Weapons of choice

"What's your feeling about this, Wally?" he asked as they made their way down to the flight deck.

Curtis was so worked up by the rush and excitement that he forgot to be intimidated by the older, more senior man.

"It's something big, sir. Why, I'll bet you it's something we can't even imagine yet, like something out of Amazing Stories."

"You a betting man, Ensign?" teased Black.

"Uh, no, sir. Gambling is a sin, and against regulations, Lieutenant, I just meant…"

"It's all right, son, I wouldn't take your bet anyway. I have a feeling I'd do my dough cold."

Down on the flight deck, surrounded by the hard, unfriendly faces and cocked Springfield '03s of the security detail, Jones wondered how Kolhammer's gamble would play out. They had assumed Spruance would meet them as they disembarked, but only the buzzing ranks of spectators and the anonymous belligerence of their guards awaited them. As they confronted the marine squad, the sergeant in command barked out, "Identify yourselves."

All three had grown up in the military and were unfazed by the aggressive command. People had been barking at them professionally all of their adult lives. They replied in kind.

"Admiral Phillip Kolhammer, United States Navy."

"Colonel J. L. Jones, United States Marine Corps."

"Captain Karen Halabi, Royal Navy."

"We were expected, Sergeant," Jones added, with a tightly coiled menace in the delivery that the marine couldn't help but recognize. A twenty-year man, he had been bruted by professionals, too.

"Not like this you weren't, asshole," the noncom muttered under his breath.

When Jones stepped one pace forward and spoke, it sounded like the engine of an Abrams turning over. Slowly. "You don't know me yet, Sergeant. So I'll let your personal disrespect pass. But you know these, don't you, boy?" He fingered the silver eagles and Marine Corps insignia on his collar. "And by God, you'll respect the uniform of the United States Marine Corps, or I'll beat that respect into you, right here in front of your men."

Jones's eyes never left the sergeant's as he spoke. They stayed locked together for two heartbeats after he had finished. The man's jawline bunched and knotted as he struggled to contain himself, while Jones just gave him the stone face. He could see the guy's entire life in that twisting mask, all of his prejudices and petty resentments, warring against the disciplines of the corps. There were no black marines in 1942, and of all the services the corps would fight hardest against integration. But Jones's warrior spirit was so powerful, his command presence so finely honed, that it could not be resisted. In the end, the Sergeant deflated, crushed by a superior will.

"We'll see," he said, a deep flush of embarrassment discoloring his whole head. He looked as if he'd stepped in something foul.

Kolhammer observed the interchange in silence. He knew Jones well enough, he thought. The Eighty-second had been attached to the Clinton's battle group for two years. The colonel's reputation had preceded him, but Kolhammer was experienced enough to know that the few minutes of a man's life wherein he earned a Medal of Honor didn't necessarily tell you anything about his soul. Or even his character-the everyday manifestation of that deeper, immaterial essence. Awards for uncommon valor are, by definition, won under extreme circumstances, which might call forth behavior completely out of character for the individual concerned. The exchange with the belligerent noncom, however, confirmed what Kolhammer had always suspected.

Nobody fucks with J. Lonesome Jones.

Standing next to him, Captain Halabi couldn't help but be affected, as well, a wave of gooseflesh running up her arms. Curiously, the magic seemed to fade with distance. Over beside the Seahawk pilot Chris Harford, Flight Lieutenant Amanda Hayes affected a faux southern accent: "Mah word, Jasper, we seem to have stumbled into a teste fest."

Harford flashed a small but genuine smile for the first time that day. It froze on his face when he recognized the man approaching from the carrier's island structure. Admiral Raymond Ames Spruance.

Halabi thought he looked more like a banker than an admiral, perhaps a Rothschild or Rockefeller, with short, straight hair, graying over the ears, a rather Roman nose, and deep lines at the corner of his mouth emphasizing the funereal set of his jaw. He fairly stalked over to the commander of the Multinational Force, fixing their CO with a frigid glare.

"You Kolhammer?"

"I am."

That neither man had made to salute spoke eloquently of their uncertainty. Nobody was sure of what rules applied here, of whose turf they were treading on. Spruance turned to take in the stony visage of Colonel Jones and the bewildering Karen Halabi. Jones ripped out a parade-ground-perfect salute, to which Spruance merely sketched a return, somewhat grudgingly and after a noticeable pause.