244. With All Due Respect

John led the way walking two paces ahead of his two visitors, eyes moving absently left and right on the ground below like a metal detector scanning for lost treasure on an obscure beach. Clicks and clacks of shoes on hardwood stood for the hum and beeps of device and John’s mind raced to find that rare coin that would make the interminable walk to his office worthwhile.

He ushered his guests to their respective chairs with a professional courtesy fraught with coldness born of strict adherence to protocol, no more, no less. Like a storm approaching, there was no time for niceties and none would be offered and none given; as the cogs from administration liked to say, nothing personal, just business.

A heavy tension could be heard in the absence of words, the space between language where looks and thoughts caroused with imagination fueled in agenda and fanned with scars past and present. Conversation was not conversation but combat, the fighting of battles unresolved, the posturing for position of battles anticipated. Conversations of this sort were never what they seemed to be. Facts were tools and emotions were disregarded as just so much dross.

John was career military, a frontline warrior. His two visitors, career administration, bureaucrats, looked and sounded and even smelled the part. They spoke in bureaucraticese, a language John found utterly lacking in feel or nuance, using acronyms as if they held significance, and spouting policy as gospel and delegating decisions to a higher authority with a shrug of jaded shoulders that belied callous contempt for the very dialogue. Their uniforms were spit and polished, virtually identical. Hell, they even looked the same, as husband and wife of many years begin to resemble the other. If they had been alien creatures, John would have felt little difference.

“I’ve seen the slate. What’s the update?” asked John.

Bureaucrat #1 answered, “You know what we know,” as if that settled the matter.

“Good, then I request to lead the rescue operation.” John stood up as if the matter was settled, a tit for tat he had no expectation of succeeding, and a bit childish, he thought, to even attempt but the damned bureaucrats always brought out the worst in him.

“I’m afraid sir, there will be no such operation,” responded bureaucrat #2.

John sat back down. “Not an option.”

“Sir with all due respect, this is not your call to make.”

“With all due respect gentlemen, we do not leave our dead behind. And that is assuming, and I use the word with full sarcastic malice, there are no survivors.”

“Sir, you’ve seen the slate. The attacking party destroyed our Vollmonds in the attack upon Bravo. We have been hailing all frequencies non-stop. Nothing. There are no survivors. Even if we launched a recovery mission, which we are not going to do, by the time we got there, there would be nothing to find, I hope I need not remind you of our enemy; and, the end result would only put more of our men at risk for a mission with no reward.”

“Well, so nice of you to state an assumption so clearly and coldly as fact. Have you communicated this information to the families? Have you told them you are abandoning all rescue attempts because there is no communication, that you are assuming no communication means dead and destroyed? Has it not occurred to you that communication links could have been knocked out in the confrontation? That we may very well have men, alive, at this moment, this exact moment gentlemen, perhaps wounded, certainly in distress, waiting on help, expecting help, believing that help is on the way, knowing that the very men who put them in harm’s way, would never abandon them? And while those men are dying, we sip tea.”

“Sir, I assure you, your concerns are known and appreciated and I do admire the depth of your convictions. I can see why your men fight for you with undying loyalty.”

“Damn it, no you don’t. If you did, if you understood, we would not be having this conversation right now, we would not be wasting valuable minutes, but we would be taking action. Hold your hands up?”

The two administrative personnel looked puzzled.

“I said hold your hands up and look at them. Tell me what you see?”

No response.

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see blood, blood on your hands, blood that no amount of time will wash away.”

“Sir, we do appreciate your passion and I must say you do have a flair for the dramatic, but the decision has been made. We are not risking more men, deep into enemy space on what is no more than a wild goose chase.”

“Gentlemen, don’t you ever refer to a rescue mission of my men—“

“Sir, need I remind you, you had no right to put those men at risk. Before you start throwing accusations, look in the mirror. We have your logs. You clearly felt that the Hynerians were wrong to pursue that distress signal, when you knew there was no one to rescue. I find it quite interesting that now that the shoe is on the other foot, you seem to have found your morals.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. I’m a hypocrite.” John stood up, leaned over his desk and balling his fist he smacked his wooden desk. “But by God, I’m a hypocrite that will defend his men to the last.”

“Sir—“

“This conversation is over. Get your bureaucratic arses out of my office. Good day gentlemen.”

Categories: Story, John Discovery