It was all over. Initial Deployment was his Military Occupational Specialty, his MOS and the initial deployment was complete. His role in the crisis was finished. He didn't resent it, really. There were other people, people far more qualified in dealing with widespread medical emergencies waiting to take his place. He just wasn't sure what he was going to do next. The world was on fire and he was holding a bucket full of water and he didn't know where to throw it.
When he touched down at DCA a limo was waiting to take him right intoGeorgetown . He was a little surprised he wasn't going to be debriefed in the Pentagon itself but he had a lifetime not questioning orders to quell his unease. After passing through a metal detector and an inspection by a nosy dog barely kept on leash by a man in a uniform shirt that simply read CANINE SUPPORT he found himself in a fourth floor office of lacquered cherry wood and office chairs wrapped in plastic. A stack of multi-line telephone units with no handsets had been shoved under the conference table. At the head of said table stood a chilled bottle of water and a cellophane-wrapped box of marshmallow Peeps. Clark knew they weren't for him. He decided not to sit down and instead stood by the window, peering through the Venetian blinds at businessmen in dark suits or dress casual jeans rolled toward their various offices like Pachinko balls falling into their appropriate holes.
'Bannerman.'
The man in the door had the sort of heavy body shape and steel-blue freshly-scraped jaw of a desk officer with the CIA but he wore the dark suit, red tie and American flag pin of someone who regularly appeared at press conferences. An under-secretary, surely, one of the Department of Defense's leading lights but nobody Clark would be expected to recognize on sight. He didn't offer his name. He sat down in one of the wrapped chairs, not bother to remove the plastic, and cracked open his bottle of water. 'Look at you. Veteran of multiple wars. Well decorated and commended. Thirty-five years on service and you're still just a Captain. I think we both know why.'
Clark moved his cover from one hand to another. He didn't care for the civilian's easy familiarity. 'I've never questioned my lot in life. I simply serve at the pleasure of my Commander in Chief.'
'You never married, that's why. The Army likes married men. It means they're not gay. Sit down, will you? You're annoying me with your conspicuous body language.' The civilian tore open his box of marshmallow treats and stuffed one into his mouth. 'My big weakness,' he intimated when he'd swallowed the yellow goo. 'It's less than a week since Easter, right? Anyway, I don't care if you were screwing Freddy Mercury in the seventies. I don't care if you dig sheep. Sit down, I said.'
Clark did as he was told.
'They're in Chicago now, did you know that? We're keeping a lid on it but it's bad there, very, very, very bad.' The Civilian inhaled a long, slow breath and then laid down the law. 'Look, you're off the case, you know that. FEMA is taking over in California. We need the flexibility and the ability to make snap decisions out there you only get with civilian agencies. The Army's great for doing the same thing a hundred times over and nobody questions your loyalty but this. This is serious.'
'What about Colorado? That's the state I'm sworn to protect.'
'Yeah, the Adjutant General of the COARNG gets to keep Colorado, whoop-dee-doo. He's got full-bird Colonels to put on that and you're not on the short list. But who cares about Colorado? I don't know if you've heard this or not but these dead fuckers are taking over Los Angeles. I care about Los Angeles. The President cares about Los Angeles. Right?'
'No.' Clark placed his hat squarely on the table and turned it so the brim was facing the civilian.
'I beg your pardon?'