The Calculated Exile: The Pragmatic Reformer
Prologue: Inferno’s Mark
Salt and smoke choked the air, a hellhole reeking like a dive bar ablaze—oil, sweat, and death. May 26, 1954, 0611, Narragansett Bay, and Frank Mares wrestled a valve on the Bennington’s port-side catapult, the accumulator hissing. Vaporized oil sparked, a match to powder, chain blasts ripping Hangar Bay 1—103 dead, 201 scarred [web:0,1,2]. Mares crawled through acrid smoke, skin blistering like a bar napkin in fire [web:9,10,11]. Klaxons wailed, blood pooled, truth a snuffed fuse. Corpsmen dragged him out, sulfa burning worse than flames [web:9,10,11]. Brass called it “unknown heat source,” buried Harlan’s ’52 warning—seals failing [web:6,7,8]. Mares, scarred and raging, vowed answers. 178 medals later, April ’55, his Purple Heart felt hollow.
