and waved off the offer of a light. “I understand all that,” she answered. “Now that you remind my memory I recall him and what he did. He is a troublemaker; he would give us as much difficulty as he did you.” She drew on her cigarette and took time in letting the smoke out of her lungs. “I should stop this, I know — but my work, it is nervous exhausting. The Wattles man: I translate for you a phrase that has been used in our history. We will let him rot.”