“Yessir, Captain. That’s what the pilot reported.”
“There were three outbound. Pilot, ATO, sensor operator. And … well, three live souls. Why’s it four coming back?”
“I dunno, sir. I asked, but didn’t get an answer.”
“Tell them it’s me asking this time.”
“Helo in final approach,” the 1MC announced.
“Uh, I’d wait a couple minutes, sir, if it’s okay with you,” the controller said. “He’s got a lot on his plate right now. The pilot, I mean.”
“Sure. As soon as he’s got both wheels on deck.”
When Dan got back to his seat he realized he’d left his classified chat screen up. He’d been only a few steps away, but he logged off quickly, before anyone could notice. Then examined the rightmost display again. Damn. That eye could see so far, but only in such a narrow slice; all else was obscurity. Like the Norse god — Heimdall, Hendall, something like that — who could see a hundred leagues and hear the grass growing. Guarding the gates of Asgard, waiting to announce the battle that would end the world with a blast of his horn. Funny, how whenever any religion contemplated the End of Days, there was always a horn involved. Looking back at the Aegis display, he couldn’t shake his apprehension, as if something bad had to be lurking in that huge pie of unsearched space.
“Helo on deck. Secure from flight quarters. Now commence XO’s messing and berthing inspection.”
The helo control petty officer. “Sir, pilot on the horn for you. Click to thirteen.”
Dan fitted the headset on again, adjusted warm plastic, snapped to 13. To hear a voice he didn’t recognize. A young-sounding, eager male voice, with maybe a touch of somewhere in New England. “Captain? Is that you?”
“Yeah, this is Lenson. Who’s this?”
“Adam Ammermann, Captain.”
He blinked and massaged his forehead. Then checked the dial, wondering if he’d wandered in on some other frequency. “I’m sorry. Am I on the line with Red Hawk 202?”
“We’re shutting down, sir. Please secure that,” someone said in the background, maybe the copilot; and the voice said, “I’ve got to get off, I’ll be there shortly.”
Dan stared at the handset, then slowly put it down.
A tall, round-cheeked man with a slash of dark hair above an oval, open face swung down out of the chopper. He wore a Mae West over a blue blazer with a white button-down oxford shirt and a maroon tie with a repetitive pattern of small red … seals? His smile lit up the flight deck as he bounded toward Dan, palm outstretched, lurching as the deck tilted. “Captain Lennon? Dan Lennon?”
“The name’s Lenson.” Dan freed his hand as soon as he reasonably could and waved toward the hangar. “Let’s get clear of the flight deck, okay?”
“Right, right, Lenson. Adam Ammermann. Just call me Adam, please. Or, my friends call me Jars.”
Inside the hangar the maintenance crew stared. Dan led the guy out of the way as the hangar door clanged and began powering upward. Jars? “Look, Mr.… Ammermann, there’s obviously been some mix-up. This is a U.S. Navy warship. I assume you’re a reporter, or—”
“Oh, no.” Ammermann’s wide innocent face fell. He needed a shave. “They told me they’d notified you — you’d know I was coming. They didn’t? Look, I—”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Dan interrupted. It might not be the guy’s fault, but he didn’t have time for the press. He got the Hydra off his belt. “Bridge, this is the CO, back at the hangar. I need the master-at-arms here, right now. — Sir, I don’t mean to be unwelcoming, but we’re not exactly open to drop-ins. So I’m going to ask you to stand by here until we can get this aircraft refueled, and then—”
But Ammermann had drawn a paper from the blazer and was holding it out. Dan accepted it reluctantly. The letterhead was familiar: dark blue serifed font under the impressed seal. He looked up reluctantly to a forthright grin, teeth so perfect they had to have undergone long-term orthodontia, so white they must be capped. Only the five o’clock shadow marred the impression, and a whiff of sweat mixed with cologne. “The White House.”
“White House staff. Right.”
“You’re what … military?”
“Oh, no. You were military staff, right? Dr. Szerenci said you were.”
“You know Edward Szerenci? The national security adviser?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve met him several times. At least.”
The master-at-arms, out of breath. “You wanted me, Skipper?”
“Yeah. Just stand by a minute, Chief. — This letter doesn’t say anything about Savo Island, uh, Adam.”
“That was in the message. You didn’t get a message?”
Dan blew out. “Let me check. Meanwhile just stand by, all right? Go back aft, back there, out of the way.”
The crew chief. “We refueling, sir? Or putting her in the barn?”
“Just stand by. — Chief, escort Mr. Ammermann to the ready room.” He turned away, tried to shield his ears from the noise, and failed. He slammed the starboard door behind him and stalked forward along the main deck, until the engine whine receded enough so that he could get through on the Motorola. He asked Radio if there were any messages about an incoming political visitor, an Adam Ammermann.
“When would it have come in, Captain?”
“I don’t know. Can’t you do a global search or something?”
The radioman came back within sixty seconds. “Nothing under that name, sir.”
Dan pivoted on his heel.
Back in the hangar he nodded to the civilian, but spoke to the chief. “Chief, there’s obviously been some mix-up. Mr. Ammermann here must have been slated to go somewhere else. Somehow, the carrier put him on our helo. We’ve got a maintenance hold on the bird, so I’m going to place him in your custody until we figure out where he’s supposed to go and how we can help him on his way. That okay, sir? Sorry about this, but this kind of stuff does occasionally happen. In the Navy, like everywhere else.”
But Ammermann said earnestly, “Sure, but this is Savo Island, right? And you’re Lennon — I mean, Lenson? This is where I’m supposed to be.”
Dan studied him again. He didn’t look like anyone who ought to be drifting around the fleet. Or maybe, just like one of the young profs you occasionally saw in the College Afloat program. “What exactly are you supposed to be doing here, Adam?”
“Jars. Please. The message explains it. But since you don’t have that yet, well — I’m your liaison.”
The MAA looked from one of them to the other. “Liaison with who?” Dan asked.
“With you. Office of Public Liaison. I’ve got an ID.”
Dan scratched his chest as he examined it. He vaguely remembered Public Liaison from when he’d worked in the West Wing. They were fervent and ambitious but inexperienced and sometimes too full of themselves, and the military staffers had tried to avoid them whenever possible, especially since they tended to look down on anyone in uniform. Or at least they had during the previous administration.
“You’re absolutely sure it was Savo Island? Well, if you knew my name … Look, I’ll stash you in a stateroom until we figure this out. Okay? But until we do, I’m going to ask you to stay there. Don’t leave that cabin. We have a lot of high-voltage equipment and this is an industrial environment. We’re busy and we’re on a … Anyway, I just want you to stay put for the time being, okay?”