Chapter 8 - The Price of Salt
The military hospital at Naval Station Subic Bay was quiet by the time the sun fully cleared the horizon.
My left arm was immobilized in a black tactical sling, four surgical staples holding the flesh of my shoulder together. The doctors had wanted to keep me in an observation ward for forty-eight hours, but I had signed the administrative release form with my right hand, put my uniform back on—complete with the fresh, jagged tear across the left collar—and walked down the concrete corridor to the debriefing suite.
Commander Bradley was sitting outside the conference room with his head in his hands.
When he heard the scuff of my boots, he looked up. His face looked ten years older, but the anxious twitch in his eye was gone.
"The research team is already on a transport back to Okinawa," Bradley said quietly. "Not a single civilian injury. Seventh Fleet called it the cleanest maritime recovery in five years."
"Where is Morrison?" I asked.
Bradley pointed through the reinforced glass window into the conference room.
Jake was sitting alone at the long wooden table. He hadn't washed the camouflage paint from his face; it was smeared with dried mud, salt, and sweat. His combat shirt was torn, and his taped ribs were clearly visible through the gap in his uniform.
On the table in front of him lay his operational report—and his gold warfare insignia.
I pushed the door open.
Jake stood up immediately. His movement was stiff, painful, but he didn't snap a textbook parade-ground salute. He stood with his hands at his sides, his shoulders back, looking at me with eyes that had seen the elephant and realized how small he truly was.
"Sit down, Morrison," I said, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table and dropping into it.
He sat, his gaze dropping to the gold pin resting on the polished mahogany.
"What is that?" I asked, nodding toward the metal insignia.
"My resignation of operational status, Master Chief," Jake said. His voice was steady now, stripped of all the silver-plated arrogance of his upbringing. "I nearly got you killed because I lost my situational awareness in the breach corridor. And... I know what was in the evaluation you wrote before we deployed."
"You don't know what was in that evaluation," I said.
He looked up, surprised.
I reached into my pocket with my good hand and pulled out a single sheet of paper, sliding it across the table toward him.
It was the official fitness report I had drafted in the maintenance hangar before the sirens went off.
Across the bottom, where the final recommendation block was checked, my signature was firm:
**RECOMMEND RETENTION UNDER DIRECT OPERATIONAL SUPERVISION. OFFICER DEMONSTRATES EXCEPTIONAL PHYSICAL CAPACITY AND LATENT TACTICAL APTITUDE, HAMPERED BY UNTESTED CHARACTER AND PRIVILEGED COMMAND ASSUMPTIONS. REQUIRES IMMERSION IN ENLISTED DOCTRINE PRIOR TO COMMAND CONSIDERATION.**
Jake stared at the black ink.
"You didn't recommend a discharge?" he whispered.
"I don't throw away tools that can be sharpened," I said. "A bad officer who knows he’s bad is a disaster. But an arrogant officer who gets broken down to the bedrock and rebuilt with real stone? That's what Luis Ortega was before he became a legend. Luis spent his first two years in the squadron thinking he was God's gift to the Navy until a master sergeant caught him sleeping on watch and made him carry an engine block across the beach."
Jake’s fingers moved toward the Trident insignia on the table, touching the gold prongs with the tip of his forefinger.
"My father called the hospital commander an hour ago," Jake said quietly. "He told them to prepare a medevac flight to Walter Reed for me. He wants to spin this mission as a solo rescue for the campaign cycle."
"And what did you tell him?"
Jake picked up the Trident and pinned it back onto the mud-streaked fabric of his combat shirt. His fingers were steady this time.
"I told him if he sent an aircraft for me, I'd refuse to board it," Jake said, looking straight into my eyes. "I told him I’m staying with the stick. If Commander Bradley and Master Chief Carter will have me."
I leaned back in the chair. The pain in my shoulder was a dull, throbbing ache that reminded me I was still breathing.
"You're going to spend the next six months on mess duty and logistics maintenance when you aren't in the field, Morrison," I told him. "You will eat last. You will clean your own weapons. And if you ever touch another enlisted person’s food, I won't write an evaluation. I'll take you behind the armory and settle it the old way."
For the first time since I met him, Jake Morrison smiled. It wasn't the clean, photogenic grin of a politician's son; it was a crooked, tired, bloody smile of a man who had survived his own pride.
"Understood, Master Chief."
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"Get out of here, Lieutenant," I said. "Go get your ribs re-taped. We have a five-mile recovery march at dawn."
***
