Ньют Гингрич - Collusion

“It is a price we willingly pay for the benefit of all, is it not?” Pavel said.

Gromyko let out a short sigh. “Again, the answer of a diplomat. Yakov Prokofyevich, both of us know rules can be bent, especially for someone such as you, a high-ranking, senior diplomat.”

Momentary mutual stares.

“General Gromyko,” Pavel said, “I assume you have made arrangements for my grandson to be brought to Moscow to live with me. When should I expect him?”

“Tomorrow. I will have a car bring him to your office.”

“And the remains?”

“Cremated. If you like, your grandson can bring them with him.”

Awkward silence.

“General Gromyko,” Pavel said, “is there more we need to discuss? I have a meeting, a matter of great urgency to the ministry, and I am late.”

“A meeting, but my dear Yakov Prokofyevich, you should be in mourning. Do you not wish to take a day off?”

His voice was taunting.

“The work of the state continues,” Pavel said.

“I will not think about leaving until after we have a toast in memory to your daughter and her husband. It is the only decent thing to do.”

He motioned to his female aide, who summoned Pavel’s much older secretary. The elderly woman opened the vodka with shaky fingers, pouring two shot glasses.

“Your girl here is like a frightened rabbit,” Gromyko noted. “I can send you a replacement, one of my prettier assistants, even this one. She would be a compliant and an eager companion now that you have lost your wife.”

Pavel glanced behind Gromyko at the young woman standing behind the general. Her face was blank, betraying nothing. Empty eyes.

“Thank you, General, but my secretary has served me well for many years.” Pavel nodded toward the door, and the older woman hurriedly excused herself.

“As you wish,” Gromyko said, raising a shot glass. “I am so sorry for the bird.”

Gromyko’s words were a reference to a 1960s Russian comedy The Caucasian Prisoner , a tale about a flock of birds headed south for the winter. One small, proud bird broke away and flew straight for the sun. It burned its wings and fell to the bottom of a deep gorge. In the story, the narrator said, “Let us drink to this: let not a single one of us ever break away from the collective, no matter how high he flies!” At that point, one of his friends had begun sobbing. “What is it, my friend?” his host had asked. The friend had said, “I’m so sorry for the bird!”

Old Soviet humor didn’t always travel well outside its borders, but among Russians, it was a well-known toast used to break tension. A poor choice, however, offered in memory of the dead.

Pavel drank his vodka.

“Yakov Prokofyevich,” Gromyko continued, “the days of the collective are gone, but the Kremlin remains a flock of birds soaring together. It still is dangerous for a single bird to break away from those leading the flock. To risk having their wings burnt. You are from the past. Your ways of thinking are from the past. This is no fault of your own. All men reach a point of uselessness in their lives. It is time for you to reap the rewards of your many years of service, especially now that your grandson will need your full attention. I have discussed this with our president, and we believe it would be best for you to consider retirement.”

“Does the president intend to fire me?”

“The president simply said—after the loss of your daughter and son-in-law—you might wish to retire. It was my recommendation to him.”

“Good day, General,” Pavel said, placing his shot glass on the serving tray.

“Good day, Yakov Prokofyevich, and please think about what I have just said.”

Two Years Earlier

The specially outfitted Lockheed C-130 four-turboprop aircraft cruising above Africa had been made quieter than standard U.S. military planes. Inside, Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone elbowed Chief Petty Officer Brett Garrett was seated next to him.

“My old man told a joke at the Pentagon the other night,” Stone said.

All fourteen of the Navy SEALs inside the C-130’s bowels were keenly aware that Stone’s father—Cormac Stone—was a U.S. senator from California. All could hear the younger Stone talking through their linked headsets.

“My father tells these generals that a new Army recruit lost his M-4, so the Pentagon charged him six hundred and fifty dollars to buy a new one. Then my father says, ‘That’s why in the Navy, the captain always goes down with the ship.’”

A few SEALs groaned.

“Hey, it’s an old joke,” Stone said, defensively, “and I know it sucked.”

“But every general laughed, didn’t they?” Garrett replied.

Stone nodded his head, “You bet they did.”

“Hey, Senator,” which was Stone’s nickname for obvious reasons, “here’s a joke for your old man to tell the next time he gives the brass a speech at the Pentagon.” It was Malcolm Moss, aka Sweet Tooth, a play on his M&M initials. “It’s about a Navy chief.”

Everyone looked at Garrett. “Go ahead,” he said.

Brett Garrett had made chief petty officer in fourteen years. That was normal. What wasn’t was his age. Thirty-two. That was young.

“You got ten guys clinging on to a rope dangling from a helo,” Sweet Tooth began.

“What kind of helo?” a fellow SEAL, nicknamed Bear, interrupted.

“What? It don’t matter what kind it was,” Sweet Tooth replied indignantly.

“’Course it does,” Bear responded. “If you got ten guys hanging on a rope from a helo, it sure as hell matters what sort of helo it was.”

“It’s a joke,” Sweet Tooth said. “Now shut up and let me tell it.”

“Go ahead, but it would matter.”

“Point taken,” Garrett said, ending their argument. “Go ahead. Finish your joke.”

“Okay, this rope—it’s bound to break unless someone lets go. The guy who lets go is going to fall and certainly die. So, these ten guys are holding on for their lives, and they begin arguing about who should be the one to drop off. Finally, the chief says he’ll do it because chiefs are used to doing everything for the Navy. They never see their families, work all those hours—all without getting nothing in return.”

“Suck up,” Bear said.

“Shut the hell up,” Sweet Tooth snapped. “Now, this chief decides to give a little farewell speech before he lets go. I mean, he’s earned the right to say his final words. He talks about his great love of country, the importance of sacrifice, and his complete devotion to his men, and when he finishes, why, the other nine guys hanging there, they are so moved, so emotional, they all begin clapping.”

Sweet Tooth broke out laughing. Even Garrett smiled.

“I don’t get it,” Bear said.

“The other nine started clapping, stupid,” Sweet Tooth explained. “That means they let go of the rope. Only the chief kept hanging on to it. That’s why the chief is a chief, and you’re just another E-4.”

“What kind of helo was it?” Bear asked, goading him.

“Enough,” Garrett said. “Get focused.”

Before he’d become a chief petty officer, Garrett’s nickname had been Hillbilly, a reference and insult to his Arkansas roots. He hated it, but no one picked their own nicknames during SEAL training. An instructor had tagged him when he’d been doing push-ups in the rain and mud in a courtyard called “the Grinder.”

Garrett didn’t particularly like having a U.S. senator’s son on his team—even though Richard Stone had never sought special treatment and Garrett wouldn’t have given him any. If anything, the opposite was true. Senator had assumed everyone knew. His father was constantly on the news. One of the country’s most outspoken liberals. That being the situation, Richard Stone—the SEAL—had talked openly about his dad from the start and had done everything to prove he wasn’t riding on his old man’s coattails. Did more than what was expected—and those expectations were already too high for most.