The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  Brian considered Austin’s argument, which certainly sounded better than Garuda’s. He suddenly felt very much more like a lieutenant talking to a lieutenant commander than one department head to another. He felt a wave of dismay at how much he had to learn.

  “I guess it does,” he answered. He exhaled. “This WESTPAC Navy is very different from what I’m used to.”

  “I’ll tell you a little secret, Mr. Holcomb. Consider it a freebie: Politically, there’s no difference whatsoever.

  You’re just having to face up to it for the first time, because you’re now an evaluator and a department head in a PIRAZ ship. Now you better find the exec.”

  Brian used the ship’s phone to dial the exec’s stateroom number and found him in. He went down and aft to I get to the exec’s stateroom and handed in the message draft. The exec asked him to sit down while he read it.

  He nodded when he was finished.

  “Good. That should do it. And I see you got the Count’s chop. That was smart. Anytime you get a sensitive or important message to do, you run it by Ops. He knows the ins and outs of WESTPAC politics cold.”

  “Yes, sir. We talked. I was kind of surprised at the political dimension of all this. I guess I’m still feeling my way around. In Decatur, any message I wrote as Weps was just a message.”

  “Well, maybe, but I suspect that either your exec or the CO put the required spin on it. Personal For messages require some care, since they go directly to the flag officer or CO involved. Count explain what’s behind this one?”

  “Yes, sir, he did,” Brian replied, stifling another yawn.

  “I hadn’t thought of what we did last night in terms of some kind of statement. All I saw was the fact that we weren’t gonna hit that Mig.”

  “But you saw how excited your guys were this morning —that they got to shoot a missile at a real target. It also put the Migs on notice. Watch your socialist ass when Hood’s out there: trigger-happy bunch of Yankee running dogs. And, hell, we don’t know for a fact that we didn’t get him—the track beam was wandering all over the place at the end, but it’s the illuminator that counts, not the track beam, once the bird’s in flight. As long as the bird’s seeker head could see energy being reflected from the target, that missile would chase his ass. I mean, hell, know it’s not likely, but it is possible. Or in his haste to get away from our bird, he may have hit the side of a mountain. Who knows.p>

  We’ll see if the recce guys can get some BDA.”

  “Yes, sir. I guess I’m still in the new-guy mode.”

  “Yeah, well, WESTPAC is different. But you’re catching on. Right. I’m sorry I had to cut into your tree time.

  Go grab some shut-eye before your next watch.”

  Brian left the XO’s cabin and headed for his own stateroom. If there were no more pop-ups, he could snatch an hour and half before he had to get ready for the next watch. “You’re catching on,” the XO had said.

  Well, that’s a medium good sign. When he reached his stateroom, he flopped directly down on his rack and drifted off to sleep, wondering what Maddy was doing.

  San Diego Maddy arrived at the U. S. Grant Hotel at 7:45. It was one of San Diego’s older hotels, so there was no inside parking. She drove around the block a couple of times before finding a spot on Broadway.

  She parked, shut off the engine, and pulled the mirror sideways to check out the war paint and run the brush through her hair once more. She wore a one-piece sleeveless black velvet number, modestly cut in the front and knee-length, with a slim silver belt around her waist. Over the dress, she wore an almost transparent cream-colored short-sleeved jacket, accented with a silver pendant at her throat.

  Medium heels, a patent-leather black clutch purse, and shiny dark stockings completed the outfit. And once again, no rings. She felt badly about that. Taking off the rings was an act of deception. She remembered making that same comment to Tizzy on their way to MCRD, and Tizzy’s surprising reply: “We’re married women, honey; our whole life is an act of deception.”

  She had made her excuses to Mrs. Huntington the day after Tizzy’s phone call, and the captain’s wife had said she appreciated the call. There had been no hint of a question, only a courteous regret that Maddy’s job did not allow her to join in more of the wives’ activities.

  “It’s not the activities themselves that are important,” Mrs. Huntington had said. “It’s the fact that we’re all in this deployment boat together, and when life closes in, as it will, dear, the group’s a good resource. And, of course, it becomes vital if something happens to the ship.”

  “Happens to the ship?”

  “Well, they are in a war zone, aren’t they? What Hood does is pretty safe, considering, but there are always the other things—collisions, fires, groundings, the standard perils of the sea, you know. That’s why we have the telephone tree and the calling lists and why the Navy calls me to get information or news, good or bad, to all of you. But enjoy your cocktail party, and watch out for all those bankers.”

  Bankers. If she only knew. She took a deep breath and got out of the car. The hotel’s main entrance was across the street. She put a couple of dimes in the parking meter, just in case. There was little traffic at this, the dinner hour, so she jaywalked as fast as heels would allow, aware of the doorman’s undisguised stare as she approached the entrance.

  He tipped his hat and said good evening in a Spanish accent as he opened one of the large glass doors. In the main entrance, down the lobby, and turn right, he’d said. She followed the directions, turned right, and saw a pair of oak bat-wing doors ahead, with a maitre d’ standing almost at attention behind them. A brass sign next to the doors proclaimed grant grill in large block letters.

  Two businessmen checking in at the reception desk straight ahead had turned around to look at her as she headed for the Grill, giving her the urge to check her zippers. But they probably weren’t looking at her zippers.

  The maitre d’ opened the bat-wing doors for her and asked if she was Miss. Holcomb. She almost corrected him on the Miss. but nodded instead, and he bowed graciously and said, “Right this way, Miss. Holcomb.”

  The room was about sixty feet square, with high ceilings and subdued lighting, rich red carpeting, a great deal of oak paneling, and brass accoutrements. About half the tables were filled, and they were spaced for privacy, each equipped with a single silver candlestick, a heavy white linen tablecloth, and real silverware. The waiters, all appearing to be about sixty years of age, were dressed in tuxedos and bow ties.

  The maitre d’, who looked even older than the waiters, threaded his way through the ornate tables, going slowly to show her off to the rest of the diners, well aware that beautiful women were always good for business in a restaurant. Autrey was standing at the side of a corner table, and she found herself staring as she followed the maitre d’.

  Autrey was dressed completely in white— white slacks, a white linen sport jacket, off-white ruffled front shirt, and, in place of a conventional cloth tie, he wore an intricate silver-and-turquoise string tie. Dark tooled leather boots completed his ensemble. With his prominent nose, exotic features, bronze skin, and black eyes, Maddy thought the whole effect was that of a Spanish grandee. As she drew near, she realized that he was much taller than she remembered. Maybe the boots.

  He was looking at her with frank admiration. He inclined his head in a small bow as she reached the table and the maitre d’ pulled back a chair.

  “Maddy Holcomb,” he said.

  “Just Autrey, I believe.”

  He smiled then, and his face seemed momentarily younger, even boyish.

  She wondered again as she sat down why the Marine had fled at the mention of his name. Brian had a boyish face. Where the hell did that come from? she wondered. The maitre d’ brought menus and a wine list, then withdrew. Autrey was looking at her, taking all of her in but trying not to be too obvious about it. A jarring image of what she must have looked like in the MCRD parking lot intruded, and
she felt herself sitting up straighter and breathing just a bit faster.

  She also felt the faintest warmth of a flush at her throat as she remembered her exposure that night. This man was—interesting; she shied away from the other word that had come to mind.

  She was wondering what to say when a waiter appeared with a silver tray and two champagne flutes. The champagne, however, had a reddish tinge.

  “A kir royale, madam,” intoned the waiter, seeing her confusion.

  “Champagne traced with a touch of chambord.”

  He placed the drinks on the table and left without a word. Autrey raised his glass to her and she picked hers up.

  “This is to say thank you for joining me tonight,” he said. “I was afraid you would change your mind.”

  She smiled, lowered her eyes, and sampled the champagne.

  She said nothing, wanting to see what he would do. Her mind was racing on two levels; the one that asked herself what the hell she was up to; the other, that old familiar other, happily mobilizing forces to begin the games she had played so well in Boston, the tantalizing games. To her surprise, he seemed content to keep silent as well, savoring his drink. He let the silence build until she finally felt compelled to break it. First point to Autrey.

  “This is a lovely dining room,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Old-style. Not very in these days. No rock music, no psychedelic lighting, and all the food is fattening or bad for you.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “No. Only when I want to feel like I’m surrounded by the best.” He paused for a fraction of a second, to include her in that category.

  “They do it well here. May I order for you?” She almost said no, to maintain some semblance of distance, independence. But then she acquiesced.

  “If you’d like.”

  “Okay. How about cold medallions of abalone in their special Grant dressing and then prime rib, medium rare.

  Maybe crepes suzette for dessert?”

  “Sounds divine.” She liked her beef medium, not medium rare, and thought abalone was overrated, although she’d never had it cold. Crspes suzette was fine.

  She wouldn’t tell him. Can’t spoil it. Don’t want him to do everything right. Although the kir royale was new, and sinfully delicious. She was not aware that she had finished her glass, but the waiter appeared from nowhere to collect the glasses.

  “The rest of the champagne with the first course, please,” Autrey said.

  She could not place his accent. At times, it was Southern California, which was to say, no accent at all, in her book. At other times, there was a faint southwestern twang, a hint of Arizona cowboy. She realized that she had been matching his control of his accent, precise when he was precise, then slipping into Georgia southron when the cowboy crept into view. He was watching her again; once again, she felt the tiniest tingle in her stomach.

  The waiter materialized again and Autrey placed the order. The waiter was a stout man with enormous dignity and a fantastic gray pompadour.

  Maddy knew at once there would be no breathless

  “Hi, I’m Jon” chanting of the house specials for the night, and she was amused when the waiter looked entirely to Autrey for the order.

  Shades of Boston, she thought. And rather pleasant. She was still uncomfortable with the brash informality and immediate first-name intimacy of Southern California.

  Both her Atlanta upbringing and her college days automatically bridled at the implied presumption. A question occurred as the waiter glided away.

  “So, Just Autrey,” she said. “Tell me why that Marine turned tail when he heard your name in the parking lot. I have to believe it had very little to do with pushups.”

  For a moment, Autrey studied his hands, which rested on the table in front of him. Her eyes were automatically drawn to them. She saw that he had long, sinewy fingers and that the veins on the back of his hands were pronounced.

  Good hands, she thought. Good for what, girl?

  The waiter returned with their champagne. Autrey waited to speak until the waiter was gone.

  “I am the only civilian on the training staff at MCRD,” he began. “And the only American Indian. I train Marine second lieutenants—those are the brand-new officers— who are going to lead the recon platoons in country.

  Before they get to me, they receive a lot of specialized training in the whole recon business. The recon guys in the Marines are like the SEALS in the Navy. Special forces. Behind-the-lines stuff.”

  “And your contribution?”

  “I train them to be predators.”

  “Predators?”

  “Over and above basic woodscraft—you know, how to survive, make fires, get clean water, take animal prey, improvise tools and weapons, that kind of stuff—I run what you might call a finishing school. I teach them how to be aware of humans when they’re in the bush behind enemy lines. I teach them how to track other humans, and how to avoid being tracked, and how to deal with someone who is tracking them.”

  “Now that sounds a little scary.”

  “Well, yes. But I think that was your question, Maddy Holcomb.”

  She nodded slowly in understanding. A finishing school for human hunters. Autrey steepled his fingers and stared right at her for a second before continuing. For just that second, she realized that he had a predator’s eyes, a straight stare with perfect parallax: Anywhere you were, he was looking right at you.

  “If you assume the instructor knows his stuff, then the only other problem in training anyone is motivating him to learn. I use fear. We put them in the field and leave them alone for a few days to practice woodscraft, and then I begin to stalk them, terrorize them even. Fear sharpens their senses. When they’ve learned to sharpen all their senses, to feel their environment like the animals do, then I teach them what to do and how to do it.”

  “But you would have to keep them afraid, wouldn’t you, for that to work?”

  He smiled broadly, his teeth white and even, making his face more than a little feral, she thought.

  “Yes, exactly. I’m Autrey, the man who scares them in the night. That’s why the drunk took off. Now, I have to tell you, we also do a little Hollywood in this business.”

  “Hollywood?”

  “Yeah, like making movies. Fantasy. The strongest fear of the unseen, unknown, is the fear produced by your own imagination. So the staff sets my act up by manipulating their imagination. One instructor accidentally mentions my name and the staff sergeant next to him gets the shivers.

  Gets a scared look on his face, tells him to be quiet. The meat pick up on it, ask questions.

  What’s this Autrey stuff? Who is this guy? Why are the gunnies afraid of him—if the gunnies are afraid, maybe I should be afraid. And the gunny says, Best believe it, podner. They never even see me until about the third night that I’ve been doing the number on ‘em—you know, sticks breaking in the woods, animal sounds, things rearranged in the campsite in the morning. That way, when they do, they pay attention.”

  “The ‘meat’?”

  “The new trainees. As in fresh meat.”

  “Lovely. And this is the U. S. Marine Corps you’re talking about? As in from the Halls of Montezuma?”

  Maddy had heard a zillion Marine jokes from Brian and his Navy friends.

  Autrey was imputing a level of sophistication to the Marines that did not seem possible.

  Autrey gave her an amused look.

  “In the field of small-unit combat tactics,” he said, “the U. S. Marine Corps has developed some of the most sophisticated training systems in the world. They also produce some of the world’s most lethal shock troops.

  Despite all the Marine jokes, I’ve come to believe the Marine Corps knows precisely what it’s doing in this business. Don’t let all the hoorah and short hair fool you.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” she replied softly. “My experience with Marines has been less than, er, sophisticated.”

 
“I apologize for them,” he said, his expression suddenly serious. He seemed ready to qualify his apology, but he said no more as the waiter approached with the first course. It had not escaped her that his speech had lost a lot of its foot-shuffling, aw shucks dialect.

  To her surprise, the abalone, sliced transparently thin and interlaced with a lobster-based sauce, was exquisite, especially when accompanied by the last of the cold champagne. The prime rib was pink all the way across, a feat she had never managed to achieve in her attempts with supermarket standing ribs.

  “This is perfect,” she exclaimed as the waiter poured them each a glass of seven-year-old Mondavi cabernet.

  “And so is this,” she said, sampling the wine. The waiter nodded agreeably, as if the compliment was only his due.

  After the champagne, she knew she would have to pace herself with the dinner wine or they’d be carrying her out of there—or he would. He was smiling again, enjoying her pleasure. Their eyes met over the wine for an instant, and she had to work to look away. Her body was whispering to her that it was more than the champagne and the wine, while her totally logical mind bravely fought off the notion. Out of nowhere, she remembered that Kingston Trio song with the bawdy refrain

  “Have some Madeira, m’dear”—and smiled despite herself. When he asked what she was smiling about, she could only shake her head and giggle. She missed this game.

  She asked for some coffee after the crspes, welcoming the caffeine. A kir royale, champagne, red wine, and the liqueurs in the dessert added up to more alcohol than she had had in a coon’s age. She felt deliriously relaxed but also somewhat on guard. Her mind wandered, and she tried to remember the old country expression, something was nice, but likker was quicker. She couldn’t for the life of her remember the first line. She suddenly hoped that this wasn’t all a big come-on, a standard seduction, with the inevitable invitation to go to his apartment and see the record collection or something. Or something, yeah.