The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  “We forget, don’t we? Our guys are off to war.”

  Maddy was still getting over the sudden chill that had flooded her belly. The most exciting thing that had happened on Brian’s last deployment was a near collision during a night training exercise in the Mediterranean, between an aircraft carrier and one of the ships in the screen, whatever a screen was. At least Brian had found that to be very exciting. But now her husband was on a ship that was being shot at? By the North Vietnamese?

  This wasn’t how Brian had described the Red Crown station at all. It was supposed to be all CIC work, directing aircraft over the Gulf of Tonkin and spending endless hours staring at radar screens. She got up abruptly, leaving Tizzy to her wine, and joined the small crowd around Mrs. Huntington. When she could break in, she asked a question.

  “Mrs. Huntington, what were they doing that they were close enough to North Vietnam to get shot at? I thought this Red Crown thing was out in the middle of the Gulf.”

  Mrs. Huntington nodded at her. “Yes, I asked the same question. He told me they were diverted to join a Sea Dragon operation—that’s where the ships go up off the coast of North Vietnam and do shore bombardment.

  He said it was really unusual for a PIRAZ ship to do that, but Hood has a long-range gun, so off they went, I guess.

  But he assured me they were on their way to the Red Crown station and that all was well, Maddy.”

  Maddy listened to some more questions, then drifted back to where Tizzy was opening another bottle of wine.

  “Doesn’t that sort of thing bother you?” Maddy asked.

  “Fox has told me a hundred times—he wanted to go to WESTPAC because that was where the action was.

  Sounds like they saw some action. Fox’ll be higher than a kite if he got to shoot those guns. We’ll find out more in the letters.”

  “Ugh, that’s three weeks,” groaned Maddy. She was amazed at Tizzy’s indifference and wondered how much of her aplomb was real. She had not liked the expression on Mrs. Huntington’s face one bit, and that was before she had heard the news. Tizzy handed her a fresh glass of wine.

  “I hope she serves dinner pretty soon, or I’m gonna get loopy,” Tizzy said.

  “That’s looped,” Maddy replied.

  “Whatever. So, you going back to MCRD with me next Thursday?”

  “No, thank you; one rape scene’s enough for me. I think I’m going to play more tennis and start going to more wives’ functions.”

  “You’ll be bored right out of your skin, sweetie. Right out of your ever-lovin’ skin.”

  “Maybe. But frankly, I don’t want to be the cause of Brian’s not getting a clear shot at lieutenant commander.

  God, I hate this deployment.”

  “If he makes lieutenant commander, you’re going to see some more of them.”

  Maddy was silent for a minute. “I suppose that’s true, too. But Brian was up front with me when we got married: This is what he does, what he is. I happen to love him, Tizzy—he was the first honest-to-God straight arrow I ever ran into. So whatever my feelings are about the Navy, I owe it to him not to do any damage.”

  Tizzy gave her a speculative look over the top of her wineglass.

  “There are other alternatives, you know,” she said finally.

  “Yes, I do,” Maddy replied. “And maybe we’ll come to that. But if we do, we’ll have to do it together. Just like you and Fox have, right?”

  Tizzy smiled and saluted her with her wineglass.

  WESTPAC; Red Crown Station

  “Evaluator, SWIC. Log helo’s on final, under visual flight-deck control.”

  “Okay, Garuda. Where’s our SAR helo?”

  “Big Mother Fifty-three is orbiting at one-five-zero for ten miles.

  He’ll have to stay out there till we get this log helo off the deck.”

  “They care if I go out to the bridgewing and watch?”

  Garuda shook his head. “Evaluator can go out to the bridge anytime he wants. Although—”

  “Yeah?”

  “If something went wrong during land-launch ops, the Old Man might wonder why you weren’t in here taking charge …”

  “Good point. SWIC, the evaluator has decided to stick around,” Brian announced, remembering the exec’s look when he had appeared on the bridge during the Sea Dragon shooting. “It’s just that I’m having a little trouble getting used to running everything from CIC.”

  “Yes, sir, I copy that, especially when you’re comin’ from the small-boy force. But the fact is, every system related to command and control in this ship terminates here in Combat. We could land that helo using one of the air controllers and the gun-director radar if we wanted to; it’s just aviator ops safety rules that we use the first lieutenant back on the flight deck to actually bring him in. You know how those flyboys are—gotta have a guy waving paddles at ‘em when they land; they need a cheering section, I think.”

  Brian grinned. Garuda fired up another cigarette, highlighted a track on his scope, and switched over to intercom to lambaste a miscreant in the Cave for sloppy tracking, all in one motion. Radarman First Class Rock heart stuck his head in from surface; he wore a sound powered phone headset.

  “Mr. Holcomb? Helo control says there’s a four striper on this helo. I passed it out to the bridge. He’s also got some mail.”

  “Evaluator, aye. I’ll call the captain.”

  Brian picked up the black sound-powered phone handset that the junior officers called the bat phone. It was wired directly to the captain’s cabin one deck below. He pushed a buzzer switch, heard a clunking sound and then the captain’s voice.

  “Captain.”

  “Evaluator, sir. The helo controller says there’s a four striper—er, a Navy captain—embarked in this log helo.”

  “Is that right? Well, I guess I’m not entirely surprised.

  Have the JOOD go down and meet him and escort him to my cabin.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Brian hung up and passed the captain’s orders out to the OOD on the bridge via the 21MC intercom system, otherwise known as the bitch box.

  Garuda lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “What?”

  “Better also call the XO on that one.”

  “Right you are, Garuda.” He dialed the exec’s number on the ship’s regular telephone system. “I’ll get the hang of this yet,” he said to no one in particular.

  “XO.”

  “Yes, sir, evaluator in Combat. This log helo’s got a four-striper on board. Captain’s having him brought to his cabin.”

  “Shit. Do we know who he is?”

  “Uh, no, sir. I can—”

  “Na-ah, forget it. I’m gonna bet it’s the ACOS for Ops from the Carrier Group staff.”

  “Then this is not necessarily a friendly visit?” asked Brian. He was aware that both Garuda and the AIC were now listening hard.

  “If it was friendly, we’d have known he was coming.

  JOOD gonna go get him?”

  “On the way now.”

  “Roger that. This helo bring any mail?”

  “Yes, sir, flight deck said he had mail.”

  “Well, it’s not a total loss. I’ll go intercept our visitor.”

  IBrian hung up. Rockheart was speaking to him fromacross the module again.

  “Log helo is on deck, chocks and chains. Helo control says this guy’s gonna shut down and stay on deck till his passenger’s ready to go back.”

  “Evaluator, aye. Garuda, is that gonna be a problem for our SAR bird?”

  “No, sir, they like to get Mother off the deck. They’ll rattle around out there till this guy’s gone.”

  “Roger that. This will probably be a short visit.”

  Garuda twisted fully around in his chair and looked expectantly at Brian, who shrugged.

  “XO thinks it’s some Ops guy from the staff,” he offered.

  The captain’s line buzzed. Brian grabbed it quickly.

  Garuda turned back to his console.

>   “Evaluator, sir.”

  “Alert Mr. Austin and Mr. Benedetti to be ready to come to my cabin right away. You tell XO that we have a visitor?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s going to intercept our guest on the way up to your cabin.”

  “Very good. We may need you down here, as well, Brian.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Brian hung up and sat down in the evaluator’s armchair.

  Garuda punched buttons on his console for a few minutes, made two calls to the input world, and lighted another cigarette from the butt he was smoking. The AIC had resumed his murmurings to the BARCAP pilots, fifty miles away at 42,000 feet. His scope was filled with the spidery traces of computer-generated air-intercept geometry lines.

  ACOS Ops, Brian thought. The assistant chief of staff for Operations on the Carrier Group commander’s staff.

  Not a flunky. A full captain, USN, making an unannounced visit. It had to be about the Sea Dragon debacle.

  Benedetti had predicted that there would be some heat and that it would probably be private heat. This guy sounded like heat.

  “This on the Sea Dragon screw up, you think?” Garuda was turned around in his chair again, one eye on Brian, the other on the clutter of symbology on his scope.

  Rockheart came in from surface to begin writing the new daily call signs on the vertical status boards.

  “Most likely. Mr. Benedetti figured we were going to catch some shit over it, especially in view of the Berkeley casualties. But he also said that the staff wouldn’t be able to get too vocal with their criticism, because it was their idea to send a PIRAZ ship to the gun line in the first place.”

  “Yeah, that computes. And the engineer’s right: This here’s a very special capability. Stupid friggin’ thing to do, expose Red Crown’s relief to shore batteries.”

  “Didn’t care for all that racket outside, hunh, Garuda?”

  “No, sir, I did not.” Garuda grinned. “You’re lookin’ at a serious twidget here; I’m too old for that John Wayneshit.”

  “Guy’s on the Berkeley didn’t much like it, either.

  Especially the dead ones. And they’re blaming us.”

  Garuda’s grin vanished. He punched some more buttons, updating tracks on the display. He appeared to be thinking about a reply. Brian was amazed at how quickly the warrant officer’s stubby fingers flew over the console keyboard.

  “They’d really be pissed, they knew why we lost the load,” said Garuda finally.

  Brian hitched his chair closer to Garuda’s. “I’ve already heard some scuttlebutt about that, some snipe doing a little reefer during GQ,” he said softly.

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I’m hearing.” Garuda lowered his voice, too, conscious of the AIC sitting four feet away and Rockheart working the status board on the back side of D and D. “I hear a coupla the chiefs are going to have a little powwow with this guy.”

  “Powwow—as in my chief boats?”

  “Yes, sir, most likely. Word is that the snipe, that Gallagher guy, hasn’t come outta the holes for the past day. Some of the other snipes’re bringing him chow and he’s sleepin’ in the tool crib in Two Firehouse—with one eye open.”

  “Probably the sensible thing to do.” Brian paused, wondering how much he should reveal to the warrant.

  What the hell, he thought, if this guy isn’t regular Navy, who is? He plunged on.

  “But I’m wondering if this is the right way to handle a doper. Engineer told me the BT chief caught this gomer obviously spaced-out. Why not charge his ass, bring him to mast, and let the Old Man handle it, regulation Navy?”

  Garuda looked around Combat for a moment before answering. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the overhead. He lowered his voice even more, his tone urgent.

  ” ‘Cause that ain’t how it goes here in the . B. Hood, Mr. Holcomb. We ever catch the kingpin, the head doper, guy sellin’ this shit, him we’d bring up, regulation style, hopefully before Chief Louie JM feeds him to the propellers.p>

  He’d get a court-martial, probably a general court, with hard time at Leavenworth. But for us in’? You can’t do that and still keep this here Red Crown deal runnin’.”

  “But wouldn’t we be better off with the druggies gone? Berkeley might have been, from the looks of it.”

  Garuda shook his head emphatically. “You’d end up shitcanning a third of the crew, if not more.- And some a these guys’d like nothing better; they want out—outta the Nav and outta these deployments. Be more’n happy to get caught with a little dope, get an admin discharge or a ‘less than honorable’ or even a general-discharge ticket.

  They don’t give a shit about what kinda discharge they get. They’ve got no idea how that can hurt ‘em later on.

  They just want out. I mean, you look around—mosta these guys are nineteen, twenty years old. To them, anyone’s been in the Navy for more than one hitch is automatically a lifer. I think the XO’s got it right; lower decks justice is the way to go. Let that monster Injun crack some ribs.”

  Garuda straightened up and turned back to his console, fingers flying again as he growled at the track supe over the intercom. Brian sat back in his own chair and examined the faces surrounding him in Combat. The two dozen positions in his sight were indeed manned by mostly Very young men. His last XO had described it as going to sea with this year’s high school class. The user consoles, such as the air control, weapons control, and the SWIC, were all manned either by senior petty officers or chiefs—lifers, as the junior enlisted called them. The input consoles were manned exclusively by first-term enlistees, nineteen to twenty-one year olds, most of whom had enlisted in the Navy to avoid the televised horrors of Army life in country. Can’t blame ‘em for that, thought Brian. But he wished to hell that they’d left their damn drug habits on the beach. The bat phone buzzed again.

  “Evaluator, sir.”

  “Brian, turn the watch over to Mr. Barry and come down here, please.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He replaced the handset, his stomach tightening, and waited for Garuda to end his telephone conversation with computer control. After a minute, Garuda hung up and shook his head.

  “Goddamn guys don’t mind the store. This op program’s beginning to deteriorate, they’ve got a control panel with three system alarms showin’, and I have to call them. We’re gonna hold a little extra instruction when I get off watch.”

  “Well, hang in there, because I have to join the stance in the captain’s cabin. You are hereby promoted to evaluator.”

  “Oh shit, oh dear,” declared Barry. “Better thee than me-e, as the Quakers say.”

  “I hear that,” replied Brian, looking for his cap.

  “Mr. Holcomb?” Garuda stood up, pushed his intercom headset down onto his shoulders, and stepped closer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember the white-hat rule.”

  “Which one?”

  “Don’t volunteer.”

  Brian gave Barry a long look. Don’t volunteer. If asked a question, you say, Yes, sir, no sir, but no more than that, sir. But you don’t volunteer information. Brian felt a spike of annoyance.

  “My style is to tell it like it is, Garuda.”

  “Yes, sir, I roger that. Nobody expects an officer to lie. But if he don’t ask, you don’t gotta say.”

  “What are you really telling me?”

  “Try not to hurt the ship, Mr. Holcomb. Don’t say something’ for free that’s gonna hurt the command or the Old Man less you gotta.”

  “I’ll try not to, Garuda.” Brian found his cap, put it on, and left Combat through the front door. He walked across the chart room’s vestibule and headed down the ladder, the chill of apprehension spreading in his stomach.

  This would be his first loyalty test in his new command, and he was undecided on how to play it. He knew the Hood way wasn’t the right way to deal with the drug problem. But the practical consequences of prosecuting the dopers were serious: The ship could never stand the hemo
rrhage of people that would ensue.

  And besides, the captain apparently did not believe there even was a drug problem. He stepped into the athwart ships passageway on the next level down and headed for the captain’s cabin.

  There was also the question of his upcoming fitness report. Because he had been on board for less than ninety days, the captain was not obligated to write one. But Brian had made the exec aware that he needed a good ticket from Hood, even if it was for a short reporting period, to bolster his chances for promotion. It would be the only fitness report in his record that could overcome the not-so-good reports from his last ship. Not so good because he hadn’t paid enough attention to lining up with the system, maybe. The whole point of retouring in a department head job, going on deployment, suffering through another separation from his unhappy wife was to achieve lieutenant commander and a shot at an exec’s job. He had a feeling that, up to now, he’d still been the new guy. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he would no longer be the new guy.

  As he raised a fist to knock on the captain’s door, it opened and Lieutenant Commanders Austin and Benedetti stepped through. Austin paused for just an instant, as if to say something, but he settled for giving Brian a ‘ look, then passed by. Benedetti had his head down and gave no indication that he had even seen Brian, who then stepped into the captain’s cabin.

  The captain and the exec leaned forward in the room’s two upholstered chairs. The staff officer sat at the dining room table, a small black notebook spread out before him. The captain pointed to the sofa, which put Brian between the two ship’s officers and facing the dining room table, his back to the hazy afternoon sunlight coming through the portholes.

  The staff captain wrote something in the notebook. He was a tall, thin officer with a narrow, pinched face. Steel rimmed glasses with prominent bifocal lenses accentuated his no-nonsense expression. Captain Huntington waited for the staff officer to finish his notes, then made introductions.

  “Bill, this is Brian Holcomb, our new Weapons officer.

  He was in Combat at the time of the incident. Brian, this is Capt. Bill Walsh, from the Cargru staff.”

  Brian got up to shake hands with Captain Walsh, then returned to the couch. The exec appeared to be studying the carpet, his face neutral.