No Greater Duty, page 10
“But not as a Marine?”
“Not necessarily.” She raised a hand. “There’s every hope he could return to active duty. But not in ground combat again. Anyone else you want to know about?”
“Yes ma’am, Ethan Crowell.”
“He suffered a serious concussion from the IED blast,” she said and her features grew serious. “It’s too early to know his prognosis.”
“Do you think he’ll be allowed to return to active duty someday?”
The Navy commander shook her head. “That’s hard to say right now. He’ll require close monitoring, perhaps over a long time. Let’s finish checking on you now.”
Commander Engberg placed the ends of a stethoscope in her ears and listened to Alex’s heart and lungs. Then she tested the grip strength of his wounded arm, and his bandaging for any signs of weeping from the graft site. Finally, she withdrew a pen light from her pocket and checked Alex’s eyes for neurological reactions to stimuli. “You were also concussed but not as severely as Lance Corporal Crowell. That’s another reason why your brain needs time to recover before any decision authorizing you to return to duty.” She put the pen light away.
It wasn’t the answer Alex wanted to hear, but he wouldn’t question her medical judgment.
“So far, things look good, Corporal.” Her tone was encouraging.
“Thanks, ma’am.”
Martha Engberg remained silent for a moment, then said, “Your company commander, Captain Rosen, told me your actions saved the lives of those three Marines you asked about.”
“Commander, I’m just glad they made it back alive.”
“If you hadn’t reacted so quickly back there, Lieutenant Fontana and Lance Corporal Whittington would have bled to death. They owe their lives to you. Lance Corporal Crowell does too.”
“I did my duty, ma’am.”
“What happened to you and the other Marines will stay with you for the rest of your life,” she said. “Be proud about what you did out there, Corporal.”
Alex nodded. “Yes ma’am, I will.”
“You and the others are scheduled for transfer to Walter Reed. But the timing depends on when your lieutenant and your two squad members are reclassified from guarded to stable condition. Now, you need to rest, Marine.”
Alex nodded. “Understood, ma’am.”
“The Corpsman will bring you something for your pain,” she said. “I’ll check back in an hour. Your progress looks good.” She nodded with a smile and left.
Alex took a deep breath, then released it slowly. The fingers of his wounded arm still ached. At least he could open and close them naturally.
Then suddenly his body trembled. The impact of the ambush and the firefights, the carnage of slaughtered refugees, wounded Marines, his own wounds finally overwhelmed him.
He ran the back of his hand across his eyes to sweep away tears. Anyone who walked by his ward and gazed inside shouldn’t catch him crying. Marines weren’t supposed to cry. That would be wrong because they do cry. Alex turned his face away from the doorway and wept with relief. Lieutenant Fontana and Billy Whittington would survive and go on. Ethan Crowell had a tougher road ahead.
CHAPTER 14
USS Wasp, Hospital Unit
South Atlantic Ocean
April 24, 2019
Alex winked at the Navy Corpsman who drew two vials of blood out of his arm. “I’m spreading a rumor that you torture Marines.”
“You’re a pussy, Kramer,” Dowrich laughed. “The Marine Corps should reassign you to some easy billet like food taster for the base commander.”
“Am I interrupting?” said a voice.
Alex, who was watching the second vial fill with blood, looked up and wanted to leap out of the bed to stand at attention. Captain Greg Rosen, Bravo Company Commander, 24th MEU’s ground combat element of 1/6—1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment—stood in the doorway.
“All done, sir,” announced Dowrich, placing the two dark-red vials in a small wire basket. “Pardon me, sir,” he said, acknowledging the Marine officer before leaving the room.
“You taking visitors?”
“Of course, sir.” Alex carefully shifted in his bed.
The Marine captain, with graying hair cut in a high-reg style, a slightly receding hairline, and brown eyes under thick eyebrows, stood slightly under six feet. Thick, muscular forearms bulged beneath the rolled-up sleeves of the officer’s combat utility uniform shirt. Marines under Rosen’s command liked knowing he was approachable. He talked effortlessly with enlisted, NCO, and junior officers alike and they connected easily with him.
A cheerful Captain Rosen approached the side of the hospital bed. “How are you feeling, Corporal?”
“I’m ready to return to duty as soon as the doc clears me, sir,” Alex said, upbeat.
“Right now, your mission is to rest and follow doctors’ orders so that arm heals completely.”
“Understood, sir.”
Rosen stood casually, his arms hanging comfortably in front of him with one hand crossed over the other. “Corporal, your quick-thinking and your actions under enemy fire demonstrated leadership and valor in the finest traditions of the Marine Corps.” Respect for the wounded Marine resonated in his voice.
“Thank you, sir.” Alex appreciated the company commander’s gesture. “The Marine Corps prepared me well, sir.”
“Son, Lieutenant Fontana and I will be recommending that the Marine Corps recognize you for valor during the mission in Sierra Leone.”
“Don’t know what to say, sir.”
“Your courage that day said it all, Corporal.” Rosen noticed Alex’s worried expression. “Something on your mind, Marine?”
“Pardon me, sir, but maybe I’m not worthy of valor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could have done more so Whittington wouldn’t be an AK AMP,” Alex said, referring to the military acronym for an above-the-knee amputee.
“You saved his life while under heavy fire,” Rosen reassured him. “There’s no reason to second-guess anything.”
Alex nodded and shifted his position in the bed. “The doc said Lieutenant Fontana should be good to go soon.”
“Let’s focus on getting you back to 100 percent.” The company commander reached out and shook Alex’s good hand. “Take care of yourself, Marine.”
“Copy that, sir, and thank you.”
Alex stood in the hallway in a hospital gown and his surgically-repaired arm in a sling. He peered into the hospital room where Billy Whittington lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, his lanky frame filling the full length of the bed. Fluorescent tubes cast a blue-white light down on him. Sunken cheeks, a chalky complexion, and dark rings under his eyes revealed the toll of being seriously wounded in combat and major surgery after. Alex’s gaze turned to Billy’s right leg. The heavily wrapped stump where the Marine’s limb ended a few inches above the knee rested on top of the hospital bed’s sheet, not underneath. Alex was confused and frustrated. What was he supposed to tell one of the brave Marines in his squad? A friend he trusted with his life? That everything’s going to be okay? He could have been a double amputee, so be grateful?
He inhaled loud enough for Billy to hear it and glance his way. “Hey, Kramer.”
The vacant look in his buddy’s eyes concerned Alex. The wounds had to be torturing him. He’d never serve on active duty as an infantry Marine again. Alex stepped into the room and stood alongside Billy’s bed. There were no chairs.
“The doc said I could come see you,” he said, trying to sound positive. He kept looking at Billy’s face and not down at the Marine’s amputated stump.
Billy’s weak smile couldn’t match his melancholy expression. “Good to see you too.”
Alex knew his good friend’s smile was genuine. The warmth shown in their faces confirmed they were two brother Marines who cared about each other. Maybe being there would temporarily distract Billy Whittington from dwelling on half his leg being blown away.
Tears welled up in Billy’s eyes. “Listen Kramer, I don’t know what to say except thanks.”
“Say about what? Hey, we killed those rebel pricks before they could kill us. We didn’t lose anyone from First Platoon.”
“You saved me or I would have died out there,” Billy replied, lifting one hand to his eyes to wipe away the wetness. “The lieutenant and Crowell, you saved them too. All three of us.”
Alex still harbored doubts he hadn’t done enough for Billy. But right now, he was satisfied seeing him alive and alert. He leaned over the bed and the two Marines hugged each other. Alex lifted his head away, looked into his buddy’s face, and felt a knot in his throat. “I planned on getting you out of there no matter what happened. Doc said you came through surgery well.”
Alex’s caring expression masked a hint of regret that, unlike Billy, his wounds, physical and emotional, would heal. He would be whole again. Yet he felt good inside, knowing Billy’s youthfulness was strengthened by maturity understood only by Marines who had bled on a battlefield.
He extended an open hand. Billy Whittington clasped it and they held each other’s grip firmly. “I’m gonna go check on the lieutenant, okay? Then go see Crowell.”
Billy waved a hand and tears streamed down both his cheeks again. “I love you, Kramer.”
“Love you too, Marine.”
CHAPTER 15
USS John Warner
April 24, 2019
Tara Marcellus was walking through the passageway when Chief Drysdale exited the crew’s mess and nearly ran into her. Twenty-four hours had passed since her confrontation with Lieutenant Schrager. But her mood was still prickly since it happened.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Need to pay more attention.” The handsome broad-shouldered Navy chief took one step back against the bulkhead and gave the lieutenant room to pass.
Tara waved a hand. “We’re fine, Chief.”
She felt an urge to say something, to apologize without saying the words “I’m sorry” because she didn’t defend him and his sonar techs to Schrager in Control. Because she didn’t have their backs. Because she deserted them instead of standing by her principles. Then there was that morning’s critique of the event with the CO to go over what happened during the incident.
“Chief, in Control yesterday, I—”
“What about it, ma’am?” Drysdale’s eyebrows lifted slightly. His face was otherwise stoic.
Tara’s shoulders stiffened. She wanted to do this the right way. “Do you have some time to talk? Now?”
“Will ten minutes be enough, ma’am?”
“That works. Let’s try the wardroom.”
They stepped inside the empty wardroom. Tara wanted to speak privately but made sure to leave the hatch open. As they stood together, an awkward silence passed between them.
“Chief, about this morning’s meeting with the CO . . .” Tara finally said.
She wanted to speak first. Chief Drysdale needed to believe she was telling the truth, every word. “Like I told the skipper and wrote in my report, you and Petty Officer Ruiz did your jobs correctly. By the book. I believe the OOD was wrong to second-guess yours and Ruiz’s judgments. And Ruiz shouldn’t have been relieved of duty.”
Tara was going out on a limb. Drysdale nodded, a sign he was ready to hear more.
“Take a seat, Chief.”
“I prefer to stand, ma’am.”
Memories from the prior day’s incident brief flashed through Tara’s mind: With a straight face, Schrager had told the CO that he didn’t trust Tara’s and her sailors’ confirmed contact with the Russian submarine. Insisting on his own verification, the order to maneuver John Warner placed the Navy’s boat in a vulnerable position. The crew had been dangerously exposed to an enemy submarine.
Then the skipper had questioned Tara. “Lieutenant, did you suggest to Lieutenant Schrager any options for John Warner to change course and reposition the boat based on the Russian’s position?”
“No sir, I did not,” she had said, and her admission felt as if she told someone to punch her in the face. There it was. She hadn’t said or done anything to stop NAV’s irresponsible orders. Schrager was a liar and she didn’t call him out on it.
The CO’s final words to Tara and Schrager had played in her head like a repeating reel: They were both right and both wrong. The Russian did not make any aggressive moves and the Navy submarine caught a break. But both officers screwed up.
“I will not tolerate anything less than total concentration on mission and operations under my command,” Commander Whikehart had said in a firm tone. “Learn from your mistakes. This is how we fix our boat and it must never happen again on my watch.”
Learn from your mistakes. The words echoed in Tara’s head now as she faced Drysdale in the wardroom. “Chief, I’ll say it again. I disagreed with NAV relieving Petty Officer Ruiz from duty, and also singling you out.”
Drysdale waited several long seconds, then spoke. “Ma’am, Ruiz is a very good sonarman. He doesn’t deserve having this on his record.” The Navy chief crossed his arms. “I’ve seen what right looks like, and that wasn’t it. Pardon me, ma’am, but this whole business is total crap.”
His voice held restrained fury. Tara was unsure how to respond.
“Ma’am, I’ve seen officers come and go. Most of ’em were stand-up people,” he said, now calmer. “But a few acted like they got their dolphins on eBay. Officers like Lieutenant Schrager, they don’t deserve to be officers—not in my book.” The words spat out of him.
Drysdale’s disgust was written across his face. The Dolphins badge was the United States Navy’s submarine warfare insignia. Wearing Dolphins signified the highest privilege of every officer and sailor in the submarine service. Willful negligent conduct tarnished the badge’s revered symbolism—an act of contempt. That’s what Schrager did, and Tara and Chief Drysdale knew it.
“My point is, ma’am, you can spot them a mile away. They suck at command.”
Tara chose her next words carefully. “I will express my disagreement about how you and Petty Officer Ruiz were treated to the CO and XO,” she said. “And I will do it soon.”
She hoped Chief Drysdale understood this was as close to an apology as she was going to make. Officers seldom admitted judgment errors to sailors. Schrager would never own up to his defective performance when he should have exercised proper command. The man was a weasel.
“You do what you have to do, ma’am.” The chief’s mouth tightened. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“This whole business jammed you up.” Drysdale hesitated, then finished. “I bet the CO sees through the lieutenant’s lie. The Navy shouldn’t hold it against you.”
“Thank you, Chief,” she said and smiled, grateful that he meant every word.
CHAPTER 16
CO’s stateroom, USS John Warner
May 9, 2019 at 0835
Tara Marcellus rapped her knuckles against the metal hatch.
“Enter,” said a voice inside the stateroom.
Tara entered and saw the skipper seated at a small desk.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” said Commander Whikehart. “Please, take a seat.” USS John Warner’s commanding officer pointed to the chair alongside where he was already settled.
“Thank you, sir.”
When Tara had joined the crew, Mike Urbanick had told her that the CO was an accomplished senior naval officer. Many in the naval service called him one of the Navy’s finest sub drivers. There wasn’t anything officers and enlisted wouldn’t do for him. Crew members considered it a privilege to serve under his command.
During her inaugural deployment a year ago, Tara had been satisfied with her first official Fitness Report (FITREP) the CO had delivered. She’d earned high marks. But a nervous stomach the past forty-eight hours raised her concerns this next report might not be so good. Would he announce that her actions during the Russian sub incident and her dealings with Lieutenant Schrager were handled badly? Bad enough that he and Mike Urbanick, her Department Head, wouldn’t recommend her as “promotable”?
She winced at the thought that her still-young naval service career was about to sink. Then again, maybe she was leaping to conclusions before even hearing the CO’s report. She knew the truth lay somewhere between possible and inevitable. Okay,let’s get this over with, she thought with increased anxiety. If the incident with Schrager negatively affected how others perceived her, then she’d settle up with that pompous jackass later. What did she have to lose at this point?
“O2 Fitness Reports are normally due in February, but I am making official notes to yours sooner,” Commander Whikehart said good-naturedly to relieve any worry the junior officer might have carried to their meeting. “After your recent incident in Control involving the Russian boat and Lieutenant Schrager, I believe the timing for this preliminary FITREP is more productive for you and your career as an officer now instead of later,” he added and paused a moment. “Take as much time as you need to read the report.” His tone was calm. “When you’re done, we’ll talk.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tara said and nodded. She inhaled slowly and started reading.
Promotion status: Promotable. All ensigns and lieutenants’ junior grade only received “promotable” if their overall FITREP didn’t indicate any royal screw-ups.
Sherelaxedattheboxeschecked4.0AboveStandardsforsixout of seven Performance Traits—Professional Expertise, Command or Organizational Climate/Equal Opportunity, Military Bearing/ Character, Teamwork, Leadership, and Tactical Performance. So far so good.
Then she read her rating for the last characteristic: Mission Accomplishment and Initiative (taking initiative, planning/ organizing, achieving mission). The box under 2.0 Progressing was checked. Officers understood that 3.0 was usually code for being a C student, average. Was the Navy telling her she’s a C-minus officer? One less-than performance trait could stand out like flashing red lights on an officer’s report.
