Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

Again, the president laughed. “General Austin, have her call my wife. She’s not happy either, I can assure you.”

President William Snow motioned for Pug to be seated again, then he began to speak. “Pug, General Austin seems a fine man. I can see why you’ve enjoyed working with him these past years. As for you and me, it would seem we’ve just developed a very different relationship. Who would have thought it those long years ago? Are you pleased with your ability to stay with Trojan?”

“Sir, the assignment presents a rather formidable challenge, but I’ve discovered that I actually enjoy such opportunity. However, I’m a serving Marine officer, and I go where I’m assigned. In some respects, I’d rather be back in the field, commanding Marines.”

“Yes.” Snow smiled again. “President Prescott mentioned that as well. That goes for most of the young men who comprise Trojan, doesn’t it? You’re all warriors at heart. How did that happen, Pug? The transition, I mean. When you were in high school, you wanted to be a veterinarian, if I recall.”

Pug leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Wouldn’t that have been good? Sir,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “the change just sort of happened. Probably was assured when my spur-of-the-moment application to the Naval Academy was accepted. I loved my time at the Academy and I love the Marines. But I’ve asked myself that question many times over the years-how did I become something I never thought about growing up? I can’t answer it to my own satisfaction, Mr. President,” Pug said. “I know I was caught up in the prestige of being accepted at the Academy. That decision assured the military component. Then after I was married, Cheryl had problems with who I became, as you probably know. That was the primary source of the difficulty leading to our divorce in ’01. You knew Cheryl Watkins, didn’t you? Her father owned the Ford dealership in Mesa. Well, once we were married, I was just gone on deployment too long and too often, I guess. That wasn’t what Cheryl had bargained for, and it certainly wasn’t her fault. We never had children, and I guess in retrospect that’s a blessing.”

“Scott told me about your divorce. I’m sorry, Pug, truly sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am, Mr. President. But as I say, it was my own fault. It’s almost like I had two angels on my shoulder, one saying ‘ be a good person,’ and the other one saying, ‘ kick his ass. Kill him.’”

“From your job description, I’d say you need to listen to both voices.” The president paused for a moment and then spoke more softly. “I’ve always cared about your family, Pug, and I know that you were aware of how close I became to your father.”

President Snow stood up, followed by Pug, preparatory to ending the meeting. “I’m truly glad that you’re going to remain with Trojan. I need someone I can fully trust in that position. The advice I seek must come from a trusted source, someone without a personal agenda.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I sense you have a deeper conflict than we have time to discuss today. Perhaps we can remedy that over dinner some evening. Helen will demand a reunion.”

Snow started toward the door. “Are you eligible to retire from the Corps?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got just over twenty year’s service, but haven’t thought about retirement yet.”

“Good. You’ve made exemplary progress. A one-star general with barely twenty years is unusual, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been fortunate to work with good men… and good women, especially President Prescott. They deserve the accolade, not me.”

Snow rose again and both men walked toward the doorway. The president wrapped his arm around Pug’s shoulder and then turned him so they were facing head on. “I think we’ll see one another more frequently if this all comes off as I would like. Please give our regards to your parents. Helen will be thrilled to see that you’ve come back into our lives. She was the primary culprit in getting your brother together with our daughter. Had you been a few years older, I think she’d have chosen you,” Snow chuckled.

“Megan got the best Connor when she got Scott,” Pug replied.

“He’s a good man. When we all settle in, we’d love to have you over for dinner with both Scott and Megan. He’s taken very good care of our daughter and produced some beautiful grandchildren.”

“Scott is a good man, Mr. President. Much more like our father… and he’s home every night,” Pug said.

“Don’t let your confusion overwhelm you, Pug. Those two angels on your shoulder may indeed have a singular purpose. Will you be in town for the immediate future?”

“No, sir. I actually have a field trip coming up shortly. I should be gone a week, perhaps two.”

“A field trip. Is that with a briefcase or a weapon?”

Pug smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes both, sir.”

“It’s very good to see you again, Pug. Take care on your field trip, and I’ll talk with you again when you get back. Leave those two reports you mentioned with Dixie. I’ll find some time to review them before you return.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

South Pacific Ocean

Timor Sea

March

The Timor Sea, the body of water separating North Australia from Indonesia, was generally peaceful during the summer months. Cameron Rossiter, trim and fit with a yachtsman’s tanned complexion, manned the helm as Rainbow Blue sailed gracefully through light swells under clear skies. A twelve-meter craft, she’d been built to his specific criteria two years earlier. She had the finest navigational equipment available, including a Global Positioning Satellite system. Referred to as GPS, it was designed to work with a co-coordinated system of military satellites in geo-synchronous orbit. Blue water sailors saw it as the most significant invention since the compass.

Given the vagaries of South Pacific weather, Rossiter had also ordered exceptionally sensitive radar, capable of detecting the smallest squall. Capped off with state-of-the-art automated gear, including self-furling sails, Rainbow Blue was designed to enable a one-man crew-although she could hold six-to sail her around the world if desired, racing downwind across the wave tops at speeds up to eighteen knots, and averaging six to eight. After making separate trips to various islands in the Solomons, weathering a force three South Pacific gale during the second trip, the solo skipper was justifiably proud of the sleek yacht’s ability.

Five days out of Darwin on a pleasure cruise in the Timor Sea, Cameron Sterling Rossiter, a captain in the Australian Special Air Service Brigade, was sailing alone and enjoying the solitude. Recently returned after a two-year secondment to the 22 ^nd Regiment in England, Rossiter was finally taking a long overdue break. A radio transmission the previous evening had changed his plans considerably and he was now en route to new coordinates, sent from SAS headquarters at Campbell Barracks, Perth.

One hundred and eighty nautical miles northwest of Darwin, Australia, USS Abraham Lincoln, CVN 72, and her carrier battle group were on course for deployment in the Persian Gulf. Eighteen hours earlier, Lincoln had received orders to divert sixty-two nautical miles south of her intended line of transit and rendezvous with an Australian submarine.

The newest members of Lincoln’s complement were General Padraig Connor and Sergeant Major Carlos Castro, USMC, and two unidentified men who accompanied them. The two unknown men were bearded and disheveled, indicating to the Lincoln deck crew that they were not military. Probably oil rig workers, one U.S. Navy deck crew yellow-shirt surmised. He was wrong.