By Order of
Jesse J. Wood, Colonel, USAF
Chief of Staff
Not much comfort, but some. John Chandler Simpson had spent the time since the news came, much as he was sure Colonel Wood had done. Berating himself.
Chain of command. Senior service. Strategy. Tactics. The whole panoply. And in the end, what did it all come down to? The courage of young lions. Nothing else.
For the first time in his life, he felt like an old man.
When Mike walked into Simpson’s office, the admiral was sitting behind his desk. Stiff, upright; the chair slanted so he could stare out the window. He glanced at Mike, then returned his eyes to the glass.
Mike studied him, as he closed the door and stepped forward. Simpson’s face was not “wooden” now. It looked as if it were carved from stone. Pale stone. That was grief, Mike understood, being controlled the only way the man knew how to do it.
“I’ll want the Navy Cross for Lieutenants Cantrell and Wild,” Simpson said abruptly. “And the Silver Star for Gunner’s Mate Bjorn Svedberg. They’ll all get the Purple Heart, of course.”
He glanced back, still stone-faced. “Excuse me. Bad manners. Please have a seat, Mr. President.”
As Mike lowered himself into the chair across from Simpson’s desk, the admiral added: “I can do that on my own authority. I established the Navy’s system of decorations some time ago, you know.” The words were not quite a challenge. Not quite.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Mike said mildly.
Simpson jerked his gaze from the window and stared at Mike. Then, even more abruptly:
“And what do you propose for Captain Richter?” He gestured toward the citation, which Mike had seen the night before. “Colonel Wood’s already awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross. Most he can do. But I agree with him—it’s not enough. Mortally wounded, Captain Hans Richter deliberately flew his plane into an enemy vessel. That calls for the Congressional Medal of Honor, Mr. President. Posthumous, as most of them are.”
Anger was starting to seep into his voice now, coloring the ice. Mike was glad to see it come. The anger of a man like Simpson, he could reach. He could do nothing with a man of stone.
“In our old universe, I should say,” Simpson half-snarled. “In this new one, who knows? I don’t believe you even have a Congressional Medal of Honor. Forgot about it, naturally.”
“Yes, I did,” said Mike calmly. “My apologies. I’ll see to correcting that immediately.” He said nothing else; just waited.
Simpson’s icy glare held for a few more seconds. Then, he closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and slowly let it out through half-open lips. By the time the exhalation was finished, the lips looked human again.
“Sorry, Mr. President. That was quite uncalled for on my part.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a screw-up. Mine. I guess I never really thought—wanted—ah, hell.” He took a deep breath of his own. “I’ll see to it, John. Today, if possible. There won’t be any problem, believe me.”
Simpson’s shoulders slumped. With the slump, went all trace of stone from the face. It was still a wooden face, true, but . . .
Such was the nature of John Chandler Simpson. Mike had his full measure now. He could live with wood.
Wearily, Simpson rubbed his face. “Ah, it’s all crap anyway, Mike. Just the last parting shot of a man who hates to admit he was wrong about anything.” When he removed the hand, to stare back out of the window, he was almost smiling. “You were right, weren’t you? When all is said and done. I thought you were insane to think we could build another United States your way. Throw it open overnight to people who had none of our background, customs, traditions.”
Mike’s mouth twisted. “Well . . . it was a risky enterprise. And still is, John. Risky as hell. I could use your help, that’s for sure.”
“You’ll get it.” The words came as sure and certain as John Chandler Simpson could say any words. Which was sure and certain indeed. “I’d be betraying those dead boys if I didn’t. The proof is in the pudding. The first Congressional Medal of Honor will go to a German boy—and rightly so. And the other two young heroes were among those who first took him in, and welcomed him with open arms. Which I sure as hell didn’t.”