Oath of Office

Van Orden himself had never been in the military, but he had a military bearing nonetheless. The midshipmen in his classes were supposed to be professional and squared away. “Locked on” they called it. They were highly intelligent and driven people who deserved the best instruction possible. Dr. Van Orden believed he had a responsibility to be as locked on as it was possible for a man in his early sixties to be. His barber near his home in Crownsville kept his dark hair neatly tapered and groomed. Skinny ties, white shirts, and black frame glasses gave him the look of a man who’d stepped out of the sixties. In truth, he would have been more comfortable in a pullover golf shirt and khaki shorts, but his wife dressed him, using her philosophy that he couldn’t be young anymore, so he should go for the coolest old. For an aeronautical engineer, that was NASA mission control in 1969.

He scrolled through his recent calls until he found Midshipman Hardy’s number. He’d never had a student with such promise. The young man had such a grasp and recall of numbers that a casual observer might consider him a quirky savant. But that was not the case. The men and women who gained admittance to the United States Naval Academy had to be well rounded as well as smart.

He got no answer on the phone. Not surprising, Hardy could be in class, or in one of the places in The Yard where reception was iffy. He felt a pang of regret at having mentioned the midshipman at all, but if the President’s questions were important enough to call an academic like him to the White House, then Hardy’s knowledge might be invaluable. He checked his watch. He’d just have to go and find him the old-fashioned way.

Van Orden’s office was located downstairs in the aeronautical engineering section of Rickover Hall, at the northern corner of the campus along land reclaimed from the Severn River. He poked his head outside the door to find a pink-faced plebe wearing the white Dixie cup hat and Cracker Jack suit that was synonymous with enlisted Navy personnel. The freshman midshipman had obviously lost a bet with an upperclassman, and now stood “lifeguard duty” next to the water fountain outside Van Orden’s office.

“Do you know Midshipman Hardy?” Van Orden asked. He had an abrupt baritone voice that caused the freshman to stand up straighter.

“I do, Dr. Van Orden,” the young lifeguard said, coming to attention. “The last I saw him he was going to Dahlgren Hall to make a phone call.”

“Thank you,” Van Orden said, moving as he spoke. He didn’t want to keep the President’s car waiting.

He walked quickly, carrying his sport coat so as not to sweat through his shirt in the warm spring weather. Dahlgren Hall was located diagonally across The Yard, at the far south corner, almost at the front gate — about as far as away as possible and still be on Academy grounds. Van Orden passed Michelson Hall, and the plaque marking the spot where Albert Michelson had measured the speed of light in 1879. He cut across the grass, almost running as he passed the Mexican War Midshipmen’s Monument in the center of the courtyard, aiming for Dahlgren Hall. It made sense Hardy would relax there. He had a girlfriend back in Idaho and the upper deck of Dahlgren was one of the few places midshipmen could get a little privacy to make phone calls.

Unlike other military academies in the United States, Annapolis was an open campus, with visitors simply showing ID and clearing security like that of an airport. The grounds were crowded with sightseers who gave Van Orden sideways looks for not utilizing the sidewalks. He ignored them, entering Dahlgren Hall to the smell of french fries coming from the Drydock Restaurant, and bounded up the stairs. There were several midshipmen in the blue-carpeted lounge area. Unfortunately, none of them were Hardy.

Van Orden checked his watch again. Twelve minutes wasted.

He approached the nearest midshipman, a tall Nordic woman who looked as if she could be an Olympic runner but for her summer white service dress uniform. The fouled anchor and two diagonal strips on her shoulder boards said she was a midshipman second class — a year ahead of Hardy. She was reading, but closed her book and stood when she realized he wanted to speak to her.

“How can I help you, sir?” Her nametag identified her as Midshipman Larson.

“I’m looking for Alex Hardy. Sandy hair, about five-ten—”

“He was here about half an hour ago,” Larson said. “I believe he went down to the wind tunnels.”

Van Orden groaned. “Thank you,” he said, spinning to begin his jog back across campus to the basement of the building where he’d started, just down from his office.