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  PRAISE FOR WILLIAM MARTIN

  “A writer whose smoothness matches his ambition.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A rip-roaring page turner. A perfect read.”

  —The Boston Globe on Back Bay

  “Utterly fascinating … The unexpected twists and turns will keep readers guessing and the pages turning.”

  —Booklist on Harvard Yard

  “Smart, witty, terrific storytelling … A great sprawling read. Enjoy!”

  —Allan Folsom, New York Times bestselling author of The Machiavelli Covenant

  “Martin’s style is perfectly suited to this wedding of multigenerational saga and detective drama.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Teems with memorable characters, … suspense, authenticity, and conflict.”

  —Chicago Tribune on Cape Cod

  “A deft, spicy, and exciting blend of fact and fiction.”

  —USA Today on Citizen Washington

  BOOKS BY WILLIAM MARTIN

  Back Bay

  Nerve Endings

  The Rising of the Moon

  Cape Cod

  *Annapolis

  Citizen Washington

  Harvard Yard

  *The Lost Constitution

  *City of Dreams

  *From Tom Doherty Associates

  ANNAPOLIS

  WILLIAM MARTIN

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ANNAPOLIS

  Copyright © 1996 by William Martin

  Originally published in 1996 by Warner Books.

  All rights reserved.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-6360-2

  First Forge Edition: April 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Chris

  And three great kids

  … always

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  On a bitter cold Sunday afternoon sometime in January of 1960 (I know the year because I remember being in the fourth grade at the time), my father took me to visit the USS Constitution, at the Charlestown Navy Yard in Boston.

  I don’t recall my first impression of the spar deck. But I’ll never forget the sense of awe that I felt when I descended to the gundeck and saw those great black cannon, sitting there silently, like sleeping beasts. Our guide, a young sailor, told the story of the ship and her battles, and when he was done, I went running from gun to gun, fighting an imaginary battle of my own, complete with the sound effects that every little boy seemed genetically programmed to make.

  My love of American naval history was born that day, so I should thank my father before anyone else.

  One of the joys of writing a novel that requires a wide range of research is that I get to meet a wide range of people who offer me their insights and opinions, share their experiences and expertise, answer my questions and challenge my assumptions, all for the simple love of their work. Some will see their contributions here in black and white; others will find them buried between the lines. But my deepest thanks to all who helped.

  In Annapolis: Linnell Bowen, formerly of the Historic Annapolis Foundation, and all the docents and staff at Historic Annapolis; Alfred A. Hopkins, mayor of Annapolis; three women whose writings and knowledge place them among the leading historians of the city—Phebe Jacobsen, Mame E. Warren, and Jane McWilliams; Christopher Nelson, president of Saint John’s College; Greg Stiverson, former director of the Maryland State Archives; the archives staff; Pam Williams and Mary Lou Blakely of Three Centuries Tours; innkeeper Rob Zuchelli.

  At the United States Naval Academy: Admiral Charles R. Larson, superintendent; Captain Tom Jurkowsky; the many junior officers and midshipmen who took time to talk with me. Also James Cheevers; the staff of the Academy archives; and especially Kenneth Hagan, professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Academy museum and archives, who helped me to think like a naval historian.

  Also in Maryland: Patti and Dawson Farber; the staff and docents at Sotterley, in Saint Mary’s County; the people who keep the past alive at Historic Saint Mary’s City.

  Aboard the USS America: Captain R. E. Suggs, commanding officer; Commander J. Michael Denkler, executive officer; Lt. Commander Steven Lowry, public affairs officer; and all the officers and crew of the giant aircraft carrier. They gave me the run of the ship, from the engine rooms to the flag bridge, and sent me off with what they call the E-ticket ride: a catapult shot in a C-2 Greyhound.

  Aboard the USS Annapolis: Commander Steve Chapman, commanding officer; Lt. Commander Jeff Hughes, executive officer; and all the officers and crew of the attack sub. Again, they gave me the run of the ship, from torpedo room to sail. I took the helm at four hundred feet and got the submariner’s version of an E-ticket ride: the emergency blow, when the submarine surfaces like a breaching whale.

  Other active duty naval officers; Rear Admiral Richard Buchanan of Submarine Group Two; Commander Michael Beck of the USS Constitution; Lt. Commander Scott Harris; Lieutenant Jeff Dodge; Lieutenant William Fenick; and a special thanks to Commander Dave Morris, public affairs officer for New England, who opened doors, made contacts, and got quick answers to all my questions.

  Retired officers and families: Captain Roger Deveau; Captain Basil “Buzz” Livas and his wife, Jan; Captain Daniel O’Connell and his wife, Sheila; Commander Richard B. Amirault; Lt. Commander Peter Bagley and his wife, Adrienne; Commander F. H. “Skip” Fumia; Commander Peter Kallin; Lieutenant (jg) Hank McQueeney, an intelligence officer aboard the carrier USS Ticonderoga in the Tonkin Gulf, August 1964; and Richard G. Wohlers.

  And the people who preserve the ships: Across America, historic vessels have been saved from the scrap heap, sometimes with public funds, but usually by private groups who recognize that these vessels are more than naval artifacts; they are windows onto the times in which they were built and into the lives of those who served aboard them. So, starting from my home port of Boston: the frigate Constitution and the destroyer Cassin Young; in Fall River, Mass., the battleship Massachusetts, the destroyer Joseph P. Kennedy, the submarine Lionfish; in Groton, the first nuclear submarine, the Nautilus; in New York, the carrier Intrepid; in Philadelphia, the Olympia, Admiral Dewey’s flagship, and the submarine Becuna; in Baltimore, the frigate Constellation; at the Washington Navy Yard museum, the destroyer Barry; at Pearl Harbor, the submarine Bowfin, and of course, the memorial at the battleship Arizona.

  And to a few others: David Baker, at the Office of Naval Intelligence; Bart Davis;
Ned Downing; Peter Drummey, of the Massachusetts Historical Society; Professor William Fowler; Robert Anthony Nolan; Ann Rauscher; Randy Wayne White; Anne Grimes Rand and the staff of the USS Constitution Museum; the staff of the Submarine Force Library and Museum in Groton, Connecticut.

  And finally, to my editor, Jamie Raab; my agent, Robert Gottlieb; and of course, to my wife and children, who never complain.

  WILLIAM MARTIN

  December 1995

  PROLOGUE

  The Last Chapter

  “Don’t have your tongue between your teeth.”

  The line snapped through Steve Stafford’s head before every cat shot.

  It was what his flight instructor had said to him the first time he launched from an aircraft carrier, and he’d never forgotten it.

  He throttled up. He flashed his lights, signaling that he was ready.

  The catapult officer dropped to one knee, touched his illuminated green wand to the deck, then pointed it toward the bow, playing his part in the launch ballet, relaying his orders without words while the jet engines roared and the wind whipped over the bow at twenty-five knots.

  Steve Stafford did not hear the plane. Instead, he felt it…at the base of his spine and the center of his chest. But inside his helmet, there was a strange quiet. He could listen to his own breathing…to the voice of Joe Digger, his bombardier-navigator…and to the calm voice inside his own head: Don’t have your tongue between your teeth or you might bite it off. And be professional.

  It had come at last. All the training—Naval Academy, flight school, carrier quals, replacement air group—would finally mean something.

  The catapult—a steam-driven slingshot that could throw a pickup truck two miles—grabbed his A-6E Intruder by the nose gear and fired. The plane shot forward. The jolt slammed Steve against his seat and snapped his jaws. Then eighteen thousand pounds of Pratt and Whitney turbojet thrust kicked in, lifting him off the deck of the USS America and out over the Red Sea.

  He formed with his wingman. They formed with their squadron. And the night blazed with the man-made stars of Operation Desert Storm—thirty A-6s and F-14 Tomcats, vectoring northwest, screaming low over the Arabian desert, rocketing toward an Iraqi airfield designated H-2. Their mission: to strike a blow for the New World Order. And be professional.

  Steve had the controls. Joe Digger navigated from the AVA-1, which delivered flight data and a synthetic terrain/sea and sky image on the CRT screen.

  In two hours, they were closing on H-2.

  As long as the Stealth bombers had punched holes in Iraqi radar cover, the A-6s would be in and out before the Iraqis knew what hit them, and if any Iraqi MiGs came up, the F-14s would be waiting to send them right back down again.

  This was not a pretty mission. No laser-guided bombs here. Just twelve thousand pounds of Rockeye, big cannister bombs that carried little bombs designed to tear up runway concrete like a plow tearing up dry ground. They shot in low, not much more than two hundred feet. Steve made a perfect approach at ninety degrees to the runway, and Joe Digger delivered the ordnance. “Bombs away.”

  Flash and flame stitched themselves across the ground and lit the desert all around.

  “Bingo,” said Joe Digger calmly.

  “Uh, roger.” Sound professional.

  Alarm! Alarm! Buzzing in the headsets. Flashing on the CRT screens. Surface-to-air missiles locked on.

  “We got SAMs,” said Digger.

  “Roger. Visual contact,” said Steve, his eyes fixed on two tails of flame rising toward them through the darkness. “Release countermeasures.”

  The air beneath the plane was suddenly littered with aluminum chaff intended to confuse the missiles.

  Whoosh! One SAM blew by just fifty feet to starboard, chasing the aluminum. And whoosh! The other shot under the plane, its exhaust burning so bright that it lit the two faces in the cockpit. American countermeasures worked. Iraqi proximity fuses did not.

  But now, tracers began to rise in long, delicate strands all around H-2. That meant triple-A: antiaircraft artillery. Slow, primitive, altitude-fused explosives, the same thing they shot at B-17s over Europe fifty years ago. But if there’s enough triple-A going up, someone’s bound to come down. And tonight it was Steve Stafford.

  Impact. The A-6 was tough, but a lucky shot cut the hydraulics to the left wing.

  “Uh, we have a problem, Steve,” said Joe Digger.

  “Roger.” One look told Steve there was no hope.

  They were out over the desert again, and it was time for the unthinkable.

  “Prepare to punch out,” Steve said as calmly as he could.

  “Roger. Sending our search coordinates.”

  “Let’s hope the helos find us before the bad guys.” Steve grabbed for the yellow ejection handles and pulled. In an instant he became a missile himself, rocketing straight up through his own Plexiglas canopy.

  Even with the protective helmet shield in place, the force of ejection at five hundred miles an hour could break a man’s nose, blacken his eyes, tear the skin clean off his face. But the explosion was so intense, the eruption so instantaneous, the dislocation so complete that Steve couldn’t tell what was his face and what was his ass and what was in between.

  As he rocketed upward, the jet rocketed away, first out, then down. Then it was nothing more than a shadow riding a dying orange arc of flame.

  He felt the impact of the plane’s death just as he felt the gallows-jerk pull of the parachute saving his life. For a moment, the desert floor burned bright with fuel and avionics and high-alloy metals. Then there was dark.

  In the distance Steve could hear the rumble of war. In his gut he felt the vomit of despair. But in his head, the small Academy-trained voice was reminding him, Stay professional… and survive.

  As soon as he hit, he unsnapped the Koch fittings and climbed out of his chute. Then he called to his partner. “Joe. You okay, Joe?”

  “Shit hot, Steve. Shit hot.”

  “Good.” Be professional. Even on the ground. Even in despair.

  Preflight briefings had set three collection points where Apache helicopters, under the cover of A-10 Warthogs, would be waiting to pick up downed fliers. From his seat cushion, Steve took out a map, a compass, and six foil-wrapped packets of water. Then he unholstered the pearl-handled forty-five his grandfather had given him when he graduated from flight school. “We’ll be out of here by dawn. Let’s get moving.”

  Then three sets of high beams came bouncing toward them.

  Bad guys…

  THAT WAS WHERE Jack Stafford stopped writing.

  Always stop when you still have a little left in you. That way you’ll have a place to start in the morning. Hemingway used to say that. Leave it to Hemingway to find a reason to stop writing and start drinking at five in the afternoon.

  Jack was just cheating. He had worked for a year on the story of Annapolis and his family and the navy that had given them both meaning. But he couldn’t write the chapter that had drawn him from the start. So he was writing the one after it, an easy one he would call “Pax Americana,” about Ronald Reagan’s six-hundred-ship navy and his own great-nephew’s adventures in the Gulf War.

  He lit a cigarette and looked out the window of his hillside bungalow. In Los Angeles, the Santa Ana winds were blowing. They swept down from the high desert, scrubbing the air clean and drying it through, so that everything stood out in speed-freak clarity—the names on the boxcars in the train yards on San Fernando Road, the silvery leaves on the chaparral bushes at Chavez Ravine, even the people moving about in the downtown skyscrapers.

  L.A. was no place to be in Santa Ana season. More drive-bys. Uglier wife-beatings. Arson fires. Some said it was the heat that did it. Others said it was the dryness you could feel in your sinuses, way up inside your head. Jack blamed the clarity. With the smog blown out to sea, everything appeared in unrelenting relief. Nothing gray, nothing imprecise, nothing uncertain.

  And people needed uncertaint
y. They needed to know that there was always a chance for good in the bad guys, or bad in the good guys. They needed to know that life was not simple and never had been, no matter how simple the past looked in the rearview mirror. People who thought otherwise, people who thought they could see beyond the curve of the earth, the way Angelenos thought when the Santa Anas blew—those people were dangerous.

  So he was writing The Stafford Story. But when he came to the grayest area of them all—the things the Staffords had done, and failed to do, in the war that ended certainty for good—he couldn’t finish. He sat on his alien hilltop, perched between the certainties of his upbringing and the Pacific horizon that so many Staffords had tried to see beyond, and he struggled with the truth of history.

  And he was blocked… and hot… and feeling very old at seventy-eight. He had decided the only thing to revive him would be Annapolis. He was going back to buy the house that had been at the heart of his family’s history for over two centuries. He wasn’t sure why—maybe for a place to finish his book, or a place to die, or a place to feel something that was certain and deserved to be. But he had to have that house.

  And in Annapolis, a young woman named Susan Browne would be waiting. She had written to him a few days before: “I am a distant cousin and an independent filmmaker working on a PBS project called The American Family. I’m researching the Staffords of Annapolis. Your perspective as a liberal journalist would be quite different from that of your military brother. Would you consent to meeting me?”

  He had mailed her a note and the first chapter of The Stafford Story, which would take her to a time and place where no one could have imagined the USS America. But it was the time and place where Stafford history began in America. If she was a good reader, he might give her more, but nothing was certain.