Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq
The two digits of the thermometer were shameless flirting with adding a third member to their pairing on the mid-spring day, the dry heat an oppressive force magnified by the Admiral's old-fashioned brown suit jacket, a feeling not quite at roasting, but several levels beyond defrosting. He, of course, remained disciplined before the climate's onslaught, respectfully accepting its right to act as it would, here in its homeland, while informing it that he, too, would retain his own freedom from its influence. His traditional cap helped in that regard, preventing his rather pale and bare dome from turning an angry red, an appearance that would hardly be a dignified one.
For he was here as a dignitary, now, and a civilian one, presently tasked with spreading good will in a city that, in his previous two visits, had been set as the target for somewhat less friendly operations. Though he had spent little of that time on the solid ground, the air he felt about the city was much the same now as it had been more than a decade ago. The temperature, for one, but with it, the human tinge to it. The feelings, on three levels, of preparedness, guardedness, and paranoia all had maintained their positions well-established in the recent path. The city was no longer under threat, those increasingly few conflicts that remained now far to the north, and fading quickly, the timescale to their cessation now measured in weeks, even days, yet the apprehension they had caused was a long-lasting sensation.
That pending cessation was a testament in part, Abelard had to admit, to the man presently in operational control over the American forces, a Secretary who held a remarkable tactical ability that seemed entirely inversely proportional to his moral standing. Tactically brilliant or not, however, that position was, if not interchangeable, certainly not fundamental to the success thus far enjoyed. Granted the tremendous positive inequality in forces between blue and red under their command, the overwhelming result of a country at last committing fully to war, and accepting, rather than minimizing, the necessary period of congregation, it would have taken a genius in self-destruction to fail to attain some level of victory.
On the level of the warfighter, overwhelming an enemy was an unqualified universal good, a fleeing foe a defeated one, a mindset that often as not applied to a brigade's commander as a squad's, and could easily penetrate the upper echelons, especially when those echelons became populated with former commanders of brigades, or squads. He had witnessed that too clearly on display the first time he sat in the gulf waters offshore, and saw a rush of such intensity by the first and second divisions of the United States Marines that they swept all opposition before them-and swept it away, in flight, but nigh-unmolested, into safety. Defeated, but not broken. A battle, even a war, won, but there was a level beyond that as well. He, and the nation, had been left to deal with the aftereffects of that error in judgement a decade later.
Regardless of tactical acumen, the infection of victory was one which had seized both Chandler and Rodham, even while the latter overcorrected only to return, another hindrance created, which the southerner had been fortunate enough to be able to personally allay. When seeking to advance a more measured, cognizant plan of operations, the Admiral, now a Secretary absent a true command, had been pleasantly surprised to see a higher level of understanding present in an unexpected source in the Vice President, a man, it seemed, who had proven rare value in showing the ability to view at altitude a situation seen on the ground.
However much it interested him, the military situation, the westward skirmish line finally bringing the conflict into its final stages of a decisive northern denouement, less hammer and anvil than cheese and grater, was not his primary area of focus at the moment. That moment could be saved, perhaps, for a second writing, a concept which had worked its way into his interest, yet still would have to wait. The visit was a diplomatic one, one which could not be wholly disentangled from the military, with a nation in the throes of war, but still extending beyond it. His capacity to offer insights into that latter category had been appreciated, but the more important were his efforts in the former category. There was an inequality of knowledge between the two sides conversing, not negotiating, but maneuvering. Abelard's objective was in a preemptive smoothing towards future circumstances of which his diplomatic partners were not aware. It was a curious circumstance, and one he operated through with aplomb, yet not, he would admit to himself, the unparalleled ability of a master ambassador. He possessed substantial skills, and the presence of mind to effectively use them, yet not the genius which some who had graced his office possessed.
Those discussions, with all they contained and were yet to contain, were finished, now, a pleasant parting, much in bows and other niceties, which the Admiral participated in with a fluidity that came from preparedness, the caveat of local concepts on the sinister aspect of dexterity unfortunately unavoidable. He had now a second meeting to attend to, one far more pleasant, yet no less important in his duties. The Owen B.K. Shrub was on station in the Gulf, and after his days landbound, he would be taking the opportunity to come aboard for a meal with her XO, a fine young woman the Admiral knew quite well as Lillian Snow, but better as Lillian Bell. While regretfully taking him all the more often from his dear Debra at home, a pain born of duty that he had long had to bear, the opportunity for a dinner with his daughter on duty half a world away was one he would not hesitate to take advantage of, and appreciate in full.
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Hours later, a Greyhound flight having brought Abelard aboard, he now shared a meal with the ship's day-to-day head in the Executive Officer's quarters. Whatever his career had been, and wherever it had led him, he held a simple realization.
Lillian glanced up from the bite to see her normally stoic father's aged face creased with a smile.
"What is it?" She questioned, almost suspicious.
Abelard shook his head slightly to dismiss the question, taking another bite of his own.
He had realized that here, apart from whatever he was or had been, he was only a guest in the space, a visitor to the quarters of an officer in command, and his breast could not help but swell with pride.
