True Allegiance

By that time, Brett had been back in the United States for several years, doing cable news, pumping up the war effort. Prescott’s election, however, sent a shock wave through the military infrastructure. Prescott had campaigned on ending the war in Iraq and getting out of Afghanistan as soon as possible. He said the wars had dragged on too long, that military spending could be slashed and the money rededicated to domestic concerns.

As an active military member, Brett couldn’t say anything, of course. Once again, he talked with Ellen about quitting—and this time, she seemed more amenable to it, given the latest breakdowns in Afghanistan. She knew it was a matter of time until they called Brett back there, and with both of them pushing forty, she wanted her husband home.

Then Prescott called.

The election was still two months off. But Prescott, a genius for campaigning, knew that he lacked military credentials—and his opponent, General Harold Hart, had those credentials stacked up. If he could somehow finagle Brett into his camp, he’d have a public relations coup on his hands. Brett patiently explained that he couldn’t be involved in campaigning. Nonetheless, two days later, an anonymous source somehow told The New York Times that Senator Mark Prescott had spoken at length with Colonel Brett Hawthorne—and that Hawthorne would be an integral part of any Prescott administration.

“Asshole,” Brett cursed to Ellen.

“Boss,” Ellen corrected him.

Prescott bumped three points in the polls. By the time of the election, a slim lead had turned into a blowout.

The day after the inauguration, Prescott called again.

“Colonel,” he said, “I’m gonna violate military protocol. I’m bumping you to general, effective immediately.”

Brett was stunned. The youngest general in the Marines was in his mid-forties. Brett had just turned forty-one.

“Sir, I’m flattered, but that’s against all the regulations…”

“I’m the commander in chief, son,” said Prescott genially. “Congratulations.”

The announcement came at the White House. The president beamed as he introduced Brett; Brett shifted uncomfortably, his bulk imposing beside the slim and tailored Prescott. When he stepped to the microphones, for the first time in a long time, his mouth felt dry.

“Why do you deserve this promotion, general?” shouted a reporter.

“I don’t,” he answered truthfully. “There are men ahead of me who deserve it more. But I promise to do my best.” Then he glanced at his commander in chief. Prescott grinned and gave him the thumbs-up.

The newspaper headline the next day said it all: “THE KID TAKES CHARGE.”

Prescott immediately tasked Brett with trotting out his new Afghanistan strategy on national television. He asked him for his advice peremptorily, of course—Brett told him in no uncertain terms that Afghanistan would be lost without a major counterinsurgency surge, akin to the one the British had used in Malaya in the 1950s. Prescott dismissed that possibility out of hand.

“No,” he said. “We’re pulling out. I promised.”

“Sir,” Brett protested, “we’ll lose the country.”

“I have more faith than that, son,” said Prescott.

For six months, Brett followed orders. He kept his mouth shut.

Then, as the casualties mounted, Prescott told Brett that he’d be pulling another ten thousand troops from the country by the end of the year.

“With all due respect, that’s a bad idea, sir,” said Brett.

“It’s happening,” said the president. “Get over it. And, by the way, get familiar with the policy. I need a uniform on television defending this thing.”

Perhaps it was the snide reference to the uniform—the old piece of clothing Brett had once hated, then learned to love. Perhaps it was the casualness with which Prescott perused the casualty reports.

But sitting across from NBC’s Sunday morning anchor, Brett began to feel the pressure and heat build up behind his eyeballs. And suddenly, he began talking. In a wave, he explained all the flaws with Prescott’s policy. He slammed Prescott for precipitously putting American and Afghan lives at risk, for creating a vacuum that could only be filled by al-Qaeda or a similar renewed terror group. He told the news anchor that the president would need to send no less than eighty thousand troops to Afghanistan, and that there could be no timetable for withdrawal. Timetables, he said, would lead the enemy to bide their time, to wait them out, and then to strike.

When he walked off the set, he knew he was finished. It was only a question of when. He knew he’d been insubordinate; he knew the president was the commander in chief. But Brett Hawthorne had worked for better men than Mark Prescott, and his main charge, he had always believed, was not to the president but to the Constitution and to his men. He had to obey the orders of the president, true.

“But,” he later explained to Ellen, “screw those orders. I’ve got men dying over there.”

Three days passed. Then, Prescott hit back.