Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 19

“Ollie will be in by eight thirty, but he has a conference call with Washington as soon as he arrives. Anything requiring his immediate attention?”

Jay had been at the low end of hierarchies. He’d learned which people in organizations had the most influence—and posed the greatest threat. The younger agents straight out of college gravely underestimated Esther Wilson’s power in the NIS, but not Jay. Esther knew as much as Ollie about the office’s investigations but now was too soon to involve her in his plan regarding Ed. “I need to talk to Ollie—but I’ll be out of the office for a few hours.”

“After his conference call he has a ten o’ clock and a late lunch appointment but I’ll make sure he’s free, say at eleven thirty? Will that work?”

“Yep. Thanks, Esther.”

“Sure thing, Agent Gared. Give me a call if you need to change it.”

Jay hurried to his cubicle. He didn’t bother to remove his sports coat because he planned to be out the door in less than five minutes, assuming the computer systems worked. The machine booted up, asking him for his log-in information, which he hadn’t yet memorized. He’d written his ID and password on a slip of paper he kept in his wallet. As he thumbed through his cash and receipts, he saw another handwritten number. “Where did this—?” He vaguely remembered copying a license plate number in the park on Saturday. That seemed like a lifetime ago but staring at the paper jogged his memory. The number belonged to Ed’s friend—the one driving the jeep.

After getting on to the NIS’s link to the military’s database, Jay entered Ed’s DoD decal number. While the system slowly searched for the information, he grabbed a folder and located the proper forms to open the file. A few minutes and several keystrokes later, he had all the information he needed on “Chief Petty Officer Edward ‘Eddie’ Lamont Johnson.” As badly as he wanted to search for information about the jeep, he didn’t have time but would follow up later. “Have a good morning, Esther.” Jay ripped the paper out of the dot matrix printer. “Back at eleven thirty,” he shouted as he ran out the door.

“Be right with you, sir. Please have a seat beside the first desk—that’s mine. I have to brew the coffee before the squadron commander gets in.”

The clock above the doorway showed seven-twenty A.M. Patrick had been told that enlisted Marines arrived at work no later than seven thirty, but Marine officers should be in no later than seven. Obviously his new squadron commander didn’t follow that rule. “Take your time, Corporal. Don’t think I’m on the flight schedule today.” Patrick sat in a dull gray metal chair. In a photograph on her desk, Corporal Delarosa’s long black hair hung beautifully over her shoulders. She, a man and a crinkly-faced infant smiled from the picture frame. “Beautiful family you have here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Corporal Delarosa smiled as she scooped the military-issued coffee grounds into the percolator. “You pilots. All you think about is flying.” She pushed the button to begin the coffeemaking process, wiping a few loose grounds from the table. “I wish I could fly. The executive officer, Major Burr, promised to take me up in a Huey someday but I don’t know when.” The squadrons at Camp Pendleton flew Hueys—the light Vietnam-era cargo and passenger helicopters, as well as Cobras, the small, highly maneuverable and lethal combat attack helicopters. Patrick was interested only in the Cobra. “You’re very efficient,” she said as she sat at her desk and glanced at his forms, “and looks like you have all your receipts and records in order and the proper forms completed.”

Two male Marines entered the office. “It’s about time you showed up,” she shouted. “I don’t care if you had a formation run. So did I. You two take longer to get in uniform than women Marines. Get those messages downloaded by seven thirty. Lieutenant Colonel Hammer will want them on his desk as soon as he gets in!” To Patrick she said, “I say the same thing to those two every morning.” Studying his papers, she filled out a travel claim form. “Wow, I’m impressed. You found an apartment already. What a great location.”

“McAbe! You dirt bag. About time you showed up.”

Recognizing the voice, Patrick turned to see Tim Roberts, his close friend and Pensacola roommate who’d graduated three months earlier. Patrick jumped to his feet and the two men shook hands. “Tim! How’ve you been?” He took a step back, giving his former roommate a good look. “Why the hell are you in cammies and not a flight suit?” Tim wore the woodland camouflage-patterned trousers and jacket that Marines in the ground community usually wore. “Ah,” said Patrick. “Never mind. It’s amazing what a guy forgets on leave. Ouch! You got stuck being the duty officer on a Sunday?”

“Yeah, man. Like a fuckin’ dumb-ass I volunteered, thinking it’d be a slow day, you know, to force myself to study for a test coming up.” Tim set the duty officer’s logbook on a clean edge of the corporal’s desk. “Talk about getting fucked royally. Yesterday morning, right after I showed up, I got the call that some congressman will be here Tuesday. I spent the rest of the day and last night running around like a bat outta hell working on that.”

The corporal interrupted. “Sir, does the commanding officer know about the congressman?”

“Don’t know, Corporal Delarosa. I got Major Burr on the phone but I couldn’t get the CO. I assume the XO reached him.” Turning to Patrick, Tim said, “Well, buddy, my day as duty officer is officially over. Now it’s someone else’s problem. How the hell are you? You look great in your alphas, man. Of course, checking in is the last time we wear them until we get out of this bullshit training squadron and check into something permanent.”

“Thank God,” said Patrick. “If I wanted to wear a suit, I wouldn’t have joined the Corps.”

“Sir,” said the corporal, “let’s get you checked in before they pull me aside to work on this congressional visit. What time did you arrive in San Diego on Saturday?”

“Fifteen thirty.” The corporal jotted the time down on Patrick’s form.

Tim shot Patrick a quizzical—and hurt—expression. “You motherfucker! You been here all weekend and you didn’t call?”

Patrick searched for an explanation as quickly as his mind could work on a Monday morning. “You know how it is, buddy. Jet lag, and apartment hunting—looking for a new car—”

“Fuckin’ A! You got rid of that shitty old Chrysler?” Patrick knew his friend well. By switching the subject to cars, he’d caused Tim to forget about his failure to call. But the episode was disturbing. Patrick had reconciled himself to hiding his gay life from the Marine Corps because that was the policy but he hated deceiving his friends. “Hey! Now that you’re here, we need a fourth pilot in our house since our roommate deployed to Okinawa.”

“Oh shit, I signed a lease yesterday.”

“Why’d you do that?” Tim’s pained expression returned. “We talked about this in Pensacola, you know? How cool it’d be if four of us lieutenants got a house here? Remember? I thought you liked living with me, buddy. Can you get out of your lease?”

“I don’t think so. But I got a nice place. Come over anytime. Bring Melanie when she’s in town. I move in Friday. Right off the beach—great view of the ocean.”

“Sounds good, but if it doesn’t work out, we can always make room for you at our place.” Tim’s disappointment was obvious and Patrick began to see that it was the military’s ban on gays that created a wedge between him and his fellow Marines. The half-truths and secrecy diminished unit cohesion more than his homosexuality ever could. But he hadn’t made the rule, and because of the DoD Directive banning him from service, Patrick couldn’t offer his buddies an honest explanation for his seeming aloofness. The lack of understanding hung between the two friends like a thick invisible barrier. “You gotta come to our Super Bowl party on Sunday. You’ll change your mind about living at the house when you see how great it is.”

“I’m sure I will.” But he knew he wouldn’t. “Of course I’ll be at the party.”

“Also, sir,” said the corporal, “the officers have a mandatory dining-in this Friday evening.”

“There’s a dining-in this Friday?” Patrick asked Tim. “And you blame me for not calling you? You shoulda given me a heads-up. Hope I can get my dress blues ready.”

“Oh yeah, sorry about that, bro’. It’s at the U.S. Grant Hotel in downtown San Diego. I know I shoulda called but—but I didn’t wanna disturb your leave. Melanie’s flying down—”

“Gunny! Where the fuck are the messages from Headquarters Marine Corps?” Patrick lurched backward as a voice boomed through the open doorway across the personnel office.

“Oh shit!” Corporal Delarosa dropped her pen. “He’s early. Thank God the coffee’s ready.” She stood to face the man approaching from the back of the room.

Tim said quietly, “Remember all the shit they told us to expect from Sledge when we got here?” Patrick nodded. They’d hoped the stories weren’t true. “For once, the Marines didn’t exaggerate. He’s a goddamned bastard.” Tim turned to leave. “I don’t feel like dealing with that asshole after what I went through the last twenty-four hours.” Backing out of the room, Tim put his thumb to his ear and pinky to his lips and mouthed, “Call me!”

“Sir!” Corporal Delarosa said to Lieutenant Colonel Hammer as he stepped into the large open office. “Gunny’s at the pistol range this week. We’re printing the messages now.” Patrick saw signs of both nervousness and determination in her response to the large man.

“Goddamn it! Major Burr’s off to God-only-knows-where, the gunny’s not here—where the hell is my worthless adjutant?”

“I don’t know where the adjutant is, sir.”

“I oughtta fire the whole friggin’ bunch of ’em!” Sledge yelled, walking across the room to the coffeepot. “Any phone messages?”

Corporal Delarosa fumbled through a small stack on her desk. “Yes sir. The duty officer dropped these off a few minutes ago.” She carried the slips of paper to the man.

Patrick and the other Marines had been standing at attention since Sledge’s bombastic entrance. As the squadron commander snatched the messages from the corporal, he turned his attention to Patrick, much to Patrick’s dismay. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant McAbe.” Patrick stared straight ahead into empty space. He hadn’t felt this anxious around a superior officer since leaving Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia, several years earlier.

“What? You a goddamned squid masquerading in a Marine’s uniform? Last time I checked, the Corps didn’t have any ‘lieutenants.’” Patrick was confused. No lieutenants in the Marine Corps? “Well? Are you a fucking mute?” Lieutenant Colonel Hammer bellowed in Patrick’s face. “What are you? First lieutenant? Second lieutenant?—Lance lieutenant?”

The two young lance corporals in the back of the room laughed at their commanding officer’s use of the fictional—and derogatory—rank of “lance lieutenant.” Patrick finally grasped the squadron commander’s point. While the Navy had an official rank of “lieutenant,” the Marines Corps’ “lieutenants” were either “second” lieutenants or, once they were promoted as Patrick had been recently, “first” lieutenants. Patrick’s mistake was minor and Sledge’s type of harassment usually disappeared after boot camp or OCS. But some officers enjoyed humiliating their juniors and Patrick’s choice was to play along or go to the brig for insubordination. “First Lieutenant McAbe, sir!”

“There. Was that so fucking hard?” Sledge’s sarcasm was annoying. Laughing, he added, “It’s my job to cure you of that Navy bullshit after you leave Pensacola. Now, First Lieutenant McAbe, you’re a Marine again. Welcome aboard!” He shouted the last statement in an apparent attempt at motivation but it came across as sadistic. Patrick’s peers had warned him about the “You’re not in the Navy anymore” attitude from senior Marine pilots but Sledge overdid it.

The Marines in the outer room exhaled audibly as their CO walked away, sipping coffee with one hand and reading the phone messages with the other. “Corporal Delarosa, you got five minutes to get me the official messages from headquarters off the system.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” the corporal responded as the Marines returned to their seats. “Hey, Devildogs, print those messages now!” She calmed down and said, “Whew. Please check over your Record of Emergency Data sheet, sir, and if everything is correct, sign here.” She stepped away to assist the Marine at the noisy printer churning out pages of documents.

“Holy Mother of God!” shouted Sledge from his corner office.

“Damn!” she said. “He read about the congressman before I could break it to him gently.”

Sledge stormed into the outer office and the Marines returned to standing positions. “Delarosa! Did you know a goddamned congressman would be here tomorrow?” Sledge Hammer was a large man, both in height and in girth. Patrick wondered how he passed the Marine Corps’s annual physical fitness test, met the strict weight standards or even fit in the cockpit of a Cobra. He didn’t doubt the man pulled strings to get around the rules.

“I just found out about it, too, sir. Five minutes before you did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? This should’ve been the first thing out of your mouth. Which congressman is it?” His question stumped the corporal. “Well, you better find out—now!”

The woman’s face brightened as she grabbed the logbook Tim had dropped off. Flipping through the pages, she stopped at the most recent entry. “The name is ‘Edward Coughlin,’ sir, from Orange County, California.” Patrick congratulated her quickness with a smile and a wink.

“Coughlin?” Sledge calmed down as he repeated the name. “At least he’s one of the good guys.” Reading the message in his hand, he added, “I don’t see why the fucking infantry can’t provide their own goddamned escort officer.” He stopped halfway across the room. “Hey, you there—McAbe—you ever been an escort officer before?” Patrick said he hadn’t. “You ever heard of a Congressman Coughlin?”

“No sir.” Sledge’s questions couldn’t be leading him to a good place.

“Today’s your lucky day. I’ve got to put together a whole goddamned dog-and-pony show and you get to help me since you’re the newest man in my squadron. Tomorrow morning you’ll be the escort officer for the Honorable Mr. Coughlin when he visits Camp Pendleton. If that piece-of-shit adjutant ever shows up for work, he can help you.” Sledge turned toward his office, but stopped midway. Looking directly at Patrick, he said, “McAbe—”

“Sir?”

“Don’t fuck this up. You’re not at flight school anymore—this is the real shit. Tomorrow’s your first impression in the Fleet Marine Force that counts for anything, you understand?”

He’d entered the legendary—even mystical—FMF. So much for being broken in easily. Suddenly he was nauseous. “Yes sir.”

“Delarosa, don’t let anyone interrupt me this morning. I’ve got my own goddamned assignment to complete. If Colonel Spencer calls, tell him I’m working on his project.” Sledge refilled his coffee mug, stepped into his office and slammed the door. Once again, the Marines returned to their seats.

“Damn, sir! Ever hear of the ‘Big Green Weenie’?” The corporal used a common Marine expression referring to the Corps’s habit of screwing over individual Marines.

“I have now.” Patrick laughed but wondered what kind of shit he’d stepped in.

“I request permission to come aboard.”

“Need to see some identification sir,” said the Sailor standing guard over the USS Cayuga’s entry point. Jay hoped the Sailor couldn’t discern that this was the first time he’d ever boarded a Navy vessel. Novices attracted too much attention, and requesting permission to come aboard exhausted Jay’s knowledge of embarkation protocol. He said as little as possible and remained alert. Showing the Sailor his NIS identification, he awaited instructions. “Sign in.” The Sailor pointed to a logbook beside the American flag. “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

“Urgent business with the captain involving a criminal investigation.”

“Very well, sir,” the Sailor said as Jay entered the required information into the logbook. “Wait here and an officer will be down to escort you up to the bridge.”

“Fifteen-mile forced march this Friday. Helmets, flak jackets, rifles and packs. Here’s a list of gear that every Marine will have in his pack.”

“Is the whole battalion marching?” asked Staff Sergeant George. “Or just our company?”

Don remained calm even though he wanted to punch the whiny staff sergeant in the face. Instead, he kept his voice firm and steady as he answered Charlie Company’s second platoon sergeant. “What do you think?”

“Damn it, Gunny! This is bullshit. You gotta talk to the captain. Charlie Company goes on more fifteen-, twenty-and twenty-five-mile humps than any infantry company I ever been in. Hell, Alpha Company ain’t been on a hump since—”

“You’re out of line, Staff Sergeant.” Don said, anger seeping into his voice. “First of all, I’m not Alpha’s Company gunny and I don’t give a shit what those fuckin’ slack-asses do. Second, you must be confused on how the chain of command works so let me explain it to you. The captain gives the orders around here and I make sure they’re carried out. I don’t tell him what to do—I tell you what to do and you tell your squad leaders and they tell their team leaders. Is that clear?” Don’s office was a cubbyhole in an old building tucked away in a remote section of Camp Pendleton. He barely had room for himself, his desk and the four cheap government-issued chairs he used for his daily meetings with Charlie Company’s platoon sergeants. The closeness of the space added to the tension between him and Staff Sergeant George.

“Damn it, George. Have your men ready to go Friday morning,” said the platoon sergeant for first platoon. “Try not to lose any Marines this time.”

“I’ll be doing random inspections at zero five hundred Friday morning,” Don said. “Be—”

Without warning, the wooden door to Don’s office smashed open. He jumped to his feet immediately. Only two people he knew dared to open his door without knocking. This time, though, the Marine leading the charge into his office was neither the captain nor the first sergeant, although both men followed closely behind. The man in front was the commanding officer of the battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Ritter.

“Gunny Hawkins, please forgive me for intruding on your meeting like this but we need to discuss something with you. In private.”

Staff Sergeant George looked relieved to be off the hot seat. He and the other platoon sergeants took their cue. “Pick it up with you later, Gunny.”

Don, standing at the position of attention, nodded to the staff sergeant. To the battalion commander he said, “It’s no intrusion, sir. What can Charlie Company do for you and the Marine Corps?” Don’s face remained stoic and his body stiff but he trembled inside. Moments like this reminded him that no matter how well he hid his personal life from the Corps and no matter how careful he was in his off-base behavior, a part of him lived in terror that the military would find out he was gay. He’d suffered terrifying nightmares with this scenario. The battalion commander—or higher—bursting through his door followed by military police. Some of his nightmares had been so real he’d felt the cold steel of handcuffs on his wrists as the MPs arrested him for sodomy and carted him off to the brig.

Lieutenant Colonel Ritter looked grim. “We learned about a serious problem this weekend, Gunny Hawkins—and I’m afraid it’s your problem.”

Don clenched his jaw tightly. So this is it. This is how it ends.