Authors: Joe Buff
The president looked at the map, and for a moment his face was haggard and drawn. His eyes looked pained and sad, as if he was thinking of all the death and destruction to come in the next few days and weeks. The body count in this war was terrible already.
Then the president set his jaw and his eyes cleared and grew harder. Jeffrey sensed the meeting was wrapping up. The president came closer. Jeffrey stood.
“I see now why you’re such an effective commanding officer, Captain. You’re a very direct guy. You zero in on your mission, period. You don’t look over your shoulder when it’s your job to lead the charge…. When we win this war, ourcountry is going to need good men and women to pick up the pieces and help the world rebuild.
If
I’m reelected this November, and can steward the country into a thriving new peacetime somehow, there are going to be all sorts of important jobs to be filled here in Washington, inside and outside the military.”
Jeffrey thought of that map again, the intersecting lines in the Atlantic Narrows. The impending clash of forces might determine the whole outcome of the war. Things might get so hot that atomic weapons would start to be used without restraint on land. The war, up to this point such a volatile trade-off between immensity of hitting power and compulsion for survival, could escalate in the days to come into a fearsome doomsday scenario.
“I have to ask you again, Mr. President. Exactly what is it you want from me?”
“Nothing you don’t want to give me.”
“Please don’t be so cryptic, sir.”
The president pointed at the easel map. “Just get out there, and win another resounding victory, and come home alive.”
W
hen Jeffrey left the president, the crowd at the reception was just thinning out.
Boy, if they only knew what I know now.
Every nerve in his body felt electrified.
Jeffrey tried to act as calmly as he could, to maintain the air of decorum befitting a Medal of Honor winner, and to protect the secrecy of what he’d just learned. There were nosy reporters everywhere, and the country was entering a heightened state of national emergency—triggered by the sailing of the
von Scheer
and the relief convoy. Jeffrey expected to be rushed back to New London, Connecticut, any moment, to rejoin
Challenger
in her home port and then get under way. He decided to stop in a men’s room while he could.
As he unzipped his fly he heard a loudspeaker announcement: “NBC drill. This is a drill. Lockdown is in effect until further notice.”
NBC stood for nuclear-biological-chemical. The drill meant the staff and building engineers were rushing through standardized measures to make the hotel airtight. The ventilation system was stopped and the rooftop intake and outlet vents were shuttered automatically. All public and service entrances and exits were also sealed.
Such drills were a common aspect of life on the U.S. East Coast these days, in major structures from office towers to hospitals to schools. The threat-detection hardware and communications gear, and the procedures and the practice drills, went back several years, to the wave of increased homeland protection forced upon the country by the War on Terror. All this was coming in very handy now: Jeffrey knew radioactive dust, from the battles that raged out at sea, sometimes reached the coast in local hot spots that could be dangerous. Civil defense was no joke. There were stiff fines for people leaving home without their gas-mask satchels. National Guard units were on call 24/7 in all jurisdictions, outfitted with mobile decontamination equipment; the National Weather Service tracked the movement of winds from the Atlantic carefully, with a network of sampling stations to check for radioactivity every minute. And government price controls went well beyond enforcing prewar levels on many staple goods, to defend against panic inflation. Now controversial laws set mandatory
minimums
on house and apartment sales—based on prewar market appraisal data—to prevent any mass exodus from vulnerable areas. Some people argued these severe executive orders were unconstitutional, but the president stood firm and told the people to stand firm too. If you can’t find a willing buyer at prewar prices, the president addressed the nation on live TV, then wait to sell after the war. Jeffrey figured that by the time dissenting lawsuits reached the U.S. Supreme Court, the war would be over in any case, one way or another.
Jeffrey finished washing his hands. As he walked to the ballroom, the crowd continued its murmur and hubbub, largely undisturbed by the NBC drill. Swallowing iodide tablets was part of most people’s daily health routine;
nobody
used unfiltered tap water. Survivalist books, and emergency supply stores, did a land-office business—Geiger counters and gas-mask filters were two top-selling items. The populace adapted as best they could.
Jeffrey suspected the actual purpose of this particular drill was to establish zone security as the president was escorted from the hotel. He guessed these Washington old-timers knew it too.
Sure enough, in moments the drill was lifted. Jeffrey’s trained submariner ear sensed the air circulation fans start up again, even as the reception’s din increased.
Jeffrey noticed Commodore Wilson standing in one conversation group. A full captain, Wilson was the commanding officer of
Challenger
’s parent squadron in New London/Groton. He was Jeffrey’s boss. Half a year ago, Jeffrey joined the ship as executive officer, while Wilson was
Challenger
’s captain. The two men, so far, were being promoted upward in lockstep. Though a loving husband and father to his wife and their three daughters, Wilson was a very tough and demanding guy to subordinates.
The commodore saw Jeffrey. “Where have you been?” he snapped. He didn’t wait for an answer. “We need to be going. Where’s Lieutenant Reebeck?”
Jeffrey, Wilson, and Ilse were standing with some Federal Protective Service bodyguards in the vestibule to a side entrance of the hotel.
Ilse came up close to Jeffrey. “I’ll be much too tired to have dinner with you later,” she said in a meaningful undertone.
“I’m occupied myself,” Jeffrey said evenly. He knew he’d be swamped getting
Challenger
and her crew ready for sea and for combat. Jeffrey ached for more combat, for a chance to tangle decisively with the
von Scheer
.
As they waited for their transportation to arrive, Jeffrey was troubled by his discussion with the commander in chief. The president, as a man, had distinct charisma, an infectious eagerness to get on with the job, no matter how trying and grim. Jeffrey could detect, even in that close-range private interaction, no trace of the self-aggrandizing narcissism that could turn a national leader into a demagogue. Yet all the open references to politics as a profession, and the unveiled hints of backdoor support in the corridors of power, left Jeffrey wondering what it might be like to work in Washington after the war.
Helping direct a new reconstruction abroad. Occupation of the aggressors once subdued, and war crime trials. Foreign aid. New global alignments. Hoped-for return to a time of plenty at home.
The possibilities were almost too big to contemplate. In comparison, commanding a warship in battle was a simple and straightforward task.
Blue water in my service record is what I want…. Besides, so much has to happen first. The war has to be won before anyone can realistically plan for the peace.
But Jeffrey knew he couldn’t have
Challenger
forever, even assuming the ship and he survived. The navy didn’t work that way. It was up or out, for officers. Commanding a fast-attack submarine—or any other vessel—was supposed to be just one rung on the ladder. Selection boards for rear admiral required solid performance in land assignments too. Someone bucking for his or her first star had to look well rounded indeed—fewer than one in a hundred full captains ever made the cut for flag rank. After all, Jeffrey’s own inner voice nagged, the Pentagon itself, with its spiderweb of connections with Congress and command links to the executive branch, sat on solid dry land, not out in blue water.
Jeffrey’s father and mother hurried over.
“On your way out?” Michael Fuller said, annoyed.
Jeffrey nodded sheepishly. He’d been too cowed by the insistent Wilson to ask for time to look for his folks. Jeffrey was glad his father found him before the transportation showed up.
“Let me stay here and chat with Jeffrey,” Michael said to his wife. “Use the car, dear. My driver can take you home so you can lie down.”
Jeffrey’s mother kissed her husband on the cheek. Then she turned to Jeffrey. “Good luck. Keep safe. Call us when you can.” Jeffrey hugged his mom good-bye. She walked away, accompanied by Michael Fuller’s government chauffeur: undersecretaries rated official automobiles. Jeffrey wondered when he would ever see his mother again. He might be killed on his next mission. His mother’s breast cancer might recur, in the chest wall this time, where there was nothing the doctors could do.
“Finally,” Commodore Wilson said. Two town cars pulled up.
“Let me go with you to the airport,” Michael Fuller said to Jeffrey. “We can spend a few more minutes talking. I’ll take the Metro home.” The Metro, the Washington subway, was very overcrowded because of wartime gasoline rationing coupled with a surge in local employment.
The bodyguards didn’t argue. Jeffrey’s father had pull.
Wilson and Ilse got into one of the town cars, Jeffrey and his father into the other. They sat in back, with Michael on Jeffrey’s left—it was navy etiquette for the senior person to enter first so he or she could exit last. In the front passenger seat, his eyes very alert and an Uzi submachine gun in his lap, sat a bodyguard. District of Columbia police cars, one in front and one behind, started their flashers. The motorcade moved out.
The group of autos weaved through side streets rather than heading directly to the airport. Jeffrey figured this was for extra security. Seeing all the precautions needed just to
get to
the airport made him glad he’d be taking navy transport to New London; commercial airline check-in was a nightmare.
Jeffrey’s father lowered the armrest between them, to relax. “So how did you make out? I lost track of you there for a while.”
Jeffrey turned to his father. As deadpan as he could, he said, “I spent half an hour alone with the president.”
“Of the Naval War College?”
“No. Of the United States.”
“You’re kidding.” Michael Fuller seemed impressed, even envious.
“I wish I was.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It’s secret.”
“Good,” Jeffrey’s father said at once. “Loose lips sink ships…. Like I already told you, this town’s gossip circuit is too leaky as it is.”
In the front seats, the driver and bodyguard ignored Jeffrey and his dad, intent on possible threats from outside the town car.
Jeffrey looked around. It was late afternoon, still light, with a gentle breeze and clear blue sky. A handful of people, mostly young or very old, strolled the spotless sidewalks. Some men and women between twenty and seventy walked more purposefully, with heavy and bulging briefcases, the beginning of evening rush hour for those who worked the early shift and then brought more work home. Some of them, Jeffrey thought, were probably heading
to
their jobs, if their assignments—civil service or private sector—helped the city and the national government keep running around the clock.
“A bit of advice?” Jeffrey’s father said.
Jeffrey hesitated. “I’m all ears, Pop.”
“You’ve got to maintain a rather difficult balance here, son. I know I just told you to mingle more, but part of you has to forget all this fancy publicity.
Just do your job.
Keep your head down with other officers.”
“Huh?”
“Campus politics get ugly. You’re in a very competitive business. You’re already attracting jealousy. Self-appointed enemies, at your level, and up.”
Jeffrey felt a shiver along his spine. This was something he hadn’t even thought about.
“Not everybody loves a winner, son. That bauble around your neck could turn into a lightning rod for resentment by the people who come in second or third.”
“Are you saying this for a reason, Dad?”
“Obviously you need better antennae. Didn’t you see those sidelong glances back at the hotel?”
“Frankly, no.”
“I’ll do what I can from where I sit,” Michael Fuller said. “I know what you aren’t good at, son.”
“That’s a rather odd way to offer a relative help.”
“You’ll get pigeonholed behind your back, if you aren’t careful. As a war fighter who’s reached his peak of competence, topped out at the single-unit operations level…Washington isn’t a family business, Jeffrey. But every connection helps. You’re my kin, my own flesh, even if we didn’t talk for so long…Maybe
especially
because we didn’t talk. I’d hate to lose you now, sunk in the ocean. But I’d hate almost as much to see you break your heart dead-ended on the beach, after going out there again and then coming home safe.”
Jeffrey hesitated. There’d been deep worry, poorly disguised, in his father’s tone of voice. “Dad, do you know something you’re not supposed to know?”
Michael Fuller shook his head. “Remember, I’ve got a security clearance too, and ‘up there’ contacts in the Pentagon. My work at homefront conservation, fuel allocations and lubricants and all that, depends a lot on knowing supply and demand, the total picture. I therefore cannot do my job without access to the needs and plans of the fleet. The very
near-term
plans.” He gave Jeffrey a meaningful look.
“I really can’t comment, Dad.”
“Then don’t. Just remember, son, for later, God willing, the games they play in this town, they play very rough.”
Jeffrey’s procession halted at a red light. Cross-traffic moved, using the opposing green. One big truck rolled into the middle of the intersection. It reminded Jeffrey of a traveling carnival ride, painted in moving, gaudy red and yellow triangles. Then he realized it was a cement mixer. Jeffrey’s traffic light turned green, but the cement mixer still sat there.