Tomahawk (14 page)

“How do I feel? Well, I think you're a good person. Probably better than I am. I think we're different.”

“Maybe not as much as you think.”

“Oh?”

“Not everybody can live up to their ideals.”

“You seem to be trying.”

“Maybe it looks that way,” she said, and put out a boot and pushed the swing into motion. “I guess I shouldn't like you.”

“I shouldn't like you, either.” He didn't say it, but he thought, But maybe I could. He looked sideways at plaintive eyes under heavy dark eyebrows. He was remembering the softness of her lips beneath his, the glitter of the moon on black water.

“But maybe you could?”

“Yow.”

“'Yow'?”

“That's exactly what I was thinking. Same words even.”

She turned toward him and he was breathing her breath again. Then they were kissing. His cap fell off and rolled away into the shadows.

His mouth against her ear, feeling her warmth in the immense cold of the night, he whispered, “What about Carl?”

“What about him?”

“Were you lovers?”

“He's a priest.”

“Were you lovers?”

She answered by not answering. Finally, she cleared her throat. “It didn't work out. Now we're just friends.”

He caught voices through the door, and the porch light flashed on. He bent for his cap. She flipped her collar up, looking away as he stood. “Well, anyway, good night.”

“Good night,” she said. He went down the walk. He looked back at her from the gate. “Two blocks,” she said, and pointed. He lifted his hand and then walked away.

9

 

 

 

Through the director's corner windows, the first snowfall of the winter made Crystal City glisten below a steely sky. Dan noted those present: Colonel Evans, the colonels and captains who headed the program offices, the public affairs staff, the civilian Ph.D. adviser, the GS-14 who handled the financials. Finally, the deputy glanced at his watch. “Find yourselves seats, please. The admiral's on his way up.”

It was the initial meeting to prepare for the House appearance. The senior people settled around a table set with lined tablets and sharpened pencils. He was heading for a chair by the wall when Evans said, “Dan, could you take the minutes, please?”

“Yes, sir.” He got one of the spare pads and made sure he had a backup pen.

“Attention on deck.” Everyone rose as Niles, looking like a blue-and-gold iceberg, hung his cap on the stand and took his seat at the head of the table.

He outlined what he wanted. A ten-minute opening statement. A three-minute video using the Tonopah footage. Separate addenda for classified material and financials. Prepared responses addressing test results, progress of second-sourcing, and cost overruns. Finally, he grunted, “Okay, that's enough to get you started,” then picked up his cover and left.

They stood for a moment after the door closed. Then Evans moved over, took Niles's place, and said, “All right, let's continue. What else can they ask us?”

One by one, they dredged up the sore points: the transition problem, the nuclear safety certification, a lawsuit from a farmer in California whose fruit trees had been destroyed by a crash—every crack and niche a hostile interrogator might get his fingernails into. When they tapered off, Evans said, “Anything else? Yes—Dan?”

“I don't know if they'll ask anything like this, but why are we even putting nuclear warheads on cruises? If we're saying they're so accurate that we can put them through somebody's window, why not go to all-conventional?!'

Several officers lifted their heads to examine him. ‘That's a programmatic question; I don't think they'll be asking that,” the deputy said curtly. “Anything else? Okay, we'll put together a draft statement and reassemble Monday to murder-board it. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen…. Lenson, I'll need those notes as soon as you

get them typed up.”

Dan stood in the hallway, angry at Evans's dismissive response. He looked at his watch. A whole morning shot. By the time he got these typed, it would be time for lunch with Sandy Cottrell.

The white-pillared dome of the Capitol rose serenely above spidery bare oaks across the street from the Long-worth Building. He asked a security guard for the Ways and Means Committee hearing room.

Sandy was already holding a drink, and it didn't look like her first. A cigarette burned between short lacquered nails. Her cheeks were flushed and a low-cut blouse showed most of her chest. He inhaled perfume and smoke as they shook hands. “So you found us.”

“Yeah, thanks for the invite. This is where you work?” He looked around, feeling intimidated, still getting used to being on the Hill.

“In Rog Zoelcke's office, upstairs. If you've got to have lunch, this is about as convenient as you can get. And the Restaurant Federation puts on this great winter shindig.”

“Why did we have to have lunch?”

“We had to sometime. Couldn't you feel it? What are
you drinking? Let's go on in, there're bar tables inside.”

He felt even more out of place as they passed through a receiving line. Cottrell got hugs and cheek kisses. He got fast handshakes and eyes that darted past him to the next person in line.

The ceiling of the immense room was dominated by huge gold relief images of eagles with spread wings. At the far end, a curtain hung behind a raised dais. The leather chairs were empty. The floor was carpeted in dark blue, with a gold eagle motif. Across it, rows of linen-covered tables were stacked with food. Chefs and carvers stood slicing and serving. A huge center table held a flower arrangement nine feet high. There had to be five hundred people talking and eating and circulating beneath the gaze of the eagles.

“What were you saying?”

“Oh, that I can't drink during duty hours. Plus, I've got a pretest meeting this afternoon, testimony to prepare—”

“House? Senate? What committee?”

“House Armed Services.”

“Which subcommittee?”

“Uh, I think it's the full committee. On procurement.”

“The full committee, no. It's probably the Procurement and Military Nuclear Systems Subcommittee. Mel Osborn's the chairman, right?” Dan had to shrug. “You don't know who the chair is? Then how do you know how to pitch your testimony?”

“I don't. I'm just helping Admiral Niles get ready.”

A sound system harrumphed, and the assembly quieted as a jolly man made remarks. Dan was more interested in Cottrell's shining aureole of golden hair, her damp-looking neck. The blouse was
low.
If he leaned over … Yep, there they were. “Thanks for coming to our annual winter reception…. Sample our finest offerings…. Touch base with our friends on Capitol Hill…. State chapter people scattered around the room…. Chance to discuss issues that concern us…. Pleased to have you here, and thanks for coming.”

Cottrell asked him, “And this Niles, he's who?”

Dan pulled his eyes off her tits and outlined his chain
of command. She coughed and lit another cigarette. “Sounds like you're low man on the food chain.”

“I'm only a lieutenant commander, Sandy. That's heavy aboard ship, senior department head or exec, but I'm beginning to realize that just about qualifies me to take notes and run the overhead projector in this town. What are you doing these days?”

“Same thing as before. Junior staff for a junior member. But Eddie's getting me an interview with a hot new Beltway lobby and consulting shop. That'd be a big step up in salary.”

“That's good. And who are all these people?” He stared around at the sea of suits and dresses, the reefs of tables, the flotsam of food.

“This is a trade association reception. Meet and greet, grip and grin. This and the Society of American Florists' reception are always packed. Oh, let's go over there—that looks so good.”

He got a dish and stood with her at the corner of the dais as she nibbled. Halfway though salmon with macadamia nuts, she said, “Wait here, okay? I have to talk to those people.” And she vanished.

He stood alone, eating and people-watching. A haze of smoke and steam hovered from the chafing dishes. When she didn't come back for a while, he went to the bar tables. He resisted temptation and settled for a ginger ale. He fished the cherries out and was looking for a place to ditch them when Cottrell said brightly behind him, “Here you are. Look who I found! Andy, this is Commander Dan Lenson.”

A chubby man in a blue suit and mulberry tie was carrying a plate of sliced ham and small orange biscuits and various pâtés and cheeses on crackers. He offered his elbow. “Hi, Dan. I'm Andy DeSilva, work for Jack Mulholland. Office down the hall from Sandy's.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Do you recognize the name Mulholland?” Cottrell asked him.

“Seen it in the papers. A representative?”

“That's right. One of the guys your boss'll be getting
grilled by pretty soon.” She looked toward the tables. “I think I've earned dessert today.”

“Try the raspberry cheesecake. Incredible.”

When she was gone, DeSilva said rapidly, in an off-hand tone, “Sandy said you were involved with Navy missiles. Where exactly?”

“I'm with the Joint Cruise Missile Project.”

“Quick question. Something Jack asked me to look into, and Sandy happened to mention she knew somebody on the operator level.”

He was instantly on his guard. Everything he'd heard around Crystal City had cast congressional staffers as the military's number-one enemy. “I can't tell you much.”

“I'm not interested in anything technical. My question is more directed to funding.”

“You want to ask somebody who—”

“Dan, this is not official testimony. This is called ‘background.' Sandy, reassure him.”

She said around cheesecake, “Andy's right—this is off the record.”

DeSilva said between crackers, “One of the subcommittee staffers told me they're thinking about a supplemental bill. What I need to ascertain is the linkage between changes in funding and the missile buy itself. Kind of to see into the admiral's head. What if he got, say, twice as many procurement dollars as he's requesting at the hearing? Would he then be prepared to buy double the number of missiles you are talking about in the draft procurement?”

“Well, I don't know why not. But actually, we're still in the testing phase. So maybe it would be better to hold off on a big buy.”

“In my experience, the best time to spend money is when you're offered it.”

‘True, but if a design's not finalized—”

“What's the IO?”

The IO was the inventory objective. Just hearing the acronym outside the office was startling. “I don't believe I'm supposed to reveal that.”

“Oh, you're not? Funny, I read it in a DOD press release. Okay, I'll tell you: the Navy's Tomahawk IO for
the current fiscal year is forty-eight. That's not counting the maintenance pipeline, or training, or any war reserve requirement. But not only do you not have that number; you're not even requesting that many in
next
fiscal year's buy.”

“You're talking way beyond my pay grade. Something like that, you'd have to approach Admiral Niles. Or maybe even his boss, Vice Admiral Willis.”

‘The question isn't whom to approach, it's whether you can find a use for the funds if you get them. And what that use is going to be—whether it's to acquire additional missiles or something else—I don't know. What would you say it would be?”

“Mr. DeSilva—”

“He wonders why you're asking him this,” Cottrell said half-smiling, eyes narrowed.

“I have no problem telling him. Dan, there are certain parts in the engine that are fabricated from a high-density ceramic only a few companies in the country can work with. The company that supplies those blades is at capacity right now. If we can get procurement up, they'll have to look for another source. The best candidate's in Jack Mulholland's district. They also make turbine blades for the new Army helicopter engine.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “But we aren't in full-scale procurement yet. We're still working on the booster and the weapons control system software, and—” He stopped, realizing he'd just outlined the program's major problems. “I'm not discussing this any further.”

“Well, you've told me what I needed to know. I'm a little confused, though. All through the Carter years, you people were screaming how the forces were being gutted. If I were you, I'd take as much as I could get. Or would you rather the Army got it?”

Dan started to respond that the Army didn't deploy 365 days a year, but he realized DeSilva was punching his organizational loyalty button. He said again, “I don't feel comfortable discussing it.”

“Hopeless,” said Cottrell. She raised her glass to a passing waiter, who handed her another and took the empty away.