by Tom Carroll
A life-long politician and native Floridian, Bill Harrison had held almost every public office in his state, from port commissioner to governor. He didn’t believe in policies or initiatives nearly as much as he believed in himself, and this trait allowed him to successfully avoid being on the wrong side of an issue when political winds invariably changed. Harrison was a politician’s politician, famous for his ability to meet a stranger at a rally or fundraiser and instantly make that individual feel as if he or she was the most important person in the room.
Harrison’s chief of staff, Eric Painter, stood near the famous desk and nodded. “Yes, sir, he’s dead alright. I personally saw the body at the morgue.” Painter had been a reliable constant at the president’s side since their first campaign to get Harrison elected as Florida’s attorney general, and there were very few secrets between the two men. Every time Bill Harrison moved up, so did his sidekick. Eric Painter very much enjoyed being the number one adviser to the most powerful person in the world. The key to his success in that role was being prepared with an answer before a question was asked.
“Of course,” said Harrison, thinking aloud, “the simplest thing would be to immediately appoint O’Kane’s deputy Webb as acting secretary to give us time to find someone more capable. But how the hell can I do that with yesterday’s blog posting old photos of Webb in blackface while he was at Vanderbilt? Am I the only one who doesn’t have one of these ridiculous photos of themselves looking like a jerk? I mean really, Eric, can’t we vet these people better before they make our shortlist? Makes us look like fools for appointing them!”
Harrison was referring to the recent series of political disasters caused by the surfacing of racially charged photos involving some of the Washington’s most notable elected officials. The resulting public outcry had reached a crescendo, and pictures of Webb posing as a black minstrel were now saturating the cable news channels.
“You’re right, sir. Webb is done. We need to stick a fork in him and distance the administration immediately. I already have his signed resignation letter, and the communications team is drafting a statement as we speak for today’s press briefing.”
“Thanks, Eric. I knew you would move quickly. But where does that leave us in appointing an acting SECDEF? It probably should be someone who’s already been confirmed, who wouldn’t be seen as controversial. I don’t want another media show to distract attention from getting my budget passed.”
“I’ve given this some thought, sir,” Painter quickly responded, “and I think it should be one of the current undersecretaries of defense. They’ve all been confirmed by the Senate, and they all understand defense policy and current issues. It also helps that they’ve all been cleared for top-secret and sensitive compartmented access. Would you like to look at the list?”
The president’s chief of staff deftly moved behind the president’s chair and set down a typed, double-spaced list.
“Six undersecretaries of defense, sir, all Senate confirmed. Acquisition, research, finance, personnel, intel and policy.”
“Who do we have in Policy and Intel?” asked the president. Policy and Intelligence were considered the principal DOD functions.
“Garrett has Policy, and Holmes has Intel, sir. Here are their files.” Eric set the two files on the desk. The well-prepared chief of staff had been at his own desk since 3:00 am working the problem. He had come to the conclusion the two men whose files were now before the president were the best choices for the nomination.
Harrison carefully read over both files, and then, setting them down, paused, and asked, “Okay, Eric. Which one?”
Painter had prepared for this question as well and was ready with his well-reasoned answer.
“I like them both. They have the right background, experience, intelligence, and loyalty for the job. Neither had an issue during the confirmation process, and they both have good reputations with the service chiefs. But if forced to choose, I’d go with Garrett.”
“Why Garrett?”
“Two reasons, sir. First, he was the author of the O’Kane Doctrine. Pat O’Kane pushed it as his own, but it was Garrett’s concept from the beginning. He was the one who worked with the state department to implement a comprehensive strategy to make it work. He doesn’t trust the Russians, probably because he spent time as a Navy intelligence officer during the Cold War, and he is a Navy Cross recipient. In fact, if you have time, I strongly recommend you read the unredacted version of his award citation. Reads like something out of an epic spy novel. Guy’s a hero.”
“Interesting,” mused the president. “I’ve met him a few times and heard him brief in the situation room. Frankly, he didn’t strike me as anything special. What’s your second reason?”
Painter smiled. “He probably didn’t appear special because he’s not a politician. Not a political bone in his body. He has no political aspirations, and both sides of the aisle like and respect him. He’s the safer choice of the two, which is the second reason I like him for this appointment. He won’t be in front of the cameras espousing any policies that differ from yours.”
“I like that,” the president said, hiding the fact that Painter’s slight against politicians had not been lost on him. “Anything else?”
“Just a couple more things. First, Garrett’s in the western Pacific, flying out to the Reagan today for a force review. He most likely won’t be back for a while. But it works out perfectly because we can make the announcement today and the press can’t get at him for a few weeks. That would allow the Webb resignation to be old news by the time Garrett gets back to Washington. Second, I think you should temporarily appoint Undersecretary Steve Holmes as deputy secretary. That would give us some options, should Garrett not work out. In other words, we can delay the decision to select O’Kane’s permanent replacement until we see how Garrett performs.”
The president scooted his chair up to the famous desk, picked up a silver pen, and started drafting a note. Handing it to Painter, he ordered, “Have this sent immediately to Garrett onboard Reagan as a personal-for-his-eyes-only message and follow it up with an all-forces message announcing the appointment. I’ll let the press know tomorrow when I board Marine One for the flight to Andrews.”
A moment later, the experienced chief of staff emerged from the Oval Office, thinking to himself, And that’s how things get done!
Flag Cabin, USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 74)
Rear Admiral Lower Half Joseph Carlisle took several moments to contemplate his reflection in the mirror secured to the cabin’s bulkhead. He liked what he saw: a trim, six-foot two-inch man dressed in the summer khaki uniform of a U.S. Naval officer.
His short-sleeved khaki shirt was unadorned except for the gold Naval Flight Officer wings pinned over his left chest pocket and a white nametag pinned over his right. And the only things indicating his rank as a rear admiral were the single silver metal stars pinned on each collar. He disliked having to include the words “lower half” following his rank, but they were required. Only a two-star admiral was considered a real rear admiral. Not to worry, he reassured himself, because I’m just a few months away from completing this tour as Commander, Task Force 70. The only thing now that could keep me from that second star would be — God forbid — a major aircraft mishap or severe damage to one of my ships.
Regardless of his direct involvement in — or even awareness of — a mishap, he knew the Navy would hold him accountable for any major incident. He also knew that would be the end of his Naval career. Despite its obvious risks, he had enjoyed this command tour with its broad range of responsibilities. The 7th Fleet’s website had proclaimed, “CTF 70 has tactical control of carrier strike groups, cruisers, and destroyers that deploy or transit through the U.S. 7th Fleet area of operations. The CTF 70 commander also serves as Commander, Strike Group 5, the Navy’s forward-deployed strike group centered around Ronald Reagan and the embarked air wing, Carrier Air Wing 5.” But truth be told, Admiral Carlisle preferred the more appealing
title of Commander, Battle Force 7th Fleet.
Carlisle’s chief of staff, Captain Gary Winters, stood quietly as the admiral preened and primped himself in front of the mirror. Captain Winters had begun his career as an F-14 pilot, eventually transitioning to the F/A-18 as the Hornets replaced the Tomcats. Generally speaking, he had little respect for Admiral Carlisle and had disapproved of his constant need to self-promote while covering his ass. Naval officers were trained to assess risks and make the hard decisions to ensure that assigned forces were in top combat readiness, and sometimes that meant taking chances. Unfortunately, Carlisle was not that type of officer, and Winters personally looked forward to when Rear Admiral Joe Carlisle would be relieved of his duties by a more capable officer. Suddenly, Carlisle interrupted Winters’ private musings.
“Gary, tell me again about this guy, Jarrett, and why he’s coming to the Reagan?”
“It’s Garrett — with a G. Colton Garrett. He’s been O’Kane’s policy undersecretary, and the message said he’s coming here to observe our operations, with a particular interest in our interactions with the Chinese and the North Koreans. Also, his son is a Growler driver in VAQ-132 so he’ll be visiting with him as well.”
Finally stepping away from the mirror, the admiral walked across the room and sank into one of the plush, overstuffed chairs in his spacious cabin.
“You’re telling me I have to put up with this civilian so he can go see his kid? Sounds like a candidate for the waste, fraud, and abuse hotline.”
“Yes, sir. But his file indicates he actually did serve. Graduated from OCS in ’81, then did a tour as a surface guy in a minesweeper before a change of designator to Special Intel. Two Mediterranean deployments in a Prowler squadron and then a tour at Rota.” He took a breath. “That’s when it gets a bit strange.”
“Strange, how?” asked the admiral.
“The guy was doing some sort of secret squirrel stuff, got a Navy Cross, and then was early selected for promotion to lieutenant commander. Then poof, all of a sudden, he resigns his commission and gets out of the Navy. I heard he joined the Reserves but then asked to be re-designated as a surface warfare officer. He eventually retired as a captain after doing 30 years. Like I said, strange.”
“Well, you don’t see many guys with a Cross. I wonder what he did to get it.”
“No idea, Admiral. But I took a look at the awards manual, and it says it requires combat heroism at great risk to one’s life.” He used air quotes to emphasize his last five words. “His award citation is heavily redacted for national security reasons, and the scuttlebutt is that Garrett doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Admirale Carlisle thought to himself, If I won a Navy Cross, I’d sure as hell talk about it!
“It doesn’t matter, Gary, and neither does he. He’s just an opportunistic Pentagon civilian visiting his kid on the taxpayer’s nickel. Just keep him out of my way, and away from the news interview team. I don’t want him distracting them from doing what they came to do.”
What the news team had come to do, three days ago, was an in-depth profile of Rear Admiral Joe Carlisle, highlighting his successful Naval career and how it might transition into a political future. His father, Senator Emmett Carlisle, had recently begun hinting about it, and it was no secret the senator hoped his son would take his seat. To that end, Admiral Carlisle wanted some slick and polished media to clearly demonstrate his fitness and worthiness to follow in his father’s footsteps. Garrett needed to stay clear.
“What about Garrett’s berthing arrangements, Admiral? Shouldn’t we be putting him in your cabin? He does rank above a four-star,” the ever-tactful chief of staff pointed out. Navy protocol required the significantly senior DOD official to be berthed in the Flag cabin.
“Have you lost your mind, Gary? I’m not giving up my cabin for some jumped-up reserve captain. Put Garrett and his assistant in Commander Simpson’s cabin. When Simpson gets back from leave, we can move Mr. Undersecretary somewhere else — if he’s still on board. He might not like it, but I bet he won’t have the balls to say anything to me about it.”
Captain Winters thought to himself that anybody who had earned a Navy Cross probably wouldn’t shy away from dressing down a one-star admiral if he wanted to, but with Carlisle’s current surly mood, he decided to let things be.
“What about full honors when he lands? I could ask Captain Solari to have a boatswain’s mate and side boys pipe the side as Garrett exits the Osprey. That’s how the Lincoln handled it when George Bush flew aboard in an S-3. Garrett did do 30 years in the Navy and has a command at sea pin; he’ll know the honors he’s due.”
Admiral Carlisle had moved back to the mirror and was focused on getting his hair part just right when he finally answered his chief of staff, “No formal side honors, Gary. Fuck him!”
Neptune’s Grounds Café, Bremerton, Washington
Sara Olson thought back to her very first day at Neptune’s and her first meeting with Derwin Young, Neptune’s assistant manager, and Sara’s direct boss. Derwin was an optimistic, overly happy person, definitely a glass-half-full type of guy. He was a recent graduate of U.C. Santa Cruz, where he had earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology, which no doubt explained his present employment at Neptune’s. Derwin lived in his parents’ basement apartment in downtown Bremerton. When not working, he passed the time interacting online with fellow believers of flat earth theory and a host of other far-fetched conspiracy ideas. But Derwin’s major claim to fame was his former role as assistant to the mascot while he attended college. The Santa Cruz mascot was Sammy the Slug, eloquently described by students as “what it would look like if you made your snot into a mascot.” Derwin Young hoped and waited four long years to “put on the slime.” Each time there was a vacancy, he wasn’t selected.
Sara disliked her job at Neptune’s. She disliked dealing with customers, she disliked taking their orders, she disliked making their pretentious coffee drinks, and she barely tolerated her co-workers, most of whom were only looking to find a way out of the small Navy town and start their lives anew.
But most of all, Sara disliked Derwin Young. His cheery disposition masked his passive-aggressive nature, and he seemed to take every opportunity to personally counsel her on her negative attitude. It was during one of these “mentoring” sessions that Sara found herself exploring ways to end Derwin’s life. What about the red plastic coffee stir stick he used to pick his teeth? Could the espresso machine be altered to electrocute him? Perhaps he could simply slip on the wet floor and accidentally crack his skull? she wondered. Sara often asked herself what she had done to deserve this punishment, and when it would end? She had excelled at her studies in university and was quite proud of her master’s degree in applied mathematics. She had dreamed of pursuing a doctorate and securing a teaching position at a renowned university. But fate and a lack of options had dealt her a cruel hand, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it.
Today was pretty typical. Sara was working the register and taking coffee orders from the Sailors and civilians who worked at the Naval shipyard two blocks away. Young Sailors would often flirt with her. She knew young men found her attractive, and that probably was one of the reasons she got this job. The civilian shipyard workers tended to ignore her, preferring to just get their coffee ordered with as little human interaction as possible. For her own amusement, Sara would sometimes write the wrong name on someone’s coffee cup, only to enjoy the resulting commotion when customers complained about getting an incorrect order. Hilarious.
There was another set of customers Sara found much more interesting: the homeless. If America was the wealthiest country in the world, she wondered, how could so many people be living on the street? It was the most surprising part of her relocation experience, and she never got over her disbelief. Some of these sad-looking people she would only see once or twice, but there were also some regulars who hung out at Neptune’s, sitting at the same tables every day. Occasionally she’d se
e them outside the restaurant on street corners holding cardboard signs that seemed to change with the seasons.
One man whom Sara had nicknamed Mr. Trench because of his torn wool overcoat always sat in the corner at the table across from the cash register. He would order a mint tea and read Captain Horatio Hornblower as he nursed his cup throughout the morning, only putting down his novel to come to the counter and request more hot water for his one teabag. He never spoke much, except for the time Sara asked him why he read the same book, over and over. “Are you ever surprised by the ending?” she kidded him one day. “No, young lady,” he replied. “I just enjoy a story where the good guys win . . and get the girl!” Several weeks ago, she had watched him pick up the book after a customer had left it on a table, and now she suspected he reread the book over and over, not for the reason he gave, but because it was the only one he possessed.
The “Cat Lady“ usually sat down toward the other end of the counter, where customers lined up while waiting for their orders. She earned her nickname because of the mangy orange cat that never left her side, primarily because it was wearing one of those red “Emotional Support Animal” vests with a leash looped around the woman’s wrist. The Cat Lady spent most days quietly working crossword puzzles she had found in discarded newspapers.
Derwin hated having the homeless people in his restaurant, but the owner insisted on giving them a warm place to take shelter from the cold wind blowing off Puget Sound. Sara didn’t mind the homeless people being there. She knew from personal experience that they were just trying to get by. And besides, anybody that Derwin disliked was okay with her.
Onboard a CMV-22B Osprey to USS Ronald Reagan