The question was, would he still feel that way after serving five years in a military prison?

There was no clock in the holding cell. There was no phone, or TV, or magazine rack. The walls were cinder block, the door was steel. There was nothing for a prisoner to look at, nothing to do, except sit there and contemplate his destiny, which was something Slater had been doing everything he could to avoid.

He slumped forward and put his head down on the table — the wood was worn and scarred and the smell reminded him of his grammar-school classrooms — and closed his eyes. At night he could never sleep, but during the day his weariness often overwhelmed him. A few nights before, he had called his ex-wife, Martha, in Silver Spring. She hadn’t sounded all that happy to hear from him — and that was before he told her why he was stateside again. Once he had, he could hear her sigh, mostly in sympathy, but there was also a note of relief in it — relief that she had severed their relationship when she had, and that this latest act of self-immolation was not her problem anymore.

“Where are they keeping you?” she asked, and he had explained that he was free on his own recognizance until the trial began — though without a passport, he wasn’t going to go very far.

“Do you want me to come and see you?” she said. “Would that help?”

But he really didn’t see how it would. He had only called to let her know what was up, in case she ever got curious about his whereabouts … or the Army notified her that her portion of his Army pension would be severely diminished.

Not that she needed the money.

Her new husband was a partner in a lobbying firm on K Street, and her own dermatology practice was going strong. He had seen ads for it in local magazines, and once or twice he had seen her interviewed on the local news about Botox and collagen. She had gotten what she wanted out of life … and he had got what he deserved. Or so he figured most people would see it.

When his lawyer came back to get him, he didn’t know how much time had passed. He had nodded off, and his cheek bore the impression of the cracks in the wood. At the front of the courtroom, all the judges were sitting stiffly in their chairs, but there was one thing different. In the back, on a plastic chair, was Dr. Lena Levinson, chief of the pathology institute, with a thick folder in her lap and a stern expression on her face. When he nodded in her direction, she glared back at him reproachfully, then answered a call on her cell phone.

“Will the defendant please stand?” the general said, and Slater stood up beside Lieutenant Bonham. He was surprised to find his knees a little weaker than he’d planned.

Clearing his throat, the general continued. “On the several charges brought by this court-martial against Dr. Frank James Slater, Major in the United States Army, the verdict of the court is as follows.” Slater braced himself, as did Bonham, who looked so pale it was all Slater could do not to put an arm around his shoulders.

“Guilty” was the one word Slater distinctly heard, over and over again. But then he had expected that.

It was the sentencing he dreaded.

And that, too, was going as badly as possible. He was stripped of his rank, then dismissed — dishonorably — from the Army. All pay, all allowances, and all benefits were forfeited, now and in perpetuity. It was only when the question of imprisonment came up that the general paused, while Slater waited with bated breath for the hammer to come down.

“On the subject of incarceration, which these charges normally carry, the court has heard outside counsel, and read an amicus curia brief submitted only hours ago.” His eyes flitted toward Dr. Levinson. “In view of Dr. Slater’s long and valuable service to this country, and in the national interest, the court has unanimously elected to forgo all such punishment at this time.”

No prison time? And in the national interest? Slater was stunned, and even Bonham looked confused.

The general read some summary remarks into the record — names, dates, articles of the military code adjudicated — then looked around the room, as if leaving time for any objections before saying, “This court-martial is hereby concluded.”

Slater — suddenly a civilian, even if a disgraced one, after thirteen years — could hardly believe his ears. Bonham was clapping him on the back, and even the general threw him a glance that was less condemnatory than rueful. On his way out, Slater found Dr. Levinson standing beside the door.

“I can only assume,” he said, “that your testimony here today had something to do with my reprieve?”

“It did.”

“Thank you,” he said, from the bottom of his heart. She was a tough old buzzard, but he knew that they had always understood, and appreciated, each other.

“And now we have to talk, Dr. Slater.”

“About the national interest?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “yes.”

Harley Vane had become what you’d call a local celebrity. All the papers in Alaska, Oregon, and Washington State had carried his miraculous story of courage and survival, and he’d even received some national attention from an assortment of radio shows and a couple of TV stations.

At the hospital, where he’d recuperated for the first three days after his rescue, the nurses had treated him like a rock star, and Angie Dobbs had even come by to visit him. She said his drinks would be free at the Yardarm, and the way she said it made him think something else might be coming his way, too. At last.

This morning, the docs had promised him he’d be allowed to go if his numbers all checked out. Harley knew they would; he felt fine again, and he needed to see his brother Charlie. According to the nurses, Charlie had already come by, just a few hours after the Coast Guard cutter had picked him up, but Harley had been too disoriented to remember anything about it. There was a big blank spot in his memory, and there were plenty of times when he wished it were even bigger.

He remembered all too well barreling down the stairs to the hold. On the way down, he had pulled on a life vest, stuffed a flare in its pocket, then grabbed the emergency fire axe off the wall and stuck its handle in his belt. Water was gushing in from some unseen hole that had been ripped in the hull, somewhere beneath the holding tanks for the crabs. Thousands of them were suddenly loose again, scuttling up the walls, clinging to the ceiling, or paddling around on the rising tide. Old Man Richter was up to his knees in freezing water, trying to get the pumps working again.

“They won’t start!” he shouted. “They won’t start!”

“Get out!” Harley said. “Get out now!”

But Richter turned around and went back to work; he was the kind of guy, Harley knew, who would plan to go down with the ship.

Harley didn’t need that right now. He waded through the icy water, crabs nipping at his boots and thighs, and grabbed Richter by his bony shoulder. “I’m telling you to go on deck — now!”

“You shoulda let me get these serviced before we left port,” Richter said. “I told you they needed work!”

Another wave hit the ship broadside, and Richter tumbled into the water. His hand shot up, and Harley snatched it. He dragged the Old Man onto his feet again, but there were crabs all over him already, their pincers grasping at his wet clothes, or snapping furiously in the air. A big one, pink as bubblegum, was crawling up his chest, and Harley batted it off.

“Get out,” he screamed at the Old Man, “or I’ll drown you myself!” With a hard shove, he sent him toward the stairs. And then he sloshed through the debris to the coffin, still lashed to the conveyor belt. With fingers so cold they were almost numb, he fumbled at the ropes, but then gave up and chopped at them with the axe. The ropes and tarp fell away, and Harley took aim at the rusty hasps holding the lid closed. It took him several swings to knock each one loose, but when the last one went, he stuck the blade of the axe sideways into the groove and pried the lid up. It came up slowly, with a groan, and Harley had to push hard before it opened all the way and fell of its own momentum into the water. There was a splash, then the lid was bobbing like a surfboard around the hold.