Maybe if he worried as much about his looks as Beau did, things would have been different.
This was their third tour together. The two spent six years with SEAL Teams Four and Six and were on their third year at the Tactics Development Command at Quantico.
Beau had also received a phone call telling him to be at the Pentagon by 0800 hours. Why would the admiral want Beau there to discuss Duncan’s impending SERB from the Navy? The answer was, he wouldn’t; ergo, the admiral had another reason — some asshole idea up his sleeve, no doubt. Whatever the admiral’s reason, knowing the two star twisted thinking, it would be something Duncan was not going to like.
But it bugged the shit out of him not knowing why Hodges was bothering him in this twilight of his career.
What could the admiral come up with worse than telling him to retire? He’s been sleeping with Cathy, too? No, couldn’t be that; Cathy hated the political asshole.
The beeps of Beau’s car horn caught his attention.
There’s the Adonis now. Duncan grabbed his hat. He’d suffer through today; bury the damn dog; and then decide what to do about his wife. Maybe if he kept putting off trying to make a decision about the marriage, she’d come back. He stepped over the discarded running clothes in the middle of the floor and turned off the lights. He’d tidy the house when he came home. When he opened the front door, he found Beau standing beside his car.
“Hey, come on, Duncan, or we’re going to be late.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Well, I love you, too.”
Duncan slammed the door behind him.
“Beau, where can you bury a dog around here?”
“In your mood? You can bury the damn thing anywhere you want. I doubt anyone would argue.” Beau put his arm on Duncan’s shoulder.
“You can tell me, shipmate. Piles?” FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER THE TWO NAVY SEALS sat in the outer office of Rear Admiral Upper Half William Tecumseh Hodges. Duncan rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble from a bad shave.
Three hours later, they still sat waiting. Duncan looked at the clock for about the hundredth time. He knew they’d probably be here for a couple more hours for what would most likely be a ten-minute meeting. He shut his eyes and laid his head back against the top of the chair.
Duncan and Bill Hodges had been Naval Academy classmates, with Duncan graduating in the upper twenty-five percent of the class while Hodges brought up the rear. Just showed that success during Desert Storm, a Purple Heart and a couple of Bronze Stars with Vs, and five rows of medals meant little against being able to balance a finance sheet, do a good “stand and smile” at receptions, and play Washington politics when it came to promotions. Hodges only had four rows in his fruit salad.
No, he wasn’t bitter. Pissed off maybe, but not bitter.
Twenty-eight years of solid “doing the Navy’s work” was for naught when it came to downsizing the military.
Beau reached over and shook Duncan.
“Duncan, how much longer is the old man going to keep us waiting?” Beau whispered. He crossed his legs and began to nonchalantly run a finger around the edges of a fingernail.
“Not as if we don’t have a lot to do today.” He glanced up and caught the yeoman looking at him. He winked and smiled, causing her to blush and look away quickly.
“I don’t know. Beau. We were to be here at eight. It’s after eleven now.” Duncan ran his finger around the tight collar of his white shirt. The air conditioning did little to stop beads of sweat trickling down his neck. Give him khakis any day Ties choked a man. He loosened the tie slightly, pulled a handkerchief out, and wiped his forehead. If his whites had been ironed he could have worn them, as Beau had, instead of these heavy service dress blues.
He thought that he may have seen his whites on the floor near the washer.
“If you wouldn’t lift weights you’d have a neck and that shirt wouldn’t bother you so much.” Beau laughed.
“On second thought, keep lifting and running. I hear that at fifty everything travels south faster.” He held his hand out to admire the self-manicure.
“Forty.”
“Forty what?”
“Everything moves toward the waistline when you reach forty if you don’t work out. Besides, I keep telling you:
I’m not fifty.”
“Right! You’re saying that because next month I turn forty,” said Beau with a smirk that disappeared slowly as he tried to determine whether Duncan was serious or not.
The phone beeped on the yeoman’s desk.
“Yes, Admiral, they’re still here.” She looked at Duncan.
“The admiral says to go right in, Captain.”
Pettigrew was the first up.
“Let’s find out what we screwed up this time.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the yeoman said tactfully, raising her hand.
“The admiral would like a word with Captain James, by himself. Sorry, Commander.”
Beau flopped back onto the settee.
“I forgot. You’re old friends. Tell him Rod said hi.”
As Duncan moved toward the door Beau spoke up again.
“Forty? Are you sure?”
Duncan ignored the question as he opened the door and entered the admiral’s office. Strolling toward him in starched whites, hand extended, was Rear Admiral Upper Half Hodges. Pasted on the ruddy face of this dedicated jogger was his notorious “delightful to see you” grin. A “shit-eating grin,” Beau called it. The tall, slender profile of the admiral highlighted a waist that looked as if it would snap in two in a big wind. Duncan thought of his own growing waistline as he wondered if the admiral dyed his hair to keep it that rusty color. Even a few gray hairs would have given Duncan some satisfaction. The rumors must be true — he must dye it.
“Duncan, old friend. God, it’s good to see you. I’m sorry about keeping you waiting.” He guided Duncan toward a group of chairs near the window.
“You know how the Pentagon is. Everything’s an emergency and everyone needs the answers to today’s questions yesterday. But enough of my problems. How’s everything?” he asked and, before Duncan could reply, he continued in a serious tone.
“Duncan, I’m really sorry about the SERB. I know it’s a tough way to go. We all want to choose our own time, not have a bunch of nondescript officers decide our fate over … God knows what!”
“Thanks, Admiral,” he replied. So, he was here so the admiral could gloat.
Admiral Hodges motioned Duncan to a seat. Duncan chose the new leather wing-back near the window so the cool air from the wall units blew directly on him. With the shades partially closed to keep out the rays of the hot sun the cooling air felt wonderful. The air conditioning seemed more forceful in the admiral’s office than in the reception area.
“Coffee, Duncan?” Admiral Hodges asked as he moved to the percolator on a nearby table.
“No, thanks. Admiral. I’m about coffee’d out. Your yeoman kept our cups full the three and a half hours we’ve been waiting.”
“Sorry about the wait, Duncan. As I said. Pentagon work is never routine,” Admiral Hodges replied as he poured a cup before sitting down opposite him.
“One of the things about the Pentagon, Duncan, is that everywhere you go they have a pot of coffee. It never fails that the heads are down the passageways and never easy to reach when you need to take that inevitable leak. It seems to me the more you have to pee the more people there are who want just a few words with you on the way.”
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Duncan. He relaxed the muscles in his face in an effort to keep his expression neutral.
“Not like the field,” said the admiral, looking up as if he were reminiscing.
“Now there’s where they separate the men from the boys. There’s where we get down to the business that our nation and our Navy designed the SEALs to do. Yeah, I miss that a lot being in the Pentagon.” He took a sip and then pensively continued.