Amerikan Eagle

He turned right, went down a road that was smooth and well paved, going to a sentry booth with a black-and-white wooden crossbeam across both lanes. On either side of the booth, a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire stretched off into the distance. There was a smaller sign as he approached: NIGHT VEHICLES DIM HEADLIGHTS. He stopped, and a National Guard sergeant stepped out of the booth, wearing a soft wide-brimmed hat, his face sunburned. He had a clipboard in one hand. “Yeah?” he growled.

Sam passed over his police identification. “Going to the Administration Building as part of an investigation.”

The sergeant looked at the clipboard. “Not on the list. Sorry, pal. Back up your car and—”

Heart thumping, Sam passed over his National Guard identification with his rank of lieutenant. “Sergeant, you’re going to open that gate now, aren’t you.”

The sergeant’s mood instantly changed. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, passing back both pieces of ID. “Didn’t realize that—”

“Sergeant, you’re making me late.”

“Just one moment, sir.” The man went into the shack, came out with a thick cardboard pass, and said, “Place it on your dashboard, sir, all right?”

Sam took the pass, which said VISITOR—NO ACCESS TO RESTRICTED AREAS.

The sergeant gestured to someone inside the sentry booth, and the wooden arm was raised. “Take this main road a hundred yards to the secondary gate,” he told Sam. “About a half mile after that gate, turn left. Keep your speed below twenty miles an hour and don’t pick up anybody walking or hitchhiking. You see anybody walking or hitchhiking, report it to the administration staff. All right, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, thank you,” and then he accelerated the Packard past the sentry booth, moving fast so the sergeant couldn’t see his hands trembling.

He drove the indicated hundred yards, and the thumping in his heart increased as he saw the gate up ahead. He knew his bullshit story wouldn’t work for this National Guard crew, but a phone call from the sentry booth must have been made. The gate was open, and two National Guard enlisted men, .45-caliber Thompson submachine guns slung over their shoulders, waved him through. The fence on either side of this gate was higher, with more rolls of barbed wire, and floodlights and guard towers were spaced along the fence. He passed through the gate and down the road. Ahead was a cluster of buildings; there was another sign, ADMINISTRATION, and he took a left.

The building was wide, one-story, with a porch. The place was built with logs and rough-hewn wood. Army trucks and jeeps were parked to one side, and he found an empty spot. He got out of the Packard and walked up to the building on a gravel path. The porch steps creaked and he went through the front door.

Another National Guard sergeant, his uniform tight against his thick body, looked up at Sam from behind a wooden desk. Behind him were desks manned by uniformed clerks. On the near wall hung a framed photograph of President Long. Sam pulled out his police and National Guard identification and set them on the desk.

The sergeant picked up the cards with blunt fingers that had chewed fingernails and asked, “Well, Inspector—Lieutenant—what can we do for you?”

“I need to talk to someone here. A prisoner. Taken from Portsmouth a couple of days ago.”

The sergeant slid Sam’s identification back across the desk. “You got clearance? An appointment? Some paperwork?”

“No, Sergeant, I don’t. This is… a matter of some discretion.”

The man smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “A dame?”

“No, not a dame. Look. I need to see whoever’s in charge of the prisoners.”

The sergeant scratched an ear. “Not sure if I can be much help.”

Sam picked up his National Guard card, held it front of the man’s face. “The rank is Lieutenant, Sergeant. I want to see an officer, somebody in charge, who can locate a prisoner. Now.”

The sergeant got up, still looking bored, and ambled back into the office area. Sam stood there, quiet. If it went well, then who knew what might happen. And if it didn’t go well, then he might not be leaving any time soon. He’d always thought he might end up here because of Sarah and the Underground Railroad. Not because of his own bullheadedness.

The sergeant came back, motioned with his hand. Sam followed him past the occupied desks to a glass-enclosed office with a frosted glass door. Painted on the door were the words CAPT. J. C. ALLARD, COMMANDANT. A brief knock and the sergeant opened the door and Sam walked in.

The office was cramped but tidy, with framed photos of soldiers and artillery pieces on the paneled walls. A balding officer in a pressed National Guard uniform was sitting behind a bare wooden desk. Knowing he was on thin ice indeed, Sam stood straight and said, “Sir, Inspector Sam Miller, Portsmouth Police Department. I’m grateful you’ve agreed to see me.”

“Have a seat, Inspector,” the captain replied crisply. “Or is it Lieutenant?”