What did she want to do? Suddenly Antonio was enveloped in his own dialogue, finally forced to consider just a single person’s needs.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Antonio,” a familiar voice said, yet his internal conversation didn’t seem to notice.
But the tragedy. The subject suddenly entered Antonio’s mind like an assassin’s bullet.
Even if given command, could she handle the pressure? She practically lost her mind 16 years ago. What if it happened again? What if Ramon’s premonition was right? Would the sight of death and blood--even fire--dislodge the genius, dismantle the judgment and discipline on which her delicate condition rested? Would the demon rear its head during a crucial moment, causing the delay or even the collapse of decision-making abilities that would compromise the safety of her crew?
“Antonio, who’s really asking these questions? Is it Commander Torres herself, or Ramon?”
Could she handle the exhausting, suffocating pressure of command in the Ring? The voice outside his inner conversation continued to speak.
“I can’t believe that it would be you, Antonio. You were the one who insisted that Torres either command the Rosa Parks or be given a bigger, better experimental ship than the Gettysburg.”
Antonio’s thoughts were too deep to realize that there was still another person in the room, a person who was speaking to him.
She’s paragon in her technological field. But commanding at sea and using that technology to kill people is another thing. Kristina is sensitive, charitable, and humane. But this job requires the ability to detach one’s self from sensitivity, charity and humanity.
Kristina is not that kind of person. I’ve known her since she was a child. There’s no way she could be this way. Detaching her humanity is not possible for her.
“Hello, Antonio?”
There would be risks.
“Antonio, are you in this conversation?”
If I’m wrong, hundreds of sailors could die, including this precious woman. If I’m right, she could decide the outcome of the war.
“Admiral Espinoza. . .I’m talking to you.”
“If something happens to her. . .I’m coming after you!” Antonio dismissed the echo of Ramon’s words as he asked his own questions. Friendship or duty? Brotherhood or commitment? The needs of a family or the needs of the Navy?
“Are you all right, Antonio?”
“Friendship and family be damned. . .”
What do you want, Kristina?
“I swear. . .”
What do YOU want, Kristina?
“. . . I’m coming after you!”
“ANTONIO!”
Antonio snapped his head toward Stevenson, who had leaned forward over his desk. His eyes were wide with concern and anger.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? You look terrible.” Antonio closed his eyes, wincing for clarity, and shook his head slowly.
“I’m a little tired. That’s all.”
Stevenson slid back down into his chair.
“Where were we?” Antonio massaged his eyes with his fingers.
“Where were we? Antonio, you came to me and asked that I allow the release of one of the Navy’s most gifted officers, probably the most brilliant officer in the last century. And not just be released from command selection, but to break the stop-loss order and release her into the civilian world. Where were we!?”
“I have my reasons, Lance. I ask for your trust on this.”
“Antonio, we’re not talking about some young trouble-making malcontent who can’t cut the mustard; we’re talking about Kristina Torres. How do I justify letting someone like her go?”
Stevenson was truly perplexed. He liked Antonio very much, but this request seemed so unreasonable and so unrealistic, that he couldn’t believe they were actually discussing it.
“You will find a way, Lance. You have so many people in your pocket, you will find a way. And I don’t need to tell you that it has to be very quiet.”
“Tony, did Ramon put you up to this?” Stevenson shifted uneasily in his seat. “I know he’s your good friend, but I hate that son of a bitch, and I’ll not support it if he has anything to do with it. It amazes me how such a sweet, brilliant young woman could be related to such an arrogant ass.”
Antonio rubbed his temples.
“No, Lance. This has nothing to do with Ramon. He doesn’t know.” The lie was so easily delivered that it was frightening. “This is a Navy issue.”
“A Navy--” Stevenson choked again. “A Navy issue!?”
Antonio pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.
“Lance, do you recall the early days of high seas piracy in the Indian Ocean? Way back in the late 2000s?”
“Of course, Somali pirates. Hundreds of attacks on vessels, hit and run tactics, hostages, and a lot of casualties. Yeah.”
“Do you remember the 2012 incident of the Perry-class frigate, the USS McClusky?”
“No. I wasn’t part of the DoD at that time.”
“The McClusky was on her final few months of duty in the Indian Ocean before heading back to San Diego and her decommissioning. She was part of a NATO combined task force, one of several international flotillas patrolling the Gulf of Aden and the Indian Ocean. Their mission was to combat piracy.”
“Go on,” said Stevenson, leaning forward with focused attention.
“There were unconfirmed rumors that the pirates had purchased a few Chinese-built Houdong-class missile boats, variants of the ancient Russian Osa-class. They used drugs and automatic weapons to buy at least two boats from Iran. They also bought the Chinese anti-ship missile that went with it, the C-802 Saccade.” Antonio took a pause and took off his glasses. He looked away as if he didn’t want to tell the rest of the story. Stevenson stood and walked to his massive bookshelf and removed a flask of brandy and two glasses. He poured a shot for each of them. Antonio quickly drank the brandy and asked for another. Stevenson obliged.
“Two days before heading back home, McClusky’s captain Commander Wayne Burrows ordered his crew to conduct a complete field day of the ship. Nothing wrong with that; clean the ship from top to bottom before heading home.” Antonio shook his head in regret. “But Burrows made a horrible error; he ordered the air and surface-search radar suites shutdown for part of the cleaning.” Antonio looked up at Stevenson with narrowed eyes. “Eighteen-year-old, Fire Controlman Third-class Kristina Torres was on the McClusky.”
“Oh my God,” Stevenson exhaled, already piecing together what was about to happen.
“Between 9 and 9:10 P.M. a boat emerged from the southeast about one thousand yards and fired.”
“The C-802,” Stevenson said with dread. Antonio nodded.
“It