Darkside (2002), page 10
Twenty minutes later, he was banging through laps in a side lane of the training pool, called the Natatorium. The Nat was in MacDonough Hall. There was a second, Olympicsized pool in Lejeune Hall, with seating for one thousand spectators, but the old Natatorium was used mostly for swimming instructions and tests. A familiar drama was unfolding above the middle of the pool. A lone, miserable-looking midshipman sat on the steel grates of the infamous jump tower, a steel platform suspended twenty-five feet above the water, from which every midshipman who wanted to graduate had to jump. The purpose of the drill was to teach the mids what it might be like to abandon a sinking ship.
The exercise was simple, if sometimes daunting. The mids, fully clothed, had to climb a free-hanging steel ladder, ascending from the surface of the pool up to the platform, more than two stories above. They then had to walk to the end of the platform, assume the approved safety posture for the jump, and, on signal from the class supervisor, step off and drop into the pool, come back to the surface, demonstrate the strokes needed to sweep fuel oil out of the way, and then swim to the side of the pool.
Most mids did it without incident. Some were so afraid of doing it, they didn’t graduate. In every case, the reluctant dragons were ordered to climb to the platform—which in itself was scary, because the ladder slanted in at an overhang angle as soon as the mid climbed aboard—and stay there until they made the jump. A jump supervisor would remain on the side of the pool to encourage the mid to get it over with. There were mids who had spent the night on the tower. This one had apparently balked during a ten o’clock PE class, and so he had been on the tower for only a few hours, although he didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon. As Jim remembered, the next step would be to send for his roommate, who would climb the tower and try to talk him into making the jump. And if that didn’t work, they’d detach the ladder.
After fifty laps, Jim still didn’t know exactly how he would approach the dant’s mission, but his leg muscles were telling him that it was time, innkeeper. He heaved himself out of the pool and grabbed his towel, just as a lone female swimmer did the same on the other side of the pool. Her distinctive swimsuit identified her as a member of the varsity swim team. He also took a moment to admire her very fine figure. That young lady was definitely built for speed, and she smiled through a hank of wet hair when she saw him looking. Then he recognized her: She was the midshipman the NCIS people had been interviewing in the Dell case. Owner of record of the infamous panties.
He grabbed his towel and walked over to where she was drying off. Behind them, the tower jump supervisor, a Marine captain with a shaved head, had begun yelling at the mid on the tower, exhorting him to stop wasting everybody’s m-f-ing time and do the goddamn thing. That he, the instructor, had already missed chow and wasn’t about to miss liberty, too.
“I’m Jim Hall, security officer here at the Academy,” Jim said.
“Midshipman First Class Markham, sir,” she replied promptly, continuing to towel off. Respectful, but cool. And really good-looking.
“Hey, I’m a civilian,” he said. “You don’t have to call me sir.”
She straightened up, draping the towel across the front of her suit as if realizing just how revealing the competition gear was. “I heard the word officer,” she said. “Besides, you’re not a midshipman, you’re bigger than I am, and older. That’ll get you a sir every time.” Hint of a smile.
Older? Ouch. He was maybe six, seven years older than she was. “Think he’ll do it?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the gray-faced mid up on the tower. She turned to look. Strong profile. Her mother must be something, Jim thought.
“That’s Captain Mardle over there,” she said. “The instructor doing the yelling? We call him Captain Marble. If he starts to take his gym clothes off, that guy’d better jump. He doesn’t want to be there if Marble is forced to swim out there and climb the tower.”
Captain Marble, Jim thought, staring at the supervisor’s glistening scalp. It did look like a marble. An angry marble, now that he thought about it. Getting angrier, too.
“You were a Marine officer, weren’t you, sir?” she asked, looking around for her klacks.
“How could you possibly guess?” he said with a grin.
“Haircut, military bearing, the Academy ring. You obviously work out. The way you were looking at the guy on the tower. Like you’d enjoy going out there and lending a hand. Or a foot, maybe.” She was still smiling. She bent over, balancing on one foot with ease, to pull on her shower shoes. She’d been looking him over, too.
He laughed out loud. She was right: If it were him, he’d go out there, climb the tower, disconnect the ladder into the pool, and then jump off. “So,” he said. “How’s the Dell thing going? They know what happened yet?”
Her expression froze. Not quite alarm, he thought, but suddenly guarded. No longer even a hint of flirtation. He moved to reassure her. “I was there when we were lining up the first interviews,” he said. “Right after the incident. You were the first one up, as I remember.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes.”
“My people and I caught the initial call,” he said, suddenly wanting to keep it going. “Tell the truth, I wish it had been somebody else.”
“You saw him?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky. “I heard it was—it was very bad.”
“Bad doesn’t describe it,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up. I mean, if you knew him, that is.”
“Not really,” she said, turning away as if to mask her expression. Is she embarrassed? Jim wondered. “They just wanted to ask some questions. He was in our batt, but otherwise…” Her voice drifted off. She obviously didn’t want to talk about it. She began gathering her stuff to leave. He didn’t want her just to walk away, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say without making it really obvious he was either hitting on her or questioning her. She smiled over her shoulder and walked toward the locker rooms, tugging the bottom of her bathing suit. Jim watched her go. Definitely a female. He remembered to breathe.
Captain Marble dropped his clipboard onto the tile floor with a loud slap and bent down to begin taking his shoes off. The reluctant dragon on the tower saw that, got up, and trotted right off the tower as if nothing had ever happened. About a 1.0 for form, Jim thought, but at least the kid did the deed. Markham had been right. He headed for the guest locker room, trying to get back to the problem at hand but not doing all that well. There was no way in hell he was going to fool the flame-headed Special Agent No First Name Branner. Her sidekick, now, was a possibility.
Ev didn’t get back to his office until four o’clock. He groaned when his phone announced nine voice mails, but the one from Liz grabbed his immediate attention. He called her back, and she told him that she was meeting with Julie in an hour in her office.
“I can make that,” he said. There was a moment of silence.
“Ev,” Liz said, “I want to meet with her one-on-one this time. That rumor about a possible homicide is solidifying.”
Surprised, he didn’t know what to say. She apparently sensed his confusion. “I need to impress upon her that she needs my protection. Not the two of you. She’s about to be a commissioned officer. I need her to think in the first person singular.”
“O-kay,” he said. “I guess I was operating under the assumption that three minds were better than two.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Although the usual expression is two minds; three tend to divide into sides. But I think Julie’s seeking your protection from this investigation as much as mine. I need to have her focused on what I tell her. You can’t protect her like I can.”
“True.”
“And I’m not talking about shutting you out, Ev. It’s more a case of calibrating my client. You’re paying the bills. I will absolutely keep you informed.”
It makes sense, he thought. “Okay,” he said. “You’re the lawyer. That’s what I’m paying for. But please: Let me help with any inside background. You know, the Academy context of what you hear. I believe it will be the Academy that will be calling the shots here, not the NCIS.”
“Not if it’s a homicide investigation,” she said. “If this were simply some outrage to the Navy’s dignity at a football game, then, yes, our focus would be on what the Academy was going to do about it. But if it’s murder, law enforcement is going to drive it.”
“I can’t believe a midshipman has been murdered,” he said, meaning it.
“I can’t, either. That’s not what the Academy’s supposed to be all about, is it?”
He found himself shaking his head at his desk. “The world turned upside down,” he said, remembering what General Cornwallis had ordered his band to play at Yorktown. Then, not wanting to end their conversation on a negative note, he added, “I enjoyed dinner last night. Sorry for the emotional spaz.”
She didn’t say anything, and he wondered if he’d misspoken.
“You’re entitled,” she said finally.
“Yeah, but I’ve got to get over that. I hear it all the time.”
“Not from me.”
He thought about that. It was true: She hadn’t said anything like that. “Well, yes, and I appreciate that.” Then he surprised himself. “I’d like to see you again.” More silence. Was he getting this right? “I mean, if—”
“Sure,” she replied, interrupting him. “When?”
Relieved, he grinned, although she wasn’t cutting him any slack whatsoever. “How about tonight? You come out to my place this time. Call me when you leave and I’ll order up a pizza. This time, I promise: no waterworks.”
“Sounds fine. I like anything but anchovies. Hate anchovies.”
Ev loved anchovies, but he decided he could accommodate her. This one time. “Roger no anchovies.”
“And Ev? I’m really glad you asked me. See you in a little bit.”
He felt his face flush a little as he hung up. For some reason, he felt apprehensive. Why? Being too forward? No, that wasn’t it. Julie was the problem. He hoped Liz wouldn’t drop an “Oh, by the way, your father and I are going to have dinner tonight.”
On the other hand, Julie would be leaving town in a couple of weeks, and then it wouldn’t matter.
Right.
Good.
But he decided he was going to get anchovies on his half, just the same. Might as well establish some boundaries here.
Liz arrived at Ev’s house at 7:30. She’d brought along a bottle of Joseph Phelps Alexander Valley cabernet. He smiled when he saw it. “Fancy fixin’s, counselor. I usually have beer with pizza.”
“Force of habit,” she said. “Come to someone’s house for dinner, you bring some wine.”
He took her through to the kitchen and opened the wine, pouring them both a glass. “I know I’m supposed to let this breathe, but—cheers,” he said. The kitchen had a spacious breakfast nook that overlooked the backyard and Sayers Creek. They sat on cushioned stools at a semicircular counter facing the windows. Liz hadn’t changed from work clothes, and the way she was sitting made it difficult for him to keep his eyes above counter level.
“So, how’d it go with Julie?” he asked.
She reached for her purse and extracted a small boxy tape recorder. “Why don’t I let you listen to this?” she said. “Then you tell me what you think.”
“You tape your clients?” he asked, surprised.
“Always,” she replied, punching on the tape. “For mutual protection. This is interesting.”
Ev listened as Liz welcomed Julie to the office and got her some water. She made a comment about Julie looking in her service dress blues like something right out of a recruiting poster.
“They already did,” Julie said, and then there were chair noises. “For the catalog.”
“I can believe it,” Liz said. “And those stars on your uniform—those indicate academic achievement?”
“Yes, they do,” Julie said. “Although it took me two years to qualify for them. The really smart kids do it in one.”
“Your modesty is most becoming,” Liz said. “Now, do you remember what I told you in the car, that first night we met at your father’s house?”
“About always being straight with you?”
“Precisely.”
There was a pause. “What do you want to know, Ms. DeWinter?”
“Please, call me Liz. And I want you to refresh my memory on how well you knew Midshipman Dell. Take your time to think.”
“I don’t have to,” Julie said. “He was one of about twelve hundred entering plebes this past summer. He ended up being assigned in my battalion for the academic year, but not in my company.”
“That means you were in the same building?”
“In the same wing, yes. There are six battalions, five companies in each. There are eight wings to Bancroft Hall, so the battalions overlap, but, for the most part, company rooms are adjacent.”
“So you’d know everyone in your company pretty well, but not necessarily everyone in your battalion?”
“That’s correct. As a firstie, I know my classmates very well. The second class also—they’ve been right behind us for three years now. The youngsters are last year’s plebes, so they’re the new guys. This year’s crop of plebes are sort of a probationary class: Those who survive into youngster year achieve a class identity.”
“So all plebes look alike, then?”
There was a shuffling sound as Julie moved around in her chair. “Not entirely,” she said. “There are some plebes who stand out—at both ends of the spectrum. The ones who get with the program, who rise to the challenges of plebe year, become gung ho—they stand out. And the ones who are barely keeping their heads above water—they also stand out.”
“What happens to them?”
“It depends,” Julie said. “If they’re busting their asses to make it, the plebe year system will cut them some slack. Not a lot, but enough to keep them trying. Sort of a subliminal message to penetrate all the plebe year bullshit: You can do this, and we actually want you to succeed.”
“And if they’re not busting their asses?”
“If they’re lazy, dumb, or dishonest—you know, making it, but doing it by climbing over the backs of their plebe classmates—we’ll run them out.”
“‘Run them out’?”
“Make life so miserable, they ask to quit. Resign.”
“The Academy countenances that?”
“The Academy created the plebe year system. They want as many quality plebes as possible to succeed, to make it to their youngster year. But they expect some to fail.”
“How does that happen?”
Julie gave a short laugh. “A million ways. Look, what I’m telling you is how I see it, as a firstie. The official Academy line would probably be to deny everything I’m saying.”
“Okay, I accept that. Tell me how you’d do it.”
“It’s usually not a conscious decision or anything,” Julie said. “It’s not like we get together and declare someone a shitbird. It’s more like a collective conclusion among the upperclassmen. So-and-so’s a weakling and doesn’t belong here. And that doesn’t happen out of the blue, either. Usually, people will try to help a plebe who’s struggling. I’m talking about the ones who don’t struggle, or who whine and complain, or who try to skate.”
“And what happens to them?”
“Basically, a plebe’s day is supposed to be split between plebe year stuff and his academics, with a strong emphasis on allowing time to do the academics work. We reverse that. They get eternal come-arounds. They get sent on daily uniform races. They get ordered to roam the mess hall, where they report to a different table of strangers every meal, who harass the shit out of them. They get asked professional questions at meals and then get come-arounds when they show up without the answers. They get no free time, so pretty soon they’re on academic probation, too. They get fried—that means put on report—three, four times a week for small infractions: unshined shoes, failing room inspections, having nonreg gear, failure to get to places on time. Any number of things.”
“Sounds like piling on.”
“Yep. That’s what happens. They get loaded down until it’s hopeless, and then they resign. Keep in mind, we’re talking about the shitbirds here. Most plebes make it, one way or another.”
Ev could hear Liz get up and walk around her office. “What personal attributes would line a guy up for shitbird designation?”
Julie said, “I guess it’s like art: We know one when we see one.”
“But how do shitbirds get in? I’ve read that there are ten thousand applicants who qualify each year, but only twelve hundred or so get admitted.”
Julie cleared her throat. “Everyone here, except the prior enlisted, is on a political appointment. Congressmen and senators from the fifty states. The president, the vice president. All appointments are supposed to be competitive, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, some people are more special than others. Football players, for instance. I can’t prove this, but everybody knows that some of them don’t belong here, academically speaking. Still, they get preferential treatment—their own tables in the mess hall, special chow, extra academic attention, curved grading. Some minorities get special breaks, too. These hug-’em-and-and-love-’em programs come along, to get people in here from inner-city situations. And some people just manage to fool the system.”
“What category was Midshipman Dell?”
“Category?”
“I guess I’m asking if Dell was thought of as someone busting his ass or a shitbird.”
“Oh. I think Dell was on the edge,” Julie said slowly. “Maybe someone who’d been busting his ass but was now sinking into the failure mode. You know those National Geographic programs, where they show an old or sick animal being eased out of the herd? Like that. I wasn’t close to the Dell situation. The people responsible for Dell were the firsties and youngsters in his own company. You’d have to ask them.”
