Author's Note: A couple of minor changes have been made to clean up the
time line.
August 10, 2001, 1825 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
Friday's Happy Hour drink specials and the "bachelor chow" buffet had drawn quite a crowd, so the maneuvering was a little slow getting from the door of the crowded club to the bar. Along the way Harm nodded to a few acquaintances and shook a number of hands. There were only a couple of seats left at one end, and since Flashy Gordon wasn't in sight at the moment he grabbed the last stool at the right end of the bar putting his cover on the seat while standing behind it.
The Silver eagles on his collar points caught the attention of one of the bar tenders who hustled down. "Evening sir, what can I get you this evening?" On one hand a double Crown Royal neat sounded like the right medicine, on the other a beer was probably a better choice so he asked for a San Miguel. The first icy drink of the wonderful Philippine brew hit the spot, so with beer in hand he turned to peer into the club looking for his instructor.
It was nearly 1845 before the tall Marine aviator appeared. The green Nomex flight suit and leather jacket made it obvious that she had been working. Greetings were exchanged before the bar tender could make it back to the end of the bar.
"Another sir?" Harm nodded pointing before pointing to his left. "I'm sorry ma'am. What can I get for you?"
"A Jose Cuervo 1880 and one of what the Captain is having."
August 10, 2001, 1905 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
Harmon Rabb, Jr., and Marjorie Gordon were two peas from the same pod for all practical purposes. Both were aggressive, direct, driven, shared a passion for aviation, and a common devotion to their duties. To some degree both were adrift professionally, and that finally became part of the conversation.
"Hammer, what are you going to do when your current deal is wrapped up? I can't see you staying at the Pentagon as a chair warmer. Are you going back to JAG? The scuttlebutt is that you're the chosen son over there, and some other guy is just keeping the seat warm for you"
His answer was a long time coming. "Flashy I don't know what's in the cards. When I went back to a squadron a while back it took about six months to realize I was a fairly senior Commander who had been passed by younger people. My future in naval aviation is nonexistent. I can't see myself going to a PACFLEET as JAG for three or four years to get ready to come back to Washington. With the stuff my current job involves I wouldn't be surprised at anything. What about you? This gig can't be a PCS (permanent change of station) for you."
While their conversation continued the two gradually moved without thinking into each other's personal space creating a very intimate scene at the end of the bar.
August 10, 2001, 2025 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
"Hammer, I hate to do this, but I've got to head down the road." The news came very reluctantly to her lips. "Tomorrow's an early day at the gym, and I've got to be back in the office to fly the duty desk from 1000 to 1800."
Harm took in the stunning red head's aquamarine eyes and almost drowned in their depth. For just a second he was lost and had to mentally shake himself to nod ever so reluctantly.
"I'm heading back to Washington early," he mumbled absently, "and I have no idea what happens then. Do we shake hands and say, 'see 'ya around the campus?'"
She leaned in close and kissed him before stepping completely into an embrace and whispering, "Only if you want to shake hands.
"I've got to go RIGHT NOW, but please call. You know where to find me."
With that she turned and walked resolutely out of the club. Harm stood still a little dumb struck watching her walk away drinking in the moment.
For about two seconds it was a perfect world.
Then another voice growled into his consciousness. "Well now that the Victoria's Secret model has fled the scene how about buying a poor Brooklyn girl a drink Hammer?"
"Skates? What are you doing here? I thought you and Stargazer took a 14D back to the fleet the other day."
Elizabeth Hawkes peered at her friend, pilot, and lifeline and didn't like what she saw.
"It never happened. The CAG pulled me off the ride for a few days TAD to represent him at a conference then he's arranged for me to represent the wing at a conference in Washington September 1-15 before heading back to the boat. Now let's get to the important shit. What's your excuse for swapping spit with the wrong Marine?"
August 10, 2001, 2125 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU
Mac was clearly exasperated based on her tone of voice and body language. "Bud, there's got to be a way to expand the 'need to know' window on some of this horseshit. We don't have enough staff to work through all of this crap in a timely manner without some additional help, and Gen. Buckner is really getting impatient about the lack of guidance available to the MEU orders group."
"Ma'am, we don't have any choice here. Virtually all of the incoming data is based on the Cranberry Cove options, and, aside from you and Gen. Bucker, I'm the only one onboard with enough clearance to look at all of this.
"Let's try this on the general: I can give his staff the regular TS (top secret) briefing that we used at CENTCOM. This will characterize most of the options that are being formalized and give the orders group more insight into the thinking behind the blizzard of new pages coming in for the general operations planning document.
"Ma'am it's not a lot, but that's as good as it gets right now." Bud's slight shrug was about all that was left.
A slow, careful look at her one-time protégé showed a dramatically different Bud Roberts. The quick smile and bashful wit were still here, but the self-confidence and general air of authority were new and really looked good on the younger officer.
"Bud," Mac laughed, "we're the only people in the ship's most secure conference room. The government spent God only knows how million to be sure what is said here stays here. Don't you think we can be Mac and Bud while the damn hatch is closed?
"It's a hard habit to break ma'am; I mean Mac."
Walking to the coffee pot sitting on the sideboard in the conference room she spoke over her shoulder. "Bud, I really need to ask some leading questions here, but I do not want to press anything you aren't comfortable in discussing. Are you okay with that idea?" All she got was an obviously very careful nod in return.
"Some of the operational concepts in this new package are very, very different from the more classical roles assigned to the Corps. Are we moving more quickly on phase one of the force realignment package that's causing so much scuttlebutt? If so, what's this do to our support and our logistics tail?
"Most of the outlined options will potentially put us way out in front of our logistics chain and leave a long, very vulnerable route to keep us supplied. Who's responsible for that security?
"If either the Iraqi or Afghan options are implemented what happens to the 3rd? If someone sounded the charge right now we can't project enough force in either potential theater quickly enough to cover our backside. That makes us either a trip-wire force or a sacrificial lamb to hold the line while someone else gets his or her shit together. That's not very comfortable."
Bud had listened to that very argument time and again from Tom Boone and Harm during the time he was TAD in the Pentagon basement before being shipped to the Gulf. Those discussions were frequently heated but in the final analysis it came down to this: If someone decided to throw a come as you are war in the Middle East the goddamn Marines, along with everybody else, would have to do the best they could with what they had.
He also knew that acting under the Secretary of Defense's orders substantial quick reaction forces were being prepared for use in the Gulf, but the intelligence officer for the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Unit didn't have a need to know.
"I've heard that point made before Mac. It's a tough nut." With that he shrugged.
Once more Mac considered the young officer in depth as she walked around the compartment before speaking. 'I've heard those words and that sentiment before. Where? Jesus! Bud isn't just a JAG mouthpiece over here to translate some official bullshit. He's been involved, no that's wrong; he's been directly involved in part of these changes. That's the only possible explanation.'
Sitting down directly across the table from Bud she formed her fingers into a tent touching her lips before speaking again.
"Now I know where your tone and demeanor at the meeting on the Rock came from. You didn't get hijacked to fill in for Harm and take notes. You are involved in the project Harm's working!" Once the words were out it all snapped into place. The Boone board couldn't take action without counsel. Harm couldn't serve as general counsel and be the CAG's deputy. That would be a dangerous conflict of interest.
A newly promoted Commander was the de facto general counsel. All of the scuttlebutt about what the CAG and Harm were involved in said it was a potential career killer. And her friend was standing with the group in the cross hairs. Involuntarily she shoved her chair back from the long table and started pacing the length of the room.
"Bud, you've lost your freaking mind! You may have been hijacked into Tom Boone's little circus, but you've thrown completely in with those Mavericks. In fact I'll bet my pension that you participated completely in the development of the shit I've seen and more that hasn't seen the light of day yet.
"This stuff blends set piece, air mobile, and unconventional war fighting into a single package using essentially a single force, and, more to the point, it assumes a level of training that isn't real today. Hell, it might not be real for years to come." As the idea ran free in her mind her thoughts ran along two opposing tracks.
Mac's warrior side was amazed, intrigued, and challenged by the idea of having more options available closer to the point of contact. The cautious, deliberate side of her personality was infuriated.
'Why am I so pissed off?' she thought. 'Let me count the reasons. 1. We're throwing 225-plus years of Marine Corps experience and training up into the air just to see where it lands; 2. The guys behind some, no most of this are a former SEAL working under the color of the SECDEF, a shoot first and ask questions later admiral who was virtually run off into retirement, and a brand new Navy captain who is obviously off on another fucking crusade, and 3. Okay I'll only admit this to myself; they've co- opted a dear friend of mine into this Don Quixote battle with the Pentagon's bureaucratic windmills.' This moment of introspection took about four heartbeats, then Mac stopped directly across from where Bud was sitting, put both hands on the back of a chair gripping it so tightly her knuckles were sheet white.
Focusing all of her well-honed, formidable command presence on the officer across the table. "Why?" The question echoed around the room then there was a thundering silence.
Bud Roberts' flair for the dramatic gesture was a talent that even he did know he possessed, but a great drama writer couldn't have better scripted his reaction.
Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed before he pushed his chair back and came to attention locking Sarah MacKenzie with a matching, unblinking stare.
"Because, MA'AM, they are right."
August 10, 2001, 1825 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
Friday's Happy Hour drink specials and the "bachelor chow" buffet had drawn quite a crowd, so the maneuvering was a little slow getting from the door of the crowded club to the bar. Along the way Harm nodded to a few acquaintances and shook a number of hands. There were only a couple of seats left at one end, and since Flashy Gordon wasn't in sight at the moment he grabbed the last stool at the right end of the bar putting his cover on the seat while standing behind it.
The Silver eagles on his collar points caught the attention of one of the bar tenders who hustled down. "Evening sir, what can I get you this evening?" On one hand a double Crown Royal neat sounded like the right medicine, on the other a beer was probably a better choice so he asked for a San Miguel. The first icy drink of the wonderful Philippine brew hit the spot, so with beer in hand he turned to peer into the club looking for his instructor.
It was nearly 1845 before the tall Marine aviator appeared. The green Nomex flight suit and leather jacket made it obvious that she had been working. Greetings were exchanged before the bar tender could make it back to the end of the bar.
"Another sir?" Harm nodded pointing before pointing to his left. "I'm sorry ma'am. What can I get for you?"
"A Jose Cuervo 1880 and one of what the Captain is having."
August 10, 2001, 1905 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
Harmon Rabb, Jr., and Marjorie Gordon were two peas from the same pod for all practical purposes. Both were aggressive, direct, driven, shared a passion for aviation, and a common devotion to their duties. To some degree both were adrift professionally, and that finally became part of the conversation.
"Hammer, what are you going to do when your current deal is wrapped up? I can't see you staying at the Pentagon as a chair warmer. Are you going back to JAG? The scuttlebutt is that you're the chosen son over there, and some other guy is just keeping the seat warm for you"
His answer was a long time coming. "Flashy I don't know what's in the cards. When I went back to a squadron a while back it took about six months to realize I was a fairly senior Commander who had been passed by younger people. My future in naval aviation is nonexistent. I can't see myself going to a PACFLEET as JAG for three or four years to get ready to come back to Washington. With the stuff my current job involves I wouldn't be surprised at anything. What about you? This gig can't be a PCS (permanent change of station) for you."
While their conversation continued the two gradually moved without thinking into each other's personal space creating a very intimate scene at the end of the bar.
August 10, 2001, 2025 Local, Officers Club, NAS Patuxent River, MD
"Hammer, I hate to do this, but I've got to head down the road." The news came very reluctantly to her lips. "Tomorrow's an early day at the gym, and I've got to be back in the office to fly the duty desk from 1000 to 1800."
Harm took in the stunning red head's aquamarine eyes and almost drowned in their depth. For just a second he was lost and had to mentally shake himself to nod ever so reluctantly.
"I'm heading back to Washington early," he mumbled absently, "and I have no idea what happens then. Do we shake hands and say, 'see 'ya around the campus?'"
She leaned in close and kissed him before stepping completely into an embrace and whispering, "Only if you want to shake hands.
"I've got to go RIGHT NOW, but please call. You know where to find me."
With that she turned and walked resolutely out of the club. Harm stood still a little dumb struck watching her walk away drinking in the moment.
For about two seconds it was a perfect world.
Then another voice growled into his consciousness. "Well now that the Victoria's Secret model has fled the scene how about buying a poor Brooklyn girl a drink Hammer?"
"Skates? What are you doing here? I thought you and Stargazer took a 14D back to the fleet the other day."
Elizabeth Hawkes peered at her friend, pilot, and lifeline and didn't like what she saw.
"It never happened. The CAG pulled me off the ride for a few days TAD to represent him at a conference then he's arranged for me to represent the wing at a conference in Washington September 1-15 before heading back to the boat. Now let's get to the important shit. What's your excuse for swapping spit with the wrong Marine?"
August 10, 2001, 2125 Local, At sea with the 3rd MEU
Mac was clearly exasperated based on her tone of voice and body language. "Bud, there's got to be a way to expand the 'need to know' window on some of this horseshit. We don't have enough staff to work through all of this crap in a timely manner without some additional help, and Gen. Buckner is really getting impatient about the lack of guidance available to the MEU orders group."
"Ma'am, we don't have any choice here. Virtually all of the incoming data is based on the Cranberry Cove options, and, aside from you and Gen. Bucker, I'm the only one onboard with enough clearance to look at all of this.
"Let's try this on the general: I can give his staff the regular TS (top secret) briefing that we used at CENTCOM. This will characterize most of the options that are being formalized and give the orders group more insight into the thinking behind the blizzard of new pages coming in for the general operations planning document.
"Ma'am it's not a lot, but that's as good as it gets right now." Bud's slight shrug was about all that was left.
A slow, careful look at her one-time protégé showed a dramatically different Bud Roberts. The quick smile and bashful wit were still here, but the self-confidence and general air of authority were new and really looked good on the younger officer.
"Bud," Mac laughed, "we're the only people in the ship's most secure conference room. The government spent God only knows how million to be sure what is said here stays here. Don't you think we can be Mac and Bud while the damn hatch is closed?
"It's a hard habit to break ma'am; I mean Mac."
Walking to the coffee pot sitting on the sideboard in the conference room she spoke over her shoulder. "Bud, I really need to ask some leading questions here, but I do not want to press anything you aren't comfortable in discussing. Are you okay with that idea?" All she got was an obviously very careful nod in return.
"Some of the operational concepts in this new package are very, very different from the more classical roles assigned to the Corps. Are we moving more quickly on phase one of the force realignment package that's causing so much scuttlebutt? If so, what's this do to our support and our logistics tail?
"Most of the outlined options will potentially put us way out in front of our logistics chain and leave a long, very vulnerable route to keep us supplied. Who's responsible for that security?
"If either the Iraqi or Afghan options are implemented what happens to the 3rd? If someone sounded the charge right now we can't project enough force in either potential theater quickly enough to cover our backside. That makes us either a trip-wire force or a sacrificial lamb to hold the line while someone else gets his or her shit together. That's not very comfortable."
Bud had listened to that very argument time and again from Tom Boone and Harm during the time he was TAD in the Pentagon basement before being shipped to the Gulf. Those discussions were frequently heated but in the final analysis it came down to this: If someone decided to throw a come as you are war in the Middle East the goddamn Marines, along with everybody else, would have to do the best they could with what they had.
He also knew that acting under the Secretary of Defense's orders substantial quick reaction forces were being prepared for use in the Gulf, but the intelligence officer for the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Unit didn't have a need to know.
"I've heard that point made before Mac. It's a tough nut." With that he shrugged.
Once more Mac considered the young officer in depth as she walked around the compartment before speaking. 'I've heard those words and that sentiment before. Where? Jesus! Bud isn't just a JAG mouthpiece over here to translate some official bullshit. He's been involved, no that's wrong; he's been directly involved in part of these changes. That's the only possible explanation.'
Sitting down directly across the table from Bud she formed her fingers into a tent touching her lips before speaking again.
"Now I know where your tone and demeanor at the meeting on the Rock came from. You didn't get hijacked to fill in for Harm and take notes. You are involved in the project Harm's working!" Once the words were out it all snapped into place. The Boone board couldn't take action without counsel. Harm couldn't serve as general counsel and be the CAG's deputy. That would be a dangerous conflict of interest.
A newly promoted Commander was the de facto general counsel. All of the scuttlebutt about what the CAG and Harm were involved in said it was a potential career killer. And her friend was standing with the group in the cross hairs. Involuntarily she shoved her chair back from the long table and started pacing the length of the room.
"Bud, you've lost your freaking mind! You may have been hijacked into Tom Boone's little circus, but you've thrown completely in with those Mavericks. In fact I'll bet my pension that you participated completely in the development of the shit I've seen and more that hasn't seen the light of day yet.
"This stuff blends set piece, air mobile, and unconventional war fighting into a single package using essentially a single force, and, more to the point, it assumes a level of training that isn't real today. Hell, it might not be real for years to come." As the idea ran free in her mind her thoughts ran along two opposing tracks.
Mac's warrior side was amazed, intrigued, and challenged by the idea of having more options available closer to the point of contact. The cautious, deliberate side of her personality was infuriated.
'Why am I so pissed off?' she thought. 'Let me count the reasons. 1. We're throwing 225-plus years of Marine Corps experience and training up into the air just to see where it lands; 2. The guys behind some, no most of this are a former SEAL working under the color of the SECDEF, a shoot first and ask questions later admiral who was virtually run off into retirement, and a brand new Navy captain who is obviously off on another fucking crusade, and 3. Okay I'll only admit this to myself; they've co- opted a dear friend of mine into this Don Quixote battle with the Pentagon's bureaucratic windmills.' This moment of introspection took about four heartbeats, then Mac stopped directly across from where Bud was sitting, put both hands on the back of a chair gripping it so tightly her knuckles were sheet white.
Focusing all of her well-honed, formidable command presence on the officer across the table. "Why?" The question echoed around the room then there was a thundering silence.
Bud Roberts' flair for the dramatic gesture was a talent that even he did know he possessed, but a great drama writer couldn't have better scripted his reaction.
Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed before he pushed his chair back and came to attention locking Sarah MacKenzie with a matching, unblinking stare.
"Because, MA'AM, they are right."
