The wings shone brightly under the desk lamp, gold against the black velvet on which they rested. Lieutenant Commander Chip Morton hadn't worn them in years; there hadn't been much point, given that the only plane he now flew was the little Cessna twin-engine he housed at a private airstrip near Santa Barbara. But it would be very odd indeed not to wear them tonight at Captain Howell's retirement party. The captain had been his flight instructor, and he had… well… howled the loudest when Chip had switched to the Silent Service after his service in Afghanistan.
Chip smiled a little at the memory as he lifted the wings and pinned them just above his gold submarine dolphins. There weren't many men in or out of the Navy who had both…
Sometimes he regretted giving up the skies for the ocean depths. When he had first come to Seaview a handful of years ago, he had done a great deal more for Admiral Nelson than he now did. He had designed the computer systems for the great gray lady, worked on the team that developed the Flying Sub, spearheaded the effort to build crash doors for the herculite windows in the observation nose. His mathematical skills had been in constant demand, and his pilot's instincts had been invaluable…
But somehow, over the years, Admiral Nelson had moved him to the sidelines. Chip wasn't sure why; but he knew it had begun the day Captain John Phillips had died.
Captain Phillips had been Admiral Nelson's oldest and best friend, and his only choice for commander of the Seaview. When Chip had reported for duty – last of the pre-commissioning crew to report, although he'd been among the first chosen – he had felt a certain distance in Captain Phillips. It wasn't surprising really; Chip had only done one tour of duty as an XO, under Captain Waters on the SSN Virginia, and he was one of the youngest – if not the youngest - XOs in the Navy. He had been Admiral Nelson's choice, not Captain Phillips' choice, and for the first several weeks it had definitely been a bone of contention…
But Chip knew his job and he did it well. Eventually Captain Phillips had warmed to him; eventually, they had become friends, and by the end, it had been as close to a father-son relationship as possible. Captain Phillips had lost a son, and Chip had never really had much of a father.
But as he drew closer to the captain, he grew away from the admiral. He wasn't even sure how or why it had happened. By the time Lee Crane had arrived, Chip had become the fall guy; the man Admiral Nelson chewed on whenever anything went wrong. He felt sometimes that he was being held to an impossible standard, but just when he was ready to quit, Nelson would give him a look that reminded him of the man who had taught his marine biology and chemistry courses at the Academy; the man who had hounded him unmercifully about joining the submarine service; the man who had flown out to the USS Ronald Reagan to personally present Chip with his Purple Heart…
His fingers lingered over that medal now, his skin pale against the deep rich purple ribbon. Next to it was his Bronze Star; both of them had been earned for the same action, but as special as the Bronze Star was, the Purple Heart meant more, because the man he admired most had cared enough to fly out from the States to present it personally, without a formal ceremony, before Chip had even healed enough to leave the ship's infirmary…
When he could catch a glimpse of that man behind the Admiral's eyes there was no way he could think of leaving the Seaview.
A knock sounded loudly on his door. Chip finished pinning his medals in place, picked up his cover and went to answer it.
Admiral Nelson and Lee Crane waited in the hallway, both also decked out in crisp summer dress whites. The Admiral's chest was decorated with a fistful of brass from his combat and Cold War days. The most prized of all was his Navy Cross, leading the phalanx of medals that adorned his chest. There were some who insisted that cross should have been a Congressional Medal of Honor, but Admiral Nelson had never shared the story behind the medal… Chip had no idea if what people said was true.
He stepped into the hall, closing his door behind him. "Did you get your speech ready, sir?" A respectful reminder that the admiral had promised to speak at the retirement party.
Nelson patted his pocket with a frown, and Chip heard the papers rustling inside. "I hate these affairs," he grumbled and turned away toward the elevators.
Lee fell into step beside Chip as they followed Nelson. He had far fewer medals than Nelson, but enough to clink gently together as he walked. "I haven't seen you wear your wings in awhile." The words were spoken with an undercurrent of surprise as if Lee had just realized that fact.
"Captain Howell was my flight instructor," Chip answered with a smile. "It would be very odd if I didn't wear them tonight."
Lee nodded absently as if he very much wanted to ask a question but wasn't sure how it would be received. Chip answered it for him anyway, knowing what he wanted to ask. "I'm a submariner."
"But you earned those wings."
Lee would have said more, but Nelson stabbed at the elevator button impatiently. "Howell." The name was snapped out with a bitter undertone. "Who the hell is Howell anyway? Another two-bit Navy pilot."
Chip stifled a wince at the words; best to assume the calm, inscrutable look Lee called his poker face. The Admiral didn't always realize how much his words cut; and if he did, he simply didn't have the knack of apologizing. When he did apologize, it was often so bitter and angry that it came off more as a rebuke than an apology. The admiral truly hated being in the wrong. Fortunately, he seldom was…
Tonight he was just grousing because Admiral Jiggs Stark had insisted he give the speech. It made sense; Nelson was respected both in and out of the Navy, and he had plenty to say about Captain Howell's contributions, once he'd figured out what they were. The speech would be well received, and Captain Howell would be duly honored for his forty years of service.
The admiral pulled his notes from his pocket as the elevator doors closed and began to go over them. Out of respect, Chip and Lee stayed quiet for the short ride to the second floor.
The elevator opened onto the mezzanine, but it was only a few steps to the ballroom where Captain Walter Howell and his staff waited in a receiving line. The admiral led, and Chip – as the most junior – brought up the rear. The admiral was greeted with due respect, and a bit of fawning flattery that he would loathe. Despite his mood, Nelson found a smile and some warm words for Captain Howell. Lee was passed through fairly quickly, a complete unknown to Howell and his staff. All too soon, Chip found himself shaking the man's hand and facing down that peculiarly cold stare Howell had.
"Mr. Morton." Howell's voice – always a bit raspy – grated the name out. "One of my best pupils. Why in God's name you ever left the skies to rummage around at the bottom of the sea I will never understand."
Chip smiled; naturally Howell would still be complaining ten years later. "It's in my blood, sir."
That truth sparked a memory of a party at his cousin's home. His father had reluctantly dragged him along; he could remember Alan Morton groaning about it, muttering to himself loud enough that his twelve-year-old son could easily hear him. He had been unsurprised when his father had rounded on him snarling angrily, "You'd better not embarrass me in there."
Even at twelve years old, Chip had known those words were empty. His father had stormed and sworn, and his words had sometimes drawn blood, but they were only words. He had never raised his hand to either of his children, or his wife. His words were chosen for maximum wounding effect, but Chip had perfected his impassive mask, and hid behind it more and more often, blanking out the frequent tirades and going elsewhere mentally until his father was done.
When they had reached Derrick Morton's home, Chip's father had quickly found the bar and retired there to drink and chain smoke. Derrick had taken charge of Chip and proudly introduced him to then newly minted Captain Nelson, younger, but still the same stocky, gruff man he was today. The words of the introduction had seemed prophetic to a twelve-year-old boy. Harry, let me introduce you to my cousin, the family's next great submariner.
The reference was to Derrick's famous father – Chip's great-great-uncle – Commander Dudley 'Mush' Morton, a legend in WWII submarine warfare. Recognizing the allusion, Nelson had regarded Chip with those twinkling blue eyes and begun to ask questions. Chip knew he must have given satisfactory answers, because from that point on – much to his father's disgust – Admiral Nelson had become a force to be reckoned with in his life. Twenty years ago… After so much time, they should have known each other fairly well…
"The Navy's in your blood," Howell insisted. "Submarines are just a passing phase." He glanced at the sparse line still waiting to greet him. "I hate this kind of thing. Listen, this is my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Commander Mark White. Mark…"
Chip turned his head, catching the jealous glare in the other man's eyes; a glare he knew was echoed in his own angry gaze, minus the jealousy, naturally. Mark White was welcome to his job at the Pentagon, and his place on Captain Howell's staff. He would never be a command officer; he didn't have the personality for it. Or the patience. "We've met, sir." And it had not been a pleasant experience by a long shot.
Captain Howell glanced from one of them to the other, but plowed right on, as if he couldn't sense the tension crackling in the air around him. But then, he'd never been attuned to the atmosphere that surrounded him. "Mark, get Mr. Morton a drink." He gave Chip a wide and somewhat predatory smile. "As soon as I finish here, we'll talk."
Mark White was a big man, far too large to ever serve on a submarine; he had been one of the junior officers on the USS Ronald Reagan, when Chip had done his tour of duty in Afghanistan. White had been a bastard even then, and judging from the sour expression on his chiseled face, he hadn't changed much. They had never gotten along, and after the evil stunt White had pulled…
Chip shied away from that thought, drawing in a deep breath to stifle the anxiety that accompanied it. The look he turned on White would have had one of Seaview's crew wondering frantically what he'd done wrong, but White merely returned it with a glare of his own. He stepped out of the receiving line without even the hint of a smile. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Morton."
Chip shook his head. He wouldn't have walked anywhere with the rodent that was glaring at him now. "Thank you, Mr. White, but no thanks. I'll make myself available when Captain Howell is ready." He walked away through the press of Navy and Reserve personnel, making his way to a corner vantage point. He would be as good as his word, but he imagined that the captain would forget soon enough that he had wanted to speak to Chip. There were so many people here tonight, all of whom were far more important than he was. Chip wasn't even sure why he'd been invited in the first place…
As he moved through the crowd, Captain Jackson Waters hailed him. "Mr. Morton!" He hadn't quite managed to disguise the surprise in his voice. Chip knew he must be among the most junior officers here. Naturally, Captain Waters would be surprised to see him. The astonishment was more than balanced by the genuine pleasure and warmth in his gaze. "How are you? The admiral treating you well?" He arched his eyebrows with a smile. "Tell me you're ready to come back to Virginia. I'll be more than happy to have you!"
"Sorry, sir. The admiral treats me very well." Chip shook the hand that was offered him with respect. Captain Waters had been a good man to serve under.
Waters narrowed his eyes, a shrewd calculating look. "You should have stayed with me, lad. Best damned XO I ever had."
Chip couldn't stifle a smile at the rare praise. Captain Waters ran a tight ship, and didn't make such comments lightly. "Thank you, sir." He wondered idly who had taken his place aboard Virginia, when he'd left to join Seaview. Captain Waters had done everything he could to block the transfer, but in the end he had to let go, and it was common knowledge that he hadn't been happy about it. But Chip wouldn't have changed the decision to come to Seaview for anything in the world, now. It had been one of the best decisions he'd ever made, even though sometimes he wondered if he truly measured up in the admiral's eyes.
Waters grabbed a drink from a passing waiter. "The one I have now can't hold a candle, trust me." But he didn't say anymore on that subject, too good a commander to expose one of his men to ridicule or censure. "Tell me about Seaview. Is she as perfect as Admiral Nelson claims?"
Everyone wanted to know about Seaview. It was no hardship to talk about her, but so much was still classified that he had to be careful. He contented himself with an innocuous but heartfelt comment. "Finest boat afloat, sir."
Waters snorted skeptically. "Finer than Virginia?"
Chip's smile broadened. "With all due respect, sir, much finer. There's no comparison."
Waters laughed and drained his glass. "The admiral ought to appreciate your enthusiasm at least." He turned away to set the empty glass on a nearby tray, then turned back with a sigh. "Looks like Walter is trying to get your attention. Did you serve under him?" There was a note of disapproval in the captain's voice; submariners didn't have a whole lot of love for pilots.
Chip glanced over his former captain's shoulder, a bit surprised to see Captain Howell waving at him. "He was my flight instructor, sir."
Waters nodded with a sage frown. "Ah, yes. During that period of brief insanity you suffered before you came to your senses and joined the Silent Service." He laughed again, and shook hands with Chip once more, before he stepped aside, a clear dismissal. "You'd better answer the summons. When you're finished talking to the old goat, we'll catch up. I want to hear all about this nickname you and Captain Crane have picked up. Madness and Method? I can guess which one you are!"
Chip turned his face away to hide the flush. That stupid nickname… He hadn't the foggiest idea who had started it, but it had spread like wildfire among Navy circles. He and Lee had thought it would die a quiet death after a few months, but here it was, four years later, and the damned thing still dogged their every move. If either of them had been able to figure out who was keeping it alive, they would have cheerfully hanged the person from the nearest yardarm. "Yes, sir." He made his way to Captain Howell, who waited at the balcony door.
"There you are, Mr. Morton. Come outside where we can talk." He pushed through the French doors onto the balcony.
The summer night was cool enough to strike through the thin cotton twill of their dress whites. Captain Howell placed his cover on his head, but Chip left his tucked under his arm, wondering idly why the guest of honor would abandon his retirement party to smoke on a balcony and converse with a junior officer. It didn't seem to be the sort of thing Captain Howell – who prided himself on knowing all the most important men in the Navy – would do…
The lights below them in the hotel garden brightened the night. The flowers had come into their own, rich and vibrant with exotic blooms that perfumed the night. Roses were the most prevalent, the deep spicy scent hanging on the air, underscored by a slight touch of decay. Even this early in the summer, the roses were already dying. Some veteran landscaper hired by the hotel would be able to keep them alive and blooming for a few weeks, possibly months more, by dead-heading the bushes, cutting away blooms for the vases inside, coaxing them with heroic efforts. But that faint hint of decay would presage the bush's dormancy, the death of all its luxurious blooms by summer's end…
Chip shivered in the night air, wondering if it didn't presage something darker and more sinister. Bright as the night was, it seemed to herald some unforeseen danger. He shook the thought away with a shake of his head at the conceit, and glanced at his former flight instructor.
Captain Howell leaned on the balcony railing and drew in a deep breath. "Do you ever fly anymore, or are those wings just decoration?"
Chip had expected the captain to attack aggressively, so the question hardly surprised him. He waited a moment, allowing the silence to defuse the tension somewhat, and then answered with a calm air of deference. "Yes, sir. Every time I get the chance."
The captain took out a silver case, shook a cigarette into his hand, and lit it. "That little twin-engine you were so proud of? Hardly worth the title of airplane. You know what I mean, boy. Do you fly a real machine, or do you just muck around at the bottom of the ocean?" As he tucked the cigarette case away again, the junior officer moved a step further from him, disliking the smell of the smoke.
Chip frowned at the question, but was careful to keep his face turned away so that Howell couldn't read his expression. "I guess you'd say I just muck around at the bottom of the ocean, sir." He couldn't quite keep the disapproval out of his voice, earning himself a sharp glance from the captain.
"Instructor's wings are meant to be used. Have you ever instructed anyone?" The question was a trifle less belligerent, as if Howell were trying to dial it back some, but the words were still aggressive.
Chip stifled an impatient sigh and looked back into the brightly lit ballroom, still wondering why they were out here, instead of mingling with the crowd inside. "Yes, sir, I have." He left it at that submitting to the interrogation, but unwilling to share more than absolutely necessary. He had indeed instructed a few of the men on the boat at the controls of the flying sub… A paradox if ever there was one; a paradox that he had helped Nelson solve…
Captain Howell puffed on his cigarette for a few minutes silently, then dropped it and crushed it underfoot. When he spoke again, his voice was lighter. "Do you get to fly that flying sub of Nelson's?"
"Occasionally, sir." Odd, how the truth hurt just a little. He would have liked to fly the sub he'd helped to design more often, but he was junior; for the most part he had to follow orders and let Lee do the flying. Ironic, since he had trained Lee on the sub's controls himself.
"I hear you worked on the design team for that thing. What was that like?"
Chip shook his head, but softened the refusal of information with a smile. "I did, sir, but the flying sub is classified. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about it."
Captain Howell made an abortive movement that drew Chip's eye, but his protest was mild enough. "My security clearance is higher than yours."
"Yes, sir." Chip turned his attention back to the ballroom, wishing he were inside instead of undergoing this interrogation from a man he respected but hadn't worked with for ten years. "That's true. But you don't work for the Nelson Institute, sir. So with all due respect, I'm afraid your security clearance means nothing." He frowned as several people burst into the ballroom.
"Maybe I should work for Nelson!" Aggression had returned to Captain Howell's voice, but he quieted when Chip raised his hand as a caution.
"Gatecrashers, sir. Let me reconnoiter the situation." Chip took a step toward the French doors, saw one of the men inside pull a gun, and recoiled. "They're armed. We need to get you out of here."
But Captain Howell moved toward the French doors, stopping only when Chip stepped into his path. "I won't run away. We don't even know why they're here."
Chip glared at him incredulously, forgetting for a moment that Howell was his superior and had never served on a submarine, where it was every man's prerogative – indeed their duty – to question any orders that could endanger the boat. "They're crashing your retirement party, sir. You worked at the Pentagon, and your security clearance was high enough to make you privy to some valuable secrets. Who else would they be after?" He spared an anxious thought for the admiral and Lee, trapped inside, but he knew his duty lay in getting Captain Howell to safety. Lee would take care of Admiral Nelson. Moving forward, he forced the senior officer back to the balcony railing, and looked over.
A large boxwood hedge grew directly below. Not the ideal landing but it would break a fall. "We'll go over the balcony. Let me help you, sir." Howell started to protest, but Chip ignored his bemused gaze and shepherded him up onto the balcony rail. It was harder than it should have been. Howell had gained a great deal of weight in his later years, and he was very stubborn. But at last he was teetering on the balcony rail. Chip jumped up beside him, grasped the captain's wrists, dropping his cover in the process, and lowered him down as far as he could. With a whispered warning, he let Howell drop, but didn't wait to see him fall. Instead, he dropped from the rail into free fall himself, not liking the helpless feel of it, but having no choice. The bush came up fast, giving under his weight, and exacting revenge for its destruction by scratching exposed skin and pulling at the cotton twill of his dress whites.
Chip rolled to his feet and quickly located Captain Howell. The man had moved away down the path toward the front of the building and was beckoning to him. Chip went after him quickly, halting the captain's advance by grabbing his arm. It was unforgivable insubordination, but Howell had apparently forgotten everything he'd ever learned about caution. "Excuse me, sir, but we can't go that way." Whoever these men were, they would have covered front and back entrances to insure their prey didn't escape. He explained succinctly, retaining his grip on the captain's arm as he read Howell's incredulity on his face.
"Which way do you suggest we go then, Mr. Morton?" The angry tone underscored Howell's frustration; Chip suspected the admiral would get a sharp complaint about his behavior, but he couldn't worry about that now. If he failed in his duty, there wouldn't be any need for a complaint. Howell would be in an enemy's hands, and Chip himself would probably be dead…
A quick reconnaissance of their surroundings told Chip that there was only one way out of this that was feasible. "We'll have to go over the wall, sir."
Howell's jaw dropped. "Seriously? Over the wall?"
Chip decided a brief reality check was in order. He swung around to face his former flight instructor, his tone cold and purposeful. "Sir, you don't seem to understand the seriousness of this situation. Armed men have invaded your retirement party, and it's a safe bet they weren't on the guest list. It's also a safe bet that they wouldn't know who was on the guest list, unless it was leaked to them. So by process of elimination, sir, they are after you. They came prepared; therefore chances are they have the obvious escape routes covered. Ergo, we will have to go over the wall."
Howell had closed his mouth, but now he stared at Chip with narrowed eyes. "Well-reasoned, Mr. Morton. I see they reckoned without your ingenuity." But he had no other comment to make, a fact that made Chip vaguely uneasy. Surely he would have had something else to say… But there was no time to contemplate the sense of wrongness about this situation. He led the older man to the garden wall, an eight-foot stone construction, and gave him a leg up and over, then backed up, gauging the speed he would need, and took a run at the wall, grasping the top of it, and pulling himself over.
On the other side was a service alley, leading to streets at the front and back of the hotel, and bisected by a throughway that led to a street that ran parallel to the alley. The throughway provided access to trash dumpsters and a haven for the homeless.
Captain Howell watched him with a skeptical gaze. "Which way now, Mr. Morton?"
Chip turned to study him then, the vague sense of unease turning to full-blown alarm. "Sir, you can figure this out as well as I can…" And being senior, he should have taken the lead a long while ago.
Captain Howell crossed his arms, appraising Chip with a cold stare. "I'm curious to see what your take on the situation is."
Something wasn't right. At every turn, Captain Howell had done his best to walk into trouble rather than escape from it. His reluctance to go where Chip wanted him to had been marked, and Chip suddenly realized that he should have paid attention to that fact, that it should have over-ridden his sense of urgency and devotion to duty. Whatever was going on here, it was becoming clear that Captain Howell was clearly up to his neck in it…
Which meant that the guest list for this shindig probably had been compromised; and that made it better than even odds that - given his prominence in both military and scientific circles – Admiral Nelson was the target after all. "Damn it!" Chip turned sharply back to the wall, preparatory to going over it, back into the hotel garden, but Captain Howell's movement drew his attention. He froze in astonishment at the broad-nosed pistol that had appeared in Howell's hand.
"Don't waste time worrying about Nelson," the captain advised with a sneer. "I don't give a damn about him. Every Navy man from here to Hawaii would be looking for him within two minutes of his disappearance, and he wouldn't tell me anything anyway." A sardonic smile gave a sinister cast to his face. "But who's going to bother to look for you, Commander?"
I hear you worked on the design team for the flying sub…
Everything became clear in a blinding flash. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Howell had sold out; now on the eve of his retirement, he was hoping for one last big score. There were parties who would pay untold billions for the flying sub's unique and highly classified schematics. And of the original design team, only he and Admiral Nelson survived…
Chip's gaze hardened as he assessed his options. Clearly Howell's weapon – that oddly broad-nosed pistol – was not life threatening. Killing him was not part of the plan. It was most likely a dart gun to be used if he resisted. And he was definitely planning to resist.
As if sensing that, Howell brought the gun to bear and squeezed the trigger. Chip leaped aside, hearing the whine as the dart grazed past him. Younger and faster than the sixty-year-old captain, he sprang on the man before he could fire again, crushing him against the wall. Howell's eyes widened but he fought back gamely, trying to shove the dart gun into Chip's abdomen.
Chip twisted aside from that attempt, jerking the captain away from the wall, just as a car squealed down the alley, screeching to a halt by the struggling pair. Sensing trouble, Chip swung Howell toward the car and felt the captain jerk like a marionette in his hands. His hand closed over the brass on Chip's chest, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. He hissed something unintelligible, then his eyes rolled back in his head and his sudden dead weight dragged him from Chip's grip, pulling one of the medals loose.
Another car screamed up behind the first one; his options were dwindling. He had no time to break away before men swarmed from the cars, led by Commander Mark White. All of them were armed; Chip was clearly outnumbered. No options left. Though it went against the grain, he slowly raised his hands in surrender.
Commander White sneered. "I told him you wouldn't do what he expected you to. This will throw a wrench in our plans. It wasn't supposed to happen like this." His frustration lingered behind intense brown eyes.
"Pardon me for making things hard for you." Chip returned the glare with his own wintry gaze.
Their eyes locked for several long seconds before White smiled. "So sorry to ruin your dress whites. You're always so pristine." He fired his dart gun as he spoke.
This time the dart thumped home, driving bruisingly deep into Chip's shoulder. He had a moment only to contemplate the unreality of the situation before dizziness struck and he fell into blackness.