But that certainly wasn't Mark's fault. Luck of the draw, in a universe sometimes frustratingly perverse.
Halstead walked over to the machine, fed it money, and came back with a couple of cans. Morton popped the pull tab of his with a hiss and took a swig.
"So what do you think it'll be?" Halstead asked after a moment. "Make nice to China? Or tough it out?"
"Damfino. I never claimed to understand politics. Or politicians."
"Hear hear. The PRC has been spoiling for a fight lately. We might as well get it on. Why stop with their embassy?"
"The idea is not to have a war with them," Morton said. "What is it that's worth fighting about. Taiwan?"
"Sinking one of their merchant ships could be considered an act of war," Halstead observed. He had a twinkle in his eye, though, and a bantering lilt to his voice.
"Don't I know it!" Morton jerked his head, indicating the council going on behind closed doors now. "That's what I figure they're talking about now. Am I a hero for standing up to the Chinese dragon? Or another scapegoat, somebody else to apologize for to the Chinese ambassador?"
"Things have been getting pretty damned tight with the PRC," Halstead said, all levity gone. "You know, if we don't stand up to them pretty soon, if we don't draw a line and say 'no further…' "
He let the thought trail off, unfinished, but it was a topic both men — most SEALs — had discussed frequently of late.
China had been decidedly more aggressive these past few years, especially in confrontations with the government of Taiwan. A major crisis had been brewing a few months back, when Beijing fired several test missiles into Taiwanese waters, rather pointedly demonstrating that they could take their rebellious province, as they thought of Nationalist China, under fire any time they desired.
But the real crisis with Washington had begun in May of that year. The escalating NATO air campaign against Serbia in the Balkans had proven less than effective, and after considerable dithering, air strikes had been directed against targets deeper and deeper within major cities, instead of out in the hinterlands. One promising target had been the Bureau of Supply and Procurement in downtown Belgrade; with laser-guided bombs dropped from stealth F-117s, Washington hoped to bring the war home to Milosevich and his thugs without causing civilian casualties.
A mission had been duly dispatched. At least three bombs had struck the target in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, the target turned out to be not the nerve center of Milosevich military logistics network but the Chinese Embassy. Working from maps two years out of date, a CIA analyst had managed to bomb the embassy of a country Washington was at that moment negotiating with, hoping to build a solid international front against the Serbs. Thirty people had been in the embassy compound during the attack; three had been killed. Most Chinese assumed the attack was deliberate, pointing to the fact that their flag had been clearly visible above the building; none seemed to understand — or be willing to understand — that such details as a flag flying at night were invisible to the electronic surveillance systems employed by an F-117, which might release the bomb some miles away from the target.
The bombing had to be one of the most disastrous intelligence gaffes in the history of warfare.
As a result, anti-American feeling in the People's Republic had been running at a fever pitch, and each day seemed to bring about new breakdowns in relations between the two countries. Demonstrations, rock-throwing, and flag-burnings at the U.S. Embassy in China. Angry rhetoric at the UN. The incident in the northern Pacific appeared to have brought the two nations to the brink of war, and Beijing's saber-rattling had recently gone so far as to suggest publicly that the U.S. West Coast would not long be beyond the reach of Chinese nuke-tipped missiles.
The world appeared to be on the verge of another round of nuclear superpower confrontations, and inevitably the Teams would be in the thick of things.
The better part of an hour ticked slowly past on the big, round clock on the wall behind the secretary's desk. Morton and Halstead talked some, but much of the time passed in worried silence. Morton caught himself wondering about the verdict… and what the delay meant. What was it supposed to be… that the longer the jury was out, the better the chances for the accused? He wasn't certain that applied in this case. Either he'd done good, so far as the Navy and the SPECWAR community were concerned, or he hadn't. If they were taking this damned long to make up their minds, there had to be a problem.
Shit….
One of the doors opened and a Marine sentry looked out. "Lieutenant Morton? They're waiting for you, sir."
"Thank you."
"Break a leg, amigo," Halstead told him. "Just keep the getaway car warmed and ready, in case I have to make a break for Mexico."
"Roger that."
Morton reentered the room and came to attention in front of the desk. The three senior officers did not appear to have moved from their places. They were continuing to confer among themselves and didn't take any immediate notice of him.
Jack Morton was a student of history in general, of Navy history in particular. He couldn't help thinking about an old, old naval tradition that went back to the time of Nelson and the Age of Sail.
In those days, in the Royal Navy, an officer who went before a court-martial board surrendered his sword at the beginning of the proceedings. At the end of the board's deliberations, the officer was called back in to hear their judgment. If, when he walked in, his sword was lying on the desk with its hilt pointed at him, he knew that the inquiry had been decided in his favor. If the sword lay on the table with its point toward the accused, he knew the case had gone against him and he was facing censure, disgrace, professional ruin… or worse.
It was a shame, he thought, that the tradition was no longer in effect. It would have saved him some unpleasant moments there, standing rigidly at attention while waiting for them to finish.
The huddle broke at last, and Chaffee cleared his throat. "Ahem. Lieutenant Morton. It is the judgment of this formal Board of Inquiry that, in regard to the events of the early morning of twenty-three September of this year, while you were engaged in the tactical evolution of Operation Buster as commander of First Platoon, SEAL Team One, you did endeavor to carry out your orders to the best of your abilities, acting in the finest traditions of the naval service." He paused, looking uncomfortable. "Speaking now off the record, Lieutenant, I will say that, while, ah, some on this board questioned the, um, zeal with which you carried out your orders — a zeal which resulted in the unfortunate sinking of a commercial vessel of a foreign power with whom we are not currently at war, as well as extensive damage to one of their warships — your orders at the time offered little leeway in the honorable, prompt, and expeditious carrying out of those orders. This board does not hold you responsible for that sinking, which must be classified as an act of God.
"Speaking on the record, again… it is, further, this board's conclusion that you, Lieutenant Morton, acted with distinction, decision, and bravery under fire in effecting the recovery of two of your men, one of whom was wounded in the action. We intend to pass to higher command authority this board's recommendation that you receive an official commendation for your action."
"He means we're putting you in for the Silver Star, Jack," Randall said, grinning.
Chaffee glared at the junior member of the board but continued without allowing himself to be sidetracked.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant, on a job well done. This Board of Inquiry is closed."
"Thank you, sir."
"You are dismissed."
"Aye aye, sir!"