The Magical Stranger (14 page)

“We're going to get you up in a flight. I want you
to see what it's like to come in off the break and catch a wire.”

I thought he was joking, but he wasn't. VIPs flew
all the time, he said. General Petraeus got up in a Hornet just a couple of
months ago. There was just one problem: I wasn't the most powerful general in
the United States. We were somewhere between Okinawa and Midway Island with no
divert fields. I'd be ejecting straight into the Pacific Ocean if things went
badly. This could be a slight impediment since I had no parachute experience,
zero water survival information, and negative motor skills. It was typical
Tupper—push the idea and don't sweat the reality.

“Don't worry. I can make this happen.”

I did the math and calculated ten careers—from
Tupper to the secretary of the Navy—that would be ended by a
Navy Times
headline reading “Son of Dead Prowler Pilot
Dead in Prowler Mishap.” But it wasn't my call. Tupper was persistent and pushed
the paperwork. Before long, I was down in the
Nimitz
's hospital undergoing a physical. Blood was drawn, hearing was
tested, and three chest X-rays were administered because the corpsman kept
loading the film in backward.

Everything checked out. Tupper told me he was just
waiting for CAG to sign off on the request. Finally, I believed him. That night,
there was a nervous tingle in my stomach not completely attributable to my
consumption of a vat of tater tots at dinner. I lay in bed thinking of a
catapult shot and the water rushing below me. What would it mean to me? What
would I now understand?

But the next morning, Tupper took me aside. He put
his hand on my shoulder.

“It's not going to happen. The boss said no.”

“No big deal. It was always a long shot.”

“We'll get you up from Whidbey, I promise.”

“Sure.”

I smiled and walked away, heading back to my room.
My roommates were either flying or briefing. I climbed into my rack, pulled the
flimsy curtain shut, and cursed into my pillow.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
decided to get out of politics when I was twenty-five and take a job mirroring the uncertainty of my childhood. I can't say I woke up one morning and decided I wanted a career where I was always the new kid, but that's exactly what happened.

I was in grad school at Loyola for political science and wrote a paper on Greece's entry into the Common Market. I was a little short on scholarly research, so I riffed a bit, throwing in a joke or five. My professor wrote, “The
Chicago Tribune
will pay you good money to write like this.” It was the first time I thought about writing for a living. I began freelancing for an alternative weekly in Chicago. On a whim, I applied for a $200-a-week internship as a researcher at the
New Republic
in Washington. Somehow, I got it. I moved to D.C. a few weeks later.

I hadn't met more than two or three Ivy Leaguers in my entire life and now they surrounded me. There were weekly editorial meetings where English philosopher Michael Oakeshott was casually quoted and the predilections of Israeli politicians were debated. The people doing the talking were folks I'd seen on
The McLaughlin Group
and the meetings were presided over by Andrew Sullivan, who was also a model for the Gap. I had no idea what the hell they were talking about half the time. It wasn't until years later that I realized they didn't know either.

Eventually, the nausea about saying the wrong thing went away. I was lucky. No one expected much from me. The other interns were drowning under the weight of their expectations. There was an odd woman who was obsessed by my button nose. She remarked, “Every time I look at you, your nose gets smaller and smaller.” She disappeared after a plagiarism scandal. The guy next to me had a terrible secret: he went to Penn for a year before transferring to Harvard. (I didn't learn this until a decade later.) And then there was the preppy fellow who was nicknamed Masthead Man for his photographic memory of the staff of every magazine this side of
Redbook
. Compared to them I was well adjusted.

These kids were all used to doors opening for them. I didn't even know there were doors. The staff didn't discourage their delusions of grandeur. The writer Michael Lewis was there at the time and took me to lunch toward the end of my internship. “I'm not sure why we can't pick up the phone and get you a job at
GQ
. Let me look into it.”

I never heard back from him. But that was okay. A friend house-sat for Lewis and we threw a party where we built a shrine out of the eleven different language versions of
Liar's Poker
he had stacked in his living room.

Sometimes, I had to walk home because I was too broke for the Metro. The only lodging I could afford was the handyman's apartment off the trash room in a three-story building on a sketchy Capitol Hill street. I woke every morning to the landlord's mutt taking a squirt on the small, scarred windows above my bed that provided the only natural light to the place.

I learned other things, particularly the power of Dad's story. I wrote a column about visiting his marker at Arlington National Cemetery. It was well received by the magazine's mercurial editor in chief, Martin Peretz. My reward was holding cellist Yo-Yo Ma's coat while he played tunes for Al Gore at a posh
New Republic
party shortly before the 1993 presidential inauguration. This seemed like a fair trade.

B
y June, my internship was up and I was down to my last $300. I was about to move back to Chicago when a friend told me of a job opening at
Boston Magazine
, a city monthly specializing in political profiles and clam chowder recommendations. I was flown up for the interview and put up in a posh hotel by a newish editor in chief just in from Cleveland. He was impressed by my
New Republic
experience and didn't seem to care that my job description largely centered on faxing an in-the-tank journalist's campaign articles to Hillary Clinton days before publication. He hired me over a third glass of white wine.

I wasn't being paid much, but it was enough to afford a one-bedroom apartment in a nice section of Boston's South End. Or so I thought. My first Sunday, there was a front-page
Globe
story about an unsolved gang-related murder from a year earlier. The photograph above the fold looked out from where the shots had been fired. It looked vaguely familiar. I then realized it was shot from my front stoop.

One night, I heard a rustling noise and saw a shadow in my apartment. I threw the light on. There was no thief, but something worse, a watermelon-sized rat. I shrieked like a Brownie at her first sleepaway camp.

The landlord came over the next morning and stuffed chicken wire into a hole between the refrigerator and the dishwasher where he thought the rats were coming in. He declared the problem solved. Not quite. I came home that night to a rat on my kitchen counter, forcing its way into my Jif peanut butter jar with just its fangs. I flung a can of SpaghettiOs at it; the rat skittered away to God knows where. I restuffed the hole with some old Graham Greene paperbacks. I came home the next night to find Greene's
The Quiet American
and a loaf of bread half-digested on the kitchen floor. I messengered my landlord the paperback with a note reading, “Thought you might enjoy this one. The rats obviously did.”

He was not amused. Still, he installed some snap traps around the apartment. I came home a few nights later to a black rat flopping like a salmon on the deck of a fishing boat, his neck pinned by the snap trap. I shrieked some more and went for a three-hour walkabout hoping the rat would die while I was out.

I ventured back around midnight and found the rat completely still. Thank God! I took a shot of vodka and impaled the rat with a broom handle for disposal. This merely reanimated the rat. This time, it was the rat that shrieked as his little legs did a bicycle pump. I puked in the sink.

I opened my back window and hurled my rat-on-a-stick into the back alley. I hoped it might serve as a visual deterrent to his brothers, much like the Romans crucifying Christians along the Appian Way. Still, the rats came.

Times like that made me miss Dad so badly. I'd come a long way, but there were so many things I couldn't do, so many things I didn't understand. I could cold-call senators and lawyers, but simple things left me petrified and useless. Things a boy should have learned from his father.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
upper was two weeks from home when the Goat Locker told him that Seaman Cruz Roblero had stolen an iPod belonging to another sailor. Roblero was an East LA kid who joined the Navy to escape the gang violence that killed his brother, but he was constantly chafing at the Navy's discipline. He had a sneaky smile that made him look guilty even when he wasn't doing anything wrong.

Tupper had been patient through some of his earlier screwups—malingering, petty theft on shore—but stealing from shipmates was a near capital offense. The sailors slept in rows of stacked bunks with only a glorified high school locker to stash their gear. Stealing in such close quarters led to fistfights. It was unforgivable.

Tupper might have gone easier on Roblero earlier in the deployment, but he was sick of carrying dead weight. He met with Roblero and the sailor cried and told him he was just borrowing the iPod. Tupper told Roblero it was just a pathetic attempt to save his skin. There would be no mercy. Tupper went at him hard. He wanted him court-martialed, a move that would earn him a dishonorable discharge and cost him all his veterans' benefits. If convicted, Roblero could do a year in the brig, military jail, once the Black Ravens returned to Whidbey.

This wasn't a popular move with his men. Roblero was a crappy sailor, but he had his friends and they wouldn't look kindly on someone doing jail time for stealing an iPod. The
Nimitz
's lawyer and his own officers weren't on board either. Tupper thought it was just because they didn't want to do the work. A court-martial meant a three-day investigation by the
Nimitz
's military police followed by a trial with a jury of chief petty officers. A half dozen of Tupper's men would have to submit to lengthy interrogations—both time-consuming and nerve-racking—as they tried to get the planes ready for the fly-off. The
Nimitz
's lawyer leaned on Tupper to take Roblero to captain's mast, a move that would end his career but would avoid a trial and carry no jail time. She suggested it would be easier on everyone. But Tupper wouldn't budge. Captain's mast was for work screwups and dereliction of duty. This was a criminal act. Besides, it was
his
squadron. If he thought Roblero warranted court-martial that should be it.

The next day, the lawyer told him it wasn't his decision anymore. There would be no court-martial and there would be no more arguing about it. Tupper was furious. Was it really his squadron? If so, why was he taking orders from a pissant lieutenant lawyer?

He took his frustration out on Roblero the next morning. At 8:30, the squadron was assembled below deck. The sailors were in their blues, their hands behind their backs. The officers were in khakis and flight jackets. Tupper entered in his dress whites and everyone stood at attention. Roblero was brought in from the brig by two MPs. You could hear him before you could see him. His arms and legs clanked as he shuffled in. He was wearing leg and arm irons. The MPs undid Roblero's shackles and he stood in front of the skipper. Tupper began to speak.

“Seaman Recruit Roblero, I want to be clear about why you are here, and why you are not here today in an open mast before the Black Raven team. You are
not
here to be publicly humiliated, degraded, or embarrassed.”

Of course, this wasn't true. The whole point of a captain's mast was to publicly shame a sailor and persuade his fellow shipmates not to screw up lest they suffer the same humiliation.

“You have had a tough life before the Navy. I could say that about dozens of sailors in this audience. But you are the one who did wrong. The Navy was your ticket out of the barrio, the street gangs that claimed the life of your brother.”

A couple of officers exhaled and shifted on their feet. Another rolled his eyes. Tupper had pronounced “barrio” with an over-the-top guttural inflection, like a Caucasian news anchor saying “Nicaraguan contras” back in the 1980s.

His officers were exhausted; they just wanted to do their jobs and go home. They were tired of Tupper's speeches. But Tupper wasn't done. His cadence moved to controlled shouting. Small flecks of spittle radiated from his mouth as he spoke.

“YOU HAVE AN HONOR PROBLEM. Maybe you can fool a bleeding heart, game a sympathetic ear from someone in religious ministries or medical, but not here. You won't fool the Old Man. I'm a sailor. And these are all sailors. You can't fool your own.”

A woman in the ranks began sobbing. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought to remain at attention. Tupper looked at her with disgust and kept speaking.

“The only expectation that I ever had for you was the same expectation I have for every Black Raven: do your best, do the right thing, and take care of shipmates. You not only did not take care of shipmates, you tried to HURT shipmates. And for that, you're going back into the box. You don't like the box? Don't steal. I am sorry you failed. But I am not sorry to see you leave. May you forever regret what you have lost here today.”

Roblero shuffled forward and gave Tupper a stiff salute. The MPs chained his hands again and he was led back to the brig, his chains clanking behind him. He would receive only bread and water until the
Nimitz
pulled into port.

Tupper knew his sailors were mortified. Roblero was a fuckup, but few thought he deserved the full disgrace of Tupper's words. He tried to win them back.

“Ravens, do not be discouraged! This squadron is a winning team, and for every bad sailor, there are 167 others striving for excellence. Keep your eyes on the prize: safe, up aircraft, and caring for each other. The tide is turning, and it turns in our favor!”

But the tide wasn't turning in Tupper's favor. That evening, I was in my room with Stoli, Wolf, and Lil Chris. They had decided to have a final
Date Night
of the cruise. We all watched Colin Farrell misplay Alexander the Great on the screen while we feasted on goodies sent from home. Lil Chris produced a giant packet of smoked salmon and Stoli rustled up some gourmet crackers. We drank some awful Bahraini fake beer and laughed at Farrell's attempt at gravitas. Wolf was in a better mood, but he thought Tupper had been wrong.

“That didn't have to go like that,” said Wolf. “He put on that whole show for your benefit. He loves an audience. He can't help himself.”

We bullshitted for a while, and then there was a knock on the door. Lil Chris jumped up. He'd become my protector of sorts, warding off the
Nimitz
's public affairs guys who kept checking up on me, wanting to see if I wanted to tour the nuclear reactors or some other godforsaken part of the boat.

“If that's the freak public affairs officer again, I'm going to tell him to fuck off.”

But it wasn't the public affairs guy. It was Tupper. He looked pale and uncertain, the exact opposite of this morning's command performance. He asked me if I could come down to his room.

I thought I'd done something wrong. I followed him down the dimly lit hallway. He pushed opened his door, and I took a seat on his couch. Tupper slumped into a chair.

“CAG shot me. I'm done.”

T
upper's phone kept ringing that afternoon while he was meeting with one of his chiefs. He finally picked up. It was CAG asking him to stop by his office as soon as possible. Tupper headed down a few minutes later. CAG offered no small talk. He told him he wasn't going to get one of the top two fit reps among the squadron skippers. Tupper just nodded, expressing no emotion. Finally, he asked a question.

“If there's an area I haven't seen or an area I should have focused on, can you let me know what that is?”

CAG nodded. He quickly ticked off the cruise lowlights: Seaman Headden's accident, the Midway Island fiasco, and Crapper's botched accident report.

Tupper didn't respond. There wasn't anything to say. CAG told Tupper to call Beth and let him know in the next forty-eight hours his preference for his next duty station.

Tupper knew this was a farce. He was destined for Navy middle management, which meant more sea duty. He would retire with full benefits and there was even a chance he could still make captain if he stuck it out for another five years. But he'd never run his own ship or command sailors again. He had gone from Top Gun to Willy Loman in five minutes. Two hours later, he still couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

“I thought I was going down for I don't know what. It was literally like a drive-by shooting.” He referenced the ill-fated Black Raven flight over Midway. “I can't believe Hot Carl and some below-average electronic countermeasures officers are going to sink my career.”

I could see he regretted trashing his guys the moment after he said it. But he was crushed. He had already called Beth. She was pissed about the timing. Couldn't they have waited a week? Couldn't they let him enjoy his fly-in and his homecoming? But they both knew the Navy didn't work that way. Timing, feelings, and emotions were civilian luxuries. All he could do now was catch his breath.

“I think CAG underestimated how far we've come,” he said quietly. His eyes were glassy. “I'm completely unprepared to deal with this.”

I asked him who he thought was going to get the top slot between the COs. He let himself slip back into bitterness.

“It's going to be Mongo Koss, the Hornet guy next door. Everyone always knew he was the golden child. He's a great guy, but he's got the newest jets on the flight deck.”

A thousand thoughts were rushing through Tupper's head. Should he apply for an IA slot in Afghanistan or Iraq? Maybe he could do that for a year; that would bring him right up to twenty. That would allow the girls to stay in the same schools. Or maybe a ground job in Pax River? But that place had so many bad memories from back when the girls were small and Beth was sick. Should he tell Vinnie? Or maybe that just made him a lame duck.

I tried to make him feel better. I told him of jobs I didn't get, contracts not renewed, assignments killed. I didn't think it was much solace, but Tupper was touched. It wasn't until later that I realized it wasn't anything specific that I'd said, but just another man admitting failure wasn't something he was used to hearing from the Navy.

We talked until there was nothing else left to say. It was midnight and Tupper still needed to pack up his room. I told him to get some sleep, but I knew he wouldn't.

I walked back to my stateroom. The combined stench of smoked salmon and American men in an unventilated room hit me the second I opened the door. It was strangely comforting. Stoli, Lil Chris, and the Wolf were all asleep in their bunks, dreaming of wives just a few days away. I lay in my bunk thinking of all the sacrifices Tupper and Beth had made. All the time away from the girls. I wondered if Dad had reached this moment of diminishing returns. Would he have returned from that last cruise, seen me a head taller, and said, “My God, what have I missed?”

T
upper woke up to emails from Caitlin and Brenna, telling him they'd love him promotion or no promotion. The messages simultaneously lifted his spirits and pissed him off. He thought he'd told Beth he wanted to tell the girls himself when he got home. It was just another in a long line of misunderstandings.

Tupper's face was gray by the time I saw him at lunch. It was only twelve hours since he got shot and his body had already dropped its pack.

“I'm coming down with the ship crud. I'm losing fluid from both ends.”

I asked him if he was well enough for the fly-off the day after tomorrow. It seemed overly cruel—even by Navy standards—that he'd miss flying home with his men. He told me he was going to be fine. Walking off the boat when the
Nimitz
pulled into Bremerton was an indignity he couldn't take. He then excused himself and raced for the head.

That night, the air wing held
Focs'l Follies
, an end-of-cruise series of skits and awards ceremony. It didn't go well for the Black Ravens. They didn't win anything and CAG's staff, fearful that I would see something shocking, ejected me. Afterward, Tupper briefed the flight crews on the fly-off. He told a funny story about spinning a Prowler while taxiing on an icy runway in Colorado, emphasizing that unsafe flying this close to home could be deadly.

But he didn't take his own advice. The next morning, Tupper made it to CAG's daily meeting but then went back to bed. No one saw him for the rest of the day. Around dinnertime, Doc stopped by his stateroom. She took one look and sent him down to sickbay, where he got hooked up to an IV. His flight was a half day away and he could barely stand up. But he would fly anyway.