The Crucible. Joaquin De Torres
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wanted to command. Just once, just one tour as captain. I wanted to sit in the captain’s chair.”
“Well, why didn’t you? I’ve seen your record. You’re qualified in every respect, even before WEPS happened.”
“I couldn’t.” Kristina’s eyes burned through the glass, her gaze seemingly boiling the wine within.
“I don’t understand, Kristina. Why couldn’t you?”
“I’m afraid.” Her eyes finally dislodged from the glass and locked onto Becca’s. “I’m terrified.” Becca furrowed her eyebrows questioningly. There was something Kristina was not telling her, or had not told her before. She couldn’t imagine what that could be. They’d bared their souls on countless occasions, Kristina confessing things that she’d never revealed to anyone in her life. What could it be that terrified her?
“Is it the time away from home? Is it the pressure of your dad’s position? Is it--”
“Death,” Kristina hammered. “I’m terrified of the death that surrounds command.” She rotated her wine glass. "With all our country is involved in: the Middle East conflicts, the terrorists, the Chinese, the North Koreans--all of it, there's going to be death." Her eyes began to shimmer and she bit her lip. “And especially in the Ring when the Chinese start crossing. A lot of people we went to the academy with are going to die out there.” Becca’s eyes softened as Kristina tried to hold back her tears.
“What happened to you, honey?” She reached for Kristina’s hand and squeezed it. “Tell me. What happened?”
Kristina’s lips quivered and her face winced in anguish as another vision washed over her. She looked to her left and saw a group of sailors near the bar—charred, disfigured hideously and smoldering. They raised their mangled limbs to her. She began to hear the echoing screams, and smelled the stench of burning flesh. Becca watched helplessly as this mighty woman began to melt away from some vision. Kristina turned her head back to Becca as the tears cascaded down her face.
“No! Go away!” She brought her hands up, cupping her face as her body quaked. Becca moved her chair next to hers and pulled her head onto her shoulders. Yes, Becca realized, there was something that Kristina had not told her.
Office of Chief of Naval Personnel
BUREAU OF PERSONNEL (BUPERS)
Millington, Tennessee
Vice Admiral Mitchell Schmidt, CO of the Navy’s manpower management division, also known as “Schmidy”, set the phone receiver down onto its cradle quietly. His face was flushed with a hue of shock and bewilderment after talking with the SECNAV, Lance Stevenson. He turned to his computer, entered his login-in and passwords, and brought up the classified master access files for commissioned officers in the Surface Warfare designation.
He entered the name and social security number he wanted in the search window and hit Enter. He shook his head, still not believing what he was about to do. When Kristina Torres’ status page bloomed onto the screen he searched for several status boxes that he would have to alter. He moved his cursor arrow onto specific lines and began deleting and entering key information with which he was ordered.
The conversation with Stevenson was of the one-way variety: Stevenson talked, he remained silent. He was not permitted to give his opinion or even assess options about this particular matter. He owed Stevenson a debt. It had been ten years since Stevenson gave him $30,000 to pay the bail bond required to free his younger brother who had been arrested for the statutory rape of a young teenager. Then Stevenson made a phone call to a powerful trial lawyer who was his good friend. Schmidt’s brother was sentenced to only a year in a rehab center for sexual deviants thanks to this lawyer, and didn’t spend a day in prison. Stevenson didn’t ask for the money back at the end of the trial, he just told him that he would come calling one day for him to return the favor. This was that day.
“Schmidy, now is the time I need you to return a favor, and I need you to keep your mouth shut and just do it.” Schmidt understood that there were some things that a person even with his rank was not privy to, and if he wanted to keep that rank and his job as the Navy’s top human resource manager, he had to pay his debt no matter how unbelievable or illegal it seemed. That was Stevenson’s way.
“What a goddamn shame!” he huffed as he typed in the final entries then saved all the files he altered. The alteration was seamless. Schmidt picked up the phone again and pressed his speed dial button for the SECNAV. The number rang directly into Stevenson’s cell phone. After three rings the voice mail recording employed.
“Lance, this is Schmidy. It’s done.” Schmidt hung up the phone and slumped back into his chair. His eyes drifted to the latest copy of the Navy Times, sitting on the edge of his large mahogany desk. On the cover was a huge photo of the Navy’s newest super destroyer. The caption superimposed on the cover read: BUILT BY THE NAVY, ARMED BY WEPS-ONE! The USS Rosa Parks--an Enemy’s Worst Nightmare.
This was for you, Kristina, Schmidt thought. You’ve earned every last deck plate of this ship. It was a gift; all of us decided that you should be the one to command her. You practically designed her yourself. He closed his eyes.
We thought that your father would have been so proud to know that his daughter would take command of this vessel. I guess now he will never have to know. . .and neither will you. Schmidt winced, trying to come to terms with what he had just done.
He reached for the phone again, and then retracted his hand. He was up for his fourth star and he knew that it would be Stevenson who would pull the strings to get it for him. Best not question the man who had so much influence over your life. He then considered calling Ramon, but he imagined the firestorm that could ignite if his call, in any way, triggered a Stevenson—Torres confrontation. The idea instantly evaporated. Enraged and disgusted, he backhanded his coffee mug off the desk, sending it crashing into the opposite wall.
“A fucking shame!”
Chapter 7
Memories Of The Future
Bay Shore Lobster House
Silver Spring, Maryland
In the parking lot of the restaurant, Becca promised Kristina that she would come over that night with ice cream and maybe pick up a DVD. However, what she really wanted was to know what was tormenting her best friend to paralysis. Kristina did not want to talk about it during their emotional lunch; in fact, she wiped her tears dry and changed the subject, talking about the upcoming test cruise instead. Becca noticed how Kristina avoided looking her in the eyes, trying to hide the pain, or frustration, maybe even guilt that had welled up inside of her.
That evening Becca stopped by a market and arrived around 6 P.M. To ease into Kristina’s heart slowly was her plan, so she bought several supplies to support this. She decided that it was going to be “Girl’s Night”, their relaxing time when they cuddled, watched movies, talked about men, stuff other than work, and spoon-fed each other ice cream. Kristina normally talked endlessly during such occasions, finding a sanctuary of mutual trust within Becca’s gaze or smile. These were the special times when two professionals could escape their stringent world and frolic in the realm of innocence, silliness and forgotten childhood. They were not scientists or naval officers during these times--they were just girls. Laughing hysterically on the floor, or sobbing endlessly in each other’s arms, it was during these moments that solidified their love for each other.
The evening began with a glass of wine, a couple of shots of Irish Cream and music. The alcohol had brought their tensions down a couple of notches. On the couch, Becca pulled off Kristina’s socks and began massaging her feet. Kristina closed her eyes. This was always the way it played out: a few drinks, a massage, brushing each other’s hair, and then Kristina would divulge her heart. But unbeknownst to Becca at that moment was the fact that Kristina did have something to reveal, something that would turn Becca’s stomach inside out.
Kristina