Enemies c-15

by Keith Douglass

  It wasn’t going to happen that way now. He tried to do the right thing, follow orders, obey the Greek officer under whose command he’d been placed. But didn’t they see how wrong this was for America? Nobody, not one single person, not even the fancy defense attorney they’d appointed to represent him had appeared to understand that.

  It was wrong — pure and simply wrong.

  The door to the admiral’s quarters opened, and a navy captain stepped out. Staring into the officer’s stern, impassive face, Airman Smith realized how ludicrous the idea that he could ever have been an officer was.

  The master-at-arms standing behind him poked him lightly in the back. “Remember what I told you. Keep your cover on. I want to see you marching smartly up to stand in front of the admiral’s desk. Hand salute and sound off. You got that?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Then get going.”

  Smith’s muscles protested at first, but it was a relief to be able to take the weight of one foot at a time, anyway. The navy captain was holding the door open now, and Smith paused for a moment, instinctively uncomfortable at the idea of preceding a senior officer into the admiral’s quarters.

  “Go on, son. I’m not going to bite you.”

  Smith’s rigid concentration broke. He actually turned his head and stared into the captain’s face. Stern, yes, but he saw a trace of something else there. Not friendship, no — just a warmth that didn’t make sense. No, the captain wouldn’t bite him, but the captain’s boss was about to send Smith to a court-martial, and that was close enough.

  “Go on,” the captain urged, his voice gentle. The master-at-arms poked him in the back again.

  Stunned beyond belief, Smith operated on reflex. He stepped into the room, saw the admiral’s desk, and made his way forward at a brisk pace, squaring his corners. He stopped two paces in front of the desk, and snapped into a salute position. He waited until the admiral looked up, then said “Airman Smith, reporting as ordered, Admiral.”

  A single sheet of paper lay on the desk in front of the admiral. Smith was too scared to try reading it upside down. Admiral Magruder gazed at the him for a moment, and pointed at the chair. “Sit down, Smith.”

  There was dead silence in the room. Of all the things Smith had been expecting, starting with an ass-chewing then working its way up to a physical beating, an invitation to sit down was not among them.

  “Go on, it’s all right. You and I need to talk.” Admiral Magruder looked up at the navy captain and the master-at-arms. “Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all.”

  Gentlemen. He called the chief a gentleman. Anywhere except here, coming from someone more junior, that would have earned the speaker the traditional, “Don’t call me a gentlemen, I know who my parents are,” from the chief.

  Smith heard them walking away behind him, and the snick of a door shutting. He sat rigidly at attention, one hand resting lightly on each leg.

  The admiral tapped the paper on the desk in front of him. “You’ve heard what’s happening in the world, haven’t you? That our allies the Greeks turned out to be not such good allies?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, what do you think of that?”

  What did he think? Was the admiral actually asking the opinion of a very junior airman? Smith tried to find his voice, tried to think of something that didn’t sound stupid to say. “That was bad, Admiral,” he finally said, aware as he spoke how lame that sounded. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

  The admiral nodded. “But they did. And it’s made a lot of people look very foolish. Powerful people, ones that really hate looking stupid. You can understand that?”

  By now Smith’s throat was so dry that he could hardly speak. His hands were sweating profusely, and he could feel the moisture bleeding through the cotton pants to his legs. “I guess so, Admiral.”

  The Admiral nodded once again. “What I’m going to tell you stays between the two of us, you understand. No talking about it with anyone else. Because you’re getting a very, very good deal, and it wouldn’t take much to screw it up.”

  Smith couldn’t force words out of his throat, so he simply nodded. It was rude, yes, but it was all he could manage.

  The admiral leaned forward and fixed him with a stare. “A lot of people probably think you did the right thing,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I… I…” Smith tried to speak, but his voice simply wouldn’t work. The admiral stood. Smith jumped to his feet as well. The admiral waved him back into the chair then walked over to a credenza and poured a glass of water. He crossed the room again to stand in front of Smith, towering over the airman like a dark god. “Here. Drink.”

  Smith’s hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the foam cup. He tried to sip on the cold water, coughed as it went down the wrong pipe, then tried again.

  The admiral waited until he’d finished, then asked, “Want more?”

  “No, thank you, Admiral.” Smith found his voice was working again.

  “As I was saying — do you still think you did the right thing?”

  Smith thought for a moment, then said, “It seemed like the only thing I could do, Admiral. Things were going wrong, real wrong. I thought about it a lot before, and even more afterward. I guess there might have been ways — maybe request Captain’s Mast or something like that. The lawyer said I should have tried that.”

  Magruder nodded. “But it’s always easier to think of alternatives afterward, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. I guess it is.”

  “Which brings us to my point,” Admiral Magruder continued. “The charges against you are being dismissed. You understand why?”

  Dismissed? How in the world could that happen? He had disobeyed a direct order, hadn’t he?

  “It all goes back to people looking stupid,” the admiral said. “If they court-martial you now, your defense attorney is going to thrash this out in every newspaper and on every television station in the world. Bad enough that we made the wrong call on the Greek forces. Even worse to be seen persecuting some young sailor over it. People will think that you knew this would happen and that we’re trying to cover it up. So you see, there’s not much else they can do to make this go away.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “But I don’t want you thinking that it was the right thing to do,” Magruder continued. “I keep wondering, what if you were on the flight deck while I was getting ready to launch? What if you decided you didn’t want to obey an order from the catapult officer? Would you simply walk away? Because that’s the heart of the problem, Airman Smith. There are times it is correct to disobey orders, but those times are damned few. If the order’s illegal, unlawful, something like that. But what you did was make a judgment call. And I’m not sure that’s something we want our airman doing until they get a little bit more senior, you understand?”

  From somewhere deep inside, courage trickled back into Airman Smith’s heart. “But what if you’re on the cat and something was wrong, sir? But everyone else said it was okay, you should launch anyway. What if I was the only one who saw something bad, wrong, something that might kill you?” He hesitated for a moment, searching for an example. “Like I think the steam pressure on the catapult is wrong, that somebody’s made a mistake. You would want me to speak up then, wouldn’t you, sir?”

  A thin look of amusement crossed Tombstone’s face. “Indeed I would. So, as you see, sometimes there aren’t any simple answers. For what it’s worth, I think you were wrong this time. And I also think it took a hell of a lot of courage to take the stand you did. The wrong stand, but a stand nonetheless. So the question is not really what we’re going to do with these charges — that’s already decided. The question is what the Navy does with you now. What do you want?”

  As Tombstone watched the young sailor leave, he tried to decide how he himself felt about the entire matter. Allied missions were nothing new to him, and he wasn’t bothered at all by the possibility of working with the
Greeks again someday. Indeed, shifting political alliances so often proved that today’s enemy was tomorrow’s friend. That’s why it was always better to plan out the desired end state in any conflict.

  But this business about placing U.S. forces under UN command — well, that was another matter entirely. Even a young airman had been able to see that, and had done what he could to stop it.

  There was a rap on the door, and Batman poked his head in. “All done?”

  Tombstone nodded. “And guess what the kid wants?”

  “A medal?” Batman asked sarcastically. He walked into the admiral’s cabin, and slumped down in the seat that Smith had just vacated. “I tell you, we lost too many men and women out there. I’m going to be signing too many posthumous recommendations for awards as it is.”

  “I know. I wonder if we had all followed Airman Smith’s path if we could have saved any lives?”

  The two admirals were silent for a moment, each considering the possibilities. Each examined his own soul, trying to decide whether or not a young airman had had the courage to do something he wanted to do and hadn’t.

  Finally, Batman spoke. “For what it’s worth, he was right… and wrong.”

  Tombstone nodded. “That’s exactly what I told him.”

  “So what does he want?” Batman asked, returning to Tombstone’s original question. “A meritorious promotion?”

  “Nope. You’ll never guess. He wants to go back to his division and forget about this. That’s all.”

  Batman beyond. “It figures. That’s what the good ones always want, isn’t it?” And what about you, old friend? What do you want?” Batman’s voice was suddenly serious.

  “A tougher question, that.” Tombstone leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, letting the tension flow out of his body. “You don’t get asked that very often in this business, you know? What it is that you want, I mean.”

  “I know. If someone asked me the same question, I’d be hard put to think of anything that. Well, maybe the CNO’s job. Or the chairman’s.”

  Tombstone opened his eyes. “Is that what you really want, Batman? Or is that just what you’re supposed to want? Can you even tell the difference anymore? I wasn’t sure I could, not until recently.”

  “I don’t know.” Batman sounded honestly puzzled. He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I mean, it’s what you’re supposed to want, right?”

  “But you know what it is that we both really want, don’t you?” Tombstone pressed. “We want to be back in the cockpit, lieutenant commanders, maybe even lieutenants. Flying missions, just worried about getting the missiles on target. All the rest of this, the political stuff — none of it mattered back then, did it?”

  “You’re right about that. But you get promoted, things change. But, sure… if I had my choice, I’d be back in the cockpit. Just like you would.”

  “Well, then. That’s not going to happen, we both know that. And as for CNO, that’s not in my future anymore. My uncle laid it out for me. But this new job he’s given me, sort of troubleshooter admiral — it might turn out to be interesting, you know? I mean, if I can’t fly.”

  “You’re getting in more stick time than I am lately,” Batman said. “So what’s your next mission, Admiral Troubleshooter? Going to solve the energy crisis? Bring about world peace?”

  Tombstone laughed. “No, the interesting thing about this is I don’t know what I’ll be doing next. That’s what’s good about it, you know? It feels like a weight off my shoulders. No staff, no aircraft. Sure, I miss the flying, but I don’t miss the tons of paperwork. And it sounds like I’ll be going to some interesting places fixing problems. Batman, I think it’s a chance to make a difference, just like I did back then.”

  Batman stared at him for a long moment. “You always did make a difference, Tombstone. Whether you knew it or not, you made a difference. And in the end, that’s all any of us really want, isn’t it?”

  “I told him no,” Tombstone said suddenly. “Airman Smith, I mean. No way he was going back to his division after that. I have something different in mind for him.”

  Macedonian camp

  1800 local (GMT –2)

  Pamela scanned the crowd, looking for Xerxes. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered with grime and filth, wearing a field uniform he had had on for days. In the days that had passed since her evacuation to Jefferson, she’d thought of him often. About maybe going back, exploring what had never really had a chance to grow between them. But there had been interminable briefings, then the wrap-up report to make, not to mention demands for interviews from every other network in the world. To her aggravation, she’d been pulled off the story. She was now part of it, not reporting it.

  But wasn’t that true about any conflict? Wasn’t the media as much a part of it as the forces fighting on the ground and in the air? Look at the role that CNN had played in Desert Storm and Desert Shield — today, every world leader monitored their transmissions continuously. The international news networks were often the first to report breaking stories and the initial stages of any conflict.

  So how to maintain objectivity if she was by default part of the story? It was a question she had yet to resolve in her own mind.

  Pamela spotted him then, standing apart from the rest. He looked oddly uncomfortable in a full dress uniform, shoes shined and softly gleaming, and new rank insignia on his collar. A promotion — two grades, she knew, automatically filing the information away.

  He was staring at her, a warm smile of welcome curling around corners of his lips. Freshly shaven, spotlessly attired and rejuvenated by sleep, he looked like a different man.

  She shoved through a throng of competing network reporters, snapping out a harsh, “no comment,” and made her way over to him. A phalanx of security guards kept the reporters at bay, but the cameras still tracked her, the hard spotlights blurring her vision.

  “It all worked out, didn’t it?” she said.

  Xerxes’s dark eyes burned into her. “It did. Thank you for your assistance.”

  She brushed aside his gratitude. “It was Murphy who made the difference. He was the one who recognized the man as a member of Arkady’s staff. I was just along for the ride.”

  Xerxes’s stare grew more intense. “Something more than that, I believe,” he murmured. He took a small step toward her. “But we have several matters left to resolve, don’t we?”

  “Such as?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  And she did. Sure, he’d forced her to face the toughest ethical question she’d run across, had challenged her to take sides. In the end, she had, and there was no turning back from that fateful decision.

  Could there be something more between them? She found herself hoping desperately that there could be. “Is there somewhere quietly could talk?” she asked. And maybe more than talk, one part of her mind suggested.

  “Certainly.” His hand closed gently over her elbow. “Come with me.” The longing she heard in his voice set every nerve in her body aflame. She let him lead her toward a waiting staff car.

  “Pamela!” One voice broke out over the fervor of reporters behind her. “Dammit, Pamela, listen to me.”

  She turned to see Mike Johnson, the regional news desk supervisor, waving at her. There was a look of urgency on his face.

  She turned to Xerxes and saw his face clouding over. “I’ll be back in just a second — I’ve got to see what he wants. He’s one of my bosses.” Not entirely true, and she could see that Xerxes realized that. Pamela Drake of ACN answered to damned few people, and Mike wasn’t one of them.

  Still, as regional news desk supervisor, he knew what was going on. And if ACN HQ wanted to track her down, he’d be the person they’d send. “One second.” She summoned up her most convincing smile, pulled lightly away from his grasp, and headed toward the cordon of security guards that were holding him back.

  “What is it? Make it quick, I’m due for some downtime,” she snapped.


  “You may not want any — not with this going one.” He thrust a message form at her. “Chechnya and the Russians. It’s exploding again. And the chemical weapons thing — they’ve got proof this time. Maybe a thousand dead so far.”

  Chechnya. She stared down at the message, not opening it. If she started reading it, she would have made her decision. She looked back at Xerxes. He was already in the car, door open, waiting for her.

  “We can have you there in four hours,” Mike continued. “You’re the closest one — you could beat everyone else to the story.”

  That went without saying, didn’t it? She was always first — always.

  Still, she hesitated, utterly tempted by the possibility of life without broadcast news. Not without it, maybe, just not taking first place every time. This one would blow over, as they always did. Then there’d be another hot spot, another story. Would it hurt this once to sit it out?

  She opened the message. The details were there. She looked up at Mike, her eyes gleaming, already planning on how she’d spin it. Mike started rattling off her itinerary, drawing her away from the crowd and toward a waiting ACN aircraft. He reached out and rested his hand on the spot that had so recently felt Xerxes touch.

  Xerxes! She turned back to look at the staff car and saw it was already pulling away. A tidal wave of regret washed over her, replaced almost immediately by a mental list of resources she’d need, contacts, accommodations, the normal preparations for conducting a long siege in a foreign country.

  “Bottled water, lots of it.” She started listing off her other requirements, including a request for her favorite cameraman, all the while staring at the car disappearing across the tarmac.

  TWENTY

  Thursday, 1 June

  U.S. Naval Academy

  Annapolis, Maryland

  The Marine staff sergeant stood in front of the ragged formation, surveying the men and women lined up. Supposed to be the cream of the crop, they were, but you sure couldn’t tell it from the way they looked now. Long hair, ragged jeans, and smart-ass smirks on most of the faces. Talking, playing grab ass, checking out the chicks, all the normal things that a group of forty teenagers might do when they were strangers.