He started back toward the Mahan Hall interchange. Just for the hell of it, he began counting indicator lights. He’d seen thirty-seven by the time he reached the interchange. Far too many. Plus, the night-vision headset would make for a cumbersome hand-to-hand situation. But he still might use the lights-out maneuver. Mask out his own eyes for five minutes, then send the signal, see how well he could function. The question he still hadn’t answered was where his runner was getting into the tunnels. Had to be down at the Bancroft Hall end, although those tunnels were jam-packed with pipes and cables. The only other tunnels down at that end were the old Fort Severn magazine tunnels. Wait a minute, he thought. The night of the rocket, Bagger had pointed out some bright metal scratches on the lock of one of the doors to the Severn magazine tunnel. In the excitement, Jim had forgotten that. He decided to go down there and look again.
The splotches had been cleaned off the concrete where the rocket had gone ricocheting down the S-turn. When he got to the alcove leading down to the magazine doors, he found the overhead light was out. There were no lights in the alcove, which ran for about ten feet before reaching the two doors. He turned into the alcove, went down three stone steps, crossed the ten feet, and knelt down in front of the oak door on the left-hand side. He shone his Maglite on the antique lock. Hard to tell. It was humid enough down here to encourage corrosion, so shiny metal scratches could have dulled down by now. He couldn’t see any scratches, and yet they had been visible before. He put his finger to the keyhole and rubbed it around. Something came off on his finger, some gooey-gray substance. And there were the shiny scratches.
Well, hello, he thought. Someone has been covering his tracks here. Then the hair went up on the back of his head. He sensed the presence of someone or something behind him. Not right behind him, but very close. His heart began to pound slightly. The ambient light seemed to be different, but the bright beam of the Maglite made it difficult to tell. He worked to control his breathing and the urge to whip around to take a look. He kept the Maglite on the keyhole but focused all his senses on what was behind him. A vision of that terrible vampire face floated up in his mind. Trying not to make any sudden moves, he dropped his right hand casually to his ankle, as if to scratch an itch, and began to lift the hem of his coveralls to get at the Glock. When he had his hands on the butt, he yanked it out and spun around in place, pointing it up at the arched entrance to the alcove. But there was nothing there. Just a rectangle of dim light framed by the old stone walls.
He swore and stuffed the Glock back into the ankle rig. Goddamned place was spooking him. He stood up and exhaled. He’d have to get keys to these oak doors. He didn’t care about the right-hand tunnel-it didn’t go in the correct direction. But the left-hand tunnel might get close enough to the Bancroft Hall basements that this could be his runner’s access point. No, on second thought, he’d do this the right way, the safe way. He’d get the PWC guys to open the doors, make sure the atmosphere was safe down there, and then he’d get proper gear to make an exploration. With the PWC people knowing he was down there, time in, time out, and preparations in place to retrieve his young ass if something went wrong. Those old brick tunnels were dangerous as hell, and the magazine complex appeared to be surprisingly large. Go into that by yourself and probably nobody would ever know what became of you.
He started back up the alcove, climbed the three steps, and emerged into the modern tunnel. He stopped to listen, but there were only the familiar sounds of the utility lines. Nothing from above ground penetrated this sector. There wouldn’t be any vehicle traffic on the Yard streets above, and the mids would all be in their respective trees for the nights, excepting the poor bastards who were failing courses. They’d be in their closets with flashlights, or in their racks with a blanket over the flashlight, desperately memorizing the Gouge as they tried to get ready for the next morning’s pop quiz.
As he came to the S-turn under the front of Bancroft Hall, he thought he heard something. He froze and reached down for the Glock again. The lights in this sector were all working, but the S-turn would make an excellent place to start some shit. Then he definitely heard something. He recognized it as the unmistakable sound of a tennis ball being smacked right in the sweet spot of a racket, and then bouncing along the concrete floor from side wall to side wall, through the S-turn, until it rolled out practically at his feet. It made a surreal sound down among all the pipes, cables, and concrete. He heard a clang and felt a pressure change in his ears as he scooped it up and discovered that there was something written on it. Two words.
YOU’RE ON.
Liz helped Ev clean up after a supper of cold steamed crabs she had brought from the harbor market. They took their wineglasses out to the back porch and settled into chairs. It was fully dark, with the only lights coming from inside the house and across the shimmering black waters of the creek.
She had told him about visiting Jim Hall at the marina, and that she was still bothered by his involvement in the NCIS investigation. He wasn’t so sure that it was all such a bad thing, understanding as he did the difficulty civilians would have getting through to the inner workings and hidden mechanisms of life in the Brigade of Midshipmen.
“It’s a strange world in there,” he said, pouring them both some more wine. “Stranger than even I remember it, because now there are women on board. It was probably a whole lot easier when it was all guys.”
“You don’t think women belong in the military?” she asked.
“Now there’s a loaded question.” He laughed. “But the truth is, no, I don’t. I mean, I understand the equal-opportunity issue-that women shouldn’t be denied the right to serve their country as officers or anything else. And I’m very proud of what Julie’s managed to do, getting through and doing it well.”
“So?”
“Well, I just don’t think that military service is suitable for women. I think their role in life has more to do with nurturing a family, bearing and having children, and acting as the sanity counterbalance to the aggressive and often dumb-headed things we men do to screw up their lives and other people’s. Like charging off to war, drawing lines in the sand, getting even, showing off. Women are too valuable to waste in military service.”
“Not all women want to do the things you just mentioned.”
“Agreed. And I know my views are not politically correct these days.”
“But shared perhaps by more people than you know,” she said. “I often wonder if it’s fitting for the nation’s women-folk to be on the front lines. But maybe now that the front lines have come to downtown America, we’ll have to reevaluate. Personally, though, I’d rather see women in the professions. How does Julie feel about it?”
“She’s going Navy air, so it should be obvious. But I’m not sure I know how she really feels.”
“Trying to be the son you didn’t have, perhaps?”
“It’s possible, although I’ve never laid that rap on her. Besides, look at her. A tomboy she’s not. But she’s been somewhat remote since, you know.”
“I grew up the elder of two children. My brother always gravitated toward our mother when it came time to let hair down, and I gravitated toward my dad. How was it with Julie?”
“Her mother,” he replied, sipping some wine. “I wasn’t really aware of that until…”
“Until Joanne died?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid to say the word, Ev.”
“I know.”
“Anyway-Julie? Maybe being remote is her way of grieving.”
He was silent for a moment. “She was pretty torn up by the whole thing. And then suddenly, she seemed to take an emotional deep breath and ploughed back into her life. Kids are strange.”