The Edge of Honor (48 page)

“Absolutely. There’s a bunch of us going over. Normally, I’d insist you come with us, but I think you’ve got the right idea, especially with the duty tomorrow.”

surprised himself by saying it. The exec studied his brandy snifter for a moment before replying.

“Don’t let it bother you. You had the tough watch section, with all those midwatches. Count Austin’s got the duty, Rafe Hatcher is already back on board, and Vince is going ashore with us tonight, but only because he has the duty the day after you do and doesn’t want a big head on his duty day.”

Brian found that the coffee was reviving him somewhat.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I guess what I was saying was that I still don’t feel like I’m really part of the wardroom yet. Hell, with all these watches, port and starboard, I don’t even feel like I’m really part of Weapons Department. I’ve seen more of Combat and my rack than anything else on the ship.”

“I know. Having Vince off the watch bill has been the killer. But everyone understands, believe me. I hope the next line period to have all three of you hi rotation.”

“You hope, XO?”

“Yeah, well, I think you know what the problem is down there. And I’m not sure it’s going to change all that much, especially after a Subic port visit.”

“Why’s that, XO?”

“Because the little dears get resupplied here. Marijuana, pills, hell, even heroin is available in Olongapo.

And whoever the main man is who’s supplying our dopers will get a new stash here. We’ll probably go through some trying times the first couple of weeks out.”

Brian shook his head. The room tilted a little when he did it. But this was important.

“I can’t believe we can’t get a handle on this problem, XO. I mean, here we are talking about a main man, a druggie kingpin, and it sounds like we just have to live with it.” Brian realized he was speaking a little more frankly than he should, but he remembered all too well his discussion with Jackson and Martinez about the drug network. He assumed Jackson had shared his theories with the exec.

The exec was frowning but nodding in reluctant agreement.

“We do what we can, Brian. Some of the chiefs and I have some things going that I don’t want to talk about, but basically, until the fleet units, the Navy’s ships and air squadrons, get the authority to impose mandatory random urinalysis screening on all our people, where everybody has to take a piss test, and I mean the whole ship—officers, chiefs, white hats—we’re kind of boxed in by our own legal system.”

“Well, yes, sir, but all the COs and XOs in the Navy must know that, which means the admirals have to know it, so why doesn’t the Navy just do it?”

“Two reasons, I think. The first is political; the second is practical.

Political because the sixties have unhinged everything we military guys took for granted since the Second World War. We’ve got damn near every kid under twenty-one running around back there in the land of the big PX protesting this war, growing hair down to their asses, doing dope, marching around with no clothes on, listening to this screechy shit they call rock and roll, and generally acting like freaking Martians. I don’t know these kids, which means I don’t know these sailors anymore. And I think the big guys back in the Pentagon aren’t entirely sure where they stand, because you only have to watch TV to see that there’s more of the longhairs and all the liberals who agree with ‘em than there are admirals and generals. So I think they’re a little bit afraid to impose mandatory urinalysis, because that would put us too far out in front of the rest of the country, especially in the first year of a new administration.”

“And the practical reason?”

“That’s a little more clear-cut. You piss-test this whole crew two days after we leave here, we’d have to turn around and come back in and shut her down. Hell, we’d probably get thirty percent of the crew and maybe even some khaki. It’s basically the old Washington rule: Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand all the possible answers.”

“But XO, if that’s true, then what the hell are we doing out on Red Crown station, controlling aircraft, operating helos, firing missiles, doing shore bombardment? I mean, those aviators depend on us in all sorts of ways. And what happens if the Migs come all the way the next time?”

The exec stared down into his coffee. “We’re doing the best we can, Brian,” he said again, softly. “We’re not fooling ourselves, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re just getting through the deployment, line period by line period, like everybody else. We’ll get through the next one, and the one after that, just like the rest of the ships are doing it, and hope to hell we don’t fuck up so bad one night that we fail to bring her home. And Brian? So far, it’s basically working. And it requires an all-hands effort, comprende? For better or for ‘worser,”

we’re all in this boat together.”

Brian was silent for several minutes. Through his alcoholic haze, he knew full well what the exec was talking about, but the Marcowitz business was very much on his mind. The exec had obviously not been telling the truth when he had said that the captain wanted to wait until Subic. Was it because it had to do with drugs that the captain had been cut out of the loop? That wasn’t right.

It just wasn’t the right way to do it. He decided to misunderstand deliberately, maybe push it a little.

“Well,” he said, “at least we got Marcowitz. I assume we’ll be processing him for a court-martial pretty quick.”

The exec gave him a quick look but did not actually say anything. Brian was about to pursue it when the exec made a show of glancing at his watch and then shoved back in his chair.

“Time to rock and roll, as they say,” he said, rising.

“I’ll see you bright and early at officers’ call. Enjoyed dinner.”

The exec had grabbed both their checks and was gone before Brian could even gather his thoughts. With a sinking feeling, he knew he’d made a mistake. The exec had been asking nicely for him just to go along. And instead, he’d brought up the Marcowitz case. The XO had said they’d process Marcowitz when they got into Subic. So why wasn’t he willing to confirm that?

He looked around for his own bill and then remembered that the XO had picked it up. His head began to swim again as the coffee wore off. He got up and threaded his way unsteadily through the dining room, accompanied by a blast of noise as the band started lustily into the third set. He could already feel the beginnings of a real hangover.

The walk back to the ship cleared his head a little, but the clearing left more room for the headache, which took immediate advantage. The night air along the piers was steamy, filled with a melange of scents from tropical flowers, freshly mowed grass, burning charcoal, fuel oil, and an occasional whiff of stack gas from the nested ships. The harsh, hot glare of the sodium-vapor lights contrasted starkly with the soft, shadowy palm trees and the muted glimmering of tiny waves out in the harbor.

He tried to figure out how he could have handled his conversation with the XO better, but the Subic Specials, wine, and brandy were still in charge of his think box.

He straightened his back and squared his shoulders as he approached the ship. He was perspiring profusely by the time he reached the gangway and even he could smell the alcohol fuming out of his pores. He wondered whether the people on the quarterdeck would be able to smell all the booze. He climbed the steel stairs up to the quarterdeck, puffing by the time he reached the top of the brow stand, and saluted the OOD, Ensign Mccarthy, carefully, taking care not to stumble across the quarterdeck.

The ensign returned his salute, taking care himself to take no official notice of the Weapons officer’s condition.

“Mr. Holcomb, sir?” he asked as Brian started to walk by him.

“Yep?” Brian turned around, overshooting just a little.

He grabbed a lifeline to keep it from getting away.

“Did you hear about Petty Officer Marcowitz?”

Brian suddenly felt a sobering chill run through him.

Ensign Mccarthy had the collateral duty of being the ship’s legal officer. Although not a lawyer, he was responsible for setting up all the paperwork for mast cases and court-martials. Earlier in the day, Brian had signed some of the preliminary legal paperwork on Marcowitz.

“No,” Brian replied. “What about Marcowitz? He’s on premast restriction, right?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Mccarthy said. “Marcowitz went over on liberty tonight.”

“What!” The headache reprimanded him for speaking loudly.

“Yes, sir. The exec hadn’t put him on any premast restraint. At least he wasn’t on the list of restricted men.

But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why?” Brian tried hard to concentrate.

“Because the base front-gate Marines picked him up on a possession charge. They found three Baggies of marijuana in his overnight bag as he was going through the main gate. They have him in the base brig right now.

And with three Baggies, they’ll go for possession with intent to sell.

The real good news is that since he did it on base, they’ll get to court-martial his ass, instead of us.”

Brian nodded slowly, his brain trying to catch up with the suspicion that was starting to bounce around in his head. What had the XO actually said about the Marcowitz case? We’ll process him when we get to Subic?

Or we’ll take care of him when we get to Subic? His mind wouldn’t focus.

He cursed himself for getting drunk. Just had some fruit juice, XO …

“Thanks,” he mumbled, turning to head carefully up the port side toward the security of his stateroom. He clumped up the interior ladders, made the right turn toward his stateroom door, and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, shucked off his sweaty uniform in the darkness, and dropped it in a heap on his chair. He flung himself down on his rack and breathed deeply of the blessed air conditioning. He once again tried to size up the significance of his talk with the exec, but his mind couldn’t get going and the bulkheads were revolving unnaturally every time he cracked open his eyelids. He was asleep in minutes. He didn’t hear his uniform trousers slither off the chair onto the deck, Maddy’s three letters still unopened in the back pocket.

He was awakened several hours later by the sounds of reveille being announced over the 1MC. He sat up in his rack, gasped, and flopped back down again in an effort to keep his head from toppling onto the deck.

Jesus H. Christ. Seven kinds of rum. Seven thousand determined Oriental devils hammering on his brain cells was more like it. Maybe he ought to go ahead and let it topple. He sat up again, slowly this time, and swung his feet over the side of the rack. He took several deep breaths to celebrate this achievement, wondering why it was so dark, and then opened one eye experimentally. The slit of white light coming from under the door looked like the headlight of an oncoming train. He blinked at it several times even as he grappled with the problem of getting off the tracks. Then he decided it might be better to let the train come ahead.

He could even hear it, a knocking sound that reverberated in his head, before he realized that some Communist was knocking on his door.

“What!” he croaked.

The door opened and a huge silhouette filled the blaze of light in the doorway. He’d been right the first time. It was a train.

“Mr. Holcomb? You alive in there?”

“No, goddamn it. I died and I wanta be left alone.

Jesus Christ, Boats.”

“Yeah, well, they tole me you was shorin’ up the bulkheads last night when you came back aboard. I was jist comin’ to remind you we got the duty today.” He peered intently at Brian’s face and shook his head.

“I’ll send up the doc with the first rites. You jist sit right there and don’t go nowheres.”

The door closed and Brian’s eyes stopped hurting in the sudden darkness.

Through the bulkheads, he heard the noises of the ship coming to life as the 1MC went about its business of announcing mess gear and breakfast for the crew, sweepers, and mustering of the restricted men. He thought briefly about breakfast, which was a mistake. Full-color images of creamed chipped beef, powdered scrambled eggs swimming in catsup, and greasy bacon and oily sausages paraded through his mind, all of which prompted him to visit his commode at high speed, head or no head. When his tortured stomach had stopped spasming long enough for him to straighten up, he had crawled back to his stateroom and tried to brush his teeth, but the noise of the toothpaste coming through the tube was too painful. He was sitting in his chair in his Skivvies, his forehead resting on the rim of the steel basin, when the chief hospital corpsman knocked gently and came into the stateroom. He carried a small green steel bottle of oxygen attached to a medical ventilator mask, several small pill envelopes, and a stainless steel cup that held about a pint of ice water. He switched on a desk light and grimaced when he saw Brian’s face.

“Yup, that’s a hangover. Morning, Mr. Holcomb. You puked yet?”

Brian nodded his head slowly, mindful of upsetting the devils.

“Yeah, you don’t wanta move your head around just yet. Might come off, roll down the passageway, scare the stewards. Here, breathe into this here mask.”

Brian accepted the mask and began taking in deep breaths of pure oxygen.

He felt better almost at once.

The doc took away the mask.

“Now, take all of these here pills.”

“What are they?” Brian croaked, his mouth dry from the oxygen. The doc was holding out an entire handful of pills.

“They’re part of the cure. Mostly vitamins. These little bitty suckers, they’re B-one, B-seven, B-twelve, and a coupla E. These bigger ones here are APCs. Just take ‘em all and chug this whole cup of ice water.”

Brian complied, gagging initially on the larger pills.

When he was finished, the chief corpsman gave him back the oxygen bottle. Brian settled back in his chair and breathed hungrily, feeling his throat dry out and not caring. After five minutes, the doc signaled to remove the mask. Brian felt almost normal, the headache gone, his stomach settled, and a sense of energy filling his body.

“Now,” the doc said as he gathered up his kit, “that’ll give you a good hour and a half of normal ops. That’s time enough to get to quarters, take over CDO from Mr. Austin, and get the working day under way. End of an hour’n a half, the cure wears off, okay? Then you’re gonna crash again, so you need to get back to your stateroom, get flat, and keep the lights low. But at least you’ve got ninety minutes, okay? Wear sunglasses so’s people won’t see your eyes and piss their trou. And don’t forget: You’re Cinderella—ninety minutes or so, the port anchor’s gonna come outta the hawse pipe up there on the bow and find you and drop on your head, okay?