“Yes, sir, but, well, the bustees have been running then-mouths: Isn’t it a coincidence Warren’s been the guy on watch when both deals went down? ‘Wonder why that is’ sort of shit. And there’s another angle.”
“What’s that?”
“Warren’s black, remember? He kind of waltzed around it, but I think he’s frightened of what the sellers might be contemplating.”
“He say that? He’s been threatened?”
“No, sir, not yet, anyway. Don’t get me wrong— Warren’s a good icid.
But I think he’s heard some shit.
Probably from the three shitbirds we just nailed. And if the drug ring is black, he’s probably gonna get a racial guilt trip laid on him. At a minimum.”
“Shit. I never thought of that.”
The chief stood up, the report chits bunched in his hand.
“Gets damn complicated, doesn’t it?” he said as he opened the stateroom door.
Brian couldn’t think of anything to say as the chief left with the report chits. Only a few minutes later, as he hit the rack, did it occur to him that Chief Jackson was going to get that same guilt trip laid on him. He thought back to that last letter home; he’d been right—this little issue was not going to go away.
This time, Bullet came to find Rocky. He had called the surface module at about 2200 on the admin phone, asked for Rocky, and then suggested to Rocky that he make a head call. They met not ten feet from Rocky’s main hashish stash, in the passageway outside the forward crew’s head. For once, Bullet was visibly perturbed.
“So Holcomb’s actually going to write them up? Go to mast? The whole bit?” Rocky asked.
“Uh-huh. Them dumbasses was havin’ a damn party in the missile plot. My man says one of ‘em axed ole Jackson, he want a little toke.”
“Jesus Christ. If they go on the pad, they’ll have to go see the Old Man. He’s gonna have to court-martial them.
That could mean NIS out here, an investigation.”
“Already got one a those going’.”
“Who? What?” Rocky tried not to let panic show in his voice.
“My man Jackson, Mistuh Marshall Dillon. Man’s been givin’ me the eye. I think my man Marcowitz done sung a song ‘fore he went to the front gate, got his ass set up. Him or that Warren kid.”
“You ever have anything to do directly with Marcowitz?” asked Rocky.
“Shee-it. I don’t deal with no skins. Thass whut I got my ‘ssociates for.”
“Then how in the hell—”
“Doan know. Whut I do know is, my man Jackson, he been lookin’ at me, been hangin’ around the shop. Actin’ like one a them big damn birds, sits up in a tree all day.
Waitin’ for meat. I turn around, I keep seem’ the man.”
Rocky lifted an eyebrow at Bullet as two First Division types turned the corner, heading for their berthing compartment.
By the time they were abreast, Rocky and Bullet were talking football.
When they had passed, Rocky tried to calm Bullet down.
“Look, you’re always telling me we’ve got a good system here, good security, cutouts, the whole bit.
There’s no way Jackson can know anything; if he did, there’d be NIS all over this boat. I think it’s time for you to take the advice you’re always giving me: Be cool.
Sit tight.”
Bullet shook his head. “Doan like things changin’.
First Marcowitz—Injun didn’t go after him; he gets set up at the front gate, he gone, just like that. Now you tell me: Who’s organizin’ that shit? Now these three skins, and this new officer’s writin’ ‘em up, ‘steada Martinez kickin’ they asses. And now Jackson, he bird-doggin’ me.”
“I keep telling you, there’s no way in hell that Marcowitz could even know anything about you—or me.”
“Then where it comin’ from? Who’s talkin’ to the Sheriff, puttin’ him on my black ass? You tell me that.”
“Who else knows, besides your ‘associates’? Knows and might talk?”
They looked at each other. Garlic? Rocky thought about it. If Bullet was right, and the blacks held their silence, as it seemed they would, then maybe old Garlic had dropped a dime. One of them needed to talk to Brother Garlic. Bullet agreed.
“But it cain’t be me; Jackson see me up on the mess decks, spendin’ time with Garlic, he already sniffin’ around my trail—”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it. But damn, it’s such a sweet deal. Why in the hell would he ever expose it?”
“Doan know, man. You lemme know how it goes down. And you watch yo ass—they’s things movin’ around out there, things I doan like.”
“Yeah, okay. Just be cool. Let me scope it out. I’ll call you in the shop. And maybe have your guys lean on that Warren guy. He’s one of, uh, yours, right? Way I hear it, he’s just been a bystander, but—”
Bullet gave him a strange look. Rocky would have sworn Bullet was laughing at him for a moment. “One of mine. Yeah. I take care of it.”
Rocky sensed he had made some kind of mistake, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. “Yeah, okay. Meantime, we need to cool the action down a little bit.”
“Shee-it. Thass the thang. We didn’t sell them three twidgets that shit.
They bought they own, man. They bought they own. Now ain’t that a trip?”
Rocky had left Bullet standing in the passageway and headed back to Combat. When he got off watch at midnight, he went down for midrats and then to his compartment, where he stretched out on his rack in his dungarees and waited for the compartment to settle down after midrats.
An hour later, he rose and headed aft to the mess decks. He had his MAA badge pinned on his shirt in case anyone saw him snooping around this late at night. Midrats was over and the mess cooks had swept down one more time before securing. The only people on the mess decks were those two weirdos, Hooper and Coltrane, playing cards at one of the corner tables. A light was on in the galley and he could hear Poppa Steiner in there pounding dough. Garlic ought to be in his office balancing out the day’s breakouts. Arriving at the door, Rocky looked around and then knocked.
“The fuck outta here; galley’s closed,” grumped Garlic from behind the door.
Rocky knocked again, once, hard. He heard the door being unlocked and then he grabbed the handle and pushed it in, catching the big man by surprise.
“Rocky, what the fuck—”
“We gotta talk, Garlic. Lock this fucker again.”
Garlic scowled but locked the door while Rocky found a chair. The galley office was long and narrow, squeezed in between the galley itself and the scullery compartment.
There was one overhead light fixture, a desk counter mounted to the bulkhead, some beat-up file cabinets, and two adding machines. The galley crew’s GQ helmets and life jackets hung on the opposite bulkhead.
The room smelled of cigarette smoke and stale grease.
“Anybody comes in, I’m doing an investigation about a missing wallet you’ve heard about.”
“Yeah, okay. So what’s this all about?”
Rocky filled him in on the developments with the three fire-control technicians. Some of it Garlic had already heard, although the part about mast was news. Rocky explained how a mast case like that might attract attention higher up and result in the Naval Investigative Service being brought in, especially if the admiral’s staff was still harboring suspicions about a drug problem in Hood.
Garlic listened to all this with a bored, sour expression on his face.
“So why do I give a shit?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette and fishing for another.
Rocky watched him closely. “Because,” he said, “Jackson has started to keep an eye on Bullet, and Bullet’s getting a little antsy about it.”
If Garlic knew anything about this development, he didn’t show it. Rocky saw no flick of recognition in Garlic’s eyes or any other hint that Garlic knew something about the Sheriff’s newfound interest in Bullet.
“Yeah, so?” he said.
“So Bullet and I can’t put a connection together between the drug bust in missile plot and Bullet. He never deals, and he didn’t even know who Marcowitz was.
There’s no way Jackson could be making a connection, and yet it looks like he has.”
Garlic stared at Rocky for a moment and then a nasty looking smile began to gather on his face.
“And you two think your ole buddy Garlic is talkin’ to the fucking Sheriff? The only other guy in the ship who knows the connection? That what you thinkin’, motherfucker?”
Garlic lunged out of his chair before Rocky had a chance to react, grabbed him by the shirt and one arm, whirled him around, and slammed him face down onto the countertop, holding him bent over by his sheer bulk.
Rocky, stunned at the speed of the fat man, had the wind knocked right out of him. His ribs creaked with the weight of Garlic pushing against his back as Garlic yelled at him.
“You listen to me, pretty boy,” he shouted. “I run the bank on this fuckin’ ship, and I’m doing you two assholes a favor, got it? You piss me off, I will drop a dime on both of you so fast, your fuckin’ head’ll come right off.
You an’ Bullet both. I ain’t afraid of you and no posse a niggers, neither. You hear me, motherfucker? You hear me?”
Before letting him go, he bent Rocky’s arm up his back until Rocky yelled with the pain of it. Rocky slid off the counter and sank down to his knees on the deck, trying to get his breath.
“Yeah, that’s where you belong, you goddamn pussy, on your fuckin’ knees, where you can suck my dick ‘fore I’ll move any more a yer fuckin’ money. Get outta here ‘fore I hurt yer sorry ass.”
Rocky pulled himself up to his feet and reached for the door, pulling on it for a moment before realizing it was still locked. He worked the latch in the knob and let himself out onto the mess decks, catching a sharp crack on his heels as Garlic slammed the door shut behind him.
He staggered for a few steps, then slumped into a chair at one of the tables. That son of a bitch. Waves of fear and anger swept through him.
He looked around: Hooper and Coltrane had vamoosed, probably when the yelling started. He briefly wondered what they might have heard, but their table was all the way across the mess decks. He tried to get his breath back, but every inhalation sent a lance of pain through his ribs.
Bastard. Big fat bastard.
Big, fat, strong bastard. Came at him like a junkyard dog.
After a few minutes, he forced himself to get up. He walked aft, still bent over to ease the pain in his ribcage.
He had to do something. For starters, he could not let Bullet know this had happened. And he could not let Garlic walk all over him, or he would be out of business.
He thought about it. Get to Bullet. Get to Bullet, fast.
Tell him there was something going on with Garlic; tell him to keep his distance until they could see what was happening. Get Bullet on his side and isolate Garlic.
Because if Garlic got to Bullet first, what would they need Rocky for?
He headed for the nearest admin phone.
Officers’ call the next morning was held in the wardroom because of the noise of helo operations on the flight deck.
Brian met with his departmental officers in one corner of the wardroom after the exec had put out the day’s orders.
Fox Hudson was somewhat bleary-eyed, having had the 00 to 0600 watch at SWIC. He was also down in the dumps over the drug incident in missile plot. Brian briefed all of his officers on what had happened. Jack Folsom had the important question.
“You gonna write ‘em up, boss?”
“Yes, I am. I have. I’ve signed as accuser. I want these shitbirds gone.
Taken to mast and shipped back to Clark air base for processing.”
“You talked to the XO about that?” asked Fox, stifling another yawn.
“A little bit, late last night. I’m scheduled to see him right after we’re done here.”
Fox shuffled his shoes on the carpet for a moment. _ “He’s not going to want to do that. You do know that.” |
“Yes, I do. But I figure it’s time. I can’t speak for the ship, but in my department, drug use gets you thrown out of the Navy.” ]
“No matter what?” asked Folsom.
Brian sighed, aware that the question was friendly fire.
“Yeah, guys, no matter what. Okay, turn to. And Jack, I tell the chief to find me in an hour.”
Brian dismissed the Weapons Department officers and waited for the exec to finish chewing on the Supply officer about something. Raiford Hatcher nodded vigorously, and then he and the disbursing officer went to confer. From the expression on the Disbo’s face, he understood that the principle of gravity was about to operate. The exec went over to the sideboard, lifted the coffeepot, poured himself a refill, and offered one to Brian, who accepted. The exec put the pot back in its holder.
“From the look on your face, you’ve decided to go through with it,” he said without preliminaries, his face all business, a commander talking to a lieutenant.
Brian took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. I think—”
“No more time for thinking. Gimme the chits. Have Mr. Hudson do the premast investigation this morning.
I’ll schedule my XO’s hearing for sixteen hundred this afternoon and mast for oh-nine hundred tomorrow morning.”
“I gave the chits to the Sheriff, XO. To get them typed up.”
The exec stared at him. “Is that so. Very well, sign the smooths and give them to the chief personnelman for processing.”
“Aye, aye, sir. XO—”
“That’s all, Mr. Holcomb.” The exec turned on his heel and left. And so it begins, Brian thought. It’s back to Mr. Holcomb and the deep freeze.
Standing on principle could be a chilly experience. He went back to his stateroom to drudge through some paperwork. He was rereading Maddy’s last letter and imagining the feel of her hair when, after about an hour, his stateroom door rattled around on its hinges.
“Come in, Boats.”
The boatswain opened the door and lowered his head as he entered. “You wanted to see me, Boss?”
“Yeah. Let’s go find some coffee. I need some advice.”
“That I got. Prolly worth what it’s gonna cost ya, but advice I got.”
They went to the wardroom for the familiar coffee routine, then stepped out onto the weather decks into a blaze of sunshine and cool fresh air.
The seas were relatively flat, with only a few whitecaps showing from the beginnings of the northeast monsoon winds. The water was a deep blue, reflecting skies that appeared to have been cleansed by the typhoon. The ship still drove along at twenty knots for helicopter operations. Three men on the leeward side were replacing the snaking in the forecastle lifelines, so they walked over to the windward side and stood by the rails, inhaling fresh sea air.
“You heard about the three guys in missile plot last night, right?”
Brian began.
“Oh yes, sir. Whole ship’s done heard about it. Word’s out there’s gonna be a mast case even.”
“Yeah. That’s my doing. The XO asked me nicely not to write ‘em up, but I think it’s time to draw the line on this dope stuff.”
“Long’s you ain’t drawin’ that line on yer ass, if you don’t mind my puttin’ it that way. Word is that the XO’s pissed off about the report chits.”
“Word’s pretty well informed. And if that’s how it goes, that’s how it goes. He’s a commander and I’m a lieutenant. But I’m also a department head, and I’m not going to tolerate these people in my department, guys who’ve supposed to be ready to fire missiles or shoot guns or launch torpedoes, being drugged on duty at sea.”
“Yes, sir. I hear that.”
“But my question is this: What’s likely to happen now?”
“Well, standard mast case. XO’ll hold his screen hearing, listen to the Sheriff read the report chit, listen to t
he witnesses to the crime, listen to the bad guys’ division officer and their chief as to what kinda guys they are, and then he’ll bump it up to captain’s mast, seem’ it’s a serious offense.”
“And then?”
“An’ then the Old Man will hold mast on all three together, most likely, since they was doin’ it together, and he’ll—”
“Yeah, that’s my question. What will he do?”
“Well, this Old Man, he’s usually sorta lenient, you know? He’s as like to talk to ‘em as bust ‘em, fine ‘em, and restrict their asses.” I
Brian glanced up at the bridge windows but could see only the reflections of the bow waves shimmering in the green glass. If the captain was there, he was invisible.
“But the Navy’s policy on drug use aboard ship is that they get court-martialed and discharged,” Brian said.
“Yeah, but the Old Man, he don’t have to do that, he don’t wanna. Yer talkin’ about the max he can give ‘em, but he can let ‘em go, he wants to. Ain’t likely, but he can.”
Brian thought for a minute. It had not occurred to him that the captain might just let them go with an admonishment, but, of course, he could.
Punishment at captain’s mast was governed in terms of maximum limits on what could be imposed, but there were no minimums.
Maybe that was one of the reasons the XO didn’t want to go to mast—suppose the captain just chewed their asses and let them go.
Everybody in the crew would be reaching for a roach within the hour.
“Course, you ask me,” the chief was saying, “I figger they’re gonna get their butts flown off a here on the next log helo to one a the bird farms and then sent back to Hukapino land for a court-martial. But, like I said, it’s up to the Old Man. It’s his mast.”
Brian was coming to hate that refrain. It’s his boat. It’s his policy.
And it’s his fault that we’re even talking about this.
“What I’m wondering, Chief, is whether or not it will make a difference—if these guys get thrown off the ship, will that deter others?”
The chief scratched his head. “I dunno, boss. That’s kinda hard to say.
There’re kids in this here crew that’d like nothin’ better than to git a discharge and go back to the world. There’s others, got wives, kids, you know, bills to pay. A discharge, some brig time’d be a real no shitterfor’em.”
The Edge of Honor Page 50