Washington D.C. | 2011
Mark's POV
The room went dead silent. The air conditioning hummed, a low, mechanical drone that sounded like a scream in the quiet. Kick Grabaston leaned back, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He had deployed his tactical nuke. He had framed the question in a way that left no room for survival. If I said yes, I was unfit for command. If I said no, I was a monster.
I looked at him. I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, until Major General Woodkin shifted in her seat.
"General Grabaston," I began, my voice low, devoid of the anger that was currently boiling my blood. "To answer your first question: Yes. I have written the letters to the families of Captain Miller and Sergeant Hayes. They are sitting on my desk in Los Angeles, waiting for the final casualty reports to be declassified so I can personally deliver them. And yes, in those letters, I stated clearly that as the Commanding Officer, the responsibility for their safety—and their loss—rests entirely with me. I know I was not the Ops Commander but I still feel the responsibility of the lives placed under my protection, one I failed to provide to the two men."
Grabaston's smirk faltered slightly. He hadn't expected me to own it so openly.
"As for your second question," I continued, turning my gaze to Inspector General Steinbach, addressing the tribunal rather than the man attacking me. "You ask if the health of my child is more important to me than the health of the men and women in the armed forces."
I took a breath. I saw Bradley's face in my mind—the swollen eye, the fear, the way he had looked so small in that hospital bed. Then I saw the images of the two brave soldiers being carried off the cargo plane.
"I am a General in the United States Air Force," I stated, my voice hardening like concrete. "I have sworn an oath to defend this Constitution and to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me. I have spent twenty years placing the mission above my comfort, my safety, and my marriage. I have missed birthdays, anniversaries, and first steps because the armed forces required it. I do not regret it."
I looked back at Grabaston, locking eyes with him.
"But I am also a father. That is not a rank; it is a biological imperative. It is a duty that predates any oath I took to this uniform. On August 17th, those two duties went to war. And for twenty-eight minutes... the father won. When I had left command the situation had been under control and I had made the mistake of presuming that it will continue to be so. Hope is what led me astray, hope that the mission will go smoothly, hope that everything was under control. Yes it failed me that day but it is also the hope that I will be better, I will do better that keeps me going after the many many victories and losses I have faced as an officer of the United States Air Force."
I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the table.
"Does my son's health matter more to me than a soldier's life? NO. But he is my son. If that makes me unfit in your eyes, Kick, then so be it. But do not dare to question my devotion to the men and women I lead. I broke protocol to save them. I risked my career to get them eyes when the system failed. I made the call that brought fifteen Marines home to their families. I carry the weight of the two who didn't. I will carry that until the day I die. But I will not apologize for being a father to a son who needed me."
I sat back, the energy draining out of me, leaving me hollow but steady.
"That is my answer."
The silence that followed my statement hung in the air, heavy and absolute. I kept my eyes locked on Kick Grabaston, daring him to challenge the morality of a father saving his son. He didn't. He just leaned back, a sour look on his face, realizing his trap had snapped shut on empty air.
I shifted my gaze to the left. Major General Woodkin, the stone statue of regulations, was looking at me with a new expression. It wasn't softness—Woodkin didn't do soft—but it was respect. She gave a single, slow, appreciative nod which I noticed. It was a small gesture, barely a dip of her chin, but in a room determined to bury me, it felt like a lifeline.
IG Steinbach, sensing the shift in the room's temperature, cleared his throat. He leaned forward, shuffling his papers to break the moment.
"Thank you for your candor, General Naird," Steinbach said, his voice returning to its dry, procedural drone. "However, we must return to the technical specifics of the failure. Is the error report on the GMS currently being prepared? We need to know if the failure to re-establish the link was hardware-related or a command delay."
"It is being prepped," I answered immediately. "My engineering team at SSC has been running diagnostics since 0600. It will be available for perusal soon. Preliminary data suggests the kinetic impact fused the azimuth motor, making re-alignment impossible without a reboot."
Steinbach made a note. Then, General Woodkin spoke up again.
"Mark," she said, dropping the rank for a moment, which made everyone pay attention. "You understand the gravity of this. Regardless of the moral imperative, the outcome was catastrophic. Are you prepared to lose command over the SSC for this incident?"
I looked at her. She wasn't threatening me; she was asking if I was ready to pay the bill.
"General," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Ever since my appointment I have rebuilt the SSC initiative from the ground up to be an actual asset for the State. I believe in its mission." I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat. "While it would hurt me to lose command, I understand the chain of responsibility. I would accept the decision of the tribunal."
"It might not just be command," Kick chimed in again, unable to help himself. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with vindictive pleasure. "Gross negligence of duty resulting in loss of life? Just removal from command may not be the end of it, Mark. You will likely face a demotion back to Colonel as well. Maybe even a discharge."
The room went quiet. Demoting a one-star General back to Colonel was a career death sentence. It was a humiliation designed to break a man.
IG Steinbach raised an eyebrow at that, glancing sharply at Kick. It was a breach of the tribunal's impartial decorum to speculate on punishment before the verdict, but he did not comment. He just let the threat hang there, a poisonous cloud.
"Noted, General Grabaston," Steinbach said coolly. "Let's proceed."
There were a few more questions and answers as time passed by. The hours dragged on, a slow-motion dissection of one of the worst night of my life. Witnesses were called for their testimony.
I watched as Colonel Gregory took the stand. He looked exhausted, his uniform immaculate but his eyes haunted. He testified truthfully. He confirmed the timeline. He confirmed that I transferred command before the impact. He confirmed that the SpaceX feed—the one I had procured illegally—was the only reason the fifteen survivors made it out. He tried to shield me where he could, but the facts were the facts.
Finally, as the sun began to dip low outside the non-existent windows of the briefing room, Steinbach closed his folder.
"The tribunal has heard enough," he announced. "Brigadier General Naird, you are asked to step out as the Tribunal deliberates. We will call you when we have reached a recommendation for the Secretary."
I stood up, saluted, and walked out.
The hallway was empty, save for a lone MP standing guard and a young aide in a navy blazer. The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the air conditioning, leaving me in the humid, silent corridor. I loosened my tie, just a fraction, and leaned against the wall. It was out of my hands now.
"General Naird?"
I looked up. The aide was standing at attention.
"Yes?"
"The Chairman requests your presence, sir," the aide said. "Admiral Wallace is in his office."
I frowned. Usually, the Chairman waited until the tribunal's findings were on his desk. To be called in during deliberations... that was irregular.
"Lead the way," I said.
We walked through the labyrinth of the Pentagon, moving from the sterile investigation wing to the plush, carpeted corridors of the E-Ring. The aide opened the heavy oak door to the Chairman's suite.
"General Naird, sir."
Admiral Wallace was standing by the window, looking out at the Potomac. He didn't turn around as I entered.
"Close the door, Mark," he rumbled. He was a commanding presence, a Black man in his late sixties who didn't just wear the uniform; he embodied it. His posture was rigid, a spine of steel forged through four decades of exemplary service.
I closed it. "You wanted to see me, Admiral?"
Wallace turned. He looked older than I remembered. Behind a pair of severe, wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes were sharp, unyielding, and assessing—the eyes of a man who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing. He radiated an aura of absolute, terrifying discipline; even standing still, he looked ready for war. He walked over to his desk but didn't sit.
"They're going to crucify you in there, you know," Wallace said bluntly. "Grabaston is pushing for a court-martial. Woodkin is fighting him, arguing for a reprimand and reassignment. Steinbach is the swing vote."
"I expected as much," I said.
"You saved fifteen men, Mark," Wallace said, shaking his head. "And you lost two. That's the math. But the politics? The politics are a different beast. Using Musk's satellite... you scared the hell out of the NRO. They think you've set a dangerous precedent."
"I did what was necessary," I replied.
"I know you did," Wallace sighed. "Which is why I'm intervening."
"I envisioned you sitting in this chair one day, Mark," Admiral Wallace said, turning away from the window to face me. The light caught the wire rims of his glasses, hiding his eyes for a moment, but his voice was heavy with a disappointment that cut deeper than Grabaston's anger. "I saw you as one of the Joint Chiefs in the future. Maybe even the Chairman, if the fates aligned."
He walked back to his desk, his movements precise and disciplined, his thick mustache twitching slightly as he pursed his lips. "This incident... it puts a significant dent in that future. The stain of 'failure of command' doesn't wash out easily, even with a heroic outcome."
I stood at attention, letting the weight of his words settle. A younger Mark Naird, the pilot who chased accolades and speed records, would have been devastated. But that man was gone.
"Admiral," I said, my voice steady. "I may have started out in order to make a name for myself, to climb the ranks. I wanted the stars on my shoulder. I wanted the legacy." I paused, thinking of the fifteen men who were currently breathing because I broke the rules, and the two who weren't because the universe is cruel. "But after over twenty-five years of service, I have learned something. Getting by every day without losing the lives under your command... that is the greatest duty I can fulfill. Both to the nation and to the families." I looked him in the eye. "If saving those men cost me a fourth star, then that is a trade I will make every single time."
General Wallace smiled at that, a slow, genuine expression that softened the hard lines of his face. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
"You have led a distinguished career, Mark," he said, his tone shifting from inquisitor to mentor. "And you will not be left out to dry. At least, not while I am Chairman."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet," he warned, raising a hand. "You will have to take a hard punishment for this. We need to satisfy the hawks. The tribunal will rule for a formal reprimand." He picked up a file from his desk. "This includes the denial of promotion for two years. You will remain a Brigadier General. Furthermore, there will be a docking of your salary for the next six months."
He looked at me meaningfully. "That money will be used as an offering to the families of the men who died. A quiet restitution."
It was a steep price. Financial strain, career stagnation. But it was just.
"I accept," I said immediately. "But, sir? I ask that this not be revealed to them."
Wallace raised an eyebrow. "You don't want them to know it comes from you?"
"No, sir. They shouldn't think their loss is being bought off by the man responsible for it. It should just be... support."
Wallace agreed, a flicker of respect crossing his eyes. "Done. It will be anonymous."
I straightened up, preparing to be dismissed. "Thank you, Admiral."
"One more thing, Naird," Wallace said as I turned to the door. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "While you have never been fond of the Pentagon... the Pentagon has been very fond of you."
I stopped, surprised. "Sir?"
"Many in the intelligence and military community stepped up in favor of you when the incident happened," he revealed. "Calls were made. Favors called in. People from the CIA, tactical commanders you've worked with in the sandbox, even some of the contractors. They vouched for your character and your competence. That is one of the key reasons you have not been court-martialed by the lobby that wanted you gone."
I felt a lump form in my throat. I had felt so isolated during the hearing, surrounded by enemies like Grabaston. To know that there were unseen allies fighting a rearguard action for me... it was humbling.
I smiled, a genuine expression of relief. "Please, send my gratitude to them, Admiral."
"Get out of here, Naird," Wallace said gruffly.
I made my way back to the tribunal room. The walk felt different this time. The oppressive weight of the building felt a little lighter. I wasn't leaving in handcuffs.
The room was reassembled. IG Steinbach looked at me over his glasses as I took my seat. Kick Grabaston looked furious, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, clearly outmaneuvered by the Chairman's intervention.
"Brigadier General Naird," Steinbach announced, his voice echoing in the silence. "This tribunal has reached a verdict."
He read the list. The reprimand. The punishment. The probation. It was harsh, it was public, and it would leave a scar on my record that would never fully heal.
Mark bowed his head in acceptance. "I understand, sir."
"Dismissed," Steinbach said, closing the file.
I stood up, not looking at Grabaston, and walked out. Colonel Gregory was waiting for me in the corridor, his face pale with worry. When he saw me walk out free, the relief caused him to sag against the wall.
"Sir?" he asked.
"We will survive, Brad," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. " battered, but okay."
"The car is ready, General," he said, straightening up. "Let's get you home."
We began to leave, walking out of the E-Ring and into the sunlight. We headed back to the airport for L.A., leaving the politics and the tribunal behind. I had a satellite network to repair, a reputation to rebuild, and most importantly, a son to heal.
…
The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the deafening silence of the tribunal room that still rang in my ears. I sat in my office, the single lamp casting long shadows against the bookshelves. In my hand, a glass of 25-year-old bourbon—a gift from a NATO summit years ago—rested heavy and cool.
I took a sip, letting the burn ground me.
It was done. The reprimand was filed. The promotion was gone. My salary was docked. But fifteen Marines were alive. I replayed Wallace's words: "The Pentagon has been very fond of you." It was a small comfort against the stain on my record, but it was something. I stared out the window into the dark yard, the weight of my career decisions pressing down on me, warring with the image of Bradley's battered face in that hospital bed.
The door creaked open.
I turned. Bradley walked into the office. He moved stiffly, favoring his ribs, the bruising around his eye fading but still a stark reminder of my failure to protect him. He looked tired, the physical toll of the last week evident in his posture.
For a moment, I felt the exhaustion threaten to pull me under. I wanted to slump, to show him just how heavy this week had been. But I couldn't. He needed a father, not a cautionary tale. I straightened my back, forcing my shoulders into the familiar line of command. I put up the façade of the strong general and father who could shoulder the world.
"Brad," I acknowledged, keeping my voice steady. "How are you, son?" I asked, hoping the concern was being masked by my stoicism.
"Hey Dad. I feel better," he said, his voice gaining a little strength. "The eye is almost back to normal now, and the ribs will take a few more weeks, but it doesn't hurt as much."
"Good. That's good," I said, keeping my eyes focused on him. He was healing. That was the only victory that mattered right now. "So, what brings you here?"
"I—uh, wanted to talk to you about some stuff," he said, feeling suddenly hesitant.
I smiled, letting a bit of the warmth through. "Come, sit," I said, motioning him towards the chair opposite me.
He sat down, his gaze drifting to the glass in my hand. I realized suddenly that he was growing up. He wasn't a child anymore; he was a young man who had been in a brawl, who had seen the uglier side of life. Maybe it was time to stop treating him like a kid.
"You want a sip, son?" I asked suddenly.
"Wha—what?" He looked caught completely off guard.
I chuckled at that.
It was all worth it when I looked at his face.