Like so much that had happened during those strenuous, halcyon years, Joan, too, had receded into the never-never land. He knew her well enough to realize that was the way she wanted it. She had given him his freedom, and claimed the same for herself. Now, fifteen years later, she was back. But was she? Did he dare ask her to reenter his life, even in a small way?
2
Despite Laura’s misgivings about the lack of an intermediary, her suggestion had been a good one. For all Rich knew, Admiral Brighting had been expecting the request for a second interview. His offices were located in a separate, guarded, brick-and-concrete structure behind the “Main Navy” building dating from World War I. Now the sharp-featured, hawk-nosed, wizened little admiral peered across his book-and-paper-cluttered desk at Richardson. His eyes were mild, expressionless, slightly faded. He had been reading, but no glasses were in evidence. As previously, he was dressed in civilian shirt, tie and trousers. His jacket was hanging nearby. Two months ago, Richardson had come in uniform for his first interview, but today he had decided to match the admiral’s habitual attire. No one, however, had invited him to remove his jacket. The room was warm. The ancient air-conditioning unit in the window behind Brighting was whirring, blowing an ineffectual amount of humid, slightly cooled air toward him.
“Hello, Richardson. What do you want to see me about?” It was hardly an auspicious beginning. Admiral Brighting spoke in a monotone, barely loudly enough for Rich to hear him. He had the reputation of wasting no time in conversation, and in this he was running true to form. His eyes returned to the loose-leaf binder filled with pink flimsies from which he had been reading.
Richardson had carefully thought over how he would broach the subject of his visit, had decided to try as well as he could to fit the admiral’s mood, whatever it might be; but he was already totally disarmed. His straight-backed wooden chair was as uncomfortable as it had been the first time, and he had long known the story about its front legs having been slightly shortened. Probably this was not true, but nevertheless it held him at an odd angle, and there seemed a tendency to slip forward. Determinedly, he planted both feet in front of him.
How to begin? “I came to try to convince you to reconsider, sir,” he said. “I want very much to go to nuclear power school.”
“Do you think just asking me will get you what you want?” Admiral Brighting’s eyes remained on his loose-leaf binder. “Why don’t you ask your friends at BuPers? They write the orders. They can send you to any university they want.”
“Your training is the only one that can qualify me in nuclear power, sir. I’m to be responsible for administration, training and operations of the nuclear subs in the Thames River. It’s going to be a big and tricky job, and that’s why I want to know something about your submarines and your program, sir.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your Medal of Honor, Richardson? Are you trying to impress me with your modesty? Or are you ashamed of it?” The soft, monotonous voice had not changed. The admiral’s eyes flickered, then once more fell to the notebook in his hand. The pink sheets were all carbon copies, Rich noted. Brighting picked up a pencil, absently began to make little marks in the corner of the turned-over, left-hand sheet.
It had not occurred to either Rich or Laura that Brighting might make reference to the wartime decoration which was part of his uniform. Richardson nearly stuttered. “I’m not ashamed of it, sir,” he finally said. “I just thought I’d come in civilian clothes today.” His voice reflected his sudden defensiveness. He was trying to keep all emotion out of it, not quite succeeding.
Admiral Brighting made more marks on the paper. “You’re a hero, Richardson. We don’t need heroes in nuclear power. What we need is dedication, and workers who are willing to use their brains. We don’t have any room for lazy naval officers. You go and be a hero in your new squadron. You won’t have any trouble riding on your reputation there.”
“I’ve never been afraid of work, Admiral,” said Rich, fighting the urge to raise his voice. “All I’m asking is the same opportunity you are giving to others. I want to do a good job in New London, and it will be better for all the nuclear boats up there if I can talk to the skippers from knowledge instead of ignorance.”
“Do you read any books? What books have you read recently?”
Rich was ready for the sudden shift in subject. “I’ve been interested in Napoleon lately,” he said, “beginning a year ago with War and Peace. I’ve just finished General J. F. C. Fuller’s Military History of the Western World, which I started mainly because he gives so much time to Napoleon.”
“I’ve read Fuller, but his history is principally about battles. Have you studied Victor Hugo and Emil Ludwig? Ludwig is the recognized authority on Napoleon.” Brighting looked up at last. “Do you think Maitland was right to induce Napoleon to come aboard the Bellerophon with a promise of asylum?”
“Fuller says he only promised to bring him to England unharmed,” Richardson said steadily. “Napoleon was lucky to get the protection of the British Navy at that point. The Germans would have killed him if they’d caught him, and the French royalists might have done the same if he’d not got aboard a big British warship.”
Brighting’s eyes dropped again to the notebook. He made another tiny pencil mark in the upper left corner. “You’re wasting your time reading about Napoleon, Richardson. Nothing about him is relevant to 1960. He died nearly a century and a half ago. If you’re so interested in nuclear power, why haven’t you been studying some of the books on the subject? You’re like all the others. You’re not interested in nuclear power; you’re only interested in furthering your career.” He looked up. The pale gray eyes were now bleak. “No squadron commander is going to tell my skippers how to run my submarines, Richardson,” he said, still speaking softly. “You operators have no idea of what’s required, and you’re not willing to learn.”
“That’s not true, Admiral,” said Richardson. “I’m willing to give it all I’m capable of, if you’ll let me have the chance. None of the nuclear power books gives the operational know-how needed, anyway. They’re all theoretical. The only way anyone can get that is through your program. You’re the only person or organization which has ever built an operational nuclear power plant.” Trying to guess how the interview would go, he and Laura had decided that a little flattery would do no harm. “There’s bound to be a lot of nuclear stuff in New London that I’ll have to deal with. Personal ambition has nothing to do with it. With or without nuclear training, I’m already designated for the squadron up there. All I want is to be able to do a better job.”
“All I’ve got to do to keep you from commanding Squadron Ten is to say I don’t want you up there. What do you think of that? Did the Chief of Personnel send you over here to beg?”