"Quantum Leap - Prelude" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

It was hot and miserably humid in Washington, D.C., on September 7, 1990. The National Weather Bureau had been promising rain, or at least clouds, for the past week, but the temperature had stayed obstinately in the high eighties. It reflected the temperature of world events, Al thought, as he checked his dress sword once more. Al Calavicci had taken a long thoughtful look in the mirror that morning. He still looked like a military man, with the medals and the cap and the spit-shined shoes and the white gloves and the dress sword. He looked like the kind of man who ate shavetail lieutenants for breakfast, and picked his teeth with their commanders. He looked hard and tough and sure of himself; a leader of men, a commander of ships, a pilot of jets, an astronaut. He had to resist the urge to salute himself. As he'd realized it, he'd grinned, and the illusion shattered. This was it. Retirement day.
Still, with war ready to break out in the Middle East, maybe this wasn't such a good time to retire after all.
Oh well. It was too late now. When the President of the United States made a special point of stopping off in between his Maine vacation and flying off to a conference in Helsinki to meet with Gorbachev, you didn't mess with the schedule. Besides, the Exec was asking the guests to rise and render honors, and that meant it was really too late to back out.
They piped Rear Admiral Voss aboardЧwell, aboard the stage, at leastЧand then it was Al's turn, followed by Hollings, Trost, Senators MacBride and Glenn, and then the President; they all stood at attention for the Parading of the Colors, the National Anthem, and the Invocation, and then the Exec introduced Voss and they finally got to sit down.
And then, of course, the speeches, from Trost, Glenn, and finally Bush. They were short, at least. Trost and Glenn managed not to make any embarrassing personal references, and the President kept his remarks to a minimum, probably worried more about Saddam Hussein than a soon-to-be-ex-Rear Admiral (Astronaut).
And then they called him front and center, and Master Chief Yeoman DeGailler nobly refrained from taking her last chance to publicly give him hell for all the grief he'd given yeomen all through his careerЧnot that she would, of course, not in such a solemn, official occasion, but when she presented the flag and a shadow box on behalf of the Star Gazer Chief Petty Officers and stepped back to salute, she winked at him, and he grinned despite himself.
And then the plaques, the reading of the citations, the presentation of the Navy Commendation Medal. Al listened with half an ear for his next cue. It had been a long and distinguished career, all right. Twenty-nine years, starting out as an enlisted man, coming up through the ranks as a mustang, getting an education the hard way. He'd lost six of those years as a POW, and that loss would always mark him. But it was a career that had taken him all the way to space, and he couldn't regret it.
The audience was made up of friends and acquaintances he'd acquired over the length of that career, with one notable exception: no matter how hard he'd argued, the hospital hadn't released Sam yet. Monday, they said; but regs said he had to retire the first week of the month, and that was that. He'd wanted Sam to be there, a kind of witness to a rite of passage, but neither the Navy nor the hospital was inclined to cooperate. He sighed. The President, sitting to his right, heard him and made some inconsequential remark.
And now it was his turn to stand before the assembled visitors and make his own speech. A short one, mercifully, with references to the changing global tensions and the need for eternal vigilance, his pride in service and his confidence in the officers and menЧand women, he amended hastily, Claudia was gonna kill him after allЧof the United States Navy.
And then the Executive Officer read his orders, and he requested permission to go ashore for the last time. Permission granted, the Executive Officer announced to the assembly, "Rear Admiral, United States Navy, Retired, departing." And DeGailler rang six bells, and the Boatswain's Mate piped the quarterdeck as he walked between the side boys rendering his last official salute, and the bell rang again.
There was the benediction, and the colors were retired, ami the band played Anchors Aweigh, but it was already done. It was over. All but the shouting, as his father used to say. Well. Except for the parties, of course.
It was late, very late. Or very early, if you wanted to look at it that way. It was still hot and muggy, even at 0300 hours, and the dress whites weren't nearly as crisp as they'd started out to be, the morning before.
He was proud of himself, though. For years he'd believed that his retirement partyЧthe real party, not the official receptionЧwould be the biggest, most drunken, loudest blowout party he'd ever hosted. And it was, too. He was willing to bet that if he hadn't been an admiral, the SPs would have arrested everybody in sight. But he, Al Calavicci, had had one glass of wine, and he was by damn sober. This time, he'd gotten to see everybody else making fools of themselves.
And now he'd send the uniform out one last time, get it cleaned, and put it away in blue plastic in the back of the closet. It would come out again only on the most special of occasions. He started removing the medals, the Navy Cross with the combat V, the Distinguished Flying Cross, Purple Heart, Air Medal, commendations, achievements, citations, multiple awards. His fingers paused and fumbled a bit at the P.O.W. Medal, then moved on: National Defense Service, RVN Campaign, all the rest. Four rows of medals across the left breast, a row of ribbons, three across, on the right. And the Medal of Honor, of course, depending from the ribbon around his neck. A "distinguished career" the speakers had said, over and over again. Damn right it was.
Shaking his head, laughing at himself, he peeled off the gloves and began to strip down. In a very few minutes the dazzling uniform was a pile of clothes on the iron-frame bed, lying in a heap beside a much more carefully placed sword and stack of citations, certificates, and of course the shadow box.
It wasn't his uniform anymore. Well, in a way it was; he'd have salt in his soul for the rest of his life. The Navy did that to you, claimed you for its own and never really let go. But he was a civilian now. A civilian.
Civilians were alien beings, and now he was one of them.
It was the end of a lifetime, and the beginning of a new life.
He paused in the process of removing the honors and insignia from the jacket to wince and rub his arm. It still ached. He'd finally gotten out of the cast and splints and associated supports only a month ago. He still, four months after the injury, had a physical therapy routine to follow; it left the arm shaking with fatigue, the muscles quivering. But it was getting better, and he wasn't going to quit until he had the full use of it. He finished removing everything that could be removed and carefully stored it all away in a satin-lined box.
He had a room in Bachelor Officers' Quarters for the night He was footloose, fancy free, no commitmentsЧexcept to make sure the Washington police department didn't move Sam's case to the back burner, which it seemed more than likely they were trying to doЧand his retirement was committed to his ex-wives. He needed a job. But he had plans. So did Sam.
He swept the uniform, now completely denuded of spinach, off the bed in a gesture that he would have considered shockingly disrespectful the day before, shifted the sword and the presentations to one side, and flopped down to think. He had to go shopping, first of all. He had to ...
It was very late, or very early. In moments, his thoughts were punctuated by snores.
"Well, buddy, today's the day. You ready?" Sam smiled wearily. "I guess so." Al surveyed him critically. Sam's hair had mostly grown back to its accustomed medium length, but now there was a streak of white in the brown at the left temple. He was paleЧhe'd been in for quite a while, longer, maybe, than strictly necessary, and out of the sunlight. For the last month, Sam had been on his feet, wandering unsteadily around the hospital, talking to the surgeons, popping up in the most unexpected places. Even in Pathology, the nurses had told Al. He'd spent a lot of time down in Pathology.
He was thinner than usual, too, which meant he was very thin indeed. Al decided their first stop would be a really good restaurant. Always assuming, of course, that they made it through the gauntlet of reporters outside.
"What are you staring at?" he asked, abruptly registering the look on Sam's face.
"You," Sam said simply. "What are you wearing?"
"A tie. You like it?" Al held out the purple-and-pink creation for Sam to examine. Sam declined, an appalled expression on his face. Overreaction, Al thought; the purple matched
his shirt exactly, and was one shade darker than his suit. It coordinated perfectly, and he saw no grounds for criticism. So it wasn't white or navy blueЧthat was the point, after all.
"Amazing," Sam muttered.
"Yeah, isn't it?" Al said happily. "Here, let me take that bag. And what's that thing?"
Sam was holding a small blue plastic box, perhaps six inches on a side, very close to his chest. "Some cultures," he said briefly.
"Well, let me take it."
"No. No, thanks, I'll carry this one. I'm not helpless." Sam looked uncharacteristically awkward. He was dressed in the clothing Al had rescued from his hotel room, so many months before, and it was a bit large for him now. That, plus the box, made him look younger than his years, like a kid with a security blanket.
"Okay." Al switched the bag to his right hand. "Have you gotten your release?"
"Signed my life away," Sam snorted. "Yeah, let's get this show on the road."
Al waved to the nurses as they went past the station, and Sam gave them a grin, and they applauded as the two men went down the hall and into the elevator. Once in, Sam leaned back against the wall and let out a deep breath.
"Lord, I'm glad to be out of here," he said. "And AlЧ thanks."
Al shrugged, instantly uncomfortable. "For what? I didn't do anything. Listen, I know where we canЧ"
But the elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into a crowd of reporters and photographers, glaring lights and cameras and microphones held up into their faces.
"Dr. Beckett! Dr. Beckett! Do you feel you've completely recovered?"
"What progress have the police madeЧ?"
"Have the police identified your attacker?"
"Will your injury affect your research?"
Sam was speechless, holding one hand up to protect himself against the lights and clutching the box to his chest with her.
"Hey, back off!" Al was in front of him, quivering like an enraged terrier, and even Washington's press corps backed off half a step before surging forward again.
Half a step was all Al needed. He used elbows and shoulders without fear or favor, and Sam, still silent, kept close behind.
Behind them, set up as a diversionary tactic, Weasel Mikowski was talking about a press conference, holding official-looking papersЧblank formsЧup before the slavering pack. At least a third of them decided to go for the easy prey, and that was enough for Al to get Sam out the door and into the waiting limousine.
They sprawled back into opposite seats as the car pulled away, and grinned at each other. After a moment Sam laughed. "I haven't had that much attention since I went to Stockholm," he said. "I hope it won't always be like this."
"Nan, you're the flavor of the month," Al said. "If Millie the Mutt has puppies, those nozzles will be beating down the White House doors, and you're nothing."
Sam shook his head, still chuckling. "Okay, now what?"