The Eldridge Roster Page 5

  “The Eldridge was glowing and pulsating for hours, too hot for the rescue parties to board,” she continued, her gaze returning to Jim’s face but her mind still somewhere else. “The surviving crewmen who could move gathered their injured shipmates and jumped over the side—it was a gorgeous afternoon. The rescue parties said you could see the Eldridge guys glowing an almost unbearable white as they fell toward the water. Some never surfaced—their bodies were never recovered. Some just disappeared in mid-jump. Many of the survivors needed long-term psychiatric care and all of them suffered degrees of radiation sickness.”

  “How do you know all this, Angie?” asked Jim.

  Her eyes returned to the present. “I knew someone who was there,” she said, her tone warning him off. “Now, would you like to hear a different take on the physics underlying the project?”

  Seeing his expression, she laughed, touching his arm. “It’s not bad. Actually, it’s really cool.”

  “Sure,” he said, thinking the pain was probably worth it if it kept her here just a little longer.

  “You’re a sport,” she said. “So Albert’s thirty year quest for a Unified Field Theory failed. And no one else ever came up with a viable one. But what does exist now is what might be called the Theory of Everything—string theory. And if true, it might well help explain what happened to DE173 that day in Philadelphia. String theory says that deep down, within all matter, lie tiny loops of energy. These loops—strings—vibrate. And it’s the interrelated resonance patterns of these strings that determine the fabric of space and time. All matter and energy are determined, Mr. Physics-for-Poets, not by the music of the spheres but of the strings.”

  “That’s it?”

  “God, no!” she laughed. “That’s the simple part—elegant requires a bit more. String theory’s the heart of the most recent advances in theoretical physics. It could unite general relativity and quantum mechanics. Reams of papers and books have been written about it. No, I just gave you the short of it, so we can get back to the Eldridge. It goes deeper, far beyond my poor comprehension. Unless you desperately want to read up on things like garden hose universes, Calabi-Yau space, flop-transitions...”

  “No, no!” he said holding up his hands. “Back to the Eldridge. It has to do with those vibrating little strings?”

  “Maybe. My guess is that whatever they did onboard the Eldridge that day made all the strings within their gravitation field resonate in a pattern that caused the ship to vanish, possibly to even move through space and time. They really didn’t know what they were doing and just couldn’t fine tune the oscillation patterns well enough to control the phenomenon. Sort of like an orchestra, playing badly, but still generating a recognizable if botched composition. It’s not the piece itself that’s flawed, it’s the rendition.”

  “So what happened after this disaster?”

  Angie laughed—a humorless little noise from down in her throat. “Why, hell, Jimbo, you know the answer to that. The Navy wanted to demonstrate to their superiors that the experiment still had merit and could be replicated—no matter what the human consequences. So...”

  “They did it again,” he sighed.

  “Yes, sir! Can-do, sir!” She snapped a salute, her face twisting into a mindless mask of fierce determination.

  “Don’t do that,” said Jim. “It’s scary.”

  “Oh, it’s almost Halloween. So, supposedly Einstein was horrified and quit after the first experiment. Warned the Navy that with continued bumbling they might just delete Mother Earth. Operations continued. By the time the Navy called it off they’d run through at least one other experiment using Eldridge and perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty sailors. Our little SLIF file appears to contain the crew roster of the first experiment.”

  “And the ship?”

  “Eldridge was spruced up, officially commissioned and sent on regular wartime patrols in the Atlantic. After the war, they sold her to the Greek Navy. She went to the wreckers’ yard a few years ago.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” he asked after a moment.

  “Hobby,” she shrugged. “Well, more a fixation that began as a hobby. Indulged in during an eighteen month tour on, or rather, within, an Aleutian island. But inspired by first meeting someone who’d been there. That made a believer out of me.”

  “And the names?” asked Jim after a moment. “There are no names on George’s list.”

  “Just George being paranoid—rightly so. The names are sitting in SLIF. One of us has to go into SLIF and run these service numbers,” she pointed to the screen, “against those in the master personnel records for 1943. That’ll give us the names, the addresses, the social security numbers.”

  Lightning lit the room bright as an August noon, followed by great crash, shaking the house to its foundation. Then lights went out.

  Chapter 5

  The old man answered the phone on the second ring, barely noticing the storm raging outside. He glanced at the clock—it was midnight. “Yes?”

  “Encryption status, please?” The caller’s French accent was barely discernible, faded from many years of English.

  “Green,” said Whitsun, looking at the telltale beneath the dial pad. “At my age, Philip, I’d hoped to be through with these late hour melodramas.” He loved them. “File recovered, problem disposed of?” he asked, knowing a report of success would have waited until morning.

  “We didn’t find the file,” came the unruffled reply. “And our telephone monitoring equipment has been detected and removed. At this moment, Milano and Munroe are meeting at his house.”

  “Probably pouring over the information in that file. I’d be,” said Whitsun, sitting up in bed. “Go in now, tonight, take them, the file and all their computer gear and dispose of them. You shouldn’t have any trouble, Philip. We’re dealing with a bureaucrat and some woman who thinks she’s a Naval officer.” Admiral Terrence Whitsun’s Navy had been a band of brothers: white, Episcopalian brothers.

  “Not entirely, sir.” He told Whitsun what he’d learned about Jim Munroe.

  “I see. Well, perhaps we can reason with him. If not, we’ll dispose of Milano and then try again to reason with him.” A thought struck him. “They’re not intimate, are they?”

  “They appear to be just colleagues and friends.”

  “Pity. Caring for another human being can make a person so reasonable. Keep them under surveillance. I’ll find someone to have a quiet talk with Munroe tomorrow.”

  Cursing, Jim tripped over the coffee table, arriving at the window a second behind Angie.

  The majestic old elm in front of house had fallen across the road, crushing a white minivan parked by the curb and grazing the neighboring house. Along the sidewalk, a live power line whipped and snapped like a huge maddened serpent, spewing blue sparks into the wind as it tried to escape the fallen limbs. The elm’s great green canopy filled the broad side yard between two houses, massive roots blocking Jim’s driveway. Horizontal sheets of rain lashed the street as the surviving trees bent groaning beneath the wind.

  Angie turned to Jim. “May I use your guest room tonight?”

  “Someone went to a lot of trouble over this, Jim.” She waved the small black diskette at him. “They killed George for it.” They sat watching the fire, a second bottle of wine between them.

  “What now?” asked Jim. “Do we go get the names out of SLIF or just chuck this diskette into the Potomac?”

  “Of course we go get the names—and anything else we can,” said Angie. “George didn’t give you that disk to throw away. Somehow it’s important. We have to find out why.”

  He didn’t argue with her—from the set of her mouth and the look in her eye this was non-negotiable.

  “Fine,” he said. “I now have SLIF access. Tomorrow I’ll pull the personnel data that goes with those service numbers.”

  Angie rose, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re okay, Jimbo. I’m going to bed.”

  “And after t
omorrow?” he asked. “Then what?”

  “Pass everything up the chain,” she said matter-of-factly, meaning her chain-of-command and her superior officers.

  That would be the end of it—and us, he thought. He and Angie would disappear—a car mishap, like George, or perhaps in a fire of unknown origin. The number of terminal possibilities were endless. “I don’t think that’ll work, Angie,” he said.

  A few stairs up she turned, one hand holding her sweater over her shoulder, the other the banister. The storm, which had been easing, threw a sudden gust at the house, rattling the windows and howling up under the eaves.

  “But...” she said, “Admiral Jameson...”

  “Will do as he’s told,” said Jim. “That information will disappear—and so will we. Bad guys will come for us.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  “We’re going to have to go outside the Navy with it. Outside DOD.”

  “The FBI?”

  “No.”

  “You they can only fire—me they’ll court martial. I don’t do well with communal showering.”

  “Would you rather be dead?”

  “I’d have to think about that.”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, after I pull the data. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said, heading up the stairs. “Let’s get an early start—say 0630?”

  “Fine,”

  “Good night,” she called as she disappeared into the guest room.

  Her head reappeared an instant later. “Thanks, Jim.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugged. “Just thanks. Good night.”

  Jim cleaned up, putting the dishes in the dishwasher by candlelight, then stepping out onto the veranda. The storm was moving off. An emergency crew from Virginia Power had arrived and was dealing with the now-dead line. There was no sign of an Arlington County emergency crew yet, the one that would tackle the tree and the crumpled van. Must have their hands full tonight, he thought, locking the door.

  Jim went up to bed, taking the .45 with him. In a world of Glocks and mini-Uzis it wasn’t the best available weapon. Still, it was an old friend in a life that hadn’t many old friends left.

  Despite the afterglow of good wine, good food and good company, and the reassuring lump of the .45 beneath the spare pillow, it took Jim a long time to drift into a troubled sleep—Angie and Emma. Angie and Emma. Save Angie from what?

  Chapter 6

  Dawn brought clearing skies and an angry fiancée.

  Angie must have seen Erik’s car from a window and opened the door for him. The shouting woke Jim from a fitful sleep. Dimly surprised at his sweat-soaked pajamas, he threw on his robe and hurried downstairs.

  They were in the front hallway, tearing into each other as only people who know each other well can. Erik, his back to the hall door, spotted Jim first. Breaking off, they turned to face him as he came down the stairs.

  Gauging Erik’s expression and body language, Jim decided the man was about to lose it. Angie, pale, barefoot and tight-lipped, was wearing the old red maroon robe Jim kept in the spare room, the sleeves unevenly rolled back, hem touching her ankles.

  Jim found himself strangely detached, admiring Angie’s slender feet as Erik pushed past her to confront him. I’m getting old and weirder, he thought.

  “She says nothing happened,” snapped Erik, stuffing his face into Jim’s. “Should I believe her?” His breath was hot and smelled of cinnamon mouthwash. He was a lean six-foot-two, years younger than Jim and in peak shape—a good-looking guy, if you liked the lantern-jawed, steely blue-eyed Nordic type. Plus he was wearing The Uniform, made to impress: summer whites with four rows of ribbons capped by aviator’s wings. His hat with its scrambled eggs visor lay on the hall table.

  Three inches shorter than Erik, older and not in peak shape, Jim took the conciliatory approach. “I don’t care what you believe, Erik. You’re being an asshole. Please leave.”

  “Erik!” cried Angie, grabbing Erik’s arm as he pulled his fist back, face crimson with anger.

  “Keep out of it!” he snapped. Not looking at her, Erik elbowed her in the stomach—a short, viscous jab that sent Angie to her knees with a grunt of pain.

  Grabbing Erik by the shirt, Jim pulled him close, kneeing him in the groin, feeling a rush of primitive satisfaction as the startled look on Erik’s face was replaced by one of shock and pain. As Erik doubled over Jim chopped him behind his right ear. Erik slid silently to the floor to lay face-down, an inglorious heap of freshly starched white sprawled across a blue oriental carpet.

  Jim knelt beside a quietly sobbing Angie, trying to put his arm around her. She shrugged it off. “Leave me alone, Jim.”

  “But are you okay?” he asked, rising.

  She nodded, tight-lipped, avoiding his gaze.

  He had a sudden insight. “This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

  “Only once,” she said, looking up, tears in her eyes. “When he got passed over for a command he wanted, he really lost it.” She stood up, ignoring Jim’s outstretched hand. “A female officer got the posting,” she added.

  “So, how come you’re engaged to that?” he asked as they stood looking down on Erik.

  “I’m not,” said Angie. Slipping the diamond ring from her finger, she bent down, tucking it into Erik’s pants pocket, then stood and kicked him in the ribs, twice. Hard.

  “Angie!” protested Jim.

  “Hope it hurts like hell,” she said, mouth tightening. “I was a good friend to him.”

  “If I call the cops,” said Jim, “are you willing to press charges?”

  “You’re not calling the cops,” she said. “I am.”

  When the Arlington County police arrived a few minutes later, Erik was still out.

  “So what happened?” the older cop asked again as his partner called for paramedics.

  “This man entered my home,” said Jim, indicating the fallen aviator. “He assaulted my guest and me. I defended us.”

  “Is that what happened?” the cop asked Angie.

  “Yes. Commander Saunders and I live together,” said Angie. “He was out of town on business, not expected back until tomorrow. The Commander arrived back early, found my appointment book noting my meeting this evening here with Mr. Munroe and the address. The Commander then came here and forced his way into the house.” She said it all in a clipped, no-nonsense voice, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign she was upset. “When asked to leave by Mr. Munroe, he assaulted Mr. Munroe. When I tried to stop the Commander, he assaulted me. Mr. Munroe then subdued the Commander. We will both press charges.”

  “Lucky punch?” said the other cop, looking skeptically from Jim to Erik and back.

  Jim shrugged. “Looks like.”

  Chapter 7

  They buried George that morning amid the fog atop a ridge in a part of Arlington National Cemetery near the Bureau. (It wouldn’t have been Jim’s first choice for himself.)

  Waiting for the service to start, standing with a few score military and civilians, Jim knew it would be a different sort of service when he heard the sound of a bagpipe drawing near. A lone piper stepped slowly out of the mist along the access road, wearing the red tartan of Clan Campbell, the eldritch notes of Lord Lovat’s Lament streaming from his pipes. He was followed closely by a team of four magnificent black horses pulling a gleaming caisson on which rested a flag-draped coffin. Six soldiers of the Old Guard, clad in dress blues, flanked the caisson, chrome-plated M14 rifles at shoulder arms.

  The piper played Abide with Me as the soldiers carried the coffin to the grave with a grace and precision born of long practice. The Bureau’s chaplain, a Commander who’d never met George, performed the service, offering up the usual non-sectarian prayers and psalms. There being no surviving relatives present—George’s wife was long dead, his only child killed in Vietnam—Admiral Jameson said a few words, touching on the deceased’s war service, dedication to his country and the shock of his sudden death.

/>   After the volleys were fired amid Taps, the flag folded and presented to Jameson, the piper took up the melancholy refrain of The Skye Boat Song, turned and slowly walked away, disappearing back into the gray mists from which he’d come. Angie daubed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  The Bureau’s rumor mill, operating far more efficiently than its official information systems, had that morning reported Erik to be in Bethesda Naval Hospital for observation of a possible concussion and broken ribs. He was also pending a chat with a Judge Advocate General’s officer and his captain, the Navy officially frowning on assault and battery. It might forgive his hitting a fellow officer—it hadn’t occurred on duty. It would probably ignore his hitting a woman—she lived with him. But it would never forgive him for having been beaten up, while sober, by a civilian employee some years his senior. Be it by way of resignation or court martial, Erik Saunders' Naval career was over.

  The mourners began filing down the hill toward the Bureau and through the iron gate in the fieldstone wall.

  “Commander. Mr. Munroe.”

  Jim and Angie turned at the Admiral’s voice. “I’m told you two had a busy day yesterday,” he said pleasantly as they walked across the perfectly kept lawn. The faithful Captain Harris, now holding George’s flag, dogged his heels.

  Jim figured this was a military matter and deferred to Angie. “Not by choice, Admiral,” she said as they trekked onto the old concrete access road that led to the Bureau.

  “You know, I’m always astounded at the amount of trouble two people can get into,” Jameson continued, watching a flock of starlings circling the nearby Marine barracks. “Something that starts innocently enough gets out of hand and then everyone gets hurt.”

  “Many relationships do become abusive, sir,” said Angie as they trooped through the main gate, a long line of military and civilians flashing their badges at the guards. “God knows, the Navy’s had its share of problems.”