by David Poyer
“By loose ends, you mean…?”
The JAG murmured, “Pending legal action. Especially concerning you personally.”
Dan said soberly, “Fahad Almarshadi had issues. Emotional, or mental, no one’ll ever know. If one of the chiefs hadn’t tackled him from behind, he could’ve killed a lot of people. No one else in the space was armed.”
“But legal action?”
“The investigation was closed. No further action pending.”
“Good. Just wanted to clear that up before we started. I’m gonna sit here and let my legal adviser bring you up to speed. Sy, you’re on.”
Schulman sat forward, extracting a sheet of paper from a briefcase. “As the admiral said, you’ve been called back pursuant to an official request by the House Armed Services Committee. You’re scheduled to testify next Wednesday about what the media’s calling the ‘Lenson Doctrine.’ Have you heard anything about this?”
“My wife told me—I mean, I’ve heard the phrase. But I’m not sure how my name got attached to it.”
“It’s the idea, or concept, that if the U.S. is capable of stopping a mass-destruction strike on a civilian target, we have a moral obligation to do so. Relevant statutes include Article 17 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, international humanitarian law, and several UN resolutions since 1946.”
“I was just following orders,” Dan said, not without relish. He bent to his own briefcase, and dropped a folder on the polished glass surface. “CINC and NCA guidance message for my mission. Draft guidance for employment of ballistic missile defense assets within a combat theater. ComSixthFleet rules of engagement.”
“Well, there’s a good deal of uncertainty about your rather … liberal interpretation of those orders.”
“I’ll be happy to defend myself. But it’d help to know what the official position is. Before I resign.”
“There is no ‘official’ position,” Rongstand put in. “And no one’s mentioned resignation in my hearing. If you mean charges being preferred, or a letter of reprimand being considered, nothing like that’s going on. At the moment.”
“At the moment,” Dan repeated. “Am I getting my ship back?”
“As to that,” Rongstad said carefully, “it’s not in my hands. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Okay, but how about unofficially? The Navy’s got to have some opinion. We’re striking to be the major missile-defense stakeholder, after all. Is this too big a commitment for us to step up to? Or is this a mission we want? With all due respect, sir, I deserve to know if the CNO’s behind me on this. Or if I’m hanging out there all by my lonesome.”
Shulman said, “It would not be appropriate, at this stage, for us to take any position on your actions. But you might be interested to know you’ve been set up for a murder board before the hearing.”
Dan nodded slowly. “Murder boards” were combination strategy sessions and third-degree grillings designed to prepare a witness to testify. He’d sat in on a few, when he’d been with Joint Cruise Missiles. Getting Admiral Willis and Niles, a rear admiral back then, ready to testify before the Procurement and Military Nuclear Systems Subcommittee about the high failure rate of the Tomahawk program and whether it should be terminated. The procedure had spread to preparing candidates for high office; Blair had had a mini–murder board before being appointed to DoD. “That sounds like a vote of support.”
“If you want to interpret it that way. Here’s the office address. A retired Marine general who specializes in prepping people for congressional hearings. Be there at 0700 Tuesday. On Wednesday afternoon, you testify.”
“I get all Tuesday night off, huh?”
“And Wednesday morning.” Schulman had such a deadpan delivery that Dan almost missed his wink. “I’ll be there with you.”
“Me too,” said Rongstad. “Don’t have to be, but I will.”
“I appreciate that.” Having other uniforms flanking him would make him less of an individual target, would make it more a case of putting the Navy on trial, rather than painting him as an individual rogue. Which, God knew, anybody who wanted to could dig up more than enough evidence for. “Seriously. And, can I ask: this general’s retired? Who’s picking up the tab? For the prep session?”
“The general’s donating his time,” the admiral said. “I didn’t say this, but apparently he’s a friend of your wife.”
“Fantastic,” Dan said. Torn between relief and resentment. If it wasn’t Niles, it was Blair. Didn’t anyone think he could fight his own battles?
“We’re not against you,” Shulman murmured. “But there’ll be some heat generated over this. If we have to sacrifice a burnt offering, to keep the mission…”
”Say no more.” Dan eyed the frosted buns again, and at last gave in. Pineapple. Not bad. “I’ve had a good career. If I have to go out because I saved some civilians, I have no heartburn over that.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that.” The admiral coughed into his fist, and stood.
Dan did too, a little confused. “We done, sir?”
“I think we are. Good luck. Oh, and one more thing.” Rongstad reached inside his double-breasted blouse and extended a white envelope. “This request came in. The SecNav was going to preside, but he’s going to China as part of a high-level party. The family had asked for you, but you were deployed. It’s short notice, but we can provide transportation and a draft speech.”
Dan nodded slowly, looking at the schedule of events. “‘Naming Ceremony, USS Cobie Kasson.’ I’d be … deeply honored to preside.”
* * *
BRIGHT and fair, the day was warm as they strolled down Pier 7, Destroyer-Submarine Piers, Norfolk Operating Base, between towering gray ships toward the last one, outboard. An Arleigh Burke–class destroyer, she lay lower and wider than Savo Island. A band was playing “Anchors Aweigh.” Dan was in dress whites, white cap cover, white shoes, the uniform that made Navymen look like ice cream salesmen. Beside him, Blair strode along in low heels and a cotton summer dress, elegant but self-contained. She’d seemed torn about today, but had at last said yes, she would accompany him.
The previous evening had not been pleasant. A continuing cold misunderstanding that left them injuring each other with small jabs. Overcome by remorse, hoping for some reconciliation, even if only physical, he’d reached for her in bed, but she’d pushed his arm away.
An official car had picked them up at dawn, complete with a lieutenant commander public affairs type as escort. It had whisked them to the helo pad at the Pentagon, and forty minutes later he was looking down at the silvery glow of Willoughby Bay.
Horn still lay across the Elizabeth River, surrounded by barbed wire. She didn’t exactly glow in the dark, but remaining aboard her for any length of time still fogged radioactivity badges. He’d written Kasson up for the Congressional, but it had been downgraded to the Navy Cross.
The ship-naming process was hermetic and unfathomable, run not out of the CNO’s office but the SecNav’s. Once it had been straightforward—submarines named for fish, cruisers for cities, battleships for states. Now submarines were named for almost anything—states, presidents, admirals, politicians who gave the Navy money. The surface force, though, had maintained its standards. With one or two exceptions, destroyers and frigates were still named after Navy and Marine heroes. And in this case, one who’d served under him. Not that he’d known her well, but she’d been in his crew.
Their escort introduced him to the rest of the official party, gathering under a blue awning a few yards from the raised platform where the ceremony would take place. Standing apart were two short women with a family resemblance. After a second, he recalled why they looked familiar, though he’d never met them before.
“You must be Captain Lenson.” The sixtyish woman had a deep Louisiana accent. A very thin teenager stood beside her, hugging herself. Both looked awed and out of place; the younger woman would not meet Dan’s eyes. “We’re Cobie’s family.”
“O
f course, I recognized you right away. Mrs. Kasson. And this must be Kaitlyn? Petty Officer Kasson’s—Cobie’s daughter?” They shook hands, the girl’s eyes still sliding away from his, her hand limp. “This is my wife, Blair Titus. Your mother was a real hero. Saved the ship, and the lives of the crew. You can be proud of her.”
“I barely remember her,” Kaitlyn said, voice almost lost in the renewed blast from the band, which had struck up “Under the Double Eagle.” A tune he considered a waste of good notes.
Dan said, “She wasn’t a standout at first. But when the pressure was on, we saw what she was made of.” He was reluctant to admit he barely remembered her. She’d been lower-ranking enlisted, in Engineering, a deckplate snipe; he’d see her only during inspections, or when something went wrong and had to be repaired. Not the best opportunity for socializing.
“Captain? I can introduce you to the rest of the guests—”
“Yes. I’m sorry, we’ll talk again.” He bowed, and Blair took his arm; they moved on.
“They don’t look like much,” she murmured.
“Who doesn’t?”
“The mother. The daughter. Surprising.”
“What’s surprising? They’re just regular folks—”
“I mean, that they managed to get the ship named after their relative. That takes a lot of grassroots organizing. A lot of smarts, behind the scenes … Aha.”
“Aha what?”
“Vacherie La Blanc. Over there. Their congressman. Third District. Be sure to make a good impression, Dan. He’s going to be at your hearing next week.”
Their escort led them on, to introduce them to Admiral Zembiec, COMSURFLANT; USS Kasson’s first commanding officer; the squadron commander; a shipyard representative from Bath; the rest of the official guests. Everyone seemed to know who he was. He shook hands, made small talk. La Blanc was short, friendly, almost obsequious, but he and the congressman didn’t get to exchange more than a couple of words.
Dan was nervous about his speech. They’d given him a draft, but it was so full of clichés and inaccuracies, especially about Horn’s final hours, that he’d finally cut out everything except the intro and summary and rewritten the middle himself. Blair had looked it over, and suggested some grace notes. Cut a couple passages, where he’d let himself go. This wasn’t the venue. Or the time. “You can save it for your retirement speech,” she’d said.
* * *
WHEN he stepped before the podium the faces turned up to him, expectant, open. A moment of breathlessness. He gripped the wooden sides and tried again.
“Admiral, Congressman La Blanc, distinguished guests … the Kasson family … the Honorable Blair Titus … Ladies and gentlemen.
“It gives me great pleasure to be here on this occasion: the accession to the fleet of a new warship, named after a hero I personally had the privilege to lead. Naming this ship after her is an honor to all the enlisted men and women who have made the Navy and Marine Corps what it is today: not only the largest, and the most powerful, but the most respected armed force in the world.
“You will hear a great deal today about the capabilities, armaments, and sensors of this new warship, built to survive and prevail in a hostile electronic environment. The Navy considers these new destroyers its most capable surface combatants. They incorporate advanced geometries and construction materials, to reduce the likelihood of enemy targeting. This tough, survivable ship will venture into high-threat areas to conduct antiair, antisubmarine, antisurface, and inland strike operations. Its designers and builders deserve the highest praise.
“But I will not dwell on that. Instead, I want to talk about the woman this ship is to be named after: Engineman Gas Turbine Mechanic Third Class Cobie Kasson.
“You will hear the official citation which awarded the Navy Cross to Petty Officer Kasson read later in this ceremony. To put it in perspective, she and I—we—were deployed off the coast of Egypt to intercept a suspicious trawler. Unknown to anyone, its hull was packed with explosives. When it detonated close aboard, the shock wave ruptured essential propulsion and machinery, rendering us dead in the water and with rapid progressive flooding.
“As part of the damage-control team, Petty Officer Kasson heroically fought to preserve ship and shipmates. Even after sustaining injuries, she continued to attempt to close the firemain suction valve, located under swiftly rising water. At last, she succeeded. At the cost of her own life. But she saved her shipmates. Greater love hath no man—and no woman—than she give up her life for her friends.
“The ship Cobie and I had the honor to serve on lies across the Elizabeth River, only a few miles from where we sit today. It testifies that even in times we regarded as peace, others intended war. The attack on Horn, as well as those on the Marine barracks in Beirut and on USS Cole, marked the beginning of the Global War on Terror. USS Cobie Kasson will be part of that war and, in her thirty-year life span, many other actions and operations as well. The thousands of officers, men, and women who will serve aboard her in decades to come will continue the tradition of their namesake.
“In the years I’ve served, the Navy has changed from a blue-water force, designed to prevail against the Soviet surface and undersea fleet, to a force designed to project power inland in support of national and international goals. It is evolving again now to protect us and our allies from ballistic missiles carrying weapons of mass destruction. USS Kasson will stand at the forefront of this new mission.
“I want to say, finally, again, how honored I am to be here for this ceremony. I share the pride of the Kasson family. The officers and enlisted are fortunate to serve under such an experienced, highly trained commanding officer. I wish him and all the crew good luck and good sailing.”
That was all; he’d run out of words. But still, they seemed inadequate. He looked across the sunlit, sparkling river, out over the still-expectant faces. Took a deep breath, and tried one last time.
“A commissioning ceremony accepts a ship into the operating forces of the Navy. When we break the pennant, in a few moments, and the crew boards, she’ll ‘come alive’ as a United States ship. Joining a roster that stretches back to the earliest days of our independence, in a chain that will extend for centuries into the future.
“Cobie Elizabeth Kasson is immortal now. She will always be a link in that chain as the ship bearing her name goes out into the seas of the world, to keep the peace and secure us against aggression.”
When he looked down Cobie’s mother, in the front row, had her face buried in her handkerchief. But the daughter stared straight up at him, skepticism, remoteness, in her doubtful frown.
* * *
THEY were booked into the flag suite at the Navy Lodge on Hampton Boulevard that night. Dinner with the commissioning party, hosted by the Navy League, at the Abbey, downtown. He begged off early, making sure to shake hands and say good night to La Blanc. Their escort dropped them back at the Lodge. After which he and Blair argued again, this time over something so inconsequential—the way he’d parked the car, so a bush had snagged her dress and almost torn it, when she got out—that even he realized that wasn’t what they were really arguing about.
He didn’t know how to respond. Was it the pressure of campaigning? His own recalcitrance and absence, like she said? In the room, he opened the little fridge, hoping for a Diet Coke, and found himself facing the ranked shining jewels of single servings. Whiskey. Brandy. Vodka. Shining like liquid platinum, liquid bronze, liquid gold. They even had his old favorite, Cutty Sark. He started to reach for it. Then redirected his hand, to the soft drink.
The book-swap shelves in the lobby had held a worn copy of Barbara Tuchman’s The Guns of August. He was swallowing the last of the cola, stepping out of his white trou for a shower while reading the back cover, when the phone rang. “Can you get that?” Blair murmured, looking into the mirror over a desk she’d converted to a dressing table as she stripped her bra off. She was turned away, but he could still make out the burns and scars. He
sighed and picked up the phone. “Yeah?”
“Captain Lenson? Will you hold for Edward Szerenci?”
“Is that for me?” Blair murmured.
He covered the mouthpiece. “No. For me. It’s … the national security adviser.”
“Szerenci? What does he want?”
“I don’t know. You know he used to be my teacher, at George Washington.”
“And he’s now on their side. Be very careful, Dan.”
“Dan? Dan Lenson?” A sharp, rapid, accented voice. Devoid of all doubt or self-questioning.
“Yes sir. Hello, Professor.”
“Heard you were in town. Or at least, in country. Where are you now?”
“Norfolk, sir. At a commissioning ceremony.”
“You’re going to testify. House Armed Services.”
“Correct, sir. Wednesday.”
“I’d like to meet up before then. Can you stop by my office?”
He covered the mouthpiece again. “He wants me to stop by. Before I appear.”
“No. You’re busy.”
“Uh, well, sir, my time’s scheduled pretty solid before then. A murder board, and—”
“I know about the board. How about just before you go in to testify? I’ll have my people set it up. Good to talk, Dan. I remember your paper on Tomahawk in the first-strike role. It’s been too long.”
Dan started to protest, but found himself instead talking to a pleasant-voiced woman. They made the arrangements, then hung up. He stared out the window, at salmon-colored streetlights, the passing cars of a late Norfolk night. This whole area had been Fiddler’s Green. Pawnshops, tailor shops, strip joints, locker clubs. Now the base sprawled south and east until it was running up against the hospital and the university. The rowdy honky-tonks were gone, the locker clubs and used-car lots. What did it mean? Maybe just that things would always change, that you couldn’t hold on to anything.
Her voice, still with that underlying sullenness. “Did you want the shower first?”
“I guess so.” He felt sweaty and unclean, prey to a deep, sourceless unease. Taking a deep breath, he went into the bathroom and closed the door.