She tried to pull her soaked clothes away from her body for a moment but then gave up. She looked like a drowned puppy. “After all that, you bring me to a swimming pool?” she asked.
“Can’t dance,” he said weakly.
An hour later, Jim and Branner were sitting on the stone wall running along the portico of the second wing of Bancroft Hall, watching the circus. The entire Yard seemed to be filled with red and blue flashing lights as emergency crews worked to remove the water from the utility tunnels. Each of the major gratings was surrounded by firemen, police, and PWC workers, most of whom were standing around and looking down into the water-filled pits that had been the grating entrances. Jim was being careful not to lean back on anything. His tattered and bloody shirt covered a mass of bandages, which in turn covered the three grazing wounds he’d received from the ricocheting rounds in the air shaft. In the light of the emergency light stands set up around the Yard grates, they could also see a knot of white uniforms up on the superintendent’s front porch, where the supe, the diminutive commandant, and several Academy staff officers were conferring with the commanding officer of the Public Works Center. Directly above them, dozens of curious faces peered out of darkened windows in Bancroft Hall.
“Regular Lebanese goat grab,” Jim said to Branner. She was talking quietly on her cell phone to NCIS headquarters, giving an initial report of the evening’s developments. The chief’s police truck swung into the road in front of the second wing. Leaving his headlights on, Bustamente got out and came up the marble steps. The lights shone right on them.
“I guess this all seemed like a good idea at the time,” he observed, waving his hand at all the emergency lights strobing away in the unusually dark Yard.
“They get that river drain open?” Jim asked, trying not to move his back too much. The EMT had whistled out loud when he’d seen Jim’s back for the first time.
“Yeah, I think so,” the chief said, climbing to join them up on the terrace. “The PWC troops had this big circle jerk going, trying to figure out who was gonna be the lucky bastard who got to go up the drain and free the door. You know, which union, how were they gonna do it, maybe use a YP to pull a cable attached to the door out into the river, like that.”
“Lemme guess: They had so many volunteers to hook up the cable, they couldn’t make up their minds.”
“Yeah, right. It was starting to look like the XO himself was gonna have to climb down there and do it. Problem was, the drain’s several hundred feet long, and they couldn’t figure out how to pull the cable all the way up the pipe without some kinda winch. You know, that shit’s heavy.”
“And?”
“And while they were going on about this and that, there was this big-ass boom. Came from the storm drain. Everyone there, yours truly included, jumped a half a mile. Then the water came out like some giant was down there doing the green apple two-step. That grate on the seawall? History. Went flying out into the river.”
“So pretty soon, the tunnels will be pumped out.”
“Yeah, although now they gotta get down there, turn off the valves that little prick opened. They got the city water shut off upstream in town, but some other damn thing is still running water down there. Biggest priority is getting power back to Mother B. here. Anyways, they got a night’s work ahead of them.”
“So do we, Chief,” Jim said. “We’ve gotta find this Booth guy.”
“You actually see this little shitbird?”
“Big shitbird, I’m afraid, and no, I never actually laid eyes on him tonight. He pulled me into the storm drain, and he fed Agent Branner here an ether sandwich, but no, we never actually laid eyes on the son of a bitch. But we’re going to.”
Branner snapped her phone shut and rejoined them. “How’s the back?” she asked, eyeing the ruins of his shirt.
“Hurts,” Jim admitted. “I’m gonna have to be on top for a while.”
Branner flashed him one of her hundred-yard stares while the chief tried to suppress a guffaw. But then she actually grinned. He was relieved to see that she had stopped shaking. “Washington’s rousting out reinforcements,” she said. “Our director’s suddenly eager to reopen this thing.” She glanced over Jim’s shoulder in the direction of the supe’s quarters. “Uh-oh,” she muttered. “Incoming.”
Jim turned and saw the commandant and two commanders headed for them. “Should have turned your lights off, Chief,” Jim said.
“Whoops. I think I better go coordinate some shit.”
“Chicken,” Jim said. The chief saluted the commandant as they passed on the steps and then escaped smartly in his police pickup. The portico went back into shadow as he pulled away from the curb.
“Mr. Hall. And Agent Branner,” the commandant said as he reached them. “We’re so glad you’re safe.”
The two commanders waited discreetly down at the bottom of the steps. Jim didn’t recognize either of them. “Sorry about all this, sir,” he said. “Things kinda got out of hand down there tonight.”
“Well, I should say so, Mr. Hall,” Robbins said, giving him an arch look. “The OOD told me you’d been shot? Are you all right?”
“I had to use a gun to blast the latch off the door we escaped through,” Jim said. “It was in an old airshaft. There were some ricochets. Cut up my back, mostly, but apparently nothing too serious. Do you have any idea where Midshipman Booth is?”
Robbins frowned and chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “The OOD gave me a preliminary report. Midshipman Booth is not in his room, and no one knows where he is. Midshipman Markham is signed out into town and has not returned. Any thoughts?”
Jim took in the dant’s expression. The usual controlled anger was gone. In its place was something else, something he couldn’t read.
“Thoughts? Yes, I have some thoughts. I think this Midshipman Booth either killed Brian Dell or caused it to happen. I think he’s also responsible for the beating death of a federal agent, and some other muggings that have been taking place over in Crabtown. He may also be responsible for the disappearance of a student at St. John’s. And an attempt on Midshipman Hays’s life. Not to mention penetrating the Academy’s intranet, filching exam material, destroying government property on a grand fucking scale, and generally running wild for the past three years while nobody, nobody at all, caught on.”
“And you can prove these allegations?”
Ah, Jim thought, here it comes. “We need a little time alone with Mr. Booth. And then we’d want to show you his little underground lab setup, assuming we can still reach it. But, yes, I think we can. He as much as admitted some of this to us down in the tunnels tonight.”
“To both of you?” Robbins asked.
Jim chose not to look at Branner. “I don’t know how much Agent Branner heard after she’d been disabled,” Jim said. “But we sure as hell didn’t cause all that”-he gestured out into the Yard at all the lights-“to happen tonight. That kid tried to kill us both.”
“How did you know he’d be down there tonight?” Robbins asked.
Jim wasn’t about to admit that he’d challenged Booth to go down into the tunnels. “We didn’t,” Branner said. “But we’d learned some things at Elizabeth DeWinter’s office yesterday afternoon from Midshipman Markham, some things you may not yet know. We’re thinking now that Dell’s death may have been aimed at Markham. That Dell may have been a pawn in a bigger, and nastier, game between Booth and Markham.”
The commandant nodded thoughtfully. “And do your superiors agree with all these…hypotheses?” he asked her.
“NCIS believes the investigation into the Booth matter should be expanded and pursued vigorously,” she said.
The commandant eyed her carefully. “I believe you received quite different directions, earlier.”
“They became OBE after we’d talked to Markham. We knew that what she was telling us would change everything. So to speak.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Captain Robbins’s lips, but before he could
say anything, Branner’s cell phone chirped. She turned to answer it, said “Okay” three times, and then closed the phone. “My headquarters wants a joint conference call with me and Mr. Hall, sir. Do you mind? We need to brief them officially, while everything’s still wet, as it were.”
Robbins nodded. “And then, in the morning,” he said, “I’d appreciate the same courtesy for me and my staff, if that won’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all, sir,” Branner said before Jim could get a word in edgewise. “Thank you, sir.”
Robbins started to say something, then shook his head and went back down the steps. The commanders joined him and they walked around the corner of the building toward Tecumseh Court, the two officers perfectly in step with Robbins.
“WTF? Over,” Jim said quietly.
“That wasn’t Chang. I paged myself. We don’t need to get into a ‘Who shot John’ discussion with little Adolf there. Time to blow this pop stand. Get some sleep.”
“Time to find that goddamned Booth.”
“Let them look for him. If he’s still here in the Yard, he has to hide from four thousand of them, plus the officers. Let’s get you back to the boat before you fall down and I have to carry you. Some more.”
“I resent that, and I’m not that bad off,” he said, trying not to wince when he stood up. The bandages felt like a second skin, a badly sunburned skin.
“Okay, so let’s get me back to the boat before I fall down, how ’bout that?”
Jim dreamed he was locked in a room full of telephones, all of which had started to ring at once. It was an annoying dream, which got even more annoying when he picked one up and it kept ringing.
“Answer the damned thing,” Branner mumbled from beneath the covers.
He felt for the bedside phone, got it off the hook, and stuck it in his ear without opening his eyes. His upper back felt like he’d been dragged down a gravel road for an hour or so.
“Hall,” he croaked.
“Mr. Hall? Good morning, sir. This is Eve, the commandant’s secretary? The commandant’s compliments, sir, and he requests your presence in his office at zero seven-thirty.”
Jim opened one eye, glared at the clock radio. Once he was able to focus, saw that it was 6:50.
“Sure, why not?” he said, and hung up before Eve could reply.
“What?” Branner said, still underneath the covers somewhere.
“I’ve just been given a come-around,” he said. “Dant’s office, zero seven-thirty. That’s a half hour from now.”
“Have a good time,” she said. “Don’t tell anybody where I am.”
“Right,” he said, getting up and staggering over toward the head to shuck his clothes. Mindful of all the road rash on his back, he opted for a quick front-side-only shower. “Only thing is, they’ve probably got Booth,” he called, and grinned when he heard her swearing.
It seemed like only an hour ago that they’d collapsed on the bed fully dressed. Branner had made some noises about going to the guest cabin, but he had sensed her exhaustion and perhaps more. Within an hour, she’d awakened in the grip of a nightmare, fiercely holding on to Jim for several minutes of uncontrolled shivering and tears. He’d finally rolled her under the covers, clothes and all, and then just held her until she fell asleep.
Twenty-five minutes later, Jim and Branner drove through the gate at the visitors’ center in Jim’s truck and parked in one of the slots reserved for police vehicles. They walked across the Yard and entered Bancroft through the second wing’s terrace doors, where they found most of the overhead lights still out after the events of the prior night. The sound of a portable generator could be heard from the courtyard between Dahlgren Hall and Bancroft.
“Sorry about all the hysterical waterworks last night,” she said as they strode down the empty corridor.
“I was getting ready to do the same thing,” he said, careful not to look at her. “That was too fucking close, all around.”
“Still,” she replied. “I’m glad you were there.”
They made it to the commandant’s office at 7:29. Eve beamed her approval, then frowned when she saw Branner. Jim had managed a jacket and tie, but Branner was still in the same outfit she’d worn down in the tunnels and then slept in. It had not improved with age.
“But, um, I’m afraid this appointment is for Mr. Hall,” she began, eyeing Branner’s rumpled clothes. Jim cut her off.
“Agent Branner needs to know when she’ll be able to interview Midshipman Booth,” he said.
“Midshipman Booth?” Eve said blankly. “I don’t know anything about a Midshipman Booth. I’ll have to consult with the commandant. If you would both please have a seat, I’ll-”
“Get in here, both of you,” Robbins called from inside his office. Jim followed Branner into the commandant’s inner office. He did not invite them to sit down. He stood behind his desk, peering up at Jim over his reading glasses. “I think it was made clear the other day, to both of you, now that I think about it, that this matter had been resolved by a SecNav determination.”
“We’re talking about the Dell matter?” Jim asked.
“Yes, Mr. Hall. The Dell matter. What else would we be talking about?”
“I was assuming you wanted to know why the utility tunnel complex was wrecked last night. Why you and your office are all running on emergency generators this morning. That you’d want a fuller explanation of what happened down there, and why we were down there.”
“Yes, I do. But right now, Midshipman Markham hasn’t shown up for morning meal formation. She signed in very early this morning, well after the expiration of town liberty. And another firstie is also UA.”
“Gosh, let me guess,” Jim said. “Dyle Booth.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced him?” Branner asked.
Robbins frowned and sat down slowly. “It’s most unusual. Two first-class UA. Especially this late in the year. And most out of character for Midshipman Markham.”
“But not for Booth?”
“Booth’s company officer reports that he is something of a loner within the company, but he’s had no conduct offenses of any kind for almost three years.”
“Well,” Branner said, pulling up a chair and plopping down into it. “I’m tired, so I’m going to sit down. Let me fill you in on what we think we know about Midshipman First Class Dyle Booth.”
“But, see here, I-”
“You want to listen, Captain. That’s what you want to do right now.”
Robbins opened his mouth to protest, saw the look on Branner’s face, and shut it. Jim grabbed himself a chair, reversed it, and sat down, being very careful not to strain the shirt across his back. Branner was gathering her thoughts when the commandant’s door burst open. It was Captain Rogers, and he was visibly agitated.
“Sir!” he shouted. “We have a possible hostage situation. Eighth wing. One mid is threatening to throw another one off the roof!”
Branner whipped around in her chair. “Is one of them a female?”
Rogers blinked, focused on Branner, and then nodded yes. The commandant was standing up behind his desk. “Call the-” He began, then stopped. “Hell’s bells, who do we call? A hostage situation! What the hell’s our procedure for a hostage situation?”
Jim reached across the desk and snatched up Robbins’s phone. He called the chief’s direct number, got him, and told him to set up a police perimeter around the eighth wing, inside and out, to contain a hostage situation, and to get some help from the Annapolis police. To his immense credit, Bustamente said they’d get right on it. By now, the commandant was really spinning up, firing a hundred questions at Rogers, who had zero answers but began to take copious notes in a little green notebook. Branner was signaling Jim that they should get out of there.
“Sir, I’m going to take charge of the police operation,” Jim told Robbins. “I suggest you notify the FBI office in town right away, and that you clear all midshipmen and any contract personnel out of the eighth
wing. The chief will call the Annapolis fire department, tell them what we have, and request an air bag and their big ladder truck.”
Robbins just gaped at him, but Jim moved quickly out the office door, with Branner right behind him. They jogged down the executive corridor to the wooden partition, through the rotunda, and into the fourth wing. Midshipmen were staring at them as they ran down the passageway and turned left into the line of buildings that led back to the eighth wing.
“Has to be Booth,” Branner said. “He’s got Markham.”
“That’s my guess,” replied Jim, who was puffing now, his back on fire from the jarring. “You ready for some stairs?”
“Anytime,” she said, and they turned left and up into a stairwell that led to the crossover breezeway between the sixth and eighth wings. They blasted through the double doors into the third deck on the eighth wing and stopped short. There were midshipmen everywhere being herded by upperclassmen toward the breezeway. A company officer was shouting orders, which were being relayed by several firsties. Jim and Branner let the crowd sweep past them until the corridor was empty except for the Navy lieutenant and two three-striper firsties. Jim told the company officer who they were, and asked for a situation report.
“We got a call about someone on the top deck with a gun. Big guy, shaved head, wearing sweats. He was waving the gun around and threatening to shoot people down on the terrace. Then he pulled a female up by the hair and threatened to throw her off the roof.”
One of the firsties interrupted. “Sir? That guy up there is Dyle Booth. He’s a firstie. We don’t know who the female is. She had tape across her face.”
“We do,” Branner said. “Is the top deck cleared out?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the other firstie. “We got everyone down here to the crossover level.”
“How do you get to the roof?” Jim asked.
“There’s one maintenance access stairwell,” the officer said. A phone began to ring in the company office behind him. “I should get that,” he said.
“Sir?” the larger of the two firsties said once the lieutenant had stepped back into his office.
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