At the Pentagon, the Secretary of the Navy, Alan Freeman, sat in his office with a file on his desk. It had been sitting there for two weeks, needing his attention. Normally, such a file would never cross his desk. Don't ask, don't tell could and would be handled on the local level. A base commander, ship's captains, anyone but Admiral Alan Freeman; and yet, because of the sensitive nature of the sailor in question, it had been passed directly to him.
He let out a heavy sigh, and opened the file. The entire career of Captain James McNeely lay in a few pages before him; the Admiral was disgusted as he read. Four years at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, excelling in all his studies, the letter of recommendation from the former Congressman of Washington's sixth district, and his first posting in Virginia told of a good sailor, no, a great sailor.
Outstanding reviews, accomplished tours of duty, no reprimands, no disciplinary issues. Nothing. The man could not have lived a cleaner life. And yet, by law, his career was done, over.
Admiral Freeman stared at the file for a long time before he turned around and flipped the sound on his television. The news media were parked outside of Bethesda Naval Hospital, waiting for an update, a word. The same people who outed the man were now vultures around the carrion of James McNeely's career. Sighing again, Admiral Freeman signed the forms and left the file on his secretary's desk. The law was his sworn duty. He'd just carried it out, no matter how dirty it made him feel. A damn shameful waste of an exemplary career. But it was over. James McNeely, once the formal inquiries were done over his kidnapping, he'd have one last inquest to stand in front of, James McNeely would then become a former captain. Shaking his head, he slipped his overcoat on and made his way out of the Pentagon, his heart heavy, and headed for home.
***
Chief of Staff Ken Simonson sat in his office, reading through the numerous memos, letters, reports, and various other sundry items of running the nation required. Nothing special, trade reports, financial memos, and several press requests for information about James McNeely. The President was still under the twenty-fifth amendment, waiting like the grieving father he was. Ken couldn't blame the man for wanting to be there. He muttered under his breath as he read the latest public opinion polls. The American people no longer seemed to care that the Captain was caught in a kiss. They only wanted to know if he was okay, if he was recovering.
A knock on his door took his attention away. Ken looked up and was surprised to see the President at his door. "Mr. President." He stepped into the office and shut the door. "What happens now?"
Ken tried to stand, but he was waved down. "How is he?"
The President sat down and looked out the office window and shook his head. "He's still catatonic. Other than that, there is no change."
"I'm sorry, sir. What can I do for you?" John McNeely sat back in his chair and smiled tightly. "I need to get back to work."
"Agreed."
"How do you want to handle this?"
John smiled and started to laugh. "Could we be any more formal?"
Ken smiled and reached behind him for the bottle of water on his desk. He indicated an extra glass, silently offering. The President shook his head but laughed. "Got anything stronger?"
After Ken had poured a finger of scotch in the President's glass, they sat back and sipped a bit. "When do you want the press to know, John?"
"Tomorrow morning. The country needs to know I'm available. It also sends a message that what has happened isn't quite as bad."
"Q and A or a set speech?"
"We'll let Richardson give a statement. James's condition, the transfer of power, and so forth. Then I'll take some questions."
Ken nodded and gave a small smile. "And about the inquest?"
John stood and kicked at his chair. "This wasn't supposed to happen. He's a good kid, a great sailor, and doesn't deserve to lose all that because of one kiss."
Ken stood and nodded. "I agree. He deserves much more than that." Ken moved towards the man he'd worked with for over fifteen years. "What are you going to do about it?"
"I know what I want to do."
Ken smiled and leaned against his desk. "Now that you've gotten the knee jerk father reaction out of the way... what do you want to do?"
John turned away from the window and smiled. "We're going to need to rouse the speech team."
"Timing?"
"When does James's dismissal become official?"
"As soon as he stands before a formal inquest."
"That evening then."
Ken smiled and shook his hand. "Welcome back, Mr. President."
***
Malcolm sat beside a solitary bed, shrouded in dim lighting, raspy sounds, and beeping noises. He'd sat there for over six hours each night; waiting. And yet, the man lying in the bed hadn't moved. He didn't blink. He didn't respond in any way. Malcolm would talk to him night after night; hoping, praying for some slight response. But none came.
For three days, Malcolm had taken turns with James's family, hoping, waiting for some slight response from him. His face looked worse today, the bruises ugly and raw, but he didn't look quite so gaunt. Although without solid food, the best they could do was make sure he didn't lose any more weight. Malcolm hated seeing James like this.
The doctors said that he was catatonic. Malcolm and the whole family did nothing but talk to him on the off chance that he could hear what they were saying. So far, nothing. Trauma from his injuries, the shock of being attacked by his friend, and the general torture added to his distress had simply forced him to shut down. It was great to know what caused James to be out of it, but with no clue as to when he would wake, it was starting to grate on Malcolm's already frayed nerves.
So he continued to talk. "You should see the pile of letters, cards, and telegrams."
"And all the flowers."
"CNN ran a news story about your recovery."
"Your academy record is all over the internet."
"I miss you."
"Your mother was forced to sleep by the doctors."
"Everyone is concerned about you."
And with every sentence he said, the three words he'd been feeling but unable to say, pounded in his skull, begging to come out. "I love you." Malcolm held his breath, hoping the words would break through the coma, provoke some sort of response. Tears welled in his eyes as nothing happened. The first started to drip down his face as he squeezed James's uninjured hand. Hoping, begging, pleading that James would simply open his eyes, give him some sign that he'd heard. But after a couple of minutes, Malcolm's held breath escaped in a defeated sigh.
"It's okay. I understand." Malcolm wiped the tears from his face. "But it is true." Staring into James's still bruised face, Malcolm sighed again. "Where were we? Oh yeah, when I was five..."
***
Chief of Staff Ken Simonson stood outside of the speech writer's bull pen and listened as the staff brainstormed the latest speech. The process always fascinated him. How they could argue and work so hard on just one word always amazed him. And this speech was vitally important. All throughout history, a good speech could always be made better if only for a proof reader or some help with wording. Alas, this was one time where this speech needed to be perfect. To change an entire aspect of the constitution, to redo hundreds of years of military procedure, and to basically accomplish in one grand move, what had taken hundreds of years for women and blacks could be accomplished swiftly and quickly. An ambitious endeavor, long overdue, and perhaps most easily accomplished with what had happened to the President's son.
Ken could see the President's worries very easily. To many, he would be seen as taking advantage of his son's pain and suffering. And yet, this was undoubtedly the only way that these changes could be done. For too long, the needs had been pushed away, forgotten about as politically imprudent. But for every person that it affected, this was the most vital piece of legislature that could come forward. The argument of course being that if the laws denying James McNeely his position in the navy and all of his rights under the military, then he wouldn't have been targeted, or if he were the one targeted, it wouldn't be because he had just been caught kissing a Senator.
As Ken continued to listen, the speech staff clearly understood what was being changed, the legal logic steps taken, and the implications if such legislation were to pass. What they couldn't not agree on, was how to word the needs, the pain, the hurt, the heartache of a suffering people into one solid voice that would silence those who would oppose such changes. Ken stepped into the room and all voices became silent. "Where are we with the speech?"
Paul Freeman, head speech writer smiled and leaned back in his chair. "The main language is decided upon, the arguments. We are having a difficult time deciding how to begin. Should it be started with something very personal about Captain McNeely and how he is doing, or whether it should be an entirely different member of the military."
"I believe the only answer to that question will have to come from the President."
Paul nodded. "I agree. But, we have decided to write both, see which he prefers."
Ken nodded. "I think you are probably right. Have the copies done and on my desk in the morning; we'll present them to the President at ten."
Ken turned and left the room, smiling. The entire staff had worked diligently to bring many changes to this country, but in his heart, he knew that this time, this change, would resonate throughout time. Perhaps not as grand or sweeping as the Declaration of Independence or Gettysburg Address, but there would always be this one day in history that will be remembered.
***
On day six of sitting by James's bed, something unexpected happened. Malcolm fell asleep. The nurses came into the room periodically to check vital signs, and in all the nights that Malcolm had been there, each time one of the nurses came into the room, Malcolm would just sit, holding James's hand, and talk. All night long the man talked. By the time morning would come and he'd leave, the man's voice would be nearly dead.
Malcolm sat in the chair; his head bowed against James's hand on the bed, and snored softly. The nurses left him alone, let him sleep, and tried to be as quiet as possible. At nearly five that morning, Malcolm woke up because he'd felt a twitch under his cheek. Instantly alert, Malcolm sat back in his chair and stared at James's face, waiting for any sign, any motion.
He held his breath, hoping, until his chest ached from it. Then James's eyes opened and Malcolm let his breath out in rush. James turned to look at Malcolm and Malcolm smiled. James screamed and his casted arm came across Malcolm's face, knocking him off the chair. Malcolm hit the ground as James began to flail in the bed, his long scream of 'no' did not end, did not break as he tried to get out of bed, pulling his tubes and electrodes out. One of the machines started alarming, and the nurses came running.
