The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  The captain turned around. With his back to the portholes, the glare streaming through the glass had the effect of putting his face in the shadow.

  “The missile plot positions are important?”

  “Yes, sir, they can be. When SWIC sends a designation to FCSC and he assigns a director to the target, in theory that’s all it takes. The target data is fed from the SPS-forty-eight radar to the director’s computers, and the director should slew right to it, in range, bearing, and elevation angle. But when the designation is fuzzy or a little off, or there’s weather in the target area, the guys in plot enter into it.

  They can physically see what the director’s acquisition radar is seeing, and they can coach the tracking circuits onto the target if required.”

  “So if everything works perfectly, they’re bystanders.”

  “Yes, sir. And if everything is not working perfectly, they can become vital to getting the director on target.

  Without that, of course, we can’t shoot.”

  “Well, we could,” interjected the exec. “You can always cancel the designation and then redesignate and hope the second time around it’s more accurate.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Brian, “but that can eat up precious seconds. By the time you recycle the designation, the bad guy can be in your face.”

  “Quite,” said the captain. “Now, I suppose you got what you were looking for at mast this morning?”

  Brian paused. Here we go. “I want to root out the druggies in my department and get rid of them, so, yTs, sir, Captain, in that sense I got what I wanted. Of course, I would rather not decimate my department to do that.”

  The exec snorted. “You more than decimated it. Decimation was killing ten percent. There are only sixteen people in Fox division. Three people, four, if you include Marcowitz, constitute a loss of twenty-five percent.

  Who’s the senior guy left now, below the chiefs— Warren?”

  Brian took a deep breath. The exec’s tone of voice implied that he, Brian, was somehow responsible for the fact that twenty-five percent of the division did dope.

  “Yes, sir. FROM Three Warren.”

  The exec shook his head.

  “Which one is Warren?” asked the captain.

  “He’s the young black E-Four, Captain. He was standing next to the docs this morning. Good kid, but pretty green. There’s no way around it—Fox division is down twenty-five percent, all of it in experienced petty officers.”

  Brian decided it was time to speak up. He addressed the captain directly. “Sir, the way I see it, twenty-five percent of the division was dirty. They’re gone now. I’m hoping that’s all, or if it’s not, that the rest of them will stop it, at least while we’re at sea.”

  The captain was silent for a long moment. The exec studied his cap, which he had placed on the table and was now turning slowly in his hands.

  “Are you aware, Brian, that CTF Seventy-seven’s staff is of the opinion that we in Hood have a fairly significant drug problem? That they have thought all along that the incident on the Sea Dragon operation was caused by drugs? Can you imagine what they’re going to think now?”

  Brian decided to hold his ground. “Well, Captain, if twenty-five percent of a division is representative, we do have a big problem here. And I would think that they would think we’re aggressively pursuing illegal drug use in the ship and cleaning house when we find it.” And it was drugs that caused us to lose the load during the gun shoot, he wanted to add.

  “Hmmm. Yes, that’s one interpretation, I suppose.”

  The exec spoke up. “The other, of course, is that we have had the problem for a long time and not done anything about it, and that now it’s a big-enough deal, we’re losing a quarter of a division at a time when it’s exposed.”

  It was Brian’s turn to study the table. He could not state the obvious without bordering on insubordination.

  The exec pressed on.

  “But as you are aware, I think, we have been doing something about it, something admittedly a bit unorthodox, but nonetheless, an active program that brought direct consequences to anyone caught using drugs aboard the ship. But consequences for the individuals, not for the ship.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the problem with your putting these men on report is that it invoked the UCMJ and the process of captain’s mast, which carries some consequences for the ship this time. I have no doubt that at least two of these guys will actually be pleased: They get off the ship, get out of the Navy, and get to go home, with maybe a little brig time thrown in. And second, the consequences to the ship are that we’ve lost twenty-five percent of the missile fire-control division, and we now have to shore up the watch organization with quick fixes in the middle of a deployment. And three, Hood gets a black eye.”

  Brian remained silent. He wasn’t sure his opinion was being solicited here.

  “Well, Brian, you see our problem?” the captain asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir?” The exec sounded exasperated.

  “May I speak, Captain?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holcomb.” No more Brian, he noticed.

  “Sir, my concern is for the ship. I’m the Weapons officer and I’m responsible for making sure the ship’s missiles, guns, and torpedoes are ready when you need them. If up to a quarter or more of the men who actually operate these systems are possibly going to be doped up when we call on them in an emergency, then I can’t deliver.”

  He turned to the exec, addressing him directly now.

  “Your way brought direct consequences but did not remove the problem.

  All three of these guys had priors for drugs. My way gets them off the ship. I think I have a much better chance of answering the fire bell with them gone than I would with them limping around the ship with broken bones. And I figure if we have to peel it down to just the officers and chiefs, then that’s what we’ll have to do. As I said, my main concern is the ship.”

  “Don’t you think that’s my job, Mr. Holcomb?” asked the captain in a reproachful voice.

  Yes, and you haven’t been doing it, Brian wanted to shout. Instead, he bit his lip and remained silent. The exec looked at the captain and gave a little shrug. The captain nodded.

  “Okay, Mr. Holcomb. Carry on,” he said. “XO, we need to talk about some things.”

  Brian rose from the table, grabbed his cap, and left the captain’s cabin. Closing the cabin door, he exhaled audibly and then went directly to his stateroom, where he tossed his cap on the top rack and flopped down into the lower rack. It was midmorning, when he was normally coming back up to speed, but he was suddenly very tired. He wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere.

  The captain and exec had obviously turned against him.

  Big deal: just a captain and a commander against a lieutenant.

  He thought about what he had said and how in retrospect it might have sounded naive. The captain had almost thirty years’ experience in the Navy; the exec, over twenty. Who the hell was Lieutenant Brian Holcomb to come aboard this ship and suddenly decide that their way was wrong and that he knew better than they did how to handle a problem that afflicted every ship out here in WESTPAC. Well, man, he thought, using that whiny, hip, sixties appellation he had come to hate, you may have really blown it now. Then he remembered he had to go back on watch.

  Jesus, what would they think if they knew what Jackson and Martinez were up to?

  Chief Jackson was holding his daily after-supper meeting with all the MAAs in his office when the phone rang. He indicated for one of the MAAs to get it. Rockheart was closest.

  “Sheriff’s office, RD One Rockheart speaking, sir.”

  “Yeah, Rocky, this is Chief Martinez. Tell Jackson I said tonight’s the night.”

  “Tonight’s the night; got it, Chief.” He hung up the phone, and looked over at Jackson. “That was Chief Martinez. He said—”

  “Yeah, I heard. Okay, guys, unless somebody’s got something else, let’s wrap
it up. Marsden, you owe me that report on the liberty cards that went missing in Subic. Carter, you keep an eye on that redheaded mess cook, the new guy. I think he’s lifting stuff out of the Supply storeroom. That’s it, everybody. I got a date on the mess decks.”

  There was general laughter at the thought of a date with LJM2, and the MAAs cleared out of the office.

  Rockheart lingered.

  “Something heavy going down?” he inquired as casually as he could.

  “Nothing I can talk about,” replied Jackson, distracted by an in basket he had just overturned. “You the deputy dog for tonight?”

  “Yeah. Marsden’s supposed to have it, but he’s got watch from twenty to twenty-four, so I’m taking it. It’s just the movie detail. One of these days, we’ll get the day’s watch bill for the MAAs and the rest of the ship in synch.”

  “Nevah hotchee,” replied Jackson absently. “Give me a call here when the movie’s over.” He had recaptured all the papers. Rockheart said he was probably right and left the office.

  Five minutes later, Chief Martinez called again.

  “I’m gonna go cruise by the electrical shop, see if Bullet’s around.

  Maybe go in there and mess with his head, bend some steel bars or something’. Give that boy some food for thought. Then let’s meet on the mess decks right after the movie’s over.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a call when the duty MAA has it secured. We’ll do it the way we said? Me first, Mr. Nice Guy, and if that doesn’t work—”

  “Yeah, me second. Mr. Hell on Wheels.”

  “If the left one don’t git ya …”

  “Yeah, buddy. How ‘about those mast cases today, huh? Some good shit, or what? See ya around twenty two hundred.”

  Rockheart called Jackson at 2150. The crew’s movie had ended at 2130 and the mess decks had been swept down and secured for the night. Jackson thanked him and told him he could secure for the night himself.

  The mess decks still smelled of popcorn and cigarettes by the time Martinez and Jackson showed up. Garlic’s office was locked as usual, but Jackson had made a wrong-number call twenty minutes ago and found him in.

  Martinez refilled his coffee cup and went to the back of the mess decks, switched off two lines of fluorescent lights, and took a seat on a life jacket locker—he was too big to fit at a mess table. Jackson banged on the door.

  “Garlic, it’s Chief Jackson. Open up.”

  Garlic opened the door seconds later. He was wearing stained white trousers and a sweaty T-shirt that didn’t quite make it to his waistband. A bulbous band of fat hung over his belt. As usual, he needed a shave. He held a wet cigarette butt in his let hand.

  “Yeah, Sheriff, what’s up?”

  “We need to have a private talk, Garlic. You and me.

  Subject is money.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Garlic said, backing into the room to allow Jackson entry. “No prob with the bank, is it? I mean, I just went over everythin’ with senior chief. He didn’t have no probs.”

  “Not exactly, but what I’m after is, shall we say, related to your loan operation.” Jackson moved a pile of magazines out of an armchair and sat down at Garlic’s cluttered desk, which was littered with breakout chits, adding machine tapes, requisition forms, and next week’s menu draft. A small fan with a missing blade pinged away in the corner of the overhead, moving some of the cigarette smoke around.

  “Related.”

  “Yes, related. Have a seat.”

  Garlic grunted himself down into the other office chair.

  His huge belly billowed over his thighs, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt higher.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Right. Let me walk you through it. You run your loan operation here with the permission of the chiefs’ mess.

  You loan at standard rates, six for five, and you keep a book, a single book, I presume, that you show to the senior chief once a month. Any problems, you bring them to the senior chief, he gets me, we talk to the guy and work something out. Okay so far?”

  “Yeah, Chief. That’s how it goes,” said Garlic, clearly my stifled.

  “Okay, so where’s the money come from to establish your bank? Where do you get the cash to make the loans?”

  Garlic frowned and shifted in his chair, still not getting it. “I been doin’ this for what—three years now on this boat? Six for five, well hell, that’s pretty good return, you know what I mean? It builds up pretty good. I can show—”

  “No. I’m not interested in your accumulated profits. I think you have another source for cash, once that’s probably not in your book, or at least not in the one you show the senior chief.”

  Garlic’s face changed, his eyes becoming watchful, his expression hardening.

  “I don’t follow you, Chief.”

  “Yeah you do. Let me clear it up for you, Garlic. Just before Subic, I had one of my people make a controlled buy of some marijuana. He used some marked money.

  That marked money has turned up in the hands of three guys you made cash loans to.” Jackson leaned forward in his chair. “See, way we figure it, whoever’s running the dope in this ship accumulates cash, lots of cash.

  Now, he can hide it in a void somewhere in the ship, where it’s safe, or he can invest some of it, where it can make even more money, and maybe even get washed a couple of times, see what I’m saying? We figure you’re accepting money from the top man in the drug organization here and loaning it out. Sharing the profits somehow.

  You know, a little venture capitalism?”

  Garlic’s face became an impassive mask as he started to shake his head from side to side. But Jackson noticed fine beads of sweat appearing on Garlic’s temples.

  “No way, Chief,” Garlic protested. “I ain’t runnin’ no charity here, okay, but I don’t know nothin’ about no drug money. You say you’ve traced marked money to me, well hell, that can come from the guys’re payin’ me back—that’s all the cash.”

  “Not the way we see it, Garlic. Two of the three guys got that money from you, spent it for the first time in the ship’s store. I watch the ship store, see? Guy who operates the store is my guy, okay? He spots the mark, calls me. I ask the guys where they got this money; they say they don’t know. I take ‘em to my office, explain about the bank here, how the chiefs know about it, and then they tell me, yeah, that’s where they got it—from you. I ask if they can produce more twenties—it was twenties we marked, by the way—and yes, they can. Guys who were broke last week are now paying guys back and buying cigarettes in the ship’s store. Now the third guy, he got it from one of the other two—they owed him money, see—and then showed up at the ship’s store. All of it comes back to you and your bank.”

  Garlic started to protest again, but Jackson put his hand up in the air.

  “Lemme finish here. Logic says, if the money came from you, two things are possible. One, you’re the main man; you’re the guy dealin’ drugs out here in the ship, and that’s how you got the money. Two, you’re taking cash off the hands of the guy who is selling all the dope, then putting it back to work and laundering it in the process. You see my logic here?”

  Garlic was finally silent. His massive forearms were stretched straight out on the arms of his chair, and Jackson could see that his knuckles were faintly white.

  He wondered for a second whether Garlic would come at him.

  “So here’s the deal, Garlic. That’s what I’m here for, by the way, to make a deal, to solve this little problem in a grown-up way so that no one has to get hurt—no one who cooperates, that is. Anyway, you give us the name of the guy who’s feeding all this cash to you and testify to that fact when and if the time comes. In return, we’ll let you keep playing Mr. Banker here in the ship, and you don’t burn for being involved in a money-laundering operation associated with narcotics. How’s that sound, Garlic?

  That sound like a reasonable deal? I mean, it sounds really reasonable to me. What do you say, huh?”

 
Garlic stared at Jackson for about a half a minute, his fat eyes narrowed. Jackson had to work at staring back: Garlic’s mean streak was not only well known but never very far beneath the surface, and it was showing a mile wide right now. Jackson tensed his legs in case Garlic flipped out. He hoped Martinez was where he said he would be once he was inside. Garlic took a deep breath and then shook his head.

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no drug money, and you can’t prove nothin’ otherwise. All the cash I move here is from the operation. That’s all I got to say. You guys wanna shut me down, I’ll shut down. I don’t give that much of a fuck—I’ve made my money. But for the rest of all that shit, I got nothin’ to give ya.”

  “That your final say-so on the matter?”

  “Yep.”

  Jackson gave him the benefit of about a thirty-second look and then stood up. Garlic remained in his chair, looking up at him. Jackson went to the door, opened it, and stepped out, leaving the door ajar. Chief Martinez was right outside, holding something in his hand that Jackson could not quite see. Martinez stepped around Jackson, went through the door, and closed it. Jackson stepped clear of the office door and looked both ways into the darkened mess decks; he saw nobody. Inside the office, there was a sharp crack, followed by a cry of pain. Then silence, and then three enormous thumps that shook the bulkheads. The night baker came to the door of the galley, looked out, saw Jackson, who shook his head. Poppa Steiner, being no fool, ducked back into the galley, closing the door firmly. After a minute, the door to the galley office opened and Martinez stuck his head around the corner, jerking it to indicate Jackson should come back in.

  Garlic was sitting in the same chair Jackson had left him in, but his face was pale white and he looked as if he was trying to breathe and not breathe all at the same time. One leg stuck out at an odd angle. Garlic had his right hand on his shin, rubbing very gently. Martinez stood over him like an oak tree, an eight-pound stainless steel dogging wrench in his hand. Jackson went back to Garlic’s desk chair, pulled it around, and sat down.

  “Like I was saying, Garlic, we’re here to deal. We don’t want problems.