Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “He works at the Blue Heaven you said? About six feet tall and a solid 220?”

  “You know him?”

  “Met him once, briefly. It was a few months back, just before Cuba.”

  “He’s a good kid, Jesse. Something went real bad wrong when he was with 6th Marines in Iraq and it changed him.”

  A lot of things go ‘real bad wrong’ in combat. In my 20 years in the Corps, I only lost two men killed in action, both times something went real bad wrong. After the first Gulf War, I lost three to suicide and dozens of others left a promising career. “He never told you what it was?”

  “No,” he replied.

  The radio interrupted our conversation, “Beaver one three eight five, Orlando Control.”

  Williams picked up the mic and said, “Beaver one three eight five.”

  “Orlando Control, Beaver one three eight five, turn right to 10 degrees and descend to 5500 feet.”

  I looked out the window on my side and could see the city of Orlando, as the plane banked to starboard and the nose dropped. A moment later, we leveled off with Lake Apopka just ahead and to starboard.

  “I asked him about it,” Williams continued. “He was in his last year of a four year hitch. He’d talked about reenlisting, but suddenly he was out. He never told me why, or what happened. That was a year ago. He went home to Kentucky, but after a month called and asked if he could bunk with us. I found him a place in Key West, he got a job and everything seemed okay. I heard from others that he got a little crazy once or twice and was arrested once. I just don’t know what to do, or how I can help.”

  Deuce’s voice came over the intercom, “You might not be able to. If something real bad happened, it might be psychological. Has he tried to get help from the VA?”

  “That’s just it, Deuce. I don’t know. He won’t talk to me about it.”

  Orlando interrupted again. “Beaver one three eight five, Orlando Control.”

  Williams picked up the mic again and said, “Beaver one three eight five.”

  “Beaver one three eight five, turn left to heading zero degrees. Maintain 5000 feet. Contact Jacksonville Control when you’re over Lake George. Have a nice flight.”

  Williams banked the plane and picked up the old heading. Apparently Orlando didn’t want our old plane anywhere near their bustling airspace. We flew on in silence for another fifteen minutes. I could see the concern in Williams face and one look at Deuce and Rusty told me they both were thinking the same thing I was. Something bad happened. That’s what combat is. Bad. Without knowing what his son did in the Marines, I could only guess. So I asked.

  “What was Jared’s MOS?”

  Williams looked confused for a second and then replied, “His job? He started out in infantry. He was always real good with a rifle as a kid and they sent him from there to scout/sniper school.”

  A sniper. That opened up a lot of possibilities. I was a Marine sniper for a while, myself. Had Jared been a few years older, I might have trained him.

  “Maybe when we get back,” I said, “I can go down and talk to him. Meantime, how about letting me take the controls for a while?”

  Rusty’s voice came over my headset, “This ain’t no whirly bird, you know.”

  That brought Williams out of his funk and he laughed along with Deuce and Rusty. Williams raised both hands and said, “Off stick.”

  I took the wheel in front of me and taking his cue, replied, “On stick. Now, where’s the collector?”

  Williams changed from a troubled dad to a flight instructor instantly. “Controlling a fixed wing isn’t a lot different than a chopper, Jesse. The foot pedals control the rudder, the same way they control the tail rotor in a chopper. Push the right one and the plane will turn right, but you have to combine that with ailerons to bank the plane, using the wheel. Pushing or pulling on the yoke, will move the elevator to climb or dive. Go ahead and try an easy right turn, then come back to the same heading.”

  I did as he said and banked the plane, making an easy turn to starboard, then banked left and came back on course. I noticed the altimeter showed we’d descended nearly a hundred feet and pointed it out.

  “When banking, the plane will slide a little and loose altitude. Compensate for it, while turning, by pulling back slightly on the yoke to maintain the same altitude. Try it again to the left this time.”

  I banked slightly left, added a little left peddle and pulled back on the yoke just a little. Then I did the same thing to the right and brought us back on course. We’d actually gained a little altitude.

  “The balance comes with lots of practice. Different planes react differently. The Beaver’s a pretty heavy plane for a single engine. She can carry six people, with luggage, or up to 2000 pounds of gear. They’re used a lot up in Canada and Alaska by bush pilots.”

  The old plane didn’t have an autopilot, so I stayed on the controls until we were over Lake George. Williams took the controls back as he switched the radio to the right frequency for Jacksonville.

  He picked up the mic and spoke into it, “Jacksonville Control, Beaver one three eight five.”

  “Beaver one three eight five, Jacksonville ground,” came the response

  “Beaver one three eight five, requesting landing instructions to refuel before heading on to Jacksonville, North Carolina.”

  “Beaver one three eight five, ceiling is 10,000 feet and scattered, visibility is 10 miles, wind is out of the east at 5 knots. Turn left, heading 350 degrees.”

  As we neared Jacksonville, the instructions came faster, “Beaver one three eight five, turn right to heading 15 degrees. Traffic six miles out and above, heading east, triple seven heavy.”

  Williams acknowledged the controller and I asked, “What did he just say?”

  Williams pointed ahead and slightly up until I spotted it. “It’s a Boeing 777 on approach, we’ll follow him in.”

  The controller’s voice came over my headset again. “Beaver one three eight five, turn right to 90 degrees. Maintain five miles to triple seven heavy. You’re clear for VFR approach to runway 26. Call on 118.3, when down.”

  He again acknowledged the controller and I said, “Five miles is only a couple of minutes behind him right?”

  “Yeah, but the 777 will be going faster than us. By the time we touch down, he’ll be taxiing.”

  We landed without incident and Williams switched the radio frequency for taxi instructions and directions to the fuel pumps. Thirty minutes later we were back in the air, with instructions to contact Charleston, South Carolina when we were 40 miles away from there. Leaving Florida behind us, we climbed to 7500 feet and headed out over the Atlantic on a heading of 45 degrees. All but the last 75 miles or so would be over water.

  We made it through Charleston approaches without having to change course, but they did have us drop down to 3500 feet. The sun was still well above the horizon as we crossed back over land southwest of Wilmington, North Carolina. We were vectored around the west side of the city at 7500 feet and we made our approach to Albert J. Ellis Airport, near Camp Lejeune thirty minutes later.

  We unloaded the gear from the plane and helped Williams get her refueled and tied down on the tarmac near the hangers of Jacksonville Flying Service. Deuce had made arrangements for a car to be waiting for us. Of course, his car of choice was a black Expedition, with dark tinted windows. The keys had been left at the incoming flights desk at the JFS office.

  We carried our baggage out to the parking lot. Rusty looked at the behemoth and then at Deuce. “Don’t you feds ever drive anything low profile?”

  “Have you seen what’s available at Hertz these days, Rusty? They call a Corolla a mid-sized car. I was only thinking of you when I had the company send this over.”

  “Where’d they send it from?” I asked.

  “FBI residential office in Wilmington.”

  “You can do that?” asked Williams. “I thought you worked for Homeland Security.”

  “All the agencies work
together, or we’re supposed to. Sometimes, we get good cooperation, sometimes we don’t.”

  We loaded the gear in the back of the big SUV and climbed inside. Deuce immediately pushed all four buttons to send the windows down, as it was over 100 degrees inside the car. He started it up and cranked the A/C up to high. By the time we got to the airport exit, the stifling air had been blown out the windows, so he closed them.

  Sitting up front with Deuce, Williams asked, “Which way?”

  “Surprised you ain’t got satellite imaging in this tub,” Rusty said from the back.

  “Head east and turn right on Catherine Lake Road,” I replied. “Should be at the end of the road we’re on.”

  “Should be?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been here in eight years. But we’ll find it. Just head in the direction the other cars are coming from.”

  “Yep,” Rusty said. “That’ll get us to Swoop Circle.”

  “Swoop Circle?” Williams asked.

  “Yeah,” Rusty said. “It’s a gathering spot for Marines after liberty is sounded on Friday. Guys with cars pick up guys without cars and head home for the weekend, splitting the gas. It’s called swooping.”

  We turned onto Hwy 111 toward Jacksonville and passed Lake Catherine a few minutes later. I used to live on the north side of the lake. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Remember when you used to live up there?” Rusty said reading my mind.

  “Ancient history, Rusty.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to them?” He was referring to my two daughters from my first marriage. She divorced me in 1990, when I volunteered for an advance unit going into Saudi Arabia before the run up to Desert Shield.

  “Fourteen years ago,” I replied. I didn’t even know if they still lived in the area. I still sent them cards on their birthdays and at Christmas. The checks inside were never cashed.

  “Maybe while we’re here, you could…” Rusty started to say. I cut him off as we approached Highway 24.

  “Take a right up here, Deuce. We’re staying at the Fairfield on the other side of town. Around the next curve, stay left on 178.”

  After a few stoplights, we crossed the bridge over New River. I knew Rusty would remember this area, as it was the off duty gathering spot for Marines stationed at Camp Lejeune for many years.

  “Hey,” Rusty said as if on cue. “Wanna head down to Court Street? We could check out Birdland and have a cold one at Sam’s pool hall.”

  “Not there anymore, Rusty.”

  Rusty was craning his neck to look down Court Street angling away behind us on the right. “Which one?”

  “All of them,” I said. “The city was in the process of cleaning things up last time I was stationed here. I bet there’s not a single beer to be found on Court Street now.”

  “You’re kiddin’. Where do Marines go to blow off steam?”

  “There’s still plenty of bars around, but most of the junior Marines aren’t even old enough to get in one.” Then to Deuce I said, “About a mile ahead, turn left on Western Boulevard.”

  “Town’s sure changed a lot,” Rusty said.

  “Still a Marine town, though,” I said. We pulled into the parking lot at the Fairfield and found a spot away from the main entrance. I’d reserved four suites and the front desk got us registered in quick time.

  As we were turning to go to the elevator, I heard a familiar voice say, “I heard you were going to be in town, McDermitt.”

  I turned toward the man who had spoken. He was a tall, black man, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He was dressed in the Marine Corps Charlie uniform, khaki short sleeved shirt and olive green trousers. He wore a Colonel’s eagles on his lapels and a chest full of been there, done that ribbons. Tom Broderick, the Commanding Officer of Force Recon Company, Second Recon Battalion. Or he used to be, when he was a Captain.

  “Damn, they’ll let anyone stay at this dive,” he said as he walked towards us smiling.

  I took his outstretched hand. “Yeah, and I guess the Corps has lowered its standards for Field Grade Officers. How the hell are ya, Tom?”

  He laughed and said, “Doing well, Jesse. Sergeant Major Latimore told me you’d be staying here. Just had to come into town and welcome you home.”

  I turned to the others and said, “Guys this is Tom Broderick. He was a wet behind the ears butter bar when we first met.” Then to Tom I said, “Tom, this big guy, believe it or not, is former Recon Sergeant, Rusty Thurman. We’re here for his daughter’s graduation from the Coast Guard Maritime Enforcement School. This is Dave Williams, our pilot. His son’s stationed here.”

  Tom shook hands with both of them but kept glancing at Deuce. Finally, he stuck out his hand and asked, “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  Before Deuce could answer, I said, “Yeah, you have. But he was probably in diapers at the time. This is Lieutenant Commander Russell Livingston, Junior, Navy SEAL. We call him Deuce.”

  Tom looked at me, then at Deuce, “Staff Sergeant Russ Livingston’s kid?”

  Deuce took his hand firmly and said, “Guilty as charged, Colonel.”

  “Just Tom, Deuce. Your dad was one of the best Non-Coms I ever met. How’s he doing?”

  “He died last fall, sir,” Deuce replied. “Murdered.”

  “Damn sorry to hear that. Hope they caught the bastard.”

  “We did,” Deuce said.

  He looked seriously at Deuce for a second and then glanced at me. “Yeah, I just bet you did.” Then changing the subject he asked me, “How long you in town for?”

  “Just for the night. Julie graduates in the morning, then we’re flying back to the Keys.”

  “Aw hell, well at least let me treat you guys to supper.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Can Tex join us?” Tex was what we used to call Mike Latimore, back in the day.

  “If not, I’ll order him to. One of the perks of command. Logan’s at 2100?”

  “Perfect.”

  “We’ll see you then, nice meeting you gentlemen.” He turned and headed toward the exit as the elevator opened and two middle aged couples got off.

  We boarded the elevator and went up to the third floor. We had the four suites at the north end of the hallway, two on either side and agreed to meet in my room at 2030. Logan’s Steakhouse was just around the corner and we’d walk over, from the hotel.

  I was showered and ready in 20 minutes, so had a good half hour to kill. I used to have a lot of friends in 6th Marines, so I called the base operator and asked to be connected to Headquarters Battalion. I got a young female Lance Corporal on the phone and after dropping a half dozen names, she recognized one. Master Gunnery Sergeant Owen Tankersley. He was one of my range coaches, when I was with 2nd Recon. She told me to hold and after a minute, Tank’s voice came over the phone.

  “Gunny McDermitt, as I live and breathe. How the hell are ya?”

  “Hey Tank. Making my way in the First CivDiv, how’ve you been?”

  We reminisced for a few minutes, then he asked, “So, why you calling me after what, nine years?”

  “Eight, but who’s counting. I was wondering if you could give me some intel on a shooter. He’s the son of a buddy of mine and he’s having some trouble back home.”

  “I will if I can. What’s his name?”

  “Jared Williams,” I replied.

  There was a few seconds of silence and I asked, “You still there, Tank?”

  “Yeah, Jesse. I know about Williams. He was with the Walking Dead in Iraq. Alpha 1/9 was attached to us, after they spooled back up in late ’03. Four confirmed kills while he was with us and eight on his previous deployment. That Marine was an artist with the long gun. Anyway, we deployed to the sand box that spring. He and his spotter found a high value target up in Indian Country, north of Ashraf. He was given the green light to take the target out. According to him and his spotter, the target’s eight year-old daughter stepped in front of him at the crucial second. A CIA spook de
briefed them both and made some sort of accusation that he’d killed the girl on purpose. Williams came unhinged and nearly killed the spook with his fists. He got sent stateside riki tik, court martialed and sent home with a DD. Raw deal, but apparently the spook had connections in high places.”

  “Thanks, Tank. Any idea where the spotter’s at today?”

  “Arlington,” Tank replied. “Found not culpable in either the shooting or the assault on the spook. He was reassigned to Charlie 1/6 and KIA in Fallujah the following November. Earned a posthumous Silver Star.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was bad. Sure could have used you there, Gunny.”

  “Thanks for the intel, Tank. Look, I’m in town until tomorrow. Going to the Coast Guard Maritime Enforcement school graduation in the morning, with some friends. One of them is Williams’s dad. He flew us up so he could visit his other son, who’s stationed here. Think you can meet us for lunch tomorrow and talk to him about Jared?”

  “Luke Williams?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “He’s in Bravo, 1/6. Just picked up Corporal.”

  “Can you bring him with you for lunch?”

  “Absolutely, when and where?”

  “You tell me. But no mess halls.”

  He laughed and said, “1100 at Gourmet Grill, best cheeseburgers on base. Main Circle, go one block north to the corner of G Street. You can’t miss it. You’ll see a lot of brass. I’ll shake Williams loose for the day, so he can go with you to that Coastie grad.”

  I thanked him again and hung up, just as I heard a knock on the door. It was Deuce, early as usual. I let him in and told him what I’d learned from Tank about Dave’s son.

  “Thing like that could really haunt a guy,” Deuce said. “Especially when you toss in another twelve faces.”

  “It affects different people in different ways,” I said pondering my own demons.

  There was another knock on the door. It was Rusty and before I closed the door, Williams came out of his suite across the hall. “Hope you don’t mind, Jesse. I called Luke and he’s going to join us. He’s on duty tomorrow and I won’t have any other chance to see him.”