Three months after the Baltimore meeting, Rick had learned to see the war's ending in production schedules.
July 1943. The war in Europe was turning—Sicily invaded, Mussolini falling, Germany retreating on the Eastern Front. At Packard's Plant 81, everyone talked about when it would end. Christmas, maybe. Next spring at the latest.
But the production quotas Rick copied in the records office told a different story.
1945: 8,000 aircraft engines, military specifications. 1946: 12,000 engines, "peacetime defense production." 1947: 15,000 engines, specifications marked "classified - future operations."
Peacetime defense production. The phrase appeared everywhere now, in contracts and memos and planning documents. As if "peacetime" and "defense production" belonged in the same sentence.
Rick had been tracking it since April, since Catherine had given him his assignment in Baltimore: Shift from current sabotage to future infrastructure. Find out what they're building for after the war.
What he'd found was an empire that assumed permanent conflict.
Facilities under construction in places that made no sense for peacetime conversion—remote locations, military-grade security, specifications that matched wartime standards. Contracts with delivery dates years in the future, for equipment that wouldn't be needed unless there was another war.
Korea appeared in the documents. Not often, just occasional references. "Pacific regional specifications." "Tropical climate adaptations." "Expeditionary force requirements - Korea theater."
Korea. A country America wasn't fighting in, wasn't planning to fight in.
Unless someone was planning exactly that.
Rick was copying the latest production schedule—engines designated for "future Asian operations, 1950-1952 timeline"—when Frank Kozlowski found him.
"Martin, you got a visitor."
Rick's hand moved toward the pistol under his jacket before he caught himself. "Visitor?"
"Yeah. Says he's from War Production Board, doing efficiency audit. Wants to talk to our quality inspectors." Kozlowski looked suspicious. "You been doing anything you shouldn't?"
"Just my job, Frank."
"Yeah, well. Guy's in Conference Room B. Try not to say anything that makes us look bad."
After Kozlowski left, Rick carefully returned the production schedule to its place, checked that his notes were secured in his jacket's false lining, and tried to breathe normally.
War Production Board. Could be routine. Could be trap.
Could be the message Catherine had sent last week: Potential ally needs verification. Watch for contact.
Only one way to find out.
The man in Conference Room B wore a civilian suit but carried himself like military. Late twenties, clean-cut, nervous energy barely contained. He stood when Rick entered, extended his hand.
"John Martin? I'm James Patterson, War Production Board. Thanks for taking the time."
Patterson. The recognition code Catherine had embedded in her message. Not his real name—that would come later, if Rick verified he wasn't a threat.
"Happy to help," Rick said, closing the door. "What kind of efficiency audit?"
"The kind that isn't really an audit." Patterson—Donovan, Catherine had said his real name was—pulled out credentials. OSS, not War Production Board. "I'm going to be direct because we don't have much time. Catherine Dupré sent me. I found Douglas Morrison's files. And I need someone who understands production to verify whether what I'm seeing is real or if I've lost my mind."
Rick studied him. Young, idealistic face. But the eyes had seen things that had shaken his worldview. Rick recognized the look—he'd seen it in mirrors.
"Show me what you have," Rick said.