Читать книгу The Crucible - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 9

“You want what!?” Lance Stevenson couldn’t believe his ears after hearing the request. The 58-year-old Navy Secretary almost spit up his mouthful of coffee. He reset his thin-rimmed glasses back on the tip of his nose.

“I want to withdraw Commander Torres from the current command selection list, as well as take her off the stop-loss program so she can get out of the Navy.”

The skin under Antonio Espinoza’s eyes was blotched with dark rings. His hair was a disheveled mop, and his uniform hastily thrown on. He had not slept for three nights; two of those nights were on his office couch. He sat up those hours, rifling through naval documents, electronic libraries, stop-loss regulations, human resource manuals, decommissioning procedures; trying to find loopholes, concessions, vague language--anything, to grant his best friend a wish that he had no power of doing. He now sat facing a man with so much influence and so many connections, that he could grant that wish with just a single nod of his head, or the wink of one eye, each equating to the stroke of a pen.

There would, however, be a price. Antonio didn’t know what that price would be just yet, but he knew the game. In the upper echelons of Pentagon politics, one hand always washed the other. Paying back such a favor usually equated to performing an official duty outside one’s job title and jurisdiction. Taking care of something behind the scenes; opening a door for someone that was previously closed; making something potentially problematic go away; or even simply--remaining silent to something that could be construed as a conflict of interest, illegal or even immoral.

“Am I hearing you right, Tony? Did you say Kristina Torres?”

“That’s right.”

“The Kristina Torres? The single greatest technical mind in naval science today? You want her to separate from the Navy? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“That’s right, Lance,” Antonio huffed exhaustedly. “That’s exactly what you’re hearing.” Antonio felt like a teenager asking his father for the keys to the Mercedes the day after crashing the BMW. He didn’t even brace himself for the rejection; he was already thinking of the call he would make to Ramon. How horrible that call would be.

“May I ask why?” Lance Stevenson sat back and folded his hands calmly. The power and leverage he possessed were both enviable and despicable at the same time. In his pocket he had those who sat on review, selection and confirmation boards; he dined with Wall Street CEOs; and golfed with lobbyists, congressmen, lawyers, and judges. This placed him in the position of having the power to grant un-grantable favors, and he never forgot who owed him.

Although Stevenson had total control of the Navy in all forms political, there was one member of the admiralty he could not control or buy--Admiral Ramon Torres. His dislike for Torres was historic. Their egos just could not mesh in the same room. They were the best in their jobs and they knew it. Each of their decisions affected the other in policy and strategy, and this, they despised. Their confrontations were legendary.

During an appropriations proposal to cut Pacific Fleet funding, Torres tore into Stevenson with so much rancor, that the state secretary asked Torres to leave the room. The animosity shared between them sucked on Stevenson’s skin like a leach each time he heard the Torres name. They avoided each other at all costs.

Antonio knew this all too well. But in this situation there seemed to be no way out. A choice had to be made in a no-win situation. Someone would have to be crucified for the sake of someone else. Antonio would have to choose between himself or Ramon. The choice rotted his conscience like a rampant cancer. He desperately needed this woman in the Navy. There was no denying her engineering prowess which was second to none.

Her tall, physical beauty could manipulate men; her innocent unpretentious charm could earn the trust of women; and her genius could save a fleet of ships. Kristina Torres was born to command. But if there was one weakness that overshadowed all her gifts it was her inexperience in battle conditions, and that was Ramon’s fault.

Ramon shielded her throughout her career, keeping her from getting too deep into the very art and science that she had so soundly mastered. He guarded her fiercely like a possessive king watching over his virgin princess. From the course curriculum she pursued at the Academy, to the men she associated with, he was there to grant or deny permission. Antonio understood that Ramon had to be this way. Kristina, despite all her brilliance, was a fragile doll, still emotionally scarred by her personal tragedy years ago. Ramon stood guard over the only thing he loved more than his own life. As a result, twice he kept her from her own command.

Another question entered Antonio’s mind: What did Kristina want? He had not talked with her in months. Was he wrong to judge Ramon? Was Ramon just echoing Kristina’s own wishes? Or was this just another chapter in his control scheme? Did she want to command? With her credentials she could get any ship in the fleet save a carrier or sub. But did she want that? How can a person who practically redesigned the offensive capabilities of an entire class of combatants just want to up and walk away from it all? What she had done for naval science not only took genius but it took passion. It had to! Not since Admirals Rickover and Hopper had a single luminary change the course of naval strategy. Yet Rickover and Hopper reached their professional zeniths when they were in their fifties and sixties. But Kristina, at the age of 34, was just getting started, and her zenith was far from imaginable.

What did she want to do? Suddenly Antonio was enveloped in his own dialogue, finally forced to consider just a single person’s needs.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Antonio,” a familiar voice said, yet his internal conversation didn’t seem to notice.

But the tragedy. The subject suddenly entered Antonio’s mind like an assassin’s bullet.

Even if given command, could she handle the pressure? She practically lost her mind 16 years ago. What if it happened again? What if Ramon’s premonition was right? Would the sight of death and blood--even fire--dislodge the genius, dismantle the judgment and discipline on which her delicate condition rested? Would the demon rear its head during a crucial moment, causing the delay or even the collapse of decision-making abilities that would compromise the safety of her crew?

“Antonio, who’s really asking these questions? Is it Commander Torres herself, or Ramon?”

Could she handle the exhausting, suffocating pressure of command in the Ring? The voice outside his inner conversation continued to speak.

“I can’t believe that it would be you, Antonio. You were the one who insisted that Torres either command the Rosa Parks or be given a bigger, better experimental ship than the Gettysburg.”

Antonio’s thoughts were too deep to realize that there was still another person in the room, a person who was speaking to him.

She’s paragon in her technological field. But commanding at sea and using that technology to kill people is another thing. Kristina is sensitive, charitable, and humane. But this job requires the ability to detach one’s self from sensitivity, charity and humanity.

Kristina is not that kind of person. I’ve known her since she was a child. There’s no way she could be this way. Detaching her humanity is not possible for her.

“Hello, Antonio?”

There would be risks.

“Antonio, are you in this conversation?”

If I’m wrong, hundreds of sailors could die, including this precious woman. If I’m right, she could decide the outcome of the war.

“Admiral Espinoza. . .I’m talking to you.”

“If something happens to her. . .I’m coming after you!” Antonio dismissed the echo of Ramon’s words as he asked his own questions. Friendship or duty? Brotherhood or commitment? The needs of a family or the needs of the Navy?

“Are you all right, Antonio?”

“Friendship and family be damned. . .”

What do you want, Kristina?

“I swear. . .”

What do YOU want, Kristina?

“. . . I’m coming after you!”

“ANTONIO!”

Antonio snapped his head toward Stevenson, who had leaned forward over his desk. His eyes were wide with concern and anger.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? You look terrible.” Antonio closed his eyes, wincing for clarity, and shook his head slowly.

“I’m a little tired. That’s all.”

Stevenson slid back down into his chair.

“Where were we?” Antonio massaged his eyes with his fingers.

“Where were we? Antonio, you came to me and asked that I allow the release of one of the Navy’s most gifted officers, probably the most brilliant officer in the last century. And not just be released from command selection, but to break the stop-loss order and release her into the civilian world. Where were we!?”

“I have my reasons, Lance. I ask for your trust on this.”

“Antonio, we’re not talking about some young trouble-making malcontent who can’t cut the mustard; we’re talking about Kristina Torres. How do I justify letting someone like her go?”

Stevenson was truly perplexed. He liked Antonio very much, but this request seemed so unreasonable and so unrealistic, that he couldn’t believe they were actually discussing it.

“You will find a way, Lance. You have so many people in your pocket, you will find a way. And I don’t need to tell you that it has to be very quiet.”

“Tony, did Ramon put you up to this?” Stevenson shifted uneasily in his seat. “I know he’s your good friend, but I hate that son of a bitch, and I’ll not support it if he has anything to do with it. It amazes me how such a sweet, brilliant young woman could be related to such an arrogant ass.”

Antonio rubbed his temples.

“No, Lance. This has nothing to do with Ramon. He doesn’t know.” The lie was so easily delivered that it was frightening. “This is a Navy issue.”

“A Navy--” Stevenson choked again. “A Navy issue!?”

Antonio pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.

“Lance, do you recall the early days of high seas piracy in the Indian Ocean? Way back in the late 2000s?”

“Of course, Somali pirates. Hundreds of attacks on vessels, hit and run tactics, hostages, and a lot of casualties. Yeah.”

“Do you remember the 2012 incident of the Perry-class frigate, the USS McClusky?”

“No. I wasn’t part of the DoD at that time.”

“The McClusky was on her final few months of duty in the Indian Ocean before heading back to San Diego and her decommissioning. She was part of a NATO combined task force, one of several international flotillas patrolling the Gulf of Aden and the Indian Ocean. Their mission was to combat piracy.”

“Go on,” said Stevenson, leaning forward with focused attention.

“There were unconfirmed rumors that the pirates had purchased a few Chinese-built Houdong-class missile boats, variants of the ancient Russian Osa-class. They used drugs and automatic weapons to buy at least two boats from Iran. They also bought the Chinese anti-ship missile that went with it, the C-802 Saccade.” Antonio took a pause and took off his glasses. He looked away as if he didn’t want to tell the rest of the story. Stevenson stood and walked to his massive bookshelf and removed a flask of brandy and two glasses. He poured a shot for each of them. Antonio quickly drank the brandy and asked for another. Stevenson obliged.

“Two days before heading back home, McClusky’s captain Commander Wayne Burrows ordered his crew to conduct a complete field day of the ship. Nothing wrong with that; clean the ship from top to bottom before heading home.” Antonio shook his head in regret. “But Burrows made a horrible error; he ordered the air and surface-search radar suites shutdown for part of the cleaning.” Antonio looked up at Stevenson with narrowed eyes. “Eighteen-year-old, Fire Controlman Third-class Kristina Torres was on the McClusky.”

“Oh my God,” Stevenson exhaled, already piecing together what was about to happen.

“Between 9 and 9:10 P.M. a boat emerged from the southeast about one thousand yards and fired.”

“The C-802,” Stevenson said with dread. Antonio nodded.

“It hit the McClusky broadside, just above the waterline. The blast and fire killed 43 sailors. About half were in the berthing compartments. Kristina Torres was also in the berthing compartment.

“Sweet Jesus.” Stevenson shook his head.

“On her first cruise, she watched twenty-two shipmates and friends either blow apart or burn to death.”

Stevenson remained silent, his eyes fixed on Antonio.

“Luckily the missile boat fired only once. It disappeared and was later sunk by a Japanese destroyer. Torres and several others were absolutely traumatized. Some were medically discharged with irreversible psychological damage. She survived, but suffers to this day from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Flashbacks?” Stevenson asked.

“That, and hallucinations, nightmares and depression.”

“But she overcame it, right? I mean, she went to the Academy.”

“Ramon insisted that she apply and made sure that no one knew about her condition. I also influenced a few people in this regard. Papers were doctored, Lance; you know the drill. Several documents disappeared from her record, the psych evaluations to be specific. She never knew. We shielded her.”

“Of course.” Stevenson’s tone streamed with understanding. “Such revelations need not leave this room. But it made little difference did it, Tony?”

“Yes, our plan worked out. She was phenomenal. Top of her class at the Academy; awards in physics, mechanical and computer engineering, and mathematics. Now look at her.”

“I’d say,” Stevenson agreed. “Three Master’s degrees and two pending Ph.D.s.”

“She’s been the face of Navy weapons technology and development for years, but Lance, medically she’s not fit to command. No one knows what actual combat would do to her in that condition. Her entire ship could be in danger.” Antonio hated himself as the words rolled from his tongue. “And if word of this ever got out to the media, many people would burn.” He buried his eyes in his palm again in both relief and shame.

“Can we retain her? Can she continue working for the Navy if we keep her where she’s at?”

“I don’t think so. Her condition is getting worse.”

Another goddamn lie! “I checked with her doctor at Bethesda and he believes that the stress is getting too much for her to bear. Still another. She’s taking about four different medications. Another. She personally asked me for permission to resign her commission.” Lie number five, God help me.

“What if we keep her at WEPS-ONE on a modified schedule of her choice?”

“She’s a highly sought-after corporate commodity, and naturally she has had offers on the outside. She’s guaranteed a position at WEPS, but as a civilian.” He paused, struggling to hold back his tears. “Lance, she’s testing the Navy’s new tactical data system and a few of her new weapons within a week or two. They are flawless systems and installation on our ships will begin within months; we can’t ask more of her after that, really.”

Stevenson looked down at his desk in disappointment. He took a pen and scribbled some words on his notepad. He looked back at Antonio, whose shoulders and head hung as if dislocated from his upper body.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Tony?“

Yes, that I’m a bald-faced liar and a son of a bitch! Antonio dragged his head slowly from side to side, full of remorse. Stevenson stood up and extended his hand. Antonio also stood and took the hand.

“Has she mentored anyone? Is there anyone who can carry on her work?”

“One Lieutenant Commander Rebecca Raven. I don’t know her, but she’s reported as Kristina’s disciple and best friend. If Torres transitions as a civilian at WEPS, it will be seamless. No changes. There’s also a Rick Verdasco, civilian, he directs the logistics and production side. Admiral Armocida’s civilian staff are a brilliant team, but Raven is the legitimate military heiress.”

“Thank God.” Stevenson nodded. “And thank you, Tony, for being honest with me.”

If you only knew.

“I’ll make that call to Admiral Schmidt at BUPERS and I’ll see that it’s done silently. Torres has been such a remarkable officer and visionary. I’m saddened, but I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. When is her commission up?”

“In five months.”

“We‘ll be firing missiles at North Korea or China within one month I‘ll wager,” Stevenson sighed. “I’ll have to make that call soon and get her out before the shit starts flying.” Stevenson tightened his grip on Antonio’s hand and smiled slightly. “You’re still taking care of our people, Tony. Although you’ve been shit on by this administration, it’s comforting to know that there’s one person in our circle of crooks who’s still looking out for the men and women in uniform.”

“Thank you, sir.” Their hands fell away. Antonio reached for his briefcase and cap. “Good day, sir.” Stevenson walked him to the door with a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Tony. It’s done already.”

This was a monstrous victory, but Antonio couldn’t stop the flood of guilt that inundated his heart. He walked into the nearest restroom and sought solitude in an empty stall. Putting his hands to his eyes, the tears began to flow.

Kristina, my darling girl. . .what have we done to you?