“Everything you asked for, and then some.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, to start with, the rank of the man you think authorized the flight orders for Vixen 03 obviously was not correct.”

“But ‘General’ was the only title that fit.”

“Ain’t necessarily so. The title was a seven-letter word. All that was readable was the fifth character, which was an^?. Quite naturally, it was assumed that since Vixen 03 was an Air Force plane piloted by an Air Force crew, its flight orders could only be authorized by an Air Force officer.”

“So tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay, wiseass, I admit it threw me, too, particularly the part where a search through Air Force personnel files failed to find any name that matched up with the known characters of our mystery officer’s name. Then it occurred to me: ‘admiral’ is also a seven letter word, and its fifth character is also an R.”

Pitt felt as though the reigning heavyweight champion had suddenly rammed a right hand into his lower gut. “Admiral”-the word ricocheted through his mind. Nobody had thought to consider that an Air Force plane might have been carrying naval hardware. Then a sobering thought brought Pitt back to earth.

“A name?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Were you able to come up with a name?”

“All very elementary for a prying mind like mine. The first name was easy. Six letters with three known, two blanks with LT followed by another blank and then an R. That gave me ‘Walter.’ Now comes the piece de resistance: the surname. Four letters beginning with B and ending with 5. And, since ‘Bullshit’ didn’t fit and I already had the guy’s rank and first name, a computer search through Bureau files and Navy records quickly made a match: ‘Admiral Walter Horatio Bass.’ “

Pitt probed further. “If Bass was an admiral back in 1954, he must be either past eighty years old or dead-most likely dead.”

“Pessimism will get you nowhere,” said Buckner. “Bass was a whiz kid. I read his file. It’s most impressive.. He got his first star when he was still thirty-eight years old. For a while it looked like he was headed for Naval Chief of Staff. But then he must have pulled a no-no or mouthed off to a superior, because he was suddenly transferred and placed in command of a minor boondocks fleet base in the Indian Ocean, which is like being exiled to the Gobi Desert to an ambitious naval officer. He

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then retired in October of 1959. He’ll be seventy-seven next December.”

“Are you telling me Bass is still around?” asked Pitt.

“He’s listed on the Navy’s retirement rolls.”

“How about an address?”

“Bass owns and operates a country inn just south of Lexington, Virginia, called Anchorage House. You know the kind-no pets or kids allowed. Fifteen rooms complete with antique plumbing and four-poster beds, all slept in by George Washington.”