“If and when it gets to that.”
Brian was puzzled. Of course it would get to that.
Captain’s mast could not impose an appropriate sentence for this offense, which deserved some serious brig time.
Captain’s mast in this case would simply be a formality, a referral of the case up the line to a special or even a general court-martial.
“XO,” Brian began, but the exec held up his hand, cutting him off.
“Look, Brian, we’ll handle this. I know what you’re thinking, that this case automatically goes to court-martial, that we should hold mast today so that the court can be set up by the time we get in. Well, let me just say that there’re other ways to handle this deal, and you’ll just have to trust me for now till you see how it works out.
Believe me, Marcowitz will go down for this. In the meantime, we take Marcowitz off the watch bill and relieve him of his duties.”
“You mean he just gets to sit around in the compartment?”
“You trust him to sit the weapons-radar consoles?”
“No, sir, but—”
“But what? He’s still an E-Five. I can’t send him mess-cooking and I can’t transfer him to the deck gang.
Until the system takes legal action, all I can do is suspend him, as it were. But consider this: His buddies in the division will initially grin and think he’s gotten away with it. But the longer they have to stand extra watches while he sits on his ass in the compartment, the less kindly they’re going to feel toward him. By the time we get in port, he’s gonna want a court-martial.”
Brian sat back for a moment. “But sir, this is really unorthodox. I mean, by the regs, we should take him to mast now. That way, he gets a court-martial awarded now, gets a defense counsel lined up, and then he can stew about that for the next two weeks.”
“Nope. We’re gonna wait. I’ve already talked to the captain about it, and that’s what he wants to do. So that’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll take care of Marcowitz in Subic, okay?”
Brian took a deep breath. Justice and discipline were ultimately the Old Man’s call. “Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good. And the captain showed you your special fitrep this morning?”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Good. All part of fostering the team effort here. See you at lunch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Brian left the cabin, glanced at his watch, and stepped out into the weather decks passageway that led to the boat decks. He had fifteen minutes before the early sitting for lunch, and then back to Combat for the next six hours. The weather remained foul, with a low overcast blowing a warm light rain through the masts and yellowish confused seas causing the big ship to pitch and roll in an uneven, jerky motion, just enough to keep everyone’s stomach on edge.
He stared out at the uneasy waters of the Gulf and thought about what the exec had said. Fostering the team effort. Well, that message was pretty clear. You like your special fitrep? Want to make sure it gets mailed off on the next log helo? Then play ball, sunshine. We know how we want to handle this drug case. We send in the fitrep, you become one of ms. That’s fair, isn’t it? Captain doesn’t have to submit a special fitrep, but he did, which almost certainly means you get promoted. Now, we’ve got a way we want to handle this Marcowitz business, and you’re going to go along, right? Shit, even Garuda had known how this would come out. He wondered what would happen now, if Marcowitz was going to have a bad accident between now and going into port.
As he was about to turn to go back inside, Chief Jackson came walking carefully toward him across the boat decks, which were slippery from a combination of rain and assorted oils leaking from the boat winches.
Jackson obviously wanted to talk.
“Mr. Holcomb. I understand the exec wanted to see you about Marcowitz?”
“You’ve got good spies, Sheriff.”
Jackson laughed. “Sometimes they’re good. Sometimes —” He grimaced.
Brian understood. “Well, you’re right,” he said. “And the decision is, we do nothing—until Subic, where some kind of legal proceedings will be taken against him.”
“No mast?”
“No mast; no nothing, apparently. Until Subic.”
Jackson considered this news with a frown, then shook his head.
“They can’t just tube it. The whole ship knows the guy got nailed red-handed. He’s off the watch bill, and some of my prime suspects are nosing around.”
“You think he’s bosun meat?”
Jackson shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t. Not directly, in the sense that he’s going to have an accident. No, I think something will happen in Subic, but what, exactly, I don’t know.”
Brian was tempted to share his own doubts about what had happened, but then he would have to explain the fitness report.
“Well,” he said, “the captain supposedly made the call, and it’s his boat, I guess.”
Jackson nodded again. “It’s the Navy’s boat first; then it’s his boat.
Thing is, Marcowitz is small fry. I mean, what he did was a big deal and everything, but the guys we really need to nail are the guys who’ve moving this shit, selling it to potheads like Marcowitz.”
“You mentioned your prime suspects. I presume you have at least a fair guess as to how the drug deal works here?”
“I’ve been aboard awhile now. I think there’s a small group of the younger blacks involved, but even to mention that idea is a trip wire these days, even if I’m the guy bringing it up. These guys are all group fours.”
Brian wiped rain off his forehead. “What the hell are group fours?”
“It’s all part of that Project One Hundred Thousand nonsense. You remember, when LBJ directed the Defense Department to accept a hundred thousand mental group fours. These are guys who the recruiters usually turn away because they score at the bottom of all the aptitude tests, not to mention that they’re usually social misfits—inner-city gang members, street punks, a lot of them. The idea was to go ahead and take them into the military services, give them an opportunity to escape their ‘deprived heritage,’ to help LBJ’s Great Society.”
“I remember that. But I thought it was only the Army.”
“I wish. But all of the services got tagged with a quota.
And Was been a disaster from the git-go. You figure, in terms of a disciplined ship environment, these guys are total misfits; they’re not too bright in the first place, so they basically don’t know how to act.
They can’t pass the tests, so they automatically become deck apes or firemen—permanent junior enlisted snuffles. No smarts, they can’t advance. They know they don’t belong, and unfortunately, most of them are black, so what we get is an alienated ex-criminal in the crew whose worst suspicions about a racist military are confirmed.”
Brian nodded. “So naturally they would gravitate together.”
“Right, and that’s the bunch I’m watching. Given their background, it’s only natural that they’d gravitate to a gang of some kind. I’ve had two indications that they’re into the dope scene, which would figure: That’s what they came from. But the guy I’m really after is the kingpin. If I could take him, we’d make a real dent.”
“Nailing one guy would make that big a difference?”
“Yes, sir. Right now, probably one guy brings all the dope on board. You nail him, and then everybody has to freelance. The one guy knows how to do it, has some kind of distribution system set up, has security in place.
Freelancers wouldn’t have time to set that up, so we’d nail more of them. So if we can catch the main man, yes, we’d make a dent.”
“Chief Martinez said the same thing—only he wants to make more than a dent.”
Jackson smiled and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the rain off his glasses. “Yeah. I sympathize with his methods more than he knows, even though it’s illegal as hell. But what’s missing here is the command.
We’re way outside the system on th
is ship, and that appears to be command policy. I hope I’m not stepping in shit saying this to you, Mr. Holcomb.”
Brian shook his head. “I’m of the same opinion, Chief.
But I’m also just a little bit mousetrapped. You know, you go along to get along.”
“Oh yes, sir. Trust me, I know that score. It’s just … it’s not that I think the CO and the XO are crooked, or involved in drug dealing, or even condone it. I just think they’re holding things together as best they can in the least damaging way they can. The problem is—”
“The problem is, we’re all at risk. The other night, up in Combat, four Migs faked a raid at us. Four Migs, two directors—they both have to work gangbusters. You get the picture? If we had had Marcowitz—”
“Got it.”
“I’m glad I ran into you on the way down to plot, though. I’m not sure we’d even have a promise of action if I had been alone when I found Marcowitz.”
“Well, yes, sir,” Jackson said, looking briefly at the horizon. “I guess you should know that Mr. Barry gave me a call after you left D and D, which is maybe how you and I managed to meet.”
Brian looked at him for a moment. Garuda must have sensed what was going on, too. Maybe he wasn’t entirely alone on his little crusade. The topside speakers blared to life as the boatswain mate on the bridge piped mess gear. Brian looked at his watch and then back at Jackson.
“No, I didn’t know that. I’ve got to make early chow.
Let’s see what happens in Subic, Chief. Then maybe we can work something out.”
“You know where to find me, Mr. Holcomb.”
Brian nodded and went below.
Rocky walked aft along the main deck passageway, past the doors of after officers’ country, and underneath the helo deck. Just aft of the helo deck, he went down a ladder to the second deck and continued aft to the warren of engineering spaces under the fantail, which included the machine shop, the electrical shop, the laundry, the after emergency diesel generator room, and the steering machinery rooms. He stopped at the doorway to the laundry and looked in. Two black pressmen were sweating over their work about fifteen feet from the door, the noise of the presses and the dryers drowning out any sounds of Rocky’s presence.
Rocky lifted the telephone off the hook and dialed the electrical shop, a space no more than twenty-five feet from where he stood. Bullet picked up the phone.
” ‘Lectric shop, EM One Wilson speakin’, suh.”
“It’s me. You clear?”
“Um-hmmh.”
Rocky hung up and walked around the corner to the electrical shop. The shop was a rectangular compartment, about fifteen feet long and nine wide, arranged against the hull at about the waterline, with a single hatch entry. Rocky swung the dog handle and stepped through the hatch, pushing the handle back down three-quarters of the way to full dogged position. That way, there would be warning if someone came in, but it would not otherwise attract attention. The shop had workbenches running down either side; a large assortment of electrical cable, light fixtures, switches, small motors, bearings, and tools were stashed in the angle-iron and strakes of the hull that ran down both bulkheads.
Bullet was sitting on a stool at the forward end of the shop, smoking a pipe, Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice on his lap.
“You heard about that guy Marcowitz?” Rocky asked.
“I heard.”
Rocky leaned against one of the workbenches and put his hands in his pockets. “They’ve taken him off the watch bill, but they haven’t done anything else yet.
Jackson says that Holcomb wants to write the guy up, take his ass to mast.”
“Be a change.”
“Sure as shit would. But they haven’t done it yet. I’m wondering if that boy’s thinkin’ about doing some kind of deal.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because. They take him to mast, the Old Man’s gotta give him a special or even a general court. That means heavy-duty investigation, lawyers, and federal time. Big incentive there to give them something.”
Bullet took a long, reflective drag on his pipe. Then he shook his head slowly. “He ain’t got nothin’ to give.
Onliest thing that boy knows is, he talked to one a the bloods and got told where he could find some dope. Ain’t no money changed hands; ain’t no dope changed hands.”
“But he can finger your guy. Your guy can finger you.”
“Won’t happen. They ax my guy, he deny. Shee-it.
What proof this skin got that my man did any fuckin’ thing?” Bullet looked bored, a man totally unconcerned.
His seeming disinterest irritated Rocky.
“Yeah. I can see that,” Rocky said. “It just makes me nervous, they start doing something different. And there’s something else. Jackson is interested in you.”
Bullet looked up. That got your attention, Rocky thought.
“Yeah,” Rocky continued. “He has your service record on his desk. Saw it this morning when we changed over duty MAA.”
“What that old fool want with my record?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But I’ll tell you what: It makes me think Jackson is working the problem, no matter how the CO and the XO have been playing it. And you know he had help the other night: It was Lieutenant Holcomb started that bust.”
“So?”
“So, Holcomb’s a department head. Up for light commander next month.
Something’s going’ down. And there’s another thing.”
“Man, you fulla good shit tonight.”
“Yeah, well, what can I tell you—I’m concerned. We get complacent, they nail our asses.”
“What’s this other thing?”
“The fact that Louie Jesus isn’t out on the warpath for Marcowitz. I hear the guys in his diyision’d like to kick his ass ‘cause they’re standing his watches. But Geronimo hasn’t made a single move on him, hasn’t been around to stare at him and do his monster mash.”
Bullet put his pipe down and studied his boots. Rocky remained silent, giving him time to think. Finally, Bullet nodded once.
“Maybe you right. Maybe we slow it down for a while.
Lock it up until after Subic.”
“Might be a good idea. This could all be nothing, but there’s too many things in motion to suit me. I’ll try to find out what Jackson is up to, but I have to be real careful about that.”
Bullet squinted down at him. “Everybody know you be real careful,” he said. “You gonna fill it up, we gits to Subic?”
“Oh yes. But I’m going to keep it light—grass and hash. No snow, no acid till I see what’s going down here.”
“Yeah. Thass all them skins want, anyways. Ain’t got nobody doin’ skag or takin’ trips, leastwise not yet.”
Rocky nodded, another question occurring to him.
“You doin’ all right with Garlic?”
“I s’pose,” Bullet said. “I gits my money every payday, jist like you.”
“Yeah, but what I meant is, is he playing it straight with us? I heard some scuttlebutt that he’s charging some guys seven for five, not six for five.”
Bullet shrugged. “I doan give a shit. My deal was six for five an’ a three-way split on the juice. He skimmin’, he ain’t hurtin’ me none. You neither, my man.”
“I guess. But here’s the thing: If Jackson and company ever tumble to the money angle, they’ll start with Garlic, because he’s the loan shark.
We both need to watch his ass, because he can do us both.”
Bullet snorted. “You spookin’, man. You gonna be watchin’ so many dudes, you gonna go cross-eye.”
The hatch handle moved, paused, and then swung up.
Rocky headed for the door and Bullet put his pipe back in his mouth and resumed his careless pose by the bench.
The hatch opened and a young black fireman electrician came through the door, his arms full of expended light bulbs. He stopped when he caught sight of an MAA in the shop, looking to Bullet. Rock
y turned back to Bullet.
“You talk to that sailor, EM One. Tell him to straighten up or Jackson is going to get on his ass.”
“Thanks, man. I be doin’ it,” said Bullet.
Rocky stepped through the hatch and was gone.
The EMFN put the load of dead bulbs in a steel trash barrel and looked over at Bullet.
“I be doin’ it? What’s with the shuck and jive?” he asked.
Bullet chuckled. “That’s how the Man expects all God’s darkies to talk.
I’m just fulfilling their expectations.
Keeps them complacent.” He tapped the Cleaver book. “Against the day, brother. Against the day.”
Chief Jackson locked his office door, yawned, and sat down at the desk, wedging his chair in against the ship’s slow roll. There was a mass of paperwork piled on the deck, courtesy of a high-speed turn earlier, after help detail. Damn stuff wouldn’t stay on the desk, so let it sit on the damn deck. He picked up EM One Wilson’s service record and flipped through it for page two, the emergency-data card, which would show relatives, next of kin, and place and date of birth. Wilson had been born in Macon, Georgia, and was thirty-five years old. His parents were both still living in Georgia, although no longer in Macon. The blocks for siblings, spouse, and children were empty. The death-gratuity-benefit block at the bottom of the page indicated that it was to be split between a woman named Alice Byron in San Diego and his parents in Georgia. Otherwise, page two was blank.
Page nine had a surprise for him. It listed Wilson’s educational profile, which showed that the electrician had graduated from both high school and a two-year college in Macon, with an associate degree in political science. Political science? Jackson lowered the record and thought about that. He looked again at the Armed Services Vocational and Basic Skills profile, which showed high lines in verbal and math.
Something didn’t compute, starting with the speech Wilson used, which was replete with street slang and almost a Stepin Fetchit dialect. A college graduate?
He went back to the record. Electrician’s A-school: class rank three of forty-one. Leadership, management, education, and training course: two of sixteen. Twelve Navy correspondence courses in eight years, all with high marks. No dummy, this guy. He went to the performance-profile page: good marks across the board, except in verbal expression, with a quick rise to E-6. But then, four years back, a plateau in the marks, with some down-checks in military aptitude and loyalty. That would explain the no chief’s hat. He flipped through the actual evals. Something had changed, something not specified or directly called out. So these were marks to stop his career: military aptitude and loyalty. Wilson was black, and, in the Navy’s secret code, those were the mark categories that took a hit when somebody’s racial attitude upset the command, whether he was black or white.
The Edge of Honor Page 32