around the globe, but he was glad he wasn’t one of them. His own concept of war was more direct: to seek out and destroy the enemy. He should be doing that now, not standing outside Union Station waiting for a man named Bunny!
“There he is!” Helen waved wildly, and a dark-green Packard roadster pulled up and stopped beside them. The driver, a solidly built young man with hair that was too long and a tweed suit that looked out of place away from the golf course, got out and strode over, arms outstretched. “Helen! Darling!” he cried. “It’s been far too long!”
Jack’s sister accepted the embrace and replied with a cool peck on the cheek. “Hello, Bunny. This is awfully nice of you. Do you know my brother Jack?”
The two men sized each other up as they shook hands and exchanged conventional greetings. Jack could not help thinking that such an obviously fit specimen as Bunny should be in uniform, not gallivanting around Washington in a Packard. If Bunny was aware of his reaction, it didn’t seem to faze him; he ushered them into the car and pulled away from the curb just as a red-faced policeman came hurrying toward them.
“Where to?” he asked at a stoplight. “Do you want to go straight to the hospital, or stop by your house first? Did I tell you how sorry I am to hear about your father’s illness?”
Helen glanced at Jack’s face and said, “The hospital, I think. I hope we’re not keeping you from your work too long.”
“No, no, free as a bird! Really! I have to see a couple of people this afternoon, but I can leave you the keys to Hetty”—he patted the dashboard of the car—“and take the trolley. If you’re free, maybe we can link up at dinner. You can still get a decent meal in Washington—if you know where to go.”
The expensive car, the unlimited gas ration, and the freedom from regular hours suddenly added up: the fellow must be a black marketeer, one of those swine who was profiteering from wartime shortages! Jack made a noise of disgust and covered it with a cough. Controlling his voice, he said, “What is your work, Wilkinson? Helen was pretty vague. You’re with the government?”
Bunny kept his eyes on the road. “I’m arranging for the production of the front ends of horses,” he replied airily, “to be shipped to Washington for assembly. It’s very challenging. How about you, McCrary? What secrets lurk beneath that undecorated bridge coat of yours?”
“Jack’s a submariner,” Helen said, ignoring the elbow jabbed in her ribs. “He did all sorts of marvelous things in his last boat, and now he’s getting ready to sail to the Pacific.”
Bunny Wilkinson’s flippant reply to Jack’s question had caused his neck to redden in anger, and as he listened to his sister he was aghast. Hadn’t she ever heard of security? Had she never noticed the posters that said, “Loose Lips Sink Ships”? Why, for all she knew, this fellow might be an Axis agent! Jack had heard only the sketchiest account of Helen’s encounter with Nielson, the Nazi spy, in England, but whatever had really taken place, surely it should have taught her to be more discreet!
“Is that so?” Wilkinson was saying. “Well, my congratulations, Commander. Here on the East Coast we tend to keep our eyes fixed on the European Theater, but there are plenty of people who appreciate what you men are doing out there. There would be a lot more of them if your service wasn’t so stuck on avoiding publicity. You don’t find carrier admirals acting so reticent about their victories.”
Jack made some vague response, his attention concentrated on the question of how Wilkinson had known his rank. He had not had time to put shoulderboards on his overcoat, and his dress coat was completely hidden. He glanced down at the cap in his lap and found a possible answer. The visor was bare of the gold “scrambled eggs” worn by full commanders and up, and it was almost unheard of (though Jack had done it) for a mere lieutenant to command a submarine. So Wilkinson could have deduced that he was a lieutenant commander, but only if he was both very sharp and very knowledgeable. Jack doubled his resolve to watch his tongue around him.
The strict rationing of tires and gasoline had thinned out the notorious Washington traffic, and they reached their destination much sooner than Jack had expected. When Wilkinson offered either to wait or to lend them the car, Jack declined politely but firmly; under the circumstances, they could not tell how long they might be staying at the hospital. He shrugged cheerfully, gave Helen another hug, and drove off waving.
“Well!” Helen faced Jack on the sidewalk, hands on her hips and eyes flashing. “You certainly weren’t very nice to poor Bunny, were you? Did it slip your mind that he was doing us a big favor, or are you still determined to insult any man I happen to like? I’m not fifteen anymore, you know!”
“Really?” His voice was cold. “I’d never guess from the way you act sometimes. As for your friend Bunny, it bothers me that a perfectly healthy young man has nothing better to do than drive around in a fancy roadster when there’s a war on. It’s bad for morale. And I don’t like you talking so freely about my work, either. I don’t want to throw the past in your face, but didn’t it occur to you that your friend Bunny knows an awful lot and was acting awfully mysterious about it? For all you know, he may be a spy.”
“Of course he’s a spy,” Helen retorted impatiently. “I told you that before, at the station.”
“What? You did not! Helen, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Bunny. He’s with one of those hush-hush outfits. This mustn’t go beyond us, but he just got back from Vichy, France. His father is a big wine importer, so he knows a lot of people over there.” A blush suffused her cheeks, but she continued doggedly. “The reason I knew he was in Washington is that he was one of the people who wanted to talk to me about that business with that skunk Nielson. And I don’t think it was very nice of you to bring that up again!” A hint of tears appeared in her eyes.
Jack put his arm around her. “Awe, come on, Sis, I’m sorry.” What a time for him to pick a fight with her! Still, she hadn’t told him about Bunny, whatever she thought, and he had been quite right to think there was something questionable about him. The fact that he was an American agent rather than an Axis agent didn’t alter that. Like many fighting men, Jack was slightly contemptuous toward what he thought of as cloak-and-dagger stuff, regarding it as childish, sneaky, and not quite honorable. A real man didn’t creep around back alleys, he stood up to his enemies and gave them blow for blow. “Let’s forget it,” he continued, “okay? We’ve got Dad to think about.”
The nurse who escorted them to their father’s room looked grave but told them nothing. The reason was clear the moment they walked through the door. Admiral McCrary was dying. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks had fallen in to the point that his face resembled a skull. He fought noisily for every breath, producing a dry rattle that sounded to Jack like someone dragging a bag of bones down a flight of steps. As they reached the side of the bed, his eyes opened. After a moment’s confusion he recognized them and smiled groggily. Jack shook his hand and Helen leaned over to kiss his cheek, then they started the sort of cheerful, trivial conversation they might have had with a neighbor met on the street. After a few minutes the old man’s eyes closed. Jack and Helen stopped talking and looked at each other, asking with their eyes what they should do now. Jack motioned with his head toward the door, but before they could move, the admiral opened his eyes.
“Pumpkin,” he said to Helen, “would you mind if I talked to Jack for a few minutes? They tell me there’s a lounge down the hall.” Helen blinked a couple of times, kissed him again, and left. Jack waited at attention by the bed. “Sit down, son,” he continued. “It’s hard for me to shout. I don’t have to tell you I’m going West this time.”
“Don’t
