Xavier reached out and flipped through the two-inch-thick report on his desk. Then his thoughts returned to Liberia. The president of Liberia, before he was killed by terrorists, had taken a lesson from the U.S. model for Israeli citizenship given to American citizens and had offered similar citizenship to African-Americans. The money earned through the issuance of Liberian passports provided Liberia with the necessary American dollars to improve its infrastructure and the standard of living for its citizens. What the president failed to foresee was the number of African-Americans who would emmigrate to Liberia. A small restriction in the passports forbade Liberian citizens not domiciled in Liberia from voting. Brilliant initiatives always adversely affect something, and while the money flowed into the Liberian coffers, American citizens flowed into Liberia.
Damn good thing, too, thought Xavier. He’d been at the Pentagon doing his penance as the Division Chief for Network Interoperability in the J6 directorate at the time. He had weaseled his way into the National Command Center to watch the events unfold toward the end of the conflict. The rebels marched on a small American enclave named Kingsville, where a retired Army lieutenant general named Thomaston and a group of a hundred or so Americans holed up inside a small fenced-in armory. Outnumbered nearly twenty to one, they successfully fought off the terrorist horde for two days. The battle had become Liberia’s Alamo. Video links from Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles allowed everyone in the NCC to watch U.S. Marines join the defenders to rout the enemy during the final minutes of this battle. It probably helped that the retired general leading the Americans within the armory was also a former Ranger.
Now, this same Thomaston was the self-appointed president of Liberia, promising general elections this fall. Xavier hoped the man lived up to his word. Few would believe it, but even Americans were susceptible to the pleasures of power. No matter how hard someone argues that he wants to step down from a position of power, giving up the perks isn’t easy. Power is a vice that beckons, cajoles, and contorts reality as it fights to retain its hold. Xavier figured a military flag officer would have a better chance of throwing off that chain than others.
Xavier glanced at his watch. The helicopter should be halfway to the pickup zone for Tucker and his Seabees. Wasn’t a thing he could do until they returned. Damn! Wasn’t a thing he could do if they didn’t return. He was forbidden to even prepare a rescue mission. Right now, less than ten people on this ship were even aware that such a covert mission was occurring.
He reached down and thumbed through the hard copy of the investigating officer’s report on the desk to his right, forcing his mind onto other things. He started to pick it up, but instead left it alone. He’d seen enough of it. Was becoming over-saturated with the events of the Churchill,the vanished fighter jets. Read it twice and then went through it a third time with a highlighter identifying what he considered pertinent portions. He had never seen an investigation that only captured the important things, events, times. Investigational reports were written objectively and chronologically—or so they were supposed to be. Statements by everyone involved gave varying perceptions of events, forcing the adjudicator to wade through the words to find his or her own perception of truth. This one had been put together quite well, considering it was written by a layman officer.
Two days ago, Xavier had emailed a copy of the report to Admiral Holman with no personal observation or comments other than a recommendation that they should talk once the admiral had had a chance to read it; digest it. Knowing Holman, the email had been forwarded to the Amphibious Group Two legal team for review. All Xavier had was a lieutenant commander and a couple of legal petty officers for that sort of task.
Xavier unfolded his hands, grabbed a bottle of water off the desk, and took a deep swig. The Navy wasn’t all ships at sea and adventure ashore. The Navy also had tradition and expectations that must be observed or good order and discipline would decay.
What he had to do in the next forty-eight hours was something he dreaded; but something that was good for the Navy and good for the nation, he would do. It wasn’t something he would do gladly. It was something he’d do with feelings of deep sadness, even though a fellow officer had violated the trust placed upon him. Harrison had violated trust in a position so that his peers and seniors must rid themselves of him much as a farmer would pluck a rotten apple from a basket, and Xavier hated it all.
Xavier had a strong idea what he was going to do, but in cases such as this, the process must be stringently followed. There must be no question of fairness when the results were announced. Legal rights must be protected. Still, this was more complicated than your usual “relieve for cause” process. He was saddled with the challenge of doing what was right for the Navy and then, for the nation, keeping it quiet.
Admiral Holman and he believed the case had strong potential to gravely impact national security if the reason for discipline became known and was eventually linked to tonight’s covert mission. Journalists were not fools when it came to putting together a full picture from a jumble of facts. Some would have said Captain Xavier Bennett had been left holding the bag, but within the Navy, no such thoughts would have occurred. With authority came responsibility, and the incident was his to handle. Those above could give strong advice, but the initial solution was always laid at the doorstep of the officer in charge. Xavier took another sip. One thing he had learned while serving with Admiral Holman was that the admiral expected his senior officers to resolve problems on their own. If a Navy captain couldn’t resolve a problem at the 0-6 level, then how could he or she expect to solve them as an admiral?
Xavier recalled an older captain years ago teaching him a valuable lesson of command. At the time, Xavier had been a fresh-nose lieutenant suffering a supply problem in Norfolk, Virginia. The Close-in Weapons System—his responsibility—had been down for repairs for nearly two weeks. Despite continued requests for the needed spare part to restore it, the supply depots ashore hadn’t seemed that helpful. Tired and exasperated one afternoon, he had bypassed everyone in the chain of command, knocked on the skipper’s door, and a few minutes later was sharing this problem with him.
The captain had listened attentively, thanked him for the information, and asked him to come back when he had resolved it. The executive officer and his department head gave Xavier more leadership direction about the chain of command the next morning.
But then he solved it. He personally walked the request chit through the supply depot and eight hours later—a full day—he walked up the gangplank with the spare part. It was years later during his first command that he realized what that captain had done. He had taught Xavier to depend on his own skills. Also taught the fresh-nose lieutenant that when you help someone solve a minor problem, the next thing you knew it became yours. Xavier smiled. He mentioned it to this captain when he ran across him a couple of years ago. Seemed Xavier had a better memory than the captain did, because this mentor had laughed and said it had nothing to do with teaching leadership; it had to do with him not wanting to inherit any additional work. After two ship commands and a tour at the Pentagon, Xavier understood what he meant.
A shout from a boatswain mate on the deck outside his porthole broke his reverie. Xavier stood, stretched, and took a deep breath. Tomorrow, I’m going for a run regardless of what happens. Do it just before I go out to visit the Seabees.
He lifted the telephone and dialed the quarterdeck, asking them to have the XO and the legal officer lay to his in-port cabin. Shortly, a 1MC announcement broadcast his request through the ship.
While he waited, Bennett walked to the porthole and stared across the harbor at the lights along the far side. Every now and again, a person wandered out of the shadows to cross the lighted area and disappear into darkness on the other side. Reminded him of how each life is different, with people passing through along their own journey before disappearing from yours.
A soft knock on the door drew his attention.
“Enter.”
“Evening, Captain,” Fulbright said. “We haven’t heard anything yet, sir—from the team. Helicopter is about an hour away from pickup.”
Bennett nodded. “No news is good news, they say,” he replied languidly. It wasn’t often in a skipper’s career that he or she was blessed with two depressing orders simultaneously. He had the problem of the investigating officer’s report on his desk, and he had a mission that was no mission ongoing in unfriendly territory.
Unlike most of his peers, he refused to think of the French as an enemy or hostile. The two countries still worked together when it was in their mutual interest. They were still two of the largest democracies in the world. He had had lunch on board the Mesa Verde the day after they arrived in Harper, Liberia, with the French commander in charge of the French forces along the nearby Liberia–Ivory Coast border. Friendly chap. Either the French man knew nothing about the missing F-16s and the French Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft, or he had great confidence.
“Let’s pray you’re right, sir,” Kilpatrick said. “You never know about these things until they’re over . . . then, that’s where we legal types arrive en masse to tell you what laws you violated by doing it. As they say in my profession, ‘Once we hear about it, it’s too late to change your mind.’” He chuckled for a second until he saw the thin smile beneath Fulbright’s arched eyebrows. The chuckle stopped abruptly.
Xavier forced a broader smile. “Well, Tom, I hope they come back okay, and I hope we don’t need your services for a mission that never occurred.”
“Yes, sir,” Kilpatrick said. His smile fading altogether, he chewed his lower lip.
Xavier’s smile widen. What he wouldn’t give to play poker with Kilpatrick. He could feel the bulging wallet now. Kilpatrick’s lower lip must be bitten to pieces, the number of times he does that, thought Xavier. Just give him a little bit of worry and that lower lip disappears. For a nice young man, it amazed Xavier that a future civilian lawyer in the great state of South Carolina failed to realize how goofy it made him look.
Xavier reached behind him and picked up the report. “You both have had a chance to read this. And I know you did. Everyone reads an investigation; it’s the seagoing equivalent to a daytime soap opera. Tom, what’s your take on this? I know Commander Fulbright is to the right of Attila the Hun, so I know what she would say, and I think we stopped doing what she would propose sometime back in the nineteenth century.”
Kilpatrick cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and started: “Sir, it appears Commander Harrison may have violated direct orders applicable to the standing rules of engagement. Further, if he did in fact order the executive officer to lock the fire control radar on the unarmed French reconnaissance aircraft, which was operating over international waters, then he violated international law—an act considered an act of war and, if known—right now it is closely held—could result in the United States being pulled before the International Court in Brussels by the French. Further, the Executive Officer—”
“Okay, okay, Tom. Take a breath,” Xavier said, waving his hand at Kilpatrick a couple of times. He chuckled. “Tom, it’s obvious you’ve given this some thought. What I want is to hear your comments on the report; and what I want from you, Tom, is an assessment of what I can and can’t legally do. For now, I intend only to focus on the actions of the commanding officer. Tomorrow, I intend to hold a closed-door Admiral’s Mast for Commander Harrison. He is the one ultimately responsible for everything that occurs on his ship. The XO and any others who may require disciplinary actions will have to wait until after I have decided disposition of this case.”
“Yes, sir. You’re right, because the disposition of their actions is directly tied to what is decided about the skipper.”
“Correct,” Xavier said. He motioned to the small circular table on the starboard side of the stateroom, and they all sat. “After the Admiral’s Mast, if I decide to relieve Commander Harrison, XO, I want a helicopter standing by to immediately airlift him to Monrovia. He is not to return to his ship. His belongings will be gathered up and, if we have time, airlifted with him. Further, I don’t want the results of the Admiral’s Mast known. It would please me further if no one on the ship other than the three of us even knew it was going down.”
Fulbright looked up as she sat down. “Captain, to do an Admiral’s Mast, sir, you must have permission from the senior flag officer above you; that would be Admiral Holman.”
“I know, Ellen. I spoke with the good admiral about thirty minutes ago. I have that authority, and they are faxing a copy of the signed letter sometime in the next few hours.” Xavier nodded at Kilpatrick. “Tom, it will be coming to your office. I would prefer it be treated as something you expected and not something out of the ordinary. I know I don’t need to say all this, but I want to ensure that you both understand that neither of you should leave this compartment with anything less than a clear understanding of my instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” the two officers said in conjunction.
Xavier looked at Kilpatrick. “Tom, you’re the expert on what we can and can’t do. Why don’t you go ahead and run down what you see are my options, one at a time, so I can weigh the pros and cons.”
“Yes, sir,” Kilpatrick said, leaning forward and putting one arm on the table. “There is always an option of doing nothing. Of ignoring the incident—”
Xavier shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t do that one.” He thought, If you only knew from how high up the direction to do something originated. For someone who wanted plausible denial—
Kilpatrick bit his lower lip for a moment. “Then, sir, you have three primary options . . .”
XAVIER PUSHED THE CHAIR AWAY FROM THE TABLE. THE Navy-issued black clock on the bulkhead showed twenty minutes had passed since they sat down. He hated meetings and had little patience for any that exceeded thirty minutes. Fulbright and Kilpatrick stood, also.
“Thanks to both of you. Ellen, what time is the Winston Churchill due to dock tomorrow?”
“Around 1000 hours, sir.”
Xavier nodded. “Please send an email to the skipper asking him to join me for lunch tomorrow.” I’ll have to run in the morning and visit the Seabees before noon. But, by God, I’m going to work out!
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that. Captain, with respect, sir, do you intend to give him a heads-up about the Admiral’s Mast?”
It would be the fair thing to do, but Xavier had given thought during the meeting of another way to resolve this issue. He shook his head. “No, XO. Not through informal email; he needs to hear it from me personally. Lunch provides a more relaxed setting for the news. Plus, as I said, I want to keep this as quiet as possible for the time being. Never put anything in an email you’re not prepared to read about in the Washington Post.”
Fulbright touched the doorknob at the same time a knock came from the other side. She opened the door. It was Lieutenant Embry.
“Lieutenant?” Fulbright asked.
“XO, Captain,” Embry said.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” Xavier said. He noticed the XO’s face twist in displeasure. He knew what Fulbright was thinking. XOs hated information to reach the boss without them having had an opportunity to vet it. He knew from the watch bill that Embry was the command duty officer for the watch, and, as such, she had direct access to the skipper. Even though that was Navy tradition, that didn’t mean XOs liked the idea any better.
“What’ve you got, Teresa?” he asked. Fulbright closed the door behind Embry.
“Sir, we received a message from Commander, Atlantic Fleet, sir. The USS Denver, LPD-9, Expeditionary Strike Group is being diverted to here. I checked blue force disposition before I came up, and the Denver is northwest of the Cape of Good Hope—”
“South Africa?” Fulbright asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Embry replied.
“The Seventh Fleet ESG is making a round-the-world return to their home port of San Diego.”
“It’s a show of power thing, XO,” Xavier added, crossing his arms. “With the number of failed states and the continuing rise of Islamic Jihadism, the Joint Chiefs of Staff thought it would be good to have battle groups and ESGs departing the Operation Indonesia Freedom to work their way back to their home port by hopscotch port calls along the way. There was a message from the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Yalvarez, informing flag and commanding officers of the deterrent operation. Good for our sailors, as they will see parts of the world most would never get an opportunity to see. A Royal Navy carrier strike force is to join it in the south Atlantic. Be quite an impressive sight.”
“Kind of like the great white fleet of Teddy Roosevelt.”
“Not as big as that, but still impressive, XO.” He turned back to Embry. “You don’t necessarily have to fire weapons to convince people you’re a strong superpower. Port calls do that for our country. Ships sail into a port; sailors go ashore and spend money; the average citizen of that country sees our naval might and doesn’t forget it. It sends a message that the United States is a better friend than foe.” He swallowed. Xavier’s throat was dry, so he took the several steps to his desk and grabbed his water bottle. “So, where is this message, Lieutenant?”
Embry lifted the folder from under her arm and handed it to Xavier. He quickly scanned the message and handed it back to her. “It’s a secret message. Lieutenant, put it on my read board. I don’t want to keep any classified material in my stateroom.”
Embry took the message, tucked it under her arm, and looked at Xavier. “Skipper, any reply, sir?”
“Probably, Teresa, but it’ll wait until tomorrow.” The challenges of command. He had already promised himself an intensive workout; visit the Seabees to see the challenges they were facing; lunch with the latest problem child, Commander Troy Harrison; and now he had another message on top of several others that required answering. And still out there on the end of the limb were Commander Tucker Raleigh and three Seabees trying to act like SEALs. He took a deep swallow. A cold beer and one of Holman’s cigars would be nice about now.
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