No speculation about the cause of this single-car accident and no speculation anywhere that another vehicle might be involved.
He took the report into the office beside him and had it copied. They charged him thirty cents. He was tempted to use the car to return the original report but decided the exercise would be good for him. As he approached the police building, a trooper was parking his car in a reserved spot.
“Thanks,” he told the girl at the desk. She handed him his driver’s license, which had been lying on the counter beside the police radio microphone.
The door behind Jake opened. “Hi, Susie.” Jake turned. The trooper was clad in a green uniform and wore a short green nylon jacket. He was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years of age, with a tanned, clean-shaven face and short military haircut. He stood several inches taller than Jake and was built heavier. On the left breast of his coat was a silver name tag: Keadle. “Hello,” he said, addressing the greeting to Jake.
“Hi.”
“This is Mr. Jacob L. Grafton of Arlington, Virginia,” the girl said. “He was a friend of Captain Strong’s.”
“Izzatso?” The trooper’s eyes swept him again, more carefully. “Why don’tcha step into this other room here for a minute. Susie, how about getting us both coffee. White or black?” he said to Jake.
“Black.”
“Black it is,” he said, and led the way behind the counter and through a door into an adjoining office. His big revolver swung freely below his jacket in a brown holster that hung halfway down his right leg.
“Captain Strong had a little cabin a few miles east of here for weekends and all,” the trooper said. “I knew him to speak to. Helluva nice guy. Too bad about that wreck.”
Jake nodded and sank onto an old sofa with the stuffing coming through the cracks in the vinyl.
“You in the navy too?” the trooper asked.
Jake took out his wallet and extracted his green ID card. He passed it across. The trooper looked it over, both sides, then handed it back. “Why’d you come up here, Captain Grafton?”
“Were you ever in the service?”
“Marines, four years. Why?”
“Just curious.”
The door opened and Susie came in with coffee in Styrofoam cups. Both men thanked her and she pulled the door shut on her way out.
“Let’s try it again. Why’d you come up here, Captain Grafton?”
“To get a copy of this report.”
Keadle thought about that for a bit, then said, “Well, you got one. What do you think of it?”
“It was a strange accident.”
“How so?”
“Car going up a steep, curvy road on a rainy evening goes skidding off the pavement and across a fifty-foot-wide gravel turnout. Right over the edge. Then there’s a furious fire in the passenger compartment.”
“What’s strange about that?”
“He must have been flying low that night. Or else somebody pushed him over the edge. And an interior fire—I thought that stuff only happened in movies. Wrecked cars rarely explode or catch fire.”
“You don’t say. If it wasn’t an accident, who wanted Captain Strong dead?”
“I don’t know. I dropped in to see if you did.”
“I’m just a rural peace officer, not some big-city detective. This county don’t have much real crime. Seems that most of the scumbags just do their thing over in Washington. I’m not—”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. Why aren’t you investigating an apparent homicide?”
“Who says I’m not? I’m sitting here chinning with you, ain’t I?”
Jake sipped on his coffee. Finally he said, “Well, you got any more questions?”
“Gimme your address and phone number.” Keadle picked up a pad of paper and a pen from the desk. “If I think of any I’ll give you a call.”
Jake told him the number. “Susie already gave you my address from my driver’s license.” He stood and drained his coffee. “Thanks for the coffee. I hope you catch him.”
Keadle looked at him with pursed lips.
Jake opened the door and walked out. He nodded at Susie as he went by.
The red flag was up on the Main Street parking meter but no ticket yet. It was almost noon. Perhaps he should stop and see if the prosecutor was in his office. But what good would that do?
There was no way he could make it back to the office before everyone left for the day. Perhaps a hamburger. He fed the meter another quarter and walked down Main Street toward a cafe that he had noticed near the courthouse. Before he got there Trooper Keadle went by in a state police cruiser.
When he finished his lunch Jake drove east on the road back to Washington. Somewhere off one of these side roads, between here and the accident site, Harold Strong had had a cabin. He wished he had thought of finding the cabin and stopping by before he went to town.
Who are you kidding, Jake? What would you look for? A long golden hair on the bedspread? Perhaps a sterling silver cigarette case bearing Mata Hari’s initials? You’re no murder investigator. Keadle has undoubtedly been through that cabin with a fine-tooth comb. If there were clues he has them.
Thoroughly disgruntled, Jake drove at forty miles an hour along the two-lane highway toward Virginia. He didn’t want to see Trooper Keadle in the rearview mirror with his red light flashing. Not too likely, of course. The odds were that Keadle was sitting in his cruiser right now in sight of Strong’s cabin, hoping against hope that Jake would drop by and enter without using a key.
Keadle was no hick cop, even if he liked to play the role. He undoubtedly knew a murder when he tripped over one, and then the very next morning a man appeared—by the Lord Harry a vice admiral in the U.S. Navy—who wanted the investigation of the very recent death of a captain in that very same navy put on the back burner. And Keadle and the prosecutor went along. Or did they? And how did the FBI get involved?
But if it didn’t happen like that, why did Henry tell that fairy story?
He glanced at the map he had jammed over the passenger’s sun visor. The report said the accident happened four miles west of Capon Bridge, that little village Jake had stopped in this morning to get gas. The Shell station.
When he topped the mountain west of Capon Bridge he slowed and looked for the scenic overlook. There. On a whim he parked his car beside the trees so he could examine whatever marks remained after two months. As he got out of his car and surveyed the muddy gravel he knew it was hopeless. Two months of rain and snow and traffic pulling off to look at the valley had totally obliterated the marks that Keadle’s report said were here after Strong’s wreck.
He walked over to the edge. Some of the guardrails were obviously newer than the others. He looked down the embankment. Beer cans, trash, bare dirt, washed-out furrows. Well, it sure looked like a car might have been dragged up that slope some time back. The ground was soft and no plants had yet had a chance to hide the scars. No sense going down there and getting muddy.
Harold Strong died here. Jake had lied to the office girl—he had never met Strong. He stood now feeling foolishly morbid and half listening to a car laboring up the grade from Capon Bridge. The engine noise carried through the trees budding with spring green and echoed off the mountainside.
Henry had been telling the truth about one thing anyway: Harold Strong had been murdered. Not even a race car could come up that grade and around that curve fast enough to skid completely across this pullout and go over the edge. Not without help.
Jake glanced up as the car climbing the mountain went by. It was going about thirty miles per hour. The driver was watching the road. And the driver was Smoke Judy.
The commanding officer of Attack Squadron 128 (VA-128) nodded at Rita Moravia and Toad Tarkington, then picked up his phone. A yeoman appeared almost immediately to collect their orders for processing and a lieutenant commander was right behind. He led them into another office and gave each of them a manual on the A-6E and introduced them to their pe
rsonal mentors, two lieutenants. “These two gentlemen are going to teach you to be credible A-6 crewmen in one week, starting right now. We’ll get your luggage over to the BOQ and these guys will drop you there when they get finished tonight.”
Toad’s teacher was a prematurely bald extrovert from New England named Jenks, who began talking about the A-6E’s electronic weapons system—radar, computers, inertial nav, forward-looking infrared and laser ranger-designator—in the car on the three-block trip to the building that housed the simulators. Toad listened silently with growing dread.
Jenks continued his monologue as he led Toad across the parking lot, lectured on at the security desk while Toad filled out a form to obtain a temporary visitor’s pass, and didn’t pause for breath as they climbed the stairs and went through a control room and across a catwalk inside a huge room to the simulator, a cockpit mounted on hydraulic rams. “So just make yourself comfortable here in the hot seat,” Jenks said in summary, “and we’ll move right on into the hardware.”
Toad looked slowly around the cavernous room at the three other simulators. Then he looked into the cockpit. Like every military cockpit in the electronic age, it was filled with display screens, computer controls and information readouts in addition to all the usual gauges, dials, knobs, switches and warning lights. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“How long is the normal syllabus to train a bombardier-navigator?”
“Eight months.”
“And you’re going to cram all that info into me in one week?”
“You look like a bright guy. That captain in Washington said you were motivated as hell.”
“Grafton?”
“I didn’t talk to him. The skipper did. Sit down and let’s get at it.” Jenks turned and shouted to the technician in the control room; “Okay, Art, fire it up.”
People were streaming out of Jefferson Plaza at 4:30 when Jake passed through the main entrance on the way in. He was still in civilian clothes. He waited impatiently for the tardy elevator.
The secretary was still in the office along with several officers. What was her name? “Hi. What’s happening?”
“Hello, Captain. Didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Yeah. Didn’t think I’d make it back. Seen Commander Judy?”
“Oh, he was in for a little while this morning, then he said he had a meeting. Said he’d probably be gone the rest of the day.”
Jake paused near the woman’s desk. “Did he say where the meeting was?”
“No, sir.”
“Was he here when you arrived this morning?”
She tried to remember. “Yessir, I think so. Oh, by the way, the computer wizard stopped by this afternoon to give you your brief on the office system. He said he was going to be working late, so if you’re going to be around a while, I’ll call him now and see if he can come over and do the brief.”
“Sure, Call him.”
Jake greeted the other officers and walked across the room to his office door. Two of his new subordinates stuck their heads in for a few pleasantries, then shoved off.
A pile of documents sat in the in basket. Jake flipped through the stuff listlessly. There was enough work here to keep him chained to this desk for a week, or maybe a month since he didn’t know anything about most of the matters the letters and memos referred to. He would have to use the staff heavily.
The secretary appeared in his door. “The computer man will be here in a little while. His name is Kleinberg. Good night, Captain.”
“Did you lock up everything?”
“No, sir. I thought you might want to look through some files.”
“Sure. Good night.”
Jake waited for the door to click shut, then went out into the room. He found Judy’s desk and sat down. He stirred through a small pile of phone messages, just names and numbers. A thin appointment book with a black cover. He flipped through it slowly.
The days up until now were heavily annotated. Today’s page was blank. He held the book at arm’s length over the desk and dropped it. It fell with a splat.
Damn! He felt so frustrated.
Well, at least he knew most of Henry’s once-upon-a-time story was true, though where that got him he had no idea. And he knew that Judy made a trip to West Virginia today. Why? To see Trooper Keadle or the prosecutor? To search Strong’s cabin? Well, Judy was certainly going to be surprised to hear that Jake knew he was there. Or was he? Maybe he would tell Jake himself in the morning.
Jake turned on the office copy machine and while it was warming up stood and read the entries in Judy’s calendar again carefully. Smoke seemed to have made a lot of notes about Karen. Karen who? Karen 472-3656, that’s who. Why did he write her phone number down so often? Aha, because she had different phone numbers—at least four of them. And this guy Bob—lunch, tennis on Saturday, reminders that he called, to call Bob. Call DE. Call from RM. Drop car at garage. Commode broke. Smoke Judy seemed to jot down everything out of the ordinary. He was a detail man in a detail business.
When he had his copies Jake put the appointment book back on Judy’s desk and went back to his little office. In a few moments he heard a knock on the door, so he heaved himself up and walked across the room to admit the visitor.
The man in civilian clothes who came in was slightly below medium height, built like a fireplug and just as bald. “Hi. Name’s Kleinberg. From NSA. Computers.” His voice boomed. Here was a man who could never whisper. In his left hand he carried a leather valise.
“I’m Grafton.”
“Beg pardon,” the man said as he reached out and tilted the bottom of Jake’s security tag. He stared at it a few seconds, then glanced again at Jake’s face. “Yep, you’re Grafton, all right. Can’t be too careful, y’know.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s look at the patient.”
Jake led the way to his desk. “I don’t know much about computers.”
“No sweat. I know enough for both of us. When we’re through, you’re going to be able to make this thing sing and dance.” Kleinberg turned on the computer. “See this prompt here? That’s the sign-on prompt and you have to type in your secret password. This is a code that identifies you to the machine, which allows you access to certain files and only certain files. Security, y’know. Here’s your password.” He used a pencil on a sheet of paper and wrote, “Reverberation.”
“How come I can’t pick my own word?”
“We tried that on the second go-around. Everyone wanted to come up with something cute, except for the aviators, who all wanted to use their nicknames. You’d have thought they were ordering vanity license plates. So…Now type in your password.”
Jake did so. The computer prompt moved from left to right, but the letters failed to appear.
“Now hit ‘enter.’ Uh-oh, the computer won’t take it. So type it again and spell it right.” This time the computer blinked to the next screen. “You only get two tries,” Kleinberg advised. “If you are wrong both times, the computer will lock you out and you’ll have to see me about getting back in.”
“How can it lock me out if I haven’t told it exactly who I am?”
“It locks out everyone who has access from the bank of monitors in this office.” Kleinberg wrote another password on the paper: “Fallacy.”
“This is the password that allows you access to files relating to the ATA, which is what I understand you are working on here in this shop. Type it in and hit ‘enter.’” Jake obeyed. “Now, to call up the directory of the files you have access to due to your security clearance and job title, you have to type one more password.” He wrote it down. “Matriarch.”
After Jake entered this code, a long list of documents appeared on the screen. “Of course, if you already have the document number, you can type it right in and not bother calling up the directory with the matriarch code word. Got it?”
“’Reverberation,’ ‘fallacy’ and ‘matriarch.’ What was the first go-ar
ound on the code words?”
Kleinberg laughed. “Well, we used computer-generated random series of letters. They weren’t words, just a series of letters. But people couldn’t remember them and took to writing them down in notebooks, checkbooks and so forth. So we tried plan two. This is plan three.”
Kleinberg took a lighter from his pocket and held the flame under the piece of paper on which he had written the code words.
It flared. Just before the fire reached his fingers, he dropped the paper on the plastic carpet protector under the chair and watched the remnant turn to ash, which he crushed with his shoe. Kleinberg rubbed his hands and smiled. “Now we begin.” He spent the next hour showing Jake how to create, edit and access documents on this list. When he had finished answering Jake’s questions, he flipped the machine off and gave Jake one of his cards. “Call me when you have questions, or ask one of the guys here who’s been around a while.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Welcome to Washington.” Kleinberg shook hands, hoisted his leather bag and left.
Jake began to lock away the papers on his desk. While he was here he might as well look again at that two-year-old book of Harold Strong’s.
He opened the upper left drawer. The matchbooks and rubber bands and other stuff were still there, but the book wasn’t. He looked in every drawer in the desk. Nope. It was gone.
Henry Jenks dropped Toad at the BOQ at 11 P.M. After he filled out the paperwork at the desk, Toad went up to his room and crashed.
The following day was a copy of the previous afternoon: an hour in the simulator, an hour at the blackboard, then back to the simulator. By noon he was navigating from one large radar-reflective target to another. In midafternoon he ran his first attack.
During all his hours in the simulator the canopy remained open and Jenks stood there beside him talking continuously, prompting him, pointing out errors. Running the system in the simulator wasn’t too difficult with Jenks right there.
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