“Weed… I’ve gotta ground you, too.”
Weed locked eyes with Wilson and nodded before looking away, hurt and humiliated.
“Am I the pound of flesh for Maug Island?” Weed asked. Wilson tried to convey as much compassion as he could.
“I’m sorry, Weed. A Japanese general is coming out here in a few days. He’ll be witness to the investigation.”
Weed shook his head in contempt. “I expected an investigation, but I thought our burner cans would at least be cooled before convening one. Here we are at GQ — only a day removed from combat — and it’s time for a rug dance. ‘Please risk your life and save our ass. Now, here’s your punitive letter.’”
Wilson raised his hand. “We’ll do an investigation. We’ll report findings.”
Weed gave him a look. “We both know what the ‘findings’ will be. ‘It’s unfortunate, but Captain Hopper fucked it away. Won’t happen again, and here’s your copy of the paper bullet we are going to fire into his head. We’re very sorry. Please resume and enjoy your illegal fishing activities with our warm regards.’”
“Weed…”
“And the next time you need the South China Sea opened up for you, just let us know.”
Wilson allowed his friend of twenty years to vent. Happy-go-lucky Weed had only a few strands of red left on his graying head. He had seen more action than even Cactus Clark and certainly more than Admiral Moraski in Washington. In their day, aviators like Clark held high over Bosnia and Southern Iraq in No-Fly Zone patrol and called it combat. Weed and Wilson’s generation had been put to the test, repeatedly, and none of the admirals had ever fought in a satellite-denied environment. However, as village elders had done since the days of sticks and stones, seniors judged juniors, and then seniors punished juniors.
Weed gathered himself.
“I’m sorry, Flip… knew this was coming but just needed a moment. I’m back. And I’m grounded, got it. After they drum me out, I’ll probably go back to Ohio and get my old job at the plant. You know, I needed two more traps for 1,000 career.” Weed smiled as he thought of it.
“That and four dollars will get you a Starbucks,” Wilson said, trying to lighten the moment.
Weed nodded. “Good thing I don’t drink coffee.”
“You’re a good man, Weed. Love you, bro. The investigation will be fair.”
“Yeah, whatever…. And what about you? What’s next for you? Another Navy Cross and back to the Pentagon?”
Wilson could forgive Weed’s cynicism. “A Navy Cross and four dollars will buy me a cup.”
“Seriously? What are you thinking?”
Wilson paused. While he trusted Weed, he didn’t know if now was the time to open up. But since his friend had asked…
“I’m gonna retire.”
Weed nodded, and after a moment said, “Why?”
Wilson didn’t have a quick answer, didn’t really know himself. It was more feeling than fact.
“It’s time. They say you know when it’s time.”
“Flip… you’re going to make admiral. Don’t do this.”
Wilson smiled and shook his head. “A star on my collar, a few hundred more in the paycheck…. Just to be a glorified paper-pusher in the Pentagon? And do you like cream and sugar in your coffee, Mister Deputy Assistant Secretary?”
Weed shook his head. “Bullshit. Yes, you have to be a butt-boy in the puzzle palace at first, but then you can come back out here where you can lead people, like The Big Unit, protecting us from stupid stuff and taking care of these kids who go over the beach. Making the hard calls that need to be made. Flip, the Navy has to sacrifice me, and you gotta pull the trigger, but you need to stay and make a positive difference. You need—”
“Fuck that, Weed!”
Both men were surprised at Wilson’s outburst. Stung, Weed leaned back, waiting for an apology.
A dejected Wilson slumped in his chair. “Dude, I’m sorry.”
Weed said nothing in the tense silence. It was rare for Wilson to lose control. Weed waited… his friend was entitled to vent after all they had been through.
“I’m tired, Weed. I’ve had enough. When we were in the Ravens on that combat cruise, Mary wrote me pretty much an ultimatum. It’s either me or the Navy. She changed her mind, of course, and has supported me these last ten years, but she called it. Career rat race, combat deployments, and your kids grow up without you. Okay… we just defeated the People’s Republic! A high-end fight, and we lived to tell the tale. You get a punitive letter for your trouble, Mother is probably going to survive and be Commandant, and Joe six-pack is still clueless. It’s the unfairness of it all — and yes, life is unfair — but I don’t have to live this way anymore. I just want to get everyone home, and then sit in my living room and relax.”
Weed nodded. He then spoke up. “Flip, your rationale to retire, which I would have called whining when we were JOs, is sound. But now that you’ve unburdened yourself, the fact remains that you must stay. Through four stars so you can command strike groups and fleets. You’ve got another ten-plus years of service ahead of you, Flip, and if you quit now — yes, quit—when you know how to take care of our kids and have shown time and again that you can lead in combat, I’ll never forgive you, and you know deep down that you’ll never forgive you. It falls on you to lead, and it’s hard. It sucks a lot of the time, and, when they are not appreciating you, they are badmouthing you and second-guessing you. The fact remains, Kemosabe, that you are fated to lead, and we need you now more than ever because Washington is going to fuck this victory up like they do every time. Stay, Flip, and if you’ve already written your letter, shred it, then burn the shreds, put the ashes in a weighted container, and chuck it off the fantail as we cross the Marianas Trench.”
Wilson smiled at Weed’s monologue. Weed always knew how to keep him loose. But Weed was done, and both knew it. He’d never go to sea with him again. He felt for Weed. He was jealous of Weed.
“You just sentenced me to ten years of hard labor. So when Mary asks me, I’ll just say, ‘Weed made me do it.’ Is that my defense?”
Weed nodded. “Who knows what the future holds, or if the Navy is even smart enough to promote you, but let them tell you when it’s time to leave. Most guys make that decision for themselves, but you are not most guys. Stay in, Flip.”
“Thank you, my friend. Sorry I snapped.”
“Get some sleep, Kemosabe. And thanks. I’ll be okay. I can live with myself.”
With the glow of mainland lights to the west, Zhong Xiao Shen Ju-Lang stood behind the officer of the deck as Changzheng 8 approached the boat’s homeport of Zhanjiang. In another hour the First Officer would call away sea detail and the boat’s sail would be crowded with watchstanders as the submarine entered the channel. A corvette would meet them and escort them in.
The ceasefire message from SUBFLOT South directed that the People’s submarines were to transit home on the surface, and, for the previous two days, Shen and his crew had seen American antisubmarine aircraft and helicopters buzz their vessel as it rolled in the moderate seas. The motion was just enough to be uncomfortable for a crew who would otherwise submerge to avoid the swells, and a constant reminder of yet another foreign humiliation. The American Boeings flying past them in formation — no doubt taking photos of one of their planes with Changzheng 8 in the background — angered him, but the Japanese P-3 flyover was a shot to the solar plexus. He wondered if they knew it was Shen and this boat that had sunk their helicopter carrier.