“Sometimes I ask myself why we have a Pentagon admiral’s billet in Naval Special Warfare, but someone has to fight for the few dollars they throw our way. Less and less dollars every year to do the training and exercises we need to maintain our readiness, but, by God, we’ve got plenty of funds for humanitarian efforts. Sometimes I think we should have a big Red Cross above our metals instead of the SEAL emblem.”
Hodges paused and shook his head.
“But I didn’t ask you here to talk about Washington money problems.”
“Yes, sir. Admiral. I figured it was something important,” Duncan replied, not believing it in the least.
“It is, Duncan. Something that only you can do.”
That didn’t sound good. Why, all of a sudden, did he have this bad feeling? He nearly lifted his left arm to save his watch from the bullshit he expected to follow.
Admiral Hodges stood and put his cup down on the edge of his walnut desk and strolled over to the window that overlooked the Pentagon’s south parking lot. He twisted the bar to widen the shades. The sun hit Duncan squarely in the face and immediately offset the cooling effects of the air conditioning. Sweat beaded out again and quickly trickled down on his already soaked collar. Hodges turned and grinned.
“It’s great to have an office with windows.”
Duncan looked away. They wouldn’t allow him to retire if he knocked the twinkle out of an admiral’s eye.
“Duncan,” Admiral Hodges said, shifting into his command voice. Hodges moved out of the sunlight to the shade surrounding his desk and sat down before continuing.
“I need you to do something for me, for the Navy, and for the SEALs.” He picked up a pencil and began tapping it on the Plexiglas that covered the desktop.
The tapping sounded like a bass drum beating against the inside of Duncan’s brain.
“Yes, sir?” Duncan asked, mentally willing the pencil to break or fly out of Hodges’s hand — anything to stop the annoying noise.
As if hearing his wish, Hodges’s tapping increased in tempo for a few seconds before the admiral laid the pencil down and clasped his hands together on top of the desk.
“The Spanish have asked us to participate in an exercise next week at the Buffalero Training Site and Assault Village in Gibraltar. The British may also be there—”
“Admiral,” Duncan interrupted, leaning forward.
“Sir, I hope you’re not going to ask me to go. May I remind you that I have been told by the Navy to retire and go home by the end of August? It’s the middle of June now.”
“I know, Duncan. That’s why the Navy gave you seven months to prepare for retirement. Besides, August is over sixty days away. I know we wouldn’t usually send a captain for this, but you speak Spanish and we need to improve — improve? Hell, we need to repair our relationship with the Spanish and it’s my understanding that they’re sending an officer of comparative rank.”
“About forty-five.”
“Forty-five?”
“Yes, sir. About forty-five days before I’m forced to retire.
Not sixty,” Duncan said curtly, raising his hand and making a chopping motion for emphasis.
“Forty-five days.”
The admiral dismissed the comment with a wave.
“Sixty if we push it, Duncan, and I’ll push it for you. Besides, I may even be able to do something about the SERB.”
Duncan felt a flicker of hope before he quickly dismissed it as merely talk. Admiral Hodges was good at talk.
That was to be expected of a peacetime admiral. Politicians, the bunch of them! And Hodges was a damn good politician and, like every politician, had hidden agendas.
Duncan wondered what the admiral’s were. He looked out the window at the noon joggers who dotted the sidewalks surrounding the Pentagon, wishing he were there. Wishing he were anywhere but here. Most ran toward the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and the monuments on the other side. Five point two miles from Arlington Cemetery to the Lincoln Memorial. He used to run it daily, years ago, when he was at the Bureau of Naval Personnel above Arlington Cemetery.
Hodges knew Duncan had to be angry. He would be if the Navy told him to retire. An angry person can be a vindictive son of a bitch and that’s what Hodges wanted.
Typical Duncan — hiding his emotions — staring out the window rather than show Hodges the anger he felt. He needed Duncan, but not for the exercise. The true reason would remain forever hidden between him and a select few subordinates.
“Here, Duncan.” The admiral pulled out his lower right hand drawer and took out a bottle of Ponche Caballero-the Spanish silver bullet of brandy, so called for the silver bottle in which Luis Caballero of Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain, bottled it.
“Admiral, I need to get my affairs in order these last forty-five days. I’m not sure if you are aware, but I also have a very personal problem I need to resolve,” Duncan said, forcing his voice to stay level and calm.
Admiral Hodges stood and poured them both a shot of the strong brandy. He handed the fullest one to Duncan.
“You mean your wife leaving you? Shit, Duncan, you’re not the first man to lose a wife. Fact is you’re probably one of the few career officers in the military who’s had only one wife. I remember when my first one left me. I was devastated, but you get over it, and after a couple of marriages you eventually meet the right one, like I did. Believe me, Duncan, this deployment is the right thing to take your mind off her and prepare for retirement. Cheers.”
Christ! Are there no secrets in the Navy? Duncan took a sip of the fiery liquid. How did the admiral know about Cathy? His stomach rumbled in rebellion as the brandy landed. The headache pinged painfully against the sides of his head, screaming to Duncan that his brain wanted out.
So much for today being a no-drink day.
“I love this stuff,” said the admiral as he involuntarily wrinkled his nose, smelling the “night-after” ammonia sweats of alcohol whiffing from Duncan. He nearly curled his lips in disgust. The sooner this man was out of the Navy, the better. But, first, he was going to resolve a problem the SEALs were encountering.
Hodges cleared his throat.
“It never ceases to amaze me how hard it is to find Ponche brandy in the United States.
It’s the finest in the world and the least well known. Look at the label — twenty-eight percent alcohol. Melts the wax in your ears when it goes down. Great during Washington winters, Duncan. I’m sure you’ve tried it before.” Duncan’s stomach rumbled louder. The admiral swished the brandy around his mouth, savoring the taste and surreptitiously watching Duncan. Duncan James was a drunk; why hadn’t he discovered this earlier? If Hodges needed anything to salve his decision last fall on the SERB, this did it.
Last night, it seemed to Duncan that one drink fed another until he was sad drunk, swimming in sorrow. Unusual, as Duncan was not one to drown in self-pity. It had been many years since he had drunk so much, and he had no intention of doing it again — at least, not in the near future.
Watching the admiral swish the brandy around his mouth, Duncan seized the opportunity to steer the subject back to his situation.
“Admiral, there’s legal complications also. I received a letter from her lawyer yesterday—” Admiral Hodges held up his hand.
“Enough, Duncan,” he said, as he recapped the bottle and slid it under some papers in his lower desk drawer.
“I know all about those lawyers and their letters. Don’t worry about them. They’ve got a computer program that spits that stuff out and, besides, you’ll be protected under the Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act while you’re overseas. They can’t touch you until you return to the States. I don’t mind telling you that that Relief Act helped me a couple of times.” The admiral took another sip and slammed his desk drawer shut.