TWO
Vice Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder stared at the minute hand on the clock on the wall across from him. If he squinted his eyes just a little bit — not that he’d ever admit needing to do so — he could actually see it move. It crept with glacial slowness around the face of the clock. He looked away, hoping to encourage it to go faster. At sea, that sometimes worked during long hours of pulling alert five in the cockpit of his Tomcat. Back then, the seven-day clocks seemed to know when you were looking at them and slowed down.
Tombstone hadn’t spent enough time ashore to be absolutely certain of it, but he’d been under the impression that time passed more quickly here. Certainly, it was easier to get up and move around when you weren’t confined to the flight deck waiting to launch. You could leave the building, you weren’t stuck on the carrier. There were even magazines — a few months old, but newer than most of the stuff found in any ready room at sea. And a collection of Navy professional publications, some of them little more than publicity rags for various warfare communities, a copy of the
The
The office of the chief of naval operations was one of the few places that a three-star admiral might be expected to cool his heels for a while, along with some parts of the joint chiefs of staff. But even in JCS, a three- star outranked ninety-nine percent of the men and women assigned to the most prestigious joint command in the world. Here, in the inner sanctum of his own service, he was just another flag officer.
The chief looked over at him, then up at the clock. “Can I get you some more coffee, Admiral?”
Tombstone shook his head. “No thanks, Chief. I’m fine.”
The chief stood. “Well, let me see what’s keeping him, sir. He’s usually not this far behind schedule.” The chief slipped quietly into the inner office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Moments later, he reappeared. “Admiral, the CNO is ready for you now, sir.” He held the door open and stepped to one side.
Tombstone stood, relieved to be moving again. Maybe there were alert-five stretches of time in every job, not just in the squadron. If so, the admiral version of it was at least air-conditioned. He walked past the chief into the CNO’s office.
“Matthew.” The chief of naval operations stood and came around from behind his desk to greet him. He held out his hand, and clasped Tombstone’s in both of his. “It’s good to see you again, Stony. Sorry you had to wait — a little crisis over in the Med.”
“Good to see you again too, sir.” Tombstone shook the man’s hand warmly. The term of respect came automatically to his lips. Admiral Thomas Magruder might be his uncle, brother to Tombstone’s father, but he was still the chief of naval operations. They had worked out their own ways over the years of knowing when they were interacting as family and when they wore their hats as senior officers in the service they both loved. It had become increasingly difficult as Tombstone had become more senior, and their relationship had been stretched almost to the breaking point a year ago when Tombstone had decided to find out what had really happened to his father. His uncle, by then the CNO, had been firmly opposed to the mission. It had been his brother, he argued, and the family connection between the two of them was just as strong as it was between father and son. His brother was dead, had died years ago on a mission over Vietnam.
But when Tombstone uncovered evidence that his father had indeed survived the ejection and had been taken as a prisoner of war, his uncle had been surprised. Then later, when a chain of events proved that father and brother Magruder had been taken from Vietnam to Russia for further interrogation, Uncle Thomas had come over to his side completely. It had been difficult for both of them, realizing that their government had not only lied to the civilian population at large, but to its most trusted senior officers as well.
“Have a seat, Stony,” the CNO said, pointing to the couch. “I’ve got a problem — two problems actually — and you may be the solution to both.”
Tombstone sat down and waited. He was getting mixed signals from his uncle. Usually you could tell immediately whether Uncle Thomas wanted to talk about family or Navy. The use of his nickname and his tone of voice were key indicators.
This time, he couldn’t decide. Uncle Thomas… or was he the CNO right now?… looked grave. He sat in a chair facing Tombstone on the couch, apparently struggling with how to begin. Finally, he said, “Oh, hell. I never was any good at being tactful with you, Tombstone. So I’ll just say it.” He took a deep breath. “Your mission to Vietnam — it’s causing problems.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “I know, I know. You would do it all again if you had to. And just the same way, I imagine. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences to it, Stony. Big consequences.”
“I knew that when I went after him, sir,” Tombstone said. “But the government lied to us — lied to you and me.” He shook his head, remembering how he had to go through an underground network of POW families to find the first clues. “If they just told us what they knew, told the families the truth, it would have been over a lot faster.”
The senior Magruder nodded. “No argument from me on that. But the fact remains that you have embarrassed a number of high-ranking people in the Navy by proving that your father was taken to Russia. I don’t have to tell you that it doesn’t matter how right you were about it. It should, but it doesn’t.”
Tombstone shrugged. “I’ll be as blunt as you are, Uncle. This isn’t news. So what’s your point?”
“It has to do with your next assignment, Stony,” his uncle said. “At one time, there was some talk that you might be in line for my job.” He made a gesture, encompassing his office, the vast spaces beyond, and whole Pentagon. “I don’t think you would have liked it, but now it’s pretty clear you won’t have a chance to find out.” He paused for a moment, giving Tombstone time to absorb it. “So the question is, what do we do with you now?”
“I’ll stay on active duty as long as they let me, Uncle,” Tombstone said immediately. “Unless I’m grounded.” He held his breath for a moment, hoping that was not the case. But they couldn’t simply yank his flight qualifications without his knowing about it. And he’d have heard long before through the rumor mill, even before any official notification. Besides, there’d have to be a naval flight board of some sort. No, they couldn’t do that.
“I’m not, am I? Grounded, I mean?” Tombstone asked.
His uncle shook his head. “Not as far as I know. No, it’s not about flying. I wish to hell it were.”
“Then what?” Tombstone asked. As long as he could fly, anything else would be bearable.
“Since you’re not headed for CNO, there are some that think that the available operational three-star billets should be reserved for those who are. As much as I hate to say it, that makes sense to me, too,” his uncle said. “We have too many admirals and too few billets.”
Tombstone was aghast. “They’re not going to make me retire, are they?” He felt a strange sensation of fear combined with relief at the thought. What would it be like to be a civilian? He couldn’t remember — it had been too many years, since the time he was eighteen. After high school, he’d entered the Naval Academy, and ever since then had been on active duty. At the same time, he felt strangely curious about what it would be like to be a civilian.
And what would Tomboy think? His wife, now Commander Joyce Magruder, was commanding officer of VF- 95. Of course he would not expect her to retire if he did. No, that wouldn’t be fair at all. He’d had his shot at it, and now it was her turn.
“I’m one of the ones that thinks there’s still a place for you in the Navy,” his uncle said. “Tombstone, the places you’ve been, the conflicts you’ve seen — I’m willing to bet that you’ve had more actual combat time than any
