[FIC] Choices (part 3B) {Chapter 41}

[dd]

Capt. Grigori Stakanov was feeling the phantom pain where his ear once was. This was unlikely to be the continued signal coming from severed nerve endings---physicians had once explained to him the cause of the earlier physiologic illusion that the ear was still in place. This no doubt was memory. It was psychological.

There must indeed be a Creator. And he...or she...must have a Russian sense of humor. Why else would he have run across that...boy...here. Yes, he had the fighting spirit and resourcefulness of a man, but his body was still that of a boy. His hands were clean for all to see, but Grigori still remembered what his own blood looked like covering those same hands.

He had a better understanding of the young man, now. Still, he felt his spirit hold onto his hatred the way a drowning man holds onto anything that will keep him afloat. He had promised himself vengeance some day. How could he ever hope to keep that promise now? Should he just...let...go? After all, more than 40,000 of his countrymen had died in that damn war. There was something to be said for being a survivor.

He could have been killed like the other men in his squad. Sagara...or Kashim...had spared him. Perhaps it had been an act of mercy. Perhaps it had been a mark of scorn. Perhaps his young eyes had seen enough death for that day. No matter the reason, he would not view his life as a debt. He did not care if the glass was half empty or half full. He still wanted to blame someone for draining half the glass in the first place!

This was not exactly what he needed to deal with at this time. The things he had learned in the preliminary combined forces briefing had been staggering. They each had a role to play, and each role was imporant. He needed to be at his best. He needed to uphold the honor of his fallen comrades. He still carried them in his heart each time he went into battle.

"Stakanov. Grigori Alexi Stakanov." The voice was familiar. The Creator did not have a Russian sense of humor. The Creator had a Russian sense of vengeance. Nothing else could explain another such coincedence today.

Turning, Grigori saw Lt. Cmdr. Andrey Kalinin.

That uniform was not familiar. But that scowl was. That stern look.

"Captain...I saw your name on the guest roster. I apologize for not speaking with you sooner. I have been tied up with command meetings." There was courtesy in his voice. A touch of military propriety? Yes. No disgust....No scorn...No accusation.

"I see." As he began to speak, suspicion crept into his heart, making it beat irregularly irregular. "It was perhaps just as well. I had another walking memory from that bloody land to deal with. Your sergeant Sagara. Did you send him to me? Was that your welcoming gift?" He wrinkled his brow, twitched both arms involuntarily.

"No, I did not send him. Why should I have? I had fought him in Afghanistan...had you as well?" Grigori remembered now, his reydoviki unit had not joined under Kalinin's command until after his gruesome encounter with the mujahideen. He should have been sent home, but the battalion commander had refused all such requests. Kalinin had refused that request.

Grigori pointed to the place an ear once sat. He saw Kalinin's eyes narrow, his mouth twitch ever so slightly. "I see. Then you have done something that few did who crossed that young man's path. You walked away. No, it was not my intention to cause you any discomfort. Not even given the things that we share in our past. Sgt. Sagara's path crossed yours by no plan of mine." Kalinin's voice was controlled, even.

"I am glad to see you take the responsibilities of command to heart, and do not take opportunity to settle old scores." Grigori was still uneasy. Should he go into battle looking out for traps from both sides?

"Ah" that single word spoke volumes. Grigori felt his soul stropped bare by that word. He felt his past crimes and indiscretions line up for review, saluting. He felt his spirit dragging him towards an imaginary firing line.

"I see. You think I would hold you personally responsible for what happened to me. Or, perhaps, you believe that I still feel a great dissatisfaction, seeing that you escaped a punishment you richly deserved?" Kalinin coughed repeatedly. "Pardon me. I have a slight cold. You doubt me?""

"Why not? You are not born of any greater stock than I am. We share the same Motherland, and the same hot blood runs in our veins. Yes, perhaps I walked away without punishment for those...acts..." He could not bring himself to speak the word atrocities. "But you walked away as well. It should not have simply been disgrace...it should have been death! We both swore the same oath! Death should be the punishment for any one speaking out about the Spetsnaz!" Grigori's anger threatened to burst into flames.

"Ah." That word again. The searing flame of conscience followed it, licking at its heels. "I suppose we should talk this out, so you do not hold onto hidden misunderstandings. Come with me. Now." Kalinin's tone of voice gave no option for disobedience.

Lt. Cmdr. Kalinin led his countryman to his quarters. "Have a seat, please. You will give me the courtesy of listening without interupting as I recount my version of what happened. At that time, I will welcome any rebuttal or new interpretation you care to offer. Is this acceptable to you?"

"Yes." Grigori's look was intense.

"Good. To begin with, I served with the special forces for the duration of the war, up until the time of my dismissal. I served with great distinction, but carried out my share of brutal, psychological, and punishing acts in the name of Russian justice and retribution. I never crossed the line into something any sane man might call atrocities. And I never sanctioned such acts. I came very close to shooting my own soldiers on a number of occasions. Had I witnessed your acts in person, you might not be sitting in that seat wanting to judge me."

Kalinin poured himself a glass of water and drank. He did not offer any to his visitor.

"The Spetsialnoe naznachenie had become my home away from home. It was what kept me away from my home while my wife was still living and my children were young. It later became the thing that kept me from returning when my wife died and my children grew up without parents."

Grigori had the urge to bow his head and did so.

"You were not distinguished enough to come to my attention when your unit joined my battalion. Your injury did not come to my specific attention. Your later actions spoke up loud and clear, and I could not help but hear of them, despite the efforts of some officers to make them disappear. I was strongly tempted to make YOU disappear."

Grigori flinched. He knew that was not hyperbole.

"You had been in the war for a relatively short time, but you soon became a poster boy for all of the true evils of our invading forces. I made the mistake of trying to stop further atrocities from happening. I brought the information to people who did not want to know of it. By making things official, I was viewed as the criminal. To quiet ME, they put the overall responsibility on MY sholdiers. They called me oath breaker. Traitor. They called me criminal. They threatened to hand me over to the enemy. They threatened to harm my family."

Grigori stared, wide-eyed. He felt as if he were watching the very heart of winter.

Kalinin was not one to show great surges of emotions. His outward appearence spoke volumes for him. "A faithful servant. A man who had sacrificed all. I was banished from my home land for the crime of conscience. You, amongst the rightfully accused, were taken before a mock military review and found innocent of all charges. The blame was put on the victims...on women and children!"

The Mithril officer pourred another glass of water. His thirst for drink might be quenched. He knew his reawakened thirst for justice never would be.

Grigori shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It is never pleasant for a man of some feeling to see his sins paraded before him.

"I would be in my rights to hold you and men like you responsible for my situation. I choose not to. The higher command and their political masters placed a huge stain on the pride of our common nation, one which cannot be removed by one thousand trials, one which can never be diminished by a million brushes!"

Grigori clasped his hands together. So, Kalinin did not focus entirely on him. He felt the weight of responsibility just the same.

"You have no reason to concern yourself regarding my authority, and the possible misuse of my power. It is not likely that I can do any more to you than you have done yourself." Grigori nodded reflexively, remaining silent. "Even if I were so inclined, there would of course be good reason to stay my hand. You have become an extremely talented Arm Slave pilot. I need as many of those as I can find. The world needs them even more than I do. Past differences are not something that will aid any of us in our fight."

"For you, of course, this is an opportunity for redemption, and I would not stand in your way. The greatest saints often started as the greatest sinners." Kalinin was stating facts, not preaching.

Kalinin drank deeply from his glass of water, and then coughed quickly, once.

"I apologize for growing long winded, but there is another point I wish to make here. One cogent to both of us." This was indeed more than Capt. Stakanov had ever heard his one time commanding officer speak...in total.

Kalinin removed a paper from his top drawer, something he had been reading a few days earlier.

"A Frenchman by the name of Alexis de Tocquesville wrote a literary work entitled 'Democracy in America' in 1835. It was purported to be a work of exceptional clarity and insight, though the two of us might find reason to disagree." He grinned, briefly.

Grigori listened intently, wondering where Kalinin was going with this.

"That writing dealt with his thoughts regarding the nature and destiny of the United States and Russia. At his time, he felt that there were two great nations that seemed to tend towards the same end, although they started from different points. He felt that those two nations had grown up unnoticed, while the attention of the mankind had been focused elsewhere. Both nations assumed a prominent place amongst the nations, and the world came to know of their existence at about the same time."

He coughed again. Twice. Shallow.

"All of the other nations had seemed to have nearly reached their natural limits, and appeared to be capable only of maintaining their current power. But, the United States and Russia still appeared to be in the act of growing, proceeding with ease along a path that no one could assign boundaries to. He noted differences to balance out the similarities."

Another cough. Another drink of water.

Kalinin had Grigori's undevided attention.

"He saw the American struggling against natural obstacles that opposed him. He saw the Russian struggling against men. He saw the American fighting against the wilderness and savage life. He saw the Russian struggling against civilization with all of his weapons and art. He saw American conquests gained by the ploughshare. He saw Russian conquests gained by the sword."

Grigori nodded his head. He was an avid reader of history.

"The Anglo-Americans were said to rely upon personal interest to accomplish his ends. They gave free scope to the unguided exertions and common sense of their citizens. Russian was seen as centering all of the authority of its society in a single arm. The principal instrument of the former was freedom. The principal instrument of the latter was servitude. The starting point for each nation was different, and their courses were not the same---yet, each of them seemed destined to sway the destinies of half the globe."

Kalinin offered Grigori a glass of water which he gladly accepted.

"That was a remarkable prediction for 1835" Kalinin started, rubbing his hand through his hair.

"Especially for a Frenchman" Grigori added, chuckling. Kalinin grinned briefly.

"Many things have happened since them, and some national traits and fortunes have changed. Nonetheless, some telling points remain true. Our great nation, diminished in some ways as it is, still holds a tremendous weapon at the throat of the entire world. This time, however, the weapon has been wrested from her hand, copied, and returned. As you no doubt heard in your briefing, some of the Russian antenna arrays and transmitters...once left unused, but intact...have fallen under the use of the shadow group. The Russian thirst for conquest has placed the entire world on the brink of extinction."

Grigori started to protest, but Kalinin stilled him.

"I know exactly what you are going to say. My pride led me down that path before you. Others nations, in time, may well have brought about the same crisis. That is true. However, they did not do so. It is not hard to see where the greatest share of the blame rests at this time. That brings me to the final major point I wanted to make."

"Atonement?"

"Exactly. We two, and those who accompanied you here today will serve important roles. Equally crucial, will be the part played by the Russian military machine and our country's scalar technicians. Russia will have great opportunity for redemption, just as you will. That will not keep her safe from future sins any more than your actions will redeem you for all your future transgressions. But, to worry about such future days, we must first make certain we are all there to see them...and we all have the freedom to enjoy them."

Kalinin folded his hands together on the desktop and looked intently at Grigori. "So, captain. Can you tell me now how you plan to approach your role in the battle? Will it have your undivided attention?"

"As much as I can make it so, Sir!"

"Very good. Can you tell me whether or not you can trust me as your commander? Will you be able to function as part of one of my assault teams?" Kalinin's stare was intense, piercing.

"Again, as much as I can make it so."

"Excellent. Now..." He spread both hands flat upon the desk surface. "What do you have to say about Sgt. Sagara?" There was no hint of emotion in the older man's voice.

"In which way, Sir?"

"Let's walk our way through this then. Shall we?"

"As you wish." Kalinin's stare was piercing. Grigori would give anything to know Kalinin's experiences with the young man, both as friend and as foe.

"What do you make of his age?"

"He has no ability to change his age..." Grigori grinned. Kalinin did briefly, as well.

"I honestly have my concern that he can carry out any part of the mission adequately, as I have no personal experience with him. Yet, he is given use of a machine or unparalleled capability, so I may assume that he has an adequate skill level." Grigori felt that his reservations were reasonable and professionally sound.

Grigori asked for more water and received it.

"If his stories were not childish make believe, then he has more experience than myself or any of my men." That latter statement touched Grigori's pride, but he was a realist. It would be good for the team if everybody was more skilled than himself, as he was exceptional at what he did.

"Sgt. Sagara gained control of the ARX-7 by the vagaries of fate. His subsequent performance in it that system has earned him the continued privilege---and large responsibility---tenfold over. And, he is not one to joke, much less one to falsify tales." Kalinin's voice was matter of fact, certain. His statement was not opinion...it was fact.

"His judgement?" Grigori sounded like a many examining livestock before making a purchase.

"Questionable only for the risks he takes. His consistant success has proven his actions correct." Kalinin did not need to speak it, but the sense remained. Sousuke's actions had proven Kalinin's judgement correct.

"His ability to lead men?" Grigori's questions were practical and to the point.

"He is a natural warrior, and men who appreciate that follow him well and speak admirably of him. He still has much to learn, but he has had excellent teachers. And, one of his best charcteristics is his ability to adapt. He is a good leader. He is a good follower. Pride does not ride with him in his cockpit."

"That is good to hear. What are his loyalties?"

"He puts his comrades ahead of himself, but puts the mission ahead of everything. It is rare that emotions color his decisions. His character is unimpeachable. He does not bow down before threats." Grigori could sense a hint of pride in the older man's voice.

"The mark of a dedicated man. May I ask a personal question? The answer would be significant."

"You may ask." Kalinin reclined slightly in his chair.

"If you were assigned as a pilot tomorrow. Would you join his team. Would you follow his commands?" Capt. Stakanov's look was calculating, almost hopeful.

"An excellent question. The answer to both questions is 'yes.' Without hesitation or regret." Kalinin went on to desbribe some of Sousuke's battle experiences. He took out paperwork that detailed the opinions of men and women who had served with Sgt. Sagara, leading him or following him.

"I see. I take it you are also interested in our personal debt of blood?" This was said without the slightest bit of hesitation. It was as if Grigori wanted to talk his way through things. To a fellow soldier who would understand. To a father confessor.

"Yes. I would appreciate it if you would describe it to me, along with the details of your meeting today." Kalinin took a small recording device out of his desk and placed it on the table. He waved his hand towards it. Grigori nodded assent, and his former commander set the item on 'record.'

Grigori gave his thoughts and memories to Kalinin. The older soldier commented briefly at times, but for the most part remained silent until Grigori finished speaking. Kalinin shut off the recorder.

"Can you fight with him?" Kalinin asked.

"I see no professional reason why I should be hestitant. On the contrary, your recommendations and the commentary of your personnel speak highly of him." Grigori spoke as a soldier, not as a man with grievances and regrets.

"Can you follow him?"

"Into battle. Into death. And back again if opportunity allows. From what you describe, I never want to end up facing him on the battlefield. It will be good to be on his side." Grigori was sincere. He also felt an eagerness for battle growing within him.

"I have no further questions for you. Is there something you would like to tell me, or are there questions you would like to ask?"

The two men spoke briefly, covering their personal differences, their shared memories of their homeland, and some details about Mithril that could safely be divulged. When they were finished, no further questions remained.

"I thank you for listening, and I thank you for your thoughts. I do not wish to hold up your group's departure any longer. If I do not personaly have time to speak to you again, I wish you good hunting, and good fortune." Both men rose and shook hands. Grigori then saluted. Twice.

Kalinin raised an eyebrow, silently seeking an explanation.

"I salute you as my commander. Once, as a commander I failed. Once as a commander I shall not fail!" Grigori's voice was rich with pride.

Lt. Cmdr. Kalinin saluted in return.

*************************************************************

Cmdr. Mardukas sat in the Captain's chair on the bridge of the TDD-1. His mood could be better. The day could certainly have gone more smoothly. It seemed that fate conspired against him. Again.

He had been less than pleased when he learned of Sagara's decision. The proper decision had been practically gift-wrapped for that boy, and yet he decided to forsake duty for personal desire. He had chosen to lead the team targeted to recover that Japanese girl and those with her.

Lt. Cmdr. Kalinin should have known better. What could have possessed the man, allowing that boy to make a decision. The mission should have been assigned purely by logic and necessity!

His honor felt as if it had been pealed away, layer by layer, until nothing remained. It had been difficult keeping up pretences in the presence of the visiting sumarine commanders. Evasions. Misdirection. Outright lies. To his peers. But, he could not let anyone know that Capt. Testarossa was the effective commander of this vessel. He could not let them know she was gone. He could not let them know the reason she was gone.

The questions had been pointed, direct. Who was in command? How long was that person in command? What engagements had he orchestrated. What was his overall level of experience? Those were the 'simple' questions. The emotionally uncomplicated ones.

That would have been bad enough. But his fellow commanders had their own agenda. They wanted to know Mithril's effectiveness. They felt a need to know the TDD-1's capabilities. They required a complete understanding of the submarine commander's judgement and decision making abilities. The questions were not kind, were not considerate. They stripped hjim to his very soul, bringing back memories he did not want to relive at this time and place.

Commander Robert Tucker of the SSBN-AS 744 Argus and Commander Joachim Horowitz of the SSBN-AS 746 Ladon were dedicated and serious men. They were not interested in swapping tales. They were not inclined towards drinking and making merry with fellow submariners. They were looking for answers, and they served as the voice of their absent comrades, the commanders of the SSBN-AS 745 Hydra and SSBN-AS 747 Typhon. Like Cmdr. Mardukas, they needed to protect a secret from the public domain.

The Trident program was supposed to stop at SSBN 743, the USS Louisiana. The remaining four boats were not to be constructed. The existing fleet would be reduced from 18 to 14. The latter had occured. The former as well...only as a precise point of fact. The hulls were not built up into additional Trident Submarines. They were built up into specialized craft designed to launch Arm Slave delivery missiles rapidly and with the utmost accuracy.

Mardukas could still hear their emotionless voices in his head after they had left. The slow southern drawl of one man. The thick NYC accent of the other. The questions repeated, over and over again in his ears, dragging his past out him to see:

"I take it you are THE Cmdr. Richard Mardukas, once of the HMS Vengeance?" Cmdr. Tucker had asked that rhetorical question as a segue into more pertinent interrogation.

"Yes, I am he. Prior to that, I commanded a Trafalgar class submarine, the HMS Turbulent."

"The reports of the Vengeance incident were accurate? Nothing was exaggerated? Nothing was covered up?" Cmdr. Horowitz aptly followed up his countryman's inquiry.

"Gentlemen, I assure you the Royal Navy made no effort at cover-up, given the heightened level of scrutiny the occurence prompted. Neither were the Ministers inclined to hang out all of the dirty laundry for all to see. I am certain you can understand the situation." Both men nodded.

Cmdr. Horowitz glanced at Cmdr. Tucker who tilted his head ever so slightly. Cmdr. Horowitz remained lead ship in the conversation. "Will you give us the courtesy of a succinct but pertinent summary of the occurence then? I do not wish to castigate you, nor do I have a deire to canonize you. I am certain my fellow commander is of similar intent. There are things we wish to know. Answer the questions that you would ask, if our situations were reversed." True to his word, he expression was one of professional curiosity, not sympathy or accusation.

"Certainly." Cmdr. Mardukas swallowed, hard. Neither man missed that. "We were leaving the Falsane base for trials in the Celtic Deep of the Irish Sea. We had been fitted with modernized systems, and it was necessary to determine their effcetiveness and limitations. That would have certainly been mission enough, but I had grown disconcerted with lax training policies within the Royal Navy, and had planned to make double use of the opportunities presented. It led me to take risks---in the name of challenging the resolve of my crew---that I would not have taken otherwise."

Mardukas stopped for a moment. "Would either of you gentlemen wish additional refreshments. I can have them brought up from the hangar area promptly. Both men accepted the kind offer, and an aide was sent to bring back a cart of mixed drinks.

"Two mechanical problems announced themselves soon after we left port. Newly added navigational systems were functional, but the act of their installation had somehow fouled the Vengeance's collision avoidance gear. The passageway outward was supposed to be devoid of seacraft, so I did not let that deficiency hold us back." That much was simple enough to say. There should be no major judgements baded on that. Mardukas felt sweat breaking out on his brow just the same.

"In addition, there was report of a very minor leak in the coolant circuit for the reactor, if anything concerning the reactor can ever be considered minor." He saw both men tighten their jaws and blink repeatedly. This was more serious business. "The radiation control specialist did not judge the leak to be dangerous. I decided that I would rather have such a defect assessed elsewhere, away from the politically labile Scottish base and its surrounding environs." His fellow commanders assessed that decision, keeping their opinions to themselves.

The drinks were rolled in, and each man helped himself to a cocktail.

"Do you judge either mechanical problem to be at fault for the grounding?" Cmdr. Tucker asked, the question fresh in his mind.

"No, Commander, I do not." Cmdr. Tucker nodded his head, and Mardukas continued with his recounting of events.

"You should understand, that this was not the first grounding of a Trident submarine at the given site. That fact was not taken lightly by myself or crew. It did, however, paint a powerful political backdrop for any similar future incidences."

"The Victorious?" Cmdr. Horowitz asked. Cmdr. Mardukas nodded his head.

"Yes. HMS Victorious had hit a sand bank in the Clyde Estuary, crashing into the Skelmorlie Bank. The resultant lessons were not lost on us. Despite that, and in part due to inclement weather, we suffered a similar fate, not too far beyond the site of the ealier mishap. You can imagine the official fallout from the Scottish people. I doubt you would be surprised by the Royal Navy's official response."

Their input obliquely asked for, both American Commanders raised salient points.

"You should not have been in water that shallow under those weather conditions." That from Cmdr. Tucker.

"Correct."

"They were insensed to here you had sailed with faulty collision avoidance gear." Cmdr. Tucker again.

"Indeed."

"The reactor leak---as minor as it was---served as the fuse to the powder keg." Cmdr. Horowitz' eyes were closed, as he imagined the response of naval supriors and polticians from England and Scotland.

"Exactly."

"The commanding officer was held entirely accountable for the occurence, while the Royal Navy and England itself were victims of justifiable Scottish rage and dissatisfaction." Cmdr. Tucker looked as if he agreed with that response, if it had indeed occured.

"As one would expect."

"The political unrest drove official reprimands to be more severe than they might otherwise have been." Cmdr. Horowitz suspected the truth.

"Yes. For the military, it was a close call. The loss of the submarine would have eroded the confidence of the poltical planners. A bonafide nuclear disaster would have had phenomenal repercussions."

"For the people of Scotland, the accident conjured up images of multiple potential Chernobyl type events. They had been concerned enough about ANY nuclear submarine running aground. A nuclear submarine with a reactor leak---of ANY size---was worse than a gun to their head. It was a gun to their childrens' heads. It took heavy-handed political maneuvering to prevent the removal of all submarines. The Scottish people may never forgive the imposition. My goal---to take the damaged system as far away from Scotland as possible---drew little press and scant forgiveness."

"You do recognize how reckless your actions were?" Cmdr. Horowitz' voice had the same effect as the blinding light projected on the face of an interogated criminal.

"Yes."

"Are you still inclined to take dangerous risks?" Cmdr. Tucker's voice had the impact of a cell door closing.

"No. It would take extraordinary circumstances."

"Has the incident made you overly cautious and afraid to take ANY risks?" Cmdr. Horowitz stared intently at his Mithril equivalent.

"No. Difficult situations arise due to the nature of our missions. I only try to avoid unnecessary risks."

"I take it then, you would do things differently if you could turn back time?" Cmdr. Tucker offered this as a rhetorical question.

"Certainly. For the sake of my crew and the men who placed me in that command. For the sake of the Scots, and the honor of my country. And for my own sake." Cmdr. Mardukas' posture stiffened and his jaw clenched. Both actions were not missed by his guests. "The circumstances taught me a great deal."

Cmdr. Tucker and Cmdr, Horowitz asked for a brief moment to share their thoughts alone. Cmdr. Mardukas consented, walking away until the men signalled for his return.

"That was indeed a serious incident. You are quite fortunate that it did not occur during the time of Horatio Lord Nelson. The Articles Of War at that time would have allowed ultimately severe chastisement, and the anger of the Scottish people and your own countrymen no doubt would have prompted serious consideration of hanging." That pleasant thought was supplied by Cmdr. Horowitz, an avid military historian.

Cmdr. Mardukas shivered, thinking of Lord Nelson. One of his nation's greatest naval comanders. He pictured that heroic figure glaring at him with disgust and displeasure on his face.

"And, it might have been much the same, had you neen a member of our naval forces during the times that followed 1930's 'Articles For The Government Of The Navy.' " That was offered by Cmdr. Tucker, a well read man in his field.

Cmdr Mardukas was aware of that document as well, not so affectionately known as 'Rocks and Shoals' by U.S. Navy personnel who felt they were apt to be thrown on just such natural impediments as a response of any transgression.

By coincidence, Mardukas had read a book on Order & Discipline in the U.S. Navy from 1800-1860 just days before the fateful accident. That book had carried the title "Rocks and Shoals.'

"Yes, I understand." Cmdr. Mardukas replied. "The dire consequences for anyone who suffered any vessel of the U.S. Navy to be run up upon rocks or shoals or improperly hazarded were potentially devastating. The punishment could be death or any other penalty as a court martial could ajudge." Both of his visitors nodded their heads.

All three men were repectfully quiet for a moment. "I almost wish that they had gone that route" Cmdr. Mardukas added. Cmdrs. Tucker and Horowitz both sympathized, but the admission raised addition questions.

Cmdr. Tucker pounced first. "You were offered the opportunity to take full blame and to resign, avoiding court martial, given your previous remarkable talents and successes.. At the time you were no doubt in the cold embrace of despair. Your confidence must have been near absent. Perhaps you cursed fate. How have things changed since then?"

Cmdr. Mardukas well understood the question behind the question. What kind of leader could Mardukas be now? What did he expect from himself, good and bad? Should they be optimistic or pessimistic? They needed answers in order to be realistic. He could answer this question honestly.

"I have---for the most part---been able to place those happenings behind me. It took soul searching, and a chance to get back in a command position, to arrive at the answer. It helps to have an opportunity to act unencumbred by national interests, when action is a necessity. I am whole again, and my judgement has since proven sound. I have no reservations concerning my abilities. It is my reputation and pride that continue to suffer."

Both Americans nodded, smiling. They had no difficulty imagining what Cmdr. Mardukas must have faced...and must still be facing. Cmdr. Tucker offered encouragement. "Cmdr. Horowitz and myself---along with Cmdrs. Balboa and McClain---are amongst the naval personnel who know of the existence of Mithril." The two men mentioned were the absent commanders of the other two Mythos class submarines. "The track record of your forces speaks for itself. It also speaks highly not only of the men who fight, but also the men who command. You should take great pride in that."

"I do." That too was honest. It almost made his past difficulties worthwhile.

"I am curious. If you could choose, would you keep the command of this miraculous craft, or would you accept command of the Vengeance if it were offered back to you?" An insightful question from Cmdr. Horowitz.

Command of this craft. Yes. He WAS currently in command. "It is apples and oranges, gentlemen. I much prefer the role of the Tuatha De Danaan to that of any ballistic nuclear submarine. Especially in light of the technological threat we now face. I enjoy the opportunity to affect change consistently, globally. I no longer would be content serving aboard a deterrant, especially one which had the potential to destroy the globe."

Both visiting Commanders felt similarly, satisfied with their own current commands.

"Then, for you...all things appear to have worked out for the better. Hopefully, the same will hold true for the world as a whole, and for those like us who will fight beside you." Cmdr. Horowitz' sentiment was echoed by Cmdr. Tucker.

Both men indicated that they were willing to take Cmdr. Mardukas and his abilities on faith, despite his having committed one of the cardinal sins of their shared occupation. They were not being generous, however. In return, their very carriage and tone of voice demanded that the Mithril Commander not fail them....not fail the world.

Both of his fellow Commanders needed to catch the flights back to their fleets. Their questioning had proven uncomfortable, but their final decision should have been emancipatory. It was not. At least, not yet. Once the negative thoughts had returned, it would take some time to batten them down again. He had work to do!

Cmdr. Mardukas relived the anxious moments that had followed immediately after the grounding. He once again walked before his examiners and the world press. The memories detailing his search for a new career and for new meaning in life clamored for attention.

In his minds eye, his misfortune still ranked among the pantheon of great Naval and military mistakes and mishaps.

*The cruiser HMS Trinidad had torpedoed HERSELF during WW II.

*The Russian battleships Admiral Popov and Novgorod had been round, and had floundered helplessly in strong currents, making their crews dizzy as they spun.

*The light cruiser HMS Curacoa had been sunk by the ocean liner Queen Mary.

*The crew of a Chinese battleship had traded all of their gunpowder for cocoa.

*A British troop surrounded by Ashante tribesmen had broken open their boxes of reserve ammunition...only to discover that the boxes were filled by bisquits.

*In 1905, the Russian Baltic fleet under the command of Admiral Zinovi Petrovich Rhozdestvenski was nearly entirely destroyed by the Japanese fleet under the command of Admiarl Heihachiro Togo at the Straits of Tsushima. Russia lost 4,830 men, while the Japanese casualties totalled 700. The defeat was credited with prompting the Revolution.

*The overly large British K-class submarines of WW I, steam driven instead of diesel powered, proved to be more hazardous to their own fleet than to enemy ships. They prompted the famous quote "I say, number 1, my end is diving...what is your end doing?"

*During the Napoleonic wars, Prussian Field Marshal Gebhard von Blucher believed he was pregnant with an elephant after having been raped by a French grenadier.

*Cmdr. Richard Mardukas ran the nuclear submarine HMS Vengeance aground, only a few years after the sister ship HMS Victorious had run aground near the same spot.

Not happy merely writing himself into every textbook on military misadventures, Cmdr. Mardukas bedeviled himself by expanding Mohandas Ghandi's 'Seven Blunders of The World' by one:

@Wealth without Work

@Pleasure without Conscience

@Knowledge without Character

@Commerce without Morality

@Science without Humanity

@Worship without Sacrifice

@Politics without Principal.

and

@Cmdr. Richard Mardukas in command of a nuclear submarine.

So, the last one didn't fit the format! It was his mental recrimination after all. He had the ability to make the rules as he saw fit!

Eventually, through the tincture of time, his negative thoughts ran their course. He felt much better. He had been placed under the blinding light of judgment by fellow warriors, and had walked away intact and able to command. As best he could, he would base his level of confidence on things that happened in the days to come, not on things that were long since out of his control.

Now! What could he think about now while he still had some free time?

Ah, yes. Sgt. Sousuke Sagara.

*************************************************************

Melissa sat on the edge of her bed, alone, her head bowed. She held a near full beer can loosely in her hand, and did not notice as it fell from her grip.

She had left the wounded behind.

Gordon's words had hit her harder than the flat of his hand.

Her thoughts bounced between her heart and her head, seemingly tireless in their gymnastic enthusiasm. Part of her stood aloof, looking at herself with disgust. This is NOT Sgt. Major Melissa Mao! She does NOT go for all this emotional crap!

She had left the wounded behind. Something she swore she never would do when she joined the Corps. She knew it wasn't the same thing as leaving a wounded soldier behind in battle. At least her mind knew that. Her heart wasn't so certain.

The Corps had become her mother and father, after her own parents had shown no real interest in her and her problems. She hadn't fit the mold. There had been no room for a child who didn't fit the mold. When the Corps became her surrogate family, she gave her oath to become a dutiful child.

Some oaths seem destined for breaking.

Oaths of service.

Vows of love.

It wasn't a matter of the oaths themselves. It was a matter of the person making the oath. Her promises had been well meant, but she had run up against things she had not been prepared to handle then.

She had been so proud---so certain. She had walked so cocky---talked so big. She had thought that she could hold herself above everything and everybody. And, afraid to trust others completely, she had built her soul a rickedy house, using only herself as the foundation. But, it turned out she had been made of sand. When the big wave washed by, that house came crashing down.

If only she had been as strong then as she was now.

She had blamed her problems on the Corps. They had turned out to be just like her birth mother and father---or so she wanted to believe. She had run away from everything she knew there. Gordon had been part of everything.

Melissa stared at the advancing front of the beer, as it spread eagerly away from the fallen can. She tried to focus on that, rather than on her uncharacteristic thoughts. But, they had started to spread too, and they would not stop until they were stretched to their limit.

Gordon.

She HAD loved him. As much as she had been willing and able to love anyone. He had been the one who started her on the path away from self-loathing and doubt. He had been the one who allowed her to find her own strength and confidence. He had been patient. Kind. Enabling. She swore silently, wishing he had treated her worse. This wouldn't be nearly as hard if he had.

Melissa put her hand to her mouth. The bleeding had stopped, but it would be a while before the pain diminished, and before the swelling went down. Gordon had hit her. He had never shown her anything but kindness in the past, but he had HIT her. She could only imagine how much unresolved pain and anger he must have carried inside.

She put her head in her hands. She had carried her anger too. More had remained than she could ever have imagined. But it had been misdirected. She had struck out and hurt him once again.

Anger. It appeared that the specific anger was gone now, as if the last few rounds had been chambered and shot. Part of her was mortified. That anger had always served a good purpose. It was part of who she was. How could she get it back?

Why was she feeling so sad, now? What was done was done. She had gone on to find a good place, with good people. There were people she could laugh with. People she could trust. People to fight for. People who cared about her. She should be happy.

Melissa couldn't believe that the person she was now---tough, certain, always in control---could be sitting here acting like this!!! It hadn't been easy, building herself up the way she had. Was it all just an act? Or was Gordon simply her Achilles heel? If she could find a way to dip that heel into the River Styx, she'd be invulnerable---wouldn't she?

She knew that scabs could be torn off, making a new wound. She knew that sutured wounds could break open, or become infected. But scars, once healed, were supposed to be stronger than the original flesh. Why did the old wound feel raw now. Why did it feel as if her blood should be pooling on the floor instead of her beer?

Melissa thought some more. She knew why. Gordon had cared for her when she had cared little for herself. He had helped lift her up, asking for nothing in return. He had not only been her lover, he had been her friend.

She realized at that moment, why she felt the way she did about Sousuke's and Kaname's relationship.

Whenever Melissa heard Sousuke talk about his feelings for Kaname, she felt a warmth and a happiness that a loving sister might feel. Yet, there was always an undercurrent of concern and inevitability, as if she believed it was only a matter of time before the rug was yanked out from under his feet. Even though she was very fond of Kaname, she always carried an unconcious feeling of resentment towards her.

Her thoughts returned again to her former lover . His name rang out to her now like someone from a romantic tragedy. Romeo. Abelard. Gordon.

She managed a small smile. No, she was no Capulet and he was no Montague. They were not star-crossed lovers. They had not killed themselves like Shakespeare's fateful couple. And they certainly were not like the 12th century scholar and his talented young student. He had not gotten her pregnant. Her family did not punish him with castration. The two of them certainly had not been destined to live a monastic life!

She laughed a moment, regaining a little of her spirit. Then her laughter died. Perhaps she had not gone to live in a convent, but her relationships with men had never reached the heights she climbed with Gordon. Sex? Yes. Intimacy? Rarely. An almost spiritual joy? Never.

Unbidden, an old Marine saying came to mind. 'Retreat Hell! I'm just attacking in a different direction!' That phrase could well have been written to describe her approach to men over the years.

What was holding her back? Was it guilt? Fear? Had Gordon set the bar too high? Obviously, there were more things for her to think about some day. The willingness to finally face her buried feelings might prove more beneficial than any anwers she might find. No doubt, something good would come of all this. Eventually.

There was a knock at her door. It was probably Kurz or Sousuke. Possibly both. Melissa did not exactly feel like talking right then---did not feel like talking to ANYBODY---but, the two of them might need comfort themselves. She got up and walked to the door.

Opening the door, she was surprised to see who was standing there:

Capt. Gordon Freiman.

Melissa's first reaction was to shut the door as quickly as she could. Her emotions were too raw to deal with him now! As he had already put his hand on the door frame, Gordon had the great pleasure of having the door slam into his fingers.

"Shit! Owww...damn!" Capt. Freiman was not usually one for profanity. That door had hurt!

Melissa opened the door back up again. She glared at Gordon. Her mind kept shouting *APOLOGIZE* to her, but some habits die hard.

"Are you going to move that hand, Gord...or lose it?" Well, a definite improvement after all! Normally she would have said 'f@cking hand' and 'f@cking lose it.'

"In a minute, Sgt. Major Mao. I won't take up much of your time. I have to leave before too long." The formality surprised Melissa. But, there was no coldness in his gaze. There was regret.

"What do you want? Another swing?" She hadn't meant to say that. It seems that her anger was back, an effective defense mechanism. It would be simpler to hold onto anger than to risk more difficult feelings.

"I guess I deserve that, Mao. I came to apologize." There was regret in his voice too. "I know it probably doesn't matter...but I'm sorry."

Melissa held back from answering right away. Keeping in character, she had been about to say 'It's a little late now. A f@cking apology won't put my face back to normal.' But, the word 'apologize' reached past her shield of anger. Her mind shouted for *HER* to apologize---to apologize for everything!

"Apologize? What should you apologize for, Gord? I guess I pretty much had it coming." That was as close as she could come to an apology right then. But, she was still working on it.

"No, Melissa. You didn't have THAT coming. I hit you. That is NEVER excusable." He sounded remorseful, contrite. He meant exactly what he said. "I don't deserve forgiveness for that."

He was so damn honorable---so damn caring. His sincerity reached out and caressed her the way his hands once had. It was uninvited, but effective. "Then why apologize? Just don't do it again!" She actually managed a brief grin.

That took Gordon aback, momentarily.

He watched her warily for a second or two, and then managed a sheepish grin of his own. "Yes. You are correct. To err is human. To forgive, divine. Neither is Marine policy." He had to fight from smiling when he saw Melissa's scowl. He saw a small opening, and it was time to exploit the opportunity.

Melissa kicked at the beer can on the floor for effect. "You keep quoting that jarhead shit and you won't live to see another day! That is MY policy!" There had been obvious levity in her voice. Did that count as an apology? Her mind remained dubious.

Capt. Freiman, Arm Slave pilot extraordinare, had not gotten to where he was in life without taking calculated risks.

Smiling, he said "Retreat? Hell, I just got here!" He still had a few sayings packed away in his duffel bag.

"Gord!" Melissa found herself dangerously close to smiling. She shook her fist at him. "You'll be in Hell before you know it." How did he manage to DO that!

With mock severity, Gordon said "Not gonna work, Mao! Heaven won't take us, and Hell is afraid we might take over." That was one of his favorites. It had once been one of THEIR favorites.

"Damn it, Gord! You're gonna find yourself surrouned by a wall of pain!" Melissa actually smiled. What was going on? Where was that damn anger.

"Ah! So they got us surrounded. Good! Now we can fire in any direction, and those bastards won't get away this time!" This had actually started to be fun. But he had to be careful. It was hard to tell when Melissa reached her limit sometimes.

Melissa remained quiet. She had given him the perfect set-up...again! 'Let's see what he'll do if I stay quiet!' she thought to herself. She crossed her arms and set her jaw.

It wasn't working the way she hoped it would. Gordon crossed his arms, and had the nerve to smile at her! This had been HER idea! Well then, it would be a staring contest. She had to fight hard to keep from smiling. Damn him for making her feel better! The illogic of that thought almost made her blink.

Capt. Frieman was never one to try to get by on good looks and brute strength alone. He was a clever tactician. He understood how it can be advantageous to lose a battle but win a war.

"A Sailor is relieving himself in the head when a Marine walks in and steps up to the urinal next to him." She was square in his sights now. This shot couldn't miss.

"Sucker!" Melissa said, going quiet again. There was a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. Briefly.

"After a few seconds the Sailor finishes, shakes, zips up and walks over to the sink to wash his hands. The Marine also finishes, zips up, and walks to the door."

Gordon watched Melissa's face, to see if she had heard this one before. She gave no sign that she had. Good, he had her attention then. He had enveloped the middle---time to work on the flank.

"Just then, the Sailor says 'Hey, Marine! When I was in boot camp, they taught us to wash our hands when we finished!' "

Gordon paused. He'd remain quiet for a while. 'Let's see how long she can wait these days' he thought to himself.

Melissa waited. Waited some more. She knew what he was doing. This was becoming irritating. She couldn't help herself.

"Gord! Finish it already. We don't have all f@cking night!"

"Sucker!" Now, he was the smug one.

He smiled quietly for a moment, rubbing it in. Then he went on to finish his joke. "The Marine looks at the Sailor and says, 'When I was in boot camp, they taught me not to piss on my hands!' "

Melissa smiled. Not at the joke. At Gordon. Who else would have taken the tact that he had? For whom else could it have worked? "You NEVER could tell a joke, Gord!"

She new he'd tell her another one, just to show her he could. That was alright! She was beginning to feel better now. She just wanted to hear him talk.

"I see. Let's try another, then." He didn't seem daunted. Quite the opposite, actually. He took a moment to sift through his memory.

"At the finals of the National Poetry Contest, there were two strangely matched finalists . Finalist number one---the winner of last year's competion, and the winner of other pretigious contests---was a Harvard educated professor of literature. Finalist number two, a young Lance Corporal from the back woods of West Virginia, needed help filling in the entry form."

Melissa said "Ah. Reminiscing. I never knew you were the type of...man...who liked poetry, Gord!" She went tsk, tsk, tsk. Damn. What did she think she was doing. Playful? She couldn't help herself.

Gordon paid her no nevermind. "The final round would consist of each competitor being given the same word, and allowed thirty seconds to complete a verse using that very same word."

"The professor went first. The judge said 'The final word this year is "Timbuktu." ' The professor started thinking. And thinking. And..."

"Thinking. I KNOW that. Get on with it, man!"

Gordon smiled. Good old Mao. Nice to see you again!

"Ten seconds passed as the audience waited." He paused.

"Twenty seconds." He paused longer. He smiled at Melissa. She clenched her fists.

"The crowd was getting nervous. Finally, at twenty-eight seconds, the professor spoke:



*********** Across the hot Sahara sand, **********

*********** Trekked the dusty caravan. ***********

*********** Men on camels, two by two, ***********

*********** Destination- Timbutu. ****************



The crowd went wild. There was obviously NO way that the hillbilly Marine could top that!" Capt. Freiman paused again.

"Damn it, Gord. Does this thing have an end?" Melissa was obviously putting on a front.

"Yes. And that's it!" That'll teach her. Or set her off.

"Gord! I REALLY feel like kicking something!" Gordon saw which part of his anatomy she was staring at. She was probably just kidding, but...

Melissa chuckled when Gordon resumed the joke. She smiled during the joke, realizing she was feeling neither anger nor depression. The man was truly a wonder.

"The Lance Corporal was brought on stage. The judge gave the word again, "Timbuktu." The young Marine looked at the sky, thought for fifteen seconds, stepped up to the microphone, cleared his throat, and began:



********** Tim 'en me, a huntin' went, ***********

********** Met three girls in a pop-up tent. *******

********** They was three and we was two, ******

**********I bucked one, and Tim Buk Two." *******



Gordon crossed his arms again and waited. Melissa fidgeted a few moments then cursed. "That can't be it, Gord. F@ck! Who won the goddamn contest!"

"It's 'B@ck,' Sgt. Major. And that's all there is to that one. I guess I CAN tell a joke after all, right?" Gordon's look and stance challenged her.

"In your dreams. Right after the place where I kick your ass!" Melissa had built her steam back up again. She could just as easily have been joking with Sousuke or threatening Kurz with bodily harm.

"Oh, really. Then, let's see if you can take one more. Third one's always the charm." He pondered his choices.

"Back in 1947, the government was experimenting with a Marine's ability to complete his mission after suffering a serious head injury. They took a well-trained, physically-fit, hard-charging Corporal and told him to row a canoe up the river. The Marine jumped in the canoe, started rowing upstream with ease, singing 'From the Halls of Montezuma, to the Shores of Tripoli.' "

"Well, THIS one can't be a remembrance! Well-trained...ha!" Melissa fought the urge to make a face. This wasn't highschool!

"The next day, a team of surgeons performed a frontal lobotomy on the soldier. Again they took him to the river and told him to "row." The Corporal jumped in, took a while to figure out where to sit, and began rowing steadily and singing with some difficulty, 'From Da Halllz of Montayuma, Two Da Stores in Tripoli.' He still managed to complete his task."

The next day, the surgeons removed the majority of the Marine's brain and took him back to the river. The Corporal jumped in the canoe, fell out, and began swimming up against the current, singing 'For Da Hails of Monte puma, to 'e hall inn monopoly.' " But, again, he finished his task.

The next day, and the surgeon's removed the remainder of the Marine's brain. He had no brain matter whatsoever. There was no way to think logically. On the way to the river, he fell out of the car and started singing "Here we go, into the wild blue yonder....' "

Gordon wasn't certain what he should expect now. He had run out of jokes and was fresh out of bright ideas. He was fortunate that nothing else was needed.

For a fleeting moment, Melissa looked vulnerable. "Gods...I've MISSED you, Capt. Gordon Alexander Freiman!" She walked up and put her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. She then did something that she had not done in a long time.

Melissa cried. A little. Briefly. Pent up emotions finally found the doorway out. She then went totally still, and absolutely silent. She stayed that way for a number of minutes.

Gordon did not move. Not an inch. He did not try to turn an outcry of emotion into anything more.

"I'm sorry, Gord. Terribly sorry." That was all she could get out at first. Her hands clenched the shirt at his back.

"It's OK, Lissa. What's done is done. It was good to see you smile again." Gordon's voice was rough with emotion.

"No. It's NOT okay. It's NOT!" With 'no' and each 'not,' Melissa banged her balled fists lightly against Gordon's chest. Her tears turned on briefly again, as she rembered holding him in happier times. "It's not okay, Gord! N-o-t. Not."

Gordon stroked her hair gently, then lifted her chin so he could look into her widened eyes. "You seem to be happy here, Lissa. I talked to some of your crewmates. They seem like fine people. They think the world of you. You're very fortunate. I may never find any one to take your place; but, that's not because of what you did to me---it's because you are too damn hard an act to follow."

He pulled back then, and checked his watch. He stepped back to kiss her tenderly on the forehead. "I've got to go now, Lissa. Perhaps we can share some beers after the battle." His voice told her that he wished he could share more---and told her that he would not be the one to pursue anything further.

When he left, she lay down on her bed, boots still on. She placed her hands behind her head and thought a while before falling asleep. For a moment there, at the end, things had felt good. Very good. Just like old times. But they were both different people now, in two totally different worlds.

What did she want?

What was the right thing for her?

*************************************************************

[darkbane]

stakanov? from stakan. which means cup, as in a glass for holding juice. where did you get that name?

[dd]

@darkbane

Aleksej Stakanov. Cited as productivity hero, 1935. The name just sounded right.

[darkbane]

it's just a funny name i had to make fun of it
gomen gomen

my own family name is funny that way, too, not to worry

[dd]

@darkbane

Kioi.

[dd]

FWIW

Any 'Young Frankenstein' fans out there?

You now know the source of Frau Blucher's (insert sound of horse whinnying) last name....

[KiLlEr]

Not sure what you mean, but Frau Blucher's name means absolutly nothing.

The lo-down:

http://www.snopes.com/movies/films/blucher.htm

[dd]

@KiLlEr:

I read somewhere that Frau Blucher's name came as a reference to Field Marshall Blucher. Can't speak to the accuracy of that, though.

[KiLlEr]

@dd: Nah, Mel Brook's just used the PIOOMA method to determine that name.

PIOOMA - a highly scientific method of solving complex problems of scientific, financial, and military nature. It stands for Pulled It Out Of My A**