"And I have to ask, are you armed?"
"I'm in Class A uniform," I said. "No sidearm is carried with Class A uniform. You'll find that in the regulations."
"So how dumb are you?"
"I didn't expect to be in this situation. I didn't expect to get this far."
"Take my advice, son. Hope for the best, plan for the worst."
"You got a gun in your desk?"
"I have two guns in my desk."
"You going to shoot me?"
"If I have to."
"This is the Pentagon. There are thirty thousand military personnel outside your door. They're all trained to run toward the sound of gunfire. You better have a story ready."
"You attacked me."
"Why would I?"
"Because you're obsessed about who shot some ugly black kid in the back of beyond."
"I never told anyone he was ugly. Or black. Not on the phone. You must have gotten that from your Tennessee buddies."
"Whatever, you're obsessed. I ordered you to leave but you attacked me."
I leaned back in his visitor chair. I stretched my legs out in front of me. I let my arms hang down. I got good and relaxed. I could have fallen asleep. I said, "This doesn't look like a very threatening posture, does it? And I weigh about 250. You'll have a problem moving me before 3C314 and 3C316 get in here. Which will take them about a second and a half. And then you'll have to deal with the MPs. You kill one of their own in dubious circumstances, they'll tear you apart."
"My neighbors won't hear. No one will hear a thing."
"Why? You got suppressors on those guns?"
"I don't need suppressors. Or guns."
Then he did a very strange thing. He stepped over and took a picture off his wall. A black and white photograph. Himself and Senator Carlton Riley. It was signed. By the senator, I assumed. Not by him. He stepped away from the wall and laid the picture on his desk. Then he stepped back again and pincered his fingertips and worried the nail out of the plaster.
"Is that it?" I said. "You're going to prick me to death with a pin?"
He put the nail next to the photograph.
He opened a drawer and took out a hammer.
He said, "I was in the middle of rehanging the picture when you attacked me. Fortunately I was able to grab the hammer, which was still close at hand."
I said nothing.
"It will be very quiet," he said. "One solid blow should do it. I'll have plenty of time to arrange your body whatever way I need to."
"You're insane," I said.
"No, I'm committed," he said. "To the future of the army."
66
Hammers are very evolved items. They haven't changed for years. Why would they change? Nails haven't changed. Nails have been the same forever. Therefore a hammer's necessary features were worked out long ago. A heavy metal head, and a handle. All you need, and nothing you don't. Frazer's was a claw design, a framing hammer, maybe twenty-eight ounces. A big ugly thing. Total overkill for picture hanging, but such mismatches of tool and purpose are common in the real world.
It made for a decent weapon, though.
He came at me with it cocked in his right hand like a nightstick. I scrambled up out of my chair pretty fast, any idea of embarrassing him with an inappropriate postmortem position abandoned long ago. Sheer instinct. I don't scare easy, but humans are very evolved too. A lot of what we do is hard-wired right back to the mists of time. Right back to where my pal Stan Lowrey liked to start a story.
Frazer's office was small. Its free floor space was smaller still. Like fighting in a phone booth. How it was going to go would depend on how smart Frazer was. And I figured he was plenty smart. He had survived Vietnam, and the Gulf, and years of Pentagon bullshit. You don't do any of that without brains. I figured he was an easy seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. In no imminent danger of winning the Nobel Prize, but definitely smarter than the average bear.
Which helped me. Fighting morons is harder. You can't guess what they're going to do. But smart people are predictable.
He swung the hammer right to left, waist height, a standard opening gambit. I arched back and it missed me. I figured next he would slash back the other way, left to right, same height, and he did, and I arched back again, and he missed again. An exploratory exchange. Like moving pawns on a chess board. He was breathing strangely. Ferocity, not a throat problem. Nothing for Saint Audrey to worry about. It was ferocity, and excitement. He was a warrior at heart, and warriors love nothing more than the fight itself. It consumes them. They live for it. He was smiling, too, in a feral way, and his eyes were seeing nothing except the hammer head and my midsection beyond it. There was a sharp tang of sweat in the air, something primitive, like a nighttime rodent's lair.
I dodged forward half a step, and he matched it with a backward move of his own that left us in the middle of the floor, which was important. To me. He wanted me back against the wall, and I didn't want to be there.
Not yet, anyway.
He swung the hammer a third time, scything it hard, making it look like he meant it, which he didn't. Not yet. I could read the pattern. It was in his eyes. I arched back and the hammer head buzzed by an inch from my coat. Twenty-eight ounces, on a long handle. The momentum of the miss carried it way around. His shoulders turned ninety degrees and he twisted at the waist. He used the torque to come right back at me. With some arm extension this time. He forced me back. I ended up close to the wall.
I watched his eyes.
Not yet.
He was a warrior. I wasn't. I was a brawler. He lived for the tactical victory. I lived to piss on the other guy's grave. Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all. A different focus. He swung for the fourth time, same angle, same height. He was like a fastball pitcher, getting me used to one thing before unleashing another thing entirely. Inside, inside, inside, and then the splitter away. But Frazer wouldn't go low. He would go high. Low would be better, but he was only a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. But not a nine.
He swung a fifth time, same height, same angle, so hard that the tines of the claw made a raw thrumming sound as they moved through the air, stopping dead as the hammer stopped dead. He swung a sixth time, same height, same sound, more extension. I was very close to the wall. No real place to go. Then came the seventh swing, same height, same angle, same sound.
Then came his eyes.
They flicked upward, and the eighth swing aimed high, right at the side of my head. Right at my temple. I saw a glint off the hammer's inch-wide striking face. Twenty-eight ounces. Nearly two pounds in weight. It would have punched a very neat hole through the bone.
But it didn't, because my head wasn't there when it arrived.
I dropped vertically, eight inches onto bent and pre-set knees, four inches so the swing would miss me, and another four as a margin of safety, and I heard the rush of air above me, and I felt the miss drag him around in a wild part-circle, and I started back up, and then we were into a whole new set of calculations. We had done the three dimensions. We had done in and out, back and forth, and up and down. Now we were ready for the fourth dimension. Time. The only remaining questions were how fast could I hit him, and how fast was he spinning?
And they were crucial questions. For him especially. I was twisting as I rose and my elbow was already moving fast and it was a certainty I was going to hit him with it in the neck. A mathematical certainty. But which part of the neck? The answer was, whichever part was there when the blow landed. Front, side, back, it was all the same to me. But not to him. For him, some parts would be worse than others.