Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 12

“Captain Pfeiffer, how did you get the callsign ‘Jungle’?”

“Good question, sir. My first squadron commander pronounced my name like ‘fever’—”

“‘Jungle fever.’” Leonard laughed. “Clever.”

“I was a wild lieutenant back in the day. He said I made him sicker than a case of malaria. So ‘Jungle’ stuck.”

“‘Back in the day’? Christ! How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?” The two men carried their helmets, notepads and maps as they walked across the tarmac from their Cobra into the squadron’s hangar at Camp Pendleton. The maintenance area smelled of aircraft fuel, grease and machinery, a mixture that made Leonard feel at home.

“Thirty-two, Colonel. Makes me an old man in the Corps. But thank you.”

“Thirty-two?” Leonard feigned shock. “That old?” As he and Jungle climbed the steps to the second floor, he hoped the power of suggestion emanating from their discussion of age made him feel winded and not age itself. This evening he felt all of the fifty years he’d be this year.

“How’d you get the callsign ‘Royal’?”

“My father was British and I grew up in London. He died when I was sixteen and my mother and I returned to her native New York. I suppose I still had a trace of an accent when I joined the Marines. My first squadron commander was from Texas—”

“—and to him anyone with an accent must be part of the monarchy. No wonder we always carry a special love for our first commanding officer.” Jungle laughed. “I hope I fly half as well as you do when—”

“When you’re my age?” Leonard asked. “Captain, if I were you, I’d stop talking now.”

Jungle’s faced reddened several shades. “I admire the way you flew the aircraft today, sir. I don’t know many pilots who can handle a helicopter as skillfully in fierce Santa Ana winds.”

“Do you know where the name ‘Santa Ana Winds’ originated?”

“The Santa Ana Mountains? Or—is it because they blow down the Santa Ana Canyon?”

“That’s what most people believe,” Leonard said. Jungle stepped forward to open the door. “The truth is we Anglos mispronounce it as we do many things. The correct term comes from the name the Spanish missionaries used centuries ago: ‘Vientos de Santanas.’”

Jungle followed Leonard into the pilots’ “ready room.” “I don’t know Spanish, sir.”

Seeing Leonard, Lieutenant Colonel Hammer leapt to his feet and shouted, “Attention on deck!” The twelve or thirteen officers in the ready room jumped to the position of attention.

“‘Winds of Satan.’” Turning to the group, Leonard said, “At ease!” He stepped to the chair they’d left vacant for him in the center of the front row. “Please, please, take your seats.”

Despite Leonard’s order, the officers in the room waited until he was firmly in his seat before they moved. Sledge waved and a Marine delivered Leonard an ice-cold bottle of water from the back of the room. He thanked the officer but kept his eyes firmly on Sledge, one of six squadron commanders who reported directly to him. Leonard had flown today primarily to evaluate Sledge’s performance as squadron commander, a fact of which Sledge was no doubt aware.

“Let’s begin,” Sledge said from the lectern, “as we have a lot to talk about and I’m sure everybody has a better place to be on a Saturday night than here. I know I do.” The pilots laughed, nodding their heads. Leonard smiled but mentally prepared for the looming confrontation. “Let’s begin with our favorite pastime—beating up on intelligence. Intel officer? Where are you? Since you were our first total fuck-up of the day, you get to go first.”

A woman shouted from the back row, “Here, sir!” She made her way to the front of the room as Sledge stepped to the side. She had a determined look on her face despite the badgering by her squadron commander, treatment that probably wasn’t new for her. “Good afternoon—or evening, gentlemen.” She smiled, nodding toward Leonard and Sledge. “I’ll engage in a pastime we enjoy even more than beating up on intelligence. Because this was a joint training mission, we were required to rely on intelligence gathered and provided to us by Army units from Fort Huachuca, Arizona.”

The men howled in agreement. “Fuckin’ Army—sticks it to us every time!” a pilot shouted. No matter how much the Corps evolved, some things, like Army-bashing, never changed.

She continued. “Field units reported the ‘enemy’ shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles—in actuality our own Marine Stinger teams from Camp Pendleton—should’ve been thirty miles east of the hills where they ‘shot down’ Colonel Spencer and Jungle. The winds delayed our launch, giving the Stingers time to relocate further west. The intelligence wasn’t updated.”

The debrief ended almost an hour later. After the other officers left the room, Leonard said, “Sledge, Jungle, can you stick around for a few minutes?”

“Yes sir!” Jungle shouted.

“Sure—Colonel.” Sledge seemed annoyed that his Saturday night plans would be delayed even further.

Leonard looked at Jungle, “How many rounds were you able to fire out of the 20-millimeter machine gun before we were ‘killed’?”

“Enough to wipe out one of the teams.” Jungle spoke with the typical overconfidence of a Marine Corps captain. “If it hadn’t been for the faulty intelligence and the ‘phantom missile team,’ sir, we would’ve won the day. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

Sledge was more subdued. Looking at the captain, he nodded with satisfaction. “I believe Captain Pfeiffer is correct, sir. If we’d received proper intelligence—and if we’d spotted that first team—we wouldn’t have had any problems.”

“Captain Pfeiffer,” Leonard said, “may I see the logbook for that particular machine gun?”

The captain hesitated then realized what he had to do. “Yes sir!” He darted out of the room, heading for the stairwell to the maintenance department.

Sledge gulped and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Why do we need that, Colonel?”

“I’m not sure,” Leonard answered. “Perhaps we don’t.” Now that he and the squadron commander were alone, Leonard said, “You questioned my order during a hostile engagement. When I restated your instructions, you pretended to follow them. When you were out of my sight, you went against my command. Why did you disobey my order?”

Sledge braced. “You know as well as I do that the best way to counteract shoulder-fired infrared heat-seeking missiles is to position the aircraft between the missile and the sun.”

“That’s not what I asked. Flying toward the sun was your second decision and one I understand—you thought you’d be safer, even though you were mistaken. What I don’t understand was the decision you made first—the decision to disobey my order!”

Leonard was near his boiling point when Jungle returned with the maintenance records. “Here you are, sir,” he said, stopping to catch his breath.

“Do you mind if I look at that?” Sledge asked.

“Go ahead.” Leonard passed the unopened logbook to the squadron commander.

Sledge opened the book, glanced at its pages and slammed it closed. “Goddamn it, Pfeiffer!” He thrust the book at the captain. “Look at this. Tell me what you see.”

The captain opened to the most recent entry. Confused, he flipped back several pages. “Sorry, sir. Don’t see anything.”

“That’s just the point, Captain!” Sledge snarled. “The most dangerous threats are the ones you don’t see. What I don’t see in this logbook is any evidence that the maintenance department replaced the rotor and breech bolts in that gun by the end of fiscal year ’ninety-two as required by DoD specifications. You know what that means?” Jungle looked at the floor. “It means that you, supposedly my best flight instructor, took a gun out flying today—with the group commander no less—that was defective. When you simulated firing that gun, not only did you not kill the enemy, you blew yourself and the colonel all the way from the halls of goddamned Montezuma to the shores of fucking Tripoli! I mean you would have, except that a phantom Stinger team had already blown you to pieces. I’d say we all had one hell of a day, wouldn’t you, Captain Pfeiffer?” Sledge screamed so loudly that the sergeant of the guard popped in to check on things.

A look of realization crossed Jungle’s face. “But Colonel Spencer—you told me to go ahead and use the 20-millimeter gun instead of the rockets and missiles.” Leonard nodded, satisfied the captain had learned a valuable lesson. “So you knew that the gun had a defective part—before the flight. You did that to make a point.”

“You’re dismissed, Captain Pfeiffer,” Leonard said calmly. The sergeant, not wanting to get involved with the senior officers, disappeared with Jungle. Leonard continued. “The combat readiness of that machine gun is just as much your responsibility as it is his and it’s just as much my responsibility as it is yours. If General Neville had discovered the error, I would expect and deserve the same reprimand from him that I’m giving you. You damn well should’ve known about it, Sledge, but you didn’t. I can only wonder what else in this squadron is defective. The next time I fly with your squadron, which will be soon, I expect everything to be current with all specifications.”

“Yes, Colonel,” said the dejected commander.

“About your direct disobedience of my order—”

“You can’t fault me for that, Colonel.” Sledge regained some of his earlier confidence. “I was protecting my crew and my airframe. Your order was—”

“My order was what?” Leonard shouted louder than before and Sledge’s head reared back in surprise. “Do you honestly think I’m so stupid that I’ve either forgotten or never knew the capabilities of heat-seeking missiles? If I believed for a second that flying into the sun was the best way to accomplish our mission, don’t you think I would’ve ordered it?” Sledge stared in wide-eyed disbelief at his commanding officer’s sudden display of anger. “Or perhaps since the first of October—last year—heat-seeking missiles have also had the capability to track a helicopter’s silhouette as well as its heat. When you violated my order and flew toward the sun, you sacrificed yourself, your Cobra, your copilot, and most of all, the mission.”

While Leonard paused to catch his breath, Sledge stammered, “I—I—how—I don’t know how we were supposed to know about silhouettes.”

Leonard, fearing he’d reached his cardiovascular breaking point, lowered his voice and recomposed himself. “I routed a classified update about missile systems to you and the other squadron commanders last September.” He removed a red-covered folder from his bag. “It’s now the end of January, Lieutenant Colonel Hammer. By Monday afternoon, you will call to let me know you’ve read this memo and any others from me you may have missed last year.”

The chagrined lieutenant colonel took the pages and stared meekly at the cover. “Yes, sir.”

Leonard picked up his equipment and headed out of the room. He paused at the door and turned around. “Sledge, your advice to Captain Pfeiffer was sound.”

“What advice was that, sir?”

“‘The most dangerous threats are the ones you don’t see.’ But there’s a more specific way to state the point you were trying to make.”

“How’s that, Colonel?”

“‘If you know the enemy and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.’”

“Sounds like wise advice,” Sledge said. “Is that a ‘Colonel Spencer original’?”

“Hardly.” Leonard continued out the doorway. “I may be old and wise, but Sun Tzu is a little bit older and a whole lot wiser.”

“Put your shirt back on,” Don said to Karl after their volleyball team’s short victory celebration in the parking lot. “The air will cool fast as the sun sets. It’s still January.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Karl thrust his short but thick arms through the sleeves in his tank top. “It’s January? I’m glad you told me because I can’t read a calendar for myself.”

“Smartass,” said Eddie.

“Enough outta you, boat driver. You coming with us to WCPC’s tonight?”

“Probably not.” Eddie’s clothes were drenched with sweat from the afternoon’s matches and he grunted as he leaned over to help his short-legged dog into the car. “I doubt if I could handle a night out dancing with you young boys at the West Coast Production Company. But shower and change at my apartment if you’d like. Beats driving back up to Vista.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Don scanned the area around his jeep for trash or anything they might’ve dropped. “Karl, what are you doing? Get out of the jeep and come here.”

“Damn it! I hate when you act like a gunny.” Karl pulled his sweatshirt over his tank top as he slid out of the vehicle. “You’re right about the temperature drop. And I’m showering first.”

“Earth to Steiger! I am a gunny. It ain’t no act. Now aren’t you glad I told you to bring that sweatshirt? And even if you shower first, you still gotta clean your nasty pubes outta the drain.”

“Quit your bitchin’, Karl. You the one always leaving shit behind,” Eddie said. “Remember Laguna Beach? You left a bag of condoms and lube under your chair at that restaurant.”

“Jesus! I forget shit once and you’d think I left top-secret gear with the Iraqi army.”

“That was a family restaurant. ‘Look at this, Mommy. What’s this, Daddy?’ And it wasn’t just one time! You’d lose your head if it weren’t—if you had a head to lose.”

Don picked up an object from the grass, holding it high to show the others. “It’s a good thing I made us do a police call of the area but I’m afraid Eddie owes Karl—”

“Ha, motherfucker, take that!” Karl jumped to grab the item out of Don’s hand. “Look who’s leaving shit behind now, chief.”

Eddie squinted and said, “What is that? My eyes are going bad.”

“Rocky’s ball!” Hearing his name, Rocky barked inside the car as Karl ran his ball over.

“That’s about got it,” Don declared. “Eddie, sure you won’t join us? A night like this—weather’s perfect—guys will be itchin’ to go out. WC’s will be packed.”

“I don’t—”

“Come on! Quit being such a pussy and take the skirt off! Or in your case,” Karl said, “put the skirt on! Let’s hit the town—there’s fresh meat out there, ripe and ready to pick.”

“If Uncle Sam required you Jarheads to graduate high school, you’d know what a ‘mixed metaphor’ is.” Eddie grabbed Karl around the neck and rubbed his knuckles across the younger Marine’s high-n-tight haircut. “Know what, you little runt? I was hitting this town when you were playing with Legos, eating Apple Jacks and watching Saturday morning cartoons.”

“Runt? Who you callin’ a runt? Check out these huge guns—even through my sweatshirt!” Karl flexed his biceps. “You wouldn’t be able to call me a runt if I wasn’t just five six.”

“But ’ch are, Blanche, ya’ are!”

“Who the fuck is Blanche?” Karl asked. “And what’s she got to do with anything?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie said as he and Don looked at Karl in dismay. “We’re failing our child. Next rainy weekend, I’m hosting a Bette Davis and Joan Crawford marathon at my house.”

“Sounds like a party that’d be too wild for me.” Karl rolled his eyes.

“Come on now, princesses, be nice.” Don was glad to see Eddie energized and having fun. Today had been a good day for him—for all of them—and maybe tonight would be even better. “Think about it during dinner. On me.”

“Great!” Karl rebounded quickly from his pouting. “You paying for me, Uncle Donnie?”

“Why should tonight be different from any other Saturday?” He and Karl hopped in the jeep.

“Just kidding,” Karl said. “I’ve got my own money tonight and I think it’s time I treated.”

Don placed his arm across his chest, feigning a heart attack. “You got paid over twenty-four hours ago and you still got money? What the fuck?”

Ignoring Don, Karl asked, “Hamburger Mary’s?”

“Is there any other place?” As Don turned the key, he noticed Karl counting twenty-dollar bills in his wallet and he became curious as to how a Marine corporal could have that much cash. Karl came from a poor family, though, and money was a delicate topic so Don kept quiet. He secretly suspected that Karl was always broke because he sent money to his mom in Idaho.

Don rolled to a stop at the park’s exit. He checked over his left shoulder for traffic on Sixth Avenue when something across the street caught his eye. Two men sat in a car just inside the entrance to the park. By itself, this wasn’t a show-stopping scene but the face of the younger guy grabbed Don’s attention and the look in his eyes stopped Don cold. Although they stared at each other only briefly through two automobile windows forty feet apart, Don sensed the other man’s intensity. He wasn’t sure if the man’s passion was from fear, anger or lust—or a combination of the three—but it was certainly in overdrive.

“What are you doing, Agent Gared? There’s no regulation against a Sailor or Marine playing volleyball without a shirt in a public park.”

“I know, Ollie. Just to be safe, I’ll check the system Monday to see if they have a record.”

“Fine. But we’re calling it a day.” As the jeep pulled out of the lot, Jay quickly wrote down its license plate number. He’d been at his new job for less than a month but he already knew that these seven alphanumeric characters were all he needed for the next step in an investigation. Using the military’s vehicle registration system, he had access to information on every automobile on file with the Department of Defense in Southern California, such as name, address and military unit.

That was all the information on the jeep that Jay needed to make its owner’s life a living hell.