Читать книгу The Crucible - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 14

“The Navy is a complete laughing stock!” Harold Cranston thundered. “I can’t believe the lack of authority you have over your people and your office!” The snarl on his face was menacing as he paced with anger. “I can’t believe what happened!”

Antonio Espinoza ignored him as he continued to carefully place his rare pieces into padded boxes. The room was prepped for vacating. The packers had already removed his personal furniture, crystal items, plants, rug and paintings. The smaller ancient art pieces were left for Antonio’s personal movement. Wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt, he arrived at his office at 5 A.M. that morning and began working and cleaning. By 9:30 A.M. three men unexpectedly arrived. His secretary Rachel didn’t have time to press her intercom button when she saw the trio walk right past her. It made no difference. Antonio was done.

He had already transferred his computer files, schedule, and other important agenda items to the Vice CNO, a passdown that had been secretly going on over the past week. He bought gifts for all his staff members, and notified BUPERS and the Veteran’s Administration about his retirement paperwork. Stop-loss be damned--it didn’t apply to him. He had already made arrangements with several congressmen and allies, as well as his lawyer. The government couldn’t apply the stop-loss referendum to anyone after serving over 30 years; he had served 36, and he was done.

The movers were coming this afternoon. The next morning he would be debriefed and read out of all his security clearances and special accesses. So bitter and distraught, he shocked the entire admiralty by refusing a retirement ceremony. He didn’t want to participate in any pomp and circumstance on his behalf. He did make one important phone call that week, however. He called to request the presence of a friend to stay over for a few days at his home and help him sort out his life. The friend had yet to arrive that morning, but was due sometime before noon.

Seemingly marching into his dismantled office were SECNAV Lance Stevenson, who came to bid farewell; Assistant CNO Vice Admiral Gary Sparks, who came for a final guidance from his boss; and the Secretary of Defense Harold H. Cranston, who came to destroy the last vestiges of Antonio’s dignity.

“From the time we selected you, you have disobeyed orders, failed to act when the president and I demanded action, and overstepped the boundaries of political and military protocol by rewriting and countermanding several orders I had given you!”

“Yes, I have,” Antonio said dismissively and without eye contact. He was carefully wrapping a piece of ancient Mayan pottery with plastic bubble wrap.

“You have even gone public with your interviews about your displeasure with the administration’s policies; jeopardizing morale, order, and discipline!”

“Yes, I have.” Antonio carefully placed the delicate piece into a Styrofoam box and began sealing it with packing tape. Indifferently, he moved past Cranston and retrieved another empty box from a stack in the corner. The other men eyed the admiral as he coolly refrained from confronting Cranston, knowing full well that this was a tactic he employed simply to infuriate the secretary even more. On several levels, they enjoyed it.

“Aren’t you listening? Do you even understand that the nation has been embarrassed by your lack of leadership? The president will never be re-elected now that his Navy has fallen apart.”

“No, he won’t. Thank God,” Antonio responded. Stevenson bit his tongue to stifle his laugh. Antonio carefully inspected his Aztec ceremonial blood vase in his hands, looking for any cracks and blowing off dust particles. “He definitely will not be re-elected. Gary, can you get me another box over there?” Sparks lifted himself off the couch.

“Don’t bother!” Cranston ordered Sparks. He strutted to the box pile, reached for one and flung it to the floor in front of Antonio’s desk.

“I have never seen such disregard for authority in all my life! And to think you were chosen for your leadership abilities!” Although amused, Stevenson didn’t much like the disrespectful scene that was developing. The more Cranston talked the more his blood boiled. “What kind of admiral do you call yourself!?”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth, Harold?” Stevenson interdicted forcefully. “How dare you talk to him that way? He has served this country for 36 years. You have no right to attack his decisions nor his judgment. He’s an honorable man and the Navy stands behind him.” Cranston snarled at Stevenson, not noticing that another figure was in the doorway.

“His leadership has been substandard at best!”

“What do you know about leadership, you son of a bitch!?” Suddenly their heads turned in the voice’s direction. Antonio simply smiled as he continued to pack. He didn’t have to raise his head; he knew the voice well.

Ramon Torres stood at the door like a rigid sentry, glaring at Cranston.

“What did you say?” Cranston asked with disbelief.

“Mr. Secretary, I said, what do you know about leadership, you son of a bitch?”

“How dare you--”

“Hold your pompous mouth for the cameras! None of us in this room has the time to laugh at your humorous theories on leadership. You’d be better just to keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it where you stand.” Cranston’s rage welled up as Ramon moved past him to shake the hands of the other men. After he placed his hat on Antonio’s desk, and placed a hand on Antonio’s shoulder, he turned around. Cranston spoke first.

“Who do you think you are, Admiral? You’re just--” But Ramon’s sharp, unwavering voice trumped his.

“You have the audacity to come in here and chastise a man who has served his country for more than three decades?” Ramon stepped forward. “You don’t have even one day serving in our armed forces. Am I right? You got this job by helping a man get re-elected. The job was his payback because he couldn’t trust you with anything else. What a fucking crock! You needed the Joint Chiefs and the Pentagon to teach you things and watch your back when you fucked things up.” Ramon moved to the office bar and calmly pulled out four shot glasses and poured brandy from a crystal flask. The room remained silent as he offered the shots to each man except Cranston, who was visibly stunned by such a fierce verbal barrage.

“Howard, do you actually think any one of us takes you seriously? Do you think we ever took you seriously? Did you ever believe for a moment that we gave your orders, your statements, your visions any measure of credence?” Cranston took a step back with his jaw agape from this onslaught. Ramon stalked him like a wolf, putting his glass down and raising his voice to the roof.

“We have given our entire lives to the security of this country, and we will not let an impotent, incompetent, bureaucratic idiot tell us how to do our jobs!” He pointed to Antonio. “If you had followed this man’s guidance from the beginning, our Navy would not be the laughing stock of the armed forces today! But you severed every line we had to our people, trying to make a name for yourself. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Secretary--it’s everywhere, it’s in today’s paper, and soon your children will be saying it like a nursery rhyme: YOUR NAME ISN’T WORTH SHIT, HOWARD CRANSTON! YOU’RE A FUCKING JOKE! HOW DARE YOU HOLD A POSITION THAT WAS BUILT BY REAL MEN!? FIGHTING MEN! MEN LIKE ANTONIO ESPINOZA! HOW DARE YOU!?”

Cranston nervously looked to Stevenson and Sparks for support. But both men glared at him with disdain. His face turned ashen grey. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted from face to face. Ramon stepped away from the shaken man and gulped his drink. Cold silence prevailed in the room.

“I need another drink!” Ramon exclaimed jovially, and walked over to the wet bar and poured a double Scotch in his glass. He was about to down the shot, but thought twice, then turned around. He took it to Cranston, who swallowed hard as Ramon approached.

“Here, Howard. Drink this.” He offered the glass.

Cranston stood trembling under the weighty glare of the men. Just a month shy of his 60th birthday, he had never taken such a verbal, yet mordacious beating at the hands of a subordinate. He stood there mortally wounded, his pride and arrogance utterly crushed. He fidgeted for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, chin and temples. The Scotch spilled over in his trembling hand. He brought the glass to his lips and downed it in one swig then made his way slowly for the door, like a prisoner walking to his execution. When he reached the door he turned one last time to face them.

“I trust that you gentlemen will find it in your good conscience to keep me informed.” All knew that his question was a plea. He was broken down and helpless; there was no need to punish him anymore.

“I’ll brief you, Mr. Secretary, when we are ready.” Stevenson replied dutifully. Cranston nodded.

“Very well. Carry on.” He closed the door behind him and with listless resignation on his face, walked lifelessly to his own office.