“What’s up?” Rocky said after Bullet had closed and locked the door.
“Money, man, thass whut.”
“Okay. I’m into bread, although this is probably not the time to go expanding the operation.”
“Uh-uh. Talkin’ about my man Garlic’s money. Talkin’ about the bank, man.”
Rocky was suddenly very interested. “You know where it is?”
Bullet shrugged. “Thinks I does, man. Somethin’ Garlic be sayin’ to me, ‘while back. ‘Fore his unfortunate accident.”
Rocky snorted. “Accident? Like in train accident?
“Cause that’s the way I hear old Garlic met his untimely demise, man.
Got hit by a train, a train called Louie Jesus.”
Bullet looked down at the deck, his face solemn. “I be hearin’ the same thing, man. The baby doc, he be sayin’, it was a stroke or heart attack, shouldn’ta been no bleedin’ out the mouth. Shoulda been out the nose and ears, but not out no mouth.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens. My sources in the MAA shack say that Garlic didn’t give up anything, or they would have moved by now.”
Bullet gave him a speculative look. “I need some cover gittin’ to the bank. You gimme the help, I’m willin’ go sixty-forty with you.”
“Sixty-forty? Shit, man, when’d we start with that garbage? Look, man, we got a good deal going’ here.
Yeah, there’s been a couple of setbacks lately, but even with the Sheriff and his buddies lookin’ hard, they got jackshit. You got something to do, we go fifty-fifty.”
Bullet walked around the laundry area, appearing to think about it.
Rocky pretended to be bored: Yeah, he was interested, but he could walk away, he had to. But at the thought of Garlic’s cash hoard, he was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea. Bullet finally made up his mind.
“Yeah, okay. Fifty-fifty. I be gittin’ back to you, time to do it an’shit.”
Brian settled resignedly into the routine of port and starboard watches again, adjusting his days to grab a nap in the morning and another one after supper in the evening, expending six hours of energy in the afternoon watches, then fighting his leaden eyelids from midnight to dawn. The afternoon watches became almost frantically busy as the task force stepped up its flight operations over the southern districts of North Vietnam and in the DMZ areas. While there were no more Alpha-Strikes, there were several two-and three-plane attack sorties against specific targets that began around first light and extended into the 2000 to 2400 watch period. Then CTF 77 had tried running precision strikes without the normal covering flights, but a pair of Migs had slipped down from Hanoi along the Laotian border and nearly bagged a section of A-6s at twilight on Brian’s second day of port and starboard watches. The Red Crown BARCAP Phantoms had joined the ensuing mL16e, but the Migs had managed to vanish into the highlands of western North Vietnam, pursued by much foul language in Combat.
After that, the carriers launched the standard strike protection aircraft for Migcap and SAM site suppression.
The flight density going over the beach was not very heavy, but the augmented Heavenly Host kept Red Crown controllers going all day and part of the night.
Each afternoon was inevitably complicated by the helo dance, when Big Mother had to lift off in order to land the daily log helo, or to set up either Big Mother or Clementine on the SAR station. Brian found himself exhausted by the end of the 1200 to 1800 watch.
It took everything he had to stumble up to Combat at midnight again, trying to pretend along with all the other zombies up there that he was awake, alert, and ready for the watch. So it was with great relief each night that the SWIC announced the last recovery aboard the online carrier. Once the carriers secured for the night, the level of activity over the Gulf dwindled to just the BARCAP on their patrol line. The Red Crown air controller head count would go from three to one, and the main problem for the mid watch people became one of staying awake.
The officers in D and D would execute a set routine: settle in to the tactical picture from relief time to 0100; screen all the night’s message traffic from 0100 to 0200, sorting out the action messages for the rest of the wardroom to handle in the morning; from 0200 to 0300, oversee the setting up of the big vertical plotting boards around D and D with the next day’s air plan, showing all the scheduled landings and launches from the duty carrier for the next day’s operations; from 0300 to 0400, drop and reload the NTDS operational program on all consoles throughout CIC, doing minor maintenance where necessary on consoles, displays, headsets, or other equipments; from 0400 to 0500, do communications checks on the twenty-two voice-radio circuits and the NTDS link transmitters and tune the radars; at 0500, send a radar man down to the galley to expropriate a tray of freshly baked sweet rolls from the night baker; from 0500 to relief, prepare to turn over the watch to the 0600 to 1200 watch slanders.
With the repairs to the fire room taking much more time than originally expected, Brian slogged through this same routine for the next week. He knew that the midwatch routine assumed that nothing happened on either the air or surface side, and for the first five nights, nothing did happen, except that the northeast monsoon built in intensity, whipping up the seas to the point where one of the biggest tactical decisions of the midwatch was picking a course to steer that did not roll everyone out of his chair. It was nothing like the typhoon, but the ship’s rolling and pitching in seven-to ten-foot seas added a physical strain to the mental stress of staying awake and effective through the long night hours.
Brian had not seen the captain since the Class Bravo fire in Number One Fire Room, due mostly to his watch rotation. The captain would come into Combat when the action got hot and heavy over the beach in the mornings, but he had not made an appearance after noon except for the Mig incident, which had happened on Austin’s watch. The exec kept his finger on the Operations pulse by phone, but since the fire he, too, had not come into Combat when Brian had the watch. Now that he was back on port and starboard watches, Brian saw his departmental officers and chiefs after breakfast at officers’ call, in Combat when they stood watch with him, and otherwise not very much.
Brian noticed that Austin was continuing to distance himself. He missed no opportunity to point out any mistakes Brian made in Combat, and he made sure that Brian knew how often he was seeing both the captain and the exec, in contrast to Brian’s increasingly infrequent contact. Brian wondered whether he was being deliberately frozen out or if the combination of his watch standing hours and the fact that Austin was the Operations officer were the real reasons he was not seeing the ship’s two most senior officers on a regular basis. He decided just to put his head down and get through it.
After a week of waiting and wondering whether Bullet had decided to try for the bank on his own, Rocky got the call in Combat at 0300. Bullet told him to take a head call and meet him on the mess decks. The surface module was absolutely dead, so Rocky had no problem stepping away from his watch station to meet Bullet. Bullet was leaning against the galley office’s door. Rocky wondered whether that’s where the bank had been hidden, after all.
Shit, he should have come back and looked himself. But now, if Bullet actually could produce the money, he had formulated a plan to nail Bullet once and for all.
“I’m here,” Rocky said.
“Yeah,” Bullet replied. “So’s we.”
“We?” Rocky looked around, then saw three of Bullet’s larger associates lounging in the shadows at the back of the mess decks. “What’s this ‘we’ shit?” he asked.
“Way it goes, is: What’s this ‘we’ shit, white man?”
Bullet smiled. “What it is, they’s security. We going’ to mess with some real money. Don’t want no surprises.”
Rocky stared at the three blacks in the corner. This was a major development: Thus far, Bullet had been careful not to let anyone see him and Rocky meeting on anything other than routine ship’s business. Bullet was tightening his lock, and there was nothing R
ocky could do about it.
Rocky straightened up. “And why should I go with you, then? Seems to me, I’m the one who might be risking a surprise.”
“Uh-uh. These dudes gonna keep the area secure.
They ain’t gonna be round where we going’ to do it.
We cool?”
Rocky looked at the three men again. His plan depended on finding Garlic’s stash but not on keeping his half. The damage as to his identity had been done, but the muscle would come up empty if they went for him after he and Bullet uncovered the bank.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s do it—I’m supposed to be on watch.”
“Okay. We going’ to the Lucky Bag.”
“The Lucky Bagl You gotta be shitting me.”
Bullet grinned at him. “Uh-uh. Ole Garlic, he smart.
He want to hide something’ from the Sheriff, he do it in the Sheriff’s own locker. Why I needs you: Only MAAs got keys to the Lucky Bag. You got your keys?”
Rocky nodded and then shook his head in wonder. He followed Bullet back down the main passageway aft of the mess decks to the Lucky Bag.
Bullet’s hoods split up, one in front, two behind, to make sure no one came down the passageway to cause trouble. When they were safely out of sight, Rocky took out his MAA keys and opened up the Lucky Bag, which was a small locker containing unclaimed laundry, uniforms, or any other lost and found articles. Whenever the Lucky Bag filled up, the CMAA would declare it open and anyone could take whatever was useful to him.
A lot of the unclaimed clothes and gear had been tossed around during the typhoon, so the closetlike locker was a mess. Bullet stared in at it for a few seconds, then stepped in, snapped on a flashlight, and started looking around.
“You know where the money actually is?”
“Uh-uh.”
“There’s an overhead light in there, you want.”
“Uh-uh. See better with this. It’s gonna be hid, man.”
Rocky was following the bouncing beam of light around the darkened locker from the doorway when a low whistle came from the after end of the passageway. Bullet snapped off the light and motioned for Rocky to step into the locker. He pulled the door shut after them and they waited, finally hearing footsteps go by outside, then silence.
After a minute, Bullet reopened the door and checked the passageway. All clear.
“See?” he said. “Security. Like I said.”
“Yeah, okay. Now where’s the fucking money?”
“Doan know. Tryin’ to figure where I’d hide it, this had to be my place.”
Rocky pulled out his own flashlight and began searching with Bullet. The locker was hot and stuffy. Rocky looked around to see whether the ventilation had been cut off. The diffuser handle was in the open position, but there was no air. While Bullet started rummaging through the pile of used dungarees and shirts on the deck, Rocky ran his light down the vent pipe until he came to an elbow in the four-inch pipe on the back side of the locker. A dented foot-and-a-half-long section of the vent pipe had been temporarily repaired, because there were collars screwed into the pipe at either end of the repaired section.
“Hey,” he said. Bullet looked up at where Rocky’s light was pointing.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah. Thass it.” He pulled a Phillips screwdriver out of his electrician’s tool kit and began backing out the brass screws holding in the collars.
“How did you find out he hid it in here?” Rocky asked.
“Man said one time. Kept his stash in a lucky place.
Didn’t mean shit to me till I started thinkin’ on it. Lucky place. Lucky Bag. Worth a shot, anyways.”
He got the last screw out and backed both collars away from the pipe ends. The eighteen-inch section dropped into his hand. It was stuffed with highly compacted rolls of bills.
“Oh yeah,” Bullet said. “Oh yeah.”
They set to work counting it. Ever the bean counter, Garlic had segregated the rolls into denominations, which expedited the count.
Bullet did the sorting and Rocky did the counting.
“Eighteen thousand and some change,” Rocky announced.
He had the money in two neat piles.
“Awright.” Bullet grinned. “Thass some beer money, anyways.”
“Damn straight,” Rocky replied. Then he began to roll up his share and stuff the rolls back into the vent pipe.
“Man, what you doin’?” asked Bullet.
“Gonna leave mine here,” Rocky said. “It’s a safe place, and I’ve got a key, remember?”
Bullet stared at him suspiciously. Rocky caught the look.
“What do you care?” he said. “You got yours. I just don’t like to keep all my money in one stash, that’s all. Got several of ‘em throughout the ship. That way, somebody gets lucky, I don’t go losing my ass. You ought to be doing the same thing.”
“Doan you go worrin’ ‘bout me, man. My shit’s plenny secure.”
“Well, okay, then. Anyhow, I’m gonna put this pipe back together. Why don’t you split now. And take your guys with you—I’ll feel safer.”
“Shee-it,” spat Bullet, gathering up his money. He stuck his head put the door, then stepped out. Rocky looked over at him as he finished putting back the section of vent pipe.
“Easy pickings, man,” he said. “Smile. It’ll do you good.”
After Bullet had gone, Rocky secured the Lucky Bag and, watching his back, returned to Combat to resume his watch. He got off at 0600, had breakfast, and then hit his tree for the morning. Before lunch, he stopped in to see Chief Jackson, who was talking to Martinez in the Sheriff’s office.
“Got something for you on Bullet, maybe,” he said, closing the door behind him. Chief Martinez gave Jackson an alarmed look.
“I filled him in, Louie,” said Jackson. “Figured another brain wouldn’t hurt.” He looked over at Rocky expectantly. Rocky noticed that Martinez did not seem too happy with having some help. No matter. He would be.
Rocky had thought long and hard about how to use that cash stash to nail Bullet.
“I think I have a line on where Bullet keeps his money,” Rocky said.
“You’ll never believe it.”
“Try me,” Jackson said.
“The fucking Lucky Bag.”
“What!”
“Yeah. I heard him in the chow line talking to one of those group fours that hang around with him. Said you want to hide something from the cops, you hide it in the police station. Guy asked if he meant your office. Bullet says, ‘Naw, man, someplace that only the MAAs have access to.’ I figured out he was talking about the Lucky Bag, so I went and searched it. Found a vent pipe with over nine thousand bucks in it.”
“Jesus Christ, no shit!” Jackson exclaimed. “But where the hell would an electrician get a key? Only MAAs have keys.”
“From Garlic, I figure,” Rocky said. “You said they were partners.
Remember, Garlic was mess decks MAA. The Supply Department office keeps all the keys—all he had to do was ask them for one as the mess decks MAA and they would’ve given him a key to the Lucky Bag.
There’s nothing valuable in there.”
“Yeah,” Jackson nodded, working it out. Rocky waited for them to make the next jump. “Hey,” Jackson said, looking at Martinez, “you know what this means? We can set the fucker up—catch him with his money, we got his ass.”
“How we going’ to do that?” asked Martinez. Jackson paused to think it out. Rocky was ready with a suggestion.
“Bullet does the mids in Main Control. You get the word to Bullet one night when he’s on watch that you’re going to tag E Division for a working party. He’s the E Division LPO, so he’s the guy you’d call. You need three hands to clean out the Lucky Bag first thing next morning.
After the typhoon, place is a fucking mess; everything needs to be sorted out and restowed. But you also tell him you need everything out of there because you’re gonna get a welder in there to repair a jury-rigged vent pipe, to get
some air in there. Place stinks, which it does. Going to fix it with a proper weld. That’s the main reason we have to get all those clothes out of there—you know, fire hazard for the welder. He hears that—”
“Yeah,” said Jackson. “He hears that and he’ll know he’s only a got a coupla hours to get his money out of there.”
Martinez was nodding his head slowly.
“Right. You pick the night, Chief. I’ll show you where the money is in that vent pipe. He has to go for it or else lose all his profits.”
“Fuck, I like it,” Jackson said, rubbing his hands.
“Catch that bastard with a big chunka change, we got his ass.”
“It’s even better than that, Sheriff,” Rocky said.
“Some of that money looks like the shit you marked.”
Two nights later, the E-2 saw the ghosts. It happened at 0115, almost an hour after the watch had changed hands in Combat and Brian’s watch team was fixing its second mug of coffee and preparing to go into the stay-awake routine. The E-2 was headed back to the carrier, descending from 25,000 feet toward Yankee Station, when its backseaters detected five radar contacts headed out over the southern Gulf from the lower portion of North Vietnam.
They immediately slapped unknown air track symbols on them, which flashed around the Gulf to all the NTDS-equipped ships. In Red Crown, Garuda Barry yelled at the Cave.
“Track Supe, what’s this shit? There’s no video under those symbols. You doin’ that or is that the E-two?”
“Track Supe, aye, and that’s a negative. Those are E two tracks.”
Brian stared down at the scope. There were five unknown symbols, all grouped together and all headed due east off the coast of North Vietnam toward the Red Chinese territories on Hainan Island. Their projected tracks would take them between the carriers on Yankee Station and the Red Crown station. On that track, they threatened none of the ships unless they made a sudden turn to the north or south. SWIC ordered the duty air controller to execute special tracking, then expanded his own scope to enlarge the area around the tracks. He checked the SPS-48 displays and also the secondary air search radar, the SPS-40. There was no video visible under the symbols.
The Edge of Honor Page 57