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sleepy.”
    “After last night, darling, I’m bushed,” the voice purred. “You were more fun than a V-bomb.”
    Quickly, Hansen clicked off the conference speaker. He had heard enough. After McCormick had finished the conversation by arranging another date for tomorrow night, Hansen asked, “What did she mean by V-bomb?”
    “That’s just a slang thing, Captain. Thelma’s real ladylike with her language. She says v because she don’t want to say ‘vagina.’ ”
    “Strange,” the captain mused, “there was an old German rocket called the V-bomb. But the v stood for ‘vengeance.’ Very well. Chief. Thank you, and carry on.”
    Hansen felt a vague disquiet as he reached for the phone to dial the Pentagon. V-bombs had been launched from launching pads, and the sign above Joan Paula’s bed had designated it as a launching pad. No, he caught himself. Thelma’s v means vagina, and his daughter was a typical American teenager. J. P. would not indulge in vulgarities. “This is Captain Hansen of the USS Chattahoochee . May I speak to Captain Arnold?”
    “Th’nk yo.”
    “Harvey, it’s Ben. I checked out McCormick’s story…”
    “You’re a little late hoisting ‘execute,’ Ben. The reservist medical officer has already telestated the profile to the admiral and it’s being evaluated.”
    “Commend Gresham for me,” the captain said, “but if McCormick’s story is a lie, of what value is the profile?”
    Arnold’s voice oozed officiousness. “Well, now, Ben, the way we’ve got the matter plotted in the bureau, it’s almost academic whether…”
    Suddenly the operator broke into the line. “Captain Hansen, I have a top-priority call for you.”
    “I’ll take it, operator.”
    “Ben, call me back if any…”
    With acute pleasure, Hansen clicked Arnold off.
    He did not recognize the new voice on the line, but he recognized its authority. “Captain Hansen?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Darnell of Personnel. Get that chief of yours into civvies. The Norfolk Navy Yard’s vertake is standing by to bring you both to the Anacostia Heliport. Both of you will be assigned quarters overnight. Wait in the foyer of the PX at Anacostia, where you’ll be met at 1530, by Admiral Meriweather Primrose.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    After the click, Hansen hung up, thinking: another improbability. But this one was improbable even in a context of improbabilities. By now Helga had probably left for Anne Johnson’s, so he would have to call Joan Paula and tell her why he would not be home for dinner. Helga was a Navy wife and she would know that whatever had called him to Washington was very big. Admiral Meriweather “Sug” (short for Sugar) Primrose was not merely Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Primrose was also Chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

CHAPTER 4
    In the foyer of the post exchange, Captain Hansen waited with McCormick as shoppers hurried in from the misting rain or left with spreading umbrellas. Three-fourths of the crowd were women, standard for a weekday, and the service couples seemed happy enough. Some of the women even cast sidelong glances at the chief, but irregularities in female conduct concerned Hansen less than the tardiness of Admiral Primrose, whose entourage was no doubt delayed by dampened streets. Thinking in terms of limousines, Hansen failed to notice the battered station wagon pull up at the curb until a wizened old fellow in heavy-weather gear got out, a nor’wester flopping around his face, and approached. “Excuse me, sir. Would your name happen to be Hansen?”
    “Yes,” the captain answered.
    “Don’t come to attention and don’t salute. I’m Primrose.”
    Small, pink-faced, with bushy eyebrows that almost met above pale-blue eyes, creased on the side by sun squints, the man Hansen shook hands with reminded him more of an undernourished Santa Claus than the top admiral in the fleet. “This is Chief McCormick, Admiral.”
    “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen, but I got caught