Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 17

“Ladies and gentlemen, rounding out our threesome, it’s the fashionably late Colonel Spencer!”

“Glad to see you again, too, Pete,” Leonard said. “At our age, though, we shouldn’t refer to each other as ‘the late,’ fashionably or otherwise. Someone might claim our parking space.”

The other two colonels laughed. “With your wit, you should’ve been a standup comedian,” said Colonel Joseph Watkins. “Or a politician.” As commanding officer of a Marine regiment, Joe was Leonard’s infantry counterpart at Camp Pendleton.

“But not a general?” asked Leonard.

“Hell, no!” said Colonel Peter Williams. Leonard, Joe and Pete—and their wives and ex-wives—had been friends since Vietnam. “Generals don’t need wit. Just a good caddy, a fifth of bourbon and an oxygen tank close at hand.”

“Now, Pete,” said Leonard in a taunting voice. “Are you referring to our boss, General Neville?” Pete, like Leonard, was the commanding officer of a Marine Aircraft Group, but Pete’s MAG consisted of F-18 jet fighter squadrons at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro. Pete’s bull-headedness frequently put him at odds with their superior, the commanding general of the Seventh Marine Aircraft Wing. It had also effectively ended his career in the Marine Corps.

Pete didn’t bite. “You won’t get me started today, you son of a bitch. Are we gonna play some golf or sit here and start the local chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union?”

The men strolled out to their cart and clubs. Looking at the sky, Joe said, “Glad yesterday’s winds died down. Wouldn’t be able to play much of a game today if they hadn’t.”

Leonard climbed into the front passenger seat. “Did you know that in almost every ancient civilization, an eastern wind was a bad omen?”

“Aw, Jesus, Leon!” Pete took his usual spot in the driver’s seat. “We ain’t even made it to the first hole yet and you’re already philosophizin’.”

“I’m serious,” Leonard protested. “The Mayans lived in fear of an ancient prophecy: ‘They shall also be smitten with the east wind.’ The North African proverb was: ‘A western wind carrieth water in his hand; When the east wind toucheth it, it shall wither.’ The Bible is full of dire references to east winds. So is Chinese history.”

“You’re just a bundle of joy this Sunday morning,” said Pete. “I’m takin’ you to some Angels games this season. You need to get out more.”

“Down here in SoCal we don’t have to wait for something bad to happen when the east winds blow. Wildfires break out right away.” Joe took the rear-facing seat. “Last October we almost lost two Marines when a fire spread faster than we could get the platoon out of the field.”

“Fortunately January was wet, preventing the winds from doing their usual damage,” Leonard said. “Unless keeping pilots on the ground counts as damage.”

“When was the last time you flew?” Pete’s foot hit the pedal and the cart jolted forward.

“Yesterday. Sledge arranged for Stinger teams to act as aggressors. I showed up at the last minute and flew with a captain alongside my squadron commander.” Leonard grabbed the cart for support. “Are you insured to drive this thing, Pete?”

“Glad to see the east wind didn’t ground you at all,” Pete said. “Wish I coulda seen the look on Sledge’s face when you showed up to fly with his boys.”

“Pilots and your callsigns,” said Joe. “Who’s ‘Sledge’? What’s his major malfunction?”

“Besides bein’ a drunk-driving wife-beating philanderer?” Pete said sarcastically. “That would be none other than the infamous Lieutenant Colonel Melvin ‘Sledge’ Hammer. Other than his—minor—problems, he’s one of the Marine Corps’s finest leaders.”

“How do these unsatisfactory officers remain in the Marine Corps?” Joe asked as they rounded a sharp curve. “More worrisome—how the fuck do they get command of a squadron?”

“And a training squadron at that,” said Leonard. “Christ, Pete! Sure you’re not the drunk driver this morning?”

“Now Leon, you know I don’t need to be drunk to drive this bad.” Reverting to the topic, he answered, “I know how he got the job. General Laker loved the man. Treated him like a son.”

“Say no more,” Joe said. “General Laker. There’s a name I hadn’t heard in ages. His antics were legendary even among us ground-pounders.” Leonard quietly offered thanks as Pete stopped the cart at the first hole. “Now that General Laker’s retired, will Sledge get selected for colonel?” Joe asked, pulling a club out of his bag.

“Retired, my ass,” said Pete. “General Laker’s not only retired, he’s on life support!”

“So is Sledge’s career,” said Leonard, “if I have my way.”

“Shit.” Pete put on his gloves. “If a Jim Beam-drinking certifiable moron like Paul Laker can wear three stars, Sledge Hammer can certainly get his sorry ass selected for an eagle. Hell, all of us made it, didn’t we?”

Leonard squinted in the sunlight as he fished for his sunglasses. Finding them, he grinned at his close friend. “I disagree. Sledge and his kind haven’t faced reality. The days when the General Lakers of this world could whore about in every port and drink all day are over.”

Pete practiced his swing. “Well, then I say good riddance to bygone days and the dinosaurs of the past. Of course, it won’t make any difference for me. But you, Leon, hell, you got your star. That means you gotta start actin’ and thinkin’—which means not thinkin’ at all—like one of them—a general!”

Joe looked surprised. “Is the list out?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” answered Leonard. “Anyone who claims to know when President Clinton will sign it is delusional.”

“Just saying what everyone knows,” said Pete. “I’m sure you’re on it, too, Joe, but I don’t know how things work on the ground side of the house. Aviation I know.”

Joe was first to tee off. As Leonard swapped clubs, movement in the direction of the clubhouse distracted him. He looked up as a shop manager drove a cart in the direction of their threesome. At the same time, a pager went off. “Who brought his goddamned pager to a golf course on a beautiful Sunday morning like this?” asked Pete.

“We’re about to have company,” said Leonard as the manager approached.

“Colonel Spencer!” shouted the manager from a hundred yards away.

“A pager and a pro shop manager.” Leonard grew apprehensive. “I’d say we have a two-alarm emergency on our hands.” Without leaving his cart, the manager explained that Leonard had an urgent phone call at the club. Joe said he also needed to return to the club to make a call.

“You two are just gonna leave me out here by myself?” Pete moaned, lighting a cigarette.

“Yes,” Leonard yelled as they drove away. “I know what’s in my bag, you worthless jet jockey. If you take anything, I will find out.”

Within minutes, they were back at the clubhouse. “Colonel Spencer,” Leonard said as he took the phone. He listened as his command duty officer briefly explained the emergency. “What? Lieutenant Roberts, you mean that’s it? You’re in squadron 707, aren’t you? Good. Please give this so-called emergency message to Major Burr. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Leonard handed his phone to Joe, who dialed the number to his infantry regiment’s headquarters. “I’d wager we have the same message.” Leonard watched Joe’s face for clues. Sure enough, Joe’s look changed to one of disbelief and he slammed the phone down in its cradle. “Coughlin?”

“Coughlin,” replied Joe. “That meddlesome bastard.”

The manager drove Leonard and Joe back to the first hole, where they happily resumed their game. “Will someone tell me what in God’s name is goin’ on?” asked Pete. “What the fuck am I? Road kill? No one pages me and no one sends a damn pro shop manager after me.”

“Calm down, Pete,” said Leonard. “This doesn’t concern your jets—not this time, at least. Be glad. It appears that the Honorable Mr. Coughlin desires a helicopter flight Tuesday.”

“And a full-fledged ground-based dog-and-pony show,” Joe growled.

Leonard sympathized. “I hope your operational tempo isn’t as bad as mine.”

“Sounds like all Coughlin wants to do is show his face at Camp Pendleton for some free press time with Marines in the field,” Joe said.

“Coughlin?” asked Pete. “That lunatic? You gotta be shittin’ me! Both of you have to jump through hoops for that pompous—?” Pete grew red-faced. “You’re right, Joe. My predecessor loved the guy and gave him joy rides in our jets. Don’t ask me to do it, that’s all I got to say. I have more important things to do with my F-18s than play Disneyland to Congressmen and Senators—especially that bloated bastard!”

“Sounds like we’re all singing the same song,” said Leonard.

Joe’s voice lacked enthusiasm. “Let’s play the game and worry about this later.”

“Certainly,” answered Leonard. “Nothing we can do to help the Congressman now.”

“You’re damn right we’re continuin’ the game!” Pete declared. “No politician is screwin’ with my golf schedule.”

As they resumed, Leonard said, “Our predecessors were pulled from their golf courses with news like, ‘Colonel! The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor!’ or ‘Colonel! The North Koreans have crossed the thirty-eighth parallel!’ or ‘Colonel! Krushchev has ships bound for Cuba!’”

“I know what you mean, Colonel,” lamented Joe.

“This is the down side of the Pax Americana in the new world order. ‘Colonel! You can kiss a politician’s ass!’” The colonels laughed, albeit somberly, at Leonard’s perspective.

“Well, Leon and Joe,” advised Pete, “maybe—just maybe—when you two put those stars on your collars, you can change the new world order!”

“Perhaps.” Leonard pierced the ground with his tee, lining up his shot. “But unless we’re in the four percent selected, all we’ll be changing is the filter in some general’s coffeemaker.”

“Excuse me—hello! Son? You all right?”

“What?” Jay slowly came out his daze. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The clerk had a concerned expression. “The total is nineteen dollars. You gave me a ten.”

“Oh, sorry.” Jay gave the elderly man two fives and retrieved his change. He took the bag, griping to himself that snacks, sodas, dog food and the Sunday paper cost so much. His legs were heavy as he walked to his car, and his back and shoulders ached. His watch showed two o’ clock in the afternoon but his body and brain were in a twilight zone. He hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours and the lack of sleep had dulled his mind. Focusing was a challenge and his coordination was gone.

The clerk informed him that the name of the quaint neighborhood was University Heights, although a university didn’t seem to be anywhere in the vicinity. All Jay saw were early-twentieth-century houses and a scattering of postwar structures. Many were in the same California bungalow style as Ed’s, but Ed’s—now his heir’s—was the nicest one on his street.

Jay drove to the spot of the vigil he’d maintained for the previous twelve hours. He shut off the ignition, wincing as Ed repeated his last words: How did you know that my dog, which you haven’t seen—is a dachshund? And why are my sunglasses—which were on top of—“Stop!” Jay shouted. He put his head down and rubbed his eyes but nothing halted the video. Although he’d blacked out at the time, the scene had lodged itself in his subconscious. Each time it replayed, the images were more ferocious than before.

Ed reached for the drawer containing the pistol, sending Jay into automatic pilot. All he’d meant to do was take the gun from Ed. That’s all! Gunmen had pulled weapons on Jay in the past and he’d vowed that no one would ever point a gun at him again. A man was never more powerless than when he was staring at the wrong end of a loaded firearm. Jay’s intentions—seemingly reasonable at the time—had been to immobilize Ed’s shooting arm with his left hand and wrest the gun from Ed’s grip with his right. Once Jay had the gun, he’d remove the bullets and reach a truce with the Sailor. Looking back, peace was probably what Ed wanted too, but Jay’s instincts wouldn’t let him give away that much power. No, Jay had to control the gun.

But everything had gone wrong. Instead of immobilizing him, Jay had slammed Ed’s gun arm against his chest. Because his right finger had been on the trigger, the Beretta fired, launching a bullet into his skull through his throat and sinuses, the softest part of the head. Jay watched helplessly as the chain reaction unfolded. The strangest part was Ed’s smile just before he died. The smile unsettled Jay most of all. Why had he smiled? Did he see something? Did he learn some—truth? Some truth that only death teaches? If so, what was it?

Jay didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on Ed’s serene face at the moment of his death. Jay assumed that a neighbor heard the gunshot and called the cops, giving him little time. His mind, never at rest, went into hyperdrive. Ed’s blood and brains had splattered the wall behind his lifeless body, resembling a typical suicide scene. The investigators wouldn’t find a note but fewer than twenty percent of people who committed suicide left a note. Looking around, Jay realized a note wasn’t necessary. The room—filled with pictures and mementos of Ed’s recently deceased lover—was a visual suicide note.

Two pieces of evidence might divert an investigator from the conclusion that Ed’s death was a suicide. Jay picked up the crushed Ray-Bans from the floor near Ed’s feet. No one would miss the Sailor’s sunglasses. Next, Jay removed his jacket and stripped off his T-shirt, using it to wipe his fingerprints off the front and back covers of the address book. Although its information seemed too valuable to leave, he decided against taking it as Ed’s friends would notice it was missing. To be safe, he wiped the desk, the sofa and the other furniture clean. Backing away from the death scene, he used his shirt as a mitt and opened the door, wiping prints from the doorknob. He gasped when the chilly early morning air hit his bare chest and he hurried to put his shirt and jacket back on. Racing across the front lawn to his car, Jay heard the dog bark, a bittersweet reminder of Porky’s unconditional love. If only he’d used his head, he wouldn’t have mentioned his grandma’s dachshund! Too late, though—the dog’s owner was dead.

As stealthily as possible, Jay drove his car around the corner, parking by a curb where he had a view of Ed’s house. He slid low in the seat and dreaded the inevitable siren. But as the hours went by, the sun arced overhead and the community remained at rest. Jay’s world was the opposite of peaceful as he relived that final gruesome scene dozens of times throughout the early morning hours. By late morning, his stomach ached and he felt like his bladder would explode but he remained motionless for a few more hours. By Sunday afternoon, his discipline was no longer enough to stave off Mother Nature. He found a store with a public toilet and purchased some food for himself and the dog. The poor thing had to be starving by now.

But back at Ed’s house, after seeing the death scene in his head again, Jay decided feeding the dog was too dangerous. “Sorry, little guy. You’re going to have to wait until it gets dark.”