The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  The SH-2 helicopter lifted off the flight deck behind them and clattered into the morning sky. Almost at once, the ship began to slow and the word was passed to secure from flight quarters. The fresh breeze across the forecastle began to die down and veer as the ship came about.

  “Well, I hope it does. I think I’m pretty much alone on this one, and it’d be nice to think it was doing some good.”

  The chief looked sideways at him from under his tattered ball cap. “You doin’ this to make some kinda statement or you doin’ this because it’s the way you gotta do it?”

  “This probably sounds like the Boy Scouts, but I just think this is the right thing to do, Chief.”

  “Well, all right, then. That’s all there is to it. That’s what officers’ s’posed to do: the right thing.”

  “You make it sound easy, Chief.”

  “Doin’ it is easy, boss. It’s jist the ‘after’ that can get noisy sometimes.”

  Jackson looked up as Lieutenant Holcomb knocked and came through his office door. Jackson had had the ship’s office type up the report chits, then called Lieutenant Holcomb down to sign the typed versions. Holcomb sat down and read through them, looking at his watch as he started: 1110. He had to be on watch in thirty minutes.

  “It’s the priors that decided me,” Brian said as he signed each form on the accuser block, all thoughts of his talk with Jackson last night banished from his mind.

  Jackson was keeping his face neutral. “All three of ‘em had priors.

  These guys aren’t going to stop doing dope just because they got caught again. This is the essence of a screw-you crime.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson said. “And the whole crew’s talking about your taking them to mast.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m already getting the cold shoulder from the XO.

  Officers’ call was not a pleasant experience this morning. You any closer to the guys who count?”

  “We might be. You want to shut that door? Okay. I’ve been sort of shadowing one EM One Wilson, and I think he’s getting a little nervous.”

  “How do you ‘shadow’ somebody in a ship?” Jackson grinned. “Just be there, like the song says.

  He’s an electrician, so he does jobs all over the ship. The chief electrician keeps me informed as to where he’s going to be working, and I just, well, come around.

  Except in the main spaces—too damn hot down there for me. But I come around the electrical shop, and I stand to one side at Engineering Department quarters in the morning, or in the chow line at noon meal, or at the back of the movie in the evening. And I just sort of look at him.

  He’s feeling it, believe me. And we have another development.”

  “The money.”

  “Yes, sir, the money. Three of those marked twenties have shown up. And all three of the people who passed them are on Garlic’s loan list.”

  “Did you go see Garlic’s list?”

  “No, the senior chief of the mess did. He does it every month, anyway, to make sure nobody’s getting in too deep. Of course, Garlic’s the kind of guy to keep two lists, but I don’t care now. He loaned marked money— which means it’s at least possible that he’s the bank for the dopers.”

  “And you’ve told the exec all about this?”

  “Uh, no, sir. Not just yet. I’m waiting until I develop a little better, uh .

  “You don’t want the XO telling you to stop it, right?”

  Jackson looked at him. “If he did—”

  “If he did, it might mean something a whole lot more sinister is going on around here than we thought.”

  “Yes, sir, it sure as shit could. But I can’t feature this XO or this CO being dirty. There’s just no way.”

  “Yeah, I agree with you. Wanting to keep the scope of the problem under wraps to get through the cruise is one thing. That would keep everybody’s reputation intact.

  That, I can feature. But still …”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Holcomb, nobody in this ship has ever stood behind me when I wanted to go after the really bad guy, the kingpin—until you came along.”

  “My standing by you might not be the best thing in the world for you right now, Chief,” Brian said with a wry grin. “Right now, I’m old Mr. Farts in Church.”

  Jackson did not smile. He leaned forward. “We’re getting closer, Mr. Holcomb. I know we are. And I haven’t told anybody about what we’re doing except you, but I want to tell Martinez. This shit could get heavy, and he’s just the guy to have along, something goes down.

  The senior chief knows I wanted some information, but I told him not to ask me any questions. I think the next step is for Martinez and me to do a little visitation on Garlic.”

  “What’s your angle going to be?”

  “He gives us the source of those twenties, he doesn’t take a fall for drug-money laundering, and he gets to stay in business.”

  “You probably can’t tie him in any legal sense to drug money laundering.

  He could have come by those twenties anywhere. Depending on how smart he is, that might blow up in your face.”

  “Then he becomes a boiler inspector.”

  Brian shook his head at the thought of Martinez squeezing three hundred pounds’ worth of Garlic Wolcezjarski through the burner register of an offline boiler’s firebox. They’d have to take the front fire walls down.

  Hell, they’d need a crane. It was time for watch.

  “Okay, Chief, I’ve gotta split. Another wonderful six hours in Combat as the main man of Red Crown. I guess I’ll see you next at captain’s mast tomorrow morning.”

  “Looking forward to it, Mr. Holcomb.”

  Brian took over the evaluator watch at 1145 from Vince Benedetti, who had also heard about the report chits and the upcoming mast case. When they had completed the operational briefing, Vince had paused for a moment before heading down for lunch.

  “Really gonna do it, huh?”

  “Done done it. It’s time, Vince. Hell, you should know that.”

  Vince shrugged. “Good luck, man,” was all he said.

  Garuda was more enthusiastic.

  “Look at that scope, will ya, Mr. H.,” he said. “The Heavenly Host is up and runnin’, we got helo ops scheduled for most of the afternoon, we got BARCAP on the line, two carriers turnin’ and burnin’ on Yankee Station, the Wager Bird relayin’ for the world up on Green, two recce flights on the boards this afternoon, flat calm frig gin’ seas, the Air Farce is gonna run a strike package in from Thailand, and we got three dopers on horseback with ropes around their necks. Crown is back in business, regular Navy, just the way I like it.”

  Brian grinned. Garuda would spend the whole cruise on Red Crown station if he could have his way, with maybe an occasional weekend in Subic for a San Magoo.

  He had his WETSU ball cap on and was in generally fine fettle, smashing buttons on his console and chewing various asses in the Cave on the intercom. The scope was indeed filled with air tracks, and the PIRAZ controller had his hands full.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got some things on my scope that aren’t on your scope.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garuda said. “I heard about that. We gonna finally do it regulation Navy. Personally, I think it’s about time, although I suspect you’re not number one on the hit parade right now.”

  “Depends what you mean by ‘hit.’ “

  Garuda laughed. “I hear that. Mast is always a crap shoot. We haven’t had anybody go to mast for drugs since I’ve been here, and this captain is kinda light even on the regular criminals. But he’ll do what he’s gonna do. Your biggest problem now is the watch bill. If those three shitbirds fly away tomorrow, who sits the consoles down in plot—the chiefs?”

  “The chiefs sit the consoles up here in Combat. I’ve still got one first class, and since Marcowitz went down in flames, that leaves me FROM Three Warren as the next senior guy, then about a half dozen nonrated guys after him. They’re just going to have to learn fast.”

  Garuda reac
hed for his coffee mug and a cigarette.

  “Long as the Migs stay in their box, don’t pull any more a that raid shit, won’t take much to hold her together.

  Warren’s a good kid; he’s just green. Long’s you’ve got a chief and first class up here in Combat, the kid on the console can be walked through it, they have to.”

  “If there’s time, and if everything works. Actually, if everything is working, the guy on the console down below has nothing to do. Where they become important is when the system faults out or drops track. Then the guy in plot can save your ass, because he’s the only one who can actually see the track-radar video.” They were by a call from CTF 77 on Air Force Green, confirming the impending reconnaissance run. Brian called the captain to report the run and received a curt acknowledgment.

  He hung up the bat phone, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Word travels fast.

  Garuda came back to the problem of bringing the junior missile techs up to speed. “What we should do if these three dopers go bye-bye is put one of the chiefs down there in plot for a couple of hours each watch and let him hold school call on the greenies. We can run a bunch of missile-tracking drills from up here in Combat, walk ‘em through the gray areas, and hopefully not bust the Spooks in the process.”

  “That’s a great idea, Garuda. But first let’s see what happens at mast.”

  Brian stood slightly apart from the mast case’s participants at 0900 the following morning. Captain’s mast was being convened on the mess decks, where an oak podium had been placed in an open area, the three report chits lying on top. Assembled in a line in front of the podium were the three accused, dressed in clean dress whites, including caps. On the right side of the lineup, in his capacity as MAA, was RD1 Rockheart.

  Standing behind them were the division officer, Lieutenant Hudson; the fire control division chief, Chief Hallowell; and the divisional leading petty officer. Standing in two ranks to the left were selected petty officers from every division in the ship, brought in to witness the proceedings. Opposite and facing them were the doc, baby doc, and FTM3 Warren, the primary witnesses. The mess decks were hot and humid as usual, with the smells of breakfast lingering in the steamy air. CS1 Wolcezjarski and two of the mess cooks were watching from the partially opened door of the galley office.

  The 1MC announced that captain’s mast was now being held on the mess decks and commanded silence in the area. As if on cue, the chief master-at-arms came through the forward door to the mess decks and yelled, “Attention on deck!” He was followed by the captain and the executive officer, both in working khakis but wearing their dress caps with the brass scrambled eggs to add a note of formality. The three marched up to the podium, where the Sheriff stepped aside and nodded to Rockheart. Rockheart stood to attention, faced the three accused, and barked, “Mast cases, ten-hut! Uncover, two!”

  The three petty officers whipped off their caps and faced the podium.

  Only one, Boyle, looked directly at the captain. The other two stared at the base of the podium. Petty Officer Lanier had an angry expression on his face and stood fractionally apart from the other two.

  The captain stepped up to the podium and picked up the first report chit. Brian thought that the captain looked fairly well for a change, with color in his cheeks and an alert expression in his eyes. His uniform still draped on him as if he had been fasting and the skin on his face was drawn tight over prominent cheekbones, but otherwise there were few signs of the torpor and fatigue Brian had seen before. The captain studied the first report chit for a full minute, then looked up at Boyle.

  “Petty Officer Boyle, you are accused of violation of Article Ninety-two, UCMJ, being drugged on duty on the twenty-eighth of October, in the guided-missile plotting room. You have seen this report chit and signed it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will warn you now that anything you say during these proceedings may be used in evidence against you in any subsequent trial by court-martial. That means that if you do not want to say anything, you don’t have to, but what you do say can be used against you if we choose to. If you choose not to speak, this fact will not be held against you.

  Do you understand this warning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain addressed the same words and warnings to the other two accused and received their individual acknowledgments. He put the report chits down and looked at all three.

  “Now, gentlemen, you are all charged with the same offense, essentially at the same time and in the same place. Smoking marijuana in missile plot. You’ve read the report chits. The officers and petty officers who caught you at it are present and ready to testify, and their testimony is summarized in the report chits you have signed, which you have read, correct?”

  The three accused nodded silently. Lanier glanced over at Warren with a stony look, but Warren stared straight ahead.

  “All right. The results of a medical urinalysis test for each of you is contained in the report chits, and for each of you it was positive. The executive officer has caused these matters to be investigated, and he has recommended that you be brought to mast. Do each of you acknowledge that you have read and understand the charges and supporting evidence in the report chits?”

  All three replied with a muted

  “Yes, sir.” The captain leaned on the podium for the first time. Brian detected a faint note of fatigue in his voice. Or was it disappointment?

  “Very well, then. I’m going to ask each of you the same question, which is: Are you guilty or not guilty?

  Remember that you are not required to answer the question.

  Petty Officer Boyle, are you guilty of the offense charged?”

  Boyle shook his head.

  “Is that a no, Boyle?”

  “I don’t want to say anything, Captain.”

  “All right, Boyle. Corey?”

  “I don’t wanta say nothin’, either, Captain.”

  “Very well. Lanier?”

  “Yes, sir, I did it. Done it before, and I’ll do it again, I get the chance. Same as these two chickenshits here.”

  “Lanier, watch your mouth,” growled Chief Jackson.

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the small gathering as the captain stared at Lanier, who now would not look at him, a defiant expression on his young face. Brian was suddenly struck by how young all three were.

  They were E-5s, petty officers two grades away from being chiefs, and yet they were what—twenty-two, twenty three years old? And headed for a court-martial, he believed, judging from the captain’s expression.

  “Well, gentlemen, one of you admits the offense, and the evidence is pretty damn clear on all three of you. I am disgusted with what you have done, have obviously been doing, which is getting yourself drugged on the ship.

  You three, of all people, who man the ship’s primary self defense system, the guided missiles, when we’re in a war zone, and in the presence of enemy aircraft based only fifty miles away from our station.

  The whole crew depends on you people to do your job flawlessly if we ever get attacked, and your response to this responsibility is to indulge in drugs on your watch station. You disgrace yourselves, the ship, and the reputation of the whole crew by your actions. In another place and time, I would have had you lashed and then hanged.”

  The three sailors’ heads snapped up at this last statement.

  Everybody in the room looked up at the captain, whose face had hardened perceptibly. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw Wolcezjarski and his crew back into the galley office and quietly shut the door.

  “But since I can’t do that, I am awarding each of you a special court-martial, to be convened at Clark Air Force Base in thirty days’ time. I am placing each of you on pretrial restraint. You will be flown off the ship on this afternoon’s log helo to the carrier and from the carrier to the naval air station at Cubi Point, and from Cubi Point you will be taken to the Air Force stockade at Clark to await trial. That is all. Chief Jac
kson, take them to their compartment to pack their seabags.”

  Jackson acknowledged and then nodded at Rockheart.

  “Mast cases, ten-hut!”

  Everyone in the room stood to attention.

  “Mast cases, cover, two!”

  When the three accused had put their hats back on, RD1 Rockheart marched them out of the mess decks, leaving the officers and witnesses standing around the podium. The captain straightened up.

  “XO, I will see you and the Weapons officer in my cabin now.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Chief Jackson preceded the captain out of the mess decks, announcing, “Gangway,” scattering the people who had been watching from Broadway.

  The exec stepped forward to the podium and gathered up the papers.

  “That’s it, gents,” he said. “Mr. Holcomb, let’s go topside.”

  Brian followed the exec forward to the wardroom passageway, up the ladder to the next level, and into the captain’s cabin. The captain was standing by the portholes, looking out at the sea. Brian and the exec stood by the table until he turned around and indicated that they should be seated. The captain remained standing.

  “Well now,” he began, looking back out the portholes, “Mr. Holcomb.

  Given the seriousness of the crimes charged this morning, I had little choice but to get those men off the ship. The Navy’s policy is fairly clear on that matter, as the exec reminded me this morning. But this incident has created something of a hole in the missile fire-control division, has it not?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brian said, expecting a different question.

  “What are your intentions?”

  Brian remembered Garuda’s suggestion. “I plan to cycle the chiefs who normally stand the FCSC watch in Combat through the console positions down in plot for a few hours each watch. They’ll take the three best makee learns we have under close instruction. I plan to augment that arrangement with a number of tracking drills that we can initiate from Combat with the cooperation of support tracks in the Gulf.”