Darkside (2002), page 33
“I called Rogers. I declined to tell him what it was about, only that we needed to move out smartly. He said to bring it on.”
“Okay, I’ll snoop around the admin building first thing in the morning. Word of your call will have come through by then. I’ll see what the walls are saying.”
She agreed with that and they walked up on deck. The harbor was silently beautiful in the moonlight. The gray granite bulk of Bancroft Hall shone across the glimmering black water, although most of the room lights were out by now. “I don’t know,” she said, looking across at the Academy precincts. “I think I’m perfectly willing to let the Dell case fall out however the elephants want it to. This shit with Bagger, though…I want the sumbitch who did that.”
Jim nodded. “I want him, too, especially if he’s a mid. He’s a fucking alien.”
Better and better. I hear someone’s going before the Honor Committee. Right before graduation, even. Anyone you know? My little web is beginning to close. Wonder who the BIO will be? Wouldn’t it be rich if they use Tommy Hays? Man, but I love to screw around with the system, and it looks like the system is going to do exactly what I want it to do. There are consequences when people cross me. Especially when they were once my friends. Well, for a little while anyway. Can’t say as I have any friends at this place, but then, I never expected to. All these shiny white faces, all with parents who have the same name as they do. I’ve often wondered what it must have been like, growing up in one of those perfect, made-for-television families. With each kid getting his or her own room. New clothes every year. A car. Being able to cruise the malls with people just like them.
The Shark, you see, never had any of that. In a sense, that’s how he became the Shark. We are solitary beings. And let me tell you, the juvie system will damn well teach you what solitary means. Whether in Juvie Hall or in a foster home, you’d better be solitary. Otherwise, it’s the gangs, with all their hip-hop secret sign bullshit, scabby women, and tribal boundaries, or maybe it’s foster daddy creeping the back stairs at night, looking for what foster mama doesn’t want to give him anymore. It’s going to school, year after year, even the parochial school, knowing you don’t belong there, because you’re not like them, not like any of them. It’s a solitary feeling, but I’m cool with it now, because it’s the source of my strength. When you operate alone, when you hunt alone, when you crush your enemies all by yourself, no one can rob you of the victories. No one can betray you. Hell, most of the time, no one can even see you. Just like my classmates here at Canoe U don’t see me. They don’t want to. They know I’m different, and if it weren’t for a few overachieving cells in the math and science part of my brain, they’d have had my ass out of here a long time ago. My own classmates!
Which is why I undertook to screw the system. To lie, cheat, and steal with vigor. To role-play by day and then consort with the other end of the human spectrum by night. Not just to run plebes but to terrorize plebes. To taste, whenever possible, the bounties of some of these lovely mids, and then to degrade them. I know what they really think of me, and I feed their preconceptions. Big, shaved-head, bruising Dyle, who shouldn’t be here. Strong in body, no getting around that, but hardly the kind we’d want to see at the Officers Club cotillion. Book-smart in the techie world, but gets mysteriously good grades in the bull world, too. Looks like he couldn’t even read. Going Marine option, we understand. Snigger. Snigger. That fits: What the hell does a Marine need with being able to read and write? Look at him: six-feet-plus tall, six feet across the shoulders, six feet through the chest, Man Mountain Dean in the flesh. Makes all that noise. Can march like a robot. Face like the Terminator. Shoes to blind the uniform inspector. Creases on his creases. A perfect rack in his room, but no roommate, we understand?
They can laugh, but what they don’t know is going to hurt them. The whole class will be tarred with what I do in the next week. I expect to get away with it, but if I don’t, well, hell, screw ’em all if they can’t take a joke. My being here has been a joke, a bad one, I’ll grant you, but that’s what you get when you allow the Navy’s premier penitentiary to indulge in a little social engineering. And I’m all set for those two featherweight cops who’ve been sneaking around my tunnels. They think they’re going to trap me down there. Well, there’re traps, and then there’re traps. Oh, am I waiting. I have the most interesting surprises set up for them. And maybe one or two for you, too. You just think it’s over, don’t you? Not hardly.
11
At 10:30 A.M. Wednesday, Ev was in his office editing a PowerPoint presentation for an upcoming group lecture-hall class. The secretary called in and said Captain Donovan wanted to see him in his office.
“He say why?”
“Surely you jest.”
Ev smiled and went downstairs to Donovan’s office. When he got there, he was surprised to find a small gathering of the faculty waiting for him. A Coast Guard commander was there, along with the commandant. Captain Donovan deferred to Robbins.
“Professor Markham,” the commandant said, “this is Commander Bell, representing Admiral Johnson, commander of the local Coast Guard district. He has something to present to you for your lifesaving efforts in the bay this past weekend.”
The commander stepped forward to read a citation for a Coast Guard Silver Lifesaving Medal awarded to Professor Everett Markham of the United States Naval Academy. Ev was a little embarrassed when he listened to the citation; he thought the woman he’d saved must have embellished the circumstances somewhat. There was a round of enthusiastic applause, and then Captain Donovan, ever the master of short and sweet, invited everyone to get back to work. Ev asked Commander Bell about the missing husband; the commander shook his head. “No real chance, based on what she told us. She said the mast was whipping around in the waves, whacked him pretty good.”
“I remember that mast,” Ev said. “Vividly. Still have a bruise.”
“Well, it was still a very nice piece of work all around,” the commandant said. “And apparently some smart seamanship on Ms. DeWinter’s part.”
Ev was surprised. And, he wondered, does the dant know that Liz is Julie’s lawyer? As if in answer, the commandant, after a few more pleasantries with the Coast Guard commander, took Ev’s elbow and steered him out of Donovan’s office and into the marble-floored hallway.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “The Navy would have taken six months to work up that medal. The Coasties do it in a day. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ev said, waiting for the other shoe.
“About the Dell matter,” Robbins said. “We’ve still not made a determination as to what happened.”
“My daughter continues to interest the NCIS,” Ev said. “She’s getting pretty upset about all this, so close to graduation.”
“From what I know about their investigation, she is not the focal point,” Robbins said.
“Let me ask you something. Why is the Academy security officer involved in an NCIS investigation?”
Robbins’s eyebrows rose. “Mr. Hall? I wasn’t aware that he was. Involved how?”
Ev told him about Hall being present at the interviews. The commandant frowned, and then he appeared to remember something. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Jim did mention that. Agent Branner wanted him there to act as sort of an interpreter. Sometimes the midshipmen are a bit opaque in their dealings with civilians.”
“Doesn’t that sort of compromise the independence of their investigation?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Agent Branner doesn’t take orders from me. Or anyone else, based on what I know of her. How’s Ms. DeWinter?”
It was a clear challenge, and Ev met it head-on. “Lawyering as before,” he said. He paused as two firsties walked by them in the hall. “And also wondering about Mr. Hall’s involvement in the Dell investigation.”
Robbins dropped all pretense of amicability. “If your daughter wants to graduate and be commissioned on the appointed day, I’d suggest she be a lot more cooperative. Lawyer or no lawyer.”
Ev unconsciously crumpled the Coast Guard citation letter. He looked down into Robbins’s face. “I’m tempted to give that comment the Washington Post test, Captain Robbins. You okay with that?”
“Don’t fuck with us, Professor Markham,” Robbins growled. “There’s a lot of high-level interest out there in this Dell case. Your daughter is being less than helpful. That may have consequences.”
“Such as?”
“Such as this: The rest of us are all still going to be here the day after graduation. She can be on her way as an ensign, or still be a midshipman. Her choice. Why don’t you pass that on? To her, and to your good friend, her lawyer.”
“If I thought she’d get a fair shake, I would. But I think you’re looking for a scapegoat. I won’t permit that.”
Robbins began to bounce on the balls of his feet. “You are not in a position to permit or not permit. This is an Executive Department matter. We can’t terminate you on academic grounds without a big stink. But we can terminate you for interference in a government investigation. Don’t let that tenure label confuse you. Professor.”
Robbins stalked away toward the main doors. Ev was furious, but he held his tongue. He wasn’t worried about himself, but he was definitely worried about what they could do to Julie. The Academy’s supposedly benign objectivity was beginning to show its teeth. He headed for his office to call Liz.
At 10:30, Jim met with the chief in his office over at the naval station. Bustamente had his three section sergeants, plus a rep from the Marine gate guards detachment present. He laid out his plan to cover all of the access grates with covert surveillance teams, beginning after the evening meal in Bancroft Hall. The Marines were requested to check out all vehicles leaving the Yard to ensure there were no midshipmen on board. The chief had obtained a radio retransmitter set from the county cops that would get signals up out of the tunnels, giving the entire Yard team a way to establish a radio net with the personnel underground. He had also obtained permission from the city police and campus security to set up a surveillance team in the building on the St. John’s campus overlooking the grating nearest to King George Street. A campus cop would be with them.
“The deal is, the campus cops will arrest anyone coming out of or trying to get into that grating. If it’s a mid, they hand him over to us. If it’s a civilian, we all go downtown to sort it out.”
“This guy has already abandoned one civilian accomplice in the tunnels,” Jim said. “He’s probably capable of sending out another stalking horse to see if anything’s up.”
“Okay,” the chief said. “Let’s do this: If someone comes out of the grating, we follow and apprehend out of sight of the grating. If someone goes down into the system, we report it to the underground team, and you guys nail him when he comes through.”
Jim agreed with that. “That way, he’ll be on federal property. I like that better.”
“Who’s going to be underground, Cap?” the Marine sergeant asked. He’d been there when Jim had been the detachment CO.
“I will, with Special Agent Branner. Actually, she’ll be in charge.” He told them about what had happened to Bagger Thompson, and that they thought this guy might be the one who’d done that. The professional casualness bled out of the meeting. They went over communications and stationing procedures, talked a little bit about deadly force authorization, and then the meeting broke up.
Commander Michaels was rushed, as usual, so Jim briefed him as they walked down the hallway to a department head staff meeting. He told him that he and Branner were setting up a small task force to see if they could capture this runner who was tearing things up down in the utility tunnels. Michaels waved him off, not seeming to care much about that. The Dell case was reaching crisis proportions now that a congressman was asking very pointed questions and the local papers were editorializing about a cover-up. He told Jim that a senior civilian from NCIS, a Mr. Harry Chang, was meeting with the dant and the supe as they spoke.
“I’ve met him,” Jim said. “At the NCIS office. What’s he doing here?”
“The answer to that is way above my pay grade, but apparently there’s a lot of stick and rudder coming down from Washington. As usual. Whatever you’re doing tonight, keep it under the media radar if you can, okay?”
Jim said he’d try, and Michaels hurried into the conference room. Jim went back to his own cubicle and put a call in to the commandant’s assistant, asking for five minutes on the dant’s calendar, preferably before the dant went off to the luncheon being held for the winners of this year’s Naval Institute Prize Essay contest. The assistant said he’d call him. Jim got some coffee, moved some paperwork from his in box to his out box for a few minutes, and thought about what he had put in motion for Julie Markham by getting Branner to call the Honor Committee. Only days before graduation. The summons would scare her to death. The phone rang. It was the dant’s assistant.
“Five minutes. Now, please.”
Jim trotted over to Bancroft, and then had to wait while the commandant took a phone call. Finally, the assistant waved him into the inner office.
“What’s this about an honor hearing on Midshipman Markham?” Captain Robbins asked without preamble.
And a hearty good morning to you, too, Jim thought. “We think—”
“Qualify that,” the dant said. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Special Agent Branner and I,” Jim said, and then paused to see if Robbins had anything to say about that. But the dant just made a gesture for Jim to continue. The phone rang outside, and a light began to blink on the dant’s telephone console.
“We both think Midshipman Markham knows more than she’s telling about the Dell case.”
“So I’ve heard. She lying to you?”
“No, sir, I just don’t think we’ve asked the right question.”
The commandant thought about that. “Blue-and-gold wall?” he asked.
“Possibly. My idea was to use the Honor Committee to get behind the wall. She might play games with us, but not with them if she thinks she’s being set up to take an honor fall this close to graduation.”
Robbins grunted. “Now you’re starting to think like an executive officer, Mr. Hall,” he said approvingly. “But do you think she’s guilty of some involvement in what happened to Dell?”
“No, sir. I don’t. Nor do we have any direct evidence that she’s concealing something. It’s just a hunch. Mostly on my part. In reality, if she stands pat, we’re nowhere.”
“You and NCIS might be nowhere, but I won’t be,” the dant said, and then waited to see if Jim understood.
“You mean,” Jim said, “that if we don’t get anywhere with this, then the Academy will make a ruling?”
“NCIS was told to develop evidence of a homicide—if they could. Doesn’t seem like they can. Our position, therefore, is that it wasn’t a homicide. We need to end this matter, Mr. Hall. We really do. I talked to the assistant director of NCIS today, that Mr. Chang. He seems to agree with our conclusions. By the way, he also told me that their junior agent here in the Annapolis office has died as a result of injuries sustained in that mugging? I didn’t realize he’d been that seriously injured. Did you know about that?”
Shit, Jim thought. He’d forgotten to pass this news up the chain. “Yes, sir, I did. The incident was reported, I believe. You and I discussed it briefly.”
“I don’t recall that,” Robbins said distractedly. “But then, there are a lot of issues flowing over my desk. Anyway, Mr. Chang says that you and agent Branner are working that case, as well. He said they think that you and Branner have a better chance of finding this guy than they would if they brought a horde of agents into it. True?”
“We’re getting closer,” Jim said. “The bad news is that I’m more than ever convinced that he’s a midshipman. Probably a firstie. If we catch him—”
“If you catch him, we get to deal with more shit in the fan.”
“Yes, sir. Especially if we can tie him to what happened to agent Thompson. Lots more shit in the fan.”
“That’s just great, Mr. Hall. Sometimes I wonder if we’re accomplishing anything here at the Academy. But I hope you’re wrong.”
“Yes, sir. I hope I am.” But I don’t think so, he thought.
The commandant was standing, so Jim got up as well.
“Remember one thing about the honor system, Mr. Hall,” the dant said. “We can put that machinery in motion, but it’s the mids who will bring it to conclusion, and we almost always have to accept that conclusion. Your gambit here could end up destroying Markham.”
“Even if she’s totally innocent?”
“She’s not cooperating. And no midshipman is ever totally innocent. You rate what you skate, right? You went through here, just like I did. You know that.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Think of it like a tax audit, Mr. Hall. We can always find something.”
“With respect, sir, we’re not the IRS.”
Robbins gave him a cold smile. “Do you know what you get when you put the words the and IRS together? Theirs, Mr. Hall. In that respect, we are very much alike. Keep me informed. That’s all.”
At 1:30 that afternoon, Jim and Branner went into the commandant’s conference room in Bancroft Hall. They’d been waiting for half an hour in Captain Rogers’s office while he signed the necessary paperwork to convene the Brigade Honor Committee.
While they waited, Jim had explained how the system was set up. Each company had four honor reps—two first class, two second class. Midshipmen interested in serving on the Brigade Honor Committee put themselves forward as candidates for selection. If the company officer approved, a vote was held. The top fifteen candidates from the thirty companies went through a further selection process to select ten for interviews in front of a board made up of officers, faculty, and midshipmen. Those ten were further whittled down, ultimately by the commandant and the superintendent, to a final seven. The seven positions on the Brigade board were chairman, vice chairman, education director, deputy in charge of investigations, secretary, academic liaison, and honor program coordinator. They would be meeting today with the chairman, investigations deputy, and secretary. Captain Rogers would sit in.
