And promotion boards only favored those officers they considered "team players," those who didn't rock the figurative boat.
"Sir, I will need to consider my options."
Politics. Damn it all, he hated military politics! You could devote your entire life to the service of your country, but once you reached the rank of commander, every promotion, every position of authority, depended on who you knew in the old boys' network, and who you'd managed to piss off on your way up.
"You are dismissed." The words were like a final pronouncement of doom.
"Aye aye, sir."
Retaining as much composure and dignity as possible, he about-faced and walked out of the room. Down a passageway, left past the front desk, out the big glass doors into the California sunlight, and down the concrete steps beyond…
A ship's horn mourned in the bay, out beyond a row of palms. A Ticonderoga-class CG was rounding North Island on her way to Navy Pier.
Garrett's thoughts blurred and shifted. It was tough to concentrate. Seventeen years of service. He was thirty-nine years old, Annapolis-trained. All his life he'd wanted nothing more than the submarine service. Seventeen years of military life, of training, of duty… and now he might as well retire.
Could he fight it?
"Tom! Hey, Tom!"
He turned, aware that someone had been calling his name for several seconds. It was Captain Gordon, trotting down the steps in front of the headquarters building after him.
He came to attention and saluted. Gordon returned it but made a face. "Damn it, Tom, hold up a sec! We need to talk."
"What is there to talk about?" He tried not to let the words carry his bitterness but knew he'd failed.
"I know you feel like you're being railroaded…."
"Oh, is that what I'm feeling now?" He started walking again, not sure where. "Thank you, sir. I wasn't sure."
"Can the attitude, Commander. You need to work on your target identification. I'm not the enemy."
Garrett stopped, sagged a bit, and turned to face his friend. He'd known Frank Gordon for twelve years.
"I'm sorry, Captain. I guess… I'm a little keyed up still."
"Let's head for the O-Club. You look like you could use a drink."
Garrett let the older man steer him toward the Officers Club, where the two took a booth in the rear and gave their orders — bourbon on the rocks for Garrett, a rum and Coke for Gordon — to the civilian waitress. It was almost empty this early in the afternoon, and they had the back of the place to themselves.
Garrett's mind was still racing. What was Gordon's stake in this?
When Garrett had first met Gordon, back in 1987, he'd been a fresh-faced lieutenant j.g. on his first sea tour, and Frank Gordon had been the commanding officer of the USS Pittsburgh, his CO. His tour of duty aboard the 'Burgh had only lasted a year, until his promotion to lieutenant, but Gordon had taken a special interest in the career paths and studies of all of the junior officers under his command. Even after he'd switched career paths to Naval Intelligence and been assigned to shore duty, Gordon had remained one of his chief mentors as he'd worked his way up the promotion ladder, recommending him for Submarine Officer Advanced Course with a glowing letter, and helping him land a billet as SSN XO aboard the Portsmouth in '94. He wasn't sure, but he'd always suspected that Frank Gordon had a hand in getting him selected for command of the Pittsburgh once he'd made commander. The coincidence, if that was what it was, was too bizarre otherwise.
It had come as a shock as cold and bitter as the north Pacific Ocean to find Gordon on the Board of Inquiry convened to investigate his actions during Operation Buster.
"What the hell is going on, Captain?" he asked. "Did you hear them in there? Did you?"
"I heard."
"All of those charges and specifications. It's bullshit! I couldn't report that Kilo right away without revealing my position. Besides, there was nothing in the orders about checking every detail with Washington! I was well within my command discretion!"
"Agreed."
"I surfaced because I knew the SEALs had been in a firefight, a long one. Damn it, we could hear the shooting, underwater! I didn't know they had casualties, sure, but it was a good guess. And a damned lucky one!"
"Also agreed. Keep your voice down."
"I deliberately surfaced on the far side of that freighter from the Kilo and far enough out that they couldn't get a good look at us."
"Intelligence reports that they didn't see you. At least, that Kilo didn't make a report to that effect. They're sure they hit a sub out there — hell, the SEALs had to come from somewhere—but they think they sank you when they collided with you." He gave a grim smile. "The way they tell it, they won."
"I did run into them," Garrett said. "But it couldn't be avoided! I was doing my job, damn it. I was right where I was supposed to be. You know how fuzzy passive sonar range is. And if I'd gone active, they would have heard the pinging and known I was there. Damn it, Captain, what else was I supposed to do?"
"Take it easy, son." Their drinks arrived and Gordon lifted his glass. "It ain't over till it's over. Right?"
Garrett sipped his drink and scowled at the bite. "Bainbridge was out to nail my hide to a tree."
"Bainbridge had an agenda."
"What agenda?"
"To make sure that nothing endangers the current diplomatic negotiations with Beijing. The administration has a lot riding on favored nation trade status for the People's Republic. That means being nice to the Chinese, apologizing for an unfortunate 'incident,' and making sure that nothing, no one, rocks the boat."
"That sucks."
"Agreed. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"It's your right to demand a court."
"I know. And their right to squash me like a bug. Damn it, Captain, no matter what I do I'll never have my own command again. I might as well take early retirement!"
"That would be a waste, Tom, and you know it. You have too much invested in your career right now."
"My career." The word was bitter in his mouth. "Claire wouldn't mind seeing me get out. She's been on about it for a couple of years. And it sure as hell doesn't look like I'm going anywhere now."
"That may be your perception now, Tom. It's not necessarily accurate. A lot of it has to do with what you decide. You're not adrift, you know. You can make active choices. Take charge of your own life."
"Look, Frank," Garrett said. It was a sign of his agitation that he'd called Gordon by his given name. They'd been on a comfortable, first-name basis since Garrett had made commander, but never when they were both in uniform. "I'm flattered. I really am. But just what is your interest in this… in me?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've been my fairy godmother ever since I came aboard the 'Burgh, when you were her skipper. And I've appreciated it. But why me?"
Gordon shrugged. "You're a good officer. Talented.
Good potential. I saw that, as you say, when you came aboard in 'eighty-seven. I believe in encouraging talent wherever it's found."
"Yeah? Then… don't get me wrong, but why did you sign on with Bainbridge's little crusade this week?"
"I didn't 'sign on,' as you put it. I was volunteered."
"By who?"
"My bosses at ONI." He made a face. "Let's leave it at that."
Gordon rarely talked about his work with the Office of Naval Intelligence. Garrett had the impression that he was a senior analyst with the California branch of the department. "You spooks can never give a straight answer," he said.