Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Bob Gilfort, quietly scribbling in his notebook, looked up. “I think you are right, Mr. President. If you can convince your wife, Mr. President, and if she is able to be by your side when you tell the American people her problems, you will invoke the sympathy of the entire nation.”

  “That’s right,” interjected Franco, hardly bothering to keep the excitement out of his voice. “And, it will detract from the War Review Committee. It will put Senator Patton on the defensive. Anything he says against you, sir, will be seen as being unsympathetic to your personal problems. You should go on television to tell—”

  “Franco, most times I really value your insight into the political process,” President Crawford said softly. “Like you, I enjoy analyzing the polls every morning and trying to steer our administration along a course so we leave a legacy for the history books. But, if you have one fault, it is that you have the sympathy of a viper. Right now,” President Crawford’s voice rose, “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether my wife’s condition stifles the War Review Committee or not.

  What I care about is one very simple thing,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

  “I care that when my wife walks out of Bethesda and takes those twenty steps from the hospital to the car, that she isn’t bombarded by news reporters who, through no fault of their own, upset her. So, I am going to tell them! And I am not going to mention the War Review Committee. I am not going to mention the combat operations in Korea or the Mediterranean. I am not going to mention anything other than how I would appreciate everyone’s consideration for my wife as she meets this personal challenge in the days, weeks, months, and possibly years to come.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President, I didn’t mean—”

  “Franco, I know you didn’t mean to make it sound so callous. You’re just a product of your own imagination. You’ve been in politics so long that everything has to have a spin, a political value, for it to be useful.

  There is no doubt that if we lost both of these combat operations you could turn them into victories.”

  “Mr. President, I am truly sorry about Mrs. Crawford.”

  President Crawford walked over to the window and, with his hands behind his back, peered out at the Rose Garden. “You know, she used to enjoy walking through the Rose Garden. Said she always wondered how many other first ladies had walked the same paths. I wonder if she wonders how many first ladies walked where she is walking now.”

  He turned to face the three. “I appreciate you allowing me to share my personal concerns with you. It is unfortunate that as the president of the United States that personal problems are always in the public domain. Bob, thanks for reminding me that Helen’s personal problems are, in fact, hers, and if she should have any concerns with me addressing those to the American people, then, of course, I won’t.”

  Franco made another short note in his book. If President Crawford told the American people about his wife’s depression, and he had the Navy relieve Admiral Cameron, then Patton’s War Review Committee would be swept from the front pages. The War Review Committee would be page-three news behind the other two. By the time Patton could garner the press attention he needed, the two military operations might be over. The day looked brighter every minute.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Franco, double-check my schedule for today. I am going to Bethesda, and I intend to take as long as necessary. So we may have to reschedule our meeting this afternoon.”

  Bob Gilfort and Roger Maddock excused themselves and departed the Oval Office. They walked side by side, turning the corner and leaving the immediate vicinity of the Oval Office.

  “What do you think Franco will do?” Roger asked, watching Bob for a reaction.

  Bob stopped, cocked his head, and looked at Roger. “Roger, you asking me my opinion?” He touched his chest.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” he replied.

  Bob smiled and took the secretary of defense’s arm, turned him slightly toward him as they continued walking down the hallway. Old paintings of famous men and events lined the golden hall where a plush red plaid rug softened their footsteps.

  “Well, Roger, I think this is one of the first times you have asked my opinion since we began seeing opposite sides of the Korean and North African problems.”

  “Bob, you want me to eat crow. I am sorry. There, I have eaten it. Now, tell me what you think Franco is going to do. You always seem to have better insight on these political games than I do.”

  “I think Franco is setting himself up to get the ax from Crawford. I have known Crawford a lot longer than Donelli has. Donelli is a spin doctor and a lover of polls. He will do anything to manipulate a poll.

  He misinterprets Garrett Crawford’s political interests as a personal bond. Regardless of what others may think, Garrett has a high integrity level, and Franco will cross the president one of these days, and it will be Franco’s failure to realize that not everyone thinks like he does that will cost him. Good chance that you and I will be spectators at the tower when the executioner’s ax comes down. So, try not to laugh when it happens. Meanwhile, Franco is off to manipulate the polls.”

  “So, how is Franco going to do this manipulation?” Roger asked. He shook his head. “Bob, I’m getting a headache. Tell an old farm boy what you think Franco is going to do.”

  Bob laughed. “Roger, you aren’t an old farm boy. You’re from New York and not upper New York state. You’re from New York City. Manhattan isn’t it?”

  Roger grinned. “Brooklyn, but we raised tomatoes on the rooftop.”

  “I would have thought you would have caught it. Franco is going to have the Navy relieve Cameron.”

  Roger stopped and stared at the secretary of state, who grinned at him.

  “But the president said to leave him alone.”

  Bob shook his head. “No, the president didn’t. What the president said was he wasn’t going to relieve Cameron. He told Franco he was leaving it to the Navy to make that decision. Franco will interpret that to mean he can act to have the Navy do it. He will leave that room convinced our beloved president told him to have the Navy relieve that poor admiral in the Mediterranean.”

  “That’s not what I heard the president say.”

  Bob bounced his head a couple of times and bit his lip for a moment as his grin widened. “Unfortunately, Roger, it is what I also heard the president say. He agrees with Franco. Garrett Crawford didn’t become president of the United States by being a poor politician. He has integrity, and he won’t relieve the warrior, but in his heart he believes that what he is doing is right for the American people. Garrett also wants to put distance between him and what may prove to be an unpopular act. It will prove useful to the administration because it will declaw Patton and his cronies for a while.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t interpret it that way.” Roger ran his hand through his thick shock of hair.

  Bob shook his head. “No reason for you to, unless your job responsibilities were the same as Donelli’s.”

  The two men stopped at the end of the hallway. Roger stuck his hand out and shook Bob’s. “Thanks, Mr. Secretary of State, for enlightening me.”

  “You are very welcome, Mr. Secretary of Defense,” Bob replied, giving Roger a respectful nod. “Oh, by the way, Roger, I have already told the president. If Franco knows, it is because the president told him.

  However, since we seem to be healing any wounds between us, I want you to know that I will be leaving the administration at the end of the year. The president and I decided yesterday that it would be best for the country and the administration to delay the announced departure until after these crises are resolved.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Bob. Any reasons that you would care to share?”

  He laughed, “No specific reasons, Roger. I will be seventy next month, and I think I would like to spend some more time with my children and grandchildren and just take life a little easier.”

  THREE

  “Watch that car,
Beau;” Captain Duncan James shouted, throwing his hands over his eyes in mock horror.

  “Christ, Commander, where did you learn to drive?” laughed Lieutenant Heather J. Mcdaniels, more affectionately known as HJ, as she bounced off the right rear door when Beau swerved.

  “Can I take my hands down now?” Duncan asked jokingly, spreading his fingers wide to peer between them.

  “Hey, you two, if you don’t like my driving, get out of the car. I can’t help it if these Italians have no rules-of the-road skills,” Lieutenant Commander Beau Pettigrew replied. He stuck his head out of the window of the tiny Fiat. The hot, dry Naples wind blew his blond hair off his forehead. “Hey, Buddy, you run out of flicker fluid?” He pulled his head back inside the car. “Don’t they know what turn signals are for?”

  “Did you see that? I know he doesn’t even speak English and he flicked me off! I can’t believe it!”

  Duncan pulled his hands down. He and HJ laughed. Beau joined them. “I guess it’s better than being gridlocked in Washington, which in two days we’ll be.”

  “HJ, tell me again how those magic jocks from Bethesda healed that shoulder in only four weeks. When we were pulled out of the drink by the Brits, I figured you’d be evacuated to Rhein Main or even back to Bethesda. What were they called? Nano … what?”

  HJ leaned forward, grabbed both men by the necks, and shook them playfully a couple of times. “It may be too complicated for a couple of old Navy SEALs to comprehend.” “I told you we should never have taken her to Capri with us. Besides, I’m not old; he is,” Beau said, jerking his thumb toward Duncan.

  “I think it was that second bottle of wine.”

  “You mean the one before she pinched that Italian waiter on the butt or afterwards?”

  “Hey, come on, guys, he had nice cheeks.”

  “I can’t say I go around looking at men’s butts,” Beau said, whipping the steering wheel to the right. The car barely missed another Fiat and started another round of car horns from the midafternoon traffic. “You know, I could get used to driving here. Reminds me of the back roads of Coweta County.”

  “Go ahead, HJ,” Duncan said. “I’m not sure I understand how this nanotechnology works.”

  “Makes two of us,” HJ replied.

  “Three,” added Beau. “Yeah, yours, too!” He reached forward to press the horn, and his arm hit the windshield wipers, sending them whipping back and forth, smearing dust across the glass. “Damn,” he said, pulling the lever forward, sending a spray of water across the windshield to form a thin veneer of mud with the dust.

  “Bethesda National Naval Medical Center sent what I would call a futuristic medical team to the naval hospital at Naples. I remember vaguely reading about this in magazines years ago. Once, while I was kicking back my heels in Washington, they assigned me to attend a briefing given by the Mitre Corporation out at Mclean.”

  “Just what we need; futuristic Navy doctors. Now, there’s something that makes your putter stutter. The only thing that could be worse would be futuristic lawyers,” Beau added. “Get out of the road, creep! Where do you think you are? Baltimore, Maryland?” “I know where Mitre is,” Duncan said. “I drove by their headquarters every morning when heading for I-495.”

  “It appears Mitre has been one of the pushers for this technology. What the doctor said is that nanotechnology is the science of assembling individual molecules and atoms to build things. In this case, what they built were tiny surgeons. They took a hypodermic needle filled with yellow fluid and shot it into my shoulder wound. Apparently, this fluid had millions of tiny nanorobots designed to repair tissue, destroy bacteria and infection, mend the bones, and build more nanorobots if needed.”

  “Ah, go on with you,” Beau said, his voice betraying his doubt. “You mean they shoot little robots into you, and those things in four weeks repaired a broken shoulder, torn blood vessels, and sewed the skin back together?”

  “Something like that. It was a clean break on the shoulder; more a crack. I still have those little buggers in me. I was told they would eventually biodegrade — that’s the word they used — and go out of my system via the normal means that everyone uses to discard food when they are finished with it. Dr. Abercombie said the nanoboys and nanogirls, as he calls them — personally, I prefer nanoboys and nanowomen — would eventually biodegrade and pass out of my body. Until they do, I guess you can call me Biowoman: scourge of the male race, hero of the underdog, and shopper extraordinaire. You ever notice that anywhere you go there is always something you can buy? Christ! Isn’t life great?”

  “I think you’re right. I prefer nanowomen, too,” Beau added and laughed.

  “From what I have heard and others have seen, nanowomen are just about right.” Duncan laughed. “See, Beau, I told you I saw HJ peeking when you were showering the other night. But not to worry; it was a short shower.”

  “Caught me, Captain. I apologize, Beau. It was just that there were no comedy shows on TV, so I needed a short laugh.” HJ laughed.

  “Very funny. You two are definitely not short on humor,” Beau replied.

  “Look, that’s the turnoff to Capo, right? That looks like the guard shack.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to go — Oh, Christ, Beau!” Duncan shouted, grabbing the dashboard in front of him and gritting his teeth, eyes wide.

  “Shit!” screamed HJ as she dove for the floor.

  Beau turned left against the cars coming around the traffic circle where five roads met. He dodged the first two before whipping into the road on the left leading to the front gate of the American Navy headquarters in Naples. Car horns erupted in unison. Duncan heard two cars collide. He glanced out the back window to see traffic around the circle slow to a standstill.

  “See, I told you two I’d get you here safely.”

  “I’m glad the car is in your name. You turn it in to the rental agency at the airport.”

  “What time does our aircraft leave?” HJ asked.

  “We have a sixteen hundred hours show for an eighteen hundred hours go,” Duncan replied. “We’re about an hour early.”

  Beau slowed the car as they approached the gate. Two armed Marines in full battle gear and carrying M-16s moved toward the car. One approached with his hand up, cautioning them to stop while the other stayed back.

  Duncan noticed the one in the rear had his finger on the trigger and the barrel positioned in such a way that he could bring it up quickly.

  Beau stopped the car and the Marine leaned down. “ID cards, please, sir.”

  Beau had his out and showed it to the Marine. The Marine looked in the window at Duncan and HJ. “Sorry, sir, ma’am; I need to see yours, also.”

  Duncan raised his hips and pulled his wallet out the left rear pocket.

  HJ tugged opened the large purse she carried and showed the gate guard hers.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Duncan held his up, too.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” the Marine said after scanning Duncan’s ID card.

  “CTF Sixty-seven chief of staff asks that you come see her as as you report aboard.”

  Duncan shoved his ID card back in his pocket. “I don’t suppose she passed on what she wants to see me about, Corporal?”

  The Marine shook his head. “No, sir. This was passed through the sergeant of the guard, and I was told that I could look forward to extra duty if I missed you.”

  “Okay, thanks, Corporal.”

  The Marine took one step back and saluted.

  Beau eased the car through the gate. Inside, on the right, covering the entrance, was a sandbagged machine gun pit. Hid den from sight, the machine gun backed up the Marines at the gate. Terrorists trying what they did at Gaeta when they car bombed the USS Lasalle and the USS Simon Lake would find pissed off Marines here.

  “What do you think she wants?”

  “I don’t know. Probably to say good-bye and good riddance. Of course, she may want to discuss that incident with you the other night.
” Duncan slapped Beau on the arm.

  “What incident?” HJ asked. She leaned forward. “Beau, have you been a bad boy again?”

  “It was a minor one.”

  “I wouldn’t call an Italian husband trying to shoot you a minor incident.”

  “He overreacted about me talking to his wife.”

  “Someone tried to shoot you for talking to his wife?”

  “HJ, sometimes there are minor misunderstandings.”

  “Tell her the truth, Beau.”

  “Yeah, tell me the truth.”

  “I have.”

  “What Beau neglects to mention is that this conversation took two days and nights before her husband tracked them down in the middle of their talking.”

  “I didn’t know she was married,” Beau explained.

  “Didn’t the wedding band on her left hand give you any indications?”

  “Look, Navy regulations state that it’s not adultery if the lights are out and you don’t know each other’s name.”

  “Beau, I think your Navy regulations changed a few centuries ago,” HJ said, slapping him playfully on the back of the head and ruffling his blond hair.

  Beau eased the car into a parking space marked for rental cars, turned off the engine, and pulled the emergency brake on.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ll walk over and do the necessary good-byes. You two sign us in to the flight, and I’ll be back shortly.”

  Duncan unwove his big frame from the car. The bones in his right knee ground and popped as he stood. He waited a few seconds for the pain to subside. Beau and HJ scrambled out the other side.

  “You ought to have Dr. Abercombie look at that knee. I bet one shot of nanofluid could cure it,” Heather J. Mcdaniels said, raising her arms over her head to stretch as she walked to the rear of the car. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  She opened the trunk, pulled their seabags out, and set them on the pavement.

  “If you do, have them put some up here,” Beau said, tapping the side of his head. He grabbed two of the seabags and tossed them on the sidewalk in front of the car.