He was going after a triangular patch under his left ear when there was a rap at the door of his stateroom. He toweled his chin, reached for a khaki shirt, and took the three steps necessary to exit the head and reenter his stateroom. “Come.”
The outer door opened and in walked Hatcher’s new flag lieutenant, Leonard Olson, carrying a white folder bordered with red diagonal stripes.
Hatcher reached for the folder. “Morning, Len. What have you got there?”
“Flash traffic, sir. Immediate execute.”
“Bad news?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Hatcher accepted the folder without opening it. “If you’re going to get anywhere as an officer, Len, you’ve got to work on that poker face. You’re broadcasting frustration and uncertainty on every frequency known to man. It’s in your eyes. It’s in the set of your spine. It’s in your tone of voice. The dumbest seaman deuce in the Navy can spot that kind of thing from a thousand yards away, and it scares them silly. Remember, your subordinates — especially the junior enlisted personnel — look to you for calm and rational self-assurance. I don’t care how badly the shit is hitting the fan, you never let your people see doubt, or fear, or disappointment on your face. You can piss your pants in the privacy of your stateroom if you have to, but when you’re out among the crew, none of that shows. Not ever. Understood?”
The lieutenant squared his shoulders and made a visible effort to take control of his demeanor. “Understood, sir.”
Admiral Hatcher flipped open the folder, peeled back the cover sheet, and skimmed the Top Secret message. When he reached the end, he slowed down and read through the document a second time at a more deliberate pace — supremely aware of the guidance he’d just foisted on this young officer.
Withdraw? They were ordering him to withdraw from a combat zone? United States aircraft carriers didn’t run away from danger. They ran toward the danger. That’s what they were fucking built for!
He wanted to shout. He wanted to punch the bulkhead, break things, and hurl obscenities against the gods for allowing such an injustice to occur. He might have given into the impulse if his own words were not still echoing in his ears. Injustice or not, he couldn’t bring himself to contradict his own advice so quickly and so blatantly.
He inhaled slowly and quietly; then exhaled even more slowly, doing his best to vent his rising anger instead of voicing it.
“You’re right,” he said, “this is bad news. But we don’t get to choose our orders. Sometimes we’re bound to get the short end of the stick.”
He closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Please locate the commanding officer; give her my compliments, and invite her to drop by my stateroom at her earliest convenience.”
Lieutenant Olson nodded. “Aye-aye, sir!” He executed a brisk about-face and exited the stateroom with a lively stride that gave no hint of the disappointing news he was carrying.
When the door was safely closed behind the departing officer, Hatcher threw the striped folder across the room. The offending conglomeration of paper and cardboard tumbled and fluttered through the air until it smacked into the far bulkhead and fell to the deck.
Hatcher stalked over to it, prepared to grind the damned thing into the carpet. Son of a bitch… Son of a bitch… Son of a BITCH!
Presidential order? What kind of horseshit was that? Some gutless idiot had whispered cowardly nonsense into the president’s ear, and the fool had eaten it up. Now a United States Navy strike group was running away from the North Koreans.
Not the Russians. Not the Chinese. The North fucking Koreans!
Of all the scenarios he had ever planned for, not one had involved yielding the seas to a flyspeck of a country that could barely make electricity.
He didn’t stomp the folder into the deck, as much as he was tempted to. Instead, he picked it up, straightened the wrinkled pages, and laid the somewhat restored assemblage on his desk.
Then he walked back into the head to finish shaving.
CHAPTER 46
Colonel Dawkins ushered Jon and Cassy Clark into his office and waved them toward a pair of overstuffed leather armchairs. “Come on in, Doc. Mr. Clark. Make yourselves at home.”
The Clarks took the offered seats, but neither of them looked the least bit comfortable, despite the plush furnishings and the colonel’s easy-going manner.
Dawkins dropped into a seat across from the couple and smiled. “Seriously, Doc, take a load off. You too, Mr. Clark. If you were still in the Corps, I’d say at-ease. Now that you’re one of those lazy civilian-types, I’ll just tell you to chill out. Put your feet up. Scratch your ass. Whatever it is you do to relax.”
His playful tone seemed to have the desired effect. Both Clarks allowed their body postures to unwind and their facial expressions to loosen up.
“I know you got a shitty welcome to the base,” Dawkins said, “but we’ve got that all straightened out. Neither one of you is in any trouble and nobody’s mad at you.”
“I’m not so sure about that last part,” Cassy said. “The MA2 who arrested us is probably ready to shoot us on sight.”
The colonel’s smile widened to a grin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a shark. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Petty Officer Hightower. I believe his attitude has been sufficiently adjusted. If he needs additional counseling, I’ll see to it personally.”
“But I didn’t bring you here to talk about your immigration status,” he said. “I’ve got something I want to kick around with both of you.”
He looked directly at Jon. “Before we get into that, what’s going on with your eyeballs? Are those Spiderman goggles gonna fix you up? Or does the Corps need to issue you some new peepers?”
Jon was wearing disposable sunglasses, smoked one-piece plastic that wrapped around his temples like the stylized mask of a b-grade comic book superhero.
“These should do me just fine,” he said. “Plus about twenty-five kinds of goop to put in my eyes. Also, the doctor told me not to stare at any more nuclear explosions for at least a week.”
Cassy shoved at his shoulder. “Three kinds of eyedrops. A mydriatic to paralyze the ciliary muscles and let the corneas heal, a topical antibiotic to prevent infection, and Prednisolone to reduce inflammation and avoid scarring.”
“But his eyes are going to be okay?” the colonel asked.
“They’ll be fine,” Cassy said, “if he takes his meds and follows the doctor’s orders.” She nudged his shoulder again. “And you are gonna do that, aren’t you, Jonnie?”
Her husband nodded. “Yes, Doc.”
Cassy smiled. “See? Marines can be trained.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Colonel Dawkins said. “But most of us have enough brain cells not to argue with the people who are trying to keep us alive.”
“That’s all a Corpsman can ask for, sir,” Cassy said. “We don’t insist on smart Jarheads, but we do like for them to be alive if at all possible.”
“We generally try to accommodate you on that,” said the colonel, “but things don’t always work out according to plan.”