Mission Statement – 2002
Wardroom, USS Jean Lafitte LHD-10
Commander Thomas sat in the wardroom reading a thick book. His second in command sat next to him working a crossword puzzle. The room had been mostly cleared out to accommodate the civilians that Thomas's SEAL team had rescued. The Team had been brought in by the invitation of the civilians, who wanted to talk to them. But there were still a few other officers hanging around, perhaps to catch a glimpse of the Singer. Left to his own, Thomas would have stayed in the Team's ready room. The comment that had just been directed at him was a good example of why he preferred the company of his own people. He looked up from the book.
"Excuse me?"
"I said I can’t believe you rescued those assholes."
"We had a mission."
"Well, I would have found a way to leave them there."
"SEALs ALWAYS complete their missions."
"Glad to know theres somebody here looking out for the assholes."
Thomas gave the man a blank look for a moment before turning his head back down to the book on the table in front of him. The man was new to the ship, but Thomas had his name. He'd learn. The last man to say something derogatory about the SEALs had been found duct taped to the overhead in a supposedly locked compartment. That one had led to a note in his file that hed been reprimanded, although the note didn't say that the reprimand consisted of a stern admonition not to do it again, followed by a couple of glasses of bug juice and a request to explain how it had been done. But more importantly he'd been able to explain why. The stunts some of his people pulled might have seemed sophomoric, but as he had pointed out they kept The Team sharp. Men who could get a man into a locked compartment with being seen, could get some fuzzy headed civilians out of the Caliphate if called on to do so.
A few minutes later the first of the rescued civilians walked into the room. The group was being put up in officer's country, as there was no other place on the ship to accommodate them for the night. In the morning, when the ship was close enough to shore they'd be flown to Italy by rotodyne. Within a few minutes the whole group was there, about a dozen of them. Most of them were flaks of some sort, but two were well-known celebrities.
The Movie Maker filmed so-called documentaries which everybody with the brains God gave gravel knew were filled with nonsense. Unfortunately the man was walking proof of P. T. Barnums statement that nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public. His latest effort had been an anti-American rant about the destruction of Germany. It was full of holes, but had been very popular, and the man picked up some serious money lecturing on college campuses.
The Singer was beautiful vapid young woman whose main talent seemed to be a complete inability to experience embarrassment when gyrating half-naked before crowds of strangers. During the mission briefing the team had listened to one of her recordings.
"I had a cat that sounded like that when its tail got caught in the fan belt," had been the reaction of one the SEALs.
Thomas was sure he would never understand why these morons had traveled to the Caliphate. Their press release had said they intended to build a peace bridge between the United States and the Caliphate. Something about a movie documenting the joys of living in an Islamic paradise, with an Arab-American soundtrack in the background. They had promptly discovered that being well known Americans rather than granting them immunity, made them targets. And of course it had fallen on the SEALs to go in and get them out.
Thomas looked up from his book while flashbulbs popped and the two celebrities thanked the SEAL team for their help. He had no interest in anything they had to say, but he didn't want a picture of himself reading through their acknowledgment to show up on the cover of a cheap magazine. Out of the corner of the he could see that his second in command had put his pen down. As soon the speechifying was done, he turned back to his book. A moment later he realized that the celebrities were walking toward him. He poked his companion.
"Company."
"Crap," the man said under his breath.
Thomas assessed the two as the walked up. If the Movie Maker had lost any weight in captivity, it didnt show. But then the man had about a hundred pounds to lose. He always wore a trademark baseball cap. Tonight he had one out the ships store perched on top of his head. And he still hadn't shaved, although he apparently couldnt grow a beard either. The girl looked a lot less glamorous dressed in overalls, no makeup, no jewelry, her hair not done up in some fancy nonsense. Except for the fact that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, Thomas thought she looked much prettier than she had in any picture hed seen of her. Or at least more like a human being than a plastic replica of one.
The Movie Maker held out his hand, "Captain Thomas, Id like to thank you personally for getting us out of there."
Thomas shook his hand briefly, "Its Commander Thomas, and I was just doing my job."
"Sorry, I dont know much about this stuff."
Thomas felt his leg being kicked under the table, but didn't react. Without asking permission or getting an invitation the two sat down.
"Mind if we join you?" the Movie Maker said belatedly. "I hear they call you Sneaky."
The second in command concentrated on his puzzle, a nearby group of junior officers found a sudden need to inspect a weld on a bulkhead.
"You heard wrong," Thomas replied flatly. He had a brief mental image of the man on his hands and knees in the middle of a parade ground, armed with a toothbrush and orders to clean the dirt.
"I just want to say," The Singer broke in, "that I really do appreciate what you did to get us away from those vile people. I wanted to go there and talk to them about love and beauty and getting along. They don't seem to want anything nice."
"Really?"
Thomas felt another kick. He made a mental note, a good big glob of shoe polish in the earpiece of the phone in the XOs cabin and a call at say 03:00. Yeah, that would work.
"I mean I don’t think those people even understand the concept. Has anyone from that horrid place ever produced art or poetry or anything beautiful about love or family or spirituality, or children or relationships?"
"Kahlil Gibran," said Thomas's XO.
"Who?" said The Singer.
"Gibran was a Christian," Thomas responded, looking at the XO, ignoring the girl's question.
"Who?" she asked again.
Still ignoring the girl the XO came back with, "But he was born in Lebanon and wrote in Arabic."
"Who?"
"And he was raised in America," Thomas responded, still looking only at the XO, "he also wrote in English and his artwork transcends language and culture."
"I think he counts, said the XO."
"And I think he was influenced by many cultures other than that of his birthplace."
The Movie Maker was following this exchange as if it was a tennis match between Martians. Clearly he had not expected to watch a couple of uncouth American military men arguing about the works of an Arabic poet.
"Who?" The Singer asked once more.
Thomas gave her a stern look. "Young lady, here’s a piece of advice. Turn off the television and go to the library. It will be good for you."
The Movie Maker nodded toward Thomas’s book. "Thick book you got there, some kind of technical manual or some such I'd imagine."
Thomas held the book up a bit, Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
The Movie Maker again looked nonplussed. "Which one are you reading?"
"Mid-Summer Nights Dream. I always read one of the comedies when we get off a mission. Puts me in a better mood."
"I'm going to be in a movie based on a Jane Austen book," The Singer offered up.
"I'm sorry," Thomas replied, quite sincerely.
"I haven't read the book, but we've got some really good people working on the script."
"When you go to the library you have my permission to skip Jane Austen."
"You don't like her?"
"I got sent to the hall during a high school English class for saying she wrote stupid, boring books about stupid boring people that spent all their time complaining about how dreadful it was to be better than everybody else."
The Movie Maker was peering at the XOs crossword puzzle. "I like doing those, too."
"Really? This one is kind of special. Have a look."
Thomas coughed to cover up the suppressed laugh.
The man frowned, "What language is this?"
"Latin."
"Wow."
"You know," The Singer leaned forward a little, "I always thought guys like you would be, like; violent, mean, sexist, racist, homophobic."
She trailed off, apparently having used up all her adjectives.
"Thank you," both men offered up in near perfect harmony.
"But why are you out here fighting. You like poetry and art, you speak different languages, why aren’t you using that to make the world a nicer place? You aren’t like those vile people in the Caliphate. Why do you have to always be fighting?"
The question hung in the air for a long moment before Thomas answered. "Because people like you need people like us to protect you from people like them."