Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 67

Gil spent the first five weeks after Sandra Brux’s rescue in physical rehabilitation for his broken ankle, the gunshot wounds to his leg, and the knife wound to his lung. His wife, Marie, flew to Maryland to be with him at Bethesda Naval Hospital, where he was treated like any other wounded combat veteran during his stay. No one over the rank of lieutenant ever came to speak with him, nor did anyone from the Judge Advocate General’s Office. Upon his release from the hospital, he was given written orders telling him to report to the Training Support Center Hampton Roads at Virginia Beach, Virginia.

Upon his arrival at Hampton Roads, he was assigned a task of mundane training duties. He was told by his new commanding officer that under no circumstances was he to speak with anyone about the unauthorized rescue mission, and under no circumstances was he to attempt to contact Captain Daniel Crosswhite. He then spent the next three months cooling his heels around the training center, bored to death.

The news of Sandra’s daring rescue had spread like wildfire across the United States, though very few actual details of the operation were released to the public. There were rumors around Hampton Roads of Gil’s involvement, but no one ever had the poor judgment to ask him about it.

Then one afternoon, after his second month in Hampton Roads, the other shoe finally dropped. He was called before his commanding officer and given the news that he and Daniel Crosswhite were to be awarded the Medal of Honor, along with Halligan Steelyard, who would be awarded the medal posthumously. There was to be a ceremony at the White House at the end of the month, during which the president himself would present them both with the award. Gil felt his temper flare, but he maintained his military bearing, snapping to attention and stating respectfully that he intended to refuse the award.

“Oh, you can certainly refuse it,” the Navy commander said, “but you might want to consider the fact that this president now stands poised to win reelection. Do you really think it’s a good idea to spit in his face a second time? Your court-martial has been held in abeyance only because of his personal order.”

That had settled the matter. Gil would have no choice but to accept the Medal of Honor, allowing the president to use him as a prop in his political freak show.

Master Chief Gil Shannon stood in the White House in his Navy dress whites, posing beside Captain Daniel Crosswhite before a bank of photographers. Marie sat off to the side beside Sandra Brux, who had only recently made her first public appearance. Her husband, John, sat on the other side of her. Both were in uniform, and both were smiling. Neither of them had any idea what the charade was really all about. All they knew was that two brave men were about to receive the nation’s highest military award.

Sandra gave him a wink, and he nodded back, feeling like a complete chump to be accepting a medal for getting one of his best friends and seven brave Tajik fighters killed.

Crosswhite, however, was eating it up. He knew the whole thing was a charade, but he didn’t care. As far he was concerned, they’d both earned the goddamn medal, and Steelyard, too. “Why let it get to you?” he’d said to Gil earlier in the day during one of the brief moments they’d been left alone. “The only thing that pisses me off is that Sandra doesn’t get shit for what she went through.”

Gil tried to focus on the bright side. He was still a member of DEVGRU, as far as he knew, and he had been somewhere that no other SEAL had ever been… Iran. Who knew how valuable such an experience might be to SOG in the future? There was also the medal itself to consider. Good or bad, right or wrong, Medal of Honor recipients enjoyed a certain status within the US Armed Forces, and Gil realized there would be ways of using that status to his advantage.

Still, there were jealousies within SOG that he would have to contend with, other operatives who might now try to edge him out of the game. Only time would tell how well he would be received by his peers in the coming months. And only time would tell how willing the Head Shed would be to put a Medal of Honor recipient back into harm’s way.

The President of the United States entered the room and stood before the podium. “Good afternoon,” he said with a smile. “Today, we are gathered to bestow…” And so the brief speech went, and after the president had finished telling the American public what gallant warriors both Gil and Crosswhite were, he stepped from behind the podium to accept the first of two medals from the secretary of defense.

He was about to slip the sky blue ribbon over Gil’s head when he stopped. “You know what?” he said, turning to look toward the honored guests. “I’ve got a better idea. Sandra, would you mind doing the honors?”

It was an unprecedented turn of events, and neither Gil nor Crosswhite believed for a damn minute that it was as spur-of-the-moment as the president was trying to make it appear.

Sandra was smiling as she rose from her chair. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. President.”

She accepted the medal and stepped over to Gil. This was the first time they had seen each other since she had gone sailing off into the night beneath the belly of the AC-130J, and when their eyes met, Gil felt it clear down in the pit of his stomach. She winked at him and smiled, then slipped the ribbon over his head, muttering “fuck it” loud enough for his ear alone and leaned to kiss him on the cheek. Every camera in the room flashed, and everyone in attendance applauded.

Gil looked at Marie and rolled his eyes, feeling his face flush. Marie smiled proudly and clapped.

Sandra accepted the second medal from the president and slipped it over Crosswhite’s neck, giving him the same kiss on the cheek she had given Gil before stepping back to join in the applause. In those brief few seconds during which the president was just another person in the room and no cameras held an angle on his face, Gil caught the gaze of the commander in chief’s half-lidded expression, an expression that… no matter how fleeting… was unmistakably a smirk.