was in a low voice with a thin, biting edge to it. He turned to Miller. "Lee, you'll take over the Okinawa investigation. Nick will give you all the background."
Miller nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And you," Gault continued, looking at Hammond, "you'll drop everything and get to the bottom of this bugging crap."
"Can I follow up Fletcher, sir?"
"Yes, but first find the man who did this! Because when you do, I am personally going to shove a listening device up his ass and monitor his intestines!" Gault glared at the gaping onlookers, then opened the door and left.
Miller whistled. "Cheese und crackers, Hambone! What have you been up to? How come you rate?"
Hammond felt the tension draining. He waved Miller into his cubicle and spent the next hour briefing him, turning over all the information on the Okinawa case. He had sandwiches sent up and grabbed mouthfuls while they talked. Then he met with Pentagon Security, all of whom were quick to pin the bugging job on outside agents. But Gault had shaken enough trees to make them amenable to Hammond's suggestions. He requested them to button everything up and de-louse the entire building. Access would be tightened, spot, checks made, routines reinforced. Even with all that, Hammond did not expect them to get answers.
When he was alone, Hammond closed the door to his office, sat back in his chair, shut his eyes, and tried to sort everything out. He couldn't be sure the bugging was connected to the Fletcher case, but it was the only thing he was working on at the moment. And what about that computer business at BUPERS? Had he really set off an alarm somewhere? Person or persons unknown at the other end of that red flag had discovered Hammond's interest in Harold Fletcher. And now Fletcher was dead, victim of a heart attack—or murder? Hammond shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The implications seemed to grow but lead nowhere.
And Harold Fletcher wanting to check into his records because of some recurring nightmares. Hammond kept coming back to that. He couldn't make sense of it. Then he remembered the other man with the flag in his file. He too had gone to BUPERS to check on himself.
Hammond rummaged in his briefcase for the copies BUPERS had sent over. There it was: 601 File, C.L. Yablonski, USNR. Hammond pulled out a Xerox of the form Yablonski had filled out, and checked his address. He lived in Cotuit, on Cape Cod. Phone number...it was all there. Cotuit was near Otis. Air Force Base. He could be over and back in an afternoon.
He reached for the phone and dialed long distance. A woman answered and gave him a soft, questioning "Hello?"
"Uh, hello. May I speak with Mr. Yablonski, please?"
"He's not here right now."
"Is this Mrs. Yablonski?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Nick Hammond, ma'am. I'm with Naval Intelligence. I'd like to speak with your husband."
She hesitated. "He's out on his boat. I don't expect him before tonight. May I help you?"
Hammond frowned, then decided to proceed. "Yes, ma'am, you can. A routine paper came to my desk....It's a request your husband filled out at BUPERS here in Washington, to see his old Navy files. I'd just like to know if he got everything he wanted."
"I...I'm not sure."
"He was in Washington about three weeks ago and he made a personal visit to the records center. If it's important and there's anything I can do to help..."
"I...frankly, Mr. Hammond, I don't know if he found what he was looking for. We haven't really discussed it."
"I see. Tell me, Mrs. Yablonski, does your husband know anyone named Harold Fletcher?"
"No."
"You're very sure of that."
"We don't have a lot of friends, Mr. Hammond, just the people we know on the Cape."
"Yes, but it's possible your husband might have known this man during his service."
"My husband doesn't keep in touch with anyone from the Navy. His service was not very pleasant. He still suffers nightmares because of it...."
Hammond sat up straight. He couldn't believe it. "Nightmares?" he
Miller nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And you," Gault continued, looking at Hammond, "you'll drop everything and get to the bottom of this bugging crap."
"Can I follow up Fletcher, sir?"
"Yes, but first find the man who did this! Because when you do, I am personally going to shove a listening device up his ass and monitor his intestines!" Gault glared at the gaping onlookers, then opened the door and left.
Miller whistled. "Cheese und crackers, Hambone! What have you been up to? How come you rate?"
Hammond felt the tension draining. He waved Miller into his cubicle and spent the next hour briefing him, turning over all the information on the Okinawa case. He had sandwiches sent up and grabbed mouthfuls while they talked. Then he met with Pentagon Security, all of whom were quick to pin the bugging job on outside agents. But Gault had shaken enough trees to make them amenable to Hammond's suggestions. He requested them to button everything up and de-louse the entire building. Access would be tightened, spot, checks made, routines reinforced. Even with all that, Hammond did not expect them to get answers.
When he was alone, Hammond closed the door to his office, sat back in his chair, shut his eyes, and tried to sort everything out. He couldn't be sure the bugging was connected to the Fletcher case, but it was the only thing he was working on at the moment. And what about that computer business at BUPERS? Had he really set off an alarm somewhere? Person or persons unknown at the other end of that red flag had discovered Hammond's interest in Harold Fletcher. And now Fletcher was dead, victim of a heart attack—or murder? Hammond shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The implications seemed to grow but lead nowhere.
And Harold Fletcher wanting to check into his records because of some recurring nightmares. Hammond kept coming back to that. He couldn't make sense of it. Then he remembered the other man with the flag in his file. He too had gone to BUPERS to check on himself.
Hammond rummaged in his briefcase for the copies BUPERS had sent over. There it was: 601 File, C.L. Yablonski, USNR. Hammond pulled out a Xerox of the form Yablonski had filled out, and checked his address. He lived in Cotuit, on Cape Cod. Phone number...it was all there. Cotuit was near Otis. Air Force Base. He could be over and back in an afternoon.
He reached for the phone and dialed long distance. A woman answered and gave him a soft, questioning "Hello?"
"Uh, hello. May I speak with Mr. Yablonski, please?"
"He's not here right now."
"Is this Mrs. Yablonski?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Nick Hammond, ma'am. I'm with Naval Intelligence. I'd like to speak with your husband."
She hesitated. "He's out on his boat. I don't expect him before tonight. May I help you?"
Hammond frowned, then decided to proceed. "Yes, ma'am, you can. A routine paper came to my desk....It's a request your husband filled out at BUPERS here in Washington, to see his old Navy files. I'd just like to know if he got everything he wanted."
"I...I'm not sure."
"He was in Washington about three weeks ago and he made a personal visit to the records center. If it's important and there's anything I can do to help..."
"I...frankly, Mr. Hammond, I don't know if he found what he was looking for. We haven't really discussed it."
"I see. Tell me, Mrs. Yablonski, does your husband know anyone named Harold Fletcher?"
"No."
"You're very sure of that."
"We don't have a lot of friends, Mr. Hammond, just the people we know on the Cape."
"Yes, but it's possible your husband might have known this man during his service."
"My husband doesn't keep in touch with anyone from the Navy. His service was not very pleasant. He still suffers nightmares because of it...."
Hammond sat up straight. He couldn't believe it. "Nightmares?" he
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