sure they are present.” Kim nodded and stood. “Just text me to let me know when, Doo-hwan. Oh, and I will need Lieutenant Commander Cho from navigation to help me plot the courses. Send him here immediately.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Kim turned and headed for the door.
“Doo-hwan,” Park called out. When Kim turned the admiral was unrolling a huge Pacific Rim chart over a plotting desk. “Bring some brandy when you come back. After the meeting I want to have a toast.”
“A toast, Admiral?” Park looked at him, his eyes glazed over with vigor and passion.
“We’re going to change history, Doo-hwan. We’re going to change the future of our country forever!”
Chapter 3
Brothers and Sisters
Pentagon
Chief of Naval Operations
When Antonio Espinoza saw his brother coming through the door, he was riddled with emotion. He needed comfort, encouragement, but not a lecture. When his brother extended his hand, Antonio ignored it, moved in and embraced the man fiercely. It had been many long months since they had been together. It was then that he wanted the dam that walled in his tears to break. He simply closed his eyes and held on tighter. Antonio was not permitted to cry, however; not today. He bit his lip as they released, and quickly turned around to hide the wanting and the suffering that was painted on his face.
“Please, please sit down,” he said under a stifled whimper. “We have much to talk about.” Antonio told his secretary to hold all incoming calls and appointments before he closed the door-—the door of the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO)--the highest-ranking naval officer in the Navy.
The atmosphere was thick with clouds of an impending storm. Admirals Antonio Espinoza--CNO, and Ramon Torres, Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet (COMPACFLT) faced each other with caution. They’d been best friends since childhood; their inseparable bond had been intact from junior high school through the Naval Academy, to the present time. There were no secrets kept between them; they were brothers in all respects. Seventy-two years of combined military experience, five wars, and countless ship and shore commands later, the two most powerful naval commanders stood on the brink of becoming mortal enemies.
Over the last three years, Ramon had discovered and tracked something very disturbing about Antonio since his prestigious appointment to the president’s cabinet--the position he himself had refused. An explosive temper, episodes of indecisiveness, irritability, and an indifference to more private matters such as family and health began to exude from within Antonio. It was just a matter of time, Ramon believed, when the Beltway political bureaucracy would suffocate a man’s vision, his principles and his true sense of mission.
Ramon regarded Antonio’s haggard face. This was the man he was most proud of all his life. This once hero of social adversity had now devolved into an inflexible, rank-appeasing puppet for an administration determined to use the Navy as a global hammer.
But alas Ramon had an agenda, and it was one of epic proportions. They had furiously battled over this subject one time before, but this time Ramon was prepared to have his end accomplished even if it meant damaging, or even ending, a bond that had lasted over half a century. This meeting wasn’t business; it was personal.
The two sat in the suite’s large reading room that also doubled as a mini library. This was a special room to Ramon; a small museum where Antonio displayed his collection of original wall tapestries, paintings, antiques and relics from ancient South and Central America. This was Antonio’s sanctuary; the room where he could escape into the past and hide from the miseries of the present. They sat on leather couches opposite each other. Between them was a green marble coffee table, and resting in the center of it was a 1,300-year-old Inca dagger encased in glass. Antonio’s love for Latin American artifacts were displayed on mantels, walls and shelves throughout the room. These were the only things left of his personality that remained unaltered by modern times, Ramon surmised sympathetically.
Antonio carefully removed the centerpiece so that they could litter the table with documents, pc tablets and cell phones. Ramon couldn’t help but compare this office with his own in Pearl Harbor. It was only a third of the size of Antonio’s, and did not contain a fraction of its lush opulence. But then, Ramon wasn’t required to entertain many dignitaries as part of his administrative duties. Ramon’s command and control center, three stories directly below his reception and administration office, was a high-tech, computer-choked citadel from which to oversee the operations of his charge.
As commander of the Pacific Fleet, he was responsible for operations from the Coast of the United States to the eastern shores of Africa, the North and South Poles, and over 100 million square miles of ocean. He had command over 200 combat ships, more than 2,000 aircraft, and 130,000 Sailors, Marines and support personnel. The Pacific Fleet was his passion, his life and nothing else. What most admirals considered the ultimate dream job as CNO, the epitome of naval command, Ramon considered with suspicion. He called the position the ultimate public relations job for politicians. This was not Ramon. He didn't care to give speeches at the Naval War College, or at the Naval Academy commencement ceremonies, or drink champagne with policy makers and political suck-asses. He was a point man. He wanted to remain on the front lines and protect his country. And now, he was about to find out how much damage the CNO job had done to the only man on earth he called his brother.
At 9:30 A.M. that morning, the long anticipated and dreaded meeting began. After some small talk about their families, the Redskins and Ravens having horrible seasons, and the latest troubles plaguing the president and his administration the official agendas began to take form. Almost immediately, Antonio was on the defensive.
“First off Ray, don’t start in about your carriers. Okay?” Antonio resembled a grandfather giving guidance to his grandson--head low, eyes up, eyebrows furrowed and glasses resting at the tip of his nose. “I’m giving you the Kitty Hawk for now. Maybe another from the Gulf in about a month.”
“A month!? China will be invading Taiwan within that time. The Middle East operations have more than enough firepower. I need more carriers in the Pacific. You know this, Tony.”
“It wasn’t my call, Ray. It was Cranston’s.”
“Fuck Cranston! He doesn’t know anything about naval strategy or military operations!” Ramon took a deep breath to keep his voice down. He tried again. “I need at least two more carriers as well as the Kitty Hawk. Give me the Lincoln and the Washington.”
“You’ve got five carriers already. The Joint Chiefs--”
“The Joint Chiefs? The Joint Chiefs!” Ramon rolled his eyes. “My God, Tony, what’s going on with you? I’ve got three conflicts and five carriers in my theatre.”
“That’s all you need for now.”
“That’s all I need? I’ve only three carriers in the Ring of Fire, one in Indonesia, and the Kitty Hawk is still waiting for planes. Tony, only three in the Ring! The Chinese are going to take that island, and while I’m getting my ass kicked there, the North Koreans are going to get tired of the Iron Clad and start shooting missiles. I’ve got to be ready for that.”
Antonio waved his hand dismissively and looked down.
“Ray, I’m not going to argue about this today.”
“Please, Tony, just two more carrier groups.”
“Stop, already!” Antonio’s hands began to quiver slightly as his agitation level began to rise. But Ramon continued hammering on the subject despite the protest.
“So now I have the Japanese and South Korean fleets enforcing the blockade with a handful of our ships. Things are going to get messy.” He leaned forward. “Antonio, I’m too thin out there. If one of those Korean ships runs the blockade, or the Chinese decide to send in a supply ship, I‘ll be trapped.”
“Ray, you know the administration’s policy on the terrorists in the Middle East