In the beginning, he’d seen the Arsenal ship project as something good for the Navy, an added capability that would give his country more options in coping with shattered nations and turmoil around the world.
He’d been proud to be one of the prime backers of the project, eager even to show the political powers why this was the right project to back.
When had that changed? He stared at the slimy senator opposite him and wondered at what point and how he’d let himself be drawn away from the honorable path and into a pattern of careerism and self- aggrandizement.
What had happened to his honor?
It might be too late for him personally, but it wasn’t too late for the Navy. To do the right thing, the honorable thing he felt a heavy burden lift as he reached his decision.
He straightened his shoulders and turned to glare at the senator. “No more private conversations. I’ve had it with you. And if it ruins my career, so be it. Three stars ought to be enough for any man and they will be for me if that’s what it takes.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you agree,” Williams snarled.
The admiral pushed a button located under the ledge of his desk. “Oh yes you are.” He moved around the desk quickly and slipped a half nelson on the senator before he could even react. Loggins shoved the man’s head down until he was half bent over, then wrenched the senator’s arm up behind him. With the senator completely under his control, the admiral goose-stepped him across the deep blue carpet to the door, opened it with his free hand, and shoved him into his anteroom. “Come back when you can get a civil tongue in your head.
And when you understand what your job for this nation really is.”
The crowd of visitors, petitioners, and those with appointments waiting in the anteroom gaped dumbfounded as Loggins slammed the door to his office. One of them, a short, sandy-haired man carrying a large manila envelope, stood up slowly. His boss expected him to use his best judgment, and if ever it had been called for, the aide mused, it was this situation. The budget information, the requests for information on sailors, and the rest of the weekly packets the aide was bringing over for the admiral’s attention could wait. He was certain that his boss. Senator Dailey, would be much more interested in what he had just witnessed in the anteroom.
Captain Heather leaned awkwardly against the missile tube, supporting his weight on his one good leg.
Getting down here with the help of the boatswain’s mate had been a bitch, but he’d done it; with this much on the line, there was no substitute for firsthand knowledge. He knelt down on the dirty deck, heedless of the damage-it was doing to his sharply pressed khaki pants. He stared at the launch tube, only vaguely aware of the engineering and weapons technicians around him. He ran one hand over the smooth metal, feeling for damage. It was as though he could feel straight through the metal, ascertain the delicate condition and structural integrity of each tube without really seeing it.
“This one’s fine,” he said finally. He looked up at the chief engineer and the weapons officer.
The engineer nodded. “I think so, too. That makes the figure about eighty percent. Captain, maybe a bit more.”
The captain straightened, winced as his splinted leg complained loudly.
The pain was getting worse sooner or later, he’d have to take the painkillers the corpsman kept handing him. For the first time, he noticed the grease and grime covering his khakis, evidence of the damage control battle that had been fought here the day before. “Guess I should have worn coveralls.” The logistical problems of trying to get them over the splint would have baffled him.
The chief engineer followed his gaze to look at the spots, then dropped his gaze lower down to the splinted leg, the khaki pants hanging in shreds. “I could have reminded you, Captain.”
The captain shook his head. “No.” He glanced back up at the chief engineer. “I’ve already been reminded enough of the basics today.”
Tombstone hung up the receiver after taking the Arsenal CO’s report. His eyes met Batman’s across the table, and he smiled slightly.
Batman nodded. Not many of Tombstone’s staff members would have believed it, but he himself had seen the somber admiral smile on several occasions. This was one of them.
“Sounds like the man’s got his shit together, doesn’t it?”
Tombstone returned the nod, the merest inclination of his head. “He does. So what now?”
“You’re asking me? Hell, Tombstone, you’re the one with two stars.”
Tombstone shook his head gravely. “It doesn’t make me infallible.
Tell me what you think.”
Batman stood and started pacing around the compartment. Finally, he looked back at his old flying mate. “I think this is a come-as-you-are war. No fancy preparations, no amphibious force standing by hell, we’re close enough to the U.S. to get anything we need on short notice. This is the O.K. Corral, and we’re here, and the hell with how Washington wants the war to be won. I say we disable the remote controls on the Arsenal ship and shift targeting back to where it belongs the captain.
Factor him into our strike plan, get the aircraft back up in the air where they were meant to be, and let’s go for it. We can turn those missile silos into glass, or at least shredded metal, in less time than it takes for the chaplain to say the morning prayer in Congress.”
“We’re getting rudder orders from D.C. I suspect they’re going to insist that the Arsenal take the lead again in the attack.”
Tombstone’s eyes were backlit with anger. “What’s your take? You’ve spent more time in D.C. than I have.”
Batman sighed. “If we propose a classic strike, they’ll say no. By the time we could convince them, we may have missiles inbound from Cuba headed for the continental U.S.”
“Agreed. So?”
“So fuck them we don’t ask. We just take care of business and our people and deal with the consequences later. That’s why we’re wearing the stars to take the incoming fire.”
Tombstone stood as well. He stretched, let out a long groan, then shook himself like a wet dog. “Do it. See how easy having two stars is?”
The President stared out at the Rose Garden from the Oval Office, his back to the two men standing at attention in front of his desk. Let them wait it was one of the prerogatives of his office as commander in chief that he could keep the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the chief of naval operations braced up for as long as he wanted.
He wondered what he would have said thirty years ago when he was a grunt on the ground in Vietnam if someone had told him he’d one day have this much power. He would have laughed, he suspected. Laughed and made some joke about somebody smoking too much pot. In country, where soldiers reckoned their lives by how many patrols they had left to do, a future devoid of artillery and snipers would have seemed an impossibility.
I blew it. Not only did I make the same mistake my predecessors did during Vietnam, but I have even less excuse than they did. I was there; I should have known better. At least I can fix it this time.
And maybe the next President that’s tempted to micromanage will know better.
He turned back to the two men, his face grave. “As of now we’re out of the targeting business.” He pointed his finger at the chairman. “You and me both.”
“You,” he continued, jabbing the same finger at the CNO, “call up your commander down there. You tell him that the Arsenal ship is hereby transferred to his complete command, as theater commander. Give him my objective sand give him his head. You got that?”
The CNO nodded, a grim smile starting at the corners of his mouth.
“Aye, aye, sir. we’ll get results that I can promise you.”
