The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  This week was starting as shitty as last week.

  Last night Duncan had stumbled home from the club to find the dog dead on the front lawn, the victim of a hit and-run driver. He had stuffed the animal in a plastic bag and put it in a trunk in the garage before staggering upstairs to pass out on the bed. He planned to bury it properly after work the next day.

  But the next day was here and he woke to another whammy when he found a letter from his wife’s lawyer on the rug beneath the letter drop of the front door. Divorce?

  Maintenance payments? She hasn’t been gone two weeks and she’s already hired a shyster talking divorce? If that weren’t enough, his old banger of a car refused to start this morning. Probably would have helped if he’d remembered to turn off the headlights last night.

  He tilted his head back as he put in eye drops Duncan rubbed his head, shut his eyes, and hoped the headache would go away. Two quick cups of coffee and several glasses of water had failed to chase the effects of last night’s binge. He was lucky the Virginia State Police hadn’t stopped him. The Reston judge was not known for his liberal views of drunk driving.

  He kicked the two letters with the toe of his black dress shoe. Wife leaves him and the Navy’s Selected Early Retirement Board, SERB, reminds him to retire — go home-by August; less than forty-five days away. He stared in the mirror, eyeball to eyeball — the eyewash had done little to stop them from looking like red-lined road maps of New Jersey — and unconsciously began to compare himself with Beau.

  Whereas Duncan was forty-eight. Beau was thirty-nine.

  Whereas he was married. Beau was a confirmed bachelor.

  Considering how life was going, a confirmed bachelor lifestyle appeared the better alternative. Duncan had a scarred, middle-aged, wrinkled face, with too broad a nose between brown eyes. Beau, on the other hand — the asshole — had a smooth, almost Nordic, face accented with neon blue eyes and topped by waves of flowing brown hair — hair that turned blond when exposed to the sun for any length of time. The lieutenant commander’s mischievous ways and his unnaturally boyish good looks drew women like moths to a flame. Duncan rubbed his chin.

  Maybe if he worried as much about his looks as Beau did, things would have been different.

  This was their third tour together. The two spent six years with SEAL Teams Four and Six and were on their third year at the Tactics Development Command at Quantico.

  Beau had also received a phone call telling him to be at the Pentagon by 0800 hours. Why would the admiral want Beau there to discuss Duncan’s impending SERB from the Navy? The answer was, he wouldn’t; ergo, the admiral had another reason — some asshole idea up his sleeve, no doubt. Whatever the admiral’s reason, knowing the two star twisted thinking, it would be something Duncan was not going to like.

  But it bugged the shit out of him not knowing why Hodges was bothering him in this twilight of his career.

  What could the admiral come up with worse than telling him to retire? He’s been sleeping with Cathy, too? No, couldn’t be that; Cathy hated the political asshole.

  The beeps of Beau’s car horn caught his attention.

  There’s the Adonis now. Duncan grabbed his hat. He’d suffer through today; bury the damn dog; and then decide what to do about his wife. Maybe if he kept putting off trying to make a decision about the marriage, she’d come back. He stepped over the discarded running clothes in the middle of the floor and turned off the lights. He’d tidy the house when he came home. When he opened the front door, he found Beau standing beside his car.

  “Hey, come on, Duncan, or we’re going to be late.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Well, I love you, too.”

  Duncan slammed the door behind him.

  “Beau, where can you bury a dog around here?”

  “In your mood? You can bury the damn thing anywhere you want. I doubt anyone would argue.” Beau put his arm on Duncan’s shoulder.

  “You can tell me, shipmate. Piles?” FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER THE TWO NAVY SEALS sat in the outer office of Rear Admiral Upper Half William Tecumseh Hodges. Duncan rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble from a bad shave.

  Three hours later, they still sat waiting. Duncan looked at the clock for about the hundredth time. He knew they’d probably be here for a couple more hours for what would most likely be a ten-minute meeting. He shut his eyes and laid his head back against the top of the chair.

  Duncan and Bill Hodges had been Naval Academy classmates, with Duncan graduating in the upper twenty-five percent of the class while Hodges brought up the rear. Just showed that success during Desert Storm, a Purple Heart and a couple of Bronze Stars with Vs, and five rows of medals meant little against being able to balance a finance sheet, do a good “stand and smile” at receptions, and play Washington politics when it came to promotions. Hodges only had four rows in his fruit salad.

  No, he wasn’t bitter. Pissed off maybe, but not bitter.

  Twenty-eight years of solid “doing the Navy’s work” was for naught when it came to downsizing the military.

  Beau reached over and shook Duncan.

  “Duncan, how much longer is the old man going to keep us waiting?” Beau whispered. He crossed his legs and began to nonchalantly run a finger around the edges of a fingernail.

  “Not as if we don’t have a lot to do today.” He glanced up and caught the yeoman looking at him. He winked and smiled, causing her to blush and look away quickly.

  “I don’t know. Beau. We were to be here at eight. It’s after eleven now.” Duncan ran his finger around the tight collar of his white shirt. The air conditioning did little to stop beads of sweat trickling down his neck. Give him khakis any day Ties choked a man. He loosened the tie slightly, pulled a handkerchief out, and wiped his forehead. If his whites had been ironed he could have worn them, as Beau had, instead of these heavy service dress blues.

  He thought that he may have seen his whites on the floor near the washer.

  “If you wouldn’t lift weights you’d have a neck and that shirt wouldn’t bother you so much.” Beau laughed.

  “On second thought, keep lifting and running. I hear that at fifty everything travels south faster.” He held his hand out to admire the self-manicure.

  “Forty.”

  “Forty what?”

  “Everything moves toward the waistline when you reach forty if you don’t work out. Besides, I keep telling you:

  I’m not fifty.”

  “Right! You’re saying that because next month I turn forty,” said Beau with a smirk that disappeared slowly as he tried to determine whether Duncan was serious or not.

  The phone beeped on the yeoman’s desk.

  “Yes, Admiral, they’re still here.” She looked at Duncan.

  “The admiral says to go right in, Captain.”

  Pettigrew was the first up.

  “Let’s find out what we screwed up this time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the yeoman said tactfully, raising her hand.

  “The admiral would like a word with Captain James, by himself. Sorry, Commander.”

  Beau flopped back onto the settee.

  “I forgot. You’re old friends. Tell him Rod said hi.”

  As Duncan moved toward the door Beau spoke up again.

  “Forty? Are you sure?”

  Duncan ignored the question as he opened the door and entered the admiral’s office. Strolling toward him in starched whites, hand extended, was Rear Admiral Upper Half Hodges. Pasted on the ruddy face of this dedicated jogger was his notorious “delightful to see you” grin. A “shit-eating grin,” Beau called it. The tall, slender profile of the admiral highlighted a waist that looked as if it would snap in two in a big wind. Duncan thought of his own growing waistline as he wondered if the admiral dyed his hair to keep it that rusty color. Even a few gray hairs would have given Duncan some satisfaction. The rumors must be true — he must dye it.

  “Duncan, old friend. God, it’s good to see you. I’m s
orry about keeping you waiting.” He guided Duncan toward a group of chairs near the window.

  “You know how the Pentagon is. Everything’s an emergency and everyone needs the answers to today’s questions yesterday. But enough of my problems. How’s everything?” he asked and, before Duncan could reply, he continued in a serious tone.

  “Duncan, I’m really sorry about the SERB. I know it’s a tough way to go. We all want to choose our own time, not have a bunch of nondescript officers decide our fate over … God knows what!”

  “Thanks, Admiral,” he replied. So, he was here so the admiral could gloat.

  Admiral Hodges motioned Duncan to a seat. Duncan chose the new leather wing-back near the window so the cool air from the wall units blew directly on him. With the shades partially closed to keep out the rays of the hot sun the cooling air felt wonderful. The air conditioning seemed more forceful in the admiral’s office than in the reception area.

  “Coffee, Duncan?” Admiral Hodges asked as he moved to the percolator on a nearby table.

  “No, thanks. Admiral. I’m about coffee’d out. Your yeoman kept our cups full the three and a half hours we’ve been waiting.”

  “Sorry about the wait, Duncan. As I said. Pentagon work is never routine,” Admiral Hodges replied as he poured a cup before sitting down opposite him.

  “One of the things about the Pentagon, Duncan, is that everywhere you go they have a pot of coffee. It never fails that the heads are down the passageways and never easy to reach when you need to take that inevitable leak. It seems to me the more you have to pee the more people there are who want just a few words with you on the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” acknowledged Duncan. He relaxed the muscles in his face in an effort to keep his expression neutral.

  “Not like the field,” said the admiral, looking up as if he were reminiscing.

  “Now there’s where they separate the men from the boys. There’s where we get down to the business that our nation and our Navy designed the SEALs to do. Yeah, I miss that a lot being in the Pentagon.” He took a sip and then pensively continued.

  “Sometimes I ask myself why we have a Pentagon admiral’s billet in Naval Special Warfare, but someone has to fight for the few dollars they throw our way. Less and less dollars every year to do the training and exercises we need to maintain our readiness, but, by God, we’ve got plenty of funds for humanitarian efforts. Sometimes I think we should have a big Red Cross above our metals instead of the SEAL emblem.”

  Hodges paused and shook his head.

  “But I didn’t ask you here to talk about Washington money problems.”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral. I figured it was something important,” Duncan replied, not believing it in the least.

  “It is, Duncan. Something that only you can do.”

  That didn’t sound good. Why, all of a sudden, did he have this bad feeling? He nearly lifted his left arm to save his watch from the bullshit he expected to follow.

  Admiral Hodges stood and put his cup down on the edge of his walnut desk and strolled over to the window that overlooked the Pentagon’s south parking lot. He twisted the bar to widen the shades. The sun hit Duncan squarely in the face and immediately offset the cooling effects of the air conditioning. Sweat beaded out again and quickly trickled down on his already soaked collar. Hodges turned and grinned.

  “It’s great to have an office with windows.”

  Duncan looked away. They wouldn’t allow him to retire if he knocked the twinkle out of an admiral’s eye.

  “Duncan,” Admiral Hodges said, shifting into his command voice. Hodges moved out of the sunlight to the shade surrounding his desk and sat down before continuing.

  “I need you to do something for me, for the Navy, and for the SEALs.” He picked up a pencil and began tapping it on the Plexiglas that covered the desktop.

  The tapping sounded like a bass drum beating against the inside of Duncan’s brain.

  “Yes, sir?” Duncan asked, mentally willing the pencil to break or fly out of Hodges’s hand — anything to stop the annoying noise.

  As if hearing his wish, Hodges’s tapping increased in tempo for a few seconds before the admiral laid the pencil down and clasped his hands together on top of the desk.

  “The Spanish have asked us to participate in an exercise next week at the Buffalero Training Site and Assault Village in Gibraltar. The British may also be there—”

  “Admiral,” Duncan interrupted, leaning forward.

  “Sir, I hope you’re not going to ask me to go. May I remind you that I have been told by the Navy to retire and go home by the end of August? It’s the middle of June now.”

  “I know, Duncan. That’s why the Navy gave you seven months to prepare for retirement. Besides, August is over sixty days away. I know we wouldn’t usually send a captain for this, but you speak Spanish and we need to improve — improve? Hell, we need to repair our relationship with the Spanish and it’s my understanding that they’re sending an officer of comparative rank.”

  “About forty-five.”

  “Forty-five?”

  “Yes, sir. About forty-five days before I’m forced to retire.

  Not sixty,” Duncan said curtly, raising his hand and making a chopping motion for emphasis.

  “Forty-five days.”

  The admiral dismissed the comment with a wave.

  “Sixty if we push it, Duncan, and I’ll push it for you. Besides, I may even be able to do something about the SERB.”

  Duncan felt a flicker of hope before he quickly dismissed it as merely talk. Admiral Hodges was good at talk.

  That was to be expected of a peacetime admiral. Politicians, the bunch of them! And Hodges was a damn good politician and, like every politician, had hidden agendas.

  Duncan wondered what the admiral’s were. He looked out the window at the noon joggers who dotted the sidewalks surrounding the Pentagon, wishing he were there. Wishing he were anywhere but here. Most ran toward the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and the monuments on the other side. Five point two miles from Arlington Cemetery to the Lincoln Memorial. He used to run it daily, years ago, when he was at the Bureau of Naval Personnel above Arlington Cemetery.

  Hodges knew Duncan had to be angry. He would be if the Navy told him to retire. An angry person can be a vindictive son of a bitch and that’s what Hodges wanted.

  Typical Duncan — hiding his emotions — staring out the window rather than show Hodges the anger he felt. He needed Duncan, but not for the exercise. The true reason would remain forever hidden between him and a select few subordinates.

  “Here, Duncan.” The admiral pulled out his lower right hand drawer and took out a bottle of Ponche Caballero-the Spanish silver bullet of brandy, so called for the silver bottle in which Luis Caballero of Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain, bottled it.

  “Admiral, I need to get my affairs in order these last forty-five days. I’m not sure if you are aware, but I also have a very personal problem I need to resolve,” Duncan said, forcing his voice to stay level and calm.

  Admiral Hodges stood and poured them both a shot of the strong brandy. He handed the fullest one to Duncan.

  “You mean your wife leaving you? Shit, Duncan, you’re not the first man to lose a wife. Fact is you’re probably one of the few career officers in the military who’s had only one wife. I remember when my first one left me. I was devastated, but you get over it, and after a couple of marriages you eventually meet the right one, like I did. Believe me, Duncan, this deployment is the right thing to take your mind off her and prepare for retirement. Cheers.”

  Christ! Are there no secrets in the Navy? Duncan took a sip of the fiery liquid. How did the admiral know about Cathy? His stomach rumbled in rebellion as the brandy landed. The headache pinged painfully against the sides of his head, screaming to Duncan that his brain wanted out.

  So much for today being a no-drink day.

  “I love this stuff,” said the admiral as he involuntarily wrinkled his nose, smelling the
“night-after” ammonia sweats of alcohol whiffing from Duncan. He nearly curled his lips in disgust. The sooner this man was out of the Navy, the better. But, first, he was going to resolve a problem the SEALs were encountering.

  Hodges cleared his throat.

  “It never ceases to amaze me how hard it is to find Ponche brandy in the United States.

  It’s the finest in the world and the least well known. Look at the label — twenty-eight percent alcohol. Melts the wax in your ears when it goes down. Great during Washington winters, Duncan. I’m sure you’ve tried it before.” Duncan’s stomach rumbled louder. The admiral swished the brandy around his mouth, savoring the taste and surreptitiously watching Duncan. Duncan James was a drunk; why hadn’t he discovered this earlier? If Hodges needed anything to salve his decision last fall on the SERB, this did it.

  Last night, it seemed to Duncan that one drink fed another until he was sad drunk, swimming in sorrow. Unusual, as Duncan was not one to drown in self-pity. It had been many years since he had drunk so much, and he had no intention of doing it again — at least, not in the near future.

  Watching the admiral swish the brandy around his mouth, Duncan seized the opportunity to steer the subject back to his situation.

  “Admiral, there’s legal complications also. I received a letter from her lawyer yesterday—” Admiral Hodges held up his hand.

  “Enough, Duncan,” he said, as he recapped the bottle and slid it under some papers in his lower desk drawer.

  “I know all about those lawyers and their letters. Don’t worry about them. They’ve got a computer program that spits that stuff out and, besides, you’ll be protected under the Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act while you’re overseas. They can’t touch you until you return to the States. I don’t mind telling you that that Relief Act helped me a couple of times.” The admiral took another sip and slammed his desk drawer shut.