Admiral – Part I

The lake is perfectly still while the last wisps of the night’s fog curl gracefully toward a golden morning sky. The air is cool and pungent with the smell of the tall pines that encircle the lake. In the distance, a loon dismisses the night with a final cry while elsewhere a chickadee greets the sunrise. The mornings are so different, here – Moving. Meaningful. Almost ethereal.

Enough to block out the rest of the world, leaving you a prisoner in your own thoughts.

The old wooden dock gives a subtle creak as Peter casts his line across the mirror in front of him. With a tiny “blip,” a growing ripple begins to distort the illusion. In the water beneath his dangling feet he can make out the form of a bass – maybe a walleye – who seems unphased by the disturbance. He wills it toward the lure, but to no avail. The fish swims in another direction entirely.

He sits there for longer than he knows, simply remembering. Remembering Deborah. Their friendship. Their engagement. Their wedding. Their laughs. Their cries.

Her illness. Her funeral. His now-seventeen days of utter loneliness.

The sun has climbed higher now. He reels the line in – He’d felt nibbles what felt like hours ago, but his daydreaming seems to have paralyzed him. Sure enough, the hook is empty. He sets the rod on the deck beside him and quietly sighs. A heron is stalking prey through the reeds, hopefully having better luck than he is. The sky is a vibrant blue now, and the earlier birds have been replaced by a bellowing bullfrog somewhere off to his right. He hears something else, too.

“I thought you knew I was coming!” The stillness of the morning is suddenly broken by an invader.

Peter hesitates to respond, which merely emboldens the voice.

“Pete! Hey! You okay?”

Peter turns and nods. “Hello, Mitchell.”

Mitchell is a young and heavy-set man, donning a suit that his government job likely doesn’t afford him. The dock sways a bit with each step before he finally stops. He wipes the sweat from his brow and places his hands on his hips.

“Hey, Pete. I thought you knew I was coming,” he says, panting a bit.

“I did. I waited for you.” Peter says, turning back toward the lake.

“Well, yeah… but…uh…” It’s obvious Mitchell is trying to balance tact with frustration. “You could have waited in the house… with coffee. For Christ’s sake, I just flew 600 kilometers and then spent a half hour trying to figure out if I was even at the right place. I’ve only been to the lake house once before.”

“I’m sorry. Have a seat.” Peter gestures toward the dock beside him. “I guess I didn’t hear you arrive.”

Mitchell fumbles and groans as he sits down. “Well that’s the beauty of the new SVC craft. Quietest engine on the market. Winston Spaceworks must have Windfall shaking in their boots, you know?”

“Unlikely.”

“So what were you doing down here? Fishing?”

Peter nods. “That is what one does with a fishing rod.”

Mitchell notices the rod for the first time. “Yeah, my dad liked to fish. I always thought it was a bit of a dated hobby. Plus, he was an asshole.” Mitchell begins to laugh at the joke that only he thought was funny.

Peter clears his throat and finally recognizes his guest won’t be going anywhere soon. “So what brings you to the Adirondacks, Mitch? Did they send you on an errand?”

Mitchell feigns surprise. “Errand? Can’t a guy visit an old buddy?” He laughs again, then plunges a hand into his jacket. “But yeah, as much as I love the great outdoors, they’ve been trying to give you something.”

Peter curls an eyebrow in Mitchell’s direction. “They do realize that Deborah only died-”

“Of course they realize, Pete.” Mitchell seems to have retrieved what he was looking for. “Deb was the Assistant Secretary of the Department. The whole DCA knows. That doesn’t mean they can just stop mission prep.

He finally holds out the object – a chrome rectangle with a tiny blue light. A data card. He points it in Peter’s direction.

“No.”

Mitchell seems surprised. “No?”

“No.”

“Just take-” He pushes the card at him again.

“Mitchell, if you put that in my face, you’ll have to pull it out of the lake.”

“You don’t even know what’s on it yet.”

Peter scoffs. “I’ve been off-grid for a week and even I know that Admiral Parker’s backing out. And considering that Admiral Kinsey and Admiral LaViere have already said no, well…. You’re here on a recruiting trip for a project that’s becoming a bigger disaster by the day.”

“First off…” Mitchell struggles with his next words. “First off, none of those people are leaving out of fears of a disaster. Kinsey and LaViere both have families they don’t want to be away from and Parker’s got… health… issues.” Mitchell sets the card down on the dock, then pulls his glasses off his face and begins cleaning the lenses with his tie. “In all truth, the project is right where it needs to be, especially now that the terrorist issue’s been taken care of at Titan. We’re on track and ready to go. Ships are almost ready— including the Roosevelts. Colonist list is being finalized. We just… need… an admiral.”

“I’m retired.” Peter says, beginning to wonder why he ever told Mitchell where he was.

“So was Kinsey. And Parker was just about to.”

“Why is Reed being so picky?”

Mitchell puts his glasses back on. “Honestly, it’s not Reed. It’s the DCA more than the USSC. They want to make sure that they have somebody who’s going to give the governor some room and not treat this like a military mission.”

Peter shakes his head. “Why was the military even invited if everybody’s going to just try and shut them down?”

Mitchell’s eyes go wide. “Uh… because of history? You know about Discovery. Plus you add in all the ACA’s bullshit at what seems like every corner. That, and it was an obvious PR move. I mean everybody and their brother’s got some crazy religious-slash-alien-slash-time warp theory as to why all of this is a really bad idea. Military just makes them feel safe.”

“And you need a full admiral to command, what, three Roosevelts?”

“Eh… and… and… six support craft.” Mitchell struggles to sound like an authority. “I mean, no… the admiral is the Admiral of the Outbound Fleet. Whoever it is is there to make sure that they’re all safe. The Roosevelts, the gunships, and – and really, most importantly – all of the civilian ships, too.”

“So Governor Delacruz does what, then?”

“The day-to-day… and then everything that comes after. ‘New Earth’ or whatever.” The conversation is seeming to grate on Mitchell. “This is a US mission. The constitutional process is important. The governor is important. We don’t want a military dictator–”

Mitchell slaps himself in the neck a little too hard. “Goddamn bugs! I mean really, man… how do you deal with these things?”

Peter smiles. “We did invent bug spray a few hundred years ago.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell says, brushing another insect off his hand. “And I’d have brought some if I’d known I was going on safari.”

Peter rests a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Look, Mitch. I appreciate your coming out here. I really do. But my answer is the same. I’m really not interested. I appreciate the visit, but this just isn’t a good time for me right now. You can tell the Department I said thanks but no thanks.”

Mitchell nods and stares at the water for a moment. “You know,” He begins. “You know, the Department isn’t actually the one that sent me.”

Peter pauses, predicting the young man’s next words.

Mitchell clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “The day before she died, Deborah told her nurse that she needed to talk to her assistant. So I went. I don’t know where you were – I didn’t stay that long. But she knew that she didn’t have much time left. She’s the one who gave me that data card… and she’s the one who asked me to talk to you.”

He pauses, then continues. “You’re definitely on the DCA list of candidates, but nobody really thought you’d want it, so they haven’t bothered asking. But Deb wanted you to do it. She did from the start. Even before she found out she was dying, she wanted this for you.”

Peter is silent, trying to distract himself with an eagle wheeling overhead.

“I mean, c’mon… She dragged the Dawn into this operation. The suits can all claim it’s for national pride and heritage and all that, but I mean, really? You served on that ship for 12 years! 8 of them as captain. That’s your ship!”

“Fourteen years.” Peter whispers. “Nine as captain.”

“See? I was close.” Mitchell sighs. “You literally took a gunshot to the shoulder and kept the Dawn flying. You saved thousands of lives during the Grayson Rebellion. You understand – perhaps more than most – the importance of the civilian nature of this mission. You’re the perfect candidate, my friend.”

Peter nods, silent again. “But I’m not. They wouldn’t want to send someone who –”

Mitchell waves him off. “With all due respect, Pete: You are. This role was made for you because Deborah made sure that it was made for you.”

With a groan, Mitchell scrambles to his feet. “Look, I’ve gotta get going. I mean, I’ve got to hike the kilometer back to your house, and then I’ve got to get going. Just think about it, okay? You’re a man of faith, right?” He gestures toward the card, still sitting on the dock. “Take it on faith. Or… meditate or pray or… at least think about it or whatever. Deb wanted to give you another start. Maybe you should take her up on it.”

Mitchell pats Peter on the shoulder and then walks back toward the house. When the dock stops swaying, Peter is alone again.

The bullfrog begins to croak again as the serenity of the lake is restored. A wind begins to rustle the trees, causing the lily pads to bob up and down in the tiny ripples. The eagle returns.

“What would you have me do?” Peter finally whispers to the wind.

Looking down at the data card, he spies the yellow label on its face. The writing is smudged a bit, obviously written in haste. Even in its state, he can still make out the loops and whirls of his wife’s handwriting. For Peter, the inscription is clear:

TO ADMIRAL PETER KOHLER
PER ASPERA AD ASTRA – OUT OF HARDSHIP TO THE STARS