Pandora's Legion

37

Derringer plopped the morning paper onto Joe Wolf’s desk. “Read all about it. Not only were we not involved, it wasn’t even a terrorist act.” The admiral’s gray eyes held a trace of a gleam.

Wolf barely registered the page-two story below the fold. “Hell, Mike, your pal Burridge wouldn’t want to draw undue attention, would he?”

“I suppose not. But he might wait till later. You know — budget hearings and jockeying for position in the counterterror hierarchy. Bruce is a good guy, but that doesn’t mean he can’t play the game.”

Wolf was philosophical. “Well, he does have Homeland Security to look out for. Besides, at St. Mary’s I learned from Sister Agatha that there is no limit to the good we can do if we don’t care who gets the credit.”

Derringer, an occasional Lutheran, grinned despite himself. “Sister Agatha? Seems that every other nun I ever heard of was Sister Mary Margaret.”

“Oh, we had a couple of those. MM1 was deadly accurate with an eraser, clear to the back of the room, and MM2 was hellacious with a ruler. Sometimes we used to debate if it was a sin to duck a nun’s punch.” He gave a thin, tight-lipped smile at the recollection. “But you know — I got a hell of a good education.”

A knock on the open door interrupted the discussion. Derringer and Wolf turned to see Terry Keegan’s crew-cut head. “Uh, sorry if I interrupted something. I just wanted to let you know the Jurassic Jet is up and running again. We’re caught up with the deferred maintenance.”

Derringer motioned the aviator in. “No, you didn’t interrupt much. Joe was just explaining the benefits of parochial schools.”

“Hoo-boy. I still have scars on my knuckles. Sister Teresa caught me reading unauthorized material in class.”

Wolf swiveled in his chair. “Let me guess: Catcher in the Rye.”

Keegan chuckled at the thought. “God Is My Co-Pilot. I figured it was okay because General Scott was, you know, religious.”

“The good sister did not share your ecclesiastical assessment?”

“Not only no but hell no.”

Derringer decided to leave his colleagues to their Catholic esoterica. “Well, excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to take my paper and read between the lines about the bioterror threat.” He paced to the door, then stopped and turned. “You know, without getting denominational about it, we have a lot to be grateful for. I don’t want to minimize the losses we sustained, but things could have been awfully damn worse.”

Wolf nodded solemnly, staring at the carpeted floor. “I think I’ll go to midnight mass and light some candles.”

Terrence John Keegan, who decades ago had shunned the Church of Rome, thought of the deliverance he had sustained on the restroom floor. He heard himself say, “I’ll go with you.”

Michael Derringer and Joseph Wolf traded glances, knowing the full meaning of those four simple words. Forgive me, Father. It has been twenty-six years since my last confession. The retired admiral walked out of the room, a buoyancy in his step that matched the gratitude he felt about one man’s return to the fold, and one woman’s return from the edge of the grave.

On the way to his office, Derringer passed Sallie Ann Kline. “Hi Mike!” she exclaimed. “Hey, Frank’s already putting together another contingency team for the next contract. He says that J. J. Johnson should be back in a couple weeks.” She regarded her uncle and mentor. “What are you going to do now that the excitement is over for a while?”

The less-than-retired admiral patted his niece’s elbow. “Honey, I’m going to call Cap’n Bob. I have some unfinished business with a blue marlin.”